Into The Blue

Unfortunately life got in the way of Ramona and I posting Episode 1 of our comic yesterday. She's been super busy this last week putting on a production of Aladdin (in case your wondering the show was very good - Ramona directed it [it was even sweeter because the kids were 9-12]). 

But, it wasn't just Ramona's fault, I've been super busy with school and haven't been feeling the greatest either. 

This isn't even a real post. I have two midterms on Monday and a lot of preparations to do still. Instead of a post I just wanted to share this song with everyone. I think it's absolutely gorgeous. And inspiring. This song has made it to my Book Playlist (for my manuscript).

It was played at the end of the season finale of Castle (a really great crime show, for those of you who like that kind of thing. The dialogue is witty and the writing is generally very good. And I have a penchant for deconstructing the writing of shows and movies I watch....I'm not very nice either.).

I'm not sure how to post videos on my blog page, so I'll post a link. I urge you to check it out. Seriously. You have to. You won't regret it (unless you're crazy like Sister and only like rap. Honestly though, I think she would still like this.)


Sara Jackson Holman: Into The Blue


Let me know what you think!


Word Of The Day: Insidious - awaiting a chance to entrap; harmful but enticing; having a gradual and cumulative effect


WOTD is for Mother, who believes this word sounds powerful and has a nice ring to it. I agree.

Too Much Information

At first, I think it’s the textbooks. University professors only pick the books which contain nothing but useful, relevant information – nearly every sentence needs highlighting.

This systematic highlighting makes categorizing information in a concise and cohesive matter nigh impossible. Which, in turn, makes the construction of study notes an even more complicated task. Copying an entire textbook seems like way too much effort for a test worth 30% of your grade.

It’s, quite simply, too much.

Not even a herculean will could accomplish this feat within the boundaries of the allotted time. Well, unless the individual possessing this herculean will decides to forego sleep and all extracurricular pursuits entirely. (Warning: this will result in the death of said person).

Since I’m unwilling to sacrifice myself, I turn into a swirling miasma of frustration, anger, and doubt.

When it becomes too much (as these things inevitably do) I complain to other students in my class. They show me their textbooks. I’m amazed that some pages have maybe one sentence highlighted.

I demand an explanation.

After a few slightly flabbergasting and tedious conversations, I come to a horrible conclusion: the problem isn’t the textbooks, the problem (unfortunately, and I do hate to admit this) is me.

I’m far too detail oriented.

To me, everything is important. Every date, name, circumstance (essentially word) contributes to the bigger picture. The only way to fully understand is to know every single statement backwards and forwards. The only way to get others to understand is to give them every single piece of information that I deem relevant to the situation (which, is unfortunately, nearly everything that comes to my mind when a subject arises).

I live my life through the details.

 I watch people, every minute movement is important to understanding their motivations; if their motivations can be discerned, I can, generally, predict the outcome of most situations. It’s no different when I read. I try to predict the outcome of the book by analyzing the small details, the little things (it’s actually a lot of fun, especially when my predictions are right – which they always are...save for a few notable exceptions).

In life, it’s easy for me to take the details and apply them to the bigger picture.

In courses, it’s harder. I end up wasting my time on small things that don’t need my focus.

And, through this realization, I’ve concluded that I do the same in my writing.

I don’t want people to misinterpret my characters, to see them as something they aren’t. So, I focus on things that don’t need that much attention, I waste my time on what are (in the grand scheme of things) inconsequential matters. It's true that every detail works towards creating the bigger picture, but all of the details I feel are necessary, are (apparently) not; the picture can be created with fewer broad strokes, instead of an abundance of tiny ones.

It’s difficult to do anything about this however, because to me, it’s all so important, it's all crucial information. I like looking at the smaller, intricate pieces weaving together. I find it so much more interesting. And, I feel as though I’m detracting from the story if I take these details away.

Plus, it’s not like being detail-oriented is all bad.  It helps with the continuity of my work, helps with characterization, and helps with setting.

Details are an important part of writing, without enough detail, you’ll lose your reader, they won’t be able to ground themselves in your story and your words will fall flat.

Too much detail, on the other hand, and you drown your reader in so much unnecessary information that they become confused and frustrated. In this scenario, they still put your book down.

There has to be a balance, you need the perfect amount of detail. This is very hard (especially when my mind keeps screaming – it’s not enough!!).

...

I have yet to come to any sort of resolution to this problem. When I do, I’ll let you know. All I know right now is that I need to start somewhere.

I’m sure my battle with my textbooks and my own manuscript - to restrain my need for an obscene amount of detail - will be a bloody one. I’m readying myself with plenty of weaponry and protective gear. I think I’ll start with a nuclear bomb – it’s really the only way to start, as nothing else is drastic enough.

Word Of The Day: Nimiety - excess; overabundance.

Ministry Decree Number 001

So, what I didn't include in the last blog - and if you haven't read that one (which I understand cause I'm posting one after the other.) please do so first, here.

Have you read it?

No really, you have to read that first.

I'm trusting you....

So, what I didn't include in the last blog is the fact that I am combining my trip with Ramona's graduation trip.

For seven nights we're going to Universal Studios, Islands of Adventure(home of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts!), Sea World, and Aquatica (Sea World's Waterpark). The first morning, when we're miserable and jetlagged, we're having breakfast at the Three Broomsticks (That feels amazing to say, amazing) and we'll sip on Butterbeer until it fades. It'll be an amazing beginning to our (extended) Week Of Awesome.

The seventh morning, we're switching hotels and going to stay closer to DisneyWorld for Ramona's graduation vacation. She, unlike me, has our days planned (with custom order maps coming in the mail) down to ride locations.

It's ten days of Florida sun and rides and things we both love. I can't imagine anything greater....well if Hogwarts was FOR REAL, that would be greater but Mugggles can't be choosers.... To countdown to our Week Of Awesome we plan to combine our artistic talents and add new features to both our blog's. For the next three months (starting next week) we're going to have comic/short stories coming out every friday. There will be 13 episodes.

Today, you just get the title page. Next friday you get episode 1, so on and so forth.

A Whale Eats Mickey Mouse And A Bloody Nougat:

the premeditated adventures of Melissa & Ramona.

If you couldn't tell, I'm the evil looking one with the snake who bears a striking resemblance to Voldemort. Ramona is decked out in everything Disney (and is so lame she gave herself a wand....when really, I should be the only magical one.)

And yes, my unmitigated genius came up with the title for our comic.

Word Of The Day (Part II): Transport - to carry away by strong emotion; enrapture.

Bloody Nougats And Puking Pastilles Are Only In Skiving Snackboxes

The statement, of course, is prefaced with rationalization: twenty-one is a big birthday; you’re working so hard in school; we’re so proud of you. It’s a good thing they said this first, since my brain stopped working all together after:

“We’re thinking of sending you to Harry Potter World.” My grandma keeps talking, grandfather sitting stoic by her side, but I’ve had one of those The-Bicycle-You’re-On-Has-Stopped-Suddenly-And-Your-Body-Can’t-Stop-It’s-Momentum-So-You-Fly-Over-The-Handles,-Hit-The-Ground-And-The-Wind-Gets-Knocked-From-Your-Lungs-So-Now-You-Can’t-Breathe moments.

She talks and talks but I’m still, staring at the glass table in front of me, hearing nothing but the rhythm of her voice.

My grandpa breaks the spell, “Why do you look so sad?”

I try speaking, but getting myself to process his statement is about the extent to which my brain can function. Talking back isn’t a viable option. Not at the moment.

Fortunately, my mom comes to the rescue, “Dad she’s not sad, I think she’s overwhelmed.”

I nod. After all, I can do that (thankfully).

“Well if I had known something like this is all it would take to make you stop talking...” Grandpa says, it’s one of those rare statements he utters where we all laugh with him.

My laugh is a little weak and dies quickly. My mind is stuck in an incessant loop of shock and disbelief.

It takes several days to wear off. I’m still sort of shocked, but I have random moments of extreme excitement and my already speedy way of speaking blurs into incoherent words with varying pitches.

Yeah, I’m a little ecstatic. I couldn’t even write about anything else (my minds been on a one-track road lately) and didn’t want to write about this until everything was booked. And as of today, it is!

My only problem now? How am I supposed to wait three months for this vacation? Okay, I lied, I have two problems. The second: how can I ever express my gratitude?

You see, this is so much more than a vacation for being in school and working hard or my twenty first birthday. My grandparents are making a dream come true for me.

I grew up with Harry Potter; I started the series when I was nine years old. Every fibre of my being believed the world was real, and there was nothing I wanted more than to be a part of it.

On my eleventh birthday I waited all day for an owl.

The letter never came. I cried myself to sleep that night.

I can’t express how wretched my eleven year old self felt. I was devastated, crushed and, internally, inconsolable. For a very long time.

I never told my mom, or anyone else, how upset I was (back then I was very against showing any sort of weakness). But that didn’t make the hurt any less poignant.

Obviously, I moved on.

I realized the Wizarding World really was fiction (I mean if it wouldn’t take me, there’s no way it can be real.).

When I found out they were building a theme park like eight years ago, I begged my mom to take me to the opening. I periodically brought it up, desperately wanting to go. I thought I would have to wait years (being a student seriously affects the amount of available cash I have).... 

My grandparents are making my dream of going to Hogwarts come true.  Exactly ten years later.

And how can you ever thank someone for something like that?

In sake of avoiding a rhetorical question (for once), you can’t. You can’t adequately thank someone for making your dreams come true. It just isn’t possible.

But I may squeeze them to death on occasion to try an even the score. Grandparents are suckers for things like that.

Word Of The Day: Rhapsody - an ecstatic expression of feeling or enthusiasm.

PS. Bloody nougats and puking pastilles are only in skiving snackboxes....and I'm going to buy twenty. Well, not really, but I'm going to buy some, at least.

Courage and my Lack Thereof

Courage fills me to the brim, until I seal away my entry in an oversized envelope. It feels like I’ve just sectioned off a piece of my soul.

Courage doesn’t leave entirely until the stamps are on and the lady at the post office takes my entry from me and I turn and walk away.

“Do you think I can go take my letter back?” I ask, pulling at the sleeve of my shirt, after we’ve rounded the corner of the post office.

“No. Once you hand mail over to Canada post it becomes their property. You can’t get it back.”

My stomach twists and for a good five minutes I’m horrified by what I’ve done. My mom keeps talking but I’m not listening to her. By the time we walk back to the car reason has overpowered the fear.

I realize it doesn’t matter if I win this competition I entered. It doesn’t matter what they say about the writing I submitted (even if they toss it in the garbage).  Because win or lose I gave it a shot.

 And if I want to be a writer I’m going to have to put myself out there someday.

So why not start today?

Word Of The Day: Ascian - one that has no shadow; specifically: an inhabitant of the torrid zone where the sun is vertical at noon twice a year.

****I recognize this post is short. Shortest yet (and who knows, some of you may appreciate this fact) and I haven't met my quota for this week either. I tried to write this post and another post sooner but I have a one track mind at the moment. And I don't want to post about it (this life-altering event) until everything is settled down. At the moment I am working out the kinks. Everything will be finialized soon though, as things are time-sensitive, and then I will tell you, and be able to exorcise it and thus, write about other things.

The Past is Murder

Well. Not really.

But History teachers who think all electronic devices should be banned because all technology is the Devil Incarnate are.

I mean, I get that some kids sit on Facebook or Twitter or search the net instead of paying attention to teachers. I can even understand why a Historian would find the Computer Age disenchanting (they are, after all, in love with the past....where computers didn’t exist).

But what about those of us who work more efficiently with a computer? Whose educational experience is actually hindered without the assistance of a keyboard?

My history class is a three hour long lecture twice a week (YAY summer courses and their condensed nature!). We cover a lot of information during that time. The bare minimum of notes we (should) take in that time is eight pages. That’s a lot of writing. (You may be thinking to yourself: Melissa, I thought you loved writing? And I do. But when a teacher is babbling away and you’re trying to get as much down as possible....you start missing things. Your notes are incomplete. And your hand aches like crazy)

I’m a fast typer. I can catch the majority of a lecture and translate into my own words, while still leaving time to actually listen to the instructor. All of this is lost when I have to write it out. I get the bare bones of the lecture, without much detail. I’m too slow at handwriting. Also, my writing is illegible – I honestly can’t read my chicken scratch the next day.

This stresses me out. A lot.

Since high school I hardly write at all. (I mean I do, but not for extended periods.) Most of my work is done on my laptop, so my writing skills have only deteriorated. And, I’ll be honest, they were horrendous before.

Grandma and Grandpa would tell me that honing my writing abilities is a good thing. And, to some extent, I agree. I do not agree however that this should be done at the expense of my learning.

I really wish my teacher could be more understanding on this matter.

I mean, Mom had the brilliant idea to use a tape recorder. This way I could simply listen to the lecture the first time round and the second time, take notes at home. This way I would also have a better understanding of the material before going into the note-taking stage.

You would think this would be a reasonable alternative.

The problem? My teachers are incapable of compromise. They banned ALL electronics in their entirety. I even asked my teacher today, explaining the difficulties I was experiencing, all to no avail. (Apparently they don’t agree with the Enlightenment movement. For those of you not familiar with the Enlightenment, it was an intellectual movement focused on reason (essentially. I would explain more but I don’t want to bore you too much.))

So despite the fact I find the subject matter incredibly interesting, the manner in which the class operates is going to make me pull a muscle in my hand. And how awkward would that be to explain? A writer pulling a muscle by writing (seems ironic, doesn’t it?). My family would tease me mercilessly. Probably more than they teased Mom for tripping on the sidewalk (over nothing) and breaking her arm.

My hand might even fall off. It certainly feels that way right now.

(The picture is from here. Electronics shouldn't be banned in classrooms. Neither should Gremlins. They are too cute to be banned! I mean, both problems could be solved if people just followed the appropriate rules of conduct. Why do stupid people spoil everything?)

Word Of The Day: Lurdan - An idle or incompetent person

Two Families, Too Awesome

Thursday night, I notice Sister devoting the majority of her attention to the computer. I notice because she’s letting me watch whatever television program I want too, without any argument. At first I don’t comment, because well (to be cliché), I didn’t feel like looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Until my curiosity wins out, as it always does and I climb into the gift horse to check out its insides. “Whatcha doing?”

“Looking at pictures of B and S.” She blandly answers, eyes never leaving the screen, “I want to see what they’re like, before they get here.”

Excellent idea Sister. Let’s do the mandatory Facebook creepage before meeting our cousins (several times removed). So, I join her. Unfortunately, pictures do not say a thousand words and we really had no idea what our cousins were like. The only advantage is we have now memorized their facial features. Looks, however, don’t say much about one’s character.

And when people are staying with me for three days, I would like some warning as to their personalities.

(To be honest I was vehemently against them coming.)

As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about.

Friday night S texts my cell – obviously my mom gave her my number - asking if I want to watch Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince when they get to my house. I’m always down for anything Harry Potter.  

We were off to a good start.

As the evening (and weekend) progresses we realize we have similar tastes in books and movies.  We all share similar food preferences too like Manchu Wok (a fast-food Chinese restaurant), Subway, sushi, Iced Tea, Pepsi and White Cheddar Popcorn. Both B and I can eat a jar of pickles in a day (for dinner on Sunday we ate a jar and a half of pickles...before the main course).  

The resemblance between our family dynamics is startling. B and S bemoan their mother’s lack of savvy in using technology. Sister and I do the same. B and S also have the same love/hate relationship Sister and I share, complete with the same sort of volleyed comments as well as similar tones of voice.

On Saturday we head to the mall. Mother told me before they arrived that S was older than B. So I say something about their ages and B responds: “Actually I’m older. But people always think S is older.”

I’m horrified (and silently cursing Mother), “I’m so sorry B. I know how much it sucks when people always think you’re the younger one. Everyone always thinks Sister is older than I am and it really pisses me off.”

B replies: “It’s okay.”

S says: “It’s probably just because I’m taller. But I don’t really think I look older.”

“Sister’s taller than me too. I wouldn’t have said anything but Mom said S was older. So it’s her fault.”

We laugh and talk of other things, all really annoyed with this idiotic driver who was in front of me. Turns out he was old and Asian. Not a very good combination. 

We separated in Forever 21 (a great store for bargain hunting and cheap – but good – clothes) because it’s massive and all three of us twenty-something’s bought some clothes. After, when sharing our purchases, we discover that B and I (the two older sisters) bought the exact same dress/shirt.

There are so many small similarities too. For example, while the rest of the world calls them remotes the six of us call it a controller (because it controls the TV! Duh!). It’s not just the common likes and dislikes either. It’s the way we interact and talk and what we find funny.

The instant we sat down to watch Harry Potter it was an instant mix. Our dynamics complement each other.  There isn’t an iota of awkwardness between us. (Even today when I admitted to hating the idea of their arrival. Going so far as to explain, in detail, just how much I didn’t want them to come.)

Perhaps it’s genetics. Perhaps it’s the similarities between Mom and Cousin W themselves. Who knows. We probably never will. (I mean scientists still can’t agree on Nature VS. Nurture – who am I to act as judge and jury on the matter.)

All I know for sure is the similarities went a long way in dispelling the awkward, distant family, reunion. The tension and stress of having strange people in my home, evaporated and it seems like we’ve known each other for awhile. There’s a certain familiarity in it all. I see Sister, Mom and I in them. Not to mention the abundance of laughter and surprise we experienced every time there was a new revelation pertaining to just how similar we were.

Two families separated by two provinces, bound by genetics. We should be different. But I’m glad we aren’t.

Word Of The Day: Tautology - saying the same thing twice in different words.

Better Writer = Horrible Reader

(This image is from here)

As my writing improves – through reading blogs and books on improving the craft – I’m becoming a horrible reader. (In the sense that I am left completely unsatisfied).

I notice the smallest thing and it throws me from the story. Now, that’s not to say I never noticed these things before. It’s just, before, they were much easier to ignore. I could get past some odd pacing or an odd turn of phrase; slightly off characterizations and too much (or too little) description wasn’t that hard to accept and move past. Now these things glare at me, among other, more nitpicky things.

It’s driving me crazy.

I’m on my (week-long) summer break and want to absorb several of the books on my too read list. Books I was super excited for.

The first book I sat down with, within pages I was like really? This book is popular? The pacing is weird, there are odd sentences and the characters feel fake. I ploughed through, regardless. In retrospect, this was mostly out of sheer stupidity.

The entire time I was shaking my head, baffled over how this book survived the editing process; baffled by how this book is so popular; baffled in general. The book itself is irrelevant, the author slaved over these pages and their effort is commendable. I respect them and their effort. I just can’t enjoy it.

I picked up another book, hoping it would be better. It wasn’t as bad, but still, there were so many things that bothered me. Things that interrupt the story, disrupt the flow, and put the brakes on my enjoyment.

Reading is harder now. Enjoyable reading, that is. Every little thing nags at me and I just want to yell at anyone for it not being right.

And then I feel awful.

Because I know how ridiculously hard it is to catch flaws in your own work (I’m notoriously terrible at this). I know how hard writing is, and can be. How much of a writer goes into their creations.

I feel like, I - by disliking these books so much - am judging the writer without even knowing them. That I am being unfair in my assessment. And then I think, how would I feel, if someone felt this way about my work?

And then I realize: I can’t help it if I don’t like something. But I’m so nitpicky now, and it’s destroying my reading experience. I don’t know what to do.

I’ve fallen into an unrepentant cyclical train of thought on this matter.

Maybe these two books really aren’t that great or maybe finding books I can actually enjoy (without being tossed from the novel over mistakes) is becoming near impossible. I just don’t know and can’t break the pattern.

Does anyone have any suggestions (either on how to deal with this issue or good books)? Any help would be greatly appreciated.

Word Of The Day: Hoi Polloi - the common people; the masses.

Books, Birds and Knights

(This picture is from here. It looks cute, doesn't it. Yeah, everything's cute until...)

Ramona, being the kind, good-hearted soul she is, offered to accompany me to the University to get my school textbooks for the summer semester.

Sister drives the two of us to my Grandparents house for breakfast. Everyone enjoys some sausages, eggs, toast and cantaloupe. Even the dogs. (Well, to be perfectly honest, I don’t enjoy the eggs because I don’t like eggs unless they’re scrambled.)

In a rare moment of generosity, I pay a dollar for Grandpa to park for half an hour, so he can spend two hundred dollars on textbooks. He didn’t even ask me too. It would have been one of those nice, selfless acts, but he was only there for me. So, it wasn’t. But I can pretend, right?

Anyways, as we walk to the University Bookstore, I see a crow. The crow lands on the edge of the building beside us. I react like I always do when a bird lands in my vicinity.

“Puhlease don’t poop on me!” I do a little duck and dance, putting Ramona and Grandpa (and an extra two feet) between me and the edge of the building, where the crow sits, being all birdlike.

Grandpa looks at me, lips turned downward in admonishment. He thinks I’m being my melodramatic, paranoid self. He thinks birds are nice. “What are you doing? Birds-“

And then I scream.

It’s the best, and only, warning I offer Ramona. A white missile of stench and nasty plummets towards her. Ramona’s head twists around.

If crows had brains bigger than peanuts, the crow would be snickering.

The poop splatters the side of Ramona’s hair, coating several strands. The missile’s momentum mixed with Ramona’s movement causes the poop to spread, peppering her black pea coat with white.

Ramona looks up (not the most intelligent move, just saying). “Ewww!”

Both she and Grandpa are shocked. No one moves for a second.

Grandpa, a knight in a weathered cowboy hat, comes to Ramona’s rescue, trying to wipe as much poop as he can off of her. It’s everywhere.

I stumble, tripping over my feet and then, I die. I die laughing; it’d be a good way to go, if I wasn’t apologizing too. For a fleeting moment, I feel guilty for laughing but it’s so funny the guilt evaporates faster than it came.

My Grandpa’s being very knightly: consoling Ramona and doing his best to clean her up. After a bit he says, “you should go to the bathroom.”

“Yeah, all I can smell is bird poo.”

I can’t catch my breath. Every breath is fleeting. My stomach hurts. I’m still apologizing.

Ramona leaves to clean herself up.

Grandpa looks at me, a small smile twisting his lips. “I’ve never seen a bird poop on someone before.”

Later, after I find my books, Ramona returns and Grandpa leaves us at the school, I say, “If I was you, I’d be mad at me for laughing so hard. It was just so funny because I told it not to poop on me and then it pooped on you.”

Ramona laughs a little (She put a lot of soap on her jacket so she’d smell that instead), “If I was you I’d be laughing at me too.”

“Except I’d probably be mad at you for laughing.”

That conversation highlights the differences between us nicely. She’s the good, light one. I’m the bad, dark one. (Actually I’m probably more [chaotic] neutral, but whatever.)

On our way home, sitting on a bus, both listening to our I-pods, I start laughing again.  The scene keeps replaying in my mind like a movie. I can’t stop it. Eventually she gets annoyed and kicks me.

I guess I deserve it.

I’m happy though; neither Grandpa nor Ramona can mock me for being paranoid anymore.

Paranoia saved my hair and clothes.

This morning also proves that the wicked really do prevail. At least for a while. (Ramona promised that one day a bird (or something worse) will get me).

Word Of The Day: Firmament - The heavens or the sky, regarded as a tangible thing.

The Cool Kids In High School

You know you hung out with the cool kids in high school when:

“The potion Jekyll discovered which turned him into Hyde was alcohol. I’m sure of it.” I pause, remembering last night at the club, “Do you remember Anthony? He’s such a sweet, nice guy when he’s sober but when he’s drunk...”

“Yeah, I told him once that when he was sober he’s a nice guy but the minute he has a drink he’s a jerk and I didn’t want him in my house.”

I think on that for a moment, “You mean Andrew don’t you?”

My mom frowns slightly, before recognition touches her face, disgust tainted her voice. “Oh yeah. Oh, is Anthony the kid who went after Sister that one time?” (Keep in mind, the time she was referring to Sister was fourteen when we were sixteen)

“Umm, no. That wasn’t Anthony.” It was Riley.

“OH! Anthony’s the one who threw up all over my kitchen table.”

“No, that was Nick.”

“Was he the guy who threw a glass of water at the puke to clean it up, splashing it all over the kitchen?”

“That wasn’t even my friend, just a random guy crashing the party.” We’re both grimacing, remembering our kitchen covered, from the top of the cabinets to the floor, with purple, chunky vomit. (Nick thought it would be a good idea to take shots, have half a bottle of cough syrup and take a Tylenol 3. Apparently he read somewhere online that it gave you an amazing high. I guess the internet forgot to warn him about the side effects: becoming violently ill.)

“He was stupid, how can you ever think that’s a good idea.” Neither did I, splashing water on vomit just spreads it around. Alcohol totally destroys common sense.

“I know. But Anthony is dark-haired, short...” My mom’s stare is blank, “Well, you’d know him if you saw him.”

“Probably.”

The problem with trying to remind my mom of who one of the minor members of the group of guys I hung out with is she confuses them very easily. Having her go through some of the minor members just reminded me of how many stupid things each of my friends did. How pathetic we all were.

I’m so glad I’m done with High school. I hung out with some real stars...

PS. My computer got a virus this week, so I'm behind on the posting. I'm posting two blogs today, because I refuse to not keep my promise of three blogs a week. (Without prior warning at least.)

And just for BloggerAnonymous, here's the reincarnated:

Word Of The Day: Murdrum - In old English law, the act of killing in secret.