right now, the glass is half empty
So it's the MUN New York trip tomorrow, and I'm extremely excited... right? I mean, everyone else is, and everyone else has been talking about it for days, weeks, and, well, even months. It's New York, they say...
New York
New York...
New York...
But, no matter how many ways or times I say it, I just can't seem to get over the skepticism that this little trip won't be all it's been cracked up to be. Ok, so I'm being a pessimist, but it's entirely excusable in this situation. The Brannan was pretty strict in Charlottesville (pretty strict meaning that we were confined to the hotel and were only allowed out to go to Applebees - which, by the way, was only a total of 9 seconds away from that damn hotel), and that was Charlottesville, the "city" with a rapist population of no more than 2. Throw a dozen or so kids into a real city with a rapist population of 2 gazillion and you're most likely gonna get one hard lined Brannanator. Between being cooped up in a hotel and only being flocked out to journey those few blocks to our MUN sessions (which we then proceed to sit in for hours at a time), I see little time for this "fun" people have been speaking so highly of. This trip is reminiscent of a juicy orange carrot dangling from a piece of string:
"Hi kids," Times Square will say, "I'm a bustling urban center with so much to do and entertainment up the wazoo. You can't visit me though, seeing as how the prison guard to the Hilton Alcatraz has swallowed the key to your cells. Have fun!"
Lovely... just lovely.
Oh yes, and before I go, I'm assuming that you're all wondering why in the hell I'm listening to City High. Well, I was cleaning my room, and Now 7 resurfaced yet again (see entry "The Wonder Years" - 06 August 2004). I've been cycling through the tracks, and I reached City High's little number, which then got me thinking:
What would you do if your son was at home, crying all alone on the bedroom floor 'cause he's hungry, and the only way to feed him is to sleep with a man for a little bit of money?
Now, you may be thinking, "I'll just make his dad pay." Well, that won't work because, you see, his daddy's gone, somewhere smokin' pot now, in and out of lock down, and you ain't got a job now....
Harder, yes?
Me personally, I'd just (cue ghetto dun-dun, dun-dun-dun music) get up off my feet and just stop making tired excuses, because girl I know if my mother can do it baby you can do it.
But that's just me.
And with that, I'm out.
New York
New York...
New York...
But, no matter how many ways or times I say it, I just can't seem to get over the skepticism that this little trip won't be all it's been cracked up to be. Ok, so I'm being a pessimist, but it's entirely excusable in this situation. The Brannan was pretty strict in Charlottesville (pretty strict meaning that we were confined to the hotel and were only allowed out to go to Applebees - which, by the way, was only a total of 9 seconds away from that damn hotel), and that was Charlottesville, the "city" with a rapist population of no more than 2. Throw a dozen or so kids into a real city with a rapist population of 2 gazillion and you're most likely gonna get one hard lined Brannanator. Between being cooped up in a hotel and only being flocked out to journey those few blocks to our MUN sessions (which we then proceed to sit in for hours at a time), I see little time for this "fun" people have been speaking so highly of. This trip is reminiscent of a juicy orange carrot dangling from a piece of string:
"Hi kids," Times Square will say, "I'm a bustling urban center with so much to do and entertainment up the wazoo. You can't visit me though, seeing as how the prison guard to the Hilton Alcatraz has swallowed the key to your cells. Have fun!"
Lovely... just lovely.
Oh yes, and before I go, I'm assuming that you're all wondering why in the hell I'm listening to City High. Well, I was cleaning my room, and Now 7 resurfaced yet again (see entry "The Wonder Years" - 06 August 2004). I've been cycling through the tracks, and I reached City High's little number, which then got me thinking:
What would you do if your son was at home, crying all alone on the bedroom floor 'cause he's hungry, and the only way to feed him is to sleep with a man for a little bit of money?
Now, you may be thinking, "I'll just make his dad pay." Well, that won't work because, you see, his daddy's gone, somewhere smokin' pot now, in and out of lock down, and you ain't got a job now....
Harder, yes?
Me personally, I'd just (cue ghetto dun-dun, dun-dun-dun music) get up off my feet and just stop making tired excuses, because girl I know if my mother can do it baby you can do it.
But that's just me.
And with that, I'm out.