Sorry I haven't been posting, guys. My internet was screwed up. Here is one post that I wrote a few days ago:
In case you were wondering, there are only 78 more days until Europe. I have bad news about the trip, though: we were meant to go on a cruise of the Greek islands, but that part got cancelled. One of the other school that was to go with us backed out because they didn’t have enough students sighned up. Sigh. Comfort finds its way into my broken heart from the fact that this means the cost of the trip will be MUCH cheaper. More money for, you know, college and everything.
I am actually probably not going to post this for a long time from now. My internet connection has not been cooperating, but my handy-dandy daddy will come to the rescue, perhaps. Otherwise, you can say bye-bye to this blog for a few weeks. Kisses. My life, as it stands, is interesting enough that I have some STUFF to tell y’all. For instance, Career Day is tomorrow. (For instance. Who says that? Who on this life-sustaining planet says that? Me, apparently. Sorry for indulging in such a geeky phrase.) Anyway, I am not entirely sure as to what the heck Career Day is, but I suppose I’ll just find out, now won’t I? We don’t even have to bring our backpacks to school, which proves what an uneducational day this is bound to be. I actually have my future all carved out in stone already, so I’m all set. I am going to be an editor and wear flat black shoes, pencil skirts, and ponytails at the nape of my neck to the office. I’ll live in a little apartment and cook for myself. I will buy eggs, milk, pasta, vegetables, bread, and Craisin trail mix at the grocery store. I’ll have a cat and a big TV that I’ll never watch. Then I will retire to a creepy old mansion at the top of a dark and foreboding hill. I will obtain seventy-four additional cats to roam about the scraggly trees surrounding my house, cast warped shadows on the walls, and create mysterious silhouettes in the windows. I won’t go out of the house, not even for groceries, which is a big sacrifice because I love grocery shopping more than anything in the world except maybe boxed cake mix and electric pencil sharpeners. I’ll kill my cats and eat them for nourishment.
So, yeah. I have all that planned out, so who needs Career Day? Not me, no ma’am! I think I already detailed my future here on the blog, but I can’t be sure because I don’t file the archives in my brain. I think I changed it a little bit. We were cordially invited to the Eighth Grade Promotion Dance at the end of the year today. Evil little envelopes were handed to us in sixth period. I imagined all the horrible things I could do to torture the envelope, and settled upon burning it at the stake as I walked home from school. I did not tie it to a stake. I placed it in a disposable pie tin. Would you believe it took me a box and a half of matches to get that sucker to burn? The wind kept gusting out big whooshes of air as soon as I got a match lit. The times that I could actually get the match to the paper proved to be worthless because all the damage it did were a few brown burn marks. After fifteen minutes of pure sweat and blood, all I had was an envelope that looked like a toasted marshmallow. One match caught, finally, and I sat back in relief to watch the paper get reduced to crinkly sections of charred black ruin. The orange flame ate through the paper slowly. A breeze carried it out of the pie tin, but I smacked the burning mess down with an aluminum rod until the entire thing was nothing but ash. A very sophisticated sacrificial burning. It was kind of pretty, all crinkly and black with orange glowing through. Not pretty enough to erase from my mind the knowledge that the thing was burning hot. I attacked it with a hose, then got to work picking up all the burnt-out matches scattered across the pavement.
Yesterday, my sister had her softball pals come over to eat dinner. They have these things, these “team bonding” meals, every once in a while. One of the girls on the team feeds the rest of the team. It seems like a good idea on the surface. But whoever thought it up did not take into consideration the antisocial little sisters who do not care for obnoxious ninth graders any teammates may happen to have. I was in the backyard bemoaning the event. When the clock struck five, I stuck my head into the house from the back door and hollered, “HAVE ANY OF THEM COME YET?” Then, and only then, did I look up. They all looked down at me. Whoops. I slam the door closed, grab my softball bag, and decide to head to my six o’clock practice an hour early. I couldn’t go through the house, though, and there were more of, shudder, THEM at the side gate. That left me with one option: clambering over the wooden fence. I tossed my bag over, then hoisted myself up on a raised garden bed. With the help of a nearby tree, I got one leg onto the fence. It was like an awkward game of Twister in midair. One leg was hanging down, the other was bent with one foot planted on the top of the fence, and my arms were clutching onto two different branches in the tree. This was, in fact, a predicament. I got over alive, though. But I had an hour to kill. I went to Bret Harte and wandered around for forty-five minutes, then went down to the creek and read the graffiti. People had these cute little conversations with each other, and it made me laugh when I read them. Two girls walked by as I was laughing. Here I am, all alone, sitting on this piece of concrete, laughing. That must have looked strange. Just another awkward incident in my life.
I hope the internet stops screwing with me and I can post this soon. Au revoir, mon cheries.