blah blah blah

I got my hair cut on Saturday, and a hairdresser who was reading the newspaper snorted when she read that the accused pipe-bomber idolized Kurt Cobain, commenting on the homicidal tendencies of Nirvana fans. I debated whether or not I should've gnawed on the magazine I was reading and murmured lyrics to "Polly" through the mushy bits of paper in my mouth, but decided against it.

An elderly woman with a thick German accent and a head crowned with curlers ambled through the door minutes later and sat down next to me. The first conclusion I drew about her was that she loved to talk, and I struggled to understand her words that seemed saturated with syrup.

It all went so fast. The hairdresser sifting through her newspaper nearby exclaimed that she had discovered a discount for tickets to California, and then my mom's face lit up like a school girl's, and within seconds everyone in the stuffy little beauty parlor knew that I was dating an 18-year-old in California. The women present were eager to voice their disapproval and declared that they would never allow their 15-year-old daughters to date seniors in high school, and began dumping unwanted advice at my feet. I felt like I was sorting through the box full of free knickknacks at a garage sale, filled with items such as broken curling irons and crusty stuffed animals. The German woman next to me turned towards me and began telling me stories of her daughter that had occurred over thirty years ago, and as she dished more advice and tales of experience onto my plate I noticed the deep creases in her face and the way her eyes seemed so sharp. She told me that her daughter had been involved with a guy for seven years before he moved to Australia for whatever reason and remained there for three years, and when he came back in December, him and her daughter were wed the following summer. She patted my leg and told me to take things slowly because I'd be sick of Pat by the time I was 21. I laughed and mused that I hoped not, considering we would've been close friends for ten years by that point. She wished me good luck before I left.

An hour or so later, Resa and I headed off to the Mall of America due to the fact that I'm in dire need of clothes, but soon realized that we didn't really want to shop, especially given that shopping in that mall is like a salmon fighting the currents. We stopped by a video game store, but left minutes later since the only games worth a second glance were for platforms we don't own as of yet (Bush will be an intelligent man brimming with wisdom before I spend two hundred beans for a video game system).

While Resa and I were making the rounds on the second floor, a lanky girl probably only a few years older than me stopped us. She asked if she could present us with some questions (I should've said that she already had), so we hesitantly agreed. She queried, if we were to die later that night, whether or not we knew we would go to heaven. This made me extremely uncomfortable. I don't put my faith and beliefs in a display box like I'm a department store sale; they're for my personal guidance and not the scrutiny of others. I've had enough Baptists assigning me Bible passages to study and republicans telling me that the United States will crumble into a dusty rubble the dark day that a democrat is elected. Sweet fuck, someone bring in the tranquilizer darts! It's almost like men commanding women that they don't have the authority to do what they want with their bodies. I'll agree once women are allowed to carry sheers (you know, the kind they use to trim back the wool on sheep) so they can castrate every numbfuck they come into contact with. Oh God yes, would that be a perfect world. But I digress. So yeah, this chick approached Resa and I and questioned as to whether or not we believed we'd go to heaven once the afterlife began. Resa instantly answered with "I don't know," and I quickly followed with "Yes." She asked why I thought this, and that's when my eyes began to shift from side to side like the floodlight had been swiveled to strike me.

"Uh, well," I elaborated eloquently, "the Bible says that if you believe in Jesus you'll go to heaven."

"And you believe in Jesus?"

"Yeah."

"But you don't know?" she confirmed, turning to Resa.

"Yep," came the reply. She nodded in approval and permitted us to leave, and we did so hastily. I was just grateful that I hadn't been given a pamphlet about the five sacrificial steps that needed to be take in order to avoid God's wrath or an apocalyptic prophecy that the world explode in 2015.

I finally retreated to bed at midnight last night, largely due to the circumference of the earth and To Kill a Mockingbird. I spent at least ten minutes pondering as to why the back of my geometry book consistently printed different answers than I had gotten, but then remembered that they had used the decimal approximate of pi instead of an exact answer. That, and I had forgotten to read chapter eleven of the aforementioned novel.

I just saw a commercial for Zoloft that depicted a smiling blob bouncing up and down. Sometimes I wish I was chronically depressed so I could purchase some of these meds, they look more potent than Nyquil.

Moving right along. So I got six hours of sleep, and by second period my jaw hurt from yawning so frequently. It was a slow day and it passed in a blur, so I no longer remember much of it. Except this hideous chick ended up seated next to me at lunch and kept edging her elbow farther and farther into my own personal bubble, so as I was getting up and slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I pretended to elbow her in the side of the face. Her damn chicken patty sandwich was stinking up the entire vicinity with the scent of prosthetic food. And then Larry touched my arm and winced in disgust, because I had "put on too much lotion," even though I don't put lotion on my arms since they broke out to alarming proportions last time.

I practically fell asleep as my mom and I were driving out to coffee. I felt like one of those disoriented folk in the home who nod off to sleep in their wheelchairs out in the hallway and then scream for help when they wake up lost.

Nothing else to say, really, so the end.