Stereotypes are Fun(ny)

I was born this way. I have some of the unfunniest genes and attributes around.

I'm Asian. So few Asians are funny. You know it, I know it. I'm also a girl. Ditto, as sexist as it may be. I'm saying it, though, so like my racist jokes, they're okay for me to say, not okay for you, if you're white and especially if you're a white man.

Now, not only am I a girl, but I don't have any redeeming comedic qualities that can come with being a girl, which are lesbianism and... being fat. It's not an insult. Lesbians are funny. Fat women are also funny, and not because they're fat. (On the other hand, fat men tend to be somewhat less humourous than their counterparts of athletic variety.) I also don't do drugs, which a large number of funny people seem to do. (see: Mitch Hedberg)

So there you have it, in a nutshell. I truly have one of the most horrendous groupings of qualities, if I want to be funny. And I do sometimes. So you should start appreciating what little my humour is worth, because considering my circumstance, I am doing pretty damn well.

Conversion

So I have a new Macbook Pro. I'm going to tell you some of the things I love about my Macbook Pro.

- It is a lot prettier than my old one. In every way possible.

- It is a laptop, and just so much nicer and more fun.

- Leopard? It's a little hard to get used to so far, but it is also ultra-bitchin'.

- 2.53 GHz, GeForce 8600 GT graphics card and 250 GB hard drive. It's a big step up. You have no idea.

Lastly:

- It comes installed with HELVETICA. This is only awesome if you're awesome and into fonts like I am.

The Androgyny Dilemma

I want to find somebody who wants a boy for a girlfriend.

This wouldn't be a problem if I were a lesbian. But it turns out life works in mysterious ways, and I'm not. I think my best bets are bi- or pansexuals, or extremely confused gay men.

The First Malkovichian

It's the new philosophy. Like Machiavellism. Except Malkovichism. Followers of John Malkovich. Living lives in fervent support of the death penalty and speaking in soft girly dulcet tones.

I get the weirdest dreams, but the great thing is that even though I don't understand them, they've been generated from my head and they're awesome. So naturally this means I'm awesome. Mm, the things I come up with when I'm just trying to fit in six hours or so.

Artistry

Friday I was carrying a croissant in a clear plastic bag as I walked from school to my mom's office. I was thinking about eating it when I passed by a homeless person sitting in our school field, and thought instead, wouldn't a good person give their croissant to a homeless person? I kept walking.

Later I had a story concept about a little girl who has a cookie and when a homeless person asks her for it, she gives it up willingly. The next day on the news, a homeless man is found dead near the school with a plastic bag on his head and a cookie crushed into crumbs in his stiff, clenched fist.

Imagination replaces guilt. An artist, all right.

From a Promise to a Threat

The future is scary. Oh yes I'm only fifteen and I have a whole lot of it before me, and it is damn scary. Looking at schools is scary. Thinking about trying to find a real job is scary.

It's scary because I'm a hedonist and the idea of a life that I have chosen but that don't like is the worst thing I can imagine. I want my life to be good enough for me, whatever 'good' means. (Starving artist/full-time waitress? Works for me.) I only know what 'good' doesn't mean: having a job I despise, and being tied down with bad commitments. I don't want to screw myself over by getting myself into something I hate. I think it might just be a run-from-responsibility thing.

Anyways, I'm looking at applications for a Master of Arts in Journalism at Columbia University and all this reality just came crashing down on me. It also looks like my French isn't good enough to land me a page position in the House of Commons in Ottawa so I can get a BA at Carleton, either.


Why is real life so expensive?

Cats and Insomnia

I'm wide awake at almost two in the morning after two hours of trying to sleep at a friend's house. Luckily she has two very friendly cats to keep me company, as well as a TV but she's sleeping so I'm not going to pop in Little Miss Sunshine, much as I'd like to. One cat, Conan, is particularly fond of sitting or lying on me, though he seems to find my ribs quite a mystery and was clawing at them through my shirt until he got bored and took a nap.

Cats are such good company. I want a cat. They're selfish, quiet, and slink around the house doing not much at all. Like me at home. Of course they demand occasional attention, like me, and even sometimes like to be cuddly, like me. The only reason God didn't make me a cat is because I love chocolate and have mild caffeine addiction so if I were a cat I'd be dead. Some things were never meant to be.