This thing would bring me to tears if I had tear ducts

I've often caught myself saying, "I want to go home" even when I AM at home. It's one of the scariest things I've experienced, and I hope I'm not saying it all my life.

It's March and so far...

So I seriously haven't written in this thing in forever. And I do mean WRITE. Like... type shiz, ya know? It's all been cutesy little videos that I enjoy quite a lot but are ultimately there just so I don't forget them later because my brain can't handle too much memorization (I have the entire history of America to memorize; for such a young country, it has a ridiculously involved history).

Speaking of America, I bought America: A Visual History From Then to Now. It has the most lovely photos in it - and the best part is that I know what each and every one of them is referring to without having read the description first. I am getting so good.

Right now, my room is bathed in this ghostly blue light. It reminds me of this story I used to love when I was little. It was called The Spirit of the Blue Light and it was about this spirit... of a blue light. I remember I never did understand it - it was about as abstract to my little kid brain as this blue light is to me now.





I hope it doesn't ruin my eyesight too bad. I'm quite fond of my 20/20.

I guess I've chosen tonight to be introspective. I have those introspective moments quite often. Last year was one giant introspective moment and this year I've had one every few months, it seems. They just come and then they leave because being a maudlin teen is one of my non-goals list.

I guess it started with that colorgenics test thing. No matter how many times I took it, no matter how many different color combinations I chose, it kept saying that I was in a state of anxious tension mixed with hearty dollops of stress, and I was like, "Sheeeeit no." But if it kept saying it, there must be something to it. It also told me I was unhappy with the place I am and seeking an escape and I was like, "Hmm... sort of."

POINT IS - it was rather spot-on. I must not be doing something right. It might be the lack of sleep these last few weeks (which tonight is clearly not helping hurhurhur)or the fact that Italy's happening so fast. I'm not sure.

Speaking of which, I FINALLY got started on my passport. Got some passport photos taken in which I look DASHING (hah no) and am ready to get it done MONDAY. After my passport's in the works and I get the second installment of my ticket paid, I WILL FEEL SO MUCH BETTER. In the Italy department, anyway.

Which is how I bought my America book. And sour brite gummi octopi. And got a haircut. And met YET ANOTHER member of my extended family. She cut my hair, such a sweet relative.

TONIGHT'S PLAN IS:

1. Clean room and closet. That task alone could take me HOURS.
2. Organize my bathroom area. It's like a hurricane hit it. HURRICANE NATALIA.
3. Do some work. Like, get that shiz done. I should be doing some now. LEMME BEGIN THAT.
4. Umm. Not sleep I guess. Yeah.

I'm ready for crazy brilliance. And a change.

This is why Hombres G never should have grown up. Or married me. Either one.

GOD YES.

Sono il capone della mafia! Sono il figlio della mia mamma! Sono uno stronzo di merda! Un figlio di troia (?) in Veneziaaaa! Veneziaaa!

Lo tengo preparado, tengo las maletas, vamos juntos hasta Italia...

Be It Resolved

I, like most people in this world, am a big fan of resolutions. I like self-improvement, and reflection, and the word "resolution" because it sorta sounds fancy, just a little. So, like most everyone in this world, the following are my resolutions. Incidentally, I never forget my resolutions, not if they're important, because they're usually just resolutions I've made before.

Except tweaked. Maybe.

1. Time Management
2. Work harder
3. Work always
4. Get off your ass
5. Run around
6. Clean that shiz
7. Live that shiz
8. Ok, I think we're done now.

I'm so good at this, it's ridiculous.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.