and no eggs!

Yesterday after night had fallen, my parents drove me out to the state capitol so I could take some pictures for my photography class. The roads were relatively empty, and everything was dark, save for the paths of lanterns that lined either side of every street. My mom found it necessary to fill the silence with chatters of other photo opportunities that would be better met elsewhere, but, determined to return home shortly, I repeated again and again to continue driving to the capitol. Once there, I set up a tripod with a camera firmly latched on top, screwed on the shutter release, and instructed my mom to alert me when thirty seconds had passed. She did so, but kept inserting further commentary as to other places where I could take pictures. She also wondered whether or not a policeman would drive by and wonder why she was peering at her watch and we had set up a tripod, and that maybe they'd think we were planning on detonating a bomb. I could've cared less what they thought we were doing, because we weren't engaging in any illegal activities. When my pictures were taken, I collapsed the tripod and set it back into the car, allowing it to lean against the seat. I crawled into the car next to it, and then was driven back home, thirty minutes after we headed out.

This morning I remarkably made it to first period on time. Much to my disgust, not only had wind ensemble pressured us into pansy submission by forcing us through Mr. Browne to drag their loot out on stage, but all they had returned to the band room was ten chairs and the marimba. Irked by their incompetence, I stood near the back of the room and wore a blank expression, hoping my red shirt wouldn't catch Mr. Browne's eye and provoke a command to get working. My stealth aided in camouflaging me with my surroundings, which was a cupboard filled with percussion knickknacks and a pile of plastic snare cases in disarray. Once the physical labor session had ended, we played a piece that was entitled "The Eighties," a name that made me unsure as to whether I wanted to chuckle with mirth or sob over the fact that some poor slob thought any good music whatsoever arose from the chilly depths of the eighties. Whenever I hear whispers of the eighties, an image of David Bowie blossoms in my mind, clad in frighteningly tight pants and a shirt not unlike a frilly pillow case.

Nothing of remote interest occurred until lunch, whereupon I observed a slanderous marker-drawn sign that read, "POP TABS = DONUTS."

?!

Pop tabs do not equal donuts. Under no circumstances whatsoever. If I paid three beans for a sack of donuts and in turn received a handful of pop tabs, the fucker would soon find himself with a new nose ring, earrings, and his hair pulled back into an intricate braid studded with pop tab-hair decorations.

I slipped a stubby french fry into Nick's palm pilot sleeve.

When I ambled into the economics room and eased by backpack onto a desk, a boy whose name was and still is unbeknownst to me asked from halfway across the room if I was Kate. I said yes, but then hesitated, considering there are many Kates floating around the school.

"The one who had a crush on Larry, or Larry had a crush on her, or something?"

"Yeah, that's me," I answered timidly, not wanting the misconception to form that I had, at any point in time, had a crush on Larry, the same Larry who does not appear to bathe and smokes weed as meals. He has insisted before that he does not do drugs of any shape or size, which then prompted me to wonder why it was that he had "4:20" drawn elaborately onto his binder. Is that the time at which his ballet lessons begin?

"Yeah, thought so," the boy replied, nodding. "Larry said you were so pale you looked dead."

So yeah. It wasn't enough that I don't smile, or people think I've died my hair. Now I can pass as a cadaver.

In Japanese, we traipsed up the two staircases to the computer lab, where we were given the chance to do some research for the project that's due this upcoming Tuesday. A project that can be centered around any topic we wish, assuming it's Japanese. A girl who sat two chairs down is conducting her project on Japanese vending machines, as they sell items such as eggs, beer, contraceptives, porn, and, according to a scandal that took place four or five years ago, the used panties of schoolgirls that were priced around thirty dollars. Somehow I think my subject of lanterns pales in comparison.

A fellow classmate seated next to me was listening to Rammstein on his rickety CD player. He passed his headphones along to me a few times so I could listen to various songs, one in particular that was about a deaf boy searching for his mother by attempting to smell her. I expressed that the band would probably not disturb me so if (1) they weren't speaking in German, a language in which "Mary Had A Little Lamb" could sound demonic in nature, and (2) I could understand what the hell they were chanting about. At the end of the period, he told me about one of the songs they sang that particularly amused him. It was death metal in style, and the singer made a distinct effort to make his voice sound more like a growl and whatnot. The student repeated the last line of the song in German, and then, mimicking the lead singer, racked his reed-like form with maniacal laughter.

"What does that mean?" I asked curiously.

"Actually, it's a recipe for cookies. The last line is, 'AND NO EGGS!'"

And my little black cat enjoys stretching out on a table in front of an open window and letting the wind stir her long, silky fur.