| August 2001 Archives |
| 8/10/ I sit here eating ice and wondering why it's so cold. Don't they say that people who eat ice are either bed wetters or are lacking iron in their diet? Anyway, as aforementioned (the banner), this site needs no further explanation. If you don't like it, I have graciously provided a cognitive enhancing link (click on the banner. you should feel smarter already) at the bottom of this page so you can GET OFFA MAH SITE!!! *whips out shotgun* DANCE YOU FOOL!! DANCE!!! *gunshot* *silence* *looks around nervously* *walks to door, turns to blind man* You saw nothin'! *drops coin in tin cup, bolts out door* |
| 8/12 I've discovered even more crap, such as the ever-so handy baby countdown. What? I'm pregnant? Not that I know of. But if you put a little hat on a snowball it'll last longer in hell, so a wise man once said. This so called 'count down' will inform me of how many days are left until I turn 18. And since I was already on a laziness streak, "Why not stop there?", I thought brilliantly to myself. I added a counter at the bottom of the page for those measly one or two people (mainly consisting on myself) that come to my webpage. It'll prove that they were actually here, thereby broadcasting their stupidity for everyone (mainly consisting of myself) to laugh at and scorn and possibly steal their milk money. |
| 8/13 Something�s terribly, terribly wrong. The numbers on my proudly added counter have been rising increasingly. This is not what I expected. Perhaps *puts finger to chin thoughtfully* people are really visiting my website. Either that or they�re just jealous of my baby countdown. But I�m not fooled that quickly!!! I�m convinced that Geocities has extended its deepest sympathy towards me, and, occasionally boosts the number on my counter in hopes to raise my morale. |
| 8/14 It's official. I'm truly addicted to my baby countdown. I sit aimlessly and watch it, thinking somewhat exitedly, "I'm two-no, three seconds closer to turning 18." I realize that my life is fleeting before very eyes, and I reminisce about my lost childhood, therefore sinking into a deep, irreconcilable depression. Then my toe itches and all is forgotten. And about my guestbook. First off, sign it, or I'll take your first-born child. Second, the page reeks of fresh Canadian stench. Anywho, I'll be gone for a few days, the reasons being: *I could be swarmed by an angry mob of smelly Canadians and taken hostage until I make them a cake *I'll be somewhere else visiting relatives I'd opt for number one, but, that's just me. Oh, and as a little sidenote...this site is crap. Until I think of something better, that's all you're going to see. So in the meantime, I'll fill the blank spaces with pointless bureaucratese about me and stare at my baby countdown. |
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| 8/11 Report from the Battlefront: I find myself sitting at an overly elegant table, surrounded by a bunch of old duffers mumbling inaudible hoo-haa to one another...I think there is a reason I'm here, but I have yet to unearth it... Perhaps it's because my alleged parental unit approached me, saying, "I bought tickets for a dinner. I'd like you to come." Which, roughly translated, means : "Be there or be square." Then she mentioned 'church'. That is bad. Then she mentioned 'food'. That is good. Then she mentioned 'dress'. That is bad. Then she mentioned 'free food'. That is good. Then she mentioned 'elegant'. That is also bad. Once I arrived, I was cattle-prodded to some old people I've never seen in my life until now. Old woman *giddy squeal* "I remember you!!! I saw you in the hospital when you was just a baby!! You had a head fulla hair!" Michelle *covers cheeks, just in case* "Um, I remember you... too." *gropes wildly for door* *emits silent cry as she realizes, there isn't a door* *dives for floor* *army crawls under a nearby table* Once I managed to escape and find somewhere to sit, it hit me that, I know nothing about table manners, other than 'put elbows on table' and 'chew on the bones after dinner'. As I glanced around cautiously, doing my best to avoid eye contact, I got the inclination that it was a 'sit up straight-napkin in your lap-don't eat too much or you'll look like a pig' type dinner. And that's when my eyes feast on a heavenly slice of cheesecake the size of my head. But I can't eat it, can I? Isn't that, rude? An old man seated next to me has already devoured his slice, and I figure, "If the old man can do it, why can't I?" Then everyone goes to a trough to get food, where they load a whole cow ass onto their plate, thinking that it actually looks appetizing. I seem to be the only one who's not eating it. This does not go unnoticed. Note to self: never talk to old men Old man: you're a Veg-e-tarian? Michelle: ...yeah... Old man: *guffaws* Go get some meat!! Michelle: ....uhhh....yeah... Old man: "It's over there!!!" Michelle: *thinks* "now would be a good time to put a nice brick to work." Note to self: carry a brick in pocket Old man : *forgets Michelle is there* *continues gumming down cow ass* Thus the extent of my excitement for the evening. Tune in next week to: "Canadians : What Lies Behind That Smelly Exterior - a documentary by Lenord Nemoy |