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I have long been aware that my body parts work together to help me stay alive because they know I am unable to do it on my own. I live on a staple diet of Cheetos and Oreo cookies, I don’t brush my hair, I sleep using my cat’s butt as a pillow, I rarely exercise, etc. etc. I am pretty much a hygiene disaster–thus my organs and parts have achieved identities and souls and are working hard to make me function properly…because if I go, well, they do too.

I realized this morning that my brain and bladder have made a pact to work as a team in getting me to go to the bathroom while I’m asleep, but without my having to urinate on myself. I guess they are upset because I have a tendency to hold my pee in for as long as possible. But I think the minute it takes me to use the bathroom is a waste of time, and can be put off until later…like when I’m on my way to the kitchen and the bathroom is along the way. I’m not going to get up from my desk or bed or couch to go…unless it’s an emergency…an “emergency” being where Niagra Falls has escaped the confines of my body and is breaking through Security Level 1 ( = my underwear). 

But a few years ago this habit of competing against nature’s call got revenge and bum-rushed me with a trip to the hospital for peeing blood. And I’m not talking yellow with tinges of red…it was red all the way, and I was positive I was going to die. (You would too if you peed blood and you weren’t even on your period…besides, those aren’t the same orifices.)

Turns out I had a serious urinary tract infection, and the bacteria had eaten away the linings of my bladder. Those bastard bacteria. Couldn’t they go talk to the yeast cells instead? I’d rather have a yeast infection instead of blood pee any day…because I’m really curious to know if the those one-day treatments actually work.

Anyway, I’m guessing since that incident my brain and bladder have taken the initiative to take me to the bathroom. Nowadays I go whenever I have to, but that’s when I’m awake…when I’m asleep is a different issue.

But last night and this morning I had three dreams where I really had to go to the bathroom, but I couldn’t find one anywhere. I don’t remember the first two dreams, but I do remember waking up and realizing that I was nearing emergency status. The third dream I had was of me driving to a supermarket at 10:00 PM, finding out they were closed, and going straight for their women’s room. But the stalls were taken, and as it was nearing my turn a supermarket employee ushered in some elderly men and women and told them to go ahead and use the open stalls. They had priority because they were handicapped or something…anyway, there must have been a million elderly people because no stalls were available and at some point I woke up.

Had a stall been available in my dream, I think I would have peed in bed. The funny thing is that in all three of my dreams a bathroom was never available for me to use–which leads me to believe that my brain purposely manipulated the dreams so that I would never have a toilet to use even though I really had to go. And as my brain was feeding me these crazy visions, my bladder was sending me those uncomfortable “time to go” notices. My brain and bladder are awesome.

Brain and Bladder Contract

Brain and Bladder Signing a Contract….

I know that a real bladder doesn’t look like a tear drop, but I didn’t want to do any research.

 

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As we all know by now the Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin, passed away after he was stabbed in the heart by a sting ray barb. Even though he was able to remove the barb from his body, the poison had already spread through his heart and he died.

Not what I was expecting on Labor Day. For some reason, I thought the man was invincible since he made a living hanging out with dangerous animals. Subconsciously I think all people who run around doing things that could potentially kill them are immortal–so “death” and “Crocodile Hunter” didn’t end up in the same sentence in my head.

I have to admit I didn’t like his show. I thought it was boring and he was kind of annoying–always picking up snakes and poking at crocodiles. It’s just not my kind of entertainment. But reading about his passing was quite sad…you can’t help but feel a little bit gloomy whenever someone you’ve seen on television passes away before their time. Whether or not I liked his show doesn’t change the fact that pop culture is now less one figure.

So of course I’m going to have to comment on the sting ray barb to the heart thing because that’s what made headlines. Sure, he was the Crocodile Hunter, but I highly doubt that his death would have caused nearly as much furor if he had succumbed to a disease or a gunshot wound–you know, something normal. And how odd that the sting ray managed to hit the heart over all the other body parts. Of all the places the Crocodile Hunter could have been stabbed, it was his heart…the heart! An organ that doesn’t take up nearly as much space as a leg or an arm…that’s a once in a lifetime shot right there.

Initially, I thought how he died was terribly tragic and sad: the man was killed by a sting ray. Not cancer, old age, a murderer…he was killed by a sea animal that usually doesn’t attack humans unless it’s stepped on. And the bitter irony that follows is that the man dedicated his life to animals…so to be done in by one–seems kind of like a slap in the face, doesn’t it? Ungrateful sting ray.

But later on, as I thought about it more, I started to believe that if the Crocodile Hunter was going to die, then this was the best way for him to go. It was tailored perfectly to his life and what he stood for–if anything was going to do him in, then it should be an animal because that was his only weakness. It would seem less fitting, almost pussy, if he died from illness or a car accident…but death by a sting ray to a heart…that’s Gangsta.

While I find no pleasure in death, and I feel terribly sad for the small children the Crocodile Hunter left behind, I can’t help but admire him for leaving this Earth the way he did. If only we all could have perfectly-made passings to represent our lives as well.

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Third Week of Law School (AKA: 1L Redeux)

I have to admit–despite being embarrassed when my classmates from last year ask me why I’m not in any of their 2L classes this year, there are a lot of great benefits to coming back as a do-over 1L. For one thing, I get to see the innocence and naivete I once had as an incoming student last year because the new students this year all reflect that same “virginal” aura. They complain about how hard the reading is, how nervous they become when being called on, and how they didn’t know the stuff on “Law & Order” wasn’t an accurate representation of a real legal environment. They are hesitant about using commercial outlines because their professors and their copy of the “Idiot’s Guide to Law School” cautioned against using them, and they think battery is a tort done negligently against another. They are fresh, well-dressed, straight-out-of-an-Abercrombie-catalogue kids, with perfect make-up and perfect hair…but all it takes is one more week and they’ll start looking like the worn-out, burnt-out, soulless zombies law school students are really meant to be.

That’s the nice, great thing about being a 1L again. The rest of the perks are purely ego-boosts. I have done quite well in my first writing assignments, some of which I didn’t even have to do because they were repeats from last year’s work so I just reprinted my old copies and changed the date from “2005” to “2006.” I also know the answers to most of the professors’ questions so I look like some sort of genius whenever I raise my hand. Little do they know that I’m just a fake. Mwahahaha.

However, having to hear lectures on stuff you already know is quite boring…this is especially true for my contracts class because it was my favorite class last year and I was well-prepared for it. So I’m basically hearing stuff I know verbatim…which can be physically and mentally taxing, but I try to mix it up by raising my hand and showing off.

…I have typed a conclusion paragraph and erased it multiple times, and now I’m getting tired so I’ll just end it here.

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Eww…I didn’t realize I hadn’t been on Xanga since July. I’m guilty of Xanga Neglect, and that is unacceptable…because I pay money for this site.

I went on a hiatus in July because I was academically disqualified from law school. In layman’s terms–EXPELLED. Surprising, isn’t it? I mean, I am so brilliant and talented that things like this shouldn’t really happen to someone as perfect as me…but I guess every now and then Fate wants me to taste the life of a regular person, and the flavor I got was “Defeat.” Mmm…

The school has a minimum GPA requirement of 77…mine was 73.8, which wasn’t much of a difference but it still got me the boot. So of course I wept and was ashamed and felt really depressed about it all…especially for my family, because they had always been very supportive of me, and I felt like I was just throwing all their love back in their faces. It was extremely unpleasant being me.

I appealed, of course, but was rejected. So I went into this moment of crazy and started acting a little obsessive about getting back into school: calling the Dean of Student Affairs every two hours and leaving messages on her machine, writing letters to the school’s President and the head Dean, checking the school’s webpage every hour to see if there was a loophole in any of their policies…etc. After awhile, when it felt like the effort was all in vain and that I end up with a year of nothingness, I decided to study to retake the LSAT and try my best when the time came.

But naturally, if I’m talking about this right now it means it’s all in the past. I ended up getting back into school, albeit as a IL again, and have been given a chance to really make something of myself—meaning, something better than a 73.8 CGPA law student.

Ah…I learned a lot during the month of misery I suffered trying to handle this situation…I guess the most important thing I realized was that my life shouldn’t revolve around the superficial things that I subconsciously valued as important. It’s no longer about being popular, or well-liked, or the pretty girl, or the model…it’s about being me. Sylvia. Sylvia. Sylvia. I’m 24 years old, and I’ve got as many issues as I have dreams…but I also have the best parents in the world cheering me on, and a great sister who is always there to help me figure out my messes. And after that, there isn’t much else I want or need in life. I think I’ve got it all.

Back with a vengeance.

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I regularly check the “Footprints” on my blog so I can find out how many people have visited my awesome site, and where in the world they are. Although 75% of the visits come from me checking my the Footprints, the 25% of actual visitors still gives me a good ego boost that lasts me a good two minutes…which makes it worth it.

Anyway, what I have found really weird is that some people are linking me through Google Images at this link:

http://images.google.co.kr/imgres?imgurl=http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a244/baddyqueenly/hahaha.jp

What is this? I can’t search it because I am just directed to the Google.com page, and I couldn’t find it on Photobucket.com being that I am not technology-savvy. I think someone took one of my pictures and put it on their site? And apparently it was quite funny, considering the “hahaha.jp” tag. But yeah…what is it?

Assuming I am correct, I am both flattered and offended. Flattered, because perhaps this person found my work so great that they decided to post it on their site…but offended because umm…I don’t remember anyone asking me? It’s not like I’m going to say “no” because I could use the publicity…but you know, I worked hard to make my Paint Skills so superior. Sure, I didn’t do the “sweat, blood, and tears” thing—but I spent 5 good minutes of my time doing a drawing. It’s not easy putting circles and triangles together the way I do.

But, at the same time, I want to applaud this person for giving me recognition I totally deserve…and now I know for sure that I am one step closer to a Nobel Peace Prize. I bet those Hezbollah people would drop their weapons once they got a load of my Pepto vs. Laxative picture.

Yeah! World Peace!

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I really am not a fan of putting up pictures on my Xanga…at least, not pictures that I didn’t make out of Paint–which really shouldn’t be called “pictures” now that I think about it; I think a better term would be “works of Nirvana.”

However, on rare occasions I will put up pictures that I think deserve recognition. And by recognition I mean “worship.” For instance…

Okay…this is where I run around my room, screaming and ripping my hair out. There is just no way for me to get that itchy feeling of cuteness out of my system, other than to mutilate my body (kind of like how a Jehova’s Witness might cut themselves to leak out blood they received during a transfusion…)

These pictures are just too adorable! I can’t stand it! It makes me want to grab the animal, squeeze it, and make googly noises like a drooling baby!

I found these gems on cuteoverload.com—and this website is clearly true to its name. There were so many cute pictures of cuddly animals that after 20 minutes I actually started getting ANGRY. I mean, the feeling of rapture was so intense that my body sensed I was vulnerable to harm, and started kicking in angry endorphins (or something) to make myself less suspectible to attack. Yeah, that’s a hypothesis coming from someone who isn’t qualified to make any judgements…but you know it sounded good.

Anyway, there were many pictures I was oohing and ahhing over, but my favorite is a video clip of a kitten who befriended a rooster.

OMG KILL ME!

You can find the video clip here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p7qb6brLIBs. It’s in Japanese, but who cares? It’s CUTE.

I’m going to go curl into a corner and cry now.

UPDATE: Here is the clip…I figured out what to do with the HTML.

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Italian historians and scientists have recently exhumed the body of legendary singer Farinelli in order to study the remains. Farinelli, whose real name was Carlo Borschi, was a famous opera singer back in the 17th and 18th centuries. What makes him intruiging is that he wasn’t just an ordinary opera singer–Farinelli was, in fact, a castrato.

Okay, so what’s a “castrato” right? Or, rather, what’s a “castrati”? If you’re smart (like me) then you would have noticed that “castrati” sounds a lot like “castration”–which pretty much explains what type of opera singers these performers were: castrated men.

This topic is absolutely fascinating, so I had to do some research on it–naturally, with my trusty Wikipedia (I know it’s written by regular people and could contain a million errors—but I rely on it anyway because it’s not like I can tell what’s a typo and what’s not).

Back in the day (meaning the 16th century), when the Roman Catholic Church had banned females from singing in choirs, people began practicing castratism. The castration would be done before the boys reached puberty–probably around 8 years old or so. Thus, while their bodies continued to grow and develop, their vocal cords remained small. This essentially created male singers with high-pitched voices, untouched by puberty, but with the singing capabilities of adult males.

The register of a castrato’s voice was higher than that of a soprano–and subsequently the former became regarded as superior to the latter. During their time successful castrati were worshipped by their fans, and before long 4,000 young boys a year were undergoing castration in an effort to join this elite club.

(Unfortunately, only 1% of these castrated boys wound up becoming successful castrati…)

Castrati began losing their appeal when Italy outlawed the practice of castration in 1870. Shortly after, the Chuch banned the use of castrati in choirs.

The only existing castrato recording was done by Alessandro Moreschi. You can listen to it here:

http://www.archive.org/download/AlessandroMoreschi/AlessandroMoreschi-AveMaria.mp3.

The quality isn’t very good since it is a gramophone recording—but you can still get an idea of what a castrato’s voice sounded like.

 

Alessandro Moreschi

The first time I listened to it, I could only get halfway through because I found the sound of his voice incredibly disturbing. It was like nothing I have ever heard: it was grotesque and beautiful all at the same time. There was so much emotion, so must passion—and yet, I felt there was a sense of sadness to it. But I think that sadness has more to do with my own feelings of sympathy towards the singer than the song itself.

I mean, this is the sound of the ultimate sarcifice. I can’t imagine doing anything so drastic or permanent, even if it is for a craft I love. But I guess that’s what makes castrati so interesting.

And that is my educational article of the year.

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Infomercials are great. They’re so bland, so boring, and yet there is something really comical about them. I think it has something to do with the over-exaggeration of whatever hardships the product is going to cure. For instance:

Woman burns herself on steering wheel!

But Auto Cool is here to cool off her car!

Woman is happy now that the Auto Cool has kept the internal temperature of her car low, and her steering wheel from becoming a safety hazard!

That is so dumb…even though a car has been sitting in the sun for hours, I don’t think the steering wheel could get hot enough for you to react in such a surprised (an unattractive) fashion—not unless the car was sitting in the sun for hours, within the pit of an active volcano filled with lava.

But that’s why they are so funny! And the products are ridiculous!

More of my favorites:

Urine Gone! Makes urine disappear so that you can even find it with a black light!

Doggy Steps: For your dog to get up on furniture when you’re too lazy to pick it up.

Floam: a hybrid between silly putty and styrofoam—given to bad kids for Christmas.

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I don’t want to talk about Ehren Watada again. You all remember him, don’t you? The man who enlisted in the military the same year American soldiers were being sent to Iraq, who was ordered to be deployed two years later, and then suddenly had the epiphany that the war frayed his moral fibers, and he wanted no part in it. He chose not to be deployed with his troup—and now he’s on television and in the papers trying to defend his choice.

When I wrote him about him the first time, as angry and spiteful as I was, he was nothing more than a pussy who had woven himself an ugly, raggedy blanket of lies to cover himself from the critical eyes of the American public. And critical most of us were—how can we not be when someone tries to justify cowardice by feeding the media vague, scripted, unresearched excuses in the hopes that we are stupid enough to believe them as truth?

But I suppose what I said before wasn’t enough to stamp out my disdain for this “man,” for here I am again, spending time trying to articulate my disgust–disgust that was triggered when the local news broadcasted a story of Watada’s showing up at a rally put together by his supporters.

Supporters? Supporters? Did those attendees realize what they were supporting? What they were advocating for? They were proponents of anti-Patriotism, laziness, hypocrisy. Call it what you want, but Watada does not stand for anything else.

When I flew home from LA, I was sitting next to a woman who looked like a typical sorority girl: blond, attractive, Valley-accented, gabbing on a cell phone about how she got wasted at a party a few nights ago. I didn’t pay much attention to her until she held up a large box of See’s chocolates she had bought at the airport.

“Do you want one?” she asked me. “I wanted to treat myself to chocolate before I go to Iraq, and for some reason M&M’s just wouldn’t do.”

I looked at her: blond, attractive, Valley-accented, party girl. “You’re going to Iraq?” I asked?

She nodded as if it was no big deal. “Yeah, next week. I’m in the military.”

And that was it. I slept through most of the flight, but when I woke up I noticed that the woman was crying quietly to herself, glass of champagne in one hand, cell phone in the other. She was looking at pictures of a baby boy–her baby, from I remember her telling someone on the phone. It was sad, but fascinating at the same time: what was she thinking as she looked at the pictures? Did she wonder if she was going to get shot? Did she wonder if she was going to die? Did she wonder if she was going to watch people die, by her hand or someone else’s? What? I wanted to ask her…

The plane landed, and I went to get my suitcase. I saw the woman again at baggage claim–she was picking up her green army backpack, the only thing she brougt with her from California. A week later she would be in Iraq.

Did Watada stop and consider the men and women who found themselves in his exact position, who realized they would have to leave their friends and family, who realized that they might not come back alive, who took their army backpacks and boxes of chocolate to fight in a war they may not have believed in? Did he?

In law, culpability is measured according to levels of forseeability: the more foreseeable an outcome, the more culpable a person may be. I think it works the same way for Watada and any other individual who chooses to enlist in the military. It was foreseeable that he would be deployed to Iraq, and that foreseeability prevents him from coming up with excuses to alleviate his level of responsibility. Of culpability.

But the honorable, truly Patriotic Americans who are deployed go without complaint, despite their own personal reservations. And why? Why?

Because they fight for their families, for their friends, for their children.

They fight for us, so that we don’t have to.