I know, I know, essays, essays, essays. I should be writing my 40+ essays, but I've been writing all day with no avail. I'm not even half-way done. *Sigh* I would've had them finished if I hadn't been out and about all weekend doing fun stuff.
I have an enormous headache that Edna Pontellier and Tess D'Urberville aren't helping right now. If I had the choice, I'd be asleep. Or taking a loooong, hoooot shower. But there isn't a choice. Actually, writing in here isn't a choice, either, but I am. Crazy ol' world, innit?
I guess I just need a break. Which is why I keep getting up to get drinks. Caffienated drinks, mind you. What I wouldn't give for a nice, big, fat frappacino, I'm telling ya. Guess it's a good thing my parents are getting a YMCA membership. I think I greatly need the exercise. But first I need to get this typing done and over with.
An hour and fifteen minutes until my brother gets his shot for dinner. That means I get a break about fifteen minutes after that for about thirty minutes. I can watch an episode of Will and Grace and let my eyes have a break from the terrors of a computer screen. I'm like Stare Girl. I keep staring at my computer screen.
It's a Tim Burton thing, I guess. It's nothing that can be helped. I'm a social menace, and AP English has enslaved me. So much for a fun summer. I wanted to sit around and read Daniel Deronda. I wanted to write a neat little diddy about a morbid teenage girl who's so hypochondriatic that she thinks she's gonna die (much like Wilbur in Wilbur Wants to Kill Himself or something along those title lines) that's actually a lot funnier than it sounds. I wanted to sleep. A little. I wanted to watch a lot of movies (I did just recently sit down and watch Secret Window, it was very, very, very witty... I wouldn't say it's thrilling, I'd say Speed is thrilling, but this was extremely clever and sharp, and well-acted [of course, it's only Maria Bello, and, what's-his-face... JOHNNY DEPP!]). Now I just want to NOT WRITE ESSAYS! ACK! ACK! ACK! *falls in a lump onto the ground*
ICECREAM LADY! Our icecream lady is really pretty, I think she's Russian or German (she has a very heavy accent), and she seems to like talking to me, even if it's just telling me how much my brother's snowcone costs. I think it's because I'm closer to her age than most of her customers. She must be very young, too. Sometimes she stops in front of our house to see if anybody comes out. Or it could just be we buy a lot from her. One time we had a neat mailman like that, he would hand us our mail at our front door just to talk to all of us. And our pharmacist knows us all by our first names, and she's always talking to my mum like they're old chums from way back. It's kind of cool but kind of sad since we're always there buying needles or insulin or test strips. As nice as that lady is, I'd prefer not to have to go there twice a week. Sooner or later a cure will come, and my little brother won't have to worry about going anywhere or doing anything. I think that all the attention from his disease is creating an adverse affect on his personality. He's becoming more hostile and reclusive towards everyone. I can understand him being angry at me since I'm leaving in a year, but whenever we go anywhere, he crosses his arms and looks as grumpy as he can so that no one pays him any attention. I don't think it's just a teen-thing, either, because I don't remember acting like that. I always remember being hyper-active to get attention. But, then, maybe I was never a regular teenager. All I know is that he's brilliant, he's gonna be something big one day. And I'll still be hyper-active and looking for attention.
I told him that he needs to see Kill Bill, he'd love the Tarantino style. Right now he's particularly excited to see The Village, I think he could honestly be one of M. Night's bigger fans. If not, he'll be the next M. Night. I've never seen a better photographic eye than my little brother's, and he's only 13. And let's just face it, M. Night Shyamalan is a fantastic director.
That lady is still bothering me. That one that I talked about in my last entry, the one that told me to move. I don't think it's her that bothered me, I think that it's my response that bothers me still. Normally I'd go berserk and lay the smack on some sissy-whimps. I'd be handing out lollipops and butt-whoopins, and I'd be all out of lollipops. But not this time. This time I was submissive. I don't think I've been submissive a day in my life. Normally I go out with guns blazing. What stopped me?
I bet it's these STUPID ESSAYS!
Anyway, yes. Sans blague. J'ai aussi dix-sept chapitres dans mon livre français de faire cet été! Sacré bleu! Zut! Zut zut zut! MERDE! Okay, that's enough cursing. I could get in trouble if a semi-decent French speaker read that. But, I digress.
I've digressed so far, I'll just go.
Toodles! And today's title is from Will and Grace. An hour to go! Woot-woot!