I had a nice chat with a young woman at Kroger’s this afternoon. She was quite pretty-- short brown hair, a groovy pink sweater. So very hip. She offered me some of her lotion, bath and boy works, but I declined as would be proper. Then she offered me her left sock. When I declined this she just laughed at me and threw it to the floor. Yeah, she was about one to one and a half years old. Babies are so cute.
Okay, now I know this is called the annoying laughing cat, but it’s actually, stupidly funny. It helps if you’ve not gotten a lot of sleep in the last few days. It scares the crap out of my cat and if you listen to it for awhile, your hysteric laugher starts to sound like the cat’s… snorts and all.
Jake sat me down and made me watch all of these, so I have to pass them on…
Here is the origin of the F’word, Wheeee, the the Icon War, and my boy humor favorite, No Relationship Please.
Also, since I’ve been bad and forgetting to post links, here are a few to make up for it.
Build your own face- fun to play around with, and Mag? Could be get an artist rendition of the one and only maguinan?
Poke the penguin - poke at your own risk. Hi-larious.
And lastly, astronomy picture of the day, just kind of a nice site to check every once in awhile.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
I just got asked to go dancing and bar hopping downtown with some of my dancer friends for one of their birthdays.
Yay!
But it won’t just be at any clubs. We’re hitting the male gay bars.
Whooo…I’m sure all the gay men are gonna want to dance with me.
And this isn’t with just any friends. One of them is about seventy five years old, and the other two are between forty five and fifty years old.
Yippie? Let’s party all night long…
But they’re dancers… that should be fun, right? Um… maybe not, they’re all professional ballroom dancers.
Wow.
And friends, that’s a loose term. I’m going with my boss, a girl friend of his, and my mom.
Hum. Me, my mom, my trollish boss and his Hungarian friend from the studio, waltzing the night away at the techno gay bars.
Fun!
Yay!
But it won’t just be at any clubs. We’re hitting the male gay bars.
Whooo…I’m sure all the gay men are gonna want to dance with me.
And this isn’t with just any friends. One of them is about seventy five years old, and the other two are between forty five and fifty years old.
Yippie? Let’s party all night long…
But they’re dancers… that should be fun, right? Um… maybe not, they’re all professional ballroom dancers.
Wow.
And friends, that’s a loose term. I’m going with my boss, a girl friend of his, and my mom.
Hum. Me, my mom, my trollish boss and his Hungarian friend from the studio, waltzing the night away at the techno gay bars.
Fun!
“My glorious prose filtered though the mind of the insane”
How do people with lives blog? I’m genuinely interested in knowing. I’ve only got school and yet I’m finding it near impossible. But then again, I’m quite lazy.
Quills… a movie?
No.
It’s a porno with three cups of dirty, a spoonful of teary angst, a pinch of medieval torture, a healthy dash of Joaquin and the dark rider, some crazy people thrown in to taste, and way too much male frontal nudity… some pale, mushy nudity. Did I mention the creepy stories yet?
All in all I enjoyed it. I watched it in the dark in my room as I hid under the covers occasionally having to mute it (my poor virgin ears burned though that movie) and cover my eyes. Of course I’m watching it again right now. It’s better the second time around.
I redesigned my website again. Not really, just a little bit. I changed the graphic, but that’s not much, the big thing that’s making me happy is that the ad’s are gone.
Yippie!
And I didn‘t pay.
Double yippie!
I used some anchor-target-bookmark thing code…thing. I credit Spark. He knew what it was called and links and all that good stuff.
I went with my brother to get his ear pierced the other day. Wow, it takes a lot of lying to get a fourteen year old boy’s ear pierced.
“Yeah, I‘m him mom.” -didn‘t work. To the next store we went.
“He’s 18.”
“Let’s see his I.D.”
“Uh… well… he’s got a fake I.D. A pyro license. Heh.”- didn’t work. Next.
“My parents abandoned us years ago, leaving only this half of a locket for when they return, *sniffle* I’ve been taking care of him since he was knee high to a grasshopper... So…can I sign for him?” -didn’t work. Okay, there are more stores.
“Yeah, I’m his legal guardian, can I sign?” Ding, ding, ding! That worked. Piercing Pagoda believed us. And to the Fireflyish part of our trip, we stopped in Sam Goody before going home and they had two Firefly DVD box sets still left unsold. So I pulled out the receipt from piercing Pagoda and wrote on the back of it,
“Buy this DVD.
It Rocks.
Keep flyin’ Browncoats. ”
Then I folded it in half so it would stand upright, and put it on the shelf. I plan on doing this at any stores that have unsold FF DVDs.
Quills… a movie?
No.
It’s a porno with three cups of dirty, a spoonful of teary angst, a pinch of medieval torture, a healthy dash of Joaquin and the dark rider, some crazy people thrown in to taste, and way too much male frontal nudity… some pale, mushy nudity. Did I mention the creepy stories yet?
All in all I enjoyed it. I watched it in the dark in my room as I hid under the covers occasionally having to mute it (my poor virgin ears burned though that movie) and cover my eyes. Of course I’m watching it again right now. It’s better the second time around.
I redesigned my website again. Not really, just a little bit. I changed the graphic, but that’s not much, the big thing that’s making me happy is that the ad’s are gone.
Yippie!
And I didn‘t pay.
Double yippie!
I used some anchor-target-bookmark thing code…thing. I credit Spark. He knew what it was called and links and all that good stuff.
I went with my brother to get his ear pierced the other day. Wow, it takes a lot of lying to get a fourteen year old boy’s ear pierced.
“Yeah, I‘m him mom.” -didn‘t work. To the next store we went.
“He’s 18.”
“Let’s see his I.D.”
“Uh… well… he’s got a fake I.D. A pyro license. Heh.”- didn’t work. Next.
“My parents abandoned us years ago, leaving only this half of a locket for when they return, *sniffle* I’ve been taking care of him since he was knee high to a grasshopper... So…can I sign for him?” -didn’t work. Okay, there are more stores.
“Yeah, I’m his legal guardian, can I sign?” Ding, ding, ding! That worked. Piercing Pagoda believed us. And to the Fireflyish part of our trip, we stopped in Sam Goody before going home and they had two Firefly DVD box sets still left unsold. So I pulled out the receipt from piercing Pagoda and wrote on the back of it,
“Buy this DVD.
It Rocks.
Keep flyin’ Browncoats. ”
Then I folded it in half so it would stand upright, and put it on the shelf. I plan on doing this at any stores that have unsold FF DVDs.
Monday, January 12, 2004
“Welcome to our humble madhouse”.
I’m watching Quills.
Whoa, sex.
Oh. My. God. So much sex. They can’t even talk about wine without talking about sex.
Ohh, look, nuns.
Whoa, sex.
Oh. My. God. So much sex. They can’t even talk about wine without talking about sex.
Ohh, look, nuns.
Thursday, January 8, 2004
I love sociology and I love my sociology professor. It first hit me when she said “I think there’s a special level of hell reserved for professors who lecture after exams”.
A special hell.
Then our first day of class was only 24 minutes long. A Firefly-like saying and less than half an hour of class, how could I resist?
As I was typing about my wonderfulmus socio teacher, I just got this e-mail. It’s forwarded to me from my mother who got it from my great aunt who got it from a co-worker. As if you care about that.
“This huge rock is located on highway 25, and kids use to put obscenities
etc. on it. However, since the rock was painted like this, it's been left
alone. This rock is in Adair County, between Greenfield, and I-80. The kid
that painted it is a local guy, named Bubba. This kid is really talented,
take a look at it.
Be sure to scroll all the way down to see all sides of the rock.
check it out at…
http://www.ticz.com/homes/users/bob/On-A-Rock/On-A-Rock.htm”
A special hell.
Then our first day of class was only 24 minutes long. A Firefly-like saying and less than half an hour of class, how could I resist?
As I was typing about my wonderfulmus socio teacher, I just got this e-mail. It’s forwarded to me from my mother who got it from my great aunt who got it from a co-worker. As if you care about that.
“This huge rock is located on highway 25, and kids use to put obscenities
etc. on it. However, since the rock was painted like this, it's been left
alone. This rock is in Adair County, between Greenfield, and I-80. The kid
that painted it is a local guy, named Bubba. This kid is really talented,
take a look at it.
Be sure to scroll all the way down to see all sides of the rock.
check it out at…
http://www.ticz.com/homes/users/bob/On-A-Rock/On-A-Rock.htm”
Monday, January 5, 2004
“You are on your deathbed, you confess to a dozen murders, then get better”
Ah, fun, fun, fun, that is sooo not freaking fun.
Today is the first day back to school for most students, and for the students at my college, the first day of winter quarter. New classes.
So, this morning I crawled out of bed while it was still dark, got all pretty-- fluffed my hair, painted in my eyebrow, and wore clean jeans all tight from the dryer. I was looking good. Had my book bag all packed with necessary schoolish stuff, had my keys and was out the door.
Sound familiar? Okay, for some of you men, not the tight pants bit, but things were smooth. You’d think Firefly would have taught me a lesson. Smooth is not a good sign.
Out to the car and the Mazda’s doors wouldn’t open. Okay, I can deal. It’s cold, my car doors are always freezing. I yank and pull, kick and pull, curse and pull. Then I yank, curse, kick, curse, pull, curse, then sit and curse. The primitive woman spoke out loudly though the cursing.
“Need stick.”
Whooo! I’m a genius. I grabbed a crowbar from the basement, pried a bit, then pulled a bit and go me, the door opened. Just a little kicking from the inside opened the drivers door.
Me--“Doors open?”
Me--“Check.”
Me--“Next step.”
Me--“Key goes in the ignition. I’ll turn key. Car supposed to start.”
Me--“You’re smart.”
Me--“Thank you.”
I’m not missing something am I? Because that’s what I did, and there was no car startage.
The engine turned over twice, and then it whined at me. I tried again, this time there was less turning and more whining. I called my mom and let her hear what the car sounded like. Then I tried again just for fun. Another time for luck. I had a strange feeling so I tried again. Still with the whining. Then I called my dad and let him hear it once. I tried with the doors open, with them shut. I waited until I thought the car let down it’s guard and quickly tried. No go.
Great. I’m already five minutes late to my first class with a new proof, and my car is playing dead.
Goddamned bastard battery.
So, I grab the little black box from the garage that’s the battery recharger thing. We call it the trickle thing. I plugged it into the wall then went to open the hood.
It didn’t move. Okay, attack of dumb blonde. I forgot to pull the little lever in the car for the hood to open. D’oh. Pulled lever, tried to open hood. Still, not opening. There was a short fit of yanking, cursing, pulling, cursing, kicking and cursing similar to the earlier door situation before inner cave woman spoke to me again.
“Need stick.”
Can do. I grabbed my handy crowbar and pried away. Whooo! Hood open! Now I’ve got two wire thingies with metal crab claws on the ends, one red, one black.
Way back a long time ago I learned the right way to do this. There is supposed to be an order and I made up some logical reasoning for that order so I would remember.
“Red doesn’t seem like it should go first, so it does.” Occasionally I mix this up and it becomes, “black doesn’t seem like it should go first, so it does.” But, due to the lack of crazy sparks and death or whatever horrid thing is supposed to happen when you do it wrong, I believe I got it right.
Now I’m half an hour late, my nose is all red, my fluffy hair is frizzy, my tight pants have frost and engine goo on them, and I have to wait for the car to charge up. Fun, fun. On top of that I got a check up call from my dad to make sure I didn’t kill myself, and was told not to tried to start the car for awhile because I might flood the engine. Hummmm…. whoops.
Oh, and #firefly keeps kicking me.
And to keep with the fun, fun, fun, here’s a fun site that I can relate to. Today ranks just bellow finding out that there’re big worms in your eyes. 1,452 something dolors.
Today is the first day back to school for most students, and for the students at my college, the first day of winter quarter. New classes.
So, this morning I crawled out of bed while it was still dark, got all pretty-- fluffed my hair, painted in my eyebrow, and wore clean jeans all tight from the dryer. I was looking good. Had my book bag all packed with necessary schoolish stuff, had my keys and was out the door.
Sound familiar? Okay, for some of you men, not the tight pants bit, but things were smooth. You’d think Firefly would have taught me a lesson. Smooth is not a good sign.
Out to the car and the Mazda’s doors wouldn’t open. Okay, I can deal. It’s cold, my car doors are always freezing. I yank and pull, kick and pull, curse and pull. Then I yank, curse, kick, curse, pull, curse, then sit and curse. The primitive woman spoke out loudly though the cursing.
“Need stick.”
Whooo! I’m a genius. I grabbed a crowbar from the basement, pried a bit, then pulled a bit and go me, the door opened. Just a little kicking from the inside opened the drivers door.
Me--“Doors open?”
Me--“Check.”
Me--“Next step.”
Me--“Key goes in the ignition. I’ll turn key. Car supposed to start.”
Me--“You’re smart.”
Me--“Thank you.”
I’m not missing something am I? Because that’s what I did, and there was no car startage.
The engine turned over twice, and then it whined at me. I tried again, this time there was less turning and more whining. I called my mom and let her hear what the car sounded like. Then I tried again just for fun. Another time for luck. I had a strange feeling so I tried again. Still with the whining. Then I called my dad and let him hear it once. I tried with the doors open, with them shut. I waited until I thought the car let down it’s guard and quickly tried. No go.
Great. I’m already five minutes late to my first class with a new proof, and my car is playing dead.
Goddamned bastard battery.
So, I grab the little black box from the garage that’s the battery recharger thing. We call it the trickle thing. I plugged it into the wall then went to open the hood.
It didn’t move. Okay, attack of dumb blonde. I forgot to pull the little lever in the car for the hood to open. D’oh. Pulled lever, tried to open hood. Still, not opening. There was a short fit of yanking, cursing, pulling, cursing, kicking and cursing similar to the earlier door situation before inner cave woman spoke to me again.
“Need stick.”
Can do. I grabbed my handy crowbar and pried away. Whooo! Hood open! Now I’ve got two wire thingies with metal crab claws on the ends, one red, one black.
Way back a long time ago I learned the right way to do this. There is supposed to be an order and I made up some logical reasoning for that order so I would remember.
“Red doesn’t seem like it should go first, so it does.” Occasionally I mix this up and it becomes, “black doesn’t seem like it should go first, so it does.” But, due to the lack of crazy sparks and death or whatever horrid thing is supposed to happen when you do it wrong, I believe I got it right.
Now I’m half an hour late, my nose is all red, my fluffy hair is frizzy, my tight pants have frost and engine goo on them, and I have to wait for the car to charge up. Fun, fun. On top of that I got a check up call from my dad to make sure I didn’t kill myself, and was told not to tried to start the car for awhile because I might flood the engine. Hummmm…. whoops.
Oh, and #firefly keeps kicking me.
And to keep with the fun, fun, fun, here’s a fun site that I can relate to. Today ranks just bellow finding out that there’re big worms in your eyes. 1,452 something dolors.
Saturday, January 3, 2004
"Eyebrows are sooooo last year"--Psychically Comatose Robotic Child Killing Adults
I’m starting a new fashion trend. It’s called the asymmetrical bald plucked spot on your right eyebrow. I’ll be in class in two days, I’m sure it will be a big hit with the college kids. You heard it from me first, folks. So, when you see Beyonce, Brittany, and Madonna with what looks like a bad eyebrow job, just know it’s really fashionable, and I started it. Or at least that’s what I’m telling people. I should have known that when I saw my friend hacking up newspaper that she would not be able to subtly shape eyebrows with tweezers. But she has such pretty eyebrows herself, and seemed quite confident of her abilities.
As with every story, things began smoothly. She plucked, she tweased, she worked her magic. Then she drew blood. Okay, ouch, but smack a little toilet paper on my eyebrow and she keep plodding ahead.
I should have had her quit right then. I should of said no… but… I was weak.
Minutes passed. A little pluck here, a little there, then she pulled me up and tugged me over to the mirror. For some reason I only had one whole eyebrow. The other one was only half of it’s former self. Where’d the other half of it go? Was it going to be put back on?
The answer was no.
Oh. Hun. I wish I knew that earlier. Also a little tidbit she could of shared with me earlier: Her eyebrows were done at the beauty parlor.
The little old lady that works at our library sprays her eyebrows on with a stencil and some paint, I’m thinking about asking her for tips.
This is an intresting site.
“Purpose: To protect all earth children from Psychically Comatose Robotic Child Killing Adults”
Oh, and I’m going brush crazy. I’ve got some Serenity brushes and some sign brushes at my site that I must share because I’m simply giddy about them. I know they're dorky, but I'm learning. I think I'm learning.
As with every story, things began smoothly. She plucked, she tweased, she worked her magic. Then she drew blood. Okay, ouch, but smack a little toilet paper on my eyebrow and she keep plodding ahead.
I should have had her quit right then. I should of said no… but… I was weak.
Minutes passed. A little pluck here, a little there, then she pulled me up and tugged me over to the mirror. For some reason I only had one whole eyebrow. The other one was only half of it’s former self. Where’d the other half of it go? Was it going to be put back on?
The answer was no.
Oh. Hun. I wish I knew that earlier. Also a little tidbit she could of shared with me earlier: Her eyebrows were done at the beauty parlor.
The little old lady that works at our library sprays her eyebrows on with a stencil and some paint, I’m thinking about asking her for tips.
This is an intresting site.
“Purpose: To protect all earth children from Psychically Comatose Robotic Child Killing Adults”
Oh, and I’m going brush crazy. I’ve got some Serenity brushes and some sign brushes at my site that I must share because I’m simply giddy about them. I know they're dorky, but I'm learning. I think I'm learning.
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