Happy forking New Year!

It's the year of the tiger now. I tried to look that up on Wikipedia, but it didn't work out for me. I did find out that 2010 is the year in which the Dynamic Tower in Dubai will be finished. Dynamic Architecture is, by the way, that guy who makes buildings that spin. Usually I call them that, or sometimes even, "the buildings that go spinny-spinny." This is because I am a master of language.

Anyway, the buildings spin. It's kind of amazing. They're also prefabricated, so each individual floor was premade and just stacked up. Oh, and the best part (other than the way they spin. The spinning is pretty special) is that they move according to voice commands. You can say, "Move, infidel," and your floor will spin around in circles. How cool is that?

Apple is maybe-possibly-sort-of making a tablet computer. The iSlate, maybe. It's like a

cross between an iPhone and a computer. It seems like the kind of thing people would have in

the FUTURE, when we all drive our hovercars to work and vacation on the moon and live in

bubbles underwater.

Obviously twenty-ten is now the FUTURE. How does it feel to be living in such a

FUTURISTIC world filled with advanced technology? I feel pretty good about it, actually. I like

the FUTURE so far. It's not bad. Last year, I was all, "Oh gosh! The new year is fast approaching!

What if aliens come and take over our planet, demanding chocolate and firstborn children?"

But so far there have been no alien invasions, so I think we're doing well. This is obviously the

right way to measure the worth of a year: Well, no aliens...Everything is hunky-dory!

In other news, we will now write the word FUTURE and anything that has anything to do

with it in all caps. This makes no sense if you think about it and goes against the conventions

of standard English, but we all know I don't care at all about standard English. I mean, good

God. Have you seen me type recently? It's "lolz" this and ":)" that, with a side of lowercase

letters.

Lol.

My God, look at me. I can't even write "lol" without capitalizing it and putting a period

after it. I won't be able to survive if the chit-chatty texting-talk takes over the world. They'll

probably lock me up for impeding progress after I spend ten minutes writing out a full reply

to something instead of just typing "k lol." I'll be imprisoned for my conservative ideas. Do

people do that? Jail people for not being radical enough? I mean, I guess they did that during

the French Revolution, but...

I'm rambling. You don't want to read this, do you? You probably want my thoughts to be

clear and organized, like pencils lined up on a desk. I would do that for you, I swear I would,

but my thoughts aren't neat like pencils. My thoughts are like (insert some wild hand gestures

and waving of hair) wheee! BAM! Kittens! Squishy wiggle twitcher fuzzy! Super special! Eep!

and I don't think they would make sense to anyone else.

I'm making increasingly less sense, you know. I used to be clear when I spoke. I used to be

able to explain things to people and have them nod and say, "Thanks, Libby. I get it now." But

now I have trouble saying thinks without putting "squish" in the sentence instead of a more

commonly accepted verb.

Sentences That Would Make Sense If You Were Me, Or Alternately, If You Were

Insane

• Oh no! I squished it wrong!
• Erin squished me again when I tried to name my phone Renesmee.
• I squished the cat.
• Where do I squish these?
• I was all like, "You know, it's squishy," and she was all like, "I don't understand you."

Ooh, we could make an activity out of it! I love activities! Y'all can guess what verbs I

replaced with "squish." Tell me later, if, you know, I ever actually see you. (Wow, commas.) If

I don't actually see you, then I don't care what you do. Oh, that was mean of me. You can

always post little squishies (comments! I mean comments!) on this post. It makes me feel

special when people comment, and since I never post, no one ever has the opportunity.

So I'm sorry if this was weirdly formatted and hard to read. Blogger hates me sometimes.

I give it presents and say, "Blogger, je t'aime bien," to it so it loves me, but it doesn't always

work. Just try to read this. I know you'll try very hard because my thoughts are so fascinating.

I know it makes me feel better to know I'm still thinking.

Peace out, dear readers.

Prepositions are not things to end sentences with.

I now have trouble writing or saying sentences that end in prepositions. It just feels wrong in

my head. I have to write things correctly. Is this a good or a bad thing? Discuss.

On the other hand, I keep confusing homophones like they're and their. I feel stupid and

unworthy and horrible for about a second after I do it. Then I forget about it.

The temperature recently has reached over ninety degrees. This is unacceptable weather of the kind that will not be allowed in northern Canada when I move there. My dear family was stuck in the basement all day. It was boring down there, and it was boring and hot upstairs. I was convinced that Cassee was going to get heatstroke.

Today I made some beautiful art out of Mod Podge (well, that stuff. I don't know how to spell it), paper, duct tape, scissors with funny edges, and these awesome paintbrush/markers. Mother does not seem to appreciation my genius artwork. I can't imagine why. She just called it a collage, when anyone can see that it is obviously an abstract composition.

Ah, duct tape. It is useful for so many things, such as fixing ducts, holding together the fracturing bits of a failing relationship, and making clothing. Many people make prom dresses out of duct tape. I think this is mainly because of the Stuck at Prom contest that offers three thousand dollars worth of scholarship money to the winners, as well as money to the school that held the prom.

Look at the winners. Their dresses and tuxes are crazily elaborate. I don't even want to think about how long it took to make those. Or how much duct tape.

Tape.

Today, I will finish my hundredth book this summer. This is a frightening thought, and I don't know why. I've read thousands of books in my life, have never known which one was 500th or 666th or 729th, and have never cared. But now that I'm counting, it means something. I have a goal. I am working toward it. I have a record of ninety-six books I've read, and I can look back at them and remember.

Mother says I should keep writing down what I read after I hit a hundred. I've never done that before. I don't think I have the ability to keep track of these things. I always had to write up my stupid practice logs for band the morning they were due because I didn't write down when I practiced. Oh well. At least I actually told the truth about when I practiced, unlike some people.

Speaking of band, I quit. Spiffy is calling me a quitter now. So is Liss, but Liss just likes to call me things to annoy me. She spent the entire weekend calling me either Little Libsies or crotchety old woman.

We had a thrilling Girl Scout weekend, probably our last one ever. One of our members is thinking about giving up Girl Scouts. In most troops, I think that would be okay, but when you only have four members, a quarter of your troop leaving is a lot. Also, we don't do many things that you have to be a Girl Scout to do, like earning badges or going to Girl Scout camps. We just sort of meet and gossip and sell cookies outside Scrapbook Haven.

Not that I don't love my troop. I do. I love them more than I love nail polish and Gmail combined. Who else sings new lyrics to "You Belong With Me" in A&W or plays Apples to Apples in the car with Lego Building Blocks winning Chewy and Learning Spanish for Sticky? No one I know.

Anyway, we went on holiday up North. The drive was five hours of insane Apples to Apples and general craziness. I managed to spill several different food items on myself. Zoe's Aunt Franny kindly allowed us to stay in her boathouse, which was a shack by the water decorated with baskets, plastic furniture, and a bunch of little statues and things, which Liss named. The best part was a loft with a lot of old trunks and a vacuum on it.

We tried to catch fish in Crystal Lake for ages, but it didn't work too well because we were afraid to get swimmer's itch from the water. Finally, Anna got tired of that and sat down in the water to catch a fish. We also went swimming in Lake Michigan. On one side of a giant pier, the water was the color of puke. Liss has some other, ruder names for it. On the other side, it was clear and nice. We swam on both sides, and there was absolutely no difference.

What else did we do? That was about it. I read Liss's depressing book (Catching Fire, Suzanne Collins, #95. It's not actually out yet, but she had an ARC) and played mancala in rounds for at least an hour. Everyone called me OCD because I rearranged the pieces so they were with other pieces of the same color. Then they all started arranging them like that. OCD is not contagious, you know.

The weekend was really fab and stuff, but I have realized something shocking. Or, well, really not so shocking. This epiphany came to me while I was floating down a river on a tube, holding onto Liss's tube so she didn't float away from me.

I don't think I'll ever be the kind of person who can spend a lot of time around other people and not lock myself in my room for a while afterwards. I mean, that's a little bit exaggerated, but private people such as myself have trouble living in a shack with six other people who aren't related to me for long. I know some of you would have trouble with it, dear readers. Admit it. You're not all bubbly, cheerful, extroverted types.

That's all I have to say. My next post, whenever it may appear, will be at least partly about my feelings toward my hundredth book. It might even include my hundred book list if I don't get lazy about typing it.

I have to go move on with my exciting life now by going to the dentist and giving up Remi to the child.

Good Lord.

I am trying to say "Good Lord!" more often. In my head, it makes me sound like a crotchety old grandma who crochets lace doilies and is always "losing" her glasses and people have to point out that she's wearing them. I don't know what it sounds like outside my head, because I've never had the chance to go there.

The only one of my Summer Goals (the capital letters make them sound more impressive) that I seem to be anywhere near completing is my book list. I plan to read a hundred books I've never read this summer, excluding graphic novels of any kind. As of this post, I am maybe a fifth of the way through book #79, Shift.

I have a stately goal, so I thought I would share its fruits with you, dear elocutionists. I am considering exhibiting each of the tomes on this blog. I'm going to transcribe the register anyway, but there is a likelihood that I will also interline an epitomized compendium of each work for your viewing pleasure.

By the way, I found a thesaurus on the table next to me and used it to spice up the above paragraph. That would be why half of the words are probably used wrong. It took me a long time to write because I had to keep checking the thesaurus for every other word. This is why that one person said, "If you need to look the word up, it's the wrong word." Or something to that effect.

Here's the shorter (more succinct) version of what I just said, in correct (or accurate) English, without any interesting (engrossing!) words (utterances).

I'm going to write up my list of books on this blog no matter what, but Liss told me I should write sarcastic book reviews, so I'm considering writing a short review of all the books I can remember. Some of them I read months ago, which is too long for me to remember when I've read fifty books since then. You won't get a very good review of those. But I remember some of the books like I read them yesterday. In fact, I read three yesterday.

Tell me: is this a good idea? It would fill up the post a lot more than just listing books. That would make me feel more accomplished, and I wouldn't have to scribble some lazy paragraphs about I'm bored and hungry and I don't know what to write so I'll just whinge about my boring hunger. When I write long posts, I feel better. Also, my favorite complainers are happy because I've actually written.

Did you know dictionary.com Tweets? By Jove, I certainly didn't. This is yet another reason to get a Twitter. Unfortunately, I have some very strong reasons against getting a Twitter. See:

Pros:

• The webpage has a drawing of a little birdie on it
• People I know have Twitter accounts
• My favorite YA authors have Twitter accounts

Cons:

• I never update my blog or my Facebook status, so why would I update my Twitter?
• Twitter is verbing words like MySpace and Facebook verbed "friend"
• The character limit would block my creative expression, which is hard to summon up and easily blocked
• It's ruining the English language, just like Facebook, texting, and Miley Cyrus

Wow, making lists really does help solve problems. And here I thought it was stupid back in elementary school when they made us write lists. I have more cons than pros. That means getting a Twitter is a very bad idea.

And my Twitter username was going to be pseudocurses, too. If you are reading this and you have a Twitter, please help a young girl in need. Look up the name pseudocurses and see if some usurping youth has snatched it before I can. Thank you. Infidel.

I keep seeing people on Facebook who write 5 things i can grab from where im sitting, as if we really want to know what they keep in their filthy pigsties. Guess what? Just for you, I'm going to write five things I could grab from where I'm sitting, if I wasn't worried that I'd get all kinds of diseases just from touching them.

5 tings lolol!!

• Roget's College Thesaurus in Dictionary Form
• Book #79, Shift
• Holy Bible; the New Revised Standard Edition
• Robby's nasty bread crusts from lunch
• a French-English dictionary

There, wasn't that enlightening?

I have trouble thinking up titles, so live with this.

I have done many things since I last posted. In fact, I have probably become a better person and stuff. This kind of stuff happens when you least expect it. One night, you're you, and then you wake up the next morning and realize that you've become a better person overnight.

This is a partial list of what I did between my last post and this post.

In A Partial Week Of My Fine Life, I:

• Slept
• Watched Pokemon
• Listened to the child talk about Pokemon
• Played Pokemon
• Played Super Princess Peach
• Read many things, including but not limited to Bad Kitty, Lulu Dark Can See Though Walls, Scott Westerfeld's blog, The Schwa Was Here, and the latest issue of Nintendo Power
• Kicked the child off the computer
• Got kicked off the computer by the child
• Scribbled
• Scrawled
• Jotted
• Read a dictionary
• Saw the cousin
• Stared at the cousin's shoes
• Stared at the cousin's hair
• Stared at the cousin in general
• Saw my troop
• Was annoyed by how quiet the little Brownies were, conveniently forgetting that I was that quiet in third grade
• Was gloated at by Liss
• Threatened to beat Liss up if she didn't lend me her ARC of Leviathan
• Went to school
• Was bored at school
• Was supposed to play the clarinet in band
• Didn't play the clarinet in band
• Had a bad day
• Made sarcastic comments
• Giggled
• Picked up the cat
• Jumped on the trampoline in a swimsuit while the child sprayed me with a hose
• Sprayed the child with a hose while he jumped on the trampoline
• Wrote this list

Okay, the end. Wasn't that thrilling? I was just about thrilled to death while I wrote it, but I kept being distracted by the child's Pokemon in the background. There are lots of fight noises and "PIII-KA-CHUU!"'s and someone keeps laughing coldly in a monotone and saying, "Pokemon are not friends. You will never defeat me, Ash Ketchum." And, oh no, Pikachu just fell out of the sky into a pool of water! What will we do now? And oh my gosh, Ash just got attacked by a lot of roots.

Only-vaguely-paying-attention-to-Pokemon is much more fun than actually-watching-Pokemon. Unless Team Rocket shows up. I love Team Rocket. They, along with Captain America, are my homeboys. Team Rocket doesn't have a Wikipedia page of its own, which is just horrible, but here are the Wikipedia pages for Captain America and Pokemon crime syndicates. While I'm putting up links for useful Wikipeda pages, here is wikipedia.org/Asian_People.

I'm not sure what to write about today. I can make long lists and type up links to Wikipedia, but real writing is beyond me at this point. "What point?" you may ask. Well, the POINT OF NO RETURN, dear readers. See, I put that in capital letters and italics, to show how hyper-important it is. Michele Jaffe, who wrote Bad Kitty and I think some other stuff for the older audience, says iper-cool, which is like uber-cool, which is like hyper-cool. Anyway, back to the POINT OF NO RETURN. It is a point that can only be reached once in a multi-colored moon, and no one would like it very much if it wasn't so awesome and obnoxiously capitalized.

So I had this awesome dream that I was wearing a tie, leggings, my fab rain boots, and a black dress with a giant zipper up the front, much like the black robes Organization XIII from Kingdom Hearts wear. It was great. I bet you all wish you could have fabulous dreams like me.

(Interval of who knows how many hours.)

Yes, I left this blog for hours and then came back to write on it. This is because I have a strange feeling that I should try to finish something for once in my life. I am now sitting here while my family watches hockey, wearing a purple plastic tiara that's too small for me, and reading a book that Meg Cabot woman wrote. Well, I was reading it. I had to stop now that I'm writing this.

I have other things to do now, like study for my math exam and fill out important papers for Commie. I also have something for English due eventually, but it's just a list of books I've read and I don't know when I'll be expected to turn it in. Oh, and there's a French final on Wednesday, but I've decided to be cocky about that and only study the night before. Don't tell Madame.

My nail polish, which matches my plastic tiara, is coming off. I only put it on last night. Or two nights ago. The time blurs together in my mind, it really does.

I saw this fabulous surgical mask today, for protecting oneself against the swine flu.

I don't have anything else to write about. Here, you may have the first sentence I read when I pick up my book:

Scott was still just...Scott.

My first post in, like, a long time.

I haven't been posting. I'm sorry. I'm posting now. Are you happy?

All people should own a trampoline. I am not talking about those little meter-wide pathetic excuses for trampolines here. I'm talking about real trampolines, the kind that you have to put in the yard because they're way too big to fit in a house. Mini-trampolines are for wimps. Yes, I know I'm a wimp, but calling everyone else a wimp makes me feel less wimpy.

Trampolines are not just for usage the way they're intended. I know all the people who manufacture trampolines would be annoyed if they saw me mocking the rules that come attached to trampolines, but they shouldn't take it personally. I mock a lot of things. And it's hard not to mock rules like stay in the same position as you jump and look at your feet while jumping. I mean, do they expect people to jump up and down in straight lines? We'd look like idiots, not that the way we usually jump is less idiotic.

I should really write about the things that have been happening in my life, et cetera, but I don't feel like it. The end of the school year is quickly approaching on winged feet, like that god guy Mercury. Wasn't he the one with wings on his feet? I think things should approach on winged wings, but I didn't make up mythology. I wasn't alive back then.

Everyone can feel the awesome end-of-year vibe, especially the eighth graders. We were never really paying attention to anyone, anyway, and now we feel like we have an excuse: in just  ten short days, we are out of this place forever. I think that means that we need to listen more, in case our teachers have any last-minute wisdom to impart on us, but try explaining that to a bunch of thirteen-year-olds who just want to go home. It's like nailing Jell-O to a wall, not that I have ever tried...I have tried explaining things to bored thirteen-year-olds. It doesn't work.

In French class, Madame spent almost an entire hour detailing to us how the rest of the year is going to go down and passing out violently neon sheets of paper. I have a syllabus with me, actually. She called it that, not me. Let's see: it's bright yellow and written in a weird mix of French and English. The important stuff, like NO SCHOOL and FOREIGN LANGUAGE OLYMPICS are written in English. And caps lock. The boring, useless stuff, like all the homework, is written in French.

My band teachers also told us about the imminent end of our middle school careers. None of my other teachers have even mentioned it, though. I think this is part of a plan to not acknowledge that it will soon be over in the hope that we don't know it'll be over. Everyone knows, though. We have countdowns in our planners. I even tried to figure out exactly how many hours, minutes, and seconds we had left during English, but I did the math wrong somehow and gave up.

Speaking of my planner, I have many things I heard during my days just waiting to be put on this blog. I write things down. When school is over, I will carry around my little green notebook and take notes while people talk to me. It won't be creepy at all.

"Hamlet is a player."

"You're such a fruit! I'm going to call you 'grapefruit.' Or...'lemon twist!'"

I don't know why I wrote this, but "may result in severe closed-head injuries."

"I am obviously not cut out to be an actress."

Someone mentioned allergies in class, so:

"I have allergies!"

"I do too!"

"I have ADD!"

In French class, Madame gave everyone a word, which they had to stand up and say in front of the class. One person, I don't remember who, didn't say anything when it was her turn.

"What's your word?"

She didn't answer.

"It's 'bacon,' isn't it?"

Also in French class (have I mentioned that French is my most exciting class of the day? Everything is better in French), we had to compose some sentences. In French. This was because Madame wanted to show us how much French we really knew. My sentence was pretty much the most amazing sentence ever: Elle lit un livre parce qu'elle aime lire. She reads a book because she likes to read. Madame said something like, "Oh, isn't this a wonderful sentence?" Everyone booed me. I was offended.

The same day, someone else wrote a sentence that translates to: His selfish chicken hates the airport. I think "Selfish Chicken" would make a great band name. I think everything would make a great band name.

"It's not 'Knowledge Master's!' It's not possessive!"

"Could Hamlet be done in a space station?"

Heck yes.

"You could have everyone in Hamlet dress up as dinosaurs and call it 'Dinosaurs!'"

Speaking of Hamlet, Claudia and I spoke of it a lot in part two of her interview, which we finally got around to completing (read: I finally got around to completing) last night. This time, you'll get to see it in the way we actually spoke to each other over Facebook, as opposed to the way I messed with it to make it seem more grammatically correct and easy to read.

Claudia, Part Two (which I was too lazy to change the font of):

Me: I am interviewing Claudia for the second time. How long was it between these?

Her: A couple weeks I think. has the interview begun?

ok

throw dem questions at me

Me: What is your favorite color? I missed that question on your quiz.

Her: purple/violet

my favorite shade depends on my mood
lilac if i feel girly

dark dark violet if im depressed

Me: You don't just have one favorite color?

Her: oh no

when am i ever consistent?

i mean, really

Me: True. That's fabulous.

Her: i cant stick with one

just not possibel

*possible

Me: Are you reading anything right now?

Her: at the moment i dont have anything to read because i am waiting to go to the library

next?

Me: This is because of what the Sherm is making us do: do you like Hamlet?

Her: the character or the movie?

Me: I was thinking, like, the play. I'm sure you have opinions on the movie, too.

Her: oh yes i have opinions on the movie

it was so creepy in that scene

it looked like he was about to rape his own mother

did you see that?

Me: The whole thing was creepy, but that part was the worst.

Her: i was looking around at the class and everyone looked really freaked out

well except for a few people

Me: It was freaky.

Her: yeah

and remember that part where ophelia was touching that guy in the armor?

Me: Yes. That was bad too.

Her: Mike said something nasty when his class watched it.

it looked like she was touching his.....

you know

and of course the guy in the armor looked freaked

Me: Yes. It was just really weird. And nasty.

like the rest of us

he was scared

i hate that movie!!!!!!!!!

Me: I would have been scared.

Bring a book to class like Rennie.

Her: i have a new name for the sherm

the shermanator

rhythms with terminator

the shermanator

Me: Yes.

Her: yeah

Me: The problem with that is that it's weird to spell.

Her: next question?

Me: Food.

Do you have a favorite food?

Her: it changes on a day to day basis, like my sense of reality and sanity

Me: Is that healthy?

Her: im not sure

but i cant do anything about it

Me: What did you eat tonight? Did you eat tonight? I'm asking about food because I'm hungry.

Her: i ate... ummmm...

i cant remeber

*remember

oh wait

. 

i ate a caesar salad

yeah

thats what i had

Me: Exciting.

I actually have to leave now to eat food and do various other things.

Her: yeah

ok

will my interview be on by tonight?

Me: Probably not, sorry. I'll hopefully work up the energy to post tomorrow.

And look at this! I did post today! I amaze myself. However, it was not because I worked up the energy. It was because I stayed home diseased today and had nothing better to do. No one should say stayed home sick. Stayed home sick is not as awesome as stayed home diseased. My diseased caused me to lose sleep by waking up and wanting to vomit, feel not hungry, and feed tomato soup to the cat. She ate it, too. I have sat around all day sleeping and talking to Liss, my little diseased friend.

Shakespeare is a cabbage.

Today marks an important day in the history of my blog. When I began typing pseudocurses into the search bar, the web address finished itself for me. I was thrilled. I have been waiting for this to happen ever since I started this blog. It's too hard to type pseudocurses into the search bar every time. It's a long word, and it's really obnoxious to spell. I should have called it something easier.

That's at least the fourth time I've said that.

Anyway, Earth Day was a few days ago. I should have done something special for Earth Day, but wearing my awesome Save the Sea Kittens hoodie was enough for me. Earth Day. It's exciting. I'm over it now.

I've been reading a lot of books lately, as usual. Unfortunately, I don't feel like telling you about any of them. You can just suffer, all right? I don't care.

Fine. I do care. I have trouble lying online. This is a problem that I might need to work on for later in life.

I just bought some new books recently. Melting Stones, which was fabulous simply because Tamora Pierce wrote it, was one. I also got Airhead and Skinned, which I hadn't expected to be about the same thing. Airhead is by that Meg Cabot woman (calling authors that ... guy/woman is how I show my admiration for them. Really.), which is good because I like her, but I think Skinned might have been its author's first novel. I just got it because that Scott Westerfeld guy wrote about it on his blog. Anyway, they were both about teenage chicks and body-swapping. Good books, though, although Skinned was good because I like sci-fi and robots and Airhead was good because I like Meg Cabot.

The problem with me trying to write a blog post is that I feel too apathetic to write anything. I mean, obviously I can write down some nonsense and random words that don't flow together.

Example:

fish yellow cowboy potato Spain dogs blondies cats tofu mariachi fortissimo fabulous fantastic great spiffing amazing English Welsh bonsai kamikaze donut

I can also conjugate French verbs, but I don't think that's writing as much as it is memorizing and then spitting it back up.

Example:

je choisis

tu choisis

elle chosit

nous choisissons

vous choisissez

elles choisissent

If you take French, or if you just have any reason to speak French, tell me if that was right. If you don't take French, what's the matter with you? Go sign up for a French class right this moment and learn it!

The point of blogging isn't really to write down what happens to you. I mean, obviously on one level it is. If I wasn't writing this about my life, I wouldn't be writing it about anything. Blogging is, in my opinion (don't listen to me; I'm a lazy blogger and I only started doing this a few months ago) more about writing your opinions on your life. I mean, my favorite kitty Lulu died is only really sad if you also write about how Lulu being sad makes you feel. Writing I had fun in Science today is only interesting if I explain why I had fun in Science class (which I won't, just to keep this blog to a PG-13 rating).

Having a broken z key has made me realize how many times a day I call myself lazy. Now that it comes out as lay all the time, I notice it more. Maybe I should work on being more productive and procrastinating less...

You can see what's coming here, right? I'll let you say it with me. Wait--I want to make sure you're there on the other side of the Internet, talking with me. Don't want to talk to a computer because it'll be a little (or a lot) psycho? Kiss my grits. Okay, one...two...three...

No, I'm too lazy.

My English teacher, who shall from this point on be known as The Sherm, is having us do a unit on Shakespeare. The Sherm was the best nickname I could come up with on short notice, not like the half of advisory I spent deciding to call my history teacher Mr. X. The problem with Queen Mrs. K. L. Sherman is that it's too long for me to type, and QMKLS is one of the strangest acronyms I've ever seen. 

The first thing you must understand about Shakespeare--this is absolutely imperative to know--is that he is a cabbage. Yes. Shakespeare is a cabbage. Or, he was a cabbage, as I should say. I don't know why Shakespeare is a cabbage. I vaguely remember reading it somewhere and being deeply amused. I guess it was in some book I read when I was younger. Anyway, he is.

I was in The Sherm's fortress of EVIL, room 224, and she was forcing ufs to submit to her will through a substitute teacher by the name of Ms. Winn. Even though she was not with us, her malevolent presence was felt throughout the room, from the bookshelf that would fall over if you gave it one good kick to the can of chocolate dead parrots with the pens ending in fake flowers. I know I felt her presence. Anyone else in that class: were you feeling that aura of malevolence?

We were watching some dumb instructional video about Shakespeare, and we were supposed to be taking notes. I'm not sure anyone did. Well, I did. Sort of.

Example of my notes:

oh crap! THE PLAGUE

Shakespeare=a cabbage=ol' C

ol' C stuck five Iambs in a sentence and called it Iambic pentameter

ha-ha, let's stick Aristotle in somehow! No.

It's a good thing I knew most of the stuff she quizzed us on. I would have done terribly if I'd actually needed those notes. Note to self: take better notes.

That's all for today, dear readers.

Wait, no, it's not. I just want to point out that alternating between calling you dear readers and infidels is perfectly normal and shows no sign of mental disorder on my part. Thank you.

Infidels.

"We're in Narnia!"

The only reason I am writing this post is because I promised the cousin. Also, she shoved me up against a wall and said "BLOG" while I screamed girlishly. I can't help screaming girlishly. I'm a girl.

Tonight, I had the pleasure of attending a performance of "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe." This was only because the cousin was acting in it, and of course I always go to see the things the cousin acts in. She's my cousin. We have a bond sort of like sisters, except we aren't around to get on each other's nerves as much, so it's even better. The other reason I always show up is because she'd probably beat me up otherwise. Don't deny it, cousin.

I read the book a long time ago, like two years or something. Maybe even longer. This is longer than many insects and other small animals have been alive, so it has to be a long time. All I really remembered was that there were four kids who ran around an old house until the idiot one found a wardrobe and went into it. Then they went to Narnia, found the White Witch, found Aslan, et cetera. They probably pointed and shouted, "I found you! Look, look, I found Aslan!" when they did. This is somewhat like me when I find people every day or like in City of Glass when Alec runs over to Magnus and says, "Magnus! I choose you!" like a Pokemon master...Okay, please ignore me now.

If you kept reading past et cetera, I'm sorry. Sometimes I babble about stuff that has no point, and I can pretty much go on forever if no one stops me.. Spiffy assures me that no one actually listens; I'm not sure if I should be relieved or offended.

In the play, there were these lovely little forest sprites or something who ran around doing little dances and twirling ribbons on sticks. It was a lot nicer than I'm describing it. I noticed that the little forest sprites started out with white ribbon-sticks, probably to symbolize the blank emptiness and despair of the White Witch's reign, and ended up with multicolored ribbon-stick to symbolize spring. The changing of the ribbon-sticks pleased me, because I like pointless things like that. Well, things with points. Just very small ones.

The line, "We're in Narnia!" cracked me up for two different reasons at once. Yes, this is like multi-tasking for people who can't multi-task. In Quebec, there was a giant wardrobe in the room, which I will remember fondly as what I hid in with Gabby to jump out at Christine, fit all four of us staying in the room in, and of course climbed into the moment I saw it and cried, "It's Narnia!" The other reason was Spiffy, who tried to convince her sister that the restroom at some restaurant was Narnia, pronounced NAH-nee-uh, without the r sound.

The cousin was, of course, absolutely spiffing as the Witch. Before I spend a while gushing about my wonderful cousin, I'd like to point out that she was one of the oldest people on stage, and therefore had more time to mature. Mature more in the sense of how fruit matures before falling off the branch than how people mature and begin to act more like adults. Anyway, the cousin did an amazing job. Especially with the shrieking and yelling. I'm sorry, cousin, but you're very good at screaming. Don't be offended; it's just the truth.

Adjectives Describing the Cousin's Performance:

• Dazzling
• Sensational
• Fabulous
• Spectacular
• Marvelous
• Impressive
• Astonishing

Adjectives that came up when I Searched "Sensational" that Do Not Apply to the Cousin:

• X-rated
• Rough
• Horrifying
• Juicy
• Agitating
• Scandalous

Five points to the person who can write the definitions of all of those as a comment.

There were only three things that bothered me about the play. The cousin was obviously not one of them. One: lots of people missed their cues and then just stood there. Two: the kid who was a forest creature and tripped every time he went onstage was not funny the first time or the fifth time. Three: Aslan.

My shadowy, dim memories of the book involve Aslan being, you know, proud and noble. A fab kind of lion who's a little distant at times because he's just more noble than everyone else, but still kind. The vibe I was getting from the actress (and it's not her fault; I think it was the costume) was more of a tribal princess vibe. I don't know if it was the grass skirt being used as a mane, the Pocahontas kind of dress, or the time she roared and also sort of twisted around and shook her mane. Whatever. I am done ranting about the play. It was all very lovely. I give it many points.

The cousin's posse knows me as the abortion one. I suppose I shouldn't be too annoyed; my posse knows the cousin as the cousin or Libby's cousin with the hair. This is as opposed to my cousin without the hair. Anyway, there is actually a reason they call me that. I will now tell you all. Gather 'round, dear readers: it's time for storytime.

It was once in the land of Slauson, and our heroine, Libby, was in her seventh-hour class. Seventh hour was almost over, and, seventh hour being the last hour of the day, school was almost over. The excitement was heavy in the room...heavy, like a box of elephants wearing some of those sunglasses with the little jewels in the corners. Chica (some of you may know him as Niraj) was bothering Libby.

"I know your future," he said.

"I'm sure you do," she said.

"You're going to go out with a guy in high school, and Jenny won't like him."

"What?"

"None of your friends will like him."

"Why?"

"He's a jerk."

"What? You think I'd date a jerk?"

"I know you'll date a jerk. Anyway, he'll get you pregnant and you'll have an abortion, even if it's not legal. So it'll all be okay."

End of story.

I told that to the cousin, and she told her posse, and they now know me as the abortion one.

After school (but before the cousin and her performance) I was lying on a bench on the deck. Spiffy doesn't like it when I lie on furniture at school; she says Sam and Anthony will attack me; but what she doesn't know won't hurt her. (Spiffy, if you're reading this: hi. I'm sorry. Sam wasn't at school, so it was totally safe.) Pascale came up to me and asked, "Libby, what are you doing?"

"I'm lying on the bench."

Chica came, too. "Libby, what are you doing?"

"I'm lying on the bench."

Claudia, however, began to yell at me about Big Brother before deciding to litter. "Let's litter, Libby!" Ooh, alliteration. She handed me her candy wrapper, and I chucked it over into the grassy place by the deck that's already filled with junk anyway.

"I feel so horrible! I'm a litterer!"

"Big Brother does not like your anti-environment sentiments," said Claudia.

"But I like Big Brother!"

"Anti-environment is anti-Big Brother."

Remember that, infidels.

My house is under attack.

As stated above, my house is under attack. I had to say it twice, just to make sure it would sink in. Robby's friendie who moved off to Kentucky or somewhere equally pointless just came back for a visit. I am, of course, not amused. Well, I was pretty amused while pretending to hide the garlic and rubbing the cat with the little bits of garlic that fell off while the child tried to wrestle it away from me, but Mother spoiled my fun by taking the garlic away.

Grace just walked by, read my sign (unattended children will be sold to gypsies) out loud, then began laughing hysterically. Ever heard the expression "peals of laughter?" That's how she laughs. "Very funny, Libby," she said. Oh dear. I think Mother told her I'm hiding here with the kimchi kitty. Cassee doesn't really like people, so I let her in my room and she's been sitting here ever since. It's nice and quiet in here. The cat is sitting on the get 'em while they're hot (guys) Girl Scout cookie poster from fifth grade. I'm questioning her choices of where to sit.

A motivational speaker came to my place of learning today to speak motivationally to us. I was certainly motivated, as I mentioned to Spiffy. She didn't seem to be motivated, however. "He's just pimping his product" was her opinion on Mr. Gold (was that his name?). He was telling us about this website he made up for all of us younglings. It's called What Kids Are Saying. My initial reaction was: a lot of what kids are saying isn't exactly fit to print. I went to the website, and there I had yet another reaction. I'm reacting like a science project here.

There is not enough forking room to type anything on Mr. Gold's website. This is apparently because all entries are proofread first, but I don't care. There is no room. The word limit is five hundred or something. That's okay if you want to write a poem, but a short story in five hundred words? That's not a short story. That's flash fiction. That's a vignette. I looked at two, and they had no plot or anything. Also, they were both about chicks crushing on dudes.

I am so jealous of authors, I really am. Am I the only person who can barely look at a piece of Flair or little icon-thing with a quote or joke from a book without thinking, I wish it was my book being quoted. This random jealousy of people who are published has to be pretty common. All kinds of people wish quotes from their books would make their way across the Internet, right? I'm not alone. Please tell me I'm not alone.

I turned in an assignment for English about four of the books I've read in the past two months or so. This was a very difficult assignment, as I hardly read books at all. It might as well be blank paper filling up my two bookshelves—sorry, blank paper–shelves. I finally managed to find a few to write about (read: nine) and polished off a fantastic piece of writing. The only problem is that I think my teachers will assume I didn't like any of the books I read, only because I wrote sort of sarcastically about all of them. Examples:

Blood, violence, and an adorable, somewhat incestuous couple. What more does a book need?

The plot was pretty much that the main character, who decided to name herself "Poison" for some reason, got her sister kidnapped by the Phaerie Lord and felt the need to run off on a quest and get her back.

Liss assures me that writing like that is "just your way, Libby." Strangely enough, Mother says a lot of things are just my way. Mother and Liss may be sharing some kind of telekinetic mind connection, but I hope not.

Dictionary dot com changed its layout. This is awful. It'll take me at least a week to get over it, and then I'll probably complain about it every now and then just for kicks.

Last Sunday (yes, four days ago; I didn't feel like writing about it then) was a lovely musical event for our schools known as Bands in Review. The title is fairly obvious, but I'll explain it, just in case anyone needs me to spell things out for them. B-A-N-D-S I-N R-E-V-I-E-W. Yes. That is where the parents and extended family of students in bands in our city review the bands. It's a fabulous event for fabulous people, and I've been nervous about performing at it since it was announced to me that I was stuck with doing it.

Sure, all of our rehearsals up until then went fine, but what if someone spontaneously combusted? What would we do then? I realize that was also my excuse for not wanting to do my audition for Mr. Bloodsucking-parasitic-bug-thing (his last name is leach, probably spelled some way that lessens its resemblance to a nasty bug-thing): "But...but...what if I'm playing a scale and BAM! spontaneous human combustion? There's at least a one in five billion chance! It could happen!"

"If he's on fire, Libby, put him out."

"But what if he spontaneously combusts too fast?"

"Well, he'll probably be, um, spontaneously combusting because you played so well."

Anyway, it was the morning of the big concert. I had just woken up from a dream about being late to the concert and then realized that I had only five hours left before someone was going to drag me onstage. Ahh, eek, and various other noises people who are extremely afraid make. Fortunately, I had already decided that this was the day to purchase City of Glass as a pre-concert gift. Pre-concert gift as in: I know I'll do fabulously at this thing, so I think I'll buy myself a book ahead of time.

Stuff happened. I bought my book and read the first chapter. Two-thirty loomed ever closer. It definitely loomed.

Suddenly, it was time to put on my band shirt, a very stylish black shirt with Concert Band or something on it. I tried tucking it in, but tucking shirts into dress pants reminds me of the time I dressed as a member of the guys' basketball team and makes me giggle a lot. I ended up using a hairband to tie it up in the back. You know how that works; I shouldn't have to explain it.

Mother walked me down to the school even though it's a block from my house. I was desirous of her company. I also wanted someone to talk to, given my habit of talking a lot about useless subjects when nervous. "What if I can't find my people? They say, 'Look for the people in black,' but I'm color-blind!"

"Libby, you're not color-blind."

"...You know, I've always wondered why stop signs are green."

Mother was not amused, as her father happens to be color-blind.

Eventually, I found my people. We were all sitting around chatting in a practice room, complaining about our shirts and how ugly they were. I know I said they were stylish a couple of paragraphs ago, but I was lying. Just before we left for another practice room (I don't know why, either), our teachers told us to tuck in our shirts. There was a definite groan around the room. I felt like being rebellious and didn't tuck in my shirt. No one noticed.

We had what felt like five minutes to warm up and tune before we had to line up so we could go onstage. I had to be near the front of the line, near the flutes. Flautists. The stage is a lot smaller when you're up there performing, by the way. It's like the audience and the stage switch sizes when you move between them. I think we played all right on our first piece, Circus Bee, but I played too hard and I was doing badly when we started The Great Locomotive Chase.

I know I have no details about what it was like onstage, but it's not my fault. It's always hard to describe that part of a concert, which may or may not actually be the most important part. My theory is that the stage lights release something that makes us all forget everything that happens onstage.

After performing, we filed down and sat in our section: the awesome section. Yes, we're so awesome that our awesomeness filled the section. Everyone just chatted between songs. I spent half the time trying to convince Anna that the girl wearing sunglasses onstage was somehow related to Cyclops from the X-Men, and that she had to wear the sunglasses or else her laser eye-blasts would vaporize the audience. It didn't go over well with her, given that she didn't know who Cyclops was.

I'm going to venture out of my room to see if there's any food. Wish me luck, dear readers.