Kitten Cult

It's been a year - iz bak!

2008-02-21T10:40:00.000-08:00

It's been, like... 370 days since I posted on the Cult, and it's about time that sitcheeyayshun was remedied. No worries, I'll be going into my college experience thusfar in excruciating detail. But it can pretty much be summed up like so:

Bleeeeegh

2007-02-16T10:37:00.000-08:00

I got the news that I've been accepted to Missouri State University in Springfield. Finally. My major is Pre-Law, but I'm not sure I'm going to stick with it. Who knows.

I have to choose my living arrangements now, but it doesn't really matter since privacy is out the window anyhow. I'm not sure whether I want a two-person or four-person dorm room.

I'm so tired of trying to plan this out.

2007-02-15T10:54:00.000-08:00

We've been dating for four months, and he wants to marry me. And not in the sense that that's the eventual long-term goal... he won't stop talking about the ring he's picking out. It's making me more than a little nervous. I love David, and I have every intention of marrying him someday - but I don't want to be a teenage bride. I don't know how to talk to him about this. He's considerably older than I am and it's much more reasonable for him to get married than it is for me.

Bah, to hell with it.

It's all fun and games till the mother of three dies

2007-01-19T08:02:00.001-08:00

A radio station in Sacramento is facing some serious charges after holding a water-drinking contest (dubbed "Hold your Wee for a Wii") which caused water intoxication in Jennifer Lea Strange, who was found deceased in her apartment mere hours later. What makes it worse? The people responsible for hosting the stunt knew the risks - even the risk of death.

Judy Linder, a registered nurse, was listening to the program and was so alarmed that she asked a colleague to call and warn the station."She told them you could die from water intoxication," Linder told ABC affiliate KXTV in Sacramento. "He [the disc jockey] pretty much blew that off and said they signed a release so, so what? Then he said why don't your guys come down here and do it, and we said because we don't want to die."
According to a tape of the show, the disc jockeys appeared to joke about the possible dangers of consuming too much water and alluded to a college student who had died during such a stunt in 2005."Yeah, we're aware of that," one of the disc jockeys said. Another disc jockey said: "Yeah. They signed releases, so we're not responsible. We're OK.""And if they get to the point where they have to throw up, then they're going to throw up, and they're out of the contest before they die, so that's good, right?" another disc jockey said.

And staff at the radio station knew Mrs. Strange was in pain.

Disc Jockey: "Jennifer, I heard you were not doing too well."

Strange:"My head hurts."

Disc Jockey: "Aw."

Strange: "They keep telling me it's the water. It will tell my head to hurt and that it will make me puke, but."

Disc Jockey: "Who told you that? The intern?"

Strange: "Yeah. It makes you. … It hurts, but it makes me feel lightheaded."

10 staff members - including the DJs - were fired as the result of this tragedy. Here's the big question: Should they have been fired, or was Mrs. Strange to blame for her own voluntary participation? Should the staff face legal charges and/or jail time for this tragedy?

The good bishop Katie

2007-01-16T17:21:00.000-08:00

On my 18th birthday I went into the nearest Bank of America and got a checking and savings account made up with the help of a sweaty, nervous-looking man in his 30's who obviously didn't much like his job. I gave him a lot of information, he did a lot of typing, and when all my paperwork was finally printed out, there was a damn typo. Where it should have said "Katherine J. Hartman," it said:

Bishop Katherine Hartman

This, I maintain, is divine intervention; but unfortunately, my bank account pretty much has to have the right name. So I told the kind man to fix the problem, please and thank-you.

So, a week later, my debit card and checks show up with "Bishop Katherine Hartman" all over them, and I'm a little pissed.

Ironically, the bill for the checks came today. It was addressed to "Katherine J. Hartman." Go figure.

Cuuuute.

2007-01-16T16:57:00.000-08:00

I'm usually not a huge fan of ecards, but these animated ecards for dog lovers are really cute. They have a unique creation process for the cards - you select which you would like to send, and then you pick the dog(s) to "star" in it. They have dozens of different breeds to pick from (I was able to find a beagle to represent David's dog, Trip, and a black lab for Ducky, my dog) and you can enter the dogs' names along with a message to the recipient. The service costs $9.95 per year, but you can create and preview your cards for free. I've already spent about half an hour playing with it... yeah, I'm a loser.

I'ma kill that boy.

2007-01-16T10:15:00.000-08:00

Recently, I returned from a trip to go visit my loverboy, David, to find that the headphones for my computer were gone.

Sort of.

The cord was still plugged into my computer, but it had been severed and the other end (where the headphones should be) was completely missing. The nice, unassuming side of me guessed that one of the dogs had gone and bitten the cord, but... well, I would have expected to find my headphones in several hundred pieces scattered about the room, like I find every other thing near and dear to my heart that the dogs take it upon themselves to destroy. Weird.

Over the past few days, this has been brewing in my mind. So I'm talking to mom today, and I just blurt it out:

"My ass-of-a-brother ruined them. I don't know why. I don't know how. But I know he did it."

She didn't even look up from the spreadsheet she was working on. "Well, I know his headphones got broken."

He broke his headphones, took mine, and then had the balls to plug in the useless severed cord from his pair.

And, you know, I can be unassuming. Even forgiving. But this isn't the first, or second, or even third time he's done something like this.

Gonna KILL that boy!

2007-01-14T09:29:00.000-08:00

Are you prepared for the gallery of never-before disclosed cell phone snapshots? You've been warned. Scroll down... if you dare.

	"Couch Squirrel" The Panhandle Couchdwelling Squirrel, known in the scientific world as the 'fat bastard' of the animal kingdom, is a rare sight to behold in these parts. The appearance of this rare and elusive beast is often heralded by the exclamation, "Dear God, that fucker BIT me!"
"Dashboard Jesus" Jesus, Son of God, begotten of the virgin Mary, comes to you today fresh from the sweatshops of China, ready to free you of your sins in the convenience and comfort of your own vehicle. You'll think twice about going 70 on a 65 highway when dashboard Jesus is your guide.
	"zomg teh bunnys" These two beloved cottontains (known to friends and family as Spike and Not-Spike) were released several months ago into the wilderness of Central Texas. Since then, local landowners have noted a rapid increase in the deaths and disappearances of livestock and several young children have been reported as missing. If you have any information about the whereabouts of these alleged 'bunnies,' please call your local law enforcement office.
"My Little Fix" I don't care what anyone says, My Little Ponies are dangerous, addictive motherfuckers. Crack cocaine for your inner child, if you will.

Peace = War, 1984-style

2007-01-13T09:13:00.000-08:00

I haven't really commented on this lately, but I'm not particularily impressed with Bush's plan for the Middle East. ModernOpinion's editorial on the troop surge outlines an opinion that I strongly disagree with, which is that the best way to bring about peace is to escalate the war effort. Time and time again we've seen Bush push for more troops and more money for Iraq, and time and time again we've seen him turn down peace talks and refuse good ol' fashioned diplomacy. Troops have been redeployed, funds have been reallocated to the war, and guess what? We're still at war. The insurgency isn't faltering. This. Isn't. Working.

First off, Bush needs to start listening to the central recommendations of the bipartisan Iraq Study Group. The problem is that the committee and the President have different goals for Iraq: Bush wants to create a smashing military victory that will give him a 'graceful exit' from his altogether-crummy presidency, and the Iraq Study Group wants to soothe the violence in the Middle East and bring the conflict to an adequate close before more Americans and Iraqis lose their lives, whether or not that means a victory that will leave Bush in a favorable light.

Secondly, the President needs to recognize that engaging Syria and Iran in the negotiations surrounding Iraq is a much better idea than threatening them and ignoring attempts for further communication. Iraq's neighbors will play an important role in determining the country's future, and the last thing we need is for them to be pissed off at our occupation as we roll another twenty thousand troops in.

Sir Crab, your Suite awaits.

2007-01-13T07:58:00.000-08:00

The other day I brought home a pair of hermit crabs (lovingly dubbed Hermie One and Hermie Two) from a neat little shop in the Rivercenter mall in San Antonio. I was not informed that they would be picky little bastards, or that mom would develop an unhealthy interest in meeting their every little need. So when she came home with a good $80 in "supplies for a better crabitat," I was a little put off.

"10-gallon aquarium? Thermometer, sand, 'bed-a-beast'? And what the hell do they need more shells for?"

"They like a selection."

"What's wrong with the shells they've got?"

"What's wrong with them? Oh, please. Look at this: their shells have oval openings. They like them to be circular. And do the insides seem anything like mother of pearl to you? They want mother of pearl. Not to mention that their shells are way too thin. They're practically naked in there, Katie. Naked!"

Hermie One briefly tried on one of the new shells before returning to his old residency. I'm told that he was impressed with the quality but feels hesitant to relinquish the ambiance of his current home. His people will call our people.

Good stuff.

2007-01-10T13:12:00.000-08:00

Click for full-size screenshot

I ran across an interesting site that brings a nice little twist to social networking. ZOOOF, The Family Network is a breath of fresh air, frankly, because websites like myspace seem to have become cesspools for the scum of humanity. I like this one because it seems to be encouraging its users to build family ties and expand their cultural understanding to other parts of the world (the beta testers are from 49 different countries themselves). Since Zooof is in beta, you can't automatically sign up for an account (I've requested an invite for myself) but on Feb. 14 it's going to be open for everyone and, of course, free. Apparently there are going to be flash-based family trees that users can build. Who knows, maybe kids will start actually caring about their heritage... and maybe they'll even care about people who aren't within 100 miles of themselves.

That's the Christmas Spirit, Mommy #2

2006-12-24T12:09:00.000-08:00

Well, I just called my dad's to ask if the boys could bring the xBox 360 over, and I got a major ass-chewing from my stepmother.

First I called my brother:

Katie (me): Hey tom, could you bring the xBox 360 tonight?
Tom: Uh... it's not Christmas yet. So... no.
Katie: Um, well, I just bought Viva Pinata for myself and I'd really like to use the 360.
Tom: That's nice.
-click-

I was confused as to what that was all about because he's usually not that much of a bastard. So I called my stepmother:

Katie: Hey Anj, Tom just hung up on me...
Angie: Yeah. I know.
Katie: I was just wondering if I could use the 360 tonight.
Angie: Of course you can't use it. Do you have any idea who's it is?
Katie: Uh... Danny's? (Danny is my stepbrother)
Angie: Yes, and he's not getting it until tomorrow.
Katie: You mean for Christmas? I thought they already had one.
Angie: No.
Katie: Well, that's what I thought. Sorry then.
Angie: Uh-huh.
-click-

Her voice was dripping with distaste, as it always is when I ask to use something that belongs to her son. It's really hard to pretend you aren't part of a shattered family when your stepparent treats you like the annoying kid-from-up-the-street who won't just take a hint and leave.

For the record, I wanted them to bring the 360 because I bought Tommy AND Danny a $60 game for them to open tonight. Bah, humbug.

Damn your soul for a free DVD today!

2006-12-22T08:38:00.001-08:00

Creepy philosophical/religious discovery of the day: www.blasphemychallenge.com.

It's simple. You record a short message damning yourself to Hell, you upload it to YouTube, and then the Rational Response Squad will send you a free The God Who Wasn't There DVD. It's that easy.

I'm not particularily fond of this idea, regardless of the fact that I don't believe in Hell. It seems to imply that atheism exists only to be a tack in the ass of Christianity, which simply isn't true. It's also oddly reminiscent of the rantings of many a Sunday televangelist, although the content is a little... different.

But hey, some of these responses are just priceless:

Is there a Santa Claus?

2006-12-22T06:56:00.000-08:00

Is there a Santa Claus?
SPY magazine, 1990, reports:

1) No known species of reindeer can fly. But there are 300,000 species of living organisms yet to be classified, and while most of these are insects and germs, this does not COMPLETELY rule out flying reindeer which only Santa has ever seen.

2) There are 2 billion children (persons under 18) in the world. BUT since Santa doesn't (appear) to handle the Muslim, Hindu, Jewish and Buddhist children, that reduces the workload to 15% of the total - 378 million according to Population Reference Bureau. At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per household, that's 91.8 million homes. One presumes there's at least one good child in each.

3) Santa has 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming he travels east to west (which seems logical).

This works out to 822.6 visits per second. This is to say that for each Christian household with good children, Santa has 1/1000th of a second to park, hop out of the sleigh, jump down the chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left, get back up the chimney, get back into the sleigh and move on to the next house.

Assuming that each of these 91.8 million stops are evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false but for the purposes of our calculations we will accept), we are now talking about .78 miles per household, a total trip of 75-1/2 million miles, not counting stops to do what most of us must do at least once every 31 hours, plus feeding and etc.

This means that Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second, 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man- made vehicle on earth, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second - a conventional reindeer can run, tops, 15 miles per hour.

4) The payload on the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium-sized lego set (2 pounds), the sleigh is carrying 321,300 tons, not counting Santa, who is invariably described as overweight.

On land, conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that 'flying reindeer' (see point #1) could pull ten times the normal amount, we cannot do the job with eight, or even nine.

We need 214,200 reindeer. This increases the payload - not even counting the weight of the sleigh - to 353,430 tons. Again, for comparison - this is four times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth.

5) 353,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second creates enormous air resistance - this will heat the reindeer up in the same fashion as spacecraft re-entering the earth's atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer will absorb 14.3 QUINTILLION joules of energy. Per second. Each.

In short, they will burst into flame almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them, and create deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire reindeer team will be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second.

Santa, meanwhile, will be subjected to centrifugal forces 17,500.06 times greater than gravity. A 250-pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of his sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force.

In conclusion - If Santa ever DID deliver presents on Christmas Eve, he's dead now.

World Domination via Pixel Polar Bears

2006-12-22T04:30:00.000-08:00

Oh yes.

The PPB will be keeping a watch on my posts this holiday season. Feel free to bearnap one for your blog if you like.

Newsflash: Harry Potter isn't real.

2006-12-20T15:36:00.000-08:00

I saw Jesus Camp the other day, and it left me pretty righteously freaked out. Don't get me wrong - I don't think most fundamental Christians yearn for world domination via third graders. But when you find a group that does, you just can't help but bust out the ol' camcorder and make magic.

My personal favorite scene? Pastor Fischer expresses a desire for the blood of Hogwarts' students.

You "accidentally" touch me, and I'll "accidentally" rip your balls off.

2006-11-25T14:43:00.000-08:00

Between my failed attempt to exit through the garage door and my later being repeatedly groped by some horny little freak, today has just not been all that enjoyable.

Let me start by saying that both encounters were similar in that something ended up dented, be it a garage door or a teenage boy's face. But only the latter deserved it.

I had to leave the house pretty early this morning to get to drama practice in Austin. Man, I had everything. Map, cell phone, purse, proof of insurance, tiny stuffed monkey, keys, hershey's bar (breakfast). Check, check, and double check. Good-to-go, Roger-that. Lights on, stick in reverse, foot on pedal, and...

CA-CHIN-KA-CHING-CHIIIIIING

Oh.

Shit.

Yes, good neighborfolk, I am the idiot who rammed her car into her own garage door this morning.

Oh, and if you're the guy a few houses up the street who backed away in his lawn when I passed by, fuck you. It's not like I'm some kind of psycho or something.

Onward, then.

I showed up at practice a good twenty minutes late and we jumped right into Act II, Scene 8, which happens to be the scene in which I (the self-righteous yet arguably flawless slave girl) am fatally stabbed by Pontious Pilate. I fall back onto Soldier-Guy's arms where I twitch, mutter incoherently, and die. Seems simple, yes? You'd think. But no, the stringy little perv playing Soldier-Guy seems to think that the best way to catch a falling female is by grabbing her chest and squeezing.

Let me make this clear: I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I practiced the scene three times, and three times he kept making for the boobies. Three times I just flicked him off subtly and told him and the director that he needs to start catching me at the waist. They both assured me that it was just an accident and next time he'd do the scene correctly.

The fourth time, I kicked his ass. I screamed at him at the top of my lungs to get "OFF, OFF, OFF!" and I slapped at him.

We took a break from the scene, which was nice. I'm not into sexual harrassment, and frankly, I needed a minute to get the figurative bad taste out of my mouth. When we ran the scene a fifth time, he grabbed my left breast so hard that it hurt. I kicked him off of me and yelled at him to never touch me again. I was done. I yelled at him some more and told the drama teacher that I wasn't going to do this with him anymore and that I wouldn't do the scene at all unless she just let me fall without being caught, which finally seemed to give her the idea that I don't like being fucked around with by horny little boys.

Long story short, I made it pretty fucking clear to all those within a 2-mile radius that you sure as hell shouldn't touch me if I don't want you to, and I finally get to perform the play with absolutely no physical contact with the little bastard.

<3

2006-11-24T15:00:00.000-08:00

I've fallen ... hard ... for a gnome.

A gnome mage, to be precise.

We enjoy long talks over ventrilo. We often quest together in the depths of Feralas. He provides me with conjured mana and health products, and I go bear-form and tank to protect him from the wild in-game beasties. We call each other in the middle of the night and talk about anything and everything, even when neither of us has anything to say and we just want to hear each others' voices.

Major leet nerd crushes. <3<3<3 ftw.

So if you're wondering why I haven't been around much lately, you can blame David. You'll have to stay mad at him for me, 'cause God knows I can't.

Take notes.

2006-10-26T05:13:00.000-07:00

In order for the admissions staff of our college to get to know you, the applicant, better, we ask that you answer the following question: are there any significant experiences you have had, or accomplishments you have realized, that have helped to define you as a person?

I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees; I write award-winning operas; I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.
I woo women with my sensuous and god-like trombone playing; I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed; and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.
Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang-gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.
I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat .400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.
I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.
I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago, I discovered the meaning of life, but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four-course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven. I breed prize-winning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.
But I have not yet gone to college.

You may have seen this before, but it's worth reading more than once. It's an essay written by Hugh Gallagher for his application to NYU. He was accepted.

Guinea pigs in Motion(?)

2006-10-23T20:00:00.000-07:00

I am the Queen of HalfAssery. Surely, a Goddess among mere mortals.

So my fellow Physics pupil calls me up this Saturday and basically tells me to do this group project that was announced three weeks ago (on a day when I was at home, faking sickness) by the end of the weekend. Oh, I said I'd do it. Katie-style.

(To this moment, I'm not sure what the actual instructions for the project were. It had something to do with an experiment, velocity, acceleration, and graphs.)

So, yesterday night, I took out my dusty video recorder, and filmed two minutes of my ancient guinea pig sitting on my kitchen floor on a line marked "Start." And sitting, and sitting, and sitting. Dead still.

I then wrote a 2-page report on the velocity and acceleration of an unmotivated guinea pig. That would be 0 m/s and 0 m/s². I made sure to include my calculations and a notation that, had we been using equations applying to the three-dimensional read world, we would have taken into account the very slight occasional bobbing of the guinea pig's head.

I had to present this to the class today. I've really never seen this look on my Physics' teachers face; it's a look halfway between utter shock and oh-my-God-you-must-be-kidding. My flustered lab partner muttered quietly to himself, "It'll be okay, it'll be okay, she'll fail us, and then we'll just do it over again. It'll be okay, I'll do it next time and we won't fail and it'll be okay. Oh my God! It'll be okay."

I think we'll get an A. My guinea pig's pretty darn cute, if not mobile.

DoomKatie

2006-10-23T19:43:00.000-07:00

My friend Sam is one of those revolutionaries who has just given up and pulled the white flag. She doesn't talk in Government class anymore. Frankly, this sucks, 'cause she's the one who had my back whenever I got into one of my deeply-argumentative tangents. She'd be the next one to comment. Quieter. Nicer. With less sass. She's my beloved spokeswoman.

But she doesn't talk anymore, primarily because she absolutely despises Governmentteacherman. He rather likes her, though. He approached her the other day on the subject of her and I:

"Sam, why are you so quiet in my class? I need my Sensible Sam. Without you, it's just Chaotic Katie. I need Sensible Sam to balance out Chaotic Katie."

Chaotic Katie? Schweet. I am the bane of all educators. The energizer rabbit of doom. Roar!

I've stopped raising my hand in my class to speak, because he's stopped answering it. I'm louder than he is, anyway.

Foul language isn't ladylike, darlin'. Repent!

2006-10-17T15:41:00.001-07:00

My car wouldn't start when I tried to leave the school today. It's about 92 degrees. Baking.

Apparently I left my lights on.

Shit.

Naturally, my first move was to try and find my sexy Government teacher to jump-start my car and save the day and fall desperately in love with me and let me have his babies. But his car was gone, and he's married and all that, so I just wandered around asking if anyone would help me with my car. I ended up finding the principal's wife, who called every male on the staff asking if they were around to help. Lutheran men apparently don't answer phones (and Lutheran women apparently don't know shit about cars), so she ran back into the school to go find someone. Peachy.

Let me quickly add that you can't really forget the look of a Lutheran pastor in full garb. He's got the full black suit and that little white collar that only shows at the throat. So when I see that strolling my way confidently (nay, righteously) I know just what's going on.

Mr. Sunshine's found me.

He's not a blatant asshole, but there's really no way of getting around the fact that he's a chauvinist pig. Many a speech has been thrust upon us womenfolk, explaining the ways of the world in words simple enough for a mere weaker vessel to comprehend - "the world" being marriage and childbirth. His condescending tone pisses me off.

He quickly assures me that "it's alright, Sunshine, I'm gonna take care of you." Fantastic.

"Thanks. It's pretty stupid, I just left my lights on. I have the cables and everything, I just don't know how to do it."

"Don't worry, hun."

There was some small talk on the way to my car. Lots of "hun" and "darlin'" and "sunshine," with that unmistakable machomacho tone. Ugh. God, just strike me down now. Please.

So I got in my car and put it into neutral so it could be pushed out of its parking space. I jumped out to help push the car (weaker? eh? eh?) but y'know, without someone in the car, it's kinda hard to stop it. So I jumped back in and hit the brakes, which stopped the car about a foot from hitting a chain-link fence.

Smooth, Katie. Real smooth. You look like an idiot. Not that he expects much more from you; after all, you haven't got a penis.

He points at the driver's seat. "Okay, sunshine." Then sternly, "you just sit in there and behave."

Oh.

Hell.

No.

I kept my composure. I didn't attack a clergyman. I wanted to, but I didn't. I'm pretty damn proud of myself for that. Everything else is in a blur; I was in Katie-Hulk mode. I seriously wanted to give him a good kick in the nuts. I thanked him, waited for the other car to pull out, and got on my way.

And I'm still pissed off. I mean, what the hell? Behave? It's not like he even wanted me to do anything, but he still felt like he had to push his dominance on me. Fuck. That. Shit.

Yeah, I'm a nerd

2006-10-15T06:17:00.000-07:00

My dream last night could best be described as World of Warcraft meets The OC. Let me get you a visual for that:

I'll admit it... it was sort of a fun dream. But it was weird.

I'm a level 31 night elf druid. I find myself invited to a guild, Order of the Dragon. Feeling deeply honored, I accept. I take my obligatory first visit to the guild headquarters and find myself in a huge, ravishly-elegant palace. Think marble pillars and draping paper-thin curtains. Suddenly, I'm engaging in foreplay with a human warrior (I don't know what part of my mind thinks that's hot, but that how it goes). After extensive groping, I decide I don't want to take it any farther than that and prompty give him the boot. He doesn't take it well, but I equip my Smite's Mighty Hammer and he backs off. I return to the guild commons and socialize for a bit before heading off on a quest for some extra gold and experience points. As I leave the building, a friggin level 99 rat comes out of nowhere and leaps on my face. Due to level differences, there's no way I can pwn this rat, which (by the way) is like three feet long. The rat has some serious range and apparently I've dealt major aggro, so all I can do is run away. And run away. And run away... anyway, I finally run back to the headquarters and manage to lock the rat out. Nonetheless, the thing keeps scratching on the door and making whimpering noises. One of my idiot guildies opens the door and - guess what? - it's time to run away yet again. But is that the full extent of my troubles? Oh, nonono. Apparently my sexually-repressed human warrior guy has gone insane out of lust for me and is up in the rafters, firing at everyone in the building with a Bow of Searing Arrows. All I can do is try to talk him out of it whilst running in circles with a rat on my ass. Of course, loverboy's a little pissed, and I end up with an arrow in the kneecap. As I pass out, I feel the rat hit the back of my neck and start gnawing.

Then I woke up.

Even Freud would say I need to get a life, which should tell me something. I'd write more, but I want to hurry up and get on World of Warcraft since it's already 9 am.

My brain is veggie stir fry.

2006-10-14T13:12:00.000-07:00

I took my SAT today. Not familiar with it? It's a simple, non-invasive procedure to remove creativity. It seems to have been a success - needless to say, if you have any questions for me, you're going to have to provide multiple-choice answers and corresponding bubbles for me to fill in.

The rest of the day has been spent in recovery, i.e., on my lazy ass in front of the T.V. with a pile of nerds ropes and a liter of diet coke.

It's dawned on me that I should probably find a couple colleges since I'm a senior now and all that. I really, really want to go to Britain to study. Why, you ask?
The grass is green there. Green. Not yellow and crispy. Texas grass is straw that you mow.

And here's a true fact: A British accent makes any guy appear 20% hotter than he actually is. It's a guarded secret held deep within female society, but now you know.

Ooh, and KittenCult's up for rent again. Should be fun, no?

2006-10-12T04:36:00.000-07:00

I saw a "God Loves America Only" bumper sticker on a parked car the other day. Seriously. I took about five minutes trying to locate a redeeming punchline that just wasn't there. Is there really a market for the production of something like that? I mean, what's the thought process behind making that kind of purchase? "Gee, I think I'll make someone smile today over not being a godless foreigner!"

That bumper sticker officially takes the win for stupidest and most offensive piece of shit you can tack to the rear of your vehicle.

Taking second, truck nuts:

Of softball, my arch-nemesis.

2006-10-10T16:35:00.000-07:00

I have to do softball again this year in order to graduate, which is basically a vague form of corporal punishment. It wouldn't be unfair to say that for every time I manage to hit the ball with the bat, I'm hit by the ball and walked to base twice. Coaches frantically rotate their pitchers, praying for one to find my batter's box and retrieve an easy strikeout; disgruntled fans shout at the ref, She's trying to get hit! She's jumping into it! Strike! Strike! I emerge victorious and take my base, thankful that the pain was brief and that my trial is over.

For the inning.

Ugh.

I'm one of those kids who always got the B+ in PE for sucking up and "good effort." Physically, I'm not built for sports: I'm wideset, somewhat heavy-chested, and I teeter on two stick-like legs that can barely support my 125 pounds. Mentally, I'm sports-retarded; during my first softball game (after I was hit by the ball, of course), I ran to the left and went straight from home to 3rd. The poor refs were confounded; my flustered coach yelled at me to for-the-love-of-God STOP. If you can, try to imagine me teetering along on my little legs to 3rd, with my coach fuming, both teams staring on in shock, and the parents in the stands whispering quietly amongst themselves, "It's so nice that they let the girl with down syndrome play."

So I'm looking forward to another year of that. Woo-hoo. The nice thing about it is that my teammates love me, they really do; anyone looks better when playing next to me, and that's a much-appreciated role in the world of semi-competitive girl's sports. I think it must be easier to pity me when I've got a dozen softball-sized bruises running all up and down my left side; if the ball didn't put them there, my team probably would.

I ain't got no birthin' hips nohow

2006-10-09T15:26:00.000-07:00

I've already sort of explained my position on children. They're cute. Fun to accessorize. And their heads sometimes resemble tennis balls, which amuses me to no end. But they whine and cry and don't know what to do with their feces, and I just don't know if I will ever be able to put up with that for longer than an hour or two.

And I'm almost certain that I'm one of those women. Yes, you know the type. An infant so much as trips over a shoelace, and they recoil in overprotective horror. God forbid the little bugger scrape a knee; he'll be so well bound in gauze that he'll lose all feeling in his legs. And break a bone? Oh, nonono. I'll never let him out of the house again; my precious wittle bubble boy.

I've been reading all those infertility blogs. Women in my family manage to get pregnant at the drop of the hat, but they suck at staying that way. My mother had eight miscarriages before successfully bringing me into this world, pathetic and tiny as I was. Ironically, she "accidentally" got laid immediately afterward and gave birth to my brother in the same year. We were each more than a month premature. I weighed a little more than five pounds.

Maybe I'll just keep cats when I get older. One or two or fifty.

Wasting your time, kitten-style

2006-10-08T23:20:00.000-07:00

I'm rarely amused by anything on Youtube, with the occasional kitten-based exception:

Any insightful Bushies, feel free to comment

2006-10-08T01:00:00.000-07:00

I got a D- on my last progress report from my fantastically gorgeous Government teacher. The funny thing about homework is that they seem to actually expect you to do it, which does not bode well for lazy smartasses such as myself. Apparently the 5-minute scribbles I managed to jot down and turn in approximately 20% of the time just didn't cut it for that Always-Participates Brilliant-Student Pleasure-to-Have A+++ (smiley face sticker).

So I basically demanded extra credit work, and he basically laughed at me and said "no." At which point I begged.

Anyway, long story short: he's an asshat, I'm a liberal, and I've now got to write a 5-pager on why I want to be a conservative. Yippee.

My very first tenant! She's like a sister to me.

2006-10-06T22:50:00.000-07:00

I'd like to introduce all of my groovy peeps at the Cult to Gaby at Forever 17. In recent weeks I've realized that teenagers who are capable of writing coherently are a rare and precious breed; this girl is a diamond in the rough, if I may say so.

She lives in Mexico, she's seventeen, and her favorite carebear is Bedtime Bear. I have reason to believe that she's considerably more sane than the freaks I get around my blog, so you all will have to make a conscious effort not to scare her away. Best of all, she wants to be a doctor, which means if I get on her good side I can get all kinds of cheap Mexican drugs.

Joking.
Kind of.

Anyway, she writes on a very personal level and I'm sure we can all relate. If you're one of those ancient elderly people, it might just take you back to back in the day. If it does, please don't blog about it. We don't care about what you did in the day, how you walked five miles in the driving snow to get to school in the day, how young whippersnappers knew how to respect their elders in the day. You know what? Just die already.

No, I don't mean that. And this is supposed to be about Gaby. Sigh.

My mother is a bitch.

2006-10-06T14:09:00.000-07:00

Let me explain. For the past week, I've been having pretty severe jaw pain from the extraction of my wisdom teeth. By "pretty severe" I mean a pain hitting about halfway between reruns of The Cosby Show and a punch squarely in the jaw issued by a professional boxer. I've been taking the drugs prescribed by my oral surgeon (see "I'll be sticking to advil from now on") and they've made me very happy, very sleepy, and very pain-free.

I've been taking them religiously, because pain tolerance isn't a skill of mine. I'm a pussy. So last night when I took my pills and found myself far from Candyland and well within the realm of pain, I became pissed - and have remained pissed to this very moment. But pissed in no particular direction, until about twenty minutes ago.

I got a call from mom. It went something like this:

"Baby?"

"Yeah?"

"I told your dad you probably wouldn't want to go to dinner with him since you weren't feeling well. You probably agree, right? How're you feeling now?"

"In pain. I took the percocet last night and it didn't help at all. I took two vicodin this morning and figured if that didn't put me out my misery, nothing will. Guess I'm just going to have to put up with it."

"Baby... you know... I was worried... those medications are addicting, and, well..."

"Mom."

"I thought maybe tylenol-"

Immediate. Realization. Percocet is almost identical to Tylenol!

"Mom. You stole my drugs."

"Yeah, but I thought-"

"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! DO YOU HAVE ANY F**KING IDEA WHAT KIND OF PAIN I'VE BEEN IN?! DO YOU HAVE ANY F**KING IDEA WHY DOCTORS PRESCRIBE THOSE DRUGS? IT SAYS IT RIGHT ON THE F**KING BOTTLE! RELIEF OF MODERATE TO SEVERE PAIN!"

"Baby, stop yelling. I just thought you should know, you know, if I were in a particularily mischeivious mood I might've put vitamins in your vicodin bottle. Maybe. But I just thought you were getting addicted, and I was worried. They're in the bottom cabinet in my bathroom if you think you might need them."

"YEAH, I think I MIGHT need them. Thanks SO MUCH for calling."

I feel justified. Don't judge me.

-Le sigh-

2006-10-06T09:57:00.000-07:00

My Government teacher is a regular fixture in my dreams. He's twenty-four, gorgeous, and as of last year, married. Doesn't seem to daunt my subconscious, though.

To be honest, I'm curious as to whether or not he just wears that wedding ring to keep all the jail bait off him. His wife is legendary; neither I nor many of my fellow students have ever seen her, although rumor has it that she appears at school events quite frequently. I'm a much less elusive woman; I can't relate to the wallflower type.

In any case, all I remember from last night's dream is laying next to him, and him being distinctly shirtless. And a fuzzy, warm feeling, much like being nestled in a blanket of newborn kittens.

Bad lust! Bad! I'm going to Hell.

What makes the world go round?

2006-10-06T08:20:00.000-07:00

"The big furry answer will astound you!"

I'll have you know that I'm not one to frequently indulge in the guilty pleasures of the tabloids, but I am easily tempted by the notion of 900-pound guinea pigs residing at the center of the earth.

"And that's not all. It's their running and tumbling that makes the world go around," said Dr. James R. Mensa, the world's leading expert on guinea pig physiology and behavior.

Glad we've got that cleared up... and it's all thanks to the intensive investigative journalism at the Weekly World News. Bravo, I say.

Weed's cheaper than therapy.

2006-10-03T22:37:00.000-07:00

As always - Comment, and I will check out your blog and do the same.

When you first see a psychologist, there's an overwhelming feeling that the odds are stacked against you. And oh, how they are. You're facing some serious issues in your life, and when it gets to the point where you're willing to pay $100 an hour to learn how to deal, you've admitted to yourself how desperately helpless you are. You're vulnerable, and the person who's supposed to help you practically has a degree in manipulation. Good luck?

This doesn't really have a point. I was only in therapy for a month, primarily because my counselor was trying to convince me that I was fixing my depression and anxiety by tapping my eyebrows and bending my arms into certain positions. She was very insistant on the healing effects of these exercises, and in a way, they helped. Just like it would have helped if she'd given me a bottle of sugar pills labeled Prozac. But ultimately, the sessions were just giving me more reason to avoid the roots of my problems, and I became less confident in my ability to cope. Realizing that I didn't need voodoo rituals to solve my problems was a kind of therapy in itself. I know for a fact that counseling and therapy helps many people; to my mother, for example - her therapist has been a godsend for her over the past few years. I just wonder how many people are using therapy like a high dollar feel-good drug, and how many therapists are more than happy to play that role and take in the profits hand-over-fist.

My sad attempt at advertising.

2006-10-02T22:35:00.000-07:00

So, you need a banner for BlogMad, BlogAdvance, BlogExplosion, BlogSoldiers, or any other such thing?

Hire me.
The beauty of my banners is that they hurt, but in a pretty way.
Viewers really don't have the option to ignore them.

300 credits from any of the above Blogsuchandsuch sites will get you one of these templates customized with your choice of text and colors.

Email admin@talkcube.com.

My people will get in touch with your people.

In the name of Google I pray

2006-10-02T17:30:00.000-07:00

I'm losing my faith in the wisdom of the Almighty Adsense. I just don't see how plastic boxes are relevant to my blog. Or multinational adoption, for that matter.

I've never really heard the term "plastic boxes" before, either. Plastic bins, sure. Cardboard boxes, yeah. But plastic boxes? Is there really a market for such an abomination?

Sexism & Cricket Cookies

2006-10-02T15:07:00.000-07:00

Spike and Not-Spike are doing well, bless their little bunny souls. Orphaned rabbit pups have a low rate of survival, but my hopes are up.

Anyway... As it so happens, I'm a high school senior. I attend an extremely religious school in the South. Recently it seems like the ever-present gender roles are being pushed even more than usual, and yet I remain unconvinced that having a penis makes one exponentially more spiritual or wise than being without. Of course, I've never had a penis, so this is all speculation, but I'm fairly certain that one can be a leader and a competent individual even if they happen to be female. Thinking that God made an entire gender just so you could have a happy helper under you is more than a little egocentric.

Today's Question of the Day is...
What is the strangest thing you've ever eaten?

For me, it's cricket cookies. Chocolate chip cookies with crickets baked into them. It was something I tried at a zoo event once, and I swear on all things holy I'll never eat one ever again. Crickets are not food.

Comment with your food.

Read quickly, love.

2006-10-01T14:19:00.000-07:00

You've probably found me from Blogmad/Blogadvance, which means we have roughly 30 precious seconds together. Read quickly, dahling - I'm going to share ten intimate facts with you.

If you comment with an intimate fact of your own or a thought on mine, I'll have a look at your blog. That said, enjoy:

1) My parents divorced when I was four. My father remarried my nanny. My mother was in a relationship for seven years; her fiance cheated on her with a prostitute (who he eventually married and moved to Mexico with) and she has vowed never to date again.

2) When I was 5 years old, my grandparents bought me a pet cockatiel. When they asked what I wanted to name it, I joyfully shouted "F**ker!" My mother swore around me less frequently from then on.

3) I have a labrador retriever named Ducky. He once ate a bottle of wart remover without so much as an upset stomach. He chews holes in the wall and constantly eats the crotch sections out of my underwear, but I love him so I put up with it.

4) When I was 9 years old, I gave my senile great grandfather a shiny piece of quartz I found in his driveway. He ate it and died later that week.

5) I'm a vegetarian, and I sincerely love tofu.

6) I'm raising a pair of orphaned cottontail rabbits. I think they're about 10 days old. I've lovingly dubbed them "Spike" and "Not-Spike."

7) My favorite number is definitely "8," and my favorite letter is certainly "S." Why? Hell if I know.

8) I've only been in love three times, and I've never been loved back by any of them. Love's still a sacred thought to me, and I'm still a virgin.

9) I don't know if I'll ever have kids. I've found that babies are cute, but only in convenient 2-hour doses.

10) Before I moved to Texas, I took care of a horse named Shadow at an equine shelter. I only rode him once, and due to a freak accident, was never allowed to ride him again. I still spent two years with him. He died the year after I left, on my birthday.

I'll be sticking to advil from now on.

2006-10-01T09:22:00.000-07:00

Having just had my wisdom teeth yanked forcefully from my jawbone, I'm managing the pain with some pretty heavy duty drugs. They work like a charm (a fuzzy, tingly charm that makes me feel happy-happy-happy) but they come with some pretty trippy side effects.

For example, I spent all of friday night in a Groundhog Day dream that simply would not end. For hours, I woke up from a dream in a dream, from which I would then wake up, but not really. Just in yet another dream. And so on, and so on. The fact that I remember it in such definite detail suggests to me that half of the night was spent walking around my bed in a half-conscious, drug-induced daze.

Needless to say, I now understand why percocet is a controlled drug.

Sweet, sweet child labor.

2006-09-30T20:11:00.000-07:00

Whilst under the influence of (legal) narcotics and chocolate ice cream, I received a revelation. The entrepreneur's holy grail, if you will.

She's 9 years old. She's missing one front tooth. She has freckles and a cute little speech impediment, and she's willing to push $300 of novelty merchandise to earn a plastic toy made in Taiwan for half a dollar.

She is. The Ultimate. Marketing. Tool.

You see, there exists an unspoken code amongst mothers everywhere - you buy my kid's school fundraiser junk, and I'll return the favor. Without this alliance, the market for wrapping paper, knock-off jewelry, ceramic tree ornaments, and about 50% of all magazines in print would not exist. Such is the power of little Suzie.

So here's my plan: I'm going to create a product - any product - and get kids to sell it at an outrageous price for a commission of a dime per sale. There will be shiny sticker sheets and colorful plastic badges to sweeten the deal. Given that my product is made in a third world country by toddlers, I'm going to be turning record profits.

I'm going to be giving these kids valuable job skills. For example, they'll receive a manual with all kinds of industry tips - from how to fake a serious injury for pity points to how to more effectively pester mommy and daddy into buying more stuff they don't need. There is a subtle art to marketing, and these lucky youngsters will be on the leading edge.

I know, I know. But Don't thank me. I'm just trying to do my part for the children.