the past week
Heh, that was just eerie. Just as I was considering writing an entry, sliding the mouse towards my multipurpose Notepad document, KERNEL32.DLL causes an infinite army of fatal errors to corrupt Explorer and then proceeds to lock up my computer.
Moving along, more people than expected wished me a happy birthday (after I informed them cheerily that it was, in fact, my birthday). Resa and I called Bryan after school, where it was unanimously confirmed that Bryan's voice is saturated with the syrup of a Texan accent. After the call was suddenly drawn to a close and Resa was shoved out the front door, compliments of my mom, I discovered that three mid-quarters had arrived in the mail announcing that I was failing three separate classes due to the bulk of homework I had missed during my week absent from school. It didn't faze me, considering I knew that once I completed and handed in the several shards of unfinished homework I'd be passing -- my mom, however, deemed it necessary to beat the topic into the ground until it bled profusely and began to experience respiratory difficulties.
On Friday I attended the final installment of pep band (i.e., the band ventures to a sporting event and performs and BORES THE LIVING FUCK OUT OF ME). I was prepared to dash my head against the brick wall of the gym and allow the my surroundings to blend into one another. I recognized several numbfucks on the basketball team, all of whom have insulted me derisively on multiple occasions. Thus, all of these factors combined contributed to my temporary bout of insanity when every goddamn member of the basketball team and their parents were introduced and given flowers. And then the members of the dance team were brought forward, introduced along with their parents, and presented with flowers. And after that each of the cheerleaders skipped forward and were introduced with their equally bubbly parents, and then were handed flowers of their own. As I leaned against the wall throughout the entire cult-esque ceremony, my eyes bulging from their sockets in rage, I weighed the pros and cons of slamming my face into a nearby drinking fountain and drowning myself.
After every groupie in the entire state of Minnesota had received a hug from their parents and a rose, the band performed a rendition of the national anthem, a performance that I was not included in due to the fact that there were a limited amount of snare drums, limited enough so that I was the only percussionist excluded. Within seconds, everyone had bounded to their feet and slapped a hand over their heart, facing the flag --
that I soon realized was directly above my head. I pretended that the entire mass of those congregated in the gym were worshipping me, as my bitterness prevented me from bending over backwards or turning to pledge allegiance to a drinking fountain. I could read the deep, profound thoughts running through the minds of those present as they saluted the underlying purpose of the United States: 'What the fuck is that little blonde girl doing there?'
Once the game itself had actually began, I couldn't bring myself to endure the suffering longer than a half hour, especially when you account for the fact that the cheerleading squad had decided to pretend that I was merely a crumbling section of the brick wall and set up camp directly in front of me. I immediately fell in love with a particular cheer they chanted joyously in unison:
I would've been in stitches had I not been more intent on conspiring a plan of escape. I debated whether or not I should boot the cheerleading captain in the ass instead, but then realized that the pudge therein would absorb most of the impact.
The game had been in session no more than a half hour before I slinked under the bleachers and out of the gym, retreating to the band room to gather my jacket and such. Glancing at my watch, I noticed with scorn that thirty minutes remained until my dad arrived to cart me home (I requested that he pick me up at 9:00 pm, you realize, which was already approximately an hour before the game was schedule to end had it not run late). Therefore, I called Pat via a nearby phone with the intent of conversing with him until my time to flee had arrived.
However, fifteen minutes later I overheard a conversation taking place between two band members outside the doors preceding the band room.
'She's been on the phone for twenty minutes now,' a whiny female voice chimed. 'Why the fuck did she sign the [attendance] sheet if she never plays?'
Characteristic male mumbling echoed her complaint, and then more audibly: 'God, she does jack shit during performances and when she uses the phone. I actually need to make a call.'
'Go kick the bitch off, then,' the girl replied.
Suddenly torn down from the lighthearted disposition I had experienced while ranting to Pat, I instantly ended the call with no explanation provided just as the stooge approached requesting usage of the phone.
'Go ahead,' I murmured, slamming the receiver into its cradle and scooping my jacket up from its slumped position on the floor.
I could easily play if I wished during pep band performances, but its obvious how much the other percussionists enjoy contributing to the music, while I would be playing out of necessity and boredom. Why deny them that?
On Saturday I went out to lunch with my parents and my aunt and uncle in honor of my birthday. We ate at a Japanese restaurant in St. Paul, where I found immense amusement in teaching my parents and my uncle how to use the provided chopsticks. My aunt refused to try, claiming that the last time she had attempted to do so she had flung rice at a person dining at a neighboring table.
The end.