Alex's Asylum Welcome to the institute

Forward: Imagine you're in a cheesy old detective movie (black and white of course) with cheesy actors and actress and a really bad stench. Story is most effective when read with an extremely cheesy detective voice to add some extra cheese to the cheesiness of this story. MMMmmmmMMMMmm cheese...


I awakened from my casual nap by a tap on my shoulder. I stirred, wiped the drool from my face and opened my eyes. Darlene sat on my desk, one frisky leg over the other, filing her nails.
“You gotta poyson who wants ta see ya,” she said adjusting her low-cut dress.
I kicked my feet up on my desk. “Baby, it’s been a long time since anybody’s seen me.”
“I know. I tink it’s becuz of your smell…”
It was a lie of course (not the part that I smelled like a rancid piece of meat), it hasn’t been a long time since anybody had seen me. The town was full of problems, as many problems as my mother had when she gave birth to me. And whenever a new problem arose they immediately came to me, the village gumshoe (they call me that because I have gum…on my shoe). Though I don’t consider myself a detective. Not in the least. I like to think of myself as a sort of saint…in a trench coat…with gum…on my shoe. Only the angels know of how many people I’ve helped since I moved here to Wellington (later called Smellington after my arrival). Unfortunately the angels have quit keeping tally marks on how many times I’ve been sued.
“Come in,” I said, taking off my hat.
The door opened and in walked a young woman. Her eyes were red, no doubt from crying, but she strode over to my desk with the casualty of a dung beetle munching on its afternoon’s worth of sh<annoying beeping sound rings as the words CENSORED flashes across the screen>.
Come on, that was the best line in the story.
Anyway, she walked up to my desk clutching a small handkerchief. She eyed Darlene with a testing glance.
I cleared my throat, a not so subtle sign for Darlene to leave. But Darlene’s as thick as box of hair…yak hair…with a needle inside it. She continued filing her nails. I caught her eye and jerked my head toward the door. She looked at me with the brains of a box of hair…yak hair…with a needle in it.
“Eave-lay us lone-ay.”
So obviously this wasn’t any more help.
“Go!”
Darlene slowly slid off my desk, pocketing her filer. “Ya don’t hafta be so rude ya know,” she scolded as she walked out the door.
I put my hat back on my head and looked at the woman across from me. “So, what brings you to this edge of town?”
“I’m smel—really sorry to bath—bother you, sir. I heard you’re the best of the best detectives here…”
I guess being the only detective did make me the best of the best.
“…I was soaping—hoping! Hoping you could help me, sir.”
I couldn’t understand why this woman couldn’t talk straight. She obviously had something on her mind…if I only I could lay a stinker—finger on what it was…
“What is it?” I asked, not bringing up the fact that I had spotted the curious way of speaking like any good detective would do. Go me!
“I feel so strange. It’s as if I woke up this morning with my mind completely erased! I don’t know who I am, where I’m from, what I’m doing…”
I grinned. “Ah ha! The Case of the Missing Identity.” Suddenly frowning, I added, “I’m sorry, but for legal reasons I’m going to have to see an I.D.”
Before she could utter another word, the door flew open. The woman jumped in surprise, but I merely smiled. “Ah, Dag. Obviously you have important news to be bothering my in the middle of something.”
Dagwood Thorton. A good man by all means, but misunderstood. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. He just stopped trying to park diagonally in a parallel universe only because a really fat pigeon crushed his car. Long story. Not entirely the pigeon’s fault.
Dagwood nodded, every brown curl on his head bouncing jubilantly. “It’s Happy Hour at the bar and you’re not there!”
I jumped to my feet and looked at my watch. “Holy mother of Pearl!” I cried, leaping into the air. “So it is!” I turned back to the woman. “Sorry, break time.”
“But we were right in the middle of something!” she argued.
I stood in silence. Dilemmas. I had a chance of helping this poor, lost woman find her name or I could have a drink with my best friend Dag…
I headed for the door.
“Wait please! I need help! That’s your job, scumbag!”
I wheeled around. Angry tears formed in the woman’s eyes. Thinking quickly I spoke, “Then come with us! The more the merrier, and not to mention, a bottle of the finest helps clear my mind.”
She seemed reluctant at first, but slowly followed me out to the door. Slowly only because I was walking slowly. It’s hard to walk very fast when you have gum…on your shoe.
“By the way, you never told me your name,” I told the woman as we exited my office.
“It’s because I don’t remember what it is.”
For some reason, she seemed agitated.
“Then I’ll call you Pearl. That way when I say ‘Holy mother of Pearl!’ and people ask who Pearl is, I’ll have an answer.”
I’m such a snappy thinker. Whenever a tough problem faces me, I solve it. Whenever a nameless woman wants a name, I name her. Whenever Happy Hour is empty without me, I fill it with my stench. I’m such a snappy thinker. Go me!

The tavern hung in the usually cheery atmosphere with a thick cloud of cigar smoke hovering in the air. Plucking Paul sat in his regular position at his shiny black baby grand, while Beautiful Betsy sat on top, singing to the merry tunes. Or merry in Plucking’s and Beautiful’s view. They were in fact slow, melodramatic tunes that would be played in a funeral and Beautiful could reach a note so high it could wake my dead mother from the grave. Unfortunately none of us had the heart to tell them that their music reminded us of dying babies in tar pits…but then again, this place has more important problems other than rotten music.
Problems including I was late for Happy Hour.
Dagwood picked a spot at the bar. I pulled up a seat for Pearl, looking as huffy as the Big Bad Wolf as she sat down in it, smoothing out her dress. I sat beside her.
“I haven’t given you a proper introduction, Miss,” I said, pointing to Dag. “This here is my partner, Dagwood Thorton, sly, mischievous, and my best friend…that and he pays for the drinks…” I mumbled the last bit and then turned and pointed to myself. “And that makes me Ace.”
“Just Ace?”
“I only go by my last name. My first two names are Chauvedis Upyar. Dear old mother was drunk when she signed my birth certificate—bless her soul—so I can’t exactly say why she named me that.” I shrugged. It was the truth. “But I always get kicked in the groin whenever I tell somebody my name so I stick to my last. Anyway, I’m the private eye of the town, guardian of mysteries, saint of crimes, savior of lost and confused…”
But before I could finish, Two Fisted McGraw interrupted me. His grimy teeth showed as he asked in a saliva-fested question, “Anything to drink?”
Two Fisted McGraw. A shaggy fellow whenever you see him. Hair looks like it’s never been washed since he was born, a nose that was the biggest honker you’ve seen, and two hands so ripped and scarred they looked like nothing but stumps. By the look of this dangerous and gruff man, many believed he had had his hands shot in the war. Of course, we all knew he severely shimmied them up replanting his favorite rose bush. Two Fist’s always had a thing for flowers…anyway, the man poured the drinks at the bar which was a problem with his hands. It was the worst drinks in the world and the cups were always dusty because he had problems cleaning them. But here, nobody told him that. We all had bigger problems in this town.
“You know,” Dag said, sipping at his Vodka, “these drinks taste a lot like a dead squirrel.”
Pearl nodded. “And the cups are really dirty…”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh shut up you two! Be grateful you even have a drink in front of you.” Besides, they were screwing up my story. Jerks.
“So anyway,” Pearl drowned her shot glass before continuing. “I’d like to know when you’re actually going to start this case.”
I took out a cigarette from my pocket. Not a real one of course, one of those yummy bubble gum kinds. Besides, Smokey the Bear says, “Only YOU can prevent alcoholics from burning our forests.” I think they’re thinking of changing that slogan sometime…
“Hello?” Pearl looked agitated again…just because I wasn’t answering immediately.
“Calm down, baby,” I said, puffing little wisps of sugary smoke from my gum, “we’ll find out who you are soon enough.”
She looked ready to argue, but before she was able to scream some R rated words at me, a voice rang through the tavern.
“ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?!”
“Ed!” Rang everybody’s cheery cries.
Edmond Dante IV. A young man, in his twenties no doubt, with an attitude of a retired old geezer. The fellow was usually seen with his regular green suit and tie with pictures of squids on it. His arrogance shown through the strut in his walk, but once you got to know him he was as sweet as a strawberry. MMMmm strawberries…er…Edmond also happened to be the owner of the bar, a position many would die for.
“’Ello there, Detective. Keepin’ up wit yar job I reckon?” Edmond had strode up to where Dag, Pearl, and I were sitting and took a seat to the lady’s left.
“As a matter of fact, I’m on a case right now.” I shifted my head toward Pearl.
Edmond let out a low whistle. “Well doll-face. Don’t reckon I’ve seen you in these parts of town. You new, baby?”
Pearl straightened up in her chair. “Depends.”
Edmond raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I could have lived here all my life for all I know,” answered Pearl.
“She appears to have lost her memory,” I quickly explained. “Doesn’t even know who she is.”
“For now you can call me Pearl.”
I knew it once they first set eyes on one another. Love at first sight. He, the owner of a sanctuary for drunkards; she, a beautiful dame who had amnesia and could have been a married lady with kids. Perfect match, if I do say so myself.

<cheesy, melodramatic music plays in background>

“Pearl…”
“Say it! Say it so I don’t have to.”
“…I would really like…a slice of really greasy pizza.”
“Oh yes! Yes!”
“By the way, what would you think about marrying me?”
“Wha? Oh sure, what the heck?”

Aw, romance at its finest. The two would be hitched. In fact they were, right there in the bar that day, that minute. We had no priest to read things from the bible so we had Two Fisted McGraw read recipes out of his Fixing Alcoholic Beverages For Dummies as a makeshift wedding. And as soon as he read, “Finally, toss in one of those cute little umbrellas” the two were officially married. Aw, romance at its finest indeed.

Weeks had passed. Pearl seemed happy in this town, carefree and trying not to worry about her problems like everybody else here did. She never asked me to keep searching for her past, but I did. Something about her made me want to find out more. She was so distant, yet so familiar. Sweet, but subtly sour. She had a different side to her than the careless, lost skirt we had before and I was the only one who cared about that side.
She was sitting with Edmond to a table all of their own. Of course I wasn’t far behind them, disguised as a giant pink lobster. It was a costume that never drew too much attention to myself.
“What’s that giant pink lobster doing in my bar?”
“Oh shut up. It’s a cute costume,” I snarled furiously.
“So Edmond,” Pearl said, waving her glass of booze in the air, the ice cubes hitting the glass with a soft clink!, “how is it, running a bar?”
“Easy. Let me show you.” Edmond raised his arms in the air and roared at the top of his lungs, “ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?”
“Ed!” Everybody in the bar cheered.
“See?”
Pearl flashed a smile. “ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?” she cried.
“Who the hell are you?” Was the response from the rest of the bar.
“You’ll get used to it.” Edmond smiled and walked out of the tavern.
Two hours later we found his body lying in the hallway.
It was Dagwood who had spotted it first. He came back into the bar squealing like a little girl who had found a spider in her pillow. “Detective! I think you need to see this! Come quick!”
Naturally, there was a mad frenzy has the mob in the bar jumped to their feet and dashed to what Dagwood was crying about. They had to be first to see it. I quickly got to my own feet and pushed my way through the crowd.
“Excuse me! Pardon me! MOVE YOU LITTLE FROGWALLOPER! LET THE GIANT, FRILLY PINK LOBSTER THROUGH, IDIOTS!”
Either the part of me insulting them or the fact that there was a giant, frilly pink lobster that caught their attention, everything froze.
“Thank you,” I said, exhausted.
And with that, Dagwood led me to what it was that scared the pinstripe pants off of him.
The body lied there…

<Due to the graphic nature of the following segment, we have decided to skip through this part, letting anybody with lung disease, anxiety, pregnant women, and people with a bladder the size of a gumball feel at ease. We encourage you to think about puppies frolicking through green meadows, rainbows, flowers, and the death of Richard Simmons. Thank you for this interruption.>

Pearl had let out a scream. “If this somebody murdered my husband, I may be next!”
I had a feeling this case was going to be a bit more intense than the Case of the Picky Poodle…

To be continued?

Welcome to Canica

"Hello sir! My name is Cassie, what can I do for you?"
"Uh…I just needed to purchase this…"
"Okee-dokee! Ooh, you must have gotten these from the pharmacy."
"Yeah. It's for…my rash…"
"Paper or plastic?"
"Does my rash look like paper or plastic?"
"Goodness no! I mean, do you want me to put it in a plastic bag or a paper bag?"
"You'd use a whole paper bag for these things…for my rash?"
"Why certainly! We give the customer whatever he or she wants!"
"Uh…I'll get a plastic bag…for these things…for my rash."
"Good choice, sir! Would you like a bag with handles or a goody bag?"
"Why would I want to use a goody bag?"
"Because it's smaller and more convenient, sir."
"Oh, so it's not for handing out at parties then?"
"Goodness no! Just for your convenience."
"Okay…I'll get a goody bag…as the size of my plastic bag…for these things…for my rash. My wife will be proud of all my decisions."
"Would you like to pay for that in American or Canadian currency?"
"Uh…I have to pay a tax even for my wife now?"
"Goodness no! I mean, are you paying for those things in American or Canadian currency?"
"Why the choice? Aren't we in America?"
"Actually, no. We're on the border. Thus, we weren't sure whether to join Canada or America. We made a resolution."
"Is that legal?"
"It is in Canica."
"Canica? Is that a new soda?"
"Goodness no! It's what we call this place."
"Um…okay…I'll pay for that in Canadian currency…because it's cheaper…with a goody bag…that's plastic…for these things…for my rash."
"By the way, I like your haircut."
"Thanks, my mom did it."
"Would you like a receipt?"
"I need a receipt for my mom?"
"Goodness no! I mean, would you like a receipt for your purchase?"
"Um…I guess I'll take a receipt…put it in the goody bag…that's plastic…and holding my things…for my rash."
"So have you seen the doctor about this?"
"Yeah. I had to get a prescription."
"Would you like to enter our contest?"
"For another prescription?"
"Goodness no! I mean, would you like to enter our contest to win a new toaster oven?"
"Why would I want a toaster oven?"
"Why, to cook toast in of course!"
"I can't eat toast. I'm allergic. It gives me something like Athlete's Foot, but it's on my back."
"It comes in eight different shades of the rainbow!"
"Athlete's Foot comes in eight different shades of the rainbow?"
"Goodness no! I mean, the toaster ovens come in eight different shades of the rainbow."
"I thought there were only seven colors in the rainbow."
"There are eight colors. Red, orange, yellow, Canadian, green, blue, indigo, and violet."
"Wait a second, Canadian's not a color!"
"It is since we were sued from not being Canadian enough."
"Suing because you're not Canadian enough? Is that legal?"
"It is in Canica."
"Canica? Is that some type of new soda?
"You must be new here."
"Yeah. Just traveling. Borrowed my mom's minivan."
"Would you like a coupon?"
"For a new car?"
"Goodness no! For when you come back to visit."
"I don't think I'll be visiting again…"
"Just take the <censor> coupon."
"Will it help my rash any?"

Intro:

Welcome to My World

Have you ever wondered about who would be the biggest idiot on the face of the planet? Of course you have, it’s a question we ask ourselves everyday: Am I the biggest idiot on the face of the planet? The answer is yes. You only just became the biggest idiot on the face of the planet. Why? you ask. Simple. You decided to read this.
You hold in your hands (or more, you see on your computer screen) what is likely to be the one thing keeping you from your sanity. Me. Me and my writing. This here is dangerous trash just waiting to cause trouble. Trouble? That’s only the beginning. Sense? Of course this isn’t supposed to make any sense, nitwit.
So what is the point of this piece of writing? To let me speak to you. I want to let loose everything I believe, everything I have an opinion on, everything I want others to know. Philosophies? If that’s what you want to call them. I prefer rants, rages, pages of complete nonsense. Don’t want to believe anything I am going to say to you in the next few chapters? Don’t. That simple. Want to argue with my views and yours? Do.
Oh, you’re still reading this?
I solemnly swear to pour into these pages my own stories from my own life, my experiences, and my voice. Yes, this could be dangerous as I’m a very dangerous person. I’m usually seen running around the house screaming “DEATH TO WEBSTER HAHAHA!” or attempting some scheme to take over my family and force them to understand that making a bed isn’t very reasonable. Scared yet? You should be.
Why haven’t you left yet?
Right, now that I explained somewhat what this is, allow me to go into further detail about the title, Chicken Soup: For the Vegetarian’s Soul. Chicken Soup, if you don’t know already, is a highly popular series of books, each of which contain an amount of short stories, poems, and whatnot. Unfortunately I have no clue whom on Earth came up with the title “Chicken Soup”. Thus, I hope I’m not copyrighting by slapping those two words in my title. If I do end up in court for this then, I assure you, I’ll still write this regardless if I’m in a cell (trust me, I don’t have enough money to pay for people suing me).
Also, another thing I must elaborate on in the title. I am NOT, I repeat, NOT a vegetarian. I never in my life want to be a vegetarian unless in my jail cell they only serve veggies and mashed potatoes. In fact, I was somewhat insulted when I mistook a remark from my teacher as being vegetarian. I had said, “Life tastes like chicken” and he replied, “Even if you’ve never tasted chicken?” Of course I nearly blew up, complaining to Lila-Bird (we have this relationship that is based sorely on depression, insanity, and complaining to each other) until finally I learned that he was using the word “you’ve” as a person in general, not me. Very relieving. Now if you excuse me I have some Tofu waiting on the table…for my vegetarian guest and a meatloaf in the oven for me.
So that wraps it. I’ve simply told you what the heck this is. It isn’t exactly a story, isn’t exactly a report. It is a collection of my ideas and memories for all of you to goggle at. Oodles of insanity awaits you my friends. Oodles. So be afraid. Be very, very afraid.
I can’t believe you finished reading this.

Intelligence:

Why Some People Are Considered Idiots

I absolutely hate my little sister.
A few months ago on Independence Day my family and I made a nice little trip that night to the city beach to watch the fireworks. It was quite a warm evening and I remember sulking in the heat. My dad had told me that pyrotechnicians no longer did the fireworks show and that more than half of it was automated. That wasn’t all that was making depressed. Unfortunately, my dear little sister, Chloe, was in a particularly bad mood—which isn’t always unexpected.
Chloe. Dear Chloe. She has been nothing but nine years of pure torture to life and everything in it…including me, of course. The girl is a menace and what I like to call a bane of my existence. Chloe has always found a way to make my life miserable with her spoiled, selfish attitude. She can get virtually anything with her way of whining, fits, and crying. Even though it drives me up the wall and out the ceiling, I have to admire her talents at being one of the most self-centered people out there. And what’s worse is that I feel as if my little sister is multiplying. She just got a puppy, Roxy, which I swear is an evil spawn of Hitler. Every time I step into the room, I can hear her growling at me. It resembles something like:
Allllarx (grumble, grumble) Alllllox (spit, cough) AAAALLLLEEEX
It also happens to scare the bejeezes out of me.
So anyway, we were walking on towards the beach, brushing against the empty bars and clothing shops (what a great combination…this town is full of wonderful things) and neon lights. A crescent moon hung dimly in the sky, but the muted light was still not faint enough to hide my sister’s permanent scowl. She stormed behind my parents, the stroller, and I, muttering something to herself about world domination (or it might have been a new collar for Roxy…you can never be to sure with aspiring dictators, which I KNOW she is one).
We arrived at the beach, swimming through the massive crowd of skateboarding punks, idiots on bicycles, screaming kids, topless rednecks, and (my personal favorite) the gangs of high-schoolers who are oh-so-cool. We found a grassy patch off the shore of the beach and sprawled out our ugly green blanket. I immediately fell onto it, looking up at the stars, still dumbfounded at how the fireworks really worked. Chloe, however, began immediately complaining.
The one thing that amazes me about my sister is that she can complain or argue with anything. Whenever my friends meet her, I’ll always whisper in their ear, “Watch this” and then tell Chloe the sky is blue. On instinct she always, always snaps back, “No it’s not! You’re stupid!” And her complaining is worse. We took a family vacation to Florida and went to Disney World. We were all having a blast, but Chloe (dear Chloe) nitpicked that the place was boring and she’d rather go back to the hotel so she could watch T.V. I mean, come on, this is Disney World. It doesn’t get much better than this, squirt.
“The trees are in my way! How am I supposed to see the fireworks?!”
My mom, who has far too much patience, calmly answered, “They’re in the sky, dear. You’ll see them just fine.”
“I don’t want to sit here. It’s too crowded. This is stupid.”
It went like that for about ten minutes before my dad finally did his magic. “Chloe! Knock it off for the sake of our sanity!”
That did it. Oh yes, I love my dad.
“I hate you all! I’m never talking to you again! This is stupid!” And with that, she stormed a couple of paces away.
I sniggered. This was the only reason I wanted to live anymore.
Of course, it was only about twenty seconds later before I saw the dark form of Chloe striding back to the blanket.
I groaned. “What do you want?”
She flashed me an evil glare and turned to mom. “I have a bloody nose.”
Stylish. She never really can go out with a bang. Something always ruins it. Actually, I think she got that bloody nose as a sign. It means that the great spirits of the fireworks were angered at her selfishness and the blood was a message simply stating, “Feel the wrath of our power!” Simple as that.
My mom rolled her eyes. “Look in the pocket of the stroller and you might find some Kleenexes.”
Chloe wobbled grumpily and began foraging in the stroller. She was quiet for a few minutes, almost too quiet. Well, actually, it must be hard to talk when you have to punch a Kleenex on your nose. I was tempted to turn around and laugh at her, and I did. I’m not one to try to overcome inducements of my mind. I looked toward her and pointed, but I nearly choked on the laugh I was cooking up for her.
“What the—!” The scene nearly sent me into a coma. Luckily it didn’t, but it did send me into hysterics.
Chloe gave me one of those “what are you talking about” type of looks. She pressed harder on her nose…but it wasn’t with a Kleenex. I suppose the only thing my mom had in her pockets were some emergency pads. Yes, the big honkin’ suckers at that. You have no idea how relieving it was to see my sister with a Playtex shoved up her nose. If had suddenly died there, I would have died with the widest grin in the world. In fact, I thought I was going to die of a heart attack anyway.
My mom quickly turned around to see what I was goggling at. She immediately cracked up too, while my dad giggled embarrassedly and blushing at the same time.
“It’s a good thing you had these funny napkin things in the stroller, Mom,” Chloe said, a grin spreading across her face at us laughing.
Unfortunately for her, she had no idea how stupid she looked at that moment. And even better for me, she’ll never know why I was laughing my head off until she goes into fifth grade, where they give the dreaded ‘talks’. God bless you and your ‘funny napkins’ Chloe. God bless.
The fireworks began, Chloe’s face becoming illuminated by the faint pinks, blues, purples, and whatnot. A pile of pads lying beside her, and she had a fresh one pressed up to her nose. I didn’t know how I was able to keep from peeing my pants. An immunity I must have I guess.
The fireworks ended with the “grand” finale and a bunch of BOOM, BOOM, BOOMs. My dad had finally found a small pack of Kleenexes hidden in the depths of all the trash in the stroller. Sadly, that was after Chloe had to shove the tampon up her nose because of lack of ‘funny napkins’.
I can tell you, I have never had a better night in my life. I walked home in a daze, nearly walking into everybody and everything. I had finally caught Chloe in what would be the most embarrassing part of her life.
And thus, I have made it even worse by exposing this experience on the Internet. Ah, Chloe, if you ever by chance learn of my secret of posting this, then death awaits me. But I’d like to remind you that I will die for honor…and stabbing you in the back while looking you in the face, which, by the way, will forevermore have a pad stashed in the nose.
I love my little sister.

Intelligence (continued):

Despite popular belief, you can't teach old tricks new dogs

I have a dog. He’s really stupid.
Don’t start yelling at me about animal rights and how I hate my dog. I don’t hate my dog…he’s great. But it’s the truth: my dog’s really, really stupid.
My friend has a dog that she thinks is stupid because we won’t shake. The dog can shake hands with you, but won’t shake his “groove thing” (don’t start singing now).
My dog, Slade, is stupid just because he was born that way. Allow me to elaborate.
Firstly, my dog has no sense of direction. He is always running into walls, falling down the stairs, and being sat on by my two-year-old sister.
I remember it was a cold morning in January. I woke up late that morning, but I wasn’t late just for breakfast, but for letting Slade out to do his business. The poor thickhead was running in small circles near the door, yapping his little head off. I yawned and trudged toward the ugly white door of my old house (believe it or not, I used to live in a trailer—erm—excuse me, mobile home, but more on that later) and turned the knob. As soon as my fingers touched the brass, Slade immediately stopped and waited for me to open the door. His eyes were bulging, nearly popping out of the immensely fat skull of his. I slowly opened the door, making it as dramatic and painful for him as possible. Those beady brown eyes just stared at the crack in the doorway becoming wider, and wider, and wider. As soon as he was sure his fat little body would make it through (and it was still quite a squeeze for him as I didn’t have the door opened very far), he leaped out of the house and on to the deck.
Before we continue, I must explain something about the area where I live. In the winter it turns into a living Hell, but with three feet of snow. My dad’s a mailman and knows everything about diabolical snow…and ice. The ice gets about as thick as…well, about as thick as Slade I guess. Maybe not quite as thick, but fairly thick.
As soon as Slade bolted out the door, he realized that the whole deck was nothing but a smooth sheet of unthawed ice from the night. Immediately losing his balance, the nitwit slipped and landed full force on his butt. I watched as a little black and white dot went zooming across the deck at record speed and about to break the sound barrier, no doubt. Yelping all the while, Slade slid to the stairs, but instead of clunking down them, as you would imagine in cartoons, he soared right off the deck. I watched with unblinking eyes as my dog flew across half of the backyard, barking so loudly that I’m sure the president was scared that Martians were bombing America. Everything seemed to move in slow motion: my dog hovering in the air, eyes stuffed, mouth opening and clamping like Pac Man; the neighbor walking out in her pajamas and fluffy pink slippers; me doing the classic “NOOOOoooo!” thing in slow mo…only I was saying something like, “FLLLOOOOWERRrrrsss!”
My mom’s flower garden. My mom’s flower garden that was full of rosebushes. My mom’s flower garden that was full of rosebushes, rosebushes being the pokey ones. My mom’s garden that was full of rosebushes, rosebushes being the pokey ones, was Slade’s final destination.
I don’t think he had to pee after that.
Secondly, my dog thinks he himself is stupid. It has to at least be a suspicion. I mean, he is petrified of mirrors. Whenever he looks into one he starts attacking it, barking, running frantically around the house, and attacking it some more. We once used it as a punishment whenever he got in trouble. That lasted until he broke my mom’s favorite makeup mirror.
Thirdly, he will eat virtually anything. We give him tennis balls to play with. They’re gone the next day. My dad once gave him a turkey leg bone to chew on. He ate it, got sick, started hacking all over the house. On one occasion, Chloe, the devil sister, left her box of crayons out in the living room. Of course Slade ate them…surprise, surprise. For the rest of the week his droppings were pastel. It was sort of like a mosaic in my back yard. My dog is an artist. I could have bottled all of the piles of crap and sold them in New York for $100. Of course, you can bottle anything and sell it in New York for $100…
Then again, Slade isn’t the only stupid dog I’ve had. I once had a puppy named Ivan (who, unfortunately, got hit by a car) a long time ago. Of course, I must share one of his stories with you.
It was the night before Christmas and in the little house I was sprawled on the couch. We were opening one or two presents (my family likes to cheat when it comes to gifts) when Ivan hobbled into the room. He was walking with his back legs spread apart. We all simply shrugged, as we didn’t find this unusual. Hey, we come from a long line of stupid dogs. But after a few moments we noticed that whenever dear Ivan sat down, he began freaking out and yelping. We couldn’t figure out what the heck was wrong with him, so naturally, we called the vet.
Asking a veterinarian to cure our dog on Christmas Eve. What better way to say, “Feliz Navidad, amigo!”
Ivan was placed on the counter thingummy. He was shaking so violently, we were afraid he was about to have a heart attack.
“Hmm. Interesting,” was all the vet could say for now.
As expected, he whipped on his latex glove and wriggled a finger in my poor dog.
“Very interesting,” he said as he pulled his hand back out. He held between his fingertips, a sowing needle, thread still strung on it and everything.
Poor Ivan had swallowed the needle. But how in the heck he was able to navigate that thing through his intestines, I’ll never know. But I swear, as soon as the vet pulled that needle out, the dog collapsed--collapsed-- on the counter, finally able to lie down.
You think by now I’d learn that I have a curse of picking out immensely stupid pets. It doesn’t always bother me, but my friends are slightly scared of my wacko Slade. You think by now I’d give up on pets. Heck no. I’m now in the market to get a snake—Red Tailed Boa Constrictor to be exact—at the end of the month. Snakes are lazy reptiles that sleep more than half of the day. Hopefully I won’t have to worry about it, but we’ll see when I get. Expect a section on my snake in later days.
You can count on it.

Anxiety:

Pain Sucks

I feel miserable. Allow me to explain: my lip feels as if it is ten times fatter than it should be, my jaw hurts, and there is a continuous fountain of blood gushing from my gums. Pleasant. I have soaked through three of the four napkin thingummies the dentist gave me and I don’t think the ungodly large hole—no, abyss—will clog up by then.

The trauma all started this morning when I woke up, stretched, and marched to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. I was greeted by my comics (God bless Garfield, Zits, and Fox Trot), a messy kitchen left for me by the one and only Chloe, two idiotic dogs running madly around the house, and my screaming two year old sister who was usually found stuck in a drawer or a basket or the couch or the fridge…
So things were normal—as normal as they get in this house anyway—when I sat down at the table and began pouring a bowl full of Cheerios, singing at the top of my lungs O, O it’s magic yoooou knoooow when my mom stumbled into the kitchen. She tried desperately to brush dyed, messy red hair out of her face, but to no avail. Rubbing at an eye, she said between two yawns, “You’ve got a dentist appointment in two hours. Your finally getting those two teeth pulled.”
I dropped my spoon, which sent it diving into my bowl of Cheerios. It fell with clank in the bowl and sprayed a light trickle of milk on the sleeves of my PJ’s. I gave her one of those ‘I’m so pathetic and lost so please don’t put on this drama for me’ type of looks. They never worked, but I haven’t been willing to give them up for nearly fourteen years.
Of course, it wasn’t as if I weren’t expecting this cheery visit to the doctor. It had been planned all summer. I was to get my fangs pulled because my stupid adult teeth didn’t have the flipping brains to come in and push the baby teeth out. Idiotic adult teeth…oh wait…they don’t have brains. Crap, nothing to blame. Anyway, I had to get them out soon because I am to get a retainer (groan). It’s not for my teeth, but for my jaw. Every time I open my mouth, my jaw pops and hurts like hell. So I have to put up with a piece of metal shoved in my mouth to widen my upper jaw. Yes, it is disturbing to think about my bones being forced to spread apart. Egh, I’m getting images…
Well now that you learned my lifetime of mouth problems, we shall proceed to (say this in a Paul Harvey voice) the rest of the story.
My mom picked at her fading nail polish. “Bring a CD and it won’t be as bad.”
I jumped to my feet. Exactly. To take away the pain in my mouth, simply blare my music as loud as possible and focus the pain in my ears! Genius!
Or I could simply rely on Weird Al and take away all pain completely…yeah, that sounds more reliable.
Oh Weird Al, my savior and worshipped idol, may you aid me in this dire time of need. I rest my pain in your hands as you sing to me the joyous sound of Avril screeching How was I supposed to know that we were both related? Trust me, if I knew she was my cousin we never would have dated… God bless you Al, every one of your curly hairs.
So we packed my little sisters in the van and off we were! Speeding down Division Street, racing to my doom. I had never had a cavity before and I’ve never had a sharp object shoved into my mouth. I was getting fidgety, spinning the CD case of Poodle Hat in my hands anxiously, staring at the spiraling head of Al.
My mom screeched to a halt in the parking lot of our dentists. We all clambered out and I slowly inched my way toward the door, taking steps no longer than a few inches. By the time I got inside my mom and my sisters were waiting on the ugly chairs of the office, reading some sort of magazine together. I groaned and fell to my seat, making a dramatic show of my leg shaking in fear…stupid leg wouldn’t give up.
I have this thing where I have to be constantly moving. I hate sitting and doing nothing. Right now I’m sitting and typing so I’m fine. But at school is where I really suffer. I’m constantly moving around in my seat, shaking my leg, and fiddling with my pencil. This was immensely painful as I had one of the longest classes in my entire life just last year. Movie after movie of a lot of stuff I didn’t even bother to remember. Most of the VHS’s anyway were old and outdated. I mean, we were lucky if one of the tapes was in color. So yes, history class last year was an extreme torture. Wouldn’t have survived it if it weren’t for my precious Isabella. Thank you.
“Hey Alex!”
I answered the dentist with a groan. I always thought of him as one of those adults that wanted to be 'hip'. Maybe I'm just paranoid when it comes to doctors. Who knows?
I stood to my feet and began walking toward the door. I passed Chloe (I swear she had a smirk on her face before I turned to look at her) and saw her eyeing my Weird Al CD. I took a deep breath and shoved it in her hand.
"Here," I mumbled. "Put it in the car."
She stared at me blankly before replying, "You don't need it?"
I shook me head. This was something I had to do alone. Without Al.

<Cheesy, melodramatic music plays in background>

So I walked into the death chamber, looking braver than I felt (I just wanted to say that for the sheer helluvit). But I forced a smile and walked smoothly. I'm good at doing that when I'm pissed or being scared the piss out of. My own little camouflage, as I like to refer to it as. You just can't go around the halls at school with a haughty face or else everybody has to look you in the eye and say, "What's the matter…uh…what is your name again?"
I jumped onto the metal bead full of nails and broken glass sticking out on the armrests and chain clamps dangling off the side. All right, it was one of those fluffy white chairs that smell like toothpaste…but nonetheless, I hopped on it.
"So how have you been, Alex?" The dentist's assistant, Marlene, had been a friend of the family for quite a while.
"Oh gee, very good. I mean, I'm only going to get two teeth ripped out of my own flesh."
I don't think she got the hint of sarcasm. "Well we'll take your x-ray and then get cracking!"

Thirty minutes later…

I kicked my flipping feet to and fro, knocking my flipping Sketchers together, still waiting for the flipping dentist to pull out my flipping teeth so I could flipping go home. I was also beginning to get a little ticked.
"Sorry I took so long."
I don't know whether or not I was happy to see the doctor so I could end my boredom, or if I was unbelievably irritated at the man who was about to cause ten minutes of misery for me.
He fumbled around on the table, no doubt for the vaccination needle (what a fancy word for TORTURE DEVICE). He didn't bring it within sight, but I was sure he was holding the needle. Heh. Nice touch, not allowing the patient to see the stick of death.
Then, without warning, a gloved hand grabbed my cheek. I sat there a little dazed and confused. Finally, when fifteen seconds passed and he was still gripping me cheek, I asked, "Os ngon aw?" (Translation: What's going on? It is very hard to speak when one's mouth is open…that sounds funny saying that.)
He looked down at me over his facemask. "I'm giving you a shot."
Oh crap. Now that he told me he's inserting the stupid shot, I'm going to force my body to feel pain. Sure enough, a little burning sensation began to spread in my mouth. I laughed. It's what I do when I'm afraid, anxious, or just feeling idiotic (which, mind you, is twenty-three hours of the day). After a while he looked down at me and said, "You are the noisiest patient I've ever had."
Finally, it clicked. He thought I was crying.
This, of course, made me laugh harder.
And this went on through both of the shots.
My lip felt as if it had grown twenty times fatter than it should be. The doctor left for a second so I sat and pinched, poked, pulled, and bit on my lip. No pain. Cool. I tried to do things like whistle and watched as a bunch of spit flew out of my mouth. Very cool.
The doctor came back and stood to my right side. "Let's do this."
"Alright, let's pull out this sucker first." I watched as Marlene flew to my other side on a swivel chair. She pointed at my tooth that was partially loose. The dentist nodded, placed some sort of evil looking pliers on my tooth. I closed my eyes and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Then I felt a tugging on my other tooth.
"Wah! Ot ya gah pa maw aha hoo?" (Wait! Aren't you going to pull my other tooth?)
"We already did that," the dentist replied.
I was caught off guard by two miracles. The first one being he pulled my tooth out and I didn't even have the attentiveness to notice it. The second being how dentists can carry a conversation with you even if your mouth is wide open, saliva dribbling down your chin, AND unable to move your lip.
But I'm afraid this is the part where it gets bad.
The numbing crap began to spread across my face. I felt as that stupid tingly sensation crept up to my eyelid. I couldn't close my eye. It was as if somebody had smacked me in the face…with a microwave.
The second tooth put on a fight as well. The doctor tugged, heaved, and even pushed upward on the tooth. When he shoved that sucker up into my gum I began laughing again. Grah. Why do I do this to myself?
Then the worst part came. I heard Marlene mutter some R rated word.
My eyes shot open and I nearly sprang from my seat. "WHA?!" I cried. The one thing you do NOT want to hear from your doctor is anything having to do with "uh-oh" or "oops, my bad".
"Oh it's nothing, don't worry about it."
Yeah. Sure. That's like asking a drug dealer to quit his addiction of crack. Ain't gonna happen, sista.
So then I went into a fit of hysterics. Laughing, giggling, chuckling, cackling, you name it. I did every single laugh imaginable to mankind.
"Why are teenage girls always the hardest?"
I nearly blew up. Not every teenage girl has as eccentric problems as mine…or do they? Crap. Now I've got the Twilight Zone theme song stuck in my head.
So, what seemed like hours passed when finally the dentist announced I could go home. Marlene gave me some napkin things to shove on my gums that were spouting out blood left and right. I got to walk out of the office in front of everybody with paper shoved in between my teeth. I got to the parking lot and looked for my family's van.
It wasn't there.
"Oov oh oo mee iddy ee." (You've got to be kidding me.)
So I walked back into the office, back in front of everybody, and headed toward Marlene. I shook my head to show my mom wasn't there.
"You're Mom's not there?"
I shook my head again.
"Where is she at?"
Then I remembered. "Mmaahgigis." She had to take my sister to Mmmaah…I mean…Gymnastics.
Marlene wasn't as talented at having conversations with people with oral disabilities as the dentist was. "What?"
I pointed to my watch. "Mmaahgigis!"
"Uh…just wait in my office until she comes back."
I nodded and made my way to her desk. My napkins were beginning to bleed through and were dripping blood all over my shirt. Pity. It was white.
Marlene came in after a while. "You're mom had to take your sister to gymnastics. They'll be here soon."
I rolled my eyes and groaned. Why doesn't anybody ever listen to me?

Anxiety (continued):

Butterflies in your stomach is a morbid metaphor

Today is Friday. Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out. But not everyone knows that this was a special Friday for me. This was the Friday where we had jazz band try-outs. For the entire week I have been working my arse off, practicing, site reading, keeping a beat, blaring my Chicago soundtrack to get into the "groove". I even woke up a half hour early (making it forty-five minutes before school starts compared to my usual fifteen) to do some last minute banging on my drums.
Ah! The drum set, one of my only prides and joys. Nothing can cool me down from a haughty day like banging around on my friends (the drums…not my physical friends…okay, occasionally I hit them too). Nothing can beat the relaxation of playing a quiet shuffle. Nothing compares to the massive adrenaline rush when beating to a rock beat. When I play those drums, everything seems to disappear and all that matters is the beat, sticks, the base, toms, snare, cymbals, and I. Because when I play, that's all that count. Together, we don't need problems, we don't need difficulties, tribulations aren't necessary, anger is only poured into those drums and they are courteous enough to keep them there.
Boy, does that sound cheesy or what.
But it's the truth.
The truth is full of dairy products (MMMmmMMmm Yogurt…)
So, naturally, I thought maybe I'd take a shot at jazz band. The music is usually up beat enough to keep me happy.
I packed my snare drum (the drum I use for regular band) in its case, tossed my backpack across my shoulders, and walked into the school. A very crappy school, by the way, but we won't go into further detail on that. I navigated my ways through the halls expertly, dodging the bragging jocks, avoiding the couples that were trying desperately to choke each other with their tongues, and strayed away from the ever watchful art teacher, who is—to put it nicely—a little loony…in a good way of course, but loony.
And I'll be fully honest with you when I say I was nervous. I was a nervous wreck. For the whole week I had done nothing but live and breathe my drums. In my head was constantly some beat going on, during study hall I banged my hands on my desk and beat my foot, even when I listened to my music I had to vision myself playing the beat. And yet, I still felt uncomfortable.
For some reason, every time I play the set in front of my band teacher (who, conveniently, was doing auditions) without the security of the rest of the band backing me up, I screw up in a real nasty way. Every time. He has this way to make me feel lower than him—not that he's a mean guy in any way, he just seems so high and powerful with his music knowledge—and intimidates me. Yes, I'm paranoid.
So I chucked my snare into my locker, listened for the familiar Cli-clank-bash! sound, and pulled out my blue sticks. They were my lucky sticks…the first pair that I could rightly call mine. They were a shiny navy color with a thick gold stripe running down the middle, and were heavy, the way I liked them. My drum teacher warned me not to bring them because of their weight and I should worry about playing lightly. But I just wouldn't feel right without my blue sticks. They had grown on me the two years I had had them.
So I walked to the school set, a trashy old geezer that had seen some better days let me tell you. I sat in the chair, which was too old and was slightly broken. The cushion swiveled and tottered on the stand, forcing me to keep my balance when I placed my foot on the base drum pedal and the hi-hat pedal. The set-up bugged me, being slightly different than my own. While listening to some other try-outs (music players only had to do the B flat concert scale…lucky devils), adjusting the snare a little closer to me, unscrewing the top knob on the hi-hat, scooting my throne a little more towards the low tom, critiquing the way the ride cymbal was set up.
It wasn't long until my teacher strode up to me. He is an older man with balding gray hair, usually seen with a button-up shirt and khaki pants. He has a wrinkled face hidden by black-rimmed glasses. He pulled up a chair a little ways in front of the set. "You ready, Alex?"
What?! I get no chance to warm up? "Yup." Where the heck was this confident voice coming from? Oh right. Instinct. Always look more relaxed than you feel. It helps relax the people around you and when people are relaxed they will be brainwashed into letting me join the jazz band without having to prove myself "worthy".
"Alright, we'll start with your basic fills."
Crap. The cool look on my face was a no go. "Fills. Gotcha."
"So we'll do eight measures of swing on the ride, a little fill, and then swing on the hi-hat. Keep the same beat, don't change the meter."
I could feel my eyes bulge. Screw trying to look stress-free. "A fill with a swing beat?"
He looked at me as if I had just asked a McDonald's worker not to fry the food. "This is jazz band try-outs, is it not?"
Crap. Crap. I had been practicing a rock beat fill. Grah. I told him this.
"At the beginning of our classes, you want to know how many rock beats we do?" He held up his hand in the shape of an "o" to resemble a zero.
"None?" I mumbled the answer, resting my chin on my chest.
"That's right. Now play it."
I heaved a sigh and got into my drumming mode. My drumming mode is a lot like my gameface when I play videogames. I can't play games without my special face and I can't drum without my mode.
But I told you how my teacher daunts me in a subtle way. I could not find my mode.
I shrugged. No matter. I could play without it this once. It just wouldn't sound as relaxed, that's all. No biggy. So I began playing the basic swing beat.
Uh huh, yeah! Now you've got it Alex. Relaxed at last. You're with your element. Keep playing. Uh huh, yeah! Don't lose that beat. Uh, uh, uh, uh. It don't mean a thing uh If it ain't got that swing uh Doo-wap-a-woo-wap-a-doo.
Crap. Crap. Crap. Quit playing songs in your head, idiot. You're supposed to be counting eight measures and get ready to fill. Good job. Good job.
I never really counted measures when playing with my dad and his guitar or with Cole and his base. Counting measures and filling at a certain area was far too cliché. I simply filled whenever I thought the song needed it (or my dad was beginning to loose his time). Thus, I wasn't good at keeping track of measures.
I dived for the fill, missing the drum, throwing my beat off and looking up at my teacher with pardon filling my eyes. "Sorry, so sorry! I'm just not used to doing swing fills…"
"Try it again...and this time play a little softer. Jazz isn't meant to be loud like rock." He interrupted.
Should have brought my thinner sticks. Stupid idiot, you.
I nodded. Come on, Alex, think. You're good at reading music. Picture in your head eight measures with your beat. There you go. Now you've got it. Play, play it. Yes, that's it. Uh huh. Yeah. Splish splash I was taking a bath duh da duh da All on a Saturday's Niiight! bom chi bom bom chi.
Now the fill. Nice fill. Over to the hi-hat now. Oh god, now what? I began playing a rock beat on the hi-hat.
My instructor shook his head and ordered me off the seat. "Hasn't Cole showed you how to play swing on the hi-hat?"
Great. Just great. My teacher had always been a little peeved that I didn't take lessons from his buddy Edd, but from another guy named Cole. Every time I merely brought up lessons or practicing with Cole, he'd always mention something like, "Cole still huh? Well, nothing against him or anything, but I know you could be far more advanced with Edd."
And that was what he told me now.
I nodded and sighed exasperatedly. Yeah, yeah. Edd. Good player. Excellent with swing. I heard a lot about him. I also heard about his who-knows-how-many-months of strenuous training on the snare, the drum that was played so often in band that I quickly got sick of it. No way man. You can keep your strict little pal to yourself. I got Cole and he's as good as hell. I think he'll work.
He showed me how to do swing on the hi-hat, which was enlightening. And for the first time, smiled at me. One of those true smiles, reassuring and comforting. Every wrinkle in his dimples creased dramatically. He reminded me of someone from a caricature.
"Alright now, how's the Bossa Nova coming?"
I clenched my teeth. The same Bossa Nova that you only gave me a week to practice. "I've almost got it down, except for the base drum…but I can get it all down this weekend, I promise!" I quickly added.
He nodded, but I could see his face fall slightly.
So I stretched my neck again and began playing eighth notes on my ride. Good now for the snare. I got my side-stick motion in a good position and played the beat nearly perfectly. It's a weird beat, being Latin and really fast, but I had it, I played it, I liked it.
"It's…a good start," he said quietly.
"I can get it down this weekend," I reminded him hastily.
"Right, right. But you know, I've been thinking about having Stephanie and Pete come back to the jazz band to play."
I nearly vomited. Allow me to go into further detail:
Pete is the all around great guy. He's extremely nice, charming, voted best smile in the yearbook, has the looks of a model, and loved by everyone. Naturally, he was the most popular kid at the school last year. Everybody knew Pete's name. Every girl swooned whenever his name was mentioned. Every guy blushed with jealousy when he passed by, disguising it with a casual, "Yo Pete! Howzit?!" Pete was also the drumming god. He had it all: killer fills, murderous solos, a beat that couldn't be beat. He was so smooth and casual when he played. Even when he made a mistake, he simply smiled and people wondered whether it was intentional or not. I have mixed feelings about Pete. One minute I worship him and look up to him, one of the greatest younger drummers I've ever seen in my life. The next minute I loathed him, stabbing at a Voo-Doo doll every time he stole my spotlight for playing the set at our concerts or assemblies. My band teacher loved Pete as if he were his own son, and who could blame him? Everybody loves Pete…except, perhaps, me.
"Pete eh?" I said, I could hear the hint of envy in my voice.
"Yeah and Stephanie."
Stephanie. The other jazz band drummer last year. Not as many people knew her name. Why? Haven't you figured it out yet? Pete took her light and used it to fill his own already blinding bulb.
My teacher peered at me over his glasses. "And we really only need two drummers…"
Oh. I get it. This is the nice way of saying you didn't make it because you suck. We're going to bring back lovable Pete even though he's no longer in this school anymore. You are no match compared to Pete. You'll never be like Pete. Pete. Pete. Pete. Pete.
Why did I find him so intimidating? Why couldn't I play in front of my teacher?
And then it all came together.
I knew deep down inside that I wasn't playing for my teacher, nor was I really going for jazz band, I was secretly competing with Pete. I was trying too hard and trying to out-beat Pete. You can't do that. Nobody can beat Pete. Nobody. Not even you, Alex, and you just proved it.
I sighed deeply, nodded. I took my sticks in my right hand and rested them on my right shoulder as I usually did when I didn't play. I stood up, forced a smile, and made my way back to the band locker room to get my snare and set up for class.
So this was my goal, to get into jazz band once Pete had finally left the school. But noooo, we have to invite him back, even though this is my time. Why didn't I see that coming? You can't beat Pete.
I clenched my fists. From now on I'd be practicing my arse off. Things were going to be different. I'd get myself a guitar player and a base player. We'd practice together, form a silly basement band. And then one day, one day, Instructor, you'll be so sorry you didn't recruit Alex into your stupid jazz band. You'll be stuck with Pete. Lovable Pete. Godlike Pete. Pete. Pete. Pete.

So maybe Pete can be beat. Just not now.

Friendship:

Nothing says 'you're my buddy' like Italian Soda

I've got an extremely good ring of friends. Lucky? No, I'm never lucky. Honored? Extremely. I respect all of my friends more than they will ever know and more than they'll ever understand. Of course, we do have our quirks but every time I look back at one of our disagreements, I tend to laugh because usually it was a stupid thing anyway. The biggest fight we've ever really gotten into was the ever-popular topic of whether Elijah Wood is gay or not (quickly solved by simply saying he likes to switch off and on…DON'T tell us otherwise or things could get ugly). And that only lasted about twenty minutes anyway.
Today you get the supreme pleasure of learning about my dear Hannah. Opinionated, humorous, and has the ability to slap you in the face when you're doing something stupid. Don't take this the wrong way; I love it when she does it because I always end up secretly thanking her later on. Hannah has this way to walk around with near perfect confidence, having the rare ability to have fun in the world without the care of anybody watching. She understands she only lives once and is going to live it to her fullest. For that, I applaud.
Hannah has this thing where when she's around you, you have this feeling where you know anything is about to happen. And it's always something you'll remember. It's hard to forget any experience when you're with Hannah. But one in particular comes to mind whenever I think of her.
It all happened at the end of sixth grade. I had recently moved to this small town and was just warming up to everybody. It was then that I found out every year the grade school went on a trip to Skate Plaza (the nearest roller rink that's about an hour away). Everybody was getting very excited and anxious. Everywhere in the halls you passed people gossiping about what they were going to do at the rink and occasionally you'd get the giggly girls who would whisper in each other's ear who they wanted to "ask" to Skate Plaza. Nothing says 'romantic' like holding a sweaty hand, tripping over shoes with wheels on them, going in circles, and listening to some Backstreet Boys craptacular piece.
So we packed ourselves into the rancid smelling school bus and began being the regular menaces we always were. All of the guys began singing a rather loud, ear splintering opera version of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. We had to endure their punishment until they somehow reached –34, which conveniently was when the bus stopped in Skate Plaza's parking lot and allowed us to jump off with skates in hand, running frantically towards the double doors.
So for two hours every kid in the school was either going round and round on the rink or playing videogames. Every half hour or so I'd pop over to the least used section, the pinball machines, and drop a quarter in some desert themed game. It is especially fun when you miss the ball because a bunch of dancing cacti jump out, but because it's so old it makes a bunch of noise when they dance (you know, the noise your grandma makes when she snores) causing the effect of ticked off broccoli. It's also fun when I get a high score to type in my initials that little three letter word that happens to start with A and end in S.
Of course, the entire time, Hannah was shoveling Italian Sodas into her mouth, getting a new brain freeze with every scrumptious bite. I wheeled up to her after skating around for two hours. My throat was unbelievably dry and was very scratchy. I checked my pockets but I had spent all my loose change on pissing off the dancing cacti. Bummer. So, naturally, I pulled on my begging mode and began pestering Hannah.
"You have any money left?"
"Enough," she said through a mouthful of watermelon slushy.
"Can I please get something to drink?"
She swallowed thoughtfully and paused a moment before answer, "No."
"Oh come on Hannah! I'm thirsty! I'm going to die, look at me I'm dying for god's sake!" I pulled off a stunt of rolling my eyes backwards, coughing, and tripping on my skates like a cheesy Anime character would do.
She moaned. "Fine, I need another Italian Soda anyway so I'll buy you one too."
I immediately stopped toppling around like a lost drunkard in a roller rink. "Thank you Hannah!" I said in a melodramatic tone.
She shrugged and went to buy the drinks.
As soon as she handed me mine we heard our devil principal roar, "We're leaving! Everybody on the bus, get moving!"
I looked down at my Italian Soda and nearly cried. I was so thirsty. I began shoveling it uncontrollably into my mouth but quickly stopped so I could grip my head in agony. Brain freezes really do hurt.
"Oh watch out and don't eat those too fast," Hannah warned, "you'll regret it."
I groaned and said through gritted teeth, "Thanks for the warning." Then I looked back to the screaming principal. "We can't take this stuff on the bus."
"Well don't throw it away! I spent a whole buck fifty on this and you're going to eat it."
"But…"
"I poured my heart and soul into buying this for you, Alex, and you're going to eat and you're going to like it dammit!"
I shoveled another spoonful in my mouth and forced an unpleasant "MMmm…", wincing as my head felt as if it were about to explode.
Hannah grabbed my arm, accidentally making me chuck a spoonful of ice onto a nearby table. Disregarding it completely, she pulled me towards the door. "Come on," she said with a grin flashing across her face, "we'll sneak onto the bus with it. Just stick it in my purse."
Hannah and I make the genius pair. I mean here we were with bright red slushy drinks that had no cap on it at all and a teeny little purse and a bus that's eighty degrees. So, stick the bright red slushies without caps into the teeny little purse and sneak onto the bus that's about eighty degrees inside. I mean, it's only a two-hour drive anyway. Yeah, how could this plan go wrong?
So I tossed them in. It as a tight squeeze and Hannah couldn't connect the two Velcro ends together. She simply shrugged again and nonchalantly stepped into the bus. I followed her as she sat down next to a girl named Paula, and pulled a seat in front of them with.
The bus started and we could feel the heater blow on our feet. Of all the twenty-four seats in the bus, we choose the one that happens to be right over the heater. Go figure.
"Psst!" Hannah hissed. "Take it, Alex!" She was attempting to shove the cup of Italian Soda to me.
I glanced at the big rearview mirror in the front of the bus. The driver was looking directly at us.
"Stop!" I cried silently. "Put it back, she'll see us!"
Hannah quickly pulled her hand away and looked a little take aback. "I thought you were going to die," she said in a voice that she knew would make me feel guilty.
I groaned. I felt bad. Really bad. I did make her buy it for me and now I wouldn't take it…
"Uh Alex?"
"Yes, Hannah, I'm sorry," I said exasperatedly.
"No, no, no. Your cup. It's your cup, nitwit!"
I turned around in my seat and peered over the foul smelling leather. Man, when was the last time somebody barfed on this? It smelt like nobody had cleaned it since.
"It's got a hole." Hannah whispered, biting her lip.
It wasn't just a hole. It was three holes. All conveniently on the bottom. The stuff began leaking over Hannah and Paula like a tidal wave. I would be hearing about this on the Weather Channel tomorrow, I just knew it.
I let out a wail of frustration and dived back in my seat for my backpack. I quickly unzipped it, listening to the Pffffft sound and began frantically rummaging around inside. I pulled out my roller blades, and empty water bottle that had been in there since the Neanderthals walked, a bouncy ball, a wad of chewed gum stashed in a wrapper, and Monday's old test papers. I was so desperate I pulled out the papers and thrust them to Hannah. "Here," I mumbled. "It's the closest thing we've got to a napkin."
"You only got an eighty percent on our science quiz? That was easy!"
"Oh shut up and cover the hole."
There was silence behind me except for the ruffle of papers and Paula's insane giggling. Paula's a hyper little one that can never be calmed down…and what's worse is she spent about fifteen dollars on Pixie Sticks. Not a good thing.
"There!" Hannah said triumphantly.
I turned around again to see how she did. I nearly slapped my face. Oh wait, I did slap my face.
It was a mess. Pink crap everywhere, shards of wrinkled paper stuck to the Styrofoam cup, and a beaming Hannah. Oh god, where did I go wrong in life?
"It's not going to last the whole trip!" I exclaimed under my breath.
"Then you better find some more paper."
"You used all the paper already?!"
"Of course I did idiot. What else was I supposed to do with it, chew on it?"
I shook my head and slumped back into my chair. I scavenged in the pockets of my backpack and luckily found a school newsletter. The same one that said we were going to have a blast at Skate Plaza so bring your money and get ready for some serious fun, fun, fun.
Oh we were having a blast all right. A blast of red ice oozing from my cup.
It was a half hour in the trip and I was resting my head on the window. Hannah gave me a sharp poke in the temple and gave a wail of depression. "We need more paper."
I looked and saw that my test was now fuzzy and red, dripping with the soda. I handed her the newsletter, which she used immediately, without the help of Paula's mad laughter.
Somehow the paper miraculously managed the rest of the trip. Unfortunately, I had to endure the pitiful moans of "Alex…" behind me. She was making me feel guilty. I felt worse than I ever had before…okay maybe not that bad, but it was pretty close.
The bus came to a halt in front of our school. And Hannah's face turned three different colored shades. It went from white, to red, to a little tint of green, and then back to white. It was kind of neat—kind of like a sextapus (we had gotten a blow up octopus for her birthday but we accidentally ripped off two of the legs, making it have only six…inside joke)—but I had other things to worry about then.
"Take your cup off the bus."
"Hannah, no. If you hand it to me we'll draw too much attention to ourselves," I said, standing up with the rest of the crowd on the bus.
"Please take it, Alex!"
I reached out my hand but just as I was about to grab the cup, was swept away with the rest of the people. It's something you see in cheesy movies where the hero reaches down to grab the damsel in distress' hand before she falls off the cliff, but misses by an inch and watches as the pretty plastic lady plummets to her doom and taking a permanent vacation in heaven—or maybe even hell. Oh wait, that wasn't a movie. That was true. It happened right there…only I wasn't a plastic damsel in distress and Hannah, well yeah, Hannah was the hero of the day.
I thought silently to myself that if she got caught I'd take the blame, but Hannah, being the cool and collected dear she is, strode surely out of the bus, even smiling and saying thank you to the bus driver. The driver smiled and waved and it was only when Hannah stepped off the bus did she notice the bright red patches of soda on the back of her shirt, but by then, Hannah and I were already dashing into the school and racing down the halls.
"Now can you take your stupid cup?" She said angrily, but she was smiling at the same time.
I grabbed it from her and made a sprint towards the girl's room. Throwing away the green newsletter (now a really ugly brown color), I pulled out a foot long of paper towels and wrapped it as neatly around my cup as I could. I came out and held it out victoriously. I could feel the clouds part and the sun shine through as the angels began their glorious song of reprise, and a bright yellow glow emitting from Hannah. All of this stopped as suddenly as it began when I heard, "And where did you two ladies get that from I wonder?"
I slowly turned my head and winced as I saw our teacher standing behind me.
Hannah's jaw dropped a few inches and she searched her brain for an answer. "Uh…the…um…we got it from the tooth fairy." She groaned and began slapping her face.
"You managed to sneak back here with those. I'm impressed."
We both couldn't help the grins returning to our faces. It's good to be praised when you've committed a sin.

Friendship (continued):

Smokey the Bear wants YOU to wear your helmet

We're switching from Hannah to my friend Justina. It's a drastic leap because the two are so different in every way imaginable.
Justina is a perky little chap who is obsessed with the color yellow. A very bright color and when she wears it, I can easily depict her from the crowds at school. She's lively and full of energy, not able to pass up the chance of giggling. Oh man does she giggle. Just about everything can make her laugh—no, giggle. She has a new chuckle everyday where things like the pitch, length, and emotion change. My favorite happens to be the Thar She Blows Guffaw, which she uses when she has a mouthful of Capri Sun. I always try desperately to get her to laugh when she is drinking…especially at school. Yeah, the relationship with all of my friends is a little unusual.
Justina's a pretty smart girl, if a little clueless at times, but she has more common sense than the rest of my friends and I combined. This comes in handy, I assure you, as we do some pretty stupid things.
Except, Justina and I have done some pretty stupid things as well.
But none as stupid as what I'm about to tell you.
Over the long summer Justina and I had grown attached to her grandparent's tandem, one of those two-seater bikes. It's an old sixties looking thing: bright gold, funny shape, handle bars that reach out to your sides, really big butt cushions, and some flower stickers that we managed to peel off. We rode it everyday around town, keeping a tally of all the funny looks we get when on top of it. But it's a blast. Even if Justina steers every single time. It's kind of neat how I can take my hands off the bars and not worry about crashing because she has it under control, but when she sees I'm not paying attention and am relaxing, starts swiveling and driving for the nearest pothole to knock me off with, giggling insanely all the while.
It just so happened that on this particular late summer day, there was a baseball game going on out our beloved Traverse Park (that's usually where we biked on the tandem). A few people we knew from school were going to be playing so we decided to ride on over. Justine, being the little showoff she is, convinced me to take the tandem over there and see what everybody else would think of it. Brilliant plan, oh yes.
We took the "short cut" through an apartment parking lot and were faced with a gargantuan hill. The thing was petrifying, terrifying, horrifying, and any other words that ends in ifying. It's massive slope dipped before us, daring us to take on its challenging course. I knew it was trouble the first time I set eyes on it. We would be driving to our doom if we went down this mountain.
Okay, so it was a little dip about waist high.
But threatening nonetheless because at the bottom was an immensely sharp turn.
Justina began giggling.
My eyeballs bulged. "No way, chico!" I shook my head vigorously and began slapping her back. "This sucker's too old, the brakes don't even work that well."
Actually, the brakes didn't even work at all. We found this out one day as we were careening pell-mell down the road and came to an intersection. Conveniently, a bright blue truck happened to be crossing the moment we arrived. Justina had pounded forcefully on her brake in surprise but nothing happened. Thinking quickly (and a little stupidly) she swerved the tandem in a sharp turn to the right, which sent us skidding along the pavement. Yeah, that was really fun.
She shrugged. "So? We'll just simply keep going straight into the grass."
"There's a tree right in front of us, Einstein."
"We can dodge it."
"Oh come on Justin, don't give me that crap." Justin was the name I called her to really irritate her. Many substitute teachers called her that, thinking she was a boy and the name was misspelled.
She growled and did her typical, giggly, "Grrr. I'm mad at you."
"Yeah I know, so let's turn around."
"Oh no we don't!" She began pedaling.
I began screaming.
Okay, for a really tiny hill, this thing was steep. It sent us flying faster than I think even Justina intended. I could feel my stomach do a small back flip as the dry August wind slapped me face. She miraculously dodged the tree, but I scraped my helmet on the trunk a little. And that's when things got worse. She completely lost control of the bike once we hit the grass and sent us swerving, jumping, speeding, and screaming our blinking heads off. But our shrieks came in rigid squeals. Scream and begin pounding on your chest. That's how we sounded.
Seeing that we weren't going to slow down any, I stood up on my seat and jumped off, falling into the unkempt grass and rolling for a little bit. I quickly unfastened my helmet and threw it to the ground, chasing after the getaway bike, waving my arms like a lunatic, while Justina was screaming and laughing at the same time. It's really awkward when she does that.
Once, on our way from a softball game (a sport we never really learned to master) we stopped at a nearby Taco John's, a fast-food restaurant that, believe it or not, sells sandwiches. That also happened to be the day we had to go to the bathroom really bad but the restrooms were closed…of course. Anyway, we were skipping out to the parking lot, she slurping her Diet Coke through a straw and me reaching out and giving her a nice little shove. She began laughing madly and inhaled on her drink. While she was choking/coughing/giggling I began freaking out and banged on her back with a few hearty slaps. I seriously thought she was going to die right there in the fast food parking lot (I could see her grave now: RIP Justina, good friend, but unfortunately, was killed by one of her friends). She sounded that bad when she was laughing and choking.
And she was making this noise right now.
She was pulling frantically on the brake, but like I warned her, wasn't helping much. She tried to stop the pedals from moving, but caught her foot in the bars in the doing. She wasn't laughing any more.
The bike sped on and flew over a bump, lost its balance and fell over. Justina, who still couldn't get her foot out, fell first with the bike on top of her.
I sprinted towards her and lifted the bike off of her while she pulled her shoe out of the little hole. I grabbed her hand, helped her to her feet, and we both began brushing ourselves off.
You know how you have that feeling that something's not right? How you feel like somebody's watching you? Where every hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Well…I do.
I slowly turned around and groaned. Both teams of the baseball game had immediately stopped. All red jersey people and all blue jersey people were just outwardly gaping at us. The entire game had frozen just to watch our graceful entrance. The parents had stopped their stupid cheering and even the umpire had taken off his helmet to get a better view. There weren't even any snickers to disturb the silence. We were all trying to comprehend the bizarreness of the whole thing.
I gritted my teeth, scratched the back of my neck, and laughed embarrassedly. "A heh heh heh…" Then I turned quickly to Justina. "Well that was a merry old time. I think I'm ready to go back home now."
She nodded. "Yup. Let's go."
We completely disregarded all the gawking faces as we daintily began walking the tandem home, and me calmly picking up my helmet, acting as if we had planned everything that had happened. We turned to the game, grinned, and waved, a gesture to say 'carry on'.
We haven't ridden that thing for months. 

Friendship (it goes on):

I hate fairies

Onward ho laddies! Not only do you get to listen to maw cheesy Scottish accent, but also I'm going to tell ye a tale o' me chap Isabella.
Oh Isabella. Wonderfully entertaining, smart-alec, cynical, vegetarian Isabella. If it were not for her, I would have committed suicide in my history class last year. If it were not for her, I would have nobody to lament about Lord of the Rings with. If it were not for her, I wouldn't be telling you this…interesting…story.
It was winter. Everybody here loves winter. Why? The ski mountain. They all love the ski mountain. Why was I a little bummed? I had just moved here and had never skied before in my life. Why was I feeling good this particular day? Isabella had volunteered to teach me how to snowboard.
Isabella's mom picked us up after a strenuous day at school and dropped us off at the bus stop. There we waited with our packs of coats, boots, gloves, hats, and, of course, emergency candy.
We spotted a few boys we knew from school, them trying to look cool by placing all their weight on one foot and shouldering their equipment. Isabella and I paid absolutely no attention, but began chatting excitedly about last night's re-run of The Simpsons, arguably the greatest show on the planet.
It wasn't too long before the flashy blue bus arrived. We stepped onto the overly heated, overly cramped, overly foul smelling vehicle. The driver was a man who looked to be in his late twenties. He was one of those idiots with blonde hair and put them into cornrows, wore an ugly leather cap, and gave us a chilling stare. Isabella dropped our change in the dispenser and found a seat while I followed in the same manner. The bus began and we started speeding up the mountain.
"He's a cold-blooded, psycho killer who's going to purposefully drive us off the road and kill us all in a diabolical plan to take over the world," I whispered to Isabella.
Even if we are joking around, Isabella and I take everything seriously. We try not to laugh at our jokes, but keep playing along with them until they get too old or we get distracted.
She leaned in towards me ear. "He would die too."
"He's a suicidal dictator."
Isabella couldn't suppress a snort. We have both mastered the sarcastic snort, an art that is perfected by few. "What kind of combination is that?"
"Hey! Hitler committed suicide didn't he?"
This shut her up real nice and fancy. Isabella knew just about every fact about her beloved Hitler. She even did a presentation to our language arts class on him, poster included. Suddenly a grin flashed across her face. We carried on, talking about the driver's mad head and how he wanted revenge from being teased in high school for an immensely large zit on the tip of nose, which happened to be the first life of Elijah Wood. ElWood was then popped and reborn as an actor who enjoys squealing, sweating, and screaming …
Of course, the whole time on the bus, Isabella was trying desperately to hide the front of her snowboard from the schoolmates who had sat across from us. They kept peering over, trying to find an opportunity to flirt with us (yeah they were that desperate). And Isabella kept blushing, fidgeting with her board.
"Can I see your snowboard?" Ethan asked in a loud voice. Ethan was one of those guys who are noisy, obnoxious, stupid, and even a little funny. Somehow he managed to weasel his way to the top of the middle school popularity totem pole.
Isabella's eyes bulged. "No!" she nearly screamed.
Ethan held out his hands as a gesture of no offense. "Um…okay. Why not?"
I stared at the front of our seat and answered without turning my head, "Because it's decorated with a bunch of daisies."
Isabella's face flushed white and she craftily slapped me. My scream of agony rang with the snickers behind us.
It was true. You would never think of Isabella having a flower board. She is a sometimes morbid, tempered little one. When you say Isabella, you don't think of daisies. You think of pyromaniac leprechauns or dying babies in tar pits. Take your pick.
She wouldn't talk to me until we got off the bus. That was when she began getting really excited and chatting nonstop. "And we'll go down the Black Diamond at the end of the day. That's the big mumbo jumbo sucker here. But we won't go on the Bunny Hills, the little twerps dominate that. And then we'll have something to drink at the café! After that, we'll go look around the overpriced stores…"
I walked behind her, nodding and smiling.
The weather was a little funny. It was snowing, but it was raining at the same time. I tried sticking my tongue out to catch some droplets, but a big tough-guy looking man with a leather vest saw me. One of those Hell's Angels biker boy wannabes. I quickly shoved my tongue back in my mouth and kept it there, shifting uneasily.
We strode proudly up to the rental shack so I could get myself a board. I did some last minute shuffling in my backpack to make sure I had enough money and then entered the store. Isabella sniffled her already running nose and shook off her hat. Walking calmly up to the punk boarder-looking guys, she said in a quiet voice, "Um…we need to rent a board and some boots."
One of the men with a long brown ponytail looked down at us, glaring with an I'm-too-cool-for-you type of look. "You have a parent?"
Isabella's face fell. "We…uh…we need a parent?"
The man nodded.
Isabella turned to me, grabbed me by my arm, and dragged me out of the store. We shuffled our way to the lockers where she began her regular rants whenever ticked.
"Oh yes, of course an adult can rent equipment. They can because they are old enough to drive a car and speed off with it. We aren't though 'cause we're lazy kids without a clue in life. GRAH!" She chucked both of our packs into the locker and slammed the door closed. The metal bang rang throughout the locker room. "But hey, I mean, it can't be that bad. We'll just call my dad and ask him to come up here and badda bing badda boom, we go boarding." She pulled out her mom's cell phone that she borrowed and began dialing the numbers frantically, which isn't too hard to do considering just about every number is 1.
I began pulling off my hat and gloves while listening to her conversation.
"Uh huh. Yeah, um, I need to speak with my dad."
Silence for a while.
"Hi. Yeah we made it here fine. Um, actually, no. We can't rent anything without someone of legal age to accompany us. Oh you'll be here then—wait, that's in five hours!" I saw Isabella's face burn bright with frustration. "What are we supposed to do then? Okay, fine. Bye. Yeah, yeah. Bye."
She hung up and tucked the phone into her pocket.
I raised my eyebrow questioningly.
"Well," she said, calmer now, "looks like we're going to have to make ourselves at home."
"Can be done," I said in the best optimistic voice I could master. It's still a crappy voice, but I'm still learning the ways of looking on the bright side.
"Let's go to the café."
"Sounds good."

One hour, thirty minutes, two ice-cream cones, and three mochas later…

"So anyway, see this ingrown eyebrow thing I've got going here? Yeah, it's been there for about four years. My dad says I should get it plucked or something, but I told him it would be way too painful. But my dad likes to inflict pain on me. Once, when I was little, he was giving me a piggyback ride and dropped me on the cement. I think I still have the scar from that incident too…oh! And speaking of scars, check this one I got from yesterday while trying to jump off the school's bike racks…"
Isabella was speaking at about fifty words per second. It wasn't too hard to keep up, as I was just as bad. But I learned a lot about Isabella that day…far more than I ever wanted to know.
It had dawned on us after a while that we were the only people left in the café. We had frightened the previous crowd, no doubt. But the lady who worked there seemed fairly nice and didn't say much to us, probably because she knew that if we kept buying the overpriced coffee we would keep her in business anyway. And we did.
When one is drugged with caffeine, one can cover a wide range of topics in a very small amount of time. Isabella and I banged conversation-starters off each other the whole day. What dog food she feeds her cat, my ideas for my new story Live to Die, predictions on what would happen when you shove Britney Spears in a microwave, if the world would be in chaos without Richard Simmons, whether or not spontaneous human combustion is an urban myth, the side-affects of Motrin, the truth about Ring Around the Rosie, decapitation, clowns, decapitated clowns, why watermelons aren't square, if Xena was a Mango Warrior Princess, how attractive would an avocado-human be, how my life was completely derived around videogames, how my recent visits to Dr. Craiger had gone (Dr. Craiger's my imaginary therapist, more on him later), what would happen if we went down the mountain on our butts…
The list goes ever on and on.
Isabella began playing with the salt and pepper shakers, acting as if each were a doll. She put on a highly entertaining skit (which would seem quite stupid now, but anything is funny when you've just drowned a mocha) and got a new bright idea of pouring a pile of pepper in her hand.
"Look Alex! I'm the magic princess fairy!" she squealed, and then blew the fistful of pepper out like it were a bunch of glimmering sparkles. Something you'd see in a Disney cartoon.
But I was sitting right in front of her. Stupid Isabella blew all that stupid pepper into my stupid eyes. And it hurt. It hurt really, really bad. Naturally, I threatened to kill her, rip out her eyeballs, feed them to her parents, bury her decaying body in a ditch near history class so that even her soul wouldn't be free of our boring teacher, and dance around the pit everyday in some sort of tribal 'mojo' in order to summon the bad sprits in my mind to focus their energy on the already dead body. Of course, it was nothing unusual. Isabella and I have an extremely strange relationship. We rarely openly compliment each other, but disguise our support in very dry sarcasm. When around us, you might even believe we hate each other's guts (MMMmmm guts…I mean…uh…yes, I'm awesome!), but that's just the way we are.
And this is where things got bad.
Every drug has a little high…and then a little low. After four hours, we began reaching that little low. We began slowing down to the point of boredom, our heads felt as if they weighed two hundred pounds, and we were beginning to get unbelievingly cranky.
So we gathered all of our stuff, tipped our hats to the café lady, and made our way to the locker room.
Where we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
And more.
And waited again.
And…you guessed it…waited.
And waited.
And I began banging my head on the lockers.
Why? I don't know, some sort of surge just went through me to start banging my head on all the lockers. I couldn't stop. This sounds really stupid, but it's the honest to Greg truth. I was being possessed and with my body, evil demons were trying to kill me by banging my head endlessly against the lockers. Well, scratch the evil demons part (just a nice little touch I thought), but the truth was, I couldn't—wouldn't—stop. Even Isabella got up the strength to stand up and attempt to hinder the madness. She succeeded for about three seconds, before she gave up and just watched as I went around the room, knocking my skull violently anywhere that was solid.
Did it hurt?
Oh yes. It hurt.
And my head had already throbbed from the coffee, but I couldn't stop.
"Look, I told my dad we'd meet him at the café." Isabella was doing her best to distract me from doing any more damage to my noggin.
I rolled me eyes. "Oh that was sure convenient."
Bang, bang BANG
"It was his idea."
"I'm sure."
banagbangbangbangbangbang!
So once again we packed all of our stuff and headed back to our sanctuary.
The lady smiled, but raised her eyebrows in one of those oh-it's-you-again types of looks. I'm sure you've seen them. I get them all the time, especially from my mom when I enter the house every day after school.
Okay, bad example, but that's not the point.
We didn't bother spending any more money on coffee or ice cream. Instead, we slumped pathetically in a small booth, moaning, groaning, whining, and complaining. Actually, we did those four things 4/5 of the times we were together. Yeah, I've done the math.
It was then that for the first time in a long while, the door opened. Isabella and I immediately sat up in our chairs and peered over the tabletops to see who it was.
Remember how we sat next to a few guys from school?
That was them.
Ethan and Kodiak (yeah, I know, I still wonder why he was named that too) walked into the café, brushing the snow off their gear. It was getting late and dark, the mountain would be closing soon.
"Oh it's you." Ethan said, as if it were a tragic catastrophe.
We mumbled an answer, gripping at our heads.
Kodiak raised an eyebrow.
"Hey Alex, your forehead looks really purple and blue-ish." Ethan had never been the genius.
"Yeah, it's called bruise you moron."
"Did you bail while snowboarding?"
Crap. I had forgotten I had told him it was my first time. I nodded. "Yeah, bad…um…wipeout…" I turned to Isabella, making sure I used the right "word" to act "cool".
She gave a brief nod.
I turned back to Ethan. "Yeah, nearly killed myself I think, even had a few people rush up to me to see if I was alright. You know, paramedics and stuff."
Isabella suddenly sat up in her chair, a slight smile beginning to unfold on her face. The caffeine low would wear off for now. "It was god awful," she bragged. "I thought for sure I would see her next in some hospital in Taiwan."
Kodiak whistled while Ethan's eyes grew with jealousy. What is it with guys about being the idiot who gets the most damage? Who fractures their bone the most? Who gets the worst flue bug? Who got the worst hole in their stomach while self-impaling themselves? Some mystery of life I'll never figure out…probably don't want to anyway.
I leaned in towards Isabella and said without opening my lips too much, "Taiwan?"
"It's the only place I could think of," she said through gritted teeth in the same manner.
But these two were—to put it lightly—real nitwits. They weren't exactly what you'd call geniuses so they'd believe just about anything. We used this to our advantage.
Ethan checked his watch. "Any idea when the bus comes? I mean, you are taking the bus back home right?"
Isabella and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same thing, but I had the honor of saying it. "Oh no. What are you crazy? Take the bus? Pffft!" I took this time to roll my eyes and spit dramatically. Yes, there is such thing as spitting dramatically, believe it or not. "We're walking home. Duh." I have always wanted to say 'duh' in an intelligent way. And I did it here. It takes a lot of practice to be able to say 'duh' like you are Einstein. I have too much spare time in my life, I know.
The two just kind of stared at us for a while. The awkward silence was only broke when Kodiak shrugged and said, "Ah well, their walking Ethan, so they wouldn't know. Come on, let's go check down at the stop."
I glanced at Isabella through the corners of my eyes, careful not to let Kodiak and Ethan see me. She was doing the same and, again, we had another telepathic conversation. We were thinking the same thing you are thinking right now.
How cheap can you get?

Thirty minutes later…

"So when did we leave?"
"At precisely nine thirty-five."
Isabella and I were trudging through the snow, her dad in the lead, on the way to the truck. I began immediately drilling her on our cover story for school tomorrow. We were always prepared whenever we made excuses, lies, and stories to tell two idiots. Whenever we do one of the three, we rarely ever get caught. But everything has to be planned accordingly.
"Good. And when did we reach home?"
"Two A.M." Isabella grinned.
"Excellent. And the story that was in the paper the morning they ask us how our walk went?" You always have to have a newspaper article involved when you pull an extremely large stunt off. We found this out the hard way when we told our history teacher that watching black and white movies was against many people's religion in Tibet. How could he not possibly believe that?
Isabella cleared her throat and said in an announcer's voice, "Two girls arrived in the early morning to the town of <insert town's name>, clad only in tattered wind breakers, hand-me-down gloves, and ripped hats. They are suffering a minor case of amnesia, unable to remember many math problems…" At this, Isabella nudged me and let out a sly cackle. "…and what their name's are. Both have been inflicted with frostbite on the feet and toes…"
I waved my hand. "Good enough, they'll buy that."
"We'll have to show them our feet I'm sure."
See? I told you, we don't let any detail slip.
I shrugged. "Easy. Color some patches with green magic marker. They've never seen frostbite and are sure to buy that as well."
We are such the snappy pair. 

Dreams:

You've won a first class ticket to doom

As if you hadn't learned enough about my frightening life already, we're going to take it one step further. Yes, be very afraid of what I am about to expose you to, but remember that you had been warned before hand. What you are about to read could cause permanent brain handicaps, lung disease, and may possibly burn your eyes. Now take a deep breath and let me tell you about…
My love life.
Ha! Got you on that one! Oho! You thought I'd actually bring that up? Sorry, I just had to play that little joke on you this once.
But actually, the true topic of the segment, dreams, is permitting your overly nosey fingers to pry into my life and what goes on when I sleep. These dreams are even more abstract than more normal life, believe it or not, but I must remind you not to scream.
Now we shall begin.

I walk in the door from school, as usual, with blood spurting out of my nose and crying at the top of my lungs, "How long has that tree been in our yard?" Yeah, it sounds pretty normal right? Things are like they always are.
Chloe, in her standard position on the couch and glued to the television, turned around blankly. On the TV screen was the dreaded Lizzie McGuire.
Let's get something straight. I. Absolutely. Hate. Hillary Duff. She is some poised idiot actress who somehow weaseled her way into Disney's company. Sadly, Disney has really slumped anyway (except for Pirates of the Caribbean of course…but they are already making a sequel to that too because their too lazy to think of original plots). But back to Hillary. Now, supposedly, she is a singer with a new hit CD out there called Metomorphosucks…or something like that. When the fact is she couldn't sing if her life depended on it. I can say this as a fact because my sister has her CD's and every song has been digitally redone in a recording studio. I mean, even I could be a good singer (god forbid the thought, but bare with me here) if I had a decent agent, a studio, looked extremely pretty, got implants, and turned anorexic. Sure, anyone can do it. But what about the thousands of people out there who actually have talent?
Back to the story and off my rant.
A commercial pops on and Chloe immediately returns to the devil screen. An add zooms up of some contest where you get meet the cast of her famed show, Lizzie McGuire. All she has to do was call a number, be ninth caller…
She dived for the phone, amidst my agonized screams. Miraculously, the blood from nose stops and I just get this really sick feeling in my stomach. She's dialing the numbers as fast as a racing horse on steroids, while I grip onto her ankle in mercy, sobbing, pleading for her to stop the madness.
Of course, with my luck, she wins.
And she has to take two people that are older than her.
You think she'd choose my parents, but she chooses Isabella and me. Go figure. Go figure. Go figure.

<scene magically goes to airplane ride>
For some oddball reason, Chloe pops out of the picture. It's just Isabella and I, banging our heads against the Southwest Airline window that's made of plastic. The entire ride (which in reality lasted twenty seconds) we were mocking all of the characters, singing Hillary's songs in opera tone, and doing some more head-banging.

<Once again we magically switch scenes. Now we're in a grocery store>
Yup. For some other oddball reason, we had to meet the cast at the local Albertson's. I don't know why. So Isabella and I stood around the entrance of the store, staring at some bright red sign that said all oranges were on sale.
And then they came.
Lizzie, Miranda, and Gordo [I had to check with my sister on the names there] came strutting up to us, but they each had masks on. As if they were robbing a bank or something. And, whoa looky here, they each had guns!
Yes, so it turns out that the cast of Lizzie McGuire were actually cold blooded killers who were thirsty for murder and the whole contest was just an excuse to get some defenseless kids in an abandoned super market and splatter their brains all over the produce section. Clean up on isle three! Clean up on isle three!
Isabella squealed and dived into the nearest shopping cart. When inside, she began speeding around the store, avoiding gunshots like James Bond, just not as classy. The three began chasing her frantically, trying desperately to keep up, but Isabella was speeding around far too fast for the likes of them.
Seizing the opportunity, I began looking frantically around the store. Near the frozen deserts I spotted an old hot dog mascot costume for reasons that are still unknown. It just magically popped up there near the ice cream. I sprinted toward the disguise and threw it on. I began waddling around the store, blending in with all the other food by dressing up as a giant hot dog.
Don't ask.
So things were going good. The cast was only chasing after Isabella and her cart, while I dawdled around the store, tisking the overly priced Ovaltine.
Now either Isabella is an extremely crappy driver, or she was too busy shoving instant mashed potato flakes in her mouth, because she drove her cart head on into me. We both went flying into the Campbell's chicken noodle soup pyramid, and fell to the floor with the millions of cans surrounding us. We were both spread out in awkward positions, but we didn't have time to worry about our gelatinous bodies because the killer trio was standing right over us.
One of the masked idiots pointed a gun to my head and said in a voice closely resembling Mr. T's, "Any last words, fool?"
I stood up, brushed myself off, and said in a loud roar, "I'M GO-GO THE HOTDOG!"

Thou who steals any of thy works shalt pay for thy Olde English lessons. © 2003 All rights reserved  

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