five deadly everythings...

Nugget Life

I found my Erykah Badu CD, and my copy of Hardcore Zen. I also found a dead mouse at work. I thought there was a piece of cake underneath the pastry fridge. I kicked it out with my foot, discovering it was not cake, but a dying mouse laying in pastry crumbs. I did my best to remain cool and serve customers before I could alert everyone else and sweep it up (all of us screeching like pussies). It started twitching. I'm thinking it wasn't dead, but just addled by the sugar and carbohydrates it apparently was gourging on.

Tony was telling me and Maggy (nugget life, word!) about the situation between his parents and his girlfriend. All I can say is, even with all the trouble I'm anticipating when I drop the out-of-school-bomb, I've got it easy. I'm not sure how Tony is able to put on such a happy countenance everyday, but hey, props to him. I'm not strong enough to do that. I don't know how his sister survives in that house.

Rohan's life is also shaping up to be more fukked than I had previously thought. It seems him and Donna are through, and though I'm sure none of us expected them to last, the reasons for the break up are a little too Jerry Springer for my tastes. I like Rohan, but he's now officially an idiot, and a little weird at that. I'm surprised Donna is still in the house with him. I would have jetted right away, after throwing some punches.

Mike ended up cancelling on Saturday's Thai class, so instead I bussed up to Rockwood and did some shopping. Bought some used copies of Orgazmo and School of Rock, bought a t-shirt with some Planet of the Apes monkeys doing the Beatles' cover to Abbey Road, and then I hopped across the street for some chana roti. Really nice people working at that restaurant. I was more than a little out of place among the clientele and the booming roots reggae music, but they made me feel more than comfortable. I don't think I've ever been to place that didn't serve coke or pepsi. I asked for root beer and instead got something called "mauby fizzzzzz". Which was sort of like root beer, I guess.

Two days without the girlfriend. She'll be gone for a whole week or so.

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 11:33:00 a.m. | Permalink

Trust No One.

I woke up this morning with a bloody nose and a raw, sore lower lip. Even if this means I was abudcted by aliens, I don't see why they can't just clean my fucking nose up before they put me back. This nulls and voids the whole alien abduction thing, because I refuse to believe an advanced race of beings has never come up with q-tips.

This begs the question, though -- what the fuck happened to me last night?

In other news, Fantasia won and I'm happy. DeGarmo still sucks, I don't care what anyone says. Especially Tony. It was funny when the final twelve were all performing and Diana still looked like one of the weakest performers. She's very hit and miss, and it's because she's so rehearsed. If she messes her cues or choreographed runs, she's fucked. Fantasia is much more natural, more spontaneous. She feels it. DeGarmo just performs it.

Camile was damn hot, much better looking than the previous night. She popped the collar when her solo hit and it made me smile. Jasmine got a nice roar too, so proud of her -- that girl is too seductive when she sings.

Jennifer Hudson kicks ass, this chick is way too bad ass. I doubt if I'd buy an album by her, but she's straight with me. Ups to her for the way she held her note longer than anyone else at the end. You tell em, Hudson. Let the haters know.

And I actually liked John Stevens last night.

Singing is something I wish I were able to do. It seems like the ultimate artistic release. I doubt anything feels as cathartic as singing your fukking face off, on key.

Martial Arts comes close, though. If you can't sing your face off, the next best thing is punching someone else's in. I'm starting to hit my groove again in class, finally. I think I'm going to concentrate on Muay Thai for now.

My strength has always been striking, but I've never in my training career concentrated on it fully. I've always done my best to be well-rounded, and never truly explored my full striking potential. I wanna see what I can do. Maybe I'll get a few Thai fights under my belt as well.

Somebody in that class got me sick, though. Dry cough, sore throat. Fuckers.

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 7:29:00 p.m. | Permalink

Can any of you tell me what the fuck happened to my Voltron set?


I remember having one, and I remember it being gone one day. I vaguely remember someone telling me they had to send it away to the Philippines, because it said on the news that the paint was poisonous and stupid kids kept licking them.

A great story, but I'm sure it can't be true. I don't see why my parents would take poisonous mecha robots away from me, and then send them to poor kids in the Philippines.

So what's the deal? Did I never have these toys? Did I invent this tale? Do my parents really like poisoning kids, so long as they're not their own?

Posted by Scene -- at 1:10:00 a.m. | Permalink

A Bootle

So I went jogging the other day. Scratch that -- not just jogging, sprinting. Intervals. And now I have shin splints. Have I learned nothing from Grade 10 gym class? (Besides the fact that white people make each other fuck watermelons in bizarre hazing rituals.....blech....)

I've been trying to push this fitness regimen, and that means being sore in one part of my body or the other, constantly, all day. Today it's my shins. Yesterday it was my abs. I don't think I've ever had sore abs before.

Went to Bagel's cousin's debut the other day. I miss debuts. Or rather, I miss free food. Watching all the kids dance made me realize how fuggin old I am now. An adult. I'm an adult. Despite being incredibly nervous around them, I really like Chris' family.

Her family is quite amazing. Their history is one for the books: full of death, murder, scandal, abuse, lies, backstabbing, egos and trysts. And to see these kids all grown up, functional, amazingly successful, well-adjusted, funny, full of love for each other...the feelings of warmth they exude are quite affecting. Especially compared to my family, that is.

Haven't been blogging much, which though for reasons relating to negative aspects of my life, has proven to be a positive thing.

I've plotted the first installment of the comic book, have a title for the next screenplay, and watched a bunch of movies. They all sucked, though, except Shrek 2. So far, Mean Girls is the movie of the summer.

I told Ron today that I'm gonna be booking some time off from work. I need some time to clear my head, and I haven't taken a vacation in the whole five years that I've been working there.

Okayplayer: True Notes Vol. I is one of the worst discs I've bought lately. Except for the Little Brother cut, the disc is asshole. Do not buy.

Tried to watch fireworks yesterday with the girlfriend, which would have been nice. I wouldn't mind just layin out, picnic style, with her in the grass. But alas, stupid mississauga had no fireworks show.

This town kinda sucks sometimes.

Who is this guy and why is he touching my future wife?



Notice the technique on the peace sign -- effortless, smooth, not too tense, not too lax, head and lips slightly tilted upwards. Anything less would mean poseur. Anything more would enter tacky gangsta fob territory--Ravencroft styles. But her? Flawless execuation. A ten.

Tonight's the finale. If DeGarmo wins, I'll slap your cat.

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:26:00 p.m. | Permalink

Friday Night

So this is the May 2-4 weekend. I ran into Lazarus the other day at Square 2, and he asked me if I was going to Grundy. I laughed because I thought he was joking, but apparently the big forest shin-dig is happening once again. Not that I was invited or anything.

Which I really shouldn't be salty at, because I would just be annoyed at and turn down the invitaion anyways. But I'm salty anyways. Whatever.

Somewhere in cyberspace, in Suzy's inbox lays two really long e-mails. E-mails that were written in such haste and honesty that I no longer remember what I said. I don't know if I sounded crazy, cold, mushy or psycho. Prolly all those and more. All I know is that I've yet to receive any sort of response, which is probably not a good thing.

Elsewhere in cyberspace is my girlfriend's blog, hosting a post that she warns I probably would not like to read given my current state of mind. For once, I'll curb my stubborness and take her advice.

The internet is a cold place to empty yourself into.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:05:00 a.m. | Permalink

You go to sleep with shit on your mind, and wake up eight hours later with the exact same shit on your mind.

Makes me wonder what my dreams were like.

Posted by Scene -- at 11:37:00 a.m. | Permalink

"your friends bombarded the place last night" he says to her.

I can't take this shit.

I'm getting worse and worse.

Posted by Scene -- at 12:48:00 a.m. | Permalink

Phone Tag

*click*
[beeeeeeeeep]

check the tag behind the heart on your sleeve
Made In America
immigrant phone calls dead on one way seas
oppressed sobs forced into awkward singing
National Anthems
high notes and high stakes
high nerves and starchy carbohydrates
flying in the face of sanity
leaving trails of you and i
viscuos and vain, twisted reflections
like laughing faces mirrored in teardrops
threading through landscapes
of concrete and glass
where glassblowers are homeless
and every phone call is long distance

[beeeeeeeeep]

America
pick up your line
your streets are lonely and
it's too cold out for phone tag
crab grass and patch-work crosswords
criss-cross your front lawn
fill in the blanks,
complete the puzzle,
set the story straight:
whom do you love?

Not you, not you, you all have the same name
this gets frustrating when cliques click
a little too tightly
and I get squeezed right out like pus
from a fat ripe flaw

something isn't clear and it isn't just complexion
it's complex

pick up the phone already

meet me in person, then

I'll be the one
with the heart on his sleeve

--you wear butterflies in your eyes--

8 p.m.
Saturday.

*click*

Posted by Scene -- at 10:57:00 p.m. | Permalink

In-house Cleaning

We were watching the KATA In-House Competition, and during a between fight intermission I decided to walk up to some old training parters and say what up.

And so I walked up to some people I hadn't seen in years, said "Hey", and they said "Hi, how are you doing?", and I said "fine", and then we stared at each other.

And that's when I noticed it. For one, I had spent so many years away from the macho-gym setting and hanging out with the likes of Suzanne and Tony (who, though I got love for him, is a big wet pussy boy) that I'd forgotten how to act around The Guys. And for two pair, that I was still victim to the old pivoting personality disorder.

Have you ever noticed that you or people around you shift personalities depending on who they are with at the given moment? I'm not talking about frontin or being fake, but merely retreating into previously defined roles. Like how I become the shy little kid when my older brother and sister are around. Or the stuttering public-speaking mess when I see my Grade 8 teacher at Starbucks. Or No Self-Esteem Boy when I see hot asian female high school acquaintances at Moxie's. I'm sure you have your own versions of this situation.

And that's when I noticed my previously defined MAFA role - underdog. I had spent so many years being the smallest with the most potential that I got used to it, absorbed it into my being. I could get standing ovations for losing. I would get pats on the back for getting tapped out. Everyone in the club would be friendly with me and invite me out for under-age drinking, cuz hell, I was a borderline prodigy. The Sammy Fischer of stick fighting. The Charlotte Church of arm locks. (I will give you a second to digest that image and pass it through your system).

But, as I realized, in the moment of choked, awkward silence, that shit don't work anymore. I'm twenty-two years old, and a shy, quiet twenty-two year-old who *almost* wins matches is not worth very much at all. It's no longer a novelty to bring me out drinking. Me almost winning matches is now the same thing as losing. Me being shy and anti-social is no longer cute.

The awkward staring match was triggered by the realization that wow, Jef hasn't changed at all. I walked up and said "hi" with all the enthusiasm and confidence of a snot-nose having to tell his parents he wants to go home cuz he shat his codurouys. They didn't have anything to say to that, because neither would I. Becuase they, like myself, expect some fucking growth in people.

I'm writing about this because I think it applies to many aspects of my life. Whereas in some situations I am able to let loose with my full potential, in others I retreat back. I got some bullshit in my closet that I need to clean out, that I have no use for anymore. That underdog mentality, that shy demeanor. It's like my ugly D.A.R.E. To Keep Kids off Drugs shirt...if it's in my closet, chances are I'll wear it sometimes. It's best to just up and throw all that shit away.

It's about time I grew the fuck up, and let the kids take the accolades. I don't need pats on the back. I need to tap some motherfuckers out.

And that was a metaphor, in case you didn't know. For everything.

Posted by Scene -- at 12:29:00 p.m. | Permalink

T.R.O.Y.

Yesterday on 106 & Park the Ol Skool Joint of the Day was Pete Rock and C.L Smooth's "TROY - They Reminisce Over You". The audience were given clues to see if they could guess the song/artist. Among the guesses: Heavy D, Chuck D, Puffy and Mase, Jay Z and Foxy Brown. What is happening to the youth today? The host, Free, looked embarassed for them and had to blurt out the answer herself. Chris laughed when I turned up the volume, another notch is her "Jeff is soooo 90s" scorebook.

We saw Troy today (the movie) with her friends.

The movie kinda sucked. The fight between Achilles and Hector was amazing, but aside from that, the movie was pretty ass. Manny Perry (who makes movies, dontchaknow) gets no sympathy for movies like this.

The film suffered from some serious writing/dialogue problems. The character arcs were horrible and sloppy (and could be *easily* fixed, which makes it all the more irksome), the themes heavy handed, the direction hackneyed, the music reminiscent of Xena: Warrior Princess, and the character beats (whoa, I learned something in screenwriting class) were misplaced and awkward.

Achilles' patented flying-sword-move was done about 4 times too many. And for his arc to make sense, he shouldn't really be explaining his own character drives to us, should he? Big surprise, when the films starts telling us shit about Achilles that he himself has already told us.

I'm tired, and this isn't a very smart review.

Movie not so good. Swords nice.

Went to Alex's going away party. Had a not-so-great time. Good to see her again, though. She looks healthier, and her new boyfriend doesn't seem like such an ignorant wigger asshole like her past ones. Cindy annoyed me, Maggie was funny. Mark used the exact same jokes he had used with me during our last conversation...I guess he doesn't remember, lol. Weird when you notice that someone is using a script on you. Saw Yvette, who was working, and Rob is fukking annoying when he's drunk.

I'm sleepy and can't form sentences.

peace.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:28:00 a.m. | Permalink

okay, players

Just got back from the Okayplayer Tour. This is the second time that Chris and I went to see tha Mighty Roots Crew in concert. I don't go to nearly as many shows as I'd like, but after tonight I'm pretty sure that the Roots' tagline of being "The Best Live Act in Hip-Hop" is both well deserved and unequivocally true.

I think I enjoyed last year's show a little more. This one felt more like a jam session than a planned concert, which in some ways is a good thing -- just not what I expected.

On the good side, I enjoyed the way the performances were structured. Instead of sets, the artists' songs flowed into one another's, and the Okayplayer team really gave a cohesive show as one unit. Dice Raw gave a nice surprise performance, and K-OS (much to my girlfriend's delight) joined the crew on stage for a staggering posse cut.

Chris wasn't quite feeling Jean Grae's steez, which I understand. Hers is more headphone music, moody beats and intricate, introspective lyrics. I'm not sure if that can ever translate well to stage, no matter how much Jean yells and pumps her fists in the air. Something about her is still sexy to me, though, probably another case of talent turning me on (and oh, those tattoos).

On the bad side, the sound quality took a turn for the worse halfway through the show. There were a couple slight feedback problems, and the volume eventually reached an unbearable pitch. Chris and I tried retreating to the rear of the club to escape the oscillating pain in our ears, to little avail. There, it was our eyes that were assaulted, as a cracked out white chick starting busting all sorts of erroneous off-beat moves, dancing up on strangers, tilting her cap side-to-side, and rubbing her breasts. I hope she made it home OK.

It was good to get away for a night and concentrate on beats, rhymes, and not life. The world is getting crazy out there, and it's somewhat of mixed blessing that our illegal satellite hookup has been killed, leaving me without CNN and their (apparently) constant rotation of Nicholas Berg's death tape.

I remember back in grade ten when Ben rented Faces of Death and we watched it at Jay-R's house. We stared at the TV with as much rapt fascination and stimulation as the first time we'd seen porn, watching prisoners get elotrocuted, grown men jumping off buildings and scattering themselves upon the sidewalk.

Hard to believe that such footage now gets around the clock coverage on CNN. Not that it shouldn't mind you.

I just hope that Berg's death doesn't get used and twisted the same way 9/11 did -- as a gung-ho recruitment video for the army, as fervent anti-Brown propaganda.

I'm hearing that this is becoming more and more of a religious war. I'm scared to hear the speeches. I'm glad I'm no longer Catholic.

I know this isn't deep, but:

you'd think the world, for all it's talk of religion and God, would focus more on love than war.

The world should be an Okayplayer concert, where the guns raised are merely fingers up 'twards the sky, where the only heads falling off are the ones bobbing right back up, on beat.

peace.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:44:00 a.m. | Permalink

Cacophony of Wednesday the 13th

Rest in Peace Nicolas Berg
The house of commons all falls down
and you were buried beneath it
beneath the top soil
and the secrets
and the folder that hoover shucked under the shingles.

Rest in peace the nameless
the shamed
the stripped naked and poker faced
violent mascots for an acid triped Disneyland
Land of Tomorrow [progress!!!!]
divided in two
playing baseball with barbed wire
and elephant robots in the corner of the room.

Hit this one out of the park, cowboys
the home team is down by two
the bases are loaded with bullets
corndogs for everyone and blame poor Jasmine Trias
for the fucked up system
of democratic voting processes.

Vulpine ballpoint pens make checks
while only the homeless think outside
the little boxes, cold as it is out there.

Clocks are ticking, can't you hear?

The outrage at the Idol outcome
drowns out the cries of the crying
not the teary eyed but the tear gased
the fear plastered
the masturbated and pyramid shaped
the dead innocent whitebreads

open your ears to
all the faces
who only did what they said

who only sang from their gut instinct

who only screamed because it hurt.

Posted by Scene -- at 12:48:00 a.m. | Permalink

Attack of the Attacking Things

Whether you're feeling down, angry, or hungry for vindication, it's always safe to attack the yuppies. And since I'm feeling a molotov cocktail of all three, the yuppies I shall attack.

The coffee shop has been doing a fine job lately of pissing me the fuck off. Or to be more specific, the regular morning yuppie customers piss me the fuck off.

A good 25% of these lazy rich whitebread corny stuck-up repressed metrosexual bourgie fucks need a swift thai kick to the head. Can't even offer a muhfucking "thank you". I swear.

I don't get these fucks, with their powersuits and palmpilots, yakking into their cellphones and leaving their SUVs idling on the sidewalk, creating ostentatious smokesignals, symbol for the all-conquering super white man, straight out of the cowboy movie they stole their personality from. These coffee house thugs, who stare me down and mutter their sly and half-witty remarks under their breath, walking away into the morning smug with the satisfaction that wow, I told that coffee shop boy good! That'll teach him not to remember my ridiculous custom drink! High Five!

I mean, seriously. I don't know how anyone can think they're tough while waiting for a friggin decaf soy latte, lukewarm, with a protective sleeve. Dude. You're the biggest, wettest, sloppiest fukking pussy I've ever seen. No, I don't want to fuck you, but I will give you the finger.

Now go drink your 20oz mug of estrogen, you fat pussy. Get your thrills in life from talking down to coffee shop workers, or blushing like an albino virgin whenever you get a nod and "hello" from your favorite sexy asian barista. Your life is so sad, bitch, I wish your wife could see you. Actually, fuck that, your wife comes in too and she's even more ridiculous than you are.

And yes, this is all a big front for what's really bothering me. But fuck, I don't wanna talk about that shit.

Much safer to attack the yuppies.

Posted by Scene -- at 12:04:00 a.m. | Permalink

Shock and Awe

The scariest thing about this whole ordeal, at least for me, is that I wasn't surprised at all. Sure, the pictures horrified and disturbed me to the core of my very being, but still...I can't say I wasn't expecting this. I was more shocked that it found its way into the news, rather than at the fact it happened at all.

What do we do?

I've never lived through anything like this -- from 9/11 to the war in Iraq. How did the People deal with Vietnam? How do movements start? What happened when JFK got shot, Martin and Malcolm? I mean, I read it all in the history books, but is this really what it was like? Cuz as appaling as it is, it doesn't feel any different. I try to talk about it at work, or with my friends, and still, the conversation inevitably turns to something else. American Idol. The Maple Leafs. The new kicks I wanna buy.

I'm scared that all we are going to do about this is blog. Blog and bitch, and then care more about the fact that Standard thinks people are stealing pastries and mugs from the store. I mean, stolen croissants. Oh the humanity.



2th.

Posted by Scene -- at 12:46:00 a.m. | Permalink

Which Phillipine Presidential Are You?



Say What? lol. Well, so long as I'm not Brother Eddie.

Posted by Scene -- at 12:05:00 a.m. | Permalink

Mother's Day, Tony's B-day

And how many other special occasions have we spent like this--gathered around mixed origin asian food, silently chewing and staring at plates while the clink of fork on plate, the only sound to be heard, fills the void where conversation could so easily dwell?

When Christianne first started eating with my family I was somewhat embarassed by my family's lack of connection. Her house, you see, is always full of interaction, especially at dinner time. There, without fail, every dinner table is packed with food and people (rarely ever just immediate family), and the tagalog flies, hums and cackles through the air, navigating its way through genuine laughter and the tinny sounds of their television.

And I've been eating with her family a lot recently, so today's Mother's Day festivities at my own house seemed more markedly different than they normally would.

But this is what my family does best: stick to each other through thick and thin, yelling or silence. And when the yelling stops, we replace it with the silence, for the silence is what keeps us together. We bottle up our pain, our years of resentment, only to bring it out every Hallmark Holiday, dip it in cheap soy sauce, and swallow it.

Our collective silent treatment is both spite and suture, we do it to make our pain readily known and to hide it for the sake of the family unit.

And if I've inherited one characterisitic from my family, it is this said silent treatment. It's the way I've dealt with all my problems over the years. And to clarify, this isn't quite repression (in the negative Freudian manner), since my family and I recognize what the silence means--we actually communicate with silence, with shared quiet moments of resolve and solidarity.

The problem is, though, that this is not true for the rest of the world. So when I revert to this way of dealing with my issues, it looks to the rest of the world that I am by turns being an asshole, a loner, a snob, a weirdo, an anti-social bi-polar melodramatic dipshit.

Yesterday was Tony's birthday party. Which was fun, by the way. I got to see the Pac-Man fight that I was worried I was gonna miss. Me and Nick bonded while watching, agreeing that fighting (we also discussed Muay Thai kickboxing) was the only sport we could get into.

But She eventually (inevitably) showed up, and after all the bull my girlfriend and I have been through over this girl, I couldn't even say "hi". And there I went, back to the silence.

A couple of weeks back, Suzanne and I commented on how we get silent when we eat, how the jokes die down and lose their momentum, how conversation stalls in the bank of food as we busy our mouths with the task of swallowing.

This is what happens. Too busy trying to swallow my issues, I turn silent.

I hope She doesn't think I'm just being an asshole.

I hope that for everyone. To everyone who's thought this because of my silence, to anyone reading this who thinks this sounds familiar, who thinks this applies to an interaction you've had with me...I'm sorry.

It actually means the opposite of what you think it does.

And to my mother, whom I've yet to say it to verbally: Happy Mother's Day. I love you.

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 4:00:00 p.m. | Permalink

Ha.

So compliments come in weird forms. This is onea the nicest things that's been said to me in awhile:

Abducted by Lil Green Men! says:
i hate debuts
Abducted by Lil Green Men! says:
sorry jeff for never putting u in my candles

HA.

Posted by Scene -- at 12:02:00 a.m. | Permalink

goodbye yellowbrick road

Shiit. She's wearing a friggin Hieroglyphics shirt.






Marry Me.

Posted by Scene -- at 11:27:00 p.m. | Permalink

breaking even

So the Casino was fun. While this wasn't my first time at such a place, it was my first time actually betting a significant amount of coinage. I was lucky off the bat, winning a big 50 bucks with one pull of the slot machine. I eventually lost a good deal of my earnings, though, but still nonetheless walked away with a profit of $15.75.

Suzanne lucked out as well, pulling in earnings from the space-men machine. We pooled our money together and bought mike a bongo. Or, the Native Canadian equivalent of a bongo, at least.

Mike himself wasn't so lucky. While everyone around was seeming to either win or at least break even, Mike and Priscilla ended up losing a collective 200 brown notes. Still though, they got a free ticket to see Kevin Bacon and his award-winning brother in concert (haha, good joke gift points to Roberto...) All in all, a good night, even thought I lost the bus ride raffles.

After laughing hard and nervously on the ride home at the Chris Rock video, in which he talked about cock-sucking and crackas (there were titas and titos, lolos and lolas on the bus, you know) we all went back to my place to watch American Splendor and eat some take-out Thai. After having my friends ream me out for previously recommending Ghost World to them (which they vehemently hated on), it was good to see that they enjoyed A.S.

Suzanne seemed alright with Blaise, which was a good thing. And I have to say I enjoyed watching Melissa talk back to Blajez. All his previous gf's have all been so passive. I like Melissa, and I hope they work out, at least for a little while longer.

Ben met up with us after the Casino, and we all got free Hawaiin shirts from Mike's dad.

See? You win some, you lose some. Just depends whether you like wads of cash, or tacky Hawaiin shirts.

But a night spent with the old group always at least breaks even. I have the best friends in the world, I think. Maybe. I'd bet on it, at least.

Watching: Mean Girls...okok, I like Lindsay Lohan. Now go suck one.
Reading: American Gods by Neil Gaimen, Y The Last Man
Listening to: Ghostface, The Pretty Toney Album

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 4:10:00 p.m. | Permalink

which jhonen vasquez character are you?

Well, I'm glad you asked.


You are Devi
You are the Girl Who Lived Johnny's
Wrath. You kicked his ass and then hid for a
reeeeeeaaaaally long time in your house. While
you take precaution, you are tough too. You are
really awesome. It would be redundant for me to
say that you kick ass in more than one way. You
are another one while partically tramatized,
you say funny as hell things.


Which Jhonen Vasquez creation are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

LOL. Great. I'm the chick.

Makes sense though. We have some things in common. Depression, staying at home, bah to outside world, creative minded.

Plus we're smart and funny and better than you.

Posted by Scene -- at 3:46:00 p.m. | Permalink

a case of blue-blogs

My head is brimming full of thoughts, but my fingers are too tired to type. Quite the frustrating blogger experience.


my new shirt

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:29:00 a.m. | Permalink