I can't even express my stupidity.
I sent away two college applications... without the money. I just got a letter from University of South Carolina asking for the forty dollars, that means I didn't include UVA's sixty.
On top of that, the Cambridge Program is $595 just to apply. I don't have six-hundred bucks, but I can get the five-thousand easily (quite the oddity, I know). I really, really wanted to apply within the week, so that they'd have room enough for me, and I'd get the classes I want. But, I can't have five hundred dollars at once until my mum sells the house (that's where we're getting the other five thousand). And that's mid-Febuary.
I swear. I feel like just giving it all up, learning how to spin plates on my nose, and join the circus. Hey, I speak French, I'll just join Cirque du Soleil! Though, with my luck, they'll require an application.
Do you know what that says to an Admissions Counselour? Hey, I have a 4.0, but can't put money in an envelope! Am I in?
I suppose on a lighter note, I'm being stalked. For a year I was haunted by the ghost of Benjamin Franklin, you see. I read his autobiography last summer, and until this summer he was presented somewhere every day. Everyday I'd see a one hundred dollar bill, or a picture of one, or learn about him, or hear about him in French class, or see him on television, or even just an allusion to him on M*A*S*H. Well, thank heaven that he's gone. But he's been replaced.
By Brad Pitt.
I know, I know, I sound bizarre, but since I went over to Kelly's house, I can't shake him. It all started after I watched Troy. It was comedy at its finest, I must say! You know, that thirty minute scene when the Spartans are storming up to the Trojan city, and then it cuts to a major character who's waiting, and then back to the running, then a close up on Helen, then running, then Paris, then running, then Hectar, then running, then Achilles, then running, then Bob, then running... it was a wonderful homage to the great work Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail (that scene with the man running and the two guards, and the man running, and the two guards...). And the needless nude scenes with Brad Pitt and Orlando Bloom wasn't at all just to draw in a female audience, it was comedic timing at its finest. And that laughter-inducing monky-lipped pout-y face that Pitt made every close-up was perfect! The awkward cinematography and editing combined with the terrible acting and silly script amounted to a great piece of humour, even better than Gigli!
See? If you were Brad Pitt, you'd stalk me, too. I'm too mean. So, since then I've sat through half of Seven Years in Tibet, his breakup with Jennifer Anniston on the news every morning thus forward, and far too many conversations about him today (AP English, Orchestra, French [that makes him come in two languages], and the bus rides to and fro). I know half the girls reading this are telling themselves, "I wish he were stalking me!" No. You don't. I had a nightmare (no lie, it was actually really, really scary... like M. Night Shyamalan scary) that he tried to break into my house and kill us all. In a Grecian miniskirt. With his monkey face. Because our front porch features rather doric looking pillars, or something like that. Blegh. I guess it's better than a Michael Jackson nightmare.
I don't understand why Nicole Kidman isn't haunting me, since we also watched the Stepford Wives, and I criticised it. How can you take such a thriller and change it into such moronic drivel?!?
OOOOOHHH!!! I just realised, mid-rant there, that I did my UVA application online, that means it's paid! Now I don't know which is better, forgetting the money, or forgetting that you didn't forget the money. All I know is that if I see Brad Pitt one more time, I'm going to hurl. And I'm pretty close to that already, since I ate two s'mores in chem today. Yeah, yeah, I know. "Oooh, two whole s'mores and Brad Pitt. You poor thing." Again, I suppose it's better than Michael Jackson and a load of baklava.
My house is so quiet now that my dad is gone. It feels like both a relief and an inadvertant and buried fear. I know that the next time I have to see him, it will be in a court room. I wonder how he'll take it? When it finally hits him? Normally, narcissists like him turn suicidal because of divorce, but he might be immune to that self-empathy since he has another girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or both. He needs someone to feed off of, and that's usually my mother. And he needs someone to hate, and that's usually my brother and I. This is all so he can't hate himself. When he's alone, he'll have nothing but his own hatred. Because he has a mental illness that he doesn't understand, doesn't think he has, and doesn't want fixed.
And that's fine with me. Just as long as I'm not around, and I'm not threatened or hit at any more.
If I don't get rid of this snobbiness that I've drawn from my film-watching, I'll soon find myself stalked by Julia Roberts, George Clooney, and (the horror, the horror) Hugh Grant. Foreign accent haunting. In all sincerety, I'm sorry Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston are no more, they were a staple in Hollywood. Divorce sucks, which precipitates to my conjecture that marriage must, too.
In short: I want a job, I must be dumb, I'm joining Cirque du Soleil (ne me quitte pas...), and I've had it up to the top of my curly-haired head to Brad Pitt and his stupid miniskirts (or lack thereof). Au revoir, mes amis.
**PS. I know God didn't make me stupid. I'm being facetious. I've been gifted with enough intelligence to spell "facetious", at least!
**PPS. The title is via me. Because I ran out of proper titles, and didn't feel like thinking about one.