Tomorrow is the first day back to school.
I have to finish: chemistry homework, government homework, and two more college applications.
I suppose I took the meaning of "break" a little too far, eh?
Sorry it's so short, but I've got a lot to do and no time to do it in.
The title is from one of my favourite Monk episodes. The defective detective. It's a show almost as sad as Scrubs, yet not nearly as heart-wrenching as Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (gah! I turn into a blubbering wussy everytime I see it).
I want to change my layout, too. I don't know that I want to do it myself, but I know how I want it done. I'm also not willing to pay anyone money for a custom, so I suppose it's up to me. I want something très Alphonse Maria Mucha. I've developed a snobby taste for his later artwork and interior design, as he's one of the founders of the ever-inspiring l'art nouveau that I just adore. So, anything with Celtic Knots and red-headed Mucha women would be spectacular.
I think I'm growing out of that Post-Modern Art phase (thank heaven). How much work does it really require to slap some paint on a canvas? Not a heck of a lot. Impressionism is amazing, pointilism as well, even some cubist/realism is good, like Lempicka. But, you compare the works of Picasso and Dewing, and tell me which one took more pains, which one showed more skill. And if you dare say Picasso, leave this diary now!
See? I'm such a snob. No more Jerry Bruckheimer films (Top Gun was the end of the line for that man... although, Johnny Depp was delicious as Jack Sparrow, but Bruckheimer partially wanted him fired...) and pop-punk bands for me! I'm a Vivaldi-loving, foreign-film attending, George Eliot reading, Victorian to early Modern art loving nerd.
But, still, that won't get my chem done, will it? All that's really done is the math. I avoid that, because I'm trying to repress all of the horror that scathed my psyche in Physics class. The horror, the horror!
My dad "threw out his back" today. He's been crying and simpering like a baby, and my mum has had to wait on him hand and foot. He doesn't want to leave, I have a feeling (I know that his "back" isn't a real problem... it didn't stop him from playing a videogame on the floor today, but he couldn't do his laundry) he's afraid that if he leaves, he'll never come back. And he's absolutely right, too. And I don't pity him at all. I think it's kind of funny actually, and it takes a lot for me to keep from laughing audibly. If I want my face beaten off, yeah, I'll laugh. He wouldn't be able to keep up the charade, he'd lunge at me in anger. He blew his cover to me when he played Killzone for an hour on the thinly carpeted hard floor, not a cushion or anything in sight. But he can't carry himself to the bathroom, oh no.
Heaven help me. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. All I could do. And he cried during Extreme Makeover. Like he has any actual human empathy. It doesn't bother him that he gave my brother diabetes, and perpetuated irreversable health problems in my mother (turns out she was born with an extra rib... weird... and the stress she's going through is making it hurt, really, really badly). And she has carpal tunnel from that time my dad quit another job in his annoying and disastorous pride and apathy for his family, and she had to take up newspaper-delivering to feed not only us, but the prostitutes he took out for dinner when he claimed to be "job-searching". Now that we make a lot of money, and my college-plan is taken care of in full, he screws it up again. So how does he care about a family he'll never meet over his own? What a narcissist.