A (Backhanded) Ode to Chocolate Chip Cookies

TOO MANY COOKIES. I feel sick.

What? What's that? You saw the title and were concerned? What about the refreshing cliffhanger ending of yesterday? Who was the Creeper's friend? Why did she have large amounts of generic health cereal falling out of her mouth? What was with the leg warmers in that garish shade of yellow? Was she even a girl? Did I even mention all of this yesterday?

You'll find out, she was hungry, who knows, not sure, and YES (NO).

But that exciting tale will be recounted tomorrow, or some day when I can fully explain to you the dire and surreal situation I am in.

But normalcy-

Today, I want to tell you about cookies.

Something I like: Eating items that are high in fat and deliciousness.

Somethings I don't like: Exercising and eating things that are high in health.

I think I've eaten half a pack of chewy cookies today instead of eating a normal lunch like a normal person, and my stomach hurts. It's not even my fault- the cookies were so good that I thought no one else should eat them. Just not allowed. So I was doing my civic duty, and what do I get? Sick. Not to mention about 40 million more calories than anyone needs in a day.

So even though the evil delicacies are turning my stomach into a butter churn, I must express my love and affection for them.

What is so appealing about chocolate chip cookies? I love Oreos, too, but I can restrain myself. I can stop at *coughs until number is unitelligible*! But chocolate chip cookies seem to take away all of my willpower.

They are possibly made of butter and sugar and flour and chocolate chips and vanilla extract and water and THE ENTHRALLING POWER OF A SIREN***.

They're not even my favorite food- not even my favorite pastry. I love ravioli to pieces, and I like blondies (butterscotch brown-sugar brownies. VERY good) and I can STOP eating them when I feel like I have to.

But chocolate chip cookies will be my downfall.

This was rubbish, but I feel sick and repulsed with myself. I am going outside to try and redeem myself.

It is finally warm outside here- very super warm- and I am wearing shorts. The problem with me wearing shorts is that the second I do, I begin to believe that I am an athlete.

Unless chewy chocolate chip eating is a sport, which it shouldn't be, this is a disappointing delusion.

Quote for Saturday, April 9, 2011:

Part of me suspects that I'm a loser and the other part of me thinks I'm God Almighty.

-John Lennon

(http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/John_Lennon)

Muse for Today:

Why is a suspension a punishment? When someone is acting up in school, why, exactly, is it a punishment for you not to allow them to go to school for a couple of days? That's like a bloody reward!

***Like the mermaid-type creatures from mythology, not a police one. Those don't have too much enthralling power, as far as I know.

I think I'm losing my mind

I reread yesterday's post, and I'm not entirely sure what was going on. Was it real life? Was it just fantasy? I didn't know. I shook my head in annoyance with myself, and turned around to find the Creepy Girl sitting in the corner again, painting a mural on my wall. The mural was entirely black, with bright touches of gray here and there.

I approached and said hesitantly, "That's, um...that's my wall..."

"I know. It's a good wall," she nodded resolutely. "Good plasterwork. Did you do this yourself?"

"No, actually I didn't."

"Shame," she said breezily, adding a dab of gray to the mural. I noticed her accent suddenly had an element of faked Brtishness. "Thought you had some talent for once. Plastering walls. It's good work."

"Can you stop trying to be effortlessly casual and realize that this is not normal? What is going on?" I exploded, nearly knocking a tub of paint all over my floor. "What are you painting?"

"A My Little Pony for my little sister, Taylor. She loves My Little Pony, and her birthday's tomorrow. So shut up, bozo, I'm trying to finish this."

I examined it closer, and guessed that it did look like a My Little Pony, if the My Little Pony was hit by a truck, received really bad plastic surgery, and bathed in 1920's movie magic. I shook my head slightly, and asked, "Don't you have walls of your own? So Taylor can see the mural...at your home?"

She gave me that look again, the one where I feel as though I'm the one who's doing something wrong. "You have better plaster. I think, " she smirked, "I told you this. I noticed that the other night."

I had never felt so confused and defeated in my whole life. I turned back toward the door, determined to call the police on this oddball. "Okay. Just...just don't get any on the floor, okay? No paint on the floor. I'm just going to make a phone call."

"Wait!"

I turned around, because all of this was getting the better of my curiosity.

"How did she get in here?"

There was another girl sitting next to the Break-In Creep, and I'm pretty sure she wasn't there before.

Not Really a Kangaroo Jacket

There's nothing like a pillar of perfection on which to smash my sorry ego...

Inadequacy, or the feeling that you are (inadequate, that is) is normal (I hope?). Having too many perfect people surrounding your imperfection seems like a cruel joke to make them look even better in comparison. And my whole day has been that sort of day.

"It seems like my whole life is that sort of life," the creepy girl in the corner huskily whispered, wearing too much eyeliner and a black hoodie three sizes too big. (Hood up, of course.)

"I prefer to call it a 'kangaroo jacket', actually, and it makes an artistic statement about the meaninglessness of life and work!"

Oh, yeah? Like what?

She shoots me a sardonic look from underneath her hooded eyelids, enunciating as if I'm the mad, bizarre one who broke into someone else's house to make odd comments in the corner. "That black is a color! Not a shade! A color! Take that, society."

What a statement. How did she even get in here? I need to stop leaving the cat flap open. But we don't have a cat. Or a cat flap.

*shoots wary glance to corner and scoots away slowly*

Anyway, I was saying before Miss Clothing from Australia over there interrupted me-

"It's not Australian," she calls over to me, looking bored as she tries reading my dictionary.

You said 'kangaroo'-

"Oh, and you just assume it was Australia?" bursts out my unwelcome visitor, the shine of triumphant conquer shining upon what little I can see of her face. "I just say 'kangaroo' and Little Miss Inadequacy Issues over here decides that 'Oh, kangaroos, things can be from Australia, I'm a geographically-challenged dork, blah de blah de blah!" She leans back into the wall, satisfied.

Okay, then. Where is your precious jacket with its misleading name come from, huh?

She slouches again, borrowing into her hoodie. "I don't know."

Ha. Google saved me. CANADA.

"I can be Canadian. If I want to," scoffs the girl in the corner. "You know, this is a really good book."

That's the, um, dictionary. What did you say your name was again?

"I didn't," she grins in a sinister manner.

That cleared things up. And don't be so sinister. Sinister people don't read the dictionary.

"But it's really good," she raved, in a rare display of emotion.

It seems I need to call pest control for this half-wit.

"You have self-esteem problems. And you're too slumpy."

Are you really in a position to be insulting anyone right now? You're a weirdo that I don't even know who is occupying a whole corner of my room, you're not Canadian and you call your hoodie a kangaroo jacket! You're reading the dictionary!

"You've read part of the dictionary before!" she remarked, injured.

That was four years ago, when I thought I was cool because I- wait a second, how do you know that?

"Lucky guess?" she replied sheepishly.

On that invasive and disturbing note, I will end this conversational blog post. We will recommence tomorrow, when we might fight out Miss Annoying 2011's problem. Or we might be led in meaningless circles again.

"Meaningless circles, for sure," mutters the odd one, putting on a garish shade of orange lipstick. "That's good, right?"

No comment, ha ha ha. Yes comment. You look like you put ketchup on a coral reef and ate it.

"I can still hear you, even if you mumble it sarcastically to yourself!"

Drat.

Quote for Thursday, April 7, 2011:

An original idea. That can't be too hard. The library must be full of them.

-The Liar (1991)

(

http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Stephen_Fry

)

Muse for a Day:

I have no idea what I was going to write about before the creepy girl in the corner. And it's BEDA for a week so far!

Cleaner than Normal

For once in my little life, I have no homework. I am also not reading, watching, or doing anything worth blogging about. So let's pretend you care (honestly, just pretend. I know I'm monstrously interesting, but you can pretend if you want to) and write up a list of stuffs on my bedroom floor. (I am an unorganized mess of processed food, so I am going to leave out things like 'granola bar wrappers' and pretend they don't exist.)

• A stack of blank index cards
• An empty glass of nothing
• I Me Mine by George Harrison (The book, not the song. Although I can't keep a song on my floor.)
• A plastic spider
• A broken-in-half headband
• Posterboard
• My cell phone
• A colored in picture of Hermione Granger and Harry Potter than my friend did for me
• Brave New World by Aldous Huxley (reading it for school. Very confusing, I think)
• Old stories from years ago (because I was rereading them a few nights ago, exalting in my brilliance.) (No, not really.) (But seriously. Those were good stories.) (No, not really.) (But seriously.)
• A black skirt that is very linty- how did it get so linty?
• Some lip balm
• A pen that looks like a flower (I did it with duct tape)
• A magnet from Paris (!) that a different friend got for me when she went there over break. It has dancing people and some French words on it.
• This is Me by Charlie McDonnell (This is music- in CD form)
• Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder, because I was pining for my childhood or something
• Half a package of unused tissues
• One pair of skinny jeans, questionably clean

And that is it. My rooms fairly clean today. I actually do have something to do, places to go, you know (usually I would be lying but now I am genuinely genuine) so I leave you here. If you want to document your floor, too, try it. It could be Freudian Fun! Punny! Ha! I'll leave before I get too witty.

Future Noncareers

Physics is a class which seems to have been made for the express purpose of reminding me that I'm not so smart. Well, Physics and Trigonometry are both adept at this honorable goal, but I digress.

Usually, physics is math. There is almost no difference between physics problems and math problems except physics has an ego and likes saying that it's science.

Except when it tries to be all scientific and hands-on.

Like today, when we are currently in the process of making a power strip. I realized at least two things in that class:

• Some boys don't deserve to exist, and they exist for the sole purpose of making the rest of us feel slimy and murderous.
• Electrician is at least one more career I will never have.

My list of noncareers (careers I will never have) has been lengthened considerably this year, which just shows you how school can be. Providing me with opportunities and crushing dreams I never knew I had. Just this year:

• Actor
• Gymnast
• Volleyball player
• Mathematician
• Truck driver (but that's a long story)
• Dancer (of any kind, and I knew this years ago, but the way it was proven to me this year makes me shudder at the pain of repressed embarrassing memories)
• And now electrician...

I'm not proficient at a lot of things... but we can only hope I don't have to fall back on any of these.

Also, I have a math test. And a headache. But that's okay.

No, it's not.

Quote for Tuesday, April 5, 2011:

"Le public est une bête féroce: il faut l’enchaîner ou la fuir."

("The public is a ferocious beast: one must chain it up or flee from it.")

-Voltaire

(

http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Voltaire

)