True rage is mine.

I hate dramatic irony with an unmitigated passion. It annoys me the world over, and makes me want to throw things at white people. Like, I mean, it's like when you're watching a movie, and you know if the person goes into the decrepit old mansion filled with ghosts, they are going to be killed, and then the dumbutt does it anyway! It should elicit cries from the audience of "Dumbass, no!" and "Don't leave Verona!" but no one ever objects. In fact, worthy souls such as English teachers and nerdy suck-ups like it! They say it's so "ironic" (which it is) and "fun and suspenseful" (which it is not). They are probably the kind of people who enjoy watching Honey Boo Boo and Hoarders. Literary characters are people too, and it's not any more fun to watch them ruin their lives than it is for real life people! (Did that even make grammatical sense?) So, all in all, dramatic irony is one device that should never have been devised. (zing) I got a 29 on my ACT. That too, makes me angry enough to go on a Caucasian-punching spree. I got a 29! That's terrible! I have brought shame and dishonor upon my clan forevermore. Maybe I will cut off all my hair, join the army, and defeat the Huns, thereby saving China. I could finally get in shape, anyway. Oh dear, but then I'd have to marry a prince. Don't really wanna do that... Hmm. What can I do? I suppose I've no recourse but to become a stripper. I will change my name to Sensual Stevia (Steve to the ladeez) and be akin to all the Sugar Pies and In-the-Sacharinnes that go prancing through single men's wet dreams (do men have those?). I will be a big success and open my own strip club one day and be the badass woman who hangs around in a fur coat smoking foreign cigarettes and making deals with other badasses. It will be quite lucrative. Maybe, if I play my cards right, I will still get a presidential recommendation and Congressional approval and become a Supreme Court justice. There are no qualifications, after all. So see, there are many paths, but only one destination. (Oh damn, Confucius say whaaaaat?) I visited USC yesterday and now am excessively depressed because I am not in the one percent and can't even afford to use their bathroom without taking out 300 years of student loans. It's like... perfection, man! It's so beautiful, and the classes are so wonderful, and there are so many libraries, and I could have a music minor (or any minor, really) to go with my linguistics major, and there are millions of beautiful people there, and they take the common app, and it's all so enchantingly lovely that I have used polysyndeton, which is a rhetorical device that ranks rather near dramatic irony in my affections. Oh me, oh my soul! I feel like pouring out a veritable paean of praise for the virtues of the school! But what would be the use? I can't get in because I have gotten a 29 on the ACT and a 2160 on the SAT and even if by some miracle I did get in, I wouldn't be able to go because I am not the daughter of Bill Gates. Oh me, oh my soul! The sun is indeed dark to my eyes. Perhaps I will write a meaningful poem about it and apply to Cal Arts as a creative writing major. They would love that. People think creative writers are the shit, when in reality, they are literally the crap (if you appreciate my delightfully subtle nuance). Using vernacular to make a POINT bitches. Whaaat? Now I must go and work on some essays and applications and whatnot. I have written one on Pokemon (an essay, that is), comparing myself to the useless Magikarp, and everyone has read it and declared it to be eminently suitable, so I must write more of its ilk (only about serious things). So off I go to engage in more fruitless endeavors. Fare thee well and have a lovely Thanksgiving break as I am sure to be having!