And penises were for pulling out in public to make your friends laugh

They still do.

I'm feeling just a touch immature right now, so I'm playing and replaying an image of me using a three-foot-long, flaccid penis to whip on some sort of evil-doer, injuring and humiliating them at the same time. My weakness would be arousal; if at any point I got excited, all three feet of penis would swell with blood, depriving my brain and body, and leaving me mostly defenseless. I would be part of an awesome superhero team, though, and my buddies would come to my aid by destroying the source of my horniness.

But I don't know what their powers would be. So if anyone in my paltry audience would care to venture some awesome, yet strange and not-terribly-effective superpower (or supertrait), that would be really cool. And if you want, you could also join my fictional superteam. Yes!

Dites-moi vos reves, et depuis dansons

Good evening, young goatlings.

In ten minutes I must depart to attend to Lady Pearl's kitchen, but before I do, I would just like to express to you how tired and whiny I am right now: very.

Good news, though! This morning I had another examination, this time in economics. And this time, after studying my ass off and breaking various parts of my body because I have no real space to sit down and work, I successfully mastered all concepts that showed up on the exam, and I am expecting a perfect score. Bad news on another front, however, as my statistics professor sent out an email to the class chiding students for various mistakes that were committed. I can't be sure, but I suspect I may have committed some of those mistakes. That would lower my grade on that test significantly, leaving me with the option to study my little tuckus off or settle for a B. I say fuck the fucking B, but I sure do wish I'd had the foresight to go to the review session before the test instead of sauntering off to Romano's Macaroni Grill to dine on moderately pleasing Italian dishes while sipping a dry vodka martini with a twist.

That's right. A martini. I think I went straight from age 12 to age 45, from no alcohol to wine and martinis. It was my second, and infinitely better than my first, which was this ghastly, excessively sweet thing I got at an Indian restaurant. I should have known by the fancy-sounding names for the liquor they put in it, but damn it, it had an Indian name, so I thought it would be cool.

And one last thing. This talk of martinis reminds me of James Bond. And I would like to say that I was very impressed by the newest model, as seen in Casino Royale. So screw you, haters! Hahahahaha!

XKCD makes me smile

Check it out sometime if you're feeling so inclined. It's a webcomic. It makes you giggle and squee (particularly if you have a working familiarity with math).

Right now I'm writing from a computer in the Life Sciences Library at UT. Unlike the other, normal computers, this one wanted to be different from the rest, so it gave itself a really large resolution and wouldn't let me change it. Now, my eyesight is just fine, but at these high resolutions the text becomes tiny, forcing me to ask Internet Explorer to display text in "large" size instead of "medium". Anyone who's experimented with this could tell you, this makes all affected text look ugly. That's right: U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no alibi, you ugly, yeah yeah, you ugly. I'm sorry, the cheerleader/jump roping girl in me came out, and I didn't want to restrain her.

But the point was that the very text I'm typing now is affected. And it's amazing what an affect the homely physical appearance of the letters you write will have on your mindset. I'm sure it's part of the reason that my penmanship takes on an extraordinary, uncalled-for sloppiness when I'm trying to write quickly, and that it becomes noticeably neater when I'm writing something thoughtful to myself. Like a journal.

My subconscious mind seems to be perceiving the unsightliness of this whole affair and determining that it should be carried out quickly, with wanton aggression. My conscious mind is trying to fight this urge by using words like wanton.

But enough about my writing, let's talk about me! Yesterday I went to sleep at 4 PM. It was awesome. Except for this dream that I can't really remember now. I think the gist of it was that for some reason I wasn't with Danielle anymore, but some strange black or brown girl. And when I tried to hug and cuddle with her, it was not at all the same, and I was sad.

I woke up at 12, puttered around for a few hours, and went back to sleep. I wish I had the foresight to blog about it before I dozed off again, because I know how much you guys like to hear about my dreams and sleep patterns. In fact, I would devote another three paragraphs just to that right now, except that there is something yet more pressing: yesterday's statistics test.

I didn't finish it. ):

I had perhaps 31 to 33 points in the class going into the exam. I'd need 85 of these points to get an A in the class. Each homework assignment provides 1 point, each three tests gives 15, and the final provides 50. I thought I'd whoop this last test's ass just like I did the first two, but I'll be lucky to walk away with a passable road to an A. I'd forgotten that I largely stopped going to class recently and that I hadn't done a homework assignment in nearly two months, so it's not surprising that my expectations were dashed.

Plus, if you can't tell, my brain must not be working at full efficiency, and this after I caught up on missed sleep.

But I am worried. The last two tests I've taken have been rather awful, and a third, in microeconomics, is coming up tomorrow. And that one I cannot do poorly on (incidentally, I skipped that class on Tuesday so that I could study for statistics). I can accept a B in Differential Equations, whose relevance to my studies is exceptionally low; I can suffer a mediocre grade on a test in statistics considering that it's not a terribly hard class; and lower than expected grades on two recent tests in my other classes will require that I study hard, but not excessively, for the respective finals. I can handle all of that. But a poor showing on this exam in economics (which, in lieu of a final, will include a presentation of a mathematical model in May) would put lots of pressure on me to do a fantastic job on the parenthetically-mentioned model. And while I tend to deliver in high pressure situations not involving academic writing, I have a much-less-than-stellar track record if you mix high pressure and academic writing. Yeah, academic writing in general is not really a strongsuit of mine.

That was quite enough talk, I believe. I am now apparently skipping the Differential Equations recitation for which I came to the library in the first place, apparently, and you are bored to tears if you had the tenacity to come to the end. I've long since dispatched with the large, icky text, so I have little pretext for this lackadaisical writing now.

Oh! The word lackadaisical reminds me of another webcomic. Lackadaisy!

And that's all she wrote for today, folks. This is Cantay, a boy, not a girl, wishing your pets spayed and neutered. Hasta la byebye.

A teaser from my interview with Cameron Crowe, reporting for Rolling Stone

(Much more of the interview will appear in next week's edition, along with a nice background Story of Cantay.)

Crowe: The question on everyone's minds at this point, considering your long hiatus and your previous disenchantment with your fans, is what's bringing you back?

Cantay: First, I'd just like to apologize to those fans. Fans: I'm sorry I called the president of my fanclub "fucko" and I genuinely regret leaving the concert in Miami after a string in my harpiscord snapped. But back to your question, Cameron. Without trying to sound conceited, music courses through my veins. It's who I am. I could try to deny that I'm a genius, but that's too much effort for too little reward. I've decided to just sit back and take it, and maybe share a slice of awesomeness with the world.

Crowe: Your manager has hinted that there is one single in particular that we should look forward to on your forthcoming album. Care to touch on that?

Cantay: Absolutely. I believe the single he was referring to was The Sequel to Cantay. Obviously it's a working title, but it's based off the chart-topping Story of Cantay.

Crowe: Yes, I remember that one. As I recall, when I was walking down the streets of New York I saw so many people wearing "Fucking go to hell" t-shirts.

Cantay: What can I say? I love to let people express themselves. But yes, The Sequel to Cantay is going to be an epic ballad/pop hit/emo whinefest/metal symphony. It's going to be amazing. I can't wait for you to hear it.

Crowe: Was there any inspiration for that song in particular?

Cantay: Yes, actually. I took a test in my Differential Equations class just last week. Did horribly. As it turns out, however, I scored just above the average, which is significantly better than I'd hoped for. I've never been so happy to do so poorly on a test.

Crowe: Excellent. And are you planning to commemorate this unexpected non-defeat?

Cantay: Yes. I have a statistics test today that I haven't studied a whit for, and it's ironic because not studying is a big part of the message of The Sequel to Cantay.

This is Cantay

For those precious few (two, three? four?) of you who have heard the splendiforous song This is the Story of Cantay, you might be excited to hear that I am considering a return to music. That's right, more not-quite-rapping-at-all to a sexy but noticeably unsynchronized beat.

The inspiration struck me yesterday right before the test I was whining about earlier. I didn't go to my other classes for the day because I was studying. The problem was that my studying consisted of doing non-academic things like trawling YouTube for videos of little goaties. I did run through the tests from last year, and glanced through the book for some more knowledge on series solutions, which was about 20% of the test. I was confident that, since the last test was very similar to what was done in the review session, I had all the information I needed.

I decided to take the bus to class a touch early so that I could do some last minute looking-over of things in the book in case I'd forgotten anything. So I left the co-op at 1:30 and plopped myself down at the bus stop, opening my book and trying to understand what actually happens at singular points of second-order differential equations.

After a bit of reading, I noticed that it had been a while since I'd sat down, but the bus hadn't come. I checked my cellular phone for the time, shrugged my shoulders, and assumed the bus was just going to be late. If I'd spent all this time waiting, there's no way that the bus would be much longer, and it would be better to wait for it than to hoof it. So I kept reading.

Then a car came up. A man who looked a bit like one of Pedro's cousins from Napoleon Dynamite leaned out the passenger window and asked if I could move the barricade in the road so they could pass. Even though the car was not as cool as Pedro's cousins', I obliged, moving it aside and then back into position once the car had passed. I shrugged to a passer-by and went back to the bus stop to do some more reading to wait for the bus.

It was at least thirty seconds before a rather obvious epiphany struck me: there was a barricade in the road. The road that the bus normally went down. From that point, it wasn't too hard for me to figure out that the bus wasn't coming. I checked the time (fifteen minutes until my 2:00 class), stuffed my book into my messenger bag, and broke out speed-walking to try to make a twenty-five minute walk in just over half that time. The best part of the walk was passing by the people who'd passed by me while I was sitting down at the bus stop. Kickass.

The second best part of the walk was feeling like I was about to suffer from heart failure because of the strange way I was walking, tensing every muscle in my body in an effort to move quickly while not looking stupid. In hindsight, chances are that I looked extremely stupid and moved at less than my top walking speed. My shins, especially, were unnecessarily bunched up.

Somehow I made it to class at about 1:57 and I grabbed a seat by two fellows from my co-op, Stefan and Tyler. At least I made it, I thought. Now to kick the test's ass.

No dice. The professor apparently (rightly) thought that the last test had been too easy, so this one had some stuff that wasn't covered in the review session. Awesome. There were five questions, each worth ten points. For each question, assuming I had no errors in the work I did do, I could have gotten respectively 7, 10, 7, 4, and 10 points, meaning a total score of 38/50. My honest expectations, however, hover around 32/50. And it could reasonably be as low as 25/50.

My first test was a frakking 57/60. Even my last one was a definitely better 39/50. What has happened to me since then? Arrogance and laziness, my dear Watson. I miss studious, confident Cantay, but he always seems to disappear when I start to do well on the grounds that we don't need him anymore, and playing TextTwist online is fun. The slippery slope may be a fallacious argument, but it's a reality for me and many other students. And it sucks. I miss one class here, one there, and suddenly I'm skipping regularly to play TextTwist and sleep. And as nifty as it is to rearrange the letters YSPRCT to form the word crypts and others, it's not as nifty as returning to a scholarly equilibrium instead of this bad, lazy one.

Oh, and I have homework to do now. Sweet, huh? Now I just need to do that. And write a cover letter for a job I won't get. And figure out how to squeeze this post into a song for my musical resurgence.

If God doesn't exist, then why are bananas so perfectly formed to fit in our hands, hmm?

Excuse me while I slice open my genitals and empty the contents unto the boulevard and jump on them in a mad ecstasy. My obsessions with genitalia do not stop just because there was a massive interval between posts, I'm afraid. This is especially true when I'm feeling frustrated and I've nowhere to turn except to reproductive organs, which provide a strange sort of catharsis when mentioned.

I have a test tomorrow in Differential Equations, which has been doing quite a number on me. If I can properly study, I might just be able to pull out a much-needed miracle. The happy effects of this potential miracle wouldn't be limited to my grades in that class, however: I need an overall academic morale boost. Danielle was recently in town for the better part of a week, and it was tremendously wonderful to have her around, but she never was very conducive to scholarship. So here I am, stuck in a funk (exacerbated by scores that were slightly lower than expected on two tests).

And I have no job prospects for the summer or fall. Jesus Christ, what's happened to me? I'm like a massive airliner whose engine has happily decided to stall. If, for the love of God, I can turn the engines back on everything should be all right. But otherwise I'll plummet to the ground. Thankfully, even the ground only represents mediocrity, but it's an extremely dangerous sign that I am both in danger of slipping and in such a bad state that mediocrity doesn't seem so bad. I have no idea if acknowledging this will actually spur me to take (greater) action. Squee, bitch.

Oh, but on a much more light-hearted note I found out the coolest thing while searching for synonyms of bombastic on dictionary.com! While big-talking is considered "informal or slang", bullshitting is not. I love you, English language.