What the Hell Is Wrong With Letting Me Sleep?

   Finally, after two weeks of persistent insomnia, I managed last night to fall asleep at midnight. My prayers had been answered, I was going to get a restful sleep.
    Suddenly, at 1 a.m. I sat bolt upright in bed and started screaming, "WHERE AM I?1 WHAT HAPPENED?!" All I was aware of is that someone had unjustly been killed. I kept screaming.
     My mother had to come into my room and calm me down. The whole episode lasted maybe a couple of minutes. I've had nightmares before but I think that this might qualify as a night terror.
      Skip ahead a bit to 4 a.m.. I had managed to fall back deeply asleep. At 4 I again sat bolt upright desperately gasping for breath. One of my cats was sitting next to me mewling frantically. I realized that I had somehow managed to tie my sweater around my throat and pulled it tight. My pillows were arranged like Stonehenge and my blanket had been flung across the room. Again, I had this nagging sense of death. I fell back asleep.
       6 a.m. the dog needed to go out, but my mother managed to take care of that without really disturbing me. I fell back asleep.
      9 a.m. the dog starts barking violently. I jumped out of bed and ran to the living room, unarmed. I was certain we were being burgaled. Turns out the mail man had brought some bills.
      I walk zombie-like back to my bed and somehow manage to drop off. But at 10 my dad waltzes into my room, yells good morning and asks if I want to go to Walmart. My mother had warned him that I had not slept well at all this night, but he still thought that I would prefer to get up and shop rather than rest on my day off.
      WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH LETTING ME SLEEP?!?!?!
       I hope that I don't experience any more night terrors for a long time to come.

I Think Someone is Trying to Tell Me Something....

  I am not a religious person at all, nor am I at all spiritual really. I don't believe that there exists one celestial being that created all. I mean, if it turns out that at the end of my mortal toil there happens to be a lone omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, omnibenevolent creator I will be perfectly willing to eat crow. At this point however, Greek mythology seems more plausible.
    But I've got to say, lately there seems to be an uncommonly strong spiritual presence creeping up on me.  But like, a lot.
    A couple of months ago, my neighbour passed away after a long and aggressive battle with cancer. As sad as her passing was, her family assured us that she was in a better place. We had no idea how religious she and her family in fact were. During the ceremony, her sons sang rock versions of hymns, stories of rehabilitating inmates through prayer were told, and I have never heard so many people cry "Praise Jesus!" "Hallelujah!" and "Amen" ever. It was starting to get to be a bit too much for me. After two and a half hours and ten eulogies, my throat completely dried out. I started to choke. I ran out of the church into the parking lot, leaving my purse behind. My lungs were shaking, I was coughing so violently.
   "Water! Water! I need water!" I thought. "Dear God, let the car door be unlocked so I can grab a bottle of water!"
    I don't think I can explain how freaked out I was when I wrenched the door open and grabbed my bottle. I was flabbergasted that it was unlocked. I genuinely had a moment of thinking, "Holy crap, I was suffering, I prayed for aid, someone heard me, and I was saved." This is what listening to people talk about the miracles of God for a few hours will do to a cynical, yet clearly impressionable mind. I was shaken, but brushed it off. 
    Skip ahead a bit. In the last few weeks, more and more of my co-workers have come out as being big time Bible thumpers. You can imagine my surprise as I know many of them to be sex crazed, party animals that drink a wee bit too much. I'm finding more and more of the conversation is geared toward to topic of religion. Well, although I profess not to believe in any specific faith, I realize that I am actually quite ignorant when it comes to the worlds' religions. But ignorance has never really stopped anyone from arguing a point to death, so I just kept insisting that they could not convert me, no matter how strongly they tried to persuade me. Let them have what comforts them, but don't ask me to believe.
    I'm also finding that most of the plays I audition for have a lot of characters that do read the Bible, and live by it. Well, theatre is my religion, the stage my temple, so if a play has a Christian leaning I suppose as a good actor, I should do my research and read the Bible.
    I went to the book shop, combed through the many versions available and found one that seems to be tailor made for me. It's two tones of purple (my favourite colour!), it doesn't look like a Bible, in fact it does not even have the words "Holy Bible" written on the cover or spine. It is written in our contemporary English, which is perfect because not only is it easy to grasp the meaning of the text, I don't feel like I'm reading anything sacred. I don't feel like I have to hold the text in reverence like I would if I were reading the King James Version or even the New International Version too.
   So, I've begun to read the good book. I won't say what I feel about the text, as I run the risk of offending folks, that and I've yet to make a dent in this massive tome. Shouldn't really pass judgment until I've finished the thing. When will that be? I have no idea.
    Anyways, I'm reading it.
   Now, back to all of this creeping up on me. Last week, I ran into a priest who asked for directions. The other day flipping through the television, I came across a documentary about women in the church. It was interesting but I quickly moved on. I saw a pack of nuns this morning out for a stroll.   This afternoon, I not kidding, two Amish couples asked me where the train station was. ... I'm not kidding! Two Amish couples in downtown Montreal, with full breads, plain black and blue clothes, flat hats, bonnets, and ancient suitcases asked how to get to the train station! 
  I got off my own train and went to wait for the bus. There was a large book forgotten on the bench. I picked it up and it was a women's devotional Bible.
   I was just flipping through it when a woman joins me at the stop, and says "Oh! I have that version, it's really excellent. How are you enjoying it?"
   "Oh, well, I just found this here. It's not mine."
   "Well, you should give it a good home. I just came from church, myself. We've been using that edition."
   "Does it perhaps belong to someone in your congregation? There's a name here..."
   "Nope, no one in our church by that name. It's a sign. You're meant to have. Enjoy it! Happy reading!"
.........Now, I have yet another Bible. It too is purple.
I mean, I have pondered my place in this world. Wondering how I can contribute to better helping my fellow human beings, but becoming a nun or vicar? Seems a bit much.
    Like I said, I'm not religious, I'm not spiritual but I am superstitious and becoming paranoid.
     Maybe there is someone out there and they are trying to send me a message?  
    I think I'll walk under a ladder holding a black cat, with the shards of a broken mirror in my pocket, and take my chances that way.

Quandaries and Queries

This section will be on going and is dedicated to the random questions and/or thoughts that pop into my head. Enjoy!


        If you give someone a placebo and convince them that it is a cyanide pill, would it work?


        If a person has sex with a zombie, is it considered an act of necrophilia?

       
        If milk is full of cholesterol, and cholesterol is so bad, why don't cows have heart attacks?

They fail at their jobs!

        I'm not a sports fan. I really can't be bothered to keep up with any one team in any sport. I like soccer and hockey because the rules are simple. Get the ball or puck in the net, get a goal, get a point, simple. I can't be bothered with a score-from-this-part-of-the-field-get-this-many-points, throw-it-this-way-get-points, hit-over-there-instead-of-here-lose-so-many-points type of system. I'm not strong in math, I can't compute a multiple point giving system. One goal, one point, simple.
     
        Fans annoy me immensely. At my place of work, in our staff room, we have the television on a sports channel all the time, and we're not allowed to change it. I'm up to date with all the sports highlights of the previous night. When there is a game on, I gotta say that I sometimes wanna smack the fans. Every single sports fan has an opinion, a complaint, a suggestion and a loud mouth.

        "C'mon! That's a foul! The ref is blind!"
        "That guy is garbage! How did he make the team?!"
        "What the fuck kind of a move is that?! Gah! "
        "You know, what they should do, they should......"
       
        The subtext of all this complaining is, "I know what I'm taking about. They don't know shit and if I was playing I'd be awesome." And it's usually the most inactive person ever making the majority of these statements.
      
         Well I say unto you, oh slob of a fan, if you're so great why aren't you out there playing? Why aren't you the one calling the shots for the team? Why aren't you the one with all the pressure on their shoulders? Why aren't you the one earning millions of dollars? Why not? Because you lack talent, physical ability, determination, discipline and drive, that's why.
   
        By all means, if your team plays poorly, or is subjected to bad sportsmanship from the opposing side, you have every right to feel badly. But don't start saying how you do things differently if you were there. These guys are under a lot of strain to be the best. Add on whatever else might be plaguing them, family issues, physical ailments, etc. and let's see how well you would handle the situation on the pitch. Shut up and enjoy the game.

      That's fans taken care of, now on to the athletes.

      Firstly, after the game at the press conference, don't speak. Most of you can't articulate your thoughts let alone your words properly. Your monotone explanations of why you just lost the game irk me. And if you use just one more cliche in your explanations, I will scream.

       Next, can we talk about the salary please? Athletes are paid hundred of thousands if not millions of dollars annually. Now, I understand that they get injured frequently, medical expenses and maintenance is costly. I also understand that athletes have a limited shelf life. They can only actively participate in the sport until their mid thirties or so before their bodies give out on them. A large salary, carefully managed, could secure them a comfortable living well into their old age. But what about dancers or Olympic athletes that don't garner sponsorship deals after the games? They have the same health issues as so called professional athletes, same shelf life, but they'll never see the kind of money some of these professionals make.

      And I'm sorry, when I hear athletes complaining that they're taking a two million dollar salary cut off of their ten million dollar contracts, I have no sympathy. You can't buy a new car this year, boohoo, go cry to someone who cares. Teachers have a much more difficult job than you do, and only make tens of thousands of dollars a year. You're an entertainer, your job is only vital to maintain our sanity in our humdrum lives, but your jobs are superfluous. (I haven't forgotten about overpaid actors either in this rant, but I'm talking athletes not actors right now.)

      The hilarious part of all this is that they can't even do their jobs properly! The only thing required of any athlete participating in a team sport is to get the ball/puck in the goal. That's it. And ninety five percent of the time they can't do it! These people are essentially failing at their jobs and are getting rewarded for it! At any other job, I don't care what it is, if you had a failure rate as high as most athletes have you would take a massive pay cut or lose your job altogether.

      Yes, yes, I know what makes it all fun to watch is to see two teams of equal strength battle for the most points, that's where the athleticism comes in, the skill, the competitive aspect. But every time they don't make a goal, or a home run, they still are technically failing at their jobs. And every time a goalie or defence man let's the ball in, they have failed at their jobs. Just sayin'. Athletes fail at their jobs most of the time.

       I realize that I am a fat slob complaining about other fat slobs complaining about sports, but the difference between my rants and theirs, is that I don't profess to know any more on the subject than I already do. I don't think I could perform better than the professionals because I know I can't. I take issue with loud mouth fans and large salaries based on a lack of performance.

     Sports are fun to watch. They provide us with a distraction from our mundane lives. They give us something to debate about, to let our aggression out, but for the love of Pete, could we put things in perspective? It's a game. Just a game. If your team loses this year, maybe they'll do better next year. Sports are never going to go away. Your team loses the Stanley Cup, the World Series, the Super Bowl, the Grey Cup, whatever, they'll have a shot again next season. It is not the end of the world. Besides, when hockey season ends, baseball begins. Chill.

Senility sets in...

     My father is very old. He is seventy five. Three quarters of a century. When you're twenty two (twenty three in ten days!) this is very old. My mother is not too far behind at the age of sixty six.
    
    Now, offspring generally cringe whenever they are in the presence of their parents, especially when their parents open their mouths. This sense of embarrassment increases as we become teenagers, and adults. Granted as we become adults ourselves we can let their ramblings slide a little more easily.
     
    But when your parents are senior citizens and have been for some time, you live in horror of what they may say or do.(You also live in fear that they won't wake up for breakfast the next morning, but that's another topic altogether.) You watch as these once sharp, healthy people slowly decay before your eyes. You see them shrink, you see them lose their hair, teeth, eyesight, hearing, physique. They wrinkle and sag. They forget how to do simple tasks, and most notably, they lose the filter. You know that filter? The one that stops you from saying something inappropriate in a social situation because frankly you're liable to offend everyone within earshot? Yeah, that can go big time. And you look at these people, your mother and father, and you stare at them and think, "Dear God, is this what I am going to become?"

      My father, whom I do love though I could strangle him sometimes, is a bit more advanced in his deterioration. There are times when I wish that he had a more stable filter. Like when we go into a mall that is situated in a neighbourhood made up predominately by Asian, Spanish and African-North American families and he'll say very loudly (because he's losing his hearing but won't admit it), "Where are all the white people?"
It's at this point that I either run away, or try to stuff a chloroform soaked sock down his mouth.

    Then there are the days when he does something so head scratchingly puzzling that I cannot, for the life of me, figure out his logic even once he's explained himself. For example, the other day he came to me, a look of immense pride spread across his face, and held out a tool he had created. The bottom was a flat piece of sharp metal, about three inches across, which was attached to the handle of a broom stick. Connected to the flat metal bit was a metal rod sticking out at a ninety degree angle, it too was about three inches long.
   "Do you know what this is?" he asked smugly.
   "Uhh...No. No idea. What is it?"
   "It's for digging out weeds."
   "........So, you've made yourself a shovel?"
   "No. No. It's for weeds. Because I can't bend down to pull them up."
   "Yeah. A weed shovel."
   "No. See, you push it in the ground, and you step on it (the metal rod) and you do it around the weed and it comes out."
    "..............You know, they sell weed pullers at the hardware store. They grab the weed with four pincers and you pull it out."
   "No. I don't like it."
   "You don't like what?"
   "What you say. I don't like it. I like mine. Mine makes sense. Plus, mine was free."
   "How much did you spend on material and how much time did it take you to make it?"
   "About $20, and a few hours."
   "Right, well you could have gone down to Canadian Tire, picked up that weed puller for about the same amount and been done pulling weeds hours ago."
   "..............Shut up. "

    Then there was last weekend when my mother and I went to see a movie. I called the house using my cell to see if my dad could come pick us up. I called, no answer. I try again, no answer. I try about ten times. My mother and I were both very confused. Maybe he had taken a nap and didn't hear the phone? Maybe he was in the backyard? Maybe he was in the garage getting drunk with the neighbours? Oh well, better head for the bus or call out a taxi. We go out the front door, and there's my dad, leaning against the wall waiting for us.
      "What are you doing here?" I asked.
      "You said  the movie finished at four, so here I am."
      "Well great, but we were trying to phone you."
      "No you weren't."
      "Yes, I was. I tried ten times."
      "Impossible." And from his pocket, he withdrew the cordless land line telephone that is normally in the living room. He genuinely thought it could be used as a cellular phone.
      "You nincompoop, that's not a cell," says my mother, "it can only be 500 meters away from the house before it stops working."
      "Really? Why? ....... That's stupid."

     Next morning, yet another incident.
     "JULIANNA! Where's the bread?"
     "On the counter."
     "Where? I don't see it."
     "For crying out loud. .... I'm coming." I got up from my computer, went to the kitchen and gave him the loaf of bread he was looking for. It was in front of him.
      I returned to my computer. My butt just touched the chair when, "Julianna! It's too big!"
      "What's too big?"
      "The bread. It won't fit. Do I cut it?"
      "What? It's bread. It always sticks out of the toaster a bit before you push down the lever."
      "But it's too big!"
      "What the......Hold on!" I marched to the kitchen. He had somehow managed to pick the one piece of bread in the entire loaf that was abnormally big. So, I cut it in half and handed them back to him.
        "Here you go." I go back to my room, when, "Julianna! How does the toaster work?"
        "Are you fucking kidding me?!"
        I went back to the kitchen and in the most overly dramatic manner I could muster up, I demonstrated how to work the machine.  
      "This is a toaster. This is bread which will become toast. Do you see these two slots? You plop the bread in like so and so. Then you press down this magical lever. And in a few minutes, it will magically spring back up! And you will have TOAST!!!! Whoa! But be careful! It will be hot! Use the tongs to take them out of the toaster! Do not use a knife! Then place the toast on a plate. Then butter your bread and enjoy. "

       Minutes later, in conversation with my mother discussing the upcoming election.
       "I should run for Pime Minister. I can't screw the country up worse than they can."
       "Apu*, as stupid as most politicians are, I think they can at least work a damn toaster."
       He laughed, thank heaven for that. At least in this case he realized how silly he was.
        
        Then there are the every day slips like calling me by my mother's name.
        "Now, Erika - Julianna - What's your name?"

         Then there's my mother. I adore and love my mother. She is someone I can tell anything to, and will listen. Most of the time.
         
          She tends to zone out if there's a conversation we're having on the phone. She'll start going "Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh." I can always catch her when she's not listening because she'll start doing it even if I've stop speaking for a couple of minutes.

         Her filter is going too. We were on the train, when the conductor came into our car. He had to bend his head to get through the door, and even when he had come in he could not stand up straight because, even though it was bent, his head was touching the ceiling of the car. The instant my mother saw him she went, "Whoa!!!!" Very, I mean so loudly that other passengers turned to look at us.
        "Did you see how tall he was?!"
        "Mum, shut up, he's still in the car!" 
I did get to see him at full height. He was at least seven feet tall.

       My mother also has terrible eyesight. It's been years since she's gotten new glasses, finally we've ordered her a new pair and are waiting for them to arrive. But bad vision aside, I swear she has blinders on, you know, like horses do.
      
      She'll turn the corner in the super market, or switch from one side of the aisle to the other without looking to see if there is anyone there. She essentially cuts off people who are in mid-stride causing them to falter, if not fall. If she were driving a car, she'd be deadly, never checking her blind spot, not signalling her intent to change lanes. Thank God she doesn't drive. 

      I love my parents, I do, but when I realize that at some point I will become them .... I don't know. I just hope society will be able to put up with me.


*Apu is Hungarian for Dad. My father's Hungarian, that's what I call him.       

I knew it!

       For the past little while, I have been fantisizing about summer dresses. So, finally after days of continuous rainfall, I went dress shopping.
      I tried on a tube top dress that went down to my ankles. I wasn't quite sure if it was right for me, so I decided to consult the sales clerk for her advice. She took one look at me and said, "Umm......That's not a dress, it's a skirt."
     I went back into the changing room, lowered the skirt to my waist. ...... The garment was a foot too long.

    How friggin' short am I ?!

    I always knew that I was a hobbit, I knew it!

    Now, I'm not quite 5'4. I am considered petite. I'm used to pants being a few inches too long, but a full foot?! Who were these skirts designed for? Are there giantesses roaming around that I'm not aware of?

Even my dreams hate me....

For the past few months I have been suffering from gallstone attacks. To avoid massive, crippling pain, I have had to put myself on a very strict diet. I am effectively not allowed to enjoy a meal anymore. I am not able to consume alcohol, tea, coffee, dairy, meat, eggs, refined sugars, saturated and trans fats, etc, etc.

Anyways, last night I dreamt about one of the items on my list forbidden goods. I dreamt that I had poured myself a large mug full of fresh, hot coffee. The aroma was seductive. The steam danced sensually on the air. I poured cream into it, and the beauty of the two swirling liquids brought tears to my eyes. Brown and white mixing into a golden paradise. I then added sugar. It cascaded majestically from the sugar bowl. They were little crystals tumbling from heaven. I stirred that gorgeous concoction with revery.

And then came that glorious moment. I lifted the mug to my lips, and drank deep that warm, sweet liquid. It was an orgasmic pleasure, such as I had never felt before. I drank it all, restraining myself from gulping it down in one go. I forced myself to savour its creamy delight.

I finished drinking. I sat back in my chair in a glorious daze of happiness. 

Suddenly, a full blown gallstone attack hit me! It wrenched me from my extacy. Seering pain under my right rib, spreading through my entire abdomen, fire blazing through my body, shooting into my shoulder, nausea taking over. I fell out of my chair, crumpling into a fetal position onto the floor. I cried and vomited.

Then, I awoke in a cold sweat.

Even my dreams won't let me enjoy my forbidden foods.

:(

Christ: Saviour or Zombie?

Today is Easter, where we celebrate the resurrection of our Lord, Jesus Christ. On this day many, many years ago (cuz I'm accurate in my facts) Jesus Christ rose from the dead. This can bring me to only one conclusion: Jesus is a zombie!

Happy Easter everyone!
:0)

Do I hafta????

Every morning, I have my rituals. Get up, do stretches, floor exercises, hop on the treadmill, check the emails, news, imdb, Twitter, Facebook, Horoscope, weather, youtube and check the blogs. I'll probably take a shower and have breakfast somewhere in there too, but I digress.

The point is, I check the blogs. I read the updated blogs, going through them thoroughly.

I will then click on my own blog and inevitably be disappointed that it is not updated. Then I remind myself that I am the one keeping the blog therefore I am the one who must update it. Ideally, my blog would write itself. It would be automatically updated by my psychic thoughts. Sadly, I don't have psychic powers, though  sometimes I believe that I do. Or at least I believe others should be able to anticipate my whims.

Anyways, anyways, the point is: do I hafta sit here and type out what I wanna say? Can't Apple come up with the iChip or something? Where you can just think of something and it appears on the interwebs? Surely we should have this technology available to us by now. ...

....

On second thought, that does sound rather creepy, but I've no doubt it's on its way.

Until then, until there are psychic chips implanted into our brains and we can view the interwebs through our retinas, I guess I'll just have to add updating the blog to my morning rituals. Sigh....

By the by, I'm long winded. I'm sorry.

   So far, I will say that I like this blogging thing. It allows me to be more long winded than Twitter or Facebook. So, I approve.

     I've come to realize that I may seem like a whiny bitch in these blogs. Prone to severe bouts of self deprication. This is true. But it's also the mood I'm in right now. I can be obnoxiously optomistic and perky too. You've just not been subjected to that side of me yet.

     I am Canadian. And being Canadian means I tend to apologize every two seconds in case I may have offended someone. Sorry if this seems offensive to other Canadians who feel that this is a stereotype and does not in any way apply to them or the whole population.

    By the by, I believe that there are different voices residing in my head. Not as in "Shhhh Bert, stop telling me to poke that guy's toupée with a stick." No, no, no. I don't mean that kind of voice. I mean the kind that puts negative thoughts in place of positive ones.You know the ones that prey on your vulnerability. The ones that make you feel worthless. Conversely there are the ones that make you believe that you are the shit.
   Anyways, those fellas are often battling in my head. There's also a mature version of me and a child version of me living in there too. Sometimes these characters tend to bicker. I will occasionally let them have it out in a written duologue. It saves me a headache and allows me to see how absurd of a mood I've been in. So, you might be in for some odd discussions.

   It's not weird, I swear! ... I'm not crazy. I'm perfectly normal for me. -_-

Somehow I feel that I've failed to convince you that I am in fact sane. Sugar cubes!

Silly, silly VickyJules

One of my pet peeves is excuses. And I just realized that my last blog entry is nothing but excuses. Ha!

Well, I should say that I dislike excuses when they come from other people. As for myself, making excuses is actually one of my favourite pass times, along with complaining. I complain a lot. It's tedious to everyone around me but my only excuse (ha!)  is that I'm an only child who constantly needs to be the center of attention, so complaining usually gets people to notice me. That and putting on weird voices.

Ok, so I might owe you some sort of explanation...

        There are a few things about my writing that perhaps you should know first.
      
        a) I'm a terrible speller. Always have been and sadly always will be. I was diagnosed with severe dyslexia as a child but it has gotten better over the years. I did not let it hinder my development in school. I adore reading and writing. However, I do need to slow down when I do either task or else I will seriously misunderstand perfectly simple things. When I write, I do tend to type quite quickly because I feel it necessary to get out my thought immediately before another one bombards its way to the forefront of my mind thus making me lose track of what I initially wanted to say. Since I type far too quickly there will inevitably be massive spelling errors and poor dyslexic mind can't cope. My apologies.

     b) I like run-on sentences. Deal with it.

    c) I'm very bad at editing my content. I tend to think everything I write is important (not in a The-World-Needs-to-Benefit-From-My-Knowledge-Therefore-You-Shall-Read-All-I-Say-And-Like-It kind of way) rather my mind tends to go everywhere, so everything gets written down before I forget it whether it's worth reading or not. It's important to me, though not to others. This ties in with my "love" of run-on sentences.

   d) Forgive my terrible punctuation and grammar. When I was in school I was constantly writing (obviously, I was in school after all) But since I have not been in an environment that requires perfect punctuation and grammar, I have forgotten some pretty basic rules. I will endeavour to improve my lack of written co-ordination. Just bear with me for now.

   e) I go through different moods quite rapidly. "What does this have to do with the blog?" you may well ask. Well, I shall tell you. There are times when I'm feeling excessively superior to everyone, so I'll start using big words to sound impressive (just look at the name of the blog). I'll use these big words to try to come off as intelligent, but I usually don't fully understand what they mean and wind up using them in the wrong context. So, I come off as more of an idiot than anything else. There are times when I feel quite silly, when my mentality drops down to that of a six year old child, and of course, spelling errors abound then. Everything becomes childish, but it makes me giggle, so tough noogies if you don't care for it.

   f) I love to rant. It's one of my many joys. So there will be a lot of grammatical errors, spelling mistakes and run-on sentences in those entries. Possibly, a lot of sarcasm as well. ... And possibly a lot of emoticons.

   g) I LOVE SWEARING! And if you don't like it you can go fuck yourselves you pussy whipped cock suckers. :)

  h) I am terrible at proofreading. I read and re-read everything I write before I post things, but I inevitably miss something crucial, like a word for example. I try to catch all my mistakes but forgive me if I mess up from time to time.


Ok, so I think that's about it. Bear with me, we may just have a few laughs together.

Only Time Will Tell

    Finally, after much peer pressure, I have officially started a blog. But the novelty of online blogging may not last too long. I have countless notebooks sitting in my desk, each of which I have faithfully sworn to make daily journal entries in, each one commenced and abandoned. So, I only feel it is a matter of time before I lose interest in typing out my banal observations.
 
     I suppose, as this is my first official blog entry, that I ought to give some sort of account of my personality, expectations of this blog, goals in life, hopes, dreams, etc, etc, etc...

    ....I ought to, but I shan't. ....

   All that I can say at this time is this: llama.