This is how it started:
I was writing a novel...
No, this is how it started:
I was an International Relations major and I was destined to save the world by becoming the first female Secretary General of the United Nations and in my off time, I would be dancing with Bella Lewitzky or ABT...
No, that was my parents' version. Except for the dancing part. That was my version.
I really did plan to double major in International Relations and Dance, which is no stranger than the guy I knew who double majored in Premed and English. My high school classmates called me "the dancing diplomat." Of course, the really tactless ones called me "most likely to be taken hostage."
But that's another story.
So, this is how it went:
I was writing a novel in partial fulfillment of my A.B. degree. I'd long since bagged International Relations for an interdisciplinary major comprising all sorts of things: literature, weird languages, women's studies, political science, you know...stuff.
So. Novel. What possesses a woman (who could have done something easy, like, you know, take a test) to write a novel when she's already working 40 hours a week, and taking 6 credits over the full class load limit?
Hello. That would be me.
The operative words were caffeine and loud music. The operative words were caffeine and The Police. It seemed I listened to "Bombs Away" far more than would be considered socially acceptable.
So my roommates started calling me "guerrilla girl." Because of the caffeine and the music and the propensity for dropping, screaming, out of the trees.
Then there were the cupcakes. I've never lobbed a grenade, but I have been known to toss a flaming cupcake or two off a balcony.
While yelling, "Halley's Comet!"
Confidential to the fabulous CL: Thanks for telling me about NaBloPoMo! "Let's all post until the Internet explodes!"
Go listen to some good music: "Bombs Away" from the album Zenyatta Mondatta by The Police.