Poor small sods

I was thinking more and more about small penises and quite frankly, it's making me sad. I feel just awful for all those poor sods who either don't have much to play with and who most likely have diminished their already minimal usability due to a sagging pot belly.

I have had a BBC documentary on my harddrive for a while now called "My Penis and I". It's about a man and his sad little 3.5 inch long Johnston. Having nightmares yet ladies?

So this guy tells the camera all about his feelings of inadequacy (no surprise there) and talks to everyone about it. I mean, the guy goes to his old highschool to fondly reminesce about getting teased in the locker room, he asks his girlfriend about his mini-knob and he even asks his mother about who passed that unfortunate gene along. Turns out it was his dear ol' daddy. Poor mother has been with him for a long time and is still bitter about the lack of cock in the house.

Small dick man goes to the States and gets a mold of his penis done by that woman who does celebrity cocks.... Jimi Hendrix had quite the girth going for him. Janis must have been waddling for days.

For the record, and for the repuation of my boyfriend, I have no complaints to make. The last two posts were directed at the rampant problem of size-deficient men out there, who thankfully, I won't ever have to deal with again.

Karaoke time

Sing to the tune of "I Will Survive".

At first I was afraid, I was petrified,
when you said you had 10 inches Lord
I almost died,
but I'd spent oh so many years just
waiting for a man that long,
that I grew strong, and I knew that
I could take you on.

But there you are, another lie,
I was ready for a big Mac and you've
bought me a french fry,
I should have known that it was
bullshit, just a sad pathetic dream,
should have known there was no
anaconda lurking in those jeans.

Go on now go, walk out the door,
don't you promise me 10 inches then
turn up with only 4,
weren't you a prat to
think I
wouldn't catch you out,
don't you know we're only joking
when we say size doesn't count.

Chorus:
I will survive, I will survive,
Cos as long as I have batteries, My
sex life's gonna thrive,
I will always have good sex with a
handful of latex,
I will survive,
I will survive...
hey hey.

It took all my self control not to
laugh out loud,
When I saw your little weiner
standing short and proud,
But to hell with all your egos and
to hell with all your needs,
Now I'm saving all my lovin' for a
cordless multispeed.

Go on now go, walk out the
door,
don't you promise me 10 inches then
turn up with only 4,
weren't you a prat to think I
wouldn't catch you out,
don't you know we're only joking
when we say size doesn't count.

Actors are curious beasts.

I saw a dress rehearsal of "Antigone" at Theatre du Nouveau Monde last night (I'm so special, I saw it before the rest of the public gets to) and once I got past the giggling about the fact that in French 'anteeginee' is pronounced 'anti-GONE' I had a great time. I don't see nearly enough plays which is tragic because I'm supposed to be a theatre student. I nearly forgot about that excitement the audience gets when the house lights go down, and characters burst onstage and everything is new and fresh and the audience is ready for anything.

That's why I am in theatre... for those chills you get right before a world is unveiled right before your eyes. And I cannot believe how long it has been since I got those chills. Anyways, it was a dress rehearsal and there were a few rough spots, but that is the beauty of theatre. People can and will fuck up right before your eyes. Actors are still building up for that opening night intensity and I found that their holding back was pretty interesting. I could actually see them think. I could see them say to themselves "shit, that didn't sound so great" or "oh my god, there is finally an audience here".

After the show, the director ran over to block the curtain call. This director was trying to organize the longest, most complicated curtain call on the face of the planet and actors being actors were just not getting it. Ismene kept walking in the wrong direction. Antigone squinted past the glaring white lights and just stood absolutely still for what seemed like hours, her face all squished up and when she finally realized that every other member of the cast was in fact, offstage, she scuttled off like an embarrassed little puppy. I thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Until the actors started to be hams. After a certain point, the actors began to notice that there was still an audience in the house and they had no more lines to say and no more blocking to go through. So while they waited for their next direction, they milked their places in the spotlight for far more than what they were worth. They said lame jokes, did little tap dances and sung classic songs like "pump the jam".

Still in costume, with no character to hide behind, these actors looked scared. And then they looked like court jesters. Curious little actors.

----
As for the play, it was good. Lights were great, set was fun but the costumes were cliched and had no continuity. The acting was generally solid, but Antigone was too angry and had no build. If she is freaking out right from the opening scene, she has nowhere to go later on. And all the actors seemed to really like looking up. What was up there?! The Gods sure weren't because they all looked down when they mentioned the gods, which is silly because only Justice is mentioned as actually being underground. I figured the rest of them were on that mountain, which would be up, right? The woman who played Eurydice was fantastic. Only two lines in the whole play but her presence was simply spellbinding. Also, she was the only one who didn't need to be a dork onstage while the director fumbled around with herding the cast into complicated risewalkstopbowstopsplitwalkstopbowbowwalkpausewalkbowwalk sequences.

blog plug

I love this guy's rants almost as much as I love ranting about similar stuff. DJ's? It's fucking hilarious. And the breakdown of the restaurant world? Oh, I nearly started....

If you are wondering what "started" means, consult Oscar Wilde. In his plays there are notes for the actors that say such things like "She starts". You all should know that Oscar W. is practically the prophet for the Danish Pedophile Association. Wilde was totally pro-young-boy-old-man-lovin back in the day. And so is NAMBLA. It's pretty fucking scary, I know. I nearly had nightmares about the fact that there are men out there who are fighting for the right for young children to be sexual.

stay on task, stay on TASK!!

Right, so back to the definition of started. Basically it's an 1800's slang-like abbreviation. Today we say "ridic" instead of the laborious pronunciation of ridiculous. Back in Wilde's heyday, they said "started" instead of "started to cry" or "started to flip-out" or "started to hyperventilate". I guess it gave more freedom for the actor's interpretation of the character. And it saved time. They talked really slowly back then. I'm bet people would "start" out of frustration from waiting until someone finished their sentence.

Seeing as how I will be in a scene playing some Lady Windermere type, I think I might exploit this "started" thing and just go nuts. What if she "started to swear uncontrollably" or even better "started to hump the leg of an audience member". If I go with the latter, I'll try to pick out the youngest member of the audience in the spirit of Wilde. That is what he would have wanted.

Anyways, dude's blog is cool. He just insults everyone and everything. I respect that in an individual. PROPS! That shit is ridic man!

bits and tits

no carrots no cabbages
no theatre no school
no rants no hopes no desires
today
or the last few weeks either for that matter

i have been too busy not writing essays to write anything else
not to mention the consuming task of creating a visual and auditory world for a performance piece

i was thinking more about those naked pictures i have on the web and how people keep finding them and actually commenting to me on them

women seem to think it's pretty gutsy and cool of me to do so

so i'm going to go buff for my next performance

well, topless, at least
and body paint
(someone mentioned pasties but i poopooed that idea... in this show i'm a bird, not a stripper)
but i have to crawl before i can walk

i admire nude performances and the artists who create them

besides
using naked performers really means a lower budget which is sexier than anything else you might see onstage

Cabbages deserve love too.

Cabbage.
When we think green leafy substance, our mind turns immediately to lettuce or marijuana (you dirty hippies, don't think I don't know about your tricky little games). But what about cabbage? In the swift modernization of our time, has cabbage been left out in the dark?
Remember when coleslaw was great? Now we see it as a nuisance. It gets thrown onto hamburger platters and fish and chip platters in a valiant attempt to preserve its relevance in today's society. But noone cares!! We all just ignore the coleslaw... We say "we didn't order COLESLAW, we ordered a dead cow on a bun and mutilated potatoes!"
Sneaking coleslaw onto a plate is not working, nor will it ever work.
Poor cabbage.
Only eastern europeans are really doing anything with cabbage nowadays and with the americanization of their cultures, how long will cabbage rolls last?!
And cabbage doesn't even get in on the drug wagon either. When was the last time a crazy vegan nazi protested against a super-human cabbage? They are too focused on the tomatoes addicted to steroids, or the high-maintenance strawberries that are now too perfect.
Left out in the dark again, weren't you, dear cabbage...

I think all you cabbage ignorers should be a cabbage for a day and see how it feels. It might make you think twice about bitching about coleslaw.

Septima: changing the world, one cabbage hater at a time.

Showtime

I'm in this play that at times has felt more detrimental to my education than helpful. School productions are there to give us hands-on experience and to give us a chance to work with professional theatre artists outside the classroom. But we didn't have enough time, the director gave up on a lot of really great ideas early on and it's really difficult to be in 4 classes and a job, ontop of spending 20 hours a week in the theatre. Real life is busy but not like this. This was painful. No wonder my kidney ceased to be a happy little kidney. It takes a whole lot to slow me down and my body knows this. A little head cold might knock some sense into other people, but for me, it takes a trip to a hospital and stern words from a doctor telling me to not do a damn thing for a few days.

I just got off the phone with my mother, who, as predicted, does not understand my desire to go part-time next semester. I don't have enough time to learn everything properly. I especially don't have the time to learn MY way and do assignments MY way, while remaning within the system. That requires lots of time to think. And I don't have that time this semester.

I spent September and October running from class to class, doing my homework an hour before the due date, being cranky to my roommate, learning lines every little chance I got and then running back and forth between my house and my boyfriend's.

That is not fun. I don't care if this is supposed to be the best time of your life, or whatever other bunk people tell you about university, I'm too fucking busy. I'm told to just churn out the same crap over and over again. I'm told not to crack under the immense pressure to get good grades. I'm told that jumping through little hoops is preparing me for the real world. I don't have time to live and if university is preparing me for life, I think there is something wrong with that equation.

I'm in this program because I want to get better at telling stories to people. I like seeing people stand up clapping after the story has been concluded. I like listening to the silence that happens when people don't know whether to clap or not. I know I'm going to do great things in theatre and Concordia has helped me to realize this by giving me something to protest and work against.
Anywho, enough of the bitching. I'm off to prepare for tonight's show.

on 'not' smoking

the problem with being a non-smoker is the fact that you don't smoke.
i like smoking. i miss smoking.
i miss my favorite prop.
aside from the fact that i probably already have some sort of throat cancer i wish i still smoked.
so i could sit and have a cigarette with a glass of wine after dinner.
so i could talk about quitting school and travelling the world over coffee and cigarettes.

its been 1 hour since i had a cigarette.

before that, it was 9 whole days.

a few of those days barely count because i was sweating out a fever while dreaming delusional thoughts. i could barely tell you where my nose was, let alone bring a burning object from my hand to my mouth.

so it was 5 conscious days smoke-free and i hated them all.

its a hell of a lot easier to maintain my "i'm too good for academia" persona with a cigarette in hand.

actually, it is a hell of a lot more fun to be self-righteous while smoking.

but i'm going to get back on the stupid wagon tomorrow and requit. no more cigarettes... again. but let me tell you, it won't be fun, i am not going to enjoy myself and i am going to wish i could smoke. but i'm going to fight the urges. but i'm going to want to give in. but i won't.

i'm forever doomed to bear the title "non-smoking smoker". doomed i say.

doomed.

Up yours, Fate!!!

Ungh.

My kidney has rejected me. It has left the rest of my body in a shaking, sweating, feverish, vomiting heap on the floor. And I'm supposed to be in a show. I should be in class. I should be at work. Instead, I am goo. Well, I was goo. I'm a bit better now. The friendly staff at my local ER took care of that. But I'm still not anywhere near healthy.

I quit my job. And I'm starting to wonder if the gods are trying to tell me not to go to school.

The first time I tried, I had knee surgery and then broke my leg and had to back in for surgery. So being crippled, I decided to postpone university for another year.

Then during my first semester, I couldn't handle the stress of having a boyfriend who needed a mother more than a girlfriend, ontop all the other crazy life stresses. Second semester I had the infamous abortion.

School was next to impossible, but I squeaked through with decent grades and salvaged relationships with my profs.

But a fucking kidney infection during the first week of October? Come on. This is getting tiresome. I'll get through the rest of the semester but I swear, if next January, some other crisis comes my way, I'm taking it as a sign and skipping town.

Skippy is what I named my evil twin. Skippy is the root and answer to all of my life's issues. Problem? Skippy says, "Skip over it!" Enjoying something? Skippy says, "Skip to the next best thing!" I might have to give Skippy some free rein if another convienently timed problem arises. I am not even enjoying school anyways.

Let's blame the disjointed feel of this post on the fact that I'm popping Gravol like candy and in a bizarre twist of events, I'm not sleeping at all. Without Gravol, I can sleep like a cat. With Gravol, I usually become comatose. I think they should just take this fucking kidney and be done with it. I have a spare. I'll be just fine.

Take action!

I'm on strike. I'm not going to class. That's right, I'm fighting the man today.

The Manifesto of the Strike of September 29th 2005:

I will not read about things I already know about. I will not sit in class and study a play superficially using terms that noone has really defined. I will not play "who's the best actor" outside on smoke breaks. I will not play "who's more stressed out this semester" after class.

And most importantly, I will not use "post-modern" in a sentence.

Today is a day to revoke my university student status... maybe someone in administration will do that for me because I keep forgetting to mail that damn tuition cheque.

Okay, really, I just have a killer case of sour grapes right now. I fucked up and didn't leave myself enough time to do my work for this morning's 8:30 a.m. class. So now I'm playing the whole "I am too smart for that class anyways" card. But I am not minimizing my valid problems I have with the way this course is being taught.

In my mind, post-secondary education was supposed to foster independent thought and not encourage the regurgitation of other people's view points in a most uneloquent manner. What happened to critical thinking? How come it feels like I am the only one doing it lately?

This class I am skipping right now is about forms of "alternative theatre" (another one of those blasted undefined terms that should not be used any longer) and how they relate to the audience. A survery course of theatrical trends. So last week we looked at political theatre.

First off, if we are going to continue to call ourselves post-modern, or at least call current theatre movements post-modern, maybe we should fully suscribe to that notion and just admit that all theatre is political... Instead, it is implied that community plays are less political than "political plays". Apparently to be political, you have to obviously condemn or support a certain political view-point. So mention the NDP, bitch about Dubya and bingo, there is your political theatre. But what about that community play that dealt with the poverty issues in a rural farm town and how noone in the government would help them out is not political by nature? How come we don't call that one political? It is really pissing me off that even if we call ourselves post-modern, we don't follow a main part of post-modernism which is that everything is essentially political, or socio-economic by nature. What's even worse is that noone is even fucking talking about it.

My second problem with this course is that although we are dealing with meaty subjects, we are sticking strictly to analyzing the aesthetics of the plays and their forms. Sure, that's fine, I know I'm in a theatre course and generally, we try to stick to studying what makes theatre what it is, and I think that in theatre courses we should talk about theatre. However, to look at the aesthetic properties of a certain "political play" and from that point, assume that we know the intricacies of how that play interacted with the audience is ludicrous. What the fuck happened to content? Pass out an Ibsen play and the prof is all about analyzing plot, themes, characters and, here's the biggie, social context. Then we can all see why that play was written when it was written and thus, why people went to see the damn thing in the first place. So why don't we do that with these "political plays"? How come we don't even bring up the content? Is someone in the department afraid of being controversial? Is someone afraid of getting into a discussion about current events in a class about current theatre? Did someone along the way forget that it is important to have a STORY to tell and that theatre is not all about theatrical conventions or lack thereof?!

So this week's discussion is about documentary theatre, which is, you guessed it, political. I don't want to sit through another fucking chat that doesn't touch on the content of the play. I was in one a few years ago about living in the 30's in Canada. Pretty dusty and depressing play, let me tell you. But at least we had respect for why that play was written and why people went to see it. It was important to tell the untold stories of the men and women who lived through that shitty decade. And noone pretended that the reason why that play is regarded as one of Canada's greatest pieces is because it has a couple of flashback sequences.

So, maybe my prof won't understand my frustration through this morning's absence, but at least I can go in next week and start voicing my opinions. Maybe I can bring in some independent thought into this class.

One person at a time, right?

Whoodathunkit.

I had to introduce myself to a class today and nearly cried I was so nervous. All I had to say was my name, what program I was in, and what ideas I have for this production I am going to be a part of in December. A few months ago, I was not nervous at all to get up onstage in front of three times as many people and cry about a gangrape my character endured. That piece required me to pratically relive the rape and I went into it balls to the wall.

So what the crap was with me freaking out about introducing myself?!

Sometimes I wish I was shy ALL the time so it wouldn't be such a shock to my system whenever I clam up. Nothing is worse than being half in and half out.

When my grandmother started to lose her mind to Alzheimer's, it was tortuous to sit back and watch her watch herself decline. Whenever she said something nonsensical, her eyes would reveal her surprise and lack of control over what was coming out of her mouth. A few minutes afterward, she would apologize for not making any sense. Now that she is completely gone, it's easier.

Sitting on the fence, any fence, about any topic whatsoever is the most irritating position. Just fucking pick something and commit to it.

So, what's with these spurts of bashfulness?! Christ, I even knew half the people in the class personally. And bisexuality? There's another fence-sit of mine.

Let this be a warning to you fence-sitters. I hate you. Maybe because I see that quailty in myself and there is nothing like an unwanted trait in yourself to make you hate it in others.

On a postive note, I had a very happy birthday. As soon as I find my camera I will show off my makeup. I was erm... colourful. And I brought handcuffs to the bar. Every one needs a prop every now and again, don't they now?

my first hyphenated birthday.

I usually dread my birthday. In fact, I try my damndest to avoid it. But this year is different. This year, I didn't hype it too much and just told everyone and their dog to BE YOUR OWN CIRCUS. Oh yes. Tonight, me and a shitload of people will find ourselves at a dirty little bar. We will be dressed to the nines... sort of. Think Cirque de Soleil on crack. Or at least a drunken, low-budget Cirque de Soleil. I doubt there will be much contortionist acts, although if I'm fed enough tequila, anything is possible.

I had a crisis when I turned twenty. Now, freshly twenty-one, I say "FUCK IT!" I'm young, I'm full of energy, I am creative and I have great friends who feel the same way.

Tonight, I'm going to celebrate my lack of responsibility, my extravagant nature and my love for beer. Oh oh oh will I ever celebrate my love for drink.

haaaaappeeeeee birthday to meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!

looming september doom doom doom

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AUGUST IS ALMOST OVER!!!!!!

oh the insanity!
the unfairness!

its nearly goddamn september and i'm nearly 21 years old and tomorrow i'm going to wake up and the world will be out of oil and i will be a prune.

I HAVE 2 YEARS LEFT OF UNIVERSITY!

excuse me world, but what the fuck is that? do you honestly expect that i will be a competent productive independent member of society in 24 months? less than 24 months?! holy shit.

this is my annual freak out time. but its never been this bad before. i feel like i'm staring down the ugly fanged mouth of the rest of my life. last year i was blissfully blind to whatever 'independent' 20 something life was. now i'm blindlingly aware of my surroundings and it makes me want to vomit into a pair of my heels.

here is what might happen in the next month:

1 - cardiac arrest. if i drink enough coffee and do enough cocaine (to battle my sleep debt) and then smoke enough cigarettes, i might just have a heart attack.
2 - sleeping 16 hours a day. just thinking about the immense amount of stuff i have to do makes me tired.
3 - i might kill my boyfriend. he is staying at my apartment while his place is getting all fixed up. i really hope i won't kill him, he's nice to have around. but if the stress doesn't kill me, my stress might just kill him.
4 - i might kill my roommate. for the same reasons i might kill my boyfriend.
5 - they might kill each other. which would probably make me leave town and never come back. 6 - i might burn my apartment down. i have too much stuff. i like my copper pot, my bed, my red cowboy boots and my cats. everything else can go.
7 - i might... and this is highly unlikely, suck it up and deal with my stress in a constructive manner.

goddammit someone pass me a beer and a smoke. it's gonna be a looooong year.

Last night I donned my sexy leather boots.
I haven't worn heels in a while. Goddamn it feels good. It also feels good to call them "nutcrackers". Based on my lovely high-heeled experience, I have deemed that an investment in a collection of stiletto heels is necessary.
The only problem is, is that I'm clutzier than the average bear and while perched upon paper thin spikes, the merest speck of dirt might send me toppling over onto my face.
And nothing would detract from the power of heels like a broken nose and a black eye.
--
On another note, putting my entire collection of mp3's on random play is not an enjoyable listening experience at all. Bob Dylan is not meant to follow up Amon Tobin. I do enjoy a good disjointed track now and again, but a disjointed playlist? My inner DJ screams out in protest when two consecutive songs blend about as well as Jessica Simpson and Sophocles would.
And yes, my metaphors do need a bit of work. Or was that a simile? Shite. Where's my grade 9 English teacher when you need her?!
--
I hate LiveJournals. Stupid people putting what they are listening to or writing what their current mood is. Fuck that. And fuck blog quizzes too, while I'm at it.
Bad blogging trends need a good swift kick in the nuts. The kick, of course, would be provided by a hot pair of stilettos.

Virgo + Virgo = Sex for Statistical Purposes

I'm a Virgo... but only some of the time.

My house is a mess, I'm not shy, I rarely think before acting and I tend to follow my heart more often than my head.... these are all decidedly non-Virgoesque traits.

However, I'm incredibly anal, I'm a perfectionist and I can turn even the most intimate situation into something of a mathematical equation.

Put two Virgos together and this is what you get for pillow talk:

A plan to use a pedometer to measure how many thrusts there are per sex session.

"We would take a sample of 20 times and average them out."

Did that turn any one else on? Didn't think so.

But that is why it's my sex-life and not yours. This little Virgo has never been happier.

NAKED PICTURE (is not on this post)

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?

PEEEEPLE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

HOW DO SO MANY OF YOU KNOW ABOUT THE NEKKID PIC OF ME?

PERU? AUSTRALIA? SPAIN? WTF???

honestly... like i said before, CHECK THE DAMNED PORN SITES!!!!

GO TO A STRIP CLUB!

i'm POSITIVE they have strippers in spain.

BUT before you go whack off again

HOW DID YOU FIND ME?? HOW?

look! it's a bad poem about renovating my ghetto apartment! and mullets! and the mullets are french! wow! read this! it's sooper dooper!

please do come in
[i adore mullets]
i will sit in my living room
unshowered
and chainsmoke seductively
as your rattail slaps against your
bare
hairy
back

i will wait patiently
in my kitchen
as you wade through my piles of
smelly work socks and my
ketchup stained tees
to fix something
with your
dirty
calloused
hands

you don't mind though
i havent done my dishes in a few days
mullets don't care
i'm too english for your small town quebec
i can only understand your facial expressions
mullets don't care
but the tension is unbearable
im scared that you are saying yucky things
so i leave
i grab the bard
and i walk across the street
and above my little book
and above my sixth cup of coffee
i watch you
and your rattail
until youre done

i hope you had fun
looking through my things
i hope you didn't leave anything behind

because i don't like mullets
and i really don't think i like you.


they start painting in two days. the mullets. in paint. i shall seek an english, mullet free zone. this is hard. too many english girls in this city have... mullets. ack.

Wigger FAQ

What do wiggers do at work?

Where do wiggers work, anyways?

The answers to these pressing questions are finally here...

To start, Wiggers shall from here on in, be referred to as Wiggers, as opposed to wiggers. Wiggers signifies them as a breed all onto their own, which I assure you, is the honest truth.

Wiggers work the overnight shift at gas stations. They might be lucky and snag the day shift, but it's rare. Their cologne is generally too strong for the day clients. Night customers have either lost their sense of smell due to drugs or vomiting from alcohol abuse.

It takes them 2.3 seconds to respond to the doorbell on the outside of their little gasstation enclosure, which only means that they were doing something they were not supposed to. If someone takes longer than a few seconds, I will permit that. But answering the doorbell immediately?! Wigger, you must have been whacking off or dancing like a moron to bad music.

Which brings me to the next point... Wiggers must at all times, be blaring gangster rap. Or even commercial ChingyLingy shite. With rap surrounding them, Wiggers feel as though they are a rapstar as well. You must understand that the Wigger-Ego is a fragile item.

If rap music is playing, the Wigger responds in two ways:
1. Rolling or smoking a huge joint, or hitting a bong (preferably with white trash females or other Wiggers).
2. Dancing like a retard.

I caught my little Wigger partaking in option two... spastic g-thang homie moving. I walked up to the door and saw the Wigger adjusting his hat in a smooth fashion and attempting to dance to music I could not hear. I rang the doorbell, Wigger jumped and let me in promptly. Rap was blaring, cologne was everywhere... it was far too easy for me to identify his species.

I was face to face with a Wigger.

I asked for my brand of cigarettes, and I had to play hot and cold with him until he found them on the shelf. Then he asked me in true Wigger style, "What are the difference between cigarettes anyways?"

"Pal," I responded, "it's not that hard to figure out. Some are stronger than others. Some have a different taste than others."

Maybe it was my common-sense, or maybe it was my disheveled look, but it was at that point that he gave me the dreaded "once-over".

And immediately after, I blinked at him without an ounce of emotion, and then I turned to leave.

I'm pretty sure he said "bitch" on my way out the door.

Stupid Wigger.

Me vs. Canada Post

I don't go to casinos and I don't play scratch-and-lose cards. I don't submit for contests and I don't buy products if I might have a chance to win a lame prize.

Despite all that, I am a gambler.

I play with Canada Post.

I have one week until rehearsals commence and I just placed an online order for the plays I need. Canada Post says it will take 2 to 5 business days. I'm betting that they will get here within 2 to 3 days. If I win, I will be prepared for my first rehearsal. If Canada Post wins, I lose points with the director and my cast-mates.

A few months ago, I was gambling with my friend's acceptance into theatre school. If Canada Post won, my letter of reference would not reach him in time and all would be lost. If I won, the letter would surely guarantee him a spot in the program (that letter was one of the best things I have ever written). I won that gamble.

I better win the next one. It's my ass on the line this time.

Foul Limewire, thou hast deceiveth me

I like surprises, I do. I love it when something wonderful and unexpected happens. Especially when I'm downloading things. Many a song I love, I came across while looking for something completely different.

I don't like today's surprise one bit.

I naively double-clicked on "MTV Mash Up: South Park and The Simpsons" (yeah okay, so even if it WAS that, it would have been really lame...) and some japanimation started. In Japanese. I thought, hey what the hell. This could turn out to be really funny.

It's just some young animated characters chatting and making really big mouths and then really small ones and the occasional giant tear dropping out from the back of their skull. But when one of the girls bent over and the prepubescent boys gawked at her exposed ass (her skirt was nowhere near regulation length), I knew something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

Within 20 seconds, these boys had this poor little animated character bound, gagged and half-nude on the floor. I used to watch Sailor Moon as a young girl and at this point, I felt like my very own childhood was being raped. (yeah, yeah, i know. sailor moon. i know. but i'm not the only one who liked something ridiculous... transformers? c'mon...)

The only thing remotely funny was when they pulled out various dildos and vibrators while a gong sound effect went off.

Then the damn thing froze my Winamp. So I had to ctrl-alt-del myself out of there before the frozen close-up of an animated vagina being penetrated by 3 different objects traumatized me futher.

I have nothing against porn. In fact, I'm pro-porn. But I'm not pro-child porn. I'm not pro-rape-the-bitch porn, either. And now, I think I'm against japanimation porn as well. It just doesn't seem right to defile CARTOON CHARACTERS. Especially not in a childlike or raping fashion. Not cool.

I learned a valuable lesson today: be careful what you download.

And for all you creeps who want me to send you this porn, too late, suckers. It got off my harddrive faster than a young japanime character can cum seconds before I started this post.