things live in candles

Apparently there's a dildo you can make by adding water, like hot chocolate or pancakes or sponge animals. I'm not quite sure what I think about that.

Last night Resa invited me to her house to watch Spider-Man, along with Jeremy, Ellen, and her younger sister, Elaine. I think if I were bitten by a spider like that, being able to see without the aid of glasses or contacts would evoke tears of unspeakable joy. You have no idea. Gym was a mandatory class throughout junior high -- fifth through eighth grade -- and every two months, we had a two-week swimming unit. It was the only time I ever wanted my period to come, so oftentimes I pretended that it had. I loathed swimming for three reasons. Firstly, I didn't have adequate time to blow-dry my hair afterwards. When my hair is left to its own devices, it becomes an untamed mass of sporadic curls and kinky waves, which induced snide comments from my classmates. I was very shy and didn't want to stand out in junior high, so such reactions devastated me. Sometimes during recess I would sneak out the rear doors (something that was considered ditching class) and fabricate lies to the gym teachers that I had accidentally left jewelry in the girls' locker room (though once I lost my favorite ring the girls' locker room because someone jacked it out of the pocket of my pants -- dickbread), and then I would soak my hair down in the sink and dry it and ten minutes later I'd exit the locker room with no jewelry in hand and relatively straight hair. Other than appearance discrepancies, I also disliked swimming because I'm not good at it. I almost killed myself doing the front crawl because I couldn't breathe properly to save my soul. And thirdly, the most relevant reason I hated swimming -- I COULDN'T SEE. I never noticed how much your ability to hear is impaired when you cannot see until I started swimming in gym class. Most of the class period consisted of teaching us various strokes, so my gym teacher would gather us all along a certain wall. The pool would emit this slurping noise for reasons unbeknownst to me, and I could hardly tell whether or not my gym teacher was a man or a woman or had a face -- she could've been singing the Chiquita Banana song and I wouldn't have known. She would often test us individually on certain strokes, and as she was scribbling on her clipboard, she would say to me, "Swim over there," and then wave one of her arms around in what appeared to be a random pattern. I did not know where "over there" was, I did not know how to do the stroke because of the slurping pool, and all I did know was that gym sucked broken monkeys off the floor and I desperately wanted my period to come.

And now I'm a sophomore in high school and my high school does not have a pool and that makes me immensely happy.

Anyway. If I had been in the same scenario as Spider-Man, I would have reveled in my ability to see every morning when I woke up, and I would have never been late again. I didn't understand why Tobey Maguire saved the life of Kristen Dunst repeatedly in an attempt to win her heart but then turn her offer down by the end of the movie. That made me wonder what the entire point of the movie was. And besides, the world would be much better off if he put away the Halloween costume and returned to the normal life he once led -- not only would he have won the object of his affections, but there wouldn't be a need for a sequel, because without Spider-Man around to receive the eventual wrath of the Green Goblin's son, he'd be left to become a bitter, elderly man who watches The Simpsons but doesn't laugh and turns out the lights on All Hallows Eve.

When Nick, Pat and I went trick-or-treating the other day, we were unsure as to whether one particular home was still open for business, so we decided to ring the doorbell regardless. No one came to the door, and as we walked away in disappointment, Nick declared, "I'm sorry. We mistakened them for kindhearted people."

I read something very discontenting yesterday about "signs that your son or daughter is masturbating." One of the signs was walking into your son's room and seeing him with an erection. Wh -- why? What else would a boy be doing with an erection, dancing around the maypole? The most alarming sign, however, was that your son or daughter has been keeping their bedroom door closed, "because it's unnatural for a teen to want privacy."

?!

Although this incurred much rage within me, I found that it explained the demeanor of most parents.

The same site also warned that lit candles harbor demons. Sure, yeah. First masturbation is shameful and unnatural, and now monsters live in flames. What the hell is wrong with these people? How do they think they ended up with a child? Drinking out the same cup?

Fuck. As Albert Einstein wisely noted, "Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity -- and I'm not sure about the former."