As I walked to the elevator, it became stronger and I finally pinpointed it. It was like a really fruity perfume that you'd always smell after taking one step into Limited Too. It was the kind of body splash a Ukranian transvestite would wear. Like Mango Surprise or Fresia Supreme. Well, I stepped into the elevator to escape it, and it became STRONGER!
Wherever this Ukranian he-lady was going, I was hot on its trail. The aroma was overwhelming. I felt like I was drowning in a puddle of Herbal Essences vomit and I finally reached the fourth floor. I stepped out, and the smell was GONE. So I got back in the elevator and stopped at floor three - NOTHING. I got back in and travelled to floor two - NOTHING! So I pressed the four button and began to make my way upwards again.
"Where is this Ukranian lad-y?" I wondered, scratching my chin contemplatively. "The fellowoman clearly got into the elevator, but it didn't get off on ANY of the floors!"
Suddenly, I freaked out. He/she must still be in the elevator with me. My stomach dropped. I looked around. The elevator is literally four feet by four feet and there was no Ukranian in sight. But then I looked up, and I saw the little trap door on the ceiling where Hannibal Lecter would enjoy popping out of to scare me. Is it too far-fetched to think that this Ukranian prostitute with multiple, confusing parts would enter the elevator and climb out the trap door on the ceiling and emerge into a hidden, on-campus sex club filled with Russian terrorists and Vin Diesel?
I finally gave up my little search and came back here to eat some Altoids. I'll never forget that smell though...Cassis Rose... or Cherry Blossom Extravaganza. Or Passion Fruit Vanilla.
- Mood:
curious
When I look around my room, I notice there are very few places for a killer to hide. I looked under Allison's bed, but it's pristinely-organized. He's definitely not behind her envious array of tuperware drawers and shelves. And the closet is pretty straight-forward. I looked behind my clothes and the hamper, but there was nothing. But there is one place in my room that would make a delightful cubby for a killer...
... under my bed.
There's a ton of shit behind my bed. Everytime I eat a candy bar or finish a water bottle, I slide it between my bed and the wall and watch as it drops into an abyss of obscurity. There's a suitcase, a microwave, a toaster, and several plastic bags underneath there, and most of the space is taken up. The little room that's left under the bed is hidden by some wooden drawers and a cheapo bookshelf - an ideal nesting spot for a derranged psychopath.
Now, let's come back to the water bottles and candy wrappers. When I throw these scraps beneath my bed, there're usually several drops of water left in the bottles, crumbs left in the wrappers. I expect the killer is able to survive under my bed by eating and drinking what little is left in my food trash. He's probably very small and sprightly, so crumbs and drops of water would satiate him. Not to mention the fact that I expect him to be 100% crazy, so even if he was slowly dying of starvation and dehydration, his drive to murder me would keep him alive.
Then there're the microwave and toaster. I haven't become aware of any burning or cooking smells as of yet, but I expect during the hours I am in class, the killer could sneak into my fridge and steal some old Lunchables or juice. I don't know why, but he might want to heat these things up.
And the suitcase. It gets cold at night, especially in these winter months. The killer might choose to climb into the suitcase and nestle in for a good night's sleep to conserve body heat and energy.
So that's where I am now with this theory. Right now, the killer is being really quiet, so I don't feel right about confronting him. He might be sleeping, or maybe even dead. Either way, I should know soon enough.
Until then, I'll keep a serrated butter knife under my pillow.
- Mood:
contemplative
For security purposes, I will not mention explicitly which classes I am currently enrolled in for fear of violent retribution from my targets and political enemies.
ENGLISH
- Lady Frown-Face - This girl is insufferable. It doesn't matter what she's feeling at the time... she may be happy, like she just won the big softball tourney, she may be angry, like someone just killed her mother, or she might even be legitimately sad, like... like someone just killed her mother... but no matter what she's feeling, her mouth is curled down into a self-important, pursed frown. She always comes to class looking like a slutty Victorian woman and fancies herself a prim and proper lass, but I can see right through that act, for I too went through a stage of wanting to look rich and sophistocated. It doesn't work, slut. You're not sophistocated, you're not a classic beauty, and you don't own a horse named Cherry Blossom on Widdenborough.
- Girl with old turtle face - Her face looks like a snapper turtle. It's bumpy and she always looks like she's ready to eat a fly or small mammal. I know! I know this is mean, but she needs to stop acting like a pretentious know-it-all, wearing solely LMU-brand clothing and jeans that are too short to cover her Sketchers. Now, this girl wouldn't bother me so much, but every time the teacher asks a question, she thinks it's the professor's sly way of prompting her to teach the class about Shakespeare. You can almost see the little gerbil in her head reaching a wheel of gruyere as she nods smugly and proceeds to bore us with her interpretation of shit.
- Guy who wears a beret - This idiot thinks he looks like Pierce Brosnan when, in fact, he looks like a self-indulgent college student who doesn't know shit about the world. I feel like saying, "Take off your Houndstooth beret, jackass." Just that. That's all he deserves.
THEOLOGY
- Baptist science-denier - So this girl is a self-proclaimed BAPTIST. Who would announce that to any moderately-sized group of individuals who aren't all Baptists? I mean, these are the same people who are protesting Heath Ledger's funeral because he played a gay cowboy in Brokeback Mountain. These are the same people who think the Earth was created by Jesus 3,000 years ago. These are the same people who thing dinosaur bones and fossils are nasty tricks played on us by Belzebub. DON'T BRAG ABOUT IT.
- Indian racist - When asked if his family was "endogamous," he replied, "Yeah, dawg, I'm a thoroughbred." Fuck him.
ENGLISH AGAIN
- History bitch with a bob - I swear to whatever God there is or isn't, if this girl raises her hand and gives the entire class AND our teacher another 5 minute lecture on the mannerisms and traditions of the Tudor family, social dichotomies during the French Revolution, or the political landscape during William Wordsworth's time, I will projectile vom all over the brand-new carpet.
HISTORY
empty
FILM
- Pretentious freshman film majors - Okay, I get it. You only want independent films. You critique shows like According to Jim according to your strict set of film major expectations. You talk about directors you "adore" even when no one's talking to you. You make fun of such pop culture stigmas as MTV and VH1. You pretend not to know who Tila Tequila is. Okay. I get it. And you know what? I don't like According to Jim. I don't watch a ton of MTV. I don't watch a ton of VH1. And yeah, there is the occasional directer that I say, "Hey, I like him/her." BUT YOU BET YOUR ASS I KNOW WHO TILA TEQUILA IS. Get off your high film horse and come back down to earth. People will NOT think less of you for taking off your self-righteous, artsy facade. REALLY.
I know this sounds like a really mean, really angry post. That's because it is really mean and really angry. I don't know why, but I've been in a really pissy mood the past week, and I'm not sure what's causing it. But instead of my recently-employed optimism and general happiness has become so comfortable, I have definitely noticed a change. I say "fuck" at least 11 times to and from school, and it's usually directly at wholly innocent drivers. I see a girl who looks bitchy physically and I immediately assume she's going to be a bitch and ignore her entirely for the sake of self-preservation.
I feel bad. I really do. I shouldn't be mean about people. They're just trying to get through their day, just like me. But it's good to vent. Now that I've released this pent-up angst, I can start concentrating in my classes and not on the witless idiots who irritate me.
A Poem:
Even Captain Gregor Crouse
Would sit against the teapot
Watching shadows in his house.
And playing with his wee tot,
Would deny that all that passed
Was covered with wizened fluff.
He knew his mind could not long last
With his hand beneath that stuff.
End.
- Mood:
cynical
Well, it is now official: I've seen Sean Bean's butt.
No, this is not a gimmick.
How did I stumble upon it? Well, I decided to go on the Sean Bean page on IMDb, like I often intermittently do, and write a post asking people to concoct sexy Bean stories, and there it was! Beckoning me in! Well, the butt wasn't beckoning me in, that's disgusting. But the link provided in the "BEAN NAKED -- FOR REALZ!" thread was beckoning me in. And I took the bait. And it paid off.
But here's the deal.
It just looked like a butt. Nothing special. It wasn't made of gold or pecan brittle like I had always hoped. It wasn't oddly small or oddly fat. It wasn't an unusual color. It wasn't really very remarkable at all. Just a butt, galavanting into the wild Alaskan tundra, with two legs and a torso attached to it.
So, while the butt got my hopes up and ultimately let me down, this post did the same for you.
The End (for now)
- Mood:
exanimate
Back to the point:
I just watched the movie Fracture with my friend Roxanne* and it was terrible. Here's why:
- In some scenes, Anthony Hopkins was talking. In other scenes, Anthony Hopkins was talking with a Scottish accent.
- Roxanne figured out the twist ending in the first 15 minutes, whereas I held onto the idea that Anthony Hopkins magically transformed the murder weapon into a marble.
- Ryan Gosling's sexual new boss, hottie-potaty Rosamund Pike, who is supposed to be a professional career woman, invites him over for a night of sexual escapades (ie nookie) and invites him to her family's Thanksgiving.
- At the Thanksgiving meal, her family acts as though the two had been dating for 8 months and were in a serious relationship, not just jammin' between the sheets inappropriately (and, unless they mentioned it to Human Resources, grounds for termination).
That's that.
Second line of business: Today, through serious personal reflection, I was forced to confront a long-standing phobia of mine. Bowiephobia.
Ever since I saw the movie Labyrinth (maybe it has a The in front of it, I'm too lazy to doublecheck), I have had a fear of David Bowie. To be honest, it subsided briefly, when I saw his cameo in Zoolander. He looked healthy, had subtle and classy makeup on, and did not come across creepy. When I discovered that he had married healthy-looking model Iman, I was happy for him. Not because he had found true love. Not because he had settled down and was enjoying his domestic bliss. Because he could no longer prey on tween girls.
David Bowie never preyed on tween girls, let me rephrase: Jareth the Goblin King preyed on tween girls. He kidnapped their baby brothers and lured them into an underground hell hole, furnished entirely with Jim Henson creations: Hoggle, Ludo, Didymus, the Worm...
And his costumes were horrific. The hair, the eyebrows, the silver, latex cat suits that showcased his man thunder... And the way he caressed his mystical orbs as he send them floating through the air to haunt little Sarah...
Now, because of David Bowie's portrayal of Jareth, I had many a nightmare spanning from 1993 to 1996. They included lazy 80's chases, orb-attacks, and David Bowie's Jareth the Goblin King hovering over me with that goddamn cat suit. When I awoke from these tortured slumbers, I felt... violated.
Today, after much reflection and meditation, I have decided to finally forgive Jareth. Because, in all honesty, Jareth wasn't entirely to blame for my phobia. It was also the ambience of the film itself. It is not David Bowie I should fear. It is not Jareth I should fear. It is Jim Henson. Jim Henson imagined this dungeon of pedophiliac implications and muppet beasts. Jim Henson's sick, twisted mind haunted my memories like the heavy tread of a lost soul...
Phew! That feels better! I feel as though a weight has been lifted.
FUN LABYRINTH TRIVIA: The full costume for Hoggle was lost for some time. It was later found at an unclaimed baggage store in Scottsboro, Alabama and is now on display in their museum.
Sorry, that was unprovoked trivia. I was looking at the IMDb page for this movie and I laughed at that. Think of the look on the guy's face who found that costume... Wow. Poor man...
*names changed for security reasons
- Mood:
relieved
Two nights ago, I had a dream that JOHN KERRY (?) won the Democratic primaries, which I don't think, if he were running, would be cause for INTENSE panic, but I felt said intense panic for some reason. I awoke in a cold sweat, my limbs quivering, and my lips unusually saliva-y.
I fell again into a deep slumber.
That is when I encountered another terrifying dream. It involved a Wee Britain-esque village with a lush, elaborately-decorated hotel with gilded chandeliers and ivory staircases, plush crimson velvet and glistening golden tassles. I was in that hotel. And then, I traveled to this room where the ceiling was under construction and I was running from a villain. I disguised myself and my dad like furry bats (?) using shimmering tinsel and fur-covered wires, and we flew around the open ceiling hiding from the villain, who was also dressed as a bat. It was a moment filled with terror and I finally awoke for the second time.
I decided to pee. Maybe this would make me feel more at ease.
What does this mean?
I think it means PEOPLE SUCK. I am so sick of mean people. So I think that's what my dreams meant. Or maybe it had something to do with a deep-seeded (or is it deep-seated? I've always wondered this. Seeded makes more sense to me, because it's like a poison seed that's burrowed deep in your soul and is radiating out like a cancer...) distrust of humankind, and men in particular. The villain-bat was a man. John Kerry is (as far as I know) a man. And in my stabbing dreams, I'm always stabbing men to protect myself. Oh yeah, I never mentioned stabbing dreams here. They're these creepy dreams where a fat pervy man is chasing me around a closet (it's a small closet, or otherwise a kitchen with a tiled island in the middle of the floor) and I grab a knife and begin to protect myself by stabbing him. They're very scary dreams, and I wonder what they could mean. We all know what Freud would say... EH? EH?? But seriously, maybe something horrible happened to me as a child and I've pushed the memories into my subconscious and slowly, through these dreams, I am bringing them to the forefront of my psyche. That would be awful! I hope nothing happened when I was really little! SHIT! How can I find out?! There's no way to find out, I'll either never remember it or one day I'll have such a bad dream that I'll sleep-open my window and jump out. Oh dear, this is not at all what I meant to write about. If this was a private diary that I kepy bound in pink ribbon under my pillow, that would be one thing. But THREE people read this from time to time! THREE! It's better than the ONE (I love you Eilish) who read it in high school. I basically dedicate this journal to EILISH, because she is the best person I know and is totally cool, and I'm so glad I was in girl scouts with her. Hahaha, I'm sorry to bring that up, but I am. I am a former-girl scout. DEAL WITH IT. And Eilish was my scout partner and we baked dog treats and went camping twice. SO THERE. But now, Eilish plus two other people actively read this. That is THREE people that now know about my terrifying stabbing dream! And you know what I found out? Other people in high school secretly read this on occasion and never told me or commented or anything. SO THEY MIGHT KNOW TOO!
Well, it's time to end the taboo against stabbing dreams. THEY HAPPEN! Are they fun? NO. Do they happen? YES. You BET your BOTTOM dollar they do.
I am not ashamed! I am not ashamed!
This got so off-track. Look at that huge paragraph above this. That thing is huge. I could've easily broken that up, but why? I think it's charming the way it is. Huge and hulking and heavy-looking, like an ACME anvil from the TiNY TOoNS. I was always attracted to Maxamillion, the rich asshole Tiny Toon who lived in a huge manson and sang Pink Floyd. He was so powerful and confident in his manliness.
WOW.
This is so embarassing. Lately, the minute I step in this room, I get a little hyped. I think it's because I've been alternately happy and pissed off at mean people for the past couple of weeks, and it builds up into this purple cloud/balloon of tension that explodes on my lame livejournal. I need to get a blog. At least then I would feel better asking (nay begging) people to read this. "Read my blog, bitches." That sounds so much cooler than "Read my tweenaged livejournal."
The End.
Dedicated to Eilish.
- Mood:
hyped out of my GOURD.
Aren't these funny dog faces fun to look at? Yesterday, Jenny and I were reminiscing about the old, historically inaccurate diary book series involving young royals from around the world and various tweenaged girls from important historical events. There was Isabel, Queen of Spain (as a tween), Caty, the tweenaged Quaker girl who was kidnapped by Native Americans, and the list goes on and on.
Now, I will attempt a tweenaged diary of my own:
Neutrogena:
Princess of San Bernadino
4 June 1999
Dear Diary,
The weather is totally hot right now. Not cool. I'm sitting in my history class, chewing a big ball of bazooka bubblegum, staring at the clock. I can't wait until recess, when I can hang out with Mark at the teather ball court! As I sit here, writing in purple ink the names Mrs. Mark O'Hoolahee and Neutrogena O'Hoolagee, I can barely contain my excitement. I still remember that time last year, when we were all finishing our mission projects, when Mark told me that I had good taste in scrunchies. Eeek, I can't wait!!!
5 June 1999
Dear Diary,
Teather ball was a disaster. I can't believe I was so stupid! That stupid whore Tiffany has had her greedy eyes on Mark since third grade, I should've known! Diary, you should've been there. I walked up to the teather ball court, going totally GAA-GAA over Mark's rippling deltoids as he whipped the orange ball high into the blue sky. It cirled the pole like Mark cirlces my heart. That's where Tiffany comes in. She totally PUSHED me aside and told Mark, "You're good at teather ball." SLUT! I need to do something about her, she's ruining everything! I'm going to go brush my teeth.
7 June 1999
Dear Diary,
I came up with a plan. Yesterday, while Tiffany was outside the room practices her times tables, I sneaked a little bitty peek inside her pencil box. There, sitting sluttily next to her glue stick was a Lisa Frank tube of cherry lip gloss! WITH SPARKLES! That convinced me that something had to be done. She was smutting up the entire classroom, and I KNOW Mark noticed her. I couldn't have that, now could I?
8 June 1999
Dear Diary,
It's the weekend! I'm practicing on my two-wheeler this afternoon, and later I'm going to try and sell some cookies to the neighbors. If I raise enough money, I'll get a bright pink camera with a glitter tassle!
11 June 1999
Dear Diary,
I think it's about time I let you in on my plan. I'm going to kill Tiffany. I'm still working out the kinks, but the murder plan is going to involve a teather ball rope, my old Mall Madness board game, and Sasha, my teddy bear with the bejeweled stomach compartment where I keep all of my treasures. Here's what going to happen, Diary:
Sorry Diary, I forgot to mention that there's a gun inside my Teddy Bear's secret compartment stomach. Okay, I'm going to go brush my teeth now!
12 June 1999
Dear Diary,
I'm getting cold feet! I need to fucking get a grip! This isn't fucking day care anymore, this is murder! Where did I put my scrunchie!??!
14 June 1999
Dear Diary,
School is almost out and I'm going out of my fucking mind. Black, haze, a dark and heavy glow on my shoulder, I feel like a snaking dragon is home in my tummy, eating my insides, killing me with guilt. Can I go through with it, as Lucifer himself sits on my shoulder begging me for more, begging for me to scream out in a Native Indian war cry as I destroy Tiffany like a the dried up snail on a side walk, covered in chalk. Diary, I'm going to go eat some oatmeal, don't tell a soul how I feel! Love ya!
15 June 1999
Dear Diary,
Today is that last day of school. I brought my teddy bear with me for show and tell. I'm sitting at my desk. Oh my god, I have to close you up real quick, Mark is walking over here!
OH MY GOD! Mark just asked me to go see the Pokemon movie with him! I totally am! Tiffany looks so jealous! I feel like a princess right now! I can't believe it! I'm tucking my teddy bear in my Jansport right now, I guess I won't be needing Sasha after all!
16 June 1999
Dear Diary,
Mark's mom is picking me up in ten minutes. I'm so psyched! I heard that when you buy the ticket to the movie, you get a free pack of pokemon cards! I hope I get a Mew! What if I do!? Mark will think that's so sexy! I can't wait! Tiffany is such an ugly loser, I hope she lives a long and fruitful life feeling like a dummie for losing Mark to me.
PS: Diary, I tried to shoot my My-Size Barbie with the gun inside Sasha, and I realized it was a potato gun! You know? Those guns you punch holes in potatoes with, and then they shoot potatoes?! Haha, oh Diary... irony is so as if!
The End.
- Mood:
creative
The Sean Bean Chronicles
Chapter One
"Mr. President, there is an urgent call on line 4!"
Upon hearing this news, Sean Bean swiveled around in his chair and faced the young Secret Service agent standing in the frame of the secret door.
"Thank you, Paddy, I'm on it," Bean murmured seductively. Paddy felt his heart flutter before spinning on his feet and hurrying to find the Vice President. "President Bean, speaking."
"You think you're really special, don't you?"
"Who is this!?" Bean thundered, furious at the arrogance of this anonymous caller. His strong arms rested on the fine mahogany desk, and his golden hair glistened in the early-morning sunlight.
"You want to know?"
"Well, I doubt I'd have asked so angrily if I wasn't serious, laddy," Bean growled, his eyes flashing in a seething fury. Just then, the Vice President hurried into the Oval Office.
"Yes, Mr. President, Paddy sent for me," Dame Judy Dench exclaimed, putting down her flowery umbrella and taking a seat across from Bean. From the look on Bean's face, Judy knew the phone call was serious. She sat, tight-lipped, her hands folded gently on her ultra-feminine lap.
"I have your girlfriend and one true love in my treacherous grasp, and unless you and your Vice President, Dame Judy Dench, come alone to my hide-out, she will die!"
*CLICK*
Bean swallowed hard, and felt his stomach drop to the very bottom of his soul. He squeezed the phone with the strength of eight biblical lions and slammed the receiver down against his desk.
"Bollocks, Judy! We have a situation on our hands..." Bean muttered through clenched teeth.
Vice President Dame Judy Dench rose, umbrella in hand, and said with an unwavering and confident smile, "I think I know just what to do..."
To Be Continued...
- Mood: chipper
It's a Hard Sox Life
Hmm, I wonder what this article is about, I ask myself as, with slight misgiving, I click on the link. WELL, what do you KNOW! It's an article about a man who is upset because his wife is giving birth to their first child during baseball season!
CHARMING.
So, let me get this straight... You are going to have a CHILD on October 18, and the only thing you can think of is, "Shit, that's when the Red Sox are playing..." Really? So, your wife, who is almost 9 months pregnant, has been vomitting non-stop for weeks and weeks because she is harboring another HUMAN in her uterus, has gained 45 pounds in pickle/cream cheese/ice cream, with ankles that have swollen to the size of dinosaur testicles, is looking forward to the most painful, trying experience of her LIFE for which the only accurate metaphor would include you shitting a BOXCAR out of your ASS, and all YOU can think about is BASE-FUCKING-BALL!?!?!?! SHE IS GROWING A PERSON IN HER BODY! YOUR CHILD! YOUR LEGACY AS PARENTS! YOUR PRIDE A JOY! YOUR SON OR DAUGHTER THAT WILL BE ENTERING THE WORLD IN THE MOST MIRACULOUS DISPLAY OF NATURAL GLORY KNOWN ON EARTH, and you are pissing and moaning like a fucking PUSSY about the Red Sox.
FUCK YOU, you piece of SHIT. You know what I want to ask your wife?
WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?
Why the hell would you get knocked up by such a fucking idiot, a caveman piece of shit who cares more about baseball than you and the child you share.
FUCK!
http://msn.foxsports.com/mlb/story/73013
- Mood: PISSED OFF!
Bernadine sat upright next to her desk, chewing on the eraser of a mechanical pencil, twiddling a lock of her shiny brown hair in her fingers.
"What should I write?" she asked to her stuffed bear, Keenan. She thought for a moment. "I guess I should just... write what I'm feeling!"
Bernadine leaned over her desk and stared intently into the computer screen. In the chat rooms, everyone had told her that craigslist was the place to go if you needed something. And Bernadine definitely needed something!
________________________________________
My name is Bernadine. I'm 14 years old and I really want
this cute pink leather jacket that I saw in J.C. Penny's yesterday,
but I can't afford it! Will someone out there buy it for me?
________________________________________
"Perfect, Keenan! It's perfect! And now we play the waiting game," Bernadine giggled. She jumped out of her swivel chair, pulled up her knee socks, and turned the song I'm Not a Girl (Not Yet a Woman) on. "I love this boom box!" Bernadine began dancing.
Twenty minutes later, she returned to her computer monitor. One new message!
________________________________________
wut up baby. u sho me sumthin n i'll buy the jacket. ~ ASA
________________________________________
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" Bernadine mumbled excitedly. "This Asa sounds like a really great guy, but what does he mean? What do I need to show him?" Suddenly, Bernadine understood. She surfed the web for 3 minutes looking for the perfect picture... and then she sent it.
Bernadine began to dance.
This time, only seven minutes went by before Bernadine noticed she had one new message on craigslist.
________________________________________
wut da fuck? i don't give a shit wut da jacket looks like.
sho me ur jugz bitch. ~ ASA
________________________________________
"Geez Louise. Now I feel like a total goof!" Bernadine squealed nervously. She picked Keenan up by his weathered teddy bear arms and swung him around in glee.
Bernadine grabbed the Barbie-brand digital camera her father had given her for her 12th birthday.
"Now it's time to impress this Asa character, Keenan!" Bernadine giggled, clicking away with the camera. She uploaded the pictures onto the computer as quickly as she could. She was so excited by Asa's attention, she muted the Britney Spears CD and sat in her swivel chair, her gaze boring into the computer screen as she clicked the REFRESH button every 10 seconds.
There! A new message!
________________________________________
r u a fukin retard? wut the fuk are those? ~ASA
________________________________________
"Asa is so cute! He's never seen Apache water jugs before!' Bernadine smiled. She typed a response back, explaining the historical significance of these ancient adobe pots that once held water for as many as 2 weeks, staving off evaporation during droughts in the summer seasons when the maize grew dry and withered.
________________________________________
i'm not fukin buying dat stoopid pink jacket until u
sho me ur boobies. capeesh? ~ASA
________________________________________
Bernadine's throat became dry and she suddenly felt sick.
"Why is Asa acting like this? I barely even know him!" Bernadine had always known that showing one's boobies was a sacred act and should only be given as a gift to someone she loved. She wrote back:
________________________________________
Well, I don't really know you very well, Asa. If we were to
meet in person, I might consider showing you my boobies.
But I still am not saying yes for sure. I'll meet you in the
alley behind the 7-11 tomorrow night at 11 pm. B there or
b square!
xoxo Bernadine
________________________________________
"That adorable pink, leather jacket is as good as mine!" Bernadine laughed, dancing about the room with Keenan before picking an outfit to wear to her date the next night.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The next night...
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Bernadine looked as cute as a button as she strolled down the alley behind the 7-11. She had a brand-new pink scrunchy in her hair, the prettiest glittery lip gloss she could find at the drug store, and a pair of Tweety-Bird overalls that looked perfect on her. She even wore her glittery jelly shoes that night, in honor of the occasion.
Next to the dumpster up ahead, she saw a very tall, Armenia man with a handsome face.
"Asa!" she giggled, running towards the man. He had a black goatee and several golden necklaces, and wore a pair of shiny black boots.
"Yes, my name is Asa. You bring me what I ask for?" he asked, throwing the butt of a cigarette into the dumpster.
"Abooouuuttt thaaattt..." Bernadine began with a devious wink.
"What the fuck? You's going to fuck me over?" Asa growled. Bernadine started and a worried grimace grew on her face.
"I wouldn't dream of it! But we haven't even been on a date! It's just..." Before Bernadine could finish, she noticed something odd.
Asa was smiling!
"What in the Sam Hill are you grinning about, Mister!?" Bernadine laughed, putting her hands on her hips.
With a flourish of his hand, he pulled a bright pink leather jacket out from behind his back!
"This is the jacket you want, yes? It's my pleasure to buy this jacket for you!" Asa asked, beaming with joy.
"It's... it's beautiful!" Bernadine could barely speak. She was so excited, and she begged to try it on.
The jacket must've been magical. It looked totally cute on her! It was a deep magenta pink with Native American-esque fringe on the back and on the sleeves. In the left side of the jacket, in rhinestone letters was the name BERNADINE!
"Oh, Asa! You are the greatest!"
With that, Bernadine and Asa embraced and have been best friends ever since.
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