Cultural Fair

I’ve decided that “California” really is a very attractive word. So is “America.” I’ve never considered proper nouns when choosing ugly and attractive words.
I’ve already blogged today, so I don’t have much else to say. I’m going to the Cultural Fair tomorrow. I wasn’t planning to go, but one of my friends asked me to go with her, so. There’s not much to say about that. It’s cool, and also free: you watch dancers and stuff that represent culturalness from around the world, plus you get to eat their food for free. I got a crawfish from the Africa booth last year, but never ate it. I carried it around in a napkin the whole time while its beady and STILL INTACT eyes watched my every move. It had the claws in, shell on, antlers or whatever (antennae?) poking out and everything. It did not look edible. It did not smell edible either. But for the eating-cultured-food novelty of it, I accepted it when one of the Africa booth volunteers offered. I mean, why not?
By the time I got home it oozed spoiled-meat odors and was soggy in the backside. That’s why not.
I did get some yummy nibbles, though: there was a squishy rice thing from the Japan booth, and spring rolls at the China booth. Plus I liked the Indian dancers. They get to wear these very cool colorful robe thingies, adorned with pieces of mirror and beads and other shinies. I feel so white when I go to these cultural fair things. All the other countries have such awesome cultures, food and music and all that good stuff, and here I am, American and white, with nothing defining me. Everybody else is painted a million different shades with countries full of rich history while I remain a blank canvas. It makes you feel un-worldly, going to those cultural fairs. Well, for me, at least. In fifth grade, the elementary school had a booth for the United States. The volunteers there dressed in gaudy sparkly red-white-and-blue top hats. They served samples of cotton candy and popcorn in little Dixie cups. I was ashamed. That’s my country. Look at all the other booths: India, where a woman was giving henna tattoos, Islam, where a person was writing people’s names in Islamic, Korea, where a woman taught how to fold origami figures, Greece, where they handed out olives to taste. I am hungry for some sort of ancestry from a different country. I’m sixth-generation white. That means my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother came from Belgium. The rest of them were farmers in Ohio, including my own grammy. One of my friends, her mom was born in Egypt! That is beyond awesome. One of the girls on my former Girl Scout troop is half-Korean and half-Filipino. I’m a sheet of 12x8 white printer paper. A sack of all-purpose flour. A glass of foamy 2% skim milk. Bleh.
BUT they’re always fun anyway. I’m actually going to bring a CAMERA this time, and because I always forget, every single year, I’ve already stowed it away in my backpack. I want to take pictures of all the pretty dancers and stuff.
Guess what? I just jogged to the Safeway complex and back. My sister went to the library to study with her friend, then they both went to Starbucks. And THEN they realized neither of them had money. My sister called me and was all ‘oh please please please bring me my wallet my darling little sister and do it quick ma’am if you’re fond of your front teeth.’ So now she owes me a favor, which is a nice power for me to hold over her. I have to go eat dinner now, but I’m not really that hungry despite accidentally skipping lunch again. I really need to stop forgetting in the mornings. Somehow I manage to FORGET and then starve at school. Well, not really starve. My body has adapted, hee hee. :) My mom didn’t cook anything. She says to pick through the fridge and take what looks good. I guess that means she’d be okay with me skipping out. Augh. Why am I still here typing? I should go to bed. Or maybe go eat, I don’t know.
I wish you could instantly produce a perfect friend with a BFF-o-Matic. You know, just tap in everything you want and then let the cogs and gears make the person. And they’d be disposable, of course, when you’re done with them you could throw them away. Then you could have a friend that you feel so completely comfortable with that you don’t have to care what you say or what you look like around them. I guess that’s what true love is, though. But then, you’re supposed to look all nice for your gal/guy, so never mind. You know what sucks about society? You constantly have to play hard to get, know what I mean? If you’re friendly to a person too much, they think you’re clingy and desperate when you’re just trying to be nice. You never know whether somebody wants you to walk up to them and say hi, or keep your distance. Because what if you’re not good enough for them? It’s hard to tell who accepts you.
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