Bug Season: Get Prepared.

Brace yourselves. It's the all-famous, well known, infamous Bug Season slowly approaching us.

Scratch that.

Slowly crawling towards us. Slowly using-their-hundred-legs-to-scramble towards us.

Summer is the season of bugs. It is the Season of Bugs. I am serious right now. I hope a lot of people think the same (because if not, that means there's something seriously wrong with our house and me).

In the summer, bugs dominate. They grow three inches. They find their armies. They gather their artillery and men bugs. They go to the armory to stock up on new ammo. They train hardcore for a few weeks. Then they're ready. They're armed.

First, it's the flies.
The flies attack first. They're the front-line soldiers. They buzz into the homes, slowly but quickly (I know. Just go with the flow.), secretly slipping into your home beyond your knowledge until you hear that weird buzzing near your window and see one of them (finally cracked under the military pressure) spazzing out at the window, hopelessly reaching for the sun.

They land everywhere, rubbing their hands and pleading for mercy while you (shaking) threateningly hold a newspaper up to think: to slap or not to slap?


Then, it's the mosquitoes.
They're the night-shifts. They're more powerful at night, when people are unsuspecting, vulnerable, and fleshy. They silently lurk nearby and then dive right into your skin. They might carry Plasmodium, which are their special biological weapons that they have genetically engineered to make us malaric. (Did you forget? With the flow.)
They make sure that they leave you injured in at least three places. They leave you sore, itching, and irritated. Their little signature is that familiar red bump that whispers: "Scratch me. Scratch me."


The worst are the ants.
The ants are the invaders. They're the tiny little invaders that you don't realize they're there until it's too late. With their massive number and invisible vessels, you'll never know where they're docking at or, for that matter, where they came from. They're there, and they dominate. They're not even that strong, either. It's just that there's too many of them.
They outnumber us.
(Hah. By a lot. Four versus practically five hundred)
Once one of them gets into your house, it's the end of the world. (Please don't take this seriously.)

You need to evacuate the house and immediately contact the FBI. They might be planting bugs into your house to listen in on top secret conversations (like what you did at school today. That's code red intrusion--nobody should know what you did at school today.). Or even worse, they might be getting ready to put in a bomb.

And then, the real bombs of their army--the centipedes. The centipedes are their last resort, the solitary soldier that has a massive amount of power, strength, and fear-inducing looks. Their numerous limbs makes them nimble and quick in their ruthless trampling of the house. One centipede passing by is an equivalent to a level 5 hurricane. They leave houses annihilated, trees dismantled, and lives lost. The name itself gives shudders and shoots fear into the hearts of even the best of us, and they do not stop at any point. Their roar is fiercer than a lion, mightier than a bear. It is so loud that it may permanently damage our hearing. Thee deep voiced grumble that rolls into a loud and barbaric roar is perhaps the only warning before they begin their mission. Their only motive is trample. TRAMPLE AND ROAR! Anything that dares to get in its way, under its humongous, heavy feet are doomed to die the most terrible death.
(Don't even get me started on the millipedes.)


So here is my inspirational speech to my fellow Homo sapiens:

We, humans, are an indestructible race. We are one tight knit people (who throw bombs at each other) and love each other ever so dearly (so dearly that we throw bombs at each other). We are united as one people (that is cut up into hundreds of countries constantly bickering) and we can. We can. Defeat these puny bugs! (Don't forget the puny millipedes, guys.) They invade? We do not hinder. Fear does not stop us. It strengthens us. Together, humans. Together. We shall defeat the merciless bugs. We shall live! We shall prosper! We shall taste victory!


P.S. I think I have formed a theory as to why we are often afraid of bugs. (Not all of us, but a great bunch.)
It's because of their blatant invasiveness. Their obvliousness of our power. We are at the top of the food chain, and anything that is above us scares us (naturally). But what scares us even more is when we cannot control those under us. Bugs are one instance. They are under us in the food chain, but we cannot control them from entering our houses, invading our homes, and buzzing around in our house. They are ubiquitous. Everywhere. And we can't do anything about it, which drives us crazy. It scares the wits out of us, because we thought we were 'better' than them, that we could kill them (as predators) and naturally 'control' them. But we can't.
I dunno. A guess.

Travelling Troubles

Okay, so, we went to New York City (Central Park, Apple Store, Times Square…), Washington D.C. (You know the places—museums and the White House and the Washington Memorial and whatnot), and Boston (Harvard, MIT…).

Let me tell you what happened on those three trips, and why we have the worst luck possible in picking dates for ‘travelling,’ and why I’m scared to go to the Statue of Liberty in a few days.

New York City

So, when we went to New York, we rode the car (not train) all the way to NYC, and then we walked to Central Park. It was drizzling. Then, we walked for about an hour in Central Park, because my dad said he knew where the lake thingy was, but apparently, between him and his iPhone, something went wrong, and we ended up walking in circles. When that tired us enough, it started raining more. And when I say more, I mean, POURING. RAINING CATS AND DOGS. (Plus we were hungry).

We ran all the way to the edge of Central Park, meanwhile getting soaking wet. Seriously soaking wet. Our hair was like we just stepped out of the shower, and our clothes were sticking to our skin like we decided to jump into the pool with all of our clothes on. Literally.

So we stood under a ledge of a big building (and it wasn’t a ‘big’ ledge, so to say), and waited for the rain to stop, while stuffing KimBap into our mouths.

But thankfully, the day got better after that, because the rain eventually stopped, and we went to the Apple store and Times Square, which was really fun.

 

Washington D. C.

A bit farther than New York’s distance, so we woke up at five and then left at six forty four, forty four minutes off schedule (we had planned to leave at six o clock sharp, but you  know what always happens..).

We hadn’t eaten breakfast, because my mom had made a beautiful breakfast meal and put it in the icebox for us to eat along the way (as in, stop at a small park with those wooden tables and stuff to eat, on the way to Washington). So when we were pretty much in Washington D. C., we stopped at a small park, as scheduled, and happily went to the back of the car to pull the icebox out of the trunk--
that wasn’t there.

We had, in the whole hurry of being forty four minutes late, left (one of) the most important things of the trip—food. Of course, we had rice. And seaweed thingy (kim). But the BANCHAN WAS MISSING. 반찬. So we happily ate rice and kim. (Because rice and kim don’t need to be cold, we had that in a separate bag that we brought.) Good thing we at least brought the rice. .-.

Anyhow, after the fulfilling breakfast, we then arrived at Washington very early, and parked the car and left to walk here and there and have a nice day at Washington D.C. Of course, it was scorching hot that day, and we were already sweating rivers of sweat and sizzling in the heat within an hour.

(Plus, my cousins aren’t the ‘can-endure-lots-of-walking’ type, especially if it’s under a ninety eight degree sun.)

So we walked here and there, noticing how far each memorial was from each other, and looking in envy at people with cold water and ice cream (while we were holding nearly boiling bottled water) (nah it was just really warm). We did stop by once to buy two bottles of Gatorade, but in our hurried fight to drink more of the refreshing drink, we forgot to let our parents have a sip. (Sorry, Mother and Father. ): )

We then went home in the night, and in between the long car ride, we stopped at WaWa’s in Maryland. That was probably the best part of the trip, because that WaWa’s place was really clean and organized and their food was DELICIOUS. (Sandwich). (Maybe it was because we were tired and hungry.) I don’t know, their strawberry smoothie and sandwich was probably the most remember-able part of the trip. OMNOMNOMNOM.

 

Boston

So we left for Boston at around ten or eleven, thinking we wouldn’t spend much time there and stuff. And plus, in the morning, we were busy trying to convince my dad not to go to Boston so we could rest and stuff. So we dragged time quite a bit.

Leaving late means arriving late. And of course, we spent seven hours in the car (lots of traffic…) and arrived at Boston around five or six. Really late.

We went to Harvard, and the place was AWESOME. So was their bookstore—it was like Harvard Coop or something like that? I don’t know, but when we stepped in there for the bathroom, I saw much more than a bathroom there. I wanted to stay there for a while (but we had to leave) and read all of the books (that I wanted to read that were) there.

But because of the time constraint (we can’t leave too late, because that would mean we would get home in the morning), we hurried from Harvard to MIT to the Quincy Market thingy. And it rained a lot (not as much as Central Park, thank goodness), so we were all fighting over three puny umbrellas while trying to pose for pictures.

By the time we were at Quincy Market, it was about nine thirty, and all of the food-giving places were closed. Except for the bars and super expensive restaurants. (Well, not super expensive, but expensive when it comes to paying for seven hungry people).

We had no choice but to go to McDonald’s.

…

Yeah, I know.

And the best part is, when we left the place, we noticed that Chipotle’s was still open, and also another sandwich place (I forget, it was either Seven Eleven, Quick Check, or Subway’s).

Amazing.

We got home at two thirty in the morning and passed out on the floor (or bed, depending on where we slept).

 

And in those three trips, we ate lots of: soda, fast food, chips, Oreos, and other fattening, unhealthy edible items.
I’m worried about our health. D:

 

Well, besides that, it was actually pretty fun! :D I just hope that our trip to the Statue of Liberty won’t have any weather-like constraints and troubles. For once. ^.^

Synthetic NOOOOO.

CURSE YOU, SYNTHETIC DIVISION. YOU MAKE MY HEAD HURT.

actually my neck, because I’ve been bending it down so long.

SO MANY PROBLEMS.

GRAHHHHHH

 

The end.

INVASION

(By the way, I made a deviant art account. it’s indigo-san.deviantart.com. EEHEEEHEEHEEHEEEEE)

 

Our house is full of flies.

Eugh.

I mean, it’s not literally full of flies, but there’s more flies in it than there were last year. And last year, we didn’t have any. Like most houses, you know.

So what have we been doing wrong? Have we been secretly hoarding slowly rotting foods in the corners of our house? Have we been cultivating fly farms in the basement?

What have we been doing wrong? No, nothing, nothing but opening the door every once in a while to get in, and out of the house. The usual.

But during that short span of time, a fly flew into our house.

And it was no ordinary fly. It was a fly with an evil plan on its mind. A fly with devious, ominous intentions. It was ready to take over. It was no longer the era of Human tyranny. It was time for the flies to rise to their true level of authority—at the top. It was time, to…

invade.

 

Actually, I’m not sure if that’s what they were thinking, (or if they think much at all), but a special fly did get into our house. A, whaddaya call it, a, motherfly?

 

You know, those annoying times when a fly somehow catches the perfect timing to fly into your food-filled home. Well, we were unlucky, because a fly with more flies within itself flew into our home.

And…

They are colonizing our home.

GRAHHHHH!

CLOSE THE DOORS WHEN YOU SLEEP. CLOSE THE DOORS WHEREVER YOU GO, SO THEY STAY IN THE LIVING ROOM. GET YOUR WEAPONS READY, MAGAZINES AND NEWSPAPERS AT HAND. STAND ON THE COUCH, SO YOU CAN SLAP A GREATER AREA OF FLIES (IF THEY COME BY) AND ALWAYS BE ALERT. YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN THEY MIGHT MAKE THEIR NEXT STRIKE.

They’re like, buzzing around in the kitchen.

There’s about three or four at a time, and our (my brother’s, my mother’s, and my) fear for flies is no help at all. While we’re flinching every time a fly buzzes near (my brother screams and roars and flails his arms wildly), my dad’s limping around, hopping around, trying to catch the endless flies that are popping up. For every fly we kill, another one pops up. I never knew flies could grow so quickly. D:

And we put the air-conditioner on sort of low, (I mean, not unreasonably low, but just low) so the flies are all fat and woozy and slow. They’re slumping around—if you can slump and fly at the same time, that is. Once in a while, a quick and speedy one pops up, but we know what to do with those--

GRAHHHH MAD FLY CHASE--

smack.

Ugh. I hate flies.

Sleepyhead

So today I woke up late.

More specifically, I woke up the time my bus cones.

I missed the bus.

The school bus.

Not the High School bus.

There were no more buses coming to our house that would take me to my school.

And my brother was late to his band class.

So my mother dutifully yelled us awake, and then took us to school.

So on the way to school, me in one seat and my brother in the other, me thinking to myself, “Why, I’m late. I’m late to school.” and not really thinking through about it,

my mother says,

“If there are any detours on the way to school, that will be the. worst.”

Because recently, the construction worker people have been obsessed in blocking usual routes to school, meaning my road-blind mother would have to find her way through the town to reach my school.

And there would be detours one day, no detours another. You really couldn’t know the schedule. It wasn’t too… organized.

So we say, “Yeah. That would be terrible.”

I mean, Lateness-to-school PLUS Detours PLUS Roadblind-Mother equals…

Disaster.

We’re reaching an intersection, and I say, “Dear God, Please let us not be late to school. Amen.” (Because if we’re good enough, we can get there on time. At least, I can.)

Two split seconds later, we stop at a red light.

!?!?!?!?!? God, I thought you were all forgiving and merciful! And school is a very educational place!

Well, He has His reasons.

ANYHOW.

So now we’re getting more and more late, thanks to the red-lights, and we reach a detour.

A DETOUR.

But my mother drives on INTO the detour road, so that we have to swerve into another road, where there are lots of houses and stuff, and then my mom’s freaking out while I’m getting the GPS (turns out, it’s out of battery. Dx we had to charge it), and finally after turning it on,

it says,

“Acquiring Satellites.”

And it ‘acquires satellites’ for quite a while. In fact, it kept on acquiring satellites. All the while, my mother is frantically driving here and there randomly, waiting for the GPS to hurry up and finish acquiring the satellites.

Then, we pass a familiar sort of path.

It doesn’t ring a bell until we actually find ourselves at school. Miracle!

WASHINGTON!

AND ENDER’S GAME!

So for our Class Field Trip, we went to Washington and stayed there for two nights and three days. We wake our drowsy, unwilling (and yet willing) selves up out of our beds and drag our drowsy selves and heavy suitcases or whatever to school at FIVE O CLOCK.

And anyhow, we stayed there (got there Wednesday) and then came home today, at approximately six or five thirty in the afternoon.

It was fun, but most of the fun-ness was with friends, not particularly anything about Washington. It may have just been any other place in the world and we would have had just as much fun. We played Asian Mafia, ate Ramen, talked, ran around, played finger puppets (for like two minutes), and other worldly things.

ALSO.

Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card is the best book you will ever read, whether you know it or not. Ender’s Shadow is good, too. And it’s not like Harry Potter or the Hunger Games, because it’s much deeper than that.

In fact, so deep that KIDS IN HIGH SCHOOL READ IT FOR THE STUDYING SORT OF THING! So before reading it in school and thinking it’s so boring and dreadful (like most books turn out to be when you read them in school), read it on your own so you can fully enjoy the wonders and perfections of this book AND spoil the ending for everyone when you’re reading it in school! (If you are, that is.)

Ender’s Game I’ve read two and a half times already, and now I’ve re-started so that I have read it two and two half times. (Because reading the first half twice does not mean that I’ve read the whole book once.)

AND PLUS they’re making a movie in 2013. But Ender is the actor from Hugo, Ava something or something like that, and he doesn’t look ANYTHING like Ender. YOU PEOPLE.

Then again, how many actors are there out in this world who can look and act like a six year old and yet have a charismatic aura about them, as well as some genius intelligence?

Not many.

BUT ANYHOW IGNORING ALL LOGICAL EXPLANATIONS WHY COULDN’T THEY CONJURE UP SOME CHILD WHO LOOKS LIKE ENDER.

 

You know I really didn’t mean to make it caps lock, and I’m not all that mad, but my pinky finger disobediently pressed the caps lock key, and by the time I realized how angry it seemed I was (in the text), I wrote too much and I didn’t feel like erasing it and re-typing it un-capitalized. So I am sorry if you are shrinking back in your seat because of my nonexistent wrath and fury.

 

Kaythanksbye.

The Adventures of Stair Sliding

Hear, hear. Here is the adventure of stair sliding, or shall I say, here are the Adventures of Stair Sliding.

Stair sliding, essentially, is the activity, so to say, or rather, unpredicted collision or accident, of sliding down the stairs. It is when you are at the top of the stairs, and the next second, you find your butt bumping down the stairs, finding your legs and feet vestigial to the current purpose.

This (perhaps painful) ‘activity’ (so to say) is called stair sliding. The aftermath and consequences are not of the brightest. They may include bruising in the anal area, breaking of a tailbone or of the vicinity, and/or grumpiness, depending on how happy or unhappy you are with the outcomes, and how much the pain may be.

Now that I have explained the sciences to stair sliding, let me tell you my story.

Hear, hear.

actually…

Read, read.

 

SO.

I was in a city, at the other side of the country, in this state, which I shall not name (because I don’t want to), but this state I must hint, is at the coast, quite big, and stretches very far (in vertical terms, not in total area). The city, I shall not name, because if I name it, that’s pretty much naming the state, rhymes with ‘Disco’ and starts with SF (two words long).

I think I’ve given enough obvious clues there.

Anyway, I was in SF, on a cruise, looking at this island, which was the setting of Al Capone Does my Shirts, which is an awesome book, by the way, and I was genuinely interested. After all, it was the setting of one of the books I’ve read.

SF does harbor a lot of stories. It’s like the birthplace of all stories, almost. The houses are all colorful and beautiful, it’s a city but has an old country feeling, it reminds me of totally different cities all at the same time, and most of all, it’s peaceful, calm, and sweet. I don’t know how, or why. But it just gives me such a good feeling in my tummy, when I’m walking down the street. Everything’s subject to be in a painting, everything is so colorful, but not the obnoxious sort of colorful, but the colorful that lets you know that this city means no harm and that they are merely, humbly, decorating their homes to have a ‘Home Sweet Home’ feeling.

Anyways.

I was on a cruise, and then the cruise ended (…yeah. Never knew.), so we were going to get off the boat. But of course, the many many many people in front of us (we were at the very top of the boat thingy and at the very front, meaning we’d be the last ones off the boat), so we decided to take pictures. But THEN, having a mother who is so excited about pictures, practically attacking us with the camera, wanted us to take a picture in front of the stairs (leading to the bottom floor of the boat so we could get off). And somehow, we weren’t the last ones off, and in fact, many were waiting, yet, they could not pass because we were taking a picture right at the stairs (because it was ‘a great view’). Then, feeling a little sympathetic towards the waiting people, I urged my family on, down the stairs, grabbing everything (but the bag and the camera) that my mom had, which was, actually, two hot-chocolate cups, and started going down the stairs.

Those stairs are steep, slippery, and small.

I’d just like to let you know.

My foot just gracefully slipped over one step, and in a frantic wave, I tried to get it to land on the step below that, so I could regain control of my gravity, but my other foot gave way, and the step below that (the one I was trying to reach) was just too far, and I was nearly prostrate on the stairs when I began to slide down the stairs.

Trust me, they’re not meant for sliding on.

This all, occurring within about one second, sped by as I could barely realize that I was on the floor, much quicker and much closer than I’d expect to be there, and my butt was throbbing. It hurt.

Like crazy.

Apparently, I had slid on my tailbone. My tailbone, no matter how vestigial or whatever structure it is, still has nerves on it, and still can hurt.

My tailbone hurt.

So there I was, faking that I was very very fine (just to get out of more humiliation), and quickly sped off the boat.

Of course, the rest of the day, I was limping around, because my tailbone would not allow me to sit on any given chair, no matter how puffy or hard, without this major pain in my butt.

So I had to lean forward when sitting, so that my tailbone need not touch any man-made surface.

You can guess how the rest of that week went by.

(Don’t even ask about the plane ride home. Red eye flight? Yep. Red eye, indeed.)

 

So, I’d like to tell you, I’m fine right now (except for the slight pain when sitting, although I’ve gotten used to it), at least it’s not the needle feeling I had the day after.

 

I’d just like to remember this day. {:

 

Well, Thanks for reading (probably nobody reads this anyhow), and have a nice day.

TY A HAND!

Post Pi Day

Of course, although it may be a bit late, here it is.

I was told, by a friend, let’s say, her name is E. Well, E told me the day before, that she was bringing two pies. TWO WHOLE PIES. Key lime, and peach. The wonders!

And it was also known that another friend, let’s say, J, was supposed to bring a cookie pie. (Yes, human beings of this world, there is such thing as a cookie pie. I just found out on Tuesday or Wednesday. Don’t worry, you’re not that behind in modernization.)

So just then, I knew that there would be three pies at the Pi Day Party. That is—if Mr. V would allow us.

We did not care. Bring pie to class, watch our teacher shake in rage, fume, and break out into a spasm—a spectacle!

Bring pie to class, watch our teacher look at us helplessly, give in, and eat pie—a wonder!

So either way, it was a win-win sort of thing. Only… the second win was a bit more winnier.

 

The thing was—there was no plates.

What were we to do—eat off the table? eat with our hands? Paper plates—literally?

With this in mind, I went to school. I then, came up with a sort of brilliant idea—to take plates from the school cafeteria!

Only—I couldn’t just take eighteen plates off the table-thingy. It would be kind of--

strange.

So what was I to do?

The only way to get plates without being noticed, was to buy pizza.

Only—if I put the pizza on the plate, it would be a dirty plate.

So—could I ‘accidentally’ take another plate, under it?

But could I ‘accidentally’ take eighteen plates?

This raced through my mind on the bus ride to school.

At school, I realized, that with a few of my friends, we might actually achieve this ‘accidental’ stealing of plates. If they all bought pizza, that is.

So at lunch, we did just that. We casually walked over to the pizza place thingy majiger, took six plates, and put pizza on the topmost plate.

We passed by, buying the pizza, with no suspicion.

It was hilarious, because the lunch person who was looking at our pizza, thinking, ‘Buoy, these kids are loving pizza today,’ don’t actually realize that there are five plates under the plate she was looking at.

And then we found that we were four plates short. Obviously, we couldn’t just go up and buy another pizza, and neither could we go up and just take the plates and walk away—could we?

So, we found that a table away, another classmate was sitting with his friends—only he wasn’t exactly the best of friends with us, you know…? It would be awkward to ask him to take four plates.

But of course, one of our friends is very—socially unawkward, to put it that way, and just shouted, (let’s call him ‘JL.’) "HEY JL! JL!”

And he turned around.

“HEY JL, GET SOME PLATES FOR PI DAY! GET SOME PLATES! OVER THERE!”

Obviously, if you hear someone you barely know (not even in your math class) to steal plates from the lunch line, you don’t suddenly oblige. Obviously.

So most predictably, he did not.

She then caught his attention again, and shouting again, “JL! JL! GET PLATES! JUST PLATES! FROM THE PIZZA LINE!”

And the whole time, I was saying, “Comeon, that’s mean! Don’t make him do that.”

And suddenly he got up, went over to the lunch-place-thingy, and seemed to go in the direction of the lunch line thing, and walked over to the pizza-area where the plates were--

and walked by, went to the line, and bought chips.

At this aggravation, my socially unawkward friend said, “HEY JL! WHY DIDN’T YOU GET THE PLATES?”

And he replied, “There aren’t enough for eighteen.”

She said, “We only need four! Four! Four! Just four!”

And suddenly, he got up, went to the line, took four plates, and just walked back.

I guess the lunch aids are nearsighted. And so are the lunch clerks, because he came over, unnoticed, with four plates.

Wow, did I even think that he would be the one abetting us in this sort of deed.

Well, point being, we had our eighteen plates.

We then continued on our “Operation Pi,” which I appropriately named just as we were on our plan B.

Plan B, was that a friend and I would ‘sign out’ to ‘Band.’ (We’re allowed to do that.) We would be the ‘usual band-geeks’ who go to band nearly every day (well, before the audition, anyway).

We would then walk outside with the eighteen plates and ‘go to Band.’

The question was, would the lunch aids question the number of plates at hand?

Why, I brought it from home!

And what could they say? “YOU STOLE THEM FROM THE PIZZA LINE!”

Obviously not. It would be absurd. They wouldn’t dream of that.

So we confidently signed out to band, me holding the eighteen plates, trying to look as innocent as possible. We then left the lunch room, turning left, which is the direction to the band room. When it seemed that it was ‘unsuspicious,’ we crawled under the windows of the lunch-room doors (so the lunch aids don’t see us walk the other way), and ran full-speed to the lockers. (There was a teacher there, walking down the hallway. I wonder if they suspected anything. Oh well.)

On our “Operation Pi,” my friend and I casually walked over to another friend’s locker, who was also part of “Operation Pi,” and had the closest locker to the lunch room.

Having memorized her combination, I opened her locker, stuffed the plates in, and then we ran back to the lunch room, prepared to say “The band teacher didn’t want us there—he had a high school band lesson” if the lunch aids ever questioned our return.

Operation Pi—DONE!

Well, the first part, anyway.

 

Ninth period, during math, I walked inside, and Mr. Vallo was helplessly handing out the plates (how funny was it that just five periods ago, we were taking them from the pizza line thingy), and handing out the cookie pie that J had bought.

Now, my other friend E, as I said, had brought in two pies in consideration of the wonderful occasion, but our wimpy math teacher said, “No, no, this is more than enough. More than enough.”

He looked all bewildered and scared.

It was strange.

 

AND AN OUTRAGE! THINK OF THE POOR KIDS IN AFRICA, WHO DON’T EAT PIES!

And think of M, who did not get to eat pie!

So, this occasion was a half-success (in stealing plates, which was actually fun), and a half-fail (we did not eat the TWO WHOLE PIES.)

So the half success and half fail cancel each other out, so today was an ordinary day.

 

whew- I got that story out.

Happy late pi day! Let’s hope Mr. V won’t stay a wimp his whole life! :D

PI DAY

Here is the long history of Pi. On March fourteenth, also the birth date of the great EINSTEIN, is the day to commemorate, remember, and acknowledge the wonders of Pi.
Pi is circumference divided by diameter.
This wondrous definition not only defines what it is, but it was also a subject in which we learned in Math class. Yes, human beings, we are in Honors Geometry.
Here is a nice statement, derived from a few others, and concluded through transitive property of equality.
Geometry=shapes.
Shapes=circles.
Circles=diameter and circumference.
Diameter and circumference=Pi.
Pi=Geometry.
Geometry=Pi.
Therefore, would it not make the most sense to celebrate Pi Day, on March Fourteenth, in Math class? IMEAN—The Algebra class is celebrating it, and they’re learning polynomials! (This very good argument and reason was stated by Rachel X. Must give credit.)
Then why, why, Mr. V (Let’s just use this letter, V, to represent my math teacher’s surname. To keep his and our privacy at the utmost restricted-ness.), are you refusing to celebrate pi day?
Is it not relevant? Had we not all failed the circles test a chapter before?
Are we not good students? Do we not deserve a nice day off, with some Pi, circumference, and diameter? And pie?
Of course, our beloved teacher Mr. V, says in the most monotonous, humdrum voice ever—“No.”
(Actually it was more of a bewildered, nervous ‘No,’ but I’d like to keep things at a dramatic level.)
We were aghast—devastated by this reply. We had only been expecting one of two answers—maybe even both—either “OF COURSE!” or “Why not?”
“No” was not an answer we had thought of, at all.
Yet, the truth was bleak, and we were to have no day reserved to worship Pi and its wonders.
But we did not give up! I, proud student of Geometry class, decided to make a PROTEST. A PEACEFUL PI PROTEST for Pi Day. What we would do, is create picket signs, and march down the hallway to the front of Mr. V’s room with our signs, chanting “PI DAY! PI DAY!” Like they do in football games, or when you want someone to go up in front of the class and do something, and everyone starts chanting his or her name.
With this wondrous dream in mind, I went to my Band Lesson, ignored the meaning of the term ‘Band Lesson,’ and gathered supplies. I took my band teacher’s stapler, and his sharpie, and some paper. My two friends and I dutifully marched into the lunchroom (not seen, thanks to the Lunch Aids’ nearsightedness), grabbed a whole bunch of plastic spoons off the rack thingy, and then marched outside and ran at full speed to the band room. Spoon-stealery is not the best of crimes, you know.
We then unwrapped twelve spoons, decorated and created the signs on paper, stapled them to the spoons (actually, we folded the paper in half and stapled the edges so that the spoon, which was in between the folded-paper-halves, would not fall out). We created twelve magnificent Peaceful Pi Protest Picket Poster Signs, full with reasons, demands, and wishes on them. Creativity, determination, and hard-work.
We then took more of the band teacher’s items by asking for a plastic bag (which, was initially a joke, but it turned out he actually had one), and putting the signs in the plastic bag to use on the glorious day of the protest. I then informed (almost, except for the obnoxiously arrogant genius match peoples, who did not seem to care whether they had class or not) all the Geometry Students about the Peaceful Pi Protest and the Picket Signs.
They seemed halfheartedly delighted, so I was happy.
Word spread around the school (among the nerd-Asians in my grade), and soon, most of the people knew of the Protest. I then passed out the signs we had created, gave them the directions on how to execute our plan, and then hoped for the best.
The following Monday, I walked out of Physical Education Class with anxiety and hope. I was late.
All of the kids participating in the protest were dutifully standing awkwardly outside of the door, not sure whether to go in or not. They all had their pathetically small signs with sharpie scribbled over them, and they were laughing nervously and awkwardly, asking “Where’s (My name here)? Where’s (My name here)?”
And upon seeing me, they were ready to PROTEST. It was just in time, because Mr. V, who was wondering where three fourths of the class was, came outside to see us standing awkwardly, waiting for directions from a protester.
Seeing Mr. V, I nervously said, “Pi day protest……?”
And we were all half-heartedly, laughing-ly, un-seriously saying, “Pi day. Pi day. Pi day… Pi day…. Pi day….?”
We were laughing, because it was so awkward, and the voice was not strong. It was weak. For our math teacher asked, “What is this?”
I was horrified. Did he not recognize this act of peace and negotiation from his students? How could he not recognize a simple protest? Was our protest that weak and bad?
The bleak truth was that, yes, it was. It was awkward, and quite unorganized. We were awkwardly crowding around the door saying “Pi day.”
He then asked, “Are you guys coming inside now?”
Then, after a moment of hesitation, a protester said firmly (with a slight giggle) “No!”
“Do I have to give you the answer?”
“Yes!”
“…I’ll think about it.”
“No, that’s not an answer!”
“Guys, you have to come in!”
“No!”
But we went inside anyway.

This was the Pi Day Protest.

And Mr. V did not keep to his word. We planned the Pi Day celebration, yet he did not keep to his word. (Today, 1/4 of the class was gone, because of a field trip, so we agreed to celebrate it on Thursday.) Today, he said, “We’re not celebrating pi day.”
Because we had taken some food and Pie from another teacher, who, even at the end of the day, had two whole unopened pies.
Can we believe it? This rash act of betrayal and ignorance? How important is Pi Day to us Geometry Students?
VERY.
(It means missing a period of class, for food. :D)
So, we secretly agreed to bring the food tomorrow anyway, because we already bought the food.

I will tell you how it goes tomorrow.

The worst day of 2012 so far. D:

Because of the unexpected half-day-scheduled-whole-day, I was starving. If it was just a half day, I would have come home at like one o clock and eaten. If it was a whole day, I would have time during lunch, so I wouldn't starve to death.
But it was an unexpected half-day-scheduled-whole-day. It was the most unexpected of days. Imean, I didn't even know they existed! A mutation of the combination of a half day and a whole day. It was a whole day, alright, but the periods were scheduled as half days. Meaning, all the classes would be thirty minutes long (or however long the half day periods are), which would result in two hours left of nothing after last period, because usually, on half days, they would let us out late, but today was a half-day-scheduled-whole-day.
/
Those two hours of nothing, we were each assigned classrooms to go to, based on what period we had whom for social studies, and we would force some school spirit out of our tired minds.
For about ten minutes, the teacher, (whom I do not know, which is kind of difficult, considering I keep forgetting her name) looking at the unresponsive class, asks for the umpteenbillionth time, "Seriously? No ideas to how to decorate our school banner? Team banner, I mean. This is for our team! We're in competition against the other teams!"
Which makes us all the more lazy, because honestly, who heard of teams versing each other? This is teamwork we're going for, and the team is the school. Making divisions among the population of our school will create only diversion and hatred. And pride. And shame.
But of course, the teacher whose name is easily forgotten, decides to force some school spirit out of our "boring minds." She draws this hawk on the board (which, if you look at it, looks more like a hot dog with bat wings) and a square around it, and tells us to each go up to the board and add our ideas.
OUR NONEXISTENT IDEAS, SCREW THIS.
/
/
Then, she goes, "OH! Why don't we try doing __________?" And says some decent idea, and we all nod, because it's better than that hot dog bat on the board. She does this two more times within the time of fifteen minutes, with a five minute span in between the three "ideas."
She then looks at us and says, "Come on, guys. You can't be this boring. I can't believe from this big a class, you can have such little ideas!" (We're the smallest social studies class our social studies has. Seriously?)
WE ARE THIS BORING, WOMAN. WHAT DID YOU THINK CHILDREN WERE? HYPERACTIVE CREATIVE CHILDREN WITH IDEAS TO HOW TO DECORATE SCHOOL BANNERS ON THEIR MINDS?
And so went the two hours.
But actually, we came up with pretty good ideas and made a pretty good hawk with a pretty good decoration and pretty good drawings. So overall, it was pretty good.
/
/
But not the starvation.
Godsh, I thought I was dying by the end of the day. Three o clock or something around that, and I can't hear anything because my stomachs screaming nonstop.
Even better! I have to stay after school. Meaning all I'll have since nine o clock is nothing, besides the scraps of chips I gather from friends who (cleverly) brought money to buy stuff from the vending machine.
/
/
I stay until five thirty. Meaning I went from nine to five thirty with six chips. One Sun Chip, one Lays salt and vinegar, two Hot Fries, and one nacho Doritos. Or was it two Doritos? I'm not sure.
Either way, that was not enough to satisfy my ravenous mood.
Then, as psychology often proves, everything looked like food. Not literally, because how can and drill suddenly look like candy, or wood and styrofoam look like--pizza, I don't know. Just small things. This really cutely decorated basket full of green fluff fuzzy stuff looked like ice cream (the sort in the bowl, yaknow? Like Breyers ice-cream?) all of a sudden, and I kept thinking of that kind of stuff.
Then, my stomach hurt, which did not help at all, because I then knew I couldn't steal any more junk food (anyhow everyone ate their's, so...).
/
/
Then, at five thirty, I went outside to wait for my mom, except it was FREEZING. I didn't feel like being alone next to all of those annoying basketball boy peoples yelling at each other and jumping around inside, so I stayed outside when my friends went outside to get picked up by their moms and dads.
/
Then, I saw this boy who was yelling at someone, and I thought it was my brother, so I ran over to the car with the boy sticking his head out the window, only it turned out it was some other dude. So I looked over the car, pretending I thought the car behind it was the car I thought my mom was in, and then casually turned around and walked back, my cheeks redder than they already were.
I was in an extremely terrible mood.
And so as I was waiting, I was more and more and more angry, and when my mom did come (after all of my friends left), I was fuming, except it would have been nice if I were literally fuming, because that would mean there would be some warmth in my body. So I was freezing fuming.
Anyhow, I climbed in, and said, "why did you come so late? I was freezing."
/
/
And, the rest is history, as some people may say.
I got yelled at.
/
/
Well, adding to my more terrible mood, I stomped to the basement, and didn't even stop for goldfish, because I'd have to cross my mother on the way to the goldfish, and she would ask why, and then I'd have to tell her about the unexpected half-day-scheduled-whole-day, and then I would feel better. But I didn't feel like feeling better, so I didn't get goldfish, and I didn't cross my mom until dinner, where I shoveled the food down my throat because (1) I was so hungry, so hungry I could eat my mom and brother in two bites (half a bite for my brother, one and a half for my mom), (2) I was so mad, because not only was I yelled at, but I had this annoying half-day-scheduled-whole-day, and I was starving and I was cold, and (3) I felt like it.
/
/
And now, my stomach feels all cold and weird, probably because I stuffed too much food way too quickly down my throat, swallowing at mouthfuls at a time.
But it was SO GOOD. Imean, it was delicious. I was so hungry, but all of that food--omnomnomnomnom.
Food is best. C:
//
//
/
Moral of the story: Today was the terriblest day of 2012 so far, and the dinner was AWESOME.

The Closest I’ve Gotten to an Adventure

So—here is an account of the closest I’ve gotten to an adventure. And it’s all thanks to me, my mom, and my anger problems.

One day, my mom and I were in a fight (wow that sounds violent)—Imean, I got mad and she got mad and we had to go into the caps lock level of hollering in each other’s faces—waitno. I didn’t exactly holler. I just sort of raised my voice a little bit, and it was right before she had to take my brother to a piano lesson.

This was on… Wednesday?

Anyhow, she was standing at the door, and she spat something mean and bullyful and make-fun-ofsful and super mean thing to me, something very un-mother like, because usually mothers don’t make fun of you or anything, they just give you a full diatribe and reprimand on how you should improve (insert flaw in personality/complexion/intelligence here). So, there I was, my mother already in the car and driving away, me, fuming, sitting on the floor and ready to burst any minute,

and I came up with an amazing idea.

Why hadn’t I thought of this before?

It was the smartest thing I had ever come up with. It was brilliant—flawless.

I would run away!

At the moment, I felt a surge of triumph and contempt toward my mother, thinking ‘Hah, you can’t stop me now!’ Because I’d leave, and she’d be devastated, and she will regret doing such horrible things to me. She would say, “Oh, I should have been nicer to _, I should have understood her more, Oh, Please, Why did I do this?” And she would be sad forever. It was the best way.

Then I stared at my jacket, which was casually flung over bottom stair (that leads to upstairs) that I had put there after school that day, thinking, “In a few minutes, I will have picked that up and it would be all the way across the street along with me.”

Then, a feeling of anxiety began to bubble up from my stomach.

I didn’t feel like I was up to it.

But then I thought, “Well, you always say you’re going to do something, and you never do it.”

So I dared my self. I triple dared myself. I double decker doctor pepper super duper dared myself to take that jacket, put it on, shove my boots on, and run out the door.

Then I thought about it, and I decided that running away was overrated, and it wasn’t ‘the thing’ anymore, and that I’d just walk around the neighborhood. And then I’d walk in just as Mom would walk in (she only drops him off and comes right back), and she’d ask what happened, and I’d say that I wanted to run away, then she’d feel bad—not the same amount of impact as running away, but still some, at least.

So in a mush of anger, triumph, confusion, and anxiety, I stomped over to the coat, snatched it up, put it on, put on my scarf, put on gloves, shoved my boots on, and then looked at the door.

Then I started observing it.

Then I sidetracked and looked out the window, peered out, and someone had just come home from work, it seemed, their car door was open and they were leaning in to get something from the back seat.

So I waited.

I can’t go out now, because then they’d spot me, and I’d run out, and they’d yell ‘WHATCHA DOING, LITTLE GIRL?’ and then I’d have nothing to say but ‘I was running away from home’, but since the person saw me in unsuccessful attempts in doing so, I’d never be able to run away, meaning that every time they see me and I see them in the morning or afternoon, they’d always remember the ‘deranged child who tried to run away at around seven o clock.’

So I waited. Then I just sort of peered out the door, looking down the sidewalk into the parking lot (we live in a townhouse), watching the person TAKE THEIR TIME in doing whatever they were doing. And when they finally left, I felt fear filling my lungs, heart, mind, everything. I looked into the parking lot that was growing ever so darker, and then I thought to myself, “I bet you’re just going to do this and waste some time and then Mom would come in and see you all dressed up at the front door and be like ‘WHAT THE CAULIFLOWERS WERE YOU DOING?” and I’d have nothing to say, and every time Mom would see me in the morning or afternoon, she’d remember the ‘deranged child who tried to run away at around seven o clock.’

So I double doctor pepper super duper dared myself to take that door, swing it open, then take the screen door, swing it open, then run outside.

So I did.

I swung the door open (not as dramatically as it may sound or as you may think), and then ran out the door (more like, creeped out the door). Down the sidewalk, run, run, run, away from home, away from home—end of sidewalk. Then I stood there, staring at the end of the sidewalk and the beginning of the parking lot.

And I saw a car coming in the parking lot, and I thought to myself ‘OHDEARLORDPLEASEFORGIVEMEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE’ and I ran in at 100 miles per hour, past the screen door and door and into the house.

Then after about three minutes, I realized that the car was not in fact, my mother’s, and I opened the door a little bit, and I realized that the person was gone.

Whew.

Then I stared at the parking lot, and then double doctor pepper super duper dared myself to step INTO THE PARKING LOT.

 

OH GEEZUS LOUISEUS I JUST DARED MYSELF DO TO SOMETHING POTENTIALLY FATAL AND DANGEROUS.

But I swung the door open (quietly, because if I did it loudly, it would arouse attention from my father who would, most likely, be half asleep and doing computer work in the basement) and ran out the door and ran to the parking lot, stared at a person who just happened to open their door to walk outside, and then sped right back into the house.

I felt like an idiot, but at the same time, felt a surge of triumph (very similar with when I came up with the idea), thinking to myself, “I did it! I did it! Now, all I have to do is walk all the way behind the house and near the woods, walk all the way around, to the play ground, then walk around and come back home. It would be an absolutely rebellious adventure! I would take my phone as light and as an emergency, in case I got kidnapped or wounded by a nearby lurking wolf, and I would go through all that darkness and then COME BACK HOME! WITH A NEW SELF AND NEW TRIUMPH AND AN ADVENTURE TO TELL!

So I took my phone (after looking for it), then marched out the door. I then realized that to my right, my neighbor was talking to whomever it was at the door for like hours, and to my left, this man was leaving his house and going to his car and going back and on and on and on.

This would require maximum stealth, because in order to get behind my house and travel that far, I’d have to pass either of them.

So I took my phone, ran to the sidewalk, and suddenly decided that I’d save this for another day, so I ran back inside, except I didn’t feel like opening the door to get back inside. It was a waste, all that time of going from house to sidewalk to house to parking lot to house to…

so I sat, right in front of the door, outside of the door, looking out onto the street. There were two bushes to the side of the door, so I could be easily concealed from my two neighbors who refused to stay inside the house.

I felt so rebellious, triumphant, and HIDDEN. I felt like I could sit here all day, because I had done something I had never done before, and next time, I might even wake up in the middle of the night and go on an adventure—maybe I’d even tell my friends to come, too—my neighbor friends, if they agreed.

Yes!