My Own Private Ithaca
In other news, I've been revisiting my salad days as both a fledgling fangirl and a baby-dyke by watching the first season of Xena: Warrior Princess on DVD. Man, did they have a crappy costume/set budget. I also saw The Da Vinci Code, which has about as many gaping plot holes, albeit not *quite* as much thinly veiled homoeroticism. It's still there, though, enough to create in me a fervent fangirl love for Silas, everyone's favourite self-flagellating, Latin-speaking, robe-rocking, gun-toting, melanin-not-having, nun-whacking, keen-on-Jesus psycho monk. Perhaps because he reminds me of a young me. Minus the Latin, guns, sororicide, and plus some pigment, of course. But where is all the Silas slash? Chop, chop, internet!
Emily's birthday party was duly celebrated, with Jenga, malted beverages, a trip to a goth club, and, for me, a disastrous attempt to flirt with a hot pool player. He literally ran from me. Today I went to the zoo with my parents; we saw one tapir, two caracals, three giraffes, four orang-utans, and a whole mess of meerkats. Then my mom and I went to some Trinity College graduation functions; I received a small academic award and we both ate strawberry tarts at the reception. My mom was knocking back the champagne like it was Kool-Aid, but I have yet to acquire the taste. Tomorrow, Convocation! Robes, Latin (no Silas), and the end of my undergraduate career.