Hello, I Dislike You Intensely. Have a Nice Day.
Entry #5.
Deer Dierry,
I swear to God. Call me a freak, but does this school have no sense of safety? First, you've got the Tischler telling us to pour our g-d souls out onto paper and then display it for the world to see. (Fine, only my soul, since I'm the only one who actually makes an effort with this assignment. Still.) And now, Mr. Mercer, the Tech teacher, is encouraging us to go in chat rooms, which are like, only the breeding grounds of the psychos who roam the Internet. Seriously; he was like, "Once you've e-mailed your vocab worksheet to me, you might want to go into a chat room or something. They're a fine example of the wonders of today's Internet. Maybe you'll make some friends!"
Geez, he's so old, he thinks that's what we teenagers do with our spare time. Sigh.
Well, now that I think of it, that might be a good idea there! No, not to make "friends". If I pick out a particularly seedy chatroom, maybe it'll give the computer a virus, and I'll be exempt from Tech! Yes! Mercer will probably have me run his errands or put me in the corner then. So I'll be able to spend the entire period wandering through the halls and staring in at random classes or rocking out to The Shins. Excellent.
Okay, I am not talking to someone whose username is XxXxCryinXXWristsxXxX. Call me a bitch, a stereotyper (stereotypist?), tell me I'm judging someone before I get to know them, blah blah blah. I know my limits. And they stop at someone who needs to have the X key on their keyboard pried out before it suffers any more abuse. Just so we're clear.
Waiting for that lovely virus to percolate through the computer's crappy 10-year-old firewall.
Meanwhile, Dierry, I must discuss today the scintillating topic of my Family and Friends.
I am the child of Daniella Errish and Hunter Faetherit. Yes, I realize our names could make all of us characters in The Lord of the Rings. Don't rub it in.
I was an accident, but unlike most accidents, like car accidents, I wasn't nearly as dramatic nor did I make the news.
I am the child of a flower child, my mother. She is what you imagine her to be - constantly barefoot, hair loose and reaching down to her waist, could literally live at Trader Joe's. She has us recycle everything. She writes herself a thousand tiny reminders on her hands and arms, and only follows through with about a third of them. From afar, it looks as if her arms are tattooed from the elbows down because she forgets to scrub last week's reminders off. Or maybe like very thin, finely knit gloves. It's also interesting to note that she almost named me Daniella before my father pointed out that that was actually her own name. If she hadn't had the a changed to an e at the last minute, I would currently be Daniella Faetherit II. Or, for those mathematical types, Daniella Faetherit is parallel to [fill in the blank].
My mother divorced my father, who currently lives in Colorado. He lives year-round at a fancy ski resort with his teeny, curvy girlfriend Gemagna (pronounced ja-mahn-ya). No joke. Gem, as everyone calls her, pisses me off, because every time I see her, I keep expecting to see "Snow Bunny" tattooed on her forehead or her ass or somewhere really obvious, but I never do. Me and my mom go there once a year, and we are always forced to ski. You'd think we'd have gotten to like, or at least, get used to, the feeling of whizzing downhill on two tiny, flattened sticks by now. But alack, it looks like our skulls are particularly thick, because the activity is still the same as always. Pointlessly terrifying and terrifyingly pointless.
And no, I haven't got any siblings. Someone up there was in a good mood when they had to decide that for me.
My Friends, now. That's harder.
The only real and actual 3-D friend I've ever had was in elementary school. His name was Roger, and he played the guitar, and his parents abused him. No, I wasn't in love with him. Well, I guess I was, but I loved him as a friend, and I loved him because he was a friend, and I - all right, fine, I did love him.
Moving on. In middle school, I was sort of a jill-of-all-trades socially. I mean, I could hang with pretty much anyone and still fit in reasonably well. But I didn't belong anywhere. No one wanted me, but everyone accepted me. I was settled for instead of desired. No names really stick from that period of my life, so moving even further on.
Freshman year, me and a girl named Marina randomly started talking. I really thought she could become my second ever real and actual 3-D friend. Then, midway through the year, she disappeared. Literally. Poof. I think she died or something. I would actually go to a cemetary and look for her there, but a) what if she got cremated? and b) I'm afraid she actually will be there, because you know I'm only kidding when I say things like that?
I swear to God. Call me a freak, but does this school have no sense of safety? First, you've got the Tischler telling us to pour our g-d souls out onto paper and then display it for the world to see. (Fine, only my soul, since I'm the only one who actually makes an effort with this assignment. Still.) And now, Mr. Mercer, the Tech teacher, is encouraging us to go in chat rooms, which are like, only the breeding grounds of the psychos who roam the Internet. Seriously; he was like, "Once you've e-mailed your vocab worksheet to me, you might want to go into a chat room or something. They're a fine example of the wonders of today's Internet. Maybe you'll make some friends!"
Geez, he's so old, he thinks that's what we teenagers do with our spare time. Sigh.
Well, now that I think of it, that might be a good idea there! No, not to make "friends". If I pick out a particularly seedy chatroom, maybe it'll give the computer a virus, and I'll be exempt from Tech! Yes! Mercer will probably have me run his errands or put me in the corner then. So I'll be able to spend the entire period wandering through the halls and staring in at random classes or rocking out to The Shins. Excellent.
Okay, I am not talking to someone whose username is XxXxCryinXXWristsxXxX. Call me a bitch, a stereotyper (stereotypist?), tell me I'm judging someone before I get to know them, blah blah blah. I know my limits. And they stop at someone who needs to have the X key on their keyboard pried out before it suffers any more abuse. Just so we're clear.
Waiting for that lovely virus to percolate through the computer's crappy 10-year-old firewall.
Meanwhile, Dierry, I must discuss today the scintillating topic of my Family and Friends.
I am the child of Daniella Errish and Hunter Faetherit. Yes, I realize our names could make all of us characters in The Lord of the Rings. Don't rub it in.
I was an accident, but unlike most accidents, like car accidents, I wasn't nearly as dramatic nor did I make the news.
I am the child of a flower child, my mother. She is what you imagine her to be - constantly barefoot, hair loose and reaching down to her waist, could literally live at Trader Joe's. She has us recycle everything. She writes herself a thousand tiny reminders on her hands and arms, and only follows through with about a third of them. From afar, it looks as if her arms are tattooed from the elbows down because she forgets to scrub last week's reminders off. Or maybe like very thin, finely knit gloves. It's also interesting to note that she almost named me Daniella before my father pointed out that that was actually her own name. If she hadn't had the a changed to an e at the last minute, I would currently be Daniella Faetherit II. Or, for those mathematical types, Daniella Faetherit is parallel to [fill in the blank].
My mother divorced my father, who currently lives in Colorado. He lives year-round at a fancy ski resort with his teeny, curvy girlfriend Gemagna (pronounced ja-mahn-ya). No joke. Gem, as everyone calls her, pisses me off, because every time I see her, I keep expecting to see "Snow Bunny" tattooed on her forehead or her ass or somewhere really obvious, but I never do. Me and my mom go there once a year, and we are always forced to ski. You'd think we'd have gotten to like, or at least, get used to, the feeling of whizzing downhill on two tiny, flattened sticks by now. But alack, it looks like our skulls are particularly thick, because the activity is still the same as always. Pointlessly terrifying and terrifyingly pointless.
And no, I haven't got any siblings. Someone up there was in a good mood when they had to decide that for me.
My Friends, now. That's harder.
The only real and actual 3-D friend I've ever had was in elementary school. His name was Roger, and he played the guitar, and his parents abused him. No, I wasn't in love with him. Well, I guess I was, but I loved him as a friend, and I loved him because he was a friend, and I - all right, fine, I did love him.
Moving on. In middle school, I was sort of a jill-of-all-trades socially. I mean, I could hang with pretty much anyone and still fit in reasonably well. But I didn't belong anywhere. No one wanted me, but everyone accepted me. I was settled for instead of desired. No names really stick from that period of my life, so moving even further on.
Freshman year, me and a girl named Marina randomly started talking. I really thought she could become my second ever real and actual 3-D friend. Then, midway through the year, she disappeared. Literally. Poof. I think she died or something. I would actually go to a cemetary and look for her there, but a) what if she got cremated? and b) I'm afraid she actually will be there, because you know I'm only kidding when I say things like that?
♠ ♠ ♠
I realize this was a pretty pointless chapter. but i had a hell of a time writing it. so be happy for me. and comment.