Monthly Archives: May 2009

“Yearbook” is one word, right?

You know what’s always weird about school this time of year?       Signing yearbooks.

There’s several types of yearbook signers:

  • Those who take up a whole page with giant, bubbly handwriting. These people probably don’t really care what they’re writing to you; they just want to make themselves feel important.
  • Those who take up a whole page with an actual, heart-felt letter.  These people are probably some of your best friends. The letter is either sentimental and will make you cry and sad to graduate or it’s hilarious and will make you laugh until you cry and possibly pee your pants.
  • Then there’s the complete opposite: The people who write “HAGS” and their name, if not their initials. Or they only sign their name/initials. (Warning: if I sign your yearbook like this, I probably sort of hate you.)
  • There are those people who have one signature message that they write in everyone’s yearboook. This message probably goes something like this: “Hey! This year was so much fun with you! I hope you have an awesome Summer! We should totally hang out! Stay cool!”  Blah blah blah.
  • Those people who, similarly, write the same thing in everyone’s yearbook but it’s only an uncomfortable little rhyme that they think is clever.  Example: “Some sign in front, some sign in back, but look at me, I signed your crack!”  (…..Yeah.  I’ve had that one before…..)
  • There are those who write something just to write something. “Hey. Hi, hello, howdy, hola….  H is a fun letter.” (This is an actual entry in my own yearbook.)
  • Those who read all the other entries in some one’s yearbook and secretly try to top them all with the ultimate yearbook message.
  • And then there are those acquaintences who mention only a couple inside jokes: “Remember when you hit your head on a broom stick and got that bruise on your head for Homecoming? Sooo funny! See you next year!”  (Also an actual entry in my yearbook.) (I never did that.)

I’m pretty sure I’ve experienced all the above sorts of yearbook signers by now.  But, you know what?  I have one more year left and I hope that next year I’ll be able to read some messages in the back of my book and not think “I wonder if they actually meant it.”

There’s also a couple different MOs when it comes to people letting you sign their yearbook:

  • Those who reserve three pages – each page for a different “bestie” to take up the entire space of.
  • Those who won’t let anyone at all sign it until their BEST FRIEND signs it first.
  • Those who secretly compete with everyone else to get the most signatures in their yearbook, regardless of whether they are actually friends or not and secretly check out everyone else’s yearbooks.
  • Those people who are too cool for you to sign their yearbooks and lend it out to their exclusive groupies and whenever you ask if you could sign their yearbook always say that one of their cronies has it.
  • Those people who tell you that they didn’t get one because they don’t want you to want to sign it.
  • Those who really don’t take it that seriously but might appreciate the nostalgia and lets anyone who really wants to sign their yearbook. I am this person.
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This is Awesome.

Muwhahaha.com

 

My only suggestion, though, would be to have it cycle through varying maniacal laughs.

 

=]

Obama sees dead people!

Just for all y’all’s future education, the difference between Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day is that on the former, we honor those who have died while serving their country, the latter is for those who have served their country and are still alive.

Does the president know that?

(you probably don’t want to watch the whole thing. It’s right at the beginning)

But seriously, Happy Memorial Day… Or something. It’s probably not a generally happy holiday, but I don’t know how else to say it. =]

(And I threw this one in for fun.)

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You deserve the sun

I want to help you so much.  But I don’t know how when there’s two of you.   One is laughing and pleasant when around, the other stays away and quietly blogs about her pain and fears and anger. Vulnerability is a difficult concept; both of us are feeling it.  I think you try to construe our reactions, our words, our thoughts, and you get them all wrong. I think you assume what we’re going to assume and that’s wrong, too. I don’t think you understand just how much love is dying , burning to be spent on you here.  It’s endless. Limitless. Unconditional. I want to help that sunniness stay with you and glow and help you and make your life feel better than it ever has. You deserve all the sun there is.   True, there are times that I want you around because the teams are uneven and I’m losing;  but I want you here for you all the more. You come around and I feel that things went great and that I’m helping and you’re coming closer and loving more.  But then, the next day I read your post to find hurt and emptiness and confusion.  Still.  As entirely understandable as it is – and I do understand – it’s hard. I can tell that you want to hide your real feelings on a web page. From holding and crying and talking until 3am to trips to the ER to shopping sprees to lunch to church to playing Wii, I just want you here.  I don’t know how to tell you that more. I feel that I’m pouring myself towards you, reaching for you, waiting for you, wanting you, and you play along until your fingers touch the keys.

 

 

Updated:     Things will be okay.

Something I know for sure…

There is absolutely nothing better than knowing someone is as excited about you as you are about them. Nothing.

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A penny for you to keep your thoughts to yourself?

Today, I encountered one of the stupidest, most ridiculous examples of teenage selfishness and drama that I’ve ever seen.

I was sitting in the gymnasium’s floor, watching a video on my iPod. A quarter falls next to my leg and I pick it up and put it in my purse.  I looked up to see a boy standing on the track above me, leaning over the railing, glaring at me.  I returned my attention to my iPod and then feet arrive in my line of vision.  I paused my movie and looked at the kid. His hand was outstretched down towards me, and he was still glaring.
          “I want my quarter back!”  He said.
          “You went to the trouble of coming all the way down here for 25 cents?”
          “Give me my quarter back! Now!”   
          “Are you serious? What are you gonna get with it, a gumball?”
 …And he proceeded to call me all sorts of (un)flattering kinds of names and  making a show about it.

It really wasn’t worth the huge ordeal that he was making it, so I dug out my coinpurse to return his measly $.25.  While doing so, my mind was racing through ideas of how I could totally own him, like handing him a nickel or something instead.  Now that I think about it, I should have given him 25 cents in nickels and dimes. But I didn’t.

I gave him two quarters.

I gave him two?

I don’t know why, but I gave him back twice as much as he asked for. I handed the quarters to him and returned to my video. In my peripheral, I saw him turn angrily and then quickly stop to look at his hand. For a moment, I wondered if he might actually say something about it.    But of course, he didn’t.

 

The type to make that big of a deal about some one returning his own quarter wouldn’t bother to even think about returning some one else’s.

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Warning: My rambling leads to cannibalism. Not the act of it, just the discussion topic. So far.

I’m totally in one of those moods where I can ramble really effectively and just from one topic to another topic to another. And what the fudge, exactly, does “ranmble effectively” even mean? What’s the goal of rambling? Is there a point?  Some one should run for senator and campeign all about how they should be elected because they can ramble really well and would rock the house down during filibusters (because this is the only scenario I can think of where rambling has a purpose).  And a senator who can rock the House down while rambling is even more impressive because the House is a whole other part of Congress! 

Anyway, what I meant is that I’m in this mood and I kind of like it because it’s like I get to explore my brain and just see where it goes (which can be very dangerous rewarding, I assure you.)

And my friend, Danike, wrote this post and in it, she mentioned about how she didn’t have any peanut butter to go with her jellyed bread and I responded and it makes me kind of worried proud that I was able to ramble this long about possibly the most unimportant point in her post.

My response:

I’ll be your peanut butter! ….Metaphorically, of course. I don’t know how I feel about being covered in bread covered in jelly.  I don’t think I like that very much. And I can’t imagine it’d taste all that great. And I’m getting a little weirded out imagining what I’d look (or taste) like with jelly and bread.  I do know that I wouldn’t taste as good with it as peanut butter. I wasn’t made from peanuts. I was made from human.  And God.  He was a part of it, too.  But I guess if you’re into the whole human-jelly thing, then hit me up.  We might (totally NEVER) work something out. But if you are one of those people who are into human jelly, what part of the human is the jelly from?  Not like I really want to know, but my curiosity always killed all my cats. If it’s made out of organs or goo or something that can be removed from a person and they can still live, is it still canibalism?  But I imagine if you make human-jelly out of the parts of humans that are extraneous, it wouldn’t be as good. But if you made it out of hearts, then wouldn’t that just be poetic?  And because of how poetic it is, people would be all, “dude, if I eat this heart jelly, will I fall in love?” and they’ll think they’re kidding but they’ll all secretly hope that they will and then they will because of the Placebo Effect. But the problem will be that they’ll fall in love without the guaruntee that they’ll have some one to fall in love with. I mean, in love with them back. That would suck if you ate the jelly hoping for a lover and you fell in love with your pet donkey or something like that guy in a Midsummer Night’s Dream. Only he was made INTO a donkey and then had a fairy queen fall in love with him. And she got toally rejected! Poor thing. Apparently, that wasn’t flower juice Puck used, it was heart jelly.  Maybe the donkey man just needed some heart jelly, too. Maybe every one needs heart jelly!  Everyone would “fall in love” with everyone!

I just found out the key to world peace.

Tchyah.

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Breaking News: Doing it is entertaining.

I was eating out with my parents and my sister.  I kept making them all laugh and my mother said “Where else can you find entertainment like this?”

Okay, so right here, my train of thought went to okay, you could get it the same place I came from, but I don’t wanna say womb because that would be gross and we’re eating and it’d be weird and I hate that word anyway.

So I went to an event a little earlier in that process.  

I replied with, “Sex!”

 

 

…That’s not exactly how I meant it.   Thankfully, my mother didn’t hear me clearly and if she had, I probably would have gotten in some trouble…

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