(I have a Tumblr account now too. In hopes that it will point people in the direction of this mundane blog. Blogging isn't what it used to be and it fills me with sadness. I could go on and on...but that is not my point today.)
I dug this video up somewhere from the depths of my old computer. It is my infamous iTech project. Leann hopes to make it viral; she has high hopes. Very high.
The Little Mermaid Music Video Re-Make
Jennifer Writes of Food Again
It has been 3 minutes since I wrote My Final Blessing. In that time, I found myself bored, once again, and sneaked into the kitchen, smuggling the last brownie back into my room. Then, I stuffed the brownie into my mouth, sat on the bed, and marveled at how I never noticed that one wall is a deeper shade of purple than the others. As I swallowed, I realized to myself that I still had absolutely nothing to write about, ...except for eating that brownie and having a revelation regarding the paint on the wall. Now, I am laughing at myself because I realized that I wrote about these things, in vain hopes of actually feeling accomplished.
Then it occurred to me. I finished a writing class. Surly I had something worth posting.
Well, unless you want to hear about human trafficking, there really isn't anything. Because all my other essays, except for those ones and the final, were all edited versions of things that already exist on this blog. You, dear readers, are like my guinea pigs....if only most of you actually read and commented *sniffle*
That being said, that only leaves the last essay, which I am posting here out of sheer boredom. Forgive the fact that it is a VERY rough draft. Please have mercy on me. I was given a list of topics: racial profiling, obesity, technology, or climate change.
I don't know why, but I always gravitate to writing about food. Always. Perhaps it is some chemical imbalance. Because even in my college class I do it! So, the topic that I chose isn't exactly a shocker.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few days ago, I was watching a t.v. show called Parks and Recreation with my friend, over a bowl filled to the brim with goldfish crackers. In that one episode, I discovered my favorite quote of the entire series. It went like this, “the whole point of this country is if you want to eat garbage, balloon up to 600 pounds and die of a heart attack at 43, you can! You are free to do so. To me, that's beautiful.” It struck a chord with me and I couldn't agree more. I thoroughly enjoyed being able to eat my fill of crackers, made with artificial cheese. And I was incredibly grateful that I could drown my sorrows of losing my grandmother in a tub of chocolate peanut butter ice cream the day before. I would like to begin by clarifying that despite those instances, and many more in which I indulge, I am not obese. In fact, I am far from it. I have been underweight since the day I was born, as I seem to burn calories just sitting down and typing. Yet, I am well aware that obesity is truly a serious and growing (no pun intended) problem in our country. I have seen it myself. I have obese family members, who are beginning to suffer from even more serious conditions.
I think this is has become the problem that it is today partly because of our culture in general. For example, despite the fact that fast food is very unhealthy, it is the choice many Americans choose. Fast food is, well… fast. Our lives are structured in a way that has us constantly busy. Few Americans have the time to make a healthy meal, sit down, and eat it. Our highest priorities lie elsewhere. Also, fast food marketing itself is enough to get us hooked. The slogan for Burger King is “have it your way” and we are constantly getting the messages that we deserve to get our way, all the time. (Although, if it really was “my way”, Burger King would provide me with a much tastier hamburger capable of transforming into carrot stick on the way down, for the sake of nutritional value, and still be just as cheap…if not more so). Unlike other places in the world, eating can even become a pastime.
Perhaps one way to educate and encourage healthy habits, that families should instill in their children early on. Maintaining weight is a simple matter of calories in and calories out. Staying healthy should be something for people to look forward to. And they should do so to take care of themselves.
However, I do not believe that the government needs to tell us what we can and cannot eat. In the United States, we have free choice. With that choice comes responsibility. If someone makes the choice to fall prey to gluttony and becomes obese, they have to be willing to pay the medical bills to cover the complications. If I wake up the next morning to discover that those goldfish crackers and a bowl of ice cream effected how my favorite pair of jeans fit, then I will have to suck it up (again, no pun intended), and pay for bigger pairs of pants to accommodate my new girth.
I think this is has become the problem that it is today partly because of our culture in general. For example, despite the fact that fast food is very unhealthy, it is the choice many Americans choose. Fast food is, well… fast. Our lives are structured in a way that has us constantly busy. Few Americans have the time to make a healthy meal, sit down, and eat it. Our highest priorities lie elsewhere. Also, fast food marketing itself is enough to get us hooked. The slogan for Burger King is “have it your way” and we are constantly getting the messages that we deserve to get our way, all the time. (Although, if it really was “my way”, Burger King would provide me with a much tastier hamburger capable of transforming into carrot stick on the way down, for the sake of nutritional value, and still be just as cheap…if not more so). Unlike other places in the world, eating can even become a pastime.
Perhaps one way to educate and encourage healthy habits, that families should instill in their children early on. Maintaining weight is a simple matter of calories in and calories out. Staying healthy should be something for people to look forward to. And they should do so to take care of themselves.
However, I do not believe that the government needs to tell us what we can and cannot eat. In the United States, we have free choice. With that choice comes responsibility. If someone makes the choice to fall prey to gluttony and becomes obese, they have to be willing to pay the medical bills to cover the complications. If I wake up the next morning to discover that those goldfish crackers and a bowl of ice cream effected how my favorite pair of jeans fit, then I will have to suck it up (again, no pun intended), and pay for bigger pairs of pants to accommodate my new girth.
My Final Blessing
My finals are over. I am sleeping the wondrously deep slumber of a college student who is no longer bound by the chains of homework and studying. Such sweet liberation!
However, I mourn for those who are still struggling through this academic hell. To all those who haven't finished finals, let me bestow a final blessing upon you.
May your fingers run swiftly across the computer keys; may your pencil write smoothly; and may your brain be stay as sharp as the butcher's knife.
However, I mourn for those who are still struggling through this academic hell. To all those who haven't finished finals, let me bestow a final blessing upon you.
May your fingers run swiftly across the computer keys; may your pencil write smoothly; and may your brain be stay as sharp as the butcher's knife.
On the Topic of No Topics 5
Usually, I start this off with some introduction that covers some of the madness which will ensue when I go off on rabbit trails. It just occurred to me that the whole intro is rather ironic because usually rabbit trails are just that, not planned. So it contradicts the whole thing. But after this epiphany I would like to make it abundantly clear that I actually write the introductions after the fact. There you go, some insight into my writing habits. On the Topic of No Topics shall finally be continuing on!
(I have to wonder if this is supposed to be a celebrated rant because...it is divisible by 5! Yes, that is why. Read this. It is divisible by five so it must be important.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday, I realized that it was Friday the 13th. I find that rather funny considering that the entire week of Friday the 13th has been a living hell, except for the actual Friday the 13th. I feel like in doing so I can defy the laws of nature itself. Well, we have known this for many years; this just validates that theory. What's wrong with me? What is not wrong with me is a much shorter list.
I moved out of my house about two weeks ago and I have begun what I like to call "house-wife" lessons. They include (but are not limited to) cooking, learning how to use a washing machine, learning how to use a dish washer, learning how to use a vacuum, and how to sort clothes so they can be stuffed in the washing machine. (And special thanks to spell check who just taught me that "vacuum" is spelled with two "u"'s, no "o"'s, and does not have an "e" at the end.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let me tell you of all the trials an tribulations I had to endure!
First of all, there is a science to sorting through clothing for washing machine use. I took chemistry, and I still don't get it. Not once have I attempted to do so without being utterly confused. What I have been told is "just sort everything by colors" and "wash jeans separately". But I can not do this because, like most women, I love to be at war with myself. Here is a sample of what does through my mind:
But I have at least three different color jeans, what now? Does a black and white shirt go in the white pile or the black pile? Shouldn't I just go by genre of clothing? But Ashley, I have a LOT of poofy pajama pants and they are special....because they are warm and fuzzy! And I don't want them to loose their POOF!
Hari will make a much better wife than I will - and I don't think that she will be thrilled that I just declared this for the entire world to read. Fear not Ashley, as of today, as many as 9 people read this blog; one of them is you and the rest are all female.
Moving on, a dishwasher is slightly easier to use than a washing machine...if you know what/how much soap to use. Every time I press the button on either one, I feel that it is only a matter of time before it erupts in an explosion of bubbles, enough to drown me, the dog, the flowers (both the ones that I have killed and the ones that are still surviving).
I then get horrible mental images of someone opening the door as a flood of bubbly water runs out, to see me standing there with the huge dog in my arms, balancing the flowers on my head, trying to save what is left of my burnt grilled cheese sandwich with my teeth. Yeah, it has haunted my dreams.
(I also had a weird dream about my mom converting to Mormonism and marrying into the polygamist family on that show Sister Wives, becoming the fifth wife as of now).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Actually, I can't find bread in this house. The people who took me in are gone, I am house sitting, and they minimalists. I haven't bothered searching for butter to make grilled cheese because I can't find the bread. And alas, grilled cheese is the height of my culinary expertise.
On my rant about fortune cookies, I was surviving off of left-overs made by Hari. My breakfast that morning consisted of her spaghetti and a milky way chocolate bar.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I feel like I have failed my job house sitting, because most of the plants are dying despite my vain efforts of making them happy. As someone I know once eloquently stated "I have the black thumb of death". I have inherited that from somewhere down the line. Flowers wilt in my very presence. Remember my strawberry endeavors? They started rotting and I had to feed them to my dog. The end.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh ok. There was ONE terrible thing that happened on Friday the 13th. I choose the wrong day to do laundry. The dog that is in the house that I am now staying dug through my piles of sorted clothing to find my favorite sock and eat it. It was indeed a sad day.
It makes me miss my mom's dog, Lorie. I have wrote about her antics before, but I prefer that to what I have to tolerate now. Lorie didn't bark at the littlest thing, she didn't make weird/gross/annoying/licking sounds like she was dying, she didn't shed like all her hair was falling out, she didn't play games when it came to me petting her or not, there was a shared understanding that most of the time I was content not chasing her all over the house. And, most importantly, she didn't eat my favorite socks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
But having just woken up, I couldn't find a way to respond to this without making it even more awkward.
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. 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....
Exhibit D: Crap. I find myself at loss of ideas now. No other specific instance has come to mind. Perhaps that is because she is like a ninja or a ghost. One minute she is here, and next moment she is gone. And vice versa. Well, I suppose I have done a lot of dumb things since I moved in here. So it is fair to say that she has seen me dancing to no musing in particular, pleading my case before the dying plants, accidentally breaking a knob off part of the fan in my room, stepping on the dog's plastic toy bone and squeaking in pain, cutting my finger while trying to slice cheese for the grilled cheese sandwich that was never made, and I am going to stop now because I have just done a lot of silly things.
So yes, now it is blatantly obvious that I am not the strange room-mate and I should embrace that as my role in life.
I am just gonna end this here, seeing as I have a lot of writing to do that actually matters for my college class. I have to finish another 5 discussions, edit two essays, start another two essays, start the final, and then write back on this blog one I have something a little more entertaining.
Next time I write here, my brain will be final-fried. So take that into consideration when you marvel at my insanity.
(I have to wonder if this is supposed to be a celebrated rant because...it is divisible by 5! Yes, that is why. Read this. It is divisible by five so it must be important.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday, I realized that it was Friday the 13th. I find that rather funny considering that the entire week of Friday the 13th has been a living hell, except for the actual Friday the 13th. I feel like in doing so I can defy the laws of nature itself. Well, we have known this for many years; this just validates that theory. What's wrong with me? What is not wrong with me is a much shorter list.
I moved out of my house about two weeks ago and I have begun what I like to call "house-wife" lessons. They include (but are not limited to) cooking, learning how to use a washing machine, learning how to use a dish washer, learning how to use a vacuum, and how to sort clothes so they can be stuffed in the washing machine. (And special thanks to spell check who just taught me that "vacuum" is spelled with two "u"'s, no "o"'s, and does not have an "e" at the end.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let me tell you of all the trials an tribulations I had to endure!
First of all, there is a science to sorting through clothing for washing machine use. I took chemistry, and I still don't get it. Not once have I attempted to do so without being utterly confused. What I have been told is "just sort everything by colors" and "wash jeans separately". But I can not do this because, like most women, I love to be at war with myself. Here is a sample of what does through my mind:
But I have at least three different color jeans, what now? Does a black and white shirt go in the white pile or the black pile? Shouldn't I just go by genre of clothing? But Ashley, I have a LOT of poofy pajama pants and they are special....because they are warm and fuzzy! And I don't want them to loose their POOF!
Hari will make a much better wife than I will - and I don't think that she will be thrilled that I just declared this for the entire world to read. Fear not Ashley, as of today, as many as 9 people read this blog; one of them is you and the rest are all female.
Moving on, a dishwasher is slightly easier to use than a washing machine...if you know what/how much soap to use. Every time I press the button on either one, I feel that it is only a matter of time before it erupts in an explosion of bubbles, enough to drown me, the dog, the flowers (both the ones that I have killed and the ones that are still surviving).
I then get horrible mental images of someone opening the door as a flood of bubbly water runs out, to see me standing there with the huge dog in my arms, balancing the flowers on my head, trying to save what is left of my burnt grilled cheese sandwich with my teeth. Yeah, it has haunted my dreams.
(I also had a weird dream about my mom converting to Mormonism and marrying into the polygamist family on that show Sister Wives, becoming the fifth wife as of now).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Actually, I can't find bread in this house. The people who took me in are gone, I am house sitting, and they minimalists. I haven't bothered searching for butter to make grilled cheese because I can't find the bread. And alas, grilled cheese is the height of my culinary expertise.
On my rant about fortune cookies, I was surviving off of left-overs made by Hari. My breakfast that morning consisted of her spaghetti and a milky way chocolate bar.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I feel like I have failed my job house sitting, because most of the plants are dying despite my vain efforts of making them happy. As someone I know once eloquently stated "I have the black thumb of death". I have inherited that from somewhere down the line. Flowers wilt in my very presence. Remember my strawberry endeavors? They started rotting and I had to feed them to my dog. The end.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh ok. There was ONE terrible thing that happened on Friday the 13th. I choose the wrong day to do laundry. The dog that is in the house that I am now staying dug through my piles of sorted clothing to find my favorite sock and eat it. It was indeed a sad day.
It makes me miss my mom's dog, Lorie. I have wrote about her antics before, but I prefer that to what I have to tolerate now. Lorie didn't bark at the littlest thing, she didn't make weird/gross/annoying/licking sounds like she was dying, she didn't shed like all her hair was falling out, she didn't play games when it came to me petting her or not, there was a shared understanding that most of the time I was content not chasing her all over the house. And, most importantly, she didn't eat my favorite socks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
But having just woken up, I couldn't find a way to respond to this without making it even more awkward.
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. 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....
Exhibit D: Crap. I find myself at loss of ideas now. No other specific instance has come to mind. Perhaps that is because she is like a ninja or a ghost. One minute she is here, and next moment she is gone. And vice versa. Well, I suppose I have done a lot of dumb things since I moved in here. So it is fair to say that she has seen me dancing to no musing in particular, pleading my case before the dying plants, accidentally breaking a knob off part of the fan in my room, stepping on the dog's plastic toy bone and squeaking in pain, cutting my finger while trying to slice cheese for the grilled cheese sandwich that was never made, and I am going to stop now because I have just done a lot of silly things.
So yes, now it is blatantly obvious that I am not the strange room-mate and I should embrace that as my role in life.
I am just gonna end this here, seeing as I have a lot of writing to do that actually matters for my college class. I have to finish another 5 discussions, edit two essays, start another two essays, start the final, and then write back on this blog one I have something a little more entertaining.
Next time I write here, my brain will be final-fried. So take that into consideration when you marvel at my insanity.
A Fortune in "Fortune" Cookies
Over the years I have been collecting fortunes from fortune cookies and I have noticed a sad trend. Fortune cookies contain anything but actual fortunes. It is rare to see one that pertains to a person’s future or luck, even less a combination of both. Companies who come up with these little saying should really think of a different name for their products. With the help of some of my good friends, I have started to devise categories that these fail "fortunes" fall under. And I have noticed some interesting similarities and differences. This is proving to be a rapidly growing list...but it is a start. I look forward to the day that these cookie companies see the potential. After all, these were all "fortunes" that my friend’s and I have found in our cookies.
I will start with the Statement Cookie. My friend Leann still has this fortune pinned on her wall, where she has an entire section devoted to these slips of paper. It reads: "This cookie is sweet". But “this” isn’t a cookie. It is, in actuality, a slip of paper. And paper, as many well know, is made from “waste” of left-over tree parts. It is neither sweet, nor appetizing. Which leads me to believe that this fortune, as with most of them (and I shall elaborate on this as I go) is a form of marketing. It won't be long before you see "fortunes" that tell you other bits of info about the cookie that you are about to eat. It makes one wonder how long the slip of paper will be when they start listing off the nutrition facts or ingredients in some corny way. If there is a way to make a cheesy statement about vanilla extract or eggs, surly those behind coming up with fortunes would find it.
But, there is a flaw with this; there are only so many single statements one can make about fortune cookie facts. Sooner or later, when the companies are pressed for time, they will get bored and start making random facts in general. Since fortune cookies are most commonly served with Chinese cuisine, it would fit in very well to be named the Enlightenment Cookie. And it would be served with the Confucius Cookie. It is self-explanatory what those will contain.
What I like to call the “Suggestion Cookie” takes the Statement Cookie one step farther. My friend came home from eating at Panda Express, voicing her complaint that she had been ripped off. Her fortune was trying to tell her “It's time to treat yourself to something special." Think of the possibilities. The statements become more personal. It starts out subtle, trying to lure you into believing that this small packaged item next to your grand total spent on Chinese take-out is somehow a taste of what dining in Heaven is like. Eventually, the "fortunes" will begin to sound like a chocolate commercial. I am not going to elaborate. Just think of a chocolate commercial. I have yet to see a single one in which the word "indulge" wasn't used. You get the picture.
One I that I find most interesting I chose to call the Demand Cookie. I once asked my friend what fortune cookie stood out to her the most. She told me about a particular one that got her attention. She is a competitive person by nature and does not like to lose. Imagine her reaction upon reading this: "If you're still hungry, eat another fortune cookie". I think this one is pretty straight forward. It is a lot like the Suggestion Cookie. Although it is more direct, the two go together well. While the Suggestion Cookie appeals to women (reminding them of chocolate and the endorphins that result), the Demand Cookie is better suited for men. The packaging could read The DeMANd Cookie. It just sounds like a challenge. A prime example of another cookie that is good for profit. As everyone knows, the fastest way to a man's heart, is through his stomach. What better way to exploit that? Maybe these "fortune" makers will expand upon this. They will say instead that the fastest way to a man's WALLET is through his stomach.
The next cookie speaks volumes to me and I have named it the Highly Educated Guess Cookie. On my fifteenth birthday, I cracked open a fortune cookie. The small slip of paper inside read: "Today your mouth might be moving, but no one is listening". I still treasure it. Yes, it was a fail when it came to predicting the future. The moment they used the word “might”, they ruined all my hopes and dreams of the future that day. (Although, the cookie's hypothesis was correct). But, if you ask me, The Highly Educated Guess Cookie would probably sell better if the phrase wasn't so insulting. When I first read mine, I felt like it was telling me to "shut up", and I was sad. Making your costumers feel depressed is no way to make money, especially when selling nothing more than mass-produced cookies.
Now, if it was more along the lines of “you might be the sexiest, most awesome person that has ever walked upon the earth" I would have left that restaurant with a smile on my face. The best plan of action would be to turn it into the Compliment Cookie, eliminate that word might entirely, and shower customers with praise. They would make more profit selling cheap confidence-boosters. Like the Suggestion Cookie, the target audience would be the female population. Women love to fish for compliments. And the Suggestion Cookie will have them fishing for loose change to read their compliment-of-the-day.
My friend laughed when I mentioned the Pick-Up Line Cookie. To this day I am positive that the Pick-Up Line Cookie already exists. A group of friends and I went out to eat once. Our male waiter carefully distributed the cookies as if they had been assigned to each individual. I looked down and read “Love is just around the corner". Lo and behold the waiter glanced around his shoulder, as he literally turned around the corner. He must have had a special stash of Pick-Up Line Cookies.
But, there is a flaw with this; there are only so many single statements one can make about fortune cookie facts. Sooner or later, when the companies are pressed for time, they will get bored and start making random facts in general. Since fortune cookies are most commonly served with Chinese cuisine, it would fit in very well to be named the Enlightenment Cookie. And it would be served with the Confucius Cookie. It is self-explanatory what those will contain.
What I like to call the “Suggestion Cookie” takes the Statement Cookie one step farther. My friend came home from eating at Panda Express, voicing her complaint that she had been ripped off. Her fortune was trying to tell her “It's time to treat yourself to something special." Think of the possibilities. The statements become more personal. It starts out subtle, trying to lure you into believing that this small packaged item next to your grand total spent on Chinese take-out is somehow a taste of what dining in Heaven is like. Eventually, the "fortunes" will begin to sound like a chocolate commercial. I am not going to elaborate. Just think of a chocolate commercial. I have yet to see a single one in which the word "indulge" wasn't used. You get the picture.
One I that I find most interesting I chose to call the Demand Cookie. I once asked my friend what fortune cookie stood out to her the most. She told me about a particular one that got her attention. She is a competitive person by nature and does not like to lose. Imagine her reaction upon reading this: "If you're still hungry, eat another fortune cookie". I think this one is pretty straight forward. It is a lot like the Suggestion Cookie. Although it is more direct, the two go together well. While the Suggestion Cookie appeals to women (reminding them of chocolate and the endorphins that result), the Demand Cookie is better suited for men. The packaging could read The DeMANd Cookie. It just sounds like a challenge. A prime example of another cookie that is good for profit. As everyone knows, the fastest way to a man's heart, is through his stomach. What better way to exploit that? Maybe these "fortune" makers will expand upon this. They will say instead that the fastest way to a man's WALLET is through his stomach.
The next cookie speaks volumes to me and I have named it the Highly Educated Guess Cookie. On my fifteenth birthday, I cracked open a fortune cookie. The small slip of paper inside read: "Today your mouth might be moving, but no one is listening". I still treasure it. Yes, it was a fail when it came to predicting the future. The moment they used the word “might”, they ruined all my hopes and dreams of the future that day. (Although, the cookie's hypothesis was correct). But, if you ask me, The Highly Educated Guess Cookie would probably sell better if the phrase wasn't so insulting. When I first read mine, I felt like it was telling me to "shut up", and I was sad. Making your costumers feel depressed is no way to make money, especially when selling nothing more than mass-produced cookies.
Now, if it was more along the lines of “you might be the sexiest, most awesome person that has ever walked upon the earth" I would have left that restaurant with a smile on my face. The best plan of action would be to turn it into the Compliment Cookie, eliminate that word might entirely, and shower customers with praise. They would make more profit selling cheap confidence-boosters. Like the Suggestion Cookie, the target audience would be the female population. Women love to fish for compliments. And the Suggestion Cookie will have them fishing for loose change to read their compliment-of-the-day.
My friend laughed when I mentioned the Pick-Up Line Cookie. To this day I am positive that the Pick-Up Line Cookie already exists. A group of friends and I went out to eat once. Our male waiter carefully distributed the cookies as if they had been assigned to each individual. I looked down and read “Love is just around the corner". Lo and behold the waiter glanced around his shoulder, as he literally turned around the corner. He must have had a special stash of Pick-Up Line Cookies.
There would be so many creative things to do with Pick-Up Line Cookies, as there is a wide-variety of pick-up lines, ranging from clichéd and sentimental to downright provocative. Whatever floats one’s boat, I presume. Plus, I would imagine these would be a huge hit on Valentine's Day.
And finally, I shall end with The Closest-Thing-That-You-Will-Ever-See-Close-to-a-Fortune-Cookie Cookie. As the name would suggest, it shall go along the lines of, "You will fall asleep in the near future". In all honesty, this is the only one that I have never actually seen in a fortune cookie. If they are trying to predict a future of prosperity, which as shown above they never try to anyway, they mind as well make it literal. Fortunes insinuate luck, good or bad. As a poor, college student, I will be lucky if I get enough sleep at night; sleep is good and too little of it is bad. And fortunes also tend to refer to the future. I will sleep in my future; it is only a matter of time.
If they really want to get into specifics with the idea, they could just mail one to my doorstep which says the following: "You will never want to use the word "fortune" "or "cookie" this many times in a writing piece ever again.”
And finally, I shall end with The Closest-Thing-That-You-Will-Ever-See-Close-to-a-Fortune-Cookie Cookie. As the name would suggest, it shall go along the lines of, "You will fall asleep in the near future". In all honesty, this is the only one that I have never actually seen in a fortune cookie. If they are trying to predict a future of prosperity, which as shown above they never try to anyway, they mind as well make it literal. Fortunes insinuate luck, good or bad. As a poor, college student, I will be lucky if I get enough sleep at night; sleep is good and too little of it is bad. And fortunes also tend to refer to the future. I will sleep in my future; it is only a matter of time.
If they really want to get into specifics with the idea, they could just mail one to my doorstep which says the following: "You will never want to use the word "fortune" "or "cookie" this many times in a writing piece ever again.”
Charge! Ichigo Daikazoku
This weekend was once again spent with my therapist of the week, Leann. But things have mostly calmed down. The only therapy I now require might be medical related, either my foot or my brain...
Yes, I know that is quite a difference. You see, I badly sprained my ankle because I tripped over the dish washer. I will trip my way to my own funeral someday.
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But the good news is we went to Wal-mart to begin or quest to grow our own strawberries! We are BERRY BUDDIES!
Our adventure was off to a slow start, with LeeLee carrying me through the isles, due to the annoyance of a horrible invention called "crutches". Then, to my elation, an employee said that I could use one of those carts for the disabled and eldery. That made all the difference right there. I was a real speed demon on those things; I could get my ride to go up to a foot per second when I went into overdrive! I laugh at myself; I always wanted to use that word in an everyday sentence. I just never thought it would be in this context. I think it is suffice to say that I have mad cripple cart driving skills!
And now, I feel ashamed. I spent the entire week listening to the song "Carrot Juice is Murder". Now, before the Arrogant Worms come to kill me in my sleep for my transgressions, I would like to add that I am a carnivore. I don't like vegetables either. And, I know that strawberries are in fact fruit. The only reason I say this is because we found the strawberries in the "vegetable" section at the store. So, the people who work there are to blame for this pointless side note.
Hasta la pasta!
Yes, I know that is quite a difference. You see, I badly sprained my ankle because I tripped over the dish washer. I will trip my way to my own funeral someday.
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But the good news is we went to Wal-mart to begin or quest to grow our own strawberries! We are BERRY BUDDIES!
Our adventure was off to a slow start, with LeeLee carrying me through the isles, due to the annoyance of a horrible invention called "crutches". Then, to my elation, an employee said that I could use one of those carts for the disabled and eldery. That made all the difference right there. I was a real speed demon on those things; I could get my ride to go up to a foot per second when I went into overdrive! I laugh at myself; I always wanted to use that word in an everyday sentence. I just never thought it would be in this context. I think it is suffice to say that I have mad cripple cart driving skills!
And now, I feel ashamed. I spent the entire week listening to the song "Carrot Juice is Murder". Now, before the Arrogant Worms come to kill me in my sleep for my transgressions, I would like to add that I am a carnivore. I don't like vegetables either. And, I know that strawberries are in fact fruit. The only reason I say this is because we found the strawberries in the "vegetable" section at the store. So, the people who work there are to blame for this pointless side note.
Hasta la pasta!
Jello Time With Jen
Most churches I know of love to feed the kids their body weight in goldfish crackers. Another thing churches like are bake sale auctions for fundraisers. There are few things as oddly amusing as watching the entire congregation have heated bidding wars for brownies.
Anyway, the point is that watching church members bid for baked goods is fun, to say the least. Unless you go to my friend’s church, - then you get to see them battle for a jar of salsa.
Then I started thinking of how I could participate. There is always that one person who’s item attracts the most attention and bids. I think that I have potential to be that person. I don’t want to brag about myself but it is true.
Without supervision, my cooking is terrible.
(Just the other day, my dad demanded that I make a hot dog for him. I did. The next day, he claimed that I gave him food poisoning.)
So, my friend and I came to the conclusion that whatever I made would become an instant hit…because the taste is so unbelievable that you would have to try it for yourself.
Now, the next order of business was what to make. Then it hit us - Jello. It dates back to a day where we played with Jello molds. The first half of our cooking endeavors were spent cleaning up after my malfunctions. But we had a great time, so much so that we know look forward to cooking fails together. It has gone down in history as “Jello Time With Jen”. And if I had my own webshow, like all my friends think that we should do together, it would be aired as a special feature.
After reminiscing about it, a brilliant idea struck me. Instead of auctioning off just Jello, we could action off “Jello Time With Jen.” To think, people would bid over who got to have Jen in their kitchen to spend the day making Jello.
A second later however, the thought terrified me. One, I am ashamed that my ego is so big. Second, I have horrible luck with creepers. I was supposed to be hanging out with my friend as therapy from the guy who wanted me to date him…and come to his apartment…with the memory foam bed…to spend a “sleepover” supposedly watching movies. I hung my head in shame. A frightening mental image struck me, a room full of my stalkers and old men trying to buy “Jello Time With Jen”. It made me want to cry.
While I could auction off my Jello, “Jello Time With Jen” would not be avalible.
That lovely experience will be reserved for select individuals.
Anyway, the point is that watching church members bid for baked goods is fun, to say the least. Unless you go to my friend’s church, - then you get to see them battle for a jar of salsa.
Then I started thinking of how I could participate. There is always that one person who’s item attracts the most attention and bids. I think that I have potential to be that person. I don’t want to brag about myself but it is true.
Without supervision, my cooking is terrible.
(Just the other day, my dad demanded that I make a hot dog for him. I did. The next day, he claimed that I gave him food poisoning.)
So, my friend and I came to the conclusion that whatever I made would become an instant hit…because the taste is so unbelievable that you would have to try it for yourself.
Now, the next order of business was what to make. Then it hit us - Jello. It dates back to a day where we played with Jello molds. The first half of our cooking endeavors were spent cleaning up after my malfunctions. But we had a great time, so much so that we know look forward to cooking fails together. It has gone down in history as “Jello Time With Jen”. And if I had my own webshow, like all my friends think that we should do together, it would be aired as a special feature.
After reminiscing about it, a brilliant idea struck me. Instead of auctioning off just Jello, we could action off “Jello Time With Jen.” To think, people would bid over who got to have Jen in their kitchen to spend the day making Jello.
A second later however, the thought terrified me. One, I am ashamed that my ego is so big. Second, I have horrible luck with creepers. I was supposed to be hanging out with my friend as therapy from the guy who wanted me to date him…and come to his apartment…with the memory foam bed…to spend a “sleepover” supposedly watching movies. I hung my head in shame. A frightening mental image struck me, a room full of my stalkers and old men trying to buy “Jello Time With Jen”. It made me want to cry.
While I could auction off my Jello, “Jello Time With Jen” would not be avalible.
That lovely experience will be reserved for select individuals.
My Valentine's Day Contract - Just Sign Here
Exactly a year ago, I was posting cute little Valentine's Day pictures on this blog, guilt free too.
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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*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?
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.
*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.
And Happy Anti-Valentines Day.
Until then...
Picture of the Day
Sorry everyone. I completely forgot the official Valentine's Day picture for 2011. It isn't nearly as cute as last year. (That and I didn't have anything remotely fun to write about.)
My apologies.
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The Apple Does Not Fall Far from the Tree
Father: "So, what movie did you watch at Black-kun's?"
Me:"Kung-Fu Panda!"
Father:"Man, that sounds really dorky."
This conversation happened a week ago. Dear audience, I know that you are thinking the exact same thing as my dad. "You are a dork". And yes, this is true. Anyone who has read my writing here can verify it.
But in my defense, it runs in the family. All of it. The nerd moments. The love for food. All of it.
All of these conversations with my father have happened the past week.
While forcing him to sit through "Despicable Me":
Father: I still can't figure it out. What are those dumb looking things?
Me: Dad, it is almost the end of the movie. They are minions. If they were real, I would adopt one for myself.
Father: *scoff* "Minions"?! How stupid can you get? They look like Twinkies....makes me hungry.
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Today, my mom and I attended my friend's funeral. My dad, who never really met the woman, tagged along.
I have a theory that he let us go to the reception just so he could eat food (sorry, but if you knew him, you wouldn't put it past him either).
Father: Jennifer, make yourself useful. Go grab me a cookie.
Me: No, I have to say goodbye to Lindsey and her family. Get your own.
Father: Marcia, stop talking to people and go get me a cookie.
Then he left, annoyed, to get back to the car.
Father: Where is my cookie?
Mom: You left. I started eating it out of spite.
Me: You actually did something out of spite?! That isn't like you at all.
Father: Whatever. Jennifer! Run back inside and get your dad a cookie.
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It really does run in the family.
After the funeral, we dropped by the park. There was a party for my cousin's daughter's 5th birthday.
And a discussion about the Wii, Wii Sports, and Just Dance 2.
I have tried to get my dad to play with me before. He won't hear me out. My aunt and cousin did a better job of convincing him than I ever could.
Aunt: Just Dance2 is really amusing for old farts like us.
Anthony: The boxing one on Wii Sports is my favorite, man.
Father: They really have stuff like that? Jennifer, is he being serious? Can you really do all of that?
(True enough. When I am "old fart", I will force my young relatives to let me play the newest video game things that come out. They will be no match for my skills.)
On the Topic of No Topics 4
Is this the fourth one? I am going to assume that it is. So, I shall continue my post about Much Ado About Nothing. But NOT the play by Shakespeare. Just...no.
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My friend, Lindsey, is filming another one of her movies. She writes her own series of epicness. On Monday, we finally get to work on the third one. (I missed out on the second because of school).
My role, you ask? Myself. Look down at the cast script. Jenny is played by Jenny. Lindsey came up with characters for everyone, except me. She wanted to have a spastic, clumsy, spontaneous, clueless, happy, ect, character…essentially comic relief. And since her basis for this out-of-touch-with-reality character was actually me, who better was there to play the role?
I do all my own stunts. There is an infamous one in the first movie. In the script, there was something about me falling of a treadmill, while singing. Sad thing was, it came naturally. When the camera started rolling, I started belting out some random song. And I did not just act like I was falling off the moving treadmill. I accidentally fell off of it, yet because it was written into the script, it worked. Perfectly.
There was another scene in which I had to fall down a hill. Aced that one as well. (I even did so a second time…that wasn’t written into the script).
I hope my acting skills have improved marginally, considering that I am playing myself. That way Lindsey won't have to run around in a Hannah Montana wig, pretending to be me. First, it is a frightening scene. Second, not to brag, but I think I have more experience and expertise in the matter. Over 19 years worth of it.
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You know you are a nerdy only child when you play animal crossing incessantly. The thing is, I am oddly addicted to creating anime themed rooms (otherwise I get rather bored with the game). It began when I found an anatomical model, washed up on the ocean shore. I was instantly reminded of Hiroshi (this is all a Wallflower reference, by the way) and proceeded to build an entire collection of creepy things that remind me of Sunako Nakahara. I call it my emo corner. But I am not emo. And it isn’t a corner. It is, in fact, a whole room. It makes me smile.
Awesome right? Well, I have another awesome room. It is pretty much an Ouran High School Host Club room. Alas, it is missing two key things that the game designers regrettably left out. The first, and most important, would be the hosts themselves. Bishonen! How glorious it would be to have all of them there! Thus, the second would obviously be the presence of floating rose petals everywhere they go. But there is no Tamaki (or Hikaru, or Kaoru, or Kyoya, or Mori, or even Hunny-senpai) and therefore no floating rose petals. With that in mind, I think it is still money worth spent. So, yes, I admit to playing that game for hours each day, just to create my anime themed rooms. If there is nothing cool to buy…I call it a day. So, I suppose I am that creeper neighbor who buys miscellaneous crap and otherwise never leaves the house, to marvel at said crap.
I have the DS version, so it isn’t as fun as the one I used to play with my cousins in Iowa. We found the game amusing for the sole purpose of tormenting the neighbors. First, it is important to note that these cousins of mine are FMA fans, like me. We love Al. How could you not? But there was a character in their Animal Crossing game named “Alphonso”. Somehow that single “o” attached to the end of his name, gave him an air of…being lame. Hence, he was the primary victim of our fun. We laughed at his name while hitting his big head with a net and pushed him into holes. How we loved to watch him squirm.
I hate these games. I really do. The moral of this story: play Trauma Team; preserve your dignity.
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Here is an interesting discover I made while I was away.
Jen > Oatmeal
Jen < Ice Cream
My question of the day: What does it mean when your friends determine your value according to their love for food?
With this logic:
Dora > Steak
Leann > Hot Chocolate
Black-kun > Strawberries (on her good days)
Mon Amore > Flaming Hot Cheetos
Hari > Ice Cream
Maybe I exaggerate (and I will let the reader decide in which way).
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I like getting to know which of my friends are in touch with their inner children. On the way to Phoenix with Leann and Katie, we determined that Katie is one of those people who prefers not to interact with them. She keeps her inner child on a tight leash. A very tight leash. And that is only when she lets her inner child out of the depths of the small dungeon she is in. Not that there is anything wrong with this. Hari is the same way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of Leann and Katie, I had a weird dream while spending the night at their house. Before going to bed at some obscene hour in the morning (6 or 7 ish I believe), Leann and I were engaged in some deep conversation. But it inevitably lead to talking about Disney movies. Ariel is my least favorite. So, falling asleep, I had The Little Mermaid on my brain.
I dreamed that I was a mermaid. Katie and Leann had to drive me back to the ocean for some reason. Next thing you know, I am on that pirate boat from Peter Pan. It is sinking; everyone is screaming. As if I thought it would help, I tried to get higher up on the ship and grabbed onto Captain Hook’s hook. Then it hit me, if you were a mermaid, you would never drown. I was invincible!
At this realization, I awoke to their hyper chihuahua stepping on my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next time I talked to Leann at a sleepover, we had deep conversations and not so deep conversations.
“Ways to Drown a Mermaid” fell into the latter category. We concluded that swimming pools would not work, water is water. Therefore, sticking one in a swimming pool of Cool-Aid would only get them high. Cool-Aid is like pucca for mermaids.
And while we thought that closing their gills, another problem arose. Mermaids do not have gills. Well, not to my knowledge. Do they? I had a friend who claimed to be a mermaid. She didn't have gills...
Wow Jen. Way to go, asking the most important questions! “Do mermaid’s have gills?”
“Who’s trashcan is that?” (I applaud all who recognize that last one)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My friend, Lindsey, is filming another one of her movies. She writes her own series of epicness. On Monday, we finally get to work on the third one. (I missed out on the second because of school).
My role, you ask? Myself. Look down at the cast script. Jenny is played by Jenny. Lindsey came up with characters for everyone, except me. She wanted to have a spastic, clumsy, spontaneous, clueless, happy, ect, character…essentially comic relief. And since her basis for this out-of-touch-with-reality character was actually me, who better was there to play the role?
I do all my own stunts. There is an infamous one in the first movie. In the script, there was something about me falling of a treadmill, while singing. Sad thing was, it came naturally. When the camera started rolling, I started belting out some random song. And I did not just act like I was falling off the moving treadmill. I accidentally fell off of it, yet because it was written into the script, it worked. Perfectly.
There was another scene in which I had to fall down a hill. Aced that one as well. (I even did so a second time…that wasn’t written into the script).
I hope my acting skills have improved marginally, considering that I am playing myself. That way Lindsey won't have to run around in a Hannah Montana wig, pretending to be me. First, it is a frightening scene. Second, not to brag, but I think I have more experience and expertise in the matter. Over 19 years worth of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You know you are a nerdy only child when you play animal crossing incessantly. The thing is, I am oddly addicted to creating anime themed rooms (otherwise I get rather bored with the game). It began when I found an anatomical model, washed up on the ocean shore. I was instantly reminded of Hiroshi (this is all a Wallflower reference, by the way) and proceeded to build an entire collection of creepy things that remind me of Sunako Nakahara. I call it my emo corner. But I am not emo. And it isn’t a corner. It is, in fact, a whole room. It makes me smile.
Awesome right? Well, I have another awesome room. It is pretty much an Ouran High School Host Club room. Alas, it is missing two key things that the game designers regrettably left out. The first, and most important, would be the hosts themselves. Bishonen! How glorious it would be to have all of them there! Thus, the second would obviously be the presence of floating rose petals everywhere they go. But there is no Tamaki (or Hikaru, or Kaoru, or Kyoya, or Mori, or even Hunny-senpai) and therefore no floating rose petals. With that in mind, I think it is still money worth spent. So, yes, I admit to playing that game for hours each day, just to create my anime themed rooms. If there is nothing cool to buy…I call it a day. So, I suppose I am that creeper neighbor who buys miscellaneous crap and otherwise never leaves the house, to marvel at said crap.
I have the DS version, so it isn’t as fun as the one I used to play with my cousins in Iowa. We found the game amusing for the sole purpose of tormenting the neighbors. First, it is important to note that these cousins of mine are FMA fans, like me. We love Al. How could you not? But there was a character in their Animal Crossing game named “Alphonso”. Somehow that single “o” attached to the end of his name, gave him an air of…being lame. Hence, he was the primary victim of our fun. We laughed at his name while hitting his big head with a net and pushed him into holes. How we loved to watch him squirm.
I hate these games. I really do. The moral of this story: play Trauma Team; preserve your dignity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here is an interesting discover I made while I was away.
Jen > Oatmeal
Jen < Ice Cream
My question of the day: What does it mean when your friends determine your value according to their love for food?
With this logic:
Dora > Steak
Leann > Hot Chocolate
Black-kun > Strawberries (on her good days)
Mon Amore > Flaming Hot Cheetos
Hari > Ice Cream
Maybe I exaggerate (and I will let the reader decide in which way).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I like getting to know which of my friends are in touch with their inner children. On the way to Phoenix with Leann and Katie, we determined that Katie is one of those people who prefers not to interact with them. She keeps her inner child on a tight leash. A very tight leash. And that is only when she lets her inner child out of the depths of the small dungeon she is in. Not that there is anything wrong with this. Hari is the same way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of Leann and Katie, I had a weird dream while spending the night at their house. Before going to bed at some obscene hour in the morning (6 or 7 ish I believe), Leann and I were engaged in some deep conversation. But it inevitably lead to talking about Disney movies. Ariel is my least favorite. So, falling asleep, I had The Little Mermaid on my brain.
I dreamed that I was a mermaid. Katie and Leann had to drive me back to the ocean for some reason. Next thing you know, I am on that pirate boat from Peter Pan. It is sinking; everyone is screaming. As if I thought it would help, I tried to get higher up on the ship and grabbed onto Captain Hook’s hook. Then it hit me, if you were a mermaid, you would never drown. I was invincible!
At this realization, I awoke to their hyper chihuahua stepping on my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next time I talked to Leann at a sleepover, we had deep conversations and not so deep conversations.
“Ways to Drown a Mermaid” fell into the latter category. We concluded that swimming pools would not work, water is water. Therefore, sticking one in a swimming pool of Cool-Aid would only get them high. Cool-Aid is like pucca for mermaids.
And while we thought that closing their gills, another problem arose. Mermaids do not have gills. Well, not to my knowledge. Do they? I had a friend who claimed to be a mermaid. She didn't have gills...
Wow Jen. Way to go, asking the most important questions! “Do mermaid’s have gills?”
“Who’s trashcan is that?” (I applaud all who recognize that last one)
So Much For Sleeping in Heavenly Peace
I need to redeem myself after that last nerd rant.
It is now 8:30 AM. Now, I want you to take a good look at that those numbers! See anything odd? Yes, I am actually awake at this hour. Once again, some uninvited guest is crashing on my bedroom floor. As I am not a morning person, my anger meter is rising and the meter for irritation has reached astronomical levels.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Flash back a couple months back and this is where it all began. I am happily cleaning my room, minding my own business. I set up one of those huge moon chairs next to the window so I can read my books and closer to the T.V. so I can watch movies or play my games or something. Since I practically live in my room and hardly ever venture out into the dangerous vast space of the remainder of the building, I strive to make my domain as comfortable as possible, even going as far as to get a mini-fridge for my Ramune. My room has always been a sanctuary.
Alas, this year things have changed and I can no longer find solace in my own room. The dark night of my soul began when my dad first discovered that he could play his new war games on my PS2. Since he has long been going into withdrawals from lack of cable, I assume this was only natural. He would spend a vast majority of his money on movies to placate himself and video games were just another way for him to survive.
He did respect that the PS2 was mine at least, so the logical solution would be to sit in my comfy chair and play his war games night and day. He would turn the volume up on full blast as I would sigh and climb my way into my loft bed to try and sleep or read a book, hoping that he would leave.
My misery increased when my mother wanted to use my computer...at the same time. Unfortunately, my comp is located on my desk....which is right in front my bookshelf...and only a few feet away from the moon chair. My parents bickered back and fourth and had volume battles, while once again I would climb in the loft and tried to endure. As things continued, I wouldn't even enter my room until it was time for me to go to bed and they were gone (if I was lucky).
Gradually, my father seemed to loose interest in video games. Perhaps it was because one day he noticed that the moon chair had become lopsided...he broke it. With the chair gone, he spent less and less time in my room and more and more money on DVDs. And my mom spent less time at home, and went to my grandmothers to use a computer.
Finally, things seemed to have returned to normal....minus the moon chair. Sad face.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
But today, my father has invaded yet again. He is now sleeping in my room. Is this normal? None of my friends seem to have this same problem with their father sleeping in their room.
Well for one, I don't think this is normal (could be wrong but it is my hypothesis nonetheless).
And two, some one shut the man up because it is annoying. I can sleep through buses crashing into walls...but not this. The middle-aged man passed out on my floor sounds like a broken lawn mower. That is perhaps an under-exaggeration.
To make matters worse, I no longer have the Nerf foam weaponry I had once safely stored in my loft bed is now gone. It was given to charity after a yard sale flop.
So, this is how it went down this morning:
Me (in half-awake mood of rage): Shut up already! If you are going to sleep in my room, at least do me a favor and don't snore.
I couldn't didn't have the Nerf stuff obviously, couldn't part with my pikachu plushi, so I threw a pillow.
My Father (taking pillow and placing it under his head): I don't snore.
And...he promptly resumed sleeping. My cat, the adorable little creature, has even clawed his head a few times and the man still didn't wake up. Mayhem probably lost interest. My cat likes my hair a lot...and the man sleeping in my room is balding, and therefore not nearly as fun.
He is still here by the way. Forgive me if my writing today is more boring than usual. It is hard to think of anything remotely fun to say with the guy's snoring disrupting my train of thought. Hopefully next time the circumstances will be favorably different.
Beware: My Soul is Radiating Pink Sparkles and Butterflies Tonight
Let me give you a fair warning now, this next rant will give you just another look at how much of a dork I can be. I suppose the majority of my blog already does a great job of that. But, since I feel this next one is going to hit a new and impressive low, you might want to turn back now if you want to hold on to a sliver of hope that I am somewhat cool.
My family is cheap. My mom and I have little regard for fashion sense, if any at all. So, when she got fed up with the fact that I don't have a jacket to wear, she figured it was time to remedy that. And what better way of doing so than to hit Wal-Mart and find something reasonable. Oh goodie.
Don't get me wrong; I love Walmart. But, here is where the problem lies. My dearest mother likes to largely exploit the fact that I fit into clothes in the childrens' section. For as long as I can remember, she takes advantage of this and stuffs me in to whatever she pleases...and it is usually something pink, poofy, and decorated with a sickening array of butterflies or rainbows, or hearts or pastel flowers...just to name a few.
And it is quite possible, to my horror, that she will find some hideous combination of the above. And I would prefer to avoid said garments like the plague. Thus the never-ending cycle continues.
And it is quite possible, to my horror, that she will find some hideous combination of the above. And I would prefer to avoid said garments like the plague. Thus the never-ending cycle continues.
Moving on to today's story.
While meandering through the racks of tye-dye and peace sign decorated things, I wondered when this would end already, and dreaded what new monstrosity mother had managed to dig up. Then something caught my eye. It was a pajama section (those over-sized shirt ones) devoted to a specific Disney movie that came out not to long ago. Tangled. It is the movie in which Ashley was finally able to find my Disney princess counterpart.
Something happened that is very rare on our excursions. I felt a surge of happiness. In some euphoric moment of bliss, I hopped my way over to see what I could find. Technically they didn't really have it in my size (seeing as I am around a "12"ish and the largest I could find was a 7/8. But they were designed to be slightly longer anyway. Not wasting any time, I picked out not one, not two, but three of them. Don't judge me! The irony of it all, seeing as they all have some degree of pink in them ... and mass amounts of sparkles, flowers, and butterflies. Yet, because of the whole Tangled factor, all is oddly right with the world. Besides, if I was gonna have to get other stuff from the kids place, I mind as well make it good.
I should note that as I walked up to the counter I told myself that if anyone gave me weird looks they were just jealous. It wasn't so convincing when the cashier was a college age guy. Nor did I want to picture that man in my selected items.
When I got home, I got ready for bed and decided to wear one as I commenced my habit of dancing like an idiot. I am pretty sure that I resembled an overgrown eight year old.
Then....my happy world came crashing down when just a few minutes ago my parents felt the need to add that I was being foolish and that it would probably shrink in the washing machine anyway. Now this may be true, but at the moment I feel like said eight year old who discovered that their ice cream cone dropped in the middle of a muddy street....
(Still haven't found anything similar online either. Sad face)
But, even if it just for tonight, I shall still revel in my nerd moment.
November - In all its Boring Glory
I know, I haven't written anything for awhile. Think of that as a gift to you. You didn't miss out on much.
And I really don't know how to make any of this worth reading (like the rest of my blog I suppose).
This is November for you...well the details of my birthday anyway (everything else is just a boring blur):
And I really don't know how to make any of this worth reading (like the rest of my blog I suppose).
This is November for you...well the details of my birthday anyway (everything else is just a boring blur):
- I turned 19.
- mourned over the fact that in one year I will no longer be a teenager
- pondered if this was something to mourn over...and came up with the conclusion yes because 20+ would make me feel elderly
- wondered why this was so, seeing as 21 would be fun (and that is a year over 20...hmm)
- I was kidnapped/surprise adopted, with a pillowcase over my head and hands tied together (couresty of Black-kun, Ashley, and Mon Amour)
- ranting of bishonen
- kinda crashing a wedding
- more ranting of bishonen
- watching Gintama
- wondering with Kelsy as to why Gintama characters pick their nose so frequently (this still remains a mystery)
- winning an ultimate version of "The Daruma Doll Fell Over" - this included dramatic poses on Black-kun's hot tub and foiling all of Kelsy's attempts to kick me over (why yes, I am quite proud of myself)
- picking up cat puke
- buying mass amount of manga
- marveling at how my nerd shelf has grown
- picking up more cat puke
- rushing cat to the vet, all the while listening to my mom yell that he was going to die
- brought him home the next day...after a week of lethargy he returned to normal and I came to the conclusion that he just likes to live up to his name
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