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.

Blue Thumb

Rahlia-approved!

Oh hai thar! I was just dusting off my collection of interesting collectables. Yes, they were getting quite dusty, thank you for noticing. Of course, I don't actually have dusty collectables, but this reminds me of some oldish movie where the person is busy doing something and then turns around and says, "Oh, I didn't see you there! I was just busy drinking some tea/reading a book/plotting to murder the president! Please do come in!"

I do realize that the above is rather irrelevant, but I found it interesting. Then again, I find most things interesting. One of the numerous things I find interesting is making people read useless text to get to the crux of the matter, or in this case, the crux of da BLOG O' DOOM.

What's the crux, you may ask? WHY, MY BLUE THUMB, O' COURSE!

I've never been known for having a green thumb. My thumb is usually nice and flesh-colored, thank you very much. I just don't deal with that sort of colorful unnaturalness. UNTIL TODAY, when I had the brilliant idea of painting my thumb blue. Then again, while painting a wall in my room that shade of blue, I had MANY brilliant ideas. Among them: painting my sink blue, trying to get a blue pawprint outta my cat and calling it "Blue's clues," and the completely MANDATORY hand stamps that happen whenever there's a wall to be painted.

I mean, REALLY.







But, as everyone who has ever seen a home-decorating program knows, painting is SRS BSNS. I'm not a particularly skilled painter, and I managed to splatter paint on my carpet and my bedsheets, but I DID IT. After a while, I was really annoyed and wanted the paint to dry so I could move my bed back to its usual spot and remove the ladder from my room. But the white spots WOULD NOT LEAVE. I taught them a thing or two, however.

I SHOWED THEM SPOTS WHO IS BOSS, SON.

Final product? A lovely blue wall. And I didn't fall from the ladder ONCE.



Meanwhile, my cat hid in her homemade cloth cave. She did it to protect herself from the elements, which are fierce as the Alaskan winter (not that I've ever experienced such a thing, but WHATEVER).

Effing Ninja. DO NOT DOUBT.

Frollo's Bad Assery

This. Gives. Me. Goosebumps. Every single time I hear it.

It's dark. It's priestly. It's right up my goddamn alley.

Someone, a few months ago, told me they'd be performing Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame on Broadway. I'm telling you now, somebody better buy me a fricken ticket. If not, then I've added that Broadway production to my list of MUST SEE things in life.

I NEED TO SEE FROLLO SING THIS SHIZ LIVE. NEED TO. Like bulimic people need to vomit.



Oh Disney. I want some dark badassery. I want it bad.

Since Wednesday...

What's happened since you last chanced upon this little corner of the internet, you may wonder? Not much, 's matter o' fact. Summarization? WHY THE HELL NOT.

• I may have yelled at my father. I can't recall, nor can you make me.
• I ordered pizza. It's currently on its way to my home.
• I decided to move my bed, night-table, lamp, and paper things from the back end of my room in preparation for its MAKEOVER.
• I wrinkled my nose at liver tostadas.
  
• I watched Ratatouille. I HAD FUN WHILE DOING IT.
• I cut my hair. I now sport bangs that are already too long because the lady did NOT LISTEN TO MY WISHES/EXPLICIT DEMANDS.
• I bought paint. The color is called WIPEOUT. Let's hope I do none of that while atop the ladder of paintage...
• I became increasingly edgy about the fact that I'm not on schedule with my summer assignments. Ah, that familiar summer curse that I impose upon myself every year, putting things off when it'd be so much easier to just DO THE DAMN THING and enjoy the end of my summer without the threat of FAILURE hanging over my head!
• Read several Unfortunate Events books. I forgot how witty Mr. Snicket was; thank god I've been reminded.
• I didn't swim, but I did witness a few games of pool, crazy-ass dogs barking at each other, and a giant sunflower all dried and ready for eating. WOOPDAWOOP!

And now you know.

USA vs Mexico

That's the logo on my shirt. RESPECT.

While reading today's FUP post, I realized that the aye-aye looks kinda what I'd imagine Voldemort/Dobby/Voldemort's Soul Piece at Dead Kings Cross Station/Mandrake/The Burrow's garden gnome might look.

Though I can't make up my mind what EXACTLY it looks like, I do know that JK Rowling must of had an entire aye-aye wall in her writing quarters to use as inspiration. It just wouldn't make any sense otherwise.

ALSO: Something from Pan's Labyrinth. And maybe Star Wars. And probably Lord of the Rings.

Weird animals aside, my day has been quite the interesting thing. After much tense/excited anticipation (try the last week or so), the Mexico VS USA game was finally here. HO JESUS CHRIST. In preparation for this momentous event, me and my moms ventured into a soccer supply store to purchase USA and Mexico team shirts. Lemme tell ya, the man at the counter wasn't too happy with my choice; I could tell he questioned my upbringing.

He raised an eyebrow and muttered "My children were born here too, but they still support Mexico."

OH YEAH BUDDY? WHATEVER. YOU KNOW NOT WHAT YOU SPEAK.

Obviously, it would be SUICIDE to argue with this man and, since I said nothing, he eventually warmed up to us. Or maybe it was just the fact that we were purchasing two highly overpriced t-shirts and a pair of goalie gloves, thereby funding his betting pool. Whatever the reason, he was soon smiling and saying, "I support my team, I really do, through thick and thin but... well, when it comes to matters of money, I have to bet on the rival.

Jerk. At least I don't hide the fact that I support the winning team. I DECLARE IT. That's almost as traitorous OR WORSE than what I'm doing, betch.

Meh, he was still pretty cool. "I really hope we win this one. We have to go the World Cup!" He sounded truly worried about the prospect of not reaching South Africa, the NEW new frontier. Not that Mexico would win, per se, but the fact that your country got in makes you feel better than, I dunno, some other random country that didn't make it in. I mean, if Trinidad Y Tobago makes it and we don't... that's pretty effed, I ain't gonna lie.

So there I was, outfitted in my Men's Small USA official Nike soccer jersey, trying to look as soccery as possible. My mother, meanwhile, donned her long-sleeved white, red, and green one, her face dropping more and more as she realized that all the Mexican newscasters were wearing the traditional and ultimately more vibrant green. The game began, with the playing of national anthems. I sang mine in its entirety, and the few snatches I remembered from the Mexican national anthem, which is rather longer and has a better, more memorable beat as far as I'm concerned.

GAME GAME GAME. SHIZ WAS FIERCE from minute one. Not ten minutes in, we already had a goal. I was feeling good. I was stinging like a butterfly, swimming like Michael Phelps at the Beijing Olympics, and peeing like a bee. I was so nervous I was actually biting my nails, and twiddling my thumbs, and slapping my siblings across their respective visages.

Eventually we did lose, but I never truly expected us to win. The team was surrounded by a whole lot of people praising not Allah or Brahman or even Jesus Christ, but the almighty Giovanni Dos Santos, who is as saintly to Mexican soccer fanatics as the combination of TWO saints, which is obviously better than one, and obviously makes sense considering that's what his effed up last name means. Whether he made in any goals ain't the point. Gio's the fucking shit right now; I'd even go as far as to say he's the Mexican Viktor Krum.

(The point of that paragraph was to illustrate how it's really hard to win when the entire stadium is supporting the other team. I mean, look at Bulgaria vs Ireland in the Quidditch World Cup final! [Yeah, I know that was a total digression, but an important one nonetheless.])

Harry Potter references aside, I still enjoyed it. I love watching the USA team play - they play very cleanly, quite neatly, and it's seriously a joy to watch Howard, the goalie, stop the ball. He's a giant, for one, and he likes breaking up potential fights, like when one broke out when some Mexico player grabbed a fallen US player round the head for apparently no reason.

I kinda wanted to see a fight. It's ok, I'm good with it.

ALSO: Donovan. Love him. Cool guy. He's just plain cool, and it sucks that people in the stadium have to be RETARDED AS HELL and throw bottles at him. HE'S THE SHIZ, Mexico! Of all the players on the USA team, he's the one you should respect. I mean, he makes an effort to speak in Spanish at YOUR press conference and speaks it damn well, better than ME or even some of your own children.

For Costa Rica, go ahead, I don't mind, they were playin' dirty anyway.

Now my dad's rubbing it in my face. And I'm strangely ok with it. After all, it wouldn't be any fun watching the World Cup sans Mexico, even if they don't win.

The Dubious Potato

Natalia Rahlia was lounging around her bedroom, reading one of the thirteen novels that comprise the Series of Unfortunate Events. It was a lazy Sunday, the type that makes a person wish they were elsewhere, perhaps wrangling goats or feeding tigers in some faraway exotic land. Unfortunately, Natalia Rahlia was trapped in desert suburbia without even a mini-vacation in the previous months to make up for such boredom. As she read, some part of her brain worked on the issue gnawing at her conscience.

It appeared to Natalia Rahlia that she'd spent her summer doing a whole lot of nothing besides the things that were immediately urgent. Some of those immediately urgent things included summer school, emptying her backpack of all the rubbish that had accumulated in its dark and dusty depths over the course of an academic year, feeding the cat - who appeared to not have been fed since the previous August -, cleaning her shower, and buying an aluminum water bottle. Needless to say, summer assignments were handled with care as well, and Natalia Rahlia was now busy at work on her second assignment. She was not too worried; by her estimation, she could have this particular assignment completed within the span of two long weeks, and that would be if she was lazy.

But when she looked back at this summer, what would she remember? What great change had she made to benefit mankind? What mark had the heat-filled and heady months of summer left upon her living quarters?

The smell of Brazilian Carnival, certainly, courtesy of the folks at the Febreze factory. A few more inexpensive sheets of paper that were passable as decor, perhaps, and at least two new pairs of shoes.

It didn't seem like enough.

Natalia Rahlia frowned down at The Penultimate Peril, deciding that, in these penultimate weeks of summer, something must be done. Drastic measures should be taken. Things should be painted, laundered, and shaken of their cobwebs if the Earth were to continue spinning on its axis, if winter were to come, if Natalia Rahlia wanted to feel accomplished in anything besides painting her toe nails yellow.

And with that, it was decided. It was decided that Natalia Rahlia was a sort of idle dwarf and that no steps would be taken to change her status as lazy short person. She didn't even care that she was getting her kicks from taking photographs of dubious potatoes - changing things was too much effort, even if she was uncomfortable with her own status as dubious potato.

THE END.

Compay Segundo

Do you know Compay Segundo?



He's a Cuban dandy. He wore an immaculate suit every day. He smoked cigars for the majority of his life - and died of kidney failure.

About a month ago, I decided if I was ever a man, I'd like to be a dandy, just like Compay Segundo. I'd smoke myself silly and be generally AWESOME for all my years of life. That's the type of man I would be. AND NOW YOU KNOW.

While day-dreaming about being a Cuban dandy like dearest Compay, I came across an article on writing - specifically, why is it that most every athlete/rock star is allowed to gloat, boast, and have huge levels of arrogance, while writers are not?

Needless to say, I was most intrigued.

And I agree with the writer. Writer's should be allowed to gloat like billy goats over their achievements and shoot for the stars. IT'D BE FREAKIN' AWESOME. To quote the article:

So come on. Where's our literary Muhammad Ali telling us that he and Rushdie are going to get it on, cos they don't get along? Where's our Mr T yelling from the podium of the Booker stage: "I pity the fool who reads Naipaul! I pity the fool who reads Updike!" Where's Noel Gallagher's natural literary heir casually stating that they've done more for English-language fiction in the last five years than Bellow and Roth in the last 50?

YEAH. Where is some random wannabe writer somewhere stating, with obvious bravado, "The Catcher in the Rye? PUH-LEEZE. Catch-22? WHATEVER. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? DON'T EVEN TRY, BUDDY. My new novel will blow all of those out of the water. It will be the book that defines a generation, NAY, A CENTURY. It's the best thing since THE BIBLE."

I think it'd be funny, you know? Also sort of annoying, because part of what makes writers so interesting is the fact that they tend not to act like their shiz is the shiz.

Losing A Bet

Guess who got this little fucker to read a book?

THAT'S RIGHT. ME.

I know, it's astounding. My younger brother, notorious non-reader, actually reading? It's like the earth just split in half. It's like Mexico won the World Cup. It's like my hair's turned blonde. It's like pigs have flown. It's as if America has ceased to be the beautiful.

ALL THINGS THAT WILL NOT HAPPEN.

But he really is reading. I'm quite clever, see. I made a little bet, and this kid is money hungry. Remember how I said my family would do anything for money? It's obviously true. I bet $15 that he could not read HP&Sorceror'sStone and The Westing Game in the month of August. He begs to differ. And, though I'm obviously going to lose $15 (kid's actually quite determined), I'm ecstatic. Finally, I get him to read a book!

It's like Christmas. Excuse me while I go wipe the happy tears from my eyes.

Shrimp Cocktail

I'll bet your curious little mind is wondering, "What exactly did Natalia Rahlia do yesterday?" I'm almost certain you spent all night thinking about it, tossing and turning on your 1000 thread count sheets, shaking your pet cat/dog/emu/zonkey and demanding an answer, or perhaps even consulting the celebrity gossip blogs that fill the internet like so much semen in search of quenching your thirst for knowledge of my whereabouts. I'll just bet your life is in ruins from not knowning.

(Imagine how crazy the above paragraph would be if it were real? HOLY SHIZ!)

WELL FRET NO MORE. Drop your pet zonkey RIGHT NOW and direct your attention to your brightly lit monitor.

Yesterday was my uncle's birthday, and the family decided to celebrate his existence by making shrimp cocktail and getting together at a house with a pool in the shadow of the Tramway.

My cousin's dog, Pikachu, refused to love me at first. However, he soon fell victim to my ladylike charm, and we became the best of friends. We're meeting for girl's night out tomorrow, even if he is male. (He's kinda gay, though. He sorta started humping his own brother... and last party, his mother. INCEST.)



Some good ol' palm trees. As if I really need any more of them.



I swam and was merry. I ate and was fatty. And then, I decided to play SRS PHOTOGRAPHER and take "artistic" pictures. Obviously, my effort was wasted. Nevertheless, we had fun.

SOUL TRAIN

That's artistic. Do not doubt, do not question.

That Daddy Long Leg's also joining in on Girl's Night out. We told him we'd meet up with Black Widow - he was happy to hear it. Says he'll be there to comfort her after her tragic loss.... Oooh, romantic!

Bokeh on the way back. It was effing hard, as I was in a moving vehicle.

Pocahontas - The Drug Dealer of Yesteryear

"AW HELL NAW! Homegirl DID NOT just call me a drug dealah! Bitch, prepare for an ass-kickin'!"

From my US History Summer Assignment:

Through the forceful leadership of Captain John Smith and the establishment of a tobacco industry by John Rolfe, the Jamestown colony survived. Rolfe and his Indian wife, Pocahontas, developed a new variety of tobacco, which became very popular in Europe and brought financial prosperity to the colony.

What have we learned today, children? Well, according to this, Pocahontas was a hustler. She was out there, on the corner, peddling her wares. (No, I don't mean she was a hooker. You dirty minded hobo.) She had the pre-Industrial Revolution equivalent of the meth lab. Homegirl was developing NEW VARIETIES OF TOBACCO.

That's drug dealing at its absolute best. If anything, it may just be America's oldest tradition, besides killing Native Americans.

GO HISTORY.

THE HUNT

Those are my feet, wrapped in things I like to call shoes, which I purchased today. They already look about 20 years old, mind you.

Today, Sunday, me and the family went out to hunt for bargains on back-to-school clothing. After eating the breakfast of champions - by that, I mean pizza, cake, coffee, and fruit punch - we donned our safari hats, painted our faces with hunting paint, and grabbed our rifles and bullets.

We was gonna kill us a steal. If that makes any sense, please have your head examined.

The family of KILLERS arrived at the hunting grounds at I dunno what time. With coupons in hand, we scoured the shoe shelves for the most affordable/comfortable shoes we could find. AND FIND THEM WE DID. Eventually we moved to follow the herd. Oh, those bargains didn't know what hit them. Like a tornado, a hurricane, a monsoon, a regular ol' rainstorm, or some other weird natural phenomenon like obesity, WE ARRIVED. We left in the same manner, meaning we left in a whirlwind of price tags and colors.

I bought a pair of pants that are the exact violent shade of lime green that I'm sure JK Rowling would absolutely love, if only for their odd description and the many possible ways she could use it to describe something wizardly. And another pair of jeans are the exact shade of brightest blue that the Dumbledore family eyes have come to be recognized by.

Or were. I think only Aberforth the Goat Fondler is left now.

Goat fondling besides, I left with pants that don't really fit lengthwise and must thusly be tailored. POO-POO PLATTER. I hate being short.

I also ate more food, as I usually do. Without it, I'd be grumpy and annoying and whiny and absolutely wretched. Without it, I'd be your worst nightmare.



That's a sign on the window of Taqueria Ixtlan. It's my favorite taco place in the desert, mostly because I haven't gone to any others in YEARS. I'm a loyal customer, dog. Loyalty like mine can't be bought. Actually, maybe it could. Over dinner, we discussed the things we'd do for a million dollars. Apparently, my family would do practically ANYTHING for money. We're whores.

Do you like the America team? Cause the owner REALLY FREAKIN' DOES.

I salute you, Cuatemoc Blanco. I salute you!

You too, Memo. Because you are 100% EAGLE. I'm only 25%. *sadface*

America's arch nemesis on the opposite wall. GO CHIVAS.

The most badass team in the Mexican Republic. DO NOT DOUBT.

Oh, deer!

I'm a little obsessed with fish tacos right now. They're sort of amazing.

Bah Humbug!

Who here's ever read a fashion magazine? Chances are, you've at least read ONE. If you haven't, you're un-American and you should probably shoot yourself in the face.

Just kidding! Only not really.

WELL, me and my mother were glancing through fashion magazines recently and we sorta thought that some of the stuff in the photo shoots MADE NO SENSE. They were telling us to wear 5 bajillion belts in 5 bajillion colors with 5 bajillion bangles, two layers of socks with tights, and pom pom furry things on our heads.

And large gloves. And lumberjack vests. And faux fur jackets.

The list of ridiculous apparel goes on and on and on and on. It's like the Energizer bunny, only in varied hues.

So my mother goes off to change after we discuss the level of RIDICULOUSNESS in magazines these days, while I'm left sweeping the kitchen. And the nonsense she returned with made my day.

OH BOY!

Isn't that just the most darling thing?!

Obligatory model-with-messed-up-Polio-legs/I-really-gotta-pee pose!

Wow! Fashion!

I mean really.





And that stuff is tame. I'm just too lazy to go look for the really crazy stuff. Besides, you get the point. (Second picture is still within the realms of wearability, however.)

Mostly: I don't like how fashion magazines try to make me buy clothes I can't afford. Or how their "wearable" clothes aren't really all that wearable sometimes. I LOVE their photoshoots - but the magazines need to stop kidding themselves. They're photoshoots, and not accurate representations about what people should wear. Which is what they pretend to do, but ultimately fail at.

Still, I hope they keep putting out those ridiculous things for me to look at. They're fun. They made me and my mom bust a gut, a second stomach, and maybe a spleen. In a way, it's like vicarious living - we wish we could layer our clothes in fantasmic, fairytale ways, but sometimes it's impossible. ESPECIALLY IN THE DESERT.

That's another thing - they tell me to layer, and I can't. Because I basically live in a furnace half the year.

BAH HUMBUG.