Lately my allergies have been having quite a bit of fun at my expense. I keep getting random onslaughts of sniffles in the middle of conversations and being concerned that the person I am engaging is noticing dribblets of snot making escape attempts. Groooooooooooooooooooooss.

I am very much in love with the song Ningyo Hime from the Chobits soundtrack right now. It's really cool and pretty, like J Rock/ J Pop with a little electronica thrown in. Plus the singer has the sweetest voice (heart, heart Tanaka Rie). Actually, it kind of reminds me of Six Pence None The Richer, now that I think of it. Or something along that vein. Especially the words. Here's a little bit of the translation:

At night, the town is quiet
like the bottom of the ocean
I continue down the road by myself
Guided by the distant voice
I keep searching for
the soft blue light

Hey, I discovered myself within
And my spirit calls out to me
No matter how far away I am,
I can hear it

Ok, maybe not. But it's still cool. You should know that the "hey" in there doesn't really mean "hey." The word "ne" is an all purpose word, and I've seen it mean some thing like, "isn't that right?" or "ok?" and about a dozen other things. It's like an all-in-one question/ exclamation word. You stick it on the end of your sentence to um... reinforce what you're trying to say, maybe? It's use seems kind of random most of the time, anyway.

For the longest time I thought the title meant Human Princess, until I remembered that ningen means human, but ningyo means doll. So it's "Doll Princess"

Which makes a lot more sense, as the main character in Chobits is a robot.

I also got ahold of the song Shiroi Yami No Naka by Shakka Zombie, which is two Japanese guys rapping to electronic harmonica...
...
...
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No, I don't know what's wrong with me, either. I just can't help loving the song; it's so incredibly bizarre.

I'm really tired right now. I always put off doing my streches until just before bedtime, so I keep myself up. (And, just like the doctor-lady predicted, it's temporarily making my knees feel worse instead of better). I would get it done first thing in the morning, but Mr. S, Gym class Oberfuhrer, would rather we play Flicker Ball (the curious lovechild of frisbee, football, AND basketball) than do quiet, non-competitive workouts in the weightroom. He is such a butt. Just because he's living a miserable existence and cannot escape the horror that is gym class doesn't mean he has to make the rest of us depressed. How does one end up as a gym teacher, anyway? How bad a screw-up do you have to be to end up on that career track? And, most importantly, how am I supposed to take fitness tips from a guy with man-boobs? Seriously, it's sick. Amy said, "They're called pecs." And I said, "Pecs if they look good, man-boobs if they look like boobs." Which they do. And it's really WEIRD because he's in shape and everything. His chest just sticks out funny. You probably didn't want to know that, but it's your own fault for reading this in the first place.

We were having a discussion on teen depression and suicide in Psych today (second period; what a great way to start the day) and one girl used the word "like" about 30 times in 45 seconds. I was pretty much thinking, "Good LORD girl, just give it up." Hardly any of my classmates can put together a comprehensible sentence. How like are you like supposed to like follow this like stuff if there are like all these like extra like words in there, you knowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww? How can they like keep like throwing like the word like like in there? I ask you. Hmph.

My ever-shrinking attention span requested I change the layout again.

Ok, the moo post was just a check to make sure blogger was working. It wasn't last time I tried updating.

I've become completely infatuated with Rosemary Clooney, Eartha Kitt, and Dave's True Story over the weekend. Rosemary Clooney is just plain cool, Eartha Kitt makes any song sound sexy (especially Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets from Damn Yankees), and Dave's True Story's singer has this sweet, cute voice. I love them. And Danke Schoen. But that's a song.

I have been giving out my senior pictures. To my surprise and chagrin (which is just a fun word), some people didn't recognize me. I look exactly the same, except for the nice clothes and painted nails and extensive make up and hair that had been attended to for once in my life. I really do not understand why they would mistake me for someone else when I simply look nothing like myself in the picture. Sigh.

A mystery CD appeared in our mailbox today. It had my full name on it, and it was a burned CD with homemade label curtesy of Office Max. I was quite weirded out until I saw it also came with a computer CD of my senior picture proofs, and was therefore from my uncle Philip. Or is it Phillip? Anyway, knowing it's from a family member makes it infinitely less creepy. I'm listening to it right now. New Age Jazz (I think...well, it sounds modern, at least) with a girl doing some cute scat. My kind of thing. You wouldn't believe how many times I typed scar instead of scat just now.

Today, when I walked into the English room, Mr O pointed his inhaler at me and made this weird phaser-sound by humming and whistling at the same time. He did it at least twice more during the period because I kept drifting off. Then he walked up to me and started jangling his keys in my face until I told him it was so hypnotic, I do believe I'm going back to sleep. Then in Stats, Mr. M asked me if I liked my calculator (because the unit we're on involves an almost unholy amount of calc work) and I said it was my best friend and hugged it. But not so much you noticed.

I was watching some anime with Weston the other night. It was typical boy anime. You know, big robots, lots of explosions, minimal romantic subplots (a weakness of mine. I can't live without them). Not really something thoughtful or thought-provoking or refined or anything, just fun. But then they had an episode centered around the song, What A Wonderful World. You know, the Louis Armstrong one. Only they had a really pretty remake with a lady singing it. I was so surprised. It definitely raised my opinion of the anime, and also reassured me that the Japanese are not completely hopeless.

Has anyone else noticed that my life centers around music lately? What's that mean, I wonder?

You may notice a new link. Exploding Dog is not a site about combustible canines. Most of you should know about it, as I talk about it nonstop, but now you know where to go if you want to first treat yourself to my witty banter (ha ha) and then make your way over to a site that makes even less sense than I do, if such a thing is possible. It is also more entertaining.

Lately I have been puzzling over languages; more specifically, the Japanese language. How can "haku" be a verb mean to throw up or to strip an item of clothing on the lower half of the body? How can the word "chu" mean mouse and be the sound effect for a kiss? It seems a bit wierd. But then I thought about our own bizzare language. Rob, for example. Harmless abbreviation for the name Robert, or forceful borrowing without intent to return? And what about wound? Is it the past tense of wind (don't get me started on the wind/wind phenomenon), or a grevious injury. I've simply come to the conclusion that no languages make any sense if you think about them too hard, which is probably what most people think of this site.

mooooooooooooooooooo

"Entranced by the squeegee that is your soul."

If you saw that somewhere, you'd be tempted to investigate, wouldn't you? Admitt it. I know I would. But that's just because I have this tendency to become completely fascinated by squeegees. They're just so cool.

Poor mum. I told her that I wanted to go to Columbia and she's like, "Oh, did you look it up on the internet? Did it look good?" And she got mad at me when I told her no, that's where Utada Hikaru goes to school. In New York, mind you. Speaking of which, I found out she's marrying this 34 year old songwriter. She's 19. Ewwwwwwwwwww.

I like playing the Sims. It's the perfect game for closet control freaks like me. I only act like an accomodating doormat outside of the house. Anyone of my poor family members can tell you that once I get home, I become this neurotic ball of overbearing. No one can step foot in my room without permission. No one can touch anything of mine. I don't like it when one of my siblings asks me for something; they'll only get it if I decide to give it to them. I can't stand the sight or sound of someone eating. I hate it when people scrape their teeth against their fork. There are all these little things that drive me absolutely nuts, no matter how trivial. I imagine there are days when the temptation to throttle me has to be dealt with by locking one's self in the bathroom and counting to ten. Then twenty. Then fifty. Then running screaming through the house while hoping no one notices. And with my own, insubstantial powers of observation, there's a good chance that at least I won't.

So I heard tell that my last entry wasn't good enough for you. I poured my heart and soul into that wonderbread and mayonnaise remark, but it still wasn't enough. You want longer, funnier. Bunch of vultures.

She said you wanna go, wanna get a latte?
I said it's too expensive, can't it wait till pay day
How's about I bu-buy you a slurpee, she said no way
I was forced to talk to her head as she walked away

She said you wanna go, wanna get some Guinness?
I said I don't drink (he says some thing I don't understand right here)
How's about I bu-buy you a small raspberry slurpee?
She said I don't drink that stuff and that is when she left me

She's too cool to drink a slurpee
She's too cool to eat at Hungry Howie's
She's too cool to eat a hamburger
Maybe she's too cool for me to be with her

I love that song, man. I have no idea who it's by, or what it's called or anything, but it's awesome. There's even a little intermission in it where you can here two people talking:
man: hey, you wanna go out and get a slurpee?
woman: not really. i'd rather like, go to a bar or something
man: hey, what's wrong with a slurpee?
woman: slurpees are like, for nerds and little kids, mike
man (now mike): ouch. what am i, then?
woman: well, if you wanted a slurpee, i guess you answered your own question
mike: (laughing) you don't like slurpees?
woman: no, not really
mike: aw, you suck
woman: bu-but mike...
mike: whatever

I love the idea of someone blowing his date off because she's not into slurpees. I would want a guy who like slurpees. He'd be the coolest guy... EVER.

Remember to exercise restraint when applying mayonnaise to your wonderbread.

The power went out at school today. We got to leave at 10:30 am on a Friday. No homework, either. I think someone up there likes me. And tomorrow, I'm going to the Japanese import store with Brad and Chris. I can buy all the CDs and Pocky I can and just GROOOOOVE until the cows come home.

I hate it when the cows come home. They're loud and smelly and just one of them takes up the whole couch.

I went shopping with Mum and Drea yesterday. I tried to talk Mum into buying me an 80 dollar Alice In Wonderland wallclock. It had a pendulum. I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed it. But we didn't get it. Sadness. We did see a little bolster pillow-y thing that basically looked like someone had shaved Rags and stuck her fur around a cushion. It was cute. If a little creepy.

I am so happy right now, I think I'll do a little jig.

Jig, jig, jiggle.

That was fun.

I keep doing that thing where I change the window without saving my blog, so I end up losing everything through my own stupidity. It really makes me wonder how I manage to get decent grades. There are days when I seem to be all brains and no common sense, and days when I don't even have that much.

You know that thing in your head that tells you when to speak up and when to shut you fat mouth before you get yourself in trouble? I think I broke mine. There's really no other explanation. I get the two choices mixed up so often you've got to wonder if some of the wires in my brain are crossed. What am I talking about? You can probably hear the fuses blowing from here.

Errrrrrrrrr... today I got a better view of a girl's thong than I ever wanted. It was sick. I nearly gouged my eyes out then and there. But it was in the middle of psychology and I thought better of it, since I want to pass that test tomorrow.

I want to start a psychic hotline, but instead of my psychos having exotic accents like Jamaican or Haitian, I want them to be Swedish. Wouldn't that be fun?
"You are going to find truuue love, jah."