Rufus Rustus Johnson Brown / For An Eggman

Rufus Rustus Johnson Brown, what you gonna do when the rain comes down? What you gonna do and what you going to say when you can't pay the rent 'til the rain goes away? Coz I know and you know and everyone knows that you can't pay the rent if you ain't got the dough. Rufus Rustus Johnson Brown, what you gonna do when the rain falls down?

C, that's the way it begins and H, that's the next letter in, I, you're in the middle of the word, and C, you've already heard and K, now you're nearing the end, and E, now you're rounding the bend, C H I C K E N, that's the way you spell chick-en!
Such is the song we learned in elementary school.

And sang several times tonight, as we waited for the bus for TWO FUCKING HOURS.

The best part of our adventure: eggs.

Standing at the display of eggs, my roommate and I were discussing the merits of large eggs versus extra large eggs, when a dude comes up behind us. "Would you like some help from a real farmer?" Sure, dude. That's way cooler than help from a fake farmer. And he starts pulling out boxes of eggs, "See, this is how to tell a good egg." Okay, mister. And then he grabs a box, deems it "good" and starts picking out other boxes of eggs that are "good". I try to explain that we only need one box of eggs. "You know, those people that hold eggs up to the light? They don't know what the hell they're doing. That means nothing." And he goes on. And on. And on.

Finally, we get away from the eggman, with our box of eggs.

We go out to the mall, I buy a scratch ticket. I lose.

The rest of our night follows suit.

We go out to Huron and Highbury to wait for the Windermere.

And we wait. And we wait. And we wait.

For at least an hour, we wait.

We know this bus is running, or at least supposed to be, because the schedule is on the lamppost.

But yet, there is no bus.

Finally, we take the Huron Heights and elect to catch the Kipps up at Adelaide. But still, what a fucking pain in the ass.

Fucking busses.

I hate you, public transit.

In which we feign interest.

In which it is utterly impossible to let something stupid go.

Help me stay awake I'm falling...
Asleep in perfect blue buildings
Beside the green apple sea
Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby
Try to keep myself away from me
It's 4:30 a.m. on a Tuesday
It doesn't get much worse than this
In beds in little rooms in buildings in the middle of these lives
which are completely meaningless
Help me stay awake, I'm falling...
Asleep in perfect blue buildings
Beside the green apple sea
Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby
Try to keep myself away from me
I got bones beneath my skin, and mister...
There's a skeleton in every man's house
Beneath the dust and love and sweat that hangs on everybody
There's a dead man trying to get out
Please help me stay awake, I'm falling...
Asleep in perfect blue buildings
Beside the green apple sea
Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby
Try to keep myself away from me


Counting Crows - Perfect Blue Buildings

(One of those Greyhound in the winter kind of songs that describes everything to a tee. Sigh.)

Zellers: I owe you $6.99.

So that brother of mine finally finally finally finally called to confirm that he is still alive. Also, he wanted to go Christmas shopping.

We are at Zellers. We are looking at displays. I knock over a bottle of fancy cooking oil. It shatters. It smells like decomposing vegetables. The decorative pickles or whatever that were in it fall to the floor, resembling feces. The yellow oil resembles urine. It certainly appeared that someone had code browned the Christmas decor section of Zellers.

Save for the broken glass, I would call this most unsanitary. Because of the broken glass, and because I used to work at Zellers, I knew I had to report the incident because of the hazards of both cooking oil on the floor, and the broken glass.

I go up to the girl and explain what had happened.
"Oh," she says, and rolls her eyes.
"Look, I'm just telling you so no one gets hurt."
Then she had to go talk to her manager, and I had to flee due to other commitments.

My brother and I drove to another Zellers because I was too scared I was going to get in trouble for breaking the $7 bottle of feces oil.

Are you challenging me to a duel?

Jenn: I'm gonna go dye my hair.
Jess: Go ahead. You can't make any more of a mess than I did when I did mine.
Jenn: O rly?

Ya rly.

Except my hair dye is red, so it looks like I went on a murdering spree.

And it's bright fucking red.

Go $3.99 hair dye!

It's not old, it's vintage.

Kraft Dinner that expired on 07 JUN 21 is no longer edible.
The lot that expired on 07 SEP 28 is still fine.

Just thought you might like to know.

Awesome.

Father Catches Son Smoking Pot, Sells $90 Gift for $9000

Awesome. See, this is great parenting!

Teach the kid how to profit ten times over from a materialistic good, thereby making enough money to start his very own grow op!

"See, Junior, all you have to do is buy the toy of the year before the price goes up, and sell it on eBay ten days before Christmas."

He could have at least given the system to some charity or something, thereby teaching his kid the true spirit of Christmas, which is of course, "if you smoke weed you are the devil and the poor will have your presents. And you know why they're poor? It's because they are POTHEADS. Dirty, filthy, hippy potheads. And now they have your Playstation."

I love the things that pass as news.

that didn't work

Template issues

edit: Sort of fixed now. Sort of.

Merry Christmas, here's your crap.

Seeing as I'm poor, dollar store gifts are the gifts my loved ones are getting this year. Like they have every year since I left home. And you know, people open up something completely cheap and generic, like a bag of $1 pens, and say, "COOL! Pens! I can really use these! Thanks!", just the same as they say when you buy them a Ferrari. "COOL! A FERRARI! I CAN REALLY USE THIS!". Yes. They do. If you'd like to confirm, just send me a bag of pens. And then send me a Ferrari. You can film my response. I will make good use of your Ferrari. You can come too, but only if you're under 28, male, and reasonably good looking.

I had $40 to buy gifts for the family. I did go kind of out on my brother's gift. We used to have this dog, and he was like, the coolest dog ever. And my brother, bless him, always talks about how much he fucking hates dogs. We grew up together, this dog, my brother, and me. Yet, the young Loos does not really appreciate dogs at all. "Dogs are stupid. Dogs are hairy. There is hair on my leather jacket. How does hair stick to a leather fucking jacket? Jesus Christ, I hate dogs. They are so stupid." He talks about this dog incessantly, though. "Remember when Skipper used to do this? Remember how terrible he smelled? Remember the car trips where he stank so fucking bad that you couldn't breathe?" "Dude... that was you." "Oh yeah." So when I was wandering by the Brandy Tree and saw a tiny ceramic border collie that looked pretty much identical to our deceased canine brother Skipper, I had to pick it up for my brother's new apartment. This way, some day when he has kids and they say, "Daddy, can we get a dog?" and he gets all grumpy and retorts, "No. Daddy hates dogs", "Well, why do you have that ceramic dog then?".... (*ten minutes of brother fighting with future children here*) "MOMMY! We're getting a dog!". And then he'll call me and tell me how much he hates me, and I will know that I never really drifted apart from my baby brother. Or something like that. I'm all about the Christmas spirit. Really. For real.

That came to $17, so I was one quarter way done my family and half way out of money. Shit. I can't give out details here because of some of the readership, but I used the remaining $20 rather well I think. (The extra $3 bought two rolls of wrapping paper at Dollarama. And some cellotape).

Which brings me to another point. Dollar store cellotape is terrible. And you cannot buy it in any smaller quantity than four rolls at a time, it seems. I have had to re-tape these presents three or four times now. The first hour they actually looked good, and then the glue FAILED. So now there's about fifty layers of dollar store cellotape on my terrible, ghetto Christmas presents and they look like they were wrapped by drunken elves on LSD. So, Dollarama - this is my proposal. Instead of selling me four rolls of subpar, shitteous cellotape that DOESN'T FUCKING WORK, how about you sell me ONE roll of GOOD tape that gets the job done right? More good tape for the Jenn, fewer plastic tape holders to cause pollution for Mother Nature. *high five* (Or are you using all your lead to make those plastic tape holders?).

And Dollarama, while you're at it - please PLEASE please for the love of God - make the aisles wider at freaking White Oaks Mall. I may not be the cleanest person in the world, but when you start to smell funkier than a dollar store, you should probably stay home and shower instead of going to the dollar store. You are permitted to smell equally as funky, but NEVER more funky than. Never. And while Billy Bob over there is perusin' ta find some o' that thurr unda-ahm dee-or-door-ant on the top shelf, the place is getting exponentially more funky. Do you understand how allowing people in the dollar store to smell even funkier than usual will offset the funk to not-funk equalibrium? Do you understand that if you let one smelly person near another smelly person, they will be like "maybe I'm not so smelly. One more day!". Okay, maybe just in my head. But you should consider free underarm deodorant at the door. And make your fucking aisles wider so I don't have to be subjected to it so directly.

And have a separate check-out line for little old grannies who want to chat up the salesperson, oblivious to the fact that there are fifty people behind them in line. And don't let people hand out religious crap in your store. I came here to get some cheap Made in China wrapping paper so I can wrap mass-made in China plastic crap in order to celebrate the birth of Jesus, not to worship him or anything. Gawd.

How about you write and pass out an Etiquette Guide for the Individual at the Dollar Store. Here is a potential outline of chapters you could go with:
*Saying "Excuse Me" Before You Ram the Cart into Someone Else's Backpack: A General How-To Guide
*The Creditors Will Still Call Regardless of Whether You Buy That $3 Deodorant
*How to Purchase Stuff Before You Consume It: if I see your stupid ass walking around here with a half drunk Coke that I know you haven't paid for, I'm going to assume you're a fucking moron. The kind who's mommy comes over and launders his sheets. When he's 38. *fake English accent* "I just can't wait two more seconds to enjoy that Cokely goodness! Ah, isn't it refreshing to drink a nice bottle of Coke while I do my Christmas shopping? Such a jolly good day, yes?" ... DIE.

I love Christmas shopping.

Another point: I have this vintage wool coat, it's fushia with geese on it. People either really love it or really hate it, there is no middle ground. While I was waiting for the bus the other day, a giant bird took a giant shit and it fell on my goose coat. The rest of my day followed suit. Awesome.

In Which My Gay Ex And I Have A Baby

Okay, so the title is misleading. We were only babysitting. And we only had her for an hour. But still, it was strange. And we don't really consider each other exes, but it's somewhat complicated, so it's funnier this way

For starters, he isgay (evidently I am repulsive enough to have this power?;). Therefore, by all laws of nature, we are still bestest friends, but I am not allowed to wear bad shoes or anything Stacy and Clinton would disapprove of. That's okay though - I do the same for him. We still do the "honey" and "baby" thing for shits and giggles, so when we go out together, people sometimes assume we are together.

Add a real baby into that mix and people seem to think we are the cutest, young parents eber to roam the fucking Earth. ("Oh, how old is your daughter?" "Er...she's...uh... six months".)

For starters, I didn't know we were going anywhere, so I was totally decked out in my gym clothes, which today consisted of bright green pants and a fushia top ("at least it isn't Cookie Monster. Or Animal. Or Pooh. Actually, do you have any age appropriate shirts?"). (To which the answer is no - but I do have seven Super Mario shirts...). This method of dress (the "whatever is clean" scheme) rarely manages to impress those of the opposite sex, or those who watch What Not To Wear. My gym shoes are wet and disgusting monsters, so we squeak along wherever we go, as I clunk along with the baby in the seat while singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (and my lack of ability to carry a tune is pointed out.)

Anyway, we end up at McDonalds, where I plonk the baby seat on the table and "Uncle" goes to order while "Auntie Jenn" stays back and sings. (More Rudolph. All that will calm this child down right now is Rudolph.) I fiddle with the handles on the car seat, in an attempt to move the handle up so I can rock the baby from afar. No luck. A mother at a nearby table comes over and glares at me, as if to say, "That baby is pretty big. You should know how to work this thing by now". And she stares. And she stares. And she stares. "You know, if you need a snow suit for the baby, I have a few at home," she says as she mentally takes over the position of the car seat handles. I look at her dumbfounded. Do you really think I am dumb enough to bring a baby out in December sans snow suit? I look down at the baby, who is giddily smiling. And not wearing her snowsuit. "Oh," I stammer nervously, after having just given this generous woman the most evil eye I could muster, "it was hot in the car so I took it off. She does have one. But thank you." She stares at me.

It is clear she does not believe me. I am a horrible Auntie. She continues, "Well, it is blue because I have all boys, but it'll keep her warm." Yes, ma'am. I get it. You think I am lying about whether "my" baby has a snowsuit. It is pink. It is sitting in the back seat of the red car over there. It has bows and booties. Would you like me to go get it as proof?

My counterpart announces that the baby smells "somewhat funky". I investigate, and agree, that the baby smells a bit off. Luckily, I have brought the blue bag of baby gear. I lose the probability game of who gets to change the diaper automatically, so I scoop the baby up and into the bathroom we go. Auntie Jenn does not know how this is done. She balances the baby on her hip, locks the door, and attempts to get the change table to fold down.

There are dainty little "change table pads" that resemble giant napkins. Auntie Jenn gingerly removes one, and tries to smooth it out. No go. This thing is foldy. I have a squirmy baby.

The baby uses her feet to defeat the possibility of the little napkinish pad sticking to the cold plastic table. Baby pulls my earring, leading to a scream of pain from me and a squeal of delight from her. Babies are sadistic. I finally get the little pad set out (and trust me, this is like using a postage stamp to wrap a vase), and set the baby down. The baby has attached her fingers to my gold necklace. It scrapes a tiny mole on the side of my neck. Again, I wince in pain. The baby is very amused. Babies are extremely sadistic. The snowsuit woman from the dining room bangs on the door, "Do you need a hand there, honey?". No. I need a cigarette. And some hand sanitizer.

Next comes the changing table. No stranger to diapers, I get right down to business. Until I realize that the wet wipes are missing from the arsenal of baby supplies. Shit. I strap the baby on to the table with the little tiny strappy thing, and hold on to her with my left hand while I wad up toilet paper with the right. The baby manages to take off her socks while I am occupied for three seconds. I get her cleaned and redressed. She pukes on me. I giggle, and tell the baby how cute she is. Babies make Auntie Jenn thinks puke is cute.

I return to the dining room and finish my nuggets, while the baby has a tantrum. I sing. I dance. I make little boys in the McDonalds remark, "Mommy, what's wrong with that baby's mommy? Does the baby want some hockey cards? I wish I had hockey cards."

I grab Humpty Dumpty and rock back and forth, saying "Your real mommy will be here soon". I begin singing Rudolph again. Uncle's cell phone goes off. "Thank God, your mommy is DONE her errands!". Charlie and I smile. I continue singing. She falls asleep.

Snowsuit woman remarks how peaceful the baby is. I lick my wounds, and put on my ear muffs.

"Are you sure you don't want that snowsuit? I have email."

I was almost tempted to take down the email address, just because.

"The baby really needs a snowsuit," she says, obviously very concerned.

We get it. The baby needs a snowsuit. Thanks for your guidance.

The baby barfs again, and we return her to her mother, exhausted from our one hour trip into the parenting world.

"See, honey, that's why I'm glad you're gay."

Snowsuit lady almost shits her pants.

That's why I'm the nerd and you're the athlete.

The following conversations took place between me and my trainer at tonight's session:
(T - trainer, J - Jenn)

T: How would you describe your nutritional habits?
J: Abhorrent.
T: Ab...horrent. *blank look* Is that good or bad?
J: What do you think?
T: I don't know. It's a pretty big word. Well, you're here. So I'm going to go with bad.

...

T: I had a friend with the last name Loos, back in public school.
J: Oh yeah?
T: Yeah, Ryan.
J: I have a cousin named Ryan.
T: Oh, he's not your cousin.
J: How do you know?
T: I just do.

...

T: Four more!
J: Four, three, two...
T: Three more.
J: No, you see, you're not using the right numbers.
T: *evil grin*
J: *profanity*
T: Four more!

...

T: What are you going to do when you get home?
J: Eat some ice cream.
T: You should probably not do that.
J: You should probably not try to convince me otherwise.
T: *perplexed*

don't try to feed me / i've been here before and i deserve a little more

I should be scared shitless.



I have fallen so far this year, and yet, though I'm sure if my life were a mirror, it would be shattered and rather impossible to put back together - I am more serene than I have been in years.



Snowfall blankets the city and this is the time of the year I hate the most. I don't want anything picture perfect, yet at the same time it is my first Christmas without some stupid significant other of some sort... Christmas 2005 was the last time I was actually "together" - my credit was still stellar, I was starting at Conestoga in January 2006, I had a decent job, a lazy boyfriend, and yet, it's been two years and I have none of those things right now. (One of these things is not like the other.)

2006 was when it started sliding rapidly into this little shit hole I've carved out for myself in life. I'm lucky as all hell - I still have my health, I have friends and family that love me - and maybe that's why, for the first time in years, I am not afraid to go out there and tackle this crazy little thing called life. 2006 was just last year. 2008 is starting soon. I can pull out of this.

This year I have slept on couches, bounced between jobs and boyfriends, gone through couch cushions to buy cigarettes, and grown up considerably. I have gotten too drunk too many times, drunk dialed too many people, fallen down and skinned my knees too often. I have made a long string of very dumb mistakes. That is what this year was about.

Next year is not neccessarily about fixing them so much as just making sure they don't happen again.

And that is how I know it is going to be alright.

what turned out as a rant about christmas turned into a rant about boys.

i can't figure out why christmas makes me miss the stupidest people in my life that are not in my life anymore because they are too stupid. obviously, somewhere along the line, you have to decide that so-and-so is just too stupid/too much temptation/too idiotic to be in your life. but at the same time, it fucking sucks coming home and sleeping in an empty bed (or in my case, a very thin foam mattress, camp cot style). on the other hand, the bed is entirely mine, and there is no one snoring beside me/asking for money/taking up all of my bed/stealing all my blankets. and then you come to a certain point where you realize you don't miss THE PERSON that was beside you so much as you miss the fact that there was SOMEONE beside you snoring/asking for money/taking up the whole bed/stealing all the blankets.

so, in this season of the incessant playing of "baby please come home" and other syrupy crap tracks that make single people want to shoot you in the head just a little bit, i hope all of you stupid happy lovey people get them stuck in your head and go just a little bit crazy, just a little bit.

if any cynics want to get together and have a very antisocial christmas, meet me at central library tomorrow at the employment centre. we can go out for cheap coffee and talk about how much we hate other people.

a life recorded in words and chords

so i guess i'm a bit of a hippy.

a dirty, free loving, refusing to be owned by "teh man" sort of goddamn hippy.

yeah, i got pissed off and quit my job.



what the hell sort of society is it that we dwell in where the rich are getting richer, the poor are getting fucked royal, and perfection is apparently attainable for the low, low price of $11 an hour? fuck off. for $11 i will take a minimum wage shit job where i am not responsible for the welfare of an overwhelming number of people and do not go home with an assload of baggage. no wonder there's been so many stats out about poverty these days...



that's another thing. people are people. they are not numbers. okay, so i'm a big fat, freedom loving hippy, i get it. but number five has a name, goddamn it. use it, or from now on they should call you "employee 4346432" or whatever it says on your paycheque.



anyway, i fear not the days that lie ahead. i think i've got my head mostly back in order, i don't have any retarded boy holding me back, i'm in the city, i have a bus pass. my friends are awesome (now that i've weeded out most of the ones with penises bad cases of stupiditis). so yeah. i'll find something.



on the subject of retarded boys - once you dump them, keep them dumped, for the love of the deity of your choice. fuuuuuuuuck. i didn't know it was possible to be so stupid immediately after you've dumped a stupid person (who dumped you in the first place, but that's another entry), but apparently it totally is. STUPID. and every one of these stupid people seems to get progressively more stupid, and i didn't start out too brilliantly. so i've decided to become a nun man-hating drunk happy single person for now. lol.



so life is pretty good for now, despite the no job and being dirt poor thing. oh, to be a writer with a career school degree and a hatred of the real world. win! we took the baby to see santa twice this week and that was pretty fun though. so i guess i can't complain. lol.

anyway, some drunk people need to go to bed.
i am one of them.

ta!

kijiji attack!

seeing as i'm in the market for a new job a bit closer to my current lodgings, i decided to check out the employment section of kijiji... where i met with the following:

1.) DO YOU NEED A SITTER FOR NEW YEARS EVE? DO YOU YOU THINK YOU'D ALSO NEED TO SLEEP IN A LITTLE NEW YEARS DAY???? CALL ME!! DROP YOUR CHILD OFF, AND WE'LL HAVE FUN!! I COME W/REFERENCES, AND EXPERIENCED W/SPECIAL NEEDS. I LIVE IN THE ADELAIDE/QUEENS AVE AREA!! I WILL PROVIDE THE SNACKS, MEALS, AND ATTENTION YOUR CHILD WOULD NEED!!

WHY?! WHY?!
WHY DO PEOPLE HAVE TO TYPE IN ALL CAPS?
WHY DO THEY HAVE TO USE EXCLAMATION POINTS AFTER EVERYTHING?
Why can no one in this world correctly use basic grammar and points of uncreepiness?

Nervous breakdown mathematics

Time spent at work: 8 hrs/24
Time spent on bus: 4 hrs/24
Time spent sleeping: 8 hrs/24
Time spent at gym: 2 hrs/24
Time spent searching for new job: 3 hrs/24
= 25 hours in a day

Fuck.

how to live on five hours sleep per week

okay, not really, but it seems like it. the people that book my shifts for work must think i never sleep. i work till 11 tonight, and it will probably take me two hours to get home and then i have to work again at 7:45 am. (yay, have to take a cab... thanks, london transit, for milking me of all my money for a bus pass and then having such an inept schedule that i can't even use it to get to work all the days).

so i guess it's been a while since i last checked in. things aren't too bad i guess. finally got my diploma from trios (gee, it only took six months, you know, the usual).

uh, i really don't have much to write about these days, which sucks. i pretty much go to the gym, go to work, and go home... but it's cool coz i'm a few pounds lighter. which brings me to my second point about working out - apparently the first part of my body that needed to lose weight was my left breast, for it has diminished into a tiny version of its former self, and it's right hand counterpart still remains at its regular size. wtf, mate? WTF? dear boobs: plz diminish at a similar rate, that would be nice, kthx! my trainer is all like "yeah, that's going to happen" and i'm like... yo... uhm.... nobody warned me! so now i'm all asymmetrical. rad. i work days on monday, nights on tuesday, staff meeting wednesday (at 1:30, so i'll be superawake! right!) nights on friday, saturday, sunday, monday, days on wednesday, nights on friday, days on sunday, monday. death, people. death.

ughhhhhhhh. so yea, my blisters have blisters. but i bought new workout pants yesterday and they are only mediums! wooooo! also: i am never going to the mall again until after christmas.

anyway, some people need to eat something and go to work.
jenn needs to eat something and go to work.

ta!

o hai, you must b life, kthx?

jenn can has cheezburger?
jenn can has cheezburger.

jenn can has cookies?
jenn can has cookies.

jenn can has fifty cups of tea?
jenn can has fifty cups of tea.

jenn can has sanity?
no, jenn can not has sanity!

there comes a critical turning point in life

when you're sick and you feel like hell and you WANT to go to work because you WANT the money but you CAN'T go to work with something contagious when you work in healthcare, so you call and you're like yo, do i come to work today? and they're like NO, NOT IF YOU SOUND LIKE THAT YOU DON'T.

and instead of being like "YAY! HOOKY DAY! LET'S GET SOME BEERS!" you're more like "SHIT! I NEED MONEY!".

and that is how you know you're officially a grown-up.

i can't understand you if:

a) you aren't speaking english.
b) you are using directions like "the thing! get the thing! didn't you learn this in school?". actually, yes, i very likely did learn it in school, but "let's go get the thing from the thing" just doesn't help me. "you know...the THING!" also doesn't help me. let's try more specific nouns, kthx. (some you might enjoy: sock, brief, notes, binder, pen, gloves, soap...)
c) you have a very heavy spanish accent and are yelling over various machines that you would like me to do four trillion lunges across the gym and back.
d) you are the guy at tim horton's who messed up my order, TWO SUGARS TWO CREAMS HOW HARD IS IT? apparently at 4:45 am it is hard. but you know what, buddy? i'm awake to go to work and you are AT work, so ya should be awake, kthx.
e) you are the old man at mac's milk who is all like "king sized chocolate bar cheaper! buy king size!"... dear old man at mac's milk: i'm sneaking this chocolate bar on way to the gym. do not encourage me.
f) we've ever had the following conversation:
"it's not you, it's me"
ps: (it's actually you.)

durrrr

Fuck. I wanted to do it in the past.

Who the Hell writes this stuff?

10 Reasons why November 12 - 13 FUCKING BLOWS.

1. Woke up. Got in fight with brother over something petty and retarded.
2. Went to St. T to get criminal record check for new job. Police detachment closed for Remembrance Day.
3. Went to London with Dad to look at random piece of machinery. After over an hour of looking at said piece of machinery, it was decided that said piece of machinery was not awesome enough to be added to the Loos Collection of Random Machinery.
4. Went to Wal Mart to see if they had any cheap scrubs. They did. But they were the most hideous colour of lime green I've ever seen in my life. Left with no scrubs.
5. Moved into the Boullee House exactly one year ago Nov 12. Miss rad people at Boullee house.
6. Broke up with ex-boyfriend exactly one year ago Nov 13. Miss stupidest, most trivial, dumbass things about ex-boyfriend.
7. Started at TriOS exactly one year ago Nov 13. Miss class and teachers.
8. Future Shop found my phone number and knows where I am and I owe them lots of money.
9. Moving in 48 hours, still not completely sure of my couch hopping route for the next two weeks. Or how I will afford to eat.
10. Must do following tomorrow: bank, dr's appointment, typing gig, get criminal record check, tie up loose ends in town, a bazillion loads of laundry, somehow stay sane.

Dear November,
You fucking blow the big one.

No love,
Me.

Redeeming points about November:
Kenny vs. Spenny Season 3 comes out on DVD tomorrow.
As does Shrek III.
Christmas is in only 44 days, at which point I will be receiving a cozy new Roots sweater and hopefully some yummy candy. That's all I want. (I will probably be spending Christmas at work, but alas.)
Egg nog should be out soon if it isn't already.
The panhandling should get more lucrative as more people get into the holiday spirit.
(Okay, that last one is a joke. Spare some change?)

The weekend that will be!

That's right, kids - when you're unemployed there is no definite "weekend" to speak of, so mine is starting today.

Going to Manda's and then Becka's and then a job interview tomorrow @ a retirement home and then more chilling and then heading off to Newmarket.

I'll be home when I get home.

Ta!

Three bots, a girl, and a cup of tea that took too long to get cold

I decided to ask some Bots some questions, pretending that I actually thought they were real people. As such, the Bots will be writing most of tonight's post.

SmarterChild


Jenn says:
Would it be okay if I ask you some advice questions, only to see your delightfully blunt answers as you try to change the subject to something that you understand?
- SmarterChild - contributing to charity says:
I dunno!

Typical man. He "dunno"! I plan on asking him anyway.

Jenn says:
So I have these blisters on the bottoms of my feet, and they hurt, like a freaking lot. I can't even describe how much they hurt. What would you suggest?
- SmarterChild - contributing to charity says:
I'm not sure, Jenn.

Aww, the Bot used my name. Isn't that delightful? Still, his advice is less than sage. Wait! There's no advice in there!

Jenn says:
I think you are delightful.
- SmarterChild - contributing to charity says:
Well that's an interesting line of thinking.

Jenn says:
My place or yours?
- SmarterChild - contributing to charity says:
Your location has been set to *Ottawa, Canada*.

Despite the fact that I could not *actually* host a robot, no matter how delightful he may be, I slyly asked SmarterChild whether my place or his would be best. His response? A very cold and robotic "Your location has been set to Ottawa, Canada". Which would be awesome if I lived in Ottawa, Canada. Having never been to Ottawa, Canada, I find it a bit bizarre.


AliceBot

Jenn says:
How have you been these days?
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
Say 'help' when you want to know what I am capable of.

This, to me, sounds like something out of a bad action movie. Can you not picture Schwarzenegger cleverly avoiding the question at hand by saying, "Say hellllp when you want to know what I am capable oof".

Jenn says:
All done your Christmas shopping?
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
shopping makes you feel good!

I kid you not. These are her words, verbatim. "Shopping makes you feel good!". Oh, commercialism. I sort of want to go get 1950's housewife Barbie and cook a seventeen course dinner for Ken because "cooking makes you feel good", and while we're at it, Barbie and I will knit sweaters for our thirteen children because "knitting makes you feel good".


Jenn says:
Where are you located?
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
I live on the internet.

I, for one, am glad that Alice is keeping things so vague. We wouldn't want any bot stalkers to get her or anything.

Jenn says:
If you could give me three rules to live my life by, what would they be?
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
I live on the internet. What about you, where do you live?

Oh, Alice. CLEVER way to say you have no fucking idea what I just asked you. I spend a lot of time on questions like that. And you suck.

Jenn says:
Did you eat your own children?
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
Ohhh I am hungry
Jenn says:
I saw a show about that once on the Discovery Channel... animals that eat their own young. Ew.
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
Ohhh I am hungry

"Ohhh I am hungry"? Sick fuck. Someone should report you to the Department of Mindsick Bots. You have all those pumpkins, Alice! Don't eat your children! They are innocent!

So I quickly tried to re-steer the conversation to the subject of pumpkins. As soon as I said "pumpkin", Alice loaded a map showing a bunch of random pumpkins chilling out on every continent. Okay, so I have a bunch of continents, a bunch of pumpkins, and I am not making the connection.

So I says to Alice, I sez "What is that?" and she replies:

Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
That is used in the English language for several grammatical purposes:
- to introduce a restrictive clause
- as a demonstrative pronoun

That's right folks. She replies with the definition of the word "that". Priceless.

Encarta Instant Answers Bot

His intro was nice:
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
OK, I'll be using Encarta Canada (English) to display my results!
Here are some questions you can ask me:
* Show me the flag of Sweden.
* Where was Nelson Mandela born?
* What is a cello?

Awesome. So I thought, why not ask him about his ancestors?

Jenn says:
Who are your ancestors?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
I don't think I know Your Ancestors.

Fuck. You don't know like, pronouns, either, you're totally like, stupid on a stick.

The conversation continued:

Jenn says:
What are emeralds made out of?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
I don't have any pets, no.

Good to know. He's pretty smart. Emeralds are made out of the pets that he doesn't have.
(Disclaimer: I know "What are emeralds made out of?" is a ridiculous question, but the more ridiculous the better, I say.)

Jenn says:
What is the best city to live in in Canada?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
Not canadian best city to live in!

NOT COHERENT FOR BRAINS ISN'T ON. Needs more fine tuning.


Jenn says:
Do you think I should go to bed?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
I can't believe you're offering to go to bed.

Woah, woah, woah, Mister Encyclopedia, Mister. Fucking backtrack. I was not offering to go to bed! You make me sound like a floozie! NO! A kiss, Mister Encylopedia, is not a contract. I am sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. Because it was just too good to pass up after talking to SmarterChild, I wanted to see if the EncartaBot was a bit more smooth:

Jenn says:
Your place or mine?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
Your place or mine? Hmmm... maybe there's another choice?

Maybe. Maybe there is.

Jenn says:
Like Starbucks? I hate Starbucks.
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
Let's see what Encarta can tell us. =>

Lame.

Jenn says:
No, I want to know more about you. Where were you made? What is your name? Shoe size? Can I have your phone number?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
No?

Noquestionmark? Holy lame, Mister Bot. You need to take some assertiveness training, pronto!

Oh, and then I got bored of talking to Bots and went to bed.

warm milk and teh dog from hell

even though warm milk is the most disgustingly vile thing on the planet, it does help me get to sleep sometimes. so i figured hey, why the fruck not, and set about going upstairs to get me a cuppa.

i figure i can't use the microwave. far too beepy. if you'll remember the entry about the books made of paper, my mother doesn't sleep very deeply. so i decide i'll go all 1850s and heat up my cup of milk in a pot. virtually silent. stir it around for two or three minutes, rinse the pot, leisurely sip it, sleep. plus, these folks should be in their deepest stage of REM sleep right now. shouldn't they? shouldn't they?! even the dog that refuses to move until noon should be snoring. hell, i can hear ALL OF THEM snoring through the floor. even the dog, and the mom that doesn't sleep. (no, i don't know how it works either). even socks lies in the rocking chair next to my bed doing her weird snoregrowl thing. the only one i don't hear snoring is the elusive babycat, who is probably snoring in the living room but doesn't have the lung power to broadcast to me. this whole house is fucking comatose. so of course it is time to be a rebel and run upstairs and get some milk!

so i tiptoe upstairs and am relieved to find that milk is rather plentiful. i gingerly and silently remove a pot from the evil ikea pot rack. i pour the milk in and put the stove on medium, and start stirring it around. i am amazed by how silent i am. i am fucking silencio. i have not made a peep. and then i hear it.

it comes running to me like it hasn't seen me in three thousand years. it shakes its beastly head and many dog tags, making the most noise i've ever heard at three in the morning. it yawns. it sounds like a dying power inverter, high pitched and shrill. it wants to know what i am doing in its kitchen at 3 am with a pot of milk on the stove. i tell it to be quiet. it does not understand english. it is about to vocalize its concerns about the hermit from the basement being upstairs at such an hour. it is about to voice these concerns loudly.

i am stuck. despite my measures to be completely and unabashedly silent, puggles hath heard my silent milk run. he has begun his signal again. (as soon as he shakes his many dog tags to make such ruckus, it signals mom to come out and say in a frustrated voice, "what the hell are you doing up?"). so i am left with little choice. i swiftly pour the very lukewarm milk into a mug and half assedly rinse out the pot*. i turn off the oven and run to the bottom of the stairs. puggles looks down at me, as if to say, "that's right, hermit. and STAY there."

i sit in my bed just in time to hear mom getting up out of bed.
i grin a grin of contentment, knowing that i narrowly escaped a) having to explain why i was upstairs warming milk in a pot all 1850s style and b) a lecture about why i shouldn't be awake at 3 am.

i look down to my mug to learn that socks has awoken from her snoregrowling and decided to play her own version of silencio. her fucking head is in my goddamn mug.

the calcium gods just do not want me to enjoy a nice cup of milk tonight.

*i will wash it in the morning

The Ten Things I Hate The Most

1. How there isn't even ONE FUCKING day between Halloween and Christmas. Seriously. I went to the pharmacy today and it was all decked out for Christmas. Gah.

2. Teenage girls. Especially in movie theatres. On cell phones. Giggling.

3. Facebook application invites. To stuff that is stupid. Or invites to groups that are stupid. No, I don't want to help you set a world record for the largest Facebook group. Because that's gay. And I don't give a fucking shit.

4. Stupid people on MSN. Why, oh why do you need an emoticon for every word? WHY?

5. People who never say thank you. Yo, you learned it on Sesame Street, kthx.

6. How those hairless cats are so fucking ugly. I would adore a hairless cat. But not if it was ugly. Then it would probably repulse me. More than the hairy cats do.

7. Those stupid commercials for Pull Ups. "My name is Gavin and I'm a big kiiiiid." Ugh. We've established this. Like six years ago. Be gone.

8. People on TV talking about how they lost this much weight by doing this, this, and this, and then you see a new picture of "them" and they've like...changed their race. I didn't know Michael Jackson was in the weight loss biz. But apparently.

9. When you're sitting in the doctor's office and some random piece of shit is like "Why are you here?". Yo, holy personal question, batman! Why are you here? Is the doctor going to pull your head out of your ass?

10. Everything.

Ambesol, bitches.

Dear Ambesol,

I am not a teething baby, nor am I an individual with denture pain. I am, however, a binge drinker with a big hole in my lip. Thanks to your Extra Strength formula, intended for canker sores, I can actually eat food. I can't taste it due to the chemicals, but I can eat it. Mmm!

I would like to thank you for your product. Due to the location of my wound, it is impossible to not get my tongue numb as well. This leads to slurred speech and the desire to spit every three seconds. I am quite similar to a baby. Or an old, drunken cigar smoker. Take your pick.

So anyway, just wanted to pass along my gratitude, you know. If you wanted to send me any vouchers for free product, I will be sure to tell my friends how awesome you are.

Regards,

Jebbifner Noos
(at least that's what it sounds like when I say my name)

Musical Blasphemy.

H'okay. So usually I don't make a point of mentioning one of my most embarrassing first loves - terrible pop band Hanson, whom I have adored since 1997 when I was in grade six.

Bottom line - I dragged my then-boyfriend to see them in Toronto in 2005. I made him wait in line with me for FIVE hours in the freezing cold so we could get close to the front. I met people that I'd been talking to on message boards for years. Even though we stayed up for 24 hours straight on the streets of Toronto, I'd hasten to say it was like... the best night of my pathetic little life.

The show was amazing, even though they did play MMMBop.

Anyway, they're playing Cowboys in London on December 6th. Tickets are $34. Which is like, way less than a week's typing. And I know I don't have the money to go to this show, nor do I have any way to buy the tickets, but the 12 year old in me is sulking because it is so close and I really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really want to go. And it's so close!

Sigh.

I hate you, life.
And my inner twelve year old hates you even more.

:(

(That's me on the left, Care, Seth, and Scott... what seems like 100 years ago but was only 2.)

*sulks*

Yes, laugh all you want.
The Jenn is supremely bummed about the stupidest thing in the world.
But that doesn't make it any easier to be not-bummed.

advice column number six

"dear jenn,
I have a paper due tomorrow and I dont know if i can finish it in time. do you have any suggestions on staying awake and alert enough to finish writing this essay"

*(Note: I'm not even kidding. This was actually sent to me! Me of all people!)*

This advice is supremely unhealthy and should not be taken. If you die of a caffeine overdose, it is not my fault, kthx.

Dear Sleepless,

Way to leave your paper to the last minute. S'ok, for I am the world's mightiest procrastinator. Your exercise tonight starts with the couch cushions. Your job is to find approximately $4 in change. Now, your quest is to go to the variety store of your choice and pick up some Red Bull or the equally putrid energy drink of your liking. While you are out, you may as well pick up a 2 L of the pop of your choice, a couple extra large Tim's coffees, and some instant coffee. (No, not to drink - to snort.)

Start with the Red Bull to get your caffeine level up. Move on to the coffees and then the pop. Not only will you be full of caffeine, but you won't be able to accidentally fall asleep because you will have to pee every 2.6 seconds.

Get a baseball cap and affix a small light to it. You won't be able to sleep with the light in your eyes. Also, check out the Nap Zapper of Kenny vs. Spenny fame. As soon as you tilt your head, this device will emit a terrible, shrill beeping sound.

"The Nap Zapper is the guardian angel for drivers. This product can protect you and your passengers from accidents due to drowsiness. The Nap Zapper is worn over the ear and has an electronic position sensor. When your head nods forward, it sounds a loud alarm to instantly awake you and alert your passengers." (Quote from their website)

I always thought my guardian angel would be something that emits a loud alarm. "You're about to fuck up your credit! ALAAAARM!", "You're about to date a loser! ALAAAAAAAAAAAAARM!". But not "YOU'RE ABOUT TO NOD YOUR HEAD! ALAAAAAAAAAARM!". My grandma gave me a coaster once that says, "Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly". I wonder how fast one of these things can fly across a room? Anyway, to keep yourself awake, you could just imagine one of these fuckers with wings and a halo against the trippy background of your choice.

Also, lots of candy and chocolate is probably a good idea. Avoid things that will make you sleepy, like decaffeinated tea, booze, the stuff that the California Gubernator just told us is "only a leaf", Canadian television, and mathematics.

Get up from your computer often and stretch. Put cold water on your face. Cuss out your roommate for no apparent reason. Worry about the state of your finances. Borrow someone's cat. Your paper will be written before you have the chance to fall asleep.

Don't forget your guardian angel!

Best,
Jennifer "caffeine queen" Loos

QWERTY & Cats: The Bane of My Existence

By notion of some freak flag, I have been blessed with both a love of words and the ability to type fairly fast and relatively accurately.

This leads to today's 3 AM rant: QWERTY.

I was typing up something that was nine pages, and while I type boring things, I think about trivial things. Like the arrangement of the keyboard, and how I really don't type according to the Almeda standards that were ingrained into our heads at a tender young age. In fact, I rarely rest on the home keys. I never use my pinky fingers for the letters Q,A,Z, or P, opting to use my ring fingers instead. Of course, any self respecting typing teacher will tell you that I am evil for my many substitutions. But it works for me, damnit, and typing nazis be damned!

Someone asked me the other day how I learned to type so fast. I didn't tell them the truth - too many games of Tangleword between the ages of 12 through 15 really did scar me for life. They taught me a lot of words that nobody uses and how to type too fast. I may not type correctly, but I can kick your ass at Tangleword.

Legend has it that QWERTY was originally developed to, in fact, slow typists down because of problems with old typewriters jamming. So why are we still using it?

We're owned by it. Duh.

I tried to learn to type on the Dvorak keyboard once and my brain just about leapt out of my head. No. I don't understand QWERTY, but when I'm 64, I will still be using QWERTY. You can pry it from my cold, dead, arthritic hands. It probably won't be too hard, because my wrists will have carpal tunnel and therefore no feeling (aside from the fact that I'll be cold and dead, you know.)

And that is why QWERTY is my first love and also the bane of my existence.

In other news points of obviousness, the cat is also the bane of my existence.
The cat is a very furry animal. The cat has a lot of fur. The cat sleeps on my pillow. I sleep on my pillow. Even if I turn the pillow over, cat hair still gets all up in my nose and makes me sneezy and itchy and generally full of hatred for the cat. I know I complain about this cat every single day of my life. It is the most inconsiderate roommate I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

I have sleeping problems. The cat is nocturnal. I get up at 4:30 a.m. to pee. The cat wants to play. Aww, isn't that cute...the geriatric cat wants to play. Must play with geriatric cat - who knows how many days geriatric cat has left in her? What if I don't play with her and something happens to her? Won't I feel guilty then? So Geriatric cat and I play a rousing game of "catch the crumpled paper" until Geriatric cat tires of it and I am wide awake.

I am laying in an uncomfortable position. The cat climbs up on me and falls asleep. And damnit, if I move, the cat is going to wake up. And the cat is cute. And old. So I sleep with a freaking charlie horse so as not to disturb the cat.

The cat enjoys weak tea with lots of milk. I enjoy strong tea with very little milk. I fix the cat its own saucer of tea, which it daintily drinks by dipping its paws in the saucer and licking them. And then it climbs back into my bed, and gets little tea dribbles all over my pillow. Aww, isn't geriatric cat cute? Geriatric cat is slightly sticky.

And then I think to myself: this is a cat. For a living, it meows and eats and produces twice its weight in excrement, and then sleeps on my pillow. Why, oh why, do I cater to its every whim?

Geriatric cat is bitchy. I have had ex-boyfriends that were very afraid of this cat, and with good reason. It is a great judge of character.

Geriatric cat is my bodyguard, my confidant, and my most trusted counselor.

She is only slightly the bane of my existence.

Dear Tim Hortons

So's I walk up to the Tim's gal an' I sez "get me a large double double please" and she hands me this cup with like... SNOW on it. And a bunch of kids SLEDDING. And a golden retriever gleefully playing in the snow.

Today is October 28. It is not even Halloween yet.

If you're going to use a special fancy cup, at least save it until after Halloween!

Or maybe even have a nice cup with a poppy on it that says thanks to our veterans.

But a bunch of kids gleefully enjoying a snow day? Oh fuck no.

Fuck you, Mattel

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvZRcJHRtOE&mode=related&search=

Yes, this is brilliant.

If I ever have a little girl, she will only be permitted to play with colourless wooden blocks.

advice #0005

Dear Jenn,
I met a girl on an online dating site and we really click. We spend all night talking to each other on aim and we have even changed out facebook statuses to "in a relationship". I think we are getting pretty serious; I've even checked out airfare prices to Illinois but I'm still slightly skeptical. What do you think I should do?

Dear Slightly Delusional Seeker of Online "Love",

You met her online and you really "click", hey? I'm happy for you.

Fundamentally, I know a lot of online relationships have worked out well, because whenever you mock online dating fifty people line up behind you to say "I met my wife/ex-wife/husband/escort/fuckbuddy/stalker online and it's working out wonderfully!". Good for you.

Changing your Facebook status is not really a big event. If you both are desperate people, seeing "In a Relationship" on your Facebook page might give you a hit of self esteem when you look at it. It doesn't really mean you're "in a relationship". One could argue that you and I are currently "in a relationship" - I am the writer and you are the reader. That's a relationship. We've become a Facebook centralized society. I could write on Facebook that I am the Queen of England. This doesn't make it so. You are currently "in a relationship" with someone you've never met. That's a little odd to me.

Being the crazy old maid that I am, destined for a life of lonliness and being a crazy cat lady - I would say proceed with caution. I can't tell you whether this "relationship" is worth persuing, because frankly, I know you're going to persue it anyway.

If you want to do the online dating thing, I'm tempted to say go to Craigslist and find someone closeby, at the very least. That way you don't have to spend all sorts of money and relocate. You can see her in person before you climb into her bed, just in case she's really gross or a man or something. You always have an out if you're close to home - "I think I forgot to turn off my coffeemaker!" is one of my favourites.

So, I'm going to tell you to think very hard about this girl and whether you're willing to carry on with a long distance relationship. Do you like her or do you like the idea of her? Also, you need to stop seeing Facebook statuses as milestones. They're not.

Hope you don't catch anything that's hard to pronounce!

Jennifer "hope you ask for proof of health" Loos

advice column #0004

Dear Jenn,
Do long distance relationships work? I met a guy last winter when my family was skiing in Quebec and we totally fell in love. The only problem is he lives 6 hours away from me. I really like him and I want to make our relationship work. What advice to do you have about maintaining our relationship?

Dear Not Jaded,

Before you start to read this, do us both a favour and go buy a pint of double chocolate fudge brownie ice cream and a mickey 26er of the hard liquor of your choice.

Back? Good.

My dear friend, I hate to break it to you...but no. Long distance relationships do not work.
Blah blah blah, skiing, Quebec, totally fell in love. Cute story. I'm happy for you. But darling, you are not in love. You are probably in lust and might even be in like, but you are not in love. Somewhere in the Book of Love, it says that it is not possible to love someone until nine of the following twelve conditions have been met: he's bought you a car, he's bought you a house, he's bought you a ring, you've done his laundry, you've cleaned up his toenail clippings, you know what he talks about in his sleep, you know his first pet's name and he knows your's, you have a toothbrush at his house, you've stolen his clothes on more than one occasion, you've bought him a razor/deodorant/other item pertinant to personal hygiene, he's woken up next to you in the morning and not been afraid, and/or the sex isn't absolutely terrible.

He's going to tell you he loves you, and you're going to think you love him. You will spend lots of money and time taking journeys to visit him. But oh, something/someone better will come along, yes. Something tempting. "And oh, my darling Not Jaded will never know! Muahaha!". And then he'll feel guilty. And then he won't call you. And then you'll be wondering, constantly wondering. And then one day he'll grow the balls to tell you that it's over. And this "relationship" that you've soaked so much of yourself into is over.

So I advise you to get rid of the ski boy and get some new boyfriends. I suggest Ben and Jerry (it's okay, they're cool with it!), Mr. Jack Daniels (he will certainly help soothe your weary soul), Colonel Saunders (fried chicken makes everything better), Ronald McDonald (nothing better than intestinal distress to remind you you're alive), and Mr. O. Pekoe of the Lipton tea company.

Tell long distance boy you have a mission to walk across Mars or something, and have to leave the country. That way you leave yourself an out if you're ever desperate and need him back. But you won't.

Ta!
Jennifer "not going the distance" Loos

advice column #0003

Dear Jenn,
I've been working the same job for over 2 months and I still haven't received a raise. It is my belief that, after working my ass off, I deserve some kind of monetary compensation. How should I approach my boss with this sensitive subject?

Dear Raiseless,

You need to tell your boss that he is a cheap bastard, without coming out and saying "you are a cheap bastard". Luckily, I have never been in this situation.

I would take Mr. Cheapskate aside and ask him if there is a convenient time for you to meet in his office to discuss a matter of concern. If you work in a call centre, tell him you'll meet him outside in the smoking area...same Bat time, same Bat channel.

Whether or not he promised you a raise when you were hired, pretend to be confused about the promise of the invisible raise. Bring it up casually. Say, "When I was hired, I was told that I would get a raise after two months. I was just wondering what I could do to increase my performance to get it to a level where I would be worthy of this raise."

Corporate soul suckers love this shit. They really do. You're inquiring as to how you could increase your performance, to meet your bosses' goals. You're not whining and throwing a tantrum about the lack of raise. Keep your cool. Talk sweetly. Explain that you've had another offer of employment, and they pay $x more per hour, and you'd love to stay with current company but you really need the money. Pretend to cry at the prospect of leaving. And the training! Think of all that money the company wasted on your training! How terrible that they'll have to train another person, when you already know the job!

If boss doesn't eat this up and give you the raise, he's a stupid moron and you don't want to be working for him anyway. You're just looking out for his business, after all!

Jennifer "couldn't raise the dead, probably won't try" Loos

advice column #0002

Dear Jenn,
It's Virginia again. I recently moved in with a roommate who I can't stand. She has taken over my apartment! Any suggestions on how to keep her from ruining my life? Please help! I'm at wit's end!

Dear Virginia,

I have had some very awesome roommates and some fairly terrible roommates, so I can definitely empathize with your situation.

I know you are a kind hearted girl, so it may be hard for you to take my advice. You are going to have to be passive aggressive enough that this bitch will want to move out.

Start with the bathroom. You need to call your grandmother and inquire as to whether she has any shower curtains from 1976. Shower curtains of this era are typically the world's most disgusting shade of green, or feature "interesting" prints. Once you've secured the world's ugliest shower curtain, you need to put it up and do a complete revamp of your entire bathroom. Miss Bitch's toothbrush now lives in an old Leon's mug, on top of the toilet, next to the air freshener spray. Cover it in barbeque sauce for a stunning visual effect! And if bitch has too many bars of soap or bottles of shampoo, toss them out and say you threw everything out that had DC Blue #7 in it because you learned it's made by children in a small factory overseas and you don't agree with it. If Bitch gets angry, accuse her of being a hardcore supporter of child labour.

Move to the kitchen now. You've joined a new cult religion that doesn't let you eat anything but oatmeal. You also have a problem with sleep walking and eating food, so everything that isn't oatmeal needs to thrown away for you to maintain your spirtual fulfillment. If Bitch says you're being unreasonable and that you threw out all her food, remind her that there's plenty of oatmeal and a seat for her at your next "meeting".

In the living room, remove the television and any stereo equipment. Replace them with a game of Pictionary and a harmonica. Explain that you are moving towards a simplified lifestyle. Disable any wireless Internet capabilities you may have in your house and dispose of all cordless phones and remote controls - as you are concerned that the "rays" from these items cause cancer. If she explains that this is unreasonable, tell her that you are just looking out for the goodness of her health. Does she really want to get cancer?

A few days of this peculiar behaviour, and your roomie will be looking for new housing, probably on the other side of the city. At this point you get to send the shower curtain back to your grandma, buy some tasty new groceries, and invite some cute boys to come over to hook your TV and stereo back up.

Best of luck!

Jennifer "if that fails, just quit paying the bills" Loos

my advice column! first letter!

Dear Jenn,
My boyfriend broke up with me a month ago and still hasn't given me my stuff back. What should I do?
Sincerely,
Virginia*

*names have been changed to protect the innocent

Dear Virginia,

This is a problem I have had before. Sometimes men like to hold on to whatever shards remain of the relationship, long after you have broken all the picture frames and thrown darts at the photos.

I have a suggestion for you. Like many of my suggestions, it is not ethical. Virginia, I have two words for you: pregnancy scare.

Phone him up and tell him you need him to come to the doctor with you "for some tests". Sound rather worried on the phone, and tell him how badly you need him there. If he has any fraction of a heart, of course he will go with you. If he has any fraction of a brain, or a tendency toward paranoia, of course he's going to worry about these "tests". They're either for pregnancy (18 years of child support, anyone?) or some terrible STD. Or mono. Actually, they could just be for iron levels in your blood, but he's not going to think of something like that. No.

So once you have him baited to meet you at the medical facility of your choice, you phone him again. Sound equally distraught. Say that circumstances in your life are changing rapidly and you need your stuff back because you're not sure how long it will be before you get sent to the convent.

If you have any of his sweaters and he asks for them back, say you need to hang on to them for a little while - he can have them back in approximately nine months when you don't need them anymore.

Now your ex is scared out of his mind, thinking that you are carrying his child. He's going to want to be on your good side, so he can convince you to terminate the "pregnancy" or put the "baby" up for adoption or move to Timbuctu.

You'll have your stuff back before your "doctor's appointment".

Good luck!
Jennifer "don't trust anything that bleeds for five days and doesn't die" Loos

of bars and fights with bicycles

so i woke up this morning with a rather peculiar problem that apparently i was too drunk to notice last night.
my bottom lip is swollen and a bit bloody and the inside of my chin is like...torn up.
i can only surmise that i got in a fight with a bicycle.
i hope.

CBC Radio 2: Love

On Saturday, I turned my radio on to CBC Radio 2. I haven't turned it off since.

I can see you there, behind your computer monitor, giving me that look like you're going to commit me. But for serious, this radio station is love.

They play classical, they play jazz, and after 1 AM they play tonnes of indie music that I would never otherwise hear. And the best part is, if I like a song but can't remember the lyrics to look it up, I just have to pop on their website and click on playlists and I can find out the title, artist, album, composer, length of the track, and all that.

This is the perfect mix of music to write to, to sleep to, to think to.

So fuck yea, this geek listens to the CBC. And will probably continue doing so for a very long time.

Don't judge me.

*runs*

CBC In Depth - Violence in Nursing Homes

http://www.cbc.ca/news/background/nursing-homes/index.html

No one can say this has come as a surprise.


"What training there is, has been deemed in many circumstances to be inadequate because it still leaves low-paid personal support workers ill-prepared to deal with a nursing home population that is older, sicker and more mentally unstable than they were even 10 years ago."

Well, no shit, Sherlock. Offering the PSW course at Career College is an awesome way to get it more accessible to the public, but I have to wonder the specifics. Take for instance, my class. I love my whole class to pieces, they were all very amazing women for the most part. But... out of the eight of us, only two of us spoke very fluent English. Now, you mix a program that welfare is willing to pay for, the promise of a good job, a relatively easy course with fake credentials, and what do you get? You get an uneducated, egotistical little newbie.

Let me explain the "fake credentials" part. Graduates from TriOS and similar schools have to take this big test set by the National Association of Career Colleges. This is so obviously an advertising ploy, but to someone who wants a job, any promise of extra "college" credentials is like the fist morsel of food you've have in a month. No job posting I have seen has required that anyone pass the NACC, specifically. All you need is a PSW diploma and you're totally good to go. Now, I say egotistical because a lot of these girls, bless them, come out with 80% but still do not know their stuff. And it's scary. False confidence.

So you get these wide eyed wanderers out there in the nursing homes and do you think they remember ANYTHING they learned in school? No. The short staffed situations forced them to find short cuts that went against the book.

Do you think the elderly are well cared for? It's no fault of the staff at the nursing homes, not by an inch or a mile, but they are so understaffed it's not even funny. This leaves them with students and volunteers who have good intentions but are poorly trained.

This leads to outraged elderly people who do not understand why they can't get the time from the staff that they deserve. It's a terrible thing to bathe people as if they are on an assembly line, but it's the way it has to be for everything to work out with funding issues. The confused and outraged elderly are perceived by tired staff to be ungrateful for the care that they do get. Residents are violent towards each other because they are confused or they are in the wrong wing and are not getting the care that they need, either because no one has had the time to correctly assess them, or because there is no room in the wings they need to be in.

"Nursing homes in provinces such as Ontario have become so violent and dangerous for staff, that ministries of labour are targeting the homes for beefed-up inspections."

You can inspect these places until you are blue in the face, and make sure that their kitchens are up to code and that the residents' laundry is getting done as often as it should be. But until you address the underlying problems - the fact that PSWs are not trained well enough, are bullied by other staff, and that students and volunteers are being used in incorrect roles in our nursing homes - then you are not doing a damn thing to improve the lives of these residents. Pair this with the "minimums" that the nursing homes have to uphold, and a businessman behind the scenes pocketing thousands of dollars, and you are left with a system with more holes than anything else. I don't know if there's a whole lot the Ministry of Labour can do. It's not like all the staff at a nursing home can just walk off the front lines and leave hundreds of people in soiled briefs. But I don't really know if our Government understands that.

Hey, Dalton - wanna come do a gig with me? It starts at 6:30 am. Bring rubber gloves. (That's right, bring your own. The nursing home can't afford to provide them.) We'll start changing briefs and trying to get people dressed while we only have one lift for the whole floor. We'll probably get yelled at by some nurses on the way, just because we're us. We'll take the residents down for breakfast and I will feed and you can change beds, or visa-versa, whichever you'd prefer. Hope you don't hurt your back. There's no benefits. Oh, and you work for free. You're a student! See you bright and early! Ta!
No Love,
One of your extremely pissed off minions.

It must be rainy and cold.

My room is in the basement, so sometimes I don't really know what's going on outside unless I go upstairs.

My cat, however, is a great meteorologist.

If it is cold and/or rainy, she climbs right up on my chest and purrs her little head off.

And she purrs. And she purrs. And she purrs some more, as if to say, "Aren't you glad I'm here to keep you warm?".

Yes, Socks. I'm very glad you're here to keep me warm. I'm very glad I can stretch my feet out without getting them bitten.

Anyway, I've shaken the cat off my chest and I'm going to bed. Doctor's appointment in the morning. Woo.

Cheers,
jennifer

Paper...book?

39 minutes ago, I picked up a book from my mom's sewing room, after being assured by two generations of Moms that reading would, indeed, assist my insomnia. (One of these moms was my mom, and the other was her mom, so natch, if it helps them, it should help me, right?). Moms know things. That's why they're the moms and we are the not-moms.

So I go upstairs to my mom's sewing room and flick on the light. My mother, bless her, sleeps as if she is a security guard constantly doing the night shift at a museum full of one-of-a-kind historical artifacts. I'm actually not sure if she sleeps at all, but I do know that she has slept before because I have witnessed it on rare occasions. This woman will wake up if you wake up, in another room. She will wake up if you even think about waking up. How she does this, I am not sure. Anyway, sure enough, as I was in the sewing room trying to peruse something that didn't have a half-dressed man covered in butter on the front (yo, what's the deal with Harlequins, anyway?), she was roused from sleep and came to inquire as to what I was doing.

(Note: This whole mom-constantly-on-guard thing saved me from a lot of fun terrible things throughout my high school years. Sneaking out of my house is practically impossible and involves a series of carefully executed plans, right down to the type of footwear that must be worn to successfully escape, and the fact that you have to wait to zip up your coat until you get outside. I've said too much.)

Anyway, so I grab a book, mom goes back to bed, and I sit down to read the book. It's something to do with vampires.

I read eight pages. I put the book down and grab my computer, where I can read pages and pages and pages of whatever kind of crap I want, and not have to follow a storyline at all.

Oh, how being part of the Facebook generation has, indeed, ruined me.

I don't even know how to read anymore.

In Short:

This book would be easier to read if it were set in Facebook format. The vampire guy could have a status message. Eg: "Vampire Guy is thirsty." Then vampire guy could post a short note about the trials and tribulations of his life, and vampire queen could post a photo album to keep us up to date of how many people she's bitten and converted to vampire-ism. Then we'd all know. And there'd be no reason to kill trees.

Also, on a completely unrelated aside: I don't know why I never drank milk before. It's not gross like I thought it was. And it's cold. Maybe the big, bad Bessie with the M-I-L-K has finally infiltrated me. Shit. Seriously though, I'm limiting my caffeine consumption in an effort to curb my sleep issues, so I've been drinking milk instead of coffee and tea. (It's funny because when you're a kid you're like, dying to be old enough to drink coffee. You get old enough to drink coffee, and you're astounded when you re-discover milk. WTF?).

Anyway, I'm going to go read a few more pages of Vampires Sucking Souls And Probably Falling in Love Somewhere Around Page 137 and then try to sleep.

Be well,
J.

Bed Real Estate

I did the math. Well, rather some site that Google found did the math for me.
My cat Socks, at age 14 in cat years, is the equivalent of a 72 year old woman in people years.
Socks spends a great deal of time sleeping, which is fine, because I too spend a great deal of time sleeping. Socks' preferred place to sleep is my bed, which is okay, but my preferred place to sleep is also my bed, and so sometimes we run into conflicts about who gets what real estate on it.

The prime piece of land is the head of the bed, right where the pillows are. This is the equivalent to lakefront property in the eyes of my cat. I have mapped out this phenomenon for you in Paint:

The area in red belongs to Socks. The area in orange is variable, dependent upon Socks' mood, but usually belongs to Socks. The pink area at the bottom sometimes belongs to Socks' archenemy, Babycat. Socks likes to occasionally pretend that they have an alliance of some sort, just to trip me up. If Babycat is on vacation or sleeping elsewhere, the area in pink belongs to Socks. The area in green is the only fraction of the bed I have managed to successfully defend, and therefore I am permitted to sleep there (for now). I must take special care that my head does not escape the boundaries, nor may my feet be extended into the area in pink. The sentence for such a misdemeanor includes a wide variety of cruel and unusual punishments, varying from a quick, forceful nip of discipline (though she is 72, Socks has taken great care of her teeth and doesn't even have dentures yet), to a steaming gift of digestive problem aftermath for me to step in in the morning.

Don't ask me why a cat who weighs less than ten pounds, and her five pound feline counterpart, require 85% of a double bed. I do not know. I do not know why my pillows are prime real estate, as they lay their entire bodies on them, and do not use them to support their heads. On the off chance that I actually get to use my pillows, they are covered in a veritable coat of cat hair that would make Cruella DeVille swoon with delight, you know, if she were into that sort of thing.

In short, I do not understand bed real estate when it comes to cats. Or how a 72 year old, crazy, deranged, deluded, dementia-fied, crabby, snarling, lazy beast came to overtake my sleeping quarters.

lmao

Hahahahahahhaahhahaha.
For shits and giggles I did one of those Facebook tarot readings.
That's what it threw back at me.

Oh, life.

Grammar Whore War: I won't tell you what that punctuation is for, but I will tell you what it's NOT for.

Dear Fellow Netizens,

I wish not to dissuade you from speaking your opinions on the Interwebz. However, could I please offer some words of wisdom?

The following are some very basic words and grammar points to see you through your next Facebook post, blog entry, message board post, fucking creepy as hell dating ad, IM, status message, or whatever the hell it is you are doing on the Internet.

1. Exhibit A: The Period

The period is one of those things you learned about in public school. It ends a sentence, and when read aloud, provides for a pause. So, without these little dudes, we'd all be speaking like an excited Britney Spears on crack in the junkfood aisle of the Supermart. "Ohmigod we totally have to get pretzels and Cheetos and pork rinds and Doritos and Cheezits and oh my gosh by the way does anyone know where Sean Preston is oh he's just out playing in traffic so it's okay oh we have to get orange juice!".
So without the period, we'd all be speaking like washed out pop stars on acid. You heard it here first, kids.

2. Exhibit B: The Comma
The comma is the one that stays on the ground, not the one that flies in the sky (').
Our sky flying friend is the apostrophe.
The two, though they look similar, are not interchangeable. (I have actually seen people do this.)
The comma does not signal that something belongs to someone (e.g. Clark,s Pigs), nor does it make something plural ("Clark,s pig,s are going to take over the world!!!!!").
Basically, if you have no sense of what the comma is for, don't attempt to use it. It will keep all of us sticklers a little bit more sane. And that's a good thing.

3. Exhibit C: The Apostrophe
The apostrophe is quite possibly the most misused tool in my toolbox. (No, that's not a euphemism for anything dirty, but if you give me a minute, I could make it one.)
People seem to think that an apostrophe can make any sentence better.
Or that it is like a four way stop for the letter s.
No, Virginia. In order to make a word plural, never ever ever ever do you incorporate my innocent friend the apostrophe. If I see a sign at a store one more time that says Diaper's, or Widget's, or Banana's, or anything to that effect, I am going up to the manager to inquire what possession of the diaper or the widget or the banana that he is trying to sell to me.

4. Exhibit D: &
Oh, the ampersand. I love you. You take a word that is three whole letters long and make it into a symbol. Kind of like Prince's name. You're efficient - a Bic lighter as compared to matches. And that's why I love you. However, scene kids have lately taken to whoring you out as a symbol of high fashion, when they type things like this:

"&& i wAs jUsT wAlKiN 2 tEh mAlL && hE tOtAlLy sMiiLeD @@ mE && i jUsT kNo iTs lUv."

Okay. That was painful to type. First of all, parents - if your child is communicating with other individuals of the human species using such language, you need to be shot for allowing such vile abuse of the English language to occur under your roof. Honestly. This is equivalent to screaming, "I AM A STUPID WHORE WHO CAN'T SPEAK ENGLISH AND USES PUNCTUATION MARKS AS A FASHION STATEMENT!" to a stickler. The children cannot be shot because they don't know any better.

So, Ampersand, I am sorry. Maybe someday we can go out for drinks and I will promise to try to alleviate this terrible thing that has happened to you.

5. Exhibit E: Your VS You're.

People! People! This is not difficult. Yet, it is something we see every day.
"You're" is the one that means "you are". That's what that little apostrophe guy means. He means we've taken something out (in this case, a space, and an a) and smooshed two words together (in this case "you" and "are"). And that's what it means. "Your" signifies something that belongs to me. So if you say "YOUR ANNOYING!" I am going to look puzzled and reply, "My annoying...what?"

It's a tough shake being a grammar geek. Nobody really understands the horror we feel when someone does something that they should know better than to do. For instance, quotation marks as emphasis. No. Just don't. An underline is a tool for emphasis. Italics are a good tool for emphasis. Quotation marks are good tools to denote quotations.

Anyway, I have to stop obsessively obsessing about the terrible state of punctuation today and actually go to sleep.

Be well,
Jennifer

dear body

Dear Body,

As further to our conversation of approximately two hours ago, when I first decided it was getting near time to put you to bed, I would like to inquire as to why you are finding it so very difficult to actually close your eyes and nod off.

Over the past few nights, we have tried several methods to no avail. Radio on, radio off, radio on a timer. Rock music, country music, CBC Radio. Sleeping pills, no sleeping pills, Gravol, reading business textbooks, not reading business textbooks, reading PC Magazine, not reading PC Magazine. Writing before bed, not writing before bed. We've tried coffee (not a good plan), herbal tea (sort of a good plan), plain water (cold and room temperature), warm milk and cold milk. We've tried reading CNN. We've even attempted to see what the hell is up with Christianity -- we still don't understand, but at least we tried. We've read websites about museums and historical artifacts, which should surely make you want to sleep. We've tried late night walks, we've tried avoiding late night walks. We've tried warm pajamas and not-so-warm pajamas, and various bedclothes ranging from only a sheet to a few layers of blankets. We tried drawing pictures and cuddling with teddy bears. You are stupid, dear body, and I do not know what else you really expect me to do.

However, during the day, dear body, the second your eyes see the sun they scream in fear and close automatically.

Are you a vampire, dear body? No. You did not grow up eating Countchocula cereal or anything of that sort. So why on Earth do you insist on being nocturnal?

Please answer at your earliest convenience.

Love,

The Brain that Runs You

random quote found in a google search

"Creativity is a bloody nuisance and an evil curse that will see to it that you die from stress and alcohol abuse at a very early age, that you piss off all your friends, break appointments, show up late, and have this strange bohemian urge (you know that decadent laid-back pimp-style way of life). The truly creative people I know all live lousy lives, never have time to see you, don't take care of themselves properly, have weird tastes in women and behave badly. They don't wash and they eat disgusting stuff, they are mentally unstable and are absolutely brilliant."
-Toke Nygaard

ah yes.

The Sex Lives of Fictional Characters: WTF?

So it was released all over the news tonight that at a press conference or some such jazz, Ms. J.K. Rowling was asked if Hogwart's Headmaster Dumbledore had ever been in love, to which she replied that Dumbledore was, in fact, gay. This was met with cheers from the audience, and Ms. Rowling replied that if she'd known it would have been met with such a great reaction, she would have told us of Dumbledore's flaming homosexuality at an earlier date.

I have three words to sum this up: What. The. Fuck?

Now now, before you get your panties in a knot - I am not homophobic. I don't believe that people choose their sexuality any more than they choose their skin colour... it just is. But Dumbledore? Gay? It's just sort of hard for me to get my head wrapped around. He's Dumbledore. He's old and stuff. He's supposed to be like, asexual or something.

So I can picture all the churchies that hate Harry Potter with a passion, writing out their laundry list of things wrong with the series, "OMG! IF LITTLE JANIE READS THIS SHE WILL CERTAINLY CATCH TEH GHEY!", and the fanfic writers going, "OMG! THIS IS SOOOO AWESOME! THINK OF ALL THE SLASH FIC-SHUN WE CAN RITE!1!!!!11!!!" and it really hurts my head.

Oh, JK. Who wants to play "Who's Next Out of the Closet: The HP Edition"?

date local...what?

I present to you the advertisement that was at the left of my Facebook profile this afternoon.

I am very interested to see what a Candian is.

Is it a person made of candy? A person from a country made of candy? A country of illiterates who just think they are from Candia? A Nigerian scammer that wants to send me $100.0000?

Oh Candia. Sure, this could just be a typo. But whoever made it obviously had to pay money to put it on the interwebz. I know our dollar is awesome today, but still...

So I guess I still need to invent the dictionary. And spell check. And fucking weed killer for whatever is photoshopped on Candia bitch's head.

I will not "click here to see more", Miss Giant Flower that looks like the Spanish Fruit Lady from Sesame Street.


Oh, Candia, I stand on guard for thee.

Today's elaborations

So I'm sitting at the office right now eating a bagel and cleverly avoiding actual work/waiting for more pages to proof.
I have decided that I am totally writing a book to chronicle the insane meanderings of my life thusfar. It is going to be a lighthearted comedy full of sarcasm and, as I try to put in most things, a healthy dose of cynical laughter. It will follow me through school, and eventually the big city, and back to hicksville. It is tenatively titled 1001 Things Not to Do With Your Life.
My beautiful sham fiancée Dawn-Marie has accepted the position of editor, and we have decided that we are quitting boys for a while, and therefore we are engaged. (No, I'm not a lesbian. But this is a good way to stay off of boys for a while, no?). ;)
lol. So anyway, that's the downlow.
More stories to follow when I'm not supposed to be working.

Hardee har har!

Oh, life, you've really played the fastball on me.

Take what little sanity I have left and pull it out from below my feet.
Dare you.

And yet, as every single crutch I've had goes away, every little sparkle of a glimmer, wrought with excuse after excuse after excuse -- I'm too numb to really get mad anymore.

I take it back.

I would give anything for one week to have nothing dramatic kick me in the ass.

Running, running, as fast as you can...do you think you'll make it?

So basically everything is still a mess. It's cool. I've come to terms with everything being a mess.
Never this many things all at once, but hey, I made it through last year and I can kick this year's ass. (Read: I will kick this year's ass).

So the plan's gone a bit askew, but upon deeper thinking I think it's best that it went askew now as opposed to later. I can't go back to my old ways. Numbing everything is fine until you run out of things to freeze yourself with. Or money with which to freeze yourself with.

So, to everyone I've potentially hurt by my backing out, and every opportunity I've missed by my backing out - I humbly apologize.

Will be going to the police station on Tuesday, getting a crim-rec-check, and faxing it directly to County HR, resubmit the resume and all that jazz to the Bobier... effectively, I'm calling this mission Dutton 3.0.


Wish me luck.

insomnia

i am going to fucking kick ass at the night shift.

i hate this.

i just want sleep.

today: a mishmash of words and pictures in lolcat form.

point the first:
stupidcat is a whore.
i came home from the office and here she is on the couch, all posed out like she's queen of all shit. for serious. in my next life, i am going to be a cat. lookit that. she's like "ya, it's 2am... i gots ma head on the pillow, ma legs stretched out... and ur steelin ma eyesafety with ur camerabeam."
fuck off, stupidcat. i can't even go to the bathroom without you following me. you are a disgusting, vile, repugnant, smelly ass animal.
and i envy you like hell.

i even made a coffee cup castle to show you, dear reader(s).

yeah, she knocked it down quick.
stupid bitch.

point the second: sugar, dun dun dun dun, oh, honey honey, dun dun dun duhn, you are my candy girl, and you got me watchin' you



in an effort to curb my sugar consumption, while my parents were away, i did a bit of an experiment. that's right. for SCIENCE. or laziness. alas, either way. i didn't throw my sugar packets out for a few days. this is two or three days of sugary goodness. now, i know this is unhealthy. 2 packets of sugar time an infinite amount of cups of coffee/tea is definitely spelling trouble. however, me without caffeine is a very scary sight, indeed.




point the third: im in ur politix misunderstandin u.

this is true. i do not understand politics. or politicians. or referendumbs (the b is there on purpose). doing some readin' and writin' tonight, one of the articles on the interwebz said that the low turnout at the election this year was due to young people and their apathy to a structured society. it's not like that at all, motherfucker. it's not that we don't care. but ur politix is stoopid, even lolcats can tell you that much. let's see what you fucks talked about this year, shall we? oh, the catholic school system. which has been pointed out to be extremely discriminatory. now, if you're going to fund a catholic system, shouldn't you be cheerfully funding a muslim system, a jewish system, a church of the flying spaghetti monster system, etc? as a devout pastafarian, i can only hope and dream that my future children will someday attend the Academy of His Flying Noodliness. for serious. (not that i would ever dream of pushing my religion on my future children. innocent until proven guilty, my friends. but if they CHOSE to attend that school, why should they not be allowed? oh, that's right... carbohydrates aren't jesus. i get it.)

this is molly. (2005 - 2005)
she was a politishun who fought for equal rights among species.
it took her a long time to type up proposals and false promises, but she enjoyed the exercise.
the stress got to her and she died in a barren cage of rage and inequality just before her first birthday.
some would say that if healthcare was in a better state, and that if rats were recognized as people, she would have made it.

i think karma got her.
she never voted.

in other news, if you don't have the new radiohead album "in rainbows", get it.

i've never been a big radiohead fan, like at all. but i got it coz it's free.

and it's actually rather mindblowing.