Oh, and Felicity is a slut.

Honestly, who can deny a furry little creature sitting nonchalantly on your front porch railing while nibbling on a piece of bread?

I think it just wants to be friends with us.

Timmy Teabags: this low resolution hasn't helped me to get even 2000 yet
Razanova: 2350
Razanova: first time in low reso
Razanova: 2289
Timmy Teabags: 2259
Timmy Teabags: finally
Razanova: 2352
Timmy Teabags: i was not born with this talent you have
Timmy Teabags: >:o
Razanova: whats that?
Razanova: skillllll???
Timmy Teabags: mouse clicking
Timmy Teabags:
Razanova: the key is to look ahead
Razanova: dont watch the worm
Razanova: but watch the far right of the screen
Razanova: so you can telegraph your parabola movemet
Razanova: or whatevr u wanna call it
Timmy Teabags: haha
Timmy Teabags: i'm gonna post what you just said
Razanova: in order to regulate my parabolic movement i imagine i am using the vector of the worm to illustrate size c cup breasts in a horizontal manner
Timmy Teabags: hah
Razanova: i think if you get to 3000 you finally realize the goal of the purple line
Razanova: to break the hymen
Timmy Teabags: hehe
Razanova: i understand the vertical lines to be personified as "cock blockers"
Timmy Teabags: holy shit
Timmy Teabags: i was just thinking that
Razanova: holy shit indeed
Timmy Teabags: the linear progression towards "canal closing" signifies the asymptopic growth towards full penetration, is that what your theory comes down to?
Timmy Teabags: and that without a certain burst in the end, the plateau can't be broken?
Razanova: you sick fuck
Timmy Teabags: i see then that our theories disagree in the end
Timmy Teabags: very well
Razanova: i still say we dress up as women for this weekend

The existance of two possible conclusions may lead to a bitter rivalry in the end; only time will tell.

Please keep in mind that this is just one fraction of the entire treatise. Strategical planning will be refined with more and more exposure.

The Low Resolution theorem seems to hold true, however; I now currently hold the record at 2472.

What we plan to do as women remains no one else's business.

I don't know if it's possible, but I might get screen burn-in on my eyes. I'll spend the rest of my life overlaying jagged green things and a thin blue ‘worm’ onto everything that comes into focus.

I've been smitten. I've been owned.

Now, this was only my second time going (the first being several weeks ago, near the beginning of the semester), but something tells me that whenever I sit in on this, practically no one is there. Upon arrival, it was only the guy who runs it, playing the guitar and singing. Three people were there, studying. I must've been the first person to actually applause after a song.

After two full songs, I'm about to leave, but a kid goes up with a fugel horn and announces that he has a bunch of short poems he's going to recite. The first poem was put to ‘music’ (i.e. a few out of tune soundwaves at four different times), and the rest were love poems. Overall, they sucked.

I'm not trying to be mean; I, too, suck at writing poems. Still, he lacked anything more universal or enduring. It was one cliche after another, or so it seemed. I tuned out a bit. I forgot what I was thinking. I might've been singing some At the Drive-In songs in my head.

I'm tempted to do some sort of performance, recital, whatever next week. Maybe sing a song or two in my relatively horrible voice. Or recite a poem of mine. I have nothing I want to read out loud though. Maybe that can be a side project for the next week, to work on a new poem. Bleh.

I'm no good in front of an audience, mostly out of inexperience, but also out of shyness. Back in sophomore year of high school, we (being the high track english students, at least) had to give an 8–10 minute speech on our mini-term paper; I did mine on the television.

The day arrived when speeches begin. Being the slacker you've come to read about and love, I sat at my desk unprepared. Mrs. Armstrong, the femi-nazi, was going to pick people at random to give their speech. There's no way she would call me that day. So I thought. Luck cast an extremely large middle finger shadow in my head as Armstrong called my name first. Crushed.

I gave the worst speech of my life. Everyone felt sorry for me, moreso because I was the first victim. I walked away with a D, surprisingly. A decent public speaker would exude some level of charisma, however miniscule, and distract the audience from the actual material in some way. I lack any charisma and improvisational skills.

Oh, and then there's my grand musical debut as a townsperson/waiter in Hello, Dolly! It was a sight to behold. Not just my sucking, of course, but at least half the audience had to be thinking, ‘What's with the Amish-looking asian kid? Why are his steps off?’ The best part of either nights' showings had to be Joel losing his fake mustache in the middle of a scene; the line he used to recover just rocked. I was impressed. I'll need to watch the videotape again to see if it's on there.

The trip down memory lane ends here.

I might not be able to listen to the Tenacious D album in one straight shot, but their random skit-songs are amusing when thrown into the shuffle of my large playlist.

Next train of thought leaves whenever I feel like bothering all of you with minor bullshit.