(This is by far my most interesting and creative title yet.)
Thanks for all the responses to the previous post! I wasn’t able to respond (nor make this post!) on time due to academic concerns, but I think I’ve sorted things out now. The grand winner seems to be CommaFeed; not necessarily because it’s better, but because everything else has acute flaws that CommaFeed apparently doesn’t. Yet.
I’ve never truly lived without Google Reader. Before there was O-New, before there was blogging there were readers. OK, that’s actually not a chicken-or-egg thing, because actually, before there were readers of blogs there were blogs. WHATEVER.
Google Reader is cancelling its service after July 1st, 2013.
Being an ardent admirer of Google’s autocratic policies (can you please stop asking me to change my YouTube name because it looks fake?), I could never imagine life without Google Reader. So I waited, and waited, and waited until I stopped reading blogs. Then I continued to wait. Eventually I started weights
and became really buff. Then I weighed myself and stopped weighing weights.
What was I weighting for? Did I really need to lose waits? How many watts could a lightbulb spin if it neither toils?
Others, of course. I’d never jump off a bridge unless all my friends do too, and since you’re my friends, I’m jumping now.
What feed readers are you using to replace Google? Is it desktop- or online-based? What’s the difference?
Perhaps I’m the only one still on the bridge. I think it’s apparently that I haven’t app parent for far too long (‘app parent’ means ‘read blogs’), but if there’s any other late stragglers, perhaps this will help. Assuming I get one comment from Flare.
O-New is a blog, so I’m going to do blog-like things on it today. This includes things like posting low-quality videos nobody wants to see and images of ~daily life~ because apparently bloggers do that.
In other words, pictures of birds, snails, and pretty colours.
Three years ago, I made this post.
Since then, we at O-New have been pumping out one post, every day. For the past three years.
But of course, all that changed last month. Why? Nobody knows. A combination of homework-related stress, reignited interest in erstwhile pastimes, and the general inferiority of this season’s anime waned my blogging spirit, and thus, I stopped posting. For a month.
O-New’s not going to last. I’ll have even less time and less interest in anime next year. But before it all gets old, I’d like to try again. Just a few more months before the end. Who knows? Maybe O-New will continue.
Who knows why I bother? But my life just seems… off, without writing. Perhaps one day I’ll sever myself from the yoke of writer’s insecurity. Perhaps, one day, I’ll grow up a bit from this fantasy. Because blogging really is a fantasy: writing mindless opinions about children’s cartoons to a non-existent audience of children who watch those cartoons, in the vain hope that my opinions might matter.
They won’t. I’ve lost track of O-New’s original goal. And before this is over, I’ll find it. Then, it’ll finally be over.
(To reorganize this mess, I’ve moved all posts published after January 13th to other dates. Just like in 2010, there will be no posts between January 13th and February 15th.)
I wrote this abomination of mental diarrhea at the height of my fever-induced delerium last Wednesday; lethargy filled me from the crown to the toes, and I could do nothing but mope and whine and write. I left it on my computer in case I wanted to do something with it and decided, why the heck not: nobody’s going to read to the end anyways, so I’m just going to post it here.
In it, I somehow manage to cover all eight of my classes and their associated midterm exams/projects. If that doesn’t merit a literary achievement, it certainly was a mental one… it’s Hell Week right now for me, so this also explains the inexplicable lack of posts from my part. Mad props to redball for doing the first impressions post—solo—last week.
C’est la vie. Such is life and life is such. A life of lives lives lively. Liveishly? Livelylike? Livelily? Consider the livelilies in the field. They study not; neither do they write. So society spurns them, casts them aside. What use have we for lilies? C’est l’école. Senegal. Say lego. Lilies are unproductive. Humans would also be unproductive if we didn’t go to school. But school takes a long time and that time takes away from the time that it would take us to take a hike and make something. Few people live over a century. No lilies live over a century. We must maximize the work humans do in their lives. Each extra year of education increases productivity by 0.56. Transform into quadratic vertex form and calculate the vertex. (-b/2a, 4ac-b^2/4a) gives an optimum human productivity of x when years of education are increaseh by y. Calculate x and y in exact form.
Because we’re all just numbers, numbers in the face of the societal God that is optimization and industrialization and productifization and efficientization. We’re organic machines, vegetables to be harvested for fuel, lilies that toil in the field, spinning, spinning. Why do we work so God-approved hard? Is it worth it now? Sacrificing all those bloody midnight hours for an extra mark, that 0.56% away from getting an A, and now an entire week wasted. Everything ventured, nothing gained. Going to school at 7:00 in the morning to retake a math test because 75% just wasn’t good enough. Fuck me in the foot if I actually do better this time what with the world spinning around me as I spin and the teacher spins out another math test, a midterm this time, a midterm that I can’t retake because I already retook a test and the teacher’s too lazy to let anyone retake more than one test in a year. Anti-China policy #1: stop students from compulsively retaking tests in a futile effort to achieve more than they haven’t achieved. Am I Chinese enough now?
I blame the cold. I blame the fresh mountain air and the cool, clean breezes of trademark Vancouver Hospitality™ others call rain, liquid precipitation, the tears of God as he struggles to understand: why aren’t people being more productive? Why are so many people doing nothing in the rain? They’re just sitting there, not moving… what a waste of time! I blame the mandatory P.E. strip everybody has to wear. We had P.E. strip in elementary. The vice-principal had 13 words everybody must remember: something something be on time something something pee ee strip something something something. Memory serves me well as tennis serves me well or volleyball serves me well. Waiting outside an hour in the rain. Volleyball wasn’t outside, but for someone whose only shorts are emblazoned with the school’s currish emblem, coldness is to me as bad luck is to that girl in that anime. Which girl? Which anime? Why do anime girls never get sick despite always wearing less than I ever will?
I remember that look on the P.E. teacher? Assistant? His face when I told him I was sick this morning. “Go home! I was just sick last week! Don’t sic [sic] me again!” The verb, sic, was necessarily preferred to the adjective, sick. Which he used, I shall never know, and neither did context reveal to me. Was he a teacher or just the assistant? He seemed a sprightly young fellow, and hung out with the girls in our class. But he also lounged around the teachers’ lounge, where I found him lounging in the absence of the actual P.E. teacher who wasn’t my legal P.E. teacher, because my legal P.E. teacher was hit by a car over the summer, yet the school still decided to give her two classes in the same block to teach. She must’ve been a really good teacher to watch over two classes at once. I walk over to him during attendance as he converses with some generic girl and tell him, I’m leaving. Without missing a beat, he shoos me away with a pompous lack of reaction before catching me off-guard: “Wait, which one of them are you?”
Not, “Who are you,” but “Which one of them are you?” What did ‘them’ mean? The students? That wouldn’t make sense, because I’m none of them, I was physically separated from all of them by the direction I was in and by the condition I was in. Why ‘them’? It had to be something that included me, because I’m one of ‘them’, but didn’t include the P.E. teacher-assistant-hybrid. The P.E. assistant-teacher wasn’t a student, and he also wasn’t…
…Asian. Situated as it was, our entire school was entirely Asian, save the French Immersion minority. There were only two non-Asians in our P.E. class. Did he just refer to an entire continent of cultures as ‘them’? Could he really not tell the difference between ‘us’? The audacity of… and the tone of his voice, that half-laughing, half-mocking sneer that momentarily claimed his mouth, as if he had made a nice joke by deindividualizing the entire class he was supposed to assist-teach. It felt weird. It wasn’t like my non-Asian friends telling genuinely offensive anti-Asian jokes which should really get my blood boiling but doesn’t. Here was some stranger, directly insulting every essence of my first-world-raised being, us who are taught from birth in our ‘specialness’, how each of us is a little lily in our own special little lilyponds. Do not toil—you’re special! Do not spin. Do not pass Go. Collect $200 anyways. This wasn’t racism. This was life. C’est la vie. If this mild annoyance disturbed me like this mentally incapacitating headache, then true racism would be the chronic cancerous tumour of mental termination, an end of life as life knows it.
Then, I saw. Saw his eyes met nobody’s but his pencil, searching down the list. What did ‘them’ mean? The names. “Which one of these names are you?”
But even so, that’s all I’ve been thinking of. Why did I go to school? The response would have to be this. People would look at me disapprovingly, and when, by a stroke of fortune or a stroke of the major arteries, they themselves succumb to the disease of human incapacity, who’ll take the blame? Find the most ‘logical’ explanation. It’s common sense, right? But it’s Wednesday and on Friday, we submit our French film projects. A grand total of two scenes filmed over seven hours Sunday as I lay on the floor—the floor!—of that room with the dimmable lights and giant television set, while we waited for our camera to recharge itself. The camera was a literal potato wired up to a 4×4 red monochrome LCD display screen that approximated the red light shining backwards through the pinhole. We had four iPhone 9GS+s, but everybody was too busy playing 2004 Flash games ported to iOS.
I’d say it was all an excuse. We used ‘recharging battery’ as an excuse to not do shit. For three hours before I arrived (because nobody told me there’d be a meeting), three people did nothing but translate two scenes in already-written English into French. Each scene had three lines. One of those people was a native French speaker. I arrived, the fifth member arrived two years later, and while I lay on the warm, soft, disease-matted carpet, they clicked around on their iPhones and now I know how I got sick I know how I got sick now.
I’m a bloody idiot.
It’s due on Friday. We need to shoot eight more scenes, as well as finish writing the actual script for those scenes—in English, not French. Translating the script is another beast entirely. I know, I tried it, and promptly succumbed to a large dose of not-giving-a-fuck anymore. I have two more scenes with me in it, and then there’s dubbing the French because we shot those scenes not having translated the script yet. If we finish all that within two hours tomorrow because the only guy who knows how to edit has school plays going on every night this week from 5:30 until 10:00, then we can hand in our French project. But if I’m sick tomorrow then I’ll have to skip the next day and get a doctor’s note in the vain hope that the teacher gives us an extension instead of yelling in our faces that we should’ve started sooner WE SHOULD’VE STARTED SOONER
A lifetime of procrastination begs to differ. We should’ve started later. Look, they shot three scenes yesterday in two hours. Productivity! 3 scenes/2 hours with 4 people. Person A can shoot one scene in two hours. Person B can shoot one scene in four hours. How many hours will Person C and D take to shoot the entire movie together? The implication is that I shoot an average of negative one point two scenes every hour. Shoot. Skipping school has its advantages. If she gives us an extension, we just got three extra days. If she doesn’t, I will literally become the bloodiest of bloody pulps, the mushiest of mush, my bones ground into paste, my organs cut into bite-sized chunks, my meat stewed into gravy and served on a platter to appease Armok. Your arm OK? No soap, radio. My arm is paralyzed from the fingers down. Falling down, tripping, moving my foot up to stop the fall—wrong foot—crack. Hitting the pavement while accelerating at 9.8 metres a second. Blood red, crimson, palm not OK: four cuts, bandaid slips, too much blood. Now two warts on my fingers. Now lip bleeding. An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Doctor, doctor! It’s OK, no apples here; come, Eirin, save me!
It’s midterm weak. Midterms are for the weak. The strong stay at home, lie in bed of an unknown delirium and appear all fine and well the day after the midterms to find out all their group projects have failed. Science fair? BAM! You just lost 25% from your term science mark! Planning project? BAM! You just failed the entire course because that’s the only assignment this entire term! In the teachers’ minds, spinning: “Let’s give these poor bastards more pointless projects because it’s midterm week and they need one project for every single course! That way, it’ll be a FULL-COURSE MEAL!” Strings field trip next week sounds nice, but that’s two hours of nonstop performing and lugging cousin-sized violas on ~public transit~ (poor bassists) in a class we could study in. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger? This fever isn’t killing me. Am I stronger now? Can I lift, bro? Please?
The God of Blood answers from his omnipotent throne, made from the ashes of countless anvils He has wrought with his bare hands: “Has the Campbell opposition changed their stances?” It is a task, an ordeal that We must struggle through to find the light that He promises, the light of a Good Future™ where we might be Good Numbers that increase our productivity by 0.56 each year until the year of parabolic maximum. To appease the Blood God. It seems meaningless now, but someday, someone will ask you; “What do you think about the Campbell opposition during that year when they said those things?” And you might respond in the affirmative, or in the negative, and you’ll think back to those halcyon days when you were lying in bed with a fever, typing out these monotonous words while praying to God, let Him have mercy on me, let He that deals divine judgement on souls spare my marks! Take my sons, take my fathers! Leave my grades alone!
“wat a horrible time to be sick lol”
“do you have the note cards”
“o ya i should probably buy those lol”
So the God decreed, “And I shall require, on the 29th of January, a supply of note cards appropriately purchased from capitalist establishments, that one may take notes on; And notes on other media, shall by this day be—Prohibited.” Was he being sarcastic? Was he implying something there? What did the ‘lol’ mean? If he was being sarcastic, he could have not really meant ‘horrible’ and ‘sick’; maybe he thought I was faking it? For what? So I could possibly get an extension for a French project we already failed, by association with me, that failer of failures? Or was he genuinely sympathetic towards my slightly irritating plight? Regardless, I’d have to buy those note cards before I can start taking notes on that in-class essay on the 29th. Did the Campbell opposition change their stances? Tiger stance to a dragon stance?
Ineluctable modality of the audio-visual. He says these words with a digital accent, one with no sarcasm detection. We may lower-case no-punctuation caps-exclamations-maximum on twitter if we’re being sarcastic, but he cannot. The culture of texting vs. the culture of often-at-home twittering. He does not say these words, nor do I hear them. He types the words, no, the letters, on the keyboard with his fingers. He feels the words. Ineluctable modality of the sensual. Story of my life, à la Joyce. Is this how I think? Not with pictures or ideas—with words. Do you dream in words? What was the last image I image-ined?
Ulysses is a modern masterpiece. Even looking just through chapter three, you see the rich interwoven tapestry of words and language that Joyce bends to his will. He’s a master artisan that manipulates, carves, and molds language itself into expressing more than language. More than meets the eye, more than the ear hears, more than the conscious mind can ever process—Joyce paints a picture of THOUGHT itself, making his characters more than simply human. The characters become us, we become the characters as we’re literally swept into another’s shoes, and body, and mind. Have other books done this? Possibly, but none to the refined needle of trenchant wit and biting description that is Ulysses. And definitely none have its epic scope, flooded with allusions. I used to think allusions were pretentious bullshit—who cares if you’re referencing some dead white guy? But no: they add scope, each allusion is a new story that enhances a tale, and Ulysses is that tale, a tale of tales, a mundane epic about a common hero, the towering modernist achievement of the century.
Writing essays is fun when you don’t have a headache—but you need to choose a topic. That’s the hardest part, because choose a topic you don’t like, and you don’t have yourself an essay. Have another choose a topic for you, and you don’t have an author. “Compare Ulysses to the Odyssey,” so the God decreed, “Rough draft due Friday.”
Weighing the options in my head, weighing mentally a loaded die that flipped over, once, twice, heads, tails, spinning like the world around me and my head spinning around and the God of Blood weighed in with a shatter of the skull, a weight upon it that sent vibrations of nausea echoing down my throat. Consider the lilies of the field. They don’t have throats. That’s why they don’t toil. That’s why they don’t spin.
Skipping school tomorrow and the next day? Failing our French film project? Having no class time to prepare for midterm week?
C’est la vie.
It is a thing. I procrastinated last week, because I was paralyzed from sickness.
That didn’t turn out too well. We (two people; the third disappeared) crammed our planning project until 1:00 last night. We presented it today without rehearsing, and it turned out OK. Unfortunately, we had to hand in our socials essay notes early—otherwise, it’d be unfair to the people who have to write their essays Monday instead of Thursday.
Unfortunately, I didn’t actually have any notes. But before I could go home and start taking them, we had to finish shooting and dubbing our French film project. It was due last Friday, but we got an extension because I was sick until today.
Filming should’ve taken until 6:00, but the cameraman got the wrong extension cord, and we had to go to his house to finish dubbing. Seven hours later…
…it was 10:00 when I got home. With an entire socials essay to finish researching (including outline, bibliography, and citations!), I wanted to get to work. Instead, I’m writing this post because I’m just too goddamn tired.
Tomorrow, I have to start and finish writing an entire English essay, and study for the science unit test I missed last week. Math midterms is on Thursday. Science Fair is due on Monday, and we haven’t started that either.
See, at this time, I always tell myself: stop procrastinating! Finish all of these as soon as they’re assigned! But whenever I get the ‘don’t procrastinate’ feeling… I’m too busy. I never feel busy when the due dates aren’t rushing up at me. All of these were assigned before winter break; yet, I didn’t start until now.
How do you guys deal with procrastination? Do you just roll with it anyways? I know many students just push everything to the last day, and we end up only mildly unscathed… but it surely isn’t the best way to go about it.
The whole point of this post was to tell you: save some homework-related ramblings I wrote and will publish tomorrow, I’m pretty much dead this week. Expect complete radio silence.
I can’t find anything to write about so I guess this is an essay maybe sorta yeah. I haven’t written anything for too long and I don’t know how to write anymore cause all I’ve written is bad high school essays that are boring and bad and nobody will read them. You’ll see the tone change dramatically in this post because I just need to get rid of this writer’s block… I think it was a pretty fun experiment. I feel a lot more in ‘the (blogging) groove’ now.
I will develop it in TRADITIONAL ESSAY FORM; that is, thesis, three body paragraphs, and conclusion. This way I practice the art of Formulaic Essay Writing. Because the structure’s entirely devoid of all creativity, we can use this creativity to… oh, no, you can’t, because you have to follow your outline.
Well, here’s my outline.
Introduction (with !~THESIS STATEMENT~!)
I suck lollipops»
DID YOU GUYS KNOW:
O-New has an RSS FEED that you can SUBSCRIBE TO with GOOGLE READER. This allows you not only to view new posts without bookmarking O-New and visiting every day (although you can do that, since we cough cough always have new posts every day), but also lets you keep track of posts I rewrite! The next three posts up for rewriting are: Sword Farts Online 4, Tits in the Middle of Nowhere 1, and the Middle of Tits in Nowhere 3. ok never mind maybe you shouldn’t read those
tl;dr: hello filler posts. here’s the feed link: http://onewdesign.wordpress.com/feed/. You can click it if you want.
P.S. stop lurking
He ate us? No, he didn’t.
Today’s Tuesday, and it’s time for You Say Tuesdays. I’m not supposed to say anything (besides, I don’t say things here, I type words words words) other than provide the topic for discussion.
The topic for discussion this Tuesday is: should I come back from this stupid twitter/skype-hiatus thing
(That is to say, sorry guys, I’ve been bad with posts lately. DON’T WORRY I’ll have time to post after my piano exams are over and before school st-oh wait, I’m going on a cruise to Alaska then. Haha. Hah.)
dammit im mad
p.s. notice: 26th filler post, posted july 26th
Once upon a land, in a time far, far ago, some guy asked me, “What the fuck are you doing you fucking retard? This fucking blog fucking sucks fucking dicks! Why the fuck do you even care so much about your fucking shit-ass site you fucking retard? Nobody even reads your fucking blog. Who the fuck are you trying to write for anyways? Go drown in a fucking well off the coast of Fucking, Austria!”
I may be paraphrasing, but this did cause me to have a revelation. After all, what’s the point of publishing a post every day for the past two (soon to be three) years when a) nobody reads them b) I don’t have fun writing the posts c) see (psst that was a pun)? I mean, shit, the last six anime I watched were complete and trite tripe, and those six serious are seriesly the only anime I have watched for the past nine months.
That’s the state of this blog’s degeneration! I don’t even watch anime anymore!
So, something’s obviously wrong.
After waking up at 8am this morning only to realize the full impact of reality, I admit I was extremely hostile but instead of mass tweeting philosophy, I took a long walk in a nature preserve near my place. I sat next to a stream for a good hour thinking about everything. I came back at around 11 and after a few minutes to myself, I decided to write this post.
I write posts because it’s fun.
I write posts to entertain.
Enough of this episodic crap. I’m not going to continue writing this worthless drivel about my personal interpretations of Mouretsu Pirates’s geopolitical ramifications, nor about the inner conspiracy to create a clone of Madoka in Black Rock Shooter (replete with filled-in star symbol). I’m going to write bad Sword Art Online fapfics and NOBODY CAN STOP ME
Aw yeah, look at my sweet frog pajamas. They’re like hakase’s pajamas except 1) hakase doesn’t have frog pajamas 2) that’s a sweater 3) those are feet 4) IT’S TIME FOR A FEET VIDEO AGAIN
You’re on the weird part of O-New»
This is from Frivolous Verbosities. If you like it, go there for more of my weird stuff!
Today I went to the Da Vinci: The Genius exhibition at the Telus World of Science, brought there by Grande Exhibitions, an exhibition company that travels worldwide.
There I was not only amazed at Leonardo’s genius and the incredible creation of his designs and blueprints. I was also amazed by the tremendous amount of work done to Science World.
I had a pretty weird dream last night. I’ve talked to my friends about it, and they don’t know what to make of it. Since this talk was over a chat client, and I don’t feel like typing it up again, I’m just going to copy/paste (with some editing for spelling errors and removing usernames and timestamps, and changing the format from chatlog to paragraph. Besides these edits, the words have been left unchanged.). So my dream starts like this:
I’m in my room. It’s night. I look out the window, and for some reason, my neighbourhood has been replaced by a forest. Deciduous trees, bare of leaves. I think there’s snow on the ground, so it must be winter; that explains the lack of leaves on the trees. I can pick out faint roads, so perhaps my neighbourhood isn’t completely gone. There are no lights, save the moon, which is full and bright. I hear a wolf howl. I can see shapes. Shapes in the trees. Moving.
Today, a friend of mine, observing my attraction to firearms, said it was a fetish. Is it?
I like guns. I like the way they look, the way that everything performs a specific function, the way everything fits together. I like how they sound, how the action sounds when it closes, the sound of the extractor pulling a casing out of the chamber, the sound of the ejector kicking the brass out of the ejection port-
Oh fuck. It is a fetish. Isn’t it.
They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. Okay. I have a problem. But what if I like that problem? Is there something wrong with me? I don’t think so. Well… here. Have a drawing of a Mauser C96. She’s old, but still sexier than most handguns can ever hope to be.
THE POST TITLE IS A PUN ON ‘SUMMER’
BECAUSE IT’S SUMMER
well on the 23rd it is but WHATEVER ALRIGHT, REWRITTEN FILLER POSTS ETC. ETC.
You’ve seen me writing about Mouretsu Pirates the past few days. Actually, hopefully you haven’t, because this post was actually published on June 14th, 2012 and totally not June 20th because why would I publish a post that’s already been published?? It doesn’t make any logical sense! :o
Anyways, hopefully, you haven’t seen me writing about Mouretsu Pirates the past few days. This is because I did not write manga posts the past few weeks, and if you saw me, it would be writing an anime post. And that’s creepy regardless if you’re a O-New subscriber or not, for if you are, this blog is creepy, and if you aren’t, you ought to go drown yourself in a well off the coast of Finland. Bloggers. (psssssst click the link to understand this ~inside joke~ that’s not even a joke)
Regardless of whether you have or haven’t seen me writing about Mouretsu Pirates the past few days, there is no doubt that Master Chef is undoubtedly and indubitably radical squint
Squint those eyebrows»
It’s a pun, alright! It’s the only thing I can do now that I’m sick. Or should I say, stick?
…No, wait, that doesn’t even make sense.
Anyways, remember the good ol’ days of YTV before I discovered good ol’ 4kids’s horrible dub of One Piece and back when everything sucked? Well, everything still sucks now, but at least anime wasn’t as entertaining as good ol’ bad YTV cartoons. Yes, everything sucks. But that’s to be expected when all you’ve done all day was (instead of doing any homework or even writing any posts besides this one) lie around in bed with your throat burning, your head on fire, and your eyes blinded from fatigue and exhaustion. And also from wearing glasses again after a year without. Thank God I’m not you, but I’m suffering from everything you’re suffering too: including this extreme inclination to suddenly write a bad post.
Yeah. Sorry for all these sick posts. Y’know, if CERTAIN PEOPLE responded to my request for them to BLOG FOR O-NEW, you would not have to suffer through this trite tripe! Instead, you would have to suffer through other trite tripe. Also: were you ever wondering about why you feel cold when you have a fever? Well, turns out that a fever is completely different from hyperthermia, and even more different from hypothermia. Hyperthermia is when your body temperature is greater (say, at 38 degrees) than your thermoregulatory set-point, which is completely normal at 37 degrees Celsius. Fever is when your body temperature is less (say, at 38 degrees) than your thermoregulatory set-point, which is COMPLETELY ABNORMAL at 39 degrees Celsius. It doesn’t matter what your absolute temperature is; your temperature relative to your thermoregulatory set-point causes you to feel warm or cold. So, when you have a fever, your thermoregulatory set-point rises to above normal, and you feel cold because your body temperature is lower than your new thermoregulatory set-point. When your body temperature rises to match your new thermoregulatory set-point, you feel warm again. #themoreyouknow
C’mon, I’ve got a 39.7 degree (Celsius! NOT FAHRENHEIT!) fever, you should be proud of me for coming up with even a lame pun like that.
So I’ve got the most splitting headache, have been lying in bed for the past eighteen hours, and I accidentally ingested Advil because I thought I had a fever when really I’ve got a viral infection. I wish O-New were a viral infection; then everybody would read our posts. On the other hand, everybody, everywhere will laugh at the QUALITY of our posts forever and ever and ever ._.
Anyways, note to self: when you have a viral infection, DO NOT SWALLOW ADVIL (nor anvils) because it will make you feel the most nauseous since you were forced to sit in a bus seat with your backpack suffocating yourself because of your carsickness. I never sit down on the bus. B(
In conclusion, I finally realized that what I dream about is always influenced by my outside environment. Is it freezing? Then I dream of standing in the dark outside the central public library while all the streetlights broke and some rabid werewolf chases me up into a military-grade cargo elevator that leads up into the main library when a really cute girl walks by and then I realize that I’m naked. Am I excessively sweating from excessive amounts of Tylenol? Then I dream of excessively sweating from excessive amounts of Tylenol. Except, no, I don’t dream, I stay awake sweating for an hour
P.S. Getting a doctor’s note for missing my French and Science project presentations costs $15 because it’s not covered by the Medical Services Plan. When I grow up, I want to be a doctor’s-note-writer. If I write one every 5 minutes, I’ll earn like, $180 an hour.
P.P.S. This post is too shot, so have a video of my hand.