Tuxedos, Tousled Hair, and Terrible Luck.

oh, silly me! i'm an idiot.

what is it that people do on friday nights, anyway? here i am, stuck at home, all by my lonesome. not a soul is on instant messenger, and suddenly i realize that the internet is my entire life. it's my entertainment: webcomics, video games, music. it's my social life: e-mails, instant messages, strangers on MMO's.
well, geez, i didn't know that avoiding people leaves you utterly alone on the weekends!
oh, boy.
what do i do? should i call someone? i've got nothing to say. should i go to sleep? it's only seven forty-five. do i watch television? i hate TV. do i watch a sad movie and bawl my eyes out? no, i'm not in the mood for sentiment. do i draw? i've got no motivation, no inspiration. do i sing? i've got a terrible cold and sound like shit. do i dance wildly on the coffee table in front of the big window that you can clearly see from the street? possibly.
oh, geez. i've read three-hundred and forty-five QC comics in the last three days. for the first time in a very long time, i am bored. i mean, i can normally find something to do. i sit around and giggle to myself, i play dress-up with clothes that i actually own and wear, i prance around my room, half-nude and wearing a plastic crown. i go on walks. damn it, when's spring? i want to go to howard park and swing in the sun. i want to walk to the coffee shop, slow down conspicuously in front of the door, then run off to circle the block two or three times before i finally get the nerve to go inside, if i ever do.
damn it, i know exactly what my problem is. fuck you.
but ooh, i get to wake up at seven tomorrow morning to go help out at the special olympics, which i am terribly uncomfortable with. i won't have any friends there, and i'll just sit in the corner complaining about whatever menial task i'll be given until someone snaps about what a bitch i'm being. mom's making me do it. i'm so exhausted and ill, and i would really like to sleep in on a saturday morning, but no, fuck that shit! mom wants me to be a good person, to feel good about something i do, which apparently means putting myself into positions that make me want to cry in frustration.
mom's also trying to get me to go to prom. sure, you know i've been invited, and i've been thinking about it... but... we don't have the money for that kind of fancy shit, and i can't dance, anyway. grrr. rargh. harrumph.
damn those speech team-ians and their districts tomorrow! while they're off, having fun with their theatrical selves, i'll be sitting at the special olympics all alone. goddamn it, why am i not in speech team! oh, that's right, i'm too much of a coward to go to auditions!
okay, so i'm acting all emo, as i am known to do, but i usually type what i say in a sort of contemptuous manner, like dani is too good for her emotions but she'll let them show their faces, just so that they can get a glimpse of the world that other peoples' emotions get to experience. that's right: i'm an ass to my own emotions. i mean, i must be. if i wasn't, wouldn't i be in a relationship by now? it's not like i haven't had the chance. argh, argh. i'll have to do some self-excavation (does anyone else see how dirty that sounds?) and find out exactly why i'm depriving myself of normal, fun teen stuff. and while i'm digging around (in my brain), i'll tell you all about it! won't this be fun!
yeah, well. maybe another time. i'm kind of busy at the moment. y'know. it's friday. i've got other things to do besides sit around on my ass and blog all night.

terrible haiku time!

something about you
makes me want to just, you know
strangle sick kittens

you are not my type
for one, i don't like your face
secondly, you suck

i'm diggin' you, man
but the operation has
made sex difficult

i don't think i am
correctly making haiku's
butchered sentences

sometimes i just wish
i was a sex offender
so i could rape you

haiku's aren't my thing
in fact, i hate poetry
but i keep typing

so, i was thinking:
silly putty's in an egg
it is not egg-like

i stepped in that stuff
-still talking about putty-
my shoes were sticky

hmm, i don't know why
but someone's at the door now
no, i have no friends

i'm kidding, you know
i'm only having some fun
slightly morbid fun

i am quite simple
you over think things too much
i just want your bod

could we possibly
pretend i'm not doing this
like i have a life

kittens are so cute
i especially like when
i kick through their skulls

tell little johnnie
that his perfect, loving dad
killed his mom tonight

i could be dancing
on the coffee table now
okay, i'll do that