More Demonstrable Proof That the World Has Gone Mad

You remember those repeating decimals we learned in high school?

Like .3 with a line over it equals
.33333333333333333333333333333333333333333 (the 3 repeating into infinite)?

Well, apparently

= 1

Yes, you heard me.

Despite the fact that even a mathematical mental midget such as myself (but a whiz at alliteration--buddummm chiiiii!) knows that if the 9 after the decimal point in .99999999999999999999999999 repeats itself infinitely, it is always approaching 1 but never quite reaching it, this fact has been proven wrong. And yet right.

Sadly, like Zeno's paradoxes, I find this weirdly fascinating, despite the fact that it seems like it should be causing some sort of tear in the skivvies of the space-time continuum.

This is why I have no friends.

(Read more HERE)

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How to Tell You are Just *NOT* Going to Have a Good Day

You're just innocently walking along when you accidentally lose control of your spoon and lob it into some random lady's potato salad, and the end result is you calling her "rude" (and not being sure whether you added a "fucking" before it or a "bitch" afterwards).

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I found out the other day that my eyes aren't producing nearly enough tears and that I also need to start doing eye exercises for my left eye, as it's begun to do it's own thing lately (Monday it was randomly shopping for melons; Tuesday I caught it rolling the bean*; Wednesday it just slept all day; and today I think it must've eaten some Indian food or something because it's been having the most stank-ass gas I've ever smelled).

I suspect it's karmic payback for all my filthy lies.

But given that I'm a well-known pro-eye activist and I often recommend Bataille's Story of the Eye to people, you would think it wouldn't be so hard on me.

Fuck eyes, I say. Fuck eyes.

I suspect Bataille would concur.


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*Hee hee. Thanks, Ann.

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As it turns out, what started off as a campy-horror movie night with close friends on Saturday has officially exploded into a full-blown party. So last night, I stopped at the dollar-store to scour through the Halloween fixings (as dollar-store Halloween junk is always the lamest and, thus, the greatest).

I scored a "horror-sounds" cd for just $1. Needless to say it kicks ass.

At a climactic moment on the cd, a) a rooster crows, b) a dog barks, and c) glass shatters, all in quick succession.

I cannot even begin to fathom a horrifying scenario in which all three would take place in a row. Unless the rooster was like 70-feet tall and man-eating.

I suspect the cd's creator had just started running out of scary sound-fx buttons on his sweet 1980s Casio keyboard.

*Snail snailing, cow mooing, sound of a mirror being shattered*

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My muffler on my car busted this week, so it sounds like a small jet engine whenever I drive anywhere.

Yesterday, when I was exiting the freeway, I pulled up next to some dude in a sports-car with one of those pimped-out mufflers. When the light turned green, my car made his car sound like the whisper of a very effeminate man riding a bicycle.

I wanted to shout, Yeah, baby! Who's doing a better job of overcompensating for their small-penis-size now? but I didn't.

Because the answer is me. The answer *hanging head desolately* is me.

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I've randomly shared this with a few of you, in the hopes of purging myself of the sheer horror of this fact. Yet, I'm still shaking and throwing up a little, so I figured the only way I may be able to eradicate myself of my remaining feelings of shame and self-loathing is to share it with the world and place myself out there so that the rest of you can shred me to pieces. *Donning the hairshirt that is my blogging-peers*


This used to be one of my favorite movies when I was little:

WATCH

LISTEN

READ

Please... don't be gentle.

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Lately, I am finding myself with the very bad habit of picturing what people would be like in the sack. I don't know why this is. Perhaps it's just a way to combat boredom at work, or while driving, or in my wanderings elsewhere. Unfortunately, this mostly just leaves me disturbed and/or scarred. Enough so that I may have to resort to some trepanning soon, or washing out my brain with Drain-O (of the environmentally-conscious, animal-ingredient-free kind, of course).

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I apparently have a rock stuck up somewhere in the expanses of the sole of my shoe, and when I walk, it makes a sound that sounds like the word "rock" (but pronounced with a Barbra Walters "R," so more like "wock") over and over like it's announcing itself constantly.

Just thought you might want to know.

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I don't know whether to be disturbed or flattered by the fact that I've had two different people approach me at work about how they "know I have a thing for eyeballs."

We'll go with flattered. Though awkwardly so.

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Poem That I Like

(Last thing written before Beckett's death)

WHAT IS THE WORD

Samuel Beckett

for Joe Chaikin
folly -
folly for to -
for to -
what is the word -
folly from this -
all this -
folly from all this -
given -
folly given all this -
seeing -
folly seeing all this -
this -
what is the word -
this this -
this this here -
all this this here -
folly given all this -
seeing -
folly seeing all this this here -
for to -
what is the word -
see -
glimpse -
seem to glimpse -
need to seem to glimpse -
folly for to need to seem to glimpse -
what -
what is the word -
and where -
folly for to need to seem to glimpse what where -
where -
what is the word -
there -
over there -
away over there -
afar -
afar away over there -
afaint -
afaint afar away over there what -
what -
what is the word -
seeing all this -
all this this -
all this this here -
folly for to see what -
glimpse -
seem to glimpse -
need to seem to glimpse -
afaint afar away over there what -
folly for to need to seem to glimpse afaint afar away over there what -
what -
what is the word -

what is the word

[from: Grand Street, Vol. 9, No. 2, Winter 1990, pp.17-18, N.Y., ISSN 0734-5496]

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Smack My Pasty White Ass and Call Me Sally

The other day, I saw a new SUV commercial clearly geared towards African-Americans. It initially pleased me quite a bit to finally see an SUV commercial that's actually geared towards somebody other than pasty-assed white boys. But then I watched the damn commercial, and my stupid fricking bubble got burst when I realized that, even though the pasty-ass white boys aren't on-screen, they most definitely (and most obviously) are behind the scenes.

Picture if you will an African-American fellow and his family driving down the road in an expensive, shiny new SUV (fancy rims very obviously gleaming) and passing what apparently is supposed to be their "old 'hood" with a couple of old black guys sitting out on the sidewalk in lawnchairs, a mean-looking black man that's as muscular as a tank walking two dogs down the street, holding them back with one leash wrapped around each tree-trunk of an arm, run-down stores, etc. while the narrator offers up some catchy phrase about "not forgetting where you came from" but taking it with you to where you are now (pardon my paraphrase) and the African-American family pulls into the driveway of their picturesque suburban home.

Why, pasty-assed white boys? Why? I mean, the commercial is APPARENTLY trying to offer up a "remember your roots" kinda theme and in doing so, trying to "connect with the African-American culture" and all that, but what's so goddamn disastrous about it is that, in doing so, it fails to acknowledge that just because you're black doesn't necessarily mean that you've had the same shared upbringing as every other black person alive (for christ's sake, people!). It also doesn't mean that you grew up "lower class." It also doesn't mean that you grew up "urban."

So essentially, in attempting to finally deviate from kissing the ass of white folks, it instead just reinforces stereotypes of African-American folks--perhaps not awful or offensive ones, but ones that fail to acknowledge that *not all fricking black people are exactly the same* (gasps of surprise and shock).

Granted, I probably shouldn't get so enraged, seeing as television commercials almost always rely upon stereotypes, regardless of race, gender, class. And yet, this pasty-assed white girl had been hoping, with every little weenyish bit of hope, that this commercial might be different. *Covering up my pasty white ass in shame*

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Some days I praise higher powers for my compulsive need for visual privacy (aka. not posting photos of myself on my blogs), mostly when I come across blogs/livejournals/icons such as this where it becomes evident that some people spend WAY too much time sitting around taking excessively-posed pictures of themselves trying to look coy / wounded / darling / cute / sexy / clever / saucy. Case in point: NO OFFENSE TO SAID LIVEJOURNALER.

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