A Change of Pace

Guys, I recently found out that I can be a young adult literary critic. It's the best job in the world for me, because I love to read, and I love to write. Although it's not technically a job, because I don't get paid. Pssh, money. Who needs it?
So to my dedicated followers (of which there are zero) I apologize. But I am done chronicling my (vastly uninteresting) life. And to my new followers (of which there are also zero) hello! To be honest, I have no idea how this is supposed to be done. Do I write stoically? Like an outside, uninvolved third party? Or can I just keep doing what I do, which is ramble on, but instead of rambling on about myself -which is horribly egocentric- I will ramble on about books, which I kind of do anyway. Now I just need to type it. Since this is a trial-run, awaiting the pimp-outage of the lovely Harmmony Beaufort who intoduced me to this, I'm going to start easy and review Paper Towns by John Green. There may be a modicum of bias here, because its my favorite book in the history of ever, but I'll do my best.
PAPER TOWNS
by JOHN GREEN
Paper Towns is a superb novel about the discovery of oneself, and oneself in others. It's novel geared toward high school students, and it simultaneously enables you to laugh histerically and think deeply on each and every page, which is a gift. No adults seem to understand the complexity of teenagers, but John Green does, and manages to relate it well. If you like love and mystery, if you like laughing and crying, if you have a soul, this book is for you.
DUMBADORRRR, MAH BOYFRAANNNN
Christy

I'm a JOURNALIST

This is currently being written in journalism class. We do NOTHING here, which is great. I have friends who're taking AP Psychology or Macroeconomics or something equally ridiculous as their elective. That's ther problem. I'm successfully equpped ith one do-nothing class, convientetly timed so that i almost never do my AP Environmental Sciences homework at home. In fact the only homework I ever do at home is math, because I have that first thing in the morning, and if we turn it in after the late bell, we get a zero, so I don't eally get much of an opportunity do it in class.
I don't even see why I bother with this. I know that no one ever reads it, even the five friends that follow it. Maybe because I'm holding out hope that one day I'll be a famous blogger, and my opinion in matters of national importance will be sought. But that's bull. I just think I persist because I want to make someone laugh with all my ridiculous antics, and also becuase I'm excellent at rambling.
Ramble,ramble,ramble.
See?
I spend most of my time in this class working on my story, which I haven't worked in in earnest in almost two years. I'm actually pretty proud of myself. I'm planning on finishing by the end of next year, and getting it published before I graduate. I know it's never going to happen, because I'm lazy and a procrastinator, and have an utter inability to meet deadlines (like most authors) but at least I'm setting goals for myself instead of sitting on my ass all day, like I usually do.
Well, I'm still siting on my ass all day. School and stuff. Figuritively speaking.
Sophomore year is easily the worst year of high school. Self-esteem wise. Work wise, Junior year. But anyway, Freshman year, it's like, "WOO. I'm starting high school." Junior year, "WOO. I'm an upperclassman." Senior year, "WOO. Getting out of this hellhole." Sophomore year, "Okay, not a freshman." Sophomore year doesn't have the woo factor. I'm trying to woo it up, but there's really only so much I can do. I mean, this is school.
I should probably get to my AP Enviro homework, even though she told us we could turn it in tomorrow.
Carbon footprint, here I come.
Christy

It's That Time Again

Damn it. In my head, I know that school starts the day after tomorrow. But it just doesn't...feel like it. I picture the first day of school in my head and seems like it's millions of lightyears away. God, I don't want to go back to school. I mean, I totally want to see all of my friends again. If it weren't for the school part, school would rock. But then you've got learning, and homework, and math.
I hate math. So much.
I started my summer homework the day before yesterday. I had to read 1984 and Catcher in the Rye, two stereotypical High School reads. I liked 1984 better, although it was severely depressing. Speaking of, Holden Caulfield got depressed WAY too much. And he knew too many phonies.I still have, like half of it to finish, but I didn't get too much done. In fact, my mom just told me to finish it, but I'll stick hare for a while longer. My poor sister, though. She's only in eighth grade, and she got totally slammed. I went to the same school as she does, and all I got was a math packet. The same one I had gotten for the two years before. Poor girl, she's been working all summer. School starts Monday and she's STILL not done.
IDUWANNAGOBACKTOSCHOOL
Christy

Wrapitos and Hangnails

I just realized that I haven't written since my birthday. Which was BEFORE summer vacation. And wow, has a lot happened. I'm not even going to try to come close to relating it all because a) it would bore you to death, b)it would take pages and pages, and c) I don't really have that kind of time. While I am fully aware that in all probability, NO ONE reads this blog, despite that fact that 5 of my friends follow it, I don't want to scare any potential readers away with meaningless anecdotes and ramblings about my almost as meaningless summer. The biggest thing by far that happened was that I went to Boston. If you go back to the beginning of my blogging adventure, you'll find that I went on a college tour. Well, this summer, we took it a step further. MIT, Harvard, Smith, the works. It was awesome. And I also successfully asked a dude out. Well, kinda. Not really. But still. In a Boston airport.
Now I'm back, working at the same summer camp as last summer. Its eh. I'm officially making 'eh' an adjective.
There are only three weeks of summer left. THREE. And I haven't even been to the beach yet! My parents hate the sun. They're like vampires. But God, vampires are SO overrated! TWILIGHT ISN'T THAT GREAT! VAMPIRES SUCK BLOOD! Sorry, but some people need that message pounded into their heads. And a follow up; VAMPIRES DO NOT EXIST. AND NEITHER DOES EDWARD CULLEN. There. I'm done with my rants. As far as mythology is concerned, at least.
I know this is short, but I'm watching the finale of Avatar: The Last Airbender on Netflix.
10 ton flying bisons? That must be a lot of burgers.
Christy

The World's Flaw

My mom is trying to make me go to sleep before my 12:44, so I'm posting this now, almost two hours early. Of ocurse, I won't be going to sleep, but I doubt that I'll be able to get to the computer.
Some things you can't help
Christy

Part Deux

Here we are again, a year from the beginning of this blog. I realize that this blog has failed to make a significant impact on any of your lives. It hasn't even made that much of an impact on mine. I just kind of blabber away, and hope that it makes some of you laugh, my failed conquests.
So yeah, I will be posting this at 12:44 am tomorrow, which is the exact time of my birth. Tomorrow is June 6, in the event that the blogspotters have as of yet failed to fix their clocks.
There are only four days left of school, three of them drenched in finals. I am not studying. Well, except for chemsitry. It's nice to go back to my normal, slacker self from pre-AP test. This whole weekend, I've been lying around, watching TV and reading, avoiding my parents whenver they tell me to study.
Just like the good ol' days.
By the time anyone reads this, I will be 15. Old enough to get a permit, although I doubt my parents would let me. Old enough to... Well, I guess thats it. 15 is good for only one thing. All I have to do is hold on for another year, until I can drive without my mom looking over my shoulder. Maybe I'll even get a car. Yeah, right. And maybe Fidel Castro will satnd up, apologize, and donate all the money he's pillaged to the fund to Decrease World Suck (HOO HA! Nerdfighters.) But no, both of my parents are convinced of the fact that I am highly irresponsible, and if I got a car,I would lose it. I don't mean crash it (although that's not an entirely unlikely scenario), I mean park it somewhere, probably somewhere deep in the city, and then forget where I parked it. If you don't know where you parked your car, you could walk around for days, trying to find it. While I am, admittedly, very absentminded, even I can't lose a car. My most treasured posession is my iPod, which I have had just under a year. I have yet to lose it. The closest I came was when it dropped out of my pocket in Spanish. I went to math afterwards, and within one minute of stepping into the classroom, I realized Happiness (this is what I named my iPod, so that in the even that I actually do lose it, people will ask what I am looking for, and I will say Happiness.)was no longer in my pocket, and dashed back out to Spanish, and found it gloriously perched on the floor underneath my desk. Thank you, gods of Happiness.
Happy Birthday to me, guys. And now the circle is complete. Not to say that I'm stopping this. I just thought it was momentous.
Why do I do these things? Because I can.
Christy.

High-Fiving Armless Hands

I'm watching George Lopez. At my Grandma's house. I seem to do a lot of my posts here. My mom and my sister are at a school trip in Europe. I went in 7th grade, too. It was awesome. But I'm glad they're gone. I spent the entire day alone with my brother because my dad had work. And now I'm spending the night and all day tomorrow at my grandma's house. Which is always fun. Speaking of fun, I had my friend Christina's quinceanyera(I don't know how to do the spanish n). Which, for you gringos, is a 15th birthday party for a usually hispanic girl to celebrate her passage into womenhood. I'm proabably not going to have one. Whatever. Too many poofy dresses and speeches for me.
Anyway, the quince was a lot fun. It was like better version of my eighth grade prom, except with more salsa, merengue, and Ricky Martin. And I discovered how easy it was to get dudes to dance with you. You just have to be assertive. I went up to four guys (okay, one doesn't count because he was my black brother Justin who I've known for years, and was trying to teach him how to dance like a latino) and just said "Hey, dance with me." And they did. I didn't even ask. And there was this one dude Logan who was really cute and danced like a spaz. But he was definitely the most fun. With the exception of Justin (my black brother, because I danced with another Justin) he was the only one I danced with twice. We jumped around like maniacs, and we were laughing and he twirled me and it was great. But I'm not getting too invested in it. I've learned my lesson.
Spring Break is a wonderful thing. Really. I might have gone insane. I just need a break. I live in one of the places that college kids always come to and get wasted so I'm avoiding the beaches. Actually, that's not why. I would LOVE to go to the beach, but my dad is white as hell, and he gets a sunburn in ten minutes, so he won't take me anywhere where it is required that he stays outside for extended periods of time. And he won't let me go with my friends because he's super-paranoid and is convinced that I'll get raped if there's a guy older than 11 around. It sucks, sometimes, having a pre-trial officer for a dad. He sees everything. And he hates it all. And so, being the first child, and a girl nonetheless, I get the worst of it. No doubt my sister will have way less problems. She got a phone before me, a facebook before me, an iPod before, she cold stay home alone before me too. It sucks. I'm like, a trial run. They have to try everything on me before it's okay for Theresa, who's 12, to do it. I can already see it. I get a car, with my own money, when I'm 19. Theresa gets her non-cra car all paid for by my parents. And don't even get me started on my 6 year old brother. It's not their fault. It's my parents. But theres nothing I can do. Just let it ride.
I wish I was married to Blooregard Q. Kazoo
Christy

My Secret Life As A Mink

I feel guilty. I feel very guilty. I keep telling myself 'I'll do it today' and 'I'll write in my blog today' but I never actually do. I sincerely apologize to anybody who faithfully reads this, which is optimistically 10. IB is friggin' scary, and I have so many things to do. Like avoid doing my work and procrastinate, which is a token of the true IB kid. But seriously, with an AP class freshman year, two Pre-IB classes, and more than my fair share of insane teachers an principles, and also new and old friends to keep up with, I have like, zero free time on my hands. And also, to quote my dad, I read more than I breathe, so I need to find time for that too. Along with breathing. And other life essentials.
I left home early with a migraine today. I can count on one hand the number of times I've had migraines that bad. It always starts the same, since that very first time on my eleventh birthday. Which was, as you can guess, an AWESOME birthday present. I lose my peripheral vision in my left eye. It's horrible and annoying. Shortly following, I regain my vision and recieve a mind-wrenching migraine in it's stead. Let me put it in a way you understand. You know how sculptors use the little hammer and spike thingies to make their statues? Multiply the hammer by 5. And the spike by 20. Then drive it in to your brain. That's how I felt. I called my mom before the migraine hit abot my partial blindness. She knew the sitch. She took me to get an MRI for the strange vision loss in 6th grade. She told me to call my dad who stayed home from work today, due to a doctors appointment, and tell him to puck me up. My dad gets migraines too. A lot more frequently. I've gotten, like, 3 or 4 in the past four years, and he's had 3 or 4 in the past two months. He could empathize.
So he picked me up during lunch. It had started to hurt by the time he got there, one agonizing hammer hit at a time. The only wY I could cope was by goi g kind of Zen. I distanced myself from the pain. I still felt it. Hell yeah I still felt it. But I was more like I was an outsider. Like those creepy twins who can tell when the other one is hurt because they felt it too. After a quick stop at Burger King (I refused to eat, because I also felt an overwhelming desire to hurl) I went home, took about ten advils (that's an exaggeration, straight-edgers. I took three in the course of six hours) slept for four hours, and woke up feeling a he'll of a lot better. Thank God I slept through it. That's probably what labor feels like. Times ten. In my head.
I'm fine now. My head only hurts when I turn really fast or bend over or laugh really hard or burp or hiccup or accidentally hit it. Although now, come to think of it, that probably hurts anybody anyways. It just hurts a lot more. It's almost 2 in the morning now, which you won't be able to tell from your messed up blogspot clocks. After sleeping for four hours in The middle of the day, I'm not all that tired.
I HEREBY MAKE A RESOLUTION: I will try, though probably not succeed, to write I. This blog once a week. But I promise to write at least once a month. If I don't hold up to it, those of you that know me may through one partially soggy piece of food at me. And one last note: if you read me, and you like me, tell your friends. Please. I realize that I am sorely lacking in consistency, but I'm trying to fix that. I don't want to become worly reknown or anything (although that would be awesome). I just want to get a wider reading sphere. And comments. I like comments. In fact, I love 'em. Say what you think, even if what you think sucks, or has absolutely nothing to so with my post. I like hearing what people think. I like hearing what you think.
A penny saved is a penny earned, but a penny found in a parking lot is a free penny.
Spend it wisely.
Christy