05.12.06
3:29 a.m.
I'm just an enthusiast. I swear.
I took a final this afternoon. With my Russian professor. Mmmmm.Honestly, I go in waves, and I�m 99% sure it�s related to my period. Cause there are days when I�m all about getting me some slightly balding Russian professor, then there are others where I couldn�t care less and find him slightly creepy. My DNA must be programmed to seek out foreign accented, highly educated, wealthy, older well established men to reproduce with. I can�t say I blame it; that�s a pretty good way to ensure survival.
I was joking with my best friend, that I had become one of the girls I hated because I wore a low cut shirt to the final and sat right in front of him in hopes of an A. I�m pretty desperate to ensure as many A�s as possible these days. (The B has been confirmed in my calculus class by the way.)
My best friend said I should�ve let him touch my boobies just to be certain of the A.
I responded, �Only if I get to ride in his expensive car, too.�
And then, I was questioned about how I knew what kind of car he drove.
See, I have a problem. I Google everyone � to the point of obsession sometimes. It�s not like I spend hours doing it, it�s just that I�m a damn proficient Googler, and I can find out loads of information in 30-45 minutes of procrastinating.
So, this is what I found out about him in 30 minutes:
He has a high school aged daughter who is a ballerina & ice skater. (How Russian�) She plans on being a Lawyer.
He has a wife who is a concert pianist and has a PhD, too.
He received his bachelor�s in Russia, but his masters and PhD in the US. (And yes, I know which schools.)
He works for a high tech research and development company that works closely with the US government.
He has some classified documents that are unavailable to the public from the US government.
He just bought a house two years ago in the most expensive area of town.
He belongs to several organizations and volunteers all the time.
He�s a runner (further proving my math/running theory).
See, all that in thirty minutes.
I was called a creepy Google stalker; however I prefer to be called a Google enthusiast.
