I asked my English teacher after Lit today if Atlas Shrugged was considered to be "literary merit" and he said it probably was, so I was all happy, but then I checked on the list just now and it's not on there. I'm immensely disappointed! I mean, that is the best of book of all time, clearly. It would be lovely to write about on the AP exam too, I mean, there are so many prompts it could go to! If they ask for a love story? Boom, Dagny's got it going on. Comedy? Yes, indeed, there's that one section when every single employee of Taggart Transcontinental wants to be the first to drive the train on the Rearden Metal track. That part was awesome. Jim was so sad. Let's see... What else might they ask for? Perhaps insanity (as our last prompt was)? That works, Lillian and Jim go nuts in the end, or if we're discussing villainy (as another of our prompts made us do) we would have a myriad selection of crazy-ass mofos to analyze. Let's be real here, it's the new Hamlet. I'm going to do an ACE review on it anyway, just for fun, and then if it ever becomes literary merit between now and the exam, I can whip it out and capitalize my way to a five. Whee!
Speaking of Lit, I got the highest score on the multiple choice again. Actually, no, second highest, some bitch in second period scored four points higher than I did. But still, you know, that's close. Sadly, S-hole got the same score I did. Like, the exact same score. Our names were written up on the board together and everything. Ugh. I really do dislike that boy. But I like Lit! It's such a fun class. I wish it weren't so useless to be good at English. You know? Like, it's so awesome, but then when it actually comes down to it, anaphoras have to bow to integrals every time. Which is, you know, ridiculous, seeing as language is part of our every day life and is absolutely essential to survival, while math, though quite indispensable, is not. But society has got us all thinking that if you can't do a differential equation, you aren't fit to live, and if you have to use a calculator for anything short of natural logs, you should be excommunicated and sent to live in Antarctica so you won't infect anyone else with your stupidity. Why is this so? You can freely mix up 'its' and 'it's' and no one will give a single bother, but if you mess up your times tables, well, then you better pray for your eternal soul. DAMMIT. You know, I really hate all the silly mores in this futile, insipid, mockery of a society.
Ooh, I sound like one of those bitter anarchists. Maybe I should take to writing Modernist poetry and going to coffee shops and peppering my every sentence with references to "The Man." I could shave my head and dye it purple and pierce my chin and everything. Wouldn't that be charming, now? I would be very popular among all the creative writing majors in college. By the way, what do you do with a BA in creative writing? Like, do you compose meaningful epics about the terrible working conditions of McDonalds or something? There are supposed to be labor laws and everything, but even the most surgically sterile room could inspire a deep and thoughtful person to try and get his supervisor fired. Then again, no one would be able to understand the poem in the first place, or if they did, they would probably think it was about the death of their great-great grandfather fifty years prior due to dueling Andrew Jackson or something, so maybe it would be all right. I have a problem with Modernist poets. They were the ones I was bashing so assiduously the other day. They're all like whiny middle school kids who are sad because their twelve-year-old girlfriend left them for some prepubescent baseball player with more Pokemon cards and who decide to express their feelings in a stream-of-consciousness rant about how oranges should be blue. It's so silly! They're grown-ass men, for heaven's sake. Is it that hard to grow a pair and stop soliloquizing over why life is so hard? It's like First World Problems, the Expanded Editor's Edition all up in here. At least, if you're going to be all sad and stuff, have the decency to express your thoughts in a way that doesn't make everyone hate you. Sheeeit, man. That just gon' make you more sad.
I have another festival tomorrow (speaking of life being full of first world problems). I really don't want to go. I have to skip my physics test, for one thing, which isn't really that bad, because I'm just making it up at lunch before we leave during fifth period, but it's still a pain, because I'd much rather go to physics than Chapman. Darn. Maybe I can convince the other choir members that I've come down with the bubonic plague. There wouldn't be much of a change in our relationship, but at least I could have an excuse for abstaining. Or maybe I could find myself a nice, sexy college man while I'm there and have myself a grand old time in spite of it all. It would be the perfect fling, as I would never see him again after that day (not having applied to Chapman, like). I think I will start up a scrapbook of my terrible experiences during these festivals of fraternal feeling and foul frippery and publish it in my memoirs as Alfonso Durpenhogen when I am old and gray. People will read it, and be happy that they are not as I am, and it will be a big ol pot of chicken soup for the soul. I'll make so much money that the other Supreme Court justices will try to take out loans from me and I can charge them exorbitant interest rates and make even more money. It's a foolproof scheme. Now I just need to write the silly thing. Which is going to be, you know, a bit of an ordeal, seeing as I have to live through the sad events of my lonely days in order to get material for it. Couldn't I send a proxy? I'm sure I have a double somewhere. Maybe she's even near me now, like in the Twilight Zone. It would be rather unfortunate for me if she managed to steal my existence, but in the short run, it really would come in handy to have her kicking around. She could even take my math tests for me, since I'm sure whatever method of instruction for calculus they have in the parallel universe is superior to ours.
Oh, I got into Cal State Long Beach! Just have to add that here. I don't want to go there, but I'm happy to finally have a school in California. And that brings me up to three! Won't it be great when we get into the March Madness of the academic world and I start receiving rejection letters every day? I'll probably get rejected to schools I haven't even applied to. It'll be great.
Ok, so this is incredibly random, but I just remembered this lovely conversation I had not too long ago with one of my "good friends" from music camp who is quite enamored of my boobs, and not much else about me. He also has no interest in syntax, as shall be painfully obvious in this delightful correspondence I shall accurately impart from the old messages on my phone.
John: *sends me a picture of his happy town* you like that dontcha ;)
Me: Why are you up so late? (note: he sent me this at 2 in the morning)
John: i send you a picture of my dick and thats all you can say!!
Me: Well, what's the appropriate response to something of the sort?
John: well maybe you should send me something back
Me: *sends a picture of my stomach*
John: show me more!
John: lets see those nice juicy tits :)
John: i like ur nice tight stomach though ;)
John: damn i wanna fuck ur pussy soo hard
Me: Well, thank you, I suppose.
John: omg just show me ur tits! stop teasing me!!
Me: I don't want to. I feel that to be a violation of my right to privacy.
John: well can i atleast see some more cleavage?
Me: *sends him a picture of an octagenarian in a string bikini*
Me: That's the sexy we go in for here.
John: -____-
John: lol haha
John: i dont know why!! your tits are sooo perfect
Me: I'm not really sure I want to know how you know this.
John: because i remember from years ago ;p
Me: Oh. Well then.
John: yup lol
John: i know you wanted to see my dick.so at least show me ur cleavage haha
Me: *sends a picture of a shirtless, hairy chested man*
Me: Aren't I pretty?
John: omg!!!
John: do you want another pic of my dick?
Me: No, but do you want a pic of mine?
John: OMGG!!!
John: your something else
John: i swear, id fuck your pussy so hard
John: imagine cumming on my hard cock as i pound into you over and over mmmmmm
Me: No thank you.
He finally stopped replying after this, and I thought I'd done my work well, but he texted me the next day asking how his "girlfriend" was doing. Sigh. I suppose we must give him points for persistence, but
really, is this what modern courtship has come to? It almost makes me long for the likes of John Donne telling me a fleabite is a sign of why we should sex it up. Are all men like this? I would be so incredibly disappointed. Where are all the Hank Reardens of the world? The Sydney Cartons? The Raskolnikovs? Wait, no. I don't want Raskolnikov (even if he is a lady-killer of the highest order -zing). I guess real men don't exist anymore. What a shame. Now I have to swear off love forever and move to a commune and wear goat hair and eat nothing but natural produce, which I can't wash, because it will be a crime against the natural processes, and vote Libertarian in each election, and really, that's such a pain. So much trouble finding a proper commune, you know. It's not like we have Walden ponds lying around every street corner. Ah well. It's all in the name of love (or lack of it), so it should be considered socially acceptable. People have done much more egregious things in the name of love, so I should be in good, if rather dimwitted, company. Maybe I can write some meaningful poems while I am there.
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