January 17, 2013

Confessions of an Insomniac.

Okay, I'm not an insomniac...
But today, I fell asleep on my bed at 5:30 P.M., which was not my brightest idea.
Because here I am at 2 A.M., wide awake, and ready to party.

Today, I wrote a poem about how often Austin Daw chooses Carter Monson to sit shotgun over me. Then, it led to another stanza about how they both would treat me like a girl if they would sometimes remember that I am one.

Speaking of Professors (we weren't speaking of professors), I went to an English department meeting today, and the weirdest thing happened. You know how in movies sometimes, there are girls who fall in love with their sixty year old teachers? Well, that didn't happen to me, but my lit professor from last spring walked in the room, and all I wanted to do was bond over Eudora Welty, and discuss the allegory in Young Goodman Brown. I decided that I have bizarre crushes on people who know a lot about words. It especially freaks me out when they're the balding, middle aged people in charge of my grade.

Last night, there was a boy in my bedroom. And he was on my bed. There weren't any chairs. But calm down, we were reading books. Well, he was reading his. I was thinking about how the whole situation was weirdly identical to that scene in Teen Witch where Louise tries to put the moves on Brad. I wasn't putting any moves on anyone, though. Mostly because I was afraid that he had seen the movie, and would get suspicious of my intentions, which actually more resembled this scene from Teen Witch... (Just kidding.) (No, I'm not.) but also because I was supposed to look like I was reading. Which, as previously stated, I wasn't doing. A lot went on in my bedroom last night. Just, none of them involved putting the moves on Brad. Even fewer involved Brad putting the moves on me. During this time, I was also thinking about how it might be beneficial to learn some spells.

This morning, in my non-fiction writing class, a stupid boy, creature of the sea, disgusting vermin, raised his hand and said that he didn't like Charles Dickens... that victorian writing was "verbose and unnecessarily delineative". So, I  picked up my backpack and beat him over the head with it, screaming, "UNCULTURED SWINE!"

These are all very real and true.

Well, most of them.

That last one was slightly over-exaggerated. I didn't hit him with anything. I did, however, do that thing with my judge-y eyes, prior to making a comment to the teacher about how people should put less focus on thesaurus-izing every word they use, and more on becoming educated, cultured members of society who don't feel the need to say words they can barely spell, just to improve their rhetoric. He gave me judge-y eyes back, and it was a blood bath of optical proportions. I don't think we'll be study buddies this semester... or, any semester at all. Let this be a lesson to all of you: don't mess with Charles Dickens, or there will be consequences.

I am tired now. Good night.

1 comment:

i like words. and you. write me a few?