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.

My family is impairing my rebel-crushing activites.

They are! The child refuses to tell me where the rebel base is. I can't believe I have a rebel sympathizer in my own home! I mean, I have to live with the kid. He probably reads seditious newspapers when he's not busy dropping the cat. I can't believe those rebels corrupted him.

Forking rebel scum.

In other, non-rebel-related news:

I've just recently decided something about people, and it's this: people care a lot about their crap. That's crap as in junk, not...whatever else the word crap can mean. If people are wandering around and they see some crap, they're like, "Oh, look! Crap!" but they don't do anything about it. The moment it becomes their crap, they care about it. "Look, here's my crap! Don't touch it! Jerk!"

So, in conclusion: people are overly protective of their crap.

Take that however you wish.

My walk home today was detained by several strange older men. Okay, Sam and Niraj. I wouldn't exactly call them men, but they're older than me and they're definitely strange. It was really amusing to talk to them, actually. I think it's because they're guys and they have vaguely perverted (sometimes more than vaguely...) guy perspectives on things. Or maybe it was just because we started playing that slapping game. You know, the one where you slap each other's hands until you give up? Of course, I wasn't playing. It's so barbaric! Everyone gave up on it pretty quickly and just started slapping each other.

I might secretly be a werewolf. Secretly to you, me, and the rest of the word. I wouldn't think that, but I keep getting strange scratches and having no idea where they came from. Oh well. At least this isn't like the time I looked down at my hand and realized I was bleeding. That was pretty bad. I hadn't even noticed...

I have decided that I love translators. This is not strange, because I fall in love with a different profession every week.

Professions I Love:

• Translating
• Video game design
• Web page design
• Author...-ing?
• Journalism
• Singing
• Songwriting
• Tile setting
• Animal training
• Costume design

And many more that I am (guess what?) too lazy to think of at this moment. I am going to mention my own laziness at least once every post, and if I can't think of a way to work it in, I'll just type it at the end. Anyway, it's pretty unfortunate that I have no talent at half those things. Sob, sob. Listen to my tears through your computer screen. ;_; See, that was a little sad face. I can use emoticons. I have the ability. I just, you know, choose not to.

Martial: pertaining to war.

There is no Spanish word of the day today. Ha ha, suckers. French is better anyway.

Oh no! War! War really messes up my vibe. My table in science class refuses to admit that our positive vibe exists. It does, darnit! They keep crushing it like I crush rebels, but it's there! Danny said to me, "Your positive vibe can go to--" but I said, "Danny!" in a very scandalized sort of way before he could finish his sentence.

I'm going to miss them, in a sick and twisted way. Them and their hobo-out-running, cursing, arguing selves. If you're reading this, Swagat, Niraj, Danny, Aaron, I love you all non-romantically and non-creepily, even though you kill my vibe. Please don't say you love me back. You know that creeps me out.

So I have nothing more to say now. Wait. Yes, I do. I have something vitally important to say.

It's not important at all. I lied. I just need to describe to someone, something, anyone! my terrible crash-and-burn on that forking oral report.

It was a little past eight on the morning of 03.06.09 (yay! Three six nine!) in the classroom of Mr. X. I am still protecting his identity. Yes. I had a report on the fine state of Arizona to give, and I thought I was prepared. Well, mostly prepared. I was still crossing things out and changing around my lines, but I figured I could do it.

He decided to have my group present first, and out of the four of us, he picked me to go first. Yay. I kind of started panicking. Okay, not kind of. I totally started panicking. It was almost as bad as those first few days after I got the hall ticket. (By the way, I can walk down the halls without panicking now! It's so exciting!) It was a combination of several things: my...slight...fear of speaking in front of people, Mr. X, and it being early in the morning.

I stood at the front of the room, clutching my notes and the microphone. I think I might have been shaking a little. Everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to start talking. I looked down at my notes...

And freaked. I froze up. I couldn't talk, couldn't move, nothing. I just stood there, trying to talk, but nothing was coming out. It was the kind of thing you read about and hope never happens to you. I started crying, actually, out of nerves and embarassement and who knows what else. Emotional overload, I guess. We sympathetic individuals (read: wimps) can only take so much of this. Our systems aren't meant to handle it.

I sat back down and refused to answer when he asked why I wasn't presenting. He moved on. The rest of the class stood up and presented. It went without a hitch.

I was kind of mad at myself for not being able to talk, but I couldn't do anything. It just happens. It's like that.

Such is the curse of being a socially inept, shy, sympathetic individual.

Lazy.