This blog is a project for my Creative Writing class. We're not supposed to mention our high school or else we'll get censored out the wazoo. Just know that it does exist somewhere in Kentucky and I'm not writing to you from my summer home beneath the Atlantic ocean. I plan on writing frequently, as you may have guessed, seeing that I have written four entries already and this blog has only just begun. My life is interesting like that.
I'm a Gemini. We talk a lot. I promise to make it good for you.
I'm also seventeen. My favorite color is green and I love spicy foods. I find video games to be the most romantic thing in the world. My good friend XeHatter wrote my about me section, but yes, I am just narcissistic enough to write something like that about myself. Only in private, though.
This is as private as it gets. I hope to amass some followers through some form of magic or another. I think I'll begin by tweeting about it because I am a social butterfly of many colors.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Third Floor Gorilla
It is like some law that if anything goes amiss in the school, the Creative Writers are to blame. Harmless things, of course, like putting posters where they don't belong, publishing illicit magazines, and dressing up like a gorilla and parading about the school. If you haven't guessed yet, I am one of these Creative Writers. Hey, I've even been the gorilla.
We bought a gorilla costume about a month ago for $100 or so. We even had a gorilla fund to which several people donated. Our gorilla has since terrorized the school in new and inventive ways, pedalled our newspapers to innocent bystanders, and taken part in a dance off at the school assembly.
I'm just here to affirm the gorilla rumors as being true. There is a gorilla, he is on the third floor, and he is here to stay. So stock up on bananas. If you encounter him in the hallway, he's going to want some compensation.
We bought a gorilla costume about a month ago for $100 or so. We even had a gorilla fund to which several people donated. Our gorilla has since terrorized the school in new and inventive ways, pedalled our newspapers to innocent bystanders, and taken part in a dance off at the school assembly.
I'm just here to affirm the gorilla rumors as being true. There is a gorilla, he is on the third floor, and he is here to stay. So stock up on bananas. If you encounter him in the hallway, he's going to want some compensation.
The Banana Was a Nice Touch
Let me paint the scene, as I am so adept at doing.
Friday. Halloween is tomorrow. My motley crew and I are packed like sardines into my tiny, white Ford Taurus. There are at least three things touching me that I wish weren't. We're driving away from school. The ability to drive to and from school is like being trapped on an island for a year with no proper socialization, given a boat, and then told to come back to the island for two more years at 8:00 AM each morning. I digress.
We're stuck in traffic because there is a holiday coming up soon and that gives everybody the excuse to drive like pumpkins. That was an allusion to Halloween festivities.
Recently, they built some new apartments on North Broadway to house the raucous college freshmen. They are drab, cookie cutter little things, identical right down to their tiny pseudo-balconies that are made from iron scraps and chewing gum. We drive past, although I wouldn't call it driving since I'm positive that we were passed by a few turtles.
All of the sudden, Rain is pointing out of the window as best she can given that her elbow is wedged up against three suitcases, a bag of food, and a giant sleeping bag. We all look over in time to see a gorilla standing nonchalantly on one of the balconies. He is wearing a hoody and has a banana clutched in his hairy paws.
This has special signifigance to everyone in the car, because we have our own gorilla costume that I will probably blog about later. I roll down the window so we can catcall this gorilla. He turns around and does a gorilla dance for us, his hairy mane waving in the wind like a glorious ebony flag. Traffic moves on but we continue screeching at him and he continues dancing. It is a pretty marvelous moment for all.
I imagine that it will be somewhat like this when they unfreeze Elvis.
Friday. Halloween is tomorrow. My motley crew and I are packed like sardines into my tiny, white Ford Taurus. There are at least three things touching me that I wish weren't. We're driving away from school. The ability to drive to and from school is like being trapped on an island for a year with no proper socialization, given a boat, and then told to come back to the island for two more years at 8:00 AM each morning. I digress.
We're stuck in traffic because there is a holiday coming up soon and that gives everybody the excuse to drive like pumpkins. That was an allusion to Halloween festivities.
Recently, they built some new apartments on North Broadway to house the raucous college freshmen. They are drab, cookie cutter little things, identical right down to their tiny pseudo-balconies that are made from iron scraps and chewing gum. We drive past, although I wouldn't call it driving since I'm positive that we were passed by a few turtles.
All of the sudden, Rain is pointing out of the window as best she can given that her elbow is wedged up against three suitcases, a bag of food, and a giant sleeping bag. We all look over in time to see a gorilla standing nonchalantly on one of the balconies. He is wearing a hoody and has a banana clutched in his hairy paws.
This has special signifigance to everyone in the car, because we have our own gorilla costume that I will probably blog about later. I roll down the window so we can catcall this gorilla. He turns around and does a gorilla dance for us, his hairy mane waving in the wind like a glorious ebony flag. Traffic moves on but we continue screeching at him and he continues dancing. It is a pretty marvelous moment for all.
I imagine that it will be somewhat like this when they unfreeze Elvis.
Ode to the Gas Station Gods
I will start this blog with a classic example of how my life is awesome.
I was fourteen. My family was on a trip to Corbin, Kentucky to see my grandparents. We had stopped at a Shell to put gas in our car. Gas makes cars go.
We went inside because my nubile, fourteen-year-old body was craving caffeine. We bought some Slim Jims and a big Mocha frappuccino that I could barely hold in my tiny sausage fingers. There was a balding man behind the counter. As my dad was pulling out his credit card, I decided to be adorably cheeky, as was expected of people in my age group.
"You can control the intercom, right?" I asked as the balding man rang up my giant frappuccino. "So, you're like, the gas station god. You could make them do whatever you wanted."
"We think she needs medication," my dad interjected. "We just aren't sure what kind yet."
The balding man handed him his credit card, looking disinterested. As we exited the store, a crackle sounded above our heads and echoed in the gas station's lot. The two other people present looked up in confusion as deep laughter rang out from the intercom in terrifying waves.
"Muahahahaha. I am the master of the intercom! Bow to me and despair!"
I recognized balding man's voice. Throwing my arms up in a signal of ultimate triumph, I shouted, "YES! YES, I LOVE YOU, INTERCOM GUY!" as my father dragged me back to the car.
I was fourteen. My family was on a trip to Corbin, Kentucky to see my grandparents. We had stopped at a Shell to put gas in our car. Gas makes cars go.
We went inside because my nubile, fourteen-year-old body was craving caffeine. We bought some Slim Jims and a big Mocha frappuccino that I could barely hold in my tiny sausage fingers. There was a balding man behind the counter. As my dad was pulling out his credit card, I decided to be adorably cheeky, as was expected of people in my age group.
"You can control the intercom, right?" I asked as the balding man rang up my giant frappuccino. "So, you're like, the gas station god. You could make them do whatever you wanted."
"We think she needs medication," my dad interjected. "We just aren't sure what kind yet."
The balding man handed him his credit card, looking disinterested. As we exited the store, a crackle sounded above our heads and echoed in the gas station's lot. The two other people present looked up in confusion as deep laughter rang out from the intercom in terrifying waves.
"Muahahahaha. I am the master of the intercom! Bow to me and despair!"
I recognized balding man's voice. Throwing my arms up in a signal of ultimate triumph, I shouted, "YES! YES, I LOVE YOU, INTERCOM GUY!" as my father dragged me back to the car.
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