Monday, April 23
I've always wondered, what the hell does somebody mean when they say, "It's fucking hot as balls in here, man." Balls aren't that hot. As a matter of fact, they are suspended from the rest of the male body in attempts to keep the sperm cooler than the normal temperature of 98.6 degrees Farenheit. So what the fuck are you saying? Is this supposed to be a joke and you want to say that it's cool in here? Americans need to reconsider their thought process. And not to mention along with many other things.

I have even found myself saying that a couple of times, and then try to stop myself because I don't know what the fuck I'm saying. I think many people should use that as an example before they say something, because that is clearly what makes you a goddamn dolt.

The pop music teacher announced today that we are going to watch Happy Feet on Wednesday because she is not going to be in class. Do I look like I'm fucking five years old? I'm approaching 18, have a job, have a car, am asian therefore have heightened intellectual ability, going through massive puberty and therefore I require enrichment? Shit like that isn't going to test my central neurons; and even if it does, not that much. Fuck those movies, seriously. Watch it in a music class, too? Bitch, please. Hopefully my new MP3 player comes in the mail by then so that I could watch shit is actually worthy. Thanks, fucker, for whoever screamed it out and suggested that we watch Happy Feet.

The teacher says there's political messages and whatnot in the movie. Why would I give a shit if it's in that form - a fucking computer-generated, talking-lame-ass-penguin movie, and a penguin movie that had already been out that year by the name of March of the Penguins, which is actually awesome because Morgan Freeman narrates it? Nope, doesn't do it for me.

I also noticed that we were sitting in a newly rennovated classroom, but why was it so hot? So I asked the teacher, "Why did they make this new classroom without any air-conditioning? Did my parents pay taxes for nothing?" - all with the typical, appalled, "what in the flying fuck? Wolfmother?!" look on my face. The teacher replies, "Christina, I am not in charge of building this school." I say, "So then can I have a tax refund by taking that DVD player?" Makes perfect sense, right? Me being the one to notice and point out this absolute bullshit? I should get something to compensate for my super-intelligence.

If you ever decide to move out on your own, I do not recommend an average suburban neighborhood. I don't know if the majority as snooty and love to gossip as much as my street does. I walked home with a friend of mine today who only lives across the street from me, moved there about two years ago, and happens to be quite possibly one of the ugliest people on earth. He's cool to talk to, and my mind divert from thinking about possibly dying in a matter of seconds due to a car accident because we walk home on the main road that students drive home on, without a sidewalk. The tension and psycho-rays that are bouncing off of me and the houses is pretty uncomfortable, and I fucking swear that my being friends with a lima bean is going to be the big gossip for weeks to come.

You know what? I don't give a flying fuck. It's the people that won't get a fucking life that bother the shit out of me. I really despise my neighborhood and it's like trying to hide from the paparazzi. I almost wanted to wear a black veil and "Jackie O." sunglasses, hunching over because I'm embarassed about being married to an old, fat greek man when greek men are supposed to actually be good-looking.

I can't stop bidding on eBay, man. This trying to win almost a hundred different Faith No More magazine clippings and fold-out posters has got to stop, before I fall into even more debt with my mom and her credit card. My goal is to fill an entire wall, corner to corner, with Faith No More propaganda. It's kind of awesome how my boss loves them and thinks that Mike Patton is gorgeous. Too bad she never talks about it too much, maybe it's not "professional," for she is the fucking general manager of a Level 2 Banana Republic store.


Christina N. @ 9:08 PM