About the Author

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One of those crazy teen blogger types. Completely bribe-able with coffee. An INTP.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Level Up!

The nerdy guy I've been pining for the last few posts? Yeah, he asked me out. It was kind of adorable, really. We do this thing- it's sort of like a game- where when the conversation begins to wane, we'll ask each other questions. The questions asked range from "Favorite ice cream flavor?" to "Koopa Troopa or Diddy Kong?" to "If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?" to "Which do you value more, intelligence or sense of humor?"

We'd had a bit of an, er, "exchange" earlier in which he called me pretty, so one of the questions I asked was, "Do you actually think I'm pretty?" He answered yes. My next few questions were fairly arbitrary. I told him it was his turn to ask questions. His first question was one he'd already asked in the past (ice cream flavor).

Then, he asked what I would say if he were to ask me out on a date (hypothetically speaking). I told him I'd say yes, "hypothetically speaking," of course. Then he asked me out (realistically speaking, that time). And I said yes.

And then we spoke of flan.

Friday, June 24, 2011

I Wish I Was a Yippie

A while back, Xeno lent me Abbie Hoffman's book Soon to be a Major Motion Picture with the condition that after I read it, I would give it to our school's library. I'm not incredibly ashamed to say that I have not held myself to my promise. It's a really good book. I intend on finding a copy at McKay's or a similar bookstore and giving that to the school library.

Anyways, the book kind of opened my eyes. Things happened in the sixties and seventies. The anti-war movement, moves for free speech, the Chicago Eight! Not to mention the levitation of the Pentagon, Pigasus, and the throwing of money into the NY Stock Exchange.

I'm at work doing nothing- for there is nothing for me to do- so I defaulted to Wikipedia mind-expansion. I read the entire article on Abbie Hoffman as well as the article on Yippies, and now I really wish I'd been born in the mid-forties so I could've been a part of everything that happened during the sixties.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Relationshit Rambling

So there's this guy. Same guy I was describing last post. He calls me "m'lady" on Facebook, or sometimes "madame." He uses old words and lolspeak in the same sentence. I don't know him like I knew Pansy Boy or Macarrones or even the President. The extent of our interaction has been Facebook conversations. Over 3000 IMs and messages have been exchanged, according to Facebook.

But I can't make myself be rational like I usually am. With Macarrones, it was all, "I'm not attracted to you in a romantic manner, therefore we shouldn't date." And with Pansy Boy, it was, "I can't stand you and your sense of humor ninety percent of the time, and my life isn't a romcom, so we shouldn't date." With the President, it was, "You don't feel the same way. I get it. I'm moved on now." Edit: Bahaha, yeah right. "Moved on," my ass.

But with this guy, I can't be rational like that. I can't just say to myself, "You don't know him." And it sucks. I'm not good at just giving it all up and being happy, especially after the whole Pansy Boy ordeal and all my new little rules and self-discipline about using the l-word. I'd say, "Maybe he's here to tell me I have to break those rules," but, like I said before, my life isn't a romantic comedy. My life is a shitty indie film. There's a difference, and I accept that.

And at the same time, I don't even want to try to be rational. Anyone else in my situation would sit here and listen to Lily Allen and smile like a fool and say, "Fuck the work for my online class, I'm getting on Spiral Knights." But no. I'm me, so of course that wouldn't work.

The fuck do I have a blog?

By the way, the title of this post should link to the most awesome virtual mix tape ever for the state of my mind right now. You're welcome.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

There's This Guy

Okay, so there's this guy. Boos from audience. A random crowd member screams, "Give us some real news!" Oh, shut up, George. Anyways, the guy. Yeah. Oh, all right, I'll tell you about him, if you insist.

One time he asked, "Why are we the same person with different genders? And operating systems?" It stuck with me (obviously). Absolutely cracks me up. Because we really are eerily similar. I don't really know if they're deep similarities or superficial ones; I can never tell the difference (you know me, I can hack the shit out of your computer and dress to kill, but I can't- yet- understand the human mind). But we are similar on certain levels.

He gets my sense of humor. I don't have to explain the joke or defend myself after saying something snarky. Wanna know why? He's the same way. When I say something without thinking, he doesn't make me feel like I really should've thought that one all the way through, darling. No, he just lols or luls or whatever it is he's doing that day. And I appreciate that.

He makes me feel just right, intellectually speaking. I don't feel like a genius talking to him, but I don't feel like a moron, either. That's very important to me- I don't want to feel like an idiot when I'm talking to someone, but I don't want to have to explain every other word or thought process. And with him, it's neither of those. It's like for one of the first times ever- and I don't mean to sound like a bitch here or to be snippy towards anyone else- I'm talking to someone I think I can relate to. He's about my age and on a similar intellectual level, from what I can tell. That hasn't ever really happened before. It's quite fun.

He has plans for when the zombies come. Really? That's just fucking awesome. There is nothing as absolutely hawt as someone who could survive the motherfucking zombie apocalypse. 'Nuff said on that.

He doesn't seem to mind when I swear. At least, I don't think he does. Unless him telling me that his parents snoop on his computer so to keep it clean was a lie and he just doesn't like it when I swear. Hmm. Now I'm paranoid. (I watched the Matrix for the first time tonight- can you tell?)

He seems to genuinely want to talk to me. And that, my friend, is probably the most important thing of all. 'Cause I want to talk to him, too.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

I Imagine

I imagine what life will be like when I'm older, when I know what I want to do with my life, when I can buy a red futon and dark coffee because why the hell not, it's what I want to do and I'll do it because I can. I imagine what I'll be like, what He (because there's always a He with me) will be like, if maybe I already know who He is. Sometimes I hope I do, but then it snaps and falls and I desperately hope I don't.

But back to imagining.

I imagine what it will be like to have to work through the summer and not get a nice break every few months and to not be able to sit out by the pool all day. When I imagine that, I cry and I start to think that maybe Xeno had the right idea when he said he didn't intend to live past his 20s.

I imagine what it will be like to be fucked. To clutch a sweaty body, to be held tightly as... well, we all know how that works.

I imagine decorating my apartment. I imagine the little red futon and the shitty coffee maker. I imagine the view out over my little private Hell: suburbia. And I don't imagine that I'll mind, because it will be my place to call my own for as long as I keep paying the rent, my refuge from the real world.

I imagine... I imagine being just like I am now, only older. I imagine meeting, meeting a guy and thinking, "Oh my God, he's so amazing," and then, not falling, but absolutely crashing into love and then getting so worked up and analyzing what he says and doesn't say, and oh no we're still in the friend zone, and hating myself for being so inadequate that I plummet back out of love, only to discover later that maybe had I made the right move at the right time, everything would have turned out perfect. And I imagine wondering what the hell is wrong with me that I managed to mess it up like that.

I imagine sitting, alone but for a bottle, crying myself to sleep because nothing is turning out the way I want it to. I imagine reaching into my wallet in the checkout lane and realizing I don't have enough to pay for all these groceries and having to walk, ashamed, back and downsize the milk to a half-gallon and put back the Nutella and switch the cereal out for oatmeal. God, I hate oatmeal.

I imagine my dead-end job, drudgery of the worst sort.

I imagine not just not-fearing death, but welcoming it, crying out for it.

I imagine a boy with blue hair and a military jacket with peace symbols sewn on. I imagine getting offered a cigarette and politely declining. I imagine trading conspiracy theories, reminiscing about the "good old days," those days we never really thought we'd smile at. I imagine a slower development of emotional attachment, something genuine and fragile, but slowly strengthening.

I imagine a little house with a white couch. I imagine dying my hair blond for the hell of it, not caring about the looks I get or the snide remarks my mother aims toward me. I imagine getting a kitten for Christmas, a little Siamese baby. I imagine it nuzzling my hand.

I imagine a wood floor, a large mirror leaned against the wall. I imagine my feet are encased in ballet shoes and I'm teaching my four-year-old what I remember from my dance classes all those years ago. She doesn't like it. She wants to play basketball, Mommy. I imagine that would kill me.

I imagine now a beauty with flaming red hair and emerald eyes. She's forcing me against the wall, asking what the hell is wrong with me that I'm living like this. Her freckles stand out behind her badly-done fake tan.

I imagine my hair in a bun, brown again, the bland brown eyeshadow and mascara and not-quite-red lipstick. I imagine the pantsuit and the barely-there, 1.5-inch heels. I imagine that I've succumbed to life, that I haven't worn a skirt or dress in years. I imagine that I've missed so many soccer games my daughter hates me, and the worst part is that I don't care any more because the Prozac has finally kicked in.

I imagine sipping the coffee behind my desk at 10:30 PM, ignoring the frantic calls from my husband, the voicemails asking where I am. I imagine wondering if I should even go home. I practically live at the office anyways.

And then I imagine imagining running away. And I do it. I just up and fucking get on a plane and get out. Yeah, it's cruel, but they'll live without me for a few weeks. It won't be permanent, it'll just be until I get to be myself again. Then I can come home, claim temporary insanity, and everything will be fine again. Except it won't.

I wish when I imagine things I could see happy endings.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


Another one got caught today, it's all over the papers. "Teenager
Arrested in Computer Crime Scandal", "Hacker Arrested After Bank
Tampering"...Damn kids. They're all alike. But did you, in your
three-piece psychology and 1950's technobrain, ever take a look
behind the eyes of a Hacker? Did you ever wonder what made him tick,
what forces shaped him, what may have molded him?

I am a Hacker, enter my world... Mine is a world that begins with
School... I'm smarter than most of the other kids, this crap they
teach us bores me... Damn underachiever. They're all alike. I'm in
Junior High or High School. I've listened to Teachers explain for
the fifteenth time how to reduce a fraction. I understand it. "No
Ms. Smith, I didn't show my work, I did it in my head..." Damn kid,
probably copied it. They're all alike.

I made a discovery today. I found a computer. Wait a second, this is
cool. It does what I want it to. If it makes a mistake, it's because
I screwed up. Not because it doesn't like me...Or feels threatened
by me... Or thinks I'm a smart ass... Or doesn't like teaching and
shouldn't be here...

Damn kid. All he does is play games. They're all alike. And then it
happened... A door opened to a world... rushing through the phone
line like heroin through an addicts veins, an electronic pulse is
sent out, a refuge from the day-to-day incompetencies is sought... a
board is found. "This is it, this is where I belong..." I know
everyone here, even if I've never met them, never talked to them,
may never hear from them again... I know you all.

Damn kid, tying up the phone line again. They're all alike... You
bet your ass we're all alike...

We've been spoon-fed baby food at School when we hungered for
steak... the bits of meat that you did let slip through were
pre-chewed and tasteless. We've been dominated by sadists, or
ignored by the apathetic. The few that had something to teach found
us willing pupils, but those few are like drops of water in the

This is our world now, the world of the electron and the switch, the
beauty of the baud. We make use of a service already existing
without paying for what could be dirt-cheap if it wasn't run by
profiteering gluttons, and you call us Criminals. We seek after
knowledge, and you call us Criminals.

We exist without skin colour, without nationality, without religious
bias... and you call us Criminals. You build atomic bombs, you wage
wars, you murder, cheat and lie to us, and try and make us believe
it's for our own good, yet we're the Criminals.

Yes I am a Criminal, my crime is that of curiosity. My crime is that
of judging people by what they say and think, not what they look
like. My crime is that of outsmarting you, something that you will
never forgive me for.

I am a Hacker, this is my Manifesto. You may stop the individual,
but you can't stop us all. After all, we're all alike.

The Mentor

That was shamelessly taken from one of the realistic missions at HackThisSite.org, my new favorite playground.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Lady Gaga is My Role Model

She really and truly is. I went to a concert of hers at Bridgestone Arena on Tuesday, April 19, 2011. I still have the ticket on my desk, wedged between my monitor and my central (bass) speaker. During that concert, I laughed a lot (during her monologues between songs) and cried a little (when she spoke about loving ourselves) and smiled more than I think I've ever smiled before.

Lady Gaga is a beautiful human being. She preaches tolerance. In interviews, she doesn't focus on her body or give out diet and exercise tips like most celebrity women. The Lady may not be conventionally pretty, but she knows how to work it and doesn't shy away from doing, wearing, and looking what and how she wants to.

She's self-confident, she knows what she wants, and she's going to do whatever she wants in order to get it.

In other words, she's exactly how I want to be.