Dodgy Mullet

You know... if I had a dollar for every minute I spend waiting for this damned blogger to load (while staring at the monitor at that), I would be able to buy myself an issue of InStyle. Then while it loads to another page I could read through the whole issue, and mind you, InStyle is thick.

I have a mullet hairstyle. Stop trying to hide your smile behind your hand, and let out your belly-aching laugh because I've heard it a million times: mullet is dodgy and heinous. 5 back to back issues of Glamour have mullets on their Don't lists and I've read countless of times how awful that hairstyle is. noone encourages it.

Having a mullet is like having AIDS. It kills, silently, and slowly.

But I digress. I am a fashion concious gal (I really am!) and while I believe in being trendy, sometimes you can't never follow the crowd too much. For once, I like my hairstyle. So the media coined it as dodgy... but who died and made the media King? Who said that whatever any fashion magazine say is fashion overkill is TRUE?

No one defines style other than yourself.

Yes, I sound a little bit defensive, and it's because I'm tired of having people point at my hair and say, "Geez woman, do you know you have a mullet?!" If only I could respond with, "GOD! So that's what been growing on my head. Gee, thanks."

Despite what the fashion says, I think a mullet hairstyle is rockin, and not because I am sporting it. First of all, it is unisex. Never has a hair that looks good on a man looks even better on a woman. Secondly, it is easy to style, and plus it's an all-rounder. you can style it to look demure at traditional wedding parties, make it look edgy at some gig shows, or have it look sleek at some fucking job interviews. And lastly, if you want to be fucking unique, there you go. A mullet is the answer. If having a hairdo that people laugh at isn'tunique, I don't know what is.

Enough about hair. I'm going to continue studying, and hope I don't flunk my paper tomorrow.

strata strata

This is out of musicdork;

I notice that whenever I'm going through a heartache, I always listen to Nick Cave. His guttural voice, on rotation, 24/7.

I always pull the blinds, put Nick Cave on low and wished I had a cigarette to smoke. Instead I stare at my ceiling, not really seeing anything but his face, and my pain. I lay there on the floor, motionless and numb, letting everything wash through me.

People will think I look stoned. But actually that's how I recuperate, that's how I mend myself back together. All that 4 hours of staring lazily at the white washed, not really focusing at the moving fan blades, sometimes seeing his name. It's not really a walk in the park, or to be more accurate, not really as lazy as it seems.

It takes a lot of effort. At least for me. I think about you, and how crazy it is that in a short period of time you had me wrapped around that calloused finger of yours. If love isn't blind, I'd sock it to the ground. But I have conscience.

I just don't have him.

Yes.

Ally Anyone?

I noticed that lately I have this strange habit of imagining funny things happening while I'm in the middle of a serious situation.

Like today, my roomate started her (and my) day by telling me that she and her boyfriend have decided to call it quits. Needless to say I was shocked and probed her with questions. She began to explain.

I listened sympathetically and gave my 2 cents where it fits. After a few minutes of back rubbing and a bit of ,"You're going to be okay. Hang in there," I deemed that the conversation is over thus I can go back to my fourier Series and study my ass out.

Wrong.

My roomate apparently, was not out of her analysing mode. She kept on staring at the floor as if gathering her thoughts, then proceeded to tell me bits and pieces of yesterday's conversation and/or her doomed relationship.

It went like this;

Her: See, I've always known that this won't last long... bla bla bla,
Me: *forcing myself to look up from my book* Hmm, yeah. I know...

Silence. I took that as a sign that she's mulling with her own thoughts and went back to my notes. Then,

"But I was never sure, because he was really attentive the last time we were together..."

I looked at her face the whole time she was yakking, and entertained myself with the mental picture of me giving her a slap yelling the words SHUT UP SHUTP SHUT UP! I nearly laughed out loud.

Plus she has a corny way with words. One time she said, "Im angry at myself for being such a fool for love," and I practically saw a group of dashing guys chorusing, "Fool! for LOOOVEEE!!!" next to her bed.

Another time it was, "I told myself that enough is enough. You know, I'm the kind of person that has a limit, when things break the limit, I tell myself enough is enough," and I could hear the KRU brothers singing, "Enough is ENOUGH!"

Her: I'm not hesitant to say enough is enough -
The KRU brothers: Enough is ENOUGH!

Seriously, I was trying not to burst out laughing.

Dirichlet Cond

I'm just taking a break from maths. I have 2 more days before the paper and I'm taking it quite well.

I used to hate maths because I never get good grades for it. I guess I still do dread the subject sometimes. Numbers don't intrigue me they way words do.

But I like it when I'm doing well for it. Like right now. Fourier series kicks ass, and right now mine is sore from troubleshooting the problem.

I read in a book somewhere that the number phi is the most beautiful number in the whole wide world ever. For those of you who don't know, phi equals 1.618. The value is so perfect and pretty, that it is also dubbed as divine proportion.

The reason? Because it seems like everything in this world when taken by their ratio equals 1.618. The easiest example for the skeptics would be finding the ratio between your head to your toe and your navel to your toe. The answer would be 1.618.

The ratio between the female honeybees to male honeybees in every single beehive in the world will always be 1.618.

Amazing isn't it?

Not to Cecil Adams. There are two answers and explanations to everything. Remember that.