tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76187732616123758492024-03-05T10:04:35.587-05:00WingSong's Blog of RantinessSafer than Rat Poison!WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-28861417332639544032011-12-22T11:52:00.009-05:002011-12-22T13:02:59.807-05:00A Parody<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbux73C1KyNVBaky3tYTjA7Uyit9-70N8DcEU9tS0uLf6MTwvPYy_pfGDV95lmODG-__obnqc72TMlD-J_yqtP8tQcCZCea7AZ7ni9mjNFBjxzg5iQkNTyN5SR4fVd2CT98JGSIm3fsU/s1600/banner.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbux73C1KyNVBaky3tYTjA7Uyit9-70N8DcEU9tS0uLf6MTwvPYy_pfGDV95lmODG-__obnqc72TMlD-J_yqtP8tQcCZCea7AZ7ni9mjNFBjxzg5iQkNTyN5SR4fVd2CT98JGSIm3fsU/s320/banner.png" alt="" title="This is the crappiest thing I have ever put on here. Please forgive me." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689011899976730626" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />So I realize I haven't posted here since last year. That won't do. I'm still rather fond of this blog, after all.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br /><br />Today, my mom and I were saying that we wished we had kept our teenage waistlines. And I said, "Teenage waistline? That sounds like Teenage Wasteland by the Who, only not." And she said, "Oh, that's funny! You should write a parody and post it on your blog!"</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br /><br />So guess what I did next.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br /><br />After all, what better way to make myself feel better about my problem than by making fun of it and posting it on the internet?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Anyway...here is the Ballad of Beth O'Tavian. </span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br /><br />Beth O'Tavian<br />---------------<br />Out here it just feels</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">I fight with my meals</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />I get back into reliving</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />A time when I was light</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />When my jeans weren't so tight</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />After every Thanksgivin', yeah yeah yeah...</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br /><br />Don't cry</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />When you see your thighs...</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">I miss my teenage waistline...</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br /><br />So just take a hike!</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />For God's sake, ride your bike!</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />Situation's dire</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />Don't care that it's colder</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />The time for change is here</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />So get your rear in gear</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />Get it together</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />Before you get much older!</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br /><br />Teenage waistline!</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />Get back my teenage waistline!</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />My teenage waistband, oh yeah</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br />Teenage waistline</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br /><br />It's all wasted!</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><br /><br />------------------<br />Well, I hope you enjoyed that. Ordinarily I would continue this post with more Christmas musings, but I'm fresh out of musings at the moment. Perhaps later. :)</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-76366400297683367442010-12-23T16:39:00.007-05:002010-12-23T18:35:12.751-05:00I Miss Christmas Magic.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeF7lXjGEonSLzHKCBWlMYHSkfpYHEn64mHxyeaMJxCIU6gNfavcQ4IKQMEyLs1gQS2ZD1kWDvpaa_0gc7WVaGAKdaZuqAtXZolduBZr7Lz33ZO1wbnrE7pICqwTvqxg4wfjKlzcWIMnA/s1600/snoopychristmas.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 223px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeF7lXjGEonSLzHKCBWlMYHSkfpYHEn64mHxyeaMJxCIU6gNfavcQ4IKQMEyLs1gQS2ZD1kWDvpaa_0gc7WVaGAKdaZuqAtXZolduBZr7Lz33ZO1wbnrE7pICqwTvqxg4wfjKlzcWIMnA/s320/snoopychristmas.jpg" alt="Snoopy is the best. The End." title="Snoopy is the best. The End."id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554024138073626946" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);"><br /><br />So recently I've been thinking a lot about childhood. I've become re-obsessed with Disney, raiding our old collection of VHSes (what </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">is</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);"> the plural form of VHS?) and watching Disney Classic after Disney Classic. As I write this I'm listening to the Lion King soundtrack. I have gone to see Tangled three times in the theater and have the soundtrack, as well as two coloring books and a Little Golden Book about it. I really love Tangled. And Flynn Rider.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">ANYWAY. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">All this Christmas paraphernalia everywhere really makes me think of Christmases past. I realize there are a lot of things I really miss about my childhood Christmases. Here are just five.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102); font-weight: bold;">1) Trying to sleep when I know Santa is coming.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">There was always that feeling of great anticipation when I went to bed on Christmas Eve in my red-with-a-teddy-bear-on-the-front Christmas nightgown. I'd say my prayers and tell myself to go to sleep, but the thought that maybe I'd catch Santa this year as he filled stockings or put gifts under the tree...it made me so excited that I stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, enthusiasm bubbling inside me and making me feel like throwing off the blankets and trotting downstairs.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Sometimes I'd wake up really early and barrel into my older brother James' room, bouncing up to his bed and occasionally bounding onto it, waking my poor brother with an excited, "James! James, it's Christmas! Wake up!!! Let's peek before Mommy and Daddy wake up!!!" My brother always had the patience of a saint, mumbling a half-asleep "Wait a minute. We'll go down in a little bit." I lingered there, bouncing on his bed lightly and checking to make sure he didn't fall asleep again. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">We would steal downstairs, where the house was all dark but for the lights on the tree. It was customary not to even peek at the tree, because that was were the really good stuff was, but we'd tiptoe through the kitchen and check to see if there were any new stuffed animal friends or treats sticking up out of the top of our stockings, hung over the fireplace like every year.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">After we'd sneaked our illegitimate peeks, we'd go back upstairs again, shushing each other unnecessarily. I'd sometimes take a millisecond-long glance at the living room where the tree was, just long enough to see if there were any huge presents.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Anyway, what I'm trying to portray here is that the anticipation and the magic surrounding Christmas made it my favorite day of the year. There was little under the tree on Christmas Eve, and then the next morning, the bottom of the tree was so filled with presents that it seemed the expanse of gifts spilled out until it reached either corner of the narrow side of the room. It really seemed like a miracle every time.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102); font-weight: bold;">2) Putting out treats for Santa and his Reindeer.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Every year, we would put out a treat for Santa (sometimes it was cookies, sometimes it was banana bread or another sweet), some milk, and a plate of carrots or oats for the Reindeer. I always saved the nicest carrot for Rudolph, because he was my favorite. I'm not sure how everything was gone the next morning, but my parents must have been quite dedicated-- I know firsthand that eating oats plain is not the most pleasant experience, but bless them, the whole plate was empty.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">Sometimes I'd even write a thank-you note to Santa on the plate, so it could only be seen when the treats were cleared away. It usually said something to the effect of, "Thank you for the [insert the year's most coveted present here], Santa! Have a safe trip!"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">This year I might just put out some cookies, because we have a whole bunch of cookies.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0); font-weight: bold;">3) Having Christmas recorded.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">Every year, Mom and Dad would record our Christmas with the videocam. Christmas always officially started with my brother and me sitting at the top of the stairs in our pajamas, listening to our parents converse in hushed tones about how to make the videocam work while we exchanged looks like, "It's the same every year."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">"Are you sure it was charged? The light isn't coming on."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">"I thought </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">you</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);"> had the batteries!"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">"This one doesn't </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">have</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);"> batteries; you have to charge it."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">"Does it even have any--? Oh, drat. This tape is full!"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">By the time everything was in order, my brother and I were resting our chins in the palm of one hand, trying not to fidget. But when Mom came to the front of the stairs with that videocam, we straightened up and beamed, ready to finally begin Christmas with the unloading of our stockings.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">From the unloading of our stockings to when the last present's wrapping paper was ripped open and the gift was proudly held aloft, Christmas was recorded to be enjoyed in years to come. I always delighted in being recorded, as I was (am) something of a ham. Naturally I wanted to watch last Christmas after the current year's was over. So sometimes we'd dig up tapes of past Christmases and watch them, during which my parents would always remind me of the time a younger me had pointed to the television with a home movie playing on it and exclaimed, "Me on the tiv-ee."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">To this day I have no idea where all those old tapes reside, but I only hope the memories I hold of those Christmases are safe, incorruptible by time.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102); font-weight: bold;">4) The unwrapping of gifts seeming to last forever.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">When I was little, it seemed like we got a LOT of gifts every Christmas. I remember one year I took a peek at the tree early and saw so many presents that the floor around the tree wasn't even visible, and there was what appeared to be a giant, fluffy, white polar teddy bear sitting in a chair beside the tree. This excited me because my brother had a giant fluffy white polar teddy bear and I had always been jealous of it.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">Anyway, it seemed like it took us hours to unwrap all our gifts, and it was never tedious. Each thing was a surprise, even if I'd been asking for something since Halloween.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">After everything was unwrapped, I would make the experience last by playing with my new toys (and invariably losing one of the many small parts they came with). Christmas was awesome cuz I never got bored.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0); font-weight: bold;">5) My annual Beanie Baby Nativity.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">Okay, this one requires a little explanation. As a kid, I collected Beanie Babies. That part isn't so unusual. But the unusual part is that I have OVER TWO HUNDRED. Or something. I've never actually bothered to count, but suffice it to say that I have at least six tubfuls, and several outside tubs as well. I often felt like my Beanie Babies were neglected if I didn't play with them, so I'd get them out and play with them all at once-- they would be divided into couples for a dance, or I'd make stories out of whatever song was on the radio and act them out with two Beanie Babies as characters. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Christmastime was fun because I always assembled a Nativity scene in my room with my Beanie Babies. Everyone from Baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph, to the Three Wise Men and the mythical Little Drummer Boy, to the angels (played by my angel bear Beanie Babies) looking over the stable (which was usually a binder or some other precarious structure), to the animals in the stable-- every role was filled, carefully picked from my expansive choices for their star potential. Mary was always played by a Beanie Baby named Hope, I think-- she was a creamsicle-colored bear who was knelt in prayer, a sweet smile on her face. I would drape some felt over her head, and boom-- perfect Mary. Finding a Baby Jesus was harder. I think I always went with a bear from one of the Teeny Beanies sets that came out at Christmastimes (Jingle Beanies, they were called).</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">I was always very creative with this, improvising the props like the Little Drummer Boy's drum and the shepherds' crooks from whatever materials I had, and making a star from yellow construction paper and taping it over the scene on a bookshelf or something similar. It was one of my favorite traditions that I had for myself. My parents were not as enthusiastic about it, perpetually tripping over my idyllic stuffed animal scene in their vain attempts to walk through my room.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0); font-weight: bold;">6) Discovering new ornaments every year.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">In my family, ornaments are a big deal. My brother and I used to get an ornament (sometimes multiple ones) every year, so our tree was like a timeline of our lives-- every ornament brought back memories from that year. My ornament from the year I started school was a schoolbus. The year James turned sixteen was a blue car with a Santa hat in the front passenger seat. There are countless ornaments from favorite Disney movies of mine-- three Lion King ones, a young prideful Simba marching and a young Nala hanging onto a tree branch, and a Mufasa with baby Simba clinging to his back; a Pocahontas one with Percy and Miko sitting entranced by a tiny Flit, spiraling around them on a delicate, bouncy wire. The year I was born, James had one with a puppy hanging through a basketball hoop, the board above the hoop reading "Superstar Brother." Sometimes our parents even received ornaments (from each other or from my brother or me).</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">We always got to open our ornaments on Christmas Eve after Christmas Eve service at church, so it was like a teaser for the following morning. I loved it. But I also loved just looking at our tree.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Every year, I'd walk around the tree and just stare at all the ornaments. It seemed like every year, there would be one I hadn't noticed before-- some new silk ball with a date on it, or a hand-painted sphere, set high above, or a heavy train ornament that needed to have a branch under it to support its weight. Each ornament had a story to tell, and I wanted to hear them all.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">Now it seems like every story has been told, and there is no mystery in Christmases past anymore. I feel like I'm struggling so desperately to cling to that feeling of Christmas magic-- that anticipation, opening a new door on an Advent Calendar every day of December and eating the bit of chocolate inside, making paper chains that hang from the door, playing with new toys as a fire crackles in the fireplace, coming home from my last day of school carrying my Secret Santa gift and wearing my bright colored gloves and sniffling from the cold only to open the door and hear Christmas music drifting out from within-- but it's something that feels gone for good. I can't ever get it back.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">But then I see all the cookies Mom has made, and taste them, the bright colored sprinkles melting in my mouth. I set another of my poorly-wrapped gifts to Mom and Dad and James under the tree. I drink a mug of hot chocolate, letting the warm steam dampen my face and the mug heat my hands. I sit listening to Christmas carols on our old CDs and remember how I used to listen to them years ago. I ask Mom if we can please play the Charlie Brown Christmas Soundtrack, or watch Annabelle's Wish, since I've hooked up the VCR again, bouncing with that same childish enthusiasm I've always had this time of year.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">And I think, maybe the magic isn't gone after all-- I just have to look a little harder.</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-76639088055146077672010-11-25T21:53:00.003-05:002010-11-25T23:39:17.367-05:00I Am Going to Die. Only Not Really.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_Z9ztl4IBu8yH6xOzAdP2To7Yt68j1SHK4tdotBOSxk9xff4EZoka_I9k96NKZ_zMlhnEj10obBtZq40wTy2lBaPHvLnMHueaNgrjRix4uM_NsaYtTr5ZCVHU3w0TsGJNhu5yKL-qXk/s1600/raaa.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_Z9ztl4IBu8yH6xOzAdP2To7Yt68j1SHK4tdotBOSxk9xff4EZoka_I9k96NKZ_zMlhnEj10obBtZq40wTy2lBaPHvLnMHueaNgrjRix4uM_NsaYtTr5ZCVHU3w0TsGJNhu5yKL-qXk/s320/raaa.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543693710977770818" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Happy Thanksgiving. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Okay so. I'm writing this here because I am really desperate for a place to rant, and I haven't posted here in a while. I wish I could be posting something lighthearted and fun after such a long absence, but no. Life is just mean like that.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">I've always been really good at Psychology. I really like it. Even in college, when I forgot about a test and didn't study for it and was half-asleep when I came to class, I got an 89 without much effort. So naturally my grade in that class is rather high. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">So today I found out that if I don't submit seven research critiques, ALL OF MY HARD WORK GOES DOWN THE CRAPPER. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">No literally. It actually says in our syllabus:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">"You must collect a total of 8 credits; failure to do so will</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">result in a grade of "F" for the course, regardless of your</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">grades on the hourly exams, activities, and homework."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">What the hell, professor?! You can't just null and void all of my hard work for one stupid grade that's not even counted as an actual grade!! You could at least talk about it more in class! Or, like, when I ask, "So when's the deadline for these again?", like TWO WEEKS AGO, you could say "Oh, lulz, it's next week. Good luck!" instead of "Lulz there's no deadline unless you count the end of the semester as a deadline." You lied to me! There was a deadline and you failed to mention it! </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">I have never even written a research critique before today. I did not know what was expected of me. I'm lucky I know someone who has written them, because otherwise I would be totally lost. I wouldn't know where to start. I thought I had those accommodations in class for a REASON: I need little reminders! You're a psychologist; don't you understand what I go through to keep my grades up?!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">I admit I should have done this ahead of time. I admit I was in the wrong for not being responsible and completing these when I had plenty of time. But can you blame me? I absolutely suck at long-term deadlines, and we NEVER talked about any of these things in class! You could at least mention it once in a while! It's really not that hard! I didn't even know where to sign up for experiments, or when new ones were available! I checked my e-mail, but I never got any news about new experiment opportunities whenever I looked! It's like they only came when I wasn't looking! I have never used so many exclamation points before!</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWyBWntTOwlcRuUdmB2zybCC99WU0fT40RTNjGLayfroIGHUoa9xiajj-F0F7Crfd7xShRTyPWXI-5YYymm_HQNCyJhZbO4MOdb8X9xFKzLNjPI1VycgcPi0E-w7IiTYmZCsjLxjx5wRU/s1600/confident.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWyBWntTOwlcRuUdmB2zybCC99WU0fT40RTNjGLayfroIGHUoa9xiajj-F0F7Crfd7xShRTyPWXI-5YYymm_HQNCyJhZbO4MOdb8X9xFKzLNjPI1VycgcPi0E-w7IiTYmZCsjLxjx5wRU/s320/confident.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543709688185082226" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">And another thing, that list of online journals that you say are available online? Yeah, I can't access ANY of them!! You say to use the school library's website to access them. Guess what?! I CAN'T ACCESS THE DATABASE FROM HOME. And whose craptastic idea was it to have the deadline be the day after Thanksgiving anyway?! What kind of sick, cruel freak do you have to be to do this to me?! I have never failed a course before in my life, and now you just spring this crap on me?! Do you get some sort of sick pleasure out of screwing with my happiness?! "Yeah, Happy Thanksgiving, you stupid little snots! Rot in eternal misery and scramble to finish your stupid critiques that I probably won't read anyway!" I was planning to see some friends I haven't seen in MONTHS tomorrow, and instead I'm going to be at the library trying to find scientific journals on your stupid list because nothing's available to me at home!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Oh, you know what, actually, I COULD access those online articles. IF I PAID $34 PER ARTICLE. I don't even want to figure out how much that would be for seven of them! Do you know how much we're getting for Christmas this year?! Not a lot! My brother and I are getting ONE GIFT EACH for Christmas this year, and this godforsaken school has sucked up every cent we have (and many we don't)! Now you want me to dole out even MORE money we don't have so I can write ONE stupid paper per exorbitantly-priced article?! How do I even know I'll be interested?! They all have ridiculous titles like "Major Depressive Disorder With Subthreshold Bipolarity in the National Comorbidity Survey Replication." I didn't even know some of those words were WORDS, and I'm pretty good at like memorizing the dictionary!! Comorbidity has got to be the most unattractive word I've ever seen! I don't think I want to write about it! And if I pay $34 for a cluster of words and they turn out to be about something stupid, I will just lay down and cry.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUkfO47SGIjryVmalHjGNDbaI3NCm3LOSXeIwUuIc_HxstO2I27vW5tu7x0-v3mFr8cR0EmvsZkuzlmtNyi8FBaLHeZX1sTpN_iydDyC8vb9B5YiuS4AIqEB1G9gcw2zLPJmJ2lCyx90w/s1600/weep.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUkfO47SGIjryVmalHjGNDbaI3NCm3LOSXeIwUuIc_HxstO2I27vW5tu7x0-v3mFr8cR0EmvsZkuzlmtNyi8FBaLHeZX1sTpN_iydDyC8vb9B5YiuS4AIqEB1G9gcw2zLPJmJ2lCyx90w/s320/weep.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543713193349251458" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Also, what ever happened to being on BREAK?! Friday is part of the break too! The college is CLOSED. Why is there a due date in the middle of break?! It's unfair and stupid. And at least if there IS a due date during break, do you think you could be a little more accessible to desperate students who are just trying so hard not to fail and are sending you frenzied e-mails asking for help?! I don't care if it's Thanksgiving; if I don't get to have a break, then neither should you. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Well, I hope you're happy. You will be singly responsible for ruining my academic record. You already are singularly responsible for completely ruining my day, my holiday, and my emotional state. Congratulations. If there is one thing I'm thankful for today, it's that at least I can cry my eyes out in the comfort of my own home.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Happy flipping Thanksgiving indeed.</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-89687782391783505942010-06-29T18:24:00.014-04:002010-06-29T19:16:14.105-04:00Goals and Favorites from My Childhood<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsk5H5PVB9QBjCz3ftEBjUr1EHF9PqtZLwlfNGE9OErJPT5s2p0O6N6cg602vBsSWsqwkbX6KlDZQzycFtkuRaxQGAhYLFywmUDMqaYAYUup2St1fgBj6ADdDOtyo7ZTL4-ApgmMHB5WI/s1600/bunny.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsk5H5PVB9QBjCz3ftEBjUr1EHF9PqtZLwlfNGE9OErJPT5s2p0O6N6cg602vBsSWsqwkbX6KlDZQzycFtkuRaxQGAhYLFywmUDMqaYAYUup2St1fgBj6ADdDOtyo7ZTL4-ApgmMHB5WI/s320/bunny.jpg" alt="The Runaway Bunny: One of the coolest kid books ever." title="The Runaway Bunny: One of the coolest kid books ever." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488330226300287650" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">I'm going to take a little time to talk about my early childhood today. I could go on forever about it, but I'll focus on my goals and interests when I was very young. Sometime I'll probably write more about my early childhood, because everyone has awesomely bad or hilarious stories about their childhood and I don't really care about telling you them as long as they don't involve toilet training or bathtimes. Those are subjects that only an oblivious mother would tell stories about. I'd like to make you laugh without losing my dignity, thanks.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br />Anyway, I like to think I had a very happy childhood. Sure, at the time it didn't seem like I was any happier than any other kid, but that's because I was ignorant. Lots of kids go through a lot of crap when they're under 5, and I didn't. But talking about the trauma I didn't endure was not my intention for this post, and I digress.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">I was a very eccentric child. I set many high goals for myself. I wanted to be an author since I was able to hold a pencil (or crayon, as it might have been sometimes). I would make my own home-made books with construction paper, a hole punch, and string (for binding). I also invented my own spelling system, because the real one wasn't good enough for me when I was three. I also illustrated my own "books." I was told I was a very talented artist by everyone, which really pisses me off now because no one says, "You drew five fingers on each hand!! That's excellent!" to me anymore. </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br />Of course, "author" was not the only thing I wanted to be as a child. Let's look through some of my other childhood dreams.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br />1) Be a veterinarian. </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br />I've always liked animals a whole lot. So naturally, when you're a kid, veterinarian is the only job involving animals that you really hear about, so I wanted to be one. I had a Barbie veterinarian set, and this cool Dalmatian vet kit with a pet carrier and a fake can of vitamin supplements and everything. It was freaking awesome. </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">Later, I found out that veterinarians had to deal with things like guts and poop and other unpleasant things. So that dream went poof.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOU3CPmpUBZ-j7IUALAstUUf5QZmz_61nuBShfUrf1Wuc5TlY7X9MPBTuwwUi8vyCSPGbvAVs6CGcxLwM5Aoj2NN4eHtBDhkmAH7ktBKK91v_i6_KZhfD2w31XBKsPJRH73f0vISx7UdI/s1600/dalmatianvet.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOU3CPmpUBZ-j7IUALAstUUf5QZmz_61nuBShfUrf1Wuc5TlY7X9MPBTuwwUi8vyCSPGbvAVs6CGcxLwM5Aoj2NN4eHtBDhkmAH7ktBKK91v_i6_KZhfD2w31XBKsPJRH73f0vISx7UdI/s320/dalmatianvet.jpg" alt="Ohmygawd, I actually found a picture of this thing online." title="Ohmygawd, I actually found a picture of this thing online." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488331568222834290" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">2) Be a firefighter.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br />I really liked the idea of being a firefighter when I was little. I had one of the red hats and everything. I think I was a firefighter for Halloween once, too. I also really liked that dalmatians hung around firefighters (in fact, that was probably the primary reason I wanted to be a firefighter). I really liked dalmatians. Of course, this was a rather shallow dream, so I didn't really ever give it serious thought.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br />And of course one of my biggest dreams was...wait for iiiiit...</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">3) Be a dog.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">I seriously loved dogs when I was little. Dogs were the shit. I loved them so much I wanted to be one. Pretty much everything I owned or wanted was dog-related. I would dress up in this dalmatian outfit I had, walk around on all fours (which was more difficult when going down the stairs than up them), drink from bowls, and refuse to communicate except through barks. This was when I was like 4 or 5. Of course, I'd also pretend to be a cat, horse, dinosaur, or dragon, but 'dog' was the old standby.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br />I also was a dog for at least two Halloweens. I think my mom made a poodle costume once. Somewhere in a box in our house is a photo of me in my dalmatian costume with our new (at the time) puppy, Duffy (and if I knew where that photo was, I would show you, but I have no idea where it might be). When my friends and I played house as a preschooler at daycare, I'd always volunteer to be the family dog. I was good at it, too. I'd pant and wag my imaginary tail and thump my foot on the ground when someone scratched behind my ears and jump all over whoever came into the "house" and all that. I didn't lick anyone though, because that's just gross. </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br />Dogs were the reason I wanted to be a veterinarian. When I wrote books as a young child, they were nearly always about dogs, especially our dog Duffy. I made up a comic strip when I was a little older about a dog named Jellybean. I wanted to be a dog breeder when I was a little older because I wanted to have lots and lots of dogs. </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br />So yeah. I idolized dogs as a child. And you wonder why I'm so messed-up...</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br />Anyway, childhood was awesome. In preschool, life was so great that all you had to do to earn endless praise was use the toilet. Or tie your shoes. But I sucked at tying shoes. I still can only tie them bunny-ears style. Also, I had a really tough time with learning my left from right. I'm told that's a sign of retardation. But then they told me I was gifted in school, although I expressed it by being a little "cheeky" to my preschool instructors, so whatever. I was also apparently "musically inclined" because whenever they put on music I'd dance around like a freaking retarded trained monkey with one of those organ grinder street performers. Only not as graceful.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDhmVGVkuRFbxfy3wZOfDw_ohnUKaBt5I1xlDyVuFKH98RMRFY4V1qxSxW-YCUG4rA5n2NsyoKvCrrHr8QU0Gv_MynXpWVC1x_6diJGlJieVeyH1onfrxD7VQllvfnMMaKf9VjMgUjdU/s1600/Organ_grinder_with_monkey.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDhmVGVkuRFbxfy3wZOfDw_ohnUKaBt5I1xlDyVuFKH98RMRFY4V1qxSxW-YCUG4rA5n2NsyoKvCrrHr8QU0Gv_MynXpWVC1x_6diJGlJieVeyH1onfrxD7VQllvfnMMaKf9VjMgUjdU/s320/Organ_grinder_with_monkey.jpg" alt="Yeah, like that." title="Yeah, like that." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488333939806481298" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">I used to really love being read to as a young child. We had this book about this guy and it's his birthday, so he goes around knocking on everyone's doors like, "It's my birthday! Why the heck doesn't anyone care?!" and then at the end he finds out everyone was waiting to throw him a surprise party and he gets all this awesome shit. I wanted to be that kid when I was little. I wanted to go around knocking on people's doors and be like, "Where is everyone?" and then have a huge surprise party and be like, "HOLY SHIT! This strange little robot thing is just what I wanted! Thanks, Jimmy (or whoever you are)!" That kid had it great. I wish I could remember what this book was called, because we probably don't have it anyone.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br />There was also this story about a calf who couldn't moo. I don't remember it too well now, but I think he got into some trouble and learned how to moo for help. It sounds dumb as crap now, but that book was awesome.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br />There was this one called <span style="font-style: italic;">How Fletcher was Hatched</span>, I think, about this dog who got jealous that his little girl mistress became all enamored with a baby chick. So he gets his friends to make a giant egg for him. The little girl gets really worried about her missing dog but at the end, he bursts out of the egg and she's so happy to see him and they get covered in mud but it's really sweet. </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQWMmSnC8OJVWeWIa7fMARSWvr1MKVzV_Pygdl7-F2xxrn6d7isNwxnaYwUBYrwt76nD8UYzB1X6ENM9z9Hs7IQSpZ1rMjHGEOXyL5GBaz_HHZ9cYy5OyAc0e8w0DRukvZDgAKb3jpJ0/s1600/fletcher.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQWMmSnC8OJVWeWIa7fMARSWvr1MKVzV_Pygdl7-F2xxrn6d7isNwxnaYwUBYrwt76nD8UYzB1X6ENM9z9Hs7IQSpZ1rMjHGEOXyL5GBaz_HHZ9cYy5OyAc0e8w0DRukvZDgAKb3jpJ0/s320/fletcher.jpg" alt="I freaking loved this book, and I still do." title="I freaking loved this book, and I still do." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488330772748593042" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">Oh, I also freaking loved the Runaway Bunny. That book was awesome. I wanted it read to me all the time, and it was one of my all-time favorites.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">I remember I once rented this book from the library called Harry the Dirty dog. He's white with black spots, and he doesn't like baths, so he rolls in some mud and becomes black with white spots, fooling his family into thinking he's a different dog. I think I had to do a school report on this book or something. But at least I chose it.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99x6hX2hmzA_O9M93CXGs_11mKb0S96-9yASJNg2UhnxjVlLayLN6nOOfmpLjEdfh9BksJG0el5LPD_JGT_AKJCbtzQALr66jra1-g2mN0FOMFgWDEU_n0yFue5F3RuxNU5U4PRBVy5c/s1600/Harry-the-Dirty-Dog-001-1504x1836.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99x6hX2hmzA_O9M93CXGs_11mKb0S96-9yASJNg2UhnxjVlLayLN6nOOfmpLjEdfh9BksJG0el5LPD_JGT_AKJCbtzQALr66jra1-g2mN0FOMFgWDEU_n0yFue5F3RuxNU5U4PRBVy5c/s320/Harry-the-Dirty-Dog-001-1504x1836.jpg" alt="This book was pretty cute." title="This book was pretty cute." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488335281071833954" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">If I really thought about it, I could think of a bunch of my other favorites. I didn't really have many favorites that you'd call "traditional." Like, I didn't really know about Goodnight Moon or any of that. I did really like the Velveteen Rabbit and in preschool we read Corduroy. And I guess I liked Where the Wild Things Are. In kindergarten we read those books like "If you Give a Mouse a Cookie" or whatever.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">Wow, I'm talking too much about my favorite childhood books. Maybe sometime I'll make a whole post about them and tell why I think they are awesome, because I am sure we have most of them laying around somewhere. </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">In fact, count on it, because I really like looking back on things from my childhood.<br /><br />Anyway, that's enough for now.<br /><br />Bottom line: Childhood was awesome.</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-45975547380995943032010-06-24T19:50:00.007-04:002010-06-24T20:42:35.752-04:00Maybe a Hiatus?<span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">Hey nonexistent readers! I'm just writing to say that I might be scarce around here for a while. I have a few adventures that I'd like to write about, but I'm finding it hard to stop my habit of putting it off. I've got to write about...</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">-More adventures in learning to drive</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">-A hike and a sail on the Sultana along with the terrible injury to my leg that my dog's run inflicted on me</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">-My birthday celebration</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">-The most expensive thing I have ever purchased for myself</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">-My upcoming trip to the Grand Canyon</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">-Other random things (probably mostly that)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">Since I am posting, I should try to come up with something to post about. Often I think to myself when something is happening, "Oh, I've got to write about that." And then I put it off for so long that I forget what I wanted to write about. Then I think, "Well, I'll just have to wait until something else interesting happens." And the horrible cycle of procrastination goes on and on. And then, when something comes up that is really cool, like the things I mentioned above, I know that the post I write will probably end up being so long and tedious that I just can't bring myself to even attempt to write it. Or I find myself just making a mental list of things I could complain about, because apparently I find complaining about things funny. But then I never end up doing that (writing about it, that is; I still complain about stuff).</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">So then I spend all my time obsessing over the newest...obsession (the latest is </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hey Arnold!</span>, and I have a feeling this obsession will last quite a while. I even joined a collaborative fancomic project forum where we essentially make new episodes in comic form, because <span style="font-style: italic;">Hey Arnold! </span>ended before its time. I could go into a rant about the Jungle Movie, but I digress). I draw fanart, I read fanfiction, I find critical analyses (yes, analyses. It's the plural form of analysis, SpellCheck. Look it up), and I obsess, obsess, obsess. Occasionally I even dream of the characters, or wake up in the middle of the night from one of those hazy states where you are not quite sure if you were really sleeping or not, and suddenly sit bolt upright, saying, "I must write this down and it will be an amazing fanfiction!" And then you look at it at ten o'clock that morning and are like, "'Find puppy together'? What does that even <span style="font-style: italic;">mean?!</span>" You think I'm joking about that example, don't you. I'm not.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">Anyway, yeah. This has just become another place for me to rant about my new favorite show in the history of forever, and I apologize for that. I promise I will not abandon this blog like I did years ago. I really want to keep up with it, as it will hopefully help me grow as a writer and become better at turning my experiences into witty written tales (because the idea of that just thrills me). So I may not be around for almost a month...but I promise I have not forgotten about this blog. So if you are reading this, please don't give up on me. I will be back. I might even be back tomorrow. My whims are a little unpredictable. But until then, wish me luck on this confusing thing I call my life.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">Here's a photo of the plushies that usually reside on my bed, because pictures of plushies make everything better.</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSE6XszGGuwe22p4t9XuIdYd_94Qbc1c3jfpVJ1cVrrKuipqAEI5k-4khm_imeLPKE2qcTSxtg3ZtcYOocq40mZmwf4vpRtpgOpR80SbToqw8ssVc5lYuhSpcKNxIwjDLbi-hAV-SsDHk/s1600/plushies.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSE6XszGGuwe22p4t9XuIdYd_94Qbc1c3jfpVJ1cVrrKuipqAEI5k-4khm_imeLPKE2qcTSxtg3ZtcYOocq40mZmwf4vpRtpgOpR80SbToqw8ssVc5lYuhSpcKNxIwjDLbi-hAV-SsDHk/s320/plushies.jpg" alt="The Perry the Platypus plushie is new. :)" title="The Perry the Platypus plushie is new. :)" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486503469831340146" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">Well, until next time, farewell, faithful imaginary readers, and thank you for reading!</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-13712277923826553412010-06-07T16:50:00.018-04:002010-06-08T13:38:04.482-04:00Beth's Top 10 List of 90's Cartoons<a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksJBu2ACM2_3bOkzi0YMOhQvVo-7C-RP5L3RG7PSuCv_1sy-SyJPzsCy-NwXtoWB5_khkfQBn76CG0CZxaNhWQI5Drgts875dzfiusgEcZHEXRnz6DAfao0eCzRLxAteXxWdRsTI3spg/s1600/animaniacs1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksJBu2ACM2_3bOkzi0YMOhQvVo-7C-RP5L3RG7PSuCv_1sy-SyJPzsCy-NwXtoWB5_khkfQBn76CG0CZxaNhWQI5Drgts875dzfiusgEcZHEXRnz6DAfao0eCzRLxAteXxWdRsTI3spg/s320/animaniacs1.jpg" alt="Animaniacs: The greatest cartoon ever." title="Animaniacs: The greatest cartoon ever." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480144660239761090" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Last night I stayed up until almost 4 o'clock watching cartoons with my brother from our childhood. It really makes me wish that we had that kind of television again. In their honor, I am listing some of my favorite or most nostalgic cartoons that I watched when I was a kid. Some of them I may not have really appreciated until I was older, or maybe some that I like now won't be on the list because I didn't watch them as a kid, or maybe some I watched as a kid won't be on the list because I don't like them now, or they might not even be in order counting down to my most favorite-- anyway, here are a few of my favorites.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">10. Dexter's Laboratory<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHLc7tp_OmCDDr83RTJxo6SwgNCvmTCfm2YmwZem7IjHWwGIKEiqh-LpGUMSmVDqhlrd7-sFRMmRPJ-UgpXOL-GFe_av-ebxk0WsaAcafajrM-PLk-zWMRKbFnVvJOqbYj7Go_KGs0_nc/s1600/Dexters-Lab.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHLc7tp_OmCDDr83RTJxo6SwgNCvmTCfm2YmwZem7IjHWwGIKEiqh-LpGUMSmVDqhlrd7-sFRMmRPJ-UgpXOL-GFe_av-ebxk0WsaAcafajrM-PLk-zWMRKbFnVvJOqbYj7Go_KGs0_nc/s320/Dexters-Lab.gif" alt="No Dee-dees allowed!" title="No Dee-Dees allowed!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480140989351468866" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">I used to really like this show as a kid, but I think it declined in its later years (it sounds like I'm talking about a pet or something). Now the most memorable parts of the show to me were the Monkey vs. Duck (if that's even what they were called) segments, Mandark's laugh, and the episode where Dexter plays a French language CD while he sleeps, and it skips, so he wakes up being able to say nothing but "Omelette du fromage." I also remember enjoying the musical episode. All in all, it was good for a laugh.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">9. Doug<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzG2VY4tHwUKkREA3y6c8oW_jG-hrsD8cBfCxS-HJ2SgCOWcuEzCroKeuLTBUhUtAPegDqyEPMjnLZ8B07t5dNZIuRk-l2tSz0MORNpZv7y1xncJeATX7UVbK-vrsWTWv6BwJK6aUCXx4/s1600/doug.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzG2VY4tHwUKkREA3y6c8oW_jG-hrsD8cBfCxS-HJ2SgCOWcuEzCroKeuLTBUhUtAPegDqyEPMjnLZ8B07t5dNZIuRk-l2tSz0MORNpZv7y1xncJeATX7UVbK-vrsWTWv6BwJK6aUCXx4/s320/doug.jpg" alt="It still amuses me that both his dog and his love interest are named after food." title="It still amuses me that both his dog and his love interest are named after food." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480141801861896546" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">This show was pretty cool. I sort of liked it as a kid, but now I look back on it with a lot of nostalgia, because I remember going to see the movie on one of my birthdays when I was little. This show's theme song is the kind that sticks in your head for days and makes you remember it forever. I remember everyone's names from the show, but that's about all I remember. Also, both his dog Porkchop and his best friend Skeeter were unnatural colors, and his love interest was named after a food and a condiment. How did they go about naming things in this show anyway?!</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">8. Recess<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2h5UZimoahnKZQDeeEH5arVivrevMTcjzr0h6-am8jIAPuRx_t4WN3NbAVZkJMDuZ6gDZseH3RhbUgaOL4e_VGkftaqb6aB1KG-Gwr4_hw7_bhU5VV8r7je3u3HIBAgdcWQt4ic_7E0/s1600/recess.PNG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2h5UZimoahnKZQDeeEH5arVivrevMTcjzr0h6-am8jIAPuRx_t4WN3NbAVZkJMDuZ6gDZseH3RhbUgaOL4e_VGkftaqb6aB1KG-Gwr4_hw7_bhU5VV8r7je3u3HIBAgdcWQt4ic_7E0/s320/recess.PNG" alt="I just love the art style." title="I just love the art style." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480142149984139762" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Now, this one is difficult because we didn't have Disney Channel when it was on for the most part, but I used to watch reruns on ABC kids in the morning, and I loved it. I probably couldn't tell you any of the kids' names now (actually, no "probably" about it--I don't remember any of their names), but I remember really liking the show and enjoying the movie a lot when I rented it one time. I remember it being witty and snappy, with great dialogue and storylines, and I enjoyed the art style.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">7. Pinky and the Brain<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEgTkAAoP9uta6ojVIUyt0zOMhDrK6dcvFgt5s7d4y6rAwHgE0a-iwn8KS7caY8FAB3yJKtn5oZ5bn164iqmFLzfQLfksC12iQq2gdj96-7QDDU-hohGPJTyhxz834pxBTGbmltZ9hmSQ/s1600/pinky_and_the_brain.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEgTkAAoP9uta6ojVIUyt0zOMhDrK6dcvFgt5s7d4y6rAwHgE0a-iwn8KS7caY8FAB3yJKtn5oZ5bn164iqmFLzfQLfksC12iQq2gdj96-7QDDU-hohGPJTyhxz834pxBTGbmltZ9hmSQ/s320/pinky_and_the_brain.jpg" alt="NARF!" title="NARF!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480138256635661810" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">I didn't really watch this show that much-- I preferred Animaniacs. But I do remember one year, there was a holiday weekend, and I sat backwards in our recliner chair with my chin on the back and watched a marathon of this show. Now that I'm older, I appreciate the humor, pop culture references, and general zaniness of the show a whole lot more. My personal favorite part of the show is Pinky's responses to the AYPWIP (Are You Pondering What I'm Pondering?) question. Some of my favorite responses:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"I think so, Brain, but we're already naked."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Well I think so, Brain, but if they called them sad meals, kids wouldn't buy them!"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"I think so, but were will we find an open tattoo parlor at this time of night?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Uh, I think so, Brain, but balancing a family and a career... ooh, it's all too much for me."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Wuh, I think so, Brain, but isn't Regis Philbin already married?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"I think so, Brain, but burlap chafes me so."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"I think so, Brain, but me and Pippi Longstocking-- I mean, what would the children look like?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Well, I think so, Brain, but I can't memorize a whole opera in Yiddish."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Well, I think so, Brain, but pantyhose are so uncomfortable in the summertime."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"I think so, Brain, but if you replace the "P" with an "O", my name would be Oinky, wouldn't it?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Well, I think so, Brain, but if Jimmy cracks corn and no one cares, why does he keep doing it?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"I think so, Brain, but how will we get the Spice Girls into the paella?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Umm, I think so, Brain, but three men in a tub? Ooh, that's unsanitary!"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Yes, but why does the chicken cross the road, huh, if not for love? (sigh!) I do not know."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Wuh, I think so, Brain, but I prefer Space Jelly."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"I think so, Brain, but Tuesday Weld isn't a complete sentence."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"I think so, Brain, but why would anyone want to see Snow White and the Seven Samurai?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"I think so, Brain, but then my name would be Thumby."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Um, I think so, Brainie, but why would anyone want to Pierce Brosnan?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"I think so, Brain, but wouldn't his movies be more suitable for children if he was named Jean-Claude van Darn?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">That was longer than I intended it to be, but oh well.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">6. Tiny Toon Adventures<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82o5C0foDpRXC62-tJ7cejU3_amiCLLDNpiHl7k1vDeAHtywJKi7P8WjdGJEZKubjxvspuSMFurTVOmIvimV9AkSTJOF-mUXJS-ASfflfS3hpBv2wftwuadk7Vct9Kxuroe6NxkMnbWg/s1600/tinytoon.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82o5C0foDpRXC62-tJ7cejU3_amiCLLDNpiHl7k1vDeAHtywJKi7P8WjdGJEZKubjxvspuSMFurTVOmIvimV9AkSTJOF-mUXJS-ASfflfS3hpBv2wftwuadk7Vct9Kxuroe6NxkMnbWg/s320/tinytoon.jpg" alt="They're tiny! They're toony! They're all a little loony!" title="They're tiny! They're toony! They're all a little loony!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480138946162550050" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">I really liked all the Steven Spielburg cartoons when I was little, even though the humor was a bit too mature for me to really understand. I loved this show, and even though I can't tell you much about it now except the characters' names and what episode plots I remember (I remember one episode featured the characters singing oldies songs, which I enjoyed because I grew up listening to almost nothing but oldies). I think there was a Christmas special that I remember enjoying as well.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">5. The Powerpuff Girls<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEoc8snW3xVp0PVeMKwRycxyZOKL1zlc9_2LbSUDYadvF607kS0WapaxOH2aUhxpEr3CMmQNEzYyOXvK6NWW-tQQ-R1I0W6-r3Bb432vatv9xeKuXZGJ5ENq5qxSgpcZNXHa4O7mExu_U/s1600/powerpuff-girls.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEoc8snW3xVp0PVeMKwRycxyZOKL1zlc9_2LbSUDYadvF607kS0WapaxOH2aUhxpEr3CMmQNEzYyOXvK6NWW-tQQ-R1I0W6-r3Bb432vatv9xeKuXZGJ5ENq5qxSgpcZNXHa4O7mExu_U/s320/powerpuff-girls.jpg" alt="And so, the day is saved-- Thanks to...The Powerpuff Girls!" title="And so, the day is saved-- Thanks to...The Powerpuff Girls!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480139264212547554" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">This one is really nostalgic. I was really into it for a time when I was little. Now I realize how violent and kind of gross it was, much to my amusement. Did you know the Powerpuff Girls started as doodled characters called the Whoopass Girls? Fun fact. Also, I really liked the episodes with the Rowdyruff Boys, and recently there was a marathon on and I was overjoyed to discover my beloved Rob Paulson (see #2 of this list) voiced two of the Rowdyruff Boys. As a kid I remember being really annoyed that they kept repeating the episode where Buttercup is mean to the kid who eats glue, and then the kid (Elmer, his name was... haha!) turns into a glue monster and rampages until Buttercup apologizes and then suddenly everything is okay again. But as I was watching the marathon recently, I was surprised that I didn't see that episode.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">4. Rugrats<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbggWod4BGpAtum6uwGQ0MT7xJObi1uigTVPqslk6jqygQOTb58B3borXoRkPHTBj_TbnAfs_8oyIXOmzjGSChDnDX4mEkVzmlodHos2adjGyqJB3q6mqNEl4YwGSDkQM1-uD5dXSMN7g/s1600/rugrats.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbggWod4BGpAtum6uwGQ0MT7xJObi1uigTVPqslk6jqygQOTb58B3borXoRkPHTBj_TbnAfs_8oyIXOmzjGSChDnDX4mEkVzmlodHos2adjGyqJB3q6mqNEl4YwGSDkQM1-uD5dXSMN7g/s320/rugrats.jpg" alt="A baby's gotta do... what a baby's gotta do!" title="A baby's gotta do... what a baby's gotta do!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480142705838089986" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">I really loved this show when I was little. When I think of my childhood, Rugrats is one of the things that comes to mind. Rugrats was BIG-- everybody loved it, and everybody was so excited when the movie came out. My friends in elementary school would sing that song that Angelica and Suzie sing in the movie in the mornings before school, and I would get annoyed because I still hadn't seen the movie. I just know that if I saw the show now, I would remember just about every episode, but right now I can't think of many plots. I do remember an episode where they think a "Champion-Chip" is a giant cookie, and an episode where they go to a huge Wal-Mart-like store and let all the animals out, and another one where they go see Reptar on Ice-- you know, actually, I remember quite a few, and I remember them fondly.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">3. Spongebob Squarepants<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszA05t9hmBpsi2Xwle_9bX4WNxRebrRlvSrXP4YxNJZqLRy4TVRPZbrwuDb5U4CZmFZ10FWc-lQgVB0HZ6ctxmtzkNEzsfzj2XqJk3R9_Rh48k09XvtY0b4tktrZQYt600vuiOizIZE0/s1600/spongebob_1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 305px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszA05t9hmBpsi2Xwle_9bX4WNxRebrRlvSrXP4YxNJZqLRy4TVRPZbrwuDb5U4CZmFZ10FWc-lQgVB0HZ6ctxmtzkNEzsfzj2XqJk3R9_Rh48k09XvtY0b4tktrZQYt600vuiOizIZE0/s320/spongebob_1.jpg" alt="Remember-- licking doorknobs is illegal on other planets!" title="Remember-- licking doorknobs is illegal on other planets!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480457504419058066" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Now, before you all groan, let me just say that when Spongebob first premiered, it was awesome. The first one I ever saw was the one with the Bubble Stand and the Ripped Pants, and to this day it is my favorite episode ever. I still know all the lyrics, and I really want to type them here just to prove it, but I'm sure you remember them as well, because everybody knew them. This show was amazing, and I loved it a whole, whole lot. I used to get mad if I wasn't home by 5 o'clock on weekdays to watch it, even though I'd seen all the episodes a billion times. The humor was witty and smart sometimes, and just plain stupid or out-there at others, and it was always unpredictable and engaging. I really enjoyed it. And even though I hate almost every condiment that can go on a hamburger, I found myself longing to taste a Krabby Patty.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">And then the movie came along.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">And then Stephen Hillenberg left, and it all went to hell. Spongebob's voice raised by like half an octave, Sandy wasn't featured as much in episodes, Mr. Krabs became more of a jerk, Patrick became dumber than the house he lives in, and that guy that always screams "My leg!" just wasn't around as much. The only character who stayed about the same (and that is a good thing) was Squidward.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">There have been only one or two good Spongebob episodes since, and it really makes me sad that this stuff can be on TV, but really good shows (like my #1 on this list) got the boot just because of one unsuccessful movie.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">2. Animaniacs<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJveTJlVQvbRY6OSSgbyNy9AwX7b8eUEFI9tEW0t_2VwIxESZOGITvQux_ad7gzORobamgJCIHcouMavUvrOUjXfiLoM2DNK0XqZxYkpleiH9CkzvxX9R9MCMVh6Hg8vxgzXGn0Tu7zeo/s1600/animaniacs.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJveTJlVQvbRY6OSSgbyNy9AwX7b8eUEFI9tEW0t_2VwIxESZOGITvQux_ad7gzORobamgJCIHcouMavUvrOUjXfiLoM2DNK0XqZxYkpleiH9CkzvxX9R9MCMVh6Hg8vxgzXGn0Tu7zeo/s320/animaniacs.jpg" alt="Good night everybody!" title="Good night everybody!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480143531624002194" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">I love this show with a burning passion. I love it so much that when I rediscovered it last summer, I had to buy the 3 seasons currently on DVD. I love it so much that I have memorized Yakko's World (the one where he names all the countries of the world), and several other un-memorize-able songs, including all of Rita's songs from the Rita and Runt segments (which are my favorites besides the Warners'). I love it so much that I attempted to get every friend and family member into it and, for the most part, succeeded, even converting my young cousin from Florida. I love it so much that I've drawn fanart, wanted desperately to write fanfiction, changed my status on deviantART to "Love love loves Yakko Warner :)" and dreamed about the characters. Its hilarious dialogue, hidden adult innuendos, cutting pop-culture references, biting wit, and zany hijinks keep me enthralled and rolling with laughter. The brilliant voice-acting by Rob Paulson (Yakko), Jess Harnell (Wakko), and Tress McNeill (Dot) amazes me over and over again, and I love every song Bernadette Peters (Rita) sings. I signed a pointless online petition to bring back Animaniacs even though I know it will never happen because it has been too long, and I am dying for the day to come when the fourth and final season makes its DVD debut, because it is impossible to find the episodes online because the companies who own the rights are moneygrubbing, territorial jerks. I loved the movie when I was little (I remember it was on once during the Fourth of July and I would not go to our neighbor's pool party until it was over), and I still love it and pray for its DVD release. Really, I could go on forever about how much I love this show, but you really just have to see it for yourself. I really cannot stress how amazing this show is. I own a CD of some of the songs, and I downloaded the rest. I have an extremely long file of quotes, and I saved the online list of pop culture references so I can point them out to people who I force to watch the show with me. I am just ranting now. I love this show. It is possibly my favorite 90's show in the world. The end.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">1. Hey Arnold!<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKo7AM2C0eDzeL3K36S6LzSgx1CnGrnmNR107WuPi2gSVCgY7qOtRpm3ym3dv3o0ZLU9AReXu37t4PV1VzD3r9D3XJ4DSk1UjIw0_JFk0RWRcrnCtVa8oz2rg3ZVLyrzCo40YhNEROe4Y/s1600/200px-Arnold_&_Helga_together.jpg"><br /></a><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9nORTErY58Ojfk3OPReicTrAsCAqlNxN4eZMJj2k5oXY6DXWv8RnOPQigNXhrAYF4JQhr2rllBcUWEYu8l_Ahgbzy2AQzX7zWEffXfLoJrGyxlgXlWSukZo5PBP6-Z8sbc7W_hHARGdY/s1600/Arnold_&_Helga_together.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9nORTErY58Ojfk3OPReicTrAsCAqlNxN4eZMJj2k5oXY6DXWv8RnOPQigNXhrAYF4JQhr2rllBcUWEYu8l_Ahgbzy2AQzX7zWEffXfLoJrGyxlgXlWSukZo5PBP6-Z8sbc7W_hHARGdY/s320/Arnold_&_Helga_together.jpg" alt="These two are just so adorable." title="These two are just so adorable." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480144297816970834" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">I am putting this show in the #1 spot because I just watched some episodes last night and it is fresh in my mind now. I loved it when I was little after a long time of disliking it (I didn't think the art was pretty enough as a very young child--I'm very picky about my animation. It's the reason I hated Rocko's Modern Life). But once I discovered that I liked it, I would look forward to watching it every day after school. I'd sit on the school bus thinking, "I hope I get home in time to watch Hey Arnold." I never actually saw the movie, but I'm going to fix that soon. I think it was the best and greatest show for kids, because it dealed with issues that no other kid's show did-- poverty, alchoholism (only hinted at, but nevertheless), family problems, homelessness, crime, gambling, religion, and just poor living conditions in general. It had a jazzy, hip-hop vibe to it unique from anything else, and the setting was much more grungy and "street" (a trait shared with another of my childhood favorites, a Disney movie called Oliver and Company). It delivered good messages to kids, with the main character always striving for ideals and attempting to help everyone to his best efforts. The brilliance of the show can be seen in the very first episodes of the show--go on, find them now. The memories will flood back to you the moment the title theme starts. And now I realize how good for kids this show was--it exposed them to a lot of different stuff, but always gave a positive and helpful message, encouraging kids to do the right thing. Despite all its moral and educational values, they take a back seat to the awesome art and sidesplitting humor. It's hilarious in the way that makes you laugh so hard you cry, but you're not quite sure why it's funny. For some reason, hearing Stinky say "This turtle reallah biiiites!" just made me crack up over and over and promote it to inside-joke status with my brother, and seeing an aquarium worker tease a penguin by saying "Want a cookie? Oh--you tossed your cookies! Hauhauhauhauh!" and eventually fall in the shark tank after sticking his hand in and saying, "Come on Jaws! Bite me!" just made me cry tears of laughter. The characters are realistic and endearing, even the ones with the worst problems (I'm talking mostly about Helga here!). Plus I didn't realize how adorable their voices were when I was closer to the same age as them. What is it about Helga's cute voice combined with her tsundere tendencies that makes her so endearing?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">So in short, perhaps I watched too much television as a kid, but at least I learned a lot from the shows, and at least I can still enjoy them now, when I am old enough to truly appreciate all they have to offer.</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-56044722369598285352010-06-06T12:45:00.010-04:002010-06-06T14:34:29.458-04:00My Experiences as a Girl Scout<span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">Hey! Nothing interesting or amusing has occurred recently, so I'm going to write about something from long ago. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">When I was younger, I was in Girl Scouts. It seems like I was in it forever, but really I wasn't even in it long enough to become a Cadet. I remember being a Brownie Scout vaguely, and a Junior even better.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">When I was a brownie scout, we hardly ever went camping. I do remember going camping once, though, and I don't think I enjoyed myself much. The tent was enormous, but for some reason the bunks (I think they were bunks) were squished against the sides. I think I dropped a special teddy bear that I'd gotten from a best friend off the side, and I couldn't find it until later (if I ever did get it back...my memory of this is fuzzy). And the cool thing I got from the camp store? A travel toothbrush set. Truthfully (or is that toothfully?) it was pretty nifty: the toothbrush was in two parts and snapped together. Too bad the toothpaste came in one of those really weird ointment-tube things that seem like they're made out of metal and they get all crinkly and stuff (if you saw it, you would understand what I mean). But I definitely remember not having fun. I think I even asked if I could go home once. And it wasn't that I didn't enjoy camping: I'd gone camping with my best friend before and it was lots of fun, even if there were no toilets and we ate the same thing every day. We'd make a rope swing on the strongest-looking tree and just talk. But on this Girl Scout trip, I didn't have people to talk to, and we didn't have the free time to make rope swings. I was miserable.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">As a Junior Scout, we had to wear these green vests and usually a green skirt and I had these awful long green knee-socks that were both tremendously dorky and ridiculously uncomfortable. Plus you could never wear them with anything else because nothing else is that shade of green.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">We had Girl Scout meetings in this school cafeteria. Our troop leader was a sweet lady who had a few spelling problems. Every time we came to a meeting, we got to put a bead on our own personal necklace-thing. Some of the beads were shaped like animals, so naturally I attended every meeting. Sometimes I would slip a bead into my pocket and play with the tiny lion or elephant during the meeting, returning it to the bead tray when the meeting was over. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">Now, I didn't really care for the meetings much, but I enjoyed my two friends that I'd made there. They thought I was hilarious and so I often acted the clown for them, sometimes getting stern looks from our leader when I was caught making funny faces at my giggling friends. We used to have this songbook of songs which I thought were the lamest ones ever. Here is a sample of how lame they were.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">Me and my dinosaur</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">I've never had such a friend before</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">As big as a house, twenty times and a half</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">And fifty times taller than any giraffe!</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">Legs long as sequoia trees</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">Teeth big as piano keys</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">No two people are buddies more</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">Than me and my dinosaur!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">Here are the lyrics </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">I</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);"> made up.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">Me and my dinosaur</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">I've never seen such a dope before</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">He's dumber than nails, twenty times and a half</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">And when he falls down I just sit there and laugh!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">And so on (also, I promise that if I actually did have a dinosaur, I would definitely not laugh when it fell down. I would give it as much love as any person can give a dinosaur). My friends thought my lyrics for the various cheesy songs were the funniest thing ever.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">It didn't help that the people singing the songs on the CD were not very good singers and were such easy targets.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">Of course, our troop later went to a big shindig at DC where we sang a bunch of the cheesy songs, so I tried to be good and sing the correct lyrics for that, at least.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">A lot of the time, my mom would attend the meetings. So I had to be careful not to get too silly then. The parents would take turns providing food. I always felt so proud when my mom was in charge of food, because she would make brownies and give us Kool-Aid while everyone else's would bring store-bought cookies and lemonade. My mom was just cool like that.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">And of course, there was the cookie-selling. Gosh, I hated that. I would sell as many as I could, because I really wanted that grand prize (a portable television?! Yes please!), but no matter what I did I just could not sell that many cookies. It also didn't help that we began selling cookies on January 1st, when normal people are either on vacation, celebrating the holiday, or on a diet after that big Christmas dinner. No one in our troop could. So I usually ended up with little pewter figurines, which were cute and nifty, but not as entertaining as a portable television or a camp chair with all kinds of pockets.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">Getting patches was often a strange process. There were these books that told you what different patches there were and what you had to do to earn them, and sometimes they were really silly: I remember one patch required that you set up a stuffed animal zoo and take a parent around and tell them about the animals. Uh...okay. Check that one off, I guess. But it was cool to see the front of my garish green vest fill up with the colorful little circles. A lot of the time, however, I just wasn't motivated to earn patches on my own, and I simply got whatever patches the troop got.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">As a Junior Scout, I really wanted to go camping. But I don't think we ever did. I moved to a different troop eventually. It was closer by and had a friend of mine in it, but most of the girls were older than me, and most of the meetings consisted of sitting in living room furniture (the meetings were held at the aforementioned friend's house, since the leader was her mom) while the girls typed on their cell phones (which were foreign and unknown things for me at the time). When my younger friend and I wanted to go camping, everyone else wanted to learn to knit. When my friend and I wanted to make Christmas cards for strangers, the Cadets wanted to...I don't know; knit some more. It was very frustrating. Once I invited my friend over and we made Christmas cards together anyway.<br /><br />Once, we did go to Cedar Ridge. I was excited, but it turned out to be dreadful. I ran into this metal line thing, and I bruised up my thigh really badly. My friend's mom, the leader, just told me to suck it up and that I shouldn't have been running. So I kept walking, sniffling and with a throbbing, bruising thigh. My mom always thought that was pretty cruel; I mean, I was only like eleven years old, and I didn't have anyone to look out for me because I only really had one friend in that troop.<br /><br />Eventually I quit. I wasn't getting anything positive out of it, and I had begun dreading even going to meetings.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">So in short, I had some good times and some bad times in Girl Scouts, but I did learn some things. I learned that you should definitely not use the toothpaste from the camp store. I learned that making parody song lyrics was really freaking amusing. I learned that I absolutely cannot knit. And I learned that you should always shoot for the portable television: even if you miss, you will still land among the pewter figurines. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">Also, I actually mentioned giraffes in this post, so I can put them in the labels again. HA.</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-79968636738688397142010-06-04T10:47:00.013-04:002010-06-04T11:54:18.976-04:00Memories of My Graduation Day<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Okay, so I didn't update yesterday. I just had no idea what to write about. I'm still not sure what to write about, but if I let it go too long, I won't ever update again, and then all my imaginary (Except you, Six! Thanks! :D) Followers will cry.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">The seniors at my high school are graduating today. It makes me remember my graduation day last year...</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">It was pretty late before I was finally ready. I wore my shoes that I'd worn to the prom, because I thought they were awesome. I wouldn't let my mom take pictures of me before we left because we didn't have time and I hate posing for pictures unless I know I look good, which I didn't.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I didn't realize that I'd forgotten something for my sash until I arrived at the overcrowded school, and I had to wait anxiously in the gymnasium, where I was kinda freaking out about whether I'd be ready in time. My best friend tried to calm me down, but we couldn't really hang around too much. Finally, my parents arrived again with my missing adornment, and I hastily put it on in time for those silly group photos in the gymnasium where everyone's face is so small that when you get it back, you point at some vague flesh-colored spot with your hairstyle and say, "That's me!" and your friends say, "Really?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">After the group photo we milled around some more, chatting with our friends and asking, "Is my tassel on right?"</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrhrOioi1QDR8olyO5kfzM0aG6lubgvRjWPE8zfsVMXRJJTv2J6YQ_VEs4j6nWrcKLU1tjB5NMjFYpgLlZt4HAVo1Ho-apgSco-VtKDlJh5Jy3dXuGS9blYtll6MhUAN2Veqemc9ccCvA/s1600/IMG_0657.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrhrOioi1QDR8olyO5kfzM0aG6lubgvRjWPE8zfsVMXRJJTv2J6YQ_VEs4j6nWrcKLU1tjB5NMjFYpgLlZt4HAVo1Ho-apgSco-VtKDlJh5Jy3dXuGS9blYtll6MhUAN2Veqemc9ccCvA/s320/IMG_0657.jpg" alt="This is of the Baccalaureate ceremony, but my expression gives you an idea of how I felt on Graduation Day." title="This is of the Baccalaureate ceremony, but my expression gives you an idea of how I felt on Graduation Day." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478939683071246370" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Finally it was time to file in, and a hush fell over us all. Sure, we never shut up during practices, but this was the real deal. We walked solemnly and silently, except for a few people who wouldn't shut up no matter what we were doing. Everyone looked at the person to their front's back, relying on it to lead the way. As we walked quietly into the auditorium, I found my parents and flashed a smile. Hey, just because this was a serious ceremony doesn't mean we all had to make faces like gargoyles the whole time.</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_OZNmSncgW3k-cYQuF73ocGmoG-Rd57ZeY7IzvbJlulSo-ZTh1ftLGKph_UB0O7GRqfCgBLvxVQMdD5SQ2K8LQUUMM-291kJSDz62fxm5-d_UddaXjzZ8fxqP16eDEYj27mYg3gb82o/s1600/IMG_0659.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_OZNmSncgW3k-cYQuF73ocGmoG-Rd57ZeY7IzvbJlulSo-ZTh1ftLGKph_UB0O7GRqfCgBLvxVQMdD5SQ2K8LQUUMM-291kJSDz62fxm5-d_UddaXjzZ8fxqP16eDEYj27mYg3gb82o/s320/IMG_0659.jpg" alt="This is of the Baccalaureate ceremony again, but on Graduation Day, this is what my smile must have looked like." title="This is of the Baccalaureate ceremony again, but on Graduation Day, this is what my smile must have looked like." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478939690914789250" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I was sure I was going to trip as we climbed the tiny staircase to the stage. I found my seat, and so did everyone else. After it seemed we had sat there forever, I think the music started, and then the opening remarks were made, and we laughed feebly at every attempted joke by the speakers. Then, the names started to be called. Having an 'A' name, I was towards the front of the list, but it still seemed like forever before my name was called (I was glad I had corrected their pronunciation of my last name at all the practices: they finally said it right). I should have hammed it up as I walked across the stage, but there hadn't been that many people before me, so I didn't know my competition (ha ha). I just walked austerely across, a smile plastered on my face, taking every step deliberately so I wouldn't fall on my face or fall off the stage and break my neck and then they would wheel me across the stage and I'd get my diploma but then they'd find out that I was actually brain-damaged now so they would take it back (being up on stage can do stuff to your thought process. It didn't affect me, luckily).<br /><br />I shook hands with the principal and a few other people that I was too nervous to remember, and got my diploma. Then I went back to my seat in the established route, and sat through the other 400 or so students.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I never wanted to hear Pomp and Circumstance again, but to keep myself occupied, I sang the lyrics my friend's friend made up in my head:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-style: italic;">My reindeer fly sideways<br />Your reindeer fly upside-down;<br />My reindeer fly sideways;<br />Your reindeer are DEAD.<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><br />(I don't know. I really don't know.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I also became angry at myself for not being looser while walking across stage-- some of these people walked across like they were receiving a trophy for best comedian, stopping in the middle to reach their arms up in triumph. Everyone on stage laughed lightly, glad for something to break the tension. </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Why couldn't that have been me? I'm funny sometimes, </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I thought. It was also tremendously difficult to sit still that whole time. My back hurt and I wanted to swing my legs and crack my neck, and I kept shifting uncomfortably in my seat. For a person with ADHD, graduating ceremonies are nearly unbearable.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">After what seemed like an eternity, it was finally over. Some of us tossed our mortarboards, but it just wasn't the same without the slow-mo and shot of all the hats in the air, and anyway then we then had to retrieve them from the floor.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">We then exited the auditorium to find our family members. I wanted to say good-bye to my best friend, but she had somehow (wisely) disappeared before the impossible rush of people really got going. It was now pouring rain outside, and the lobby was so full that you couldn't even see in front of you. When we finally made it out the door, we got to our car as quickly as we could (which wasn't very quickly). Then we had to wait around for an opportunity to pull out. There was a guy parked in way that was very inconvenient. I don't remember how he was parked, but I remember that my brother was so mad that he wanted to write a note and put it on their windshield. I think he actually did it, too.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Finally we were on our way home, and I felt exhausted even though the day was only half-over.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">When we got home, Mom finally got her way and got to take pictures of me in my graduation gown.</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikKgcdZNfi97htXAGntUyQdraP_IrLFjgZEOcOJuZuTAetj2nsSh8c-U_9rRw4dNnyceLQgIkNX9fEAbksNvSCQ2qZGBt40cyO45AKgPlawF1Cv7RsD9F4ARg4O9dmhDUeQmgsJDyQz3k/s1600/IMG_0669.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikKgcdZNfi97htXAGntUyQdraP_IrLFjgZEOcOJuZuTAetj2nsSh8c-U_9rRw4dNnyceLQgIkNX9fEAbksNvSCQ2qZGBt40cyO45AKgPlawF1Cv7RsD9F4ARg4O9dmhDUeQmgsJDyQz3k/s320/IMG_0669.jpg" alt="I still had braces at the time. I had braces for like 8 years, no exaggeration." title="Ugh. I still had braces at the time. I had braces for like 8 years, no exaggeration." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478939703734619570" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Even though it was a strenuous ordeal, I look back on my graduation with fond memories, as I'm sure nearly everyone who has graduated does.</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1SfGmH074oGy4_nyobHpbN97O8QHgkVvDi2suIwNsa-lYa62w15RFBFOsRv-wDCs-AOxhP6px8TwQTX3rHzI7LgLFo9yvlz4VmbnOtM7uvkc9oOph5J4XBkSq8c6hfYCg5FWri5rb-I/s1600/IMG_0665.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1SfGmH074oGy4_nyobHpbN97O8QHgkVvDi2suIwNsa-lYa62w15RFBFOsRv-wDCs-AOxhP6px8TwQTX3rHzI7LgLFo9yvlz4VmbnOtM7uvkc9oOph5J4XBkSq8c6hfYCg5FWri5rb-I/s320/IMG_0665.jpg" alt="Look at that dork, smiling away. At least her shoes are nice." title="Look at that dork, smiling away. At least her shoes are nice." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478939698484203570" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">P.S.- Also, HA. I had a legitimate reason to put "reindeer" in the labels for this post!</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-69880012714877261282010-06-02T12:14:00.011-04:002010-06-02T14:06:53.335-04:00Infomercials Make Me Wish I Was Rich<span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">I sat for hours searching through channels for commercials to do research for this post. That's how much I love you, nonexistent readers.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">Today I realized how much those stupid product commercials make me want them.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">I have a love/hate relationship with these commercials: on one hand, I really love seeing all the cool things people come up with. On the other hand, I hate how many times they're repeated, the cliches you see in all of them (I'll get to that), and how much they make me want to waste money on them.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">In most of these commercials, some housewife or kids are trying frustratedly to use the old product, usually unsuccessfully, like trying to fit a cube in a circular hole. They throw the old product down and sigh dramatically, running their hands through their hair.</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYSA4w0xwi9fBMl5JKBZQgt6sh1ZN25QE7PbnMYJmdpjM9qjdebkJ-8o6VrRQMQC30JExFvBdazC2QF0PBrbayRFqjQAtQBBQf9RfkUHVxj043IGyfyH3R_Jpn7HIDarpwshQnjePx-X8/s1600/perfectbrownie.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYSA4w0xwi9fBMl5JKBZQgt6sh1ZN25QE7PbnMYJmdpjM9qjdebkJ-8o6VrRQMQC30JExFvBdazC2QF0PBrbayRFqjQAtQBBQf9RfkUHVxj043IGyfyH3R_Jpn7HIDarpwshQnjePx-X8/s320/perfectbrownie.png" alt="You cut, rip, and tear! But your brownies never turn out square!" title="You cut, rip, and tear! But your brownies never turn out square!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478238651694995554" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">Their old brownie trays are the bane of their existence! Those old markers make every day drab and unexciting! These frustration segments are nearly always shown in black and white, while the announcer says, "Tired of ___? About had it with _____?" Then the black and white is slashed through with a big red "NO" sign like on no smoking signs, or a giant red x.</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbEzPGAkcNvPx1oGQUiOnLvYvk99ICoKkjxXOYJyNY02kVMVK-6M4YnPmT7HhuJ18t1fdxQnIaoFPeNbJGQ9Q6JXTdJgNC8WG7rz6sNJ5qV42Bek1cQZ5LftahFMQmt2QH75yJ-PgJ_uI/s1600/jupiterjack.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbEzPGAkcNvPx1oGQUiOnLvYvk99ICoKkjxXOYJyNY02kVMVK-6M4YnPmT7HhuJ18t1fdxQnIaoFPeNbJGQ9Q6JXTdJgNC8WG7rz6sNJ5qV42Bek1cQZ5LftahFMQmt2QH75yJ-PgJ_uI/s320/jupiterjack.png" alt="Those Bluetooth headsets are so complicated and uncomfortable!" title="Those Bluetooth headsets are so complicated and uncomfortable!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478237612280412002" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">The cheerful announcer then says gleefully, "Try ____! Your life will never be the same again!" And the same poor, tired, and frustrated people are shown using the new product, which makes them instantly happy and content with their families, puts them on good terms with their children/parents, and gives them sudden popularity because hey! Who wouldn't want to be around someone with that product?</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHda7KpmPgGdXxQ43gtS1qTINyastkOLvTY7pti7JKylzdIMLVJrXQ1k0ooYGAUXsgDcS6-QWjAIlQH846W3VbyOW8V-k1QhhMOpMV34Lol8FxYxJ-m3JBQhjdE1nq_WMc464bvg4_ZI0/s1600/brownie.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHda7KpmPgGdXxQ43gtS1qTINyastkOLvTY7pti7JKylzdIMLVJrXQ1k0ooYGAUXsgDcS6-QWjAIlQH846W3VbyOW8V-k1QhhMOpMV34Lol8FxYxJ-m3JBQhjdE1nq_WMc464bvg4_ZI0/s320/brownie.jpg" alt="Perfect Brownie- As Seen on TV!" title="Perfect Brownie- As Seen on TV!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478225458845430018" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">Unfortunate photos of a young man with an acne problem are shown, with the guy giving a voice-over about how he didn't even have the confidence to talk to anyone. But now he's tried the new acne stuff and has skin as smooth as a baby angel, and he is shown with multitudes of laughing girls who look genuinely interested but really still just want the poor guy to do their homework, as evidenced by the open textbooks on the table.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">This is how nearly all infomercial-format product commercials work. You will be popular, beautiful, have harmonious relationships, and just be generally awesome, all thanks to this product, and for only $39.99! But wait--they'll double it FREE! You only pay ($10 extra) shipping and handling!</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSO7vkOmDqx1EUD1LTDbTkew9zlQW9Iz0fuT6yNrBMImrpt0dTmiB-rpj5K5wY0H9o4cBPeFZ8eL_Jmc7bo-qHhsl_tpzQkQOo-iBfqnWHWz5oEauu5RoRnmE8-ArzkIqDC5xyZKhtS8/s1600/emerycat.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSO7vkOmDqx1EUD1LTDbTkew9zlQW9Iz0fuT6yNrBMImrpt0dTmiB-rpj5K5wY0H9o4cBPeFZ8eL_Jmc7bo-qHhsl_tpzQkQOo-iBfqnWHWz5oEauu5RoRnmE8-ArzkIqDC5xyZKhtS8/s320/emerycat.png" alt="Because one tripping hazard isn't enough." title="Because one tripping hazard isn't enough." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478231610013323010" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">Despite how ridiculous these ads are, sometimes I find myself really wanting whatever they're showing, but then I remind myself that nothing could possibly work as well as it does on television.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">Now, some of these products look great. For example, those space bags that store all your clothes, and then you press/vacuum the air out of them. That's really freaking useful. I would actually be able to get the laundry basket of clean clothes out of my room if I could put the clothes in my drawers without rolling everything up like I'm going on a camping trip. But I bet they rip really easily. Then that guy who dumps the contents of a waterlogged canoe on his Space Bags won't be too happy that his Microfleece sweater is now covered in muddy water. And I can't help but chuckle at their little whispered disclaimers-- "Results may vary." Why even bother then? We want to be exactly like the people on the commercial, and we're not interested in variation of results of any kind!</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEincY9_zmsSQCD0WMuGkWeyYpDvpTxCOdAccXBFHztLUZQ5FpNCt6ZUx_0m39IC_xPY1B6MfvgLXNcCFrRZEvUj3_idoHzVq74MSEFoLNHjwSfFFRJaZ9zbGAzloe0AXMSNBKZhvs0TnaI/s1600/spacebags.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEincY9_zmsSQCD0WMuGkWeyYpDvpTxCOdAccXBFHztLUZQ5FpNCt6ZUx_0m39IC_xPY1B6MfvgLXNcCFrRZEvUj3_idoHzVq74MSEFoLNHjwSfFFRJaZ9zbGAzloe0AXMSNBKZhvs0TnaI/s320/spacebags.jpg" alt="Space Bags! Results may vary." title="Space Bags! Results may vary." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478226114203826946" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">You can also expect that the deal on television is MUCH better than the one in a catalog, or the price of "similar products". Look at that huge, unattractive number on the screen! Then it is crossed out, and lo and behold--THIS product costs at least $10 less! Of course, I'm a little confused why a toy helicopter would cost over $100 in the first place, but if you can get it for half that, great! And in 2 easy payments (why aren't they ever difficult?), too!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">I also love the names they come up with. They usually have "-Mate," "-Buddy," or "-Pal" as a suffix, or similar friendly-sounding names. For workout products, you can expect more powerful and masculine suffixes like "-Master" or some such.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">You can also expect that these products, no matter how simple they are, have some kind of "patented technology," and they will explain it to you, accompanied by a diagram. Then they try to use some large words to make it sound scientific, which leads to humorous results when you understand all the words and realize how ridiculous it sounds. They will tell you that they promise that if you aren't impressed with their superior technology, you can send it back free (but you still have to pay postage and handling).</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFO1ICGgtnlV1zFC6yv-DsiHGHpwzSEApSLiHH8zu21fYX15wvWBdCgrZKqkwtErcmhVdWCBVf7JUUeRCPNiJhObV-LYuSVtnOfM5yDUYyZnc34uiWzBuW4WebrDxcaTcVOA6qvaTlui0/s1600/cloudpillow.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFO1ICGgtnlV1zFC6yv-DsiHGHpwzSEApSLiHH8zu21fYX15wvWBdCgrZKqkwtErcmhVdWCBVf7JUUeRCPNiJhObV-LYuSVtnOfM5yDUYyZnc34uiWzBuW4WebrDxcaTcVOA6qvaTlui0/s320/cloudpillow.png" alt="Anatomically designed? Gee, that sounds great!" title="Anatomically designed? Gee, that sounds great!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478234448409848546" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">There will also be testimonials, sometimes from celebrities that may seem vaguely familiar. "It really works!" they will insist.</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRo6V8EPU9KDHK6oBTphsb-NAIaVVUbG9ds3tf4Nd8Io21vPWSKyobGYGCqurSF4gvcSrw7KVkjLDjRCKOrz-0quLiky6TOz-navrx-QRKqXpb3sFn7q6SDe053_FbRo_kcakihEttHk/s1600/slapchop.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRo6V8EPU9KDHK6oBTphsb-NAIaVVUbG9ds3tf4Nd8Io21vPWSKyobGYGCqurSF4gvcSrw7KVkjLDjRCKOrz-0quLiky6TOz-navrx-QRKqXpb3sFn7q6SDe053_FbRo_kcakihEttHk/s320/slapchop.png" alt="Oh, thanks for pointing that out. I don't think I would've seen that onion skin otherwise." title="Oh, thanks for pointing that out. I don't think I would've seen that onion skin otherwise." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478233267520020370" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">And of course, you can't forget the fun, exciting, and often very outdated music.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">But above all, these commercials are great for entertainment. See how many times they claim a cleaning product works instantly, and yet they cut from the before to after clips. Why do they need a time lapse again? And see how many times they show unrealistically stained or ripped surfaces for the product to fix. It's really funny when you can pick out all the sad attempts at making the products look better than they really are, and it's great to laugh when they say, "only 3 easy payments of $29.99!"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">Despite myself, sometimes I really wish I could just waste money on these things just to see if my life was made more awesome. And like I said, they're great entertainment.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">So I'll keep watching these product commercials, and if I laugh hard enough at them, maybe I won't want the products so much.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">P.S.- Those new tampon commercials that make fun of tampon commercials are pure genius by the way. If you haven't seen them, look for them on YouTube or somewhere.</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-35802741308066653782010-06-01T11:49:00.009-04:002010-06-01T12:12:19.120-04:00Driving and Why it Terrifies Me<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Happy June!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Today when I was walking my dog, several worrisome things happened.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">First, the tiniest Chihuahua I have ever seen came running out into the middle of the road, barking at us like it was ten feet taller. I started to get worried that a car would come and flatten the little thing, so I hovered around the dog's driveway until her owner showed up, reprimanded Coco for going out into the street, picked her up as easily as a paper doll, and took her inside. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Then, as I was nearing the farthest cul-de-sac, two guys in cars came tearing past me at a speed I can only describe as highway driving, causing what I believe is the only black guy in our entire development to yell, "HEY! SLOW DOWN!" If I hadn't been on the side of the road, they would have flattened me. Of course, the idiots went inside their house before the concerned neighbor could tell them to slow down, but I appreciated his annoyance.<br />As I went past the neighbor's house, he asked me, </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">"Did those guys just fly by real fast right by you?" in a concerned sort of voice.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">"Yes," I told him, and he made a sound like, "Oh my gosh, not again."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">"They better watch out, or they'll flatten somebody," I told him unnecessarily, just to let him know I was on his side. He nodded his agreement. Then his wife asked if Lily was a beagle, I told her my dog's mixed heritage, and I was on my way.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Later, we came by Remington the German Shorthaired Pointer's house. Remy is always very enthusiastic about other dogs and runs in circles around his house, sometimes even stopping in the front to spin around in frenzied circles or make a rut in his masters' mulch. He has one of those collars that reacts to an invisible fence, but it doesn't always work, apparently, because sometimes he runs right out of his yard and into the road to greet Lily, like today. I was worried, again, that a car would come, so I stayed there with Remy until his owner came out and retrieved him. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Now, what do all of these occurrences have in common? Driving cars.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">I will be nineteen in nine days, and I still cannot drive a car. Why? Well, for one, I took driver's ed only last summer. It was excruciatingly boring and tremendously useless, and I think pretty much the only thing I remember is the No-Zones Song (look it up on YouTube). Man, the kids in that video are such bad actors that it's hilarious.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">This isn't to say that I've had NO experience with driving cars. I almost drove one last summer. Once.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">My mom and I were coming back from somewhere, and she suddenly pulled into the itty-bitty parking lot of our local animal shelter. "Why don't you drive the rest of the way back?" she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">I was nervous, but excited at the prospect of driving for the first time. So my mom and I switched seats in our red Ford Escape, and I prepared to make my first voyage into driving. I made sure the mirror was right. I fastened my seat-belt. </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">My legs felt far too short for the car.</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"> I put the car in reverse. </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">I pushed ever so slightly on the gas pedal.<br /><br />And the mid-sized SUV rocketed backward like it was trying to avoid a falling piano. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">"Brake! Brake!" my mom yelled frantically.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">"I am! I am!!" I replied in a frenzy. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Finally, the car stopped, inches from the parked car behind me. I stared ahead, panting. "I don't think I can drive home," I told my mom.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">"That's okay," she said, breathing a little hard herself. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">On the way home, my mom told me how sorry she was. She said she shouldn't have let my first time be with an SUV that drives like a truck. I also pointed out that I'd never even driven forward, much less backward. She felt terrible, but so did I. I was pretty much traumatized.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">And now whenever I think about maybe practicing driving, </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"> it feels like </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">I'm going to cause an accident. I can't possibly do it right. I'll back over a Chihuahua or run over someone innocently walking their dog. I'll forget a road rule and pass someone I'm not supposed to pass, and at the wrong time. Somehow, I just know I won't be able to do any of it. It's just far too complicated.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Maybe we should start learning to drive when we're very young, and just not be able to drive legally until we're older. Kind of like how they teach you about how cigarettes are bad in elementary school, but you're not allowed to find out for yourself until later. Everybody learns to drive--so why don't we teach it in school? Why should the art of driving have so many secrets only shared with those willing to pay for driver's ed? Other places teach driving at school as part of the curriculum. Why don't we? It just doesn't make sense to me. It's stupid. We're wasting time teaching stuff that people will never use, like Pickle Ball, and not teaching stuff that everybody should know.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Anyway, someday I hope I'll be able to drive, because then I could go places without asking someone to take me, and then I'd have a lot more to write about. But for now, I'll just focus on trying not to get run over in my own neighborhood.</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-11449159476500030052010-05-31T17:05:00.006-04:002010-05-31T19:46:50.575-04:00My Birthday Wish List<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">So this morning, my mom handed me a pen and some paper and told me, "Write down what you want for your birthday." Of course, I am the kind of person who wants a lot of things, but needs very little. I am extremely impulsive, and arguably quite greedy. The things that I want change almost daily, and so it is quite difficult to pick things I want over a long term.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Sure, my wish list started off pretty good...<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCXAGViiU9EYHCOiBRwLYV83pP9S8bdXYUB0S2YNyu218NX0QGz6hmUxUTFGquX7B0W9Mour7-FI33H5EGh8LMw6d_IAKLVeEIH6fiHGv2EB0OJFarU9mVrEsuJe4dBrQAFxJSWmKrAeA/s1600/list1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCXAGViiU9EYHCOiBRwLYV83pP9S8bdXYUB0S2YNyu218NX0QGz6hmUxUTFGquX7B0W9Mour7-FI33H5EGh8LMw6d_IAKLVeEIH6fiHGv2EB0OJFarU9mVrEsuJe4dBrQAFxJSWmKrAeA/s320/list1.jpg" alt="30 Rock/Glee on DVD, Target Gift Card, Super Smash Brothers Brawl, Wii Points" title="30 Rock/Glee on DVD, Target Gift Card, Super Smash Brothers Brawl, Wii Points" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477581104767176114" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">But unfortunately, my desires are often easily changed and influenced, and I start to worry about the cost, and after a while, my list starts to look like this:</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAgi43Nd8JAtEEf1GgXAmVWw0dT7KPVyK0cugUmooORZXMp13cbmGEDGHNh8X3SG5AnLUCvGTKF7SYk1sRQF1u91pZC9DokX-RnghcsuSLEqop5fFJ5krUsk9FHfji4XR___Ki-K4LRYk/s1600/list2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAgi43Nd8JAtEEf1GgXAmVWw0dT7KPVyK0cugUmooORZXMp13cbmGEDGHNh8X3SG5AnLUCvGTKF7SYk1sRQF1u91pZC9DokX-RnghcsuSLEqop5fFJ5krUsk9FHfji4XR___Ki-K4LRYk/s320/list2.jpg" alt="Perry the Platypus plush toy, Pokémon cards, clicky erasers, Batteries, and one of those Glade air fresheners that releases fragrance every time you walk past it" title="Perry the Platypus plush toy, Pokémon cards, clicky erasers, Batteries, and one of those Glade air fresheners that releases fragrance every time you walk past it" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477581387675809842" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">In my defense, those air fresheners ARE awesome. Right?<br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">In short, I'm very easy to please, but nearly impossible to satisfy. It's one of my greatest weaknesses. I'm the kind of person who will make a huge deal and be all happy about getting some colored pencils, but at the end of the day I'll still think, "Well, I never did get that movie I wanted." It's not that I'm ungrateful-- it's just that I want a lot of things.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">When I was little, my parents would buy me a lot of little things, and my brother always got one or two big things. That way, the joy of opening things was prolonged for me, and the surprises never seemed to end. I always thought my brother foolish-- there he was, all finished opening things on Christmas morning, and I was still opening yet another package of little plastic animals or another book. Couldn't he see how much bigger my pile of unwrapped gifts was? While I marveled at the sheer number of all the accessories that came with my Barbie's new horse stable, my brother was contently playing his new Game Boy Color game, or waiting for nightfall to use his new telescope. What good was something without lots of fun parts, or something you had to wait to use? It all seemed very plain to me that I had the better deal.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">But a week after Christmas, my brother was still playing his game, and what was I doing? I was realizing that my horse stable didn't come with all the pieces advertised on the box, and that I had lost a few of the ones that had come with it. So I've come to realize that quality is always more important than quantity.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Unfortunately, I still have an aversion to getting practical things for holidays. I hate it when I get clothes for Christmas, and when my brother's girlfriend offered to take me shopping for a real bag, like a Vera Lang one, I just thought, "But I already have a bag. Why do I need another one?" I fail as a girl, obviously. But I've never been one for wanting to buy clothes. Sure, if I'm in a clothing store, I'll ooh and ahh over all the cute stuff, but I'll hardly ever dole out the cash for them. I just figure that if I make myself cute enough, I won't need cute clothes to look cute. Or something like that.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">So I end up asking for stupid stuff like batteries or air fresheners. And then remembering a day later that I really wanted some fine-tipped outlining pens.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">It's a good thing my family and friends know me so well: they know exactly what sorts of small delights I flip for, so I know I will always spend my holidays smiling. Some of the coolest gifts I've ever gotten were things I never would have thought to ask for: A home-made book about My First Wii, a 365-day calendar with pictures of dragons, a deck of Fairy Oracle cards... My friends get me things I didn't even know I wanted. And that is why they are awesome.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">So I'm not quite sure what I want for my birthday. But I know that I'll get a bunch of awesome things anyway.<br /><br />And if you want to get me an air freshener, I really like tropical scents. Just saying.<br /></span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-91137671970397603682010-05-30T20:56:00.018-04:002010-05-30T21:44:47.573-04:00When a Dog Gets Too Friendly With Moving Vehicles<span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Okay, so I didn't update yesterday, but I was a little busy doing nothing. I get really caught up in nothing, you know.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">First of all, this is my dog.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharV3fl4Kqis6GaGeejAdwolxU8bqspc_qH2-qM_iPh4R1Bc1M4cTgdjrRCH6mIAeHPlZTniCjn461oQgXJBBepCrMJToXmZx7W4E-uVkQGkyJiDSEbFGOysqLhkHa3Vy3iKT8QddQmmY/s1600/IMG_0057.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharV3fl4Kqis6GaGeejAdwolxU8bqspc_qH2-qM_iPh4R1Bc1M4cTgdjrRCH6mIAeHPlZTniCjn461oQgXJBBepCrMJToXmZx7W4E-uVkQGkyJiDSEbFGOysqLhkHa3Vy3iKT8QddQmmY/s320/IMG_0057.jpg" alt=""Play with me!"" title="Play with me!" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477232708124094242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Cute, right? Too bad she has a disturbing fascination with all moving things.</span> <span style="font-size:85%;">Like the cat. After 3 years of living with the cat, you'd think the novelty would wear off.</span><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Yesterday, I was letting my dog back in the house after she was out on her dog run. It's like this zip-line thing with a leash attached to it so she can run around like a fool chasing birds and stuff. When she reaches the end of the line, sometimes she chokes herself. My family and I like to say it sounds a little something like "bada-bada-bada-bada-PING!"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Anyway, I was letting her in, and she usually runs into the house after I unhook the run from her collar. But today (yesterday) she just stopped in her tracks and ran the other direction before I could even react. I had just woken up because she was barking so much, so naturally I was a little annoyed.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">"Fine, you stupid dog!" I said. "I was trying to be nice and let you in, but fine! You can get hit by a car for all I care!"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">A little while later, we got a phone call. It was a neighbor calling to tell us that Lily was hit by a car.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">And then my dad walked in, my panting dog in tow. According to our neighbor, she was hit by the car, was bowled over a few feet, then tore off towards my dad, who brought her home. The car wasn't going very fast, but our neighbor said it made a pretty loud thump, and after she saw it happen, our neighbor said she just went inside and cried (our neighbor is a very sweet old woman and I feel terrible for having in any way contributed to her shedding tears).</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Naturally, we were all a bit concerned for our dimwitted furry friend. She had always been unafraid of cars-- whenever I'm out on a walk with her, I have to tighten my hold on the leash whenever a car comes by, because she moves like she wants to walk up to it and play with it, like she thinks they are very large, metal dogs. Capable of killing you. But Lily doesn't judge.</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO7-WuxV6z3P4CTyDLvURMiGvfJkUtZcf6HRGMWtKzIsiPkMqp5qDrwjgxc8rwS0flejnt197C8_CzLHLhBAWaVF4SsUXUvbfWGNwpNRn5OeUSb7HeePFM56FbOsUoFt_hQZsYhZWf_Zk/s1600/IMG_0675.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO7-WuxV6z3P4CTyDLvURMiGvfJkUtZcf6HRGMWtKzIsiPkMqp5qDrwjgxc8rwS0flejnt197C8_CzLHLhBAWaVF4SsUXUvbfWGNwpNRn5OeUSb7HeePFM56FbOsUoFt_hQZsYhZWf_Zk/s320/IMG_0675.jpg" alt="She sure doesn't judge me." title="She sure doesn't judge me." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477234631444127170" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">We felt her hip (where she was struck) and found that it was swollen. However, Lily wasn't walking any differently and she wasn't even reacting when we pressed on the hip. We called the vet, just to be safe, but of course it was after noon and nobody was in. What a stupid system. Animals get sick after noon too, you know. We even tried holding an ice pack on it to bring down the swelling, but she just kind of looked at it like, "What are you doing? Now my leg is cold. I question the nature of your actions. May I please lick that cold thing?" so that didn't last long.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">But I felt terrible. I kissed her head, and played with her velvety ears, and I told her I was so, so sorry, because it was all my fault. I had told her that she could get hit by a car for all I care, and then she had. And I cared.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Of course, Lily looked confused about all the affection. So I assumed she forgave me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Lily's doing fine now, and running around like nothing happened, just like after she was hit. But I really hope she learned a lesson about those big metal dogs. If my mom were here as I was writing this, she would tell me not to forget to add that I learned a lesson too, about being careful what I wish for.</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibtcGbitu6sXd3KEwidQaFj9GzCwn0Us9henlDYcPWMFy5tR5jEO0ZHWcv6g24TjBgNwkZlNNCkkoA5BiG6CHyxWcN2yNVeK0LdEdqkGN0GX4u0TCswv5rZYlYBDR3zxPilavGhyphenhyphenZS4Qo/s1600/IMG_0293.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibtcGbitu6sXd3KEwidQaFj9GzCwn0Us9henlDYcPWMFy5tR5jEO0ZHWcv6g24TjBgNwkZlNNCkkoA5BiG6CHyxWcN2yNVeK0LdEdqkGN0GX4u0TCswv5rZYlYBDR3zxPilavGhyphenhyphenZS4Qo/s320/IMG_0293.jpg" alt="I forget what she's eating there." title="I forget what she's eating there." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477235636839553714" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">I think that goes without saying, though, and I hate it when people are preachy. Except preachers. Preachers can be as preachy as they want, because it's kind of in the job description.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Also, I need to not let my dog in right after I get up. My reaction time sucks.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPnWWmbTJxygj9RgjIlh1b1B0tIHexs81l-VNDeZ6tqBMGn31x49ROKoU5Ecq1N2WDIwkmTsyP_3pU327IBYuvjISO93jBSB7yKuuP3OrBtVJzbGdkP51HJvFbJHyOm_wArje5ihPEhG0/s1600/IMG_0061.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPnWWmbTJxygj9RgjIlh1b1B0tIHexs81l-VNDeZ6tqBMGn31x49ROKoU5Ecq1N2WDIwkmTsyP_3pU327IBYuvjISO93jBSB7yKuuP3OrBtVJzbGdkP51HJvFbJHyOm_wArje5ihPEhG0/s320/IMG_0061.jpg" alt="This is what I felt like that morning." title="This is what I felt like that morning." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477236220374862786" border="0" /></a>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-42793313507950630242010-05-28T15:11:00.008-04:002010-05-28T18:14:01.445-04:00Dixie Cups and Other Good Mousetraps<span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">Well, I'm not planning on going on any adventures like yesterday, and I don't feel like typing up my boring journal entries (at least not until I find one that's amusing). So I am going to talk about random things like this blog was intended for.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">My first topic will be these pest-control things we have all over our house. My mom bought these things that plug into the wall, and every 5 seconds or so they flash a little red light and make a clicking noise that is really annoying but eventually you get used to it and forget it's there until it gets really quiet and you're forced to notice it again. Supposedly the noise is supposed to deter mice and spiders.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(102, 255, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">I apologize for the image lighting and quality. I took this snapshot with my webcam.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(102, 255, 153);"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKe9rTa7LJOyGvYiG_HYAYD5ceSlPbIxV_wKLnGRbVaUxOXzxR6OuvNY-nQVQg4mAuwhiQ-Zw5_K55o5bCTsvtmT6DCgS_IlTr0f1sh3IcoF2R5-6t4agsSQZuaYX90kqDcS_lq1NP7dk/s1600/mousething.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKe9rTa7LJOyGvYiG_HYAYD5ceSlPbIxV_wKLnGRbVaUxOXzxR6OuvNY-nQVQg4mAuwhiQ-Zw5_K55o5bCTsvtmT6DCgS_IlTr0f1sh3IcoF2R5-6t4agsSQZuaYX90kqDcS_lq1NP7dk/s320/mousething.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476403933756434290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">See that little dot? It lights up with an evil red glare of death every 5 seconds, accompanied by a menacing click.<br /></span></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">Has anybody else ever seen these things? Because I hadn't. I don't even know why Mom thought we'd need them. We didn't have mice when she bought them.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">And then we got mice.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">Don't worry; they're gone now and everything is clean.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">But anyway, my brother and I totally think that these evil monstrosities drew them. Because they were hanging out right near them, no lie. It would also help if my dad would actually patch up the holes in our insulation in the basement, but whatever.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">My mom is deathly afraid of mice. She absolutely freaks out. Once, I was minding my own business upstairs and I heard all this frantic shouting and shrieking from downstairs, accompanied by violent thumps. Naturally, I was a bit curious and concerned, so I went downstairs to find out what was the matter.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">"There's a mouse in here," my mother told me. I looked around our kitchen. Random things from our pantry were strewn all over in evidence of my mom's attempts to kill the little critter. "The cat saw it, and she just walked away," she said. She sounded very affronted about this.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">"What was all that screaming?" I asked.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">"I was chasing the mouse," came the reply, as if it were completely natural to upturn things and shout while chasing a mouse, like a character in a Warner Brothers cartoon. I wondered if she had jumped on a chair at any point.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">"Well, don't stomp around. You'll scare the poor little thing," I said sympathetically. I don't care for what mice do to living spaces, but mice themselves? I think they are endearing.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">"I don't want to hear any more about the 'poor little thing'," my mother told me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">For a couple days, every time it got very quiet at night, and my brother and I were downstairs watching Metal Gear Solid videos, one of us would hear a faint scuffly noise. All activity and movement would stop. "Did you hear that?" one of us would whisper, and the other would nod fervently, eyes wide. A finger would be held up, silencing whatever comment might be offered. Then, we would creep to wherever the noise emanated (usually the pantry). My brother would swing open the door all of a sudden, and we would scan the interior with our eyes, as if our determination gave us super-vision.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">Only once did we actually see a mouse in there. I almost caught it with paper cups (I was going to take it to the cornfield out back and release it). But then it scurried under the door and we never saw it again. So on that particular night, we began an hour-long mouse-hunt in the basement. We would creep around, listening for any scuffling, real or imagined, me holding my Dixie cups aloft like the flimsiest weapon ever. As you might have guessed, the search was fruitless. We tried trapping the cat down there, but after 7 minutes she was meowing piteously to come out, and we let her out. She shook herself, regaining her dignity, and went outside, slacking off on her job once again. Then we put boxes in front of the basement door, but we figured it probably wouldn't fly if mice chewed the boxes of my mom's romance novels, so we moved them again.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">So then, a couple days later, my mom and I went to Wal-Mart and bought every kind of mouse trap known to man. We used to have Have-a-Heart traps, which look like little gray rectangular boxes with a tiny ramp leading inside. When the mouse steps inside, the door closes and the mouse is trapped. Sure, it doesn't kill the mouse, but if you forget to check the traps for a day, the mouse will have suffocated. Years ago, we used them, and only one mouse survived them. My mom let it go, and even her vermin-fearing heart bled for the little emaciated, overheated thing. Anyway, I've gotten off-topic.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">Have-a-Heart traps, circular Decon traps, modern snappy-traps, and the traditional neck-snapper traps (which I hate)--you name it, we bought it. My mom took back the Decon ones, because they were $5 and probably would suffocate the mice, but she ordered something called Earth-kind Botanical Freshcab Mouse Repellent- Active ingredient: Balsam fir oil.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">It arrived a few days later. Supposedly, it was developed by a "farm-wife". It was very expensive and it looks like a little pouch of dried aromatherapy stuff. It smells unbelievably potent, and like the forest just smacked you in the face. Everyone in my house loves it except me, who thinks it smells just a little too strong. But ever since we got it, we haven't seen a mouse, so I guess it is working. It would keep me away, too.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">So anyway, we are mouse-free now and that is the only reason I am allowed to tell you about this, because my mom hates it when I tell people we have had mice. She thinks it automatically means we are dirty slobs who live in a pigsty. I try to tell her that normal people get mice all the time, and we are normal people. My brother absolutely hates them, so he thinks our house is dirty and all, and maybe that is what is making my mom nervous about it, but me? Everyone gets mice at some point.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">But not everyone gets smacked in the face with the forest. So I guess we should feel lucky.</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-48467130135489745482010-05-27T14:07:00.005-04:002010-05-27T15:22:06.184-04:00Swingsets Are Fun...But Not For Pants<span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">So I went to the swingset by the ruritan today.<br /><br />I put on another tank top, some pants that come down to my calves, and some white socks with hiking shoes (my fashion sense is awesome like that all the time). I slathered on some of our ancient sunscreen that definitely lost its effectiveness about five years ago. I was going to walk to that swingset and it was going to be flipping awesome.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">I walked down my street, and at the end of it, my brother's girlfriend's car pulled in, and she and my brother asked where I was going. "To the playground by the ruritan," I announced, looking extremely dorky in my white Washington College hat, sports bra straps sticking out, carrying a water bottle in a plastic bag. My brother's girlfriend told me to hop in and she'd drive me. I wasn't going to refuse in this heat. Before she dropped me off, she wrote down her cell number and said to call her if I needed a ride back. I thanked her and was on my way. I wasn't going to need a ride back! I was going to get exercise in the most fun way possible, and then walk all the way back with a feeling of contentment that would make the Buddha jealous. I practically skipped to those swings. It didn't bother me that some were wrapped around the top bar, much higher up than the rest, or that one was sideways. These swings just needed a little love.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">Even though it was hot as hell (meaning the place this time, not as a curse) and my Chapstick kept flying out of my pocket, it was great fun. Every time I swung up, I touched the branches of the tree in front of me with my toes. And this was a pretty big tree. It was great because I was in the shade for half of every swing. While I was swinging, this school bus, the big yellow kind, pulled up to the fire station across the street. I waved at the kids in the windows. Then a bunch of people who were way too tall to be kids got out, and I felt awkward.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">I thought about being in elementary school, because that's where these swings used to be before they tore down all my childhood memories and moved the school. It was very nostalgic. I remembered having egg hunts, getting in trouble for swinging upside-down, those long conversations I had with my friends while we just swung and swung away. All the nostalgia almost took my mind off how much it hurt to grip the chains. I only looked at my watch every two minutes, which is pretty good for me. One time I even went four minutes without checking.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">When I had swung for half an hour (because swinging really is strenuous, no joke), I slowed down and jumped off when I was still swinging pretty high (because that's what I always used to do when I was little. It made me feel cool and dangerous, like swinging upside down). It was then that I realized something....</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">MY PANTS WERE RUINED BY THE EVIL SWINGS FROM HELL.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">You think I'm exaggerating, don't you? Okay. Well.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">These are my pants from the front. They resemble how the back of my pants used to look.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqQTwQPqbmtRJv1BJ_xrI1otFWrVuKg6wtDe_HqOcE0Y7NR3IKc-hiKeBVvUDfjXOm9u0fradWlh_sduvrugoLQU46U5bNR1rGnUiIftQGTRDnVtlxiRUV-p6BkdMLxhHiEdnucp9ZBI/s1600/snapshot.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqQTwQPqbmtRJv1BJ_xrI1otFWrVuKg6wtDe_HqOcE0Y7NR3IKc-hiKeBVvUDfjXOm9u0fradWlh_sduvrugoLQU46U5bNR1rGnUiIftQGTRDnVtlxiRUV-p6BkdMLxhHiEdnucp9ZBI/s320/snapshot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476014383122981890" border="0" /></a>Nice pants, aren't they? A nice color and all that.<br />Well, these are my pants after spending half an hour on the swing.<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrwju3DR4Ey25iPAbAAMDwaKYbT9HexTwjHlguBaKDvF4MZY1i7vbBzfMX8UFYkXMwbj0Iej0ZtZxRysJv78IcayXiNRA47e11EAq-7M21csbJZmDvgypxYXmaPdPk0jgDWs1xdDVk6Y/s1600/snapshot3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrwju3DR4Ey25iPAbAAMDwaKYbT9HexTwjHlguBaKDvF4MZY1i7vbBzfMX8UFYkXMwbj0Iej0ZtZxRysJv78IcayXiNRA47e11EAq-7M21csbJZmDvgypxYXmaPdPk0jgDWs1xdDVk6Y/s320/snapshot3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476014390985337858" border="0" /></a>Check that out.<br /></div><a style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtZ89bod4_uy1CYYYaf8xAW6KVSsKiJGNirypvaUNhX3-Q1N5TpET0NR8VAgdT-JpqTYofy-IhLgfgYh16enZPrl-9Ku_53uTVNgrevVtkmBzX5dg-VM2gnlRCPpUfrTwbS9rmIhO7s0/s1600/snapshot2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtZ89bod4_uy1CYYYaf8xAW6KVSsKiJGNirypvaUNhX3-Q1N5TpET0NR8VAgdT-JpqTYofy-IhLgfgYh16enZPrl-9Ku_53uTVNgrevVtkmBzX5dg-VM2gnlRCPpUfrTwbS9rmIhO7s0/s320/snapshot2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476014387917619490" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">WHAT THE HECK DID THE SWINGS HAVE AGAINST ME?? I just didn't understand. I thought what we had was special, and then the swings had betrayed me. Feeling very hurt and disillusioned, I wondered what I should do. I could call my brother's girlfriend, but I didn't want to give up on getting that extra 2-or-so miles' worth of walking back. And I didn't want to get whatever that was all over her car.</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqQTwQPqbmtRJv1BJ_xrI1otFWrVuKg6wtDe_HqOcE0Y7NR3IKc-hiKeBVvUDfjXOm9u0fradWlh_sduvrugoLQU46U5bNR1rGnUiIftQGTRDnVtlxiRUV-p6BkdMLxhHiEdnucp9ZBI/s1600/snapshot.jpg"></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">So I trudged the whole way back with my blackened pants. I wonder if those people in the fire department garage thought I fell in a tar pit or something. There were lots of cars that went by as I walked, and I really hoped they did not notice me. Also, I saw two squashed birds. I thought birds always escaped being squashed, but I guess I was wrong about two things today.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">Well, I am back now, and my face is returning to its normal shade as the fan tries heroically to cool me off. I have changed pants and I feel much better now. I am going to try to treat my poor wounded pants, which I should have known were bad luck since they are also the pants I broke my wrist in when I went to Europe (there is a small hole on the front left pocket from where a part of the bike tore it. If you don't know the story, I fell off a bike into a ditch while in the Netherlands on a 20-day trip visiting 6 West European countries, and it hurt a lot but we couldn't get it checked out because People to People couldn't stop for medical things, not that I hold that against them because they are great, and I told myself to suck it up because there was nothing wrong and I was just being a baby, and then 2 days after I returned home we got it x-rayed and SURPRISE my wrist was broken.). But if they survived that ordeal, hopefully they will survive this one.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">But let my experience be a warning to you: Old swingsets may be fun, but not for light-colored pants.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">Also, I tagged giraffes in this post because giraffes are awesome.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrwju3DR4Ey25iPAbAAMDwaKYbT9HexTwjHlguBaKDvF4MZY1i7vbBzfMX8UFYkXMwbj0Iej0ZtZxRysJv78IcayXiNRA47e11EAq-7M21csbJZmDvgypxYXmaPdPk0jgDWs1xdDVk6Y/s1600/snapshot3.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtZ89bod4_uy1CYYYaf8xAW6KVSsKiJGNirypvaUNhX3-Q1N5TpET0NR8VAgdT-JpqTYofy-IhLgfgYh16enZPrl-9Ku_53uTVNgrevVtkmBzX5dg-VM2gnlRCPpUfrTwbS9rmIhO7s0/s1600/snapshot2.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqQTwQPqbmtRJv1BJ_xrI1otFWrVuKg6wtDe_HqOcE0Y7NR3IKc-hiKeBVvUDfjXOm9u0fradWlh_sduvrugoLQU46U5bNR1rGnUiIftQGTRDnVtlxiRUV-p6BkdMLxhHiEdnucp9ZBI/s1600/snapshot.jpg"><br /></a>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-87359502615195627192010-05-27T10:33:00.003-04:002010-05-27T11:15:42.939-04:00Entries From the Past: 4/7/10<span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Okay, so this was written on April 7th, while I was at college.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">So today I was reading </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">The Basic Eight</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"> (novel by Daniel Handler) and I realized that even mundane things can be interesting if written down in a clever manner. It then occurred to me that I was capable of writing in a clever manner. Subsequently came the thought of this journal, which has not been being used in the manner I originally intended. So I have decided that I will write clever things in this.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Will I write in it for more than 2 consecutive days? Of course not. As much as I would like to pretend otherwise, I am a person of inconsistencies.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Usually when I write in journals I do not write very much because either a) I get bored before I've made my point; b) I </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">have</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"> no point and therefore nothing to write; c) I am stricken by how unattractive my handwriting is; or d) I get the feeling that what I have written is so clever that I must share it with someone, and thus I never write anything truly personal other than vague poems. But I've been going about it all wrong: Journal-writing is for me, like those endless Notepad documents on my laptop that, if read by an outsider, would make one question, "Why does she have all these cartoon show quotes, stupid laws, and horoscopes saved?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">But I suppose there really is no better form of introspection than simply writing out one's thoughts, except perhaps simply thinking those thoughts without writing them, which is often just as effective. However, for someone with a short attention span like me, it is frustrating when all your brilliant introspection cannot be recalled later when you really need your own advice.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">So, self, what are you thinking as you read this? What has changed? What has made you laugh? What-- or who-- has made you cry? Are they the same thing, as they often are now?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Perhaps by simply prompting more introspection, as I have just done, I can still yet avoid talking of personal matters, like my grades or who I'd very much like to be dating (of course, one is infinitely more interesting than the other, but as they fall into the same category of 'Personal', I will not discuss either. At least not right now). </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">It is my brother's birthday today. He is 23. This is the first time I have not been home for his birthday, and I am very unhappy about it. I am also unhappy that I have no glorious present to give him. I always give him glorious presents-- for Christmas I gave him </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Legend of Zelda: Spirit Tracks</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"> and the Limited Edition hardcover strategy guide for it. As usual, they were the most expensive gifts I bought that year. I'm not sure why I feel the need to buy extravagant presents for him-- or anyone-- but it's almost as if buying these things will give us just a little more common ground-- something to connect over.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">And now I have no common ground to give.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I will most likely end up simply making a home-made (dorm-made?) card, which is my way of saying, "I'm poor, but I swear I remembered and I still care!" But it is hard to think of things to draw for him: my usual cute-but-sassy white cat with green eyes who says a cute holiday pun/joke would not be appreciated in this instance, I think. Maybe drawing Zelda and Link would be cool, but it's like saying, "There wasn't a new game out, so here's the characters from the previous ones." Actually, it isn't like saying that at all, but anyway.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">What, really, is the point of writing in a journal? Every time I read some book written in journal format I want to do it myself, but then, even as I write many pointless things about my arguably equally pointless life, 2 things occur to me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">1) The book is witty and clever because other people get to read it and see how witty and clever it is.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">2) My journal will never be considered witty and clever because no one is supposed to see how witty and clever it is.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">So really, what is the point of writing anything witty and clever if you are the only person who will see it? There isn't one. And yet here I am still writing, as if harboring a secret hope that one day this will be published and my musings will be considered witty and clever. Which I will never admit hoping.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">But which brings back to mind: I cannot write anything truly personal because I will always want people to think I am clever or deep, and if the things written aren't even clever in the first place, there is no need to write anything at all.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">And now I am rambling. To myself. So I suppose I should actually start saying meaningful things now (ha!).</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Often I am stricken with the thought, "I should write this down." It could be a bit of snappy dialogue from a friend, a description of someone else's action which I've conjured in my head, or, more commonly, the night's Japanese homework assignment. But writing often feels tedious, and I abhor my atrocious handwriting, so I write very little. Which is rather tragic for an aspiring writer.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">But anyway, I often compose little paragraphs in my head about what has just happened in my life, in book form. [here I insert an example, but it may be a little personal and embarrassing, so I'll leave it out.]</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Composing little paragraphs in my head makes mundane moments of my rather unexciting life into happenstances full of meaning and intrigue. I find myself describing even the awkwardest moments to myself, and then I tell myself to stop, because there's no point in thinking in book form if the book will never come to be. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I also narrate things aloud sometimes. My friends must find it an odd quirk, that after someone says, "I got a C," and someone else says, "So it could have gone better?" that I mutter quietly (and wittily), "...she asked unnecessarily." </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I could think of endless examples of this if I tried hard enough, but as I have said, I often forget my previous internal introspection (she said redundantly) and so it would take forever to think of the wittier narrations. But if any good ones come up from now on (or from now til whenever I stop writing in this journal), I will certainly share them with you, self. And then the boring moments in your life will finally be the exciting and meaningful novel you've always craved.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">It occurs to me that the above sentence would have been an excellent closing sentence to the entry, but I am not writing a novel in journal form: I am writing an honest-to-goodness journal. For only me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">What a waste.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Soon I have to go to Japanese lab, but first there's dinner. I wonder if I will end up bringing this journal and jotting down things as I wait for my invariably late friends? Most likely. I took my medicine not so long ago, so I am not hungry, but if I don't eat I will regret it later when I realize I've eaten a 3rd cup of Goldfish and am still hungry.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">The timer has just alerted me that I have 5 minutes, and yet here I still am, lounging on my bed and writing pointless things (albeit slightly faster and with the air of an impatient person). So I suppose I should put on my shoes and go to dinner.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Where's an excellent closing sentence when I need one?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">5:04 PM</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">The lemonade, proclaims the little sign on the soda machine, is still "Out of Stock."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I have brought this journal to dinner, which means I will end up trying to read it to my invariably late friends, who will most likely show up at a time which would only permit me to read the first paragraph before I began a mad dash to Lab. But I suppose it's good to have someone to talk to, even if someone is myself.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Tay has just showed up and is talking about the 3 sentences she has written for her big paper, so I guess I will write more later. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">5:26 PM</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Random thought before Lab: Maybe someday I'll have written so much in this that I'll curl up with it on a long summer afternoon and sigh to myself, "Ahh, yes, May 5th: my favorite part."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">11:47 PM</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Well, here I am again.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I auditioned for Women on the Chester, a new Women's Acapella group. I sang an excerpt of Suo Gan rather beautifully.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I got in. (Sarah too! :D)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">So basically, I got a package today, I got into a choral group, I started keeping a journal, and I actually had fun in Japanese. Oh, and I got a smoothie. The only way this Wednesday could get better would be if I received a sudden declaration of love from "the one I adore" (only 10 minutes left). But this is My Life, not a Fairy Tale, and as much as I wish the two terms were synonymous, they probably never will be. Still working on having Rapunzel hair anyway though.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">The only part of today that wasn't cool was-- well, there were two parts really. One was following around Edith the Lit House Cat, to make sure she didn't cross the street, for the entirety of my two-hour work shift.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">See, this is why I don't write about stuff that happens during the day in my journals.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Anyway, the other un-awesome part was discovering that I still do not have a) a title, b) a topic, or c) the slightest clue about the subject matter for the big upcoming English paper.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">The title and topic are due in class tomorrow. The slightest idea part, I worked on with my friend SparkNotes. Very useful indeed.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">"Monster and Maya: The Significance of Nicknames." Does that sound stupid?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Yup, I am pretty sure it does. But then, everything sounds stupid at 11:59 at night. On the plus side, though, everything sounds great at 2:00 in the morning, so maybe if I stick it out for a couple hours it will get better.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">It's midnight. Sorry, bro, it's not your birthday anymore. Happy Thursday to me, even though it still only feels like Tuesday.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I really must go and get cereal tomorrow. Just thought I'd mention that.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I suppose this also means no declarations of love. Perhaps someday there will be a Wednesday that far surpasses the one I have just had, but I guess, for now, yesterday wasn't quite so bad. At least there was chorus and SparkNotes.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I don't get hungry as often as I used to. I don't know if this is because I am healthier, because it is hot outside, or because I am so busy that I can't just sit in front of my computer and eat, but whatever it is, I wish it would please continue. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Whenever I go without eating a while, I feel a sort of pride: I don't need food. Food is for fat people.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">And then, like right now, my stomach rumbles. Treacherous body.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">In high school, I can remember going a full day eating only an apple. There was another time I ate nothing at all for a whole day. I loved the feeling-- it was all up to me how good I looked, and I was doing a great job.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I wish I could be that person again.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">But I have nothing to keep me occupied 24/7 anymore like the musicals/plays/new boyfriends/broken heart did. Eating has become a way to break routine. "Today," I think as I trudge back from the bathroom, "I will have a Fruit Snack for breakfast." Of course, this was only because I had run out of cereal, but it felt like doing something new for a change, so I went with it.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">At the same time, food is a constant, steadfast companion. No matter what's going on or what's stressing me out, Goldfish will always have the same wonderful, sweet, cheesy and salty taste.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">My stomach has rumbled again. I am diligently ignoring it. It is my policy to never eat after brushing my teeth, and anyway my retainer is in.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">I really would like to continue writing, but temporarily I have run out of things to write.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Oh, earlier, when I was in the bathroom, there was a bird outside that sounded as if it was dying. I'm not sure why, but at the time I thought it was amusing and mentally told myself to include that in this journal. So there you have it, self: Birds with throat problems apparently amuse you.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Holy crap that was long. I'll write the actual entry for today later. Until then!</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-30597785763974338592010-05-26T18:23:00.005-04:002010-05-31T00:34:31.982-04:00Entries From the Past: Introduction<span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">Okay, so, a lot has happened since 2008. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">Let's see. That guy I was always obsessing over? We got back together. Then he dumped me again for a cute, pink-haired friend of mine. But don't get me wrong; she's great.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">ANYWAY it is not my intention to talk about that.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">I finished high school (no really?). I was the understudy for Dolly in Annie Get Your Gun (my best friend was my overstudy. Overstudy is not a word, but I used it anyway). It was awesome.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">Also was understudy for Hero in Much Ado About Nothing, which we set in the 50s. Was a bit awkward because He played Claudio, but whatever.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">Had an uneventful summer.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">Went to college. OHMYGOSHWHAT</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">And here I am in my first summer as a college student. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">Anyway, I began keeping a journal in April, because I became randomly inspired to do so. So I'll be posting entries from that journal on here. At least, the entries that aren't too awfully personal. So yeah. Expect posts about stuff that happened from April to May to ensue in the coming days,</span><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);"> nonexistent audience. Love you, incidentally.</span>WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7618773261612375849.post-58601128249835833172010-05-26T17:11:00.005-04:002010-05-31T00:21:45.508-04:00Wow, This Thing Still Exists?I just rediscovered this thing. So I might post in it sporadically. First I think I'll post what I wrote today. Then I might post stuff I wrote in my journal over the past couple months. CHRONOLOGY FTW. Anyway this post came from Facebook, which came from a Notepad document.<br /><br />Well, I'm putting two posts in one for this. I've been inspired by blogs and decided I really should just write stuff for the hell of it sometimes. So forgive me if it doesn't make sense at first. I just have to share my pointless ramblings with the world sometimes. Maybe it'll help me be a better writer or some crap like that. If you want something quick and amusing, read the part about my walk. If you want my usual ADHD craziness (does anyone really want that?), read the first part as well. Also, I think people tag people in notes just so they'll read them, but I think that's rude. People don't want to read something unless it's about them or they're in it. I would never do anything so inconsiderate. Hi, Taylor, Erin, Sarah, and Alex!<br />Anyway, now to begin my note, which began as an attempt to just write something in Notepad.<br /><br />Hello, Notepad Document.<br />I don't know why, but whenever I come across something awesome, I feel the need to open you up and make a file with you. I don't know why I don't use something like Word or OpenOffice. I guess it is because you are just so much more accessible and friendly, and as someone with a mastery of the English language, I don't need superfluous things like SpellCheck (see what I did there? Who else would use the word 'superfluous'?). Sure, I have to press Enter more often than the average person would because the Notepad window is tiny and I dislike horizontal scroll bars. Sure, I have to stick to one font, which I am more often than not too lazy to change, and so it usually looks like a computer wrote it. And sure, I can't put any pictures in here to break up the insurmountable wall of text. But you are always right there, Notepad--I can open you whenever I need to type up something quickly, which is usually.<br /><br />Now that I am done writing to Notepad, I will start actually talking.<br />Why is it that we say we are typing something up, but we say we write something down? Are all these directional details really necessary? I suppose it's because we look down at paper, and up at a screen, but what if I were to write while laying on my back and holding the paper above me? Or lay on a couch and put my laptop on the floor and type while stretching my arms down to reach the keys?<br />Don't try that last thing. It hurts after a couple minutes.<br /><br />Anyway. My mind changes subjects quicker than something very quick (see, I got bored before I could come up with an amusing analogy), so I'm going to talk about something else. I am sitting here on my couch, feeling at once restless and eager to go somewhere, and reluctant to leave the comfort of my home, because it is really hot out there and I hate sweating. I have not had any sort of physical activity in the past 3 days. I tell myself it is because my muscles still hurt from pushing children on swingsets and merry-go-rounds and swinging for hours at the park on Sunday (I am not making this up; also, hi, Gwen, Eva, and Dorothy!), but eventually that becomes a weak excuse. Even if I do have an enormous, hideous bruise on my thigh that I am sure came from the merry-go-round hitting me at some point. I would like to walk down to where my old Elementary school (I'm not sure why I capitalized elementary, but oh well) used to be and see if their old playground is still there.<br /><br />I forgot how much I loved swinging. Swinging is freaking amazing. For a split second, at the apex of your journey, it feels like you are flying, weightless (which is rather pleasant for someone who always feels too weighty). And then, with a playful 'bump,' you are brought back to your mobile seat, and the delightful process begins all over again. I mean, sure, your hands smell unpleasantly like metal after you are finished, your arms hurt like hell because you forgot how much strain it puts on them at the elbow, and people are looking at you funny because there should definitely not be an 18-year-old girl swinging at an abandoned playground and laughing like an 8-year-old, but swinging is great. It makes you feel like nothing matters but having fun. And everyone longs for that feeling at some point, right?<br /><br />Anyway, I'd love to go and investigate whether or not there are swings within walking distance, but whenever I leave my house for a walk, I always feel obligated to bring my dog. She doesn't get joy from a lot of other things, after all. I can do cool human things like reading and playing video games and watching movies and writing pointless things about swinging, but my dog is just stuck laying next to me with her head hanging off the couch, making a dissatisfied noise every so often. I wonder if dogs get bored? Or if they think, "I wonder why my master hasn't gotten dressed today?" No, that's just silly.<br /><br />Anyway (I have a propensity for beginning paragraphs with "Anyway"), my point is that I don't walk my dog past my neighborhood, which is the equivalent of 3 miles if you walk all of it (and I usually do). But it is really freaking hot out today, and the last time I took my dog walking when it was this hot, she and I were both overheated and miserable and terribly thirsty by the time we returned (only one of us was panting with her tongue hanging out though. Guess which one. Hint: It was my dog). So I don't want to overheat her. Because it is really heartbreaking when your dog is panting as hard as her Gentle Leader head-collar is allowing her to, her tongue flapping desperately at the side of her mouth, sounding like a small, hyperventilating person, with heat-absorbing black fur on her back--and you just keep right on walking, thinking hopefully to yourself, "Well, if I'm okay, she's okay, right? I mean, dogs have endured worse than this before. If I'm not dehydrated by now, she probably isn't either, right?" By the way, did you know dogs sweat through their paw-pads? It's true. Also, they pant to circulate air through their airways, cooling the lungs and expelling hot air. Yes, I really did know all that. I'm kind of a know-it-all when it comes to animals, especially domesticated ones. Did you know horses can't throw up?<br /><br />Well, now that I've given you a lovely image of a vomiting pony, I think I'll change the subject. I really do want to get up and go for a walk. It'd be good for my dog and for me (especially me, whose goal it is to lose 30 pounds over the summer. Then I'll weigh as much as I did before I went to college). But I really hate being overheated and sweaty, almost as much as I hate being fat. So I am in a difficult position here. I suppose the first step in actually doing something is to get dressed like you are actually going to do something. Maybe then the rest will just come to you.<br /><br />HOW TO WALK YOUR DOG WHEN IT IS 88 DEGREES OUTSIDE<br />-Get dressed in tank top and knee-length pants. Realize that tank top does not cover sports bra straps. Fret a little, then stop caring.<br /><br />-Put on ankle-length socks that may or may not belong to another member of the family.<br /><br />-Let dog out and tell her to go potty. Reward her when she goes pee, even though you really wanted her to go number two so you don't have to clean it up on the walk.<br /><br />-Put hair back in ridiculously high ponytail. Attempt to put hair in bun, then realize it looks ridiculous and you never really could pull off a proper bun. Keep the ridiculously high ponytail. Pull bangs back in clips, even though it makes your forehead look enormous.<br /><br />-Remember how much you wanted water last time you went for a walk at this temperature. Decide to bring a pack of some sort with water, a water dish for the dog, and treats (for the dog, not you). Search around frantically for a fanny pack or lightweight backpack. Fail to find anything suitable. Find a heavier, but still small pack, which is unfortunately red and heat-absorb-y black. Sigh and decide that's as good as you're going to find. Pack your items, including a frozen water bottle from the freezer.<br /><br />-Put on the dog's head collar, which she hates and which she always acts all mopey about once it's on. Feel a little bad, as always, but reward her with a treat for not complaining verbally.<br /><br />-Remember how you had to go to the bathroom throughout the whole walk last time, and decide to drop the dog's leash right in front of the door to go to the bathroom. Leave the dog standing in front of the door in her head collar and leash, wondering what the hell you're doing.<br /><br />-Hear your dad's voice on the answering machine as you step out of the bathroom. Rush to pick up. Leave the dog still standing by the door as you tell him everything's fine and you were just going to go for a walk.<br /><br />-Finally rejoin the dog. Praise her for standing there without complaining. She looks confused.<br /><br />-Realize that straps of pack cover up sports bra straps. Feel a little better about wearing it.<br /><br />-Step outside. Get hit with wall of heat. Step bravely into it.<br /><br />-Realize within the first minute that the ankle-length socks are definitely not yours and are extremely uncomfortable.<br /><br />-Sneeze. Realize you did not take your allergy medication.<br /><br />-Run back to the house and change socks. Let dog come upstairs with you so she's not standing bewildered by the door again. Decide to put hair in bun, even if it looks ridiculous.<br /><br />-Leave once again.<br /><br />-Walk for a while. Realize that there's no way you're doing three miles in this heat. Wish you could pant like your dog instead of doing gross things like sweating.<br /><br />-Pull dog along as she wipes her muzzle on the ground in an unsuccessful attempt to remove head collar.<br /><br />-Curse yourself for deciding to bring a stupid pack, which seems to suck in heat like a black hole for heat. Or a heat vacuum. Realize you are too hot to think of a good analogy.<br /><br />-Feel resistance on leash and look back to discover that dog is pooping in someone's front yard. Realize with dismay that you brought all necessities except a plastic bag. Wonder if homeowner has a dog. Hope desperately that poop will be blamed on homeowner's dog. If homeowner has no dog, hope desperately that poop will be blamed on world's largest rabbit.<br /><br />-Keep walking. Sneeze again. Realize that you had an opportunity to take allergy meds when you changed socks and didn't. Curse your bad memory.<br /><br />-Walk until your dog stops in her tracks and refuses to go any further. Look back at her. Ask her, "Do you want to go back?" Feel somewhat relieved when she turns around without a word and begins to walk back.<br /><br />-Realize how pale your arms are. Wonder if the sun is making your hair even more blond.<br /><br />-Briefly stop as dog pees unnecessarily in someone else's front yard.<br /><br />-Finally return home. Take off dog's head collar and watch as she wipes her muzzle all over the carpet in an attempt to get the fur to lay the proper way again. Open up pack and pour some of the melted water into dog's dish, and drink some yourself from bottle as dog laps noisily, speckling the floor with flecks of water.<br /><br />-Douse beet-red face with cold water from sink.<br /><br />-Plop down on couch and listen to dog panting wildly from floor.<br /><br />-Become curious about fan spinning lazily above you and pull cord, discovering that it can go faster. Be very satisfied with your discovery.<br /><br />-Promise yourself you'll try walking again later when it's cooler out.<br /><br />-Sit down with laptop, dog laying beside you, her nose twitching with the scents drifting in from the open windows.<br /><br />-Feel content.<br /><br />Oh and by the way, people I tagged, I love you and I miss you. <3<br /><br />Anyway, then I wrote this:<br /><br />I am going to attempt to write down all the random things I<br />think this afternoon.<br /><br />You know what I hate? People who write "your" when they mean<br />"you're," or, more rarely, vice-versa. I mean, it's not that<br />difficult to grasp. You're has an apostrophe in it because it's<br />a contraction. It's joining two words by removing a letter, which<br />would be 'a' in this case. Is that really that difficult? When<br />you say "Your stupid," I think, "My stupid WHAT?" And when you<br />say, "You're dog," I think, "No, I am not. I am girl."<br />It frustrates me to NO END!! PLEASE, people! For the sake of the tenuous thread<br />that is my sanity, PLEASE use "you're" and "your" correctly!!<br />You will make me cry!!<br />I mean, I see ADULTS get this wrong! Adults I KNOW! I feel so<br />embarrassed for them! I mean, really, that's the kind of mistake<br />an elementary school student makes! And it makes me feel awkward--<br />should I say anything, or would that just make it even more<br />embarrassing?<br />PLEASE! STOP THE TORTURE!!<br />Someone has finished the New York Extra Sharp Cheddar Cheese.<br />It is my favorite, and you can tell it is awesome because it has<br />a very long name. I really want some cheese.<br />I am eating my 5th freezy-pop. I sure am glad they're only 20<br />calories.<br />It's unfair that I get the munchies so often. I'm not even a<br />drug addict.<br />I love taking forever to eat string cheese. It makes me feel like<br />I'm eating a lot but it's not unhealthy, and that I'm being good<br />by eating my food slowly. Also, it's really fun.<br />As I sit here finishing my tub of frozen cool-whip, I think about<br />how much it bothers me that I can't be consistent with anything.<br />I start things all the time and never finish them. There are<br />unfinished drawings, abandoned forums and blogs, and even<br />sentences that I leave<br />I wish I had to wait to be fed like a dog. The monotony of the<br />same meal over and over might even make me lose my appetite<br />sometimes. Maybe I shouldn't eat unless someone brings me<br />something. But I don't think my mom would approve of that setup.<br />I'm not sure why my dog feels the need to sit and slurp at her<br />most secret regions. Although with my dog they're not that secret.<br />Seriously, this dog will lay on your lap, or right next to you,<br />or on the floor, and just slurp and slorp away. (Am I grossing you<br />out yet? Yes? Good, because it's gross.) And then, when I look<br />at her and say, "Could you please not do that? I'm trying to<br />complain about things to a nonexistent audience!" she just<br />looks at me with her startled-deer look, her ears flattened<br />against her head, making her look very much like the Whippet that<br />is definitely in her heritage somewhere, as if to say, "I'm<br />not sure why you are acting this way. I find it to be just a little<br />unreasonable." And so I say, "Well, you're the one sitting there<br />and slurping at yourself." And she gets up and goes beside the<br />couch, where I can't see her, and sighs, making that little groan<br />noise she makes so often. I swear she understands sometimes.<br />And then I realize that this is the same dog who runs away<br />terrified if you expel air through your lips to make a "phhbbt!"<br />noise.<br />My cat is strangely incapable of meowing right now. I let her in,<br />and she is making all these sad little strangled "aah-rrr" noises<br />that sort of resemble her usual meows, but not really. She sounds<br />like she needs to clear her throat or drink some water or something.<br />Naturally, I felt bad for her, so I fed her. My cat is a glutton.<br />She wanted to be fed at 2 o'clock last night. It was warm out,<br />so I just put her outside. She's a cat: if she's really hungry,<br />she can just kill something. And she does, most of the time.<br />Usually when we don't want her to.<br /><br />And I am too lazy to alter it from Notepad formation. Hooray!WingSonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01013188238952587370noreply@blogger.com0