The List Of Why Some Girls Will Never Get Laid

I am the girl that doesn't go to school dances, or games, and when I do go, I sit in a corner and read a book.
Because you have social anxiety disorder, low self-esteem, no hobbies outside of your own little self-centered world, and you are incapable of making friends like normal kids.

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Everything seems to be going amazingly shitty lately. I'm having trouble housebreaking my dog, I've got textbooks shipped late and delaying my participation in two classes, and I even had to drop a class because I had no fucking clue when the goddamn thing started. One of those "last 10 weeks" of the semester things. (Did I mention I'm enrolled at two colleges this semester? It's a buttfucking nightmare.) I'm livid and just fed up tired right now.

If anyone has a joke or a funny comment/video to share, share away. I could use a good laugh right now.

Seems like every other profile on FF.net has one of those "you know you live in 2008 when..." followed by a list of some of the brainless reflexes people now have thanks to technology doing all their thinking for them. Below is Bender v. The List.

You know you're a fucking idiot when...
1) You accidentally enter your password on a microwave.

You know you're brain has begun to atrophy when...
2) You'd rather look all over the house for the remote instead of just pushing the buttons on the TV. And you don't know how to use "you're" in a sentence, jackass.

You know you're a basement-dwelling Microsoft cumstain when...
3) You haven't played solitaire with real cards for years.

You know you're a socially-inept piece of shit when...
4) The reason for not staying in touch with your friends is they don't have MSN or Myspace.

You know you're a worthless anime-inspired art major when...
5) Your boss doesn't even have the ability to do your job. (Because your boss is too busy making sure you don't burn the fries again.)

You know you're an easily entertained peon with a brain like a BB when...
7) As you read this list you keep nodding and smiling.

You know you have no life outside of writing fanfiction and masturbating to Naruto when...
8) As you read this list you think about sending it to all your friends.

You know you're about as observant as Helen Keller in a silent movie theater when...
9) You were too busy stupid to notice there was no number 6.

You know you love seeing yourself for the witless wonder you are when...
10) You scrolled back up to see if there was a number 6.

You know you are fucked up beyond all non-euthanisable hope when...
11) You're laughing at your stupidity.

You know you're a trendless meme whore when...
12) You're thinking, "I have to put this on my profile!"

You know you're publicly admitting that you were stupid enough to think this list was witty when it really just pwned your last remaining braincell and beat it to death with mediocrity when you...
13) Put this in your profile if you fell for that, and you know you did.

There's a time and a place for everything. But the patrons and owners of local pizza restaurants have never heard that expression.

If any of you didn't spend the early 90s as a drooling toddler, you'll probably remember Boys II Men's I'll Make Love to You, which hit #1 on the charts and was played nonstop for years on every soft pop radio station alongside The Real McCoys and Ace of Base. You can't have lived through 1994 and not heard that gag-inducing piece of shit. It's a song that a delusional woman would make her suffering boyfriend play over and over on every date if he ever expected to get any. And it's the last song you wanna hear on the ultra-loud jukebox at Pizza Hut when you're having dinner with your parents. I was so fucking embarrassed that I actually faked a coughing fit during the worst parts of the song. If I could go back in time to that moment, I'd stand up at the table and scream, "WHO THE FUCK PUT THIS SONG IN!? I DON'T WANNA HEAR ABOUT PEOPLE HAVING SEX WHILE I'M EATING!" Bender 1, Pizza Hut 0.

And then there was the incident at Mazzio's (damn we ate a lot of pizza back then), where the manager thought it would be a swell idea to put in a copy of the newly-released Dances With Wolves and play it on the big screen TV in the corner of the restaurant. Well, our dinnertime just happened to coincide with the part where Kevin Costner takes down a buffalo and eats its hot, raw, bloody heart. Manager Moron, who later was imprisoned for putting toilet cams in the ladies bathroom, had to come out and fast forward through that part or else spend the rest of the night cleaning puke off of the floor. I think I did my very first headtable then. I was only 11 then, but already I had a clear grasp of the sheer fucking gut-wrenching stupidity that was the majority of mankind. Luckily we left the restaurant before the sex scene came up. I wonder how the manager dealt with that one.

Any tales of woe and facepalm from your past?

Right now I'm so sick of hearing about goddamn vampires in pop culture that I will personally stake and exorcise the next fat vamp-wannabe fangirl I see in a 2X Twilight t-shirt.

As far as I'm concerned, there is only one vampire, and his name is Count Motherfucking Dracula. And he could snap Edward Cullen's rubbery homo spine with his right testicle, suck out both his eyeballs in one breath, and skullfuck the empty sockets so hard that Eddie's brains would look like a can of Spam put through a blender.

I vote for Dracula. Because I'd rather die a gruesome, violent death at the fangs of a bloodthirsty monster than suffer the disgrace of suicide after being molested by a glittering faggot whose fangs, like his dick, couldn't penetrate a slice of Jell-O.

Any writer who touts the whole "muse" thing doesn't impress me. "I can't write! My muses have gone on vacation," whines the FanFiction.net author. "My muses find inspiration in the outdoors," explains the DeviantArt poet. "I can only compose verse in such an environment under the right conditions."

You know what that tells me? These people aren't writing with their brains; they are only pulling random thoughts out of thin air, jotting them down, and hoping that the end result is legible enough to generate some feedback. (From anybody.) These people are not writing for the art - they are writing for themselves. Or for attention. Or to gratify a specific fantasy or vision that they have in their heads. They are writers with the minds of children, and the only way they can hope to grow is to abandon their childish ways.

These "authors" possess abilities so fragile that the slightest disturbance of their immediate surroundings renders them the floundering, unimaginative persons that they are; or they're looking for someone or something to blame for their lack of brainpower. They have not yet fortified and strengthened themselves against the trials of tedium and outside influences, nor have they trained their minds to the almost-zen state of consciousness through which the words can flow. More importantly, they have not matured to the point of being able to accept the responsibility that comes with being a true writer.

I know this is because no true, hard-working writer wants to go halvsies on intellectual property with some whimsical nonsense like "muses". Until a writer has been infected by the greed for their own personal glory and the vicious lust of their creativity, they will continue to fail in their endeavors. They will continue to thoughtlessly peck on the keyboard, hoping to become better writers while not actively pursuing their own self-education in the matter. And even when they do manage to write something good, what happens next? They turn around and attribute that rare glimmer of artistic creativity to some imaginary "mojo faeries" whose mercurial mercies render them into helpless victims. They are effectively cheating themselves by admitting that they are nothing without their muses. But perhaps that is all they are capable of being in the first place: nothing.

I joke around a lot when others talk to me about my writing. I'm sure I've said once or twice, "Yeah, I must've been channeling some 19th century psychopath when I wrote that!" or various other incarnations of sarcasm. But the truth, my friends, in its totality and absolute clarity, is that when I write, it's all me. No muses. No talismans. No rabbit feet or dreamcatchers or crystals or gods or ghosts dictate to me the things that are swimming in the black ocean between my ears. They belong to me and always will, and my jealousy will not permit me to share them with another.

If I'm not writing, it's either because I don't feel like it, or I've lost interest in the material that I'm producing. It's not that my muses took a vacation, nor is it because I can't find the right patch of sunshine to sit in while I listen to Jonas Brothers on my iPod and daydream about Twilight plotlines. It's my fault if I'm not writing. I will accept the blame because it means I can accept the glory. I am in control. I am all who was ever in control.

P.S. And just for the record, I don't even pretend to believe I'm a great author. I've written almost no original material and most of that material is quite terrible. I've got a lot to learn still, but I'm beginning to see how things work in the world of writing. Hence the preceding observation.

Everybody knows two things: 1) A movie is never as good as the literature upon which it is based, and 2) A movie's sequel never does as well as its predecessor.

It seems like the producers are going from consideration to commencement with Ghost Rider 2, which sends waves of horror rippling through every fiber of my pink mortal guts. The first Ghost Rider was mildly entertaining at best. And I'm a fan. There was no character development, it lacked a solid storyline, the plot had more holes than Blackburn, Lancashire, and I firmly believe that the only reason a copy of the screenplay cannot be obtained from the internet is because Mark Steven Johnson, who couldn't write directions out of a cardboard box, is trying to cover up his hack-and-slash job of mangling the putrid puddle of pus he'd already offered up as a screenplay.

Yeah, those are harsh words. But I believe I'm justified in my convictions. Ghost Rider could have been an epic movie of pure yes, but it wasn't. And I know that Johnson had a hand in selling the film short of its potential. A lot of people did, including the actors themselves. It was dumbed down and raped from its comic form, washed, wrung, hung to dry, and translated into a tangled jumble of CG-garbage. While I enjoy the movie for my own sick intents and purposes, I don't approve of what was done in order to bring one of the coolest Marvel legends to the masses.

Bottom line: It could have been done better. A lot better.

I dread the even bigger flop that GR2 will bring. It makes me sick just to think of it. I can't imaging fucking up GR more than it's already been fucked, but unlike most of the GR filmmakers, I've got an imagination and the things I'm seeing scare the shit out of me. Unless Johnson took a hike, had an epiphany, or learned to write those directions out of that cardboard box, my hopes are living downstairs with Satan. (Who says that if Hell gets anymore bad rep that he'll unleash Armageddon three years early.)

Seriously. This shit's gotta stop. The cut-and-paste garbage. The "I'm a ___ so I must be ___" and the weepy "I told my priest I was a necrophiliac who masturbates to bestiality and child porn and now he said I'm gonna burn in Hell, SYMPATHIZE WITH ME PLZ OK THX" and the quotes made by you and your friends that only you find funny and the rest of us just think you're dumb as a fucking stump. If you're a FF.net user and you've got a working brain in your head, abandon ship, grow a dick (or tits, whatever) and give up the epic 15-scrolls-to-get-through-your-profile nonsense. As for the rest of the losers, just give me time. I'll have some quotes for you to choke on. The lawnmower is officially out of the shed.

And now for the Happy News!

This past weekend I found my GameBoy Color and my old Pokemon Red cartridge, still unfinished. I bet I haven't touched the game since I was a teenager. It's amazing. Three whole colors! And that's why they call it GameBoy Color.

Football is a game for American homosexuals. It is the primary recruiting technique for young new homosexuals, as it is a required part of most young men's high school education.

If soccer is like ballet, in the sense that too many of the male dancers don't like the ballerinas or even women in general, American football is hip-hop; they badly want ass but would kill each other before letting on.

American football is descended from rugby, but requires that players specialize in positions rather than everyone running around tossing a ball backwards every 3 steps, then getting tackled by 5 people forming a scrum (see also: orgy). --Encyclopedia Dramatica

* * *

In professional American football, the Super Bowl is the championship game of the National Football League (NFL). The game and its ancillary festivities constitute Super Bowl Sunday. Over the years it has become the most-watched U.S. television broadcast of the year, and has become likened to a de facto U.S. national holiday. In addition, many popular singers and musicians have performed during the Super Bowl's pre-game and halftime ceremonies. Super Bowl Sunday is the second-largest U.S. food consumption day, following Thanksgiving. --Wikipedia


I've tried to write this rant several times, but my disgust just can't seem to be put into words.

Do not want.

Idiots on cell phones. Walking. Sitting. Driving. Driving over pedestrians. They're everywhere and giving me brain tumors. Somebody make it stop.

Facebook. Every screen in the computer lab. Is there anyone here who isn't made of fail?

White boys blasting hip hop in their cars, with the windows rolled down and the volume extra loud so everyone can hear how cool they are. It's not your music, Whitey McDipshit. Creed and Moby is your music. Insert brain, try again.

Screeching valley girls (on cell phones) that end every sentence like a question and use "like" as a subject, verb, direct object, noun, adjective, and indirect object. Ladies, please, just . . . go die somewhere. The gene pool does not need to be pissed in.

Bros.

Skinny jeans and fur-lined, knee-high boots. This is Georgia, you cunts. Not the Alaskan fucking tundra. It was 46 degrees today. With sunshine. Move to Antarctica if you wanna wear that crap, because you look stupid doing it here.

Everything else is cool. My math class just might end up being the highlight of the semester.