Monday, May 30
Talking to Jeannie today kind of inspired me to go looking for a job. It didn't seem as scary as I thought it would be. And afterall, I'm only working so that Mick Jagger could spit on my face, per se. But certain boundaries are set. I'm picky and difficult.

1. I refuse to work a job that requires me to do register (yeah I know that is really fucking difficult because it's the practical beginner job)
2. Working at a library is a good bet because it's easy shit, no register, and barely any people
3. Serving liquor or bartending, preferably at Ruby Tuesday
4. Helping old people is a good one
5. Small record store, if there are any. Which I doubt. This one I could work at register

Today wasn't what I thought it would be, I didn't lie down all day trying to decide for what to wear tomorrow to school. Instead, we did the all-american tradition and went to a barbecue on Memorial Day. Jeannie and her family were cooking up some damn good munchies up at their swanky Wharton roof. I ate two hotdogs, beef, salmon, ice cream, and Pepsi. It can't get any better than that. Except for brownies and cheesecake.

This morning I found myself watching Platoon. For the fortieth (thousand) time. For some reason, whenever it comes on TV, I must watch it. Must. I don't know, I have a sweet tooth for war movies. I'm a very sick person, because I've also read numerous war novels and the like. Not to mention that I love to play with guns, fake and real, or whatever. Supersoakers too.

So my grandma is coming tomorrow from California to stay for a month. Grandpa's coming the day after to stay for only a week. He called a while ago saying that since we mistakenly booked his runaround flight one day short, he's pissed and won't be coming at all. Which we highly doubt, because that's an old cranky man for ya. Ever since he's moved to California he's been a fucking prick, I would definitely have to admit. He's not warm to anyone anymore and he's always yelling at me. Or at least he yelled at me over the phone when he wanted to speak to my mom. Scary shit. I don't like it when old, brown, warted old men yell at me. Through the phone it sounds like Mo from the Three Stooges with a cork up his ass.

I've always cared for my grandpa very much, but this coldness that he's adopted just won't do. I'm starting to lose respect for him and he's starting to scare me out of my wits.

And as for my grandmother, she seems to get dumber and dumber every day. She's still nice as all old ladies should be though. But I heard she doesn't cook anymore. That sucks. Because all old ladies cook well. Except for school cafeteria hags.

With my grandfather's rauncy attitude lately, I wonder if he'd complain, or yell, for that matter, when he sees me wearing tatttered up jeans. I could just feel that vein thumping on his neck.


Christina N. @ 10:40 PM