Thursday, April 7
Britt and I fucking jinxed ourselves yesterday. Not good.

Which means I did not have the greatest day today. And I realized that the crappier the mood I'm in, the more crap I do. I cut gym class because it's fucking pointless to sit there for an hour and a half watching other people sitting with other people who are also sitting for an hour and a half, when my fucking four year old walkman won't play my Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust CD. Stupid fucking shit. All the thing did was spin the CD around super fast and for some reason it kept hitting the lid of the player from inside and making weird noises, not playing a single thing. So I'm begging you, don't go buy yourself three hundred dollars' worth of clothes, go buy Christina an iPod and a one hundred dollar tank top for yourself.

So basically I stood around gym class for a half hour, and for an hour before my own lunch, I just sat and walked around the lobby and outside, occasionally speaking to some good folks. But overall the entire time was a complete waste. Complete waste, but not a universally complete waste, had I stayed at the entire sitting-out period in gym. It was so fucking easy. I just walked out. Like that. Not a single authoritative figure yelled out where I was going, only to make me sit back down again.

Didn't happen. I walked into the locker room and took the side door out. Nobody was in the hallway. I was free.

But not free of boredom. Free of some of it, not all of it.

I wanted to sit with Lauren, but she chose to sit with the people that she always sits with on B days. I don't like them all that much, so I just got up and left. Yeah, I'm an ass like that. I don't like blinkity-doos and overtly conservative christians.

I really need to do something about my appetite. I'm starting to have to beg for more lunch money, after I use the three dollars that my mother gives me every morning. Just for a fucking Milky Way or a Hershey's. They fucking sell them for eighty-five cents each, for a Milky Way or S'mores bar that's only about five inches long. Come on, that costs more than Paris Hilton for an hour.

English class was fucking pathetic as always. I love the teacher, but the fucks in my class are just so dumb and slutty and lack about 85% of any common sense at all. Because of that I got none of my research for this research paper (that I think I might actually be doing this time) done at all. Needed to copy a few little pages, but no, stupid fucks copy about ten to twenty pages from reference books, copies that they probably won't ever fucking need anyway. So I decided to do the words that I say quite very often, "Fuck that." And walk around the practically abandoned core of the library where the bookshelves are located. Everybody always stays around the computers and tables, where the reference books are. Nobody ever looks at the actual books, the shelves and the area around the shelves is always abandoned.

And guess what I find, the door to the Teacher's Only backroom with all the videos, old yearbooks, and old magazines were stored was wide open. It's all the way in the back behind all the bookshelves, away from everything and everybody. It was a free day for me. Theft and goodies galore! It's a small room that looks like those dark places in hospitals where they hang bags full of blood or urine or some excreted bodily fluid and all that shit, but the bags contain educational videos instead. The walls surrounding those bag-filled hanging videos are lined with shelves of magazines, magazines, and more magazines. I fucking freaked. Vogue, Guitar Player, Bon Appetit, Time, National Geographic, old yearbooks, hundreds of them, all within my nasty hands. All with the theft-detectable coverings taken off. (the videos I could've just peeled all the shit off because of course no one was there, but I couldn't find any actual quality movies, which I didn't want)

So, what the fuck did Christina do when she was surrounded by a thousand undetectable magazines? She fucking jacked them, of course. I took the September 2004 issue of Vogue, the "Our Biggest Issue Ever!" one with 834 pages, and four copies of Guitar World, each with one sexy ass that I would surely like to fuck. Someday, I will definitely come back to this haven of sex on paper.

I could write a bunch more, but boredom has set in. It's really sad for a writer to admit that they bore even themself by writing an entry that they chose to write.


Christina N. @ 7:13 PM