Hey, you know that freaky-creepy video I was going to do to that song, Insomniatic? Yeah, um. Never mind. My sister refused to film me, and that, my dear friends, is that. She declined even after I promised to pay her by the hour. Had she accepted that, though, I probably would have backed out. It’s not like I sneeze money into tissues, even though that along with pickle-juice-induced fire breathing would be pretty freakin’ awesome. I always make these references back to earlier posts... I wonder what people who haven’t read those posts would think. (If you’re new to the blog and the thoughts passing through your mind at the present moment are something along the lines of “What the heck? Pickle juice?”...go read Kosher Dill.
I looked at the poll recently, and... WHO ELSE CRIED DURING THAT MOVIE? AM I NOT THE ONLY ONE? I bet it was Billy. You better believe it, buddy. You just got guessed-as-the-one-who-cried-during-HSM2. I love that movie. Watching pretty people dance and sing is always a happy experience. Especially if you leap up and join in, as I can never resist doing. I think if you ever saw me dance to the HSM songs, you would understand why I don’t attend -whinnying mascot- Nights. But I decided I am going to the -whinnying mascot-a-thon this year... for the first time ever. We get to pick three activities to do. I picked Movie-a-thon, Reading-a-thon, and--get ready for this folks--Card Games-a-thon. None of them sound particularly fun. I just chose the ones that were certain to be indoors and away from all the craziness where I could just sit and wait for the day to be over. I sound like a party pooper. In my defense, I think I was born into the wrong generation or something. Playing carnival games and bouncing around in giant inflatables is a very twisted concept of “fun” for me.
For some reason, this reminds me of our new unit in my class of physical education. Football. Yay. I don’t really get football, there’s too many rules and too many people crashing into each other on purpose. I can’t even throw the ball, which, in my humble opinion, doesn’t really count as a ball at all. Balls are round. Footballs are more oval, and pointy at the ends. When you throw it, the ends turn corkscrews instead of just flying straight like a normal round ball. But every other sport has grown on me, I’m sure this one will too.
I don’t know if any of you William’s-goers had Ms. Stephen. And I don’t know if any of you Ms. Stephen-hadders know that she has cancer, and she’s going to retire at the end of this year. I sent her a get well card-poem thingie earlier on in the year, but she wasn’t strong enough to send a reply until several weeks later. That’s worry-making. I wrote her a letter that’s going to go in a big binder of photos and letters from other former students and some of the teachers. Ms. Stephen is an unforgettable woman. It would suck if she died.