The · Musings · of · an · Itty · Bitty · Mischief · Maker

Dialogue between my friend and I in Maths today:

Me: Can I borrow your white out, Em?

Em: Sure, it's in Elmo. (Her pencil case).

Me: O_o In Elmo?

Em: ...oh yeah, it's in Elmo. Elmo has a white out addiction. Me: *snort* I'd love to see them explain that on Sesame Street.

Em: *singsong* Elmo will be absent from Sesame Street until further notice! So today boys and girls, we'll be learning about the letter R-

Me: Whoo! R for rehab!

Cold, I know. But fcuk it was funny as at the time. Just shows how Maths is about as entertaining as pulling teeth out without antiseptic. Kind of like Ancient History right now; I get to summarise eight pages on Hatshepsut's building scheme during her reign. Oh yeah, and then there's Religion assessment tomorrow which is always fun (not). And then English to finish, and I swear to god, if anyone mentions the "feathered glory" in Yeats' "Leda and the Swan" again, I shall slay them with a shovel. Oh yeah, and I have a little bit of the essay to finish. Stared at the rest of it for eight hours yesterday, and then I got inspiration and wrote the second half.

At 11:30pm at night.

Yeah, I'm totally rebelling against the dominant reading. Just to watch the neurotic old bat posing as educator pop a vein. ... "Dear God, Screw you and your Virgin Mum who so cannot be a Virgin, you narcisstic wizard-bitch.

Love, Me. P.S. I know Jesus' dirty little secret, so nyah."

My teacher just told me she's entered me into the 2009 National Writer of the Year Competition. Without my knowledge until about...two days ago. And then she guilt tripped me out of whining about it and into doing it, even though it'll be like pulling my brain out of my ass at this stage.

I'm so screwed.

Sadist. Bitch.

P.S. I got glasses. They're sooooo sexy.

P.P.S. Screw you and your romantic obsessions, Yeats. I'll never look at the phrase "feathered glory" the same way again.

God…I haven’t updated this for eons. Hn, I blame the million and one things that have happened since I got myself – got bullied into – getting an LJ. (No, Shay, I still love you despite that).

 

What to say that won’t take up eleven Word pages and get me in trouble off my librarians? Well, first and foremost, I am all but forbidden from the Internet at home…apparently it’s MY fault that the computer is a screwfudge and infected (not my mother, surely, with her freaking desperado dating sites. Never. Because she’s like…such a saint. Right? Riiiight?). So as that bitch called Faith would have it, I’m now stuck scamming time during my free study periods while I work on my crapload of Senior schoolwork in an attempt to keep in some contact with people in the online world. And even then, t’is a dangerous business – I have piranhas posing as teachers constantly lurking around, ready to bite off the ankles of any “wrong-doers”. Tch, I’m surrounded by Nazi wannabes. Yay. Hoozah. Whoopie.

 

What else? Ah yes, I’m entering my last ever year of schooling. I know I’m supposed to celebrate but…god. I don’t even know if I’ll survive the year without indulging in a mad homicide spree, brought about by overload-induced insanity. It doesn’t matter how hard I plough through the work; it’s like…Flubber. Or a bunch of regenerative zombies. Or vampires. In other words, it never ends. It never dies. It just keeps on getting back up and launching itself at me with bloody fangs and gangrenous limbs and bulging red eyes. No wonder I like werewolves better…at least they DIE after a few good stabbings. Okay, so maybe I’m getting excellent marks…good for me. Really. Except for the fact that I walk around looking like some chibi-racoon woman and barely manage to eat, simply because I want to lie down and die for a few hours.

 

And then there’s the family. Mum has a new boyfriend. Sure, he’s nice enough…he’s just the eleventh (yes, I keep count) male to enter our household in my mother’s attempts to get laid under the pretence of “wanting happiness”. If she wanted happiness, she wouldn’t be on dating sites and fawning over every prospect, thanks very much. Evidently, she has never considered the mental effect this has on her children. Oh, sure, she says she does, but then, if they (me) turn around and try and make her see sense, apparently I’m a, and I quote, “Selfish, jealous little brat who pretends to be a know-it-all”. Um, excuse me? I might not know it all, but I do know having memories of screaming and abuse and being smothered under an adult’s weight just because some son of an ass broke your mother’s heart and she got drunk-smashed-off-her-face and needed to be hauled to bed by her 7-17 year old daughter is NOT healthy. Yet, I’m not allowed to vent, not to her at least. And these days, I don’t bother. Fine, she can go and fawn over and be disgusting with her new beau (who hasn’t burnt down the stables yet), but he can stay the eff away from me, and I won’t bother voicing my opinions on the matter anymore, no matter how infuriated and unfair it feels. It does nothing, anyway. She can go screw him all she wants.

 

And we won’t even go into the implications of how I’m apparently meant to feel guilty for growing up and wanting to explore the world and make my own life and Leave. Her. All. On. Her. Own. No, I am not messing with y’all, she said that. Along with the implications of resentment I constantly have radiating from her just because at the age I am now, I’m not a drug-addicted party animal and actually have some semblance of that gooey lump called an intelligent mind. How’s that for love? And she says she adores me to other people too. Yeah, sure thing, I believe that. I believe it when you say crap like that, or blame me for things I didn’t do, or when you stick up for the siblings just because they still run crying to you and don’t play it tough and stitch their own proverbial wounds.

 

God, I can’t wait until I’m legally old enough to run away to Europe/the Navy/somewhere far, far, far, FAAAAR away.

 

On a happier note, I want to officially shout out to the world that my aunt got married, which was great (emotional without my Nan there; she died on my birthday in June. Yeah. Sad. I’m alright though…I think). I also scored a good 16 out of 20 for my English speech…very happy with that, considering it was a difficult little booger. Oh, and a friend, Kath, has had her beautiful baby boy! Congratulations Kath!

 

P.S. I’m giving blood tomorrow. I feel so proud…even if I want to shoot the State Govt. But that’s another entry for another time. Now, I just have to remember to eat a lot beforehand so I don’t faint (poor little ickle me can’t take too much blood)

Now, back to that undead blob zombie thing called assignments. Geography ahoy!

http://i169.photobucket.com/albums/u229/Sango_of_Pern/Yr%2010%20Graduation/Sam.jpg

So who's this young lady in the pretty red dress you ask?

It is official. After ten years of "compulsory" schooling, I am now officially a Junior Graduate of Yr 10 2007 at St Francis Catholic College.

Yes thats right folks. I'm no longer an ickle junior, but officially a big senior as of next year! I was very pleased with my final report to--aced English, History and Studies of Religion with a fourth, a seventh and a fifth in the year, all in that order. I'm so proud of me!

And the graduation itself? Freaking awesome. I absolutely loved my dress; dark red, kinda flowy, though I admit I blushed a great deal that night from all the "beautiful" comments. What can I say? I never was able to take compliments very well.

It was both a brilliant and emotional night, as quite a few of my agemates are leaving to pursue various paths--be it the workforce, TAFE, apprenticeships etcetera. I think everyone WAS doing rather well...until our Year Coordinator teacher started sniffling in her speech. Yeah, it pretty much on from there. She did relate something quite touching though:

Mrs Ryan: "Well, I was at a function with my own baby the other day and I got asked by somebody how many kids I have. I smiled and said with a straight face that I had one hundred and thirty nine. The poor bugger stared at me for a second before asking me how old I was. I replied that I was thirty one and his jaw seemed to drop a bit more before he asked me how old my eldest one was. I replied that they were sixteen and I loved them to bits. He just stared at me and god it was funny. But its true...I love these kids like my own and working with them, watching them grow from shy little Year Sevens into these amazing, confident Year Tens, knowing that I was there to help and support them as they strove to get to where they are now, its just the most amazing, fulfilling feeling. I look so very forward to seeing how they will continue to blossom in the next two years, both in and out of school. Really, they ARE my kids in a sense and I'm so grateful to you as their parents for letting me have had the wonderful privelige of supporting and loving them like my own."

Add the sniffles and the tears and you have one emotional part of the night. God, you gotta love Mrs Ryan, she's a top teacher and a wonderful person.

After the formal proceedings--in which my mother also sniffled, gah--we were allowed to go wild in the nightclub area of the venue. Don't worry all you worriers who think sixteen year olds shouldn't go in there...it was monitored by our teachers, alcohol free and merely used for dancing. FUN! FUN! FUN!

There was one other thing I remember. See, to cut a long story short, there's this guy in Year Eleven who goes on my bus. We talk sure, and we actually get on quite well. He's a sweet guy and I admit I always liked him just a little. (Shut up Shay!)

Anyways, I find out a few weeks back from one of our friends that this guy--Mitchell--apparently is seriously sweet on me. I was shocked to say the least, but I wouldn't let myself believe it. I mean, he IS a Year Eleven after all, what would he see in a sassy little Year Ten like myself?

Well um...I think I was proven wrong. Not getting my hopes up but anyway...turns out that he turned up at the local Park where everyone had their photos taken. I tried not to think too much of it, after all, his cousin was also graduating Year Ten. So I wander off with my friends and do what excited teenagers do. Then, when we're all grouping together on the outdoor stage for our big year photo--me in one of the front rows of course, curse my shortness--I get that sudden feeling that I'm being watched. You know, that tingly feeling? So I stop chatting with my friends for a moment and look around. And guess who I unintentionally catch the eye of? Three guesses.

Anyway, he was staring at me. In front of his mates. Not just looking--but jaw dropping, frozen to the spot, eyes wide gazing. Okay, so once I got over the shyness I got cheeky as I generally do and arched the eyebrow, which in turn caused him to blush and look at the ground.

*insert smug moment here*

But oh my god, I got a big Year Eleven senior to blush! But yeah um...I have to thank god for foundation too. So um...yeah, I just have to say, anyone who says those types of moments don't exist are bull-shitting. Except I haven't seen him since, seeing as I've finished school until next year and live a fair way out of town. Heh, who knows though, I might see him if I decide to go back to see my younger brother's Presentation Day at school.

Who knows?

But otherwise, its been a much better time than I was previously happening. Now congratulate me and tell me what ickle me looks like in her formal gear! :D

 

Warning: I'm going to rant. :p

Boys are stupid. Throw rocks at them.   Best damned phrase I've ever heard. 

You know, you'd think it'd be girls, yes, GIRLS, who would be the gossiping, flirtatious idiots of our society. Too severe on my own sex you say? Well. I. Don't. Give. A. Shit.

The above term isn't applicable according to the boys in my Science class apparently. You'd think they'd have something better to do than go "ZOMG!" over the fact that I, your friendly neighbourhood ice princess of St Francis De Sales Catholic College, is actually conversing and is on good terms with one of the, I admit, denser of the male population in my year. Not that it's a problem. Nick's a great guy; funny, cheeky, friendly, kind and actually incredibly smart where music is involved. And I admit, freaking gorgeous. 

But enough of that.

Anyway, one arsetard in particular--who is unfortunately Nick's friend--decided that it'd be fun to resume his previous attempts at hitting on me, as well as making what he obviously thought were incredibly witty comments concerning myself, Nick and our friendship, or flirtship, or whatever, among other comments which generally piss me off.

So I turn around and tell him, in no uncensored terms, to stop being a fuckwit, get a life, and that what goes on between myself and Nick is none of his freaking business. Put in a few more, I admit, unsavoury comments before turning around and resuming my fascinating study of animal biology. (I'm totally going to be a wildlife researcher of some kind when I leave this hellhole).

Apparently the jackarse thought it'd be a genius idea to stroke my hip with his leg and then blame it on Nick. I knew it wasn't Nick--the boy has more sense than to touch a pissed off ice chick who, ironically, has a reputation for morphing into "evil spitfire queen"--but I admit the brief look of fear on his face was somewhat amusing. 

I think I handled my reaction rather well. I merely stabbed the freak with the knives I pulled from my eyes before giving him a lovely little shiner when I kicked his desk into his knee. Really, I'd much rather have knocked his teeth into his poor excuse for a brain and severe his spinal cord, and other such tender areas-- with the blunt heel of my school shoe. Sadist huh? But I'm so proud of myself, because I left him to live his pitiful life for another day.

Now, that I've got that out of my system...what else? Oh yes.

Friends. More specifically, backstabbing, lazy little cows who are supposed to be your friends. 

First so called friend promises she'll get me some songs I desperately need for my music lessons so I can sing and study them for my upcoming concerts/exams/etc. Its been two weeks, and a very irate music teacher, and I haven't seen boo of the god damned songs. So I get a tad pissed obviously and tell her to hurry up unless she wants me to fail my music career (if there is one). She says yes, she'll get them and then obviously proceeds to go off and bitch about my nagging to other friends. Sucks for her that she told the wrong people, because they immediately told me about her little bitchfest.

*snort* I'd find it amusing if I didn't seriously need those bloody songs.

In other news, I'm proud to say that I've recently recieved the results to my religious studies assignment on the controversial issues (euthanasia, abortion etc.) and am ecstatic to reveal that I have recieved full marks! I'm not sure if the comment: "You're very eloquent in your opinions aren't you?" is meant to be a compliment or not. Eh, who cares, I got Full Marks baby! 

Speaking of assignments, I really should finish off my history essay. Choose on Australian Prime Minister and choose one major policy/issue of his reign as PM. I won't be doing Gough Whitlam, because he's been our main study and I bet you my Dragonriders of Pern collection that all the lazy bastards in the year will write about him. No, I think I'll do Bob Menzies and his "democracy-shackling" Communist Dissolution Bill. Fun, no?