100th entry!

It only took somewhere within the vicinity of nine months, but I have now reached my 100th entry. Such a landmark seems worthy of a celebration so mammoth that random people would stir from a deep sleep and suddenly realize that they were submerged within the festivities. Then, when they rushed to their bedroom windows in alarm and flung open the curtains, they'd see that approximately fifteen new planets had formed overnight and were arranged in the sky so that they spelled "KATE'S 100TH ENTRY" among the stars, which would serve as confetti.

However, this entry seems more like an uncomfortable partygoer in the corner, swirling his punch glass in circles and watching the contents slosh within the cup.

This is my last year of confirmation, and as such, the church informed all confirmation students that attending a workshop was "mandatory." For whatever reason, whenever an authority figure uses terms like "mandatory" and "required," my facial expression becomes tinged with sourness, my mouth twisted into a crooked frown of disgust. I feel as though I'm a frightened chicken trapped in a pen, and looming figures are plucking feathers from my trembling body. But then an empowering swelling of rebellion overtakes me, because I realize I have the strength to stumble before my attacker and rip his face off in a clean swipe, stapling it to the back of his head while he is temporarily distracted by confusion and excruciating pain.

No one is required to do anything. I don't have to consume water or food, or succumb to the desire to sleep -- I'll just die if I choose to neglect to do so. Death is a merely a consequence, not a blockade of armed Pinkerton guards.

But I digress. The aforementioned workshop was dubbed a "human sexuality workshop," and was scheduled to span over a seven-hour period on a Saturday.

It was originally broadcasted that the workshop was to be held on a Saturday peppered with blizzards in March, and when I arrived at the church I noticed in horror that I was the only one who hadn't received the informative mailing declaring that the workshop was to be rescheduled sometime in April. Needless to say, after I had so begrudgingly awoke early that Saturday last month and complained incessantly as I showered and dried my hair, I was goddamn pissed when my dad drove the car through the blankets of snow and into the church parking lot, which contained a grand total of one fucking car.

Obviously, my fury was incurred once more when my mom reminded me nonchalantly that I was to attend the notorious and completely unnecessary workshop tomorrow.

What the hell were those numbfucks thinking of when they decided to plop a mandatory human sexuality workshop on a Saturday? Why not spread it over the course of two or three days after school, since weekdays are already shot now that they're automatically associated with school or work? Sweet fuck, my weekends are precious to me, I'm not going to jam them down the garbage disposal along with my arm, a smile alit upon my face.

Luckily, my mom called me from work after I arrived home from school to reassure me that the human sexuality workshop had again been canceled given the "lack of interest" -- only five people had signed up, apparently. I was crushed and attempted to pick up the pieces, even though my eyes were blurred with tears. Tears of joy, because when I heard the good news I pranced throughout the house screeching proclamations of joy into the phone receiver.

I'm bored as hell, so this entry shall end suddenly, like so.