Reason # 8234623 why I hate parents.

So today I was sitting on a bench in the mall talking to a friend about life. I then heard the piercing sound of a child screaming and crying like his mother was beating the life out of him. I look over to see that it was another overweight 5 year old red in the face and breaking sound barriers with that fuckhole of his.

I turn to my friend, roll my eyes and mutter "And this is why I don't want kids." Somehow, Super Mom of the Year managed to hear me through her child's screams. She looks me dead in the eye and declares "HE'S AUTISTIC." In my head, I'm thinking "Oh, shitty deal." I laugh at my ignorance and life goes on. But NO.

Super Mom decides to leave her bratty kid and march over to me to tell me AGAIN that her son was autistic. Convo went something like this:

Mom: "HE HAS AUTISM"
Me: "Well maybe you should put a sign on him so that people can hide their reactions to your screaming kid."
Mom: "He's Autistic, EDUCATE yourself."
Me: "I'm quite educated and I do know that autistic kids don't look any different from normal kids ... so to me, he just looked like another screaming fucking brat."
Mom: "Well, he's autistic!!!"
Me: "He's still screaming and disrupting my pleasure, if you can't keep your kid under control -- handicapped or otherwise -- then you should keep him at home or expect people to look at you like I did. I'm sorry that I laughed at your autistic son, but I'm not sorry that I still find his screaming irritating."

Moral of the story? Don't yell at me because you lost the genetic lottery with your kid. Just be thankful that someone thought your kid was like every other kid for a moment -- bratty, annoying and useless.

I hear Montreal's a great place ...

So just earned my Facebook photo creeper badge by looking through my younger cousin's friend's boyfriend's sister's (for serious) photo album of all of them on a night out.

Seeing all those cute young ladies (ages range from 18-20) looking fine as hell in their going out gear made me have a mild panic attack. Flashes of BF leaving me for a hot young thing was enough for me to close Safari right down, instead of safely clicking onto the 'profile' button to take me to a happier place.

Twenty something in closing in on me and I already feel like I need a visit to the plastic surgeon to tweak some things on me. Bigger boobs always get the job done.

How sad is it that I am already worrying about younger, hotter women coming in throngs to toss me off my throne.

As I age, I become more aware and self-conscious of my phobias. The list includes some (but not all) of the following:

Coulrophobia - fear of clowns
Astraphobia - fear of thunderstorms
Ligyrophobia - fear of loud noises
Nosophobia - fear of contracting a disease
Scotophobia - fear of the darkness
Tomophobia - fear of surgical procedures (on oneself) ... but I'm entranced when I watch injections.
Scoleciphobia - fear of worms
and to a certain extent, Phobophobia - fear of phobias

Most of these stem from traumatic childhood incidents. Some of these are downright understood. But is there a period in one's life when one grows up and gets over their fears?

Like when you flush the toilet. I admit, I used to be scared shitless of flushing the toilet when I was younger. I was also certain that The Terminator was going to pop up from the space between the toilet and bat tub. Not the ACTUAL Terminator ... in my hazy memory I distinctly remember being terrified of a cardboard cut out of him jumping up. Don't ask.

I digress.

I do, however, recall reliving the memory of my toilet fear (Terminator-less) among my friends who were able to confide in the exact same phobia as me. Eventually, we all outgrew that irrational fear and managed to get used to flushing without running away shortly after.

So why, I ask, whenever I go to a bar or club I have to play the "What's Behind Door Number ..." game? Clearly, everyone using these facilities is over the age of 19 (or be old enough to look 19 -- so we'll say 14 for argument's sake). I know I am not over my irrational fear of clowns ... but I also don't encounter enough clowns in a day to get used to them. But I do indeed use a toilet at least 3 times a day ... and have become accustomed to the roaring flush. Am I crazy to assume that other people have used toilets enough to get over their fear of flushing? Or are people that fucking inconsiderate to not flush the fucking toilet after using them? These are the same jackasses who probably complain about the state of the washroom and feel so entitled and above the facilities that they believe that they are too good to flush the toilet after emptying their bowels for another round of slut fuel. These are also the same assholes who think running their hands under a stream of cold water for 3 seconds is suffice enough to ward off the disgusting germs that plague a nightclub's bathroom. Nevermind that you couldn't even lift your cheap vinyl clearance heels to the toilet handle to flush the fucking thing (because you're too good for it and you couldn't bear to come in any contact with germs) ... you're the same bitch who had to USE YOUR BARE HANDS TO JIGGLE THE GERM INFESTED STALL'S DOOR OPEN TO WASH THEM UNDER COLD WATER FOR 3 SECONDS AND THEN PROCEED TO "DRY" THEM ON YOUR POLYESTER BLACK PANTS AND THEN GO BACK OUT TO THE DANCE FLOOR TO DANCE SEDUCTIVELY WITH YOUR DIRTY HANDS ALL OVER YOUR HAIR AND BODY. FUCKING MORON.

Fuck. Just flush the damn fucking toilet like a fucking grown up.

I didn't think I'd be able to still enjoy a good old fashioned kegger at the age of almost 22.

But I did. Perhaps one can never get too old for drinking games and keg stands.

*Happy birthday Boyfriend, I'm glad this was your best birthday ever.

One dilemma of this no sugar and sodium diet is the rapid weight loss.

I was sitting well at about 120 lbs -- a good weight to start with since I'm hoping to buid a more muscular figure. But since I cut sugar and sodium (sodium restriction started about 2 weeks ago) out, I'm hovering around 110 lbs. 10 fucking pounds in two weeks. What the hell ... let's hope it stops here.

So school begins in less than a month. My first class begins on September 15th and my excitement grows as I look forward to buying school supplies. Actually, that's the only thing I am shitting my pants about. Every year since I was about 12, I skipped happily through Staples or Office Depot throwing anything I saw into a cart. My parents happily obliged because they weren't spoiling me but investing in my future. Year after year, I got highlighters in assorted sizes and colours (even though my highlighting preference was and will always be the thin fluorescent yellow), overpriced pens in every shade (when I ended up always using the blue BIC Cristals) and overloaded on stacks of 200 ruled sheets of paper (1 package was suffice enough -- the rest was "borrowed" from classmates).

Now as I enter what seems like my 70th year of school, have I learned any cost effective ways of keeping myself supplied throughout the school year? No. I still get a high around this time of the year when retailers send out their Back To School fliers and I gawk shamelessly at 80 page notebooks on sale for $0.18 as if they were scantily clad women (I like what I see, what can I say?).

The only downfall to this year's excursion to the office supplies aisle is that my parents can't foot the bill anymore (because I am turning 22 and it's getting quite pathetic) so I must restrict myself to 20 packs of ruled paper this year.

Project: Eat Less Sugar

As my parents and relatives assimilate more and more into Western and Canadian culture, they have begun to take more notice into their health.

Yeah, my mother still insists that a sprained ankle can be remedied by a noxious topical balm and Jasmine tea. She also swears that rubbing a fresh slice of lime to your underarms will cure over excessive sweat glands (I just had horrible flashbacks to my early stages of puberty). Despite her Asian voodooness, she has come to terms to her inevitable future diagnosis as a diabetic.

My uncle and aunt (my mother's older siblings) were recently diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. Thankfully this is a non-insulin dependent condition -- which means no needles or intravenous anything. Type 2 usually falls upon overweight or obese people who don't take care into their diets or exercise. My mother is about 5 feet tall, weighs more more than 90 pounds. My uncle is about 5 feet tall, weighs no more than 90 pounds. My aunt is about 5 feet 2 inches tall and weighs no more than 90 pounds. Lao cuisine usually consists of leafy greens and fish, generally accepted on the healthier side of the food spectrum. So why has this condition plagued my family? Not too sure, but I know that my family has been deemed unfit to pass Darwin's Test of Human Worth. Actually, I blame it on the change in dietary patterns for the adult in my family. Supermarkets in Laos differ greatly from supermarkets in Canada.

We're riddled with disease and health conditions. Breast cancer has infiltrated 3 generations of women on both my mother and father's side. We have weak bones (thanks to my 5+ broken bones, the number ups to 20+ if you count fingers and toes). Heart attacks (not fatal, but still) plague us at a young age. And now we have high blood glucose to worry about. Shit, eh?

Anyway, back to my declaration of my War on Sugar.

I love sugar. Candy, chocolate, brown, white, icing ... I love it. After every hearty meal -- no matter how stuffed I am -- I always get a hankering for a sweet treat. But this must stop if I plan on living to see the age of 50.

I have to cut out sugary sweets unless I MUST eat it (i.e. birthday parties, baked gifts, etc.), thankfully I don't have many occasions where I am forced to eat sugary snacks out of gratitude. And if I must have some sort of sticky sweetness on my palate, I will have to turn to fruit. I should cut up a shitload of fruit so I would feel much more motivated to eat it, since all I'll have to do is open the fridge and open a container.

I also must commit to a more rigorous exercise routine. Running a few kms a day doesn't seem to cut it anymore. Weight training and stretching needs to be added. I should also add more kms to my run, but one thing at a time.

Why am I worried about a condition that won't rear its ugly head until my mid age? Especially since I already do exercise on a regular basis and standing at 5'3", 115ish pounds, am in the healthy range? Habit. I should start early on a healthy lifestyle while I'm young so I don't have to struggle when I am older. It's been proven that maintaining a strict diet and exercise routine will restrict the debilitating effects of Type 2 diabetes. I'm also doing this for vain purposes as well. It scares me that I see women my age (18-25 year old bracket) who have asses out to here and guts out to there. I've already gained 20 lbs in a span of 18 months. When does this road to obesity stop? Now is the time to do it, so you don't have to start on the road to sickness and disease.

I never really looked excitedly forward to post secondary education. It just meant more work and stress at a cost. As our young scholars are about to make a run at higher education, I wonder about the true merits of post secondary life.

"But Anny! Think about the freedom you had without your parents meddling in it!"

Well, no. My parents gave up on putting limitations on my life when they discovered a half quarter baggie of weed next to my birth control pills when I about 15. I guess they figured since their little girl was getting fucked (in all senses, I suppose) on her weekends but still managed to keep a grade level worthy of satisfying Asian parents, they had nothing to worry about. Come to think of it, life was shitty during my first year. I starved on a regular basis, walked or waited for the bus in shit weather if I had anywhere to go and had almost zero privacy. When I lived with my parents, I had all the privacy and isolation I needed -- until I got hungry or needed the car.

"Okay ... think about the all the new people and friends you met!"

Ha. The school I eventually chose was the intuitive choice for nearly everyone in my graduating class. On top of that, my closest friends decided to go to the same school as well. Oh, it gets better. Three of us lived in the same residence. The rest were less than a 5 minute walk away. Sure, I met people. Yeah, I do have fond memories with these new found friends from faraway towns. But instead of discovering the joys of beer pong with Mitch from New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, I cut out the grueling process of making nice with strangers and maintained my binge drinking antics with the people who held me upside down in my prom dress while doing keg stands. Blame it on my high regard for laziness.

"Well, how about your venture onto higher academics that will lead to a promising career?"

Yeah, I fell for that one too. Being the self-indulgent cocky brainiac, I did something stupid and accepted an offer for enrollment in a biomedical science program. Sure, this could lead to my childhood dream of becoming a physician. But then I realized how hard it was. Especially when I majored in biology. Then chemistry. And then I had a stint in economics. Then I reverted back to the sciences and became a physics major. Then I realized that I was waist high in shit and couldn't turn back. Too much work, too much time, too much money ... I was fucked by this time (in all senses). Did I receive higher learning and a chance to fulfill my childhood dream? Yes. Do I care? Not really. So after all that bullshit and I still come out as cynical as I am now ... I really don't think it was worth it.

"How about using this time in your life to find yourself?"

I kind of agree with this theory. While I'm still a piece of work to fix, I am pretty confident in myself to admit that I DO know what kind of a person I do want to be but I'm not quite sure how to get to that point. I did a Hell of a lot of growing up in those years. I found that life is much simpler if you ignore the drama. The greatest thing I ever learned is just to love and be loved in return. And that friends will always be there even when you think they forgot about you -- they never did, they're just busy trying to figure all this bullshit out for themselves.

In my stuck up elitist mentality, I do feel sorry for some of those who have missed out on this experience. Why? It's because they never had a chance to truly grow and make a proper transition from childhood to adulthood. I'm still in that transition (cue that Britney Spears song where she's in the Grand Canyon ...). I'm seeing a lot of it as of late as a broaden my circle of peers. Stupid, petty drama brought upon just to fulfill some sort of emptiness. Making a large leap into adulthood (getting married, having children, buying a home, etc.) when they themselves clearly can't yet comprehend what it's like to be an adult. The saddest thing about these people is that they have a shell of false identity that is translucent within a huge air of insecurities and uncertainties. I'm blessed to say that I don't feel this way. I may come off cocky and arrogant, but I'm proud of what I have become so far and I have this period of my life to thank for it.

Despite my hang ups on the time I spent working for a piece of paper that has yet to find me a relevant job in that specific field (another rant for another day), I do covet those 4ish years. I learned that I didn't like being another drunken bitch/whore (quit drinking), wasn't interested in being a used up slut (I fuck for love) and that even if I wasn't meant to become a doctor, I was put on this Earth to save lives in some shape or form. Perhaps I did walk away from this period in my life with something worthwhile.

Imagine the world the way it was four hundred years ago. Imagine that young men were encouraged to learn to read and write while women were not allowed. The woman's place was in the home and the mark of refinement was to know no skills of any value. This was a time when it was a shock if a woman knew how to read and write. Can you imagine such a thing in today's world? NO! Such ideas are backwards. If a woman were to admit to you that she didn't read well and her writing was awful, not because of a learning disorder, but because she just hated to do it and she has better things to do you would rightfully consider her idiotic. Why is it so accepted then, that women do not like to do math? Shouldn't innumeracy be considered just as egregious? It's supposed to be charming when a young woman behind a counter giggles and claims that she is no good with figures when she is attempting to count out your change. If this were to happen with a male, the reaction would be disgust. Flighty bimbos across the world have accepted the maxim that women use a different part of their brains than men, that they are good with language and art, and men are better with logic and math. Just like a century ago when African Americans were considered inferior in everything except music and dance. They didn't buy it then so why should we buy it now?

I have a degree that required rigorous math education. I took the hardest, most abstract math classes available and was often the only woman in the class. I usually did better than the men who were there as graduate students. I'm not advocating that everyone have an advanced education in math, but knowledge of at least algebra should be a given, just like reading and writing is a given. I have tutored women in mathematics through university and have seen them break down in tears because all of a sudden the cute "I'm helpless" routine won't cut it. They are convinced they just can't do math. Grow up. Dry your damn tears and apply yourself. If you can't work out basic percentages and make change in your head, you're innumerate. Do something about it.

I'm one of those lucky girls who comes from a family where the women run their own lives and the men don't really differentiate between male and female when it comes to raising children. I forget sometimes that I'm "special" in this regard, and every once in awhile it catches up with me. This happened again, recently, when my father and I went to test-drive a car. (My father has a reputation as the guy to go to when you want advice on buying a new car. It's starting to rub off on me since cars are one of the things we "do" together.) I confess, though, that I do bring my dad or my uncle along to deal with car-related matters simply because it's more efficient. Not very bitchy, to be sure, but it takes too damned long to convince a salesman I know what I'm doing.

I had picked out the type of car I wanted and tested several similar makes and models. I wanted a large hatchback or a small sedan --large sedans are useless and I can't really justify a truck -- that got good gas mileage and came with a standard transmission, and no frills. I eliminated three or four and got down to the last contender, so Dad and I went down to the dealer one Saturday morning and asked if they had one with a stick shift we could try, even just to try the shifter if they didn't have one available to test-drive. The salesman looked at me -- I'm almost 22 but pass for 16 --and said, "Well, just because it has a shifter doesn't mean it's a stick shift."

Dude, if it has three pedals and the pattern on the shifter looks (kind of) like this:

1 3 5

|__|__|

| | |

2 4 R

It's a stick shift. You didn't really need that sale, did you? Good-bye.

Dealer No. 2 didn't have the car I wanted but had one very similar that I could try. However, he tried to insist we didn't want a standard because they were inconvenient for city driving. I told him I had been driving standard cars within a city for over five years and didn't think it was an issue. He persisted and we told him if he didn't have a standard, we weren't interested. We turned to leave and he caved in and he went to get the keys. We were flying up the highway on-ramp when I heard his squeaky, emasculated voice from the back seat, " ... wow, I guess she really DOES know how to drive stick ... ". He didn't get the sale either.

Dealer No. 3 was desperate to get one more sale in before the end of the month and not only didn't give me any crap about the stick shift, gave me an excellent deal on the car, even though he had to go halfway across the province to find another dealer that had exactly what I wanted. Good man. My only regret now is that I didn't get the bigger engine, but I can't blame him for that.

A former coworker of mine had her heart set on a black Mustang. The only one on the lot was a standard. When the salesman found out she couldn't drive it yet, he yelled at her and told her she was a fool. She told him it was none of his Goddamned business and he could either hand her the keys or tear up the sales contract. He, wisely, forked over the keys.

I'm often surprised at the things car salesmen tell me about women customers. I've heard about husbands picking out cars for their wives. Who buys a car they're going to have to drive for the next 10 years without actually trying it first? Is this an example of the stereotypical female insecurity with machines? It's pretty pathetic.

Okay, girls -- the secret is that most car salesmen don't know very much about the cars, either. Some of them do, but the average guy on the showroom floor is riding on what he read in the sales brochure he just handed you and not much more. Do your homework -- compare prices, get a couple of car magazines, and surf the Web a little beforehand -- and you'll have them by the nose.

I thought about something interesting the other day, and thought I’d try and expand on that further. And this is all written from a perspective of a straight, taken woman, so forgive the politically incorrect phrasing that does not include gay people.

Are emotional affairs the same as physical affairs?

Sure, with physical affairs it’s pretty cut and dry. You kissed him, you felt her up, you f*cked him. But emotional affairs aren’t as cut and dry as that.

They’re more of a grey area, and besides what would you classify an emotional affair? Would you say that if a man and woman were best friends and told each other everything - that would be an emotional affair?

Personally, I think if a man and woman are best friends, told each other everything, but would hesitate to tell their significant other about 50% of that stuff, that’s classified as an emotional affair.

I think the rule I had in my head was that it was emotional cheating if you tell another man (girlfriends don’t count) deep dark secrets and things that you couldn’t reveal to your boyfriend.

But am I wrong?

Is it possible to have friendships between men and women (a whole other animal to dissect apparently), and furthermore, is it okay to tell that other man or woman everything, but selectively filter out what you’d tell your significant other?

In addition, are emotional affairs not only the same as physical affairs, but maybe worse because it takes over your heart and emotions rather than just your body reacting to a physical attraction?

I’d definitely feel more betrayed if my boyfriend was emotionally cheating on me with another woman by telling her things he’s never told me than if he told me he kissed someone out of lust at a party and totally regrets it.

I think it’s also because emotional cheating is harder to define, but not only that, harder to prove. It’s just a gut feeling, an instinct, that probably turns out to be 90% correct, but still, I feel like there should be some hard facts to back it all up.

So my second question to everyone is: is an emotional affair worse than a physical one?

At this point, I’d tell my boyfriend everything. If a guy hit on me, I’d tell him and how I reacted, and he tells me all the times women make passes at him. I usually laugh it off because I don’t feel threatened, but I wonder if it’s the same on his end – if he feels threatened, or secure in our relationship. He seems fine so far, and if he wasn’t, I’d just stop telling him those stories but they wouldn’t stop happening. But that’s another topic altogether.

Sometimes, I forget just how trashy most of the people in my hometown are.

It really is a love/hate relationship. I guess I can compare living here to dating a girl who's really awesome in bed but still insists that wearing black pants out is fancy by default -- even when paired up with flip flop sandals (and yes, I've seen that 'fashion' statement 'round these here parts) -- it's just plain embarrassing but you can't bear to let go so you keep holding on, hoping it'll get better.

Le sigh. I'm just sitting, waiting, wishing to get out of here once again.

I can't stop screaming.

I really want out of this shitty place. I need to get out before I slit my wrists or smother myself. I don't want to become one of these people stuck here for the rest of my life. It's my biggest fear. But somehow, I always end up back here. There really isn't anything worth staying for in this shitty town.

I want to buy a one way ticket to anywhere but here. But my stupid passport needs to be renewed. We'll see how I feel in two weeks when the new passport comes in.

So I stumbled onto Twitter for the first time ever.

Wow. Just no.

Anyway, I was reading Toronto news and I came across an article (why 3 bytes of cyberspace was devoted to this, I do not know) about celebrity blogger, Perez Hilton, getting his face handed to him by will.i.am. Now, you can't have an article on the internet without having links (today's excuse for footnotes and bibliographing) so somehow I ended up on Perez Hilton's Twitter page and started clicking the "@links". Through my 30 seconds of super sleuthing, I've come to realize why Twitter is so popular ... it's like cyber high school for pseudo celebrities and we all get to sit in on the cat fights without worrying about the vice principal running out to the parking lot threatening suspensions for those who are watching the mess unfold.

So ... Twitter is a no go.

You know what's a good interweb fad? Digg. Check out this awesome article I got from Digg.

Not much going on today. I'm too lazyIt's too hot to walk down the street for ice cream. And the BF is probably fast asleep at home so we can't watch Jon and Kate (of Jon &Kate Plus 8) divorce eachother on scripted reality TV.

Anyway, I'm glad for this unexpected (but well deserved) turn in the weather. Pit stains in my shirt usually means one good thing: BEACH!

Sometimes, I wonder if I've already peaked at around the ages of 20-21. What a shitty feeling to contemplate. Not that I'm on the brink of depression or anything, but I've been feeling really blah about what the future holds for me. As I look forward, I feel as if I've been there, done that and life is just going to become a repeat of itself in different scenarios but not all that different because I'll have already ruminated about it in this blog and prepared myself for the mediocrity that my life is about to become.

How narcissistic I am to post my concerns and worries for all the world to see ... but really, what blog isn't? I'm pretty sure writing here saves me from becoming a desolate drifter who gave up on life to become a traveling truck stop stripper. Which would be kind of cool if you think about it. Just think of the stories you'd have to embarrass your family with.

Anyway, I just received a study grant from the Government of Canada. Which is alright in my eyes because the stupid stimulus plan seemed to only focus on auto workers and married couples who own a home and unwed mothers -- all of which I am not. It's nice to see some money getting into my grubby hands for once. It looks like I'm locked into this whole "school" business for a little while longer.

BF and I celebrated our one year anniversary today. I'm not one to celebrate milestones in relationships because it's A) tacky B) a waste of time, money and effort and C) I usually don't keep count. And we still kept it pretty mild -- spent the morning watching Friday the 13th, bought a steak and a sub and enjoyed the lunch outside. Then we napped for a good few hours. A pretty fancy affair if you ask me.

Things I hate today:
Capri pants - out of fashion, tacky and ugh.
The day after a night of drinking Caesars - every time I burp, I can feel the clam juice aerating in my stomach.
Flip cup - because any sort of binge drinking game will get you into trouble.
Playing flip cup with Caesars - just no.

So I went to a birthday gathering/party last night. It was good times because the people that went were from my high school days. The best part about it was that I got to see lovely people that I haven't seen in years. The bad part about it was that we all realized that it had been 4 years since we graduated high school. Also, we all just graduated from university or college.

I rant a lot about not knowing what's next for me, but it's nice to know that people -- a lot of whom are a hell of a lot smarter than me and have more potential -- are in the same boat.

But at least it's always nice to catch up with people to discuss job prospects, future education goals and life projects over a raucous game of flip cup.

Useless splurge of the week:



At over $300, it doesn't seem quite worth it. But I am materialistic and shallow and I have needs.

Need to look for a new job and place in Toronto. But no suck luck. Laziness is a huge factor, my meddling boyfriend is another reason. I like to have a stand on defiance, even if it's detrimental to my well being. Can you tell that I don't take too kindly to authority?

I also realized that it is time that I fix my teeth. They're not brutally crooked, but there's always room for improvement. Some may argue that I'm about 7 or 8 years too late, but I beg to differ. I can afford the Invisalign braces on my own and I don't have to deal with the social impact that braces can have on an adolescent with image issues. It's a win-win situation for all.

I began writing a blog entry that had the witty and intelligent tone that I like to convey onto my audience (Hey Bob and Vanessa) but I stopped because I went to the bathroom and suddenly lost the passion to write it. Story of my life.

On a serious note

You are fucken monsters ... you have been caught with nowhere to fucken go. You walked into and out of that courtroom with your shirt over your head in shame -- you CLEARLY know what happened. Tell them where that little girl is, you have nothing to gain and nothing to lose at this point. You are already being arraigned for murder, there is no punishment worse than what you are going to get. Let that little girl rest in peace and tell her family where she is.

Sometimes, I am sickened by what humans are capable of doing. Today is a bittersweet day for Southwestern Ontario.

I've made a few life changing decisions recently:

1. I cut my cowlick into bangs.
2. I will be pursuing a new education in Art History
3. I am never having children.

1. Since I decided to be a hero and go for a trendier "banged" look, I now have to wake up every morning to my stupid fucking cowlick sticking straight up and making look like an ultra douche. Thank God I have a boyfriend who looks worse than me in the morning and I don't have to put up with one night stands resulting in after morning regret.

2. I did the physics/math thing and realized that although I enjoyed learning about the world of science and numbers -- I am not a right fit for the professional world of physics and math. So I actually sat down with one of those life counselors and came to the conclusion that I should be pursuing a career as an art historian or pastry chef. Since I am a lazy ass and refuse to build a portfolio of cakes and confections made by me, I am hoping a BSc. in Physics is good enough to get me into an undergraduate program in art history. Wish me luck.

3. No one wants to fuck an overworked university student with unruly bangs.

So to the people who know me, it's no secret that I am Asian. In fact, much of my identity is defined by my Asianess. For example:

Person 1: Yeah, Anny's going to be there.
Person 2: Asian Anny?!
Person 1: Yeah man, that one.

Now, I should mention that 9 times out of 10 I am the only Anny possible to be considered going somewhere. Also, all the other Annys, Annies and Anis are Asian as well ... defeating the confirmation if the Anny in question is indeed Asian.

Another thing about my identity is the fact that I do not exhibit much behavioural signs of being Asian. Some "Asian" things about me include my fondness for video games, rice, designer shoes and white guys.

I dig white guys. Somewhere in the midst of the pseudo-nationalistic indoctrination my well-meaning parents inflicted upon me, I stopped paying attention and allowed tall(er), skinny, white boys steal my heart.

What’s up with the race treason? One theory: They love me. Asian fetish, yellow fever. Whatever you call it, there’s plenty of literature out there telling white men that slant-eyed princesses are the exotic, submissive, and hypersexualized women of their dreams.

This post, however, is not about why white guys live in a delusional fantasy world. It’s a dissertation on why, despite the tawdry roots of our suitors’ affection, I just eat it up. One economist says it’s because Asian women are the least discriminatory female demographic “the white man-Asian woman pairing was the most common form of interracial dating … because of the women’s neutrality, not the men’s pronounced preference.” (second to last paragraph)

Uh, okay. Whatever. What about my strict father and sheltered childhood? Plus, we all saw how well that John Lennon/Yoko Ono thing worked out. And I can’t resist everything white men have to offer ... and no, I’m not talking about that. White men indulge my deepest PDA-fantasies; they hold my hand, they aren’t terribly cerebral about their emotions, and they will, heaven forbid, tell their parents that we’re actually dating. Asian parents don’t do any of that gross hand-holding, making-out stuff. My brother learned the lesson; me, not so much.

Lastly, if you think this is all a pile of BS, we all can agree on one tangible reason the Asian/white pairing works so well. God knows we all just want highly attractive children, and halfie babies are so damn cute.

I just read my last post over and I'm pretty sure that it looks like I am waging and all out war on mothers and their young children since I blogged about them a couple other times (will add links later). I also noticed that my last post was raped with punctuation and grammatical errors, along with terrible sentence fragments (will not correct).

I've come to realize that some of the world's greatest insults involve a mother's young child. Sometimes, you don't have to even say anything to get the evil side eye from them. Cases in point:

1. I was at Tim Horton's hoping to get my fix of a greasy toasted, buttered onion bagel with Swiss cheese and bacon, I decided to go inside since I can't maneuver around those drive thrus and usually end up colliding with the yellow post ... and it's usually not padded when I hit it. I digress. So I was in line and a young mother and her 5 year old were in front of me ordering their shit. Cool, I guess ... it was a beautiful day and I wasn't about to go off on a rant about how 5 year olds really haven't earned the privilege to order their own shit quite yet. I suppose my only concern was why this school aged child was not in school at 1 in the afternoon on a Thursday. Not my place to voice my thoughts on the subject anyway. Plus, I could care less -- one less child meant one less kid's education to pay for come tax season.

Anyway, Little Junior decided to go for a "choco-chip muffin!". As I was secretly cursing this child for inspiring me to add more unnecessary carbs to my diet, his mother began praising him for being a "smart little boy for picking out his lunch!". Okay, cool ... doting parents are a good thing. I mean my parents were and look how I turned out ...

I guess it was kind of cute that Little Junior beamed with pride after his mother showered him with false acclamation. What wasn't cute was Mrs. Little Junior turned around to me and said (in that tone you use with your 5 year old son) "Isn't he the smartest boy in the world?! He can already read those labels! He's a genius, you know ... that's why we home school him."

I should remind you that I was having a relatively good day that bordered on great so in a sense, it was 'grood'. Until Mrs. (Ms.?) Little Junior decided to use me as a way to shop around for a compliment. I could have pointed out the following things to her about her statements:

a) "Isn't he the smartest boy in the world?!"

No. Actually the smartest boy in the world was born in 1992 or 1993 somewhere in India. Trust me, it gets more interesting. Akrit Jaswal pretty much started walking right out of his mother's womb and started to speak when he was about a year old - and not that "baba" crap either. Alright, so your little sister started walking around 6 months and began putting sentences together around 18 months. Pretty impressive, but did your little sister start reading Shakespeare at age 5? I doubt it. And I doubt Little Junior was getting his choco-chip muffin to enjoy MacBeth with. So walking, talking and reading doesn't impress you. Well, how about this? Akrit performed surgery. At age 6. And he didn't watch an episode of Manswers to learn how to wedge a bullet out of your arm either. He performed an operation on an 8 year old girl whose fingers were fused together. So yeah, fuck you and your "smart" boy. I'll consider it when I see him properly wield a scalpel.

b) "He can already read those labels!"

Uh, no he can't. You see, Mrs. LJ, those little black things are called chocolate chips. And if my exemplary studies on White Anglo Saxons are correct, then I am right to assume that LJ's short childhood has been riddled and showered upon with all things chocolate chip. So I am also right to assume that he'll eat everything that has anything resembling chocolate chips in it. Yes, even that dried up bird shit with flecks of dirt in it. No, he can't read ... he just recognizes the chocolate chips in the muffins -- not the label. On another note, Mrs LJ, do YOU even read the labels when you order your usual crap from Tim's?

c) "He's a genius, you know ... that's why we home-school him."

If he were an actual genius, he would have asked for a CHOCOLATE chip muffin. But he didn't. So he isn't. And why the hell would you home school a child as young as that? Mrs. LJ looked about 24 so I'm going to assume that she either has no other kids or has ones younger than LJ. Either way, not enrolling your average kid in school is detrimental to his well being. He's obviously not socializing with children his own age on a regular basis and with the Mrs's meaningless glorifications for mediocre behaviour ... I'm also going to assume that he'll grow up to be that prick with an asshole sense of entitlement where no one really likes him but puts up with him because they have to. And you probably "home school" him because you coddled him to the point where he was kicking and and screaming everyday when you dropped him off at kindergarten.

So anyway, while I was ruminating over what I could say to make this woman's day as bad as mine has now become (which was a long time), she looked at me indignantly when I couldn't come up with a proper way to schmooze her child. Mission: Accomplished.

2. So luck of the draw, I managed to sit beside another young mother with her newborn daughter. Cool, I guess ... at least she won't boast about her child's intellect since it seems to only consist of crying, eating and shitting. Which is quite impressive, considering most newborns do it all at once. Anyway, I took a quick side glance at this infant -- quick enough to catch a glimpse but not lingering enough to warrant a comment about The Other Compliment Fisher. Yep, you know it. As I was about to take a bite into cholesterol heaven I inconspicuously hear "Aww ... my little girl is so pretty! Aren't you just the cutest little thing ever?!" So I take my cue and REALLY look at this child. And dear God, what a child she was.

Now, I should mention that I used to work in a hospital as an intern when I toyed with the idea of being an OB-GYN. So I've seen about 137 newborns make their way into this depressing world. How many of those 137 newborns do I consider cute? I guess you can say all of them because they were small and small things are cute in a kawaii (Google it) sense. But cute as in aesthetically pleasing? None of them. Even after they're washed up and smelling like Baby Dove soap. Newborns are just ... weird looking. Especially if they are birthed naturally. Think about it ... all that bone to push through? Yeah, baby's black eye isn't quite sexy. And no matter how dilated you are, lady, that baby is still going to be bigger than that cervix of yours. Luckily, Mother Nature was kind enough to give our fresh infants a head soft enough to not kill mommy when they blaze triumphantly out of her. So you know what happens to a soft, pliable cranium shooting out of a hole that is usually supple and taut? It kind of resembles this:


Dan Aykroyd's stand in.

Yeah, not so pretty. The head rounds out and becomes normal after a week or so. But even after that, babies under 4 months of age are just not good looking. They're anatomically disproportioned. They may still have that weird fuzz on them that isn't hair and not quite fuzz. Their circulatory system is all mushed up inside them, giving them a bizarre purple tinge. And when it does all work out, they're terrifyingly pink. There is a reason why they use infants 6 months of age and older to portray their younger friends.

Listen, if I think your kid is remotely pleasing to the eye, I'll tell you. If I truly think s/he is the most adorable/prettiest/handsomest thing on Earth, I will truly gush to you about it (it's in the lady genes to do so). But when I don't think your child is that special, I'll try to compensate by saying something along the lines of "her outfit is SO frilly!" or "Wow, look at all his hair!". Trust me, it's better than the truth.

So when I failed to answer Mrs. Little Miss, I kind of gave a half smiled and mustered "her fingers are really long." She took this as a sign of me telling her that her child's appearance was worthy of being thrown off a cliff a la 300 (the movie) and turned her back on me. I soon decided that I was born to disappoint ALL mothers and not just my own.

Slightly content with ruining a second person's day in a row, I looked down and realized that unconditional love bypasses any flaw your little one may have when I saw my bagel sandwich.

IKEA furniture + a perfectionist father + a non handy mom + stubborn me = clusterfuck.

My doting father who usually praises me for almost everything managed to disown, belittle and curse me during this whole ordeal. It's safe to assume that IKEA frustration is universal.

Do you notice that people don't sit on a backward chair anymore?

Anyway, got into my program at U of T (University of Toronto, for you internationals). Am I looking forward to another (at minimum) 18 (straight) months of school? No. Am I going to go anywhere with what I have right now? No. Do I want to work any harder than I already have in order to achieve my long term goals? No. So this is what most people may call a "lack of motivation" ... I call it a clusterfuck. I should have left my goals at becoming a trophy wife. Sometimes, I regret not going into a trade right out of high school. I look at my millwright, welder, even plumber friends and see that they have (or are close to) what I hope to have in a few years' time. Sure, they may not have the prestige of 83 letters attached to their names. Nor do people talk to them in awe on their intelligence (I use 'intelligence' very loosely here). But in the end, it doesn't fucken matter. At the end of the day, some of my trade school friends are able to easily feed their family of four, pay the rent/mortgage and have cash left over to get wasted. Me? I have to scrape the bottom of my purse to buy a round of beers once a week.

So why do people put so much emphasis on education? Probably because they get a cut of my fucken tuition and in return I am able to use words like emphasis with confidence and authority.

So I received an invitation (through Facebook, naturally) for a going away party for a couple of my former roommates/friends. They're from Newfoundland so their wanting to leave my shitty and bland hometown for an even more boring version of it (my hometown is where Newfoundlanders come to die) is beyond me. Wait, or is it the other way around? Actually, they win because they won't have to deal with the influx of fat Portuguese children wandering the streets with a bicycle in one hand and a bun in the other, waiting to replace the one already stuffed into his or her face in Newfoundland.

It's sad to see them go, despite not having seen or talked to them in months but it's their home and I completely understand the yearning for home.

My only qualm with this party is the likelihood of running into my ex at this party. Chances are at 90%. Now, we all know how immature and just how badly I would handle such a situation. So I've come up with a few scenarios to deal:

A) Dress provocatively hot (despite Dave and Allison's parties to be infamously casual or costumed -- and I'm going with the former on this one) and ignore him from the other side of the room.

B) Dress provocatively hot and talk to him like everything is just so spectacular and glam in my life.

C) Dress provocatively hot and ignore him from the other side of the room whilst talking to my (obvious) boyfriend who is provocatively hot himself.

D) Dress provocatively hot and talk to him like everything is just so spectacular and glam in my life and make sure to introduce him to my (obvious) boyfriend who is provocatively hot.

E) Get shit plastered. And dress provocatively hot.

Hmm ... quite a dilemma I am in. Well, we at least know what I am going to do for sure ... get shit plastered. I'm planning on asking my boyfriend to accompany me to this party but know he will turn it down because he is very anti social and hates most kinds of people (most whites, some Asians and all blacks. Hispanic and Natives are alright with him). So C) and D) are out. Or I can just take a page out of womens' magazines when giving advice about similar situations and make the encounter quick and courteous and be sure to always act like a lady.

While dressing provocatively hot, of course.

Things that piss me off:
People who pronounce Italian "EYE-talian".
Not having Charmin brand toilet paper.
Chocolate stains around the spout of a milk carton of chocolate milk.
Insecure girls that insist that they are not insecure.


I ate about 4 chocolate bars in one sitting today. I got that dry feeling in my mouth but couldn't stop because it was fucken delicious.

You know you're getting old when you go to the suiting section of a men's apparel website to gawk and get mildly turned on by men in Ralph Lauren Purple Label suits.

So I finally hauled ass this morning and ran 10 kms (9 and a bit, but who's counting?). I'm pretty perplexed at how well my body adjusts to over activeness, considering I smoke like a Jewish grandmother. Funny how taking a 'leisurely' stroll downhill nearly kills me but running uphill gives me enough adrenaline to bite the head off a newborn child with glee.

So my brother bought a BB gun a couple of weeks ago and didn't bother to tell me (we never call eachother when we should -- like, when my sister ended up in the hospital -- but we always make sure to at least Facebook the other to brag about snatching Call of Duty: World at War 5 minutes before midnight struck) so I was morbidly/blissfully surprised when I went home to my parents' house and was pummeled by plastic red BBs.

After I lost my shit, I wrestled the gun away from my brother and headed outside to hunt. And by hunt I mean shoot at urban pests. No such luck. Fucken squirrels are getting quicker by the generation. I went inside and told my brother to put away the popcorn popper and that if he was hoping for some fun times with the BB, to not bother because it was slim pickings outside.

(I just read that last bit and just realized how hillbilly I sounded. I do not hunt squirrel for meat. I just shoot them with BB guns. You know, for fun.)

My brother looked at me horrified and asked if I really was looking to shoot a squirrel. I told him that it's not as bad as it sounds. He looked at me with more horror when he realized that this wasn't the first time I shot at an animal more useless than a college girl under a chastity oath. He resumed with the last little bit of respect he had for me when I told him that I never killed them, you kind of just put them in a daze and it's funny to watch them before they regain conciousness and scurry away.

Bored with a lack of alcohol, we did what two young adults with a BB gun would do:

Walk into our younger sister's room and proceed to empty the reserve on her napping body.*

* She was under 2 layers of blankets and was not harmed in any way. We hope, anyway.

Things that pissed me off today:

Dhalsim and his punk ass ability to knock me out from across the screen.
Lack of Diet Coke in my system.
Half breed Asians.
My mother.

Anyway, according to some psychiatric journals I am more prone to hating my mother since I am the first born child born to a young mother. Being a girl just ups the ante like Charles Barkley at a Blackjack table. (Not too sure if that analogy works, but it stays.) It also doesn't help that she's bipolar and can be emotionally volatile and that I'm just bat shit insane. And my poor father just gets caught in the crossfire for sowing his seed within my mother to create me. I forget where I am going with this ... I just want to stress that I do a very good relationship with my parents. But when we piss eachother off, it's like the Vietnam war all over again. Fucken commie bastards. I digress.

I was talking to my mother on the phone today and I was eating some sort of meat pie. My mother then snarks something about me getting fat. So then I (being a piss mouthed cunt) said "I get my ass from you". She then pretends to not understand what I meant by that so I call her out on using the immigrant card for the 78, 194th time and proceeded to berate her for not being able to pick up the English language after 22 years. Things I said may have included:

"If I can learn how to speak fucken German, you can at least know when I'm saying 'Fuck!' to you!"
"Sprechen the English, mom?!"
"What the fuck have you been doing for the last 22 years, then? NOT speaking English, that's for fucken sure."
"How is it that someone as retarded as Dad learned how to speak it fluently but you still suck?"
"Seriously mom, don't even bother coming to my convocation because I definitely won't have you to thank when I accept my diploma FROM AN ENGLISH SPEAKING UNIVERSITY THAT TAUGHT ME IN ENGLISH."
"WHY DO YOU KEEP CALLING ME IF YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM SAYING TO YOU?!"

Her response?

"I don't understand." Le sigh. My mother is either the most inept person in Canada or the smartest for utilizing her visible minority-ness so effectively.

So I've been sick for the last 3 or so days. Since I'm a huge baby when I get sick (only happens once a year for no longer than a week) I went home to my parents. Right away my mom started dousing me with Vick's vapor rub water and made chicken broth.

It's now day 3 and I think I overkilled it with cures for ailment. Since this morning, I have probably popped 10 vitamin C tablets, 6 Cold FX pills, 8-10 echineceas (sp?), 5 bowls of soup, 30 mL of Buckley's and 2 entire bags of Vicks lemon drops. I probably sacrificed a lamb or two in the process. Maybe that's why I'm so loopy, moody and cranky.

Since I'm sick and have the green card to pretty much do anything I want without any sort of repurcussions, I have been sitting on my ass playing Street Fighter IV on Xbox. When I heard the game was being released I sit myself, cleaned it up and proceeded to mark down the days until I could wait outside my local EB Games before dawn to get my own copy.

My verdict? Just wow. The psychopathic child in me (refer to last entry) rebirthed herself as I rapidly kicked the shit (as Chun-Li) out of M. Bison's low rent-imitation-of-an-evil-Dr. Xavier ass.

I'll edit this post with more info about how awesome this game is later ... or never. The Buckley's is kicking in and I'm feeling quite ... stoned right now.

Remember NERF?



I used to own at least 3 of those guns at any given time. I loved shooting those balls and I loved getting smacked in the face with them (get your mind out of the gutter). Then they switched to the darts. It was cooler because the ammo was a lot more aerodynamic -- even as a sociopath six year old, I knew when I needed to step my game up by begging my father to get me foam torpedoes so I can more accurately shoot down the other neighbourhood kids from my prime sniper hideout.

Anyway, like any 21 year old, I went to my local Toys R Us to pick up what I hoped would be a Super Soaker on sale. I've had my hopes for one of these monstrosities:



To be honest, I don't even know how this thing works. I actually think this product is illegal in 4 provinces, 2 territories, and all of the continental US. The 21 year old me wishes the six year old me was able to travel in time to get one of these to blast her friends to pressurized water hell and back. Or maybe the 21 year old me wishes she could go back to personally duke it out with the rest of the kids who filled their reservoirs with piss and grape pop. Over two feet long and one foot high, able to hold over 3000 mL of water (or urine). 3000 mother fucking mL. That's like 3 fucken litres. That's how much water a person should drink in a day. But no, this thing gives us the ability to shoot it out at a rate of 300mL/sec. That means that in 10 seconds, you would have emptied this thing out on the next door neighbour's cat from 30 feet away. Can you imagine the sheer power of this thing when you have your captives on their knees and you're about to soak them execution style in the back of the head (I told you I was a sociopath child)? But nooo I had to go all Don Corleone with one of these fuckers:


(The gun, not the black guy -- which was not included with my purchase.)

I digress. After I purchased my water gun that has the ability to go head to head with Cinder from Killer Instinct (But not Glacius, I'd need a flamethrower for him -- another blog for another day) I decided to take a stroll through the Military Recruitment aisle -- AKA "Outdoor Play".


Umm, Cinder ... I really hope that burn you gave me wasn't the clap.

I stumbled upon the NERF section and decided that in these dire times in finance, it would be smart to invest in another NERF piece for my collection. Let me tell you something folks. Kids today aren't content with pumping their water guns 73 fucken times to get the water to shoot 6 feet. Nor are they happy with shooting their 3 NERF darts/balls and then maneuvering about like the cast of Saving Private Ryan to retrieve them in order to reload.

No friends -- today's kids are lazy ("gifted"), spoiled ("deserving") and probably fat (thyroid problem) that we only get one good thing from their uselessness:


Maybe we can shoot today's kids with this to motivate them to not be useless.

And yes, I did shell out the $49.99 for this bad boy.

The Republican National Committee has elected Michael Steele as their chairman. Mr. Steele is the committee's first black holder of this post.

Now, it's always great when anyone gets any sort of promotion -- black, Asian, white, whatever ...

But I wonder if this is the Republicans' attempt to draw future black and visible minority votes in 2012 or even 2016? He loses his post exactly 2 years from now, making any attempt at reviving the GOP as a visible minority-friendly party meaningless.

I mean, why, for the first time since the RNC's inception in 1856 did they decide to go with a black man today when there were a list of well qualified black people on the ready to hold this post in the past?

Claude Allen - active Republican since 1995 (public), as a young man (personal)
Former Assistant to the POTUS Domestic Policy under George W Bush, awarded Juris Doctor from Duke University's School of Law, has Republican policy positions (abstinence, pro-life, anti-gay/women/union/socialism)

John Blackwell - active Republican since 1979 (public)
Served as Mayor of Cincinnati 1979-1980, served as Ohio Secretary of State 1999-2007, policy views include right to life (concerning abortion to life support) and prohibiting same sex marriage and civil unions

Keith Butler - active Republican since 1982
Current member of the RNC, has been a political activist for every Republican President since Reagan

I personally believe that he is a qualified person to lead the RNC and deserves such a position but I also can't help feeling that his election was thoroughly thought out due to the Obama effect.

Oh my, look at how Dakota Fanning has grown up. Absolutely beautiful. This outfit she wore to the "Push" premiere is age appropriate (unlike most of her contemporaries choices in red carpet attire) and tasteful (ditto).

I love this girl, really. With all the young teenage starlets out there who are useless, talentless and Lolita-like, they are making Dakota look better than she already is. I really have high hopes for her. She is a terrific actress and her skills are only going to get better. I do believe that she's going to make it out of this whole child star phase and become a talented and beautiful actress. I also hope that once she turns 18 and is out of her parents' control she doesn't traipse off to Hollywood to get a taste of what it's like to be a part of the Young Hollywood set. Oh Dakota Fanning, don't let me down ... you're already so much better than half the actresses out there 2-3 times your age.

Dear Soccer Mom,

Hi! You might've seen me commuting at the same time as you. I like to walk. It's good exercise, environmentally friendly, and really very fun. I work downtown, just like you! Full time, just like you! I'm tired at the end of the day, just like you! Actually, you might think I look familiar. I probably look like your daughter, or your favorite niece.

But I only look familiar if you see me. Dear soccer mom in the SUV, please hang the fuck up and drive. Yes, that was a stop sign. Yes, I had the right of way. Yes, you almost slammed into me and sent me flying into speeding traffic. Dear soccer mom, maybe you've even met my parents before, it's a small world. Would you like to explain to them why their daughter died? Was that text message to your husband so important? Are you that eager to go see your children at the end of the day? I want to go home too, alive.

I follow all the rules of the road. For real, soccer mom. I'm a pretty responsible pedestrian. And with all those bright colours on my jacket, if you were only looking at the road, you would've seen me.

So dear soccer mom, and everyone else on the road. Please pay attention. We've all had a long day. And I have a pretty short temper. Next time you hit me, I will get up (and, yes, I will get up unless you've managed to finish me off), and stuff my $300 shoe down your fucking throat.

Thanks, have a jolly commute!

Yeah, we get it - You're pregnant. BIG FUCKING DEAL. It's not like you went to school for four years and had to take some excruciating multi-day certification. It's not like you saved a Golden Retriever puppy from getting run over by a bus load of Norwegian tourists. It's not like you cured muscular degeneration. YOU SPREAD YOUR LEGS AND TOOK A MAN-MUSTARD INJECTION ... Wow. Way to go. I am amazed you made it through such a mentally and physically demanding challenge that probably lasted all of 45 seconds (either natural or lab-grown.)

And now we are supposed to fawn all over you. We are supposed to act like it's so incredibly difficult to get pregnant, and that you are now this pristine chalice of life - something that deserves to be worshiped and adored.

Feel sick in the mornings? Do your feet hurt cause they are swelling? Gotta buy new clothes because you are 12 weeks along and have already put on 19 pounds? NOT MY FUCKEN PROBLEM. Do your job like you are supposed to and shut the hell up already.

…Oh by the way - quit using your pregnancy as an excuse to stuff your gullet each and every chance you get. When you proudly stand up at the staff party and announce that "The baby wants" an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's Super Fudge Chunk, a liter of Dr. Pepper and some curly fries ... THEN TELL THE BABY TO SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Now what exactly do I have to look forward to for the next two or three years ...? A constant stream of verbal diarrhea such as "little Bobby went to the toilet and pooped all by himself - But he forgot to wipe and then sat on the floor to pull his pants up! It was so precious, but there was poop everywhere!" or “I'm sorry I'm 40 minutes late, you see, I have a four-year-old in potty training and we had an accident." or "I don't feel comfortable doing the speed limit, my baby is only two months old - You can go around." FUCK YOU.

Two years after that and now I'm stuck behind you at the concession stand - And guess what? You feel it's important to empower your child. It doesn't matter that there are nine people behind you, you want little Bobby to make his own choice when it comes to artificially flavored processed movie snacks. By God, Bobby is special. He must be what all the Nike commercials say. There is only one Bobby and he is different from every other person on this earth. He is special by God, and he will be raised knowing he is special. And now, little Bobby has been standing there with his little index finger in his little nose, staring at all the choices for the last FULL minute. But you aren't the type of parent to acknowledge the fact that many people are waiting for little Bobby to make up his little mind. You don't say something like "Hurry and choose something or I will choose for you" or even better, “Other people are waiting, make up your mind” - not you. Instead, you turn to the sea of humanity that has formed a marginally cohesive line behind you and look at them with an 'I'm sure you all understand' look. FUCK YOU. You are the same people that just can't put their cell phone conversation on hold for 20 seconds while you order your venti no-whip-half-caff almond latte and spinach croissant - instead you make eye contact with the waiter and raise that index finger. The index finger which happens to be the international signal for 'I am a socially retarded fuckhead.'

One time I saw an interview with Hootie (of the Blowfish), with his wife. It was a lovely 'What does Hootie and his wife do when he's at home and not packing fans into concerts at 20 or 30% of capacity' piece on some lame ass afternoon news biopic show. Anyway, Hootie’s wife starts talking about kids and how they are such a miracle and (now she is actually tearing up) she just can't understand how anyone wouldn't want to have children and HOW SHE JUST FEELS SORRY FOR THOSE PEOPLE. Oh yes honey, feel sorry for us. Obviously we are emotionally fractured because we don't share the same fervent desire to add our particular goo to this world's collective semen cesspool ...

I don't hate children. Nor do I hate parents. I hate the parents that think they are entitled because they have children ...

EDIT @ Jan 26th 0947:
I love my friends' children and my friends as parents ... mostly because you aren't the self-righteous pricks as described above.

Overheard in New York:

Chick, screaming into cell: What a bitch! I swear, it's getting harder and harder to fuck your co-worker and get away without people finding out!

-- JFK

Been listening to a lot of crappy Beatles songs (sorry, but you know most of their shit was shit except for Abbey Road and the White Album). Not sure why. Anyway, many apologies for yesterday's sad and pathetic entry. Hormones, lady problems ... you know, the norm. I miraculously shrunk from a size 4 to 0 in less than 24 hours. Hmm, I guess bulimia and sea level altitudes are a skinny girl's best friend.

Has anyone ever actually tested out a Bounty paper towel? They claim some pretty outrageous things and I think they do it because we, the consuming public, are too disconcerted to rinse, wring, and re use a paper towel. Or perhaps we're not fastidious enough to have standards for our paper towels to care.

I feel like a disgusting piece of crap. I haven't felt so fat and unattractive in ... ever. I've gotten to the point where I refuse to step on a scale. What a terrible feeling. I think I feel worse than I should since I've always been a skinny bitch. A skinny bitch who somehow put on more than 20 lbs in the last year. Miraculously, I managed to keep the weight down enough so I can hide it with the right clothes but I'm getting sick of feeling that ring of fat around my midsection whenever I sit down. No matter now much I suppress my hunger, I still feel fat (hey, at least I can recognize a slight eating disorder). No matter how much I run, it doesn't go away. I hear there's a cosmetic surgery clinic that doesn't ask questions when you go for lipo. I actually feel like crying right now.

I hate this time of the fucken month.

Altitude sickness is terrible. Been throwing up, dizzy and feeling numb. My feet don't fit into oh so cute pumps because they have swelled about 1 and a half sizes up. I think this is the closest I am ever going to feel to being pregnant. And my elevation isn't that high up (I'm only 800 m up). I'm so lame.

Watched me some Regis and Kelly today. I was kind of dozing in and out of sleep (another symptom of altitude sickness) and I'm pretty sure I heard Regis talking about some chick who pissed (typo, but it stays) a kidney stone half a foot big. HALF A FOOT. 15 centimetres. Remember the little plastic ruler that came with your math set back in the day? Yeah, that big.

Thanks to YouTube, I managed to watch the good parts of Obama's inauguration (no sense in wasting my time watching the boring parts -- like Joe Biden). When he left for the drive down to the White House, I couldn't help but notice that the Secret Service jogged beside the motorcade in suits. I know that this is how they have been rolling for the last while but couldn't the US government outfit them in more appropriate attire? I mean I understand that these people should look as if they belong in the President's inner circle but wouldn't it be much more comfortable if they were decked out in some badass athletic gear if they are required to do some jogging?

I would also like to point out that Young Jeezy performed at one of his inauguration balls. Obama is so hood.

Just watched Jon & Kate Plus Eight's new episode. I will admit that I am borderline obsessed with this family and have been following them since news broke out 5 years ago that they were expecting sextuplets.

They showed the previews for next week's episode when they move into their new house. After some nifty investigation techniques (Google), I've come to the conclusion that in order to have the house of your dreams you must birth an entire little league team to do so. I'm calling my local fertility clinic in the morning.

I've come to the conclusion that I have some form of insomnia. I haven't been able to have a proper night's sleep in over 5 years. I went to my doctor over a year ago to subtly hint at getting a prescription for a sleeping aid; but I suppose making comments about your lack of sleep doesn't make much impact when your doctor is elbow deep in your pap smear.