A Confrontation with a Varsity Football Player

Let me tell you something, sir.

Just because you're taller than me, and just because you have sex on school nights, DOESN'T mean you're cooler than me. I'm cool because I'm confident about who I am and because I have awesome hair. Seriously, when I run my hands through it, it's like having my fingers massaged by a million tiny angels. That's why I'm cooler.

And even though you can bench twice as much as me, I could still beat you up in a matter of seconds. I have fists of fury, and I know how to make a guy go unconscious by just jabbing the right pressure points on his neck. I totally learned it from Star Trek, man. So are you still so sure you want to mess with me?

One thing I'll have you know: it is UNACCEPTABLE to use the word "gay" as a derogatory term. The United States is the civil rights capitol of the world, so why are we still so prejudiced against homosexuals?

Another thing: surely lady bugs can't all be ladies! That's just stupid! Think about it!

I'll have you know, Mister Man, that you're not so great just because you have your own car. It's projected that in approximately twenty years, mass-transit will be the major means of transportation, not automobiles. How do you feel about that?

Fiona Apple has only two good songs. One of them is Across the Universe, which she didn't even write. The Beatles did! So why is she so great? Just because of Paper Bag? I don't think so! She always looks like she's crying, anyway. I just can't dig that in a lady, man.

If we colonized the moon and brought domesticated animals with us, what would dogs howl at during the night? Would they howl at the earth, maybe? Think about that, for a second, you giant a******!

So if you think you're so great, tell me this: what walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening? Answer me that! What's that? A human? Fine! But you only know that because of reading The Odyssey in English class freshman year! That's right, I know all of your secrets.

Why do natural disasters happen? Why is there genocide, discrimination, and war? If God is so caring, wouldn't he put a stop to that? Well, my friend, it's an act of nature and we'll never fully understand it.

I did NOT get that from The Happening!

Why do gangstas wear their pants so low? Seriously, it's not cool! It's weird. It makes me uncomfortable.

So here's something for you to wrap your fat head around, man: slugs have four noses! Also, the average American drinks 600 sodas a year. Also, all polar bears are left-handed. Also, a pig's orgasm lasts for 30 seconds! Can you get any of that into your thick skull?

To you, 500 Days of Summer may have been just another predictable romantic comedy, but to me it was a masterpiece. And I don't care how people judge me because of it. It had a fantastic script, was artistically filmed, and was finished far more skillfully than most films in its genres. Plus, its soundtrack was epic. Hall&Oates, The Smiths, Regina Spektor, and The Pixies!!!

How could you even begin to say that Elvis Presley was better than The Beatles? Ooooh, he's swingin' his hips back and forth a little and he has sideburns. Let's all worship him oooooh. That's you. I was just imitating you just a second ago. All of Elvis' songs sound just the same, man. John Lennon was a god. Elvis was a git.

You can't wear shorts and long sleeves at the same time. That's just tacky. It worked for that chick in the Cake song, but she was something special.

I hope you got something out of this little speech, buddy. I happen to know that your "girlfriend" is my soul mate. And I'm not afraid to fight you for her. Because, brother, she's spicy hot. She's both Jewish and blond. Which is awesome.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Dear Diary

I killed a guy today.

And I didn't feel a thing.

Nah, I didn't really. But that would be cool if I really did, right? What would you guys do?

About two weeks ago, my family had dinner with two members from my Dad's administrative board at school. I'm totally a NERD in the way that, half of the time, I find what adults have to say quite interesting. Unless it's about money, people I don't know, or their taste in 40's music, I actually think adults have way more interesting things to say than kids. I mean, we're going to be spending the rest of our lives with our generation. I'm going to get SO BORED of them. Adults are all about to die. Everyone knows that being about to die makes a person way more interesting.

One of the things one of the faculty members mentioned was how healthy it is to write in a journal. Psychologically, of course, not cholesterol-wise or anything. So that night, I decided to try it out.

I grabbed a flashlight and hunted under my bed for some at-least nearly empty diary I had been given for Christmas or my birthday decades before. I finally found one, covered in dust, from when I was in third grade. I had written three or four pages about how frustrated I was that I had turned eleven already and had not yet received a letter accepting me into Hogwarts. I tore out those pages, not considering it to be a priceless piece of writing, and started writing.

I'm usually motivated to write for the purpose of impressing others. It's true. You hear about people who need to write because they have no other choice and writing to them is as important as eating or drinking. Most of the time, I think this is hogwash. Balderdash. Cockroach clusters. (Say what?) If it's true, that's great. You'll grow up to be a little Charles Dickens, won't you? That's all very well.

For once in my life, I'm happy to be writing just for me. I don't have to censor it. I can curse all I want and not have to hide the fact that I sometimes fantasize about killing large numbers of people in gruesome ways. I can write anything I want as OFTEN as I want. It's awesome.

Then again, most of the pages are filled with the words "No work and no play make Christopher a dull boy." But I write some other stuff too.

Of course, I write about you guys all the time. Each and every one of you. And your phone numbers. And where you live. I've been studying you, you know.

Nah, just kidding. None of you mean anything to me whatsoever.

What was the point of this post? Because I want you to be curious about what's in my journal? No, I've already made the necessary precautions against curious people who want to read what I've written in my journal. The first two pages of the journal are filled with threats like,

"If you read this, your head will explode into a million pieces and you'll go to hell."

So I'm safe.

No, the point of this post is because I think all of you should try it too. I was especially tentative about writing in a journal because I'm already insecure enough about my manhood, and writing in a diary is kind of wimpy. But I don't think about it like that anymore! I think of it like I'm a disciple of Jesus or an astronaut stranded in space and I'm recording what happens in my life for the sake of the greater good...

Or something.



Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Kitten Assassins and the Return of the Slinky

Sigh.

My God, I love kittens so much. I wouldn't mind being assassinated by a kitten. I really wouldn't. It would be a quick death, and there would be kittens involved. The only thing that would make it even better would be if Jesus turned out to be a kitten. That'd be awesome. Jesus was a feline, but that was edited out of the Bible because everyone was embarrassed by it. And a bit ashamed.

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving yesterday! I know I did. (Ha ha ha.) I heard Obama pardoned two turkeys from being slaughtered and eaten for Thanksgiving dinner. Oh, yes, very funny, Obama. I bet all of the prisoners lining up for death row just loved that.

For Thanksgiving, I worked a lot. Then I ate food, and then I ate pie. Then a few hours passed. Then for dinner, I ate a turkey sandwich and some more pie. Then, about fifteen minutes later, I ate more pie. Two hours later, I caved and ate some more pie. Then I went to bed. Then, at about 12:15 at night, I woke up, went downstairs, and ate some more pie. Then I cried because I couldn't stop.

How was your Thanksgiving?

The title of this post is "Kitten Assassins and the Return of the Slinky." I've already covered the kitten assassins part with that photo of a kitten with a gun pointed out the window and a caption explaining my bizarre obsession with little kittens doing cute things. Then I mentioned "the Return of a Slinky." That implies that the slinky has at one point in the month and three days since I got it left my hands. This is a lie.

That slinky means the world to me. If I was meat, the slinky would be my salt. If I was a pancake, it would be my syrup. If I was a baby, that slinky would be my binky. If I was an elderly, single man, that slinky would be my Vi...never mind. No, I wasn't about to say Viagra! I was going to say...uh...violin! Old single men play the violin a lot! It's true! Look it up! I read it in a book.

I never part from it. I could not survive without it. I'm addicted. It's the truth.

Unfortunately, it also feeds the minute, ADHD side of me.

This morning I needed to make breakfast. I walked downstairs, (with my slinky), and got some bread from the bag with my free hand. It took me about a minute and a half to get the bread into the toaster, because I was so busy watching my slinky. When I finally got it in, I was playing with my slinky for three minutes while the bread toasted. Once it popped out and I had to spread jelly on it, I had absolutely no willpower to put the jelly on the bread. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

I stood there for ten minutes with my slinky before I could bring myself to spread the jelly.

It's sad. I need help.



Are you freaked out that a 5'11 high schooler is still playing with a slinky and is excited about it? Are you thinking bad things about me, mama?

Happy Thanksgiving-Was-Yesterday!

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Episcopal Church Retreats Are So Cool It Stings A Little Somewhere Around My Ankles

I am proud to be an Episcopalian.



I am not proud of all of the other things I can be described as. Namely: an asthmatic, a blond person, a Madonna fan, a sensitive male, and a closet homosexual. But I am proud, by God, to be an Episcopalian.

Among infinitely other admirable characteristics of the Episcopal Church, we have stellar church retreats. I discovered this over the course of this last weekend which I spent at Kanuga. Specifically, I discovered it while sitting fully clothed in the bathtub and eating Butterfinger bars, but who really needs to know those details?

I spent the entirety of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morning singing catchy Christian songs, dancing to Twist and Shout, reading in my cabin, playing with my slinky, attempting high ropes courses, hiking, and mostly just hitting shamelessly on girls in the Youth Group.

Friday night I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows with the rest of the Youth Group. It was going to be a good experience even before it happened because 1) some random guy in the row in front of me told me he would be there for me if I ever needed him and 2) the girl next to me warned me that she might hug me very tightly if she got scared. Unfortunately, two minutes before the movie started, her eighth grade brother sat down in the same seat as her and said "Mind if I plunk down here?" so I never got to experience that first-hand. It was okay, though, because THE MOVIE WAS AWESOME!

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Trailer

I have never before liked a Harry Potter movie. They all pick what they like from the books and abandon the rest like vultures feeding off the ribcage of a dead possum. So I had low expectations. This one, on the other hand, was really brilliant. I would elaborate by saying "Now, I don't want to spoil the movie for anybody" and then spoiling it, but I genuinely don't want to ruin the movie for any of my precious readers. Just MAKE SURE that you see the movie, and be watching out for a really awesome animation about the Three Brothers and Emma Watson naked.

I spent most of Saturday on a high ropes course with three of the funniest ropes course instructors I saw during that entire week. The funniest one had an awesome beard too. I would seriously steal it while he was sleeping if I got the chance.



I've always liked rock climbing, ropes courses, and other things of that sort. (Well, when I say "always," I mean after I learned to wait at least a few minutes before I started screaming for my mother.) I wouldn't call myself a fan of those harnesses you always have to wear, though. Not only do they look really dorky, but they're always so insensitive to one's privates. Why are they so inconveniently located so that that's where the rope yanks up on you when you fall off the course? Ah, well. In spite of that, I had a lot of fun there.

That afternoon, I hiked to a rock with lots of lady bugs. Yeah, uh, that's that.

Saturday night, they had this "Enchantment Under the Sea" dance where everyone either dressed up like it was prom night or along with the sea theme. Or, if you were like me, you wore a button-up shirt and a hoodie.

I usually hate dances or anything that involves expressing any emotion at all, but I had a lot of fun with this one. They played oldies the whole time because we're Episcopalians (so most of us are old people). So, of course, I loved the music. I was dancing the whole time like a wild Michael Jackson grizzly bear. Embarrassingly, I had never before heard the song "Play That Funky Music, White Boy," so I accidentally mixed the lyrics up a little and was singing "Play That F****** Music, White Boy," because that's what I thought everyone else was singing, no matter how strange it was. Fortunately, I think it was too loud for anyone to hear me.

I also slow-danced with the rector's daughter. The rector was wearing a pink coat which made him look, (as my dad described it), like a "gay lion tamer."

Overall, it was a pretty awesome trip, especially 'cos I had my slinky along for the ride.

Yet another discovery I made during the retreat: girls like it when you tell them they smell nice. I have nine cell phone numbers and the loss of my virginity to prove it!

Anyone else as eager as I am for Thanksgiving? (A: No!) It just irks me how everyone's so eager for Christmas that they're skipping over Thanksgiving...



Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Thumbs Up for Little Blue Bearded Men Drawn with a Four-Colored Pen

All of these women are going to have my children some day. Granted, we're living in an alternate universe in which the last two women on this list are still young and beautiful as opposed to old, wrinkly, and the voice parts for Tommy Pickles in Rugrats.

This will have to be an incredibly short post considering I'm leaving for a church retreat tomorrow and I haven't packed yet.

In fact, so short that it's ending here.

This was pointless.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Better Off Sledd

That title has absolutely no connection to this post. I wanted to make a play on the 80's comedy film Better Off Dead with John Cusack with the working title Better Off Red and make a joke about Native Americans in casinos, but I figured I'm already looking racist because my poll so far says all of my readers are white. Sledd, I'll have you know, is a surname that ranks #32822 in the United States. That's not an easy word to make a joke about, mind you.

"Ha ha. Better Off Sledd. Like a sled except it's a last name and it's spelled differently..."

Special messages I have for some people today:

If you're Lizzie: Are you alive? I'm thinking about you.

If you're Alex: That doesn't merit a reply.

If you're Danielle or someone who knows Danielle: Well, I hope not. That would be totally awkward 'cos I just wrote a love poem to you a few posts down.

If you're that kid who I ridiculed because of the way you sneezed: I'm really sorry, man. It's totally normal to sneeze blood and then brag about it to your buds in the locker room.

If you're that hick with the pick-up truck who drove by the Brake Pad and made fun of me for having nice hair: I'm still trying to think of a come-back for that one. So you just be ready, Mister Man.

Onto business!

I've chosen the worst possible choice of seats in art class. We're sketching this still-life of reflective objects, transparent objects, and cloth; and I'm sitting next to this insanely annoying sophomore who--although very popular--is I think mentally challenged.

We have these erasers that you can mold into any shape. About two weeks into the school year, he molded one of them into a slice of pie and shoved it into my face saying "It's pie! See? It's pie!" and demanding that I eat it. I laughed nervously and shrugged him off, but he persisted. After fifteen minutes of that, he finally shouted, ""Eat the pie, a******!"

Speaking of peculiar characters with Martini addictions and Hitler mustaches, a strange thing happened today:

I had about two and a half minutes before the late bell for sixth period rang, but I had also just downed six gallons of pink lemonade to impress a bunch of Varsity football players who were giving me the eye, so I ran into the bathroom really quickly. There was another guy in there, so I just ignored him as is custom. I used the restroom and darted out without washing my hands. Naughty, I know, but I was seriously pressed for time.

But before I could leave, I heard a voice shriek "Gross!" behind me. I swiveled around and there was that kid, (still with a hand crammed down his pants).

"You're not going to wash your hands?!" he asked incredulously.

"What? These?" I said, indicating my hands. "Nah, these aren't hands. These are prosthetic."

He must not have been all right in the head, though, because he didn't seem to hear me. Instead, he pointed forcefully at the sink, (with the hand that was not still down his pants secretly massaging his privates), and said "You just touched your penis! Wash your hands!"

I was too stunned to do anything except wash my hands obediently and thoroughly, give him a fearful look, and arrive two minutes late to math class.

He's probably still standing there. One hand still, you guessed it, down his pants.

To all Psych fans out there: YES!!! My life is finally complete. They could have done it to something besides an Elvis song, but if it had to be an Elvis song, they picked a good one.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Brazilian Cookie-Makers and Teenagers Who Still Like Playing House

People, stop trying to guess how old I am.

In the past few weeks--pretty much all of a sudden--bloggers and other Internet-users have been asking me how old I am via e-mail, Formspring, comments on my blog, or mysterious, raspy phone calls made under the alias of "Deep Throat." And it's really starting to annoy me.

When I was a kid, my parents impressed only a few things on me. Examples being:

A. Leaves of three, let it be.
B. If you masturbate, your hands will grow fur.
C. Never gamble with 5'4 Irish-American men named Finn. They will double-cross you.

Another thing they constantly told me was to not reveal too much about myself to strangers on the internet. Yes, it's true that this probably doesn't apply now. Yes, I am just being paranoid. BUT REMEMBER, you're not being paranoid if there really is a hooded man with a knife stalking you whenever you're alone. So in my case, I'm not paranoid.

I have on two occasions told a stranger directly how old I was on the internet. The first was a Brazilian teenage girl with a blog about baking cookies back in my Review Raves and Some Other R Word days. She spoke little English but immediately began hitting on me for the same reason that all Internet users flirt with total strangers on the Internet: they imagine them good-looking: tan and well-toned. Eventually she asked, "How old are you?" I told her and she said "I'm sorry, Christopher. We cannot be together. Can we be friends?" as if I was the one hitting on a total stranger.

The second instance something like this happened was when I mentioned what city I live in on The Nerd Archives. Another blogger told me she lived in the same city and asked me if I had a Facebook, iChat, MySpace, Twitter, and other social networking sites which I personally don't have even though my better-looking, more charming alter-ego Brent does have. I told her I had e-mail. She then asked me how old I was. I told her. About a week later, I was bombarded with questions from kids on my basketball team who went to the same school as her and were all under the impression I was dating her. A day after that, she invited me to go to an inter-mural dance with her. Half a month later, she at least considered us boyfriend and girlfriend.

We went on "dating" for several months during which she swayed between irritatingly clingy and remarkably detached. It was during these months that she put me on speakerphone with about a dozen strange teenage girls from her summer camp, four of which called me an "asshole" simultaneously when I refused to tell them that I loved this girl. After three or four months, this girl said she was leaving the state for boarding school and called me, tearful, saying that she just knew I was going to break up with her because she was leaving. I said that was silly and scheduled a "date" for the next week. Several hours before it happened, she called me, cancelled, and refused to answer her phone or e-mail for the next two weeks. After that, I received a curt e-mail explaining why we couldn't "be together" because "fate was conspiring against us."

We didn't talk for the duration of that summer. At one point, I was so filled with irrational guilt that I sent her a letter saying how I could have been a better "boyfriend" during our "relationship." She left ten messages on my phone and sent me three e-mails and later sent me a letter explaining how the reason she left me was because she liked me too much and decided to lock her emotions away by not talking to me.

We agreed to meet at an art museum in Downtown after a couple of weeks of very friendly and apologetic phone calls. I showed up. She was her usual self for the first hour or so: chipper, peculiar, and especially blatant in her complaints about me. The next few hours, she became quiet, reserved, and she refused to walk with me. At her house, I had to talk to her brother more than I talked to her. (A bad thing--her brother despised me.)

She didn't even say goodbye to me when I left.

When I tried to call her after that day, she always sound polite but impatient to get off the phone. At one point, I called her and she answered the phone with "What do you want?" I took the hint then and haven't called her since. It's been three or four months since I've talked to her.

During the relationship, I had to pinch myself every morning to convince myself that this was a real relationship and that I liked this girl. That I liked this girl who deserted me once, wrote me a letter saying how she had truly loved me all along, then deserted me again little more than a month later. This girl who clung onto me when she needed me and took off whenever it was the other way around. This girl who was apparently horrified and guilty by the fact that she had sex with her boyfriend before me, who she made out to be a brutish idiot and, less than a week after she "broke up with me," they did the same thing on the school bus one bright Monday morning.

Maybe this is why I don't like telling my age. Not because I'm afraid you'll all want to date me. Because I'm paranoid and psycologically wired to think that next time I tell anyone on the internet my age, another eight months that could have been perfect will be stolen from my fingertips. Other human beings hate dogs because they were bitten by a rabid Rottweiler as a child. I don't like telling my age to other people on the internet.

(Sigh.)

Check out my Regina Spektor post below this one if you haven't already. It's long, erotic, and at least moderately amusing.

ALSO, vote on the poll at the top of the right sidebar. I don't even have enough willpower to tell you what it is.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

My Long-Lasting and Very Intimate Relationsith Regina Spektor w

I'm pretty sure we all have one celebrity in particular who we invest some time in drooling over and whose pictures we gawk at for ninety seconds at a time. A celebrity who you rave about to your friends and they'll be just like "Uh...I guess she/he's okay" or "Whoozat?" A celebrity who you've built a shrine to in both your bedroom and in one corner of your pantry which no one ever looks at because that's where your family keeps all of the three-year-old, multi-grain breakfast bars. A celebrity who you dress up as every time you're in the house alone while you pleasure yourself in the bathroom.

Actually, I'm not so sure we all have that kind of celebrity. Yeah. Awkward.

For me, that celebrity is Regina Spektor. Folk-punk-rock-Jewish-Russian-classical-jazz-hip hop musical artist behind Fidelity and Better. Native to Russia but American citizen. Three times the winner of the Best Music Ever Recorded Time Infinity Award and recently declared Empress of the Universe.

But what do these achievements and silly titles mean? Most importantly, Regina Spektor is a pretty face.

Not just one pretty face. More like fifty.

There's her single-mother-half-time-waitress-at-Arby's-and-still-hotter-than-ever face:



There's her just-finished-exercising-even-though-I'm-naturally-fit face:



And then, of course, her frightened-but-still-beautiful-Russian-immigrant face:



Her Soviet-Kitsch face(s):



I love that one. And finally, her hey-look-at-me-I'm-pretending-to-be-a-mouse-I'm-so-adorable-let's-get-married-face:



Yeah, I guess that one's more up for interpretation.

Regina Spektor's song are all masterpieces. Every. Last. One. Of. Them. From Samson to Somedays. From Pavlov's Daughter to Poor Little Rich Boy. From Chemo Limo to Carbon Monoxide. From The Call to The Calculation. From Ode to Divorce to Oedipus.

And yes, I really am just showing off my knowledge of Regina Spektor songs.

Her songs reflect the best aspects of every time of music there is. She has absolutely no fear of trying new styles of music. In fact, she actually seems to have a rational fear of not trying new styles of music. She has music-ADHD.

I think Regina Spektor is a music machine. In her childhood, she was a prodigy, and to this day: she's one of those out-of-this-world, inhuman music goddesses. She's said on more than one occasion that she's constantly thinking up songs, and that she only writes the best ones down. She never even aspired to be a songwriter, her destiny just grabbed hold of her and made her its wife.

Her lyrics, best of all, are pure poetry. When you watch her interviews, (or in my case, gawk at them in a dark bedroom), she doesn't on first impression seem any more intelligent than a blond, Valley Girl who somehow figured out how to read and write music. But well into her interviews, she begin saying some really wise stuff. Furthermore, her songs are positively dripping with wisdom beyond her years.

Whenever I look at a picture of Regina Spektor, all of my problems go away. I want to sponsor a food drive for homeless people. I want to raise thousands of dollars for cancer research and hungry Africans in her name. I want to go into a confession and then hug all of the people I've ever insulted. Whenever I look at her pictures, I also want to make love to her. But I think that's a different sort of feeling.

Regina Spektor and The Beatles are fighting to the death for my favorite band, but she's winning. Because, dude, she's hot. Sometimes I feel the same way about John Lennon, but not to the same extent. Anyway, my fantasy is that this huge scandal is revealed and the media discovers that Paul McCartney is actually Regina Spektor's real father. Then, Regina Spektor and I get married. (I never figured how that would happen, but it doesn't really matter.) That way, I can have both of them in the same fantasy.

If you haven't already heard her songs, here are my first suggestions:

Another Town

Baby Jesus

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Halloween (Past Tense)

How was everyone's Halloween? Strange that I'm asking you this, though, because I feel like I'm talking to myself. Then again, I asked the same question of my GI Joe action figures and cardboard cut-out of Chuck Norris November 1st as well.

Mine was fine, thanks. Strangely, I went paint-balling on Saturday. I went home with a load of testosterone-driven teenage guys on Friday. The older brother of our host really put a lot of effort into Halloween decorations. It was no less than stunning. Of course, the guys were cracking jokes about the decorations the whole time to mask their intense horror.

They (and I do mean "they" not "me") played this supposedly creepy video game called Dead Space until about 3 in the morning. Even among nerdy guys, who are often the most polite and friendly teenagers that exist, it's amazing how vulgar and foul-mouthed they can be when they're alone. ESPECIALLY when they're playing video games.

"%$%#! What the $%#@! Get that #$%&#@$ alien $%#@# outta there! Blast his %$#$@#@ %$#@#% to %$#@, %$#$@#!"

And that was just my friend's mother when she walked in on our game.

Saturday I had my second-ever paint-balling experience. It was pretty fun too. Seven or eight of the people at our party showed up in full costume. There was an Ironman and one kid in a gilly suit. I think one kid also went naked but I can't be sure--I was pretty tired from the night before.

Fortunately, Halloween Day I just got to relax. I went to Church in the morning and finished homework after that. Halloween Night, I just helped hand out candy in my Obama mask. I answered every door with a jolly outburst of "Ho ho ho! Take some candy! Happy Halloween! Help me--I don't feel mentally secure! Bye!" Unfortunately, we only got three groups of trick-or-treaters. Disappointing. Anyway, my brother and I were inside watching The Happening and stuffing our faces with half-decent candy from a last-minute run to Bed Bath and Beyond. (You heard right--you'd be surprised how much stuff they keep in the back. Way more than magic remotes and Christopher Walken.) The Happening isn't really a horror movie, but exceptionally eerie. You NEED to see it if you haven't.

Most importantly, I got a chance on Monday to write a love letter to Danielle. Here it is:

Dear Danielle,

I think ur pretty

also i think you have nice hair. and i like your backpack

do you want to be my girlfriend?
if you do, call my mom and she'll tell me. here is her number: 305-691-0338

Most sincerely,

Christopher