"i hate it when you call/which isn't at all"
"we've all pretty much grown up with evolutionary theory... except you quantnum theorists, but I've got my own ideas about that."
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[the roving pirate queen]
[some form of explanation]
[links-- huge, messy file]
[a list of things that are tasty]
[my lameass radio station]
[older pictures]
[buy me stuff]
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[the current pita entity]
served cold: [old taglines] [old banners]
the best way to get in touch with me: telepathy.
the second-best way:
third-best way:
[email me.]
fourth-best:
[my guestbook]
for me: [login]
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[angie] is a superhero with a wonderful sense of the sublime
i'm pretty crazy about [james]
[jeff] is an internet ninja and a burner of CDs
though [jess] is but small she is fierce
[meghan] is the royal buffalo and supreme commander of my heart. (along with napoleon)
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[abe books]
[thinkgeek]
[emily strange]
[threadless]
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[the pillowfort]
[inpassing]
[eric conveys an emotion]
[bluishorange]
[amplified to rock]
[mary chen]
[bryanboyer.com]
[oh messy life]
[popsensation]
[exploding dog]
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[random access memory]
[the fray]
[shakespeare]
[the onion av club]
[fifty fresh pitas]
[damn hell ass kings]
[fun!]
[girlboy]
[uber]
[charged]
[atlantic unbound]
[chickclick]
[BUST]
[adbusters]
[art of the mix]
[red balloon]
[the new varscona]
[the sims]
[malcolm in the middle]
[buffy]
[wild colonials]
[airtoons]
[disturbing search requests]
[kvetch]
[hey! url!]
[u of a]
[plastic]
[envy.nu]
[divide by zero]
[google]
[1000 journals]
[feels like]
l
<
subversive
>
?
boys [suck]
i've been
since march 1st, 2000!
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sexy girls killing chicken Thursday, January 24, 2002 @ 11:07 p.m. |
OK, weird: one of the referrals that sent someone to my site was "sexy girls killing chicken," which I thought was a little bizarre. I mean, deletia: sexy girls: yes. deletia: killing chicken: never. I was all set to post it to disturbing search requests... But then I noticed that one of the hits above mine on the google search was actually an earlier entry of mine on dsr. Which I totally don't remember making. Possibly because it was from, like, six months ago. Anyway, it was a pretty weird meta-coincidence and it just goes to show you that (a) yes there is a pattern and (b) no I'm not telling you what it is.
But it has something to do with sexy girls, chicken, and the future...
bah bah bah bah
that's all she wrote
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But I'm your biggst fan! Thursday, January 24, 2002 @ 06:58 p.m. |
To do list:
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"i'm burning all your stuff... Wednesday, January 23, 2002 @ 10:37 p.m. |
but that's not enough"
I don't know why I'm here tonight except I'm lonely and the internet is lonely too.
I lost something a long time ago and I want it back. I wonder if it's true that whatever doesn't break you makes you stronger-- because it seems unbelievable, how much we've lost-- not just me but everyone. Sometimes, almost all the time, the world seems like such a blessed place to me-- shrouded in a thick mist as it was this morning, or a thin veil of frost as it is tonight-- but at other times it feels so barren, and I can't imagine what I'm even doing here at all.
At times the temptation to leave is so great, and then it's only the most material things that keep me tethered here: half-filled black notbooks, my typewriter, my friends (with coffee coming out their noses), the promise of curling.
Well, looking for the pattern, of course. I realized on the bus today it must have something to do with love-- and old friends, Gods and monsters, etc.-- but love, mostly. I don't think any of it matters but it seems to matter so maybe it does.
If that makes any sense.
"We may be finished with the past, but the past is not finished with us."
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Married to the sea Wednesday, January 23, 2002 @ 05:28 p.m. |
I got some strange mail today.
It freaked me out at first, because I thought I was being drafted for the war against terrorism or something, and (as you all know) I'm a raving pacifict, so I would in this case need to look into some sort of appeal process, which could conceivably take a long time. So naturally I was nervous. But then I realized it was another bizarre mass mailing, and I let out a sigh of relief.
Second: I got mail from Rutherford Library. They send me notices every week now. It's great; it makes me feel so popular. They want me to pay them $87 for a book they think I lost, although I swear on my mother's grave that I returned it. I talked to a librarian about it today, and she's like, "Well, you could make an appeal," and I'm like, "Damn fucking straight I can make an appeal, I didn't lose that fucking book," and I grabbed her by her big fat head...
No, I didn't. But I'm really not giving them $87, unless they really really make me.
Fig 7.1a: Fucked-up mail
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The same thing we do every night... try to take over the world. Monday, January 21, 2002 @ 02:48 p.m. |
I left the house in such a hurry this morning I failed to notice the socks I put on weren't mine. I wonder where they came from. Oh well-- at least they're clean. And I caught my bus, although I was late for class, anyway.
Waiting to use the microwave in the Tory-Business Atrium at lunchtime, someone actually bought ice cream from the ice cream vending machine there-- it sells drumsticks, and oreo sandwiches, and so on. It's the most space-age vending machine conceivable. A huge lid lifts off a freezer full of ice cream. Then a robotic arm descends into the freezer, selects the right type, and pulls it up with suction power. Then the robotic arm drops it down in the dispenser-thing, and the freezer lid closes. But it wasn't functioning properly, and it had to try four times before it got the ice cream. Each time the robotic arm would swing back towards us, realize it had no ice cream in it, and turn back to the freezer. Everyone standing in line for the microwave watching in fascination. Finally someone commented, "Wow, that's so inefficient."
It looked like the type of technology that should be put into use in deep space, not selling ice cream-- although maybe not, since it didn't really work that well. Extreme inefficiency = 15 minutes of entertainment.
At the end of my FMS class my backpack fell over and almost off the desk. My FMS prof leapt forward heroically to catch my falling water bottle, but it didn't fall-- it was caribenered to my backpack. (Shut up. Caribenered is a word.) He said in wonder, "It's attached!" and I replied prophetically, "Everything is attached."
So there are my two sublime moments for the day.
Also: in a moment of inspiration... are you pondering what I'm pondering?-- the complete list.
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Saturday Girl Saturday, January 19, 2002 @ 06:07 p.m. |
Wilma had a very perverted idea, that gave her butterflies in her stomach.
Ahhh, SPAM. What a neverending delight. I don't think that whole "sex-crazed beast's cock" thing sounds too safe... I mean, wouldn't you be worried about, like, hepatitis or something? I know I would. There is nothing sexy about tetanus.
She wanted to suck the sex-crazed beast's huge cock.
It was a part of her favorite fantasy, and so tempting that she couldn't resist....
To be continued...
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"you gotta be crazy" Friday, January 18, 2002 @ 06:44 p.m. |
me: "Remember that time that you wanted to take Italian and I told you no one spoke it in the world anymore, that it was a dead language like Latin, and you believed me? Wasn't that funny?"
Hmmm... I really like the term "chasing skirt" although as you can imagine, I don't get to use it as much as I would wish. Also: I went to the liquor store tonight with my dad, who doesn't drink but likes to buy wine, and they have all these great liqueurs... is that how you spell that? Anyway, it made me realize that the one think my Sims are missing is a fully stocked bar. I mean, an actual bar rather than the mini-bar type thing that came with the original game. I'm talking, like, a whole mirrored wall with glass shelves full of bottles.
my sister: "No!"
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Web notes Friday, January 18, 2002 @ 12:18 p.m. |
Hey everyone, just to let you know a couple things:
Also: The Royal Tennenbaums website is insane. Owen WIlson's voice follows you everywhere.
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If it weren't for me you never would have amounted to very much. Thursday, January 17, 2002 @ 09:47 p.m. |
There are some songs I need but I refuse to buy the CDs. Any of my technology have friends (as opposed to have-not friends) want to burn me a CD? I'm not sure what would be in it for you other than a warm fuzzy feeling.
Today was the most boring sociology class yet. Meghan and I had a summit meeting and made several top-ten lists. Important issues were discussed, I can assure you. None of the discussion involved sociology, fortunately.
If I have to write one more time-travel scenario for that grade 7 textbook I swear I'll throw up. In the last one I wrote, Sara and Sean travelled back to 1886 to see the founding of the Salvation Army in Newfoundland. I had to resist the temptation to repeatedly stab my pen in my ear as I was writing it. Next up are major figures in Christianity in the present time. I don't know anything about Mother Theresa, Pope John Paul II, or Laszlo Tokes, and furthermore, I don't care. I don't care if it makes me a bad person. If it weren't for the cartoon dollar signs in my eyes, I would have stopped doing this a long time ago, probably.
I'm so bored of everything. If I could I would buy an airstream trailer and drive south until I came to the desert, the Mexican border, or the Gulf of Mexico. If I could I would do a lot of things, but I can't, of course.
You know what I bet would cheer me up? Email! Why don't you-- yes, YOU!-- email me and tell me what is the one thing you would do if there was nothing stopping you. I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm not really depressed and, like, reaching out to you or anything. I'm not going to kill myself. Don't worry, this is the internet; you have no responsibilities. But that said I love email, and I think the world would be a better place if I got more of it, especially if less of it involved "Attracting men with bigger breasts" (Meghan: "But I don't want men with bigger breasts!") and more of it involved people actually saying something meaningful to me.
Anyways.
I feel boring tonight. Bored and boring. I used to know interesting things. I used to be smart, when I was in fourth grade. I used to know about former Russian republics and teaching sign language to gorillas and what the different parts of a syllable are called and the decline of the Roman Empire and how to program my VCR. Now I don't know any of those things and if you asked me I couldn't even tell you.
Also: I used to know a lot of people who are gone from my life now. It makes me sad because I always try to keep people near me, but ultimately I discover I can't. I can't always be relevant. I can't always be worth it. Apparently.
Anyway I know I'm just rambling, and I haven't said anything funny for several paragraphs, so I'm going to bed. Goodnight, and sweet dreams.
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I stayed in mississippi a day too long Wednesday, January 16, 2002 @ 06:01 p.m. |
fuck yes, that counts as an update.
There is this little crescent near my house with a half-dozen really swanky houses that back onto the ravine. On the driveway is a little tasteful sign that says "private," just in case you were thinking of camping out among the tasteful bushes in the middle of the crescent. I walked past them with Toby today, and thought to myself, "I wonder who lives in those houses?" and realized it must be supermodels. Except, there are no supermodels in Edmonton-- not enough sunshine, not enough surf. So, the next-best thing: porn stars.
I feel a lot better phsycially-- no more bad dreams, no more cold, no more nosebleeds, no more waking up in the night. I need to go to the gym. And no more crack.
I am a roving pirate queen, married to the sea. I shouldn't have to do to school or write papers or empty the dishwasher.
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i've been in trouble since i set my suitcase down Wednesday, January 16, 2002 @ 05:59 p.m. |
"dirty deeds done with sheep... baah"
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the root-tootingest cowgirl Tuesday, January 15, 2002 @ 10:45 p.m. |
my sociology prof: "Who here considers themself to be a real prairie person?"
You know. You know you know.
It's snowing now-- finally. Winter in Edmonton has been a write-off for the last few years. It's disappointing, actually. Canadians complain about the weather, but we kind of get off on it, too. It makes us feel tough. A January like this one is just not... satisfying. Anyway, the snow isn't proper snow... more like little pellets. But it's better than nothing. Besides, at least it covers up the gross winter grass and unnamable garbage that melting snow leaves behind.
The pitas server is all fast and shit now.
So: I'm going to the UK at the end of February.
[three hands go up in the class of, like, 200, including mine]
Meghan: "You consider yourself to be a prairie person?"
Me: "Yeah."
Meghan: "Even though you came here from Toronto..." [I nod emphatically] "...and you were born in British Columbia?"
Me: "The ocean is like a prairie of water."
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and I go at sleepy-time Monday, January 14, 2002 @ 10:45 p.m. |
10.17 pm. I suddenly realize, in a moment of pure a priori intuition, how the idea of "inflation" works. I've only been trying to wrap my brain around that since I was, like, 4. (Seriously. When I was really small I asked my dad why countries didn't just print lots of money and everyone could be rich, and he gave me this too-detailed explanation of gross national production, value of resources, and exports that left me confused-- so confused, in fact, that to this day I refuse to attempt to solve any even remotely economical problem and instead have devoted myself to the arts.)
Additionally: when I was little I used to hate sleeping with my bedroom door closed. I liked falling asleep with the sounds of voices and music in the rest of the house-- because I was afraid I would wake up and everyone would be gone. As a result of this I am a very lenient babysitter-- lights can stay on, doors can be propped open-- even if it goes against parents' instructions I can't bring myself to terrorize anyone else the way I was terrorized.
People undervalue children's emotions in some ways, I think. I mean, maybe the way they feel is irrational or even wrong; but that doesn't make them feel it any less.
Sometimes I think that time has no relevance when it comes to questions of identity-- because we're all exactly the same people we were as very small children. I mean, sure, we know more, maybe; we behave slightly differently. But we are the same people. I'm still that puzzled 4-year-old, afraid of waking up alone, confused about the systems that make the world work, the same ball of fury and concern.
Sometimes I think I'm choking on the world.
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wa-HOO! wa-HOO! Monday, January 14, 2002 @ 08:37 p.m. |
OK. Well, for one thing, the pitas server is getting a LOT cooler. If by cooler we mean faster. And if by we we mean me. So, yeah. wa-HOO!
I've been back at school for a full week and a day. On a 9-point scale I give Anthro 230 an 8, Phil 102 a 3, Soc 101 a 7 (ha!), FMS a -11, and World History a 6.
"Did you come to class every day last week?"
"The woman, who is beautiful, in fact, although she's treated like a regular person." -My FMS prof, on the heroine of the movie ROME OPEN CITY. This is strange because it just admits something I have always suspected-- that beautiful people really AREN'T considered normal. We think of them as being either much better than us, or much worse.
My father is growing a goatee. It's rather dashing-- his students all like it. I kicked him in the butt while we were waiting in line at Safeway yesterday, and he asked me why, and I said, "Because goatees make me want to kick people in the butt." "doesn't James have a goatee?" "Yes, and I kick him in the butt all the time." This is true. Or at least, I used to. I imagine it's quite annoying, actually.
veiled Buffy the Vampire Slayer reference:
"Yeah, and I stayed for the whole screening on Tuesday! I'm crazy! Who knows what I'll do next?"
"What are you doing?"
"Uh... what does it look like I'm doing, you nit? I'm exercising!"
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