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.

I need a more interesting life.

I love talking. I used to spend several hours on the phone and night, and would talk at every available opportunity, much to the distress of anyone who associates with me. Unfortunately that is no longer so much of an option for me, because it seems that I never have anything to talk about. For this, I impute my nerdiness- since I am always to busy studying to have a social life so speak of, nothing exciting happens to me anymore. Today I spent the whole day doing maths homework, aside from the brief break that I took to check on my MySpace and feed my Bimbo. As a result, absolutely nothing noteworthy happened to me all day, so as usual I have nothing to say. All I have to offer is a plethora of opinions on events that have happened to other people.

Speaking of opinions, today I read about the thirteen year old girl who got pregnant while holidaying in Egypt, and her mother is misguidedly suing the hotel, believing she was impregnated in the hotel pool. An article on it is available here. The woman must be deluded, and should be forced to attend a sex ed class along with her daughter! Chlorinated water kills sperm, and even if the water was underchlorinated, the pressure difference would kill the remainder. The only way this girl "immaculately conceived" in the hotel pool is if she was screwing a sexy Egyptian boy whilst in the pool (or anywhere else, for that matter, which is undoubtedly the case). I just tried to find a picture of a sexy Egyptian boy but couldn't. So maybe they don't exist, and the innocent girl did really get pregnant from the pool. Either that, or she's a slut with no standards.

This gullible woman and her irresponsible daughter should have taken heed from the tale of the girl who got fifty-six stars tattooed on her face, then claimed the unlikely story that she fell asleep in the tattooists chair. It's not possible, and anyone who claims it is and tries to make money out of it is bound to be vilified by the judgemental public.

Let's hope this girl gets an abortion, just in case the baby turns out as stupid as its grandmother.

People like me shouldn't be allowed near computers.

One fixture of being a nerd, it would seem, is being good with computers. However, either I am not a bona fide nerd, or being able to use a computer to its full capabilities is not a prerequisite.

As of yet I have not done anything damaging to my beloved computer, other than the multitude of viruses it contracted through my lackadaisical downloading- and thankfully in most cases, I have been able to remove the viruses myself using the step-by-step instructions for the imbecilic widely available on the internet. Although that did present me with a slight problem when my poor computer contracted a nasty virus that didn't let me use IE, although was partial to Firefox on occassion, but that's another story.

Today I was plagued by a computer "problem" that took me a good half hour to figure out- my failings even leading me to question my competence as a nerd. I was doing my emailing for the day, not that the emails I send are of particular consequence to anyone, when I noticed that something seemed a bit amiss. The text on the screen looked larger than usual, I realised after dumbly looking at it some more. Although in no way does this present any difficulties, it looked annoying and I just had to change it back. Remembering the last time this had occured, I reduced the text size of the browser. It still looked quite defective, so I adjusted the size even further, to no avail. A last-ditch attempt at even increasing the font size did not have the desired affect.

By this stage I was quite anxious- perhaps it would be stuck that way forever, and I would have to learn to get used to it, much to my distaste. I began to look at other settings, figuring that there must be some sort of underlying cause impugnable* for this unforeseen change. Growing more desperate with each enlarged word I read, I was about to Google my dilemma when I realised: the browser was set to zoom 125%. Oops.

Perhaps being a nerd is just not my vocation.

*In case you haven't noticed, I really like the word 'impugn'. It means attack or question, and is pronounced 'im-pyoon'. You should use that word more often.

Five reasons why we should all love school.

One of the banes that plagues teenagers everywhere (except in third-world countries) is having to go to school. The complaint commonly aired is that first you are cruelly torn away from your parents for six hours a day at the fragile young age of five, then you are forced to endure thirteen years of indifferent teachers, untamed peers, and work requirements that don't spark the slightest scintilla of interest. School is commonly seen as a waste of time that could be better put to going on MySpace or watching sitcoms.

While I agree that school is an inefficient utilisation of time, I actually happen to like school, as hard as it is to match the appeal of the ratiocination above. There are many features of school that are way better than the real world, and what better way to present them than in a list:

1. It doesn't matter if you make mistakes, or don't know anything.

Nowhere but in school will we be commended for getting less than 100%. In the real world, we would be berated for missing parts. And, if you get stuck on something, it's easy to ask for help, or ask someone to do it for you. Not to mention there are study guides available for most subjects, which is a handy reference if you can't be bothered doing your own thinking.

2. It's less hours than a working day.

Not only it the school day pitifully short, but we also get generous recess and lunch breaks, with only about five hours of classes each day. Could it get any easier!

3. There are people there.

Most people retain at least one or two school friends for their entire life, while other friends typically come and go. This goes to show that out of the large sample that you go to school with, there are one or two decent people; a much higher proportion than in the real world.

4. Once we leave school, we'll no longer appreciate the movie Mean Girls as much.

Or any other teenager movies for that matter. This is one of the things I am most dreading about leaving school.

5. Nowhere else will we be pushed to learn.

At school, we are balled in cotton wool and nicely asked to learn stuff, and have people paid to teach us stuff, and are then rewarded for knowing stuff.

Leaving school will be a nasty shock. Accordingly, we should make the most of it and devote our lives to doing homework, because it's just like reliving school but in the comfort of your own home! What could be better.

The adventures of my left foot.

I love shoes. They can be cute, they can be hot, they can be excruciatingly painful, they can fix depressions of any calibre. Most importantly, they cover up feet- one of the most disgusting appendages which have the sole function of displaying beauteous footwear. And allowing us to walk, however that is an essentially useless skill for someone like me who sits and studies all day- although i do admit that feet act as an anchor of sorts and go some way to prevent me falling off my chair. But, the point is, feet are deplorable and if not for the need to wear sexy shoes, they could be completely abolished.

Feet can also cause a fair bit of grief, particularly to old or even middle aged people. Instead of enviable stilettos, they find their feet adorned with afflictions such as bunions, callouses and fallen arches; and an inability to walk in even the most diminutive of kitten heels. Even those who are not so old, find their feet covered in weeping blisters upon the removal of innocuous-looking, bow-embellished shoes.

Following the events that have plagued my left foot recently, I have no choice but to declare war on it. Which could present even more of a problem then first appears, as I have been described as having two left feet, and I might forget which one I have declared war on. Amazingly, I cannot impugn my prolonged wearing of damagingly high heels for my foot's apparent misbehaviour- although I do have a pair of cute orange heels with zips up the back to thank for the four blisters they bestowed upon Left Foot.

Left Foot first made its abhorrence towards me apparent yesterday afternoon. I was happily walking along when I tripped on a crack on the concrete and somehow landed on the road- and on Left Foot's ankle. As my mother laughed at me, I was forced to remove my cute pink shoe and pathetically limp to the car.
Several hours later, the weak pain had subsided. Mum decided to ask me, from the next room, whether or not my foot was okay.
"I think it's fine," I replied, before tripping over and landing in much the same way, on the same ankle. Thank you, Left Foot- I mean obviously this isn't the result of my own clumsiness, or anything.

But wait! That's not all! This morning, I managed to drop my hair straightener on Left Foot- clearly it was Left Foot's fault for getting in the way. Several minutes later, more harm came to Left Foot- this time I stubbed my toe on my door. Once again, demonstrably Left Foot's own fault for trying to go where the door was.

So that's it. It's war.
My first attack? The next time I leave the house, I'm wearing my new Paris Hilton shoes, no matter how much Left Foot screams in blisters of protest.

Pervy Old Guys: the next installment.

A common vein that seems to run though way too many of my blog entries, is the topic of Pervy Old Guys. As if they are not already abundant enough in real life, for reasons that are undecipherable even to myself, I insist on immortalising them through writing. What better way to combat this tendency, then to write about them yet again.

My first encounter with a Pervy Old Guy today occured not ten minutes after I had deigned to leave the house. On my way to the Barbie exhibition, I dressed in what most would describe as too much pink- head-to-toe, topped off with a pink umbrella as it was raining, much to the detriment of my hair. So it follows that I looked like a complete idiot as I stood at the bus stop trying to prevent my umbrella from inverting, a bad habit that it seems to adopt at only the most inconvenient of times. The bus was, as usual, ten minutes late- this is such a common occurence that it would be worrying if it ever turned up on schedule. Still, crippled with the fear that it might be punctual and i would be forced to wait for the next bus for the better part of an hour, I arrived at the bus stop several minutes before it was meant to arrive. The result of this was that I was standing at a bus stop in the rain, completely in pink, for almost fifteen minutes. In this time, I got a number of strange looks from people in cars, however most of them slowed down to look at me like they would a traffic accident, then sped off.

A certain Pervy Old Guy, however, did not. He did the usual slowing down, and even opened his window. He then proceeded to ask me with a creepy smile, "Do you want a lift?", patting the empty passenger seat next to him. I politely declined his alluring offer, remembering what had been reiterated countless times to every child: don't accept lifts with strangers! Pervy Old Guys included. The thought of what would have happened if I actually was as stupid as I looked, does not bear thinking about.

However my encounters with Pervy Old Guys today, didn't stop there. Actually that kind of was my last encounter with a Pervy Old Guy, the next story which I will go into features a Weird Moderately-Aged Guy. Carmella, who I went with to the Barbie exhibition, and I were happily sitting in a populous shopping centre looking doubly stupid as we were both sporting an excess of pink attire. Much to my confusion, a man who appeared to be not too old but certainly older than me, caught my eye and said "Hey, girl, can you answer a question?"
Unsure whether or not he was addressing me, I looked at him, bewildered. "Hey, girl, Hey, girl" he repeated, then looked at Carmella as I was still wide-eyed and speechless. "Hey girl, can you answer a question for me?"
"Uh... okay," she replied tentatively, as I slid my Barbie bag closer to my body and further away from the Weird Moderately-Aged Guy.
He then proceeded to ask, through his accent, whether or not we could tell if people like each other from looking at a photograph. He believed that one can, whereas Carmella riposted that no, you can't, not just from a photograph. Whilst he began saying something which I could not understand due to his accent, I interjected that indeed you cannot tell from a photograph as they are usually posed. He said something about facial expressions- I kind of agreed with him, particularly in the case of candid shots, but didn't fancy mentioning it.

Following such a strange question, which he kept pressing however continually changed the exact wording resulting in the meaning becoming mutated; Carmella questioned him as to way he wanted to know. He wouldn't answer! She repeated her query but he outright refused to address it, instead repeating his original question again. We hastily made our excuses and left- while we were not in immediate danger of any kind, it was really strange!

Hopefully that will be the last Pervy Old Guy/ Weird Moderately-Aged Guy story for a long time.

Let's donate everything we own to charity!

This morning, I was procrastinating and avoiding the imperative items on my to-do list, and read this article. For any of my paltry readership that cannot be bothering reading the article, it is about Paris Hilton. In my opinion at least, she is the cutest and prettiest heiress ever; despite the disdain that is afforded to her by most (although those who adjudge and reprobate her are probably the very same people who fap over pictures of her when nobody is looking).

One of the many accusations that Paris is subjected to is the view that she should donate all of her money to charities rather than engage in unrestrained shopping. This asseveration was expressed in a comment on that article, as reproduced below, complete with bad grammar and inarticulate ratiocination:

"children are dying in third world countries and she's wasting her money on that many shoes and converting what would have been a very nice (and expensive) house to her liking? it makes me feel sick. for every designer shoe that she brought i bet she could have saved a starving children. this *** is going to hell!"

Of course, I left a scathing comment in reply, however it is currently pending approval, meaning it will probably never grace the computer screens of those reading Paris Hilton articles. If people who are actually interested will never hear what I have to say on the matter, then the apathetic readers of my blog will.

It is ridiculous to suggest that those with money should donate it all to charity. That's like communism, but backwards- the result of such philosophies being implemented on a macro scale would be that there would be no incentive to work hard for anyone in society's upper crust. The whole point of earning money is to enjoy it- and in saying this I am not defending my own personal interests, because as you may well know, I am from quite a penurious household.

Most celebrities, Paris included, champion a few charities, however boring ventures like that do not make headlines, so not knowing this is perfectly excusable- even the fountain of knowledge that is Wikipedia doesn't give her charity work a mention. However to then state opinions like the one extracted from that site on a platform of ignorance is unethical and slanderous.

Paris Hilton supports a multitude of charities for a diverse range of causes, including ones for the poor "children in third world countries". This is a little-reported technicality and one of the many ventures her career has explored. Perhaps she is best known for her sex tapes- the court case that followed is also etched in the public mind. However one small detail seems to always be omitted from this well worn tale: she bequeathed the money that she was awarded in the lawsuit to a charity! But it is important to remember that charity donations are voluntary- despite the sizeable amounts she has contributed to various causes, she is in no way required to donate any of her fortune. She is absolutely entitled to enjoy her money however she would like, be that on her impressive refurbished house or endless rows of designer shoes. She shouldn't have to live a destitute life just because she was born into privilege.

Any declarations that Paris should give away all of her money engender the pertinent question of what they themselves have done to support charity. I suggest that the person who left the comment as cited above, sells the computer they used to browse and leave their uninformed thoughts all over the Internet; sells anything else of value that they happen to own, withdraw all of their savings from the bank; and donates all of the money to starving children in third world countries before passing judgments on others.

Sleep is a waste of time.

Recently I have been spending a great deal of time staring in horror at my lengthy to-do list- after utilising my beloved CAS calculator, I discovered that in fact the tasks on my to-do list will take more hours there are to complete than hours that I am awake in the next week. However if I don't sleep, then I should be able to squeeze almost everything in. Of course blogging is near the top of my priority ordered list, which illustrates how important the things I have to do are. Also, all of the smaller tasks seem to end up on the top of my priority list for reasons that are as yet unknown, however there's a fair chance that it is due to my being inexorably lazy. As a result, blogging, which takes me under half an hour per day, somehow ends up around number five, and my hefty pile of homework makes an appearance sometime thereafter, even though it is the only thing that will actually affect me in the medium term if I fail to complete it. Which is why I am blogging at the ungodly hour of 9:45 AM, yet have not touched any books today.

Perhaps the taks I actually need to do could be moved up the list if there was more time at my disposal. The only means of attaining this is to eliminate the need for sleep. While I already do this to some degree by mass consumption of instant coffee, there comes a point where I fail to concentrate and eventually need to sleep, much to my distaste. If I didn't need to sleep, then all of my problems would be GONE. Someone who is not sleep deprived (as I perpetually seem to be) and can concentrate for more than an hour at a time needs to invent some means of dispensing with the requisite of sleep. Whilst they're at it, they could even work out some method of eliminating the need to eat, because it's little more than a waste of time that I only engage in so that I don't accidentally drop dead, fun as that sounds.

Maybe I need to add 'inventing sleep and nutrition substitutes' to my to-do list. Although, I will probably never get around to it as it will take more than an hour, so it will end up at the bottom of my priority list.

Bagging Britney doesn't make you cool.

I have exciting news: I am going to Britney Spears's concert in November. Of course, if you have had any interaction at all with me over the last few hours, or even have me as a friend on Facebook or MySpace, you will of course already be well informed of this thrilling announcement; as I have not shut up about it since receiving the news that my tie* managed to secure tickets. Upon my gleeful revelation of the most exciting event that I will ever attend in my life, noses are turned up and misguided statements such as "she's a talentless train-wreck" ensue. Not that this is a new phenomenon, it seems that nobody has any love for cute and girly entertainers and celebrities. This of course encompasses many others that are not Britney, such as the Spice Girls and Lady Gaga, all of which are extremely talented, beautiful and condemned.

Britney is frequently slammed as being devoid of talent- no assertion could be more wrong! She is an amazing singer and dancer and above all, entertainer. Her proficiency is often overshadowed because of her tumultuous personal life and bizarre antics. To quote Chris Crocker, leave Britney alone! Being mentally unstable does not abrogate her aptitude and achievements, and anyone who thinks it does is clearly ignorant and cannot see past their own efforts to be "too cool" to enjoy Britney's music.

Rejecting what is perceived to be mainstream for more alternative styles does not make you cool or hardcore. Hating Britney because she is pretty just makes you look like an ignorant bigot. Britney Spears is nothing short of iconic and anyone who disagrees seriously needs to be enlightened. I prescribe listening to all thirty-four of her singles, youtubing her music videos and sampling her perfumes.

*'Tie' as in the end half of the word 'bestie', as Carmella and I each possess one half of one of those juvenile best friend necklaces. My half says "bes" and hers says "tie", thus she is my tie. She is also my tie in that she completes my outfits, as without her expert fashion guidance I would be one very lost child, swathed in crocs and ponchos and whatever else my poor misguided eyes lead me towards.

It takes more effort to be lazy than it takes to actually do something.

Despite my aversion to physical activity of any nature, one of the many things that annoys me to no end, is when people avoid any responsibilities at all costs, and try to relegate their meagre workload to others.

School, the place where I gain all of my limited life experience, provides me with countless examples of such slackers. There are WAY too many students who are only still at school in year eleven because they have nothing better to do, even if they clearly do not want to be there. Even those who want to be there, are all too frequently reluctant to complete the meagre workload we are given. Honestly we don't have that much to do, and I hate to think of the rude shock we'll all get once we enter the real world, where there are actual ramifications for being unreliable and lazy. We have it pretty easy at school- achieving a 90% on a major project is applauded, yet if it was in the big scary real world, we would be vituperated for missing that last 10%, which could be crucial for the operation of whatever it is you were working on. If it is so easy to excel at school by simply completing all assigned tasks and doing a bit of study, then anyone who values their education should do it rather than decide that they cannot be bothered.

Furthermore, it is boring when you have no intellectual stimulation. You can't avoid it with such passion and then complain that you are bored. I know a good way to combat that, why don't you try PUTTING IN SOME EFFORT AND TRY TO COMPLETE THE PITIFUL LITTLE ASSIGNMENTS THAT ARE ALLOCATED TO YOU! And then the very same people who consistently put in little effort have the cheek to complain when they receive bad marks. What do they expect will happen!

One final thing to consider is that in the time you spend manufacturing some pathetic excuse, and stressing about leaving everything to the last minute, you could have done something constructive and made a start on whatever it was you were meant to do. And, in the context of school at least, whatever it is you were meant to do is probably not that challenging, and if it is, then there is plenty of help readily available.

We should all be nerds and study all the time. Then we can be like Germany and have cool cars and hot scientists, AND save the environment.

This is why I love public transport.

The following is a true story, devoid of any exaggeration or embellishment that would make it of higher entertainment value, as the unaugmented version as you see it below is already funny enough.

Several months ago, I boarded the bus home after a stressful few hours of draining my bank account at Chadstone. Unfortunately for someone who suffers mild motion sickness as I do, being 100% nerd; all of the forward facing seats were taken. Being the last person to board the bus, I was the only person on a backwards facing seat. Aren't I lucky!

So whilst sitting on a backwards-facing seat, I could see all of the people on the bus in the forward facing seats that I was so envious of. And as seems to be the case on most modes of public transport, there was a Pervy Old Man of an obvious nationality that I will not disclose, but can probably be inferred by anyone who uses public transport. I seemed to be in Pervy Old Man's line of sight, and once I noticed this, I attempted to secure eye contact to let him know that I knew that he was a Pervy Old Man. Unfortunately this did not seem to deter him in any way, so I decided to be a bit of a Pervy Old Man myself and intently stare at him to make him as uncomfortable as I had been. What does Pervy Old Man do?

He looked away and started picking his nose, doing more excavating that most labourers do. Disgusting, but also hilarious, invoking a fit of laughter from me. But, since all of the other passengers were facing forwards, nobody knew what I was laughing at, except possibly the poor, deplored looking girl sitting next to the Pervy Old Man. Of course, they all like at me like I'M the weird one, whilst Pervy Old Man is having the time of his life digging for treasure.

Since giggling, especially whilst on one's own, is an attention drawing behaviour, Pervy Old Man looked at me again. And kept picking his nose. Which made me laugh even more. He soon realised what I was laughing at, and ceased his digital indiscretions.

But the story doesn't consummate there. A few minutes later, he pressed the stop button, indicating that he wanted his amazing adventure on the bus to come to an end- whether this stemmed from the embarrassment he suffered or because he actually needed to get off the bus, remains a mystery to this day.

After he disembarked and was safely on the outside of the bus, obviously unbeknownst to him, I could still see him through the windows. And of course, he was... picking his nose. Peals of laughter and more funny looks from my fellow passengers ensued.

The moral of the story? Pick your nose on buses at your own discretion, at the risk that I may laugh at you.