HEAT

sweet motherfrakking aphrodite i have seriously never been so HOT in my life...indoors. and i live in britain. BRITAIN. NORTH OF FRAKKING ENGLAND!

ffs, a little VENTILATION would be nice for this building.

today, i had period cramps, heat flashes, almost kissed the bathroom floor as i almost fainted, felt faint for a good half hour WHILE lying down, and everyone in this flat has pretty much seen my naked ass/pussy/boobs 'cause i barely had a towel around me as i stumbled around trying not to faint.

but thank you, sweet darling.

So you wanna be an internet startup _______?

_pornstar_?

The internet has seen it all, and it has shared all with us. How many musicians out there got their big break through Myspace? (I'm looking at Lilly Allen, yes, her). I don't know. Tons. Mark Zuckerberg got crazy rich when he moved the Harvard Facebook to a server farm. Hell, throw in some Chris Crocker for good measure.

Yes, I've been straying from the topic. It's not as if I really wanted to share my insight into the subject introduced by the title, but I felt like my creativity needed another output. Basically, the internet will make you famous, even for the proven 2 seconds of full attention that the average internet junkie will sacrifice...just for you. For fraks sake, all Chris Crocker had to do was put aside the fact that he's gay and propose to Britney Spears complete with a ring of tears.

So pornstars have been complaining about the internet, and how it is shaking up this billion moolah industry and bring it to its knees, pun intended. We can't help it! Orgasms are good. Free is good. Porn is good. Free orgasms from free porn...hmm, you get it. After all, when we get down to it, it's the action that matters. Who wants to watch all the prefuck bad acting and dialogue anyway? Just start blowing him already for fraks sake.

Ok, gross.

Ok really, I'm about to let go of some inside info here. Bear with me. All right, here goes.

I have a camera, which takes videos, you know, like every other camera out there. It also takes pictures, 'cause you know, it's a camera. Lately, it took a liking to taking nude pictures, and film. Of my girlfriend, and yours truly. Come on, everyone does it. I bet even Oprah does it. Frak me if Simon Cowell hasn't done it. Point is, it's not really a big deal. Got over it already? Yeah. Good.

So all these moving pictures and stills, they go to my trusty macbook, of course. And since my girlfriend's semi-dumb-ass computer can't see me on the uni network, she asks me to transfer everything into her usb stick. Of course she wants a copy. So there it goes, file transfer completed into a folder on the frakkin homepage of the thumbdrive. And she calls the folder 'tiger.'

Mind you, tiger has months of data in it. Months.

Then we go to London and act gayer than gay we made G-A-Y just a little straighter, except I apparently semi-passed out on a chair and still managed to give the cabbie directions to the hostel, which was on a pub. On a pub, bitch. But that's for another day. There's another camera, with a really funny person in it. It's a cylon camera. And it took pictures, of us of course. And the pictures go into a folder. Guess where? On the damn thumbdrive. And the folder is called 'snogging.'

So...tiger and snogging live their happy lives in this thumbdrive. Everything's fine. Life is good in the real world and in the 8gig volume of the thumbdrive. Stuff gets added, maybe, but stuff never got deleted. Then they get lost. tiger and snogging. They get lost in the woods, in the real world. In a room full of computers, and people who aren't my girlfriend. My girlfriend leaves them in this scary world full of people who might be deviant enough to peruse other people's lost thumbdrives...

So there. If I ever make it to TheChive, or Xtube, or Tube8, or the gods know where...please tell me. My girlfriend and I are pretty hot...nymphlike, the type Humbert Humbert would fall for. I can see your boner right now, and you're gay. Slap it down ho.

Cliché abandonment at a bus stop

"Walk with me," she says
The dulling floorboards vibrate
Crests and troughs phase in and out
A doorknob turns halfway through
The neighbor forgot his car keys again

The synchrony continues to the stairs
Cloth polishes the potholed banister
The same doorknob turns, closes, locks
The polishing hand leaps from a cliff
And lands in a safe pocket

Only to be penetrated by water
Aliquots preserved in hexagons
Crushed by boots and paws and tires
Disrupted crystals breaking down
Into black, as if stains are a punishment

This isn't the city that never sleeps
Today is Sunday, sleepday
Spend time with family day, what day?
Today is Sunday, flyday, leaveday
Play that song from Armageddon day

Tread marks on paper, washed out
With more crystal hexagons turning into ink
Letters don't write themselves, usually
And if they do, the ink bottle tips
To mock the effort and hide its existence.

Grapes of wrath

So last Wednesday, someone threw a grape at my girlfriend...'cause we were acting like a couple.

Seriously, a grape.

Fortunately, I didn't know they threw a grape at her, or else the idiots would've gotten something more along the lines of Kit Porter vs A Prolife Women's Heatlh Clinic. Arson! Arson!

Really, a grape + 'LESBIANS!'

Nah. Pulling a Kit Porter on them wouldn't have been worth it. I like to think that the boy had wet dreams of lesbians that same night.

In other news, there is a blue jet trail across my window. I shouldn't be indoors. Oh but you know...I'll just stock up on golden Florida sunshine over the summer. However, it is a nice 5 C outside, pretty warm. In other news, it'll be around 12 C in Tallahassee about 5 hours from now. Also, I should've called my mother.

how do you reply

when you're lying in bed
comfortable
when the tip of your tongue
is paralyzed
when the back of your throat
evaporates
when the bright clouds
break
when sunlight strikes
the roofs
when the thriving foliage
glitters
when it's time to go

--------

I apologise for being emo, and not being cryptic at all.
I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

Holy shit I've never liked the number 7 so much

But I still love my grades. Now, let's scour the interwebs for Year 3 internships.

I need a Master's to teach high school chemistry

Today, I received an email from my old uni about an opening for a teaching post in Baltimore, Maryland. Of course, this doesn't apply to me (yet), but I scrolled down the email anyway and read the requirements and details about the post.

Apparently, the hiring body is a private uni-prep school needing someone who can teach high school and AP chemistry. Their requirements are, here goes: Master's degree in Chemistry (or related field, which applies to mine), and excellent communication and leadership skills.

Excuse my french but...there is no fucking way in the world that I am going to teach fucking high school/AP Chem to a bunch of rich kids after going to hell and back while getting a Master's in Chem (or Biochem). 'Competitive rates' MY ASS. 45k in teaching vs 6 figures in the industry. Yes, you may be missing out on the honor of teaching the next Marie Curie, but really now...Marie Curie probably had great mentors, but she drove and satiated her own curiosity. Besides, her mentors were probably doing research themselves, and when you're teaching kids in high school, you don't get to work in a lab. Oh no, you get to prep their practicals and make their own agar gels 'cause they can't be assed to show up at the end of the day to mix agar and water. AND if you teach AP, the school board will probably end up twisting your arm while telling you to teach the AP exam instead of chemistry.

So Careers Center lady, thanks but no thanks. I'd rather work for Pfizer and deal with their ethics, or lack thereof, than teach a bunch of clayheads who expect to be spoonfed and magically get a 5 on the AP exam. meh