children and seizures

Yeah, sorry for the previous entry. I guess basing an entire entry on the results to an online test is pretty sneaky, huh?

But hey, word on the street is that I got a seperate diary. And consequently, word on this hypothetical street happens to be true.

Both diaries serve their own specific purposes -- this diary is to escape the pain, while the other was spawned to examine the pain.

For those of you who have no idea what I mean by 'the pain,' don't worry, you're not missing much. As much as I'd like to break down and pollute this diary with explanations and complaints and such, I've found that the vast majority of those I've spoken with see whatever it is they want to see. It makes no difference if I feel dead inside, because damnit, if I haven't committed suicide yet or haven't at least tried, that severely lowers the urgency of my depression. There's always some other fool threatening to commit mass homicide with a cold fish who takes priority over me.

But hey, that's all right. Cold fish are -- cold, and stuff.

So what I'm trying to say, I guess, is that I don't want to get my hopes up that perhaps someone will willingly listen, since the entire situation isn't that important, really.

It just seems like it, when you'd prefer going throughout the entire school day without talking to anyone, but then you cry over your pathetic lack of friends.

But hey, that's all right. Everything ends up being all right.

In other news, the last three minutes of gym were, uh, intriguing. This chick, Tia, runs over to Mrs. Hart, who happens to be my gym teacher. Tia urgently insists that Mrs. Hart should make it speedy with locking up her office, and then begins swiftly walking down the hallway towards the locker room exit.

'This'd better be good, Tia,' Mrs. Hart says, fumbling with her key.

Seconds later, I discover that Tia is aparently going to point out a tasty guy to Mrs. Hart.

This said 'tasty guy' is a junior in high school.

Mrs. Hart is in her 40s.

Mrs. Hart is also married.

Needless to say, I'm not quite understanding why a 40-year-old woman is this frantic to see a junior.

By the time Mrs. Hart locks up her office, Tia's already halfway down the hallway. Mrs. Hart runs, yes, runs to catch up with Tia, and they then stand near the threshold to the electronics department, waiting for this guy who is supposedly tasty to emerge.

Meanwhile, most of the girls have emptied out of the locker room and are peering around the corner, interested as to whether or not this guy is tasty or not.

The guy looked like a McDonald's employee.

I'm not sure what that says to you, depending on whatever part of the world you're from, but what it says to me is that he's definitely not at the top of the heap of those deemed tasty.

Although, a year or two ago, there was this hot guy who worked at McDonalds, and when he saw my friends and I, he began pretending he was smoking weed and shooting himself up with heroin.

Or maybe that was when he saw Carissa.

Carissa once asked me, 'Kate, how do you think people figured out that doing it made babies?'

Another time, she queried, 'Do you know what a wong is?'

'A what?'

'A wong.'

'What the hell is a wong?'

'That's what I was wondering! Val and some other --'

'Oh, Val? Sure you don't mean bong?'

'Bong? What's a bong?'

True story, folks. Good times, good times.

A few weeks later, Val began casually instructing us as to how to construct a crack pipe out of a pen.

I think it goes without saying that Val is, to put it eloquently, fucked up.

But yeah. Hot guy. McDonald's. Everyone kept wanting to go up to the front counter and ask for another kiddy cone (they're these whacked-out ice cream cones that are, as the name suggests, pitifully small, and also free). When I decided to dive onto the bandwagon, I went up and asked for one. Seemingly frustrated with this horde of underaged girls in junior high, he attempts to swirl as much ice cream as science would allow onto the cone.

And that, my friends, is a damn lot of ice cream. For a cone that dinky, that's just an insane quantity of ice cream, enough to give a small child a seizure.

I never liked children.