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.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
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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