a huNdrEd feEt taLl

Sometimes you have to act like a gigantic ass to get a point across. Throughout this wanker (excuse me, John Constantine lingers) day, I've felt like a gigantic ass though I don't think I got any of my points across at all.

First of all, my guidance counselor didn't get me. I like ___ but it's not as if it's ___, though sometimes, when I find myself ___ about ____, I have to reconsider. It has to be abnormal, this ___ thing. I chalk it up to ___ and the fact that there's no bloody (see the Constantine-ity of it all?) decent ___ around. Come on. I harbor no realistic fantasies about this ___. The two of us together is a walking nightmare. The bloodcurdling screams of one friend upon knowledge is enough of a statement, I reckon.

I am just being a seventeen-year-old girl with too much time and no cuddly-wuddly whatsoever on her hands.

And you know what my g.c. said, after I stuttered my way through that confession? That I should be my-fucking-self. Better yet, she told me that I should just come up to the douchebag and say, "Hey, I like you to distraction."

Sure. That works.

<<-->>

Second thing that's happened today was that disaster after Fiction class. The wound's too raw right now and I don't think I'll ever live it down (here I am, being fatalistic again). Lemme just say that I acted like a motherhumping groupie. That it seemed like I was dropping hints, fishing for something. Agh. This is too much humiliation for one human being.

I look too much like a blimp in this sweater. Arrgh.

<<-->>

I need to talk to a Man. One with the correct hormones. I already tried talking to Charz once, in our mutual drunken stupor, but look at how that turned out.

Which reminds me: Yaps Estagle, you better stop making all those limp-bleeped remarks about what happened at Cantina because so-help-me-Elvis, I will fucking roll you in Plastic Wrap and put you in a rusty shredder. There.