Pick Me Up Of The Day

After watching 'Uganda Rising', I've realized how unfortunate some people are and how disgustingly ignorant we can sound by how we complain over nothing. So I've decided to regularly post something to hopefully bring your frown upside down! Life is good!




yes that is the, uhm. Interesting-looking Sarah Jessica Parker.


Hey, you could've always looked like this.

Cheer up, butercup!

Uhm, Hi Sexy Fucker.

Bye.

and if I had a million dollars, I'd buy you a monkey

So I sort of got fired from my job.

Okay, not sort of. Because you can either be employed or unemployed and currently, I am not employed.

Now, if I was the old me, I would watch re-runs of The Office and eat a gallon of Rolo Ice Cream. The new me, however, will eat two gallons and throw in S3 of Friends.

I'm not upset.

I'm not.

Honest.

Maybe the mention of my ex-boss makes me want to twist her into a pretzel and feed her to some seagulls. Or, you know, shove her foot in her nostril and make her cut off her nose and eat it, but upset is definitely not the word to describe me.

I'm looking for jobs, though.

On the upside: Darren and Kelvin fixed my iPod! I dropped it and the backlight broke, they did some stuff (idk what stuff, Asian stuff) and now it works again! I can listen to it in the dark again! SUCCESS!

... haven't you always wanted a monkey?

Why does everything in life have to come with a 'catch'?

Every euro-trip comes with luggage to haul, every good fuck comes with the morning after.

All bold promises have fine print, and we always seem to forget our magnifying glasses in our other jeans.

They advertise asthma medication in their cute little commercials. It all looks so great! You can have longer sex without busting out your puffer! But they forget to tell you that you run the risk of losing your lungs.

Good things in life are like a big cupcake. You eat it and it's wonderful, until you realize next morning the sprinkles were really battery acid tablets.

Okay, I don't really fucking know what I'm saying. Basically. Life sucks. There's always a huge low after the huge high, and a toilet to face after the great booze.

Dwight: I'm not worried.
Phyllis: You sound worried.
Dwight: And you have bad skin. Look, everyone, we're all making observations!

Miley Cyrus

I kinda don't hate her now. Go figure.

Also.
I need a job.
Severely.
Like.
Now.

Serious Post.

There are many horrible things going on in Uganda.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord%27s_Resistance_Army


Don't buy a Big Mac, and help.

http://guluwalk.com/donate/


Learn Something

http://guluwalk.com/learn/

Or at least take a moment out of your life to realize just how lucky you are.

oh, I did this too.

That afternoon in the dining hall he had had the misfortune of actually talking to Robert Warren, which, he realized as he reflected on it, had probably aroused his current miserable state. Robert Warren had approached him at the sophomore table and clamped a hand steadily on his shoulder - Peter recoiled from the contact. There were tufts of black hair on Robert Warren’s knuckles. His nails were perfectly manicured.

“Pete,” he said gruffly. “Can I talk to you outside?”

Peter rose silently, averting his gaze, and the two headed out the swinging doors together and stood next to the trash cans.

“Look,” said Robert Warren, his voice clear and solemn. “There’s not gonna be room for you on varsity this year.”

Here is what he proceeded to say:

“You’re a good player, Pete, and I know you put your heart into it. But it’s between you and Mark, and this is Mark’s last year and you know I can’t do that to him. I’m sorry Pete. What else can I do?”

Here is what he might as well have said:

“Aren’t you a little Asian for this?”

Peter, who usually came up to Robert Warren’s shoulders at least, shrunk to half his usual size. And then he did what no one else in the whole school would dare do to Robert Warren, which was walk away without saying a word. Robert Warren did not call him back; after all, he had shrunk far below the peripheral vision of such a tall, handsome athlete.

When he got back to his room the sudden illness had come on, and he had decided against going to chemistry. It was a dumb class anyway. Junior Varsity Chem, what a joke! He ought to be able to do better than that. Shouldn’t he?

Peter heard a ping from his computer, indicating a new email, and rose from his bed to see who was contacting him. It was from Math Club, about an upcoming math competition in the next town over. Would he, or any other Math Club members be interested in competing?

Peter was surprised to see himself comprised in the list of Math Club members, as he had never signed up for it. He was thoroughly average in the field of mathematics, and held no particular enthusiasm in the subject, except maybe the time he set out counting the number of dots on the surface of his basketball. One-hundred and twenty-two per square inch. Thirty-five thousand.

“Mr. Chang,” he typed. “I would love to compete in the math tournament. Sign me up.”



....

I don't fucking know, dude!

Because of exams and our teacher temporarily lacking material to inflict upon us, my english homework for the next week is to just write. Something, anything, each night. Since there's really no way of monitoring such an 'assignment', I wasn't gonna bother but, hey, I may aswell practice for what will inevitably be my 'career' (that's what lumps say instead of 'frustratedly hammering on their laptops in starbucks to excuse their non-employment'.)

So here is what I have so far for today. It's pretty stupid and pointless and bad, but it's better than not doing anything at all.



Red, blue, red, blue. Red. Blue. Red or blue? Which one, which fucking one?

This wasn't that hard - she knew it wasn't that hard. Nowhere near as hard as, for example, her math homework she had last night and definitely nowhere near as hard as Jimmy when he caught sight of a thong.

She also knew that if she wasn't alone, somebody would pointedly cough and follow up with a "Pick one, already." Hell, she was getting annoyed of herself. But it wasn't her fault that there were so many choices, so much variety. And it wasn't her fault she was going to be late to class for her endless internal debating, either. Everyone is told what and how to do everything in this place, and as far as she was concerned, it was up to a saggy, wrinkly old fart to waddle their way over to her and yank her out of her daily stints of retardation by the soda machine the same way they did with her day dreaming or her gum-chewing or name-calling or nail-biting (more like chewing) or her run-on sentences.

After another minute (or was it two?), Charlotte threw a glance at the clock above the soda machine. She was 10 minutes late. This was definitely unimpressive. Usually the principle'd be on her ass by now, dragging it to class, and never without a finger wagging in her face to underline just how impunctual her ass was and to specify that it was indeed her ass that was being scolded in the empty hallway as opposed to the wall or water fountain.

"Alright, red," she said as she pushed the button and waited for the can to roll down to the slot. She wasn't sure what the difference between the two were - red and blue tasted like the same shit - but they'd each make her feel different. Red got her hyper and blue made her sluggish. Feeling sluggish today, she logically decided to go with the red. Well. After 8 minutes.

And why on earth were there no labels on the soda cans? Referring to the soda in the soda machine by colours made her feel like a 5 year-old, but there was nothing written on them. What ghetto-ass shack did the school bargain with to get them? And why did she drink them, despite knowing good and well that the added touch of red and blue could be crack or meth, or some other sprinkling of the basement fairy?

"Ms. Kensington!"

If the universe was fair, if it was free of rapists and murderers and if it were a place where Charlotte Kensington could do and say what she really wanted to do and say without fear of... well, of something (she really didn't have a clue of what would happen, but that's a reason to be afraid, no?), she would've chugged her red and casually struck up a conversation with her miserable old hag of a principle. Maybe ask him if he preferred red or blue, Biggie or Tupac, scrambled or sunny-side up. Then wipe her mouth with his sleeve and let out that crisp, refreshed "Ah" sound.

But Charlotte could bet one of her lungs (she had two, right?) that Nancy Grace would still be reporting cases of the corruption of cute little girls with pig tails in the hairy arms of evil that very night. And so there was to be no wiping of the mouth on any sleeve but her own.

"Yes, Mr. Woods?"

"You do know that you're ten minutes late, Ms. Kensington?" he asked having closed the distance between himself and Charlotte. His voice was not nearly as intimidating as intended, rather, quite pleading; how many times would Ms. Kensington blatantly disobey him and his undeniably firm disciplining?

"Um," was all she felt was necessary to say.

"Um?" he parroted with an unsatisfied shake of his head. This little hood-hoodlum would not get away with this. Not this time.


....

and that's all for now.
Yeah, I know - aww.

Fuck you. I think I'm going to continue this, too. Just to make certain that I really do suck at everything.

kids with guns, taking over

Wow. So, tell me how, when I was writing, I wrote 'cheese' instead of 'concrete'?
I swear I am somehow indirectly inhaling marijuana fumes.

But anywhogivesafuck, I've been having a House marathon. I freaking love that show. I started watching 2nd season though, had to catch up.

"I'm gonna have to drop the "N" bomb soon if I don't get a response out of him."

"You go, old people are afraid of black people."

"You are a disgrace to your own stereotype."

Ahh I love his mild racism. If my doctor was as hot (yes his charm is hot) I would request shots.