Yeah, so that's what I have to go do in a couple minutes, then I'm fleeing to go visit eltea with a backpack full of towels and clothes and candy and a variety of other good things I will require to subsist.
I am sad for my poor baby-thirteen-year-old sister. Only five people remembered her birthday, me being one, my mom being another, my stepdad (i.e. her actual dad) being a third. This is depressing. She was upset. Or so I gathered from the email. All her friends forgot; one girl in her Spanish class remembered, and another friend she told at lunch because she was "desperate."
*cracks knuckles* Looks like I've got a couple defenseless thirteen-year-old girls to beat up...
Actually, given that two of them are hardcore athletes, they might be able to kick my ass. I'll have to cheat. *gets pepper spray and switchblade*
So I turned in my application for that creative writing class, swallowing any lingering doubts about... whatever. Three cheers for me and whatnot. I am praying I stuck it in the right mailbox. I mean, it said the right thing, but... you never know.
Hopefully, lines like
“Jalopy” was too merciful: Tyrus’s vehicle was a heap of shit, tenuously held together by some strategic welding and a lot of luck.
will get me right in anyway. It is unfortunate that my teacher will not be able to catch the immense amounts of dramatic irony that permeate the first part I stuck in. Then again, neither will anyone reading the book for the first time, since it relates to a lot of stuff that is dramatically revealed later...
I ramble. Mea culpa.
I need to write that damn research paper one of these days. And it won't be today. Or tomorrow. Hmm. I need to figure out the Artemis Fowl section, which is a bit of a problem, seeing as how I have like two things to go in the Artemis Fowl section.
Now I must scurry off to type up a bit of my Script Frenzy before I have to gallop off to class. I bet you my soul I've forgotten something packing... because that is how packing goes.