Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Note to self: Only my parents are allowed to piss off telemarketers...

It's odd for me to have more than one blog entry per day, but if I don't write this down I'm going to go crazy, a la Edgar Allen Poe's "The Telltale Heart". You see, my parents left with my youngest sister to attend her grade nine graduation. If everything went well, they would be home by nine o'clock, leaving my younger sister and I alone for about four hours. Now, during those four hours, the phone rang, and upon answering it I listened to a woman's voice asking for my father. I replied in the usual polite manner, "I'm sorry, my father (I'm not going to tell you people his name, silly readers. Who knows how many of your are perverted stalkers?)is unavailable to come to phone right now, may I take a message?" To my disgust, the woman revealed herself to be a Phone Harpy, a.k.a. a Telemarketer for Long Distance service. Remembering that my parents weren't home, the lady on the other end of the line had just left herself open to a very hilarious phone joke, and that Telemarketers really don't have any feelings to begin with, when she asked me "How do you think my parents would feel about a new long distance plan, etc. etc." (truth be told, I wasn't really paying attention anymore once she revealed her secret identity), I cheekily replied, "Why yes, I've noticed that we've had a great deal of problems with our current telephone service, because it keeps doing things like this --" and then I hung up on her. My wicked, evil, and completely childish glee (I'm really too old to be getting a buzz over such things, and yet I still do) did not last very long, as ten seconds later, the phone rang again. The Caller ID said it was an "Unknown Number", the same as it had for the Phone Harpy. I immediately felt appalled and guilty. I wasn't a child anymore, and it wasn't my phone or my Long Distance service plan to begin with, so I really didn't have any right to be rude to people who were calling for my parents. The only reason I'd played the silly joke was because I assumed the Phone Harpy would take the hint, however crude and impolite it was, and leave us alone. Cringing (for some irrational reason, I expected her to give me a stern lecture on manners, seeing as after I assured her that Mr. **** was unavailable, I foolishly identified myself as Miss ****, and she must have known that I was far too immature for my own good and was obviously not acting with my parents' full authority), I picked up the phone and remarked with false aplomb, "Y'ello?" There was nothing but silence on the other end of the line, so I hung up. Not on her again, believe me, I waited a good... ten seconds for her to speak. However, my nightmare was not yet over, for ten seconds later, the phone rang AGAIN with the Caller ID of "Unknown Caller"! I hesitated, only to have the answering machine pick up eight rings earlier than it should have! Oh, cruel fate! She'd left a message, and I didn't know enough about my phone service to figure out how to access my parents' messages!
Redemption came just in time. My mother phoned from the grad to check up on us, and let us know they were going to pick up food before they returned (yes, they don't feed you at our school's grads...Nourishment is for the WEAK!), so I had an opportunity to ask how, exactly, one could listen to our phone messages. With this knowledge, I repeated my mother's instructions onto the phone and heard this....."You have one unheard message: **Click**" Argh! All that anguish for nothing! She'd hung up. Ah well. For now, to make amends for my misdeed, I'm going to lend the Phone Harpy a shred of dignity and assume she hung up on purpose to give us nasty kids a taste of our own medicine, all nicely recorded thanks to our current (and quite sufficient, thank you very much) phone service. Well, not anymore...."Message - Erased!"

I'm Lovin' It! ... And I have no idea why!

Today was my first-ever training shift at McDonald's...three hours of slavery in the salt-and-grease mines. For some reason though -- I don't know, maybe it's something in the air -- I felt nothing but energetic, happy, and lucky to be workin' for such a fine-and-dandy establishment! Did they sneak some new kind of anti-depressant into the antibacterial soap? Slip Prozac into our complimentary employee soft drinks? I have no idea, but all I know is that for three hours I swept and mopped the floors, emptied the garbage, and crouched on my hands and knees trying to pry discarded cups and lids from underneath the jammed ice machine while the water from said machine leaked and flooded everywhere, and I've never felt better! Maybe it was because, subconsciously, I felt extremely fortunate that I didn't have to tend the piping-hot grills or the deep fryers (also called "vats") during a blistering 25 degree (that's Celsius, mind you) summer day (for Canada, that's a fry-an-egg-on-a-bald-man's-scalp heat). The lobby's cool enough, and at least the ice-machine, flooded though it was, still spewed cold air properly. Or maybe the high I got from being unintentionally flattered (one of the managers mistook my $22 Zellers watch for a Rolex) lasted longer than I thought it would. Either way, McDonald's is definately not the hellhole I expected it to be.
On another note...hot damn! I was a writing fool today! Ever since last summer, I started writing a fantasy novel and actually decided to finish it. The thing is, this was not the first writing vow I had taken. I've written at least half a dozen stories that were promptly abandoned before they reached chapter five, mostly due to either A)I looked back and thought "What the Hell was I thinking?" or B) Had another brilliant, turn-of-the-century, original and unique book idea that I just HAD to develop, so I forgot about what I was working on at the time. Sadly enough, most of those ideas that were the subject for option "B)", usually ended up in "A" soon afterwards. Not this time, however. This time I decided to have a writing assignment for every day. Now, before, I usually only wrote when I felt like it, so there would be hours where I'd write pages and pages, and then weeks where I wouldn't scrawl a word, and that usually led to "B". This time around, I would set a goal: Three pages a day. I would have to write three pages a day, no matter what. Who knew it would help? It turns out that when I force myself to write, I find myself adding more details and rules and structure to the tale. I mean, if I couldn't come up with any valid ideas during the day, I'd fill up my three pages with description, or character growth, or intellectual dialogue. Now, a year later, I'm up to Chapter Six. Don't laugh, I'm not finished the story yet. Already, my manuscript, handwritten on looseleaf (both sides!), is four and a half centimeters thick. Today alone I wrote more than enough, a least six pages' worth, and look at me! I still have enough juice to concoct a thick, descriptive blog entry! I'm on a roll, baby!

Monday, June 28, 2004

I have the Power!

Today, after eighteen years of waiting patiently by the sidelines, I have finally received my chance to check my ballot of choice and add my voice to the growing number of Canadians who are desparate to have Canada run by "the right people" and not the "[insert name of party you don't like here] nutjobs". To be honest, however, I am an ignorant youngster with muddled priorities, as you probably could have guessed. I am more concerned with what Ebert and Roeper thought of "Spider-Man 2" than how some of my dad's friends think Steven Harper is "Stockwell Day with a library card". When I read the newspaper, I skip ahead to the "Culture" (apparently, a classier name for "Entertainment") section, because I find the details of Peter Jackson's next film infinitely more interesting and less depressing than editorials on how the Liberals have screwed Canada up the yin-yang. I mean, if we believed everything the papers said, than no Canadian politician in the history of time has EVER done ANYTHING right! We should put all politicians to death and hire some decent Canadian celebrities to rule the country! I'm sure Alanis Morissette has a few things to say about Canada's foreign policy! Jim Carrey could fix up the sorry state of our schools as a Minister of Learning... wait a minute, didn't he drop out in grade 9? Ha! That doesn't matter! Ralph Klein (the alcohol-guzzling overlord of Alberta) didn't graduate either and look at all the good he -- umm.... uh, never mind. There's not much good you can say about a guy who got hammered on Christmas Eve and drove down to the shelter to make fun of the homeless people. Yeah, yeah, I'd say that's a higher priority on an Evil Villain's To Do List (next to "Steal candy from babies" and "Walk an old lady down the street...and into a speeding truck!") than a Responsible Political Leader's.
Look at me, getting all political when I really have no knowledge of politics! Thank God for free speech, eh? Anyway, continuing on, I usually vote for the party, and not necessarily for the leader. I don't have the motivation or understanding to keep up with the times (c'mon, I'm young. Let me enjoy my youth!), so I can't really keep track of all the political pawns on the gigantic Canada chess board. I paid attention in Social Studies enough to form an opinion on which party I think is better (I'm not telling.....oh please, I tell you people everything else!), and so that's how I vote. Is that really so bad? I still have a valid opinion on how Canada should be run, it's just that my vision is a great deal more vague and general. As far as I can tell, Canada did not become a smoking crater in the earth when the Conservatives were in power, and it didn't explode when the Liberals were in power, so neither party did a complete crap-job with Canada's policies.

Sunday, June 27, 2004

I Work For the Clown Now...

Well, as of today I'm officially employed, at my friendly neighbourhood McDonald's. My second interview went relatively well, and by that I mean I didn't poison anybody or leave them with food they didn't order. Really, all I did was handle the beverages by the drive-thru window -- pretty simple once you get used to it. I was promptly hired and asked to attend an orientation meeting -- a meeting I attended today. I was subjugated to the usual video propaganda and tour of the building. On the plus side for McDonald's, as compared to Safeway, is that they handle the material of their recruitment videos with a heavy dose of humour. They realize that their tapes deal with silly instructions, so they go out of the way to make them even sillier. It's almost as if say, "Hey, we know most of you have the common sense to understand these concepts, but we have to teach them to you anyway. So why not have a good time while you learn?" Safeway, on the other hand, handles their training with the utmost seriousness that borders on irrational. As a result, their force-feeding of the Safeway doctrine comes off distinctly cult-ish, more like a brain-washing and less like a brain-tickling. "Obey us! Obey the UNION! Or PERISH! MWAHAHAHA! Your soul is ours!"

On the point against McDonald's, the area is cramped. I've seen bathroom stalls that are larger than the "crew room that is provided for our benefit". One TV, one microwave, two McDonald's square tables, and three ratty chairs. At least Safeway had the decency to provide its workers with a working fridge. Ah well. The pay's pretty much the same, and the atmosphere of McDonalds is great deal less isolating than the work of a Safeway cashier. I was pretty much the youngest person working at Safeway, and that left me feeling rathing uncomfortable as a relatively wealthy, pampered girl with a future surrounded by bitter adults who checked groceries for A CAREER. McDonalds was brimming with teenagers. The applications in the store were targeted for youngsters. So, all in all, I'm looking forward to working in the Clown's service. On a sadder note, Kevin the Hot Manager proposed to his girlfriend recently. I really hope they don't decide to hold the wedding reception in the restaurant, as some weird couple chose to do in the McDee's commercials we had to watch...
As of today, my obsession is: "Spider-Man 2", starring Tobey Maguire. AAAH! I have to see that movie! Spider-Man is King!

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

A Day of Many Battles...

To start with, today I had to square off against the vile, slippery, many-headed dragon of my Math Diploma. Math is (and always has been) my hardest subject, so needless to say, despite the fact that I had a reasonably talented math teacher this year (for once...) I wasn't expecting to do so well. Really, no matter how much I study, or how much I remember, after I've chopped the heads off of all the obvious questions, some dusty, forgotten factoid slithers unnoticed past my defenses to bite me in the ass. Oh, 90 degrees can't be used with a Tangent on the calculator? Why the HELL NOT? Argh!
After the endless studying, the tutoring sessions with my teacher, the guzzling of caffeinated beverages to counteract my unpredictable bursts of A.D.D., and the two-hour-long wrestling match with 33 multiple-choice and 6 numerical quesitons, I was mentally exhausted.
On top of that, experts have confirmed that a weevil has, indeed, enslaved my precious tree. As well, a nice aphid couple has abruptly decided that any spruce a weevil deems appropriate for habitation is the perfect neighbourhood to start raising a family, and they've left "pineapple galls", basically spiky pineapple-shaped egg capsules, all over my spruce's tender branches. Like unwanted, rotten fruit, I helped my mother to pluck the little baby darlings from amongst their comfortable green cradles and tossed them into the firepit, along with the upper quarter of my tree's truck which, knock on wood, the weevil was hiding in. The infant insects will no longer mind the nightly chill, as we burned the little parasites alive. Ha! And believe you me, should any aphid show its face around my tree again, I'll sick my specially trained pack of ladybugs on them to kill, kill, kill! It's odd, really. I put my tree in the ground and pretty well forgot about it for 12 years, but now that it's in trouble, I can't bear the thought of losing it if our efforts to dislodge the weevil prove inefficient.
But enough of this idle chit-chat. It's 10:25 pm, and I have my Chemisty (and final) diploma tomorrow at 1:00. After that....nothing....absolutely nothing! No more Math, or Chemistry, or Physics! FOREVER!

Sunday, June 20, 2004

AnimeJune's First Film Review: "Matchstick Men"

AnimeJune's rating: ***1/2 (three and a half stars, out of five)
Obsessive-compulsive disorder has become quite popular in the media, especially when used to comedic effect. In "As Good As It Gets", Jack Nicholson grumbles and slouches around his disorder in order to win the heart of Helen Hunt. In the television series "Monk", Tony Shaloub plays a widowed detective whose OCD actually lends him better insight into his cases. So, when I sat down to watch "Matchstick Men", which stars Nicholas Cage as a con man with OCD, I was expecting a comedy, something in the vein of "Ocean's 11", only more funny. Or less, if they botched it up. Using a mental disorder to spark laughter can be a touchy game.
Ah, but don't be so quick to judge a film by its trailers. "Matchstick Men" is not a comedy, at least in the broad, slapstick and witty banter sense of the word. Roy Waller, the main Matchstick Man of this film, is in the middle of executing a water-purifier sweepstake scam with his partner, Frank Mercer (played smugly by Sam Rockwell), when he accidently loses his entire prescription of pills when they fall down the garbage disposal. Roy blinks randomly and twitches when doors are left open even when he's on his medication, so this sudden loss of his precious pink tablets sends him off the deep end. For him, things speed up crazily, or slow down, and he becomes obsessed with scrubbing every inch of his house, so much that he neglects his partner for a full week. Not eager to lose their lucrative con, Frank refers him to a therapist, Dr. Klein (Bruce Altman). His sessions with Dr. Klein stir up memories of his pregnant ex-wife, and after some searching, the resourceful Dr.Klein finds out that Roy has a 14-year-old daughter named Angela.
The knowledge that he is a father completely changes Roy's whole attitude, especially when he finally meets her in person (played by Alison Lohman). In most cliched movies, when the relunctant hero finds out about their long-lost child, they moan about it and try to work around the changes that are brought about by the presence of their offspring. Roy, however, goes out of his way to make his daughter happy, and that adds a refreshing taste of genuine warmth to an otherwise quirky film. Eventually, though, catering to his giggly daughter's whims leads Roy to introduce her to his world of conning idiots out of cash, a pasttime Angela takes to with a surprising vigor.
What makes this film sincerely heartfelt is the honesty with which tbey portray Roy's disorder. They don't use it for laughs. When his ticks drive him to distraction, when he sucks desperately on cigarettes while trying to banish invisible stains from his glass coffeetable, the director frames it in stark, searing sunlight, revealing the pathetic nature of Roy's obsessions. All the light in the film is bright and harsh, scouring away the pretenses of movie cliches.
However, once he meets his daughter, he leaves doors open. He orders pizza instead of prying cold tuna fish from a can. He introduces himself to the pretty cashier at the grocery store instead of avoiding her eyes as she rings up his predictable purchases. Of what happens in the first three-quarters of the movie, nothing is able to prepare the audience for the emotional roller-coaster occurs at the end that should have blasted everything Roy worked for into irrelevancy, but didn't. That's what prevented the film from getting a perfect score. I like plot twists, but usually only in a movie where giant plot twists are expected. Spy films, serious caper films. Ridley Scott's direction deviates so much from the normal tone of a thriller, that by the time the monumental story U-turn comes, we have been lulled into a complacency, fooled into believing that the film has settled into a feel-good movie rut. By that time, any real desire for a serious change has fled, and so the arrival of the twist kicked me where it hurt. Now, maybe that's the effect the director was going for, to lead us into a safe place in broad daylight before jabbing the knife and twisting hard.
That's was kicked the film for me. There have been misleading trailers, that is true, but never misleading movies. I wracked my brain thinking, "What was the director trying to do to the audience?" Could it have been to entertain? How could that have been entertaining? Now, dear readers, do not take this review the wrong way. I'm not saying this is a bad movie. By no means. It does not do things conventially. That's why I'm warning you. Plot twists ahead. Complete changes in narrative tones ahead. This way, when you have a purpose in mind when watching a film, you can have the right purpose when watching this film. Believe me, if you're looking for a gentle comedy with a little crime mixed in, watch this film for an hour and fifteen minutes, and then run the hell away. Expect twists. If you want twists, watch this film. You'll have to wait awhile, but at the end, it's worth it.

Saturday, June 19, 2004

The Search for a Suitable Saltmine to Slave At...

Yes, yes, it's that time of year again. School will soon be over, and I am now obligated to earn some decent bread in order to lighten my parents' financial load when September brings in the inevitably gargantuan University tuition fees. The thing is, I do not have a very padded resume (the only experience I really have is two months' worth of drudgery at Safeway, and some volunteer credits from a local elementary school and my church) as well as an unfortunate tendency to believe I have a infinite knowledge of how summer jobs work, so I ignore the advice my parents attempt to drill into my brain. The combination of my adolescent arrogance and general ignorance led me to hand out no fewer than eleven applications and resumes to eleven different establishments without cover letters, and neglected to follow-up on any of them. You see, I had this obscure idea that following-up something was akin to nagging and generally being a nuisance, and at the time I couldn't see how that could help my unemployment status.

As you, dear readers, can probably guess, those eleven applications resulted in eleven large, awkward, disappointing silences. (For the curious, my failed attempts were aimed at Gap, SmartSet, Eddie Bauer, Laura Secord [two locations!], HMV, Quizno's, Second Cup, Claire's, Coles, and Booster Juice.) Of course, with the swift approach of summer swiftly swallowing up my chances, I relunctantly applied to the two jobs that, while distasteful, I was pretty certain I could snag. The first was Safeway, where I had experience, and they loved hiring kids who were incompetent. The second was McDonald's, who practically never hired someone over twenty-five, and you'd have to be blind in one eye, deaf in one ear, lose both your legs, and have an IQ under 85 to be considered incapable of working there.

I waited for two weeks for the well-paid managers of those eleven "high-class", cushy, luxurious jobs to call me back. Both Safeway and McDonald's called me right away, the day after I'd applied, within minutes of each other, to beg for an interview. Well, well. My first interview went smoothly. Lacking the good fashion sense that seems inbred into most teenage girls, I wore wrinkled navy blue work pants and a dumpy, long-sleeved, butter-yellow acrylic sweater that clung in all the wrong places. I felt that was better than the equally too-tight looked-sexy-in-the-store-with-the-fluorescent-lights-and-warped-mirrors-and-asskissing-salespeople clothes I usually wear.

Anyway, the manager didn't seem to mind. He was large man, mid-forties I'd guess, with wide, gaping nostrils and buckteeth that flashed in the artificial light whenever he spoke. I smiled and nodded and giggled and essayed youthful enthusiasm to "join the Safeway TEAM!" He was quite jovial, and seemed impressed with my previous experience, despite the fact that my conscience forced me to reveal that I'd probably have to go through the training again since I had virtually no memory of how things worked last year. The entrance wage was up twenty cents from last year, there was a good chance I'd get fewer late shifts, and the store really seemed to need the help, so I'm pretty sure I landed the gig.

Still, there was no point in taking chances. My mother, horrified at the condition of my wardrobe that had coerced me into resorting to that awful yellow sweater to "look professional", whisked me off to go shopping for a decent blouse so that I wouldn't look crappy to the management of McDonald's, who, judging by their youth, were probably more interested in what was underneath my blouse than what blouse I was actually wearing. Anyway, now sporting a sleek black-and-white shirt over a black tank top along with black wrinkled work pants, I instantly felt nothing but gratitude for my thoughtful mother that I wasn't wearing that wretched acrylic nightmare when I encountered the Head Clown of Mickey Dee's. My younger sister had worked at McDonald's before, the same year I ran price checks at Safeway, and did not have fond memories of this one. Truthfully, he did not sound very promising on the phone either, as he was about as articulate as a pet rock . (The conversation went a little like this: "Hi....This is Kevin from McDonald's....[this was followed by a mysteriously long pause, over which I felt obligated to respond "Hi, Kevin", as if we were in a AA meeting]....How about an interview?")

However, that was nothing compared to seeing him in person. My sister had regaled me with tales of his loathsome nature, but she had neglected to be more specific about how incredibly attractive he was. About five years older than me, with tanned skin, a short shock of brown hair, and slanted eyes (my sister was also certain that he possessed Asian ancestry), he looked too good to be working at McDonalds, even in the prestigious position as manager. I was even further disoriented by the fact that he was holding interviews not in an office, but in any unoccupied set of tables in the restaurant. When my interview came, my nerves jangled on and off like a busy cellphone, as Kevin was a dreadfully slow talker, despite having a voice to match his spectacularily sexy bod. He pointed out things on my resume that were completely irrelevant to the job ("So you like Musical theatre....."), and commented on the "vast" amount of "stuff" I'd put onto my resume. I figured this must have seemed long to him, considering the other people I had to compete with. He then proceeded to ask me a set of pre-written procedural questions ...("If you see a child with a spilled ice cream cone by the counter, what do you do? A)Give the kid a free ice cream B)Call the kid's parents C)....) I answered to the best of my ability, and I didn't do that badly, to tell the truth. The manager promptly helped me to schedule my "second interview", which was basically where I came in and worked for free for an hour to test me, and I left feeling confident and smugly superior.

It was only after I arrived home that I realized I'd forgotten to ask how much McDonald's paid, an omission that arose from another one of my bizarre prejudices....for some reason, I believed asking how much money a store offered was uncommonly rude and taboo. While I doubt my misstep will cost me anything at McDonald's, it only underlines the total incompetence I embodied when going about my job hunt for the entire year. How could I be so stupid, and careless, and silly? Thankfully, the management at McDonald's does not discriminate any of the previous traits.

Friday, June 18, 2004

See no Weevil, Hear no Weevil, Speak no Weevil

'Tis a sad day for greenery, specifically mine. I can still remember upon entrance into the first grade I was gifted with a spruce sprout no bigger than my thumb. Today, twelve years later, it has shooted up to a whopping five feet. Unfortunately, tragedy has struck. The tall, prickly branches have curled into so many grasping fingers due to a devilish creature that has decided to take up residence within. Foul, depraved, weevil! Now, dear readers, as you can probably guess from my previous post, I'm not a true-blue insect-hater. I have nothing personal against weevils in general. They are God's creations just like any other animal, they have to make a living and eat and reproduce like any other insect. It's just that weevils should know better than to feast on trees with sentimental value, when they are surrounded by other green buffets that are decidedly less loved by me, like my mother's cedars. They will probably have to lop off the top of my precious sapling in order to save it....Be brave, Spruce!
In other news... I discovered, upon returning to school to attend review sessions for the upcoming diplomas, that a rather large number of my favourite teachers have all decided to jump ship, and I feel absurdly grateful that I will no longer be around to face the inferior replacements the widely disliked principal (who shall remain nameless, because as bland as he is, I'm quite certain he is able to use Google) will undoubtedly hire to fill their slots. These teachers were excellent, so they shall not remain anonymous....Mr. Dvorak, my 12th grade English teacher (so of COURSE, he is well-liked by me), my 9th grade English teacher Mme O'Brien, Mme Clark (a shiny, new teacher fresh out of University when she taught me grade 9 science. It's a very educational experience to "break in" a new teacher, and I'm glad I had the opportunity), and Mr.Denis, the balding, short, well-aged religious center for our school. He taught my mother when she went to my high school, if that's any indication of the enormous span of years he's dedicated to teaching. Now, the only teacher worth gossiping about will be poor, lonely, math/drama teacher Mr. Shields, whose unkempt blond hair and hooded blue eyes continually display the perpetual stress he claims to be under, when it is perfectly obvious that he loves his job. (The local urban myth that he disciplines his rowdier pupils by launching desks at them has been only half-heartedly disputed by him, and I believe he's secretly pleased that his students believe he's strong enough to throw one of those heavy, cumbersome pieces of furniture far enough to do any real harm. I'm not saying he's weak, mind you, I'm saying our desks our heavy, because our school is cheap. Really, really cheap.)

Thursday, June 17, 2004

The First Day

Ha! Let there be Blogs! *Sigh...* As much as I wish for some clever quotation or witty catchphrase to gift the first line of my first blog, my brain is on shut-down mode, a state it usually assumes around this time of year, a state that coincides with the commencement of high school finals. Well, the multiple-choice parts of the finals, anyway. Our dear, beloved (be careful reading around my sarcasm, dear, it cuts) Minister of Education has decreed, in his infinite wisdom, that the diploma exams should be split in half, to be completed in a lengthened two-week period instead of one period of seven days. I've already shoveled through the written parts of Grade 12 Math, Chemistry, and English AP, and now all that remains ahead of me are the looming threats of multiple choice. A or B? Carbon monoxide or Sodium chloride? Blue, no! Red, I mean --- AAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! *thank you Monty Python*

Today, in fact, is my last day of high school classes, ever. Of course, my brainwashing by television has aided me in convincing myself that my years in high school were the best of my life, so I did shed an invisible tear or two as I bade goodbye to my teachers, emptied my locker, and listened to the startled shrieks of teenagers descending the east stairwell only to discover the swarm of live crickets some sneaky prankster had released in order to provoke chaos. Of course, for some bizarre reason, the presence of the insects did not deter even the most squeamish of girls from descending. If anything, the discovery of the bugs only resulted in students sprinting heedlessly through them with eyes closed, deluding themselves with the notion that if I can't seem them, they can't touch me. Because of this, not very many of the poor creatures survived. One of my comrades observed that the school might actually have to call an exterminator. I saw this as nonsense. If the students didn't kill the little buggers, than the legendary mouse and rat community in the school certainly would.
As of today, my obsessions are: money, Tobey Maguire and his forthcoming films, Topher Grace and his forthcoming films, The Jury on Fox, Treat Williams and the music from Hair, Animethon 11, and television in general.