I want to put a tire iron in someone's eye

Goodness gracious, I just hate everyone in the whole wide world right now.




Everyone.


Gosh.



The good news is, I will have my revenge.


On everyone. In the world.



:o

The 2,229 levels of compatibility

So I was curious, and decided to register at a couple of online dating/matchmaking sites to see how they worked.


But I'm at e-harmony right now, and it's taking a long time.





It's a lot of questions, I might as well not even register under a fake name.





I just got finished.

...and I have no matches.


I am totally imcompatible with anyone...in the state of Georgia.

Oh well. Maybe if I subscribe...

Let's talk about sex.

Psyche.


Let's talk about Valentine's Day.

That's a thing.


It'll be the first time I'll have actually had a significant other on the day in question, that's nice.


I've decided I'll get her chocolate roses and a puzzle box with a hand made card and a cheap little locket from the breast cancer site inside, thereby satiating her love of woodwork, puzzles, mammogram funding, arts & crafts, candy and dislike of real flowers.


Excellent.

If I play my cards right, I might even get laid.

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Let's talk about Christmas.


...I forgot.

There was something about shoes with recycled tire-tread soles, coat racks and searchlights, I got a searchlight for Christmas by the by, so now I can search for things.

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Let's talk about not getting what you paid for.



So we've come in late, not too late, maybe five minutes, but it's not like this is school. But when we walk into the room we hit a wall of incredibly bad vibes that knocks the smiles off all of us.

As we very quietly walk to take our place in the circle, the woman in the center, the instructor, stiffly murmurs for everyone to "make sure we see the pictures first", and I get the uh-oh feeling.


This is supposed to be fun, why are we all so deathly quiet?

Is this a joke? Is the joke on us?


Anyways, so the pictures are of the instructor looking like she's been beaten nearly to death, complete with the dead look in the eyes that she has right now in the center of the ring.

No joke, then.


Domestic abuse? Is this about domestic abuse?


But this isn't any sort of self-defense class.

But it's wasn't her husband or boyfriend, or actually, as it turns out it was partially her husband or boyfriend, but it was mainly the horse that stomped all over her, breaking bones, severing nerves, and sentencing her to go through the rest of her life in constant unending pain. And then her husboyfriend left her, her parents stopped speaking to her, she's wasting away and can't get a job and no one will go out with her and there will be absolutely no happiness or joy in her life ever again.

She lets that sink in for a couple of minutes. Some of the girls cry quietly.

She then tells us to write down our deepest fears and pass them to the center, where she proceeds to read them, all of sixty them, out loud, pausing after each one to make sure we get it and to occasionally make comments on quality.

Speaking of quality, I thought mine was rather good, I decided to go beyond the simple fear of failure I knew at least half the class would put down and go for the serious darkness, because


When in Rome...

I've learned the rules and I am playing the game.


And I totally won too, because when she read it even more life when out of the room, and she even said that she would come back to it later, which made even my heart sink.


Then, finally, almost an hour and twenty minutes after the class first started, she said it that, with all that had gone before in mind, it was time to work on breathing exercises. Finally, someone set off a fire alarm.


Where am I? I'm in the worst yoga class ever.

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Let's talk about turned tables.


Spoons, with whom I am planning to live next year (Roomate is graduating), invited me to a party, and I decided to go.

"Pimps and Hos"

What an auspicious theme.


I remember going to a pimps and hos themed party my sophomore year. Some girl lured me into the bathroom, but once inside I for some reason didn't take the bait. How strange.

I remember her cleavage.



That was a good party.


This one wasn't, so we left and went back to a party at my apartment complex.

That one was okay, but I like it better if I know most of the people.


Anyways, Spoons has isolated himself on the balcony, behavior that I find familiar, so I go and talk to him and find out that...

...that I'm bored with this whole subject now and I'm not going to write anymore about it just right now.


Everyone involved is a different person now.

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Let's talk about Battlestar Galactica.

What a great show, so very depressing.


That's what science fiction is supposed to be like, not necessarily depressing, but not like Star Trek either. I think the whole purpose of genres like science fiction and fantasy are to be able to tell stories without being as limited by how the world is today, not to showcase neat looking gadgets.

If you want to make a story about how someone deals with the end of the world, why not have the world actually end as opposed to doing it metaphorically by getting people fired or divorced or something like that?


That's what I think the point of science fiction is, not lightsabers.



Although lightsabers are pretty cool.

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Let's talk about blogs.

So, I found this friend of mine's blog a couple of years ago unbeknowest to her, and I tune in every so often. She doesn't post anything private, and she once told me the URL (although I decided that I was supposed to be too drunk to remember such things at the time), so I'm not completely evil. But now...



Wait, what's the point of this?

Am I asking for advice?


I don't know what to do. A bad thing happened, and I want to help, but I don't know if I should.

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Let's talk about group projects.

I hate them, and I hate people by extension. People suck and are liars.


They are sucking liars.

Exterminate.

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Let's talk about trustworthiness.

So it's getting to be pretty silly now, how PVC doesn't have a key to my apartment.

I just don't like her apartment as much, her bed is too small and she lives with three other girls, one of whom is half evil, so she comes to my place.

She left a set of pills at my place in case she needed them, and the first thing I did after she left was write down all their names and find out what they did.

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Let's talk about how I totally am not bored about that one subject anymore.

So Spoons was depressed because he was sick of the whole dating game thing, and so I tried to do for him what he did for me that one time when that one chick did that thing.


Hey, you guys remember that?


Man, I haven't slept in the trunk of my car since last April. I need to get on that.

What was I talking about?


Oh yeah, whatsherface mk. II is totally dating a complete tool now, plus she's mean where she used to be soft-spoken.

So different, I remember the first time I ever saw her actually wear a shirt that showed cleavage.


Holy smokes.

It was a revelation. I had to go smoke a cigarette.


Which, by the way, I stopped, I don't know if I mentioned that. I made the resolution to stop after I got Roomate to the hospital when she took all those pills. So far I have only fallen off the wagon once, two cigarettes, about a month ago.


Anyways, I remember when whfmk2 was the shy nerd-like girl into anime. She wore glasses and loose clothing and was impossibly gorgeous, but of course I was too scared.


Regrets? But I'm with someone.


But regret is like a fine whiskey, which I know a thing or two about now.

You drink it and it tastes like poison, it burns you, makes your teeth clench, your eyes water and puts you out of touch with the world.


Goes down smooth.


There's always time for regrets, plus: I'm an asshole.



I'm reletively sure that there are bigger assholes out there, though.

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Let's talk about numerical comprehension by an African Grey Parrot (Psittacus erathacus).

Let's not.

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Let's talk about the differece between the usage and mentioning of a word.


So I decided to double major now, since I found out that I can't graduate on time anyways, I might as well graduate a full year late with another degree for my trouble.

The second one is "Psychology", so that's "Cognitive Science" and "Psychology".



Okay.

This is what I will have learned when I graduate: Never read a paper written by a linguist.



I'm being serious.


It's not worth it.