What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. Then it kills you.

When life gives you lemons, ask very nicely if you can trade them in for apples.

Censorship at its most overt.

Do you remember Gator Golf? "What could be greater than golf with a gator?" I swear, this brings me straight back to my childhood. I clearly recall getting my ass kicked in Gator Golf time and time again. The stupid thing was impossible; you had to whack the ball with all your might to get it to stay in his mouth, and then, if you succeeded, he'd fling the thing back at you. I broke a lot of crap with this toy. I can also attest to the putters' versatility. They made pretty effective epees when my brother and I tried to reenact the swordfight in The Princess Bride. Again, breaking more crap.

The ethanol dime is a sorely undervalued piece of Americana. Search "ethanol dime" or "painted dime" in Google and the only relevant pages that will come up are these two pages, and both are on the same site. (By the way, kudos to Rapid City, SD, for being the focus of that event. We're representin'.)

The ethanol dime is a simple concept: paint dimes a pretty color, and give one to people for every gallon of ethanol-blend gas they buy. Almost all ethanol dimes are yellow, though red ones have also been produced. I couldn't tell you when the first ethanol dimes were made. The pages I linked to refer to an event in August 2002, but they've been around a lot longer than that.

When I was about six years old, my father gave me a yellow ethanol dime he had received in change at the grocery store, and it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. Since then, I've slowly amassed a collection of six--count 'em, six--ethanol dimes, five yellow and a red. (I know I ought to post a picture, but I still can't find my digital camera. I live in squalor.)

Ethanol dimes are difficult to find, and I assume that I probably have an easier time than most when it comes to doing so, since I live in an ethanol-conscious state. In my experience, ethanol dimes are rarer than wheat pennies or silver dimes. Not many have been made, and only a fraction of those are still being circulated.

The ethanol dime has no value over 10 cents. Coin collectors don't recognize them. Nobody seems to care that this is an interesting bit of farm culture, a way to prove that the Midwest is changing to suit the needs of America. Corn isn't just food and feed anymore; it's improving the way your car runs.

I can't think of a way to end this goofy little nostalgia piece, so I'll just leave it here.

EDIT, 1 Feb 04: I googled "yellow dime," and there are 153 results (not all of which are relevant). I was going to sift through them to see if there was anything interesting, but I can't seem to find ethanol dimes very compelling after doing an entire post on them. Too much of a good thing, I suppose.

I'm happy; hope you're happy, too.

My life is insufferably dull.

I stayed home sick today, and I have absolutely nothing to say (rhyme unintentional).

Well, I guess I could say one thing: I have the most annoying neighbors ever. If you're going to scream a strange hybrid of the songs "Are You Gonna Be My Girl" and "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" at the top of your lungs, at least get the words right. On second thought, spare the neighbors and don't sing at all.

I'd like to give some kind of special award to the J. Geils Band for using a quadruple-negative in "Centerfold" ("This ain't no never-neverland"). I think that song defines cool.

Ok, so that's two things. I'm a compulsive liar.

While cleaning out my physics book today, I made a small discovery. Namely, your inattentive physics teacher may accept the following answers on assignments:

1) Tell me something you know about the moon.
Contrary to popular belief, it is not made of cheese.

2) Name one force.
Jedi

3) What approach should be taken when dealing with projectile equations?
When all else fails, blame gravity.

4) Tell me something you have observed about gravity in daily life.
It pulls harder on your feet. This explains one's instinctive action of putting one's feet on the ground first when one gets up in the morning. It also explains why I can't stand on my head for long periods of time.

5) If a man holds a bowling ball in his left hand, on which part of his body does the earth's gravity act?
You want me to say "his feet," but since it is never made clear whether the man is standing on said feet, the answer to this question cannot be determined, and thirty seconds of my life have been utterly wasted in an attempt to make it at least look like I did this question.

6) You accidentally throw your car keys off a 64-meter cliff at an initial velocity of 8.0 meters per second (in a direction perpendicular to the cliff's face). At what distance from the base of the cliff should you look for your keys?
Let me draw attention to the beginning of this question: "You accidentally throw your car keys off a 64-meter cliff..." I refuse to answer this question on basis of situational inanity.

7) What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?
Yeah, yeah, I'm lying; this wasn't on any of my assignments. I'm just checking to see that you're still paying attention.

Due to the fact that I have been posting a lot of pithy "I am a teenage girl and I feel sorry for myself" entries lately, I have decided to write something out of that vein. Today I shall instead post something I learned today as I was cleaning out my physics book. Namely, the fact that your inattentive physics teacher may accept the following as answers on assignments:

1) Tell me something you know about the moon.
Contrary to popular belief, it is not made of cheese.

2) Name at least one force.
Jedi

3) What approach can you take when solving projectile equations?
When all else fails, blame gravity.

4) Name something that you have observed about gravity in daily life.
It pulls harder on your feet. This explains why when one gets out of bed in the morning, one instinctively puts one's feet on the ground first. It can also be blamed for making it so hard to stand on one's head/hands.

5) If a man holds a bowling ball in his left hand, on which part of his body does the earth's gravity act?
The answer in the back of the book says "his feet." However, nowhere in this problem is it made clear that the man is standing on said feet. Therefore, this question is unanswerable and roughly thirty seconds of my life has just been wasted.

6) You accidentally throw your car keys off a 64-meter cliff with an initial velocity of 8 meters per second (in a direction perpendicular to the cliff's face). Ignoring air resistance, determine how far from the cliff's base you should look for your keys.
I would like to draw attention to the beginning of this question: "You accidentally throw your car keys off a 64-meter cliff..." I refuse to answer this question on basis of inanity.

I'm tired. Go away.

I feel next year's one-act play a-brewin' in me. It has to be a comedy, so I'm already panicking. It's tentatively titled "The Heist," and I'm working on it feverishly. We'll see if this goes anywhere.

I've been reading through the archives a bit, and I have come to the conclusion that I am impossibly boring. Really. It's not physically possible to be quite as mundane as I am; I only manage it through a whole mess o' metaphysics that I can't quite explain. From now on, I'll try to keep the posts action-packed...as action-packed as knitting can be.

Hey, go away. This time I mean it. And I know that you will, 'cos you told me as much. I should believe you; I really shouldn't have to worry. You only wanna make me happy, and if I say, "Hey, go away," you will. And no, you won't think better still that you ought to stay around and love me. You don't have a case. Don't ask me to my face. I don't think I love you. You are too androgynous to be my type, David.

I just thought you'd all like to know that, as of this moment, I have not seen my mother in 72 hours. She's not on a business trip or anything. She goes to work before I get up, and she comes home around 8:00 and goes straight to bed, often before I come downstairs to say hi. This isn't an unusual development; in fact, lately the whole 72+ hours of no contact has been pretty much par for the course.

Also, Daddy Dearest is being a jerk (surprise, surprise). I have a school-sponsored event that's going to keep me in Madison for 12 hours tomorrow. Keep in mind that it's an event that he's making me attend. I asked for money for the three fast-food meals I'll have to get, and he offered me $6. "$2 a meal, Dad?" I asked. "Jeez, I'm not in college yet." He immediately withdrew the offer altogether and told me I could pay for them myself. Nope, he's not kidding. I'd ask Mom, but she's not going to be home tonight.

Hm. I just saw that the press is now referring to the whole Iowa-Dean-debacle as the "I Have a Scream" speech. That amuses me.

I am overcome by an incredible urge to pour out my angry/depressed schoolgirl frustrations into a keyboard, so I'd better go before things get ugly.

I'm so fucking down right now. To write anything meaningful would be to treat you to a glimpse inside the head of an angry, depressed schoolgirl. I don't think you want to see it.

School started two hours late because of snow today. I hate school.

One of the bit players in the school play is sick, and the director asked me to fill in for her. I agreed to do so. You know, I thought I could do it. I really did. But when I went in to practice after school, it just became utterly clear that I could not. I was terrified. I explained the situation to the director, and she let me go home.

It's not that I can't act; I'm decent at that. It's more that I just can't get in front of people.

I know I'm shy. I guess I just never realized how so. My friends mention it when they introduce me to other people, but I always thought that I was simply more of an observer. When I meet somebody, I don't want to talk to them. It takes me an hour or two to get comfortable enough to say much.

Being in speech class killed me last year. Every time I had to deliver a presentation, I'd start silently freaking out. My friend Rachel tells me that you can't really tell that I've got stage fright; apparently I hide it well. When I did the community play three years ago, I puked before every performance.

Maybe I could have filled in if there had been more time to practice (the performance is tonight). Maybe I could have done it if I had just taken better control of my nerves. I don't know. I'm not emergency understudy material.

Warning: another political rant.

I will not be a sheep.

This morning, I decided to revisit the Dean speech from the Iowa caucuses. I looked it up on the Internet, and I watched it.

He yelled and grinned his way through most of it, and I thought, "Ok. For a guy who got 18%, you're awfully excited. I kinda like that." Then, he started naming off the states in that oh-so-famous sound bite. Rather than being horrified, I was actually rather impressed at his ability to rattle off his itinerary. Then came the scream. The scream. The much-lampooned oh-isn't-it-terrible, the he's-losing-control, that John-Cleese-in-Restaurant-Sketch scream.

"YEEEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHH!" Dean yowled.

"Um...now what was all the fuss about?" Allison queried.

Seriously, now, I was initially as horrified as the rest of you. All the news stations played the clip Tuesday, and my response was, "Oh, Lord, he's in for it." But now, as I see it again, I don't understand why I had that response. Yeah, he's fiery and impassioned. A little overly so, perhaps...but I don't get how the media immediately decided he was insane.

This, now, is the part where I realize the power of the media. If the media decides it doesn't like somebody, he's doomed. I'm not going to tell you the media is conservative. It's not. However, it's certainly not liberal, as Mr. Limbaugh would have his dittoheads believe. The media bounces from side to side.

When the media talks, people listen. We believe our talking heads. Magazines and critics told us Seinfeld wasn't crap, and a lot of us eagerly concurred. Carson Daly decided it was okay for white boys to use terms like "bling-bling" and "g-dog," and, unfortunately, a good number of us believed him. You know what? Seinfeld sucked. White kids should leave hip-hop slang to people who can actually pull it off and look cool. The obvious conclusion? The media lies to us.

I'd link to the speech, but I can't figure out how I found it. If you can, though, I encourage you to watch it again. Watch openmindedly, and forget how disgusted you're supposed to be. Maybe you'll come to the same conclusion that I did. Changing your mind is good for you. Embrace your epiphany. (Quick note: doesn't that sound like a good title for a nu-metal album?)

Maybe I'm crazy myself. Perhaps the speech still sounds terrible. It could be that I'm just blinded by my own political loyalty. I don't care. I will not be a sheep.

Snowfall is kind of pretty when you're not out in it, especially when the flakes are big and puffy. They're just kind of floating down to the ground. It's quite aesthetically pleasing.

How tall does an amaryllis get before it blooms? Mine's eighteen inches tall and still showing no signs of blossoming. Maybe it's got some kind of inferiority complex. Perhaps it's compensating for something. (Yeah, yeah, I just made a lame penis joke about a flower. I'm ashamed of myself, too.)

I have a confession to make. I am currently listening to the Bay City Rollers. I have a problem. It's not even Saturday night, and yet I insist on playing the song. I want to get help. I need an intervention. It's just that I sometimes feel like the BCR are the only ones who understand me...they do everything they can to comfort me. Sniffle. It's just that it's the good ol' rock and roll.

Ok, now iTunes has switched to "Creep" (Radiohead, not TLC). I'm better now. Can I have some of my street cred back? . I know, I know, plaid bell-bottoms, but have a little mercy. I just want a little credibility. Pretty please? I could go out and buy Gish if it'll get me back on the level.

While I'm talking about the Smashing Pumpkings, which is almost never, I might as well mention that D'Arcy scares me. She likes unnecessary apostrophes. ("Apostrophe" is quite possibly the coolest word ever.) In that vein, she reminds of Terence Trent D'Arby...remember him? "[Something about a] wishing well, kiss and tell." That's all I remember. Come to think of it, that song might predate my birth. I just remember seeing the video on Pop-Up Video when I was about 11. Ol' Terence Trent scares me, too.

I'm going to go do something else, you know, get a life or something. I think Circus Atari is calling.

Because I am an idiot, I made a huge mistake in my last entry. I wrote that the song was called "Laura Lament." It's not; it's "Laura Laurent." Stupid me.

Now, I must go on an overanalytical Bright Eyes tangent. Namely? Conor Oberst has terrible grammar. I don't mind the occasional "ain't" or a double negative, and I know that I'm guilty of switching tenses like crazy. I allow a few made-up words from time to time. Oberst goes beyond that, though. When the poorness of the grammar becomes a distraction from the songs, there are serious problems.

In the annoyingly-titled "You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will.," he uses the word "reoccurring." Sorry, dude, but it's "recurring."

Conor also seems to have difficulty telling "lie" and "lay" apart from one another. One wouldn't think that this would come up very often, but Bright Eyes' songs use the terms all the freakin' time, and almost never correctly.

In "Laura Laurent," he ought to say that her thoughts "have always lain" close to his. "Have laid" is an perfect example of incorrect conjugation; the word "laid" will never be used without a direct object.

In "Amy in the White Coat," he uses the line "You lay so low in the grass." I can allow that if I assume that he's using the past tense of "lie." If he's using it in present tense, it's incorrect, and, due to the present tense of the rest of the lyrics in that verse, I'm pretty sure he's screwing it up again.

Worst of all, though, is the song "Nothing Gets Crossed Out." First he observes, "All I do is just lay in bed." I don't like the unnecessary "just," but I can allow it because of the meter of the song. However, since it's present tense, he needs "lie in bed." Secondly, he announces, "The grass grew high; I laid down." "Laid" is not the past tense of recline, Conor. That would be "lay." Next, we have the lyric "I've been laying so low." No, no, no, you've been "lying." Lastly, he cries out, "Don't wanna lay here no more." If it were just the double negative, I'd let it slip in the interest of artistic license. But come on, Oberst. You "don't wanna lie here." "Lay" is a transitive verb. Please, sir, learn the rules.

All those flaws are off the top of my head, and I'm sure I could find more. Fortunately for you, I don't feel like doing so. You may begin referring to me as the Grammar Bitch. Anybody think I'm hypocritical (and hypercritical)? I agree with you. I admit to being an uber-analytical hypocrite. In fact, I'm your worst nightmare. I'm the reoccurring kind.

I think I would call tonight if I still had your number. Your thoughts have always laid close to mine; we were both skippin' supper.
--Lyrics from "Laura Lament," by Bright Eyes

I'm sleepy.

A couple of housekeeping tidbits: if you check out the comments on the last post, you'll see that my stance on Clark was duly called into question. Upon further investigation, I discovered that I'm actually quite in agreeance with Wesley Clark's policy (minus his tax plan--I'm still a little iffy on that one). Hence the linkage.

I'm still leaving up Dean's link. He's my man for this campaign because, to be honest, Wes ain't got much of a chance. Dean for now, but 2008? Who knows?

Also, Lana's (broken) link has been replaced with a link to the site of the guy who inspired me to do more research on Clark. Lana, if you're reading, you may scream at me. For the rest of you, I'd like to officially state that Munchies for the Addiction is both munchable and addicting. It's a very good journal (he reviewed his year much better than I did mine), and the guy had a really pretty Christmas tree.

Now, in the interest of fair coverage, I'm going to endorse myself. Hey, it's my site, I'll do it if I want to. Don't leave Supernouveau. Stay here. Bookmark it, you fools. You love me. I'll give you some candy!

On second thought, the only candy in my house is a stale, previously-opened bag of Crispy M&Ms. Maybe I'll just give you a nice pat on the head. But only if you hang around, you nasty pack of mouth-breathers. (Insult them. Yeah, Al, that's a good way to maintain a readership.)

Now I'm talking to myself. Sleep tight, kidlets. I may be back yet.

It occrus to me that I have not yet posted about the abysmal showing in the Iowa caucus, and so I must warn you that this will be a political post.

Howard Dean has misstepped in his campaign. I totally agree with that. He can be a scary man--it's true. I still feel that, at this point, he has shown what nearly all the other candidates have not. Dean is passionate, fiery, and won't back down from the Bizarro-World Republicans who run this country. Al Sharpton is the only other candidate who does this, and since he doesn't have a prayer, I stand firm in the Dean camp.

I suppose "firm" isn't quite the word for it; indeed, my support for Dean has wavered. He's getting wackier. However, I hope that he is merely overexcitable, that his outbursts are displays of undue passion for his cause, and that he can learn to control himself. I don't feel that it would be appropriate to pull my support from him now. (Yeah, I can feel a contradiction coming.)

The simple fact is this: Howard Dean has convictions, and it truly does seem that he doesn't base those convictions on what is popular. I don't agree with the man on everything. For example, his position on gun control is not one that I can support. And yet, when faced with his positions on the war, energy sources, and fiscal responsibility, I do agree with him, and it is for this reason that I have supported him.

Yes, I find myself looking even more closely at other candidates now. I am prepared to make a change of loyalties if Howard doesn't clean up his act. I would feel traitorous if this had to be done, but Mr. Dean, your actions are concerning me.

No one has won me over just yet. I can't support John Kerry; his hair's been tamed, but he still had it (never trust a man who blow-dries his hair). Kerry seems so inhuman, somehow, and I have a hard time determining just where his intentions lie. Who is he really? Dean always had a bit of a "fuck you" attitude, an I find it hard to accept Kerry's now that it's come out at such a convenient time. Perhaps I have misjudged Kerry; it's hard to tell. The coming weeks will help me make a more accurate analysis of his character.

John Edwards has the most sloppily organized campaign that I am old enough to remember. It's not that I don't like the man, it's just that I'm still woefully uninformed about him. I don't know "what he can do for me," and his campaign doesn't seem to be trying very hard to tell me. Maybe I just haven't been interested enough in Edwards in the first place; maybe it's just that I'm not listening to him.

Wesley Clark...General Wesley Clark...two words for you: Um, no.

Joe Lieberman, how can I explain this to you? I don't like you. You're kind of a jackass. There, I said it. Joseph Lieberman, you bother me. If I had to pick a candidate that I could never trust, you can be damn well sure that it's Lieberman. Don't get me wrong; it's not a religious issue in the slightest. It's just that Lieberman seems so underhanded in the way he delivers his message. Perhaps I'm still a bit miffed because of his attack-dog attitude toward Howard Dean, perhaps it's just that he seems so whiny. Maybe it's that he always seems about to declare that he's a victim of the system. Lieberman, I just can't get behind you.

I'm not even going to bother with the others--I've covered the front-runners. I do apologize for the rambling, disorganized nature of this post, and for the changes in audience in the last paragraph. I guess that my brain is just too cloudy right now for me to properly say what I mean to say. It's hard for me to explain what I'm feeling on political issues at this point in time. Frankly, I'm confused myself.

You know what? I'm leaving the Dean link where it is.

Some days are just days, and then some days are events. Thus far, today is most definitely an event, and something approaching the triathlon to boot. Asterisks shall ensue.

I have to go play pep band in half an hour for the second round of the conference tournament. The first game is the losers' game and doesn't include us, so I'll most likely be getting a lot of knitting done. The second game is Us Versus Our Biggest Basketball Rivals. They beat us a couple of weeks ago in a most embarrassing game. Our team played magnificently badly, enough so that all the team members wore black ensembles the next day. The boys were quite ashamed of themselves. Now, we have a rematch. The boys are out for blood.
***
In other basketball-related events, Number Four accosted me during chorus again. "The roof of my mouth hurts," he announced. I didn't think he was talking to me, but he kept on, "Allison, I'm telling you, the roof of my mouth hurts. I woke up this morning, and it hurt. What do you think I did?"

I shrugged and offered, "It's probably cancer. Leprosy, maybe."

He frowned. "Cancer, huh? So what do I do? Cut it out?"

I nodded. "Yeah, a hacksaw to the upper jaw ought to do it."

He grinned and heh-heh-heh'ed. "Shoot, and I have a game tonight, too. Now I gotta go find me a saw."
***
Chantel wants me to sing a duet with her (in Latin, no less) for the spring concert. No comment from the Allison contingent.
***
God hates physics.
***
I hear that the ASVAB results are in, and I hear that I somehow did surprisingly well on the mechanics portion. I have no idea how that happened. The only question I remember doing is "What does a torque converter do?" I was irritated when I realized that "Converts torque" wasn't one of the choices.
***
I'm on a Gilbert and George kick.

Self-Mutilation Dream #3

Last night I dreamt that I was sitting on my computer chair. I had a little stack of razorblades on my desk. I would reach over, pick up a razorblade, and then carefully shove it under one of my fingernails. I did this to all ten of my fingers, and my hands and arms were dripping with blood. It didn't hurt at all, and I remember thinking, "Huh. That's interesting." Then I smiled.

And then I woke up. This is the third dream I've had in which I've injured myself (as is obvious from the title). I'm never in any pain in the dreams. This is the first dream in which I've bled. A terribly bloody nightmare, I must admit. The only thing worse than the imagery is the attitude of the dream--not horrifying, just matter-of-fact.

I looked it up in a dream analysis book at the library, and here's what it said:
"Calmly Shoving Razorblades Under Your Fingernails and Bleeding All over the Place" - You, dear, are a psychopath.

Ooh, guitar!

Number two is my obsession of the moment.

It's The Darkness' video for "I Believe in a Thing Called Love," and I've been watching it pretty much nonstop for the last month or so. I mean, I'm used to weird things, but damn.

My Spanish teacher got in a car accident today.

She lives about 20 miles south of town, and she was driving up here to work at about 11:00 a.m. The highway cuts through what is pretty much a lake, creating a slough on either side of it. The sloughs have big rocks stacked on their shores to help keep water level down in the summer, but the highway usually floods anyway.

She was going about 40 miles per hour between the two ice-covered sloughs and lost control of the car. According to reports, wind was blowing snow across the warm pavement, and the snow melted and refroze to create icy patches. Spanish Lady swerved, took out six indicator poles, and careened off the side of the highway. The car came to a stop hanging halfway off the rock walls. She managed to get out of the car and walk back up to the shoulder of the road, where a candy salesman (literally) gave her a ride into town.

She's fine, bruised and shaken, but fine. The car's pretty beat up and is still hanging off the granite precipice. We had an emergency substitute, so we just sat around drawing get well cards and playing rattle. Spanish Lady came in about ten minutes before class ended, saw that we were making cards for her, and burst into tears. Pobre cosa.

I'm glad I've never been in a car wreck. I'm a nervous enough driver as it is.

Note to self: If you can't say something interesting, don't say anything at all.

Lana, if you're reading this, leave a comment and tell me what your new URL is.

Before I forget, I might as well admit that I woke up this afternoon with a tune running through my head. It was kind of a nursery rhyme melody, a simple, lilting thing that I've never heard before. Maybe I dreamed it into being. Anyway, the first thing I did when I got up was to write lyrics for it. Somehow, the poem ended up being about my hatred of Paul McCartney. It's called "Paul Sucks."

It's a strange little ditty. The rhyme scheme is aabb, except in a repeating section (I guess it's a chorus), which is aaaaab. There are four types of stanzas, in which the syllabic schemes are 9-9-12-14, 7-7, 2-2-12-12-3, and 4. It's a complicated bit of verse. It's fifteen stanzas long, so I'm not going to post the whole thing here, but I will include my favorite stanza for you (it assumes that "The Fool on the Hill" is principally a McCartney creation--I don't know that for sure):

Perhaps I'm being overly cruel;
On second thought, consider the fool
Who had "eyes in his head" so the world he could see--
Well, goddamnit, McCartney, where the fuck else would they be?

So...I'm upset. I don't really have a reason to be, other than the fact that I've been super-emotional the last two/three (?) weeks. I'm upset about everything and nothing all at once. Since I like lists, I guess I'll try to explain all the things that are bothering me as of this very millisecond.

• I have to finish my physics homework--two and a half labs and two essays. It's due tomorrow, and I have no idea how to do any of it.
  
• I fucked up my knitting project. I think I'm just going to unravel it and start over. How bothersome.
  
• Yesterday I tried to get a library card at the Brookings library, but I'm not 18, so my attempts were fruitless. It's kind of a strange world when it's easier for a minor to acquire alcohol than a library card.
  
• I could just have my mom or dad go to the library to get me a card, but neither will. I've already asked several times, and received the following reactions: "I don't have time to do that," "I don't want to pay $20 for something that you'll just lose," "That's what the school library is for," and "Not now. Maybe next time I go to Brookings."
  
• I've been thinking about the school shootings lately. I wonder how Kip Kinkel is. I think Drew Golden's out in five years. He and I are the same age. Where is Barry Loukaitis now? God, I remember Andy Williams. Is he doing ok? Has it really been almost five years since Columbine? They don't cover the shootings like they used to--we barely heard about the St. Cloud killings last fall.
  
• I broke 120 pounds. This shouldn't depress me, but it kind of does.
  
• I'm afraid I did rather badly on my physics test on Friday.
  
• I can't concentrate.
  
• I don't want to go to school tomorrow.
  
• I am totally devoid of energy.
  
• Jesus Christ, five years. Is it weird to say that Columbine affected me more than 9/11? Because it did.
  
• I want to go back to bed.

I have a lack of original thoughts lately. I'll try to be interesting some other day.

Team=won. Me=tired.

Good luck to the boys' basketball team as they compete at the conference tournament tonight.

I feel like shit. Don't ask me how I am. I want nothing more than to curl up into a ball and listen to the Moonlight Sonata until I fall asleep, but I've got to go play in the pep band at the fucking tournament.

Fuck this.

"A little boy on a stairwell who says, 'I hate people like you; I got matchsticks and cable TV and half of less than 50p.' We're clambering over the balcony, bangin' on the window, waking Steve, bringing with a true love his unholy friend, singin', 'If you really need it, you just won't leave it behind."

Courtesy of the Libertines.

I never did mention that the boys' basketball team won on Tuesday night. Consider it mentioned.

Today Number Four poked me in the back of the shoulder as he walked behind me during chorus. "Hey," I acknowledged. "How's it going?"

He started giggling, in the kind of heh-heh-heh way that he does. "I don't know what you're talking about," he responded, "but I'm good."

That boy is just goofy.

Last Friday, he was dinosaur-stepping around the band room when he was supposed to be playing the second trumpet part of "Summertime." He's 6'4", so it was an amusing sight, needless to say. I was sitting in my isolated corner behind my timpanis (which I only refer to as 'mine' because no one else knows how to play them). Anyway, I'm holed up in the little nest of drums and busily knitting.

Number four dinosaur-steps over and leans over the 29-inch. "Hi, Allison the Knitter," he announces. Before I can react, he loudly whispers, "Don't be naughty." He says this with such seriousness and a tone of mock disapproval that I can't help but laugh.

"You're on to me," I reply. "Everybody thinks I'm just mildly knitting my life away, but I'm actually plotting my revenge." He heh-heh-hehs and dinosaur-steps back to his seat.

What an odd fellow.

Things I am doing:
- cutting out her hands
- drawing pictures of dead people
- wondering what the hell I'm trying to say here.

To borrow from Miles Davis, I'm kind of blue.

He loved Big Brother.

Do you know what terrifies me? The USA Patriot Act.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not a member of the ACLU (they scare me, too). I'm a good little American, more or less. I eat my vegetables, sing my national anthem, and hate those Communists. I'm not in favor of downsizing the government. Yay America. But, and this is a big 'but,' John Ashcroft and his legislative pet absolutely horrify me.

I can only think of one word that truly describes the Patriot Act: Orwellian. Positively Orwellian. It's such a terrifying piece of legislation; it boggles my mind to understand how readily it was passed post-9/11.

The act is supposed to be good for the American people. Ashcroft would have us believe that it's the only way to root out the terrorists among us. If not for the Patriot Act, we quite possibly could have maybe perhaps you know had another million or dozen or one September 11! The act's official website tells us, "The government’s success in preventing another catastrophic attack on the American homeland since September 11, 2001, would have been much more difficult, if not impossible, without the USA Patriot Act." Nothing like an unprovable argument.

The great thing about the act, though, is this: 91% of Americans polled said that it had no effect on their personal liberties. Now, tell me that's not a fantastic statistic for Mr. Ashcroft to pull out and wave in the face of his detractors. The catch? The Patriot Act provides for itself here. Even if it did affect your liberties, the idea behind the act is that there's no way you could know. Has the government been looking at your library records? Guess what? Under the Patriot Act, the library can't tell you!

Perhaps I'm mistaken, but that seems to be a great way to make it easy for the government to abuse its privileges (especially the ones that the act provides). To boil a complex issue into six-year-old-speak, "We can look at your stuff and you'll never know it! Nyah nyah nyah!" Thanks, U.S. government. That makes me feel um...safer?

I could list a million or a dozen or one reason(s) why the Patriot Act is terrifying, but hey, I'm unqualified, and more importantly, I'm lazy. I'm going to let some other sites do the work for me.

• Preserving Life and Liberty: In the interest of fair press, I'll post the act's website first. As for the title, way to make your opposition look like dirty godless Nazi-Fascist-Communist Constitution-haters.


• ACLU Rebuttal: Now I've got to let the ACLU fire back. Here's their response to the "Dispelling Myths" section of Life and Liberty.


• Know Your Rights: MSN provides an in-depth analysis of exactly why we should be afraid, be very afraid.


• Avoiding the PATRIOT ACT Since 2001: If you piss off librarians, they will make signs about your laws.

Please understand that this is all in good fun. Sure, it may be a little late, but I felt like ranting about this. If you're still bothered, you could always send me hate mail. That would be cool.

I do have one suggestion for anyone who agrees with me. Head down to your local library today and pick up a copy of 1984. Not only will you look all deep and anarchist and intellectual in front of your friends, you'll be subtly protesting the government's doings. In fact, let's all go down to the library and check out all their copies of 1984. It would be like a flash mob. A cheesy, law-protesting mob that had nothing better to do but to check out books en masse.

Do it. All the cool kids check out 60-year-old novels in a lame attempt to protest creepy-ass legislation without actually having to make signs and march and stuff. Come now, let's protest the Patriot Act two years too late. Cool kids good, USA Patriot Act baaaaaad.

So, as could be predicted by yesterday's freakishly energetic romp through life, today I am feeling quite subpar. I believe the word I am looking for is "listless." Listless, yep, that's pretty much it.

As I was saying before, I've decided to write a soap opera. It's called Sex, Love, and Lightbulb-Licking. Here are some of the characters:
- Jody: obsessive-compulsive; nymphomaniac (aren't all soap characters?); "looking for love in all the wrong places;" has a bizarre tendency to lick exposed lightbulbs
- Thor: Jody's brother, expert spelunker (can you guess where this one's heading?); has an illegitimate two-year-old son, Marvin, with a hillbilly woman named Betsy May; currently trapped in a cave after an avalanche; must use cave lizards for sustenance
- Joyce: Thor's secret lover, a suicidal Scientologist
- Esmerelda: Joyce's formerly-conjoined twin; afflicted with elbow cancer; Amish
- Dorcas: The Evil Blonde One; does whatever evil soap characters do
- Horatio: Dorcas' boss at the surveyors' company, Plotlines, Inc. (hahahaHA!); secretly gay
- Jesus: orphaned Mexican just-barely-18-year-old, janitor at Plotlines, Inc.; having affairs with both Esmerelda and Horatio

Their eventual Season 1 fates:
-- Jody: seeks help through both Sexaholics Anonymous and Lightbulb-Lickers Anon
- Thor: escapes cave by eating his companions (the other spelunkers, not the lizards) and using their bones to, I dunno, build a ladder or something. I haven't quite decided yet. Thor later meets Marvin for the first time--did I mention that Marvin is deaf? Blind, too. Also, Marvin's a leper. Ooh, and maybe gay.
- Joyce: gets extremely depressed after finding out about Marvin, flies to Greece, kills herself by jumping off the top of the Parthenon. The Parthenon's not so high, so she might have lived if she hadn't happened to fall on some spikes.
- Esmerelda: has a near-death experience during her hospital stay for the elbow cancer. Miraculously, the cancer goes into remission just as Esmerelda is overcome with grief after news of her sister's death. She gets kicked out of the commune for watching Jerry Springer, so she moves to the suburbs, becomes a stripper, and accepts Jesus' marriage proposal.
- Dorcas: is Evil
- Horatio: considers renaming company, gets dumped by Jesus, has lots of Big Gay Affairs
- Jesus: becomes a translator for the CIA (he knows Farsi, coincidentally), dumps Horatio, forgets the whole gay thing, proposes to Esmerelda, develops a Purpose in Life.

It's going to be a hit, I can just feel it.

It appears that I am moving into a phase in my life in which I very much enjoy the color pink. The vast majority of the things I bought today were pink. Hm. Curiouser and curiouser.

I don't know about you, but I'm going shopping.

Edward Scissorhands = masterpiece.

I'm going to do a quick music-related post because, hey, I feel like it.

Item 1: Why does Jack White insist on pronouncing 'hardest' like 'hottest' (or at least 'hoddest')? Dude, you're from Detroit. I know what a Detroit accent (if you could call it that) sounds like, and that ain't it.

Item 2: "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" is the greatest song of ever. At least, I'll think that for the next forty minutes or so. I go on Darkness kicks, and tonight's definitely one of them. Permission to Land is just such a fun album, and I think you gotta love a British guy who isn't afraid to wear lavender jumpsuits. Polarizing, my foot.

Item 3: B-A-S-S bass. Yes. Cheerleader chants as interpreted by Outkast. Oh, yes.

Item 4: I need to listen to "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" again. That song just rocks.

Item 5: I really like the White Stripes, a.k.a. Jack White, but "Hardest Button to Button" just irritates me. There's that whole 'hoddest' thing, and it's just such a bitter-sounding song. What's Jack White got to be bitter about? He's rich, adored, and he's dating a movie star. Ok, I'll let him be bitter now about the whole wrecking-his-Porsche thing and the whole let's-assault-a-Von-Bondie ordeal, but still. Don't be bitter, man. Bitter leads to whiny, and whiny leads to idiotic.

Item 6: Forget this. I'm gonna go listen to "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" for the twenty-seventh time in the last two hours.

I have an awful lot of algebra homework that I am desperately trying to avoid doing, so it's time for another...

Fifty Things
1. The first album I ever owned was a 1968 LP of the Beatles' Yellow Submarine. I stole it from my father's record collection when I was five and was instantly hooked.
2. I'd sell my pancreas to look like Winona Ryder circa Heathers (minus the big hair).
3. It drives me crazy to listen to people eat.
4. I'm a bit of a pyromaniac.
5. I'm currently knitting a scarf for my sort-of friend Paula.
6. I like to create anagrams for my name.
7. I'm extremely ritualistic. I have set routines that I complete on daily and weekly bases.
8. No spice rack is left untouched by me; I have a compulsive need to alphabetize them.
9. I'm chronically late.
10. I placed second at the state spelling bee two years in a row.
11. I'm always cold. I wear jackets in the summertime.
12. My handwriting changes constantly, from neat and tiny to a large, unintelligible scrawl.
13. I don't use tittles.
14. I take a children's chewable multivitamin every day.
15. I learned to read by studying newspaper headlines.
16. I'm surprisingly good at tiddly-winks.
17. I'm baptized Roman Catholic, but am currently having a small religious crisis.
18. As a child, I always wanted to marry a Jewish man when I grew up.
19. I don't believe in Hell.
20. Despite my shyness, I'm very outgoing around people I know well, and I love to be the center of attention.
21. I avoid conflict at all costs.
22. Apologies are second nature to me. I apologize for things that aren't even my fault.
23. One of my worst traits is that I'm an excellent liar.
24. I fidget incessantly. I have a total inability to sit completely still.
25. My father wanted to give me the middle name "Wonderland," but my mom wouldn't let him. I have never quite forgiven her for this.
26. People used to tell me that I looked like Jodie Foster. I don't anymore.
27. I am growing progressively stupider. I was an extremely precocious child.
28. I keep a list of books to read before I die.
29. When it comes to concrete objects, I don't believe in neutral connotations. Every noun has a good or bad identity in my mind.
30. I loathe memorization.
31. I have a pretty photographic memory. When I can't remember an answer on a test, I'm able to visualize the page it was on, and I can figure it out from that about 80% of the time.
32. In accordance with #31, I learn almost exclusively by visuals.
33. I think hands-on experiments in science classes are absolutely repulsive. I cannot stand them.
34. My room rarely gets cleaned. I tend to lose interest about halfway through the job, so I only clean if I've got a do-nothing weekend ahead of me.
35. People tend to think that I'm taller than I really am. I'm 5'7".
36. My favorite animal is the wombat.
37. I remember watching the world premiere of Michael Jackson's "Black or White" video.
38. I adore the smell of coffee, but I don't drink it.
39. Green tea is the only kind of tea I like.
40. I have one recurring dream. In it, I push thumbtacks into my wrists. I make designs and form my initials and things like that. I never bleed, and it doesn't hurt.
41. Up until last year, my father was a stay-at-home dad. My mom works all the time. I have a hard time relating to her.
42. I am a shameless perfectionist.
43. I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.
44. I don't know where I want to go to college, either.
45. My goldfish have all been named after historical figures. My first fish was Spartacus, and he was replaced by Josephine. Napoleon has since succeeded her.
46. My 'happy place' is the St. Louis Wax Museum.
47. When I was fourteen, I played the roles of Gertrude, August, and The Cook in our community production of The Matchmaker. People told me I was very good, but I have not acted since.
48. I am a soprano. I have a decent range, but my voice is only middling.
49. Twelve of my ancestors fought in the Civil War. All were Confederates.
50. As a kid, I worshiped Bill Watterson and Berke Breathed and wanted to be a cartoonist.

I'm calmer now. Very, very slightly.

I'm sitting in front of my computer while eating my just-cooked dinner, which I made all by myself, thank you. Scrambled eggs and a baked cinnamon toast-type concoction of my own devising, with an Evian on the side. I feel like a water snob.

Breakfast for dinner is my comfort food. Tasty and calming and vaguely French, yes siree.

I get the feeling that I had something very, very important to say, but I am currently very, very forgetful and have little-to-no clue as to what it was. And closer to the 'no' side of things, too.

Happy birthday, David Bowie.

Oh. My. God.

I walked into my guidance counselor's office today for our scheduled meeting about my PSAT scores. Our school's counselor, as I have noted previously, is woefully incompetent and only manages to keep his job because of his last name. Someone else is already in there, so I have to wait outside for twenty minutes. All the while, I'm fretting about the test.

I go in, and he ushers me to a chair. I sit down. He bends over and picks up a cardboard box with all the test booklets in it. He leafs through the booklets, pauses. He flips through them again.

He looks up at me. "Are you sure you took this test?"

After being initially numbed by the utter stupidity of his question, my brain explodes. "Of course I took the goddamn test!" I think. "Do you realize that you're asking the top-ranked student of the junior class if she took the PSAT? Actually, no, wait, I didn't take it. I just scheduled this meeting for the hell of it. I gave you a check three months ago for kicks. And hell, while everybody else was filling out the answers, I was drawing rocketships on my feet. Of course I took the fucking test, you incompetent asshole." I didn't say this, fortunately. Instead, I managed a stunned and testy "Yes."

He hands me a blank test booklet. "Here, you can just use this until I find yours." He begins to look through the score reports. "Hm...it's not in the C's," he announces. He asks my last name. I tell him, and don't bother to mention that he's known me for eight years. I also don't mention that my father (a newspaper reporter) interviews him every week during football and wrestling seasons, both of which he coaches. I don't mention that I'm one of 34 juniors in a school with 300 kids in grades K-12, and I don't mention that he knows exactly what my fucking name is.

He browses through the score reports a third time. "Well, I don't have it," he says, shrugging. I stare at him. "What do you mean, you 'don't have it?'" I ask. "I don't know; it's not here. They must not have sent it," he replies.

I am dumbstruck. "So what am I supposed to do?" He shrugs again, a movement so indicative of total nonchalance that I want to hit him. "Nothing. Don't worry about it. I'll get in touch with them or something."

I can't let that one go. "Or something?" I ask, the very picture of irritation. He cowers a bit at the challenge and tells me, "I'll call them. Now, I've got to meet with a football equipment representative, so I'll see you later."

I leave. I swear to God, if ever there was a day during which I was meant to spontaneously combust, this is it.

I've been noticing that there's been a bit of lurking around here. Don't get me wrong; I'm a habitual lurker myself, but you guys can comment if you like. I'll allow it. At least tell me where you're coming from, you cheeky monkeys. About half of you are showing up as 'unknowns' on Site Meter, so I am rather bewildered. (Granted, 'half' refers to about four people a week, but hey.)

Correction: I just listened to both "You Can't Stop the Beat" and "Material Girl," and I can only conclude that I am either crazy or hallucinating. The chord progressions are similar in the verses, but I definitely overexaggerated by using the term "identical." Blame it on sugar highs. This correction is offered of my own free will. Neither Peter Brown nor Robert Rams is holding a pistol to my head at this very moment.

Pistol, nope. Shotgun, though; well, I'm not going to confirm or deny that...

Observation: If I were the composer of the song "You Can't Stop the Beat" (from Hairspray), I would totally sue Peter Brown and Robert Rams, the writers of "Material Girl." If you can get a chance to listen to these songs, do it. The melodies of the verses are nearly identical.

Gasp and drool.

In a desperate attempt to prove that I do indeed have two X-chromosomes, tonight I am going to link you to my favorite shopping site. It's called Blissen, and it's the girliest thing I can bring myself to like. Fortunately, it's quite effeminate.

(I must note at this point that I am by no means a tomboy. I'm just not one of those pink-clad sparkly girls you see in Seventeen. Now I'm shuddering.)

Blissen has many pretty things. It's pretty. Pretty pretty pretty. I like. Of course, I'm far too broke to actually buy stuff on it, so I just look. Each item is an original handmade design. Pretty pretty.

In conclusion, if you are A.) a girl, or B.) a pansy man, go visit Blissen. If you are neither of those, I guess you could go make a papier mache Satan or something. In fact, I think everybody should make a papier mache Satan. Forget all that Blissen crap. Lucifer art project it is.

Holy crap. Don't worry, I'll spare you the Amish rants this eve.

Today was quite uneventful. I dubbed Chantel Greasemonkey, much to her delight, and Cal has become Groovemeister, much to her bewilderment. Everybody needs a new nickname once in awhile, or I'll get bored. Sarah begged for a new one, and I delivered, albeit halfheartedly. She has become Fascist Lemur, which conveniently and indirectly shortens to Flash. We mustn't let the lemurs take control.

To paraphrase Ali G, "What's the funniest animal? It's lemurs, innit?"

Chantel has dubbed me her "shoe fashion maven." Ha. Take that, Vogue. The fashion world is in serious trouble when I'm a maven. Chantel's a big fan of my Vans, rhyme not intended. This makes me want to burst into "Vans Song," but frankly, I'm kinda sleepy.

Played pep band tonight. Received the following instructions verbatim from Band Dude: "Unless directed otherwise, play a rock beat. You suck, you stupid dumbass." So I have learned that it is possible for "Land of a Thousand Dances," "Celebration," "Smoke on the Water," and "Mony Mony" to meld into the same song. I don't know why I bother to show up to these things; a trained monkey could play the drumbeat.

I think the only post-1980 songs in our entire repertoire are "Another One Bites the Dust" and "We Got the Beat." Last year we played "Workin' in a Coal Mine" (the Devo version, according to the music), but Band Dude has trashed it because he is a big dumb pasty band guy.

Mmph. As I said earlier, uneventful. Got a lot of knitting done. During physics, Brandon (that's my little ex-Hutterite friend) demanded to know what I was knitting. "I don't know. Nothing, really," was the answer, to which he replied, "It better be a scarf for me." So, yeah. Apparently I'm knitting a pale grey scarf for Brandon.

Netscape must die. But, ooh, hey, Beatles rant!

Well, kidlets, I had a big update for you, but Netscape crashed before I got done with it. Everything was lost. I don't feel like rewriting it, so you shall quite possibly never see exactly the message I intended for you. Suffice it to say that it was full of links to various Amish sites (biggest oxymoron ever) and had a longish Beatles rant at the end.

Here's the one link that remains, courtesy of the Copy function. Enjoy your Amish FAQ.

My Beatles rant was basically as follows:

I wanted to end this update with a link to a website that was entirely devoted to John Lennon's bizarre Amish phase (either Amish or rabbi--whichever you prefer). However, apparently no such thing exists.

Not only that, but apparently I am the only person in the world who remembers it. I can't find the picture that I wanted to link to anywhere. As I recall, it was inside the jacket of one of the later albums (Let it Be? Abbey Road?). My Beatles' CD collection has mysteriously disappeared, so I can't find any trace of the photo. I think it was from Abbey Road, as the infamous cover art would suggest that John's hair was about right at that time. Am I crazy? I tried looking for the jacket art of Abbey on the web, but it is not to be found. (I suspect that that is because the Beatles are notoriously web-unfriendly.)

Note to Paul and Ringo: be nice to your fans. At least be a little less halfassed when it comes to the official Beatles website. The site sucks. Of course, what can one expect from Paul? Ringo, though, ought to know better.

On a related note, don't bother going to www.paulsucks.com; it's a big listing of porn sites. However, www.paulsucks.org is an available domain name. Someday I shall treat you all to an essay entitled "When Paul Started Sucking, Founded Wings, and Did Crappy Duets with Michael Jackson: The Sad Tale of the Man Responsible for Such Genius Works of Art as 'Yesterday' and 'Eleanor Rigby.'" Paul, Paul, Paul...ya big sellout.

I miss George.

Someday I shall found sites that explore both John's infamous (at least to me) Amish phase and Paul's inexplicable suckiness. Ah, such dreams I have.

Apparently there's been something called World Idol going on the last month or so. I had no idea. Let me explain it again: I am Amish. No TVs here in Allisonville. I've been out cleaning the buggy and feeding the horses. For the last month. I know, I know, you're all busily pointing out, "But you don't have Amish communities in South Dakota! You've got Mennonites and Hutterites, but no Amish. You're a dirty stinking cheese-for-brains liar."

Shh. There's a secret Amish colony on the eastern edge of central South Dakota. Don't tell anyone. We live in a big network of caves underground, and some of us fight crime. The Amish League to the rescue! "Truth, liberty, and justice ahoy!" That's our motto. I'll bet you didn't know that the Amish used the word "ahoy."

And as for those of you who are wondering just how I post to the Internet when I live in a world free of the evils of modern technology, I can only say "Om....mind-freakin'....brrrrrrrrrrazpp ...... zeezuwezuwez.....telepathy.........shh.....you didn't see this." I've resurrected the powers of the Quail Eye. "Prepare to be helpless and stupefied!" (It's from the old Nickelodeon show Doug, for those of you who didn't grow up in the early nineties.)

On a sort-of-but-not-really related note, I have a friend who used to be a Hutterite. I'm totally convinced that he's secretly a hobbit. He's very short and scrappy. I've also met his cousin, a current Hutterite, who's even more hobbitish. (Maybe Tolkien was friends with a lot of Hutterites. You know, British Hutterites.) Cal knows another guy who's a former Hutterite. He worked at a cafe with Cal before he went to prison on a DWI charge. They're everywhere, I tell you. Hutterites, that is. Not DWI charges. I don't even know if we call them DWIs in SD; maybe they're DUIs. Is there a difference?

Anyway, back to my original reason for posting: World Idol. Apparently that Kelly Clarkson girl got second, and some Norwegian dude won. Good for the Norskies. We've got lots of them around here--there are even more Norskies than Hutterites. I'm one of the few non-Norwegians in this town. I'm sure all the crazy bastards will be very pleased with their pseudo-countryman. Actually, no, they won't. Nobody pays attention to pop culture here. There are people in my class who don't know who John Lennon is. Honest. It's pathetic.

Now that I'm ranting about Norwegians, is it just me, or do they have no taste buds? Just to refresh your memory, Norwegians eat lutefisk. What is lutefisk, you inquire? It's fish. Herring, specifically. Pickled in lye. And they like it. My duodenum is shrieking in horror at present. I don't get the appeal of pickled fish.

They also like lefse. Correction, they worship lefse. All my little Norwegian friends eat it like it's candy. They make it on big griddles with this weird wooden stick thing that they use to flip it (the lefse, not the griddle). Now, I've had lefse, and again, I cannot understand the appeal. It's basically a tortilla made out of potatoes, except it tastes like wet paper bags. According to my friend Amanda, it tasted bad because I didn't put enough cinnamon and sugar on it. Maybe it's just me, but why go to all the trouble of making a big ol' hunk of pseudo-bread that's only good if you coat it in sugar?

A quick disclaimer for all you Norwegians who are flaming at the ears right now: I like you. Really. A good majority of you are fat, happy farmers. Nothing wrong with that. Almost all of my friends are Norwegian. Being fat, happy farmers is not a bad thing. It's better than being husky peasantstock Eastern Europeans (keep your pants on, the rest of you--I'm a good portion Czech). However, my Czech ancestry is not very apparent on the husky peasantstock side of things; I seem to have inherited the paler, more delicate features of my mostly English-Irish father.

I'm sorry, but I'll have to be off now. I've got to go fetch Zedekiah for our prayerful worship service. Then I've got to churn some butter. Godspeed.

Hush, children. You're always being watched.

I'm feeling a little off today. I feel...quiet.

I was looking through the photos on my computer the other day, and I came upon it. The Cutest Picture of Ever. It's sickeningly adorable. It makes me want to Photoshop it and add blood and guts and gore or something; it's that endearing.

Before I post the picture itself, I'll give you a bit of background. The subject is none other than the kitten I received as a 15th birthday present. I named him Manfred Horace; my mother made me change his name once she figured out his nickname (take the first syllable of each name...sound it out...there you go--hey, Outkast, I totally beat you to it). He's now Ozzie, thanks to my overenthusiastic St. Louis Cardinals fan of a father.

Anyway, when Ozzie was little, he liked watching TV. Seriously. He'd sit there and stare at the television, and if the closed captioning was on, he'd try and bat at it every time the words flashed up on the screen. Oh, and check out the old-school television set while you're at it--it's exactly three weeks older than me. We've donated it to Goodwill since then.

And now, your moment of Zen:


Yes, I just posted a picture of my kitten watching The Fellowship of the Ring. That's Bilbo on the screen, and the text reads, "Gandalf?". (Sorry about the crappy quality...damn the jpegs.) I am the world's biggest geek. You may bow.

Mmph. Yes, I just woke up. Yes, I was feeling sorry for myself yesterday. Yes, I'm dreading having to return to school on Monday.

I keep getting prom catalogs in the mail from every bridal shop in the Dakotas. Today's magazine is from Fargo, courtesy of the creatively named The Bridal Shop. Holy crap, leave me alone. I don't even want to go to prom. Poor, whiny Allison--the antithesis of the average teenage girl. Except for the whiny part.

When I grow up, I want to be a wombat.

No one listens to me.

So...I got up at 12:30, and I went back to bed at 4:00. I've been sleeping all day. I just woke up again at 9:30, and frankly, I don't want to be awake. I hate being awake. I have neither the energy nor the willpower to even leave this room. 'S ok, though. I'm ok. Yeah.

Today's Goats cartoon is of interest to any fans of Wil Wheaton. All you nonbelievers who thought I was weird for hero-worshipping the guy are now weeping. Oh yeah, who's the loser now, huh? I am so hip it hurts. Or something. Go ahead, hit me.

Oh, and before I forget: the little thing next to the title does indeed read, "There is no honor in Tetris." I didn't write that; it's graffitied on the wall of the Electric Rainbow arcade in Watertown. It's very tiny and is written next to the Skee-Ball machines (how else did you think I found it?). I love it. I went up and took about eight pictures of it with my digital camera. Lots of strange looks that day.

It's true, you know. Tetris is totally devoid of chivalry.

My eyes ache. I'm going to go to bed after slaving away at Photoshop all day. I think I got it pretty much figured out, but it was intimidating. Once you get over the initial shock of, "What the fuck does this button do?," it's not so bad.

I'm rather liking the new schematics.

Well, well, well. (Ten points to any Hives fans who caught that one.) Two hours and two Diet Dr Peppers later, I have successfully updated my little ol' computer to Mac OS 9.2, downloaded iTunes, updated my firmware, and installed new speakers. It wasn't easy.

Note to Steve Jobs, who I know is an avid reader of Supernouveau: don't tell me to update my firmware by reading the instructions in the CD Extras folder. The instructions are not there; they do not exist. Note #2 to Mr. Jobs: the Support search engine on apple.com is a mess. When I search "firmware update OS 9," I shouldn't have to wade through three pages of jargon-filled results.

In the end, though, I conquered, and I have a nice new operating system to show for it. If anyone needs help updating (those other three of you who are on 8.6), I am a freaking expert on it for the next two days. Then I'll forget. But until then, drop me a line, and I will flex my geek muscles.

After updating firmware and the OS, I downloaded iTunes. Yay me. However, after a quick listen of "Come Together," I concluded that an old iMac's internal speakers simply aren't up to snuff. Fortunately, I had an old unused pair of externals in a box in my attic, and away I plugged. Now I can listen to the Beatles without having my desk shake.

Enough of the geek update. Photoshop is downloading as we speak. New images for the site, I promise! Former Girl Scout's honor!

I forgot something in the last post.

Of note: Supernouveau is now listed on Yahoo!. Yep, just type supernouveau into the search box and watch with bated breath as up pops a link to everybody's favorite Monty-Python-and-Atari-and-knitting-themed Blogger site.

Happy new year, everybody.

There's relatively little going on here. I'm still working on the new design; I'd like to get what I had originally envisioned, but I fear that that will be impossible without Photoshop. (There is, however, a backup design now. I'm a busy little bee.) Today will mostly consist of me staring at Dad's eMac and downloading Photoshop demos and being creative with screenshots. Here's to hoping it works.

On a totally different tangent, I miss the days when "Take two aspirin and call me in the morning" was the answer to all medical woes. Now it's more like, "Get your ass into the emergency room so you can undergo an endoscopic probing, and then we'll give you free lipo." By the way, I know that this makes me sound really old. Did I mention that I watched a lot of I Love Lucy as a kid?

I Love Lucy sucks.

Last night was quite the party night for Allison--booze, drugs, uninhibited sex... Ok, so maybe I was holed up in my room knitting and listening to the Glenn Miller Band's version of "Auld Lang Syne" while I watched Dick Clark half-ass his way through another New Year's special. Yeah, I said knitting. Maybe I was, huh? What's it to ya?