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Crush enemies, abandon hope, and unleash endless waves of unrepentant sarcasm. |
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There's nothing to see here that's really out of the ordinary. Nothing really terribly interesting either, unless you like griping, gossip, grudges, and possible mental illness. If anything it's some small way to keep myself writing (though you'll see by the dates on the entries that it's by no means an effective way), as well as a means through which I can vent about any number of things that are pissing me off. Occasionally there's pie. Look: I'm not a normal person. I'm suffering from untreated depression and plagued by increasingly frequent migraines that pretty much render me bedridden for days. I've suffered a lifetime of abuse and neglect, and still have to struggle with unfathomable depths of low self-worth, not to mention the eating disorders. I'm a weirdo, a freak, an aberration of nature and human experience . . . but it doesn't make me interesting. So, you can read this if you want. I've got some social commentary that might be a little fun, and occasionally throw in a poem or two, but for the most part it's the ramblings of a stricken mind. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain; she's just trying to change her dress. |
| Damn this reminder, stalking me every day I don't update and never giving me a moment's rest! It's MY blog to update, so I'll update it when I damn well feel like it! |
| How ya doing, devoted readers? Oh, who am I kidding, nobody reads this blog. Maybe A few people stop by now and then, but I think I scared all my fans away. My last entries haven't exactly been . . . optimistic. Anyhoo, I'm back now for a brief entry that doesn't involve suicidal thoughts. Though it does involve a few homicidal thoughts . . . I've been trying to get back into Chat for a number of weeks, just to keep in touch with the Chatties and let them know I'm still alive. I tried once, and it told me I needed to download the latest Flash player in order to run the program. I was too tired to wait for all the certain lagging garbage that comes with any size download on crappy dial-up, especially when that dial-up keeps spontaneously disconnecting itself for no apparent reason (trust me, I'm hitting the "Save and Edit" button every minute or so). So, I left the task for a later date. About a week or so later (or longer; I can't keep track of time when I don't have classes to go to), I decided to try to access Chat again, this time prepared for the downloading process. I go ahead and hit the hyperlink to transport me to the download page (a process taking almost ten minutes from mouse click to the "Start Downloading" button appearing) and wait for about fifteen minutes for the process to end. Once it has, I click the "Chat" hyperlink, and am once again greeted by the whole "you must download Flash Player to blah blah . . ." notification. I assumed that I just needed to reboot my computer before the application would be ingrained in the hardware (which I found odd since there was no notification of me having to do any such thing as there normally is with downloads requiring such a task). So, the next time I desired to access Chat, I figured all would be well, as the computer had rebooted when it was turned off that night of waiting, and thus the software would be working. So, I go and try to enter Chat, only to be greeted yet again by the notification that if I want to chat, I must download the latest fucking Flash player. Something I did about three days earlier. So, damn the Flash Player, damn the Download Wizard, and damn the silicone chip. Sorry, Chat-buddies, but it looks like you're on your own until August. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| I'll update in detail later. I just want the Reminder to shut up! Amanda looks to be all right. She's at the top of the transplant list, so she should be on her way to healing totally before too long. She's scared to death of course, but she's hanging in there, so hopefully it won't be too long before she's out of the fucking hospital and around decent people (I know some of those nurses, and they are bitchy) who love her and will steal puppies for her (don't think I won't do it). Yeah. Now leave me alone, automated reminding thing. |
| I'm tired of the emails reminding me to "Update your blog!" so I'll give a quick little entry. I've been thrown into a hideous pit of depression by a combination of coming back to this hole of fecal material ironically titled as my "permanent address" on my student records, and by the fact that I've been waiting to hear if Amanda, good, kind, smart Amanda, would survive. Apparently, her heart failed, and she now has a piece of machinery in her chest replacing that vital organ until she can get a transplant at nineteen years of age. Right now, she is stable, breathing on her own, and officially on the transplant list. I hope that she gets it soon; I know it's too much to expect her back on the floor in the fall, but I at least want her out of the hospital and on her way to living normally again. I'm sure she will live, of course; I just wonder how much of that life in the near future will be typical for a woman of her age, and not filled with sponge baths and baring her chest for total strangers so they can check on the sutures. And for the love of God, Christians: do not give me any of this "I'll pray for her" crap. I don't want to hear it from a group of people who follow a book that instructs readers to KILL all witches like Amanda. It's sickening. It's bad enough to wonder why a perfectly healthy girl would be afflicted with such a serious condition without dealing with painful irony. On my end of the spectrum, my hand, which was afflicted with nothing more serious that tendonitis, is almost perfectly healed. I still have limited mobility and a little weakness, but that is lessening. Therefore, I can begin my search for a job! I'd rather not promise to work on a certain date if it is doubtful whether or not I will be fully capable of performing. Anyhoo, That's all that I have going this summer, so I suppose I will get back to my games. Sniff you jerks later. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| Sorry to waste your time, but this quote struck me as humorous. Indeed, it gives me some inspiration: "I didn't say I was SMART, only that I have SUPER POWERS!" The above quote was uttered by one Brian Keith Compton on the magic Scroll feature. As per Writing-Dot-Com etiquette, please visit his portfolio: bkcompton I know I will. |
| Well, I'm happy to say that I am done with my philosophy and history essays. All that is left is to write my University 200 essay, revise "The Magician's Bride" (link at bottom if you wish to see), and write a NEW story, of which I have only a basic idea and little reckoning of how I'm getting to my predetermined end. I thought the guy dying and the people he affected going about their business would be a good ending, since it shows that yes, there ARE other minds! Ah, hypochondratic schizophrenia! Anyhoo, since I finished my philosophy essay last night, and most of my history essay (which I completed this morning), I decided to give myself a break while my roomie did her work in the computer, so I got some R&R in the best way possible . . . . . . I spent three hours watching YouTube videos of kittens . . . Damn you, StoryMaster for your adorable Stevie picture! You got me in the mood for kitties! Oh, how I miss my kitties! It has been said that little Rigel has been pawing at my bedroom door and crying all week. The little black sneak misses me! I thought that he didn't need me anymore, now that he has assimilated himself into the household and made friends with Amber (you wouldn't know by watching them, though: they fight constantly, and loudly. But when we separate them, they both just walk around as if in a daze a wail, a grief that will not end until they are reunited). Anyhoo, internet funtimes, and then class! I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| Well, here I am, writing two papers at once. Scratch that, make it three papers and one short story. I ought to write a few new poems as well, but we'll get to that later. Sigh, so much work to do, so much headache coming up, so much caffeine and fatty food in my system. I'm about to chug a Red Bull soon, so that I may stay awake and finish all aspects of my work. Hmmm, maybe I'll save that for tomorrow. Don't know when Paola is going to bed tonight . . . In the meantime, I'm still trying to understand exactly the meaning of this philosophy topic on which I must write. I've read it like nine times now, and I'm still juuuuuust starting to get that the guy says God must exist, because the chances of the universe being created otherwise are just too small. I can kind of understand the difference in his examples, but I'm not getting why the second lottery (in which his head will NOT be chopped off only if the executioner pulls out the longest of a million straws) is almost certainly rigged. Or perhaps he means the result of said lottery ending in him living? I think so, but I'm not sure. But yeah, assloads of work to do. No to mention all the critiques I must write for creative writing. Oy, life. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| So, I've been wondering about my anatomy. Aside from the whole, "How have I gone up four pant sizes after gaining just 15 pounds?" and the usual, "What the fuck did I do to my knee?!" lies another rather curious quirk of my body: the color of my areolas. You all know what areolas are: the colored area around the nipple upon which lie the little bumps that trigger milk flow when stimulated (only when lactating, guys). These little touches on a woman can come in a few colors on white women, normally pink, sometimes light brown, and I've also seen peach. Well, as far as I can tell from R-rated movies and pornography, areolas stay one color. At least, that's what I assume; I could be wrong. If I am, please tell me so I can stop wondering . . . You see, my areolas do not stay the same color. Like right now, they're a light tan, a little darker that my surrounding skin tone. However, as I was changing for a shower about an hour ago (sorry about the rhyme, peoples), I noticed that they were almost a greenish-brown, a color I see quite often. And last night, when I flashed a friend in an attempt to go "wild" for a brief time (I try to left loose every once in while, but showing my breasts seems to be the worst I've done), they were a pinkish-purple. And LAST week, when I was at my sister's house and she was showing off her boob job (yes, my sister has breast implants, and now she's as big as me. Funny, no?) they were a sweet little pink. What the hell, man?! So I was wondering, why do my areolas keep changing color? I think it might be temperature, though that doesn't add up, as the temperature in my bra is probably consistent, and they can be any color when I take off my clothes. So, maybe they change according to my personal energy, my mood, if you will. Maybe I have my own personal "mood ring" right in my shirt. Wouldn't that be sweet; think of all the money I could have saved in the nineties if only I'd known! Well . . . actually, I didn't have much in the way of areolas in the nineties; I turned thirteen in 1999, and puberty had not taken a very strong hold on me at that point. Still, mood areolas! I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| Spoons, spoons, spoons I love my spoons They stir and dip, They hold what I sip They are my dear, dear spoons. I just love the spoons In them, I can see the moon! Upside down, of course But who cares When you've got spoons? Oh, those lovely spoons! I may only have but two But they serve me well In this one-room hell Of dormitory loons You know what else, I clean my spoons Immediately after use The antibacterial soap ensures The cocoa I shall not pollute Oh YES I love those spoons! What a wonderful thing they be! To eat soup without, just think How much it would stink Not to mention be very messy And so concludes the poem That I dedicate to all those spoons Though you may rust Or be covered in dust To me you shall always be God-given boons I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| I've been around the bend, so to speak (assuming that by "bend" they mean to wikipedia), so I know a thing or two about tasty, nonalcoholic beverages. I guess that "bend" isn't exactly that far away from the main street, in that case. But there's been something that has been on my mind, something that has been troubling me. In that wide world of soda pops, and fruit juices, and soy substitutes for dairy products, there is a drink that does not seem to have a full explanation for itself: the root beer float For years I have wandered over to the A&W in the mall, and stared covetously at the images for the delicious A&W brand elixir mingled with that sweet, seductive frozen dairy product which, according to a vandal on my campus, was obtained through raping a cow (but more on that story later). My simple question, that has only just occurred to me now that I don't believe that God mandated that all root beers be mixed with vanilla ice cream at some point in their lives (wait a minute . . . I thought root beer had life?), is . . . how exactly did they come up with this concoction? I mean think about it: here we have two very different substances. One is a beverage, probably made from roots at some point, and possibly intoxicating in its early days. One is a dairy product loaded with sugar and served only at minus 30 degrees (Fahrenheit, that is! Celsius be damned!). One is a liquid, and the other a solid (for a limited time at room temperature). Yet despite all of these differences, the two were somehow mixed and determined to taste just fucking wonderful. How? How has this occurred? These two snacks should never have been near each other! Was the bartender at the soda fountain a klutz who couldn't control the ice cream scoop properly? Did two kids, one eating ice cream and the other drinking root beer, crash into each other whilst on skateboards? Who decided it would be a good idea to mix two foods wholly unrelated except in terms of sugar content, and drink the love child of insanity, and jiggly thighs? Who, I ask you, WHO? Well, I hope you find out soon. I'd really like to shake their hand. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
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