Monday, January 31

beavis and butt-head is love
brought to you by the isLove Generator

I've been seeing these things everywhere, and thought I'd give it a try. I still don't know how they work.

I love Damien. Because Damien is the shit.

Read more of the Motley book today, and got to the part where Izzy started chaos between Guns n' Roses and Motley Crue. As Vince describes punching Izzy, Izzy falls down like "a tipped cow." I really fucking tried hard not to laugh out loud while sitting in the middle of the classroom under bright lights with everyone's front row view of me. I despise sitting in the middle or the front, and hate it almost as much as Gwar when I'm sitting in the center of the front row. Fuck you, no matter what I will always not be doing my work, you fucking teacher.

Yeah, that was fucking hilarious. I've heard both sides of the story, and Axl (not sure if I could even take Vince's word, much less Axl's word. they're both full of shit) said that Izzy told him that Vince punched him like a "powderpuff" in an interview that I saw on TV. But Vince claimed he decked him square and hard in the face. Who knows. I wish I was there. I wish I was taller than four feet and older than fifteen years old back then with nice kajungas and plenty of junk in the trunk.

I love Damien. Because Damien is the shit.

Fucking kill me now, because I think I'm starting to like the song "My World." It sounds like Nine Inch Nails, and I like Nine Inch Nails. A lot. If you hadn't already fucking noticed. Especially if you've read all of my entries and not even noticed my username, then you are 100% in need to be branded with the "DUMBFUCK" cowprod on your forehead by Christina. (LiveJournal) The song leaves a lot of mystery to the album, and raises questions like, "What the fuck?" or "Do I have something up my ass? Because this song is so completely full of shit that it fucks up the rectal muscles in my ass." So the Illusions albums don't end with something so expected, like some big finale ol' fancy shmancy song like "Estranged." To make things even more full of shit on me, I don't like "Estranged." Too many keyboards. Keyboards are for pussies. Not Duran Duran because Duran Duran is fucking hot and the keyboard player is even hotter. In conclusion, "My World" does a lot of good. I like surprises. And that was crazy shit.

Vince Neil might have started this "Axl is a pussy" thing. In the book he called Axl Rose a pussy. Before me. Before ME! I applaud you, oh Mr. Half Mexican Chicken McNugget. If he's half mexican, I'm guessing he is very flavory. No wonder he got so many chicks.

We're designing CD covers in desktop publishing. I'm making a David Bowie one, and it's sexy. The front is Ziggy Stardust, and the back is him lying in a bed smoking. That's fucking even more sexier. I was thinking of making an Aerosmith one, but the Bowie one just looked too fucking cool to change my idea. I'm almost done, and will be shown to you children sometime soon.

Oh but don't cry, Aerosmith germs. In printmaking I'll be making an Aerosmith thing. Just the logo, because anything else looks shitty when I try to make prints of them with styrofoam and ink and speedballers and all that shit. Tried to do a Jimi Hendrix print, but the first one looked like Steve Urkel and the second one looked like rabies. I want to get to the Andy Warhol silk screening soon. Soon, bitch, soon.

There was a pizza party in that class, finally. Ate four fucking slices to my heartburn's content. Or five, I forgot. The reason I kept on eating despite my fullness was that the teacher said, "You are either working or you're eating." And I don't want to work. So I kept on eating.



Sunday, January 30
Thought I'd cheer up Damien for tonight. Because Damien's the shit.



This is the school's version of a chocolate ice cream bar and Michael Bolton's version of a penis. I think I have a pretty serious phobia, and it's of dots. Like scary dots. Like on that piece of poop on a stick. Dots that look like diseases, such as on that piece of poo that is on a green stick. Whenever I see a scab that has lots of little dots of dried blood speckled on the wound, it scares me, but not the wound when it's bleeding like Ricki Lake on her rag. Whenever I see serious hives, it scares me. Whenever I see funky looking little black eggs in a jar or something, it scares me. Whenever I see little black seeds in some kind of asian jelly drink, it scares me. I really can't describe this fear either. It's not the kind of dots that are polka dots or fucking around with a pen or anything though. It's more like this:



SCARY FUCKING SHIT. I can't look at it. And I don't know how I can look at this:



Or this:



You kids are lucky I didn't show you the picture of the cow with the skin disease. Or the freaky teenage boy with all the shit growing on his neck. If I wasn't so afraid of dots then I seriously would have put them here to fuck up your ever looking at my blog again. For now if you're really that curious, go to Google Images and type in "skin disease." I don't think I've ever dropped my jaw that wide and squirmed my eye that much. Ever. My jaw was so low, that if I had a cock and a beard I'd probably be the only person on earth that would be the Human Tickle-My-Own-Fancy-er.

I think I need to cheer myself up now, and get those fucking awful dot pictures out of my head.





I want this:






Went to Philly today and ate a lot of food. And shit I just forgot what I was going to say.

My face is clearing up nicely. More than my sister's. And she's still recovering from chicken pox.

Listened to Ride the Lightning three fucking times total in the car to and from the city. Fucking awesome. I never knew I'd come to like Metallica that much, because I'm a dense dipshit who has only listened to their new stuff until pretty much recently. The bad thing was, I had no one to fuck up shit with. Especially in the car. With my family. For some reason whenever I bring a book for a car ride, this time The Dirt, I end up never reading it and just listening to my CD's over and fucking over again until my fucking head splits open. I don't care if my speakers die. The CD player is most likely going to die sooner, because that list from about six months ago with about sixteen problems of its workmanship has probably doubled itself by now. And I'm not going to buy a new one. Because I'm cheap.

I also realized that it was about time that I got an Ipod. It doesn't make any fucking sense, and it's not fucking fair at all, that just about every rich kid in school got a goddamn $200 Ipod for Christmas when they don't even know how to download MP3's, when I have 500+ songs in my computer, with nothing but a piece of shit fucked up CD player and a computer that's just as fucked up and has just as many viruses as there are MP3's in the computer. Plus, I have decent taste in music. Unlike those Nelly and Lil' Jon stupid fucks.

It's saddening that the computer won't let me burn The System Has Failed onto a CD because it's some lame "playlist file" or "Winamp file" or shit like that. I don't know. But I'll keep on trying. It's either keep on trying or go back to the Windows ME of my computer and download song by song.

Yesterday I sat in the kitchen instead of doing chores eating Flavor Blasted Cheddar Goldfish. Then I suddenly missed my friends for no reason. Then I stopped missing them in the next few minutes.

On the way to Philly, there was a sign on the freeway that led to a place called Bonhamtown. That's fucking awesome. What if it really was named after John Bonham? Maybe I'll want to baptize my children there. While listening to "Garden of Eden" or some song that had Duff's voice in it, I decided that if I ever had children and had a son, I would name him Duff. That's the greatest fucking name one could have. It comes in so many phrases:

DUFF IS TUFF!
RUB A DUB DUFF
DUFF LIKES TO PUFF
DUFF HUFFS STUFF
DUFF LIKES CORN PUFFS
DUFF IS TUFF ENUFF
MY DUFFYKINS LIKES MUFFINS
DUFFY WENT PUFFY (because he'll eventually get fat)
DUFF LIKES IT RUFF
DUFF GOT HANDCUFFED
DUFF LUFFS CHRISTINA
DUFF'S ASS IS BUFFED
DUFFY'S ASS IS NICE AND PUFFY
DUFF GOES 'HUFF HUFF' WITH STUFF
DUFF PUFFED STUFF
DUFF STUFFED PUFFY STUFF

And it goes on and on.

If I ever had a daughter, I'd probably name her Pussy. And being that Duff should love his sister, I could say that Duff loves Pussy. Oh god, I love children.

That was fucking sarcasm you dumb shit.

And if I had another son, I'd probably name him Richard, so I could call him Dick. I'll make him drink lots of milk so he grows really big and tall, then I could say that I've got a big Dick. It's also a great idea for men who have Napoleon-sized cocks and somehow got illegitimate kids or want to name a big-sized pet, to name them Dick. Because then they could truthfully say that they've got a big Dick. The only bad part is actually showing people that big Dick. And it surely ain't going to be the one in your pants. Unless you somehow fit your dog or baby in your pants.

Today I almost saw a hot asian guy. But he turned out to be real ugly. At least he wore nice butt-fitting jeans and a hot sweater. His hair was a nice length too, but his face was of utter pussy.



Saturday, January 29
Holy shit, while I was sitting here typing some dumb shit somewhere, I heard from in the living room that someone was playing my Rolling Stones CD. I was thinking, "What the fuck? I thought my folks hated my music?" So later I go out to the kitchen to get cookies to increase the fatness in my ass. No one was in the living room and my folks were in the basement. I figured they turned it on and went down there afterwards. Then later, while I had long finished my cookies in my room and did more shit on the computer, my mom comes in, and asks, "If you're going to stay in here and not listen to your CD, why don't you go turn it off?" And I'm like, "What are you talking about? I never touched it!"

That's freaky. I left the CD in there for a few hours after it was done playing, and it suddenly starts playing by itself? I've got to admit, I definitely heard some noise in the living room right before it played, which drew me to the conclusion that someone was really in there and opened the entertainment system display to turn it back on. The sibling claimed she didn't touch it either and was just in the dining room all this time. Maybe the ghost of Brian Jones lives in my house or something. No wonder I keep getting aroused at night in my sleep.


I love this man.


Fiesty little fella, ain't ya?


Sorry, nothing but hotness comes to mind here.


He misses his pot.


But his guitar comes to console him. This could be tie-dyed and put on a Lisa Frank folder and be sold at CVS or Piggly Wiggly's.


And his drugs come back to him! Aww, what a happy little boy.



Friday, January 28
The most hilarious and self-important quiz ever to face the world wide web.



Poor thing. Or maybe for some reason they gave me Axl's results.




For some reason today, I kept seeing strange colors. I'm perfectly sober so shove that fucking urine test warrant right back up your ass. While walking home, the neighborhood looked somewhat like this. Alright, I'm exaggerating, but the color sure was there. Maybe it was the fact that I wasn't wearing shades and the sun was absolutely as bright as David Crosby's pale ass added to the foot of snow that froze into one giant chocolate-less Klondike Bar covering the entire state and it started toying with my perception of things.

I finally figured out why Photobucket kept resizing my pictures. I saved the file in Photoshop too high a quality or something. Well now I fixed the problem and I've got one hell of a crazy picture in the background.



Thursday, January 27
Just because I'm listening to a sad song made me feel lonely. Fucking ovaries, you fucking fucked me up. Yeah, I'm done.




So this morning I found out that today is the beginning of several days flaming ovaries. Yippity doo dah! That shit does crazy things with my emotions. For some reason, I'm always in an extremely good mood, but just one thing that perturbs me for the tiniest bit, in less time it takes for someone to shoot an orange out of their ass, I fucking flip out. Only in my mind, I have yet still to pull a full-fledged Axl.

I was at a message board recently, and there was a topic that said during menstruation, one gets hornier. I can confirm that that is true.

Get ready for a tender moment. This crap is toying with my thinking also.

In art class I got bored so I decided to take a trip to the bathroom and take a walk afterwards. The parenting class was right next door, and they had mothers take in their young children, I'm guessing around age four or so, so that the students have a chance to take the child to do something and be graded on their behavior as an assignment. Well, one little boy had to go wash his hands, and his student babysitter was a girl so she took him into the girls room, where I was pimping myself in the mirror. And my god, was he a cute one. He had sort of a mushroom moptop hairdo and big eyes with a stubby little nose. It almost made me want to have children pretty soon. But then I was fucking terrifying myself, and even right now, thinking like that. Reality soon flashed in almost as fast as it had went away. I can't even take care of myself, and I fucking hate taking care of others, let alone my own egg with feet. Besides, my offspring would probably be as ugly as David Hasselhoff or some vermin like that. And hopefully not as hairy. I'd be spending two thousand dollars a year on waxing cream and razor refills.



Wednesday, January 26
In english class, one of the groups had to perform a segment of the play that they were assigned for their presentation. But the main character, a girl, was absent. The teacher wants the group to perform it anyway and to find another person to play the absent girl's part. So she asks for a "pretty girl" to do it. She picks this ugly girl. Man, I'm serious. She ain't no looker. She was horrid looking. Short, fat, flat nose, crusty hair, filthy nasty crap. But there was still a narrator needed so the teacher keeps on asking other girls. The teacher also asked the girl sitting in front of me to be the narrator. She was pretty, but I was still kind of offended by the first choice and the fact that I was never even asked. It was probably that I really am nasty looking or if the teacher knew me well enough that I didn't want to be in that lame piece of shit skit anyway. It's still sad though that I now know that not even lesbians could think I'm hot.

You can't do shit when you keep seeing colors flying around, and no I didn't do shit. Something's wrong with me, and I ought to find out.

Oh yeah, and sort of a new layout. I edited the picture to look really fucking awesome in Photoshop but for some fucking reason, even if I didn't change the size while editing it, Photobucket goes ahead and fucking resizes my picture. So I have to stick with the crappy original version. Fuck you and your stupid fucking megabyte or making-pictures-ultra-more-sexy limits.

Since the word usage thing sucked, I'm going to say this sentence at the end of every entry just to see if that damn thing really works. Who is it to say that I never used the word "Axl" or "pussy" or "Gwar?"

I love Damien. Because Damien is the shit.

Hell, maybe I'll say it more than once.

I love Damien. Because Damien is the shit.

I love Damien. Because Damien is the shit!

And for your information Damien is a chick who lives far far away over the hills and far away who is probably reading this right now.

I love Damien. Because Damien is the shit.

Take that, you fucking "word usage" piece of dried up menstruation.



Tuesday, January 25
I hate it when people fucking ruin my fun. For example, in an '80s metal community on LiveJournal there was all this controversy going on about religion, which had nothing to do with that community, that started pissing everyone off. But in the midst of all that lame bullshit me and some others start posting random irrelevant pictures just for the fucking hell of it. Then some puss comes around, rats all of us out to LJ Abuse and then becomes moderator, which there was none to begin with and which is part of the reason so much shit went on. Well, the new moderator set a list of rules for the first time in the goddamn place's history. One of which is no posting of rude pictures or anything that doesn't have to do with anything '80s metal. Well fucking hell, ain't that a darn-skippy fun place to have HARDXCORE FUN now??? Hardcore fun, my ass. The fucking place has now downgraded from cockrocking to cockblocking. This is part of the reason that I don't have much faith in LiveJournal anymore.

Also, there's a lot of fucking losers around here. None of which on my friends list except one stupid fuck, but this person is no longer active in LiveJournal and reverted to Xanga, the mother of all shits. The aforementioned community pretty much sucks now and there's nothing but PG-rated crap being said that bores the living hell out of me and isn't really worth reading. It's now pretty much the opposite of what the name of the goddamn place was. I'm not going to post a flame on there, because, pardon me for my incorrectness, "the post will be deleted immediately without the person's consent" or some bullshit like that, as was said in the rules.

The place is called "cockrockers" and everything that has been updated, or rather downgraded, is an absolute oxymoron of its own name. Isn't controversy and crazy shit what rock n' roll is all about? Guess it isn't like that there anymore. Be a puss. Be a party pooper. Be a condom wearer. I don't care. I think I've found my cure for LiveJournal. Hence the lack of an appopriate entry for the past three or so days.

I'm sorry my children, but the world's greatest threads ever were destroyed in that process. It so happens that I myself laughed my fucking ass off posting all those pictures, just imagine how hard other folks would crack up. What a fucking waste. All that hilarious crap is gone, vanished, caput. Thank you, I really appreciate it deep down in my heart.

So, you want a real update from the master of Axl dissing? Sorry honey, I'm not in the mood to.

Because I'm hungry.

Let's see. Sunday. I was sitting alone at the dining table eating dinner and as I was drinking water and was about to swallow it, my parents come in arguing about why the Ionic Breeze makes buzzing sounds when it's supposed to be silent. My mother claims that it is clean and that there is something wrong with it. As on the other hand, my father says it needs to be cleaned and that although it may look clean on the outside of the filter, the inside is a filthy fucking mess. They argue for a few minutes and my mother finally takes a look inside of the filter and sees that she is wrong, and says something like this in vietnamese, "Oh, my bad!" and walks off to the kitchen to clean it. My father, instead of hissing at her, continues on his way to filling his glasses with water at the water dispenser in a few steps, turns his back towards the direction in where she left, and rips this obnoxious fart. I swear, I was about to sabotage the entire sparkling glass dining table with my backwash and pre-warmed water in my mouth, but had the will-power to hold it back from my raging laughter that was trying to commence. This is how my parents show contempt to one another, shooting holes into the ozone layer. I say it's much better than suing one another. Because either way, money is going to end up with one of them.

Yesterday I got locked out of the house. My mom gave me the shitty garage door remote and told me to go in through the garage when I came home from school.

The remote doesn't fucking work when I came home from school. So I froze my ass off even further by walking all the way to the front door and banging on it, only to see her through the little window snoozing on the red couch.

Today was peachy. Still no fucking pizza party in art class. Instead we got an hour and a half of sitting around, walking around, and hurting around because the spanish fucks always hog the boombox and play their hearing removals.



Saturday, January 22


This band sucks. Really sucks. I almost put them on the same level as Gwar. As a matter of fact, the first time that I ever saw Gwar in my entire life, in their "Sick of You" video on Uranium Classics was the same episode that they aired that W.A.S.P. video which I can't remember the name of. Two tortures in one night, in one episode! I remember that day as clear as I can probably recite the history of Led Zeppelin. God, it was so horrible. I don't know how Blackie Lawless could be considered a sex god. He's so fucking butt ugly. Maybe it's like the case with Gene Simmons. Both are ass ugly, both wear crazy makeup, both make crappy music, both use blood for a stage act, both are fucking cunts, but both seem to be good in bed. Talk about irony, talk about complete bullshit. I wouldn't fuck either of them if my pussy depended on it. Or maybe I would. I have a reputation as being desperate and horny. No, I shouldn't talk about this. I'm scaring myself.

Blackie doesn't make himself sound the least bit sexy with this album cover either. Motley Crue and The Rolling Stones could pull it off though. And Bruce Springsteen also. Not really The Black Crowes, because there's pubes sticking out of the speedo. Come to think of it, I can't even remember if it was a man or a woman's crotch that was on their Amorica album. Pubes scare me. That's another good reason I should be worshipping the person who invented shaving razors. Or laser hair removal, for that matter.




So I ended up not cleaning and eating instead. A lot. An over onion-ized pizza and a muffin. I'm starting to get hungry again but I feel bloated like a fucking pregnant cow at an over-fattening-the-cow milk farm. Maybe my period is starting to come? Who knows. My ovaries don't talk. So in conclusion to that, this whole day has been an entire waste. I'm starting to revert back to old habits. Old habits of not doing anything that I'm supposed to and writing more pointless shit here. I even became hypocritical again and started reading people's entries. In less that twenty-four hours I proved another thing wrong. But I did prove that I am a hypocrite.

Velvet Revolver is touring again? Someone should find the dates for me, because I don't want to go websurfing. If you do, you should, for me. I doubt I could go though. I didn't get to see Motley Crue and I most likely won't be allowed to go see Conan O'Brien. And I didn't win that ornament design thing in geometry. It was only a nomination tag that I saw on it. But now I have no fucking idea where my ornament is, it seems to have disappeared. I don't get it, since I see all the others, and my ornament should stick out like Christina in a Gwar concert.

My face hurts like a bitch on her period being fucked up in the ass by Blackie Lawless with that chainsaw on his crotch. I think I burned it with acne medication or some shit.




The strangest thing happened yesterday. While the pizza was baking in the oven, the mother tells me to check on if it's done. So I stick my hand in the oven to check the pizza was warm enough. The fucking pizza zaps me! Zap, as in static electricity. I saw the fucking blue bolt come from the pizza absorbing into my fucking finger. Reminded me of some kind of crazy '80s teen movie. For some reason the '80s had a lot of lightning bolts and smoke and shit going on in their movies. And I'm a teen. Wouldn't that make a great film? No, it wouldn't. For America's Funniest Home Videos if I had a camera in the back of my oven, yes. You should've seen my face, I was fucking shocked.

For the first time in my entire life I've watched more than four minutes of BET. I don't know why, but they're airing this Fresh Prince of Bel Air marathon and not their rump shaking competitions. It's been awesome. That show is fucking genius. I don't get why I seem to be cracking up even more after I've watched every episode about forty times already.

Also read more of The Dirt.

Nikki: "I really have to get laid. I'm going crazy."
Sharon Osbourne: "No, you can't, Nikki," she said firmly. "You're going to get a disease."
Nikki: "I don't care about diseases," I cried. "I'll get a shot. I just want to get laid."
Sharon: "Okay," she relented. "Just this once."
Nikki: "Thanks, Mom."



Friday, January 21


Surprisingly, Dave Mustaine has very pretty and girly handwriting.




Ah, youth, ain't it a great thing? This age issue has been in my mind lately. Age issue as in pretty much every aspect about my age. The reason that I never state it is because I don't want any fucker to judge my writing, my shit, anything, by my age. I'll say it loud and clear - 15 fucking years of age. That's right, I'm a wee little girl.

Today in art class the teacher (consider the seniors-only art show in mind) asked if I was a senior. I said no and that I was a sophomore. And this other girl, and probably a few others within hearing distance were shocked. She suddenly turns around and asks if that was really true. It is. I get that a lot. Even when my closest friends hear me state my age.

To be honest, I guess I see a lot of immaturity in many other people, quite a number even older than I, and I can't fucking stand it. I probably grow upon observing others, therefore sculpting my personality and appearance.

Dave Mustaine is fucking hot. I love his negativity and brain. He's one hell of a cool dude.




Looks like Axl might go to an art show. It took me a fucking approximate forty-five minutes to scrape all of the excess black grout from the mosaic. It can't be entered because apparently the teacher wants it to be displayed along with the senior level projects and I am not a senior. So she's waiting for another show to come along and enter my pussy in it. I guess it brings me good luck. Axl, I owe you one.

This morning on the news they fittingly played "Ice Ice Baby" with the weather forecast. They crushed my hopes when the riff turned out to be Vanilla Ice instead of Queen and David Bowie. That stupid fuck with the crazy side-shaved head, he fucking stole their riff. No wonder no one liked him. He shunned the androgynous sex pot and that magnificent liatard Dame Olga.

The fucking desktop publishing teacher yelled at me in the middle of lecturing or some shit for spreading cream cheese on a bagel in class. What the fuck, I can't fucking help being hungry. She kept telling me to put it away immdediately and wrap it up. But how can I do that when there's a glob of cream and a knife sticking out of the goddamn thing? My plan was to finish spreading, take the knife out and wrap it up, which I proceeded to do. But no, the bitch keeps persistently yelling at me. So I leave it in front of my fucking face for the next half hour not touching it until she fucks off somewhere else. It totally distracted me from my work. No one can work when there's the smell of a bagel in front of your goddamn face.

Another culinary disappointment happened in art class, when the teacher announces that we weren't going to have the pizza party today. That pissed me off. I didn't eat as much in lunch, only to still not get any food.

So I made a mess at the sink and went home and cooked my own frozen fucking pizza.

And strawberry cheesecake ice cream afterwards. It was good.

The test in geometry was a pain in the ass. I hate when teachers make you fill out things when you don't want to. I handed it in with a short answer question blank, and the dude makes me go back and write some shit.

Lauren wants to take me to see Green Day. I rejected her offer, for I am not into Green Day. Even if they are box seats, I'm still not going.

There's a new layout here, another David Bowie one. I don't give a fuck if you can't read it, it looks cool. That's what highlighting is for.

I know I haven't been reading anyone's entries, and I don't plan on to either. Call me an asshole, call me a shitty LiveJournal or whatever friend, but I am indeed an asshole and a shitty friend.

And I'd like to stop this obsession with LiveJournal. It's killing my already low life.

What type of metal are you? Goth metal. Usually slow and somewhat depressing, you're also very haunting. You have bands like Moonspell and Type O negative. Unfortunately, many angsty teens think Slipknot and Marilyn Manson are goth.

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

So a bullshit quiz calls me slow and depressing. They're right about that part though, I am slow, very slow, and very depressing. Very depressing because I took this quiz and actually put it here.



Thursday, January 20
I passed my driving written exam, oh man! Actually I don't really give a fuck because when I do get to drive I'll be driving the ugly ass green minivan handed down from my dad, who shit all over the seats and spilled coffee all over the dashboard. And the fact that I like to sit in my basement all day and get drunk. Not really, I just sit at home and watch reruns of I Love the Whatever the fuck and eat beef jerky all the time.

Had to miss part of my lunch to grout the Axl mosaic. This girl who was wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt (one that I very much wanted, but it cost fucking twenty six dollars at the goddamn mall) was watching me. I guess she liked it. She turned out to be very friendly too, never got her name though. Kind of coincidental, for I was actually thinking of wearing my Zeppelin shirt today also, after many months of neglect and holding grudges against stupid fuckheads who have that same shirt but didn't know that Led Zeppelin wasn't some sad fuck's name.

This morning I gave the crazy looking plaster dog to Eric. He liked it. And proceeded to pimp it everywhere he went throughout the day.

Three substitute teachers today, that fucking kicks ass. That means a lot of eating, masturbating, and sleeping that leads to dreaming about masturbating. For some reason I couldn't stop eating today. In a total of eight hours I ate:

bagel
2 bags of chex mix
2 crunch bars
bowl of soup
6 pills
3 cups of water

All for under four dollars! No, I'm not a bargain hunter but I am indeed sad that I ran out of extra snack money. But good thing tomorrow we're going to have an end of class pizza party in art class.

The sibling woke up at 7:00 two days ago only to cry finding out that she had chicken pox and the two zits on her forehead weren't from hormones. But hey, good thing is, she now has more red blotches on her face than I do. But bad thing is, hers are temporary.

Also brought home the Swan Song mosaic and Shaina's chinese painting. Now I'll have to find a way to mail it to her without fucking it up more than the wind already did while carrying it home.



Wednesday, January 19


So the art teacher is allowing us to bring our work home today. This is the hoochie coochie plaster dog that I've been talking about. Probably going to give it away, because it's fucking awesome.


The Jackson Pollack inspired splatter-shit-all-over-the-place painting. Webcams are shitty quality, so it looks shitty on here. It's perhaps my largest work ever made, bigger or the same size as the David Bowie pastel. No one liked the David Bowie pastel though.


This is Christina's version of Where's Waldo? While spritzing paint onto it, the paint brush spontaneously falls apart - brush head and handle dismantle from each other. So I just leave it there only to be layered on with more paint. Turned out to be cool. Find the stick! (not even I can find out where the stick is in this close-up)


Find the brush head!


Axl is on his way to completion. I got 11 points off my final grade for the class because it wasn't finished. Fuck you, I'll take as long as I fucking want to do my shit.


You can call it pornographic art, being that it's a giant pussy on canvas.


Holy shit, that's the biggest (and dirtiest) condom I have ever seen! No, it's just the garbage can from an aerial view.


It's snowing outside, and I had to drag the big ass painting home through that by foot. Can't see many flakes in the picture though. Man, I love you webcam inventor man. Whoever the hell you are.


Before my mom repainted my windowsill and walls a few years ago, it was practically completely yellow.


The guitar sits and gets older.






Every time someone posts a bunch of shit pictures, like above, aren't you curious what kind of fucking person did all that? Well, this time I'll cure your curiosity.






I haven't changed much.






Alright, I'll stop fucking around:







One good thing about webcams is that it covers all your blemishes.



Tuesday, January 18
It's guilty pleasure time.

1. Sugar Ray
2. Goo Goo Dolls
3. Bananas in Pajamas
4. Simon Cowell
5. Kevin Bacon
6. non-ankle socks
7. Axl Rose
8. Mark McGrath
9. David Lee Roth
10. porn that happens to be on basic cable for some reason
11. Vince Neil
12. Liberace's fur capes
13. lounge music
14. Andrew Dan-Jumbo
15. Maroon 5
16. vaccuuming
17. Psyduck the Pokemon
18. Arthur on PBS



Monday, January 17

Used charcoal and a pencil to trace this to do this:


It sucks. The teeth aren't done yet, so he looks like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix when the agents seal his mouth together so he won't scream like a pussy (ironic?) while they let a giant crayfish climb into his bellybutton. There's supposed to be white streaks in his hair, showing that he has long hair. And once all the placement of the pieces of glass are in, I'll have to bring it back to school and put grout in it. Probably white or black grout, haven't decided yet.

This morning while I was popping meds into my mouth my dad suddenly comes in through the door, and after my mom's yelling, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" he yells back, "I FORGOT MY TEETH!" For a forty-something year old man, he already has several missing teeth. Once when we were at a party and he was attempting to break open a crab shell to eat, he chips the dencher, sending it across the table, in front of all the young people. Seems that he drove thirty minutes on his way to work, and drives all the way back because of this. My dad isn't dumb, he just, lacks common sense.

I looked pretty nasty today. Five hours of sleep doesn't do much for your appearance.

Last night I watched the saddest movie. I cried. I admit it, I fucking cried. This time it was about five or seven tears, and I did not just use my hand to wipe them away, I needed a sleeve. Yeah, the movie saddened me that much. It was this film from 1990 starring Juliette Lewis and Brad Pitt, called, Too Young to Die? It fucking tortured me for the rest of the night. Or more as in morning. The movie didn't end until 1:30 and I couldn't stop being a fucking puss until 2:00.

The reason I started watching it was, a long time ago my mom was complaining about how disgusting Juliette Lewis looked in I Love the '80s, but remembered one single time that Juliette actually looked appealing, which was in the aforementioned film. She said it was adorable - the chemistry between Juliette and Brad. And when I finally watch the movie, she was totally fucking wrong.

Mom: IT WAS SO CUTE!
Moi: NO! IT WAS SUCH A SAD MOVIE! HE ABUSED HER AND GAVE HER DRUGS! SHE DIED AT THE END!
Mom: YEAH, I'M WEIRD, AREN'T I?

She genuinely believed that the movie was fun and cute.

Sucks for you that I just ruined the movie, but I don't recommend watching it. I also heard Requiem For a Dream was incredibly heartwrenching too. I don't want to see it. Hormones are not cool. They either turn you extremely horny which no one wants to fulfill, or a fucking puss.



Sunday, January 16
My momma and I went shopping today, first to the Michael's arts and crafts store, and then to this crazy asian supermarket that I haven't been to in about a year. That place was fucking full of four foot tall asian people with grey hair. I felt like a kindergarten teacher. The dudes at the seafood section are cool, because they're spanish and when I'm talking to them we can stand face to face, not face to boob. The insane happy jolly chinese music that was playing in the shit-stained speakers overhead was so disturbing, you can't help but laugh your ass off if you don't know a single fucking thing in chinese. So my mom starts imitating it, having no idea what she was saying, and ending up sounding like a chicken getting head from a duck, square up there, nice and hard. Yeah, her impression of chinese singing was right on the ball. I wonder if the actual chinese people there noticed her Celine Dion-worthiness or not.

For what I used to take for granted as child, I'm starting to enjoy a lot. Food shopping is darn skippy fun. Especially in shitty places where everything is fucked up and boxes are ripped open; then paying becomes an option. That's my kind of store. See, being a skank doesn't pay off because skanks don't wear much clothing. Which means there's no coat to stuff chocolate and tampons into. No wonder they're all dumb shits.

Last night kicked ass. Awjita kicked ass. Bad Haircut kicked ass. The fact that my mom decided not to go kicked ass. She just cringed at the thought of watching such music. What was weird was that every few minutes a mosh pit would start, only to disemble as quickly as it had started. God I love watching them. They're so fucked up. Not to mention the people in them also. A certain pain in the ass named Heather Hodder (Yes, a name drop for once. I have nothing to hide, bitch) was there. I have no idea why she goes to these things, and wearing a sky blue t-shirt with fishnets on her arms? Please, the only person to date who can pull those things off is Trent Reznor.

The cute guy that I mentioned in a few entries ago was there. He talked to me, three times. He's hot. The whole time we were talking, I kept looking at his eyes and thinking, "My god, he's cute!" and couldn't resist grabbing him, but that wouldn't be very, sane. We were commenting on Ferris' makeshift kissing booth, and some guy, I forgot who, told that he should do one and it would do a hell of a lot fucking better. Which it really would. He starts talking about it himself, and even kidded that he'd get some dudes to come too, which I bet really would come. I should've said that I would pay for it also. But I didn't. I so fucked it up.

Ferris made a crappy kissing booth (as in a piece of notebook paper that was written in pencil: "Kissing Booth, $1") by the merchandise table. Not surprisingly, it failed miserably. It gave me chills just looking at that sadness of a lump. It was funny nonetheless.

Then after Bad Haircut finished their set, most of the crowd started leaving. No one cares about the next bands. Some friends and some folks that I don't know dragged me to go with them to Dunkin' Donuts down the street. We started off running down the street at 10:00 at night looking like asses, why, I don't know, and freezing our asses off in twenty degree weather too. January fucking sucks. All these rich people and their limos were looking at us through the windows in their carpeted fancy restaurants. They make me sick. And being that the windows were fucking huge, gave me the uncontrollable urge to display a full moon, but I really had to piss and who the fuck brings toilet paper with them? Carlton Banks does, but he likes Tom Jones. Tom Jones fans are from some other dimension that has yet to be discovered.

Just when we get there, Jeannie says we have five minutes left until my mom came at 10:30. It was sad to leave and try to find our way back down the street. Yes, it was straight down the street far away but I have direction issues. I wanted to get a shirt but by the time we got back everything, and everyone was gone. So we wait outside for our ride. Our ride was late. Again.

Got home and ate a baked potato slathered with so much butter that it turned into a grease pit, much like LL Cool J's armpits at MTV Unplugged. It was good, though. Then snuck onto the computer because I'm a fucking dork, it got disconnected soon afterward, so then it was sexual fantasy time, 1:00 in the morning.

There's going to be a half day tomorrow. Fuck you and your no day, don't go boasting about it. I don't want to pull an Axl on you. No one wants to pull an Axl. Not even Axl himself. Or maybe he does. Who knows.




Awjita, man. Awjita. I had a great time last night, even for the short time that I was there. Came just in time for Awjita to start and damn am I glad about that. Fucking awesome. I'll talk about this later.

Lauren just called. Sucks for you, no fascinating shit to read.



Saturday, January 15
Five hours until I go, and my mom makes me clean. I hope Jeannie's still going. Because if I pull up to her house and someone sticks their head out the window nodding "No," then I'd be pretty fucking irritated. I want to take Brittany too, but my driver (my momma) would be angry, saying that I want too much and ask too much shit from her. This makes me a shitty person for wanting to give someone a ride? I'm shitty enough, please don't give me anymore reasons.

I hate Myspace. It's only for hookers to advertise themselves and all the hot male ones have like 29989843985 female friends on their lists already. It's also home of the worst message boards ever to fucking surface on the net. You can't imagine how many times in a band group, for example, people post a new message board saying, "Who's Your Favorite Member?" And then people just tediously say whoever the fuck they think is hot sex. No discussion. No argument that Axl Rose is a fucking pussy, no nothing. Most of the people, more like 90%, are retarded anyway. I know retarded is an overused and vague word that only people who think they're not retarded but really are, that use it, but I really mean it.

So Shaina's back. This makes my life a lot better.

And I want this.



Friday, January 14
This computer has some shitty looking crap version of Windows Media Player called Plextor. Surprisingly it has good sound. My computer hasn't come back yet from wherever the fuck it sits. So I'm resorting to my tons of backup CD's full of my music files. I need a CD case, instead of piling them on a piece of paper in fear of scratching them. That's pathetic.

My mom is coming with me to the show tomorrow. Apparently people think she's awesome and it would be rude to take a thirty-minute or however the fuck long it is to get there, make her drive back home for another thirty minutes, only to have to drive immediately back to pick Jeannie and me up at 10:30. So, she's coming with us. Peculiarly enough, a lot of my dad's friends (and I bet some more minors soon) think she's hot, and we seem to be getting along lately. Sometimes I'm a fucking puss and am afraid that she's better looking than her own fucking daughter. She might as well go to school for me. She's the one who knows and is allowed to put on makeup anyway. Plus, she's short enough to be considered of high school student stature.

There's nothing like coming home from school and listening to cheesy '80s new wave. Particularly when the singer is a man who looks like a woman and has a Cindy Crawford mole. No, it's not a Marilyn Monroe mole, it's a Cindy Crawford mole, bitch.

So we're ordering more shit from the Victoria's Secret catalog. That's fucking awesome. The mom is getting a sequinned shirt and something else maybe, I'm probably getting a red dress and two sets of pajamas. None of it with my payment, good. Usually I'm not one for pajamas, for I just wear unmatching sweat pants and shirts or whatever, but she seems to be tired of how haggard I look, added to the food stains and shit stains on everything.

Such a boring entry, I'll stop here.



Thursday, January 13
So I was talking to this damn cute guy in one of my classes two days ago, and he starts telling me about this invention that he someday wants to make. It'll be a Bic pen that he'll sell to the Bic company with a chapstick dispenser at the end. And the cap that comes off for the chapstick is called, "the chap cap." Oh man, just the way he said that made me crack up and I knew he enjoyed watching me laugh. In the beginning of class he even rolls his Snapple bottle on the table just to piss me off. I guess he does these stupid things to get my attention. That's a good thing. Maybe I'm closer to getting ass after all. I should stop thinking about this, because I just showered and I don't feel like soiling another pair of panties.

Then I made a mistake. Some guy, he always kids around and never means any harm, comes up to my guy and says he looks like a dead person. So he asks me, "Do I look like a dead person?" I say, "Not really." Fuck, I totally insulted him. It's just the hot way he looks, not that he shoots up in the bathroom between classes or anything and lives under a bridge with Anthony Kiedis. He seems 100% sober 100% of the time to me. I always regret a lot of things. I have no fucking idea how people say, "I have never regretted anything in my life." Fuck you, it's not fucking possible. Unless you're Tony Danza, because Tony Danza is so holy that he's almost God. Maybe he's Jesus, who knows. Or Bob Saget, he's a close one too. He'll be Mary. Bob Saget gave birth to Tony Danza without touching another man.

Fucking shit, I'll have to miss part of lunch tomorrow to take a fucking test. It's either go and either do good or do so shitty that I get a zero, or not go and take an immediate zero. If I want to be cool, I'll take a zero. But I also don't want a bruise on my ass.

My mom said she'd take me to buy a new pair of heels that she saw wer going to be on sale in a catalog at Macy's tomorrow. I think she forgot. But I don't want to be a bitch and make her buy them for me. So I'll shut the fuck up. Shoes aren't my first priority when it comes to fashion anyway. It's always the shirt. Always, the shirt. Then the hair and the pants are a tie. Because no one wants flat hair or a flat ass.

For my final project in art class I'm making another mosaic. Of this here picture. I'm trying to do as many different projects of as many different musicians as I can. Why? Because I fucking can. This time it's time to do a Guns n' Roses work. Since there are no black or grey tiles, I'm gonna make the pussy red and the background white or some shit like that. It's gonna be awesome. And I'm gonna have to finish it by Wednesday, so it could be grouted. Or however it's termed.




Slaughter is bad '80s music, I fucking know that.

Elena wanted it, Elena got it. Always wanting me to post my writing. And to be completely honest, the only writing ever do besides all the crazy shit here is forced rare essays for The Institution of Hooking and Insanity. And since I haven't been coming up with very lengthy entries as usual, well, here it is, something to take up space and time. Much like Hugh Hefner, but he's living THE LIFE. Prepare to bore your ass off with a book report for history class a couple months ago. It is not advised to read this, but you will have to scroll down to see Chuck Norris.

Valley Forge is a novel that looks into the lives of a diverse variety of colonists living during the Revolutionary War. They are all people who reside, stop by, or do business in or pertaining to the town of Valley Forge, which an important site in means of events and happenings of their patriotism. MacKinlay Kantor brings us another edition to his collection of more than forty books under his belt. He was born in Iowa in 1904 and became a newspaper writer at the age of seventeen. His other books and professions include movie screenwriting, patrolling in the NYPD, and serving in two wars. In this novel he goes into the short ordeals of various American colonists for brief periods of time, spanning the latter days of the 18th century.

MacKinlay Kantor emphasizes the pride and bravery that the American rebels and rebellion spirits had. Most of the characters’ stories he tells about are young soldiers and their struggles through adolescent training and live threatening decisions they face throughout their adventures. What they all share in common is, they are all striving to achieve the same goal - freedom from Britain. The factor that the author considers most important is loyalty. All of his characters mentioned have an indelible loyalty to their cause. If their cause, liberation from Britain, did not have loyal supporters, the heart and soul of the entire thing would fall to pieces and nothing would come of it. This leads to Kantor’s bias.

It is undoubtedly that he is all for the American cause. He speaks lowly of the British soldiers and mentions the term "lobsterbacks" quite often during the novel. Other than the motive of the war in the first place being against the British, the author utilizes this fact into why he wrote the book in the first place. Upon serving in two wars himself, he apparently has a keen interest in history and opposes the enemy in which he fought those wars with. Or in this case in the book: the British.

Valley Forge was published in 1975. The space between that year and the years that the Revolutionary War occurred is quite significant. This book is very unique in the way it was written, and being just mainly a story to read through and is not meant to gather information by. It isn’t unique enough in a sense to put it in its own category of fiction and literature, but it is truly one to keep in mind.

The first chapter [and first story] tells the reader about General George Washington showing some young boys how to expertly skip a rock across a pond. The subject matter seems rather simple enough, but Kantor’s classic colonial dialogue makes it difficult to distinguish the age of each character discussed and even General Washington himself. For some readers, they may not even realize that "Zexcellency" is really a title for Washington until reading quite a few more chapters into he book. One of the most captivating chapters is Chapter 6: the story of the young soldier whose name is Malachi Lennan. He tells of his fear of Native Americans and how, by eavesdropping at night under a bed listening to a friend of his father’s, hears a terrifying story of one native of a certain tribe being tortured by members of another tribe. The scalping and burning of the man captures one’s imagination quite vividly, and could very well disturb one at that also.

One of the most boring chapters in the book is Chapter 14. It is about another young boy who encounters the foul natured General Wayne. General Wayne tells the boy to go and fetch his beautiful horse which the boy claims is resting at a neighbor’s stall. Upon arriving at the neighbors’ home, they greet him gallantly and serve him a delicious dinner. The boy then rides his steed back to the army camp and awaits for the next battle to begin. This chapter is very lengthy compared to some of the other ones, and this adds to its level of dullness.

This book, of relation to this course, probably would not do too well in terms of getting a lot of information. It is too much focused on the plain redundant wartime drama that is usually seen in the movies. It’s not at all close to a documentary; a walkthrough of what life was like from all different points of view of Revolutionary War era life. However, if you are looking for a read just for the fun of getting into someone else’s point of view and lifestyle or how they go along with their life during this dire time in history, then this book is for you.

Overall, this book did not flatter me. To all honesty, this book was very genuine and accurate according to its time; it was written in the same dialect and dialogue as things were back then. The stories were real, the characteristics of the characters were real, the events were real, but my enjoyment of this book was not real. Some plots to certain characters really did fascinate me, but all to suddenly end at the end of the chapter, and never reading about that character again. It is these cliffhangers and abrupt beginnings of a new story at the start of every chapter that does not captivate me to keep on reading the book. In between the interesting chapters, are ones that are quite tedious and boring to read, most of which I cannot figure out a point or reason that it was written in the first place.

The mechanics of the novel aren’t very easy to read either. Even if the text is widely spaced and the lines are double spaced, there are no quotations anywhere, so it is oftentimes difficult to tell when a character starts speaking or stops speaking. MacKinlay Kantor also, after or before stating a quote, does not even state who is speaking that quote. Therefore the reader must have a keen ability of using context clues to decipher the language of the text. Whether this style of writing is really the exact same style as works were written during colonial times, it is not worth doing if an author is trying to reach amateurs of learning history. But for an experienced, more advanced reader, this book will be just what you’ve always wished for - an unadulterated, genuine piece of literature keeping roots to the real style and manner of the late 1700s.





Wednesday, January 12


I think this is the only cute picture of Vince Neil ever to exist. Nevermind the jugs that pop out at first, I'm talking about Vince. I understand if you're a dude though, not many of us sane chicks like to check out Vince either. But this picture is an exception. That's a Crest toothpaste smile right there.



Not even this picture matches up to it. Doesn't he just make you WANT to buy milk? I didn't think so. I bet most of you would rather be running back to your fifty year old stale mothers. That look in his eyes, I bet they had a chick (like the flasher up top) lifting her shirt up in front of him, just to get that kind of Leave it to Beaver family type of smile on his face. Kind of weird how he lost that double chin, boobs, cheek fat, etc. for a few years, only to gain them back along with tons of body hair in the next forty years.

This morning I used a new bottle of Victoria's Secret Body Lotion. This one scented, "Strawberries & Champagne." Not surprisingly, the champagne part of the scent overrode the strawberries part of the scent, so I pretty much smelled like beer throughout the day. Victoria's Secret makes cheap cosmetics, remember that. Even though the lotions suck, they sure do smell good. There was no sarcasm there.



Tuesday, January 11
I could've been a fifteen year old on birth control. How fucking hilarious is that. So I went to my mom's doctor today, who specializes in women shit, because of my fucked up period and zits. Not because I go whoring around like a bargain bitch goes from magazine to magazine for coupons. Well the doctor said that it would stunt, or maybe even stop, my growing altogether, so I decided against it and instead will go back to her in a few months when I'll be sixteen and I've probably stopped growing by then. Until then I won't be on birth control.

Just typing "I," "on," "birth," "control," in the same sentence fucking cracks me up.

There was an early dismissal today, due to Jesus dandruff. Walked home, read twenty pages of The Dirt, went on the computer, went to the doctor's, ate dinner, and voila.

Voila. I know lots of french.

I think I'm going to make a scrapbook. About what, I don't know. But being inspired by a Duff one I saw recently, I thought it might be fun to make one. Kind of ironic, being that I used to be totally against them for some reason. I thought they looked fucking stupid and had no point in their existance, or they were just a fucking excuse to show off your uninteresting shit.



Monday, January 10
Fuck homework, I'm gonna go masturbate.

Oh and there's a new crappy layout here if you're not already tired of my constant changing it every four days.

Good night.






Wow. I wish I were european, then I'd be fucking hot as hell. My hormones have been going crazy all weekend up until now and are soon to upgrade to drunken David Lee Roth crazy. I am sorry if you now think of me as a ditzy dipshitted shitheaded teenage girl, but perhaps I really am.

My bullshit Xanga has hot sex all over it, including a gorgeous portrait of myself.

My computer has gone away to be fixed. There's so many viruses on it that even my dad got so angry to pull an Axl on it. Yes, my dad pulled an Axl on my computer. He hit it. He called it a son of a bitch. He pulled a 100% genuine Axl.

Today was fine. Being it was a B day, I expected less from it. Turns out it was the opposite. In french we watched this old non-dialogue (how ironic) movie called The Red Balloon, or Le Ballon Rouge. Yeah, you fuck, I actually learned some french today. It was about the cutest little boy and his huge ass magic red balloon. At first I was hoping that it was made current enough so that he's my age right now and is really hot. Then I found out that it was made in 1956.

During history I had to take a piss real bad, and asked to go to the bathroom. There were two people in two stalls. So I went to the upstairs one. There was another person in another stall. I ended up not going. This taught me a lesson - either the explosisve genes inherited from my parents are starting to kick in, or that this is an omen that there is herpes spread all over the toilet seats.

Oh shit, my mom is grilling more barbecue or whatever the fuck it is. I can smell it. Yeah, we like to barbecue in the middle of January, got a fucking problem with that? It's you that's got the problem. You're the one who cries all winter because you can't eat barbecue, while we sit in our toasty house and eat to our heart's desire. (only to die sooner, but who gives a fuck, we're going to be with Elvis) You try to go out and eat it, but somehow it pulled a Coke-a-Cola and you found a pubic hair on your beef.

Since Mr. Bell doesn't allow us to eat in class, I had to hide my Starbust in my binder while some sorry fuck has to read more from the drivers' manual to the class and try to open it from there. It's funny how I make crumpling noises with the wrappers and drop a lemon one on the floor, pick it up along with my other trash, read to the class with a strawberry one in my mouth and not get caught, while this other kid got caught by merely putting a bag of food back into his bag causing the teacher to take it and throw it away.

Some things are starting to inspire me to buy velcrow shoes. But if I ever do, I might as well declare myself retarded and handicapped. Well I've already declared myself to half of that sentence.

The english teacher forgot that I had to take a fucking test, so I didn't have to go all the way to the library to write crap on pieces of paper only to have it returned as a giant red ink pad, like someone put a chipmunk on my paper and stuck the chipmunk and the paper between a clamp. Instead, I watched this crappy flop movie called The Crucible, starring Winona Ryder. I think I watched an E! True Hollywood Story on her once and it said that that movie was a total fucking, disappointing flop. And it was. I would have much preferred watching The Great Gatsby, for at least that movie had a lot of praise.

Also, The Crucible had tits in it which I find not to be a turn on. This stupid ugly fuck sitting behind me kept saying all this crap after the chick on the screen dances around ass naked like, "WHOA! THAT WAS NIPPLE RIGHT THERE!" This other ugly prick, when someone asked what the movie was rated after seeing that flash of porn, said, "It's rated T for titties!" Come on, she wasn't even fucking a dude. It was nothing but girls dancing a frog in a bowl in the forest.



Sunday, January 9
Kill me now, because I think I'm starting to really like a Poison song. That's right, you read it, "I Want Action." Now shove a fucking shattered beer bottle up my ass before I start thinking that Bret Michaels is hot and C.C. Deville is a better guitar player than Eddie Van Halen. Thanks a lot Beavis and Butt-Head, for exposing my fragile young mind to such horrid optical illusions.

While eating lunch just an hour and a half ago, my mom touched a zit on my face that she had just discovered is newly growing its pusful roots and static shocked my face. It hurt. It's winter, and she is quite known for always being shocked. Well shocking my face, especially on a zit, is not going to be any old lightning bolt.

I should stop writing. It's only 1:59 in the afternoon and it's my second entry today. Happy birthday Jimmy Page again.

My fucking liver or pancreas or appendix or whatever the fuck goes under my ribs hurts like hell. I don't know why. I surely don't want to pull a Duff.





Yeah, it's two hours and twenty-one minutes into Jimmy Page's birthday. I beat all you fuckers.

So I just got banned from a community because of saying that Nikki Sixx plays bass like a girl. That doesn't mean I like him any less. People need to cool down and take their Midol. Or more like special k in this case. I don't give a fuck if people take my humor too seriously, I'm not going to change it just to conform to everybody's weaknesses. But then again, I'm not going to hate that person for doing this to me. There's not much of a reason to. Or maybe it's just because I'm a fucking wuss. No, I doubt that. It's a fucking community anyway I could just go on some message board and fuck around there if I wanted to. Saying that I'm drunk won't un-ban me, that excuse just puts you into jail.

It annoys the shit out of me when in the middle of the night someone slams their door open to run to the bathroom, only to slam the bathroom door shut again. Sometimes they don't, and you can hear their piss trickling into the porcelain salad bowl.

My mom got an AAA bumper sticker in the mail. I wonder where I should stick it.

It's 2:31 in the morning, on Jimmy Page's birthday. What to do? I'd watch the Zeppelin DVD if I had a DVD player in my room. Not on the computer, because it freezes as often as forty-six year old football fanatics eat buffalo wings. I hope the rumors about Jimmy writing a book are true. Richard Cole's book was really quite good, but 90% is untrue, false bullshit. That really sucks, because now whatever crazy shit that I know about Led Zeppelin may not be true. But it is possible to tell what things were true and which aren't true.



Saturday, January 8
Has anyone noticed that Nikki Sixx looks like Jim Breuer?





Which one is which? Or has Nikki just cut his hair off so that when he wanted to start his new comedy career he didn't want people to judge him by his fame and not by his talent? The cocaine, I swear. And the mescaline really did fuck him up and finally got to the core of his brain. Or what's left of it. It was fucking hilarious reading his first chapter in The Dirt, him saying how the kids in his school picked on him because they said he ran like a girl. He plays bass like a girl, but I've never seen him run. Now I want to. To see if he still does run like a girl like they said. I want to see Nikki Sixx run in a field full of flowers wearing his Shout at the Devil era leather pants, studs, and suspenders with four-story tall hair and biker gloves and biker boots. Oh would that be the day. The day next to I see Axl running on a treadmill with his love handles flapping like a hummingbird's wings. So fast, that if he got a tattoo of Mighty Mouse on one of his love handles you'd be seeing a cartoon of Mighty Mouse flying.

Nikki is hot, I'd tap that ass anyday. Who gives a fuck if he sucks at playing bass and is a total dumbass. He's so dumb that I bet he would fuck an bitch like me. Or maybe that's Tommy. But I heard Tommy is picky too. Dammit.




I still want that shirt. And I will keep being bitchy until I get it.

Probably not, I tend to forget things after I take a nap.

So I started reading The Dirt, despite the fact that I still have to finish Slander. I needed a good laugh. And it worked. I knew I wouldn't keep my promise of finishing all in-progress books before I got to that. It was going to so well too. Well there's a shitfucker for ya.

Man, I really need a shower. Whenever I eat fancy food, I end up getting it onto myself. Which equals to smelling funky, added to all the extenseive work of dusting, shining glass, vaccuuming, and masturbating.

Yesterday while just speedwalking out of a door out of one part of the school to the outdoors, this girl suddenly yells in my face out of nowhere, "HELP CONTRIBUTE TO THOSE IN SRI LANKA!" and she, I think, was holding some can for money. I have no idea, because I was walking too fast and didn't hear or notice whatever the fuck it was she said or even her mere existence until I walked twenty feet past her butt-hole sized mouth. Then I heard her tell it to some other sorry fuck that was just walking out the door too. Usually I never particpate in charities, especially if you give me that kind of shit attitude. I never participate in things that help, partly because I'm a selfish, lazy fucktart and the other because mostly the people who are running these things are most likely more full of bullshit than I am. The thing is this, I only help when there's a person on the floor in front of me begging to be rid of their sympathy to Gwar.

Shit, it's only 8:23. Nothing to do, and my eyes hurt like fuck from reading too much. If I keep this eye pain up any longer, I will no longer be the only asian in America who doesn't need glasses. That's going to fucking suck.






I fucking want that. My mom said the stupidest fucking excuse about why she won't allow me to get it - "The skull is ridiculous." Even if I'll pay for it myself she still said no. There's no such fucking thing as a Jack Daniel's inspired shirt that doesn't have a skull on it. This is bullshit, there's nothing wrong with it. Slipknot t-shirts are worse. Not to mention that they fucking suck. At least I wear clothes that are worthy of covering my sexalicious bod because a lot of other flabby whores let it all come out.






Would anyone like some balls?



Friday, January 7
Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.




My mom answered my prayers today. Just recently, as recent as two days ago, I realized that I needed a haircut. Not that my hair was too long, but it was layerless, bland, boring, volumeless, and was starting weigh down my face, making it look bigger. Well, I started to then forget that I needed a haircut. This afternoon upon coming home the mother showed off her new haircut, and claimed that she learned how to cut layers in hair.

I was going to be her guinea pig.

I just realized, that Nikki Sixx is the worst fucking bass player ever to exist on this shitful world. Mick Mars is an average guitar player. He could do better. Vince fucking sucks. Not only at vocals but at vanity. That fat McDonald's chicken mcnugget fuck cannot sing. Tommy Lee, on the other hand, happens to be my favorite drummer ever to exist in this shitful world. Mixed talents mixed in with crummy fucks makes a great band.

But I like Motley Crue anyway, you fucking tart.

In the end, my hair turned out marvelous. Sometimes I get envious of how that woman can do anything and everything. Every single goddamn skill out there, that woman can do. Multi-talented fucks, are surely multi-lucky too. No pictures, I hate pictures. I've done enough cam-whoring already.

I still gotta ask my mom if I could go see Bad Haircut next Saturday. But I'm nervous as fuck to, considering it's starting at 9:00 in the evening. I'll try to persuade Jeannie to go, because my mom absolutely looooves Jeannie and I got a better chance of going if she's going. Yeah, I'm a bitch.

Jeannie, I know you're reading this, you better fucking go. Stop hiding in your world of crappy Xanga and never commenting and comment on this LiveJournal that you are going to the Bad Haircut show next Saturday. I will not take no for an answer. You know this is important to me. What have you got to lose? No one will hang out with you? Well why the hell do you think I'm here. And it doesn't hurt making new friends. Don't you just love that word, "friends?" Nah, not me though. The only thing that word reminds me of is Chandler Bing. Chandler Bing fucking kicks ass though. "It's MISS Chanandler Bong!"

It will be awesome. Then you could go back to school on Monday and brag about how you got to be a groupie for one night. And just for this occasion, my phone line will be open and I won't be taking any twenty-minute shits.

So, today was good. I like A days. However, one thing caught me off guard. In desktop publishing, while I was doing some bullshit on my computer and the teacher suddenly yells for everyone to look at her an give them their undivided attention. Well, I regret ever doing that. For the teacher wasn't wearing a bra today. She was wearing a white shirt, and she has huge, baggy, saggy knockers. Oh man, I felt like rolling on the floor and laughing my ass off. But the image of cows also came into my mind. I wonder if anyone else in the class had noticed, it's either that, or I'm turning gay.

That's gross. My heart and vagina will always belong to Izzy Stradlin.

No matter how much I enjoy Hanoi Rocks, some of their songs really fucking suck. Seriously. It's not surprising for an '80s band to have some great songs and at the same time have totally atrocious Gwar awful shit. Guns n' Roses is an exception. "My World" doesn't annoy me that much. Because when I listen to Use Your Illusion II, I rarely get up to the twelfth track anyway.

I am pretty disappointed that no one gave me an opinion on which theory they thought that made the most sense about the last post. Now go fuck yourself. I am going to keep annoying you until I get an answer.



Thursday, January 6
Why Are Eggs Considered a Dairy Product?

My mother and I had a huge debate on this topic during dinner this evening. We came up with two theories that could possibly be the correct answer. Lauren just called and I randomly blurted out this baffling mystery to her. I also asked my dad. He had no idea. He's a bit of a dummy so that's okay. Here are the three available theories. Pick the one that you think makes the most sense. And I advise every single motherfucker who reads this to give me an opinion on whose theory you agree with most.

Christina's Mom's Theory:
Eggs don't particularly fit into any other food group - they're not vegetables, they're not exactly meat, they're not fruit, and they aren't bread. So what other group is there for them to fall into? The dairy group. She also states that eggs and milk are both liquids and you could stir them.

Christina's Theory:
Dairy products are milk, and milk comes from animals. So do eggs. But eggs aren't quite exactly animals yet, and milk definitely is not an animal. In conclusion, dairy products are products that come from animals, but aren't really animals. But I'm not sure if you could consider dung to be a part of this category.

Lauren's Theory:
Dairy products all have a considerable amount of vitamin D. More so than any other food in any of the other food groups.

And what about butter? It's made from some dairy products, but the majority of substance in it is fat, overconquering the nutritional value of the food, so I can justify that it is indeed part of the junk food group.

Now here's a food pyramid clearly stating that eggs are part of the the protein food group:

cock-a-noodle's-poo

and this one cuz it looks cool




No, I did not die. I'm sorry if I missed an entry yesterday and caused you a Fred Sanford heart attack. But I'm sure you are still sad, being that you will not be joining Elizabeth. And what is my reason for my absence? Well, I pulled a smartie and read. Yes, I fucking read, you fucking dipshit. The last 150 pages of Hart's War is fucking crazy. The big fight has one guy sticking his hand down the throat of a german gestapo fuck, trying to choke him. While the gestapo fuck is knawing away at that hand, resulting in one missing index finger and half of his middle finger later on. The dude losing his hand does this while continuously kicking the gestapo fuck in the groin. Fucking hilarious, when the gestapo fuck's back finally snaps and he slowly dies.

Maybe I should stop reading war novels. And watching war movies. I'm a sick, twisted fuck who needs to catch up on her daytime soaps.

So yesterday, the mother had the television in the living room real loud, and all I could hear was that Charmin toilet paper commercial with the bears and the shitting on the trunks of the Lara Flynn Boyle sized trees. There's this stupid jingle that goes, "Less is more!" Well duh, the less toilet paper the more mess. What dumbasses.

That was sarcasm right there if you didn't catch it. If you didn't, then you surely are a new reader and should fuck off.

I could be such a dumb shit. I delay doing essays for weeks, oftentimes typing crap right here like right now when I'm not supposed to, and when I finally turn off the modem and get to work at 10:30 in the evening, I whip up a fancy shmancy presidential four-page essay in a single half hour. This is what happened last night, after finishing the aforementioned 490 page prisoner of war novel.

School yesterday went surprisingly well, on my return from a purposeful extended vacation. And surprise suprise, the principal makes an announcement that it was going to be a half day. Then all the fucks across the hall, down the hall, across my computer, down the aisle, up Axl's ass, screaming, "YES!!!!" Yeah, shut the fuck up and take your Midol.

Today was a delayed opening, explaining my reason for going to bed rather later last night. That's fucking awesome, four days into the week and I've only arrived for two full days.

So I almost tripped on my driveway upon coming home. I slipped on a patch of ice and my feet went fiddling like a sane duck swimming in the same pool as Gwar. But, I ended up on two feet anyway and went on walking to the fucking door. To cake. To television. To this computer.

Today also sucked. Because that's what B days are for - lowering my expectations and number of good [consecutive] days.

Oh man, this morning while getting dressed I watched Jerry Springer. It was funny shit. Fuck off, don't tell me it's fake, because I couldn't give an Axl's ass. And that's a very, very big ass. You know what fake is? Christina Aguilera's re-attached pussy from too many piercings that led to the damn thing falling off; and wrestling.



Tuesday, January 4
WHY ARE EGGS CONSIDERED A DAIRY PRODUCT???

Goddammit, nobody knows. And I am going to keep bothering everyone until they give a legitimate answer.

Oh man, I think I'm growing to love Tony Danza. He's the fucking boss, fuck Alyssa Milano. Kids, you should stay home and watch The Tony Danza Show. This morning I also watched Chocolate With Jacques Torres on the Food Network. That man is fucking awesome. He makes checkboards and boxes and balloons and all sort of crazy shit with chocolate. Plus, he has a french accent. That's hot.

That's hot. Sorry if I pulled a Paris Hilton right there.

Woke up at 9:30. Drank milk, cleaned glass, vaccuumed. Masturbated to Led Zeppelin. What a day.

My mom said that Led Zeppelin was, "So boring!" That fucking killed me. She said she loved classic rock. But the only stuff she likes are The Beatles and Santana. Wow, big fucking range of music. Those two words - "so" and "boring" - really hurt me. I'm glad that I didn't tell anyone here that they're probably my most favorite band of all time. Then everyone would put all this bullshit on me - more than they already do - that I like the dumbest shit. Ouch.

I think I'll pull a Fred Sanford - grab my chest in agony of a heart attack - if anyone ever comes up to me and says, "LED ZEPPELIN FUCKING SUCKS." I could feel heartburn just typing that.

Well, I don't give a flying fuck because no matter what I will always be happy with my purchase of the DVD. Five and a half hours of Zeppelin. Five and a half hours of sex. Five and a half hours of sweaty masturbation, bitch! Yeah, I go too far.

I couldn't give a flying fuck about the classes I missed today either. Stupid fucks. I only look forward to lunch, but then they always run out of food at C lunch. That's fucking bullshit. I think someone told me that they sometimes give out free food during that time, but I never got free food.




Damien told me to do this. So I'm doing it.

THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
1. christina
2. the asian
3. christine (for the dumbfucks who can't get my name right)

THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
1. WhipItGOOD05
2. manshowjuggee
3. iggypoprocks

THREE THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. i'm not fat
2. i'm not short
3. i'm not you

THREE THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. i have a considerable number of zits
2. i will never be as smart as my mom
3. i have a deep voice, but not a sexy deep voice

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
1. vietnamese
2. one chinese ancestor or some shit
3. i got relatives in france

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. GWAR
2. anything that looks like a skin disease
3. dirty bathrooms and dirty carpets

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. sugar
2. internet
3. crack an axl joke

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. green pants
2. blue shirt
3. purple shirt under blue shirt i dress like a dumbass at home

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS:
1. led zeppelin
2. guns n' roses
3. motley crue

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS AT PRESENT:
1. "i think i love you" - david cassidy
2. "whip it" - devo
3. "cherry pie" - warrant

THREE NEW THINGS YOU WANT TO TRY IN THE NEXT 12 MONTHS:
1. discover a new technique of masturbation
2. lacy underwear
3. get laid

THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
1. izzy
2. devotion
3. sex

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE:
1. i never get split ends
2. i was offered a modelling job
3. my mom once had crabs

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE/OR SAME SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
1. eyes
2. hair
3. voice

THREE THINGS YOU JUST CAN'T DO:
1. walk in a normal manner
2. listen to ace of base
3. go near wet grass

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
1. fuck
2. you
3. i don't have a hobby

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
1. fuck
2. fuck izzy stradlin
3. fuck izzy stradlin again

THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING:
1. write columns
2. groupie
3. victoria's secret underwear model

THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
1. italy
2. chile
3. brazil

THREE KIDS NAMES YOU LIKE:
1. fuckchop
2. axl
3. dunbar

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
1. own an opium pipe factory
2. grab axl's fat
3. do a robert plant impression at woodstock

THREE PEOPLE WHO HAVE TO TAKE THIS QUIZ NOW OR DIE PAINFULLY:
1. whoever
2. the fuck
3. wants to



Monday, January 3
Alright, so I'm feeling pretty guilty right now. I don't want to bother my mom, and she cares about my grades a lot. But who gives a fuck, I'm still not going to school tomorrow. That fucking french teacher pisses me off so badly, I'm not going. We're probably not gonna be doing shit in any class anyway. Stupid bitch, I was only tardy fucking once, and she gives me a fucking pink slip. Talk about painful menstruation problems. I think it was a few classes ago, that we were learning about food. The class was organizing certain foods into their foodgroups (i.e. dairy, vegetables, meat, etc.) and she tells us to put eggs in the dairy group. Everyone's like, "What????" And they say this continuously, the bitch teacher still doesn't tell us why. Then she finally says, almost yelling, "THEY'RE A DAIRY PRODUCT, THAT'S IT!" She even uses hand motions to tell us that that's final. Why the fuck are eggs a dairy product??? Please don't tell me that the white part is secrectly milk that cooks in a funky way. Jeez, it wouldn't hurt to cure our curiosity. We have a right to be curious about this issue too. Eggs are a dairy product? That's like asking if Slash is a white man.

There's a new layout if you haven't noticed already. Or in case you've missed the last two that I've made with this awesome new knowledge of using a scrollbox, bitch!

I've always wondered, what a cashmere sweater would feel like. But I got plent of granny chenille ones to make up for it.

So I went to a business fair today. It was gay. I can rhyme away, like a a cow eats hay.

Yeah, I can rhyme like a muthafuckin' g-ho.

That reminds me, I just watched a Michael Keaton movie called Gung Ho. It was funny shit.

It's not fun to be sitting in a chair long enough that your ass starts to get soggy and wet, like you shit yourself. Put period and gas into that mix, well, you've got yourself a pretty bad situation.

What's been on my mind lately is maybe I need a boyfriend. Wow, lame sentence right there. Ah well, maybe I don't. Or maybe I do. It pisses me off that a lot of guys, or girls, always go for the wrong girls, or guys. Think, assholes, think. Only to see them break up in horrible agony later on. Then I can laugh. But then I remain loveless. Jesus is very unfair to me. Why? Because I killed his fish.Anyway, he must look a lot, if not exactly, like this:



Okay, okay. Too much dreaming right there.

Excuse my dirty behavior, I almost typed "creaming" instead of "dreaming."






This is an homage to my Jackson Pollack splatter-shit-all-over-the-canvas painting. While spritzing more paint onto it today, the brush fell off of the handle and plopped itself onto my work. So I had two choices:

1. take it off and ruin the paint around it
2. leave it stuck in there as part of the work

What the fuck do you think I picked? I'm not going to answer. It's that obvious already. And if you still can't get it, then apparently you love Gwar. Now, why does this fish have to do with this:



Well, I was a dumb shit and said the brush head looked like a dead squirrel that I killed on my canvas. But Natalia was the right one and said it looked like a fish. A fish amidst red paint. Jesus fish. Dying in blood. Get it? Thought so. My Monet is very unholy.

To this day I have no idea what Jesus fish is for. Come on, if you want to represent Jesus, why not use a cross? Whatever. I learned how to draw it by seeing one on the ass of a car. Stupid christians. Or whoever the fuck uses them.

No school for me tomorrow. Fuck that, I'm staying home. I am going to bake a cake, vaccuum with the kick ass vaccuum where you could see the dust flying into it, watch the rest of the Led Zeppelin DVD, watch Welcome to the Videos, talk about more crazy shit with my mom, eat, and maybe even go shopping with her. Yeah, it's gonna kick ass. I've been considering going to night school for next year or so. But probably not, it's going to fuck up my whole schedule and piss everyone off. But then again, that's part of the reason I want to use that as an alternative, rather than sitting my ass for eight hours everyday and having to put up with everyone's bullshit.

Today was alright. Goddammit, I LOVE Seinfeld! Elaine and her urban sombrero, cracks me up. Kramer and his karate-ing of nine year old children, cracks me up. George and his cotton baseball uniforms, cracks me up. Jerry and his murdering of Miss Rhode Island's magic trick doves with ice water, cracks me up.

In art class, after disgracing Christ and goldfish all over the world, they got revenge and I discovered that I had stained acrylic paint onto my clothing. Spots on my favorite jacket and, right on the center of the zipper cover of my jeans - on my crotch. Red paint. Red paint on my crotch. That's not fucking cool. Coincidentally, my monthly taxpayer just ended today and surprise - more. Then I had to use this stain stick to try to get it off. I must've looked like some perverted twit, rubbing this giant glue stick looking thing on my crotch and then rubbing it harder with wet paper towel to get the stain off. But what can I say, I do this in privacy anyway. If you know what I mean. But not without print-outs of Izzy Stradlin. Izzy, you should be proud. Being the object of masturbation to all sorts of women around the world. And sadly, also a small number of men.

Then the sibling was giving me a fucking hard time when I got home. She acts as if me getting shit all over my clothing is her business. Well fuck off, it's my pants, my business. In addition to that, and the bullshit that the mother was giving me just for asking about any further advice of getting the shit off of my clothes, was that I, yes Christina, actually went to take a nap today. Sprawled up like a fatass hedgehog on her bed with her feet freezing her ass off. The little bitch comes in, snaps the light on, asking about fucking SPELLING homework, only to answer her own fucking question by herself. Five seconds later, she comes back and asks for lined paper. Fucking bullshit, I'm running out of everything. Seriously, doesn't she have any fucking common sense to go ask the queen of supplies - our mother - to go buy her some shit? I won't because I'm trying to use up all of my extra notebooks and toilet paper and whatnot. Jeez, and she's fucking ten years old. Like I have said many times before, this world needs more common sense.



Sunday, January 2
Don't you just love spitting phlegm onto other people?

Today at lunch the mother and I had an interesting conversation.

Momma: Are you ready to go back to school tomorrow?
Futureless Whore: No.

And then she starts talking about this business that she'll someday run if she knew enough english, called Dog Pick Poop. Excuse her lack of english with the name. It's a little place in Central Park, New York City, that for only a few bucks will pick up your cat's, dog's, coon's, bitch's poo on the ground that it leaves while you walk it around the park, instead of carrying your own brown paper bag with Axl Rose's face on it. My mother says that she will hire dumbasses who don't go to school. And that's why she wants to start this business just for me.

You're probably wondering, what if someone asks her what her job is? She says she's real damn proud of it, because she's the owner, the manager, the CEO, not one of the workers and won't smell like shit - she'll spray perfume and boss the workers around so they'll pick up as much shit as they possibly can - for only two dollars an hour. Then she says more crazy shit of how proud and original this idea was for a business. And loudly, I mean super fucking loudly - her eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree - proclaims, "I AM PROUD OF MY BUSINESS! DOG PICK POOP! I ONLY I, I CAN THINK UP OF THIS AND NO ONE CAN MAKE FUN OF ME BECAUSE IT'S FUN!" She yells this real fucking loud while pounding her chest and spreading her arms out like Tarzan.

I have never, never had this much trouble with a crossword puzzle before. The chemistry teacher assigned it for extra credit, which I desperately need or else I die in the realms of No More Money Land. It's all this shit about physicists or chemists or some shit and what they discovered. The book is incredibly boring. I'll probably end up not finishing it anyway. Like everything else I do. I felt like ripping my hair out. It's fucking impossible. The last time I wanted to rip my hair out was hearing this stupid song somewhere that goes, "Boom boom boom, I want you in my room." Oh god, that really hurt.

So now I'm going to have to bathe regularly again and have to change my clothes every day. It's not fair. Living like a bum is what I live for. Yes, I am gross. But admit, you do it too. Maybe some of you worse than I.

Tomorrow I'm going to need more lunch money. To buy more chocolate. Because I've been going crazy. All I have left is this croissant. If you put sunglasses on and squint your eyes, it sort of looks like chocolate.



Saturday, January 1
Fuck New Year's resolutions. I'd rather take a long, hard shit. I don't want to change the way I am, even for the better. Because no matter what, I will always be a scummy little bitch who lives for seeing people live in agony. Now I can laugh at all you fuckers, trying to lose weight and pretty yourselves up for, no one. I doubt that special person is going to like you anyway, you fucking flab. After one loses a lot of weight, there's still all that extra skin to get rid of. Then it's time to call Dr. Beverly Hills 90210. Which could lead to credit card debt, for not being able to pay off your tummy (more like body) tuck. You then realize that it is impossible to pay that incredible debt - because you are an uneducated fucking scum (like me) who only makes about thirty thousand a year. This forces you to apply for bankruptcy. Bankruptcy takes ten years of credit away from you. That means no credit card advantages, dumbfuck. No credit card advantages means no purchasing a house for your naked ass, no purchasing a car for your still-fat legs, no nothing for your starving kindling, fuckwit. And this, my children, is what happens when you stick to your New Year's resolutions. The #1 New Year's resolution in America is to lose weight and be fit. Your future that I just accurately portrayed is your consequence. But only in the U.S. Other places in the world aren't as fat as you. They, on the other hand, have some dignity. Or intelligence, rather. The only thing that they are lacking is excess blubber. Europeans, asians, south americans, australians, africans, antarcticans, eskimos, even the japanese - I applaud you.

This is house undergoing a food famine. A sweets famine. I think I might bake a cake later tonight. Yes, baking in the middle of the night is one of my favorite past times. Maybe after I watch ReMaking Vince Neil. I'm going to need a nice treat to shut my laughing mouth.

"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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