Monday, May 30
Talking to Jeannie today kind of inspired me to go looking for a job. It didn't seem as scary as I thought it would be. And afterall, I'm only working so that Mick Jagger could spit on my face, per se. But certain boundaries are set. I'm picky and difficult.

1. I refuse to work a job that requires me to do register (yeah I know that is really fucking difficult because it's the practical beginner job)
2. Working at a library is a good bet because it's easy shit, no register, and barely any people
3. Serving liquor or bartending, preferably at Ruby Tuesday
4. Helping old people is a good one
5. Small record store, if there are any. Which I doubt. This one I could work at register

Today wasn't what I thought it would be, I didn't lie down all day trying to decide for what to wear tomorrow to school. Instead, we did the all-american tradition and went to a barbecue on Memorial Day. Jeannie and her family were cooking up some damn good munchies up at their swanky Wharton roof. I ate two hotdogs, beef, salmon, ice cream, and Pepsi. It can't get any better than that. Except for brownies and cheesecake.

This morning I found myself watching Platoon. For the fortieth (thousand) time. For some reason, whenever it comes on TV, I must watch it. Must. I don't know, I have a sweet tooth for war movies. I'm a very sick person, because I've also read numerous war novels and the like. Not to mention that I love to play with guns, fake and real, or whatever. Supersoakers too.

So my grandma is coming tomorrow from California to stay for a month. Grandpa's coming the day after to stay for only a week. He called a while ago saying that since we mistakenly booked his runaround flight one day short, he's pissed and won't be coming at all. Which we highly doubt, because that's an old cranky man for ya. Ever since he's moved to California he's been a fucking prick, I would definitely have to admit. He's not warm to anyone anymore and he's always yelling at me. Or at least he yelled at me over the phone when he wanted to speak to my mom. Scary shit. I don't like it when old, brown, warted old men yell at me. Through the phone it sounds like Mo from the Three Stooges with a cork up his ass.

I've always cared for my grandpa very much, but this coldness that he's adopted just won't do. I'm starting to lose respect for him and he's starting to scare me out of my wits.

And as for my grandmother, she seems to get dumber and dumber every day. She's still nice as all old ladies should be though. But I heard she doesn't cook anymore. That sucks. Because all old ladies cook well. Except for school cafeteria hags.

With my grandfather's rauncy attitude lately, I wonder if he'd complain, or yell, for that matter, when he sees me wearing tatttered up jeans. I could just feel that vein thumping on his neck.



Sunday, May 29
Has Kevin Spacey ever had hair? Has he ever had hair on the middle of his head? I seriously cannot recall one single time when he has ever had a full head of hair.

It's about time for an update on my life. The past five or so entries have been full of nothing but mental nonsense and music obsessing. But I don't really need to be updating on my life because I don't have one.

Whenever somebody asks me what's up, I say "nothing," and that I don't have a life. Then I ask them what's shakin' bacon and they say "Eh, nothing. I don't have a life either." Sometimes, if I happen to have a lot more time to spend with that person, I start to say that I really, really don't have a life and that I go out about once a month or even every two or more months or so. Yet, they still say they don't have a life either and yet I fucking know they go to the mall, go to someone's house, yada yada yada. Fucking lame, I tell you.

This is the real deal here when it comes to no life. I am the epitamy of no life, you fucking twat. Hm, the last time I've gone out? Uh, it was in March or April I think, with Ilona to the mall. I've grown so accustomed to staying home, that I don't even really care for going anywhere anymore, except to eat. Nobody fucking even calls me and of course I hate telephones so I don't call anyone at all. No contact with any peer on the outside world at all. For months straight. School doesn't count. Beat that. Don't give me this dumb "Oh I don't have a life blah blah blah." Then you put an away message up saying that you've just gone to so and so's house to watch Mallrats.

Fucking hypocrites, tell the truth for once.

Alright, so yesterday I just laid on the couch for about five hours finishing up Huckleberry Finn, while alternating back and forth from that red couch to the computer, checking the same five or so websites, all day. Today I cleaned and alternated back and forth to the computer checking the same five or so websites, all day. We had a good dinner, so that was a pleasant surprise. Salmon tastes good.

Friday night I was enjoying myself so much because after coming home from shopping and Dali exhibiting, I got to sit and relax in front of the computer again and eat ice cream to my heart's content. Fuck health.

Television never felt so good for some reason, this weekend. Probably because of all of my "working" on schoolwork and whatnot, I just didn't really give a fuck anymore.

All day today I was looking around the Mick Jagger forum at his website, and there's all these threads talking about how the Stones were on Good Morning America or The Tonight Show or some talk shows or some shit all throughout May. How could I not have known? I miss out on too much. And to think I subscribed to Daily Latenight to get the 411 on talkshow guests daily.

I miss out on too much, that's an understatement.






What the fuck! He has three boobs growing vertically down his chest! Sort of looks like that movie Alien, with that guy and the baby puppet reptile screaming out of his chest and running off the eating table like that. But it'll be little Brian Joneses that'll be growing out of that mountain range. Except that I don't think Sigourney Weaver will be able to stop these.



Saturday, May 28
I think this summer I'm going to try something different; I'm gonna try and stay home for as long as I possibly can and not break down and cry about being alone for so long like I usually do. Then for next year when I come out of my hibernation, I'll see how much of an asshole I've become. By how much of an asshole I'll have become, as in how much I have shut off people from my life and how much more I will despise of the human race. Hey, it's a nice experiment that my mom will surely be acceptable of because she's the one who fucking disallows me to do anything.

Now this is just jerk-talk here, most likely wouldn't happen at all, but it would be a nice experiment. Technically, it wouldn't though. Because it would make me all the more difficult and make me lose all the more friends than I already have lost. I'd turn into the shittiest person and I'd eventually probably start driving my family away too, and they'd see more of the asshole side of me than the whole chunk that they already have to deal with.




Man, I hate it when I finish books. Because for some reason I just get so fucking into them and it makes me sad to know that the whole experience, the whole experience of experiencing their experience and their life, has just ended. Breaks my heart. Well at least until I wake up tomorrow.

I know this is lame, but I just finished Huckleberry Finn. It was really good, a thousand times much better than I expected. At first it was assigned for a school assignment but soon turned into my own pleasure. Fuck the worksheets that I have to fill out. But anyway, I don't know, the book just totally took me in and I just came to loving the characters so much. Huck and Tom are so adorable, I'll fucking admit that. There should seriously be a television series, and a goddamn good one, not some shitty TV movie. No, I don't fucking want a cheap TV movie, I want a good long television series.




I know I have absolutely no chance of seeing the Stones anytime soon. But hey, I've got my sense of humor to keep me from listening to Gwar and committing suicide. Something that my computer refuses to accept, because a few weeks ago I was just about to publish a Keith Richards picture post that I had just finished, it was so good and I was really enjoying myself, and then my computer fucks up and I lost everything. This is pretty much the bulk of what I could remember of it.


Keith at age one. Even from then he looked like he was going to shit in your face.



Friday, May 27
Finally, the day came at last. The Salvador Dali exhibit in Philadelphia was fucking stunning. Amazing, to say the least. I must have spent at least five or ten minutes in front of each painting, and there were about two hundred of them, staying there in one exhibit for two hours. I felt like such an art geek. But fuck you, I'll stand in front of whatever I want for as long as I fucking want. And I think the rest of the family enjoyed the exhibit too. No one bitched at me for dragging them to a long boring hall of shit on the walls that's more congested with people than there is money up Gene Simmons' anus.

My allergies are fucking up my throat so badly that whenever I'm sitting here and I cough, I gotta pull the garbage can by my chair, bend over, and spit a loogie full of phlegm and mucous into it. And then I watch the mucous drip all over the used tissues and scraps of construction paper. And this is happening even if I do take medicine for it. But I think I have to stop taking the allergy meds altogether because I can tell it's fucking up the birth control. Well now I guess I have to suffer with that, but have ovarian and hormonal bliss, or whatever the hell I'm supposed to feel when birth control is in full power of my female sexual organs.

I think I am 3% (not a typo) on my way to trying to find a job. Because I really want some fucking Stones tickets. 3% because I'm just lame like that. I never commit to my wishes, even if I really truly want them. Talk about loser. This is 100% authentic american scumbag right here, folks.

So at the Dali exhibit he had this sort of rainbowy hologram of Alice Cooper that spins around. Yes, Alice Cooper. The chicken shreader.

I am invited to two sweet sixteen parties. Just two, and they're old friends that I've known since elementary and middle school. No one new. And to be completely honest, I don't really like these two people that much anymore. The only reason that I'm still friends with them is because we've been friends for so long, we respect each other, and for some reason they always remember my birthday and remember to buy me presents for my birthday and for Christmas even if I don't do shit for them at all, no exaggeration. Other than that, we have absolutely nothing in common, and that I hate practically all friends of each person, whom are without a doubt going to be at their sweet sixteen parties. I just don't see myself having fun with either of them anymore, I've changed so much. I always see myself changing, going through such transformations in life and making new friends and taking in new styles and such, and these two are the types that just don't change. We've grown so different in everything. Or maybe it's just me.

Morally, I have to go. Of course it's an option - my choice, if I am going to go or not, but moral overcomes all. These two different people have always been there for me for so many years and it just pisses me off that I have to return the favor. It's so important to each of them and for me to not be there is saying that I'm a huge asshole, moreso actually. I can't just fuck them off like that. That would make me a bigger jerk than I already am.

But there's also the option of not going anyway and therefore having a better chance of gradually separating from them, so they no longer have to nag me all the time. Because there's not much to a friendship if you don't see each other at all except for saying hi in the hallway. My god, we can't even talk freely anymore. It's like we're complete strangers. Even if I'm in a dire situation and I desperately need help, it would be stupid to go to them because I've done nothing and to ask them such a favor would be wrong.

I just cannot see myself having a good time at either party. There's no fucking way that I could have fun if I despise every single motherfucker there. No fucking way. Unless I crash the party. But that's fucking lame, and it's somebody else's fucking birthday, not mine. So I guess I wouldn't be staying long. Had I been living on my own I would've gone out early and drove somewhere else while already dressed up nice and sassy and do some decent shit on my own. Find some sex in town. But no, I'm a fifteen year old scumbag who doesn't want to work, doesn't know what interest is and has no source of income at all besides picking up loose change on the floor in school.

I'm talking to one of them on AIM right now and told them about my trip to Philly. They answer by saying that they've always wanted to go to an art gallery, especially the one that Carrie works in, in Sex and the City. What the fuck? I'm stuck with airheads here, seriously.

Maybe this is all just on account of me being difficult. Whatever, explaining this shit fucking bores me.



Thursday, May 26
It's annoying when Lauren keeps mentioning how sad I look all the time. Damn, don't give me that sappy pity bullshit. It's just the way I look when I'm bored. Bored in school, is that so rare? Is that so weird? And the fact that I'm asian and that I have a fat face and that I lack Rolling Stones tickets. And the fact that I cannot find out about Axl Rose's whereabouts so I can make fun of him. Mention my morose face once again and you'll get the shit kicked in so deep in your face that it becomes one giant pore.

The french teacher was giving me such a hard time today. Last night I had no time to study for this double essay test coming up in history next class, so I had the history textbook open on my desk in hopes of studying while she wasn't looking, but she was indeed prancing around everyone's business and I was just looking around trying to look like I was doing the french work. She comes to me, shoves my binder over, takes the book, and shuts it, saying that I shouldn't be reading it right now. The rudeness of that woman. I got my french shit done anyway. And another time she asked me if I had my already overdue dialogue done. I said I didn't and she blabbered on how it's worth a quiz grade but I didn't hear most of it. It was a very long blab. All I remember is her mouth moving and me looking at her and thinking how much of both of our time she's wasting because I'm not going to do it anyway.

I used to like Led Zeppelin a lot. A lot, man. A fucking hell of a lot. I wonder what happened. Right now whenever I hear a tune, I'm just so fucking tired of it. I guess I just totally outplayed them when I was a huge fanatic. But that doesn't make them a shitty band. Of course it doesn't. There are a few moments, well actually one recent one that I recall, when I was listening to "Heartbreaker" and was just fucking amazed and astonished at how fucking talented they are, listening intently to every single instrument and note. And most other times I'm just like, "What the fuck man, I'm fucking tired of this boring redundant shit. I can't take it anymore." I've finally agreed with a number of people, I forget where but I remember some people saying it in magazines or radio or some shit - and these weren't fucktards - that Led Zeppelin is overplayed on the radio. It is true. At least play some other song besides "Misty Mountain Hop" or "Rock and Roll." Seriously.

I used to wear that one t-shirt of theirs that I have for about every two days with washing it only once a month, in fear of the design washing away. That's fucking nasty. I used to drool over Jimmy Page and seldom called him God just as a humorous figure of speech. I don't do either of those things anymore, really. The t-shirt is the oh-so-popular Swan Song logo that practically all wussies have gotten to overwearing and spending $18 at Hot Topic to wear with their store-bought ripped jeans. Come on, Christina Aguilera is more fashionable than them. Because going around nude even if you've got the body of a volcanic boulder is much better than wearing Hot Topic's overcharged plastic and vinyl un-sexy bondage pants that your dog could get caught in while walking it. Which I bet kiddie goths do. Yeah, I bet they walk their dogs instead of sacrificing them. They listen to their parents. Boo hoo they're so hardcore.

God, I hate "goths." Those who wear unattractive bondage pants, dye their hair black, who like A Nightmare Before Christmas, paint their nails black, wear too much powder, and are into the pirate thing. (Dance Dance Revolution too if they're a super dumbfuck) Yes, the pirate thing. Pirates fucking wreak of goose shit and Johnny Depp was fucking horrid looking in that movie of his. He looks like a brown paper bag and Bob Marley's pot-smelling weaves that went through a paper shredder glued to a fourteenth-hand arabian nightcap.

I heard today that DDR (Dance Dance Revolution, that japanese shit dance arcade game) students could now receive varsity jackets. Well I'll be damned, Christina Nguyen might as well receive a scholarship to Oxford for being the biggest lazy arrogant fucker in town.

Yeah, so back to the kiddie goths. They're the biggest pussies in the world next to new-generation asian boys and Axl Rose. Dumbest pieces of shit next to Gwar fans. I could beat any of those fucktards in a conversation about Nirvana any day, even if I just watched seventy-two hours of Teletubbies and the fact that I don't know anything about them beyond their Unplugged performance, naming their couple albums and the greatest hits thing. I virtually know nothing about them. I know as much about Nirvana as I do about trees. Trees are big, the trunks taste bad and they make paper. Dogs like to pee on them and hippies like to hump them. Yeah, I bet I could beat any of those fucks in an "intelligent" conversation about Slipknot too. They suck. They have nine band members. Under their masks they smell like my ass after five days without showering or wiping. I heard the guitarist is pretty good. And they wear jumpsuits. You think you're goth? Goth, my ass. Ruben Studdard kicks more ass than you. Mainly because he could just sit on you. With a fart it's a split second certain death.

Last weekend, the radio finally played David Bowie. And guess what, they play "Rebel Rebel." Big fucking gift. I'm surprised they didn't play "Ziggy Stardust." Although they're both great songs, but there's much more of his stuff that hasn't been heard enough. Fucking DJ's, they're nothing but pricks. And have you noticed that whenever there's a contest to win tickets or dinner with a band, and you have to be the so and so number caller to win them, they say the fucking phone number way too fucking fast and you're like, "What the fuck kind of phone number is 'Hawaii five-o-five-o- 90210??" Jeez, no wonder some weird geek in some little town that you've never heard of, who has the voice of a fucking beaver wins. They're the geeks who actually record the DJ saying the phone number, and replay the taping slower. That is how they fucking win.

These were Stones tickets too. The DJ/prick said the number so fast that I didn't even really notice that he was even fucking saying a phone number. He also said that if you're the tenth caller after hearing a pair of Rolling Stones songs, you win a pair of tickets for their upcoming tour. Well, I was in the fucking car for about a half hour or more (even when going home) I didn't hear a single goddamn Stones song. It doesn't help either if they're playing an eight-minute Neil Young song. Fucking dumbshit.

I hate radios. But in the car it won't play copied CD's and it's a good opportunity for me to be lazy and not have to pick a song every time one is over like on the computer. On the otherhand, well you know all the other shit that's wrong with it. Hate it. Fucking hate it, man. Commercials are the worst. They're always at least ten to fifteen minutes long, and by that time I switched to another station and when I get back to the first one I miss the first three minutes of a three minute and ten second song that I really fucking like.

They also play Jimi Hendrix too much. Waaaay too goddamn much. And that's an understatement. And it's always, always the same song. More like two, I could say. It's either "Foxy Lady" or "Fire." Jeez, I'm so sick of it that I'd rather seriously take a whole box of laxatives and spend the rest of my week on the can in a gas station. This is one of the reasons that I'm not entirely into Hendrix in the first place. In order to really like an artist you must listen to their other material, which sometimes contains even better stuff, rather than their biggest hits, which sometimes are just hits because they're catchy. Catchy is bad. I've had "You Can't Always Get What You Want" stuck in my head all week and it makes me sad. Because I never get what I want.

Why haven't I dug in for some of his other material by myself? Because I'm too lazy. So you could just call a few of those past sentences bullhocky.



Monday, May 23
I can't stop laughing at this quote:

Bill: Brian and Keith had some horrendous games and they were really sick. We were all given russian movie cameras once as a sponsorship and they spent their time taking movies of people in wheelchairs, that's all they took photos of. And they used to have different names for different kinds of snot: green gilberts and yellow humphries and polkadot perkins. They used to be on the wall in the flat. They'd think up loony things when they were in bed all day when they were freezing and starving in the winter of 1963 and 64.






This is too adorable. Too bad he looks like this now:



Holy shit I've got moldy oranges in the kitchen that have better looking peels than that. Whether he's adorable then or wrinkly as Howard Stern's ass, Mick Jagger is my next subject for an art project.



If he opens his mouth any wider his head is going to split in two, like his fellow canadian cousin.






Yeah, so Lauren was sort of irritating the living shit out of me during lunch today. I know she didn't mean to, but she was being a #1 royal pain in the ass. Eric, Pat and I were engaging in undelibly crazy weird fascinating conversation, including a fake blunt going up someone's ass with a demonstration, and she keeps nagging me on about random things. Like if I'm sitting there listening to one of them talking about molotov cocktails or smoke donuts, she'd just interrupt my consideration of the person speaking to say, "Oh my god, Katie Holmes is going out with Tom Cruise, they make such a cute couple though!" Do I fucking care? I tell her that all the time about a lot of dumb things - "Do I fucking care?"

And she kept on complaining and saying useless comments about the Huckleberry Finn book that I was carrying around. Yeah, it's a fucking good book, deal with it and I'll read whatever the hell I fucking want. (Actually, I have to read it for english class but turns out it was a much better novel than I expected, so I'm really enjoying it, therefore bringing it everywhere with me.) She kept picking it up and looking at it and making these little teeny weeny girly-like negative comments at it, and at one point while I was still trying to pay attention to what someone else was saying, she pokes me on the shoulder making me turn around and says, "OOPS!" and shows me that she had made my bookmark fall out of the book. I was almost half way through it, there's no fucking way for me to fucking find my spot again unless the pages are new enough so that the ones that I hadn't got to yet were still sort of stuck together, like factory-new.

So I fucking freak out, from that and her past perturbing shit to me, I exclaim, "What the fuck?" And then she goes, "Oh, I remember the page number, don't worry." followed with a giggle.

God, I'm really starting to fucking hate the way she acts in front of certain people. She puts on this cute, ditzy, dumbass impression whenever we have lunch together and you all know that I fucking despise dimwits. Especially annoying pulling-your-ass ones. She also has this habit of being conformist. Ulgh, how horrible. Like one time today, she poked me on the shoulder and said that we should go see Lords of Dogtown together because it has Johnny Knoxville in it and it looks really good. I say no and that the movie was still lame. And suddenly she changes her whole opinion around and says something like, "Yeah...it's 'eh,' but then we should go see Dukes of Hazard because it has Stifler, Johnny, and Jessica Simpson in it. She looks really good in that movie actually. I saw a picture in a magazine."

I'm not even going to extend upon that.

I was talking to my mom the other day about two people being around each other for too long and that they start quarreling pretty often about each other's personality defects - and that in order to be a good person, you must change yourself instead of trying to change the other person. Because that's who they are, there's no way you could change who they are. You can't change the conditions around you in most situations, you could only change yourself in order to adapt. I guess that's part of her meaning. Well I have to admit that I have been arrogant lately, but I'm not sure in this case because Lauren is seriously getting up my grill. And had she not been so fake, then howcome she has no one coming to her at lunch every day as opposed to others coming to me like they usually do?



Sunday, May 22
I'm so frustrated today, and I don't really know why. I think I'm becoming overly too sensitive to the weather. I seriously want nothing else but for it to be at a constant rate of being nothing but nice. None of this one day happy pappy sunshine weather, than three days of dark shit. None of that, I don't fucking want it. Partially because moist weather makes my allergies worse and that causes more irritability on my behalf.

Oh, and I also want nothing else but Stones tickets. I'd choose good Stones tickets over sunny weather any fucking day. I have no idea how I'll get them, being that I have practically no money, no will at all to go get a job, nor do I think that my folks would let me go. And the fact that no one ever wants to go with me to anything that I want to go to. Some folks like asking me to go somewhere with them and I usually say yes, but whenever I ask them they say they're busy. Fuckers. But I'd seriously prefer to go to a concert alone, therefore no stupid lame fuck party pooper would be holding me back from doing mischief. I mean, it's a fucking concert, who the hell doesn't want a chance to meet the band? I bet if I brought a stupid pussy with me to a concert they'd be like "No, I don't think we'd get in what if we get arrested??!" What a fucking chicken.

The only possible way I could see myself ever getting Stones tickets are if I enter some of my art into various contests. The last one I entered in, not the county one because that one was fucking free, I fucking lost and in addition never got my print back, which was my best one - which is why exactly I chose that one to be in the contest. What the fuck? That's four fucking hundred dollars down the drain there, man. Four hundred fucking dollars to wipe your ass with.

I had also been considering whether I'd see Velvet Revolver instead, nah I said, "Fuck it, I'd choose the Rolling Stones over Velvet Revolver any day. Or at least I wanna fucking see them before they shrivel up and blow away in the wind and the only interaction I'd ever get with them then is breathing those ashes up my nose and sneezing a lung out."

But of course I'm only dreaming here. I'm just saying shit that I hope would happen someday. I'm doing nothing to make it come true. How could I? It's taking me a half hour to decide whether I should vaccuum the house and eat a nice dinner, or not vaccuum the house and piss off my mom.

I've been so irritable lately. Nothing's going right. But it's not supposed to, that's how life is, and what matters is how you're going to make it fucking right and stop letting people fucking walk all over you like a waffle iron. And it makes me extremely uncomfortable when or how many times someone or the same person asks me if I have a boyfriend yet. No, that doesn't mean I'm a fucking homosexual. It just means that I have issues with myself. Issues as in I can't fucking socialize or be a slut enough to sell myself like every other successful person-in-bliss has done. I'm a horrible speaker. I can't socialize in a normal manner or show any affection. I'm stone cold. There, there's your fucking answer.

I think people are so curious about my love life because to be quite honest I don't think I'm such an ugly fuck, and for a person who's not that hideous looking to be alone for so long looks kind of odd. Well first I have to sort shit out with myself before I could start wasting my time with somebody else.

There's also the possibility that I tend to scare off people too often, unless they're stronger than my outer wall of sarcasm. I have such a low manly voice, I mean who the hell wouldn't be afraid of me? My mom has even told me that I scare her with my tone, even if I don't mean any harm at all.

Sundays could bite my ass, because they lead me to feeling sorry for myself and just sitting around and moping about it. Come on Diamond Dave, spread that ray of sunlight on me.

Last night I stayed up until 1:00 watching music videos on my computer. It was quite funny watching Motley Crue and Skid Row covering Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll." And I kept rewinding back and forth of Keith Richards in Rock and Roll Circus, yeah with his eye patch and all. I fucking amuse myself in the most pathetic of ways.



Saturday, May 21
Okay, so at Target there was this shelf full of hanging bags of beef jerky in front of me while my mom was complaining on how she wanted me to start eating yogurt again for my skin's sake. But I wasn't listening really, I was trying to decide on which bag to put into our cart. I chose this really neat and tidy looking Slim Jim brand bag. It was also the largest bag of the bunch.

So we get into the car, and my mom wants to eat it right away. We're both avid fans of the spicy beef strip delicacy. Turns out it's Slim Jim flavored beef jerky. What the fuck? Yeah, it tastes exactly like a super spicy and sour Slim Jim stick but in beefy strips - yes, mechanically removed chicken and all. I thought it was just the brand, and that they not only made the traditional Slim Jim tiny weiner snack, but good tasting beef jerky that tasted like normal good tasting beef jerky too. Well, I learned that I should never buy their beef jerky again and stick to traditional hardcore beef jerky distributors.

My plan to try to get rid of the excessive sour taste of the jerky is to dip it in italian salad dressing. It kind of works actually and gives it a slightly sweeter taste. Had the dressing been more thick and not so viscous, it would've worked perfectly. Or if we had some duck sauce, then I'd be like, "Fuck that, I'd buy this shitty beef jerky all the time just so I could eat it with duck sauce and it'll taste better than any fucking brownie in the world."

Just a few hours ago after coming home, I finished reading the last few pages of David Lee Roth's Crazy From the Heat. Overall, I'd have to say it was a great pleasure to read. It's one of those books that you just relax and occasionally laugh your fucking ass off. That's what I love so much about Dave, he's such a jolly olly charismatic bastard. You just gotta love him. He's always smiling and whenever I think of him I think of sunshine. Yeah, I'm lame. But the fittingly named Diamond Dave just exudes energy and light. He writes with a witty and positive attitude, he's so fucking awesome. It also impresses me that he didn't need to collaborate with a professional writer to write the book, unlike pretty much every other rockstar or celebrity who's written an autobiography. He ain't that dumb, for a blonde.

His solo stuff suits him so perfectly. It's so happy and shit. Puts me in a good mood too. Sometimes I really wish I had more of his personality, as in I would always take things in good heart and I'm not usually a cynical bitch who thinks the world is all going to hell. I wish I was more positive and had more fun in life like he does.

On the otherhand, in some areas of the book, he seems to just drone on and on and on pretty arrogantly and full of himself. Which I totally understand because that's Diamond Dave for ya. His ego sometimes added a little bid of tediousness. But at other parts it's just fucking awesome. Also, the book didn't really have a plot to it. It was just anecdote after anecdote, all not in chronological order. It's just a mess of stuff put together randomly. Anecdotes and random little tidbits of his weird little mind put on paper. Although, he even admitted, he just wrote everything from how he remembered it, not exactly in chronological order as they happened throughout his life. Hey at least he acknowledged it, and I forgive him for that. He also said the book could've been well over one thousand pages had the editor not watered it down so much. Wow.

I seriously can't help it, but David Lee Roth is sort of hot in a way. I'm sorry! Like I've said before, it's his light that is so great about him. And I guess that's pretty much what gets me. The charisma. And that he's pretty fit, but not too overly fit so that he looks like some fucking twit like Danzig. He's just so fucking hilarious in person. Hey, if I had someone like that around my house all day I probably wouldn't need drugs to cheer me up. And not to mention that he makes some pretty funny facial expressions.

He didn't explain why as a baby he was in leg braces, just mentioned that he was in leg braces for a while. But he's so full of Red Bull inside of him that the braces exploded around his legs with a little *POP!* and he jumped up out of that baby chair and started doing jumpkicks in the air at age three while in a bib.








Friday, May 20
I am in such a bitterly, nasty, sour mood right now that I could just rip apart a fucking cow in a field and set every single fucking tendon and morsel of its muscles on fire and then throw rats into the pile and then make a dog drink Jack Daniel's out of an elephant's ass and make it piss all over the remains. I've been in such a fucking pissy mood today and I have no idea why. Here are some theories.

1. the weather is absolute dogshit
2. last night i didn't want to become too dependent on allergy medicine so i didn't take a pill before bed, so the birth control is probably in full gear again, causing moodiness
3. i am just that type of an axl rosey person
4. i've got some kind of social problem(s) that i don't want to acknowledge or admit to and all the crap is building up inside

Well or maybe it's just because that my mother came in the room a while ago while I was clicking webpages back and forth and typing in little HTML boxes trying to fix the layout, making her think I was chatting inappropriate shit and was trying to hide it from her, hence the clicking back and forth. She abruptly came in and rudely accuses me of talking about something bad or intolerable with someone(s) on AIM. Which I wasn't. Nor have I ever done, besides being my usual sadistic self, but I think she means cyber sex or some pathetic shit like that. I fucking don't. And every time she does this, more and more, I get more and more angry every time until I fucking swear someday I will burst. Nothing makes someone angrier when others are accusing them of vile actions, especially when that person is totaly against those types of actions in the first place. If someone had accused me of doing something and had they not been a family member, I probably would have fucking stomped their fucking face to the ground with my heel until there were scuff marks in the asphalt and pebbles flying around.

But I've finally realized that I am at my bitchiest (put aside any hormonal problems) when I'm hungry. Like seriously, man. After gym class today I planned to go make up an english quiz at the library really quick before I went to lunch to get the damn thing over with. Well, after already pissing myself off because I had to actually contemplate on one of the problems and wasted a minute, I had to wait behind these pathetic freshmen who were just signing into the library. And after the long wait that the first one or two dorks (yeah, just by looking at them I could tell they were fucking dorks) took in signing their names and date/time on the roster, the one last fuck takes like thirty, thirty goddamn seconds, or maybe even longer, making his name all pretty and neat and the date/time all nice and perfect. Who the hell gives a fuck? Just skimming through all the past papers and signatures from other people who've signed in before, it fucking looks like an entire beehive went and took a crap on it. My blood was boiling so furiously that I swear it could've evaporated and God would've breathed the steam up his nose, that was how fucking flaming my veins were. I was standing there behind these fucktards all with their glasses and bulky unnecessary backpacks full of unnecessary notebooks and pens and shit, while my biceps were fucking pumping engine fuel, ready to fucking deck them square in the face and let me fucking sign out so I could go downstairs and stuff my face with at least some decent food in order for my stomach to shut the hell up. And there was practically nothing left. I have the last lunch block today and I had already wasted time with the quiz.

I was fucking flaming. Damn serious, dude. It's that sort of anger [that's still sticking around right now] where you could just feel that tension in your eyebrows, those brows arching to a perfect forty-five degree angle. And I wasn't even on my period. As a matter of fact, it ended two days ago. But after years of observing patterns, I tend to be in a darn skippy fabulous mood either during or after that time. What's with this month? No fucking idea.



Thursday, May 19
Funniest fucking thing happened. Pat, Eric, and I were sitting in the lobby at lunch. Seventh graders from the middle school somewhere in town were in the building for Math Day or some shit like that. So here comes one little student walking forth, and turns and enters into the girls' bathroom. I was thinking, "What? Dude, that little boy just went into the girls' room." Man, I fucking swore it was a male seventh grader. And then I ask out loud, "Was that a boy who just went into the girls' room? Is that a boy? Or a girl?" And so a debate commences between us three dummies trying to figure out whether this person that just went into the girls' room was really a girl, or a boy, because:

1. it had a short blonde boy hair doo
2. it wore a long sky blue t-shirt with boys' jeans
3. it wore earrings
4. it went into the girls' bathroom
5. it had nice skin

After about a minute of conferring in deep intellectual thought, the shim comes out of the girlies' bathroom and suddenly Pat exclaims pretty loudly and abruptly, "We gotta go observe it!" and everyone gets up super fast and tries to follow the he/she/thing. Then the scene after that is three totally confused folks standing across the cafeteria from it, staring and questioning about what could possibly be the gender of this androgynous tiny little pubescent peewee thing without their acknowledgement, who was sitting with the rest of the normal looking middle schoolers at a table. And then sir Tom is found, who claims, "I'm an expert at these situations," joins the observation, and concludes that he totally confirms that it totally looks like a dude. But, yet, the answer could still not be solidly made, and then the expedition was put to a close being that the ending bell rang.

"From here on down," meaning waist down, "it looks pretty feminine, but from up above it's pretty masculine."

That's pretty much what I could remember of one question that was considered. I think this is becoming one of the most difficult questions to answer in the universe, next to why eggs are considered a dairy product and what Axl Rose's blubber really consists of. And I seriously hope this is not the reincarnation of Ziggy Stardust.



Wednesday, May 18
My Dali tickets came in the mail today. For some reason I'm not as excited to go anymore. Probably because it's been delayed for us for so long, with the tickets having been sold out the last time we went and therefore walking around the rest of museum totally not interested, or arguing a bunch of times because of me booking tickets without my mom's notice so it counteracted with everyone's schedules, which made yeah you know who having to come too; in addition to having to leave at 5 o'clock in the morning to get there on time according to the only tickets left said. Now when I look at it, it's just some hallways with paintings on the walls and all we do is walk around and look at them. And the fact that I don't think my mom is really into these things and that the fucking sibling is forced to go with us who doesn't know shit, makes things all the less exhilerating for me. All I sense is a day full of problems and misdirection.

Lauren said she'd try to get her and me tickets to go see The Rolling Stones. I could truly tell that she doesn't know much about them, nor is she a huge fan. I have a feeling that she's trying to impress me or spite me or something. It's great that she's trying to do this for me as a friend [I think], but it makes me look down upon people when they try to change themselves (opinions, interests, etc.) just to try to impress me. Makes them seem shallow, or as if they are trying to be as "cool" as me. You're cool just the way you are. Be as fucking unique as you were born to be and then I'll be impressed. I don't want to meet another me who is boring. But meeting another me who stuns me and does crazy shit, something different, that'll be awesome; but that is totally different than what I was initially talking about.

But I doubt she would get them anyway. This always happens when she says she's going to get something valuable like that. She couldn't get the Motley Crue tickets because her mom couldn't get in touch with the guy. It sounded like she didn't even try hard enough. I think she said she'd try to get Stones tickets or either Green Day ones because seeing Green Day is her dream concert. Goddammit, fuck Green Day. The Stones are my dream concert. But hey, it's her connections that could get free tickets so I shouldn't be talking. If she does get Green Day tickets instead of Rolling Stones ones, forget it, I'm not going with her.



Tuesday, May 17
It's common and the usual for the drummer of a band to be the craziest motherfucker of them all. Well, I've finally gotten around to reading The Rolling Stones: A Life on the Road. Not only does it include hundreds of amazing pictures of the band, but it also spans through their entire career up unto the book was published, in 1998. I've finally realized, that compared to other drummers, and not any other drummer that I could think of right now, but Charlie Watts is the only refined, mannered gentleman drummer in history. Am I right? Probably not, but it's something to think about.

I mean, come on, man. He wears suits and sharply creased pants to every pretty much every single performance. We always see him in a beautifully perfectly fitting three-piece suit. He admits that he likes to shop. He's a good looking guy. He's mild mannered and is all around, a very nice boy. I have no idea how he could put up with all the other Stones' bullshit [for the past forty-three years]. Especially all of them.

The greatest fucking thing happened today. The school cafeteria was selling brownies. And they sold them in big chunks. I bought two for fifty cents each and eating those for lunch, in addition to two chocolate bars in the morning, I started to feel kind of sick at the start of third block. But I'm all peaches and cream now. Stomach pain cannot defeat me.

Got to bring my Izzy Stradlin linoleum prints home from art class, and for the next project I think I'm doing a Mick Jagger thing. It's gonna be hot. Unlike his face nowadays. But I'll spare you the pain of posting the all-famous stationery fold face of his. Instead here are Keith Richards' legs.










Monday, May 16
I am a very slow reader. I haven't finished either of the four books that I checked out about a month or two ago.

True story, what I am about to enlightn you with. This cult actually exists and is existing this very minute. Yes, cults believing in aliens and science fiction and the like. I will not enlighten you on details of the already mostly-dead Heaven's Gate cult, but another UFO cult that cracked me up upon reading a paragraph on them in the book on deadly cults that I am trying to finish. There should be a cult that believes and practices the practice of anal probing or the want of being the specimen in an anal probing procedure. That, I may be interested in.

"A group that has been in the news constantly because of its claims to have cloned a human being is the Raelians. The Raelians believe that mankind originated when a race of aliens called the Elohim visited Earth and created mankind in a laboratory. The founder of this group, a former journalist named Claude Vorilhon, who now goes by the name Rael, claims that aliens transported him onto a flying saucer in 1973, where he found that he had been selected to deliver the Elohimians' message about mankind's origins. The Elohimians told him that they will openly come to Earth and give mankind some very advanced technology, but only when there is world peace, and only after an embassy has been built for them in Jerusalem. By 2002, the Raelian movement had raised more than $7 million to build this embassy but as yet had not been able to acquire the Israeli government's approval to proceed with the building. If Israel doesn't agree to allow them to build the embassy by 2035, Rael warns, the Elohim will take away the protection they have been giving Israel from its neighbors."

How ridiculous is that? People actually believe this, hence the $7 million they had raised. So this cult ain't no small group of goth kids in a basement practicing weird shit kind of cult. This is a serious cult with thousands of members from all over the world. And why is it deadly, hence it being in a book titled that? I am guessing it's because this group claims to have actually cloned humans in its laboratories, and you can use your imagination from there on. Crazy shit, I say, just crazy.








Sunday, May 15
I've been overhearing a conversation that my mom was having on the phone with my grandfather in California. Upon that he's visiting next month, not only to see us but that he's starting invest in purchasing a computer and not being left behind in the times. So his partial motive of coming over here is to learn how to use one. My folks being not as fluent with computers and that they don't have that much time on their hands, my mom wants us children to teach my grandpa on how to use a computer - from start to finish, everything and anything that he'll need to know for when he goes back to California.

Well, I'm positive of this, my grandpa on the other line asked if I was going to teach him, and how well I knew computers. My mom said that I am the goddamn master at PCs but on the flipside I am very difficult and irritable to talk to. (Those and these following sentences weren't her exact words, I'm just translating it to my language and style of speaking.) She said that when you talk to me I am very difficult and that I never want to help and when I do, I say it in a cold tone and I never give any side advice. Therefore I am a cold human being and am not easy to talk to at all. On the other hand, my mom says that she'd rather have the younger sibling show my grandpa because besides the fact that she's still a kid, but she's fun and easy to interact with and she will always give you extra advice and side information on anything.

My take on this is that generally I don't like my mother or anybody else saying negative things about me, but these things are true. I'm also not that irritated (although I do take that she does think quite negatively of me and my personality, of me as a person all around) because she wasn't dissing me like some sack of shit, or like me saying shit about Gwar or some crap pot like that.

Yes, it is true. In person or in public, I seldom speak at all or show any emotion, hence having an extreme lack of warmth when around others. Yes, it is true that I get irritable when people ask me to help them with something. But that is where the facade of the irritability stops. I am extremely aware that I could lose patience quite easily at times, but my family, and people who are extremely slow for either their age or surroundings don't take in anything within the morbid ease that I could explain things, it gets more and more tedious and frustrating for me. Therefore heating up my veins.

Yet for some reason this only happens with persons who I am extremely close with, as you can see, my family and a small few number of friends whom I've known for years. Yes, I have that habit that if I'm with someone for too long I tend to rather not see the perfection in their flaws but instead I get more frustrated with those defects. I wish I could listen to Robin Williams in the movie Good Will Hunting, when during one of Will's therapy sessions Robin is talking about his wife, and that weird things about someone is what makes them so special - it's their traits of perfection.

That fact about me and the "flaws" in people does have another turn, although. Of course I see some of the "defects" in certain people to be what makes them unique and what I love about them, it's just, I hate to bear this upon the whole world to read, it's some parts of their stupidity that really gets me. The parts of them that take in things slowly or their dumb habits that tend to get in my way. I've got to work on this. Maybe, and probably, it isn't stupidity at all. It's just a part of their individuality and yet another part of their perfection, as we could call it.

In another away, you could call it snootyness. It could be that sort of thing when smart people look down upon stupid people and the fact that they can't do anything. The advantage that brains have, that they have the power to manipulate and do pretty much everything they want and regard to those who aren't as acute in their minds as those who are lower than the brainiacs are. I hate to admit that, but that is what I am. I cannot say that I am smart, for this is a horrible trait to have. And I am probably no more intelligent than any adult or child or person of my degree in my family [or anyone else], but their disadvantage of lacking a proper english accent is what commonly people say could make one seem dumb. Which is very hypocritical, being that I despise academy kids to the deep end and this is just the way that they treat others. I am so disappointed with myself.

My point is, I am aware of my some of my personality defects, probably this one the most severe next to my lack of motivation (laziness) for pretty much anything and anyone in life, and that I must fix it. But you know, when someone tells you about a problem you have directly to your face, especially about your personality - your indivdiual, unique self, your exact person - that they have to change; it is terribly effortsome to do so. It's not easy to change yourself. It's not easy to change who you are, the sole being of whom you are, your rock solid persona. It's hard. I've been aware of my irritability for so long and I have not gotten anywhere at all as to fixing it. Maybe because it's just who I am. Or that I need military discipline and such extremes as the like in order to change this habit.










Saturday, May 14
I don't know why or how, but for some reason while washing the dishes today after lunch the term "teenage sex hormones" got into my head. No idea where it came from or why it came to my head, except that I have a lot of them. Is that punk band already because it would make a great name. If not, I might as well become a cokehead and pull a Sid Vicious or something like that.

There's an America's Next Top Model marathon on VH1 all day and I just cannot get my fucking ass off of this chair.



Friday, May 13
I'm almost going frantic, insane. I asked my mom that since I'm going to have a day off on the 27th, if we could go to the Philadelphia Museum of Art for a second time to see the Dali exhibition, which we miserably tried to see last time. Well, this time we got tickets but we would have to be there at 8:30 in the morning. Guess what, the sibling needs some sad poor fuck to wake her the fuck up for school, make her fucking breakfast, tell her to brush her teeth, do her hair, get her dressed, and fucking drive her to her fucking school. So that date and time is screwed. She's fucking ten years old, I know, this is harsh but by this age she should at least learn how to do one thing for herself in the morning besides brushing her teeth. Something!. So now I have to find a way of changing our reserved day and time, and with the lack of time slots open, she'll have to come with us now. Fuck. I'm fucking tired of her not doing anything for herself. By age eight I was making my own breakfast, getting dressed on my own and walking out to the bus stop. I didn't need anybody to make my breakfast or wake me up or tell me to go to the bus stop. But no, this girl needs somebody to tell and guide her to do every single fucking thing for herself, and still cannot keep up with a fucking school bus schedule.

It puts me to shame that I have to be the older sister of such a slow person. Yes, I am an arrogant fucktard. I can't stand it when people are slow and can't take in things no matter how many Axl's I pull. I'm an impatient asshole like that. But I am positive that my sister needs to catch up on the world and learn to take care of herself. Even my mom acknowledges this inability of being independent. She's too fucking dependent, therefore fucking with everybody's schedules. Had she been more adaptable and dependent, we would've been able to go on vacation to Asia or Europe by now without spoonfeeding her the whole way through. I'm fucking ashamed and stressed out, because we tried calling the museum's ticket center and they're closed for the night. We don't want to call tomorrow for we're afraid it'll be too late to change anything. So I just emailed them concerning our need of changing the ticket date/time, and in addition to that if they allow it, buy another goddamn child admission.

Had she been able to fucking take care of herself and get her fucking ass out of the presence of the fucking television, everything would have gone well. Now I am in a shambles with my mom's fucking anxiety over this pain in the ass and that sibling's well-being and safety. I've almost fucking had it. It is seriously about time that she started taking care of herself and stop being such a burden to every single other person in the house. Ten years old, and still depending on someone else to take care of you like a four-year-old? You have no idea how many opportunities that I have had to sacrifice in order to abide by her schedule and need of care. This Dali exhibition has been so fucking important to me, I've been bothering my folks for so long, and Christina never pesters people. I even almost fucking begged if I had to. And begging, in my opinion, is the lowest, lowest of all strategies of getting something. Only desperate, frustrated, people with nothing to lose would resort to begging.

Ever since I was a child, I've always seen in television and books, pretty much in pop culture itself, his painting entitled Persistence of Memory. It was such an entity, such a mystery, such an intriguing painting. I had no idea who painted it, what the fucking hell it meant, or any idea of its origins or time period it was created. Up until I was in seventh grade and my art teacher told me. Ever since, I've done a bit of research on Dali's work. This is a once in a lifetime chance to see over two fucking hundred pieces of his displayed in one fucking place at one fucking time. I'm not going to let someone's immature incapabilities get in my way, for the thousandth and most unnecessary time.

So now, if it is possible to change our tickets to the 26th, we are both going to have to miss part of school. This is extremely rare, maybe even for the first time, that I don't want to miss school. My grades are going down faster than Axl Rose on a 10 x 10 foot box of twinkies and I have to be there for every class, because just about every one besides art is either failing or just above or on the passing mark.

No editing because this is like the Zeppelin song and I had to ramble and get this shit out so that I could organize my thoughts and shit later on.



Thursday, May 12


Greatest picture of Ronnie Wood ever, man. Because he's sitting on a rather large piece of wood other than his. It's a double plank.

Today went rather well. But it seems that every day my allergies are getting worse and worse. I think by the end of the month I'm going to be ending up on my knees bending over wheezing like that Pokemon called Weezing, but I won't be floating in the air like it does and hopefully tar or brown smoke would come out of my mouth.



Wednesday, May 11
College textbooks and The Scarlet Letter. Could kiss my ass. Long and hard. Some romance novel, it's fucking boring and they don't describe any hot scenes or any hotness of the characters besides Hester. But she's a chick and I am not a homosexual. Had they provided a better description of the reverend's hotness and provided a nice picture of him, then I would be more captivated to read this lump of tree bark more favorably. And I don't mean that ugly ass drawing on the cover of the book where he looks like Steve Buscemi whose had too much Budweiser. I'm sorry, Steve Buscemi is one hell of an amazing dude but he is not very synonymous with the word "sex." Except maybe in the term of abstinence.

I was having such a bad day this morning. Nothing was working. First, my mind wasn't working as acutely, and it took me about twenty minutes to decide on what shirt to wear. Thus making me come later to school. Then I wanted a chocolate bar or two so I went to the vending machine in the cafeteria. Fucking thing wanted only exact change and plus the lunch lady at the cashier didn't have any fucking change to give me because no stupid fucker went to the bank yet. So I was late to class.

Went back to the fucking machine after first block and it does the same fucking thing. Late to the next class. In that next class, my computer was being such a stupid Gwar-inhabiting fucktard that it wouldn't even let me sign onto my district username in order to even use the computer. After the teacher made me move to the back of the room where there is a quality compututational service that hasn't been fucked in the ass by some asshole who sits at my computer before me, I find out that the internet was really truly down and not working. Boredom commences and I actually get some work done.

But that's where my bad luck ended because A lunches on my A days are pretty decent. My friend showed me a picture of his uncle's castle in Ireland and built onto the wall was a picture of a man fucking a deer. How awesome is that. I'm fucking serious too. You gotta see it to believe it. It's not like pop art billboard bright kind of etching, the picture blends in so the castle doesn't look like some ancient XXX theatre.

Walking home was extremely difficult. It



Tuesday, May 10
The worst thing to happen when you're having a bad day is when you're walking home in your bad mood and all of a sudden this car backing out of the parking lot that you're walking through blasts Phil Collins in your ear. Horrible, I say, just unbelievably fucking horrible. Well for some reason at the end of B days, or maybe just the end of today, that I was in a bad mood. Who knows why. It's a fucking B day.

No, not B day as in your fucking slang spelling of Shit-Out-By-Your-Mom Day.

While reading David Lee Roth's autobiography, Crazy From the Heat, the other day, I had read the most hilarious paragraph on Keith Richards' brain (or anything else left of his heroinized body) capacity. I'll give you two paragraphs so that you could see what Diamond the Jew Dave is talking about.

"My physical and emotional peak has to be right around 9:15 P.M. and that includes on a Tuesday night. So everything is shifted to accommodate that. You can't wake up when the sun comes up, stay up all day and expect to peak at 9:15 at night. There's no way to do it. You only have so many calories to burn in a given day. You only have so much distance you can do in a given day. So everything you do is designed to accommodate that; what you eat or don't eat or how you sleep or don't sleep.

And that is also inclusive of wildly diverse approaches, a la the guy who's way hyped on amino acids and Met-Rx and is doing split training and eating pure protein, and that's how he accommodates. Or the Keith Richards approach of "I try not to eat during the week, man." Hey, Keith has been showing up at 9:15 on the dot for thirty-five years, and it's still worth seventy-five bucks a pop, if you're askin' me. I'm not sure Keith knows what an amino acid is. I assure you that it's not in his medical bag. Vitamins to Keith Richards is purely slang."

There are so many pictures in his book that I'd love to scan and make fun of even further than he already has, but thy scanner hath no software.


Wh-wh-what? Peter Gabriel was once hot? Yes, because then he got hit with a sledgehammer. It's a balanced thing - immediately get rid of your looks, and you poop out a hit record.


Sting and George Michael had that 5 o'clock shadow war going on. Unlike in Beverly Hills 90210 where Jason Priestley and Luke Perry had that sideburn war under full fire.


Tony Basil ain't gonna be cheering for ya.


And here's our man of the hour.


This is me when my mom brings home California oranges from the supermarket. My hair suddenly turns blonde and I rock out like a maniac.


The Nuge. Sometimes if you read my last name, Nguyen, wrong, it sort of sounds like Nugent. Maybe he's my father but is ashamed of fathering a minority child, so he legally changed my name and sent me away.



Monday, May 9
I burned Dane Cook's CD, Harmful if Swallowed, onto a disc and listened to it while painting in art class today. I tried to not let everyone see me cracking up for what it seems to be a mental problem, and it was so fucking hilarious that I ended up fucking up my Mickey Mouse watercolor embossing. Yeah, I'm fucking lame. I even looked like a loon when I was listening to it while walking to school. Come on, anybody who's laughing when they're walking alone has got to look insane. But I couldn't help it.

Fuck bees.

So I had to take a crap today, and guess what, I had to take that crap in one of the school's bathrooms. Why is it that the tampon disposal box is always deformed? Like, you're in such menstrual agony that you have to take your anger on the poor fucking tampon can? It's because of these crazy tampon can-trashing chicks that I can't shit in peace, that I have to sit in sympathy of the poor fucking thing and its deformity. You know, it's not fucking nice to deform anything. But maybe it's a good thing, because had the chick not taken her menstrual anger out on the tampon disposal box, she would've taken her anger out one some poor fucker like me. And you know how much I would hate for my face to get bruised, because with my already elastic-ham-type asian face to swell up to twice its size, you might as well call my face an elephant ass.



Sunday, May 8
"Holiday." Horrible, horrible fucking song. The sibling always watches the goddamn video on television, which for her is always on near to maximum volume. And we don't have a very large house. In addition to that, it's a ranch house so everything echoes throughout that one single level. Fuck Green Day.

I need to stop listening to Incubus at night. It drives me mad and makes me think scary and weird things. Which is a good thing in a typical sense, but not good when I start to think too deeply while in bed and I either start to scare myself or trigger one of those Sunday nightmares.

Like today. The trip was a fucking disaster once we pulled up to the front of the museum entrance. There was this large red and white sign that read:

DALI TICKETS SOLD OUT TODAY

Stupid fucking Gwar listeners. Every single one of them. Every single lucky thinkforyourselfer who ordered a weekend ticket ahead of time. Stupid thinkforyourselfers who spend their entire fucking lives rushing to be the first ones to get a ticket for some exhibit four months prior to the fucking event. I'm fucking jealous, that's what. And it's kind of lame that the website didn't include the availability of tickets, only saying in bold, "Tickets are subject to availability." What the fuck is that supposed to tell us? Not enough info, stupid bitch.

I don't want to talk about it anymore. And don't give me that lame fucking consolation, "I'm sorry." What the fuck do you have to be sorry for? You didn't have a single damn thing to do with this. So don't even think about saying that. Or even any other time that I am at a bad loss. Don't say you're sorry if you didn't do anything at all. It just sounds real fucking dumb.

They are completely sold out for every upcoming weekend until the exhibit is over. I'm determined to negotiate a weekday trip with my folks, which is going to be very difficult considering our schedules, but I'm determined to get my ample dose of squiggly clocks and giant heads.



Saturday, May 7
Holy fucking shit. I want this.



It plays music. A toaster that plays music, in addition to imprinting a rodent's face on your bread. This is too good to be true.

My mom wants this:



The feet on it are just too adorable.



Friday, May 6
So I have discovered my new obsession. Toast.


The traditional photo of a traditional piece of toast. But it is probably the most delightful looking piece of carbohydrates bunched together that I have ever seen in my entire life.


What's better than sex? Toast, bitch. Toast served to you for breakfast in bed after sex. With flowers and unsmudged orange cups and napkins that look like quesadillas.


This looks like grilled cheese.


Uh oh. This person who has inserted this piece of bread into the toaster and did not turn the dial to a lighter flakiness has committed a SIN.


Mediocre effort at creating a culinary work of art, but I'd still eat it.


This kid apparently gets the idea. I see a greatness in her bright future.


French toast with some stuff on it. I like the plate. Or rather, it looks like a picture frame. Cheap fuckers.


For some reason, when the bread goes down it looks like they're going down into hell and that they are going to die. But it's toast so it comes back to life and brings us to food heaven when we bite down into their crusty sexiness.


If I see any religious figure or some kind of Michael Bolton reference, I might as well jump into a giant toaster and go to hell because I ain't going to become tasty toast like bread can be.


Brilliant artist. Brilliant.


Love at first sight. I swear that I am going to order one of these purses whenever my mom gets off the goddamn phone in the near century so I can have access to her Visa Card.


The piece de resistance. This is my fucking dream. My fucking dream toaster. My fucking dream item to possess. Fuck wedding rings from Duff McKagan, I want a fucking sandwich presser, AKA Super Toaster.








Thursday, May 5
So I am aware of this weird stalker of mine on this here blog with the IP address of 67.84.237., who uses Optimum Online and Windows2000. Whoever this IRS worker is, they visit my blog every day, sometimes even more than once a day. I am extremely curious. Reveal yourself please. Especially if you're a hot guy, then boy I would have to hunt you down immediately. But I highly doubt it, and it may turn out to be a forty-six-year-old woman whose had three kids but drowned them all in the bathtub. Yes, I may sound like a fucking nutcase to you right now whoever you are, and you're probably laughing in your pants right now but yes, that is a common reaction when I tend to go retarded.

Last week I applied for the Ultimate Blogger contest. My application wasn't accepted. Boo hoo.








Wednesday, May 4


I still crave for an orange muffin anyway. I'll eat it before it eats me.








Tuesday, May 3
Hi Kids,

I got a little sick yesterday because I was eating bread and butter and I didn't know how long the butter had been in the fridge. Talk about dumbass.

So I was sitting with my friend today at lunch and he was talking about a certain book but forgot the author's name. And then he asks this random kid who was walking by out loud, "HEY DO YOU THE KNOW THE AUTHOR OF [SO AND SO TITLE OF BOOK]?" (I forgot the book's title, sadly.) And the kid's like, "No, I have no idea!" And then my friend replies, "OH OKAY, JUST CHECKING." Then the kid says, "Oh okay, I don't even know you, so!" and he walks away. I ask my friend if he didn't really know the kid or if he really did and he was simply like, "No, he's indian and the author of the book is indian so I figured he'd know."

Cruel and sadistic, but I laughed my ass off. Another time him, Eric, and I were sitting outside and his jewish friend Jay comes over and sits too. Then he goes on about how he has this brilliant plan to extinguish all the jews in the world with a giant machine that will start off with Jay. Eric asks if he has any wires in his bag and he says, "One."

Eric asks, "One?"

"Two."
"Two?"
"Four."
"Four?"
"Six."
"Six?"

And then he lastly answers in this military singsong voice, "Who do we wanna eliminate?"

Oh god, that was so great. Cruel and sadistic, but great. And this whole time Eric was really, genuinely confused every time that he said a new number. He really, neither did I, have any idea that it was going to turn out as some kind of song.

Of course we're all kidding. Some folks have this hilarious tendency to make fun of their own backgrounds. Even I do, if you haven't noticed. But sometimes I'm telling the truth, because there indeed is no such thing as a sexy asian boy.

Sometimes I really cannot fucking stand to make myself visible on AIM. Shaina this excludes you because Shaina is always on the good side of my braina. So anyway, one friend, Elena, she just won't leave me the fuck alone. Never. The second I sign on visibly, she IMs me saying hey, I say hey, she asks what's up, I say so and so and so, bada bing bada boom she starts dumping all this shit on me which is all these intense anger problems in her life. She goes on and on and on and on, usually expecting some kind of debate of intelligence explaining for other people's bullshitting of her and causing her so much teen pain and angst. On and on and on and on and on. I can't fucking take it anymore. She's either complaining about the stupid fucktards in her all-greek catholic(?) school and now, all those stupid fucktards and how all those stupid fucktards make fun of her newfound boyfriend, and how she wants to see him so bad but he lives a bit far from her. I constantly tell her to stop complaining to me and do something about it, but then she keeps going on.

I can't talk to anyone else online without having to explain things more calmly to her every five fucking seconds to keep up with her typing. I can't do anything I fucking want with anything or anyone else because I constantly have to console her. Of course, I'm concerned for her but she needs to know that I have my own shit to do and I can't fucking think straight if I'm concentrating on her my entire time that I'm online. She's online like fucking twelve hours a day, possibly more so than I and during the entire time that I am ever online. She is the one who is constantly forcing myself to hide and rarely ever IMing anybody at all.

Sometimes I would really love for anybody to message me, but then she messages me with her redundant annoying problems and then I suddenly find going online a fucking burden, no longer a pleasure. Sure if I want to be a fucking psychologist she'd be working my ass off. But no I am not that patient of a person and quite frankly I can't take it anymore. She needs to stop making petty excuses (which is the majority of her rambles added to all these different people that I have no idea ever existed that she constantly adds to my list of problems to solve every day for her) and fix her fucking life before I start to go insane, sort of like her.

When I see her log off, I take it like a godsend. I have a great time talking to others who message me, it's such a leisure. But I'd be fucking damned when she signs on again and I don't see.

Then she messages me. And then I sigh. A sigh ful of pain and perturbance.

If I tell her of how such a burden she is to me, she'd probably take me as some stupid fucktard like she thinks everyone around her is. She thinks that every person who knows her, even online, like me, talks shit about her. So telling her of this would probably make her dislike me and think much lowly of me. Elena's a girl full of potential to do great in the philosophical and scholarly world, I think she's a great person, but she needs to stop being so fucking dependent. It's like I'm having children already. Oh fucking come on, I can't even take care of myself. And not only do I have many issues going on currently in my own life as you have read in the past few entries, I can't fucking clear my head when I am constantly trying to help her.

She keeps saying how I'm right and how much she appreciates my guidance and all, but I haven't seen her change a bit throughout the time that I've known her. A lot of things that I say, she blatantly makes an excuse that she has done that and that it doesn't work. True, I'm not in her shoes and I only know her online, but my god, ignoring people who are pestering you will always work. Always work. Except if they shoot you. That is the only logical excuse for when ignoring people doesn't work.

I realize that I'm starting to become like her, exactly like her actually, by rambling on and on about my problems. But this is the first time that I've ever gotten to speak about it. So you see, this is the reason that I never seem to be online. And now that you know this, if you would like to talk to Christina via AOL Instant Messenger, and it looks like she isn't signed on, just check her info anyway and message away.

Elena is driving me fucking crazy. And yes I am a mean son of a bitch for saying such things about her, but this is a journal and you could say whatever the fuck you want in a journal. Case closed.

No editing because I'll get nearsightedness and arthritis at the same time.



Sunday, May 1
I think I have found a source of recovery after my favorite TV show, Complete Savages, had been cancelled. Yeah bitch, I'm starting to get into Nip/Tuck now. It is one hell of a fucking crazy show. Like last night's, a patient wanted the doctors to make the perfect mold of her pussy to put on a sex doll that she was manufacturing. I forgot why, but one of the doctors had to bring the life-sized doll home. And missing his separated wife and being lonely and all, he fucks the doll. I fucking cracked up. You don't get that on television very much - sexy older men fucking silicone dolls in their living room.

So I'm going to that Salvador Dali exhibition in Philadelphia next weekend at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Over 200 of his works of art are going to be displayed, I'm so fucking excited. Usually I wouldn't waste two hours of driving and hand over twenty dollars for a ticket but this is my favorite artist here. Fuck realism, surrealism doesn't make me sad. I prefer to be amazed and wondering, rather than seeing something that I've already seen before, and not to mention that realism is usually somber and boring to me, in my opinion. Movies is another thing, because usually a sane, dramatic movie doesn't give me nightmares. Most crazy surrealistic movies for me, just totally fuck me up and give me weird thoughts, and not in the good way, for some reason. I don't know, I just love mysterious paintings and works of art. You could just stand there for hours thinking of hundreds of different interpretations of it.

"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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