Good! Unnng, excellent, just like that...

So recently my friend and I were at our usual Wednesday joke class. It's a college class in my program that's designed to give teachers the resources needed to pass our big evaluations. We like to call it 'storytime' because basically, the professor reads us the outline of our evaluation. Girlface and I stay until we can sign in to mark that we were there, then we bounce like a bed spring.

We also entertain ourselves with completely irrelevant tasks during our 20 minutes of attendance. Last time I was writing sheet music for Hallelujah and Girlface was grading quizzes; this time, I was playing on my space phone (translation: iPhone, bought to fuel my internet addiction). It was a momentous occasion that has since ruined my life.

Girlface: Man, I wish I had a space phone...
Me: You can play some games for a bit, but I'll need it back to check my email.
Girlface: Do you have Bejeweled?
Me: ...GIVE ME TWENTY SECONDS

The good thing about my addictions to shiny things is that it denotes a short attention span and a bad recall, so I could hardly remember a game like Bejeweled existed for the time it would take to get out my phone, check to see if it was an app, and download it. The bad thing is that if a friend mentions it and I'm already searching for games, I have to buy it.

Bejeweled is a terribly addictive game in and of itself. Huge time consumer for me... while I'm waiting for a page to load on my computer, while I'm chatting with people on my phone, while I'm waiting for prep period to be over so I can teach, while I'm pooping in the faculty bathroom and resting my heels while another teacher walks in so I can continue when she's safely out of ear shot of my butt... I estimate it takes up a good 10% of my day. Considering I used to spend that time sleeping, well.

The worst thing is, other Bejeweled people totally know this. They just don't care.

Me: So. Recently downloaded Bejeweled.
Fluffy, who I tease about looking like a hobo, or Sasquatch, who is inherently a hobo: OH. Oh. I'm sorry. On your phone? So you have it everywhere?
Me: I haven't slept in three days, I think my eyelashes are turning to sugar.
Fluffy: ...what's your high score?*

There's something so cathartic about lining up shiny gems and watching them disappear. Sometimes you line up 4 and they become shiny. The shiny ones explode. In case you didn't hear that, SHINY. EXPLOSIONS. This is pretty much like getting addicted to crack, especially the part where I neglect friends and family, except I don't have to have the nosebleed and I only paid once and nobody famous is on it.

One thing that bothers me. One, tiny, little, thing. If I get a cascade... for you non-Bejeweleders, that means the disappearing gems go on for a while and get me combo points... well, there's a man's voice that comes on and tells me I'm doing good, or excellent, or incredible. But it's just so very slightly strangled. Not in a painful way. Just. Reminiscent of me giving him a handy in the back of his mom's van while he tells me it's so good, excellent, incredible, unnnnnnnhhhhh. I don't know if this is unique to iPhone but I'm just terrified that if I get any more combo's past 'incredible' I'll have to charge him fifty dollars and call it a night.

Sound: off. Forever.

...of course, it would definitely make those ladies in the bathroom hurry out of there that much faster.

*86,851. I don't know if that's bad, or good, but I've already shared it with one person so I figured might as well continue spreading it around like VD.

Oil tastes like regret

Oh Christ on a cracker, life's been just going on and on and on. I look at it and go "Is it time to sleep yet?" Life just laughs and shits in my oil filter. My car broke down this morning on the way to the high school, right when I needed it to work properly, so that was a reference to getting my oil changed. FINALLY.

Sorry, but every memory of oil changing is a good one, which makes the whole process bittersweet. So thinking about my long overdue oil change sort of made me nauseous, mechanic-man, for reasons you cannot explain. So I'll just blame this on my mother and you'll charge me out the ass. LESSON LEARNED. But now that my grad application (for a teaching credential) is in, let us breath a small sigh of relief. I can focus on the little things. Like getting to bed at a decent hour. For now.

However, at this very moment, I am unable to get to sleep. Mostly because I am learning ASL (American Sign Language) and my friend thought it was a marvelous idea to take me to Deaf coffee, a Deaf event, at 11 pm, so the caffeine-sensitive chick can load up and stay awake until 4 am before her Saturday guitar class. So now my mind is wandering and I think, hey. I want to be a guy.

No, I'm not transgender. I am very firmly a girl. I wear makeup, I do my hair, I use soap in the shower. On occasion, after looking in all directions to make sure nobody is around, I frolic the fuck out of some flowers. Let's just say, if I were to suddenly be a guy, I would be gayer than a handbag full of rainbows.

But at the same time, I feel physically, I'm more gender fluid. Honestly, if I were to wake up with a penis sans boobs, my biggest reaction would probably be something along the lines of "Whoo! I don't have to shave my legs anymore!" Followed very closely by "oh my god I can pee standing up sweet Jesus." It would be nice.

But I could settle for looking more androgynous. If I were to ever want to look like a guy... no dice. I can't cut my hair short (or I get a Jew fro made of curls and frizz), my face is too ugly-femme (though my jaw is pretty wide), and... well. My meatsacks? They're not going anywhere. No amount of gauze in the world can tie these puppies down without serious damage in the chesticulars.

I wanna be skinny with straight hair and a more vague face, so I can on occasion tie down the sweatermeat and cut my hair short (I would kill for Asian straight black hair) and go as a girly guy. Or a boyish girl. This would be amazing.

And so not going to happen, ever. But for cereal, turning into this creature of androgyny (because androgynous people? HOT) would be my first wish for the genie I shall discover. Oh, you plan that shit out too. Don't deny it.

But if you wish for flying, LAME.

If this post was censored it'd just be one long 'beep'

You know, I never used to hate Friday the thirteenth's. Mostly because I'm not a superstitious asshole. Not calling all superstitious people assholes, except I am, because superstition is stupid.

Especially that one. A number isn't gonna kill you, bitches. Suck it up. But we still fail to have thirteenth floors and room number skip the dreaded one-three, so apparently the world needs to invest in a backbone. Right after we fix the economy.

What REALLY pisses me off is that the number can ruin a perfectly good Friday. Back in the day it was an unlucky day (thus, FRIDAY the thirteenth) but right now it is the day where you're like fuck yeah, it's the weekend, and the afternoon is like more time off. It's an amazing day and thirteen just pissed all over it. Especially since back in high school I had to listen to all the fuckwads talk about how thirteen is actually their lucky number because of course nobody else has ever thought of that ever, whore.

I don't fall for superstition. I couldn't care less about walking under ladders unless they look old and someone's on them, I don't break mirrors cuz that shit is expensive and hard to clean up, and I've owned (and currently own) black cats, which have been the best cats I've owned. Mostly. On Friday 13th I couldn't care less, just went around my business. I usually wouldn't notice, though, until someone went "LOL IT'S FRIDAY THE 13TH." It was really just another day. Nothing bad happened to me on them, ever.

Today, actually, was alright. I talked with a boy who wasn't doing his work in the school project and got him to grow a pair for almost five minutes, some of the kids were pretty cool, last night I went clubbing and I only overslept a little this morning, and I just had a delicious popsicle. But it was a sucky day.

Mostly because this year, on a Friday the 13th, my dad died.




So quite frankly little Miss Bitch could just shut the fuck UP about being tired from being on the wrestling team and he can't plant flowers because that's GIRL'S work, his life is SO HARD. Jesus. If whining was electricity I'd be RICH.