Happy Leap Day. I'm not quite sure what one does on Leap Day; I have a feeling it has something to do with wandering around one of Brookings' city parks. I haven't quite decided yet, but I'm reasonably sure that that's what I'll do.

My parents are off squirming through The Passion of the Christ. I don't think that there has ever been a film that I have had less desire to see. I am totally uninterested. Yes, I realize that that makes me sound like a heathen. Judge not.

It's cloudy outside, and it might rain today. I hope it does. I like extremes in weather. If it's going to be cloudy, it might as well rain. If it's going to rain, it might as well pour. If it's going to snow, let's have a blizzard.

Speaking of which, there's talk that we might get six inches of snow tonight. This would be terribly ironic, as I've only got a three-day week ahead of me. It's entirely possible that there will be a snow day two days before spring break. I'm thinking that since I don't live in Florida, spring break in early March doesn't really work.

Happy Leap Day and whatnot. Try not to get yourselves killed. (That's almost always good advice.)

I am drained. After four volumes of poetry (and no less than seven adoring readings of "i sing of Olaf"), I declare myself done. Howl reverberates through my head to the tune of "Richard Cory." When I close my eyes, I see images of the Kandinsky painting "Winter Landscape" with the words of Longfellow's poem of the same title superimposed over it. Well, not really, but you know what I mean.

My brain is so full of poetry that I can't even think for myself. Which, oh Lord, gets me thinking about the Beatles, which brings me to Paul McCartney, which gets me back to "Richard Cory" and "Moloch!..."

Gah. Make it stop.

News of the Mundane: I have a new poetry project to do for English. We've been assigned to pick out our favorite poem by an American author. We must then memorize the poem and deliver it to the class. We also have to write a biography of the author, an analysis of literary devices used in the poem, an essay on the poem's theme, and an original poem in the style of the author.

I haven't decided what poem or even which author I'm going to use. I can't actually use my favorite poem because it's pretty inappropriate for a high school American Lit class. My favorite American poem is e.e. cummings' "i sing of Olaf, glad and big."

I'd like to reprint it here, but copyright laws are irksome. If you're lazy, I'll just tell you that I can't use it because of (among other things) the line, "I will not kiss your fucking flag."

All in all, I'm out of luck. I've now got to find a second-favorite poem, and I'm not sure what that would be offhand.

I want to pick an author that no one else will, so that rules out Robert Frost, Edwin Arlington Robinson, and Carl Sandburg.

The poem has to be at least eight lines long, so Dorothy Parker is out as well. I think Parker would also be disqualified because she writes doggerel; my English teacher is rather pretentious.

I can't stand Dickinson, a.k.a. Little Miss Morbid, and I'm sure someone else will use her anyway. I've really only mentioned her because of a trick I learned from I-don't-know-where. Think of the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas." Now click this link. Seriously, it works for almost all of her poems.

I'm almost tempted to memorize Howl and just deliver that. It's obscene, but the essay would be easy:

Allen Ginsberg is disillusioned. He sees lots of people on drugs. He likes Carl Solomon, and he is with Solomon in Rockland. Boy, America sucks.

I think I need to do some research and find a good poem.

I am contemplating change.

Spring is threatening to finally arrive, and it has gotten me into renewal mode. I am seriously considering changing myself into something that I would rather be. Now I have to decide just what that is.

This journal has, of late, seemed to be one long list of things I want. Most are trivial, some I value. I want a haircut. I want an iPod (perhaps just a mini). I want a state park sticker for my car so that I can hang out and watch the chipmunks and herons up at Oakwood. I want to do everything I've been putting off, and I want to learn everything that I'd like to know.

I think that change is beneficial. I think that I may finally begin to fix myself.

As I reread my last post, it is only now that I understand just how naïve it is. My belief in a higher power is entirely dependent on a lucky chance. I don't know if that's faith or just gullibility.

Today I shall describe to you the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I was driving down a country highway (459th Avenue, to be exact) on 19 April, 2003. It was the beginning of the summer crop season. The past month had been poor for the farmers; the area was already feeling the effects of what would come to be a drought summer.

As I drove, I suddenly came to a deep valley. My car began to climb the hill out of the depression, and I saw something that, quite honestly, made me slow to a stop on the empty highway. On the long, flat surface of the hill, there was a cornfield. The corn had not yet grown, and the field was a large area of brown dirt.

Plowed into the field on the side of the hill was a request to God:

RAIN

The word was black on its dry brown background. It stood there, each letter probably thirty feet high. The word itself extended perhaps sixty feet. It was positively massive. RAIN. The field itself, one long expanse of dirt, seemed to be begging God. RAIN.

I'm not religious. I don't say my prayers, I don't pay attention to Mass. I don't read the Bible, and I've never attempted to find myself through other religions. But I do believe in God. It sounds silly, but I believe in God because of a drought, a dry, unpleasant April day, and a dirt cornfield. I believe in God because of RAIN. I believe in God because of what happened on the 20th of April.

It rained.

I finished A Separate Peace, and, while it is weak at places, when it's good, it's excellent. See:

"All of them, except Phineas, constructed at infinite cost to themselves these Maginot Lines against this enemy they thought they saw across the frontier, this enemy who never attacked that way -- if he ever attacked at all; if he was indeed the enemy."

What a nice last line. It reminds me of:

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

That is probably the best last line of literature...almost certainly of American literature, at least. I think every human alive would do well to memorize the last line of The Great Gatsby.

My personal favorite last line, however, is this:

"One bird said to Billy Pilgrim, 'Poo-tee-weet?'"

During lunch, my friend Bob decided that he would fill in all awkward lulls in the conversation with the words "in my pants." Everything went pretty well for awhile, and eventually Bob began to say it automatically during any silence. He didn't even realize what he was saying a good portion of the time.

Of course, we couldn't just leave that alone.

My other friends and I began to fill in incriminating statements. Most were of a very frank sexual nature, and consequently, you know what they were like. There's no need for me to repeat them. Give bored 16-year-olds bait like that, and trust me, we take it.

I, being the witty sophisticate of the group, contributed, "There is poop..." Without thinking, Bob responded, "In my pants. Wait, what were we talking about?"

Yes, I am five. We all laughed at that one, Bob most of all. We are pathetic. I'm actually still giggling as I type this.

The best by far, however, was yet to come. Teresa, Cal, and I were all discussing this little game, and I commented, "It's fun tricking Bob into saying dirty things."

(Before I go on, let me explain that Cal is the biggest prude I know; she never stoops to talking about sex. She is very naive, and it was my friend Jessie who actually ended up giving her "the Talk" in about eighth grade. Cal is massively uncomfortable with a conversation that takes any sexual direction whatsoever.)

Anyway, Cal laughed. Then, naturally, she responded. "It's not hard."

There was a short silence as we all ran out of things to talk about. Suddenly, Teresa and I both sat up straight, gasped, and said, "DO NOT SAY IT!" We then collapsed into immature, uncontrollable giggles.

Cal raised her eyebrows, confused, and pauses for a second. Then suddenly, she threw her hand over her mouth and murmured, "Oh, my God..."

Bob, meanwhile, is literally falling out of his chair laughing. So Bob, Teresa, and I are all shrieking with laughter as Cal chortles uncomfortably.

There's nothing quite like a little rampant immaturity to put you in a good mood.

Tidbits:
- My obsession with a certain Met-turned-Blue Jay has earned me a new nickname. Sarah informed me today that she was going to start calling me Mookie. Cool; I guess I've outgrown Seabiscuit.

- I've never cheated on a test or a homework assignment, but I cheat at cards nonstop. I'm a solitary man crying, "Hold me"; it's only because I'm-a lonely. I cheated at hearts during English today, but I still lost.

- School is officially terrible for your health. Between cafeteria goods, lack of exercise, and fast food, I've gained fifteen pounds since the school year began. Ok, so I was 113 pounds on August 25th, but even so...it's getting ridiculous. I need to get off my lazy ass and quit eating.

- I hate getting my picture taken. The school hires this company to take "spring pictures" now (what the fuck?), and it's evil. I told my Spanish teacher that I'd rather spend quality time with Dick Cheney than be photographed. She offered to let me skip them, but I figured they'd track me down, so I cooperated. A friend of mine noted, after my fake smile went back to my usual blank look, "I've never seen somebody's facial expression change so quickly."

- No, I am not going to do my homework tonight. That is what "frenzied scribbling ten minutes before it's due" is for.

- You'll never believe this one, but I'm tired.

It looks like I may be able to procure a job at Blockbuster this summer. I've got the blank application on my desk. I'm not really sure if I want the job or not. It's better than being a grocery clerk at Shithole, the Food Mart for Passive-Aggressive Type-A Managers, but Blockbuster's not exactly glamorous. Then again, I need the money, and I don't know where else I could work. I guess we'll see.

What do I want to be when I grow up? I've left the question of my future occupation to a poll of my friends, and so far Professional Wrestler and Mime are tied. Other choices were Wealthy Hobo, Elephant Man, Flamingo Trainer, and Inept Mortician. Since I can neither pantomime nor bust a cap in anybody's ass in a coffin-cage match, I think I should start seriously considering the topic more. I'm also afraid of dead people, I've never taught a flamingo to fetch, I don't know how to jump a train, and I don't have elephantiasis. Obviously, I am underqualified in the job market. I don't know what I'm going to do. Any ideas?

Seriously, though...what in the world am I going to do? Everybody else knows where they're going to go to college and what they want to study. I think my guidance counselor's starting to get annoyed with me. My friends/parents/teachers ask me what career I'm planning on, and I reply, "Cheap hooker. Or maybe a Colombian druglord. It really depends on whether I opt for Harvard or Princeton." I don't know. I honestly have no fucking clue what I'm going to do after high school. Hell, I don't know what I'm doing in eighteen minutes, let alone eighteen months.

A year and a half. Holy shit. I have a year and a half to plan the rest of my life as I know it. Mime's looking more and more likely all the time.

I'm tired. I'm tired, and I feel stupid.

I tried to do my algebra. I don't know how, so I faked it. I'd try to go in for help, but my math teacher also happens to be one of the bus drivers, so he's never there before school. I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

I tried to do my physics homework. I know exactly how, but I can't focus, so I faked it. Fortunately, it's a completion grade, so it doesn't matter if I got them all wrong. I know exactly what I'm supposed to do.

God, I'm so exhausted. I haven't done anything all day except doze in class and read, but I feel like I've run a marathon and been hit by a truck. The wind has been knocked out of me, and I can't concentrate. Christ...I'm tired all the time now. I sleep, but it's not enough. I've still got to go to school and try to focus and attempt to learn. I want to tell everyone to shut the fuck up; I don't want to listen, I don't want to be taught, and I certainly don't want to actually do anything.

I want to curl up in a ball and sleep. I don't want to do anything useful. I want to stay home and sleep. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. I am not in the mood for Lent. I am not in the mood for religion. I am not in the mood for anything.

I am burnt out.

despondency

Lately I feel like I have forgotten who I was. Exactly who is this new creature, this girl who reads five books at once for the simple pleasures of solitude and variety? The girl who used to initiate conversation at the lunch table, the girl who came up with topics of the day and lunchtime polls; she is not here anymore. The one who knows the answers, the one who remembers the details; she's gone, too. There is nothing left of the person that I used to be.

What's more, as I try to remember, I find that it is entirely possible that there was no real person there in the first place. I know that somehow I have changed; I am a hundred and eighty degrees from what I used to be...but what was that? And what am I now? I cannot define myself, and that worries me.

I am disenchanted. It bothers me that a member of my physics class doesn't know that there are nine recognized planets in the Sol system. I am pained to hear a seventeen-year-old honor student seriously ask, "Who's Galileo?" It baffles my mind to listen to my English classmates wondering if The Great Gatsby is "a book or what." I am sickened to hear the fragment, "This is pretty...Claude Moanette? I've never heard of him."

Why don't they open their eyes? I want to take each by the hand and say, "Here, this is science, on your left is art, to your right is literature, and down the hall is music." I want to shove Renoirs in their faces. I want to force them to listen to Mozart; I want my friends to be able to at least name all four Beatles (most of them can't). They've never heard of King Lear; they don't know who Walt Whitman is. They've never seen Starry Night.

I don't mean to sound arrogant. I truly only want them to understand that beauty is not a Thomas Kinkade painting. I want them to know why they must gather their rosebuds; I want them to be able to tell Beethoven's Fifth from his Ninth. I want them to see a Degas and act it out to see if the human body can really bend that way. I just want them to understand that this place, this empty prairie, these dirty towns with endless highways; this is not all there is.

I don't know where I'm going with this. This has no point; I am only typing the things that flash into my head. The message remains the same: this is not all there is. If I could only make them see that, then maybe I would finally know who I am.

My family and I went out to dinner at a country club in a neighboring town. It was slightly upscale, but only in the sense that it was fancier than Perkins; crystal candleholders, plastic tablecloths. It was fancy in kind of a grandparents'-at-the-holidays way.

I play with my food. I admit it. I'm a licensed driver with the table habits of a five-year-old. Tonight, though, was the best playtime I've had in ages. And yes, this all really happened.

I started off with Happy Butter Land. Happy Butter Land is a magical place where little plastic trays of butter (you know, the ones with the foil covers--they come with baskets of rolls) dance in a big circle and sing and have lengthy council meetings about Margarinian foreign policy. Happy Butter Land is a marvelous nation with a burgeoning economy, a healthy art community, and a system of government based on vegetable oil. It is the only country in the world with a national anthem that uses the word 'cholesterol-free.'

As I was explaining the history and delicate political system of Happy Butter Land to my somewhat bemused father, my mother informed me that I was "retarded." I told her that she shouldn't treat the H.B.L. ambassador with such insensitivity. She told me to shut up and eat. Shocked at such foreign hostility, I did as I was told so as not to strain overseas relationships.

After downing toast and half a steak, I set my eye on a wooden shish-kebab (I have no clue how to spell that) stick and a leaf of garnish lettuce. I used a steak knife to quickly fashion a rectangular lettuce bit, and carefully strung it onto the stick. I then jabbed the stick into the remnants of my steak.

"Now what are you doing?" my father inquired.

"Well, it appears that the empire of Lettuconia has acquired another territory," I answered. "There's really nothing I can do. As a representative of the H.B.L., it's strictly against policy for me to interfere."

By now, though, my unused glass of ice water had gained my attention. To the protests of my mother, I transferred the newly-conquered Lettuconian region to my father's plate and then proceeded to pour the contents of the glass into mine.

"And that is?" Dad asked.

"The Hydrotic Sea," I informed him. "It forms a natural barrier between Lettuconia," I explained, gesturing at his plate, "and Happy Butter Land," I finished, pointing at the corner of the table that the H.B.L. occupied. "The Lettuconian rebels do not dare to cross it, as the way is treacherous and filled with icebergs." It was true; giant blocks of ice dotted the inch-deep sea.

"This is so stupid," my mother muttered, shaking her head.

"This is really interesting," Dad argued.

I wasn't really paying attention to them. I was busy fashioning a sailing ship out of a slice of melba toast, a toothpick, and another lettuce fragment. I then placed it in the Hydrotic Sea.

"Oh, no!" I gasped, raising my eyebrows. My father studied my plate, and my mother began to engage my brother in conversation. "Lettuconian pirates!"

Here I took a pair of empty butter trays and placed them at the opposite end of the plate. "The merchant ships from Happy Butter Land are in grave danger," I observed breathlessly.

I quickly began to maneuver the pirate ship around the ice cubes. Then, I picked up a spoon, and whacked a merchant ship squarely down the middle.

My father had caught on. "She's been rammed!" he cried, playing along marvelously. I steered the pirate ship toward the other merchant, and it appeared that H.B.L.'s economy was doomed.

Then, in a spectacular bit of improvisation, my father fished out another slice of melba toast and placed it between the ships. "The Happy Butter Land Coast Guard!" he declared. The two melba vessels waged a quick and decisive battle, and the now-soggy Lettuconian pirates were defeated .

"Happy Butter Land is safe," my father announced, laughing.

"You should travel to the H.B.L. now," I nodded sagely. "You're certain to become an honorary citizen."

"You'd better tip this waitress well," Mom interrupted. "And you'd better be willing to take responsibility when my 35-year-old daughter makes a fool of herself at business luncheons."

"If I ever attend a business luncheon, you will both have failed me as parents," I assured her.

Oh, Mookie Wilson, how I love thee.

I'm running on empty. Three hours of sleep and 82 milligrams of caffeine aren't going to tide me over. I don't know if I feel odd because I'm tired or what; I just feel out of it, which is par for the course lately.

Chantel and I went shopping today, and I got new shoes, a bracelet, a belt, and earrings that I'm going to turn into a necklace. I saw the world's cutest dress, but it didn't fit right. I'm really, really tired right now.

I'm going to mess with the archives today and tomorrow, so we'll see what comes of that. They'll probably be down completely for awhile. Bear with me.

Guess what, kids? Today, despite all my best efforts, get this: I actually did something. Terrifying, huh?

Chantel is sitting in my room, being a smartass. She broke up with her boyfriend, and, guess what? I, the Loveless, Valentine-Hating, Terminally Single Creature of the Growr, have zero men falling at my feet and throwing roses. Not one fellow is offering to kill himself in an attempt to please me. Chantel, however? Within two hours of breaking up with said boyfriend, she has acquired another one. Girl gets around, hm?

I just got hit for that last sentence. To make myself feel better, her current beau is a Michigander who plays Dungeons and Dragons and has "issues." For the sake of privacy (and to avoid being beaten to a bloody pulp), I shall not reveal exactly what those issues are. Unless you ask real nice.

Because you love it so much (and it got me lots of hits), I present another:

Snapshots of the Day
Polishing off an entire half of a large pepperoni pizza. (Contrary to what I have said before, I am not 468 pounds, so this is no mean feat.)

Discussing the evolutionary concept of toenails with a D&Ding Michigander (not Chantel's boytoy) over the phone.

Valiantly fighting and losing a war with Wal-Mart pop (you call it soda, I call it pop--name that commercial) machine.

Singing the entire Speed Racer theme song at top volume in a Plymouth for a psychotic 16-year-old South Dakotan girl and a spunky 15-year-old Louisianan boy.

Persuading said Louisianan to admit that he loved me. "Do you love me?" I asked. "Come on, admit it. Do you love me?" "Yes, yes, I do indeed," he replied. Keep in mind that I have never met this boy in my life, had spoken all of fifteen words to him, and I was yammering into a cell phone in a Hy-Vee parking lot. Yes, I am a teleslut. Apparently, he is, too.

Tipping 30%. I rule. I have far too much money to blow. That, and generous tipping makes me feel really rich. Is that pathetic? Nay, I say. Sam, I am.

Painting all of the sides of my Rubik's Cube white. Now, I can play with that godforsaken chunk of hell and not feel quite so stupid.

Arguing about prom. No, I'm not going. ("Yes, you are," snaps Chantel.) No, I'm really not. I refuse to conform to the teenage ideal. That, and I don't have a date. For the curious, the Most Likely Candidate (whom you recognize the identity of if you've been paying any attention at all--if not, shame on you and I hope you burn), already has a date. No prom for Allison.

That's all.

(Disclaimer: Chantel wishes to assert that she is being "wrongly represented" in this post. So, I shall admit that no, she is not a gigantic hussy. She has not had "more boyfriends than she can count." I may or may not be quoting her. Leaning towards the 'may.' "You're so evil," Chantel opines. "All in the name of truth and justice and honest reporting!" I cry.)

I've been looking through my old assignment book and trying to determine what I was doing on February 21, 2003. Most notably, I was dissecting a crayfish for sophomore bio. We really didn't dissect it so much as cut off its shell, sever all its left limbs, pull out its guts, and jam pins in it. As a weak-stomached person, I can tell you that crayfish dissection is not for the faint of heart.

Crayfish (or, as I grew up calling them, crawdads) are absolutely disgusting. Formaldehyde-soaked crayfish are one of the smelliest things to grace a lab table. They have little beady black eyes, and I couldn't even function during the dissection until I got my partner to pin little slips of paper over the animal's eyes. As I slightly hysterically noted, "It keeps looking at me!"

One of the related assignments we received was to "draw a cartoon/picture or write a short poem about this unit's dissection." (I wish I was kidding.) The following is the poem that resulted:

'Tis the voice of the crayfish, I heard him opine:
"You have soaked me too long; I must stink of that brine!
As a hawk with its talons, so you with your blade
Have slashed out my innards; a fine mess you've made!"
He's an amputee now with no limbs on his left.
Has the loss of his carapace made him bereft?
And what might have been? No friendship was started;
Live folks don't mix with the dearly departed.

Poetry geeks will recognize it as an attempted parody of the first stanza of Lewis Carroll's 'Tis the Voice of the Lobster, which was itself a parody of Isaac Watts' The Sluggard.

My circadian rhythms are trying to kill me.

I'm still feeling kind of low. Today was a lot better than yesterday, but I'm feeling really apathetic. Good things happened; it's hard to care. Bad things happened; it's hard to care.

I got my physics test back, and, as usual, I did a lot better than I thought and somehow got a 95%. I should stop worrying so much. My physics teacher also called me up to ask me about that zero she gave me; I was able to produce the finished paper, and she gave me 100%. Apparently the same thing happened to another girl in my class, and my physics teacher hadn't realized that we were absent. All in all, the physics front is looking pretty good compared to what it has been.

I know for a fact that I did really well on the algebra test I took. I studied for it last night and did a bunch of practice worksheets, and as I got in today, I realized that all the questions had been taken off said worksheets. Needless to say, I was quite pleased.

Parent-teacher conferences were held again last night, and according to my teachers, I got rave reviews. My history teacher said that she felt bad when we watched the movie. She said that she told my dad how guilty she felt because "you sit up in the front row covering your eyes through all the battles." (It's true; I kept having to ask the people around me who had just died because it freaks me out to actually watch realistic death scenes.) She and I then discussed a History Channel documentary on the Bataan Death March that we had both seen, and she promised me that there would be no more "dying movies." That kind of thing just really, really bothers me.

My Spanish teacher was really nice to me today, too. She kept telling me all the nice things she had told my father at the conferences; unfortunately, she still thinks I'm a lot smarter than I actually am. She kept me after class to discuss college plans and put in a good word for the University of Minnesota at Morris, which is one of the schools from which I receive a lot of mail. I think she worries about me. I don't really know why.

After school, I came home and slept for four hours. I just got back from the basketball game; AHS was trouncing its opponent. I left at halftime. I don't like going to games. It makes me feel really...lonely? Yeah, lonely, I guess. I just feel really separate from the rest of the student body at those things. I actually sat with a couple of friends tonight, but I still felt hollow. I can't really explain it.

I use the words 'really' and 'just' too much.

The younger referee at the game had a big scar on the back of his neck. It was about three inches long, half an inch wide, and it ran straight down his spine. I wonder what it's a relic of; whatever happened must have been pretty bad.

I'm quite out of it tonight. I don't think I could explain if I tried. I just don't feel right.

I'm waiting for the diphenhydramine to kick in. Dad and I got into an argument earlier, one in which he accused me of being "selfish," "whiny," and "too inwardly focused." Hey, I'm not denying it. I try to think about the Big Picture, but it's hard. I don't know how to contribute to the world at large when I can't even fix myself.

I'm tired. The way I've been sleeping (or not sleeping, really) lately, I should go to bed early tonight. I keep waking up during the night and not being able to fall back asleep. That combined with the fact that I can't get to sleep before 1:30 or so means that I'm not well-rested. Hence the diphenhydramine.

You know what? Maybe tomorrow will be better. Hell, it can't get much worse, unless I get some kind of terminal illness or someone dies or the world blows up or something. I desperately need perspective.

Yesterday was bad. Today is worse.

I can't concentrate on anything. I think I bombed my physics test today. My physics teacher frustrates me. She grades by completion, and rather than actually have us turn in assignments, she comes around and signs this assignment sheet. When I was sick two weeks ago I didn't get the sheet signed for the assignment that day. I didn't realize that I hadn't gotten the signature, and she never told me I was missing a grade. She gave me a zero for an assignment that I fucking did.

I keep fucking up my Spanish tests. I can't remember anything; every day I have to reteach myself the previous day's lesson so that I can take the quiz. I usually have a fantastic memory, but it doesn't cooperate anymore. My grades are slipping drastically as a result.

You know what? I can't bring myself to care. None of it matters in the long run. Sure, it'll bring down my quarter grades, but who really gives a fuck? Besides my father, that is. I don't care. If I'm not valedictorian, what's the worst he can do?

We've been watching Saving Private Ryan in history for the last three days. I don't really remember what happened today. They found Matt Damon. Something about a bridge. Giovanni Ribisi died. Germans died. Everybody died.

At one point, I remember these German soldiers were jumping off a tank and they were on fire. They were screaming, and they were burning to death. But I'm not supposed to care that they're in searing, unthinkable pain because A.) they're the bad guys, and B.) they're not the main characters anyway. It's just a movie, but things like that happen in real life all the time.

First we watched Schindler's List, and now this. I don't want to watch people die anymore. I know they're just movies, but...they're not.

As I walked out of that class, all I could think about was how much death there is in the world. Stupid observation, I know. But everybody dies. And some people die horribly. Some people die long, slow deaths filled with torture and pain. They linger for days, weeks, months, years.

And then I got to thinking that even those horrible "longest days/weeks/months/years of your life" aren't long at all. You're so fucking insignificant. Even when you have those few weeks of unbearable pain, that's what, three weeks of trillions since the beginning of the universe? It's all so fucking insignificant.

That's when I thought: Ok, so I've had a bad day. You know what? What's one day in a quadrillion? What does one day matter? I'm one person in billions. What do I matter? I'm so tiny and useless, and I don't mean anything when it all comes down to it. We're all like that. With the exception of maybe Jesus/Mohammed/Buddha/whatever, we all mean nothing in the universe at large.

And even the Physical Manifestation of God...does he/she matter? Hell, does God matter? If He does, wouldn't that mean that He only matters because He decided that He mattered? After all, God makes up all that shit. And if that's true, does that mean that I'll matter if I decide that I matter? I don't think it works that way. If God only does matter because He decided that he mattered, does that mean He's a selfish bastard? I doubt it; I guess that it probably just means that I'm ignorant.

Hardly original, I know. What does my lack of originality matter? What does your trivial opinion matter? What does this rambling, incoherent rant matter? What does anything matter?

"I'M SIGNIFICANT!" screamed the dust speck.

Fuck. That pretty much sums up my mood right now.

I just...I don't know. I don't know. I feel lazy and ambitionless and no one will leave me the fuck alone. Chantel wanted to know why I was mute today, and she didn't seem to think that "I have nothing to say" was a satisfactory answer. Jessie told me that her pet peeve was when I won't tell her what's wrong. A.) Nothing's wrong, and B.) Like she'd listen even if there was? I don't know. My Spanish teacher took me aside today and was trying to get inside my head. She's got this thing where she thinks I'm some kind of genius, and she was telling me that "the flip side of being very smart is that you tend to get very depressed."

A note to everyone I know: I'm not fucking depressed. I'm not fucking "very smart." I'm not anything; I'm just fucking average. I'm fucking normal. I am nothing fucking special. I don't fucking feel like talking to you, and I don't fucking want you to talk to me. For Chrissakes, can't you just leave me alone?

If you've lost track, that was seven "fucking"'s. I've used "fuck" twice.

I want to go crawl into a hole somewhere. I want to feel safe and nonthreatened. I want to be content. I want to not be confused. I want to be able to appreciate all the good things I have. I want to be able to do something besides lie awake in bed. I wish I even wanted to do something besides that. I want to quit feeling sorry for myself. I want this teenage angst bullshit to stop affecting me so much.

I just, I just, I just...I don't know. I just don't know.

Today is a bad day. It's one of those days where you just drift through the hallways, counting down the seconds until you can go home and curl up in your bed. All you can think about is how to get them all to leave you alone. It's the kind of day where you just want to disappear. You can't explain why; it just seems like nonexistence would be much darker, much quieter, and a million times more comfortable. The End.

I'm not so much a quiz person, but I thought this was interesting. The only things I disagreed with were the high scores in confidence, which I'm told I lack, and depression, which is...eh. The low score in self-discipline is, unfortunately, quite true. The test is actually pretty accurate.

Advanced Big 30 Personality Test Results Sociability ||||||||| 22% Gregariousness ||||||||| 26% Assertiveness ||||||||||||||||||||| 70% Activity Level |||||||||||||||||| 54% Excitement-Seeking |||||||||||| 34% Enthusiasm ||||||||| 30% Extroversion |||||||||||| 39% Trust ||||||||||||||| 46% Morality |||||||||||||||||||||||| 74% Altruism ||||||||||||||||||||| 62% Cooperation ||||||||||||||||||||| 66% Modesty ||||||||||||||| 46% Sympathy |||||||||||||||||||||||| 74% Friendliness ||||||||||||||||||||| 61% Confidence ||||||||||||||||||||| 66% Neatness |||||||||||| 34% Dutifulness |||||||||||||||||||||||| 78% Achievement |||||||||||||||||| 58% Self-Discipline ||||||||| 22% Cautiousness |||||||||||||||||||||||| 74% Orderliness |||||||||||||||||| 55% Anxiety ||||||||||||||||||||| 62% Volatility |||||||||||||||||| 54% Depression |||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 86% Self-Consciousness ||||||||||||||||||||| 66% Impulsiveness ||||||||||||||||||||| 70% Vulnerability |||||||||||||||||||||||| 74% Emotional Stability |||||||||||| 32% Imagination |||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 82% Artistic Interests |||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 90% Emotionality |||||||||||||||||||||||| 78% Adventurousness |||||||||||||||||||||||| 74% Intellect |||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 82% Liberalism |||||||||||||||||||||||| 74% Openmindedness |||||||||||||||||||||||| 80%

Take Free Advanced Big 30 Personality Test

Today was a day of relatively little importance. Indeed, in the grand scheme of things, most (if not all) of my days shall have that same distinction. At any rate, today was a day of such little significance that it barely merits any recognition whatsoever.

Wait. I forgot to post the best part about my trip today. A dictionary. Yes, I bought a new dictionary.

It will be added to the approximately 532 others I have hiding somewhere in the Bottomless Pit that is my room. Dictionaries are good, and I need as many as I can get. There is no reason someone as old as I am (16, if you haven't been paying attention) should have a vocabulary as poor as mine. I read plenty, but I never bother to look up the words I don't know, so I never remember any new words. Lazy, I say.

So a new dictionary it is. I bought this one because it's a tad smaller than any of my current dictionaries. I actually wanted something littler, but none of the tiny ones had my test word in them. For the curious, the test word is "pluvial." "Pluvial" is an adjective, and it means of or relating to rain.

Let's take this baby for a test drive. Today's word of the day is..."Huntington Beach"? City in SW California: pop. 182,000? Okay. How about "hussar"? A European light-armed cavalryman, usually with a brilliant dress uniform.

Now I've just got to figure out when I'm ever going to talk about hussars.

President's Day is wonderful. Nothing like getting school off because some dead guys...um, existed, I guess.

For anyone who's wondering, yesterday I ended up doing exactly what I feared I'd do: nothing. I made cookies. I watched Disney movies. I saw a great episode of Oliver Beene, a decent episode of Malcolm in the Middle, and a terrible episode of The Simpsons. I never watch TV, so that's an absolute binge for me.

Today I went shopping. I bought two CD towers on clearance at Target; those plus my old one mean that I can have up to 105 CDs. I've got about 90, so we'll see how long it takes. I bought three new CDs as well: The Beginning Stages of... by the Polyphonic Spree (it was cheap, so it doesn't have to be good), Living in America by the Sounds (I've been looking for this forever, and it has lots of Mac goodies on the enhanced portion), and Fevers and Mirrors by Bright Eyes (genius? pretentious? I guess we'll see). I'm really excited about having the Sounds' album; it's summer music.

I also bought Stephen Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower for cheap. I want to see what all the fuss is about.

Supernouveau's first-ever search engine hits came today. The first was "John Edwards on Leno," and I'm sure I disappointed. The second, however, was "Carol didn't wear her safety goggles. Now she doesn't need them." I'm sure I disappointed that guy, too, but now I have a reason to explain my description.

It's ripped off from a poster on my ceiling. The poster is black and white, has that message on it, and bears a picture of a blind girl. Morbid much? At the bottom, it reads: FLINN SCIENTIFIC INC., "Your Safer Source for School Supplies." My physics teacher got the poster for free when she bought something from a Flinn's catalog, and she had it hanging on her wall all last year. I coveted the poster, and I somehow became its caretaker. When someone tore Carol down, I put her back on the wall. When she needed new tape, I pulled out the dispenser. As a reward, my teacher gave me the poster at the end of the year. Fuck yeah.


Did you really think I wouldn't post a picture?

I'm trying to decide what to do today.

I'd call a friend, but I've got the Winona-Ryder's-character-in-Heathers problem: I don't really like my friends. (The character is Veronica Sawyer, by the way. I know my Winona.) You see, the real issue is this: my friends are all teenage girls. Teenage girls are annoying. I am a teenage girl. Consequently, we all annoy each other so much that we can't stand to associate for more than three hours.

I'd go outside and take a walk in the sunshine, but it's zero degrees Fahrenheit. I am not a penguin.

I'd drive somewhere, but gas costs money. Money is better spent on things that are not gasoline.

I ought to clean my room, but what's the point of a vacation if you just spend it doing things you loathe?

I have such terrible cabin fever. I want to be outside, and I want it to be 72 degrees and sunny. I want the grass to be green and the pavement to be warm to the touch.

Specifically, I want to run through my yard barefoot and write my name in the sand by the curb. I want to ride a green bicycle through the streets and buy a Cherry Coke from the pop machines by the highway. I'd like to sit in the sun in the city park, drink the Coke, and swing on the swingset. I want to wave at the basketball boys playing tennis, and I want to go over and talk to them through the chain-link fence. I want to pick up a garter snake and listen to my best friend scream when I set it down by her feet. Then I want to get back onto my bicycle and ride home. I want to spread my arms out like a tightrope artist and fly --well, roll-- down the hill in front of my house. I want to swing the bike up through the driveway, jump off, and leave it lying on the grass. After that, I'll tiptoe barefoot into the backyard and sit in the sunshine with "Michelle" from Rubber Soul playing on the boombox on the elm stump.

Mirth. That's what I want. Mirth and summer. The next three months are going to kill me.

everything is
[wrong]

...

i have been r e a d i n g

(too much)

e! e!
cummings.

How am I not surprised that the liquor store parking lot is full on Valentine's Day?

It occurs to me that, while I've whined about them in bits and fragments of journal-keeping, I have yet to really explain the dynamics of my family. I'll attempt to do so right now for the benefit of the audience.

First, however, let me state that no, I don't think my family's that bad. I know I seem like I have very little perspective when I talk about my family's annoying little oddities. I realize that they're pretty tame compared to some families. Still, it's my journal, and they bug me, so I'll whine about them if I like.

Dad: My dad is 41 years old, ruddy-complected, ridiculously charming, and over-educated. He has a dirty sense of humor, in that kind of South Park way. An English major and history minor, he's a reporter for the town newspaper, specializing in sports stories. He also has a teaching degree and received a full ride to law school, only to drop out after the first year. My father is not the stereotypical Midwestern, beer-drinking NASCAR dad. He's about as far from that as humanly possible.

Dad was born in Arkansas and has retained a slight Southern drawl for his entire life, despite having lived there only six months. The twang is inherited from his mother and is only noticeable on words like "bomb" (which he pronounces "baum"). He was raised in Nebraska. My grandfather, a military pilot, was killed five months before my dad was born. Consequently, Dad was raised by a single mother until she remarried when he was 14.

To be blunt, Dad frustrates me. My friends think I have the best dad ever because I never get in trouble and he's a fascinating conversationalist. Not quite. He's incredibly demanding; if I ever came home with a report card with a B on it, I'm pretty sure he'd kill me. He's also very controlling; he considers my friendships to be his business. I don't get in trouble because I constantly toe the line. He expects a lot of me, and I do my best to deliver.

Mom: My mother is tall, pale, quiet, and efficient. She's a nurse and does not tolerate messes. Obviously, she refuses to step into my room. Mom met Dad at a party in college. It was "love at first sight" blah blah blah. I think Dad kind of controls my mother's habits; I've heard that my mother was a bit of a party animal until she met him, at which point she sobered up quick.

Mom was raised in Iowa. Her mother was a nurse, and her father was a judge. To paraphrase Jane's Addiction, my grandmother treats Grandpa like a ragdoll. My grandfather is an incomprehensibly wonderful man; I swear, he's running for sainthood. Mom is the youngest of six children. I didn't find out until last year that her oldest sister is actually her half-sister. The big skeleton in the closet is that Grandma had a baby (my aunt) out of wedlock in 1951. Mom takes that kind of thing really personally, and she refuses to talk about it.

My mother is an expert at playing dumb. She always acts stupider (I had to check to see if that was a word) than she is. She's convinced I hate her, which I don't; I just hate her idea that acting like a moron makes her likeable. That came out harsher than I intended it to, but I don't feel like changing it now. Anyway, Mom is also an extremely private person. She refuses to tell me about anything that happened to her in high school. My mother and I don't talk much.

Brother: My brother is 14 years old and highly annoying. He was born with cerebral palsy and was not expected to function normally. He does, mostly. He's a grade behind where he should be (he's a seventh-grader) and has poor fine motor skills, but other than that, he's fine.

He's a B and C student, but really only because he's lazy. He's a video game addict. He's also a baseball fanatic. We don't talk much.


That's my family. Tonight they decided that we should go out for a Valentine's dinner and forced me to come with them. My brother complained about his malfunctioning PlayStation2. Dad told the college kid in the booth behind us that he smelled like pot. Mom kept rocking back and forth in her chair like an autistic kid. My brother played the food Nazi and kept harassing me to finish my French fries. Dad started giving me advice on what not to do if I ever get breast implants (yeah, like that'll happen). The guidelines included things like size and spacing; in short, things no teenage girl ever wants to hear her dad talk about. Mom made fart jokes.

They wonder why I don't like spending time with them.

Goddamn, do I hate Valentine's Day. I am loveless and bored. Where's a fucking armed, flying baby when you need one?

Yes, I'm bitter. I'm bitter because all you couples out there are prancing around in matching velour tracksuits and getting all googly-eyed. I'm bitter because no one's buying me vast amouts of marshmallow Peeps and playing a ukelele outside my window. I'm bitter because you're all stupid in love and holding hands and going miniature golfing together. I love mini-golf, dammit.

I am dateless on Valentine's Day, and, in case you haven't figured it out yet, it sucks. I'm stuck single here in South Dakota, where nobody knows how to play the ukelele and all the mini-golf courses are closed for the winter. All my friends are romantically attached, so there will be no Thelma -and-Louise-ing it up for Allison this year. Not that there ever was, but I hear that's what single white females do on Valentine's. My mother's addiction to Lifetime has taught me much.

So, yeah. I'm here, bored and (surprise, surprise) alone. I've got to figure out what to do with the rest of this stupid-ass day. I can't go anywhere for fear of the track-suited morons skipping in droves down the sidewalks. I can't stare dully out the window, as I've heard that there will later be a parade with balloons and signs that say "Guess What, Allison? You're Alone And We're Not, Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!" coming down the street. And that's just mean.

I guess I'll do what I've been doing so far: sleeping, listening to the Sparks warn me about the dangers of the Monster of Love, and sniping Cupids. Hell, I don't like Peeps anyway.

Snapshots of the Rest of the Day

Being recruited by your injured father to drive to Brookings and pick up fast food.

Getting all excited when "Light & Day" comes on the radio because it's your cheesy happy song.

Being outraged that a 12-pack of Caffeine Free Diet Pepsi, despite having none of the qualities that distinguishes regular soda, still costs as much as regular soda ($4!).

Waiting in line at the Burger King drive-thru as the local college radio station finally receives your psychic messages and plays the Strokes' "Under Control."

Driving home into the sunset while Julian Lennon channels David Bowie and tells you that you're in Heaven.

Wondering if the long line of oncoming traffic looks like a funeral procession even in Heaven.

Staying home alone when you realize that Sarah's already out drinking, Cal's in Mankato, Jessie's at work, Rachel's benchwarming at the game, and you don't know Chantel's phone number.

Arguing with your mother about the nature of guy/girl friendships--"Men and women can never be friends," you opine a la Harry, for "the sex thing always gets in the way."

Listening to your parents try to convince you that you're not as pathetic as you think you are.

Watching John Edwards on Leno and thinking about how much he reminds you of Clinton, and not in a bad way.

Laughing at the funniest bit on Conan that you've seen in ages.

Sitting in your room, typing up another journal entry, and wondering why you still don't feel okay.

Snapshots of the Day So Far

Being unable to get up in the morning simply because you don't have a reason for doing so.

Taking a hot shower and wondering what you'll do with your four-day weekend.

Walking around Target with the Polyphonic Spree's "Light & Day" running through your head.

Getting cut off in traffic twice.

Driving down the interstate in the sunshine.

Breathing cold February air that's heavy with the promise of summer.

Singing along to the last verse of the Ataris' cover of "Boys of Summer" in a Plymouth.

Getting passed by a fat man in a Volkswagen Rabbit.

Getting passed by a Mercury with two kids your age inside.

Feeling that inescapable twinge of loneliness that comes with driving by yourself.

Driving through a small town with the windows down and "I Melt With You" playing ridiculously loudly because there's no one there but you to hear it.

Typing up a journal entry and feeling alone.

Trying to figure out what you'll do tonight.

Realizing that you don't care what you do as long as you're doing it with somebody else.

And the moral of that is: if you don't get close, I don't get hurt.

The magician at the assembly today was, indeed, a hack. He had his stage patter polished to perfection, but he only did about five tricks. The tricks he did do were totally unimpressive. I watched his hands, and I could see him thumbing cards. Worse, he did a trick that involved making a blank coloring book get colored, and you could see him flip the book over as he did the trick. I'm sorry, but if you're going to make a living at sleight of hand, you should at least be good at it. The school paid for a magician, and they got a bad comedian.

Breaking news (horrible pun totally intended): Barbie and Ken are breaking up. Such a tragedy. I don't know; maybe I'd be a little more horrified if I'd been a Barbie kid. I was never really into dolls.

I don't really have much to say. Today I feel: worthless. I'm tired. Maybe I'll go to bed.

Housekeeping tidbits: Clark link is gone, as is Lucas' news weblog. Clark's out of the race, and Lucas hasn't updated in two months. Sad stuff.

Ha! At last, I have conquered. School has been canceled due to road conditions. Sweet, sweet freedom.

We have a half-day at school today because of inservices. We have no school Friday because of inservices. Obviously, inservices are the Second Coming of the Messiah.

I hear the school hired a magician to perform for us in an assembly tomorrow morning. One of the useless knowledge bases I possess is that of magic. I can't do it, but I know what a lot of the main tricks are and how one would do them. I'll be able to tell if the guy's a hack. I hope he's good at his job.

The last assembly we had was this "prairie poet" guy who yammered about "getting out of your chair" as a metaphor for changing paradigms. He then read the worst poetry I've ever heard. This is a man who uses nothing but soon/moon/June/spoon rhymes, and he has a book deal.

In news-related stuff, Clark quit. Dean should. And ha ha ha ha ha ha! Microsoft sucks. We all knew that though, didn't we? Microsoft suckity-suck-suck-sucks.

I should probably get dressed.

Due to a breach of security (don't I sound like Tom Ridge?), certain posts have been temporarily deleted and/or edited. Once the situation resolves itself, they will be reposted in their original format. My apologies.

Basically, good ol' Site Meter informed me that there was someone here from my hometown's ISP. The person didn't look at the archives, and, judging from that, I doubt that he/she read much. However, just to be safe, any possibly inflammatory posts about the town and its citizens will be deleted for the time being. I don't want high school to be any more of a lions' den than it has to be.

I know, I know. The Man keeps bringin' me down.

On a sort-of-but-not-really related note, it has come to my attention that two weeks of the archive (Jan 4 and Jan 11) don't work. In fact, they've never worked. When I get around to it, I'll send an email to Blogger help. Last time it happened, I just switched to monthly archiving, but I post so incessantly that that's not really an option. I'll get around to it.

I have got to go to bed.

Hey. I completely forgot about my half-birthday on January 25. Well, happy 16.5-day to me.

No, I am not dead. I am alive, but I am busy. This is going to be an aimless, asterisk-filled entry about my day. You know you totally care.
***
We had our high school pops concert tonight. We did okay. The chorus was beyond terrible, but you'll be glad to know that I did indeed hit the high G at the end of the Lion King medley. It's a positively inhuman note, so I'm rather pleased that I managed to get up to it without having to wear really tight leather pants. I don't wanna be a Bee Gee.

The band did fine. I managed to move several audience members to tears with my spectacular timpani part during "Seventy-Six Trombones." All told, though, I'm still kind of irritated with Band Dude. I think he's got this complex where he thinks that a girl can't play the trap set; never mind if she's been playing competently for two years. Either that, or I just suck more thatn I thought I did. I'd like to think it's the former, but you never know. If it is the first option, well, Meg White, you've fucked it up for all of us.
***
I gave Chantel a present today. She sang a solo at the concert, "Somewhere" from West Side Story, and was so nervous she looked up my number in the phone book and called me on the verge of tears last night. Today I made her a little white voodoo doll out of an old t-shirt and some black thread. He's got painted-on X's for eyes, a painted-on stitched mouth, and a painted black heart. I tied a ribbon around his waist and pinned plastic yellow flowers to his heart. I gave her the doll for good luck. She seemed to like it.

Some people give flowers; I give handmade voodoo dolls. Aren't I clever and novel and dripping with sarcasm?
***
I had a good five minutes of conversation with Number Four and my friend Nick today. At one point, a chubby little seventh-grader that everybody hates walked past, and Number Four greeted him by name. The seventh-grader seemed in total awe that the real live star of AHS' basketball team even knew he existed. After the boy left, I commented that he was a nice kid. Nick agreed, and Three-Point Shooter (who had joined the conversation for the moment) mentioned that he felt sorry for him.

"Yeah," I nodded. "He really is a nice kid."

Number Four was quick. "You only say that because you love him," he crooned. (Can you croon without singing? That's about the right word for his tone.)

"Oh, yes, you've found me out," I replied. "[John Doe] makes my heart all a-flutter."
***
I'm done now. Good night.

As you all know, it's that time of year again: the week before Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day is a treasured part of religious history. It's named for St. Valentine, patron saint of Mockers of the Terminally Single, and has been a holiday for hundreds of years. Or six. I'm not sure which.

If you're attached, do something nice for your significant other next Saturday. Buy her flowers. Bake him cookies. Take her out to a restaurant you really can't afford. Go to a hockey game with him. Give her a gift certificate for free liposuction. Kick him where it hurts. Maybe the last two aren't such good ideas. I don't know; try them and tell me if they work.

If you're a single female (or an unsigned catcher--you know what I mean) this V-Day, make sure everybody knows it. Constantly bemoan your loveless status in front of your friends. Act desperately slutty and pickup-able if a fellow so much as enters your peripheral vision. Rent romantic comedies and throw things at the TV whenever Meg Ryan kisses somebody. Read Cathy. Remind yourself that one day, you, too, will be 40. Practice for your old age by borrowing your friends' cats (you'll need at least ten) and shrieking at the neighbor kids.

Incidentally, Cathy, that traitorous bitch, will be getting proposed to on February 14. That's right, Irving's gonna pop the question. This paragraph is going to have to be a short one. It's just so hard to care.

If you're a guy and still dateless by the 14th, I dunno, buy some Playboys or something. Watch sports. Do whatever it is you do. Unless, of course, you're 16-17 years old, not a leper, and a resident of east central South Dakota. If that's the case, call me.

Happy week-before-Valentine's Day, everybody.

Things you don't know about me (the shortlist):

• I have a crooked hairline. It's not a widow's peak; it's just all uneven.
  
• I can juggle.
  
• I buy boxes of fortune cookies and put the cookies in a jar on my desk. I open one if I'm feeling depressed. I don't eat it; the fortune just cheers me up. I keep the fortunes themselves in a glass bottle.
  
• When asked to draw a picture of someone, I draw guys as girls and girls as monsters. Today I sketched Bob with pigtails and a dress, and I doodled Rachel as an ogre.
  
• I have attached earlobes.
  
• My average body temperature is only 96.5 degrees.
  
• On my last physics assignment, I wrote every answer in a different style of handwriting. It was a six-page packet and took three hours to do (an hour to figure out the answers, two to write them).
  
• I know how to play very few songs on the piano. For the curious, "Moonlight Sonata," "Habañera," "Mack the Knife," "Greensleeves," and "Faith of our Fathers" are among them. I dream of being able to play Mozart's "Rondo Alla Turca."
  
• I don't eat brown M&Ms. They're poisonous.
  
• I only eat the yellow Dots. I've never tried any of the others.
  
• One of my chief annoyances is Uri Geller. It bothers me that he's allowed to exist.
  
• My English notebook has the words, "SMILE, JESUS HATES YOU" block-printed on it in black permanent marker.
  
• I like to draw pictures of nuclear holocausts.

Before I forget...

A question for the class: how can someone be so happy and yet feel so hollow?

After helping Jessie ask Croc to go to the prom with her, I have reached two conclusions: 1) I still don't have a date, and 2) I juggle very badly.

For a limited time only: if you haven't seen Hey Ya, Charlie Brown! yet, you'd better do it now. The creator received a cease-and-desist, so it's passing along under the radar. I doubt it will be around at the above site much longer. Check it out before it's too late.

I went to the band fundraiser at Pizza Ranch today, and I am ten pounds heavier as a result. The deal is this: ten freshmen get suckered into waiting tables, a junior wears a chicken suit and stands out in the cold to try and wave people into the restaurant, and Pizza Ranch gives the band 20% of the night's profits. Those of us who are neither a freshman nor Clint get to come, shell out eight bucks, and spend the night hovering around the buffet.

If you don't live in the northern Midwest, you probably have no idea what a Pizza Ranch is. I pity you. Pizza Ranch is the most delectable chain eatery since Wendy's. Eating Pizza Ranch food is like getting married; you love it, it loves you, and you will end up fat by the time it's over. The place puts nicotine in the cheesesticks and traces of heroin in the dessert pizza to maximize addiction. Charter a plane already and get your ass out here; you don't know what you're missing.

There you have it. Band makes money, Clint wears a chicken suit, Midwesterners have something to lord over coastal people (fuck you and your bistros--our Italian restaurants have cowboy hats on the walls), and Allison is 468 pounds. Everybody's happy.

If tonight can be looked at as such, then my typical Monday night consists of grape Pez, a Rubik's Cube, Essential Klimt, and Pet Sounds. I'm expecting an e-mail from Chantel, and I'm already dreading tomorrow morning. I'm feeling warm, fuzzy, and sleepy. All in all, a typical Monday night.

As you know, I was sick Thursday and ended up staying home on Friday. Upon my return, this is the conversation I had with my math teacher. (Lest I look like a sour, disrespectful creature, I should note that said teacher and his students give each other crap all the time.)

Allison: So what did I miss?
Mr. K.: On Friday we went over imaginary numbers. You can read section one of chapter nine, and then do problems 6-48 by threes and number 52.
Allison: Imaginary numbers, hm? So 'eleventeen' is an acceptable answer for all the questions, right?
Mr. K.: Not quite. See, the imaginary number is the square root of negative one. The imaginary number is a bold lowercase 'I'--
Allison: That's not a number.
Mr. K.: What?
Allison: 'I' isn't a number. It's a letter.
Mr. K.: Well, it represents a number, like 'x' defines a variable.
Allison: I don't get it. X is x because you don't know what x is. Since you know what i is, why can't you just write it as what it is?
Mr. K.: Because you don't.
Allison: But that's stupid. If i is defined as the square root of -1, then why don't they just write it as the square root of -1?
Mr. K.: Because you don't. It's like pi, except it uses a letter instead of a symbol.
Allison: Like Prince, but pronounceable?
Mr. K.: (laughs) Sure. It's a letter that represents a number. Now shut up and do the assignment.

...later...
Allison: Wait. Number 27 is confusing me.
Mr. K.: Yeah, that's hard to do.
Allison: Hey! You're mocking me. Are you mocking me?
Mr. K.: (laughs) That's what it sounded like, isn't it?
Allison: Well, quite frankly, I don't hold with that kind of gorch. It's all a bunch of asadoplunk, and I think this googlecheck is stiffleputzen.
Mr. K.: (does an exaggerated double-take) What?!
Allison: (crosses arms, leans back) You use imaginary numbers, I use imaginary words.
Mr. K.: (laughs) Fair's fair. I have to ask, though, how do you spell stiffleputzen?
Allison: 62.
Mr. K.: What?
Allison: They're numbers that represent letters.

For the second time in three years, my cousin Adam has kicked a last-minute field goal to win the Super Bowl for the New England Patriots.

I just like saying that. I am distantly related to Adam Vinatieri, but it's a very convoluted linking process. To put it as succintly as I can, my great-great-great-great-great grandparents are his great-great-great-great grandparents. They're the same people.

Which means, Cousin Adam, that you mustn't forget me in the will.

As can be expected, the high from three hours ago has worn off completely. I'm left feeling...odd. Like there's a marching band playing inside my head or like steam locomotives are running through my arteries. Like my fingernails are burnt matchsticks and if I blow on them, they'll glow orange and die. Like there are a million tiny Christmas lights behind my eyelids.

Mmm. I think I'm going to go with the locomotives in the arteries--that's what most closely represents how I feel right now.

No, I'm not on drugs. Hi, Mom.

I feel like posting just to prove that I am not watching the Super Bowl. I could not care less about it. The only Super Bowl I have ever watched was the one the Rams won four(ish) years ago, which was only fun because I got to prance around in the knowledge that for once, my team didn't suck. (I'm also a big fan of the L.A. Clippers.) Even then, I couldn't bring myself to actually focus on the game. I have no patience for football. I'm a baseball kid.

My hair is getting long and bothersome. Sometime soon I will get it cut, and then I will be foxy. Grr. Foxy Allison. I like the word "foxy."

An update on the living-in-squalor front: the digital camera has been found! It was, of course, in an otherwise empty Target bag behind the floor lamp that's between my refrigerator and bed. Where else would it have been?

Update No. 2 on the L.-I.-S. situation: I fixed my PlayStation. You didn't know it was broken, but it was. The lid didn't close right; I had to put books on top of it whenever I wanted to play Sheep (which would be the greatest game ever if it had a save function). I basically just poked around inside and pushed random things until it closed properly again. This is one of the benefits of being five years behind everyone else in the technology market--you can afford to risk breaking stuff.

I know you were also worried about my amaryllis; I'm happy to report that it bloomed yesterday. It's two feet tall with a big pink-and-green flower. "Thank God it's all right," you're all sighing. He appreciates your concern.

Yeah, yeah, you know I wanna smash it up. I can't explain why I'm linking to The (International) Noise Conspiracy. I've liked them for a couple of years; they're wildly pretentious, but damned if their stuff isn't catchy. I also don't know why they put the tambourine player in front on the splash page. 'Cos she's a girl, I guess. She plays other things too, but I just like referring to tambourines. Smash it up.

I feel good this morning. I'm sitting in my room, wrapped up in a fleece blanket with an Incredible Hulk motif. There's a space heater humming at my feet, and I'm wearing my new burgundy corduroy jacket. It's a nice jacket; it makes me feel like Roger Daltrey (in a good, pseudo-fashionable way, not in a screaming, hairy, "I take copious amounts of drugs" way).

I know a person with the last name of Twitero. I have decided to marry him. Our son will be named Conway. (Hick Joke Alert!)

I take copious amounts of drugs. THEY'RE ALL WASTED!