I did that with my notes from a Victorian lit class where the prof accused me of plagiarizing an essay "because a sophomore couldn't write something like that." And he mispronounced prowess as "prowness," and I finally hated him so much that I corrected him, and he was all, "It IS pronounced prowNESS. I believe I'm the person with the doctorate in English."
After I took the final, I marched home and set fire to all my notes from the class in the hibachi. And did a little dance and shouted some really profane things. It's useful.
(And later, we found out he'd been plagiarizing stuff from student work for years and selling them to Reader's Digest, @@)
urgle burgle. what gross behavior.
Burning class notes was a Big Deal. I graduated from undergrad in 94, and I religiously kept all my English class notes; same with grad school notes. They are in plastic storage bins in the basement for reference. I'm a Willow-esque like that. I DESPISED that little...man.
Well, that's why we are the ones that set things on fire, not Consuela. Der. Win, fucking win.
Allyson, that's a lovely house. And your neighbourhood is a great one. Congrats to you and Kristen not falling in gay love and not getting gay married and setting up home ownership together.
Happy birthday to Noah and Grace! Happy birthday to everyone!
In, seriously, did you even email that, news: [link] -- somehow you gotta make sure there's no way to trace that shit.
We had a Guy Fawkes party in uni where we asked people to bring something to fling upon our bonfire, and most people were suitably metaphorical in what they wanted to burn. But Marc brought a full sized dummy (who we named Sven and moved into our living room), and Kevin brought a chair ("Does he know what Guy Fawkes is?" "He knows *everything*, he must know this...") which we also kept for a while. I burnt letters from a creepy stalker guy, even if I had to print them out (and therefore hadn't digitally disposed of them) to do so.
When I did theater lighting we would have a ritual burning of the cue sheets after the show was struck. And cheap ass champagne. For anyone who knows Berkeley, we typically did this in the fountain at Provo Park, next to Berkeley High.
I don't know which is worse, Strix, being a plagiarist, or actually plotting your way into Reader's Digest(What? Skymall got standards?) At least fake your way into The New Yorker, or The Atlantic.
