I nearly cried

Yes. I really nearly did as I watched this. Most people would take this to mean they need to find a new obsession.

BUT NOT ME.



LET'S DO IT AGAIN, LET'S DO IT AGAIN!



This is how the world needs to be. All. The. TIME. Small, and it must include flying ships. And I must be the captain of one of these vessels. And pillage the harbors. But mostly pillage DREAMS.

I have a lust for life

I like this. :3

MMMM GIRL, IS GONNA BE GOOOOD

Looks to me like Sherlock Holmes just got bumped up the internal book list I carry.

WE'VE GOT TILL CHRISTMAS, PEOPLE.

Look who failed at reading the actual books. *facepalm*

Regardless, this STILL needs to happen. JUST LOOK AT ITS EPICNESS.



Oh god. It gave me shpulkas in my gonnectagazoids.

Yesterday, on Christmas Day, I went with my cousins to the theatre to see a movie. My cousin Diego and I wanted to see Sherlock Holmes, but the other two cousins in the group were really leaning towards Precious. Meh, what the heck, I wanted to see Precious earlier anyway. Just... I wanted to see Sherlock Holmes slightly more.

Whatever. We saw Precious instead. (SAD MOVIE. OH GOD SO SAD. Comic relief was created when a few ladies in the back started giving commentary to the movie. Soooo great.) Truly, I'd rather see a giant HOLLYWOOD PRODUCTION like Holmes on Christmas Day, but whatever.

BUT THIS ISN'T WHAT'S IMPORTANT. THIS. LOOK AT THIS.


AND THIS


Always nice to see you, Watson.

GOD IT MADE ME SO HAPPY. I must have looked like a total spaaaz, asking to take a picture with cardboard people. I really don't care. SO WORTH IT.

IN CHRISTMAS-RELATED NEWS:

I spent the PAGAN HOLIDAY (lulz)in the company of my family, eating everyone's food, playing Beatles Rock Band, unwrapping ONE present, and generally being merry. That was the Eve.

The Daaaay was spent in the company of aforementioned family at my own home where we grilled meat and lazied about and discussed how teachers are drunk (according to my uncle, anyway)and how one of my cousins was at DISNEYLAND. YAY!

Then we went to see Precious, where I cried a little over the sadness of her life and felt sad that I hadn't seen a happier, more actiony movie instead, then returned home to watch a show about aliens and ancients or some shiz like that. Meanwhile, I started to feel a little stress about all the unfinished work I've yet to do: due dates look closer this side of Christmas...

This is about Disneyland, which means you shouldn't be surprised.

I apparently fail at owning a blog. I didn't realize it required so much feeding, and water, and a regular litter box change. It's so effing NEEDY.

Nevertheless, it's still here and we're working through our problems. Meh, not really. It's sorta degenerated into a "OMG I WENT TO DISNEYLAND GAIS" kinda thing. And I really have no problem with that.

In keeping with the I LOVE DISNEYLAND OH YES motif, I'll just tell you how I spent my last weekend. If you haven't guessed yet... I went to Disneyland. Stayed in a hotel and everythang. Woke up the next day and had breakfast... and tEa!



Oh, and it was such a lovely sight upon entering! Well, even before that, obviously. Because it's Disneyland. That's just how they DO. The castle was SNOWED ON. I was astounded, amazed, speechless, and just a tad itchy, maybe. That, clearly, had nothing to do with the "snowed on" castle, but it's just a fact I felt needed to be pointed out.



King Arthur's Carrousel has some creepy ass faces, man...



We went on Dumbo and laughed our asses off. My mother and I weren't sure what came over us. It was probably the Disney MAGIC. Fur sealz.

Friends, remember that tEa pot at the beginning of the post? Yeah, well, there musta been something in the tEa, because in time, I began to SEE thiiiiiiings... strange things. O_o



NO, NOT DANCING, TINY WOMEN! Waaaaaaaaaai, God, why?!

>

Holy Jesus Christ, the sky! Look at the SKY.



What's that you say? I'm not on shrooms, as a dear friend of mine once claimed? No? That's just a bunch of crappy pictures of it's a small world holiday? Oh. Ok then. That was a tad embarassing. MOVING ON.



Ho Ho Holidays INDEED.



Pfft. Don't hold your breath, Disney.



IN ADDITION, there was a parade! With Santa! And other stuff! I took pictures, but considering my limited stature, they were nothing marvelous. Besides, during the parade time, we managed to JOIN FORCES with a man with a broken leg from Mexicali, as well as his wife and his 4 year old son, Robert.

Can you say, FASTPASS? We can. We never had to. We had a HANDICAP. That's BETTER than a fastpass!

In time, we'd ridden four rides in the time it'd take us to do two. EPIC. FREAKING. WIN. While in handicap line for Pirates, I flitted off to explore New Orleans Square, because I'm a badass rebel like that, and also because when I was at Disneyland during the Fall, I'd come across a portrait maker in the middle of the Square, and kinda wanted a lovely portrait of myself, because I'm vain. As I was walking towards where I'd seen them, I glimpsed a little corner/nook with a large "Princess and the Frog" sign over the doorway. Upon closer inspection, I learned that Princess Tiana was taking pictures and signing autographs... and the line was only 20 minutes! Before you scoff, you must know that the line for Princess Fantasy Faire in Fantasyland was a freaking HOUR AND A HALF long. I know this because early in our journey through magicalness, we decided to hunt down a princess for my little sister, a project which failed epically.

Now, however, here was a chance to take a picture with a Disney princess - and a REALLY recent one too! The recentist! That's not a word! I don't care! It was so, so lucky, but the entire clan was back in line for Pirates and I knew nobody would approve of my AWESOME idea except for my sister and me. Thus, I sighed and proceeded around the corner of the street, pausing only in the teeny tiny, itsy bitsy Princess and the Frog shop, where I caught a glimpse of the newest princess through the window.

She was so cute :3 I wish I had taken a picture with her. ME. And then I'd tell her what I'd like for Christmas. And she'd be gracious and laugh but internally think, "Oh god, do I LOOK like Santa? Am I fat and WHITE? I DON'T THINK SO. Maaaaan!"

I managed to find the portrait artist right around that little bend and, lo and behold, the prices were nothing to giggle over, but I expected as much. The time was the issue here. You can't expect a full picture of your FACE to be a quick thing, and I knew nobody would approve of this awesome idea either.

LE SIGH. I never get to chill in New Orleans. :(



I get over things. I get over things quick. Especially when we got to go on Pirates and then Indiana Jones in the FREAKING QUICKEST LINES EVAR. In the history of TIME. In the history of LIFE. In the history of ME.

We parted ways after Indiana Jones, as our park hoppers were calling upon us to hop the fence on over to California Adventures. Running through the Hollywood Backlot reminded me very much of last trip. Hmm...

And thus, I got my family to appreciate THEATRE in the form of Aladdin's Musical Spectacular. So. MUCH. FFFUUUUNNN. Goooooooood, I love that show.

Then we soared over California, something especially fun for the fam because they'd never gone on the ride before and because my dad could go, "HEY I'VE BEEN IN THERE!" when we flew over the golf course, and because everyone got to fly. I thought my sister would start crying, but she was yelping with joy.

After eating some burgers and sandwiches at the nearby Taste Pilots' Grill (nomnomnom chicken sammiches, nomnomnom onion rings, nomnomnom vanilla shaaaakes)we went back to Disneyland for the fireworks spectacular! But not before purchasing an over-priced balloon that lit up for my little sister. It later deflated when we had to hand it over to the Haunted Mansion people and then MISTREATED it. Lear's balls.



We rushed past the now lit up Christmas tree, all trippied out by my expert camera handling...



Down Main Street... OMG I CAN'T IGNORE THIS!



I wanted to sit there and stare at that castle ALL NIGHT LONG, no joke.



OH HAI HAUNTED MANSION, HAI. I see Jack's had his way with you. Interesting, interesting.

Now, I personally consider the Haunted Mansion a staple in the Disneyland diet. It makes me sad if I don't go on it. My dad doesn't care for it much and so to appease him, we rushed on over to Splash Mountain after this. Line was like 5 minutes long because everyone's already rushed over to the Rivers of America or the Central Plaza to prepare for the night spectaculars. I chose to chill outside with my mom and browse the overpriced merchandise that I've become immune to through careful training. I'm like the Brahman of Disneyland, son.

So, we managed to watch the fireworks show. I NEARLY CRIED, I WAS SO HAPPY. Most beautiful thing EVAR. And then it "snowed." There were these lamp thing that showed globs of foam that looked like snow on certain sections of the Central Plaza. EPIC WIN, DISNEYLAND. You've contented me once again.

We left then, but not before I'd had my pick of souvenir. I knew to stay away from the hats, since I always forget about them, and instead wandered into a little visited art shop where they sell you overpriced posters and overpriced frames. I settled for an overpriced poster of the Mad tEa Party complete with Disney characters spinning in the tEacups - a nod to Mustafa and his tEa party.

That shiz is on my wall now, yo.

Next morning, I ate myself silly at El Torito's sunday buffet. That night, I killed myself over Bio and Math. Returning to my regularly scheduled programming was sadness :(

BUT GOD I LOVE DISNEYLAND :D :D :D :D :D

Mustafa's Tea

"Oh, dO pLeAsE sit down, Miss Rahlia! Would you quite like some tEa?"

I sat down in the large, winged armchair, stroking my mustache in a contemplative manner, wondering if I, indeed, would quite like some tEa.

"Why yes, Mister Mustafa, I would quite like some TeA."

Mister Mustafa frowned, his tiny silver teapot frozen in mid-air. "I said, 'Would you like some tEa, NOT 'Would you like some TeA?' Those are two entirely different beverages, you insolent American!" Reaching inside of his paisley coat, he removed a mutant, overly large sardine and smacked me in the face with it. I could taste its shiny, nasty, fishy silver fish scales all up in mah grill, and made a mental note never to mispronounce tEa ever again, or visit the Italian island of Sardegna, for that matter.

"Give me some goddamn tEa, ya old geezer," I said, rubbing the side of my face where the fish had slapped, wincing as I felt the rawness of it.

The old geezer smiled, his own magnificent mustache twitching. "That's more like it," he guffawed, and proceeded to pour the tEa right onto my elbow, where I proceeded to lap it up like some people lap up honey, and like others lap other runners as they run laps on a track.

After I'd finished lapping up my tEa, and after Mustafa was done lapping his up as well, I looked at the man right in the eye and said, "Why did you call me? Surely, it wasn't just to drink some tEa, though I'm certain that was your secondary motive."

Mustafa sighed, laying his elbow on a saucer and stirring it with a spoon. He looked so old all of a sudden, older than he had looked just a few seconds ago, but then I realized that his Malaysian servant, Musa, was swinging precariously from the large crystal chandelier directly over our intimate conversation and shooting his master with an aging gun that he had surely developed in the bowels of the palace, or some other such dodgy place. This explained the sudden oldness of Mustafa, and I nodded appreciatively at Musa. Those Malaysians, always so ingenious!

He, in turn, made an, "URGH," face and swung down to earth from his swinging chandelier, shouting something about bananas in the drying machine.

I paid him no mind, as my host had now returned to his regularly scheduled programming and was about to reveal to me the reason for his sudden summons.

"Well, Miss Rahlia, I am getting along in age now - "

I interrupted. "No you're not, that was just because Musa was testing his new aging gun on you, which is apparently not permanent, as all your deep wrinkles have returned to slightly less deep but still incredibly noticeable wrinkles."

Mustafa glared at me. "That's enough, stupid! Anyway, as I was saying," he said, his voice returning to the sad, wilting tone he'd started to use after his first sigh, "I'm getting old, and soon I'm going to die. Actually, not really, I'm only going to pretend to be dead so I can go on an extended vacation to the Bahamas without anyone asking any ridiculous questions. I was wondering..."

"Yes?" I was getting frustrated with him. He's annoying and semi-retarded. No, I'm not saying that just to be mean. He really is semi-retarded.

"I was wondering if..." He paused again, throwing his flaccid hand over his tiny eyes, his fez and monocle falling slightly out of place. "Oh, but I can't do it!" he cried, standing up and pushing me out of my seat and smacking me with his fish again. He then walked over to his desk, crowded with erotic items from his explorer days, and slid everything off the floor, breaking several glass unidentifiable erotic objects.

"Don't you see!" he cried, grabbing me by the lapels and shooting old man spit in my face. My face was frozen in an expression of, "OMGWHUT." I had a feeling the old man had gone insane, was having an episode, had lost his left foot, ruined the American economy, or stolen a beanie baby from Sears.

He threw me into the fireplace and fell to his knees, his noticeably wrinkly face in his hands. "I can't ask you to do anything for me because you're way too cool!" Mustafa bawled like a child.

I growled. I'd only travelled here all the way from New Brunswick, hoping I'd be a getting some sort of inheritance or maybe a daughter of Mustafa's to marry. Unfortunately, it was just another repeat episode of Mustafa being semi-retarded and probably bipolar and maybe even malignant. I grabbed his fish and slapped him across the face with it, and then I punched him in the gut, and then I made him dance a lively polka to a completely un-polka-ish song.

"Snap out of it, Mustafa! I didn't travel here all the way from New Brunswick, hoping to I'd get some sort of inheritance or maybe a daughter of yours to marry, just to witness a repeat episode of you being semi-retarded and probably bipolar and maybe even malignant. This is why I've grabbed your fish and slapped you across the face with it, and then punched you in the gut, and then made you dance a lively polka to a completely un-polka-ish song. So, either I force you to write me into your will, you write me into your will willingly, or you cough up some daughter for me to marry, or I promise you, there shall be hell to pay! And maybe also the IRS to pay. Wait a minute, they're the same thing, so there'll be HELL TO PAY!"

I removed my portable Manny Pacquiao from my messenger bag and commanded him to beat up Mustafa in Tagalog. Manny speaks some other dialect, but he understand everything, even Eskimo, so there was no problem. He beat him up for me until Mustafa looked like a pile of apple sauce. Suddenly hungry, I told Manny to go make me some apple sauce using only his fists. He nodded, saying that was much easier than using his feet.

"What'll it be, Mustafa?"

Half dead, Mustafa twitched on the floor. He mumbled something. I couldn't hear him, so I grabbed his megaphone from the shelf and laid it on the floor next to his mouth. He mumbled again, but this time I could hear him.

"I... I only wanted you... to-to-to... watch my goose farm while I was 'dead.' I... I just thought you were...too-too-too... cool for the job. Now... now... now I'm still asking you to watch my goose farm, except this time I'll... really be... dead."

Gasping, feeling foolish, and also feeling like I needed to pee, I grabbed his head in my arms and poured tEa into his mouth. "I'm sorry, Mustafa! It's just you're so annoying! Here," I said, raising his broken hand and sticking a pen in it. "I prepared a will just in case something like this should happen. Quick, sign it before you die!"

He complied, probably because of the numerous concussions he'd received from Manny. I smiled, holding Mustafa's head in one hand and licking the will with the other.

"You know, Natalia, you always were my best student," he said, mustering all his strength to be coherent.

I put my finger to his lips. "Shhhhh. You'll ruin this beautiful moment." I continued licking the will, shedding tears of joy onto it.

I felt his body go stiff in my arm, and I dropped it to the floor, knowing that I was now a whole lot more filthy rich than before. "Poor man - he was sort of ok."

Then, looking down at the check in my hands, I giggled and laughed and danced - until I noticed that all the licking and crying I'd done all over it had smeared Mustafa's signature beyond recognition.

"CURSE YOU MUSTAFA!"

----

The purpose of this post was to inform you that I drank tea today, and that I enjoyed it quite a lot. Obviously, there was some sort of mutation or generation of the gene, and I birthed this creature.

American TackleBall

DYOOD I just finished Passage to India! I was so excited, it needed to be written.

And yesterday, I went to my first football game. Deprived? Yes. According to some, I am/was/it doesn't matter. Cause I went and I guess it was interesting. We kept the flag? We beat PD? We don't fail? Ok, cool. I'm happier about the kettlecorn and the brigade than I was about the actual game.

There was also some chick behind where we were sitting and she kept cramping my style, man. She got upset when people booed. IT'S A GAME, LADY. There's this little thing called a rivalry and people tend to get into it. I see nothing wrong with that.

After the third touchdown, somebody shouted, "You can just go home now, Palm Desert!" and people started singing "Goodbye," or whatever the balls it's called and the chick started going, "OMG THAT'S SO UNCLASSY WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN IF THEY COME BACK THAT'LL BE SOOOOOOO EMBARASSING."

STFU. They are obviously not gonna come back and if they do, then we fail. So what. People do crap like this all the time. GET OVER EET.

Meh. I just like being angry at people and that chick thought she was too cool for highschool games. "I IZ CLASSY." This is highschool, ugly pants, and nowhere does it say we have to be classy.

ALSO ALSO: THE BRIGADE = EPIC WIN. Twas pretty indeed.

Halloweeeeen

Soooooooo Halloween's like the holiday of pumpkins and costumes and shiz, right? YEAH, I did it! The build-up for Halloween for me was probably the most buildy-uppy I've had it in a while - I actually tried to consider my costume for once. And I've clearly had my fill of pumpkins for the year, as demonstrated by stuff and junk that you shall see shortly or, like, RIGHT FREAKING NOW.



Math pumpkins! We carved pumpkins in math to find IMPORTANT SERIOUS INFORMATION OF IMPORTANCE about them. Cause MATH = SRS BZNS. Obviously.







Michael = EPIC WIN for that pumpkin. Whoop de woop!

And this was my costume, so the entire world can know the weirdness that is me when I try to make a costume. It should be noted: cheap costume paint is cheap and lame. Not that I tried that hard, though. :D



I look like a cross between a hooker, some chick from the twenties, and maybe Marie Antoinette if she was pretending to be a queen instead of actually being a queen.

I'm Slurping Ice Cream and You Should Do It Too

So I have a story to tell.

While preparing to type how neglected this thing is, I accidentally dribbled vanilla ice cream all over the F key of my keyboard. It was starting to slide between the little cracks between the keys and, in a moment of panic, decided that wiping it up would only further drive the vanilla-y goodness into the black hole that is the backside of the keys and thus, swooped down quickly and suctioned that shiz up like a vaccuum. Urgh. I'm disgusted.

ANYWAY.

This thing is neglected as BALLS. Wait, no, that's wrong, because balls are probably way more unneglected than this blog thang. At least balls get scratched every once in a while. This thing? Not even a TICKLE. It makes me sad and I clearly felt the need to address this most worrisome issue, probably because I'm currently procrastinating on some VERY SRS BSNS that needs to be attended to.

PROCRASTINATIONWINFAIL

Oh yes, and yesterday was quite fun. After finding a see-through lace shirt that just seemed to make so much SENSE in my brain and actually buying the item (I have come a long way, yes sirree) and then watching my grandma tremble and shake on her recently operated knee, I headed off to a 1920's themed paaaaaaartay. I was all cloched out, ate all the cigarettes, drank all the punch, snorted all the pixie sticks, lost all the Cannoli money, and then won it all back. Guillermo and I decided that when I grow up I will be a compulsive and lousy gambler, as well as a compulsive QVC home shopper that'll buy all this weird ass stuff she'll never use.

AWW WELL, WHO NEEDS TO NOT BE BANKRUPT ANWAY! :D

Maaaaaaan I wish all my weekends were spent pretending to be in the 20's. It'd be fun.

Disneyland: Mining Equipment/Gay Edition

Were you there? I WAS THERE. It was epic and now I'm tired and it appears that I've caught the flu.

Basically: car drive to Disneyland was spent getting all amped and excited for the super magical day ahead, with a bit of singing here and there. Once we arrived, Sarah crashed into a sign, I laughed cause it was HILARIOUS and then stopped because I remembered it was her birfday, and people had their hands SPACE PRESSED by the weirdo, futuristic hand dryers of McDonald's Anaheim. I did not. However, I was a witness and can thus say, with the utmost conviction, THAT WAS SOME CRAZY SHIT. I thought I was on drugs or something.

We met a man who nearly broke my hand and has my DREAM JOB (he's a Disney castmember) and entered the park like ninjas, sitting down in the now OCTOBER/HALLOWEEN-ized Disneyland where autumnal colors reign supreme. While waiting for the rest of our crew to cross into Narnia, we spotted Alice and the Mad Hatter being their sweet selves and I couldn't help but imagine them making out right then and there because, let's face it, Bri-chan knows what she's talking about when she, er, draws. Yes. If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's ok, just assume you do.

Wanna know who else I saw? Ryan Higa. AKA NIGAHIGA.

Yes. THIS GUY.



With his GIRLFRIEND. D'AWW.

Sara, Amber, and I debated whether or not we should fangirl him. We sorta decided against it? And hoped maybe we'd see him around? Stand behind him in line? STEAL HIS SHIRT.

Eh hem. Moving on.

Stopped by the Disney Gallery/the 50 first magical years and I was like, "BETCH I KNOW THIS STUFF. I HAS SEARCHED FTW." Then, we decided fast passes for Space Mountain: Ghost Galaxy HAD to be acquired. I was not going to stand in line for HORUS. Or for hours. Just not worth it.

We also star toured. And shot at robots in space. And Matterhorned. And then we epically spun and screamed like nutters on the Teacups. WHICH I FILMED AND THEN ACCIDENTALLY ERASED. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY.

THEN: There was mining equipment. NOT THE MINING EQUIPMENT. NOT THE FRUIT. OH NO, JESUS CHRIST. Snow White's Scary Adventures were scary, no joke.

Afterwords, we headed down the Big Thunder Trail between Fantasyland and Frontierland to walk into... a petting zoo? Yeah, really. With GOATS. I made new friends, I tell ya. Like the sheep, which started to walk away after it got tired of being surrounded by curious people. Perhaps the most epic of moments there, however, was how Woody rejected my hug (DISNEY CHARACTERS ARE ALWAYS FREAKING REJECTING ME) but then accepted.

Yup. Woody rejected AND accepted that Ho. And I have PROOF.

We were apparently hungry for overpriced food and backtracked to the Village Haus restaurant, where people bought overpriced food for consumption. Big Thunder Mountain railroad was next on our list, and it was EPIC. There was even MORE mining equipment. Seriously, Walt had some sort of mining fetish or something.

We Mark Twain riverboated it and spent a good few minutes waving at the people dressed in red down on the docks. Funnily enough, the people dressed in red for Gay Day '09 were the only ones who responded to our gay waves. The rest ignored us even when we pointed directly at them. WHAT DOUCHES. It's Disneyland, it's the closest you'll ever get to heaven, WAVE AT ME FOR WALT'S SAKE.

It was upon the gleaming white steamboat that we became interested in the Davy Crockett canoes, specifically in the one with the fine young lad with the head full of bouncy brown curls at the head of the rowboat. We attempted to hurry, not wanting to be stuck with some other bland canoe director; alas, it was not to be. Instead, we got this one chick who was actually not horrible, but was also not Mister Bouncy Curls. Poop!

Either way, I loved the canoes. I'd never done that before at Disneyland, and we all got very wet, I made a new friend who was like 6 years old, and it was made of epic win. My arms got a workout, yo.

I think we tried to get a fastpass for the Haunted Mansion? Or did we do this later? AT ANY RATE, we headed towards Space Mountain to experience this new fangled thing they call Ghost Galaxy. It was sorta the schnapps. Apparently, there are more ghosts than planetary bodies in space, but I sorta don't care. It was all good, and Anamaria learned a valuable lesson: always put your sweater on or you may end up with a less-than-flattering picture of yourself when you exit the ride. Lulz.

I think we were on our way towards Pirates of the Caribbean, which we rode for obvious reasons (it's only sorta necessary?), and then I think we did the Haunted Mansion, which was soooo spiffy in all its Nightmare before Christmas GLORY and then Indiana Jones ("WHY MUST THERE BE EXCAVATION!"). At the Temple of the Eye, Sara yelled at people and they jumped and freaked out. Twas funny.

Jungle Cruise? YES. Tarzan's treehouse? I had already screamed myself nearly hoarse, and I yelled and sang all the way up and then down because I have no shame.

Time starts getting fuzzy and I'm not exactly sure whether my chronology is right. I'm guessing it's not but let's just roll with it? Yes, let's.

Because the Aladdin show at Cal. Adventures is amazing, we head on over to experience the magic of the Arabian Nights during the Southern California afternoon. I'm soooo glad we did. I can't believe I hadn't seen that before. I mean, there's a REAL MAGIC CARPET that flies over the audience... that some dude died making, but that's beside the point. And the Genie killed it. KILLED IT. Brought it back to life, and then killed it some more. He was AMAZING. He alluded to Kanye and stupid crap, Jon & Kate, the SINGLE LADIES, the iPhone, and all this other crap.

I could watch an entire genies show. Or an entire show with Aladdin, who was sorta hot.

We ate dinner outside the park, Amber said the waiter was adorable (she meant Aidan, the baby), and then we planned Anamaria's entire nuclear holocaust LIFE. Upon rearriving at Disneyland, we found that what seemed like everyone in attendance had gathered on Main Street in preparation for the fireworks display. We maneuvered around in ninja-est of ways until we'd reached Frontierland/the site of the Fantasmic Night Spectacular... at the end of the show. NO PROBLEM. 10:30 showing, baby.

Everyone else wanted to go to Splash Mountain and I'm not too fond of the ride because a) the fall is LAME. Why can't I just hear singy animals be all, "Zippideedooda! SONG OF THE SOUTH WAS RACIST!"?, b)it has a huge line, usually and c) it will get you WET. I could already feel the tickle of sickness in my throat, quite different from that of hoarseness from a day of screaming, and I wasn't going to push it. Wetness + chilly night + tickle in throat = NOT GOOD.

So I decided to wait at the exit, browse Pooh's corner for antenna things, and then wait for my drenched buddies to come out. Like Ana. Nobody got it worse than Ana.

Eventually, we all managed to get to the Fantasmic spot, where I got angry at some stupid tall douche who was stupid, tall, and douchey, but I enjoyed the show nonetheless.

Thus the day ended. We were all tired as beans, we had all yelled and laughed and waved and spazzed over mining equipment continually, and we once again saw NigaHiga with his girlfriend upon exiting the park. Obviously we really didn't want to go up to him that bad because we were like, "Nah, he's in a hurry! Third times the charm!"

Hah. NO.

God, I'm tired. And, as always, I want to go back.

The First Debate

Today was the day of my first debate competition. Yes, the one I was unsure about joining because it would mean giving up my Saturday and not sleeping in late. But, obviously, that is a lazy and lame argument, so I rejected that Ho and decided to sign up anyway.

With my new partner. The one that I basically told he was my partner and really didn't have any say in the matter. Yeah, that one.

I woke up at 5:00 am this morning and put on the pants I'd pilfered from my mother's closet. Later, I arrived at school, where other people were waiting, like my partner, who had purchased some obscure energy drink because he was dying or something. I dunno. The kid is sorta weird. Scratch that, he's a whole lot of weird.

Eventually, I ended up in a stinky van driven by Ressing/Roessing/however her name's spelled (it doesn't matter, she's totally coolbeans), Lindsey and Adrienne and my partner. We sang like three Disney songs and then I dunno what happened.

Somehow, probably by driving, we arrived at the highschool. IT LOOKED LIKE A JAIL. Steel gray, two-floored, with weird boxish looking architectural features that looked like guard towers, and ROTC kids in their army uniforms standing out front - it didn't look like we'd gone to debate, it'd look like we'd been tricked into going to juvenile hall. WHUT.

After some sidelong glances at the ENEMY, some weird warm-up exercises concocted by the Varsity debaters that were basically a take on Theatre I games, and the weirdness that is that entire freakish team, the first debate round was posted! OH NOES. WHUT. I'M PROP? I DON'T WANT TO DEFINE, JUST LET ME GO HOOOOOME.

Hahaha no. So we prepped for twenty minutes, went in against a boyfriend and girlfriend team from I forgot where, and we basically kicked their joint black-tinged, red velvet ass. But apparently, everyone that had to agree with the resolution given pretty much won.

WHATEVER, I WON FROM PURE SKILL. AND MY PARTNER DID STUFF TOO, I GUESS.

It continued in much the same fashion for the rest of the day, with some waiting, then some prepping, then the actual debate, then another break, etc. The second one we lost but I totally should have seen that coming. We lost against this really cool team of badass kids who looked like the dorkiest, nerdiest guys, like they'd just trip over themselves in losing, but they kicked our butts. HARDCORE. Don't even get me started. I respect them though - smarty smarts, AND they were actually super cool. Kept saying hi to them throughout the day.

PIZZA TIME. Yeah, we ate pizza. Watched the rest of the team members be, erm, unique.

Our third debate was OMG WHUT, against the boyfriend/girlfriend couple of earlier. We lost. I don't understand why, I do think it was just some personal belief the judge had, because my team was better. Scratch that. I was on par with the chick, my partner was better than their dude, and their dude sorta sucked. That means we were generally better than they were, but whatever. I felt so bad for the boyfriend because, on our way back to cafeteria area, he was lamenting the fact that when he's next to his girlfriend, he feels so shaky and stuttery and like he's the girl and she's the guy.

I totally saw what he meant. That chick needs to back off. Nice and all but... she needs to tone it down a bit.

4th debate. Something must be said here: by this time, my feet hurt like a father. I'm walking on heels because it's more professional and to make sure my pants don't drag on the ground and, after a few hours and a few times up and down those stairs, my toes are on fire. So my feet hurt, I'm tired, it's hot (not as hot as here, though), and I'm starting to think my partner is semi-retarded/too nice/a creeper/a fugitive from the law and fearing that I may not be able to reject that Ho as my partner because then he might punch me in the face.

Yes. By the 4th debate, I didn't even care if I won, I just wanted to go home, and I was sooooo grateful that I had the 20 minutes of prep time to just chill and watch my partner rub a stick of Vicks Vaporub around his nostrils. I'm telling ya, this kid is weird.

So I chill for 20 minutes and don't worry too much because I'd actually seen my competition before hand and I knew it couldn't be as bad as debate number two. They hadn't even bothered to wear business attire, for crissakes!

The 4th was actually my favorite.

The judge was sort of an optometrist? She develops lenses for eyeballs and whatnot and showed us an example of one that she uses to show surgeons how to do their job. Pretty cool lady. Said she was 47 but she looked to be about 33. Anyway, she was coolbeans and the resolution was: This house would bring the troops home. I was on the opposition side, meaning I opposed the statement.

The proposition defined it as such: The majority of Americans would bring the troops home.

LULZ. GOTCHA BITCH. I learned from debate number two and will NEVER EVER IN MY ENTIRE LIFE let something go undefined. Never. It's too bad you didn't catch me immediately after debate number 1, cause you might have had a chance, but not really.

To summarize: They did not specify which troops, so I took the liberty and said Mexican troops. Why? Half of the US population doesn't even know the US is sending military aid to Mexico, and I was pretty damn sure they didn't. Nobody watches Mexican news like I watch Mexican news.

They went on to say that we should bring the troops home from Iraq? That happened a while ago. Your point is moot, and made of fail.

Why are you talking about the counterculture of the 60's? What does that have to do with your resolution? NOTHING.

And my vaporub sniffing partner even came through for me, saying something about the troops in the state of Chihuahua. The opposing team (which had a dude named KASH, OMG FAVORITE NAME EVAR) was like, "CHIHUAWHAT?" It's good having someone from a Mexican state when we're talking about drug cartels and shit.

We won that shiz. But I didn't even care about winning against them, because it's obvious they knew nothing about what we were talking about. The win in that was the fact that we persuaded a woman who was a deep believer of "BRING THE TROOPS HOME," seeing as how her dad, brother, and grandpa had all served in various American wars and she saw no reason to keep them there.

But she sided with us cause we were more persuasive.

WIN WIN WIN WIN WIN.

Overall, I was happy with my performance. Quite the learning experience. And that's not even to mention all the random crap that debate people do. Like race on the freeway. And have weird dudes from other schools come and talk like they'd known us forever. And discovering that someone did, indeed, define troops as Girl Scout troops, just like I thought they would. And seeing two dudes chest bump in the middle of an empty parking lot. And listen to Carlos Santana OVER AND OVER AND OVER again. And listening to the Varsity members be like, "THAT WAS SHIT, THEY WERE WRONG, WE ARE RIGHT BECAUSE OF CHINA AND ECONOMY WOMFLASJDFALMQ."

Angry German Kid

I'm sure this is OOOOOOOOLD news but I can't get over it because I've just seen it.

His name is Angry German Kid. And he and I are now the bestest of friends.



I only found out about him because my younger brother was watching videos and came upon Angry Man From Deutchland. There have apparently been many video game spoofs made about him or whatever and I sorta love it. I feel sad that I never saw this before - WEHRE HAVE I BEEN? WHICH SON OF A BITCH IS SHOOTING AT ME? *SCREAMS INCOMPREHENSIBLE*

I'm shutting up now. No, really.

The Tale of Despereuxxasljaslaj (That's how the French Pronounce shit, don't doubt)

For the past few weeks, Natalia Rahlia had been working on the floor of her bedroom. Math homework, labels for Biology, mini-essays for History – you name it, and it’s certain that the Rahlia did it on the floor of her bedroom. Having not cleaned her bedroom in a considerable, er, while, the floor of her bedroom was not the optimal place to work.

It was covered in pencil shavings because Natalia couldn’t be bothered to stand up and empty her sharpener properly.

It was covered in cat hair, a side-effect of owning a cat.

It was covered in Natalia’s own hair, because she is half cat.

And of course, there is the obvious reason why nobody should ever work on the floor – it is a not a desk and therefore ill suited for writings and such.

Often, she’d work into the wee hours of the morning, surviving on air, water, and the beautiful glowy promise on the hazy horizon that she’d appreciate her own efforts come school time, when she wouldn’t be scrambling to finish. Her spine curved until she resembled some bent old woman and her room became even more disorganized and horrible.

But then, the savior arrived.

Like an angel, she swooped down in all her auntly glory and delivered the gift of a lifetime (or a schoolyear): a beautiful desk, old and a little dusty from having been locked in a desert garage for so many years. OH, THE SHEER AWESOMENESS. Best thing: It was completely free. YESS.



The details are what sold it to Natalia Rahlia. She could marry the desk. And have its babies. And send those babies to college. And bail those babies out of jail.



Nothing could ruin Natalia Rahlia’s spirits. Not the constant deluge of homework, or the fact that she broke her big toe every day whenever she attempted to walk into her closet. NOTHING. Not even another one of her feline’s captured creatures.

AWW, HE’S SORTA CUTE.



Yes, the Cat had managed to catch something again and, like the eternal angel of salvation (SO MANY SAVING ANGELS MAN), she swooped down and, instead of grabbing the rodent, stole away with the cat, sticking her in solitary confinement until she went absolutely loony and started confessing to crimes she didn’t commit.

YOU BLOODTHIRSTY LION, YOU.

While we are on the subject of lions, it should be noted that Natalia Rahlia wept today when she saw Mufasa die. It was horrible, horrible, horrible.

And now she has a headache. The end.

Thumper Gets Saved

WAI HALLO THAR. What's that? You're wondering what this is? OH, well this here's a tiny little desert cottontail rabbit! I rescued him from the JAWS OF DEATH.

AKA my cat.



If you're anybody who is anybody, then you already know this story. If you don't, then you're probably nobody who is nobody OR you weren't there for my recounting of my EPIC HEROISM. It's ok, I'm sure you had something important to do, like saving a puppy from a burning building. Your un-knowledge is forgiven.

So there I was, groggily rolling out of bed after little more than 5 hours of sleep and duly wondering if today was going to be a good day, when SUDDENLY, actually wait, no. I rolled our of bed, went into my bathroom for da showerz of da day, when SUDDENLY….

“Squeeeeeaak! Squeeekakafdjksal!”

Holy shizzle sticks, something is dying in my shower!

My half dead brain somehow managed to remember the fact that just yesterday, a terrible crime had been discovered right in front of my door – there, in a little puddle of blood, lay a tiny rabbit’s foot and what looked like a piece of liver. OH NOES. MORE DEATH. WAAAAI.

I donned my superhero cape, tightened my tights, and painted the roses red, anticipating the horrid scene which I was sure could be found right on the other side of my door. There she was, like some terrible hawk, flitting and dipping her paws behind random things in our front patio – a large, blue ornamental vase, two pavers, the corner where a wall and door met. A round, brown ball squeaked in fear and hopped away between my cat’s claws, fighting for his life like a brave astronaut or a tile installer.

“No!” I roared, drawing my wand from the confines of my hidden crotch pocket. Endowed with the cold fury that accompanies any saving endeavor of mine (I apparently save endangered things a lot), my voice was loud and my spell so strong, my cat literally flew up and crashed down like a bouncing, white ferret, standing up to reveal a bloody nose, a black eye, and a cancelled gym membership. She wiped her nose with the back of her paw, staining her spectacular snowy fur bloody scarlet. She then shook her fist at me, gave a look of intense EVOL, swore vengeance, and told me my hair looked like crap. I responded by not responding, choosing instead to scoop the frightened little creature up into my manly hand of manliness.

“Oh, you poor thing!” I cried, hurriedly cupping the desert rabbit between my hands and rocking him, and petting him, and comforting his poor, troubled soul. His heart beat wildly in his miniature ribcage, and I was relieved, and happy, and oddly annoyed too because I really sorta needed to take a shower but I OBVIOUSLY couldn’t just release the bunny into the WILD without 1) walking far enough away where my cat wouldn’t re-find him and 2) without showing the family, especially my little sister who was absolutely pissed when she found out the cat killed a rabbit.

(Let’s ignore the fact that her own mother and father absolutely ADORE the taste of rabbit. Yes, let’s leave that out of this.)

Eventually, though I know it’s not cool to wake people up, I wake up my sister because she’s little and doesn’t care if we ruin her sleep and because she freaking loves when we catch random animals that my cat tried to kill and show them to her.

(Once, I caught this adorable red-breasted finch bird – it was so cute! Its wing was twisted, and it was unable to fly for several hours, but eventually he got tired of hopping around the courtyard and I got tired of watching him, and we both eventually decided it was best if he went on his way; he limp-flied away, high enough into the branches to ensure LIFE.)

She freaks out and is like, “BUNNY!” cause she’s five and she can still spaz like that, then I show my brother, who basically spent the last day and a half vomiting out his insides but didn’t care if I woke him up because he apparently also likes seeing animals that the cat nearly killed but didn’t.

Then my mom saw him and decided not to let him go until at least dusk. Cause everyone automatically loves him.

And my dad, who basically hates animals, was like, “Wow, he’s pretty.” Yeah. My father. Manly man of manliness. It was just THAT CUTE.

Thus was borne the tale of Thumper, the incredible hopping baby rabbit that I saved from the JAWS OF DEATH. He spent his day in the Rahlia household, chilling in a cardboard box. Weird little dude. No matter how much we urged him to eat foods we put in the center of the box, the bunny just kept edging towards the corner until his twitchy nose was facing the wall, acting like we’d forced him into time out.

Interesting cottontail fact: They eat their own feces. Yeah. They do. It’s to gain the nutritional value that they didn’t acquire during the first digestion. Green poop = LET’S DO IT AGAIN, Brown poop = GLARG, I just came off the tilt-o-whirl and I have no nutritional value left. Basically: DON’T EAT BROWN POOP, JUST GREEN.

Which explained why he didn’t eat the poop he left in the box. It was brown, and also about 1/100th the size of a domesticated full grown rabbit’s poop.

We released him into the WILD (aka my neighborhood where these rabbits live for some reason), made sure he had no Stockholm Syndrome (he did not, quickly running away as we pursued him to check for the syndrome), and returned home with an empty box and a bit of an empty heart.

Man, I miss him.



Oh yes. Anyone know that African GIRL who won a really important race and set a record or something? Well, she apparently looks like a dude so they're like, "Let's test her for manlinessness!" and claimed she was a man because she had more male hormones than female hormones despite the fact that she has lady parts down there.

JESUS CHRIST, WHUT. Let her take the medal, for poop's sake! Nobody would care about that race if it wasn't for her anyway. No, seriously, I really wouldn't even know it had occurred if it wasn't for Miss Mann. Jebus!



EDIT: I just remembered. At one point, I decided to take the rabbit into my room, wanting to stick him in something so I could shower but not lose him to the JAWS OF DEATH, and I decided my Disneyland Mad Hatter hat was an appropriate rabbit receptacle. But then he started running around in it, and I started thinking maybe he'd poop in my hat, and then I pulled him out.

GET IT? HAHA. I'M CLEVER.

The Wackness

Mom (on phone): Oh yeah, Natalie's going to be in this thing or something. Debate? I dunno. But she's gonna be in it. BLAH BLAH BLAH.

What is this? Do mine ears deceive me? Is this not the woman who told me I shouldn't join debate because it'd stress her out?

Mom (on phone): Blah blah blah debate debate blah blah blah yeah.

WTF? She's insane. She's effing crazy. She's schizo. She's bi...polar.

Me: SO DOES THIS MEAN ALL OF A SUDDEN I'M IN DEBATE?
Mom: Yeah, you wanted to join, right? You'll be like Laura. "Que passe el desgraciado!" *imitation of a really loud, really annoying Spanish television host*
Me: ... ? YOU TOLD ME I COULDN'T D:
Mom: I WAS ON MY PERIOD. I WAS STRESSED.
Me: *dumbfounded*

This shit is wack, dog.

And yes, that really did happen. It really did. Not exactly like that. It actually took a little bit of clever guilting on my part, which made me feel like a total DOUCHE (or like il duce) but I mean, really, I was in the RIGHT. I was so in the right, I was practically Rush Limbaugh.

And that excuse is balls. It's so balls, clowns are running in here and juggling it. "I'm on my period..." WHUT.

I don't really get it, but I don't really care. I just know I'm pissed because all this crap totally could've been avoided if my mother just CONSIDERED what I was talking about. OH YES. And I'm totally entering with NO IDEA what debate is because, OH YEAH, I missed the thing today where they were going to demonstrate, which I totally wanted to see but did not because picking me up at that time would've stressed my mother out. Now I gotta go to Douglass and explain that my mother was not at all supportive and that she will not judge/drive/anything so she'd better just forget about it.

Who cares. First extra curricular of my LIFE.

Rockband

A quick recapitulation (or capitulation, seeing as I'm not doing it again, as the re implies) of my weekend?

YES. Let's do this. Let's do this now and never look back. We'll be like those crazy hippies, or those crazy kids, or like suicide peoples. Don't be scared, I promise this isn't a suicide pact.

ANYWAY. Friday passed without incident. No, really. Like, you wouldn't believe how totally typical it was. I barely even remember it.

Saturday I forgot what happened. OH WAIT. We got a car! A new car. The lease on our old care expired so we got a newer, less upgraded, more fuel-efficient Rav4 from Toyota. We are now officially Toyota people. Before, it was all Nissan, baby.

Sunday. I had some nasty freaking crepes. Some people need to understand that it's strawberry season and fresh strawberries are in abundance. Please, spare me the gelatinous old looking goo that you probably pulled out of your freezer last night. URGH.

Monday. I did homeworks and stuffs. Not well. I tried to be all diligent and whatnot, taking my work with me to a party we were going to, but I ended up ignoring the necessary works and playing Rockband all evening instead. I want Rockband, but it'd only be fun if I was playing with a bunch of really cool people, not just myself and whoever lives in my house. That would suck HARDCORE.

They had like nineteen bajillion hamsters, because they weren't smart. Instead of purchasing two females or two males, these jokers got a man and a woman hamster. Haven't these guys heard the story of Noah and the giant Ark? TWO OF EACH FOR A REASON. Man.

Well, they multiplied so now there are like 18 bald, tiny, blind babies, and what looks like 10 or 11 "adults." And one of them bit me. We became fast enemies after that.

AND THAT'S IT. GOODNIGHT.

Disencouragement.

A lot of parents encourage their children to join things. They say, "Join a club! Join a sport! Be a volunteer! Be in the play! Join a cult! Save the whales!"

Yes, many parents are quite supportive of their kids' interests, whether they be full-fledged or potential. I'm not talking about those parents who force their kid to be in everything - I just mean the parents are like, "You wanna do something, that's cool, do it."

Then, of course, there are the parents who don't say, "You wanna do something, that's cool, do it." If you know me, which you probably do if you're reading this, then you know how much I don't really do stuff, schoolwise. I tried joining clubs in the past and I decided they sucked and never returned; I once considered joining the basketball team in middle school but decided I didn't want to go to the tryouts because I was hungry and I had food at home. I've often considered joining debate and did not join because a)I was lazy b)I was hungry again and c)I doubted my ability to keep up with meetings and homework, when it really turns out I didn't even have that much stuff to do, I just deluded myself into believing I was super genius with lots o' homework.

LIES.

Anyway, this year, when I've sworn to actually DO STUFF that sounds interesting (sorta), I decided to really try debate. I even went to the lunch-time meeting, a big first for me! And you know, I was quite intent on doing it. I mean, other kids do waaaay more crap than me, and if they can do all that crap and still do their homework, why can't I?

Oh yeah, I was motivated.

But you know that parent that I mentioned, the one who doesn't say, "You wanna do something, that's cool, do it?" That's my mother. She basically told me that driving around picking up three separate kids at three separate times was too stressful and too wasteful and too time-consuming for her.

What I really hate here is that most parents would be sorta thrilled. I mean, right? At least that's what I assume. It's not like I told her I'm staying after school to rape the toilets or something. I'm doing something legitimately good that legitimately interests me (at least now, when I haven't even SEEN anything).

I'll make her regret it. I'll just rub it in her face that it's all her fault that I don't do enough stuff in life. When I grow up and fail at life because I never tried doing multiple things and junk, she will regret it. She herself has mentioned that since I'm young, I should be soooo full of energy and doing all sorts of cool, age-appropriate thingies.

Whatever. She lies. And I can't force her to give me a ride cause it's too stressful, and god forbid I go and do something that's not at all bad.

Meh. There's more that comes to mind, but it'd be too long and stupid to write.

On a lighter note: my mom, the same woman I'm bitching about above, caught sight of Taylor Lautner on a magazine today and said, "OoOoOoHhH! Who's that handsome looking lion boy?"

That's right. Lion boy. She thinks he looks like a lion. And is hot. And it occurred to me that, if my mother was my age, she'd plaster his face all over her walls, and her binder, and her backpack, and her face, and her Taylor L. shrine in her closet, like some sick copy of Hey Arnold's own Helga Pataki's homage to Arnold's football head.

OH GOD, THE VISUALS.

Il Primo Giorno di Scuola

This, dearies, is the uber important post about the uber important first day of school. Like I said, it's uber important. I advise you to take notes because there WILL BE A QUIZ.

Begin.

Let's ignore the tedious morning routine, shall we? We arrive at my brother's school, which is the school I broke up with a few years ago. We had a madcap love affair, but I had to leave because it was oh-so-juvenile. I mean, there comes a time to mature, and middle school was content to just stay stuck as a 13 year old. REGARDLESS, we split amicably and I was able to retour her angular halls, noting that my elementary school librarian was now the middle school librarian, that the blue metal poles had been reinforced with some of those ugly brown bricks, that Merritt had left her door open as per usual without worrying about any weirdo kids sauntering in to greet her royal highness.

Yeah, I walked in. She was off somewhere. So I left.

We showed the kid his classes and flew! Flew! Flew to my school, where I felt like it was just another day... until I reached the gym. I then stood in line between two very smelly dudes and prepared to rejoin another smelly line to fix the glaring problem on my schedule.

Office was full. Totally not worth it.

1st period Thornbury is lulz. She seems nice enough, she says weird words like jozzles or something that I can't remember, and she hates bosoms spilling over desks, thongs on her floor, and cell-phones busting with her class. She would gladly sneak a phone scrambler, whatever the hell that is, over the border from Canada, but it's illegal and she's sure someone would rat her out.

LEVEL OF DIFFICULTY: it's going to be fucking hard, I ain't gonna lie. Good thing she's nice though; practically the only thing keeping me there, besides the prospect of an easy admission to cOlLeGe. (Please imagine the word college is being pronounced with the KTshy face, extremely retardedly. KTHX.)

2nd period: English with Easley. THIS IS MY DOMAIN, BITCH. This is where I rule, where I conquer, where I effing spit. English is my motherfucking kingdom, and I lost the squirmy feeling in my stomach just a tad. Except I wish I was in my last English class - I miss those people.

LEVEL OF DIFFICULTY: I don't care. Last year's kids told me it was easy peasy lemon squeezy, and I mean... it's English. I won't die.

Here's where things get dicey. Dicey like chopped tomatoes. See, psychology was a backup elective, if I didn't get into Journalism. Well, I did. But my Italian III class disappeared and, though it pains me and kills my heart and murders my spleen to do so, if I had to make a choice between Italian and any other elective, Italian would win every time.

3rd period: Psychology w/Jenkins. This is how I wish all my classes were. ALL OF THEM. It's no fair that teachers have to be taking themselves so seriously this year, because if all teachers were like this guy, then there would be NO DOUBT about high school being the best years of your LIFE.

I mean, it's obvious the guy's not a good teacher. He's barely a teacher. But he's so funny it doesn't matter. He's exactly the refreshing burst of mint that my dark and bitter concoction of class needs... DESPERATELY.

He told us he's not even allowed to be around children, for one. Then:
"This is psychology. It means we get to talk about stuff... like SEEEX. That's right, we'll be watching porn in this class."
Something like: "So I was driving down the freeway in my jeep which my wife won't let me use anymore, driving like the Mark 7, and my daughter starts screaming in the back seat and I'm like," mimes wild backward swiping motion, "SHUT UP! So then the car flips over... but I know the police officer who comes, so it doesn't matter. Then we decide to barbecue a rabbit on the side of the freeway. What else where we supposed to do, it was already dead."

He apparently also has tourettes, so we should excuse him any time he blurts out profanity. HE'S A DISEASED MAN, I TELL YOU.

"How many of you are seniors? Ok, you seniors, enjoy this year. It is the last year you will have to be kids. There's nothing to look forward to after highschool. There's your 21st birthday, then marriage (which is a MISTAKE), then retirement and then you DIE. GO TO EVERY DANCE/GAME/WHATEVER."

We read the syllabus and he paused, looking around. "Yeah, isn't that paragraph so cool? Doesn't it sound so smart and professional? Can you believe I wrote that thing at 11 o'clock last night and I wasn't even sober? Man, I'm so proud of myself."

Highlight of my day? Yeah. It definitely was.

LEVEL OF DIFFICULTY: Zero. My kinda class.

4th period: Gutierrez, AP US History. I'd rather have the other teacher, but the people in the class are ok. I know several, which is always a good thing. Multiple choice test was fine, exactly what I expected. One good thing: he had Disneyland themed posters waaay up on top of the cabinets, practically hidden from view. It was the most lively thing in the room and he wasn't even properly showcasing them. Hmmm...

LEVEL OF DIFFICULTY: I have difficulty believing this will be as difficult as Bio or Math, but it definitely has potential to be incredibly hard. Keeping an eye on this one...

Lunch was spent in the counselor's office where I never even made it to my counselor's office. Yippeeeee.

5th Period: Math. Austoddd, as she sorta pronounced it, is cool and real young which makes her even more energized but... she had me thoroughly freaked out. I have no choice though; it's either this, or I screw up my schedule completely, and I would be highly disappointed if some of those people in that class could do it and I couldn't. I'd shank myself in the face, quite frankly.

LEVEL OF DIFFICULTY: HARD. HARD. HARD. AS A HARD HAT. That's basically what she said to us, but she's also thoroughly invested in making sure we understand everything, and I've realized that if a teacher loves what she does and thinks you can do it, you usually can. My last math teacher taught me that.

6th period: A mixed bag. On the one hand, I walked into Martello's room and my heart sobbed upon seeing all the elite It. 3 kids. There I was, standing amongst the group of my peers, my true peers, the kids I'd been hoping to share a class with since It. 1 and I had to exit the room because of Journalism. It's like all the kids who actually understand the language and aren't just there to screw around and get their high school credits. GAWD.

Instead, I left to Journalism, which was nice because Kennedy's cool, and it's journalism. I mean, it sounds perfect, right? Not when I can't have It.3.

Worse still: it seems my previous teachers have all been toting me as supah cool to Kennedy because, during roll call, she actually paused and went, "I've heard great things about you," like I was the Boy Who Lived or something.

JESUS CHRIST. After all the effort it took to get a letter of recommendation, and a good one at that; It's like I'm refuting everything they've said about me. It sucked having to tell her that I have to give up her class because it interferes with a plan I've had since before I even walked through the school's doors. "Tell Martello I hate her!" she called out merrily, once I explained I switched out. (45 min. in line. 45 MINUTES.)

LEVEL OF DIFFICULTY OF ITALIAN: If English is my kingdom/domain, then Italian is the Earth held between my hands. On the Earth, when I'm not manipulating the weather conditions, one can glance little old me gazing out of the balcony of the kingdom that is English. Inside, I rule the kingdom, my commands impeded only by the unpredictable weather. Outside, I. AM. GOD.

Basically: Not too hard. Not too hard at all.

I should be hunting for calculator deals. Yes, yes I should.

DONE.

Done.

Done with English, done with History, done with Bio. DONE. Done with summer, done with laziness.

And now that I've finished, it looks like it's time to actually begin! URGH.

Short post is short, short summer was shorter.

A Comprehensive Chronology of a Procrastinator

The following events occurred during a period of time. Times are approximate.

9:00 - I should take a shower! It's going to be a looong night.
9:30? Idk - considers beginning assignment, decides not to.
10:00ish - Wanders around room, considering the pros and cons of Moroccan style decor.
11:00 - Begins watching documentary on the sexual revolution
11:00 - fiddles with bed dressings - oooh those are nice pillows!
11:00 - I have to pee
11:00 - the cat wants to go out. Quick! Before she pees!
11:00 - sharpen pencil... a lot
11:15ish? - Start note cards
11:35ish - finish notecards - why is it that these stupid definitions took half my goddamn stack?
11:40 - flicks through channels obsessively searching for something to procrastinate with even more besides sex of '69 (lol 69)
11:41 - sighs, decides to get crap done now, refuse myself sleep until every godforsaken blank is filled with beautiful biological knowledge
11:45 - loses sight of goal and refocus my attention on sex o' '69.
11:46 - looks wistfully at pile of books on floor
11:47 - considers shelving unit and its odd color
11:47 - wonders vaguely where the cat's gone off to
11:48 - tries to pay attention
11:50 - gets bored trying to pay attention and SLOWLY ties up hair
11:52-12: reads/does not absorb anything being read
12:00 - have the brilliant idea to record all the stupid, useless things I've been doing to avoid doing stupid, useless work
12:10 - decide I should really get this stuff done. But my room doesn't smell like Brazilian carnival, so I forgo work in favor of pleasant aromatic room spray
12:11 - think about skipping it and copying from someone else
12:12 - decide that's a horrible way to start the year and slap myself across the face (metaphorically) to convince myself to work

OH LOOK, IT WORKED.

For the next twoish hours, Natalia worked, and actually got shiz done. Not completely, but good enough to not be dying tomorrow/TODAY.

Oh yes. I got my spring testing results back. They were fine - except for math, where I got BASIC and a mini-scolding for all my trouble. BUT WHO CARES, IT'S MATH. I mean, really.

Gay Fright

My father follows a daily schedule. One of the names on the schedule for today is a woman named Gay Fright. I wish I was joking, but it's effing true. (I won't lie, I sorta love it.)

Guess what happened yesterday? I went to a concert. Ricardo Arjona, no less. YOU KNOW HIM? I DOOOO. He waved at me... actually, he waved at the whole audience, but it's the same thing, practically.

It was at the Hot Water Hotel/Casino. THAT PLACE IS NIIICE. Until you walk into the casino. I find it quite interesting that casinos always seem to be the places where all the smokers hang out. Like, "Hey wanna go bowling?" Smoker: "NAH MAN, I can't smoke at the bowling alley! I needta smoke!" OTHER DUDE: "Wanna go to Disneyland?" "Nah man, I can't smoke in Disneyland! That's racist!" "OK, wanna go sailing?" "I CAN'T GO SAILING, ARE CHOO KIDDING ME? I CAN'T SMOKE AND SAIL AT THE SAME TIME!"

"FINE. Wanna go to the casino?"
"YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS I DO."

They just seem to stick all the smokers in casinos and it's weird and it sickens me and I would hate to work there because I'd get secondhand lungs. I like my lungs to be brand new and unused, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Regardless, I went to the Hot Water Casino, endured the unbearable smoooerkleklkue of dooom, walked around a lot, entered a cafe where the family was - it seriously was like a family affair, freaking everyone I know was there - ordered strawberry smoothie thang and walked around some more around all the lame, stupid gamblers.

Concert time? Yeah. We tried to commandeer a box and were kicked out for all our troubles. Actually, they just directed us towards our real seats but it's the same thing. There was a neato set up on stage in semi-dark chocolate darknessl; meanwhile, the likes of Frank Caliendo told us, across giant screens, to turn off our phones or Robert De Niro might turn up and repeat stuff to us.

Eventually the show began and I was pleased, but also not. It was great, yes, but I wish he would've played some of his older stuff. It was mostly his newer music, which is lovely and all, but I wanted ooold stuff. I dunno. It was fine though - he had a corner of Mexico City set up right there on stage, with an apartment building, a bar, a hair-cutting place, road tunnel/taxi, and billboards (inflatable WHUT). I noticed he stuck to his less-controversial music - no gay-perspective song here - and he even decided to forgo his sad songs. Maybe he doesn't like to spend his tour singing being sad over his music, though it obviously never sad about it? WHO KNOWS.

Overall, quite enjoyable. A night well spent, especially when the rest of the family up in the nosebleed seats started dedicated songs to my dad and uncle down where we were. Just goes to show how LOUD my aunt can scream that we heard her over the speakers and from so far away.

I Hate the District and the middle school, and bad electives

2/3 OF THE WAY DONE. YESH. Only Bio's left, and it's, umm, weird. I kinda don't get it, but I'm all for not caring. You all for not caring? CAUSE I AM. (I mean, I just said that. Jeesh. Copy cat.)

Interesting dilemma came up in the Rahlia household a mere FEW DAYS ago. It turns out the reason my brother wasn't receiving any information from his new middler school was because, eh hem, he wasn't actually registered.

Wait, what? Explanation, plz, district. I mean, you have one job and you can't even get that right? I'm not impressed. Not impressed at all.

Problem solved, though. My mother had to choose the alien boy an elective on the spot and they offered shitty choices. I mean, the most promising one was band, but my brother is in no way interesting in music/committed to sticking with playing an instrument/lazy and wouldn't want to carry his lil case around every day. So, what's your poison of choice? Music appreciation or, er, environmental technology I think it was? I mean, environmental technology? What is this madness? What the hell happened to good ol' fashioned technology? (Hah, old fashioned technology! Excuse me while I sew up my GUT.)

THE KID CANNOT TYPE. I NEED KEYBOARDING, PPL. I NEED BASIC WORD/POWERPOINT SKILLS, MAH GENTS. I refuse to spend his middle school years and the crappiest years of my life - aka highschool - teaching his royal poopness how to do his essays and whatnot.

I mean, he needs help for everything. What are they teaching them in school nowadays?

Oh yeah, and environmental technology? Wtf? What are you gonna make the little midgets do, go outside in the hot hot heat and assemble solar panels above Merritt's roof? Doesn't that sound a tad advanced for 6th graders? I'd rather have genetics with Salwey (who left), Art history w/Nabors (who also left), or Welcome to Japan, where I drank delicious decaf green tea that smelled like sunshine and awesome, where I watched Japanese movies and failed at chopsticks and met my friend's brother and wore "kimonos."

What's that you say? That one's gone too?

Ok then. Give him music appreciation. Since he can't appreciate music to the extent that he'd actually be interested in full-on band, make the little guy learn to appreciate it a bit more and then, who knows, maybe next year he'll be spitting flecks of saliva into his tuba.

(Man, I loooove the Tuba. It's so sexy.)

Oh yeah. And there aren't any trips to Disneyland. Instead, they take them to Seaworld. Still cool, but not as awesome.

The Death of Summer

I can feel my summer dying. It's this tiny little shrunken thing, curled up in a corner of my front patio, licking desert dirt in a futile effort to get some form of sustenance. I once tried watering it, but I got bored watching my dying summer roll around nakedly in the rapidly evaporating puddle of precious liquid that I pored onto the hot concrete.

Aside: Why the hell is my mother's cell phone beeping? IT'S ANNOYING.

It's rather disturbing, watching a summer die. It's sort of like watching your dreams go up in flames, or your favorite character in a book die, or watching practically anything on VH1. It's an ugly, uncomfortable, itchy, and inconvenient experience, and I'm sad to say that practically everyone has experienced a summer die.

But you know, I think I'd much rather watch a summer die than not have a summer at all. I mean, what the hell does summer mean to adults with jobs in the summer? It probably just plain sucks, but whatever.

Point is, my summer is dying, I'm watching it die, it's rather disturbing and I really sorta wish someone would come and give it CPR or prick it with an IV or give it open heart/brain surgery since I'm in no way qualified to do any of those things - I'm afraid I might only make things worse.

STILL. Ricardo Arjona on the 28th. WHOOP DA WHOOP! Nice way to finish off a rather uneventful summer, wouldn't you say?

Math Lessons, Unfounded Theories/Accusations, and REVOLUTION

Today has been quite the day. Lots of magical stuff happened. For example, I realized why I feel so weirdly stuffed/bloated/whatever during the school year. It's simple maths, really.

Lemme teach you mah mathematical SKILL.

Me + Homework = Sitting
Sitting + Homework = Bored
Bored + Sitting + Homework = Procrastination
My favorite form of Procrastination = EATING. A lot. As in "inordinate amounts of food." Copious amounts of food. Choose your word.

So, if we are to take the math relativity/transative laws or whatever they're called we get:

Me + Homework = Sitting
(Me + Homework) + Homework = Bored
(Sitting + Homework) + (Me + Homework) + Homework = Procrastination
My favorite form of (Sitting + Homework + Me + Homework + Homework) = EATING

THEREFORE

EATING=ME, homework-sitting, bored ... & Homework = Homework

WAIT. STOP THE PRESSES. I just realized something. Homework also = Bored/Boring

This changes my equations considerably.

Regardless of my horrible math skills and your obviously confuzzled brains, the point I was trying to get to was when I'm doing homework, I get bored/distracted by things, and usually those things are food, and I just eat a lot without moving. The whole point of that exercise was to show how much non-exercise I get while I do homework + the extra food I wouldn't usually eat because I wouldn't be procrastinating, which leads me to a new idea, which I think is as Revolutionary as a bunch of American colonsits reading the writings of John Locke.

(Regarding COLONSITS: Yes, I did typo. Then, I saw my typo, and decided it was a really good one because, truth be told, Ben Franklin, John Adams, Patrick Henry, and all those other men that I love nearly and dearly were a bunch of colonists who sat a lot and wrote philosophical/revolutionary-sparking things down... and they also sat on their colons.)

Prepare yourselves for the brain-splosion that's about to impact your, er, brains.

SCHOOL = OBESITY.

I know, I know. If I were to present my brilliant theory to the health professionals of this orgasmic nation that we all call our home, I'd be locked in a dungeon somewhere and called mad. Later, I'd die of some weird disease, but only after having dug a 50 foot tunnel between my cell and some cell of a dude really far away. Having dug my tunnel, I would hasten to teach that young man all of the wonderful knowledge that my brain held, making sure to put an emphasis on the school = obesity theory.

I mean, think about it. We go to school. Sit on our butts for long periods of time. Eat a ton of food to make up for our boredom/hunger or whatever. Then, during P.E., nobody gives a flying frankfurter; everyone just walks around being all, "I DON'T WANNA RUN."

Then homework? Yeah. Even less movement. And then those high-calorie snacks we eat while trying not to contemplate wars from many centuries ago, or why the hell the British Parliament was so goddamn hung-up on taxing the damn colonsits.

See what I mean? It all makes sense now. I say we start a REVOLUTION, my friendlies, and boycott the American educational system altogether, protecting our health and our rights as human beings to revolt against a government that does not have our best interests at heart, that is not doing all in its power to protect our unalienable RIGHTS.

Bitches, it's time to read John Locke, put on our bifocal glasses, and throw some goddamn tea into a goddamn harbor. Cause I've had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane.

That is all.

This is what happens when you try to concentrate on work during the summer. It does funny things to your brain, TRUST.

Cocaine? Why yes, I would like some.

90% of United States one-dollar bills bear trace amounts of cocaine, according to a new study. Washington D.C. bills carry the most while Salt Lake City bills carry the least. (According to Time Magazine.)

Make of that what you will.

ALSO, and waaaay more importantly: I got a box full of free books. It's like the book fairy's been spewing word diarrhea from her hind regions and it has been materializing in the shape of books. I mean, Mr. Poe's storylet randomly showing up on the sidewalk? Old woman giving my father a box of books because she has too many already or something?

The gods have smiled upon me, and I, in turn, am smiling up to them. It's like one big smiling fest up in this biatch.

WAIT NO I LIE. The LAST WEEK OF SUMMER '09 will be here round midnight, and I'm getting antsy. The homework/timeliness gods have not smiled upon me, so I'm a tad OFF SCHEDULE. Biology's gonna take this whole damn week and I still don't truly understand what they're asking of me. Wait, yes I do, but I pretend not to because it's just more fun that way.

Currently reading: The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. It's actually sorta EXCITING. It's like supah fun adventure story of doom taking place in the time of Napoleon the Short (me and ol' Bonaparte share a common bond, people. We see each other every year at the short people convention and share in each other's sorrow). Then again, the fun-ness of the story might be due to the fact that it is, in fact, an abridged version of The Count.

I say, if something is abridge-able, then the writer obviously did something wrong in the first writing. JERUSALEM CHRIST.

Registratrion? YES PLZ.

One of the most ridiculous and useless things that school has created is the registration process. Every year, THOUSANDS of students around the country - and perhaps the WORLD - flock to their local educational institutions to stand in line after useless line, talk to ASB students that they may not necessarily like, and walk about looking confused/frustrated/constipated for an inordinate amount of time.

Friends, I had to suffer through the registration process today, strangely enough, for the first time ever. The last two years I've been gone for the registration days and thusly had to take my ass to the mini-gym every single first day of school to turn in my crap. It was always fun, because I got to miss like the 1st four periods of the day since people were soooo fricken disorganized.

BUT NOT TODAY.

Instead, I walked confusedly into the gym, became #108, sat with a few friends/family, waved at some other friends, and waited for my person to be called into DA STATIONS. Which I did. I was feeling awkward the whole time, cause I looked like crap and knew for a fact that my ID photo would look like crap too, but looking like crap has never stopped me from attending school functions (lol), so it sorta didn't matter.

When I turned in my donation to the PTO, I answered a question I wasn't even asked. GREAT. Way to look retarded, Rahlia.

When I bought my yearbook, I was actually quite smooth. Corrected a girl on her spelling of my name and EV-ER-EE-THANG. Photo time went sorta smooth, though I suffered much like another friend of mine and ended up standing awkwardly while waiting for my ID because I had no idea what the policy for standing was.

DUN EVEN GET ME STARTED ON SCHEDULE PICK UP.

I stood in a line. Listened to some chick who told me I had to go INDOORS to get my paper. Meandered around the counselor's office, noticed nobody was approaching their counselors for schedules, and cursed the polite but ultimately incorrect young lady who had directed me here for my paperwork.

Do not fear! I quickly exited that evil, evil place and picked up my schedule which was, luckily, quite the BREEZE, seeing as how the girl in charge of schedules was sort of my neighbor in math class freshman year. GO ACQUAINTANCES. (I mean, she remembered my name and EV-ER-EE-THANG.)

Media center's never my favorite thing, because it always hurts to see other kids picking up like two or three books of classes I've already taken while I have to go pick up 5 books for all the retardedly-advanced classes that I've committed myself to. I mean, I got TWO books solely for math, and I recently discovered that I may need a $50 calculator (that's the price for a used calculator) that I won't even need for future high school math classes. And there's no way I'm being anything math related for my career, whatever it will be, so I don't even need that stupid calculator for college.

WHAT THE HELL?!

And it's not like I can steal a calculator from my older cousins because, oh joy, none of my cousins have ever GOTTEN THIS FAR. I have a lot of cousins, so it's extremely disappointing that NONE of them could have this calculator.

Oh yeah. And if I lose the disc of my biology book I have to pay the full price of the book - $130. Good thing I ain't gonna lose the disc, eh?

All in all, book pick-up was discouraging because a) it's not fair that I will need two math books b) other kids got lucky and were carrying three books and were STILL whining over the weight and c) I have no valid third reason, but the sole fact that it's TEXTBOOKS sucks enough for 20 more reasons plus 2.

Poor Anette tried to wave at me while carrying her books. It was disaster, and she had to force her knee to do its part and help with the weight.

On the way back to the car, after whining to my mom about my TWO math books, my mother found a copy of The Pit and the Pendulum by Edgar Allen Poe on the sidewalk or pavement if you're British, which you're most likely not. The find cheered me up substantially. Free books that don't cost $130 (notice the redundancy of the previous? I hope you do) or weigh enough to curve my spine into unnatural shapes? Count me in.

And if you were wondering: my ID card came out fine. I tend not to whine about my ID pictures too much because I'm sorta stuck with it/I can go change it any time I want by pretending I lost my ID card, though I'll never do that because it's such a waste of time. Only problem? Flash created a shiny white bright spot on my forehead so it looks like I wiped cream cheese/whipped cream/cream bleach/ice cream/bird feces/mayonnaise on my brow, creating the illusion of a Count Olafesque unibrow or some weird tribal make-up that I've donned before taking my required photograph.

GWAR.