Book Review I: Slaughterhouse 5

Book Review I: Slaughterhouse-Five

:D I suppose my last post, "Omg Joseph Heller!" was more of a book review than a fruitcake rant, but then again, I felt my labeling justified because it was mostly me gushing about...well...being psychologically...er....manipulated....

....by an inanimate book...

Um, anyways, since I'm planning to do a lot more writing about books in the future, I figured I might as well create a new category: the book reviews. The issue is, often I analyze books from an intellectual perspective. When I write about it, especially in this blog, I would rather prefer to ramble and gush. So, as long as everyone is aware of the fact that, yes, most book reviews will really be book gushes, then I have no qualms about calling this a 'book review'.

Actual Book Review I: Slaughterhouse-Five!

Anyways, Slaughterhouse-Five. I liked it, a ton. It's postmodernist, so there is a limit to how much one can like it. I mean, after a while, the whole cynical apathy begins to wear on you. By the time I got to Catch-22 (by Heller, a contemporary of Vonnegut's) I began to feel a little fed up with these dumb postmodernists. Just my opinion. Still, all things considered, I found Slaughterhouse-Five, with it's time traveling (or rather, perspective traveling) Billy Pilgrim oddly gripping and satisfying.

The perspective shifting format, I believe, really makes this book cool. The sense of disjointedness lends much more to the diaspora (ok, I just misused that word...:P) of Pilgrim, and almost gives a poignancy to his life story that otherwise wouldn't have gotten across. Reading it made me really get that sense of disjointedness and passivity that characterizes Pilgrim.

That's the thing about Pilgrim-- I loved him, but my fellow AmLit-ers were pretty 'meh'. Well, actually, they mostly wanted to punch him. For some reason, I really liked Pilgrim though. His character doesn't seem annoying-- perhaps because I've read characters like him before, notably, Lathe of Heaven's George Orr. I liked Orr, too. :D See a trend? The passivity/apathy seems familiar. It's a pretty cool thing, too. Pilgrim becomes opinions, inactive, almost, he merely exists-- like George Orr! Milquetoast, Jellyfish! Like Orr, this guy was born for his role, the self-less (literally) time traveller, much like Orr was born for his role. Maybe Pilgrim represented the everyman simply because of his absence. Perhaps he was intended to give greater emphasis to the ridiculousness of life. He literally is that bird who witnesses the massacre and can't say anything but 'poo-tee-wheet'. Whatever. I don't have a good reason for why I like him, but I do.

On another note, what I didn't like was the Tralfamadoreans (No! I refuse to spell that correctly! It's a sign of hopeless geekdom if you know how to even pronounce it correctly). They were really random, very disjointed from the rest of the book. Perhaps they were intended to give greater relief on to the absurdity of life. Meh. Still didn't like them. I would postulate that Vonnegut was just throwing them in there to explain the whole 'unstuck in time' deal, but I think he's a much better writer than that. Despite their...well, the only way to describe it is randomness...I still wouldn't re-write the book without them if I could. It's a bit how I couldn't re-write Catch-22 without the intense pain. Somehow, without it, it wouldn't be the same. The book needs it, even though it generally detracts from the reading experience.

All in all, I would give Slaughterhouse-Five a double thumbs up, and definitely recommend reading it (unlike Catch-22. Yes. Read this, it's good). If you do plan on reading it, though, be sure to either pay really close attention to the beginning (where he's all like, "I'm going to write a war story!"), or re-read it when you get close to the end, because it is important, despite your misgivings, and it does get really cool near the end.

This is Quiet Girl, poo-tee-weet!

-Shhhh.....so it goes.

Fruitcake Rave V: Omg Joseph Heller!

Fruitcake Rave V: Joseph Heller

The inner lit vamp inside of me needed fresh blood (and lots of it) to sink her fangs into. So in addition to Survey of Brit Lit (again?), I also took an independent study Am Lit with some other DA kids. Nevermind that they're both male seniors (aliens from another planet!), it's been pretty fun. Recently we've just finished reading Joseph Heller's Catch-22.

...Sigh. What can I say? Catch-22 stands out amongst a crowd and has made a lasting impression on me. Much like how a brand makes a lasting impression on you. Like, a cattle brand. Funny, but now that I think about it, reading Catch-22 felt a lot like being branded. Yet despite the immense torture, I emerged, victorious, and in love*.

Reading Catch-22 was like nothing I ever read before (and remembered. Sometimes, traumatic events get wiped from your memory). Initially, the book was pretty hilarious; that is, it got a couple of smirks and a bunch of 'oooh, that's clever'. Eventually, however, you realize that the jokes are getting old. And then after that, you realize that there is no plot. And after that, you realize that you aren't getting anywhere. And then, comes the final realization, you are going to die. Just kidding. But in all honesty, the book soon evolves into an upward battle. You constantly trudge through the same monotony, over and over again, and look back, and realize, absolutely nothing has happened.

At all.

Seriously.

I mean it.

Yet throughout the stagnacy, hope gleams. Merely because nothing has happened and the fact that Catch-22 is renowned as am lit, you continue to hope that maybe, maybe Joseph Heller is the messiah and can somehow manage to tie all of this together into an amazing wonderful conclusion in the next 30 pages.

And he does. He manages to pull it off. After roughly 400 pages of emotional abuse (there is no other way to state it. Yes. I have been manipulated by an inanimate book), he pulls through and creates this amazing ending which makes it all worth it. The suffering, the pain, the boredom is all tied together (or at least, most of it), and the ending...well, let's just say it's one of the most beautiful things in this world.

...Of course, it could be, (as Alanna puts it) just that Heller manipulates you so that you expect dirt nothing, and then gives you a carrot, so you're like "A CARROT!!!! ", which is definitely viable, considering how this book reads.

But, emotional abuse aside, this book is a work of art after you read the ending. Midway you begin to notice the deaths of Yossarians friends, very flatly narrated, but still poignant (and in the case of Hungry Joe...slightly ridiculous?), and if you're really nice to Heller, you may admit seeing the delicate growth of madness (through reading the book, what else!) growing not only on Yossarian, but on you, until it all explodes during the end, and if you do fan-worship Heller, you realize that this is the most amazing balance of ridiculousness and monotony until you're practically forced into Yossarian's viewpoint.

All of this, however, depends on the ending. The ending, I believe, is what reveals this as a work of art. Because otherwise, it is (pardon my language) a piece of c***. So if you do decide to read Catch-22, you must read everything. You can't pull out midway (because otherwise you'll be even MORE psychologically scarred), so if you begin, you must persevere to the end. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and while I don't recommend reading Catch-22 (because it's a pain), if you do decide to read it, my heartiest congratulations, and prayers, because you will need it. It's an interesting balance of one of those things I hate and love, that I adore but would totally not read again or recommend to a friend (maybe to a serious enemy, but even that seems a little extreme).

Three things are for certain; this really does deserve its place in the American literary cannon; I have been irrevocably scarred and manipulated by a book**, and Joseph Heller's Catch-22 is certainly not for the faint hearted.

Squeal! now I'm a fangirl. This is Quiet Girl, off to read more books!

-Shhhh....

*with the book. Just saying.

**No, I'm kidding. But I do feel like I've gone through an ideal, and emerged stronger.

Ramblings 1: The Dead (not James Joyce)

Ramblings 1:

...I have been dead for a very, very long time.

...

...No, not really, but for all practical purposes, I have been dead.

Firstly, I'd like to extend a belated apology to all my long distance friends and anyone who reads this blog (..."hello?....is anyone...out there?... Anyone?...Anyone?") for being such a bad communicator and not keeping up with the overworld (as we the dead term the world of the living). No excuses, as cliche as this sounds, can really justify such a long silence, and I really am sorry for being an irresponsible correspondent. From my heart, with love, my sincerest apologies.

Secondly, a quick update. I'm not quite sure how to quickly update anything, and a lot has happened since moving to Reno. I don't know if anyone's interested in the daily grind of school*, or angsty teenage bemoanings, and also-- I'm not really sure what to talk about. I suppose I should tell you I'm happy (the dead usually are), well fed (though Mom's going nuts about healthy food), alive (not. No, just kidding), that I've taken up yoga (ommmm....Namaste. That's all I know**), reunited with Piano at UNR***, started liking Geometry (see, this is how you can tell that I'm really dead, b/c I would only start liking math over my dead body!!!), and haven't grown one inch. Much to my disappointment****.

I'll work on quietly catching things up to speed, rambling ever on and on about life...in general. But before I ramble on even more and blow this up into a novel about the woes of teenager hood (jk), This is Quiet Girl, back from the dead!

-Shhh...

Even the dead need their beauty sleep.

*Or if I'm allowed to talk about the daily grind of school. DA is...well, one of the most paranoid buildings on campus. Just kidding. It is pretty paranoid, but it shouldn't be an issue.

**no, not really. But more on yoga later.

***My wonderful piano teacher, Dr. W has completely transformed piano as I know it.

****Even MORE to my disappointment, Ian HAS grown one inch. And another. And ANOTHER. AND ANOTHER. He is now two inches taller than me. :P Ah, so it goes.

Epicness II

Epicness II

Time starts to blur as the winter vacation drags on. Day after day it's the same routine, a relaxed oodle of Chinese, piano, Korean dramas and art. Aah, winter break is like sinking into a steaming bath of hot water. The stress seems to simply melt away. Your mind goes blissfully blank. The day simultaneously seems to drag on, and then, in retrospect, flashes by in a second. Everything blobs together like a pot of Mom's green stew*. But in between the monotony, there are occasional flashes of excitement**: cooking!***, new sheet music, and recently...computers!

My friends, recently I have the tremendous honor of being inducted into the uber-secret, uber-awesome, uber-cool elite squad of Hong family IT guys!...Which is to say that Ian and Dad are finally spilling their techie secrets****. It is surprisingly hard to actually get Ian to spill his techie secrets, whether it's about how to grab mp3 files from YouTube******, hook a laptop up the the TV, or even watch stuff online. Usually, I end up waiting impatiently for him to finish up his important business, like taking over the world******* before he deals with my own pitiful mortal problems, like powering on my laptop. When told to simply tell me what to do, his usual answer is a noncommittal grunt (I swear, in the last two weeks, he has perfected that) or, in other cases, a mumbled "I'm busy". Even when he's not busy, it's hard to get him to talk. When asked about that, well, he calls it "job security". I'm not sure whether he actually believes that, or if he finds it too difficult to explain his leprechaun magic to my pitiful mortal brain, or if there's some other unstated reason behind his close kept secrets, but end of the day, I'm left as computer literate as your average ape********* while coexisting with the wizards of technology.

But recently, there have been a few new developments in that battle. One of the computers in the apartment rental office (A frankenstein, as Ian bemoans, with an Intel Pentium 4 2.8 gigahertz processor, and sadly, only 1 gigabyte of RAM*) broke down, and the hired Tech Support guys aren't coming in for another few months. Ca-CHING! You could hear bright ideas start a chain reaction in my parent's heads. A broken computer could mean an opportunity for me to get initiated (preferably without the blood ritual**) into the secret guild of Hong-family tech people. Or, officially, it would give me some experience in the tech field, a little more confidence, and food for my secretly growing interest in what was previously solely my brother's territory***.

So, two or so weeks into winter vacation, we showed up at the rental office to pick up the computer. Man, that thing was stone age. My house has more computers than it has people (6 computers to four people. Go figure), and all of them are laptops and very transportable. The ancient relic that resided deep within the bowels of the rental office, though...uhg. It makes me want to barf just thinking about it. Give me a laptop any day. A Mac, preferably. But anyways, back at home, the plugged in computer begins to boot up, then stops, frozen at a pitch-black screen with a sole blinking cursor. We wait. And wait. And wait some more.

Well, actually, we kind of facepalmed, groaned, then rebooted it. This time around, though, we booted to the BIOS**** and then went crazy with the settings. About halfway through I paused and asked Ian if we might want to try making only one change at a time, in order to isolate the problem. He pointed out that it was a good idea, and we went ahead and ignored my advice completely. Meh. Took too much time. This way bore a great resemblance to performing heart surgery with a sledgehammer, but we weren't going to stop now. After a few quarrels, some constructive idea bouncing, and a few rounds of vying for authority, we decided that the problem lay in the fact that something was obstructing the normal startup sequence and preventing it from booting to Windows XP.

Our solution? To heck with Windows, let's try installing Linux. Linux Mint, to be precise. The process (installation) from there on was fairly straightforward. For those like me who don't have much tech-savvy, Linux is a free operating system***** tree which is obtainable online. We went with Linux Mint, because it took up slightly less space than other full-featured 'distros' of Linux, as they call them. Ian worked his leprechaun magic, burned Mint onto a CD, put that into the disk drive, and then changed the settings on BIOS so that it booted to the disk drive, then finished installing Linux onto the hardrive, after wiping it,******, and after that, well, we were home and free.

Sure, there were a few little (really eensy, tiny, minuscule, microscopic...) glitches. For example, Linux in general hates wireless. Well, at least for us it does. It ran fine with an Ethernet connection at our house, but when we toted the heavy thing over to the rental office and hooked it up to their Internet using a wire, it still didn't connect. Ooooh, we spent so much time freaking out over that problem...running terminal codes, creating new Nautilus files, unplugging and replugging the bleeping thing. Then we realized that all those internet wires were a big sham. So the other computer, printer, and this computer were all plugged in, but were supposed to be running on wireless. Linux hates wireless. Back at home, there's a massive rush to solve the Linux Wi-fi problem. We come up with solutions ranging from trying to get XP again using the computer's registration code, attempting to download Windows 8 onto it (first from a USB, then directly onto the computer using an ISO file or something like that), then running script after script, trying to get it to connect to our own Wi-Fi. Finally, Ian makes a breakthrough. To be honest, I had a hard time catching up with him throughout the whole PC-fixing procedure, but around this point, he was clearly leaving my poor mortal brain in the dust. He cracks open terminal, runs a few lines of script, and then, (tada!) it's miraculously connected to our Wi-Fi. Sigh. At times like these, you can only step back and go "whaaaaa? Ooooooohh. Pretty lights."

In addition to the glitches, there have also been a few flub-ups as well. For one thing, right after we wiped the Hard Drive, we realized that there had been Windows XP installed on Hard Drive 1... which we had just wiped. In other words, the sole problem was that we have been we were booting to the wrong Hard Drive. Basically, we went through two full days of stress and emotional ups and downs over nothing. Total facepalm. Epic fail. But hey, at least this way I got some experience with Linux.

So, techie stuff and all aside, this is Quiet girl, with a newly found confidence in all things geeky, a whole oodle of bragging rights (I did have occasional brilliant insight...jk, jk), and two more weeks of winter break with which to

....I don't know. Get into trouble. Fix some more computers. Change the world. Get rich.

...or, hopefully have some more interesting adventures to blog about...

This is quiet girl, signing off.

-Shhhh....I'm going to go nap. So much for that adventure. Ah well, it can wait till after dinner.

*a disturbingly homogeneous mixture, with occasional bumps that hint at a past life of vegetable-hood

**/stress/obsession/passion/...

***Eating the cooking!....jk, jk

****well, I mean, they're actually taking the time to explain their techie secrets. And I'm actually finding the time to listen to their techie secrets. But yeah. yeah.

*****Kinda sorta ishy legally. I think. Actually, let's not think about that too much.

******On his computer....for now!

*******According to Ian, though, there's not that much of a difference....

*Ian calls it practically criminal. Meh. I just smile and nod, and try to look like I know what he's talking about. When in doubt, just keep swimming....

**Just kidding. Really!

***Everything, in the end, feeds back into sibling rivalry. Ok, so maybe I'm just projecting. It is strange how I manage to unconsciously sneak so many war similes into these posts. Hmm. Well.

****Which is, to my brothers and sisters trapped in the desert of technological-jargon, a kind of control center, of sorts. To my mind, it's that magical blue leprechaun place where Ian can mess around with the computer settings. Hey, I did spend most of my life reading fantasy instead of sci-fi. Is it any wonder my attempts to explain things are a little bit cheesy?

*****Yes, it's free. We didn't pirate it or anything (for once). It just hates wireless, though, as a warning, so if you can't stand having an Internet wire plugged into your computer constantly, do a bit of thinking before you wipe your Hard Drive and install Linux.

******Ooooh, this drives me crazy, but we had Windows eight on a DVD, and we meant to install it on that computer, but it was so old, the...watchamacallit, that thingy that you put the disk in? I think it's the disk drive or something. Well. Don't quote me....only ran CDs, not DVDs. UHG.

Fruitcake Ramble I

A Most Uncommon Degree of...Obsessive Pen Hoarding Disorder

The Pen Pilferer of Robb Drive comes clean...Ok, I admit it, I have a slight* obsession with pens. And pencils. And paper. And notebooks.

Yeah. Living in Office Depot would be a dream come true-- aisles and aisles of sharpies!

But am I entirely alone in this? In the quest for the perfect pen (right now, sharpie pens are holding first place, but the BIC jetstreams are pretty OK, although the sharpie has a little bit more of a traditional ink look. Don't get the sharpie erasable pencils, however, since it's not very smooth and hard to write with. The only problem with the sharpie pens is that they tend to wear down after a while and then writing with them becomes a pain, although in the beginning, they tend to bleed sometimes. Color sharpies are ok-- but I digress. Big time.)? Am I the only girl who'd rather go to a stationary store (or Barnes & Nobles) than Outlets at Legends (an outlet mall twenty minutes away. Actually, now that I think about it, it's a pretty close call. I guess it depends on how much paper the stationary store would have.) ? If you aren't clapping along with me right now, you're probably thinking I have a slight**mental problem, but we promise, we don't, precious.

There's just something so cool about paper, the ability to manipulate it*** (through Kiri-E, Kirigami, Origami, decoupage, paper mache, origamic architecture, etc.), the ability to transform it, not to mention --drawing on the idea of subcreation- it's a whole new, blank world with unlimited possibilities. Paper is awesome. Stationary is even awesomer. There's really nothing like getting a letter, especially if the person can write in straight lines (unlike me) and it comes on a nice piece of paper. Notebooks are even better, they're paper, but they're paper with cool covers that come in different colors, patterns, shapes, textures, binding, etc. (I have a little stash of notebooks in my closet that are barely used, but the problem is Mom won't buy me a new one until I finish them...argh, this is so painful...why can't they just remain pure, unadulterated, blank notebooks?) But pens are the ultimate creative tool. The old adage, the pen is mightier than the sword remains true, especially since you wouldn't get two steps out of your house with the later without either the cops or the nuthouse (or both) being called, while the former can be jabbed in any unsuspecting creepy-stalker-kidnapper guy's nose, eye, ear, mouth, or wherever. Plus, you can use it to write in your journal.

That's why the perfect pen is essential to everyone's existence, it's a vital acessory to everyday tasks, as well as transforming the most mundane into the extraordinary. Take the hot pink fountain pen a friend gave me, for instance.Chem notes suddenly became much more eyecatching.

Plus, no boy would dare to come within two feet of the pink scribbles.

Oooh, I should really get a pink sharpie and draw little lines everywhere I go. "That's your side, now stay there. Stay!"

But a pen should not only be comfortable to hold, it should also glide easily. It shouldn't die out quickly, or be tempremental and only work when it's 86 degrees farenheit, 96% recycled paper, and when you're paitiently coaxing it in Hindu, it should also come in large amounts so they're everywhere when you need them, as well as easy to use at any angle. Pens should also influence the way you write. Hot pink means girly, thin, black sharpie pens mean buisiness (or elegies, obituaries, irs forms, and algebra notes****), red means important (or F's, or death, or algebra 2), and sparkly pink and purple grape smelling glitter ink means you need to see a psychiatrist. But no worries, most of America's teen population need to, too.

Just kidding, guys. Kidding.

This is Quiet Girl, hoping I'm not the one who needs to see a psychiatrist.

-Shhh.... you never saw me, I wasn't here...

*ly disturbing

**NOT. Mental aberration. No wonder that girl was so weird!

***No, not manipulate as in "control or influence (a person or situation) cleverly, unfairly, or unscrupulously"-- I repeat, I do NOT have a mental problem...that's been discovered yet...But as in the imense posibilities paper holds, it really is a fascinating medium for artistic expression.

****Yes, algebra is up there with obituaries. No further comment.

Whaa? Is

Facebook Sucks: A study in fitting in

My life reads like some alien girl's attempt to fit in to normal human society. What is this weird thing you call Twitter? And like I've blogged before, what's the big deal with skinny jeans? Throughout the eternal pull to feel normal and to act thusly, there's always that nagging feeling at the back of my mind, that little voice that asks me, 'does this actually make any sense'? And the crux in my ongoing argument that something must be wrong with my head, is that yes, I agree with the voice, most of the time it doesn't, and I just can't make myself understand.

I signed up two days ago for a Facebook account*. Facebook has really been a source of mystery to me, it's this thing that some people use more than, and even in lieu of an email, it's something that almost everyone is always talking about, and, as always, it was something that your average teen had. So after getting the long-coveted Facebook account, I thought it would expand my world into new horizons. A whole new mode of communication! Could you imagine the possibilities? This was something I needed, desperately.

Shh, if you listen closely, you can hear advertisers laughing.

It's funny, but the more I looked at Facebook, the more I became confused. It was basically like texting, except anyone could read it, like blogging, except you only used about two sentences, essentially, like the rest of the things I already had, except worse. It did have the advantage of me being able to post random things,

It is possible to get addicted to water.

(anyways) without typing up a few paragraphs, but then again, it would be hard to post "Facebook sucks" on Facebook without backing up my claim with two or three paragraphs. And even then, I would get stoned.

Plus, you'd never know this, but I work hard to come up with random things. They deserve a blog post of their own.

I got a Facebook to communicate with my friends, but as I looked around, I wondered how it was possible to have 415 'friends' that constantly contact you with other random nonsense, and still remain friends. ). Then I realized that Facebook, in addition to helping me connect with people I really wanted to connect with, it also helped me connect with people I really wanted to avoid connecting with.

The disadvantages way outweighed the advantages of quick communication, and honestly, I didn't want to become that approachable. It's part of being epic, you see, being hard to communicate with (note: you should still be able to carry on a coherent conversation, if you want to, though.) -- just kidding. Yet I'm still hanging on to my Facebook (this is the third day), out of some mistaken loyalty to the human race, perhaps. There's a kind of sadness, when you're weird, and when you're weird and hungry/tired, it often translates into misguided attempts to fit in (haha). More than once I've wished to be normal (but not too normal), and perhaps that's why I still haven't deleted the Facebook account.

Ah well, let's face it, I just don't understand Facebook. I don't understand why people want to be friends with people they hardly know, or, in the case of people they do know, why they'd want to publicize their conversations for everyone to read. And of course, there's sadness that I don't understand, but if it doesn't make sense to me, rationally, I don't see any way to somehow irrationalize my thinking process and keep the Facebook.

Forgive me, I've rambled, but here's to my short Facebook career, and an apology to all my friends who didn't get to connect with me on it.

*pregnant silence*

Gee whiz, how hard is it to delete this thing?

This is Quiet girl, going online, to find instructions, to figure out how to delete the bleeping account.

-Shhh.....this is harder than it looks.

* With permission from mom, my dear brother. Just saying.

Fruitcake Rave IV

Demonic Toaster: 1

Pitiful Human Female: 0

After a week without having toast, I had had enough. My family's breakfast often consists of the western option: oatmeal, or the eastern option: juk, rice, kimchi (my brother once made the notorious raddish kimchi sandwich. Uhg. I still have nightmares), and whatever leftovers we may have in the fridge. I really don't understand kimchi in the morning

, but it must be one of those asian things that skipped me, because for as long as I can remember, my brother and mother have always been at one end of the table, chugging down their kimchi and juk, while I sit at the other, trying to concentrate on the pancakes and not breathe through my nose.

Don't get me wrong, Kimchi is great! (Insert Victory dance) It's the second staple of the Korean diet (The first being...take a wild guess...rice), and most of the time, the number one thing they miss about home. Kimchi has a great* flavor and a refreshing** odor, and after spending a month away from home, it was the only food I was craving. Kimchi in the morning however, well....

But I digress. You see, the main crux in my delima is the toaster. As I've mentioned before, my family can survive without a toaster. In fact, they would thrive without a toaster. And- I'm not exagerating- if you crept in at night and stole our toaster, they probably wouldn't notice. Thus, a total toaster breakdown didn't really rock anyone's world. Except for mine, because my breakfast nearly always consists of bread. With the occasional side of bread. The toaster breakdown signified a new epoch in my diet. I also lost a lot of weight (just kidding).

So one day, I decided I had had enough of the toaster's schenanigans. There wasn't really anything wrong with it, excepting the acrid smoke that wafted through the air whenever we used it. I used my brilliant (haha) brain and decided that smoke=somethingburning, so, f(toaster)=somethingburningX= breadcrumbs, and thus, the only natural thing to do to redeem my toast would be to clean out the toaster.

Cue horror music.

Ok, so I'm not the most brilliant girl who ever flipped eggs with a spatula, but I figured that I, being a resonably intelligent human being, and it being an inanimate hunk of metal and plastic, I could win this battle!

Who was I kidding? My stroke of genius that would decisively win the war consisted of unpluging the toaster and using wooden chopsticks instead of a metal fork (Like I have done previously. Now you know why I'm so loopy-- just kidding, I did use a metal fork, but it had a plastic handle, and luckily, Dad showed up in time to prevent permanent mental damage. I think.). The real battle was about to begin.

Ten minutes later, I was still struggling. The brilliant plan of using chopsticks to swab a paper towel around kept getting caught on all kinds of metal protrusions, and worse yet, the wet paper towel kept slipping from chopsticks, getting stuck underneath the funny grill like thing, and staying there. You see, the openings in the toaster are like, super thin, centimeter wide...that is, half inch wide, cracks of doom. Manuverability and Visibility hit a negative 7. If a passerby were to come along, they'd probably see this asian girl with leopard print glasses and cat slippers squinting at a toaster and ramming a bunch of chopsticks in it with as much delicacy as a neurosurgeon performing an operation with a sledgehammer. They would probably wish they were still dreaming.

Well, at any rate, I wished I was too.

So halfway into the fray, with half the toaster innard's cleaned out, I realize that, hey, if I can remove the breadcrumb tray, I should be able to penetrate the most vital part of the enemy's defenses! Attacking from the bottom would enable me to clear out those crusty, sticky black crumbs that I was barely able to reach from the top! I whipped out the crumb tray and flipped the crummy thing on the back, only to realize....

....That the equally diabolical manufacturers had added a plastic grill to prevent people from messing around.

Now seriously, that makes no sense. We already have a bread crumb tray-- a removable bread crumb tray at that-- so why in the world do we need to have a second breadcrumb tray that probably doesn't do its job well because there are holes in it?***

I mean, when you first think about it, it makes sense. Then you spend like, two more seconds thinking about it, and you realize, human intelligence is overrated. And yes, I'm not only referring to the crackpot creators of the toaster, I'm also referring to the equally crazy girl (me) who thought she could take on the toaster at 7:34 in the morning. I should have known better-- my brain doesn't start fully functioning until 9:00 (I have physical science 1st period at 8:00. Go figure) and even when it's functioning at top- notch quality, it's not much to brag about anyways. As numerous incidents would tell, but then again, I'm trying to salvage every shred of respect I can hold on to. Said incidents will follow me to my grave. Unless, of course, I get bored.

But I digress.

Then, I spied, to my infinite glee, the screw holes in that screwed up breadcrumb tray-- a way in past the line of defense! Elatedly, I rushed to the toolbox and grabbed every kind of screwdriver there was in the box. This was it-- the path to the perfect toast, I was so close...

...And yet so far.

You get the gist of this story: Pitiful human female is constantly outwitted at every turn by inanimate toaster. And the worst of it was, my emotions were oscillating between extreme despair and estatic euphoria. It was like I was on sugar or something (else) except I wasn't. (Now you know why all my friends avoid me while I'm hyper)

It figures perfectly that every single screwdriver I tried-- yes, every single screwdriver was too shallow to even reached the screwed screws! I'm serious, why would they even bother putting screws in that scr***d up thing if the average human (female teenage birdbrain) can't reach them? Unless... they figured the most natural reaction to seeing the screws would be a mistaken assumption that the battle would soon be won in my favor...

...thus setting the stage for the destructive return of my frustrated wrath, tenfold.

It was back to the usual tactic: keep messing around with the chopsticks and paper towel in hopes of somehow winning the battle before I would be obliged to enter the lunatic asylum.

Two days later...well, maybe 15 minutes...the b

attle was won, in some sorts. True, there were pockets of resistance, but the main body of scum had been flushed out. Of course, by then, my toast had thawed out, but as you know, toast isn't toast unless it's toasted. Thawing doesn't count. Then it's called bread, and tastes like marshmallows without sugar. Triumphantly, I plugged the malevolent malicious machiavellian !&*$^@ thing back in, popped in the toast and beat a hasty retreat to the table where I waited for my toast, in exhausted but euphoric anticipation.

A good ending to a probably boring story...

...except five seconds later, acrid smoke was flowing from the kitchen.

Whoever came up with the phrase "Demonic Toaster", in my humble opinion, should have used a few stronger adjectives.

This is Quiet Girl, eating her juk and kimchi placidly.

-Shhh...

*ly memorable. Let's leave it at that. If you're a Kimchi novice, you may or may not necessarily agree with me when I say Kimchi tastes good.

**again, depending on your background. In all honesty, it stinks up the room. But the most interesting thing is, if you're eating the Kimchi, you can't smell it. If you're not eating the Kimchi, you can smell it. From very far away.

***Which, incidentally, don't help one bit, because, aside from providing me a lovely vision of what I could accomplish if the breadcrumb tray was not there, it is also too small for me to get my chopsticks through. Seriously, I'm begining to think the designers are descended from at least one of Hade's Furies.