For the last couple of weeks, our school has lightened the teaching load a bit - you know, with our school closing down and all. So, my friends and I have found something to keep out minds sharp and moderately clear.
Every available school period, we play Scrabble. Yes, Scrabble. It has helped us keep our sanity, and our healthy insanity. It was just a random Scrabble board we found at school, but in time, it came to be more than that.
On Friday, however, we came to school only to discover that our lovely little trusty Scrabble board had been ravaged - with more than 40 letters missing, and the top of the box as well.
I could not describe in words how I truly felt, but I shall try. It felt as if I wanted to be Mount Vesuvius to the people of Pompei, wanted to be the butcher to the unruly but plump chicken, wanted to be Dick Cheney to his hunting buddies, and the tyrannosaurus rex to the slow triceratops . I was so so angry. It was a) stupid freshman, b) stupid sophomores, or c) both who committed the heinous crime. Either way, to me, all underclassmen need to PAY and get us another damn Scrabble board!
You know how stupid they were? The filled in the blank tiles with letters. THE BLANK TILES! THEY COMMITTED SCRABBLE SACRILEGE! THEY MUST BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE!
So the hunt is on. And God have mercy on the people who destroyed the Scrabble board, because I sure as HELL won't.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Wednesday Night Smackdown
This is what I submitted to my English 1301 teacher when asked to write a narrative...
Wednesday Night Smackdown
I banged my head against the car window. My sister, my mother and I were at the end of an extremely long line of automobiles. Our vehicle didn't have air conditioning, so we were wrapped in the heat of a typical summer evening in Texas. Why didn't I have my window rolled down? Because I didn't want to. At that moment, the heat didn't matter. The cars themselves only mattered a bit. It was the time, the time that seemed to be getting slower by the minute. The car inched forward. I groaned.
Finally, we got into the seemingly endless parking lot and found a space. As soon as my mom threw the car into park, I jumped out of the car and started heading towards the arena. It was glimmering brighter than the Taj Mahal at noon, and today it was a pro-wrestling fan's Mecca. I melted into the herd of people heading (hopefully) to the arena. Through breaks in the crowd, I could see a huge mass of people ahead, rowdily jammed against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that surrounded the entrance to the arena. The herd melted into the sea of bodies, packed shoulder to shoulder and waiting for the clock to strike 7:30. Ten minutes to go. I felt the air charged with excitement. Someone shouted that the ticket takers and security guards were getting into position inside the building. Five minutes.
They opened the doors and we surged in like the Red Sea bitch slapping Pharaoh's soldiers, or in this case the poor ticket takers. No way could a couple of guys in yellow shirts stop a horde of excited, and maybe a bit drunk, wrestling fans. I found my mom and sister and we just went with the flow. We found a harassed-looking helper, or whatever you call the people that tell you where your seats are. Unbeknownst to us, we had procured some REALLY excellent seats, only one row from the floor. This added to our excitement, but before we went to our seats, we went to get souvenirs.
In theory, it was a smart idea. Get there and get the good stuff before it's gone. We saw the crowd around the souvenir table way before we actually got a glimpse of the table itself. My mother, always sweet and always obliging, went to stand in line. I knew that this wasn't going to cut it, and that it was up to me alone to take action. I got the money from my mom, and started braving the crowd. I got accidentally punched in the chest, my foot was stepped on dozens of times, I tackled this white supremacist looking guy, and shoved and elbowed an innumerable amount of people. It was worth it. We got the coolest t-shirts, the cutest wrestler teddy bears, and a copy of that year's Wrestlemania. And stickers.
We arrived at our fabulous seats and were ready for the long haul, armed with soda, popcorn, a hotdog and a pretzel. A couple of minutes before the taping actually started, the people in the seats next to us arrived. When I first saw whom I'd be sitting next to, I was completely and utterly horrified. It was a man and his two sons, ALL THREE sporting very authentic, very luxurious, mullets. I knew that the personage at such an event would be dubious, but I never in my life imagined that I could be so accurate. To top it all off, the father was wearing cut-off overalls without a shirt and was carrying numerous cups, filled to the brim with beer.
The matches themselves proved to be even faker live than on television, but I loved it. The experience, the people, the energy. Everything else was great, except maybe the smell. It was something I will never forget, and something that only a select few can truly and fully appreciate.
Wednesday Night Smackdown
I banged my head against the car window. My sister, my mother and I were at the end of an extremely long line of automobiles. Our vehicle didn't have air conditioning, so we were wrapped in the heat of a typical summer evening in Texas. Why didn't I have my window rolled down? Because I didn't want to. At that moment, the heat didn't matter. The cars themselves only mattered a bit. It was the time, the time that seemed to be getting slower by the minute. The car inched forward. I groaned.
Finally, we got into the seemingly endless parking lot and found a space. As soon as my mom threw the car into park, I jumped out of the car and started heading towards the arena. It was glimmering brighter than the Taj Mahal at noon, and today it was a pro-wrestling fan's Mecca. I melted into the herd of people heading (hopefully) to the arena. Through breaks in the crowd, I could see a huge mass of people ahead, rowdily jammed against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that surrounded the entrance to the arena. The herd melted into the sea of bodies, packed shoulder to shoulder and waiting for the clock to strike 7:30. Ten minutes to go. I felt the air charged with excitement. Someone shouted that the ticket takers and security guards were getting into position inside the building. Five minutes.
They opened the doors and we surged in like the Red Sea bitch slapping Pharaoh's soldiers, or in this case the poor ticket takers. No way could a couple of guys in yellow shirts stop a horde of excited, and maybe a bit drunk, wrestling fans. I found my mom and sister and we just went with the flow. We found a harassed-looking helper, or whatever you call the people that tell you where your seats are. Unbeknownst to us, we had procured some REALLY excellent seats, only one row from the floor. This added to our excitement, but before we went to our seats, we went to get souvenirs.
In theory, it was a smart idea. Get there and get the good stuff before it's gone. We saw the crowd around the souvenir table way before we actually got a glimpse of the table itself. My mother, always sweet and always obliging, went to stand in line. I knew that this wasn't going to cut it, and that it was up to me alone to take action. I got the money from my mom, and started braving the crowd. I got accidentally punched in the chest, my foot was stepped on dozens of times, I tackled this white supremacist looking guy, and shoved and elbowed an innumerable amount of people. It was worth it. We got the coolest t-shirts, the cutest wrestler teddy bears, and a copy of that year's Wrestlemania. And stickers.
We arrived at our fabulous seats and were ready for the long haul, armed with soda, popcorn, a hotdog and a pretzel. A couple of minutes before the taping actually started, the people in the seats next to us arrived. When I first saw whom I'd be sitting next to, I was completely and utterly horrified. It was a man and his two sons, ALL THREE sporting very authentic, very luxurious, mullets. I knew that the personage at such an event would be dubious, but I never in my life imagined that I could be so accurate. To top it all off, the father was wearing cut-off overalls without a shirt and was carrying numerous cups, filled to the brim with beer.
The matches themselves proved to be even faker live than on television, but I loved it. The experience, the people, the energy. Everything else was great, except maybe the smell. It was something I will never forget, and something that only a select few can truly and fully appreciate.
Through the Looking Glass
So, this is my first post. In a blog outside of Myspace. Oh chess, I'm one of THOSE kids, and very currently in thus-far-uncharted territory.
Here's the deal. I'm moderately smart for my age, and more than a moderate smart ass. Plain and simple. I don't specialize in anything, except I think I'm pretty good at stringing words together. Screw whoever thinks I'm too colloquial (ahem, TAPPS), that's just the way I write/type/speak/text/etc.
You want to start something with me (as in an argument)? I don't give a blankety, because this is the INTERNET, and I'm just a girl who types some stuff and lets everyone else read it. So yeah.
Wow, did that sound aggressive? Yech, okay.
So here's the New Deal (ha, FDR reference). I'm just here to type. My opinions are mine, yadda yadda yadda, First Amendment, freedom of opinion, hoping not to impede on your beliefs but don't really care if I do, etc. etc.
So great. Hope you read my stuff and leave some comments. Yum.
Oh, wait, am I supposed to tell you what I'm gonna blog about? Ooops, um. I'll tell you when I find out, I promise.
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