My Chem Teacher Must Think I Have ADD

            I love my Chemistry class, sure, I'm not that good at it but I have a really awesome teacher and a very nice class size. However, everyday when I walk in there the teacher sees me and thinks I am a ridiculous little kid, maybe I am. . . no, I definitely am. I wonder if it's the fact that I draw things to help me pay attention, i.e. average bears, or possibly it's the fact that I'm not ever normal when she sees me. Anytime she looks over at me I am sure to making a face, flailing, or threatening Lexi and Kristen with punches in the face. Okay, maybe it's all those things because what else screams ADD like face making, seizure-like movement, and violence? Nothing. I know I'm a crazy person but c'mon, I would give anything for this teacher to see me do one thing normally. Maybe I should just sit there one day but I bet she'll ask if something's wrong and I'll break down begging her not to hate me. That sounds like something I'd do. Oh well. I can't think of anymore to say which is sad because this has been shorter than an eighth grade formal dress. So good night my angels. I'm going to bed, you probably should too because you can burn calories while you sleep!!! Maybe I should watch Dance Moms. . .

Candles that Smell like Boys, The Plan for My Cat, and a Few Other Things.

             1. Candles that Smell like Boys:
                    I love it when boys smell good, therefore, I love it when things--such as candles--smell like boys.  I know it's weird, but I really love the musky and sweet smell of a guy so one day my sister-in-law bought an amazing boy smelling candle.  I walked into Jessica's room and was instantly hit  by the wonderful boy smell and nearly melted. I don't remember what the name was but I know it was a Yankee Candle and I don't know why I told you about this but whatever.

            2. The Plan for My Cat:
                     Like my older sister, when I go into my sophomore year of college I am getting a kitten. I want to get a Maine Coon kitten, if you don't know,  Maine Coons are BIG cats and are also very hairy. So when I get what I hope to be a brown male Maine Coon, I will name him Barry Gibb and get him a kitten white leisure suit. Yes, I know that I'm weird.

              Things:
                 I'm a cat person. I love sweaters and wearing sweatpants. I am a swimmer and I love/hate it. I have no confidence in my writing and I am scared to make a YouTube video even though I really want to. That's it. Thanks. Goodbye. Goodnight. Smell a puppy, buy a sweater.

No Officer, I'm not Homeless.

            Now that I have a car I feel like I'm going to become a night-time-car-crying people. . . yes, it needed that many hyphens.  I feel like I'll be out there sobbing my eyes out listening to "The Love Songs of Motown" and singing to myself, eventually falling asleep. I assume at this point an nice police man (woman)  will come knock on my car door and ask if I need to get to a shelter. To this, I shall reply, "Oh no officer, I'm not homeless, I just come out here to cry." At this point, I'm assuming that he'll (she'll) ask if I'm drunk and at this point I'll cry some more and explain that most people think that I am a drunk and this is why I am alone crying in my Ford Taurus in the first place.
              By nature I'm a crier. I can just imagine myself also being a car crier, and it's surely not a good thing to be.  Also, by nature I am reckless. . . crying + recklessness= bad news bears. Which then by the process of substitution: I am bad news bears! In case you do not know, bad news bears aren't a good thing.

In other news:


              I want to be an anti-drug advocate for like high schools and stuff.  I'd stumble onto the stage and say, "Dude! I'm so high right now!" The students will laugh and when it dies down I'd yell, "On life!" After which the students would boo and I would do my talk on how to not do drugs in today's adverse world, one of the last of the 90's babies preaching to the 10's babies. It's scary, I know. Well, that's all I have to say tonight. Live in a mediocre fashion and love with a little more than mediocre passion. Stuff your face and have a happy week. Goodnight, goodbye, and all that jazz. Amen, praise the almighty Overlord Google.

Notebooks and My Failures.

             I write songs.  Well, that's not entirely true, I try with full intentions to write songs and do not succeed.  However, I have the tools to write songs: ideas, chords, a piano, and paper.  Every year before school I buy a five subject notebook, preferably Five Star, it's my favorite. These notebooks are beaten to death in my bag every year because I am sure that I'll need it.  I buy this notebook with the ridiculous notion that by the end of that year it will be filled with great ideas and full songs. At first when I get the notebook  I nick name it "Project Inspiration" (I'm currently on volume number IV) and eventually it becomes known as "The Dicking Around Book."
              In the Five Star five subject there are four pockets, I label the front of the pocket to indicate what will be behind it, the subjects in TDAB are as follows: 0- this has no pocket and is the first section which is known as the distraction section (it's pretty much the only one that ever gets used.) 1.- Titles and Ideas, this section holds things before they are actually worth anything. 2.- WIPs a.k.a. works in progress, this pocket forwards somethings that are pretty cool but then get discarded after a month or two. 3.- Rewrites, after the pocket there is nothing in vol. IV, I haven't had many ideas this year. And finally 4.- Finished Works, again there is nothing here.
                Maybe it's the fact that I'm still in high school and haven't lived very long or maybe it's because I never have anytime but I have done nothing with my life and this ism expressed in the failure to write in my TDAB.  I think it's because I have done nothing in the past week but worry about singing at my brother's wedding that this has not even had an ounce of good content here. Sorry. Barely anyone reads my blog anyway. Oh well. Well for lack of a better ending I leave you with this: And the little bird died. Amen, Hallelujah,  Don't change, I love you. Blah blah blah, whatever. Good story, right?