|
left column so sad.
[pitas: served cold {archives}]
[splash image archives]
Pitas.com
freespeech
charged magazine
imagine radio
bigwords
i love squishy
friends
mirriam-webster
i'm making stickers
with smiling faces
kenya pictures, etc.
pictures
[deletia: overflow]
browse archived entries for more links
angie gets her own link (and it's the first one!)
jeff's page
(pushplay?)-- which is at the moment quite sparse.
he also has a pita to call his home.
cameron's
webpage-- which is even sparser than Jeff's.
alex's
webpage
Jessica's
hodge-podge page
Jess also has a pita!
The Royal
Buffalo (I helped!)
Orwell's Pita
Chandra has a webpage the URL of which I don't know at the
moment, but Chandra is a goddess!
Chris and Nicki don't have webpages but I still love
them.
my left column is not as nice as stee's left column.
my left column is weighted down by a thousand sorrows.
it wants to be as long as the right column.
I keep telling it size doesn't matter, but it just looks mournfully at me, its long eyelashes wet with tears.
poor left column.
i will think of something fun for you to do soon.
|
Girl, Disrupted
Thursday, February 10, 2000 06:22 p.m.
Okay. Well, I'm not sure about the future of this pita or whether it even has a pita-future, since my mom made me really angry by visiting my website. This brings up interesting questions about how I could consider an internet site "private"-- and yet I do. I mean, I write this pita for specific people-- Angie, Cam, Jess, and Jeff I guess-- along with the ocasional stranger who finds this pothole in the Information Superhighway. That's the audience I consider when I write, and to find someone unexpected in that audience surprised me. It's not like I have a secret internet life I'm hiding from my parents (unlike, say, Angie), and in fact they know me very well-- or rather, certain sides of me. But it still felt like an invasion of my privacy. I don't think my mom will do it again since I got really mad at her, but it still makes me think a little bit about how I could write something like this and still expect to retain my privacy. I don't know. I might institute a site with passwords to enter, but that just seems like a perpetuation rather than a solution. I might keep the pita but lose the bad teenage poetry-- which isn't really for general consumption. In fact, the only people who should read bad teenage poetry are other bad teenage poets-- or better yet, no one at all. It's a health hazard. The sheer badness of it can blow your mind.
Well, anyway, I don't know. I'd welcome suggestions, of course, and I promise not to bite your head off.
On to my daily bits of things that I think are fun:
This morning on my way to school, and then AGAIN on my way home from downtown, there were guys who resembled Brian Littrell of the Backstreet Boys on my busses. VERY weird. I assume that Kevin Richardson, my favourite chair-dancing twenty-seven year old Boy, is trying to get in touch with me and is too shy to stalk me on busses himself. shameful.
"okay-y."
"That's like okay with two 'y's!"
"but why would you have two 'y's?"
"'cause two ys are better than one."
[Jocelyn laughs so hard that passing motorists slow down, the expressions on their faces leering: "I'll bet you anything he beats her."]
Oh, boy. Courtney sent me a fun Internet game which promises to reveal all the hidden secrets which are buried under layers of styrofoam, peach lip balm, pasta sauce and a substance that looks like snow mould in my subconscious. Here goes (I followed the instructions, which were rather vague, very very exactly for the highest possible degree of ultimate accuracy in answers):
> > >>>> > > >1. You must tell (the number in space 2) people about this game. (I had: sixty-three-- oh fuck.)
> > >>>> > > >2. The person in space 3 is the one that you love (I had: Chris)
> > >>>> > > >3. The person in space 7 is one you like but can't work out (I had: Cameron-- they were right about it not working out anyway, i'll give them that.)
> > >>>> > > >4. You care most about the person you put in 4. (I had: Jeff)
> > >>>> > > >5. The person you name in number 5 is the one who knows you very well. (I had: Adam, Alex's cute brother-- which is actually pretty funny since he knows me the least of all the people I listed in my answers.)
> > >>>> > > >6. The person you name in 6 is your lucky star. (I had: my father)
> > >>>> > > >7. The song in 8 is the song that matches with the person in number 3 [Chris]. (I had: I Can See Cleary Now the Rain is Gone)
> > >>>> > > >8. The title in 9 is the song for the person in 7. (I had: Man, I Feel Like a Woman-- no comment.)
> > >>>> > > >9. The tenth space is the song that tells you most about your mind. (I had: Shake your Bon Bon-- I think that's so funnyyyyyyyy.)
> > >>>> > > >10. And 11 is the song telling how you feel about life (I had: Crazy Baby)
Okay, here's last night's entry, which I didn't upload because I was too angry at my mother for reading my website:
My sister, as part of a homework assignment entitled "Interviews
with Successful People," came in just now to ask me a few
questions. I was surprised, first of all, that anyone would
consider me to be a successful person, although on examination
that doesn't seem logical. After all, I am a fairly happy person
except when I am melancholy, but you won't find me dangling from
any goalposts. I get good marks, I'm not unpopular. (When I say
"not unpopular," I don't mean "popular;" I just mean literally
that, not unpopular.) The first question, what am I most
proud of, made me think seriously. What am I proud of?
- My relationships, with my friends, my boyfriend, my
family, and my teachers. That's the foremost one.
- I am, actually, most proud of myself as a person. Not only
do I have an absence of, say, cigarettes or pregnancies, but I
think I have a lot of good qualities. I think I came through
some difficulties and survived-- well, I mean that I took a
lickin' and kept on tickin', essentially.
- My marks, I guess. Actually that's bullshit. It doesn't
mean too much to me. There are individual assignments that I'm
proud of, but my academic career doesn't mean too much to
me.
Well, anyways, it's just something to think about. You ought to
think about it too if you know what's good for you. You never
know when someone might want to interview you, you Successful
Person you.
(The answer I gave my sister? That I once ate 7 jalapeno slices
at one time and lived to tell the tale. I get my sister into
trouble with my contributions to her homework.)
"Why are they testing the poisonous pointsettas and not the radioactive muskrats?" -Loic
"Well, I think you look like Jay Leno's mom, Mr. Chin." -Meghan, to Cam
"Because you [teenagers] are basically irresponsible creeps, and nothing's going to change that." -Mr. Larb
John McCain's (US presidential candidate) wife Cindy, on marrying a man 18 years her senior: "and the best part is that I didn't have to raise him." Burns for men.
you know, the world sucks
Wednesday, February 9, 2000 05:10 p.m.
the website link'd above is too disgusting to explain.
this morning some students apparently found a man who'd hanged himself from the football goalposts at "my" school. the only thing more selfish than suicide is public suicide, trying to force other people to fathom your shitty problems, which is really unfair and a dirty thing to do as well. (Especially if the person who finds the body is some little kid.)
I hate people.
Quick, say something sweet, I'm fading
I don't know. It's not really my day, although Chris did buy me some soup at lunchtime in a botched attempt to buy back my affection (botched not because it's shameful to try to buy someone's love but because the soup had PEAS in it!) my imood indicator says it all.
Image for the day: Meghan, peering into the cheap high-school microscope at the poorly-focused slides of onion root tips cells, arrested by pink dye partway through mitosis, crooning, "I see Jimmy, and Johnny, and Sally...", a la Romper Room.
One year ago i was talking about landed gentry
bad teenage poetry with jocelyn
Tuesday, February 8, 2000 10:22 p.m.
bad teenage poem:
keep kissing me
i'm so tired
just keep me here
settle for me
try to fill me
with something
i'm a problem
you want
you used to want
clean me up
call me crazy
smile
we're been together
too long
for this
and we're too old
for this
and we know
each other
too well too long
for this
so just
don't stop
keep kissing me
weave your fingers
nibble on my neck
stretch things out
as long as
you
can
hold me
forget it
we can still
make something
of ourselves
we can still
make something
of each other
so just keep kissing me
look after me
pretend we like each other
maybe we do
we're too old
to tell
don't stop
please
don't stop
|
