A simile uses like or as to make a comparison. Am I busy like a motherfucker, or busy as a motherfucker? Ladies' choice.

If you knew how often I mutter under my breath, "Homie don't play that game," you'd never be my friend again. Don't pretend it's otherwise!

On-campus errands means I have to actually get myself on campus. I wonder if it's hot out. I wouldn't know -- I've been sleeping for the past thirteen hours. Shirley Temple featured prominently in my dreams. We used tiny shrunken human heads as basketballs.

I have been neglecting everyone and everything online! I'm sorry. Emails, soon. Pictures of my breasts as peace offerings.

I just want to quit school forever and get married and raise children instead. Which is way harder to do.

Ah, my father would kill me if he heard me talk like that.

I left Legolas on my LOTR desk calendar instead of moving on because I needed the emotional support, or something. But there's Gimli now, so I can have his emotional support instead, and now be accurate.

I think the reason I didn't let myself get run over today was less survival instinct and more "I don't want to ruin my Pearl Jam shirt."

Way too frequently lately I have felt like I've been barely getting through the day without lashing out in a homicidal rage. Those days when you feel like you deserve a medal for not killing yourself or others--they're starting to overlap. Too many times in the past few weeks I have contemplated walking out in front of a car as I head to or from class.

(I had a great chance today, as the driver of a van stopped all traffic in his lane to let me cross in the middle of the street. Which is nice and all, except that I couldn't fucking see the OTHER LANE, FULL OF OTHER CARS, who CANNOT SEE ME. Listen, drivers. Don't worry about Pedestrian Me. I can take care of myself. I am doing alright. I don't need your guidance in getting my tired and hungry grown-ass self home. Anyways, fucking survival instinct -- I avoided being clipped by an old black Corvette.)

I thought I was going to end up puking and crying while leaning against a palm tree this afternoon. How picturesque!

Here are some things I enjoyed on Saturday, was it Saturday? No, I am so wrong. It was Easter Sunday: the drive home, which is exactly the length of Vs. + Rear View Mirror played again. (For once it is hot enough for the car CD player to work.) Vs. is a magnificent record, the kind you will strain to sing along to even if your throat hurts, because you can't help it.

Any holiday which promises me ham is a blessed one indeed.

I still get an Easter basket, and this year's was filled with the Sweetarts shaped like bunnies and ducks and chicks, the best kind ever, and Audioslave and Coldplay. My mother promised to provide the service of Easter basket until I turn 40. She is very serious.

Let's get the lust out of the way.

First of all, John Corbett is not making my life any easier, going around, being on television as the hott hott man he is--not in the pretty-man way, or the manly-man way, but just in the good-looking, non-asshole man way. Trying to do Important Work last night, and all I wanted to do was marry him, fuck him and make Corbett babies. Oh man.

Chris Cornell: sexxx voice, that's all I'm saying. This is not a newflash, just an affirmation. Sings so pretty, screams so nice.

Discontent is a word, right? I am unsure. As it were, anyhow, I am mostly discontent as status quo.

Man, why do I even have a website anymore? All I want to do is keep everything to myself. This is retarded. Usually I'm more than eager to detail what happens every time I leave the house.

Oh. Oh. Seeing Pearl Jam last night, it was "better than getting married and having babies." That's as close to a religious experience I am ever going to get. It was better than religion, I think. Religion doesn't sound as good as hearing four of the five songs I had on my Special Holy Fuck List. Seriously, I might start to fucking cry here in front of the computer just thinking about it.

Motherfuck, motherfuck, motherfuck. Right now, that's all I can say. Right now.

I saw the X-Men movie for the first time today, except how much of it, I'm not sure; it was edited for time & content. All I can say is HOT FUCKING DAMN, motherfucker. I fully and honestly enjoyed myself! I don't know anything about X-Men, but I was excited, yea verily.

And can Wolverine be my boyfriend? That way I wouldn't have to wait to turn into Wolverine myself to implement all the disemboweling of folks on my Wolverine List.

And can I have a threesome with Wolverine and Magneto? Can we throw Rogue in, too?

The only problem with coming to know Ian McKellen in LOTR first was my inner voice screaming, "Don't do it, Gandalf! But wait, Gandalf always has a reason. This must be okay. NO, IT'S NOT!"

There is so much shit that I keep to myself, that I don't speak to a single soul about. There's so much stuff I keep inside that sometimes it shocks me, in comparison to all the random shit I do share. You don't even know.

But how could you? That's the point.

My cat playfully, cheerfully mauled me in my sleep last night. I kept waking up to pain and claws, and then, seeing I was no longer sleeping, he wanted to cuddle. How can I be mad at my broken-legged, formerly-starving kitty, though? He's just a badass, that's all. When he plays, he goes all out. He fucks shit up.

My website can be my own bulletin board if I want it to be!

So, Tiffany: I have not forgotten about that Magic Email I said I'd write. I am going to write to you all about my Pirate Dinner Theatre experience. Like story-time for almost-strangers!

Jeff, did you ever get the second (UK-only) The Unbelievable Truth record? Neither did I. Amazon wants like $693 for it. Because you didn't know that Pearl Jam had their record out in November, I feel like I should point out that there's new White Stripes soon, or maybe it's here already, and also I think we would both like a sad-bastard band called British Sea Power, so keep an eye out and remind me to send you some MP3s. By the way, I'm still sleeping on the floor.

Hey, I'll be 22 soon. Ain't that some shit?

I thought I was going to be okay with that -- at least, nothing could've been worse than the horror and depression of turning twenty -- but now I think I feel the raw, unbridled panic setting in. alskdflkasjfi!!!

"There ... are ... four ... lights!"

There are lines that just go through your head at the slightest hair-trigger, and there are others that come out of nowhere, but occasionally I find myself wanting to scream this, Picard-style, and see whose head snaps up in recognition, and whether the look they give me is one of amusement or shame.

If I think too hard about the idea that I will see Pearl Jam in two days, I feel like I might throw up.

I miss your website, Ariel. So bad! Real bad. Why haven't I called you with my night minutes yet? You pick the night, baby. We can be all over each other like little greasy high-school kids in the back of a car.

But with class.

Nothing to see, move it along.

Margaret Margaret, I love you I love you.

When you're sick and you can't breathe and your head hurts and you cough but nothing ever comes up, it really cuts down on efficient masturbatory practices. Do you agree?

I've also been thinking about the repercussions of losing my right hand in an accident and how long it would take me to make the necessary adaptation to using only my left.

If I lose a hand I'd like to say I'd get a pirate's hook, but I'd end up killing myself, not being the most graceful of creatures. I'd roll over in the night and stab myself in the gut, or puncture an eye, or go to scratch an ear and end up tearing it off. So you see, I give pirates a lot of credit.

I haven't listened to Sigur Ros in so long. It's perfect for when it's raining and you're waiting for meat to thaw for your spaghetti sauce.

Olsen Olsen makes me feel like we should all hold hands and sway back and forth like drug addicts.

Groove is in the heart.

Wait a minute! I get to see Pearl Jam in ONE MOTHERFUCKING WEEK! Oh Jesus hell! It snuck up on me all ninja-like! Seven days! I can survive life for seven more days, I just know it.

Hope for the future.

I can apply rhinestones to face and hair like a motherfucker. You should see me at five-thirty in the morning! I am all over that shit. My skills are MAD. But only used for good, like my sister's dance competitions, not for evil, like skanky whores going clubbing. No rhinestones for them.

Sometimes I miss the apple-tastic smell of old Salon Selectives, 80s-style. And side ponytails.

Dude, no, wait. I can get engaged on Pirates of the Caribbean but actually married on the Transportation Authority! That ride is so calm and so sexy. We can just get going around and around, through Space Mountain and all, until the vows are finished.

Also, no stale, infected water to splash on me in my marital bliss.

P.S.: Don't come to my reception if you're looking to get drunk. No booze! Grape Koolaid for you! Better than wine by 38%.

You haven't seen me excited until you've seen me on Pirates of the Caribbean. (Essentially, six people.)

I already want to die on the ride, but now I wonder if I can get married on it, too.

Time to bust out The Bodyguard soundtrack, as if my life weren't already on a downward spiral tonight. That shit tears me up.

Sorry. But not really.

No, that's not the lowest of lows. Right now I'm choked up because no one on this motherfucking planet seems to realize that THERE IS NO APOSTROPHE IN DVDS OR CDS. DVDs, CDs. Oh my god. Oh I must weep.

Abuse of apostrophes just wounds me to my core. Would you spell it "videos's" or "videos'"? No, no you fucking wouldn't. I'm not like I'm asking people to spell the word "judgment" correctly. (NO E. THERE IS NO E.) When folks see capital letters, though, suddenly it throws them the fuck off. Get your shit together.

I can't be empathic about this goddamned war if I'm wasting my tears on apostrophe frustration.

Cried over a peanut butter commercial today. Lowest of lows.

"Amen" is a really fucking beautiful Jewel song, probably my favorite, and that shit is overlooked.

RE: American Idol

I'm sorry, but Kimberly Caldwell is no motherfucking Jewel. Maybe if you're deaf and blind and passed out in a diabetic coma. Maybe then.

Conversation with strangers is an accomplishment every time. Seriously, you think I'm just talking to the cashier at the Chinese place, but I'm cheering myself on--internally I'm having a nervous parade. I am my biggest fan when I talk without stuttering, cursing or visibly turning off the innocent.

I am a polite motherfucker, though, when you're not dead to me.

Sometimes my polite courtesies shock employees in their low-paying service and retail jobs. Sometimes I feel sorry for the poor bastards who try to solicit me over the phone. Always, always I lie when the Highway Patrol call to get my donation. I am forever and perpetually "just running out the door."

Social location, what's my social location? White middle-class female atheist Southern college student, who's working on being a feminist, who lacks big tits and who couldn't shop at 5-7-9 unless you summed the numbers? I might be leaving some things out. Like liberal, creepy, hostile and sensitive.

I am in a very delicate, PMS-induced mood right now. I'm crying about POWs and babies all over the place.