Real life isn't usually like that. Evil entities stay evil even in the presence of other, greater evil entities. Nobody really bands together... they just all fight with each other in one big mess.
Frankly, good and evil aren't so clearly defined either. Somebody's Skeletor could be another person's He-Man. It's really important to remember that, or you end up going around with one foot in your mouth all the time.

I wish life were as simple as He-Man... only without that Orko thing floating around, because he would get annoying in a hurry.
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I was reading today about how Congressman Bob Ney from Ohio decreed on Tuesday that the french fries in the House of Representitives cafetertia should be renamed "freedom fries." Already in effect, the french toast there has been renamed "freedom toast." Ney went on to be quoted, "This action today is a small but symbolic effor to show the strong displeasure of many of Capitol Hill with the actions of our so-called ally, France." Is it really necessary to take food jabs at the French just because they don't want to go to war? Also, by substituting the word "French" for "freedom" it's as if France themselves don't stand for freedom, thus the reason for renaming. This is a country that has over 100 official cheeses; they can't be all THAT bad! In the article it goes on to state that perhaps we should also "enjoy Freedom bread, pet Freedom poodles, pour Freedom dressing, and after cursing people, use the expression "pardon my Freedom". The article also mentioned that the French Embassy made a point of saying that french fries actually originated in Belguim. Man, just thinking about freedom kissing sounds stupid.
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Today I saw "Hsoj". He was leaving the building and going to find his bus. His bus generally arrives at the school after Stewart's bus, but only slightly after. When I first saw him, I completely stopped talking and just looked off at him. Then, as astonishingly amazing as it sounds, he actually TURNED AROUND and waved faintly waved to me. I couldn't believe this! I did some type of stupid wave in return, and he vanished from my sight just as my arm began to fall. I began to pretend as if I was crashing my head against the brick wall as Casie kind of laughed at my patheticness. Right as I was declaring myself to be the most dim-witted human being on the planet, Hsoj reappeared smiling (as if from nowhere, might I add). Shocked in response to his return, I shifted around and spoke clumsily and incredibly slowly (yet not slow enough to properly construct a single sentence I spoke). There were a number of weird, quiet gaps in between conversations (that were brought on completely by me), and there were many times when I figured Hosj was on the verge of walking away (or already had). In an attempt to explain my idiotic actions, I tried to claim that I was not always this stupid ... but I kind of faded off upon realizing that it was the wrong choice of words. I am stupid. I am stupid every, single day. I think I'm growing more and more stupid as the days pass. "Clumsy" is more fitting. Whenever in his presence, I become clumsy (which I suppose gives off the appearance of an incredibly dull and dim creature with little natural talent and sense of balance). When Hsoj commented on the visibility of my braces, I became more nervous than before, and my nervous habits kicked in (which is never, ever good). I was already covering my mouth quite frequently in between bizarre laughs and fragmented sentences. After commenting on his lack of knowledge of the metal appliance covering my teeth, I got even more nervous, and my voice became somewhat muffled. I knew exactly what he was thinking of me, and it saddened me. His eyes were so sparkly in the sun, and it caused me to babble continuously in an attempt to keep him standing next to me. He saw his bus before I did, and Stewart and Hsoj walked off to stand in the crowd of people. I hated myself right then more than at any other point in a range of time. My bus came about 20 minutes later, and I planted myself in the seat robotically, still stunned by my horribly boring (yet extraordinarily bizarre) actions. I have so much homework, but I don't feel like doing a single bit of it. My grades are rather low (in comparison to last trimester's), but at the current moment, I do not care a bit. I'm incredibly tired, and I feel like sleeping. I've really disappointed myself today.
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Me: Checking your e-mail?
Jon: Yeah. It's always spam mail about how to refinance my mortgage, and online porn.
Me: Yes. I strongly dislike that (*slight sarcasm thrown in there somewhere)
Jon: Me too. I mean, because it's not like I even have a mortgage, and I don't...well, yeah, nevermind.
Me: What was that?
Jon: I said, nevermind.
Me: Uh huh.

#173 on the list of things that makes my head hurt:
So I was listening to the radio earlier, and the DJ person or whatever introduced this song. First off, it was a remake of the Walter Murphy song A Fifth of Beethoven, which is a remake of Beethoven's 5th (which I find quite obvious). So the man is doing a remake of a remake! Are we finally out of ideas?! Secondly (and this, in my opinion, makes it even odder still) is the fact that the guy is the son of Alan Thicke, the dad on Growing Pains. And to sprinkle a little salt in that wound, the name he's going by is...just plain Thicke. Get me the aspirin now.

While I've always enjoyed the Police song 'Don't Stand So Close To Me,' only recently has it become a Chelsea mantra. While no one actually wants anyone to sit next to them on the bus, at a certain point, a vacant seat next to you becomes an insult, y'know? The bus will get fairly packed sometimes in the afternoon, the obvious double-up will occur. Pretty much everyone on the bus is sitting next to someone. It's at this point that my attitude switches from "Wow, that's cool that I've got the seat to myself," to "Why the hell won't anyone sit next to me?" It becomes picking teams for kickball in elementary school all over again ... and again, I'm last.
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So it was late, and I was trying to get out of the building from work (exhausted and weary) to meet my ride, and I got into revolving door without bothering to notice that (gasp!) there was a 6 year old in my little quarter of the revolving door with me. I looked down at him and waved (in a 1-step, windshield wiping motion) and said, "Greetings," and he looked up and waved his floppy arm and responded with a friendly "hiyaa" and the next thing I knew we were outside and his mother was yelling at him. Evidently, he was amused to no end with going around and around in the revolving door. Ah, how I miss the days when that was enough to entertain me too (OOH! a paper clip!! *bends paper clip for solid minute). I kind of zoned out, watching the child with amusement, and Toby's brother almost left without me.

A Good Fellas moment between Toby and I (in the car):
Toby: (laughs)
Me: What?
Toby: You're funny.
Me: I'm funny?
Toby: Yeah.
Me: What do you mean funny? Like funny how?
Toby: I dunno. Just funny, y'know.
Me: I mean, funny like a clown? Do I amuse you? Funny how?
Toby: Just funny.
Me: (sigh)
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I woke up this morning at 8:00 AM to find that it was a Saturday. Damn alarm clock. Actually, it was my fault for not "unsetting" it (which I find to be--just--utterly stupid and aggravating to begin with). So I looked at the clock, got up (preparing to put on a sweatshirt and grab my backpack, and I realize that it's Saturday. I fake-smacked myself on the head and fell back into bed (and when I say "fell", I mean it literally). At about 9:00, I got in the shower, and afterwards, I wrapped my sopping wet hair up in a little towel-turban type thing. I wander into the room and start looking in my closet for my favorite comfortable sweatshirt. Kailey had MTV on (of course). There's a commercial. Have you ever seen the commercial with the guy on the four-wheeler in the desert complaining about his deodorant? Randomly, Kailey asks me "How did he get to the desert? Did he just fly out there, drive around, and fly home?" After the briefest of brief pauses, I reply "Well maybe he lives on the edge of the desert. Because he's a *dramatic pause* DESERT SWAMI!!! We found this HILARIOUS. Then Kailey goes "It's SOO much funnier cause you have that towel on your head!" Way to state the obvious. After she had killed the joke, and we watched a re-run of "Taildaters".
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Y'know...there's a reason why a microwave is called a microwave and not a toaster. It simply doesn't toast. I discovered this the hard way yesterday when I really wanted to have some toast and jam. I put the bread in the microwave, only to take it out 30 seconds later and see it even softer than before. I was very disapointed.
In other news, (and at the risk of sounding like a 53 year old Jewish man), Oy! My back is killing me! I think part of it may be this chair that I use while sitting at this desk, which looks nice enough, but really has a secret motivation to turn my spine into something resembling those lines on the roadsigns which warn, "Road Curves Ahead!"
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Disgruntling observation:
People on cell phones listen with the phone in the normal position (earpiece next to ear), but when they talk they move the mouthpiece down in front of their mouths. These people are under the impression that because their mouth is two inches away from the phone, the person they are talking to cannot hear them. We can hear you! When you bring the phone down right in front of your mouth it just makes you louder and more annoying than you already are! Keeping the phone where it was meant to be on your head is okay...it was designed to work that way!
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Today I realized that I have really turned very cynical in terms of people on the street; I'm not even referring to homeless people here either. As I was walking through the mall (yes ... I was at the mall), this guy was holding out something and asked, "Would you like to sign a petition to help save tropical forests?" I did my standard face scrunch and shoulder shrug, which is the universal gesture symbolizing, "Y'know, I'd really, really like to help you out, but I don't have the time / money / patience / good will to spare right now." Then, after I had walked past him I realized that I actually WOULD like to help save tropical forests, but it was too late to go back at that point. It's just that so often the people on the street are either begging for change, or handing me flyers promoting Jews for Jesus or (and I honestly have gotten this), how Harry Potter books are sending Satan's messages to children. As if Scholastic Publishing would help with that! Though, being realistic, I doubt that I'm going to change my ways and start chatting it up with every wahoo standing on a corner with a clipboard; I just wish the people actually worth stopping for had some kind of siren or blinking light symbolizing that. But alas, the world is an imperfect place.
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I was at the store the other day, and they had Valentines Day stuff up. Valentines Day! That's like ... what? A month and a half away? This country is freakishly obsessed with holidays, and my prime example of this is Holiday Man. Who is Holiday Man, you ask? Well I'll tell you! Long, long ago there was this guy who lived a few blocks down from me, and every month, for every corresponding holiday, he would decorate his roof, windows, and entire lawn with decorations for that holiday. Christmas was the worst. Though I do remember for one Easter not only did he go overboard like usual with the decorations, but on Easter day he stood at the end of his driveway in a giant pink bunny suit waving at people as they drove by. I SO need to move to back. Currently, a few streets down, I have something that could be described as Holiday Man Lite (New Holiday Man - half the calories!). Still very disturbing. Personally I'm not one for putting up decorations, so maybe it's just me. Me and my incredibly disturbing family. My family didn't even put up a flag after the whole Sep. 11 thing. Trixi even asked, "So, have you put up a flag or anything?" and I said, "The fact that you would even ask that shows how little you know my family." Decorations: Bah! Later.
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As some of you may or may not know, Jon drives one of the new Beetles. That, of course being a Volkswagen, entitles him to the Volkswagen DriverGear catalog. This is the saddest catalog on the planet, reserved only for people who treat their cars better than their children. Here, some of the things you can order from it:

-A Warning Triangle, Safety Vest, and Life Hammer ($48.95, pg. 23). In case you get the urge to join a highway rescue team suddenly...and want the VW logo on your gear!

-Floor mats with the name of your car on them (Jetta, Cabrio, Passat)($71.30, pg. 24) This may come in handy when you get drunk, go home with someone, wake up in their Volkswagen, and are put in the awkward situation of not knowing what model you're in. Simply just look down.

-Gift Certificate to VW DriverGear catalog ($10, $25, $50 and $100, pg. 35). When you really want to convey the message, "I don't know you. At all!"

-VW Logo Bib ($16, pg. 49). ...As in, for your infant. So you can instill a screwed up sense of values in them from an early age.

-VW Logo Umbrella ($22, pg. 55). Bumper sticker stating, "My other umbrella is a Mercedes," sold separately.

-VW Logo Pet Leash($45, pg. 57). (when you don't actually have pets, can be used in Volkswagen bondage foreplay)
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People suck! And I mean that in the most positive way possible. I'm not saying that because someone has done something to me recently, or anything in particular, it's just that...people can be such idiots sometimes, and for no better reason than they're an idiot, and if they just realized, "hey, I'm wrong," or acted out the healthiest option for themselves, then they might be better off. This is why so many people are in therapy! People can just come to me, and I'll tell them the problem for free, just to improve this world of ours. Just a general announcement to people out there: If you haven't read Tuesdays With Morrie, you should. When someone suggested it to me I was all, "Bah humbug!" about it as you might be, but it's a really quick read, and as long as you're not a thickheaded morass, you should walk away from the book with something.
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What I really dislike about myself is that I seem to lack of the basic, rudimentary people skills that most people learned as children. I’m not a chit-chatty person. This causes me to be very isolated in most casual social situations. I do best with people who are the most unlike me in this respect – the friendly, outgoing small-talk-artists of the world. One would think that the best way to remedy this situation is to make an effort to be more like my antithetical counterparts. Yes, an effort! I can make an effort – a fractured, awkward, ineffective effort. “Some --uh er-- weather we’re having, huh?” “Did you see the, umm, football game last night? It sure was good, wasn’t it, fellow undergraduate?” I feel as though I was born without that certain social sensibility needed to fit-in in those casual, water cooler settings. I believe that I come off as a robotic Mr. Spock clone (minus the pointy ears and resemblance to Leonard Nimoy, of course) with the droning monotones of Ben Stein, an unexpressive, stone-like face reminiscent of Buster Keaton’s deadpan mug, and the laid-back posture of Jack Webb pretending to be a Buckingham Palace guard. What a comely commiseration candidate, indeed.
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The following discussion took place at the library (where I work as a volunteer) between some little kid and myself. The topic is the new desk pad.

Kid: Ooh, new desk pad?
Me: Uh huh!
Kid: It's white.
Me: Yeah, they couldn't find the good kind.
Kid: The … good kind?
Me: The leather kind. We used to have those all the time, but not no more! All because’ a 911!
Kid: The emergency line?
Me: No! 911! Y’know …
Kid: September 11th?
Me: That's right!
Kid: We don't have a leather desk pad because of September 11th?
Me: Yeah! They gotta use that leather for other stuff
Kid: What? This isn't World War I. We're not rationing.
Me: You don't know that
Kid: Right. We can no longer find leather desk pads. The terrorists have won.
Me: Uh huh
(later that day)
Miss Jacobson (assistant): Hey, new desk pad.
Kid (in my swivel chair while I file): Yeah.
Miss Jacobson: Why is it white?
Kid: Terrorists.
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I was watching a Civil War documentary on the history channel yesterday (yeah, I know, as if there is any other kind. I swear to god, they ought to change their name to the civil war channel) and I was surprised to hear that when supplies were low and the men were in the field for weeks at a time, they would often wear through there shoes and have to march (and even fight) barefoot. What a terrible thing! It's bad enough to be plucked away from your life, be taken hundreds of miles from your home, and made to kill and perhaps die for a purpose which is both far bigger than yourself and yet not worth the life of a single man -- namely, war. But to have to go through all of that with sore, cold, unprotected feet is just that much more hellish.
It made me think, though, that our modern, industrialized world, for all of its problems and injustice, is a pretty darn good place to live. Some people think that technology and industrialization have made life impersonal, unnatural, and maybe just a tad too comfortable -- not to even mention what it has done to the natural world and our environment (see pollution, extinction, etc.) And those people are very correct to point this out. But I really think they go wrong when they advocate a return to some kind of stripped down, primitive kind of world without modern conveniences and creature comforts. Sure, industrialization has from time to time has exploited people and resources. It has turned workers into wage slaves and carved a nice, big hole in the ozone. But it has also allowed certain things to be produced cheaply and efficiently and made them widely and inexpensively available. Things like shoes.
Before the advent of mass production, the assembly line, and other such things, shoes were made one at a time by cobblers and craftsmen, slowly, and expensively. Now, I'm not saying that shoes were some kind of luxury only to be enjoyed by the wealthy. That of course is not true, but they were hard to make and probably not so easily available, and if you were extremely poor or a constantly marching foot soldier, it wouldn't be uncommon for you to be forced to go without them.
Nowadays, however, footwear can be made quickly, easily and very inexpensively, and the whole world is one big Emelda Marcos closet. You may not be sporting a pair of Gucci's, but chances are you or anybody can afford a $5 pair of Wal-Mart cheapies. And granted, the world still has its share of barefoot people, but it doesn't really have to be that way anymore. The wheels of industry are more than capable of churning out enough affordable shoes to supply the entire planet. So, just think, for the first time in human history, every man, woman, and child at least 'could' be wearing shoes on their feet. I know it isn't much, but it's a nice start...
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Scene: In the dairy aisle at the supermarket. I stand next to the cart as my mom fumbles through her for the grocery list. Two men with foreign accents are standing in front of the cheese.

Man #1: You don't want to get cheese from over here.
Man #2: And why not?
Man #1: Look at this cheese! It's horrible. This is all American cheese! It's crap!
(Man #2 smiles at me awkwardly, and I try and hide the fact that I have the "bad cheese" in my basket)
Man #2: Well maybe I want to be patriotic!
Man #1: Come on. We're getting cheese from over there. The good cheese!
...I later saw the two men buying fresher cheese from the deli counter.
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"But the girl on the car in the parking lot says 'Man, you should try to take a shot. Can't you see my walls are crumbling?'"

Oh, Adam Duritz, find me quick, because I am tired of something. I'll be the one on the gray Saturn, waving for all it's worth.

My dad has been thirteen years old since he was thirteen years old. It's not that he has a bizarre mental disorder or head trauma or anything of the sort--he's just of the breed of adult who simply refuses to grow up. This is in sharp contrast to my mom, who has been forty since she was thirteen, and who possibly may suffer from a bizarre mental disorder or head trauma. My dad proved to be as much of a discipline problem to my mom as my sister or I ever did.
I'll never forget the time I was having trouble with a kid in my language class in ninth grade. He'd kick me when the teacher turned around to write on the board, push me on the way to and from class, flash his pornographic magazines in front of me as I tried to work. I told my dad about it as we drove together. His answer was less than satisfactory.

"Punch him," he said. "Take him down, and make sure the whole school sees it."

Not to say that all the advice he gave me was bad. In fact, I owe a great deal of what I know about life to my being raised by him. He was constantly spewing out useful information as I grew up.
"All it takes to make an explosion is an acid and a base," he said to me once, "the stronger the acid and the stronger the base, the bigger the explosion."
Of course, he knew much more than that about making explosions, and rerouting electrical currents, and picking locks, and "customizing" computers, and evil rock and roll music. These are the things my father and I did together as I grew up. I didn't learn to catch a ball until I was sixteen years old, but this was a small price to pay for such knowledge, and still pretty good, considering my dad can't catch a ball and he's over forty.
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I had a dream last night that we were stuck in a very boring, very judgmental and stupid church service that was going on for days. In an act of rebellion, this boy and I changed so our underwear was on the outside of our clothes. Then we just sat there like nothing was different. We eventually became closer, and ended up getting married (in a different church). I'm not sure what it means, but I'm intrigued by the idea of wearing my clothes inside-out in church.

I have three packages of poptarts left. I'm thinking of performing an experiment with the poptarts to see which flavor will produce the biggest flames. I think it'll be S'mores. We'll have to hit up Goodwill for some ghetto toasters for the experiment, because I think my mother would be highly displeased if I used hers.

I saw "Little Shop of Horrors" for the first time last night. Can you believe I hadn't seen it until then? I was quite impressed. I now want a singing plant of my very own. I will take it home with me, and I will name it Cookie, and it will be my Cookie
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went and saw The Hulk on Saturday night (two days ago). I must say that it is the worst comic book movie I have ever seen. Here's a brief synopsis of the plot:

Bruce Banner is a kid. Suddenly, the editors develop ADHD and no scene is longer than thirty seconds for the rest of the movie. Bruce Banner grows up, goes to college, and turns thirty within five minutes. Then there's a bunch of CG and it is really cool. Then they accidentally put another movie on and everyone starts speaking in Spanish.
If you haven't seen it, you're probably laughing because that sounds ridiculous, but if you have seen it, you're probably laughing because it's true. I'm not making this up.
Not only that, but Hulk looks like a cross between any one of those giant monkeys and Shrek. I don't know what it is, but he managed to look completely laughable in every scene. And Bruce Banner has pants that can stretch to thirty time their normal size. I want to know where he got those, because I'm going to market them as maternity clothing.

In all seriousness, The Hulk was about as likeable as President Bush's foreign policy. If you like to see a lot of things smashed for no reason, and there's not really anything accomplished except a lot of money made on hype, then you'll love it. If I had Photoshop on the computer I was writing this from, I would make a photo of Bush turning into the Hulk at a UN meeting, but you'll just have to use your imaginations for now.
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Harry Potter and something about a Phoenix went on sale at 12:01 last night at Books-a-Million. We went to behold the spectacle. It was like a Star Trek convention for kids--kids were dressed up as Harry or Hermione (or sometimes other characters), some complete with a cape, but almost all at least bearing a lightning bolt-shaped scar on their forehead. There were even some old men dressed up like the adult characters in the movie. It was weird because you knew these kids wouldn't go to school dressed like that. You knew the adults wouldn't go to work dressed like that. It was only because they all go together for that singular purpose, and they knew they would be safe with it.

So then I started thinking: what if we had emo conventions? Think how emo we would get. It would be so depressing it would be awesome! But then I remembered, anyone that's really emo would't care enough to show up. The only people that would show up would be the people that read about emo in Seventeen magazine. J.D. Salinger would be rolling in his grave. Kids would all get together and show each other their poorly-written blogs on Livejournal.com. Really, I'm glad we don't have emo conventions.
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Favorite quotes from people who don't like The Matrix: Reloaded:

"Neo can move faster than sound, yet can't move blindingly through bullet time and simply disarm the security guards rather than slaughtering them? It looks like Neo learned his disarming techniques from George W. Bush."

"That architect guy looks like Col. Sanders."

"The cybernetic army that took over the Earth, says the film, was solar powered. The human resistance responded by blotting out the sky. A desperate measure, but surely the only choice they had. It was that, or, I don't know, postpone their counterattack until evening."

"Wait! If the architect was Col. Sanders, wouldn't they know what chicken tasted like?"
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I don't know why, but throughout pre-school and elementary school, I was always a discipline problem. My first grade teacher told my mom that I "would never amount to anything much." , but it started earlier than the first grade; it started in pre-school.
I only went through one year of pre-school before starting kindergarten. Living under someone else's rules for the first time was quite offsetting for me. I frequently hid under tables or ran away when any real teaching would occur. By the end of that first year, when all the other kids were writing their names and some were writing full sentences, I was only able to write my initials, C.A., in a nearly legible manner. I boycotted the institution of naptime, and even made a formal argument against it, once. I denounced my humanity and declared myself a robot. All this in my first year of school.
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Yesterday, I took a shower, as I often do, only to find a very large spider inhabiting my shower. I chased him around the bathroom for a while and he appeared to run out of the shower and into... somewhere else. I didn't really care. I just wanted my shower. Anyway, when I finished my shower, I grabbed my towel. Now, get this, the spider had actually been hiding in my towel the entire time! He scurried down my neck and back and I shook him off into the bathtub and poured shampoo all over him until he died. Now, I realize I could have just squashed him, but that death was too good for this spider. Also, I got to watch him run around and clean my shower for me before he died. That's good, because my shower hasn't been cleaned since... umm.. my shower's never been cleaned.

So I go to get in the shower this morning, and two more spiders are looking at me, daring me to take a shower. I knew it wasn't the one I killed yesterday, because his corpse was still in the basin of the shower, covered with exfoliating cleanness. These were two new spiders. I chased them around for a while, and one of them disappeared near my towel, and I said, "No way." I went and took a shower downstairs.

If there's a spider in there tomorrow, I'm going to go all-out and bring everything I can find to kill spiders--Windex, air-freshener, motor oil--and go on a spider hunt. Because, seriously, I hate spiders. I can deal with ravenous hyenas, or jumping battle-oxen, or even killer robots, but I really hate spiders. Robots, by the way, aren't hard to take care of if you have the right tools (a laptop computer, a USB cable, and some duct tape). But spiders are different. Spiders twitch several minutes after you kill them. Oh no, wait, that's cockaroaches. But spiders are still pretty bad
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Last night, I caught one of the spiders smirking at me from the corner of the bathroom again. I chased him around the bathroom, trying to smote him with the blunt end of a bottle of shampoo. After several minutes (he was very fast), I dropped the shampoo in favor of a can of Glade Garden Fresh Potpourri (SP?) Spray (TM) and applied a liberal amount of flower-scented goodness to his wretched little body. It stunned him (not killed him, he was still moving) long enough for me to CRUSH him. I've considered taking both spider corpses and impaling them on toothpicks to serve as an example to other spiders. I'm still considering it.

I got some bug spray earlier today and set up a perimeter around my room--a first line of defense. I'm keeping it by my bed for emergency situations.

Many have asked why I choose to use such extreme measures in dealing with these spiders. I believe these spiders are a direct threat to the American people. There are many who say that killing spiders is wrong. Well, there were many who said that chopping down trees was wrong, but that hasn't changed my position on using toilet paper. The chance that these spiders are just trying to be my friend is not a chance I'm willing to take with the American people at stake. We must go to war with these spiders! We have the power to crush them, and we will! If any other insects or other bugs would like to protest, we will crush them, too! I'm convinced that these spiders are a direct threat to the American people, and to many other bugs and small creatures. They may even be poisonous. All hail Orkin, the slayer of insects.
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I found a spider last night in my bedroom!! They're moving into my personal space now! A spider could crawl up my nose when I'm asleep! I managed to remove this threat using my Glade Spray and Smash (patent pending) technique, but I don't know how many spiders have infiltrated my homeland.

Other countries, such as France and Russia, are saying that we need to give anthropologists more time to study the spiders and make sure that we two species can't co-exist. I say these people are filthy liars. These spiders are a direct threat to the American people, and only I, the Smashinator, can destroy them. Fear me, spiders, for I shall smite thee into Smashination.
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My latest addictive website (the first step is to admit you have a problem) is Friendster. A fine article at The Slate gives a better description of the site than I ever could, but the jist of it is six degrees of seperation on speed. So far I have 6 direct friends, 24143 people in my personal network, and I've spent at least 5 hours goose stepping around in it over the past few days - hours of my life which I will never get back. Ah, how would I ever meet new people without the internet.
...Leaving the house you say?
Don't be silly.
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One of the seven year-olds i teach this week has a Jack Sparrow complex. Who wouldn't?
Besides, it is totally cute, because he walks around talking in a very passable cockney accent, and he draws eyeliner on himself with the black washable marker every day [but washes it off before his mom comes to pick him up].
Today, as i was picking up crayons and oil pastels from under the table, i heard his voice behind me, still in accent:

"miss ellie, you've got a really nice booty." i turned around to face him, and he made the "a-ok" hand gesture.

he gets points for saying "booty," too, because that's pirate shit.
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Me: Hmm, so get this, the-
Jon: Okay, when you do that, it has to be the most annoying thing you could possibly do.
Me: Reading stuff from the paper?
Jon: Yes, you just read me the stuff. I'm not reading the paper. Why do I care?
Me: Mmm-sorry.
Jon: (pause) Now what are you saying ... ?
Me: Well I'm not going to tell you now.