An Infinite Loading Bar and a Shockingly Purple Shirt

First I have to tell you about the loading bar. Remember when I told you all about how I lost all of the files on my computer? My dad bought this recovery software online. So I downloaded it and a loading bar popped up telling me when it would be finished. It starts out an hour, so I go off and mind my own business, come back in an hour, and it says three hours left. It's getting late by then, so I leave it overnight. I come back after school the next day: 24 hours. I, frustrated, leave the computer alone for a whole 'nother day. I come back 24 hours later and it says:

13 Days Remaining.

Is that not insane? Like something from a badly-scripted 90's sitcom. I'm so tired of this. I just want my files back.

So Homecoming was last Saturday--hence, purple shirt. (I was trying to decide, what shirt color will make me look both very homosexual and very attractive...and I thought, "Purple!") The first part was actually pretty fun. I went to this really snooty, driving club for rich people with a bunch of friends beforehand, and that was pretty righteous. We played soccer-golf on the golf course, which drew a handful of really annoyed looks from all the pasty golfers who were actually playing golf. We ate and got ready there, and we all liked the Beatles, so it was fun.

Meh, the dance wasn't so much fun. There were too many people there for my liking, (what happened to the sixteen hundred kids who all said Homecoming was lame and they'd rather be doing drugs???) and I outright hated the music. I hate very few things. Usually I just hate babies and people who are different than me and that's it--but the music was awful. Hip hop and rap and country. It was despicable.

And of course, I'm not much of a dancer at all, especially when I hate the music. I couldn't dance for more than sixteen seconds at the same time before giving up on myself and crossing my arms grumpily. I'm just made that way. Plus I kept getting distracted by the sight of my two crushes sucking the faces of two other guys much more handsome and athletic than me.

It wasn't unbearable, though, since I got to go with friends and since I had seen Sixteen Candles the night before, so I knew how to compose myself. (Then again, I kept asking girls I barely knew if I could borrow their underpants "just for like ten minutes" and that got out of hand.)

I slow-danced with this girl named Rachel. Very pretty, but not much of a talker. In fact, all I got out of her the whole night was her name. I think she was so incredulous that she was stuck with me that she couldn't bring herself to talk. That, or she was off in the head. That's rich--the only girl I can dance with at Homecoming is mentally insecure.

It's about the experience, though, right? Even if it was a pretty lousy experience. Sigh...

In other news, I think my Social Studies teacher was kind of out of it today. We were flipping through our text books and he saw this one picture of a Muslim ruler with an enormous turban. He smiled kind of dreamily and said, "That turban is really bitchin'."

HIGHLIGHT OF THE DAY: My mom made my brother and I carry the family couch from the basement to the porch, (no small feat, I tell you) to give to charity. My back hasn't been the same since, which is frightening because the last time I had back trouble, my doctor banished me from lifting actual weights so that I had to lift those wimpy, four-pound ones that yoga moms use. I can't feel manly lifting four-pound weights. Not as effective when I'm trying to admire my majestic, golden form in the mirror while working out.


My birthday's coming up. My mom is asking me if I finally want a cell phone. I'm reluctant. The only reason I would want a cell phone would be if I could make the ring tone the sound of a baby crying. Then I'd keep my cell phone in this big, black bag. Then every time my phone rings..."Shh...it's okay...shh..."

Important note: J.K. Rowling uses the word "slut" twice in the sixth book in the Harry Potter series.

And, in answer to your question, yes, I stopped following your blog. That's what you get, woman.

Good day to you all. Except the "you" mentioned in the previous line. I hope you have a really horrible day. A horrible month too. Not year, though. I hope you have a good year.