March 13, 2011

Let me preface this story with a fact that you should all understand, Ms.Heels be crazy.

We were all going back to our seats after working in 2 different groups in the chamber of secrets. Apparently Ms.Heels had a deadline she forgot about, so she set us up on our own. As we were settling, we began to talk. As is to be expected. (Don't you hate it when teachers will say something like,"Stop your talking about you and Sally going to the mall on Sunday and Billy and Joe kissing their girlfriends behind the bleachers." One- we do not talk about things like that. Ever. Two- Why are the scenarios to absurdly 1950's, and the names, Geez, I go to a school with kids named YiYi and Mogunda. Sally, really?) Ms.Heel's then proceeds to -- mind, she's still at her desk because she might as well be one of us when it comes to homework, which is a mild insult to us -- call out,'Tim! Stop talking!'

If I had a nickel for every time I heard that...Do people ever finish those sentences?

Those words come out of her Mary Kay smothered lips about 6 times a day. So this shouldn't have been the climax of the story, until you looked around, the room hushed, and we all realized Tim wasn't even there.

He poked his head out of the bathroom, 'Did I did something, miss?' And Ms. Heels, so embarrassed, I assume, sent him to the corner!

Am I the only one who thinks this is wrong?

But that's just another rule of middle school. No matter what, the teacher's right. When they say that Bach composed Eine Klienie Noctmusik, you must shut your mouth. I would much prefer the "customers always right" treatment, but alas. Teachers really stopped selling anyway, am I right? Oh, that's only my crap teachers, you say, my slum school?

But I probably should have guessed that when all of 5th period on Thursday we just told jokes. What do you call a Mexican with a rubber toe? Roberto!
My school is 80% Mexican. 15% Black. And the other 5% is me.

This weekend I hung out primarily with Issy. She came over and we went shopping, without buying, and then I went over to her house and we actually went shopping, with buying. I got a new shirt and a new dress. Mission achieved! It was a little scary to shop with her, because I assume you know the drill. You both get piles. You get rooms next to each other and then you come out after every item. And then you judge. And while it's nice to have a friends opinion, the only thing missing is the judging sheets numbered 1 through 10. Or maybe you don't know the drill, because you're reading this, and that's a pretty clear sign that you don't go outside.

But I'm a bad friend. And when a person who I write BFF to on Christmas cards, asks me if they look better with straight hair or curly hair, and they look better with curly, I will tell them straight. That's how flat out terrible I am. I've been trying to stop, I haven't been giving any opinions whatsoever all year. But this makes me paranoid, thinking every ones like me.Which I should just stop kidding myself about.

I also got extremely scared this weekend because of the whole Japan ordeal. I was scared for the radio activeness, and ending up like my parents and not being able to taste chocolate, or see pictures of Jane Lynch anymore. For some reason this was all linked in my mind.

But seriously, if I prayed I would pray for them. And I would say my thoughts are with them, but to be honest in order to stop from peeing myself, I've been thinking of anything but. It's scary and sad, and that's the thing about tragedy like this. When it's written about or spoken beforehand, you don't worry, and then afterward you can't help but consider your own mortality. And I am far too beautiful to die young.

I hope you're all well, listening to Brittany, looking up recipes for fried pickles, and not wearing Crocs!