No no, oh no, it'd be too much to ask for happiness, wouldn't it. Simplicity? Even worse. Great. The new love interest rejected me. Doesn't know me well enough. Great. Now I have to wake up tomorrow. What a joy that's going to be.

I can see by your vacant stare and lax jaws that you either need entertainment or a smack in the face, depending on your gender. This smooth operation goes out to vaginas everywhere.

How have I been, you ask? Quite well, given that my sense of humor is on the wax. Between bouts of staring at a screen and smelling my clothes to see if they're dirty, I've been staring at my homework and calling it filthy.

Just now someone said the phrase "rapanese" for the first time in memory, so I went into a little dribble about all the plays on words that have probably been used overkill. my favorites are "Lapanese: Japanese exotic dancing," and "Tapanese: Japanese Riverdance."

More updates on Senora Trott. Recently the class unilaterally requested to close all the windows given that our balls had turned to ice. In response she stood in that little superior posture of hers, lost in deep thought. Right away, I'm pissed. So she "makes a compromise with us." (what the bloody fuck.) She agrees to close every other window and leave the door open. Oh gee sparky, that's a real help. "And oh yeah, you have to ask in spanish you inbred little monkeys." I think it would take an apocalyptic rain of razor-tipped-killer-bee-shooting locusts pouring in through the windows to get her to take appropriate action. Even then, she'd probably die praying to god in spanish. "Hola. Me llamo Senora Trott. Cual es tu telefono?"

After this little fiasco she started telling us how much she loves "Novellas Romanticas." Ooooh jesus why.

Note to everyone: girls like poetry. A lot.

Today I had one of those surreal, startling moments that stick with you for a week after they occur. I was in the back of my parents' van riding past Hotel Circle, looking out the window when I spotted a bizarre church with oblong, sixties-esque architecture that looked like a strange spaceship emerging from the hillside. Suddenly a mural of a man hacking at dead meat with a six-inch blade while giving the passing cars a tight, sadistic grin swirled into view. My dad's jerky driving jarred me around and when I looked out the window again my vision fell directly onto a marquee with the words "Open hearts" on it. I immediately correlated the phrase with the eerie butcher, bringing to mind images of a cold, lifeless heart sitting on his bloody table. The marquee was for the church.

The whole event happened in seconds and left me jarred and disoriented. My breathing returned to normal but my mind was more reluctant to stop running.