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.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
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:
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.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, July 6, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, July 3, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)