it's all a repeat.
rapt Salli sat
ripe! a tall pa
tails real pat
sale, a lit rap
rats all a-pie.
You know me better than that
Hell is a kind of thing, or the absence of something, or something
How in god's green name could I possibly be worth all this?Ain't?
I will publish there sometime
Why I ride a bicycle. Limited time.Carlink
"Something bad is going to happen"
Destroying Iran: In case you were interested, here it is. Upon being printed in the New Yorker, this scary article was instantly met with applause, denials, and deep breaths. So, take it with a grain of salt, or a few drops of hot sauce, or whatever condiment suits you.
Pick Any Spot in North America, and Crash Directly Onto It
This is fun!
Before doing anything else, pick your favorite element and read about his samples, then read everything else you can.
Look New Fun!
Google Local is worlds better than it used to be. Could it be a bad pun?
Humans Invade Mars
And some other stuff.
I am, as of 3:30 today, officially not an English major.
I have a major research project to finish + Robarts is open all night + The vending machine is giving away free coffees = sometimes God makes himself obvious.
If you're not
part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate.
A very amazing charity. Read their requesting help FAQ.
"Strange, it started way backâ€¦ yet I still donâ€™t know if it ended. So Iâ€™m calling for that stranger, perhaps if our voices never metâ€¦ our souls would meet somehow."
I just found out what happens if you touch the screen of Strong Bad's new laptop.
Everybody sign his guestbook.
One of my roommates has given up breakfast and lunch but eats two and a half dinners.
Conceived to Supress Studying
Anyone know if you can style the ALT attribute of an image?
I saw a button with the slogan "Disarm Rapists!" with a silhouette woman kicking a silhouette rapist really hard in his raping area, and it hurt him alot. So I'm all for that.
It's Been One Week.
My winamp playlist is exactly 7 days, 43 minutes, and 1 second long. And that's the small version for my little laptop HD. So, w00t.
Evidently it's still got a few kinks to work out, but wow.
The Latest Search Terms To Point to my Blog
t'u ching +shampooing
30 Miles to the Gallon
You will be watching this movie after you click this link and one more.
Election Day Specials!
I'm John Kerry and I approved these sandwiches. Actually the first two kinda suck.
I especially like the bit about the cat.
Clever. Read a poem about Lord of the Rings.
You May Have Noticed . . .
Shined My Shoes . . . Again!
New blog! Looks a hell of a lot better than the last one, and a lot more compatible. 100q might not like the coding as much. I wonder when he's gonna finish shedding his pretensions.
Seriously, they look awesome.
Shined My Shoes
Best dime I ever spent, almost.
Son of Mogh
Shakespeare the way Gene Roddenberry intended it.
I have no idea what the rest of this blog's about, but . . . X PRIZE!
18 for 18
That's eighteen pictures for Finbar's eighteenth birthday. now if only he'd grow up and change his bloody damn msn name.
AndrÃ©, the Revolution
I can vote, but, you know, you can't. Bitch.
Nightingales are singing louder these days. It's true. Read the May 14th issue . . . thing, of CBC Radio3 second page, I think. Cool. And I don't usually read cbc radio3. It just kinda happened.
Zeeky Boogy Doo!
Shut up asking questions and go watch it.
Origins of the Universe
Urban Dictionary is a slang dictionary with your definitions. Like Last Thursdayism.
Ask Not What You Can Do For Your Country
"We can't wait to celebrate NASA's out-of-this-world success, and there's no better way to
recognize their giant accomplishments than with free Giant Shrimp for America." ...Davis ended the
letter by writing, "This is one small step for man, and one giant leap for Giant Shrimp."
Why I Love Physics
"Clearly the Earth is the dominant influence on the behavior of the canteloupe"
- my physics textbook, Ch 14: Gravitation. Exam tomorrow.
Like, wtf mates?
Watch This Right Ass Damn Now
You Go Now.
This Side of Paradise
AMORY BLAINE inherited from his mother every trait, except
the stray inexpressible few, that made him worth while. His
father, an ineffectual, inarticulate man with a taste for Byron
and a habit of drowsing over the Encyclopaedia Britannica,
grew wealthy at thirty through the death of two elder brothers,
successful Chicago brokers, and in the first flush of feeling that
the world was his, went to Bar Harbor and met Beatrice
Oâ€™Hara. In consequence, Stephen Blaine handed down to posterity
his height of just under six feet and his tendency to waver
at crucial moments, these two abstractions appearing in his son
Amory. For many years he hovered in the background of his
familyâ€™s life, an unassertive figure with a face half-obliterated
by lifeless, silky hair, continually occupied in â€œtaking careâ€� of
his wife, continually harassed by the idea that he didnâ€™t and
couldnâ€™t understand her.
The phone is off the hook.
Here are someone else's writings.
Four Short Crushes
Well, well, well.
Just look at you, walking into this dreary bar and lighting the place up like the noonday sun at midnight twirling your long, auburn hair pensively as you search the room--for what?
For a soul mate, perhaps?
(I know, I know--I hate that phrase, too. Maybe that will end up being one of those things we both hate.) Maybe a few weeks from now, lying in your bed on a Sunday morning, I'll ask you, "What's your least favorite word or phrase?," and you'll say, "Soul mate," and I'll laugh till you say, "What? Tell me!," and I'll tell you how I knew that from the moment I first laid eyes on you, and then we'll have sex again.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. You haven't even noticed me yet. That's O.K. I can wait.
Maybe when your gaze settles on me, and we lock eyes in that mutual Hitchcockian tunnel-vision effect where the camera is, like, pushing in at the same time it zooms out, or however that do that, you'll come sit down next to me and we'll--
Now you've spotted the friends you came to meet. They look like good friends.
Maybe they'll be my friends, too.
Your eyes just came to life like emeralds lit by subterranean torches, and as you move across the room toward your friends you shriek at them, "What the fuck is up, yo?," in a voice so piercing that the entire bar goes silent for a moment, and I have to check my glasses to make sure the lenses didn't crack. You continue to bellow your every utterance (including the lines "Jagermeister is the bomb, dawg!" and "Just 'cause I'm a white girl don't mean I don't got some serious junk in the trunk!" and "Random! Random! Random!"), and the bartender leans in and whispers something to his bar back, and they look at you and laugh.
You must be a regular here.
(Duration of crush: seventeen seconds.)
Oh my. What have we here? A rainy night in the city has cleared the sidewalk of all but the most intrepid pedestrians, and those who didn't brave the elements have no idea what they're missing,
Because there you are, gliding along on your bicycle, just a few feet in front of me.
You're obviously not one of those tedious hard-core cycling enthusiasts--no skin-tight black spandex for you. No, just a simple white T-shirt (soaked through to the skin, clinging to the small of your back) and a long blond ponytail, whipping back and forth like the tail of a cartoon pony, as those long legs of yours pump the pedals and you raise your face to the sky, letting the raindrops freckle your cheeks with sweet diamonds of moisture.
Dare I try to catch up with you? I'm on foot, carrying a bunch of shopping bags, but you've paused at a red light, and--what the heck? I don't know what I'll say to you, but even the clumsiest of introductions on these glistening nighttime streets will give us a romantic how-we-met anecdote that we'll love telling for years to come.
Caught you! Here I am!
And there you are. I see now that you're a dude. My mistake. It was the ponytail that threw me off.
(Duration of crush: thirty-three seconds.)
Another restaurant dinner with my boring girlfriend, another lecture about how I never really listen to whatever she's yammering on about.
But how can I listen--how could anyone?--when across the room, alone at a table, reading the newspaper and nursing a glass of white wine, is a silent confection like you?
You, with your jet-black hair (like a latter-day version of Veronica from "Archie") and your skin so pale that the bubble-gummy pinkness of your pouty lips seems almost obscene, especially when you scrunch them up the way you do every time you lick your forefinger and turn the page.
And I know you see me, too. Your first glance betrayed a glimmer of recognition--as if you knew me but couldn't remember from where--followed by puzzlement, your eyes entreating me to silently remind you, which I couldn't do at the time because my current girlfriend was staring across the table at me, apparently waiting for my answer to some kind of relationship question I thought was rhetorical.
And so it goes. For an eternity, it seems--through the entire meal, until I watch you ask for the check, and pay it, and get up to walk out of the restaurant, and my life, forever.
But what's this? You're crossing the room toward me? So brazen--just as I knew you'd be. Are you going to surreptitiously slip me your number, written on a sugar packet, perhaps dropping it in my pocket as you fake-jostle me, like a spy handing off microfilm?
My heart beats like underwater thunder in my ears, until you tap my girlfriend on the shoulder and she sees you and says, "Hey!," and you say, "I thought that was you!," and I realize that you are one of my girlfriend's college roommates.
After you leave, my girlfriend tells me a hilarious story about how one time in college some guy broke up with you, so you found some photos of him nude with the word "Patriarchy" written on his chest in Magic Marker which you took for an art class, and you sent them to his parents and then posted them on your blog, where you apparently like to write incredibly detailed confessionals about the asshole guys you always end up dating, and also, while you don't use the guys' real names, everyone knows that the guy you immortalized as Pencil Dick is actually a guy I used to work with.
(Duration of crush: forty-five minutes.)
So silly does my impatience now seem, stuck as I am in the Starbucks line during the morning rush. But that was before I noticed you in line ahead of me.
And now that I've seen you--with your gossamer hair still damp from the shower, with your well-moisturized ankles strapped and buckled into high heels that make you wobble and sway like a young colt just finding her stride, with your scent of lilacs and Dial, and, most of all, your sense of calmness and serenity, which makes me wish that the world itself would stop spinning, so that gravity would cease and we two could float into the sky and kiss in the clouds, giddy with love and vertigo--
Now you're at the register, and the dreaded moment when we part without meeting rushes toward me like a slow-motion car crash in a dream.
You've been at the register for, like, fifteen seconds now, still scanning the menu board with those almond-shaped eyes that would make Nefertiti herself weep with envy.
Seriously, you've been to a Starbucks before, right? I mean, it seems like there are a lot of choices, but most people find a drink they like and stick with it. And order it quickly.
But maybe I've caught you on a day when you've decided to make a fresh start. To make a fresh start, to try a new drink, to walk a different way to work, to finally dump that boyfriend who doesn't appreciate you.
O.K., even if that were the case you could have picked out your new drink while you were waiting in line, right? I mean, come on.
Well, you've won me back, my future Mrs. Me--by turning to me and mouthing, "Sorry," after you finally noticed me tapping my foot, looking at my watch, and exhaling loudly. Sensitivity like that can be neither learned nor taught, and it's a rare thing indeed. The rarest of all possible--
Jesus Christ, you've ordered your drink and paid; do I really have to stand here for another forty-five seconds while you repack your purse, the contents of which you've spilled out on the counter like you're setting up a fucking yard sale or something?
That's right, the bills go in the billfold, the coins go in the little coin purse, the billfold and the coin purse go back in the pocketbook--no, in a side pocket of the pocketbook, which seems to have a clasp whose design incorporates some proprietary technology that you haven't yet mastered.
I think I hate you now.
(Duration of crush: five minutes.)
- Paul Simms
Beagle Or Something
The composer's name was Beagle or something,
one of those Brits who make the world wistful
with chorales and canticles and this piece,
a tone poem or what-have-you,
chimes and strings aswirl, dangerous for one
whose eyelids and sockets have been rashing from tears.
The music occupied the car where
I had parked and then sat, staring at
a tree, a smallish maple,
fire-gold and half-undone by the wind,
shaking in itself,
shocking blue morning sky behind, and also
the trucks and telephone wires and dogs
and children late to school along Orange Street, but
it was the tree that caused an uproar,
it was the tree that shook and shed,
aureate as a shaken soul, I remembered
I was supposed to have one--for convenience
I placed it in my chest, the heart being away,
and now it seems the soul has lodged there, shaking,
golden-orange, half-spent but clanging
truer than Beagle music or my forehead pressed
hard on the steering wheel in petition for release.
-- April Bernard
"I know how two people can be talking to each other and thinking 'oh, they know exactly how I feel,' but really they're talking about blue puppies or something."
original site + text contents Â©2004 twenty oh four by me called it
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