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Sham On I got three hours of sleep this morning before school. I was unusually energetic today. Sagen says I can run on very little sleep, and I suppose I can. Thanks for the gene, mom. My algebra teacher did tell me I looked really tired, but then again she usually doesn't see me before I put some eyeliner on.I feel horrible. I spent most of lunch running from Bible Boy, the boy who likes me, because I was tired and didn't want to deal with it. He found me, and got me out in the lobby snack machine placey thingy, and asked me out. It was like a marriage proposal or something, the way he said it. I got all flustered like I knew I would and said something stupid. You're great, you're really cool, I like someone else, but still, you're great, you're really cool. It was just awkward and bad. Finny was tired or sad or mad in Spanish, and I cared far too much. Spent the whole time wondering why he wasn't talking. He wouldn't even tell his friend Gene why. But I felt ugly, sleepy, and nosy, and couldn't bring myself to turn around and make conversation. My cell phone rang during the last 5 minutes or so of that class. We had a substitute. It was terrible. Dead silence, then..."Boop." Oh crap. That can't be my phone. God no. "Bah doodle do doop." Oh, goddamnit. God. Damn. IT. "Bah doodle do-DOO do-do-do-do-do-do, bah doodle do-DOO do-do-do-do-do-do." PANIC. No one EVER calls me, yet I get a wrong number on the day we have a vicious sub. I'm probably going to have ISS. She made me write my name down. I don't handle situations like that well. I got all shaky and flushed and sweaty and red. The pothead girl told me that ISS is fun. The beautiful boy told me not to feel bad, that it happened to him last year. They were all nice to me, and I felt better, but I was still shaking, and Finny still didn't say anything. I listened to "The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner" by Ben Folds Five from approximately 2:30 yesterday afternoon to 4:00 this morning. Kids, no matter how good the CD is--and I'm having an all-out love affair with this one--listening to it that many times in a row is never a good idea. Trust me. You'll be singing "Well I thought about the army, dad said 'son you're fucking high'" for days on end. God. Is it Christmas yet? Please? 2003-10-27 @ 11:04 p.m. |