No pity comments, please.

Why do I feel like everytime I say something no one is listening? I can be sitting across from someone, just me and them at a single table, and they will find a way to ignore me or interupt or just walk away like I was never there at all. Do I talk too much? Am I being redundant? Am I "the annoying bitch" that everyone talks about as soon as I leave the room? (Actually, that one might be kind of flattering) Would someone just be fucking honest and tell me why. Please. I need a good reality bitch slap.

I think I've decided that if I die in a plane crash on my way to Cornell (which would be a juicy little irony if there ever was one) I would be ok with that. At least I died attempting something worthwhile, which is more than I can say about anything else I've ever done... ever.

I've always wanted a dog. When I was young it was just because everyone else had one, but now I hunger for that stupid, unconditional, slave-love that only canines can give. Yeah, I'm a psycho. What of it? So every time I blew out birthday candles or broke a wish bone or was near a wishing well, I would wish for a puppy. And I still don't have one. It's these kind of things that make children skeptical. And then they grow into pessimists. And then, eventually, they turn atheist and start a blog where all they do is bitch, because no one will actually listen to them in person.

But the real irony is that my dad says he wouldn't mind having a dog... as soon as I move out of the house.

I pushed a little girl down the stairs once. There was a brick wall at the bottom. But I was a little girl too... so does it really count?

Jewin' it up.

One day I was looking through the links I have to other blogs, and I realized that 23% of those blogs don't actually exist anymore. And of the other 77%, more than half barely get a blogging in once every other month. I guess what I'm saying is that the only blog I really read is the sentence or two that Regis throws out every once in a while. And the rest of you are dead to me. Dead!

No. No. I don't care that you moved to Live Journal or Myspace or that you are taking fincancial responsibility into your own hands and working 40 hours a week. That's no excuse. Why can't we all just go back to the care free days when blogs were new and exciting and mysterious and arrousing? The days when everyone blogged about the most trivial matters and assumed that the rest of the world was reading and caring.

Damn you all! (except Regis)

That's all I have to say for now. But I'll be back. Oh, how I'll be back.

Dick Cheney gonna' have to shoot a bitch?

This is why we should not give people guns. I don't care if your second in line to the presidency of the Free World, karma will kick your ass. Hunting is just evil. I have no problems with the legality of it, I just think that guns should be illegal and everyone should have to build their own weapons. From products of the earth. Or wrestle their prey to the ground and rip out the jugular. Either way is fine by me.

Personally, I think it's a conspiracy of some kind. Casual hunting companion or... last link to the Romanov blood line! *Gasp*... yeah, I suck at making up conspiracies, what of it?

And then creative writing killed my printer. Go printer go! Just 50 more pages, that's all.

I think next 6 weeks, I'm going to write a story Baszkiewicz-style with cannibis-enduced plots and random acts of pedofilic description. And the essential Frankfurt setting. It will be a creative writing adventure!

Well that wasn't fun at all.

I got to miss another B-day for my endoscopy. Hooray! for avoiding problems instead of making an effort to solve them. Not so much hooray-ing for the endoscopy. I always had this idea that being put under was like in the movies, where they put a mask over your face and the doctor's voice gets lower and slower as the world fades to black. But the bitches did an IV! They snuck up on me and didn't even give me warning. *Grudge* The rest of the day was me curled up in a ball in various corners of the house trying to get the air out of my stomach. That's the other thing... I kind of visualized it being like that scene in Willy Wonka where Charlie and Grandpa Joe get into the mischief with the fizzy lifting drinks. Just a few burps, and it would all be better. Fuck no. It was probably worse than the pancreatitis.

But I get to eat peanut butter again. *Dances for peanut butter*.

Happy birthday, Meagan! Hope your first day of adulthood was simply splendid.

I have this metaphor... simile... thing going that maybe politics is like a giant swimming pool. Entry into the pool starts with the "toe test" and then the slow descent into deeper waters before you finally push off from the sides and are supported by nothing but water. And that's when the thrashing begins. That clumsy, desperate doggy paddle that could be assimilated to... oh, I don't know, the "radical youth". When you slowly gather your bearings, however, and realize that the your own buoyancy will hold you and you can actually start to swim without looking like an idiot. Or maybe that's just me being stuck in a perspective that only sees the loud radical points of view. The crazy people that roam the halls with their collection of "Bushisms" and cry for anarchy... and don't really know why. Of course, under this metaphor Bill O'Reilly would be the bully who goes around splashing people and Delay would you the loner with the murky yellow aura around his swim trunks.

Whatever.

PEANUT BUTTER!!! *scurries to the kitchen*

Lisa pissy... Lisa smash!!!!!!!

Lisa's Morning: *wake up*... *wipe away drool*... *roll out of bed*... "Mmm... wait... oh shit, another B-day. And navigations. Oh fuck no."... *rolls back into bed*

Ok. So maybe the dialogue didn't exactly go like that. Artistic license, motha' trucka's. God, I'm a loser.

Today was definitely one of those days had I gone to school I would be in police custody right now awaiting my trial for manslaughter... or homocide... or murder. Whatever they're calling it nowadays. The point is... I framed Roger Rabbit.

The Plan

Here's what I'll do:

I'll clone myself and then inject my clone (Lisa version 2.0) with enough hormones to get her from infancy to adolescence within a few hours. THEN! I'll give her a few lessons on eating and socializing and living, dress her up real pretty, and send her off to school in my place. Meanwhile, I'll stay at home and figure out a way to put myself into a "Hollywood coma", where I can wake up in a ridiculously short period of time with no brain damage, and set the coma clock for May 2006. And then graduate. And bond with my clone... if she isn't dead by then.

It's infallible!