Ahhhhrrrrggghhhhaaaaaaiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee!

That's right, I'm back from the dead. To all you limp-wristed shit stains who don't know who I am, my name is Michelle M. Kuran; the "M" stands for motherfucking. I originally joined Xanga over two years ago as a way to practice languages other than english (I hate english!), but decided that picking fights with vegans and making hipsters cry was more fun. I fucked off somewhere in 2009 due to repeated encounters with marijuana and alcohol causing me to forget my password, among other things. Yes, I know there are ways to retrieve it, you drooling two-toothed fucks, but no, I didn't think it was worth my time. But behold: A recent incident involving a fast trip down a flight of stairs and more cocaine than what Iggy Pop's breakfast is made of led me to a most immense series of revelations. I began recalling all sorts of things, in fact: my social security number, old house addresses, my childhood friends, the way waking up sober in the sunshine used to feel, the way Master used to lock me in the cellar...with all those spiders and crawling things...without any light or sounds except for the scraping footsteps of Death creeping closer and closer and...WHAT?! NO MY LORD, I DIDN'T MEAN TO LOOK DIRECTLY UPON YOU! FORGIVE ME MASTER...NO, OH PLEASE NOT MY FINGERNAILS, I SWEAR TO YOU, I SWEAR I...AAAHHHHHHHAIIIEEE!!!

Where was I?

Oh yes, skinning hipsters. There's a science to this, you see. Not just like shucking your average psychedelic son of a bitch with a potato peeler, hipsters are generally smaller in build and can make an awful lot of noise if you do not shut them up quickly enough. The key is to silence them first, either by removing the slimy forked tongue or stitching the lips together with the sinew of priests quickly, lest you hear more about how they were the first ones to think of something like this, or how Pitchfork festival is the greatest thing ever. Silly indie turds, "Pitchfork" isn't a music festival. It's the last thing you're going to see before the prongs puncture your eyeballs like grapes on a needle.

I would love to stay and chat longer with you, Xanga, but alas, belonging to the working class as I do, I must return to my duties. Those churches aren't going to burn themselves.

I caught a whiff of Autumn coming somewhere from the northwest today. It was brief, but it was still there.

Most of you are probably thinking that this is a good thing; that this heralds the coming of a romantic and poetic time of year. And those of you with such thoughts are most likely hippies living in California or Florida or some shit where weird, sphere-like plants called "oranges" and "lemons" grow. This was no summer breeze. In my state, this is the scent of terror.

We here in my territory are experienced in handling winter, yes. Those of us that aren't are already dead (i.e. vegetarians, hippies, etc...). We can pilot rear-wheel drive cars through three feet of snow and ice on the roads, and still make it to school and work on time and pull off 75 miles an hour on the highway. We walk out the doors of buildings for a casual smoke in negative wind chill. And we even invented sports and various other activities outdoors that both harness and mock the metaphorical shit of mother nature. But we are not fools, and therefore, we still fear the snow.

I am not ready for this early of a winter. In fact, I feel ripped off. Gipped. Screwed over. We just endured the longest Spring ever, only to be hit by a global warming-induced three day heat wave that made the clothes on our backs stick to our skin and our overall crime rate soar. And now that that is past, it is clear that we have nothing more to look forward to, other than another freezing autumn and a flat out brutal winter.

Anyway, it is also obvious that with this autumnal terror hovering just above us somewhere to the still further north (where I believe the original Abominable Snowman and the preserved corpse of Walt Disney dwell), that it is nearly that time for me to return to my studies. And I must say, as a child that has always hated school and everything remotely related, I'm actually not that enraged. Still pissed, but not quite postal.

I have chosen to waste my time on such classes like World Civilizations, Arthurian Legend, Introduction to Logic, and French. But I'm actually looking forward to German, as always. Just because it is fun to pretend to be ignorant of a language that you already know, just to boost your GPA so that the government can pay me to travel abroad at some point.

Bah! I have just realized that I am indeed tired, and I must be off now to dream of sailing the cosmos, discovering the meaning of life, and kicking the Pope in the crotch, along with other such adventures.

I wish the rest of you all terrible, terrible nightmares.

I had a realizaton today while picking through some warm potato salad and listening to some woman who is apparently my cousin's wife's oldest daughter talk at me about how I should cut my hair and get a "real" major:

There is nothing more black, wicked, or foul in this world, than one's extended family, EXCEPT for the even more disturbing idea that they should all be brought together once every two to three years in the summer to stare at people they don't even know and compare clothing.

At what point did my grandmother decide that this was a good idea?! Every ten minutes, someone I didn't recognize was running up to me and telling me that they know me, but I don't know them because the last time we were together I was a wee lass playing with dirt and eating worms. Though not much has changed, I could not recall their face or name. All I could do was force a smile and nod as they told me how great life in California is, or how well so-and-so is doing. And then the dreaded question: "So, you're all grown up now! What are you going to do after college?"

Let it be known that the afternoon in the year of our lord 2009, after the seventy-fifth time this was asked, I lost my grip and went insane for a good four to five hours. Yes, I'm an Archaeological Studies major. No, I am not going to be a teacher. No, I am not going to get married. Oh, you haven't seen me in ten years? How old am I now? Why, I'm twenty two, I swear, and yes, I will have a beer!

I tried to immerse myself deeper into the crowd of faces that share my blood but who I don't know. I even attempted to be left alone by saying I'm from the side of the family that doesn't speak English. As it turns out, this strategy wound up biting me in the arse, because I soon found out that the ones that speak German are almost as dull as the second and third generation people. I ended up stuck at a picnic table with two old ladies telling me in rapid-fire German how to make meat jell-o like they did in "the old country".

Gott schütze mich.