Min's uber-super-loobing-kooper basketball team broke up at the crack of dawn, aka the end of 6th hour Physical Education. With many losses and absent wins, it was safe to say my prophecy of it sucking came true, sadly. I had hoped to mold these kids into NBA-quality stars!...but, as I denied this thought for quite a long while, the truth is that I lack leadership skills. And an afro.

So, having this unwielding burden off my back, I had yet another obstacle to overcome in High School Gymometry. It could be described as tennis indoors, with a ball and two paddles that looked like it had been shot one too many times and a faithful sidekick by your side, ready to catch that rackety ball whenever you lack the skills to be alive. I've forgotten what the exact name for the game was called--it was odd as I can vaguely remember, and now it seems to have escaped my memory--but it seems I have this hidden talent for whacking the 'poppish' ball across the gymnasium, often putting the cocky opponents in quite a daze and unable to return the serve. Unfortunely, where I have strength in one area I tend to have a weak quality in another. Mainly, it's returning the serve itself. But, knowing my condescending attitude, I blame it on the awfully small paddles and the awful-smelling git next to me who looks like he's been drinking one too many mugs of coffee. Ah, trivilaries of high school, I welcome ye now.

For the past two days I've spent in the company of a male. Lunch, to be more specific. The other two people that sit at our table, Dawn and Sara, have mysteriously disappeared with no clue to their wherabouts, so I've been abandoned to the company of Dawn's freind. It's quite umcomfortable, sitting with a guy you hardly know, staring at the clock, hoping that maybe this odd silence will end once lunch finishes up. It goes on like that for a long time, until either the bell rings or he gets up to put his dishes away. Sometimes, it's both. Usually I end up drinking a litre of water to pass the time, which, of course, I pay for dearly by ending up in the loo some odd hours later.

Speaking of the loo, excuse me for a moment.


Ah! The weekly bloggage of Min's failed attempt at a basketball team. Life seems again futile and worthless of considering.

Behind many worries of my loose gym attire and our in-coma players, as I like to call them, I screamed to myself, whilst watching David on a terribly big Caffeine High shooting Baskets that I would run to make up the lost players, that I would actually shoot 5 feet nearer to the basket then last week's poor attempts, that I would beat the living crap out of John and hang him from the baskets by his testicles.

Err, maybe not that drastic. But you get the picture.

As soon as the games started, foul brewings began to stir. Yelling angrily at Sara "You have to move! You have to move! Don't stand! You have to get OPEN!", she looked at me and gave me a sullen reply, which was of course "But I ammmmm moving! I'm trying my hardessst!"

God, I hate girls.

In the end, with David and Kelsey in uber-pissed off "I was FUCKING open! Why didn't you pass to me?!?!?!?!" mode, I ended the day with a tragic note--we hadn't made a single basket.

More improvements are needed, me thinks.



Sometimes, whenever I tend to be thinking off-track or quietly daydreaming in the midst of my schooling, my brain likes to play cruel tricks on me. These tricks are more than cruel, actually--the brain gets me into chin-deep trouble, mostly of which I cannot get out of with a quick talk or a run to the local lavatory. Today, somehow, as a friend was nearby, pondering having me as a captain of a 6-man basketball team, my hand shot straight up, and soon I found myself in a line with Sam and John. To everyone who knew me, this seemed nothing like me, and knowing my poor shooting skills, some of them snickered with amusement at how I'd control my basketball team. Luckily for me, I would get to choose the team. Unfortunely for me, I knew my team would, to put it at the least, suck.

We hadn't started after the teams were chosen, so the new adventures of Super-Min, Basketball Captain! will have to wait until another, solemn, 'we-have-to-play-basketball-you-silly-bloke' themed day.


It's that eye.

Half-lit, off to one side, slightly glazed over, it bares into me.

Frightening thing, it is.

You see, I didn't notice my teacher's lazy-eye until a close encounter with her a week ago, after being horribly dismantled by the scream of the willies, aka 'my successful attempt at faking I was dying from non-stop diarrhea, but in actuality, I was'.

Anyways, as I approached the corner, there she stood, and she greeted me, as was her strange Midwestern custom. I muffled up a quick reply, which I cannot recollect what it could've been, but then she came closer. I kept walking, and walking--walking so fast I was within slapping distance of her. And then, I managed to make eye contact. Then the 'eye'...that fearful, dreadful, ever-so-conniving eye glared at me. My face told my brain to wince in excruciating pain!...but, I managed to keep my composure and walk into the classroom.

But that quick save into my seat near the window that fateful day did not save all the psychological anguish it would cause me for the next weeks ahead. I avoided looking into that lazy eye. I avoided any contact or communication with her, but she persisted, and I found myself controlling the wincing emotions from taking full force. That lazy eye glared into my soul. I was lost and bewildered. The lazy eye was evil and she was out to make me break out in a total wincing-seizure session.

Holy crap, the woman is out to kill me.

Somehow, during this ample spare time I have for the next few days, I will figure out a good and cunning plan that will save me from the wrath of her evil eye. Yet again, my great expertese will save me from another dangerous encounter in this place called 'school'.

Ah, it's frightening, the things I go through.


As Spring Break approaches, my German teacher and a select other german students plan to visit Germany (along with France and Switzerland) in another of "Let's Educate the whole German Class by taking them to Europe to get comfortable with the many nude sightings and strange occurances that are usually associated with European-type behaviour!"

Now, with this dangerous omen of war coming soon, likely in the next week or so, it seems they have run into a 'little problem'. So, our German teacher sat down one day to query us fine folk in what we could do to not appear so American and avoid being mobbed by some crazy Germans who just happen to hate our living guts. Of many solutions, these are the ones that hit the top of the list:

1. Don't wear any patriotic clothing. That's right, no more "I love America!!!!!1111 yeeeahhhh were better than uuuuu hahahahahahhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111111oneone!!11" ensembles to display in Germany!

2. Fake british. Do the accent, add 'you wanker! or bloody hell, woman!' every so often, and listen to dance music non-stop.

3. Speak German the whole time, in hopes that they'll never notice your overbearing Americanised german accent.

4. Fake canadian. Put in a couple of 'ay?'s, buy some canadian clothing, and diss the americans. That oughta work pretty good...ay?

5. Pretend you're being kidnapped by the German teacher, who is dressed as a crazed female Adolf Hitler on crack and hope they'll steer clear distance from you and thus, not being querried as anything close to 'an american'.

In the end, faking canadian seemed the most safe and reasonable solution. You know what? I'd rather die Lehrerin dress up as a crazed female Adolf Hitler and scare the holy jeebus out of every European in sight!...but, alas, I am ignored, and not going anyways, so what does it matter? It does amuse me, how those rabid rumours about the French disallowing any more americans onto their turf spread so quickly...


Again, I find my posteriour seated in front of what is the only comfort. Such a cold comfort. It dare not speak, it dare not live. It's a machine. An addictive and unrelentless one at that, which I care not to leave for many reasons which I dare not list in fear of being ridiculed.

There was a certain secret--horrible, disgusting, and eating away at my skin (literally)--that I had kept to myself. It lied there for a week's time, in which I attempted many ways of coaxing away the pain, but no avail! I fell ill and burrowed in the depths of my misery, slightly noticed but not dealt with by my peers. "Heartless things," I muttered to myself as I passed by them in the hallways, eyeing them with such a disgust that I had wished to spit on them. "I'll spit on you miserable excuses for creations of a higher deity. You don't deserve to live. You deserve nothing as much as I deserve no food. Stupid creatures. Stupid."

I hardly think they noticed 'this' sort of mental lashing against myself. They went about their business, carrying on about their trivial dilemnas and their ever-so-blossoming relationships, in the presence of someone with neither of these. I had not trivial dilemnas, but a couple of major, life-threatening dilemnas which I didn't care to talk about--which is usually my attitude with everything in life that conflicts with my peace and harmony. I had not these 'ever-so-blossoming relationships'--the relationships I carried were quiet, unatteneded relationships which I did not bother to grow in, which I did not want any true emotion set in it, for there was only one relationship which I wished that for, but even at that, I held back everything. And everything that had been locked away in my heart was not in benefit.

Sometimes, I ponder the fact that if I had gone through with what I wanted earlier in the week, if anyone would've cared or grieved. I have this knotting feeling in my stomach that it would be just like the case with the kid who tried (and succeeded) such an act last year. They remembered him all right-- they had 2 minutes of silence, in which the teacher had the gall to keep on going about the day's plans, which did have my spirit in an uproar, rightfully. If this were to be my case, maybe I'd be better off bringing a couple of rifles to school and leave a bigger mark than those "2 minutes of silence". That would show them respect. These blind things, they're so blind and ignorant I wonder why they were even put on this Earth. Do they serve any true purpose? Do I? Does anybody? I reckon my purpose overrides their stereotyped matters, but still, is it worth living for? I had to talk myself out of it many times, and the attempt on Monday just twisted my world and shred in into little pieces. Life itself seems pointless right now. Why bother go on? Maybe to prove something?

Maybe I shall prove something. I haven't any ideas how I would do such a thing, but somehow...somehow it will be done. They'll be sorry for ever ignoring me. They're be sorry.

With a dangling Geometry project--which determines whether I pass the class or fail miserably, like always-- looming over my shoulder, I choose to waste the weekend playing an addictive game of Blasterball: Revolution.

Ah, sweet adolescence, what would I ever do without you?


Once again, I catch myself running down the school yard like one of those dismantled call-girls you find on the sidestreets of everyday Minneapolis. Life again seems quite normal in the psycho-writings of Minny, the greatest Canadian to ever live!

To be ashamed, or not to be ashamed--a scandal that Bush has unconscienciously created, aka "The Hypocritical Christianity." At first, I thought Christians would solve things in their own--although slightly irritating on the surface--peaceful manner, but of course! Bush, it seems we have "misunderestimated" you again. Curse us old fools, curse us.

Most people would not go about solving such a burden, as in Saddam Hussein and his supposed threat to America, in a peaceful manner. But Bush? That southern-speaking cowboy from big-business Texas completely ignores the whole Christian ideal and goes about it in a way that seems like he'd do anything to get into a brawl with Mister ol' Saddie. Of course, that's just logic speaking here.

Ah, hypocritical christianity. It amazes me how some people, like a certain 'friend' for instance, trusts that he knows what he's doing, being that he is *our* president. Sure, you go say the same thing about Hoover. There was a reason he wasn't re-elected a second time.

Brought to you by the slightly intelligent, well-thought out birthed woman with 2 cigars in her mouth--"Hooray!"


Often the views of the general public are that if a man has any feminine qualities, he is automatically considered a homosexual. On the contrary, a woman who has any masculine qualities is considered a role-model of a sort, or a very tough, independent person that is highly respected on all accounts. She is never considered homosexual unless there are very clear signs saying so. You'd expect a double standard, but as life proves once again, everything is ironic in their own special ways.

Yes, I'm quite sick of this un-equal standard. Masculinity frightens me. Frightens me with a horrid loathing. Me no like masculinity. Bad masculinity! Bad, bad, bad!

Other dilemnas--I'm still debating whether or not I should see Gods and Generals. It sounds pretty good, maybe even worth a few awards-- especially with the promotions I've been seeing cutting in between my precious TV time (which I have plenty of, but I complain about it, nevertheless.). Half of me ponders about how they'll represent this rather stupid conflict that tore the U.S. apart 150 years ago, and the other, waggling-behind half ponders "Where in the hell is Grant? WHERE IN THE HELL IS GRANT?!!"

How they portray General Lee should be interesting though. Him vs many failure generals, slowly angering President Lincoln. But this slow flashback into 19th century boring-as-hell America shall be saved for another day.

Now, I think, I really *do* want to see this movie. 'Hooray'.