| GIP! |
[14 Apr 2004|07:06pm] |
I'm so insanely proud of this for all the wrong, wrong reasons.
And I'm incredibly immature, but dude, IT'S SO TRUE.
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| Alias Wank! |
[28 Feb 2004|05:21pm] |
The Vartanhoes are a group of people who run a website dedicated to the guy with the cute nose Michael Vartan, who plays, funnily enough, Michael Vaughn and the current paramour on Alias.
Well, according to the self proclaimed "vartanhoes" Alias has sucked major this season, and they have something to say.
My favorite part, of course, is this:
We believe that fans should never be put through what Alias fans have been put through this season. We believe that television shows should not be about manipulating and mindfucking the fans. We believe that television shows should not be about subjugating characters in favor of lame, contrived, distasteful plots. We believe that fans should not have to "stomach" months of subpar drama in the hopes that maybe, someday, there will be a worthwhile payoff in the very end. We believe that entertainment should not be about pain, disappointment, frustration and sadism.
Yes, well, at least it didn't get cancelled.
Just sayin', is all.
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| Fuckity Fuck Fuck. |
[29 Jan 2004|01:49am] |
I hate UCLA's network sometimes. It lets me into some sites, while others are inaccessible. I can get to Hotmail and Journalfen for some reason, but a no go with the Livejournal and anything else for FUCKS SAKE.
On MSN's main page is a scroll of news and something about a Jerusalem bombing just passed by and so I think "I can click this, this is MSN, I can access this page during UCLA's bitch time."
Click, and no go.
FUCK, why don't I have a TV!?! Why do I depend on my new from stupid fucking filtered MSN and my shitty ass school network.
FUCK.
< /bitch>
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[02 Dec 2003|09:09pm] |
|
recovery
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| Woah. |
[24 Nov 2003|07:55pm] |
I was photoshop-clean for two weeks thanks to some nasty virus leaving me free to do stuff like, ya know, study and sleep.
But doooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooode. Work computers are panty-dripping fast. It's like an orgasm each time I press radial blur/zoom/ max 10.
1024x768/mac/original manip/original
I had to color this from scratch since the face was black and white and the body was...well...not. Yeah, I excel at making things hard for myself. Go me.
**
I was thinking maybe a little texture before adding text but I'm still iffy on the actual adding text part as well. I don't know if I should in the first place because A)I can't be arsed to think of anything cute, and B)I really, really, really can't figure out how I want to format it, which usually (oddly) dictates what (A) is.
Oh yeah, and the mac version is lame yo, I apologize.
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| The Return of Teh HP_Wank |
[17 Nov 2003|02:38pm] |
Talking about dredging up the past...remember all the angst when Gary Oldman cast as Sirius? All cries of "He's not cute enough! He doesn't have the rugged good looks and the pustules that ooze male sexuality? Where's the bulging biceps and the gigantic throbbing d-"
There was sobbing, wailing and the sound of a thousand keyboards misspelling words and replacing all the letter c's with k's!
But that's not all! There's the inability to tell apart shoddy photoshop with high end posters! There's endless barrages of "I hope you jump of a cliff!" And more! Go forth, boggle:
http://darkmark.com/galleries/details.php?image_id=2936
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| I hate it here. |
[27 Oct 2003|04:42am] |
Transmetroplitan, Jen, DAMN YOU.
I Hate It Here
And here's one for Mac people.
Oh god, I don't want to write this paper.
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| More Dru for You. |
[18 Oct 2003|07:27pm] |
Posted this already on LJ, might as well do the rounds:
bigger?
higher-def version
oy, I'm tired.
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| Pink-o-Rama |
[15 Sep 2003|02:34am] |
Buffy/Faith, slash, sparklies and pink.
Does this make me a girl?
dammit.
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[11 Sep 2003|09:13pm] |
I am a Google whore. I think I spent an hour today just googling "old photograph" and jacking the edges.
Whore. Such. A. Whore.
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| JF-ers love this shit... |
[25 Aug 2003|03:46pm] |
Damn, I wish I thought of it...
No? Good.
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| OC drabble |
[21 Aug 2003|01:22am] |
just so I have it down for when I get home...
**
Those men came for Dad again, their big black suits filling up the spyhole when they knocked.
"Excuse me ma'am," They called out, booming voices and harsh annunciation, "We have a warrent, you'll have to let us in whether he's home or not."
Marissa knows better than to argue, people might see a van of FBI agents battering down her door and that wouldn't help Dad any; so she opens the door and they come in two-by-two like in Sunday school. She doesn't say anything, not even a 'hello' or 'come in', they know what to do and she's too tired (scared/confused/knowing) to fake pleasentries. They've come for Dad -of course- she always kinda/sorta knew that they'd stop believing her one of these days and just cut out the middleman (woman, no just a girl).
She hears Dad screaming and crashing things in his office, she hears the whir of the paper shredder and how his heels of his prada leather men's fashion 2003 shoes scratch the laquered floor. It cost 10,000 to do that and now there will be deep grooves and fault lines that Consuela will have to pretend to fix. Maybe there will be a new throw rug next week, tastefully fitting the drapes with deep reds and golds.
Maybe.
Marissa doesn't figure they'll have this house much longer and she thinks that maybe she'll do a reverse-Ryan and end up in trailers that never lose their smell no matter how many times she'll clean them. Maybe the FBI will find nothing and everything will be normal. Maybe they just want to talk to him about all the charities he funds and how they just wanted to congratulate him on a job well done. Maybe Marissa is just fooling herself and she should start choosing what to hide at Seth's house before the bank comes to foreclose.
Maybe everything will be all right.
Maybe.
Dad screams and she sees him escorted out red-faced and crying and scaring her so much. Mom is angry that the FBI ruined the new office floor and she shouts obscenities in their wake. She shakes her fist and the delicate tennis bracelet with white gold accents slips across the morroccon tiles and blind Marissa with their shine.
Mom shuts the door behind Dad and turns to Marissa and her sister, "Pack all the clothes you'll need, we're going to my Mother's." Sister runs up the stairs, already planning her cute Voiten ballet-style skirt and absolutly awesome Kathrine Kline jumper with courdery lining. It will so work with her red shoes from Bloomingdale's.
Mom motions Marissa from her perch on the stairs, shushing Marissa's strangled sob of "Oh god, Dad, is he going to be-"
"We'll be fine." She says, "Afterall we didn't know about your father's..." She rubs her forehead, "mistakes. Don't worry, he's the only one that will be charged."
Don't worry she says as she makes her way up the stairs, we'll be fine.
Marissa want's to scream at her and call her names and tell her what a selfish bitch she is and that gold isn't her color and she's so goddamn self-centered and-
Marissa runs up to her room, two steps at a time with her too-thin-gangly-stick legs and her arms swinging so fast she almost throws herself off balance. She has to pack. She has to empty her closet (and dig through her shoes drawer for the bottle Smirnoff tucked away in some old Prada slingbacks).
She's drunk by the time the suitcase is on the bed, plastered as she opens her dresser and collapses to the floor so she can get a better look at the bottom drawer. All her skirts and leggings are pressed neatly and smelling of Ceder (thank you Conseula, she whispers under her breath, thank you thank you thankyouthankyou). The first thing her shaking fist gets is her Bisou-Bisou nymph skirt with slit knees and curled edges. She knows that she wants it and packs it quickly, making sure the edges stay curled. Next is the DKNY leahter mini skirt with silver star studs and pleated silk inserts; her fingers slip into the silk and she's suddenly afraid of getting sweat all over the threads. She quickly packs it and then turns back to the drawer.
Her Givenchy wools skirt with its matching belt is sidled up to the Moschino plaid silk skirt with sheep skin trimming, both crumpled and dusty from disuse. Should she pack the Diesel jeans skirt that looks so good with the Fendi tee or would the Ambercrombie and Fitch do just as well with the Calvin Kline? Should she pack all the expensive clothes and squirrel away the cheap stuff to some friends for later, or vice versa in the chance that the bank will check?
She wants to tip the entire dresser into her suitecase and spend the rest of the night finishing off the Smirnoff and then the Captian Morgan's and then the Grey Goose and then the Golden Sun tequilla hidden in her world globe, her sock drawer, her tampon case. She want's to collapse onto her bed and wake up and go to school and forget that Dad is sobbing somewhere where big burly FBI men look on and that Mom isn't calling up all her old boyfriends to see who's done better for himself and that her sister isn't two doors down crying into her pillow telling her Sak's Breast Cancer Awareness Day teddy bear that she hopes Daddy's ok and isn't being raped by big black men like she saw on TV that one night three weeks ago when no one was looking.
Marissa's hands are tangled in Tommy Hilfinger and Ralph Lauren, she finds herself sobbing into the silken pleats and artificial crumples of her Moschino, big fat salt tears stain and drip and dry and leave black black marks into her clothes, ruining the texture, ruining the look, ruining everything normal and fine and...
Her hands shake and she begins to push all the clothes, not caring about the folds or the creases or the style or the colors, pushes them all into her bag until it bulges and she keeps pushing: Manalo Blaniks and Marc Jacobs and other spindly and sharp stilletoes and slingbacks and clogs mixing with delicate blouses and razor thing bikinis. Something tears but she continues to pack, pushing and shoving and bending and moving.
Moving. She doens't want to move, she doens't want to leave doens't want to go anywhere.
Dad's red face reflects back at her on her shiny Prada shoes and she finds herself unable to meet his gaze.
**
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| UNAIRED EPISODE ONLINE (s01e07 -You Are My Sunshine) |
[05 Aug 2003|09:57pm] |
The unaired seventh episode is making the rounds online. You can find a copy here:
http://www.suprnova.org
But in order to download it you need the Bit Torrent Client, which is obtained here:
http://bitconjurer.org/BitTorrent/
Go to "Downloads" and click on the appropriate installer, either Windows or OSX depending on the type of the computer.
My download has yet to finish, and I don't think I have enough nails to bite off before it'll be done...goddamnit go FASTER!
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| um... |
[25 Jun 2003|09:15pm] |
Just go.
Everyone loves Harry Potter. Everyone.
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| Nazis, Hairy Potters, and Bongs, Oh My! |
[19 Jun 2003|02:20am] |
First time wanker, long time snarky bitchy female commenter.
What started out as an innocent photoshop thread for the latest "Harry Potter" cover, soon descended into the depths of thinly veiled antisemitism and endless arguments as to the correct spelling of "defense," "criticize" and "rationalization" which really was just about Stupid American vs. Snobby British.
Americans think these words are misspelled. However the poms did come up witht he actual language. So I would say that the pommy spelling of the words is correct (and subsequently you yanks are wrong :)
Which is responded in turn with:
*sigh* people, dialects happen, and languages branch. They're both correct. This is a silly debate.
Then there's the wank on the cover itself, when guy points out:
My reasoning for this is a bit silly: American shoppers don't read the titles, they just go for the pictures, so putting Harry on makes it totally obvious (I'll bet heaps don't even know the title of the next book, just that it's got Harry Potter on it). While the rest of the world is more civilised and actually reads titles (Yeah ok I'm being cheeky :)).
Those damn smilies look double-chinned, fucking heathen.
America won't take such a jibe laying on our fat asses! We must respond in turn with the all inclusive:
Yes. You're right. Americans are stupid.
Which is proven by the fact that we harnessed electricity, pioneered modern mass-production, invented the microchip, then personal computers, and ultimately facilitated the development of the Internet, all so foreigners could log on and tell us how stupid we are.
Oh my!
There's even more I could point out, such as this:
I think it's because pix like that (british cover) remind some Americans (especially certain ones with tatooed numbers on their arms) of images like this...
Whomever could you mean? Oh! Jews? Goddamn, we so ROCK.
Just go, boggle.
Meanwhile I have to get back to controlling the media...
(thanks to Katemonkey for the link...)
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| firefly drabble...ignore... |
[13 Jun 2003|12:07am] |
On library computer; better than back of napkin...almost. Napkin smells like sushi, so hard to resist...
( mmm...sushi. )
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| GIP! |
[11 Jun 2003|01:26am] |
GIP! GIP!
My Constantine love knows no bounds...
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