The SPECTACULAR Now

For a night out amongst the hipster high-life I prefer to see an appropriately alternative movie, compared to a typical romantic comedy that spurs one to hurl into their extra large popcorn. So, rolling up cool at arguably the most urban movie theater of all time, I bought one overpriced ticket to The Spectacular Now, a new movie starring the uncoordinated best friend from the new Footloose and the pregnant girl from The Secret Life of the American Teenager (I'm not going to pretend that I'm not extremely familiar with that particular show).

It turned out to be better than expected, utilizing various lighting and makeup techniques to portray variations in the characters' social classes, openness to change, and personality. They managed to make the prettiest girl ever, Shailene Woodley, look relatively plain by placing her in straight up awkward lighting. I imagine it was purposeful. It also added to the oppressive realistic blanket that covered the entire movie. The characters were not visually perfect, mirroring their imperfect lives and revealing their faults more prominently.

Just look at that romance.
Miles Tyler, the male in the picture above, is not going to win handsomest man alive on any list, but he was able to beautifully and realistically portray emotion better than a lot of actors would be capable of doing. And I had to laugh because all I initially saw was Willard.

This isn't the greatest picture to describe this, but the romance was not the most important part of the movie's plot. Sutter has a multitude of other problems aside from Aimee and all of the fun perks to having a woman in your life. She helped him cope with his major father wound, the fact that he doesn't believe he is worthy of love from anyone, and his certainly unhealthy addiction to hard liquor from tasteful flasks.

At any rate, the movie was surprising, filled to the brim with very "teen" activities, and appropriately lighted so that the entire movie looked like it was shot through an instagram filter.

Just look at how hipster that cast is! That's two pairs of overalls in one picture. Yes. And a fun bun. 

The Nostalgia I Felt After Mass-Murdering the Colony of Ants in my Closet

I recently managed to exterminate all of the ants that recently infiltrated my closet and this is the poem I wrote in an attempt to console myself:

There was a colony of ants in my closet.

They sent their little spies out to discover my bedroom

and the ways of its inhabitant

like I had a secret to tell.

My mom says it’s because of the pasta and frosting I keep in there

but I know better.

In The Departed they refer to 

the secretive people masked in trust that lie about their allegiance

as rats.

And I know you sent the ants to find me behind enemy lines

to crawl up my legs and make maps of my mortal form

report back to a box of sweet smelling makeup in the corner

Like an undiscovered safehouse.

I admire your dedication.

Unfortunately my mom set out ant traps:

White squares with drops of ant poison.

They don’t set in right away

The chosen ants find the alluring drops of poison

and unknowingly bring it back to the colony to kill everyone

like the femme fatale you always trusted.

Now I am the rat that infiltrated your safehouse

Deception and betrayal are among my many talents

as well as being a terrible host.

I am currently three weeks ant-free.

The Thomas Crown Affair

I saw the remake first, and, in fact didn't know that there was an original until I did a little googling. Now, to set the record straight, the remake is incredibly different than the first, half as alluring, fashionable, and terrific, and the remake didn't have Steve McQueen. (Pierce Brosnan does not make up for this fact. They are different kinds of handsome.)

He's all fancy and clever and plans to rob banks for fun. He smokes cigars and drives his little red car thing amongst the dunes:

There he is smoking a cigar in the little red car amongst the dunes. Looking pensive and thinking about his torrid love affair with Faye Dunaway.

The seductive (for lack of a better, more sexual, yet normal word) romance between the two main characters is the central plot for this 60's cult classic. Thomas Crown, a handsomely rich billionaire/sportsman (still not sure what it is he does) plans a wildly successful bank robbery, and Vicki Anderson is flown in to solve the dastardly deed. She doesn't really follow the rules whilst solving her cases and tumbles into a romance with the man she knows is guilty. What follows is a beautifully captured, expensively maintained relationship involving many hats, cigars, and games of chess. As their love grows, so does Vicki's guilt for not turning him in.

This is when she beats him at chess and he is all bothered and has to fix his tie.

This is when they drove through a field of birds in the little red car. Just look at that head scarf.

I had a mad time taking screen shots, decided to stop kidding myself.

That is all.

Corsages & Boutonnieres

Oh, Prom. Where the joys of teenage existence reach ultimate heights and true colors (intended pun) are revealed to all. I have never been a dance person. That is, I don't like dances and I don't like to dance. I also think dancing would be a bit more fun if it didn't have to be done in high heels. Have you ever tried to cupid shuffle in high heels?
It sucks.
But, I digress. I generally lived it up last night as my high school celebrated stupidity. And today I dodge embarrassing pictures of myself, wash my face of all memory of last night's makeup extravaganza, and peel off last night's sequined frock.
My date wasn't all bad. I didn't pay for a thing. He had a car with which to drive us to the various destinations of the night -- Let the record show the car was his mother's. He had his cuff-links on wrong. He put my corsage on wrong. No hard feelings.
I think the worst thing you could ever do after six hours of gavotting around in one's expensive dress, hair, and shoes, is to meet up at someone's house, fall asleep strewn about the furniture like the clothes we all so furtively invested in, and wake up hating everyone around you and the current state of each other's faces.
So last night I slept in my own bed after my date drove me home at 3:00 AM.
But before my energy was completely drained, six hours earlier, we went out to eat. Now, when one is dressed in all kinds of fancy clothes, hair ornately furbished atop one's head, and flowers dispensed about one's wrists, lapels, and hair, everyone you see feels inclined to remind you that you look incredibly different than everyone else. If the person who notices you is younger than you, they will either react with disinterest or awe. If the person is older than you, they will either react with melancholy reminiscence at the best years of their life, or belittle your partaking in the biggest tradition in both American and high school history. There is no escape.
The dance itself was very shimmery, smoky, crowded, and smelled of sweat. Since, as I forementioned, I am not a dancer, my dancemates found my slight movements to be sad excuses for participating in the night's events and tried to get me to open up on the floor and really let loose. Now, whilst clad in high heels (especially with my exceptionally wide feet), letting loose is just not going to happen. My dancemates didn't see it this way and shimmied off the dance floor every few songs or so for refreshment because they were so winded. And I just sat there rubbing my feet and telling the various people I knew they looked pretty.
And it's true. Everybody looked great. Stuff people in an expensive gauzy thing, whip their hair into hairspray coated curls, raise their height a few inches, and everyone looks like celebrities. The amount of creative buns and colorful vests I saw last night is probably in the thousands.
After the dance my group went midnight pontoon-riding on one party-goer's pontoon, discussing physics and The Voice. Then we went inside and watched The Big Bang Theory. At this point I fell asleep, so I am unaware of what happened for about 20 minutes in the middle, but when I woke up everybody was picking up their various belongings: crushed corsage/boutonnieres, patent leather shoes, bobby pins, dignity, etc.
And now here I am, laying in bed with crusty hair and sore feet.

Tarantino Binge

Honestly, the greatest still. Completely by accident.
This whole scene brought real tears to my eyes.

Mr. Brown

I'd say I'm a little squeamish. Just a little.
That sort of character trait is never good if one plans to watch anything by Quentin Tarantino.
Is it just me or is there a bloody car scene in both Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs?
That both inadvertently involve Harvel Keitel?

I digress.

At any rate, I was surprised how much I enjoyed both of these films, considering I am wary of both being shot, and being covered in the blood of someone I know.

This is right before he shoots him. And I so wanted their friendship to survive.
That is all.

Hal Hartley

Is a genius. I can't believe I even understood the meaning of cinema until I saw his films.
I'm exaggerating slightly, of course.

The Unbelievable Truth (1989) is one of my favorite movies of all time.
It is unbelievably great.
It begins with Josh (played by the wonderfully tan and fantastic Robert Burke), a supposed "mass murderer", being released from prison and hitchhiking his way back to Long Island, where he lived before he went to prison. Since he is a rather good mechanic, he finds a job fixing cars for Vic Hugo (take notice of creative character name), father of the beautiful, cynical, and sassy Audry Hugo (played by the late Adrienne Shelly).

And everything after that is a wonderfully entertaining blur of dry humor and creative character development.

This movie also has a score of 100% on Rotten Tomatoes.
I know.
Normally, I don't pay too much attention to Rotten Tomatoes (mostly because they like to rate Wes Anderson movies rather poorly), but I have to make an exception in this case.

After I discovered that Hal Hartley directed this, I attempted to wildly watch a few more of his films in a rather obsessive manner.

They're all this great. I can't even handle it.

Plump Bess

While I was on my vacation (Insert irritating "Spring Break <3" slang here), I got sick. I couldn't tell you what from, but it probably sprouted from eating far too much at the meals, lounging on various chairs reading anything I could get my hands on, even The Clue of the Leaning Chimney  featuring everybody's favorite sleuth, and avoiding physical activity like the plague. So, I was stranded on my foldout all day while I watched Law & Order: SVU, finished Jane Eyre and read Agatha Christie's Thirteen at Dinner, and some good ol' Nancy Drew. It was a day of mysteries.
My copy looks like this:

Reading this sparked some fond memories of sleuthing alongside homegirl Nancy.
Remarkably, Carolyn Keene's famed mystery novels provide some interesting commentary on the standards placed on women during the time of this book's publication.
This comes from the first page:
"Oh, Nancy, this road is so lonely! And here we are with all this money. It'd be awful if it were stolen!"
     Bess Marvin gripped the purse in her lap a bit more tightly and peered nervously through the windshield of the convertible.
     A dark forest flowed past the car on either side of the road. Black clouds were gathering in the night sky, and the wind whispered dismally through the swaying trees.
     The pretty, somewhat plump girl shivered slightly and sat a little closer to Nancy.
      "It's--it's almost spooky," she added in a hushed voice.
      "Cheer up, Bess," comforted the slim, golden-haired driver. "We'll soon be home."

This is despicable. Not only does she refer to Bess as "somewhat plump", but a few lines later, she describes Nancy as "slim" and "golden-haired".
I'm not saying that Bess should have ended up overcoming her fears of lonely roads and being mugged and solved the mystery, but couldn't Bess have had at least one redeemable quality? There is a time later along in the plot after the pair have survived the lonely road where, at a birthday party, Bess whispers to Nancy about being excited about the cake she sees across the room. I mean, come on. She even has a name that reminds me of cows.
Now, to be fair, this book was published in 1949. Harry S. Truman was in office and the first Volkswagen Beetle was delivered to the U.S. on January 17. So, it was a while ago.

I'm still a little peeved.

Pixy Stix

It has been proven impossible to look appealing while eating a pixy stick.
For one thing, you never eat just one. Just like you never eat just one pistachio, M&M, tortilla chip, or anything else relatively appealing.
You eat six or seven of each flavor and have trouble focusing for the rest of the day.

While eating a pixy stick, you're forced to tip your head back with reckless abandon, close your eyes, open your mouth, and shake the tiny little packet onto your tongue; completing the most embarrassing act of your entire life.
Since your eyes are closed and your body has just dissolved a hefty amount of sugar, you have no idea how stupid you look or that you couldn't possibly not look wonderful.
Think of the most attractive person you know and imagine them eating a pixy stick.
Even they can't make it work.
Pixy Stix also turn normal children into crazy, hyper children that don't stop moving, talking, or shaking until at least the next day.
And because having just the tiny packets wasn't enough, Willy Wonka created this additional pixy treat:

This is the big pixy stick. It's just more sugar in one place for children to ingest all by themselves.

But even so, they're definitely the most real of all the candies.They don't pretend to be healthy, gourmet, or harmless at all.
They're self aware.

Pixy Stix are the heroin of candy.

Save the Giants

In an effort to cultivate my deep, uninhibited love for Ewan McGregor, I recently viewed his latest movie, Jack the Giant Slayer  (formerly known as Jack the Giant Killer, but Slayer is just so much better).

It features Nicholas Hoult (the boy from About a Boy) and Stanley Tucci (that bald actor from every movie ever, though he's not bald in this one).
It was good, though I was slightly bewildered at the manner in which the giants were so wrongly portrayed.
First, the giants referred to Erik (the man who first saved the earth from the giants by heroically chopping down the beanstalk between the two worlds so they could not reach one another) as Erik the Terrible, while humans refer to Erik as Erik the Great.
From the giant's perspective, Erik ruined all of their evil plans. From the perspective of the human race, Erik did a good thing.
Giants never win.
And they should.

Second, when the humans encounter the giants in their land (in the sky), the giants genuinely believe the legend of Erik and fear for the disturbance of humans on their land (in the sky). While on earth, the humans didn't believe in the existence of giants at all and thought legend was just BS.
Now, come on.
If the giants were as secluded from the humans as the humans were from the giants, wouldn't the giants come to believe that humans were just as much of a legend as humans believed the giants to be?
And that's not all.
The land of the giants (in the sky) is basically just forest. And the giants live in caves. And eat sheep like apples. While humans live in fancy castles and trade things with each other and farm and such. Aren't giants just large people? Don't they have all of the same capabilities as humans? Why are they wearing togas made of leaves?

These are all of my unanswered questions.

So I guess you could say I'm on the side of the giants.
This just goes to show that you can argue in favor of anything.

That is all.

Fargo (1996)

Sometimes all you need is a little Fargo every once in a while to raise your spirits.
And I'm getting a little tomorrow in my film class. Gonna be a great time.

Let me just list off a few reasons:
1. Fargo is an incredible movie about good vs. evil and everything in between.

2. Marge Gunderson is my personal hero.

Just look at that focus.

3. This movie helps Minnesotans get in touch with their heritage and natural dialect.

Plus William H. Macy is everybody's favorite criminal.

4. It's got the greatest love story ever told.

Between a pregnant cop and an artist who designs stamps.

5. It's set in Minnesota, the greatest and most beautiful state ever.

We've got snow basically all the time.

6. I believe that's all the reason you need.

For a long time now I've wanted to own a fish. Or three.

I decided that if I had three fish I would name them Wade, Duke, and Troy after just a few of the great fictional romancers.
The name Wade is from a TV show on the CW that I shamelessly used to watch (but I don't have to post again about how much I follow the crowd when it comes to shameless entertainment, so...) named Hart of Dixie. And Wade, played by far too unappreciated actor Wilson Bethel, is a beautiful Southern man who frequently goes on outings without his shirt.
The name Duke is obviously from She's the Man, a capstone film featuring Channing Tatum. There are other characters too, obviously. Duke is the roommate of Amanda Byne's character Viola (Go Shakespeare! Twelfth Night! Wow! Exclamation Point!) who pretends to be a man and puts tampons in her nose and wow, I love talking about She's the Man.*
And finally, the name Troy comes from High School Musical (played by Zac Efron) because, just because. My three fish would woo the hearts of the other lady fish if they ever came across other fish that were ladies.
Even if my fish are ladies, these are the names they will be given in an effort to fulfill this dream.
I also feel like one fish all by itself in the lonely bowl would become depressed or fat from overeating, thus three's a party.
This dream of owning fish probably stems from my best friend owning a goldfish named Goldy.** She took care of her fish so hard that it lived for nine years.***
Yes, nine years. It was unreasonably large.
When you looked really closely at his face when my friend fed him food, you could see the love in his eyes. This is most definitely what I would like to experience with my fish. And it will be better because their names will be the names of popular teen heartthrobs, thus making them more exciting to bring up in conversation.
Like, "Wow! Wade, Duke, and Troy kept me up all night!"
I guess it could also be a bad thing to bring them up in conversation.
I also don't even know if fish make an exceptional amount of noise.

I'll end this post with a few fish jokes:
What do you call a fish with no eyes? ...Fsh
What did the fish do when his piano sounded odd? ...He called the piano tuna
What do naked fish play with? ...Bare-a-cudas

*I'm in a film class night now so no matter how awkward it may look, it's always important to italicize movie titles.
**My friend is really creative.
***I'm getting really into italicizing things. And we're getting into asterisks again.
Get ready.

I Really Don't Like Wearing Swimsuits

Because either you look good in a swimsuit or you don't and you can probably guess which category I fall into. I also don't like anything about the situations where one has to wear a swimsuit.
Like waterparks.
Waterparks are arguably the most confusing, disgusting, and shameful places ever. Everywhere you look you see someone that makes you wince and another that makes you stare. The water not only falls from every surface and tube to keep one disoriented, but becomes dirtied and transmits diseases as well.
So I don't like waterparks.
And then there's beaches. My parents told me that when I was three I refused to go in the sandbox. This mirrors the way I feel today about beaches. I hate walking across sand with my perfectly unsandy shoes and feeling the sand seep in between my toes and under my arches. And it isn't beautiful or exfoliating. So I guess I'm an indoor person who doesn't like beaches.
My dad showed me a book once that he had when he was a kid about fear from the perspective of children. It's audience was a little skewed, since the pictures were pretty dark and depressing, but anyway I read it. One page said fear was touching something with your foot and not being able to see what it was. This happens in a lake. Lake Sturgeon also dwell in lakes. They murk along the bottom and reek havoc on innocent civilians like me.
So I don't like lakes.

All Right, Things Are About To Get Sarcastic

The only thing more fun than getting added to the SENIOR LADIES <3 group on Facebook is the fun times discussing t-shirt ideas and browsing through picture after picture of various tie dyes.
Nothing is more fun.
I honestly don't care how the Senior Ladies (Definitely how that should actually be typed) shirts turn out but I did have a fabulous time watching my fellow peers fight via a social networking site about the color scheme and slogan of a t-shirt we can only wear for one year of our lives.
Updates: The ladies are leaning towards tie dye for sure, but the font and saying are still up in the air.
Some ideas include: C14SSY, SW14G, and, well, those are the ideas being discussed right now. Yay creativity, individuality, and a desire to be ourselves.
I just want my shirt to say, "GETTING CLOSER TO MY RELEASE" or a simple "FREEDOM IS NEARING". That really should be the basis of our theme. Gosh darn it I should be posting.
There also was a controversy over who the leader of the group and creator of the t-shirts should be. I'm just sitting over here reading the posts and wondering why any of this matters until at least five months from now.
We literally don't need these shirts until at least the last week of school and this "pressing issue" definitely doesn't need to be something to fuss over.
I don't think they all know they're only halfway through junior year.
I feel like I am painfully aware of that fact, while these ladies are already feeling high school nostalgia.
Woof.

Am I Ready To Push Boundaries?

This is what an email (spam) asked of me today when I was scrolling through my Inbox and deleting all of the emails colleges send me that urge me to "grab hold of my future" and "be proactive".
It can't be my fault that seemingly every college in America has grabbed hold of my email address and will not let go no matter how much I beg. I should really email them all back and say that they have the wrong girl, I'm just a delinquent who has terrible grades and beats up people.
That probably wouldn't stop them though, what with their relentless search to find "the right Madeline".
And that's the most annoying thing. They refer to me as "Madeline". The only people who call me that are my teachers when they go through their class list on the first day, my father when I've done something wrong, and my friends when they want to make fun of me. As you can see I feel personally attacked when a college or university doesn't take the time to figure out my nickname. Since they care so much about me and want to "Give me a competitive edge" and "Design an education plan for me" you would think that my feelings would be a higher priority.
I do intend to attend college, don't get me wrong. I just don't like getting badgered with emails that at one point may have made me feel special (lies) or that I was being let in on a secret, but now I have seen through their thinly veiled attempts at flattery and will make my own college decisions far away from my now corrupt Inbox.

Yeah, I've definitely won this battle.

A Life Without Chocolate (And What It's Done To Me)

As I've been thinking about it, it's been five or so months (including this month which I basically consider to be over) since I've been running.
And it feels pretty good.
I doubt I'm gonna be racking on the pounds anytime soon though, since just last Wednesday I joined my German exchange student, Franzi, on a mystical journey I like to call being a vegan. I'm not Catholic but she is, so I decided to join her in her efforts to both give something up for lent and "get in shape". I for one definitely feel different. I'm hungry almost all the time and I sometimes I go into strange trances where I find myself standing in front of the refrigerator. But I think I'm doing okay.
Franzi is too, except a few days ago when I saw sitting with her laptop at the kitchen table before breakfast. I went behind her to see her screen and discovered her looking at pictures of chocolate online. I didn't know what to say.
I guess this vegan thing should be easier for me. A couple years ago I went vegan with another one of my friends and the two of us lasted for a little over five months. I felt incredibly fit and was at least five pounds lighter than when I started, which was before the Track season and after the Nordic season. By the time the Track season rolled around, I had the beginnings of a six pack and a heck of a lot of self control. That season I ran the best I had ever had (which wasn't that great but really pretty good for me), my mile PR at 6:33.
When the season ended I had a lot of both pride, and a strong desire for chicken. So I quit being a vegan. With the season over, I wasn't running everyday and I did basically nothing until school started up again in the fall, with it bringing Cross Country and a rude awakening that I probably should've been running. Whatever.
And the great thing about lent if you didn't know (I didn't know until somebody told me) is that on Sundays, one can have off their duties of giving something up. At around 4:00 this past Sunday my father told me this wonderful rule and pretty soon after that I called up my friend and she brought over chocolate. It was a good night.

That is all.

Special Talents

For a long time I've wondered if I have any special talents that aren't commonly possessed by a large population of people. I can solve fifteen puzzles pretty fast (not as cool as the Rubik's Cube, which can really impress people), I have really straight teeth, my hair has the ability to grow incredibly long, and I can do a cartwheel from my 3 1/2 years in gymnastics. But I just don't have all of the cool abilities that you hear of some people having, like break dancing, tap dancing, and beet boxing, among others. This is especially true in several domains of my life such as woodworking, measuring, drawing hands or faces, hairstyling, and team sports. In these ways I have absolutely no talent and will bring shame to my family if ever asked to perform one of these above tasks. I'm not kidding in the slightest about woodworking or team sports. For some reason I find it to be incredibly difficult to build things out of wood or play on a team for any sport ever imagined or proposed. If I ever was to be on your soccer team for whatever reason, never make me the goalie because I will singlehandedly lose the game for you.
I'm not too ashamed of my inability to play team sports though. I don't really see a point to possessing that skill unless you're in gym class. And after I got my two credits of gym freshman year, I was promised that I never had to take it again.
Team sports inject a tremendous amount of unneeded stress into the veins of insecure and physically weak girls like me. Competition, when the word is spoken, echoes in the most unpleasant way in my eardrums like the memory and premonition of past and future failures. Like my inability to effectively toss a frisbee, a football, and a baseball year after year since I was indoctrinated into the every-other-day gym class religion that is headed up by people that yearn for physically related achievements. These people are called "gym teachers", and are a specific kind of person that both spew incredible amounts of pep and manage to stay in shape as the years go by. If Michelle Obama wasn't a president's wife (and there is absolutely no research or added information going into this opinion), she would be a "gym teacher". Maybe not a literal gym teacher, but definitely one of those people that pushes for widespread exercise and healthy eating habits.
Like she does currently.
So today I urge you to look inside yourselves in order to discover what type of person you are. Did you enjoy gym class when you were forced to take it (also could be rephrased to ask, "Are you a boy?" or "Did you once aspire to become a gym teacher?")? Or are you one of those people that enjoys chocolate, reading for leisure, and playing indoors? I can assure you, I am the latter.

The ACT, Babysitting, and 10 Things I Hate About You

There is one thing I would like to say.
Never spend your Saturday taking the ACT followed by babysitting for nine hours. That night I slept like I hadn't slept in years.
After I spent the morning squinting at graphs and filling in tiny bubbles with a #2 pencil, I scarfed down a subway and strolled on down to my neighbor's. I usually babysit for them at least once a week and the three kids get along pretty well with me.
Until bedtime rolls around.
Then I go from the sweet, loving babysitter to evil, mean babysitter in a matter of seconds. All it takes is the phrase, "Bedtime" and one or more of them begins to cry.
The scene is always the same. I stand up and tell them to come with me because they need to go to bed. They begin to tear up and shout excuses in hopes of getting more time with their toys. I have none of it and tell them that if they don't come I will pick them up in a very humiliating way and aren't you a big girl/boy? This usually gets them up the stairs and into their pajamas. After that is a frenzy of books, night-lights, and songs. After we debate the amount of books I agree to read to them (usually two picture books or two chapters out of a chapter book), I usually get begged to sing. I only know a few and the one I usually result to singing is "When Will My Life Begin" from Tangled.
This is always a crowd pleaser. Every time I sing it, the oldest usually asks if I am Rapunzel. I say no.
After all three are tucked away in bed, I faint on the closest couch and lay there for a few minutes. Then I get up and pop in a movie to pass the time before the parents come home. The latest movie I chose was 10 Things I Hate About You.

I get ten or so minutes in before I hear a noise on the stairs. My head pops up and I turn the movie down. The oldest stumbles in with her blanket and my little pony.
This is not news to me. She simply loves to stay up late and make up excuses to persuade me to let her stick around. She asks, in sweetest voice you'll ever hear, if she can watch with me. I know that this particular movie is not one a child should watch for a variety of reasons. Plus she should be in bed. I tell her no and that she should go back to bed. She sits down next to me and tells me that she could hear it in her room. I repeat what I said before.
She looks to the screen and asks, "Are you watching the real Olympics?"
I tell her no.
"Is this your movie?" She asks me.
"No, this is your parent's movie." I answer.
"Oh." She says, staring fixedly on the screen.
Before she caught any offensive scenes that no doubt would conjure a wide variety of questions I didn't want to answer, I told her to go back to her room. This time she did, obviously no longer intrigued by the 90's.

Nerdy Yet Deceitful

It was today that I decided I would search online for a nice, quality movie poster to hang on my closet door. And...BAM! I entered into an entirely new world of stress and lies.

Buying things online is incredibly stressful for me for a number of reasons.
1. You honestly have no idea what you're getting. All you see is a 2" picture that could've just as easily been taken of someone else's random item.
2. I, personally, like to get a feel for something before I spend good money on it. All I can do now is stare at the tiny picture and hope for the best.
3. Things randomly appear in different languages and I get very near to buying it before realizing it's in Swedish.
4. No matter where I seem to order things from, it always happens to be from very far away and have a sketchy sounding name.
5. All of the options stress me out and lead me to regret completing my order.
6. I just hate spending money.*

I can just imagine the nerdy yet deceitful people that sell things online, just waiting for unsuspecting people like me to give them money. One of these days I'm going to sell a bunch of really crappy stuff, tell everyone it's amazing stuff, and get my revenge.

*It's my parent's money I am referring to, but the guilt is still very much there.

2:2

As per usual, my schedule this semester follows the 2:2 fantastic to sucky ratio. A fantastic class is one that I actually enjoy attending, while a sucky class is one that I am forced to endure, mostly because I would like to graduate high school. But fate sometimes smiles upon me and divvies the classes up so throughout the day I switch between fantastic and sucky classes and don't end up stabbing myself with my pencil.
I imagine if my math class was any longer, I would end up stabbing myself with my pencil.
My math class isn't even held in a math classroom. It's held in a World History classroom so there are no posters of math stuff to possibly provide hints on test days.
Then there is my Spanish class. First block, furthest possible classroom from where I park my car, several flights of stairs...
No me gusta subir escaleras o el aprendizaje de español.
So many more weeks to go.
But never fear! I also happen to be taking History and Literature of Film (29 movies, full semester, talk about major chillin) and Range of Poetry (So very much enjoyed).
The great thing about taking a poetry class is that instead of wasting my time on Facebook instead of doing my homework, I now waste my time reading poetry. I feel like that's an improvement.