So the Royal Wedding occurred. Good for them.

Or not.

I was never a fan of the Royal Family of Great Britain. Their scandals were a bit too numerous to hold them in high regard.

JB, on the other hand, didn’t hold them in high regard, but didn’t have anything against them either. Until now.

JB: I can’t care less if Kate Middleton drowned and died tomorrow.

Me: That’s hardly loyal.

JB: I can’t be. Throwing a costly wedding when people are losing jobs is hardly responsible. I have had enough with the Royal Family. I certainly don’t seek the Jacobins to come storming in, but this is disgusting.

Do keep in mind that this gentleman was educated in Eton, went to Oxford, and is fully ingrained in… well, Britain. He even votes bloody Tory.

I’m not saying that professors are all backstabbers and they deserve to die a most painful, gruesome death, but this one bites it.

A few months ago I applied to one of the professors in the biology department to do research. I, unlike others, have no plans of becoming a clinical physician. I don’t care that there are three million people dying of horrible diseases everyday. I just don’t. I want to become a researcher, yes, a researching physician, yes, but at most all I want to do is sit in a laboratory setting and not speak to anyone all day.

Well, the scheduling REALLY didn’t work out, so I didn’t get the post. The professor, however, told me that I should reapply this semester, because one, I sound like such an enthusiastic researcher, and two, because he’d want someone who isn’t looking to buff up a med school resume for once.

And then he goes ahead and gives it away. The post. To someone else.

I’m not saying I’m the most deserving, but COME ON. I am getting really peeved here. It doesn’t help that most Physics research needs a substantial amount of prep work before you even get to say E=mc². Biology is borderline non-science, and that’s why it’s easy to do research. It’s mostly luck, and almost no theory.

So here it is. The fucking biologists deserve to die. They waste the most money and don’t do shit.

So after the earthquake our university, like any other university, is hosting events to aid those in NORTHERN Japan.

Keyword being northern.

The thing is, they are doing bizarre things to get this done. Let me give you examples:

• Folding a paper crane when someone donates – no, you will not get the crane – and then sending it to Hiroshima, which is nearly on the other side of the country
• Raising money, and then, for some inexplicable reason, sending it to a sister university, which is located approximately 200 miles away from where the earthquake happened
• Expecting that people nowadays are good-hearted enough to walk by someone asking for a donation and then donating

Umm…?

I am baffled.

Do they even know where Sendai is?

Mon père, ma mère, et moi sommes allés a la pâtisserie dans Wicker Park  aujourd’hui. C’est chaude… je pense que le printemps arrive. Fonte des neiges, et il a fait beau.

J’ai acheté cinq gâteaux.

KIMBERLY
Chocolat blanc, framboise, et gâteau Waldorf-Astoria.

NOM INCONNU
Rose, framboise

NOM INCONNU
Grenadille et chocolat noir

Je n’ai pas mangé la mousse de rose et framboise; la gâteau de grenadille et chocolat noir est de ma mère. Kimberly a été très délicieux. C’est très riche.

That is not fabricated. That is an actual view from the library at my university, on the second floor, overlooking the lake.

Seriously? I would not be surprised if polar bears were walking around.

The library wall is glass-panelled, so it offers a maximum view of the lake. During the summer it is beautiful; during the winter?

Well, I am now certain that I had somehow teleported to the North Pole.

Dieu ne voyait la nécessité de décharge 30 cm de neige hier, pour il y avait une tempête de neige et j'ai dû marcher à travers elle de rentrer chez eux. Il a été malheureux, froid, et mon nez était rouge et sur le point de tomber quand je suis arrivé chez moi. Les classes ont été annulées aujourd'hui.

J'ai finis faire la boîte pour Paris de Yves Saint Laurent aujourd'hui. C'était très difficile, et je suis très fatigue. Mais je suis satisfait, que c'est bien fait.

Voici ma boîte pour mes parfumées. C'est la boîte pour ma Paris que était tout nu.

La boîte et le parfum. C'est Paris, Édition Eau de Printemps. Cela a été lancé en 2009.

Mes Paris. En haut à gauche: Eau de Printemps; Rose de Verges; Jardin Romantiques; Première Roses; Roses Enchantées, Pont des Amours; Parisienne; Nuit de Fête.

Je suis très heureuse... mais je n'ai pas Paris Originale.

As much as I admit that I am biologically fully qualified as a female, it seems that I had completely missed out on female friendship lecture given throughout one's life. Most often the small intricacies are lost on me, nuances go over my head, and inevitably I am no longer able to keep up with the minute dynamics that hold the female friendships together, and all around me it tends to go caput. So understandably most of my friends are steadfastly male, meaning that I get even less chance to get exposed to the said social rituals the females go through.

What I had noticed recently is that there is A LOT of backstabbing in female friendships, and evidently that is what friendship is about. Which baffles me; if you don't like that person, I'd call it self-inflicted torture to be in that person's company, and certainly I'd avoid that experience at all costs. But their relationships are convoluted on so many levels; they maintain a facade of pleasurable company, then whenever there is something that they do not like they go to a common acquaintance/friend and complain as if that friend is a customer service, then when it gets bad they proceed to stab each other in the back under the justification that it is all because of "the other person", or "they had it coming".

What I cannot understand is why men deign to date and eventually marry these females. Do they expect they would get a preferential, sincere treatment just because they have a Y chromosome instead of X? As much as I am not knowledgeable in this matter, I doubt it; of course, there is no 'common friend' this time (apart from the offspring), and so there is no wonder that the divorce rate is so high.

In conclusion: females are more treacherous than the males. Of course, there is a caveat to this statement, but I digress. And people wonder why I don't dally with females too often.

Jeremy est à Paris, s'amuse et fonctionne comme un modèle; c'est injuste.　Mais la vie de Jeremy a toujours été une grande fête, tandis que ma vie été une grande torture.

J'ai perdu ma carte étudiante aujourd'hui. Il a été mon insouciance, mais les conséquences sont coûteuses. 50 dollars pour carte de transit! C'est impossible. Je suis bouleversé, mais il ne s'arrête pas là.

C'est le deuxième jour de classe; j'ai peur de la chimie. Je ne suis pas bon dans ce domaine, mais je dois le prendre pour obtenir leur diplôme. Physique et mathématiques sont bien; donc la chimie est mon cauchemar...

J’ai reçu une lettre de mon ami aujourd’hui, donc je me suis souvenu que j’ai eu ce blog. Pardonnez-moi, mais j’ái ètè trés occupè.

Quand même, c'est aujourd'hui le dernier jour des vacances, et je suis trés affecté. Je ne veux pas retourner à l’école; J'ai de mauvaises habitudes de sommeil qui ne sont pas d'accord avec l'école.

Je pense que je devrais dormir maintenant, mais je venais de mettre à jour mon blog disposition, qui a eu toute la nuit pour terminer. C’est trés beau, et il est maintenant sans erreur. C'est un peu satisfaisant.

If there is any good that come out of carrying a laptop everyday (apart from the possibility that if you fall over the laptop will crush you and you can end your misery quite quickly) is probably the fact that one has access to all the academic equipment one needs all the time. Nowadays textbooks are online, notes are online, you can take notes online, e-mails are online... and all of a sudden you find that carrying the 400lb textbook around is now out of date.

Except when the school interweb system, for some reason, decides to malfunction in some way and then you are in miserable level of Cania and you're trying to battle that Mephistopheles of that malfunction. Unfortunately, Mephisto owns you and you get beaten into a pulp.

Which is what happened to me today. I was trying to install a printer client onto my laptop so I don't have to log into the school computer EVERY TIME I want to print; unfortunately adobe decides to crash my spooler and then the damn thing won't even install properly at all, making me believe that this school is an EPIC FAIL (remember that phrase, anybody?) when it comes to tech stuff. Hell, even KCL managed to allow wireless printing from private laptops. I'm not asking them to copy KCL web system - it sucked, and I never had proper reception in my hall residence half the time, and bittorrent was decidedly blocked as if they were terrified that all the students would suddenly pirate Microsoft Office - but come on! I cannot be hassled to go and log in, wait for the client to appear, then find the document, click print, type in password, then wait by the printer, swipe card, type in password again, select job, and then finally wait for the product to come out. I'd rather watch sodium acetate crystals form on top of the arboretum roof (meaning that it will never happen).

So here is my advice, from a lowly undergraduate student, to the Loyola IT department: GET A NEW PRINTING SERVER. For Christ's sake, this school charges a ridiculous amount for the level of education it's giving (which is basically rote memorise, spit out on paper). It still does not have Office 2010 making it necessary for me to carry my laptop around, since 2007 and 2010 are NOT compatible. Furthermore, wireless printing from laptops do not work, for some bizarre reason a few computers have Linux installed with VMWare mounted on it (and on it, inexplicable, is a Windows OS), and it still has Internet Explorer as its default browser which drives me utterly insane. It also has useless crap on it that no one ever uses, while more useful tools like Mathematica are not there (I don't understand this. The extra credit problems in the math department must be submitted with a Mathematica file. I am not going to buy that $500 software just for extra credit. So how does one DO them without Mathematica on the school PCs?). The Lenovo Thinkpads that the school rents out to the students, for some reason, has oversensitive touch pads that make typing a pain in the ass. And to log onto the school network from Windows, you really have to select servers, type in passwords... it's all a confused mess. Evidently Loyola likes macs. Well, I am not a fan of it. There is no OneNote on macs and I can't handle non-right-click Microsoft Word. And forget about "well, if you press the command key on the keyboard"... no, that's not right click. That's just clicking while pressing the command key.

So after all this rant, what am I saying? That technology at all universities suck. Hell, even at MIT it sucks evidently; half the time JB gets kicked off while on-campus, only to come back 30 seconds later apologetically.

That reminds me, I have to study for Genetics.

So after two and a half months of living through torture hell of science, I am ready to call it quits. Oh, wait. I can't.

Let me explain. My current schedule is a bit hellish. Orgo lab should never be held in the evenings, mainly because the majority of the students have not eaten, or have not slept, or overexerted themselves from trying to reproduce while stopping the fundamental function of it. Inexplicably, they hold organic labs during the evenings. And it's THREE FUCKING HOURS. Standing through dissection bathing in formaldehyde was one thing, but sniffing ether for three hours does things to your mind and give you an undeserved hangover which is really unfair because all you got was the short end of the stick.

Anyway.

So I am enrolled in BIOL 282, which is a Genetics course with a certain geneticist who shall go unnamed because if he is for some reason looking up his name it will list this site on google. May I remind you that I have no interest whatsoever in X21? Yes, despite my aspiration to become a physician I really don't care for it. Despite that fact, my professor believes that X21 is the most important chromosome in the entire universe. And his notes really do not make much sense, since he jumps around faster than a bunny fleeing from a giant.

Organic Chemistry is a pain in the rear end. For those of you who are reading this and thought Phase I/Phase II biochem was awful, I beg to differ. That was like a needle up the UT; this is a fucking Foley catheter. My sleeping hours have officially been reduced to 2 hours or so every day. Not very healthy. And I'm still not finished.

So those two classes are killing me. And I know the med students over here will be saying "Well, it gets worse". Well, fuck off. Chemistry is not that difficult conceptually, and if so many kids are struggling that's because there is a problem with the teaching method, ie: I still don't know how to draw mechanisms (this must be remedied immediately). I can handle Physics and Calculus fine, but orgo is murdering my brain cells and possibly my vision as well. Coffee has ceased to work. Must I resort to meth? Is this what it boils down to? "You must consume organic chemistry to excel in it! Literally!". For those who are only taking this course as a challenger this semester, well, lucky you, I hope you die in med school. Really.

Now that the rant is out of my system, I shall be returning to my studies...

While talking about Univ. of Chicago...

JB: I went to the dining hall... Hutchinson, I think it was called... and suddenly I didn't know if I was back at uni as an undergraduate, trying to lie through my teeth that no, the reason my paper is late is NOT because I was getting drunk in London over the weekend while trying to cozen my ex-girlfriend back into my arms but because my uncle had a brain biopsy and I had to be there. I almost could hear Harry yelling that they were going to the Undercroft, thought that I must be at the informal rather than the formal because I wasn't in a jacket. Then I realised that I was in America, not Oxford. And that this is not Christ Church and I don't have to go back and write the paper in my room.

M: That would be because that dining hall is modeled after the dining hall in Christ Church.

JB: Oh my goodness! Christ Church is taking over the world!

M: You wish. I wonder what it would have been like to be a student there.

JB: It's no different from any other university, apart from all the pomp and the fluff they dress you with. Believe me when I say this: you do NOT want to take your end-of-year exams in that ridiculous gown. I nearly fell asleep my final year. You'd have your occasional stars - like Stephen Hawking, for instance - but otherwise half the students are drunk. Or too busy trying to evade the scientific way of creating life out of nothing and going the more orthodox way instead.

M: About Stephen Hawking, I have something interesting to tell you.

JB: This better be good, because I am on tenterhooks.

M: Did you know that Stephen Hawking is quite a ladies' man?

JB: No, I did not! How on earth can he?! He has muscular dystrophy! He can't even speak!

M: JB, darling, there are no muscles where it counts in what he does to be a ladies' man.

JB: Oh good lord...

But seriously... I know it's a s grandiose building and everything, but mimicking it thrice is getting a bit boring.

Second week of lectures is almost over, and one would think that by second week the schedule chaos would be turned into cosmos.

Evidently not.

During the first week, I was dishonourably enrolled in Biology 101, which is clearly an introductory class. After sitting all the way in the back of the lecture theatre and sleeping through most of it (it was early in the morning!), I went to the head of the biology department to complain. After running a check they had discovered that my class for Molecular Biology of the Cell HAD transferred successfully, which lists Biology 101, 111, 102, 112 as pre-requisites. Hence I had been dropped from the class and re-enrolled in Genetics. Which was fine with me.


But then, on Wednesday the writings lecturer for a mandatory writing class that all students must take came up to me. Evidently my essay regarding a certain reading assignment was so impressive (quoth the head of the writing program "it was graduate level") that it was unnecessary for me to take the class, it was waste of money and time. So I have now been dropped from THAT class as well, and am now in search of a suitable English class to take instead.

Of course, JB and IM had such a laugh about it. "It's rather silly", said JB, "for you to take a preliminary writing class. How many research papers have you written?"

"More than enough."

"Exactly. They should have acknowledged that. Every class assigns a writing assignment in Britain."

"Wow, they really underestimated you," said IM.

So that is where I am. And while I am pleased that I do not have to take the class, I am rather upset because the class I did want to take - Survey of British Literature - is currently closed due to full capacity. Having to register late is certainly not my fault and the other options are Chaucer (yuck), and American Literature (even more yuck). I never did well in American literature to begin with. I don't think I have the American mentality to comprehend what the author is trying to get at. I never read my reading assignments for American Literature back in high school thoroughly, resorting to cliffsnotes instead. So taking AmLit is NOT an option.

So here we are, and this is a mess. Goodbye, UCWR110.

So after two years of my tenure at what I'd call City Misery (I mean, seriously... can this city get any more miserable?), my transition is officially O.V.E.R (that's pronounced Oh-Vee-Ee-Ar). I'm not done with London yet because I have majority of my friends here, but I am quite permanently done with GKT. And a good thing, that is. I hated that school by the end of Lent term. I'm sorry, but that level of inadequate organisation is just appalling, and quite frankly, disturbing.

Mr JB is recovering quite nicely, for those who kindly inquired after his welfare. He rang up today... and when I informed him I was in Essex, he promptly responded "OH! You're in CHAVLAND!" as if I had informed him that I was in Disneyland Paris. I reminded him that's rather a derogatory term and quite frankly, not everyone there is a chav. But he did not listen. And it didn't help that I was in a bank and there was a sodden-looking bloke going "Oaight, ma'?" He called Chelmsford and Essex "Chavland" the entire time. Pardon me if I don't pronounce things the RP way, did not wear a top hat as part of my uniform and was not raised in the university city of Oxford. But I've NEVER said anything like "I' a bi' rainin', innit?" nor have I dressed myself in Burberry. Considering that two fellows I know from literature that were Oxonian were Algernon Montcrieff (which, quite frankly, is self-explanatory and rather unimpressive) and Nicholas Urfe (even more unimpressive) and Tom Brown (whose conducts at Rugby were rather questionable at times), whenever he says "Well, that can't be helped, I'm an Oxonian... truly, to the bone" I can't help but cringe. Does being at Christchurch necessitate one to be a pedophilic mathematician? Methinks not. But I am assuming that he thinks I'm a chav as well. I truly laughed when SB said "I say cha-v, not shar-v, because shar-v sounds quite posh. I think they'd like it". I never thought of it like that. (I've just looked it up and it is supposed to be pronounced cha-v. I never knew.) And although the Times had said:

"I soon learnt that sometimes, hilariously, it is not just individuals who feel chav envy but whole institutions — the Daily Mail, for instance, whose whole raison d’être would appear to be that SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE IS HAVING FUN AND IT MUST BE STOPPED NOW! — naturally fears, loathes and envies chavs with a passion. The Mail gripes about their sex drive, their money and their laziness (go figure) but is particularly obsessed with what it sees as the sky-high chav birthrate, mostly to unwed teenage mothers..."

I think JB's disdain of them does have a merit, however. I've seen the lot of them and they can be quite unpleasant. Rude, anti-social and quite frankly, about as pleasant as a day-old vomit in the back street of Brick Lane. So when this fellow says:

The white indigenous English working-class is now the one group you can insult without feeling the breath of the Commission for Racial Equality on your neck, which makes it pretty damn cowardly apart from being what I call “social racism”

I must ask what on earth this person is on. Yes, chavs refer to the white working class, but if they weren't so full of themselves and obnoxious, they would BE called chavs, would they? It's because they have all the requisite characteristics that they are called chavs, and those include the attitude, not just the colour of the skin.

So. Chavs are chavs are chavs and that's the end of it. And I am quite pleased that I do not have to see them for a while...

ME: So I spent a good quarter of an hour hunting down my copy of Mary Poppins.
IM: Why on earth would you want to read that piece of shit?
ME: HEY.
IM: No, listen. That thing is filled with bigotry, biases, racism, and god knows what else.
JB: Methinks she wanted to read it for the cakes.
IM: PLEASE don’t tell me you wanted to read it for the cakes.
ME: Well, I did! I remembered the raspberry-jam-cakes and I was dying to know what they were, thank you very much.
JB: And plum cakes with pink frosting and coconut cakes.
IM: How on earth do you remember it in such detail?!
JB: When I read it, those sounded delicious. Until, of course, my dear mother deflated my childhood dreams by kindly informing me that the raspberry jam cakes that Mary enjoys so much are actually Victorian sandwiches with raspberry jam. After that all magic faded into oblivion.
ME: Oh! And the gingerbread. Don’t forget the gingerbread.
IM: … now you’re making me hungry. And please do realise that my mother, who has baked all those things throughout my life, are HOURS AWAY.

JB: I’m perfectly honest! Upon my honour as an Oxonion.
Me: As an Oxonian? Well, that inspires confidence.
JB: My dear, you’re too sarcastic for your age. It’s hardly becoming.
Me: And your patronising tone is starting to grate on my nerves. Since when are you Algy Montcrieff?
JB: Well, I can’t deny being Algy, can I? We probably attended the same college too.
Me: Oh dear lord…

Me: Apparently, IC decided to go to Australia.
Mother: Oh, really?
Me: Yes. Apparently, he was given the choice of this world, the next world, and Australia. He picked the last one.
Mother: I see. He must hate this world.

IM: I am NOT British.
J: Really? I can prove you are.
IM: Yeah? How?
J: JB said you were.
IM: Bloody idiot!
J: Told you.

JB: So I told the dean that my friend was very ill, and I must leave for a few days.
Me: Which friend?
JB: No friend, actually. Call me Bunburyist, if you like.

JB: London is lovely, as long as you don’t live in it.
Me: Yes, and if you do, then it becomes hell.
IM: You know what they say, one man’s heaven is another man’s hell.
Me: I wasn’t aware that London was any man’s heaven.
JB: It was for Charles Darnay.
IM: Which consequently got Sydney sent to the gallows.

Back when Margie Thatcher declared higher spending taxes and spending cut, Britain was in an uproar. People always go in a huff when what was theirs get taken away.

Well, history repeats, doesn’t it? Whenever a Tory comes into power, boom goes the spending and it preaches what used to be a British virtue – frugality. Germany is following suit.

And then after everything Thatcher had done, they tagged on the fruit of the work to Tony Blair. Poor Margie was viewed as the fiscal Nazi of the twentieth century.

James Bartholomew seems to have an optimistic outlook on British economic future. I am inclined to disagree. Has he seen the recent company value of BP? I think not.

British and the Germans were spending money when they didn’t have any. I think it’s time for them to start paying back or else default. (Actually, what is the primary export for Britain?! After all these years of being fed Economics, I still have no idea whatsoever.)

I’m pretty sure France is gloating over this…

I had an odd dream. In it, I was Lestat de Lioncourt; right after Magnus made him his heir, I guess. I was at Versailles, attending a ball, in which a maiden fair (or I’m assuming that was what she was) was pleading for my attention. I, on the other hand, was rather uninterested in courting such maidens’ pleas, and went off to a small room to sample some wine…

I’ve been reading too much Anne Rice and playing Vampire: Masquerade. Mayhap ‘tis time for me to stop.

“Oh, Louis, Louis… still whining, Louis… have you heard enough? I’ve had to listen to that for centuries!”

-Lestat de Lioncourt

I’d like to start of today’s post with something that is completely unrelated to the post title. I was talking with JB when the conversation slowly drifted to my obsession with my body (or as he put it, my abuse of) and how difficult it is to find a middle between very skinny and very err, chubby.

“Don’t you want me to be pretty?”

“Of course I do, darling. It always feels nice to walk with a beautiful girl.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, your self-esteem goes up threefold, not to mention the envious looks of other men. We really are a competitive lot.”

“So it’s like carrying a Kelly or Birkin bag.”

“I’m assuming that’s one of those bags that cost more than an average man’s monthly pay.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then yes, it’s like carrying a bag.”

“So I’m your Birkin bag.”

“You can say that, yes.”

I’m not going to go into the feminism approach of “JB is a chauvinistic bastard who thinks women are handbags”, simply because I always had a feeling the majority of the fashion industry strictly caters to men in the sense that women buy the products to cater themselves to men. If men all said in unison that they can no longer view any female with a waistline of less than forty inches to be female or desirable, I have a feeling Lays and Nestle and Mars. Inc would suddenly see their stocks skyrocketing. SO yes! It’s the men’s fault that I can now fit into a size double 0 and can wear a size 0 jeans on top of another!

Anyway, then we moved onto American obesity (although British women’s average BMI is more than their American counterparts’… who would have guessed?) when Jack mentioned this monstrosity:

If you want to know, that is not some kind of a monstrosity from the planet Mars, but rather, it’s supposed to be edible. It’s called “Kentucky Double Down Sandwich”, and instead of a bun it utilizes two fried chicken patties in the place of bread. The calorie isn’t awful – 540kcal, which is around the same as a Big Mac – but still this looks dreadful. My guess is that it’s about the size of my hand, but fried chicken, cheese, bacon, and then fried chicken?! I might need angio after eating this thing that masquerades as food.

Then:

“It was greasy.”

“YOU ATE IT?!”

“Well, I had to! IM did too.”

JB and IM ate this work of art… I’m not entirely certain what possessed them, because I won’t go near this thing with a three foot pole. After a steady diet of raw vegetables for nearly two months, just looking at this thing gives me heartburns. What on earth has possessed KFC to create this nightmare-ish food? I know that they cater to young men (aka JB and IM) but let’s see… carb, fat, protein, more fat, fat, fat, protein. Which, by the way, no one in the 1st world country is lacking, certainly not here. This baffles me.

I also fail to see why JB had to eat it. But anyway…

IC has officially gone down the drain. Or more like a ditch. Or a toilet. Or one of those very unsavoury places that I sincerely hope I’ll never visit. Not only was he a borderline alcoholic last year AND had an emotionally unstable girlfriend (MORE than me, which is quite a feat), he’s been doing drugs. Since… oh, god knows when.

Now, I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I certainly do not do anything that is not condoned. I don’t have tattoos. Even in the eyes of the Mormon church there’s not much they can condemn about me. And then this news.

May I say that I feel it was perfectly natural for me to panic? And there he was, in Ghirardelli’s, calmly sipping chocolate milk shake and telling me this as if he was telling me that he got a new iPod. I did not go into a new bout of hysterics, but at that moment, our relationship – or what was left of it – was O.V.E.R.

I don’t consort with druggies, thanks very much.

Here are the comments from my friends about this incident:

IM: He’s a fucking seaweed. Leave him alone.

JB: Just leave him alone. You’d rather spend your time with more worthwhile friends, wouldn’t you?

RB: You can’t do anything for him but pray.

J: Il est un connard.

I understand that my controlling nature is a problem as well, but his lack thereof is another problem by itself. One thing is certain: he will make a wonderful addition to my novel. People really do love to see someone who has everything have a mighty downfall and end up with nothing. Schardenfrude, as Germans say.

Apparently in Britain they take the BP incident as the US bashing Britain. I fail to see how. I have no doubt that if the US spilled a million barrels of oil in Dover strait, they’d be all over the place trumpeting about how un-environmental the US is.

It’s rather infuriating. Hayward blurted out that he “wants his life back”… right. What about the lives of those who died? Or perhaps the LIVES OF THE PEOPLE WHO LOST THEIR JOBS BECAUSE OF THIS? Then some git commented on Reuters that “BP is a multinational company, why are the British the only ones getting beaten? ‘Tis unfair.” Umm, let me think… maybe it’s because BP is a British company. Hell, it even has BRITISH in its name. Or perhaps it now stands for “Barrels of Petroleum” [in the sea]?

Then: “Britain is a good friend of the US. Why is the US beating on its good friend?”

If you haven’t noticed, oh Britain, America befriends someone with MONEY. If Mexico suddenly became an economical superpower overnight, trust me, America would be sashaying over to Mexico in an instant. I’m not too certain what they are thinking.

I can say this: this is NOT America’s fault. This is NOT anyone’s fault but BP’s, since Deepwater Horizon was under BP’s control when it exploded into a fiery inferno. Not to mention they did not put necessary safety measures, despite several warnings from the US government.

Oh, and did I mention BP’s pipeline in Alaska rusting and causing severe trouble? I thought that kind of mishaps were too elementary to occur…