pre-birthday rants
Last night Resa trekked up the puddle-speckled street to my house, where we spent a half an hour staring with frustration-bulged eyes at a minute chunk of technology. Damn, I didn't think a digital camera with eight godforsaken buttons wouldn't invoke such a high degree of anguish. After we managed to render it useful, we ventured to a nearby park and took several pictures until the four AA batteries within the silvery-hued equivalent of mystery meat sunk and slept with the fishes (figuratively; I wasn't that pissed off, luckily for the survival of humanity). When our means of entertainment drifted off into mechanical comatose, we plodded in the direction of Resa's, and several rounds of Super Mario Kart ensued once we arrived. We then watched The Princess Bride, a movie I realized I had already seen once a bald midget waddled into view with his constant squealing of the word 'inconceivable.' I especially enjoyed Westly's explanation as to why Prince Humperdink would be allowed to retain possession of his ears ('...and every woman that looks upon you and shrieks, 'Dear God, what is that thing?' will echo in your perfect ears...'). When the movie came to an appropriately corny closure, Resa and I mulled upstairs and plopped in front of the computer, where Mouse informed us excitedly of the new layout Padhraig had assisted her in molding. We viewed Mouse's diary as she had enthusiastically encouraged us to do so, and although we weren't especially impressed, Resa and I both agreed that the layout was adequate in form. I mentioned to Resa, however, that while the layout was relatively uncluttered and the picture was on the brink of adorable (I have a soft spot for clown fish, you see), the text in the entry portion didn't extend entirely to the opposite end of the table. I offered to fix the text alignment for Mouse, since I was bored off my ass anyway (so bored that I painted my fingernails with nail polish that was idly sitting upon the computer hutch, something I've found frivolous since grade school), and she allowed us to do so though her response seemed neutral. It took less than a minute to sort through the disgustingly unorganized code and doctor the appearance of the table, but after I had done that, Resa and I began noticing several other aspects of the design that didn't match color-wise or seemed unfitting to the sleek movement illustrated in the image. We even slipped on our shoes and hurriedly treaded back up to my house so that we could search for the Paint Shop Pro 6 CD ROM and install it on Resa's computer in order to improve the color scheme of the links. We spent somewhere within the vicinity of ten or twenty minutes examining the layout meticulously and fiddling experimentally with the HTML as we saw fit, and once we had established that we had immensely bettered the quality of the layout, we sent the HTML file off to Mouse and requested her feedback. Much to our delight, Mouse loved it, so we replaced various text areas with the corresponding DiaryLand PHP code. Just as we were about to save the HTML in a nicely-wrapped *.txt file and ship it off to Mouse, my vivid imagination poked and prodded me with an idea.
'Wait,' I suddenly chirped, reopening the file with a Cheshire Cat-esque grin plastered upon my face. I added embedded code within the HTML, in the event that Padhraig may perhaps view the source of Mouse's diary to observe the changes made to the design he coined.
For the remainder of the evening, Resa and I kept raving in mock disbelief over how much we so obviously rule. This mentality was quickly abandoned when I returned home and Pat and I engaged in conversation for an hour or so (it wasn't because Pat stripped me of my self-worshipping tendencies, you realize). I was reminded of another highly amusing quotation from The Princess Bride: 'Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who tells you differently is trying to sell you something.' And anyone who doesn't agree with the above quotation is either giddy from the influence cocaine or has spent far too long gazing at his or her numerous Backstreet Boys posters.
This morning when I stumbled groggily into the bathroom to take a shower, I was wrought with surprise and confusion to see a slender gray cat body draped over the shelf nailed into the wall above the sink, languid eyes flecked with gold watching me from above. Judging by the thick clouds blanketing the sky and the fact that my eldest cat was curled up upon the highest accessible point in the house, I assumed that the granddaddy of all snow storms was readily approaching. I pulled back the dust-coated drapes, which immediately made Simon's body go rigid as he peered with genuine interest outside the window.
Earlier today as I was coming back from coffee, a memory came out nowhere. A memory of a weekly tradition that occurred every Monday while I was a fourth-grader in elementary school. Mrs. Anderson, who was quite possibly the reincarnation of Hitler, would lean forward as she sat perched upon her stool, clasp her hands together, and invite us to share stories with the class regarding weekend events and such. Every time this said tradition was honored, I'd raise my hand eagerly and, once called on, I'd improvise and invent a humorous story to draw laughter from my impressionable young classmates. Eventually, Mrs. Anderson caught on and began asking me questions so that I could further explain the happenings within my stories. When my reasoning began to break down, she demanded coldly that I not formulate fictitious stories in the future. Goddamn, at least my stories held some degree of entertainment, regardless of the truthfulness.
I turn fifteen tomorrow. The fleeting joy that's said to embrace you on your birthday must be frightened by the prospect of hugging me, because disappointment seems more prominent than happiness come February 25th. It's vaguely depressing that usually only three people acknowledge my birthday per year, even among my friends. But I digress.
If you leave me a note tomorrow, I'll be your friend forever, as I'm sure that sweetens the pot.