Stuff-that's-happening-in-my-life-that's-similar-to-what-people-usually-put-on-their-blogs-so-I-guess-I-will-too: Tiffany's birthday was on Sunday. There were six of us, Brian, Jasmin, Lourise, Judy, Tiffany, and I, and we were supposed to meet at the food court at noon. I, being me, got the time all screwed up, though, and arrived at eleven. After fifteen minutes of sitting at a table, faking a phone call on my cell so as to appear to passerby as cool and occupied, instead of pathetically sitting around, idle and all alllooonnneee, I called Tiffany. This is the point in time in which she shared with me a sparkling gem of information: the fact that we were supposed to meet at noon. Uh-oh. My mom had slowed down just enough in the mall's parking lot so I could jump out of the car, then screeched away to whatever rendezvous she had planned for the day. I was stuck here. After hanging up, I sat there, pathetically, idle and alone, before deciding to go mall-strolling and look for a gift for Tiffany. I had to make up for the less-than-attractive cake that I'd presented her with on Friday.
Forever 21 yielded nothing interesting. Neither did Charlotte Russe, Anchor Blue, Bath and Body Works, or even --gaspeth-- Target. I ended up going to Border's, since they have that little gifty section that never fails to stock something interesting if you’re ever in need of a gift. Sure enough, I found something, and even a pretty gift bag to shove it in. Misfortune strikes: for some reason the line was super-duper-hooper-scooper long. I considered ditching the gift and running off to another store, then decided to just tough it out. The line took fifteen solid minutes. The inexperienced cashier was all on her own, and the cash register was not cooperating. An impatient, middle-aged Asian lady kept craning her neck over to see what was wrong with the register, probably resisting the urge to whack it. Probably fourteen of those fifteen minutes were burned up as the cashier fiddled and fixed before calling in another employee who swooshed in, studied the register, then solved the problem with a rap and a tap. Anyway. I ended up being twenty minutes late, which didn’t matter in the end because the only one who showed up on time was Brian and, of course, Tiffany.
I didn’t buy anything, go me. Well, except for a movie ticket. We watched Coraline in 3-D, which sucked. The 3-D was hardly noticeable for the most part, and the storyline was random and cheesy. We spent an hour in dressing rooms trying on dresses, but I only found one that I liked out of the three that actually fit. We ate teriyaki chicken for lunch-dinner, wandered in and out of stores, and somehow remained boredom-free for a full six hours. That was a very nice end to my weekend, and a sharp contrast to the terrible beginning of my week.
On Monday, it was wet. It was soak-ya-to-your-panties, drench-you-til-you-cry, we-ain’t-gonna-stop-til-the-universe-has-drowned, wet. When I burst out of my front door Monday morning, though, rushing because I was late, I didn’t even notice the rain until I was standing in its watery wake. The front door had shut and locked with a secure click behind me. I could run around the back, go through the unlocked back door, and grab an umbrella, but by that point I would certainly be tardy. So I bravely proceeded into the sheets of freezing water. It's not that bad, I tried to convince myself as I trudged through the pounding rain. My efforts at spirit-raising were in vain, however. The traffic was too thick for me to be able to cross the street. Cars were quite literally bumper to bumper, forming an impenetrable barrier between me and the school.
By the time I arrived at the crosswalk, I was soaked through. The very wet sleeves of my sweater stuck to my very wet arms, and my very wet hair was plastered to my very wet face. Puddles of rainwater and misery trailing behind me, I squelch and dribble my way to first period. The entirety of this period is spent fluffing out my clothes and hair in an attempt to get them dry. My hair has dried out before the period is over, but my clothes, especially my jeans, were wet. Very, very wet.
Other bad things: field hockey is worse than ever. I royally suck at field hockey. It is utterly impossible. Today we were all divided into four-person teams, and unfortunately I was grouped with someone who is still working on grasping the concept of being a "good sport." He sucks. I suck. If I am the worst player in the class, he is probably the second-worst. But I do not bellow this opinion into his face. Every single time I screw up, (which is more often than what would be considered ideal) he screams various phrases such as: "Are you serious?!" and "What the hell is wrong with you?" Buddy, we can't all be superstars. Every time somebody makes the mistake of passing me the ball, he'll screech: "Not to her!" Not good for my self-esteem, folks.
If you think about it, I am actually doing my team a favor. If anybody at all messes up, if the goalie fails to stop the ball from shooting into the goal, if one of the players has their ball stolen away, if one of the players' passes goes awry... They can always just turn around and blame it on me. This isn't exactly honorable, but not everything in the world can ever be completely fair.
This might sound like a joke, but I am considering injuring myself in order to get out of playing. I honestly, truly hate it, and any pain I might suffer through couldn't possibly measure up to the internal pain of having to "play" this "sport." A twisted ankle could pass as a legitimate excuse, but it's really hard to twist it on purpose. I don't want to break any bones or anything. It's not that worth it.
Anyhow, that is just about it. Buh-bye now.