Honey, Kim Jong Il is at the door, and he brought Timmy some SATs. Hey, was the lawn on fire a second ago?

The other day, I took my first steps in to adulthood. That is, I made my first step into ... an SAT prep center. Yes, it was quite a glorious day; the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, the children were screaming, the teachers were scolding-- wait a second..

It has become increasingly obvious in my boba burrito of a town that SAT prep centers are the most thriving sort of business there can be. They pop up, like frozen yogurt establishments, or pimples on the teenage face, one after another and they are analogous to a fun little country we all know and love as North Korea.

These torture chambers-- I mean... EDUCATIONAL FACILITIES receive boat-loads of "foreign aid" (money from desperate parents of even more desperate honors students) and put on a friendly, we-are-the-reason-your-child-got-a-2400 facade to lure people in. WARNING: ITS A TRAP. I have lived the horror first hand! Okay, so maybe I just went in for a diagnostic test, but do you see how much that, alone, scarred me?

You know, it is appalling to me how much people obsess over the tiniest little grades in my neck of the woods. Every little thing is a cause for panic. And what's sad is, our automatic response mechanism is to STUDY. Frankly, I am sick and tired of spending practically every waking moment of my life studying and having all my other pastimes and hobbies waved off as some sort of childish, irrelevant fancy. Additionally, I find it increasingly irritating that people find it hard to swallow that I was not born with a stethoscope or a graduated cylinder attached to me. The faintest idea is like a huge pill. Well, you know what I say to that? : THEY are just going to have to grab a big glass of water and chug, because I am on my way to making 5000 generous friends who will pool together to buy me my SOLID GOLD FOUNTAIN PEN, with which I shall rule!

feelings about a fashionista

He WILL coin the non-challant-bang-lift-and-drop. He WILL work those mesh pants. And he WILL GET HIS SOLO.

These are my sentiments, written in all capitals in order to fully convey the excitement and possible heartburn I feel at this very moment as I watch Kurt strut his stuff on the TELE. Take a gander:

KURT IS MY NEW SIGNIFICANT OTHER
I AM IN THE PROCESS OF NAMING OUR FUTURE ILLEGITIMATE CHILDREN
HE'S FABULOUSLY GAY AND PROUD.
BUT I LOVE HIM SO MUCH
I JUST WANT TO LOCK HIM IN A CONFINED SPACE AND LOVE HIM THROUGH A HOLE WHEN HE WEARS THAT OUTFIT FROM THE VOGUE VIDEO

I also like Artie. I promise you will hear about him sometime in the near future. Until then, stay content, don't buy horn-rimmed glasses and type "rrrrrrrrrrrrrr llamas" ** into Google translator and press the audio button.

** Credit goes to my friend, who unfortunately doesn't blog. BUT SHOULD. Once again, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. nostrils.

My Icelandic Princess

Fueled by mini-peanut-butter-sandwhiches and pepsi (although I am a coke-kinda-gal) and ready to write. like Richard Castle.

I pay homage to the great country of Iceland quite often. Today I'd like to recognize their most fascinating export : BJORK. Aside from Sigur Ros and their latest earthquake, which I DO NOT mean to overshadow, Bjork, at the age of 50 is Iceland's pride and joy. The woman ages like wine and has the most unique quirks to her voice that make me swoon. So, here she is . In the flesh! okay, more like in the pixel... but still, she makes quite a presence. Ladies and Gentlemen, Dolphins and Mice, Earnest and Bunbury........ I present to you, BJORK!!! *less than three*

Less Hostile Catharsis

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo

SMALL RECTANGULAR DENTS

A letter causes a scream causes a phone call causes a dirty look causes a dent. A dent causes an AP problem causes a silence causes a nervous hand causes an eraser to drop causes a break in silence causes more silence.


The clock just rang 9:00 three minutes too early. I hear typing and chewing and I'm trying to keep my head from imploding slowly, like a can being sucked dry of air. If any of you have ever seen the TV show Lost, you might recall the loud buzzing noise that occurs when the island is disappearing. That sound is the ungrateful, unwelcome boarder seeking refuge in my brain. It sits next to Justin Beiber and some angry under-the-breath-murmuring, slowly drilling holes through different parts of my face, until I give in. BUT I REFUSE.


I am now going to go off on a mindless, pointless and seemingly shallow rant, and hopefully some of you will be able to identify with me.


I have wasted years of my life sitting down and fighting off unfairness with a bottle cap for a shield. Today is just one more day added to that list and I am about to connect the dots on the dotted line I drew in the sand a long time ago. Too much of my effort and energy has been put into this, and, frankly, this whole thing has been an exothermic reaction: I am left in a state of low energy, and high disorder.


And now, I sit on the same black couch I wrote a crappy essay on a few nights ago, questioning all my priorities, and whether anything I have ever done will amount to anything anymore. All the while, the relentless lip smacking and snack crunching and ENDLESS keyboard clicking will not cease. The small rectangular dents surrounding the large bulbous nose on the teddy bear of my life have just soiled it forever. Something I never thought could be ruined so easily. In one split second has lost all value because of those goddamn little rectangles.

I am done now. Thanks for listening. This has been cathartic. ADIEU, Rosalind.

Welcome to me. IRRITATED. Its A WHOLE NEW WORLD.

Okay, so I have poured my time and effort into two main programs. One of them had taken over my life for several saturdays, which happened to coincide with the other one. WHAT TO DO? Let the other one know AND HOPE THEY UNDERSTAND, because as stated in their rules, leniency would be applied if they were told ahead of time.

I DON'T TELL THEM ONCE. and now I'm OUT. Apparently, FOR GOOD.

How is this fair?? I mean really, I bet the spirits of all the intanglible activities in your life just gather above you when you sleep and conspire against you. LIKE THIS:

Activity one: "Okay, I am planned for Saturday at 9:00 AM"
Activity two: Okay I am scheduled for 12:00, but don't worry I can move around and meet you at 9:00 too"
ACTIVITY ONE AND TWO: ALRIGHT! LETS MAKE HER LIFE A LIVING HELL!

and this is what goes on in my mind when I am pissed.

*NOTE: names of activities have not been used in this blog, in case "the other one" decides to reinstate me to my position. BUT YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. * please take me back*

^ I'm pathetic, aren't I?

The brain has reached max capacity for normalcy

What is a girl to do when, after only getting an hour of sleep, she must endure an entire day of school and regulate the moisture levels of her epidermis? THE ANSWER: wiki "fist-pumping". I am proud to say, Rosalind, that I feel enlightened after reading just the first sentence of this article : "The fist pump is a celebratory gesture in which a closed fist is raised before the torso and subsequently drawn down and nearer to the body in a vigorous, swift motion."

I am proud to proclaim that, with due credit to Wikipedia, I will never again fist-pump like a mentally challenged, seizurely walrus.

Speaking of Wikipedia, I wonder if you have ever played the so-called "wiki game". In this game, two players face off in a death match of wits, common sense and ability to see the correlation between different topics, as they attempt to get from one page to another, completely unrelated one, only by clicking links on the page. This task must be assigned by an independent third party, and must be completed in either the shortest amount of time or links in order to win.

FOR EXAMPLE, TO GET FROM: Icebergs to Britney Spears

1. ICEBERGS: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iceburgs
2. MANHATTAN: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattan
3. NEW YORK CITY: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_City
4. SONY MUSIC ENTERTAINMENT: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sony_Music_Entertainment
5. LIST OF SONY MUSIC ARTISTS: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Sony_Music_artists
6. BRITNEY SPEARS: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Britney_Spears

WARNING: this is extremely fun. like seriously. so fun. your face might just explode because you wont be able to handle it. because its that fun. BUT IT IS ALSO ADDICTIVE. like crack only less harmful. not that I am dealing you crack over the Internet or anything. just... nvm. just go play it. I can guarantee you will waste a lot of time, but the feeling of satisfaction you get from getting from a Narwhal to Hitler in just four clicks is just too good to pass up.

My checkers pieces and I are off to visit a certain connoisseur about a certain golden fountain pen. And so, from our fortress of solitude, we bid you ADIEU.

HOMEWORK DOTH MAKETH ME A MAD COW... ETH

I am not what I appear to be. Actually, to some extent, I am. In fact, I fit the stereotype of "indian kid" pretty well: I wear glasses (but I must say they are not just the average glasses-- will post a picture sometime), almost always do homework, take AP Chemistry and Honors Math. Sometimes I feel the sudden urge to play soccer (although I can't bend it like Beckham), I start many of my sentences with "no", and love... I MEAN LOVE the Jewish(<-- I'm not sure how traditional Indian that one was). And now, I am sitting here in my comfy, black, leather couch with an empty, artfully laid out, oil-spattered pizza box trying to write an essay for english that will in no way benefit me in the future.

And tomorrow, I will wake up and drag myself to school again, wearing a black and gold poly-cotton knit (ironically purchased from Cotton On), carrying three textbooks (approximately the weight of a diabetic cat) in my left arm (which, at this point has more humps than a camel) and wagging my right arm impatiently as I arrive late to my first period.

Maybe I will bake a flan this weekend. Oh wouldn't that just be loverly? Alright, well there are some high-school video projects calling my name in a tone similar to that of a chorus of sickly children, so I must go to it (unwillingly and regretfully). :(

Oh, how I would love to just sit here and converse with you for the rest of eternity, Rosalind! But alas, I must return to my mundane life filled with tedious homework and similar people.

LOVE IN MODERATION CHILD.

I have returned to you, Rosalind, with stories of an connoisseur from a far away land. He has asked me to help him resolve an issue, and who better to come to for advice than ... you?

This connoisseur is a very wise man-- skilled in the fields of mathematics and glowing-box programming-- but even he cannot solve this predicament for himself:

This man is an avid collector of all things (but all in good taste, of course)-- dolls, doohikies, marbles, wombat toes, thingamabobs, high-rise shoes-- you name it, he probably has it tucked away in the musky confines of his victorian-style armoir. This, of course, requires countless hours of online, thrift-store and yard-sale shopping, not to mention a practically endless supply of money. Unfortunately, our old friend E. Recession has it out for this dear Connoisseur (whom I will henceforth refer to as Marty). E. Recession has all but reduced Marty's savings to a merely liveable amount (nowhere near the kind of luxury he once basked in), which just will not do for Marty's grand lifestyle. Now anyone else might just wave this off, but Marty.... well lets just say ... Marty dwelled on it.

Thrown into a sudden, spiraling depression Marty has decided that in order to retain a humble, but civilized lifestyle, he must become a DJ at local clubs and take on the stage name LADY FOO FOO. Just kidding. He decided he must give up his nasty spending habits cold turkey. But you see, as we all have experienced that slight push from within oursleves when we want something that is just a hair's length out of our reach, Marty needed to make his one last purchase. Just for closure... mostly for novelty. And this, Rosalind is where we have been called in for back up.

It is tuesday morning at the most eccentric, eclectic thrift store in town (which just happens to be Marty's favorite store). A naked light bulb hangs, dimly lit, over a table with a wobbly leg, being held up by a tattered copy of As You Like It. There lay beside each other the two most riveting novelties Marty has ever lain eyes upon : a solid gold fountain pen and an old, broken, yet fascinating pocketwatch. The time has come for a decision.

Here, finally is Marty's predicament: WHICH MUST HE TAKE AS HIS FINAL GRAND PURCHASE? The two cost the same amount, and they each have their own essense of intrigue. While the fountain pen is exquisite, it is just not practical. But, while the clock is in need of refurbishing, it may come into more use later on in life.

The question to me seems to be a question of nature. What takes the top spot: practicality or pure preference? Do we live in a society where image takes you farther than tact? Ultimately, what is the best strategy in the game of Life (and I don't mean the board game) --- simply keeping face? or knowing the inner machinations of each and every detail and working them with the most integrity? -- Let me put it this way: Is the shiny car going to get you far? Or is the White Rabbit going to make his appointment?

Here, Rosalind is where I leave the rest to you. Remember, we have committed to this journey to Vita's Gate together, and so I await your response eagerly.

And on that note, I, and my beloved Checkers pieces bid you ADIEU.

I AM BLOGGER. HEAR ME ROAR!

Hello giant, technological expanse formally known as the internet.Your name henceforth shall be Rosalind. I have come to serve you the sweet nectar of opinion and style in these times of pop-cultural-genocide and shoes with no arch support. Today's world is one in which Alaskan governers with a constituency comprised of exactly three moose, and hoards of Disney pop singers that screech at a frequency only dogs can tolerate (NOTE: questionable.) have taken over the airwaves, and consequently our minds. However, if I may speak on the behalf of old-timey America, this is NOT what we envisioned for the new millenium.



I, personally, still dream of living like the Jetsons-- with flying cars and robot maids and talking dogs-- the whole nine yards. And, unlike many, I still have faith that our generation can crawl out of our friendly neighborhood "Pedophile of a Thousand Faces" ( i.e. E. Recession, G. Warming or H. Montana)'s oven and scrape up quite a nice little future for ourselves and our posterity. AND SO, I invite you to live in my metaphorical closet, where I will feed you small morsels of fresh air and tinsel as we embark on our journey to this new future... that i will name... uh... Vita's Gate.

To deliver a vivid mental image of our journey, I shall deliver to you the sights, smells, sounds... and.. uncomfortable child noises... of an can-ind-erican girl living in a town that somewhat resembles a boba burrito. I can see this all unfolding before me.... YES THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP (HOWEVER UNREQUITED). There will be thrills, chills, tears and some knee-slapping puns in the near future. And if you are willing to stay with me through it all, you may just be rewarded with a golden ticket (kind of like the ones Willy Wonka gave out... only not with the intention of forever scarring little children in a run-down candy factory with a questionable health grade).

And with that, Rosalind, my chinese checkers pieces (by the names Bunbury and Earnest) and I bid you ADIEU.