Yesterday

You know what I wasn't doing yesterday at ten o'clock? Taking the ACT.

It feels oh-so-good. It's possible that for the rest of my life I will keep track of ACT dates, just to revel in the fact that I am not trapped in a school room with scary posters trying to remember what the distance formula is or, an even harder question, why I care (...Got me). I hope that I don't do that, though. That will mean I lack things to celebrate.

In any case, at the time that many of my more unfortunate classmates were decoding evil science problems I was here, with these people

I know that was too many pictures. But they're so cute! (They're my neighbors--except for the first one, which is Mei. They brought me cookies on my birthday. They have a little sister who's picture refused to be posted, and she was the one who told their mom that I had to have "strawberry" cookies. Adorable.)

We were picking pumpkins. And red onions. And corn. I did not know those things even grew here. The corn is delicious. The red onions yummy. I haven't eaten the pumpkins. Incidentally, pumpkins are hard to pick. They like to stay on their vines and they have unfortunate bristles.

It did get hot and there were no caramel apples (to my lingering disappointment) and I was very tired while we picked because, while I'd known we were going, I hadn't realized that we were required to get up at seven o'clock to get there and I did not go to be at an hour conducive to me responding well to that wake-up call. But I wasn't taking the ACT.

I wrote my first essay for college this week. It had me seriously freaked out. That wasn't helped by Brother Ford's list of things he'd fail us for. However, the essay did make me realize what I love about blogging. I love not citing things. I love not putting on a cover page (or not forgetting a cover page and having to send an apologetic email to my teacher). I love using fragment sentences and not making my parents proof read. Mostly I love not being graded.

I also have to write a short story. I'm half way there. I'll post it Tuesday if I don't hate it by then.

Over.

A Not Quite Post

(Marissa)

I just wrote you a whole post. And then I deleted it. My brain isn't working today. This may have something to do with the fact that I took the SAT yesterday. (Have I mentioned I hate math?) In any case, I promise I'll get you a post soon, but in the meantime this is what you get.

Yesterday when I was in a tourist trap getting lunch (bad turkey sandwiches, good muffins, really good smelling coffee) I saw a sign that said:

"All children left unattended will be given a shot of expresso and a free puppy."

I asked my mom to leave me unattended, but no luck. I guess because I'm turning eighteen this week I don't count anymore.... Next week I can vote. And get a licence without taking drivers ed. Next week if I murder someone I'm going to be tried as an adult. Which shouldn't be a problem, but, you know, it's weird. Do we have capital punishment in this state? It never seemed important before.

Over.

My Corner of the Universe

(Marissa)

Today I exercised, had sweet potato fries, did my homework, registered for all my college classes and paid for them. My corner of the universe is tidy, how about yours?

I'm just going to give you the list of things I know I should tell you but don't want to spend a blog post on:

1. I took the ACT. I don't want to talk about it.

2. Alright, fine. It was bad. I was sick. I'm taking it again next month. We should send science and math to a never to be found desert island where it can rot until the end of time. Forever and ever, amen.

3. I get nine hours of sleep and I'm still exhausted. Does anyone know why this is? If you're going to tell me it's because I get too much sleep, I have mono or I eat too much ice cream, then don't. I have already explored the first two possibilities, and if it's the last one I have no intention of it exploring it. There is a reason I eat the amount of ice cream I do.

Sometimes sugar and sanity are synonyms.

4. We are still not cooking in culinary. And I found out that there are two culinary classes and I'm not in Jackson's. Cue the tragic music. (Hi Jackson! You found us! Yes, Mark Bittman rocks and I did know that you were married. When are you coming back to school? Can you adopt my culinary class?)

5. Today in West Wing Danny still wasn't back and they killed my favorite secret service guy. Keep the tragic music rolling, fellas.

6. You can thank Teenager Number One for the beautiful Flickr highlight. She is currently drowning in AP classes (including calculus), so I'm not sure when (if?) we'll be hearing from her. Because calculus is a time, energy and happiness eating monster that only engineers ever use. We can send it to a desert island too.

7. People keep bringing me sugar. I've had three cookies today. And ice cream. And doughnut holes. I'm not complaining, I just don't know what's going on. Either heaven is being particularly attentive or someone is trying to ensure that I won't be running any marathons soon. If you're reading this, person-who-is-trying-to-prevent-me-from-running-marathons, you don't have anything to worry about. But keep the cookies coming.

Alright, my list is complete. I'll get on with my post.

I am now officially signed up for Creative Writing and International(cultural?) Peace Building. My professors did their best to scare me away with multiple textbooks, foreboding syllabuses that start out with quotes from MK Ghandi ("We must be the change we wish to see in the world") and big words I don't know, but I am nothing if not persistent. I am going to soldier through these classes, darn it, even if I have to get eight hours of sleep a night instead of nine.

Actually, everyone was very nice. My professors signed me in with good grace and did not announce to the class that I am still in high school. In fact, Brother Ford was extremely slick about it and (very deliberately) did not look at me when he mentioned my mom. Last week he offered to give me a fake last name too, just so that no one would know who's daughter I was. At the time I just stuttered no, but I went to bed wishing I told him to put me on the roll as "Bond, Marissa Bond," though it doesn't have quite the ring to it that James does.

I am extremely excited about both my classes, though slightly nervous about IPB (peace building) in which Brother Ford took rather too much delight in explaining how he was going to force us out of our comfort zones and 40% of my grade depends on one group project (in... out... in....... out).

My Creative Writing class messes with my breathing too, but in a different way. A class all about creative writing? I can go? Really? Is it Christmas? I've been doing creative writing on my own since fourth grade. I've written poems, essasys, short stories, one full-length story. I've spent hours on the computer or in a notebook and I obsess over nice pens. Please let me write! Please don't completely crush my self-respect. I might be practiced in being humiliated, but it isn't something I excel at. Please...

OK. Whining done. Basically I'm excited about college. No, wait! I have one more complaint. And a teenage girl moment: Why are there no cute guys in my classes? I know, your respect for me has fallen flat on it's face but, really, I'm a hormonally healthy teenage girl, and I would appreciate one or two cute guys. There are plenty up on campus, couldn't just one of them have signed up for creative writing?

No? OK, then. Never mind. I'm going to go eat my cookies now.

Over.

Bury Me Next to the Daisies

(Marissa)

I've been dreading this week since May when I signed up to take the ACT on September 4th. The soft footsteps of doom have been heard down my corridor all week until, suddenly, when  I got on to write this post, they stopped. It is in fact next Saturday that I'm signed up to take the ACT. While I am grateful for this extension, it does rather throw a kink into my funeral plans.

I was expecting to die sometime between eight and twelve this Saturday morning.

Now I'm expecting to die sometime between eight and twelve next Saturday morning.

Someone call the church and reschedule, will you?

My funeral service will be held the following Monday at seven o'clock. Please bring flowers and don't wear black.

(lace and likes photo credit) 

Bury me next to the daisies.

(More than usually) Over.