Three old draft-posts in one!

Title: Okay, so there IS a God

Of course there's a site that does lolcats, Star-Wars-style.

That is all.

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Title: A list of uselessness about me and why yes I AM self-centered)

I am useless. This has been established over and over and over again, thank you very much. So in honor of uselessness, I'm going to do a LIST. Scandal. And this list, instead of being thought-provoking or even humorous, is simply going to be things about me that you probably never needed to know. There will be a quiz on this later.

1. I have a horse blanket sitting on my rug. I won it as champion rider for 2007 in my level, but the problem is, I have no horse. So I took it home, because it's fleece and a fairly pretty blue plaid, and now it's on my rug.

2. I currently have a bag of candy from Valentine's Day, a packet of almond roca, a tin of apple sours, and an drawer of other assorted chocolates and sweets, all inside my room.

3. In the winter, when I get cold, I sit on the floor heater.

4. I feel more awkward saying "lesbian" than "gay". I don't know why. I just do. (EDIT 5/3: I suppose I should mention that this makes me feel horribly guilty, but I should also mention that the awkwardness has receded in the past few months....so to those who feel offended, forgive me?)

5. I felt horrible when one of my model horses fell of the top of my desk and its leg broke. It is now dubbed the "Suicide Horse" by my parents, but I had my dad superglue its leg back on, and I'm worried if I put it back on top of my desk, it'll fall again.

6. I do 1000-piece jigsaw puzzles in my spare time (of which I have very little, being a chronic procrastinator).

7. I used to sing Hindustani classical music, but I hated practicing and so I quit. Now, when I see my old teacher, I like being able to tower over her. She's short.

8. I'd like to punch someone properly before I die, for no other reason than I think it's easier to accomplish than climbing Mount Everest or curing cancer.

9. However, if that someone happened to be an ex-boyfriend, I'd feel like I was in a bad Japanese soap opera. Or any Japanese soap opera.

10. Catcher in the Rye is a tasteless book and its protagonist can go die in a hole with Donald Duk and Meursault. I like flamboyant books, even if they're cheesy.

11. I have really knobbly knees, and they make me happy for no reason at all. I also have knobbly elbows, but I see them less.

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Title: Why are all these dogs out clubbing?

And once again, my post-title has nothing to do with the post at all. It will be tangent-filled and useless, but you already knew that (or you've never read this blog before).

But my first point isn't even actually a point. So there. It's actually an angry flail against girls who go to parties with over 2000 people, dress like a slut, and then complain about getting groped. Yes, there is someone in particular who I'm thinking of--but she's more of an idiot than I thought she was if she puts herself into situations where she's surrounded by drunk teenage guys and then makes it seem like she was about to be raped. Logically, of course, she would have left the party. But in true drama-slut fashion, I'm sure she stayed so that she'd have a good story for the next day. What. The. Hell.

It's not even just her--there are people who dress provocatively and then make a big deal out of getting watched by perverts in downtown. Not even approached. Just looked at. Apparently pervs now come with X-ray vision. I'd admit, in a moment of hypocrisy, that I'm really jealous, but it's just not true. I'll pass on the self-objectification, thanks.

It just seems so goofy to me that "feminists" would wear revealing clothes just to get attention, and hell, this is probably a super-pointed attack. It's not meant to be. I can understand, vaguely, why some girls do the things they do, but at the same time, I'd prefer if they go spread the drama somewhere else. There's a difference between dressing to look good, dressing to get attention, and dressing to get drama, and anyone who's desperate enough to put themselves in possibly dangerous situations just for the drama needs help, fast.

And then, of course, there are the frosh--also known as the sex maniacs. There are girls who plot to wear sheer white shirts to dances so that their bras are visible--and then they take it one step further, and they wear leopard-print bras. That's just TACKY. I mean, it's sort of okay for the seniors to be outrageously skanky, because they're seniors and usually it's funny rather than wrong. But these girls are what? 14, 15 years old. At risk of sounding like an old lady, they're children. I mean, are the guys they're trying to attract even taller than them yet? Hell, for all I know, it's not even for the guys as much as it is for the drama, and for the shock value--and that's just pathetic.

If they want to make a statement, they could always just learn how to krump. Either way, they'll look like idiots.

DragonForce Unite!!

Ah, those Brits. Once again, they have come up with something that makes me do a doubletake and go "WTF". This time, that magical thing happens to be a band called DragonForce.

No, I'm not kidding. If I was going to make up a band, I'd give it a better title. They're not all that good, but they play, according to themselves, "extreme power metal". This is BS. You can TOTALLY understand what they're singing. And they are extreme only because they have a who looks like a long-haired Rodney Yee on guitar, which is too badass for words.

More proof of their badassery: Their song "Through the Fire and Flames" is reputed to be the hardest song on Guitar Hero EVER. Clearly, these guys are hardcore.

Naturally, they're no match for Ingrid the Vertically Challenged Viking, but these guys are working on it. They've got the long hair and the bad clothing and an Asian guy (which actually takes away Viking Points, but whatever), but they're not quite there yet. So you should all buy a DragonForce CD to support their quest.

This post had no point. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Comment. Meow. Meow.

In Memoriam (WARNING: Mope-fest ahead)

I must admit, first off, that as a drama teacher Mark Sheppard really bugged me. We spent class last year playing games and practicing scenes with little to no help on actual acting technique from our teacher. The class was exasperating; I was disappointed but not heartbroken when I didn't get into Drama I this year.

I also knew, somewhere in the back of my head, that Shepps had cancer. He'd gotten treatment for it last year, but when he came back he was as loud and as round as I'd ever seen him. In fact, I never saw him again after very early this year--I'm glad, in a way, that I can remember him the way he was, "appliance" and all. I don't think he would have wanted to hear goodbyes from Lakeside-he was a part of the community for two decades, and I can't imagine how painful it would have been to have people look at him and know he was dying--writing him off before he was ready to leave. His life was all about his work, and it will be comforting, weeks from now, to know he was teaching until his last day. To Mr. Sheppard himself, I only wish I had gotten to say thanks for an awkward scene with Bailey, the ball toss game, and especially for making Schmidt kiss Danny Abrams in Merchant of Venice.

And to all the people who I cried with (or on) today--no matter how often we snark and fight, you guys really came through. I promise I won't be quite so melodramatic and mopey tomorrow, but today I offer a heartfelt thanks.

Chickens and why you're about to hate me

I was listening to the radio this morning, and they were talking about how some people will pay obscene amounts of money to take care of their pets. So of course I assumed that they were going to mention the people who pay tens of thousands of dollars just to build their dogs mini-mansions, people who take their cats to all-day spas, etc.

But I was wrong. This is a trend in my life.

Instead, they give as an example a British couple who are paying $2800 to try and cure their pet chicken of cancer. Yes, you read that right. A pet chicken. With cancer. I'm surprised the couple isn't deaf, blind, and mute, because this is worthy of a tragic screenplay.

Weirdly enough, the average lifespan of a chicken is 7-15 years. And here we must ask Nature what the fuck she was thinking, giving chickens a lifespan that long. We know chickens can do fabulous things like be trained to push buttons; they are also incredibly useless animals except for their eggs. In comparison, ostriches are also incredibly useless except for their eggs, which are delicacies, but they are also pretty badass for how ugly they are AND they can kill people, so they get more points than chickens.

Honestly, anything that can kill people gets points, just because there's only one way to end overpopulation (mass murder).

This is why I'd never succeed in politics. Also, somehow I got to genocide directed at useless people from a thirty-second radio blurb on chickens. I blame Mussolini. Everything's his fault anyways.

And even as I'm writing this, I just realized something. If people can cure chickens of cancer, why can't they cure other people of cancer? Or is there some sort of chicken-chemo treatment center over there in Britain? God, this is sort of like the comment about sending my dog clubbing. It has all become a useless ramble and at some point I shall probably just explode from superfluous rambling.

Which reminds me that I am a vocabulary snob. I use words like superfluous (especially in writing) because I think they're fun. I'm weird like that. I also use "cannot" in my essays, which is pretty much the snobbiest thing ever. So you see why I look down on people who have chickens with cancer. I am, not so deep down, an elitist, and it really doesn't help that I go to an superior school.

Plus I'm Asian. So I'm automatically smarter than you (unless you happen to be Korean, in which case I bow before you).

You are now allowed to hate me. And you should leave comments expressing your hate. Or just leave comments.

Postlets? Postitos? The mini-toast-post

Gandhi was a sad, sad little man. Almost as sad as Winston Churchill, who was often right but so fat that no one ever listened to him.

Guys, despite their many flaws, are way better at keeping secrets than girls, who tend to last all of three seconds when pressured. I could probably try to over-interpret this, but I'm secretly shallow and don't really care.

When I grow up, I know that I am doomed to become a co-tyrant with Jake--we will, of course, send assassins after each other shortly after we take power. Wanda, on the other hand, is doomed to grow up and become a short Japanese pop star.

This post isn't actually about toast. I'm sorry if I've crushed your dreams. I find plain toast too dry anyways. It needs marmalade.

I think cross-dressing might be fun to try one day--it'd be really funny to physically be able to pass for a guy. For this reason, guys who cross-dress make me laugh, but guys who wear tacky makeup bug me, if only because there is no reason for guys to not apply makeup tastefully, and garish makeup is just ugly.

There is also no excuse for Hitler's moustache. It is an awkward looking moustache. Someone who limps (there's no other word for the way he looks) his rolling backpack up stairs is probably going to grow a moustache just like it.

You cannot run and not look stupid. Either you're slow and you look tired and out-of-shape, or you're fast and simply look like one of many animals. Like a turtle. Or a wounded duck.

Short people who feel the need to make up for their short, mole-like appearance by having midget-battles are to be pitied. They should also be given warm pancakes with laxatives in them.

I know I'd laugh. And then probably feel guilty. But I'd laugh first.

Likewise, girls who wear shirts that make their boobs look like water balloons should be sent, skimpy clothes and all, to Finland, land of the power walkers.

I am horrible at staying focused on one thing. Not only am I distracted by my own brain, but I am a total magpie. I love shiny things!

I don't care how goofy the name sounds, Scaramouche has probably THE hottest main character who isn't a total romance-novel hero. End of story.

And if you don't comment, I won't kill you. Instead I'll make sure the ninja security guard who is also a Russian spy EATS YOU ALIVE.

Culture being batshit (a list)

1. I was watching a Youtube video of this Japanese talkshow, wherein a guy whose lung had collapsed apologized to his fellow band members for troubling them. Because his lung collapsed. And all I could think was that following that logic, people with cancer should just write apologies to the world for all that expensive research we've done. I mean, in case it's troubled us. People with lung cancer should just be taken out and shot.



2. My parents have the horrible habit of randomly inviting fourth cousins twice removed over to our house for dinner without telling me. Yesterday, a lady and her husband showed up, and I had no clue who they were. Apparently, I was at their wedding. And left early, because it was a traditional Indian wedding and the ceremony was more than six hours.


3. There is something wrong with the Austrians. Mostly Falco, who thinks that a hot pink paper with his signature on it constitutes a CD cover. One day, I would like to see Falco remake Schnappi, because he'll wear a pink crocodile suit, complete with rainbow croc-fro, and it will be more high than Jake on mint ice cream.


4. There is no race/culture/ethnicity that can ACTUALLY pull off an afro. Black people just fail a little less at it than everyone else. For proof of the hairstyle horror, I point you at the world's only J-fro, on a guy who apparently goes by Hidden Fish. I have no words.



In the end, the only thing I can really conclude from this post is that I hate culture (among other things). I hate having to write about culture in English class, and I firmly believe that culture is on drugs. Austria's on meth, India's on Ecstasy, Japan's hallucinating that it's Africa and I have no idea what it's on.


But Sweden wins. I mean, who else pickles HERRINGS? (After looking this up on Wikipedia, I was terrified to notice that apparently everyone pickles herrings. But Sweden is still crazy.)

Male fashion (doesn't exist)

It was really sad when I felt guilty getting caught laughing about how a testosterone-fueled male in my 9th grade history class flashed his manboobs to his sniggering cohorts across the room.

Even sadder is that it's a true story. So let's get one thing straight--if you, as a male, have boobs, accept that it is a part of puberty and DON'T WEAR WIFEBEATERS. You'd think it'd be simple, obvious. But no--apparently, it's now a fad for guys to advertise the fact that they need bras, on account of all the jiggling going on in PE. It's disgusting.

In a totally shallow way, I feel obliged to admit that if hot guys wander around without their shirts, I'm not going to be screaming and covering my eyes. But the guys at school?

Don't qualify as hot. Don't even qualify as better looking than, say, Christopher Walken. Pasty white thighs and manboobs do not an Abercrombie model make, so don't dress like one, idiots.

And while I'm on the topic of male fashion, I'm just going to throw this out there: sagging sucks. Last I checked, underwear is meant to be covered by outer-wear. As in, you know, PANTS. Kinda defeats the purpose if the pants are halfway down your ass, don't you think? Granted, I'd take boxers over butt-cleavage any day, but I never needed to know that a boy in my advisory wears Calvin Klein boxers.

I know that girls too are guilty of exposure--but at the same time, strapless bras are a pain in the ass, and sometimes tanktop straps slip. If there was a way to guarantee that the bra straps would stay hidden, God knows I'd use it (I cannot speak for the girls who expose scalloped-edge cups in their school photos). HOWEVER.

Belts are easily available. Even easier, of course, is to buy pants that fit. Scandalous. I know that some guys have an issue with finding the right size of jeans--so buy for length and use a belt that works.

I've also heard the argument that boxers slide up--and okay, this may be true. But why do they look like they're around the guy's hips--not his waist? Where do they start at??? And regardless, that doesn't excuse the guys I've seen walking around school with their pants BELOW their asses, tugging them up every few steps because if they didn't, their jeans would simply fall around their ankles. Talk about awkward. It's like you're stuck in that moment when you're changing and you're halfway through getting your jeans on, only then you just randomly decided to leave the house like that because clearly, you're an idiot.

Actually, that'd explain a lot.