orange pop

My other diary is becoming like a glass overflowing with orange pop. Initially it seems like a beneficial habit to incur, just as orange pop is housed within a visually appealing can. But once poured, you suddenly realize that those goddamn laborers have decided to take revenge in honor of their pitiful daily wages and have inserted the can with more pop than customary. Within seconds, pop is spilling over the rim of the glass and foam is lurching forward from the puddle of orange.

Basically that entire paragraph translates into the following: "I decided I'd post my daily school day-elaboration on this diary instead of the alternate one because, unlike my alternate diary, people actually read this diary, for the sake of everything sane."

My dad just showed me what formerly served as our lovebird's food dish. Apparently while we were basking under the clear cerulean skies of southern California, grass sprouted from the seeds in Olly's feed bowl.

Note to self: When the bird is screeching so loudly that its incessant peeps overpower a male voice on the telephone, it's trying to communicate that it's slowly dying, not that it's intimidated by the cat or drunk with fun sliding down the bars of its cage.

Anyway, this morning before school I popped online to check my mail and delete the daily hordes of ravenous spam, and while doing so I noticed that Pat was on MSN Messenger. He told me a piteous story that vividly illustrated his fatigue. On Saturday while I was visiting Pat in California, I gave him a copy of Suikoden 2 as a birthday gift despite the fact that his birthday would not arrive for another four days or so. Much to my delight, he claims to like the game a lot and plays it often, as well he should considering what I paid for it. I bought that godforsaken game for half of what I hacked up to purchase it this time around, granted I found my copy two or three years ago. But I digress. Pat told me that because of his staggering exhaustion, he dreamt while he was comatose in his wooden chair that he was in the middle of a trademark Suikoden 2 map battle, and that he was desperately attempting to send word that a combat brigade should refrain from causing me lethal injury.

Moving along, in band a new piece was handed out that we'll be performing at the next concert. It's -- get this -- a medley of songs originally sang by the Beach Boys. The lyrics to their songs reminds me of the froth that crowns alcoholic beverages. It pisses people off to have this blockade of bubbles preventing them from downing their drink of choice.

Nothing of interest occurred until sixth period economics. After Ms. Olsen threatened to banish the entire lot of students to the designated ISS ("in-school suspension") classroom (which we'll pretend is A341), she held up the pad of hall passes in her clammy palm as she quivered with rage, insisting that at any given moment she could write a pass. After Ms. Olsen's train of idle threats, she commanded sternly, "Keatron, come here." She then began scrawling on one of the infamous marigold-colored slips of paper.

Keatron demanded defiantly, thinking he was being condemned to ISS, "What? What'd I do?"

"You asked for a pass to the bathroom," Mr. Olsen replied dully, her impatience ballooning like baking bread.

I remained silent in anticipation, expecting Ms. Olsen to add that the men's bathroom was located in A341. However, the trademark sadistic humor possessed by all licensed teachers did not shine through in Ms. Olsen today during sixth period economics.

Instead, continuing on our recent studies regarding environmental preservation (though I see no relevance between the environment and economics), each student read their own individual article about a various standpoint on whether or not oil should be drilled for in Alaska. While reading his designated article, Nick informed me that income and sales tax had been abolished in Alaska, so instantaneously I declared that I was going to move there.

"I'm sure if Pat goes with you, you two'll be able to warm the chilly climate," Nick replied, continuing to sift through his article and circle main points. I grinned mischievously and nodded in wholehearted agreement, and Nick laughed at my immediate acceptance of the idea.

Imitating an urgent alert on the news, Nick continued gravely, "The state of Alaska has melted. Currently, the cause is unknown."

"We could steam up the windows of a car, I'm sure we could manage to melt a state over half the size of the continental United States."

After school today, I found immense amusement in a site entitled My Virtual Model, where you can create a computer-generated model of yourself by going through a form and answering questions related to your body-type. The first time around I built a model of myself, a model that in no aspect resembles me, excluding the pasty skin color. I then constructed a model of Pat, which caused me to hysterically giggle for approximately ten minutes. The gray boxers were like a shiny bow on a package -- they increased the hilarity level tenfold.

When I grew weary of the realistic models, I initiated "Project: Yolanda," where I spawned a model in the image of a woman one would expect to see on The Jerry Springer Show. I then signed onto AIM and randomly messaged a college student who I hadn't met previously and sent him the picture I had created of Yolanda, telling the recipient that he may recognize me from a past episode of Jerry Springer. In the process, I reduced my typing skills to that of an 8-year-old, which turns out to be the equivalent of an acne-ridden teenager you would expect to encounter in an AOL chat.

I uploaded the picture that was used during the duration of "Project: Yolanda" along with the conversation I had with the college student I victimized to launch the aforementioned project.

I have to take advantage of the immaturity I presumably possess being a freshman in high school, you realize.

Also due to my being an impressionable young 15-year-old, I crave the comments and adoration of others, so leave me a note or sign my guestbook or I'll find out what you're most afraid of and use make-up to make myself resemble whatever that may be, using my inability to apply make-up to frighten you in the late afternoon, because curfew prevents me from doing so at midnight.