But not that stupid movie...

I love it when people try and pass of urban legends as honestly happening to them or "their friend". My absolute favourite is the one about the guy who was driving with a full sheet of acid taped to his chest when he either got stopped by the cops, or at customs. He started to sweat so all the acid absorbed into his system and now he thinks he is an orange. Unfortunately, the guy is now in the hospital in London, or Toronto, or Vancouver and if you approach him flicking your finger as if you're peeling an orange he freaks out. You all know the story. I think I've heard it from about four or five different people. We've all tried to pass of some unbelievable story we heard as being our own. I just love when I hear the same one from like four or five different people. Any others you guys love?

My parents sent the computer for the shop for a couple days with a problem that I told them the answer too. I knew that the computer needed more RAM but would my parents listen to me? NO! Anyways, it's back with an increase of RAM and I'll be updating soon. Please be patient.

Sometimes I wish I had a really opinionated webpage, so I could get thousands of pieces of badly written hate mail. I’ve always hated those instant chat short forms, like “lol” or “u r” instead of “you are” or “brb” instead of “be right back“. The “brb” constantly messed me up because I thought of “rbr”, Righteous Babe Records, Ani’s record label. I would always ask “What about rbr? Do they have a job opening? Are they opening a Canadian office like they just opened the office in London? What? What?” All over a stupid short for that could have been avoided if someone just took the micro-second it takes to type out the full form. The typing speed of a person who regularly uses an instant chat program is typically quite high, so is the acronym really necessary? For the longest time, I couldn’t understand my sister when we talked on any instant chat program, because she never typed the full word. That kind of hate mail is the kind I want to get. I want hate mail with all the words spelled incorrectly, where the only punctuation is a period, and they never have capitals, especially not when referring to themselves as “I”. Unfortunately, I just don’t have the heart to offend enough people to get hate mail with horrendous grammar. The only people I might offend are the people I would deam friends, and I find my friends possess respectable, if not admirable, intelligence, so I think if they were to compose a bitter letter for me via electronic mail, they would at least run it through a spell check first. They should charge 50 cents every time you send a crappy email. It costs 50 cents to send a normal letter so why not an email? It might get people to use the damn spellchecker.

Note: I know I’m not perfect, so there are probably errors in here. I wrote two finals today in Italian and Classics. I’ve been thinking in foreign languages all day. Forgive me, please.

I was going to write a blog about the current trend of closet misogynists but I'm too tired. Forgive my lack of blogging lately. With exams and some weighty personal issues, I've been pretty beat. Normally, I could rant on and on about something I'm passionate about but it seems that passion and discourse are pissed into the wind, as of late. So, I'll treasure it for myself, feeding on my own passion and my brilliant conversations with my other personality, Alysia the strong.

Perhaps you are better listeners than I am, but I often find that a whole verse of a song will go unnoticed until the time comes when I am living it day to day, feeling nearly what it is that the writer expresses, in so much as the listen can possibly understand. Then it's the water and electricity. It makes me sit up straight and notice the way things are. Musicians, keep playing. Don't ever give it up, because sometimes it is hard to put water and electricity together. We need someone to push us into the tub with the hairdryer, so we can wake up and realize what a marvel it is to be listening.

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And I deserve it, for I am the Great Comment Eraser. For just about every single blog I read, even strangers, I write a comment. Sometimes it's longer than the damn blog itself, but I almost always write some sort of comment. It's the submit button that scares me. I could write and revise a comment for twenty minutes and then do nothing but erase it. The Corner X just seems so much more inviting. Why do I do that? If someone disagrees with me, at least I'll know. Normally, my comment is relavant and clear, so I have no fear of misunderstanding or miscommunication. I think I'm just not totally clear on what I think so I'd rather see what other people think and then respond to what they say. Freakin' Socrates and shit. Ask them questions, only not because I think I know the answer because chances are I'll have no clue. I'm also afraid the blogger will be offended, even if I didn't mean to offend. It's strange how much of a passive fence sitter I can be sometimes. Ask me about something I feel strongly about and I'll debate with the most passion I can muster, which is quite a bit of passion, but if I don't really have the passion then I can't debate about it, which is my problem with blogging. I'm sure one of these days I'm going to press submit and then someone is going to call me on what I say, when I really don't even remember what I said in the first place. [X] it is.

Why I'm clean

I used to enjoy the sensations invoked from weed, but these days I'm clean (minus a small accident on Friday because I'm weak.) I realized about 4 years ago that I was using it to escape, as I noticed most of my friends were doing as well. I realized that I wasn't living. There was a numbness surrounding everything and "fun" was obtained only through cannabis. It was my laugh that caused me to realize the falsehood of that fun. I met this amazing guy who made me laugh, really laugh, the laugh you'll hear if you talk to me now. I used to have a stoner laugh. You know the kinda weezy, breathy, languid laugh that, from me, has no joy behind it. This guy made me laugh and I didn't know where it came from. I hadn't heard that noise before. It was honest and free. From then on I was clean. What made me realize that Friday was a mistake was my laugh again. I reverted back. All the stupid jokes I would normally moked were accentuated with the stoner laugh and all my stupid things didn't have their youthful charm, but my stoner stupidity. I couldn't handle seeing myself like that again. I'm a sensationalist. I want to feel everything with as much depth as can be allowed before I rip myself apart with bliss (or sorrow). I can't get that from pot. It's not that I think that other people can't but I can't. "I don't think that I'm better than you but I don't think that I'm worse." (-a.d.) I already live in this dream state. I don't need anything to make that dream any deeper, so I'll stay clean.

Just as an aside, many of you know about my coffee addiction and that it stems from my quiting smoking, drinking and drugs at one time but you probably don't know that I didn't drink coffee before that. I have an addictive personality and I needed something. 7 o'clock band practice helped that little addiction along. :)

Just like all the other boys, er, girls

When I was kid I used to love Choose your Own Adventure, as I am sure most of you did. Well, Brad: the Game is kind of a choose your own adventure for adults with high scores and everything. I find it moderately enjoyable. :) Did anyone else read the Encyclopedia Brown series too? I used to love those books. Gordon Korman was also a favourite of mine. When I was about 10, I bought two fish and named them Gordon and Korman. I was such a dork. I still have some of the Bruno and Boots books. Do you ever have those nights where you can't sleep, so you pick up a book that you know all the little quirks of because you've read it so many times? The Twinkie Squad, Our man Weston or Something Fishy at Macdonald hall. I must have gotten A Semester in the Life of a Garbage Bag from the SPL a thousand times. When I finally went to buy the book, I found out that it was out of print. I've scoured used book store but to no avail. Whoa, I really sound like a dork, but I guess that is my life. I'm destined to be forever a dork.