Monday, August 11, 2003

take two...

This move is linked to the original response/posting by Megumi

So this morning I was eating a bowl of cheerios and while pouring the milk it occurred to me that they might as well be "cheeri-zeros" for all I know. Damned if I can tell the difference between an "oh" and a "zero". They could have been lying all this time, which reminded me I should get back in touch with you.

Your last correspondence was, to be frank about it, pathetic. Since taking to digital writing there is simply no more you in the words. Try as I may, I can't evoke a trace of emotion or purpose out of it all. Oh sure, it is still a wonderfully nagging post in your blog (as is the norm around here), but it doesn't hold a candle to the original complaint.

Yes, I realize that you aren't the original complainer, but let's try to keep things as simple as possible. We have two choices. I can give this up, or you can create a more clever and authentic letter of complaint. Curiosity has gotten the better of me, so I don't see giving up. How about you send in another complaint?

Sunday, August 10, 2003

Noboru Watanabe

Link to the single move ("Plate of Shrimp") made by player Noboru Watanabe before he mysteriously disappeared. Also link to last page of Haruki Murakami's short story, "The Wind-Up Bird and Tuesday's Women" in The Elephant Vanishes.

Noboru Watanabe
Where have you gone?
Didn't the wind-up bird
Wind your spring?

Friday, August 08, 2003

A revolutionary new way to read literature.

Link to "Stepping to a Different Drummer"
Megumi falls asleep in front of her TV during an infommercial after seeing a movie for Media Studies class.

Hello. My name is JJ McGann. You may know me from television and the sliver screen.
I'm here today to tell you about a revolutionary new way to read literature. When I'm
feeling critical, I turn to Textual Criticism(tm). That's right - Textual Criticism (tm).

Textual Criticism (tm) is not like some other kinds of theory you've tried before. In fact,
contrary to those way-outdated and puffed-up Frenchie products, Textual Criticism (tm)
isn't really a theory at all.

Instead, it's more like a way to change your life! To use Textual Criticism (tm), all you need to
do is follow a few simple guidelines that I describe on these (ahem) tapes. It's my patented
'JJ System'. With the 'JJ System', pretty soon you'll be darting from era to era making
widely controversial claims about other critics' tired nostrums. That's when you'll start to realize
that the world is made up of two kinds of people: those who 'get' Textual Criticism (tm),
and those who don't.

Of course, once you've become a successful mover in the academic world, people are
bound to become jealous. After all, you'll have discovered the wonders of important concepts
like 'non-self-identity', 'emergent systems', 'auto-poeticization', and 'incoherence'.
Best of all, if you act today, we'll send you 10 free fonts used by the real Kelmscott
Press!

Supplies ARE limited. So pick up the phone. When are you going to stop conforming to
OTHER people's notions of what's what, and start stepping to a different drummer?
Get Textual Criticism (tm) today! After all, if it's good enough for JJ, it's good enough for you!

Overheard Outside Delta Zeta House

Link to all previous posts featuring J McGann or MM

:What?

:No. I said, no, Zach.

:What?

:Right.

:Right.

:Mmm hm.

:No, he wasn't there.

:I told you! He wasn't there.

:I don't know where he was. I'm not like his freaking GPS service, dude.

:Look, I hafta go.

:I gotta see this film for Media Studies.

:I dunno, something by that Italian guy who did the Liv Tyler thing.

:You know, the one you liked, where she's naked.

:Right.

:No....No....I'm going by myself.

:Cause I am. I can do things by myself, duh.

:Okaay....

:Maybe.

:Okay. Bye.








Still hung over...

Link to "Hugs and Kisses, MM"

Dear Frog, I mean CJ, I mean MM,

Sorry, sweetie. I'm still hung over from the party last night. It was kinda fun, but all these grad students crashed it and started hitting on Catgurrl. They were way gross. Well, except for Goran. I mean, of course he wasn't gross, being your ex and all. Plus, Art grad students transcend "gradness", or something (not that I would, like, EVER even think about dating Goran, honey). I dunno what it is. I think it's the utter freaking futility of the degree - must mellow u out. Did u know that, like, scientists have discovered a link between painting and insanity?

Anyway, I just wanted u to know I am a total ditz and forgot to send the right folder. I must have sent u this folder that my Media Studies professor left in our classroom instead of the archaeology one. So here's the right stuff, I think. If u wouldn't mind, sweetie, please send me back the other one ASAP. I think my grade totally depends on it.

Lylas,
Megumi

Hugs and Kisses, MM

Link to Megumi’s “Lay off the crack pipe, yo” move, and to CJ’s “Imsety,” “Duamutef,” and Kebehsenuef" moves.

Dear Professor Champollion,

How’s tricks? I’m writing to ask if I can get an extension on that Archaeology paper that’s due on the 14th.

I really did do all kinds of research on canopic jars. Like, did you know that even their name is a mistake? Apparently when people first found them in tombs and pyramids and stuff, they thought they had something to do with a guy named Kanopos, who was the helmsman for Menelaeus (that I read about in Comp Lit). This Kanopos dude somehow wound up getting worshipped in the form of a jar. I guess there are worse things.

The most interesting thing I found, after spending like DAYS in the library, wasn’t like your normal information on how the man-shaped jar held the mummy’s liver and the hawk-shaped one held the intestines etc. etc. etc. – but it was this folder tucked behind a shelf in the PL 800s section of the library. (Don’t even ask. I normally hate literature.) Anyway, the folder was labeled “Egyptian Sandman” and that’s why it got my attention, and it had a picture of canopic jars on it. I photocopied the picture because my friend Megumi just got a photo printer and I was going to see if she would make me a T-shirt. Like one of those little baby-doll T-shirts with spaghetti straps. Here it is:



But anyway, I stupidly sent the whole folder to Megumi and she apparently lost it although she denies it, and I really think I need to get the folder back before I can finish my paper. It had these weird sort of messages from each canopic jar, and I never got around to reading the last one, by Hapy the baboon.

Can I please get an extension?

Hugs and kisses,
MM

KEBEHSENUEF

Link to following sentence (1st Vintage International Edition, p. 59): “But because he was so ugly – I mean, truly ugly – the king had him sent off into the deepest jungle to get rid of him.” and later, on same page: “Breezes turn into sandstorms, babbling brooks turn into dunes, grassy plains turn into deserts.” Also link to CJ’s moves entitled “Imsety” and “Duamutef,” and to the paragraph on Mary Margaret in Megumi’s “Lay off the crack pipe, yo” move.


what is ugliness? they give us labyrinthine twists to guard and think them foul but we do not see foulness everywhere as do men and kings of men. they laugh at our affection for bright things and do not see that all is bright.

perhaps it is an elevated view they lack.

from high above, the tombs are jewels and the river is a ribbon of light, not so far away, all margined with a verdant emerald zone. and even, yes, the sand is lovely, crystalline and rippled like the sea. loveliness poured out of him! as he was lovely in his oddity.

we watch. that is our way. we watch and sometimes gather up a shining thing and wing it home.

here’s a pretty sight to see:

from high above, his banishing is mute – a dumbshow choreographed in swirls and dips. the outstretched arm, his sinking to the earth, the prostrate silent supplication. we watch the colors of their robes (dim porphyry and gold), the flash of diadem, of teeth bared in that distant grimace. we watch the Nile slip ever on, all variegated, the delta and the depths, lush loam and fronds that sway and dip into its mirrored wet. we watch him stand and walk away.

and here’s a pretty sight:

at night the silver moon illumes the waste, and jackals circle like dark bees in patterns men cannot perceive from down below. we watch him walk to where they hunt, along smooth-trodden paths the moonlight picks out of the gloom in shades of silver, grey, and darkest dim. the circles tighten and explode, and he runs streaming blood as black as fright.

a pretty sight:

morning comes, a rosy-fingered dawn that catches diamond dew on palms and sets it sparkling. we swoop in lazy arcs so high above that it is hard to watch his progress into jungle-depths. a little glimpse – a color-flash where he walks pale amidst the green – is all we need to know that he has reached the place where Hapy dwells.

and oh, the prettiest of all is when the curse takes hold and all the world devolves into bright sand! breezes, late a colorless pale wind, whip into a whirl of white. brooks that babble on a winding path out from the Nile swell up as he bends his lips to them, dips trembling hands into their coolness, swell up into hot sand-dunes. and the grassy plains we’ve gazed at all these years are filled with light! are deserts now. the last of water slips and spills, and a sudden hawk swoops in to catch his tear.

we watch and sometimes gather up a shining thing and wing it home.

Thursday, August 07, 2003

Stepping to a Different Drummer

Link to "The Lesson"
Just to let everyone know that Megumi doesn't speak for EVERYONE in our group! It seems to me that SOMEBODY out there is definitely PLAYING with all of us -- it started with the manipulation of Professor McGann (where did he go anyhow?!) who strangely mutated as "the frog" (clearly a dramatic character) and Mary Margaret O'Malley (who IS she?). And now I'm beginning to suspect that all of these transmissions (including this one?!) are part of some theatrical event being staged by someone "behind our backs" (as Marx used to say of the way the famous "invisible hand" of capitalism worked its exploitations behind the backs of ordinary people, who were actually like spectators in Plato's cave rather than agents in "reality"). Even writing this message gives me the creeps -- I THINK I know what I'm saying, and who I am that's saying it, and to whom I'm writing (the way we think we know the letter writer in the Murakami story) but I keep getting glimpses of the footlights of some barely perceptible theatre and play -- as if I and all of us were in a kind of Kleistian puppet space, or as if we were playing "rosenkrantz and guildenstern are dead" inside of somebody else's production of "hamlet" (or vice versa). I know I'M not "being ironic", but is somebody being ironic at my expense -- through me? Don't you get the feelings you're part of a story like "Borges and I"? That we are. These words of mine -- is somebody adlibbing them?
Noboru

Stepping to a Different Drummer

Link to "The Lesson"
Just to let everyone know that Megumi doesn't speak for EVERYONE in our group! It seems to me that SOMEBODY out there is definitely PLAYING with all of us -- it started with the manipulation of Professor McGann (where did he go anyhow?!) who strangely mutated as "the frog" (clearly a dramatic character) and Mary Margaret O'Malley (who IS she?). And now I'm beginning to suspect that all of these transmissions (including this one?!) are part of some theatrical event being staged by someone "behind our backs" (as Marx used to say of the way the famous "invisible hand" of capitalism worked its exploitations behind the backs of ordinary people, who were actually like spectators in Plato's cave rather than agents in "reality"). Even writing this message gives me the creeps -- I THINK I know what I'm saying, and who I am that's saying it, and to whom I'm writing (the way we think we know the letter writer in the Murakami story) but I keep getting glimpses of the footlights of some barely perceptible theatre and play -- as if I and all of us were in a kind of Kleistian puppet theatre. I know I'M not "being ironic", but is somebody being ironic at my expense -- through me? Don't you get the feelings you're part of a story like "Borges and I"? That we are. These words of mine -- is somebody adlibbing them?
Noboru

The Lesson

Link to "Oh, I get it Now!"

Sat 10-5-05 11:25:00

Good God. Frog boy now has us reading "The Lesson" by this guy, Unicef, or Romesco, I think. It's all about how a professor kills his pupils. I think he thinks he's being ironic or something. Doesn't he realize that plays aren't meant to be read anyway? Who cares about the text? We should be performing this thing. I'd like to ad-lib a few lines - that's for sure. ;-)

Lay off the crack pipe, yo.

Link to everything posted so far...

Sat 10-4-05 12:24:22

I know it's been, like, tooo long since my last post. But so much is going on I am about to have an f-ing breakdown. School has been way insane. I started taking this class on "Romantic Poets", which I thought would be pretty great. But it turns out it's, like, not about love at all, which is total false advertising. My prof is a class-A creep, telling us to call him "frog" and telling us he's going to save the university from disaster. Um, as Joey Lawrence would say, "Whoah." Lay off the crack pipe, yo. So then the dude says he wants us to write a paper about how what we read in books is not, like, what the author wanted to be there?! Or something. It's like, well, if he didn't want it there, why didn't he change it? Duh.

The only thing I can figure out is that it's like when I broke up with Zach. I wanted to tell him I knew his friends hated me. I wanted to tell him that my friends thought his friends were lame. But he would have been like, "My friends don't hate u. Yer just being paranoid" - which would have been sooo annoying, because I know they do. And he'd be, like, "Yer friends think my friends are lame? Well, they're stuck up." And u guys so are not. I would have told him that just because people don't like playing freaking six hours of Soul Calibur and getting hopped up on Pop Rocks and Dimetapp every Friday night doesn't make them stuck up. So, instead I was just like, "Zach, this is not at all working out." And he was like, "Why?" And I was like, "It's just not." And so he gives me all kinds of crap about how hard girls are to understand. And I was just like, f*** off!!! But for like a week after that I kept rehaving that conversation in my head. I felt so guilty that it just ended that way - I kept thinking of all the things I could have said. But none of it would have mattered. Zach would still get it wrong. I would get it wrong. It never comes out the way it should. It's like, there's no end to it. U can keep rehaving that conversation over and over - and the other person will never get what you mean. Which is the same thing that's going to happen with this f-ing paper when I turn it in!!! It'll be like a little red "needs clarifying" in the margin a couple of places, and, like, "C+" at the end. *sigh* I am so depressed.

Oh yeah, and that biznatch MM keeps writing me about her damn Archaeology folder that I sent her, like, over two months ago - full of sick papers about lungs and livers and all these weirdo Gods. Does she think she's Indiana Jones? U know, I used to like that girl, but after this one party I realized she was so fake. She plays like she's some kind of ridiculous good girl, but LuvAvril57 told me that she once saw MM kissing three different guys at a Ruby Tuesdays after Notre Dame beat Army. Plus, she'd always get these pathetic little crushes on her professors. Ugh. It's just like back home: if u went to Assumption, the joke was "Who's yer girlfriend?" If u went to Sacred Heart, it was "How's yer baby?" Catholic girls usually fall into one camp or the other. Oh yeah, plus, I once caught her making Charlie Chan faces at me behind my back. Whatever. She is such a hater.

All I need now is my stalker to start posting here again and my perfect little week will be complete......

Wednesday, August 06, 2003

Oh, I Get it now!

[This posting connects directly to the last, as well as to the parts of the story that it references; and it also connects to the unblogged posting sent to the players by someone who signed himself jerry, and of course to the other earlier postings. All this to indicate that whoever posted this posting is NOT A SOLIPSIST.]

Wednesday 6 August 2003

The tape thing in that story by Murakami, that gave it away! "How's tricks"!! Pretty cool. Professor McGann isn't involved in this thing at all, is he. ("Ivanhoe GAME" it's headed -- not "IVANHOE"! a dead giveaway there.) But the tape is the real giveaway because that means the text of the story -- whether it's a translation or not doesn't matter -- isn't "by" this fictional guy who is sending his fictional letter. Because his fictional letter is a fictional tape. So the fictional text is a transcription by the fictional person addressed by the fictional recorder of the fictional tape. All this, of course, at the level of the fiction. So it comes out as a kind of equivalence like this:

Murakami : The Kangaroo Communique :: Professor McGann : "His" Postings

Someone else is posting "his" postings. Maybe it's me?! (Ha ha).

Mary Margaret O'Malley

Tuesday, August 05, 2003

Re: your fake email

Hi, Prof. McGann! I know I'm not technically in your class or anything. I mean, I'm not even technically @ UVA anymore since I transferred to Notre Dame (go Irish!). Technically. But you know since our last VERRRY interesting conversation about your Ivanhoe game and whether it could be used on sacred texts and everything, I've been thinking about this kind of stuff alot, and always checking in on games you play and stuff. I take this really seriously! (Although my new English advisor says not to and that I should probably be reading some real theory instead. Whatever.) But anyway, I was reading your latest game and I have to say that I think you're ruining it! I mean, obviously that last move was a lie. It was kind of like when you faked that letter from Andrea and Bethany and Johanna in the last game right before I started writing you. I mean, everybody knows that you are "the frog" and that message that's SUPPOSEDLY from CJ and Megumi and Noboru is really from you. It even SAYS SO at the bottom. And THAT'S "authoritative!" So what are you trying to do, mess things up?

Sincerely,
Mary Margaret O'Malley

Email to Professor McGann

[This posting connects to all the earlier postings, and again connects to the whole of the text, but not to specific parts as the previous posting did.]

5 August 2003, 4.58pm

Dear Professor McGann,
Three of us started working on your assignment but we’re pretty confused at this point. After studying those emails you passed along we decided that we aren’t confident about the text we’re using – I mean, about how accurately it reflects what Murakami originally wrote. It seems to us that the English text clearly has incorporated into it some – at least some – textual material that can’t possibly be by Murakami, and can’t possibly even reflect a reasonably reliable reflection of what Murakami originally wrote.
This situation of course throws into confusion all of our original work on the text. We thought we were playing imaginative variations on Murakami’s story, but it turns out – or seems to turn out – that the text we’re working from isn’t (and can’t be) “authoritative”. None of us are sure what to do at this point. Fortunately we have a few days before the assignment has to be completed. But we’re wondering if you have any advice for us.
Your students,

CJ, Noboru, and Megumi

Oops

- In paragraph 24, replace "Mahler, not Brahms" with "Britney Spears, not Christina Aguilera".

Megumi,

I think there may be some mistake here, or rather I should say that I mistakenly sent you the mp3 when it was directed to someone else. Alas, that is neither here nor there, and here we are.

Instead of going on and on and eventually reaching that awkward silence -- where I make a horrendous pile of sand of it all -- let's reflect a moment. The thirty-six coincidences still led my message to you. Hmm... that is a trifle more comforting, isn't it?

In spite of what Catgurrl says, I'm not a pervert, but I am mistaken -- just not about what you think. You see, I wanted to be in two places at once, but at the moment I would rather be nowhere. Insert awkward silence here...

Class Assignment

[This "move" is directed to EVERYONE here involved, whether you have made any "moves" yet or not; and it applies as well to WHATEVER moves have been made or will be made.]

Class Assignment 5 August 2003.
For extra credit, you all have one week to consider the Murakami story in the light of the following email exchange that I have discovered in the editorial archives of Alfred A. Knopf. What are its implications? In particular, what are its implications for the interpretive work each of you has been doing on our story?
Jerome McGann


August 5, 1991 9:32

J,
We’ve got to get it settled because it’s sure as hell I’m not working at it down there. I leave for the beach in less than four day sand after that, forget it! I’m gone.
So this is what he says – that the move has to come pretty early, but not so early that it would just leap in your face and spoil everything. Of course he understands that working from his ipsissimum verbum isn’t likely to happen (isn’t likely ?! – Jesus!), so he says that surely we can find some alternative nearby. He wrote yesterday to ask us specifically about this.
Suppose we drop the “it” from “I mean, what on earth would it feel like”. Or maybe the “it” just after that, in “I can’t figure it out”. Or we might drop the colon after “In other words, it’s like this:” and maybe put in extra spacing before the line.
A
------------------------------------------------

August 5, 1991 10.11

A,
Too early, I think, all of them. What if we say there were thirty-six coincidences instead of twenty-six? Or how about “the real heart of our work” instead of “the real art of our work”?
J
------------------------------------------------

Duamutef

Link to following sentences (1st Vintage International Edition, p. 59): “Well, it so happens that the kid ends up getting raised by wolves, or monkeys, maybe. One of those stories, you know.” Also link to CJ’s move entitled “Imsety.”

COULD NOT TAKE HIM, WOULD NOT TAKE HIM, RAISED BY WOLVES INDEED
NOTHING IS THE SAME IN WOLVES AND JACKALS BUT THE STOMACH, EVER GNAWING
STACCATO THOUGHT
WET MARROW CRACK
THERE IS BUT ONE USE FOR MANBONES, MANFLESH
BLACK MOONLIT BLOOD
AND WHY DO THEY SEND THEIR UNWANTED HERE?

WE HAVE OUR OWN UNWANTED THINGS, OUR OWN UGLINESSES
BANISHINGS

WE GUARD THE STOMACH, HERE ALL DRY, UNPALATABLE
SAFE WITH US
WE KNOW THE STOMACH, STOMACH AND THE TEETH AND MUZZLE DRENCHED IN GORE
OUR OWN UGLINESSES, BANISHINGS

BANISH BLOOD THAT BEATS NOT SPURTS
AND BANISH WARMTH THAT COMES FROM LIFE NOT SAND
HOT SAND FROM SPURTING OF THE SUN

THEY CALL US BEASTS BUT BEASTLINESS IS THIS
TO SEND YOUR FIRSTBORN SON INTO THE WASTE
AND SAY, DUAMUTEF WILL BE YOUR FATHER NOW.

Monday, August 04, 2003

Plate of Shrimp

Alternate version of the paragraph starting with, "Enough of trying to write this all down. It's going nowhere" (p. 56, First Vintage International Edition).

This isn't going right at all.

Say for a second that you're thinking about a plate of shrimp. Suddenly someone says plate, or shrimp, or plate of shrimp. Out of the blue. No explanation. No use looking for one either. It's all part of the cosmic unconsciousness.

But then I might write the word "coincidence." You know what "coincidence" means and I know what "coincidence" means, but your meaning could be utterly different-- even opposite-- from what the very same word means to me. And yet we can carry on a conversation, or could if we were talking to one another. Your plate of shrimp and my plate of shrimp might be entirely different, but it's still the architecture of the cosmos. It's the imperfection that everything's built upon.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that any of this is fair. Here I am, stripped to my underpants, while you've only undone three buttons of your blouse. An unfair turn of events if there ever was one, but fairness doesn't really play into this.

Imsety

Link to the following paragraph (p. 59, 1st Vintage Internation Edition): “Anyway, talking to you like this, I get the feeling I’ve become the Egyptian Sandman myself. And whatever I touch, it’s sand sand sand.”

In every handful, you’re sure to see a dozen or more tiny cubes, perfect and translucent, like table salt. But of course it’s hard to extricate them with cocoa-butter-slick fingers, and everything tastes salty at the beach, anyway. So who knows? At any rate, it’s not so much that kind of sand we’re talking about, here.

I mean, sand is sand, right? And at some point, it was all a beach, but – and never having been there, I’m only conjecturing – surely that sand had lost some of it’s zing.

When you finish hearing what we all have to say, you’ll probably think I’m a liar. It’s not really true, though. It’s just that this mouth was the easiest to inhabit, for our first volley, and if I say some things that sound like HIM, that’s just me trying to make it all go down more smoothly. Less grainy and gritty and salty and sour, if you know what I mean. So yeah, maybe I lied – but I think it was more like a stretcher, as another man once wrote, and if technically I have been there (born and raised!), you probably ought to forgive me and just go with it for a while.

It’s not as if it can hurt.

So anyway, you could get technical and say the skin is, and of course my esteemed colleague might insist on pride of place as the intestines are pretty long (if you stretch them out and don’t squish them up instead, although that’s not Hawk’s fault), but for all intents and purposes the liver really is the largest organ in the body. So there’s another reason for me to go first! But he never really thought about his liver. I think that’s because it’s generally pretty unobtrusive, unless it happens to kill you. I mean, it’s not like your stomach, always growling at inappropriate times, or the rest of your guts, which can do even more inappropriate things. Or your lungs – his lungs in particular, poor guy! Always seizing up from all the sand.

Sand, sand, sand.

I’m just here to get you ready to hear it, the whats and hows and the big old why.

But first, you have to imagine the sand. What does it feel like, hot and dry and so old it’s lost its salt? Forget the suntan lotion smell, and the give of it when it’s ocean-wet beneath your feet. There’s no ocean here for miles and miles, but the wind whips it up like sea-swells and wears it down again. Pouring into you is bad enough, you know, when you try to breathe, or blink it out of your eyes, or shake it out of your shoes, your underwear. But pouring out of you! A horror.

Saturday, August 02, 2003

CatGurrl Says There's No Antarctic Ocean...

Note: I am using the Vintage International Paperback of "The Elephant Vanishes", Rubin/Birnbaum translation.
- Replace all instances of the word "letter" with "post"
- Replace all instances of the word "tape" with "mp3"
- Add to the beginning of each denoted 'subsection' (e.g. SAY HEY, OKAY THEN) a series of ordered date and timestamps

- Add the following to the end fo the first major subsection ending with the interrogative "Strange, Isn't It?"

-------------------------------------------
Sat 8-2-03 17:25:00 Catgurrl Says There's No Antarctic Ocean...

Do I know u? I think yer friends with SquarePants or LuvAvril57, but Catgurrl sez that maybe u just made a mistake. I'm not who you think I am. I don't even like classical. Dad was listening to that stuff in the car onetime when we picked up Ainsley Marshall to the mall, and I was completely freaking out. I mean, maybe it's okay in a sad scene with Haley Joel Osment, but now that I think of it, most movies with classical totally suk. Like that one with Mickey and the brooms that make a mess - worst Disney EVER. I'm practicly yawning just thinking about it. Zzzzzzzzzzzz...

But then I remember those posts I made in May about how I, like, absolutely LOVE kangaroos, and how I have like a hundred stuffed ones, and how I just had 2 have the kangaroo beanie baby and how Dad bought it for me on Ebay for like, a gazillion dollars, and I think, no, maybe he does know me. Cause let's face it, you're def a he, not she. That stuff about 'sperm' whales? Torching? What is UP? Catgurrl says yer probably some kind of stalker perv. And she told me that there's no Antarchic Ocean - u just made that up. Plus, I remember from class there's only 9 oceans, not ten.

But then there's that 36 steps stuff, and I start 2 think Cat's right - I mean, u probably don't even read my blog. Def yer talking about somebody else. But if you wanna reply in my blog again, I guess that's okay. I mean, yer kinda funny. I liked it when u talked about kangaroos hopping. Hop! Hop! That was 2 cute.

Laters,
Megumi