Thursday, July 28
This is the greatest picture ever. It looks like he's got something stuck in his teeth and is screaming about how annoying it is that it keeps rubbing against the side of his mouth. The solution to his problem is this:



I wish I could make an icon out of that, but I don't have the right program.



Wednesday, July 27
It's been such a long time since I've rambled. And to be honest, I don't know where my mind has been; if there is anything for it to be in the first place. Like I've said, all I do is stay home and go out once a week, usually with my mom. I find nothing wrong with it. It's true that she's a speedy talker and a speedy task-doer, and I the exact opposite - more of the bohemian style of, being slow. Taking my time and not act like I'm a Starbucks fiend. I think the thing that makes us get along is that we think just as quickly as one another, but the faulty part of that is that we express things in a different speed and/or style. I fucking swear, my mom should have a talk show. She talks so fucking much, so fucking fast, so fucking energetic, and she ain't talking about stupid shit either. The crap she says is well thought out. But the thing is, due to her fast intake and outtake of things, she forgets things very easily.

I, on the otherhand, believe that I have more of a spectular memory. With the exception of my rambles or shit that I say. I could remember things that I see and what people say word by word, in person, but if it's me saying something or something beyond those lines, just forget it. Shaina always shows me the weird crap I say online, and I could barely even recall that I even said that, and sometimes even forgetting what it meant or what's behind it.

I think my rag is coming soon. I feel some bloating and sensitivity coming on. Oh man, that's fucking lame. I don't want to be a pussyfuss with red shit bleeding out of her ass at the same time with a face oily enough to cook my lunch. But then again I could be completely wrong. Who the hell knows.

The Kids in the Hall was airing this morning at 2:00. It's so ridiculous but I just laugh my ass off. I kept remembering the guy who kept saying, "Must've slipped my mind." It sounds so much like me. No wonder my mom is always yelling at me.

Cousins are coming on Friday for three weeks so I might not be around. So now you're all free to post death threats for me to get back to, gossip and whatnot, party harty.

This was the worst attempt at ranting. I fucking hate when I run out of ideas or motivation and come out looking like a devoted Xanga user.



Tuesday, July 26
Made a new layout here. I know it turns you on.





Monday, July 25
Cousins are coming on Friday, and we're all going to Florida on Sunday the 7th I think, and returning on Saturday, the 14th I think. One week. Don't be making fun of my mathematical and calendrical skills because clearly they are not very advanced. Two days of 12-hour drives which make it officially five days that we are staying there. We're going to be going everywhere around that state, everyone got to choose a place to go for in one day, except for me. Apparently no one wants to go alligator hunting, and so I will just have to deal with that. I want to find a better replacement for my childhood stuffed alligator toy, Al.

Considering the intense heat and humidity down there, it worries me quite a bit. My hair gets oily and shitty after only a matter of time after washing. And to think that there are only two bathrooms for ten people in the resort suite that is currently being reserved right now. Hair, dirt, skin flakes, pubes, sweat, goddamn it's going to be fucking heinous. At this rate I'm not even going to be sure that I'll be one of the few who get a bed. I can't stand sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor because,

1. fucking hurts like hell
2. hurts my joints when moving around from hitting the floor while trying to move
3. might be a dirty floor with hair on it




Goddamn, I'm fucking hungry. But it's nighttime and I'm supposed to be in bed, and eating at night makes you gain weight; I'm not in for that. So I'm waiting to at least get tired, wake up and fucking eat something good. Meanwhile, I'll let my eyes feed.


cheese fries

stuffed chicken

chicken quesadilla

pancakes

nachos

mozzarella sticks

hamburger

lasagna carciofi

bacon

eggrolls

chocolate cake

brownies

strawberry tart



Sunday, July 24
I've seen this same episode of Iron Chef America twice, and chef Kerry Simon bears this uncanny resemblance to the great Jimmy Page. Observe for yourself. Or if what I provide for you isn't enough, look up his name in Google. Or just watch the goddamn show yourself. He makes the most beautiful hamburger that I have ever laid eyes on.







Saturday, July 23
I hope Lauren calls soon, hopefully tomorrow or someday this week so that we could go to the Short Hills mall. She wants to go to Tiffany's with her hundreds of dollars' worth of sweet sixteen gifts and I want to go to the fabulous little pastry shop there that sells little 5 inch x 5 inch cakes that cost $5 - $6 each. I'm one of those who don't have money or make any money; people give me money. This time no one gave me money so Short Hills is pretty much Beverly Hills according to me. It always was, always will be. But maybe this time it will inspire me to reach for the stars and work in a cubicle farm, growing paper documents and watering coffee mugs.

Today the family and I ate dinner at the International House of Pancakes (IHOP). Oxymoron, for morons like us. It was really fucking good because I was really fucking starving. But once I started to get full I realized that it was just mediocre dining. Although, the decor was much much of an improvement compared to Sizzler. God, Sizzler sucked. So did Ruby Tuesday. For a restaurant that's named after a Rolling Stones song, you would at least expect good food.

I think it was two days ago that I went to Marshall's and got a new shirt. It is quite the pretty thing. Unlike the 2002 facade showcase of Axl Rose at the VMA's.



There it is. As you can see, I am a photographer as great and studious as the likes of Herb Ritts. And I'm wearing orange shorts. Wrong pants, but I'm home and I could wear whatever the fuck I want. Whether it's a chicken suit or a pussy (Axl) suit, nobody cares.



Friday, July 22




Thursday, July 21


I want this Fonzie jacket. So then I could go around sticking my thumbs up and saying "Heeeeeeey."




So my mom and I were watching the WB11 News at Ten, and there was this thing on testing for breast cancer. It was just a preview for after the commercial break, and then she bursts out in annoyance, "I HATE those tests!" Of course, this question was about boobs and something that I could laugh about, I asked why, while thinking about some retard that I was talking to a long time ago who told me that they put a giant needle through your entire knocker. Then my mom tells me that you have to put one knocker on this thing, and the machine has to sort of squash it. But the thing is, if you have big Anna Nicole melons it wouldn't hurt as much. Well, us being asian and all, our tits are like the size of tangerines. The doctor would have to pull it and oh man I started laughing. I wonder how Paris Hilton deals with this. Or anybody who is more asian than I am.

I took a nap at 3:30 this afternoon, slept like an igneous rock. Really sucks that I'm like a fucking raccoon at night and a fucking snoozefuck during the day. I guess it's my natural instinct that I don't like anybody, so I have to "get away" from them. It's like that in school too, it just feels so comfortable. Even more comfortable from the amount of dickheads who go there.

Right when I only shut my eyes for about ten seconds the fucking bitch sibling comes in and asks, "The computer is frozen, where does the plug to the computer go?" How in the fucking hell does that make sense. And you bet your ass is cold, I was annoyed as Axl Rose when the bread crusts aren't cut off. I ignored her and let my head fall back down onto the bed, shut the head windows. Damn shit won't leave. She never does until I do what she wants, even if she can't even find out what the fucking problem is. Yelling and yelling and demanding people to do shit for you. Stop being a fucking twit, show some respect for the level of a goddamn middle schooler and then you'll get what you want.

Wake up at 5:00, go to take a piss and look in the mirror, to find that there is this huge line across my face going through my eye from the blanket that my head was on. I looked like some kind of pirate or one of Robert de Niro's bad movie roles.

What a long day, for the past three weeks I only step out of the house for one day, once a week. I'm waiting for next week to come, when cousins visit and we could go out and I could wear some decent good looking clothes for once, because every chick likes to look good.



Wednesday, July 20
I hate bedtime. You know why? Because I can't sleep. Went to bed at 1:30 this morning, couldn't sleep so I decided to watch some TV. 3:00 comes around and I'm tired as a hooker trying to look for Fat Joe's penis under all his fat, still couldn't sleep. So then I watch this special on Animal Planet called "Nature's Vampires." Maybe it's the fact that I'm more sensitive at night, or that I'm just a plain fucking pussy, but I was cringing and squirming throughout the half hour that I watched it. A woman who ventured into a rainforest got a leech in her eye and up her nose, and she didn't even notice until her friends saw or when blood started dripping out of her nose uncontrollably. There was another guy who got one of those week/month-long deadly leeches up his nose, and it took a doctor and himself with the help of grabbing onto the walls and furniture in the doctor's office, just to yank out the then foot-long leech that would seldom peep out of his nose every so often for the past eighteen days.

Seriously, if there was a worm wiggling around my nasal passages, I would know. I'm allergent-prone so I detect just about every piece of dust that comes intact with my cilia.

One guy had maggots living inside him and eating him alive. He was telling his story about how he was working in a rainforest in Africa and was rowing as fast as he could back to his base camp, but these giant six-inch-in-diameter zits that were filled with maggots all over his body caused him too much pain. Until one day, this mysterious black man comes out of the forest and starts rubbing grease onto the sores. Then one by one, hour after hour, (and they fucking reenact this on TV), the mystery guy starts squeezing out the maggots out of the helpless guy's body. Yellow and red shit flying everywhere, splattering onto the camera; this was the first time since watching The Big Comfy Couch that I had to turn my head away from a television set.

So I fall asleep at 4:00 A.M. And guess what, I wake up at a mere puny fucking three hours later at 7:00 A.M. because the Guns n' Roses drawing fell off the wall and hit my leg. And it's fucking styrofoam! The sound of the tape unsticking itself sounded like a door or window collapsing, it scared the shit out of me. Jesus, talk about insomniac pussy light sleeping. I guess I shouldn't use masking tape, probably because of the humidity.

Last night I was browsing LiveJournal and stumbled upon a Rescue Me fanfiction community. Rescue Me, Denis Leary, fanfiction? Denis and fanfiction go together as well as me, and Axl Rose in Switzerland, okay? We would probably beat the shit out of each other in a clog dance-off and then start arguing about how oddly huge his balls are.

Now that is just, god, fucking lame. Once a trend starts to spark fanfiction, it immediately gets an anime-like fanbase, which are exactly the stupid fuckers who write that cowshit. Every time, somebody has to ruin it for everybody. I can't even read the descriptions, let alone skimming through a goddamn one, not even to laugh my fucking fallopian tubes off at how dumb it is. They have surpassed the stupid line, all the way into the You're a Fucking Retard line.



Tuesday, July 19
It sucks that I don't have a quality camera. So you will just have to suffer and look at these shitty quality pictures from the webcam. If anybody wants me to type out the article, I will. But I doubt anybody would want that.



My cherished Guns n' Roses drawing from Brenda.



Top and bottom.


Look at that pussy in all its splendor.


Didn't I tell you that this person can really draw?


Denis in the August issue of In Style.


This is the only thing that you will be able to read.


Awww how cutey wutey are they.


The horse is fucking scary. Its eyes have no pupils from what I see.


I really wish the scanner wasn't such a Gwar fan because his son is really quite gorgeous.


The dog is fucking huge. I wouldn't want to be scooping its poop.


Piggy!


The next page. Denis' shirt reminds me of Cool Mint candy canes.


The point of the article is his house, but my webcam will not allow you to look at the details.


The sunroom where he reads the morning paper and his wife writes and does stuff with plants.


I forgot what that is.


Their tennis court that was once an ice hockey rink.


The ice hockey rink in the past and the thing I forgot up on the hill behind it.


I wish I was cute and sexy like her.


My Keith Richards. Axl is on one of the pictures of the magazine ripping that Keith is on top of. Guess which one Axl is.


As you can tell, I don't have a car.




Brenda's birthday present came in the mail today! It's a drawing of the original members of Guns n' Roses (man, I almost typed "Buns n' Roses") and I can't stop looking at it and admiring how amazing it it is - the detailing, the fact that Izzy is in the center, the fact that Axl is wearing a plaid shirt wrapped around his white bicycle shorts, and the fact that it's black and white so that it has that certain element to it. The person who drew it makes me look like a fucking handicapped two year old. When the mail man gave me the box at the door and I went back inside the house, I looked at the box and saw that somebody had kicked it in. That's no surprise being that it has to be delivered by the postal service. But then my sorrows were relieved when I opened it and found out that it was a drawing as opposed to a three-dimensional object that would've been trampled to death.

I really am incredibly grateful for it and will be hanging it up pretty soon, once I find a substitute for tape and/or thumb tacks, because those ruin whatever you're trying to hang up. Tape always tears apart my posters when I try to move them and thumb tacks cause ripping or many holes, and you know about my fear of dots.

Pictures later.



Monday, July 18
I hate Richie Sambora. He's the reason I'm straight. Yeah, you stupid "metal" motherfucker, you got to marry Heather Locklear.




I really wish that I would never need to sleep. That I could just stay up all fucking night long and jump around like a fucking cokehead cheesy hair metal and laugh at the same Denis Leary jokes so many times that I become one of those old guys who never found out when Happy Days went off the air. Sleep is one thing that I particularly do not like trying to do, probably because I'm blessed with nothing but nightmares my entire life for no apparent reason and that I'm a fucking insomniac. I went to bed at 3:45 this morning and woke up at 1:15 in the afternoon. Eight hours of sleep is the said ample amount of time for a good night's rest, but I think this schedule of staying up so late is taking a toll on my ability to do anything during the time that I am awake. No matter how late I stay up and even if I sleep at the doctors' preferred number of hours, I'm still fucking tired during the entire day. But it's just too hard to get back to the right schedule of going to sleep a little earlier in order to wake up a little earlier. I think the only way that I could achieve that is to pull an all-nighter and go to sleep early the next day. But then my mom would start to get angry by looking at my under-eye circles and find out that I don't sleep at 11:00 like she thinks I do.

Fuck sleep, I don't need it. I want more time to drink caffeinated drinks and milkshakes and baking cakes and cookies all night long. Nothing is more fun to do at home except jerking off to Rescue Me than baking at night. I like the soft yellow lights and looking at the stars outside the window and turning on the television/stereo obscenely loud and sitting for thirty minutes watching the cake rise in the oven just like how the microwave fascinates me. It's just better at night for some reason. Probably because nobody is around or awake, and the television programs are better.

Whenever my family would leave for a party and I choose to stay home, I just feel like I could do whatever the fuck I want, and I do.

This morning at around 10:00 I was rudely interrupted by the sibling's TV blasting Baby Looney Tunes and it's two fucking bedrooms away down the hall from mine. Two fucking bedrooms away, my door is shut tight as usual and I could still hear every pathetic squeaky sentence that those diaperfucks say. I tried and tried to push it aside and continue snoozing but it was just so obnoxiously ridiculous to turn your TV that loud to a show such as that. I wonder why my mom never says anything about it. I got so fed up with it that I got up, expecting to pop a verbal cap in her ass to shut the fucking television up, for just a smidge, at least to the level where all I can hear in my room is a bunch of mumbling.

Turns out the girl was in the bathroom and the remote was lying on her bed like a zit on Gisele Bundchen's ass. I jumped for it (from my lack of eyesight and coordination) and grabbed for it like it was a gator chomping at a flock of gazelles, and furiously pressed the "-" button under the word "Volume."




I am enjoying N.W.A. way too much. Their songs are much more interesting and less IQ-shrinking than R. Kelly's sappy guy in the closet or 50 Cent's second-rate metaphors. Don't even get me started on 50. He looks like a fucking tree trunk that's been shit on by an elephant, collapsed, and rolled down the Himalayas.



Sunday, July 17
For some reason the owner of an iPod gets to name their iPod, so I named mine Keith Richards. So I could say, "You know what that flat little white thing on the desk is? That's Keith Richards." Or when I'm importing songs into it, I could say, "I'm putting stuff into Keith Richards." Or when it needs to be recharged, I could say, "I'm charging up Keith Richards to keep him alive." Fuck the default name of "Administrator's iPod" or some shit like that. It's too boring and too long. And administrator reminds me of those constipated people who run the school.

Cousins are visiting from California in less than two weeks and we're all going to Florida together sometime soon after they come. It's still too much of a wait, considering of how many hours of television I watch and how many hours I sit on my ass thinking of what to make myself to eat next. Nowadays I tend to laugh a lot more at pretty much everything I see and I laugh much harder too. Like today I watched Pulp Fiction for the second or third time since last night and I just laughed my fucking ass off at everything they do, especially all the weird shit that Jules and his fro says. And yesterday when I was cleaning cabinets and tables with Windex, I put Denis Leary's Lock n' Load special on and while shining something I just fucking laughed so hard that my face just crinkled into nothing but a giant mouth with teeth surrounding it.

I remember my mom talking about us going to New Orleans for vacation at Christmas, somewhere around last November. That would've been really cool, because I could've stalked Trent Reznor in his house but now it's too fucking late since he jumped on the bandwagon and moved to California.

So just a minute ago I was talking to Shaina over the phone and looking out the window I saw through the cloud-covered sky a light patch that looked like a sperm cell wiggling around because the wind was blowing it. I need to get a life. I may need one, but I don't really want one because I'm just made for staying in my house for most of my life anyway. I actually enjoy it somewhat. There's nothing to do in Rockaway. Everywhere you go, there's either a scene kid or an emo kid. Man, those kids really need a nice giant kick in the ass with my boot and stop whining about how fakely "sad and lonely" they are. As a matter of fact, they need to stop putting tw grams of mascara on and smelling onions to get that crybaby look, stop drawing fake slits on their wrists with red Sharpies and be fucking glad that they're not clinically depressed. Depression is one of the most horrible fucking feelings in the world, and perhaps the most horrible feeling in the world if you really have it.

Saturday Night Live two nights ago on E! had John Goodman hosting and he was wearing tight acid wash jeans, a purple shirt, and brown Members Only jacket. That was pretty damn funny.

I'd really like to see these kids lying that their families hate them and not let them do anything and that their parents like to beat them, just so they could bring attention to themselves and get our fucking pity. No thanks I don't want to befriend a fucking pussy. Hey kid, my mom used to beat my head with rulers for not being able to do my times tables and look at me now, I don't need a calculator anymore. Pretty much.

I thought people who wore clothes that were too tight would be angry all the time like a constipated fat man but turns out they're not. Whining doesn't get you anywhere, you can't expect people to sympathize with you and do all the shit that you can't do for you.

I'm even starting to bore myself talking about this. A good laugh will make this all better.






Saturday, July 16
I finally got my iPod yesterday at P.C. Richard & Son since they sold it for the least George Washingtons. While my dad was at the computer with the employee paying for it, I was watching this superbly fascinating documentary on insects with some old guy wearing a safari hat and gay safari vest that was being aired on all the TV's that were on display. Then it started showing those giant spiders (not tarantulas, dumbshit) in Fear Factor when the contestants played craps and depending on how they played depended on how many giant spiders they had to eat. The blonde chick kept gagging and choking.

But anyway, back to P.C. Richard. On about forty or fifty television sets in the electronic superstore that it was, the documentary started showing two spiders mating. Fifty television sets showing a male spider inserting his garbage into the female spider's can. I'm fucking serious, I saw that black spider inserting and secreting its giant white pleasure(?) stick into the chick spider.I started lean-back laughing so hard inside my head and tried to keep it from showing, in order to keep myself from looking like a total fucktard. I almost wanted to get my mom who was looking at barbecue grills and point it out to her, but I thought again and knew she would hit me on the back of the head for being an asshole.

Turns out that that certain store ran out of the lower-priced iPods that we wanted so they faxed a receipt over to the store in Wayne, and we would go there to pick it up. On the way there, we passed a drive-thru Dunkin' Donuts. Drive-thru Dunkin' Donuts? Have americans grown that fucking fat and grease-stuffed that they can't even get up out of their fucking cars, give the cars a fucking break from trying not to sag, and buy a fucking donut and a fucking coffee? My god.

We also passed the fountain store that the shitty band Fountains of Wayne was named after, after that store that was called Fountains of Wayne. Nice fountains, horrible band. Horrible looking guys in the band also.

Once at the store, I entered a realm of assholes as opposed to the kind people in wherever that last store was. I was uncomfortable waiting for the stupid loser to go get my iPod and when he got back to the customer service counter he flirts with the girl who works there and therefore waisted a shitload of my time - my young, precious sixteen year old time; and taking away the time that I had to go to the restaurant afterwards for dinner. But before that, the girl couldn't work the computer right so that was another ten minutes adding to my lateness to eating dinner, and it was about 7:30 or 8:00 already.

In the car about to turn into the plaza where the restaurant was located, we had to stop by this black truck. Right under its model name, Jeep Something Something or maybe it was another model but it was one hell of a fine looking black truck, there were more silver embroidered letters that read: Porn Star. And guess who was driving that truck. An ugly asian dipshit. A young, stupid, overly tan bald one wearing a red cap and white t-shirt. And he was looking at me. I don't think in a good way and I'm glad about that. If he had been checking me out, I probably would've opened my door and shaved his balls off with a cheese grater.

Dinner the family and I ate at was called Noodle Chu. I seriously wasn't in the mood for asian cuisine but it was the sibling's birthday, therefore her choice. For some reason I really wanted some garlic bread. I ate like a warthog nonetheless. I was pretty fucking hungry and ate an entire other dish all by myself - of dumplings. The main dish we ordered was softshell crab that was battered and deep fried. And looking back on it, the crabs remind me of those horny spiders back at the electronics store. If I had thought of that while eating those, I probably wouldn't have eaten a single goddamn one. Because I would've been laughing my fucking asian pussy off.

Today my mom and sister wanted to wake up early and get to Target early in the morning to buy the latest Harry Potter book on its first day of release as my sister's birthday present. I decided to wake up early and tag along with them so that I could purchase a special magazine at the nearby Borders. Turns out there was absolutely no fanatical screaming midget kid crowd. Not a single one. The shelves were full of mint condition Harry Potter books that probably smelled really good too.

In Borders it took me forever to find the August issue of In Style. They put the same magazine and type of magazine in different categories all over the racks so I didn't know which one to look at. Lo and behold, it was in the place that I least expected: the magazine rack all the way in the back. And it was only four dollars compared to my usual reading of Classic Rock, which sells for about ten dollars; approximately eleven dollars with tax.

You're probably asking, "Why, Christina reads chick fashion magazines?" Only when I'm at the doctor's or I'm bored at some store that my mother dragged me to. But my point is, Denis Leary was featured in the "At Home With.." article. The article showed his country home in Connecticut along with his family. And his gorgeous fifteen year old son. I could totally hit that. I want to go to Kinko's and print a poster of the picture of father and son with irish wolfhound named Clancy. But of course my mom would call me crazy and when I start begging her to take me to Kinko's, she would hit me on the back of the head for being a numb nut.



Thursday, July 14
Eight o'clock in the morning. I'm laying flat on my back snoozing like a fucking five hundred pound grizzly bear who just fucked a polar bear, from having gone to bed at two o'clock previously that same morning. And then this obnoxious bird or stork or crane or Dashboard Confessional member or whatever the fuck was in the tree outside of my window started making the most corruptive and most excruciating mating call ever. WAACK WAACK WAH! WAACK WAACK WAH! WAACK WAACK WAH! WAACK WAH! WAACK WAACK WAH! WAACK WAACK WAH! It was so fucking loud that Axl Rose would've been put to shame. Trust me you fucking bird, I don't want to mate with you.

Usually if my parents are embarassingly singing vietnamese karaoke in the basement with their golden microphones and LCD player, making the upstairs floor vibrate, I would just put it in the back of my head and keep on slumbering. But this bird had NO mercy. This fucking piece of pillow stuffing was horny times a thousand. I guess it watches Rescue Me too. It's bird calling was so amazingly loud and piercing through my head like a jackhammer being controlled by Robin Williams that I had to get up and slam down the layer of my window that covered the screening. It still didn't muffle out the bird nor did it scare it away nor did it make it pause for a fraction of a second. Then I had to get up again and shut the actual framed and painted part of my window that everybody is more familiar with. With its wood and insulation as opposed to the other part's thin metallic material, it did its assigned job well.

Ten o'clock in the morning yesterday. Same style of laying down on my bed knocked out like Carson Kressley who just got in a fight with Mr. T. Window is wide open just like today. All the beautiful silence of the morning sunshine is broken by the fucking neighbor sawing wood for his fucking wood-burning stove. Wood-burning stove? What the fuck is with this guy? He uses a wood-burning stove so he could sit in front of it with its door open so he could jerk off in its hearty warmth? Come on, put your fucking dick aside and allow others to actually rest their genitals, okay shithead? Jesus. Every morning. Every fucking morning. I didn't hear it this morning because my window was shut thanks to Horny Bird out there. But other times he uses this extreme Terminator saw so I could still hear it loud and clear even with all windows shut tighter than my twat whenever I see that ugly piece of Axl Rose fecal matter.

I'm even afraid to bring the laundry inside from the backyard nowadays. Because on the other side of our house are the most annoying people. And yes, I frown when getting the laundry just like I do when I get the mail. Who knows when some apple dimpley-cheeked person is going to pop out of their window like a whack-a-mole and force me to say fucking hello for another twenty minutes. They don't care if bugs are crawling all over my legs or mosquitoes are sucking me harder than I would Denis Leary or if I'm holding a giant bundle of clothes that have the potential to send moths flocking at me. No, they start talking about other neighbors who I don't give a Chippendale's ass about. I'm sixteen years old and I don't grow flowers and gossip about other old people and middle-aged losers having babies. I stay in my house and jerk off except for when my mom calls me to do some work. Thank you very much for reading.



Wednesday, July 13
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

YES
YES
YES
YES
YES
YES
YES

NO


I get nothing from it. The only thing I'm looking forward to is cooking my goddamn lunch tomorrow because I am really fucking hungry right now.



Tuesday, July 12


That is the gayest guitar ever. I bet Paul Stanley has sixteen of these.




What the fuck is wrong with the medical business today? I pre-ordered a new pack of birth control on Saturday, and when my mom went to pick it up on Sunday they said they ran out with that certain brand and therefore gave her a different brand, claiming that it is exactly the same and will work in exactly the same way as the brand that I have always taken. My rag ended two days ago and suddenly today it came back again. Yesterday I took the first pill of the new brand.

I don't think it was the eggrolls that made me sick last night, it was this new fucking shit that made me sick to the stomach-and-liver-or-something section. I thought my liver was failing on me and that I would never able to eat as much greasy food as I always do. I don't know, every night right before I get the rag I get abdominal pain but last night was pretty bad being that it was nausea too. I never felt such a need to puke ever since Attack of the Clones came out and I ate almost an entire large bucket of popcorn and box of Crunch-a-bles. And you know how fucking long ago that was.

Whatever, I'll suck all my food back in and deal with it. If I throw up an organ or two, then I'll walk to the pharmacy, throw it on the counter and tell them that their new birth control did this to me.

Tomorrow's my birthday and I'm going to bake a cake for myself, since apparently nobody cares but that's just fine with me. I don't really care either. It's just an excuse to eat pastries.



Monday, July 11
Aw man, I ate too many eggrolls. Now something is brewing in my stomach and it feels like Chris Kattan.

And that's my story.




The iPod and how I'm a very faulty person issue came up again when I was eating dinner with my mom. She said she guarantees that she will buy it for me - in the future. When I'm good. And then I go on, "Good? What the fuck do you mean 'good'?" Then she says, "Better." All this shit was going through my head at ten thousand miles per hour - I do what she says, I don't talk back, I respect everyone, and I don't explain myself unless I'm allowed to, I don't yell at anyone and just keep all the crap in my gut until I grow one as big as Jani Lane. But then comes the issue racing througgh my mind at twenty thousand miles per hour that I strongly stand with; if I become good, good as in how my mom views as good, I would be giving in to her, changing the way I am when I am perfectly fine with the way I am, and therefore being the weaker. I know that's usually a predominately male style of thinking, but they are sort of right because no one wants to be a fucking pussy and let everybody walk all over them with spiked cleats. But then again, this is one's mother that we are talking about, and one must listen to their mother. I think this whole situation is kind of lame because she doesn't fully accept my individuality and the fact that it is better not to be the norm; the norm as in the perfect chid, especially for asians. Fuck asians, man. I'd prefer to be a mulleted white-trash fanny whore any day. Because then at least the whole of Americans wouldn't want to be stepping all over my tiny ass.

In opposition to those last three sentences, there are some things that I need to change about myself. Like this nasty snarly attitude that I give to people and things that I don't like. For example, when I was walking across the driveway to get the mail today and hoping that Brenda's present came in the mail, I was frowning the whole time because I just knew that a neighbor would pop out of their house and expect me to talk to them in the 97-degree weather for an hour. Or the way I acted at Monica's sweet sixteen. I had this entire fucking asshole thing going on in my head because I didn't like a single soul there except Monica and her family and then reacted in the described way to those who were disliked.

And a neighbor, actually three, popped out of their little American huts to bother my peace of getting the mail.

My mom, from ever since I could remember, would always say in vietnamese that I'm such a jerk. She said it so much that I started to think that it was her favorite word. But then as time went by I discovered that she only said that to the guys in Jackass, and me. I find that as a compliment.

I also need to keep my promise that I would do my best in school - not the greatest of the greatest grades, but just give it my all, was all that my mom asked; because she knows I have the ability to do so and she probably doesn't want it all to go to waste and pass by unknown and untouched. I haven't been doing this, with all this terribly boring summer reading. Every time I read about ten pages I have to take a nap right away. It is that full of shit.

My birthday is in two days and at this rate of all the downtrodding I don't think anything pleasant or different from the normal summer day is going to happen. Whatever, I don't fucking need it and I could just bake my own cake and enjoy it and recognize my entrance to the pathetic typical world of Age Sixteen all by myself. Without the frosting, because no one fucking likes frosting or sweets except me in this house, and I don't do the grocery shopping. How horrible is that. Hey, the only good thing that I know is going to happen on Wednesday is that Denis Leary is going to be on The Tony Danza Show that morning. Sorry, but I just had to mention that for my own sheer enjoyment.



Sunday, July 10
This is the most humiliating survey that I have ever taken. But then again it sucked because 90% of it was about Poison. Am I the kind of fucking person who enjoys the likes of Poison? Much less know shit about them?

How much do you think you know about Hair Metal?!
Created by PoisonAngel and taken 18 times on bzoink!
What is C.C. DeVille’s real name?	Stupid F. McGhee
What is Bret Michaels’ full name?	Bret Faggot Michaels
What is Sebastian Bach’s real last name? Why did he change it?	I have no fucking idea why this question exists because Sebastian Bach is his real name.
What is the name of Cinderella’s debut album?	Night Songs? Fuck if I know.
Who gave Bret Michaels his black Poison skull/rose emblem Harley?	Richard Simmons
What band is Rachel Bolan in?	Skid Row
Who is Fred Coury?	I forgot.
Who is the girl in the Whitesnake videos Here I go Againand Is This Love?	Tawny Kitaen. Every asshole who knows hot cars knows who she is.
What’s Bobby Dall’s full name?	Salvador Dali
Who is the girl in Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” video?	Bobbie Brown
Who is Taime Downe	Robert Downey Jr.
Rudy Sarzo is in what two hair metal bands?	Both of Michael Bolton's former line-ups who play keyboards.
What is Axl Rose’s real name?	William Bailey AKA Pussy
C.C. DeVille was once in a band called Roxx Regime. That band later became?	Poison, right?
Who are Richie Kotzen and Blues Saraceno?	Fuck you sounds like some kind of San Francisco chili paste.
Who in Cinderella had the perfect palm tree hair?	Tom Keifer?
Who sings “Smooth up in ya”?	Whoever invented tampons.
What’s Rikki Rockett’s birth name?	Pussy McJavelin
Rick Allen from Def Leppard is a “special” drummer. Why?	He's missing a fucking arm.
What is Slash from GNR’s real name?	Saul Hudson
What is the name of the band that C.C. is the singer of?	C.C. doesn't sing. Nor can he play guitar.
What band is Erik Turner in?	I fucking forgot that one.
Who did Aerosmith collaborate with on a remake of “Walk this Way”?	Run DMC
Where is Bret Michael’s fan club located? City and state.	Jerusalem in a horrible state.
What are Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx called?	The Terror Twins.
While performing, Eric and Jeff of Cinderella always simultaneously do what	Pulling wedgies out of their pants.
What year did Poison’s “Look What The Cat Dragged In” debut?	1987? I hate Poison so why the hell should I know.
Who is Donna D'Errico married to?	Nikki Sixx, former Baywatch babe. I don't know why I know this and nothing else here.
Who has a tattoo on his arm that says “Youth Gone Wild”?	Fuck if I know!
Which hair metal guitarist auditioned to be in Poison, but they chose C.C.	I would have to say Steve Vai because Poison is that fucking dumb.
What band was Steve Clark in?	Journey? I fucking don't know.
I cant clear my heart of your love-it falls like rain are from what song?	Nothing that I would listen to.
What was Poison’s first single?	Something that sucks.
Who is the mother of Bret Michaels’ daughter Raine?	Cloude
In GNR, Matt Sorum replaced who?	Steven Adler
How many tattoos does Bret Michaels have?	None, they're too sissy to be considered tattoos.
Who is Rick Savage?	Fred Savage's brother.
What is Nikki Sixx’s other band called?	Brides of Destruction
Who is the girl in the “Fallen Angel” video?	That shouldn't even be a metal song title.
What are Steven Tyler and Joe Perry called?	The Toxic Twins. And that's not hair metal.
What inspired Bret Michaels to write “Unskinny Bop”?	Etch-a-Sketch boards.
Who sings “Fly to the Angels”?	Danny Glover
Who was “Life Goes On” by Poison written for?	What's with these fucking Poison questions?
Who sings “Heartbreak Station”?	A guy who works at a gas station.
What is the name of the band that played with Bret on his 03 solo tour	McFly
Nikki Sixx was once pronounced dead. Why?	Heroin overdose.
Where was “Every Rose has its Thorn” written?	At a Phil Collins concert.
Who is Richie Sambora married to?	Heather Locklear. SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MINE!
Finish this lyric. “Don’t Need Nothin but a Good Time…”	Poison sucks grandma's tits and kitties rally around from all over the world.
Create a Survey | Search Surveys | Go to bzoink!

I got so bored that I started playing video games again. Video games as in bad-quality old-school Sony Playstation. Of course I played the only video game that would never bore me no matter what: South Park Rally. It's so fucking hilarious with its fart sounds and things coming out of the characters' asses and whatnot. But then I really sucked from lack of play for a few years and got frustrated so I quit.

Last week or sometime earlier this week, I was watching Cablevision's version of the TV Guide Channel because we only have fucking basic cable and on one of the channels they were airing Jaws: The Revenge. But my eyesight fucked up on me so when I first saw it I read it as Jews: The Revenge. And through my mind I was thinking, "Boy, what an interesting movie, I might check it." So then I read it again to make sure, and turns out my hopes were destroyed for some decent television.

My birthday is on Wednesday. So far it sounds like nothing is going to happen. I'm not really surprised. Anything is good at this point as long as my mother isn't menstruating.



Saturday, July 9
I swear, I would sleep hugging my Denis Leary DVD had it not be so crunchy. Ever since yesterday morning when I was watching it while eating and my mom complained on about how all she hears is Denis yelling at everybody. So for the rest of the day I panicked and thought that she would sneak into my room and take it away, and I would frequently stick my head into my room and check if it's still there on my shelf. I thought about sleeping with it also because the house might burn down at any minute and if it was one thing that I could save from the fire, it would be my Denis Leary DVD.

Today my mom and sibling and I went furniture looking and grocery shopping in Bridgewater and Edison. While in Denville or East Hanover or some crap like that rain started to hit, real fucking hard. Harder than a giant shower douche hanging overhead pretending to be an AK47. It was like god went Rambo on the whole state of New Jersey. The rain was so horrible that you couldn't see a goddamn thing from the windshield at all. The windshield just looked like a kid ate five pounds of Mike & Ikes and a gallon of water in twenty minutes and then puked it all out on the windshield of our car. It was so bad that my mom asked me if we should turn around and go home, since we weren't that far from Rockaway. But I said no, you would be a fucking goddamn pussy to go home when this leftover hurricane shit is going to last only a few minutes.

In the midst of the Rambo rain, I swear this is not an illusion or misconception, we saw this jeep/truck with the Red Bull colors and logo painted all over it with a giant seven-foot Red Bull can attached to the end of the jeep to the top of the top of the jeep, where the people sit. It was the greatest fucking thing that I saw all day.

And now I will cut the day off from there when it barely even started because I'm boring myself right now. Suckers!



Friday, July 8


'Tis true indeed, 'tis very true indeed. I was watching David Lee Roth's video for "Yankee Rose," and I would have to say that it is one of the greatest videos/performances ever. I laugh my fucking ass off at every goddamn second of it but at the same it's so fucking great. The tacky spandex and hairy chests/heads, Dave's ass hanging out, the drummer-whom-I-don't-know-his-name's crazy mullet, Billy Sheehan's blindingly white platinum blonde locks, and Steve Vai's scary tongue and weird dancing. I should add the weird dancing to Dave too but he's got enough factors about his weirdness that I thought this one should be left out.

On Wednesday when I was over at Lauren's house I made her turn the television to VH1 Classic, because I had such a fucking need to watch that channel since I hadn't seen it in years. There was this little cheesy little pussy man with dark curly hair and an acoustic guitar that looked a lot like that famous painting guy who used to have an instructional art show on TV. We kept going on about how much of a wimpy puss he was and seriously could not think of his name. And then the video was about to end. It was Cat Stevens.

The following image is quite hideous.






Oh boy, I was looking around this stupid Myspace impostor called Yourvoid and this guy's profile had the greatest cursor ever. So what do you think I did? Just laughed about it and went on with my life? Fuck no, I fucking stole it. Just hover the mouse over a link and laugh your ass off along with me.

It's raining like god was suddenly diagnosed with colon cancer but I feel like thrashing around outside like an absolute idiot in army boots and swinging my rifle around on the front yard crushing my mom's flowers and the boob-looking fire hydrant, but then all of my neighbors would push aside their curtains and stare at me through their windows like I were Vanilla Ice wearing straight-legged pants or something, and becoming the next topic for big gossip for the next two months. And then of course my mom would tie me down with a lasso and drag me into the house through the pretty front door.

Last night when in the middle of taking a shower I just started cracking up while lathering my pits or rock-hard abs or something like that. The "Asshole" song was stuck in my head and since a person generally thinks more deeply when in the shower, it just seemed so much more fucking funnier when I was in the buff doing the daily bodily cleaning routine. It was just so funny that I crouched over laughing so hard. I'm so fucking weird but hey, that's what you get when you were born asian.

"I park in handicapped spaces while handicapped people make handicapped faces."

While eating my two-hour lunch today VH1 was showing I Love the '90s: 1990. They were featuring the movie Pretty Woman and kept showing footage of anonymous blurred-faced street hookers, including one wearing a tacky red shiny pleather girdle humping a rusty street sign. I recall it was a white one saying Speed Limit: Something Something.



Thursday, July 7
Ain't nothing like Anthrax to rile you up after being pumped up by a dinner full of steak and nothing but steak. And then my mom made me eat rice and green leaves that have probably been shit on by a cow before being cleaned and marketed, but nobody needs to know that. I totally dig that hairy penis that's growing out of Scott Ian's chin also. My mom once made a comment about it when I was watching some shit on VH1. I forgot what it was that she said, but she made the funniest disgusted face next to Shane MacGowan(sp?) smiling.




Wow, I finally got my computer to work once again after some number of months. In our house we use Optimum Online high-speed internet. But my computer is so fucked up, so virus-infected, that when using the internet on it, it's as slow as dial-up that is on a good day. For some reason today, this piece of shit that I call my Compaq Presario miraculously loaded up to the point where you could actually see the desktop. Then my heart started pumping. Me thinking, "What? What? This piece of shit is alive?" in the sense that it was some fat lady on Baywatch who stopped breathing when some ugly hairy idiot like Mitch drags her onto shore and tries to "CPR" some air into her lungs. Or a baby that I just shit out three months prematurely and it looks like a chinese dumpling plopped on the floor.

I am so happy that I sat here in front of my dearly beloved computer hungry as a Lindsay Lohan while watching No Cure For Cancer. Because at times I kept laughing and squirming in my seat so hard that I looked like a retard in a wheelchair wearing white hospital gear laughing at a teddy bear. But laughing in their retarded way that their jaw isn't aligned with the rest of their skull at the same time as it's opened real fucking wide, with their head leaning back and hitting the back of the chair. And their hands grasping the chair like they're on some Disney ride, because they're just so lame that they can't stand up to the teacup ride (without turning the speed wheel) like a real man. Not like a real man, but like an authentic asian pussy.

Or to make a long story short, I could've shit my pants. And shit my pants bad, because of this bad luck I've been having with my bowels lately.



Wednesday, July 6
I am way more overjoyed than David Lee Roth sitting in front of a table full of apple pies with happy faces drawn on them with whipped cream right now. Today I finally, finally, at last, found The Complete Denis Leary DVD. I had nine minutes left before my mom arrived at the mall to pick Lauren and me up to go home and I was speed-scrolling my eyes up and down the aisles at FYE desperately looking for at least one single fucking sign of Denis' name.

And there it was. In all its brand spick-and-span spanking new lustrous plastic wrapping, was the box with his name in large capital orange letters, his face in black and white gloriousness, sitting singularly in its little "Denis Leary" section on the shelf. And then in an instant, like a gator that spotted a 300-pound gazelle at the edge of a lake, snapped it with my hand faster than a quarter of a blink of an eye. As fast as it were to take me to sprint out of a Gwar concert. I didn't fucking care that it was twenty fucking dollars, I wanted that fucking thing, and I wanted it bad. Kind of like sex. More like, exactly like sex - I was that goddamn quick.

Today everybody was ready to drive my grandma to the airport at about 8:30 in the morn, so my mom decided that we all go eat breakfast at McDonald's before we went to airport, being that it was still very early until her flight. I would have rather eaten at Dunkin' Donuts, but my mother is a predictable and habitual type of person who doesn't like to change traditions very often. We passed by a Dunkin' Donuts in the car and in my head I was laughing my imaginary balls off at thinking of Denis when he was talking about how you can't get coffee-flavored coffee and anymore and Dunkin' Donuts; the funky way he said the words "Dunkin' Donuts." And from then on all throughout the day, whenever I passed a Dunkin' Donuts or anything that had a donut in it or any fucking thing that had to do with pastries or donuts, I would think of his funny donut-and-coffee talk.

When my grandma was about to enter the gates and await her departure further from there, and when everybody was going to say their goodbyes, I had to take the worst shit in all of the world's fecal history. I have no fucking idea why my digestive system just failed on me today. Usually I have sort of an iron stomach and could stomach in any fucking thing without puking or shitting like what happened in Hiroshima sixty years ago. I couldn't walk around a huge ass airport without holding my inevitable bowel explosion in, which was extremely painful. It was really fucking painful. I bet I walked like an old seventy-year-old woman with a cane/my grandma. Like I was dying from a mini little Richard Simmons doing jumping jacks around in my intestines, making his way from my stomach to that giant shit-making tube - kicking and flailing his stupid little hairy arms and legs and coiffure, my god that is fucking painful to feel and to see.

Then I asked my mom if I could go find the restroom and everyone would wait for me, as in her, my grandma, and sister. So I dashed off as fast as my tired and sleep-lack legs would let me go. And holy fucking god, I felt like I was walking in a white shiny desert full of black people in blue slacks pushing metal carts around who acted as snarling reptiles around their cacti which were baggage spinning machines. Holy fucking god, there were about ten signs in total all pointing the direction to the restroom, and I had to walk all the fucking way across the terminal to find that fucking restroom, meanwhile the whole time I had to keep from shitting my pants and creating a brown swamp in those knickers so I could stay clean and fresh for hanging out with Lauren later on in the day. It was so fucking far from where I started that my back started to slouch and slouch, I was so tired and in so much fucking pain.

And then I finally found the goddamn restroom and took the most amazing dump in the world. But first having to slow down my walking into the restroom because this tiny asian woman was walking out of the restroom real fucking slowly and smiling for some reason. She must have been in the same situation as I was in before taking her shit.

When we got home from the airport I just plopped onto my bed in the wrong direction, with legs and head hanging off both sides. I didn't fucking care to turn my body, I went to bed at 3:30 AM the night before. I took the most amazing one-hour nap in the history of hibernating Budweiser bears. No dreams, no snoring, no moving, no nothing. No fucking nothing. Just sleep.

Now fast forward to 3:00 in the afternoon. My mother drops me off at Lauren's house and we watch 21 Jump Street to drool all over two young Johnny Depps and Brad Pitts. Of course including their tight little bums in those tight little jeans.

Later I had to take another shit, because of my digestive system failing on quite a busy day such as this. Turns out her bathroom was worse than at the airport; the airport was practically spotless. I guess her fat brother took a nasty shit in there before me. God it smelled horrible but I really had to go and so I just covered my nose while sitting on the can.

I feel sorry for elderly people who have worse problems than I did today. They have to live with it for the rest of their sorry lives, of never taking care of their digestive systems and eating the right foods, or whatever the fuck causes the excessive need to shit during old age.

Lauren's mom arrives home at around 5:15 and after waiting fifteen more minutes for Lauren to do her makeup, we leave for the mall. She buys a lot of stuff with her a lot of money and I only buy a flowery American Rag button-up shirt and my prized disc of sex that was already mentioned and needed two of its own fucking paragraphs to be mentioned with my not a lot of money.



Tuesday, July 5
My grandma is leaving for the aiport tomorrow to go back home to California. From then until the 28th when cousins from California come to visit for three weeks I am probably going to be terrified of my mom. Maybe it's just a temporary right-now moment type of fear, because who knows what kind of shit could happen in those twenty-two days where no one could stop my mom's wrath of fury. Call me a fucking pussy, but that woman is fucking scary.

Since no one's occupying the sibling's room, she could have it back and the parents could have their room back, which the sibling was occupying. This means no more me staying up until 3:00 in the morning listening to Alice Cooper and trading funny jokes with Shaina all night online. Well it's all still possible, but I just have to be more careful - no loud TV, no loud music, no loud typing. But then there's the possibility that the parents will continue living in the basement for the rest of the summer. Then I'm smooth cruising. Or even better, I get to sleep in the sibling's room with the fucking air conditioner turned on specifically to my tastes and pubescent bodily sweat.

We have to wake up at 8:00 tomorrow to drive the granny to the airport. I hope we stop for a bagel or something.

Lauren's supposed to call so that we could hang out and celebrate my birthday soon. Next Wednesday is the official day and I have no idea what is going to happen. I'd probably get in trouble for something that I don't even know yet. I'm not having a party because no one would fucking go and I'm not much of a speaker so I'd be a shitty host also. Fuck the guests, I could just buy a cake and eat it all by myself. Turning sixteen isn't cool because the age of sixteen is always synonymous with stupidity and the most lack of wisdom out of any age range. The most stubborn, the most high-maintenence, the most annoying, the most sexually hunted, the most sexually abused. And most likely not by a guy who looks like Izzy Stradlin. I'll become part of the majority of pathetic MTV viewers.

However, the teenage years are when we are most susceptible of absorbing everything in our environment and exploring the world's ways - its gears and cogs, etc. Every lasting day that goes by during these years for me, I could feel all this shit absorbing into myself like a sponge. It's like I'm that electro-lady having waves of electricity or whatever the hell aurating around her body. I've never learned so much crap in one year(s). It's just that most of us are so fucking confused, which is perfectly normal. But then there's the number (or majority, you could say) who can't handle this major leap through life and hence cause chaos along the way.

It's so fucking humid today that I could seal an envelope by wiping it on my neck. But of course everybody is either too brittle or too old or too young to be in my utter level of extreme discomfort.




I'm trying to go to bed but then I keep remembering the outtakes in Spinal Tap, especially when Nigel is making his little skull ornament on his belt or beltloop I forgot, talk to Mr. DiBergi. The only thing annoying was that I couldn't hear what anybody was saying and had to turn the volume up. But then came the concert parts and it would be really fucking loud and would annoy everybody else in the house. I want to go buy a used copy from Blockbuster but apparently my mom is too cheap to take me there. Too cheap to rent movies? That's because we're asian. But of course I could just walk there as an alternate solution.

Something else that is making me incapable of lying down is when I said my final goodbyes to Shaina for the night, this weird smell started wafting in through the window all of a sudden. At first I thought it was ham but then the scent got stronger. There was a skunk outside. I started to panic in my mind and frantically kept asking myself questions on what to do, what to do, what the fuck to do? Close the window? No, my room would get steamy hot with its lack of air conditioner and fan; and the smell that already wafted in would stay in. Close the window and open my door? No fucking way, spiders crawl in, it's creepy, and in the morning or afternoon when I'm still sleeping, everybody makes noise and turns on all their Nickelodeons and stupid kitty shit like that. Leave the window open and just go to sleep? No, it's the kind of smell that would make me shit my bed as opposed to a little child wetting the bed. That's pretty hard to clean up. Much easier than menstrual blood or anybody else's pee.

I was just watching Jimmy Kimmel tonight and Billy Idol was on. I swore he was not wearing any underwear at all and his balls were hanging out under those tight ass leather pants; he was sitting with his legs wide open. And then when he performed outside, he wore this hideous black flag thing that was hanging on the back of his ass like in that movie The Road Warrior. What also sucked was that they immediately cut off to the guitar player humping the speaker in the back when Billy was wiggling his body all sex-like.

The Road Warrior reminds me of when Sebastian Bach said the little kid in that movie looked like a mini Ted Nugent.

And then I watched Conan O'Brien, who had Gene Wilder as his special guest. Gene was wearing a bright, bright sky blue hoodie and faded blue pajama pants(?). If the current Robert Plant cut his hair and burnt some of the remnants off, you wouldn't be able to tell the two apart. Only if they have a sing-off singing the oompa loompa song, you would be able to tell which is which.




Eight more days until I become a part of the typical sixteen year old peanut gallery. I wish I could skip right onto age twenty-four when I've been out of college for two years, fucked at least fifteen different Izzy Stradlin lookalikes, and live in a lavish upscale apartment in Monaco.

As if. And that only counts for Izzy Stradlin lookalikes, who knows how many dudes out there who look like Joe Perry.

I don't get why right now my eyelids are getting heavy but my body is going and going and going and going like the Energizer bunny on crack. I feel like headbanging a Poison fan at a Poison concert and watching the little pussy bleed on the metal security fence with the bouncers using the kid's blood as ketchup for their french fries.

Wow, the guy in the back looks a hell of a fucking lot like Izzy Stradlin.

Mick Shrimpton also looks a lot like Izzy but I couldn't find a more similar picture of him. Cute showercap, though.




And the real Izz-meister himself.



Monday, July 4


What a beautiful vase. It was sitting there in all its glory just ten minutes ago until I heard this crash and shatter while sitting in my room, and a hundred little glass marbles rolling around on the glass dining table. The sibling and the younger cousin were flinging around this Pokemon plush with a rubber band and hit the flowers, sending the vase crashing to its death.

Upon the noise of its untimely death, everybody including my aunt and grandmother, rushed to see what all the [understated] hubbub was all about. My mother screams, "WHO BROKE THE VASE, WHO BROKE THE VASE?!" Just seeing the side of her face from standing some distance behind her, I could tell her eyes were like dinner plates. Dinner plates of demonic fury, she was that angry. But then again, how could she not? (I would probably be beating some fucktard ass by then, but only for a bigger punishment; if I were in her shoes.) The sibling modestly raises her hand upon my mother's questioning and you could see that she was going to erupt into a pussy volcano; Pussy volcano as in a volcano that excretes water rather than chili.

Luckily enough for her, my mom just dismissed her and she continued on her way running to the bedroom while my mother, in despair, hesitated to clean up the remnants of a once gorgeous vase that I personally admired so much too.

She got it off very lucky. Extremely lucky. Had it been me at ten years of age I would've gotten the shit kicked out of me upon instant of finding out who the perpetrator is, probably with something like this:



Well not exactly, but a stick somewhere around that size. That thing is authentic to tell you the truth. An authentic model that my mom bought from Disney World many years ago. I'm very proud of it and sometimes I wish I could hang it up in my room being that I use(d) it the most. I used to chase my sister around the house with it whenever she tried to put her cat-like fangs onto my youthful skin in all its shining glory. And the method worked too. It was the only thing besides a knife that would scare her off, because I didn't eat toast that much to utilize the fear of a knife very often.

These pictures were taken last week but I've been going through a dryspell for stories for ya'll kindling, so here they are now.



Large over-sized flower arrangement that's hanging in the stairwell leading to the basement. The flowers remind me of vaginas.


Is that a ghost? I'm fucking serious what the fuck is that white blurry mist in the corner? And why the fuck is it so close to me?


Basement where we perform sexual favors for needy people. All the way on the left corner where you can't really see is a bathroom. All the way forward in the back is another, rather large bedroom. We'll get there later.


Flower arrangement on the alter that situates behind the white door on the right, the one with the sun shining on it. I know, I know. Red candles don't match but it's not my fucking alter.


Where big hesitant-to-die babies are skewered with rakes to tumble around in amongst the embers. There's a bong on the top mantelpiece next to the japanese lamp.


Would you like some entrail fluid for tea time?


My dad emptied out half of this mini Heineken-and-beverages-only fridge.


Other side of the main basement, where the large entertainment system is. Laundry room door is on the right.


Where my dirty underwear is cleaned.


This looks like a porno movie set. Bright pink carpet and aqua blue sheets and mirrored walls deep in the depths of my New Jersey suburban home. Absolutely, perfectly normal to have in every house.


Where my dad edits the films, this is to the right of the previous picture.


Movie set included with kinky plants and all.


The sperm arrangement, I like to call this one. Our basement is full of nasty things.


This one, however, a picture taken so shittily by me, turns me off.


Banana plant that yields no bananas, meaning neither term.


POTTY


SINK
When my grandpa used to live here he remodeled the entire basement - put wood panneling on the walls, remade the empty Home Depot-like bedroom into a porno palace and the bathroom into a shit sanctuary. He even put all the carpeting in. All by himself.


There's a shelf in the bathroom that has a funky vase with a fern sitting on top of it. I like it very much for some reason. So much that I used flash to take this picture.


Living room in the daytime.


Flower arrangement that I don't like all that much which is sitting in the far corner of the living room by the up-lamp.


Other side of the living room, with my father's camera equipment on the floor in front of the television setting.


Coconut tree that yields no coconuts but has a bunch of monkeys living around it.


The Asian Crematorium For American Infants


Funeral flowers on top of The Asian Crematorium For American Infants


Bamboo tree in the dining room that yields no pandas.


The stretcher for in case any white supremacists who knock on the door claiming that they are Jehovah's Witnesses.


This sucks up lice from our heads when we are cooking on the stove.


But these go to eleven.


With the gun and the other weird things that we have in our house, I could imagine this thing holding somebody's hand and forearm someday. Or maybe a penis or two.


FUCK SHOES


Granny panties hanging in the upstairs bathroom like Shaquille O'Neal's bed sheet.


It looks like a certain fancy-pelted animal was just slaughtered here. I sleep in it, as a matter of fact.


My final project for art class, Mick Jagger linoleum prints.


Close-up of the top left one. Not my greatest project, being that I made his mouth look like a giant ox tongue by accident while carving the linoleum.


Summer reading. Stupid fuckers. I probably won't finish them and therefore not make it into the class. They can suck my ass anyway for all I care.


MFC


My parents' room has a tiny little water fountain, possibly inspired by either Beauty and the Beast or that old kid show Gargoyles.


Poor little guy obviously isn't feeling well, to be puking twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Even on Easter Sunday.


I tried to console him out of his misery.


But then he puked out cum or whatever the hell that is.


Marhsmallow lamp.


This is how my mom scares me into not poking through her beauty/makeup drawers.


We hide foreign immigrants in our closets. I scared this one and its child quite a bit when taking this picture. I guess australians are very shy.

"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