Cool Whip: an edible oil product!
Yeah, that's probably what I would use as one of my big selling points if I was in charge of marketing at Kraft.
Why would anybody see this written on the tub and follow through with the purchase?

Oh yeah. I got my Tim Horton's job. Woo... I'm so SO happy about that. I really am. Really. Dammit. Gotta get my uniform on Monday. They don't come in my size. I had better invest in a belt. eee.

I just applied to Tim Horton's. I can feel the doom coming upon me... Doom, DOOM!!! I'm doomed!

i'm in the lounge of the calgary airport. pretty nifty. i tried to check my e-mail, but it wouldn't work. okay, i'm going to leave now...

This website makes me feel smart.

"You smell" vs. "you stink":
you could smell good.

Bad pictures of me from formal: one, two.

The snarky look on my face is due to the fact that I'd seen the photographer's work before. Done by the same morons who do my school's student cards and yearbooks. Badly. Notice that the pictures are blurry... But these are better than average, which is sad. Jostens is crap. I've seen better pictures of the insied of my camera case than I've seen in my yearbook. Which comes out in the fall, by the way, what the hell is up with that?

La dee da. I might mention that these photos contain, from left to right, Mark, Sarah, me and Leslie.
I might also mention that I do, in fact, have two legs.

Difference between ICQ users and AIM users:

ICQ - send / receive / send / receive / send / receive / send / receive / ...
AIM - send / receive / send / send / send / receive / send / receive / receive / receive / receive / receive / send / send / receive / send / send / send / send / send / send / send

Gak!

Okay, bastard attention starved windows... Why can't you understand that just because you're done doing something, it doesn't mean that I want to look at it immediately. Especially you, AIM. You have quite the inflated sense of self importance. Great, somebody new is trying to talk to me. Isn't enough that you make the task-bar flash and scare the shit out of me with your wave files? It isn't really necessary to pop the window up, causing me to type the end of whatever sentence I'm in the middle of in the "send" box, and to send it to some random loser who can't spell "you're" and who desperately wants to know my "asl" and "wassup sexy?"

My computer ought to get a better sense of my priorities. Meaning that... whatever I'm doing, I intend to keep doing it until I'm done doing it. Not until Internet Explorer feels that it's being neglected. Fucking impatient applications. One of these days, I will be able to successfully open my Start Menu to get to the 18th level where the program I want to run is hidden, without something performing an illegal operation and forcing me to start all over again. One day...

No more high school classes, ever. Good feeling.
Exam tomorrow. Bad feeling.
Kinda bad feeling.
No. Neutral feeling.
I'll study... later.
Non-panicked studying is just not effective.

Fixed my old junk on freeshell.org. Don't read it.

Zeno's Paradox mathematically proves that my math textbook is full of shit. I have demonstrated this fact by attempting to throw the same math textbook across the room.
1/2 + 1/4 + 1/8 + 1/16 + 1/32 + 1/64 + ... = 1
The book successfully hit the wall.

still bored
wrote out this
not finished
now get to go to class
yay
going to kill self
help
me
please
management
and administration
kill
brain
no nevermind
brain dead already
guh
ack
bah
meh
pleh
eee
aaa
grr!

the sun did not shine
it was too wet to play
so we sat in the house
all that cold cold wet day
i sat there with sally
we sat there we two
and i said how i wish
we had something to do
to wet to go out
and too cold to play ball
so we sat in the house
we did nothing at all
so all we could do
was just sit sit sit sit
and we did not like it
not one little bit
then something went bump
how that bump made us jump
we looked and we saw him
step in on the mat
we looked and we saw him
the cat in the hat
and he said to us
why do you sit there
like that
i know it is wet
and the sun is not sunny
but we can have lots
of good fun that is funny
i know some good games
we could play
said the cat
i know some new tricks
said the cat in the hat
a lot of good tricks
i will show them to you
your mother will not mind
at all if i do
and sally and i
did not know what to say
our mother was out
of the house for the day
but our fish said
no no
make that cat go away
tell that cat in the hat
you do not want to play
he should not be here
he should not be about
he should not be here
when your mother is out
now now
have no fear
have no fear
said the cat
my tricks are not bad
said the cat in the hat
why we can have
lots of good fun
if you wish
with a game that i call
up-up-up with a fish
put me down
said the fish
i do not wish to fall
put me down
said the fish
this is not fun at all
have no fear
said the cat
i will not let you fall
i will hold you up high
as i stand on a ball
with a book in one hand
and a cup on my hat
but that is not all
i can do
said the cat
look at me
look at me now
said the cat
with a cup and a cake
on the top of my hat
i can hold up two books
i can hold up the fish
and a little toy ship
and some milk on a dish
and look i can hop
up and down on the ball
but that is not all
oh no that is not all
look at me
look at me
look at me now
it is fun to have fun
but you have to know how
i can hold up the cup
and the milk and the cake
i can hold up these books
and the fish on a rake
i can hold the toy ship
and a little toy man
and look with my tail
i can hold a red fan
i can fan with the fan
as i hop on the ball
but that is not all
oh no that is not all
that is what the cat said
then he fell on his head
he came down with a bump
from up there on the ball
then sally and i
we saw all the things fall
and our fish came down too
he fell into a pot
and he said
do i like this
oh no i do not
this is not a good game
said our fish as he lit
oh i do not like it
not one little bit
now look what you did
said the fish to the cat
now look at this house
look at this
look at that
you sunk our toy ship
sunk it deep in the cake
you shook up our house
and you bent our new rake
you should be here
when our mother is not
you get out of this house
said the fish in the pot
but i like to be here
oh i like it a lot
said the cat in the hat
to the fish in the pot
i do not want to leave
i do not wish to go
and so said the cat in the hat
so so so
i will show you another
good trick that i know
and then he ran out
and then fast as a fox
the cat in the hat
came back in with a box
a big red wood box
it was shut with a hook
now look at this trick
said the cat
take a look
then he got up on top
with a tip of his hat
i call this game
fun-in-a-box
said the cat
i will pick up the hook
you will see something new
two things and i call them
thing one and thing two
these things will not bite you
they want to have fun
then out of the box
came thing two and thing one
and they ran to us fast
they said
how do you do
would you like to shake hands
with thing one and thing two
and sally and i did not know
what to do
so we had to shake hands
with thing one and thing two
we shook their two hands
but our fish said
no no
those things should not be
in this house
make them go
the should not be here
when your mother is not
put them out
put them out
said the fish in the pot
have no fear little fish
said the cat in the hat
these things are good things
and he gave them a pat
they are tame
oh so tame
they have come here to play
they will show you some fun
on this wet wet wet day
now here is a game
that they like
said the cat
they like to fly kites
said the cat in the hat
no not in a house
said the fish in the pot
they should not fly kites
in a house
they should not
oh the things they will bump
oh the things they will hit
oh i do not like it
not one little bit

At school. Bored. Have proof. Have typed the following from memory:

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral Arm of the Galaxy lies a small, unregarded yellow sun.
Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.
This planet has – or rather had – a problem, which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested to this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd, because on the whole, it wasn’t the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.
And so the problem remained. Lots of the people were mean, and most of them were miserable; even the ones with digital watches.
Many were increasingly of the opinion that they’d all made a big mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And some said that even the trees had been a bad move, and that no one should ever have left the oceans.
And then one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man was nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, a girl, sitting on her own in a small café in Rickmansworth suddenly knew what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally realized how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything.
Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone about it, a terrible stupid catastrophe occurred, and the idea was lost forever.
This is not her story.
But it is the story of the terrible, stupid catastrophe, and some of its consequences.
It is also the story of a book – a book called the Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Not an Earth book, never published on Earth, and before the terrible stupid catastrophe occurred, never seen or even heard of by any Earthman.
Nevertheless, a wholly remarkable book.
In fact, it was probably the most remarkable book ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor, of which no Earthman had ever heard either.
Not only is it a wholly remarkable book, but it is also a highly successful one. More popular than the Celestial Homecare Omnibus, better selling than Fifty-Three More Things to do in Zero-Gravity, and more controversial than Oolon Colluphid’s trilogy of philosophical blockbusters Where God Went Wrong, Some more of God’s Greatest Mistakes, and Who is this God Person, Anyway?
In some of the more relaxed civilizations on the Outer Eastern Rim of the Galaxy, the Hitch Hiker’s Guide has already supplanted the great Encyclopaedia Galactica as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom, for though it has many omissions, and contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly inaccurate, it scores over the older, more pedestrian work in
two important respects.
First, it is slightly cheaper, and secondly it has the words DON’T PANIC inscribed in large, friendly letters on its cover.
The story of this terrible stupid Thursday, the story of its extraordinary consequences, and the story of how these consequences are inexplicably intertwined with this remarkable book begins very simply. It begins with a house.

The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village. It stood on its own, and looked out over a broad spread of West Country farmland.
Not a remarkable house, by any means. It was about thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion that more or less exactly failed to please the eye.
The only person for whom the house was in any way special was Arthur Dent, and that was only because it happened to be the one he lived in. He had lived in it for about three years, ever since he had moved out of London because it made him nervous and irritable. He was about thirty as well, tall, dark haired, and never quite at ease with himself.
The thing that used to worry him the most was the fact that people were always asking him what it was he was looking so worried about.
He worked in local radio, which he always used to tell people was a lot more interesting than they probably thought. He was right, too – most of his friends worked in advertising.
On Wednesday night it had rained heavily; the lane was wet and muddy. But the Thursday morning sun shone brightly on Arthur Dent’s house for what was to be the last time.
It hadn’t properly registered with Arthur yet that the council wanted to knock it down and build a bypass instead.
At eight o’clock on Thursday morning, Arthur didn’t feel very good. He woke up blearily, got out of bed, walked blearily across his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and stomped off to the bathroom to wash.
Toothpaste on the brush, so, scrub.
Shaving mirror, pointing at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom window. Properly adjusted it reflected Arthur Dent’s bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried, and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant to put in his mouth.
Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee – yawn.
The word “bulldozer” wandered through his mind for a moment in search of something to connect with. The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one. He stared at it. “Yellow,” he thought, and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed.
Passing the bathroom, he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. Yellow, he thought, and stomped off to the bedroom.
He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He vaguely recalled being angry about something, angry about something that had seemed important. He’d been talking about it, talking about it at great length, he rather suspected. His clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other people’s faces...............................

helpmesavemeplease?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?

My hair is beyond fried. I wonder what I'd look like with a shaved head... um... no. I don't think that would be a good idea.

I just got back from my friend's house where we dyed my hair blue, just in time to make sure it won't match my dress (pink) for the prom tomorrow. I should've stuck with the pink, I'm not sure if I like this. It's kinda dull and was meant to black. Whose idea of black is this... The ends were the only part meant to be blue, but it's turned out that they're just a slightly lighter shade of blue, so it looks uneven instead. Bleh. I don't really care that much, but I felt like getting through complaining about it.

It would be much cooler if I matched my dress still, though.

But it's not as if I'm psycho about this whole prom thing like everyone else I know who is paying hundreds of dollars to get their hair nails face blah blah blah done tomorrow, paying $98734576 for a limo, $9876213746 for a dress... Bah, no! I don't even know why I'm going. Just to be disgusted, I guess. Entertainment value. To complain about the crappy meal and music, I suppose. Well... oh well. My hair smells like licorice. The black kind.

you do of course realize that i know the full truth behind everything you're hinting at. and also why you don't just come out and say it. because i can't either.

in some other universe, where i'm not such a coward, it's easier to breathe.

if you want a picture of my future, image a boot stamping on my face -- for ever.

Question: why do all sports announcers have the same voice? Are they clones? Or are they just replaying old games over and over again? Because it's not as if anyone would notice, when they only repeat themselves.... "swing-and-a-miss." Shut up. Whatever the reason for the identical voices, I dislike the voice intensely, and would like for the radio to be turned off, immediately.

I finally got that letter I was waiting for about the film program at Ryerson. After our slacker mailman didn't show up with any mail at all for three days. Our mailbox was overflowing yesterday.

It was another waiting list letter. How frustrating. New Media it is, then. Followed by a whole lot of waiting, and a possible change of mind. But I'm not sure about that. I think perhaps I would rather be in the New Media program, anyway.

Both of my friends who applied to film got rejected, so at least I kicked their asses. Ha ha. And that's all that's important, isn't it?

Thought I'd link to my old weblog from this one. I've moved it onto this server. Just because. So here. It's uh... green. Yay. Died almost a year ago when freeshell.org got rid of their FTP access. Blah! After being up and down for weeks. It's down right NOW, too. So don't bother trying to visit my personal site. I ought to move that one, too, but it's just so much more difficult. Blogger is kinda useful, yaknow.

Got rid of the archives.
Because I did.
Yesh.