The World, as Witnessed by Me.

We are not in this together,

but I’ll still assist you. At my leisure.

Things that are timeless:

1. Poker.
2. Frank Sinatra

There's 4 people on MySpace and 47 on Facebook.

Go figure.

I'm ashamed about how glad I am that I won't be going to the same college as all the people I hate.

They’re celebrating on Facebook. I’m tempted to tell them how bad the drugs are in that area, but I will refrain. There will be 400 miles between myself and these people I have little petty things against. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I do get a small sense of satisfaction from that.

Would anyone be interested in buying handmade soaps to give as gifts (or for yourself) for Christmas?

I used to make soap and am considering getting back into it. If I made awesome ones, would you buy them? Cheaply of course, like $5. Discounts if you get more than one. Customizable sent/texture, or pick from ones I already make. Sound good?

Comp 1, Narrative Essay.

The morning began rushed, as usual. I left the house mostly dressed, with a meal-on-the-go bar in hand. When I arrived in Logan’s driveway, I found him to be running even more behind than I. He carried his socks, shoes, and a plate of pancakes on top of his cello case with the intent of finishing his morning routine from the comforts of my car. The scent of maple syrup only made me more aware of the fibrous blandness of my meal bar.

While late enough to cause near-paralytic panic, we still managed to get caught in every school zone. The funeral caravan, line of semi trucks, and parade of leather-clad Biketoberfest participants seemed almost unreal. In sheer terror, we rolled up to the last stoplight before the entrance to our school, with two minutes to spare before the bell was due to ring. From our position twenty-four vehicles back, we watched as the northbound traffic took their turn, then the turning lanes, then…the northbound traffic again? It couldn’t be true.

“Did you just notice what I just noticed?” I asked, raising two horrified eyebrows.

His mouth flapped wordlessly, and a huge gulp and nod were all I needed to confirm my worst fears.

The northbound traffic ran for so long that there were almost none left. The occasional straggler was met with glares from every westbound commuter in the parking lot that was our lanes. After a full minute, we came to the conclusion that the first rows of cars at the light were a few of the fabled Law Abiding Citizens. We were going to have to wait it out.

Gradually, people began to emerge from their cars. While the Law Abiding Citizens in Position One twiddled their thumbs, the Christians in the rows behind them got on their knees and began to pray. Row ten turned out to be comprised of Nigerian tribesmen. They entered the streets dressed in the traditional grass skirts and war paint. Drums were heard in the distance, and chanting began outside my window. The rooftop of the Goya truck became a giant stage for their voodoo God-pleasing. Dancing and singing ensued.

The man in the car to my left lit a cigarette, and the man in the car to my right lit something stronger. A thundering behind us alerted me to the worst: hordes of angry teenagers rushed by, screaming with a volume to match a thousand banshees. Breaking glass made the riot soundtrack complete. A few tie-dyed hippie children interspersed themselves within the rioters and broke out their acoustic guitars and reed pipes.

The Law Abiding Citizens paid no mind. Sitting calmly, National Public Radio filled their heads with stories of rare fish scales, and they were content. My fear of tardiness began to turn to rage. My hands gripped the wheel with white-knuckle force. The tribesmen redoubled their efforts with an unseen intensity, and it began to rain. Evidently, they mixed up the Rain Dance with the Green Light Dance. Perfect. The seething mass of rioters and hippies and Christians and frustrated office men just trying to get to work writhed and gyrated in a furious appeal to the stoplight. Our hundred-strong band of inconvenienced citizens were all thinking the same thing: Please stoplight, turn green.

Then, the unthinkable happened. The stoplight, dangling so tauntingly above us, listened to our plea. Any sense of unity evaporated in an instant, and a hundred car horns finally called the Law Abiding Citizens to attention. They rolled through the intersection with agonizingly slow acceleration, and gradually the lanes began moving again. We took our place in the wave, and continued our commute to school.

We nabbed the last parking space and ran into the building. The bell was sounding its final ding as we hastily took our seats. We had made it, and we had done so with a much more exciting journey than the rest of our classmates. It might just be a good day.

Bliss gone.

I just saw one of my 6th graders’ myspaces. She says “wdf”. As in, “what DA fuck”. It’s not abbreviating, it’s not simplifying. It’s blatant wrongness, and in true color-cliche style. Ugh.