10:11 p.m.

Love, love, love, love, love, love, loooooooooovvvvvveeeee The Princess Bride. Yes, my girly-girlish tendencies have taken over and I am absolutely in love with this movie.



Anyway, back in the real world, life has gone weird and scary. Everybody's freaked out 'cause MID-TERMS are coming out and those are the ones that count when you want to go into university. I'm not too worried 'cause my average seems ok (except for maybe French, but more about that later). This means, of course, that everyone's tired and stressed...pretty much like I was before I got into York, but this sucks 'cause now that I'm actually kind of happy with the weather being all pretty and my future pretty much settled everyone around me is being grouchy little douche bags...and I say that as a good concerned friend.

About le French though....well, I've found my Mr. Sweaty Cunt and it comes in the form of a skinny little separatist Quebecois who we'll call JOHNNY BOY in our most annoyingly nasal American accent. Jean-François A. is suck-shitty, douche-baggity, assholic fucker and I CAN'T STAND HIS CLASS. Picky, picky, picky about the stupidest things...I write my name in a different colour ink! OH NO! My answers are too long! OH NO! I turn my head to face somebody else while he's talking to the class! OH NO! I followed your instructions which you suddenly decide to change after I hand it in! OH NO! ASSHOLE!

Oh, and Johnny Boy still doesn't know my name. I mean, he knows the name of everybody sitting around me...PROCESS OF ELIMINATION, THEY DON'T HAVE THAT IN QUEBEC??!? Let's see, it's been two months since I started your class...you've pretty much gotten everybody else's name...you've asked for my name almost everyday...I've spoken to you one-on-one, face-to-face a few times....HMMMMM WHAT'S MY NAME AGAIN???!?

It might seem that I've taken this whole name issue quite seriously. No, that's wrong, I take it as a GODDAMN INSULT. I hate it when people don't know my name. I get it if I never talk to you or if you're some medicated nutcase (as was the case of tenth grade French teacher), but when I talk to you pretty much EVERY FREAKING school day and you still don't know my name, you deserve to be kicked in your hypothetical balls. Like this one guy, B., who took a full year to learn my name and kept calling me 'Girl' or 'Leanne' until he finally got it properly...I hated that and I still don't like him all that much, though I don't really talk to him anymore so wtv.

So eat shit and die Johnny Boy.

It's always nice to celebrate hump day with an ugly rant.

Yours...

D.I.F.G.K.W.A.