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Claymation and Wires

College helped me learn how to appreciate Mondays more. It’s probably because my school decided it was better to give us a day off on a Monday for the rest of our school lives. No make up classes are allowed on Mondays, because it is the absolute day off. However, in exchange, I now loath le Saturdays. I guess it’s expected to have classes on Saturdays, but that day is my most hectic day of the week. I have three classes on that day, first class starts at nine in the morning and ends at lunch time. We get a one hour break, then the second class starts at one in the afternoon to four. Right after that is my last class, which ends at seven. No breaks in between those two. Nope nope nope.

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Well, at least I have Claymation on that day, which was the second class. It’s the only class that keeps everyone sane on a Saturday. This is the only class that we wouldn’t fall asleep in because we could get our artistic fix busy. We get to mold clay, make armatures out of wires and possibly paint our figures. We didn’t have to just sit there with a teacher yapping into our ears. I noticed as students of art, it’s more effective for us to learn if we engage in activities or if there’s pictures and graphs involved instead of just plain talking.

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Some character designs for our future claymation movie we will need to prepare for our midterms. It’s supposed to be some cute-cheesy romance. The characters were supposed to look like symbols you would find on public bathrooms at first, like the simple “Men’s” sign or the “Women’s” sign. Then we realized that they looked much too plain when compared with other groups. Although we wanted to achieve a ‘simple looks, astounding story’ feel, we tried to put a bit more effort in our character’s designs while still keeping it sweet and simple.

After class, my boyfriend and I had some coffee and cookies to get ready for the next class; Animation Business.

I’ll leave that class in another blog entry.

 
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Posted by on February 4, 2012 in Classes

 

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Sickly Sweet

My very first post, and I plan to make at least a few people laugh. Or at least smirk. That’s what I like best about writing; I want to slap a smile on your face while you read.

On the way home from college, I would always ride this public van. Think of it as a large-ish taxi that moves like a bus, and can transport about a dozen people at a time. It’s a pricey ride if you want to move around in these vans, but it’s by far the safest way to travel here. 95% disciplined and sane drivers (they can still be quite cheeky when cutting lanes, but not as crazy as the bus drivers here), air-con that you can adjust yourself, curtains if you want to block out that pesky sun and people who always consists of business men or women (no pick-pocketing! Yay!).

Unlike other transportation, there is an etiquette you must follow when riding the van. Otherwise you will have to face the consequence of being hated forever in your entire life. If your butt takes up more than the average seat of one person, you’re expected to pay twice the fees for a ride. If you have a two dozen bags of groceries that you must bring with you, you should also pay twice the fees for them instead of crowding it around others feet. Don’t you dare step on others feet. Don’t talk on the phone loudly – this is a van, not a bus.

In my opinion, the biggest rule is this: God forbid you try to apply hand sanitizer or some sort of cologne in the vehicle, especially if it’s finally on the go. You put that shit on outside, because no one likes the sharp pang of alcohol invading their nostrils. No one.

That one rule was broken today by an old hag who was conveniently sitting next to me. Everything was perfectly fine at first, until she splashed some sort of perfume on her wrists and neck. Within seconds, the van reeked of a scent that was sickly sweet and medicinal. It had tones of lemon, honey and pain. It was so strong, I swear it must be the sort of perfume you apply to corpses at the morgue or somewhere before you bury them. There were two people who sat nearby had to protect their poor noses because of how strong the stench was. Covering my own nose wasn’t enough, to the point I had to lift the collar of my shirt up until I looked like an assassin, ready to defend myself from the stenchs onslaught.

That’s not the worst part though. She applied this satanic perfume twice.

As I finally got down to my stop, I can only feel the jealous glares of the others of how I get to escape from the smell so early. Was grandma trying to die early or something, to apply perfume that was so heavy it smelled like the stuff you’d use for the dead to cover up their maggot-infested stench? I’ll just hope I’ll never run into her again.

Ever.

 
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Posted by on January 31, 2012 in Communiting

 
 
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