The last post of 2012

It's New Year's Eve, and I feel like I should be doing something incredibly productive, but instead, I'm on here. My choices are bad and I should feel bad (insert Zoidberg jpeg). I'm also supposed to be writing a prompt for my Pomona application, but it's incredibly impossible to do. It should be easy, too- all I have to do is write about something that I find interesting on the ground. But I can't think of anything to find! I mean, I guess I could say money, but then they would think I was John Galt and reject me immediately (since they are hippies), or I could say food, but then they would think I was a fatass and reject me (because they are skinny bitches). I could find a Pokeball, but you know, my essay is about Pokemon. They wouldn't like that too well, probably. Maybe I should say I found the one ring to rule them all and now I have to go on an epic journey (during the summer, of course, so as not to miss school) to throw it into the Crack of Doom and save all mankind. That would show them that I have a sense of duty. But then maybe they would reject me for having a bad influence on me. I mean, I might turn into Gollum, and that wouldn't be too welcome, I would think. Maybe I could find a dead body. That sure would spice up the admission process. But then they would think I was a callous bastard, and that probably would harden their hippie hearts against me. Let's see, let's see. How about Deckard Cain's journal? No... They wouldn't understand the allusion, and would think I was a lily-livered, light-fingered, nosy little miscreant. Or maybe a baby unicorn? No, that's too whimsical. Everything is too whimsical. Why can I not have serious ideas? Should I find a handwritten original of the Gettysburg Address or something? But then they would think I was trying to get into their good graces. But I am trying to! Shouldn't I be honest and upfront about it? Ok, let's think this through logically. So I shouldn't try to allude to any video games (there goes the Ocarina of Time, dammit), and I shouldn't try to curry favor by being overly academic. And I probably shouldn't find anything illegal or even edgy (I guess the bong is out). So what's left? Lame stuff. That's what's left. Maybe I'll just say I found an acceptance letter and have done with it. That would swiftly get me the opposite of what I described, instead of causing them to deliberate. It would be a kindness and would make them think better of me (though it wouldn't reverse their decision). Ugh. What am I going to do? All right, let's try a bit of freestyle here, just to warm up.

I tiptoe through the urban jungle, occasionally looking over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me. At all costs, my mission must be kept secret. My heart is pounding, and I can feel my hand tightening on the gun in my jacket. I shouldn't be nervous; I've done things like this a thousand times. But then again, times are different now. Just last week, Emma and Blake went back to Jacksonville... no, I can't think about that. I just have to finish what I've started, and then I can relax. In spite of my anxiety, though, or maybe because of it, I'm feeling more aware of my surroundings than I ever have been. As I lightly skirt the prostrate figure of a man, probably a passed out frat boy, I glance at the ground, and my attention is caught by a small scrap of paper. Almost involuntarily, I bend down and pick it up, and catch my breath in an audible gasp. I'm holding a picture of myself. Scrawled across the corner in black marker is my name, Evangeline Kelley, and a small star. I know what this means; I've been marked as too dangerous to let live. The faint voice of the man on the ground breaks through my thoughts. "Evie," he hisses urgently. "Evie!" I kneel down beside him. What does he want to tell me? He catches hold of my jacket, his breath now coming in labored gasps. "I'm sorry Evie," he whispers, then his grip goes slack, and he falls back, obviously dead. I stand up slowly, realization dawning on me. This man was from our branch; he was killed for not killing me. I'm not safe anywhere. I slide my picture into my pocket, and without a second glance, run into the night.

There we go. It's beautiful. Guess I can't really use it though... So, um, let's see. Let me think. Lightbulbs, diamonds, beats by Dre, lotion, a penguin egg, an actual penguin, a flower, an engagement ring, a fountain pen, chocolate, a firework. Damn, brainstorming didn't work, I can't use any of those! Ok, I wrote about getting an anonymous invitation to high tea. Does that make me sound like an anglophile? Maybe I should change it. UGH. Ok, let's try again. I changed it to a soiree. That's better. But then Mom read it and said there wasn't enough social spirit in it, so, not to be known as frivolous, I wrote this gem:

One dark and dolorous evening, I ponderously wander down a solitary road, quietly humming a sonorous strain of Wagner’s Second Symphony. I am disturbed by the multitude of evil problems that plague our poor troubled world, and I curse my ineffectiveness in eradicating them. I keep my eyes on the ground as I walk, my mood too solemn to look up and around me. After all, no matter what part of the world I am looking at, it is sure to be as tragically corrupted as any other. As I go on my lonely way, I notice something lying on the ground before me. I bend to pick it up, still absorbed in my morose reverie, then sigh with despair when I realize what it is I hold. It is a skull, a human skull, and it is not in very good shape. I look deep into its empty eye sockets and realize that the world is as devoid of virtue as this skull is. We are all doomed to die, I think to myself, and perhaps that is a good thing, for the evils of mankind are too vast to ameliorate. But just as quickly as this thought comes to me, I banish it. I must not give into despair. Although I am only one person, I can do much to assuage the troubles of those around me and offer succor to the hopeless souls I see each day. I put poor Yorick down, and turn back to the road, now singing a passage from the Ring under my breath. Until I die, I will not give up fighting for the world.

Damn girl. I like that. I should be a writer. I can write books about lonely, stoic, manly men with enormous amounts of social conscience and a deep knowledge of Romantic music. I think I'll name my protagonist Durko. That's a really manly name, right? His last name can be quite ominous too, it'll be Darkdoom or Blackiron or Romney or something very scary like that. He will wield a fancy-ass sword, although he will also have a giant collection of other weapons, and he'll wander around on the moors and have agony of the soul. It will be a big hit. I'm sure of it.

Effing eff! No matter how wonderful Durko Doombooty is, he can't help me find anything of merit on the ground! Eff, bugger, bollocks, and darn! I need ideas and I need them now! And I don't want to be texting people, why am I texting people? I HATE THE WORLD. Ok, I'ma just write about my soul. Wait, what. How do you find your soul on the street? Oh, damn. Ohhhh damn. That sounds like a novel. It's not about Durko, though. It's going to be about a discontented capitalist named Annabella Watts who becomes a streetwalker in search of her identity. At the end, she realizes that money is where her heart lies. Oh wait, that sounds like Atlas Shrugged fan fiction. Better stay away from that one then. Ok. So, I have to figure this out. Until I do, I cannot rest. So, though this makes me sound as abrupt and stoic as the craggiest of Heathcliffs, I must bid you all goodnight. A Durko adieu to you!

A peptalk for my uterus

Now, listen here uterus, we've come a long way, you and I, and I'm not about to let anything get between us now. You've been with me day in and day out, and I've had your back since the day we first came together. Dare I say it- we've been the ultimate team. And just because we're entering a little rough patch, that doesn't have to finish us, either one of us. We've had rough patches before. I can remember, and I'm sure you can too, several different times when we almost died together, in fact, and it was only the magic mysticism of Tylenol that brought us back. But that was then, and this is now. We don't have to succumb to this evil we're facing, uterus. We can beat it together. I know we can. It's going to be a little difficult for awhile, but I want you to know that I will never give up on you. I would walk a thousand miles in the rain, uphill, with fifteen orcs chasing me, just for you, and I know for a fact that you'd do the same for me. Uterus, even though we will die someday, and we will be separated, and the world will fall to despair, this is not that day. Together, we will fight, and we will end this period of bloody hell that has come upon us. Together we stand, together we fight, together we triumph! Uterus, let crusade and prevail!

Really very pointless

So today, instead of texting people back, I sat on the couch eating chocolate and reading Ayn Rand. I've finished almost two thirds now, and I feel quite accomplished. 1080-ish pages never felt so long. Anyway, after I finally got off my ass, I went to Barnes and Noble to drink coffee and do my calculus homework. I finished that (though I thought I never would, it being well nigh interminable and all), and then, feeling quite rebellious, I picked out a business and finance magazine and sat reading it instead of studying. I am the most badass of anyone, don't you agree? I am wonderful. Maybe I'm actually 60 years old. I could be like Rip van Winkle. If I could only persuade the world of my true identity, I could become quite rich and famous, and maybe I would get elected to office on the strength of my venerable elderliness. I think I'm going to check my stocks now. I actually do own some, though they are quite boring. Dad bought them for me, and though they are moral and ethically pure, they do not make a lot of money for me. Investing in something like Google would after all be quite wicked. Far better to invest in the Arizona silver mines. I hope they don't go out of business or something, but I feel that they probably will, someday. We can't hold John Galt off forever. Oh dear. Everything is going down, except the VIX, which is going up. Apparently, January is going to be quite disastrous. We may be about to fall off a cliff, but the debt ceiling is much worse. I sure don't envy Obama right now, no I don't! He's going to get blamed for everything, even if he has nothing to do with it. The economy is a free wild beast that none can tame (though Andrew Jackson did wound it once), and the sooner everyone realizes it, the better! So there.

I have a 97 in my online calc class. This, is a record for me. I have never done so well in any kind of math class. I'm actually quite proud. It beats my Lit grade, in fact. I wish it could go on my transcript instead of my other one. No matter how much singing I did, it wasn't worth much in the end. Things like this make me hate life, liberty, and especially the pursuit of happiness. Actually, they make me hate everything in general. I may have to run off and become an anti-intellectual and run a steel plant or something. I probably wouldn't be very good at it, but you know. Shite happens (or at least it would be sure to if I were left in charge).

You know what else makes me hate the human race? People. They are the scum of the earth. It ruins my day when I see them. Of course I like them in the abstract, and nothing would run very well if there weren't any, but it does often seem as though the sole object of every soul alive today is to irritate the bejeebers out of me (and I'm not even sure what bejeebers are). I sat behind two little children with iphones in church today. They were waving them about like distress signals, happily engaged with playing the noisiest games of Angry Birds they possibly could. Their lovely mother, of course, was not stopping them. In fact, she was behaving even more badly (if such a feat is possible). She began to talk loudly to every child within twenty feet of her, and make quite frightening faces, possibly in an attempt to exorcise any demons who might be lurking nearby (though how these demons could have made it all the way inside the sanctuary, I have no idea). Then, as if this weren't enough, she began to clamber and slither all over the pews like some kind of overgrown spider. Being quite tall, she made it into the pew in front of her, or rather her torso did, while the rest of her stayed more or less in the vicinity of her seat. She then stayed in this contortionist position for a good part of the service, chattering loudly to the troop of small, smelly children in front of her, and effectively blocking my view. I have often said that there is nothing more annoying than a new parent, and now I know this to be indisputable fact. Just one more reason for me not to have kids. Becoming pew-spider-woman would be one of the most humiliating additions to a resume in the course of human events. The only place I could get a job would be at the zoo. And that wouldn't be one of my top choices by any stretch of the imagination.

You know, I've been writing on here every day. Maybe I will soon run out of things to say and I will start spouting conservative rhetoric. I hope the day will not come soon (if at all). I would probably get arrested by the internet police for being a public nuisance (though it never seems to stop the idiots on forums and chat sites). Then I would have to argue my case in internet court, with only a pack of LOLcats for a jury, and no defense of my own, since the sixth amendment doesn't exist on the internet. It would be quite a terrible experience, and doomed to utter failure. My conviction would be quick and merciless and would end with me being chained in internet prison, subsisting on cheeseburgers and Bear Grylls "water" until the end of time. And I would have to listen to nyancat and watch Boxy videos on repeat forever. Damn, I would be the most reviled person in the world if I were in charge of prisons. I scare me. Whew!

All righty now, although it's been fun, I say it's high time for me to go to bed. After all, it is 2:23 AM. I'll just pop along now. But maybe I'll watch an episode of My Little Pony first. Friendship is magic, you know (although I wouldn't, not having any). Ok, goodnight!

I feel quite like a man.

Everyone but me is in bed. Or at least I think they are. It's quite disconcerting, actually. See, I was sitting quietly, minding my own business and looking at pictures of cats on the internet, and suddenly the house went as dark as a tomb and all sounds ceased. Zac isn't even practicing his extremely loud viola (which he deems it necessary to trumpet (ish) all over the house almost constantly), and Kitty isn't anywhere to be found, which is extremely strange, because it is her wont to stay up until 3 in the morning or later whenever she can. It's 12:03 right now. What is going on? Do we have something tomorrow which I don't know about? I'm not very well informed, you know. I sort of loaf around the house and gather the crumbs of information that fall to me from on high. Dear me, that sounds rather depressing. Let us say that I'm free from all worry and care. Much more complimentary, non?

For reals though, dafuq is going on? Where is everyone? Have they all been kidnapped by the FBI? If they have been, I suppose I will have to go and rescue them, but I don't know how I will do that. I do fancy myself to be quite the badass, but I have no motorcycle and no shotgun, and not even the bare consolation of alcohol, being too young to have any of those things. Still and all, I will prevail. Maybe I can dress in lingerie and charm my way into the deep prisons that everyone will be sure to be held in. I don't know how I would get out, but surely that could come later. It's never a problem for badasses to do things like that. They sort of just make things up on the spur of the moment, stick a cigarette in their mouth, blow some stuff up, and become heroes. Ugh, but I don't want to be a hero. That's so embarrassing. I'd feel incredibly brawny and manly and Terminator-ish. Wouldn't his be an embarrassing existence? Like, you're a badass and all, but then you can't do anything normal because you're too stoic and muscular. You can't make muffins and drink tea and read poetry, because you probably don't know how to read. And you can't troll the internet, because you have no sense of humor. You can't stare at attractive asses in the mall, or buy inordinate amounts of Chinese takeout, or play Pokemon or sing in the shower or do anything at all! You probably don't even take showers! The only thing you can do is go on missions and save the world. That would get awfully old after awhile, yes it would. I don't want to be the Terminator. I'd rather be Bob from Engineering.

I had an eye appointment done today. The people seemed firmly convinced that I was in need of some glasses or contacts, and wouldn't let me do a thing until I had picked which ones I wanted. In vain were my protestations that I needed nothing, and I had to make so many decisions concerning my failing eyesight that I almost think it's a pity I didn't go ahead and get something. It would have assuaged their poor souls. Sungmin, though, was a different story. He needed glasses with a vengeance (and I suppose he still needs them, since they have not come in yet). He already has a pair, since he is almost supernaturally nearsighted, but apparently his prescription has changed, and his ocular wardrobe must be updated. (On a tangent, is it called a wardrobe because it wards your robes for you? That derivation, I think, is absolutely charming and adorable. It suggests a little robe-warding robot who is completely devoted and attached to you and your robes and would fight for you if the occasion ever arose. Kind of like the Wall-E of clothing. But that's neither here nor there.) So the poor doctors were left with the unpleasant task of helping Sungmin find a new pair of frames. I am nearly certain that he tried on each and every pair inside the office, and rejected them all. Finally, he grudgingly picked out a pair that looks exactly like his old ones, at which point the one unlucky doctor saddled with the task gave an audible sigh of relief. Good gravy and bless my soul. It's a picky little nit I'm related to. You know, I quite like the phrase "good gravy." Is that a bad thing? I suppose it is. I mean, Dagny Taggart would never say it. Hank Rearden never would either. Francisco might, but I'm not sure how closely I want to pattern my life off his. Might give people the wrong idea, you know. Still, talking in that manner might give me a countrified charm. I could be elected to office solely on the strength of one phrase and my arresting dimples. No one would ever want to know boring minutiae about federal spending or national healthcare when they could just look at my homey face and feel reassured. I could do whatever I wanted! I could rout all the social security to Estonia, and no one would even notice, because I would have started up a Fireside Chat program at the same time. I would be a wonderful evil despot. The only problem is that's not what I want to be. But you know. Details are for the plebeians.

I think I'm becoming stupid with the cold. It's very sad, but I must admit to the truth. My pate is becoming addled, and there is naught I can do. For, you see, I am beginning to love love. This is a terrible occurrence. I was all set to be a lonely judge, with only the cold comfort of the law to stay me in the night of my desolation (that sounds reeeal good), but now I'm starting to think that a man might not be such a bad thing to have about the place! I mean, it's cheaper for taxes, and he can buy things for me, and then I won't have to be awkwardly alone at parties. And I might get a cute relationship like in Atlas Shrugged. See, from there stems my problem! I was just fine before I started reading it, and when it was all about money, I was ok, but then bless me Ultima, if Hank and Dagny didn't start getting it on right in the middle of Ellis Wyatt's oil fields! (Well, in his house, really, which parenthetically seems quite rude, but that is neither here nor there.) It all went downhill from there. I used to think their relationship was cute and that was all, but now I'm actually cheering for them (which is futile, because Hank and Francisco were made for each other)! It's ridiculous! What have happened to my standards? I can't champion a relationship comprising ridiculous people! Oh dear. Wait. I think they do conform to my standards. They are both rich and good looking and intelligent, and they actually talk to each other, and can work together. They are even musical (or at least Dagny is)! Are they effing perfect? What is happening to my life? I don't even know anymore. Maybe I will fall in love someday. But that day is not today! Until then, I will continue on my paths of rectitude, striving to do my best by myself, and by the world. And I will look at vast amounts of cat pictures. For that is what warriors such as myself nobly do.

An Ode to Myself

Move bitch! Get outta da way! I like that song so. It makes me feel cool. I should download some more rap. I have no time, though. It's very sad. I may be on break, but everyone around me still has a very strong opinion about how I should be spending my time. And, more pressingly, iTunes has gotten a new format, and I don't know how to put album covers in any longer. It shouldn't bother me to not have them, but if I don't, it looks so sloppy. Just a big-ass eighth note, which, as we all know, would be a terrible album cover. So not legit. Wait. Why don't people say "illegitimate" instead? It sounds much better. I think I'll start saying that. True, people might start thinking I have some extra children kicking about, but what is that in the grand scheme of things? It adds to my mystique and grandeur. On a further linguistic note, I've been wondering all day (ever since it occurred to me), if someone is full of mettle, are they mettlesome? Or are they perhaps metallic? Or are they a metallurgist? Or is it something completely strange like "metlet?" That might be it. Has a nice sound, it does. I think I will start promulgating all about the world (if I can find anyone who is indeed possessed of the aforementioned mettle).

Wonderful. Zac is bragging about his ability to use people. I think he wants us all to admire him and tell him that he is a veritable Hank Rearden and write poems about his magical abilities of usury (wait, that's something different). But I will not. I must hold firm! I won't even tell him that his immorality is depravity in itself. In fact, I won't even recognize it as immorality. Cuz I don't think it is. Ugh, now he's talking about how attractive he is to women. Even if he were (which he isn't), I wouldn't talk about that with him. It's gross. If he would keep his sadly platonic love affairs away from me, that would be perfect. It's not like I go around talking about my men. Wait, yes I do. Whenever any one of them says something particularly hilarious, I feel it incumbent upon me to share the joy with everyone around me. Is that bad? Hmm. I suppose it might be a little rude. I should stop. But some of the things really are the most delightfully terrible things ever! One piece of artwork from one of my poetic admirers included the lines, "I love you but you don't care/I want to feel your silky hair/Your face so fair, your curves just right/Zeus would call you Aphrodite" (Naturally, I've fixed the numerous spelling, capitalization, and punctuation errors in the original). It's so good, isn't it? So meaningful and deep. I think any girl would fall in love after receiving it. The implied mispronunciation of "Aphrodite" just adds to the drama, because, you know, it shows that he's willing to eschew traditionality for the sake of his great amour. Poor boy. I hope he never finds out how much I mock him behind his back.

Lest the cruel world decry me as the bitchiest of bitches, let me hasten to add that every time I text him, he asks for tit pics (which I never give him), and his facebook is filled with misogynist, chauvinist, and very misspelled statements which would be an affront to anyone with a modicum of social sense (not to mention grammatical sensibility). And, though this means nothing but to those as shallow as I, he is extraordinarily ugly and bad at violin (though he thinks he is a paragon of both virtues). So.

I fell down today. It was very embarrassing. I was at Market Night with Kitty (though there wasn't any), and we saw a creepy-ass lady skulking around in an alley, so we took off running down the sidewalk as if loan sharks were after us. My foot met a crack in the concrete (which is a song, by the way), and I went sprawling on my face. Kitty shrieked aloud, but I am proud to say that I uttered not a sound (except perhaps a manly grunt upon sitting up). I don't feel any more assured of my freedom from a degenerative disorder, but I do bear some battle scars, so I suppose that's one thing. All men have lacerations on them at all times, do they not? Now I can change my name to Aragorn and live as a true king (as I think he later becomes one). I can rule with tact and power, create a stable economy, draft a new constitution, and establish trade all over Middle Earth (by the way, are they in the Middle Ages? It seems they should be). I'm still stuck on tariffs, though. Of course, free trade is most efficacious, but would it be good to do away with them altogether? I sort of feel that it wouldn't. But maybe it would! Ugh. I kept myself up half the night a couple weeks ago debating with myself on this selfsame issue. The next day, as I sat in calc at 7:30 AM, I thought that I would cheerfully help the first person to mention border regulation to regulate the one between earth and space, but that's neither here nor there. Suffice to say that I would enjoy myself in the government and leave it at that (though being in the supreme court would be best by far).

Zac has not grown any less self-absorbed, but he has grown more audacious. At dinner just now, he proudly told us how he had taken offense at something one of his friend's parents had said (which was not offensive at all, incidentally), and had offered a sharp retort. Dear oh dear. He used to only be a brat to us. Now he is becoming a common arsehole. I hope he won't disgrace the family name. I know how Elizabeth Bennet feels now. Dad is the mom, and Zac is Lydia, and Sungmin is Kitty, and Kitty is probably Jane or something. I don't want to sound like an egoist, but I could be a Lizzie. I really think I could. Except for the marrying Darcy part, I don't have much of a hankering to do that. He is quite foul and redolent of S-hole. What am I going to do about Zac? Until he grows up, he won't get anywhere (and if Dad is an indication, I don't think he will ever truly grow up). Sometimes (and more often nowadays) I feel older than he, which is quite bad, because obviously I am not at the peak of maturity either. I don't talk much at our family table anymore, partially because Zac never shuts his mouth, and partially because he never listens to what I have to say. If I say anything, anything at all, even if it is related to his pet topic (himself), he will sniff, say something rude, roll his eyes, and sweep on. Everything I say seems to incense him, and though he irritates me as well, I no longer feel that it would be proper to argue with him. I used to be argumentative and dangerous, whatever happened? I still say rude things, but they aren't provocative of fighting anymore. I don't know, I honestly don't know- is this change for the better? I'd like to say I don't get involved in pettiness anymore, but that's not true. I'm just as small-minded as the next person, maybe more. Still, when everyone starts criticizing Dad, for example, I can't bring myself to join in anymore. I even stop them sometimes, especially when they have no reason to do it. But then I feel disloyal, which is completely silly, because hasn't my dad a right to defense, and haven't I a right to act for him? It's only constitutional-everyone has a right to it. I can't call myself an attorney or a justice by any means if I can't adhere to my principles even outside the courtroom. Even if it weren't for that, though, I'd still not want to join everyone else in making a scapegoat of him. He may be annoying and weird and dreadfully ADD, but I'm starting to see that he is sometimes also misunderstood. Like me, he likes to say things just to say them, but unlike me, he doesn't understand the effects they cause. And I don't think he understands why everyone wants to jump on him all the time. When Mom throws a barb his way out of the blue, or when Zac blows up at him because of his tone of voice, he has no recourse but to get angry, because that's his only defense. His mind is uncommonly good, but it doesn't move fast, and even if it did, he can't understand fully what's going on. I'm not saying he's innocent of all wrong, he's not, but he's not the black sheep that everyone seems to think he is. I fully admit I used to be the worst of the worst, never talking to him but to scream, but I'm trying to change. No one else seems to be. Anyway, that's my rant- it's been annoying me for awhile. This all makes me sound like I think I'm a saint, doesn't it? Oh dear. I suppose Ayn Rand must be getting to me more than I thought.

I am quite literally butthurt.

My ass hurts. Quite a lot, in fact. Unglamorous as it may seem, it is nonetheless quite a legitimate complaint, since it debars me from full enjoyment of my life and pains me more than words can say. I can barely move, and am forced to waddle, stiff-jointed and bow-legged, like some kind of cowboy-penguin hybrid, whenever I want to walk anywhere. It's rather annoying. This all started when Dad made us all go hiking yesterday for a family bonding experience. It was the worst thing I did all day. For one thing, the "hill" he chose to ascend seemed a veritable Mt. Olympus and was as steep as the prices in a suburban Apple store. (Incidentally, wouldn't iPi be an adorable name for an account or for a product or something? Rolls off the tongue, it does.) I got stones in my shoes (Actually Sungmin's, since I own only one pair of sneakers and Kitty was wearing them), and my outfit looked completely disgusting. We climbed all the way to the top, and I nearly died, and then we climbed down, and I nearly died doing that too. Not very pleasant. I suppose it built character and muscle tone and all, but I wish wandering around a mall for awhile could be counted just as productive. It would be a lesson in economy too. How cruel indeed is the fate of the human race.

I've just watched a Skyrim Gangnam Style video on youtube. What am I even doing with my life? This is what my existence has descended to. Maybe I should go on a quest or something. I could ride dragons and take arrows to the knee and all. After all, what am I but Dragonborn? I am the bamfiest of all bamfs and must be respected as so. I will learn to speak Dohvakiin's language as well. Look at all the "misspelled" words in this paragraph. My my.

I've got about halfway through Atlas Shrugged now, and I feel that my pace is dreadfully slow. It's been a week. I should be further along. Of course, it is a notoriously long and difficult story, but then, I've always prided myself on my ability to read fast. What to do? I like the book quite a lot, actually. It's so complex! And the characters have grown on me. Well, some have. It's hard not to like Francisco, even though he is so annoying, and I wish Dagny and Hank all the best in the world. They are adorable, both of them. I'm so sure they're going to break up though, and Hank and Francisco will start dating. Then Dagny will make some terrible decision and go out with John Galt or something. Oh dear. I think I've seen the future, and it's not too pleasant. How could this happen? It's dreadful! Hank and Dagny had such an adorable relationship! Better than when she was with Francisco, because there was an unequal distribution of power there. Although he said that he still loves her and he always will, so that's cute. Dafuq's wrong with me? Have I become a sentimentalist? I have long denigrated love as silly, but now I fear that I've grown an amorous streak. Next I'll be taking a capitalist mistress myself. (I'm listening to Money by Pink Floyd, by the way. So perfect for this discussion. Oh yeah, dat ambience babyy!) Besides the love aspects of the story, though, I really like the evil government bit. So unconventional-yet conventional. Very intriguing. I also love how the grammar is all flawless. There's not a misused "who" in there! It's beautiful. And I like how everything has different shades of meaning. It all makes you think in addition to being a fun book to read. It's all quite nuanced. I think you have to be a bit of a mature person to read it. Not to tout myself as being mature or anything, you know, it's just that it seems a bit more cultured than some people would like. Maybe it's a different kind of maturity necessary? Hmm. I mean, neither Allie nor Sonia would like it. And no one else would go near it with a ten foot stick. The only person who might read it is effing S-hole. The brat! I bet he has read it. He probably identifies with the characters and has very strong opinions about the whole thing. Again I say it- the brat!

It's Kitty's birthday today. It's her quinceañera. Does this mean I have to call her Katherine now? Ugh. This'll be weird. It's probably high time though. I mean, we only called her Kitty because of the X-Men character, and most people don't understand the reference. They all think it's from Pride and Prejudice (which is quite confusing to them, because that Kitty is such an unpleasant character). Anyway, we went to Barnes and Noble to read and drink overpriced coffee, since that's her home away from home (mine too), or rather she and Mom did. I had to do math homework. After that, we picked up Zac and went off to watch The Hobbit. It was adorable! I want a hobbit for my very own. But they didn't follow the book very well. There were all these random orcs popping up everywhere, and the dialogue consisted of short, pithy, emotional statements that Tolkein would never have written. I don't think I've heard so many panegyrics to friendship since my last episode of My Little Pony. But it was good overall, and bound to make a lot of money and stimulate the economy (ish). So that's all beautiful.

You know, I want some chocolate, since I have gotten about five pounds of it for Christmas, but I don't know if I dare venture into the other room to get some. It's dark and all. There might be rogue CIA agents hanging about just waiting for a single slip of mine. Actually, wouldn't it be the FBI? I always thought they were interchangeable, but since gov, I've realized that the various parts of the government are actually distinct and separate. Like, the Department of the Treasury can't constitutionally go out and coin money (like I thought they did). So anyway, is it the FBI that I actually fear? It must be. They seem less threatening somehow, don't they? I don't know what it is. F seems like a nice friendly letter (being that it starts the word "friendly" and all). Although it's not that friendly or welcome if it show up on your report card. Now I digress, probably permanently, but speaking of which, apparently there's something called an XF which you can get on your report card. It signifies cheating and failing the class, and it prevents the bearer of it from ever being accepted to a professional school. Some girl in Zac's school got one after she cheated in Organic Chemistry, and now can she not only not go to medical school (ever), she can't even fall back into pharmacy or public health! Sucks, man! But she kind of deserves it. I mean, I don't want my doctor to have cheated his way through school. Puts you off a little, you know. Still, there are lots of people out there who are so hardcore they never get caught. That's not good. People are so dumb, ugh. I once considered cheating-once. I was taking the PSAT, and I couldn't figure out the math section. There were about five minutes left, and I was completely brain dead. I was sitting at a small table across from a girl who had told me before the test started that she was good at math, and the proctor was nowhere in sight. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to glance casually across the table and get the answers (since she'd shown her work very conveniently). I considered this for about half a second, and then got offended at myself for the very notion. I'm not puritanically moral or anything, but my ego is too big to take credit for answers that aren't mine. Whatever I get, I get, but I'm going to be the one to get it, you know? Not doing something by my own merit, but getting credit for it anyway-that's what would turn me into a stereotypical white person. And that's something I totally don't want to be. Damn. I'm racist. What the hell! Ah, well. Everyone has their flaws. (I seem to have more than most, but that is neither here nor there) You know, I really like the Ramones. What is wrong with me? Maybe that's a flaw. But they're just so drawing! (I don't think that's the best word for the situation) I also like rap. It makes me happy (which it shouldn't, really, but dear me, joy is joy). Now, although it's only 3:30 in the morning, I'm quite tired, so, although it makes me feel like the most taciturn of manly warriors, I shall hie myself to bed. I do need my beauty rest after all. How else am I going to find a nice capitalist to date?

What is the point of this post. What is it. What.

I have made a beauty of my page. It's so professional I could burst into tears right here. The only thing I have not figured out is how to change the time zone, because right now I probably update as if I were in Alaska. Still, the lovely colors and designs and fonts and all are balm to my soul. Anyway, why am I here? I wrote a novel about my personal problems last night early this morning, and a second edition would be welcome to no one. I hope I haven't grown addicted to writing about myself. That wouldn't be very desirable. Perhaps I should quit while I am ahead. I have cats to look at, after all, and capitalist literature to read. And, um, college apps to do. So, though it makes me feel like a stoic, kingly, taciturn hero, akin to Aragorn (or worse, Heathcliff), I shall bid you an abrupt adieu.

I HATE THE WORLD UGGGGH

My love, it is I.

I made 27.08 today. I think that's pretty good. Actually, no. I made 47.08 today. Even better. First I played for the cantata at the Filipino church, which was mind numbingly dull and quite out of tune, but which furnished a delightful potluck, several hot guys, and the piece de resistance, a fake credit card for 20 bucks. So that was charming and all. Then I went to busk in the street (with le family) where all the rich people live (about 45 minutes away, so no one recognized us). We made more than a hundred dollars there, but we had to split it. Oh well. It was actually quite fun. I put on about five pounds of extra garments to stave off the inclement weather, and I looked as bulky and masculine as I have ever looked in my life. I could barely raise my arms (which made it hard to play, but such are the trials of manly men such as I). This brings my Christmas season gig counter up to about 18. Not bad, I'd say, but it seems paltry compared to what could be. Like, I mean, what if I went up and down the streets caroling my unfortunate neighbors until the break of dawn? I could do it. They might not recognize me if I disguise myself heavily. Or, even better, I could drive a couple towns over and spread the cheer of the season there. I would drift through like the proverbial tumbleweed and float past on the chilly December breeze before anyone could arrest me for trespassing or being a public nuisance. I like this plan. Makes me seem like one of these cool-ass ghosts. I'll just change my name to Ephemeral Effie or Pearl the Poltergeist, grow a handlebar mustache, don a pair of spurs, and ride off into the sunset like the BAMF that I am. No more will it be all quiet on the Western front, rather, the Western front will glow with holiday spirit and cheer. I wish everyone could think up nice practical plans for brightening up the world like me.

Zac is home for the holidays now, at least in spirit, although his corporeal being is often in actuality blessing someone else's home. He is almost never home, and when he is, he makes it clear that he does not want to be. I often wonder why he bothers gracing us with his presence at all. Uncharitably, I might venture to guess that it is because he wants to talk about himself. He does seem to do it a lot. Not once in four years has he asked me about my life, nor Kitty about hers. However, he has frequently gotten offended when we have neglected to inquire about his. On the rare occasions when he eats dinner with our family, conversation revolves completely about him and his friends. I now know more about his classmates than I do about mine. If someone ventures to bring up a topic that doesn't pertain to Zac in some way, he will either roll his eyes, make frightening faces, make beautiful comments such as, "Cool story bro," and "No offense, but who cares?" and sarcastically decry the lack of intelligence present in our family circle, or ignore the comment entirely and sweep on with more (oft-repeated) tales about his excellence. To hear him tell it, he is possessed of every desirable trait known to man. Proud as I am of him for making all his grad school pre-screenings, I feel I have heard all I need to about them, and though I am happy that he has found innumerable friendships at school, I don't feel that we need to dwell on them inordinately. Today, he began talking brightly of his friend Amy and her boyfriend Richard, then morphed into a discussion of his ability of using his friends for his own profit. His words were remorseful, but his tone was light, and his voice cheerful. One would have thought he was proud of his materialism (which he is). Mom interjected once that while I was at summer linguistics camp, I never had to pay for anything (except for breakfast on the first day) and I felt no regret about it. Zac didn't even deign to acknowledge this. He sniffed briefly and prissily, then launched into an anecdote about his imposition on his friend Lilith. This turned into a lecture on why Lilith is "into" him and why he is too good for her. Poor Lilith. I feel quite sorry for her. She's not alone, though. To hear him tell it, she has the company of all the female members of the music department in the rejection pile of his affections. Now, I know that my poor brother is quite insecure, and bragging about himself interminably makes him feel better, but unfortunately, I am only human, and I must humbly state that it also makes him insufferable. It is unfortunate, but there it is. Maybe someday his social skills will get better and he will be able to live up to the character he has painted for himself, but until then, he come across as naught but the most arrogant of souls.

Damn. I feel so insecure now. Not just currently (though I do currently as well), but forever. I thought I had gotten to be a strong and manly prick who cared for nothing but her own feelings, but I suppose I was wrong. It is the college search what has done this to me. No, I tell a lie. It is my own cursed human stupidity. If I were not such an ineffectual specimen, I would be far more acceptable to all society. I would be a bright shining star in the galaxy of the community, a true beacon of perfection to all the struggling masses, a paragon of every virtue conceived by man. My relatives would talk about me at dinner parties. My teachers would tout me to their other classes. My friends would look up to me. It would not be a burden to try to teach me things. I would be famous in the land. And above all, I would be the most self-absorbed of narcissists. I would probably become a raging capitalist, maybe go into industry or engineering or something (since I'd be good at everything) and become obscenely wealthy and be nominated as a Supreme Court justice without lifting a finger. Sure, my name would soon be despised by all the plebians as being synonymous with filthy lucre, but what would that matter? I would be successful. But all of this is as ash in the wind, since I am an ineffectual specimen. I am literally good for nothing. Though I have striven to hide it or pass it off as a degenerative disorder, I am as clumsy as a broom with two left feet. I often find myself in a close relationship with walls, and cracks in the ground are disastrous for my staid composure. When I look at my extremities, I am often startled to find a tapestry of multi-colored bruises decorating my skin. As if this weren't bad enough, I have no skills to speak of. I play violin and viola, but only well enough to get me cheap two-bit gigs and second-rate teaching jobs. I sing, but only well enough to land me a spot as a filler soprano who goes between first and second as the song demands it (although, to toot my own horn, I am in the top audition choir, and I beat out about forty people to get there. But still.) I can't draw, can't cook, can't knit blankets, can't even clean the house properly. I don't know how to apply makeup beyond eyeliner, and the only popular culture I follow is what comes up on the meme sites I read (or in the news sites I go to). Sports confuse me utterly, and although I want to understand car lore, I'm still stuck as to what the difference is between a V engine and an M one. But more than any of this, I'm bad at math. That's the one thing that will haunt me forever. I could ignore all my other failings if I were only adept at math. It's such a shameful matter, too. Such a ridiculous thing. Why in the world should I be bad at math? I have more opportunity than I know what to do with, and more resources for help than anyone had before. I mean, my brother is a math major, for crying out loud. Logically, I should be at the top of my class. But no. I'm the requisite dumbass of the room. I ask everyone for help, I talk to the teacher every time she's available, I read the textbook, and I study my butt off, but I've not gotten an A on a test since I was a freshman. What is wrong with me? I need to know. Maybe if I knew, I could fix it. Actually, probably not. I'm a colossal celestial joke, I think. Maybe an experiment gone wrong. Oh, was that irreverent? Probably. But I don't even know anymore. Theology is something else I'm bad at. I accrue questions at the speed of light, and of course there's no way to settle them effectually, so I'll be left wondering if I'm a flaming heretic for all time. And the worst thing is, I feel like everything I think is dreadfully sophomoric. I mean, if I have to go to hell for having heretical thoughts, shouldn't they at least be interesting heretical thoughts? It seems only decent somehow. Ugh. I hate these periods of absolute bleakness and despair. Of course, my desperately hopeless mood will pass like the rain, but it's always hanging on the periphery of my mind (also like the rain). Maybe I should take medication. Or, even better, maybe I should stop being ineffectual. Zing. That's a good one. I should take it on the road. I was born this way, and this way will I stay until the day I die. It may not be fun for me, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that it makes people like Zac look even better in comparison. According to Lucy Maude Montgomery or Louisa May Alcott or another one of these saccharine, obnoxious, pseudo-meaningful writers who proliferated during the late 19th century, this is a sacred purpose for people like me. How inspirational. I feel so much better now. Isn't it just the best to realize that your sole purpose in life is to be the antithesis of someone successful? Hits the spot. Mm gurl.

Oh my. It's almost three in the morning. Well then. Goodnight, and may your heart be as blessed as is mine with the knowledge that you are valuable solely for your ineptitude. Or, if you are cursedly successful and brilliant, you can rest on your laurels knowing that I am here to provide contrast for you. Whatever the knowledge, it is thine.

Discursive as the dawn

I have just taken pictures expressing the personalities of each of the characters in The Lord of the Rings. What am I even doing with my life? Still, most of them were quite genius, if I do say so myself. Especially Bill the Pony. That was a good un. And the fake beard I made for Gandalf... Now that was haute couture right there! Man, I sure do love winter break. Best time in my life.

I'm reading Atlas Shrugged now. I want to finish it before break ends. So far, I've been making good progress. Would it be a terrible thing to admit that I quite like the book? It's very interesting, and I'm not hampered by having any affection for any of the characters, and there's something delightfully illicit about reading Ayn Rand (especially in this household). I might name my nonexistent daughter Dagny. I like the name. Hopefully it doesn't mean anything scurrilous. But what if I've encountered a dilemma? What if I become a money grubbing capitalist forevermore, entranced by filthy lucre and caring nothing for love and feeling? What if I never find a husband? That would be ok, actually. I'd be just fine with that. We must all eschew love with a firm hand. And besides, even those capitalists found love in a hopeless place. If effing Francisco can do it, so too can I (I really don't like Francisco). Wait, but is that the point of the book? Are we supposed to dislike the characters? Maybe it's too show us how bad everything is. Well, yes, I guess it is. So is that the point? But then, sometimes I do like them (some of them anyway). Like, aww, little capitalists, they're so cute. So maybe that's not the point. Or is it just me reacting to them wrong? I do that. Or maybe I'm overthinking the whole thing...

I'm taking an online calculus course now. Like, literally, right now. I should be doing the problem sets, but it's really hard to focus. Damn, what if I got a disorder? I'm doing like five things at once here. And I feel that I am doing none of them well. I mean, I have a 90 in the course so far. That's just not like me! Well, maybe it is. Cuz, uh, it's math and all. But for reals, it should be higher! Ugh.

I turned off the heat awhile ago, because I want to save as much money as possible, and our gas bill is too damn high (cue Herman Cain jpeg), but someone has turned it back on. Do they want to heat me out of house and home? We must be men here, and men do not mind the cold more than they would mind another human being. Something must be done! However, I'm not the one to do it, because I've just got comfortable here, and I don't want to move. Perhaps I will do it later (that's my rallying cry).

Wellp, off to do some more calculus! I gotta get this done man. It's as easy as pi and will pad up my resume. So here we go. Off to differentiate! Just kidding. We're not there yet. He's still explaining what functions are. Oh dear...

Quite brief, I do declare.

Oh dear. Dad is listening to a radio program about how the nation is being destroyed. This is, of course, nothing new, but he has established himself not five feet from me, and is blasting the strident anti-Soicalist Gospel through his speakers all over the house. I wouldn't be surprised if our neighbors came in to complain about the noise. After all, surely not everyone is a member of the Racist Capitalists Guild and the NRA. And surely someone must have a modicum of common sense and sensibility (see what I did there dat was a alloozhun lol), and would be more than willing to object to this outpouring of verbal filth issuing from the gutters of the radio stations. Certainly, I would. But it really isn't worth the effort. At dinner, he is sure to give us all a bowdlerized version of all that has transpired on the airwaves (heedless of the fact that we have heard the entirety and need no summary), and I can defame all logical fallacies then. Well, perhaps not all. There are sure to be quite a lot.

It is winter break now, and I couldn't be happier. I needed this break, I did. It is like a shot of seratonin to the soul (if that is indeed a good thing) and like a penguin on the doorstep. I can finish my college apps now, and sleep until the cows come home. And I can finally stop seeing Fish Face and S-hole every day. I'm so sick of those two. Hopefully I shan't see them after high school. S-hole wants to go to Berkeley, and I didn't apply there, and even though Fish Face and I both applied to Davis, it's not my first choice, and I probably won't even get in there anyway because of my shitty calc grade. So, you see, I will be safe from their annoyingness forevermore. Aww, that's kind of sad though! It's not that I like them (quite the opposite, actually), but I do like to see them every day and make fun of them, if that makes any sense. I am a bad person, corrupt and shallow, and we must all recognize the tragic fact (if it was not abundantly obvious before).

I'm reading Atlas Shrugged right now. I want to finish it during break. I don't particularly adhere to that style of thinking, but I feel like it's something everyone should read. It also might help me on my journey to become a heartless capitalist who stomps on the dreams (and wallets) of all those around him and who is both revered as being a colossus of pecuniary power and loathed as all the nasty points of humanity incarnate. I mean, I'm going to be a lawyer for eff's sake. What am I supposed to do?

Oh, tis suppertime. Ok, bye.

Confessions of an oaf

I like rap now. I've decided it. I used to not, cuz I thought it was unmelodic and boring, but now I realize that it is rife with subtle nuances that I hadn't noticed before, so now I feel that it is in my soul just as much as everything else. It also makes me feel like a badass, and that's definitely a plus. Not much does, you know. Maybe I should take to wearing chain mail and riding two motorcycles at once and all that stuff. It might make it easier for me to maintain my image as Madame la Badasse so everyone can look up and revere me. In general, people don't, and I find that quite strange. After all, who am I but the coolest of cool? But hardly a day goes by without someone telling me how small and cute I am. Lately, Fish Face has taken to exclaiming over my supposed quietude, and the rest of my beloved choir mates have joined suit. In vain are my protestations that I actually am not quiet and shy and it is only their odious presence that suppresses my loquacity. I think they all feel sorry for me. It's ridiculously awkward. I can't do anything publicly in there without someone going "Aww!" and no matter how I act, I always have the uncomfortable feeling that someone is thinking me a big, awkward, antisocial, oaf. And I'm NOT! I'm just not integrated into the special little Choir Club they have! Is it my fault that I don't have a Mitt Romney sized bank account and a negative GPA? UGH. Performances are as awkward as the juxtaposition of figures in a Hiberno-Saxon painting. I am forced to keep my phone in my bra and text random people whom I think will reply to me just to keep body and soul together. And then Fish Face will inevitably see me eschewing all human contact and come over and start trying to talk to me (out of pity, I'm sure), and then I'll sort of chuckle awkwardly and talk in the really babyish voice that comes out when I'm uncomfortable and then some other person will come over and tell me how little and adorable I am and then I'll awkwardly chuckle some more and finally everyone will drift away and I'll take up texting again, feeling like the worst kind of oaf. It's quite a pattern. How did this happen, anyway? I think it started at the very beginning of the year. Or no, even earlier than that, it started at the end of last year when I went to the induction ceremony. Every blessed person in the world started weeping and wailing like the world was ending, proclaiming their undying love and devotion for each other, and in the midst of this lachrymosity, I quietly slipped out of the room and skipped the very first bonding experience the group had. And it all went downhill from there. I didn't know a soul in the group except Lisa, whom everyone loves, Roger, who is supremely annoying, and Fish Face, whose very presence is anathema to me, so I didn't talk to anyone, because I really don't like buddying it up with strangers (usually). To add to this beautiful situation, everyone had decided to be blood brothers from day one, so I was cut off from the cult before I'd even gotten a chance to initiate myself into it. As time went on, everyone else just got closer, and things just got more awkward for me. Often, I would go through the whole period without opening my mouth once (except to sing, naturally). Activities that involved participation were excruciating. The day we did voice matching and I had to sing in front of the class was a nightmare; I still cringe with shame to think about it. And, um, things are still like that. Yup. I can't even move around in my chair, because I feel like everyone will judge me for it. That may sound ridiculous, and indeed, it seems ridiculous to me as I think about it now, but once I get into the situation, every bound of sensibility disappears. I purposely spend large amounts of time after lunch talking to people and staring at myself in the bathroom mirror so I won't have to get to class until right before the bell rings. I'm often late, actually, and I never get there before the two minute bell. I have literally no one to talk to. Because Lisa is such a lovely person, everyone likes her, and is her friend, and I can't depend on her to take care of me socially, so I daren't hang around her too much. I ain't no parasite, ye ken, and I don't want anyone to think I'm pathetic, so I have to do everything solo and act like I like it that way. If someone is friendly to them, of course I'm nice to them and all, and if they choose to hang out with me, I'll be a companion like no other, but I can't actively seek anyone out. So far, I've been ok I think, but I have no idea what I'm going to do about tour. Five days cooped up with these people? What the hell am I going to do about this? I didn't even like it last year, and I was completely integrated into the group then. What if I didn't go? I don't know how I'd manage that. It's not even possible. Ugh. I hate everything. This was supposed to be the best year of my life; I've wanted to be in this group for five years. What the hell happened? I feel like there's a valuable life lesson here somewhere...

On the other hand, in my other classes, everyone is being much more friendly than last year. In Lit, our group is like a legit group now. I actually like each and every one of the five other members, and when I see them outside of class, we wave cheerfully to each other. This is quite a miracle, since before this year, I didn't like Lily and Helena at all, and I was ambivalent about Ansel, Jake, and Chris. I don't think they liked me either. I know Lily didn't. Whenever she saw me walking with Allie, she would studiously ignore me (even though I was always nice to her). But where was I going with this? Ah, yes. I love lit. It's such a fun class (and not just because it's English and English is the only thing I'm good at). Physics is fun too. The people in it are all smart, and I like them in spite of the fact that most of them are juniors. Only three people have an A in there, and I'm one of them. So that's something else that's remarkably lovely. I actually like gov too now, even though I never thought I would. The subject is beautiful, and even though I dislike most of the people in there, it's still somehow ok. Art history, of course, deserves more laudation than I could give. SO glad I didn't take psych. I'd probably be with S-hole. Oh yeah, speaking of the little brat! He's been so nice lately! What is going on? In calc on Friday, we were going to sing a Beach Boys song for extra credit (five of us, that is, not the whole class), and I didn't know it. I said as much, to warn the others, and without further ado, S-hole reached into his pocket and pulled out his ipod. "Here," he said, beginning to proffer it to me. "I got this," interrupted Katelyn in her nasally voice, brandishing her giant, five hundred dollar iphone. "I have better speakers." "Oh, that's true," said S-hole humbly, and began to sing along to the music. "You can probably learn it fast; you're in choir," he added to me. Well, I could, obviously, but it was mighty nice of him to point it out. After I'd learned it (in one turn, may I add), we sang it through, and I suggested something along the lines of like totally adding some harmony. "How do you do that?" asked S-hole, turning to me with an interested expression. I was gearing up to an involved explanation of thirds and perfect fifths, when Jake succinctly told him that he should just sing other notes. I couldn't really think of anything to add to this perfect elucidation, so I shut up and we performed the piece in unison. I think it was very nice, personally, and any extra credit is as light to my eyes. But it kind of bothers me that S-hole can sing... Like, where do you get off being so well rounded, bro? It ain't natural. Something's gotta give. I bet he has a horrible personality. Oh, wait... Zing! That was a good one. I should write it down. Poor S-hole. Maybe I'm being too hard on him. After all, what harm has he done me? Oh yeah- he offended my pride. Well then.

Speaking of pride! I HATE MR. DARCY. He reminds me of S-hole. Damn, I straight up don't know why bitches be all over him like that. He nasty as eff. Someone gotta realize his ratchet ass ain't worth swooning over pretty damn fast! Whaaaat. I'ma write an effing treatise about this. I like Elizabeth, though. I'd marry her. She's hottt. And I like the book a lot. It's really good. Much better than Hamlet, that's for sure. Come on, what's so great about Shakespeare? He's overrated. And I can say that because I've read a lot of his plays and some of his sonnets (well, not very many of them...) and I know the premises of some of the other ones. So THERE. Let's have a revolution.

Okeydokey, time to go do some stuff. For one thing, finish my concert report that's due Monday. For another thing, go to bed. Goodnight, now!

I CAN'T THINK OF A CLEVER AND WITTY TITLE FFF

I am working on an art history report, and I feel certain and sure that I am doing it wrong. This is not funny, guys. Not at all. I had a 94, but then I got a four on that one test, and my grade probably went down to about a 92, and now I need to do really well on this paper or I am dead in the water. And I think I am doing it wrong. So.

Although I thought that about the last one and I got 100... But let us not speculate.

I had to sing at the band concert tonight. It was very heinous. I may be a picky, tight ass bastard, but even the most incompetent and tone deaf audience member should agree with my solemn pronouncements and be able to recognize how out of tune the "music" was. It took all my will power to not snatch the violins from their very hands and tune them myself. They were so flat I thought I could see the end of the horizon- and there was nothing there but desolation and dissonance. Damn, that sounds reeeal good. Maybe I should become an author in my old age. I will write dramatic novels about myself and my fellow Supreme Court justices, and the American public will finally know our names. Maybe I'll stick some congressmen in there if they invite us out to eat with their PACS a couple times. It will be called Courtship-the Untold Story of American Government, and will involve scintillating, steamy, and completely fallacious accounts of judicial love and passion. It will be a best seller immediately. Man, I can't wait to be rich...I will donate to people and start community music programs and not give a red penny to anyone white and be just a really nice philanthropic philanthropic overall. And when I die, I will leave my immense wealth to one lucky individual and change their life forever (since I will have no children and no husband and will be as lonely as Slenderman). It will be a beautiful thing. Maybe they will write a novel as well.

Fish Face is becoming quite the annoying little brat. He keeps trying to talk to me and all, and I think it's out of pity because I am so forever alone. Surely it can't be because of my engaging and witty dialogue. I usually say insulting things. Now, why do I do that? That ain't so polite. I think it may be because I don't like him. That could be a good reason. Still, maybe I should take a manners class so that I do not offend his mortal soul. It doesn't matter though. He will continue to think that I am cute and sweet and quiet and shy until the end of time. And I know this because he keeps saying it. Constantly. And he won't stop staring at me at random times (usually when I am making a particularly derpy face), probably just to make me feel awkward. Damn! This man, man. I don't know what to do with my life anymore.

Oooooh, it's more than a feelingggg, more than a feeling! She slipped awaayyyyyy!Yeeeeah! What is wrong with me. My taste in music has become shittier by the day. Soon I will be listening to One Direction and lauding Justin Bieber as good. Damn, this is why we can't have nice things. Effff.

We sang in calc today (and have for the past few days) to get extra credit. S-hole sang too, and he actually can sing. SO annoying! The little twerp! That's my territory! I oughtta smack the sense out of you! (Is that the phrase? I am beginning to doubt...) He knows I'm in choir, too. I know this cuz he talked to me. WHAT IS GOING ON. How does he know about my life and why is he being friendly? Does he not hate me like I hate him? What is life?! WHO KILLED CECILIA??! There are things we must know here.

Now I'm listening to music from Spirited Away. MY CHILDHOOD. OMUGAH. THE FEELS. Why do I do this to myself? I'm going to have to go punch rocks outside now just to get my sense of male dignity back, and I don't like doing that. Breaks my nails, ya see. Oh my, oh my. I just realized how impending is my doom. Tis 11:45, and I must finish my paper. I hate life. Gon' punch it in the face. Or perhaps the ballsack. But something, anyway. Before that propitious and beautiful occurrence, though, I really must finish my paper, so I must bid you adieu. Bon soir!

Midnight musings

I fear that there is something truly wrong with me. Truly wrong, I say, and none can contradict me, for in this day of sadness, I have discovered that I like the Ramones.

Wat.
This is a travesty. Have I become one of these horrible people who think they are so hardcore because they listen to music that was produced before 1970? Will I soon begin to dress my hair with flowers and decry LBJ as the traitor of American society? Will I go further back than that and change my last name to McCarthy as I eschew everything bearing the slightest tint of red? Or will I lose all sense of proportion and make my way back into the early days of imperialism, calling all Filipino people my "little brown brothers" and petitioning all the world around me for a global empire? I know not what to do. Life is so confusing. Maybe I should become a nun. I could make art for the refectory and the triforium and all those wonderful places that sound so beautifully Latin. I know how it all works now (thanks to Art History). I will change my name to something quite properly artistic and Italian, like Giovanna del Sexypantsia. My name will be known forever, and someday people will analyze my work for obscure meanings. Sounds like a viable plan.
Speaking of analysis, I have found that art historians are even worse than English majors when it comes to finding information in works. At least English majors back up their points with rhetorical devices. Art historians have not that faculty. They merely make things up, and then justify them by vaguely referring to line or composition or sufamato or some beautiful thing like that. It seems quite the easy job. Maybe I will take a minor in it when I go to Compton Community College for my BS in Uselessshite (which is an ancient Swedish word for "useless shite").
I submitted my USC app today. No words can describe the stress in my mind at the moment that I clicked the "send" button. It was worse than every awkward choir performance I have suffered through, worse than that creepy cross country guy's pedophile pickup lines, worse than Fish Face's bug-ugly Caucasian ass. It was truly a moment to live for and yet to die for at once. I experienced a higher consciousness in those few seconds, and that transcendental feeling none can take away from me. Unfortunately, I can't put the mysticism of the moment to any suitable use, since all my essays have already been written, but it will live forever in my heart.
I just figured out how to do HTML on this thang. It's wonderful. I feel like the most advanced of technological geniuses for doing it. Maybe I should become a computer programmer and work at top-tier companies and make exponential amounts of money and consort with the uppermost of echelons everyday for the rest of my life. Wouldn't that be something, now. I hope I wouldn't have to marry a doctor. Then I'd have to host social dinners and balls and all that sort of stuff and take up golfing and adopt a whiny chihuahua named GracielouPeachyTinkerSparklebelle and pretend I was interested in one percent problems. Maybe I would even be tempted to dye my hair blond and change my name to Ashley Lewis or something. No, I couldn't risk it. I will be lonely and desolate all my days, with no light of love to warm my frigid isolation. No presence will cheer my poor life but my cats' (I intend to have five). I will be the most bitter, insular old woman the world has ever seen, and I will like it. After all, who needs love letters when one has writs of certiorari? Reed v. Reed is the closest I ever want to get to marriage, and bear in mind, if you will, that that was a divorce case. Supreme court justices need no one in their lives but the law. But, if I did get married, I would want a man with the following qualifications:
1) He must be as hot as the day the earth stood still.
2) He must be as rich as Mitt Romney. Nay, he must be richer still. His pockets must be as deep as the proverbial sea.
3) He must be a veritable Einstein. I love me that manly smartness.
4) He must have music in his soul and rhythm in his blood. If he had the voice of an angelic angel, that would also be splendid (so we could sing duets and such, ye ken), but this is not an absolute necessity.
5) He must be as humorous as humor itself. At least, he must bear a sense of humor. After all, I don't really want some immature practical-joking sitcom star.
6) He must have a sense of social justice. That is to say, he cannot act white.
7) Well, you know, while we're at it, if he's not white, that might be really nice too, because I'm a racist bigot.
8) He must be able to argue about many things. Specifically, with me. So, see, he must have the strong will of a lawyer (which he will preferably be).
9) He will be as independent as the wind that flows through the trees, and as romantic as the least romantic thing ever. Although he can buy me stuff, that would be nice.
10) He must be as economically oriented as I am. Cuz if he goes out spending millions of dollars on insulated sofas, that's grounds for divorce right there. Amirite or wat?
And there we have it, the perfect Adonis for me! Of course, such a man does not exist (save in the pages of dubiously written romantic novels that are not really fit for public consumption), so I will be free of the burdens of love forevermore. Oh, damn! I just realized, that describes S-hole! What is going on. The little twat is almost exactly like me, and I loathe him for it. As they say, like repels like (or at least that is the case when it comes to magnetism). So I shan't fall in love with him, nor he with me, and all shall be comity and felicity forevermore.
I have to go to Allie's birthday party tomorrow. She invited none but her closest friends (which is me, Sonia, Annabelle, and Ivy), and I feel as privileged as pie. We are going to have a high tea at a very glamourous little tea shop, and she is paying for it all, and it all is going to be splendid and fabulous. Still, it's at 1:00, so I will have to drag myself from my bed of slumber, and that is an arduous task indeed. But what is friendship but arduous? Or is it ardent I mean? Well, you know, 'tis something like that. It is all about heart (which is, I think, the root word. I hope.).
Oh, that means I should go to bed, does it not. It is 2:40 AM, and everyone else is happily off in slumberland. I will wait until this piece is done (it is Variations on a Theme by Corelli, and is the most lovely little piece in the whole wide world), and then off I shall go. Oh, there we go. Goodnight, sweet prince!