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"I can't believe it, I cannot believe it!" i mumble.
Five minutes ago, I was shopping for shoelaces in Hot Topic, and now I'm standing in front of a store, I'm not sure which one, but from the horrible stench radiating behind me, I can only presume which one of the various "popular" stores it is (I say popular to be polite). I think I'll go with Hollister. Any-who, I'm standing here, chocolate covered gummy bears melting in hand, watching my HERO eat Dip-n-Dots on a bench.
For any other occasion, I would have punched J. R. for dragging me out of a store to goggle over some guy. But this is not just "some guy" and right now, I feel as though I should be kissing his feet.
"Paul McCartney J. R.! Paul McCartney!" I cry. "I know! I know!" J. R. keeps repeating like it's no big deal. "Hmm..." I sigh, trying to figure the best course of action. "OK, I'm ready!" i announce to J. R. who stopped paying attention to me to check-out some guys, a long time ago.
I walk to the bench where Macca's* finishing off his "Dots" and prepare to do my best Dumb Blond act, even though, I'm nowhere close to being blond.
He smiles at me as I sit, and I nearly melt! "I like your shirt," he comments (in his gorgeous accent) about the Beatles shirt I'm wearing. "Oh, yeah! I love them" i say like I don't realize that I'm talking to the guy who's face is printed on my boob. He looks extremely confused. "So, who's your favorite Beatle?" he asks me. "Um, IDK, the one with the, um...glasses, I think he's popular right?" I say fighting the urge to burst out laughing, and punch myself in the face because text talk is the bane of my existence. "Have I met you before?" he asks me practically begging for me to realize who he is. "Um...no, I don't recognize you," I tell him pulling the final string. "Pull the Strings! Pull the Strings!", sorry just a quote from the movie "Ed Wood" I couldn't help myself. Anyways... "OK! Well, nice talking to you," he says as he rises from a his seat on the bench, which is promptly taken by a little chubby kid who's been eyeing it for the past few minutes.
"Wait!" i yell before Mr.McCartney manages to get to far, "Rocky Raccoon, is one of my favorite songs, Sir Paul," i proclaim, not only naming a song that those posers who claim to like the Beatles don't know, bit also showing that I know he wrote it. "I knew you couldn't possibly be that oblivious!" he says walking back toward me. "Alas! I am not, I just wanted to make some sort of impression on you," i explain, "I abso-"
"Beatrice! Beatrice!" Mrs. So-Boring-I-Can't-Even-Remember-Her-Name-Right-Now screeches in my ear, rudely waking me from my beautiful, yet sadly, unrealistic fantasy. "Yeah?" I ask to shut her up. "Answer the question," she tells me, a sly grin creeping it's way across her, old, wrinkly face. "I wasn't listening," I say truthfully. "AHH HA!" she cries like she just found out that it was "Ms. Scarlet, in the kitchen, with the wrench," "Well, it's not like you didn't already know," i again, say truthfully. "Don't talk back to me young missy!" Ugh! Her speech makes me want to hurl! Why do I keep getting reprimanded for telling the truth? "Sorry, what was the question?" I ask nice and proper like. She poses it again and it sounds like gibberish to me, something with ganglia and cerebral, or something. "Um...photosynthesis," i say 'cause it's the only big word I can think of. "No," she answers shortly.
I loathe science class. Mrs.Nimble, the absolute most horrible, boring, old, mean hag of a teacher to ever walk the face of this earth, is my instructor for this hell of a B5 period. I can do it, don't get me wrong, somehow I always scrape past with at least a B-, but, it's takes a trip to hell and back to get that grade. She has turned even the most composed A+ students into cowering nincompoops. Grown men cower at the sight of her, babies cry, and puppies yelp. OK, I'm not so sure about the last few, but J. R. who is a perfect A+ student, even though he may not seem like one, had to do like five extra credit projects just to get an A last quarter. The only thing that keeps me from banging my head against my desk so hard that it puts me out of my misery, is the promise of Guitar, and Beatles songs next block.
I somehow make it through the next forty-five minutes without any serious injuries (amazing) and finally, I'm free, guitar and Beatles, here I come. The straight jacket to my lunatic, the cause of my sanity, a breath of fresh air!
....to be continued
*Macca is Paul McCartney, in case you didn't pick up on that