I'm a pepper

Dr. Pepper does not contain prune juice.

Carbonated Water, Imperial Pure Cane Sugar (In Dublin, Texas) [But more commonly the deplorable High Fructose Corn Syrup. Flooding the agricultural market with nutritionally inferior cash crops was a horrible idea - thanks a lot, government subsidies. If you feel like feeding yourself something other than corn, like say... knowledge, you can learn why high fructose corn syrup is bad here. Also watch King Corn.], Caramel Color, Aspartame, Phosphoric Acid, Artificial and Natural Flavors, Sodium Benzoate, Caffeine. Where can we access this text? 'Artificial and Natural flavors'? Au contraire, mon frère. This phrase is only slightly less opaque than a chocolate-covered plum sweet. Or make that a "soy lethicin, vanillin, butter oil, chocolate liquor, potassium carbonate, and natural flavors" covered plum sweet. Processed food companies and their elusive jargon... Tsk.

HOWEVER.
Through extensive research and the persuasion of various golden retrievers (A,B,C) [$84.99], I have demystified the mystery! (In lieu of paraphrasing, I have decided to use an extended quote by Brian McElroy (circa 1998) to increase my credibility)

"According to Mr. Kloster [Bill Kloster], the plant owner, who has worked in that plant for almost 60 years, Dr Pepper is a mix of 23 different fruit flavors. The original creator wanted to create a drink that tasted like the smell of a soda shop. When you walked into a soda shop in that day, you smelled all the fruit flavors of the different sodas all mixed into one. So he basically took a bunch of flavors and mixed them, and came up with Dr Pepper."

Some of these "fruit flavors" include vanillin (imitation vanilla), raspberry vinegar, almond extract, orange oil, lactic acid, and denatured rum. This presents some ambiguity. Perhaps I am misinterpreting the word fruit?

Anyways, I've decided to visit Texas and try the Dr. Pepper wannabe known as Dr. Right, because The Van Gogh-Gosh Doctor Soda Taste Test rated it the best of 46 Dr sodas, including Dr. Pepper (which they mercilessly bashed [and could not single out]). There is no period in Doctor Pepper, which "is the result of an italicized type face used in the early 1950s. The period after the "r" appeared to look like a colon because of the font used. The result appeared to be "Di: Pepper". Not only was the period dropped, but the font was soon changed. There is really no reason for a period since we're not a member of the medical profession, or even degreed." Well phrased, Sr. V.P. Corporate Communications at Dr Pepper Jim Ball.

I've decided that my next blog will include lots of commercials. Here's a sip:

Colonel Salt
&
Dr Pepper

Also, Pepsi Corporation's Dr Pepper is not kosher for Passover because of traces of corn gluten in the corn syrup. Filthy anti-semites.

Ganguro... boy?

[Yes, the title is a Newgrounds reference]



HaHa (Hannah Arnold) makes fabulous mixes. Upon these mixes I may rediscover a treelimb I used to play on in my girlhood (ex.: Supermassive Black Hole by Muse) or upturn a rock to find tasty, squirmy little things that I proceed to download illegally using LimeWire (ex.: Jai Ho from Slumdog Millionaire).

These mixes were our background noise while we drove to and fro[-m the DC metro station], and set a placating backdrop for Hannah's questionable driving tactics. Other backdrops included the DC metro, the Japanasian Invasion of Pennsylvania Avenue (complete with whiteboys dressed in full Hello Kitty, ganguro, and harajuku get-up with hair dyed every color of the rainbow), and lovely DC with its lovely cherry blossoms.

I really adore that city, in all of its tourist-packed glory. The classical architecture, worn marble steps, cultural outpouring, and the feeling of being logistically insignificant are all positive aspects of spending time in the nation's capital. The negatives are... statistically null and therefore undeserving of face-time. I hate city driving, because I hate taking driving risks and grazing cheeks with Death. I love when other people take risks while I'm in the passenger seat... I just don't trust myself to perform evasive maneuvers. Moreover, mommies & metros mostly move me. I am so poetic.

So I've decided to quit participating in Blog Every Day April because I am a QUITTER. Ex.: I copped out of PFHS soccer tryouts on the second to last day.

But I love me anyways. Despite my incorrigible overuse of the word love. Is it possible to love too many people... too many things? All is full of love.

Hannah and Kelsey dared me to kiss a stranger in a student group while we "imbibed the ethereal visage" of the 2,000 cherry blossom trees planted along the D.C. Tidal Basin on the final day of their peak. The petals of fallen blossoms coated the water, so parts of the nearshore were pools of gyrating pink. And petals torn from the trees snowed down on passersby and peppered the cerulean sky.

But Hannah and Kelsey didn't find a boy appropriate for me to bestow my lusty lips upon, and of course I'd never work up the guts to choose my own victim, or even carry out the stunt without lots of spirited cheers and urgent coaxing. So, next time we're amongst throngs of touristy students, one of those lucky lads will fly home with stories of the mildly attractive stranger who was not wearing sunglasses and who snogged him long and sloppy. Maybe not the long part... yes, cheering is a must. I've never kissed a stranger.

D.C. can be so gorgeous. I wish us Americans were represented by our capital city, rather than by our rising obesity trend, penchant for greasy gluttony, supposed radical liberalism, and eye-popping murder rates. When the Singaporeans came to America, they expected to gorge themselves, flirt with non-conservative girls, and party. Though, I guess that's pretty accurate, huh? Americans, in general, are pleasure-seekers. But that's not a purely American trait so much as a trait characteristic of most all animals. Humans just perfected the art--and made the art into a lifestyle.

Pleasure-seeking leads to money-seeking leads to a society that worships its currency. Did you know that I love music videos?


(And Japanese Street Fashion!)

Body sushi

Quick! Blog!
ACT tomorrow!
Must sleep!

Things:
I'm going to get to horseback ride for free!! Repetitively!!!!!

Sushi is the best thing to enter my mouth. Ever.

I had to skip stretching tonight because my belly would've made me queasy during sit-and-reach. Which is a mild travesty.

... I need to get back my ableness to do the splits. DAMN YOU, EASILY PULLED GROIN MUSCLES.

I love so many people, so much.

Foalcuddles and teacup-chihuahuas

Oh my god, Becky. Look at her foal, it is SO big.

.....I like! BIG! FOALS AND I CANNOT LIE

I partook in warmth-share and foal-cuddles for a whopping 4 consecutive hours, which was magical like a unicorn's forest. He kept squishing his little nose against me and crumpling his whiskers till he sneezed. Or nuzzling his bony chin into my shoulder till I flinched, so he could punish me with an uppercut to the face. Or peeing lakes of urine that saturated the towels and dripped onto the sawdust. Or pawing the air in futility with his goat-hooves and pretending he could buck. He's a rascally spunkster, that 'un. With some delicious soft mane fuzz. All petting was performed using faces and arms of course, since latex gloves are required in the stall to minimize cross-contamination and disease.

At first, foaly and I cuddled in peace. The mare was drugged and sedated since her vag had just been flushed out to get rid of any placenta remnants -- apparently the placenta got stuck while the foal was birthed, and it finally dripped out yesterday. After our 3rd hour in the stall, she perked up a bit and slung me the type of attitude that only a hormonal, post-partum horse mom can sling, in the form of toe-stomps and aggravated nips, while we tried to get the foal to nurse-- unsuccessfully. She warmed up a smidge after I milked her (!), perhaps because she didn't have two bursting milk sacks slapping her in the gut. The milking process is an impeccable workout for the latissimus dorsi, but requires faultless aim if you don't want milk-drenched jeans.

Faultless aim is something I do not possess. Milk-drenched jeans are something I do.

The foal is a cutesome little tyke, especially when he tries to romp since his tendons are contracted, which means his toes are always pointed and he walks en pointe like tippy-toe ballerinas [advocates of feet-suicide]. He's in the neo-natal unit at the Virginia Tech Equine Medical Center, because he got stuck in his mom and had to be pulled out. So, he and Bella (his ma) are VERY lucky to be alive; stuck-foals usually die of oxygen deprivation and end up killing their mothers too. I hope the center chooses to pet-name him Rocket, since he enjoys launching himself off the mattress, only to land on the floor in a nonsensical heap of tangled limbs and startled whinnies.

I like itty fuzzy foals with velvet noses better than big ones, but this fella' was lanky and awkward and liked to gum my fingers. That's the kinda male I go for I guess. That is a lie.

The most titillating stallions are majestic, graceful and powerful, with sinewy muscles that ripple beneath their satin-silk coat. If I were a mare I would marry (be mounted by) an Arabian... (<3 ethnic studs). Arabians are so lovely, with their chiseled features, dished noses, expressive eyes, pinpricked ears, tapered nostrils, arched necks, delicate hooves. Aahh... horses. I love them like water. But my immune system apparently doesn't. My body marks equine particulate matter as a non-self pathogen and chucks out lymphocytes, antigens, and killer T cells to eliminate the immigrant substances that hopped the Joannean border. High speed chases ensue involving gunshots and immigrant abscondence into the dense overgrowth. Gunshots being a metaphor for sneezes, and dense overgrowth being a metaphor for... nosehairs? Blasted overactive immune system... I hope I got an A on my giant every-single-system in the body test today. Cause I sure as hell failed the math quiz... Yep

Okoya

I'm blogging because of: Blog Every Day April

Words of wisdom:
Jesus ve todo. No hagas cosas con los negros.

[WATCH IT]

The moral of the story is that Extra Dark Maple = WHOLESOME, ALL NATURAL GOODNESS

Strawberry Tongue.

Decadent? You bet your sweet scooper. Ah, decadence: a delicious word. It conjures up images of warm molten lava cakes dripping and oozing with a toothsome chocolate melt; luxuriant truffles with a smooth-as-silk ganache center that melts on your tongue, drizzled with white chocolate and garnished with a honey-glazed wafer for aesthetics; Cheesecake factory cheesecake ('nuff said); textures and taste blends so rich and so symphonious, they're sinful. The body's method of convincing us to provide our mitochondria with energy to feed our cells is nuanced and ingenius. Yet, I've always wondered why the body is convinced that a quick shot of nutrition-devoid simple sugars and fats merits irresistability and temptation, while vitamin and antioxidant-chocked superfoods are just quietly accepted. Perhaps because the satisfaction of healthy foods is mental, while the satisfaction of guilty pleasures is physical and emotional. Health foods cause latent, unimmediate physical benefits, while desserts bring swift gratification that can be rolled over the tongue. Chemicals in chocolate, including the antidepressant and dopamine/adrenaline-mimic phenylethylamine, quicken blood pulse and stimulate the release of endorphins and seratonin, thus eliciting a feeling similar to love. This is a reason why chocolate desserts are often particularly appealing.

As an aside, two mysterious toothbrushes have materialized in my rose themed toothbrush-holder in the downstairs bathroom, which is vexing. My dad uses a Waterpik (TM), my mom uses a violet toothbrush (her favorite color), my sister uses a disney princess toothbrush and my brother uses the high tech electric kind of brush that flashes for the amount of time he's supposed to brush (60ish seconds). HOWEVER. The first phantom toothbrush is light blue and the second is a pinkish purple that my mom would not approve of... maybe I'll have to snoop like Gwen Stefani talks about doing in the lyrics of Detective, or like Nate the Great except using sentences with much higher complexity, or like Shirley Holmes while she solves cases involving poison, indignant 8th grade sidekicks, and Indian-colored French people. Actually the indignant 8th grade sidekick and Indian colored French person were only part of the alleged poison case while it was performed at Riverbend Middle School when I was in 6th grade. I was Shirley Holmes and Elizabeth Caccia was Dotty, the female Watson equivalent. She was around 2 feet taller than me, with many more boobs and all her 8th grade experience and general better-than-6th-graders-ness under her belt. She always gave me dirty looks during play practice after I told her it was elementary, my Dear Dotty, and she had to bow her head in deference and write down all the clues that I noticed but she didn't and tell me I was brilliant. That was a pretty glorious scene. I don't think I wore a bra while I performed that play, although I had me some itty buds. A woman wearing a bra while she sleeps increases the chance of breast cancer, according to Bonnie Pascal, a highly estudious breast expert. Actually she's no more estudious or adorned than I am; pretty much the only well-adorned attendee of the Academy of Science is Aubrey Higginson. Maybe sex appeal cancels out the need for higher intelligence. Or maybe we all just didn't drink enough rBGH-fed cow milk in our youth.

Breasts are just floppy, saggy lumps of connective tissue, fat, and milk-producing lobules. Sure, big boobs are fun to play with, but they don't increase milk production or child-rearing ability, so why are they sexy? Maybe boobs are just attractive as signs of feminity and non-male traits, like curvy eyebrows and slanted jawlines. Christopher Sigournay suggests that they are visual stimuli that mimic buttocks and developed when human sex switched from doggie style to missionary, which is an intriguing thought to entertain. I wonder when that switch occurred... maybe when humanoids evolved into Homo erectus and started to walk upright, so laying flat was more natural than hunching over on all fours.

Humans flout evolution in allowing the impaired to live and reproduce. Non-human species have a much lower rate of bad eyesight, blindness, and deafness, because those traits die off with the animals that carry them, while humans reproduce regardless. Instead of encouraging competition and natural selection, we level the playing field and eliminate evolutionary competition with the use of glasses, contacts, laser eye surgery, hearing aids, etc. Not to say that the impaired or handicapped are unfit to live -- keep truckin' little buddies! You'll beat the evolutionary system yet!

WikiAnswers.com says breasts are made of chocolate milk and lady powder. I gotta get me some Nesquik...

PS. Snow White has the smallest boobs out of all the Disney Princesses.

Exhibit A:

Cloudberry

Dogma, Alanis Morissette, Edie Brickell.  Religion is a smile on a dog.

My sister's lacrosse stick just started leaking... ah, but on further inspection, I've discovered that the water's leaking on to the LAX stick from a hole in my ceiling that I'm pretty sure wasn't there the last time I checked.  But then again I rarely ever check, or pay any sort of attention to that neck of the woods (the woods being my computer room).  I've grown accustomed to the visual stench in much the same fashion as my perception of foul odors disappears after prolonged exposure to the smells.  Conditioning myself to the shoddy condition of my house promotes both the sanity of myself and the squalidness of my surroundings; if we stop noticing the holes, we'll never patch them up.  That happens in life too, eh? Thus leading to an inability or unwillingness to escape from deadbeat jobs, dysfunctional marriages, destructive habits, mundane activities, unhealthy relationships (but the catalysts that produce and maintain these situations are much more complex than I've made them out to be). Mostly we blame my dad's dearth of willpower for the ill-positioned wall-gashes that bleed water every now and then for good measure. Or more specifically, we blame my father's inability to cast away his his elder-sibling chutzpah long enough to coerce my Uncle Matt into performing "unpaid immigrant labor." There are numerous alphas, betas, gammas, and deltas.... but there is only one omega: Uncle Matt.  This was the first lesson that my father taught me about the Greek alphabet... and his view of the social framework as it pertains to relative age.  I love my Uncle Matt, even if he is a lowly pack member and only gets to eat what I regurgitate for wolf-pup consumption once I've picked over the caribou carcass.  I make sure to regurgitate some of the choicest morsels.  

Once my uncle told me that he lived with a herd of underground mole people who feed upon roots and insects and things, but I called him a liar because moles don't ever eat roots or plants.  The fact that his inaccurate description of a mole's diet was the only part that made me skeptical of his story is a testament to my pre-teen naivety... and a hint at the droves of inapplicable knowledge that I accumulated from reading non-fiction picture books.

   Guess what? Eastern moles commonly inhabit fields, meadows, and lawns throughout counties in the southeastern fourth of Minnesota.  Well gollyjee.  Nowadays google acts as an extension of my brain when it comes to inapplicable knowledge and tasty little factoids, so picture books are unnecessary.  Scissors beat paper, search engines beat reference books.  But only in regards to the efficiency and ease of the information exchange -- reference books are arguably more dependable.

Here are some fruits that I did not know existed: Kaki, Feijoa, Durian, Jackfruit, Cloudberry, Cherimoya, Mangosteen, Granadilla, Rose apple, Physalis, Sharon fruit, Tamarillo, Uglis.   I know about paw paws from that song about pickin' up paw paws and puttin' 'em in the basket that I learned in chorus class in some elementary school grade or other -- one of the years during which I could count my age (and my worries) with my fingers.  I don't actually have time to blog because I have to write a script about Teenage Dr. Gregory House diagnosing a case of strep throat within the span of three high school periods (equipped with his trusty pocket syringe).  Also, I have been forbidden from including mythological creatures or any type of drug or sex related scandals in the script... my friends know me far too well.  Also it is stupid to swear off love.