So Jack In The Box is pimping for pop culture now. My late-night, ridiculously huge, and sleep-shooing cup of Diet Coke included not one, not two, but three pop culture references. And they're all college-oriented pop culture references, too. (Hey kids, try and see if you can find them!) Of course, this means I'm now sorta pimping for Jack In The Box itself. So, uh ... where my royalties at, Box?

Whoever says that the media doesn't really permeate daily life needs to wise up and tune their brain to the correct station.

I tell you, I can feel them! Noisy neighbors! All around us!

The rainforest must be almost completely chopped down now, since the walls of my apartment appear to be made of paper. And while that would be just plain non-enivronmentally peachy if I lived in, say, Japan, where the walls are supposed to be papery-thin, here in The Snore Zone it's not so hot. That's right: The Snore Zone. For no longer are the upstairs neighbors content to blast Lameass Jaded Suburban White Boy Stereophonics At Any Hour Of The Christa-Fist-Shaking Night. No no, now some Lone And Probably Also Lameassively Suburban Neighbor has taken up snoring. Every night. All night. And I can hear it. And they live upstairs. And I want to find a very large mallet, and use it in an italicized manner.

It's fate. Neighbors are destined to act loudly, obnoxiously, and/or mallet-worthily. And in like fate, the rainforest must also be in the danger zone, or at least somewhere along the highway to the danger zone. That's not far from here -- you've just gotta take a left at the light, hang a u-turn, and then ask the nearest avaliable woman for directions. Oh, and avoid the Iceman. He'll mock-bite your head off.

Is it possible to lose your powers of speech?

Unfortunately, I'm not talking about the good kind of speech-losing here, as in, "That ridiculously gorgeous fellow over there just ran his fingers through his hair, and ye gods, I lost my powers of speech." I'm talking about not being able to ... you know ... speak niftily. In fact, this has begun to happen in an alarmingly frequent manner. Sure, I can still write -- in usually A-garnering form, no less, but lately I can't seem to speak in any kind of similarly winsome way. For example, I finally handed in a paper to my ridiculously attractive discussion leader today, and I couldn't think of anything to say. "Duuuuuh," was the evolved expression which fell from my lips. This doesn't only occur around ridiculously attractive people, either. It sometimes happens around people whom I haven't seen for ages, or with people whom I've known for years, or with just plain people, period. And it shouldn't happen, not to a theatre girl who has often met with the enigmatically obtuse compliment, "Those sure are some kinda pipes you've got there." And while web people are generally shy people -- that's the nature of the medium, after all, I've always felt somewhere in-between.

Maybe it's a people thing. Maybe I've come down with an exceedingly rare case of people allergy. Maybe there's red kryptonite in the water -- or in my case, an abundance of hidden kittens.

And now for our annual height report. The good news is, I hardly ever notice my tallish amazonianism anymore. The blarrgh news is, there are definitely two situations when I do notice it -- either when I am literally surrounded by very short people, somewhat like a shepherd in the thick of a flock, or when some numbnut feels the need to specifically point out my height by saying stuff like, "What're you wearing heels for?" or, "Haw haw, I'll bet you play basketball," or best of all, "Gee golly willikers, how tall are you?"

How am I supposed to answer these things, really? "Everyone looks better when they're standing in my shadow?" "No, I'm waiting until I learn how to jump?" "Taller than you, Shrimpy Magoo?"

Those are actually pretty good. Not bad for a year's reporting.

The non-comatose (which would be "tose," I suppose) among you might notice that Ambientwhimsy looks brand spanking new today. It's so new that if you get really close to the screen, you can see your reflection in all the shiny newness. You could probably see it better if you moved your giant melon a little farther back, of course, but Ambientwhimsy is certainly not going to help prevent you from getting digital brainwave cancer. For that you need a helmet. This new designy jaunt is intended to be boxy and pixilated and crayonesque, and I'm particularly proud of my teeny and random animations bopping around up there. If they look familiar, that's because they're supposed to be Christa-esque in both nature and subject. Furthermore, you may now choose your Ambientwhimsy from an array of Christa-esque colours, with scratch n' sniff technology pending. And while I wish there could be some way to eliminate the use of frames, well, fuhgetaboutit already.

And now in other news ... College is really kicking me to the curb lately. An intense project has been due every single week this quarter, and it's really starting to wear on me. At this rate I might wind up squashed against the curb permanently, like a woebegone pile of leaves after a rainstorm or some other kind of pointless allegorical description. But then again, as milord Sondheim so beautifully put it, I'm still here. And that's what counts, mes amis de la bibliotheque. That's what counts. That, and the helmet.