Wednesday, May 10, 2006

4 a.m. ramble

Lots of things have happened since my last entry. I've been writing in my journal this past week which hasn't allowed any time for my blog. Please excuse me for my inconsiderate behaviour; I apologize to my single digit readership.

Today's topic: Repulsing the opposite sex.

I am afraid to leave my apartment partly due to my unconscious magneticism.


Techbiana has a thing for me. Her roommate has one too. Now my neighbours' friends? I can't take a shit without someone making a pass at me (and flat-out tell me so). Courting me is like fishing with a tennis racket. Now, to be reasonable, they are all very nice people, which is lucky for me, but bad for them since I am a leper (who just happens to buy really nice shoes and recently acquired a pair on eBay by Cacharel. *See photo*).

Here's the thing: I am not a pleasant person. At least, that's what I tell myself. To be sure, I am very sociable, but I am not - how do you say? - sane. That is to say, I am not anyone's favourite pillow. Indeed, I am closer to a neck brace ... after having broken a pool cue over your face.

My dad says he sees me with someone 30 years my senior. My mom says, "As long as they don't ask me for money." Frankly, they're too optimistic: I'm simply romantically inept. I've come to accept this tragic flaw because what are the chances everyone my age sucks? (Answer: slim to entirely possible.) No, I know something troubling must be going on underneath my epidermis. Yet, I have very little desire to uncover its origins. Perhaps I will maintain my solitary existence for as long as it takes to fully justify it (however nonsensical, transparent, and stupid my reasons). Until then, I don't really intend to find out what it is. (Maybe Barnum & Bailey's needs a new post-modern act.)

So forget it. Don't waste your energy on me. I am destined to live and die by the spinsterly sword.

But feel free to keep trying: I do enjoy the company.


"Don't you mean realities?" said the oh-so pretentious philosophy major in an effort to provoke, I don't know, bad bowel movement?

I'm taking a summer course in linguistics this year with a focus in cognitive science. Basically, we're studying grammar as a tool for communication by way of Noam Chomsky's pioneering works in the field.

There are two guys in my class who are so utterly obnoxious, I cannot even begin to describe how frustrated I am knowing their mothers actually gave birth to these baby-eating dingos by choice (or CIA conspiracy). After the one hour mark, one - whose name I did not catch due to my growing hatred for him - kept going out of his way to confuse the class with his engorged vocabulary of irrelevent information.

And I understood exactly what he was saying, which made me angrier. It was like listening to someone read from the official Scrabble manual because the masculine sounds of consonants turns him on. The guy talked like he was proud of the fact that no one could - or cared to - decipher his mundane ideas wrapped in fatty strips of inflated words. I grew increasingly impatient with him before exploding soon after he launched into another tired tirade:

"If this is a methodological class, then the results of our findings will be assessed with entirely individual results due to [*insert bullshit*]. [...] If language is something 'inherent,' then technically, institutions can use this to control us. [*Insert summary of The Matrix*] Essentially what you are saying, as I am obliged to ..."

The professor didn't understand the question. Of course he didn't: it wasn't a freakin' question. It was a statement with an intent on damaging the professor's credibility. (Not that it was successful since the teacher obviously knew his stuff ... and wore the sexiest jeans seen on man. *drool*) I wanted to shout, "No! If it's methodological, then the results tend to be standardized, and cannot be infinitely subjective, you googly-eyed melon head!" The schlub wanted to explore the possibilities of patronizing the teacher for his own amusement.

So I interrupted him mid-sentence instead: "Are you making a political statement or something? No? Then what's your point? We're all here because we're ignorant of the subject. Maybe you can find an answer to whatever the hell you're trying to ask after we move further along in the course."

That shut the fucker up. Jesus H. Christ, have they no shame? It's embarrassing. It's like some sort of over-compensatory high school redemption scheme. I just want to tell them to get lost. If they think they know more than the professor, then by all means, teach the course themselves.

Anyway, my outburst did help me make fast friends. Two guys sitting in front of me passed me a paper rose: "You are beautiful." And two girls approached me separately telling me they felt the exact same way. I wish more people would speak up when over-bearing bastards co-opt their learning experience.

I wish more people would speak up, period. There would be less assholes, like former lead singer and songwriter Tom Cochrane of "Life is a Highway" fame.

Or Phil Collins. Damn that pugly man! Damn him and his Tarzan motion picture soundtack to hell!

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