Passwords of the Past

Sometimes, I am so preoccupied with going forward in life that any cookies that have been cached in my brain for more than one week get auto-deleted from my memory, forever. Get it, I said memory.

Such is the fate of my xanga password. Despite trying all conceivable combinations of my name, my birthday, my phone number; my favourite bands, name of highschool, major of study, colour of hair; best friend, name of dog, choice of toothpaste and favourite restaurant - I still could not hack my way back into my little safe haven of personal expression such is Xanga. Mind you, they only allowed 10 password attempts a day before they locked the account, so this whole password guessing ordeal has been going on for quite a while now.

Not long ago, as in, not weeks or months, but literally minutes before I started typing this entry, a friend reminded me of the "forgot your password?" button. It wasn't like I hadn't thought of using it before, but you see, I have had dozens of email accounts in the past, and since this xanga was from way back in the days of highschool, there was no way I would know which email account they would send the password to. And even if I did know which email account it went to, I probably wouldn't remember the password to that account, which kind of makes it a circular problem.

This is where the system access restore came in particularly useful. It seems that somewhere in my brain, some poor neuron had been charged with the (seemingly redundant) responsibility of holding the access information to a forsaken email account known as gargoyles2000@yahoo.com. 8 years later, his honour was redeemed, as I valiantly withdrew the information from this sole unyielding messenger, and typed this entry as a plaque to his contributions to my overall personal well-being.

Thank you, brave neuron. Your uncompromising dedication to information that has been deemed petty by all others has once again been recognized and appreciated.

That's about all I have to say for today, but now that I have the password to this page again, I will undoubtedly have a lot more entries going forward...

I think Fiona Apple might be Billie Holiday.

You can't be Sirius...

If you take one company that is losing money, and add it to another company that is losing money...

Do you get a company that makes money?

Today I was proposed with the question "Why have you been acting like a fucking retard recently?"

First of all, I would like to state the terms of my current living conditions. My math courses at University of Waterloo require me to have a clear focus of mind and superior logic. My business courses at Wilfrid Laurier University is a test of my patience in dealing with third rate students who fail to understand the concept of report structure and chronology. My work at Starbucks deals with a medley of customers demanding sincere yet submissive service in their own respective ways. My current reading habit consists of a book of academic linguistic genius, with vocabulary and ideas greater than the scope of my brain. And lastly, to keep me in a healthy perspective, there is Hazel, who never fails to remind me of the simple notions of life - jumping in piles of autumn leaves, chasing squirrels and observing the skyline for movements in the cloud patterns.

This dissonance that I am experiencing is a peculiar reward of my own choice of actions. In a down to earth analogy, it can be compared to watching Saving Private Ryan with an underlying contemporary jazz soundtrack, in an Imax theatre, with my girlfriend and my grandfather, eating dimsum and drinking eggnog.

This dissidence is, in effect, the driver and motivator of each individual's every day existence. These forces between expectations and actual occurences eddies in currents around us, inflicting emotion and triggering the reactions of our very own reflexes and instincts. The disparity between our anticipation and the result is the fundamental energy that creates the momentum of our lives.

This is the reasoning behind my choice of actions. In a routine life, the aforementioned dissonance is kept minimal. Fluctuations in the way we perceive and the way we experience is low. Risk is low, return is low. A 100 year treasury bill that struggles to prove its worth. These driving forces of our lives are suppressed in order to repress ourselves from facing a greater fear of radicalness.

By maximizing the facets of my life, I am fueling the essence of my existence. The synthesis that is catalyzed between talking like a retard yet working in a corporate financial institution creates a controversy that is capable of sparking interest. By faking an unintelligent identity, others will perceive me as an under-motivated individual who is capable of greater things. The orifice between my capabilities as I present myself and my true inner capabilities will serve as others' desire to know more about me.

Through this development of a character of appeal, I can become a positive contribution to the subtle affections of society.

What the fuck am I talking about.

"Teens are willing to cooperate with market research. They are still in the process of identifying themselves, and are open to views around them."

Is it just me or does there seem to be some logical flaw? We have a bunch of teens suffering from identity crisis, and we propose to help them by filling this niche with product designs and new age trends? How much of an identity can teens get through endless bombardment of marketing information? Marketing has taken over our sense of identity. Its seamless flows of information flow through us like sewage in a waste plant. The stench so strong that we recall nothing of our own, so strong that the marketing itself determines the identity we are.

Nowadays, we all know the romantic chemistry between all the characters of our favourite TV sitcoms, but how many of us actually know how our real father and mother met?

Nowadays, we all know how to hum the tunes to our favourite Black Eyed Peas soundtracks, but how many of us actually understand as much as a music note to be able to play a tune of our own?

Nowadays, we all wear air-soled designer trainers, but how many of us can actually, run?

There used to be a time when Jimmy was a musician, Johnny was an athlete, Audrey was an actress - but these definitions of identity have been replaced by consumer products. The boy sitting next to you isn't Phillip anymore, he's BlackIpodNano. The girl sitting next to you isn't Carla anymore, she's AmericanEagleSandals.

Here is a list of names that I propose we should name our kids in the next generation:

- IpodShuffle
- ArmaniGlasses
- L'orealBrunette
- UsedGapJeans
- LacyAbercrombieDress
- NikeAirForce1
- ChickenMcNuggets
- LaysSourCreamAndOnion
- GrandeVanillaLatte
- 10poundBreasts
- 1/2ounceBrain

Nowadays, these are the things we recognize each other by. Each individual is just a hybrid identity of fashion and trends. There is no more Kenny, there is just IbanezGAX75. There is no more Alana, there is just GoddessPerfumeByBabyPhat.

- CaffeineFreeDietCoke
- NintendoDSLite
- MickeyMouseHandbag
- SonyEricssonZ350a
- NeutrogenaFaceWash
- AXEMagnum
- CosmoGirl!

And all of these kids would be victims of our high-tech information age.