evilhippo: hippo (125 [herp derp])
( Sep. 24th, 2010 07:23 am)
This is already slipping from my mind at an alarming rate, but the dream went something like this:

"Terrorists" were occupying large sections of Chicago, but it was one of their holidays and they weren't paying as much attention, so a number of former Chicagoans, myself included, decided to sneak back in and have a look around. The biggest symbol of their occupation was a soda can thumb drive that sat at the top of an escalator in what was probably the Nordstrom's downtown. I went up to it, while people behind me chattered about how there'd been a lot of talk about strategically nuking it, and no one had been brave enough to touch it. I walked up to it, thought "Seriously, could they have irradiated this can and made it that deadly?" and picked it up. It stuck to my hand, I screamed, and threw it down the escalator, then calmly walked over to my apartment, which was up the escalator at Nordstrom's. I went inside and set about making breakfast, knowing that by screaming and destroying their symbolic pop can thumb drive that I was going to get into a lot of trouble. I figured I'd have at least a day, though, because it was a terrorist holiday. But, as I stood at my stove, a little boy came to my door holding a giant rock over his head.

"I'm going to throw this through your window, now" he said.

"Okay," I said, knowing that this was terrorist retribution and I might as well get it over with.

He gave me a confused look, but chucked the rock through my window anyway. I stood next to the stove in a pile of glass, and he continued to stare at me.

"I'm going to verbally abuse you know," he said. I shrugged, he looked confused, said a few hateful things and then wandered off.

Word of my bravery against the terrorist rock-throwing spread among those who were back in Chicago for the holiday, and while I was out for a walk by the lake, hundreds of other people began to gather around in peaceful protest. I found myself shouting instructions to them, like "Don't leave any litter behind!" and "Whatever you do, don't rise to their attacks!" There were police and former soldiers wandering around in swim trunks (they still had their guns, though, which worried me), random families with picnic blankets sat on the rocks, and we were apparently peacefully taking Chicago back (because some kid threw a rock through my window because I destroyed a symbolic can). At which point I decided I'd go for a swim, and woke up.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you defeat the terrorists.
evilhippo: hippo (111 [danger])
( Aug. 19th, 2009 09:19 pm)
Let me preface this by saying there are approximately three things that creep me out, bug-wise. Centipedes, poisonous spiders, and maggots in garbage (outside of garbage, I don't much care).

Add now to this list: COCKROACH IN MY FREAKING BATHTUB.

That thing had better have been acting alone, and it had better not have laid ANY eggs in ANY of my stuff because EW EW EW EW EW cockroaches are supposed to happen to dirty people, and are not supposed to exist in my own personal space EW!

I mean, I'm weird. I'll admit the things are actually kind of cute with their long antennae and swishiness... when they are somebody else's business. I'm going to sit here and hope the cretin crawled up out of my toilet or something (which is plausible, considering our water was turned off for "maintenance" and all the pipes were utterly emptied for a while, and who knows what goes on in old musty basements around here, bug-wise, and who knows what the "maintenance" really was).

The scene itself was pretty embarrassing, to the point that I just want to write it down and forget about it. I went into the bathroom after work for the usual reasons, and after I sat down, spotted a brown insectoid creature calmly waving its little antennae at me. And I went... "... Ew." and fussed around for a while trying to decide the best way to deal with it, which involved far more nancing around on my tiptoes than is strictly respectable; then I went into the kitchen and got one of my containers and literally chased it around the bathroom, afraid to come even close to touching the thing (and I'm generally kind of tough around bugs. I rescue silverfish and take them outside. I put spiders in cups and release them elsewhere). I eventually turned the shower on and tried to trick it into dousing itself in water, which it did, but this didn't even slow the lousy thing down and I was still chasing it, and dousing my own self in water in the process, which I'm sure it was laughing about, and the thing was freaking doing backstrokes down the bottom of my tub when I finally gave in and just threw the container over it, got an old bank statement, and trapped it. And so now it's in a sealed container, in my trash can, and I'm kind of trying to feel bad about just letting it suffocate to death, but I know it's probably going to live anyway because the things are basically indestructible. (Which is really why I didn't just step on it. I didn't want to deal with bug-mess and a wily, zombie-like roach.) I've probably just packaged it up with a tasty snack of whatever was on the inside of the container, and soon enough it'll be liberated inside of a garbage truck and basically in roach heaven. I've probably done the thing a favor.

Which is why I hope it takes that into account and doesn't ever come back. Or bring any of its friends. If word gets out, I might end up being kind of a half-way house on the way to roach heaven. I don't want that.

Either way, I'm closing the lid on my toilet tonight. And maybe taping it shut.

Which will not be good for me in the morning.

I'm not sure if I'm creeped out because they're gross, or because their presence is a kind of negative-judgment on my ability to keep things clean, or because they're kind of evolutionarily superior to me, as far as survival goes, and I'm kind of vaguely offended. But to find out that I'm also girlishly weak against them when they're on my own territory... it's just embarrassing. I should at least be able to stare them down all stony-faced and be like "Well, you know what. We have thumbs. And art. So there. Now get out of my freaking bathtub."
evilhippo: hippo (105 [random])
( Feb. 23rd, 2009 07:30 pm)
I have a bad habit of reading the New York Times in the evening. Lately it's been really depressing. But tonight, as I gave up on the world and went to take a shower, I noticed that, by pure chance, I had stumbled upon what may save us all (or at least me).

I call it the Woes Index.

The idea is simple. Get all the out-of-work bankers milling around Wall Street etc. and create a market to buy and sell all our problems. I often say things like "Well, yeah, your job is awful and moralless, but at least it pays you." In the Woes Index, I could trade my awful job for someone else's awful job. And it could keep the investment bankers busy for years figuring out exactly what utility it would be for me so they could... do whatever it is that I-Bankers actually do. And it wouldn't just have to be things like jobs. Any woe whatsoever could be bundled into some kind of exotic security and traded. Think of the market for pesky, unfulfillable muses! People always have problems, and people always think that others are slightly better off. The thing would basically run itself (but we wouldn't tell the bankers that).

But that's not even the best part. See, the market right now is flooded with un-leveraged woes. Right now, we're basically inflating their value by worrying and not trading them, but, with an actual index to track these things, once the speculators and Madoffs latch on to the whole scheme THE WOES INDEX IS BOUND TO FAIL. It's going to take a few years for things to improve anyway, but think of how much better it would be for the light at the end of the tunnel to be the complete diminishment of all those things that make our lives more annoying?
evilhippo: hippo (76 [bubble])
( Dec. 9th, 2008 08:58 pm)
To Do:

1) Finish my Amity application. (This is in progress! Must tidy up essay!)
1a) Figure out where in Japan I want to teach. (Hiroshima is seeming really oddly appealing. Opinions?)
2) Apply for passport.
3) Daydream about quitting my job.
4) Actually wake up in the morning.
5) Return my library books.
5a) Get more.
6) Live in a loft with a fireman pole.
6a) Use it every morning to get to my kitchen and make tea.
7) Become a folk hero. (The first verse of my song is already written. "I am going to make a trebuchet / out of nothing but your menu items / but first I will eat this baked potato." The rest of it is a crazy banjo solo/tone poem.)
7a) Find out if it's proper for a folk hero to write her own song.

?????

?) Profit!

I feel better now that I have a plan for the future, guys.
evilhippo: hippo (16 [cool])
( Oct. 2nd, 2008 09:18 pm)
Today around 3:45, I found myself having the following conversation:

Security: ... What do you have in your bag?
Me: Sorry, what?
Security: Is that a fork? Do you have a fork in your bag?
Me: Er, yes. Sorry.
Security: Do you have anything else in there?
Me: I, uh yeah, my cell phone, a Nintendo DS... a copy of Tristram Shandy...
Security: You're going to have to check that fork in.

And that is how I found myself in the basement of the Daley Center checking a fork in to an evidence locker while being laughed at by every security guard there.

Tied with this in surreality, I would also like to point out the risks of IMax cinema. You see, there's a certain scene in Batman, when Harvey Dent walks out of the court room and into a windowed hallway with a panoramic view of Gotham. It turns out, when I walked out of the elevators on the 28th floor of the Daley center, that's exactly where I was. And so I immediately expected to turn the corner and find Harvey Dent, because somehow my mind completely overwrote what I was seeing with the movie. Thank you, IMax, for matching proportions so well in that particular scene. And also, thank you Daley Center security, for protecting Harvey Dent (and possibly The Batman) from any fork-related crime I may have committed.
evilhippo: hippo (58 [yip yip])
( May. 16th, 2007 02:16 pm)
You know... it's about time I had an appropriately embarrassing story to write about here. So! I spent this morning looking at apartments. I got up, and headed back up to Andersonville, where I met with these apartment-finder guys. I was afraid of them, but they were super-nice, and I saw three apartments. All of which were nice, but not super-nice. And so I chatted a bit, got a rental application, and went on my way to my noon appointment.

Noon appointment was with guy-named-Iulian-(whose name I thought was Julian)'s father who speaks no English (that was a lie, he knew about five words). Judging by Iulian's accent, and his name (which I thought was Julian), I assumed he was Spanish. I figured, hey, I can learn enough Spanish to get myself through seeing the apartment. (Basically "Hola, estoy aqui para ber el apartemento" and "so liente, no hable espanol." Getting this straight involved a last-minute call to one of my friends at home, who laughed at me, mocked my accent, and then spelled things for me.) I rang the buzzer at noon, and he let me in. At the door on the top floor, stood a shortish happy-faced man who didn't look Hispanic in the least. This SHOULD HAVE BEEN MY FIRST CLUE. I mumbled my apologies for only speaking English, and thanked him in Spanish. He smiled and nodded, and started showing me around. The tour was largely a game of charades, which got complex enough to tell me where I was supposed to take the garbage, and I'm pretty sure I gave the dish-washer a thumbs-up, because by that point I was super-flustered, having gotten very confused when there were doi refrigerators and not dos... and that there were two refrigerators. Eventually we moved back into the office, where he asked me to sit down, and I continued to sort of look around awkwardly, and attempted to tell him, in Spanish, that I liked the apartment. The conversation from there went something like this... (Oh this is so embarrassing.)

Me: Er... uh. Me gusta... el apartemento.
Man: ::blank stare::
Me: Er, um... sorry! Uh, I really don't know Spanish.
Man: ::odd look::
Me: No habla espanol?
Man: Spanish? No! Romana! American, right?
Me: (Omg omg omg, I am an idiot. Romana? ...Gypsies? Time Lords? ...Rome?... Italy. Italian!) Oh! Oh, no wonder. Yeah. Ha. I don't know a word of that! Wow.
Man: You know... uh... Nadia Comaneci. ::complex hand motions indicating gymnastics::
Me: Ohhhh. (What? The gymnast? What is going on here?) Yes, I know of Nadia Comaniche (yay, Americanized pronunciation, this is so embarrassing).
Man: Yes.
Me: Um... tu parles francais, peut-etre? (Crap, that was disrespectful. Crap. Vous.)
Man: ::blank stare:: No...
Me: Ah. ::nervous arm flailing:: It's the only other language I know, sorry! ::half-mumbled:: Worthatry.
Man: You call my son? ::points to the sign on the window::
Me: Er, yes, I called him already.
Man: ::gesticulates more:: Call my son. He speaks... perfect English.
Me: Yes, all right. (What am I going to say to him?)
Man: ::points to window::
Me: ::shows phone number in phone... calls son:: Er, hi, Julian?
Iulian: Hello, yes?
Me: Hi, er, Iulian, this is [evilhippo], I'm at the apartment.
Iulian: Hello, yes? What?
Me: This is [evilhippo], I'm at the apartment, er, I was wondering (say something useful!) how much do utilities usually run?
Iulian: What?
Me: (Omg, my reception is not this bad!) Er, yes, I'm at the apartment, with your father. I like it. How much do the utilities usually run?
Iulian: I am busy, can you call back later?
Me: Oh, right, um, sorry. Sure. Fine, yeah. ::hangs up... even more embarrassed smile:: He's busy.
Man: Oh, work, yes. Call at 5. ::draws five on the table::
Me: Right, er, thank you. ::nervous hand-wringing::
Man: ::leads back towards door:: Water. ::draws on arm::
Me: (Water? Did he understand the utilities question?) Water?
Man: Walking.
Me: ...(What is going on here?!) Walking?
Man: Yes, walking. ::points east:: That.
Me: Oh, the lake. Yes, I walked there already. It's... very close.
Man: ::nods, smiling::
Me: ::at door:: Uh, thank you. Again. And, er, sorry ::mumbles:: I don't speak... yeah. ::not mumbling:: It was nice meeting you.
Man: ::nods, smiles, stands at door to see off::

The worst part was that I didn't even figure out it was Romanian until I was walking around afterwards. I continued to think it was Italian! Wow. Hello, world, I am a stupid English-speaker, and all other languages sound the same to me. (Okay, I can tell French from Spanish, and Chinese from Japanese, but that's it. Everything else? Apparently the same. Romanian! Freaking Romanian! He might as well have spoken Basque! I feel like such a... I don't even know. Wow. And yet I still want the apartment.)
evilhippo: hippo (103 [presidential])
( Apr. 29th, 2007 05:53 pm)
Er... why is Pluto a disco ball?
I have nothing to say, really, other than "Hi, I'm still alive!"

And from now on, I am calling toothpaste "dental sauce." I encourage everyone else to do the same. You can't get cooler than dental sauce.
Because even days that sort of suck and are weird can result in levity with the correct roomies:

A few days ago, we were supplied a new stove. A very new stove, complete with things that were still in plastic and an intact instruction manual. Needless to say, there was much rejoicing. Today, I had a chance to break it in. Lacking a toaster, I've always stuck my bagels under the broiler for a couple of minutes to toast them. It's never given me a problem. Today, happy to give my new shiny stove a test run, with my bare hands I rended the bagel asunder and splayed its remains on the ceremonial cookie sheet, placing it under the sanguinary red glow of the burner and leaving the kitchen to gaze upon my kingdom and contemplate where to put my desk so we can have the TV in a logical place. A few minutes later, one of my roomies walks by. I think by this point I was playing with post-it replicas of our furniture.

"Um... our oven is smoking," she said to me from the kitchen, perplexed.

"Oh, what?"

"The oven. Is smoking."

I paused for a moment.

"Oh crap, my bagel!"

Bounding into the kitchen I discovered not a little smoke, but a lot. Practically billowing out of the stove. So, brilliantly, I opened it and found my bagel... black. And probably a degree or two from being on fire... after, at the most, five minutes. My roomie, who is obviously far less scatterbrained than I today, looked up and gave the smoke detector a bit of a concerned look and said something about not wanting to evacuate the Shoreland. So we both grabbed blankets from the couch and started waving them at the smoke detector in the kitchen until it cleared, which soon turned into a ritual dance, complete with chanting about our bagel sacrifice. We got a little high tech and eventually brought in the fan. I have pictures, unfortunately not of the dance, but of my bagel, and of our whiteboard, above which half of the bagel now sits as an offering to the gods (or perhaps a very desperate and hungry, and quite possibly drunk, first year) and a warning to any other bagels who might overstay their welcome in our terrifying superheating demonstove.
evilhippo: hippo (74 [pirate])
( Sep. 19th, 2006 07:21 pm)
Ahoy, me friendslist. I've 'ad meself one o' them days what's not quite right fer livin' in, bein' all grey an' cold an' unwelcomin'. Tis makin' me feel that winter's already settin' in on me happy shore's 'ere on the Lake. Ain't right, far's I'm concerned. An' if that weren't enough... ye know those days when ye wake up an' it ain't quite worth it te get out o' bed, on account o' you feelin' a mite out-of-sorts, but not enough te justify layin' in yer bed an' disregardin' the day in its entirety? Tis one o' those, fer me an' me computer, it seems. Fer it's gone an' betrayed me again by suddenly gettin' it into its 'ead it'll spite me by workin' again. If throwin' it o'erboard wasn't an action dead-set in writin' against me warranty, I'd do it. Or make the deviant thing walk the plank. But no, the scallawag 'as got te make me look a fool in front o' tech support. An' if they refuse again te be fixin' it fer me, 'twon't me much stoppin' me from takin' me cutlass te whatever man heads the outfit an' an wavin' it about til things get fixed up shiny-like.

An' if the men what be in charge o' keepin' this dorm ship-shape don't haul themselves up te me cabin 'ere an' fix me stove, I ain't ever bringin' meself down to the depths o' their maintenance rooms an' fixin' their printer.
evilhippo: hippo (17 [giggle])
( Aug. 13th, 2006 12:05 am)
I think it is official--my friends and I kind of suck at put-put. But that makes it better. (Also, whoever was in charge of the music at that place gets points for having a playlist that included Beck and Death Cab.) We kind of really suck at put-put. Really. (I blame the dinosaurus.)

The real story of the night, however unrelated, may be more interesting. You see, seven years ago (I believe it was seven years ago, holy crap), back when I was a freshman, there was this guy I went to school with. I think he was a junior at the time. Good football player. Was on the Sports Machine my sophomore year after catching a totally ridiculous pass off his helmet in the first round of the playoffs. (Prompting some kid from the other team, from just oustide of Cleveland, to tell us to "go back to our farms.") My freshman year, however (which is the only part of this tenuous link that matters), my friend wrote a story about him, in which, for whatever reason, I gave him a swirlie. The teacher later had this story read to him while I tried, by sheer force of will, to become invisible (because I was a tiny freshman and he was not only a junior, but a rather large junior who could crush me).

Today he scored the only touchdown in the Steeler's game. (He has a wikipedia article, and this really amuses me). And my freshman year, I ficticiously gave him a swirlie.

Today, my friends and I no longer have to worry so much about bearing the burden of having to be the person from our high school who's famous. He's got us beat well enough for now. (There was a rumour, for a while, that may still stand, that he's also the only one from my high school to have gone Ivy League, but obviously this is untrue because Penn State is quite different from Penn. So, I win by default because the UofC's as close as we get. Except no one remembers me. Except, perhaps, Isaac Smolko. Because of that vicious, vicious swirlie I gave him.)
Days 12-34: Do. not. touch. truck.

Day 35: Stare down truck. Get Dad to take the cap off of it so I no longer have to look through three panes of glass to use the rearview mirror. Decide that employment of any kind is very important at this point, and actually drive to [livejournal.com profile] sketchyheart's house to do some sewing. Manage not to stall, realize major problem had with second gear was that I never got the truck into second gear, thus explaining why, whenever I tried it, the engine just revved and revved and I went nowhere until I gave up and shifted to third. Still shy about things, but only stalled the car in her driveway upon arrival (I will have to work on parking at a later date). Leaving was a bit more of an adventure, especially the bit where I had to go left through the awful intersection at the start of my road, which involves a five-way stop and people who don't pay attention to right of way. I was quite certain I didn't want to die in a red pickup truck, and thankfully after stalling it once and then peeling out into the intersection (much to the amusement and terror of the other people waiting their turn, or not waiting their turn in the case of the lady I almost hit serves her right. I swear, people at that intersection have no sense at all...) I only died a little, and mostly of embarrassment.

Day 36: Contemplate doing it all again... Still don't want to die in a red pickup.
Still recovering from injuries sustained to the hands, arms, and face while making bacon in our noontime edition, tonight our intrepid Chef Hippo faces the deadly kebabs. Chopping onions and cubing meat with a storm looming on the horizon not half an hour after being trapped in the local Barnes and Noble due to a torrential downpour and slight flooding, she must face her greatest foe yet: the innocent-looking banana pepper. Brought in from the garden by her woefully inobservant mother, these fiends are in fact not banana peppers at all, but a super breed of demonic heathen-peppers designed for time-delayed vengeance on whoever spills their seedy innards upon the chopping block.

Will Chef Hippo survive the storm? The chemical-burn revenge of the stealth-peppers and their water-intensified sting? The fiery tongue of the grill? Will she, in an entertainment-geared epiphany, put on a pair of googles to keep the smoke out of her onion-irritated eyes, then have to find an umbrella to keep the rain from putting out the grill, inspiring her father to take blackmail-worthy pictures?

Find out next time on: Cooking With Evilhippo )
This just goes to show that I can be distracted by anything on the internet. More than an hour ago I sat down to do a bit of research on King Lear... which somehow lead me to the Paul is Dead article on wikipedia. Which is some of the most entertaining reading I have encountered as far as crazy conspiracy theories goes. I mean, I knew bits of it, but... between 1960s netspeak ("1 ONE I X HE ^ DIE") and, I mean, hints to his death before he died, and Lucy in the Sky with diamonds being clues to where his urn is... it's just... wonderful. And, unfortunately, it makes me want to write about something similar, except in some capacity it would require me to write song lyrics. But there's an entire DaVinci Code of random in that, just waiting to be exploited in some way... with an entirely fictionalized band and completely different premise, because one phenomenon whose toes I shall not tread upon specifically is that of The Beatles because... well, I've spent a good amount of time ignoring them, and I may be one of the few people in the world with none of their music at all to speak of anywhere in their collection, save for a spare cover or two by Ben Harper or Rufus Wainwright.

Oh, and the article also taught me where Death Cab for Cutie got their name. Knowledge! (Knowledge that has nothing at all to do with King Lear...)

And while we're on conspiracy theories, I'd like to point out that the music I'm listening to is a clue. As an artistic decision, seeking to counter the general theme of death notices posted to LJ by emo teens after months of moaning, I died before starting this journal, on July 16 of 2003, the very same day that an Australian research team led by Graham Giles of The Cancer Council published a medical study which concluded that frequent masturbation by males may help prevent the development of prostate cancer. If you arrange my icons (prominently featuring a certain similarly-fated character) in a pattern dictated by a specific monk (whose name you can learn by putting a mirror to one of my entires) secretly living in Arkansas (pronounced Ar-Kansas, either "Our Kansas", or "Ur Kansas", much like the Ur Hamlet, not to be confused with UR Hamlet (or UR Kansas), unless you subscribe to the theory that I am, in fact, Hamlet. Who is dead, so perhaps you're on to something there.) you will be able to see a high-definition sepiatone (represeting the fact that it was in the past) picture illustrating the exact means of my death and the subsequent cover-up and eventual creation of the livejournal you see here.

Oh, and the icing atop all the clues (I keep re-reading this as "icing on the soup" and it really makes me want to use the phrase somewhere) here is hidden within the article itself. Just in case you're too lazy to play detective, I will reproduce it here myself: "McCartney is depicted as a walrus in the Magical Mystery Tour album cover (although some have suggested he is in fact the hippo)." So there you have it. Undeniable truth.
evilhippo: hippo (41 [indescribable])
( Mar. 1st, 2006 11:13 pm)


The Script )

Also... I'm sorry. [livejournal.com profile] chocolatemoose dared me, and my honour was at stake. I don't think anyone has ever said "total bishie" and had it sound like a surfer dude said it. And for that... for that, I make no apologies.

Oh, and don't forget to check out its companion piece here. I think this debacle has broken me from the valley girl accent for a good few months. Oh yes.
evilhippo: hippo (13 [writing])
( Oct. 4th, 2005 06:52 pm)
So like, I was sitting in class today doodling Hughes in the margins and not paying attention because like, who pays attention to class when you could be thinking about FMA? But I had to keep looking up and yelling "omg, FMA, where?" every time the professor said "transmutation of species" or "theory of homunculi." This is even better than last year in Physics when we discovered that F=ma! It's like, omg, FMA is real. Because, like, the truth about "evolution" is that there are tiny homunculi in the sperm¹, and when they're in the womb they soak up this fluid and unfold! So, obviously if you didn't put them in the mother, and just gave them food and water, they'd grow up into a real homunculus! I need to find a guy with sperm so we can try to grow Envy, and then I can love him every day and teach him to be nice! Oh! And did you know that a long time ago alchemy was real??

Arrrgh, fangirls. (No, I'm just kidding around, I'm not that bitter). You guys are just lucky that I'm not actually a fourteen year-old girl (or someone with the same vocal obsessive tendencies) because my Origin of Species professor's favourite verb is "transmute." And... well, I did spend an inordinate amount of time in class today tracing out what, exactly, the moral of my story would be if it had the semi-happy ending I was going to give it (which, amazingly, fell apart as soon as I applied logic to it, so no more completely happy ending). And Hughes was doodled in my margins... but it was Hughesmunculus, and really only the eyes and hair (because I can't draw, and I had to take a lot of notes). I am such a dork. I'm sorry. Though I think I've realized that the massive amount of theory piled on you here, in lieu of actual facts, is probably what drives me to write a lot while I'm in school. As I read over the things I've written, a lot of them are really a way of working out how to look at all these theories I'm given in a different setting. Probably the strangest use for fic ever, but hey... I can't deny that I wrote Plato's ideal city as the basis for Konoha. And I'm going to be writing stuff from Lyell into the fic I'm picking up again. Apparently this is just how I work.

All right... back to French homework with me. Arr.²


¹ Yes... the theory of development called "evolution" deals with homunculi (tiny, pre-formed beings), while "epigenesis" says they develop bit by bit (you get the tiny beating heart of a chick before it's actually a chick). How's that for confusion of terms? Oh, and evolution does not necessarily say that the filament containing the homunculus is in the sperm (there were a few that believed it to be in the egg, which they couldn't find until 1832 anyway), but for the most part these guys were male, and so naturally they took credit for creating life.³
² Actually, I'm not doing my French homework. Instead, I'm editing the crap out of this because I'm not in the mood for French right now at all, and I'm dreading the fact that I'm going to have another pile of reading tomorrow night. Oh crap, and I've got a quiz in French tomorrow, too. Crap. Crap. Fine, I'll go do my homework before my battery runs out and I have to go back into the living room where it's noisy.
³ This post is now informational as well as obnoxious!
evilhippo: hippo (6 [yay])
( May. 2nd, 2005 12:27 pm)
Okay... I'm going to try to use actual sentences in this entry. And since my paper is done and I'm slightly less stressed (you should see the pile of reading I have for tonight) we should be okay... First of all, it needs to warm up. Like, now. Days with a high of 48 at the start of May are just wrong. I'm tired of this overcast crap, it's depressing everyone and making our lives miserable. This had better be one awesome weekend so I can go outside to write my Sosc paper.

I had this strange dream last night that people on IRC were yelling at me for pasting things into the chat more than once, and I was trying to make excuses about it that had something to do with [livejournal.com profile] chocolatemoose but I'm not sure why. Then next thing I knew I was trying to move out of the dorm and my dad had come to pick me up and I had everything packed into boxes in the corner of my room, but I had to go make one last lap around campus or something. Only campus was huge (and, unfortunately, still grey and cold). I wandered around the grey and cold side for a while, then somehow ended up on the other side where it was sunny and warm (and really humid). There was this pool covered in a tarp that I jumped into with my iPod, but I inisisted to the shocked bystanders that the cover made it waterproof and it'd be fine. Then everyone else jumped in the pool and I got out and left. And for some reason after this point all I can remember is the water temple from Ocarina of Time. Err...

Oooh, and I've got a funny story for everyone. See, we've been having trouble with our campus e-mail for the past few days, and so I haven't been able to use my address book properly. This would be fine, but I tend to typo on e-mail addresses I'm sure of. Like my mom's for example. Otis206@aol.com. Well... I attempted to send her an e-mail about working on my costume this weekend, but sent it to Otis026 instead. Otis026 is a guy from Long Island who writes very, very bad poetry. Well not poetry so much as things like this: "When i first looked into your eyes. Your soul touched me . I knew we had been there before. You were so enticing. I couldnt believe i had gone through life without you. Where had you been . It was wonderful, the way you took me to the deepths and hieghts of my wildest dreams. By simply looking into my eyes. To show you what you mean to me, I gave my heart to you without reservation. Thats when we know our endless nights. Endless nights of loneliness and yearing where over". And yes, it just ends like that. The best part though, is how gloriously strange my e-mail is out of context. Now... put yourself in the mind of some indeterminately-aged Long Islander who writes things like that. And click the cut.

Best random e-mail to get, ever )

I mean, it's bad enough in context. I also love how I never gave any indication that it was intended for my mom, and not some random Long Islander who writes badly-romantic things that trail off to nowhere. Hehehehe. (Omg, there is actually a blockquote tag! I thought I was just making that up...)
evilhippo: hippo (3 [grr])
( Mar. 14th, 2005 06:15 pm)
Okay... this is about the stupidest e-mail I have ever gotten. However, the girl who sent it to me (who, incidentally, hasn't talked to me since 8th grade or so) is not someone I feel like annoying by just hitting "Reply All" and chewing her out. Every single point the e-mail brings up further proves that, well, whoever wrote it is just effing stupid, that's all. So I'm going to rant about it here.

Stupid e-mail, angry ranting )
evilhippo: hippo (10 [wee])
( Feb. 23rd, 2005 04:46 pm)
Okay... here is a good sign that I 1) have been reading too much manga/watching too much anime 2) have been following Neil Gaiman's blog a bit too closely and 3) am basically just a raving nut.

Ichigo's sword... looks like Neil Gaiman to me. Now, before those of you that don't know Bleach start going "WTF?!" at me... there's a human representation of the sword, so I'm not that insane. Really, the problem is, after a bit of research, I realize that they look relatively un-alike. So... I will present the evidence to you.

Zangetsu = Neil Gaiman? )

You should hear the conversation I'm having right now, about how the personification of a sword should look more clean-cut. I personally think that the scruffy look is pleasantly unusual for swords. Hehehe.

I've also decided that Hohenheim founded the Stargate program. Watch me prove it.
.

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