What a frightful waste of an evening that was... I was guilt-tripped into setting up for and cleaning up my Business Administration class's fashion show, something that was supposed to be a shining monument to our grasp of management theory. I think the whole process of putting the thing together showed rather clearly that none of us has bothered to crack open the textbook yet. And well, it isn't my fault that it's so damn heavy. They don't really expect me to take that home, do they? But anyway! I would like to think that I'm the sort of person that's immune to such simple tactics as guilt-tripping, but I am in fact fairly susceptible to them, when performed properly. The only thing that works better is a good pair of puppy-dog eyes, and a pouty face. Well, let's call them doe-eyes, since I detest dogs. No dog is getting anything out of me. Which is the only drawback to this scheme -- it only works when used by a face that doesn't make me want to break it. Difficult, but not impossible. For amateurs, I would recommend the guilt-trip. Yes, I am a sucker. Go ahead, just walk all over me. I should study my mother more carefully... never works on her. Never. Dammit. Even crying... makes her laugh... So I went to the fashion show. It was quite disgusting. The kind of disgusting that I find particularly amusing, in that sad sort of way. But only for fifteen minutes or so. My brain was numb after the full two and a half hours. During the first several minutes, though, I was interested. The models were, of course, some of the most popular girls in school. Actually nice people, to be sure, but seemingly missing something essential. I would suspect this essential bit to be a full quarter of their brains, at the least. Either that, or they are robots. They certainly walked like robots tonight. They were not... unconfident. But not confident because the whole concept of self-assurance implies having a self... Okay, perhaps that's a bit harsh. But that's what it seemed like to me. They smile like the devil. And I am convinced that their eyes are made of glass. What the boys in the audience found so appealing about these clones, I do not understand. Hm, no, I think that I do understand what, just not why... as they were not perfect clones, I have been able to determine that the volume of the cheering was relatively proportionate to some factor derived from a calculation involving three categories of data: tit-size, blondeness, and skirt-length (or shortness, to be more precise). Walking-ability did not appear to play any part. The most popular was the least proficient walker of them all. And the way she used her arms reminded me of a gorilla. Funny. But as I said, only for a very short while. By the intermission my contact lenses had fused to my eyeballs, a suicide attempt of some sort, most likely. It stung not a little. My teacher came by and wondered why I did not look as if I was having fun. Fun. Ha ha. Fun. Bah! And if I wanted to watch people walking around while wearing uninteresting clothing, I would probably choose to watch them in their natural habitat. This is the only proper reason to visit a mall. Which is where all the clothes came from for this show. The mall. Now why would anyone want to pay to see that? Alright, so the money went to charity, but... I can give money to charity without having to suffer for it. Blah. Well, I guess I only suffered because I'm such a pushover. Meh. Candice does not know how to say no.

It's okay, though. Tomorrow my class is going to the zoo. Somehow this is course related. Yes, somehow... I'd complain, but... it's the zoo. So I'm going to shut up now. I get to see monkeys. And hippopotomomusses.

Additional note: I find the phrase "get on your knees and smile like a donut" greatly amusing. And I can't use it. How horrible is that?