New stuff and schizophrenia (back to normal...)

New background! And stuff. In progress. Two-word fragments!

Okay, enough of that. I'm a bit disappointed in the background, because it looks much better full-screen (I'm assuming. Even maximized Safari doesn't show all of it. But it's in the proportion that leads me to the conclusion that there's nothing inherently wrong with it, I just can't see all of it. I was partially right. It looks marginally better. Pun not--you know what, screw it. I'll just let you think the pun was intended even though I had to re-read that sentence to notice that it could be considered punny. I'm leaving it).

Curse you, Alex, for planting this idea in my head! I was going to change it soon anyway, though. The old background was kind of drab and looked like it was from a scrapbook. Not that I have anything against scrapbooking. I didn't really like it to begin with, it just reminded me of pajamas. I don't know why I'm angsting over this, because I'm just going to spend hours tweaking/rearranging the layout anyway. **I WIN, bitch. You said that when you started this and then you spent the whole day obsessed with baking cookies. Hypocrite.** Come back later and it will be perfect, I promise. (Oh, anal-retentive self with hours to squander on the Internet, how I've missed you.

Functional self with a desire for human interaction: **Maybe I didn't miss you, bitch.**

**Must you punctuate your sentences with "bitch"?**

**It's for emphasis, bitch. It's necessary to make my point. Anyway, weren't you enjoying it?**

**Why the hell did you italicize that? It looks suggestive.**

**Because I knew you'd think that.**

**Isn't this a tad schizophrenic?**

**Eh, schizotypal. There is a mild difference, bitch.**

**That's getting old. But, this is just an exaggeration for the benefit of the readers. . .**

**You think anyone read all this, bitch?**

Anyway, that was yesterday. I got ravaged by mosquitoes in the middle of the night--despite sleeping inside and with closed windows, I might add--and today I'm going to read and bake cookies. More accurately, heat cookie dough, but whatever.

Because you've read to the end of this: (Or you've skipped to the end. Or you were going to read my last post and this caught your eye, because it's a picture at the end of a bunch of text, because that's what you're accustomed to looking at by now. . .)

Movie Recommendations

So. I haven't blogged in forever, I am alive, you may or may not have missed me. I've been doing things. Talking endlessly and eating chips and being generally sociable. With a nerdy and who I have also known for a while and who lets me forget his name and he could possibly also even be the love interest in a Sarah Dessen book and even though I think those books are sappy wish fulfillment I like that he is like that guy, even. ('nerdy' here being a requirement, not a detraction) This is good. But I enjoy being a recluse.

Because I have no original ideas, here's (the middle of) a conversation held with the near-exclusive purpose of creating an awkward situation (again). (some parts edited for reading audiences. Guess the film based on the descriptions. Should be easy if you've seen it. If not, the descriptions are the fun of it. Consider this a recommendation.)

*long discussion resulting in the fact that the perceived quality of movies is directly proportional to the number of times you see them*

Rena: "My mom's one of those people who've seen [title] like 50 times..."

N/Conservative mother of T: *disdainful* "That's a cult."

R: *turning to confused T* "It's really just a charming musical-comedy slash parody about a wholesome fifties couple. . .

T: *blank face*

". . . except that almost everyone ends up killed or raped. . ."

*squick face*

". . . by a cross-dressing sex-starved mad-scientist alien. . ."

*WTF?!??-face*

". . . who is in turn killed by his incestuous alien servants. Dancing, yelling and throwing things are encouraged."

T: *laughter* "I have to see this movie."

N: "Not until you're 18."

Is every bit as weird as it sounds. The awesome kind of weird.

Manly Showering Techniques

**VERY IMPORTANT: This entry is nowhere near as wrong as the title makes it sound. It made sense in my head. Having a moderately perverted mind while at the same time being unable to think about things before I say/type them is problematic.**

There's a name for (and a country associated with) the way I shower. And I don't know how to feel about that.

Backstory: I am not a morning person. The only way I've figured out to snap myself into functioning like a human being at six in the morning is to shower most of the way with a reasonable temperature maintained, and then force it to as cold as possible for the last 20 seconds. It is unpleasant. That's the point. There is no way in hell I can think about how it's six in the morning and that sucks and that I'm probably going to go back to bed. Because I would, if I were thinking about that and not an egregiously long string of profanities.

I've been doing this for a while and today I decided to see if I might be slowly killing myself in the process (because DAYUM that's what it feels like). Google knows everything. The second result for "hot to cold shower benefits" is from artofmanliness.com. (It's huge. *Heh, the manliness is huge. Heheheheh...** The WEBSITE, I mean. There are many articles on how to become more manly/subjects of interest to serious manly men. And probably beard grooming. I didn't care to look further, I just found it amusing. Amusing that such a website exists, and that I--of all people--shower like a badass/scotsman/James Bond/man. Irony FTW. Are all the James Bonds Scottish? Annnd, with that statement I have reestablished my girliness. Sean Connery is Scottish, I know that, but there's been like 20 of them. Like the Doctor but without the pseudoscientific reasoning and fictional species-ness. Or James Bond is a Time Lord. Yeaaah...) and there are. Including improved circulation, energy and mood. And sperm. Yeah.

The Tune Is Lovely But The Lyrics Are Disturbing (part 1 in a series)

Ann M. Martin: Killer of Dreams

Hello, interwebs! Long time no blog and all that. . . (The last 5 or so times I tried to start a blog post like that I just abandoned it halfway through. . . I haven't said anything of reasonable note in two weeks, coming back from this little hiatus is going to be awkward regardless of if anyone reading this cares. My skills in expressing coherent/complete/relevant ideas have vanished. I try to be witty/interesting/thoughtful on the Internet if for no other reason than that I frequently lack those abilities in reality, so whenever I write a blog like this that's completely awful and then made worse by the fact that I'm lengthening it only by pointing out its flaws, I see it as a personal failure. . .and dear god that was a run-on. Okay, actual topic commence! Rid this horrible, almost-entirely-in-parentheses paragraph of its awkwardness and self pity! This would be better if you read it in your head with the voice of someone who works at a Renaissance fair with an affected English accent! Huzzah!)

I LOVED The Baby Sitters Club books as a kid--"kid" in this instance meaning "absurdly younger than the target demographic"; they were pure wish-fulfilment for a 9 year old. Here's the lesson I saw in them: "By the time you're 13--i.e in THE DISTANT FUTURE--, small naive child, you will be independent, responsible, and organized. Enough that adults will trust with the lives of their small, naive children! And you will have a super awesome, very large group of friends! And loads of free time in which to supervise children! By choice! There will also be guys! Whom you will use even MORE of your endless free time to date! And it's gonna be TOTALLY AWESOME!

. . .

None of this happened.

At least, not to the extent or in the time period I was expecting. Independent? Responsible? Organized? PAH! The care of other children? I didn't care about them, nor was I particularly capable. Friends? Some. Free time (choosing for it to be spent babysitting, no less)? Hellz naw. Seventh grade is the freaking hardest thing ever when you're still in it. Dating? What are you even talking about? The only girls who dated in middle school were kind of slutty. Or maybe I was just bitter.

In conclusion, I realize most of the books I read were written circa 1989, different times and such, but come ON, Ann M. Martin. You cannot make adolescence sound this cool.

Why in the world is this entertaining?

Anyway, enjoy!