Monday, February 28
I thank Teres for finding this picture of Jimmy Page and Jimmy Page's poppa.


"Come on, son! Let's go for a walk!"

Has anybody else noticed that once turning old, you look extremely asian, runs in the Page family? Look at that. You seriously cannot tell that that little old man is european. Much less fucking british. For god's sake, Mr. Page Senior looks like the little Monopoly guy, Japan version. Just put a little pointy bamboo hat on his head and you got a little farmer dude. This is so fucking peculiar, I seriously cannot get over it.

Like I said, it definitely runs in the family. I mean, look at Jimmy Page now. Or shall I say, Jimmy Chan. Jackie Chan's uncle.


Awww, how cute!

Is it possible that he looks more asian than me? Is it possible for anybody to look more asian than me? Well if Jimmy Page has reached that level of being more asian than me, then I'll darn skippy be damned. Seriously, I just cannot get over this. Two british men who look asian. Yeah, I understand latinos looking sort of asian, but purebreed britishmen? Wow. I'm just completely astonished. Maybe there's a chance that I'm related to Jimmy.

Never.

And to think he used to look like this next photograph.


Awww, it's the Jimmy we all know and love.

Yeah, he's very old now. I should shut up.




You are a guitar.



You are a musical genius... congratulations. Most people think you are a little obsessed with music, but that's okay. You don't care what other people think. You are independent, and would rather have a few good (and weird) friends than a lot of not-so-good ones. You may feel that people run down your eccentricity, but that's only because they're jealous. You will most likely become very successful with your musical talent. \m/ Rock on!

Most compatible with: Drumstick.


Click here -- What Random Object Represents Your Inner Self?


How odd, being that I totally bullshited this thing. And the fact that I can't play for shit. Not even for a Gwar record. Yeah, I'm that bad at playing guitar. Let's see how much more pointless shit I can post here throughout my five more hours until bedtime.




The Kids in the Hall are funny. I'll crush your fucking head, jewbag! Shove that matzah ball up your ass and try to shit it out the color blue with Pepto Bismal.

Just kidding. I'm no fascist.



Don't listen to KISS. Or else they'll kill your hair stylist and Roman Polanski and tweed clothing.


I see more pores on this giant flapjack of a great geyser than on a sponge. Those creases are so deep, that his whole entire face is a stationery holder.

Am I bored? Yeah. There was an early dismissal, and after only ten minutes of channel surfing I reverted back to my computer. My mother is probably angry. I should go do something useful. But first, I must eat.



Sunday, February 27
I'd rather bathe than write an essay. Who the fuck makes textbooks that are all in black and white? Fuck you, my eyes aren't non-colorblind for no reason. I need some fucking color to raise my interest level from a -92 to a +1.5.

Nobody likes to smell like tofu. Especially if you're dutch. Why is that? I don't know.

I've gotten nothing done and I'm still hungry. One and a half hours until bedtime. Yippity doo dah, your grandpa listens to ska.

God, I hate ska for some reason. But I understand if you hate my music too. One of us is the shithead, and it's obviously that we're both going to claim the other as the official shithead. So I guess it's up to Whitney Houston to decide who's the shithead.

So the living room has no furniture in it now. The folks are replacing the vinyl flooring with this new laminate flooring to match the dining room. I cut my hand from the bottom of the fucking sofa while trying to move it. Stupid fucks, they can't staple the upholstery the right way. Leaving their shit sticking out like a penis on a log. Just when I thought I was free from the cut that I got last Friday from a linoleum scraper, this piece of shit happens. Like they say, shit happens.

Should be said about Gwar. I think Slash has a shirt that says "Shit happens." But then again, he has a shirt for almost everything there is, including vagina.

My dad started bitching like a little latino bitch about my cut. I didn't even give a fuck about it anyway. It's a cut, big deal. Blood looks cool, and I fucking hate band-aids because I piss and wash my hands a lot, which makes the band-aid wet and soggy and cold. Nobody wants a soggy wet cold patch on their hand. Especially if they're masturbating. He should've just kept all that shit to himself. I was eventually going to walk to the medicine closet on my own in silence anyway. And yes, we have a medicine closet because cabinets are too tall and everyone except me is a midget in the house.

Tomorrow when I come to school in the morning I don't think I'll have to go buy any pudding that costs a fucking sixty-five cents for a little cup. I got my styrofoam ball with the hershey kisses glued to it back from my geometry teacher. About a fourth or more is left of them chocolate pieces. I don't care if they're old, they'll still taste the same.

Aaron Burr is one hell of an ugly motherfucker. He was Thomas Jefferson's vice president. Aaron is a hot name for a guy, but that guy looks like Napoleon Bonaparte who's got his hand in his ass, not his armpit.

I'm contemplating on whether or not I should get to work. It's worth a hundred points or so. Hundred points, my ass.




When Christina wants ice cream, she wants chocolate ice cream. But if ye home does not have any chocolate ice cream, thy Christina is saddeth.

Actually, she hasn't even gone to look for any. So there is still the hope for some chocolate ice cream to be left.

I just went to the kitchen, and there is absolutely nothing sweet. Sure, I can make waffles and slather honey all over them, but it's too messy and it takes too long. There's chocolate bars in the fridge, in the fridge I don't know why, but pathetically enough Christina isn't allowed to eat chocolate and the mother keeps careful count of how many chocolate bars there are.

Pizza? That's a good idea. Fuck heartburn. Fuck acid reflux. I'll eat to my heart's content. Or rather, discontent.

It sounds so tasty. And finally I'm burning all the fucking fat that came with the French Revolution. So how does one celebrate that? It's obvious.

Go run a mile? No, you fucking dipshit.

Nobody wants to do six essays, none of which they have any idea on how to do. One would much rather eat pizza and take lots of Tums afterwards as after-snack mints.

I want spring to come so badly. Adding to my numerous pathetic list of reasons why, this new one is because I want new shoes. My sneakers, they're dying on me. The leather on the outside and the fabric on the inside is wearing away. Not to mention the rubber soles on the bottom too. The rubber soles were once completely green, and now since it's wearing away, it's turning white. Sucks, because they're only a year and two months old.

Kind of odd that I've actually been thinking about shoes. And to this day, I still sort of think they are the least important article of clothing when it comes to fashion. The way I see it, is get a pair of sneakers that will match with pretty much every single thing that's in your wardrobe. No one's going to look at your fucking fungus lumps, they're going to be looking at your chest. If you're a chick, that is. That's why shirts are most important, fucktard. Well, I've suddenly been wanting new shoes because I've finally, finally, gotten tired of wearing sneakers for my entire life. I want Birkenstock sandals. Sad part is, they're around $120 dollars just for one fucking pair. And to think hippies wore them. No way did they pay $120 for them. Fucking ripoffs.

I wish another blackout would happen. Then I could go do all the free shopping I want.

As I read back on this entry, I wonder, what is the point of it? And to tell you the truth, I have no fucking idea. At all. Maybe to burn more energy from typing to make myself more hungry to actually get up and cook this frozen pizza that is in thy refridgerator's freezer right now. There's something wrong with thy refridgerator too. When one opens the door, it swings all the way open and doesn't stay in one opening position, causing one to have to hold the door all the time so it won't get away, while getting one's shit to eat. It is very irritating. But I love Mr. Fridge anyway because he keeps my food nice and cold so it won't die on me as fast as it would if I just left it out and ate it all at once.

I really, really hope my Jack Daniel's shirt comes to the right house. As a joke I didn't even put my real name for the address to be sent to. That was before I even won it and wasn't expecting to win anything. I just put my first name and some crazy swedish name that you can't even read. Hopefully, if it comes while I'm at school and my mother gets a hold of it, she won't send it back thinking that it's the wrong person, because at least it has my first name correct.

Almqvist. Read that, bitch. Better yet, pronounce it. Should've taken a crazier swedish name though, like Ricola. My bad, it's swiss. They're all the same. Or at least the first two letters. Sorry, I can't think of a more peculiar swedish name. Elyashkevich? No, that's russian. If I even spelled it right. Lucky europeans, you and your fucking awesome names. Who the fuck likes Nguyen? No, nobody. Can't even pronounce it. Kind of hypocritical, being that it's just as unpronouncable and illegible as Almqvist, but it gives away the fact that I'm asian, which decreases the package's chance of reaching its rightful destination.

Almqvist is the last name of the guy from The Hives. I used to have a major crush on him. But his name is just too cool. You can't even read or say his first name, Pelle, either. Is it pronounced as "pay-lay," or "pell-a?" I'm not sure, but I never have to worry because I never talk about him. The last time I talked about him was in eigth grade I think.



Saturday, February 26
I think there's something wrong with me. I haven't been thinking out of the box, I've been so close-minded, therefore coming off as a fucking dumb shit. Yeah, I'm already a fucking dumb shit, but I'm starting to become the kind of dumb shit that's associated with Poison fans. Probably because I've been listening to the Motley Crue song "Same Ol' Situation," which fucking sounds a hell of a lot like Poison. Why the fuck do I keep on listening to it then? Because a Bret Michaels wig is seeping into my scalp, that's why. Or maybe it's the fact that I've suddenly gotten into Lynyrd Skynyrd. Rednecks aren't the smartest people, you know. And racists are pretty fucking close-minded also.

Insecurity is starting to sink in because of this. That's one of the most horrible states of self-reflection there is. I think I'm starting to become paranoid about if certain people like me or not. Before, I didn't really give a fuck if they liked the way I was or not, but something's been fucking up my mind. Maybe staying home for this long alone and not having any interaction except for with the same three people over and over does bad to oneself.

So maybe it will be better for me to go back to that shithole on Monday. Good part is that, bad part is that I probably won't have my homework done. Believe this fuckers, I have six essays to do for one class. None of which I have even studied any notes for, nor listened to any of that boring shit in class.

It's fucking bullshit that next week is going to be nothing but bitterly cold weather when it's only about two weeks left until spring. I'm fucking tired of wearing my ugly ass wool coat and buttoning it up so fucking high up my neck and in addition to that, fucking suffocate myself with a scarf that has never been cleaned since the day it was bought five years ago. Sweaters are a fucking drag also. All of mine are old and left over from even as far back as when I was eleven. They're still huge. They still make me look like the fucking Berenstein bear that did nothing but sit in its lawn chair for fourteen hours a day drinking whiskey out of a Dixie cup as it yields a rifle in one arm threatening to shoot the next motherfucker who drops a ball on its property.

My obession with the internet is getting extremely severe. I sit here for about twelve hours a day, half a day, every day, visiting the same eight or so websites over and over and over and fucking over until I get another yelling from my mother to clean or eat or shower or some other supposedly unimportant thing to an internet obsesser. There should be a rehab for people like me that involves free sex and brownies.

Creedance Clearwater Revival is such a hard fucking band name to say. It's a fucking tongue twister, for god's sake. Even typing it is hard enough. I just found out recently that Hanoi Rocks didn't originally write "Up Around the Bend." But I like their version better anyway.



Friday, February 25
Why does everyone want a job? I understand those who really need the money, but I feel like some others want one just to sound cool. Stupid fucks, working doesn't sound cool. Most people I know are working at some shitty shabby place like Denny's or some shit like that. You think that sounds cool? You think wrapping your hair up into a stringy cinnamon bun and covering it with a net where you won't even be able to go fishing for Bigfoot sounds cool? And then come home eight hours later smelling like you just fucking assraped Ronald McDonald or Dave Thomas using fry grease as penis lube? Yeah, so debonair, so suave. You totally beat James Bond. Roger Moore that is, because he's fucking kick ass.

You're probably wondering about my side of the issue. Not only do I not want a job, I don't really fucking need one anyway. I'm a lazy fuck. I have my folks to support me for now. I'll worry about supporting myself later. And as for buying shit that I want? I got Ebay and my piggy bank. And I'm happy.

There's always the path of marrying a rich guy and divorcing him, and splitting all the money. I just gotta be careful to still be taking birth control. Eleven days left until I pop the first pill in.

Yeah, this entry is fucking beat.




I just read about all the VIP shit for the Velvet Revolver tour. They are no longer playing in small clubs and are now playing at big stadiums where you go home with a drippy red menstruating nose if you were cheap enough not to invest in the premium packages. The four-star one is $125 and the five-star one is $225 or something. Are you fucking shitting me? Too bad my birthday comes after the shows scheduled for the area and I can't ask for a premium package as my present. And I doubt anyone would take me, and that's possibly the only way I can go. The folks never let me do anything on my own. And being that my grades are absolute Gwar shit, my chances of going are even less.

You know what? Fuck you people who get to do everything you want. You and your fucking jobs and money your fucking cars and your fucking lots of clothes and your fucking parents who don't five a fuck about your academic incapacity. If I just buy a regular admission ticket, the experience is just as worth it as standing outside and listening through the walls with a glass, and later having your ear smashed in from all the vibrations. The only thing better about that is that you won't be fucking bothered by the people around you.

A lot of people say, "Oh well, at least I'll be in the same room as Slash and Duff." That's like saying you're on the same earth as Slash and Duff. It doesn't make a fucking difference. They're probably like two fucking states away from me or some shit, I should go cry. Boo hoo I'm five hundred miles away from Duff McKagan's penis.

My mother dragged me out of bed at 11:00 this morning saying that if I don't shovel the snow, I don't get to eat lunch. Going Alabama hickfuck on me, aren't you? The lunch wasn't even good anyway, it was leftovers from last night's dinner. Stupid bitch.

That was the first time I ever had to shovel snow too. I guess I am spoiled in one way or another. Actually, years before, she said that I wasn't yet big enough to do it. But as I got older and older I got dumber and dumber. I guess that's the reason she delayed it so much. She just thought that it would be smarter if I was just left to sleep the whole day through and not break a few shovels or scrape up the asphalt.

My left arm was so fucked up afterwards that when I tried to lift a glass of water to my mouth, it would voluntarily, slowly, fall back down to the table against my will. It was that useless.

I really hope to Jimmy Page that my Jack Daniel's shirt comes in the mail soon and didn't get lost or some shit. I would be furious. Same thing with the Victoria's Secret shirt. I would be furious too. They're the only things that I'm looking forward to right now.

I wonder how all of my friends are doing. No one has really contacted me lately. It's no surprise anyway. And I couldn't really give a fuck. I've got my crazy thoughts and Axl jokes to keep myself company. Just a phone call wouldn't hurt. I know hate telephones, but I don't hate my friends.

I really want to see Velvet Revolver before Scott Weiland fucking pulls a Nikki Sixx that fucking went too far.

It's funny how Van Halen has a song called "Spanish Fly" that has a fucking amazing acoustic guitar and that Homer Simpson sang a song with the same title.

Why does Motley Crue's "Same Ol' Situation" chorus sound so much like Poison? Fucking attrocious, I say. Fucking attrocious.



Thursday, February 24
Holy shit, I just downloaded a song that was labeled as Skid Row and turned out to be Winger. I didn't notice until three fourths of the song was over. I feel used. I feel like I was fucking raped. This isn't cool.




I don't know why I keep wanting to get more and more Ramones shirts. I don't even listen to them as hecticly as I used to anyway. But their goddamn shirts keep coming in the best colors and fits. This time I want to add to my collection a red-orange one with purple words, and put it in my closet along with the red one and black sleeveless one Ramones shirts. They all have the same fucking logo. This madness must stop. Tell this bitch to stop buying the same shirt in different colors before her Christmas money runs out.

Today after going to IKEA again and buying a second marshmallow lamp to complement the other one on one side of the folks' room's bed, we went to the giant shopping mall adjacent to it. Damn, that place was huge. Damn, that place looked nice. Damn, that place had vintage t-shirts! There was one store, called Progress. I almost had a heart attack upon seeing five different classic rock t-shirts in a row on their separate hangers.

There was this fucking amazing Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt hanging up high on the wall. It was rib-knit, dark grey with some red and lighter grey stuff with their name. It was fucking amazing. So I looked on the tag and it read nine dollars. "Nine dollars!" I thought, "This is too fucking good to be true!" Then I noticed some little mark in front of the nine. It was a seven.



Wednesday, February 23
Edward Norton is too fucking awesome. I first fell in love with him, in some movie that I saw long ago. He kicked major black ass in 25th Hour, and in Death to Smoochy he's a fucking puss. But a brilliant fucking puss. Unlike Axl Rose. Oh man, just seeing him dancing in a purple or pink or whatever-the-fuck-colored rhino costume with Robin Williams in an Elton John Skittles jacket made my winter break complete. I think I've found my all-new favorite movie of all time. Sorry Kevin Bacon, Footloose is out.

So there was no big raffle drawing at the asian supermarket today, my mother read the wrong date. Oh well, my mom and sibling and I had a nice quiet peaceful time food shopping, with no weekend crowd and clogged midget buttholes. For some reason I take pleasure in other beings' pain. I was deeply fascinated at staring and poking a young tender eel in a tank that had part of its tail cut off, and you could see its flesh and bone sticking out. It was slowly spinning in pain. There was another styrofoam tank lying on the floor next to the aquarium-looking ones that the half-eel was in, about ten or so on the bottom of the tank with only about four inches tall of water. That may sound sad for you weak kids, but I like to kick the tanks and watch them squirm within their two millimeter room of space. I like to slap crabs too with my hand, and watch them flicker and shit after taking my hand back in a split second. Ah, those claws are nasty looking, aren't they?

At another supermarket a long time ago, there was a styrofoam tank with a big brown poopy fish in it. And just for kicks, I decided to kick the tank, and see the damn fish flap around in fear. But this time, it fucking jumped into the air, inches away from me. I was fucking exhilerated. I couldn't catch up to my mom and her shopping cart now. So what did I do? I kicked it again, of course. This time even harder. And the fish jumped a fucking two feet into the air. The greatest fucking thing that I have ever done to date.

Yes, I am that depressing.

Black Sabbath is good. Don't just listen to "Iron Man." Because that song sucks. Well actually it's a really excellent song, but listen to it enough and it almost becomes Gwar-like.

Oh man, while on the way to the supermarket in the car, I saw a dude driving a truck that looked just like John Bonham. He had the mustachio mustache and long hair. It was fucking awesome. Didn't tell my mom though, because not only does she hate my music, then how the fuck should she know who John Bonham is?

Last night I didn't catch Rufus Wainwright on Conan O'Brien. I guess I couldn't do it. I even missed the rerun today at 7:00. Shut the fuck up, this breaks my heart.




Behold, the neon green/yellow/pink Motley Crue layout. This is the most color that I have ever made in a single layout. They were always either black or white. But alas, now it is all the colors of David Lee Roth's spandex trousers.



Tuesday, February 22
I am in such a Skid Row mood right now that I think they're going to be my next obsession. From Led Zeppelin, to Nine Inch Nails, to Guns n' Roses, to Motley Crue, it's Sebitchian and Rachel's turn. Rachel & Sebitchian, sounds like the long haired penis version of Laverne & Shirley. Or a Murder...She Wrote spinoff featuring Angela Lansbury and Rosanne Barr.

Rufus Wainwright is going to be on Conan O'Brien tonight. Just two more hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Will I make it without falling asleep? Shut the fuck up, I can do it.

My mom is going to wake me up early tomorrow to go asian food shopping. We have to go early because this one supermarket is having a raffle and she has four tickets. Grand prize is a lot of money and the others are probably less money and gift certificates or phony cheap shit like that. She wants me to stand and check for the numbers while she goes and buys the food. Again, I'm going to look like a Duff McKagan in a desert full of midget gila Guns n' Roses members.

If you didn't get that, Duff is about four to five inches taller than the rest of the members of Guns n' Roses. Get with it, you stupid fuck.

Thursday we're going back to IKEA to get another marshmallow lamp, almost an hour away in Paramus. Hopefully we'll go to the large mall that's right next door and get some new threads (for me).

I want to grow my hair until it gets to ass length. But with layers, so I don't look like no fucking hippie with weighed-down neglected-looking hair. Kind of like Sebastian Bach's, but the opposite of blonde. Oh man, Christina blonde? I might pull that off if I had makeup on.




This afternoon I watched a show called I Married...Sebastian Bach. He fucking pulled an Axl. And I fucking laughed my ass off. He was in the backyard of his house playing frisbee or some shit with his son, shirtless, and oh man, he looked like a pulsating pork roast with gravy splattered all over it with a garnish of hay on top. He's such a bitch too, he's so fucking spoiled. But his wife tolerates it anyway and goes along with it. It's adorable watching them blab and blab and blab and blab on and on and on and on about a $7000 check.

"I PUT THE CHECK IN THE CHEECH & CHONG TRUCK!"

Oh man, I fucking fell off the couch. Bachie and his wife were talking about some check I don't know what it's for because I wasn't listening, but he left some $7000 check in a ceramic Cheech & Chong truck jar and his wife was looking for it. He was yelling all this shit about the Cheech & Chong jar while laying naked or something in bed under the covers and sipping his coffee and shit. What a bitch. But I love him anyway.

It was absolutely adorable, well at least for a hopeless romantic fuck like me, when at the end his wife started crying after they both professed each other's love and stuff, and he was all trying to comfort her. I guess Sebitchian isn't so much of a bitch in very rare occasions.

The guitarist, Head, from Korn, quit. "Guitarist HEAD Quits KORN, Dedicates Life To Christianity." That's fucking hilarious. The greatest line that I've read all fucking month. "Welch plans on further explaining his decision to leave KORN this coming Sunday, when he'll address the congregation at the Valley Bible Fellowship in Bakersfield, California. And on February 28 he plans to leave for Israel." Holy shit, he's pulling a Whitney Houston.

And Carrie, this next line's for you.

Has anyone noticed that Sebastian Bach looks like Ann Coulter? Long blonde hair, big mouth, you should get the idea. Both are big-mouthed blonde bitches.


This is one hell of a hot chick.




Tell me, which one is a man, and which one is a woman?


#1
This little girl I saw in a dream, and I thought, "Are you an angel?"

or


#2
This little girl likes material things, such as cardboard cones and nipple stickers.

or


#3
This little girl's a fiesty one.




Over the past month I've been spontaneously making up good and bad possible/potential band names. For what reason? If by chance I ever discover a secret talent (which won't happen) or whatever else these names could be used for. I'll start off with what every conformist list maker starts off with: the shitty portion.

1. Washington Avenue - This is god fucking awful. Fifty bucks says there isn't already a struggling crappy emo band with this name.
2. Papercut - Sounds like a Nine Inch Nails/Three Days Grace kind of thing. I can't believe I just paired Nine Inch Nails with such utter shit.
3. The New Gwar - Self explanatory.
4. A Day Like No Other - This band would be in the A Day at Risk, Three Days Grace, Hoobastank league. The dude from Dashboard Confessional would highly be likely to be in this band.
5. Forgotten Sorrow - Conor Oberst or Davey Havoc's fucked up cousin.
6. Lone Dog - Tim McGraw meets Outback Steakhouse meets Droopy.
7. Penny Lane - Not a bad song, but a terrible band name. There's a band called Say Anything, and this potential band name originated from the idea of taking something that was once credible and forever tainting its reputation, because then the original will forever be synonymous with pussy-league Axl produced corporate machine emo tears. I'm sorry, George, Ringo, John, Paul, but I'm probably not the one who made this up.
8. The John Meyers Band - A folk band that attempts at the likes of Dashboard Confessional and John Mayer.
9. Tainted Rose - It's Hollywood Rose that continued in their fucked up lives but never discovered the glory of heroin. Imagine Izzy Stradlin actually combing his hair over his face and Axl Rose wearing pants that sags down to his balls, or shall I say pussy.
10. Lennon, McCartney, Harrison, and Starr - Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, you fucking can't come up with a better name?

I made up some others that were pretty foul, and that weren't just made up right now. Unfortunately, I forgot them. A hundred bucks says whenever I remember them, I'll forget them by the time I get to a pen and paper.

Onto the good ones. Use them and you fucking get a vinyl Gwar album doused in acid up your ass.

1. Black Zephyr - My first choice for a band. I hope it doesn't sound like it was copied from Led Zeppelin or Black Sabbath, because it fucking isn't.
2. The Fast Food Suicides - Jamie and I made this up last year, she said it was the perfect name for a ska band. I give you permission to use this one, because although it's a cool name, I don't like ska. That is, if you get through Jamie first.
4. Siddhartha - My second choice. I originally read it as a fictional band in a book, and thought that it was just too fucking cool. It's also a buddhist term, like Nirvana.
5. Violet Rider - Velvet Revolver spinoff of a name I guess. But it sounds more smooth of a band. So this band would be something like Pink Floyd I bet.

Yeah and I'm out. Some of you may not agree with where the names are placed, but whatever. Fuck you, try to make up your own and see if they match up to this list.

Time for a confession. When I was very young, around four or six or so, I also tried to think up of band names. I wanted a kick ass, short name. Only one cool, cool to four year old Christina, name is in the next sentence.

I decided that I would be in a band called Poison.

Of course, I didn't know that Poison even existed already, and obviously did not know of their incredible inability to make music and what "music" that they made very closely resembled to the sound of my father in the bathroom with diarrhea leaving the door open. Only to soon cause me to grimace because of the smell, which is the same exact expression on my face whenever I hear Poison's "music."

That reminds me, Night Ranger was on Good Morning America today. Or at least, I think it was that show. When you go on a morning news program, performing in front of sixty forty-three year old soccer moms who dressed up for the first time in fifteen years for their husbands last night so that they'd take care of the kids and miss getting their paychecks at work just to go to see the morning news program, you know you've hit cum bottom. They said to Diane Sawyer that she was hot. And how the fuck old is she? She fucking worked for the Nixon administration. I fucking despise that fake bitch anyway, she doesn't deserve to be praised. But in a way it was a diss, because Night Ranger told her that she was hot.

My mom complained about why it was taking so long for my Victoria's Secret shirt to come in the mail. I seriously do not remember her ordering me a lacy shirt. The last thing I remember that she was going to get me was a denim skirt from the Boston Proper catalog. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure if she even sent the order for that skirt in. And for your information, Boston Proper is a rich people's catalog that we only order the on-sale or clearance items from. Other than that we just bitch and moan on why we don't have much money.

This new polka dotted mouse pad is fucking amazing. It's a circle, with blue and red and yellow and lime green polka dots of different sizes on a white background. I mean, who the fuck wouldn't want a seventy-nine cent mouse pad that looks that fucking awesome?

I'm so excited for my Jack Daniel's shirt to come. Apparently the seller is in England. Those brits, them and their cool t-shirts and Led Zeppelin members and Mick Jagger offspring and shit.

Just a few minutes ago I finally saw the Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas commercial that has "Welcome to the Jungle" playing in the background. Axl's such a fucking idiot, selling such music to such a cliched luxury such as video games, specifically Grand Theft Auto.

I still can't stand "Fall to Pieces." It sucks. And so does Gwar.




Holy shit, I won the Jack Daniels shirt. And the other bidder didn't even move once I placed mine in the seven minutes left of the auction. I Guess I got lucky that I wasn't messing with a freak this time around. What really makes me proud is that I got the math right - last night I was on at around 9:00 and there was supposedly ten hours left, and I calculated the time right to wake up at the right time just to get this piece of shit. It's awesome.

Since the holiday is over, let's hope that there's something good to watch on television. We need our daily talk shows and non-shitty-show marathons.




Holy shit, I won the Jack Daniels shirt. And the other bidder didn't even move once I placed mine in the seven minutes left of the auction. I Guess I got lucky that I wasn't messing with a freak this time around. What really makes me proud is that I got the math right - last night I was on at around 9:00 and there was supposedly ten hours left, and I calculated the time right to wake up at the right time just to get this piece of shit. It's awesome.

Since the holiday is over, let's hope that there's something good to watch on television. We need our daily talk shows and non-shitty-show marathons.






I don't know why I find this picture so hilarious. It makes me love Jim even more. He just looks so fucked up, like he's really trying hard to figure out what the fuck that is that's in his hand - a toilet scrubber or a twist-tie?



Monday, February 21
The family and I went to IKEA today. All day. All day fucking long. It was cool and would've been amazingly shitfuckingly awesome if I hadn't gotten my monthly French Revolution last night. Out of boredom I stepped on one of the scales that were on sale. I weigh one hundred and thirty pounds, man. Five pounds in five months? Or so I think. This isn't good.

My mother got a swivel chair, four vases, a lamp, coasters, and maybe something else I couldn't give a fuck about, and I got a two dollar CD holder and a seventy-nine cent polka-dotted mouse pad. The mouse pad is fucking awesome. I was too cheap to get the boarded leather one though. What makes this even more sad is that I didn't pay for anything of mine, which is all under four dollars.

I had the uncontrollable urge to go into the kiddie zone with all the foam trees and ballpits and higher quality McDonald's shit. I figured that since I can fit in a kiddie desk in the showroom, I'd be able to fit into the ballpit without doing oversized multiple-cell mitosis, sending all the multi-colored plastic testicles onto the floor of the IKEA Magic Forest. Fortunately for the reputation of IKEA and its workers, my folks were moving around too fast and I didn't have the chance to take a single plunge.

Swedish people are my fucking heroes. They sell cheap and good looking furniture. Not to mention that the singer of The Hives is quite sexy.

I go out with my folks too much. It's about time I got friends. Well it's not necessarily my fault, since I'm not allowed to have a life.

Yesterday the mother and I went shopping to various places, including Barnes & Noble [because of me]. I think I spent an hour in there looking for the Izzy Stradlin biography that was supposedly released last Thursday, which I just found out today was delayed for some fucktard reason. So after I gave up after that hour of bending up and down, looking up and down the "rock n' roll" section of the store, I went to find some bargain books. I was thinking of getting some kind of huge ass book called "The Rolling Stones: Never-Before-Seen Archives" that was only five fucking dollars despite it's massive size and some Dilbert books, but sadly the only Dilbert book they had left was the only one that I had read. Stupid fucks, taking my Dilbert books. Why won't they take Get Fuzzy books or some shit like that? Dilbert's my territory, dipshit.

Was also considering getting The Encyclopedia of Heavy Metal just so I can go home and have a good long laugh. But for some reason I decided against killing my diaphragm.

And I went home empty-handed. Tom Robbins books are expensive. And I am cheap. Do the math. Because I can't do math.

I saw the new Velvet Revolver video today on FUSE. They fucking fucked up the label again, and messed it up with some other shitty band's name instead. They always do that. They even spelled Randy Rhoads, "Randy Rhodes." He's not a fucking state, get your geography straight. Although, I'd really like to have travelled Randy's geography.

There's a Jack Daniels t-shirt on Ebay that I want. And in order to try to win it, I'm going to have to wake up at 7:30 tomorrow and bid my ass off right before the auction ends. Not my real ass, because it isn't worth anything.

So, about the "Across the Universe" performance at the Grammys. Good song, I think it was written by Rufus Wainwright? Or did he do a cover too? I don't know. But anyway, Norah Jones was fucking weak. She fucking ruined the cause. You could see in her face and in the lack of enthusiasm in her voice that she wasn't giving it her all, and on such an occasion. Thanks a lot, bitch. Now you've put the entire west coast in risk of its own tsunami. Which totally fucks up us east coasters because now we have to put up with more bullshit than there already is in the news. But the good part is, we can watch all you stupid fucks suffer. Or at least me, because I like to watch people squirm and lose their three thousand dollar bean bags filled with koala lint and chihuhua dogs with Kate Spade booties.

Norah isn't the only one who ruined the integrity of the performance. The entire Grammy people did, whoever the fuck they are. There was no big opening, no big ending with fireworks or anything of that sort. It just ended. Nice and quiet. I was waiting for a big BOOM! ALL YOUR MONEY IS GOING IN OUR POCKETS! Nothing. Nada. Then Usher was on. He got special lighting and a rising platform or something, I forgot. The second he came on, I turned the television off. Fuck Album of the Year. I don't give a shit. When Usher comes on TV, there is no more entertainment value.

I was very impressed with Scott Weiland's ability to sing like that. The only other example of such skill was at the House of Blues. He can be Frank Sinatra for all I care. Just un-dye that hair and stick it down, not up, and keep on wearing those suits. The dude all the way on the right, I have no idea who he was, was pretty awesome too. Steven Tyler was kicking ass as usual, but I felt like I wanted some more. Hubba hubba. No, not really in that way though, he's too crusty by now. Couldn't hear Slash sing when he did. Duff was fucking oozing unborn children. Dave looked the same, so did Matt. Scott looks like Ziggy but a Ziggy that actually got roughed up by a meat grinder.

I'm fucking kidding, alright? He looks pretty good, but he needs to fucking gain some weight before I start putting him in the same category as Lara Flynn Boyle and John Frusciante under the bridge. Jeez, and everyone took that "SLASH IS UGLY" thing a little too seriously. God, I'm a shithead, but not a Gwar fan.



Sunday, February 20
SLASH IS UGLY






My mom got me champagne and it ain't doing anything. I don't think it's fair that a smaller bottle of Jack Daniel's costs more than half of a bottle of Smirnoff that's double the size of that Jack Daniel's bottle.

I'm am fucking dying waiting for this Ebay auction to end. I found a really cheap iPod, and the fucking auction ends in three days and two hours. That's too fucking long. Originally I wanted a green one, but it gradually went to over forty bucks. No way, man. A silver one will do just fine. I was thinking of getting a gold one, just to look cheesy and so all the rich fucks in school wouldn't think I'm a poor fuck. Which I am, but I won't look like it if I have a gold fucking iPod. Hopefully it'll come in time for when school's back in session next Monday, so I can start walking to the damn place again in peace without the help of my female conceiver's black automobile.

Why do I want to start walking again? Because in just one week, I am probably going to binge eat every day out of boredom, just like in the summer. And after the summer and I start walking to school again, I lose all the excess real fucking fast.

I wonder how crazy Ebay bidders can be. Just when I started to outbid one person on a certain iPod, we made like twenty more different bids in the timespan of only ten seconds. Then I thought, "Fuck this, this fucking maniac really wants this piece of shit." I wonder if they sit in front of their computers for the five to ten days that an auction can last, no shitting, no eating, no sleeping, no masturbating, all for just a twenty year old can of Jolt Cola that's lying in the warmness of the seller's attic in Tampa, Florida.



Saturday, February 19
My father just put on his glasses for the first time in six months. That particular pair that he picked out himself looks so absolutely horrible. He looked at least thirty years older. A seventy-four year old neurosurgeon. So, as a joke, I said that "He looks like he just found the cure for cancer." My mom got it and started laughing, but he didn't get it and gave me this horrible look.



Thursday, February 17
You know what I'm sick of? Having hormones.

My mother already arranged for the doctor's appointment, of when I'll get the birth control prescribed. Yes, giggle giggle you go. I am too. Christina ain't gonna to be having no babies, nuh uh, not anytime soon. It's on March 8th, by the way. She says she doesn't give a fuck if I grow anymore between now and July 13th, because it probably will not be an inch or two. If a millimeter at all.

Ever since I had that "dirt cup" on Monday I've been craving for chocolate pudding all week. It's that fucking good. Dirt cups consist of vanilla pudding on the bottom, one layer of crushed oreo cookies, one layer of chocolate pudding, and a dob of whipped cream on top. And they cost sixty-five cents apiece I think. Oh well, at least it's good, despite the money ripoff. I think tomorrow I'll try to come in early just to stock up on packages of pudding. They're not selling dirt cups anymore, sadly. Because with dirt cups you don't have to peel the fucking plastic top off and I'm just not that kind of person who's so enthusiastic enough about a cup of liquid cocoa diarrhea to take my thumb and forefinger, slip the little edge of the foil between the, lift the foil off the top of the cup, and releasing germs into my fucking pudding. When dirt cups, on the other hand, have plenty of germs in them already, are in a nice fancy cup, come with more than one flavor of pudding, and plus, there's fucking cookies and Cool Whip in it. Fuck you, pudding companies, be creative and stick all that shit that I just mentioned into your pudding cups. And while you're at it, make tops that come off easier.

Not to mention that mens' clothing manufacturers should make tops that come off easier too.

Even more saddening is, I'm still not allowed to eat chocolate, according to my middle-aged female conceiver. But I eat a whole shitload of it in school anyway. It's just too good.

I think I did fairly well on my french test. We watched more of this pretty cute movie with some cute little boys in it after everyone was done taking the test. I still fucking hate that class though.

Yadda yadda yadda, the Soup Nazi invaded my writing sector of the mind.

So I'm starting to really get into Villa Incognito. It's pretty crazy. There's a lot of sexual innuendos. That's always a plus. Unless you make sexual innuendos like chinese, chinese, anime, then I suggest you go on birth control instead of me.

I'm fucking pissed that I saw a girl in my english class wearing my jacket. My fucking jacket. My fucking signature motorcycle jacket. First I see more and more people buying ripped jeans, and now someone fucking starts wearing the same leather jacket as mine. I don't think she really likes me anyway, and I wonder if she's purposely wearing that to "look cool" or to "piss Christina the stupid poser bitch off." She's real goddamn lucky it's cold today and I didn't wear mine to school. Or else, I could've pulled an Axl. It's a real bad fucking time to piss me off right now, because my monthly French Revolution is coming soon. And before my monthly bleedfest comes, I'm fucking Axl as Axl With a Velvet Revolver CD Up His Ass.

There was also a girl in my gym class who had a rip in her jeans in the shape of a heart. That's the saddest fucking thing I've ever seen next to people headbanging to Good Charlotte. It's very full of shit that people who buy, or attempt to make, at ripped jeans that have the tiniest, most crappiest holes or just the plain crappiest job at making holes. I think outrageous huge holes all over your ass and crotch are awesome. Not little shaving razor scratches. Come on, you scratch your fucking face or pubic area ending up with bigger gashes than that.



Wednesday, February 16

steven hyde is love
brought to you by the isLove Generator

Hyde is hot. I want his AC/DC and Led Zeppelin t-shirts. That lucky bitch!

I think I saw Danny Masterson in a Dracula movie. He looked really retarded (like Kelso having an idea) wearing a vampire costume with blood dripping from his mouth while lying in a coffin with his arms crossed. It looked more like a burrito made of german blood sausage drenched in soy sauce.




Why hello children, I had a great day.

I think he took his ex out to dinner on Valentines' Day because he didn't want to spend it alone. He probably didn't ask me because I'm shy and tend to look like I avoid people. It's a nasty habit I have. Well at lunch while I was sitting and eating cookies with Lauren, he came up to me to ask me for my geometry homework. It's about time that he noticed that all of my answers are nothing but bullshit and that I only write all that crap down so that it looks like I did my homework, and so the teacher gives me credit for being dumb and not really looking at my "work." But I think he asks me anyway on purpose. So he decides to stay a while and asked me about how the book I was reading was.

He told me about his favorite author, a long name that I really can't comprehend, and that he wrote an analogy stating that a person is like a Twinkie, and that that Twinkie must die with the other missing one that they were born with whom they both came in that packet. A person must find and die with their significant other, and he said that he wanted to find that other Twinkie whom he matches with. I said it was cute, he agreed, and walked away. I think our conversation, well he was mostly talking though, ended so soon because Eric came to hang out with me. He was probably intimidated by him. That sucks, poor thing.

I want to try to talk to that guy again, but I never know what to say. He's always at his locker and keeps glancing at me whenever I'm at mine, because his is about ten down the hall from mine. And plus, we both wear leather jackets. His is extremely hot. Just like him. It's so funny and awesome that he wears Birkenstock leather clogs to school, through rain and snow, sun and shine. At a firedrill earlier this month, while standing outside, Eric asked him what the hell kind of shoes he was wearing, and he explained that he wore them because they come on and off easily and exposes his feet. Or socks, in most cases. It is a tad bit chilly to not be wearing socks.

Chemistry was so excruciatingly fucking boring. Ryan and his restaurant bagel from somewhere just about fucking killed me.

Desktop publishing was just as horrible. For my magazine cover, I got a picture of a knocked-out Keith Richards and made up the title of the magazine, Uzi Suicide. I didn't really make it up though. It was Guns n' Roses' independent label where they released Live Like a Suicide.

While walking home it was fucking pouring. Then suddenly I hear someone yell, "ASSSSIIIANNNN!" It was Ferris' big fat ass head sticking out of a green car. As the traffic stopped at an intersection, I catch up to the car that he was in and he called to me again. I flick him off and continue walking with water all over my eyes, hair, jacket, and vocabulary textbook. The car continues forward in traffic again and this time it catches up to me. Ferris sticks his head out of the car another time and throws a twisted plastic fork at me, yelling, "DAMN YOU, ASIAN! THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR LEAVING ME YOUR GARBAGE YESTERDAY!"

I sat with him and Eric at lunch yesterday, and the three of us put our garbage in the center of the area of which we were sitting on the floor. None of us wanted to get up and throw it away. So towards the end of the lunch block Eric and I get up and scramble, leaving Ferris to do the dirty work. The fucked up fork that I couldn't even feel hit me was his sad attempt at revenge.

It's seriously fucking dumb that just a few minutes ago, it was raining/sleeting/snowing all through the period of one hour, sky was fucking as dark as your shit after eating buffalo wings and not shitting for a week, and now all of a sudden the sun is out and the sky is as blue as your ass when some fat guy is resting his foot on it. It's like we lived through a whole year of weather changes in one day. From cool to warm to wet to sun. Fuck you, mother nature, take some fucking Midol and calm down your fucking period.

My mom has decided to not wait until I'm sixteen to put me on birth control. Since my rag is obviously coming soon due to all these sudden breakouts I've been getting, she's going fucking Gwar-torture crazy. And you know what she admitted? She said that the only thing keeping me from being beautiful is my acne. That's pretty lame. Why not allow me to put on makeup in the meantime? I'm too afraid to ask, in fear of her hour-or-two-long lectures. But before that, she was staring at me and said I looked fucking disgusting. Fuck you, I came out of your slimy flabby ass. It's your slutty fault.



Tuesday, February 15

HOLY SHIT!




J.K. Rowling fucking sucks. Not only does Harry Potter suck, but she fucking sucks at making up indian names. Come on, He Who Must Not Be Named? Please, how about, He Who Must Have Balls Squeezed With Car Jack? Come to think of it, I hate her fans also. Those fucking fourteen, fifteen, even sixteen year olds that are into that shit need to grow up. All you hear them say is, "Haha, you're such a Neville Longbottom!" or "Spifficus, constipaticus!" or "Snape is soooo freakin' ugly! Mr. What'shisface our english teacher is so much like him." or "I think Daniel Radcliffe is hot." Shut the fuck up dumbfuck, Snape is hotter than you are. Because he looks like Trent Reznor.

Photoshop isn't working for some reason. The opening window configuration comes up, then suddenly stops and disappears. What a stupid piece of shit, but ImageReady works though. That thing doesn't do shit though.

Another Frederick's of Hollywood catalog came in the mail today. Marilyn Manson needs one of these:



I forgot where I heard this, but someone on TV said that after seeing his performance of "The Dope Show" on the VMA's a few years ago, they called his ass "chicken cutlets." Oh yeah, it was Gwen Stefani. Wouldn't it be nicer to just stick homemade pancakes in your panties? It gives off a nice scent, which equals to overruling your gaseous release valves. Sad thing is, if you finally get some luck the dude would start to wonder if his rocket has been landing onto Mrs. Butterworth.

What a lame entry. I'm starting to lose it.




Why is Bright Eyes suddenly "the band" to like? I'd diss the living shit out of them if I hated their music. Luckily, for Conor Oberst and his listeners, I've never heard a single song. Did I say how much I hate people who go to Morris Knolls? Yeah, they're up in the Gwar and Dashboard Confessional and Michael Bolton league.

Today was peachy. In gym class we learned how to put harnesses on. It felt like a nasty boner was up my cha cha for a straight hour. Almost persuaded me to not have sex. A good method for teaching abstinence to teenagers will be to make your students put on rockclimbing harnesses for an hour or two. Then make them squat up and down for another good half hour, Richard Simmons style. They'd be running home tightening their belts and sticking their thongs back down their butt cheeks.

One guy was real skinny, I don't see the difference between his package and all the other skinny guys, but the girls kept making fun of him and how he should stay away while they were putting theirs on. He wasn't really hot anyway. There are no hot guys in my gym class sadly. But in eigth grade, my teacher was a pretty cute twenty-something year old guy and when he put a harness on and went climbing, oh boy, I thought a toucan was trying to escape out of his trousers (with a mango in its beak). I even pretended that I had trouble putting mine on, just so that he could help me. Oh Christina, you and your horniness.

Last night I watched the episode of South Park where Cartman tried to find his dad. The greatest indian name has got to be, They Who Cannot Keep Their Legs Closed [regarding to Cartman's mom].

Someone launched a stinkbomb after lunch yesterday. For a second I thought my dad came to visit for some insane, probably gas-induced reason.



Monday, February 14
Most people fucking despise Valentines' Day. As unlucky as I am, and as hopeless as I am, I kind of like this holiday despite my lack of male ass. People tend to think of the holiday from their perspective, which is mostly walking around with their chin on their chest and yelling the shit out of everyone because all they got was a Milky Way from their best friend. Others, even those who do have a partner, just think it's stupid. But I'm saying this about the first group of folks I was talking about, the future goths. Think of the folks that finally have a holiday devoted to them and their loved one, and how sweet it is to do something for them, whilst the whole country is in on it too, doing the same thing. Yeah, I'm pretty happy for them. Call me a fucking loser, but that's just my opinion.

You're probably curious if I had any luck at all today. No, not really. And I'm not surprised in the least bit. Or at least I think so. Oddly enough, he actually hung out with me this morning before school started. And he saw that I had with me the book of the author that he recommended to me before. I guess that sort of impressed him, being that his words actually meant something to me. Then it came to the time when all of us - Eric, me, him, and Jeremy, talked about what we were doing or did or got from our divine others. Jeremy said he'd get Eric a valentine tomorrow because he forgot today. Other than that, he's just, Jeremy. Eric got a Snoopy card from his girlfriend. I didn't add in my little tidbit, because there is nothing to say. Just saying "I'm lonely and no one fucking loves me" will just ruin the whole conversation and even if I do get pity, it won't do shit.

The dude said he was going to Banzai tonight. Banzai is that kick ass japanese sushi restaurant that I have yet to go to, one of those where you sit at a table and watch the chef cut some fingers off and quickly dip them in breadcrumbs to fry so you can't tell that it's a finger, and then throw it into your mouth with a knife. It's obvious he's going with a chick. The chick that I overheard talking about it to her friend on Friday. So it was true afterall. Oh well, I'll be just fine anyway. I can tell that he's not a committer, and neither am I. Quite frankly, I'm not really disappointed at all.

He and I talked about more of the author's books, and laughed at this dude across the hall, whom we all knew, I just don't know his name, who was giving flowers to this girl, yelling, "HERE, DANIELLE! I GOT YOU FLOWERS!!!!!" Oh man, it was so obnoxious and hilarious. Almost the saddest thing that I've ever seen next to Axl Rose.

What will disappoint me is if she talks about it very loudly again tomorrow in class. I think I'll have to bring a bag around to keep my CD player and shit in to keep my mind off of it. Perhaps some beer and vodka will do. And some Metallica and Van Halen. Van Halen is perfect for getting me in a good mood for some reason. Perhaps it's the vision of a blonde jewish man in neon spandex telling me to jump.

Alright, so that last paragraph clearly states that I am a little perturbed. But, like always, I'll be just fine in the long run. I'm just not as pissed as I always am, and I'm glad about that. Christina's growing up! Awwww.

The real chemistry teacher came back today from maternity leave. The class is still fucking boring. What's worse is that I still sit at the same fucking front table, but this time even closer to the teacher. Things can't get any worse. Oh no, they could. Because I sit at the end, next to the new kid whom everyone hates.

In desktop publishing, I was fucking bored as usual (surprise surprise!). Laura and I made an excuse to go around the school and take pictures of our friends for our magazine covers that we were working on. She was the only one who ended up taking pictures, because I don't have many friends. And plus, I don't want an unprofessional piece of shit amateur photo on my work anyway.

Lunch was funny. Eric kept trying to make me eat his cheddar Doritos in return for some of my cooler ranch Doritos. And it finally worked, because, I have no fucking idea. I'm not thinking straight today. He finally persuaded me to eat a part of a chip that was on the floor, five seconds after he bit some of it and dropped it by accident. Then he does all this crap with his Snapple can with the little koala on it, shaking it in my face, saying, "Look! It's dancing for you! It looooves you, and all you're doing is hating it. Stop turning it away! Don't you see how much it cares about you??" with the can about an inch away from my face. He makes me laugh. He even shoved the empty bag of Doritos in front of me saying, "Here, this is a sign of my love" with that funky look on his face. I say, "Giving me a Dorito bag is saying that you don't love me!"

He's the only enjoyment I get from school. And comes up with the greatest inside jokes.

"YOU DON'T GET SEXY WITH THIS DOG!"

That's about the hoochie coochie plaster dog I gave him. Don't worry Brenda, I'll be sure to make you a banner someday.

Get this, fuckers. I actually worked, and think I succeeded, on my geometry test. I think besides the fact that I totally don't know shit about shit when it comes to all things mathematical, the methods that I tried in the test seemed like they made sense. Now I'll just have to wait until I get the damn results back. Which I highly doubt will be a very good grade at all.




I didn't get any valentines today. Boo hoo. I'll be fine anyway, I'm not going to be a stupid fucking sap like last year. And you know what? I just lost the mood to write.



Sunday, February 13
I am about to embark on a painful night of homework. I'm doing horrible, and when I do horrible, it translates into a horrible home life. Like you care? I don't either.

Last night at the party I watched the Charlie Brown Valentines' Day Special. My god, it's so cute. I fucking love Charlie. Poor kid. I could relate to him a lot. Except for at the end where he gets the valentine in the mail. I'm confused of whether Lucy is Linus' sister or if she's Charlie's sister. Watching Charlie Brown specials or anythings are an extreme rarity in my life. Probably about only twice or so a year. Because Nickelodeon is a fucking piece of shit. So is 90% of all other television channels.


Awwww.




Yesterday was absolutely horrible. Except for talking to a semi-drunk Shaina on the phone and talking about a llama design that was printed on the carpet. I had to sit in a fucking living room, for six fucking hours, doing nothing but sitting around and watching TV. Six fucking hours. One room, bathroom also. Six fucking hours of nobody to talk to, nothing good to eat, and the bathroom fucking scares the shit out of me. Six hours could equal for up to about three movies to watch, but it was actually two movies and some lame shows that I watched. Shakespeare in Love is a pretty good movie after all, but I don't see how it got so much hype back in the day. And I forgot the other movie I watched.

I got a total of thirty dollars in chinese new year money. Not bad. Actually, it's a lot, being that I never really get money at all.

I was in such a bad mood while the parents said we were going home, but stay for another twenty fucking minutes standing and talking to their friends, whom they don't even really trust anymore, in the kitchen. Had to stand there, shuffling cards over and over and over for what seemed like three more hours. During the car ride home I was still fucking pissed. I don't think it's fair that they get to hang out with people whom they don't even rely on as much anymore, only went because it was mainly just polite to, and I have to fucking torture myself in solitude for that long. Even in school, I'm not as lonely as I am there. At least in school, there are people whom I can talk to and relate to, and the most that I ever really have to wait through boredom is an hour to an hour and a half, not six fucking hours of agony. And in school, they give us shit to do. At the party, not only is there nothing to do even if there are only adults around, there's nowhere even to fucking walk. In school I can say I'm going to the bathroom and instead just walk around the entire damn building for three times and laugh at people's surprised faces because they see a fucking person walking outside the door.



Saturday, February 12
My folks are taking me to one of those parties again later today. The only reason I'm going is because being at home alone is even more meaningless and lonely than going to those. And the fact that it's a chinese new year party and I'll most likely get money. I'm a greedy bitch who's also very cheap. So all in all, I should go.

The Al Bundy curse is kicking in again. The bad karma is coming around. Yesterday wasn't the greatest day, because of the thing in french class, and Lauren, who took me to see Conan and whose done so much for me and hopefully I did the same thing for her, which I doubt, didn't talk to me or say hello or anything at all, even if we did run into each other twice throughout the day. Kind of odd, why people tend to leave me. Or so it seems. I hope she isn't, because sometimes we do ignore each other like that for no reason at all and just continue talking the next day just like always.

But yesterday it was quite rude and unusual. I went up to her and her overly religious christian bitch friend after gym class to hang out for a while before her lunch ended. I went up to their table and we all looked each other in the eye. Nothing. It was awkward, so I walk away. Then when I was at my locker after my lunch ended, she comes by on her way to class, we look each other in the eye again, and still not a single thing. I meant to say hello and shit each time, but I knew in her eyes she probably wasn't going to say anything. And if anything at all, it probably wouldn't be very welcoming.

Like I said, sometimes we ignore each other, but yesterday's examples were just impolite and it makes me think that she's starting to think negatively of me. I have no fucking idea why, I haven't changed at all since Wednesday, as in my thoughts of our relationship and whatsoever. If everything turns out fine on Monday, then I'm just being a fucking puss and am not supposed to be so fucking worked up on nothing at all.

You're probably wondering about this "religious christian bitch" friend of Lauren's. I've written a whole lot of shit on her before, and I'm not going to repeat it again. I'll just say that I fucking despise religious people who inquire that everything you say is bad and is a disgrace to god during a conversation. Well you know what, I'm not a fucking conformist and I'll believe and fucking say whatever the fuck I want, and whatever the fuck I believe is right in my mind. We sort of talked last year, but she just got so fucking high up my grill that I'd just had enough of it and started ignoring her completely. Hypocritical from my views of having to show respect to everyone, yes, but this girl is just so full of bullshit that I couldn't take it anymore.

A possibility is that while at lunch they could've been talking about me and how much I hate religion and people who fucking dump it on me [like her] and it could lead to Lauren's disliking of me. But I doubt that, because before, we agreed that our differences in opinions of certain people is not each other's business and we'll be friends anyway despite hating some of each other's friends.



Friday, February 11
I'm losing it. I can't write anymore. The special touch is gone. I'm turning into a fucking sap and there's nothing that can be done about it. And I'm going to keep sprouting up pointless posts until I get up to one thousand.




Where's Shaina?




Archives are up, enjoy. And this is a meaningless post. Because I'm fucking bored. And tired. I should go take a nap. Those are starting to get less and less rare, man.




God, I feel shitty. What's the fucking point of watching supermodels on Full Frontal Fashion while I fucking eat my ass off with Lays potato chips and rice cake? Even more upsetting is that dinner is in an hour and a half and the mother is going to be fucking pissed that I probably will be too full to eat all of my dinner and instead got full from junk food. Fuck you, it's comfort food. Comfort food for Christina is all food that tastes good. There's no point in the term "comfort food," because all food that we like makes us feel good. If we're eating something that we don't like, you might as well just call it shit and fucking deck the person in the face that is making you eat that shit, because they're shit too.

Eight hundred and twenty-four entries. This being the eight hundred and twenty-forth. Since the year of 2001. That's fucking amazing. But still not one thousand. I want to reach that goal before the end of this year. Which I probably will, because on LiveJournal it's already well over four hundred and I hadn't even been using that for a year yet. I'm thinking of dropping that fucking piece of Gwar shit anyway. I'd been neglecting my dear Blogger, just copying and pasting directly from the LiveJournal, as opposed to Blogger, who's served me well over these four years. I think I'll try to get the links for my archives. Then you could all laugh and ridicule me of how dumb and unflattering I was when I was younger. More like dumber and more unflattering than I already am right now.

Right now I'm kind of nervous. This morning in french class, I heard something that really disappointed me. But I'm barely even sure that it's true in the least bit.

So his other ex that's not in my geometyr class and her friend, who sit behind me in class, were talking about stuff. I was too busy staring at shit on the walls to listen to everything. But they always talk a lot and with a lot of volume so I heard some things here and there every so often. They were talking about Valentines' Day or some shit, and I didn't hear how he got into their conversation, and the ex's friend says that he's so cute. The ex then said something something blah blah I wasn't listening because I'm a stupid fuck, "He said, 'So do you want to go out for dinner sometime?'" That fucking struck me and I snapped out of stone-zone. And that's all that I can remember. But I think I heard something like that it was in the past, so it could just be nothing right now and I shouldn't have a fucking thing to worry about.

I fucking hate that class anyway. Those two girls aren't really my friends, but we get along just fine. The teacher annoys the shit out of me, and it's just the aura of complete loser-ness in the classroom, including the teacher, that I just can't fucking take. Luckily enough, yesterday I was called into guidance for scheduling and I'm not taking anymore languages. Thank you, my guidance counselor Mr. Naclerio.

I'm starting to really consider that I really have nothing to worry about at all, because after getting changed after gym class, I decided to go outside again and find someone to talk to, again. De ja vu? Sort of, but no words and no ice cream and no group of friends and lack of proper jeanswear. As I opened the door, he was walking towards it to go inside while I was going outside, and when he suddenly sees me and I suddenly see him, oh man, he looked pretty fucking surprised when he saw me. Kind of odd for him to look surprised, because he's one of those types that just look too fucking cool twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Like just too cool to even show emotion.

Today was tiring, last night I went to bed at around 11:30 and couldn't fall asleep until around midnight.

Just not in the mood to be funny right now. I'm turning into a fucking pussy. I'm fucking pulling an Axl.

Lunch was so fucking amusing though. Sat with Eric, Ferris, and Kristen, and all this crazy shit ensued. But you know what? I don't feel like fucking writing about it. Nor about my Conan O'Brien day. What fucking knocked me off was that I just read that my friend in California fucking saw JIMMY FUCKING PAGE and he smiled at her.



Thursday, February 10
What the fuck, Blogger? I've been editing my posts, fixing things around, switching this word and that word to make things more clear, and now why the fuck is my old rough copy shit still here? Where the fuck did my corrections go?




I am in such a mood to love. I want to take care of someone and to love them, and to make sure that they are happy. After reading Brittany's journal, it has given me this most fulfilling feeling. She's so deep and inspirational. What a great fucking person she is. I admire her a lot. Even her flaws, which she claims to be so horrifically difficult to overcome. But yet she deals with them in such a way, in most cases to overcoming them and beating them to the fucking ground. God, she's too fucking awesome and is such a beautiful person inside.

People, including Brittany, say that, "To love, one must first learn to love themself." I think I've mentioned before that I think I have reached this level of confidence. Or at least almost. I can definitely tell that there is some insecurity within me still, but at the same time I couldn't really give a fuck. I want to love someone and be real fucking sure they feel the same way back. It would be the greatest feeling in the world. Only to feel this emotion, even for just a little while, would make my life worth living after all. Caring about someone and knowing that they appreciate you and love you so much back just fucking fills your heart up so much. Maybe Christina is starting to learn to give rather than to take.

But yesterday is a terrible example.

Maybe it's my hormones speaking, or I really do want to help someone. Or fulfull someone. It would be great. And I'm destined to find that fucker.





So I heard he has temper problems. His ex, who also happens to be my friend, was talking me in geometry today. We had to work in groups on these stupid problems. Jimmy was also in our group, since he had no one else to be with. I kind of felt bad for Jimmy, because he was doing all the work while my friend and I just talked away like he's some dumb shit. While we were talking and Jimmy was working, he suddenly comes by, and jokingly tries to sneak one of the papers for the answers from Jimmy. It was very cute, but after what my friend told me, I started to ponder.

She told me that he has temper problems. And you know what? I seriously, cannot, cannot, fucking have imagined that. Or even slightly thought about that kind of a possibility of a trait. Apparently, he gets ticked off over the dumbest little things, so she claims. But she's definitely telling the truth, I've known her since seventh grade and is an honorable person.

Supposedly, as popular as he seems, she said that this year it's declining. Only people that are close with him or got close with him in some way, knows he gets pissy. Everyone else sees him just as I do. I still can't fucking believe this. From an acquiantance's point of view, he's the fucking coolest kid on the block. As a matter of fact, he's a fucking hell of a lot like Fonzie. He wears a leather jacket, has dark hair, and can do anything, and I mean anything [in a fucking awesome stylish way]. Oh man, he even does that "Heeeey" thing with his thumbs up so accurately. Haha, his ex and I were laughing when she called his jacket "Him and his Fonzie jacket" while he was sitting in his seat writing stuff or whatever and well it doesn't seem funny right now but it damn sure was funny before.

When they went out, they fought a lot. Some really bad fights supposedly. I don't know what they were about, but that doesn't really matter. Makes me nervous.

I've never even seen this dude get pissed off. Yeah, when we used to sit next to each other in class before the fucking teacher moved everyone, I made a lot of mistakes in my work, claimed (honestly) that I didn't know how to fucking do anything, and he was the most fucking laid back guy ever, he didn't fucking care and took it like a gentleman. Possibly more laid back than I am.

She also told me that he threatened some dude that he'd fucking punch him in the face at the cafeteria a while ago for calling him some name I think, and most likely has done that a few other times to other various poor fucks. She says he yells and curses and shit, but I'm still very confused and fucking skeptical. It's too unbelievable to believe. You have no idea how.

And how does this affect my opinion of him? To tell you the truth, I think he's still incredibly cute though. Sort of makes me like him even more. But that sounds fucking childish and girly and shallow. I would probably still love him anyway despite his temper, for I've dealt with a lot of people's issues and come to accept it, and in some cases even find it as one of their perfections, as opposed to a flaw. Sometimes it just adds to how much more I love about that person. She even describes that he looks so natural when he gets pissed off. I don't know. I think rockstars are fucking gorgeous, even with their crazy tempers. Which adds to their sex appeal. This guy might be the same as it comes to my taste. Maybe since I'm such a fucking lazy puss who loves to make people happy (those ones that I care about), we could get along great. Even when someone gets angry at me, I just shut the fucking hell up. Fighting back isn't my thing. I hope patience and anger could cancel each other out.

I've seen his past girlfriends (which is only two that I know of), and admittedly, I wondered why the relationships never lasted long and how I never saw them together very often. I beg to differ if it comes to be, and hopefully not an on-and-off thing, those are way too fucking confusing.

But then again, lately I've been discovering my own bitchy side. When I'm fucking pissed off, I'm fucking pissed off. It's extremely rare, anyway. Like Axl Rose stepping out of his bear cave. And if anything does happen, I hope I never fucking piss "Fonzie" off too. That would very likely cause the next extinction of the dinosaurs. In this case, extinction of the humans and other poor creatures that happen to be above ground at the time.

I also happen to love watch people getting pissed and fucking scream or beat each other out. It's so amusing. Yet, I don't think I'd want to let him get into trouble though. Perhaps, rather, I'd like to help [to cool things down].

So, it led me to the conclusion that he was perhaps jealous of me working close to Jimmy? Please, that kid is so un-good looking, and totally a nerd. That was cool anyway, I like attention. I need attention, bitch. It was cute if he really was sort of jealous though. The teacher just happened to seat Jimmy next to me, and since no one else wanted him to be in their group, he just had to join me and my friend.

Still, all of this came as such a fucking surprise to me. Almost makes me afraid. I'm a pussy, not to mention that I indeed have one too, so maybe I shouldn't be afraid. She doesn't know I have a thing for him either and wishingly vice versa, and I felt extremely guilty answering that I didn't like anybody and was just desperate when she asked me if I did like anyone. We both agreed that we would both be fucking lonely on Monday, which I can guarantee you is going to happen.

Natalia and I said we'd become rappers if no one asked either of us out on Monday. The fucking wigger kids in our art class were blasting their stupid fucking music on the boombox, as so every single fucking class, and the lyrics are nothing about those stupid fucks' shitty lives and how fucking pissed they are about it. In other words, they're like emo artists who can't sing (not that emo artists can sing anyway), but decide to speak their pain instead of playing and singing their pain. Then we'd kill ourselves afterward. For being lonely, and for being rappers.



Wednesday, February 9
I MET CONAN.

I MET LA BAMBA.

LA FUCKING BAMBA!



Tuesday, February 8
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ERICA!!

Since I won't be home tomorrow and you so strikingly mentioned your fabulous big 1-8 not so long ago, I decided that I will be the first of all the other stupid fuckers and beat them to it. I wish you a great adulthood and lots of sex, cigarettes, and Rolling Stones concerts. And as you can see, that Poison's Greatest Hits CD you bought surely went to your head.




Lauren's neighbor's house is on fire. She's afraid it will affect our day tomorrow, which probably won't happen, she says. She promises me it won't. I hope she's right, because she keeps her promises, unlike a certain bitch who takes such offers for granted and is writing this shit that you are reading right now. She lives next door to this apparently hot seventeen or eighteen year old's house and not surprisingly he does a lot of crazy shit. I wonder what happened.

The mother is getting ready to go to this chinese new year thing at a church with her friend, the perky June Cleaver-like mother from last Saturday. She said she's only going to see how it is and hopefully make some new friends. The rest of us (thankfully) stay home and sleep and shit. She won't be coming back until around one in the morning I think. And I highly doubt that she's cheating on us with a rich white man.

Today was peachy. Failed a chemistry quiz, the teacher kept remind me to do my shit in desktop publishing, and the computer never fucking works for me when I need it in art class.

I'm doing this next thing because I pathetically [and usually] have a shitload of time on my hands.

So "the bucket" is closed off due to construction purposes. Now we have to walk around the entire school to get to a once very close destination. Observe. The picture is very resized because Photoshop wants to divorce me and in Paint, one is not allowed to save as JPEG.



The little red lines at the ends of the backwards G are the pertaining doors. See how it used to be very easy to get around? Now, one is locked up. Complete with caution tape on the inside of the door. Yet, the other one is open for losers who have to take the bus, which comes from the back of the school, so they are able to actually get into the goddamn place. Which no one wants to, but sadly they leave this door in continuation of its use.

"Cum Pot" stands for the academy building. Where all the fancy labs and classrooms where smartie pants fucktards go, separated from us stupid feeble-minded shits. It's located on top of the hill and there are steps in front of it to get there. This is another reason why one door, the aforementioned one, is still in use. I hate each and every student who is of this level and goes to school in this secluded insane asylum. Thing is, the patients choose to go there.

What is the point of all this? I now have to walk a hell of a lot more. Fuck, I do more movement than I do in gym class. Instead of doing exercises and playing stupid games with stupid people, they could just make me walk around the school a few times and I'll get a heart attack. I am extremely out of shape for someone who is as fat as a piece of wire bent to be straight. Oh man, oxymoron right there. Two actually. Double time!

How ironic that I tend to try to not buy books and borrow them from the library instead, being that it's for free. But I end up having overdue fees of up to a record of eight dollars today. Being the bratty skank bitch that I am, the mother paid for my late fee. What else is there better to do besides go back home? I take out another book. This new one is called Villa Incognito. A certain someone recommended the author to me, so I decided to check this author out. I remember him telling me about analogies involving Twinkies or something that the author used in his writing, and that was what sparked me into taking interest. I still feel bad that I didn't hear whatever else he said, because he has a hot voice. No wonder I'm not an academy kid.

The first sentence of the book made me smile already:

It has been reported that Tanuki fell from the sky using his scrotum as a parachute.

Now what kind of a motherfucker wouldn't like that beginning of a book? So I ditched doing homework to read some further pages of this novel.

If you haven't already noticed, I finished The Dirt. Not Slander though. Although it was really captivating and quite very fucking interesting and I learned a hell of a lot of shit from it, it's just one of those things that I can't keep on reading for long periods time, which meant that I couldn't keep on reading it if I only spent about five minutes once a day trying to complete the whole thing. Maybe I should put it on my list of Books to Someday (Not) Finish, along with that Jimi Hendrix biography.

The fact that I don't know shit about politics added to my incompletion of the book. I just can't get into that. How could Christina get into governmental issues? Read that sentence over and think about it.

In geometry I couldn't settle down. I kept getting up for stupid reasons, such as throwing each Starburst wrapper away [separately], resting my legs up on empty chairs and tapping my pen, and holy mother of god, I raised my hand to answer a question. Actually, I did it just so the teacher wouldn't call on me another time to answer a question that I didn't know the answer to. That would cause embarassment, being that I did not know anything except for that one answer, which was to state one side of a proportion by looking at two triangles with only one of their sides measured. To be even more actual, it wouldn't have been much of an embarassment anyway if I'd gotten anything wrong, because I'm used to it. I'm used to being a dumb shit who couldn't give a fuck about math because I've got my good friend The Calculator and The Person Closest to My Pestering Distance for doing that.

Art class was fucking hell. It gets worse and worse every day. Natalia and I tried to come up with errands to do, just to stay out. It worked for only a little while. She's in the ski club, and suggested that I join. But, all of you should know that I can't do shit. So I rejected. All the cool kids, not to mention the most hot asses too, are there. Maybe that should be a reason I should get up off my ass and take a lame attempt at snowboarding. I highly doubt that will happen anyway. I'm only saying it to make myself feel good. Which isn't working.

Eric drove me home along with Amy and Tom. Then my mother yelled at me because she saw that I had ripped the patches that she had sewn over the holes in my jeans. Now she says that she will either sew new ones back on, or that I will never wear those pants again. That broke my heart.

Even if I am extremely fucking tired right now for reasons beyond my knowledge, I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight. The most probable explanation for this lack of being able to snooze and lose is of stress. Not negative stress, but just thinking too much about too much of everything, which is already too much to even begin with.




Monday, February 7
Ah, the weight on my shoulders that is tons of homework! I love not keeping my promises.

I had an absolutely horrible bad hair day. Strands in the front kept sticking up, and like one person said, they looked like devil horns. How humiliating. No matter how much fucking water I put on my head, it did nothing. Now I'm convinced that my hair isn't perfect anymore.

Last night I had an extremely hard time sleeping. It was either my outrageous hormones were getting in the way of my beauty sleep, or Conan O'Brien is taunting me until Wednesday.

Almost done reading The Dirt. It is quite very good.

God, am I having writers' block.

Christina? Writers' block? Yes, it's true, you fucking read it and inscribed it into your mind.

Oh, and I think I'm starting to grow out of my leather jacket. It's starting too look pretty unproportional. But I'm too cheap to go buy. The folks probably won't buy me another one, because they'll complain that it'll still look exactly the same as the current one or that they really still hate that type of jacket even more. If they make a compromise, and if that compromise is for me to get a white one, I might as well wear a Winger t-shirt to school.

I am so oldfashioned. I like to buy the same clothes over and over, sometimes even multiple items of the same thing. I'd like to get the same leather jacket, and the same pair of sneakers. Both are falling apart. Actually only my shoes. Jacket is just shrinking. Or I'm growing. I even want another Swan Song t-shirt. But this time a girl shirt that isn't so insanely large. I ain't no fatass.

So excited for Wednesday. Here's the schedule.

-go to school until 11:00
-mom picks up
-lauren picks up from home in a few minutes
-drive to new york
-arrive at noon
-pick up our tickets
-eat at a fancy restaurant
-if there's any remaining time, go shopping
-show up for the taping at around 5:00 or so
-show ends at 6:30 or 7:00 or whatever the fuck
-try to get close enough to conan to pinch ass or mess up pompadour
-go home
-say hello to parents
-shower
-masturbate
-not be able to sleep for three hours considering the crazy day that just passed
-fall asleep
-dream about wayne newton
-wake up in middle of night horrified by such terror
-wake up at appropriate time
-wishes to repeat




Sunday, February 6
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!








Yeah, fuck you Axl. You weren't at the Super Bowl.




My pact to stop obsessing over the internet has broken. After only three days. More like two, because I didn't go to bed until 1:00 last night.

Why am I so tired all the time? No matter how much or how less I sleep at what time, I still always yawn like a bitch. Even during gym class while running or during an evacuation drill or watching Welcome to the Videos. Especially during gym class. Maybe I'm meant to be a bum. Sometimes I hope there isn't something seriously wrong with me though. Probably isn't. Or maybe. Who knows.

Writing papers fucking ruin my day. Why can't the teachers ask us questions individually and we can explain our answers that way instead? Speaking is much faster and easier, not to mention easier to understand, than writing. So much more comes to mind that way.

Last night at the party [if you could call it that], the usual subject of my acne came up. Thanks to my mom. All she talks about are my flaws. I haven't heard her say something good about me in months. She even said she was afraid that I'll never be able to get a husband. Now that's the most bullshit I've ever heard since a Gwar song. If Lyle Lovett can get chicks like Julia Roberts, then I could get dudes like Colin Farrell. God, just because I have some blemishes here and there doesn't make me a fucking toad. I don't call myself grade-A sexy ass, but I can't call myself grade-Z fucking nutbag either.

But you know what? Fuck her, I like the way I look. She bases too much shit on vanity. It makes it even worse that she's pretty hot herself, non-homosexually speaking. So it could be a case of arrogance, feeling that no one can beat herself in terms of good looks.

What else fucking scared the living fucking shit out of me was this afternoon at lunch, she asked how Alan was. And I swear to fucking god to fucking Jesus to fucking Mary to fucking satan that I was completely disgusted. She said it exactly as "So how is he?" Fucking god, is he the fucking Gwar of possibilities for Christina to hook up with. Is my mother really that fucking close-minded to think that fucking douche is my type? I almost even felt insulted about the boy from school too. Perhaps she wasn't talking about Alan in that type of way, but I could tell that she totally was. Also because she didn't ask about anybody else. Not Ellen or their parents. This fucking sickens me. I fucking hate asian males to begin with, and talking about this dumb shit? Gag me with a spoon.

I've always considered my mother to be a smart person, but come on, this is quite the obvious. Judging by the way I dress and my interests and my lack of enthusiasm in school should imply that Alan and I are like a negative and a negative charge facing each other - they try to get the fuck away. This is incredibly disgusting.

It made me almost think of it as an insult to the dude from school because it sort of makes me think that the dude from school is a fucking loser and that Alan, being a great student as his mother claims, is good for me. Even my mom acknowledges how ugly this stupid fuck is. And she asks me what I think of him. What a fucking diss.





He's Beautiful.



Saturday, February 5
I hate those nights where you just feel so lonely and unfulfilled. And empty. Such as tonight. I'm so fucking horny also, that if I were a dude I'd be having this apocalyptical erection all the way to Monday when I'm in school and can finally be around some hot ass. Man, I feel like some two hundred pound forty-five year old man who's going through his mid-life crisis. No spouse, children taken away, god awfully ugly, drives a PT Cruiser, in financial debt higher than Ryan Stiles.

So the party only had only four people invited actually - two parents and their two kids. The other kid is at a sleepover. The kids who did come are a dude, one year younger than I, and I couldn't give a fuck how old the chick is, but I do know that she's younger than him. I feel incredibly guilty for not even trying to be sociable for the sake of my parents, because they don't have many friends, and this other family is pretty much all they have left. They've gone through pretty much what I'm going through right now - they're starting to discover the bad sides of their friends. They're eliminating the assholes in their life who they know will always bullshit them. And this is what I do; Not even help keep the bond between pretty much their only friends left and reverting back to old habits - hiding in my room doing stupid shit on the computer and neglecting everyone, not giving a single fuck.

From the beginning when I first met these people I knew I wouldn't bond with them very well. The middle daughter, Yvonne, was the one that I parted with most. But she happens to be the one who was at the sleepover and couldn't come tonight. As the two families, mine and theirs, met more often, I started to gradually drift away more and more. Why? I'm not sure, but here's my explanation.

These folks are not unique in any way. They're the quintessential successful american family. More successful financially and talentwise also. Not to mention that my mom keeps mentioning how pretty she thinks Yvonne is. The children bore the hell out of me, although Yvonne is pretty fun to talk to sometimes, but she does lack anything unique to distinguish her from any other ordinary young girl. I mean, they're just too perfect. Talk about boredom. In a sense, or actually totally, I love sick and twisted people. People that are fucking crazy. People that live fucking complicated lives and who just are so full of different things to learn about and do things with. These people, you can't. The boy who's a year younger than me, Alan, unsurprisingly is a poser. Like Tim, who I've mentioned about at the Christmas party a while ago. He's one of those ugly asian fucks who walk hunched over wearing a hoodie trying to look cool. I think he was almost trying to be a "gangsta." I put it in quotes because it is not a word that I use regularly. Nor do I ever want to use it regularly.

And Ellen, the youngest child, is about twelve I think, and is really quite childish actually, way more than she should be. She's allowed to wear makeup and was wearing eyeliner, but was still as unpleasant looking as always. Yeah, she's nice, but that's it. Same thing with Alan. But these folks just don't have the genuine things that I tend to look for in a person. I don't feel as if I can really click with them in any way. No one got my sarcasm really. And who the fuck says "Dangit!"? Stupid shit.

As for the parents, I especially like the father. He's a great guy and I can tell that he's very well-rounded. He's the success that I was talking about. He has professions in a lot of fields but isn't an asshole. I feel that I can learn a lot from him, and I can definitely respect him more than a lot of other people that I've met.

The mother, she's a sweetheart, but too perky and perfect, nothing really special. She's also a conformist and tries to mirror new young trends in clothing and such. All this new Misses' style in clothing looks horrible on her forty-something year old midget body. Her smile definitely brings light to a room, but that smile is sort of empty.

Throughout the entire night, even while everyone was sitting at the table eating, I kept fucking regretting and hating myself that I didn't want to bond with these people. If I didn't like anybody at all, it would eventually ruin the relationship between my parents and their parents. I don't want to hurt my folks' feelings just because of my selfish opinions of people. Much less forcing them to lose anymore friends.

I also feel kind of bad because, not much went on on Friday regarding getting closer to getting some ass. I think it's because one of my best friends, whom is quite an exceptionally good looking guy, always hangs out with me, I always hang out with him, we're always around each other. But he's got a girlfriend and I have no interest in him at all. You could definitely say that it looks like we're going out because we're always around each other, but it's nothing more than a friendship. Besides, we only hang out in school. He knows my issues with my folks and the fact that I can't go out very often. So the guy who kindly made my entire decade is probably questioning if I've got something for this friend of mine. I don't. And I think he's intimidated by the fact that we hang out too much and this is keeping him from doing anything.

I can't believe that it was the first time that I ever wanted this good friend to fuck off. Even if we are close, I'm still too afraid to go up to him. He's always coming to me anyway, I'm an ass like that. I fucking killed myself in my mind for ever wanting him to go away, so I could actually get farther with this other guy whom I really do adore. It's confusing. And sounds just like a teenage drama. Well I guess it is, because I'm a teenager and this is drama, asshole. Now I feel bad because I said something bad in my mind about a close friend whom I care a lot about, and this other guy whom I do have feelings for. Maybe I should tell my friend about this guy. Then he'd start pinching my cheeks or something and I'd go all red and he'd pinch them even harder just to piss me off.

Wow, I'm feeling like such a puss tonight.

"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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