She has no idea how lucky she is that I came along when I did. If Fat Louie HAD lost control of himself and let loose on Rocky, he could have sustained cat scratch fever and died. Rocky could have, I mean. Cat scratch fever is a super-serious and totally underreported disease. It can cause anorexia, if you aren’t careful.
Not, in Rocky’s case, that anyone would notice, since he is roughly the size of your average four-year-old, even though he’s not even a year old yet.
In fact, if Rocky, like Fat Louie, were orange, he’d look exactly like an Oompa Loompa.
I seriously don’t see how between my baby brother, my friends, my parents, this princess thing, my grandmother, and this sexy-dancing business, I am ever going to achieve self-actualization.
Monday, March 8, PE
Lana came up to me as I was in the shower just now, and asked me where her tickets for the Aide de Ferme benefit were. I was so tired—and my forearms are so sore from strangling Boris, let alone smacking that stupid volleyball, even though I only did it once…the rest of the time, I just ducked when I saw it coming at me—I went, “Don’t get your panties in a wad, I submitted everyone’s name to my grandmother’s party organizer, okay? You and Trish will get in. You just have to show up.”
She looked kind of startled. I guess I WAS kind of sharp.
You know, it’s becoming clearer and clearer to me that actresses get a really bum rap. You know, the ones with the rumored “temperaments.” I mean, like Cameron Diaz and stuff. If she has HALF as much stress as I do, it’s no wonder she freaks out and kicks photographers and breaks their cameras and all.
It just goes to show that what one person considers a “bad attitude” might actually just be total frustration over being pushed beyond the brink of one’s mental and physical endurance.
That’s all I’m saying.
Monday, March 8, U.S. Economics
Elasticity
Elasticity is the degree to which a demand or supply curve reacts to a change in price.
Elasticity varies among products based on how essential that product is to the consumer.
I am thinking I lost a lot of elasticity in Michael’s eyes after that whole sexy-dancing thing.
Or maybe it was the beret.
Monday, March 8, English
Everyone is too tired to talk or even pass notes.
Also, apparently none of us read O Pioneers over the weekend.
Ms. Martinez says she is really disappointed in us.
Get in line, Ms. M. Get in line.
Monday, March 8, Lunch
J.P. is sitting with us again. He is the only one at the table (who is in the play—I mean, musical—anyway) who isn’t catatonic with exhaustion. He’s even written a new poem. It goes:
I always wanted
To be in a play
But the thrill of running lines
Grows fainter by the day
Now that I’m here,
I just want a reversal
I’m sick of blocking,
Sick of rehearsal
Someone please help us,
Hear our pleas as they’re made
Get us out of this mess—
I mean, musical—Braid!
Funny. I’d laugh, if my diaphragm didn’t hurt so much from lifting that stupid piano.
Still no word from Michael. I know he’s got his History of Dystopic Sci-Fi in Film midterm right now. So that would explain why he hasn’t called to thank me for the cookie.
It isn’t because he never wants to hear from or see me again, on account of the sexy dance.
Probably.
Monday, March 8, G & T
Okay, she’s gone mental.
Seriously. What’s WRONG with her? She expects us all to help her put her stupid literary magazine together—literally: She just wheeled in 3,700 pages that we are apparently supposed to collate and staple—but she still won’t pull “No More Corn!”
“Lilly,” I said. “PLEASE. We know J.P. now. We’re FRIENDS with him. You can’t run the story. It’s just going to hurt his feelings! I mean, I have him KILL himself at the end.”
“J.P. is a poet,” is all Lilly said back.
“SO? WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?”
“Poets kill themselves all the time. It’s a statistical fact. Amongst writers, poets have the shortest life expectancy. They are more likely to kill themselves than writers of prose or nonfiction. J.P. will probably agree with the way you’ve ended ‘No More Corn!’ since that’s the way he’s going to go someday anyway.”
“Lilly!”
But she won’t be swayed.
I have refused to help collate and staple on ethical grounds, so she’s got Boris doing it.
You can tell he doesn’t want to. He’s just too tired to practice his violin.
You know, I’m starting to wonder if selling candles wouldn’t have been simpler than all this.
Monday, March 8, Earth Science
Kenny wasn’t too tired last night to do our lab worksheet.
But he WAS too tired to not spill marinara sauce all over it.
I recopied it for free. I’ve officially given up on Alfred Marshall. He may work for Grandmère and Lana, but he hasn’t done squat for me.
Still no word from Michael. And his History of Dystopic Sci-Fi in Film midterm should be over by now.
I think it’s official.
He hates me.
HOMEWORK