As everyone else in their right minds drew pictures of mannequins, people, and nature-like objects, Min-dawg happened to be the only person in her un-right mind to draw a slighty out-of-shape figure, completely stark naked.

To make matters slightly worse, it was a woman.

Maybe it is time to take up hiking, so that I can live in a cold, wet cave for 6 months eating nothing more than bear-meat and tree bark denouncing all clues of my lesbianess. Ah, only one can dream, right?


Here's an exciting amount of news.

We're heading to Rochester, ON a Friday.

Sure beats Sunday.


I feel a huge barrel of inspiration coming for me. See it? Might knock me dead soon.

Out of this, my mighty barrel of inspiration, you sprung me a naked girl. I was forced to draw it onto paper. It's lovely, isn't it? She has quite the imperfect body-- untrained arms, a concave stomach, fat legs, sagging breasts. Perfect may be too 'cliche', with this odd art competition my Drawing/Painting teacher forced us to compete in. Hey, if this inspiration I got gets me into 1st place and onto the state competition, I'll be the proud new owner of fifty grand moolahs. That, my friend, can be saved into buying myself a ticket out of the U.S., thank god.

Inspiration, don't fail me now!


I'm STILL not a fricking stereotype, you stupid bastard!

The second part of a rather useless documentary. By M.S. Park.

Now, I'm quite certain many people have heard of outcasts turned wrong--the icky, unwanted kind pushed around by so-called wannabe 'jocks', who in one way or another will get their legs amputated by the works of a revengeful, broodish character or by some ax-murderer on a killing spree. These outcasts, let me remind you, are the cause of many, useless deaths in their own demented, but rightfully justified in their revengeful mindsets. This may be peeing in the pool, growing to huge fame at the ripe age of 26 and ridiculing their once-popular bodies and haircuts, or taking up a good real-life game of Grand Theft Auto and planning sweet revenge at the same time. Ain't school life great?

Despite all this positive talk, all these 'school spirit rallies' that the student body will hold once a year, all these denials of anything less-positive about this ominous atmosphere most people dread to seeing every weekday, there is something dark lurking within those shadows. The outcasts--the quiet, silent types with a mysterious attitude and an odd way of observing the better off--are often mocked, and the 'mockeries' often get away with it. From experience, even if they are caught and given their due punishment, it is very likely the mocking and bullying will grow worse, and in a worse case scenario, send the poor-sent fellow into a sucidal path to destruction.

As a fellow 'exceptional' outcast, I've been known to be a mistress of mystery. People often applaud me for my artistic talents, which I resent with a feverish passion, and completely ignore any written achievements I've worked my silly carcass on for so many years. Likely, if anyone were to bring up my name, the response you'd receive from them would be "oh, that girl that draws well?"

Ohh, how I so resent the student body.

I have observed so many odd, peculiar scenes in the days I've been dragging myself to school, I'm not sure whether this whole school business is a joke or just a sick play of reality. Cheerleaders are really quite dumb, and as far as I've seen, boys...well, I shan't even go there.

At times, I wonder what I can do to escape from it all. It's all a mystery. Of course, I am nothing like the outcasts who caused the Columbine shootings.

That brings me to another, out-of-order question.

Why aren't there any women plotting revenge to kill off the whole student body?

Really, I mean, come on. Shoot the bloody thing. This shooting business can't only be a guy thing, right?

But, in all seriousness, if there is an outcast out there who is being picked on, do the right thing. Stick up for them. It isn't fun, and it's beyond cruel. With no one there for them, I'm not suprised something like Columbine happened. People ask 'Why? Why did this happen? We never did anything to them!"

Wrong. You let this go on inside of them. None of you helped them out. You can't just let something like this get out of control. I don't understand this popularity sometimes, but I haven't gotten to the point of wanting to kill off the entire student body. If you don't want that, I'd hope people would treat these outcasts with respect, and stop treating them like a) a little baby that can't speak or b) some animal that deserves nothing. More likely, the assholes doing this to them are the animals that deserve no respect.

This 'school' thing will be continued later on.


I'm not a fricking stereotype, you stupid bastard!

Or the temptations and misinformed stories of the average high schooler, by the girl that should know better. Part 1 of a illiterate documentary by M.S. Park.

In modern American society, there has been this cliched part of adolescence that represents the dark, more ugly side of living through a period in time which no one can endure. That, of course, is being a high schooler. High school is not a painstakingly macabre way of parent's standard of everyday torture, nor is it a fun and gayish time that involves a cup of iced tea with your friendly, white-toothed princepal. High school is not spent going to football games staring the unbelieveably handsome star quarterback, whom you've spent the last 2 years worshiping. In fact, all these stereotyped instilled into us--the cheerleaders, the football team, the geeky asians who always seem to have an A in every class except Phy. Ed--are in fact, false. Just as false as your princepal with his eye-burning white teeth.

Myth 1# Cliques exist.

No. Forget those long-forgotten episodes on Buffy with Cordelia's vain, unwanted attitude and her vain, all-knowing friends. In fact, there is no such thing remotely closer to a clique than a band of a horribly popular group of friends who the outcasts would love to kill. But that's only because we're right they're jealous.

Myth 2# You will be automatically condemned and considered the Anti-Christ if you go to school not wearing the latest fashion!

No, the blondes who are the fashionably-correct wouldn't know which end goes in the toilet seat, so you shouldn't worry about them having any knowledge whatsoever about name brands and the latest fashion. They would wear anything that would get the star quarterback for the football team to notice them, anyways. I bet if he fancied them naked in a whole batch of foul-smelling fish, they'd do it in an instant.

Myth 3# Everyone fits into a stereotype.

"No. Shutup. I am NOT a STEREOTYPE. HOW DARE YOU JUDGE ME?!! You don't KNOW me! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO! Y'all haters. Hay-ters. Me and MAH boy, we'll beat yo' asses-"

On second thought, yes.

Q: "Okay smartass, which stereotype do you fit into, you fucking looney?"

A: Outcast, you dumbass.

Myth 4# All the cheerleaders are pretty, skinny like anorexic, and are easy to lay.

Oh, you wish.

From experience, most of them are ugly like Sarah Michelle Gellar, skinny as anorexic, and have legs interlocked tighter than a thong on a fat woman. Sorry, dudes. Even my super-human strength couldn't get a good time on a Saturday night with a blonde-haired ditz like such.

Myth 5# The princepal is your archenemy.

No (of course this excludes that girl walking around school with a pack of cigarettes in plain sight). In fact, he'll be the one to your rescue when you are impaled by an odd-looking fish in the school cafeteria. Then, of course, the evil nurse will send you on your merry day to your class, disregarding all injuries, uncontrollable bleeding, and the displacement of a head. Remember kids, not every princepal is like Snyder!

Myth 6# "So like, he's a hero?"

No, you silly pet. Just don't be caught smoking pot in the ladies' bathroom and all should be well.

Myth 7# The star quarterback for the football team is good-looking, sexy, bones harder than the Hoover Dam, and has failing grades, but somehow he manages to get a scholarship to play for the NFL.

No. Everyone knows that's the very intellectual, everyone-loving-but-not-everyone-fuckingish teacher that just got transferred to our school.

Get your filthy visages off of him, you knaves!

That's right. Shoo. Shoo. Heh...

Part 2 shall commence shortly.


"After a long 7 years, a long time after the climatic tales that unfolded in this world were put to a hastened halt by some unfamiliar rogues, I was seemingly put to rest. By many slashings from a violet-coloured sword, I was sent into oblivion and far away from any form of being I could infect. They thought that so, as I waited here in solitute, without anything or anyone to touch, feel, or connect with. All those fake fantasies about meeting a supreme deity or meeting a peaceful or cruel fate never seemed to happen; there was only black, unwanted space waiting for me, with a cold, dry breath to slowly caress me to bone."

And so on, and so on. What is this? A fanfic in progress. A lot of all these half-understandable fics are always in progress. I have this horrible affliction called ICFFS, or "I can't finish fanfics" Syndrome. It especially hits when my writing streak is up to max, and I actually feel good about my feelings of it being finished and not sounding like a drunken spell by some cheesy Irishman with a RLS disorder. I curse thee, Microsoft Word!

On another sad and frightening note, I am sexy as hell.


Osmundus Challis

In time, life changes.

What seemed to be fun for me last year turned out to be a special torture set aside for my kind this year. Friends had other plans, teachers became more strict and set in their evil ways, and all of the seniors listened to Avril.

There was no escape.

Quietly, every day, I would arrive to school an hour earlier, carefully checking out the scene. A certain teacher I’ve had my eye on, Mr. Beasley, always seemed to be there, content, staring at the clock in his classroom, watching it tick. Every second he watched it with glazed-over, chocolately eyes. I looked at him in wonder, behind the bushes, peeking in through the glass window outside. He would just stare, and it would send some sort of disgusting feeling inside of me.

A couple of months into the school year, an assembly was called to the dreadful assembly hall in the dirtiest of places in the school—the school basement. Creepy that basement was, but it was mandatory and I had enough referrals for the semester. I shuffled my shoes, watched my back, and followed the long line of pestering young fellows talking oh-so loudly about such frivolous things like which guy had the biggest you-know-what, and which cheerleader was the easiest to drug.

Seated, the principal began. His mustache was as long as his hair, fashioned into weird blue dreads extending to his shoulders. Thankfully, he hadn’t done anything of that sort to his mustache.

“As y’all see,” he began in a strong Southern drawl,” I have gathered y’all here today for somethin’ important.”

He paused to look around. The cheerleaders and jocks were in one section, mingling amongst themselves, not hearing anything but their own small chit-chatter. It rang softly throughout the assembly hall, and as I could see (being the only one listening, anyhoo), he showed great distaste in that. The principal’s eyes narrowed into little black slits.

“Mr. Hayfield, may I ask what yousa doin’?” he asked timidly. I imagined a bead of sweat rolling down his wrinkled face.

“We’sa doin’ nothin’, sir. We jes listenin’ to you givin’ your speech.”

“Well I’m sure you are,” he said, wiping away that imagined bead of sweat.

“Sir, if I may add,” began Mr. Hayfield, grinning mockingly at him,” Howsa you is such a good princepal. I mean, ALL of us, we sho’ appreciate what you’ve been a-doing for us. Hell, even-“

“That’s enough, Mr. Hayfield,” began I,” I know what your kind are always up to. Dirty things you are.”

It took quite a long second to realise what I had said unconscienciously. It was one of my many bad faults; I couldn’t usually stop what thoughts ran through my mind (thus the heavy amount of referrals I have).

“Aw, you? Why don’t you’sa ever shut the HELL up?” Mr. Hayfield cried. It didn’t take long before I found myself in a circle of laughing student monkeys. They pointed at me, even cursing my name. Even the principal began to snicker at me with a curious grin upon his ugly, wrinkled face.

“Dirty things,” I continued to sneer disgustingly, not stopping my thoughts,” No morals, no respect, all of you! Dirty things you are. I cannot comprehend how I ever ended up on the same planet as you things!”

In a moment, I was quietly excused to the boys’ bathroom. Two scruffly white men made assurance that I wouldn’t be bothering the rest of the assembly.

“You know,” I began loudly in the bathroom stall, staring at the goop left by the last person,” I shan’t think this is a right punishment for I! I bet you two haven’t been learned enough in the ways of our kind, have you? I’m pretty sure you haven’t. You’re just puppets. Puppets with no end to your being. If you’d for once-“


The law says it's illegal to kill somebody, unless in accidental cause, in which case you'd be convicted of manslaughter. But if the person was incredibly stupid, therefore dumbing everyone else in general, dumbing everyone he came in contact with, and presented a boastful amount of knowledge involving subjects that will never apply to the outside (or inside) world in general, could I kill him?

Or if he runs around the dorm hallways streaking, spends his family's poor money off buying Ecstasy and any other illegal substance on the market, whilst breaking every girl's hearts just for his own sick entertainment, could I kill him?

Or, to fit anyone else's mind-bleeding scenario, is there any certain person you've ever encountered--be it a sister, father, friend, or boy-obsessed cheerleader with a poor sense of direction, that you've always thought deserved to die?

Some people, in general, deserve to die. It's always so ironic how the greatest of beings are always struck down in their youth, yet all these idiots roaming high-life America get away with living. Sometimes I wish I was Buffy*, and they were vampires. One pop in der Heart, and it's goodbye you damned creature you! AHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!111111oneone!!!!111111one111!!!!

Some people, in general, really need death. I ought to set up one of those freaky "Jehovah Witnesses - We're out to Convert You!" programmes designed specifically to cleanse the world of it's stupidly created beings. Of course, that's only my Satanic side speaking. Or my religious side. Depends how you look at it.


* could also be Faith, Spike, any other part of the Scooby gang.

Spike!!! Spike!!! Spike!!!!!1111 ...whosa Spike luster? Eh? Eh?


As a part of some usually random and quite stupidly acted out shite I do in my headache-obsessed spare time, I had this odd break-out of STS during the late hours of the night.

Bloody bloke wanking git of a fanny wanking minging shite bag of an arse hole filled with fookin' butter...


I am in dire need of a change in atmosphere.

The simpletons are really starting to get to me lately. A girl taking time out of a frisbee game because her nail got chipped? Ignorant 14-year-old testerone-filled boys prancing around mocking our un-sportness? The mere fact that there was no participation? The fact that they're girls???

Lord, these would be one of these times you take me to somewhere a bit more intelligent. Say, a nice cafe in France? Wouldn't mind that.

I guess one of the downfalls living in the Midwest is being surrounded by Midwestern-accented farm-loving drunks who would do anything for a Twinkee. (Twinkies...allow me to cringe in utter horror. Whuggah.) Maybe I'm just far too sophisticated and arrogant for these feeble beings. Ha! ha. ha.

Maybe this arrogant, condescending thought of mine was caused by the fact that I'm a true Scorpio in nature, and Lord knows, Scorpios and farm country don't mix...



Women anger me.

Those fragile little vixens...

You know, I hardly can imagine how men live with themselves. Maybe they have some sort of formula for dealing with them? I think I'm adaptable with the male chromosome. Female chromosomes seem to anger me beyond oblivion.

Damn them.


There is no such thing as reality. It's nonexistant; far from any of our spoiled hands. All those fantastic dreams at night? Believe it so, it's my world. Home, where I reside every weekend with drugs getting high to depress my already unimaginable hate for myself, hardly exists. A made up fantasia to explain normal. Nothing is completely normal. Whatever that IS normal is only a collection of events that coincide with each other. Normal? Bahhh. I think I'm high right now.

Life really doesn't seem worthwhile most of the time, but I'm really not certain what lies for me after my untimely death, so I've forced myself to not do anything considered suicidal in this morbid society.

edit: Hey, sir. Yes, you. From the school. Please do stop delving into my private life, you half-brained twit before I seriously bring this up with the school. Yes, I have proof, and I *will* get you fired from your job if this keeps up. Leave me alone.

Consider this your last warning.


O fruitless journeys across many worlds,

it brings dangerous arms and frail insecurity,

a small bounty collected by greed and war,

small reasons made from fragments of reality.

The dead gathered and helped the living,

who were dead in their black unwanted hearts,

hearts which love nor peace could claim victorious,

but the dead could not bear to part.

A love between roses separated by a unwavering hand,

it drove them apart in their unnumerable efforts,

the sun dried them up in their tries to be,

the sun dried them up and made them free.

Beautiful, beautiful free,

which we shall not endure,

this beautiful free that we enjoyed in our youth,

all but the tatics of a strange man with an unknowing grin

and a heart full of misguided glee.

The love of many cannot endure.

The love of many cannot endure.

Love? Who dareth speaketh of loveth, you fiendeth scounding fiend you-eth!


If this constitutes me as pure Satan-like, I'd be more proud than any fake Wiccan could imagine. I spent the last two days with my hands grasping the cold, praise-infested air, seemingly listeining to all this uplifting Christian talk that should have affected us--but little did they know of the fiending Scorpio on the top deck, quietly looking on with a small grin upon her face, thinking of all the trivilaries she could curse this foolish white race with.

While eating fried rice and drinking a bottle of diet coke from M'anchu Wok with a friend of mine, my head all in a spin, a rather dangerous thought came into mind. I could see through their fake veils what they wanted from me. I was Catholic, therefore, I needed to be converted into Protestantism. It somewhat angered me, especially after 'the ceremony', how they were enforcing strong, Christian views into me. This was bloody conformity! Sheer work of...well, Christians. I wouldn't be disrupting any of this 2-day celebration, but guaranteed, my mind would not be so closed.

Yes, I know I'm contradicting myself.

After this whole ordeal, I've come to a decision. I've decided I won't go to Youth Group anymore. Frankly, after this, I'm truly sick with all this Protestant/Catholic think, and I need a serious, and maybe permanent break. I don't need to go to all these desperate lengths to be loyal and true to God. It may sound a bit cheesy, but Jesus never wanted denominations. He never wanted these strict churches. As long as were in the faith. Damn wanks over here just leave me dumbfounded and a bit scared...so, that's the decision I've come to. I know many people wouldn't understand it much ("WHYYYY? but if u dont go u rnt xtian!!!!!! boooooo!!!!!11"), but this tires me.

Good fucking night, Christians.


"Sing those sweet words, and soon you'll become a superstar."

One of the stupidest things that come to memory, on a Thursday night with complete, blank thoughts is to write song lyrics. Guaranteed, song writing is something I rarely dabble in, nor want to try, and not to mention it feel down right pathetic writing down "cant you tell the love inside me, why do you hate me, for who i am, why cant you love me, for being your man"...

The blankness is really letting itself known tonight.

I'm heading out to town for a couple of days. Thrilled? Maybe. Ready? I'm not quite sure. Being in a room filled with Protestants for 30 hours isn't exactly my idea of spending the weekend, but we all make sacrifices, don't we?

...well, maybe not something that drastic.


Yo yo daddio. You are a cool cat. Wow. Like, wow.

I'm never going to be cool.



Thumbin', thumbin', thumbin'
Brock gives this the ok!

Being completely arrogant and snob-nosed for the moment, I will confess to the world...!!!!

...that my IQ is greater than some of the U.S’s greatest presidents.


My IQ—136.

The IQ of…

Harry Truman- 132
Dwight D. Eisenhower- 122
Gerald Ford- 121
Ronald Reagan- 105
George W. Bush- 91

I rest my case.

Since I apparently have an IQ bigger than one of a famous president, I think I have great authority over speaking over the idiocy over war with Iraq.

Consider this:

In what way possibly does it make any sense whatsoever to go to war with Iraq? If Iraq doesn’t have mass weapons of destruction, we are simply wasting time and soilders.

But, in the case that they do (and is probably correct, even if I hate to admit it), attacking Iraq would be, in my view, stupid and dangerous. If they had these weapons, once we attack, they would have reason to use them. There is a fair chance they could attack the U.S. therefore endangering American lives.

I know, I dwell and rant about this subject far too much, but it’s very important to me. I don’t want to live through a possible world war. I’m certain that the path the U.S. is taking will lead to World War one way or another. We already have enough anti-Americanism running rampant; trying to go to war without enough evidence or reason will just make it worse.

As I said to a couple of people before, I don’t think in a hundred to two hundred years that the U.S. will exist. One way or another, somehow someone with enough hate against us will strike us down. I don’t know what would replace the U.S.--perhaps we’ll have another Adolf Hitler invading the whole world--but the feeling is there.

"It's not cool to attack Iraq!"


I've been told I'm weird.

Now I shall wallow in my unspirited youth down dark, gloomy roads, singing of a time when I was appreciated.

"Appreciate me, kind sir! Do you not realise the great glory and genius that lies inside this slightly chunky yellowish jello? I can LOVE, I can HATE, I can CREATE, I am UNIQUE. If I am unique I am definetely God. This thing you call normal-- how dare you embrace that feeling in my presence? Normal is boring, therefore NOT embraced, NOT liked, even HATED."

I'm not weird.