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Awkward Ramblings of a Teenage Girl: Novel Excerpt
Author's note: When I started writing this book back in April, I had no idea that I was on the path to actually completing my first novel. More often than not, I would start some random, unplanned story and then never return to it again. For whatever reason, I persevered. Although I am unsure at the present moment how well my perseverance will pay off, I am far too proud of myself to say that I honestly care. This book is currently 278 pages. It is complete as far as complete goes, however I feel that there is still A LOT of editing to be carried out. At the present moment, I am thinking that the first two chapters are the closest to perfect as I could possibly make them, so here you go. I swear, I feel like I am giving up my first-born child. Anyways though, what inspired me to write this wasn’t exactly inspiration at all. I just had an itch to write. I started writing, and it took me somewhere. My main objective in sending this out to the public is to get a few people to laugh. That’s all I want. I want people to be able to see themselves in my main character and laugh at how ridiculous they are.
Oh, hello there keyboard. I have missed you dearly. I know we have not had an intimate meeting in a while aside from the occasional essay and lab report, but hopefully with time you will be able to forgive me. I can assure you with the utmost exultation in my heart that you will be hearing a lot from me over the next little while. I know it’s late, and I know I am probably embarrassing you with my rusty writing skills, but inspiration has struck me at this inconvenient hour. And I just have to strike back.
I only wish I knew what this inspiration is striking me with, exactly. For my sake, I hope it’s not something sharp.
I have this twitch in my fingers, accompanied by an irregularly quickened heartbeat and an unhealthy production of palm sweat. But what does it all mean? You would think that there would be some sort of ground-breaking idea forming with these symptoms, but I appear to still be waiting…
…and waiting some more…
Okay, I give up. I suppose the only way I will be able to cure this disease and finally get to sleep is if I just stop thinking and allow these annoyingly jittery hands to do what they’re good for. Once these bad boys are released, I would like you to keep in mind that I cannot be held accountable for what they produce. Please fasten your seatbelts and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. You are about to enter my brain.
Wait, whose idea was it to come here?
Mine? Really? What was I thinking!
I don’t have anything particularly interesting to show you, so I’m not so sure why you have followed me to this dreary place. Who would be interested in the ponderings of an eighteen-year-old girl with nothing better to do than stew in her toothpaste-stained pajamas under three layers of blankets while the minutes and hours disappear on the clock in the corner of her laptop? The timespan between nine at night and twelve in the morning didn’t even feel real to me; I don’t even think I remember seeing eleven. Where is this night going?
Where am I going?
Already I am losing sight of the point of this project. If anything, this diary writing or journal keeping or memoir making might just act as a therapeutic tool to aid my unstable thoughts. After I write a section, I could go back to read about how crazy I sounded and laugh at myself.
Then maybe, if I deem it amusing enough for public scrutiny, I could release it to the world as some sort of goofy teen novel. People would read my story and either give a sigh of sympathy for how pathetic I am or laugh uproariously at the monotonous activities of my everyday life in sheer disbelief that a person could possibly be that…well, boring. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll find at least one person out there that is able to relate. Perhaps there are others in this world that are similar to me in the sense that they have no idea who they are, or what their purpose in life is, or how to effectively cover up a blemish, et cetera, et cetera. Who knows? This not-so-rare breed of human might just support me in my journey of self-actualization. Then again, they might just throw things at me.
But I’m not going to ramble on about how I’m an outcast and no one understands me because we’ve all heard that before and frankly I’m getting tired of reading about it. I can’t say that I am an outcast, because I would be lying. I also can’t say that I have no friends, because I would also be lying. Sometimes I wonder if I am truly as messed up as I tend to consider myself to be. Although in order to avoid any further bias, I will let you be the judge.
Before I continue with the nothing I was going on about, I feel it would be wise to review a few guidelines to make sure that you know exactly what you’re getting yourself into. I also believe it necessary to clear up any misconceptions that you may have formed upon the selection of this book. These guidelines consist of the following:
I refuse to take on the role of the useless “heroine” that starts off as a nobody and then all of a sudden gets everything she wants. For that matter, I will never foreshadow events or allude to a happy ending because there’s no chance in hell that I will ever stumble upon a crystal ball and there’s also no such thing has a “happy ending” when you’re eighteen unless this book ends with me in a casket with a smile on my face. Your guess is as good as mine as to how this will all play out. Who knows? I could very well meet an unexpected death mid-way through the eighty-seventh page. That would suck, wouldn’t it? If you develop some sort of grudge against me throughout the course of the story then maybe not, but I don’t think I’d like that very much.
Oh, and one more thing: I object to be inspiring in any way. That’s a big one. If you came here searching for mental and/or emotional rejuvenation, enlightenment or any other flowery term, it is safe to say that you had might as well close the cover and gently place this book back down on your side table, or mattress or whatever other surface is in reach. Maybe if you didn’t bend the pages too much, you might still have a chance of giving this away as a gift to someone you dislike.
In order to get to know me better and possibly help you to avoid the above, I think it would be a good idea to start somewhere common and familiar. And that common and familiar place is St. Matthew’s Catholic High School. Man, I wish I spent less time there.
You see, my social status is the most awkward of even the most awkward people at my school. I don’t really fit into a clichéd category such as “popular” or “loser” or any other tired title you might be able to come up with. I am just: there. That is my classification: there. I go to class, I do what I need to do, I participate in a few social interactions and then I go home. That is me, that is my life in a four-item list—if you can even call that a life.
In grades nine and ten, I think I actually fit in better than I do now. I was one of the “smart” kids at my school. I got nineties in everything except for one devastating eighty-six in geography that my mom was forced to hear me cry and complain about for weeks after I got my report card. I mean sure, I lived quite the meaningless existence. But at least I was SOMEONE! So if a guy were to ask another guy “who that girl with the fuzzy hair is”, he could say “oh yeah, she’s one of the smart kids”. That of course is an extremely simplified example, but I am sure the response would be somewhere along those lines and perhaps accompanied by “weirdo” and “freak”.
Since I have a fairly clouded memory when it comes to unpleasant high school experiences, it’s difficult for me to recall much of grades nine through ten. I guess you could say that there aren’t too many happy memories to be made with your face buried in a textbook. Maybe if I would have spent more time being brutally intoxicated and less time being productive with schoolwork, I would have a bit more to tell you.
Despite my lapses in memory, there are three major components of my grade nine experience that I am sure of: I was an overachiever, I made an effort to wear the kilt and I was obsessed with a guy named J. Sure, that’s not his real name. His parents blessed him with a name consisting of more than one letter but I don’t think he would appreciate seeing more than one letter in here. I could probably use his real name and he would never know, but I will keep his identity a secret just in case.
So yes, in grade nine my life consisted of homework, long skirts (or rather, “skirt” because I only owned one…I mean, 90 bucks for a strip of table cloth? You have to be kidding me) and a stupid boy. I was obsessed with homework, never missing an assignment and studying my life away for every single test. I’m not one to bother with minute details, so I will try my best to disclose only the things that deeply affected me. And one thing that deeply affected me, apparently, was the first quiz I ever took in my high school career.
I remember literally writhing with anger in my seat when my grade nine geography teacher, Mr. Stetson, would give his pop quizzes. He told us on the first day of school—in our first class ever at St. Matthew’s—that we would have a quiz the next day and that we would all fail. I am not even kidding. He said we would all fail and to not even attempt studying. I will admit now that certain things in this project of mine will have been altered slightly for your enjoyment, or a fancy word that I learned in my Writer’s Craft Conference today, “amplified”. But I am speaking nothing but the truth in this case.
Anyways though…of course I failed because apparently I know nothing about Canadian geography. I couldn’t even name all the provinces and capitals off-hand, let alone list “three countries that are islands”. All I could think of was Hawaii, which isn’t even a country so you can only imagine my mark on that one.
I am blowing myself away with the amount of useless information I am able to remember right now! Where was this when I was taking my biology midterm last Wednesday?
Wait, what was I talking about? Oh, right. Grade nine.
So I was a good student, and I got the “proficiency award” for, you know, being proficient. At the time, I’m not so sure I even knew what “proficiency” entailed. My initial presumption was that it was awarded to students that spent every waking second of the day enslaving over homework and then contemplating their lack of social skills in their spare time. Reflecting on my weekend activities, I concluded that I was a rightful recipient.
How I managed to keep even a few friends never fails to boggle me.
My payoff for working hard all year and remaining in the cave that was my bedroom was the privilege of graduating the ninth and tenth grades with a 90-something-average and this ambiguous “proficiency award”. I have no idea how I did it. Reflecting on my performance in school now compared to then, I can’t help but marvel at my former work ethic and how drastically it has declined. Although, on the other hand, grade nine wasn’t exactly the most challenging year of my life to say the least so if I didn’t excel then I might wonder WHY I didn’t excel and look with even more shame on my past than I already do. But anyways!
On to the long skirts. Back then, I still sort of cared about my appearance. Despite my hopeless infatuation with J, I kept secretly praying that someone would notice me. I imagined it being like every lame teen movie where the popular guy notices the loser girl and then they end up having some intense make-out session in the stands at a football game in the pouring rain. Wait, I think that’s A Cinderella Story. But come on! If you’re a girl reading this, you cannot tell me with a straight face that you have not once dreamt of Chad Michael Murray ditching his football game to find a place for his tongue at the back of your throat. And if you are shaking your head right now, you are either in denial or have not yet hit puberty.
In order to attract the opposite sex and fulfill my football dream, I tried to wear the kilt as often as possible. In grade nine, wearing the kilt meant that you were making an effort and should be taken seriously as a prospective girlfriend. As ridiculous as that sounds, there is actually some truth to that statement besides the obvious. If you are a girl that is in or has graduated from a Catholic high school, you know exactly what I mean when I say that getting those kilts on is no easy feat. If there is a timespan of over five minutes between when I enter the stall and when I sit down, there’s a problem. I don’t know whose sick idea it was to put buckles on the sides of a skirt, but if I ever meet them I will probably have to kill them.
On the first day of grade nine, my friend Alexis kidnapped me in the hallway during lunchtime and threw me into the bathroom. I don’t even think she said a word to me as she did this, so I just stared at her with my eyebrows to the ceiling as though she was wearing her kilt on her head. As it turns out, I had might as well have been the one sporting a babushka because not even five seconds later I was having the sleeves of my Oxford shirt and the top of my kilt forcibly rolled up. It kind of reminded me of my mom pulling me aside in a public place when I was little to lick her finger and attack a smudge on my face, except Alexis was borderline abusive. She was so pushy that I wondered for a moment if I had offended her in some way. I can’t remember the dialogue specifically, but I imagine it playing out similar to this:
Me: (eyes bulging and unsure of how to begin conversation as Alexis begins molesting my Oxford)
Alexis: (making huffy breaths as though my appearance is a major inconvenience to her)
Me: (I decide to be the one to break the silence) Uhhh…hey Alexis, how are you?
Alexis: (giving me a death-stare) Didn’t anyone ever show you how to wear the uniform? (spitting fire)
Me: (thinking: woah, wait…my shirt isn’t on backwards, is it?) I didn’t think it was all too difficult of a process…you know, unbuttoning a shirt, putting it on and buttoning it back up again hasn’t been much of an issue for me since I was four…
Alexis: (lifting the Oxford to get to my kilt) Did you not notice that everyone else has their sleeves rolled up? And you know you don’t have to follow that eight-centimetres- above-the-knee rule. Actually, I would say that you having half a centimetre’s distance from the knee is generous…(looking at me like I have three babushka heads)
Me: I just didn’t want to get in trouble on the first day…and no, I didn’t notice the rolled sleeves! I was too busy hating Mr. Stetson with every fiber of my being!
Alexis: Fiber of your being? Who says that? (the babushka heads instantly become five) Thank God I fixed you up before people started to notice how oblivious you are.
Me: Oh…thanks, Alexis. You’re a real pal…
Alexis: STOP TALKING LIKE THAT! I’M NOT YOUR PAL; I’M YOUR “BFF”.
Me: Since when?
Okay, maybe it didn’t go exactly like that. But hopefully you got the gist of what a nightmare grade nine and everyone in it was. It may not come as much of a shock to you, but during the ninth grade Alexis and I drifted apart so you probably won’t be hearing much about her in succeeding entries. In fact, I give you permission to forget her completely because your mind is going to be overwhelmed with the number of “characters” you are introduced to so you had might as well start making room! On that note, don’t worry if you forget a person here or there. You will come to realize that there are only a few names that are worth remembering throughout this story, just like any other. The rest are just supporting (and sometimes, not-so-supporting…) characters in my life. They help to tell some stories, but their names mean nothing.
And when I say nothing, I literally mean nothing. Before I started this, I went through the alphabet in my head and picked out the first names that I could think of.
Hey! I just realized that the day I am starting this project is the seventh and seven is my lucky number…I think it’s a sign of good things to come, don’t you?
Anyways though, with my sleeves and kilt rolled up to the dismay of my teachers and principal—like I hinted at earlier, they don’t like being able to see any part of you higher than eight centimetres above the knee—I tried to get noticed. Too bad it didn’t work, and the only way I got noticed was in the negative sense…
I remember walking home from school one day when the weather was nice near the end of grade nine and hearing some random girl yell out, “YOUR SKIRT IS SMILING” in the most obnoxious, nasally voice I had ever heard. I was tempted to turn around and say, “WELL IT’S MOST DEFINITELY NOT SMILING AT YOU” but this was me in grade nine, so I held my tongue. My friends sort of laughed at me when that happened, and I kind of had my head down for the rest of the walk, but I eventually recovered. For some reason, I didn’t seem to get the hint that the kilt was destined to be avoided and a few weeks later, I found the courage to wear it again. Looking back, I now understand what my sociology teacher meant when she said that the adolescent brain does not fully develop effective reasoning skills until much later in life.
I still don’t get what it means when your skirt is “smiling”. Up until that point, I was not aware that inanimate objects could smile or show any emotion whatsoever but apparently my skirt was able to. At first, I wondered if perhaps I had a magic kilt that liked to smile and say hello to people. I tried to convince myself that the nasally girl that had yelled at me was simply jealous that her kilt wasn’t magical as well. But I quickly realized that the definition of a “smiling” kilt was one that is longer in the back than in the front and goes up in an awkward half-circle. It still amazes me to this day that I have not yet found this definition in the school handbook.
So ever since that incident and multiple explanations of what this forbidden “smiling” kilt was, I was paranoid for the rest of the year for my kilt to ever be friendly again. I would obsessively ask my friends if my skirt was looking a little too happy until eventually I gave up on the whole kilt thing for good. I haven’t worn it since grade ten and I intend to keep it that way for the rest of the year. Maybe I’ll wear it on the last day of school as a joke or something, because that’s what it is to me…a joke.
Have I mentioned how thrilled I am to be leaving St. Matthew’s yet? Well, if I haven’t, I AM SO THRILLED TO BE LEAVING SAINT MATTHEW’S. I should get paid for all the bull I’ve had to put up with these last four years. And I’m not talking a measly five or ten dollars, oh no! I’m talking hundreds of thousands…
What was the third point again? Oh, right…J.
Do I have to talk about him? Apparently he is giving me a ride to school tomorrow. I found this quite random, seeing as I rarely ever speak to him unless on the rarest of the rare occasion. I’m not going to go into great detail of this not-so “love” affair, but basically he was eighteen and I was fifteen and I was in “love” with him but he told me that I was too young and shenanigans ensued. Not the ones you’re probably thinking (I know how dirty your mind is! Mine is too, so don’t worry). But the shenanigans I am referring to are those of the heart, and I spent a lot of my grade nine and ten career crying and pining over a boy who has now been reduced to only one letter for a name! Pitiful, right?
Did I not warn you? If you get anything out of this, it will be the ability to compare your own life to mine and praise the good Lord that you have your life and not mine.
So yeah, that about sums up grade nine.
Grade ten was quite similar with my genius-ness, the occasional long skirt and my pathetic pining. However, there was one difference: I managed to land an actually actual boyfriend. Shocking, I know. And this relationship happened to have stemmed from a joke. I won’t bore you with the details, because compared to my relationship now, this really was nothing, but our not even two month dating experience started at a sleepover. And before you even get a chance to think it: no, he wasn’t sleeping over! What kind of girl do you think I am?
I was having a sleepover with my best friend Brooke, another good friend of mine, Rachel, and a girl that I haven’t spoken to in two years, Kelsey. Names in this case are irrelevant, but there are the names anyways. So, as goofy fifteen-almost-sixteen-year-olds tend to do, we were on web cam with this guy that Brooke was kind of friends with. I didn’t really know him, but I sort of thought he was cute. Admitting this kind of makes me want to shrivel up into a ball, but I promised myself I would be honest. As much as it kills me, I intend to keep that promise.
Basically Brooke said that we should date (as a joke), I laughed awkwardly, he went on about how I “would never date him” (of course, being a goofy fifteen-almost-sixteen-year-old, I was quick to fall into his trap out of desperation) and then we ended up dating from there. Notice how I’m not mentioning his name? Not even a single letter? If that doesn’t show you how insignificant he is in my life, then I don’t know what does!
Just as a side note: I’m sorry I sound like I have to repeatedly defend my formerly horrendous taste in boys. But if you ever met this guy, you would understand. I don’t even think describing him as the “piece of crap on my sister’s shoe (not mine because I really like my shoes…)” and a “disgrace to the entire male population” even begins to cover it. To give you a better idea though, I will tell you how I prepared myself to write about this. First, I got the biggest punch bowl I could find. Second, I raided my medicine cabinet for Tums and Gravol. After that, with all of my equipment on standby in the instance of projectile vomiting, I took twenty-five deep breaths and said thirty-nine Hail Marys. Then, following the greatest power sweat of my life, I started to write.
Alright, alright! Maybe that was SLIGHTLY amplified.
But back to reality! This occurred during the time that I was still all down with the L-O-V-E for a guy that didn’t L-O-V-E me back (no idea why I put dashes in between those letters, but I felt like making you spell it out). After the unmentionable and I broke up, J and I had a weird fling-type thing, if I even knew what that meant at my tender age, and that just lead to more heart shenanigans and BS. Eventually though, thank God, I got some sense in me and forgot about him.
The few friends that I have never really liked him from the start anyways, which is QUITE the understatement if we are being honest here. Not that I am admitting to being one of those girls who are incapable of thinking for themselves and rely on their friends for every decision they make in their lives, oh no! However, in this case, my not listening to my friends sort of blew up in my face in the end. So, with great disdain, I will put it in writing right here and now that SEAN AND BROOKE WERE RIGHT. Happy?
I’d love to say that I told him off and just stopped talking to him cold turkey, but I would be lying. This turkey that was our nonexistent relationship was still hot and I wanted to cool it down by finding some sort of replacement. And I found said replacement in a guy named A. Now, my friends and I have quite the creative nickname for this one, but again, for liability reasons, I should probably refrain from using it here. I doubt he even has the mental capacity to read something of this length, but just in case his mom ends up finding this and reading it to him, I will practice restraint.
A and I dated from the summer of grade ten to the winter of grade eleven for a grand total of…drum roll, please…LESS THAN SIX MONTHS! And the reason I can’t remember how long it was exactly is because frankly, it doesn’t matter one bit to this story or my current life.
So yes…for this one, I can proudly say with my fist on my chest and my head raised to the sky that I actually had the guts to break up with him myself. He lived in Toronto and I found that we were “growing apart” (definition of growing apart: he turned into a douche). So that was the end of that. I felt so liberated after that breakup that the thought of another man in my life nearly turned my stomach. That was until, of course, I met Christian Zephyr Eslington.
For now, I have his full name in here because he is so beautiful and perfect that his beautiful and perfect full name should be honoured. However, for liability reasons once again, I may need to remove that eventually. Anyways though, you will be hearing about Christian quite a bit throughout the course of this project so I will save all of the stories of the past and future for when it is not 1:16 in the AM and I have school the next morning. If I get on the topic of Christian, I will be ranting for another lengthy entry so I will leave him to the imagination for now.
So wait, what was the point of this again? Well, the title says “April 7, 2011” and so far I have not discussed anything about April 7, 2011. For this first entry, I have decided to be brief due to time constraints and the fact that I have already written my way out of a year-long dry spell. I will have much more to discuss in subsequent entries about what’s going on, how I’m feeling, current events…you know, all that boring stuff.
But on to April 7, 2011!
I woke up this morning wanting to die because, of course, I hadn’t gotten any sleep and who doesn’t want to die when they get up in the morning? My morning went as usual and, as usual, I carried out the bare-minimal to make myself look relatively presentable.
First, I took a bath. I am a bath person. I don’t understand how people can have the energy to stand up in a shower at seven in the morning. I much prefer to lie down and sleep while the water is filling up. If you have never done this, you should try it sometime.
Next, I dressed in my grey slacks and grad hoodie, which I wear every single day, no exceptions. I am basically Arthur with his never-changing yellow sweater…but, you know…mine is navy and has my last name on it.
And last, I brushed without flossing and straightened/curled my hair. I have long curly hair with bangs and it just looks really weird if my bangs are curly and frankly I am insecure about having my forehead exposed due to shine and the occasional pimple.
It sounds like a lot goes into my morning, but it really isn’t a whole lot at all. The entire process takes a grand total of—are you ready for this?—forty-five minutes to complete! You can just call me the Bathroom Ninja, if you’d like. Unless you skipped to later chapters, or unless it turns out that the back cover says it and you read it extensively, you have no idea what my name is and thus you have no other choice but to refer to me by that name. Sucks to be you!
This day in particular though, I wasn’t as skilful as I typically am at my morning tasks. Just as I was getting my leather jacket on to run out the door, I realized that I hadn’t put deodorant on and I wasn’t wearing the watch that Christian bought me in which I wear every single day. I haven’t forgotten to put deodorant on since grade six, and of course on that day in grade six I had decided to wear a tank top.
Yep. Adolescence is such a wonderful time, isn’t it?
After that day I have been extremely paranoid about body odour (as everyone should be…GRADE NINE BOYS TAKE NOTE) and I have never forgotten again!
But for some reason, today I forgot. I have no idea what triggered my memory, but within a second I was running up the stairs shouting, “I DON’T WANT TO BE THE SMELLY KID IN CLASS” to my sister, which was apparently hysterical because she laughed. And the reason I say “hysterical” is due to the fact that such jokes tend to annoy her, so even the slightest chuckle means that I should be rewarded and inducted into The Guinness World Book of Records.
Woah, where the heck did the time go?! It’s 1:32 in the morning and I have to be up in approximately five and a half hours to perform yet another round of my usually-flawless routine! I will continue this when I have just a BIT more energy. However, if you’re like me and you have an undiagnosed sleeping disorder on top of an undying need to find out what happens next, then I encourage you to keep reading! I end up writing more tomorrow!
Guess what, guys? It’s Friday! Didn’t see that one coming. I had to listen to Rebecca Black’s song to remember what comes after Thursday.
You know what’s funny? Earlier today I had thought I would say something about Miss Black’s song in here but then I had decided against it. I figured that if this hunk of junk ever got published, I wouldn’t want to contribute to her resume. I realize this probably isn’t the most positive piece of publicity a “celebrity” could get, but some of these people THRIVE on this stuff! Evidently, a fantastic way to advance a career is to do something so mind-numbingly horrible that people have trouble deciding whether to laugh or cry. As it turns out, that’s also how this girl got famous in the first place, for Pete’s sake…
…whoever Pete is…
And look at that, I started off this entry with her. Clearly I have issues with sticking to my guns but to be honest, I couldn’t think of a better intro. Either I am going to get sued, or I am going to find this book on Good Morning America in a montage of Rebecca Black’s accomplishments. I can just see it now: “The buzz from her debut song was so great that she was even mentioned in Jadyn Perri’s novel, _______”.
You see, I have no idea at the present moment what I am going to call this so I will keep the blank in the meantime.
Perhaps I am giving myself too much credit. I would probably be lucky to be in a montage of Rebecca Black credentials, let alone get this thing published in the first place.
Wait. Even I have more pride than THAT.
The reason I am mentioning Rebecca’s song “Friday” (just in case you didn’t know which song I was referring to from my hint at the beginning), is not only because it’s Friday but also due to my utter annoyance when the whole school was singing it after “Battle of the Bands”.
If you have never heard of or attended one of these “battles” before, I will warn you that if you do not enjoy having your eardrums collapse on themselves and being able to feel your organs shake in your body, it is most definitely not the place for you.
To me, the Battle of the Bands represent an opportunity for the most annoying music kids in a high school to form groups in the hopes that their peers might actually learn their names. Based on some of the acts that I have been forced to sit through in the past, I think a lot of them are just looking for a means of climbing a few pegs on the social ladder. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Sometimes I think that if I wore makeup every once and a while or disclosed some awe-inspiring talent that I could perhaps move up a bit as well. The only difference, however, is that I 1) don’t really care which peg I’m standing on, unless of course it is unstable and I am about to fall to my death and 2)I know my place in the world. I possess enough self-awareness to understand what I am good at and what I should avoid at all costs, which is a major difference between me and these wannabe rock stars. Someone needs to cut them a big slice of reality pie before I have to and let me tell you, my reality pie tastes nothing like apples.
To all of you pre-pubescent boys out there with your cracking voices and incompetent guitar fingers: find a new hobby. I am sorry. You would be doing the entire world a huge favour by investing your energy into something useful like serving me at McDonald’s or bagging my groceries. You know—things that won’t hurt my ears or disrupt my organs. Thank you.
But anyways…now that I have crushed most of your dreams, I will continue with my explanation of this torturous high school phenomenon. It may be a different system for other schools, but this is how we Catholic folk battle our bands:
The process starts with the fragile dreams of a few aspiring musicians. Some of the bands may have been formed already, and some of them are just collections of random people thrown together at the last second claiming to be able to play the drums, sing, play guitar, hit a tambourine…whatever.
Once the audition process is over and the ham-handed have been axed, the remaining five or six bands will start building up their fan base by selling t-shirts and putting up fliers around the school. The band with the most “popular” kids sell the most t-shirts and the band of kids that no one has ever heard of tend to be their own supporters. You can kind of predict who’s going to win just by looking around the cafeteria and counting how many of a particular shirt you see, and I say this because the audience, of course, has a say in who wins. Part of the score for each band is “audience reaction” or whatever the heck they call it. The more kids screaming like Neanderthals after your performance, the greater your chance to win is.
After about a week or so of advertising, the big day finally arrives. All of the kids that could give a flying crap about talentless high school students go home before the show, while all of us with parents that refused to call in to the office have to stay and suffer. There is also a minority of kids that actually WANT to be there (ie., the t-shirt-wearing groupies), but most of us would rather watch babies being thrown from the tops of sky scrapers…
…while standing outside in the middle of a blizzard. Submerged in a snow pile. Naked.
Have I made my point yet?
I mean, what would you rather do? Go home, sit on your fanny with your feet up while watching cartoons and eating Cheetos? Or would you rather suffocate in a crowded bleacher with someone’s elephant knees buried into your back while feeling blood trickle down your earlobes?
Okay, now I’ve made my point.
Out of my list of the three categories of students on Battle day, of course I fit into the one with the crummy parents that made them stay. Thus, after multiple hours of anguish, I think I have good reason to complain.
“Battle of the Bands”…what a stupid name. As if making it sound like a fight would be more enticing. How can they even justify a name as awesome as that for such an anticlimactic event? When I think of “Battle of the Bands”, I imagine mosh pits and fire and crowd surfing. Stuffed bleachers, cheap lighting effects and lurking teachers are definitely not part of my vision.
In the future, high schools should seriously consider allowing bands to physically fight on the stage with their instruments. I don’t know what it is about humans, but we have this weird obsession with watching other people bleed. Sure, you could argue that parents probably wouldn’t go for it. But you never know in society these days. All you need is a spark of mob mentality, then all of a sudden you’ll hear Timmy’s mom cheering for him to kick Danny in the face. T-shirt sales would skyrocket.
I must confess, however, that there are a few students at my school that I wouldn’t mind watching get creamed. Take James Bennett and Stephen Colt for example. I think if someone smashed James upside the head with a guitar and whacked Stephen in the jugular with a pair of drumsticks, they would improve as individuals. I would PAY to see those guys get the tar kicked out of them, let alone receive no choice in the matter.
I strongly believe that all cocky/annoying/loud-mouthed adolescents in this world HAVE to get beat up at least once in their lives to gain some humility before they reach adulthood. It’s character-building. Contrary to what their parents tell them, children need to understand that they are not the centre of the universe, the sun does not shine out their back ends and what DOES comes out their back ends definitely does not smell like roses. You could probably come up with a few examples from your own life, but if you can’t, then perhaps you are one of these kids that need a good pounding. I would be happy to offer my assistance, although unfortunately there are too many of you to deal with. I suggest approaching an older sibling or cousin. I am sure they would be glad to help you out.
Phew. Okay, I think I’ve gotten all of my frustration out now. I can move on.
Now this is what inspired my “Friday” intro: at the end of the Battle, some idiot thought it would be a great idea to follow up the noise pollution with additional noise pollution that was that God-forsaking-song. This of course caused everyone to sing along as they were leaving the gymnasium, and me to seriously contemplate suicide for the first time in my life. It was the cherry on top of a wonderful musical performance.
I must admit that it was nice to allow my ears to thaw from the thumping baselines and out-of-tune screamo-ing and “harmonizing”, but I would have been perfectly content with silence! And yes, you read that right: “screamo-ing”. It should probably just be called “screaming”; however, “scream” with an “o” on the end is apparently a genre of music.
This is what I don’t understand though. For the past month and a bit, everyone has been going on and on about how awful Rebecca Black’s song is and finding every way in the book to bash this thirteen year old girl whom, I am pretty sure, is still completely oblivious as to what is going on. But if everyone hates her so much, why do they continue to download and listen to her song? Do they not realize that they are only helping her career? Sure, you can claim that you only downloaded the song “to make fun of it” but come on, people. Is this what the future of our world is?
I swear to God, when this girl wins some big prestigious music award for her compelling lyrics and captivating vocals, I am throwing myself off a bridge. AND EVERYONE THAT DOWNLOADED AND LISTENED TO “FRIDAY” A BILLION TIMES WILL BE TO BLAME! I am worried for the future of our world, I really am. Our society is so messed up that I am afraid there is no way that we will ever recover.
I almost want to toss my dreams of having a family one day in the toilet because I am afraid for my children. If their lives will consist of rocking out to songs named after the days of the week, or by then it will probably be months and holidays and possibly even statutory holidays (I can just see it now: LABOUR DAY! LABOUR DAY! GETTIN’ DOWN ON LABOUR DAY! EVERYBODY’S LOOKIN’ FORWARD TO THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, SCHOOL!), then I had might as well spare my future children the agony.
Anyways though, I will rant about my not-so-noteworthy Friday after I finish up with Thursday. Of course this is the part where my cat decides to walk across my body while I am typing. No respect, that feline, none at all!
I would like to start by saying that I find it quite sad that this is only day two of my project and I am already falling behind. In my defence though, my creative juices did not have me in mind when they began to flow the previous night and I had to draw the line somewhere, right? I could have stayed up typing away into the wee hours of the morn but when you have to be up by 6:55, you really don’t have much of a choice. I sort of told Christian that I would be in bed within half an hour at around eleven, but as I mentioned before, I am not one to stick to my guns.
So here I am, rambling about why I didn’t write about Thursday on Friday. I don’t know about you, but it seems like we have some really good times ahead!
I just reviewed what I wrote yesterday, and it appears that I left off with my deodorant drama. Already, my day was off to a rocky start and I hadn’t even stepped out the door. The remainder of the day, however, was actually pretty good. Instead of sitting in class for a painful six hours of educational instruction, I had the opportunity to attend this Writer’s Craft Conference (as I briefly mentioned in my last entry) to listen to published writers brag about their accomplishments.
At first, I didn’t even want to go. My Writer’s Craft teacher, Mr. Erickson, had chosen Marissa and me to attend the week before and Marissa had told him that she didn’t want to go either. She said that she had missed too much school and outright refused despite my saying that “the only way I will go is if you go with me”.
Of course, secretly I wanted to go! Being an aspiring writer and whatnot, why the heck wouldn’t I want to advance my knowledge of the industry? I would be a fool not to! Jeez, Marissa. You really dropped the ball on this one. Everyone knows that when your friend uses the “I won’t do it if you don’t!” line, you’re supposed to do it—ESPECIALLY when that particular friend has social anxiety.
Just kidding, Mar!
You know I love you. You will probably be one of the only people that ever read this (plus Christian of course because I’ll make him read it) so I had better be good to you!
Anyways though, by the time the day came, I hadn’t even brought back my permission form and I was still debating whether I should go or not. You see, I have this overwhelming need to please people in any way that I can and I would have felt awful for the rest of the day if I had told Mr. Erickson that I couldn’t go at the last minute. I mean, despite having missed a couple days due to “illness”, I still couldn’t bear to disappoint him.
It was soon after reflecting on all of this that I realized that I am eighteen years old and thus can sign my own permission forms.
So, I went…
…with absolutely no friends whatsoever.
This shouldn’t be a shock to anyone, seeing as I only have a few friends anyways, but it was quite interesting to put what few social skills I have to the test.
It was a surprisingly good day! I hung out with this girl Hayden from my grade that I had never really talked to before and we sort of bonded. I realized that there are actually other nice, normal people outside of my friend group (not that my friends are normal by any means) that I can relate to! I would have never guessed! And, you know, I must say that I did a half-decent job at directing conversation at our table.
Wait, okay…I am getting ahead of myself. I think I need a few more descriptions of where this took place.
Geographically, all I know is that it was somewhere in St. Catharines in some hotel that I think was a Hilton. And just in case this book actually gets read by people other than the people I know, St. Catharines is in Southern Ontario, which is in Canada, which is where I live. Well, I actually live in Niagara Falls but St. Catharines is literally seven minutes away…—IRRELEVANT!
For this conference we were in this big fancy hotel ballroom. You know—the ones with the tacky carpeting and the chandeliers with ten million light switches for each individual light fixture. I observed all this while my eyes were distractedly darting from one corner of the room to the other while the speakers were speaking. I’m not much of an avid listener, I suppose. There were a bunch of tables, as is also common to a formal dining room and little blue cards on each one with the name of a high school.
Although I wasn’t close with any member of my table, I was surprised at how well I could hold my own in conversation. The table consisted of mostly grade elevens and then Hayden and I. I told the grade elevens about the Writer’s Craft course (you can only take it in grade twelve) and I warned them about how much work it would be. Come to think of it, that probably wasn’t the best idea. I guess I should have been encouraging instead of discouraging but I made sure to tell them that it was a “really good class”.
Oddly enough, we even got on the topic of braces, which I regretfully have. This is actually round two of orthodontia for me, if that’s even the right word. I tried to type in “orthodontian” but I got a red squiggle.
The one grade eleven girl at the table, Mia, started asking me about my clear braces, which in turn segued into my tragic story. I have probably told every individual on the planet this story, but in case you didn’t know, here it goes:
I had braces from grade six to grade eight, which was a normal length of time to be modeling the metal. When I got them off, as is customary when you get braces off, my teeth were perfect. A few years later, for some messed up reason, my jaw started to screw up because apparently I am a “tongue thruster”. It sounds kind of inappropriate, I know, but that is what they called me! Due to my “tongue thrusting” issues, my teeth basically opened up to the point where I had a huge gap between my top and bottom teeth. When I would bite down, my teeth didn’t touch, which never failed to weird people out whenever I showed them.
Every time I would smile, my tongue would stick out through the gap. I didn’t notice for the longest time until my dad “kindly” pointed it out to me. Then I started looking closely at my Facebook pictures and I noticed that awful tongue more and more. I was jokingly offered the solution of chopping it off by the orthodontist, which I not-so-jokingly agreed to, but NO! I also realized that I had lost the ability to bite my nails (and I actually wondered why) because my teeth didn’t come together.
In addition to the inability to carry out my bad habit, I also became more aware of the fact that every time I bit through a sandwich, the lettuce and tomato would fall out because I couldn’t bite straight through it. It was a living hell to say the least, especially since I love tomatoes. I know some people my age that got their braces back on because their teeth had shifted ever so slightly and were not as straight as when they had gotten them off. Me, I could barely eat, which is kind of a big problem when you are a human being that requires sustenance for survival.
So round two of braces for me was a necessary adventure. For the longest time I hated my dad for making me go through with it and I constantly whined to my poor boyfriend who had no choice but to put up with my complaining. In the beginning, I told Christian that no matter what, I would refuse to get braces. But, of course, I lied because I am a gutless fish. I guess you could say that I just didn’t quite have it in me to refuse five-thousand dollar treatment for free.
Through the entire consultation process I kept hoping and praying that they would come up with some other way to correct my problem. You know, like some crazy piece of machinery that they had stored in the backroom of the office for emergencies such as this one. They would call it “THE MAGIC BAR” and it would be capable of correcting jaws in a single use without any surgery or braces-wearing! “THE MAGIC BAR” would be the most powerful, revolutionary retainer known to man and I would be the first patient to get to try it! To my dismay—even though I still think they’re lying—they claimed that they didn’t have any such thing called “THE MAGIC BAR” and proceeded to give me sideways glances for the remainder of my appointment.
But when they stop being morons and finally decide to reveal it to the public, I think they should hire me to do their advertising.
The orthodontist told me that my best option for the most “permanent” treatment would be jaw surgery. And let me tell you something: jaw surgery is nothing to scoff at.
I know people at my school that have had it done and it completely changed the shape of their face! For some, it was an improvement…but for others…
I felt so terrible for them! I wondered if they had any idea how different they would look after the procedure. That’s probably a detail the doctors fail to mention so they can get their money. Jaw surgery is most definitely not the only option, but the only reason they are prescribing it so often these days is because it is the more expensive procedure. Well, they didn’t fool me!
Little interruption in the story, but my mom just read what I’ve written so far and—good news—I got a few chuckles out of her! I had to force her to read it, sure, but that’s still something, right? And she didn’t even fall asleep. I mean, I don’t want to be writing something that not even my own mother can read without her eyes glazing over so getting her approval is a start at least.
Sure, you can argue that a mom isn’t exactly the best choice when you need constructive criticism for your writing, but she is the only person in my family that actually agrees to read my work when it isn’t finished yet. Sometimes I just need that little bit of encouragement to keep going, you know? And my mom is my go-to woman for said encouragement!
When I first started writing this, I could have never imagined that anyone would ever give a fart in the wind about what idiotic things come across my mind at any given moment. I am still not entirely convinced, although I am having way too much fun to care at this point. If you couldn’t give a fart in the wind about what I am thinking, then I give you permission to walk away from this book right now, even though you had your chance in the beginning. If you do in fact walk away, I ask you this: did you not read the back cover? Wasn’t the description pretty self-explanatory? And if you’re too lazy to read the back covers of books, did I not clarify how pointless this whole thing is in the first few pages?
For the record, I have not yet written a description to go on the back of this currently unpublished manuscript but I can assure you that it will be quite informative.
Woah, this piece of gum lost its flavour really fast…blech. I mean, I love fruity gum but fruity gum that loses its flavour in five seconds is just not worth my time and chewing effort.
One moment please, just have to throw out this Trident abomination…
Okay, all clear!
Ugh. My mom needs my dirty clothes to do laundry. She always picks the worst times to ask me to do stuff. She made quite the ingenious pun though:
Mom: JADYN, I NEED YOUR BASKET.
Me: GO WEAVE YOUR OWN BASKET! I’M BUSY! (it sounds like I have no respect for the woman who gave me life, but I was kidding, I swear!)
Mom: WEAVE ME ALONE!
So, I did. I “weaved” her alone and didn’t bring her the basket. Just kidding, I did. Although my mother would probably beg to differ, I am not that horrible of a daughter. Though it’s rare, sometimes I can even be a WONDERFUL daughter when I’m really on my game. She just gets peeved when I “refuse” to vacuum or clean the litter. For the record: just because I make scrunched-up faces like I have just eaten a lemon and give loud, whiny sighs along with a drawn-out groan DOES NOT MEAN I am negating to assist you, mom! You can’t blame me for trying to avoid housework like a leper. There are only a select few in this world that enjoy cleaning, but unfortunately that has never and will never be me.
And Christian: if you were expecting me to be a housewife when we’re married, I cannot guarantee that I will be any good at it whatsoever. I promise I will try my best, but please don’t get mad when I forget to set a timer for the Thanksgiving turkey and it burns to a crisp. I can also see myself accidentally spraying Pledge on the floor and causing you to slip and fall into the refrigerator. Oh, and let’s not forget throwing that red t-shirt of yours in with all of your white dress shirts and turning them pink.
When these things happen, just remember that you were forewarned and that I am VERY SORRY!
Oh, mother. You are always so full of surprises. I just heard her do an Eric Cartman impression from outside my doorway. I have no idea from where in her body it was summoned, but it was actually frighteningly well done. I was in the middle of writing about her previous joke when I heard: “No, kitty! These are MY cheesy poofs!” I swear to God, I think Cartman temporarily invaded her voice box. That’s how good it was.
My mom is awesome, what can I say? You’ll have to meet her sometime.
Anyways though, enough about the Perri family antics. You will be hearing more about the rest of the clan later.
So this conference! Aside from the irrelevant discussions about orthodontics (which is a much better word that works in place of “orthodontia” but I am too lazy to change it now) at our table, the speakers that we had to sit through were not all that terrible. The first one was sort of weird, I will admit. I can’t remember his name, but even if I did I probably wouldn’t put it in here for those liability reasons once again. So for now, I’ll just call him Author 1.
Author 1 talked for over an hour about his accomplishments and how his book has been made into a movie that is apparently going to be in theatres in May. Well, good for you, man! I will probably never in my lifetime have that honour, but in my opinion a book/movie about a poor African girl whose family has all been infected with AIDS sounds like the most depressing book/movie EVER! I am sure it will win a bunch of awards because emotionally scarring movies such as those always do, but I am sorry to say that it will not be my number one choice of films to go see on a date night.
Not that I ever go to the movies on date nights. Christian and I consider movie dates to be “too antisocial”.
But if there ever happened to be a date night, it would more than likely be a romantic comedy. Well, they are most definitely my favourites but Christian claims to enjoy them too. I told him I was going to see “No Strings Attached” with my friend Taren and he ended up going to see it at the same time as me. Perhaps that was just because he couldn’t bear to not have experienced what I have experienced and he felt “behind the times” if he didn’t. Or maybe he just really wanted to see the movie. Or maybe he has a secret crush on Natalie Portman. I am not too sure. I will have to ask him and get back to you.
I am getting off-topic again. Surprise, surprise. I had to read up just now to remember where I was going with this.
So as I was saying, Author 1 seemed kind of strange to me. The second speaker, whose name I also can’t remember but that’s not because I didn’t enjoy his speech, actually inspired me a little bit. He was much more personable and humorous than Author 1.
Wait, sorry. Allow me to correct myself: a LOT more personable and humorous. The other guy seemed like he was trying way too hard to evoke sympathy and it appeared that he enjoyed bragging more than he enjoyed giving us valuable advice about writing, which I had thought was the whole point of the stupid conference!
Perhaps Author 1 just didn’t get the memo. He even felt the need to read a passage from his novel with so much unnecessary expression that it sounded like he was trying to perform a soliloquy from a Shakespearian play. Sorry dude, but I highly doubt your story is worthy of such emphasis.
His eyes kind of creeped (apparently “creeped” isn’t a word…thanks red squiggle, but it’s a word now) me out too. They were really round and buggy and were accentuated by his equally round and buggy glasses. Author 1, whom I feel like calling Hamlet now because that’s a much more memorable and appropriate name, bugged me a lot. Not only because he was bug-eyed, but also because he didn’t seem to believe in the “write what you know” philosophy. Here is a friendly fan letter that I am considering sending to him:
I realize that you think that writing what you know means on the emotional level, which it does, but no matter how many poverty-stricken nations you travel to and no matter how much “research” you do on the topic, you will NEVER and I mean NEVER be able to write a novel to truly depict the horror that these people have to endure every day. You can PRETEND to write with sympathy, and maybe you did a really great job. But it can never be real no matter how hard you try. I am sorry to say this Hamlet, but you are a Caucasian male that has lived in Canada all your life. Whoop-dee-doo. You went to Uganda or wherever the heck you went for a week or two. Apparently that means that you know enough to write about probably one of the most heart-wrenching topics a person can ever write about. Sorry, Hammy…but it’s just not happening. Thanks for sharing though!
Sincerely (something you don’t know much about),
PS: Perhaps for your next novel you should write about your Caucasian Canadian male troubles, like getting stuck in a traffic jam or getting hit by a moose in said traffic jam. I would so read that!
But maybe I should read Hamlet’s book before I start judging. Oh wait, I wouldn’t because I am not one to voluntarily depress myself with subjects that I KNOW I will never being able to comprehend. However, if I was going to read a book about what people are experiencing in Africa, I would much prefer to read a personal account by someone that actually went through it. That is all I am saying. I probably could have said that in fewer words, but I am writing a book here and I need to fill this space!
Anyways though, Author 2 (whose name will probably change once I come up with something better) amused me quite a bit. He actually seemed like a real person, not some crazy melodramatic Shakespearian actor with pit stains. Hamlet’s sweating problem was pretty distracting, I might add. I think his pit stains evoked more sympathy from me than his Africa story, because how embarrassing is that!
Anyway…Author 2 bragged quite a bit as well, but at least he did it in a funny manner. I am sure that if I ever got published, I would be a bragging jerk too. It’s a big deal! He told us about these books he wrote about Monkey Chronicles and Cheeseburgers. I don’t think they were actually about monkeys and cheeseburgers but any book with a title featuring a fun-loving animal or artery-clogging fast food is worth the read in my opinion.
After he talked a bit about his books—that sounded quite interesting, I might add—he gave us some advice about writing. One piece of advice in particular really caught my attention. Cheeseburger (the name I have chosen for him) explained further the idea of “writing what you know” and “writing about your experiences”. He said that in one of his books, he had taken the real-life event of his little cousins destroying his house and put it into his novel. He admitted to us that he didn’t think his cousins would ever read it because they’re “too stupid” (example of the humour), but that they eventually did end up reading it. The great part about it was that his cousins didn’t even recognize themselves in the characters, which interestingly enough doesn’t prove true solely among the dim-witted.
According to Cheeseburger, people tend to see the good in themselves and often cannot recognize the bad. So, when you speak negatively about someone in a story and change the name, there’s a very good chance that this someone won’t know you are talking about them.
This really got me thinking. What if I wrote a completely non-fictional story that appears to be fictional?
Woops. I think I’ve said too much. I suppose I could always backspace that but I don’t really feel like it. So that gave me the idea to write this “story”, even though it’s not really a story. If I had to describe this in a single sentence, I would describe it as “a load of random crap that will probably never be read by people other than a select few of the people I talk about and even so, maybe not even them.”
Hmmm…I don’t know about you, but I am thinking that would be a perfect description for the back cover that will probably never come to be!
All negativity aside, before this project I had been trying to write a fantasy novel. After a long while though (I don’t even want to think about how long), I found myself at a dead-end. I knew exactly what would happen in the story and exactly how it would end, but I had no motivation to continue it. Admitting that brings about an immense amount of shame for me, although you and I have a pretty open relationship. I trust that you can handle the truth.
Basically, I had completely lost every last ounce of determination I possessed. If that wasn’t bad enough, finishing a novel became an impossible aspiration to attain for someone with ten pounds of homework a night and a brain as scattered as mine. Once I came to this conclusion, I gave up on the idea. Why I even attempted it in the first place, I cannot tell you. I should have known to stay away from the fantasy genre after reading the Harry Potter series, because I mean, who can compete with THAT?! Thus, I put my word processing program to bed, only awakening it when I had a Biology lab report to kill myself over (like I do now…), or an English essay to attempt, or an unsatisfactory Writer’s Craft story to produce. The future of my writing career was looking bleak…
After that conference yesterday and what the Cheeseburger said about “writing what you know”, I thought up the idea for THIS!
I would write exactly what I know and nothing more. One of the other speakers I had the “pleasure” of listening to was rambling on about “finding your voice” in writing, a voice that is you and you alone that can be deciphered without even finding out who wrote the book. I had heard before that this is an indication of a good writer, but I never really understood how to harness it.
Then, it came to me!
I would write how I speak, without any interruptions: almost like a “stream of consciousness” but with slightly tighter grammar and more punctuation. I would write whatever comes to my mind and not overthink anything, as I tend to do. For example, I just realized that I have to start getting ready for work within an hour and a half and I have a lab report that I haven’t started due on Monday! I also realized how annoyed I am at the accumulation of dry skin on my face and the awkward position in which I am laying while typing this. See? It’s easy.
Oh, wonderful. My cat just jumped up on my bed. I swear to God, if he starts crawling all over my keyboard again I am going to chuck him across the room! He seems content on my Little Mermaid blanket so I will leave him be for now.
What was I talking about again? Something to do with cheeseburgers?
Oh right, the conference. Still? I am still talking about this stupid conference? OKAY. I am going to end it here.
Here is a summary of my day: I was bored, I got slightly inspired, I embarrassed myself twice (once when I demanded Mr. Erickson to introduce us to his twin and another time when I told one of the published authors that used to be a teacher at St. Matthew’s that my cousin Adriana says hi and he gave me a funny look like one would when a stranger says something as random as what I said). Then when we returned to school, we had a pizza party. As sad as this is, it was most definitely the highlight of my day. Our conversations consisted of topics regarding post-secondary and movies and our Family Studies teacher Mrs. Talbot shooting students in the hallway with a Nerf gun. I mentioned this when her name had been brought up, which caused Hayden to laugh hysterically to the point of folding herself in half.
I made everyone laugh a couple times, which made me feel really warm and fuzzy inside because that never tends to happen. Usually (my sister more often than not has the displeasure of always being there for my psychotic episodes), my attempts at humour fail miserably and I am either mocked with laughter or there is an awkward silence. So when people actually laughed without mockery, you can only imagine my joy! That’s all I really remember of the pizza party.
Lovely. I just yawned and one of my elastics snapped in my mouth—one of the many joys of orthodontic treatment. I refuse to get up from this bed to get another one. It’s just not happening. I must admit though, that snapping elastics are quite efficient when you are pissed off at your mom or sister and you are trying to signify your rage. It actually makes a fairly noticeable sound! Usually when this happens I end up startling myself, but as long as I can keep the shock off my face, I tend to be able to pull off QUITE the impression.
If my elastics snap, you know I mean business!
Anyways though…conference, pizza party…oh and then I went home. And my mom made thimble cookies for my cousin Nadine’s wedding shower while I took up space on the kitchen table with my laptop and showed her stupid YouTube videos to avoid doing my homework. I never lifted a finger to help and I was the one that ended up eating the most cookies. It’s how I roll…or don’t roll, because I am more often than not too lazy to roll. And then to top it all off, I serenaded my mother and sister (Erika helped my mom as I watched) with my iTunes library, which only annoyed them further. It was wonderful.
And that was the extent of my Thursday.
As for Friday, I already provided the gist of what happened there: all I can remember is having my ear drums blown out and then whining to my Data teacher with Marissa about how horrible the Battle that wasn’t even a battle was. As we were leaving her room, she thanked us sarcastically for giving her more work because we had written “Friday” lyrics and cursive letter “F’s” all over her chalkboard. Marissa and Rachel had been trying to teach me how to do a proper “f” because apparently I’ve been doing it wrong since grade three. So my poor Mrs. Fraser was left to erase it all.
Haha, sucker. That’s what you get for taking marks off my Data quiz for word choice!
When she whined about having to erase it all, we just told her that she should keep it because it was such a “work of art”. She didn’t think so.
Proceeding school, I went home with every intention to start my Biology lab, but I didn’t. I napped, wrote more of this “story” and hung out with Deanna, who has been my good friend and neighbour since we were four years old. And I know it sounds like I have lots of friends based on how many people I have mentioned thus far, but the people I have mentioned thus far are honestly the only friends I have. So I am not lying there!
Anywho! Deanna had texted me at around eight or so and asked me if I wanted to go to Timmies. For all of you who aren’t from the wonderful land of Canada (which you all probably are and I say this because this is more than likely my mom reading), “Timmies” is the nickname we Canadians have for “Tim Horton’s”. I’m not so sure how many Timmies they have in the U.S. of A, let alone other countries, but for those of you who don’t know (I know you know, mom), it’s a coffee/donut place.
I was kind of worried when I got the text because usually when people ask if you want to go to Timmies, it is because either something tragic has happened, like a break up or some other form of relationship drama, or because they simply have a donut craving. So of course, I had to inquire her motive for going. She said she had a peanut butter cookie craving, which could turn into a tragedy if not treated.
So we walked to Timmies and cut through the creepy rapist park near our houses. And I say it is a creepy rapist park because there are bushes near the path that someone could easily hide in, a huge field of open space next to a twenty-foot hill where a creeper could easily get their rape on and no light posts in a twenty-foot radius. The only lighting comes from the surrounding neighbourhood (which doesn’t provide much) and the Metro grocery store in the distance. It is truly a wonder that we managed to cross without getting abducted.
When we got to Timmies, I didn’t end up get anything because I had had Wendy’s earlier and I was still working on digesting it. So I just sat there and absorbed the conversation while occasionally participating.
Then we went back to Deanna’s house to watch old Disney movies. Every time we get together, we have to have a Disney movie marathon. Last time we watched The Lion King and Aladdin, this time it was The Rescuers Down Under…which could SO be the name of a porn movie, when you really think about it.
So uh, yeah…you would never think that we are eighteen years old. While my boyfriend was drinking beers by a campfire in Sault Ste. Marie (he is in flight school over there to become a pilot), I was in a basement watching a movie about two mice trying to save an Australian boy from a poacher.
Just as a side note: I am really weird when it comes to drinking. I have this illogical fear of losing control and getting sick. I have also seen what happens to others when they’re under the spell of booze, so I try to avoid it as much as possible. Christian hardly ever drinks, but when he does I tend to worry about him a little. I realize that my fears about drinking can be considered slightly ridiculous, but I just don’t want anything happening to him…especially when I’m so far away. How do I know that he is going to be taken care of if he has a little too much? How do I know that he is going to make it back to his apartment safely if he is out somewhere?
I think I sound like more of a mom than a girlfriend. I have to stop!
I am an extremely paranoid person. I can’t help myself! The fears that I have for myself are the same fears I share with him. There was a time in my life when I used to laugh at intoxicated peoples, but that ship has definitely sailed. Now, it just bothers me more than anything. But if I continue to rant about this any further, I will be late for work and my lab report will never be started (let alone completed).
Maybe it’s because he hides his intoxication via text so well. With some guys it’s appallingly obvious, but Christian? You would never be able to tell!
Oh yeah, I said I wouldn’t rant about this. Okay, I’m stopping!
When I got home from Deanna’s, Christian and I talked on the phone. As we usually do when we have a lonely weekend ahead, we got on the topic of how much we miss each other. I told him that I’d give just about anything to be able to hug him for only for a few minutes…just a few minutes, that’s all, and I’d be able to drift off to a peaceful sleep.
Then my eyes started getting a little foggy (okay, they were really foggy…) and I had to take a few deep breaths before it became obvious that I was sobbing. You know that shaky voice you get when you’re in the midst of tearing up and you’re trying to speak? Yeah, that was the one I was failing miserably at supressing. Of course he caught on to this and tried to comfort me by telling me that we would be together again soon, even though we both have no idea when soon is at the present moment. This didn’t help me much, but I forced myself to stop crying, anyways.
Well, Christian Eslington, what can I say? I love you and I miss you. Why do you have to be so wonderful and so far away? Can you just TRY to make me mad every once and a while so I don’t have to miss you quite as much?
I think I am “whipped”, as they say. More whipped than whipped cream.
Okay, so…my life is a cliché. Why am I writing this again? For your sakes, I hope it gets more interesting. I have to start my lab now, so I am going to say…umm, ciao for now I guess! And for the record, it is now Saturday. I was too tired and lazy to finish this yesterday.
Oh hey look! It’s 4:18 PM and I have to start getting ready for work. There goes the lab.
The self-loathing will commence tomorrow.