Volleyball

I can't say I'm thrilled about the team. I'm fairly sure that no one on the team actually reads this blog, so let's just go through the list, mmkay?

--The ball. You hit it with your arms.
--When it is in front of you, you hit it.
--When someone yells "Mine", generally speaking, it is theirs.
--Just in general: if you aren't that great of player, chances are, you shouldn't be lecturing others about how to play.
--Call the ball. Not hard. Just yell, like I kicked your puppy.

And a big "what the f---?" to the guys rooting for the other team who kept taunting us and singing "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" while we are serving.

I don't mind if we lose. I mind if we lose by not playing (hard).

You, Ma'am, Are An Idiot

Let's review this step by step, mmkay?

-Doors are unlocked.
-Lights are on.
-Delivery drivers are walking out with pizzas.
-Phones are ringing; people are answering them.
-To your right, those are pizzas being made.
-Behind you, a family is waiting for their order.

And you have the gall to look at me and ask in complete seriousness: "Are you open?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh.

return to America

Several things to note about Mexico, that I, the one person in my class who had not been to Tijuana, have gathered.

--Shopkeepers are very aggressive.
--Marble chess sets are darn pretty.
--Said chess sets are also hard to haggle over.
--There are peddling children around every corner.
--Sunburns make one hyper, at least for one night.
--Volleyball is an excellent way to pass the time.
--Anyone can speak Spanish when put under enough pressure.
--'baila' is Spanish for 'bullet'; not for 'dance'.
--People like to catcall.
--Said people receive one specific finger when talking to a sore, sunburned person.
--And, most importantly, do not drink the water.

I feel like there's nothing sure in this world. Which is true, but even more so than usual. Every time I depend on myself, everything goes wrong. That's what happens when one is proud.

Sigh.

God is sovereign.

I am a sinner.

That's really all I need to know to fix about half my problems.

I Blame You, Reader, For This

Oh, Art (History)
I hate you so
When you talk about it
I want to kill myself
Or possibly the "artistes"
And even Meekelangelo

We used to learn techniques
Now we take notes about
Their birthdates
Your talks are boring
And make me want
To rip up your notes
Violently

And it's art, not art history
It doesn't matter what
You want it to be
Look at the last ten years
They were art
Then there was a mix-up
And we,
lucky we,
Got you

Congratulations
To us

Ode to Perfectionism

I really, truly dislike being a perfectionist.

Makes it incredibly difficult to be satisfied.

Not exactly something one can turn on and off at will.

Isn't very endearing, either.

Makes me even weirder.

Inspires me to try harder.

Summation

Hail-o, (being realistic today) person.

Today was interesting.

Stronger language than I intended.

Stronger fingers than I intended.

And I didn't even have the urge to do a ritual suicide and/or slaying.

A good day, altogether.

That's Right, A

It's Official

My computer hates me.

Join the line, buddy.

That's Right, I'm on break

Which means what, kiddies?

That's right. Big golden star for you. I work.

However, it's work without going to school. Which means three-quarters of the stress is taken out of my life. I really wish this computer wasn't half-cocked. It would be nice to actually be able to go to myspace without getting the "illegal operation: must shut down" message.

Granted, myspace isn't exactly the paragon of virtue, but it's getting to be a mite ridiculous.

It's only Monday.

Glorious.

(I am actually being serious, not A)Psycho-killer or B)sarcastic psycho-killer)

so very tired and it shows

Ah, yes. 'Tis the season of the Winter Camp. Granted, the ever-reliable weather.yahoo tells me it will be rain, rain, rain. So basically, it's just like home, except with public showers and wooden bridges. And Winter Camp has football, which is football. Enjoyable if you want it to be, miserable if you want it to be. One of those subjective circumstances.

Ah, but it will be good this year. I predict mud, all without the aid of the magical Yahoo! metereologists. Mud is fun, especially when you miss a pass, and land face down in it. Can you tell I've had experiences?

I don't think people particularly like it when I play, though. Makes it two-hand touch, see. I think tackle's fine, but I'm willing to admit that girls injure more easily than boys. Two-hand touch is fine by me. I just like the game. Nothing like an interception.

Waxing poetic about football. Hey, better than waxing poetic about school, mmm? Dangit. Didn't want to remind myself. But, since I have, you, my loyal viewers, will have to suffer through it. Bwa and ha. It seems as though all of the difficulties with school come from English. I don't know, I just aaaarrrgggghhh. I keep trying to remember "Do everything without complaining", but it is extremely difficult.

This is perfect. Complaints about English when majoring in English is a particular goal in mind. Contradictions (contrariety, subcontrariety, whatever) are so enjoyable when you're tired and have to pack.

Semeste Ends, Reintegration Three-quarters In

Somehow, someway in the deepest universe, the semester has almost ended. It's rather frightening, actually. One and half more years until a change happens in almost every portion of my life. Different home. Different church. Different friends. Different learning.

For the first few years of my life, I had one circle of friends. Then second grade rolls around, and new circumstances. Then ninth grade comes about, and reintegration into society starts. Now I think I almost the reintegration is about three-fourths through. Maybe by the time I leave, it'll have finished.

It's very weird, trying to be "in". I like to consider myself nonconformist, but I've already changed from the five months I've been in a new school. Very odd. Still off, I suppose.

How many times has the word "I" been used in the last few paragraphs?

Argh. Way too many times.

I Have But One Thing To Say Today...

...blech. I don't like perverts.

Or people who are snotty.

Or people who don't work.

Or people who think that just because your order is not being given to you the minute you walk in the store, you and your coworkers are not doing their job. Hey man. Take a look. You see those people around you? They're waiting for their pizzas too. You see the phones? They're ringing off the hook, and every line is either taken or on hold. You see those slips? They're on the floor. Not because they are not being attached to boxes as quickly as possible, but because as soon as three are put up, ten pop out. You see those boxes? They're haphazard because we're too busy taking your order and making your pizza to organize them. You see that makeline? They are down thirty-five pizzas because the phones (see above) are ringing off the hook. You see that person back there? She's not taking a nap, she's taking pizzas and side items out of the oven, slicing them, putting them in the right boxes, and dispatching drivers. You see the people generally milling about? They are doing their job. So, if you think we are not doing our job, jump over this here counter, put on apron, and do our job.

Hmph.