Guess what, guys? It’s Friday! Didn’t see that one coming. I had to listen to Rebecca Black’s song to remember what comes after Thursday.

THANKS R.B.!

You know what’s funny? Earlier today I had thought I would say something about Miss Black’s song in here but then I had decided against it. I figured that if this hunk of junk ever got published, I wouldn’t want to contribute to her resume. I realize this probably isn’t the most positive piece of publicity a “celebrity” could get, but some of these people THRIVE on this stuff! Evidently, a fantastic way to advance a career is to do something so mind-numbingly horrible that people have trouble deciding whether to laugh or cry. As it turns out, that’s also how this girl got famous in the first place, for Pete’s sake…

…whoever Pete is…
And look at that, I started off this entry with her. Clearly I have issues with sticking to my guns but to be honest, I couldn’t think of a better intro. Either I am going to get sued, or I am going to find this book on Good Morning America in a montage of Rebecca Black’s accomplishments. I can just see it now: “The buzz from her debut song was so great that she was even mentioned in Jadyn Perri’s novel, _______”.

You see, I have no idea at the present moment what I am going to call this so I will keep the blank in the meantime.

Perhaps I am giving myself too much credit. I would probably be lucky to be in a montage of Rebecca Black credentials, let alone get this thing published in the first place.

Wait. Even I have more pride than THAT.

The reason I am mentioning Rebecca’s song “Friday” (just in case you didn’t know which song I was referring to from my hint at the beginning), is not only because it’s Friday but also due to my utter annoyance when the whole school was singing it after “Battle of the Bands”.

If you have never heard of or attended one of these “battles” before, I will warn you that if you do not enjoy having your eardrums collapse on themselves and being able to feel your organs shake in your body, it is most definitely not the place for you.

To me, the Battle of the Bands represent an opportunity for the most annoying music kids in a high school to form groups in the hopes that their peers might actually learn their names. Based on some of the acts that I have been forced to sit through in the past, I think a lot of them are just looking for a means of climbing a few pegs on the social ladder. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Sometimes I think that if I wore makeup every once and a while or disclosed some awe-inspiring talent that I could perhaps move up a bit as well. The only difference, however, is that I 1) don’t really care which peg I’m standing on, unless of course it is unstable and I am about to fall to my death and 2)I know my place in the world. I possess enough self-awareness to understand what I am good at and what I should avoid at all costs, which is a major difference between me and these wannabe rock stars. Someone needs to cut them a big slice of reality pie before I have to and let me tell you, my reality pie tastes nothing like apples.

To all of you pre-pubescent boys out there with your cracking voices and incompetent guitar fingers: find a new hobby. I am sorry. You would be doing the entire world a huge favour by investing your energy into something useful like serving me at McDonald’s or bagging my groceries. You know—things that won’t hurt my ears or disrupt my organs. Thank you.

But anyways…now that I have crushed most of your dreams, I will continue with my explanation of this torturous high school phenomenon. It may be a different system for other schools, but this is how we Catholic folk battle our bands:

The process starts with the fragile dreams of a few aspiring musicians. Some of the bands may have been formed already, and some of them are just collections of random people thrown together at the last second claiming to be able to play the drums, sing, play guitar, hit a tambourine…whatever.

Once the audition process is over and the ham-handed have been axed, the remaining five or six bands will start building up their fan base by selling t-shirts and putting up fliers around the school. The band with the most “popular” kids sell the most t-shirts and the band of kids that no one has ever heard of tend to be their own supporters. You can kind of predict who’s going to win just by looking around the cafeteria and counting how many of a particular shirt you see, and I say this because the audience, of course, has a say in who wins. Part of the score for each band is “audience reaction” or whatever the heck they call it. The more kids screaming like Neanderthals after your performance, the greater your chance to win is.

After about a week or so of advertising, the big day finally arrives. All of the kids that could give a flying crap about talentless high school students go home before the show, while all of us with parents that refused to call in to the office have to stay and suffer. There is also a minority of kids that actually WANT to be there (ie., the t-shirt-wearing groupies), but most of us would rather watch babies being thrown from the tops of sky scrapers…

…while standing outside in the middle of a blizzard. Submerged in a snow pile. Naked.

Have I made my point yet?

I mean, what would you rather do? Go home, sit on your fanny with your feet up while watching cartoons and eating Cheetos? Or would you rather suffocate in a crowded bleacher with someone’s elephant knees buried into your back while feeling blood trickle down your earlobes?

Okay, now I’ve made my point.

Out of my list of the three categories of students on Battle day, of course I fit into the one with the crummy parents that made them stay. Thus, after multiple hours of anguish, I think I have good reason to complain.

“Battle of the Bands”…what a stupid name. As if making it sound like a fight would be more enticing. How can they even justify a name as awesome as that for such an anticlimactic event? When I think of “Battle of the Bands”, I imagine mosh pits and fire and crowd surfing. Stuffed bleachers, cheap lighting effects and lurking teachers are definitely not part of my vision.


In the future, high schools should seriously consider allowing bands to physically fight on the stage with their instruments. I don’t know what it is about humans, but we have this weird obsession with watching other people bleed. Sure, you could argue that parents probably wouldn’t go for it. But you never know in society these days. All you need is a spark of mob mentality, then all of a sudden you’ll hear Timmy’s mom cheering for him to kick Danny in the face. T-shirt sales would skyrocket.

I must confess, however, that there are a few students at my school that I wouldn’t mind watching get creamed. Take James Bennett and Stephen Colt for example. I think if someone smashed James upside the head with a guitar and whacked Stephen in the jugular with a pair of drumsticks, they would improve as individuals. I would PAY to see those guys get the tar kicked out of them, let alone receive no choice in the matter.

I strongly believe that all cocky/annoying/loud-mouthed adolescents in this world HAVE to get beat up at least once in their lives to gain some humility before they reach adulthood. It’s character-building. Contrary to what their parents tell them, children need to understand that they are not the centre of the universe, the sun does not shine out their back ends and what DOES comes out their back ends definitely does not smell like roses. You could probably come up with a few examples from your own life, but if you can’t, then perhaps you are one of these kids that need a good pounding. I would be happy to offer my assistance, although unfortunately there are too many of you to deal with. I suggest approaching an older sibling or cousin. I am sure they would be glad to help you out.

Phew. Okay, I think I’ve gotten all of my frustration out now. I can move on.

Now this is what inspired my “Friday” intro: at the end of the Battle, some idiot thought it would be a great idea to follow up the noise pollution with additional noise pollution that was that God-forsaking-song. This of course caused everyone to sing along as they were leaving the gymnasium, and me to seriously contemplate suicide for the first time in my life. It was the cherry on top of a wonderful musical performance.

I must admit that it was nice to allow my ears to thaw from the thumping baselines and out-of-tune screamo-ing and “harmonizing”, but I would have been perfectly content with silence! And yes, you read that right: “screamo-ing”. It should probably just be called “screaming”; however, “scream” with an “o” on the end is apparently a genre of music.

This is what I don’t understand though. For the past month and a bit, everyone has been going on and on about how awful Rebecca Black’s song is and finding every way in the book to bash this thirteen year old girl whom, I am pretty sure, is still completely oblivious as to what is going on. But if everyone hates her so much, why do they continue to download and listen to her song? Do they not realize that they are only helping her career? Sure, you can claim that you only downloaded the song “to make fun of it” but come on, people. Is this what the future of our world is?

I swear to God, when this girl wins some big prestigious music award for her compelling lyrics and captivating vocals, I am throwing myself off a bridge. AND EVERYONE THAT DOWNLOADED AND LISTENED TO “FRIDAY” A BILLION TIMES WILL BE TO BLAME! I am worried for the future of our world, I really am. Our society is so messed up that I am afraid there is no way that we will ever recover.

I almost want to toss my dreams of having a family one day in the toilet because I am afraid for my children. If their lives will consist of rocking out to songs named after the days of the week, or by then it will probably be months and holidays and possibly even statutory holidays (I can just see it now: LABOUR DAY! LABOUR DAY! GETTIN’ DOWN ON LABOUR DAY! EVERYBODY’S LOOKIN’ FORWARD TO THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, SCHOOL!), then I had might as well spare my future children the agony.

Anyways though, I will rant about my not-so-noteworthy Friday after I finish up with Thursday. Of course this is the part where my cat decides to walk across my body while I am typing. No respect, that feline, none at all!

But yes…Thursday.

I would like to start by saying that I find it quite sad that this is only day two of my project and I am already falling behind. In my defence though, my creative juices did not have me in mind when they began to flow the previous night and I had to draw the line somewhere, right? I could have stayed up typing away into the wee hours of the morn but when you have to be up by 6:55, you really don’t have much of a choice. I sort of told Christian that I would be in bed within half an hour at around eleven, but as I mentioned before, I am not one to stick to my guns.

Oops.

So here I am, rambling about why I didn’t write about Thursday on Friday. I don’t know about you, but it seems like we have some really good times ahead!

I just reviewed what I wrote yesterday, and it appears that I left off with my deodorant drama. Already, my day was off to a rocky start and I hadn’t even stepped out the door. The remainder of the day, however, was actually pretty good. Instead of sitting in class for a painful six hours of educational instruction, I had the opportunity to attend this Writer’s Craft Conference (as I briefly mentioned in my last entry) to listen to published writers brag about their accomplishments.

At first, I didn’t even want to go. My Writer’s Craft teacher, Mr. Erickson, had chosen Marissa and me to attend the week before and Marissa had told him that she didn’t want to go either. She said that she had missed too much school and outright refused despite my saying that “the only way I will go is if you go with me”.

Jerk.

Of course, secretly I wanted to go! Being an aspiring writer and whatnot, why the heck wouldn’t I want to advance my knowledge of the industry? I would be a fool not to! Jeez, Marissa. You really dropped the ball on this one. Everyone knows that when your friend uses the “I won’t do it if you don’t!” line, you’re supposed to do it—ESPECIALLY when that particular friend has social anxiety.

Just kidding, Mar!

You know I love you. You will probably be one of the only people that ever read this (plus Christian of course because I’ll make him read it) so I had better be good to you!

Anyways though, by the time the day came, I hadn’t even brought back my permission form and I was still debating whether I should go or not. You see, I have this overwhelming need to please people in any way that I can and I would have felt awful for the rest of the day if I had told Mr. Erickson that I couldn’t go at the last minute. I mean, despite having missed a couple days due to “illness”, I still couldn’t bear to disappoint him.

It was soon after reflecting on all of this that I realized that I am eighteen years old and thus can sign my own permission forms.

So, I went…

…with absolutely no friends whatsoever.

This shouldn’t be a shock to anyone, seeing as I only have a few friends anyways, but it was quite interesting to put what few social skills I have to the test.

It was a surprisingly good day! I hung out with this girl Hayden from my grade that I had never really talked to before and we sort of bonded. I realized that there are actually other nice, normal people outside of my friend group (not that my friends are normal by any means) that I can relate to! I would have never guessed! And, you know, I must say that I did a half-decent job at directing conversation at our table.

Wait, okay…I am getting ahead of myself. I think I need a few more descriptions of where this took place.

Geographically, all I know is that it was somewhere in St. Catharines in some hotel that I think was a Hilton. And just in case this book actually gets read by people other than the people I know, St. Catharines is in Southern Ontario, which is in Canada, which is where I live. Well, I actually live in Niagara Falls but St. Catharines is literally seven minutes away…—IRRELEVANT!

For this conference we were in this big fancy hotel ballroom. You know—the ones with the tacky carpeting and the chandeliers with ten million light switches for each individual light fixture. I observed all this while my eyes were distractedly darting from one corner of the room to the other while the speakers were speaking. I’m not much of an avid listener, I suppose. There were a bunch of tables, as is also common to a formal dining room and little blue cards on each one with the name of a high school.

Although I wasn’t close with any member of my table, I was surprised at how well I could hold my own in conversation. The table consisted of mostly grade elevens and then Hayden and I. I told the grade elevens about the Writer’s Craft course (you can only take it in grade twelve) and I warned them about how much work it would be. Come to think of it, that probably wasn’t the best idea. I guess I should have been encouraging instead of discouraging but I made sure to tell them that it was a “really good class”.

Oddly enough, we even got on the topic of braces, which I regretfully have. This is actually round two of orthodontia for me, if that’s even the right word. I tried to type in “orthodontian” but I got a red squiggle.

The one grade eleven girl at the table, Mia, started asking me about my clear braces, which in turn segued into my tragic story. I have probably told every individual on the planet this story, but in case you didn’t know, here it goes:

I had braces from grade six to grade eight, which was a normal length of time to be modeling the metal. When I got them off, as is customary when you get braces off, my teeth were perfect. A few years later, for some messed up reason, my jaw started to screw up because apparently I am a “tongue thruster”. It sounds kind of inappropriate, I know, but that is what they called me! Due to my “tongue thrusting” issues, my teeth basically opened up to the point where I had a huge gap between my top and bottom teeth. When I would bite down, my teeth didn’t touch, which never failed to weird people out whenever I showed them.

Every time I would smile, my tongue would stick out through the gap. I didn’t notice for the longest time until my dad “kindly” pointed it out to me. Then I started looking closely at my Facebook pictures and I noticed that awful tongue more and more. I was jokingly offered the solution of chopping it off by the orthodontist, which I not-so-jokingly agreed to, but NO! I also realized that I had lost the ability to bite my nails (and I actually wondered why) because my teeth didn’t come together.

In addition to the inability to carry out my bad habit, I also became more aware of the fact that every time I bit through a sandwich, the lettuce and tomato would fall out because I couldn’t bite straight through it. It was a living hell to say the least, especially since I love tomatoes. I know some people my age that got their braces back on because their teeth had shifted ever so slightly and were not as straight as when they had gotten them off. Me, I could barely eat, which is kind of a big problem when you are a human being that requires sustenance for survival.

So round two of braces for me was a necessary adventure. For the longest time I hated my dad for making me go through with it and I constantly whined to my poor boyfriend who had no choice but to put up with my complaining. In the beginning, I told Christian that no matter what, I would refuse to get braces. But, of course, I lied because I am a gutless fish. I guess you could say that I just didn’t quite have it in me to refuse five-thousand dollar treatment for free.

Through the entire consultation process I kept hoping and praying that they would come up with some other way to correct my problem. You know, like some crazy piece of machinery that they had stored in the backroom of the office for emergencies such as this one. They would call it “THE MAGIC BAR” and it would be capable of correcting jaws in a single use without any surgery or braces-wearing! “THE MAGIC BAR” would be the most powerful, revolutionary retainer known to man and I would be the first patient to get to try it! To my dismay—even though I still think they’re lying—they claimed that they didn’t have any such thing called “THE MAGIC BAR” and proceeded to give me sideways glances for the remainder of my appointment.

But when they stop being morons and finally decide to reveal it to the public, I think they should hire me to do their advertising.

The orthodontist told me that my best option for the most “permanent” treatment would be jaw surgery. And let me tell you something: jaw surgery is nothing to scoff at.

I know people at my school that have had it done and it completely changed the shape of their face! For some, it was an improvement…but for others…

YIKES!

I felt so terrible for them! I wondered if they had any idea how different they would look after the procedure. That’s probably a detail the doctors fail to mention so they can get their money. Jaw surgery is most definitely not the only option, but the only reason they are prescribing it so often these days is because it is the more expensive procedure. Well, they didn’t fool me!

Little interruption in the story, but my mom just read what I’ve written so far and—good news—I got a few chuckles out of her! I had to force her to read it, sure, but that’s still something, right? And she didn’t even fall asleep. I mean, I don’t want to be writing something that not even my own mother can read without her eyes glazing over so getting her approval is a start at least.

Sure, you can argue that a mom isn’t exactly the best choice when you need constructive criticism for your writing, but she is the only person in my family that actually agrees to read my work when it isn’t finished yet. Sometimes I just need that little bit of encouragement to keep going, you know? And my mom is my go-to woman for said encouragement!

When I first started writing this, I could have never imagined that anyone would ever give a fart in the wind about what idiotic things come across my mind at any given moment. I am still not entirely convinced, although I am having way too much fun to care at this point. If you couldn’t give a fart in the wind about what I am thinking, then I give you permission to walk away from this book right now, even though you had your chance in the beginning. If you do in fact walk away, I ask you this: did you not read the back cover? Wasn’t the description pretty self-explanatory? And if you’re too lazy to read the back covers of books, did I not clarify how pointless this whole thing is in the first few pages?

For the record, I have not yet written a description to go on the back of this currently unpublished manuscript but I can assure you that it will be quite informative.

Woah, this piece of gum lost its flavour really fast…blech. I mean, I love fruity gum but fruity gum that loses its flavour in five seconds is just not worth my time and chewing effort.

One moment please, just have to throw out this Trident abomination…

Okay, all clear!

Ugh. My mom needs my dirty clothes to do laundry. She always picks the worst times to ask me to do stuff. She made quite the ingenious pun though:
Mom: JADYN, I NEED YOUR BASKET.
Me: GO WEAVE YOUR OWN BASKET! I’M BUSY! (it sounds like I have no respect for the woman who gave me life, but I was kidding, I swear!)
Mom: WEAVE ME ALONE!

So, I did. I “weaved” her alone and didn’t bring her the basket. Just kidding, I did. Although my mother would probably beg to differ, I am not that horrible of a daughter. Though it’s rare, sometimes I can even be a WONDERFUL daughter when I’m really on my game. She just gets peeved when I “refuse” to vacuum or clean the litter. For the record: just because I make scrunched-up faces like I have just eaten a lemon and give loud, whiny sighs along with a drawn-out groan DOES NOT MEAN I am negating to assist you, mom! You can’t blame me for trying to avoid housework like a leper. There are only a select few in this world that enjoy cleaning, but unfortunately that has never and will never be me.

And Christian: if you were expecting me to be a housewife when we’re married, I cannot guarantee that I will be any good at it whatsoever. I promise I will try my best, but please don’t get mad when I forget to set a timer for the Thanksgiving turkey and it burns to a crisp. I can also see myself accidentally spraying Pledge on the floor and causing you to slip and fall into the refrigerator. Oh, and let’s not forget throwing that red t-shirt of yours in with all of your white dress shirts and turning them pink.

When these things happen, just remember that you were forewarned and that I am VERY SORRY!

Oh, mother. You are always so full of surprises. I just heard her do an Eric Cartman impression from outside my doorway. I have no idea from where in her body it was summoned, but it was actually frighteningly well done. I was in the middle of writing about her previous joke when I heard: “No, kitty! These are MY cheesy poofs!” I swear to God, I think Cartman temporarily invaded her voice box. That’s how good it was.

My mom is awesome, what can I say? You’ll have to meet her sometime.

Anyways though, enough about the Perri family antics. You will be hearing more about the rest of the clan later.

So this conference! Aside from the irrelevant discussions about orthodontics (which is a much better word that works in place of “orthodontia” but I am too lazy to change it now) at our table, the speakers that we had to sit through were not all that terrible. The first one was sort of weird, I will admit. I can’t remember his name, but even if I did I probably wouldn’t put it in here for those liability reasons once again. So for now, I’ll just call him Author 1.

Author 1 talked for over an hour about his accomplishments and how his book has been made into a movie that is apparently going to be in theatres in May. Well, good for you, man! I will probably never in my lifetime have that honour, but in my opinion a book/movie about a poor African girl whose family has all been infected with AIDS sounds like the most depressing book/movie EVER! I am sure it will win a bunch of awards because emotionally scarring movies such as those always do, but I am sorry to say that it will not be my number one choice of films to go see on a date night.

Not that I ever go to the movies on date nights. Christian and I consider movie dates to be “too antisocial”.

But if there ever happened to be a date night, it would more than likely be a romantic comedy. Well, they are most definitely my favourites but Christian claims to enjoy them too. I told him I was going to see “No Strings Attached” with my friend Taren and he ended up going to see it at the same time as me. Perhaps that was just because he couldn’t bear to not have experienced what I have experienced and he felt “behind the times” if he didn’t. Or maybe he just really wanted to see the movie. Or maybe he has a secret crush on Natalie Portman. I am not too sure. I will have to ask him and get back to you.

I am getting off-topic again. Surprise, surprise. I had to read up just now to remember where I was going with this.

So as I was saying, Author 1 seemed kind of strange to me. The second speaker, whose name I also can’t remember but that’s not because I didn’t enjoy his speech, actually inspired me a little bit. He was much more personable and humorous than Author 1.

Wait, sorry. Allow me to correct myself: a LOT more personable and humorous. The other guy seemed like he was trying way too hard to evoke sympathy and it appeared that he enjoyed bragging more than he enjoyed giving us valuable advice about writing, which I had thought was the whole point of the stupid conference!

Perhaps Author 1 just didn’t get the memo. He even felt the need to read a passage from his novel with so much unnecessary expression that it sounded like he was trying to perform a soliloquy from a Shakespearian play. Sorry dude, but I highly doubt your story is worthy of such emphasis.

His eyes kind of creeped (apparently “creeped” isn’t a word…thanks red squiggle, but it’s a word now) me out too. They were really round and buggy and were accentuated by his equally round and buggy glasses. Author 1, whom I feel like calling Hamlet now because that’s a much more memorable and appropriate name, bugged me a lot. Not only because he was bug-eyed, but also because he didn’t seem to believe in the “write what you know” philosophy. Here is a friendly fan letter that I am considering sending to him:
Dear Hamlet,

I realize that you think that writing what you know means on the emotional level, which it does, but no matter how many poverty-stricken nations you travel to and no matter how much “research” you do on the topic, you will NEVER and I mean NEVER be able to write a novel to truly depict the horror that these people have to endure every day. You can PRETEND to write with sympathy, and maybe you did a really great job. But it can never be real no matter how hard you try. I am sorry to say this Hamlet, but you are a Caucasian male that has lived in Canada all your life. Whoop-dee-doo. You went to Uganda or wherever the heck you went for a week or two. Apparently that means that you know enough to write about probably one of the most heart-wrenching topics a person can ever write about. Sorry, Hammy…but it’s just not happening. Thanks for sharing though!

Sincerely (something you don’t know much about),

Jadyn Perri

PS: Perhaps for your next novel you should write about your Caucasian Canadian male troubles, like getting stuck in a traffic jam or getting hit by a moose in said traffic jam. I would so read that!

But maybe I should read Hamlet’s book before I start judging. Oh wait, I wouldn’t because I am not one to voluntarily depress myself with subjects that I KNOW I will never being able to comprehend. However, if I was going to read a book about what people are experiencing in Africa, I would much prefer to read a personal account by someone that actually went through it. That is all I am saying. I probably could have said that in fewer words, but I am writing a book here and I need to fill this space!

Anyways though, Author 2 (whose name will probably change once I come up with something better) amused me quite a bit. He actually seemed like a real person, not some crazy melodramatic Shakespearian actor with pit stains. Hamlet’s sweating problem was pretty distracting, I might add. I think his pit stains evoked more sympathy from me than his Africa story, because how embarrassing is that!

Anyway…Author 2 bragged quite a bit as well, but at least he did it in a funny manner. I am sure that if I ever got published, I would be a bragging jerk too. It’s a big deal! He told us about these books he wrote about Monkey Chronicles and Cheeseburgers. I don’t think they were actually about monkeys and cheeseburgers but any book with a title featuring a fun-loving animal or artery-clogging fast food is worth the read in my opinion.

After he talked a bit about his books—that sounded quite interesting, I might add—he gave us some advice about writing. One piece of advice in particular really caught my attention. Cheeseburger (the name I have chosen for him) explained further the idea of “writing what you know” and “writing about your experiences”. He said that in one of his books, he had taken the real-life event of his little cousins destroying his house and put it into his novel. He admitted to us that he didn’t think his cousins would ever read it because they’re “too stupid” (example of the humour), but that they eventually did end up reading it. The great part about it was that his cousins didn’t even recognize themselves in the characters, which interestingly enough doesn’t prove true solely among the dim-witted.

According to Cheeseburger, people tend to see the good in themselves and often cannot recognize the bad. So, when you speak negatively about someone in a story and change the name, there’s a very good chance that this someone won’t know you are talking about them.

This really got me thinking. What if I wrote a completely non-fictional story that appears to be fictional?

Woops. I think I’ve said too much. I suppose I could always backspace that but I don’t really feel like it. So that gave me the idea to write this “story”, even though it’s not really a story. If I had to describe this in a single sentence, I would describe it as “a load of random crap that will probably never be read by people other than a select few of the people I talk about and even so, maybe not even them.”

Hmmm…I don’t know about you, but I am thinking that would be a perfect description for the back cover that will probably never come to be!

All negativity aside, before this project I had been trying to write a fantasy novel. After a long while though (I don’t even want to think about how long), I found myself at a dead-end. I knew exactly what would happen in the story and exactly how it would end, but I had no motivation to continue it. Admitting that brings about an immense amount of shame for me, although you and I have a pretty open relationship. I trust that you can handle the truth.

Basically, I had completely lost every last ounce of determination I possessed. If that wasn’t bad enough, finishing a novel became an impossible aspiration to attain for someone with ten pounds of homework a night and a brain as scattered as mine. Once I came to this conclusion, I gave up on the idea. Why I even attempted it in the first place, I cannot tell you. I should have known to stay away from the fantasy genre after reading the Harry Potter series, because I mean, who can compete with THAT?! Thus, I put my word processing program to bed, only awakening it when I had a Biology lab report to kill myself over (like I do now…), or an English essay to attempt, or an unsatisfactory Writer’s Craft story to produce. The future of my writing career was looking bleak…

…UNTIL…!


After that conference yesterday and what the Cheeseburger said about “writing what you know”, I thought up the idea for THIS!

I would write exactly what I know and nothing more. One of the other speakers I had the “pleasure” of listening to was rambling on about “finding your voice” in writing, a voice that is you and you alone that can be deciphered without even finding out who wrote the book. I had heard before that this is an indication of a good writer, but I never really understood how to harness it.

Then, it came to me!

I would write how I speak, without any interruptions: almost like a “stream of consciousness” but with slightly tighter grammar and more punctuation. I would write whatever comes to my mind and not overthink anything, as I tend to do. For example, I just realized that I have to start getting ready for work within an hour and a half and I have a lab report that I haven’t started due on Monday! I also realized how annoyed I am at the accumulation of dry skin on my face and the awkward position in which I am laying while typing this. See? It’s easy.

Oh, wonderful. My cat just jumped up on my bed. I swear to God, if he starts crawling all over my keyboard again I am going to chuck him across the room! He seems content on my Little Mermaid blanket so I will leave him be for now.

What was I talking about again? Something to do with cheeseburgers?

Oh right, the conference. Still? I am still talking about this stupid conference? OKAY. I am going to end it here.

Here is a summary of my day: I was bored, I got slightly inspired, I embarrassed myself twice (once when I demanded Mr. Erickson to introduce us to his twin and another time when I told one of the published authors that used to be a teacher at St. Matthew’s that my cousin Adriana says hi and he gave me a funny look like one would when a stranger says something as random as what I said). Then when we returned to school, we had a pizza party. As sad as this is, it was most definitely the highlight of my day. Our conversations consisted of topics regarding post-secondary and movies and our Family Studies teacher Mrs. Talbot shooting students in the hallway with a Nerf gun. I mentioned this when her name had been brought up, which caused Hayden to laugh hysterically to the point of folding herself in half.

I made everyone laugh a couple times, which made me feel really warm and fuzzy inside because that never tends to happen. Usually (my sister more often than not has the displeasure of always being there for my psychotic episodes), my attempts at humour fail miserably and I am either mocked with laughter or there is an awkward silence. So when people actually laughed without mockery, you can only imagine my joy! That’s all I really remember of the pizza party.

Lovely. I just yawned and one of my elastics snapped in my mouth—one of the many joys of orthodontic treatment. I refuse to get up from this bed to get another one. It’s just not happening. I must admit though, that snapping elastics are quite efficient when you are pissed off at your mom or sister and you are trying to signify your rage. It actually makes a fairly noticeable sound! Usually when this happens I end up startling myself, but as long as I can keep the shock off my face, I tend to be able to pull off QUITE the impression.

If my elastics snap, you know I mean business!

Anyways though…conference, pizza party…oh and then I went home. And my mom made thimble cookies for my cousin Nadine’s wedding shower while I took up space on the kitchen table with my laptop and showed her stupid YouTube videos to avoid doing my homework. I never lifted a finger to help and I was the one that ended up eating the most cookies. It’s how I roll…or don’t roll, because I am more often than not too lazy to roll. And then to top it all off, I serenaded my mother and sister (Erika helped my mom as I watched) with my iTunes library, which only annoyed them further. It was wonderful.

And that was the extent of my Thursday.

As for Friday, I already provided the gist of what happened there: all I can remember is having my ear drums blown out and then whining to my Data teacher with Marissa about how horrible the Battle that wasn’t even a battle was. As we were leaving her room, she thanked us sarcastically for giving her more work because we had written “Friday” lyrics and cursive letter “F’s” all over her chalkboard. Marissa and Rachel had been trying to teach me how to do a proper “f” because apparently I’ve been doing it wrong since grade three. So my poor Mrs. Fraser was left to erase it all.

Haha, sucker. That’s what you get for taking marks off my Data quiz for word choice!

When she whined about having to erase it all, we just told her that she should keep it because it was such a “work of art”. She didn’t think so.

Proceeding school, I went home with every intention to start my Biology lab, but I didn’t. I napped, wrote more of this “story” and hung out with Deanna, who has been my good friend and neighbour since we were four years old. And I know it sounds like I have lots of friends based on how many people I have mentioned thus far, but the people I have mentioned thus far are honestly the only friends I have. So I am not lying there!

Anywho! Deanna had texted me at around eight or so and asked me if I wanted to go to Timmies. For all of you who aren’t from the wonderful land of Canada (which you all probably are and I say this because this is more than likely my mom reading), “Timmies” is the nickname we Canadians have for “Tim Horton’s”. I’m not so sure how many Timmies they have in the U.S. of A, let alone other countries, but for those of you who don’t know (I know you know, mom), it’s a coffee/donut place.

I was kind of worried when I got the text because usually when people ask if you want to go to Timmies, it is because either something tragic has happened, like a break up or some other form of relationship drama, or because they simply have a donut craving. So of course, I had to inquire her motive for going. She said she had a peanut butter cookie craving, which could turn into a tragedy if not treated.

So we walked to Timmies and cut through the creepy rapist park near our houses. And I say it is a creepy rapist park because there are bushes near the path that someone could easily hide in, a huge field of open space next to a twenty-foot hill where a creeper could easily get their rape on and no light posts in a twenty-foot radius. The only lighting comes from the surrounding neighbourhood (which doesn’t provide much) and the Metro grocery store in the distance. It is truly a wonder that we managed to cross without getting abducted.

When we got to Timmies, I didn’t end up get anything because I had had Wendy’s earlier and I was still working on digesting it. So I just sat there and absorbed the conversation while occasionally participating.

Then we went back to Deanna’s house to watch old Disney movies. Every time we get together, we have to have a Disney movie marathon. Last time we watched The Lion King and Aladdin, this time it was The Rescuers Down Under…which could SO be the name of a porn movie, when you really think about it.

So uh, yeah…you would never think that we are eighteen years old. While my boyfriend was drinking beers by a campfire in Sault Ste. Marie (he is in flight school over there to become a pilot), I was in a basement watching a movie about two mice trying to save an Australian boy from a poacher.

Just as a side note: I am really weird when it comes to drinking. I have this illogical fear of losing control and getting sick. I have also seen what happens to others when they’re under the spell of booze, so I try to avoid it as much as possible. Christian hardly ever drinks, but when he does I tend to worry about him a little. I realize that my fears about drinking can be considered slightly ridiculous, but I just don’t want anything happening to him…especially when I’m so far away. How do I know that he is going to be taken care of if he has a little too much? How do I know that he is going to make it back to his apartment safely if he is out somewhere?

I think I sound like more of a mom than a girlfriend. I have to stop!

I am an extremely paranoid person. I can’t help myself! The fears that I have for myself are the same fears I share with him. There was a time in my life when I used to laugh at intoxicated peoples, but that ship has definitely sailed. Now, it just bothers me more than anything. But if I continue to rant about this any further, I will be late for work and my lab report will never be started (let alone completed).

Maybe it’s because he hides his intoxication via text so well. With some guys it’s appallingly obvious, but Christian? You would never be able to tell!

Oh yeah, I said I wouldn’t rant about this. Okay, I’m stopping!

When I got home from Deanna’s, Christian and I talked on the phone. As we usually do when we have a lonely weekend ahead, we got on the topic of how much we miss each other. I told him that I’d give just about anything to be able to hug him for only for a few minutes…just a few minutes, that’s all, and I’d be able to drift off to a peaceful sleep.

Then my eyes started getting a little foggy (okay, they were really foggy…) and I had to take a few deep breaths before it became obvious that I was sobbing. You know that shaky voice you get when you’re in the midst of tearing up and you’re trying to speak? Yeah, that was the one I was failing miserably at supressing. Of course he caught on to this and tried to comfort me by telling me that we would be together again soon, even though we both have no idea when soon is at the present moment. This didn’t help me much, but I forced myself to stop crying, anyways.

Well, Christian Eslington, what can I say? I love you and I miss you. Why do you have to be so wonderful and so far away? Can you just TRY to make me mad every once and a while so I don’t have to miss you quite as much?

I think I am “whipped”, as they say. More whipped than whipped cream.

Okay, so…my life is a cliché. Why am I writing this again? For your sakes, I hope it gets more interesting. I have to start my lab now, so I am going to say…umm, ciao for now I guess! And for the record, it is now Saturday. I was too tired and lazy to finish this yesterday.

Oh hey look! It’s 4:18 PM and I have to start getting ready for work. There goes the lab.

The self-loathing will commence tomorrow.