Literary Mindfucking

In joyous news, I finally finished a painting!
On the other hand, another painting I was working on at the same time will probably be scrapped and the surface reworked for a series I want to make with the finished piece being the first.

In other news, I was thinking once again about the Golden Compass books, officially called His Dark Materials. Spoilers follow, I now claim no responsibility hereafter.

Granted, I read the trilogy rather late in my young life, as I believe they are intended for young people beginning the tumultuous journey into puberty. The first book is properly written for the intended audience: a young girl, Lyra, lives wild over an immense and ancient college campus; she does what she wants, listens to no one, and commands the respect and allegiance of the city's various street urchins. If you had to be an orphan, wouldn't that be the bitchingest way to do it? And of course, that is but the beginning, my good fellow! Lyra goes on incredible adventures, tells crusty old men what to do, befriends a giant talking bear, and, best of all, she's best buddies with her literal and very tangible spirit animal, who can conveniently change shape to whatever animal she wishes. She saves a butt ton of kids from a horrible institution that evil grownups devised to rob kids of their youth.

Naturally, what young adults' book would be complete without serious adult undertones? The theme snaking under this book, though only becoming apparent towards the end when the plot twists reveal themselves, is a diatribe against the Church. My opinion on that is neither here nor there; I'm not offended by the author's dislike of the Church, though I do question his putting it in a book for such young people.

But AHA! You see, the next two books become increasingly darker, and the overall plot becomes ever more convoluted, until, at the very end of the trilogy you realize the author was working himself up into a frenzy. Finally, the death of GOD! Granted, God is a mere figurehead, but considering what he represents, what would his death mean? The death of the Church? I dunno!

My issue with the books is that, starting in the Subtle Knife, our protagonist Lyra gets shoved aside. She is no longer the wild, headstrong young heroine one is led to like in the Golden Compass. Nah weh, mon. Lyra takes a backseat to WILL, the budding young man! Will becomes the possessor of a totally bitching blade, the Subtle Knife, because every hero's got to have a weapon! Lyra, after consulting the alethiometer (an object that knows the answers to everything) decides that her entire purpose now is to help Will find his father! To resolve his daddy issues of course! She does whatever he says (and shit damn if he ain't a bossy little punkass) and I'll be damned if she doesn't submit to his every whim just as if she were a neat little housewife!

Naturally Will is used to having defenseless women around. He had to support his mother his whole life, didn't he? As I recall she has some kind of early onset dementia or whatever because Will's dad disappeared ten years previous. Funny, isn't it, how the women in these books become either mum puppets or wicked villainesses at the attention or neglect of their male counterparts.

You have to understand, I loved the Golden Compass. That book was great. And I certainly loved aspects of the other books. The guy used the proper formulas to ensure he had a fantastic fantasy-scifi-adventure story. I just think his personal agenda kept reaching up and bitchslapping me.


Really Important Topic

Why are women's shirts and dresses always so cute and well designed on the front, but then so dull on the back? Is it really so difficult to continue that nice beaded neckline all the way around? People check us out from behind too. And backs are pretty sexy. A woman's frontside gets all the attention and pretty stuff, but the back always gets stiffed. Unfair, I say!


My Throat Will Be Next


I just recovered from my last bout of sickness less than a month ago, and now my nose feels like a separate entity, like a mucus alien that has attached itself to my face, but not yet to my nervous system. The space between my eyes is like a black hole, drawing said eyes ever inward in an agony of throbbing pain. I must keep my mouth open constantly to breathe, making me a now chronic mouth-breather, as they are called in the medicinal field. I had to buy Blistex today, since the regular Chap crap doesn't really cut it. Let me let you in on a trade secret: Blistex feels great on raw and chapped nostrils. When, you know, you can take a second from blowing your nose. And if you're able to reapply it every few seconds.

At least I have The Office to keep me company. I'm totally shipping Jim and Pam, and I can't wait for Roy to get the axe. I totally know he does, eventually. Really.


To Be Alive, One Must Have A Life

People can be pretty disappointing in real life. Like, maybe you listen to this local band, and they're totally awesome, but you meet the people in real life and realize they're just a bunch of stuck up fucking hipsters.

Or that wonderful guy you met in that chat room who totally understands you and who turns out to be about twenty years older, morbidly obese, and married. And a total fuckwad idiot.

Or your friends on Myspace who (all 928) all look so cool and sexy in their photos but who are really a bunch of trashy whorish cunts who don't know what to do with their lives.

Oh. OH, and how about that "missed connection" on craigslist? I don't even want to think about that one. At least on a dating site you get some stats to check out before you talk to someone, rather than just "hey i saw u, ur pretty hott, send me an email with pics so i know its u."

In other news, I read a fucking lot.


I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself

For the last week I've been chewed at and gnawed on by an unknown quantity of fleas. Not so many that I've been able to spot them, but not so few that a day and night hasn't gone by when I haven't scratched deperately at fresh welts.

Last time I had a flea, I found it within a few hours after it had bitten me about five or six times. This time, however, the fleas have held out. They've held fast through showers, changes of clothes, and shampoo. They've even managed to evade the comb I use whenever I shower. Last night I thought I had them. I nabbed one on my face, but I dropped it before I could get a good look (I knew by the feel, though). The second one I discovered on the bed where I'd been lying. It had wings which made me dubious until I gave it cause to jump. I tried to tear it apart with my nail, but it got away, and the cat's been scratching enough to make me suspicious.

I truly thought I might actually be free, after being plagued for a week.


Tonight at work I felt the familiar aching itch begging to be scratched on my leg. A fresh bite! It was agonizing. I despair of being freed from this menace, at least until I wash with Dawn dish soap, which I am told is a good remedy. At least for dogs.


Little House On The Big Prairie

I took this shirt that was cute up top but waaaay too tight 'round my stomach, cut off the top, and sewed it (by machine) to a long length of soft fine jersey of a deep shade of blue. Now it's a very comfortable little dress, in keeping with the current styles.

Honestly though, I was more interested in making something comfortable. All these cute little babydoll tops always make my chest and shoulders look nice, but then they're tight the rest of the way down and it makes me self-conscious. Plus they're so tight all around, and made of such material, that my skin can't really breathe. Thus, the solution: take the part you like and add on to it, thereby making your own clothing, just like a prairie family.

If I made enough, maybe I could sell them online. Like on etsy.com, or something.



Hey, hot guys, grab a clue:


It's getting old. That whole thing where you're already in a relationship but you're really hot is just not attractive.


Dear Deviantart

You fucking suck. Now go die.

1. You do not allow anyone to delete his/her account like every other website.

2. The next best thing you offer is for me to go through and delete every deviation and journal entry I've submitted, delete all my profile info, and go through and unfavorite every piece of work I've favorited (which, by itself, adds up to about 45 pages).

3. However, when going through my deviations, about half the time a little window would pop up (that I've never gotten on any other site) informing me that the page could not be loaded. I'd have to refresh the page as many as five times before I'd be to delete that particular deviation.

4. Now, when I'm trying to unfavorite 45 pages' worth of favorites, I keep running into issues, such as deviantArt going into read-only mode, or an "Oops! Try again!" which prevent me from completely destroying my presence on your site.

5. Deviantart, I am starting to suspect you are intentionally making things difficult for me.

6. This really only makes me hate you more, and makes me wish I was skilled at hacking so I could destroy you. Or at least allow people to fucking leave.


Yours Is A Funeral I'd Fly To From Anywhere

We saw Why? last night, people!

While waiting in line outside, we were assailed by a hooker. She was all up in our grills. Got all close to me and licked my neck. Got all close to Rob and raped his hip. She kept insisting I said I'd share him. We tried to fend her off by insisting we were totally monogamous honeys (she asked), but when we put our arms around each other we looked more like total bros. I don't think she was fooled. Somehow, after like five whole minutes, she moved on down the line. Apparently she's a neighbor of Rob's.

By god though, there were three opening bands. THREE! What the hell was going on backstage that three bands had to go on before the one I actually paid to see?? The first one sucked ridiculous crazy nuts until these dumb hipster bitches leapt onstage and started flailing around and shaking their tits. They got taken aside afterward. Second band was alright, with crazy colored lights and their dreamy sounds. Last band was so slow and drony for the most part I almost passed out on my feet. Which would have meant falling sideways onto Rob. We did fall sideways on each other a couple times, crying out "WHYYYYYYYY?" When our beloved band came onstage we totally jizzed ourselves, but not nearly as hard as the girl in front of us whose boyfriend had to support her till she regained her feet. HE was directly in front of me for the whole show and was so drunk that he got downright retarded to the music. A nice big lump of flailing retard.

IT WAS SO AWESOME. Yeah, you needed caps to get that. Why? played almost every one of my favorite songs (unfortunately with the audience's help), which was most of Alopecia. Yoni, the lead singer/jizztastic, had the funniest dances he did across the stage that I will totally not describe because I'd have to show you. Just youtube it. He looked like Woody Allen, except more Jewish, and with a mustache/soulpatch combo. His brother Josiah was on drums and had a huge Jewfro. AWE-SOMMMME. The other guys I couldn't see as well.

We were right near the stage and with every song the crowd got closer and closer, until I felt like I was being humped on nearly all sides. Why? is kinda white hip hop, so several of the skanky chicks near me were already bumping up and down like it was the heaviest rap music ever. The guy in front of me was humping his girlfriend in time to the music, and since we were all pressed against each other she and I formed a sandwich out of him. Really, I was just trying to move out of the way of this other chick's purse. It was sitting right at the small of her back, so it kept trying to rape my pelvic area as she moved her ass all up in my bubble. Plus some guys behind me were taking hits off a pipe (they totally got busted, but they weren't forced to leave).

Man, Why? was just so freaking cool. Would that I could just have them perform for me and maybe a couple other people.


Define Blackface


Aside from being a completely biased article, the issue the writer raises is questionable. To sum it up, French Voque recently put out their October issue which was dedicated to supermodels. In a strange twist of irony, photographer Steven Klein shot but one model, Lara Stone, in a variety of looks and styles. Including make-up that some call blackface. Now, I looked up blackface just to refresh myself, because I honestly could not see why the author of the article kept using this particular phrase. Blackface, to refresh the rest of you, was created to make a mockery of black people. White actors would put on dark face paint and act out racist stereotypes. It became pretty popular and tickled white people considerably, so blackface became used in advertisement as well (Confess it: you've put Aunt Jemima on your waffles at some point, haven't you?).

So, I was trying to understand why the author kept screaming "Blackface blackface blackface!" It'd be one thing if the photographer used several white models and had them all in dark make-up in every shot. However, he only used one girl, and it seems to me that he simply wanted to see how many different looks he could give her. If you go to his website here: http://www.stevenkleinstudio.com/www/index.html you can see every picture of Lara Stone from the October issue. She's certainly not painted dark in every shot. If anything, she goes from dark to white. And there's nothing about any of the photos that seems to suggest negative stereotypes. Or any stereotypes. Fuck, I don't know why he did this shoot, but I really don't see what-all is so offensive about it. And the writer of the aforementioned article doesn't do a very good job of explaining. She's too caught up in being the Great White Hope. "Yeah! I'm a white woman who knows how to scream racism! I can call it, you racist masochistic bastards!"

Someone please, give me your take on this. I'm not sure if I'm making myself clear or if anyone else thinks this woman is a fucking idiot. I mean come on, if you keep looking for ways to be offended, you're bound to become some wound-up dickwad convinced that the entire world is trying to offend you.


Bathroom Drama

My god, some woman actually yelled at me today in the bathrooms at school. And why? Apparently the length of paper towel that went nearly all the way down to the floor was hers. Why, she had gotten it all nice and ready before she even washed her hands, and nasty ole me had to be such an asshole and swipe it first, not even giving her a chance to finish washing. It's kinda funny, really, because I looked at the length of it for about a nanosecond before deciding I was too lazy to rip it in the middle. I was already walking out the door when she starts shouting, like, "HEY! You didn't think maybe that was MINE?!" Well no, clearly I did not, otherwise I would have ripped it in half, or waited while you finished washing your hands and took it so I could dispense some for myself. I mean, I know I get angry about dumb shit a lot, but I usually try a little harder to keep it to myself, lest I come off as a bad-tempered, maggot-sucking cunt.

And then I went to class. And it sucked, verily. Wasted time all day long, again and again every semester.


I'm Serious This Time

Espresso and steamed milk.

Espresso and hot water.

Espresso and steamed milk foam.

ONE shot of espresso with a dollop of foam.

Espresso, steamed milk, and chocolate.

Some dumb-ass beverage concocted by Starbucks. Really. It was never meant to exist until some obese American decided that there wasn't a high enough fat/sugar content in any of the aforementioned drinks.

Please, get it straight America. The Europeans are already laughing at us.

Dear Ridiculously Beautiful People

Please stop making it so easy to stalk you. On the internet. It's very easy to change all your privacy settings to "friends only." That setting not only protects your photos and information from creepy old people, but from creepy young drooly folks, too. And, y'know, it saves us all the anguish of gazing upon your beauteously jizztastic visages that we know will never be ours.

And please, please, stop being so distractingly attractive. So jeans-creamingly stunning. So eye-blindingly delectable.

And, oh please, and please please please, be nice to us common folk.

P.S. Can I take pictures of you? Can I paint you? Naked? I could be famous someday because I caught your bright and shining nubile nudity on film and canvas. O Muse dear mine?


Am I An Example Of A Calculated Birth?

I just stocked up on a bunch of food from the store. Canned, frozen, healthy. Whatever. It sucks to fork over all that money at once, but when I consider how take-out adds up, it makes me feel somewhat better, even though the take-out around here tastes really good because most of it's made fresh.

It's nice to shop alone for some reason, though I can't say why.

Got a neeeew lens! It's a cheapie 50mm, but I've already taken a bunch of shots (of Nats dyeing her hair) and some of them look pretty alright. Definitely better than the zoom lens that came with the camera. Smaller, too. I'm waiting for a tripod so I can take ever more photos of myself and let the world know how awesome I think I am.

I was using the belt sander in class last week without my dust mask (forgot to bring it) and ever since I've been blowing bits of blood into the tissue and feeling gritty all up in my nasal passages. Also, wood is hot when you've been sanding it like that for a minute. It all hurts. Somehow I scraped my arm without noticing.

It's fall, and things are starting to happen again. Everything slows down during the summer while everyone wonders what to do and waits for school and winter again.


So If I Were Ugly, It Would Be Alright To Be Unpleasant?

The other morning, these two guys came in to get breakfast, like many before them. One of them ordered and waited for the other to order. The other man, however, was apparently too busy talking on his phone, standing first inside and then wandering out. When he finally hung up and deigned to acknowledge to me, it was only to make me wait even longer while he first found the menu (which seems to be very difficult for most people, even though it's right there on the fucking wall) and then tried to figure out what he wanted. Now, all of these things are not necessarily gauranteed to make me dislike someone; I've been realizing more and more how almost everything depends on the individual. Something that makes me hate one person is more forgivable in the next. My opinions about my friends' ex-boyfriends vary, even though the break ups are all very similar. You get the idea.

So saying, maybe with another person I would have been less irritated, but something about this guy just pissed me off to the nth degree. Especially when, after I had rung him up and was waiting for him to pay, he said, "Oh! So beautiful, and yet so serious!" in very lilting accents. Not sure I understood, I said "Uh, what?" and he said it again, only formed as a question. Out loud, I said it was rather early in the morning and inside my head I yelled about what an annoying douchebag he was. I was pretty much fuming by the time he finally left.

In high school, in the English class from hell (Advanced Placement with a bipolar crab of a teacher), we read an essay about why women smile. The point the writer was trying to make was that women are always expected to wear this pleasant mask, that doing so allows everyone else to be at ease. I managed to find it on google here: http://www.smartercarter.com/Essays/Cunningham%20-%20Why%20Women%20Smile.htm

It's very well written, and I only wish I could get my thoughts and opinions out half so well. At any rate, what that man said perfectly exemplified the point here. Even more so, since his implication was that being beautiful requires me to be cheerful and pleasant. The aforementioned essay claims that the image of the perpetually smiling woman is particularly American, and that women in other countries are less likely to smile without genuine reason. I thought it was funny when she mentions American fast food franchises trying to open up shop in Europe and finding it nearly impossible to get workers over there to smile the way they do here.

I've noticed this before, especially when looking over the reviews on yelp. Many people go into cafes and restaurants expecting the cheery, bubbly barista or waitress, and their tips often depend on how much she kisses their ass. I say this all the time, and now I send it off into the internet: Excuse me, sir, for not kissing your ass, I couldn't quite get past the enormous pole stuck up it.

Please, quote me on that. And please, creepy middle-aged men, you're not going to regain your youth by the insincere smile of your cute server-girl. And if she fails to deliver said smile, more than likely it's because you're not worth wasting it on.


I Don't Know How Many Of You Are Aware Of This, Buuuut

Linda Perry and Courtney Love are pretty much my heroes.

And why? Oh god don't ask. No, it's not really much to do with them as people. I don't know them as people. I only know as the raw, bellowing voices that are undeniably feminine, screaming words that people should probably listen to.

Honestly? I'm pretty much enamored with them as they were back in their day. I guess I should say their past selves are my heroes. I'm like basically in love with them as they were back then. Oh my god, just look up the pictures, for christ's sake. I don't really care whether other people think bands like The Husbands, The Avengers, L7, whatever, are better examples of angry grrrl bands. For me, they can't touch this. L7 comes a bit close, but seriously?? Who else can do that wild ululation like Linda Perry? Who else raged onstage in ripped stockings, babydoll dresses, and high heels like Courtney Love? Can't. Touch. This. Motherfucker!

And fuck all you idiot boys who think us girls are dumb for listening to our angry counterparts. Who are you, anyway, listening to your shitty metal, absorbed in the wandering of your single note? Go smoke some more pot.


And What Are Words?

Today in my art class, while we were all simultaneously finishing up our projects and talking smack about celebrities, one guy explained that the reason Edward Cullen does such-and-such is because he's a faggot. The teacher, one of your run-of-the-mill stereotypical-looking San Francisco lesbians, happened to come out of the back room at that unfortunate moment and lit into him. It was one of those moments you always dread as a little kid: not the quick, hot anger with yelling and cursing, but the cold, quiet kind that comes up from behind and sinks in worse than anything. She made him apologize to the class, which he did with a faint air of one who does not feel he's entirely in the wrong. Another woman said "thank you," though whether to him or the teacher, I'm not sure. For his part, he was nearly silent the rest of the class, while the conversation resumed around him. The teacher reiterated toward the end of the period that she would not tolerate such offensive language as faggot, queer, homo, etc.

I admit, I was glad to see this guy put in his place. Right before class, he came up with the brilliant revelation in front of some of our other classmates that he had only just noticed the HUGE gap in my teeth. He seemed to think everyone would find this hilarious. In fact, he often seems to think that when shit comes out of his mouth.

However, I was also surprised at the teacher's and the other student's reactions. They are of the previous generation, and I wonder if that is something to do with the strength of their anger. Certainly I've heard plenty of young and pretty gay men refer to themselves as fags in the most lighthearted and careless of ways. I know I've heard the word often enough in various contexts (though not directed at me) that it doesn't seem that bad anymore. And maybe my generation just thinks itself far above all that inequality bullshit, despite ample evidence to the contrary.

Think of this: Black people started referring to each other as nigga to distance themselves from the painful history of the word. They couldn't fully take away its original meanings, though, because white people are most definitely not allowed to use it, according to the unwritten books of slang law. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jEBh1VtdT0 And this: It's not too uncommon for people to throw the word Nazi around. You disagree with someone, particularly an authority figure, you call them a Nazi. Nevermind the war crimes the Nazis committed back in the day (granted, under Hitler's orders, of course), people now find the term easy enough to use semi-casually. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4lJ9vsZjMU And even after all those feminist movements, women like to call each other bitches, as though the word were some genuine token of affection. Yet, to listen to a man call you that, as a woman, you can't help but feel offended, even outraged. The word retard? They don't even call actual retarded kids that anymore, do they? It's become such a blase term for anything slow or stupid that retarded kids, to keep off the stigma, are now properly called "mentally challenged."

It seems to me that most things become less painful once the meaning is taken away. They say time heals all wounds because with time, the things that wounded you in the past lose importance and come to mean little in the face of the present. It takes a while for a word to lose the vicious intent of its original meaning, and even then, it depends who's saying what. People will take words and try to bleed them dry of meaning by overusing them to each other, but they can't escape the pain when someone else does the same.

There's a history behind words of course. You can hardly get away from that. But everyone tries. I'm part of a generation that is trying very hard not to care anymore. We want to strip these terrible words of their terrible meanings and make them our own, exclusively. In doing so, however we segregate ourselves. We estrange each other by trying to lay down laws about who is allowed to say what, and to whom. We make each other too uncomfortable by drawing these lines in the dirt, distance ourselves from others by the exclusivity of our clubs, our races, our genders.

All of a sudden I am incredibly fascinated by modern language and I wish I had a language historian to talk to, instead of just rattling the same thoughts around in my head. Actually thinking about all this makes me wonder. On the one hand, I'm all for making certain words devoid of their original offensive meanings, but on the other hand, won't there always be those who are too close to the truth of it? Who will always take offense? It's easy for me not to be particularly offended by most words, because I'm not often the target of them. But what about other people?


Musical Revelations

Srsly people, I am starting to become musically depressed. Guys I like, such as Jim Morrison and Eric Clapton, half their stuff's not even original! I mean, I knew rock and roll in the sixties evolved out of the bluesy stuff, but there's a fuck of a difference between evolving and jacking. I would imagine that, back in the day, most of these white, disenfranchised middle class hippie kids didn't think much about crediting the original musician when they stole his songs. Elvis too, you Presley cocksuckers. When I hear the original versions of songs like "Back Door Man" and "Spoonful," I can see what people mean when they say that later bands just took the songs and distorted them and made them all sloppy and messy. Kinda like Led Zeppelin. I mean, especially like. When I realize the resemblances between supposedly classic rock bands and the older bluesy guys, it's easy to see how the older music, the rhythm and blues, was basic and skeletal, with reverent guitar solos that never detracted from the singer's words, but only added to them. Guys like Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page practically jizzed their pants every time they got to perform a guitar solo, and consequently went all over the scale like the hobbits in Mordor, nevermind what that one guy was trying to sing. It's hard to sing when you're out of control and jizzing in your pants.

These things I'm saying aren't particularly well-informed, and it's not like I've listened to the real rhythm and blues for hours and hours. Really, this is my first impression of guys like Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf. Oh my good damn god are they awesome.


Stranger Danger

For those who are as yet unaware, I like to read. I'm also capable of reading under less than perfect reading conditions. I can read while children run over and around me, shrieking with laughter. I can easily sever myself temporarily from the world, whether it be at home, in a classroom, or a cafe.

However, when someone asks me a direct question, I must pull myself back with regret. When that question is, "What are you reading?" my initial feeling is intense irritation. For, you see, when someone is reading, it is because they are not in the frame of mind to talk, and trying to engage them in talking by asking about the very thing they are trying to escape from you with is very rude. Naturally there are times when this is not so, as with most things. But most of the time, when I am reading during a break in class or on the bus or in the park or a cafe, the person (usually a man) who deigns to ask what I read gains my momentary hatred. If you would like to discuss books I have already read, then I will join the conversation eagerly. But jesus christ, allow me to get through the one you're so damnably curious about before we try to discuss it.

This anger on my part applies especially when I'm reading a fantasy novel, since I really have no wish to let the entire work know that I too, like fantasy. A good example is Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time, a series that is outrageously self-indulgent, with horrendous covers that scream, "TERRIBLE FANTASY NOVEL HERE! PLEASE BEGIN SNEERING IMMEDIATELY!" Really, google these books. When I was reading them, I hated for anyone to ask, because they were bound to laugh.

And why does anyone want to know, anyway? If I'm still reading it, then I likely haven't formed a very good opinion of it yet. If it's a book you were thinking about reading and you want to know if it's worth it, fine, I'll give my tentative response. But for god's sake, do not use that as a way to chat me up! This goes for music too. In my opinion (obviously), both are terrible ways to begin a conversation with a perfect stranger.


I Watch Movies To Check Out The Booty

28 Days Later...

Oh so good. And not just because Cillian Murphy's got a sexy thunderous Irish voice and one fine white Irish ass. And not just because Naomie Harris had bangin' hair and a rippin' jawline. I'm not generally a fan of horror and suspense, unless I'm sitting next to someone I can latch onto. Interestingly, this movie didn't completely overuse the silence-then-attack-outta-nowhere tactic, which I appreciated. Those scenes always get me, no matter how often they're used in a single movie. 28 Days Later gave more an impression of terrified desolation. The characters recognized their isolated state enough (I would guess) to be able to get around without being constantly on guard. Unless that was just poor scripting. But really, the majority of the population evacuated, so the only ones left were the infected and a tiny number of survivors, with the latter being constantly diminished even further by the former. I was rather horrified by the soldiers, though. Nice to know Britain's army is made up of men just burstin' for a good gang rape. Just kidding, Brits. I'm sure your boys in green are total eunuchs. Or whatever.

I am so watching the sequel, even though apparently it does not have Cillian Murphy in it. I will be incredibly disappointed by that, but I will still watch it.


Departed Dreams

Finally watched The Departed last night. It's been on the movie list in the back of my mind for a bit of a while now, especially since my brother showed me the original Chinese version, Internal Affairs. The latter is actually a trilogy, the first movie of which The Departed is based on, plot point for plot point. TD is a little more fleshed out, since I guess the makers of it didn't want to leave it open for sequels, but key events are almost exactly the same. Internal Affairs is in some ways a little more subtle, as in that scene of immense tension when both "moles" are unknowingly fighting each other undercover, the police agent working with the criminals employs Morse code to communicate with the other cops. In TD, however, it's all about texting, texting, as if phone lines couldn't possibly be traced.

To be sure, I found TD to be a lot more engaging, though fans of IA find it weaker. Maybe it was just all the accents flying around that piqued me, as well as the racist historical undertones. Those Irish men were awesome, even though they were violent gangsters. I wasn't convinced by Jack Nicholson's occasional Boston accent, even though he tried hard to make it seem as though his character slipped into it when angry or trying to be intimidating. I loved Damon, though, and his total racist dipshit attitude coupled with that laughably respectable voice.

Dang yo, I was looking up stuff about CCA again, and this time I actually read up more thoroughly on their transfer requirements. They're much more extensive than CCA would have you believe at first glance, especially with their crap about "oh, we don't require you to take a certain number of units to transfer, just maybe take some English, some art, you know." I mean, I'm still going to go for it, fuck yeah, sounds much better than the money-whoring Academy of Art (sorry, AoA friends), but I've just realized it's actually going to be kind've difficult. I guess what will happen is I won't have done most of the transferable classes they recommend, but I might still get in and just take said classes there to complete my degree. Or something. I'll figure it out.

I dreamed last night of delivering a package, and the street I walked down was the street on which my half-sister lived. I happened to glance at her house as I went by, and saw her and her mother and someone else sitting on a blanket in the front yard. I looked away before they saw me and hurried past. There was so much more in my dreams last night, but most of it escapes me now. I remember the light was almost blue-tinted, though still bright, like on a cold morning.

At another point, I was in a vast auditorium, standing with hundreds of other students in our gowns and caps, waiting to take our diplomas. We were graduating high school at last, and, thinking it would be a quick thing, I hadn't told my mom about it. I got my diploma almost right away, crumpled it slightly, and felt an awful sadness that no one was there with me to celebrate.


Too Close To Starlight

Holy jesus crap, you guys, guess who I saw?? Ty fuckin Segall! Walked right into Toy Boat with a couple friends (cute ones). I was trying to solve an alphabet riddle that my coworker gave me, so I was a bit distracted, not to mention completely unprepared. It wasn't till I got a look at his shoes as he was walking out that it finally hit me who he was and I felt a certain ridiculous sort of despair at having missed my chance. What chance, you say? Well, and how would I know, since I didn't even take it? At the very least I should've asked how to pronounce his last name. I know he's playing another show next weekend with some other cool bands. Eh, Kate? One more time, girlie?? Pleeeeeease?

You might wonder why I recognized his shoes before I recognized him. I tell yas, we were standing thiiiiis close to him at the show after his band was done, and believe me, I gave him a very full and complete once-twice-three times over. So there. Nyeah!


Overlooked Sarcasm

I think it's kinda funny and pretty awesome that the three of us (me, Allison, Kate) are all friends on blogger like we were on LJ. I'm pretty sure almost no one else reads what I write now, just like then.

To bring up work again, the other day I was trying to help this family of mother, father, daughter. The father asked me if we had "rebbing." I thought he just had an extremely thick accent, and he had to repeat himself a few times. I floundered for about a minute before I realized he was saying "red bean." Then I also realized he had barely any accent when he said "What's so hard to understand about that??" as if he were asking me and his family, in order to include all present in acknowledging my shocking stupidity. I actually didn't try to hide my anger when I sarcastically replied, "I'm sorry sir, I didn't get it." Allow me to lay it out:
1. The cafe/ice cream parlor I work at is pretty much the whitest place in the neighborhood. We do not carry red bean ice cream.
2. We do not carry so many ice creams that it would be impossible to find what you're looking for. At least look before you ask.
3. If I can't understand you, please help me out by speaking up or enunciating properly.

As far as school goes, my education seems to be going in a positive direction, at least as far as I'm concerned. I wish I could hurry up and get to the more advanced classes already, but I don't want to miss anything. I don't mind dicking around too much in the meantime.


"But We Unleashed A Lion"

Suuuuuu, first day of fall semester.

I decided to be lazy and only take a couple classes. I've found that I don't hate myself and other people so much as long as I take it easy. God knows last semester's English class was a fucking nightmare. It was definitely a good idea not to enroll in any summer classes; it gave me a chance to relax, actually see my friends, and work, despite my mother's misgivings.

Honestly, I need to start doing things by my own rules. It can be difficult; going up against my mom has often proven disastrous in the past. But. But but but, I know I'm not really going to be happy unless I can figure most of this shit out on my own.

I just made the most '90s-ish playlist ever. I don't know whether or not it is safe to play at work. Certainly some people will create an uproar; coworkers, customers, you betcha, we got fucking music snobs. It's bad enough to make some shifts really suck, depending on who I have to work with and who decides to come in and comment on the music. Well fuck yous; I am of that decade and the music I remember is cheesy and fucking bitchin!


The Sexual Frustration of Vegetarian Vampires in Lurve

Kate and I decided to rent Twilight. Keep in mind, neither of us has read any of the books, and we're both fairly intelligent, well-read people. Basically our sole reason for renting it was to tear it a new asshole, which we did so much that we missed a lot of the dialogue (though that's not saying much).

H'okay, so, there's this pretty young woman who, of course, just has to move to some shit town with her emotionally distant father (though this guy's acting was actually just bad). Naturally the reader/audience is given the impression that she's a bit of a social outcast, but somehow a whole clique is magically drawn to her and BOOM you have Instant Friends! Of course, the actress sucks so much that what I presume to her social awkwardness comes out as complete indifference to these people who are so desperate to kiss her ass. Then enters Impossibly Hot Guy. I not ashamed to admit that I thought Robert Pattinson was totally hot until I saw this movie. But seriously? If I saw a guy throw up in his mouth at the mere sight of me I would be turned off so instantly. Is that Pattinson's idea of conveying love at first sight? What, did the director tell him, "Okay, I want you to reimagine the first time you ever fell in love and just mutiply that by like a hundred, got it?" Apparently the idea of such intense love makes Pattinson extremely nauseous. And creepy. He was staring at whatsherface harder than a pedophile at a playground.

The whole movie seemed like a bunch of pieces from better works taped shittily together, with no substance running underneath it. Basically a film montage with especially awful effects. I mean, come on, they glitter like fucking diamonds in the sun? What's the point of that? The only reason in that case that they wouldn't want to go into the sun is so regular humans wouldn't catch on. Imagine Edward Cullen at a rave. He would get so much kandi.

Afterward I read this article that discussed the obvious references in the Twilight books to the author's personal beliefs. It mentioned something about her being Mormon, and not believing in premarital sex, etc. Basically, ultra-conservative. Totally explains why Edward won't bang Bella. Not because he's afraid of losing control and suckin' her blood, but because OH NOES they're only seventeen and totally not married. Of course, being a woman, Bella has to tempt Edward constantly because she is the only one who ignites the fire in his loins. Or whatever. The only heat I could see between them was pure lust. They're horny fucking teenagers; you really think one of them being a vampire would change that? They're certainly not in love. They have absolutely nothing in common and don't have any real conversations; these two can't even give off that "soulmates" vibe you get in other romance movies. They just kinda claw at each other like sex addicts in like one scene. I get the feeling the author herself is pretty sexually frustrated by the limits of her religion/life. I know I was feeling that way watching the heavy heavy lust and complete lack of action. Just DO it already!! At least kiss! What, not even some tongue??

One scene that struck both of us as unintentionally hilarious was when all these dumb kids are at the beach hanging out and one of the less-than-minor male characters starts chasing one of the less-than-minor female characters with one of those gigantic long pieces of kelp and I screamed "SEA PENIS!! LET ME SLITHER THROUGH YOUR KELP BEDS!"


Art School = More Cunts. I Mean Artists.

Every time I read a comic with good style and writing, I feel that much more compelled to make my own. In middle school the only comics I read were manga, so of course I wanted to make manga. Yes, I was one of those white kids who kinda wanted to be Japanese, if being Japanese was really like it was represented in the comics (which I suspect now it isn't). I mean, helloooooo their box lunches are like way cooler than American kids' box lunches, for fuck's sake!

My issue with making comics is the same as my issue with writing a story long enough to become a book: I can't keep going. I can't come up with a story that interests me enough to stick with it. ESPECIALLY because drawing all those panels and speech bubbles is such a pain in the ass. The most I could do would be one strip at a time, like a newspaper comic (and we all know how great those are), with characters based on (read, "ripped off") real life. Last night before I was about to pass out (which seems to be the only time I come up with awesome ideas) I kept thinking of funny strips of Kate and me. It was stuff that wasn't actually based on real life events, but wouldn't be too far off the mark. Except now I can't remember most of them, aside from one where we start screaming about free pie.

Thing is, I wonder if going to art school would really get my proverbial ball rolling. It's kind've cool to be in a room full of other weird, arty-type people. One of my friends told me that meeting other artists would be a good way to improve. Of course, with artists, as with most other things, really, there's always that underlying current of competition. I could probably use that kind of motivation, though.


An Open Letter

...to the man who called me a bitch.

I really don't understand your animosity, sir. You come in to my place of work with a large group of adults and a pack of loud, unruly children, all demanding ice cream. I serve you as patiently as I can while you try not to lose your temper at the indecisive ones.

In general, it is an unwritten law that parents are responsible for their children in public places, such as retail stores, doctors' offices, cafes, restaurants, etc. It is also an unwritten law that parents must teach their children not to take things that don't belong to them without permission, that is, steal.

We like to give out little paper umbrellas sometimes to kids, or on a sandwich if we're feeling whimsical. We keep these little paper umbrellas behind a glass where we keep other little things, such as salt and pepper, a bottle of tapatio sauce, or wooden stakes for sandwiches. What usually happens, sir, and this is what I was trying to tell you, is that a child will notice said umbrellas and will ask for one. Or, if the child is too shy, a parent will ask. This is because most parents try to teach their children to have manners. It is possible, sir, believe, I have seen it done with my own eyes, heard their little pleases and thank yous with my own ears.

Frankly, I was rather surprised that you didn't understand the problem when I was protesting against the three or four little boys you were responsible for reaching their dirty hands over the glass and all over every umbrella, trying to grab the right colors. This surprise may have translated badly when I said, "It's just that most people usually ask." The words themselves could easily seem snotty, but my tone was meant to be as neutral as possible, all factors taken into account. And really, your excuse, "They're only five, what do you expect?" was rather weak. By the time a child is five, he should be aware that stealing is not right. Your excuse surprised me even more; surely you were sensible of what was going on? Apparently not. I don't quite understand what's so difficult about the situation I have recounted above. I would assume parents try to teach their children to have respect for other people's property.

I would also assume a good father wouldn't want to raise his sons to think of women as bitches.

Sir, I must say, you are the type of man who makes my reproductive organs shrivel into hard little pits. You do not represent fathers very well, and you especially fail at being a real man. It's a rather hackneyed phrase but really, men like you do make me lose faith in the human race. If you were having a bad day, I don't understand how belittling a young woman like me would make it any better. Does your wife actually like you? Do your children? Are you trying to raise your own special race of assholes? You're doing a fine job, if that be the case.

To close off, if you ever come in to my place of work again while I'm there, I will be sure to give you a demonstration of what a bitch really is. You will need your testicles.

the Bitch


Barbie's Feet Are Kinda Freaky, Anyway

Something that bugs me often is the sheer amount of obviously insecure people. By which I mean people who are quick to make sure everyone around is made extremely uncomfortable by the depths of their insecurity. You know the type. Women who, when you make them a nice meal, can't help joking about how fattening it is and how much they'll have to work out to make up for it the next day. There's little doubt that, underneath the smile, they're dead serious. Or the men who are prone to complaining bitterly about their own weight or their inability to get a girlfriend. Mostly I've known women who, while seeming to merely acknowledge their flaws, are actually pointing them out, putting up road signs and flashing lights where no one else notices anything. It's been said that if you keep saying "I'm fat I'm fat I'm fat," eventually others will also believe you're fat.

One other thing. Women who wear heels improperly. Very few can pull them off the way they're meant to be done. Many of those few can do it because they've been wearing heels so long they can no longer wear flats. The rest of us, however, are aware heels are hot and make most anyone's legs look shapely and glamorous, but we fail at pulling it off. It makes me cringe inside when I see some woman attempting to stride elegantly down the street and failing even to unbend her knees all the way. You know the walk: pinched toes, the balls of your feet swollen, arches splintering, resulting in a feeble crab walk that is reminiscent of a white person using chopsticks for the very first time. It's the walk of an eighty year-old woman who's had too many children and suffers from the worst sort of arthritis.

The thing is, if you can't do it, don't do it. You can do so much better than those six inch heels. Your pain is not sexy. Accept this, and you just might be able to run away from those potential muggers and rapists.


This Is The Song That Never Ends

Today Kate and I were hanging out chatting about whatever. I could see this guy out the corner of my eye, slightly glancing at us, but it was one of those things you dismiss without thinking very hard. Then suddenly there he was, right next to me, wanting my opinion on something. He paused, as though somehow he'd forgotten what he wanted to say, and then asked if we thought a man who curled his sideburns would look gay. Kate and I proceeded to answer without really answering, that is, well, depends on the outfit, he'd probably look like a rabbi, maybe if he was a J-pop star, etc, but our witty banter seemed only to make him more uncomfortable, until finally he said, "take care," and hurried away. I don't know if he was trying to make conversation with two attractive young women, or if he genuinely wanted to know our opinion. If it was the latter, then he was probably inspired to ask since I myself have curly sideburns and must, therefore, be an expert on who should have them and who should not.

Of course, that wasn't nearly as interesting as Kate's story about the weird-ass woman who followed her around the dog park, but that's her story to tell, not mine.

Completely different topic, but I watched Meet Joe Black the other night, and I think the entire world should know my thoughts on it. Be warned, total spoilers ahead.

Okay, I did have a big review all typed out, but then I realized I was rambling. Plus I got distracted looking up pictures of Claire Forlani and Claire Danes on Google. Then I got indignant at some website that said Claire Danes' nose looks much less bulbous and protuberant since she got plastic surgery on it. Aaaaaanyway.

Yeah that's it.


Mess of Beer and Bodies

A review of last night's show:


Ty Segall at the Parkside was one hot, sweaty, beer-soaked mess. He went on first, for which Kate and I were much relieved. It's pretty fucking annoying when the act you came specifically to see doesn't go on till the wee hours of the morning. As it was, the show started about an hour and a half later than expected, but there he was, alive and breathing and screaming and yipping into the mic. The sound check consisted of him whooping and yelping and making funny faces from under his blond curls. He's very good live, so good in fact, that two or three or four guys thought it would be totally bitchin' to start moshing already. Unfortunately, the rest of us weren't quite amped up/drunk enough yet to join in, except for Dumb Drunk Bitch, who shook her tits and her stomach and stumbled and fell into them and us repeatedly. Kate got elbowed pretty pretty viciously by one flying asshole, and anytime one of them came at us, we shoved and punched and knocked them right back.

By the third band, oh boy. Some hot ladies screaming lustily at us, as we watched and moshed, slicked over with sweat and adrenaline. During one song, the pit got so intense I was actually sucked in, jumping up and down, bashing fools left and right, completely indiscriminate, my big red hoops swinging wildly from my ears. That was also when Kate got carried away into the depths of the crowd. When I finally got my head above to breathe, she was nowhere in sight, and I couldn't tell if the people smiling at me when I looked around thought I was cool or a total fuckwad loser. After a few songs she managed to wade her way back to where she'd been before, to my immense relief.

Alas, my plans for seducing Mr. Segall failed, though I came close to grabbing his butt when we walked behind him before he went on. I stopped myself, figuring it probably wasn't the time or place. Still, having a semi-famous guy right there is kind've exciting. Apparently whatever pheramones I'd intended to release into his face lay dormant until the third band, Mika Miko (also bitchin'), came on, when this sleazy-ass motherfucker somehow forced Kate away so he could stand next to me and ogle me with disturbing intensity while I was rocking out. It was when I started moshing that he, like Kate, got pulled away, but thankfully he didn't find his way back. Maybe he saw me punching those crazy fuckers and got scared.

The end of it was us being too wrecked to rock any longer and we caught a bus out of there.

Can you say whoa-oh?


What the FUCK Blogspot, you ass.

Okay, I really don't get this website. Somehow, when two of my friends made/adjusted their blogs on my computer, their profiles got all entwined with mine. Particularly the one who made her blog. When I tried to follow someone else, somehow I followed them as her, and accidentally changed her little follower picture and name to mine. What the eff? I can't even begin to understand what the fuck is going on with this.


Some Things Just Don't Happen

Today I was walking with a couple friends in the mission. We came to an intersection and watched a tiny dog across the street trailing behind its people as they went over the crosswalk. Picture it: little toothpick legs moving back and forth at the rate of a typist's fingers, making ever effort not to fall behind (despite the leash) and get squished by a car. A dog so small that the driver wouldn't even feel its little body under the wheel. When they got to the other side, the dog stopped in the gutter, knowing the task of climbing the curb was quite behind it. However, since the woman holding the leash refused to wait, the dog made its best effort. And got stuck. Those little legs just couldn't do it!

I'm not sure, but I think the woman finally bent down and lifted the dog onto the curb.



And A Hearty "Fuck You" To....

City College and SF State: Why, as educational institutions, can neither of you provide classes for your students? Are we really expected to graduate or transfer one day and get degrees, or would you rather see us spiral downward under the weight of fees and classes we are required to take but can't get into? Yes, I realize everyone needs to take an English class, but shouldn't you realize this as well, and thus provide? Give us our fucking classes so we move on in life already!


Calm Before Storm

I have to say, as much as I love being back in the city, after a year (today marks it), I'm already getting the itch again. Y'know, that itching, that bug in the brain, the bee in the bonnet, these feet are twitching to be off again. Not now, or tomorrow, or next month, but soon enough. Somehow, eventually, this here girl will be on the road again. And where to? It seems as though New York City is tugging at me, as it has at the best of them. From there, maybe Paris, somewhere in France, somewhere in Italy, somewhere off this continent I've been my whole life.

I don't know if school for a straight five or six years is really ahead of me. There's something bigger, I think, and I need to figure out what it'll be.


A Formal List Of Complaints

Or, A Few Of My Pet Peeves:

1. People who wear sunglasses indoors. Particularly men. In general, it's kind've rude; to me, it's roughly equivalent to strenuously avoiding eye contact, or talking on your cell phone while I'm trying to take your order. This is something that really only bothers me at work, especially when creepy men stare at my tits behind their tinted shades.

2. Those annoying white college women who are so incredibly bubbly that they talk as if they were so far beyond stupid that they are actually retarded.

3. Children. Specifically, parents. No, your child is not cute or endearing to me. Your child needs a swift kick in the butt and you need to learn how to administer it.

4. Dog owners. Get over yourself! Your dog's a total asshole and so are you! Hey, your big, scary dog is barking really loudly and running toward me; please do not laugh and make it seem like he's just being a big sweetie, because he's not, he's actually scaring the shit out of me.

5. Evasive dudes who, for some reason completely unbeknownst to me, cannot simply up and tell you what's going on. For everybody who thinks men can't take hints, believe me, women can't either. Give it to me straight up, like whiskey and gin, motherfucker.

6. People who don't understand my aversion to beer. It tastes like piss! Worse than piss! Why do I need more justification??

7. TV!! Who gives a shit about these people? Most of the shows I see nowadays are either about people who are famous for no reason, or people who are completely unremarkable trying to make themselves famous through reality tv. What the FUCK. Nobody CARES about you, nobody gives a shit which bachelor you pick, they're all fucking idiots. Who are these people trying to be that they require an audience?

And if you're starting to wonder, yes, it's the moon cycle. I am full of anger and hatred and unreasonable rage.


Work Wok Werk

Mein Gott, last night there was a solid wall of people for almost three hours. Luckily the last hour or so was comparatively slow, so me and the other guy caught up with all our closing duties and what have you. He's pretty rad, keeps cool in a rush. I keep pretty cool I guess, except I have a tendency when I start doing about ten things at once and overlappingly to swear emphatically and long under my breath. Plus I find it difficult to be as friendly as usual with the customers, ESPECIALLY when they stand and take forever deciding while there are many others who need help right away. Please, if you're not sure yet, tell me it's okay to go and help someone else, or at least make a more sincere effort to hurry the fuck up.

Boy, people on yelp.com can be total assholes. I know a dentist who knows another dentist who's mixed up in a lawsuit because some fuckwad wrote a bad review and lied about shit that went down. A lot of people believed this loser, though most had probably no reason to, and backed him up. Similarly, people write bad reviews about us, and, though I believe they do usually tell the truth, what they say is incredibly one-sided. They come in one time, receive shitty service, and think it's the end of the world. Never mind that, should they come in again, OMIGOD, the people behind the counter are different! You can't judge a place's service based on ONE person who served you ONE TIME. Doesn't anyone remember doing science labs in high school? You have to do the experiment more than once to prove your hypothesis. Dummy.

Par example, mes amis, there's a little place near my work that serves Asian sweets and goodies. Their food is great, the place is cute, but every time I go there, I am treated with indifference that borders on scorn. I've been there enough times to realize this is a consistent thing, but not enough that you could say I'm into S/M and like being treated badly. Point being, I held off judging them too harshly until I went there enough to see the pattern. I'll still go there every once in a long while, though, because I do like their stuff. I'm not one of those people who lets bad service ruin every other good thing about a place.


I Got Smooth Liquidations

I am working on a fucking masterpiece. A couple, actually. Who's to say they'll ever be completed, but they sure add to the relatively sparse decor of my room. My gosh.

Some musicy people I've been gettin' down to recently:
Ty Segall (what a fucking dreamboat)
Betty Davis (hot black funkboat)
Lykke Li (one a' them europeans)
Cake (a resurgence)
The Doors (holy shit!)
Feist (cute)

What I've learned, however, is that The Shins are still my favorite band in the entire fucking world. They're what I listen to when I'm not in the mood to dance and I need to retreat into the log cabin by the serene lake of my soul, so to speak. I don't know why this is. A Zen thing or whatever, I guess.

One of the nicest things about tall guys is being hugged by them. They pretty much have to bend themselves in half to reach you, but in doing so they form this cocoon-like space that blocks out sight and sound. It's pretty rad, all in all. Being hugged by not-so-tall guys is pretty awesome too, but they can never be the chrysallis to the caterpillar-state of your mind. You know, when you feel ugly and unhappy and then BOOM a tall guy hugs you and you emerge as a slightly less unhappy-type butterfly-thing. Or something. Whatevs.

Looks like party season is coming up. Like, tonight. One tonight, one tomorrow night, one next weekend...it's time to pull out the nice clothes I never wear to work or school. But not the super nice clothes that I don't want to get beer or vomit on. Definitely not those. What happens is, I spend months gradually collecting pretty things that I figure I'll never wear, and then I usually don't, not even to parties and such, because they always seem too nice even for social outings. But this time I'm determined to look damn fine!


Check It

Before you wreck it. Word.

Jobs are fun.


Pizza Logic

For some reason, I always expect a slice of pizza to be around about two bucks. Three, at the most. I don't know what long-gone decade I inhabited in a past life, because a decent slice of pizza with enough stuff on it to fill me up can cost up to six, and it's hard to imagine when pizza slices were ever actually cheap. I kinda subconciously put it into the same category as hot dogs. Basic food one picks up on the go; depending on where each is obtained, it could satisfy a craving or give you food poisoning. BASIC! Shouldn't a slice be cheap? No? I can't even get a decent, non-food-poisony slice of cheese for under four bucks. Well, technically I can, but if I want anything else on it, I best be prepared to shell out some more dough. Totally not fair, pizza people, not at all.

Like, last night, I went with a couple friends to a nice place in the neighborhood. The slice I got had like, pesto, onion, some kind of meat, regular cheese, feta, everything. So. Good. Filled me up. Made me want a whole pizza of it. BUT. It was $6.00. What. Plus tip. What. When I compare that slice with a sandwich or a burrito or a salad or sushi or whatever, I think, yeah, that's not bad. But when I think of it in terms of my pizza logic, I'm like what.the.fuck. I just paid seven bucks for ONE slice of PIZZA!

Clearly this is a deep psychological issue for me. One that is making me hungry even as I recover from a big-ass bowl of spaghetti.


Being Really, Ridiculously Good-Looking Does Not Excuse Cheesy Eyeliner.

And I'm talking to you, Jared Leto, you sexy beast. You cheesy son of a bitch.


By god, he was one hot boy in My So-Called Life. One of my roommates has gotten me into that; she also induced me to watch Se7en.

Brad Pitt, suddenly you appeal to me as you never have before.

Damn, what a chiseled face of a man. I think I'm falling prey to screen boys. Damn them and their perfect facial contours and perfect beautiful bodies and perfect lighting and makeup. Seriously, what's the deal? How does the world function? Like, for real?


Life Is Funny And Sad

Whoo, got some of my money back from da guv'm'nt. That was awfully decent of them, wasn't it?

Found out today one of the regulars at my work is named Adam. This may surprise some people, but I haven't actually known too many Adams in my lifetime. I've known of them, but never really spoken to any. This time it was pretty neat, since I've talked to him when he comes in and he's cool. But, thank god, neither of us tried to make a real joke about Adam and Eve. Hur hur hur. There have only been a few people who tried to make a joke like that at me, like, hey, where's Adam? hey, why'd you eat the apple? Etc.

The end of school be fast approaching, arrrgh. The one class I want to take in the summer is completely full, so I'll have to crash and squeeze my way in by assassinating a couple of other students (I just watched Kill Bill for the first time last night, so bear with me). One of my friends and coworkers was telling me how she couldn't get into any of the five classes she wanted for next fall, because they're all full. That's ridiculous, that people pay good money for college and they're not even gauranteed a spot in the classes they need or want. How's a woman supposed to get an education, huh?

If anyone's wondering, I finished that essay. I stopped stressing about a week before it was due. ya wut.

Oh, and Feist is sooooo good! (teen girl squad voice)


No Such Thing As Moderation!

Ah coffee. Many a blogger has, I'm sure, expressed his or her love of this luscious drink. The way it pulls one from the dead of sleep to the light of day so easily. Drink it black, milky, or sweet, it still works.

Except it no longer works on me. About the only thing coffee does to me anymore is keep me from being caffeine deprived. No bueno. Not at all. The last time I went a whole morning without coffee, though I had had a good night's sleep, I felt like a zombie. My whole body sagged towards the floor as my head pounded and my jaw slackened. The peeps I was with sat chatting away cheerily, for they are not slaves to caffeine addiction. Eventually one of them noticed and mentioned that we ought to get moving, and I got what I needed.

These days drinking a cup of coffee does not wake me up. It's more like it used to be, before I ever started drinking it. You know, you wake up, you're tired, you go to work or school or whatever. I may as well not even be drinking it, as it does nothing. It just perpetuates the need.

And yet...how wonderful that first cup, how refreshing the second. How nice it is, if someone asks you, "Would you like to get a cup of coffee with me?" to say yes (unless you find that person utterly repulsive). How adventuresome one feels to try a new flavor for the first time and find that it exceeds all flavors before it. The variations of caffeinated beverages rise high above me in the grocery store: coffee, espresso, black tea, chai tea...

And how delightful it is to have a cup of milky, unsweetened coffee with sugary cereal, or a pastry, or waffles, in the morning. How satisfying. So much so that I'm tempted to go right back to bed.

I am so. fucking. tired. Hook me up an IV of pure caffeine, please, kthxbi.


Essay Burn Out, ese

Somehow it completely went past me that Monday was 4/20. And now it's Wednesday. Fuck! Well, next year, I suppose.

Essay's come along a bit. Almost at the required amount of pages. Once I get to that point, I don't know if I'll have the energy or the motivation to revise and edit. Fuuuuck, man. I don't want to be severely ridiculed by a crazy power-trippin hippie! C'est la vie, je pense. Je vais trouver mes yeux, monsieur!

I am le tired.

Where is that nice pretty girl with the flowers now?


Why They Hate Bikers

I finally got ahold of a good bike a few days ago. She's a blue beaut! I got the trappings today, and I'm starting to get my balance. My roommate took me to a bike shop near our house. I ended up getting in front of her, which, in retrospect, was a terrible idea, because I was thinking of a completely different bike shop. Imagine my state of mind as I came to the fateful and frightfully busy intersection after a long, hot day serving ice cream and fucking sandwiches. Intersections with stoplights are awful when one is still figuring out how to stop without falling over. I had to make a giant left turn from the far right side of the road through late afternoon traffic. The light said go, but by going I cut a swathe bigger than a biker should, and according to my roommate, cars had to swerve out of my way. Once committing this obnoxious act, I continued to pedal hard down the block, until I slowed enough at the next light to see if she was behind me. Of course she was nowhere in sight, so I hauled my dumb ass up onto the sidewalk to get my phone and regain contact with her. After that, I had to walk my blue beauty bike back up the block to the place I had just blazed through where she was waiting at the bike shop itself. The guy behind the counter had seen the whole thing, so I felt like a total ass. But he seemed to think I was pretty groovy, which was all right, I guess. I felt like even more of an ass when my roomie's friend (who is an avid biker) emailed me wondering why I tried to kill myself.

If you see a biker do something stupid, he or she might either simply be an asshole and/or a total fucking n00b. Have a heart, though. I am pretty sorry to all those drivers I probably pissed off, and I hope they don't beat the shit out of me if ever we cross paths again.


Chill Out, Man, Like, Just Chill.

Mother of GOOODDDD. I absolutely hate stressing about school. Unfortunately, I've got an extremely tempermental teacher to please with a bangin' essay that I haven't even finished researching. It'll be shit. Citations, fuck the lot of them! Citing actual page numbers is the fucking worst! It's like I'm supposed to prove I actually read my sources or something. Honestly, as long as I'm not plagiarizing and the teacher knows what sources I used, what does it matter which sentence of which paragraph of which page of which chapter of which book by which author published by which company in what city in what year in the history of the goddamn universe I am getting it from?? It only gives me more cause to stress the fuck out. When I have to write an essay that's actually good, I usually fail. And an annotated bibliography! This man is mad, and determined to drive ME to madness! It's like he expects me to work hard for a degree, or something.

This is giving me a brain-bleedy bit in the cortex that is cerebral and located in the northern hemiphere of my body. Fuck. And they wonder why us young'uns are driven to drugs.


Damn This Bike Town

Apparently that Amazon thing I was talking about is getting resolved, so that's cool.

In more personal news, I am trying to get a decent bike. To do this, I might have to travel far away, but the deals are better out of town, apparently. I shall wish myself luck.


Boycott Amazon!

It looks like the Internet is being held on tighter and tighter reins these days. Amazon.com has "removed the sales ranks of any books deemed too 'adult' for general audiences. This includes anything with LGBTQ content." I found this out on this webcomic artist's livejournal: http://rosalarian.livejournal.com/253096.html

What this means is that "adult" books won't show up in searches. There are plenty of odd things about all this, things that just don't add up, but I'd only be repeating the aforementioned artist's words when you could easily check out her entry on this subject. Amazon.com appears to be showing very homophobic tendencies with this new rule, especially since plenty of books with erotic hetero content are still easily found through the search engine.

What a bunch of bullshit!


"Oh darling...please believe me, I'll never make it alone.."

This person I served today irritated me so much that I forgot to make sure she left before I started bitching about her to one of my coworkers. Unfortunately, she was still there. She was sitting far enough away that she possibly might not have heard me, though I was speaking just loudly enough. Plus when I glanced at her a few times after realizing my mistake, I'm pretty sure she was glaring at me. Ai me. Thank god she left shortly after finishing her food, though I wished she would've left sooner. I'm not sorry for getting irritated, but I felt pretty bad that she probably heard what I said.

My floor is currently strewn with books on feminism. I decided to focus on aspects of feminism beyond the white middle-class bra-burning Amazons. I also have to finish my notans for art class.

I have to wonder if I'll ever catch up on sleep. Signs seem to be saying no.


Writing a Paper is HARD wtf


I'm trying to do research on American feminism and various feminist theories, but I can't even get through the first paragraph of the Wikipedia article.

Here's the basics:
-Feminists in general are not just white, hairy, bra-burning Amazons who eat men for breakfast.
-Feminism = supporting equality. As in, everyone included. Feminists who focus only on raising women above men are on their own path that basically means to put men in women's traditional role, rather than raise women to men's status. (Does that make sense?)
-It's not only white middle-class women who are feminists. It's just that women of other races and social classes have their own type of feminism that includes racial and social equality more prominantly.
-Roughly three waves of feminism: The suffragettes; the radicalists(?); the moderns ('90s to now) Each wave came out of different events going on (Civil War [racial equality], Vietnam War [civil rights movement, etc.], something else)
-Women spend so much time in the ranks of other movements toward equality that they started to wonder when their turn would come.
-Radical feminists have been mocked repeatedly for their neverending attempts to gain equality, attempts which have often been viewed as crazy (inability of men to understand?) or too out there. These are the ones who give feminism a bad name and make even modern women protest loudly at the accusation of being a feminist. (Note to self: Find out what those crazy bitches did)

I need like eight to ten pages of this stuff, except padded with facts and you know, all that legit stuff. Like citations. My roommate actually does have a fuckton of these books though. Awesome. I feel like I have a little more guidance now. I guess the thing about a research paper is figuring out what one needs to find out. I need to find accounts of feminists who did crazy shit that was actually fucking righteous and see if I can figure out why everyone thinks it was just crazy shit.

Oh my god I'm going to die. D:


Ten Kinds of Apeshit

I don't know about anybody else, but I hate getting friend requests on Facebook from people I barely know. Or people I'm not even friends with. Or people I met once, while drunk. It's not like I use it to actually keep in touch with them. They just sit there on my friends' list, updating their statuses with things I don't care about, or uploading more photos I'm never going to look at. Should I be flattered that I made enough of an impression that they are willing to call me their friend? Even if it's only online? Shit no. One time this girl I glimpsed occasionally back in the days of high school tried to friend me, and I was like, WTF, bitch, please. I didn't even know she knew my name. I know I didn't know her name until I saw her photo. That's a lot of know's. Shit. It's not Myspace, people. I have one of those too, but I'm not motivated enough to comb through the masses of tiny pictures to find strangers to friend. I don't care that I look like a loser with only 11 friends, 3 of whom are bands. At least I know all the ones personally who aren't bands.

The Facebook thing bugs me in particular because I use fb like an extended version of email. Seriously, the only people who email me anymore are my mom and my school. Fb's got funny pictures to look at, and it's relatively easy to find people (it's not stalking if it's easy). Plus, goshdarnit, those little status updates are just so informative! Anyway, I don't use fb to make friends, just keep in touch with them. I mean the friends I like. Not the friends who think we're friends because we know the same people or spoke for a few minutes at some party.

I went grocery shopping last night for the first time in months. It was quite an experience. Of course, I also discovered that the place on the corner has some of the same stuff for a lot cheaper. But I only found that out today. At any rate, there's something really gratifying about knowing that I already have food I can eat, and I don't have to go a whole two blocks to buy a burrito or something. Saves money, I've heard. Mostly I got breakfast stuff, even though I get breakfast at work like four or five days a week. Well... whatever.

Oh, and, holy balls, they sell like ten kinds of cookies at the corner store! I'm'a go apeshit all over that shit.


Summary of Thoughts in the Last Three Minutes

This crazy woman came in today. I can never understand what she says, and I don't think she can either. She was looking over the counter trying to ask me and my coworker what we were making and completely misunderstanding.

Spring break is this week. What the fuck am I supposed to do with two days of neither work nor school? I guess I could do homework. Or dick around on the Internet. Or sleep. Or eat. Totally procrastinate, like everyone else. Who wants to do research for a paper on a day off? Luckily one of my roommates has a bunch of books relating to the subject I'm doing, so I probably won't have to go to the library. Hopefully.

We were coming home on the bus tonight and these guys all got on together. Holy god, they must have bathed repeatedly in some ritual convoluted cleansing to reek that much of cologne. Perfume is one thing, in moderate doses, but cologne is very easily taken advantage of. I don't know why, either. I always prefer my men to smell like men, not poncey assholes. I admit, there are men who can pull off a bit of manufactured scent, but the rest who attempt it fail.

So why can't Chuck Palahniuk write anything as good as Fight Club? I've read all his other fiction (except Survivor, for some reason) and it always falls short, like he's using the exact same formula, but really reaching when it comes to subject matter. Haunted came close, but none really made my little wheels turn. Many would disagree with me on this issue, but c'moooon. Fight Club just has that something that hits you and makes you see things and feel things and taste the blood from the hole in your cheek.


Flower Children

There are times when I genuinely love this city and it almost seems to love me back. You know, like it was sentient or something.

This morning I was walking through the park and this girl came up to me and presented me with a bouquet of flowers the color of a sunset. My eyes were burning from exhaustion and pollen, my body was weighted down by ten kinds of fatigue, but I hope somehow I conveyed to her my appreciation. I felt somewhat renewed. By the time I got to work I felt like I just come out of a dream and wanted to crawl back into bed.

For people with more cynicism this all sounds like a bunch of hippie-ass shit, but sometimes I feel too optimistic to be cynical. So nyah.

The real point of this post is this: Thank you, mysterious pretty girl; I hope life doesn't beat you down.


Better Than Livejournal

When I was younger, I though LJ was the shit. I had friends online who were my actual friends in real life who would read my whiny bullshit and comment occasionally. People I didn't see everyday kept in touch like that. It was pretty cool for a while, but eventually I just deleted it, because I realized I wasn't going anywhere with it and only using it as an excuse to revel in my self-pity.

Now I've got a blog. That's got to be better.

Well, I work at this cafe. It's pretty awesome, except when you get dumb people who ask which is small, medium, and large when the cup sizes are right in front of them. Still, I can live with those type of folk as long as the cool type come in too. I never thought I'd enjoy making food for people, even if sometimes I fuck up and they write a nasty review on yelp.com. Yeah, free speech and all that, but these people just don't know the whole story! They come in once, get crappy service and swear never to come back, and tell other people never to come in at all. There aren't a lot of those, but damn, they're harsh. Seriously. Someone once wrote a really long-ass review bitching about how slow and stupid I was, how much the food sucked, etc, etc. My bad, people. People like that make me especially grateful for the nice ones who come in. There's this one guy (actually there's several) who's always really cheerful and tips us a lot. He's like an uncle, a really benevolent one.

School sucks a lot for me right now. I'd rather be making money. But I know people who would kick ten kinds of shit out of me if I up and quit. Plus there's that vague hope that it will benefit me somehow in like twenty years. Because I can actually wait that long. But, jesus christ, teachers are some of the greatest windbags ever born! One of my teachers in particular never stops talking from the time he comes in (late) until the time he is forced to let us go. Even when we're actually supposed to have a class discussion, you know, in which the class dicusses the subject matter, he'll still take the whole thing and run away with it! Holy moly, I thought I was supposed to be expanding my brain and developing my thought processes and shit. What else am I paying for? Oh yeah, a fuckton of books that seem to cost more than tuition itself.

Naturally this sort of thing gives me ample cause to ponder my future. Where am I going? How will my past be instrumental to me later? Am I going to have a houseful of kids? Am I going to become a cultural icon? Which will it be, photography, writing, painting, drawing, or design? Or will it be something else entirely? Will I work in a cafe-type setting for the rest of my life and do freelance work on the side? Is this all there is, and, if so, do I really appreciate it? Probably not, but I guess complete appreciation of one's circumstances comes later, if it ever comes at all.

Things to buy:

Not necessarily in that order.