There are few feelings more wondernous
than saying, at 6:00, "I'll just lay down until dinner, someone will wake me up," then waking up at 9:42 realizing that dinner has been missed entirely, and that all you're going to do with what's left of your evening is stumble downstairs, pour yourself some Special K with Red Berries, and update your lonely little blog.
Today was a half-day, meaning anybody who was anybody got out of school at a little before noon, and went to Vaquero's, which is actually Spanish for "Sketchy Yet Delicious," for lunch. I know I did. Then came back to school to rehearse the competition one-act, which we're performing for the second time in a conference setting this Saturday. I still have to get work off for that. We ran the show twice, and I wasn't needed on crew for the next mainstage, so I ended up leaving school around three, which is an anomaly. I half-expected flying pigs to block out the sun as I drove to the gas station.
Even more uncommon, I put twenty bucks worth of gas in my tank, which means the needle is now completely to the right of the "F" line. F for full
. I know, I'm just as shocked as you are, especially considering it's usually about that distance to the left of the "E" line, E for Earn more money so you can put more than five bucks worth of unleaded in me at a time, jackass.
Every ride in my truck raises a million life-or-death questions. Will I make it to then next location without having to get out and push because I put off getting gas for too long? Will the windshield de-fog and allow me to see the road that I'm hurtling across at forty-five miles an hour? Why am I driving like this thing handles any better than a Civil-War era ironclad battleship? What's that smell?
I drive completely in italics, by the way. Usually on the wrong side of the road.
Even more uncommon than a full gas tank, I went and got a haircut. This only happens every two months, on average. I know, because they ask me every time I come in, when they see the overgrown mass of dark blonde they're going to have to wrangle into something half-decent, if they want to earn their eleven-ninety-five. I always get it cut from the haircut-neglecting teenager look down to the spiked in the front, now-I'll-be-able-to-neglect-a-haircut-for-a-really-long-time look, which has been dubbed "The Admiral." It's not that I hate getting a haircut. Really. I just hate doing anything where part of the protocol is something called "tipping my stylist." I'm having a hard enough time retaining my Man Card when the last three sodas I've had have all been Diet.
Sometimes I don't see why
you'd want to listen to anything but JEW, Saves The Day and Coldplay. And it's good to know at least one Madpony
girl agrees with me.
Basketball player in my Creative Writing class on Ernest Hemingway's short story "Hills Like White Elephants" yesterday:
"Nothing's better for your relationship than getting drunk and talking about abortion." I wasn't drunk, but I did jokingly refer to their attitude toward their unborn child as "the catch and release program." Take THAT, anniversary of Roe V. Wade! ZING!
While I Was Sleeping:
Trevor and Alecia were having what looks to be a kickin' RN Party.
All I know is that when Trevor's psuedo-six-pack is involved, you can't NOT have a good time.
If more seventeen-year-old girls would make out with Holocaust survivors, the world would be a better place. I mean, can you imagine how different Elie Wiesel's Night would be?
Thanks to Meryl and The Carnival of the Vanities
today is the all-time high for hits here at HFT. If these trends continue, we should top out at around 230 or so hits for Wednesday. To the slew of people who don't usually wonder around in here, I would promise you that I'm usually way more interesting than this. But there's the archive link over at right, so you can immediately disprove my hypothesis. Although I encourage you to do so, leaving as many comments, e-mails, links, and Indecent Proposals as you can in the process. Go now.
What do you mean you're not reading Katie Hall's blog? What? That's the dumbest excuse I've ever heard.