There's No One New to Know

I have come to the conclusion that Facebook has rendered me socially inept—not because it has skewed my sense of "friendship" or driven me to compartmentalize my interests and activities, but because my endless attentiveness to profiles* ensures that I already know the answers to the basic questions one normally asks when getting to know another person.

Social networking doesn't translate well to real life when you feel compelled to "meet" someone before you meet them.

*euphemism, "stalking"




On another note, I had forgotten how much I like cheesy rice cakes.

Shut Up Shut Up Shut UP

You know when you're in a crowd and stop focusing on words and everything just becomes endless fucking noise, all these people spewing inconsequential chatter, blathering idiots and moronic mouths, and you press your fingertips to the holes in your ears and make them open and close like valves until you want to scream to high heaven that all this talking doesn't amount to fucking anything?

Well, that may very well be the opening scene of my adolescent angst movie.

If it ever gets made.
But let's not be bitter and pessimistic.

Light Me Up

Things to Do While High: A Purely Hypothetical List

1. Sync "The Wizard of Oz" and Pink Floyd's "The Dark Side of the Moon."
   
2. Read Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons.
3. Re-create the Woodstock setlist with a stereo system in a field.
   
4. Cloud-gaze.
   
5. Rock down to Electric Avenue.
   

What Enzymes Have Made Me Realize

When it comes to boys, I suffer from the effects of competitive inhibition.

What I need is an allosteric regulator to help induce a conformational change.

Too bad that infatuation usually follows the first law of thermodynamics.

A Complaint

The great irony of a teenage girl's life: no one will love you until you love yourself, but loving yourself is difficult until someone loves you.

Corollary: teenage girls are doomed to years of therapy.

Men Are From Mars

According to four upperclassmen (emphasis on the final syllable) I overheard today before dinner, the ideal wife is one who visits the toilet at the opposite time of day than her (apparently regularly scheduled) husband, and that the ideal Saturday night is spent getting high and visiting all the drive-through fast food joints in town.

Now, I'm not trying to pass judgment, but... really?

One Poor Girl

Buddy Holly loved her, called her "pretty pretty pretty pretty," but four years later The Regents tried her and knew she wouldn't do. And as if that weren't enough, The Beach Boys did the same, preferring Barbara Ann once again.

Peggy Sue must have needed a therapist.

Be It Resolved

I don't think I want to lead a life of quiet desperation anymore.

It just doesn't produce stories worthy of telling to wide-eyed future grandchilden.