(no subject)
So yesterday my dad took me to Borders and I got Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre, the first book in that Warrior series about cats, and The Chronicles of Narnia on DVD. Sweet.
First period I wrote a rant inspired by Nausea, and here it is. Also, I switch tenses a lot so if you don't like it than don't read it. It doesn't make much sense anyway.
Adventures in bad radio stations. Friday, April 21 2006
I'm sitting here trying to read a rather dense book on existentialism and the teacher keeps droning on about distribution and things that hold no meaning or wonder in my life. I'm distracted by an annoying wet feeling in my nose as I try so intently to sniffle it back. I finally settle back into the book and this sound drifts from across the room. It's a sound that makes my cheek twitch and my heart seize and it is an awful sound that makes by chest want to burst. Slowly I turn. A young toe-headed girl is gently placing a few Cheerios into her mouth. The chewing is atrocious and burns through my skull like a torturous hot iron. I try to get my emotions under control and turn back to my book, fighting to ignore the intrusive and obnoxious sound. Rage averted. Soon papers are passed out and it has become nearly impossible to ignore the impending doom of variables and superscripts. Slowly I place my book on to the desk when I see my hand. A long, dark, red cut runs along my thumb from last night's accidental exploits. I stop to examine it. It's rather beautiful and I'm slightly ashamed to wish that it would leave a scar. And then I think. Less than twenty-four hours ago I did not have this. My comforting thoughts are rudely dissipated by the obnoxious sound of country music my teacher has decided to play as "easy listening" background music. And if that weren't enough to make my blood boil, the aforementioned toe-headed girl decides it would be enjoyable to shove more dry cereal into her mouth ad chew like an air-deprived cow. Damn. Country has turned to bad eighties dance music. I look over at the sheet teacher handed out, now a while ago, and can no longer delay. Excuse me while I jump out a window.
The End.
P.S. - Now it's bad 90's soft rock-pop love songs. I'll take your heart away. I'LL RIP IT OUT THROUGH YOUR SQUEALING LARYNX. Knave.
P.P.S. - Twist and shout my ass. This is why I don't listen to the radio. I bet you Abba will come on any second now.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KELLY.
