Ah, World War II. Bane of all history students. Why?
Two words: Winston Churchill. No one actually knows what Winston Churchill did other than stand up and declare how much he hated communism, but for some reason, he's famous. And he gave a speech with one particularly memorable bad metaphor: The Iron Curtain.
Apparently, this refers to Russia. I'm not sure why the curtain is iron, or why there's a curtain at all, but there is one. And it makes my history teacher growl, "Good stuff, group. Good stuff."
Frankly, it scares the crap out of me. There's nothing like seeing a 60-year-old bald guy flame with enough passion to star in a dime store romance novel. Or possibly in a Bollywood movie.
If any of you have yet to experience the true beauty of Bollywood, I suggest starting ASAP. There's nothing quite as magnificent as a man with fluffy hair and manboobs singing to a woman with fluffier hair (but smaller boobs). Generally, they're both singing their way through Egypt, Switzerland, and London in the space of five minutes. You gotta admit--that's talent.
And then of course there's the obligatory death, generally of the kind-hearted great-grandma or the noble, tragic hero. Don't you miss them oodles (not at all).
Also, if I see one more guy flash his manboobs in PE, I'm going to barf. That's just tacky.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
In an unfair and hypocritical display....
Now, finally, I'm pissed off. It's been a while, huh?
See, recently I've had this little issue with people (and no, it's not just YOU, you special someone, you) telling me what classes I should take, what clothes I should wear, and even what I should post about on this blog.
And my answer to that is: Stay the hell out of my life, please.
I know, in my more rational moments, that most of you have only my best interests at heart, but I am surrounded by people who think they know what is best for me, and apparently my own opinion matters not at all, because clearly I am just a young, stupid, teenager who thinks it's "cool" to rebel.
Bullshit.
No matter how much I may claim stubbornness, when push comes to shove I am NOT going to screw myself over in something important. And for all you kind folk out there--what I choose to wear and what I choose to write about are NOT important. So I'm allowed to write posts that everyone hates, because honestly, I'm pretty sure my life and future happiness is not going to depend on it. I am also allowed to wear comfortable shoes, even if they are old and ratty, instead of squishing my feet into shoes that I'll trip in anyways. And for God's sake, I am allowed to listen to whatever the hell I want.
And there's nothing any of you can do to change that. Because if any of those things really matter in life, I want no part in it. I had thought that we, as a group of people, had built our odd little identity on being different--and being different means not following every damn expectation people have of you, even if they are people you care about. I may love you all dearly, but asking me to follow your advice 100% of the time is unrealistic, because guess what? Sometimes, you're wrong. Sometimes, I'm wrong, and when I'm wrong I'll take the flak for it because it was my bad choice, but if I choose not to listen to you, that too is something I take responsibility for.
I'm not asking you to be responsible for me--that is your decision, and I'm not going to be sulky and ask you to not offer advice. But don't throw a fit if I don't take it, please.
You never know, I might ignore it just to spite you...
See, recently I've had this little issue with people (and no, it's not just YOU, you special someone, you) telling me what classes I should take, what clothes I should wear, and even what I should post about on this blog.
And my answer to that is: Stay the hell out of my life, please.
I know, in my more rational moments, that most of you have only my best interests at heart, but I am surrounded by people who think they know what is best for me, and apparently my own opinion matters not at all, because clearly I am just a young, stupid, teenager who thinks it's "cool" to rebel.
Bullshit.
No matter how much I may claim stubbornness, when push comes to shove I am NOT going to screw myself over in something important. And for all you kind folk out there--what I choose to wear and what I choose to write about are NOT important. So I'm allowed to write posts that everyone hates, because honestly, I'm pretty sure my life and future happiness is not going to depend on it. I am also allowed to wear comfortable shoes, even if they are old and ratty, instead of squishing my feet into shoes that I'll trip in anyways. And for God's sake, I am allowed to listen to whatever the hell I want.
And there's nothing any of you can do to change that. Because if any of those things really matter in life, I want no part in it. I had thought that we, as a group of people, had built our odd little identity on being different--and being different means not following every damn expectation people have of you, even if they are people you care about. I may love you all dearly, but asking me to follow your advice 100% of the time is unrealistic, because guess what? Sometimes, you're wrong. Sometimes, I'm wrong, and when I'm wrong I'll take the flak for it because it was my bad choice, but if I choose not to listen to you, that too is something I take responsibility for.
I'm not asking you to be responsible for me--that is your decision, and I'm not going to be sulky and ask you to not offer advice. But don't throw a fit if I don't take it, please.
You never know, I might ignore it just to spite you...
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Being sugar-high is like being drunk without the hangover
You know, I really shouldn't be surprised that when push comes to shove and I have absolutely nothing to write about, I fall back on that old standby of topics: absolutely nothing in particular.
I know this annoys some (one) of you, but honestly it's not like I COULD stay on topic if I wanted to. Which I don't. My brain just sort of rambles around from place to place. It's like a rusty old tractor, and occasionally it works but most of the time it doesn't. So I kick it, it spouts a bunch of smoke, and I get a half-rant. But no corn. Perhaps if I had a newer tractor, I'd be able to grow corn in the recesses of my brain (although I don't see why I'd want to), but I don't.
I do, however, want to grow imported chocolates. And vodka, so that I can get my friends drunk and take incriminating pictures of them humping barstools and making out with what might be a history textbook, if I can time it right.
I'd also like a pony, and perhaps a really sexy convertible. Neither of them need to come down my chimney, because the pony would probably poop everywhere and the convertible would land on the leather couches, which frankly I don't really care about, because my cat peed on those couches and then my dog peed on those couches and I'm just waiting for my friends to pee on those couches because brain-wise, they're about a step down from my dog.
And I'm only half kidding too. Aren't you glad you love me so much that you'll forgive me anyways?
Perhaps instead of this weird, useless, tactless, underwear-less blog post, I should eat chocolate. Then again, considering how much chocolate I've already ingested today, perhaps not. It does explain my mood, and why I commented with "andala andala squeak squeak" on a friend's blog. Naturally, I wrote more than that, but I'm pretty sure that was the highlight.
See, when I'm really, really sugar-high but haven't quite noticed it yet, I tend to sort of say anything that pops into my head, ranging from You brought the smackdown to MLK! to They can go screw themselves. Without lube. <3
Neither of which is particularly intelligent. But the guys I was talking about CAN go screw themselves, and then maybe they'll be able to pull their little bigot minds out of their asses and stop being such backwards idiots and I'd really prefer it if I was the one who got to kick them so hard they can't spread their stupid genes to their poor kids but I know there are other people who probably got first dibs.
...Right. Done.
Enough about them! I shall change directions with much shifting of gears and I know I'm taking the bad analogy way too far but I'm not in English class, dammit, and if I want to post rough onigisniggys and sentences like "He whizzed in the parking lot of Paco's Tacos" I am damned well going to. And then cry when no one leaves me a comment.
Although honestly, I had an idea for semi-revenge on the #$(!&#@ guys and granted, maybe it was a bit much and I'd have to create another email account and if the school found out who was behind it I'd be dead twice over, but it'd be worth it just to see the looks on their faces when they found their inboxes full of something I probably shouldn't mention because it appears that sanity has made its short return, and I know I'll offend people.
Not that I care (I do).
Still, people piss me off. Chocolate is much more agreeable. So are horses, unless they bite your boob and draw blood in front of a class of six-year-olds. That's got to suck mold.
Which reminds me, oddly enough, that the first time I ever saw the phrase sucks mold, it was following my name. On a whiteboard, in big fat letters. Aren't my old friends fabulous?
But I'm running out of steam (and time, and interest, and money, and I already lost sanity, but I'm searching), so I think I need to stop.
And remember kids, taking meth makes you uglier than you already are. Take chocolate. That only...makes you fat.
God, I'm doomed.
I know this annoys some (one) of you, but honestly it's not like I COULD stay on topic if I wanted to. Which I don't. My brain just sort of rambles around from place to place. It's like a rusty old tractor, and occasionally it works but most of the time it doesn't. So I kick it, it spouts a bunch of smoke, and I get a half-rant. But no corn. Perhaps if I had a newer tractor, I'd be able to grow corn in the recesses of my brain (although I don't see why I'd want to), but I don't.
I do, however, want to grow imported chocolates. And vodka, so that I can get my friends drunk and take incriminating pictures of them humping barstools and making out with what might be a history textbook, if I can time it right.
I'd also like a pony, and perhaps a really sexy convertible. Neither of them need to come down my chimney, because the pony would probably poop everywhere and the convertible would land on the leather couches, which frankly I don't really care about, because my cat peed on those couches and then my dog peed on those couches and I'm just waiting for my friends to pee on those couches because brain-wise, they're about a step down from my dog.
And I'm only half kidding too. Aren't you glad you love me so much that you'll forgive me anyways?
Perhaps instead of this weird, useless, tactless, underwear-less blog post, I should eat chocolate. Then again, considering how much chocolate I've already ingested today, perhaps not. It does explain my mood, and why I commented with "andala andala squeak squeak" on a friend's blog. Naturally, I wrote more than that, but I'm pretty sure that was the highlight.
See, when I'm really, really sugar-high but haven't quite noticed it yet, I tend to sort of say anything that pops into my head, ranging from You brought the smackdown to MLK! to They can go screw themselves. Without lube. <3
Neither of which is particularly intelligent. But the guys I was talking about CAN go screw themselves, and then maybe they'll be able to pull their little bigot minds out of their asses and stop being such backwards idiots and I'd really prefer it if I was the one who got to kick them so hard they can't spread their stupid genes to their poor kids but I know there are other people who probably got first dibs.
...Right. Done.
Enough about them! I shall change directions with much shifting of gears and I know I'm taking the bad analogy way too far but I'm not in English class, dammit, and if I want to post rough onigisniggys and sentences like "He whizzed in the parking lot of Paco's Tacos" I am damned well going to. And then cry when no one leaves me a comment.
Although honestly, I had an idea for semi-revenge on the #$(!&#@ guys and granted, maybe it was a bit much and I'd have to create another email account and if the school found out who was behind it I'd be dead twice over, but it'd be worth it just to see the looks on their faces when they found their inboxes full of something I probably shouldn't mention because it appears that sanity has made its short return, and I know I'll offend people.
Not that I care (I do).
Still, people piss me off. Chocolate is much more agreeable. So are horses, unless they bite your boob and draw blood in front of a class of six-year-olds. That's got to suck mold.
Which reminds me, oddly enough, that the first time I ever saw the phrase sucks mold, it was following my name. On a whiteboard, in big fat letters. Aren't my old friends fabulous?
But I'm running out of steam (and time, and interest, and money, and I already lost sanity, but I'm searching), so I think I need to stop.
And remember kids, taking meth makes you uglier than you already are. Take chocolate. That only...makes you fat.
God, I'm doomed.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
WTF, mate (why no one likes Australia)
1. Steve Irwin. Hell, even the Australians are probably pissed at him, because now everyone thinks they say "Crikey!" in that accent that only Sydney International Airport PAs use. No one should say crikey. Not even George Lucas, who has done some pretty stupid things in the past (like Episode 2).
2. They eat their roadkill...Sort of. They eat kangaroos. They also hit kangaroos, all the time, on the highway. I mean, more often than we hit deer. I have seen more dead kangaroos in one 2-week trip to Sydney than I've seen dead deer in my total of 16 years here in the US.
3. The barramundi. It's one of the uglier fish--and Australia, having the Great Barrier Reef, has a lot of really ugly fish. But it also has a lot of really colorful, gorgeous fish. So what do they put in pools in hotel lobbies all over Sydney? Yeah, that's right. Barramundi. Which apparently they also serve up to hotel diners. "Oh look, Ma! That man in the funny white hat is spearing one of the fishies!!" "Don't worry, little Fred! That's just dinner!"
4. I have seen a sign on a Chinese place that said "Authentic Chinese cuisine. Warning: There may be bones and feathers in chicken dishes." I have no words for this. Hygienic food laws, anyone?
5. Despite all that BS they feed you about really hot weather, Sydney is pretty much a larger version of a city in western Washington. The scorching desert and wild animals, they save for the really hardcore tourists. Which we're not. So what we saw in Australia, other than some smushed kangaroos and really ugly fish, was almost a copy of what I see every damn day. Except for the newspapers, which were all covering Nicole Kidman's wedding. Here in the US, no one really cared about Nicole until her husband started having drug problems.
6. Lethal jellyfish. End of story.
Honestly, I really don't mind Australia. I spent a lovely 10 days lying in bed with a stomach flu and a fever there, so I have learned that their public libraries have quite the nice selection of cheesy spy novels. But other than that, I think I'll stick to non-edible roadkill, thanks.
2. They eat their roadkill...Sort of. They eat kangaroos. They also hit kangaroos, all the time, on the highway. I mean, more often than we hit deer. I have seen more dead kangaroos in one 2-week trip to Sydney than I've seen dead deer in my total of 16 years here in the US.
3. The barramundi. It's one of the uglier fish--and Australia, having the Great Barrier Reef, has a lot of really ugly fish. But it also has a lot of really colorful, gorgeous fish. So what do they put in pools in hotel lobbies all over Sydney? Yeah, that's right. Barramundi. Which apparently they also serve up to hotel diners. "Oh look, Ma! That man in the funny white hat is spearing one of the fishies!!" "Don't worry, little Fred! That's just dinner!"
4. I have seen a sign on a Chinese place that said "Authentic Chinese cuisine. Warning: There may be bones and feathers in chicken dishes." I have no words for this. Hygienic food laws, anyone?
5. Despite all that BS they feed you about really hot weather, Sydney is pretty much a larger version of a city in western Washington. The scorching desert and wild animals, they save for the really hardcore tourists. Which we're not. So what we saw in Australia, other than some smushed kangaroos and really ugly fish, was almost a copy of what I see every damn day. Except for the newspapers, which were all covering Nicole Kidman's wedding. Here in the US, no one really cared about Nicole until her husband started having drug problems.
6. Lethal jellyfish. End of story.
Honestly, I really don't mind Australia. I spent a lovely 10 days lying in bed with a stomach flu and a fever there, so I have learned that their public libraries have quite the nice selection of cheesy spy novels. But other than that, I think I'll stick to non-edible roadkill, thanks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)