So I have pulled together excerpts of my best thus far. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
But, our hero is often over-looked. His friend Tanaka-san, another stick figure, is very famous. Everyone in class says so, in Japanese, of course.
Tanaka-san has big house (which is usually in close proximity to a liquor store).
He eats delicious things, only delicious things, during the course of the day.
His house is filled with a plethora of strange objects (including magical books), and he plays tennis with his wife in the yard next to their home.
Yamada-san, on the other hand, lives a very dismal life.
Yamada-san, on the other hand, lives a very dismal life.
Rumor has it that he is an ugly and depressing geek.
His house is empty, he doesn't go anywhere, he rarely eats breakfast, and when he is lucky enough to eat pizza for luch (which tastes terrible, like all the other meals he seldom eats) it costs him over fifty dollars.
Little is known about the little life that he leads. But he does go to Tanaka-san's parties with another figure named Nakayama-san. Nakayama is even more ambiguous; the only known fact about him is that he parties...every evening... at the parties that Tanaka-san throws...every evening.
Yamada-san must live in a constant state of fear because there are different words used for the existence of living things and inanimate objects. In other words, one slip of the tongue could make his house a living thing, or turn him into a non-living object.
Hence why Tanaka-san owns magical books.
To make matters worse, due a comedy of grammatical errors, Yamada-san is eaten by none other than Tanaka-san. Apparently he disappeared because he does not exist anywhere. No one goes to his parties. Perhaps it is because his house is empty, but another theory is that he died on the morning that he was eaten by Tanaka-san. We used to cheer him up while practicing class room expressions, but now we are far to busy learning new types of foods, means transportation, or places of existence to remember.
We frequently forget that for Tanaka-san, every day is a bad day. The only thing he has going for him now is that we usually remember to attach the honorific - "san".
So, as we fall asleep tonight, let us wish Yamada-san the best. We can only hope that he will not be eaten by Tanaka-san once more, disappear into nothingness, or have his nasty pizza come to life.
So, as we fall asleep tonight, let us wish Yamada-san the best. We can only hope that he will not be eaten by Tanaka-san once more, disappear into nothingness, or have his nasty pizza come to life.
- Original Post from A Day in the Life of Tanaka-San (Comment)
Not to long ago, I wrote about my new kitten, Mayhem.
Oh how he loves to live up to his name. Initially, I thought that he was kinda fruity. I no longer think that. Everyday, he seems to be more and more manly. I know I should be like a proud parent at the sight of it...but it is slowly beginning to creep me out. He is now displaying qualities that I never expected from such a little kitten. Well, in cat years he is a rebellious teenager, so I guess I really should have anticipated it.
First, he drools when he is pleased. I got used to this trait pretty quick. He also wipes it off on my hand, or any other body part which is readily available. It isn't a problem. I understand full well that cats don't have owners; they have staff. And if one of my roles in his life is to be there for him when he needs to wipe of his spit, I can deal. But his next quality is enough to drive me insane. Prepare yourself.
He is clearly proud of his horrific farts, which he also emits when he is undeniably happy.
I didn't think God created a living creature that could produce an odor enough to rival some of my family members after a night of Taco Bell and their obscure alcoholic beverages. I was wrong; it is now dwelling in the laundry room of my house. Mayhem puts them all to shame! Think rotten eggs in a cesspool and forgive the repugnant vision.
I am just sitting on my bed with a good book and Mayhem will be in a lovable mood again. (He can transform into a non-stop purr machine.) I must admit, it is quite cute. But, once he is calm as can be, everything takes a turn for the worse.
He begins to release some putrid vapor from the depths of his being, which is nearly enough to knock me down from the loft bed. It is as if some incubus of Satan wormed its way into his glutes, died, and rotted away for months! I believe the noxious fumes to be the closest thing to mustard gas. I can only hope that I become accustomed to the horrendous stench before it burns the insides of my nose.
Until that time comes, I shall try to make sure that I never stand downwind. Mayhem can watch the Lion King with me, and sympathize with Pumbaa while eating his kitty treats, as he continues to excrete a virulent miasma that engulfs every corner of my room. It shall be a real bonding moment. One that I shall treasure for the rest of my life.
Now, I know all you cat lovers out there are shaking your heads thinking that I am some disgrace to the kitten-owning community. So be it. I swear to you that I have been very careful to meet his nutrition needs as I was instructed. There must be something in the dust particles, which he is able to seemingly ingest out of no where, that makes is output increase astronomically.
I don't know how it came to this. The more I think of it, the more I realize that Mayhem is turning into a real redneck of a kitty! If he were human, he would most likely spend his days downing Mike's Hard Lemonade, collecting mass amounts of Nascar memorabilia, and generally living by the motto "glorious lack of sophistication".
Oh how he loves to live up to his name. Initially, I thought that he was kinda fruity. I no longer think that. Everyday, he seems to be more and more manly. I know I should be like a proud parent at the sight of it...but it is slowly beginning to creep me out. He is now displaying qualities that I never expected from such a little kitten. Well, in cat years he is a rebellious teenager, so I guess I really should have anticipated it.
First, he drools when he is pleased. I got used to this trait pretty quick. He also wipes it off on my hand, or any other body part which is readily available. It isn't a problem. I understand full well that cats don't have owners; they have staff. And if one of my roles in his life is to be there for him when he needs to wipe of his spit, I can deal. But his next quality is enough to drive me insane. Prepare yourself.
He is clearly proud of his horrific farts, which he also emits when he is undeniably happy.
I didn't think God created a living creature that could produce an odor enough to rival some of my family members after a night of Taco Bell and their obscure alcoholic beverages. I was wrong; it is now dwelling in the laundry room of my house. Mayhem puts them all to shame! Think rotten eggs in a cesspool and forgive the repugnant vision.
I am just sitting on my bed with a good book and Mayhem will be in a lovable mood again. (He can transform into a non-stop purr machine.) I must admit, it is quite cute. But, once he is calm as can be, everything takes a turn for the worse.
He begins to release some putrid vapor from the depths of his being, which is nearly enough to knock me down from the loft bed. It is as if some incubus of Satan wormed its way into his glutes, died, and rotted away for months! I believe the noxious fumes to be the closest thing to mustard gas. I can only hope that I become accustomed to the horrendous stench before it burns the insides of my nose.
Until that time comes, I shall try to make sure that I never stand downwind. Mayhem can watch the Lion King with me, and sympathize with Pumbaa while eating his kitty treats, as he continues to excrete a virulent miasma that engulfs every corner of my room. It shall be a real bonding moment. One that I shall treasure for the rest of my life.
Now, I know all you cat lovers out there are shaking your heads thinking that I am some disgrace to the kitten-owning community. So be it. I swear to you that I have been very careful to meet his nutrition needs as I was instructed. There must be something in the dust particles, which he is able to seemingly ingest out of no where, that makes is output increase astronomically.
I don't know how it came to this. The more I think of it, the more I realize that Mayhem is turning into a real redneck of a kitty! If he were human, he would most likely spend his days downing Mike's Hard Lemonade, collecting mass amounts of Nascar memorabilia, and generally living by the motto "glorious lack of sophistication".
- Excerpt from On the Topic of No Topics 3 (Read and Comment)
In the past, it was a day when I could just admit that I am truly a hopeless romantic at heart. It is even more evident when looking at the high percentage of SHOUJO manga on my shelf. At school, I would send singing telegrams, chocolate, and roses to myself. Of course, they were all addressed from my favorite bishounen of the year (last year it was from Tamaki and the rest of the Ouran High School host club).
But this year, there will be no chocolate, or roses, or even happiness. My inner hopeless romantic has left completely; she packed her bags in absolute misery and fled, leaving a river of tears behind.
The culprit: some weirdo, who had been following me around for a grand total of a mere TWO HOURS, decided that I should be his girlfriend. He has been texting me ever since. It has been a long six days.
I do not understand this. I am walking man repellent. But he is immune!
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Anyway, he went to public school. He feels the need to educate me about the dating customs of his brand of air-heads in their natural environment.
Contracts. It is true. Apparently dating teens can write contracts to date each other (and inevitably rip it up when they break up). Am I the only one who finds this slightly insane?
So, this is the feeling that Valentines Day left me with this year...it is a bit discouraging.
I am saddened that Valentine's Day isn't what it used to be. It doesn't help that this one sucks.
Moving on, I wrote this off the top of my head when I got home after being stuck with the guy who won't leave me alone.
The following is my contract (or the intro at least). I hope we can both reach some understanding.
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Dear Chris the Creeper; the stranger who wants to date me...
*Since you are so adamant about me seeing your “cool” apartment, please note that I plan to come armed, at least, with an AK-47. You get nothing.
*Furthermore, I do not care about your memory foam bed, or the memory foam pillows on top of it. I know that I am a socially awkward person. I could be wrong, but talking about your “awesome” memory foam bed, right after insisting that I am going to see your apartment, is a tad bit sketchy. Isn’t there anything else in that “cool” place of yours? Like something that gives off minimal awkward vibes? Perhaps a refrigerator or a coffee maker. If nothing else, talk about the paint on the walls. I would much rather hear about that. Just don’t say that it is white and pure, like your so-called feelings for me. If you do, I will pour black paint on them as a notion of my feelings. It is only right after all to reciprocate the sentiment. I am saying this for your own good. Trust me, it is just safer for you if I don’t know where you sleep at night.
*I think I have made it blatantly obvious in the text messages that I enjoy sharp things, like knives and swords. Clearly, you are not the sharpest knife in the drawer. See the correlation?
*I don’t want your hugs. I don’t want your less than threes in text messages. You will never get either from me.
*Don’t call me “hun”, and don’t call me “babe”. Just, refrain from using terms of endearment in general. That would be a good rule to follow. I have plenty of names for you as well. They however convey a much different meaning. Believe me; you don’t want to know what I think. I will exercise self-control if you do, you *bleep*. Starting now.
*Evidently, you are still not getting it. I have no desire to hold your hand. I understand that hand-holding and hugging (particularly me for some reason) showers your soul with sunshine and cupcakes. But I don’t care. It makes me wanna throw up…on you preferably. I couldn’t care less if hugging and hand-holding and other such activities makes you excrete rainbows and butterflies! If you dare try to initiate such acts again, be warned that there will be an aura of malice around me, designed to make you deeply uncomfortable and run for the hills. To avoid all this drama in the first place, perhaps I should just give up and become a nun. Then it would be irrational, impossible, and against my religion!
*Here is another good reason why it is in your best interest not to date me: I will make your wallet bleed to death. Do you like money? You say you have money. Well, I have some news for you buddy; I don’t. You know who else likes money? People who make good steak. Since you are wanting to date me, there are a few things that you should know about me (especially since there is little you actually know as it is). I am a carnivore. And I really like steak. Better say “goodbye” to those Monster energy drinks that you like so much, because in addition to my steak, I expect strawberries and ice cream too. Every day. (To fill the cracks of my heart that are caused by your very presence).
*I don't care what other girls that you have dated told you. You are too observant for your own good. It fills me with dread that you would focus too long on me, for obvious reasons. You see, I do not know your intentions (and again, I doubt that they are entirely pure). Not understanding your mind means that I have no clue as to how long it takes you to mathematically calculate what it would look like without said clothes (I gagged a bit just typing this thought). If you can not force yourself keep your eyes focused on appropriate places, I will forcefully remove them.
*To put this in shorter, simpler words, so that you can understand, I have no desire to date you; get lost.
And Happy Anti-Valentines Day.
Until then...
- Original Post from My Valentines Day Contract: Just Sign Here (Comment)
I stand before you today as a malnourished soul.
It is certainly strange. Clearly my parents don't neglect to pay the electricity bills, but I have no food. If you are wondering why, I shall elaborate.
Within the past year, our ancient refrigerator got tired of suffering from my mom's abuse. She continued to spill sticky substances, leave food to spoil, and extend her clutter to the far reaches of it's capacity.
Thus, for eight long and painful months, we had little means of refrigeration. We could only keep cold items in a small picnic cooler by the front door. Such began my miserable black hole of ice cream deprivation.
Times have changed since then, as we were finally able to purchase a new refrigerator relatively recently. I celebrated with a large bowl of magically delicious Ben&Jerry's Chunky Monkey.
But alas, my fun was cut short. I came to the horrible realization that my mom was no longer accustomed the the operations of a refrigerator. It is as if opening the door, putting the food away, and closing the door has become a form of manual labor.
In addition to my refrigerator woes, my mom has an emergency storage of a mass amount of canned food. Mind you, this is in case the supermarket somehow collapses soon, so I am not actually allowed to eat any of it. And I have a theory that she numbers them and counts them off every morning, noon, and night. It taunts me every moment in which I dare to even walk past the kitchen. She has run out of room in the pantry and now our kitchen floor is a carpet of canned soup.
MY definition of an emergency is "goodness, there is no non-contaminated sustenance in the refrigerator and nothing that hasn't gone bad in the pantry...oh my, only canned food remains!" Unfortunately, this is an "unacceptable" excuse for disturbing the delicate balance of her balancing canned floor.
It gets worse. Basically, there is a lot of food not in emergency storage... but nothing to eat. You ask, "how is that possible?" Allow me to quote from that wonderful movie entitled "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" and all will become clear.
Everything in this room is eatable. Even I'm eatable. But that is called cannibalism, my dear children, and is in fact frowned upon in most societies. ~Johnny Deep (as Willy Wonka)
Just because something can be physically eaten does not mean it should be physically eaten. This is especially true of things that lurk in our poor refrigeration system and pantry.
On this fateful day, I opened the refrigerator to see if there was anything that I could safely consume for lunch. Nothing. So, I moved on to the freezer at the bottom. I figured it would be more promising considering that, in the past, all that my mom ever brought home from the supermarket was a plethora of T.V. dinners. Yet, due to her prolonged lack of experience in managing cumbersome equipment like a refrigerator, such things were no where to be found. Instead, I was left staring at a side dish of frozen mashed potatoes (which looked rather crunchy) and rotting shrimp (dumped us by my crazy grandmother). I determined that the crunchy mashed potatoes would be my safest bet.
Since that was not nearly enough to satisfy my unwavering hunger, I mustered up all my courage to brave the pantry. At first, I found nothing but my mom's high blood pressure medication, cold medicine, and paper plates. Then I finally came across other foods that were not in the emergency food storage. It included canned cooked ham, canned tuna, and "manwich", all presumably from the very late 1900's! Hence why they were not in the emergency food storage; eating them would cause an emergency!
When I began to grow weary from my quest, I discovered ramen (the kind you make on the stove). My doctor would be appalled at these two starches in my hand. Still, it was the best my dismal kitchen had to offer. Yet, bad karma befell me again as I approached the stove. Little did I know, a startling surprise awaited me. I had to clear the stove of a bag of moldy bread, but that was nothing compared to the real shocker. An entire bag of grapes had been left to ferment atop the burner. What lay before me was a bag of half-grape and half-liquid substance, swarming with gnats, flies, and other bugs. Deductive reasoning led me to believe that this was not a fail attempt to make "wine", as my mother does not drink. Besides, I am pretty sure that only a slobbering drunkard would find this scene even slightly appealing. So, I left it up to my mom to clean up her mess and threw the crunchy potatoes and the ramen (now soaking in a bowl of water) into the microwave.
If you never hear from me again, please assume that I have died of food poisoning.
- Original Post from My State of Starvation (Comment)
The pressure of staying by myself gets to me sometimes, and in my loneliness, I find pleasant little things that amuse me when I need a break from homework. Just yesterday I was blowing on Kleenex to see how long I could keep it in the air. After 8 minutes or so, I realized how I could make it to a grand total of 12 seconds. I proudly announced, "Did you see that? This is my new high score!"
I suppose that this wouldn't be that weird, except as previously stated, I am alone.
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But sometimes I am not alone, and awkward moments are bound to follow. I just don't know what to do anymore. You see, I have a "room-mate". She works very odd shifts at work. Not only that, but she appears and disappears out of nowhere. Like now. She randomly started vacuuming. I feel guilty because this was supposed to be my job.
I can't complain much. I have had my share of strange room-mates in the past. The first such awkward encounter was on my Europe trip. I had a room-mate of "that kind of persuasion" who wanted me to be her girlfriend, after how I had rambled incoherently about how my friend, who I call Black-kun, sleeps with her eyes half way open.
Another weird room-mate encounter was freshman year on retreat. This is the situation: one room, a 2 superficial basket cases (think barbies), gothic emo girl, and me. I hate stereotypes usually. But this is just the way it was.
Long story short: One of the superficial basket cases asked if anyone cared if she slept naked, her friend had no objections (her opinion was the only one that obviously mattered), gothic emo girl looked like she wanted to pulverize the her. I protested both (although deep down I shared the same feelings as the gothic emo girl). Obviously no one really listened; the barbie continued to disrobe while we still voiced are complaints with our heads facing the wall.
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With that out of the way, my current room-mate isn't half bad. She is straight, so she obviously doesn't hit on me. Nor does she insist on sleeping with her clothes off.
But sadly, I have come to the conclusion that I am in fact the strange room-mate. Yes, the roles have reversed themselves. I always let her shower first, shamelessly exploiting the fact that she will have to brave the cold water so I won't have to.
Alright, that it not too bad, as she most likely hasn't even caught on, but it gets worse. She really does come in out of nowhere, particularly when I am doing something incredibly stupid. This is my current list of evidence as to why she thinks of me as her weird room-mate.
Exhibit A: She walked through the door to see me stumble out of bed around noon, tripping over the overly large generic snuggie that I am wearing, face plant on the floor, and resemble a deer caught in the headlights when I saw sunlight. This left her only reaction to be "...um I see you just woke up".
In my defense, I stayed up till 5 a few nights before studying for finals. And I toss and turn in my sleep, and being a person who is too lazy to see the point in making my own bed, I slept in a snuggie too.
So, with a mouth full of carpet and snuggie, I mumbled "yup" and began the task of feeding the dog. And I forgot that the sliding glass door was locked as I stood there pondering why it wouldn't open.
Exhibit B: The one time I actually did shower before her was when I didn't know how late (or early in this case) she would be returning from work. I was singing a Japanese song, in Japanese, about cake. I sang loudly, boldly, and obnoxiously. And when I emerged from the bathroom to see her waiting, I shuffled into my room nervously.
Exhibit C: Remember how I said that the dog ate my sock? Well, it would seem that my room-mate is constantly rescuing my laundry before it gets devoured completely. I found out that I am physically incapable of walking back to my room with a finished load of washed clothing without dropping something.
Exhibit B: The one time I actually did shower before her was when I didn't know how late (or early in this case) she would be returning from work. I was singing a Japanese song, in Japanese, about cake. I sang loudly, boldly, and obnoxiously. And when I emerged from the bathroom to see her waiting, I shuffled into my room nervously.
Exhibit C: Remember how I said that the dog ate my sock? Well, it would seem that my room-mate is constantly rescuing my laundry before it gets devoured completely. I found out that I am physically incapable of walking back to my room with a finished load of washed clothing without dropping something.
Almost always, I drop a sock. And trust me, I would be extremely happy if I could write to you that it is 100% of the time a sock. But alas, only 90% of the time it has been a sock.
The other times I accidentally left my panties behind. And by they way, since my room-mate has already figured this out, I prefer my panties to be just as brightly colored as my socks.
....oh for the love of...I must type something else to redeem myself from the fact that I am blogging to the entire world about my underwear....
....oh for the love of...I must type something else to redeem myself from the fact that I am blogging to the entire world about my underwear....
- Excerpt from On the Topic of No Topics 5 (Read and Comment)
