Don’t you hate when you feel as if you’ve been daydreaming forever, but after turning around and glancing at the clock, only a minute has passed by? I like to gaze out of the window during trig and watch the cars rush down 40 while I sit idle. Early this morning I burned a wonderful compilation featuring the haunting melodies of Celtic women, the exuberant Ben Folds Five, Bitch and Animal, and Pretty Girls Make Graves, and the somber System Of A Down.

This week has provided me with many first time experiences. Well, I can’t think of any from the beginning of the week, so I’ll go with today. I’ve never actually sat down with Shawn and talked with him, even if only for a moment (in art, and I paid him a brief visit during lunch). I’ve driven through the Loop, but never actually hung (which apparantly isn’t a word) out there until today.

So our beloved Launch fell victim to the evil Websense. Fret not, for there’s now XSAO.

There is a vile little six-letter word that seems to ignite animosity in our minds. Although it is not obscene, one might think otherwise based on people’s reactions to it. We cringe at the implication of it. That word, my friend, is change. People fear it. They get settled into their routines and find comfort in the monotonism(?). When someone comes along and tries to interfere, they go on the defensive: things are fine as is, great even.

If traditional journalists are the information sentinels, then bloggers are the militant rebel force. Post-Dispatch contributor Kathleen Parker insists that “bloggers assume anything said is fair game.” Let me go on the record on how I feel about this. I absorb all sorts of information from people and other sources, some of which may be (highly) confidential. You would not believe the gossip, personal information, and other stuff that is thrown out there on any given day.

Chechen leader Aslan Maskhadov has reportedly been killed. A word to the wise: don’t believe it until you get the body, and confirm it for yourself. This sounds like an Alias episode waiting to happen. Oh, wait… it has happened.

Love, and I use the term loosely, is a bitch and it seems to be a recurring theme in my life. Quite frankly, I’m through with it. It does me no good–a bunch of wanting and giving. And for what? Nothing, but anxiety and heartache. What am I complaining about though? I look at the problems of others and mine seem so trivial. Quit tormenting yourself, you don’t deserve it. Love is a battlefield, and I’m putting down my guns.

I am unstable. On the exterior, I may portary a reasonably sane individual–but it’s merely an appearance, as things aren’t always what they seem. Beneath the veil, I am a twisted soul. It would be better for me to be locked away now, for there’s no telling what I’ll do in the future. What seems like so many years of endless questioning has apparantly fucked me up. But then again, things aren’t always what they seem.

“The polygraph examination was conducted in a small locked room.” It may sound like Hemingway, if he had applied to work for a U.S. intelligence agency. But it actually comes from an unusual first person account of the process of applying for employment at the National Security Agency—from the initial interview to the psychological exam to the background investigation and the polygraph test. The author, writing under the pseudonym Ralph J.

Chest pains, throat aches, tingly sensations (and not in the good way). Chills, fever, debilitating coughs—sickness is a bitch and I try to avoid it like the plague. Physical pain, however, I seem to be able to deal with. It’s the emotional blows that I seem to curl up like a baby about. Last night, I had a conversation with myself. It basically boiled down to me wanting to drop IB/Metro because I felt really behind (Art, Achebe/External Assessment, Nolte, et cetera).

For the first time since moving here, I’ve changed a light bulb. The bulbs in my room died out some time ago, and I’ve since used a halogen torchiere to replace it. Well, yesterday, that bulb reached the end of its life and I was left in darkness. I put off replacing the bulbs for this long because of a particularly nasty run-in with a fly during the summer months. All I remember is after a couple hours of passively fighting with it, it eventually got trapped in the fixture that covered the bulbs and died.

I dance when no one’s looking. To entertain myself while doing dishes last night, I popped in the Dizzee mix that Jewelia made for me and honey, let me tell you—there was more poppin’ than washin'. Just for the record, Lysol should never under any circumstances be used as air freshener. My mom seems to not understand this and uses it constantly to deodorize the bathroom. I’m sorry, but there is no reason why I should suffocate on the stuff when showering.