Sunday, October 31
I might be coming down with something. That's not good. Feels like a fever.

God, after getting home at approximately 1:30 PM I sat for an hour and a half straight eating sandwiches that we purchased in the big city. I'm still bloated to this hour, two hours later.

I've always hated radios. The only one I have that actually has batteries is this twenty year old handheld one my mom got for free at work. Just trying to get the signal is frustrating. Being in the car on bumpy roads as bumpy as Larry Flint's chin and the exact opposite of Michael Bolton's balding scalp - I have to hold the radio in my hand and wave it around like an ass trying to get the signal. Then upon finding the right place, I have to keep my arm raised in the air like a chicken's scrawny feet sticking up when the chicken is being raped by The Chicken Lover in the Mystery Machine.

We passed by a dude who looked like Philip Michael Thomas wearing a chinese outfit with the gold trim and hat and sunglasses and all. He nodded at me. He's cool.

K-Rock was having a Heavy Metal Madness thing or whatever. Thank goodness, thank Jimmy Page, thank Gilbert Gottfried, they did not play Winger. They did play Bon Jovi and Whitesnake though. I laughed. They played Guns n' Roses, just while going home when the car drives into the Holland Tunnel. The damn piece of shit loses the signal and I hear static with bits and pieces of pussy vocals.

Velvet Revolver added me back at Myspace. That's pretty crazy.


Scariest picture of Scott Weiland ever. I'd say it's a mix of Axl and Lynyrd Skynrd fanaticism to the point of brewing your own scotch and beating your wife until she looks like a pregnant orange pulp. I mean, look at the pansy bandana and wife beater shirt. God, uncovered prunes left in the fridge for two weeks have better skin than that.





Saturday, October 30
I helped cook a lot of our dinner today, and helped eat a lot of it also. My mom just bought one of those spinning rotisserie things, the ones that have been advertised in 30 minute long informercials for the past 30 years. Ah yes, they're calling Showtime Rotisseries or something. We have a Jr. Showtime. Hence its smaller size. For we don't like eating 20 pound turkeys that were scraped off of our bumpers 5 months ago. We cooked steak or something. It tasted damn fucking good. And for all the gluttony of drinking salad dressing, lapping up macaroni, along with the steak, I get horrible heartburn. Thank you God, for punishing me. Punishing me for eating the cow or whatever the fuck it was that I skewered with 2 non-stick teflon covered metal rods and stuck in an oven, to rotate in 360 degree angles in front of hellish red heat rods for an hour. Oh man, I'm sitting far back on my big ass crappy chair and I feel like my stomach and vagina's gonna explode. Food bloating and menstrual pain is not a good mix.

God, I had "You're the Inspiration" stuck in my head out of absolutely fucking nowhere while I was brushing my teeth this morning. That's not funny. Stop giggling you fucking shit.

Never mention "The Final Countdown" to me. It's like heroin to my brain. Drills right through the center with a rusty drillbit smothered in napalm and chili powder. Thanks VH1, for exposing my fragile 15 year old adolescent mind to horrible music. I'm really, really, really fucking surprised and baffled at how Gwar wasn't on the countdown of The 50 Most Awesomely Bad Songs. Seriously, NO GWAR. It's like asking what our MacDonald's french fries are fried in, Axl's blubber or Larry Flynt's wart juice.

So I'm going to New York again tomorrow. At fucking 9:00 in the fucking morning. My dad can be such a fucking dry cunt. "Go early, come back early." I really don't get what his fucking problem with the city is. Yesterday, while I was wiping off the dining table after dinner, he stands 3 feet away from me, drinking water or just standing there on purpose I wasn't paying attention, and he rips this huge gastic that's so fucking loud it could pierce your eardrums, leaving nothing left but 2 year old smokey green earwax. I would've cursed him out with some WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR's and WHAT THE FUCK? DO THAT TO SOMEONE ELSE'S UGLY FACE's, but he's an authoritative figure and my mom was just in the other room also and would've used all those FUCK's right back at me just because I was defending myself from a gaseous death.

I'm eating french vanilla cake frosting right out of the container. Sometimes I prefer raw icing rather than ice cream. Or maybe it's just that the only kind of ice cream that's sitting in the refrigerator is the flavor of Real Menstruated Stawberry.

Hal Sparks has a Myspace and added me back. I totally freaked. That's right, the Hal Sparks AKA Zoltan and the hot dude on I Love the 80's. Velvet Revolver has one too. They're too cool to add me back. I was told that it takes them about 2 days to add someone back and I added them this morning at 12:30 or something. Let's just hope that's true.

I have the most undesirable lovely feeling to meet all the people that I only know online. Yeah, all my Livejournal friends and such. Knowing all these shitheads who live in this town, god they could just go suck a yak's twat. And to find these awesome people living miles and miles away, just really makes you wonder what they're really like and if they're really as kick ass as they seem to be.

Probably one of my new favorite shows ever to be aired on primetime television is Complete Savages. I fucking adore it. It's the only show I put aside my schedule of eating, shitting, and typing to sit my ass in front of the tube and laugh until my diaphragm disintegrates into moldy pieces of cat liver. Last night's was fucking hilarious. The oldest son, Chris, was forced to slice his old pet frog Franklin, after whining like a pussy, by his science teacher. The ghost of the frog comes back at night while he's sleeping and tells him to save his girlfriend, the class pet Lily, and his soul will be saved. He's such a dumbass that Franklin makes him promise to bring someone to help him. When he and his brothers and dog sneak into the school at night to pull the prank, and while they argue about his stealing the frog prank from the teacher is really stupid and that they're not going to take the frog with them and want to steal the skeleton and lab coat to stick in the lion cage at the zoo instead, the dog eats the frog behind their backs. Chris the dumbass is just crushed.

Franklin comes back to haunt the dog this time at night.

Franklin the Frog: "YOU ATE MY GIRLFRIEND!"

Yeah, that was dumb. But funny nonetheless if you watched it.



Friday, October 29
My mother is the definition of bipolar. She started talking to me again. After cracking the pot that cooks my meds.

People got to dress up today in school. There was a dude who dressed as Axl. He did the dance too! Laughed my fucking ass off. I totally freaked and just HAD to find out who he was. I never did. That would've been funny if I dressed up this year, for my costume would have been Axl also. Oh man, two Axl's = screaming crab dance face-off, man. "Welcome to the Jungle" is one hell of a priceless masterpiece. Perhaps I just think that because I enjoy watching Izzy's ass in yellow leather pants.

I've been putting .000001% more effort into my schoolwork so I would get paid for the good quiz and test grades I get. Almost there Ju Ju Hounds CD, almost there.

My Swan Song mosaic is starting to take shape, and I'm starting to almost like it. Jimmy, I may have not failed you after all.

I really have been at a loss of words lately, hence all the pictures at an attempt to make up for it. Well here's another one.


Duff just amuses me so much it's incredible.

Yeah, I'm just being heartbroken at how my Photobucket ran out of space, and am just looking through all the old shit that I uploaded before.




"It's time to put up, or shut up."

That's right Vince, you join Axl on the pussy list.

All I wanted was to watch 2 fucking minutes of TV. Then the fucking bitch lays all this shit on me that I need to "grow up." They literally take me as a shithead who doesn't even know the difference between Gwar and Debbie Gibson. I'm the last person who needs to grow up. I'll change whatever fucking habits I want to change.

I guess ever since I got grounded for so long, I've lost my ability to talk and socialize as much as I did before. And being locked up for so long and never doing anything, I never have anything to say or talk about either. In the process I've lost a lot of friends, or acquaintances rather, for I probably don't give a fuck about them anymore, for they are horrible dipshits besides me. Respect is something that I should at least get. I treat everyone with the utmost respect, I never get anything in return. Well fuck you too maybe I'll just spit in your face the next time.

My Al Bundy Curse is kicking in. I knew these pleasant days wouldn't last, and I get a fucking shitful cold shoulder from my own folks in the end.

I know I don't have many friends, but the few that I do have, I care about them a lot. And I mean that. Even if it doesn't seem like it. Like I said, I'm as great an emotional person as your 1970's pet rock with big black sunglasses and white sparkly shoes. The lack of affection I get at home brings me to caring too much about nonrelatives and the few friends who tend to like me a lot. I end up clinging onto them too much, and in the end they either leave me or I just really freak them the fuck out. I never have anyone to pour my heart out to either, so no wonder I type so much useless crap here to annoy you.

Maybe I'm being moody because what just happened really was shitty, or maybe it's just that I'm menstruating.

Haha, you all wanted to know that.

I think you need some cheering up. So here's something to ponder.


He's back, he's Jimmay, he says "ASGKL;AL;SDJF!!!!!!"



Thursday, October 28





For some odd reason today, everyone was saying hi to me. Most of which with a nice hard bitch slap across my back and yelling my name. I don't get it, am I suddenly sexy or something?

Maria's being switched out of my history class. This saddens me. Now group projects are going to be terrifying. Being that I despise each and every fucker in that class with the exception of Maria. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to watch porn in school.

Don't you hate it when you're being forced to communicate with someone who smells like fart? God, just being around my own father is bad enough. Only that he adds sound effects.

There was a fight in lunch. Not surprisingly, I missed it. Just when I dashed outside, it breaks up. Then towards the end of the period, Leah calls me over, along with her group of people, about who knows what.. I continue standing where I was and nodded my head no. I bet it was something bad or wasting of my time anyway, considering I don't think they all think positively of me. Who knows. Who gives a flying fuck. They could just approach me at some other time when I'm not talking to anyone else.

People these days are just so fucking shitful. Shitful to the 999,999th degree. In english class, there was a substitute today, being that the teacher left early because she was sick. She mentioned last class loud and clear that we were going to begin reading The Great Gatsby. And when everyone read the assignments that were to be done on the board, they were like, "Chapters of what? I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Is this supposed to be a book or something?" Fuck, even if I were wasted on 12 pounds of cannabis and special K mixed together and just got raped by Shaggy I would've still been able to understand.

Then all the fucktards started complaining that the book was really crappy and that they didn't understand a goddamn thing in it. One ugly fuck even declared that everyone should burn the books. I don't know, but I took that pretty personally. I once watched a biography on F. Scott Fitzgerald, about how underestimated and unhappy he was during his short lifetime. I happen to really like the book so far, for I am a romantic, just like Mr. Fitzgerald himself. A hopeless fucking romantic.

I was really hungry, and decided to head down to the cafeteria for the purchasing of a snack after the day ended and the last bell rang, before heading home. Hamita was being a fucking douchefuck and made me wait for her to buy her food from the vending machine. "Christina, you're going to wait for me because you're such a great friend." Of course, she said that sarcastically, but did indeed want me to wait for her. And to this hour, it is still embedded into my mind as a big fucking waste of time. I really wanted to get home and eat a decent meal. To encrust my ass into my dearly loved white leather sofa.

Then while speedwalking in the driveway after cutting a bunch of slow walking dipshits, Suan bothers me. She says something I didn't, and couldn't care, to hear. But I did hear her saying that I look weird with my shades on. I look fucking ugly enough you don't need to rub it in my face like that. I knew she was only half kidding, but I got all the more irritated anyway added to the Hamita Wait For Her Shit incident. So I start walking even faster past Suan and her friend and said, "Let me go home." To make things worse, she catches up to me and punches my dangling backpack and it almost slips off of my arm. If I hadn't been stuffing my face from the bag of chips that I was holding in that bent arm, the goddamn Jansport satchel would have fallen to the ground and forced me to bend over with my already pained abdomen and all, to pick up her fucking mess.

Well it wouldn't be a mess, but I just plain hate picking shit up off the ground. It really annoys the fuck out of me when people listen to Gwar albums and waste my fucking time like they did today. Could you blame a hungry bitch for wanting to go to her cozy home and stuff her god awful fat face with fattening food?

After getting my joy level up higher after what Hamita and Suan did before and was about to cross the street onto my beloved Highland Ave., Eric ambushes me, with obnoxious car horns which at first I thought were more "hungry" customers, on the side of the street. He drove me to Wendy's after picking up and dropping off Matt. By then I couldn't even give a fuck about going home then, except for getting my ass beat for not coming home, but it was definitely not a waste of time. I wish I had more friends who would take me out like that, and not annoy the fuck out of me. I enjoy car rides, and was disappointed that I had to cut our time short for I would've maybe gotten quite a few verbal lashes from my folks upon stepping into the household. What mommy don't know won't hurt.

Christina's Mom in Broken English: "Where you go?"
Christina: "Uh, my friend wanted to talk about stuff."

And she fell for that. Not knowing I went all the way to Parsippany or wherever the fuck Wendy's is. I'm proud of myself.

Obviously, that was a sarcastic statement. Pride is an emotion that I never feel.

Come to think of it, I am the most talented person next to your pet rock to show emotion. Being the music mogul that I am, and listening to all this shit that I do, when I listen to music I stay still. That's that. I don't move. I look like I'm not even hearing anything. Your pet rock and I would get along well.

Female love handles dangling over their overly tight cheap JC Penney denim pants scare the hell out of me. A lot of people in this world pull Axl's, that's all I can say. For some reason, when I get chunky, my stomach grows outward, not sideways. I never have love handles for some reason. Thank God to Christina's Family Genes.



Wednesday, October 27

Every time I look at this photo, I laugh at how confused Izzy looks.



Goodnight!




"My sister's birthday was on September 21st. Today her friend brought her some candy corn."

Laura said this to me at the end of desktop publishing. It makes no sense at all, for we were just talking about our project that we were just working on.

We have to design a letterhead, business card, and envelope address for either a made up company or one that already exists. Mine is called "Worldwide Pants." And I have pairs of pants decorating my beautiful, carefully made work. Thank you David Letterman, for coming up with brilliant and professional company names.

My head has been itching ever since I got home. This is not good.

Why the fuck is it that every time I finish all my work, ate all the fucking carbohydrates I wanted, watched all the television I wanted, and when I finally sit down in front of the computer, I have to take a piss? It's like my ass can't take the pressure of fake green leather and cushion foam against it.

The Swan Song collage is looking shittier and shittier by the day. I'm really ashamed of msyelf.

I'm sorry, I'm just plain out of creativity and drugs for the time being so there's nothing interesting to divulge your eyesight on and laugh about.



Tuesday, October 26
For you hopeless romantics out there - Listening to "All My Love" by Led Zeppelin and walking outside on a beautiful clear autumn day, sky decorated with fading foliaged trees, looking up at the beauty of our world, gives you new life. This is probably the only time I will ever want a professional camera, for I despise them to the deep dark realms of Gwar concerts. I don't get why people who walk outside a lot whether to go to school, to work, or are working, never look up. They either look forward at the stupid fucking neighbors or at the ground at the 2 week maggot/shit infested roadkill on the street or your ugly ass thong slippers or the garbage that assholes like me tend to leave all over the place. Ever since I could remember, I've been walking with head to chest, eyes to concrete, back arched to the sky. But now, I don't know why, I've been looking up. Today was absolutely gorgeous, sometimes I wish autumn would stay forever; never rain, never windy, never freezing, always there for me to ponder about getting laid and licking Izzy Stradlin CD's. Just kidding, I'm not as shallow and full of goose shit as the Reflecting Pool in Washington D.C. It's a peetry dish and rat shit is what it is actually.

I was checking out some guy's ass in lunch today, and some friends sitting next to me were throwing around my empty candy wrapper that I had just emptied minutes ago. I got hit in the face. I learned that I should keep my fantasies strictly limited to times when I'm alone and aware of possible projectiles in the air. For who knows, next time it may be my own bottom dog shit covered shoe.

Last night I watched Amityville II: The Possession. To be totally honest, I purely enjoyed it. Usually horror movies are really, more obsurdly tedious and shitful, for example the Halloween series, but Amityville, I'd have to say I really like it. You may not, but I'm a loser and I do. It did creep me out a bit, being alone in my dark room, door closed, all alone like a little bitch. And being that things having to do with religion and such scare the fucking nasty shit out of me. But switching from that movie to the latest Velvet Revolver performance on Jay Leno makes it seem much better. Scotty Too Hotty cures anybody's weaknesses, better than the pope. Then Conan was on. Conan, Amityville. Conan, demon. Conan, exorcist. Conan, Amityville. Conan, is our Savior.

God I love AMC. Probably 95% of the time, they show a quality movie. And every year's Monsterfest, oh man, greatest fucking thing next to kiddie porn and nachos.



Monday, October 25
I think I need a massage, not Bengay or IcyHot, thank you very much. My joints have been cracking like firecrackers soaked in napalm. Believe it or not, I'm one of those weirdos who have the ability to crack their sternums, or crack their ankles where they'd be heard nice and clear during a Who concert where everyone's stoned to high heaven. It's crazy, and feels damn good.

Last night I watched America's Ugliest Bathrooms on TLC. I highly recommend it for you obsessive-compulsive Jack Nicholson's.

Listening to Led Zeppelin while walking to and from school makes me happy. If I were on 'shrooms, I would probably be skipping like a fucking pansy, or maybe I'd just look like Axl taking a leisurely stroll down the street, 20 pound love handles and all. There's no fucking need for Zoloft, all you need is bulgy-pantsed British men with luscious hair far better than Farrah Fawcett who got laid so much, I'm surprised their balls aren't crawling with ants and shellfish by now.

My homeroom teacher could suck my ass. He wrote me up for a cut.

My mom gave me 5 dollars today apart from the usual 3 to eat all the fuck I wanted at lunch. But no, I was an unappetiteful hooochie ho and wasn't hungry.

I'm working on a mosiac in art class. It sucks so far. I have failed you again, my dear Jimmy. For my picture is this.



So we didn't go shopping this weekend. What a bummer. To cheer myself up, I baked a cake yesterday afternoon. The last one I baked was gorgeous, Axl would've snorted it up his sweaty nostril in sheer bliss. But this latest one, just looks like one of his 40 something year old saggy testicles.

I'm assuming that's what one would look like. If I actually knew, oh man would I be the luckiest bitch around. Next to the lucky bitch who got to marry Izzy Stradlin some years ago.

I should stop making fun of the poor guy. I bet you're all tired of it already. But, you know, I could just keep going on forever and ever. And I'll never get tired of it. By the time I moved out of here and get a job, get laid, get a new house, sleeping in the gutter, sleeping with your dog, whatever the fuck I'll be doing; I'd have filled an entire encyclopedia full of pussy jokes. That's right, 26 volumes for every aspect, letter, number, expiration date of human life, all relating to Axl Rose (negatively). Just wait til he gets a hold of it. Then it's time to say goodbye to Christina for good and once and for all. That is, if he isn't pussy enough to actually do something about it besides bitch and blow his dreadlocks off of that shiny red cheeky head of his.



Sunday, October 24
"IT SMELLS BAD AS HELL! SHIT!" is what my mom screamed when she stepped into my folks' bedroom while my dad was getting ready to go to work. He passed a gigantic gastic. It hurt my ears, that rat-like voice of hers. I was reading about burnt shlongs in the living room, lying on the hot red leather couch. At first I wanted to go see what the problem was, then I found out that my poppy's bum exploded, I decided against it.

That man should go see a gastroentomologist. Or a steam roller for that matter. He should get the foul air in his intestines get squeezed out [permanently], for the whole world's sake. I almost feel sorry for my mom, for no one wants to lose half of their brain cells, which is probably 10 times more than what a whiff of cannabis will do to you. Or save that nuclear energy for future use. Hey Homer, you're out of work for now.

One thing that puzzles me, is why my mom has a high bitchy voice, while mine is a drunk-ass stoner low-as-an-oboe kind of shit thing. Even as a child she complained to me to try to speak in a more feminine tone. From past years we have all learned that deep voices were sexy. For example, porn stars, that MTV VJ, and Chef. Mine is the Ben Stein/Jabba the Hut kind of deep. I can woo you like a horny fat cat to a yarn ball. MREEEOW!

HAHAHA look what I read:

Then they burnt him - I hate to say this, Mrs. Telly - but they burnt the end, the end of his thing. His tool - his thing that made him a man. They burnt the end of it off.

I am very immature, and get a kick out of the dumbest things that shouldn't really be funny at all. There's so many references to male anatomy in this book about the Revolutionary War, it makes me question about the author. What the hell is wrong with the guy? It's less than 50 pages into the novel, and 3 or more sexual references already have been made.

Slash and Matt Sorum were on for like two minutes on VH1 this morning. It was heaven.

Yesterday I used a toaster for the first time in my entire life. I love that thing to the bottom of my heart, we have bonded chemically. Chemically like the chemical reaction it causes my waffles. The waffles burn, hence a chemical reaction.

I don't miss the toaster oven at all, for it is dirty and filthy, like a fat husband who wears pit-stained wife beaters that sit on the brown (he made it brown) armchair with the foot rest holding a bottle of Budweiser in his hand, watching Backyard Sluts 19 on Hotnet.

I use too many similes, it's about time I learn to utilize the art of metaphor, and the well-known and well-praised, art of Getting a Life.



Saturday, October 23
I am at such a loss for words.




I don't know why I'm feeling pretty much at peace with everything now, maybe it's just this song.

One thing that is not very peaceful is, the green splotches on my Izzy icon. My computer fucking sucks. Like yo' momma.

Sorry, it's from sniffing too much fragrant lotion that's got me going.

I finally made a myspace. Everybody tends to do dumb things when they're either bored or on drugs. Those are the two things that trigger stupidity. There's practically nothing there and practically nothing that works, thanks to some problem that's been going on in the site. Feel free to add me or whatever the fuck you want. Or just wait until I sex it up and it actually looks cool, then you won't be embarassed about having a shitty looking myspace/person on your friends list.

I'm starting to get more and more tired as I type. My eyes are half open. But who gives a fuck. I hate waking up early, for there is nothing to do or watch on the television set.

We might go shopping tomorrow. Good. I haven't gone in weeks and weeks. The thing is, no money still. So far I only have 5 bucks for the Ju Ju Hounds CD. Fucking bullshit man, how do you assholes get money so easily.

Getting tired of the "Who the fuck is Mick Jagger?" layout already here. And the fact that I still don't have Photoshop. And by the way, my Photobucket account just ran out of space. That just made my day. But please do me a favor, and click on my username in the upper right hand corner of the box in your friends page and check out this old Axl, yes Axl, layout I made in July or something.

Good morning, my dears.



Friday, October 22
So I went home at 12:50, sat down on the decaying sofa in my stained stink ass house clothes, and watched vast amounts of interior design, I Love the '90s, and Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure on the telly. While eating wood hard bread, 2 month old sardines because I wanted to see what they tasted like, week old grapes, croissants, Bagel Bites and water. Added to the other croissant and 2 packs of Starburst in my few hours of lower education that still left a taste deep in my throat. You've got plenty of time to say goodbye to Christina, for she will be living up to the age of 120!

I was thinking of eating cold stuffed chicken left over from yesterday, but I was afraid to cut it open and fuck up its neatness in the french catering bowl.

Don't give me that vegetarian bullshit you follow, I'll eat whatever the fuck I want. My policy of gluttony is, If it tastes good, I eat it.

All of this indulging for the past 3 weeks or so has been taking a toll on my waistline too. I can feel fat hanging over my belt whenever I bend over now. That's not good. Of course a few shots of heroin would wither it away in the blink of an eye, but so will my ability to write my own name will too.

Maria told me she was the one who was in the fight at A lunch last Thursday. I never could have imagined.

I'm still pondering if I should dress for Halloween or not. To pull off skanky '80s metal clothing I cannot be jiggly.



Thursday, October 21
I just spit a loogie full of phlegm mixed in with my dinner of salad that had italian dressing, spaghetti, and stuffed chicken into the wastebasket. God I love hygiene.

The really hot guy in my desktop publishing class, I have a feeling he doesn't like me much. Even if we never spoke one bit. Oh well, maybe I just have bad assumptions about nothing at all or he really doesn't like me much. We both like The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin a lot. That's something to start off with. Maybe I should get one of those female musk things that's just like perfume and it's supposed to attract the opposite sex to you even more. I bet it would turn out to be beaver piss stirred in vegetable oil.

Pep rally of the year tomorrow. Fuck that, I'm going home. At 12:45, before the 1:00 scheduled (which I guarantee will start a half hour late), I am leaving the shithole for good and start my weekend early.

Shit man, I can't even get my times tables right and I aced my geometry quiz. Sometimes I really do surprise myself, or the Academic (Shit) Fairy has been on my side lately.

It's so fun picking eye crust out of your eye. If you saved it all up in a year and put it in a mayonnaise jar, sealed it air tight with pressurized hydrogen, I bet you would end up with sulfur.

Lunch was tedious. Yes, tedious. I hate it when people make me go outside without a jacket in 50 degree wet, rainy weather and you just stand there in silence for no apparent reason. So in conclusion I still need to find a person who would like to spend every single lunch, every single day of the week with a boring fuck like me and keep me company. Who will be considerate of what their peers would be more comfortable with doing or going to wherever. I owe people money. That's not good. But I probably won't pay them back. Izzy Stradlin CD comes first bitch.

This is a really crappy entry. I seriously have nothing interesting to say. Not that I ever do in the first place. But this is how I like to take up my time, which I have all in the world of.

Oh yes. My parents were talking during dinner about left-handed folk. They sulked so much that they made it seem like they were fucking racist against left-handed people. Like they were weaker than the average right-handed person and were "strange." I find left-handed people to be so weird, so fucking weird, just as Jim Morrison is considered beautiful.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with being left-handed. And they're going on and on about this shit that left-handed people can't do anything as well as right-handed people can. I really find that offensive, because it's simply the most lame thing to be pouting about. Left-handed people are just the same as any other motherfucker on the planet with hands. And if you can write and wipe your ass with both hands, well that's just fucking great. I'm happy for you. But this is just bullshit. Being way overly conservative to Gwar-tastic heights is just, Christina gives that a thumbs down.

Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain were left-handed. But I shouldn't be talking, they were extremely talented.

I think I'm at a point in my life which I can call an "enlightenment." This probably brings up John Locke and Rousseau to your head. Well get them the fuck out of there because I'm no history fiend to bore the hell out of you, more than I already am. For the past few weeks I've been noticing that I've been more forgiving to whatever people are doing to me (no it's not rape you fuckwit), not because I'm a fucking pussy [like Axl], but I guess the feeling of empathy has been seeping into my mind. Also, this year, being more lonesome than previous years, I've been watching other people out of sheer boredom and hence have been observing human nature. I guess I've been understanding that quite a bit more. People will be people. Assholes will be assholes. Beautiful people will be beautiful. Then there's looking through their eyes and seeing what's really there, and their labels take a totally new turn. I have so learned not to judge too much on a person just by their looks or way of dressing. And have stopped talking dirt about people even if I have never met them or know their name or anything at all. For I used to be quite the gossiping bitch. I would blab and blab and blab and complain and bitch for hours on end about a certain person and their faultiness. Just imagine a moi who talks as much as Howard Stern with a bitchy snap attitude like your aunt with the big red hair and 3 inch long fingernails who wears hot pink capris and lime green tank tops that show off her orange bras which complement her oddly carrot orange heels.

At the same time I hate a lot of humanity. Or maybe just the school. I've got to work on that. Saying that, I probably haven't learned anything at all. But oh well. I know there's something going on in that cranium of mine, and it ain't a brain tumor.

Some, well actually most, if not all, people fucking hate adolescence to the absolute brink of blasting a Gwar album and slitting their wrists. At the same time, at least for me, it's a liberation of your silly childish beliefs and habits, and in turn you start to look at things in a different perspective and appreciate a lot of things around you. Or maybe I'm just a complete sap.

I've got so many ideas for picture posts for you to enjoy and urinate in your trousers with, and just had another idea upon reading someone's comment in the last post. A "Favorite Pussies of All Time" one sound interesting? OH BOY, MAN AM I GOING TO HAVE FUN WITH AXL.

one fish, two fish.



Wednesday, October 20
I hate it when I wear black pants and when I sit somewhere and get up there's dust stuck to the part of my ass where my pelvic bone met the floor. And I won't just stand there and pick the dust clumps off of my ass because it would seem like I shit my pants and it's leaking through.

You know you're a horny bastard when you and your friend are talking about a certain good looking person in your class and you involuntarily want to lick the food item that you were currently holding in your hand without even noticing. You know you're a perverted bastard when you actually arch your head towards the food item and your jaw starts to lower.

please tell me what happened.

Oh man, I fucking aced the less than 1 and 6/8ths page history essay that I whipped up in a half hour when other losers had 3 pages and B's that were worked on for weeks. God are they mediocre.



Tuesday, October 19
I just made the hottest new layout. Sort of. I just took someone's work from blogskins.com and fixed it up to my liking. Now that's the kind of way to work. School work, layouts, and all. Still have to get rid of the page scrollbar, we don't need that.




I was pretty moody earlier today when I got home. I've calmed down. That was already bad enough, think about menopause. Oh boy, I feel sorry for whoever I'm going to be around if I even reach that age.

Looked up the word "subconscious" and its relativity to dreams. I guess I'm going to be a pretty twisted person in the near future, more than I already am.

I knew it. I didn't keep up with the guitar. Haven't picked it up in days. Oh well, I suck!

Made another Jim Morrison poster for desktop publishing. Fuck you I don't care if it sucks or the picture's too overpixelated. It's Jim fucking Morrison.

I think I pissed off Karla today. She was walking in front of me in the hallway and there was an open bottle of chocolate milk on the floor lying in the midst of its own puddle. I kicked it and sweet chocolately shit colored calcium splashed onto her velvet pink pants.

Lauren kept telling me about this supposedly truly smart ass diss she said to this certain fat cigarette whore. Today was Hat Day in fucking Spirit Week for your information.

Cig Whore: Does this hat make me look like a cowboy?
Lauren: You are a cow!

Yeah, jokes like that are really getting fucking old. Or maybe just for my standards, because I tend to watch Denis Leary specials religiously, like Beavis and Butt-head having access to the Playboy Channel.

Speaking of religions, I think I made a new enemy yesterday. There's this girl, she's friends with some of my cronies (wow that word really sounds dumb) and she is quite the devout christian. Always talking about church and whenever someone says something pretty anti-christ or anti-christian, she starts a little lecture every time. She's so fucking loud and cheery and, well, good. She doesn't lecture in the demanding kind of way, just in the way that bothers the shit out of Christina. I know you shouldn't dislike people for being good beings, but this girl just isn't pure enough for me. Funny for me to say, being that I'm so pure, Vlad ain't got no mercy at all. Just something about her, irritates the fuck out of me. When I used to be around her more often, because for some reason her and her group of little girlfriends always found their way near me or the person I was talking to with at the moment, and I'd be talking my usual unorthodox, ungentle, unkindly, unmerciful, unforgiving way, she'd always mini lecture me every 15 seconds with every sentence or so I'd say. Probably every sentence. Back then being more of the asshole I was, I'd backlash with something, then she'd still continue stating reasons why it's not good or against god or whatnot. Add in more backlashes from me, until someone finally changes the subject and we both shut up. Her explanations and excuses make absolutely no sense and have absolutely no common sense at all. As with Brother Gerard in the 500 Club also.

She's always talking about these christian bands, wearing their black sweatshirts and shit. I really don't get those kind of christian bands. Looking all angry and crap like a death metal band, but yet what they're burbling and mumbling and screaming is all in the name of god and ye holy bible. Stryper. Oh man. Now that is crap.

Anyway, when I went to visit Lauren at her lunch on my 2 minute break from gym class yesterday, that girl was sitting with her didn't say hello to me at all. Be that way. Part yourself from and have nothing to do with someone who doesn't capitalize god's name in the usual. You can preach me and ignore me all you want but I'm not going to change my ways. Don't give me your bullshit. I don't want to convert to your brainwashing. Especially if I'm going to be persuaded by someone like that.

I probably don't hate the religion or any religion in itself, just its followers.

Religion could just fuck the hell off away from me. End of story. If this gives me more nightmares and bad karma, well then so be it.

I don't think I'll ever explain anything like that again, because it's just not my thing. Religion just isn't in my little world of sex and Izzy Stradlin and Led Zeppelin and cheesecake. And if I do, you might as well just flame me more than you already are, and never communicate with me again. Or in the catholic church's words, excommunicate me from you.



Monday, October 18
I have a habit of listening to Appetite for Destruction before going to sleep. I have absolutely no explanation of why I do that, except that I always listen to just what I'm in the mood for. So I'm probably always in the mood to cause havoc. Which I never end up doing. So I get crazier and crazier. And to this day I still haven't released that chaos.

Maybe last night's session had something to do with my horrible incubus. (and if you think incubus is a band, look it up in the fucking dictionary and discover that it means a terrifying nightmare, the exact opposite of what the band is) This time it was an all-nighter. Let's just say it involved abandoning infants to let them die in the sand blown streets and cry their eyes out until their mouths and eyes become so parched they'd shrivel away like leaves blowing away in the wind and a little boy being tortured by an insane family, similar to the one in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, with empty eye sockets. Eye sockets so black you could drop the solar system into them and never find it again.

"Mr. Brownstone." My favorite Guns n' fucking Roses song of all time. Izzy, you never cease to satisfy me. Now let's hope you can never cease to satisfy me sexually.

Listening to "Light My Fire" while walking in the wee hours of the morning to the dome of 8 hours of lower solitary confinement gives you funky vibes.

Does anyone else enjoy watching Victoria's Secret commercials? They really can persuade women to all take their Brad Pitt posters down and put up Daniela Pestova ones and cause men to masturbate themselves dry. And women too about that.

Holy shit, I had 4 dollars in my closet this whole time and I thought it was 2. Thank God, I don't have to beg people for lunch money anymore this week. I can get the Ju Ju Hounds CD AT LAST.

Every time I hear about the song "My World," I start cracking up.

"There was one song on that record that I didn't even know was on it until it came out, "My World". I gave it a listen and thought, 'What the fuck is this?'"

-Izzy Stradlin

And to think Axl wrote "November Rain" and "Estranged."




I have a feeling a lot of people have been telling me to shut up lately. I'll up your shut.

Actually I won't, because I'm a pussy like Axl. I admit that.

I pulled a funny today and I didn't even know it.

Moi: I got my homework from last class. What was it?
Teacher laughs.

It's so funny walking in hallways and looking at the confused expressions on everybody's face in the classroom you're walking by. I guess it's human nature to turn around when you feel the presence of another being. Added to the fact that my jeans like to go swish-swish pretty loudly and my doing-on-purpose walking very loudly.

I had 2 bagels and a bag of peanut butter M&M's today. They tasted damn good. Then I ate a croissant and 5 bananas at home that my mom made me eat. Never think that I like to eat fruits.

I wear these Calvin Klein children's red sweat pants with zippered pockets for gym class. They are quite the snazzy. I've been wearing them since I was 8 years old, and they're still pretty wide. I must've had some kind of humungo ass back then or something. Playing any type of shitful sport outside is even worse when there's dog shit and blue grass seed all over the field. With a nice heaping of mud which sticks to your shoes that is the exact replica of dog shit.

Why the fuck does my room have a new smell every day? One day it's moth balls, the next it's my sensuous scent of not bathing for 3 days, another day it's cigarettes even if I don't do my chimney impression in my bedroom, or cologne, or just plain rugged mountain man.

What really perturbs me to the point of arching my brows to a perfect 90 degree angle is when people walk up to me and ask for something stupid like the time, when I specifically tell everyone that watches are Swiss cow shit, or money, when I eat like Phil Margera when he's being laid off of the Atkins diet, just so they can have a peek at the person I was having a diversely intelligent conversation with. Fuck you get your own money, to get your own watch, to go do whatever the fuck you want and leave me the fuck alone to whoever I want to be the fuck alone with and continue my useless Einsten-esque conversation with.

Another perturbing thing is when someone asks me what an answer to a question is on our papers that we're working on, even if in their absolute 20/20 clear view that I didn't fill jack shit out on my paper and that it is still white as a new pair of tightie whities and as crisp and unwrinkled as a baby's ass. They keep asking me throughout the movie anyway.

I'm really starting to dislike walking to and from school nowadays. Random people like to honk their horns at me and wiggers fill the streets like ants to a vagina. It's either I learn to skateboard, get a fucking bike, or shoot whoever bothers me.



Sunday, October 17
I am so incredibly bored right now, it shouldn't even be legal, in my book, which is only less than a page long.

So my weekly Sunday nightmares have receded to Saturday this week. That's just bloody great!

Today I seemed to have lost my appetite. I wake up earlier than my usual summer time and eat lunch at 1:30. Then everyone makes me eat another full meal 4 fucking hours later at 5:46. How the fuck am I supposed to take it all in when for those 4 hours I'd been sitting here being pissed at my sound system because it didn't work.

duff has tan lines and cameltoe.

The book I'm reading for history, the main character is named Axle. How odd is that.



Saturday, October 16
My uncle is over to talk to my dad about some shit that I couldn't even give a fuck about. He smells like cigarettes. He smells good.

While I was eating dinner with thy mother at the once puked on by me glass dining table, she was telling me of how it really really sucked to be on your period back in the day back in the old country. The pads back then were of this really crappy grainy faux cotton and what might feel soft to your hands, feels like sandpaper rubbing against your twat. Normally she'd ride a bike to school, but once after a pad gets filled with strawberries from your strawberry ice cream that comes out of your ass, the thing gets really stiff and hard and rough, like gravel rubbing against your twat. So, while riding on the bike, to ease the pain and annoyance, you'd have to lift your ass up off of the seat every once in a while, and no one wants to do that, especially if there's a stud riding just behind you. So whenever on her period and having to go to school in the morning, she'd be like, "Forget the bike, leave it home. I'll walk." The lesson today, children, is to be thankful for Kotex and Always. Especially Kotex, man.

Even you boys should be thankful, because you wouldn't want your woman to have a grainy scratched up pussy.

Yeah, my mother and I like to talk about awesome stuff when I haven't done something stupid and angered her volatile ass.

I think it was Tuesday night, that I saw a documentary on the History Channel called Sex in the 20th Century. Damn do I miss the '70s. When the free sex revolution was in full swing and everyone had sex anytime, anywhere, with anyone. No rape. Because everyone agreed to everyone and everything that was being done to them. Then came the '80s. When AIDS started killing all the happy sex fiends off and condoms and birth control and Trojan came into play. The '80s ended it. But that was the era of hair metal. Pretty much as much sex as there was in the '70s, but only for the cool people. Fuck, who cares about AIDS. No one wants to get old. Let AIDS do the suicide for you when you reach the age of 40.

Been thinking whether I should dress for Halloween or not. I haven't in years, years as in I can't remember when the last time I did was. The Sourgirl thing was a cool idea, but no one would be my hot sexy followers. I was thinking of Tommy Lee, puffing my hair and wearing that black leather sling shot thing. But sadly there are such things that are called censorship and sexual harassment. Or I could be Axl. Puff my hair, wear all that awesome stuff he does, and wear a t-shirt that says "PUSSY" across it.


Cautions For '80s Icon Halloween Costumes

1. Ridicule from grunge fanatics
2. Horrible wedgies to constipate you for weeks (no wonder Axl was so moody)
3. Risk of a match being thrown at your Aqua Net-drenched pompadour
4. Ending up looking like a hooker
5. Ending up looking like Peg Bundy
6. Ending up looking like Bret Michaels


In case you haven't noticed, there's another change in layout. Not much, but it's a change. I fucking love the picture. Really wish I had Photoshop so I could enlarge it and it won't end up looking pixelized and fucked up.

Adobe Photoshop Version 8.0 costs fucking 600 fucking dollars. It's not fair for creative people not to have such computer programs. It's like a painter who doesn't have paint. A Jimmy Page without a guitar. A whore without another body. A Larry Flynt without a wart.




I notice not as many people have been commenting lately. It's either I have pissed you off with one of my many opinionated opinions or that you just plain fucking suck. I guess I'll just continue talking to myself. The main reason I write so much is that I never have anyone to talk to to begin with and express my horrible self to. I spend my life pulling an Axl and living as a recluse, going some days with only saying a maximum of 10 [short] sentences. If I were cool and played guitar any better, I'd be going crazy on that thing, instead of typing the shit out of my worn out keyboard to waste my time with.

So today I learned that you should update to a new vaccuum cleaner every year or so. I'm still trying to get used to our new, true blue upright Dirt Devil carpet cleaning appliance. At first use of the first two rooms that I "vaccuumed," I thought the hose thing was directly linked to the direct cleaning part at the bottom. Turns out it wasn't, and dust was flying everywhere as I vaccuumed without me noticing. So in the end, I didn't vaccuum any dust up at all.

I'd rather have a red Dirt Devil vaccuuum cleaner. Red vaccuums are sexy.

That's it. This bitch needs to urinate really badly.



Friday, October 15
I waited forever to see Velvet Revolver on Jay Leno last night. I was so fucking sleepy and tired to begin with, and supposedly went to bed, according to my mom, at 9:45. I actually was thinking, "Fuck it, I'd rather sleep." But I didn't sleep. Intelligently I set my alarm clock to 11:26.

The alarm part of the alarm clock doesn't work.

So I was sleeping soundly, perhaps a little too pleasantly for the time being until the show started. Flat on my back, blanket half on me, arms spread out, one off of the bed, mouth open and dreaming about something that I forgot. No, not Mick Jagger that night.


An Artistic Rembrandtal Masterpiece I Recall of My Sexy Sleeping Position.


My main uploader is being a shithole, so I had to use Photobucket, which resizes my shit. It's supposed to be about 7 times bigger than that puny midget scaled Photobucket version shown here.
As you can see, I have very mismatched bed linen.

And luckily enough, I magically, instantly opened my eyes and woke up, thinking, "SCOTTIE = HOTTIE!!!" five, five fucking minutes before the band went on air. Robin Williams and the old man who did bird calls amused me very much while I anxiously awaited.

Not surprisingly, Velvet Revolver played "Fall to Pieces." Putting the crappy song aside, Duff looked absolutely divine, and Scott has an absolutely divine voice and fronting talent. He probably has longer and skinnier legs than I do. That's pretty depressing. A man having sexier legs than I do. Okay I'll put my whining and ugly legs aside for now. I fucking love his dancing, but he didn't do as much erotic footloosing as he did at their other performance on Leno this past summer, thanks to the not-so-warming ballad.

I got a fucking 40 out of 50 for my Jim Morrison sign in desktop publishing. What the fuck. The teacher said the quote was too long and the formatting didn't fit into the "Z Format." Fuck that. Abstract is beautiful. (like Jim)

Didn't have to walk home from school today and endure all my customers' honking and hollering from their cars. Thank goodness for that. I now charge 35% more an hour nowadays.



Thursday, October 14
I'm filling up my amazon.com wishlist right now. It's very, extremely, pointless. But I'm bored. I really don't get who the fuck would actually buy something for someone else whom they have never met before. The only kind of person I could think of who would actually fulfill someone's wishlist is Michael Jackson, or another version of a bored asshole me with loads and loads of money looking to better themselves morally or is just plain bored, like me. Nothing surprising is on the list, just every single Izzy Stradlin CD, Guns n' Roses and Led Zeppelin DVDs, Rolling Stones albums, Led Zeppelin t-shirts, some books, and kick ass boots.

I can never have enough Led Zeppelin t-shirts. Ever.

Last night I couldn't sleep and couldn't watch TV because I saw lights in the hallway, meaning the parents were wandering around doing something, or something I don't want to know, which means they'd see the television set's illumination glowing through the bottom slit of the door. I listened to the second Led Zeppelin box set disc. I am now at a pondering moment in my life which asks, "What is the greatest band of all time, The Rolling Stones or Led Zeppelin?"

I'm just not a Beatles person, although I do love them very much. Their songs, I just can't listen to them all the time, every fucking day, like I can with Zeppelin. When people make fun of their earliest stuff, like "She Loves You" or "From Me to You," it pisses me off because I find those songs really cute and pretty damn good. Fuck you I don't care if you think they're shallow pop shit, those were some songs that brought them that huge fanbase [of teenyboppers, but I couldn't care nonetheless, it's still fame].

And look at "Hello, I Love You" by The Doors. Some folks criticize it for the same reason others do with those early Beatles tunes. I still like the fucking song anyway. The thing with today's pop, I don't know, it just really irritates the shit out of me. Or the fact that it is totally manufactured. The early '60s teen idols that the record companies made are just the same and suck just as bad. I guess it's the manufactured or fakeness.

Haha I read a while ago that Izzy Stradlin's first concert was David Cassidy. That's fucking awesome in my book, because how could you not love David Cassidy?

The debate in history class today went well. I didn't have to talk at all. Which means no one erupted their constipated faces at me with constant blows and excuses about patriotism.

I'm starting to like my B days better than my A days. Despite the shitty people in my first two classes, gym is cool because no one gives a fuck about me anyway, so I could just stand there and not do a fucking thing and still get a 90 in the class. And plus I can sit alone on the side and eat my candy. Lunch is better, not so many assholes as there are in A lunch, and that pretty much makes up for more shittiness in literature class. God, who gives a fuck about this? I'm gonna shut up.

I love "Bron-Y-Aur Stomp."

I've been going so boycrazy for the past few weeks. It's not healthy. (More unhealthy than drinking bongwater, which I have no idea who would actually do that.) And I haven't gotten any action at all. Maybe I should go to the mall and in miniscule hopes, try to find that gorgeous Izzy Stradlin lookalike that I saw on the day that the fucking dipshit Ryan Cabrera had to come to town and perform at the mall. He obviously isn't a Ryan Cabrera fan, but just happened to be at the mall that day like me. I know not a single thing about him. But I'm desperate to seek that beautiful ass again one day.

Who's your favorite bass player? I'm at a loss between Duff McKagan, Flea, or John Paul Jones.

Damn, I talk way too much about music. But in all honesty, it's probably the only thing that I live for. The only thing that I ever take interest in. Anything that comes up that is just the least bit relevant to a certain musician or band, I quiver and go crazy in a split second. And whenever I see a vintage music store, my heart just blooms like a 10-inch in diameter orchid that has just received its one of many doses of rainfall every day. Send me to California and I die.

By the way, I am extremely jealous of you people who got to go to that free Velvet Revolver concert down at the Sunset Strip last night. Extremely jealous. My brows are arching in fury just typing this.

I feel as though my life is going nowhere. I live and breath music and hopeless romanticism. And I'm doing nothing to pursue a career in music or a career in anything else at all. I can't play music, I can't write music, I hate journalism, I hate the press, and being a groupie doesn't pay in bills.



Wednesday, October 13
Oh man, my stomach feels pretty downright shitty right now. Probably due to the things that I ate today so far.

milk
meds
starburst
french fries
caramel cake
bagel bites
grapes

Spending some quality time with the Porcelain God only helps it temporarily.

My appetite for destruction food this week has been going crazy. I even think about eating when I'm sleeping. Seriously. I think last night I dreamt of sandwiches for a few seconds, then being ignored by Mick Jagger. And to be absolutely honest, I even sort of wanted to go to school, just so I can buy food that my mom doesn't allow me to eat under her control.

Before my sudden outburst in intestinal illness, today went very well. Woke up at 9:48, watched The Tony Danza Show, yadda yadda yadda, here I am.

Tony Danza made my day.

I finished my Jim Morrison sign for desktop publishing. It's hot.

Karla and Lauren are always making me eat lunch at the metalshop with them. I don't want to. I'll need to find someone else who will be willing to be wasting their time with boring shit like me, every fucking A day.

I think I say "dog" in that jewish way "dawg" and I don't even notice it. Fucking jersey accent. I gotta watch my tongue. Kind of ironic saying that I should watch my tongue, being that when not in front of a volatile authoritative figure such as thy mother, "fuck" rolls off of it every 10 seconds.

Slash wears sky blue Converse.

Remember the red Ramones shirt I was whoring here before? Well I usually haven't worn it on rather cool days like this, and there are these metal studs embedded in it. Sometimes while walking around I got freaked by a sudden speck of chill on my chest. I could've sworn I thought it was premature leaking from my boobs or something.

Axl is quite hairy.



Tuesday, October 12
Okay, so I was sitting in literature class doodling green shit all over my paper because, how could I not? The teacher made us fucking wait forever just for one bitch to finish her goddamn work. I didn't do the first comprehension donkey doo because it bored me to death - while I was reading it I didn't absorb anything in, it was that boring. Like I could give a fuck about what John F. Kennedy said in his inauguration speech. That was 45 some odd years ago. The Beatles didn't even step off of that plane upon landing in the U.S. yet. He's dead. In addition to that, I despise politics so bad, I seriously can't come up with anything to say about it. So anyway, the bitch finally finishes her work after I had had just enough of arching my back from constantly scribbling with my sexalicious green pen. The teacher starts talking and going over the comprehension practice. Being that I was seated right in front of her, I hid my paper from her view so she wouldn't see my incompleted shit. Dumbshittedly enough, I was running out of space on my doodle paper and put the comprehension packet down to expose more doodle space on the doodle paper, and the teacher saw my uncircled answers. She starts going off like a lunatic.

"CHRISTINA, YOU'RE SITTING HERE DRAWING AND YOU HAVE NOTHING DONE WHEN WHILE WAITING FOR MELISSA TO FINISH HER WORK YOU COULD'VE DONE YOURS MORE THAN 3 TIMES OVER!"

I just give her a look. She goes on and says some more crap about me that I can't remember. Then she asked why I didn't do it. After she expects some sort of reply from me, I say,

"I got the other part done." When in actuality I did, but just skimmed through it and circled some random letters to make it look like I did it. I didn't do the first one because it just bored me way too much to actually do that one. I wanted to say "Because this crap is boring." But I held myself back, because not only do I have to sit my fucking ass in the front of the room right in front of her old spider-veiny ass, the entire class would be looking, and was looking, at me. Stupid bitch. If she hadn't seated me in front of her Duff's-ass-kind-of-pale pale skin, maybe she wouldn't see my drawings of nazi pigs and palm trees.

And the fact that I don't want to start complaining and get my ass sent down to the office and get a Saturday. I need to go see Conan in February.

Yeah, I typed all of that because typing is fun and it makes a cool sound. And that I have nothing else that I feel like doing.

My mom needs to give me more lunch money. I used up 4 dollars today and it still didn't satisfy me. But nooooo, she says she needs money for the HOUSE. Yeah right, for that 61" plasma screen TV she means.

"Garden of Eden" and "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" are 2 songs that get me going.

I really want a new belt. Anyone know a good place to get one?




Now this is the life. We're in the computer lab for history class looking up shit for our upcoming debates on Thursday. Fuck that. I'm sitting in the corner while the rest of my Loyalist group is somewhere else. I couldn't give a fuck. Sitting here listening to Guns n Roses and bitching at Leslie on AIM is what I call a higher education. I just had a bagel in french class too. It was good.

I can tell one of my group members has quite a bit of contempt for me. She already did since last year for I have no idea the fuck why - and just came over here a while ago and shoved a paper in my face of relation to the debate topic. Debates and arguing aren't my thing. Neither is arguing with a fellow peer. As a matter of fact, I fucking hate debates. You just argue and argue until the blood cells in your face are going to burst like gaseous taco fumes in your ass. No one even wins.

Duff looks fabulous in the "Patience" video. Izzy needs to take that hat and shades off. The room is dark enough already, I need to see his sexalicious face.

I can't wait until class is over. I can head down to the cafeteria and purchase a pack of Starburst from the shitty vending machine.



Monday, October 11
I can't get enough of The Rolling Stones. Do I smell another obsessive phase? No, I'm not over Izzy yet. 40 Licks will be my soundtrack for the next few weeks. I'd definitely say the first disc is so much better than the second disc, except for the first 4 or so songs on the second one.

The sand art piece of shit for art class was completed today. I chose a bird symbol and a sun symbol to cast on it. They ended up looking like black ovaries and that Marlboro symbol you see when you receive those catalogs for free stuff in the mail if you smoke enough boxes and cut off those coupon things on the side of them. Hey, they got some pretty awesome quality stuff in those catalogs. All with the Marlboro logo on them. Now that's hot. I know the Native American sand art tiles are supposed to be religious and all, but I seem to have totally fucked it up. Sun, bird. Marlboro, ovaries. It's all relevant.

Finally, finally, I'm going to be doing something this weekend. Go furniture shopping. Furniture shopping is fucking awesome, because you get to see all these new designs in funky colors and plus you get to sit on the display furniture and even jizz on them if you'd like.

OH MAN OH MAN OH MAN. I downloaded a Ju Ju Hounds song. "Pressure Drop." Thanks so much, to a german search engine. You know, sometimes you americans really fucking suck, having MP3 searches, but not free ones where you don't have to download their fucking software and pay 15 bucks a month for all the unlimited songs you want to download in a day. Fuck you, I just want a song right off the bat.

I want you do join this shit right now, bitch. Yes, that is pretty much the best I can do for promoting.



Sunday, October 10
God I hate Sundays. And I hate advertisting and promoting shit. I'm in a writey mood too, so I will be irritating all of you by filling up your Friends pages.

Playing the pear shaped piece of japanese wood seems to get easier and easier by the second. This may sound dumb, but since I was a kid I had a knack for dexterous work and by the time I was 7 started typing like a maniac. Maniac as in Beethoven on crack and playing his 354th symphony. Maybe this is coming naturally. But I highly doubt it.

It's pathetic that I have never met a single Peter Frampton fan in my entire 15 years of shitful life.

One thing that's bitterly irritating is, I've started to wear blouses and white shirts again. Not the corporate or preppy way with all buttons buttoned up to your Adam's apple and Polo Ralph Lauren sprizted on my neck before leaving the mahagony-walled colonial mansion though. If you were thinking that you might as well cut off communication from me and go sit bare-assed on top of a lizard den in the Saharan wasteland. The thing that irritates me is that just when watching Fashion Police on E! Friday night, they said shirts and blouses were back in style. Why the fuck does that always happen? When I first got my leather jacket and started wearing it, I kept seeing leather on the runways shown on Full Frontal Fashion. Is there a fucking stalker stalking me every time I step out of my house or make a purchase at a cheap store? Well, if you're seeing this, I advise you to fuck off and go stalk my 46 year old 200 pound neighbor next door who can't even lay on her stomach because of the false pregnancy filled with blubber instead of being filled with fetus in her abdomen.

Un-ironed white shirts unbuttoned just above your undergarments with totally fucked up ripped jeans and aviator sunglasses is sexy.

Good Eats is one hell of an awesome show. I wish Alton Brown were my best friend. And I'm dead serious about this.

I need Live Like a Suicide and Izzy Stradlin & The Ju Ju Hounds right now asshole.

Around more than a month ago I promised I would start to read more. Wrong. I never keep promises. So I never read anymore. Now I'm being forced to do a book review for history class about the Revolutionary War. The book I chose because it looked cool is Valley Forge by MacKinlay Kantor. It has an entire, rather amusing, paragraph about frozen testicles only 6 pages into the novel.

Rigid imagination had reached the point at last of examining the soldiers' loins and seeing them for what they were: balls blunted and dwindled, the pricks seeming puny and worthwhile only to poke and spear but never to achieve the pulse and delight of youth and power again. the balls - snowballs in truth. So you got down to the lower limbs and there they were, all scratched and bludgeoned and chillblained, some hairy, some hard, all seeming frozen, and - below them - the feet.




Does anyone agree with me that metronomes are pure cowshit? I think the music should just be the way you want it, then it would end up sounding better, instead of forcing yourself to be under the stupid piece of shitty plastic's tick-tocking deadline. You yourself should know if you need to slow down or speed up. And the constant tick-tocking irritates the fuck out of me, I can't concentrate, even with trying to keep the right time. Metronomes don't help. That's fucking it. Not that I'm using one, I haven't used one in years, but someone just brought up the topic of metronomes, reminding me of the pain and uselessness that the 15 dollar clock that doesn't even tell time is full of.

Boo hoo, no one fulfilled my wish two entries ago. That's really pussyshit full of you, if I had that opportunity I would've taken that dead grandmother of yours and dissed her every morsel of decency and love to utter goat bloody pieces.

Shaina, I didn't get your letter yet. Where the fuck is it? It's saddening me. See, that's why you never trust men in blue uniforms who mysteriously attract dogs' molars to their fleshy behinds.



Saturday, October 9
Made a Keef Riffhard layout here. What a dumb nickname in my opinion. I guess I'll put it on the list with Duffykins and Jizzy.

The whiteness reminds me of milk.




I have found a whole new love. A soulmate. Not sexually though. Because if it were sexual, I would have found Izzy Stradlin, or I like to make sweet hot kinky love to my guitar.

I started playing guitar again and I am trying to learn "Paint it Black." Keith Richards, I thank you for your inspirational heroin overdoses. All those summer months have gone to complete utter waste, when I should've been strumming like a mindless dumb shit wannabe on the pear shaped piece of japanese wood. If I had been practicing for all those months of sitting for 9 hours a day in front of the computer tweaking this piece of Gwar shit I call a journal, I probably would be able to play a song pretty fucking well by now.

Before, I couldn't fucking stand "Sweet Child o' Mine." Thanks to movies like Big Daddy and television programs and made-for-TV movies that featured the song whenever there's a father and child situation. The fucking song's not even about that crap. They kept putting it as the soundtrack to their shitty cinematic attempts at Oscar-winning and playing the chorus over and over and over, until Axl's screechy cat voice split my cranium in two, the edges sharp enough to pierce through all 17 layers of fat in his love handles. Thanks to Adam Sandler, I fucking hated the song for years, until I finally got a hold of the full version and listened to the rest of it enough to appreciate it and forget about the phony soccer dads on Viagra who wear black nylon gym pants that are too short and you see their mustard yellow knee socks to the park with their soccer families and soccer children who can't even kick a ball into their own father's nuts to watch him squeal like a sexually impotent boar.

I know I haven't been commenting as much on your journals lately, because I have been a conceited little fucker and for the little time that I had been spending during the hours after coming home from 8 hours of lower education and going on the computer and supposedly doing homework at the same time, have been working on only my shit and was either too lazy, or just honestly, really didn't care. Because some people just like to post boring shit like I do but the kind of boring shit like I do that makes you wanna go take a nice, long, liberating shit in a port-a-potty at Woodstock when you don't even have to take a shit at all. Remember I used to comment like crazy? Well, this bitch actually has OTHER THINGS TO DO for once. I can't believe I just said that. I have other things to do. That's like, never. Yeah, fuck you United States government, for sending me to school at 7:50 every morning for 8 hours of sleeping with my eyes open, added to the already 7 hours that I slept with my eyes closed on my metal spring mattress in my own cozy russian refugee camp.

And for being such an ass lately, including what I just said about some entries you may have written, am giving you a chance to diss me all you want. Make fun of me. About anything. Take something that I take dearly, to the bottom of my heart, and rip it to shreds, humiliating me until I have the will to track you down to wherever the fuck you set your ass down and scalp you with my favorite eating utensil that I use every day to eat cheesecake. Diss me all you want in a comment. I don't care what you say, even if I am an extremely sensitive person and I like to cry to myself every time I watch even the corniest romantic movie on TV. All of you, young and old, straight and gay, Gwar fan and Gwar hater, stander upper and sitter downer, make fun of Christina in a comment to this post.



Friday, October 8
Every time I listen to Guns n Roses, I go right to an Izzy song. This bitch needs some depth.

I got a fucking cold sore. It looks like I got food or a clump of cocaine stuck on my lip and am walking around not noticing it. It's the first fucking time ever that I've gotten one outside of my mouth for once. I'm starting to miss the extremely excruciatingly painful ones that were in my mouth.

Last night I learned the first 3 seconds to "Paint it Black" on guitar. That's fucking amazing. I hadn't picked up the guitar up in months, only to clean the drawer that it was leaning on. Who gives a fuck if it's a crappy 20 year old japanese one bought at some asshole's garage/empty-your-house-of-shit sale. You with your brand new Fenders and Gibsons and Ibanez's can suck my ass.

"Hotel California" is good. My parents pretty much ruined it for me up until now, because ever since I was a dumbshitted child and when I still liked Korn and Backstreet Boys (at the same time, man) they'd blast it over and over and over and over, oftentimes in the car during a 5 hour road trip to Virginia, until my brain would secretly implode inside my skull, sending coily pinkish red pieces dancing around in the large globular semi-sphere of a cranium I call my skull. Well, they've stopped playing it for, I guess a year? Now since I've grown in the sense of discovering new musical horizons, I've learned to appreciate it.

Every time I read "Virginia" I think of "vagina." And every time I try to type "Virginia," I type "vagina." I just screwed it up both times that I just typed it.



Thursday, October 7
So my mom got a new haircut today. And while her and I were eating dinner in the dining room, she tells me about how close-minded and simple my poppy is and that he never notices a fucking thing. She assumes that he is going to live to the age of 100, being so humble and supposedly peaceful in his never wanting to know anything, taken from such stories like the stupid ignorant simple people in the south who live that long too. We then see his car pull up in the driveway. And after what seemed like 10 minutes of who knows what the fuck he's organizing or shit in the car, finally walks through the door complaining about the shitty traffic that took fucking forever, stretching his drive home to approximately 45 minutes of grimacing and scowling at the non-moving vehicles in front of him. He continues to complain and bitch all the way to his bedroom to change. Even still bitching when he gets out of the bathroom and is getting his dinner. While sitting at the dining table, eating and minding his own business, amidst my hopes of keeping my mouth shut from laughing and spitting my food out and my mom giving me looks of, "See, I told you he never notices anything!", she even sticks her face into his sight while he munches on tofu to make it even more obvious.

He still doesn't notice or lift his angry head in acknowledgement of her new doo. Then she asks if he wants to watch TV, again bothering him with shoving her head into his sight. He obliges, and continues to devour. I have then absolutely had enough of holding my laughter in. I finally let it all out, throwing up all over the Windexed spotless glass dining table - water, rice, tofu, the Liquid Ice that Jessica Simpson advertised from first block today, and letting out all the hilarity I could take. It got all over my hands. I was trying to keep it in when I knew it was going to come out. I started coughing/laughing and got up and speedwalked to the kitchen, where I cleaned myself up. It took me about 6 more minutes after sitting back down until I could continue eating.

No one noticed, I hid behind my bowl of food when I hurled and it was mostly water. But there were quite a few bits of food here and there.

Other than the table washout, today was absolutely ordinary extraordinary absolutely

PLAIN.

I was trying to keep it in when I knew it was going to come out.
Sexual innuendos are funny.



Wednesday, October 6
I'll be trying not to neglect this any longer. I'm one of those losers who judge books by their cover, judge people by their looks, and judge journals by their layouts. Well Izzy is on this one now, I might as well open up to this page every day like I always do and masturbate.




Ordinary day. I froze my ass off though. I don't care if my denim has holes all throughout the fabric. Fashion Ego comes first.

My mind is drained. Maybe because I'm trying too hard to promote this. Which I'm not. Because I'm shitty as shitty can be for getting people to do things.

Gym class was better. I ate my Starburst in peace and we didn't even play ultimate frisbee. I even got a compliment on my position in a stretch. That was dumb, but hey, I like to type.

My mom has been irritated with me. Not angry, irritated. While at the same time I've been having pleasant, peaceful, nothing-bad-going-on days in school. It's the balance I seldom talk about. But this time it's level. When one is bad, for example if my mom is angry, I have a good day in school. If my mom is rather kind to me, I have a bad day in school. This added to my Al Bundy curse makes my karma all the more shitful.



Tuesday, October 5
JOIN THIS NOW!

I feel like such a deflated ass, annoying everyone just so they'd join it. That's why I'm always scared of leading things and starting groups of any sort. The intolerable fear of it turning out to be a failure and the possibility of no one joining. Which will most likely happen. Hello, it's Christina here. She can't do shit besides being a picture whore.

It's really weird that whenever I'm having the blood brothers visit me every month, I have good days. I'm in excruciating pain, but I'm happy. What the hell. Maybe it's a checks and balances thing. Or like a scale. The agony from menstruation can't be as horrible as rubbing your tits against a Gwar member's balls, so the dude upstairs balances it out with good circulation in the brain - leading to good moods. Holy shit, I have just discovered an all new, all natural anti-depressant: Menstruation.




Another peaceful day. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Last night I watched the Ultra Sound with rock n roll feuds. Oasis makes me laugh my ass off. I think it was Liam, who was talking about I think George Harrison, about how fabulous of a musician he is but is a "fucking nipple." Then at the end of his segment Liam sounds out about George, "NIP. PLE."

I finished creating the Izzy Stradlin community just a couple of minutes ago. I'm not going to promote it yet, I still have a few things to do and a few kinks to fix and shit and some stuff to figure out and plan. You're free to look around at the little bit there is so far, tell me what you think, tell me if there's anything I should add or take away and if you have that much time on your hands or love Izzy or me that much, join anyway. Even if there are no posts.

My mom wasn't home when I got back from school. She left the storm door open and I had my keys, which were attached to my Pokemon Sandshrew keychain. My Gwar-tastic awful tan has much improved since before. The photos are pretty much the same too, because I'm a boring fuck who likes to eat cheesecake.

i just thought i'd say hello.



Monday, October 4
Axl, how retarded could you get? I kid, I kid.

Someone ate the last fucking piece of cake that I lovingly made with my own two hands. I made it. I should have the honors of eating the first half and the second half.

What irritates me is those stupid projects or activities we had to do in elementary school that you had to bring in something from home just to be able to make it or participate in the activity. For example, making crystals that look like nothing but salt water that's been gargled in your germy herpes infected bacterial mouth and spat back out into that baby food jar and a week later when it's completely dried up and the not so clean salt lines the bottom of the jar. Yeah, I hated bringing shit to school just to get a participation grade and saving my ass from the teacher calling my parents complaining why I wouldn't do anything. Then I would be sent to a child psychiatrist. Not every house has a baby. What if your dad's storage is empty or your mom already went through menopause? Or what if your parents are good human beings and use condoms. Or, oh, get this, what if they're good christians and practice abstinence as often as some of us practice masturbation.

And those kids in your class that do have a baby brother or sister or a brother/sister. They could volunteer to bring more baby food jars in for the kids who don't have them, but fuck, poor baby at their house would have to eat a shitload or carrot flavored flamingo diarrhea every day and filling up that diaper with nuclear atomic loads that with just one whiff would kill you faster than a single snort of an entire pound of coke.

Today was good. I can't believe it.

Seriously, I can't.

I can tell that most of the people in my french class, including the teacher herself, aren't fans of Christina Nguyen. Oh well, I couldn't even give a fuck. Haha that Velvet Revolver lyric again, man. Everyone loves to participate in those sociable activities where you gotta interview another student in french. Fuck you, I'll make up shit to write on my paper. I just like to sit in my seat and contemplate whether the candy I'm eating is expired or not and if the green spots on it is really mold and fungus from days, weeks, sometimes (usually) months, of being stored (AKA crushed and beaten to a crumby pulp) in my jacket pockets. And I have a lot of jackets. Some that I don't wear for up to a year perhaps.

My haters don't end there. History class is my official KKK, or, CCC. So in the end, I did not do my essay last night. I had less than a complete paragraph done in 7 hours of sitting in front of this marvelous great working Compaq Presario with Certificate of Authenticity included. Hire me, Donald Trump, hire me! The teacher said she was going to homework check if we had our essays or not. But she didn't. What a relief.

Mr. Wittner yelled at me for eating a cheeseburger in gym class. Hey, without that $1.90 cheeseburger, I wouldn't have been able to slack those 4 laps around the track, asshole. I also played on the wrong ultimate frisbee team today. Because I came in late after my "drink break" and didn't feel like getting a fucking ugly ass pinnie to tuck into my trousers. No one noticed. I couldn't even give a fuck.

I had to meet the french teacher in the library at lunch to make up a speaking test that I missed on Thursday thanks to the 4 hours of bus sitting and 1 1/2 hours of walking around giant rods of stainless steel. I think I aced it. That's FIFTY FUCKING CENTS closer to that Izzy Stradlin CD.

But then again, I might have not done well enough to get paid the two George Washington coins.

Lauren says she is definitely, 100% going to take me to see Conan O'Brien in February. All I need is the OK from my parents. That's as hard as getting a master's degree in accounting for me. I think Duff should do that for this poor little fucker.

To end today's Ramble of Shit, I am going to be trendy.

Funny how everything was roses.
When we held onto the guns.



Sunday, October 3
Definitely no sleep tonight. Dana Carvey pounding on that piano serenading to his favorite miniature green trees.

I've been sitting here for approximately 6 hours total today supposedly getting this shitful essay on the French & Indian War done. Whilst talking to various people on AIM and reading threads about Izzy Stradlin on Here Today Gone to Hell. This person has much, much, less of a life than all of you do. Don't give me "Oh I don't have a life I really need to go get one!" shit, this is the real deal here. Sitting in front of the computer for 6 hours a day fattening your assets with carbohydrates and reading about your favorite sexy beast who by now is old enough to be your fucking father figure. It was even worse in the summer, when I would sit here for 9 fucking hours. That's fucking longer than a school day and sometimes fucking longer than I'd sleep for a night. When I should've gotten my pathetic cheap ass off of this pleather green chair and practice guitar. Which I only know about 3 chords. Hey, maybe I'll be like the Ramones and only play 3 chords in a swanky band for the next 20 years.

Maybe this slothyness has something to do with the fact that I'm grounded until I'm old enough to get out of the house and I have absolutely no motivation whatsoever? Oh, just the slightest, least bit something to do with it.

For now, the only motivation I have for anything is: 1. Getting clear skin - because my mom forces me to take my meds and 2. Ace at least one quiz a week because my folks pay me every time I get a good grade. I will be 50 (50 FUCKING CENTS!) fucking cents closer to that Ju Ju Hounds CD. Right now I am at a total loss of only 4 whole complete american dollars. The CD costs about 10 dollars if I'm lucky. Only 6 more dollars to earn. That means 12 more quizzes/tests to ace. Which is 12 more weeks. 12 more weeks is 3 more months. Oh what's a crazed smirnoff drinking ho-bag to do.

No, the parents don't allow drunken ho-bags like I to be employed at your humble, good, hardworking businesses.

I feel so low right now. There is no light in my life at all. Nothing but Gwar infested dick lights.

Wow, that is really bad.

Oh, and I gotta save up my snack money on those donuts. Which'll take around a week. Ah, the things I do for revenge. I have allergies, so I probably woouldn't be able to sniff the sweet smell of revenge either.

Allergies are for dorks. That's why you have Sharper Image Ionic Breeze's.

There are so many t-shirts I want to get too. In a couple of years Christina, only a couple of years.

My folks want to buy another TV. Another fucking flat screen TV. Fuck you, portable ones are even good enough for me. We already have a big screen 57" in the basement, and 5 more scattered all around the house, including a beautiful Sony one in the living room that has a sexy red couch. It used to be 7 TVs. But we give them away. My pop even wanted one in the bathroom.

Please, the house is going into more remodelling soon and is in shreds, so is the oldest daughter in shreds. No more TVs. Buy more sex for her so she could be happy. Oh just to get that rainbow silvery colored disc of 50 or so minutes of earful bliss. And cottony fabrics of oh so hot bands that could kick your saggy bumpy cellulite ass any day. 2000 dollars worth of that shitty TV will get her a bunch of those.

I am typing all this whiny shit that is supposed to be filling up the essay document in Microsoft Word. Fuck you. I'm going to cooking school.

My ass is seriously numb. I hope the cut in circulation doesn't mean it's going to stop growing. Because I need the curves. At least to fill up the ass part of my jeans. Jennifer Lopez should throw some of those bun cells over here, bitch.




The most pathetic and pointless dream is about to be shared with you kids.

I swear to all Jimmy Page, I have the most fucking weird and pointless dreams in all history and prehistoric and modern and futuristic history. I never have had a good dream in my entire life. Never. I'm dead serious, asshole. It's not fair. It saddens me to read about people's good dreams in their journals, while I'm stuck with my shitty ones about bombs and public bathrooms and retarded big toothed people. This is the reason I don't like to sleep. This is probably the most nightmare prone person next to those bald kids in Minority Report. You're really goddamn lucky if you get pleasant dreams every night. Sexual Guns n Roses and Nine Inch Nails orgy fantasies. You lucky bastards.

But to my surprise, one night I had a dream about Izzy Stradlin. Here comes my pointless dream.

He was wearing a black shirt and black pants with the usual beads around his neck, denim jacket and newsboy hat. I see him from behind. He picks up a bag of cocaine on a table. I wake up.

There. There it is. That is all that God will give me as a non-nightmarish slumber. It was less than a fucking second. I mean, we could've gotten high and fucked for God's sake! But nooooooo, he picked up a bag of coke and I fucking wake up. That's it. Not fair. Fuck you sandman. Shove that sand up your ass and grind your butt cheeks together until they bleed and get infected.

Since then I've pretty much given up on getting a good night's sleep. Especially on Sundays. Maybe I'm depressed or something, or just plain retarded, but that's the day I always feel shitty and guilty about myself for no apparent reason, even if I do have good hopes and vibes from the day(s) before and no dark clouds on the horizon whatsover at all. Then the day ends with a great surprise. Usually a really bad, tormenting nightmare that leaves me waking up in sweat at night, not being able to sleep aftewards then being forced to watch toilet cleaner infomercials at 3:00 A.M. If I were ever to be in a coma, I'd die anyway of shock from my own dreams. After being raped by some 200 pound bear skin rug chested guy that Buck brought in from the nudie bar downtown.

I really need money, fuckers. I must have that Ju Ju Hounds CD pronto.




This pisses me off.

i known that Guns n' roses broke up a while ago but it still sucks big time. Im not going to listen to velvet revolver at all. its not a band without slash and axl together. i mean, i know that they have to go their seperate ways and that their trying new things but still. axl and slash's chemestry on stage was so great and no one could keep their eyes off them. who thinks velvet revolver wont make it? at least not as far as GNR. does anyone else agree with me?

People like that should be in their own Livejournal community called LOVERS OF GWAR. God, talking about Slash like that is like saying he's moose shit trampled in horse ass without Axl.

I must walk to Dunkin' Donuts sometime this week before school and buy my own fucking box of 50 fucking munchkins. Then I'll go to history class and people would be like, "Oh! Can I have some?" with their pussyface puppy eyes and I'd be like, "NO FUCK OFF" And you know why? When the teacher bought in two boxes for the class sometime ago, none of the dipshits would pass any to me. That's what you fucking get. The problem is, I gotta save up my snack money for a few days.

It's such a nice day in the fair suburban area of northern New Jersey, isn't it? Someone should be a nice gentlemanly bastard and take me out to dinner.

Onlinerock.com is not working. They have let me down.

I could really go for some pasta now. Oh man the savory tomato and oregano goodness. Fucking italians, how are they so genius?

Does anyone else find the sound of chattering teeth appealing?




Okay, so I've calmed down. I started the night off like a stud and ended up like a dud. Thanks a lot, Mr. Vanilla Cake That Christina Made. Man, I'm so tired my eyelids are half open. And all I'd been doing all night was eating cake and laughing at Axl talk.

I tried watching TV, but there's not a single fucking thing to watch it's boring me so badly.

The folks still aren't home. Thank Jimmy Page.

AOL Instant Messenger could suck my ass.

I saw Korn on MTV2. Haha, they do kind of suck. Can't believe I was obsessed, and I mean obsessed, back in the day. I even thought Jonathan Davis was hot. I'm even ashamed of telling you assholes that. But hey, it's the truth. They call Head, Head because he has a big head. I don't see what's so big about it. They call Munky, Munky because his feet look like monkey feet. I don't want to see what they really look like. And they call Fieldy, Fieldy because he's as fat as a football field? Yes, I am quite the intellectual. That new video of theirs really sucks. Probably because I'm not a chihuahua person. Nor an animal person. Fuck you, don't give me that animal rights bullshit. Feed those shitty pamphlets to hookers who need the fiber.

Oh man, I was going to write a nice long paragraph about something, but forgot what it was going to be about. Yeah, I've been sitting here thinking for 3 minutes trying to remember what that paragraph was supposed to be about, and nothing came to me.



Saturday, October 2
I've never seen him so happy.



Hahahaha he looks like Scott Baio on crack.




Damn this cake tastes fucking good. Maybe I will go to cooking school. But I'm afraid that I won't look good in one of those Nagasaki atom bomb mushroom hats.

Guns n Roses at The Ritz. Funniest shit. Axl's talking about some nakedness going on hahahahaha XD

My mom just called and told me to go to bed early. Fuck that. I'd rather rape a dog.

I feel sorry for the dog.

Mr. Steven "Popcorn" Adler?

Oh man, Lauren said that she has box seats to any single fucking show she wants at Madison Square Garden as many fucking times she wants and is going to take me to see Incubus on their next tour. And perhaps Velvet Revolver? Oh god, IZZY could be a guest. Just ruin my chance to see them, and you lose your ability to masturbate.




I AM HOME ALONE AT LAST FOR THE ENTIRE REST OF THE NIGHT!

I can eat whatever the fuck I want.
I can listen to all the Guns n fucking Roses I want.
I can blast all the Nine Inch Nails I want.
I can piss off the neighbors all the fuck I want.
I can masturbate all the fuck I want.

I just baked a cake. It looks fucking sexy as hell. But I won't pull a Jim from American Pie and fuck it.

Now I'm gonna eat it. And enjoy it. Thus the end of this entry.



Friday, October 1
My mom locked me out of the house. Again. Third time in a month. Approximatetly 30 days in a month, happened 3 times. Maybe in the next 10 days it'll happen yet another time. That day I will have to remind my dearest mother not to lock the storm door or just give me a fucking key for once. I am not going to twist it up someone's ass.

And that's a promise.

Of course you should know by now that I never keep promises.

There are not many Izzy Stradlin websites. That is why I am sad. Not because that my family locks me out of the house every few times a month.

Yesterday I woke up at 7:13 A.M. I immediately, spontaneously, got "In the Navy" stuck in my head along with images of gay men in short shorts dressed as which included an indian, a cop, a construction worker, a sailor, and a handlebar-mustached biker with biceps the size of loaves of salami shaking their asses in front of a red curtain, playing in my head like Axl Rose watching lesbian porn. It also reminded me of Wayne's World 2 when Wayne was spying on his girlfriend. That was priceless.

Today in chemistry we were doing 2 labs with candles and beakers and open fires. Dominique suddenly yells in the middle of class saying that there was something in his pants, and asks if he could take them off because there was something seriously hurting him down there. The teacher allows him to and while unintentionally showcasing everyone his magenta purpley pink boxers, complains that his butt is in such pain. Then the teacher tells him to go to the bathroom to see if everything was okay. So he takes his jeans and walks in his boxers down to the bathroom outside in the hallway. Hall monitors and open classroom doors and all.

In the end, a piece of glass somehow got into his pants. And in all common sense, for you dumb shits, he took it out.

"It often happens that I wake up at night and begin to think about a serious problem and decide I must tell the Pope about it. Then I wake up completely and remember that I am the Pope."

- Pope John XXIII



My favorite thing to do during my spare time is skinning my neighbors' pet pomeranians and trading their fur to crack dealers in Newark.




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