They're calling....

Hearken unto these babies...

http://www.lesliehall.com/8-sweaters.html

They're calling out to me somehow. "Alex," they're saying. "Wear us.We are sparkly and ugly and will make you look like you got mugged by the Ghost of Bad Christmas Presents Past. You love us. Be one with us."

Must... go... to... thrift store.

Must... buy... ugly... sweaters.

Narcissius

Alex_Brown,
originally uploaded by Alex2552xelA.

Please bear with me as I indulge my hopelessly vain side, but isn't this a gorgeous picture Volodya took of me? Sitting in the Someday Cafe in Davis Square, I was messing with my hair because I was bored-- we were waiting for M. to return from putting money in his parking meter. Mid messing, he told me to freeze, grabbed his camera and took this shot. I'm enamoured of it.

Things of the Russki variety

So yesterday I had my first Russian lesson (which I just misspelled as lesion for no reason known to anyone sane... though perhaps it does make a certain sense, considering) with the minirussian. Who I should probably stop referring to as the minirussian, seeing as he is a very nice (though a tad skeezy) person who is teaching me Russian for kicks and possibly some secretarial help. And I don't know. The whole thing was vaguely weird, in a way. I was trying so hard to not have it be in any way sketchy... We met up at Au Bon Pain, but then it was too loud to have me repeating words with the bizarre Italian accent I instantly assume upon learning any language, ever. He suggested a school building, I dodged the explanation of why I didn't want to go there by just citing "an aversion" which luckily he found a charming enough term to not pursue further inquiries. Eventually I caved and offered up my apartment. On a shining platter. With a sprig of parsley at its side. This particular transaction was rendered awkward by the fact that he was pretending to not understand why it might be awkward/vaguely inappropriate to have him come to my house. He told me stories about the time he was married to an American on the walk over. Upon arriving at my house, new awkwardness presented itself in the form of where to study and what to do, not helped by the fact that I was explaining things, but in my muttering way, and he was not understanding. We ended up in the living room, and that was all fine, though vaguely surreal to have him in a teacherly setting and in my living room with my cat jumping all over the place. Minor misunderstanding at the end-- he was miffed that I had thought that this unattractive woman with whom he was speaking when I came up was his girlfriend. To my credit, I put together that observation because he said that he only got to see her on wednesdays and fridays, so I was stealing him from her, and so I made the assumption that she had decided to be cute and see him then anyway. Boh.

I don't get him. I don't get what he wants from me, I don't get why me, I don't get what in hell I have to do about this. He knows full well I'm going to be back at Harvard in the fall, possibly even studying in his department, and... boh. Maybe I'm just insane and this is a wholly fatherly interest. Maybe it'll switch to that now that he's teaching me Russian and has to put up with my being a real mortal and not being able to pronounce the word "khronometr" without stuttering and making a bizarre French intonation on the final r. Boh.

you know i'm in a slightly pissy mood when i start making derogatory comments in Italy's defence.

There are many things today that are irking me. Not angering me, no, but irking me. Tiny little pinpricks of rage. Perhaps if I build up enough of them I'll scream "Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry." (if you had to click on that that makes me sad, a little bit. Prolly just because it proves what a huge dork I am underneath the thin veneer of snide cynicism.)

But yes, here are some things that are vexing me today.

• Someone just walked by and drummed their hand along the top of my cube, thus scaring me into pretending to be doing work, without actually having any intention of conversing with me.
• My back itches in the most uncomfortable, inaccessible way possible. And the more I think of it, the more imaginary itches I develop. Like on my shoulder. And my ankle. Which is encased in my boot.
• I was overcharged for lunch. Only by about 25 cents, but it's still angering.
• Ooh there someone goes drumming on the damn cube again.
• I need a nap really badly. I've started getting cranky if I don't get my 8 hours. This bodes badly for next year.
• Today, my hair has decided that it either belongs to a failed 80s pop star-- uber volume!-- or alternately a nun (ie. flattened by the wimple-- is that even what they call the thing they stick on their heads? Apologies to the devout/learned among us.) and so is driving me mad with its flirtations with gravity. I literally managed to get my bangs to stick up straight. And my hair is clean.
• I have about 95843759843759 runs in my stockings. This actually does anger me. Bloody ill-made American stockings. Ugh.

But on the plus side, Harry Hutton is showing us all how to make and enjoy a good cup of espresso. Please ignore derogatory comments towards Italians. He is a foreigner, and he just wouldn't understand our greatness. You know that everyone loves us. Just sit back and enjoy the fact that we're all infinitely cooler than you. As well as slimmer, despite our good food.

Musings...

On average, people in Ireland have been nicer than the people in England about me ringing them to ask for their address information. People in Scotland vary, but there tends to be a greater percentage of deaf grannies answering the phone.

Not to vastly generalise or anything.

On another, slightly dorky, note, turns out that I, Claudius is a darn good book. I've seen parts of the BBC version, particularly the Caligula section with the eternally lovely (even when in an atrocious wig with strange jaundice-y makeup) John Hurt, and had been meaning to get around to reading the book itself, which I finally am doing, interspersed with The Gift (still good, still reading it), and Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the world (bloody fabulous, as is all Murakami... love him). But yes. I am only a couple of chapters into I, Claudius, due to work busyness and rapage by the Russian language, but it's awesome. I look forward to my next T ride.

Sweet dreams are made of these...

So I will just continue this new trend of mine wherein I have bizarre dreams and then blog about them because I am bored and chained to a desk and can't do anything better with my time.

Anyway, this dream involved the theatre. I found myself simultaneously involved in productions of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Waiting for Godot, for some reason. The first play was a success. I was Martha, and I was simply delightful in my portrayal. The director had apparently taken some liberties with the script, as the play itself more closely followed the plot of Harrison Bergeron for some bizarre reason, but I cling steadfastly to the knowledge that it was WAoVW. At intermission, I had to rush to Godot, where I was playing Pozzo, and I found that I had missed my cue by ten minutes and Vladimir and Estragon were just sitting there adlibbing. I also didn't know my lines, as I was a last minute fill-in, engaged the day before (lovely how my dreams go into back stories!) so I grabbed a copy of the script, thinking that I could read and interpret. Alas... I hadn't realised the play was in Russian. the words were garbled and stuttered and the audience gazed at me as though they were about to kill me. I ran out of the theatre after I exited the stage, and found Calum, who was hanging out with Dan, his old roommate. I was mad at them because they were somehow responsible for my double-booking my performances, and they were ludicrously unsympathetic to my plight. I threw a hissy fit at them, and had just been calmed down into agreeing to go swimming when I woke up.

So that was my dream. Third vaguely unpleasant one in as many days. What's going on???

My dying brain.

I used to be a perfect writer. My grammar was beyond reproach, my spelling won me the respect of my teachers well into high school.

However.

Things I have misspelled today:

Sourse: Source
Becomming: Becoming
You're: Your
Hopfully: Hopefully

And those are only the ones I've caught. God knows what I wrote incorrectly during my Russian lesson while I was having things dictated to me.

Oh yeah, and I got raped by the entire Russian language. I kid you not. It shoved me up against a wall and violated me until I passed out bleeding on the ground. Somehow this all happened in a genteel little cafe with artsy professor types all around me. I think I need to get a different tutor than Alla the One-Eyed. Someone who, when I ask how to use a case, doesn't respond, "Oh, don't worry... You just have to know when to use it. You'll figure it out eventually." I start lessons with the minirussian tomorrow and hopefully he will actually know his shit and I will be able to govorio the porusski. Hopefully he will also not lunge. I don't think he will, though, despite my former dire predictions. I think he's attracted or something, but I believes he realises the impropriety of the situation. Gak.

Mmmmm sleep time now. Hopefully no scary dreams about Mick Jagger or tsunamis.

it's good to be a temp

i just choked violently on water and none of the people in the cubicles around me even asked if i was ok.

Last night I had the strangest dream I'd ever dreamed before...

I dreamt the world had all agreed to put an end to war.

Ahem.

My hidden liking for old folk music aside, I had the weirdest dream last night, the result, I believe, of reading an article about the tsunami and eating too much ice cream before going to bed. BAD combination, I tell you.

So... random segue into random mumblings. I'm in a Smiths-listening kind of mood these days, for no real reason, which is bizarre, because I tend to subscribe to the cliche of listening to the Smiths only when I'm in the most selfishly miserable of moods, when I'm rolling around in a puddle of my own melancholy and BY GOD LOVING IT. Morrissey always makes me so much happier. How can you be sad when you hear him moaning about how he's "got this terrible cold coming on"? (though admittedly that is a sad song.) If it gets worse, then I tend to wallow in the swill that is "Don't fear the Reaper". Ahhh lovely. My mother and I were once driving around in her car, in a really melodramatic mood, having seen a terribly depressing movie, of which I now forget the title, and this song came on the radio. We sat there looking at each other mournfully, listening to the distant strains of cowbells, and then burst out laughing at how hilarious the whole situation was.

But right now I'm not depressed. I'm actually fairly happy, for the most part. Sure, things are going in a stellar manner with the boy, and I'm still not back in school and my father's being a bit annoying about my summer plans (he wants confirmation that I'll get back into school, which is going to happen, but THEY CAN'T GIVE IT.) but for the most part, all is well. Justin came over for dinner last night, which was nice, though short. I made leftover pasta from the night before, when Nicole, her friend Anna from Germany and Chiles came over for dinner, and then fried some chicken, which turned out amazingly. Very very happy. I somehow managed to go through a pint of Haagen-dazs after dinner... I was talking to M. about how she hates eating, and all of a sudden I couldn't deal with the eating disorder stuff any more, so the ice cream was consumed, slowly but surely.

I had a good-ish weekend, as well. Friday night, I was supposed to hang out with the boy, but he got sick, so instead I went out with Nicole and Anna and got drunk, which was interesting, as I hadn't really had anything to drink in a while. It was a fairly uneventful evening, however-- we went partyhopping with Calum. I met a really nice Canadian with whom I talked languages, and then as I was dragged elsewhere by Calum-on-a-mission we encountered Liza and Chiles, who we accompanied to Ceci's party. They were abandoned partway through, however. A group of us went downstairs for a smoke, and then Nicole went off to talk to Jonathan. Anna and I looked at each other in horror and decided to go "wrest him from his gruesome grips". His grips weren't that gruesome, however, and we ended up chilling for a while, smoking Nat Sherman Mints (ahhh... high school flashback) and talking. We went indoors for a while, where I happily observed that Tawny, this girl I know very randomly and dislike for no reason, had gained weight. I think I tried to talk books with Jonathan. We left and went to find Calum again, who was over seeing Sarah somewhere. Anna and Nicole left, Nicole pleading tiredness, but Calum and I jointly managed to chat up some boy for him, who spoke terrible Italian. I was meant to spend the night at Cal's, but somehow the boy came back with us, and Cal proceeded to leap down his throat, so I left. And walked home angrily at 3 am, because John's friend had taken the spare bed.

In the morning, Cal called and let me know that he had kicked out the boy shortly afterwards, and felt really bad about sending me off. I was with the minirussian already, doing a shoot, so couldn't really get more details, alas. the shoot was good, though. It lasted about 4 hours (should've been longer but M. decided to be half an hour late to pick me up), firstly in a cafe in Davis Square, which was a lovely setting, then outdoors, then in this crazy indoor setting. The photos that are trickling back are all very beautiful. M. was in some of them, and then he had to leave for ballroom goings-on.

Ahem

while snooping through eurotrash's archives, I came across this gem, that seems strangely appropriate at the moment....

[June 16 2004]
Hey boys, want to know the secret of eternal life? Or something almost as valuable? Listen in. Here's the Eurotrash guide to chucking a woman painlessly, irrevoccably and without her ever 'bugging' you again. The trick is to ensure that the words you speak when you ditch her reveal your true personality at last. By removing her blinkers, so to speak, you will guarantee a pain-free separation, mainly because she's finally so embarrassed she ever slept with you, let alone went out with you for God knows how many years, that she will never ever honestly want to lay eyes on you again. It's called "Eurotrash's Infallible Instant Pain-free Closure Method". I have trademarked it, so watch out.
Tell her it's not her it's you. Make sure you sound whiny and self-pitying when you say it. Ensure the entire dumping conversation is all about you, you, you. A couple of days later, write a letter repeating the conversation and tell her all about YOUR pain. She will be so bored reading it that all feelings she ever had towards you will vanish happily in an instant.
Tell her you love her like a sister. Tell her you love her so much you've moved beyond being able to sleep with her. She'll know you want to fuck someone else and she'll be so disgusted at you patronising her that she'll move straight to the angry phase (which comes just before the indifferent phase) without passing Go or enduring the abandoned, sad, needy, and crying phases that usually come first.
Tell her you're just a stupid fuckwit who knows he's throwing away the best thing that ever happened to him, but he's so fucked up right now he just can't handle her perfection. Emphasise over and over again how stupid a fuckwit you really are. Cry a bit. She'll head straight out for drinks with the girls and end up laughing over what a twat you really are. Oh, and just for the record, she also knows you really just want to fuck someone else, by the way.
Dump her by email. That's an instant, irrevoccable turn-off. Once she's finished reading your cowardly self-justifications, she'll vomit you out of her system once and for all. After having forwarded your trite outpourings to absolutely everybody she knows for a good laugh, of course.
Tell her she's too good for you. After she's stopped laughing she'll undoubtedly agree with you. This little baby will ensure no post-break-up shags, as she'll be too busy recoiling at the thought she ever let your penis anywhere near any of her precious bits. She'll have long baths for a few weeks.
Tell her you're leaving her for another woman. Then come back after a week or so and admit you were wrong. If possible, cry when you beg to be taken back. The weeping, self-pitying "I-was-wrong-so-wrong" tone you adopt is one of the world's most effective passion killers. Accompanied by tears, it is romantically lethal.
Tell her that although she's beautiful, funny, clever, sexy, adorable, loving, kind etc etc, she's just not "THE ONE". Ah yes, that old chestnut "THE ONE". That'll be "THE ONE" that exists only when you're going out with someone and you get a bit bored and you want to fuck someone else. That old "THE ONE". We know all about that. And when you come back later, having failed to fuck the latest object of your affections because she just laughed at you and suddenly you realise we're the best you're going to get you miserable piece of shit, we'll just laugh and kick our Manolo-clad heels up at you. You missed us the first time round, moron - you don't get another chance. There is no "THE ONE", there never has been and there never will be. There's only who you're fucking at the moment, sweetheart and if you don't realise what you've let go, then you're probably not clever enough to recognise "THE ONE", even if she did actually exist and stood in front of you and whacked you around the head with a shovel, while screaming, "I'm your fucking '"THE ONE"', dickhead!"NB - I'd like to thank every woman I've ever known for their input into this piece.
Posted by eurotrash at 4:50 pm

Cal and Alex are cuties!

107_0732,
originally uploaded by Alex2552xelA.

This is a photo of the devastating duo, myself and Cal, taken the same night as the previous one. Aren't we cute? That's blonde Alex's shirt. You see that, Alex, if you ever take the time to go on the internet and actually track down my blog? That's your shirt. Now please look the other way as I quietly dash by with the other stuff I accidentally "liberated" from your closet. Oh, don't worry. I'll send them back, like I keep telling you. Once I stop forgetting to.

Ah... aren't I the greatest of friends?

Further Proof that Nabokov was a Sexy Mofo

http://fulmerford.tripod.com/annex/nabokov/vladimirnabokovphoto.jpg

Though I doubt he'd appreciate being called that. ahhhh.... bless.

Look at the Butterfly!

How can you NOT adore a literary genius who also loves butterflies and chess? Tell me now!

Yup... I have a crazy genius fetish... ahhhh... brainy, eccentric men....

Anna gets to meet with her advisor in his old classroom at Cornell. I'm going to beat that, I swear. I'll get Charlotte to tell me how to find his butterflies at Harvard.

Dammit

I really want to go to St. Petersburg this summer.

The pictures on AmericanRobin's blog are making me miss Africa like a madwoman. I know it's unfeasible, if not even ungainly to miss an entire continent-- what address do you put down for cards? -- but it's happened to me before with Asia. And Europe. And North America. I've never been to South America or Oceania, alas, so cannot miss them. And before I get yelled at for making vast generalisations, I should point out that what I mean by missing a continent is that I actually just miss the sense of things that are associated with my various memories from said continent. So, with Africa I actually just miss Madagascar, Nosy Be specifically, with a pinch of a safari in Kenya and a tour of the pyramids in Egypt thrown in. I miss the sun beating down on you so that you can feel it burning through your hair. I miss snorkelling with a t-shirt on in order to avoid getting burned. I miss lunchtime siestas. I miss running on the beach early in the morning. I miss the Sundays where everyone would gather on the beach and dance. I miss fish being cooked every possible way, and I miss learning to climb coconut trees to hack the top of the fruit off with a knife and drink the milk with a straw. I miss car and motorcycle trips into town on the bumpy roads where I can't decide whether to clench my teeth or leave my mouth open to avoid them chattering from the jolts. I miss the colours of tropical places... faded brights. I miss the fruit and I miss the lemurs that come in the window at breakfast time. I miss eating sweetened condensed milk on toast at breakfast time.

ach.

I'm also getting cabin fever-y about Boston itself. The weather's getting nicer, but I can't really take it. I need a new adventure. I'm also getting sick (or rather, i have a vaguely icky feeling in my throat and a painful neck gland, so my inner hypochondriac is kicking in) so i want nothing more than to curl up in a patch of sunshine and to be too hot. Enough of this cold business. I'm tired of hauling my comforter around the house like a safety blanket. I'm tired of my bed being gritty because there is grit on the floor because we track it inside with our shoes because there is snow and salt and mud outside and it gets inside because my roommates are afraid our shoes will be stolen if we employ a shoes-off rule for the house. I'm not mad about it, it's just dirty and I'm too lazy to sweep. But I can't take the grit in the sheets anymore.

So tonight is going to be Cleaning Extravaganza 2005, hopefully. I have big plans to come straight home from work, pausing briefly to deposit my paycheck and get $20, and then to clean as though possessed by the devil. There will be laundry done (I'm finally going to do something about the fact that I have a ginormous mound and a suitcase full of it!!!) There will be changing of sheets. There will be unpacking of boxes. There will be folding of clothes. There will be clandestine sneaking of more clothes into the hall closet. Then, there will be a break to watch the OC. And possibly the Apprentice, as they have to come in sequence. Then, there will be bathing of myself (!!) and reading of Madame Bovary. Or possibly The Gift. And then there will be sleep, fulfilled in the knowledge that the boy can come over tomorrow night and be surprised at how not-nasty I can be, when inspired.

The problem with reading several books at once is when you get to really exciting places in both, and then are flustered and confused about what to do. Madame Bovary for some reason has taken me several years to finish... it keeps being advanced and then put down for some more exciting book. However, now I'm really into it. It's sitting on my desk, just barely within the range of my peripheral vision and is calling out to me, in a faint but adorable accent, to come and read it. The Gift suffers from a similar fate. It was put down for a while in favour of Rasputin: the Saint who Sinned, which is an interesting account of Rasputin's life. I'd like to read some other information on him before passing judgement on whether or not the account was accurate or biased towards anything, but I would recommend it.

But anyway, put-down aside, The Gift is good. I personally am in love love love with Nabokov, and would bear his children if only I could resurrect him (while keeping Vera buried.) I had a goal to read all of his books by the end of this year and failed miserably, because I got caught on other literary tangents, but I have made it through Pnin, Ada or Ardour, Pale Fire, The Enchanter (precursor novella to Lolita, in a way, but without the elements in the main character that make Humbert Humbert sympathetic, and a younger girl), and Speak, Memory. I read Lolita for the first time years ago and fell in love with his use of language. He is a beautiful, beautiful writer. I recently heard him described as "Some people will be turned off by the fact that he writes as though he is smarter than you. He is, by the way." I. LOVE. HIM. Love him. Ada convinced me that a person with pretensions to education absolutely MUST know English, French and Russian, so... I'm learning Russian. Not only for his sainted memory, but because I know that he is correct. Ach. Love him. (Side note: Ada is a book that is almost scarily good, in my humble opinion, at least. Read it. Now.)

surprise picture

107_0748,
originally uploaded by Alex2552xelA.

So... to feed my vanity/my boredom yet more, I am posting the picture that my fair "husband", Master Calum, took of me one night while I was otherwise distracted. Distracted doing what, I do not know. Nothing sketchy though. It was a fun night, I remember vaguely. I had gotten quietly pimped out and gone to Sabine's to hang out and read. I got a call from a rushed-sounding Nathan, inviting me to the Christmas party at the Phoenix, one of Harvard's finals clubs (Harvard doesn't really have frats. Instead, it has what it calls Finals Clubs, which are non-school associated clubs, which are very exclusive and very expensive to be in. They have beautiful houses, and can be a lot of fun. At times. Guys generally can't get in to the actual building, unless they're actually in the club or friends with a lot of the members. Girls can, if they're cute. But they can only go on the first floor. Each club has its own personality. There are the Fox, the Owl, the Phoenix, the Fly, the Porcellian, the AD, and the Spee that I can think of, though I'm sure there must be another. I used to care about going to their parties, but now that I've mainly stopped drinking I'm not so keen. But we'll see next year, when I'm back in school.)

Anyway.

So Nathan comes to pick me up, takes a look at what I'm wearing (pointy black heels, Rock and Republics, black wifebeater, raspberry coloured cardigan, lots of pearls... I looked cute!) and announces it's a formal party. I steal some of Leticia's clothes (ahhh the joys of stealing from the ex-roommate... you already know how everything will fit.) and head on out.

It's an ok party... people are trashed-ish by the time we get there, and noone that I really know is there, which kind of sucks. They're playing really good dance music, and I want to dance, but it's awkward, because it's Nathan. And it's a club, and noone else is dancing. So I drink. And text message. And drink. And then finally Nathan goes elsewhere for a bit, and I'm stuck there so I message him pleading work and go see Cal. Amusing how they're roommates, so I would have been BUSTED had Nathan decided to sleep at home rather than at school (kid has an apartment at the Ritz Carlton. !!) But no. So I went over to Cal's (you have to love the change of times in my verbs in this story) and we have a couple more drinks and reminisce about things like the old fogeys we are, aged all of 19 and 20, and it's fun. In the midst of it all, Cal starts taking pictures of me and us, and here is one of the best.

pretty pretty. whee!

Note to self...

It is BAD to skeeze on pictures of Adrien Brody while I should be working.



Speaking of which, The Jacket was pretty good. Not stellar, but a lot better than I expected. Especially given the premise.

Oh! Oh!

That tiny cute darling little chihuahua? Which is only cute when being held by him, and my god he completely knows it?

It's called Ceelo.

There goes my hero...

Caryn Davies is on the Harvard Ballroom Team. I believe she dances Standard. She leads. She is the most badass person I have ever had the pleasure of seeing. An Olympian rower psych major who does ballroom dancing.

I saw her at the Harvard Invitational while I was stuck assisting the scrutineer (isn't that the most glorious word? Conjuring up images of a pirate with a monocle? Sadly, though, it's just the person who tallies up the scores and such.) She was a runner, collecting the judges' sheets so we could do our manic inputting. She's quite pretty. I had only ever seen her on TV, so it was crazy to see her in person. Dancing. God I worship this girl.

She is not, however, on the facebook.

Grr.

Stalking stalking never balking

I just went through all of my ex's friends on thefacebook to see if I could see the girl he is now dating. I know her name is Sarah (what a boring name! honestly!) but the only Sarah I can find in there is in a relationship with someone else. Unless it's like me and Cal's "marriage". I'm very happy for him that he's in a relationship, don't get me wrong, and I hope to God he manages to make it work without emotionally damaging the girl, as he did to myself and the previous one. I just want to know if it's the cute little girl with whom we had the REALLY awkward three-way-run-in on the street (i ran into him, then he ran into her. I didn't get introduced. He is just plain rude, but... yeah.)

In other news, my cubiclemates are having a FASCINATING conversation on ways to stop your baby from throwing up. Shoot me.

Elf ear extravaganza!

Alex_9642,
originally uploaded by Alex2552xelA.

So, because I'm bored, here is another picture from the little Russian's shoot. He wrote me to tell me that this was the photo he had "fallen in love with." I didn't like it at first, but it has grown on me. He like pictures where I look depressed, neh?

Note the classy bra straps, as well.

Deep thoughts

So I've discovered the exact mathematical correlation between the amount of water I drink and the number of bathroom trips I take during the day. 1 trip= 0.5 litres of water. Slightly less, but more protracted, if I hold it, instead of letting my bladder run wild! run free!

This all totals up to (approx 4.5L of water / .5 = 9 trips a day.)

Add coffee and you get more.


Fascinating, neh?

get me REALLY bored and I'll start calculating how much time that takes.

My grandad is cute.

He sent me this today:

ASK THE DOCTOR: Dr. Alan "Ducky" Mallard --- "I am not a quack!"
Q: I have heard that cardiovascular exercise can prolong life. True?
A:Your heart is only good for so many beats. Don't waste them on exercise.Everything wears out eventually. Speeding up your heart will not make youlive longer. Would driving your car real fast make it last longer? If youwant to live longer, take a nap.

Q: Should I cut down on meat and eat more fruits and vegetables?
A: You must grasp logistical efficiencies. What does a cow eat? Hay and corn. What arethese? Vegetables. So a steak is nothing more than an efficient mechanismof delivering vegetables to your system. Need grain? Eat chicken. Beef isalso a good source of field grass (leafy green vegetable). And a pork chop can give you 100% of your recommended daily allowance of vegetable slop.

Q: Is beer or wine bad for me?
A: This goes back to fruits and vegetables.As we all know, scientists divide everything in the world into three categories: animals, minerals and vegetables. We all know that beer and wine are not animal and they are not on the periodic table of elements, so that only leaves one thing. I advise you to have a hamburger and a beer andenjoy your liquid vegetables.

Q: How can I calculate my body/fat ratio?
A: If you have a body and if youhave body fat, your ratio is one to one. If you have two bodies, then your ratio is two to one.

Q: What are some of the advantages in participating in a regular exercise program?
A: I cannot think of a single one. Sorry. My philosophy is: No pain; good!

Q: Are fried foods bad for you?
A: You are not listening! Foods are fried these days in vegetable oil. In fact, they are permeated in it. Just how could getting more vegetables be bad for you?

Q: What is the secret to healthy eating?
A: Thicker gravy.

Q: Will sit-ups help prevent me from getting a little soft around themiddle?
A: Definitely not! When you exercise a muscle, it gets bigger. You should be doing sit-ups only if you want a bigger stomach.
Q: Is chocolate bad for me?
A: Are you crazy? HELLO! Cocoa beans: another vegetable!!! It is the best feel-good food there is.

I hope that this has cleared up any misconceptions you may have had about food and diets. One more thing: When life hands you lemons, ask for tequila and salt!

NOTICE: FOLLOWING THE ADVICE OF DR. MALLARD CAN BE CATASTROPHIC. DON'T DO IT!

Sites that make me laugh at unfortunate times when I'm supposed to be doing work in a quiet and efficient manner

I can't help it. I'm hopelessly addicted to poking fun at celebrities.

Pictures whee!

Alex_9747,
originally uploaded by Alex2552xelA.

So I'ma start uploading the pictures the Russian took of me. This is one of the first he sent me, and the one that I'm in love with. The others are good, but not quite as beautiful as this one. Enjoy!

Of Chocolate cravings and money troubles...

One of the front desk people has chocolate. This may not be exciting to you guys as it is to me, but I'm guessing that the general public has had a lot more to eat recently that I have. Not out of any sort of eating disorder thingie, but just out of pure and simple brokeness. I can't afford food. I can't even afford to ride the T to get to and from work... I've been pulling a Blanche Dubois and depending on the kindness of strangers. And, of course, my close friends, who have been buying me a meal a day or at least smuggling me dining hall food, which is just above and beyond the call of duty. I owe Nicole a sandwich, Jura fifteen billion tons of food and Justin and Misha a couple meals. My bank charged me $175 in overdraft fees, which is ridiculous because the only reason my cashing the cheque and the deposit of my rent cheque didn't cross paths in an agreeable manner is that it all was held up bc I moved. I didn't even know the rent cheque had been cashed. Yes, it is my fault that I overdrew, but $175 in fees? If I had $175 to spare, I wouldn't be overdrawing accidentally, neh?

So I think I'm going to go to the bank and hopefully be able to plead my case. i should have about $400 coming in next week... I'm going to start coming into work early and fingers crossed taxes won't take enough to kill me, and all shall be good again. I hope.

Thoughts...

Why, Lord, why do I have the song "I'm gonna Beavis you" stuck in my head?

I would post lyrics to it, but I think searching for it may get me in trouble.

Temp rebellion!!!

Mommy Dearest and musings on the Middle Kingdom

So I was thinking about deleting my archives, as I finally get my act semi-together and start this thing anew, but I was flipping back through them (as it takes FORFUCKINEVER to delete them) and I was amused by the things I was up to back in the day. Ahhh... China. How I miss thee. It's kind of interesting, though, because I was supposed to go to Shanghai for an internship (actually, I would have been showing up there tomorrow) but I flaked out at the last minute, or rather, in a way decided to not be a flake, depending on whose point of view you are regarding. My mother was /still is not happy with my idea to change my plans, but in my defense, I would have to say that the prospect of actually staying fixed in one location and screwing my head on tight in some way was vastly appealing. I've been moving around since I was tiny, and since for once I am doing something for myself and trying to get my act together, I think I could benefit from some stability, no matter what she says about this having been the most horrible year... ever. I am proud of how far I've come this year, and she should be as well. I've done a lot of things by myself, and I don't really see how my doing this has been a terrible burden on her. Ah well. Mothers. They're great, but... ugh, sometimes.

deep thoughts, neh?

I've taken to reducing my life to numbers, in a fairly obsessive way. Tally marks for the number of contacts I successfully update at work (today, a whopping 23!) , amount of water I drink (thus far, 2.5 litres) , number of bathroom trips resulting from said water consumption (4) , number of times I check my email (17) , amount of time spent examining my split ends (approx. 45 minutes), listing what I eat (breakfast at Ihop: 2 sausages, 2 pieces of bacon, 2 eggs sunny side up, 2 pancakes drowned in syrup, 2 cups of coffee, one with sugar and one with Equal. One Snickers bar, one Big Kat, and a cookie. Another cup of coffee. ) It kind of irritates me that I have to categorise these things in this way, but I find it an interesting way of keeping stuff together. I'm continually amused by the anonymity of my existence in this office. Disembodied voices come up over the cubicles, belonging to groups of friends. Somebody's wife is pregnant. Another has two children. A group of people has an obsession with goldfish crackers, and argues constantly about whose turn it is to bring them. It's quite exciting. Me? I keep my work screen on Alt-Tab and peruse any free Russian learning sites I can find.

Last night I went out for drinks with Jura and co. Ryan just got made General Manager of Ferrari New England. Of course it's just a paper position, but he played it up, lounging in a corner sipping his ice tea, ordering people around. It was a good deal. I left after a little bit, as I had to go meet the boy, but I managed to forget my scarf at Redline, so poor Jura got roped into going back there to look for it and then trek all the way out to my house to drop it off. Poor boy. I wanted to ask him in for tea, but it was 2 am and my roommates were asleep-ing so I thanked him and he went back home. I retired back to the boy, who was amused by my latenight visitor. Wahee.

Anyhow, I'm off now to go meet the diminutive Russian to obtain the photos of my lovely self. Post that, I shall be meeting up with my new Russian tutor. Then my Russian boyfriend is taking me out to celebrate Women's Day. That country seeps into my life far too much. Soon I'll be fur-clad, sipping on vodka as I walk on people in my high stilettos. Or whatever else the stereotype for women is. I tried to get the boy to do a KGB accent, but he unfortunately couldn't do it, so I just let him revert to his natural accent. It's kind of like when I dated a German who had an American accent. What's the point of dating foreign boys if they're not going to talk cute? Honestly!