This student’s mother is fucking batshit. I can’t deal with her any longer.
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omg. good job dude. hope everything works out alright.
Thanks. Fingers crossed, I guess, though I’m not even sure what for. Not hypothyroidism? Whatever. Doctors make me feel like I’m relinquishing a piece of my humanity that I can’t ever get back, at least if there’s an exam involved. Then the humiliation of bloodwork. Yay. I’m too drained to think about it.
i’m proud of u for doin it, bud.
Thanks, m8. I’m probably going to be on the verge of tears for three weeks, but. I guess it had to be done.
> Made doctor’s appointment
> Approximate pitch of voice: Alvin and the Chipmunks
> Cried on the phone
> Have been woozy and weak all day since.
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NOTICE to Mother and nobody else
I have written this to tell you my worrying secret. Now don’t cry when you read it because it is neither yours nor my fault. I suppose I will have to tell it now without any nonsense. To begin with I was not meant to be an athlet [sic]. I was meant to be a composer, and will be I’m sure. I’ll ask you one more thing.—Don’t ask me to try to forget this unpleasant thing and go play football.—Please—Sometimes I’ve been worrying about this so much that it makes me mad (not very).
Sam Barber II
i have no idea what that could be. if there are no other symptoms i’d just monitor things for now
maybe they’re trying out for the choir? they wanna go meow in England? (honestly though i don’t know :/ )
It’s not anguished, and he doesn’t appear to be in pain or distress. He’s behaving normally, and I can’t feel any lumps, etc. on his throat, so… I guess we’ll just watch him and see.
One of my cats has abruptly begun meowing in a hoarse baritone. It’s been going on for two or three days now.
Should I be concerned?
I stopped by my grandparents’ house today to visit and to help them clear a few things from the yard now that summer’s ending. Almost as soon as I got there, my grandmother pulled me aside:
Grandmother: I need to talk with you about something.
Grandmother: [My aunt] was here helping me with my phone, and we were on Facebook, and I thought— on your Facebook, it has your picture and says “him,” like “ask him to be your friend.” Are you having some kind of crisis?
Me: Oh. I just don’t want people to be able to find me too easily on Facebook.
Grandmother: Oh! Oh, that makes sense. Okay. I was scared; I thought you might have been in a sexual identity crisis, or something like that.
Me: Oh. No, no crisis. Heh.
Grandmother: Not that it would matter. I love you inside and outside.
Me: Thanks, Gam. I love you, too.
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If, on Facebook, I change my first name to something unrelated to my actual first name, will my profile be shut down until I show someone at Facebook a piece of government-issued ID?
So, chanting psalms is a bit different from singing most music: rather than tie each syllable of text to its individual note or to many notes, chant notation often uses long strings of monotone syllables and only marks the places where the pitch shifts. There’s very little notation as to where to place emphasis, and as such, the choir needs to sort of “feel it out” and chant the words more or less as they would be naturally spoken.
Today, we were working on a chant to Psalm 103, which contains the verse “The Lord is full of compassion and mercy, slow to anger, and of great kindness.” In the first part of that phrase, you’d generally think that the stress would be on Lord, full, and the second syllable (-pash-) in compassion and that everything else would be less emphatic.
This was not how some of the choristers were chanting it. To try to correct this, the Director of Music stopped everyone and instructed:
"Think about the words you’re saying: at no time in your life would you say, perfectly even, ‘the—Lord—is—full—of—com.’”
Then he just stopped. There was a general choking amongst at least the altos and tenors, until finally, with wide eyes, having realized what he’d done, the Director of Music continued:
This psalm is ruined for me forever. Some not insignificant part of me is still fifteen.
ETA: I would like to add that the result of this unfortunate truncation was not subtle in the slightest. It wasn’t—at least I don’t think; I didn’t dare look at anyone to be sure—one of those things that only those with pervy proclivities would hear. There were probably a full three seconds of silence in which the choirmaster (1.) wondered why people looked like they were going to die, (2.) realized what he’d said, and (3.) tried to come up with a save.
It’s been hours, and I’m still laughing.
I feel like the only way to pass is to be either rail-thin or very fat. And even then, you might still look like a butch woman. Everything sucks, and I want to sleep until Christmas.
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I disgust myself. I deserve to get beat black and green.
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Haha, I weight 160 and am fat all over, and I hate myself.
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