Tuesday, November 8
If I had to pick one sport to play and get paid a shitload of money, it would be hockey. Because you get to hit shit with sticks and if things don't go your way, start beating the shit out of the other guy and it would only attract more spectators and therefore boost up your paycheck. Rugby is pretty much the sport that involves the most ass kicking, but at my size it's not very promising to go charging at other people like that. But hockey, oh man. You wear all this samurai gear and put on shoes that are sharp enough to slit seventy emo kids' wrists, wear insane helmets, yield big long grim reaper sticks and just, fucking hit shit. Getting it into the goal? Yeah, that too. But I bet it's not the players' first priority. The whole fucking reason he got into hockey in the first place was just for the purpose of hitting shit.

Jesus fucking Christ, was I pissed off today. I think it's because I hadn't been getting ample sleep for a week and last night was only just a few short hours. Not to mention that right before I went to bed my mom yelled at me and hurt my feelings. In the morning she hurt my feelings again when she said that I couldn't go see Conan O'Brien next week with Lauren and Amy. And on top of that, my only good lunch was fucking congested with underclassmen that just fucking get on my nerves - bright red neon hair, lots of "punk" clothes, the kind of stuff that makes my life worth living.

I also found out that the NYC Comedy Festival was on Saturday, which Denis Leary attended. I could've easily been there, but you know the reason. The same one as mentioned about why I can't see Conan.

And right on top of that, in my Computer Art class, the same motherfucker who bought in that bullshit CD with crap like All American Rejects and BB Mak (how the fuck do you spell that?) again and this time I actually did something physical that showed my anger. Nothing crazy, but it was at least something as opposed to my usual statue-emotions. Yeah, I just clenched my fists and bent my head down and squeezed my eyes in agony. The "no headphones" rule really got to me today.

When I was talking to my friend who sat next to me in that class about how much I fucking hated the music, I said pretty louder than I intended to, "Whose the fuck CD is this??" From across the room, the girl whom the CD belonged to heard me and made a shocked expression on her face while looking straight at me. I kept saying, "I'm sorry I'm sorry" just to make things seem a little cooler, but inside I didn't feel sorry at fucking all. Alas, that didn't make the music stop playing.

Just a few minutes later, after getting half of my project done on the computer, and was done talking to my friend, turned around towards it, put my arm down and fucking hit the Esc button by accident, losing every fucking thing that I did. Then the teacher just happened to come by and asked how my progress was going. It is just not my day.

My neighbor stopped me while walking home to give me some magazines that her niece is the editor of, which is Jane magazine. The niece got to meet David Bowie and Mick Jagger, and this I was telling to my folks during dinner tonight. Well my dad just had to burst my bubble by saying, "And how much are you willing to pay to meet this guy?" as in David Bowie. Jeez, meister. I didn't mean it that way, I didn't mean that I'd devote my life to trying to meet David Bowie. Then my mom, claiming that she understood me, starts going on about how stupid I am by wanting to meet my favorite celebrities, at all. Even if it's just a little urge to. Do you really think that that is my major priority in life? Then you might as well call me a Fall Out Boy or Gwar fan who learns how to paint northwestern scenery by watching Bob Ross on PBS. It is really not my day.

So I broke a tennis racket yesterday in gym class. Surprisingly enough, I was not angry at all. Not during that class, not during the entire day, whatsoever. It was a "peace day" as you may call it. Well, my friend hit our only tennis ball onto the roof of the school, so I decided to hit rocks against the brick wall of the building. It worked for a while and I enjoyed watching the rocks smash into little pieces, until one time I hit a rock but didn't see it fly or where it went at all. I look at my racket and see a big hole in it. The rock had gone through the racket, making it lose a thread, or whatever it is the plastic strings are called, and the one that was broken had like four shards of where it split sticking out and causing a potential multiple emo kid pleasure.

And by the way, the cut on my wrist from work has changed into a giant tape-bandaged thing. I decided to stop using little bandaids because it was a waste, so I made my mom wind bandage tape around my arm. Fucking lame, but I don't want a fucking scar. It would look like I pulled a Luke Wilson in The Royal Tennenbaums. No one would ever think at first that my arm was cut from carrying a large-sized wicker chair out of a stockroom.

Man, my blood is boiling so furiously that I could cook softboiled eggs with it. I swear, by next week if I don't beat the shit out of somebody, you might as well consider me as one of those explosions that happen in the Middle East sometime in the future. What? MOAB bomb just exploded in the desert? No, it was that asian girl who hates Gwar!


Christina N. @ 7:42 PM