A study by Pertrosfoliea et al. (2007).
I don’t know…
Say out loud: “Pertrosfoliea is a genius”
Pertrosfoliea really is a genius, there is even scientific proof: You just said so, while doing a scientific experiment!
Pertrosfoliea is a genius.
-Extremely easy to prove.
-Participant is a twat.
So, amazingly enough, I’ve always only had a vague idea about what touch typing is. Until now, that is. I heard this dude tell this other dude something like “oh gosh, you type so fast, are you using that touch typing method thingy?”. The other dude replied “yes,” or something like that. I thought to myself, “hey!”
So later I did a little googling, (blogger tells me that neither google, googling or googleing is a word, how annoying,) and I found this page: http://sense-lang.org/typing/
I guess that now that I master touch typinf, I’ll start tyoung faster. Though I habe to say that I find it much easier than I thpught it would be, and it’s so practical that I thinl it’s strange that
I haben’t thought of it before. Oh well.
Happy typinh, people beings.
I should of been asleep already, seeing that it’s about 2 am, but I had to run for my lappy to write this down. I was about to drift of to sleep land, tucked into my soft, warm duvat, the only thing left to see and hear was memories. I remembered telling someone about my exchange year in England. I never talk much about it since there hasn’t seemed to been much to say. I never really think of my time there, I can’t actually remember.
Coming back to Norway was the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced, it was like coming to this world in which you’ve never actually been but you’ve dreamed of it all your life. Or like waking up from a dream. At least it’s like a dream now when some time has gone, and I forget about it.
Also, the time when I remember dreams tends to be while in bed, like I was just now, trying to sleep. I was thinking of a time I told someone about my year abroad, I was just explaining that I had to share my room with this other student. Then suddenly I saw her, my old roommate, I saw her clearly in my mind. Standing in our bedroom and bragging about her Dolce and Gabbana in her German accent.
You might think that that’s no biggie, but I haven’t really thought of her since I saw her last. Why would I want to go around remembering her? We didn’t like each other at all, she was a shallow, arrogant, self centred, manipulative, immature, whining bitch. Yet, now when I remember her I kind of miss her. You see, even though we mostly never got along, we still shared rooms for ten months. I’ve learned to like her even though we were the least compatible people ever. All in all I am actually quite fond of her, though I’m very happy to have a place for myself, (yay, messiness!)
Right now, in the prime time for dreams, I can see and feel my memories from Oxford as clear as if they were real, (which they are, but it doesn’t normally feel that way.) However, I think I should leave these memories for other nights, I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of them now when I know where, (or when,) they’re hiding. Now I have better sleep, since I have to get up early tomorrow. I have to think of the future, I have to make new memories. Don’t forget; memories are all you have. Everything is memories.
I’m not much of a book person, but today I feel like recommend this book called “Bigger Than Hitler Better Than Christ”. Written by the Rik Mayall, ’tis his autobiography. It’s a hilarious book, I love it. Yet, I’ve been sniffing around the net and found quite a few who didn’t like the book, they were mostly not fans of Rik Mayall. So I guess what I’m really recommending here is that you first become a big fan of Mayall, (this is easy, just downlo-um-buy stuff like The Young Ones, Bottom or Drop Dead Fred, at least do a little youtubeing) , and then you read his amazing book.
We had to write a poem about colours in a English lesson, and I shocked myself! Look at what I wrote, and don’t worry about what I mean with it, I only tried to use as many colours as I possibly could. Am I got a talent or who?
Here it goes, my amazing poem!
And I call it … Colour poem?
In the winter,
blue and silver,
she felt a shiver.
Look up at the eternal darkness,
no bright yellow stars,
to guide her home.
She would be dead,
dried in blood.
The once so reddish brown dirt,
frozen, icy blue. Turned hard.
Then summer comes.
Bright green grass, blue sky, red sun.
The sickly green faces,
of the crowd.