"Open" Finals?

What seems like a great idea to begin with can turn out to be a not so great idea...open finals. In theory open finals are an excellent way to not waste time doing nothing in classes. However, these "open" finals are not open for everybody. I have two math finals this year--pre-cal and trig. That means I have to take the pre-cal with the seniors. That test is tomorrow morning (the only final I have tomorrow). I just found out that I'm not allowed to leave after it just because I'm not a senior. Doomed to another day of such an intense boredom it might kill me.

I'm One of the Good Kids, I promise

Two things can lower your ability to make good choices--consuming mass quantities of alcohol and hanging out with a group of friends. Last Friday my friends and I made a choice that seemed (and still seems) like a harmless one. We drove by a traffic cone laying in the road, so, we picked it up and put it in the car. Our parents found out. Two out of three sets of parents were angry. We ended up putting the traffic cone back. I'm told that the cone mysteriously disappeared the next day.

That's right, listen to the monkey!!!

Majority Rules

Shouldn't majority always win? With the whole idea of democracy the majority should always rule. This is not how it went down in Spanish class. A couple of students--maybe two--wanted to learn animal vocabulary so Mrs. Morgan gave us animal vocab. There was also homework on this "fun" unit. The quiz is tomorrow and the only words I know are cat, cow, monkey and dog. The final insult was I still don"t know how to say my favorite animal in Spanish--an ostrich.

The most infruiating and shortest question in the world:

WHY?

Twelve sounds like a good thing--twelve doughnuts, twelve presents, or twelve hours of sleep. Twelve couild also be a bad thing: anyone else sensing a repeating theme between my last three blogs? Twelve bruises, twelve broken ribs, or twelve math assignments are all bad things. The only thing completely pure is candy: candy is never wrong.

Regret sounds like a bad thing--regret the loss of youth--but it can also be a good thing. Regret that you didn't get hurt climbing down the tree (which could happen if one is a masochist). I used to regret getting bad grades in math, now I'm just resigned to it, a good grade is an anomaly.

To reconcile always seems like a good thing--reconcile differences with family and friends. However, reconciling can be a bad thing--a dog reconciles itself to the fact he/she can't sleep on the bed, students reconcile with the fact they all suck at math (no exceptions), and drivers reconcile with not getting the best parking spot.

I hate the people who write something really short--like one sentence--and call it a post.

So bored...here's a poem that was in the whalers museum in Hawaii...it rhymes


For here 'tis same as at Maui,
The women are all for trade;
Calicoes, rings and scrimshaw work
Are sought by every maid.


Here's another one...


'Tis a damn tough life of work an' strife,
We whalemen undergo,
But what care we when the gale is done
How hard the blast did blow?
We're homeward bound, 'tis a joyful sound,
With a full ship, taut an' fre
We'll not give a damn as we drink our rum
With the gales of ol' Maui.
Rollin' down to ol' Maui, me boys,
Rollin' down to ol' Maui,
For we're homeward bound from the Arctic Grove
Rolling' down to ol' Maui!




If you liked the first one text MAID to 555-3324
If you liked the second one text RUM to 555-3692

Airplanes

First off: I hate airplanes, time change, and two and a half hour layovers. Oh yeah, I also HATE crying babies. If you're going to take a child under three on an airplane CONTROL YOUR YOUNG! There I was trying to read Hamlet and do my one million other assignments when a baby started to cry. That baby cried almost the whole five hour flight--when that child stopped another one started. I hardly slept and only read an act in Hamlet. Right now I'm sitting in DC in a two hour layover waiting to go to Harrisburg where we have to drive another two hours to home. I also hate bossy flight attendants who come around waking people up to move their seats a whole two inches. (is it just me or is the number two coming into play a whole lot in this blog?)


PS--what is it with old ladies always carrying those ugly flowered suitcases? I must have seen about ten to twenty of them.

Body Booboos

People who have known me for awhile say one thing: I'm a bit of a klutz. If I thought my trip to Hawaii would be any different, I was wrong. Our first full day at the beach was when the first calamity occurred. Mike (someone my mom works with--the trip was won through my mom's work), my brother, my sister, and I were body surfing on the waves and I was thrown by a big one on the sand and I cut up my hip (onlookers said the wave threw me pretty far--I believe them, it hurt like crazy).

A couple of days after that I was body surfing again (don't I ever learn?). My mom was standing behind me and a wave threw me (my nose namely) into her leg. A mixture of white snot and sea water ran out of my nose...gross. The next day my nose swelled up, I think I broke it. I'm going to the doctor when I get back, although there's nothing he can do if it is broken. My new litany: don't sneeze, don't you dare sneeze.

After the nose incident nothing else bad happened. Why? I think it's because one of the shop owners gave me an angel blessed by a priest supposed to give good luck. Maybe it works--creepy.

Comment sparked while walking through the mall (I think):

ME: I have ESP.

Other person: What?!

ME: an Extra Special Person

Half a Horse

Physics is an all around crusher: enticing me with the belief this next test will be a success while whittling away at my self-esteem. Thank goodness I have so much self-esteem. A recent blow was a lab to find out how much horse power you have by taking your weight and doing some mathematical mumbo jumbo with how fast you run up the stairs. Due to my small stature (although I don't think it's that small) and disinclination to run up stairs fast with jeans on, my results weren't that great. My friend was half a horsepower, which is average for a girl. What did I get? Point four. Yup, I'm not even half of a horse. Great, no power. Thanks for bringing this to my attention physics!

The Annoyance of Arrogance

As one gets older height is not the only thing that changes. As you grow, your arrogance also grows. Freshman in high school--if I walk fast with my head down no one will see me. Senior in high school--everyone better stay out of my way while I strut (slowly) down the hallway. Not to gender stereotype but the ones who strut the most are males (we females already know we're great, we don't need to strut). One such male annoys the crap out of me: walking around with shoulders back showing off "muscle." I don't even think he has muscle, it's fat--don't try to tell him that. Then again, if there is no hope for your brain (with this particular specimen this is the case), might as well work on your brawn.

The Seed

“Don’t push that button.” If one sees a sign emphatically proclaiming not to touch something what is the first thing that you want to do? Touch the button. Why do you think all of the dancing dogs, snowman, cats or hamsters at the mall never work by the time you press the little red button? Because someone else used all the batteries before you got there. So, what do you do with a jar that warns, “This seed should never, never be planted.” Plant the seed. The secret is, don’t plant the seed in your yard, plant it in your neighbors and if a man-eating plant, vegetable, or flower terrorizes them, who cares, at least it isn’t you.

The Thin Line

Everyone has heard and reheard the broken record preaching about the thin line separating love and hate. What about the thin line separating masochists from people that have pride over the fact they overcome obstacles? They are one in the same, two peas in a pod, two of a kind...yada yada yada. Masochists are people who enjoy pain; overcomers are happy to beat the pain. The middleman: both groups use pain to make them happy. You can try to hide from the truth, but face it--you're a masochist/overcomer.

Look Mom, I can type with two hands!

FREEDOM. Sweet, sweet freedom. Today, at exactly 1:03pm my incarceration by cast ended. Now I can type with two hands so all you typing wunderkinds better beware of my speed typing. The month of cast time may seem like nothing but I had to type three Friant essays and ten gender studies journals mano y nada. The downside is that my free hand is so angry at me for hurting and imprisoning it that it has decided to punish me. How can a hand punish its owner? Just look at it and see the dead skin peeling and falling off--not unlike the hair off a prematurely balding man's head.

Desperation Smells Like An Essay

Right now I should be writing a Friant paper that's due tomorrow...yet I'm writing here. What does that say about Friant's essays? I can't stand them because so far it's taken me an hour and a half to pick the poem and write a paragraph and a half. Looks like there's a long night ahead. What's the point if he doesn't read them for content? And just once I would like a positive comment, not much, even a generic "good job" would do, anything is better than the red marks scouring every one of my proofread sentences. Seventeen more sentences to go--only two continents and a world away.

The Bane Of My Existence

PHYSICS. IS. NOT. FUN. I don't care if the alliteration is catchy or the teacher is popular; physics is the most frustrating class I've ever had (although not the most frustrating teacher). I always fail and not from lack of trying. My partner and I just received a 74% on a test we thought we did really good on. Then again, at this point just passing is an accomplishment. All through physics period(s) at least one hundred expletives scream through my head like the shrill laughter of someone who won't be named but rides my bus. I swear if one more person smiles down at me about a bad physics grade or makes an unfunny joke, I might have to hurt them. Now I really know what crazy is: the students who take AP physics.

My "Five" Course Breakfasts

No on ever says this, but, sometimes I wish I lived in China. Why would I want to live in China (aside from the fact they actually make their own products)? Simple. They have a law where a couple can only have one kid. Meaning: no siblings. This morning, like every morning, my brother wanted to get out of the house early to be at school a half hour before school even starts. Who does that? I wouldn't want anyone to get the idea that I'm an overachiever (overachievers make it harder for all us normal people). My brother gets angry when I eat breakfast because, according to him, I take to long eating a "five" course breakfast. Today, I had a half a grapefruit and a piece of toast. How is that five course? Where is the bacon, eggs, sausage and pancakes? What he really means is that since I'm the only one in the house who actually eats breakfast that I shouldn't eat. The problem is I love breakfast--the breakfast commercial on TV always makes me dance (it has spoons, forks, and plates dancing and singing about the wonders of breakfast). I would like to point out that it is absolutely none of my brother's business what I eat or don't eat in the morning. I need to give my metabolism a boost in the morning. If I don't I would be the same as every other--excuse the stereotype--girl trying to lose weight by not eating the most amazing meal of the day.

Villanelle

The hobo on the street
who really smells like fish,
the one dogs don't want to meet.

Life has probably beat
him; he no longer has a wish,
the hobo on the street.

He is sorely lacking heat,
his Hoover Flags swish--
the one dogs don't want to meet.

In appearance he's not neat,
he does not eat his beans in a dish,
the hobo on the street.

He does not wash his feet
and constantly mumbles jibber-ish,
the one dogs don't want to meet.

Using sidewalk for a seat,
his Hoover Blankets crinkle and swish.
The hobo on the street;
the one dogs don't want to meet.