Damn you, cell phone!

I'm about to buy a computer and that is scary to me. Before I bought my digital piano, and that was only about a month ago, I had never spent more than $300 on anything, and the 300 smackolas were always for rent. I worked a lot of hours at an alright job all summer, but I'm still not rollin' in the dough. Oh well. I need to upgrade from my almost decade old Compaq Presario. That thing is a hunk of shit, yet I love it dearly, Microsoft Works and all.

I took a test this morning in matrices, and I think I did unbelievably well. If I get a bad score I will hit the teacher in the face.

I walked as fast as I could after my test for twenty minutes across UK's campus to make it to an appointment I had to tutor a girl in calculus on time. I waited for twenty minutes and she didn't show up, so I had to turn around and walk twenty minutes home, but I didn't mind. Know why? It is pretty outside. The end.

Whelp, that girl I was supposed to tutor just called, and so I'm going to meet her now. Damn the magic of cell phones.

What is product?

I'm tired of school. Thank god Fall Break is this Friday, meaning I have three fewer classes and a ton of shit due two days earlier instead.

Today I sounded like Marge's sisters on The Simpsons because of my cough. I got so many digits it was ridiculous. OR, maybe people were scared of me.

Onto a new random topic. I have a problem with the way people use the word "product," like for their hair. For example, someone other than me might say, "I have the perfect puff because of all the PRODUCT I put in my afro." Is maple syrup not a product? Are tampons not products? I'm not saying that I think "product" means either of those things, but I'm honestly not quite sure what "product" is. Besides, if someone were walking around with tampons stuck to their hair by gobs of maple syrup, I could easily identify what I was looking at, and the answer would not be "someone I want to know."

I've had long hair my whole life and one professional haircut to date, yet the only hair-constructed edifice I have conquered is the pony tail, and the only product it uses is a small circular rubberband. The structures I have seen other people build on their heads seem to be held together by something more along the lines of cement, which brings me back to my question: What IS product?

Hello, Old Chum.

Handmade paper can be some of the most beautiful artwork in the world. Paper-making is a craft that extends back millennia to the time of the ancient Egyptians. What my sister and I made yesterday does not belong to the ranks of such a craft. I would not dare call it paper, even if it is flat and capable of being written upon. It's more like... like... something a steam roller ran over that used to be alive and fuzzy.

Last night I sat around feeling like crap and playing board games with old people on a Saturday night. Had I gone back to Lexington, as I had considered doing, I could have attended a party my roommate threw at our house and invited my usual weekend crew over as well. It sucks that I had to miss it, but at the same time it's probably a good thing because I think my flu, or whatever the hell this is, is relapsing. It feels like my lungs are dying.

Today I came home to find our long-forgotten ping pong table set up in the first living room. (We have two living rooms.) It made me happy because I hadn't seen the old pal in a while. It is the best fucking ping pong table in the world because it's so old that keeping it upright is more of a fun game than actually hitting the ball into it. I say "into it" because there are black holes on the surface of the table that suck all momentum out of the ball if it is so unfortunate as to land in one of them. We'll be having a jolly time paddling the ball back and forth, and then suddenly it will be sitting on the table as if we just walked into the room. Our paddles are poised and ready, and the ball just looks up at us from the center of the table, sitting in its own shadow, without even blinking. It makes me feel like somehow there was a glitch in time, and the seven or eight seconds it would normally take the ball to roll to a stop forgot to happen when I blinked my eyes.

Aside from the vortexes, sometimes a leg will randomly fall off, but the table will remain standing. I don't even think it needs any of its eight misshapen legs to stand. It seems to levitate on its own will if it feels like it. If it doesn't feel like it, though, there is nothing a human can do to get it off the ground. Its stubbornness has led to many a ping pong game on the floor, which kind of makes me wonder what the point of it is. It almost makes more sense to just play "wild card" ping pong with the ceiling fan. (Actually I suggest that game all the time anyway, but no one else seems to like it.)

You'd think our ping pong table's state of disrepair would be our fault, judging by the way we treat the rest of our crap. Last Winter we decided to make our year-old foosball table an outdoor sport, and now you have to get a tetanus shot every time you play it. However, the reason our ping pong table is so unstable is that it belonged to my roommate's dad when he was in college back in the seventies. My friends and I decided that, judging by its condition, my roommate must have been conceived on the table. We haven't run this hypothesis by her, but I doubt she'd be too interested in discussing it.

Woo Ha Woo Ha I Have Got You All in Check.

My sister and I made paper today, if by paper I mean a wad of dryer lent, toilet paper, string, blue jeans, green construction paper, and polka dot confetti, all held together by Stay Flo fabric starch (N.B.--not called Stay Together). It is still soaking in a bucket of water, as we have not yet rolled it out onto a screen to dry, but I don't think that will make it look any less like fluffy vomit. By fluffy vomit I do not mean a tasty snack; just ask my sister's cat.

If you interested in seeing the end results, don't be waiting for it to show up in the Museum of Modern Art. Maybe you can check the trash later today.

In other Audrey news, I bought a new bling bling for twenty-five cents at Meijer's. Now all the rappers wanna get this, yo. I can't blame them, even though I forgot to bring a tooth brush and deodorant to Louisville. Yo.

Butterfly in the sky...

If you are bored tonight and you want to watch a movie, rent "Wet Hot American Summer." Unfortunately, there are no naked people in it as the title would imply, but there are innumerable references to eighties pop culture, such as Trapper Keepers and guys in really tiny shorts, because it is set in the eighties at a Summer camp.

I have forced everyone I know to watch that movie, and it has been met with roughly a 50% approval rating. Not coincidentally, about 50% of my friends are smart, and the other half... well. You can guess which category liked the movie, but I'll go ahead and give you a clue that it's not the smart half.

If you consider yourself intelligent, don't be discouraged to give "Wet Hot American Summer" a try, because your like or dislike of it will have little to do with your IQ. No, instead it will have everything to do with how in tune you were with the rest of the world during that decade, and geeks typically weren't "in with it." If you remember Roller Racers and Coca Cola shirts, you will like it. If you don't remember Max Headroom, you will not like it. That was for you smart people who turn your noses up at movies that aren't intellectually stimulating. Now to return to you stupids. If you belong to the not smart half of the people I know, give me a hundred dollars. Also, watch the movie. There's not much you don't like, oh blessed ones.

But you don't have to take my word for it!

Aside from plugs for movies that noone's ever heard of, I don't have a lot going on. I went to school today. It was boring. I got back a really good Spanish test and a not really good calculus test. I am not sick anymore.

Now it is the weekend, and I think I might go to Louisville to see my sister. If anyone wants to come with me, then drive your own damn self, and my sister probably does not have a place for you to sleep.

...And DOWN From the Heavens Shone These Words

Ar! I stayed up all night doing a shitload of homework for my matrices class, and this morning the teacher decided not to take it up. Why does he torture us like that?

Every day I sneeze at least five times in that class, and every day the same girl turns around to say, "Bless you," for the first sneeze and, "Bless you again," for the subsequent four. It always makes her SNICKER. I appreciate hearing that I am blessed, but sometimes I wish she would not talk.

My teacher for that class comes from a family of Methodist preachers. He calls it a "miracle" when the same math problems that have worked since the dawn of time work out again on the blackboard of Room 349. He also asks for an "amen" after he proves a theorem. The class is at 8:00 in the morning, so we don't ever give him an "amen," but he keeps talking anyway. I guess he's fired up on the power of Math.

Seeing as how I have to hear I'm blessed at least five times and I witness around three "miracles" on the board and the teacher tries (unsuccessfully) to beat one "amen" out of me every day, that class is all kinds of holy. So how can the teacher, a man of God, see it fit to lie to us in a classroom of God by telling us he will take up our homework and then making us keep it?

I remain unconvinced that matrices are a holy subject matter.

Umbros and Flu

Remember when everybody used to wear Umbros--those way too bright, way too holographic shorts? Yeah, me too. I'm glad I wasn't cool enough to have any idea what popular clothes were.

I'm a sick sick girl. The doctor said I have some flu, or something. I wish quarantining were still a popular practice so that I could be locked up in my apartment with my Nintendo and a gigantic jar of juice.

Gravy-fit

I love dramatic commercials. The people who make them figure out ways to solve problems most people with IQs over 70 didn't even know they had.

For example, there's this commercial for toasted pizza rolls that asks, "Are you tired of trying to shove a pizza into your toaster?" Boy, am I ever. I can totally relate to the loving, but over-worked soccer mom who tries desperately to squeeze a whole pepperoni pizza into those two thin slots on top of her toaster. She ends up with a big mess and no toasted pizza. The first time I saw that commercial I rushed out to the store and bought me some pizza rolls for my toaster oven. Upon toasting them I realized they were nasty and I, in fact, had never wanted to toast my pizza in the first place.

The other commercial I love is an infomercial that brilliantly demonstrates the problem in black and white and the solution in color. Now that's cinematography. It shows a woman having a dreadful time ironing her husband's clothes all at once. She has them wadded up in a pile and she stabs at them wildly like a rabid jungle beast, tossing them back into the air between each jab. Judging by her hair, it appears as though this is her second attempt at ironing the clothes, her first attempt being made in a bathtub full of water. I think the commercial is for a better ironing board and a better iron. It probably doesn't cure rabies.

If people actually make money off these crazy ideas, then I think I'm in the wrong field. Why am I solving math problems when I could be selling shit like Gravy-fit, the gravy-based drink for the athlete in you?

Soy de Dorkland.

Holy moly oly. I woke up very sick today, and I just took a bunch of tests for school, and now I feel like crap. I've got snot coming out from under my fingernails. (That was an exaggeration.)

Today I got an invitation from the head of UK's honors program to read a paper I wrote on Monty Python and the Holy Grail and Hildegard of Bingen a long time ago at some smart people conference in a far away land where I would get a free hotel room. That was a confusing sentence. I don't know if I want to do it or not. Part of me is like, "Ooh cool, somebody liked my paper who I didn't even know had a copy of it," and another part of me is like, "I'm not a dork." Reading papers at conferences is not something cool people do, and obviously I've built a reputation for being one happening chick, so I can't decide if I want to risk it all for... Why do people read papers at conferences?

Just to update you on Thumb Boy, I took a test beside him in calculus today and dripped snot on the part of his spherical body that wears a shoe when he wasn't looking. (At least I don't think he was looking. I'm assuming his peripheral vision can't be too good.) Sweet revenge!

One Hour Photo

Wow, I just read over yesterday's entry, and its effusiveness kind of makes me want to throw up. Sorry.

No, I didn't end up going to that party again last night, in spite of the five phone calls I got from five different people at one, two, three, four, and yes five in the morning. I was too tired. I spent the day hiking in the foothills with my mom and sister, and the two and a half hours of sleep I had received that morning weren't enough to keep me going for another night. Besides, I have a lot of studying to do. I am done with excuses.

On another random note, I saw a perfume commercial with Elton John's song Blue Eyes in it, and I decided to learn that song, and my fingers didst rejoice.

On another nother random note, I have a gripe: Why does everyone who works behind a counter that says in big bold letters, "ONE HOUR PHOTO" tell you, "I'll have it ready in two hours?" I always look at the sign and back at their face, then back to the sign, then back at their face and so on, until they get the point and deliver their lame excuse for why they're running behind. Actually I don't have enough guts or the desire to be that rude, but I do walk away harboring a healthy deep resentment.

Let's see here, I have another hour and forty-five minutes until I can pick up my developed film, so I guess I'll just study. How boring.

Sniiiiiiiiifff... Aaahhhhhhhhhh.

I'll try to keep this short because nobody likes to read a book, except for, except for maybe intelligent people.

Last night I went to the same party I went to last weekend. I say it is the same because there were the exact same people, and we stayed up until the exact same ridiculous hour in the morning. It was super fun. Two of my friends who play guitar unbelievably well did a couple of cover songs and made shit up that is better than a lot of the shit on underground radio, I promise, and every now and then I snuck in with some improviazation on a rinky dink keyboard. They oohed and ahhed over my mad keyboard skill, but I think that is only because none of them know how to play piano, and the crap I was doing does not take any training at all, but a decent ear. We played Radiohead, we played Nirvana, we played Coldplay, and yes I wowed them with a snippet from "Wind Beneath My Wings." Now I have an enormous ego because four people whose musical abilities I have a lot of respect for actually sat there and listened while I also played some music that I did not make up, and they were the most attentive audience I have ever had. Actually, they're the first audience I've ever had aside from my mom and a few friends, who all listened to me one at a time out of pity, I guess. After hours of fun with music, we watched "Requiem for a Dream," which I had never seen before, and then passed out all over the place super depressed. I will be attending this same party again tonight. I will not be starting a drug habit.

Now I am about to go hiking with my mom and my oldest sister, and I can't wait because it is crazy mad mania great weather out there. There are no clouds, and it's a little bit cold, and it's finally beginning to smell like Fall, my favorite season second only to Winter.

Thumb Boy

I have spent the past three days working on my topology homework non-stop, except for when I went to class or tutored. Today, I arrived at topology with a huge stack of proofs gleaming proudly in my weary hand, and my professor decided not to take them. My class and I are now turning them in on Monday. That means that I have to worry about redoing my homework to make it better all weekend while I study for three upcoming tests in other classes that are on Monday and Tuesday.

All of that does not matter because work is what you do when you go to school, but it still put me in a wretched enough mood to notice that I sit beside the most disgusting human being on the face of the planet in calculus IV, the class right after topology. He is bright pink, and he smells like pee. He's super fat and super slimy, and he talks non-stop during class very loudly and shouts the wrong answers to the teacher's questions, then he spends the next five minutes explaining only slightly less audibly why he got the answer wrong when we've already moved past that question and NOBODY CARES. (Hey, that could be the theme of today's entry.)

Anyway, he is bald and has no neck, so his head looks like a thumb, and he's so fat that you can't tell when he is moving, aside from the usual waves that oscillate through his outermost layers. Today I saw a pencil fall off his desk, and the next thing I knew, it was magically creeping up the outside of his body until it was in what I presume to be his hand again. Here's what I think happened: I think there is a normal man-size skeleton in that bag of fat, and IT leaned over to retrieve the fallen pencil, but it went unnoticed thanks to all that epidermis. Since this man-size skeleton roams around freely inside Thumb Boy, all a person on the outside of Thumb Boy can see is an occasional lump popping up on various places of his body.

Just imagine squeezing a monkey into a deflated balloon, and then inserting that balloon into another, much bigger balloon, and then filling the space between the two carcasses with strawberry jam. Even though you can't see its shape anymore, there's a monkey in there, and it still performs most of the normal monkey functions like picking up pencils and making fun of the teacher; it just has to do so through a load of blubber. That is what I sit by in class.

I'm done now. It's the weekend, so I'm going to pretend to not care that I have a ton of shit to do for school.

Stirfry extravaGANza!

I just wrote the longest whiniest entry ever, so I scrapped it all. Who wants to read that shit? I'll sum it up just the same: I have a ton of homework tonight, and being the Thursday night that it is, several people (at least) and a dog will be drinking themselves into obliteration at my apartment. Well, the dog won't be drinking, but it will be in my self-proclaimed pet free household. I guess that means I'll be in the library.

Aside from the usual whiny business, I would like to let it be known to the world that I have been cookin' like I'm lookin' lately. (That means reeeal good... I try so hard.) But seriously folks, I've been cooking a whole lot lately because I think my tastebuds are finally falling victim to the same fate I used to accuse my parents' tastebuds of, and that is dying. That didn't make a lot of sense, but all I mean is that my tastebuds must be shriveling up and falling off because suddenly I will touch Mexican and Chinese food, whereas I spent my whole life up until last year or so living off apples and crackers and other various kindergarten delicacies.

That terrible introduction being made, I would now like to state that I have conjured up the most disgusting mix of Chinese and American cuisine that I can think of, and that is bacon stirfry. No, I have not made it. It sounds repulsive. (And some people say bacon makes everything better. Ha!) But, I was looking through my fridge, and it appeared to be about the only creation I could make with my limited supplies. My question is, what makes the thought of bacon stirfry so appalling? Is it the soy sauce bacon flavor or the floppy strips mixed up in your rice and vegetables texture?

Who cares? The point is, I make a mean stirfry, and I challenge anyone to a Chinese cooking contest. As long as it can be Americanized, I guarantee I will win because I have a secret ingredient. Scratch that, I have two--count that on both hands (using your hands as digits, of course)--two secret stirfry ingredients.

I'll stop now, but only because I feel a cooking frenzy is about to go down at my apartment.

Fart in a Bag

I had the best dream last night. I dreamt that I farted into a ziploc bag and made a guy who I haven't seen since high school smell it. Seth Bowles, if you're out there, I'm sorry I made you smell my fart in a bag.

Speaking of dreams, for the past I don't know how many months the majority of mut it, may Isabel turn into Wasabel very quickly.s another put it, may Isabel turn into Wasabel very quickly.

UPDATE: What the FUCK happened there? That whole second paragraph only barely resembles what it did earlier today. I wonder if the author of those words got mine instead. Have I mentioned that I hate computers yet?

Let me start over with this whole entry, so's that it's obvious what's mine and what The Devil inserted in here under my name.

Attempt#2
I had the best dream last night. I dreamt that I farted into a ziploc bag and made a guy who I haven't seen since high school smell it. Seth Bowles, if you're out there, I'm sorry I made you smell my fart in a bag.

Speaking of dreams, for the past I don't know how many months, all my dreams have taken place at the surface of infinitely deep ocean water, regardless of the activity. In one dream I was grocery shopping, but all my groceries kept floating out of my submerged shopping cart. In another dream I was dragging a really heavy floating school bus while I doggy paddled, which was very awkward and difficult. In yet another one, I was showing a girl I haven't seen since high school how to use mousse, like for your hair, but the waves kept crashing over my head and ruining it.

The other weird thing that happens in a lot of my dreams that has been happening since I was a little kid, is that I can't stand up. The people I'm with will be walking somewhere, but I can't keep up with them because it feels like a tight spring is holding my ass to my ankles, so I compensate by waddling along in the squatting position, trying with all my strength to stand up the whole time. I always wake up very frustrated from these dreams.

So what does all this mean? Am I psychic? Am I going to die? Do I have issues with my ghetto booty? We may never know.

Kill 'em All

I have found my life's calling. I'm going to be an elevator maker, but not of just any kind of elevator. That would be too obvious. I'm going to make the kind that doesn't close on people and slowly squeeze their breath out or start traveling upward with a passenger's foot still caught outside on the floor below before realizing "Hey, something's not right here."

No, I didn't get stuck in an elevator today, but for the five hundredth time I had to help pry the doors open for some ditzy sorority girl who didn't know that you have to dart in and out of UK's Classroom Building elevators as fast as you can or else they will eat you. Come to think of it, I should have let her fall victim to the massive cruncher jaws so that she could have become UK's first elevator casualty (as far as I know). Maybe then the school would think about fixing those damn things. Plus, she was annoying as hell.

I think every school has a few notorious elevators in at least one of its buildings. I remember the one in (I think) the Fine Arts Building at NKU liked to make shake-n-bake out of its occupants. It also made crunchy sounds, which elicited more than a few shrill screams from the make-up doused seventeen-year-old sirens I went to GSP with.

In writing these last two paragraphs, I've realized that my life's calling is misdirected. I don't need to be making elevators that don't possess the usual glitches like smashing people or traveling slower than my grandma's power scooter; I need to be making elevators that extort these problems and reap havoc on all those who dare be so lazy as to not take the stairs. It'll be my sad nerdy way of getting revenge on the people who get on my nerves, whose bothersome habits like nose-whistling or chatting about the weather are amplified in the tiny closed-in cabins of elevators.

I admit that my plan has a few flaws, namely that sometimes people who I like take elevators. I take elevators, and I'm okay in my book. None of that matters, though. I think watching my carnivorous elevator creations make scrambled eggs out of people (or at least make them think that's what's going to happen) all the live long day, is worth the risk of a few of my friends' lives.

That Zany Zach Morris

Strange as it is, Mondays are repeatedly my favorite day of the week. I guess it's my schedule, or something.

My weekend started out incredibly slow and boring, but a party Saturday night changed all that for the better. Now, even though my sleep schedule is all fucked up from not going to bed until 7:00 Sunday morning and sleeping erratically since then, the whole world is rainbows and snowflakes. Saturday night even inspired me enough to do dishes, which is a rare occurrence.

Now onto a less touchy-feely topic (for me). On Saved By the Bell today, Zach used a terrible insult name for Screech. No I don't watch Saved By the Bell. So Zach suggested that he and Screech make a dating video for all the lonely guys in school so that he could earn enough money to buy a car to take Kelly out. Screech screeched, "But why would lonely guys want to date us?" to which Zach, cool as usual, replied, "No, you SIMP, the video will be of girls."

Simp. I'm guessing that's short for simpleton(?), which I'm guessing makes it an awful insult name because it takes a tiny amount of brains to understand. One should never hearken back to a word used in the 19th century when creating insult names. Hearken.

That zany Zach Morris. He makes you think, you know?

About the Author

As soon as I can upgrade this whole journal thingee, I'll make this my "About the Author" page, but until then, I present unto you:

Hi, my name is Audrey, and this is my autobiography:

Once upon a time in the soot-covered, coal-stripped hills of Ashland, Kentucky, a sperm met with an egg. It said, "Hey baby, I like your curve," to which the egg replied, "Me too. Let's make a baby." And the rest, as they say, is history.

Here is some more...

The sperm, which carried an X chromosome, went on to share its DNA with the curvacious egg, and nine months later on January 31, 1982, a beautiful baby girl was born. I mean, she was absolutely adorable, and she was me. I'm kidding--she looked like every other hairless pink rat baby. An hour or so later, the nurses decided to wake up the girl's dad in the waiting room to tell him he had another daughter. "Add her to the bunch," he said, tossing her into the backseat of his Rambler. You see, Audrey was supposed to come out an Isaac because she was preceded by two sisters, but no such luck. Thus, she would have to become the tomboy of the family, building big rigs out of Legos and giving her sisters' Barbie dolls swirlies, all while singing, "G.I. Joooooe. Real American (pause) HE-RO!"

Soon after she was born, her family moved to a stamp-out house in a subdivision on the outskirts of a tiny butt-fuck town in central KY, which is actually a step up from eastern KY, where the girl started out. She lived in that house with its big backyard and ugly red and peach brick for the next eighteen years. Not much happened during those eighteen years. She made good grades and was in Girl Scouts and went to church until she was too big for her mom to drag into the car on Sunday mornings. She got her first real boyfriend when she was fifteen. She got her license when she was sixteen. She got her first job when she was seventeen. She got the hell out of that hell-hole when she was eighteen. Sometimes she ate pizza, but only after picking off everything but the cheese.

She didn't escape very far from Richmond, that place of nothingness where she grew up (Well, not nothingness; it had a Wal-Marts). Nope, she only made it about thirty minutes away to Lexington to attend the University of Kentucky, which was the only school in the state with an architecture program and which also gave her money to make use of its facilities. Still, it was that much farther away from eastern KY, so she was still movin' on up in the world.

Her freshman year was grand, she thinks. She spent the bulk of it getting the miserable artist beaten into her and taking brief naps under her desk in architecture studio on four and five all-nighter stints. She was always delirious from exhaustion. Aside from that, school was school, and the dorm was the dorm.

She was assigned a random roommate her freshman year. That worked out pretty well for her because she still lives with that same roommate four years and five apartments later. Together, they're CRAZY.

A year and a half into architecture, she decided that the art scene just wasn't her bag, so she ventured over to the other side of the major spectrum into civil engineering, the dryest, most brain-deadening field in the world. She thought that was her bag until one day on a whim (another year and a half later) she changed her major again. To math. What?

Now she is a senior, and she takes a lot of math classes, and when she grows up she wants to be a teacher. That means she is going to jump straight back into the school machine after she graduates this Spring. At least that delays her having to become a real grown-up for another two years or so. And the rest, as they say, is future.

Words That I Hate

Mmmmm, weekend.

I feel the need to publish my list of terrible terrible words that should never be used. Keep in mind that I don't hate any of them because of their meaning; I just hate them because of either the way they sound or the people who use them. That being said, I present to you...

Words That I Hate:

Relationship
Satchel
Teenager
Stew
Truly
Potroast
Sodapop

I'm sure there are many more words that I have forgotten to mention, but as soon as I remember them I'll add them to the list.

UPDATE:
Ho ho ho ho ho. I wanted to see if I could pull up this fresh new webpage by searching for extracted phrases from it on Google. My search was fruitless in the sense that I was unable to pull up my "blog," but in other ways the search was oh so bountiful.

I discovered that people who have the words relationship satchel teenager stew on their webpages also use many other terrible words, one of which I am assimilating into my list:

Tenderness

That sounds like a word that only a 90-year-old would use. "Be sure to clean your breeches, Sweetheart, so's you don't get a chaffin' on your tenderness." Gross.

Also, Google was kind enough to ask me in my search "Did you mean 'relationship satchel TEENAGE stew?'" Ah yes, that is what I meant. Silly me. Who's ever heard of relationship satchel teenager stew?

La Spanish Nazi

While this whole "blog" (That's computer language again) will probably turn into a daily record of "I went to school today, then I cut my toenails," I feel the need to talk about someone else today. (Don't worry--I'll get to the toenails later.) That person is none other than my Nazi Spanish teacher. Why? Because she is the person I never want to be when I grow up, and I would like to ask everyone else to try not to model their behavior after hers either.

For my Spanish 101 class (Yes, I am THAT much of a scholar), we have to give presentations and shit. We're supposed to make them as fun as possible so that everyone in the class gets involved. My teacher has a very hard time relaying to us that short bit of information that I just summed up in two sentences. That is because she is the Devil of Ice Land. (I'm not referring to the country Iceland here, because she is actually from Russia. No, I am referring to that place that exists only in our hearts, that freezing cold tundra where frostbite permeates every living thing and icicles are used as weapons. Crude, blunt weapons.)

Every time she tries to tell us to "have a good time" or "play games" while we're up there in front of the class making fools of ourselves in Spanish, she uses finger quotes because these fun-related words are apparently foreign to her native Ice tongue. She says things like, "Oh, I don't know. You could play your 'HANG MAN,' or you could hand out 'CANDY' to those students who answer questions correctly." Then she always has to follow up her instructions with, "Don't interpret my demeanor the wrong way. I just don't 'DO GAMES.' I don't 'LAUGH' at 'JOKES.' I don't 'ENJOY JOY.'"

What's sad is that she's serious, and she says all that stuff (only slightly exaggerated by yours truly) with a harsh accent and the heartless penetrating stare of a frozen frog. On a stick. Only less silly. (I only add the "on a stick" part for the "humor" of it, although having a stick rammed up its ass would probably make a frog look that much angrier before it froze all the way through.)

Back to me. Last night I got two hours of sleep, and not because I procrastinate like a mother fucker and was stuck doing last minute homework. I got no sleep because I'm a freakin' insomniac. Sometimes. I fell asleep at 11:00, woke up at 1:00, and I've been up ever since. There were no ambulances going by, the neighbors weren't having a party, and I wasn't all hyped up on caffeine. I just couldn't sleep, and that's annoying. Boo hoo on my poor life. I know, I've got it so hard.

I'm going to finish my topology and calculus homework now, and then it'll be weekend. Woo hoo!

DooEeeeOooEeeOooooo... Wa wa wa.

I did nothing today that was interesting enough to be posted. I took a test. I took a nap. I tutored. I will elaborate no more. I was going to say "I took a tutor" to keep up the flow, yo, but that sounds gross, and it doesn't really make much sense either.

The only thing I can think of to write about is something that happened yesterday because apparently my life was more interesting back then. I'll call this story "Martian Bubble Colonies."

My roommate has these bubbles, and they don't pop after you blow them; they harden. If you want to get rid of them, you have to smash and roll them up with your fingers like a booger.

Yesterday morning she blew them in our living room, and they formed these eerie Martian bubble colonies all over the hardwood floor. I have grown accustomed to being surrounded by these hard bubbles--they stick to everything--so I resisted the slight urge to be Gargamel and stomp the mini villages into the ground.

Apparently my topology (that's a math class) partner was not so accustomed to being surrounded by hard shiny bubbles. He had never even seen bubbles that didn't pop before, so he had no idea what they were yesterday afternoon when I whisked him through my living room, past the bubbles, and into the kitchen without even pointing them out or explaining.

We started studying, and although he was still trying to be polite and professional, he eventually mustered up the courage to ask me what the hell was wrong with my floor. I looked down and, confused, replied, "It's dirty i don't sweep?"

"No, not this floor," he said apologetically. "The floor in there, in your living room."

Oh, I thought. The floor with sticky plastic bubbles all over it. That was embarrassing. I clean. Without wasting any time I replied, "Floor Pox."

"What?" he squeaked, looking up as though I had just hit him in the face with an iron skillet.

I repeated myself, "Floor Pox," then I cleared things up for him, "It's an old house."

"Oh," he muttered in an uncertain tone, then he very quickly switched the subject over to something like matrices. Other people probably would have prodded me for more information on this disease of the floor, but this guy is one of those nerds who's scared of girls, so he probably had already resolved in his mind to Google for Floor Pox when he got home.

I felt bad for tricking a nerd, so I told him I was kidding and brought out the test tube of liquid bubble goo so that he could blow some himself and possibly analyze their molecular properties. I now realize that this was a faulty move to make at this point in time and space.

Now I think it would have been wiser, or at least funnier, to have blown a few onto the kitchen table where we were studying when he left to go to the bathroom so that I could have yelled, "It's spreading!" when he came back. Then again, he probably would have run out of the house screaming.

Numero Uno!

Ah, the first "post." That's computer language. About what shall I speak? Perhaps I tell my mood and the music I'm currently listening to. I don't see that happening. Perhaps instead I elaborate on this idea of making a shrine to myself. That sounds much better.

This site is intended to be a shrine to me and no one else unless, of course, I mention someone else, which is quite likely because I plan to ramble on and on and on and on about meaningless bullshit here. New sentence. Consider this blog the "Seinfeld of the Web." I don't actually mean that; I just want all the rave reviews I'll be receiving to share a common tagline for Deeyanher Land.

Could I not just write all this crap down at home on my wood-paneled 1995 Compaq Presario that is no longer even capable of "surfing" the internet? The answer is no. There are too many people who need to hear my stories about farting shoes or burritos, and frankly, people just can't get enough of me.

Here's how you prove me wrong: DON'T visit this site ever again, thus showing that you are not in fact interested in my ramblings at all, then put an envelope in the mail, addressed to me, with a check for ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS inside. Once I receive ten of such envelopes, I will terminate this site. Thank-you.