Hi guys! I just made a new LJ! This is my first entry!! Lol, well, this is dumb!
Actually, in reality, this is my first entry in about two and a half months. Why have I held off so long? Had I been Joel, this entry would be entirely the explanation of this very question. But, all be told, I'm not. So, please ignore my absence.
Here is a brief synopsis of everyday between early November and early December.
Prior to the smash bang boot-up of Winter Break, I had been locked in the bowels of Coach Arthur Billingsly's Asylum of Academics, P.E. It was CPR training month. So, my considerably fat P.E. teacher would lazily somersault out of the storage room doors, finishing up a bag of Dijon bakery pretzels and humming "A rootsie tootsie" Dixie jazz under his breath, with bungee chords straddled taught between himself and a giant wheelbarrow of CPR dummies.
Now, these dummies are no ordinary wax and milk-carton ol' dummies. They each wear delicate shadow blue T-shirts, which over time, have in fact become their skin. They lack arms, a pelvis (ewww!), or anything below that, but come intact with an artistically crafted head. This manikin premature baby head has an opening as the mouth, where at least two-hundred sweaty teens have blown desperate raspberries into, half trying to save the plastic dwarf, half laughing at Chad's joke about butt tits.
A friendly swab of saliva hangs on the plaster lip, beckoning another blow from another boy or girl, scared by the new effects of puberty, hair, and embarrassing voice cracks!
Coach Billingsly, frowning in a blundering enraged billow, a golf ball sized pimple beginning to throb red and purple at his sweaty brow, dabs his forehead with a handkerchief, still with cornbread morsels clinging to their home on it from suppers prior. He begins to shout about rescue-breathing and hickory steak, his nose running in boiling puss and bacon grease.
Scrawny Boy with Buzz Cut: (Eating a small nectarine as his shorts are slowly slipping off his body) "S-say, mister coach? How do you do the chest compressions? You're really good at 'em, coach. Boy, golly, I need to use the restroom. May I please be excused coach? I'll do the ol' hustle back!"
Delivering a powerful blow of the knuckles to the short, skinny kid with the buzz cut and non-dress, Coach B sends his whizzing through the air. The walrus of a man chuckles at the boy's bloody torso on the opposite wall, munching on some jalapeno wedges and instructing the Heimlich.
I meanwhile sit and nervously take notes, eyeing the groaning boy on the wall who is pleading with me for a drink of water.
With a rootsie and a tootsie the bell shrieks and me, Kyle, Tony, Rod, and Stinky pile into the dressing room, Rod spraying Tony playfully with axe and straight love while Kyle embarrassingly sneaks a puff of his inhaler while the guys are turned away.
Now it is time for Madame Wittington's French class.
Madame Herself - Class teacher, singer, and enchantress. She dressed up as a bumble bee for Halloween last year, and the year before that, a giant pumpkin. She loves pretzels. Madame, like her birds, can often been seen pleasantly chirping about the classroom, hacking up birdie chow during lessons.
Marvin Ng - The sharp Asian twang of intellect and goofy humor infests the sporting fellow. He often scores complete 100's on tests and makes splinteringly hilarious jokes involving squishy man and duckie-shorts.
Casey Frowntz - Died three years ago. Her lifeless, Euro-style dress corpse rots in R-9 for all eternity, as there is a spell on her emotionless acne face. Her plaid skirts have razor blades attached at the thread extremities, and it is rumored that her haunted body sometimes murmurs "I fucked depression."
Gus Guns - A hunchbacked cool cat football player. He etched a floppy penis in the oakwood paneling of his desk with mechanical pencil once, but quickly turned it into a gross smiley face as soon as Madame floated over. However, she wiggled her thigh a bit, packed up her floating umbrella, and hopped from desk to desk back to her own.
Zoe Altrerbach - Fun, frizzy, and fresh. There is an endless chocolate chip cookie that is always being finished chewing in her mouth. She can make milk bubbles through her braces and has memorized every province in Canada. She prefers to write with her beloved talking Barbie pen, that reminds her in a giggly voice when she has made a spelling error. Her pre-adolescent paper chest is also very chatty, and loves to be poked.
By December, I had started jumping out of the back classroom window, most often successfully.
There. You are officially caught up on the last month or two of my life. There have been no milestone shenanigans to write about, so there is the bulk pill, minus some.
Now I will swim over to Michelle Wicklas' house for a New Year's Eve crash party. So expect another update soon with some medium-res pics of Emily Boyle sticking her thumb in the New Year's cake. Current Mood: soreCurrent Music: Jingle Bells!