No one even reads the school newspaper anyway.

So, my english teacher keeps telling me I need to join the school newspaper next year. However, I am not entirely sure.
I mean, I probably should join the newspaper considering how good it would look on my college applications and all, but I am still not thoroughly convinced.
First off, I am not even sure if I would be allowed to use sarcasm in my articles, and, without any of my sardonic witticisms, my "writing" (if you can indeed call it that; generally, it ends up being just ramblings.) would be quite abhorrent.
Second of all, I would probably end up writing about the school's various sporting events, and I can't say that I would enjoy that, being that our school's sport teams generally lose every game they have to play. Wouldn't you think that it would start to get difficult to think of something to write about the game after their 37th consecutive loss?
"Hey, look at it this way, guys; most of the fans have already stopped coming to your games, so you don't have to feel embarassed about losing! No one was even there to see it! (Well, except for me, but I totally wouldn't have come if I didn't have to hand in this stupid article next week.)"
But, of course, on the other hand, the newspaper's editor is also my english teacher for next year, and I've heard she gives out extra credit to her staff members, so that's always a plus.
Besides, I do love to write. I'm sure that if it were for the sake of writing, I'd be willing to join the school's rather under-appreciated press.
So, I do believe that is all for this evening.
Adieu, dear Blog.

Curse you, HSPA's!

It has never occurred to me just how much I loathe standardized testing.
I hate the expository essays, I hate the persuasive letters I have to write to my fictional congressman stating my opinion on a subject I sincerely haven't any opinion on (and even if I did have an opinion on the matter, why would my fictional congressman care? He's a busy man, I'm sure he has better imaginary things to do), and I hate filling in those little answer bubbles with a number two pencil. Why number two? Why not number three, or perhaps even number four? Why must these tests discriminate against the types of pencils I use? Were I a writing utensil, I would be terribly offended.
What's even more terrifying is that if one cell phone were to go off, all of the tests would become invalid, forcing the entire class to go through the horror that is the HSPA's again, which would be, to me, and most of my classmates I'm sure, a fate worse than death.
I doubt I'll ever be accustomed to the blasted things, either. Whenever I take them, I always feel as nervous as I did when I first took them in the 3rd grade, my free, school-provided bagel sitting uncomfortably in my stomach as I panicked and filled in random bubbles in an attempt to get the test finished in the allotted timeframe. (Truly a terrible thing to do to a small child; provide them with unpleasant food and then make them stress out over something. This childhood trauma is probably one of the many, many reasons I turned out the way I did.)
However, tomorrow is the last day of testing, and then I'm free until senior year, so I suppose that's a plus.
So, I believe that shall be all for tonight, dear Blog.
Adieu.

Ramblings.

You know, it has only recently occured to me how frighteningly close I am to college.
I've only just one more year of high school and I have still no idea what I want to do with my life.
In theory, I could write stories for a living (if that is indeed an actual career path), but what if I suffer an unfortunate and permanent case of writer's block, and thusly would be unable to support myself, spiraling into a deep depression that eventually ends up with me being one of those crazy homeless people you find on street corners who spits at passers-by?
Or maybe I will be able to think of something to write, but when I bring it in to be looked at by a publishing house, an employee will look at it and say something along the lines of, "This is a terrible story that is significantly less adorable than you think it is, and if that was not enough to convince me not to publish your story, you also have something gross and unsightly in your left nostril. Rather than offering you a tissue, I shall give you back your story to blow your nose in, for that is all it is good for. Good day to you, madam."
Both of which seem like unpleasant scenarios, but honestly, I cannot think of anything else I'd rather do, aside from lying in bed like some sort of paranoid, insecure lump all day.
Which is why I'm kind of freaking out about the whole thing.
But I suppose I'll figure something out sooner or later.
Good night to you, dear Blog.
Adieu.

Fable Attempt.

Right, well, this one was for part of my Creative Writing mid-term. We had to pick an old proverb (mine was "attempt not impossibilities") and try to make a fable out of it.

It was a beautiful spring morning and all of the birds were out soaring in the sky. Turtle gazed wistfully up at them. "Why do I have to have this annoyingly heavy shell?" he grumbled to myself. "I could never fly like a bird with a shell as weighty as this!" (It was true. Turtle's stumpy little legs could barely support him and his shell while walking; what chance did they have if he tried flying?) "But your shell is so useful! It also protects you!" Hen told him, in an attempt to make Turtle feel better. "Oh yeah, it's great..." Bear said, unenthusiastically. (He had to listen to the whole "I want to fly" spiel every morning, and, frankly, he was getting a bit tired of it. We can't all be as patient as Hen.) "I don't want to be protected, though! I want to be freeee!" Turtle threw his stubby legs up towards the sky as if he was some sort of scaly, green Superman.
"It seems to me," Fox said mischieviously, popping his head out from the bush that he was rather rudely eavesdropping in, "that were you to step out of your shell, you'd be able to fly." All of the animals stared at Fox, wondering what he was up to. (He was always up to something.) Though, Turtle, desperate in his desire to fly, asked, "You really think that I could?" Fox grinned broadly. "Oh, of course I do!" he said, unconvincingly. "See, what you have to do is take off your shell and then find a big hill to jump off of! That way, the wind will catch you, and you'll be soaring through the air in no time!" Hen squinted at him angrily and squawked, "Oh, come on! You don't really think that Turtle is stupid enough to believe that, do you?" Fox jerked his head towards Turtle in response. His eyes were filled with stars, and anyone could clearly see that he was, in fact, stupid enough to believe that. "Come on, Turtle," Fox called out, clearly enjoying being evil, "let's go find a hill big enough for you to jump off of!" "Okay!" Turtle beamed happily, jumped out of his shell and streaked after Fox as Hen and Bear stood there gaping.
"Gosh," Turtle gulped, staring down over the steep drop of the hill. "You really think I can do it, Fox?" Fox attemped to hold back his laughed and managed to say, "Sure I do, Turtle. I believe in you!" Turtle, innocently fueled by Fox's insincere words, took a deep breath and a running jump off the hill. "I can fly!" he shrieked joyfully. He couldn't. After the words were out of his scaly little mouth, Turtle plummeted like a green rock towards the grassy meadow below. "Oof!" he hit the ground with a thud. Fox, after he was done with his immature laughing fit, helped turtle to his feet, dusted him off and smiled mischieviously, saying, "Attempt not impossibilities, little one."

Bluh. Sorry if the story sounds a mite clichéd, but it was my first attempt at a fable.
Besides, it's been awhile since my last update, so I wanted to post something, at least.
All righty, that's about it.
Adieu, Blog.

My sincerest apologies and one ridiculously long story.

It occurs to me that I have not put up a creative writing prompt in a frighteningly long time.
I could say that this is because my creative writing teacher was arrested for sexual assault, but that is not really an excuse, considering that we’ve already a replacement.
So, really, my lack of posting is entirely my fault.
Please feel free to grumble angrily amongst yourselves for a moment, perhaps stick a few pins into a voodoo doll that you’ve created to my likeness and then continue reading.
I’ll wait.
...
Are we good?
Splendid.
Now, without further ado, I present to you a story of sunburn, lobsters and floral beach umbrellas.
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The waves roared thunderously as they crashed up against the cliff walls of the annoyingly touristy Hawaiian island. (Or maybe it’s in the Bahamas. At the risk of sounding prejudice against various land masses, they really look all the same to me.) At the very top of the bluffs, there was a rather fair-skinned boy, maybe 15 or 16, huddled up on a folding chair underneath his mother’s monstrously-sized, embarrassingly effeminate floral-printed beach umbrella. (He is deeply regretting having left his own umbrella at home.)
Such a lovely sunset, the boy mused to himself. What a shame that every second I sit here, more and more UV rays are being soaked into my skin. The boy's expression turned sour as he recalled his last family vacation to the beach, when he got such terrible sunburn that he couldn’t move for a week. A few moments later, his face expression morphed into one of unimaginable rage as he remembered his family’s complete and utter lack of sympathy, slapping his sunburn as hard as they could and then feigning innocence with a coy smile and a “whoops, I forgot.”
While the boy not-so-fondly reminisced about sunburns passed, a somewhat strange girl (of course, I cannot say that I know her personally, but, based on her zebra-striped swimming wear and comically over-sized sunglass, I think it is safe to assume she is perhaps a mite off-kilter) hiked up the bluffs and joined our pasty hero staring at the sunset. After a few moments, the girl directed her gaze at the boy, grinned, and attempted to strike up a conversation, completely ignoring the fact that he was entirely too engrossed in thinking up an assortment of ways to get back at his family to listen to her.
"Hiya," the girl said pleasantly. "I quite enjoy your umbrella, it's really pretty. My aunt has one just like it." Silence from the boy. "She tried again, "are you staying underneath it because you get really bad sunburns?" The boy continued to be silent. "Because um," she attempted again, somewhat less confident this time, "you seem like the type who starts to look like a lobster after you've spent 15 minutes out in the sun."
Half-way through the sentence, the boy glanced over at the girl. He thought he managed to catch something about a lobster. Where did this girl come from, and why is she talking to me about lobsters? He wondered. The girl continued to stare at him, waiting for a response with a somewhat desperate look on her face. The look was probably due to the fact that the boy had not answered any of her questions in the past 5 minutes, but he didn't know that and he assumed, not incorrectly, that the girl was a bit of a weird-o. Determined not to upset the strange girl any further, the boy uncertainly said, "Oh, um, yeah. Lobsters. They are quite delicious, escpecially with butter."
The girl stared at him as if he had grown a second, equally pale head. Oh god, what did I do? The boy groaned internally, somewhat worried if he had offended the odd girl. Is she a lobster enthusiast, perhaps? Did I hurt her feelings by saying I like to eat lobsters? Am I coming off as a jerk now?
The two continued to stare awkwardly for a bit, until the peculiar girl smiled and said not disagreeably, "You don't listen well, huh?" the pale boy grinned sheepishly in response, resolved not to say anything else that would embarass himself further. The girl shrugged, saying "that's okay, half the time I talk so much that people don't even bother to respond." She beamed brightly and asked, "mind if I join you?"
The boy patted a shady spot underneath the uncomfortably girly umbrella and the both of them sat staring at the sunset (much to the boy's happiness) in silence.
____________________________________________________
Hmm, that's a long entry.
I believe I am done for the evening, then.
Adieu to all!

It occurs to me I never really put a whole lot of thought into my titles.

Why is it that I always feel the need to try and post something new whenever I have nothing to say?
Is my subconscious attempting to give me eye cancer by forcing me to stare at a blank document for an hour whilst thinking of something amusing to write? Is that it?
Because if so, that makes quite a good deal of sense, really. My brain seems to always be out to get me.
Ironically enough, though, my brain never seems to stop and think that, "Hmm. Eye cancer is a pretty unpleasant thing. Maybe I shouldn't force this poor little girl with the unfortunate amount of writer's block to stare at that blank screen for an indefinite period of time because it seems like having retinal tumors would probably be a fairly disagreeable experience for her."
So, here I continue to sit, staring at the screen with very little to say besides various vaguely paranoid statements and stories about my bodily organs that are attempting to passive-aggressively murder me.
Therefore, that'll be all the paranoia for this evening, I should think, unless, of course, my liver decides to try and poison my coffe again. We shall see.
Adieu.

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.