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!

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!

The worst of times.

Today was the very worst day of my life. Or close enough, anyway. We can apply the squeeze theorem, being that it was in the neighborhood of c (C being crap). What am I even talking about? Anyway. Here is my list of reasons why my life is terrible. 1. I had about three hours of sleep (though this is far from being unusual for me). 2. I think I failed my calculus test, and it wasn't even my fault. There was stuff on there she'd never taught, and there were so many problems that I didn't finish. It made me so mad that I wanted to punch someone's lights out with a lightsaber (and I don't even know how lightsabers work). (Like, are they lasers? Or beams of light? Perhaps illuminated swords? And why are people so into them anyway?) Oh, yes. So. 3. I think I did my quarter report on Andokides painter wrong for Art History, and I may get a zero now. And I had a 91 in the class. 4. I had my unit 3 test for gov today, and I didn't study at all. I sort of looked at the chapter on interests groups last night, though. So I probably failed that. 5. I feel so incredibly shitty. My dear friend Tom is visiting, and with him have come all the symptoms of a premature death. I almost passed out in gov. Very embarrassing. 6. I stepped in peanut butter that some wonderful environmentalist had left lying about on the sidewalk, and it got all over my shoe. Speaking of which! 7. Someone's done something with all my shoes! I can only find two pairs! It makes outfit coordination really hard. 8. I had to talk to ASS for a REALLY long time. The ass. 9. I tried to study physics at lunch, and people kept talking to me. What cheek! 10. I tried to get letters of recommendation, but I couldn't because I was too late. (I did get two, though.) 11. I wanted to study in choir, but we sang the entire time, so I couldn't. 12. I think I failed my physics test. Just cause. 13. I bought my homecoming ticket, and Sonia's parents may not be able to take us all (Ivy, Annabelle, Lisa, Sonia, me, and Allie). And it was 60 dollars. 14. I had to go to a college presentation at school for two hours, and they said absolutely nothing I didn't know, and it made me feel completely inadequate about everything and like I will never find a college in a million years. And, the crowning indignity to it all... 15. I look like complete shit today! So. You see. This is why my anger doth not abate. Why is it illegal to go around mugging people? I should very much like for other people besides me to know the hardship I have gone through. Maybe I will obtain a soapbox, set myself up on the corner of Barton and University, and tell them all about it. That sounds like a plan. SEXY SHIT. I FEEL SO HORRIBLE.