Further Creative Writing Assignments.

This time I have to write up a dialogue of what happened during my Thanksgiving dinner, which is somewhat difficult, being that my family does not really celebrate it.
However, this will give me the marvelous opportunity to disturb the bejeesus out of my teacher (of course, that is not to say that I do not do that anyway.) by making up some sort of depressingly upsetting holiday tale.
Perhaps the turkey will be slightly overdone and because of that minor mishap with the oven timer, my mother's manic-depressive half-sister will attempt to commit sepuku with a butter knife.
But then, perhaps, Aunt Crazy will have that knife snatched out of her hands by lackadaisical Uncle Phil, who was not at all trying to spare her from her fate of buttery doom, but rather wanted something with which to cut open his crescent roll.
But, alas, as it turns out, that was the last crescent roll! A mad fist-fight breaks out amongst both the adult and the children's tables as they battle to the death over the warm, flaky pastry, unbeknownst to the lot of them that there was, in fact, another batch being baked at that very moment!
It shall be filled with so many dysfunctional family moments that it shall be on par with those of the hit daytime television talkshow Jerry Springer.
Only, except for Billy Bob cheating on his wife and secret-other-family-girlfriend, Billy Bob will be hogging all of the cranberry sauce, which, if you ask me, is about as evil as the former offense.
Hopefully writing this will not earn me a trip to the school's guidance counselor, though.
I do not enjoy my visits to their office, you see.
But, I believe that is all for this evening, dear readers.
Adieu.

Creative Writing Prompt Deux.

High School Sketch: Create your own high school. Name, location, mascot, school colors, etc.

The high school is set in one of those dreary west coast states, perhaps Washington or Oregon, where it is constantly raining.
Well, actually, it’s not even rain; more like a perpetual drizzle, like the sky is continually urinating on its inhabitants, which is pretty gross. The students of Lakeville high school find it quite unpleasant as well.
The students don’t like a lot of things at Lakeville, like the name of their school, for instance. It is not near a lake, nor was there ever a lake. There was once a villa, but it’s long since burned down. I’m not really sure how that managed to happen, though, considering the aforementioned unending cloud-leakage, but, in any event, thanks to that, neither parts of the school’s name really make a whole lot of sense.
Their mascot is, rather unfittingly, some form of variation of the Loch Ness Monster. I would believe it to be more appropriate were there actually some kind of large body of water nearby, but, as I’ve stated earlier, there is not. I suppose they could have made their mascot a burning house, but that would be a pretty depressing, albeit more chronologically accurate, mascot, so I guess it's better this way.
The school colors are a kind of drab brown and musty-looking green. I presume that whoever picked the colors was some type of dastardly villain who constantly wanted to remind the students that they lived in the repulsive, sky-peeing Pacific north-west and get rid of whatever miniscule amount of energy these teenagers had to begin with, which really wasn’t a whole lot, but still.
Their motto is “Four more years until we’re out of this dump!” That’s not the official motto, of course, but the students do seem to enjoy saying it, and I find it far more fitting than whatever annoyingly perky saying that the administration did come up with.

Aaaaand, that's it thus far.
I am planning on finishing it eventually... No, really.
I just thought I would post the beginning of le Prompt because it would appear I've not posted in about 20 days or so. (So much for my attempt to start updating more often. D:)
All righty then. That is all.
Adieu.

Creative Writing Prompt

Family House Sketch - Describe the outside of a family home:

At first glance, there's nothing particularly out of the ordinary about the house, but let us look past its cliché suburban white picket fence for a moment and inspect it a bit closer, shall we? First, the yard.
The father of the household was one of those annoyingly meticulous lawn-lovers, so the yard was always in pristine condition, except for the small scorched splotch near the center of the yard, courtesy of little Billy and his magnifying glass one blistering August afternoon.
On the back patio, you'll find a grill. The father often enjoys cooking hamburgers and other various processed meat products for the family, but after learning about his son's unhealthy obsession with fire, (see above) he rarely ever asks little Billy to help start up the grill.
The front porch, you'll notice, is covered in crumpled up balls of paper. Ashley, the family's youngest, is something of an artiste and tries to draw everything she sees in the yard; dogs, cats, butterflies, little Billy and his matchbox, etc. However, recently, Ashley has become bored of the mundane routine of drawing on paper and has decided to move on to scribbling upon bigger and better things, like the side of the house.
Personally, I think Ashley should be praised for her lovely scribblings, as they are far more interesting to look at than the drab white paneling, but, as we all know, parents are cruel beasts who enjoy stiffling creativity, so instead of the reward she deserved, she was scolded by her mother and sent to her room. Alas, life is cruel, but we have one more section of the house to tour, so we shall be moving on.
Lastly, the back yard. Because the father doesn't care about the backyard, as only the front is judged by his many scrutinizing neighbors, you'll notice it is quite cluttered with toys. Little Billy often enjoys setting up tiny towns out of building blocks and then smashing them apart like some sort of miniscule 7-year-old Godzilla.
In my opinion, the parental figures of the household really should be more concerned for the mental health of little Billy, but don't tell them I said that. I am only the tourguide and it is not my place to discuss these sorts of things.
Anyhow, with that, the tour is over.
Please do not forget to visit the gift shop on your way out, as a portion of every item you purchase contributes to little Billy's therapy bills.
Thank you for joining us at Suburban Home tours, and please come again soon, as next week's tour will be of the neighborhood bully's home!

Epic Procrastination

Why is it that whenever we have to do something involving physical exercise for a grade, I somehow contract an illness?
Is there perhaps some sadistic little man in a chair somewhere in my head who shuts down my immune system whenever he hears I'll be graded for something involving me running?
"Ah, we're doing the mile today, I see. Hey, is that H1N1?"
Paranoid, you say?
I think not. "Correct" would be a more appropriate adjective.
But, I digress.
I actually meant to post an epic picture of procrastination on here, but it is not showing up very well.
However, I cannot tell you about the picture and then not show you, for that would make me crueler than the tiny evil man who resides in my brain.
So, here you are.

Overall, this took about 6-7 hours to do. It's also somewhat difficult to type because of the massive carpal tunnel it induced. I quite like it though.

If you'd like a larger size, as it is quite difficult to see right now, you may see my DeviantART. (Shameless self-promotion, you say? Perhaps.)

That is all.

Adieu.

Huzzah for procrastination!

So, rather than researching for my history project (how I loathe you, U.S. history 2 honors), I have spent the afternoon doodling a rather smarmy looking gentleman.I like to think that he is a more-than-slightly inebriated young entrepreneur who is spending his evening at a rather dank pub, making eyes at any woman or effeminate-looking man (mind you, he is quite drunk.) that catches his fancy.
I did not draw the bartender, but I imagine him to be making an exasperated face at our unctuous young gentleman, which is silly because as a bartender, he has probably seen rowdier crowds than the likes of him.
Perhaps he's a new bartender. I am not quite sure.
In any event, this is my first procrastination from a project (but certainly not the last) for the new school year.
Truly it is a joyous occasion.
Anyhow, I should probably get working now.
Adieu.

I've got to wake up HOW early?

So, the first day is over and done with.
My creative writing class does not seem too terrible, but apparently we will have to write a one act play sometime during the year, which scares me a bit. I am not exactly Shakespeare. (Actually, the idea of being Shakespeare scares me even more than the fact that I'll have to write a play, simply because I cannot say I would be fond of being a bearded fellow who has been dead and buried for nearly 500 years. Though, I digress.)
Perhaps it is just the insecurity talking, but I tend to think that any play I would be able to come up with would be pretty atrocious.
Generally, the stories I write don't really have a solid plot, so rather than writing an epic tragedy about star-cross'd lovers, I would probably write a story about an impatient guy who goes to the post office and encounters a lonely mailman who is desperate to talk to someone.
The whole play would be their conversation, which I imagine would go something like this:

"Mail Man: Ah, so you've got some outgoing mail, I see.
Impatient Guy: Yes.
MM: It's always nice to get mail. It makes me feel important.
IG: (glancing at watch) Indeed it does.
MM: Of course, people don't send a lot of mail these days. They send those -what'chacall'em - electronic messages! See, back in my day, we didn't have anything like that. We had one mailbox in town and you had to walk 3 miles in the snow uphill both ways to get to it...." Etc.

Needless to say, any play I would write would be quite abhorent, which is why I'm a bit nervous. But I suppose I shall cross that bridge when I come to it.
Overall, the first day was pretty all right, and that is all I have got to say, so I shall bid you adieu this evening.
Adieu.

School's a-comin'.

So, it just so happens that I did not get any art classes this year.
Please do not misunderstand me, I did attempt to get one, but I was unfortunately thwarted by my music teacher who, yet again, guilted me into taking Instrumental Lab, so if you were hoping to see any drawings of a higher artistic quality than my Microsoft Paint stick figures and unrealistically sized angry-bees, then I'm afraid I shall have to disappoint you.
However, I was able to get a creative writing class, so perhaps you will be able to see, dare I say, even more cranium-explodingly amazing writing from yours truly. (Egocentric, you say? Whatever gave you that idea?)
I am somewhat depressed that summer is coming to an end, though.
It hardly seems as if I was able to do anything these past few months except get attacked by various insects.
It is indeed quite a shame, but I suppose that these sorts of things are bound to happen.
To me, anyway.
So, it is on that note I leave you, my dear blog readers.
One hopes that your summers were filled with less leggy anthropods than mine.
Adieu.

More Insect Mishaps.

No, I am not talking about the cricket-wizard infestation.
We have learned to get along through simple compromises.
As long as they do not jump out of the silverware drawer at me, I will not procede to stomp the bejeesus out of them with my shoe.
It works well.
But anyhow, getting back to the subject at hand, the insects I am referring to are the inexplicably angry wasps that attacked me whilst I was mowing the lawn the other day.
For your convenience, I have prepared an illustration in Microsoft Paint that should well explain what the situation was like.
Aren't I an amazing artist? These cranky little fellows attacked my father and I because we were apparently too close to their hive, so to Walmart we did go to procure wasp spray, and spray them we did.
All is well now, but I felt I had to tell my lovely readers about it.
And now that that is done, I shall bid you adieu.
Adieu.
(Hello to my new follower, by the way. :D)

Driving lessons grow increasingly nigh...

I'm a bit nervous.
With the amount of video games I've played involving violent car crashes and vehicular homicides, i.e Grand Theft Auto and its various sequels, I can't help but think I'll be a terrible driver.
It worries me that these games are the only reference I have towards proper driving etiquette.
You see, in these games, flipping off little old ladies during high-speed pursuits with the police after brutally running over pedestrians and stealing their wallets seems to be the norm driving-wise, but the particularly sweaty woman at the DMV with whom I discussed this dilemma seemed especially perturbed and attempted to take back my learner's permit.
Now, the perspiring DMV woman seemed to know what she was doing, (most sweaty women do) but I do not wish to believe that video games would ever lie to me.
Perhaps I shall just follow what the driving instructor tells me to do.
Instructors tend to be more knowledgeable in their respective fields than over-heated females or violent video games, I believe.
So, with that, I bid you goodnight.
I wish you all good luck if you happen to pass by me on the road.
Adieu.

Blargh.

Inspiration to write an amusing blog post is difficult to come by these days.
The dastardly fiends known as the Writing Gods have, in order to spite me, kept all the funny story ideas to themselves, leaving me not unlike a desperate fratboy denied a high-five.
"Come on, bro, don't leave me hangin'!" I eloquently beg the sadistic deities, my backwards baseball cap falling off in despair.
(Yes, headgear can fall off in despair. Shut up.)
But, alas, despite all of my pleading, the Gods continue to revel in their Schadenfruede, leaving me with nary an amusing limerick to please my perpetually patient blog readers.
So, if you were wondering why I've not been updating as of late, it is because the Writing Gods are out to get me, not because the cricket-wizards have finally finished me off.
Not that they have not been trying, mind you, what with all their hiding in the silverware drawer, trying to give me a heart attack by jumping out at me when I only want a spoon for my delicious Cheerios.
All righty, then.
That is all.
Adieu.

Too Much Free Time...

I think the crickets are out to get me.
I do not think they are trying to physically harm me (not yet, anyhow) but I am certain that they are playing some pretty cruel mental games with me.
You see, the crickets reside in the kitchen.
I am not sure how they manage to get into the kitchen, but the fact that the doors and windows are sealed tightly every night leads me to believe that they practice a sort of door-unlocking witchcraft.
However, I do not believe that the crickets have any protection charms or healing spells, as they cannot gird themselves against the cats that come in to maul them late at night and leave them half-dead and twitching on the linoleum floor.
In their final moments, the crickets pick up their mangled bodies and hurl themselves into the cats' water bowl, leaving me to dump out the water poisoned by their disgusting, bloated corpses and refill it.
This is, of course, the mental torture to which I am referring.
Were this to happen once in a blue moon, I would not be so irritated, but it seems that whenever I refill it and turn my back, 2 more appear from thin air and fling themselves into the bowl.
I blame this on the cricket witchcraft as well.
Unfortunately, I've checked the Yellow Pages twice, and have yet to find an insect exterminator that also dabbles in protection against the dark arts, so I am going to have to just deal with it for now.
That is all.
Adieu.

Ah, Summer.

Marissa's Attempt at Cleaning Her Room, Part Deux:
I ventured deeper into the room, pushing past the vines to glance at the walls, which were painted a sort of Pepto Bismol pink, only even more nauseating to look at, if you can believe it.
It has been awhile since I've been in my room, I thought, scowling.
When did I stop liking the color pink? 5?
And is that a N'Sync poster I spy?
Curious.
If I am not mistaken, they stopped being popular before I was born...
I took a moment to stop and glare angrily at Justin Timberlake's faded, smarmy face.
"Your songs are atrocious, and your acting is even worse." I said aloud to the poster.
His smile seemed to dim a bit from my unkind words, and his eyes, usually devoid of any sign of intelligence, seemed to grow slightly sharper.
I didn't think anything of it at the moment, simply shrugging it off and continuing onward, straightening my safari hat a third time.
When I was finally satisfied with the straightness of my headgear, a sudden eerie wind came from behind and knocked it clean off, blowing it underneath a nightstand.
Well crap, I thought. That was my favorite hat, and now it's probably being devoured by the dreaded Chapeau Mangeur that often lurks underneath bedroom furniture.
As I pondered how my hat could've got knocked over by the wind whilst indoors, I heard laughter. Prententious laughter that could have only come from one person. A certain fallen pop star...
"Justin Timberlake," I whispered as realization dawned.
"Baby, bye, bye, bye." the poster said, suddenly in front of me, and then I blacked out.

(Oho. Suspense.)

Procrastination, Part Deux

So, my outline for my career speech is due tomorrow, and I am wondering what to write.
I was debating on going along with being a truck driver and somehow turning my previous sardonic blog post into a speech, but eventually decided against it. (Mostly because I could not acquire a sleeveless flannel shirt and trucker hat in time for my speech 6th period.)
Alors, due to these unfortunate circumstances, I am going to write about what I would actually enjoy doing for a living. Being a writer.
Ironically enough, though, I am having difficulty writing about my future writing.
I am tempted to just stand in front of the class and say something along the lines of "I LIKE WRITING, DURR.", but there's no possible way I can stretch that out into a 3-5 minute speech.
Well. I mean, it's possible.
But it wouldn't really be coherent.
"Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii *inhale* liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiikkkkkkeeeeeee *inhale* wrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttttttttiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnggggggg, *inhale* durrrrrrrrrrr. *inhale* Any questions?"
...I'm sure there would be a lot of questions if I were to say that. As well as phone calls home. And trips to the Guidance Office.
Which means I must actually work on this speech.
Which means I shall have to bid you all adieu.
So, adieu. Auf Wiedersehen. Sayonara. Adios. Das vidania. Ood-gay ye-bay. Etc.

My New Career Path.

So, recently, I had to take a career assessment test.
Take a guess as to what "the best career path" was for me.
I'll give you a moment to think about it.
...No, I'm not going into prostitution.
Honestly, you don't know me at all, Voice-in-my-Head.
Actually, according to this placement test, one of my best career paths would be a truck driver.
So, it is because of this test that I have decided to give up creative writing and pursue my career in the art of trucking.
I have also decided to replace all the tops in my wardrobe with sleeveless flannel shirts, and acquire myself a southern accent/beer belly.
I'm thinking about acquiring a driving license as well. It seems like it would be a good idea.
I'll live a simple life on the road, chewin' tobacco, and spittin' it out the window onto the poor unsuspecting passengers in convertibles. (Notice I'm workin' on the accent.)
So, dear sweet Blog, and dear sweet Blog readers, I must bid you adieu, for a new life awaits.
A new life life of driving big rig trucks and belching loudly at small children.
That's the good life, my friends.
Adieu.

(Unnecessary Note: Hopefully, all of you can detect sarcasm, but for those unfortunate souls that cannot, I shall tell you that I am not, in fact, being serious. I mean, the test people did assign "truck driver" as a possible career path [idiots.], but I am certainly not planning on giving up writing because of it. Honestly, though, how in the name of The Fonz did they get truck driver from "enjoys reading, writing, and personal hygine?" Gah! ...But anyway. I am glad we got that cleared up. Adieu a third time, Blog readers.)

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...

Marissa's Attempt at Cleaning Her Room, Part 1:
It was the last door on the hall. Tentacles wiggled and writhed their way through the bottom, latching onto any unfortunate soul who happened to walk too close and dragging them deep into the depths of the room. A sign hung from the knob. "Abandon all hope, yee who enter here."
I bit my lip, thrust my machete forward, straightened the brim of my safari hat, and entered.
Immediately, my nostrils were assaulted by the stench of decaying flesh. The pile of bones to the left of the door was probably the cause of it, I thought.
Also, that explained where my brother's annoying friend Tyler went to...
I ventured further, hacking away at the vines hanging from the ceiling.
A pair of yellow, unblinking eyes stared out at me from underneath the piles of clothes of questionable cleanliness. Corpses of discarded empty soda cans lay crumpled and misshapen in the corner. One poor almost-empty can crawled close to me.
"Save yourself," the beverage said weakly, before coughing out its last few drops of Diet Coke and collapsing to the floor to join its fallen bretheren in Soft Drink Heaven.
I turned away, supressing tears.
"I'll avenge you." I whispered, trying not to choke up.
I straightened my hat yet again (it always seemed to be getting lopsided.) and headed onward into the heart of the bedroom...

Sigh.

It seems to me like I should be updating Le Blog more often.
Really can't think of anything to say, though.
Nothing witty, anyway.
I mean, it's possible I could just post this entry with me just saying I've nothing to write about.
But that would be quite dull.
And I'm sure my followers (OMG WTF BBQ, I HAVE FOLLOWERS!) would be quite unhappy if I did.
Because I am sure they expect something a bit more entertaining than me just blathering on about my lack of inspiration to be quirky and strangely amusing.
Hmm.
Write about my life, you say, mysterious voice from nowhere?
No-no, that won't do.
I am not particularly interesting.
Except for the odd occasion when I hear mysterious voices suggesting topics to write about. Also, my fingers can talk. And they are not fond of me. I really can't blame them.
What's that, Mr. Voice?
Stop blathering and post the dang entry, you say?
Well.
I can do that.
And I shall.
Adieu, my unhappy followers.

The Creative Process.

For those of you curious as to how I come up with my posts, I present to you...

The Creative Process:
Every so often, I'll open up a new draft on Blogger and try to think of something to write.
I'll stare at the blank page for, oh, about a half hour or so, until, brows furrowed and eyes blinded, I'll squint angrily down at my fingers on the keyboard.
"Write something," I tell them.
"Be quirky and entertaining," I say, close to begging.
My pleading is to no avail, of course.
They continue to sit motionless, mounted atop the spacebar, as if mocking me.
The buttockses.
Of course, by this point, I get frustrated.
Frustrated meaning I get the kitchen knife and threaten the lazy fingers with a game of Five Finger Fillet.
"She's bluffing!" the middle finger cries out to his fellow digits, trying to reassure them.
Oh, but I wasn't bluffing, and 2 fingers later, I managed to come up with this lovely entry.
Please enjoy as I head off the the emergency room, as the bloodloss is making me somewhat woozy.
Adieu.

I got a review?

Granted, the review was from a (the only) follower of mine, but t'was a nice gesture indeed.
This anonymous blogger thanks yee kindly, Alicia.
This was not my intention, however, to be an anonymous blogger, so perhaps I shall share a bit of information about myself.
Unfortunately, the only relevant thing I can think of to say is, "Hi, my name's Marissa, and I enjoy writing.", which really isn't anything new.
I mean, you can find that information on my Profile, as well as a lovely picture of my thumb dressed up as a smiling cyclops-type thing. What more could you want?
All my personal information, you say?
No-no, Mr. Spam E-mail. I don't care if I've miraculously won the UK national lottery, and all I need to do is enter in my social security, date of birth, and credit card number. I was told to keep that information secret.
Besides, I'm an American citizen, and it makes little sense for me to have won the UK lottery.
Anyhow.
Perhaps I should just make a list of things that I enjoy...
Voyons...
Writing, reading, learning languages, watching movies, finding interesting music, talking to the Internet (not people on the Internet, mind you. Just the Internet.), having unhealthy obsessions with fictional characters, quoting various things, playing the bass, doodlin' stuff, making peculiar clay creations, baking things (burning things, rather.), and sleeping.
Those are in no particular order, mind you.
If I had to organize them from most-liked to least, sleeping would be much closer to the top of said list.
Anyway, one believes that one has shared enough personal information about oneself, so one shall bid you adieu.
Adieu, mes chous.

Sweet merciful crap!

I got a 97 on that Crucible essay!
Which is hard to believe, considering I only changed 2 sentences from the rough draft, on which I got a 91, but I am not one to argue with my english teacher's grading habits, especially not when they turn out well for a change.
So, now that that's all said and done, I can finally write something that isn't about my irony essay.
Or, rather, I would if I were remotely creative with my writing, but, alas, I am not.
All those years of sitting in front of the television whilst drinking beverages laced with articficial sugar and trace amounts of bug feces have rotted the creative, as well as most of the analytical, portions of my brain.
Which is indeed quite depressing.
However, I will continue to write despite my festering imagination because I've nothing better do to.
So. Lovely weather we're having lately, eh, Blog?
Oh. You wouldn't know? You say you live on the Internet?
Well, surely it's nice on the Internet as well...
No? You say that at night, when the spam blocker goes to sleep, you are incessantly tormented by pop-ups advertising natural male enhancement pills and mail-order brides from Russia?
Well, that's simply depressing, Blog. So depressing that I shall stop typing and maybe go outside for a change.
I bid you adieu for this evening, sweet Blog and Follower.
Au revoir.

Further procrastination.

Blargh.
Don't you hate it when you find out a band has free downloads for their music on their website after you already went ahead and bought the album on iTunes?
Why bother putting it up for sale if you've got free downloads?
Solely for the purpose of irritating those who were too stupid to Google the band before purchasing the songs?
That must be it.
Music is out to get me.
It's the only logical explaination.
...Anyhow, on a non-paranoid note, I've still yet to finish that irony essay.
Rather, I've yet to finish the final draft. (Miraculously,) I managed to get an A- on the rough draft, so I only need to tweak the intro a mite.
Can't seem to get motivated enough to do that, though.
Which is fine with me.
I write my best work at 3 o'clock in the morning anyway.
So, I shall bid you adieu for this evening, my sweet but imaginary blog readers.
Adios.

Procrastination.

So, I am currently putting off doing my irony essay at the moment.
I've been doing pretty much everything but.
It's a bit like that old Spongebob episode.
"Spongebob: I can't write my essay knowing there's a mess in the kitchen, Gary!"
"Gary: ...Meow."
Except I don't have a snail named Gary, so I made do with my cat, Peng-Peng. Also I wouldn't be caught dead voluntarily cleaning, because that'd just be silly. If I were dead, I wouldn't be cleaning anything. I'd just be, y'know, decomposing.
Anyhow, it went a bit like this.
"Me: I can't write an essay knowing there's ingredients to make myself a sandwich in the kitchen, Peng-Peng!"
"Peng-Peng: ...Meow."
I don't know why I didn't start that stupid essay earlier. I don't even know why I'm not doing it now. I mean, it's already 6 o'clock. And I've not even started the thing.
I suppose it's just stupidity on my part.
Sigh.
All right. I'm off to attempt to write that essay. And make myself a sandwich.
I bid you adieu, sweet blog reader.

Hmm.

So, I find myself drawing more and more lately.
I've even signed up for art next year rather than taking creative writing course.
Which is bound to confuse any college that decides to interview me when I tell them I want to be an English major.
...Here's how I'd imagine that scenario might go.
College Interviewer:"So, you want to major in English, eh?"
Me:"Uh. Yes."
CI:"Yet you have a C-average in English."
Me:"Uh. Yes?"
CI:"And no creative writing, or literature appreciation classes?"
Me:"Uh. No?"
CI:"You also speak completely ineloquently. Can you even start a sentence without an 'uh?'"
Me:"...Duh?"
..Yeah.
I do want to be an English major, though. I just can't seem to find the motivation to write anything anymore.
Which is why I'm trying to write more regularly here. Get the creative juices flowing, so to speak.
Which sounds unpleasant.
However, I assure you, the result of the creative juices flowing will not be brain-goo squirting all over the place and ruining the new carpeting; nay, the result will hopefully be my brain thinking up new, interesting, perhaps even mildly witty things to write about, thus ensuring a good college interview that won't end up like the one I envisioned.
That was an impressive run-on. I should probably attempt to fix my grammar as well.
...Later, though.
The Simpsons are on now , and re-run or not, it's still more appealing than spending a half-hour trying to correct all the grammatical errors in this entry.

Alors, adieu, mon petits chous.

Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow, etc., etc., more Shakespeare quotes.