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[icon] Give This To The Cops. It's A List Of All The Bad Things That. . .
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Current Music:Stravinsky's "The Rite Of Spring"
Subject:I feel the need to make a memory of this somehow.
Time:10:38 pm
Current Mood:impressedAha.
Facebook, okay? We all know what Facebook is.

I haven't exactly found a purpose to Facebook besides viewing pictures and being connected to as many people as I know, whether they be friends or foes or acquaintances. But I have found that it is highly addictive. A hard habit to break. And if every single one of my friends is a part of it, how can I resist? Hell, when I go to college, I will depend on it even more to stay in touch with the huge group of high schoolers that I will be leaving behind.

Every other day I get invited to some Facebook group about some inside joke or a cause or just some random thought. I'm never really too concerned with what the group is about, I don't really find any point in having them in the first place. I just thought they connect me to more people, but it's just people I'm already connected to who I won't bother to talk to concerning the group, or people I don't know that I won't talk to at all. So every other day I join a new Facebook group, regardless of what it's about.

However, I was recently invited to a group that actually stuck out to me. That actually got a few minutes of my time.

Name: Fuck Anne Nicole Smith!!!!!!!
Type: Common Interest - Current Events
Description: Do you know that cnn didn't put any news on, because they took 3 hours talking about Anne Nicole Smith?

Recent News: Anne Nicole Smith Died.... OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!

The creator of this group, who I'll call Person A, clearly has a problem with the media fussing over the death of a celebrity instead of reporting other current events. So he tried to find others who felt the same way. Only a few people joined and left comments, including the creator, and this is what they said.

Person B:
Ok, Person A.
First of all, her name is Anna Nicole Smith. Not Anne. I didn't care for her very much, nor do I respect what she did for a living, but she was a human being, and for that, you, and everyone else, should give her the respect of any dead person. You've never met her, you didn't know her. She wasn't Hitler.
Just let her rest in peace.

Person C:
Yup, i have to agree with Person B.
The poor woman is dead, and if the most valuble thing you can do, in the wake of a tragedy, is to set up a Facebook group cursing out a dead lady, then you're lower than her whatever she may have done. Give her some respect even if not deserved in life at least in her death...
so I guess Fuck this group.

Person D:
Is there a way to delete this group? I mean a woman died. It's just not cool.

Person E:
excuse me , but i dont think Person B knew hitler.

also, i think its great that Person A can voice his opinion. first of all, i think its important that he find people that do and do not want to join this group because sharing ideas is wonderful. second, everybody that sees this shit will realize how silly people are in the first place. also, hitler was a person. shouldnt he get to rest in peace too?

Person A:
Ok... I"m sorry all. I don't mean to be offensive, but i was angry at the time and i didn't really care too much about Smith so I created the group. Can anyone help me delete this?????? I have a lot of anger inside me and i let it out and when i saw what i did i didn't like it but i don't know how to delete this group!!!!!

So now Person A supposedly feels bad. I think that's understandable. But now I disagree with him wanting to delete this group. I think Person E was on to something. Out of my countless hours of surfing this website, this little group and its handful of comments has been the most interesting, thought provoking thing I have ever seen on Facebook. I have actually gotten something out of an area of the internet which I thought was not possible.

I am looking at discussion in its most pure form.

It's satisfying, it really is. I hope this group stays up. I hope more and more people join and chime in their two cents, and Persons A-Z keep coming back, keep giving each other their ideas. And I hope that I can see more and more of this from Facebook, instead of just pictures and inside jokes. It'll make me feel better about those inevitable countless hours.
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Subject:I really hope Audrey and Graham read this
Time:12:35 am
"It'll be fun!"
Although Olivia sounded reassuring, I doubted her optimism. I'm just not the dancing type.
"But Olivia," I reassured her, "I'm just not the dancing type!"
"Andrew Tham, there hasn't been a single encounter between us in which you weren't shaking your hips. Lookit'! Look at you! You're shaking your hips right now!"

That's the last thing I wrote in here, almost an entire year ago.

It has been a long time, mes amis, but I'm going to give this journal another shot. Because Harry Kagan is doing the same thing. So this is what is coming next entry:
This story about Olivia Henry that I started writing February 2006 and will now finish and be laughed at for because I'm so silly with my stories.

But man, do you know what's great? Reading all the stuff I have written in here. I'm just so entertaining! Except for when it gets way too detailed. . .
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Current Music:Beulah's "When Your Heartstrings Break"
Subject:Adventures With Jon Hollister, Part I: The Final Flight
Time:02:54 pm
Current Mood:sickDon't You Know That I'm Toxic?


A steel-toe boot had surprise attacked a smart desk from underneath.

They're called smart desks because they have spaces that allow electricity and internet capabilities. There are over a hundred of these smart desks at Walter Payton College Prepatory High School, but not even half of them are being used for their technological aspects. They're mostly used for storing gargabe by students, or in this case, being beat up in a fit of rage. The smart desks are pretty big and sturdy, they can take it. Of course, everyone is told to be gentle with them, not because they are cheap or weak or anything, but because they are expensive. Jon Hollister wasn't being gentle with the smart desk. Didn't he know that what he was doing was wrong? Most likely, but it was Jon Hollister. And Jon Hollister doesn't give a fuck.

WHAM! This time, his kick was so powerful that it lifted one of the desk's sides up, then shifted its location upon colliding with the ground. It protruded from the neat and nice row of the eight smart desks.

"MOTHERFUCKER, MAN!" Advisory period had just gotten more lively.
"What's wrong, Jon?" I stared at him with concern while my hands, out of habit, moved the smart desk back into its proper position. This had been the 47th time that Jon had kicked and slightly skewed a desk that belonged to this room.
"Yo Andrew, check this fucked up shit, man." He was preparing me for the story that was about to unfold. A story that would take most people half an hour to tell, but take Jon only a few minutes. And people say cocaine is bad for you. . .
I listened and tried to comprehend.
"I'm walking to advisory, right? Got my bag with me and everything, and then Officer Stuart comes up to me, asking me all these questions. I'm just like 'what the fuck, man?' You know, but not really like 'what the fuck'. Anyway, this fucker thinks I've been tagging up the bathrooms so he checks my bag for spray paint and markers and shit like that. And I'm like 'fine, go ahead man,' and he does and he doesn't find shit, you know? THEN this fucker stumbles upon my weed. Well, not my weed, I mean I'm gonna' sell that shit after school, make a couple hundred probably. But he finds that shit and he's like 'I'm going to have to confiscate this shit, man,' and I'm all 'what the fuck?' I mean seriously, what the fuck is up with that? He's tellin' me that I'm not supposed to have drugs in school and all this shit and, like, whatever man. Who the fuck is he to tell me what I can have or not have in school, you know?"
In the same time that Jon had taken to tell me his story, he had sold his last pack of cigarettes to someone in our advisory, and successfully groped three girls. My eyes had not left him ever since he had walked into the room.
"It's just a bunch of shit, man," Jon said as he dropped his now-half-empty bag to the floor and collapsed onto the chair that lay under his favorite desk.
"Yeah, I know," I responded as I took a seat next to him. He had finally decided to stop moving around and just sit still for a moment.
"But I got an idea, Andrew man." And with those words, I knew that Jon and I would be having one last adventure.

One LAST adventure? Well, Jon had managed to flunk every class his junior year at Payton, and no one was happy about it. Not Jon, not the school. I mean he may have been disruptive in class with his desk-and-floor drumming, he might have been the most vulgar mouth to enter to Payton, and he might have sexually harassed more women than I know and have gotten away with it, but everyone loved Jon! He was that guy who somehow knew everything about science and could always drop a fact or two about how to make crystal method in your kitchen and backyard! He was also responsible for 50% of the school body's poison. But Payton had decided his best move would to be to transfer to another school before the first semester ended, in order for all those Fs to disappear from his transcript. Jon agreed to the move and chose to go to Truman College to get his G.E.D. He made this choice after he found out he was allowed a twenty minute break inbetween each class, giving him enough time to smoke a cigarette or two. Anyway, there was one more week until the first semester was over. Jon would be out of this school and out of my life in a few days. There was no way I was going to see him outside of his school because his life outside of school was literally sex, drugs, and Rock n' Roll. I realized that we had to go out on a bang.

"What's the plan, Jon Hollister?" I smiled and eagerly awaited his directions.

Our advisory room had been teacherless for the last fifteen minutes, and we were pretty sure that no one was coming to relieve us for the next twenty-five. Jon and I discussed the mission outside the room.
"Guess that fucker didn't look hard enough through my stuff." Jon unzipped his bag to reveal a notebook that served as a blanket. Upon removing the notebook, Jon's backpack became a treasure of wonders. There were bottles of beer and bottles of chemicals with letters, numbers, pluses and minuses. There were even a few beakers and graduated cylinders! In the long, cylindrical pouch that held his coffee thermos there were lighters and matches. Jon basically had a laboratory in his backpack.

"Take these ones," Jon told me as he handed me a lighter and a few bottles of beer. "Leave the rest to me."

The long advisory period leaves the halls of Payton empty. The only way to get caught wandering is by becoming noticed in the atrium of any of the three floors, where the security is. I stuck to the empty halls while Jon took the more dangerous route. He ran out into the third floor atrium. I cracked open a beer bottle and gazed upon it as foam began to overflow from the brim.
"For you, Jon Hollister, I will riot."

I ran from one end of the hall to the other, letting a beer in each hand spew a trail behind me. I then carefully set the bottles next to a couple of lockers and ran back to the other end of the hall, tearing down any papers or posters that were posted on the walls. I made sure to be quick and quiet, as to not attract any attention from the classrooms I zoomed past. I then carefully creeped back across the hall, making sure not to slip on my trail of beer and paper. I picked up the two beer bottles and threw them against the lockers, one on my left side, the other on my right. The shatter was piercing and beautiful. Small bits of glass spun and flung in the air before hitting the ground, ornamenting the tiny pools of beer. I gave the third floor hallway one last look, then dashed into the back stairs before anyone would come out from hearing the bottles breaking and catch me.

I became more reckless when I arrived on the second floor. I used three beer bottles instead of two, set fire to a few of the posters, and broke the laptop and robot in the display case that demonstrated a physics project. After turning the display case into a junkyard, I carefully placed the pieces of computer and machine back where they stood before. Based on how he treated the smart desks, I was pretty sure Jon was sick of all the technology at this school. I was doing him a favor. I hurled the bottles across the hallway floor and fled to the stairs again.

I realized I had no materials left when I reached the first floor. My lighter had stopped working and my beer had already been shed. After first taking care of the displays, taking them from the wall and putting them on the ground, I pondered what I would do next. I came to the conclusion that there was only one thing I could do; urinate. I started at one end, spraying down the lockers and a little bit of the ground, then stopped and moved to the middle of the hall. It was here that I managed to create an anarchy sign out of my own piss. Unfortunately, I was on an empty tank by the time I reached the end of the hall. I shattered my lighter on the floor to watch a small flame appear for a few seconds, then moved out to the atrium. I was supposed to meet Jon there.

As I was making my way to the bottom of the atrium's stairs, in a stealthy manner so I could avoid the security guards, I heard something. Something big.


The explosion nearly knocked me off my feet. I looked out into the empty atrium floor to see huge chunks of railing and ground from the above floors come crashing down. The first floor was like the bottom of an open pit, and the second and third floors were erupting down into it. More debris fell into the area. The crashing seized and there was silence for a brief moment, until the security began screaming and rushing over to the pieces of the above floors that littered the atrium. In a rush of panic, I thought they were coming after me, and began to run across the open space, hopping over the debris, heading for the exit. I looked up and behind me to see what the hell was happening on the floors above and caught a glimpse. Jon was on the second floor, standing at the edge of a now railingless balcony that contained jagged pieces of steel and concrete sticking out of it. The explosion had knocked out part of the second floor, leaving Jon a more open space to throw (or push) things off of. I saw him put a trophy case over the edge. The glass shattered completely as it collided with the first floor, and the trophies bounced out of the metal frame like superballs.

"No. Fucking. Way." I was in awe, and so was the security. Once the case had dropped they decided to run back to the front of the building, away from the danger, and call 9-1-1. I stood at the exit, looking back at Jon while he worked his havoc.

"THIS IS IT, ANDREW MAN! THIS IS IT!" He was laughing and having a good time. The gym equipment was now being dumped onto the first floor. Down came the portraits of various art students and even Walter Payton himself. Down came the clay pots and the glass cases that held them. Down came everything. It wasn't until Jon was done with his throwing and pushing that I noticed what he had done to the third floor. It was in flames. The railings that surrounded the balcony of the third floor atrium were still intact, but now served as a ring of fire. Smoke had begun to rise and the alarms were going off. The showers were coming on. Students and teachers would emerge from their room in seconds.

War had hit the atriums and I wanted to leave.

"JON! LET'S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" I realized that the security was doing nothing to stop him, but I was almost sure his own destruction would backfire on him. I was expecting another explosion, or some sort of debris to fall, and Jon to get hit by it.
"Okay, man." I was glad he was agreeing with me. Then Officer Stuart arrived on the second floor.

"WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?!" Those were the only words I could make out. Oh, and some cursing by Jon. I'm not really sure what happened between the two, but before I knew it, there was another explosion. I began to see flames rising from the second floor and Jon making his way down the atrium stairs, Officer Stuart on his back. He wasn't conscious. Thank goodness none of the stairs had been hit by an explosion or engulfed in fire. Jon was able to safely make it to the first floor.

The fire and water and alarms were everywhere, and then came the students. A stampede. No matter where you were in the school, you could hear the stomping of feet, the screams. War had hit the school and Jon, Officer Stuart, and I were leaving.

I helped carry the security guard with Jon to a nearby parking lot.
"Jon, is he dead? Is he? Did you kill him?" It had never been this bad before. We had never been so reckless, to the point that we had injured someone. And now we might have been responsible for a death. This really was the bang.
"You set off that explosion, man. You're the killer, Jon. Not me. Fuck this."
Jon said nothing. He paced back and forth, his eyes on Officer Stuart, a cigarette in his mouth. Bits of debris and dust covered his trench coat. He had a cut on his right cheek. I, of course, was only covered in beer and urine.
"Would you say something? Was that fucking explosion an accident or what?!"
"Andrew." He didn't sound angry. Or sad. Just serious. "I'm a drug dealer. I'm a drug user. I'm a sexual predator. But I'm not a killer."
It didn't occur to me that Jon could have just left Officer Stuart with the fire on the second floor. It didn't even occur to me that our plan was called "Operation Fuck Up The School", not "Operation Fuck Up The School Security Guards". Jon had done the right thing. But this guy could still have been a casualty of our mayhem.
"Is he alive, man? Please tell me he's alive." Tears were welling up in my eyes.
"Just hold on." We waited in silence while people began pouring out of the school that had nearly gone up in flames. Their screams could be heard, but not paid attention to. Not by Jon and I.
"COUGHCOUGH!" Officer Stuart awoke from his unconscious state.
"OH JESUS! THANK CHRIST!" I was crying now.
"Good. Let's go, man." Jon was calm, but I could still sense the relief in his voice.

We began to run across the long parking lot, away from the school, the hysterical school body, and the officer who was officially alive. The mission had gotten out of hand and it was time to initiate "Operation Lay Low".
"Hey. Jon!" Officer Stuart was now conscious enough to speak.
Jon turned to see what he wanted.
"Thanks. A lot."
Jon smiled and continued to run across the lot. We reached the other side of the block and then went our seperate ways.
"You are a crazy motherfucker, Jon Hollister." Those were my parting words.
"Andrew, you got piss on yourself," were his.
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Current Music:Silence Because I'm Grounded.
Subject:Kicking It Old School Because I Can't Seem To Finish Any Stories For This Thang Right About Now.
Time:09:55 pm
Current Mood:disappointedGrounded
Tonight is the last night with my bed.

There is a mattress and springboard that lay in the middle of my room. They have laid there since I was little. For more than half of my life I have slept on that bed and it has fused with my room. I used to sleep on the old, ragged pull-out couch as my brother-- the big boy Jason, number one son-- got to sleep on the bed. When we recieved an entirely new bed to replace the couch, my brother would migrate to it, allowing me (the new big boy) to move on up to a real bed. It was amazing! I was no longer a few inches from the floor. When I laid down, only the bookcase seemed to hover above me, but nothing else. Not anymore.

It stayed that way for a while, until my brother left for college. I was then finally allowed the chance to sleep on the nice bed which, although broken in the middle, provided much more comfort. As I tried to sleep on the bigger boy bed, now the only resident of the room, I couldn't help but feel alone. Abandoned. Sure, both beds would be in use when my brother came home, but how long would he really stay? A week (or even just a weekend) once every season? It felt even stranger, even wrong, to sleep on this bed that "belonged" to me. My brother may have lived in our room for only 100 days of his college life, but that bed was Jason's when he came home. I decided to keep it that way, even when he wasn't home. So when my mom would suggest that I sleep in the bigger bed, I'd oblige with a feeling of uneasiness. And on many nights, without friends or family sleeping over, I'd think about Jason coming home to his designated mattress. Then I'd move back to sleeping on the small bed. My bed. And everything just felt more right.

The bigger bed, Jason's bed, became too broken to sleep on two years ago, so it was thrown out. In its place was another couch-bed, like the one we had had nearly a decade ago. Although it folded out like a futon, it was raised to the level of a bed. More like a futon on stilts. Sleeping on it wouldn't give you the feeling of being looked down upon by everything that surrounded you, unlike the old pull-out couch. But the smaller bed, my bed, remained in the middle of the room. It remained in the middle of the room like it had since its existence.

Jason had graduated and returned to live with us until he found his own place. The futon-couch was his to sleep on and nights felt more comfortable because of it. I was up late doing big high school assignments and my brother was out partying or hanging with friends. And even though I went to bed at ungodly hours, alone, it felt easier to fall asleep because I knew that at some point before I woke up, Jason would be in the other the bed that occupied our room. It felt like old times.

I didn't mind that I was growing so much that my feet hung off the edge of the mattress. The bed provided comfort that no bed can offer upfront. It's a comfort that exists by sleeping on it, coming home to it, having it live within your room and your life, for so many years. It was there for me.

Sophomore year, I'd come home from an eight hour track meet, exhausted and dirty, and have an outline to do on a thirty-page chapter for U.S. History. I'd lay all my homework on the bed, start up the computer, put the heading on my assignment, crack open the book, and then look over at my bed. Within a few minutes I would lie down, right next to my work, clothes on, lights on, and fall asleep. I have never slept better.

In these past few years, I have learned that I can't sleep for more than eight hours. When I spend the night at a friend's house, I'm usually the first one up and ready to start the day. And even though I lay back down and pretend to be asleep like everybody else, I just can't do it. But I can wake up after eight hours in my bed, having to go to the bathroom beyond belief, instead lay back on my side, and fall asleep for another two hours.

My brother has found a job-- a career-defining kind of one-- and now lives in his own apartment. The futon-couch is usually being occupied by my friends or myself. My bed is usually being occupied with six subjects of of homework that I usually never do. Therefore, there is never room for me to sleep on it. It has become an extension of the desk that I work at. And I hate it. But I know that when I do finish all that homework, putting my folders and notebooks back into my backpack, the books back on the shelf, the bed will be cleared of its responsibilities (much like me) and I will be able to sleep on it again.

However, tomorrow a man who has never seen this bed in his entire life will come into my room and take it away from me. Take away this bed which I have seen for my entire life. Literally.

On this Friday night, as well as Saturday, Sunday, and Monday night, I am studying for finals. Right now, on my bed, there are six subjects to study. Each one is in the form of a folder, a notebook, and possibly a textbook. They form two neat columns of three which take up the entire body of the mattress. At the head, where a pillow rests underneath the comforter, there are books and newspapers which I have been meaning to read or journal on for weeks and months and years. But tomorrow, I will have to find a new place to lay out (not stack) my responsibilities. There will also be no reward for completing my tasks and chores. My bed will be gone.

So tonight, unfinished with studying for finals and reading my books, I will throw my responsibilities to the floor and sleep in my bed one last time. Clothes off. Lights off. Alone. But I will be comfortable.

When tomorrow comes and the bed disappears, there will be only one left in my room, making it official that I am the only remaining resident. There will be an empty space in this room that has never existed in my lifetime. No, it will be more than an empty space. It will be a hole.

Yes, tomorrow will come and this room won't be complete. But tonight I will be comfortable.
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Current Music:The Blood Brothers
Subject:One Kind Of Story, One Story That Needs Lots Of Editing (I'll do it later)
Time:12:38 am
Current Mood:tiredVery ZZZ
Gluttony Part II - A list
-I celebrated with friends for Max Bagus's birthday. We went to Piece, a restaurant that's all about the pizza. Max had obtained a credit card and insisted on going hog wild with the food. When he asked me what I wanted on my pizza, I insisted on having pepperoni, Italian sausage, chicken, meatballs, and bacon. Need I say more? Yes: while we ate the pizza I kept sneaking back to the tray to pick up the excess greasy meat that fell off the pizza. There was a lot of excess greasy meat.

-Nedina Kalezic, my sister of Advisory 705, was rewarded for her great efforts towards community service. She was rewarded with McDonald's bucks. I didn't think she'd want them, so I asked her for them. I will be receiving about five very shortly. That's five McChickens. Or five Double Cheeseburgers, which is ten beef patties. Ten buns.

-Sometimes I look in the mirror and wish I had a body like Nikesh Patel. I get irritated by it, and then I dig through half a half gallon of ice cream. Preferably (mint, chocolate) chocolate.

-The answers: Vrai, Vrai, Vrai/Faux

Strange Encounters Can Be Comforting

I went to the piano and just started hammering on it. I attempted to arpeggiate all over the instrument. Nothing I was playing was actually an arpeggio, at least not intentionally. I began to pound, with my fist, on the lowest and highest ends of the keyboard. The sounds were so loud, so striking, it frightened me. I kept doing it. And I held down the pedal to keep it ringing. Just high and low and constant, unbearable sound flowing through my ears. I stopped, then slid my fingers across the white keys, and then across the black keys. Up and down. Awesome ascending and descending drones. I didn't stop until my fingers began to burn and a blister swelled up on my right pointer. I rubbed and poked at it for days, until it deflated.

Sleeping is always a pain in the ass because I can't stop thinking about things. My mind just won't shut up. So I try hard to think good things. Nice, comforting memories or fantasies that will put me right to bed. And even if they are the best things in the world, I just get too caught up in my head and it gets me nowhere close to falling asleep. But it's even worse when I can't stop thinking about bad things; things that haunt me all the time. And I’ll sit there, chanting “stop it, stop it” as little bits of sweat collect on my forehead. But it never stops, does it? It just gets worse and worse. And suddenly I’m more awake with my eyes closed than open. And I grip the comforter that holds me down as I suddenly feel like crying, or screaming, or beating the crap out of something. . . Something inanimate.

One time at camp, some mean kid and I got into a fight. He was just asking for it, throwing pebbles at me. And for no reason, the prick! I decided to just walk away, but he kept throwing those little rocks at me. I turned around and charged at him: he had no idea what he was about to get into. I meant to shove him but my arms were flailing as I ran at him with blind rage and my thumb nail ended up jabbing into his face, right below the right eye. It left a gash. He cried. I decided to never start or finish a fight with anyone again.

But I didn’t want to have to get up and beat my fists against something. Actually, I didn’t really want to beat my fists at all; I was just having a little case of teen angst. But I actually wanted to be still and fall asleep. And eventually the girl trouble, the bad grades, the “friends”, and the recent grounding faded from my thoughts and I finally slept.

But then I woke up to a harsh “you’re going to be late for school”, and I instantly declared my day a bad one. It was already painful. Physically.

There’s been a problem with my right shoulder for a few years now. I never figured out how the pain started; I’m sure it was from something stupid I did. And although it doesn’t fit under the stupid category, it could have possibly been from skateboarding. But I told the doctor I didn’t know, and she told me it was probably a rotator cuff injury. She gave me a list of exercises to do everyday, also telling me to put heat on it beforehand. I kept it up for a few weeks, then decided I was fine. Now, not only does my shoulder creak, my neck does too. And I get a sharp pain right in my chest from time to time. The pain isn’t always there, but my right shoulder does feel weaker than the rest of my body. It does feel injured.

I can’t be responsible for how I sleep. I lie on my back but wake up on my right side. But it’s not like I mean to. Maybe I should sleep literally strapped down. Maybe it will heal my shoulder and neck and chest ache better than that damn list of exercises that cost two hundred dollars to obtain.

So I woke up on my right side and my shoulder was calling at me, first thing in the morning. Even before my “you’re going to be late for school” call. It works great as an alarm clock. Or a bad way to start the day. I sat up, the ache flushed through my body, and then I remembered that she broke up with me and gave me no explanation, and that I had a C in three classes and my parents were very disappointed in me. The teen angst began to get bigger and I had to let it out, sooner or later. Hopefully sooner.

Harry Kagan greeted me at lunch time. There was finally some comfort for me. I began to unload.
“Dude, she just called me, then told me it was over, and that was basically it.”
“Uhuh?” Harry tore into his salami sandwich with one hand, while furiously attempting to finish his French homework with the other.
“Yeah, and I was just, like, asking her why and she just said she didn’t know, in one of those very ‘I don’t care’ ways, you know.” I pushed my fingers through my greasy hair and my shoulder even creaked a little. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Already? I bit my lip, but only because I heard it helps you get your act back together. I actually felt that it made it worse.
“Fuckin’, that sucks, man.” He wiped the mustard off his bottom lip and placed it on his tongue. All of a sudden he got frustrated with his notebook and began to drill into it with his pencil.
“Yeah. And it was good. It was so good. . .” I looked down to hide my little tears.
Harry looked at me, then off to the side, as if he didn’t know me. “Emoooo”, he murmured as he went back to work.
I punched him in the right arm.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I apologized for hitting him in the arm, really starting to regret it, then stormed out of the lunch room. I actually ate in the bathroom, selfishly; I used the big stall for the handicapped.

I called a “friend” that night, but I couldn’t get a conversation out of her.
“How am I? So I’m at lunch with Harry, right? And-”
“Gotta’ go. TV.”

I put the phone down and went to bed. Clothes on. Lights on. I just stopped worrying about everything. I didn’t even take my glasses off. Within minutes, I fell asleep.

I woke up with the shoulder ache, as usual. It hit me, then the “you’re going to be late for school” call. I sat up. More pain.
“Fuck. This.”
I pounded on the bed. I got up and trashed my room, flipping the mattress over, ripping the clothes out of the closet. I didn’t want my parents telling me to go to school. I wanted them to see me have a big fit about going to school. But I didn’t give them enough time because I put some flip-flops on, and my Jedi cloak, and ran out the door.

I ran to the beach, and in seconds the cold caught up with me. There was a lone boat, waiting for no one on shore. I ran to it and hopped in. I wish lifeguards were on duty during the winter. Then they could tell me I couldn’t take the boat out without a life vest and I could tell them to go to hell and paddle out anyway.

I paddled out until the beach was a thin line in the distance. I was surrounded by morning mist and no sun. And water. Water in every direction. The overwhelming amount of white grey clouds reflected the depressing color of the water. There was nothing but plain, misty depression on a boat in the middle of a lake. Besides the gentle water that insignificantly rocked the boat, there was silence. The lake felt empty.

The cold was really starting to get to me. It silently crawled up my arms and legs, and soon covered my entire body. I had to shake it off. I had to, I had to. . .
It didn’t make sense at all, but it couldn’t have felt more right. I was now struggling for a breath.
“Just. I don’t give a fuck, motherfucker.”

Then I saw a fin appear in the water. A fin that swam closer and closer to my boat in the middle of the empty lake.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The fin stopped right alongside my boat. I saw it’s shape; it was no Great White, but it was still big. It’s outline stopped moving within the waters, as if it were lifeless. No, it was full of life. It was staring at me. I know, it couldn’t really see me. But I swear I could feel it, just staring at me.

I thought of where to begin, with family or friends? My first love? Wait, who do I need to apologize to? What have I always wanted to say? Wait, who’s going to hear this? I need to scream. Really loud. I need to make sure I’m heard so they don’t have to search for me for weeks. I mean, he’ll leave some of me to be found, right? She’ll? Shit, no one’s going to hear my last words. Then I thought about fighting it off. So I went into brave on outside/scared on inside mode.

”What.” I assumed he was looking for trouble.

Nudge. The boat rocked a little harder.

“Real clever. Why not just bite this thing in half? That would seem more bad ass of you.”

Nudge. It wasn’t stronger than before. It was the same. Was she really looking for trouble?

“Look. I hate to get your hopes up, but if you knock me out of this boat, I’m going to just get right back in it. Quicker than you can reach me. I swear, it’s no big deal really. And we’ll be at it all day. You getting me wet, me getting back in or on the boat, you know, if it’s turned over. And you’ll never get satisfied. And you’ll never get me for a meal. So you might as well just leave and find some other prey.”

Nudge. He was waiting, but not for a fight. The outline, although in the waters, was listening.

“Okay. Okay, fine.” I sat down and began with my ex-girlfriend.

The cold didn’t affect me as much, nor did my shoulder. The mist began to clear up even though gray remained the primary color. But it didn't matter to me. I was too busy having an emotional conversation with a stranger.

“And that’s basically it. Oh, and I don’t want to die, by the way.” I looked back into the water to see the outline beginning to twist a little bit. It finally began to swim away, off into the depths of the lake.

I paddled back to shore, then asking myself why I hadn’t taken off as soon as I saw the fin. I didn’t feel like cursing obscurely anymore. I didn’t feel like punching and kicking. I felt like I had just battled a horrible sickness, and had come out the victor. I had reached a level of satisfaction and clarity. And I didn’t mind talking to a stranger to help me get there.
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Current Music:"So please, you always were so free. . ."
Subject:Bitches (Part II)
Time:08:13 pm
Current Mood:contentSee? You are important to me.
You know how there are pieces of furniture, lights or chairs or tables, that you've had in your house for years, since you were born even, but you never really notice them until you grow up? It takes years for you to really look at them, acknowledge them, like them or hate them. That's what you felt like to me. You've been there since I was five, but I didn't really start to get to know you until I was twelve.

There are so many years where I can't say anything about our friendship, and I kind of hate that it's that way. But then I spent a whole year sitting right next to you and it was great. Talk about the best of friends! We would talk about who was better, Britney Spears or Christina Aguleria. We would talk about why vegitarians sucked. We would rant about everything and laugh about everything. Our table would sing Blink-182, Limp Bizkit, you know, the hits of the year. It was great to be able to have a conversation with you every day of school; we were catching up on all the talking we had missed since kindergarten.

But that's not to say that I didn't like making fun of you, along with all the other boys. We called you a lesbian, trying to confirm the fact that you licked carpet. Of course, no one in that class knew what licking carpet was, but we bugged you about it anyway. We singled you out to the point where someone decided to give everyone a sip of his awesome juice pouch except you and your best friend burst out in tears, exclaiming "why don't you just leave her alone?!" I am sorry, I took it too far. Is that why we didn't talk at all the following year?

Summer came and went, and the whole "becoming awesome friends" part kind of faded. All of a sudden it was punk rock: loud, fast music and bracelets up to your elbows. We all preferred seeing each other with our hair long and covering our faces. I thought it was so cool that you had a rip right in the middle of your little boy's t-shirt. You definately had a bad ass attitude going for you. I wish we would've talked more. Is it because we were worn out from all that talking we did the year before?

Things started to change over the summer, the pace started to pick up. I got to hang out with you at camp. You and those other punk girls. It was still a lot of long hair and fast music, not to say that I didn't get my fill of Blink and "pop-punk" on the side, while getting yelled at by you and everyone else, mainly just with "THEY SUCK!" Whatever, man. I listened to the Ramones and The Misfits. And don't act like you didn't know the words to some Boxcar Racer songs. Even the punk girls were knowledgable in that band. We didn't talk an extreme amount, we didn't the year before high school either. But it was okay, because I could still say with confidence that we were friends. I could still see you at a birthday party or during recess and get a laugh out of you. We, our whole group of friends, became really close towards the end of our last year together. Every after school day was a big circle of boys and girls, talking and laughing for at least a half hour before heading home.

When pre-high school summer came and you and your boyfriend, my closest friend, had to break it off, I was scared because I didn't want you two to lose contact. I was scared of what was coming next, seeing that circle of friends break into little sections for the next part of their lives.

And then something happened.

All of a sudden, I'm calling you on the phone and we're talking about all the drama between our friends and I'm just pouring out every little detail about myself, constantly apologizing because I felt you weren't understanding what I was saying. You probably weren't, but you listened anyway. You always listen to me, you know. And the calls got more frequent, even though I didn't see you so much over the summer. Or was it because I didn't see you so much over the summer? And it felt like back in the day, only without the picking on you and calling you words that I don't know the definition of. Everything just got more personal, and I went beyond the surface of who you were. I learned what asexual meant, not in the sense that you reproduce with yourself. I learned what a lot of words meant from you. But of course! You were always reading. . .

When freshmen year came, I wasn't able to sit next to you every morning and sing songs with you. So I had to remind you of the time when we were able to do that, that is whenever I could get a phone call out of you and your busy schedule. I didn't see you too much, but it was great when I did. Our personal conversations mainly took place on the convenient internet. We talked about who I liked and who you didn't, and we talked about ourselves. And in half the conversations we had that year I would ask you why you were so self-conscious, followed with an "I think you're beautiful." I always hoped that it would make you feel good. It made me feel good. By the end of the year I was able to truthfully tell you that I missed you. I didn't really like that much and I hoped the summer would be different. But summer was different, wasn't it?

Twenty or thirty crushes passed through me in a year, but you stuck. I didn't tell you, or did I? Okay, I did. Maybe I didn't explicitly say it, but I'm sure you figured it out. The question was now "do you like me?" My phone started ringing again, and it wasn't even my mom. Your phone started ringing ten times as much. And August before sophomore year ended with a bang as I found myself with you and a few friends in Michigan for a week. We exhausted our days at the lake, on the sand or in boats. Or we sat around inside, playing games or watching hours and hours of movies. I pretended to fall asleep just so I could get my head on your shoulder. I made you a peanut butter sandwich or two. I guided you when we played Hearts, even though my plan was really just to shoot the moon. Who thought that Taboo could be so fun? Who knew that catching the Mushu Flu could set you so far back in life (Life)? I saw you every morning, and hated to leave you every night.

Remember when we built the fort in the room of your cabin? We put the mattresses on top of the dressers and on the floor to create a comfy shelter, but ended up just huddling together on the bare, hard spring box, a cover wrapped around us as we sat outside the masterpiece we had just built.

Right before summer ended I asked you if you liked me. The answer had to be yes, I felt it. I felt all the signs and I was sure of it. But you jumped a few steps ahead and explained that there were rules we had to follow, rules that prohibited us from dating. I didn't care what others thought, but I, we, cared about hurting friends. I was glad we avoided creating another conflict that night, but found myself unsatisfied because you never told me "yes" or "no", even if I did know the answer.

But I didn't stop, did I? And we'd talk on the phone occassionally and I'd tell you that thinking about you was inevitable and it'd get real quiet. On and off our communication would go. And everytime it was on I was crazy about you, and I made sure you knew I was. Nope, I didn't stop one bit. Until finally we agreed that it just wouldn't work being more than friends, and I promised to shut up about it.

Shit, just friends? That's the question I ask myself all the time. But look at what has become of our relationship: you joined cross country after I joined track, I started writing after watching your play. I didn't think I'd ever find myself following a T.V. soap opera religiously, or reading books during free time. You have influenced me so much. You're the reason why I like classy girls; the ones with the long skirts and the ballet shoes. You have become more than a friend, you've become a teacher to me in some way. I'm always listening to you, always learning from you. I tell you everything, I'll tell you anything. Yes, it sucks seeing you usually twice a month, sometimes less, but we are still closer than we have ever been. And don't you love that?

I'm not going to lie to myself and say that I don't like you, because I just can't. The obvious step is, of course, to just move the hell on. Hey, I am. You have. But I still message you the moment you sign on, or wait a few minutes to do it, just in case you find it creepy. And I still leave my phone on for a few extra hours, just in case you might call me. I still make sure not to watch all the Star Wars, one immediately after another, just in case you find time to join me.

I hated it on your Sixteenth birthday when you slow danced with some other guy and no one else. But you made up for it by complimenting me on my tuxedo. You made up for it even more when you told me two years later that you liked my ridiculously long hair back then. I told you that I've always liked your hair, even when it was obnoxious and covering your face.

Back in the Eighth grade, my girlfriend, a day before breaking up with me, asked me why I had never had a crush on you, never tried to go out with you. Was it because we had just started becoming close, even though the end was so near? Perhaps. But I was beginning to know who you were by then. I was beginning to appreciate you. And I am so glad I did.
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Current Music:Death Cab
Subject:Bitches (Part I)
Time:04:37 pm
Current Mood:nostalgicGetting my memoirs down
Oh, you. It's like you were always there!

In Second Grade I tried to act cool around you. I got excited to talk to Ms. Waller about dancing on the desk because you were the one who told me to go talk to her.

In Third Grade I tried to act cool around you, but I tried by saying that I hated the Spice Girls. I didn't hate them: I bookmarked my Calvin and Hobbes comics with the SPICE liner notes just so I could get your (and every other girl's) attention. I gave you my Hostess cupcake after everybody only got one each. I heard that you liked the movie Titanic so I made a drawing of the "I'm the king of the world!" scene and gave it to you. When I ran into you outside of school my heart fluttered but you didn't see that, you just saw a nonchalant "hey".

In Fourth Grade I tried to act cool around you. We laughed so much we got in trouble for it. I lied and told your friend over the phone I didn't like you, but I didn't know you were quietly listening on the third line. I didn't think phone calls could be so deceiving.

There was jealousy in Fifth Grade, because I tried to act cool around everyone. But it all worked out because by the end of the year, we had our first couple of dances together.

Sixth Grade was a monumental; I was acting cool around you on a daily basis. I gave you an N'Sync poster, I gave you a bracelet, I gave you candy, and a poem, and lots of cool stuff. I accumulated notecards and half sheets of papers with your handwriting and your cute little questions. When my band started a site and continually updated it instead of having one single band practice, I wrote a song about you and posted it up there. I replaced your name with a _______, but filled in the blank by the end of the night. I held your hand for a few minutes as we skated in an oval, then broke away from you to wipe the sweat off my hand and onto my jeans. We may not have looked so "cute" together in our pictures, but it's not your fault, it's because I stuck a thumbs up in any photo opportunity that came to me. I danced with you even more. You had a headache so I kissed your forehead.

We were considered an item in Seventh Grade, so I was made cool, but I still tried to act even cooler around you. It was a weird year because every conversation had a different feel to it. We talked on the phone for several hours, discovering that it wasn't working, it felt too uncomfortable. Then you cried, and I did only because you did. And a week went by and nothing felt different. Item, friendship, they seemed the same to me. But I never planned on saying that to anyone. My lips reached your cheeks, and yours reached mine. We danced more. I looked through the yearbook and liked how one of the pretty popular girls was constantly crushing on a chubby, embarassing boy. The pictures did, however, turn out more cutesy.

In the Eighth Grade I tried hard to be cool around you but found my situation, whether it be hypothetical or real, awkward. The item thing, after being revived, soon faded as communication dropped for the beginning of the year. And then came the realization that we were all parting in less than a year. We talked more, and not just about how are days were. We discussed our needs, our wants. Even fantasies with each other, even on the phone. I learned that there was more than just a sweet, innocent side to it all. We talked about missing each other for a mere span of days. You told me you'd miss me while we waited in the airport. In yet another notecard, you asked me if I still liked that other girl on the plane to D.C., and even though I knew deep down I didn't, I told you otherwise. The writing to each other stopped on the plane after that answer. As we were in the D.C. airport, waiting for our ride home, I told you I'd miss you too. We danced more, hugged more. Hugged even more when graduation came and the tears were streaming down your face. I always felt more comfortable as just your friend. Yet, that's why I was more your boyfriend when I actually wasn't; that's when our lips met.

You're my sister now. I hate to see you when you're down, or lonely, or just wanting something you can't get. I've always been there for you. I'm still here for you.

I once wrote you a speech on a small, crumply piece of notepad paper. I filled it with every sweet sentence I could think of. I tried to tell you everything that made you so amazing to me. I'm sure I had said it to you in one way or another before. And then I tried to tell you what I had never done in person. Hell, I had never really done it on the phone. I said "I love you."
And the audience around us went wild with joy as we hugged in front of the flashing cameras. Hugging like two close friends should.
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Current Music:"Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry..."
Subject:You might think I'm adorable, but I'm a creep by the end.
Time:10:20 am
Current Mood:aggravatedNOhomeworkNOhomeworkNO
"She's in here?" Graham was curious to who it was.
"Yeah," I quietly responded, as if she were right behind me.
"Dude, you gotta' tell her. Soon enough, you gotta' tell her. You'll go crazy if you don't," he cautioned me.
"I know, I know." Then I stood up.
In front of the whole classroom I stood up and looked at her.
"I am in love with you."
Everyone began to laugh, including Graham. How could they not? It had to be a joke. Who confesses their secret love for someone in front of thirty sets of gazing eyes and wandering mouths? Definately a joke; something to tell your friends as you all went over the funnies of the day at lunch. She smiled, giggling and shaking her head, even telling me to sit down.
"No. No, I am in love with you."
There were fewer laughs this time. Graham began to think I was serious. She did too.
"I-I, I really am. I know, this is weird. It's, it's creepy. How long have we known each other? Two years? And-and how often do I really see you? Just for a few brief moments of the day. But I still know you, more than you would ever think. I really do. And I think your intelligence, your wisdom, is what really gets to me. Not the fact that you're real p-pretty. . . Uh-"
Was I really saying this? I could have sworn I was still sitting down, watching some guy make a fool of himself in front of the class.
"And I know. I know that sounds cliché, me picking your personality over your looks. The whole 'it's what's on the inside that counts'! But I mean it. Because you really are more than a friend to me. You're a mentor, and a hero. You mean a lot. T-to me, I mean."
Everytime I took a break to figure out what practiced compliment I would bring out next there was nothing but silence. They were in awe, mouths wide open. She was in awe.
"Andrew, please-"
"I'm sorry, I know. But this was going to come bursting out of me eventually. And I'm sure, I am sure, that there was a part of you that knew this all along. And you can come back at me, telling me I can't love you like that, or I don't even know what it is, but I can and I do. I mean, I may not know what it is but whatever strong feelings I have for you right now, I'm calling them love. A lot of it. And I want you to say something back. And I want you to be more flattered then creeped out right now. But I know that you're not going to say anything, or feel anything remotely happy. So-"
"Please, Andrew. Just sit down." It was Graham who wanted me to take my seat this time.
". . . Sorry. Okay. I'm sorry." I was speaking to everyone. Not just her or Graham.
"Every-everyone. Can you please, uh, please open your textbooks to chapter 18. And please excuse me for a moment." Mrs. Flynn swallowed hard and quickly walked out of the room, as if there were something urgent to tend to outside the classroom. I watched her, my hands, my stomach, just trembling, hoping she wouldn't burst into tears or a fit of rage before she reached the door.
No one said anything. Everyone tried to read the textbook but no one was successful. At least they weren't looking at me.
"Graham." I waited for a response, staring at a painting of a woman slitting the throat of her husband.
"Yeah, Andrew," he said to me, as if it were a statement and not a question.
"It wasn't a joke."
"I know it wasn't."
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Current Music:Aloha's Here Comes Everyone
Subject:Gluttony (Part I?)
Time:11:29 am
Current Mood:busyNo rest on a day of rest
I was happy as I got out of school yesterday. There would be no school the following day, and it was MONDAY! So I joined Sadie Cox and Max Melamed for a quest for food. This is a very unusual thing, considering I usually come straight home and attempt to do homework. But this Monday would be different: I would go eat and converse with my two friends, then come home and attempt to do homework.

We traveled down Wells street, trying to figure out where to go. Burger King was decided upon, and that sounded delicious to me. I had recently seen an ad for the Triple Whopper pasted on the window of the restaurant.
"I've got to have it."
And then Max and Sadie laughed.
We headed east on North Avenue, passing by McDonald's, while the two told me that the McRib was probably the most unhealthy sandwich in all of the fast food restaurants.
"I've got to have it."
And then Max and Sadie gasped.
They continued to walk, explaining that it was definately not a good idea to get one, especially before marching into Burger King and declaring that I wanted a Triple Whopper.
They didn't realize that I had turned around and ran into McDonald's.
"Excuse me, can you show me how big your McRib is?"
The woman at the counter stared at me for a few seconds, then shook her head. I probably should've clutched her throat, threatened to throw her through the window, breaking the glass AND the McRib ad, but instead I gave her an
"Oh. . . Well, I better be safe. Can I have two McRibs?"
She smiled and nodded. I chuckled, thinking about how I was about to kick this woman's ass for not showing me a friggin' sandwich. How uncivilized! How wrong!
"That will be $4.54." She laid the bag of McRibs on the counter.
I grabbed the bag and ran out of the store. As I flew past the windows I glanced inside to see the woman at the counter, shrugging her shoulders to the manager who didn't look so happy.

I caught up with Max and Sadie who had reached the doors of Burger King.
". . . And that's why I have to have sex with her." The declaration faded into my ears as Max conversed with Sadie.
"Ohhhh," she replied. Apparently, the discussion of the McRib had evolved into something of much more substance.
"ANDREW," screamed Sadie, "THIS IS YOUR MOMENT!"
"Right you are, old friend," I told her as I patted her on the back.
I approached the counter, McDonald's bag in my left hand and hidden behind my back, wallet in the other.
"Kind sir, I would like a Triple Whopper and a small drink."
"Would you like fries?"
"No, no. I'm on a diet."
After Max and Sadie got their food we all sat down to a booth. The seats were entirely plastic and extremely uncomfortable but I didn't mind, I had my food to deal with. I pushed the Whopper aside and pulled out the McRibs.
"What? Dude, you got McRibs?" Max sounded concerned.
"Yeah, I had to. And that's why I don't know why you have to have sex with her, or who she even is."
Sadie and Max burst out laughing and began to tell me the story I had missed as we went to fill up our empty cups at the soda dispenser.
I got Coke+Sprite+Dr. Pepper+Pink Lemonade+Orange Fanta.
"Oho MAN! What a crazy whore she is," I commented on the story while we took our seats once again.
"Seriously," the two agreed in unison.
I took a bite out of my juicy McRib as the conversation died down and the extreme eating began.
"HEY!" The man behind the counter was glaring at me, pointing a finger. "THERE'S NO OUTSIDE FOOD ALLOWED IN HERE!"
He came and walked over to our booth, ready to seize the McDonald's from me, but the McRib that was in my hand was already gone. The bag that the man took from me was empty.
"Thirr," I began to explain, my mouth splattered with BBQ sauce,"Ah b'leive vhut 'ou thaw vas an illuthion."
I swallowed as what looked like an entire apple slid down my throat, then exhaled a satisfying breath and smiled.
"That bag was already here when we arrived."
"Oh. Well, if you say so." He walked away, still with the furious look on his face. I licked my lips and gave my friends a thumbs up.
"Did you really just eat that entire McRib in like, five seconds?" Max was unfathomably interested in my eating capabilities.
"I'm afraid so," I sadly replied, regretting eating my sandwich so quickly. I didn't really get to enjoy it as much as I had hoped.
"However," I told my friends as I smiled and revealed my hand that had been under the table the entire time.
"There is another."
Max and Sadie giggled as I quickly but discreetly ate my second McRib. I averaged about a bite every other second, and although it was still a little too fast for my taste, it was enough to send me out of this world. I nearly peed myself with excitement.

Next came the Triple Whopper. Max and Sadie stopped eating to watch me. I nodded and unwrapped the enormous beast of a burger. I took one small bite, making sure to get all three beef patties, a piece of lettuce, a piece of an onion,ketchup, and mustard all into one bite (it was still small). The taste was everything I had hoped for, plus one extra piece of cow. The next three minutes were non-stop imbibing.
Bite and chew. Swallow. Bite. Bite. Bite. Swallow. Pick up fallen remains from the burger. Swallow. Bite. Bite. Swallow. Drink. Gulp. Belch. Bite. Belch. Swallow. Run to refill as the liquid inside the belly smacks around inside. Sit back down, laughing, gulping. "Do you want those fries?" "Yeah!" "Let me have some anyway!" More bites. Fewer swallows. Finish third refill. Belch and belch and undo the belt.
I leaned back and exhaled.
My two friends stared at me in amazement. Max wiped the mustard off his nose. Sadie brushed a piece of lettuce out of her hair and stopped her stopwatch.
"Time?" I didn't realize Sadie was using her watch, but I was glad that she did.
"3:17, you gluttonous bastard," she informed me.
The two began to clap for me and I stood up and took a bow. I instantly felt everything I had just put inside me turn over inside my stomach.
"What is it, Andrew?" Max asked.
Before he could ask me what was wrong a volcano of creamy orange vomit erupted from the crevasse that was my mouth. It spewed nearly four feet in front of me, creating a slip-and-slide line of hurl on poor Burger King's floor. It had managed to splash Max's left hand, who was not even in front of my path of puke. I could barely take the throw up, it was overpowering me. With another contraction of vomit I was sent off my feet and onto my back.
"ANDREW!" screamed my friends, and the guy behind the counter.
Sadie came to lift my head up and make sure I wasn't choking on my own vomit. The waterfall splashed across the rocks that were Sadie's hands, but she didn't mind. She got me back on my feet as the throw up finally stopped pouring from my mouth. Max had managed to sketch an entire picture of me on the floor, gagging on my own sinful hurl in just a few minutes. I lifted my heavy eyelids to view the drawing he held up for me and give him another thumbs up. I tried to say "I'm sorry" to him, noticing there was a chunky, orange stain on his sketch.
As the slave of the Burger King came running out with a mop to clean up my mess, he asked if I was okay.
"Yeah, I'm-wait."
I coughed the most unbearable cough ever, at first thinking it would be another grand collection of throw up, ready to make its appearance. I pushed with my throat, trying to get it over with but the end result was not what I, nor anyone, expected.
A McRib sandwich flew out of my mouth and plopped into a pile of puke. It only had one bite in it.
Everyone looked at the nearly intact sandwich, then back up at me.
"Get the hell out," the slave angrily murmured to me.

After throwing out our trash, and getting ourselves cleaned up, Max, Sadie, and I exited the restaurant in awe.
"Wow, I can't believe you swallowed that thing," Max told me in astonishment.
"I know," Sadie exclaimed.
"Believe me, I. . . I. . . I HATE MYSELF!"
The two first looked at me, my eyes wide open, then looked at what I was staring at.
On the wall of the Burger King was a banner that declared two Whoppers for three dollars.
"OH NO!" we all screamed. My triple whopper had cost six dollars. The sick truth is that I could've gotten another pattie for the same price.

We sat on the curb, heads down with exhaustion and shock.
"You're okay, right?" Sadie was just making sure.
"Yeah, I'm fine now." I really was. There was no unexpected burger waiting around the corner of my mouth.
"Jeeze, what an eventful after school adventure," Max concluded.
"Definately," I replied.
There was silence. The breeze felt good across our dirty faces and vomit-stained hands. The street lights continued to change but there were no cars to follow them. It was a moment of clarity. And then I spoke.

"Christ, I'm starving."
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Current Music:A little bit of Sousa, a little bit of Mozart
Subject:An Analogy (Part I?)
Time:09:11 pm
Current Mood:busyNow I Actually Do Homework
I actually laughed out loud when Mr. Rode told me this (not exaclty in these words, or as detailed). One thing is for certain, when Mr. Rode cracks a joke you chuckle, you do not beltch out laughing as I did. Of course, on those rare occassions where you do embarass yourself, you have to write about it. Who is Mr. Rode? Well. . .

Mr. Rode, my Concert Band/Jazz Band/General Music/Jazz Improvisation Seminar/Introduction To Concert Band Seminar teacher (I'm pretty sure that makes him my daytime father) was just plain furious on Halloween Day. Concert band was not living up to its potential during rehearsal. Half the class didn't know their D Major scale (even though the entire class is supposed to know all twelve Major scales), which made it even worse when they tried to play the piece Winterset, set in D Major. The piece took twenty minutes to get through. Percussion was constantly missing cues and Mr. Rode was yelling more and more frequently. Next up was a Christmas Medley of all sorts of time and key signatures. It took an hour. Trumpets, no, the Saxophones, no, wait, EVERYONE was apparently "sight reading today", according to Mr. Rode. Percussion missed more cues for chimes and bells and horse whips, and Mr. Rode screamed and screamed. Then came the end of the class, the last ten minutes when the concert band would prove they were worth a damn on Halloween rehearsal. My Fair Lady. The music looks like a piece of cake, but it's more of a piece of cake if it has been practiced before rehearsal. The band kept up with the conductor until about the 70th measure when the melody sections didn't know the melody, and the rhythm got nervous playing alone and dropped out with everyone else. Not a single instrument was playing. But Mr. Rode continued to wave his hands, beautifully, as if he were listening to the piece through headphones and conducting just for fun. Some tried not to laugh. Some tried to figure out what measure the conductor was on and jump back in. Others just stared at the ground. Mr. Rode stopped conducting around the 200th measure, it can't be quite certain where it was considering there a few changes from 4/4 time to Cut time.
"YOU ALL FAILED TODAY!" was a popular sentence in his closing thoughts for the day.
"Don't expect As and Bs this quarter." was another.
Everyone, including Mr. Rode was remarking about how ridiculously embarassing the practice was. Absolutely humiliating. The band packed up as the school bell rang, fleeing the room that was full of nothing but negative energy. Nothing but darkness. How horrible.

Mr. Rode showed us "Night On Bald Mountain in General Music yeseterday. The piece was composed by Modest Moussorgsky and eventually put to the silver screen in the classic "music video" Fantasia. The piece is about a particular night when the Devil comes to Bald Mountain and summons evil spirits from all over to come dance and yet, be tortured at the same time. Disney helps show the horrifying event with images of the Devil, ghosts, and skeletons who act in their wicked ways. At first, Satan seems to be on the same side as these creatures, leading them to dance, but by the end he's doing nothing but throwing them into the fires of hell. The piece comes to a close when the sun begins to rise and church bells ring. As light begins to hit the Devil, he flees back to his home that is darkness, and the spirits begin to drag themselves back to their graves or Hell, wherever they came from. The bells continue to ring as "Ave Maria" fades in.

P.S. on November 5, 2005

What Random Asian Are You? by WhoWhatWhen
You are
The Stereotype you match is,Being over worked by your parents.
Quiz created with MemeGen!

This could not be more accurate. That is actually me.
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