Wasping vs Wafting...

I just realized i used wasping as to mean wafting in my previous post. OOoOOps...

It should be a new word: Wasping. Let's form a sentence:
White anglosaxon protestants in bumble bee costumes are wafting over Gatsby's green lawn with disdain...
I think "wasping" may come close to rival with Mencken's "Homo Boobiens"...

I kid only. "Homo boobiens"? Try ever coming up with a better word than that!


Heavy hearted by Aquasixio

I like to flatter myself by thinking that I've unconsciously served as a muse! O_o*hehe* ...

Clasp within your palm spheres of energy dripping from your fingertips

I woke up today to the sweet scent of freshly baked bread and the familiar aroma of newly brewed coffee. And I wondered how many people experienced the exact same thing right at that moment with me, how many have before me and how many will after me.
In a whirlwind, I felt a certain one dimensionality with time: my flesh convoluting into a black hole, sucking every inch of life around me...

I don't know why I feel that way. A rush of emotions to the heart: coming as rapidly as it departs. Always like those frozen moments that hang on a thread in your memory: stares with a beautiful stranger, translucent snow wafting over a sleeping city or the warmth of the very first spring shine. The next thing you know, I'll be gawking at a plastic bag dancing among shattered leaves...

Maybe I am cracked out in the brain. Verdict: my cells produce too much dopamine... Science explains things just SO beautifully sometimes...
Moral of the story: you never want to be studying for a physio exam when you wake up feeling fantastic...


Same old, changed colour saturation... I think it looks better with vibrant red..

Listening to Air...and feeling ...amazingly good...as if I'm floating in my mind...
Comme si tout d'un coup tout devenait rouge........

(I am not intoxicated.)


.I feel like a disposable piece of flesh.

Painting my mood with a song since I'm too writhely to write. *
On a tangent, Vladimir Nabokov was born on this date.

"Your Lucky Day In Hell" by Eels..
Mama gripped onto the milkman's hand
And then she finally gave birth
Years go by still i don't know
Who shall inherit this earth
And no one will know my name until it's on a stone

This could be your lucky day in hell
Never know who it might be at your doorbell
This could be your lucky day in hell

Waking up with an ugly face
Winston churchhill in drag
Looking for a new maternal embrace
Another tired old gag
Am i just a walking bag of chewed up dust and bones

Father theresa, you can't make me into you
I never wanna be like you
Why can't you see it's me
You know it's time to let me go

Somone Lost a Heart by Bionic 7

* (note: writhely is not actually a word. I invent them once in a while., god, i'm so brilliant. I'm patting myself on the back right now. what does it mean? good question. I think it's the state of whiny desperation during depressive contemplation on the absurdity of life coupled with the imagery of writhing on an cold metallic surgery table. There, that should clarify things.)


"Parfois on lit des livres qu'on croit avoir écrit..."

"Le monde tombe en ruine. Chacun ramasse des morceaux pour construire son monde à lui ... Reprendre des ruines, cela a joué un grand rôle dans mon existence. J'ai commencé à écrire dans l'Europe en ruines, mais sans aucune tristesse et avec l'envie de tout refaire. Contrairement aux post-modernes, vous ne trouverez aucune déploration chez moi car je suis très sensible à l'énergie que les ruines dégagent."
Alain Robbe-Grillet



Argh, les examens. Je n'ai que ça dans ma tête et pourtant, je n'arrive pas à me concentrer. Tout me passe à travers. J'ai envie de hurler.
Maybe if I cut and paste things, I'll remember them...
- The GPCR G-Protein is a heterotrimeric 7-transmembrane protein. After a ligand binds to the receptor the following sequence of events occurs:
o Conformational change
o The alpha subunit (which was attached to the membrane via merystilation) dissociates from the beta-gamma subunit (which was attached to the membrane via prenylation).
o Each subunit then detaches from the membrane, and signals other pathways to commence.
o In order to reform the complex, a weak enzymatic activity within the alpha subunit causes the GTP to exchange itself with a GDP which switches the protein off.

DOH!!! *Ynes goes in a corner and cries like Homer does when there are no more Polish sausages. then runs downstairs to eat everything in her fridge*


Coffee time

For some odd reason, I can't get this article out of my head. I heart Colon .
I read it a month ago... but it still haunts me. Strange.

Anyhow, I saw this image today, and it instantly threw me back to my old school's great grey yard in Belgium. Another very intense flashback. I saw myself again, in a turquoise cardigan and some funky red pants, with Mélanie and Pauline, leaning on top of a prebubescent's magazine (like cosmo girl or something) , giggling like ten year old prebubescent fools do.

This ad above (by Marithé and François Girbaud) was recently banned in Italy Controversial Ad. I swear I saw a very very similar one 10 years ago... and I think I barely caught on to the allusion then... :S. Silly me.

oh, the useless info I post on this page...tisk tisk ... I promise I will be less fickle once exams are over and my brain can be useful again... ha!


Just too funny

More time wasting before exams....
My soulmates according to this corny little test via Biography

For a woman: Frida Khalo (take note i'd much rather be her than be with her)

Frida Kahlo responds...
"¡Hola! So, you think you have the frijoles to be an el Frido? It takes energy, my friend, and passion. But go ahead, take your best shot."
What your date might be like...
Expect lots of drinking, smoking, and arguing. You'll enjoy yourself more if you can hold your liquor and hold forth with strong opinions about art. There are some areas that interest Ms. Kahlo more than others, so you might want to brush up on your knowledge of socialism, indigenous Mexican cultures, and the various schools of 20th century painting before meeting up with her.

For a man: Edgar Allen Poe

Edgar Allan Poe responds...
"Why, why, oh why must you haunt my waking nightmares with your presence? I shall go mad. Madness! It consumes me! I must give in and agree to see you, or else I shall never find peace."
What your date might be like...
You might end up at the local library, or you might end up at the local Goth club. Either way, expect Poe to be quiet, reserved, and a bit shy. He's an elegant speaker when given the opportunity, but will usually try to avoid standing out in a crowd. For a modest but more enjoyable evening, take him to a quiet, unpopulated spot-- for instance, a cellar or a graveyard.

I know some of you who know me well will be smirking while reading the Poe results ( Just know that I would SO rather fall in love with Baudelaire and contract syphillis lol) X_x


Canada gives itself a pat on the back:

  • Yes!!!

  • I am very happy to say the least. ^_^


    Love Story by Julien Pacaud,a French artist who does the "carton et vin rouge" style to perfection...
    Homepage link in Art Stuff.


    Let's not overthink this, chickenheads. enjoy while it's fresh.
    I think that I'll come out as alive as those chickens after my "6 finals in 8 days" ordeal. (P.S. I want a black and red coffin)

    10:16-10:35 sur le 117

    10 :16
    J’entends les feuilles danser sur le trottoir déserté
    Le soleil est encore timide, mais tout de même impatient
    A quoi est-ce que je pense?
    Je n’ai aucune idée, des filaments du passé
    Et des petits moments instantanés.
    Disons que je me sens comme une petite feuille
    Qui danse sur le trottoir déserté

    10 :20
    J’entends le ronronnement du moteur
    J’essaye de le synchroniser avec le battement de mon cœur
    Je regarde dehors, la lumière pénètre à peine
    La couche de poussières jaunie par le temps

    10 :24
    10 :24 déjà,
    Mot, mot, mots
    Les gens m’ont l’air amorphes
    La dame à ma droite,
    Ces cheveux argentés battent la chamade,
    Se serpentent et s’écrasent sur la vitre
    Elle m’effraie, je détourne les yeux.
    Devant moi, un veil homme,
    Chapeau noir, lunette noir, manteau gris comme un pupitre
    « Ce doit être un cancre. »
    Je souris. J’adore les cancres.
    J’ai toujours voulu être pendue avec une corde dans un coin.
    À gauche, tout près de moi,
    Le siège est vide,
    Je me demande si le siège est encore chaud,
    S’il y a des petites traces de Cotton ou de polyester
    Et si c’était d’un affreux pantalon brun
    Ou d’une jolie culotte rose.
    J’entends tousser derrière
    Un petit toux, humide et tout mignon,
    Ça doit être une petite femme mesurant
    Cinq pieds avec des pieds taille cinq
    Elle a un manteau de fourrures noires, je crois.
    Je me demande combien de bêtes on dû être décortiquées
    Pour qu’elle se sente importante.
    Au moins, elle a un chapeau rouge.
    C’est beau quand même les chapeaux rouges.

    10 :34
    Le bus se remplit
    Le silence est rétabli
    Plus de bruit
    Seul le ronronnement
    Je m’endors…
    Et pourtant mes dents sont tachées de café
    Le café n’a plus d’effet
    Morphée est bien trop séducteur
    Je m’ennuie de ces journées
    Le café n’a plus d’effet



    I’m sure my ass would look better with a new pair of genes

    Within the past 40 hours, I have ingested 40 pounds of food into my body, fell in love with 3 blogs, read l’Etranger for the 5th time, argued about the importance of literature, listened to 39 hours of music, became Simone de Beauvoir, then reconsidered because I suddenly felt repulsed by Sartre’s mole on his left cheek which became as big as Enrique Iglesias’, agreed that the new NINstuff sounded more like the foo fighters (egawd), breathed 6 hours of fresh hair, complained about my room smelling like tofu, told 15 people that I was bored, looked up tattoos and despaired over the fact that my body acquires French rolls faster than the speed of light and thus makes a rather undesirable canvas, wondered whether Neron got more pleasure out of killing his mother or his brother, if it will be as sunny today as tomorrow, wished I had a job, imagined myself to be an extra terrestrial without extra terrestrial powers, pondered the meaning of life, thought about last week’s nightmare, monitored La République du livre like a moron, read all the published articles I wrote this year and wished I never published because they stank baboon manure, contemplated on watching Sideways again in order to draw the similarities between me and Miles, read the Grinch’s words all over again, read two chapters of Alice through the looking glass, laughed at jokes like Q:"How many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" -A:"Fish", surfed deviantart and wished I could carve out talent from people’s bodies and implant them into my uterus which will somehow reproduce them into my somatic cells, wanted to set myself on fire but was too cool for that, pondered the meaning of life, heard about a journalist/porn star who became my instant idol (for sixty seconds), slept more than I should and probably drooled during my sleep, pondered the meaning of life, hated my sister for ditching me for a guy (shallow bimbo that I love regardless *sigh*), thought about wearing pink for the first time in like five years, wondered why my head is 1.5 times bigger than everyone else's, feared that we were nothing but poor bags of chemicals, pondered the meaning of life, uploaded way too much on a blog no one knows about, seriously considered taking some Ritalin, wished concentration was a fish you could catch, wished I could have a conversation about imagination with Einstein, but realized I would be so intimidated I would probably be able to hide behind a thread if the situation ever arose, hoped that ugliness was only on the inside, had all the cells in my body vibrate to Pagan poetry and finally pondered the meaning of life. On that note, I promise anyone who can give me a definition of post-modernism a lollipop.

    My convocation is in two hours where I will receive a well-deserved certificate of distinction from the academy of half-witted slackers.


    What entropy does to me...Part2

    I pay 563$/term to spend 3 hours per week doodling.

    What entropy does to me...Part1

    Do you see Sherlock, or the big fish? If not, I have failed miserably :(

    If I'm hanging off a cliff, save ME

    I was reading the following passage from Ptit Gars de Shawinigan (very interesting blog by the way) ptitgars.blogspot.com

    which made me consider the following situation:
    There are two people, both unaffiliated with you, hanging off a cliff (yes, power trip! j/k) and you have the capability of saving only one of them. On the left, you are told he/she is a doctor and on the right a corporate lawyer. In all honesty, who do you initially choose to save?
    You are then told that the doctor is a selfish and evil individual, a drunkard who goes home at 3am everynight to hammer his/her life partner into unconsciousness. Meanwhile the lawyer is head of a family of 5, caring, contributing immensely to cancer awareness and AIDS research and what not.
    Do you reconsider you choice? Do you feel guilty of you first answer?

    I apologize for these grossly stereotypical examples but I guess what I'm trying to highlight is how much we subconsciously estimate the value of people by titles, actions, image etc... How many of today's liberal pseudo-intellectuals like to talk about human equality as a matter of fact while trying desperately to repress the inherent (and inevitable) prejudices imposed on them by societal "truths".
    I think we are made to feel ashamed of this, a situation much like racism in big canadian cities. Both are like a huge pimple oozing pus on your forehead, staring straight at you, but that you simply try to ignore. Maybe it's time to get proactive. Raise the ugly issues, confront them, question them, reform better perspectives.

    So basically, Payam Eslami, in the blog wonders why the death of the Pope generates so much attention while the death of hundreds of Iraki kids due to malnutrition gets a three liner. He also draws attention to the all encompassing message of love and equality that the Pope advocated all his life, which purportedly makes the whole saintly coverage seem like hypocritical bullshit. I suppose many would nod in agreement, sigh and exclaim "what a pity". But on many levels, it's simply not as... simple. For example, one may argue that the Pope had such an incredible impact on millions of people today and historically, so it's necessary to have a tribune to a great man and well it's just normal that few people care about kids that have nothing to do with them (at least in our sheltered North-America-land). Ouch indeed. But can the amount of people one influences in his/her lifetime even be an indication of how valuable that person is? How terribly selfish to see someone's life as more valuable only when they're in relation to you? Say one person can save a hundred people; is that person worth more than someone who can save ten? What kind of stupidly abstract questions are these anyways? It's only media coverage: how much coverage someone gets is totally not an indication of how important or valuable someone is...right?
    Yum, equality, seems to be rooted in the founding belief that given the opportunity, the right environment (ie the right food to eat, DIY furniture, toilet seat, collection of books, stimulus,encouragment,plastic parents etc...) every one can amount to or do equally great things. Unfortunately my small grey jello box of chemicals cringes more and more at that idealistic notion.
    Alright, break time over (and I managed to vaguely talk about nothing again)...back to procrastination and all that jazz... :(

    Listening to: With tired eyes, tired minds, tired souls we slept. Explosions in the Sky.
    Reading: Physical Chemistry by Raymond Chang
    Feeling: apathetic, screwed for exams


    I love headaches, they make me so bitter

    I wonder how quickly this cheap acetaminophen will work. All I can hear is evil Dr. Shwartz stating in that as-a-matter-of fact manner how the cheap stuff is just as good as Tylenol because essentially they’re the same thing. Right. Such a hideous voice, I wish it would stop. I did buy the cheap stuff this time in order to feel less of a marketing whore since I’d rather be a human guinea pig. Man, I love this life, so many choices at your disposition. Anyhow, I’m really hoping this stuff does its magic quickly so I can get back to the fascinating topic of metabolic pathways in which I can continue imagining myself to be the short and stout 14-3-3 protein on its many exhilarating journeys. Actually p53 beats 14-3-3 in exhilarating factor, but the latter has a red coloration in my mind so I obviously have a penchant for it.

    To speed up the healing process, I am currently rubbing my knotty back against my chair though I wish some skillful fingers could untie these evil pressure spots instead of this rubber chair that’s falling apart. Ohm....

    Maybe I should stop being such a hypochondriac. Always thinking I’m about to die, always thinking I’m infected by some horrible disease because I know the past is meant to punish.

    I’m just realizing my writing has always been restricted to manic depressive ranting. I wonder how many variations of "I'm depressed" I’ve managed to come up with since I grew my first pubic hair. I suppose I never had anything I’d like to write about when I’m all happy and dandy. Who writes when they’re happy? Why take the time to scribble thin layers of ink onto unresponsive paper or type in front of a dull computer screen, when you can be outside jumping in a puddle making some noise, stealing sunshine into your bag or having the greatest sex of your life? Meh… Not that retarded depressive whining is better.

    Why does hate last longer than love?


    Human, Oh too human…

    I had a weird surge of emotion today while watching honorary clips of Pope John Paul II on Euronews. There was something incredibly caustic about the feeling I got, like a tiny droplet of HCl from a Pasteur pipette trickling down the corner of my heart. And I don’t understand why. Why would I feel this about an old man I know very little of, who sowed the words of a God I don’t believe in. To me, the Pope was but a mute figure of an institution which aged without renewal, a symbol to an empire desperately clinging on to its glorious past. Maybe it was because I never thought of him as fully human. I always wondered how anyone could devote their entire lives to something that is so abstract. I always wondered whether he doubted his choice, whether he doubted the human heart, whether he ever doubted God’s existence after all. I mainly wanted to know how he was able to cling on to his beliefs despite all these doubts (because I’m pretty sure he did). I also asked myself whether he had impure thoughts and if he repented immensely for those sins. So much of the Pope distanced him from life around me and life inside me…from my thoughts and actions that seem to be in perpetual uncertainty straying on a multitude of directionless paths. I envied the air of grounding he seemed to exhume, the sense of belonging which I never felt. Did I feel that momentary rush of "emotions"(sadness, let down, relief, overwhelming fear, euphoria of revelation? can't pinpoint exactly what it was) because death reduced him to humanity? That no matter how different we all are, we remain united in death?

    Show them the impossible by Vertebra on www.deviantart.com. One of the most amazing artist on the site. Such raw, biting and fascinating talent.... with a kick ass sense of humour.
    Check out her amazing gallery at vertebra.deviantart.com