I have sold out. I am, as a friend put it, a computer upgrading to a "more hip system".
Yes, this is a very special friend. Nonetheless.
Once upon a time, I styled my appearance only for the sake of practicality, and now I've gotten contacts and highlights and clothes that aren't from brands like Land's End.
Ick.
My priorities are fast changing, and I'm not really sure whether I want them to. In all honesty, I'd prefer to go back to obscurity in nerdiness. Seems like life's a lot easier when there's no drama, and no drama comes from no one actually knowing who you are. I kind of liked it better when no one realized I was in their classes except for maybe one or two close friends. Maximum.
The way I see things, the more people you know, the harder it is to please them all. Every time you make new friends, you're losing the ability to be close to some of them, because really, it's impossible to care about everyone, but if they're your friends, aren't you supposed to care? And then there's the problem of caring about the wrong people too much. I've made way too many bad choices about who I want to stick with over the years, and the probability of picking someone wrong goes down if you don't make new friends.
I know I've angsted my way through this topic before, and I'd apologize, but this comes with the semi-amusing rants, and it's my birthday so of course I'm feeling mopey. Traditionally, I'm always mopey on my birthday.
Jumping from topic to topic like a flea (which I am, by the way--Ahaneen is too), the most irritating part about my birthday is getting awkward calls from relatives wishing me happy birthday. I mean, there are only so many ways to say thank you, now please stop talking I was doing something okay bye. Which is what I have to say.
And, I mean, if I wanted to talk to these people, I'd call them other than on THEIR birthdays. Obviously, I don't want to talk to them, and I'm sure they feel the same way about me. For example, my uncles. Out of my three uncles, I strongly dislike two of them. One's an apathetic, smoking, weirdo (that'd be my dad's little brother), the other's a violent, baby-bird-killing maniac (he's Mom's sister's husband, so at least I can rest easy knowing it doesn't run in the family). The other one's nice enough, but he and his wife favor their little girl over her older brother and it's painfully obvious. So--I don't really ever have anything to talk about with the first two, and the third almost never calls because I'm sure long-distance calls from Australia to the US are a pain in the ass.
Frankly, I'm glad. One less set of wishes to BS my way through. Yes, I'm probably a bitter little child who has traumatic memories that made me this way. Aren't you all glad I want to go into psychology? I mean, obviously I'm destined to help people sort through their problems--I've done such a wonderful job with my own.
...Ah, sarcasm. How I've missed you over winter break. Next thing you know, I'll turn into a nun who wants to heal the tarnished souls of other sinners like myself.
...
Clearly turning old has made me world-weary and more cynical than ever.
Ick.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
My train of thought carries books and disorders
Although I've been slacking ever since I started high school, I am and will always be an avid reader. Not ever one for deeply philosophical books, I started out with books that described the adventures of Bob, his rug, and his cat. They were positively gripping for a preschooler. As I grew older, I lived in two sections of the library--girl+horse=super sparkly magical connection!books (if you're anything like me, I have only three words for you: The Saddle Club), and Star Wars. This was around fourth grade or so, and I'd seen only one of the Star Wars movies. They were not considered "in", and so I would be doing my best impression of a ninja (albeit a prepubescent one) as I checked out the next five books in the never-ending saga.
I miss being able to just spend hours in the library--my current school's library is nearly always filled with students working, and for someone who likes nothing more than to sit on the floor with a pile of books and read, it's a little too chaotic.
But my point is not that I don't like busy libraries or that I have the weirdest taste in books ever. My point is that now I'm a teenager and actually trying to find a book for someone my age that isn't either something I'd read in English class or written in the 1800s, my choices are limited to cliche fantasy novels and teen stories.
As a side note for all you Jane Austen fans, I HATE Pride and Prejudice--I got through six pages and it took me half and hour and it was the most boring thing I've ever read except for maybe the first sixty or so pages of The Fellowship of the Ring, which I pretty much skipped. I'm not saying that it's a bad book--well, yes, I am--but you're entitled to your own opinion. Just be warned that if you flame me for hating on Jane Austen, I'll probably laugh at you.
But back to my point: I also hate teen stories. Now, I don't mean stories MEANT for teens--obviously I can't argue with those (much). But I do mean stories about your average high school guy/girl with a drug addiction/rumor problem/baby/crush/pet walrus. Sometimes, your average high school kid has ALL of these things, and so what do they do? They angst. For hundreds of pages. And then some sadistic idiot decides to write all of their angsting down on paper for posterity, and it gets published and turns into yet another crappy story about life, love, and not fitting in.
Cry me a river, and I'll hold your head under until you stop thrashing. Why would a teenager want to read about their own life, only dramatized? If they're a decent teenager, they can dramatize it themselves! That's all we're good for, really. If your life revolves around The Drama, I don't see why you'd need to read about it in your free time. Just spread more rumors, sleep with more members of the football team, or smoke crack and voila! Instant drama.
Or you could just realize that drama actually sucks, stop being a catty bitch, NOT contract 14 STDs all in one shot, and save your few remaining neurons from whatever your drug of choice is. Why there's even a CHOICE, I don't know. It seems rather obvious to me, but then again, I'm not exactly your average teen.
I mean, my God lives in Korea and sends me pictures and poetry via Gmail, my Bible is titled Scaramouche, my best friend is my computer, and I still cheer when I watch movies like Mulan. And to top it all off, I am the master of denial, because I tell myself that I really don't care whether or not people like me. If you've figured out that I'm probably passive-aggressive by now, congratulations. My therapist hasn't seemed to have gotten it yet. Woohoo for self-diagnosis!
I miss being able to just spend hours in the library--my current school's library is nearly always filled with students working, and for someone who likes nothing more than to sit on the floor with a pile of books and read, it's a little too chaotic.
But my point is not that I don't like busy libraries or that I have the weirdest taste in books ever. My point is that now I'm a teenager and actually trying to find a book for someone my age that isn't either something I'd read in English class or written in the 1800s, my choices are limited to cliche fantasy novels and teen stories.
As a side note for all you Jane Austen fans, I HATE Pride and Prejudice--I got through six pages and it took me half and hour and it was the most boring thing I've ever read except for maybe the first sixty or so pages of The Fellowship of the Ring, which I pretty much skipped. I'm not saying that it's a bad book--well, yes, I am--but you're entitled to your own opinion. Just be warned that if you flame me for hating on Jane Austen, I'll probably laugh at you.
But back to my point: I also hate teen stories. Now, I don't mean stories MEANT for teens--obviously I can't argue with those (much). But I do mean stories about your average high school guy/girl with a drug addiction/rumor problem/baby/crush/pet walrus. Sometimes, your average high school kid has ALL of these things, and so what do they do? They angst. For hundreds of pages. And then some sadistic idiot decides to write all of their angsting down on paper for posterity, and it gets published and turns into yet another crappy story about life, love, and not fitting in.
Cry me a river, and I'll hold your head under until you stop thrashing. Why would a teenager want to read about their own life, only dramatized? If they're a decent teenager, they can dramatize it themselves! That's all we're good for, really. If your life revolves around The Drama, I don't see why you'd need to read about it in your free time. Just spread more rumors, sleep with more members of the football team, or smoke crack and voila! Instant drama.
Or you could just realize that drama actually sucks, stop being a catty bitch, NOT contract 14 STDs all in one shot, and save your few remaining neurons from whatever your drug of choice is. Why there's even a CHOICE, I don't know. It seems rather obvious to me, but then again, I'm not exactly your average teen.
I mean, my God lives in Korea and sends me pictures and poetry via Gmail, my Bible is titled Scaramouche, my best friend is my computer, and I still cheer when I watch movies like Mulan. And to top it all off, I am the master of denial, because I tell myself that I really don't care whether or not people like me. If you've figured out that I'm probably passive-aggressive by now, congratulations. My therapist hasn't seemed to have gotten it yet. Woohoo for self-diagnosis!
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Evil will always win, because good is dumb
I have realized my one true goal in life is to become a dictator and tyrant and then spoil myself silly until I finally die of a heart attack from eating too much chocolate. I won't be assassinated, because I'll also be a trigger-happy gun enthusiast. Woohoo!
It'd be nice, not having to answer to anyone or worry about feelings and the emotional baggage of other people. Living in solitude also seems to fulfil that wish, but solitude generally means being a hermit, and if you're a hermit you grow a long white beard and eat crabs for 90 years until you finally kick the bucket. I trust that I speak for everyone when I say "Ick."
So instead it's going to have to be either world domination or buying a private island and then pulling a stunt like Battle Royale, wherein I send hundreds of people into a giant deathmatch.
It's so badass (in an evil, psychopathic sort of way), it's crazy. I mean, admit it. The most awesome guys in movies are always the villains, because they don't pull any of that naive, trusting BS that the good guys do. Being nice gets you betrayed by your nerdy receptionist-turned-lingerie-wearing lover, while being evil gets you money, power, and a smirk that just won't quit. Frankly, I don't see why there's even a CHOICE.
Besides, in how many of the classic hero movies is the hero actually likeable? NONE. I point at, just off the top of my head, Luke Skywalker, who is whiny, immature, and unable to hit the Death Star until everyone else is DEAD; Frodo, who is the most wimpy character I've ever seen, and Harry Potter. Who is (pardon my stealing of British words), a twit.
Don't even get me started on Eragon, who is somehow a combination of all three.
Anyways, long story short, it pays off much better to be evil. Even if you DO get killed, at least you'll go out with a bang. And chances are, you'll die looking immaculate.
Unless you're Palpatine, in which case your face kind of prevents that. Sucks to be you.
It'd be nice, not having to answer to anyone or worry about feelings and the emotional baggage of other people. Living in solitude also seems to fulfil that wish, but solitude generally means being a hermit, and if you're a hermit you grow a long white beard and eat crabs for 90 years until you finally kick the bucket. I trust that I speak for everyone when I say "Ick."
So instead it's going to have to be either world domination or buying a private island and then pulling a stunt like Battle Royale, wherein I send hundreds of people into a giant deathmatch.
It's so badass (in an evil, psychopathic sort of way), it's crazy. I mean, admit it. The most awesome guys in movies are always the villains, because they don't pull any of that naive, trusting BS that the good guys do. Being nice gets you betrayed by your nerdy receptionist-turned-lingerie-wearing lover, while being evil gets you money, power, and a smirk that just won't quit. Frankly, I don't see why there's even a CHOICE.
Besides, in how many of the classic hero movies is the hero actually likeable? NONE. I point at, just off the top of my head, Luke Skywalker, who is whiny, immature, and unable to hit the Death Star until everyone else is DEAD; Frodo, who is the most wimpy character I've ever seen, and Harry Potter. Who is (pardon my stealing of British words), a twit.
Don't even get me started on Eragon, who is somehow a combination of all three.
Anyways, long story short, it pays off much better to be evil. Even if you DO get killed, at least you'll go out with a bang. And chances are, you'll die looking immaculate.
Unless you're Palpatine, in which case your face kind of prevents that. Sucks to be you.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
And I used to be such a nice person...
Actually, I lied. I was never a nice person, I was just too shy too let out my inner (now my outer) scheming, sarcastic bitch. However, I do seemed to have toned it down lately: As aptly pointed out by Bucket, I've been mopey. I'd apologize, but since being mopey was not any sort of crime (even in preschool, where you have no business being mopey) the last time I checked, I've decided that I'm too lazy to apologize and instead shall just post.
All you mopey windowlickers out there can just go form a support group or something. I AM AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN (and now I have the urge to place a chat smiley here, just to show I'm not serious. I'm both a minor and too unmotivated to be independent).
Unfortunately, this post has no point other than to use the word windowlicker, as commanded by God (no, not your God. This one kicks ass).
And wow, I must be in a crappy mood, because usually I'm a bit more tactful that that. Just a bit, though. Nonetheless, this post STILL has no point. I would search for one, but I DON'T. WANT. TO. I am going to be childish and immature and all sorts of irresponsible, and there's nothing you can do about it, because I won't listen to you! Hah!
Okay. Now that I've gotten that out of my system too, I shall attempt to be vaguely amusing for all of my three dedicated readers, and my one, insanely dedicated (or maybe just insane), motivational chipmunk.
Yes, I have a motivational chipmunk. That's why I never get anything done--he's a chipmunk. What did you expect?
Clearly, you expected an interesting blog post....Not happening any time soon, unfortunately. Lower your expectations and maybe they'll be satisfied. Maybe.
To not completely leave you without a story or rant, I shall combine the two into a mini-story-rant-thing! It shall be known as "Why I Hate My Birthday With A Burning Passion".
To be continued....
(Yes, I am horrid. Get used to it, or get out.)
All you mopey windowlickers out there can just go form a support group or something. I AM AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN (and now I have the urge to place a chat smiley here, just to show I'm not serious. I'm both a minor and too unmotivated to be independent).
Unfortunately, this post has no point other than to use the word windowlicker, as commanded by God (no, not your God. This one kicks ass).
And wow, I must be in a crappy mood, because usually I'm a bit more tactful that that. Just a bit, though. Nonetheless, this post STILL has no point. I would search for one, but I DON'T. WANT. TO. I am going to be childish and immature and all sorts of irresponsible, and there's nothing you can do about it, because I won't listen to you! Hah!
Okay. Now that I've gotten that out of my system too, I shall attempt to be vaguely amusing for all of my three dedicated readers, and my one, insanely dedicated (or maybe just insane), motivational chipmunk.
Yes, I have a motivational chipmunk. That's why I never get anything done--he's a chipmunk. What did you expect?
Clearly, you expected an interesting blog post....Not happening any time soon, unfortunately. Lower your expectations and maybe they'll be satisfied. Maybe.
To not completely leave you without a story or rant, I shall combine the two into a mini-story-rant-thing! It shall be known as "Why I Hate My Birthday With A Burning Passion".
To be continued....
(Yes, I am horrid. Get used to it, or get out.)
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Then the brain-chipmunk said to the moose...
Although I have ditched the angry chipmunk with the help of the previous post, the depressed chipmunk is still emo-ing away in my brain. I wish it would go explode. Since it's refusing to oblige, this is to try and drive it away. Screw you, depressed brain-chipmunk.
I seem to have the odd habit of becoming an idol of sorts to younger girls that I meet. Just today a girl introduced herself to me and we began to talk about horses and leasing and all sorts of riding-related things and before I knew it she was asking me if we could work together to get our last volunteer hours and inviting me to come on a trail ride with her during her lesson tomorrow. She's eleven. I'm nearly sixteen--when I told her this, she was surprised and told me she'd thought I was only about thirteen.
Okay, I know I LOOK young. Especially when I go to work at a barn, I dress down, and that really doesn't help. Baggy sweatshirts, no makeup, and honestly, I'm not that tall either. So I can understand people thinking I'm a few years younger than I really am. But there's something I find terribly ironic about having other people look up to me. I am not a nice person. My relationships with my friends and family are dysfunctional. And yet--I can name off the top of my head three younger kids who all seem to want attention and approval from ME. The crazy one.
I mean, it's sad in a way, because this sort of responsibility is too much for me to handle. I'm not patient enough to deal with kids on a long-term regular basis, and yet I can't tell them that I don't want to spend time with them. I don't think I'm going to screw them up or anything, I just don't see why of all the people they know, they had to pick ME.
It's the same way with friends, you know? I might try and help, but I'm going to be too tactless, I'm going to be too blunt, and then I'm going to mess things up and there's nothing I'll be able to do about it because I can't say "I don't want you to trust me anymore" even if it's true. I can think of ONE person who I have had a positive influence on, and honestly it could have been any one of this person's friends. It just happened to be me.
I think I'll go drown in a pool of my own melodrama now.
Farewell, cruel world!! *boots emo-chipmunk off cliff*
I seem to have the odd habit of becoming an idol of sorts to younger girls that I meet. Just today a girl introduced herself to me and we began to talk about horses and leasing and all sorts of riding-related things and before I knew it she was asking me if we could work together to get our last volunteer hours and inviting me to come on a trail ride with her during her lesson tomorrow. She's eleven. I'm nearly sixteen--when I told her this, she was surprised and told me she'd thought I was only about thirteen.
Okay, I know I LOOK young. Especially when I go to work at a barn, I dress down, and that really doesn't help. Baggy sweatshirts, no makeup, and honestly, I'm not that tall either. So I can understand people thinking I'm a few years younger than I really am. But there's something I find terribly ironic about having other people look up to me. I am not a nice person. My relationships with my friends and family are dysfunctional. And yet--I can name off the top of my head three younger kids who all seem to want attention and approval from ME. The crazy one.
I mean, it's sad in a way, because this sort of responsibility is too much for me to handle. I'm not patient enough to deal with kids on a long-term regular basis, and yet I can't tell them that I don't want to spend time with them. I don't think I'm going to screw them up or anything, I just don't see why of all the people they know, they had to pick ME.
It's the same way with friends, you know? I might try and help, but I'm going to be too tactless, I'm going to be too blunt, and then I'm going to mess things up and there's nothing I'll be able to do about it because I can't say "I don't want you to trust me anymore" even if it's true. I can think of ONE person who I have had a positive influence on, and honestly it could have been any one of this person's friends. It just happened to be me.
I think I'll go drown in a pool of my own melodrama now.
Farewell, cruel world!! *boots emo-chipmunk off cliff*
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Muahahahah--*BOOM* (Damn, there goes my love life)
With an (almost) completely unrelated title, this blog post is already shaping up to be a paragon of incoherent rambling. But I shall try, for the sake of my own sanity, (I wouldn't try for the sake of yours, because I don't really care about your sanity. Sucks for you) to keep myself at least a little on track.
And that track would be in response to a post on the brilliant blog of Ahaneen. For as it turns out, I too am a girl with girly thoughts. And although I cannot deny the accuracy of The Sad Truth, I'm not quite sure all of those apply to me--then again, now that I look at the list that dooms me to being single the rest of my days (not that I'm complaining much, mind), all of these apply to me, except for the height one.
Damn.
Nonetheless, I have realized that while being liked is an unbelievably flattering experience, being feared is much more my style. If girls have to turn into simpering, seductive idiots just to catch a guy's eye, I think I'd rather keep my brain, thanks. Because sadly enough, it looks as though most guys really, truly want a girl who is beautiful, self-assured, but very much NOT the more dominant half of the relationship. I suspect this has to do with the male ego again.
Girls who tell guys when they've made mistakes, girls who point out a moronic error and laugh at it, are immediately shunted into the "friend" category. If not the "EVIL BITCH" category.
I'm pretty sure I get put into the second one more often than not. Woohoo! Guys think I'm a snob, girls think I'm a bitch, and it's all probably true, but being nice is too hard when everyone around you is stupider than the local blackberry bushes. Most people deserve to be mocked, and I'm just the one to do it! The way I see things, blunt honesty is preferable over sugary flattery, and I am a master at blunt honesty. If you didn't want my opinion, you shouldn't have asked for it, right?
Right. Here, I can pretend everyone agrees with me. I know most of my friends think I'm tactless--Hell, I KNOW I'm tactless. Tact is useful in some situations, but if it's something important, honesty is better. Too many false friendships are built upon nothing more than tact alone, and my inability to keep friends means I have to conserve all the tact I have for the people who matter to me.
Obviously, they are limited in number. I don't trust easily, and it's much easier to remain pleasant acquaintances with someone to go the extra step it takes for them to be considered my "friend". Yes, this is brutal, but in a school of 300 people, when you lose a friend, it hurts, because you don't have that many to begin with. I had a grand total of three friends in kindergarten. In 8th grade, I had four. Only one of them had been my friend since kindergarten.
I'm not trying to be melodramatic--this is what happened. I am horrible at keeping in touch with people, and I don't tend to put out a huge effort to make friends. Clearly, this means I'm not going to HAVE many friends. To me, there's a difference between liking someone and being their friend. More commitment, more work. And I'm lazy by nature.
It's not like I really regret it; having few friends means I don't have to be smothered by large numbers of people. Yes, I'm kind of a misanthrope. I don't find ANYONE flawless, even if someone's flaws don't irritate me. Most people's do, because I am also easily irritated, touchy, and I act like I'm constantly suffering from PMS (of course, when I AM PMS-ing, I get worse).
And I used to wonder what exactly it was that made me unattractive as a girlfriend. Apparently, at some point I've answered my own question. If I met another me through some odd form of inter-dimensional travel, I'd hate myself.
Clearly, self-love is for the nice people. Too bad I'm not one of them.
And that track would be in response to a post on the brilliant blog of Ahaneen. For as it turns out, I too am a girl with girly thoughts. And although I cannot deny the accuracy of The Sad Truth, I'm not quite sure all of those apply to me--then again, now that I look at the list that dooms me to being single the rest of my days (not that I'm complaining much, mind), all of these apply to me, except for the height one.
Damn.
Nonetheless, I have realized that while being liked is an unbelievably flattering experience, being feared is much more my style. If girls have to turn into simpering, seductive idiots just to catch a guy's eye, I think I'd rather keep my brain, thanks. Because sadly enough, it looks as though most guys really, truly want a girl who is beautiful, self-assured, but very much NOT the more dominant half of the relationship. I suspect this has to do with the male ego again.
Girls who tell guys when they've made mistakes, girls who point out a moronic error and laugh at it, are immediately shunted into the "friend" category. If not the "EVIL BITCH" category.
I'm pretty sure I get put into the second one more often than not. Woohoo! Guys think I'm a snob, girls think I'm a bitch, and it's all probably true, but being nice is too hard when everyone around you is stupider than the local blackberry bushes. Most people deserve to be mocked, and I'm just the one to do it! The way I see things, blunt honesty is preferable over sugary flattery, and I am a master at blunt honesty. If you didn't want my opinion, you shouldn't have asked for it, right?
Right. Here, I can pretend everyone agrees with me. I know most of my friends think I'm tactless--Hell, I KNOW I'm tactless. Tact is useful in some situations, but if it's something important, honesty is better. Too many false friendships are built upon nothing more than tact alone, and my inability to keep friends means I have to conserve all the tact I have for the people who matter to me.
Obviously, they are limited in number. I don't trust easily, and it's much easier to remain pleasant acquaintances with someone to go the extra step it takes for them to be considered my "friend". Yes, this is brutal, but in a school of 300 people, when you lose a friend, it hurts, because you don't have that many to begin with. I had a grand total of three friends in kindergarten. In 8th grade, I had four. Only one of them had been my friend since kindergarten.
I'm not trying to be melodramatic--this is what happened. I am horrible at keeping in touch with people, and I don't tend to put out a huge effort to make friends. Clearly, this means I'm not going to HAVE many friends. To me, there's a difference between liking someone and being their friend. More commitment, more work. And I'm lazy by nature.
It's not like I really regret it; having few friends means I don't have to be smothered by large numbers of people. Yes, I'm kind of a misanthrope. I don't find ANYONE flawless, even if someone's flaws don't irritate me. Most people's do, because I am also easily irritated, touchy, and I act like I'm constantly suffering from PMS (of course, when I AM PMS-ing, I get worse).
And I used to wonder what exactly it was that made me unattractive as a girlfriend. Apparently, at some point I've answered my own question. If I met another me through some odd form of inter-dimensional travel, I'd hate myself.
Clearly, self-love is for the nice people. Too bad I'm not one of them.
Friday, December 7, 2007
You rock my fuzzy slippers
Because I tend to do more ranting than anything else, and because blog-lists seem to be going around like an STD (only not, because no one I know is ever going to get ANY), here is a list of ten things that would rock my socks, if I was wearing socks. But since I'm not, these things are just going to have to rock my fuzzy slippers. Woohoo!
1. Schnappi. All you poor uninitiated fools who have never seen Schnappi need to click the link, now. Somehow, this ridiculous video has made my life a better place. Probably because it was number 1 on the German charts in January 2005. It's nice to know that I'm not alone in my Schnappi-worshipping cult. There's a whole COUNTRY of people just like me (only German).
2. B-grade martial arts movies. I know, I know. They're lame and pathetic and have crappy special effects that involve flaming soccer balls. And yet. If you haven't seen Kung Fu Hustle, you're missing out on LIFE. There are evil gangsters with mass dance routines and a badass landlady whose ultimate technique is essentially screaming. And she's one of the better fighters.
3. The merlion. Also known as the Ugliest Thing To Ever Be Immortalized In Multiple Giant Statues. Somehow, I wound up getting a little plastic version of the thing from Singapore Airport when I was around five, and I've had it ever since. Currently, it's sitting on my desk, looking ugly. The only reason I love the merlion so much is because it SHOULD NOT EXIST. Kind of like me!
4. Short people. I rarely get the opportunity to feel tall at my grand height of 5' 5" when many of my friends are 5' 7" or taller. Enough said.
5. Emails. I am in constant need of human contact. If you write me, it'll make my day--and yes, I do know this is unbelieveably pathetic. Hell, my whole life is unbelieveably pathetic. I think I need some chocolate now.
6. CHOCOLATE. If you need this explained, you scare me.
7. Kotani Kinya. How can I even describe this guy? He's got the stupidest dance moves since the original video of You Spin Me Round, he looks like he's absolutely BATSHIT insane, and he's having the time of his life. He also looks like he could be a character from Kingdom Hearts, which scares me. Hell, he probably IS a character from Kingdom Hearts. It explains his fashion sense.
8. Burning puffy Cheetos. I am not a complete pyro, but I DO like burning puffy Cheetos and paper, because they burn in awesome ways. Also magnesium. At least, I think it's magnesium. The silvery stuff that burns really bright makes me happy.
9. Liquid mercury. I love shiny things!
10. My friends. Granted, they are not shiny, nor do they look awesome on fire, but they rock my fuzzy slippers nonetheless. Especially when they buy me candy.
And a super-special number 11 because I just thought of something that makes me unexplicably happy: SQUISHY PILLOWS. The ones filled with all those little beans or something that makes them SO MUCH FUN TO SQUISH. I love those things.
1. Schnappi. All you poor uninitiated fools who have never seen Schnappi need to click the link, now. Somehow, this ridiculous video has made my life a better place. Probably because it was number 1 on the German charts in January 2005. It's nice to know that I'm not alone in my Schnappi-worshipping cult. There's a whole COUNTRY of people just like me (only German).
2. B-grade martial arts movies. I know, I know. They're lame and pathetic and have crappy special effects that involve flaming soccer balls. And yet. If you haven't seen Kung Fu Hustle, you're missing out on LIFE. There are evil gangsters with mass dance routines and a badass landlady whose ultimate technique is essentially screaming. And she's one of the better fighters.
3. The merlion. Also known as the Ugliest Thing To Ever Be Immortalized In Multiple Giant Statues. Somehow, I wound up getting a little plastic version of the thing from Singapore Airport when I was around five, and I've had it ever since. Currently, it's sitting on my desk, looking ugly. The only reason I love the merlion so much is because it SHOULD NOT EXIST. Kind of like me!
4. Short people. I rarely get the opportunity to feel tall at my grand height of 5' 5" when many of my friends are 5' 7" or taller. Enough said.
5. Emails. I am in constant need of human contact. If you write me, it'll make my day--and yes, I do know this is unbelieveably pathetic. Hell, my whole life is unbelieveably pathetic. I think I need some chocolate now.
6. CHOCOLATE. If you need this explained, you scare me.
7. Kotani Kinya. How can I even describe this guy? He's got the stupidest dance moves since the original video of You Spin Me Round, he looks like he's absolutely BATSHIT insane, and he's having the time of his life. He also looks like he could be a character from Kingdom Hearts, which scares me. Hell, he probably IS a character from Kingdom Hearts. It explains his fashion sense.
8. Burning puffy Cheetos. I am not a complete pyro, but I DO like burning puffy Cheetos and paper, because they burn in awesome ways. Also magnesium. At least, I think it's magnesium. The silvery stuff that burns really bright makes me happy.
9. Liquid mercury. I love shiny things!
10. My friends. Granted, they are not shiny, nor do they look awesome on fire, but they rock my fuzzy slippers nonetheless. Especially when they buy me candy.
And a super-special number 11 because I just thought of something that makes me unexplicably happy: SQUISHY PILLOWS. The ones filled with all those little beans or something that makes them SO MUCH FUN TO SQUISH. I love those things.
Yes, brain--you CAN be scarred more
Dear morons who decided to redivide up my school into houses,
You all suck. Can we possibly get any more elitist? I mean, now we're not just better than all the public school kids, we can look down on EACH OTHER for being in different houses. It's like we're at Hogwarts, and I'm trying desperately to pretend that I did not actually just get sorted into a house called Auslander.
Is it just me, or does that sound obscenely German?
Granted, it's better than Trudgian, which just sounds like a bad sci-fi species, but honestly. AUSLANDER. What the hell, school. You just got about ten times more pretentious.
When people ask me where I went to high school, I'm going to smile and say "Local public school". Because really, otherwise I'm going to have to say "Hell, Prep-style" or "Home of the Socially Inept".
I'm sure I make out my school to be much worse than it actually is. In reality, we didn't have to stand out in the cold for an hour and half while we ran through an earthquake drill. In reality, our school doesn't have both a chapel and a bell tower. In reality, our cafeteria is just that--a cafeteria, and not The Refectory. In reality, I'm just hallucinating all of this.
Hell, I probably don't even exist. But if I don't exist, why am I still getting emails from a football-playing jock who is in my advisory (and therefore my house) that consist of THIS:
<3
I only wish I was kidding. I'm never going to be able to look this guy in the face again. I mean, it's a chat-heart. Either I'm really impressed that he is secure enough in his crappy football skills to send an email like that out to over a hundred high schoolers, or I'm traumatised. I'm still not sure which--my brain seems to have stopped functioning out of shock. But still...Auslander.
Next Wednesday, when we're supposed to be wearing house colors, I think I'll wear tie-dye. Screw you, high school.
You all suck. Can we possibly get any more elitist? I mean, now we're not just better than all the public school kids, we can look down on EACH OTHER for being in different houses. It's like we're at Hogwarts, and I'm trying desperately to pretend that I did not actually just get sorted into a house called Auslander.
Is it just me, or does that sound obscenely German?
Granted, it's better than Trudgian, which just sounds like a bad sci-fi species, but honestly. AUSLANDER. What the hell, school. You just got about ten times more pretentious.
When people ask me where I went to high school, I'm going to smile and say "Local public school". Because really, otherwise I'm going to have to say "Hell, Prep-style" or "Home of the Socially Inept".
I'm sure I make out my school to be much worse than it actually is. In reality, we didn't have to stand out in the cold for an hour and half while we ran through an earthquake drill. In reality, our school doesn't have both a chapel and a bell tower. In reality, our cafeteria is just that--a cafeteria, and not The Refectory. In reality, I'm just hallucinating all of this.
Hell, I probably don't even exist. But if I don't exist, why am I still getting emails from a football-playing jock who is in my advisory (and therefore my house) that consist of THIS:
<3
I only wish I was kidding. I'm never going to be able to look this guy in the face again. I mean, it's a chat-heart. Either I'm really impressed that he is secure enough in his crappy football skills to send an email like that out to over a hundred high schoolers, or I'm traumatised. I'm still not sure which--my brain seems to have stopped functioning out of shock. But still...Auslander.
Next Wednesday, when we're supposed to be wearing house colors, I think I'll wear tie-dye. Screw you, high school.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Genres and genetic mistakes (male ones)
Okay. The next time someone tells me I suck because I don't listen to the same music they do, I shall take a CD and shove it up their nose. I don't care if it won't fit. I will make it fit, even if I have to take a chainsaw to their nasal cavity.
Because honestly, I don't know what genre I listen to the most. I listen to whatever I like, and just because I don't like the same genre of music as one of my friends doesn't mean I need to convert them to whatever I'm currently in love with. I cannot instantly recognize David Bowie when I hear him, and I DON'T CARE. And all you David Bowie fans out there who are seething can just deal, because that isn't changing any time soon.
It's not that I don't like songs from genres I don't usually listen to--for example, a friend of mine introduced me to anti-folk music. While I don't think I'll be going to any concerts anytime soon, Kimya Dawson kicks ass, and you should listen to her at least once because it's sadly addicting.
But you'll notice that I will not call you a loser if you don't.
Of course, I have no way of knowing if you do, but this is getting off topic. Big surprise. So in another of my random topic jumps, I've realized that I don't care about a lot of things. I heard yesterday that there's a clique of guys who hate my guts, because apparently I act like I think I'm "better" than they are. And really, if they're desperate enough for bitchy gossip that they're bashing someone who has made almost NO contact with them, I am better than them. Sucks for them.
Still, I can't help but find it ridiculous. When I mock these boys, it is only to my close friends, and it's only because I have seen evidence of their stupidity in classes. They may have redeeming qualities...But I sure haven't seen any.
But dear readers, the next time you bash someone, try and do it intelligently (somehow, I don't think it's really possible for the boys in my story, seeing as they're the kind of kids who still laugh whenever someone says the word 'poop').
Because honestly, I don't know what genre I listen to the most. I listen to whatever I like, and just because I don't like the same genre of music as one of my friends doesn't mean I need to convert them to whatever I'm currently in love with. I cannot instantly recognize David Bowie when I hear him, and I DON'T CARE. And all you David Bowie fans out there who are seething can just deal, because that isn't changing any time soon.
It's not that I don't like songs from genres I don't usually listen to--for example, a friend of mine introduced me to anti-folk music. While I don't think I'll be going to any concerts anytime soon, Kimya Dawson kicks ass, and you should listen to her at least once because it's sadly addicting.
But you'll notice that I will not call you a loser if you don't.
Of course, I have no way of knowing if you do, but this is getting off topic. Big surprise. So in another of my random topic jumps, I've realized that I don't care about a lot of things. I heard yesterday that there's a clique of guys who hate my guts, because apparently I act like I think I'm "better" than they are. And really, if they're desperate enough for bitchy gossip that they're bashing someone who has made almost NO contact with them, I am better than them. Sucks for them.
Still, I can't help but find it ridiculous. When I mock these boys, it is only to my close friends, and it's only because I have seen evidence of their stupidity in classes. They may have redeeming qualities...But I sure haven't seen any.
But dear readers, the next time you bash someone, try and do it intelligently (somehow, I don't think it's really possible for the boys in my story, seeing as they're the kind of kids who still laugh whenever someone says the word 'poop').
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Disneyland is a pit of DOOM
I am a cynic—I freely admit this. My friends freely admit this. If I had a gerbil (I don’t), the gerbil would probably admit it, despite their relative stupidity. Because the way I see things, people who are optimists are setting themselves up to get hurt. That’s the way the world works. Of course, once upon a time, I was an optimist. Then I went to Disneyland.
No, really. I was probably six or seven, and I was really excited, because, well, Disneyland. Candy and rollercoasters and the whole host of smiling princesses and scarily large, fluffy animals.
Pedophiles, the lot of them.
Anyways, I went to Disneyland, and here I am expecting sun, because God knows it’s supposed to be sunny. It’s in California! There are only three reasons to go there: the sun, the drugs, and the oranges (I’m a Californian by birth, but in 7th grade I made a three-foot long scale model of the state out of some fast-drying goop, mountain ranges and all. I’ve hated the damn thing ever since).
But we went to Disneyland, and I’m excited until we get into the Magic Kingdom itself That’s when we discovered that when it rains in California, it rains hard—and to top it all off, the weather reports mentioned balmy weather as recently as THE DAY BEFORE. Still, we pull out our rain jackets and buy some umbrellas.
It’s too bad the rain soaked through them. When we got back to our overpriced hotel room that night, we looked about as happy as naked mole rats. I advise you to look closely the next time you see a naked mole rat. Does it look happy? NO. It looks pissed (and wrinkly and disgusting—which also described us pretty well).
We struggled our way through an entire, soggy, miserable week. We wound up buying thicker jackets, and even then we really didn’t want to do anything other than curl up in the warm hotel room and sleep, because no matter where we went, everything was wet. And I mean everything.
But you know what really made me lose faith in optimism? We were flying out, relieved to be going back home to our reliable, gently drizzling Seattle. And then…
It. Stopped. Raining.
We got home, checked the California weather near Disneyland: sunny and warm. I only wish I was kidding.
So if you tell me the glass is half full, not only will I laugh at you, I’ll drink the rest of the water. Because in reality, the glass is ALWAYS empty.
Or it's full of slugs. Take your pick.
No, really. I was probably six or seven, and I was really excited, because, well, Disneyland. Candy and rollercoasters and the whole host of smiling princesses and scarily large, fluffy animals.
Pedophiles, the lot of them.
Anyways, I went to Disneyland, and here I am expecting sun, because God knows it’s supposed to be sunny. It’s in California! There are only three reasons to go there: the sun, the drugs, and the oranges (I’m a Californian by birth, but in 7th grade I made a three-foot long scale model of the state out of some fast-drying goop, mountain ranges and all. I’ve hated the damn thing ever since).
But we went to Disneyland, and I’m excited until we get into the Magic Kingdom itself That’s when we discovered that when it rains in California, it rains hard—and to top it all off, the weather reports mentioned balmy weather as recently as THE DAY BEFORE. Still, we pull out our rain jackets and buy some umbrellas.
It’s too bad the rain soaked through them. When we got back to our overpriced hotel room that night, we looked about as happy as naked mole rats. I advise you to look closely the next time you see a naked mole rat. Does it look happy? NO. It looks pissed (and wrinkly and disgusting—which also described us pretty well).
We struggled our way through an entire, soggy, miserable week. We wound up buying thicker jackets, and even then we really didn’t want to do anything other than curl up in the warm hotel room and sleep, because no matter where we went, everything was wet. And I mean everything.
But you know what really made me lose faith in optimism? We were flying out, relieved to be going back home to our reliable, gently drizzling Seattle. And then…
It. Stopped. Raining.
We got home, checked the California weather near Disneyland: sunny and warm. I only wish I was kidding.
So if you tell me the glass is half full, not only will I laugh at you, I’ll drink the rest of the water. Because in reality, the glass is ALWAYS empty.
Or it's full of slugs. Take your pick.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Winter time blahs
In one of my life's pathetic attempts at adventure, I stopped a runaway horse today. And everyone told me I did good, when really all I did was stand in front of the damn thing and hope it wouldn't run me over.
It didn't. Unfortunately.
Because now that winter's here, it means snow is just around the corner. Now, I like snow--for about a day. I don't mind going somewhere to play in the snow for a couple of hours, but I want to be able to go home to my nice, warm room with some hot chocolate and whatnot. But snow is not considerate.
See, I live on a hill. When it snows, I am pretty much stuck at home. And to top it all off, we usually lose power. Hell, if it snows, we WILL lose power. That's just the way the trees are designed.
Stupid trees.
So I'm not looking forward to the snow for many different reasons, not the least of which is the memory of last winter. We lost power for about a week, and eventually had to go live with family friends. They have a lively six year old who thinks I'm cooler than Barbie.
It was HELL. She wouldn't leave me alone, ever; I had my laptop and a few books to stave off boredom with; I couldn't see any of my friends; and I had no idea when we'd be able to go back home. The next time we lose power for more than a few days, I'm going to build myself a bloody IGLOO before I stay with another family.
And yeah, that's not really pleasant either, so it better not snow.
When I apply to colleges, Hawaii is first on my list.
It didn't. Unfortunately.
Because now that winter's here, it means snow is just around the corner. Now, I like snow--for about a day. I don't mind going somewhere to play in the snow for a couple of hours, but I want to be able to go home to my nice, warm room with some hot chocolate and whatnot. But snow is not considerate.
See, I live on a hill. When it snows, I am pretty much stuck at home. And to top it all off, we usually lose power. Hell, if it snows, we WILL lose power. That's just the way the trees are designed.
Stupid trees.
So I'm not looking forward to the snow for many different reasons, not the least of which is the memory of last winter. We lost power for about a week, and eventually had to go live with family friends. They have a lively six year old who thinks I'm cooler than Barbie.
It was HELL. She wouldn't leave me alone, ever; I had my laptop and a few books to stave off boredom with; I couldn't see any of my friends; and I had no idea when we'd be able to go back home. The next time we lose power for more than a few days, I'm going to build myself a bloody IGLOO before I stay with another family.
And yeah, that's not really pleasant either, so it better not snow.
When I apply to colleges, Hawaii is first on my list.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Instant karma (I didn't deserve that)
Have been feeling sick since Thursday, finally caved and took medicine last night but woke up at 2 in the morning, stumbled to the bathroom, and threw up. Icky. Worked a good two and a half hours at the stable today, going back tomorrow for at least three and a half hours more. Exhausted from the cough and the allergies and the lack of sleep, planning on spending most of Monday and Tuesday napping.
On the bright side, soaked in the tub with a good book for over half an hour, and I'm sitting on the heater because it's warm. But that's about it.
...And now you see why I only write when I'm irritated. Otherwise, I'm just mopey. And I drop subjects because I CAN.
Although this is kind of like a rant, just taken down a few notches because I really don't feel like working up the energy to get really ticked off over something. You can send me virtual cookies (or bake me real ones) and I'll probably sniffle all over you and infect you too--then I'll laugh when you all have colds, only to immediately start sniffling again in a moment of Instant Karma.
That'll be oodles of fun.
And like always, on a completely different note, one of my friends was discussing a roadtrip she thinks a bunch of us should take. I would call it fun, but I predict that little thunderclouds of doom will follow our car around from city to city and occasionally smite us for laughing too loudly. That's just the way things WORK sometimes.
And if there are no thunderclouds, we'll probably hit a mountain and total our car in the very first day...Or the mountain will hit us. Probably because we were laughing too loudly.
On the bright side, soaked in the tub with a good book for over half an hour, and I'm sitting on the heater because it's warm. But that's about it.
...And now you see why I only write when I'm irritated. Otherwise, I'm just mopey. And I drop subjects because I CAN.
Although this is kind of like a rant, just taken down a few notches because I really don't feel like working up the energy to get really ticked off over something. You can send me virtual cookies (or bake me real ones) and I'll probably sniffle all over you and infect you too--then I'll laugh when you all have colds, only to immediately start sniffling again in a moment of Instant Karma.
That'll be oodles of fun.
And like always, on a completely different note, one of my friends was discussing a roadtrip she thinks a bunch of us should take. I would call it fun, but I predict that little thunderclouds of doom will follow our car around from city to city and occasionally smite us for laughing too loudly. That's just the way things WORK sometimes.
And if there are no thunderclouds, we'll probably hit a mountain and total our car in the very first day...Or the mountain will hit us. Probably because we were laughing too loudly.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Cakes and encounters over a piroshky
I have guy friends who laugh at me when I say I like to bake stuff. Clearly, they are dessert deprived. Because once you've realized that you can make chocolate molten lava cakes better than any fancy restaurant chef, there's no going back.
And the lava cakes I've got the recipe for kick ASS.
Figuratively.
I don't think lava cakes actually have feet (unless they've undergone some strange mutation, at which point I'd be backing away slowly), but if they did, they'd totally kick ass.
Anyways, how is cooking NOT a useful skill to have? Desserts are the ultimate gift. If someone's mad at you, bake them something. If someone's depressed, bake them something. If someone's pregnant, bake them LOTS of somethings and then watch as they eat it all in under 30 seconds.
And in a random encounter at the local market today, I met this kid who I used to go to school with eating lunch at a Russian place. It was really awkward (but I'm still taller--I win!), and despite the fact that we knew each other for nine years, I had absolutely NOTHING to say. I hate it when I meet people I used to know, because then invariably my mom insists I go and say hello. And this is how the conversation usually plays out.
Me: Hey.
Equally awkward acquaintance: Hey.
Me: So...How do you like school?
Awkward acquaintance: It's okay. You?
And so on. It's like the most boring conversation in the world, and by the end of it both of us are wishing desperately our parents had never noticed each other. Stupid parents, thinking we need socialization. I already have friends, thank you very much, and their powers for creating awkwardness in my life are quite enough on their own without any help. I said maybe five words to this kid for the entirety of the time we went to school together, and I'm sure he remembered me about as much as I remembered him (which is pathetically well--my graduating class in eighth grade was 29 people, most of whom I'd known since kindergarten). Still. Awkward and icky. So the next time I see someone I used to know, I'm going to pretend I don't exist. God knows it'd be less painful.
And the lava cakes I've got the recipe for kick ASS.
Figuratively.
I don't think lava cakes actually have feet (unless they've undergone some strange mutation, at which point I'd be backing away slowly), but if they did, they'd totally kick ass.
Anyways, how is cooking NOT a useful skill to have? Desserts are the ultimate gift. If someone's mad at you, bake them something. If someone's depressed, bake them something. If someone's pregnant, bake them LOTS of somethings and then watch as they eat it all in under 30 seconds.
And in a random encounter at the local market today, I met this kid who I used to go to school with eating lunch at a Russian place. It was really awkward (but I'm still taller--I win!), and despite the fact that we knew each other for nine years, I had absolutely NOTHING to say. I hate it when I meet people I used to know, because then invariably my mom insists I go and say hello. And this is how the conversation usually plays out.
Me: Hey.
Equally awkward acquaintance: Hey.
Me: So...How do you like school?
Awkward acquaintance: It's okay. You?
And so on. It's like the most boring conversation in the world, and by the end of it both of us are wishing desperately our parents had never noticed each other. Stupid parents, thinking we need socialization. I already have friends, thank you very much, and their powers for creating awkwardness in my life are quite enough on their own without any help. I said maybe five words to this kid for the entirety of the time we went to school together, and I'm sure he remembered me about as much as I remembered him (which is pathetically well--my graduating class in eighth grade was 29 people, most of whom I'd known since kindergarten). Still. Awkward and icky. So the next time I see someone I used to know, I'm going to pretend I don't exist. God knows it'd be less painful.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Thanksgiving wishlist
God, I hate Thanksgiving. Yes, it's all very good that we recognize what we're thankful for. For example, I'm very, very thankful I don't look like Christopher Walken. But I had to spend the entire morning cleaning the house, the turkey was cold and tasteless, and I had to make three plates of olives, chives, and onions on cream-cheese covered crackers.
I am tired, I'm sick, and I'd like nothing more than a hot water bottle and a nice book, and the next time my parents insist we watch a movie together as a family, I'd like them to pick something a little more interesting than LEGALLY BLONDE 2.
Thank you not at all, Thanksgiving. Next year, I think I'll spend the day throwing rocks at little kids. It'll definitely be more enjoyable.
On a completely different note, Christmas is coming up, and I'm debating whether or not I actually want to go to the trouble of getting gifts for my friends. Yes, I'm a horrible, cold-hearted person. No, I don't care. At all.
See, last year I brought a bunch of chocolate, as I spent a good chunk of the break without power and so could not make or buy personalized gifts. This year, I'm just feeling lazy. Besides, I'm cheap, and even if I buy into that "gift from the heart" bullshit, I'm not going to go around buying my friends shaving razors, grills, and diamonds.
This Christmas, you all can buy ME diamonds (but I'll pass on the grills, thanks).
I am tired, I'm sick, and I'd like nothing more than a hot water bottle and a nice book, and the next time my parents insist we watch a movie together as a family, I'd like them to pick something a little more interesting than LEGALLY BLONDE 2.
Thank you not at all, Thanksgiving. Next year, I think I'll spend the day throwing rocks at little kids. It'll definitely be more enjoyable.
On a completely different note, Christmas is coming up, and I'm debating whether or not I actually want to go to the trouble of getting gifts for my friends. Yes, I'm a horrible, cold-hearted person. No, I don't care. At all.
See, last year I brought a bunch of chocolate, as I spent a good chunk of the break without power and so could not make or buy personalized gifts. This year, I'm just feeling lazy. Besides, I'm cheap, and even if I buy into that "gift from the heart" bullshit, I'm not going to go around buying my friends shaving razors, grills, and diamonds.
This Christmas, you all can buy ME diamonds (but I'll pass on the grills, thanks).
Monday, November 19, 2007
Tentacles, fungi, and nail polish
I know for a fact that I'm not exactly open minded when it comes to my food. I'm not a super-picky eater, but I draw the line somewhere.
That somewhere happens to be tentacles.
I'm sorry all you calamari lovers. All you people out there who like octopus sushi, I'm sure you have your reasons. But I cannot, will not EVER eat something that has suckers, stingers, or was once an internal body part. Imagine, if you will, taking a squid, hacking off a tentacle, sticking it on some rice, and eating it. JUST. LIKE. THAT.
And then there's foods like tripe, which if I'm not mistaken is cow guts. I've seen them in soup, and they look like those worms you see after a rainstorm, only fatter. You know, the greyish dead ones, all bloated and soggy? Yeah. That's tripe.
My personal favorite (they scare the crap out of me) is mushrooms. Last time I checked, mushrooms are fungi. They feed off of dead or decaying matter, and yet we insist on putting them in gourmet food. Will someone please explain to me how this works?
Okay, enough about the food. Really, I'll stop.
....It's just icky. That's all.
I really am done now, if only to quickly touch on something that's bugged me for years. Occasionally I'll wear a bit of makeup, but the one thing I cannot do is go makeup shopping. Because the instant I walk into Bobbi Brown, for example, the only thing I can see is THIS:
Rose Gold, Toasted Honey, Seashore Frosts, Honey Beige, Soft Suede, and of course my all time favorite courtesy of Lip Smackers: GUM BALL GALAXY.
I mean, what the hell? Half of these are the exact same shade, and that shade is LIGHT BROWN. But no--God forbid anyone actually call it light brown. We need to give our makeup colors names like Razzle Dazzle Raspberry, because red is just too--too manly, or something. The rainbow is for fashion wimps. Forget ROYGBIV, kiddies. It's time for you to learn all eight billion different brand name colors out there!
Yes, this ticks me off, if only because when you're a kid you never say things like "Pass the Seamist". No, you say "blue", but as soon as you enter puberty it's NOT blue, you fools. Clearly, it's Blue My Mind (I only wish I was making this up), and heaven help anyone too stupid to know that.
You know what? From now on, everything is PUCE.
...Good thing they don't try and sell octopus as Tender Rose Tentacles. I'm sure that would go down well.
That somewhere happens to be tentacles.
I'm sorry all you calamari lovers. All you people out there who like octopus sushi, I'm sure you have your reasons. But I cannot, will not EVER eat something that has suckers, stingers, or was once an internal body part. Imagine, if you will, taking a squid, hacking off a tentacle, sticking it on some rice, and eating it. JUST. LIKE. THAT.
And then there's foods like tripe, which if I'm not mistaken is cow guts. I've seen them in soup, and they look like those worms you see after a rainstorm, only fatter. You know, the greyish dead ones, all bloated and soggy? Yeah. That's tripe.
My personal favorite (they scare the crap out of me) is mushrooms. Last time I checked, mushrooms are fungi. They feed off of dead or decaying matter, and yet we insist on putting them in gourmet food. Will someone please explain to me how this works?
Okay, enough about the food. Really, I'll stop.
....It's just icky. That's all.
I really am done now, if only to quickly touch on something that's bugged me for years. Occasionally I'll wear a bit of makeup, but the one thing I cannot do is go makeup shopping. Because the instant I walk into Bobbi Brown, for example, the only thing I can see is THIS:
Rose Gold, Toasted Honey, Seashore Frosts, Honey Beige, Soft Suede, and of course my all time favorite courtesy of Lip Smackers: GUM BALL GALAXY.
I mean, what the hell? Half of these are the exact same shade, and that shade is LIGHT BROWN. But no--God forbid anyone actually call it light brown. We need to give our makeup colors names like Razzle Dazzle Raspberry, because red is just too--too manly, or something. The rainbow is for fashion wimps. Forget ROYGBIV, kiddies. It's time for you to learn all eight billion different brand name colors out there!
Yes, this ticks me off, if only because when you're a kid you never say things like "Pass the Seamist". No, you say "blue", but as soon as you enter puberty it's NOT blue, you fools. Clearly, it's Blue My Mind (I only wish I was making this up), and heaven help anyone too stupid to know that.
You know what? From now on, everything is PUCE.
...Good thing they don't try and sell octopus as Tender Rose Tentacles. I'm sure that would go down well.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
The problem with school dances (everything)
Dear sex maniacs, please take the copulation OFF the dance floor. Thank you.
That right there summarizes the main problem with high school dances. About halfway through, you can't turn without coming up against a couple (or a threesome...or a foursome...) attempting to have sex through their clothes. I say attempting because none of the people involved are actually intelligent enough to realize that you can't have sex fully-clothed. Granted, there are people who enjoy freaking, and I'm not going to bash them (much).
BUT--there is a difference between the upright, minor grinding version of freaking and whatever you want to call boys humping their dates. Me, I call it icky. But that's just me.
And of course, the other people dancing is only part of the issue. Have you ever heard the crap they play at school dances? It's sad, because really the only original part to the music is what new and inventive metaphors (only NOT) the rappers are using for--you guessed it--sex.
And of course, any time they do play good music, you can't hear it because your eardrums have already shattered, you're surrounded by masses of people and you're probably being molested by some guy with his hand on your butt.
...Yeah.
And then on top of it all, before each dance I get the Talk--don't do drugs; don't drink alcohol; if a boy tries anything, run away and call us and we'll come get you; if your friends are pressuring you, lock yourself in the bathroom and call us, blah, blah, BLAH. I can give myself the Talk by now. I could give my dog the Talk if I decided for some random reason to send my dog out clubbing.
Which I wouldn't.
Still, the point remains. And really, if I was stupid enough to take drugs or alcohol, don't my parents realize I would have already STARTED by now, in which case the Talk is completely irrelevant? I mean, if I was addicted to something, I wouldn't stop just because my mom told me it was bad. I probably wouldn't stop even if I knew it was bad, because I have no strength of will whatsoever. Woohoo.
And because I'm feeling cranky, I'm going to go eat more chocolate and blow off doing my Math homework. So there.
That right there summarizes the main problem with high school dances. About halfway through, you can't turn without coming up against a couple (or a threesome...or a foursome...) attempting to have sex through their clothes. I say attempting because none of the people involved are actually intelligent enough to realize that you can't have sex fully-clothed. Granted, there are people who enjoy freaking, and I'm not going to bash them (much).
BUT--there is a difference between the upright, minor grinding version of freaking and whatever you want to call boys humping their dates. Me, I call it icky. But that's just me.
And of course, the other people dancing is only part of the issue. Have you ever heard the crap they play at school dances? It's sad, because really the only original part to the music is what new and inventive metaphors (only NOT) the rappers are using for--you guessed it--sex.
And of course, any time they do play good music, you can't hear it because your eardrums have already shattered, you're surrounded by masses of people and you're probably being molested by some guy with his hand on your butt.
...Yeah.
And then on top of it all, before each dance I get the Talk--don't do drugs; don't drink alcohol; if a boy tries anything, run away and call us and we'll come get you; if your friends are pressuring you, lock yourself in the bathroom and call us, blah, blah, BLAH. I can give myself the Talk by now. I could give my dog the Talk if I decided for some random reason to send my dog out clubbing.
Which I wouldn't.
Still, the point remains. And really, if I was stupid enough to take drugs or alcohol, don't my parents realize I would have already STARTED by now, in which case the Talk is completely irrelevant? I mean, if I was addicted to something, I wouldn't stop just because my mom told me it was bad. I probably wouldn't stop even if I knew it was bad, because I have no strength of will whatsoever. Woohoo.
And because I'm feeling cranky, I'm going to go eat more chocolate and blow off doing my Math homework. So there.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Violence can TOTALLY be the answer
Yes, yes, I know. Peace is good, murder is bad, blah, blah, blah. I'm not saying that we should go around committing random acts of massacre, I'm just saying that sometimes it's easier to get your point across when it comes with a whap upside the head.
Besides, you know that you've all been tempted to hit someone at one point or another in your life. Chances are, you have. So please do not tell me that we should all try to get along without violence. It's part of being HUMAN--if we weren't violent, we'd probably all have been eaten. By like, bears and stuff.
....Yeah.
Anyways, that wasn't my point. My point was that the next time someone asks the History teacher why the European countries couldn't just get along and be friends during WWI, I'm going to scream. We spend three weeks reading about all the various factors that lead up to the war, and NO, it wasn't going to just go away because hurting people isn't nice. Life is not like Disney, so please don't try and play Snow White.
And that wasn't actually my point either, because really, I don't have a point. There are thousands and thousands of things that get on my nerves. For example, when a whole horde of ditzy freshmen block off an entire hallway and walk really, really slowly. The idiots who think that History class is the place to hold screaming debates on topics like how WWI could have been prevented need to shut up, now, because frankly, no one cares. Not even the History teacher.
And for God's sake, please don't steal other people's clothes. I'm sure they don't appreciate it.
Besides, you know that you've all been tempted to hit someone at one point or another in your life. Chances are, you have. So please do not tell me that we should all try to get along without violence. It's part of being HUMAN--if we weren't violent, we'd probably all have been eaten. By like, bears and stuff.
....Yeah.
Anyways, that wasn't my point. My point was that the next time someone asks the History teacher why the European countries couldn't just get along and be friends during WWI, I'm going to scream. We spend three weeks reading about all the various factors that lead up to the war, and NO, it wasn't going to just go away because hurting people isn't nice. Life is not like Disney, so please don't try and play Snow White.
And that wasn't actually my point either, because really, I don't have a point. There are thousands and thousands of things that get on my nerves. For example, when a whole horde of ditzy freshmen block off an entire hallway and walk really, really slowly. The idiots who think that History class is the place to hold screaming debates on topics like how WWI could have been prevented need to shut up, now, because frankly, no one cares. Not even the History teacher.
And for God's sake, please don't steal other people's clothes. I'm sure they don't appreciate it.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Rantfest!
If there's one thing that really bugs me (I kid--there are millions and billions of things that really bug me), it's Internet typos. I don't mind the occasional slip-up--I make mistakes like that often. But for God's sake, people. If you can't figure out how to hold the Shift key to capitalize words, please don't use a computer. Just because you're posting a story online doesn't mean it automatically becomes an IM conversation.
Moreover, if you're attempting to write in English--use the goddamned English language. That's what it's there for. Please, think of your readers (although if you're mangling the language, chances are you won't have readers. Serves you right).
On a completely different note, I'm going to be incredibly obnoxious and go back to my cultural heritage topic for just a moment. Being Indian does not make me automatically vegetarian. Instead of asking "You are vegetarian, aren't you?", try "Are you vegetarian?". The former will get you an answer of "No, I actually live off the stupidity of other people--that's why I spend so much time with you".
Okay, done now. Instead of returning to bad writing, I think I'll venture into the land of bad music. Also known as Justin Timberlake. Who sounds like a girl, looks like a giant pimple, and sings higher than I do. Hallelujah.
And good old Justin has reminded me of yet another pet peeve of mine (are you bored yet?): singers-turned-actors and actors-turned-singers. Acting and singing are NOT interchangeable. Please, all you Hilary Duff fans out there--what ever gave you the idea that she had talent?
...
That was tactless. Nevertheless, I'm tired of seeing bad movies made worse by the fact that the main character, on top of being average-girl-in-a-stereotypical-school, can now not only single-handedly change hundreds of stupid, evil people into nice, intelligent people but can sing, dance, and possibly even juggle flaming torches. ALL AT ONCE.
Dun dun DAAAH!
Because you know she's totally someone thousands of preteens can relate to--other than the fact that the hunky boy is both super-sweet and falls for her instantly, the bitch queen can't compete with her natural charm, and she still somehow makes clutzy mistakes that win the hearts of the cynical outcasts, she's exactly like every girl in the world!
...Nice try, Disney.
Tsubaki
Moreover, if you're attempting to write in English--use the goddamned English language. That's what it's there for. Please, think of your readers (although if you're mangling the language, chances are you won't have readers. Serves you right).
On a completely different note, I'm going to be incredibly obnoxious and go back to my cultural heritage topic for just a moment. Being Indian does not make me automatically vegetarian. Instead of asking "You are vegetarian, aren't you?", try "Are you vegetarian?". The former will get you an answer of "No, I actually live off the stupidity of other people--that's why I spend so much time with you".
Okay, done now. Instead of returning to bad writing, I think I'll venture into the land of bad music. Also known as Justin Timberlake. Who sounds like a girl, looks like a giant pimple, and sings higher than I do. Hallelujah.
And good old Justin has reminded me of yet another pet peeve of mine (are you bored yet?): singers-turned-actors and actors-turned-singers. Acting and singing are NOT interchangeable. Please, all you Hilary Duff fans out there--what ever gave you the idea that she had talent?
...
That was tactless. Nevertheless, I'm tired of seeing bad movies made worse by the fact that the main character, on top of being average-girl-in-a-stereotypical-school, can now not only single-handedly change hundreds of stupid, evil people into nice, intelligent people but can sing, dance, and possibly even juggle flaming torches. ALL AT ONCE.
Dun dun DAAAH!
Because you know she's totally someone thousands of preteens can relate to--other than the fact that the hunky boy is both super-sweet and falls for her instantly, the bitch queen can't compete with her natural charm, and she still somehow makes clutzy mistakes that win the hearts of the cynical outcasts, she's exactly like every girl in the world!
...Nice try, Disney.
Tsubaki
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Dodgeball (Darwinism, macho-style)
I have been informed that starting this past Monday, we're doing a dodgeball unit in PE. And I have nothing (only obviously, I'm lying) to say to that. Because if there is one classic game more primal than dodgeball, I challenge you to name it now. And see, you can't. Because I'm right. Muahahaha.
I'm not saying dodgeball can't be fun. I'm just saying that dodgeball completely and totally follows survival of the fittest. If you can dodge faster and throw harder than anyone you know, you'll kick ass at it (unless you only know really wimpy people).
The problem for me is, some of the guys in my PE class throw hard. Me? I can't throw. End of story. So dodgeball turns into me standing alone on my team's side with everyone else taking shots at me. It feels vaguely like I'm some small fuzzy mammal that people shoot at to stuff and keep on their walls. Everyone knows you're going to get hit at one point or another, the only question is how long you run around trying to prolong your misery.
But enough of the bad analogy. There's one other problem I have with dodgeball, and that's testosterone. No, the game is not actually giving off hormones, but from the way the guys act as soon as the game starts, maybe I'm wrong. Because there's nothing that sends these guys into a frenzy like the chance to hit people. Doesn't that sound like fun, children? You get to serve as moving targets for testosterone-fueled midgets who need to prove their masculinity to the walrus masquerading as our PE teacher.
Oh boy.
There's nothing more pathetically funny in PE than watching two guys, both of whom top out at around 5' 3", battling each other for control of the dodgeball court, the hockey puck, the soccer ball, you name it. These guys are in 10th grade and yet look as though puberty has barely arrived (they've got the pimples to show it, but I'm still skeptical), and due to chronic bad haircuts and a lack of hormones, they're so desperate to show off that they take it out on their PE classes. I'm sure you've seen the type--these are the ones that get worked up over a game of basketball to the point of screaming at their own teammates.
And yes, I've been screamed at. I'm a slacker, and PE is no exception. The fact that I completely lack hand-eye coordination is not a plus. But honestly, when a twit that's a good 2 inches shorter than me starts telling me to "go after the ball!" my first reaction is to flip him off. My second reaction is to laugh, because usually at that point he's made a desperate sprint, only to be cut off by an opposing player who is at least a foot taller than him. Poor little midget-men.
I feel no pity whatsoever.
Macho idiots.
Tsubaki
I'm not saying dodgeball can't be fun. I'm just saying that dodgeball completely and totally follows survival of the fittest. If you can dodge faster and throw harder than anyone you know, you'll kick ass at it (unless you only know really wimpy people).
The problem for me is, some of the guys in my PE class throw hard. Me? I can't throw. End of story. So dodgeball turns into me standing alone on my team's side with everyone else taking shots at me. It feels vaguely like I'm some small fuzzy mammal that people shoot at to stuff and keep on their walls. Everyone knows you're going to get hit at one point or another, the only question is how long you run around trying to prolong your misery.
But enough of the bad analogy. There's one other problem I have with dodgeball, and that's testosterone. No, the game is not actually giving off hormones, but from the way the guys act as soon as the game starts, maybe I'm wrong. Because there's nothing that sends these guys into a frenzy like the chance to hit people. Doesn't that sound like fun, children? You get to serve as moving targets for testosterone-fueled midgets who need to prove their masculinity to the walrus masquerading as our PE teacher.
Oh boy.
There's nothing more pathetically funny in PE than watching two guys, both of whom top out at around 5' 3", battling each other for control of the dodgeball court, the hockey puck, the soccer ball, you name it. These guys are in 10th grade and yet look as though puberty has barely arrived (they've got the pimples to show it, but I'm still skeptical), and due to chronic bad haircuts and a lack of hormones, they're so desperate to show off that they take it out on their PE classes. I'm sure you've seen the type--these are the ones that get worked up over a game of basketball to the point of screaming at their own teammates.
And yes, I've been screamed at. I'm a slacker, and PE is no exception. The fact that I completely lack hand-eye coordination is not a plus. But honestly, when a twit that's a good 2 inches shorter than me starts telling me to "go after the ball!" my first reaction is to flip him off. My second reaction is to laugh, because usually at that point he's made a desperate sprint, only to be cut off by an opposing player who is at least a foot taller than him. Poor little midget-men.
I feel no pity whatsoever.
Macho idiots.
Tsubaki
Monday, November 12, 2007
Why I'm destined for evil (I won't have a white picket fence)
I'm back to ranting. Because hell if I didn't just realize one of my favorite rant topics has yet to be immortalized on my blog. And so to all you girls out there who WANT to have kids: What the HELL are you thinking?!?!?!?
Okay. I'm going to backtrack, just a little. I know that there are lots of good things to being a mother. You get that "warm motherly feeling", you get to care for something small and fuzzy and until it poops on you, adorable.
BUT. Let me just list off, very quickly, all the things not-so-nice about having your own child. Morning sickness, 9 months of carrying a wriggly, kicking baby, turning into a beached whale one pound at a time, hours of labor, 10 centimeters (guys, if you don't already know this, I'm not going to explain for your sanity), and then actually having to GIVE BIRTH. Excuse me while I cry in a corner.
I'm sorry that I'm not incredibly masochistic. I am afraid of pain, and I cannot, ever, willingly subject myself to months of pain. If I want kids, I will adopt. And then I shall raise the kids into evil masterminds who will be the terror of their preschools. When they take over the world, I'll retire and live quite happily, thank you very much. But having my own kids?
No way.
Of course, chances are I'm going to change my mind. Two years ago, I thought guys had the collective intelligence of a gerbil. Turns out I was right, if only because the super-smart ones are canceled out by the guys who think it's funny to sit on each other and fart. And they're wondering why no one's asked them to Tolo.
And right there is the other problem with reproduction. I don't know about all you folks, but I really, really don't want to get married, nor do I want to be a single mother. And honestly, I am NOT marrying someone who laughs whenever he hears the word "poop" in conversation.
So when you all have your cute little children and your dutiful spouse and your white picket fence--I'll be the single billionaire who likes to set off explosives in my free time.
Muahahahahaha.
Love,
Tsubaki
Okay. I'm going to backtrack, just a little. I know that there are lots of good things to being a mother. You get that "warm motherly feeling", you get to care for something small and fuzzy and until it poops on you, adorable.
BUT. Let me just list off, very quickly, all the things not-so-nice about having your own child. Morning sickness, 9 months of carrying a wriggly, kicking baby, turning into a beached whale one pound at a time, hours of labor, 10 centimeters (guys, if you don't already know this, I'm not going to explain for your sanity), and then actually having to GIVE BIRTH. Excuse me while I cry in a corner.
I'm sorry that I'm not incredibly masochistic. I am afraid of pain, and I cannot, ever, willingly subject myself to months of pain. If I want kids, I will adopt. And then I shall raise the kids into evil masterminds who will be the terror of their preschools. When they take over the world, I'll retire and live quite happily, thank you very much. But having my own kids?
No way.
Of course, chances are I'm going to change my mind. Two years ago, I thought guys had the collective intelligence of a gerbil. Turns out I was right, if only because the super-smart ones are canceled out by the guys who think it's funny to sit on each other and fart. And they're wondering why no one's asked them to Tolo.
And right there is the other problem with reproduction. I don't know about all you folks, but I really, really don't want to get married, nor do I want to be a single mother. And honestly, I am NOT marrying someone who laughs whenever he hears the word "poop" in conversation.
So when you all have your cute little children and your dutiful spouse and your white picket fence--I'll be the single billionaire who likes to set off explosives in my free time.
Muahahahahaha.
Love,
Tsubaki
Sunday, November 11, 2007
WARNING: This post contains excessive seriousness
95% of the time, being an Indian-American doesn't really affect me. Okay, so I eat ethnic foods for dinner, I occasionally engage in small acts of Indian Pride, and my skin's got that "everlasting tan" that so many people envy. Woohoo. There's a whole country of people who look like I do, who eat the same kinds of food, who will proclaim loud and clear that India is the best country in the world. And yet I would like to see, just once, what it's like NOT being Indian.
Even the people who try and accept all differences: race, culture, orientation, whatever--by calling us "diverse", they are calling us different. We shouldn't be different. On a larger scale than just race and culture, it seems like the only way to not single out any one group of people is to not group them together in the first place. Each individual should be taken as who they say they are, not how they look or how they act or whether they like girls, boys, both or neither.
I suppose I can't even complain about this--I call myself Indian. I give myself a label that I'd rather not have. I used to think there was a fine line between labeling and embracing who you are, but I'm not really sure about that any more. And the more I think about it, the more hypocritical I'm being. But I'm not going to bother correcting that. Instead I'll take an Advil and see you all tomorrow.
Love for you precious few who deal with my emotional crap,
Tsubaki
Even the people who try and accept all differences: race, culture, orientation, whatever--by calling us "diverse", they are calling us different. We shouldn't be different. On a larger scale than just race and culture, it seems like the only way to not single out any one group of people is to not group them together in the first place. Each individual should be taken as who they say they are, not how they look or how they act or whether they like girls, boys, both or neither.
I suppose I can't even complain about this--I call myself Indian. I give myself a label that I'd rather not have. I used to think there was a fine line between labeling and embracing who you are, but I'm not really sure about that any more. And the more I think about it, the more hypocritical I'm being. But I'm not going to bother correcting that. Instead I'll take an Advil and see you all tomorrow.
Love for you precious few who deal with my emotional crap,
Tsubaki
Saturday, November 10, 2007
10 random ramblings (and a partridge-rant in a pear tree)
1. Occasionally, I regret not asking a guy to Tolo. And then I remember how I felt right before Olot last year, and I realize that all of the guys who didn't get asked can just deal. I had to. I survived.
2. I desperately want a pair of bitch boots. Because dammit, BITCH BOOTS. I cannot properly express how much I want them. (All you lovely people out there who hate my guts, pool your money and buy me a pair this year on my birthday, and I promise to bake something yummy in return.)
3. I just saw Transformers, and it's sad how I love much any movie with lots of explosions, high-tech warfare, and a cheesy plot. Sometimes a girl needs a good chick-flick, but other times you just want to watch people (or robots) kick ass.
4. I love my puppy to pieces (hey, I did say these would be random ramblings). His name is Sirius, he's a German shepherd/Alaskan malamute mix, and he bites my friends because he's just a teensy bit protective. He weighs about 80 lbs, and is absolutely adorable.
5. As much as I want a pair of nice shoes, I've realized that the even most adorable shoes in the universe cannot compare to the feeling of wearing a trustworthy pair of running shoes. I love my shoes almost as much as I love my dog (almost).
6. Vintage clothes amuse me.
7. Clothes from Macy's amuse me more, mostly because I don't understand how anyone in their right mind would pay $150+ for a dress that makes you look like a Hershey's Kiss with boobs.
8. Why is it that hot male models never seem to have chest hair? Chances are the guys girls marry all have chest hair, back hair, and possibly even butt hair (ick), and yet the standard of male "beauty" is of a waxed, soulfully gazing 20-year-old man in nothing but khaki shorts. Double ick.
9. After shopping, my girly-self-esteem has informed me that I have several failings, not the least of which is my fashion-blindness. (This is very different from my sarcastic-self-esteem, which only really worries about being mean to people...and then realizes that it doesn't care anyways.) This lack, however, does not compare to the one listed in rambling number 10.
10. I have realized today that one of the major flaws in my life is that I have no idea what a fedora is.
And now for something completely different, as I remembered this as something that required venting midway through the list of ramblings.
I am so done with religious fanatics. I have had it up to here with people telling me that they are very Christian and that MY religion matters to them. Because honestly, let's think a minute here. They are Christian. I am not. And this matters because apparently, random strangers on the street care if I go to Hell, but they can't see that I'm trying to cross a goddamn street and would really prefer not to miss the light. Hell can wait. I don't mind people having religion. My grandparents are religious, my mother and sister are semi-religious, and I've met some very nice people who follow their religions quite devoutly. BUT. The next person who tells me to repent my sins is going to have their signs and their nice little "Jesus is here" posters ripped into shreds and made into coffee.
The way I see things, if I don't believe in Hell, I can't go there because I am in stout denial that it exists. I don't really believe in Heaven either, so I'm assuming after I die, I'm just going to GO AWAY. Oh horror. Excuse me, Mr. Televangelist, if I'm not falling to my knees in terror. And since I've just pointedly bashed Christianity a bit, let me explain: I don't mind Christianity. I mind the uber-Christians. And since I meet more uber-Christians than I do uber-Muslims or uber-Hindus, I bash uber-Christians more. And now that I've completely over-used the word 'uber', which is just the weirdest word in the world when you look at it, I'm going back to my homework.
Uber.
Tsubaki
2. I desperately want a pair of bitch boots. Because dammit, BITCH BOOTS. I cannot properly express how much I want them. (All you lovely people out there who hate my guts, pool your money and buy me a pair this year on my birthday, and I promise to bake something yummy in return.)
3. I just saw Transformers, and it's sad how I love much any movie with lots of explosions, high-tech warfare, and a cheesy plot. Sometimes a girl needs a good chick-flick, but other times you just want to watch people (or robots) kick ass.
4. I love my puppy to pieces (hey, I did say these would be random ramblings). His name is Sirius, he's a German shepherd/Alaskan malamute mix, and he bites my friends because he's just a teensy bit protective. He weighs about 80 lbs, and is absolutely adorable.
5. As much as I want a pair of nice shoes, I've realized that the even most adorable shoes in the universe cannot compare to the feeling of wearing a trustworthy pair of running shoes. I love my shoes almost as much as I love my dog (almost).
6. Vintage clothes amuse me.
7. Clothes from Macy's amuse me more, mostly because I don't understand how anyone in their right mind would pay $150+ for a dress that makes you look like a Hershey's Kiss with boobs.
8. Why is it that hot male models never seem to have chest hair? Chances are the guys girls marry all have chest hair, back hair, and possibly even butt hair (ick), and yet the standard of male "beauty" is of a waxed, soulfully gazing 20-year-old man in nothing but khaki shorts. Double ick.
9. After shopping, my girly-self-esteem has informed me that I have several failings, not the least of which is my fashion-blindness. (This is very different from my sarcastic-self-esteem, which only really worries about being mean to people...and then realizes that it doesn't care anyways.) This lack, however, does not compare to the one listed in rambling number 10.
10. I have realized today that one of the major flaws in my life is that I have no idea what a fedora is.
And now for something completely different, as I remembered this as something that required venting midway through the list of ramblings.
I am so done with religious fanatics. I have had it up to here with people telling me that they are very Christian and that MY religion matters to them. Because honestly, let's think a minute here. They are Christian. I am not. And this matters because apparently, random strangers on the street care if I go to Hell, but they can't see that I'm trying to cross a goddamn street and would really prefer not to miss the light. Hell can wait. I don't mind people having religion. My grandparents are religious, my mother and sister are semi-religious, and I've met some very nice people who follow their religions quite devoutly. BUT. The next person who tells me to repent my sins is going to have their signs and their nice little "Jesus is here" posters ripped into shreds and made into coffee.
The way I see things, if I don't believe in Hell, I can't go there because I am in stout denial that it exists. I don't really believe in Heaven either, so I'm assuming after I die, I'm just going to GO AWAY. Oh horror. Excuse me, Mr. Televangelist, if I'm not falling to my knees in terror. And since I've just pointedly bashed Christianity a bit, let me explain: I don't mind Christianity. I mind the uber-Christians. And since I meet more uber-Christians than I do uber-Muslims or uber-Hindus, I bash uber-Christians more. And now that I've completely over-used the word 'uber', which is just the weirdest word in the world when you look at it, I'm going back to my homework.
Uber.
Tsubaki
Friday, November 9, 2007
Dress shopping (Why I hate being female)
Dress shopping. The root of all female self-esteem problems. Why? One word: Barbie.
These stores expect every woman to be 5' 8" with legs up to her armpits and boobs the size of the Pentagon. Each.
These are the stores that stock the lingerie racks with only D cups or bigger, and it's SO RIDICULOUS, because no woman was ever born to look like that. Yes, Playboy models included. And somehow, girls let themselves get sucked into the overwhelming cry of "You are never skinny enough, your boobs are never big enough, your hips are either too big or nonexistant and your stomach has FLAB." I hate this.
And then there are the people who spend hours torturing themselves, looking for the "perfect dress" which can never really exist, and by the end of it they're miserable and yet they want to come back for more because secretly, all women are just a little bit masochistic.
God knows that explains underwire. I'm sorry, all you girls out there who adore the concept of an underwire. I'm sorry, all you (nonexistant) boys who read my blog who probably have no idea what an underwire is but are about to get a rude awakening. I'm sorry, Pat Sajak, that you're so ugly, and that you spend your days trying to molest the 20-year-old chicks on Wheel.
.....
Anyways, the underwire is yet another form of masochism. For God's sake, it was originally invented for women with saggy boobs. Last time I checked, the only reason girls wear bras with underwires now is because...it's incredibly painful and does almost nothing in terms of "enlargement". Yeah. Honestly, if you want bigger boobs get surgery or buy a pushup. Dear God, don't subject all the normal, non-masochistic folk out there to rack upon rack of UNDERWIRE BRAS. I can't even find lingerie anymore that a) isn't a D-cup and b) doesn't have underwire or unnecessary lacy stuff. I'm sorry, apparently I missed the memo about every girl needing huge boobs. Sad part is, unless I'm planning on willing myself into lactation, I'm not going to be going up a cup size or three any time soon.
And that was probably way too much information, but goddamit, I don't CARE. I'm sick and tired of cramping every single month, of not finding comfortable bras, of seeing yet another girl think she's too fat and not pretty, and most of all--I am done with bits and pieces of my insides falling out every month and people calling it "WOMANHOOD". You know what?
I RENOUNCE BEING FEMALE.
Love with a happy friendly (HAH!) tampon on the side,
Tsubaki
These stores expect every woman to be 5' 8" with legs up to her armpits and boobs the size of the Pentagon. Each.
These are the stores that stock the lingerie racks with only D cups or bigger, and it's SO RIDICULOUS, because no woman was ever born to look like that. Yes, Playboy models included. And somehow, girls let themselves get sucked into the overwhelming cry of "You are never skinny enough, your boobs are never big enough, your hips are either too big or nonexistant and your stomach has FLAB." I hate this.
And then there are the people who spend hours torturing themselves, looking for the "perfect dress" which can never really exist, and by the end of it they're miserable and yet they want to come back for more because secretly, all women are just a little bit masochistic.
God knows that explains underwire. I'm sorry, all you girls out there who adore the concept of an underwire. I'm sorry, all you (nonexistant) boys who read my blog who probably have no idea what an underwire is but are about to get a rude awakening. I'm sorry, Pat Sajak, that you're so ugly, and that you spend your days trying to molest the 20-year-old chicks on Wheel.
.....
Anyways, the underwire is yet another form of masochism. For God's sake, it was originally invented for women with saggy boobs. Last time I checked, the only reason girls wear bras with underwires now is because...it's incredibly painful and does almost nothing in terms of "enlargement". Yeah. Honestly, if you want bigger boobs get surgery or buy a pushup. Dear God, don't subject all the normal, non-masochistic folk out there to rack upon rack of UNDERWIRE BRAS. I can't even find lingerie anymore that a) isn't a D-cup and b) doesn't have underwire or unnecessary lacy stuff. I'm sorry, apparently I missed the memo about every girl needing huge boobs. Sad part is, unless I'm planning on willing myself into lactation, I'm not going to be going up a cup size or three any time soon.
And that was probably way too much information, but goddamit, I don't CARE. I'm sick and tired of cramping every single month, of not finding comfortable bras, of seeing yet another girl think she's too fat and not pretty, and most of all--I am done with bits and pieces of my insides falling out every month and people calling it "WOMANHOOD". You know what?
I RENOUNCE BEING FEMALE.
Love with a happy friendly (HAH!) tampon on the side,
Tsubaki
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Sadism in schools (aka Health)
So how many of you poor children out there have had to sit through at least one period of sheer agony disguised as "Health class"? Damned if I haven't had to sit through my fair share of them. It's cruel and unusual torture, and it's the law that all you Americans out there have to learn about the glories of sexual reproduction (and all the little buggers that come with it).
And of course, I never rant without reason--well, I do, but this time I do have a reason. Because I'm going to be studying all night long for that horror of all horrors, the HEALTH TEST.
Dun dun DAAAH!!!
Anyways, my point is (and I do have one, it's just hiding...or dead) that Health tests are the most pointless way to spend a class period EVER. Even playing games like Sushi-Go-Round is a better way to spend your time, and yet year after year, these teachers insist on forcing a new generation of students to study anatomy, as if midway through intercourse they will stop and say "Look! The scrotum!" More ridiculous still is the studying of nutrition and fitness. We're high schoolers, for God's sake. We learn things, and then we forget them (sometimes, we even skip the first step), and yet the Health Teacher expects us to spend the rest of our life planning out healthy diets and fitness programs. Honestly, that's why we spend millions on elite gyms each year--so we can have someone else TELL us all that junk. It's not like we listen to them anyways, we just pay them to talk while we pig out on ice cream and Twix bars.
...And I'm pretty sure I've lost my point again. Maybe I never had it in the first place. Long story short, my Health teacher is a tiny (and I mean TINY--as in 4' 8'' tiny), possibly female walrus named Tamra Patton who I swear is actually a 6' 3'' cross-dressing Chinese man. Really. And she is going to be testing us on nutrition, fitness (there are are formulas you should use to plan your workout, God help us all.), sexual health and care, puberty, the whole 15 billion yards.
Joy.
And seeing as I've spent way too long whining and not nearly enough time studying, I'm off to the land of sexual diagrams and food pyramids.
Wishing you a Health-free existence,
Tsubaki
And of course, I never rant without reason--well, I do, but this time I do have a reason. Because I'm going to be studying all night long for that horror of all horrors, the HEALTH TEST.
Dun dun DAAAH!!!
Anyways, my point is (and I do have one, it's just hiding...or dead) that Health tests are the most pointless way to spend a class period EVER. Even playing games like Sushi-Go-Round is a better way to spend your time, and yet year after year, these teachers insist on forcing a new generation of students to study anatomy, as if midway through intercourse they will stop and say "Look! The scrotum!" More ridiculous still is the studying of nutrition and fitness. We're high schoolers, for God's sake. We learn things, and then we forget them (sometimes, we even skip the first step), and yet the Health Teacher expects us to spend the rest of our life planning out healthy diets and fitness programs. Honestly, that's why we spend millions on elite gyms each year--so we can have someone else TELL us all that junk. It's not like we listen to them anyways, we just pay them to talk while we pig out on ice cream and Twix bars.
...And I'm pretty sure I've lost my point again. Maybe I never had it in the first place. Long story short, my Health teacher is a tiny (and I mean TINY--as in 4' 8'' tiny), possibly female walrus named Tamra Patton who I swear is actually a 6' 3'' cross-dressing Chinese man. Really. And she is going to be testing us on nutrition, fitness (there are are formulas you should use to plan your workout, God help us all.), sexual health and care, puberty, the whole 15 billion yards.
Joy.
And seeing as I've spent way too long whining and not nearly enough time studying, I'm off to the land of sexual diagrams and food pyramids.
Wishing you a Health-free existence,
Tsubaki
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Yes, this IS how all my posts will go....
So I got a blog because, why not? And my friends have blogs, and I figure even though I see them all every day, I shall achieve a new level of clingy-ness through my blog. Because secretly, I am a clingy person, even though I'm in stout denial. I'm also very good at denial.
But anyways, originally I planned to make this post about Physics, which is a useless subject because really no one CARES about how fast Turner's treadmill accelerates except for maybe some nerd off in a laboratory measuring treadmill acceleration rates and perhaps Turner himself, although Turner probably never even USES his treadmill, because like most Americans, he's overweight and proud of it. And all my English teachers past and future are probably collapsing dead right now, whether from heart attacks or from my terrible run-on sentence skills, but I don't really care about them any more than I care about...most things, really. I'm terribly apathetic, but that's okay because I'm obnoxious enough that people generally don't try and make me work for fear I'll make them feel stupider than they actually are (and that's pretty darn stupid). And now that I feel like I've bashed people enough for one post, I shall digress a moment.
I don't have anything witty to say: this blog is a place for me to rant at the world without fear.
So don't expect anything much from the habitual slacker.
Love,
Tsubaki
But anyways, originally I planned to make this post about Physics, which is a useless subject because really no one CARES about how fast Turner's treadmill accelerates except for maybe some nerd off in a laboratory measuring treadmill acceleration rates and perhaps Turner himself, although Turner probably never even USES his treadmill, because like most Americans, he's overweight and proud of it. And all my English teachers past and future are probably collapsing dead right now, whether from heart attacks or from my terrible run-on sentence skills, but I don't really care about them any more than I care about...most things, really. I'm terribly apathetic, but that's okay because I'm obnoxious enough that people generally don't try and make me work for fear I'll make them feel stupider than they actually are (and that's pretty darn stupid). And now that I feel like I've bashed people enough for one post, I shall digress a moment.
I don't have anything witty to say: this blog is a place for me to rant at the world without fear.
So don't expect anything much from the habitual slacker.
Love,
Tsubaki
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