Tuesday, September 21
How many Baldwins are there?

I have no idea. There's Alec, Steven, some more, I don't know. On South Park they bombed their house and there was quite a few Baldwins sunbathing, and after Mr. Garrison heard about their untimely deaths he got all sad and cried and stuff. Answer that and you get a free compliment.

Oh mah gawd. Today was like, so - like, good. Well not exceptionally sensational, but better than these antecedent days. Art was awesome, because Natalia and I glue-gunned various objects to the shelves. Including a pencil, roll of tape, blinds, a window shut, and a nickel to the floor. But I doubt the window would stay glued. The teacher being absent, I spent my free time and not wanting to work on my project by doodling fabulous Picasso works on the desk. I wish I could've taken a picture of the nazi pig, oh boy, it's adorable. By the time class was over, a rather sizable portion of my table was beautifully muraled with fruits, angry clowns, angry farm animals, Slash, and a dead man who has "pussy" written on his shirt. No, it's not Axl, but is indeed Maximilien Robespierre, a long lost ancestor of his.

We got quite a few papers back in chemistry. I failed a quiz and aced a homework assignment. One which I had to write food names and state whether they were homogeneous or heterogeneous mixtures. Being that I like to shorten long words so they could fit in the goddam boxes, I wrote "hetero" and "homo" for a total of about 15 times. It looked really funny, but scanning my green homework onto the Compaq Presario for people who have just a teeny bit less free time that I do is rather extremely pointless. More extremely pointless than I even stating what I wrote on it.

There have been no "fucks" in this entry yet. Here they come now.

I fucking hate fucking B days. That's why I am going to fucking hate tomorrow with all my ass, not love it with all my heart. Nobody likes to get half naked in a brightly lit locker room where it's fucking cold as a Lord of the Rings orgy bedroom in the Chateau Marmont, get changed, lie on the floor sticking your feet up into the air for 40 minutes, and running like a fucking ass outside in circles, which I don't know how so many of the potheads could not have already ran into the fence and cut themselves with rust, and not feel a fucking thing, and eventually dying of tetanus. But Mr. Wittner's cool, he doesn't make us push ourselves and induce heart attacks that could simply be cured by taking Bayer on our pubescent young bodies. Literature class with Mrs. LaFlamme is fucking pointless, more pointless than Britney Spears' clothing because we already know she's a 2 cent hooker. Oh excuse me, she prefers it to be called .002 dollars, because it takes longer to say, giving the illusion of a lot more money's worth of her services.

Guns n Roses was stuck in my head all day. As a matter of fact, all week. Izzy's voice is like ear infection serum for my ears.

Shaina's painting has been finished since last Wednesday. And today I find it fucked up on the drying rack. Well not literally fucked up, but some Gwar fucker almost bent the paper while folding the rest of the racks down, possibly causing it to crinkle, but it didn't. Do it again and I see you, you lose your vagina. I have the sketch of it to guide me for the painting of it, but I won't take a Kodak picture for you folks because I want it to be a surprise. I don't know when I'll be able to get it back to send it to her, because we have to fucking hang them up for the fucking students in our dear home of education. I have a feeling that they will have Dashboard Confessional CDs shoved up their asses all the way past their pelvises and perhaps throw gum or rip my gift to her. Do it and I see you, you lose your ass crack.

You know what? I love to sew with newly buffed needles and wire thread.


Christina N. @ 7:21 PM