All right, please, please tell me what this means :

I'm in the kitchen and I have one of those mind splitting headaches that feel as if The Rock is body-slamming my brain into my nasal cavity. Groaning, I'm popping two Advil into my mouth and bringing a cup of water to my lips when my sister sways into the room, lowers my arm, peers inside the cup, and, wordlessly, sways back into the living room.

What?

Aha. So, I was at school today as national law unhappily says, and - well, wait. That's not exactly how my day started. I suppose I'll have to begin at the beginning :

5 : 30 a.m. - Radio alarm goes off on the highest volume, shedding hazy static - like sounds throughout my room. Not wanting to get up, I push my pillow over my head and somehow fall back asleep for ten minutes, snoring gently.

5 : 40 a.m. - Realize radio alarm is still going off and, somehow, even more insistently. I drag my mis-matched pajama clad body, deftly picking through the war zone that is the floor of my room (I swear I've forgotten what color the carpet was, I think it's gray, but that's beside the point) and without opening my eyes turn on the faucet only to scald my hands with boiling water. Cursing and fumbling with the tap to put it on cold, I open my swollen eyes to only see an amibiguous white blob. It seems I had forgotten to take my contact lenses out last night, and now I couldn't see. Wonderful. I splash my face with the now thankfully cold water, and shuffle back, blind, to my bed. I fall instantly into a dreamless slumber.

6 : 04 a.m. - I stare at the blurry clock and roll back over. I still have a few minutes to sleep. I don't have to leave the house until 6:35. Pleeenty of time.

6:22 a.m. - Gaahhh! I'm supposed to be fully showered, dressed, put together, and eaten breakfast in 13 minutes! From sheer horror I leap out of bed and skid, Tom Cruise style in 'Risky Business', into the bathroom. I frantically rip off my clothes and hop into the shower, furiously yanking the tap upwards. Right on to the hottest setting. For the second time this morning. Yelping, I jerk it to the cold while scrubbing myself with Irish Spring soap. My hair sopping wet, I flee back into my bedroom five minutes later and attempt to drag a comb through my tangled head. Eight minutes left. Hair is finally combed while multi-tasking and brushing teeth at the same time. Five minutes. I look in my closet. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I've forgotten to do the wash! Frantic, I dig through my hamper and find the best smelling pair of jeans and shirt. Two minutes. I run back into the bathroom and pat on powder and quickly start applying eyeliner, which I poke into my eye twice. I put on a pair of flip flops and grab my folder, purse, and a slightly questionable looking raspberry poptart. Eight thrirty five! I run to the bus stop, gasping.

Of course, the bus is half an hour late. Oh, the irony. At least that gave me time to gnaw on my questionable poptart.

7: 36 a.m. - The bus arrives six minutes after class has started and I slide quickly into my seat as my Chemistry teacher gives me a glare. It seems today we are doing a lab on the solubility of sugar (oh, I can't wait!). As I walk over to my lab table, my stomach starts to jump around strangely and I find myself having little eggy burps. Concerned, my friend Tina turns towards me. "Are you ok?" I nod, focusing on the slowly dissolving lump of sugar. I am ok. Right?

7: 46 a.m. - I am going to throw up. It's like my stomach, intestines, and bladder have opened their own three ring circus and are doing acrobatics inside my body. It's that damned raspberry poptart. I knew it! I knew it looked questionable! I attempt to continue the sugar lab but it seems the best I can do is sit, willing my stomach to obey my thought not to unleash poptart all over the assembled beakers and hotplate. Ewww. Sizzling regurgitated poptart.

8 : 05 a.m. - I cannot take it anymore. Making sure Chem teacher doesn't see, I carefully hide my cell phone underneath my drying hair and dial my house number. Pick up, pick up, pick up......"Hello?" I say gratefully, relief sliding over my slick skin in oily waves. "Yeah, I'm sick. No really, sick. I'm sick. . I think I ate a very questionable poptart this morning, and now my stomach is flapping around like a trained seal. Thanks. Half an hour. Bye." I hang up the phone with a deep sigh, and with a last rebellious kick, naseau flows over me again. That damn stomach. Just to punish it I'm only eating broccolli for a week.

8 : 45 a.m. - I'm in second period, Chorus, with my schizophrenic teacher and where we do nothing. She still is not here. I'm talking to Daniel and the teacher puts on a Disney soundtrack with songs from Mary Poppin's amplified a thousand times when sung by a huge, overly enthusiastic chorus. The songs only add to my uncomfortable feeling. Kat, next to me, is going on about how her boyfriend of one week, Marcus, broke up with her yesterday and she was so upset she sobbed and couldn't go to school. Daniel and I glance at each other. One week and she's sobbing with reckless abandon? But it seems impossible to shut her up. Daniel, giving me a sympathetic glance but at the same time an 'every man for himself' nod, says, "I'm going to go to the bathroom." Unable to get up, I watch him go, helpless, as Kat rambles on. Somebody. Just. Shoot. Me.

9: 01 a.m. - Finally, finally, my little white slip to leave arrives. Hahahaha. I am gone baby, gone! Ughhhhh. Stomach, please stoopppppppp.......

I got home and crawled into the bathroom, and talked to the porcellin telephone for a long, long time. Groaning, I picked up my cell phone that was ringing at a painful volume. It was Andrea. "I have an extra ticket to the concert. Wanna come?"

WHY GOD, WHY?????

One word : grrrrrrr.

Don't click here, whatever you do!

You are a dark writer. A fierce and loyal follower
of Poe and the other gothic authors, you LOVE
to instill a sense of revulsion and somewhat
fear in your readers. You love to poke their
brains with logic dealing with the darker side
of the human mind and character. Truly
surprising and a true individual, you'll do
ANYTHING to create a scene. :)


What's YOUR Writing Style?
brought to you by Quizilla

You are a dark goddess!


Which Ultimate Beautiful Woman are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Aragorn


Who is your Ideal Lord of the Rings (male) Mate?
brought to you by Quizilla

Aragorn! So good, so loyal, so.........*sigh*

You come from an Ancient Civilization. Egypt,
China, Rome... a piece of all the greatest
civilizations of their time can be found in
you.


Where Did Your Soul Originate?
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Orlando Bloom: you like them dead sexy, with an
orgasmic accent and looks. *drool*


Which guy are you destined to have sex with?
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yeah baby, grrrrrr.

Harry Potter better watch out - click here.

Current terror alert :

You are Pyrokinetic!


What's Your Magic Power?
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God, I'm addicted to these online quizzes!!! I.......must.......stop.......

The Ultimate Weapon
BY DAVE BARRY
Miami Herald, April 19, 1998


Pay attention, because I am going to explain our foreign policy.



At the current time (11:21 a.m.) our biggest foreign-policy problem is Saddam Hussein, the evil and amoral dictator of Iran or Iraq, which may actually be the same foreign country.



You may recall that, way back when George Bush was President and most of the White House sex rumors concerned Millie the dog, we beat Saddam in a war. I mean, we kicked his butt. We dropped bombs all over Iraq (or possibly Iran), thereby insuring that Saddam would never, ever, ever again be a threat to the peoples of the world until maybe seven months later, when suddenly, BAM, there he was again! Despite clearly losing the war! That is how amoral he is.



The word was that Saddam was making chemical and biological weapons, which are a clear violation of international rules, because they kill people. So the Clinton administration (motto: ``No We Are NOT Obsessed With Monica Lewinsky Monica Lewinsky Monica Lewinsky!'') was threatening to send Air Force planes over there to drop MORE bombs (which are allowed under international rules, although they also kill people, but in a legal way) on Iran (or possibly Iraq) again.



Perhaps you are wondering: ``What's the point of dropping more bombs, since that is exactly what did not work the first time? Why not just quietly, without making a big public deal of it, send a couple of experienced guys named Victor over there to quietly arrange for Saddam to have an unfortunate shaving accident that results in the loss of the upper two-thirds of his head?''



I am frankly shocked that you would even suggest such a thing. What you're talking about is assassination, which is a serious violation of international rules. On the other hand, it is perfectly OK to drop large quantities of bombs on a foreign country, as long as you are not specifically trying to drop one on the foreign leader, which of course under the rules would be assassination. (These rules are made by lawyers.)



The rules also state that, when you drop your bombs, you are supposed to try to gain a Consensus of World Opinion, which is legally defined as ``at least four nations that know how to make a decent car, plus, if he is not off somewhere building a house, Jimmy Carter.''



This is where we've been running into trouble. America is currently very unpopular in the world. For example, our allies hate us. Especially the French. They have always hated us, of course, for stealing the concept of french fries, but now they REALLY hate us, because our culture has become so dominant that they're having trouble completing so much as a single sentence without using American words. They're always blurting out statements like: ``Le software de la hardware est un humdinger!'' And then they get so mad that they could spit.



Pretty much the entire membership of the United Nations also hates us, because we haven't been paying our dues, which the member nations desperately need so that they can continue carrying out the vital U.N. mission of parking illegally all over New York. In fact our lone international ally at the moment is a man named ``Tony,'' who has been visiting the White House and who claims to be the prime minister of Great Britain, which I for one do not believe for a second. I don't know much, but I know there is nobody in Great Britain named ``Tony.''



So as I said, the world pretty much hates us, and it's getting worse, because every day more nations are being exposed, via international TV syndication, to Jerry Springer. It is only a matter of time before one of these small irate goat-oriented nations decides to launch a chemical or biological attack on us. That's certainly what I want to do when I watch Jerry Springer, and I live here.



My point is that we are not going to get any international help in dealing with Saddam Hussein. It's totally up to us, and I say it's time we stop pussyfooting around and use the ultimate weapon -- the one weapon that will guarantee that Saddam never bothers us again. Yes, as shocking and heartless as it may sound, I'm proposing that we send an Air Force bomber directly over Baghdad, and drop the most damaging, the most horrible, the most morally repugnant weapon that this nation has ever produced: lawyers. (We could even, if necessary, put parachutes on them.)



Within a matter of hours, all of Iraq (or possibly Iran) would be paralyzed by lawsuits; once word got around of the potential size of the damage awards, everybody living within a 50-mile radius of a suspected chemical or biological weapons facility would be complaining of whiplash. Saddam would be ruined for good, and the whole world would thank us. Even the French. Their exact words would be: ``Merci a bunch!''








WONDERFUL plan. However, instead of droping lawyers, I purpose that George Bush forgets "Operation Shock & Awe" and embark on "Operation Yanni". This plan would compose of our U.S. troops dropping 'Yanni's Greatest Hits C.D. 's' and a taped concerts of 'Yanni : Live at the Acropolis' all over Baghdad. We then procede to enfulge Al Jazeera t.v. and the Iraqi radio with an endless loop of Yanni, Yanni, and more Yanni.

They'll surrender within a week.

take the virgin-whore dichotomy quiz.


and go to mewing.net. where we're all studs.


Grrrrrrr. Meow.

my bad poem:
angry flower

I feel so angry and sad sometimes,
sometimes i want to kill my penis and die,
the flower is so bloody and sad,
the leaves sound like ghosts .

I feel so angry and sad ,
nobody understands my red , black pain ,
I want to lick and grin in the rain
the flower reminds me of feeling sad , the leaves mock my anger ,

sometimes i want to kill my penis and die,
underneath the bloody , bloody sky


make your own bad poem @ mewing.net

Hilarious, what? "sometimes I want to kill my penis and die, underneath the bloody, bloody, sky." LOL

my mewlib:

Once upon a time in the vast and rural land of Manhattan there was a little boy named Melissa who was 69 years old. Melissa had a Ostrich named Tina and together they enjoyed blowing and sucking.

One day, Melissa and Tina were taking a stroll through Manhattan, when they came across a sticky, purple clock. Melissa and Tina were very excited and they then walked away. But, the clock walked after them.

At the advanced age of 69, Melissa was a very hot boy and thus he knew what had to be done. He pulled his trusty penis from his pocket and screamed GOD!, go clock-vagina!!!!! The clock sadly sucked into the distance, and Melissa and his Ostrich happily went home to enjoy an afternoon of blowing and sucking.


make your own mewlib @ mewing.net

Very......interesting. : )

"you know the world is going crazy when
the best rapper is a white guy,
the best golfer is a black guy,
the Swiss hold the America's cup,
France is accusing the US of arrogance,
and Germany doesn't want to go to war."

Ah, so true.
I got this from my friend's blog, so kudos to her! *waves*

So which LOTR woman are you? Hmm??
made by Michelle at EmptySpace.

Ha. Eowen kicks ass.

I am a Pimp Hat. I have a certain extravagant flair. Where I go, people take notice. I like to seem important. What Sort of Hat Are You?

Pimpin' baby, yeah!

God, I want to be a journalist. I want to be in Iraq right now covering the war. I know it's hard, and I know it's scary, but I want to bring truth to people who wouldn't believe it otherwise.

Look at how petty our everyday lives are. Oh, this and this happened at work today, and can you believe that guy cut me off in traffic? There are people dieing right now, even as I type these words in my comfortable, air-conditioned home safe from air-raid sirens and stealth bombs, people that are risking their lives to fight for what they believe in or just to tell about it. And I want to be one of them.

Because that's what true courage is.

Male Models!

Anyway.

Blogger, blogger, blogger. I logged on today to my account, and saw my blog completely erased. Just. Completely. Gone. Rather miffed, I am forced to create a new one. So, here I am. Right.

Oh yes, Coach purses. I am sure that, if you are a woman, you know exactly what I am talking about. Everybody wants one, because it seems that everybody has them. You walk through the streets and hanging from every woman's shoulder is a little purse scalded with giant capital letter 'C's. I go to school, and every girl is deftly making their way through the halls and being trailed by their exorbitantly expensive Coach purse. What is so attractive about these little things? I suppose everyone knows they're expensive, so then you assume that, consequently, everyone must assume that you, owning one, has money. So of course, as much as I hate myself for being gently lulled into the stream of upper middle class normality, I immediately desired one with my entire body and soul. Like an English bulldog, my jaws grasped the idea of a little Coach purse of my own and wouldn't let go. That, of course, led to the careful sucking up to The Father.

Ah yes, The Father. Operation : Coach Purse must be precisely timed and acted out so as to bring myself in his highest esteem. Strategically placed hugs and kisses, offers to take out the trash (willingly! willingly!) setting the table with a broad smile, or just simply smiling at, well, everything. My room was spotless, and I dusted and vacuumed the house. The key being, of course, spread out over a week so as not to seem suspicious. Finally, the moment arrived. Time to go to the mall. I grinned broadly. I played his favorite mix C.D. in the car. He was in a great mood. I gently steered him over to the Coach store, and deftly, deftly, pointed out the one I wanted. He glanced at the price tag (expensive, I might add, but still)and, without a moment's hesitation, uttered one word.

"No."

No. No, no, no. Noooooooooooooo. N-O.

I suppose its all for the best.