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."

Another day... another motivational presentation that makes me want to castrate myself with toe nail clippers... oh, and another dollar...

Why aren't there more musical prodigies in the world? Or at least you never hear about them. Maybe it's because as soon as we find out they can solve complex fractions without mysterious neural fluids leaking out of their ear we whisk them off to some technical institute and pray that they might do something "productive" with themselves. Something like engineering or rocket building. Who needs more music anyway? There are enough sonatas in the world as it is.

I'm tired of being motivated. I know the school means well with their "inspiration assemblies" , and I know that you're only trying to help, but knock-the-fuck-off. I don't want to sit in a freezing auditorium three inches away from someone else and I don't want you to blast over played "teenage music" at me and tell me that I shouldn't get drunk on the weekends and smoke weed. I'm fairly certain that this little jist of inspiration was somehow sparked by the shooting in North Dakota, but one can never be sure. After that happened I was positive that it was going to spark a series of imitation shootings across the country and at our school... I was wrong. And I was surprised.

Alright, I'll admit it. My panties are in a wad over the Terri Schiavo thing... but I can't get the fuck over it! It pisses me off that the family wasn't responsible enough to sort this thing out among themselves... oh no, let's take it to the government because they always know what they're doing. And then of course once you wrangle that fucked institution into it you bring in the media and then the public naturally follows. Everyone is shitting their pants over the factthat they aren't getting new footage and they "need a more up to date video of Terri."

It's none of your god damn shit sniffing cunt swalling fuck fuck shit fuck BUSINESS!!! Back the fuck off. You don't know her and you don't know her husband and you don't know their history and you can't base your judgements of people on some media frenzy that is driven (for the most part) by political spin. *screams*... *pulls hair out*

Wow. I feel better.

Good session everybody... good session.

Monday, Monday...

Fuck. What a horrible day. I woke up and felt the urge to cry. So I did. I blame my synthetic hormones and my pathetic life. A combination which yields amusing results.

And then came the bonding. I opted out of making a trip to Sugarland for new clothes and went to a ghetto whole sale giant flea market part of Houston with my mom. Holy hell that was lot of jewelry. Carolyn, if you had been there, you would have walked in and shot out a baby with glee. There was Mexican hoochie jewelry and prude white girl jewelry and bojangly old woman jewelry. They even had tribal accessories that I think only black women are supposed to wear. Bought some crap. Know I'm a spoiled brat. But now I'm an accessorific one.

Directions

Cold, Alone, and snacking on the flesh of freshly killed kittens...

Why is this house so damn cold? Damn that cursed a/c contraption. Damn it to the cavernous chasms of hell where it can no longer work its cooling magic. I may be a fat girl, but my blood has the consistency of cranberry juice (as opposed to the ketchup texture that it should have to keep my body temperature above 95 degrees). Thus my constant shivering state and the lovely shade of "death yellow" that the tips of my fingers turn.

*sigh*

I'm lonely. I hate night time. This is just another reason why I need a penis...

... if I had one of those little buggers attatched to me I would never be lonely. I would have a lively little companion to keep me company at night and greet me in the morning. Plus, I could dress it up for Halloween... wouldn't that be cute? *crosses line*

I love when stupid people shit their pants over animals. Talking parrots, fresh-from-the-womb kittens, little teeny tiny puppies dressed up... in people clothes! Adorable. I especially like when this crowd cares more for a homeless family of raccoons or a bird with a broken wing then they do for their fellow human beings. They give thousands of dollars to feed and house the cute puppies and kitties, but they scoff at the homeless man living under the bridge. That's because animals are people too- like little furry people that lick their own anuses and hump various peices of furniture.

Oh, this crazy country and its crazy priorities...

I'm feeling fat and sassy... and white

The very first fifteen minutes... and... wait for it... GO!

Today is Easter. The day of holy that marks the resurrection of our lord and savior Jesus Christ. The point at which the misery of winter turns to the misery of spring and we all let out a deep sigh as our hormones flow with "spring fever" and our pants get a little tighter. The most gluttonous day of the year (aside from Thanksgiving and Christmas... and Halloween... and The Fourth) when we can all push our stomach capacities to the limit with jelly beans and peeps and chocolate bunnies. Extreme eating rocks!

Meanwhile, I got dragged to church. And somewhere between the clapping and the "gung-ho" congregation participation (oh the rhyming) I realized... *insert dot dot dot for effect*... our church wants to be black. Granted there is not a single African American among us. Granted that the entire Chaplewood congregation is so white that we have to keep the lighting to a minimum as not to blind one another with our oh-so-reflective skin. We are desperately seeking that flare that only comes with the truest form of "gospel preaching" and large women in large hats.

But we are white!

... and as such we are in constant need of a plan of action. First the hymn must be set in motion, and then there must be a second to the motion, and then we take a vote. After that it goes to a board of trustees who analyze the content and message of the hymn and send it to higher powers who have the final say. Finally it is officially translated into document form and put on a waiting list where it may or may not be sung in the next decade or so. That is how anal the white man has become. That is how far the butt plug has shifted up the ass of the caucasian race.

Can I get an amen!?!

(Ok, that was tacky. But fuck off! I only have fifteen minutes.)

The Flummery Manifesto

I, the blogger formerly known as The Bitchin' Bitch, vow that I will ramble incessantly everyday for precisely 15 minutes (no more no less). The bloggings shall consist of, but are not limited to, flitty notions, nonsensical forms of logic, whimsical speculations, spontaneous schemes for world domination, and perhaps a few kinky sex fantasies thrown in for good measure.

Let the joyous tidings or impulsive jargon commence! Or something like that...