I love it when my internet goes down. Well not love really-- actually it's a damned inconvenience-- but when I'm not cursing furiously at it, I can appreciate the humor of the situation. The fact of the matter is that my internet always comes up with the most creative excuses as to why it can't load my webpage. It says the server isn't responding, or the connection timed out, or the computer isn't adequately hooked up, or bats flew into the maintenance bay and have pooped up the system, etc. etc. In other words, it says just about anything that won't get it blamed for the problem even though we both know it's really at fault. This right here is proof that artificial intelligence is further along than any of us want to admit. And that my father's attempts to fix the wireless in the house are as fruitless as ever. 

According to Emma, three-fourths of every male-female, heterosexual partnerships in law enforcement end up having sexual relations at least once. Of those three-fourths, one fourth of them will end up in a steady relationship with each other. Although there is no data for the number of those relationships that result in matrimony, rumor has it that at least one half of all married couples in the United States end up getting a divorce. Presuming my twin's statistics come from a more reliable source than her imagination and that I've done my math correctly-- two very big ifs indeed-- this means that police partners only have a 3.75% chance of having what would be considered a successful long-term relationship. So there we have it, the reason Booth and Bones would never work out. Case closed.

I never understood why girls walk each other to the bathroom. It's always seemed so awkward to me. Number one, there's that whole "to speak or not to speak" mental debate the second you open the door. It all really comes down to how interesting the conversation was to begin with versus how badly you have to pee. There truly is nothing more disturbing than knowing somebody is out there attempting to converse while listening to you do your business. Presuming you still can, that is. I don't know, maybe it's just me, but it seems like whenever I know there's someone on the other side of the door, my bladder panics under the pressure and refuses to preform no matter how anxious it was in the first place. This leads to that even more awkward silence during which I and any other occupant in the adjacent stalls carry out a nonverbal pee war, each of us daring each other to go first. When I invariably lose, I am left with only a few seconds to relieve myself while they flush or to flush without relieving myself to get out of there so that I am not stuck once again with someone on the other side of the door listening to me pee alone. All in all a very unpleasant experience and the number one reason why I make it a policy to always pee before I leave home and to never walk with a friend to the bathroom. 

I have found the solution to stopping fossil fuel emissions: Deprive NASCAR of gas and force them to come up with a feasible alternative. I know what you're thinking, that would never work, but believe it or not, they've done it before. Divided axel anyone? Here's a hint: it wasn't Ford's idea. As my enviro teacher puts it, NASCAR is to car design as NASA is to engineering. If NASA could come up with a pen to write in space, NASCAR sure as hell should be able to come up with something that prevents us from needing one when we have to evacuate our dying planet. No doubt about it, NASCAR is the key to the world's salvation. It's a fool proof plan, provided of course that we're willing to trust our future in the hands of country rednecks. 

I don't get a sunburn very often, but when I do, it's always enough of a reminder for me not to do it again for another three to five years. It's not so much the pain of it all, although that's certainly a part of it. It's not even the knowledge that I've just brought myself one step closer to contracting skin cancer and dying in twenty to forty years. No, the real kicker is I don't tan. I go from pasty white to scarlet and then back to pasty white. I entirely skip the illusion of golden health no matter how burned I get. It's completely unfair. Did I ask to be melanin-ly retarded? Of course not! And yet I'm still stuck either resembling a non-sparkly vampire or a molting, red reptile. Curse my Irish ancestors. This is all their fault.

My watch stopped this weekend. Fortunately I had my spare with me. Unfortunately my spare is broken, hence being a spare. I smashed it the week I got it on my way to second block. It does, however, still tick even if it's nearly impossible to read half the time and the date is completely obscured by a particularly bad crack. But it was better than nothing. At least that's what I thought. And then I realized in addition to being practically unreadable, it steadily losses five minutes every hour. Now the splintered face I can deal with, but I ask you, what's the point of a keeping a clock when that clock can't keep time? I don't have the time to tell my watch the time every hour.

My mother just got an iPad. It's funny because she's usually the last one in the family to get new tech. She's even the only one of us who still has a Windows PC. I honestly have no idea what my father was thinking when he gave it to her. But I digress. I mentioned my mother's upgrade because I just received an email from her that says "Sent from my iPad." It's not the message itself that I find strange, although I do admit the logic behind having emails announce what kind of gadget they come from as if we really care does continue to allude me. No, it's just the name of this particular doodad and the image its name provokes that I have a problem with. Ever since I saw that comic from back when the iPad was just starting to gain popularity which depicted the iPad as basically one large PMS monitor, I haven't been able to take them seriously. All I could think of when I saw the email today was a tampon taking dictation. 

I don't know if you saw the Academy Awards last Sunday, but I did. This year a lot of emphases was put on making sure it was a "younger and hipper" show. Basically that means they hired the two youngest actors who appeal most to teens our age to host. In other words, Anne Hathaway and James Franco got another fifteen minutes (or three and a half hours if you want to get technical) of fame. Other highlights included Mandy Moore, Justin Timberlake, and what's his face from Chuck who is fortunately better looking on stage than he is as a shaggy-haired, kind-of spy-nerd with a computer in his head. With the exception of Bieber, the gang was all there. Of course, in order to remain unbiased towards the more experienced-- if now ever more oblivious to the goings on in Hollywood-- constituents, they threw in a few golden oldies as well. Hence the guest appearance of Kirk Douglas fresh from his coffin and Bob Hope back from the dead. For the people who don't know who the hell those men are, that's why they decided to go with a "younger and hipper" show in the first place. For the people who do know, that's why they failed.