Blogspot, ass-flavored muffin over-risen from the pan.

According to Wikipedia, the story of Stone Soup actually traces its roots to a Portugese village, but the copy Laura Wolff brought into class in 2nd grade clearly pictured an old woman wearing a babooshka. A majority of the population of our town was Askenazic Jew. In retrospect, the politics of children's books make sense. At its core, it's a parable about pooling resources when the going got tough, a message that ran the risk of galvanizing the affluent-seven-year-old-in-the-famine-stricken-early-90s demographic into ushering in a communist utopia.

Our assigned homework that night was to bring in a vegetable to contribute to the class 'cauldron' (it was a restaurant grade pot on loan from Rana's Deli). Most of the kids brought in standard vegetables like carrots or tomatoes. The gross kid probably added raw onions. Kids' whose parents were especially competitive type-A monsters brought in hydroponic acorn squash.

Angela Huang and I, dumb shits that we were, drew attention to ourselves by bringing in a daikon radish and a napa cabbage, respectively. After some boy called these vegetables weird, the class had a nice chat about multiculturalism, during which I foolishly revealed that my Green Card had the words 'Resident Alien' printed on it. I was such a fool!

Blogspot, given in the name of Germanicus and Drusus.

I just bought my first audiobook off iTunes entirely because in the preview, the author describes Nolita as being 'a few city blocks positively metastatic with handbag stores'. Adjectival (<--an odd, self-serving modifier) brilliance like that seemed worth the $10.95 I just forked over to Apple and Random House.

Now, fifteen minutes later, I realize that perhaps certain authors are not suited to the .mb4 file extension. As readers of this blog know, I'm a huge fan of verbosity, tacking unwarranted clauses onto sentences in the same way a sparrow living above a party supply store might progressively festoon his nest into a parade float (the avian Santino Rice). But while complex sentences seduce me in print, it's not so great when you hear it lisped in high speed.

When I think about how my brain is handling this onslaught of insane sentence constructions, I am reminded of tar pits and associated scenes of plexiglass mammoths slowly drowning.

Blogspot, 100% Whole Grain.

A plumber came over last night and made our shower operational again. A hair clump had gotten lodged in the drain, so our tub quickly filled up with a soup of toxic goo. As my raven locks are actually rooted deep in my brain, I cannot be at fault. I wanted to shower Thursday, the morning after Justin's birthday, but had to endure physics lab smelling like a combination of Joe's sweat and my tears, as if being forced to calibrate a Coulomb Balance hungover wasn't bad enough already.

Blogspot, Grande Reserve.

On an episode of America's Next Top Model, the contestants shot a commercial for Secret Ultra Platinum and revealed a lame fact about themselves. I guess telling the camera they sleep with the nightlight on lets them feel earnest and exposed. In the same vein--my secret: I grocery shop to make myself feel better. The produce section is oddly comforting, and I feel peaceful everytime I find an orange that feels denser than the others. It's one step away from comfort eating, but I guess it's better since I'm not getting fat, like Tyra. Speaking of, a pubescent kid called me a chink on the way back from the grocery store. In retaliation, I called him fat and he looked pretty hurt. The round little shit deserved it.

I just had a forty, and I've been depressed for a month. Ugh.

Blogspot, herbal assault.

So my mom was screaming at me from about five feet away and I was trying as hard as I could to screen her out. At the same time I was looking through job listings but found it impossible to read with so much noise pollution. Eventually I focused in on one word--'heterologous'--and tried to find words within it. Her shouting was so persistent and intense that the only word I could find in three minutes was 'hetero', which, despite the shrieking, I recognized as being a mere neologism. Then I found 'log'. It was only after she had left that I found 'gout'.

Blogspot, la batarde.

Now, I don't have any sort of body dysmorphic disorder so I know I'm not actually fat. Nonetheless, when your grandmother, a woman who's been stuffing you full of pig meat for the last twenty years, says your stomach is too big, you freak out. Joe says my love handles are cute, but in my heart of hearts I know he's desperately drafting break-up letters that won't make him sound shallow.

For Christmas, I was contemplating asking for a DDR pad, because I remember freshman year when our suite had two. Trevor and I must have collectively lost one of our weights, jumping around like lepromatous swans to the same three songs. So desperate were our efforts that we had to duct tape the pads to the floor to keep them from being torn from the Playstation. Swetha asks whether DDR is good for trimming tummy fat, to which I replied that DDR is like cocaine--addictive and with no specificity whatsoever. The pounds melt off everywhere and collect like a gel on the floor. It can be used to lubricate gearshafts.

This concern with weight is in odd, given what I asked Joe for Christmas. The conflict between my hunger and my fat midsection is one that I believe is, in the end, unreconcilable. Throughout middle school I ate sandwiches made of thinly sliced deli meats, which was fun, but I always wondered what it'd be like to have my mouth completely filled with Butterball. Though he has yet to deliver, I have confidence that Joe will eventually buy me a full turkey breast, in a belated expression of holiday cheer. In exchange, he gets tickets to Mamma Mia.

forrizzletizzle: it would be funny if he got you suzanne somers workout equipment

This is untrue.

*The Justin comment about Island of the Blue Dolphins concerns an entry that was originally in place of this concerning about my grades this past sememster. I've since deleted it in the fear of appearing to be a douchebag (which I am, but you'd never know from reading this).