At my lemonade stand, the first glass is free, and the second is $10. The refill has the antidote.
I woke up pretty determined to finish off the rest of my summer homework as well as do an entire practice test for the SAT IIs. Man, I was so pepped, I should have had disco music and seizure inducing lights following my footsteps.
Instead, I ended up marathoning (like, 20 episodes of) Eureka Seven. Of which sometimes I confuse with Code Geass (a show I don't like but trick myself into thinking otherwise) if I'm not careful. Which I'm not. Ever.
And in my mind I'm going: "Hey. Wait. I don't even fandom this series. What the -" to which the swirling, multi-colored mechas, strangely reminescent of something you'd see on an acid trip onscreen screamed back, "WELL NOW YOU DO LOL." And somehow this all made a lot of sense to me. And actually, I don't even like robots, not to mention rainbow colored ones with controls and seating that can easily be mistaken as bad sexual innuendo. There is only one way I would ever actually watch anything with robots in it, something I realized was severely lacking in Eureka Seven half-way through episode 3284257489 (...wait) and which resulted in several occasionally manly bellows of "WHERE ARE MY HOT MEN IN BUTT HUGGING LEATHER BODY COMBAT SUITS, YO." And to which I got no reply, obviously (Holland - not the country, the character Ahahahahsflksjhf...leave me alone- in boxers lounging in the cockpit was nice though).
So obviously this calls for a totally random night-time adventure to Path Mart, and this time, totally on my own (see, my mother tricks me to go to Shop Rite. But that's another story for another entry). Well, no, actually, the store next to Path Mart here, which is Blockbuster (where one my substitute teachers works part time. Um. It's really awkward because he's like Satan only with better fashion sense and a Brad Pitt hairdo). So I have vowed to go to Blockbuster in a fit of time (and money) wasting passion tomorrow and I will jam it all into one night with complete disregard to my bodily needs for sleep and eating because honestly, you don't need much brain activity to stare at a flashing screen and mope and pretend I'm enjoying myself (unless I find something actually, well, good. I don't like to get my hopes up).
Well, I never ever really feel terribly productive no matter what I do so, I figure, if I have a little fun now and then, it wouldn't hurt. I also tried going back to do some papercraft last night but apparently I'm too lame to finish. Same deal with writing.
Anyway. Let's just say, I don't like talking about college applications. So stop, world, stop bringing it up. Because I like to think of myself as an optimist (try not to make your drink go up your nose while you're laughing right about now, I know it's hard) albiet, an unconventional one. I avoid talking about irritating or depressing, stagnant things and avoid thinking about them by drinking putting myself into a stupidly cheerful, oblivious stupor. I have mastered the art of zonking out, people, I have. And of course I know I've repeated this over and over (because I can't help to mention it when it's on my mind so much of the time now and when something or somebody utterly dumb accidentally smashes the topic into my face). I don't like talking about anything to do with my blatantly bleak future. I don't like talking about school (grades, work, classes, people, etc). Because I don't like anything that these things remind me of. They make me unhappy. And nobody likes an unhappy Shyue (or as it says in my profile: BLOWING UP TOKYO IN TECHNICOLOR. Blowing up is also a sensitive art, I think. It's good to keep it friendly).
SO. I had this dream about cacti. And they were huge and wearing these really colorful boots even though they didn't have any legs. In fact, I think the entire dream was full of rainbow colors. After musing about this over breakfast and trying to figure out whether or not I have finally lost my marbles, I realized (quite rationally) that this could just be my unconsious reation to my color printer being out of color (aka, low toner). My dreams (or more like, nightmares. They are hardly ever plesant) usually reflect some sort of irritationg I am currently feeling, I've figured that out already. But that doesn't explain the cacti being there and that certainly doesn't explain why I'm never wearing any pants in any of those sequences either.
Tell me when this entry is starting to sound like I'm on magic mushrooms.
I still haven't read Harry Potter, stop bothering me. I also want Honey and Clover Seasons I+II on DVD (because this is my favorite show on the face of the planet). I don't even know if this exists yet.
AND IN MORE HAPPY NEWS: my anemia socked me a good one this past week.
Dear body,
HAET.
No love,
Shyue
Instead, I ended up marathoning (like, 20 episodes of) Eureka Seven. Of which sometimes I confuse with Code Geass (a show I don't like but trick myself into thinking otherwise) if I'm not careful. Which I'm not. Ever.
And in my mind I'm going: "Hey. Wait. I don't even fandom this series. What the -" to which the swirling, multi-colored mechas, strangely reminescent of something you'd see on an acid trip onscreen screamed back, "WELL NOW YOU DO LOL." And somehow this all made a lot of sense to me. And actually, I don't even like robots, not to mention rainbow colored ones with controls and seating that can easily be mistaken as bad sexual innuendo. There is only one way I would ever actually watch anything with robots in it, something I realized was severely lacking in Eureka Seven half-way through episode 3284257489 (...wait) and which resulted in several occasionally manly bellows of "WHERE ARE MY HOT MEN IN BUTT HUGGING LEATHER BODY COMBAT SUITS, YO." And to which I got no reply, obviously (Holland - not the country, the character Ahahahahsflksjhf...leave me alone- in boxers lounging in the cockpit was nice though).
So obviously this calls for a totally random night-time adventure to Path Mart, and this time, totally on my own (see, my mother tricks me to go to Shop Rite. But that's another story for another entry). Well, no, actually, the store next to Path Mart here, which is Blockbuster (where one my substitute teachers works part time. Um. It's really awkward because he's like Satan only with better fashion sense and a Brad Pitt hairdo). So I have vowed to go to Blockbuster in a fit of time (and money) wasting passion tomorrow and I will jam it all into one night with complete disregard to my bodily needs for sleep and eating because honestly, you don't need much brain activity to stare at a flashing screen and mope and pretend I'm enjoying myself (unless I find something actually, well, good. I don't like to get my hopes up).
Well, I never ever really feel terribly productive no matter what I do so, I figure, if I have a little fun now and then, it wouldn't hurt. I also tried going back to do some papercraft last night but apparently I'm too lame to finish. Same deal with writing.
Anyway. Let's just say, I don't like talking about college applications. So stop, world, stop bringing it up. Because I like to think of myself as an optimist (try not to make your drink go up your nose while you're laughing right about now, I know it's hard) albiet, an unconventional one. I avoid talking about irritating or depressing, stagnant things and avoid thinking about them by drinking putting myself into a stupidly cheerful, oblivious stupor. I have mastered the art of zonking out, people, I have. And of course I know I've repeated this over and over (because I can't help to mention it when it's on my mind so much of the time now and when something or somebody utterly dumb accidentally smashes the topic into my face). I don't like talking about anything to do with my blatantly bleak future. I don't like talking about school (grades, work, classes, people, etc). Because I don't like anything that these things remind me of. They make me unhappy. And nobody likes an unhappy Shyue (or as it says in my profile: BLOWING UP TOKYO IN TECHNICOLOR. Blowing up is also a sensitive art, I think. It's good to keep it friendly).
SO. I had this dream about cacti. And they were huge and wearing these really colorful boots even though they didn't have any legs. In fact, I think the entire dream was full of rainbow colors. After musing about this over breakfast and trying to figure out whether or not I have finally lost my marbles, I realized (quite rationally) that this could just be my unconsious reation to my color printer being out of color (aka, low toner). My dreams (or more like, nightmares. They are hardly ever plesant) usually reflect some sort of irritationg I am currently feeling, I've figured that out already. But that doesn't explain the cacti being there and that certainly doesn't explain why I'm never wearing any pants in any of those sequences either.
Tell me when this entry is starting to sound like I'm on magic mushrooms.
I still haven't read Harry Potter, stop bothering me. I also want Honey and Clover Seasons I+II on DVD (because this is my favorite show on the face of the planet). I don't even know if this exists yet.
AND IN MORE HAPPY NEWS: my anemia socked me a good one this past week.
Dear body,
HAET.
No love,
Shyue