Two trains are 120 miles apart.

I've always wanted to know how to do a problem like that. I seem to be reading them all the time in books: "FMC sighed and threw her pencil out the window again, pausing to listen to the  soothing yowls of the cat next door she'd hit. 'Two trains are 50 miles apart on parallel tracks...' When was she ever going to need to know this stuff?" Well, FMC, it's really amusing when you pick up a math paper and see a problem you've pretty much read before. Being a fictional character I just made up, it won't matter to you.

Am I the only one who gets excited about math problems and dictionaries? Everyone should. Dictionaries are amazing. Fabulous. Wonderful. Terrific. Spiffing. And don't even get me started on the wonders of the thesaurus.

Notice that I am now double-spacing my paragraphs in an attempt to make my blog posts look longer. It makes me feel smarter when my posts are long, so I'll do this now. Even when my paragraphs are actually only one sentence. It makes the whole thing harder to read, but it's worth it for the joy of feeling like I actually wrote something of interest.

I didn't do very much today.

It was a boring day.

I don't have much to write about.

I haven't written in my notebook recently. I think it's because of this blog, sucking my life and energy away. The thing is like a demanding little child, reaching its sticky fingers for me in the hopes that I'll climb down from the chair and play with it. (You know how people in movies and such jump onto chairs when they see mice? That's what I'm like with small children.) Pseudocurses is taking away all my creative impulses and focusing them at it. The last thing I wrote was a depressing free verse poem, actually. I forgot what I called it. Something depressing. Now, isn't that a great name for an emo band? All the books I've been reading are about zombies and goths (is there a difference? Don't get offended, gothies, I love you all from the bottom of my heart) and their depressing music.

Something Depressing. I love it already. Their first song could be about a goth wedding or something. It could start out sounding sort of nice and sweet, about something borrowed, blue, old, and new, and then break into bringing something depressing and slicing your groom's head off.

If I'm ever in a band, remember to stick me in the corner and not let me do anything important.

Gosh, I haven't really been doing my Object that is Important to Your Lifestyle for a while. Newspaper bags. Newspaper bags are those skinny plastic bags that newspapers come in. They aren't big enough to fit anything except newspapers and dog crap, but they're far from useless. It's just that no one's discovered a use for them yet. Scientist are working on this as you read. I, for one, have always loved newspaper bags. Back when I was a young whippersnapper, I enjoyed blowing air into them and tying the end up so the air was trapped inside. Something about this reminded me of a carrot, so I waved it around and told people that it was a carrot. Then I stuck sharp objects into it and probably laughed hysterically. I was a strange little child. I'm still a strange teenager, though I try not to think of myself as little.

I played my clarinet today. I can hear the applause from all the people who know I practice about as much as I practice my dribbling. (Dribbling in sports, that is, not dribbling food down my shirt. I do that all the time without practice. You could say I'm a natural.) I played the ever-exciting Jammin' with Charlie, the piece our teacher gave us for jazz band. It sounds terrible without a bunch of other jazzy people playing with you, but they say practice makes perfect. Too bad our practice logs are due tomorrow and I'm going to get yet another D-. I am a clarinet-playing failure, except that all my teachers somehow think I'm very good.

I have to get my beauty rest. Toodles, infidels.