I was a kaleidoscope.

Update on Lisa's pancreas: the cocky physician's assistant said that nothing showed up on the CAT Scan or the ultrasound, as far as stones and such go (hooray for five hours at the hospital and the bills that go with it!). So I'll have to have a tube shoved through my digestive system and, eventually, get whatever the hell is clogging my bile duct out. But that won't happen until February. In the mean time, I get to take eight large (and expensive) pills a day and be on a low-fat diet. Which is a bitch, especially during Christmas. Especially when you're about to go to Michigan where mayonnaise is a food group unto itself.

The saddest thing about this is that the only thing that really bothers me is all the fucking medical bills. Not the pain. Not the pills. Not the fact that the nerve that was hit by the IV needle still makes my hand tingle when I touch it. Shouldn't the body be able to heal itself or something? You'd think after millions of years of evolution we might have thrown a little preventive maintenance in there. *shakes fist at genes* I'm so fucking stingy. I get it from my parents.

Just a few thoughts...

Why do people pray? If God is an omnipotent, all-knowing, all-seeing, planner of the universe and its fate, then what's the point of some feeble human trying to throw the whole "plan" out of whack for their own benefit? I asked my sister. She told me that God listens and cares how we feel and what we think. Therefore, we should communicate with Him as much as possible to feel his love. And then I punched her in the face.

No. I didn't really do that. Although, sometimes I wish I had the nads to. But seriously, what's the point of telling him anything? He already knows. Plus, words are so... limited. I've always thought a language that consisted of music would be much more effective. And kick ass.

I'm losing weight, and I really don't like it. Personally, I wouldn't mind losing a little facial fat, but the next thing to go will the boobs. And I like my boobs. If they weren't so voluminous, I couldn't do that thing that I do so well. And then I'll have no milk shake. And without a milk shake, there's no way in hell I'm going to bring any boys to the yard.

And they're like, "It's better than yours."

Damn right.

Point being, I love my curves. Fat chicks kick the non-existant ass of skinny chicks.

More like "phat" chicks.

Ok, I'm done.

So, the other day I was writing. And then I suddenly asked myself, "Why do I write so much?". And then I proceeded to write about it.

Maybe it's because if I do it enough, eventually something good will come out. Then I can milk it for all it's worth and live off the profits and fame for the rest of... the month.

Or maybe it's just my school supply fetish calling out. It's true. I try to put on the whole dominatrix-bondage facade, but, as stated before, I haven't the nads. But whip out some freshly sharpened number two's and notebook and I'm totally suppressing a metaphorical hard-on. So, me wasting paper and ink for thoughts that are as generic as a batch of cloned Asian babies is roughly the equivalent of... me jacking off. Yeah, let that one soak in for a minute.

Or maybe I'm just making sure there is something left of me after the prophecy has run its course.

I haven't shaved my legs since Thanksgiving. It's great, because when I look down, the calves say "man", but the feet say "woman" (pink nail polish will do that). And then I get all confused and call my therapist.

That's all.

Best Christmas present... ever.

I'm going to Cornell. After weeks of anticipation and preparation for the dreaded "deferration", I got in.

I always had this theory that after I did get accepted somewhere, I would enter into this kind of "Senior Pergutory" where I just lay around hating highschool and wishing that I were anywhere else. But it's almost like I've just come out of that feeling. After years and years of loathing Brazoswood, I can finally rest assured that I will be far far away in nine months.

I'm kind of scared that I'm going to die now. Now that there's something to live for in the future, it seems a likely irony that I should trip and get a rusty nail in the heart or have some heavy object dropped on me. Oh god, I'm turning into my sister.

CAT Scans are really not as fun as they sound. And Barium shakes taste like chalky orange juice and look like jizz. And getting stabbed with a 20 gage needle is a bitch. But iodine in the blood stream is delightful. And ultra-sounds tickle.

*Dances*

"If I was a unicorn, you'd be dead."

I wish I was a unicorn. Then I could impale people with my horn, but feel no guilt because I would heal them with my magical tears. And then we would both laugh about it and... I don't know... frolick.

The word "frolick" is composed by the words "fro" and "lick. Hmm.

The diagnosis is in! Again! From a doctor! Or two! I have pancreatitis. Which, from what I understand, can be caused by a few different things (one of them being gall stones). This also explains the painful lump that I found just a little too close to my boob (which freaked the holy-loving-piss-shit out of me). But it's just a freaked out lymph node, apparently they don't like it when organs get enflamed. Who would have thought? Judging my enzyme count, the doctor said I should be in the hospital right now throwing up everything I eat and writhering in a pain that is worse that child birth. But for some reason I'm not. Probably because Jesus loves me or something.

Apparently, word is going around that I'm jewish. And I'm totally diggin' that rumor.

And just on a side note, David, why do you come here? I tell you all of these things already.

There are a lot of cool people that I have just now met this year. Which makes me wonder, have they been cool all along or has something come together this year that hasn't been there for the past three? Dylan and Trace and Sarah and Monideepa and Ross and Adam and Michelle and Travis and Stephanie and Oscar and Erin - who keeps me from killing all the prepubescent boys at fencing... *ponder*.

The diagnosis is in!

... granted that diagnosis was made by myself... and I know nothing about medicine or the details of the digestive system... I totally have an ulcer. Yes, after three weeks of random exclamations and twitching of pain, a pound of antacids, and a few bottles of Pepto-bismol I'm calling ulcer. Until, of course, I go to a real doctor and they tell me I have some horrible parasite living in my stomach, gnawing away at the vitals and such. I haven't been in this much pain in a very long time. I'll call her Francine (the ulcer... that is). She sho' be a bitch.

Oh god. While typing in the dark, I just found a crusty bit of unidentifiable... residue on my keyboard. *cries*

I apologize for an disgruntled-ness that I may have burdened the world with this week. I tend to have these moments where I trip and lose all sense of purpose and happiness, but I usual rebound some time later that day. For some reason this time I tripped and hit my head on a sharp object before landing on the pavement and being trampled by a metaphorical passing crowd of pedestrians. To one person specifically, sorry about that.

I'm off! to do... whatever it is we crazy kids are doing these days... ... *shrug*

Her name was Lola...

...crap. I don't want to go back to school tomorrow. I'm not ready to return to days controlled by a bell... buzzer... thing. I really thought I was going to get a lot accomplished in the 10 days that I was alotted for eating, but mostly I've just been... eating. And hanging out with all the lucky bastards that get to go to college *nostalgic moment*. I think the worst part about being a senior is that there's no one left to look up to. Sure, it's nice to be reverred in the eyes of the lower classes every once in a while, but meh... I miss the college-folk.

Fencing hurts so good. Seven hours of sword-play seems wrong... yet it feels so right. Until today, when I can't feel my legs or my lower-back. I think I'll just drag myself around the house with my arms for a while. And when they give out, I'll just flop. Like a fish. A fish that refuses to use its arms or legs.

December 15th at 4:00 pm I'll find out about Cornell. And yes, I am shitting my pants about it. As much as I consider myself the scholarly-atheist-based-on-science type, I really am very superstitious. I rely on instinct a little too much and totally take omens and premonitions seriously. Even talking about this right now is deterring my chances of getting in. So I'll stop.

I wish I liked my family more. Life would probably be at least somewhat easier that way. I think I've decided that my father is like one of those old dogs that is deaf and blind in one eye and just sits around all day barking and growling at anything that comes near him. The worst part is they all have this vision in their minds that I'm the depressed stereotypical teenager who mopes around the house all the time being bitter and rebelling against life. And then they spread this view to my extended family. So by the time Christmas rolls around, everyone is just sitting around drinking beer and playing cards and making fun of me for being a moody teenager... which doesn't really help the situation at all. So now I just feel alienated from all of them, and am pretty sure that, eventually, I'm going to fake my own death and get a face implant to get away.

Everybody... come!

But not like that... well, maybe a little like that. It's ok. We'll all pretend like it didn't happen. There's no shame in ejaculation.

What? Oh... yeah, NHS Movie Night. It starts at 7 in the auditorium. TONIGHT!!! Bring old winter clothing and blankets that you plan to donate (no, Maca, it's not a pajama party. But you should wear your pajamas anyway). If I find out that you've read this, and don't see you there, I will beat you. Oh how I will beat you.

Hugs and Kisses,
Mistress Lisa

"I want your seed."

I'm back! Actually, I was here all along; trying to post and then deleting it all and then posting again and then getting distracted by shiny objects and etc. But this time I've got five shots of espresso in my blood, and all is well.

I really hate caffeine. It's like my brain is going at full speed, but there's no contents for it to process. Like when you don't put anything in the microwave and then let it run on high-power for 5 minutes. Ordinarily, when you put things in the microwave, they get hot and (generally) delicious. But when you have an emptiness and microwaves slicing through the void... badness ensues. Or maybe it's more like a blender... I hope my mind isn't like a blender... such a primitive kitchen appliance.

I think it would be kind of fun to eat your way out of a coffin made of german chocolate cake.

I'm really starting to hate AP students, which is most inconvenient as I am around them for most of the day. Freshman year was all well and good, because the advanced classes were for the over-achievers or the people who actually gave a shit about school. And that's fine. Education = good. Wisdom = better. Knowledge = overrated. Over the past three years, however, we have mutated. And not like swanky X-men mutated where you get laser vision and big shiny blue tits, but like cocky-arrogant-conceited-fuckers mutated. It seems like every class I go to there is some little taint sitting in the corner snickering and bitching under their breath about how they possess more knowledge in the lower left lobe of their liver than any of their teachers/peers could ever fathom. Humility, you cunt!

Here's the reason why we have a shitty English teacher this year: no one else wants to teach us. We walk in the door ten minutes late. We scoff at every assignment we consider below us. We critique every move, thought, and waking moment as if our education were a dish we were being served in a classy restaurant. This teacher is undercooked/too salty/has mustard on it/looks like the testicle of a chinchilla. So I blame you, AP student. I blame me. I blame everyone that has ever had their thumb far enough up their butt to think that they were better than anyone else. Fuck you.

I have a feeling I'm going to die this year.

I have a feeling I'm not going to get into Cornell, but I'm going to be ok with it.

I have a feeling that we aren't as complicated as we seem.

I have a feeling that 79% of the people that started reading this have stopped by now. But I'm ok with that too.

And now! for the Christmas list... just in case you needed some ideas, and you honestly think you can please me with material objects... which you totally can, by the way.

-Wierd inexpensive flashy jewelry (except watches... I hate watches... bojangly earrings kick ass *hint* *hint*)
-Notebooks
-Books
-Pictures of yourself (I have no pictures of my friends... seriously)
-Henna
-New hair color
-New piercing
-New family
-Spontaneous (and appropriate) messages left on my driveway in sidewalk chalk (as much as I love scrubbing penises off pavement... yeah.)
-***Illegally burned CD's with your favorite songs on them.*** (asterisks for emphasis)

It is mine!

After months of searching... and scavanging... and poking around the most remote locations of the world wide web... I have found it! *maniacal laughter*

Jizzalty Goodness!

... and now I play the waiting game.

The Cornell application... is done. I really hope I get in. Not because it's a great college in a beautfiul location with oodles of potential for learning, but because I really don't want to fill out another application.

(To be continued sometime in mid-December... dun dun duhnnnguhdun.)

Wait... what?

Mmm... so we meet again, blog. What's that you say? I've been neglecting you? But I have a life, blog. I have places to go and semi-important tasks to undertake. Can't you understand that? I know you need commitment, but if you really loved me, you would get over your own needs and cater to my every want. I don't ask for much. Just a good sturdy place to vent and voice my luke warm opinions and emotions. And perhaps the occasional foot massage. Why can't you understand that? Why can't you understand me? What? No, blog, don't cry. You know how I hate to see you cry. There there. I know we'll work something out. Just you... blog, what are you doing with those hedge clippers. You've got that look in your eye, blog. I don't like. Just put those things down and we'll talk about it. I brought bon bons. I know how much you love them. Please just... no, blog! ah... guhguh... shickermuhkuh!!!! *homocide*

Yeah. I don't know.

It burns like the clap!

... writing college essays, that is.

I'm trying! Really I am. But everytime that I sit down and actually start writing I feel so... boring. The writing has personality and everything, it's just the message I'm trying to get across is really cloudy and over-used. It's like running in sand or something.

Damn you college! How I pine for thee.

P.S. Bellami gets "The Shizzle of the Week" award for introducing me to Death Cab for Cutie.

P.P.S. The Sims 2 = crack

And God said "Let there be pictures!"

... and there were pictures.


This is what happens when your father (who is a bastard) confines you to the house in the days following a hurricane evacuation. Apparently the city had a "curfew" and any man, woman, or child out on the road after 8 would be shot down on sight, beaten to death, and then burned and never spoken of again. Or so he told me anyway. So I dissected my Furby.


The remains.


And then I recreated "The Scream" in sidewalk chalk. Because I could.


Honestly, I had no idea I could do that with my face. And, by the by, the things on the plate were quite tasty (despite the fact that they look like turds).


Daaaaaaamn.


I heart this picture.


We all so pretty!


This banana was with us in the car for the 18 hour drive to San Marcos. Now that's what I call a solja. Actually, I've never used that word before now, and I'm fairly certain it has never been used in reference to fruit. And that's why I'm a trend setter... or just a dumb ass.

The Virtual Hissy-fit

*Screeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmmm*... *rips out tuft of hair*... *rips out more hair*... *scratches at the newly made bald patches on head*... *throws lamp across the room*... *picks up shards of former lamp and gouges own eyes out*...*tears a phone book in half with her bare hands*... *lights the two halves on fire*... *stomps on the ashes*... *slashes some tires*... *throws some bricks through windows*... *more screaming*... *bites the ear off a puppy*... *spits said ear out*... *head butts puppy*... *punts puppy across an open field*... *poutes*... *curls up into ball in corner*.

I hate calculus.

"Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?"

Damn that slutty slutty song and its tendency to get stuck in my head and force me to sing it aloud at inappropriate times to the dismay of my peers. Damn it to hell!

Today I'm feeling... particularly ugly. Of course, that is to be expected following another eventful search for pants. Curse you, thighs. Actually, if my thighs were to shrink (by the grace of some merciful god), people would realize that I was fat. And not just "curvy". So, in a way, I suppose these bad boys do serve a purpose after all.

I need someone to go get their nails done with me on Wednesday; that way I won't feel so spoiled. Plus, the friendly asians scare me. *blatant insecurity*

Don't cha? (Don't cha, baby) Don't cha?

Not to be vague or anything... but... certain people should certainly forsake their "higher education" in certain distant lands and get their ass home so that I don't have to spend my weekend with a bucket of Neapolitan and two soul-less engineers. *glare*

Here's a question: where did all this sudden drama come from and why is it always happening to everyone else? I want some unnecessary plotting and quarreling in my life! Share the wealth, bitches.

And now my brain is empty. End blog.

"I feel pretty. Oh so pretty."

Oh, media. You never fail to scare the shit out of everyone with your over-exaggerated viewer-hungry displays of destruction. Have I ever told you how much I hate you?

And that's why I'm watching "West Side Story". I rebel with musicals. That's just how I roll.

... and I think I'm anemic. I'm exhausted and feel like my knees are going to give out if I don't get food every hour or so. Which is generally bad.

Just saw "The Corpse Bride", which was... a movie. The story had a good pulse and clay-mation is always fun. Ehh... I have no soul. Don't blame me for my indifference. But here's good news! Though tissue might deteriorate after death, and friendly maggots may live inside of you, cleavage goes unaffected. *thumbs up*

Cornell is beautiful. Like wooded mountains, plunging gorges, gothic architecture beautiful. It turns me on and scares the crap out of me. Simultaneously! Now I understand why so many people stay in the safety of Texas after they graduate. I feel like such a pussy.

I love you all. I hope everyone is safe and happy and all that good stuff. And that's all I've got.

Run away! Run away!

Let the fleeing commence!

To Mecca!

Cornell Cornell Cornell Cornell Cornell Cornell... *craps pants*...
Four days of basking in ivy league glory and struggling not to kill my parents. It's like a trip to the holy land... for atheists.

Huzzah!

(Translation: Lisa is going to visit Cornell for the next four days. She is very excited.)

"Everytime I come around yo' city bling bling..."

I'm so loooooooooonely... and full of apple pie *rubs stomach*. And just for the hell of it, I've decided to make a new list of things that piss me off. My hate can be assimilated to taste buds; changing every seven years (and by "seven years" I mean "every other day").

List List List


Competitive Whining - Listen. When I want to bitch and moan about how my foot hurts, I don't need you to tell me about that one time in 'nam when you got your entire leg hacked off. The fact that your pain is clearly worse than mine does not make me feel better. All I wanted was a smidgen of pity, not your condescending empathy.

The Media - Has there ever been a time when I didn't hate them? Manipulating and milking every fucking tragedy that they can lay there hands on. There is so much over exposure in the first week of a news story, that the viewers OD and stop giving a shit after the initial thrill of destruction ends. I blame the media, because I can.

Excessive Giggling - It's not cute anymore. Stop it.

Excessive Gigglers - You know who you are *glare*.

Bill Maher - Bill Maher is a man who makes a living by widening the gap between Republicans and Democrats. Sitting around bashing Bush and trying to out-yell your opponent in calls for truth and righteousness is not politics. It's entertainment. Just like Bill O'Reilly and Crossfire and Anna Nicole Smith. I swear to god, if America's leaders start getting choosen on the basis of who can yell the loudest, I will pack up and move to Canada. Nunavut calls to me.

Cocky Under-classmen

The Word "Crysanthemum"

...

and The Number 4


... in other news, I stumbled upon this really kick ass 2 man acoustic comedy/folk music thing called Flight of the Concords (P.S. this link is pretty useless, but it's the only thing I could really find). It's basically a New Zealandian Tenacious D with a little more weed. Plus! one of the members looks like the offspring of Nick Cathcart and Elijah Wood... with a nose job. Nummy.

*cough* loser *cough*

This video offers me comfort in that I now know someone out there in that big wide world we call planet earth is a bigger loser than me. But his tricks are still pretty cool.

Lonely!

I feel all empty... and stuff.

This is what I get for locking myself in my room all weekend with a book. A sad book, no less. The Time Traveler's Wife is the most wonderful scrumptous ooey-gooey jizz-worthy thing peice of goodness, but don't read it if you're pathetic and lonely. Like me. *sad face*

So now I'm just kind of... brain dead, which isn't much of a shift from the past few weeks. The creative fountain has been running low for quite a while, and all I've had to offer the world is bitchiness and spontaneous bouts of weeping (sorry about that).

And now!...I'm going to go pull something out of my ass for creative writing, slap it on an 8 x 11" sheet of paper, and see if I can pass it off as adequate.

This can't be healthy...

It's almost one in the morning and I can't go to bed because everytime that I lay down, I get all spastic and twitchy. And then I remember something that I've forgotten to do, and so I get up and do it. And after I lay back down, I start twitching again...

Therefore, I'm dropping AP Euro. Because, naturally, the origin of all my problems lies in trying to remember the names and numbers of every single pope and king within a three hundred year period and then noting their significance in the great scheme of the development of Medieval Europe. Naturally.

... and because I don't deal with stress well. I can't pull off 7 AP classes because I'm not Steve Qin. Plus, I've always been a fan of that "regular eating and sleeping schedule" thing.

So there. That's it. I'm giving up. Throwing in the towel. Pulling the plug. Trading in my beanie babies.

I'm sorry, B3. You were the coolest class ever. And, yes, I am a giant pussy for running away. But it's better to be a sane pussy than an twitchy, exhausted, prone-to-minor-nervous-breakdowns-at-one-in-the-morning over-achiever.

"I've got a phosphorescent secret..."

I just had one of those moments of revelation that is so crammed full of truth and pain that they slam themselves against one another and make this horrible pang of mortality.

I am mediocre.

Seriously. I am. And I'm not just throwing this out there as bait for pity. Pity is disgusting, and those that hunger for it even more so. I'm not smart. I'm not pretty or charming or promising. I'm just a chick with big thighs and an insatiable thirst for perfection. I might stand out in Brazoswood as an "exemplary student", but that's highschool. And highschool is not the world.

And that scares me.

So here's the thing...

I may or may not have signed up for a few AP classes. And I may or may not have under estimated the work load that I would be taking on. And I may or may not be too stubborn to admit my error and fix the situation (and until I do, the fountain of bloggage won't exactly be flowing).

So that's me. But how are you?

The Quest for Cannoli

Pictures pictures pictures!... courtesy of my shitty photography skills.





... and so the people flocked to the mediocre restaurant in search of over-priced, semi-authentic Italian food.



I love this picture, and I don't know why. Damn you for being so photogenic!



"Will you be my friend?"



Oh Megs, you're so adorable. I would pinch your cute wittle cheeks, but I'm pretty you could beat me up. Therefore, I shall refrain.



Awww... he's so cute when he's trying to make a point.



'At's a spicy meat-a-ball. (Sorry, I couldn't suppress it.)



I love you, Danika.



This is what Katherine looks like just before she is about to deliver the smack down with a bitchy comment. Rock on, sista.



Perky as a nipple in January.



Cannoli! Mmm, kinky.



Oh, Jeffy. You slutty slutty gay man you.

2 down, 261 to go...

...days, that is. Of school that is. For all of you Einsteins who couldn't figure it out. *Rolls eyes*... *spits on you in her mind*.

Senior year, bitches! Wooooo! Woooooo! Wooooooooooooooooooooo... *gasp*... ooooooooooo!

Ok. Now what?

Update: I have just been informed that my count down to graduation is actually off by 30 or so. Oh well, I'll just blame my shitty public education. Woooooo! I'm a future leader of America!

.. and best of all, this year is not going to suck *knocks of wood* because:
a) 37.5% of my classes have windows... with natural light... and a view of the outside world! *craps pants*
b) I know all my teachers and they know me. And that is nice.
c) In one year, I'm not going to have to come back.

... but it might just end up sucking after all because:
a) Carolyn is abandoning us all for independence and greater things (damn you for having more balls than the rest of us).
b) There are so many horrible flaws with the new cafeteria, it ain't even funny.
c) The new bell... as Meagan has stated... is shit.
d) Navigations class! Another 30 minutes of my life wasted to have more optimistic propaganda shoved down my throat.

...umm... and that's all. Wow. These bloggings just keep getting worse.


Way too much enthusiasm.

Oh sweet youth...

There's nothing quite like rummaging through a stack of old family albums to make you feel like shit. Or maybe it's the obscene amounts of water that I've been drinking of late... *gurgle*... the waiter at Red Lobster actually laughed at me because I drank so much at dinner. And then he went and got me another, because waiters/waitresses aren't real people. They're just slaves in disguise.

What was I saying?

Oh... right. I know it's hard to believe, and I would under most circumstances despise someone who talked like this... but back in my youth, I was adorable! If my scanner weren't busy being a peice of Hewlett-Packard shit, I would post some pictures on here. But oh well.

Yes, back in the day I never had to worry about a GPA or calories or fashion trends. I could wear an over-sized t-shirt with acid stained jean shorts, purples socks with purple lace and muddy black nike high-tops while eating a slice of pecan pie bigger than my face and still feel good about myself. Oh how I long for a time when I actually missed my parents when they went away... and Christmas still felt Christmas-ey... and vacations were the fun part of the summer. Back in the day, I didn't have to make up drama in my life to keep it interesting. *sigh*

This is beautiful. After a while your brain just gives out...

Ode to The Red Neck

Git 'er dun!

And thus the silence was broken!

Oh my god, I'm back again... dun dunnuhnuh. *thrust* *thrust*

Hell yeah I went there... HELL YEAH! Dammit, now that song is stuck in my head.

Thrust on brothers and sisters of love! (Tehe. Coach Roberts. Your pants don't fit you correctly.)

Alright... *claps hands and rubs them together like she is about to make an important statement*... medical conference! Wootah! And apparently everyone and their momma wants to be a pediatrician. EVERYONE! It's like all of a sudden the world started loving small helpless children. When did that happen? But when I grow up, I want to look inside of cooters and birth babies. Some people call it Obstetrics/Gynecology... and so do I. Honestly, I just wanted to say "cooter".

Then I went to Michigan, where my ego was thoroughly trampled and spat upon by my lovely extended family... *flashback*

"So... Lisa, you want to be a doctor?"

"Yeah. I was thinking about it."

"Well, I'm sure you've got the grades, dear. Now if only you didn't hate other people so much-"

"Wait. I don't hate other people. What are you-"

"Now let's be honest with ourselves for a moment. You hate other people, and other people hate you back. In fact, I'm hating you right now!"

"Guh?"

"That's alright, dear. Why don't you just save yourself the money and years of schooling and get a nice steady job as a bitch for Dow?"

... *unflashback* Ok. Maybe that's not exactly how it went, but that's how it felt. *Hugs self*.

This is a tribute...

"I always do what I'm doing."
-David Dorrah

The One with all the Anatomy Allusions

Seriously... that last post does not count. Seriously.

Saw "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory"... it was... special. I'm glad that I went to see it, but I don't plan on becoming a member of the cult/fan club any time soon. The music was delightfully sinister and the set was... Tim Burton-y. And the rest was crap! No. I kid. Oompa Loompa choreography definitely went up a few notches. But the rest was crap! No. It wasn't really crap. It was at more of a pre-crap level where it's had all of the nutrients extracted from it by the small intestine but was still making its way up the ascending colon.

Anyway...

Why you have to go ruin my low-budget semi-successful 70's acid trip of a movie? Huh? Who you think you are? You think you Jesus or Oprah or someting? *Bitch slaps self out of "exaggerated foreign accent" mode*. Seriously, I want my Wilder back. I want my Wilder and his unkempt hair and his wily ways and his shameless acts of slave labor and the part at the end where everything in the room is sliced in half and no one really gets it, but it's ok because it was the 70's, man.

P.S. Did anyone else feel like the Willy Wonka in the new movie was going to reach out of the screen and touch some unsuspecting 8 year-old boy in his "bathing suit region"?

But I'm not done yet!

Ok. Yes I am.

... not!

Hahahaha... eh... he... I need to stop hanging out with 6 year-olds. For that is what I have become... *dramatic moment*... the "baby-sitter". I hang out with younglings and keep them from cutting up leather couches and breaking pianos and killing themselves. And after they have left, their whining still lingers in my mind, weaving its wicked way over my myelin insulation and I find myself saying things like "dude" and "sweet" and... "wicked". And then I rip my small intestine out of my belly button and fashion myself a trusty noose.

And now I volunteer at the SPCA. Which is delightfully rewarding. It gives me a greater respect for all of God's creatures... as well as the copious amounts of feces that come out of that place everyday. By the bucket. By the wheel barrow. Everyday! And of course the waste water treatment plant is only a stone's throw away! Oh sweet irony, take me home!

And women are evil. Ok. All people are a little bit evil (regardless of gender, race, etc. etc.), but women can take the act of plotting and backstabbing to a whole new level. For us, it is an art. And then there's the gaggle of women-folk reading this right now, and reassuring themselves that I am wrong and attention-starved and just pulling shit out of the air. And they're right! But they're also jotting down the snide comment they're going to leave, as well as a variety of ways to slowly kill my spirit using only a nail file and a light exfoliating product.

I hate 10 year-old girls. Exclamation point.

I've officially given up on MySpace. After it deleted these 2 bitchin' posts that I wrote I totally dumped that sucka'. He was a dick anyway. So yah...

Did I ever tell you about that time I ran a dog into a pole?... No?... Ok.

Oh, and I'm going to a medical leadership forum dilly thing/Michigan for the next 2 weeks or so.

Arrivederci. (Translation: A whale's vagina)

So here's what Lisa thinks...

... as if anyone gave a shit.

In the past few weeks I have noticed the subject of dating being thrown back and forth across the "blogosphere" (oh yeah... I went there). And so I decided to shove my two sense into the ring FOR THE WORD OF THE LISA IS TRULY ONE OF UTMOST OMNIPOTENCE AND VELOCITUDINALITY AND SHALL BE DECLARED AS SUCH HITHER AND THITHER FOR ALL OF INTERMINABLENESS AND ET CETERA *cough*

I agree that it's hard to see a point to it until you've actually met that someone who does that thing for you, but then again dating in highschool... yah, it's a joke. Let's all just take a moment to point and laugh at it.

I'm going to try to make this as brief and vague as possible, otherwise I'm going to start getting long-winded which only leads to mushy-ness which will indubitably bring on the sticky-ness which will eventually leave me hugging myself and weeping silently in front of some long ass emotional splooging that no one will ever read.

Commence...

Friendship is always the foundation. Don't even try and tell me that it's not, because I will beat you. I will beat you like the red-headed stepchild that you are on the inside. I will beat you like the ugly stray dog that wonders around the neighborhood with feces matted in its coat. Just know... I will beat you. What was I saying?

Physical shit is important. More important than people dare to give it credit for because we're all afraid that someones going to point their finger and cry "slut". But I don't care, because you know what? A relationship with steamy make out sessions in public places and shameless groping may prove to be fleeting, but it's a hell of a lot more fun than any deep platonic connection I've ever had.

Loyalty is a big thing too. It's almost like you own them... except for the fact that they own you right back. Hmm... I probably should have thought that one through a bit. Eh... fuck it.

So... what have we learned today?
-Lisa can't support her arguments
-Lisa can't think her arguments through
-Love/dating/relationships have grown into something too vague to be summed by one person. (Especially when that person is me.)

Iownwanna post.

*Curls up in corner*... *gnaws on pickle spear*. Mmm... pickle spear.

"Oh... you touch my tralala ...mmm my ding ding dong."

Lyrics of a swedish porn king... don't ask.

College is done. Which means sleep... lots and lots of sleep. Sleep like you don't wake up until 11 and then you stay in bed for another couple of hours just contemplating shit and then you get up to pee and then you come back to bed and fall asleep again. Good stuff. But I must say, I'm fairly certain I've learned more about economics in a month at BC than I would in a life time from Wild Bill. Woot for knowledge!

Went gallavanting with Marissa on Tuesday... which was refreshing, except for that one part when she was pulling out into traffic on Dixie and laughing and shifting gears all at the same time. There was much jolting and screaming... but all is well. Crowded cars... caffiene... and random acts of urination. Joy!

Washed some pussies and weiners with Jordan on Wednesday...which is to say we gave his pets a bath... the black weiner was the biggest. Then went to Chili's and stuffed face with bean burga'. Don't know why I felt like including this. Maybe so I could crack my gentalia joke. I am sooooooooooo funny! You should stop reading... really, the rest isn't going to get much better.

Thursday... went on beauty binge with Jeff. Which was most convenient for of late I have had the urge to smell like coconuts (the shredded stuff in the pantry doesn't give me quite the effect I'm looking for). I bought some lotion and 3 bars of soap. COCONUT!!! and basked in the beach blonde beauty that is Mr. Rouse *shakes fist at Jeff for being so pretty*.

Oh! and War of the Worlds. Which scared the shit out of me.

P.S. I hate Tom Cruise.

Lauer forever!

And Ronald Reagan in the The Greatest American... EVER!!!! *jizz for tax cuts that did nothing but decrease government revenues and build up the defecit* Sure... Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves and shit... but JIIIIZZZZZZZZZZzZZZZZ!Xsk!h;ZSDcunt.

*Exhale*

Went to the Galleria/Bennigan's with the Hetero-Life-Partner Trio (Ryan, Jordan, and David) today. Discovered His Majesty King Gunther of the Realm of Swedish Porn... and over-priced rich-people clothing... and the Monte Cristo. Oh, the Monte Cristo. Essentially, it is a turkey and swiss cheese sandwich fried to golden perfection and served with a side of french fries and a pickle spear. In actuality, it is 888.5 calories of sandwich fried to golden perfection and served with a side of french fries and a pickle spear. Yum! Neither David nor Jordan could finish it off (which was the main objective of the meal) and both have been labeled "less of a man" until further notice.

Wow. I hate posts like this... dammit.

"I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth."

Oh sweet economics class. How you beat my ass with a wooden spoon. Did mediocre on another test... so now I'm in the compulsive eating stage where I pick all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms and dread the disapproving looks that are bound to come with the telling of the parents.

Holy crap! Got a cell phone... and it only took 2 years. Now when someone calls me, I can actually answer! and talk! for more than 20 seconds. Technology... good.

Holy crap again! I can post pictures. This calls for a photographic celebration! *much plotting... that will come to fruition at later date*.

After compiling my entire CD collection and then trying to thrust my tastes upon others I have come to conclusion that I listen to really boring crap. Coldplay... Norah Jones... Simon & Garfunkel (ok, maybe not)... everything I like is slow and pretty and sleepy. I'm such a loser.

I have also drawn the conclusion that whenever I feel like something is going wrong in my life I run away. Well... maybe not "run away", it's more like push everything away. Whenever I stumble into the trough of typical teenage depression I assume that the problem is coming from some outside source, so I isolate myself from the world. Or break up with David... I seem to do that a lot too. And then everyone thinks that I hate them and I think that everyone hates me... mmm... vicious cycle. Quarantine is not the answer... except maybe with the ebola virus.

Here. Have a picture...



First person to identify the restaurant and the name of the dish gets a fruit basket!

The Harlequin Experience

Oh yeah... I read one. What now!?! What now!!!!!!

*Shifts dial behind ear from Gangsta' mode to Angry Suburban White Girl mode*... *removes doo rag*... *folds*... *puts in pocket*...

... actually... I didn't get an authentic Harlequin. It was some off-brand called Silhouette. And I didn't actually read it either... I kind of glanced at the first 30 pages and then skimmed the rest of it for that pulsating girating salivating finger-lickin'goodness that is literary porn... but that's not the beginning of the story! Not the beginning at all.

The Beginning of the Story
While paying a visit to my local library (which is crap, by the way), I came across the "Romance Novel" section. Impressed by its size, I came to the conclusion that surely there must lie some hidden greatness in this mysterious section that so few venture to explore. So I decided to try my hand at the reading of the romance novel. My criteria for choosing a book were simple: 1) less than 200 pages 2)have a title that would make me want to laugh and vomit and weep all at the same time.

I walked out of the library with a little gem titled The Princess Has Amnesia!, and my life would never be the same... *insert Lifetime mood music here*... *fade to black*...

The Middle of the Story
Actually, there isn't much of a story left. Just fun little excerpts that I plucked from those filthy pages of literary bile...

-"'The only way to keep you from getting hypothermia was to remove your wet clothes...'"

-"He looked so... irresistable."

-"He grew serious. 'Tell me what you want.'
Her fingers ran through his hair. 'Just you, and your love... and your baby.'"

The End of the Story
Leafing through its greasy pages one last time, Lisa finally threw the rancid novel down in disgust. A single tear slid down her cheek and dropped quietly between her heaving creamy-white ample opulently lush breasts.

"Will there ever be justice in the world?" Lisa whispered into the velvety darkness.

Suddenly in the doorway's dim lighting appeared three shadowy figures. Lisa gasped, her bosom giving one great heave before settling back into place (with appropriate jiggling). The figures stepped forward revealing themselves to be the male cast of the popular 90's sitcom Full House, complete with matching metallic man-thongs.

Lisa ran to her trio of rescuers and was immediately engulfed in the sweet undulations of man flesh and hard nipples. The lights dimmed permiscuously as the melody of cliche 70's porn music filled the darkness. Tonight... there would be justice.

The To Do List

Books to Read:
-Hotel New Hampshire (John Irving)
-The Witches of Eastwick (John Updike)
-The Handmaid's Tale (Margaret Atwood)
-The Canterbury Tales (Geoffrey Chaucer)
-Shadow (Bob Woodward)
-Fluke (Christopher Moore)
-The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)

Movies to See:
-Schindler's List
-Dumb and Dumber
-Ocean's 11
-There's Something about Mary
-Double Jeopardy

People to Do:
-That One Pretty Guy at the Gym

And Other Shit:
-Write a dirty novel
-Get dirty novel published
-Write an actual novel (in 30 days - starting July 1st)
-Get a kick ass group of people together and gallavant around Lake Jackson for an entire day of garage sale shopping
-Bake a big ass cake and leave in a public place
-Learn to play chess... and win

...and that's just about all the stuff that there is to do. Aren't lists comforting?

Blogs that piss me off...

God, I wish I had specific blogs that pissed me off. Then I could sneak up on them in the middle of the night and leave offensive comments under kick ass names like Joanie J. or Carl...

But alas... *strikes appropriate pose*... I have only genres that erg me... urg me... ourg me... is that even a word? *Looks questioningly at Meagan* And here they are! *enthusiasm*...

Le Pricks de Plagarism: Song lyrics do not constitute actual blogging. And though you may laud the band/artist on their creativity and passion and mad rhyming skills, it's still not yours. If you can't find the words to express your feelings then... I don't know... go eat something. Emotional clarity is obsolete when you've got chocolate cake. But please don't post copy-paste lyrics and then make me try to infer what the fuck you are trying to say.

Day by Day by Day...: If you want to document your entire day... please, for the love of all things holy... do it in a journal or a diary or write it in blood on your driveway. It's nice that you still have the ability to remember what you did 5 minutes ago, but frankly, I don't give a shit. And neither do most of the people that skim over the world of blogs. All we want is porn, and if your day didn't involve two sweaty Brazilians, a midget, and an assortment of colorful dildoes in a sauna-like setting... *shrug*.

Commercials Disguised as Blogs: ... bitches.

Blogs with Kick Ass URL's: ... that haven't been updated in years. They include... but are not limited to...

-Touchme.blogspot.com
-Blingbling.blogspot.com
-Fetus.blogspot.com
-Bitches.blogspot.com
-Canttouchthis.blogspot.com

Hmm... maybe that category isn't so vast as I originally thought... PLUS!!! deepfriedfetus.blogspot.com isn't taken... *mischievious grin*.

Foreign Languages: You'd think everyone would have learned to speak American by now. Geez...

So there you have it. A prime example of Lisa's attention span failing her before she can reach the end of a blogging. And now, I leave you with this tidbit that has absolutely nothing to do with my previous ramblings...

(David, Jordan, and Lisa are ambling around Hastings looking for the music to "Spamalot" and engaging in a much-need caffeine fix with mediocre coffee)

(Bubbly Blonde approaches)

Blubbly Blonde: (giggle) Excuse me. (giggle) I know this is a stupid question, but... do we live in Central America? (spew)

David: ... no.

Blubbly Blonde: Oh. Ok.

Lisa: (Pulls screwdriver out of purse) (Stabs self in ear)

Jordan: (Dances)

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

Damn. Summer is good.

Sleep. Flexible schedule. More sleep. Forsaking hygiene for as long as you please. Wearing the same outfit for 72 hours straight. Sooooooooooooo good! (Note: For clarification on the significance of the this phrase, I highly suggest that you look into the esteemed Teen Girl Squad. It will make you yearn for the status of pre-pubescent female.)

New Coldplay Album!!!!!*jizz*... in my hand!!!! (Wow. That didn't come out like I wanted it to [Oh GOD! the puns.]) Thought it was coming out at the end of June, but apparently it came out on Tuesday. Crazy Brits. Now all that's left to do is force David to listen to it all the way to and from the beach tomorrow... Hacha! Eardrums will bleed and sanity will be snatched... with stealth!

Economics class at the college is... interesting. I like this whole "college education" system... thing. A magical place where you can leave when the lesson is over and administrative officials aren't constantly breathing down the neck of the teacher. Plus, the professor is cleaner than a bottle of Pine-Sol. Which makes it that much better when I show up for class unshowered and in sweatpants and a tube top.

Right. So I need more music in my life. And I have no idea where to look. The radio is shit and most of my CD's are on the verge on disintegrating. So if anyone has any suggestions for kickass music *points to comments feature*. I'm open to almost anything (aside from the "stab your momma" rap genre and country) so leave a fucking comment you douche-cunt-tweezer-fondling-fuck-nut!

Thank you! Ü

... no comment.

Watching a bit of the telly last night (*bludgeons self to death for trying to be British*) my controller and I stumbled across the Discovery Channel's presentation of the 100 Greatest Americans. And betwixt the fistfuls of popcorn that I was shoving down my throat, I was vomitting... emotionally, psychologically, metaphorically... details are irrelevant. The point is the entire thing was krap... krap with a capital K... because I said so.

Here's just a smidgin'... a pinch... an inkling of the people whose greatness has molded our country and ingrained itself in our minds and hearts for all of eternity... in no particular order...

-Tom Cruise
-Bush^4 (George, Barbara, George W., and Laura)
-Barack Obama (who hasn't actually... done anything... yet... *ponder*)
-Jacko
-Colin Powell
-Donald Trump


wait... wait... it gets better!


-Madonna
-Condoleeza Rice
-Arnold Schwarzenegger
-John Edwards (who has done almost as much as Obama... pretty little bastard)
-Rush Limbaugh
-Michael Moore
-Dr. Phil

... because when I think of America, I think of bald men who exploit the emotions of lonely housewives for the sake of selling some bullshit self-help merchandise. Tally-ho!

Vacation... all I ever wanted...

Summer is ssssooooooooooo good. And I've decided to utilize my copius amounts of free time to take a break from humanity.

It's not that I don't love the company and delightful exploits that I get the privilege of encountering in my "social life"... but right now... at this point in my life... umm... I 'on't wanna (Pronounced: i-own-wana; Translation: I do not want to). I really do love most of the people I associate with, but right now I'm kinda in this phase where I feel capable of stabbing things. The words "gnashing teeth" comes to mind, but that's a whole 'nother story.

Call it PMS... call it the gurgling misanthropist within that has finally bubbled over... Don't worry. I'll be back someday.

*Snatches from Meagan* Muahahaha... ha. I hate doing shit like this, but it's been a long day. I need some good old fashion narcissism. Onward ego!


three names you go by
1) Lisa
2) Denise
3) Thunder Thighs McGee

three screen names you have
1) Flying Nun
2) LPcowgal333
3) Defuchsia

three physical things you like about yourself
1) Thumbs
2) Boobs (they're so perky too!)
3) Butt/Hips (good for child bearing... bad for most chairs)

three physical things you don't like about yourself
1) Collosal arms that linger from a decade of softball
2) Face fat
3) Thighs

three parts of your heritage
1) Czechoslovakian (and lots of it)
2) umm...German
3) White! I'm white! *hugs self and cries in corner*

three things that scare you
1) Turning out like my parents
2) Airplanes
3) Mediocrity

three of your everyday essentials
1) Diet Soda
2) Deodorant
3) Witty Banter

three things you're wearing right now
1) T-shirt (complete with mysterious stains)
2) Pants (85% Polyester 15% Spandex)
3) Underwear

three of your favorite bands or music artists
1) Coldplay
2) Aretha Franklin
3) The Doors

three of your favorite songs
1) Green Eyes - Coldplay
2) Can't Hurry Love - Diana Ross
3) Don't Stop Me Now - Queen

three things you want in a relationship
1) Affection... lots and lots of affection
2) Unlimited foot/head/shoulder massages
3) Someone who will argue with me... and win... and then point and laugh

two truths and a lie
1) I think everyone is beautiful
2) I loath most of the people I meet
3) I plan on being obese later in life

three physical things about the preferred sex that appeal to you
1) Big shoulders and arms
2) Play-able hair (preferably not greasy)
3) Pudge... oh how I love the pudge

three of your favorite hobbies
1) Piano
2) Eating cookie dough
3) Writing

three things you want to do really badly right now
1) Cuddle
2) Play the viola
3) Make something out of playdough

three careers you're considering
1) Doctor... physician's assistant... OB/GYN!!!... cooters.
2) Impoverished english major
3) Trucker

three places you want to go on vacation
1) England (without parents)
2) New York (without parents)
3) Nepal (without parents)

three names you want for your children
1) Joaquin
2) Dalila
3) Adolf

three things you want to do before you die
1) Jump off something really tall
2) Be so happy that I cry
3) Be an extra in a porn film

three ways you're sterotypically a boy
1) Low voice
2) Buff
3) Like to blow things up just for the sake of blowing something up

three ways you're stereotypcially a girl
1) Manipulating
2) Emotional and motherly around small children and babies
3) Vain

three people you would like to see do this
1) David
2) Ben
3) Bellami

So this is what death feels like...

Hmm... I always thought it would have more of a tingling sensation to it. Like when you rub Nyquil on your... umm... yeah.

So anyway I think I can't digest gluten anymore... or so I hypothesize. My stomach feels like it's full of air and is pressing up into my diaphragm which in turn is scraping away the cushioney goo that coats my lungs. So there. Diagnose me, baby.

...and I think I'm getting a sinus infection.

...and I have come to the conclusion that all humans are inherently flawed and life has no meaning. Which isn't as bad as it sounds.

...and I don't think kemotherapy is the answer to cancer (oh, the rhyming). In fact, I think that western medicine is pretty pathetic in general. The entire nation relies so heavily on pills that things like... oh... I don't know, logic are now obsolete. Hey! Instead of smoking and then having to take medication three times a day for stomach ulcers, periodontitis,coronary heart disease, or lung/bladder/kidney/cervical/mouth cancer you could just like... not smoke. Or you could put down that large fry and eat an apple instead. Or a carrot. Vegetables are your fucking friends! *Screams*... *Rips hair out*.

...and life has no meaning.

"... and I've got me a ringside view for my quaint little fetish."

Back again to talk more about myself and probably commit some act of bitching before all is said and done...

Wanted: Someone currently possessing hands and feet who is willing to sit for multiple hours and let me practice Henna on them. You won't actually get paid, but hey! You do get to enjoy my company and bask in the sweet sweet fumes of Sharpie (because I can't actually afford to make any of the real stuff... yet).

Right... so to Wayne (who has accused my of being "boring") I offer now the official account of Lisa's Grounding. Eat it up, bitches.

Saturday night I may have partied a bit, and I may or may not have gotten a bit inebriated... *insert wild acts of skinny dipping, rampant sex, and the like here* And when I came home two hours late my parents may or may not have found my stash and the Cambodian hooker that I keep in my closet...

Ok not really... I can't back that up...

Last Monday I told my dad I was going to yoga and went to Abernathy's with David instead. There. That's the whole story. It's so CRAZY!!! You better hold me down, 'cause I'm a mad woman... MAD!!!... CRAZY!!!

So now I am supposedly grounded... which means that I sit around the house doing the stuff I would normally do, except with more guilt... and I do feel guilty... now that I think about it. Because I lie a lot...

Chances are I've probably lied to you... twice. I lie even when it's not really important, just because I think it will make things easier... and most of the time it does, until it catches up with me and I can't bullshit my way out like I usually do. In fact, I had a dream that I lied last night. Oh yeah, I do it in my sleep. That's how good I am.

"I've got me a white-bread sandwich with some shredded lettuce..."

*Updates blog due to growing pangs of guilt*... *realizes that she has no reason to be guilty, for she owes nothing to the world... nothing*.

Apparently, "In Utero" will not be getting published in Cacophony... something about inappropriate content. Heaven forbid that any of us should be the product of or have any association with this dreadful "sperm". But Rozzy labeled it a "very entertaining little read" and Iain called it "genius"... so I feel a little better.

And I'm going to be on the "Who's Who" page of the yearbook. Which means I shall be glorified in a shiny 4" x 4" section of a 500 page publication. Woot.

David came home. And then I got grounded (literally, the day after). Details are superfluous. Oh sweet inconvenience.

And you know what pisses me off? Of course you don't. Because lord knows that I never ever complain about anything... *cuts the sarcasm with a butter knife*... when people who do nice shit get trampled on because other people take the nice shit they do for granted. That's shit.

Like Bellami who works her ass off in the "Hell Hole de Pollo" and makes cupcakes every other night and still manages to maintain a kick ass GPA and not turn into a bitch. Kudos to you, you sexy thang.

Wow... that was all very self-centered... not to mention quite stunted. Like an egotistical leper.

Homina Homina Homina

No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher's dirty... what? Two more weeks? *scream* *impales self in aorta with sharpened # 2 pencil*.

But on a positive note, it's Friday. The sacred day of the week when we can all just go out, get more shit-faced than if we were bobbing for apples in cow manure, and pretend like life won't suck on Monday. TGIF, bichos!!!

And on the subjects of self-centered-ness and egocentricality... *isn't sure those are actual words*... dear god! Make it stop. Being self-centered is fine. Highschool (and probably into college) is the wonderful stage in your life when you are the universe. You're looking for yourself and your place in the world (hence the people that can find nothing interesting to say other than things that correspond to them). But when you cross that line... that dreaded threshold... that takes you into the realm of complete egoism... *shudder*... The point where you bow down to nothing, look up to no one, are so utterly lost in your own grandeur that the world is merely a shapeless mass of grey that circulates around your very existence... well that's just sad.

... And Creative Writing III T-shirts!!! They will probably be ten dollars... maybe eight if a shizz-load of people buy them. The plan is for a black shirt with a pink chair on the front and "See you in Sheboygan (May 12, 2052)" written in white on the back. They won't actually have the words "Creative Writing 3" on them anywhere... so yah, they're open to anyone. If you want one, leave a comment telling me how wonderful I am and what size you want. If you don't, leave a comment telling me how wonderful I am anyway. Please please please try to have money on Monday and spread the word! Like butta'.

Who's got the keys to the Jeep?

Right. So enough with the ambiguous confessions and what not. In hindsight that was rather pointless and shallow and unnecessary. Yum.

School is still crap. AP tests were a pain. And the new SAT... oh my god the new SAT. I spent 5 hours freezing under fluorescent lights and all I got was a pulsating growth on my forehead. *Bubbles area of growth in with a number 2 pencil*.

And I wanna go to Cornell. Oh how I long for a taste of that sweet sweet over-priced ivy league. Now I know what it's like to have a dream. Maybe next I'll acquire a conscience and some form of a soul. I've always wanted to be able to weep with all the blubbering whores at the movie theater.

And........

I have nothing more to say. My how dull I am tonight.

Symbolism Never Tasted so Good

So maybe I'm a couple of months behind the whole "write-what-you-really-think-about-people-on-your-blog-without-actually-giving-their-name" fad. It's never too late for spite-sparking rants of brutal honesty.

Ahoy!

Right. So as the token fat girl, I hath decided to put a spin on list mine. Instead of just out and saying what I think of you, everyone will be represented by food. The symbolism will be deep. The menu, delectable. And the overall effect... probably disappointing.

Bon Appetite!

-You, my friend, are the cheese. Provolone, baby swiss, sharp cheddar... the kind is of no importance (but NOT Velveeta). You are ever-growing and ever-changing, and sometimes I find it hard to keep up with you. But that's what makes you so interesting. Plus, you taste really good on enchiladas

-Honestly, I thought pretty hard about this one. And after much deliberation, and a slight tingling sensation, I've come to the conclusion that you are the matzah in my life. Not in the sense that you are flat and tasteless and primary associated with traditional jewish ceremonies, but you just seem so... wise. You think and (usually) act on a level that makes you seem older than you actually are. Just don't forget to keep kosher.

-You, sweety, are my chips. Always to be found somewhere in the house and reliable when it comes to stuffing my face after a long day. Although obviously unhealthy, you still give comfort. Although, under a few circumstances, you can come off as over-processed and stale.

-Veal kidneys in a white wine marinade over a bed of linguine with a light buttery cream sauce. You're flamboyant and delicious, but sometimes a good ol' plate of spaghetti and meatballs is ok too.

-I couldn't decide between dark fudge or wasabi sauce for you. You're nice in small doses.

-To me, you are the old fashioned chocolate chip cookie. Though subtle, your attitude is one of class and you will be sure to bring joy wherever you are found.

-The sushi of my life, I feel like we have some kind of freaky deep connection, even though we rarely talk to one another. We might actually have the potential to be close friends if we weren't both so self-shielded and reclusive. Sad story.

-Fluffy, light, and always good with a fruity topping, you are my angel food cake. Unlike your rich, overwrought counter parts, you display a simplicity that is surprising.

-My deepest darkest secret. The butter pecan ice cream of my life that I hoard for myself and willingly get sick off of every chance I get. I try to play down my love for you, but it's starting to become increasingly apparent. *points out love handles*

-It may seem insulting to call you salt and pepper, but it's probably the most accurate role on this entire pathetic attempt at confessional blogging. You are the spice of life. The cryptic pizzaz in every dish. You are also underappreciate and overlooked by most of the people that are privileged enough to get even a pinch of you in their life. Push it real good.

-You are the mysterious pie crust. I could never fully comprehend the complexity behind your creation and I probably never will. So until then, I will harbor my secret jealousy of your elusive-pastry-ocity.

-Oh, my dear Baklava. I still can't truly understand the allure that makes you so appealing to so many. Hmm...

-You look so nice, what with your swirling whisps of steam and your mystic hintings of spices, but you have a bite to you. Therefore, I proclaim thee to be the Chai Tea of my world. Honest, refreshing, and not afraid to claw at any uvula with hidden powers of bitchiness.

-My chocolate milk. My ultimate comfort food. When the rest of the world is bitching, I can always count on you to make it all seem alright, at least for a few minutes. You make me feel like a child... well, as much as I can anyway.


-And finally... the crunchy peanut butter... that I lost in the pantry a few years ago and still haven't found. Oh how bitter is the parting of ways. I know that I didn't do my part to find you... in fact, I probably deserve most of the blame for the fall out. But sometimes I think that maybe you really didn't want to be found at all.

Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Cunt Bitch Cunt

I hate my father. And I hate pomposity. And I hate the word "hate", what with its over-simplified implications. I hate grammar. And I hate lunch meat (especially bologna). I hate people who can eat chili dogs and wear spandex (simultaneously) and still look good. I hate the smell of formaldehyde and the feel of construction paper on your fingers right after you get out of the shower. And I hate my father.

How are you?

Today I skinned a cat. That was fun until Jeff started splashing me with the residues of his blunt probe. Cursed properties of fluids.

In Utero is actually going to be published. Granted, it's on the school's online publication thing that will never get viewed by anyone. Ever. The internet is for porn. Not for the fruitless dreams of aspiring hormone bombs seeking gratification for their "talent". Bahumbug.

More when my brain starts working again.

For some reason this game reminds me of Becky. Plus it's always entertaining to watch the mangled bodies of ridiculously-cute anime characters flying through the air.

Zubaaaaaaan!

(Note: it takes a few seconds to figure out what's going on. Just keep playing.)

Good times, good times...

I'm pretty sure this is some kind of joke... oh well, so is the rest of my life.

www.yourgoingtohell.com

I may be destined for a fiery pit of sinners, but you're still the grammatically-stunted dumb fuck.

(Note: Don't miss out on the special links for Catholics, "The Jews", and Whoremongers!)

My pope can kick your pope's ass!

Guhhhh... I don't want to write a paper for english. And I don't want to take TAKS. And I don't want to learn the second half of Chopin's Waltz in C Sharp Minor. And I don't want work on my creative writing. And I don't want these sacks of flab that hang where my triceps should be.

*Much compulsive eating*... and I'm spent.

I want a pope. And I don't wanna share him. If I had my own pope he would follow me everywhere I went and bless everything that I ate and drank. He would have a spike attached to the tip of his pope-hat, and would gore anything that penetrated my personal bubble. And whenever I walked into a room, my pope would announce my arrival in that chanting-prayer voice that they use in traditional Catholic ceremonies... and in seven different languages... and while making a sandwich.

And when me and my pope finished a hard day, we will stow away into our own little club house and play board games and tell ghost stories until we are too exhausted to do anything but curl up in our papal sleeping bags (made from the hides of blessed yaks) and nod off into the land of slumber.

The Yoga Class Scoring System

(Hey! You're hip. You're trendy. Jeez Chrise, you're practically Madonna! what with your sleek body and your mad "at-peace-with-the-inner-qi" skills. Why not add a swanky score sheet to your ultra-cool lifestyle?)

• Cell phone going off during class - 1 point
• Fuchsia mats - 1/2 point each
  
• Exposed thongs - 1 point each
  
• Woman in over-priced work out apparel - 2 points
• Woman in over-priced work out apparel w/ matching shoes - 4 points
• Man in over-priced work out apparel - 6 points
• Confused elderly woman - 2 points
  
• Old man - 3 points
• Old man in short/spandex shorts - 5 points
• Someone falling down during pose - 8 points
• "Gastro-Intestinal Release" during pose - 10 points

Namaste, bitches!

In Utero
(a short story of repulsive themes and tasteless humor)

{Parts}

• Gary (a sperm)
• Carl (a sperm)
• Prometheus (a sperm)

Gary: (Looks behind.) Wow. I must really be out in the lead now. I haven't seen anyone else for hours now! (Triumphant flick of flagella. Swims on.)

(Gary encounters Carl who is desperately attempting to burrow into the fleshy wall of the fallopian tunnel.)

Carl: Hey! Back off, buddy. This one is mine!

Gary: (Confused and slightly taken aback) Sorry. (Swims on.)

(Gary encounters Prometheus who is chasing his tail in circles.)

Prometheus: Thank goodness you're here. This thing has been chasing me ever since I passed the cervix and I just can't seem to catch it. Would you mind...

Gary: I'm fairly certain it's not going to hurt you.

Prometheus: Oh, thank god. I wasn't exactly sure how I was going to get it off once I did catch it, seeing as I have no mouth or appendages.

Gary: Yes, one might even go so far as to question how we are talking right now, considering we are mere sex cells with laughably short lifespans and only 23 chromosomes to our name.

(Awkward laughter. Abrupt silence. Swim on.)

(Carl catches up to Prometheus and Gary.)

Gary: Hey. I remember you. You were the one who had the thing for the wall. How did that work out for ya'?

Carl: Not so good.

Gary: Sorry to hear it. Better luck next time.

Carl: Not a chance! There's no way I'm getting caught in one of those relationships again. Impenetrable.

Gary: Maybe next time you could try it with an actual egg. You might find it a bit easier.

Carl: Whoa! No one ever said anything about an egg.

Gary: (Rolls eyes)

(Prometheus is circling around Gary and Carl making various sound effects and bouncing back and forth off the walls of the tunnel.)

Prometheus: Guys! You've totally gotta' try this.

Gary: Calm down. You're going to use up all of your fructose, and then you'll get left behind. Just like the rest of the brothers we lost back there.

Prometheus: Is that what happened all those guys we passed on the way here?

Gary: Unfortunately, yes. Some men just don't have what it takes to go the distance.

(Carl, who has a clear coat of disgust on his face, is beginning to lag behind the other two.)

Gary: What's wrong?

Carl: (Hesistant) I think I tried to penetrate one of those.

Prometheus: Oh shit!

Carl: I was confused!

Gary: Shut up! Both of you! We're wasting ATP. (silence) Where is that bloody egg? We should have reached it by now.

Carl: Hey. What's going to happen when we reach this thing anyway?

Gary: I suppose one of us will climb inside, and that will be the end of it.

Prometheus: Only one?

Gary: That's all it takes.

Carl: How efficient.

Gary: Yup.

(Silence. Sidelong glances. Silence. Suddenly, Carl takes a swing at Gary with his tail.)

Gary: What the...

(A tangle of sperm conflict breaks out as flagellas fly and chunks of plasma membrane are thrown from the fight.)

Prometheus: Wait! What's that?

(The outline of an approaching mass lingers in the distance and is steadily growing nearer. All three sperm make a dash for it. The object gradually becomes clearer as the sperm trio approaches at full speed. Only when they are right on it do they realize that they are in pursuit of a hefty white blood cell. Before any kind of retreat or witty sperm dialogue can be made, the companions are swallowed in one grand leukocytic bite. Phagocytolicious!)

End

Copyright©The Bitch. All rights reserved.

You bitch-sluts!

Due to reasons beyond my control (i.e. Meagan/Bellami whoring out the location of my blog at the Alvin Writing Convention [note: remind me to kill you two later]), the location of the blog has been moved.

If you're reading this right now, you probably found it. Kudos to you. If not, tough luck. You have no idea what kind of fun you're missing out on. All the sexual references and unnecessary cussing and rash generalizations. Boy oh boy, aren't you sorry that you didn't get the memo?

Right. So that's that.

So this is what my life has come to...

Yah... so here's what I do with my weekends.

Watch as Fetal Alcohol Syndrome girl learns about the miracles of WOMANHOOD!!! *sigh* there's nothing quite like a good 1960's brain-washing.

Whoosh!

(Warning: Viewing entire video may result in severe drop in I.Q. and increase in loser-ness-ish-ness.)

Crack babies con queso!!!

Sitting in Creative Writing... pretending to be creative... failing... *glances at watch*... yerp.

I feel sorry for people with ugly faces.

*Prepares self for general statement and bout of passionate inner-searching*

Why are we so scared of change? Don't sit there shaking your head and chuckling lightly to yourself in denile. I see right through you. If I came up to you the day after tomorrow and offered you all your hopes and dreams and wishes and demands and a slice of rhubarb pie, you would think twice. In fact, you might even think thrice. THRICE!!! And then you would wet yourself a bit. Because change is scary.

Who knows what lies in the great beyond? Who knows what frightening enlightening horribly wonderful things might await us in the future? I don't know. And neither do you.

I'm sure that was some deep underlying message that corresponds to my life and things happening in it right now, but I'll never tell. Leave me alone! Silence is my shield.

I need some Jell-o.

"I wanna live in a wooden house where makin' more friends would be easy..."

Have you ever had one of those days where all the world seems to be working in your favor? The kind of day that renders the trees are a bit greener, the sun a bit warmer, and the wind suddenly laced with the essence of creation and new life. Have you ever had a day that filled you up, yet left you craving more? Yah, me neither.

Prom night was... amusing. But I don't really want to talk about it... at all... hmm, I wonder why that is?

I've decided what I'm going to do with my life... besides the whole "spending 11 years in school to become a doctor and then shipping myself off to a third world country". (I've already told a lot of people this story... if you've already heard it, go here and save yourself from my pompous rambling). I am going to be a benefactor. Almost like the crazy convict from Great Expectations except without the whole life sentence to the penal colony thing. Ick.

First, I shall aquire large sums of money by means of blackmail, big pimpin', and various other endeavours. Then I will fake my own death. Nothing too showy. Just a mass cult suicide or a spontaneous act of martyrdom where I run onto the field during half-time at the Super Bowl and light myself on fire to protest the killing of the ozone or cancer or whatever. But that's not the point! Because you'll only think I'm dead. When in reality, I'll be financing Bellami's films and David's political campaign and Meagan's writing projects and Carolyn/Wayne/Jeff's fashion empire and whatever-the-hell Alex will be doing and Lindsey's midget bar. By the way, Lindsey, you need to open up a bar that caters exclusively to midgets.

... and while you're all running your lives and concealing your mysterious donations from the IRS, I'll be on a beach in Mayaguana, sipping a Wiki Waki and working on my melanoma.

*slurp*... *slurp*... *sigh*

Priceless Moments with Megs

Meagan: The Great Depression must have been when all the world's Prozac spontaneously combusted.

Mr Rinehart: I... uhh... imagine at that time Prozac was not... uhh... in its current form.

Meagan: Yah, back then it was called cocaine.

Guffaw!!!

Oh, Meagan. Your desperate attempts at historical discussion never cease to amuse. Keep on rockin' and rollin', Sister of Love.

"Sorry, I dropped my tater tot."

Two days. Two accidents. Coincidence? I think not. Someone wants me dead. I'm pretty sure it's God, but it might also be Big Brother. But then again, who can tell the difference these days...

...or maybe I'm just a bad driver...

To Expound: Yesterday I backed into a shiny red PT Cruiser with a bitchy teenage girl inside. Oops. My bad. No notable damage sustained. Today, as I was driving to the Health Food store with Fausia (to explore the fine realm of ingestion paranoia), I got rear ended by some girl from school. Apparently, she had dropped her tater tot. She got a grease stain on her shirt, and Fausia and I got whiplash. But apart from that, no damage... which leads me to believe that there might be a god afterall. And if so, he/she probably wants me dead. And promptly.

I was thinking about Steve Qin the other day (wow, never thought I'd start a sentence off that way). For the two people that actually read this: I'm sure you already know who he is. You may skip over the next 34 words. For the rest of you: Steve is a clever, bitter, cocky, arrogant genius of an Asian. And many people hate him. Many many people. Personally, I don't really have a problem with the guy.

Because of this unanimous hatred flowing in his general direction, he is often singled out and bitched about... and bitched about... and bitched about. Yet, the other day I was sitting next to someone(she shall remain nameless), and I realized that she was just as bad as Steve. Really... there were little bits of arrogance and pomposity flopping all over.

But how come Steve is always the one we hate? Why can't we see the bastard within everyone else? Because we are looking for Steve's inner-bastard. Constantly focusing in on it and blowing it up to collosal proportions and then poking at it with spears of spite every chance we get.

It's the classic bully-picks-on-nerd scenario. I could have sworn those died out sometime in the '70's. I could be wrong.

"... they've got the guns, but we've got the numbers..."

Wow... I really have nothing witty to say. This must be the reason why people don't post everyday. And those that do usually just brag about all the great shit they blew up over the weekend or pine over the "hottie in fourth period" for pages and pages and pages and pages...

To comment on a post on Meagan's blog (Lady's Lair), I think, at times, "the group" can get rather pathetic in their secret loathings of one another. I think it's even more pathetic that I referred to them as "the group" *cringe* I hate when that happens. I would say that we should just put an end to the madness and tell each other what we really think. But that's just begging for disaster, and a sucker punch or two (note: if anyone knows what the hell a "sucker punch" actually is, please leave a comment). True, ignorance is bliss. But what's the point of even hanging out with someone if the only way you connect with them is through hatred?

Does anyone else ever giggle to themselves when they drop the soap in the shower?

Ear wax doesn't get enough mention in this world of ours. Neither does cream of celery soup.

I did a spinning class today. And now I finally know what it feels like right after you've given birth to a bowling ball. For those of you that aren't obsessed with self-image and don't live at the gym, "spinning" is when you ride a bike for long periods of time while a bubbly bundle of peppiness (a.k.a. the instructor) makes enthusiastic sound effects and blasts music to make you forget that you're actually exercising. It was pretty kick ass... besides the fact that I'm going to be walking like I replaced my tampon with a baseball bat. Yah, that's right. I said it.

Short splooge. Sorry, I just don't have the stamina I used to...

I want to ride my bicycle.

Oh my god! I missed a day! What am I going to do? I've stained the Manifesto. I've defecated on the creed. Oh dear god, the humanity...

Alright, I'm fine.

Friday was... probably stupid... I'm still not quite sure. I've managed to snatch 4 hours of sleep in the last 48. Things are starting to spin. Lucille Ball is flipping blueberry pancakes in the corner of the room. I need coffee.

The Official List of Words that I Officially Hate:

• Stupid
• Weird
• Slurp
• Indeed
• A'ight (actually, I probably use this one more than anyone else... damn)
• Schwing (oh my god, kill it... kill it now!)
• 'sup

Random Story: After lunch on Friday some kid started break dancing in the hall. There was no warning. There was no preparation. He just got down on the floor and did it. The best part was that no one cheered him on. No one even began to forming of a circle around him; they all just kind of stopped walking and watched for about 30 seconds. And then he got up and walked away. And then everyone else continued walking too. It was the most spontaneous wonderful act of freedom that I have seen all year. I wish you had been there.

Everyone is dying this week. First Johnnie Cochran, then Schiavo, and now the Pope. Bam bam bam. One two three. It's depressing... sort of...

(Warning: this portion of the blogging may contain rash generalizations and one-sided opinions. Enter at thine own risk.)

It makes me laugh how shit-lickin'-scared of death America is. In Mexico, they embrace the act of "biting the dust" with a celebration. I really hate when tradition gets destroyed by consumerism, but Día de los Muertos is one of the few holidays that I can still see a purpose in. Unlike the propagandic bonanza of the Fourth of July or the materialistic sham that is Christmas, El Día actually teaches a good lesson. Death is just as much a part of life as birth, and as so, it should be embraced. With candy skulls and flowers and food food FOOD!!! FIESTA!!! *rolls tongue for no apparent reason*

American likes to express everything in words. Joy. Grief. Rebellion. It's all written down and edited and revised and by the time it gets through the entire process it's almost as fake and plastic-ey as Joan Rivers (alright, cheap shot... but someone had to say it). I hate political correctness. Whoever invented it gave us all a royal screwing up the butt... hardcore... no reach arounds. And we are still suffering.

Whatever happened to good old fashion expression? Oh, how I hunger for the day when we will all realize the sweet jubilee that is life and perform nude dances of elation on our front lawns. And flailing our bare appendages we won't have to worry about the prude bitch across the street suing us for "corrupting little Timmy". God, let's all get naked and form our own nation in the Brazoswood parking lot and live under anarchy and say what we think and and do what we feel and live.

Fuck bureaucracy. Fuck Bush. Fuck like bunnies and come be naked with me.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Amusing Story of the Day: In English (a class in which many an opinion is expressed) I overheard a brief conversation between two of my peers. During my easedropping I happened to hear the line "Man, I wish the south had won the Civil War." Being one who considers herself open-minded and always curious as to alternate perspectives I asked why. And she replied "Because I want a slave." Welcome to Texas: hellhole of the south.

Terri Schiavo is gone. Now we can all go back to our reality TV, Atkin's diets, and acts of tsunami righteousness...

As of this moment, I am officially declaring it to be "Gender-Confusion Week". Never has my fascination with the male genetalia been stronger than in the last few days. And now, just to add to my woes, I realized today that women are evil. Malicious conniving witches who cheat and steal and lie and stab each other in the back over and over again just for the sake of some juicy gossip. We're really horrible. Of course, men do have that whole "for honor, glory, and country" complex *cringe*... but that's a completely different story.

Ahh... another petit and pathetic installment. Just be thankful that I didn't go off on a tangent about how fat I am... you were lucky this time.

¡Cállete, puto!

I have found the greatest conversation tactic in the world. It's the holy grail of the spoken word! It's a fail-proof plan that sparks intriguing discussion all the time every time. Wouldn't you like to hear it? What with your prying eyes hovering over blog-mine lapping up the infinite sagacious goodness and savoring the essence of wisdom. I see you touching yourself right now in anticipation. Go wash your hands, come back, and then maybe I'll let you in on it.

The secret is... *shifty eyes*... *maniacal giggling*... to talk about the other person. Excessively. To the point where you think they might actually get sick of themselves. But they don't! You can get anyone to talk when you let them be the star. Put away your clever philosophies and witty tales of self. In fact, try to forget that you exist. Just let them shine in all their mediocre glory.

Do you know why this works? Let me tell you...

Because people are genuinely afraid that they are going to disappear. If they don't thrust at least a smidgin of themselves out into the world and let it mingle with the other smidgins they will be lost in the swirling vertigo of life. By triggering this voice, you are ushering the smidgin out for them. And even if they can see right through you and know that you really don't give a shit about anything they have to say, they will still talk. And they will love you for loving them.

To be blunt (and to quote a bumper sticker on the "Liberal-Mobile"-a.k.a. The Benigno Volvo-)...

"Shhhhhhhhhh.... listen."