Cat Books

There must be a reason why you never hear stories about dogs. Boots aside, the feline is wildly popular in literary circles, at home with a variety of casts and settings. To name a few, the cat has been in books with

-fairies (spelling may vary):

-rainbow chariots:

-hotels:

Clicking will tell you more, but if you find any of these anywhere anytime, I strongly recommend the read.

The rest is silence.

'Because you know what? If that insulted you, it obviously...did.

...Uh, think about that.'

-Mistah Z

In case you haven't noticed, I am rapidly losing patience with high school. Last time I posted here, it was to complain about my fellow students, but my fellow students are frankly the least of my concerns. I won't go into details about my run-ins with certain teachers and certain members of the administration, because I sincerely doubt you're looking forward to hearing about my stupid authority issues; after all, I'm hardly the only one who would appreciate being treated like a sentient being every now and then (though I probably have the worst temper of anyone I know, outside the family, and thus am probably the most bothered by it). Not that I have anything against non-sentient beings, of course. They're probably the wisest of us all.

That said, I could have spent today skiing.

I bought some frozen yogourt from the patisserie this afternoon. I chose vanilla because the apricot containers were all broken, and, well -- white seemed like a good choice today. A little boring perhaps, but then how many people were eating ice cream outside today? And, well, it was really good. It's 3.00ish for a smallish container, but the taste and texture are quite superior. Given that the containers are clear plastic, the dessert is also less likely to have a TCBY-esque hole in the middle. And you can recycle them.

Unfortunately, dear friends, I fear I've led you on a little. I wrote this post with a single purpose in mind; the rest is filler. I want to ask a favour, that perhaps none of you will ever need to grant.

Although the obscure phobias are far more interesting, the fear I am about to reveal is a far more common one. Mortality doesn't bother me; dying is something I'd like to try sometime, when I've had enough of the other stuff. Being buried alive does bother me. Taphophobia is far less rational now than it used to be, what with 'the advent of modern medicine' and all, but I imagine it would be at least as uncomfortable now as ever to wake up underneath six feet of ground and a big rock.

So, cut me open first, or burn me. I don't really care, so long as you make sure I'm dead.

And on that cheery note, we end the post....

Sometimes I think I'm only happy when I have a keyboard beneath my fingers.

Eight, Eleven, Seventeen

'Mom? Is the biggest number in the world an odd number, or an even number?'

-sister, whose birthday is on saturday

My brother and sister have said some pretty adorable things over the years. (I am told that I have as well, but that is for another post.) A quick glance through the archives should reveal as much, but most of the magic has not yet been shared. For instance, when my brother was small, my parents were wont (as indeed they have been with all of us) to debate trivial matters with him with all the solemnity of preachers or judges.

It was decided one evening that my brother should take a bath.

Mom: 'I know you don't want to take a bath, but if you have to, I'm sure you will take one with dignity.'

Kid: 'Who's Dignity?'

However, it is the mispronounciations and the spoonerisms that have always been among my favourites. My brother is surely the king of these ('Blah-blahs' for 'Loblaws'), but my sister has been known to make a few interesting adjustments to the language herself.

Of these, my absolute favourite is her rendering of 'specific'. She pronounces it 'pesific'. It's really only missing a letter, but it's amazing when it comes up in a sentence more than once. From 'pesific', of course, we derive 'pesifically' and 'pesification' (although never, interestingly, 'pesify'), words that I'm considering sending to Oxford University for inclusion in their next edition of our English-language Bible.

And now: a note to certain members of my math class, à la Sophia and Alicia.

First of all, let me make it clear that I believe you are very good people, and if I knew you better I am sure I would love you dearly. If you were actually going to read this, I would advise you not to take personal offense at my anger, and instead work on the constructive advice I have so subtly provided.

That said, it isn't as if you had no idea this year was coming. You have all finished high school math, and you know well the inflexibility of our administration regarding schedules; what else did you anticipate the eleventh grade might hold in store? No, you were forewarned, yet you persist in annoying our (frankly) already touchy educator (and no, I won't elaborate on the rumours) and being generally irritating to the other students. And by 'other students', I of course mean me.

The course is called 'Pre-calculus.' This would imply that its objective is to prepare us for further studies in the field. There is some purpose to our learning, some reason for us to take math this year, and while I agree that it may be less important than some classes, your constant nitpicking and complaining is absolutely insufferable. How dare you berate our teacher for outlining concepts that you personally feel have no practical use 'in real life'? (As if 'real life' for any of us could take place outside an academic or intellectual setting.) How dare you, as athletes and musicians, deny the value of uselessness, and the beauty of impracticalities?

If poets you are not, at least permit our instructor to do her job, and be appreciative of the fact that she -- unlike some -- is actually motivated to teach. Judge the worth of the course in private, after you have graduated, after you have gone on to more advanced material, after you understand a little more about the world and have thrown off this pathetic adolescent arrogance.

My word for 'egg cosy' was definitely my crowning achievement.

Chromosome Issues

'Who cares about money?! This is ART, you blockhead! This is great music I'm playing, and playing great music is an art! Do you hear me? An art!' (pounds on piano) 'Art! Art! Art! Art! Art!'

-Schroeder

I saw the most beautiful human being on Saturday. The instant during which our paths crossed was insufficient for me to determine this person's gender, not that it matters in the slightest. He or she was of average size, with angular features and short, dark blue hair.

Dammit, I wish English would take a cue from Turkish and use a non-gender-specific third-person subject pronoun. The Turkish word is perfect: a single letter, an expression of eternity and of nothingness -- 'o'.

je = ben
tu = sen
il/elle/on = o
nous = biz
vous = siz
ils/elles = onlar

I have no use for gender roles either, but arguing against stereotypes is counter-productive. By acknowledging a divide between the sexes, we only reinforce this divide.

No more feminism, no more 'sensitive guys' (good will hunting etc, please shut up), no more math class segregation. No more anything about what I shouldn't be wearing or saying or doing, please. It's not about rebelling against conventions, so much as ignoring conventions I find meaningless. (Just wait till my marriage rant.)

It's been said before, and now I never need to say it again. Saying it defeats the purpose.

I know you will all forgive my exhaustion-fueled choler. Oh, and I've added a link again. As nerdy as ever, I assure you.

I wear whatever shoes I like now.

The Back of the Bookstore

It's been a good month for books. Aside from the six books I received for my birthday, the five that came out of christmas, the two I pilfered from my father's shelves, and the few remaining novels from a long-ago excursion with Senor Peonie, I was fortunate enough to stumble across a secondhand store while in BC, where I lost no time in picking up cheap, tattered scifi paperbacks. One of them I present to you now.

Ursula K LeGuin's The Dispossessed is a staple of science fiction literature (oxymoron? you decide), but up until now I never realized it was also a well-written novel. The two distinctions are not exactly noted for frequent convergence, so it was a refreshing surprise to find a book that combined worthy ideas with pretty words. It was Max's suggestion that I read it, and it was fortune that led me to discover it at the White Rock secondhand bookstore, but I first heard about it from this list that I would suggest you check out, but would by no means compel you to do so.

Now maybe I can wean myself back off webcomics for awhile.

East it is.