The inner computorial workings of Brad's silicon-inspired beast
Every five minutes-- I swear, Brad's computer freezes. Mostly with Internet Explorer. I'm about ready to apply blunt objects to its colourfully-wired insides. Apply blunt objects violently.
On another note of pain, as well, my jaw seems to continually be dislocating and then popping back into place two seconds later. This is mostly horridly excrutiating, and also labels me as your standard sideshow freak, I realize, but in a toss between the Lizard Queen and Dislocatable Jaw Girl, I think I'd rather take the grotesque jaw-thing. Unless the Lizard Queen gig came with a sceptre and a queen hat. Then, perhaps, I'd reconsider.
Because according to the Wizard guy who's pretending not to be the Wizard in the Wizard Of Oz (Wizard), "Thats a horse of a cruelly dyed different colour, growing cancer-filled tumours all over his frequently chemically-dyed body."
Or, no.
So, we're repainting the house. And its looking fairly prettier. By prettier, of course, you should all know that I mean, it looks a lot less ugly then before, and I'm feeling less (by bare inches) nearly uncontrollable urges to burn it to the ground and dance triumphantly in its brown, plastic-y ashes.
We've gone with this minty (are we worsening the whole colour combo thing? I'd like to think no, and yet, then there's that mental hospital shade of peppermint green) green colour for the entryway and living room; with lemonade (more like off-white creatively named) for the kitchen and hallway. My vote is for a vibrant blue shade in Brad's computer room, followed by a ceremony consisting of a match, a flame and a giant hook rug from 1981.
And speaking of painting, I tried to find some paint swatches to show you guys the colours I was speaking of, and found this instead. Did anyone else know that Florence Henderson was giving out painting tips? And whats she really doing there? Shouldn't she be at least holding a brush or something? The woman is standing in pearls and a suit for godsakes -- she could have at least thrown on some of the traditional painting garb: a ratty New Kids On the Block concert t-shirt and a pair of overalls she'll pretend she never wore continuously in Grade Nine. C'mon. I don't see "painter", or even "Interior Designer". I see "Overlord to the steady-handed underlings". And, also, I'm not "down" with the whole painting lingo, but what in the hell is a "dinky colour-chip card"? Is it slang for smaller paint swatches or what? Because I'm lost.
Oh, and on a strictly "by the way" basis, I have my second debating competition tomorrow. I feel a little more prepared now. Gen pretty much warned me, however, about the unwiseness of picking out the "pink sweater of power" for tomorrow's precedings. The last time I wore it I came thisclose to attacking my former paper boy with missiles filled with feminism angst and religious righteousness bordering on agnostic-ism.
Tuesday, December 11, 200111:26 p.m.
listening to; Molly Yes / Sugar
reading; The Lunatic Cafe / Laurell K. Hamilton
..::: - & - :::..
Random Stuff:
- I assume, had Jesus lived today, he also would've had to contend with serious questions pertaining to his birth. For instance, how entirely difficult would it be to be the Son of God in a public school system? Oh, the taunting...
- This and this. Seriously. Robots. Aliens. Is there anything better? No.
- And on a final note, I'm now getting spam from Govenor of California candidates. As long as he doesn't ask me to increase my penis size, I'm sure we'll have a somewhat tolerable spamming relationship. One, of course, consisting of me noticing his International Plea for Election, and me trashing his email in the ubiquitous Hotmail spam trashcan: All Spam, all the time.
Look down below, to see which specific Govenor I'm talking about. The same one who tried to coerce me with: "When recession and crime hit the 1990s, I took tough action to turn California around." Yes. By tough action I'm assuming, WROTE AND SENT MASS EMAILS TO GET INTO OFFICE. And, "I authored the “3 Strikes” bill that cut crime in California by twice the national average." Because those bloody baseball bastards have gone too far.
Tuesday, December 11, 200107:44 p.m.
listening to; Molly Yes / Sugar
reading; The Lunatic Cafe / Laurell K. Hamilton
..::: - & - :::..
So, guess who hit pedestrians and damaged the city streets?
And who also, at this very moment, hour, whichever-- is a member of the Driving Community? And a very exclusive community at that, too. A community consisting of equally brand spankin' new and stunn-able half-asleep drivers who found fortune smiling on them in the form of an easily swayable MTO instructor. Or, in short, I'M A FUCKING FULL-FLEDGED DRIVER!!!!!!
And am able to aptly mock those without licences. So, once again with feeling:
I passed, I passed, I passed.
Tuesday, December 11, 200106:22 p.m.
listening to; Molly Yes / Sugar
reading; The Lunatic Cafe / Laurell K. Hamilton
..::: - & - :::..
finished.
Now, let us never talk of Orwell's Animal Farm ever again.
I'm getting into my pajamas, and am going to lose myself in a cheesy movie.
That contains no pigs WHATSOEVER.
Or animals of any kind.
For tonight, and tonight only, I'm a human supremeist. Indeed.
Tuesday, December 11, 200112:27 a.m.
listening to; Molly Yes / Sugar
reading; The Lunatic Cafe / Laurell K. Hamilton
..::: - & - :::..
Still working on research paper..
I'm currently just under 2500 words on the paper, with about 1 1/2 more paragraphs to write. I took a break an hour ago to go driving -- badly --, and came back here and struggled horribly with the English language and my ... suckiness of it. If that made sense. Which it probably doesn't. Because I've lost about a gajillion brain cells and can only think of a rotund fascist pig by the name of Napoleon. Actual pig. Not historical person. Its all blurry. And incoherent. And my paper's going to suck. And I'm going to fail. And I'm being rather negative. Frankly, I can't wait to get this entire thing finished so I can revel in relaxation and do any and all things possible to take my mind off of tomorrow.
Monday, December 10, 200109:22 p.m.
listening to; Molly Yes / Sugar
reading; The Lunatic Cafe / Laurell K. Hamilton
Does anyone remember the BBC version?? I hated Edmund. Heh.
Monday, December 10, 200104:55 p.m.
listening to; Molly Yes / Sugar
reading; The Lunatic Cafe / Laurell K. Hamilton
..::: - & - :::..
Somebody shoot me. Right now.
I'm on paragraph three. Paragraph two was roughly 866 words, and I still have to incorporate the secondary source criticisms. And given the fact I've somewhat lost sight of my thesis, three words come to mind: I'm fucking screwed.
Especially since my driving instructor just phoned to kindly and conveniently inform me that I'm to do my G2 driving test (to get my full license) tomorrow at 8:55 a.m. That would mean, normally, that I'd have to get a ton of sleep, but given the fact I have gargantuan amounts of homework, I'll most likely be a member of the driving-impaired sleep-deprived tomorrow. I'm not necessarily worried about the whole "passing/failing" thing. I'm mostly worried that I'll make a complete ass out of myself and be put in some secret MTO Driving Hall of Shame. There will be a picture of myself ramming the car into a streetlight and beside it a plaque commissioning me as Member #99929. This just simply wasn't the kind of horrid thing I needed on a day when I planned to simply finish a research paper whilst still in my purple penguin pajamas drinking mounds of hot cocoa and mochas, then relax on the couch, watching Christmas movies. Instead, I'm going to be rushing to finish the paper, changing out of my jammies (oh, woe.) and climbing sorrowfully into the car for a couple of hours of driving, my mom beside me freaking out every time the car skids.
"SARAH! I SWEAR TO GOD IF I DIE IN THIS CAR I'M COMING BACK TO HAUNT YOU!!", to which I reply, "If I crash the car, Mom, we'll probably both be dead. So why should the torment cease in the afterlife?" This follows with her screaming for me to pull over the car and let her drive. As she drives I eventually realize that =wow= she doesn't drive any better then I. So sucky driving is in the genes.
But at any rate, I desperately need to finish the paper before I can get on with any of this other stuff -- there's a long line of worries all vying to cause my fatal massive stroke, so its better to take one at a time, I suppose.
Monday, December 10, 200104:37 p.m.
listening to; Molly Yes / Sugar
reading; The Lunatic Cafe / Laurell K. Hamilton
..::: - & - :::..
Research Paper. Ugh.
I've set aside the entire day to work on a blasted Research Paper for English. My main problem, of course, is focusing. I currently have the attention capacity of a four year old on pixie sticks. I'll keep you guys updated at any rate about how little progress gets done. Blah.
Monday, December 10, 200101:38 p.m.
listening to; Molly Yes / Sugar
reading; The Lunatic Cafe / Laurell K. Hamilton
I managed to get a lot done. All of my friends have presents now -- or at least most of them. The ones I like at least. Heh heh.
Plus, I went entirely mad being selfish and picking out things that I wanted-- which somewhat defeats the purpose of what is supposedly a generous holiday season, but I can live with that. I still have something else to buy for both Mel and Sarah (read: I'm planning on spending gajillions of pennies on all of them. I say pennies, because, as you all know, I'm poor. Yet also willing to shoplift. Not really.) -- I ended up buying Mel a snow-white sweater and Satsuma Body Mist. Soooo, basically she knows nearly everything I got her. I can live with that though. I'll just have to hit her on the head a few times until she gets amnesia. Yes. Amnesia. (This followed by me cackling maniacally and rubbing my hands together in a somewhat suspicious manner.)
Sunday, December 9, 200108:11 p.m.
listening to; Molly Yes / Sugar
reading; The Lunatic Cafe / Laurell K. Hamilton
..::: - & - :::..
Christmas shopping...
Is entirely fun, when you aren't being molested by other shoppers eager to get bottom shelf finds. It happens every year. "Ma'am, that is not a tube of wrapping paper. That is my leg."
And this year, what makes Christmas even more better then it is, is that Santa is a four foot tall midget. Kids, larger than him, have sat on his lap. And he's better then the one two years ago that continually winked at me and Melissa from far away. Then patted his lap. And smiled.
I have mostly my entire shopping lists worked out: plastic keychains from vending machines for all. I'm so poor this year I'll probably have to sell my hair. And of course, my parents will buy me a comb. And I'll have bought them a watch chain, even though they sold their watch to buy me a comb for my soon-to-be bald head. And it won't end on a note of giving. Because we'll all be pissed that we got the most useless presents ever. And so Christmas dinner wll consist of crying and drinking and a small pea-- cut into four halves.
Or, wait. I'm sorry. That happened last year. Or not.
In terms of presents I have it mostly worked out anyway. My mom's getting embarrassing slippers so she can shuffle out of her room with them on when my cool friends are over and offer us lemonade and three year old crackers. I'm getting Mel Satsuma body spray-- and probably something else. Me, her and Sarah continually go all out in terms of big fat presents, and have thankfully, however, learned many lessons pertaining to what and what not to buy. Like the year Mel bought me a black spandex shirt with a hole cut out in the cleavage. I tried it on and I looked like a guest on Jenny Jones. I tried on the matching neon orange hood, and suddenly I was the mirror image of a Simpson Street hooker. Not pretty. At all.
I guess I'm somewhat lost as to what to buy everyone else... Although, I'm sure they'll all be happy when I spend the money on myself and buy them keychains. Or those plastic balls that contain surprises inside. Like friendship bracelets. Made in Romanian sweatshops.
Sunday, December 9, 200112:41 p.m.
listening to; Molly Yes / Sugar
reading; The Lunatic Cafe / Laurell K. Hamilton
..::: - & - :::..
Wisdom: Repainting the kitchen walls, in mental hospital green. (More mint-looking for the subsequent patient licking.)
