Saturday, April 30



You're Animal Farm!

by George Orwell

You are living proof that power corrupts and whoever leads you will
become just as bad as the past leaders. You're quite conflicted about this emotionally
and waver from hopelessly idealistic to tragically jaded. Ultimately, you know you can't
trust pigs. Your best moments are when you're down on all fours.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.










Friday, April 29
Time for shitfaced amateur writer mode that does not require the sobriety (or lack of, whatever suits you) that is usually needed to read Christina's crap.

My mom agreed to let me go see the Dali exhibition in Philadelphia. We just have to check with my dad's schedule.

I now have permission to go into her room whenever I want to borrow any precious item of clothing I want.

In addition to that, she gave an extremely sexalicious tank and cardigan set to me claiming that it was too tight for her now. No pictures.

I think I understand this new mathematical portion in chemistry for once, not a single drop of sleep in class today at all. I couldn't anyway because I didn't want to ruin my mom's shirt in any way by leaning on furniture that's been touched by academy kids.

There was this horribly funky smell in desktop publishiing. I didn't want to work with the fear of that fucking smell sticking to my hair.

Patrick and Eric played this trick on me at lunch. The three of us were sitting on the steps outside and I go back in for a bit to go buy some Junior Mints. I come back out and see that they were not there. Then they come crawling out of this bush and scare the shit out of me. Har har ha ha very funny, great idea, Pat. But whenever I think back on it I fucking laugh, what a great memory. I cracked up so bad at myself that Raxa commented about how I was so fucking red.

We had a test in geometry. It was hard in some parts. I probably flunked anyway.

Fuck this I'm going to bed.













Thursday, April 28
My mom was telling me this story of her trip to the chinese supermarket today, and how when she saw this delicious looking tank of crabs and asked the man who was working there if she could pick the ones that she was going to buy, and not him instead. He said yes and gave her the tongs so she could pick out the juicy ones and put them in the bag that he was holding for her. Then from all the way at the fish section, here comes this older man, walks up to the man who was holding the bag of crabs, grabs the bag out of his hands and says, "Are you picking the crabs?" My mom answers, "Yes, I am." And then the fucking prick announces, "You can't pick them! Only I can!" So then she rightfully gets infuriated and decides not to buy any at all.

It's disrespect like this that makes my fucking blood boil so hot that it turns to steam and seeps through my skin. Like I've said many times before, the #1 thing that sets me off is disrespect and extremely unnecessary rudeness, such as in this case. It pisses me off so fucking badly that I almost fucking flipped out when my mom told me this. We both were in a happy mood and this was an innocent story, but it got me to the level of using the word "asshole" to and in front of her in a conversation for once. I know she doesn't prohibit me to use this language, but I never use it in front of her because I just can't sound like a fucking asshole to someone I respect as much as I respect her.

Sometimes I really wish I could meet somebody who's capable of talking about literature and history and such, but at the same time they're the most fucking awesome person to be around. Someone like the Fonz but has the capability of talking about anything other than what's going on in Hollywood or your drug dealer. And someone who is fucking crazy and shoots animals for fun, or in other words is as sadistic as I am. And no, I'm not looking for another fucking internet friend. I'm talking about a signifcant other. Usually this type of person comes with a crappy temper but I don't really give a fuck. As long as they're not like Chris from the current season of The Apprentice kind of short tempered, it's alright. I could be a fucking loon also, but then again all of us are in one way or another.

Today was okay. I learned that cardigans are very comfortable to wear. Not the old man Mr. Rogers kind though, or the Alice Cooper kind that he wore in that Staples commercial. I borrowed my mom's and it was quite pretty. I think I'm sprouting this new obsession of borrowing her clothes. I'm so envious of practically 85% of it. My clothes are starting to become so boring and tiring to wear. Along with the fact that I'm tired of smelling my smell, that same smell, all the time, every fucking day. They just don't smell fresh and new like hers; her and her damn way of caring for clothes so masterfully. I don't know, I tend to stink up everything pretty badly. Which makes borrowing her clothes pretty difficult, I predict because of the fear of staining, ripping, or sweating the hell out of them. So if you're one of my mom's shirts, I am sorry to hurt you in the near future. Sucks that you can't sprout little legs and run away from my evil death grip.

Wearing black pants is terribly riskae. While waiting for class to be over, this guy who was trying to pass in front of me to get to his friend, and while excusing him to pass in front of me, I leaned into the chalkboard behind me by accident, with my ass hitting the tray thing that holds the chalk and erasers. So there was this huge white and yellow bar on my black ass. I hate dusting things off of my ass.

Gym was an easy day. Did stretches and hid away from playing softball for the rest of the period, because the tennis courts were being re-lined. I love having gym with Lindsay, because she's the only one who fully understands my hatred of athletics, and she feels the exact same way about it too. So we both like to scheme our little prissy asses out of doing any kind of breaking of a sweat.

I don't like the fact that Lauren is telling Helen about my personal life. I no longer want to associate with Helen and it's making everything even worse that even if she doesn't know that I no longer want to speak to her, she's also getting the 411 on my fucking life. Life as in man problems. It's not her fucking business. Now I hear she and Lauren want to go scouting out boys with me. And not to mention, that Helen is the worst fucking person to possibly seduce a guy with. Definitely. Just thinking about her makes my clit tighten itself even more shut. No need for nails.



Wednesday, April 27
So he chose someone else. That is what that last Jack Handey's "Deep Thought" was about. During this time around in failure of finding love, I am not as overtly sad as opposed to any other type of almost optimistic feeling. I think I can handle this, and hopefully handle it well. As a matter of fact, at first I started out confused, then got angry, and now I am quite determined to prove everyone wrong that I am not inferior to them. No crying, that is fucking ridiculous. Keep in mind that I am nothing near that.

I could be taking this too seriously, still. He could be playing a game to make me jealous; et cetera, et cetera. But using someone like that without their knowing is absolutely devious, he wouldn't do that to somebody.

I am just fine with this, I'm not that hurt at all. It's just that I'm so fucking confused. Baffled. I don't think this other girl is right for him at all. Mainly because well, like I've said, she lacks the depth and character of a suitable person for such a great individual such as he himself. In other words, she's too much of a bitch, shall I say, for him.

Another cause of my sincere astonishment and concern is that I don't want her to end up treating him like she had done to me. So I'll clear this out for you.

She and I were great friends in our earlier years of knowing each other, and then up to this year for some reason way beyond my knowledge, her head is suddenly three thousand feet up in the clouds, and ignores me. We, over the past few weeks or so, have, in tiny doses, started talking and rekindling our friendship again. But it feels like we're starting over; We are complete strangers; I can never interact with her in the same free way as I had before. It's just awkward now and I have quite a feeling that she wants nothing to do with me anymore - And all of this, I have absolutely no idea why.

Except for that usual excuse of being teenagers in high school, which is probably it. But I would really like for a better reason of her ignorance and conceitedness.

So in conclusion, I don't want him to be in the risk of being hurt and ignored by someone that he cares for. Just like what had happened to me.

Maybe I care about certain people too much and I should just suck it up and move the fuck on, and leave people alone. Which I will. But I hate the possibility of whenever talking to any of those two in the future, I will always have this overbearing dark cloud weighing me down inside, this guilt-ridden feeling.













Monday, April 25
I'm confused, man. Usually I'm cruising along like a fucking genius throughout the whole of an A day, and totally drop down to a fucking shithead when I'm supposed to be creative in art class. But today it was the opposite. I thought straight in art class and couldn't think at all during the entire rest of the day. Not fucking fair.

So I know you want something funny to read, and here it is, you selfish fuck.

I was in the bathroom bending over washing my hands. The shirt that I'm wearing already has a shelf bra in it, so there was no need to wear a separate bra to school today. And looking in the mirror while bending over, there was a peep show. Not cool. It only happens when I bend down too far like that, so otherwise everything else is a-okay. Thank god lockers face the wall or else I feel sorry for the people walking pass me in the hallway.



Sunday, April 24
White trash. Southerners. Rednecks. Hicks. I fucking hate them. Lauren tried to make me go to some "hippie fest" or "concert" with her in Kentucky or Tennessee a while ago, and I said, "You fucking kidding me? I'm ASIAN." Then Eric kids, "Haha, they'll paint you white. Get all that yellow off!" I don't know, that's the best I could recall that conversation.

Whenever I see someone declaring their pride of being from the South, my blood fucking boils. You can't take racism seriously unless it's actually happened to you. What do hicks have to be proud of? Farming? Marshes? Manatees? Lawn chairs? What the fuck is there to be proud of?

On the E! network they had a list of "50 Steamiest Southern Stars." And for the set they had the commentators sit on lawn chairs. Fucking lawn chairs. Now that is a fucking goddamn shame. I'm not even going to explain it for you.

That doesn't make me proud of being a "northerner" either. I don't fucking care where I come from. Fuck this, I don't even want to talk about this anymore.













Saturday, April 23
Worst band name ever: The Cubes of Ham

That's right, I thought it up all by myself. While I was chopping up pieces of ham for the pizza that my mom and I were making. Music never gets out of my mind, even when I'm on the can. I'm a stupid fuck like that. One night, I think it was last Sunday or Monday, and I just woke up in the middle of the night for no reason and suddenly out of nowhere, just like my having been woke up for no reason, I get "Buddy Holly" stuck in my head. What makes it so weird is that I haven't heard that song in about a year, or maybe even longer.

I don't get why this time while chopping onions I cried like crazy. It's like, once my allergies start to seriously fuck up, onions start to fuck me up too. When one plant fucks with me, all plants fuck with me. Stupid fucking plants. They're fucking stupid because they grow out of dirt. Dirt. Dirt as in dirty. Dirty is often associated with slutty, which is just full of shit. See, you fucking plants ain't got nothing good going for you. You grow out of the fucking smutpot that we call the earth and very often lots of animals take shits on you. You got nothing going for you. So kids, don't be a plant when you're going to be reincarnated. I'd rather be a toaster. Because no one ever shits on a toaster. Have you ever heard of someone who has shit on a toaster? Uh, no. You'd fucking burn your ass and leave an equal sign across your two ass cheeks. And when you gotta go to that school play of yours, with that math song and when your classmates hold up their signs - one kid holding up a sign that says "2," the other one holding a sign that says "+," the next holding up one that says "2," and then suddenly you throw your stupid ugly fucking cheaply made construction paper sign across the stage, pull your pants down and show to all of the parents in the audience your all natural proppy buttcheeks. You don't need your teacher's handmade props. Your natural meaty ones are way better.

And just fucking forget that last kid with the last sign. He probably wrote "5" on his anyway.

But still, nobody ever shits on toasters. What if there was bread cooking in the slots? Who the hell wants a chunk of carbohydrates up their ass? Uh, nobody. Bread is not toilet paper or constipation medicine, missy. Have some fucking common sense. There is no way in history or the future, or even right now, that anyone would ever shit on a toaster. There's just no sense whatsoever in that. A book, I understand. Because you could just rip out the pages after taking your dump as toilet paper. If you ever decide to shit on a book, I recommend one about Axl Rose. You'd be putting your ass on pussy. Makes perfect sense. It's like butt sex in a way.

And if you do happen to shit on a toaster, do not even think about thinking that it will cook and disintegrate your shit, therefore putting the sanitation company out of business. It will leave a horrible aftertaste for the next person who's going to use that toaster to toast bread. And I don't think scraping off the excess flakes with a knife won't help either. So basically the toaster is wasted, unless you just use it specifically for taking a shit.

Then what to do with the toilet? I honestly don't know, except that you could maybe try to create some kind of a new "modern art" kind of fountain for your front yard.

I think I have developed a new fetish. No more chocolate. It is now California oranges. Today my mom taught me how to peel them in that special way where you don't have to hold the slice with both hands but like in the clementine way where you just put the whole piece in your mouth. And from that moment on I felt my life skyrocketing to a bright and beautiful future.

My mother and I are the worst pizza makers in history. It could be because we're asian. She didn't buy oregano, and she didn't buy the right type of cheese. What's even worse was, after already putting on all of the toppings and shit and putting it in the oven, she forgot to put salt and in a rush, accidentally puts way too much salt on it and then sticks it back into the oven. Eating it was like eating a flat clump of sand that was picked out of the ocean floor. Well my pizza was better I would have to say, because I didn't put as much salt. Yes, that is the best I could boast about my pizza making skills.

Sometimes Bon Scott's voice is too gurgly. He needs to clear his throat and spit out a nice big loogie. Preferably on Malcolm so he could totally flip out and we could watch him go bonkers. And yes, Bon Scott is extremely ugly. I couldn't help but notice that his nipples are about three inches lower than they are supposed to be. Or maybe it's just that his chest hair starts at around the middle of his chest and it gives the illusion of wrongly placed nipples. He's gross. And I remember watching Behind the Music: AC/DC, and them saying that he'd constantly get into bar fights and he'd constantly get his teeth knocked out. Even more gross. If he were to be a woman, he'd probably be one of those with those naturally saggy boobs, drooping all the way down to his dangerzone. Now I know I'm going a little too far, but I only speak of the truth. No lies from Christina, ever.

You scored as Satanism. Your beliefs most closely resemble those of Satanism! Before you scream, do a bit of research on it. To be a Satanist, you don't actually have to believe in Satan. Satanism generally focuses upon the spiritual advancement of the self, rather than upon submission to a deity or a set of moral codes. Do some research if you immediately think of the satanic cult stereotype. Your beliefs may also resemble those of earth-based religions such as paganism. Satanism 96% Islam 83% agnosticism 63% atheism 54% Buddhism 42% Paganism 38% Christianity 33% Judaism 29% Hinduism 8% Which religion is the right one for you? (new version) created with QuizFarm.com

Friday, April 22
I don't want Sunday to come. I have to go to my dad's friend's house for his going away party [to Florida] and I won't be able to get home until around one or two in the morning. My mother said I have the option of not going, but not going will be extremely impolite. I've known this guy ever since I was a little bitch and just not seeing for this last time is just horrible. That means my hair won't be in tiptop condition for Monday if I don't sleep and instead fuck it up by going to a latenight party. And Monday is an A day. A days are important. B days are not. If Monday were a B day I wouldn't give the least fuck about this at all.

Okay get ready for the ultimate guilty pleasure: Jennifer Lopez - On the Six. I really liked that song "If You Had My Love."

Okay that's it for incredibly embarassing moments, no details.

Goo Goo Dolls are another guilty pleasure, but I'm not as embarassed to say it. Maroon 5 is a bit more embarassing but I'll say it anyway. I LIKE MAROON 5.

There. Got it off my chest. Oh boy, I hate saying that I got something off my chest because it makes me think of getting a breast reduction or food off the boob area of my shirt something. Which I seriously do not need at all. I need the exact opposite, and a lot of it. How many non-Marshmallow-Man-like asians have big boobs? Not many.

Sometimes I really wonder who the fucking hell actually reads this. Who actually knows me and/or goes to my school. It's such a question. One that I am extremely curious about. And if there are any who do and I haven't the slightest idea of their acknowledgement of this stupid shit that I say, well then congratulations, you have entered my realm of complete boredom. Or rather, I should not congratulate you and I should tell you to go shove the other end of a stop sign up your ass because quite not so frankly, this is a complete waste of life. A complete waste of life for me, also. Not only do I sometimes read my own crap over, and I am obviously the one who writes this and I should have the great privilege of having a Gwar album wedged up my derriere.

No editing, because I'd be even more of a hypocrite.



Thursday, April 21
I'm getting so tired of the internet all of a sudden. I'm starting to fucking hate it. Despise it. There is absolutely no way that my life could possibly progress in the least bit by having me sit in front of the computer checking the same four websites over and over for five hours every day. I just can't stand it anymore. Or maybe it's just today, I've got other, much much more important things on my mind than having to deal with the same redundant bullshit all over that slows down my life by ten years. I can't even talk on AIM anymore, and I just end up hiding or away all the time. This abhorrence is up to the point of not wanting to talk to anyone unless I know them, and we could talk about something that we could actually relate to. I don't even take part in commenting anymore - in LiveJournal, Blogger, nor Myspace. It's all lame. Maybe this is the final step it takes to finally be rid of this other version of a drug problem. Once and for all, hopefully.

I also noticed that my entries have seriously sucked balls lately. There's just no umph, no spark, not as much crazy shit I could muster out of my pathetic mind anymore. I find my shit just droning and boring crap. There's not much originality left, in my opinion. I just can't stand it anymore, writing so much and not liking what you're writing at all. You probably think that it's my fault that my entries haven't been up to par, and it is. I just haven't found out what's wrong. I guess it's either I am extremely depressed or extremely in love. Those are the only two factors that I could think of that seem to be intercepting with my writing ability.



Wednesday, April 20
My allergies were so bad today. Such as in gym while we were doing fancy sit ups, I had to keep one hand on my nose trying to relieve the itch inside and the other elbow trying to touch my knee. Before that, I sneezed and made the whole gymnasium echo. Stupid fuck. Every time I sit by an open window, my nose and throat itch like I hadn't wiped my ass in five months and I am constantly squirming and bending my face into odd expressions because of the lack of care to use my hand and rub my fucking nose. Sometimes I wish I had someone who would hand me a tissue every fifteen minutes, or just whenever I need one. Preferably a hot guy. Hand me a tissue when I am having trouble and I'll fall for you like that.

First day of tennis in gym class and it was ninety degrees outside. Fucking sucked. I hit a ball backwards over the fence behind me so the teacher made me go around, through the gate, and retrieve the fucking thing in front of everyone having lunch. Not really embarassing though, I find it pretty funny. It doesn't make any fucking sense how tomorrow is going to be in the late fifties to low sixties. Stupid fuck. That means leather jacket weather, which is one plus.



Tuesday, April 19
I hate how when it's really bright and my eyes squint to an old chinese man whose face is so fat his eyelids are weighed down. It's this stupid asian tendency for their eyes to squint like fucking crazy and I look like a fucking grump when I'm outside. It's not even that sexy squint like James Dean or Clint Eastwood or something. It's that cranky ass squint like Mr. Smitty, Rocko's toad/whatever boss.

Got to wear my new Black Sabbath t-shirt today. It is very comfortable, I wish I could wear it tomorrow again but I'd be shunned upon as a stinky ho.

Blah blah blah this sucks.

Have you ever gotten to the point that you have so much clothes, and that you've worn them all so many times, and no matter how fabulous looking they still are, you're fucking tired of them by now and can never decide on something to wear? Well I have reached that point. For a while it's been bothering me that I know have to stuff my clothing into both dressers - the fancy one and the plastic one in the closet; and I keep running out of hangers so I have to keep stealing them from the laundry room every so often. I even have pants that I just have to start piling up in the closet. It's depressing. A lot of it is really crappy and unattractive, but then at the same time a lot is exceptionally sexalicious. It's just that I'm tired of this stuff. I think I've become a valley girl.

Kate Spade bags. I want one. Odd thing is, I have tons of pants and shirts and all that good stuff but I barely have any shoes or bags. I never want to wear different shoes nor do I like carrying bags. But I'm starting to become obsessed with them. Whenever I see a cute purse in some store I go fucking berserk, standing there for ten minutes deciding whether I should go tell my mom to buy it for me. Because we have this pact that she pays for all of my clothing, etc. as long as it isn't a crazy band shirt or some shit like that.

Allergies ain't cool. My mom and I were making these pastries after I got home and I kept sneezing everywhere and wiping snot all over the backs of my hands. But then of course I only needed my fingers and they were going to be steamed anyway, Christina-Germs be gone.

Oh my oh my oh my. He hung out with me at lunch today and even after he left and went to go play frisbee with his friends or something, he kept looking back and smiling. My god, he even smells good. He's even culturally enlightened. On Saturday, he said he's going to the Tribeca Film Festival in New York and then go shopping at the Village afterwards. That's fucking awesome, I wish I could go.

Chemistry was boring, desktop publishing was boring, lunch was nice, geometry was nice, art was not nice. Because my fucking etch thing sucked. Oh well, I couldn't really give a fuck anyway. It was a picture of an airplane engine that ended up looking like washing machine lint.

Now let me cheer myself up. This is a once in a lifetime thing, the following text that you will see.





HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

THUNDERSTRUCK!



Monday, April 18
I find myself on this gorgeous afternoon listening to the soundtrack to The Notebook. Anything that has to do with that movie fucking gets me. Last night I even shed a few tears just from thinking about it. Call me a fucking pussy, but that is what I am. That movie does wonders beyond my imagination. Psh, making Christina cry.

English class was so horrible today. It's so bad when the teacher keeps emphasizing certain words, particularly if they're stupid or annoying names. Natty BUMPpo, COOPer. She kept emphasizing these two names all class and no one had any fucking idea who these people were. Who the fuck is Natty Bumppo? Who the fuck is Cooper? Who in the fucking hell are these guys? Natty BUMPpo. COOPer. Natty Bumppo. Cooper. Natty Bumppo. Cooper. What the fuck? She keeps on saying their names all through class in her hour-and-a-half-long lecture and emphasizing all those capital letters. Until towards the end when she tells us that Natty Bumppo is a famous frontiersman. I still have no idea who Cooper is. Unless it's the same guy. I mean, come on. There's got to be at least four million people currently on this planet with that name, and a quadrillion people in the history of this planet who had that name. And might I emphasize, planet. Yeah, the irish ain't sparse breeders at all.

Natty Bumppo. I understand why this guy had so many pseudonyms.



Sunday, April 17
I hate it when I step on something and my foot starts bleeding. Because when your feet bleed, it is no nuisance like any other. Wherever you step, it looks like satan stamped his little "fuck you" happy pappy stamp on the floor wherever you go. Like teachers would have happy face stamps stamped on your paper, satan would have these little fuck you's. You know what, I don't know. This is lame.

Yeah so yesterday I had to go to my dad's friend's house and while watching TV I noticed something on my foot and the next thing I knew it was bleeding and I was partially handicapped. You know, it isn't as easy to walk with one normal foot and the other on its tip in a carpetted house that is fucking dirty and disgusting. Some bathmats in this world are so fluffy, curly, and dirty that they fucking look like long pelts of pubic hair with toilet paper stuck in their midst of wilderness. No matter what the color, it still fucking looks like pubic hair, because sometimes it's the other way around. It's that disgusting. Nobody wants their fucking face in that shit. Well with my bleeding foot and trying to walk around in that fucking house, my god was I terrified. That's why I fucking hate the asian tradition of taking your shoes off in every house you go in. It's okay for Britney Spears to walk into an unknown region known as a bathroom that isn't in your house, but for Christina it is like walking on a floor covered in Gwar albums.

School starts tomorrow. This means bagels for one dollar. Yippidy doo dah, I need to go shopping for a new bra. Actually, I don't. But it rhymes so it's just fine. I don't know whether I should look forward to it or not. Work isn't really my first priority so if you're thinking about homework and crap like that, well I don't give a fucking damn. I haven't really had anyone to talk to at all. Seeing friends again is what I'm talking about. But I hate B days, they could go suck a dry muffin and I wouldn't shed a complaint. We have another research paper for english class and I don't think I'm doing this one either. Everyone in my class keeps fucking with me and I can't get a single fucking source for my fucking research. So basically they just fucked my whole paper. Yeah, lame excuse but they make up 80% of it. The other 20% is me not wanting to. So what if it's on a great book such as The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger doesn't need anymore noses up his ass. So me not doing this paper does him good. Hopefully the teacher will see that I am right.

Sometimes I really wish that Denis Leary and I could go out for a burger, and laugh at all the fat fucks who pass by. Or rather, are trying to pass by.



Friday, April 15
Do you want to know what I did today? I played Pick-Up Sticks all alone around my house for two hours. All a part of my mom's plan to get me to move around. In the process of my game, a bee landed on my shirt and I gasped the biggest fucking gasp I must have sucked in half of the ozone layer. Yeah, I don't scream when I get scared, I gasp. It's pretty dumb, but it makes much less of a racket than a cat orgasming in my throat like most girls in this world.








Thursday, April 14
You know what's sad? When my all-too-conservative-keep-your-kids-home-for-all-their-lives-or-at-least-until-they-finish-school type of mother wants me to get a job. She was probably kidding, but ever since Jeannie got a job, she's been talking on the subject of working pretty often lately. Just because Jeannie gets something doesn't mean I have to do it. But anyway, my mom was kidding because working would keep my mind off food and she wants me to lose weight. I've fucking gained seven pounds since the start of 2005. That's pretty bad. Really bad. And it's finally come to the point that even that crazy woman notices. So she's making me clean the entire yard, all the way around the house, tomorrow.



Wednesday, April 13
To be Axl Rose, you must live by the following slogans:

1. Nothing Sucks Like A Pussy.
2. Fatass with the Less Fattening Centres.
3. Made In Scotland From Bitch.
4. Cleans Right Round The Love Handles.
5. Get Serious. Get Pork.
6. Watch Out, There's a Redneck About.
7. Half the Hotheaded Nigger, All the Taste.
8. Probably The Best Cat Shit In The World.
9. Stimulation for Body and Bacon.
10. Pride of the Love Handles For Over a Hundred Years.
11. Get the Crap Dreads Habit.








Tuesday, April 12
I guess I ticked. Big time. When I asked my mom if I could go to Britt's house tomorrow, she said, "What are you gonna do?" I say, "I don't know, have fun and stuff." Then she doesn't answer me and goes on with her business. I took it as a no and went on a silent grudge - went into my room, closed the door [with no slam at all], and refused to comply to her jokes later on when she came in, trying to cheer me up. Along with my nonacceptance of her kidding around and offering to take me to Jeannie's house tomorrow and delay the washing of the car to Thursday, I get this fucking full-on persecution of my horrible behavior as of late. Apparently, I am not a good person. Apparently, I don't love anyone. Apparently, I am extremely difficult.

My mom then continues on persecuting, talking about how I never talk or get close to anyone. And how I treat my family like crap.

Let's rewind this a bit. To yesterday. So the sibling is in the dining room at the computer doing shit, and suddenly she yells a demand across the house, "CHRISTINA COME FIX THIS!" If it's one thing that fucking blows my fuse and releases my inner Axl is when people, especially those younger than me but who are at the right age to at least know manners and decency, fucking demand me to do something for them without asking. If it's one thing in the world that I appreciate the most in terms of human interaction, it is manners and respect. And that tone that she used on me was the complete opposite of everything I'm for. It completely lacked respect and manners. I fucking got furious and tried as hard as fucking hell not to scold while helping her with the computer. Then when I got back to the couch where I was reading my book, I saw my mom lying on the other couch giving me the evil eye pertaining to my anger. This whole fiasco could have been the main evidence in her argument of me treating the family like shit, especially the sibling. When it comes to principles I stand strong. It's something that I've grown to firmly stand by no matter what.

Fastforward to today. So the mother talks about how she doesn't even know how her own daughter is, as a person, and pretty much everything. Her personality, interests, friends, style, nothing. Not even intelligence level, obviously. She takes me for an inconsiderate fucktard who's extremely difficult to deal with, in terms of right now and for my future. She takes me as a dumbass who can't read, just because I told her that I had to call the library to renew these books for the third time, and that I can't answer the precise organ in what blood is made in (this was some other topic of discussion a long time ago that she totally, literally got to me by mocking my not knowing of it).

Of course, I still love my mom. It's just that she needs to understand that I am not the talking type and this is the reason that I am such a mystery and I come off looking like an asshole. To be completely honest, I don't know how to talk! I don't know how to bring up a conversation and keep it going. It's so hard, and I spend most of my life regretting not talking to a lot of people in past opportunities. It hurts pretty bad that I just cannot show compassion.

But I seriously think this whole situation could've been avoided had I not been having pre-menstrual symptoms. As I've constantly been saying, it's seriously affecting my life, it's that fucking bad. It could also be the birth control, which causes wild moodswings also, possibly to an even wilder extent such as me. Yet, I didn't use this as an excuse because she wouldn't believe me and in the end, all the aforementioned traits would still be there had I not been expreriencing craziness. The craziness just makes things worse, like my temper. The problems have been caused already, the moodiness just escalates the volatility of a potential problem.

So I have no idea what's going to happen tomorrow. And I'm terrified.













Monday, April 11
I think there's something wrong with me. The reason for my foul mood lately could probably still be what I've said before, but now it's really starting to bother me. I am really well aware of it but I seriously can't stop it. Actually, I bet I can, but it's just that I won't. This is something I need to work on.

I just feel so fucking locked up. We've been having such great fucking weather and every time I look out the window, I get so fucking paranoid and almost claustrophobic, my parents don't let me go out. Someone needs to ask me to hang out, then I'd get out of here, and hopefully get rid of my syndrome, or whatever the fuck this is.

It doesn't help if I keep on reading crazy books like the one about cults and crazy motherfuckers like them.

What I would hate the most is if I sound teenage angsty. Well just mentioning it ruins the whole damn thing, but I don't think I've reached that yet. I'm yelling "FUCK YOU!" No, we don't need that. That's the most immature of the immature and I rarely use that unless there's no logical reasoning left to use. Who would I say it to? Myself? Yelling at myself is dumb. I prefer to watch an episode of Seinfeld and let all of my problems go away. For thirty minutes, at least.

Lauren's supposed to contact me and we're supposed to go to Java Johnny's or something. She hasn't contacted me yet. I IMed her to remind her to call me, she logged off sometime later without answering. Sheesh I hate it when she ignores my messages or when her computer fucks up. I must spend a day with Britt too, it's been ages. Other than that, I'll just be staying home not showering while cleaning and tidying the house. Perhaps cook. If I don't get out of here soon enough, I'll become a fucking housewife. Without the husband, the sex, and the kids. I'll also become a crazy wreck, because I'll also continue reading the book about deadly cults.

Oh I bet she'll contact me anyway, she's pretty dependable in that department. Just pretty confusing though.

So these little strands of hair along my hairline are bent so that they're waving around in front of my face. All day. It's fucking pathetic. Much like this.



But not so many strands and not so blonde. And it's pointing to the right.








Sunday, April 10
I am extremely tired. I've been doing chores all afternoon for the first time in a month. I'm looking out the window on this gorgeous day with few clouds and little blossoms on the trees, and I wonder, "Why don't I have a life?"

It's partially my fault anyway. Ilona just called a little earlier and asked me to come over. She was extremely bored. As bored as I am tired right now. Or that analogy she used when I asked about how her sex life was going, and she said "Crap on ice." She asked if I could come over, I said I had to stay home and do chores, and she even offered to come over and help me do my chores, Ilona was that fucking bored. I still rejected because I look really horrible right now and you guessed it, I need a fucking shower.

The high point of my day so far was finally sitting down on the sofa after two hours of vaccuuming and glass cleaning, eating a giant cereal box-sized box of Goldfish, working drained me that much of energy to make me actually enjoy Goldfish almost as much as I'd enjoy a brownie.








Friday, April 8
People just keep on dumping more and more shit on me these days. Same exact thing that I said in my last entry. When you come to me with a problem, fucking back your problem up with something that's at least fucking reasonable. Lauren, my god, fucking caused me to go fucking haywire today. I never flip out. Well I did. Not an Axl though, I didn't cry and bitch and moan and scream and stomp my feet or anything.

So I've just lost the spark that caused me to write the first paragraph. And I'll just leave you with this.

I hung out with him at lunch today, and it was very funny.



Thursday, April 7
Britt and I fucking jinxed ourselves yesterday. Not good.

Which means I did not have the greatest day today. And I realized that the crappier the mood I'm in, the more crap I do. I cut gym class because it's fucking pointless to sit there for an hour and a half watching other people sitting with other people who are also sitting for an hour and a half, when my fucking four year old walkman won't play my Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust CD. Stupid fucking shit. All the thing did was spin the CD around super fast and for some reason it kept hitting the lid of the player from inside and making weird noises, not playing a single thing. So I'm begging you, don't go buy yourself three hundred dollars' worth of clothes, go buy Christina an iPod and a one hundred dollar tank top for yourself.

So basically I stood around gym class for a half hour, and for an hour before my own lunch, I just sat and walked around the lobby and outside, occasionally speaking to some good folks. But overall the entire time was a complete waste. Complete waste, but not a universally complete waste, had I stayed at the entire sitting-out period in gym. It was so fucking easy. I just walked out. Like that. Not a single authoritative figure yelled out where I was going, only to make me sit back down again.

Didn't happen. I walked into the locker room and took the side door out. Nobody was in the hallway. I was free.

But not free of boredom. Free of some of it, not all of it.

I wanted to sit with Lauren, but she chose to sit with the people that she always sits with on B days. I don't like them all that much, so I just got up and left. Yeah, I'm an ass like that. I don't like blinkity-doos and overtly conservative christians.

I really need to do something about my appetite. I'm starting to have to beg for more lunch money, after I use the three dollars that my mother gives me every morning. Just for a fucking Milky Way or a Hershey's. They fucking sell them for eighty-five cents each, for a Milky Way or S'mores bar that's only about five inches long. Come on, that costs more than Paris Hilton for an hour.

English class was fucking pathetic as always. I love the teacher, but the fucks in my class are just so dumb and slutty and lack about 85% of any common sense at all. Because of that I got none of my research for this research paper (that I think I might actually be doing this time) done at all. Needed to copy a few little pages, but no, stupid fucks copy about ten to twenty pages from reference books, copies that they probably won't ever fucking need anyway. So I decided to do the words that I say quite very often, "Fuck that." And walk around the practically abandoned core of the library where the bookshelves are located. Everybody always stays around the computers and tables, where the reference books are. Nobody ever looks at the actual books, the shelves and the area around the shelves is always abandoned.

And guess what I find, the door to the Teacher's Only backroom with all the videos, old yearbooks, and old magazines were stored was wide open. It's all the way in the back behind all the bookshelves, away from everything and everybody. It was a free day for me. Theft and goodies galore! It's a small room that looks like those dark places in hospitals where they hang bags full of blood or urine or some excreted bodily fluid and all that shit, but the bags contain educational videos instead. The walls surrounding those bag-filled hanging videos are lined with shelves of magazines, magazines, and more magazines. I fucking freaked. Vogue, Guitar Player, Bon Appetit, Time, National Geographic, old yearbooks, hundreds of them, all within my nasty hands. All with the theft-detectable coverings taken off. (the videos I could've just peeled all the shit off because of course no one was there, but I couldn't find any actual quality movies, which I didn't want)

So, what the fuck did Christina do when she was surrounded by a thousand undetectable magazines? She fucking jacked them, of course. I took the September 2004 issue of Vogue, the "Our Biggest Issue Ever!" one with 834 pages, and four copies of Guitar World, each with one sexy ass that I would surely like to fuck. Someday, I will definitely come back to this haven of sex on paper.

I could write a bunch more, but boredom has set in. It's really sad for a writer to admit that they bore even themself by writing an entry that they chose to write.



Wednesday, April 6
The following words I wrote for the kids at LiveJournal. But I'll put it here also because I love you folks so much. There's only two that I know of who actually visits this page though. But it's true, you don't cause me pain in the ass.

No, I don't want to write. This is an age of The Shitty Journal Writing. Or so has been the mood for some others too. Or maybe it's just me. For some reason there's a pattern that if I have an extremely, extremely good day, I end up writing like shit. So I don't even bother. Right now there's a little Axl inside of me that's writing this. But you know, Axl changes just like that. Like your face when I say that I got LAID.

See? There you go. Rapid change. Quicker than an astro-fart.

But it's not true. Sucks for you, dummy.

So please, when you don't see an entry on a certain day, it means that I am doing well. And when I am doing well please don't bother me with bad news about yourself and only yourself. Ripping down people's rarity that they call good moods is very unorthodox and unethical. And most important of all, it is very impolite. And if you do come to me with a complaint, come on, have the common sense to at least back your complaint up with logical facts.

Every time that I think of "unorthodox" I think of church. Sheesh.



Tuesday, April 5
Who the hell actually reads this shit? Fifteen visits in an hour? What the fuck?








Monday, April 4
I think I'm starting to grow a gut. Ever since I hung out with Ilona some weeks ago I've been overconfident and started to indulge [about four times] more than usual. That's not good. Especially since it's the right season to wear skanky shirts and short skirts and whatnot, it's not right if you look like a bag of peanut butter being squeezed in your hand - shit oozing out everywhere. Hopefully not salty and creamy and brown, either.

This sunshine has been putting everyone in the right mood. Blah blah blah.

Yesterday we went to Philly because my dad's friend made us. It rained, it blew, it made me tired. Every single fucking time that we go to the city of brotherly love, it fucking rains, or it's really fucking cloudy otherwise. The place sucks, don't go.

It was quite windy and breezy this morning, and I had to walk halfway around the school on the outside just to get to my class in the academy building. Don't worry, it's just a chemistry class in that building, not and academy level class.

Oh man, I had the most sensational bagel at lunch today. For some reason I happened to pick the magic bagel of the pack. Egg bagel with stuff and stuff and more stuff on it that I don't really know what to call it. It was good though. Really good. Come to think of it, my dad should come home to get me my goddamn dinner.



Saturday, April 2
Oh guys, I am so incredibly bored right now. Yeah, typical teenage saying, but it's genuinely true. I've just discovered Road Trip on television right now, so it is helping. Very much.




So Lauren just told me about her sweet sixteen party coming this June, and she's going to have it at some fancy italian restaurant somewhere in New Foundland. Not New Foundland as in off the coast of southeastern Canada, but about thirty minutes from here I think. She's going to have a DJ and we're going to have to dress nice and shit. I like the sound of this very much. She also said that on Monday at lunch the two of us are going to decide who we're going to invite and who is a fucking cockshit and gets to fuck off. What a privilege, I've never been invited to a sweet sixteen before, and now I get to choose who's going to one. Yeah, no one ever invites me because I'm a fucking tard and nobody likes me.

But in other ways, I'm probably not the greatest person to be her accomplice of deciding who's coming and who's not coming, being that she still talks to some people that I despise for many reasons. Hopefully she surprises me. I think the reason that I didn't go to her last party was because of this. I told you I'm a fucking tard. On the other hand, this is an extremely important thing for her, so of course I'm going and trying to contribute as much as I can for her.

I'm really starting to love cooking. My mom and I made this special style of fried shrimp yesterday, and I even made myself this fucking damn good Philly cheesesteak after I got home from school. At first I really hated cooking because all she made me do was cut up vegetables and prepare them to cook, which was fucking tedious and I always ran the risk of finding bugs in the clusters of greenery. But the real core of cooking, the actual preparing and stove action and shit, is damn fun. Maybe I'll go to culinary school or something as opposed to busting my ass off right now just to go to some shitpot like Penn State. Or bartending school, that sounds fun.

So Vince Neil won my Who Does the Dance of Twats Better? contest. I shall have some kind of creation made for you kids in the near future.



Friday, April 1
Yesterday, I finally got to make my silkscreen Guns n' Roses t-shirt, and today I luckily memorized the art locker combination and took it home because I didn't want to wait until Monday when we have class again. The teacher helped me by holding down the screen while I spread the ink on, and when she lifted the screen to move it out of the way, some of the excess ink dropped onto the t-shirt in a giant glob, almost making me think it was totally ruined. Only a totally dumbass close-minded fucktard would've thought that it would be totally ruined for all eternity. Then one of the girls in my class suggested that I should splatter red acrylic onto it, to make it look like a gunshot around the giant black blob. Well I took the idea into consideration and followed it. Although we both intended for it to be like a gunshot with blood splattering everywhere, I couldn't make it look like a gunshot so I just splattered red on the entire shirt. It turned out looking fucking amazing. The whole class thought it was fucking hot. Goddamn, even my mom, anti-Christina's-unique-personality woman of the century, liked it.

I've provided a photographic documentary to waste your time and mine with.

ROB HALFORD IS YOUR SAVIOR


An air bubble got into my water.


Shitastic camera, but that's the shirt alright.


Close-up of the design. Duff turned out amazing, I'd have to say. It's fucking great that at first when I splattered red on the shirt and hit Steve's face, it looked opaque and totally covered his face. But it was a fucking relief to see the acrylic sink in behind the already set black ink.


See what I mean? He's on the far right, by the way. In case you don't know shit about Guns n' Roses. Haha, Duff is so fucking tall compared to all the others. He reminds me of the Jolly Green Giant sometimes. Or Jolly Blonde Giant, is more like it. Or Jolly Black Nigga Giant according to my t-shirt.


The Glob. On the very bottom it reads, "$2 off with this ad." I realized only for it to be too late, that it makes me look like I'm wearing a hooker ad when wearing it. I should've not included that in the making.


The shirt.


And The Shirt was made after this early flyer that was salvaged from the great Flyer War back in the early '80s.


My, is it a beautiful day! I had SUCH a hankering to go out and do something, but I decided to get fat and cook myself a Philly cheesesteak instead.


I learned how to iron today. Why? Because I had to iron the t-shirt so the ink and acrylic would seep in and be one with the fabric.


I've gotten into this habit of leaving tons and tons of clothes on my bed after I get home from school and not clean them up until I go to bed at around 10:30 or 11:00. My red pants stand out like Axl Rose in an episode of Barney when they sit around in a circle talking about their problems.


I have a piggy bank. His name is Oinksky, after Pensky in that old school Nickelodeon show, Salute Your Shorts.


I think someone jizzed on my desk when I wasn't around.


My closet has two sticks to hang stuff from. Kind of odd how I have the smallest bedroom in the house, but the largest closet. On the second shelf from the top, that red streak of book in the center is The Dirt. On the shelf under it on the left, that shiny gold and green one, is a vietnamese-english/english-vietnamese dictionary that I never use.


This piece of cow ass has treated me so well for almost two years now, with not a single sign of decay.


So does this make me a pussy?


No.


My house is very white and not very big. It only looks big because it is white all over. And this is how far the webcam's wire could reach.


My mom painted line and shape designs on our doors to take away some of the boring whiteness.


My norweigan dresser that took two months to arrive for no fucking reason.


My TV is very cool.


Remember when I talked about those Guns n' Roses dudes that I drew on my math book out of boredom? Well here's my friend Slash.


David Lee Roth is my friend too.


Axl isn't. Because I'm not friends with grown white men who look like little asian girls.


Izzy likes to dance and do the mashed potato.


I have a palm tree pen, but I'm sad that it doesn't work very well. That's why I don't use it for school.

"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.




view profile

whiskey
Camel smokes
Humphrey Bogart
muscle cars
Watchmen
cheapass horror movies
Dirty Harry
Re-Animator
Denis Leary
Slaughterhouse-Five
Lucky Strikes
Voltaire
bacon
coffee that isn't Starbucks
all of Mike Patton's 9547658 musical projects

Email:
dontfeerthereefer@gmail.com

AIM:
nuclear volante

MySpace
Last.fm
Facebook
LiveJournal
If Sean Connery Didn't Have a Scottish Accent
buy me shit, asshole

10 Movies That Needed Kevin Bacon
50 Lemons
Arnold Schwarzenegger moments
Cockeyed
Contact me ASAP when you figure this out
Crack is Whack
David Lee Roth is a revolutionary vocalist
Dlisted
Don't Fear the Reaper
The Food, the Bad and the Ugly
Funfurde
Happyfood Gallery
I Think Satan Likes Your Mom
Iggy Pop and Joseph Goebbels
ilovebacon.com
IMDB Bottom 100
Insaniquarium
Institute of Official Cheer
Ipecac Recordings - Making People Sick Since 1999
Legal Weed
Lileks.com
List of torture methods and devices
Mike Patton Hates Wolfmother
Minazo the Seal
The Modern Day Book of Health and Hygiene
Mom jeans flatter no body
MONSTURD
Muffin Films
Mxyplyzyk
Planet Brenda
Pocky Gallery
Pookas do exist!
Shaina on the Braina
Buy a crate for $220e
The Imaginary World
The Sword











BLOGGER