Head Hunting

Not a creature was cleaning

2004-12-24T20:35:00.000-05:00

Right, so, few quick notes before I attempt to make my home suitable for Saint Nicholas. (In Giant today, I was trying to explain to my mom that even though I'm not a Christian I deserve Christmas presents, because Christmas has become so commercial. When she protested, I said "Jesus has nothing to do with Santa." And she went berserk and growled at me, gesturing to the little girl behind me, I suppose because she has yet to find out that Santa is really her very tired mother. "What? Santa isn't Jesus." And I didn't think that was giving anything away, really, unless your mother told you that Santa Claus was really Jesus in a red suit. But yeah, she smacked me anyway.)

a) I was on a lot of drugs when I wrote that last post (literally, I had no idea what I was doing, I don't even remember writing it now) and I have not gone off to Bridges. I'm going to Graydon on the 29th, though. Hooray!

b) I need someone to house my caterpillars for the winter. Someone with an unheated garage or a deck that's shielded from the rain/snow/wind. I want them to go through whatever weird hormonal changes occur while they're secreting antifreeze.

c) We're having a vegetarian Christmas dinner at my request. That's gonna be FUN! I'll probably return here with all the excruciating details.

d) For Kelsey and Miranda -- remember that hideous green purse I bought? Well, I went shopping for a present for my sister (with her along, of course) at Temptations, and brought along the handbag. She kept protesting "I'm embarrassed to be seen with you and that THING" but I love it and dragged it along anyway. However, in the parking lot, because it was about zero fucking degrees with windchill, I wanted to put my hands in my coat pockets, and since she had on a sweatshirt and could just pull it over her hands, I asked her to carry the bag for me until we entered the store. So, two seconds after she has taken the bag and my hands are safetly stowed, some woman walks by, gives Michelle a weird look, and goes, "I like your bag."

I laughed for like, ten thousand years.

e) I was dropping off some presents, and on the way to Kelsey's house, I noticed a street named "KILKENNY." And I am such a South Park nerd... Jesus Christ, I thought I would pee in my pants. (I'm going out on Sunday with my mom to get a picture.)

f) MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

Wasn't that cheesy?

Suicide Bootcamp

2004-12-10T09:47:00.000-05:00

Alright, I'm off to Bridges Residential....

So, pray for me, okay?

While the getting's hot

2004-12-06T04:09:00.000-05:00

Hahahaha... oh, Jesus. I've been keeping a woolly bear caterpillar for about a month, affectionately named "Arturo," I'm sure I've told some of you about him. Well, a week ago, my parents woke me up with a present: a second caterpillar that they'd found on our doorstep. They told me that I didn't have to keep her, and that they could put her back outside if I wanted. Well, you can't bring a small animal into my room and expect me to send it out. (They should know me better.) Besides, I figured Arturo could use a playmate while he... sleeps in his container waiting for the spring. So I named her "Arturette" and threw her in.

Well Arturo has been asleep the whole week, and Arturette has been asleep most of it. So I don't check on them all that often... it's just not that exciting to watch them sit around on their asses. But I woke up about an hour ago because I foolishly thought that I didn't really need two clonidine last night. So I've been, you know, writing a little, and drawing a little, reading slash a little. And I was just about to head to the bathroom (aren't you glad I filled you in?) when I took a look inside their little plastic home and noticed that the two are getting rather cozy. i.e., Arturette is sleeping directly on top of Arturo. Well, I suppose even caterpillars need their fill.

Wait. No, they don't.

I think that perhaps living in my room for so long has atomically altered my poor virgin caterpillars and made them horny mutant ones. Or maybe Arturo has just died without me knowing and Arturette fell asleep whilst eating his brains. But I like the mutant sex creature theory better. It's just as funny without actually being horribly traumatizing. Anyway, it gave me a good laugh. (Well, it would give me a laugh, but then so do a number of other perverse things.

Christine : [zoomed in on picture in Paint Shop adding shading to a Christmas tree]

Mother : [walks in without knocking] "Oh my god, Christine. Are you working on a Christmas picture? That's so... unlike you."

Christine : "No, it isn't." [zooms out to original size, where four mice are sitting around their table amid a glimmering tree and cozy fireplace, bowing their heads before enjoying their Christmas feast consisting primarily of a small, orange-clad child]

Mother : "..."

Christine : "Isn't it cute?"

Mother : "Christine... I love you... but you're a little demented, honey. [walks out])

Anyway, hope you all have a happy December... I will be spending most of it being interviewed by residential therapy centers. Hooray! Christmas spirit is so bountiful this time of year.

(P.S. The image used in this layout is copyright Eito, to whom I sent an e-mail asking permission to incorporate it into my layout, which was never responded to. Shhhh!)

End of ze world

2004-11-25T18:12:00.000-05:00

I... on DeviantArt... one of the featured daily deviations... is... an apple... with... a vagina in it. I just... I don't... know what to think anymore. God...? Are you out there...?

People, people, people...

2004-11-23T18:37:00.000-05:00

Must you be so shallow? No really. If you don't like boys' personalities, but would never on your life consider dating a girl just because you are not sexually attracted to women, that makes you S-H-A-L-L-O-W. Like... (here we go) Gren, for instance.

I loved Gren from the start. Because he's a tragic hero who also happens to be gorgeous, blah blah blah. So does every other girl in the universe. (He's the perfect bish, come on.)

Until they find out he has boobs.

SERIOUSLY. I mean, he's even still a GUY. He has a PENIS. But everyone's like "Oh, eww, I'm sorry, but I just don't love you anymore because you are no longer my sexual fantasy." Gag me.

If you truly believe that personality is the backbone of a good relationship, then look for that : a personality. If you really love someone, you should be able to fall in love with them with a blindfold over your face. Then, when you take it off, nothing should change. That is love. Anything else is mere sexual attraction.

There's my rant for the day. (Oh, and have a happy Thanksgiving.)

Tut tut, it looks like rain!

2004-11-15T13:47:00.000-05:00

Life. Events happening in sequential order. That thing I'm supposed to be writing about here so that you all know I'm still alive. (Because you DO care.) I'd like to note, by the way, that many landmark events have happened since my last post, but not one single person would know because sadly it's no longer abnormal for me to take leave from life for a week or so and I don't get those "Hey, Mrs. Camp, Christine in the hospital again?" phone calls anymore.

First of all, we've gotten a new addition to the family! Unfortunately it is no child of mine, because even though I'm sure there is a long line of men outside my door waiting to have unprotected sex with me, I've been holing myself up again inside the house, leaving only to stand outside the back door with my dog going "Oh wow, it's starting to smell like winter!" as if he could actually understand me and wouldn't make fun of me if he could. What it is, however, is a cute little kitten, which is the second best thing, because now my dog will have something to do when I'm asleep.

Tangent : the sheer bias of god against me. The kitten is Michelle's, which I don't mind, because the dog is mine and the cat (senior) is my mom's, although they both end up crawling into my dad's lap by the end of the day because my mom and I are rather on what you might call the annoying side. But the reason they got the cat for my sister is because I am going to residential school (it's officially been approved by the county, which maybe I should have saved for a longer news article but had to mention it here because of the damned cat) and she needs someone to play with while I'm gone.

So consider this. Christine : scheduled to be shipped to an insane asylum where I will be beaten senseless by girls who don't like my hair. Michelle : gets a kitten. Christine : ends up getting raped by the pig-tailed redhead affectionately dubbed "George," because the dormitory is girls-only. Michelle : gets a kitten. Does this seem unfair to anyone else? Anyway.

Next piece of news. They are tacking another counselor onto my now-impressive list. Her name is Christine (and yes, ah ha ha ha ha, she has my name, I know, get over it please) and she works at the same center as Wendi. Apparently four hours a week is not enough. I am that over the edge. I need two counselors to come to my home, in addition to having the psychiatrist I get my pills from, the psychologist I get my "how are you feeling?" speeches from, and the social worker whose office I am allowed to hang out in during the school hours because they are that desperate to get me to Woodson.

Soon I will need one of those Freud guys going, "Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar."

I know that I told Kelsey and Sara this, but for those of you who didn't know, I was right about the penis envy thing. The phrase "penis envy" was coined by Freud and is the fake condition in which girls envy the male genitalia because it is the symbol of power and whatnot. (In reality, it is compensation for the menstrual cycle, and every time a girl stains her new jeans, somewhere, there is a boy getting a hard-on during English class.) It is not a guy thinking "dude, that new kid is huge" in the locker room. Also, boys, DON'T LOOK. IT'S RUDE.

Right, so, I can stay on track.

I lost computer privileges last week (again, not that you'd know) as my punishment for essentially telling Wendy to fuck off because I was tired, I don't care if I end up in juvenile hall, I really can't be bothered to fix myself, yo momma so fat, etcetera. Well, as it turns out, all I do is go on the computer. The only alternative interests I pursue are eating, sleeping, pretending to play instruments to look cool, and drawing, so that I can scan in the sketches to color on my computer. So do you know what I ended up doing late one night about three days in?

Painting a picture of Kenny from South Park using puff paints and q-tips because white-out and nail polish weren't sufficient.

(Of course, there were other low moments, like helping Michelle pick french fry bits out of her carpet, playing catch-the-clothes-hanger with the kitten, and watching Spice World, but I think that the second I dipped that first q-tip into fabric paint I hit the bottom.)

Well. I've thoroughly depressed myself all over again. But on the bright side, after hours worth of clearing the debris from my sister's room, I've earned the computer back... and just in time to make me late for my meeting with counselor no.1 in an hour! Anyone want to come over and help me do my hair? Thanks in advance. You're a pal.

Jingle Jingle

2004-11-09T18:04:00.000-05:00

Alright, kids. I know what I want for Christmas. (You know, like, aside from Chinese children and a smaller ass and other such things you just can't send through overnight express.)

And it's not a blow-up doll!

I'm thinking matte print, 18x24 inch. $47. A couple of you could team up and be like, "Alright, we can stop trying to harvest organs now." If you love me, you will do this for me. I have wanted this as a print since I first saw it on deviantart and realized that I was the only human on the face of the earth who actually got it. (Which is a strange thought.) Besides, it would go so well with the Ikea look that I am trying to do with my room as soon as someone fixes our roof and my walls stop collapsing in on themselves.

Ready. Set. GO!

(I hope you know that I am seriously expecting this, by the way. If Christmas comes and this is not hanging on my wall, I will have a nice wreath of abdominal organs to hang up instead.)

"How old is this butter?"

2004-11-04T02:15:00.000-05:00

Well... today (or yesterday, for those of you who are technical enough to consider it Thursday) was interesting. One, it involved physical labor (ish) and two, it involved contact with the outside world. [insert gasp]

For the past couple of days, I have been in insane photographer mood, which means I have been scouring the lands far and wide in search of possible photo-ops. Actually, what it means is that I've been sneaking out of the house in my pajamas when no one's looking to snap street lamps, and searching for inspiration inside my house when someone is. And since I've now gotten photographs of every street lamp within a five mile radius of my house, today I continued my search for beauty indoors.

However, upon realizing that my home is a cultural wasteland, I realized that I would have to work a little harder to get a decent picture.

My first thought was that I would smash some of my dad's empty beer bottles (they're green, you know) and use the shards to get interesting reflections on my wall. Unfortunately, they are apparently making bottles thicker than they do in the movies, because contrary to Hollywood opinion, bottles do not just shatter into a million pieces when you smash them against the corner of a counter. I tried that a few times before realizing that it wasn't working, then took the bottle up to my room to try throwing it as hard as I could at the wall. Well, it hit the wall, careened off it, and crashed violently into my printer beneath my desk, which I hope is not broken.

Also, I may have left a few holes in my wall from this endeavor, but the Remus picture on my wall covers all but four of them.

Now, I'm not bright when it comes to this sort of thing, but I'm not stupid, either, and realized that the beer bottle thing wasn't going to work. Still, I like pictures that show a little destruction, and naturally I'm a big angst fan, so I figured that with a minimal amount of work I could get an easy photo of the goth girl signature -- a broken razor! Hooray! And before Sara goes off at me, I did NOT use the razor to cut myself, I used it solely for artistic purposes. Nyah.

It turned out to be more work than I thought, and took about an hour. It wouldn't normally take that long, except that I was being extremely paranoid about keeping all the broken pieces of the razor together and being very cautious about not bending or breaking the actual razorblade. For those of you who have never been bored or stupid enough to break open a razor before, the blades are paper thin and have a tendency to snap. Or at least the Bic ones do. (I'm way too cheap to break open an expensive one just to take a photo, shoot me.)

The result was really nice, if you're into morbid things like that. I set the whole thing up on a white piece of printer paper (blade, broken razor bits, and the nail file I used to split it open) and got some nice shadows from my embarrassingly dim bedroom lamp. I didn't have much chance to try different rearrangements, though, because after two pictures I heard my mom's car pull in outside and knew that I was dead if she found me up in my locked room snapping photos. Hurry hurry, throw away the evidence, grab the camera and run downstairs to pretend to take normal photos, wipe off little bits of plastic from t-shirt.

I was crouched in front of a laundry basket to get pretend snapshots of my demon spawn cat curled up inside (on clean laundry, I might add) when my mom came in. I glanced up innocently with that I-was-not-just-breaking-razors-in-my-bedroom look to wave hello and noticed that she had some Hispanic girl with her, which was weird, because my mom doesn't have any Hispanic friends. I figured maybe it was one of those chicks who'd cleaned our house a couple months back and contemplated making a run up the stairs when mother dearest announced "I brought you some company."

And it was Veena. In my home. I was not wearing makeup but was wearing my hole-in-the-knee-two-inches-too-short Tinkerbell pajamas, aiming a camera at a laundry basket.

Apparently, my mom ran into her at Walmart and decided to take her home to... torture me, or something. I'm not entirely sure. I can't help but think it's not really a normal parent sort of thing to do, but then... these are the parents that invited me to watch Walk on the Moon with them because it's got a sex scene with Viggo Mortenson.

Well, I jumped up, and might have said a hello, can't really remember, and had one of those "just say SOMETHING" moments where you look around desperately for anything to break the unbearable awkwardness of the situation. My eyes landed on a box of cinnamon streusel mix on my kitchen table. "Want to make some streusel?" If it had been anyone other than Veena, it would have been suicide.

But, "Okay, I'm hungry."

She is an enigma to me.

But that's basically what we did. I went to work putting together the streusel while Veena pulled up a chair and got to work chatting about who's gay at Robinson, who's gay and not hot at Robinson, and who's otherwise just not hot period at Robinson. This paused only momentarily when we realized that the thing had to be baked for forty-five minutes. "I am NOT waiting forty minutes, I'm fucking hungry." And the surprising thing is, that wasn't me.

So we raided the fridge. Which was empty. And we raided the freezer. Which was empty. And we raided the cupboard. Which was empty and is missing a doorknob because I accidentally snapped it off one day. So we ended up just settling for a pot of "err... just dump like, half of it in there or something" coffee and bode the rest of our time... washing dishes. Seriously. Because apparently it is not acceptable to have a silverware drawer that contains only plastic spoons and a few dozen spatulas. Whatever. Some people are just so picky.

The odd thing about Veena is that we only see each other every couple of months if we're lucky (i.e. if I'm not too sorry to get off my ass and go to my GS meetings) yet never have any trouble finding things to talk about. Probably because our conversations go something like this.

"Johnny Depp is so fucking hot."

"I know. Especially with all that eyeliner. Drool-o-rama."

"You know, he looks better now than when he was younger."

"Same with Viggo Mortenson. He is like a walking pile of middle-aged sex."

"His son is the ugliest fucking thing, though."

"I know. It's cruel. When I saw a picture of him it broke my heart in half."

"I think I'd really love for Johnny Depp's kids to be ugly, though."

"God, that man is hot."

"So fucking hot."

We are hormonal teenagers with sex and food on the brain. Sue us. Although I have to admit, she is the only person in the entire world who I can talk to about hot guys without wanting to rip my hair out.

"You know who is hot?"

"Who?"

"Michael Daniels."

"I KNOW! OH MY GOD!"

Which made my non makeup day a complete success. I ought to buy both my mom and Veena gifts. Maybe scented soaps.

Nothing says "I love you" quite like soap.

I think I'm going to head downstairs to get some of that streusel now....

Bring a Towel

2004-10-27T20:50:00.000-04:00

"Why is it that when I dream I have a girlfriend, I wake up without one, but when I have a dream about urine, I wake up with it everywhere? Reality is cruel."

If any of you completely mature people would like to have a chuckle over something completely mature... don't click here.

Is that your kidney, Charlie Brown?

2004-10-24T18:26:00.000-04:00

Oh, the past few days have been like one long ass acid trip (not that I've ever done acid, of course) interrupted briefly for periods of sleep so that I didn't pass out in the middle of a road or something.

Actually, I'm lying. I haven't been outside.

Maybe it's the fact that I've gotten into the habit of taking my clonadine at twelve, not waking up until five the following afternoon (actually today it was more like five thirty) and taking my morning meds at six. Which I should be doing in about ten minutes. Which creates a sort of zombie mode from three (am) to six (pm) in the event that I should wake up to... I don't know, take a dump or something.

Which, surprisingly, happens a lot. (Me waking up. Not me taking a dump. It's a known scientific fact that girls do not in fact poop.) It is genuinely frightening to run across me during the aforementioned hours. I've got eyeliner rings halfway down my cheeks, bits of tissue in my hair, and a fork in each hand (unless no one has run the dishwasher recently, in which case I've got spoons/knives/kabob sticks) screaming "WHO THE FUCK ATE MY DANISH?!"

I recently had a meeting with Wendi darling (no one else but me gets the pun there) at nine in the morning, Christine happy hour. Actually, not only was it at nine in the morning, but I'd woken up at seven to straighten my hair. You can bet how good of a mood I was in.

"You've got the support of family, friends, school staff, people that don't even know you... but ultimately, you're the one with the power to change your life. Do you think you can do it?"

Christine, Hello Kitty pajamas, arms crossed. "Do what?"

"... you weren't listening to a word I just said, were you?"

Christine, Hello Kitty pajamas, lying. "Yes I was."

"What did I say?"

"That... uh... that I had the power to change my mood and uh... motivate myself... and uh... take control of my life...."

"Right. So can you do it?"

"Huh?"

Wendi, refraining from strangling me because my parents are in the room. "Can you do it?"

"Do what?"

Graydon Manor is really where everyone is waiting to ship me off to and end their suffering, but the fact is that the processing can take months, and in the meantime, to keep me from missing yet another year of school, the goal is to get me back to Woodson. Which I still don't really understand, because, hello, if I could go to Woodson, I would be there and not worrying about what kind of rapist girls I'm going to end up rooming with at Graydon.

The school has tried as hard as possible to make it easier for me to come back. They have taken the liberty of dropping my Spanish, gym, and honors courses, so that I now have all center core classes, two art periods, and a basic skills class. So my new excuse for not going to school (and I am not lying about this) : "It's not challenging enough."

My father (silly man) has made the argument that everything about school is challenging for me in the fact that I have neither been doing the homework nor attending the classes.

"But, see, that's where you're wrong, because actually if you got out my Geometry book I could do the work."

"Then why don't you do?"

"Maybe I will!"

"Good! Then I'll drive you over to school to hand it in!"

And that's when I start going off on my "me no espeaka the ingles" thing.

Oh, life. I ought to have a special on Dr. Phil or something.

By the way, if anyone has seen or heard from Kelsey, deliver to her the message that I am seeking her out with sword in hand. She cheated me out of a certain free pizza venture and I personally feel that the only moral thing she can do now is take me out on a date and make up for all the food I missed. However, I cannot get a hold of her, and I can only assume that she is either a) avoiding me because she has no money, or b) having movie theater sex and not telling me.

And Kelsey, if I find you, and you are having movie theater sex, there will be no Sara to stop me from launching my army of South Park cutouts on you.

The Excused Absence of Christine

2004-10-17T15:19:00.000-04:00

Whoo, it's been... over a month, huh? Amazing how little time you have to write when you're going to school everyday and working part-time at the animal shelter to feed hungry kittens. [cue lightning bolt] Okay, I probably don't have a good excuse this time, but I'm trying to make amends over here, and you'd goddamn better appreciate it, because my cat -- who no one seems to think is actually out to get me -- has been "curled up innocently" in my lap all day... sneezing all over me and my keyboard. So I am elbow deep in cat snot, people.

I suppose the first thing to do after a month of absence (expect for that occasional moment when I would show up for a few hours and someone would yell "WOW YOU LOOK LIKE A HOOKER" or "HE'S NOT A GIRL CHRISTINE") is to do a quick news report to let you all in on the current rock and hard place I'm trapped between.

Right. So... got kicked out of school for the... er... forth time? (My math is a little fuzzy, if you will, Bush fans.) I'll bet that bus driver was glad to knock me off her roster. But I've yet to reach that sweet sixteen (although some sources, like that silly Woodson attendance officer, say eighteen) when I can officially say "fuck school," so I'm still having regular IEPs. Which, naturally, I am not even going to.

Basically, I am having my next door neighbor Mrs. Taylor -- whose dog my sister "didn't kill" -- go to them for me and give them hell in my stead. And also possibly try to get me into a residential (i.e. boarding-for-lunatics) school so that I can go to college and not end up working as a prostitute on the streets of... Burke. What a happy thought. Although I suppose at least in prison I would get regular access to hot meals and sex, right? (I really shouldn't say things like this, my dad and possibly my dad's co-workers read this thing....)

And I know that you all really really love me and I know that you would really rather have me stay here in Fairfax because I know that you might wither up and die without my unyielding radiance, but I would like to state for the record that being mad and unable to attend public school is my ticket to -- get this -- free boarding school.

That's right. God damn I love that Americans with disabilities act. (Are you aware that I'm crazy enough to be considered disabled? The system fails in my favor again!) Because of Bush and his "no child left behind" policy, the school system is obligated to find some way to get my ass in school no matter their own personal cost. Ah ha ha ha. So, as soon as the processing goes through, I'm off to fabulous Graydon Manor (this is our target school, anyway) to learn and incorporate important interpersonal lessons: respect for self and others, responsibility for one's actions, and successful conflict resolution.

Only downside : no uniforms. Boo hoo. You're required to wear uniforms at Carlbrook, which was my original dream school, until I found out that it was within walking distance of crazy grandma and that I was only allowed one visit home during my fifteen month stay. (And the chances of someone at Carlbrook bringing me a cheese danish and slash manga every week seemed pretty slim.)

Speaking of things that go "HARDER!" in the night....

Here comes my excuse for leaving this thing to rot : though I have not, admittedly, been busy doing homework, socializing with humans, feeding the poor, etc, I have been working day in and day out (not really sure what that expression is supposed to mean, actually) on my side job : throwing together the dementia in my brain to create what some people might call art and place it on display to have people eat out my heart and soul.

My life for the past couple of weeks has been dedicated solely to fanfiction, fictionpress, deviantart, my music (which doesn't have a site but my dog really seems to like), and of course the cheese danish that has been so supportive of me through it all. Since my last post I've put up four fanfictions (most of them shameless smut), two poems, two short stories, seven pictures, and completed the little piano piece I started writing a while back.

I'm not on my life going to give you my fanfiction or fictionpress addresses, because I'd rather not have my comment box filled with Sara going "YOU SICK BITCH! MOSES WOULD BE SO ASHAMED!" (You get the idea.) But, because none of you have deviantart accounts and can't flame my half-naked doodles, here's my address! http://strawberry-stained.deviantart.com/ Hahaha. Have fun with that.

Erm... anything else I've forgotten to mention? Let's see... Miranda, I still have your sweatshirt, I'm thinking of just mailing it to you because I won't remember it otherwise... Grace, you MADE me put on that skirt, and also, did you know that Kelsey has never had Dippin' Dots?... Kels, I am lending you Eerie Queerie because it is fab... and... uh... I think that is it. Hooray! My entire month has been summed up in a page and a half. Have a lovely afternoon, kids.

Pant Pant Wheeze Wheeze Die

2004-09-10T17:03:00.000-04:00

It is finally Friday. I honestly did not think I would live to see this day. Well, that's a bit melodramatic and emo of me, but I have been majorly overworked (you know, not having done anything at all in the past year) and haven't been able to find the time to write on this thing. Though believe me, there is so very much I have been meaning to say. But I don't want to bore you... so I'll just tell you every single thing about my week.

Tuesday (Day 1) : Alarm went off at 6:00 am for the first time in well over a year. Naturally, I got up to hit the snooze alarm. Could not find the snooze alarm. So I just flopped back into bed after turning the alarm off and was woken ten minutes later by screaming parents. Whatever. (I was so tempted to write "whatev" just now....) Well I got up. And I grabbed something suitably black from my closet. And you'll never guess what I did then.

I got in the car with Wendi and I WENT TO SCHOOL. Throw me a fucking party or something.

All the periods were really short, because on the first day you attend all your classes, but it was cool getting to see all your classrooms and getting lost trying to find them all.

First period is gym. Full of hot guys. Unfortunately, hot guys who have failed ninth grade three times which explains them being so mature looking. There was this one goth chick in the class at the tip top of the bleachers who I was tempted to compliment on her mad eyeliner skills, but halfway through that customary lecture on the importance of locking up your gym lockers so no one steals your amazing gym uniform, she realized she was in the wrong class and left. Hooray! I look forward to hating that class.

Second period is biology honors. The teacher has got a southern accent that will surely kill me before the year is over, and of course she did not listen when I explained that it is more humane and cheaper for the school if you use a computer program instead of actual frogs. However, there is a girl in that class with dyed black hair and skin even paler than mine, which is sadly the highlight of the period.

Third period is English in the center. There are six people in the class. Literally. Six people. But it's awesome; none of us did our English assignments, but because we're all "emotionally disabled" there was absolutely no punishment. The teacher just suggested that we read the book over the next two weeks because on the 21st there will be a test. I love the center, by the way.

Fourth period is history/geography, again in the center. This is my favorite class, mainly because while the center is split between goths and home boys, my history class falls more on the ghetto side. It's a hilarious class, we never shut up, and we totally get away with it, too. We were discussing The Exorcist when the guy who sits next to me (Wesley, I think) got up and did an impression of the demon girl projectile vomiting. I almost pissed in my pants. And, as an added bonus, my teacher is Jamaican. Accent intact and everything.

Fifth period is geometry honors. The only class I really want to kill myself in, solely because I am the only "alternative" (I'm refraining from calling myself goth right now because I have been making fun of those kids for about a week straight) kid in the class. Everyone else is so preppy and talkative that it makes me want to vomit. During lunch I slip away and bleed thinking about them.

Sixth period is Spanish 1. Yes, 1. I realized that that joke I made about "hola" and "hamberguesa" was actually true, and I couldn't live with that. Besides, now that I'm at Woodson where this is no IB program, I only have to take three years of foreign language. And I intend to.

Seventh period is art. That class is so very much like kindergarten that you'd have to experience it to believe it. We are basically allowed to do anything at all we'd like, so long as we don't touch anyone else or their artwork, follow general curriculum, and clean up after ourselves. There's an Asian girl in there that reminds me so much of Grace that I laugh every time I look at her. She's the cutest thing ever, even if she is a senior. She makes all those adorable/annoying (depending on how you look at it) noises Grace does, and she talks in this cute whiny voice when she wants people to be quiet. She's caught me smiling at her, like, twenty times. She probably thinks I'm going to rape her the minute the teacher leaves the room. Which I will.

Wednesday (Day 2) : Wednesday was the first day I got to ride my bus. You know, the special ED bus they send out to retrieve kids who really should be going to Robinson due to location, but have been kicked out for reasons I don't care to fathom. (Except Cameron. He informed me that he was kicked out for brandishing a weapon on school property. And that he was literally dragged out of the school by police.) The only reason it didn't show Tuesday was because I'd only just been registered the previous week and they hadn't had time to set up the route.

I love the bus, no, really, I do. There are less than ten of us that ride it, the back half of the bus doesn't even have seats, and every time we make a sharp turn the sides of the bus rattle. You only notice that in the morning, though, because in the afternoon all we do (and by "we" I am referring to myself, Cameron, his blonde friend, and James, the really short, foulmouthed kid who occasionally hangs out with Veena) is make fun of the two deaf kids and this one really retarded guy who refers to me as "Lady Lesbian." Actually, the two deaf kids are cool and I really like them, but the other... I would like to see get hit by a truck.

Kelsey will lecture me for making fun of someone (actually, I'm lying, she already has lectured me) but this is the kind of person who really has it coming. He thinks every girl in the world wants him, and doesn't understand why I would want to date girls instead. (Actually, I don't want to date girls, but I said something about albino chicks being hot and as he thought I was being serious, the only thing to do was keep playing along. Though in all fairness, I would rather date a girl than date him.) He keeps trying to get us to hook him up with this girl Sarah, the only other girl who rides our bus, and when we tell him that she wants him bad, he actually believes us.

Cameron told him to ask her, "Have you ever experienced nine inches?"

And he did.

This was also the first day I wore my boots in public. And for all you bastards who told me that those boots are the most hideous things you've ever seen, I got loads of compliments, including one from this guy who I literally stared at for five seconds after he said it, completely blinded by his sheer hotness factor. He had to repeat uneasily, "Your boots. They're cool." before I finally realized that I was frowning at him like he was a zoo exhibit and collected myself, then scurried off with a mumbled "thanks" feeling like the biggest spaz in the world. Which, truth be told, I probably am.

Thursday (Holiday) : Oh, come on, you didn't honestly think I'd make it to a whole week of school, did you? My alarm went off at 5:30, and I literally could not open my eyes. It was like they were glued together with that Sally Hansen wax. My dad eventually had to come in to rouse me out of my sleeping death, and I made it as far as the bathroom with my eyes still clamped shut when the nausea kicked in. Two days without medicine you are physically dependent on will really catch up to you.

Imagine the worst migraine you've ever had, coupled with crippling sleep deprivation. That was me. Only with wet curly hair and a really mad temper.

So I stayed home and ate comfort food all day. And took my goddamn medication.

Friday (Day what should be 4) : We had our pep rally today. I cannot tell you what fun that was. Sweltering sunlight and cheerleaders. I thought I would die. I seriously, seriously contemplated jumping down through the little gaps beneath the bleachers. I actually looked down to see how far the fall was, but it looked far enough that I would definitely end up on my ass with a broken leg and then have to have someone come rescue me.

So I maintained my pride by sitting by myself and whining loudly about the heat for half an hour.

The actual school bit of the day was fun, ironically; for one, I had history today, during which I learned how to open cabinets. I forget what I was trying to put away, but I was the first one to finish it, and needed to open the fourth period cabinet. I struggled for about five minutes before loudly announcing that the drawer was locked. There are only about ten people in the class, too, so everyone heard me, and a couple people came over to try and help. Wesley crossed in front of me, grabbed the cabinet door, and it slid right open. I stared in awe.

"It's open."

So he left, but he closed the door behind him, and when I tried to open it back up, it was stuck again. By this time, people had started laughing, and I had started whimpering. "Why won't it open for me??"

"Christine... you have to press down the release next to the handle."

Silence.

"... so I was totally just kidding about not being able to open the door."

And for the rest of the class, I had to open the door for everyone, and got a little round of applause every time I successfully got it. I thought I might melt right into the floor.

And the bus ride home was fantastic. Cameron and his friend were, as usual, harassing our retard friend, whose name I think is Greg. Apparently, they had been adding to the lesbian rumor while I was gone.

"Are you really a lesbian?!" he asked as I walked on the bus, Cameron grinning behind him. I tried really, really hard not to laugh.

"Yes."

"You don't look like a lesbian."

"... how can I not look like a lesbian? Do I have to be fucking a girl to look like a lesbian?"And then he had a boy moment. A true, glorious, boy moment.

"Can lesbians have babies?"

I love Woodson.

Go Spot, Go!

2004-09-06T14:05:00.000-04:00

I. Am such. A fucking. Wreck.

How. Can school. Start. Tomorrow?

I am so beyond the point of not ready that it is insane. I found out last night that apparently there is a summer reading assignment, so I should maybe do that, unless I want to start off the year with a big shiny F in English. I also need to round up some very comfortable clothes, because my nerves will be completely shot tomorrow, and if I dare to wear my huge strappy Nazi boots, I am sure to fall off and kill myself. I have enough trouble staying upright in sneakers when I'm not two seconds away from passing out.

Please someone help me stay alive. I am very tempted to take some of my dad's anxiety medicine, but I fear that will backfire, mix horribly with my own medicine, and cause me to vomit every fifteen minutes, or something equally as sinister.

Do you know what I had on my checklist of things to do today?

8) Run out to purchase supplies and fabric at Joanne's

Fabric. I was going to leave my house and go buy fabric for a Lolita dress I want. Why? I barely have time to keep myself from slitting my throat with a butter knife, and I was planning on buying FABRIC. For a DRESS. Why does god MOCK me so?

I have to read that crappy book, write some huge ass report on it, locate clothes for tomorrow, locate makeup for tomorrow, tweeze my eyebrows, shave my legs, spend two hours fixing my goddamn hair, fine-tune my plans with Wendi, call the Kotila's to ask for permission to live with them for the next week, gather up everything I need and find a backpack to put it in, practice standing up straight for at least fifteen minutes at a time, and I have less than ten hours to do it all in.

Also, I will see my schedule for the very first time tomorrow morning! Hoorah! I don't even know where I'm supposed to go for my classes! Hell, I don't even know what my classes are!

I'm going to have a stroke, no, really, I am. I'd say I need a cigarette, but let's face it, I'm about to puke anyway.

The Joys of Having Breasts

2004-09-03T23:50:00.000-04:00

God damn, is it September already? For eight months I have been whining and moaning about how very boring life without social interaction is, and now that it is finally September and time to head back (well, "back" might be stretching it a bit) to school, all I really want to do is hide under my comforter and wait until summer comes crawling back again. But as September has come anyway, despite my every effort to stop it, I left today to indulge in what is perhaps the most depressing pastime known to man : back to school shopping.

Macy's was completely useless, the only thing I found there was this really preppy girls' school top that my father laughed at for ten years when I pulled it off the rack. He laughed for about ten more when I decided I had to own it, but he bought it anyway, so I rather think I'm the winner. Everything else was hideous; for some reason, 50's clothing has come back. Or at least, it is trying to come back. I cannot take two steps into a department store without woolly business jackets or argyle sweater vests mauling me. But does anyone wear these?? (Except me, who adores argyle, and actually purchased a pair of argyle knee-highs from JCPenny's.)

Moving on. We'd only been at the mall for about twenty minutes before deciding to leave Macy's to its sad retro self. I'm not sure where we were trying to go, maybe to JCPenny's, but there was a cigar shop on the way, and my dad is to tobacco as I am to eyeliner boy. Beeline into the cigar shop.

It was ridiculous, standing in this foul smelling shop while my dad thumbed through ten dollar cigars, trying to tell me that I was insane for thinking cigarette smoke smells better than cigar smoke. Which it does. Surely I am not alone on this. Anyway, we'd only been in the tobacco store for about a minute when some older teenager came in behind us. Now, I confess, I am only a girl, and I did check him out -- briefly. I am not a pig. Well, actually, I am the most superficial person I know, but I noticed that he was wearing a Tommy Hilfiger shirt and wasn't worth my time.

A few minutes later, while I was waiting in line with my father, who was saying loudly "After this, I quit" mainly because he's afraid I'm going to sneak some of his cigars, I heard someone saying behind me, "Excuse me, could you help me out?"

Well I whipped around, and there's the Tommy guy, looking at me as though I might actually have something intelligent to say. After a moment of awkward silence, he decided to explain, "I don't really do this often, could you help me out?" Gesturing at the cases of cigars. Of course, we all know how sophisticated and quick witted I am around guys.

"I... er... what? I have no idea, man... I don't... uh...."

Noticing that I was not speaking in English and that my dad had started to stare at him, he asked quickly, "You work here, don't you?"

"Uh... no." Only this wasn't a polite '0no.' This was the kind of no you say with a snort while conveying in one syllable that you think the person you're talking to is the most moronic human being you have ever had the pleasure of speaking to. Which is rather saying something when coming from someone like me.

When we left the shop, purposely skirting around the poor boy, who really didn't know what he was doing, my dad started cracking up. "That guy was so completely hitting on you!"

"I think he thought I worked at the store, dad."

"Christine. You are fifteen. You are five foot. And he watched you walk into the store with me."

I thought about that for a minute. Then, because my dad is not blessed with telepathy, I had a little party in celebration of me inside my brain. Because my brain cells haven't had much to celebrate about since the goth girl at Shepard Pratt commented as I walked by, "Mm, the new girl's cute." If I'd known at the time that she was a lez, I would've frenched her on the spot. Fortunately for both of us, I didn't.

The rest of the trip wasn't nearly as eventful, mostly depressing, actually, I'm so picky when it comes to clothes and them not being completely hideous. All I ended up buying was one more shirt (bland, black, no one will ever be able to tell it from the ten thousand other ones I own), two pairs of argyle socks and matching leg warmers, and a boy's sweatshirt from Old Navy that would've cost about forty dollars more if I'd bought it at Pac Sun. But my mood overall was fabulous, because every time my dad mentioned the nerve of some guy hitting on his daughter while her father was standing right behind her, my chest swelled with pride.

Because I am a human, unlike every other girl in the world, who seems to think that it is somehow offensive that men want in your pants. And Jesus Christ if I start talking like Kelsey I will drown myself.

Plus, we stopped by Friendly's on the way home, and had some ice cream. I was already full from a pretzel at Auntie Anne's, but this is Friendly's ice cream we're talking about... I used to sit on my bed for hours and just eat their ice cream straight out of the carton while wondering why I wasn't losing weight. So even though I felt like I was going to throw up the whole time, my brain cells were shooting up on endorphin.

I am almost not depressed about school in four days.

Back From Hades

2004-08-30T08:36:00.000-04:00

Got back last night. Nine. Hour. Drive. Plus the thirty minutes where we had to stop for gas and grab some eats because we saw a Cinnabon and started salivating all over the seats... speaking of which, I'm pretty sure water is bad for leather. God, I thought I would die in that car. (...of old age, not because of the leather, although that did bother me and I spent all my [waking] time trying not to touch the seats with my hands. I spent a couple hours asleep, though, so for all I know I could've been chewing on it.)

Aside from those hours of agony where I honestly thought it might be nice of God to send an unfinished bridge our way, the trip wasn't too bad. For one, I got to experience the rush of adrenaline one can only get from waiting in a crowded airport terminal for hours of public drunkenness!

Now, in all fairness, I personally am not a big traveler (having no money), and maybe I'm merely uneducated in the ways of the airplane... but I have got to say before it kills me that this was the most ghetto thing I have ever done in my life. Maybe it's because I'm not used to airports. Maybe it's because my dad thought it would be fun to book us a cheap flight on an airplane roughly the size of a school bus. Maybe it's because the terminal we waited in -- which was not actually attached to the airport; we had to drive through miles of parking lot in a shuttle before we reached it -- was literally an otherwise empty room with two hundred plastic chairs and a bar in the corner.

The plane itself wasn't terrible, though after waiting in the terminal I was really suspecting this was something similar to a cargo plane, where we would be sharing our seats with livestock. My dad looked comfortingly AHEM relieved to see that it was a real jet, too... and he is a frequent flyer. It was a little on the minuscule side, though, and I am not lying to you when I say it seated about as many as a bus, maybe less, depending on the model.

Then God (and I hope there isn't really a god, because he is bound to be pissed at me) decided to torment me a little, just for fun, by having two gorgeous college guys (brothers, I later found out) step onto our plane... and having one of them assigned the seat directly behind me... right next to my mother. Who, by a VERY HUMOROUS stroke of irony, had offered earlier to trade me her seat so that I could have a window. But no, I had to do the polite thing, and ended up listening the whole ride to my mom ask this kid about his hot private Christian college and the ratio of men to women there. I will tell you this : it is a good ratio from the men's point of view.

There was, in God's defense, one amazing moment where we actually got to speak human words to each other; he asked me, because of something my mother had said earlier, "Do you like Linkin Park?" So I said, "They're okay." Then he said, "Do you like Nickelback?" And I said -- get this -- "They're okay." Then... and this is the best part... I said, "I like harder bands like Limp Bizkit and System of a Down." To which he responded, (are you ready for this?) "Yeah... Limp Bizkit's pretty cool." The end.

THIS is why I should NEVER be allowed to talk to the opposite gender.

So aside from the beautiful night sky yadda yadda and the thrill of having my ears pop every time we changed altitudes yadda yadda and the comfort level of wearing actual pants instead of just my underwear yadda yadda yadda I was very happy to land on the ground in Greenville, SOUTH Carolina. (I swear, it's the truth this time.)

Psychotic grandma was going to pick us up. She'd had a long talk about it with my dad.

"I really don't want you to have to drive all the way down to the airport."

"Oh, come on, there aren't going to be any taxis."

"There have to be cabs, mom, and I don't want you driving down here."

"I'm picking you up, Scott."

So she sent my aunt Jo Ellen to pick us up.

We had a good time in the car, talking mostly about the cute college guy my mother had been sitting next to, and insulting him a lot, too. My dad still thinks that he's a redneck, solely because he was wearing a baseball cap on the plane. First, he was wearing it backwards, second, he looked good in it, and thirdly, because I know my dad occasionally reads this, HE'S NOT A FREAKING REDNECK. My mom was arguing in his defense, because she thinks the two of us should get together (and she is not wrong). So when my dad asked what he was majoring in, she refused to tell him for a long time. "Come on, Deb, just tell me."

"No, you'll laugh."

"Just tell me."

"No."

"Tell me!"

"....nursing."

And everyone in the car burst into manic laughter. We sounded like a bunch of escaped mental patients, which (honestly) is mainly what the Camp family is comprised of. We all need to be locked back up.

Got to psychotic grandma's, laughed at her because she hadn't changed out of her pajamas all day though inside I was applauding her, checked out the new house which was decorated by a gay couple and is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and sat around for hours telling stories of underage drinking and my hospital partner-in-crime and idol Jamie the plastic plant extinguisher.

We got there too late on Thursday to have time for visitors, and she went to a school football game on Friday, but on Saturday came over the infamous Courtney Blue, one of my cousins about whom I'm sure most of you know how I feel. If I've never mentioned her to you because it was too painful, let me give you a quick explanation : She is a prep. I am a dropout. She wears a padded bra to conceal her lack of chest. I wear long sleeves to conceal my excess of scar tissue. She puts glittery purple shadow on her eyes. I frame mine with two layers of black eyeliner. She spends her time with her five boyfriends. I spend my time writing morbid poetry about how to more efficiently wipe the male population off the face of the planet. We are day and night, night and day, only actually I'm more a little black room with artificial lighting because I don't really like going outside.

So come Saturday. We never ended up going to see the waterfalls, because aunt Joey let slip a horrible and repulsive secret : her four-year-old daughter had never been to Chuck-E-Cheese's. OH, THE HEARTBREAK! Well, naturally my parents had to take her, though Jo Ellen threatened to shoot them... repeatedly. This actually worked out well for me because it allowed me to sleep in longer. But when I woke up, Courtney was there, and my heart froze up.

You know that thing that sometimes happens with girls where they occasionally get a little bit competitive? That. Well here was this girl that the whole family adores because she's a pretty little social butterfly who loves her family (gag me) all fixed up and chatty, while I was hiding out in my room without any makeup and dressed in a Tinkerbell nightshirt and a pair sweatpants that have been worn so many times there are holes in the knees (and probably a gaping hole in the ass I haven't noticed yet).

After a few minutes of horror and pacing, my sister dropped in to ask if I wanted to go to the mall with her and Courtney. I stared at her. She took a look at my outfit. She left. As soon -- as soon -- as I heard the front door close and the car rev up, I was out of that door and in the bathroom straightening every inch of hair that had resisted my efforts to tame it, smearing on as much makeup as I could while still looking reasonably human, and pulling on some tight clothes to show off my REAL boobs. Of course, then I had about two hours to sit around by myself and wait for everyone to come home. There was only one logical thing to do.

Cook okonomiyaki in a kitchen I have never used before!

I have actually gotten quite good now, enough so that people don't have to pretend to enjoy eating it anymore, and since I've made it about a thousand times I've got the recipe memorized and can improvise with ingredients. I rummaged through cabinets and drawers, used excessively large butcher's knives to cut carrots simply because my family has thrown out all of our knives, spilled flour all over the stove and spent half an hour cleaning it up, and contemplating opening a Sam Adams for laughs, though I decided against it because quite frankly I would like to live to see sixteen.

When Jo Ellen came back with Michelle and Courtney in tow, I was happily cooking away with my okonomiyaki frying, my noodles boiling, and my sauce all pretty and set up on the table. My aunt and grandma were fairly impressed, mainly because my parents have been telling them that I’m an incompetent nutcase for the past few months. "Is she cooking that Chinese thing?"

"It's Japanese, she told me earlier."

"Oh... well, it looks good. Courtney never cooks." This was about the point where I stopped paying attention to what was happening to my food and just listened in to what they were saying with a very scary smile on my face.

"I know how to use the microwave!" Oh, those days long ago when I used to say that.

"I'm proud, sweetheart." Then she turned to psychotic grandma who I was loving very much at the moment. "I mean, I was making scrambled eggs for John on --"

"I can make scrambled eggs!" she protested. My aunt raised an eyebrow.

"Oh yeah? How do you make them then?"

"You crack the eggs, and then you.... [scrambling motion] No, wait! You crack them in a bowl and stir them...."

"And what do you do with the skillet?"

Little pause while I completely forget to flip the okonomiyaki but don't burn it too badly. "You... make it... hot...?"

SCORE FOR CHRISTINE! I ate that goddamned delicious okonomiyaki with pride.

I'm so glad to be back home, and to live in a world in which I am actually good at something. And also a world in which the car I will be driving and crashing soon still technically belongs to my grandmother who will have to pay the damage fees. Hit and run, dollbaby.

(p.s... is anyone else having a problem with blogger making everything ten times the size it should be? if you are and know how to fix it, help me out, because I'm an incompetent nutcase)

I'm going to miss my CD shipment...

2004-08-26T11:00:00.000-04:00

In approximately nine hours I'm leaving for the airport and flying down to fabulous... North Carolina! (I've been telling you all South Carolina for days, haven't I? Well, I'm a retard. Now that we've got that out of the way....) Why are we taking a plane when it's a four hour drive? Because on the way back, we will be driving... our fabulous... new Lincoln!

Actually, it isn't exactly new, it's a model from a couple years back and used to belong to my grandmother. The sane one, naturally. Although I'm not sure if "sane" really applies to her anymore. My dad and I -- in front of my mother and sister, mind you -- were talking about possible vacation spots to hit, since obviously the Scotland thing is never going to work out. (My mom has all but chained us to the floor to keep us from going to Europe without her.) So my dad, huge fan of Mardi Gras (though what male isn't?) and slightly mental, suggests that we drive down to New Orleans!

Of course, this is the part where any sane family would argue back, "Hell no! You're not taking my teenage daughter down to the party capitol of America!" But in actuality the argument was like, "How are you going to drive back? There are laws about drunk driving."

"Christine will drive."

Then me, loudly: "In Europe, there are no drinking ages, and I could spend my time hitting it (what does that even mean, by the way?) at the local pub with guys in tartan pants."

"Pants...? Do you mean kilts?"

"No, I mean pants. Who the hell wears kilts anymore?"

"There's this guy in DC who plays the bagpipes and he's out there every day in a --"

"Prince Charles has a pair of tartan pants, god, I wish someone would tell him what a fag he looks like in them...."

And so this goes on for a couple of hours. (I am, by the way, not joking about this.) My father, not at all interested in British royalty, is trying to talk up New Orleans, because apparently he is now completely set on going. "It's amazing down there, really, it is, you've never seen shit like this before... I was at this show during Mardi Gras, and this chick had one tassel going this way --" insert hand gestures "-- and one tassel going this way!" Then this thick layer of horrified silence settles in ever so nicely.

And do you know who took him to this astoundingly intellectual show?

My grandmother. My completely *psychotic* grandmother.

.... god, I really veered off there.

Couple notes before I head off to start packing (ha ha) : Don't you dare have your Disney party without me. We'll only be spending a couple nights, I'll be back either Saturday or Sunday, depending both on how much "sightseeing" my mom wants to do in exotic North Carolina and on how long my sister can go without the internet... or South Park, really, I don't think my grandma has a DVD player. Speaking of me not being a complete freak, here's a picture I did of Pip (the little British kid from the show) and Damien (the son of Satan) disco dancing with a tube of strawberry lubricant! -\CLICK!/-

None of you are going to miss me, are you?

Utena Duels in Short-shorts

2004-08-23T12:28:00.000-04:00

You know, it's a true sign that you have no life when you spend your time creating layouts for blogs you don't even update.

But you see, yesterday (I always have excuses for everything, it almost qualifies as a skill) during one of my late night way-too-much-caffeine-need-more-roofies internet ventures, I stumbled across this anime gallery full of twelve-year-old schoolgirls... wielding weaponry! The only logical thing to do was devote a layout to one of them. (I was seriously contemplating using the one of this little brunette girl standing knee deep in a pool of blood, but she was a little too cute, and also... well... this chick's albino!)

Right. So, as I've been up all night, I think I'm off to bed. At noon. But whatever, right? Enjoy my amazing HTML skills until I return with an actual post. (Ha ha ha.)

*edit : I stuck a background music file in here because a) I love the song, and b) background music really pisses Kelsey off. Although you have to be using IE to hear it, and I'm not sure she uses it... ah well. I hope I annoy the hell outta you IE users.

Why I'm A Dropout

2004-08-19T23:39:00.000-04:00

I'm going to do something very uncharacteristic and rant about school. So sit back and enjoy the ride! (For the 1,456th time.)

Does anyone remember how Robinson kicked me out of the FCPS system for missing fifteen days of eighth grade when I actually missed fourteen? Does anyone remember the insane shit I had to go through to get back, not only into advanced classes, but into school? Does anyone remember when I flunked out of school for actually missing fifteen days and had to spend the next month being rushed in and out of hospitals? Does anyone remember that when I came back I wasn't allowed into Art I because it was full, wasn't allowed into creative writing because they were "too far ahead," and so had to take chorus instead? Where they made us give each other BACK RUBS? Does anyone remember how after getting kicked out a third time they made me sit through hours worth of testing just to see if I would be eligible for ED services? Does anyone remember how they then assigned me an at-home counselor who I met with three times a week for months? Does anyone remember how I had to take summer school courses at Robinson because my Woodson IEP was scheduled for August?

Well I do, but apparently the school system forgot, because there isn't any IEP in August. In fact, says the school system very matter-of-factly, the IEP was supposed to be in the early spring, which was when we (by "we" I am referring to the loathed-by-God/Isis/Buddha/Allah couple that is my mother and I) originally tried to set it up... and when they told us that it would be in August.

That in itself totally screwed me over, because during the IEP I was actually supposed to meet with different representatives from different schools to decide where I wanted to go. Since the IEP was scheduled for August, however, I didn't really have a choice about which school I wanted to go to, because there are less than three weeks left until school starts and the only schools that (possibly) know I exist are Woodson and Robinson. And I don't think Robinson really cares about the fact. But there are a few things that Woodson neglected to mention to me....

Yes, it is true that I went to Woodson for a tour and had the opportunity to ask them every question I wanted, and some people (like Kelsey) are going to tell me it is all my fault for not knowing any better. Well I did sit through hours of talk on the school's ED center, extra-curricular activities, classes, etc. etc. And I did ask questions. I asked if I had to take all my courses in the ED center; they said no, I only had to take three. I asked if I could skip the mandatory ninth grade Basic Skills class so that I could take Art -- a center course -- instead; they said that with my grades, it was highly possible. I asked if there were any advanced center courses; they said no, but that I could take two classes in the center and two advanced ones outside of it.

But I didn't ask whether I had two choices out of four or one choice out of two, because I didn't realize any school could have a program so stupid!

I intended to take history and social studies in the center, because who really gives a shit about either? I don't have a future in science, and I'm just plain lousy at history (probably because it's boring as hell and I have the attention span of a three-year-old child). So I would have my three center classes and be free to take advanced English and geometry (yes, I do have to take it over, so don't say a word about it) in mainstream Woodson classes.

But no-o-o-o-o-o, that would make wa-a-a-a-a-ay too much sense. In actuality, I can either take a combination of English/social studies or math/science to be my center courses. Why? Because the two sets of classes are paired together, the way our GT English and science classes were. But that was a much different situation; GT only applied to English and science, and there was only one GT class per subject per team. Forgive the redundancy. Am I the only one who finds this TOO UNBELIEVABLE for words?

At the risk of sounding like Angela Hobart, I do not exactly suck at math, nor do I suck at English. In fact, these are the only two classes I care about... at all. How can they expect me to choose? If I had a girl in my GT science class ask why penguins don't fall off the bottom of the earth, what am I supposed to expect from a class full of "average" intellect hospital-junkies? (I know from experience that we are not exactly the brightest bunch.) I'm depending on math to give me a future working behind a computer screen for some nameless corporation, but at the same time, English is my very life! THE WORD FICTIONPRESS MAKES ME SALIVATE!

(Which is sad because it's actually true.)

Anyway, my point is that I hate school. No, I hate Fairfax County School Systems. And I hate Fairfax County for paying for it. And I hate Virginia for being a confederate state. And I hate the U.S. for breaking away from Britain. And I hate the world for being an economic, nuclear machine. And I hate God/Isis/Buddha/Allah for creating it all!

Although actually Isis had no part in the creation of the earth and I don't know jack shit about Buddha... but the point is that I am pissed. Seriously. Pissed. Maybe I will go off to live at that ranch in Montana where they shear sheep and raise livestock to be processed into meat products.

This is somehow supposed to help with depression.

But quite frankly I am not sure how slaughtering animals you secretly named would help deranged minds like mine become sane again. I am actually quite sure that Hitler hated God, went to Montana, and then decided to kill all the jews because those bastards at the ranch made him eat hamburgers after watching his precious calf Buttons be sentenced to the slaughterhouse. And somehow kosher and rabbis were involved.

I can't even think properly right now. Surely it can't be natural to be both this unhinged and hated by Moses.

Pedophile Erotica

2004-08-15T21:08:00.000-04:00

The Olympics have once again returned to televisions everywhere, which means that even the athletically challenged (like me) are tuning in to watch sweaty guys with rippling muscles jump hurtles.

My dad was hanging out watching sports in the kitchen when I came in looking for some chocolate chip cookies. I take a look over at the tv and go "Wow! That guy is cute!"

And my dad turns around and responds, "I'm watching Little League Baseball."

Cold shower time!

Okonomi-yaki, Hiroshima Style!

2004-08-14T07:45:00.000-04:00

God damn I suck at keeping up with this thing. Originally, my plan was to post every few days, then it slipped to once a week, and now I've sort of reached the point where I write when -- and only when -- I've still got a hangover from my clonidine and can sit still long enough to think about what I've done in the past two weeks and then write about the whole occasion. (Singular.)

Actually, ironically, this week has been a rather social one... for... me. Now, in all fairness, I don't think anyone who reads this blog has seen me in a good four weeks at least, but I swear to god I left the house at least three whole times this week. And I've still got all of Saturday to mingle!

Now, okay, one of these occasions was actually a trip to the grocery store because I had this bad craving for okonomiyaki and doubted my mom was really going to care enough about my nutritional needs to spend an hour trying to find yakisoba noodles. But I chatted it up with the locals, so it counts as a social event, right? I mean, while I was in line, this woman with an accent (European!) turned to me and asked, "Isn't this ze express line? What is takeeng them so long?" And I was all, "Yeah, I know, man," with this really interested look on my face like every word out of her mouth was the most fascinating thing I'd ever heard. Now, because of her accent, this was actually true, but I think she was under the impression that I was giving her cheek or something.

Anyway, she didn't talk to me anymore after that. But whatever. The point is, I got out. Impressive, ne? Actually, I was on the phone with Kelsey during my whole "if I don't have some fucking okonomiyaki right now I'm going to die" thing, and she was impressed. Amazingly impressed. Insultingly impressed. She kept asking "Are you actually going to the store? Like, really?" And then she kept doing this "wow" thing over and over. It was quite offensive.

FYI -- I cannot make okonomiyaki to save my life; I somehow burned the outside, left the inside uncooked, and failed to realize how thinly chopped the vegetables were actually supposed to be.... (I had like, whole carrots just sticking out of this deformed pancake thing.) So if some really nice Japanese person would like to come over to my house and make food for me with the very expensive things I bought from Giant... I'd really appreciate it.

Oh, while I'm still mildly sober, I'd like to take this [random] opportunity to mention that I am, however poser-y, a faggy goth kid. (As Butters puts it.) Not emo. There is like, this misunderstanding circulating around that people actually become gothic by being emo. I read that somewhere and was absolutely horrified. IT'S SLANDER! As much as I hate stereotypes, and especially tailoring to them, I'm going to deny my Disney infatuation for a few months and complain constantly about how lithium turns the only minds that reject conformity into plastic Barbie dolls until this emo thing blows over, because I refuse to be a crying little pussy! (As Butters puts it once again; let's all embrace the kid.)

Right, so, now that I've got that out of the way....

Does anyone else realize that it is seven something in the morning? Someone gave me two clonidine (the bastard!) last night and I don't even remember what happened after that. Now I'm up at seven thirty. In the morning. How insane is that? It's amazing how, while one pill barely affects me (maybe I'll go to sleep at five in the morning as opposed to eight), two pills knock me out. There's a little hint for any of you that have been itching to rape me, wink wink.

Oh, apparently I'm not supposed to joke about that sort of thing, though. I spent a whole day in my sixth grade counselor's office because I told some kids I was pregnant in order to get them to shut up. I was giving an oral report and they were being too loud to be enlightened by my views on John Hancock. Well, anyway, the counselor didn't find the humor in it and made me apologize to the class because apparently "some kids might think you are serious and then tell their parents -- it makes our school system look bad." I was tempted to snap back "But I need to collect abortion money so I can pay for my nose job!"

But I didn't. I did the crying little pussy thing and apologized.

Then I did the faggy goth kid thing and defaced some school property.

Anyway, the point is that it's seven something and it's boring as hell. Anyone wanna like, go grab a coffee? Eh? Or we could like, deal clonidine and kill some people! W00t! (No, really, I'm not doing that anymore.) I believe that Grace was supposed to take us all out for ice cream and that Kelsey and Sara were supposed to take me to meet their emo friends, but apparently no one can be bothered. Not that I care right now (still hung-over) but in a few hours I'll be all "THE NERVE OF THEM! GOD DAMMIT I WANT SOME FUCKING ICE CREAM!"

So think about that.

Social Retardation : noun

2004-07-31T22:06:00.000-04:00

They (and in case you're wondering, I have no idea to whom the pronoun refers either) often say that once you learn to ride a bicycle, you never forget. Obviously this is not the case for social interaction... though I cannot be completely sure, because quite honestly I never learned how to ride a bike. This is not for lack of trying, but the first time I took my cute little pink-with-tassels-on-the-handlebars bike for a spin, I ended up in a ditch by Terra Centre full of thorn bushes and pointy rocks. (I'm not exaggerating; this really did happen. Despite the fact that my first bike had training wheels. I am really just that uncoordinated and loathed by God/Isis/Buddha/Allah.)

Venturing out into the real world -- the mall -- for the first time in two months, I realized that I actually had no idea how to function in society. While I was rather more polite than usual (at least until Wet Seal, where me and Sara practically tore up the store throwing coupons at each other and trying on every accessory they were selling) I seemed to have lost all sense of volume control... which is saying something for me, since my voice is usually at least fifty decibels above human speaking tone anyway.

The problem was that -- as I've not had a change in scenery since the Dark Ages -- everything seemed so colorful and amazing and everything in the building stimulated that little part of my brain that somehow overpowers the rest of my senses with the command "Make spastic arm movements and squeal as loudly as possible!" So if we happened by a pleated skirt, excessive shrieking. If we passed an especially preppy poncho, excessive shrieking. I believe at one point as we walked past a small child I squealed so loudly it echoed off the walls. (Speaking of which, would anyone like to loan me a baby? If I don't have a little girl or boy of my own by September I will have to kill myself.) I'd say I really embarrassed Kels and Sara, but I'm not sure they're not immune to me already.

And then Katy Bernard showed up, boyfriend in tow, wearing a purple tank top and a pleated jean skirt. Which triggered the part of my brain that cries "Make spastic arm AND leg movements and scream at offender as loudly as possible!" I controlled the urge to hit her, though, because "Jim" (I think) looked like the serious type who might've taken offence at the bloodying up of his girlfriend. Also, I don't think my very loving but very sad friends are the sort who would dive in front of me if someone pulled out a gun... so I wasn't that keen to get on anyone's bad side. I settled for voicing my extreme disappointment in her preppy attitude... and then heading into Wet Seal to try on sunglasses. Whatev.

... hmm, that didn't kill me. Interesting.

I have to admit that I was not exactly a model goth (but am I ever?) on Friday. For one, I felt it necessary to giggle like a five-year-old every time I saw a mannequin without clothes. Although, really, Hecht's didn't have to have the naked torso of a woman hanging at the front of EVERY SINGLE CLOTHING RACK. I did, however, resist the temptation to fondle them in attempt to get kicked out of the store. (Though I did have to feel up this one mannequin in Macy's who was wearing a very sexy boa. I don't think Kelsey or Sara saw that, though....) For another, whenever dragged into an especially preppy store, I did not exactly stand in the corner quietly shaking my head the whole time. Instead, I skipped around the shops picking out cute thongs and suggesting to Sara that she could pair together a pair of lacy polka dotted underwear and her dream pair of polka dotted sandals (which in any other scenario are absolutely revolting, it has to be said) for a topless dance show. She was rather offended at the suggestion, though I'm not entirely sure why. Also, I may or may not have bought a Slytherin tie at Hot Topic and during the purchase asked the very adorably outfitted cashier where I could find some gay porno magazines.

But Kelsey bought the Gryffindor one, so I'm not the only nerd here.

That is... so not even the issue, is it?

In any case, the point is that maybe people should take me outside more often so that I don't reach the point where I drool on my shirt and hump people's legs in public; this is most certainly where my behavior is heading. I mean, is it really at all appropriate to loudly discuss the sexuality of the two boys standing about a foot behind you? (Even if they do happen to be in a store like Forever 21 without any noticeable girlfriends?) No. And I would like to be able to leave the house and buy myself a pair of gorgeous boots like the guy was wearing in Hot Topic (mega-hot) without being jailed for something like... urinating in the trial perfume bottles. Which actually sounds rather fun now that I think about it....

Ah, c'est la vie.

Or, as they say in France, "Shut ze fuck up you American pig."

"No, You're Mung!"

2004-07-26T18:45:00.000-04:00

Wendi had the two of us watch a South Park episode ("World Wide Recorder Concert") together during our counseling session. It was horrifying. She was asking for little things that made me happy, and she'd already given "eating chocolate" as an example... what was I supposed to do? I blurted out "watching South Park" without thinking. At which she suggested we pop in the DVD. Right now.

Mr. Garrison : I don't think you children have been practicing your fingering!

Cartman : That's not true. Kyle was practicing his fingering with his mom last night!

Kyle : Hey!

Cartman : Yeah, Kyle's mom said Kyle's getting really good at fingering!

Kenny : [falls off chair]

Then Mr. Garrison started raving on to his father about sleeping naked in hopes that he would finally sexually molest him after 41 years.... I honestly thought I was going to die.

People's Best Dressed

2004-07-26T11:50:00.000-04:00

Recently, a rather disturbing survey debating the pros and cons of the male gender has surfaced throughout the internet, causing my personal anxiety level to mount. Not for the obvious reason that I hate them and would rather have them shipped off to some obscure planet trillions of light-years away, but because you lot obviously don't know how to choose the lucky few that stay for breeding purposes! I mean, Jesus Christ. Lesbian spokesperson of the millennia, I feel I have the most expertise in this field. (Possibly.) Let's begin the lesson.

Lesson 1) Having a defined six-pack implies that "Woah, this guy works out!" Because please, name a sport where the dominant muscle group is the abdominal region. You all seem to think that men should have these super-amazing-HOT abs (which I'm not opposed to, by the way, you have seen me go moony over Sam's sexy stomach) but then have zero-muscle anywhere else. If a guy doesn't have nice arms or legs, he probably doesn't play any sports, and the only way he would have developed abs is if he sat at home doing five hundred sit-ups each night. And, no offence to those of you guys who do this... but I would really rather not hang out with you ever.

Lesson 2) Real men have chest hair! Okay? They just do! Jesus! If you rip off Viggo Mortenson's clothes, you will notice that HOLY CRAP! he has enough testosterone to produce body hair! If you rip off Michael Jackson's clothes... well, I think I have proved my point.

Lesson 3) Real men don't cook. Okay? They just don't! No, seriously, I don't have a problem with a single guy who knows how to make himself some mac & cheese so that he doesn't like, starve to death when he moves out of his mom's house, or with a married guy who is struggling to make some insanely complicated French pastry in order to impress his wife whom he suspects is cheating on him, but... on the whole, men don't belong in the kitchen. Sexual equality my ass!

Lesson 4) You definitely want a secretive guy. If he has a penis, he will cheat on you. If "he" turns out to be a really butch girl with a strap-on, she'll probably cheat on you, too. Now, be honest : would you rather find out about Veronica two weeks after you break up with your boyfriend, or walk in on them having an experiment with Crisco in your parents' bedroom?

Lesson 5) There is absolutely nothing wrong with a smoker/abusive alcoholic/ex-con who throws plates at you when he gets pissed. In fact, it's what we've come to love about the male sex! (Possibly.)

Lesson 6) If you think it would be at all acceptable for your boyfriend to write sonnets with you as his muse and then whisper them to you as you lay in the dewy grass beneath a canopy of glittering stars, you are not only stupid and/or drunk, but potentially mad as well. What kind of pussy ass guy writes poems about love and the breaking dawn of a virgin morning? What's more, do you really want to date this guy? I bet he cries during sex and bakes cookies on your two-week anniversary. Now, sensitivity is great and all, and it's nice to wake up and realize that the guy you met at the bar hasn't banged you, left you, and given you a nice case of VD, but... come on... bringing you flowers? If you're into this sort of thing... no offense, but you should probably be dating girls.

Lesson 7) Skaters, surfers and snowboarders are all essentially the same type of guy in different climatic zones. Just... so you know.

Lesson 8) WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ARTIST GUYS?! Just because the majority of them are scary in-the-closet homosexual goths is no reason not to date them! Take van Gogh for example. The guy was so fucked up he hacked off his own ear. Aside from the fact that this is incredibly sexy, think how easy it would've been to guilt-trip him into buying you expensive jewelry! (If, you know, he'd had enough money to buy food and such.) Besides, if they're spending all their time on graphic depictions of the legions of hell, bloodshed, and mutilated children -- hey! -- at least they're not spending their time reading porn! Unless they paint naked chicks with severed limbs... then you may want to back slowly away with a gun in hand.

Lesson 9) Cuts, scrapes, bruises, scars, and indeed any form of self mutilation (including lip rings, Miranda) are amazingly hot.

IN CONCLUSION, there are really only two types of men : unacceptable ones, and unacceptable ones that have the recessive genes necessary for producing albino offspring. Thank you and goodnight, Cleveland.

Happy February 173rd

2004-07-21T08:24:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, on the eve of Valentine's Day, I thought to myself, "I should get Kelsey something to prove I love her, but I don't really want to spend any money because I don't love her quite that much." Idea! I decided that I would draw her a picture comprised of 10% love.

Well it was a hasty picture of a half-naked Sirius that I left uncolored and gave to her in a bad resolution. "Happy Valentine's!" Of course, she didn't care, because let's face it, she has more important things to get excited over.

I don't. Me and my dad decided we'd download a trial version of Jasc Paint Shop Pro while on the internet shopping for a Queen album (he repeatedly told me how queer he felt doing so, so don't mention it) and I whipped out the picture for a practice run. And here, children, it is. I spent hours on this thing, mostly trying to figure out what all the buttons did, and, you know, trying all those weird distortion effects. (I found this one that made him look like a vagina, but let's move on.) It's not fabulous, but it's my first cg, so I'd appreciate it if you'd all respond enthusiastically with "Wow, Christine, you're so talented!" And maybe some improv about how otherwise fabulous I am.

Me... I am off to go fiddle around some more with the program, eat some Cocoa Puffs, and if God is willing, get ready for the third meeting with Wendi that I'm just going to skip anyway.

Tastes Like Purple

2004-07-19T22:53:00.000-04:00

I have officially failed life. Honestly, I have just... failed. There is no salvation for me, unless I decide for some reason that there's a heaven and that I would like to go and suddenly start worshiping some sort of deity in order to get there. But quite frankly I believe that once we die our body is basically just food waiting to be processed by the earthworm's digestive track, so I'm going to plow ahead with my whole failing life statement.

It's miraculous, isn't it, that after an entire year of whining about actually missing homework and human interaction (which was the big stunner) I drop out of summer school after the first day? No, seriously, I think this has to be some sort of record. I did -- contrary to popular opinion -- at least make it to a week's worth of ninth grade. Given, this was spanned over a time period of three months, but the point is... god damn, what is my point? It's just so pathetic. I'd really prefer not having to be shipped to a residential hospital where they manually drag me out of bed, sit me behind a desk and chuck a book of world history at my head. And the thing is, I really wanted to go to summer school. I spent... Jesus Christ... hours getting ready.

I waxed my legs.

++Interlude++

(It's okay if I do another one of these, right? Whatever. It's not like you can stop me.) Girls -- and those of you particularly gay boys -- I beg you, for your own well being, don't ever attempt to wax "body, legs, arms & bikini!" with Sally Hansen's Lavender Spa Wax Hair Removal Kit. It's just... oh, god... there aren't words horrible enough for it. First of all, it isn't wax. It's more (this is me taking an educated guess, by the way) this unholy mixture of silly putty, craft glue, honey, and purple.

And I don't care what the fuck the back of the box says, it is impossible to pull that shit off fast enough to remove all the... "wax." (It kills me to say that.) Now, if you've ever used ACTUAL wax before, this isn't that big of a deal, because it washes off pretty easily in water. But oh ho ho, let's remember that this is actually purple glue pretending to be wax. So, after realizing that it's probably not fashionable to flounce around with the bottom half of my legs covered in lavender wax, I relocate myself to the bathroom and hop on the edge of my sink -- quite a feat if you've ever seen my sink -- and rinse off the residue. No, I lie. That is what would've happened in Utopia. In the real world, what happens is that my hands get stuck to my legs and that I topple backwards off the sink, making sure to bang the back of my head on the door as I go.

Not one to give up, I decide that I just need to scrub it a little. So I retrieve my hippo bath sponge from the shower and get to work. Naturally, all this accomplishes is ruining my hippo. (If you've ever seen me around stuffed animals, you know how much the damage of one affects me. I eventually decided that I would simply retire him from his bathroom post and that he would live -- still covered in wax -- in the net above my bed with the rest of my smaller animals.) Now, by this point, my Camp temper has flared a little, and after throwing some things, and successfully breaking a few, I jump into the shower to help scour the shit off.

Then of course I realize that I am still wearing clothes and after some more throwing of things (including sopping underwear) I proceed.

By now, I am terrified, because the stuff absolutely will not come off, and I have school the next day. No amount of water will take it off. No amount of soap will take it off. No amount of shaving cream will take it off (I thought I could just shave the stuff off, but I ended up breaking my razor -- literally -- in two). And, after an experiment conducted under the advice of my well-meaning mother, I realize that no amount of baby oil will take it off, though it does make me a bit slimier. After failing to wipe off the wax or baby oil with paper towels, hysteria kicks in and I start bawling at the top of my lungs.

Apparently I was howling about wanting to cut my hands and legs off, because that's when my mother flew into the bathroom crying "We could try scraping it off with a knife!"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I ended up doing. For TWO HOURS. With a PLASTIC BUTTER KNIFE from WENDY'S. I didn't have time to scrape the wax off the tub, though. In fact, I think some of it is still there.

In conclusion... please don't be so unbearably feminine that you actually try to wax your legs with purple. It can only end in tears. (Also, please don't, like... throw wax at me the next time you see me. Because really, there is no humor in that.)

++End of Interlude++

But I really cannot pull off this school thing! I don't know what my problem/disease/mental-malfunction is, but it's driving me insane. Do you have any idea how boring it is sitting on your ass at home every day? Do you have any idea how little action you get in the process? If I have to resort to home schooling next year, I will die a virgin! ... unless one of you is really drunk and Asian, then we may have to alter the rules a bit.

I find myself on occasion actually missing the hospitals, because a) I got three meals a day, and b) I got to mingle with people as darling and brain fucked as me. Woodson would be a dream-come-true, especially the ED classes, which are comprised entirely of druggies, cutters, and/or cheap prostitutes. I'm even willing to let the fact that uniforms are not required slide. (Who needs uniforms when it's acceptable to wear pleather?)

Please, help me. My only desire (aside from raping the Eyeliner Boy) is to be a normal schoolgirl again! I want to gossip about who did who, get caught copying homework because I'm the worst liar ever, and not do assignments -- even though I really want to and probably will without telling anyone.

Oh, also, could someone please help me with Spanish? By the time I actually do get back to school, the only words I'm going to remember are "hola" and "hamberguesa." Which are probably not spelled right and will probably get me nowhere in life. Unless I am ordering a hamburger at a McDonald's in Mexico. And... well, if my life ever reaches the point that I am ordering a hamburger in Mexico... I'd appreciate it if you would just shoot me and end the misery.

Don't Kill Me - Low Pain Tolerance

2004-07-14T14:40:00.000-04:00

That weird metronome bird is still in my tree... and it's storming outside. Poor thing. I'm worried about him. (Mainly because he's cute.)

Oh, and I'm aware that this is not a adequate post, but, you know, I've been busy... pestering birds, pestering Wendi, failing summer school, etc.

I should uh... probably put more about that up when I'm feeling less... frantic about my new winged friend.

Did it hurt... when you fell from heaven?

2004-06-27T21:15:00.000-04:00

Well, my mother and sister have officially set sail on the high seas for their $3,000 + cruise of the Atlantic. Which means that with a working father, the house is all mine for eleven out of twenty four hours a day. Now, to be fair, I'm probably not going to be awake for all eleven of those hours, but it only takes fifteen minutes to bring down a guy, right? And if I happen to run across eyeliner boy in the next week, that's exactly what we'll be doing.

However, as the chances of running into him are slim, and slimmer still what with me never leaving the house, I'm going to go out on a limb and say for my parents that my virginity is relatively safe.

My dad has suggested (with warm reception) that the only thing to do now is to plan our own $3,000 excursion. I suggested Europe. To be specific, I suggested England, but because plane flights keep getting cancelled due to, you know, trivial things like terrorism, I decided that Scotland would be a suitable substitute. However, though apparently the fishing is good, the scotch isn't, so in favor of a better beer country, we may be heading off to revisit our Irish roots and get drunk off our asses.

Is it really true that there isn't a specific drinking age in Europe? I mean, it's not as though I'm so irresponsible as to abuse the lack of age restriction at some seedy Irish pub, it's just that... well... if some Irish guy (or girl, I'm not picky about this sort of thing) eyes me across the bar and notices that I'm drunk and relatively skanky (i.e. easy) looking, he may try to pick me up. And I've never heard an Irish pickup line. Actually, for that matter, I've never heard an American pickup line. People just aren't as sleazy as they used to be. Still, it'd be rather sexy for some weird guy to offer me a shag. Especially if he's a redhead wearing tartan trousers. Glorious, glorious Ireland.

It's probably a bad idea for me to drink, though. For one, alcohol doesn't mix well with anti-depressants (or so I've heard repeatedly from all of my health professionals whom I suppose think I look like an alcoholic) and I don't want to puke all over my father, who's the one with the credit card. And then there's my dad himself, who's not so keen on the idea of me getting wasted. Because I am, it has to be said, a complete accent whore. It's "fancy a shag, mistress?" and I'm down on the ground with my knees in the air.

I still have the insert for SLC Punk, in case anyone's wondering.... Feh. Whatever. I'm just proud of the fact that I actually got the DVD back to him. I still have a gameboy game in my desk that I borrowed from Veena four years ago. But uh... don't let that discourage you from lending me your things in the future! On a similar note, would anyone happen to have any leather bondage pants that I could borrow? For Ireland, you know.

I really shouldn't be allowed to go abroad. Deep down, you just know that I'm going to end up in dumpster filled with broken vodka bottles after the second night. Probably with a dirty sock in my mouth and urine all down my pants. Or tights, if I'm desperate enough to wear a skirt.

Actually, wearing skirts is probably another thing I should never be allowed to do.... Well, not until I get my sex change, anyway. Because, let's face it, there's nothing sexier than a transvestite with a suede handbag and hairy legs.

Except that I'm supposed to be against masculinity now. So uh... scratch everything I just said. I just shouldn't wear skirts.

((And, by request... hi, Bright.))

Six Hundred Dollar Hell

2004-06-21T11:31:00.000-04:00

I think that it is absolutely ludicrous, having to be up before noon on a perfectly good summer Monday. Apparently I am the only one, though, since everyone I know seems to find nine o'clock reasonable "sleeping in" time. I had to wake up at eight thirty today so that I could go to Robinson to re-enroll, and it practically killed me. I screamed and wailed and kicked my father, but in the end I realized that if I didn't wake up I wouldn't have time to straighten my hair, and then of course mountains would crumble and the sky would rain fire.

Mrs. Wilson (family friend) had to drive me and father dearest to Robinson, because my mother has taken the only functioning car to South Boston. Crazy Grandma fell and broke her ankle, and needs her daughter to console her about this near-death experience. Everyone else was out of the house when the phone call came from her nursing home. I was, of course, on the toilet. (This seems to be one of the key triggers for callers. The very second I pull my pants down, without fail, the phone rings. So to those of you who have had to wait thirty minutes before I actually picked up the phone... this is probably why.) I couldn't understand most of what the answering machine was picking up, because the nurse had the most horrible southern accent in the history of man, but I made out "she's in the emergency room" and panicked. I was afraid, you know, that she was dying.

Not that I have any objection to this, because quite frankly she's too old and sickly to be anything but a burden to herself and everyone around her, and it's probably in her best interest to get it over with and die. I would, however, feel guilty if Crazy Grandma kicked the bucket while I was taking a dump.

But no. She had fallen down and broken an ankle. They had to operate. Inside, I was rolling my eyes. Actually, I was rolling my eyes on the outside, too, which is why my mother smacked me and insisted that we all go down to South Boston to keep her company during this long and lonely experience. But thank Moses for Wendi, who called the social worker at Robinson and realized that my Woodson IEP was scheduled for late August, that I needed to be enrolled in a school to sign up for a summer program, whose deadline is the 22nd of June, and that to get this set up I would just have to sign up for Robinson courses on Monday. So my mom left without us. Boo hoo.

And Robinson was, I just have to say, spectacularly fun. First, I got to sit down and chat with my case worker, Chris Veney, who - as it turns out - has nothing to do with school registration or summer school. So that was fun. For the most part, my dad and I just sat around in his office while he went around getting information from more competent school administrators. Then we walked back through the sweltering heat and waited for Mrs. Wilson to come pick us up, holding two forms that we could've just printed off the internet, which makes the whole trip completely pointless in my opinion, but what do I know. Upon her arrival, we remembered that - hey! - I have a yearbook that Michelle forgot (I use this term loosely, because the truth is she didn't really give a shit, and confessed later that it would be altogether easier if I just went to the school and picked it up for her) to get, so we marched back into the school and searched for ages for the yearbook room. Which is apparently right next to the English class I was almost in. Huh. No one was there (of course) so we had to go beg some staff members from the ninth grade subschool to come unlock the door and steal us a yearbook. Which they did. Seriously. They didn't even check my name. They just handed me a yearbook and assumed I was telling the truth about having prepaid. Which is so horrible a judge of character that I suspect one or both was dropped on their head as a child.

But now the torture really begins, because on July 14th I bravely make my way back to what I suppose classifies as school, though I have to pay $600 for it and don't even get to wear a uniform. Well, I could, but let us remember that these are the sorts of classes Lauren Boyle will be attending, and I really can't see any of my skirts making it through the month intact.

Which reminds me for the second time that I really, really sympathize with the whole low-cut shirt thing. I really do. As an aspiring Amazon, I'm offended that men would eye women like objects, but as an aspiring lesbian and/or gender corrected male, well... you did put 'em on display for us, sweetheart.

Hahaha.

I would appreciate it if no one would beat me senseless with spatulas for saying that.

For the Eyeliner Boy

2004-06-08T17:20:00.000-04:00

I have... how many entries? Four? And already, I am slacking off. Which is a little sorry, even for me. And I'm fairly confident that even if I posted a jumbled slur of swear words and teddy-bear porn up here every day, people would view that as an accomplishment. (Actually, my dad stumbled across that "spankme.jpg" image the other day. He was, to be blunt, horrified. He mentioned the picture to me while I was drinking at the kitchen table. I may have been shocked. I may have squirted some form of liquid out of my nose. "How did you even come across it?"

"You saved the file onto my computer, Sherlock."

"There are lots of files saved onto your computer."

"Well 'spank me' stood out a little."

"Oh. My. God. Were you looking for porn?"

"What does it matter?"

"I can't believe you! Are you actually going to lecture me now? You have some nerve coming -"

"Christine, you put a stuffed animal in a thong!")

But I would like to state, for the historical record, that I can't be faulted for this serious lack of updating. After all, I'm crazy. And maybe I overuse this excuse, but you know what? I don't care. It's a damn good excuse. It rivals "I have cancer." "I have a mental disease" is like a get out of "haul your lazy ass out of bed already it's three in the afternoon and you've been reading Japanese porn for the past four hours!" free pass. And I have hospital bands to prove it.

There are advantages to wearing those things like jewelry. People take you more seriously. Or at least pretend to, to your face, so that you don't get... upset... and claw theirs off, for example. Also, they are very stylish.

Still, I find it unfair that you've all been deprived of my brilliance for almost a week now. I worry sometimes that some people know so little about me that they actually have shreds of sanity left. So, to make amends, here's a recap of the highlights.

Thursday : Sitting around on my ass reading Japanese porn.

Friday : The traumatizing experience of watching the third Harry Potter movie. Equally as traumatizing, Wendi was introduced to Kelsey and Sara. Though I suppose that was probably more traumatizing for her than anyone else. Especially as Sara brought with her a Tinkerbell doll. Whom I love with all my heart and have already created a little shrine to in my closet. Sara I don't love. Because she and Kels wouldn't let me go back to get the phone number of my soul mate (possibly). I met him coming out of the movie theater. He was so pretty. With dark curly hair. And blue eyes. And eyeliner. HE WAS HONEST TO GOD WEARING EYELINER. But thanks to my sensitive friends, I will now never again see him, and possibly never bang him.

Saturday : Told Bright I would hang out with him. But lied. On accident.

Sunday : Told Bright I would hang out with him. Again. But lied. Again. On accident. I don't really think I have to bother saying "again," but I will anyway : again. I did, however, collect myself after a few hours of mental void (cousin to the brain fart, only louder and equipped with the potential to stain) and met with Shawn over an innocent cup of coffee. Only the mental void had obviously paralyzed my judgment, because I thought it might be fun to wear that beautiful plaid skirt that I bought at Hot Topic, which I don't even feel guilty about because the skirt is truly God with pleats. Of course, I haven't worn a skirt since the unfortunate Honor Society incident, so I probably should've expected to get laughed at. Which I did. I also got honked at. I'm not sure if this was a good or bad thing, because I couldn't make out what the guy was saying. But if it was anywhere along the line of "How much?" then the night was a complete success.

Monday : Actually got together with Bright. He was, unfortunately, too late to meet Wendi, which is probably for the best anyway. I was a horrible hostess, though. Absolutely horrible. For a couple hours he just sat on my bed watching me clean. Exciting! Ish. (I finished the job today, and my room is sparkling; of course, now my cat will probably come in while I'm not looking and puke on my carpet.) Then I sprayed Windex in his eyes and he coughed a little bit of an attitude about that. So we left to do some... ah... stuff. But not the stuff you are thinking of. Unless your idea of a "good time" is digging graves for three-year-old mealworms with plastic spoons. In which case you need to get laid. Bad.

And I suppose Tuesday would be today... which has been spent primarily picking dead insects out of my carpet. Still, all had been going relatively smoothly until a couple of hours ago. When I realized after downing an entire bottle of water that we have no toilet paper. Which is the actual reason that I am writing this. Because sometimes crossing your legs really tight and maybe doing a little dance every now and then is just not enough. And I figured that distracting myself with my own madness would be killing two birds with one stone, since my blog is seconds away from deteriorating into sanity anyway.

But it turns out that I was wrong. Because now I have to pee a lot worse. Every... word... is... agony....

Okay. Eyes are tearing up. I'm officially off on the search for scrap paper/fabric/razorblades that can be used to absorb my bodily fluids. Also, if my bladder bursts and my urine floods my intestines, causing me to die a slow and painful death, please, please make sure that none of my stuffed animals go to charity. Because poor kids might get them dirty.

P.S.

2004-06-02T20:49:00.000-04:00

Those are pigtails I'm wearing.

Why Post-Its Won the Nobel Prize

2004-06-02T20:22:00.000-04:00

Mmm. Beautiful month, June. Warm sun... bird song... the sound of children laughing... the sweet promise of summer.... You only have to step outside to see....

Well, I step outside and the very first thing I see is a cicada who actually rolls over and dies five inches away from me. No joke. He stops walking, rolls over onto his side, and... dies. Literally... dies. I checked. So I run screaming back inside.

Then my counselor comes a knockin' and all the pieces of my life fall into place.

Delicious. How's everyone else's summer going?

Today Wendi and I worked on my "treatment plan." Because I'm a sick bitch and need to be cured. (So watch out; if I bite you, the disease filters through your blood and into your brain, and you become a fully-fledged highschool dropout every full moon.) We've targeted my three key obstacles in "life" - amusant, non? - as low self esteem, depression, and anger management. Which I would now like to explain off in excruciating detail.

a) Low Self Esteem : because I eat too much ice cream.

b) Depression : because my parents only buy the crap sugar-free kind now.

c) Anger Management : because NO ONE WILL PAY FOR MY FUCKING LIPOSUCTION.

[And here, whatever record you're playing comes screeching to a halt. Despite the fact that no one listens to records anymore. But CDs can't exactly come screeching to a halt. And even if they could, it'd make a really awful phrase.]

I would like to scratch that last remark from the record. In fact, I'd like to announce in front of everyone that I, Christine Alexandra Camp, am not fat. Do you girls in the back hear that? I am. Not. Fat. Uproar! Pandemonium! Holy Mary mother of Jesus, did a teenage girl just deny the fact that she could rent out her ass as an apartment for midgets?! Well, Mother Mary, she did.

So please, please, please... can we all? I can understand that maybe we, as women, are insecure about our hips, or our thighs, or our morbidly obese Brazils, but if you really made walls shake as you walked down hallways, don't you think someone would've speared you with a harpoon by now?

Case in point : I have the mental capacity of a rodent, because I meant to be talking about my session with Wendi.

Working on the treatment plan took up the good part of an hour, but according to the school system, she's supposed to stay for two, so she pulled out a huge pad of pink and yellow post-its to do an "activity" with. And I don't think I need to explain the apprehension I felt about any activity that involved multicolored post-its and a mental health professional.

Actually, it wasn't as sadistic as I had originally imagined. The basic idea was to write up a list of all the negative things I think about myself, and then to counter each one with a positive self-statement. Which I personally think is ludicrous, because if you think that you're a complete retard when it comes to athletics (for example), what positive statement can you make about that? That you're just the hottest thing ever when you're (for example) crashing face-first into the cement whilst in the process of chasing a tennis ball? But Wendi turned my "Uhh... I guess uh... well there's that Japanese video game... I'm kinda good at that...." into "Dance Dance Dance I'M A DANCIN' MACHINE!" So we took care of things.

Of course, the brilliant bit is that each one of these positive self-statements is now on a yellow or pink post-it slapped on various walls of the house. It freaked the hell out of my family. My sister came into my room looking for a comic book and stopped breathing for a second. "What... did you... do...?!" My mom didn't overreact quite so much.

"Christine, is it not enough that you talk to yourself?"

You know what, I really don't think you can appreciate the true genius of this until you see it. Here is a picture of my main wall, the one where most of the post-its are now living. I couldn't get them all into the picture, but you get the gist. This is my bookshelf area, about which I need to clarify a few things. Yes, that is a glass cow on the top right. Yes, that is a Ron doll on my top shelf. Yes, that is a Rabbit figurine right next to him. And yes, I really do feel it necessary to own that many different deodorants. Here's the bathroom, and this and this and this are some lovely close-ups of some personal favorites.

And here's my old school uniform for no reason! Oh please, it was practically crying when I whipped out the camera.

Two things I'm going to note before I run : 1) Wendi left me a big stack of blank post-its when she left. You know what this means. 2) She left her phone number. Again.

Do you think she wants sex?

The Vagina : An Essay

2004-05-31T19:56:00.000-04:00

For years, my major aspiration in life has been to grow up and fulfil every feminist's dream of becoming an Amazon. This is not for my incredible athletic skill (of which I have none), but for the fact that within the first ten minutes of meeting any given guy one of my female friends had to introduce me to, I have the itching desire to rip off his head, spear it on a large wooden stick (preferably adorned with tribal runes and feathers), and write limericks with his blood.

Given, this may be a bit on the "extreme" side, but the simple fact of the matter is that boys are really less of an opposite gender than an entirely different species. Too much testosterone. Shawn argues that he doesn't have that much testosterone anyway, but then, he also found it perfectly acceptable behavior to bring up bikini waxing. For no reason. Just, you know, as a conversation topic.

"That must hurt a lot."

Meanwhile, I am squirming around on the couch with my legs wrapped around each other at least three times, pretending that I don't have the lower half of my body. I assume that Shawn can't actually see this, so I make sound effects to keep him up to date with my level of torture.

"You sound like you're crying over there."

"It's just so WRONG! Morally WRONG! Why? WHY?!" There's a pause while I die a little inside. "I mean, who would PAY to have people VIOLATE them?"

"...proud to own a jungle, Christine?"

Which may top Sam's "So... uh... do girls masturbate as much as guys do?"

Really. I may happen to be the type of person who actually finds this sort of thing amusing, but how many girls out there are capable of discussing the forbidden love between them and their... let's just say "sock," without spewing chunks? I mean, is this socially acceptable behavior? Or do I just have this quality about me that screams "Please, ask me about my crotch!"? Not that I mind talking about the whole vaginal region, but it would be nice, if only once in awhile, someone came up to me and complimented my shirt, or asked for my opinion on gay marriage.

Which I would be more than happy to share. Because no matter what your sexual orientation, you shouldn't be denied the rights our forefathers died fighting for! Etc, etc....

Not that this phases guys. I get as far as "Because no matter what -" before someone interrupts with "Wonder what it's like to get fucked up the ass." Proof : Shawn literally just asked me "If I were a girl, trying to get this guy to do me, how would I slide that into the conversation?"

How do I... how do I...? Are women actually expected to mate with one of these? Are we encouraged to create more of these? Because quite honestly, I'm not sure if I'm up to that. I'm not sure if I could live with the guilt. In fact, I can't even think straight right now. The urge to rip out someone's testicles with my bare hands is rising.

So I'm going to leave you with this touching quote from Kelsey.

"There's something pointy in my underwear, and it's really hurting."

Pan's Alleged Affair

2004-05-28T11:58:00.000-04:00

Wendi should be here in about an hour.

Not, of course, that I'm going to meet with her.

Quite frankly, I'm sick of her. I'm not planning to stop seeing her entirely, you know, because she's one of those "last resort" counselors. The moment I tell her to fuck off, burly guys in white burst through my window and stab ridiculously oversized syringes into my veins. Then I wake up two weeks later surrounded by black-haired girls so bandaged that you can't see anything except their hands, which are busy setting fire to stuffed rabbits.

(I did honestly meet this one chick at Shepard Pratt who quite conceivably did that sort of thing in her spare time.)

Now, Wendi's a nice person, and does share her namesake with a certain pixie-dust huffer I'd sell my soul to play horseshoes with, and maybe the polite thing to do would be to call her up (she's given me her number so many times that I wonder if she sits around all day crying and waiting for clients to call and make her troubles seem lessened by comparison) and tell her that I won't be able to attend today's session because I'm having a bad day and am bleeding profusely from my wrists. Or something similar. But the very fact that she entered the mental health field in the first place seems sufficient reason to punish her.

No, really. I am always so insanely polite to these people. I sit there with my hands in my lap, smile whenever they make a joke (even if it's terrible and insults blacks and jews in the same sentence) and answer all their questions as truthfully as I can without committing myself to another hospital. (Because the burly guys in white really do just wait outside the door for me. I've seen them go running when I take a bathroom break.) But the fact of the matter is that these people are trained to deal with crazy shits every day. And it seems so useless to waste all that training. The true measure of a therapist is how quickly they can get a patient down from a ceiling fan without being speared through the heart with one of the thousands of forks the kid's got up there.

But even I'm not that much of a bitch. I'm settling for having her bang on the door for thirty minutes and maybe hurling feces at her from my window.

Although the med guys in white might not react so kindly to that.

The Fifteenth

2004-05-24T22:14:00.000-04:00

It's always old people that get depressed on birthdays. (And by old, I mean, of course, being over thirty.) But quite frankly, so do I. While most teenagers are "one year closer" to getting their driver's license, or "one year closer" to their first [legal] drink, I consider myself to be "one year closer" to death. And yes. Yes I am aware that I am not quite over the hill. Yes I am aware that I have not even glimpsed "over the hill." Yes I am aware that I have not even seen the hill itself because I'm off in Neverland being served breakfast in bed by Captain Hook. Hot.

But that is... not the point.

The point is that there are so many things I've wanted to accomplish by fifteen. Smoking my first cigarette. Losing my virginity. Touring Florence with my thirteen Chinese grandchildren. What's the point anymore? Menopause is just around the corner and soon I'll need a servant named "Emilio" to lug around the pancake shaped sags of skin that used to be breasts. I feel a cry coming on.

But I am not one to just sit around all day, not going to school, eating donuts, and poring over the suck factor of my life. That just isn't me. (Ish.) So I can quite honestly say that I did at least make an attempt this year to rouse myself out of the bone-crunching depression associated with age and get up off my lazy fifteen-year-old ass to have fun.

So, basically, I spent today in Wonderland watching blood gush out of animated playing cards with Bright. I'd like to think we bring out the best in each other.

Yet gothic Victorians and demented rabbits in overcoats only last for so long. Because for some mad reason my parents thought it might be appropriate for me to spend my birthday with the ones responsible for my conception. (Though I've told them multiple times, "You're the dumbasses who didn't use a condom." And while this usually offends my mother, my dad always gets this wistful look in his eye and responds sadly, "Yeah, I know.") So at six thirty they made me put on real pants (i.e. not purple SpongeBob ones) and go out with them to Bertucci's.

Actually, while I usually hate any excuse to breathe the same air as my parents, I really do love Bertucci's. Because the bread is good and everyone dresses in black. And for some reason, we always have one of the gothic waitresses bring us bread. And by gothic, I don't mean "black eyeliner." I mean "multiple lip rings and pink hair." Truth be told, we actually had an old Italian woman bring us bread. But we did have a chick with spiked black hair and a dog collar bring us pizza. I'm not going to lie. I would've had sex with her right there on the table, in front of my parents and everything. When she handed me my plate she said, "Here you go." I said, "Thanks."

Perhaps I would've asked for her number if what we had actually said was "Here you go" and "Thanks for the oral sex."

And it didn't hurt that the guy who actually waited on us was drop-dead gorgeous. Seriously. Gorgeous. Despite the fact that he had [cringe] brown hair and [cringe] tan skin. Apparently he kept asking if I needed a refill for my Sprite, because my mom would hand him my cup after glaring at me every time he came over. Probably because every time he did I readjusted my hair and make sure to lean over enough that he could see how lovely and un-saggy my breasts are. I didn't even make him pay the price for asking, "Are you done with that?"

++Interlude++

Does anyone else find it annoying that whenever you're done eating at a restaurant, the waiter always asks if you're finished with your plate before actually taking it away? I mean, come on. Do you see any food on my plate? Do you see me using my silverware? Do you see that I have pushed the plate two feet away from me so that I can paint my toenails in the space it formerly occupied?

So one day, while we're eating at some Mexican restaurant, the waiter asks "Are you done with that?" And while he's in the process of reaching for the plate, I decide to retaliate against this shameless waste of conversation.

"No."

Everyone at the table just stops whatever they're doing to stare at me. "Excuse me?"

"No. I'm not done with this yet. If you don't mind, I'd like to finish licking the refried beans off the plate." I then proceed to do so.

My parents and I had a long, long fight when we got home.

++End of Interlude++

So by the time we had left, no plate licking had been done, no waiters had been harassed, and Mr. Gorgeous wished me a "Happy Birthday" twice. Score.

All in all, it's been a relatively painless birthday. Even if I am lacking thirteen of thirteen Chinese grandchildren. After all, we had cake. With my name on it in blue icing. And I decided that since it was my birthday, we should all let our hair down a little and eat using only our fingers.

Which we did. Just to humor me. Even though it was ice cream cake and melted all over the table.

Also, I may or may not have caught my hair ablaze whilst trying to blow out the candles.

But it didn't burn for long.