tori

You're so gifted, Tori. You excel in everything, Tori. You're the best, Tori. You've always been "the best." You know nothing else. Between volunteering at the hospital and training for that marathon and finishing your Master's degree before gearing up for Medical school, you've got a pretty tight schedule. You've got a lot going on, don't you Tori? That's stupendous. Yet with such a busy schedule, when will Tori have time for Tori? When will anyone have time to get to know Tori? Does Tori know the real Tori? What are you striving for? And for whom? Do you even know?

always trying to look cool and always failing miserably

I went surfing at 8am today. An ungodly hour to get in 50ºF water I would say, so that's why I showed up late. You see I'm enrolled in Advanced Surfing at SDSU. I'm a super senior and I will be graduating this May. That's why my curriculum includes difficulty level 0.5 out of 10 classes like surfing. And that's why I went surfing at 8am. Otherwise there's no fucking way I would willing get up at 7 am to get in 50 degree water. I did it nonetheless, and I felt cool. I felt like a real surfer, perse. I actually stood up on the face of a wave, which is quite a feat. As I wrapped up a successful day of surf, I made my way over to the showers to rinse off my board and feet. Still feeling pretty cool, I down graded to not even quasi cool, as I slipped on a puddle of water and fell down on my butt--surf board and all. It was one of those falls, you know those, where you can really do nothing about it but succumb to the loser factor. I sat there for a few seconds, on the floor, while the locals snickered at me. One guys asks me, "Are you ok?" YEahh. I duck my head in shame and speed walk away, defeated. The locals begin to laugh in a not so inconspicuous way, in a more boisterous manner...as I failed miserably yet AGAIN, in my quest to seem "cool." Someday fuckers, someday.

People who endure the harshest of adversities seem to be that ones that have the most fascinating of lives. They have a story to tell, and if heart wrenching enough, we can feel some of their pain too. Those are the people that touch our lives and open our eyes. Their struggle is an inspiration. Yet does this necessarily mean that our lives are more meaningful only if we suffer? Are those who hurt really the lucky ones?

i found out who will play in the superbowl today

Suck my pooper hole, super bowl. Today I found out who is playing in the super bowl because I don't give a shit about football. I had to ask someone in my biology of marine algae class to find out. Had I not, I probably wouldn't have found out until Sunday, when I glanced at the television briefly during my friend's super bowl party where I will mainly attend for social purposes and eating. That's why I'm going to a super bowl party. I don't fucking care about the Steelers or the Seahawks. I care about eating and drinking beer.

The reason why I hate football so much is due to my first boyfriend, whom I wish slow, painful death upon. That or rectal cancer. I hate him. He was a football fanatic, but I'm talking about complete and utter obsession. I wouldn't be surprised if he had routinely jerked off while gazing at his Jerry Rice poster that hung above his bed, he was that obsessed. He even had one of those fantasy football teams, where hours upon hours of research was spent in picking a super star lineup. Discussion groups were held with his equally obsessed, douchebag cousins, speculating which team in their competing league would win. During a date, he once left me alone for half an hour to go and use a pay phone so he could check his team's score. That prickless son of a hamster. And thus my disdain for football began. I know, I know; I sound petty and bitter and all that shit. Care loads! Thanks to my first boyfriend, football has been tainted for me, FOREVER. Screw you pigskin.

ben stein is a stoner

Monotone voice. Clear Eyes spokesman. Is willing to give away his own money on a game show. Need I say more?

i like boys with ugly hands

Every doomed relationship that I've been in has involved an ugly boy that has beautiful hands. I don't know why this always happens. In terms of all my boyfriends usually being ugly, I have the tendency to end up with the "nice guy", although they don't usually end up being so nice in the end, they just initially seem like big sweethearts because they are trying real hard to get laid. And it works, with me at least. I think to myself, eh, he is really sweet. I'm sure I'll grow to like him. WRONG. I have made this error twice now, you don't really grow to like a person, unless you live in a country that does the arranged marriage thing. Then you really don't have a choice. Sure you'll hit a high point where you are duped into not being aware of your misery for a short period of time, but it's only a matter of months before it all goes to hell and you'll be shrinking away from his advances in semi-horror. But I will say, I might have been repulsed by a couple of my mediocre looking boyfriends, but I always took comfort in the fact that they had beautiful hands. I know it's odd, but I would always observe those beautiful, strong hands of theirs, and marvel at them. "Man you have some beautiful hands", I would say. And that was it. Well, yes they were nice too. But not as nice as their hands.

What constitutes beautiful hands, you ask? Well, the fingernails have a lot to do with it. They usually have a nice shape, very egg-like and symmetrical. The fingers are long and slender, but not too long and slender. Men's hands are should also appear strong if they want to be considered beautiful in my eyes. The features are delicate, but masculine. Dryness is completely necessary. The hands must be dry and somewhat soft. The idea of holding a perpetually sweaty hand gets my gag reflex going.

So now it seems that every time I've felt knocked on my ass in love with a guy, which has not happened many times, it has been with guys that have ugly ass hands. It's so weird. I have felt pretty much the same about each guy I've been madly in love with: totally enamored by everything about them, looks personality, etc.--but they also happened to have really ugly hands. Their hands were callous infested, with hang nails, finger nails that grow strangely or nails that are bitten down until the flesh appears raw, and so on. But you know what? I love that! I love their ugly fucking hands because that means I'm really in love. Every time I've been in love, there are ugly hands involved. Every time I've been involved with someone I didn't love, I spend most of the relationship trying to tear their beautiful hands off of me. Thus, ugly hands=love and happiness. It's just too uncanny. I want to scream it from the highest mountain. I like boys with ugly hands! Embrace me with your beastly, crappy hands! I beseech you!