Image is everything. It doesn't matter what's inside your head, as long as you look good. As long as you're skinny and bronzed like an island goddess. Have a flat stomach and big hair, not the other way around. Voluptuous lips and long eyelashes. 36-24-36. Six foot and then some, with a pair of platforms. Look natural, like you've just rolled out of bed; even if it takes you five hours, an army of stylists and an industrial-sized can of hairspray to sizzle your limp hair into generous curls. Glamorously arched eyebrows and a Cindy Crawford mole.

It's easy to blame the media for the focus on the aesthetic. Advertising especially, entertaining illusions of wearing a particular brand of clothing will make you beautiful like their flawlessly photoshopped models. Even things that seem plausible, like wearing a type of makeup to achieve impeccably smooth skin, are an unrealistic fantasy for the more repulsive members of society.

I ascribe the issue to people rather than the media, which does little more than feed us images. The only unrealistic ideals that the media offers are statements like "everyone is beautiful, no matter their shape or size". That is a load of shit- everyone knows that women have to be thin and tall with oversized mammaries if anyone is to be seriously attracted to them. And even then, you can't please everyone- even Megan Fox, the epitome of sexy, has her critics- savage ones at that.

I'm sick of being ugly. I'm not this way inclined because of the influence of enhanced images of celebrities, or because of anything that anyone may have told me. Nobody has successfully pressured me to believe that success hinges on one's ownership of a pair of double Ds, it just seems to be assumed knowledge.

Unfortunately nothing I can do will transform me into someone whose countenance won't terrify small children. Even with all the plastic surgery in the world, while it would be a vast improvement, I would always fall short. Cosmetics procedures that are within my financial reach are even more futile- my cupboard full of hair products has so far failed to give me voluptuous hair; and starving myself for as long as I can bear it (which would not be long knowing me!) can't give me the body I want.

I don't know what to do. I wish I could start over, with better genetics. Unfortunately modern science has not yet stretched this far, and even if it did, I might be a lost cause. I would love to say "tomorrow, I will..." but I have nothing to finish that sentence with that will rectify the issue. The best I could do is "tomorrow, I will stop caring", but I know that I will never adhere to that, as much as it is a silly thing to despair over.

I'm sick of being ugly, and I'm sick of trying not to be ugly, and I'm sick of caring about it so much. Unfortunately, like the pile of papers that I have accumulated that live in the study room, it will never go away. Sometimes it gets moved- right now it's in a red crate- but I can't bear to let go of its contents.

Bigger is better. Cases in point: jewellery, hair, bank account balances, wardrobes, boobs, high heels, muscles, handbags, height, brains, bathtubs, chocolate, social life.

Unfortunately, in my case at least, most of the above are infinitesimally small. The only thing I have that is absolutely huge is my butt, which is the one thing that should be as small as possible. Life is so unfair. God must hate me.

Those were the days.

Gumboots. Crayons. Jigsaws. Monkey bars. Vegemite sandwiches. Sunhats. Other kids with reams of snot and saliva escaping from their facial crevices. Having to go wherever your parents went. Being yelled at for not being able to reach the taps. Being smacked with a wooden spoon by a bitch of a woman and feeling powerless to run away. Getting in huge trouble for calling said woman a bitch, with only a vague notion of its meaning. Being told, after a clumsy attempt at riding a bike, that "if you can't do it properly, then don't do it at all".

Who would miss this? Why do people seem to pine for their childhood? As beautifully nostalgic as it sounds, childhood was not a time when "life's biggest problem was choosing which colour crayon". It wasn't carefree, or uncomplicated. It sucked. I hated it. I wanted out. And I can't have been the only one who thought that.

Surely those who paint childhood as idyllic are looking at the past with rose-coloured glasses. Amazingly enough, children can and do have problems, and in my experience at least; life is far better now. I may have more responsibility now, but I can also escape if I want to. I have the means to extricate myself from most situations should the need arise, which was a luxury I craved as a child. I can make my own decisions without having other people override them with their own, I have my own money which I can spend how I choose to, I can more or less do what I want. Who would ever want to go back to a life completely out of their control? Having others make your decisions for you is only Arcadian as long as the decisions are the right ones.

I want everything.

I cannot go into a shopping centre without at everything and exclaiming "I WANT ONE!" like a snotty five-year-old. I cannot even go past a single store without leering into the window, unless it is an op shop, or a health food store. Even a trip to the supermarket ends in tears as I forlornly look at all of the exciting things I want for no particular reason, like the $10 pink mixing bowl from Coles, which I have yet to persuade my mother to purchase, despite pointing at it and doing puppy dog eyes every time we walk past it. Perhaps this approach fails because my puppy dog eyes are more Sam than Tinkerbell.

Things that I want right now, which are within the realms of possibility:
1. More clothing. I am so bored and frustrated with my wardrobe, and I hate the dress that I am currently wearing. It goes against my beliefs to dress the way I do!
2. More shoes. As much as it seems that I have many pairs of shoes, I feel the need for more.
3. Furniture in which to display my shoes, because my current shoe furniture is full.
4. The cricket to finish, it was meant to finish half an hour ago, yet the damn thing is showing no sign of ending. As a result, tonight is doomed to be boring because it does not look like there will be anything on TV.
5. A flava lamp- one of those lava lamps that is tall enough to stand on the floor.
6. My computer desk to be clean. While this would take me about five minutes to rectify, it's never going to happen. One day, so much stuff will mount on my desk that I will die in an avalanche of bank statements, nail polish remover, and blank CDs.
7. My holiday homework to be done. This will happen, but not for about another month. But, as with everything else, I want it now.
8. I want to lose like ten kilos. This is possible, but I wouldn't count on it happening over the summer, which is when it is most important to avoid looking like a whale.
9. I want to finish the short story I am writing. So far I have not gotten past the first sentence, and I've been working on it for about a week. I have a really good idea and I want to write it before I forget about it. I have written out my plan but if I don't write the story soon, I will look at the plan and not understand what my former self wants from me, as with every other story I start. The problem is, I keep starting, but it's just not right, so I keep starting again. I could probably construct something of a decent story length with all of the first sentences I have written.
10. I want shoes. Did I mention that? I want black shoes, with a three inch heel, that are comfortable and in some way distinctive, like they could have a bow or something. And no fucking peep toe, I am so over that look. I would also like a bag that matches said shoes, and some kind of outfit.

Things that I want right now, that are not remotely possible:
Let's not even go there, I want the world.

It must have been a slow news day.

Today, the CFA website crashed. It was a major news story- reporters expressed their outrage that Victorians at risk of bushfire on such a hot day had no access the website of their fire authority. They completely skirted the first question that would occur to any rational person- who the fuck would look at the CFA website in case of fire? You would call triple zero and get the fuck out of there. You don't go, "HMMM, ALL THESE TREES ARE BURNING, OH LOOK IT'S SPREADING TO MY HOUSE, UMMMM I THINK THE BEST THING IS TO GO ON THE CFA WEBSITE WHICH I NEVER EVEN KNEW EXISTED" and even if someone has the need to check to whip up a fire plan; it would be a bit late! They should have listened to those TV ads that told them to be fire ready or something when they had the chance.

The fuss that seemed to have been kicked up about the stupid CFA website was grating at best, but you know what's worse? The stupid postal workers who won't deliver mail. That is what they are paid to do, so they can damn well do it properly. I don't care if they don't get paid much, if they want a better salary then they can get a better fucking job. Deliver my application by Friday, employees of Australia Post, or I will.... I will... um.... go cry in a corner somewhere. And it will be ALL THEIR FAULT.

A slogan T-shirt says so much more than just the letters on it.

I used to think that slogan T-shirts were so cool. Seeing mass-produced pastel colours shirts with witticisms printed on them in chain stores, they seemed to proclaim that the wearer has a sense of humour. Unfortunately, when I thought that they were fantastic, they were financially beyond my reach. Yet somehow I have managed to accumulate a fair number of said T-shirts; because of the numerous yet invariably disappointing sales that Jay-Jays has had; and because I have received a few as gifts. Luckily I have also gradually purged my wardrobe of them, because they're stupid.

Most of the slogans formed by the cracked lettering aren't even funny. These make the wearer look like they are barely aware of what they are wearing, which is one of the most treacherous sins one can commit. But, no matter if the slogan is side-splittingly hilarious, the wearer still looks like an idiot.

Clothing should speak through its style and how it is assembled as an outfit. It does not need to speak through words printed on a top saying something annoying like "things not to say to a cop" or "666% evil". The worst thing about slogan tees is that, short of incinerating them, you can't make them shut up (unlike the wearer, who is probably one of those people who won't willingly shut up either, but that can always be amended with duct tape).

Furthermore, there is no need for one to proclaim to the world with a poor quality T-shirt that they have an active sense of humour. EVERYONE has a sense of humour. It is assumed knowledge. On that topic, people who talk about their significant other's fantastic sense of humour as one of the reasons why they love them, as if nobody else can crack a joke, really annoy me. Really, just shut up. You and your apparently "quirky" sense of humour; and your fugly T-shirts, can shove it.

Why the fuck do you have a fashion blog?

It seems that everyone (more or less) has a blog these days. As much as I would like to criticise that, I can't, because I myself have a blog (in case you hadn't noticed). Instead, I would like to turn my scathing attack onto fashion blogs. You know, those blogs typically managed by girls who see themselves as Supre-wearing* fashionistas, filled with pictures of deliciously expensive shoes, creative ensembles, pin-up girls and Kate Moss; with obscure song lyrics and random sentiments typed in undersized fonts.

Surely there has to be some qualification for having a fashion blog. Like, having a sense of style. When you know that someone dresses annoyingly, it is made all the more grating by seeing that they obviously have an appreciation for the aesthetic by blogging about it- and even this does not stop them dressing in the most generic way possible.

All fashion blogs created by those lacking a sense of style should be henceforth annihilated. The only fashion blogs that should be retained are ones like http://madamejulietta.blogspot.com/. She has exciting pictures, dresses well (she's always on Lookbook) and best of all, does not write a thing. Well she does, but very rarely, and it's not in English so it doesn't count.

I have one further thing to say on the matter:

* Not that there is anything wrong with Supre. I love Supre. But those who wear outfits as they appear on manikins should stop masquerading as someone with their own style.

A female is only the sum of her body parts.

MEGAN FOX. She is the hottest thing ever*, but is she necessarily deserving of her acclaim?
She is reputed to have said that she "didn't know what was happening" in terms of plotline for Transformers. How can an actor attempt to play her part, if she doesn't know the story that she is attempting to convey? The role should have been cast to someone who knew what was going on, and based on her merits as an actress; rather than to a smouldering hot bitch on the basis that she has a seductive pout and a good cleavage.

While most of the revenue from Transformers was undoubtedly generated due to Megan Fox's role, the benefits enjoyed by the production company as a result is negated by the bitter message that it proffers to women: that a female can only ever hope to be successful if she is unrealistically beautiful, regardless of any talent, skills or brains she possesses.


*I still think Paris Hilton is hotter, but that's not what I'm trying to prove here.

Can you tell that I've only had four lessons?

Driving: it's one of those things that most people seem to be able to do. So, having a total of three hours behind the wheel (in lessons), I spend half an hour convincing my extremely reluctant mother that I am good enough to go driving with her. In her car.

It started out well enough- I stalled about ten times, before even going anywhere. For some reason, no matter how much I pressed the accelerator, the car just wouldn't move- although it did make some very impressive sounds. After five minutes of me yelling at the car for it not doing what I wanted it to, my mother offered me some very helpful advice:
"You have the handbrake on."

As soon as I rectified the problem, of course, the car shot off. I noticed that my supervising driver was likely in the early stages of a heart attack, so I slowed down and the car crawled along at a snail's pace until the end of my street. Being able to drive all the way up my street sounds impressive, by my standards at least, but you have to consider that that entails only four houses.

Much to my despair, at the end of my street there is a roundabout. I began to turn the wheel, but realised that I was headed for the roundabout itself, so exclaimed, "help me!"
My mum then attempted to help me, but we both turned the wheel the same way at the same time. This cumulative effect ensued the car somehow ending up on the nature strip. Not even the entire car- just the passenger side wheels, leaving the car tilted at what seems to be a very harsh angle when one is in the car. My immediate reaction was to brake harshly and put on the hazard lights, not that that compelled any nearby cars or people to stop and help me.

You would think that it would be the job of the supervising driver to get the car safely down, but unfortunately, she couldn't. She speculated that she would probably be able to by driving it forwards, but there was a street tree in the way (luckily I had braked before hitting the tree in question).

On the upside, since I had not managed to get very far, I was able to go frantically ask my neighbour to help me. Also on the upside, he was wearing very little clothing when he opened the door. While he agreed to help me, unfortunately he insisted on getting dressed first. And he didn't seem too confident about driving a manual car, let alone one stuck on the nature strip, but insisted that it would be fine. It was only when he saw that I hadn't been exaggerating that he began to hesitate.

Luckily, one of the many cars that had swerved past my unintentional parking job decided to stop. The driver drove an automatic, but seemed more confident than my now fully-clothed neighbour. He got behind the wheel, and after some painful crunching sounds had emulated from the car, he removed the handbrake and managed to successfully manouvre the L-plate adorned vehicle from the nature strip. Five or so other cars didn't fit down the road in this time, so they all got to watch.

I don't think I'll be doing much driving anytime soon.

Five things that are making me incredibly angry right now.

1. I can't find my chocolate.
It was right here a few days ago, I swear. I haven't accidentally eaten it, so I must have misplaced it. At least it won't go off any time soon like that banana I lost a few weeks ago and am still waiting to find.

2. People yelling things out of car windows.
Does it make you any happier to lean out of your window, scream at me that I'm a bimbo, and drive off without even giving me the chance to flip you off? Because it certainly doesn't make me any happier. In fact it makes me incredibly ANGRY.

3. Having an infinitesimally small amount of phone credit.
How did this happen? When did this happen? Why must my provider keep sending me messages to remind me? Either leave me alone or give me more credit.

4. People not answering my phone calls.
Maybe this is how number three happened. In that case, it is a matter of time before I run out of credit completely, so pick your phone up when I call. I don't care what you're doing. I don't care if you're dying or suffering a horrific personal crisis. I want to talk to you, and you should somehow know exactly when I am going to call you, so be prepared and pick up your fucking phone, thanks.

5. People who over-dramatise things.
How many times do I have to repeat, it's only okay when I do it! While I am allowed to have a bitch about petty things, YOU are not. So you had a bad day, or did badly on a test, or whatever, it's NOT THE END OF THE WORLD. Stop putting it out in the public domain that you hate your life, and you want to kill yourself, because NOBODY CARES. SUCK IT UP.

Fedora Hats: They were bad enough the first time they were in fashion.

Why would anyone ever stick one of these things on their head? Fedoras do not make you look cool, bohemian or trendy. They make you look like a douche who cannot differentiate between good fashions (like sequins and nerd glasses) and a straw sack, and buys anything if it is featured in Girlfriend Magazine.

Here's another tip- if you wear one of these said hats with Ray Bans- or worse, fake Ray Bans- you look even stupider. Take them the fuck off and grow your own style, rather than adorning yourself with pseudo-alternative crap.

This is why 13-year-olds shouldn't have boyfriends.

If you break up and get back together with your significant other every week, then chances are, you AREN'T IN LOVE AND YOUR RELATIONSHIP SUCKS. If you have broken up fifty times, there's probably a reason for it- you're not right for each other. So then don't get back together for a a fifty-first time. The worst part is, once you do get back together, you will be sickeningly, slobberingly, publicly in love with each other and let the entire world know how much your life revolves around each other... until your next fight! Having said that, every fight is "really the end" of your relationship. "This one" is always different and bigger in some way, so now your life is over, and then you'll want everyone's sympathy. That is, until you start sticking your tongues down each others throats again!

Get the fuck over it, and get the fuck over yourselves. You are stupid. But that's okay because YOU'RE IN LOVE- which is probably really just a cover for your FANTASTIC SEX that you feel the need to tell the world about, that nobody wants to know about. I REALLY HOPE YOU ARE USING PROTECTION BECAUSE THE LAST THING THE WORLD NEEDS, IS MORE OF YOU!!!

P.S. Britney Spears was AMAZING! Anyone who walked out and badmouthed her in the press probably just wanted the attention, because there's no other explanation.

Britney haters can suck me.

Tonight I'm going to see the amazing Britney Spears in concert. Naturally I am ecstatic- I absolutely idolise Britney! So of course, I tend to bring up the fact that I am going to see the object of my admiration, a lot. This has lead to my discovery of the unfortunate fact that there is an abundance of Britney haters. The worst bit is, most of them of no reason to hate her at all!

The main argument purported is that she "can't sing". But, the people who claim this as their reason for hating her don't even listen to her music and hardly know what she sounds like! She would not have been world famous at such a precocious age if she couldn't sing. Of course she can fucking sing. Stop trying to ruin her for everyone else, and go listen to your stupid alternative music.

If a Britney hater doesn't play the "she can't sing" card, then they are inevitably going to accuse her of being a slut. Which is fair enough, because if you have no reason to hate a particular female but you do anyway, you can call her a slut- the generic insult that seems to pertain to everyone, and is COMPLETELY UNFOUNDED.

And what is with everyone saying her concert is really bad without having seen it? She has received reviews saying that she is both brilliant and awful- I'll find out which one tonight. Yes she does lip-synch, but what do you expect if she is dancing around the stage at the same time? I'm not going so that I can hear what she sounds like- if I wanted to hear her, I'd stay at home and listen to her CDs (which is what I'm doing right now actually). The point is to see her perform and entertain. Furthermore, it is well-known that she lip-synchs, so you can't go to her concert and expect the vocals to be live.

It really pisses me off that people have laughed at me and told me I shouldn't go, because apparently she is bad. What about the people who have actually seen her who said she is amazing? Does the majority count for nothing? Even if her show isn't that strong, I want to go regardless- I can spend my time and money how I want, and if what I want is to see Britney, then that is what I will do. I'm not going to forfeit MY ticket because YOU think that I should be effectuating responsibilities such as study at that time, which I think I deserve a fucking break from, and I am especially not going to forfeit my ticket because YOU don't have a fucking clue what she sounds like, but she's mainstream, so you automatically hate her!!!

LEAVE BRITNEY (and her fans) ALONE!

The nerd ethos.

Part of being a nerd is working bloody hard for what you achieve- with the exception of those infuriating people who have amazing memories or talents and don't have to devote their lives to studying.
To be a nerd is to have more books than can fit in your bag, to suffer spasms of back pain from carrying it, to have your eyes ache from speed-reading. It is to sacrifice any hope of a social life, to allow even your social skills to deplete, and to purge your life of the kind of fun that everyone else seems to incur. It is to stay up late studying, to go to bed so tired your head feels like it's going to explode, to be unable to sleep for being stressed, and then to get up the next morning and do it all again. It is to spend your weekends diligently writing summaries and limiting your telephone time.

The end goal of this torture is to attain damn good marks. It is what sets apart those who do well and those who just don't. It is then an injustice on the part of the education system that some people receive the same or similar results just by "winging it" and providing an intricate web of excuses.

I know that life isn't fair, but education should be. Every school endeavours to provide an equal and protected environment in which learning can thrive- clearly this does not correspond to the real world. However, if this is how the school system is supposed to work, then it should do what it's meant to. Someone who struggles to meet work requirements should not be rewarded more than someone who consistently fulfils expectations and tries impossibly hard to do it.

Furthermore, getting a good education is meant to be important in succeeding in life. To me, success means happiness. Why, then, am I so dissatisfied with my life when others, who aren't slaves to their desks, seem to be so much happier? Their lives look like so much fun, and admittedly I am extremely jealous.

Unfortunately, one lesson that I will never learn is that at some point, I should stop trying. As much as I know that studying is futile, and that I would be a lot happier shirking my responsibilities and going out and spending inordinate amounts of money, I won't do it. What's stopping me? The nerd ethos- to keep trying, to study harder to the detriment of my personal enjoyment, and to then complain about it incessantly.

Grammatical mistakes plague the English language- a language which makes little sense to start with, being based on perversions of other languages, so it could really do with not being made worse. If you have any regard for my sanity, please consider my list of the top five grammatical abuses:
1. Photo's
NO. NO NO NO NO NO. The word "photos" does not need an apostrophe, as it is not possessive! Unless your photos own something, they do not get an apostrophe. Plurals of words do not deserve apostrophes.

2. You're and your.
Much to the surprise of the grammatically uneducated, there are actually two very different words. "Your" means "belonging to you", and "you're" means "you are". This may seem strange as the possessive "your" is not endowed with an apostrophe, however this is just one of those peculiarities of the English language which one must be familiar with.

3. Babys
It pained me to write what should be "babies" as "babys", it really did. If there is a Y on the end of a word, in the vast majority of cases, it becomes -IES for plurals. If you have any questions regarding this, you may want to consider re-taking grade two English.

4. Capitalisation Of Prepositions And Conjunctions In Titles
I don't know exactly why, but you just don't do it. It's one of those things that you're just born knowing- well, some of us are, in any case.

5. And finally, accusing sentences starting with"and" or "but" of being grammatically flawed.
They're not. It's actually quite acceptable, in modern literature at least, to start sentence with "and" or "but". Yes, it is a grammatical mistake in, say, most conversations, especially according to old people. However, it is not erroneous to do this is literary works, such as to add emphasis- a writer's creative license overrides the normal rules of grammar!

I really hope there is no bad grammar in the blog post. On the other hand, hypocrisy is okay when I do it.

Maybe life was better before the advent of photography.

The only thing scarier than the future is the past. I deeply envy anyone fortunate enough to have been a cute child or have surpassed the awkward, pre-pubescent stage. When I look at old photos, they beg the question*; how could I honestly have allowed myself to look that disgusting? While I can admit to myself that I'll never be pretty, I do know that there are measures I can take to be less reminiscent of a baboon crossed with a vulture crossed with a hippopotamus. Sadly, in the photos that I seem to have of me up until like two years ago, I seem to have done nothing to quell my unfortunate appearance.

My life through photos tells a story of a child probably stolen from the monkey enclosure at the zoo, whose face has evidently been smacked with heavy objects one too many times. While I will spare you the torture of laying eyes on my ghastly countenance, I will briefly continue what will inevitably turn into an angry rant.

Babies all look the same, so there is nothing wrong my my baby photos per se. Unfortunately, all babies are ugly, so of course they are the standard, possessed looking photos with weird red eyes. Moving into childhood, it is evident that I lacked style even then. Plus I was hideous, which always helps. And just when I thought it couldn't get worse...BOOM, there's the awkward stage! You would think that there would be ten or so years in between early childhood photos and awkward stage, but fortunately I did not own a camera in this time, so have no record of it.

I can't believe I ever went out in public looking like how I did. Why did I not make the discoveries of hair dye and make-up a bit earlier on? Given, I discovered cosmetics at like eight years old, but disgusting auburn hair dye and Target eyeshadow did not help- in fact, I am inclined to believe that they worsened the problem. The only thing worse than a chubby, ugly ten year old, is a chubby, ugly ten year old ranga. Not only was I cosmetically deficient, I also inherently lacked style- although perhaps "lacked" should not be in the past tense, given that I generally adorn my stocky frame with Adidas trackies and boring tops, which I hate but seem to have nothing better to wear.

Yes, the past was a scary time for me, particularly whenever I encountered a mirror. However, this is not a good sign for the future. I probably thought I looked good back then! Well, maybe until I got glasses to compensate for my severe myopia, in any case. The point is, I didn't know any better. The problem I have now is, what if in the future I look back and reel in disgust? While I don't delude myself with notions of looking good, and know that I still look like a baboon-vulture-hippopotamus, I have done everything within my power (short of cosmetic surgery) to rectify the situation. But what if there is something so glaringly obviously deficient about my appearance, that is easily fixable, that I will be horrified about in the future? What if I need a better hair cut or colour, or new wardrobe, and just haven't discovered it yet?

Oh, the moral dilemmas I face**. It's treacherous.

* This is improper usage of the expression "begs the question". However I can't think of the right phrase to use, and this one fits if only for what is is commonly believed to mean, not for it's actually reading. If this issue is troubling you as it troubles me, visit http://begthequestion.info/

** Get it? It's a pun. You know... face. Since I have been discussing faces.

The best thing about the Internet is that you can present yourself how you want to be perceived, especially in the context of social networking sites. While this is good when I do it, because I am able to take a million fantastic photoshopped mirror shots and post them on Facebook, it annoys me to no end when other people try to change their image online! Hypocritical? I suppose. I hate hypocrites... it's only okay when I do it!

I absolutely can't stand it when people deliberately type so that they seem "hardcore". Are you a culprit of this heinous crime? Time for a checklist. Do you...
1. WRITE IN ALL CAPS?
2. Repeat letteerrrrsss, usuallyy at the endd of worrrdsss?
3. Complain about stupid problems that you don't even have?
4. Describe exactly how drunk/high you are in your detailed status updates?
5. Discuss your body parts, with sexual connotations?

If you have answered yes to at least one of the above symptoms, you are annoying. However, do not worry: TREATMENT IS AVAILABLE! Here are some miracle cures offered by your friendly Dr. Natasha:
- Tape your fingers together so that you can't type
- Donate your computer to someone more deserving
- Run across a busy road in peak hour
- Sterilise yourself so that you cannot populate the world with your annoying offspring

Or, you could keep posting annoying status updates so that I have something to blog about. Either way is fine.

As of late, my blog seems to have morphed from a nerd blog into a Facebook blog. Why a website as peripheral as Facebook need a blog dedicated to it, I don't know. But, that really does not seem to have stopped me from launching into another Facebook inspired tirade.

Not getting the message: A step-by-step guide.

The person who this post is directed to will probably never read this. This is because the only people who read my egocentric thoughts are friends who are obliged to, and the person who this post targets is certainly not a friend- especially not on Facebook.

An individual who I believe I have never met, presumably a Pervy Old Guy, consistently sends me Facebook friend requests despite my constant rejection of such requests on the premise that I have no idea who he is. For anyone wishing to replicate his methods of annoying me, here is a step-by-step breakdown of what he does every few days.

1. Send me a friend request from his shack in the Philippines*. Presumably it is a shack, perhaps it is a tent or caravan, I don't know nor care.
2. Ignore my message asking if I know him.
3. One week later, visit my profile again and discover that the "Add as Friend" button has miraculously appeared again. Click it.
4. Ignore a second message asking if I know him.
5. The very next day, attempt to friend request me again.
6. Discover that your friend request has been accepted. Also discover a wall post from me, asking if I know him. Do not reply to the wall post.
7. Update your status in some foreign language a few thousand times a day (slight exaggeration but that is irrelevant).
8. Do not reply to my comment asking who you are, on several of your statuses.
9. Upon discovering that I have deleted you as a friend a few days later, send me another friend request.
10. Upon discovering that request has been denied, you will probably send another one. I am not sure yet as I have just denied your last one.

The most annoying thing about it is, I get really excited when I see that I have new friend requests. It is most upsetting that nobody other than Pabayulanrizalbaddas Tnanagcovinoraydso[jfddnmdljfoppap[eopt-59035230=6ipgk;ldflk** wants to befriend me.

* It would be much appreciated if Filipino people do not take offence to this. It is simply a fact of the story.
** "Pabayulanrizalbaddas Tnanagcovinoraydso[jfddnmdljfoppap[eopt-59035230=6ipgk;ldflk" might not be the real name of the serial friend requester in question.

You know that you're nerdy when you stumble on Euler's identity on Wikipedia and start jizzing in your pants. Seriously, that is pure mathematical, beautiful awesomeness. I cannot put into words how epic it is, so you'll have to read about it for yourself.

A note to a few certain people.

THE WORLD DOESN'T REVOLVE AROUND YOU. One thing that's really pissing me off at the moment is other people thinking that the world revolves around them, when clearly it only revolves around ME.
A few certain people need to realise that they can't expect others to do things for them or be there for them if they're just going to stuff them around. Not only should they not expect so much, they should also learn to appreciate it.

Life would be so much easier if everyone acted the way I wanted them to! At the very least, a sense of common decency is acceptable.

That's all I have to say.

The under-achieving nerd.

A nerd's life is a busy life- even though it is bereft of any social interaction, there is always another essay to do. There is always a conference, or an extra study session, or an assembly to speak at. And, for a certain breed of nerd (which fortunately is not inclusive of myself), a sizeable amount of time is dedicated to gaming.

Recently after a spate of missed classes due to the school production (which, sadly but fortunately, is over), I found myself struggling to grasp concepts and stay on top of the pithy workload assigned. Today I missed even more classes to attend an SRC conference, which was very insightful... while that may be a slight exaggeration, there was cake, which makes it worthwhile. In any case, I have found myself descend to being an "under-achieving nerd". And, unsurprisingly, it is quite a widespread phenomenon.

Many nerds like to be involved and vehemently grasp any opportunity given, just for the sake of experience. Areas such as theatre are dominated by those of nerd breed, and while others are just if not more than as capable; nerds are generally willing to put in effort and time commitment. The only problem occurs when there is no more time to be committed to one's primary responsibilities!

In my subdued rant so far, I have neglected to mention what is the most striking feature of the under-achieving nerd kind: nobody cares. While others may be slapped with detentions and reprimands for being unreliable, we are not censured and our misgivings are easily forgotten by those in a position to notice.

Isn't education brilliant?

Grrrr

Not yesterday, but the day before - Thursday it was- I had a really bad day. Like a ridiculous amount of things went wrong, such as almost getting run over by an obnoxious woman in a four wheel drive; and several buses not arriving resulting in my having to stand in the rain; and walking straight into a wet tree. In fact I can count seventeen different things that went wrong. It was truly fantastic. I tried to blog about it, since my best blogs are produced when I am angry, but by 10 p.m. I was even too angry for that. I sat in front of the computer numbly, dosed up on painkillers, and found myself unable to construct any coherent sentences. All that seemed to emerge was a string of profanities that stubbornly wouldn't form themselves into a delightful blog entry. So, I decided that perhaps I would try again the next day, which was yesterday.
Yesterday was a significant improvement upon its predecessor- despite still being in a foul mood about the seventeen incidents of the day before, it had been long enough for me to be able to laugh about, particularly the story about the pizza delivery man who freakishly whistled and shimmied at me.

Yesterday started out fine- nothing of note really happened, let alone anything as traumatising as Thursday. So why didn't I blog yesterday?
BECAUSE MY COMPUTER DIDN'T WORK.

As if enough bad things hadn't already happened! Luckily my poor baby computer came home today, although it is not fixed and periodically freezes. And the computer man cannot seem to extricate the virus it has, so it is stuck this way.

Fantastic.

Fishiiiiiieeeeeee shhhhooooeeeessssss!!!

Sometimes, it is just impossible to live without something. Not in the way that it is necessary to your immediate physical wellbeing, for example breathing apparatus for someone with lung problems- no, this is much more important than any life sustaining devices.

It is the complexities of the human mind and our extended thinking abilities that separate us from the animals. That, and opposable thumbs. Consequentially, our mental wellbeing should be prized over any physical ailments and should be considered far more important to uphold. Happiness is key to retaining a healthy psyche. And there is one thing that I will never be happy without, the want for which is all-consuming and dominates every fibre of my being. Of course, it is the impressive shoes shown above.

A cure for the crippling trauma I am currently enduring can be purchased for just $200- a small price to pay in the scheme of things. Despite its diminutive cost, everything would work out better if someone else paid. It would be like charity for a spoiled brat! You get the warm fuzzy feeling from giving, and I get awesome shoes. Win-win. You can't refuse this lucrative offer.

The underwear people are lying to us.

Catalogues are one of the most delightful things to ever be dropped in my orange-brick eyesore letterbox- far preferable than bank statements, bills and letters from school. It is then perplexing to learn that the glossy catalogues, boasting made-in-China homewares and socks at 20% off, lie. These catalogue-mongerers abuse my misplaced trust in shameless consumerism by presenting products being utilised in manners unheard of in the everyday life of a disgustingly overweight geek with an abundance of unwanted hair.

To convincingly pull off a lie, one must insert a morsel of truth. Don't be fooled by the apparent normalness of the delightfully domestic folded towels available in burgundy, avocado, sunflower and aquamarine- they are not lying to you. Nor are the stainless steel kitchen appliance or double page spread of children's DVDs. By the time you have reached the underwear page, you have been well and truly taken in by the unexceptional, commonplace depictions of products. The wool has been pulled so far over your eyes, that you fail the notice the utter ridiculousness of the advertisements for undies.

Might I point out:
Girls do not smile broadly and bump hips with each other whilst wearing checkered boy-shorts.
Girls do not dance around with badly feigned enthusiasm in brightly coloured bras.
Girls do not have what appear to be in-depth conversations while standing awkwardly in cottontails of a bygone era. Girls do not stand in a row and pout seductively whilst wearing disgusting underwear sets that their grandmothers would approve of.

And whilst we're on the topic, girls do not clutch pillows in a half-arsed attempt to have a pillow fight whilst wearing pyjamas adorned with a retro cartoon character of choice.

The catalogue people are filthy liars. It's a conspiracy!

Self-censorship.

I am very agitated right now. There are many things I could blog about. Like, JUST BECAUSE IT'S NOT HAPPENING TO YOU, DOESN'T MEAN IT DOESN'T EXIST. And, DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO LIKE YOU KNOW BETTER, BECAUSE YOU DON'T. Or, GET SOME BIGGER PROBLEMS. Especially, STOP ACTING LIKE MY TIME IS DISPOSABLE, BECAUSE CONTRARY TO WHAT YOU THINK, I DON'T SIT ON MY ARSE PLAYING COMPUTER GAMES ALL DAY.

Unfortunately, I can't elaborate on any of these insightful topics because the people they are directed to, will read them, since they are exclusively the people who read these words. Look at some of the capitalized messages above. If you are reading this, chances are at least one of them applies to you.

In short, I am too gutless to face the possiblity of blogging about something worth reading, so as usual, this is a crap entry from a talentless writer. That is all.

Wait no, one more thing, I just painted my nails and now the back of my neck is really itchy, but I can't scratch it because I have wet nails. Life is so hard.

I love Farmville!

After an entire week and no new posts, I feel that I owe an apology or at least a pithy excuse to proffer to my invisible readership. While under normal circumstances, I would cite my chronic laziness as being responsible for this lack of initiative, there is a more sinister and cute reason behind it: Farmville.

For the unenlightened, Farmville is a Facebook app in which you can grow your own virtual crops and progress through levels based on the amount of experience points you have. The crops, once planted, ripen over a period ranging from two hours to several days depending on the species. If they are not harvested within a period of time equal to the amount of time it takes them to ripen, they wilt and the farmer loses the crop. It is a welcome distraction from the cesspool of boredom and excessive photos that is Facebook- however it has now become so much more than that, to me at least. It is a way of life. Every morning before school I go on the computer to harvest my crops that have sprung overnight and germinate new ones. Farmville is all I talk about.

The best part about Farmville is that squares of harvested land can be distributed wherever you deign to put them. I made my farm into a giant penis with pink cherry trees as pubes, and little fuzzy sheep as jizz. This way, once I have run out of crops to harvest, I can sit and look and laugh at my epic farm.

Farmville is plagued by the existence of its rival, Farmtown. I am ashamed to say that I have a Farmtown, however this was only to investigate the app in contrast to Farmtown, which is far cuter. Although, on Farmtown, my farm is crafted to resemble boobs, which is also entertaining.

As you can imagine, I have been very busy attending to my crops. But, it is time to get back to the nerd life, start blogging again, keep studying and plant crops that don't need to be tended to as often.

Ambition.

After forty-something blog entries spanning about two months, you would think that I would have written about something truly monumental by now. Unfortunately, most of my posts consist of a rant about my English class, or Pervy Old Men, which may be interesting the first time however these themes become tired rapidly, despite my desperate daily attempts to revive them. What I need, is a mission, so that I can document my progress.

I plagiarised the idea from this guy. He was a 48 year old blogger who embarked on a murderous rampage, planned in meticulous detail on his blog. He faithfully told his audience about his intentions, even the dates he planned the massacre for. His readership must have been very limited, as nobody thought to inform any authoritative body such as the police, who may have detained this man before he fulfilled his dream and killed four people, including himself, and injured ten more. He committed his crime in a gym- proof of my much emphasised doctrine of sport being evil.

While he never lived to realise fame, his notoriety has been documented in the news following his ambitious massacre- that's one way to boost his subscribers. He's certainly onto something there, so I will have to follow his lead and come up with some sort of conniving plan to discuss on my blog. Distressingly, murder has already been taken, so I need to think of something else. Like attempting to own the world's largest shoe collection. It WILL happen.

Yahoo Answers: a diagnostic tool.

Yahoo Answers is one of the cornerstones of the internet- right up there with Wikipedia and pornography. As it is such a heavily utilised site occupied at some point by most of the Internet-using world, and the majority of the content is generated by a plethora of grammatically challenged and grammatically anal users, it follows that the all of types of people in the Internet using world can be classified based on their Yahoo Answers submissions.

Know-it-alls
On Yahoo Answers, they are the first to answer every question, and probably refresh the page every two minutes so that they can answer questions before anyone else does. They hold the title of "top contributors" and spend their lives hurriedly researching questions that are completely irrelevant to their lives, on Wikipedia; to defend their prestigious ranks.
How this translates to the real world: They are the people who seem really smart and have an answer for everything. While the rest of us know we can never compete, it gives us secret pleasure when they slip up. And since they contribute so much of their unwanted insight, they are bound to err sooner or later.

Know-nothings
These are the ones who always pose stupid questions that could have been answered by utilising common sense, or failing that, googling their query. However logic eludes them, so they consistently post stupid questions like "Am I ugly?- pics included". To answer that question, if you have to ask then you probably are ugly.
How this translates to the real world: You know the giggly young teenage girls that infiltrate public transport and shopping centres with their high-pitched squeals and XXS sized Supre clothing? That's right. It's them.

Hypothetical thinkers
Hypothetical thinkers: while the title I have deigned to give them sounds ever so creative and Bohemian and analytical, don't be fooled. These are the people who post polls, open-ended questions asking people's opinions, and give their children hippie names with alternative spellings.
How this translates to the real world: They are the thinkers of the lower realms of society, who pose pertinent philosophical arguments in layman's terms. Unfortunately they serve no practical purpose other than selling tie-dyed clothes at Sunday markets.

Useful
Occasionally you may come across an answer that is structured, informative, and relevant; more importantly, it actually addresses the question at hand. These answers are undoubtedly procured by the Useful Yahoo Answerers. There should be more of them.
How this translates to the real world: With any luck, they make up the majority of society. We are in dire need of more of them.

Useless
I HATE THESE PEOPLE WITH A PASSION. They are the ones who post "sorry, I don't know" as an answer to EVERY SINGLE QUESTION that they chance upon. If you don't know the answer, then don't post anything! It is a waste of everyone's time and downloads.
How this translates to the real world: In RL, these people are chatty, perseverant and pathetically boring. Like the nice kid who you can't hate because they're nice, but avoid anyway because they're annoying.

Annoying (by accident)
They genuinely try to be helpful and contribute. Unfortunately they fail dismally, with irrelevant answers that make no sense and have questionable grammar and spelling.
How this translates to the real world: These are the people who try to fix something and break it even more. They are irritating, but you can't help but feel a maternal empathy for them.

Annoying (on purpose)
Those who love to post questions to "test" Yahoo Answers- they conjure up silly queries typically relating to tasteful topics such as incest and racism. Luckily these questions are usually addressed by more of their kind, so if they just keep to themselves, everybody wins.
How this translates to the real world: They are the type to always yell out "THE GAME" and feel a sense of superiority because they have in-jokes with the Internet. They also manage to balance this with maintaining a perfect score in their computer game of choice. They are advantageous to society because they stay indoors or inside EB games, far far away from the sane world.

Yes, I would love to cover a perfectly good T-shirt in sequins, thanks.

One of the many things that annoys me to no end is the "tips" section in magazines such as That's Life and Take Five. While these are delightful publications and I always flick straight to the "secret story" where readers divulge their sneaky or mean confessions; the page that is dedicated to household tips is inevitably a waste of resources on which they could be printing more secret stories.

I must emphasise that I have nothing against tips. I love reading little snippets of information, despite their consistent irrelevance to my life or any task I may undertake. But, the problem with the majority of these tips is not that they are irrelevant, but that they are utterly useless. Most are devoid of any practical purpose, and the rest are so obvious that anyone who cannot come up with these solutions themselves does not deserve to know them. And then there are the ones that end up costing more money than they aim to save, rendering them completely futile.

The editors of these publications need to seriously question what kind of tips they include. While some ideas, such as rubbing half a lime on your forehead to cure a headache, have merit in that they are original and in some way useful, even if this is just due to a placebo effect, other tips are counterproductive. Like craft projects. I HATE CRAFT PROJECTS.

Around Christmas time, magazines boast "creative and original" projects that you can make yourself and give as gifts to save money. Not only are the results, even in the glossy, doctored photos in the magazine, ugly; they are also unwanted. Nobody wants your stupid home-made soap or hamper full of home-made delectables or knitted baby booties. They are ugly, fulfil their intended purpose with limited efficiency, and take you hours to create. After you have bought the materials, made a prototype, then painstakingly conjured up your final product, it will probably end up costing you more than buying the recipient a real present to start with. If you factor in the cost of your time, then your fugly "original" Christmas presents turn out to be even more expensive. And did I mention that no-one wants them?

Another culprit is "fashion" projects. Teen magazines typically feature some sort of way of defacing perfectly usable clothing to add your own flair to it. They will instruct you to "take an old tee shirt and buy $30 worth of buttons, sequins, and pom-poms and stick them all onto the tee shirt with craft glue, in the shape of a puppy". For that price, you may as well buy a top that actually looks good and that you can put through the washing machine without having to glue all of your decorations on again. And there's the matter of locating an "old tee shirt". A top becomes old once it is worn out, or no longer fits right, or has some other fault. At which point, it is time to throw it out, not keep it so you can glue stupid pom poms on it and make it look even worse! Also, once an "original" craft project has been published, everyone knows about where you got the idea from and do not think you have amazing fashion sense because you can copy a step-by-step project from a stupid teen magazine. It's like wearing the "free gifts" like stupid headbands and whatnot that they give you, or buying all of your clothes from Supre. You just don't do it! Why? Because you look like a consumer-whore douchebag!!!

Craft projects and household tips are utterly useless. Anyone who ACTUALLY uses them should find better things to do with their time, and come up with some ideas of their own.

If you told me this time last week that I'd hear this many cliches, I wouldn't believe you.

Currently I am sitting in my beloved English class, after having the pleasure of attending a whole school assembly which took place during one of my favourite classes. Much to my delight, the assembly did not run overtime into second period, which unfortunately for me is English. But, don't be put off reading my blog just yet- I promise today's entry is not another one of my many rants about my raucous and quiescent English class.



At the assembly this morning, some guy spoke to eight hundred inattentive students about why we should do the forty hour famine. Time flies when you're having fun, so of course his ten minute presentation felt like hours. He must have noticed he was boring us all to tears, so he peppered his speech with a healthy smattering of cliches. He told us not to do it for ourselves, or our teachers, or our school, but for the poor starving children. He informed us of the global food crisis, how one billion people are receiving insufficient nutrition (I have to say I agree with him after watching Top Model), and emphasised the gravity and incomprehensibility of this number. He spoke about the dire plight of one single child, with a dead mother and a blind father who wanders around searching for food all day. He spoke with emphasis, but had nothing emphatic to say. Unfortunately for the recipients or World Vision aid, he made their stories sound more comical than tragic through his worn out speech that has been told thousands of times. He even talked about climate change, the ultimate twenty-first century cliche. His unoriginal manner drove me up the wall. I wanted to rip up my forty hour famine donation booklet and gorge myself silly rather than starve on 21-23 August.

It is said that actions speak louder than words. He should stop trying to make us aware of things we have already been told, and go starve himself. Preferably for a lot longer than forty hours.

I think I've found my calling.

Today, I attended Monash University's open day with the desperate hope that they would give me direction and tell me what to do with my life, as I am at a loss. It's not that I'm not passionate about anything- the problem is that I am enthusiastic about too many studies, most of which I am ill-equipped to excel at due to an affliction called stupidity. Despite my attempts to sneakily substitute attitude for aptitude, at some point I have to admit that success in any remotely interesting field is utterly implausible. But, that did not stop me from being overly excitable today as I frolicked around, grabbing booklets and chatting to university nerds, many of which, I noted with sadness, are far nerdier than me.

I spent four hours investigating prospective tertiary education. I managed to garner three promotional bags full of informational pamphlets. I was informed about mathematical science (nobody has ever thought to point out its existence to me until now) and attentively sat through some woman talking about it for forty minutes. And once she was done I approached her, armed with ill thought out questions. I waited for almost an hour to talk to some physics guy, who managed to almost scare me off science in under ten minutes. But, he did not put me off it completely, because I had firmly decided that I want to do a double degree in law and science, despite the prohibitive ENTER score and the cost of completing the course.

I was so excited after finding out about all of these wonderful things I could study one day, to the point where I was wringing my hands- something that I only do in situations of extreme excitement. It was more exciting than being in a shoe store with a massive sale section of totally hot shoes- and that is not something that I would say lightly.

With renewed ambition, I was ready to return home, with a brief detour to the chocolate demonstration. And it was there that I found my calling: eating chocolate. Fap fap fap! Screw learning, chocolate is so much more exciting.

The deepest you get is the grave you're digging for poetry.

Despair, anguish, woe.
This is how it feels
To read malformed words
Mourning tragic death
Of real poetry.

I'll be the first to admit that my above "poem" is hardly a mellifluous masterpiece. In fact it's quite an assault to the mind. But, at least I recognise that and don't try to purport it as deep and meaningful and a work of linguistic art. Because it's not. It's just a few words that I pulled off the top of my head and gave a forlorn countenance to. It's a far cry from inspired poetry.

You know what else is a far cry from poetry? The stupid scrawls that way too many stupid teenagers write and then post on their social networking sites and send to their friends and adorn their books with. You think that you are so tortured and that typing the word "misery" into Thesaurus.com and dividing the results into more manageable sized lines perfectly encompasses all that you are feeling. Not only is your poetry crap, but also, nobody cares. You may be sad, but your distortion of perfectly beautiful language into pseudo-emotive drivel makes ME sad. And when I get sad about somebody butchering English, I post incoherent blog entries.

If you are dispirited, eat chocolate. Don't construct unoriginal and ambiguous compositions. If you must channel your desperation into literature, please have the courtesy to make your creations structurally sound, avant garde, and compelling. If I ever chance upon one more poem about the tribulations that you chronicle so disconsolately, like nobody else has ever felt pain before, my brain will bleed.

Then again, I blog about the most mundane, boring topics. The fact that I even blog at all encompasses the conviction that I am hardly a literary genius. Maybe budding poets shouldn't listen to me- keep relentlessly posting your pathetic poetry and perhaps someone who cares will chance upon it.

I finally understand why everybody loves iPhones.

Since the advent of iPhones, I have been neglectant to praise them. I have always glanced at them enviously from afar before pulling out my ancient brick-phone and lucratively offered to trade. But I have never held one of those blocks of decadence, costing the better part of $1000, in my lower-class hands (complete with tacky chipped pink nail polish on my dirty digits). Thus, I have never understood the magnitude of the awesomeness of iPhones. However, all that changed today, when I was afforded a glimpse at affluence.



Since Claire's parents deigned to buy her (and the rest of her family!) iPhones, she has been obsessed. Look at her at any moment and sure enough, she'll be tapping away on Facebook or one of her many applications. I have never understood this addiction, but it all makes sense now. This morning she queried about whether or not I took pleasure in popping bubble wrap. Of course I do- there are few things more pleasurable than destroying perfectly recyclable and non-biodegradable bubbles of plastic beyond recognition. Apparently this is a nerdy habit, which makes this story relevant to my frequently off-topic blog.



So, as Claire informed me, there is an bubble wrap app on her iPhone. And the bubbles replenish themselves after a second or so. It's fantastic! She handed me her phone so I could sample the awesomest app ever, and I fell in love. With her iPhone. Because of a simple bubble wrap game. It's obvious why it's appealing, why would you pay a few dollars for a sheet of bubble wrap when you can purchase a pricey iPhone, pay to download your bubble wrap, and then bash at the screen, thereby destroying your investment? It's genius. I want one, but will probably never get one due to a condition known as penury.



I will never regard my brick phone in quite the same esteem again.

An exciting typical english class.

Currently I am sitting in English class, which is not as treacherous and mind-numbingly monotonous as usual due to an exciting new development: my teacher seems to have wagged the class. I think she's onto something there and I am starting to envy her for not being in here. Although it is not as loud as usual because an inordinate amount of my class seem to be absent, including the very loudest members, much to my delight. So, with little to complain about, I thought it might be beneficial (to no-one) if I blog about the events of this insightful and educational class.

At 2:15pm the bell rang, signifying the end of the delicious freedom of lunchtime and the start of a torturous hour. I sluggishly walked to my locker and shoved some books into my inconveniently oversized bag. Unfortunately I neglected to bring real work.

2:20pm. My class has assembled outside V3 and are discussing the likelihood of Ms. Barker being away, and how orgasmic that would be. Much to our esctasy, a substitute teacher whose body shape is remiscent of an apple on a stick materialises and opens the door, instructing us to file inside. Nobody does. She spends the next thirty seconds gently coercing us into entering the door of doom.

2:21pm. I ask if I can work in the VCE centre. "Have you read the book?" the teacher (who I did not catch the name of) demands.
"Yes."
"Have you done the questions?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
"Well no, you can't leave this classroom."

2:25pm I go to retrieve a laptop from the laptop lady who is more than familiar with me now. Five or so students slowly file in, late.

2:35pm The laptop finally starts up and remains unfrozen long enough for me to open IE. I entertain myself for the ten minutes it takes by whinging about our school's insufficient resources.

2:40pm I realise that I can get on to MySpace from the school computers.

2:41pm I get bored of MySpace.

2:45pm The apple shaped teacher reprimands the class for foul language. If only she could hear us when half the class wasn't wagging. I begin to blog.

2:46pm A minty smell wafts through the room. This makes me think of mint slice biscuits. Which makes me think of chocolate. I could be eating chocolate but instead I am sitting in this stupid room with paper-thin collapsible walls. Life is not fair.

2:53pm One of the only people in the class who appears to be constructively doing work asks me how to answer a question. Unfortunately I can't help because when I did that question, I pulled the answer out of nowhere and seeded in irrelevant quotes.

2:58pm The apple shaped teacher gets up and leaves the room. The noise level within the depths of hell raises. All I can hear is "Ow, ow, stop it!" from two different people, in different circumstances. One of them stops. Presumed cause of death: boredom.

3:00pm I run out of things to blog about. Waiting until something else happens. I do the hard puzzle on Miss Bimbo.

3:01pm Several students erupt into song. I won't question it. Teacher walks back in and singing continues.

3:02pm One of the singing students begins to make the sounds that I make when I imitate my class. It sounds like "unhh-unhh-unnhhh-unhh" and can be imagined to be combined with hand action that resemble claps.

3:04pm The teacher takes the role. The fat role boy stands behind her, shuffling his feet and pacing. She finishes the role, several students ask if she has called their names as they weren't listening. The teacher begins to ask several people what their parents' first names are, professing that she went to primary school with them.

3:07pm I still cannot access Facebook. More singing from some of the louder members of the class. I am waiting for one of the Miss Bimbo games to load, currently it is not making much progress so I am not holding out much hope.

3:10pm I finally tire of sitting here and updating my blog. If I wanted to do that I would sign up to Twitter. Time to pack up.

Proof that Andrew O'Keefe is hot.

No matter how adamant I am, most people I encounter refuse to believe my assertion that Andrew O'Keefe, the host of Deal or No Deal, is the cutest person to ever grace channel seven. Actually it wouldn't be that hard to be the sexiest channel seven-er, but I digress- Andrew O'Keefe is totally hot. Observe:



How cute is he! However, overwhelming photographic evidence is too often disregarded by doubters of Andrew O'Keefe's supremacy. As such, new evidence must be brought to light. A substantiation that the nerds who read my nerd blog will appreciate the enormity of must be posed in order to dissipate those who contest his cuteness. This is the smoking gun. Are you ready?



According to the infinite wisdom of Wikipedia; way back in 1989, when Andrew O'Keefe was still in high school, he was a member of the winning team of the National Schools Debating Championships.


How gorgeous is that! He's a nerd like you (presumably) and me! Andrew O'Keefe suddenly became SO much cuter.

The best thing about sleep is...

...NOTHING.
It's currently 10:22 pm, meaning that at some time in the near future I will have to switch off my beloved computer, pack away my overused textbooks, abandon my gargantuan to-do list, and go lie in bed DOING NOTHING for the next seven or eight hours so that I can get up and do the same things I do every day, tomorrow morning. How pointless is that. I can't DO anything constructive during my sleep, except concoct weird dreams that scare me so much I wake up and can't go back to sleep, like that recurring nightmare that I get demoted into remedial classes. That's right, not only do I study in my waking hours, but I even dream about school.

I could be doing actual productive things with my sleeping time if I wasn't busy being asleep. In seven hours, I could finish that damn maths exercise I've been stuck on, history homework, study stuff, vacuum my floor, call a few people, re-organise my wardrobe, and raise my bimbo's IQ by sending her to the library every half hour. Instead of doing all of these wonderful and intellectually stimulating things, I am sitting here blogging about it. If I didn't need to sleep, I wouldn't need to blog. Actually maybe sleep isn't the problem at all. Maybe it's blogging. Sorry.

Goodnight blog!

Only the illiterate judge a book by its cover.

There is a well-known adage that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover- these apparent words of wisdom have graced the lips of decrepit old women and inspirational gift books since the dawn of the printing press. The premise that one shouldn't base their assumptions of people on their appearance or superficial first impressions; is pretentious and unrealistic. If I'm not going to judge someone based on how they immediately appear, what do you propose I judge them by? Their personality or achievements? I don't think so!

Most assumptions that one makes based on someone's appearance tend to be vaguely right. If someone looks smart, they probably are. If someone seems like they've been brought up by lesbian parents*, then they probably have. If someone appears dog-ugly, then they most likely are related to me. It's just the way things are.

The only people who don't want to be judged on their appearance are those that are butt-ugly. And most of them have other things wrong with them anyway, like personality. I tend to think that judging someone based on appearance is judging them favourably, because many people are aesthetically more appealing than their character ever will be.

Illiterate people are seriously onto something by judging a book by its cover. Let's burn all libraries and live like cavemen wearing freshly-skinned bloody animal furs and make cave paintings all day. And yes, I can say what I want about illiterate people because they can't read this. End rant.

*Not a dig at lesbians- seriously, I once met this girl and the first thing I thought was that she was brought up by lesbian parents. A few hours later, guess what she tells me? That's right.

The definitive list of useless appendages.

The human body is a wonderfully retarded thing. Yet there are many appendages which are irrelevant to the purposes we utilise it for. A list is the best way of documenting such useless limbs, actually that is a bit of a lie, but I just happen to like lists.
1. Reproductive organs of nerds
We will never get the chance to use them unless we become really rich, so might as well perform an amputation.
2. Body hair
While technically this is not an organ, and could be classified better as a growth, it is disgusting and everyone should laser it off. In fact all hair should be abolished with the exception of head (not facial) hair.
3. Cheeks
Nothing good happens to cheeks. They get pimply, they get freckly, they get hairy and, in the case of infants, get smeared in disgusting baby food. If we had no cheeks, we wouldn't have this problem.
4. Ears
Also useless, except in the case of people who adorn their ears with sparkly earrings. Ears are also aesthetically repugnant and remind me of a snail shell (luckily they are usually less slimy).
5. Appendixes
Apparently they're ACTUALLY useless according to people who know what their talking about. Personally I have nothing against appendixes.
6. Thighs
Very few girls are happy with their thighs. Usually this is because they are fat. If we had no thighs, the amount of eating disorders would halve. Actually that's a lie because apparently eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia aren't because of fatness but a mental disorder, so the amount of cases would more or less be static. But, it couldn't hurt to get rid of thighs. Actually that's a lie too because I imagine that an amputation would be excruciatingly painful.
7. Feet
They are disgusting. They can be hairy and smelly and have diseases like tinea. Yet, they are one of the most awesome appendages ever, because they can be adorned by sexy shoes.
8. Legs
Who needs to walk anyway. Let's all sit in front of our computers all day.
9. Brains
Most people rarely use them. In fact I'm very proud of myself for keeping mine in mint condition.
10. The digestive system
If we didn't have a digestive system, we wouldn't have fat people. Or any need for food. So all of the starving children's AND the fat people's problems will be solved.

As you can see I would make a great world dictator.

Relaxing, nerd-style.

Yesterday I was not having a good day. Bad luck doesn't even begin to describe it. Wallowing in my own frustration and doing very little for several hours didn't help the situation, which I probably see as disproportionately trying. Unfortunately, I had just demolished the remainder of the chocolate in the house. Whilst there is a milk bar located five minutes away for times when I am in dire need of chocolate, I need to manage to fit into my formal dress on Friday. Excessive chocolate consumption may present me with some difficulties as I attempt to squeeze into the cutest dress ever and then balance on the cutest shoes ever. So, chocolate was out of the question (although I eventually justified my need for chocolate flavoured ice-cream).

Before I managed to talk myself into consuming a large bowl of chocolate-flavoured creamy goodness, I attempted to relax in another way. Maths. And it worked! I only resorted to ice-cream once I ran out of easy equations to solve.

Awhile ago I was reading a magazine article about a smart kid who made the solutions supplement for the year twelve maths book. He takes nerdiness to dizzying new heights, being a chess champion and currently completing university level subjects despite being in year twelve. He claimed to find tackling maths problems relaxing and a great way to let off steam (he is probably a very frustrated individual because his nerdiness may obscure his abilities to attain any sort of interactions with girls that aren't his mother, or girls like me with nerd fetishes). When I read that article I laughed and thought that it made no sense, and got very excited that he was wrong about something.

But actually he was right. It is relaxing to do maths problems when you're not failing (which can be a problem from time to time). So, now I am off to go to maths class and relax in preparation for the stressfulness of having to interact socially at lunchtime.

Exercise: Painful AND a waste of time!

At the nerd camp I attended last week, there was a token exercise session. We stretched, skipped, and kicked, and did sit-ups, push-ups, and a host of other -ups; for an entire hour. My only consolation during this time was that it was a great excuse to wear trackies- for someone so anti-sport, I seem to have a huge affinity for sportswear. I forced myself to focus on this as I tried and failed at doing even a single push up- even the knee ones elude me, despite the ease with which most others can do them (perhaps they are just used to spending lots of time on their knees).

At school, several of my classes take place in a room in which health classes are held. There is an assortment of posters and slogans adorning the collapsible walls (we can't afford real walls) which I frequently stare at numbly whilst waiting to be taught something. Since being taught is such a rarity, many of these inspirational and informational materials have been committed to my memory. One such poster reads "Life is short. Running makes it seem longer." Or something to that effect. It is probably the only poster in that room that I wholeheartedly agree with. Running seems to make infinitesimally small instants of time drag on into what feels like forever, only ever ending with the inevitable ungraceful fall to the ground.

Despite a tiny time investment seeming to generate high yields if pain is anything to guage it by; it is still a waste of time. Five minutes that I spend exerting myself through exercise is five minutes I could have spent on Facebook.

I'm off to struggle with some exercises. And by that, of course, I mean exercises from my maths book.

Back into routine: skipping English class.

I have returned from my nerd camp and am sadly back at school, trying to adjust myself to routine again. So, what better why to do this then embark on one of my least challenging ventures: skipping English class. I, having not attended in almost a month due to an array of interruptions such as school holidays and nerd camp, had forgotten about how raucous and dense my class is. So, like a good nerd, I arrived to class on time and got my books ready for one hour of enlightened and engaging learning. Five minutes later, when the bulk of my class arrived, I realised there was no chance of this ever occurring within the paper-thin collapsible walls of that room. I took others walking in as my cue to leave, packed up my bag and entered the main area of the VCE centre, and asked to borrow a laptop under the guise of needing to finish an essay which I have no intention of even starting in the near future. I had an exciting conversation with the laptop lady, who I have been afraid of since year seven, as she now recognises me because I ask to borrow laptops so often in lieu of going to English class.



So, right now, I am blogging instead of doing that essay I used as an excuse to borrow this laptop. I am located not too far away from my English class, and if it was any other class I would not be able to hear them. But, considering their loud and hyperactive tendencies, I can clearly hear cuss words and exclamations being shouted. And that's them being quiet.



It's period two on a Monday morning, and my first day at school in several weeks, and I am already sick of it. I am also quite distraught as the school blocks Facebook access, and their access denied message could do with a serious grammar check. And to make things worse, I had to stare at their grammatical assault for a good few minutes to wait for the browser to stop being frozen, which seems to happen far too often for my liking. If the computer that I have at home is better than the ones at school, it's a sure sign they have huge funding problems.

In my last blog entry a week ago, I promised that I would return from nerd camp with interesting stories of delicious nerdiness. While I have a multitude of stories, they probably aren't funny to anyone except myself. But, that won't stop me from telling anyone who will listen. Unfortunately this suffices for a blog entry for today, so, tomorrow, be prepared for some serious boredom about things that happened that you could not care less about- it will be awesome.

Temporary abandonment.

I'm off to go to nerd camp for the next five days. Hopefully I'll come back with some great nerdy stories that I can blog about, if not, then at least I won't have to think about something to blog about for the next five days, because I probably won't have access to a computer. So it's time for me to send my Bimbo on holiday and send off my last emails for the week, and temporarily farewell my blog. I'll be back soon!

The suit saga continues.

If, as I trust, you are an avid blog reader, you will be aware of my recent entry regarding my search for a suit. For this coming Monday morning, for one of my nerdy ventures, I need to have a suit jacket, skirt and court shoes. Naturally, I already owned court shoes, although they did need replacing recently following the timely death of a much-loved pair. However I did not know where to start for the rest of a suit, so, as detailed in the aforementioned blog entry, I started in Southland, and tried on countless suits, none of which were an adequate fit. Eventually I found a skirt that was of reasonable dimensions, only to find that I forgot my purse so could not buy the overpriced skirt in question. I then managed to find a separate jacket, in every size except mine.

I succeeded in obtaining the skirt the next day by sending my mother with money and detailed instructions: walk through the doors, past the cinema, past the ice cream shop, near the shoe shop, there is a shop with a big poster of a skank on it, go in there, seek out a skank and hand her the piece of paper with that design's name and barcode written on it. Unfortunately, my mother accidentally handed the shop assistant the piece of paper with the instructions on it, as insulting as they were. End result, I have the skirt.

Next, the jacket. I managed to obtain the exact jacket, in my size, from a chain store which was fortunately not too far away. Unfortunately, last night I decided to try the skirt, jacket, shoes and a shirt on to see if it all fits and goes together. Not only does it slightly look funny, but much to my horror, I found that the jacket still had a security tag attached, which I cannot remove myself without irreparably damaging the garment. As luck would have it, I had just removed the label seconds before, and disgustingly had to go through my bin to find the receipt. My only option is to go back to the store, how I intend to find time for this is still somewhat of a mystery, and ask them to remove it, and endure their suspicions that I've stolen it. Although maybe they will realise I haven't, because nobody would steal a jacket that ugly. Then again, who would pay for the privilege of wearing it either!

As much as I thought it impossible, it seems that purchasing a suit (or 'stealing' one, as the case may be) takes all the fun out of shopping.