Let's call censorship "a nice throw blanket" instead.

So we have all heard by now that the book, Huckleberry Finn has been stripped of its truth by a publishing company who is playing God with our history as of late. The very people whose role it is to protect words and ensure that they are distributed by demand are now taking up their own agenda and removing the offensive words from the pages of a book written by an author long since dead. They do this to protect who? Me? I don't remember asking for this. Apparently this will make it more friendly to people in the 21st century. Wha-wha...huh?

People have been fighting to keep censors from our history for ages and now they're losing? What??? Just like that? What right does a publisher have to decide if I am too fragile to read certain phrases. Even if they are disgusting and provoke horror, terrible connotations and worst of all: offense. They have their work cut out if this is their new itinerary

Most of us find the word removed from Huck Finn to be a completely repugnant and cringe-worthy one. The n-word (among others) is a terrible word. It's vile. However, these terrible words are critically important words. They are words that we have only just begun to move away from in our culture. They are words that society in general has just started to understand and be ashamed of- but we must remember why we are moving away from them. We must remember why we are ashamed of them. We have got to feel the shame when we read them, particularly in the context presented in Huck Finn. We have to talk about them.

We must remember them the same way we have to remember the horrors committed by human beings in our wars and struggles. What else will we pretend did not happen if we allow ourselves this? These are not nice memories, but there they are. These are the ghosts of things that humans have done and said to one another. Should we forget, we are in peril of allowing history to repeat, which might sound affected, but avalanches begin with pebbles. We owe it to humanity to preserve even our ugliness, not erase it and be afraid to look it in the face.

We have been in the unfortunate habit of pretending that we are without fault. Now we've come so far as to begin to destroy the evidence. What is the purpose of this? To fool future generations into believing their history is unflawed? Censoring and 'nicing up' literature and changing the way our past is perceived is highly dangerous and borderline propaganda. To what end?

I find it repellent, particularly since this book was written during a time in which sadly, the word was used an an every day part of speech.... and yet recent titles by authors such as Chuck Palahniuk can use the very same word in his books for pure shock value. Should this be allowed?

Yes.

It has to be allowed. It does not, however, have to be acceptable. It is up to the person reading to decide right from wrong, to learn from the context, to allow themselves to feel the political climate of the book. To know what ideas people are putting out and compare them to the world around us now. If we allow others to think for us and paint history with a prettier paintbrush, will we be surprised when reality hits us square in the face with its ugliness?

Removing the uncomfortable words from books is robbing the people who have worked so hard to put an end to bigotry of their victory- because in 300 years, when all the books have been made nicer, our children's children will not know why it was so wrong to use the n-word, after all- there are no records of it being wrong. I fear that this is the easing in of future censorship to come. This sets a precedent and our complacency about it is what will dictate the outcome of this. I thought we knew better.

The Jennifer Conspiracy.

Sometimes I have to find out what all the tizzy is about, so we watched a chick flick the other night. I know many women, bless their hearts, who love these shows. LOVE them; not that I would ever judge anyone *cough*. Anyhow, see if you can guess which one it was:

In the beginning, the couple seems stupendously happy. SO HAPPY together... but soon they discover that they have problems under the surface of their relationship. They discover this at a terribly crucial time in their lives, too: lets say on a vacation or just before a major life event like their wedding. They get into a heated argument over something ludicrously trivial and then *gasp* they break up for a brief period of time. She feels like they were not honest enough with one another, and it is very sad... and he just doesn't get it. What a dilemma!!! *tears*! Fortunately, however, being punished helps the man to 'get it' and he decides at the last minute to drop all of his personal values, work ethic & friends and just think the way the girl thinks he should instead of having any of his stupid mannish core values. WHEW! The ending is so satisfying!

They even make out on a bridge/building/in a hot air balloon or at the beach then cut to a montage of them in the future with their new baby or twins if they really want to make you squeal. There is possibly a puppy somewhere and his friends either just disappear into thin air OR marry her best friends! WHEEE!

Can you guess which one it was? No? You can't? Oh, that's because this is the formula for nearly every chick flick ever made. Ever. Especially ones starring: Reese Witherspoon, Jennifer Aniston, Julia Roberts, Jennifer Garner and/or Jennifer Lopez. Ben Affleck, Matthew McConnaghy and or Hugh Grant are probably in a good 98% of them as well. Avoid these people.

No, girls. No. Even their highlights have frosting. Just looking at the ad is dangerous enough to cause Mr T to start menstruating. What does the T stand for? Tampons if he watches this double feature full of crazy.

Don't hurt Mr T, you guys.

Really, women? Is this what we reaaaally reaaaallly deep down want? We're supposed to get all weepy because the man in the movie sold out his personality on the whim of his shallow love interest? He realized at the end that he wasn't actually happy until he had a crazy woman to tell him what to do? Even though he was rich and had a giant man-fridge-chair and his dream job? Even I want that. MmMMmmm fridgechairs!

Chick flicks are about controlling people (men). Pretty much every female lead role in any given romantic comedy is pathologically controlling. Then women in the real world identify with this control-o-tron woman and get a tiny seed planted somewhere in their minds that this is how real relationships are supposed to go. You know it's been planted when couples leave a theatre after watching a chick flick and she is glaring daggers at her date/boyfriend/husband. "Why haven't you ever stolen a car and driven through rush hour in the wrong direction to give ME flowers, WAYNE?" Ut-oh! Crazy has been planted!

Stop doing this to yourselves, crazy people. Expecting random major sacrifices from your significant other after watching too many romantic comedies is like watching a Star Trek marathon and then making the decision to get a Klingon forehead implant while still in your stupor, then acting offended when people ask what happened to you in English rather than Klingon (because your honor is threatened when they do that, obviously). You get allll caught up in the excitement, but remember, enacting the things you've seen on TV might cause ripples in your real life. (Hey.... I'm going to tell Neil that if he loves me, he'll get a Klingon forehead implant. Just to see how far I can take it. What could go wrong? Just sorta kidding)

Isn't anyone else tired of this movie formula? I'm sure that these films impress even the most experienced of psychological torture experts. They make torture seem cute. Like babies.

PS.. it was Four Christmases.

All I know is....

There had better be a person called, "Milestone" who owns this restaurant, because every time I drive past it, the Grammar Stickler/Super Nerd inside of me goes completely berserk. One day I am going to stomp right in and demand to meet Milestone, owner of Milestone's and if they can't produce such a person, I am going to return under the cloak of darkness and sharpie out that offensive apostrophe.

Smarties' Big Adventure & Stealy Neighbors.

My neighbor tried to adopt Smarties the cat. Legally adopt her. She'd been missing for a couple of days, only for us to find out that she'd pranced into my neighbor's house and sat on her couch. Clearly that means karma wants her to steal my kids' kitten- certainly not that she's just a pea brained, idiot cat who has only been outside once before in her life. It's the universe.

What did my neighbor do when the friendly little kitty went into her house? Knock on our door? No. Of course she didn't She told us that she took her to the SPCA to fill out adoption papers. For our cat. To adopt her. Because she likes our cat and our cat likes her (grown) son. Uh-huh. So anyway, she took my cat to the SPCA only to discover that there is a 3 day waiting period on strays to allow the owners to claim them before they are put up for adoption. For MY cat!!

So we had to go to the SPCA to get her- for $108. MY cat that I did not take to the SPCA. This boggles my mind. She told me that she doesn't know what she's going to tell her (practically grown) daughter because she already told her (grown) kids that they could have my cat. Her daughter will be so very disappointed. Oh Golly, lady- let me give you my kids pet so that your grown children don't feel sad that they didn't get to steal our animal. I'd like to tell my kids that they can have her (grown) kids' bikes and maybe that nice big television. Because hey- my kids like big televisions AND bikes.

"Hey Pizza guy! Are you delivering to my neighbor's? Bring that Pizzaaaa this-a-way! I don't feel like cooking tonight!"

"Yeah, when your son left his hockey equipment on our lawn again, we went ahead and sold it on kjiji. We didn't even THINK of seeing if it belonged to you!"

"Could you tidy up your yard a little? We have a real estate agent coming by to show some people your house and we want to get a good price."

At least she was well looked after, I guess? I half expected to get her back wearing a homemade cat outfit care of my thoughtful neighbors. Her new name could be Winkers the performing kitty clown.

I feel like I should be on Judge Judy or something- or Jerry Springer. Fighting over the custody of Smarties. I bet Judge Judy wouldn't put up with this kind of bullshit. She never puts up with mean people. That Judge Judy is such a blessing. I even felt like throwing a chair yesterday- it would have made me feel much better. Maybe I still should- maybe I'll throw all of her patio chairs into my yard. I like patio chairs and so do my kids.

Not the least of my issue with it all is the SPCA holding MY cat ransom for fees incurred by this. They told me to borrow the money if I had to- just like kidnappers do- because if I didn't pay her ransom by Friday, she was going to be put up for adoption. MY %$#& CAT; and seeing as my neighbor had already filled out the paperwork, my cat would then legally belong to her.

Yep.

Anyhow. She's all legally readopted by us. So there. Now I just have to make sure none of my kids go into her yard. I've already won a custody battle for them. Maybe the next time they park in my parking space again, I'll just decide that I own their car and dammit, I can paint my own car with varnish and stick troll dolls all over it with a staple gun if I damned well please.

Today is the DaaAAaaaaY

Inglourious Basterds is going to be on Pay-per-view as of today!

I never did get to see it in the theatre and I have been pacing around, mumbling to myself and worrying ever since. Now, I've built it all up in my head and might have impossible expectations. I must ready myself. I must make haste. I must prepare the snacks, because come 8:35ish o'clock tonight, I will be gussying myself up with lipstick and an assortment of other beauty accoutrements, then plunking myself down in front of the tube and fixing my eyeballs upon the screen, perhaps weeping a little in anticipation. I will gently dab away the tears, reattach my false eyelashes, bat them a few times and breathe a sigh of relief.

So if any of you ruin it for me, I will be a troll on your blog forever. Don't tell me anything except that you LOVED it so much. I don't care if you're a liar. Lie to me. Don't try and sound smart, unless you're telling me how awesome the movie is without giving me a single hint or detail or bit of information to be 'ready for' or any such other clue. I don't want to be ready for a great twist, I don't want to know that it's kinda gory... etc etc. I want to find these things out on my own. I can totally take it. I don't want to know what your favourite bit was. So stop crawling all over me, trying to give away all the best parts already. Get ahold of yourself, don't be that person who can't stand it if they don't get to tell you that they KNOW about the exciting twist and have to tell you it's there - but they'll "NEEEEEVER tell you what is IIiIIIiiIIiiiIIsSSssSS!" as they froth and spit all over themselves with the excitement of knowing there is a twist. Then I sit there and guess at what the twist will be the whole time and I'm usually right. Just keep your composure, please.

I will decide later if I'm going to buy it (I am, I can just tell that I am). I am curious to find out if it's as awesome as Zombieland, which is one of the new greatest movies of all time. Imagine if they combined the two and then made them 3D... whoa. I could totally be a movie mixer for my new big timey job. For example:

Gone with the Wind + A fish called Wanda= The Wind smells like Fish....or The Wind called Wanda is Gone with the Fish, Wanda called the fish then wind blew her skirt over her head? The fish has Wind? All great title ideas. Hellooo! John Cleese would make a far superior Rhett Butler. You know it, I know it. Clark Gable is up in heaven smacking his head as he reads this blog and realizes it. Even now, he might be asking God to go back in time, make the movie in the 70s instead and give the job to Cleese. I know I am. Jamie Lee Curtis could totally pull off Mammy. Kevin Kline could be Ashley. Oh Ashley! Vivien Leigh could stay Scarlett... even though she died in 1967. They can do amazing things with animatronics these days.

That right there is enough to put on my curriculum vitae. The bigwig CEOS will probably want to make me the head of the career department at the working place. I'll tell them that I need time to think it over because commuting to a job isn't really what I had in mind, unless they want to put a helicopter pad on my roof. Then I'll finally have that Michellicopter I've always dreamed of, with a banner that reads, wheeeeeeee (and never gets caught in the propeller).

Also, I got a new coffee maker.

Maybe sometimes you just have to hit rock bottom.

This morning, while slurping away at my coffee and reading my new book about people suddenly turning immortal (no, it's not the bible OR twilight), I found myself humming a tune. Later this morning, while replenishing the coffee maker, I found that I was doing a little boogying with the humming. However, the final straw was when I began brushing my teeth and blurted out a line to a song that I know everyone has now heard, spewing toothpaste suds, eyes shut, toothbrush held in front of me like a microphone. I'm such a twit (an awesome twit). I was downright trippin' the light fantastic.

But then, I opened my eyes and saw standing there, dripping spitty greenish toothpaste froth into the sink, wearing mens pajama pants with Las Vegas print on them, my hair still snarled and mashed to one side of my head and staring at me was my very own reflection. I clutched my toothbrush and I realized what had happened. Miley Cyrus. Miley Cyrus. Oh. My. God. I've been corrupted by Miley Cyrus's new pop song. I do not approve of this.... The horror ran my bones as cold as the first time I looked into a dark bathroom mirror as a child, took a breath and said aloud, "Bloody Mary Bloody Mary Bloody....... Miley?"

You see? This is what happens when you raise your ear from ground. You get pulled in by the music you hear on TV commercials for new cellular ring tones. You start to like it. Apparently I haven't turned on my stereo in a really long time. It's because people need music and when you're starved, any old thing tastes great. Even Miley Cyrus.

But what to do? I feel for the kid. The ultra rich, gorgeous, grinning kid. Poor thing. She was born with real talent that was immediately commandeered and shaped by the despotism of The Disney, like those people who grow cubed watermelons in a plexi box. Cubed watermelons look cool, but did they want to be cubed? Nobody will ever know. And you gotta get 'em when they're still little. All I know is that they just naturally look less appetizing and too stackable. Much like all of the Disney Pop Stars before they were chewed and spat out into the sharks by Disney, used up. Never eased into adulthood with grace, each one has had to 'shake off' her childish image by behaving like a rhinestone crusted superskank for the cameras so that they might shock the world into realizing they are not a Mickey Mousekateer anymore. When thrown in prison, act crazy to keep the masses from raping you. Same survival tactic.

She didn't even have a chance. She really didn't, with her Dad being Billy Ray Cyrus, the one hit sellout country mullet God. He ran out of chances to sell himself out, so he sold his daughter to Disney in a blonde wig, telling himself and everyone why it is perfectly okay and it's different than when other people do it etc etc... Because afterall- she got an allowance juuuuust like a normal, well adjusted teenager. And it has paid off for him in a very big way. She's a bigger star than he could have ever hoped to be himself. However, the price being that all of her natural talent has been squeezed into a Pop Princess, do-it-for-the-tweens, let's do a fashion line, real popstars don't act like regular teenagers, hot pink, made to order, squeaky clean, plexi cube. What's that? An original thought? We have pills for that, Lardass. And they are now superduper rich. Whatever it takes, I guess. I do feel bad for her, because her life was snatched up and unless she performs a miracle, she will be the next gal to be shoved onto the train wreck with Britney Spears and Christina Whatsherface. Hopefully she'll salvage some of her talent and be taken seriously at one point in her life.

Way to crank 'em out there, Disney.

So, I can't help it if a teen focus group wrote a catchy song for her and I've caught the pop princess one hit plague. What can I do? I can't get it out of my head. My mind has betrayed me. I want to shake myself and then give myself a good slap and yell, "Pull yourself together for the love of God!!!" I am doing what I can to quarantine myself and get it out of my system. I'm going to have to give my mind a good washing out. A Joey Ramone Mind Enema (patent pending). That's what. (Tell me that there are support groups. I'm falling apart here.)

In the mean time, I have to go put my hands up, it seems that there is some sort of party in the USA that must be attended to. Or maybe I should just walk into traffic. Or dance. Yeah... I'll dance into traffic. WOoOooOHhooOOOo!

My brain is a dried up little craisin. Not even zombies would want it in their cinnamon buns.

Alright, Nerdsquad. It's 12:33 am and I have been pretty much transferring files (long overdue) from my old crapattack, dell, missing-the-letter-k laptop to my glorious, new-ish (November=new, right? it totes does. That's right I said totes because I am delirious) macbook FOREVER. If you're on my twitter or FB, you've been skipping over my complain-y updates for hours. and. hours.

I've found that the most effective way to avoid the bajillion glitches in my dell is to use bluetooth to move files. OMG slow. So here is some rambly crap for you to read and enjoy while I watch the progress bar until I am hypnotized and strangle something inanimate. Like that cat over there.

1. Teenagers speak aloud to each other in text. IN TEXT. They SAY "smiley face" and they SAY, "Awww Frowny". Just when I thought emo pants were the most obnoxious things ever, this surfaces. The fact that I say, "Oh Em Gee" occasionally, weighs very lightly on this, though Geeks. For rlz. I stole it from another adult who happens to be totally awesome. Totes. This is what is happening to our youth. We're pretty much screwed when we get really old, eh?

2. The farmer in my Dell

The farmer in my Dell

High Ho Ontario

The farmer in my Dell has been sucking the life out of me all day and I need to step away, but if I do, I might never take the files off of it and I hate the people at the Net Nanny place because they make my life that much more difficult and they lie to me and say it will be easy to format the computer so that it is safe for a pre teen to use it without accidentally exposing his eyes to the unsavory internets- but it's not easy at allllllll, it's a pain in the arse and I need to sleeeeeeeeeep but I'm stupid and promised I'd do thiiiiIIIIiiiiiissssssssss killlll meeeeeeeeee.... (but don't really kill me, internet weirdos, spare me because look how dedicated to stuff I am. You don't find that every day.)

3. So on my old computer were all the old lame-o youtube vidlogs I used to do. That was a stroll down memory lane/back into cabin fever. Wild. Maybe I'll post a montage of them set to some peppy and then very sad early 90s pop music. Maybe I won't.

4. Maybe instead I'll have an oreo straw. I thought plain old oreos and beer were glorious but now you can drink your beer THROUGH an oreo. A straw made of oreos for beer. Think about that awesomeness. I mean really sit down and think about it.

5. I have to stop. This blog is whacktarded.

6. I wish I was at the waterslides right this second.

How to deal.

WELL. I turn 30 in 1 day, 15 hours, 6 minutes and 2ish seconds. How. did. this. happen? I feel like I should go buy something made of crushed velvet leopard print with rhinestones that read, "Hot Mama" and hang out in a karaoke bar during day time hours or something. I already like karaoke and I do already find teenagers a little frightening- plus they're probably on drugs, so- y'know- I'm moving along nicely with my 'out of touch with the youth' directive.

By the time my kids are actual teenagers, I should be good and embarrassing- which we all know is the best kind of parenting leverage that there is. "You got a tongue ring, dearest Daughter? WELL then I'm getting six of them. What time should I arrive at your school to show all of your friends? In the morning? I'll make an appointment with your teacher to show the class straight away. Should I wear my new leopard print leisure suit? Do you think the school will mind if I bring along my martini-in-a-water-bottle? MwahahahahAHHAHAHAHA! " It's a brilliant plan. I'm pretty excited about the whole thing.

So yeah. Almost there.

Dear Birds,

I realize that you are all madly in love and busy with spring procreation, but how on earth can it be that there are 238720987529384723 different species of you outside, competing for the loudest and most obnoxious, deafening song? This is Canada. You were supposed have frozen to death and I'll be damned if I've even seen ONE penguin quietly rolling it's egg anywhere. Just raccoons, squirrels and bazillions of twitty birds. It's so unfair.

Now don't get me wrong, Birds of my neighborhood, I love birds as much as the next guy- but I have to admit that am forced to consider constructing a Vlad the Impaler-esque plastic bird arrangement on my front lawn so that you can write letters to your neighborhood bird association- complaining of my hateful display, demanding that something be done with your little bird petition to make it more livable around here for you. Then, when the letter is finally processed by the bird bureaucracy and slow moving legal system due to the uphill battle you'll have to fight against social stigma regarding Bird tolerance, so much time will have passed that you'll all have given up and moved to my arch nemesis's neighborhood instead to drive THEM insane enough to burn their own house down just to make you go away, (killing 2 birds with one stone) because too bad, Birds, you have no human rights. Just the flimsy bird rights which that hippy, Pamela Anderson fights fruitlessly for.

After all, the bottom line is that you're all delicious on toasted paninis with a little rosemary, sea salt and olive oil and your bird babies are just the right size to fit into tasty little birdy samosas. I might even make a little cash if I set up a stand at the bus stop selling these baby bird samosas. I'm thinking $2 each would be a good price. $3 if I decorate them by having your little birdy legs poke out of the pastry edges with little tiny unstylish shoes on.

Love

Chelle.

30 seconds in the life of Michelle

So I decided to take a break from reading about vampires on wikipedia while eating caramel directly out of a jar with a baby spoon to go outside and take in some nice big breaths of fresh air/spy on the neighbors who left their garbage receptacles out for too long even though the garbage men came YESTERDAY.

I got myself all prepared to take my first big breath of refreshing air that still smells great because the farm down the road has yet to dump pig manure downwind from me as they like to do on nice spring days.

I got alllllll ready, I even thought about baby chickens and fresh green grass and inhaled deeply after the count of three. Well. The little bastard of a black fly who had been watching me and biding his time decided to go on a martyrdom suicide mission and fly directly into my lung ON MY FIRST BREATH. His little act of bug terrorism was a total success. I just know I'm going to get a letter with different kinds of radical bug sects claiming responsibility, too. But I know it wasn't a bee OR a ladybug. I know who did this.

JUST what I needed. Fanatic, militant bugs working together outside my house so that they can ruin my life. WELL I WILL NEVER CONVERT. You hear that, Nature?? NEVER. I'll find some DDT if its the last thing I do. You'll never win, Nature. NEVER.

LaserTiger. That's a cool title for this post.

I finally won a damned coffee at Tim Hortons. Now I don't even want it. I DON'T EVEN WANT IT, READER. The winning cup is now sitting on my microwave collecting change and screws, just like the Tim Horton's whore it is. (Tim WHOREtons. Hahahaha. Clever me.) And guess what? In one week, the cup has collected enough change to buy several coffees. And guess what else? I'm going to buy a frosty with that money because I have a sore throat. TAKE. THAT. Plus I have never had a frosty, I don't think... in fact I'm not sure where to buy one or what it is, exactly. But I'm going to find out what it is and get it because it sounds pretty soothing. Whatever it is, rum will be good in it. I'm getting pretty excited about it.

In other news, The Kids in the Hall are getting back together to do a series for the CBC. Oh-Em-Gee. I nearly peed myself when I heard this (But not quite). I already have every episode of kids in the hall taped on vhs somewhere in my basement in a box. I syphoned it off a good friend waaaay back in high school. All I know is that it's now in some precious translucent fluorescent green cases next to my taped copy of Space Balls and I no longer own a VCR... hm... Remember when we used to tape stuff and keep it? I had alllllll kinds of awesome taped shows. I bagged the crap out of my mom's VCR. Once, when I lived on my own and I was poor, I would have a friend of mine tape whatever he was watching on TV and give me the tapes the following day. It was like having time retarded cable. I just reused and reused the same three tapes for about a year. *high five*

Those were the days. Now I have digital cable on demand. *high five*

So my kid found an old mixed cassette tape in the bottom of a drawer once and asked me what it was. I was shocked. I told him it was a tape and he screwed up his face.

Kid: THIS is tape?? How do you open it? What do you tape with it? It's not even sticky.
Me: You're grounded. *high five*

How are angsty teenagers supposed to express themselves without complicated themed mixed tapes made up of different arrangements of the same 6 albums they own/scavanged from their siblings for their bffs? I think the death of the mixed tape is solely responsible for the advent of the emo kid. Too much access to crappy internet music. You KNOW I'm right. When I was a teenager, I had no choice but to include some of my Mom's records into my mixed tapes. Y'know, just for filler. A little Jimmy Swaggart built character, anyway. Clearly. Is not crappy. IS NOT. It's not the same! *lalalalala*

Off to see a man about a frosty.

Yep.

So I went and had my hair done the other day. That was pretty much a nightmare. I really hate trying to find a new stylist. It has been 7 months since I moved away from the best Jennifer who bossed me around with my hair and made all of my dreams come true (except the reocurring one where my sister's father in law is a rampant serial killer and I have to stop him with only dental floss... still haven't resolved that one- if I were ever willing to apply myself the way those women in the movies do when they have dreams like that, I might blow open the biggest case of serial murder that Northern Alberta has ever seen... except that he's not actually a serial murderer at all. He's just a guy who brought my brother in law into the world so I'd better not put him behind bars for good. It would make Christmases pretty awkward. Elephant in the room, so to speak). So I've been putting off getting my hair done at all costs, which is basically a train wreck since I insist on being an unholy shade of blonde- and that is a commitment unto itself.

By the time I'd itemized my list of demands to the quivering woman prior to her butchery, I could see her actual mind blowing. That really should have been the first red flag indicating that I should have bolted out of there faster than an epileptic speed freak (offensive? doesn't even make sense? huh?)... but I stayed. I decided not to be judgemental against her for juuust long enough for her to ruin my life. STUPID. ALWAYS go with being judgemental.

I'd show you the end product, but someone might google search it and think I'd done it on purpose. It was somewhere between circa 1996 A&W team member and captain of the scrap booking soccer mom club (or SS). It wasn't punkish, saucy, feminine, respectable or ahead of the trends AT ALL. So I pushed her down, told her that her kids were ugly and left.

Anyhow, luckily, my hair is naturally curly and I can easily hide all the haircut flaws by letting it go into it's organic state of depraved steel brillo pad.

The End.

Dérrroule le rebord pour GAGNER!!

Do you see? I STILL haven't won. NOT EVEN A FREAKIN' MUFFIN. I don't even like muffins. Please play again? Oh Tim Horton's. I will play again. I will play again and again and again and again until I am broken & obese from the double-double cream/sugar and twitching in the corner from caffiene. Someone will have to intervene (hopefully not Richard Simmons). Then I'll stop playing again.

Stupid addictive coffee plus addictive gambling all rolled up together. (<--did you catch that pun? Pretty hilarious, eh?) I'm not going to lie. I'm planning on betting all of my kids' swimming lessons money on this.

I will play, even though I hate the 'Rrrrrroll up the rim to win' slogan. It should be 'Mmmmmmash your stupid losing cup into the wet pavement with both of your heels at the same time while angrily shaking your fist toward Tim Horton's drive through window to win' instead. They never acknowledge my pain.

Alright Tim Hortons. I'm sorry about the stupid Starbucks I got that one day, okay? It was nothing. will you stop punishing me now? Maybe we could start over. Do some counseling or something? You're pretty, Tim Hortons. Way prettier.