I love me a good list

Holy crap! It's my old RA's birthday! Happy day for two more hours, big guy. Now put me on the damn list.

On Futility

I'm supposed to be working on my grad school applications. I'm sitting in my favorite coffee shop with my laptop and a bottle of orange soda. There's a man at the front of the shop, assaulting us with an acoustic guitar. Christmas carols, folky tunes, and kiddy songs, which involve loud barking for some reason -- all bounce off my gigantic headphones. I am nestled in the safety of Mark Knopfler, INXS, the Jesus and Mary Chain, and Miles Davis. Strum on aged hippy, I am impervious. I won't give you my last dollar either. Bark bark bark.

Have you ever been so antsy that your pants are uncomfortable? No matter what I do - hitch 'em up, loosen the belt, tighten the belt, etc. - they won't let me concentrate on my screen. These are my favorite blue jeans too. Maybe I should take them off and dance around a little. How'd you like that, Mr. Hippy?

What's this "New Blogger" noise? Is it better? Am I foolish not to switch?

Uh-oh. Cd's done.

The doors on the bus go open and shut
open and shut
open and shut
the doors on the bus go open and shut
all through the town

False start! Once more and you're disqualified

Statement of Purpose:

Science is more interesting as a story, as a mystery novel. I wanted to discover the story behind why bugs are attracted to light, and I loved learning that certain birds migrate using the earth’s magnetic field as a map. I pictured myself as a romantic character, a young explorer who would one day discover the unifying secret behind evolution, nature, and genetics. Unfortunately, even the best stories can get muddled, and I foundered upon the shores of organic chemistry. Fucking o-chem! You have single-handedly kept me from discovering the cures for cancer and global warming. The world will curse you as it dies of asphyxiation in the coming years. You and gen chem…and biochem…and genetics – all of you can go fuck yourselves!

But I'd make a really really great journalist. Please admit me. One please.

Random thought brought on by watching commercials on the Cartoon Network

I bet Fred goes home and beats Wilma every time Barney steals his Fruity Pebbles.

Nothing could be more random

than the spam I get:

nearer to him in her ecstatic admiration, leaned over the back of down in a fusty castle made of pasteboard and wire, looking in all Creakle at whom I now glanced for the first time, and who were, more sovereign specific, he was so kind as to squeeze orange juice
before, and took me away. We found the coach very near at hand, magistrate. He inquired, under a shed in the playground, into the out of a bottle, said I was like a boa-constrictor who took enough days. If the fire was to go out, through any accident, I verily
myself uneasy; he would take care it should be all right. operations were going on, and no one else was looking. The sun it, the subject of jokes between the coachman and guard as to the opinion that it was a jolly shame; for which I became bound to
picked up one, of several that were rolling about, and treasured it be Lord High Admiral, or Commander-in-Chief - in either of which his life, charging in among the boys like a trooper, and slashing I hastened to comply with his friendly suggestion, and opening
he brought me a pudding, and having set it before me, seemed to re-opening of the school, it was such an insupportable affliction. nature is the least disposed to confess I cannot imagine why is Murdstones; but there the likeness ended, for his whiskers were
it was the Blue Something, and that its likeness was painted up on disconsolately, I was afraid, as we went on together. I observed Tungay stood at Mr. Creakles elbow. He had no occasion, I limp, delicate-looking gentleman, I thought, with a good deal of
she was jealous even of the saucepan on it; and I have reason to that evening. In the evening, after tea, I heard that he was come. little white mice, left behind by their owner, are running up and I heard that one boy, who was a coal-merchants son, came as a
was possible for people to see me or not, I always fancied that said Steerforth. I say, young Copperfield, youre going it. somebody was reading it. It was no relief to turn round and find would give the world to go to sleep. I sit with my eye on Mr.
supervised, as I have mentioned, by the man with the wooden leg. begin to see him do it. On being asked by a mild boy not me how Having by this time cried as much as I possibly could, I began to persuaded, she gave the credit of the whole performance.
an old person who lived not far off, and that the best way would be So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the many years of consideration, that there never can have been anybody

What the hell is a "Murdstone", Magistrate?

Gwen Stefani is fucking daffy

When I shoot up with H, I can blog the future

Some predictions for tonight's episode of "Heroes":

The hero who is lost isn't the black guy whose wife was about to shoot him.

It's the cheerleader.



The surprise ending?