Holley is Not the Most Observent Kroger Employee

While that's true, can't force myself to love her any less. In fact, I'm sure it only increases my admiration for her. Poor girl.

In any case... I'm sick. Really, really sick. And it's upsetting, really. They gave me a steroid shot in my arse. It hurts. I have a bruise that's about the size of Paris. Maybe as big as Sicily. Who knows? I haven't had the opportunity to get my ruler back there to make precise measurements. My whole body hurts, and I have this nice little low-grade fever. I can't breathe. [insert sobbing here] Desperation's the name of the game.

My fever was a bit higher last night at work and guess who came through my line! Kind Mr. Riggs who didn't remember who I was until I go, "Uhm, I was a creeper-girl..." And the realization hit him: "Ooh, I hugged you!" Yeah. Daily, at my request, sometimes bi-daily. Then it seemed I was to make a choice: Pass out or puke, both of which he's seen me do, though I doubt he remembers either occasion.

I did neither, thank goodness and as soon as he left [did he catch me checking out his butt...?] I got to go on my break. Woohoo. Small consolation, that. Oh yes, and I got rejected by a boy who's desperate for my best friend. Yesterday was indeed an eventful day.

Doctor says that I am released to return to school/work on the second, unless I get worse. Happy thoughts. Anyway, I'ma get gone. Later.

xoxo

Qu'est-ce Qu'y Se Passe Au Florence...

I truly have no clue if that was grammatically correct, but since I'm losing sleep over so much else, I won't allow myself to lose sleep over this. I must say, I'm a little disappointed in some GISD systems. Let me explain, Internet Abyss.

This is my fourth year in French. I was supposed to be the only French IV (an AP class) but we have a lovely foreign exchange student from Italy [she's beautiful, it must be the water, I never saw an ugly person in Italy] and she's also in that level, which would be wonderful if there were a French IV class. Alas, there is not. Which sticks both of us in different French III classes. This is the first problem I have: Why on earth, if I just took French III and passed with flying colors, would they put me in that class? Do they expect the teacher to clone herself so that she may pay individual attention to us IV's who need the attention? For we are the ones taking the college-level exam at the end of the year and, frankly, it's been three days and I've learned nothing. This has never happened to me before. French has always come very easily to me and I've never really had to work at it and I've always learned something new in the first few days and now I feel like I've gone back in time.

It's just very irritating, because I've worked my arse off to be the best in my level and now I find myself floating along with nothing to do really, to no fault of the teacher, to be sure. Here is another issue we're having: A woman [I've forgotten the particulars, like her actual title, so allow me to call her 'woman' hahaha] told Prof that she could have a zero period that she could use for the IV(s). Yet when I asked the councelors to let me transfer into the zero period and supplement my last class with American Sign Language, they stared at me much like I stared at the woman in Paris who didn't seem to understand that I was an American, dammit. It was that wide-eyed, please-talk-slower look. So e-mails were sent and now we have to go through this whole ridiculous process just so that I can have an hour a day to learn something. I just have no idea what was going through the Higher Beings' minds when they set this whole thing up. Did they say to each other, "Yes, this system shall work, for certainly both the III's and the IV's can get an adequate education squeezed out of one teacher in one hour." Apparently they think my French teacher is a starfish, so they can cut off her arm and a new Prof will grow!

That last bit may not have made sense, but it did to me, so get over it.

"This is all very vexing." -- Lady Catherine de Bourgh, P&P, no context here

I'm just very tired and very stressed and very sick, and Fatty wants some cake. Maybe I'll make un gateau...

xoxo

Not All Carts are Created Equal

I reeked, but I showered. I hope my smell is no longer so offensive. [insert smilie emoticon here]

I pushed in well over one hundred baskets at Kroger this evening. On the first day of school. I mean not to complain, I am actually very proud of myself. I didn't know I still had it in me to be such a late-night courtesy clerk. I can be a hard-worker. This is exciting. My feet ache, so do my arms and my back, but I am satisfied. It's not like pushing carts in the middle of the day when it's busy and you push in five and at the same time five customers come in and take all the carts. Neutral, like neutral birth rate. It eventually dies out. Anyways, this was gratifying.

Oh yes, and did I mention that MY SENIOR YEAR started today? Well if I hadn't, IT STARTED TODAY [tooooooohhhh-daaaaah-hay-uh] and I have four AP classes this semester. Happy thought indeed, yes? But my schedule will be changed tomorrow, so I won't bore you with the details of it until I've got the final copy. Hopefully though by tomorrow I'll have eight classes [one more than most, mind you] and absolutely no time for a social life.

Anyway, I'm exhausted. Good night, my dearies!

With much love.

xoxo

P.S. Thanks Ness for letting me know about the comments, I tried to fix them. If there's anyone out there reading, couldya tell me if those darned things are up and working yet? I'm not exactly a techno-thusiest.

The Height of Narcissism

Someone ate my last slice of sausage and onion pizza. I can scarce believe it.

I do believe that that is all I have to say of importance. I... I... I. I. I. This is what a blog is. An account about me by me. And while I am not the first one to come to this conclusion, I still think it is strange.

I am at the height of our narcissistic age. Good for me.

I saw a boy today who I haven't seen in nearly two years. Spent five minutes trying to get him to look at me, though to be sure I've changed greatly in those two years. He didn't look... Sad, right? And I'm such a creeper, I always remember names, especially his [Brandon Riggs, haha] for I... well, I'm pretty sure we sorta stalked eachother. Oh, well. I'll get over it.

Someone really ought to talk to me.

I Do Bite My Thumb, Sir

This title, like so many others, has nothing to do with the subject of my tiney rant this evening. Tonight's subject is the total lack of regard for someone's personal property when they are showing you hospitality when you don't deserve a lick of it. I don't understand in which generation respect became a vice and not a virtue. Really. Someone barges into your house and uses your broken toilet? No room for P's and Q's there, huh?

But I'm getting ahead of myself, dear children.

So, my grandfather fixed my gas gauge, which means I can now tell when my tank is full, half so, or empty. Thanks, grandpa! This has nothing to do with anything except that my day started off well, what with my receiving a nice little paycheck AND getting free work done on my car. The blood drive, however, was bust. I won't go into detail, I just couldn't find any people.

Well, after a nice, hour-long conversation next to the gas pump at a Shell gas station, thus holding back many a potential customer for said gas station from the perfectly usable pumps, I went home, ran upstairs to my room to check my e-mail in a jolly little manner [I have no clue why I'm writing like this... do I sound like a pompous ass yet?] and to my great surprise had a message from someone whose blog I enjoy very much. My point: Great afternoon. Perfect.

As I was replying, I hear the dogs start to bark frantically. Oh geez. This could mean anything from there's a man with a machite and a hockey mask outside of my door or a child playing on his skateboard down the street. The dogs are indiscriminent in their attempts to ward strangers away from our house, and I don't mind much because I'm basically a hermit. I hate driving, going out [except with my beloved girlfriends because they understand what social situations are acceptable and which are not and that is a rare quality in young women] and being around most people in general, save at work when I have this knack for striking up conversations with perfect strangers because they're hot/gorgeous/buying funny things. But I digress...again. Then comes the banging on the door, the constant ringing of the bell, which of course I don't answer because I'm a "child left home alone" as my mother so prudently put it. Plus I hate it when people don't get the hint: either A) I am in no condition to answer the door, B) I'm screening my visitors [a ridiculous effort when my car was in the drive way], or C) you're being rude and I don't want to deal with rude people.

Well, not taking the hint, whoever was doing the door-banging and bell-ringing, went to the other door and rushed it, which annoyed me. For two reasons. I did not answer the door for a reason. And she didn't announce herself, or allow the dogs to sniff her as dogs are prone to doing when a stranger enters. She just ran straight to the bathroom [which, mind you, is broken at this time]. I feel like now I should tell you that "she" is my stepfather's sister, with whom I have had many bad experiences. All I shall say is that she once told me that I needed to lower my standards to that of the average barroom brawler if I wanted some man-muffin in meh. Sorry, I want a guy who's in the same caliber as myself. My mistake, forgot this was America. Anyway, I calmly told her through the door that that bathroom was off-limits because it was broken, but she said she could hold it no longer [not quite so eloquently] so she went at it. My kitchen, which is located next to the bathroom, now smells like piss.

Upon exiting, she was then rushed by all the dogs [three] and I tried to control them with her egging them on. Did I mention that she parked in my front yard under the porch? She did. My dog is big and white and of a breed that I cannot spell so I shan't embarrass myself trying. Anyway, he's particularly vicious to people he persieves as strangers or people who barge right on in. So he's sitting there growly loudly and not at all in a playful manner. And what does the woman do? She sticks her drunk face in the dog's face. I told her, rather repeatedly, not to get that near to a dog that clearly has no other inclination than to rip her to shreds. Perhaps he was just going off of my body language though because, sure, I was a tad tense myself. When she didn't stop, I grabbed his collar and pulled him to the back door, saying to myself, "Well, then, since you won't listen I won't do a bloody thing when you get yourself bitten cause you don't [insert obsenity here] listen." She asked me what I said and with an almost joking smile I repeated, shoving my dog outside. Then the niceties continue. She goes upstairs and tries to walk in my sister's room. Not sure why. The girl held the door closed and yelled, "Be out in a minute." But that just set this woman off, and she stormed out of the house spouting nonsense like she got it and she knew when she wasn't wanted, and I, flipping through mail, called "Sorry to make ya feel so" as she slammed the door.

Five minutes later, when I was sure she was gone, I grabbed my phone and told my mother about it. She told me to lock all the doors and not answer for anyone, as was my right as a minor, left home alone with a younger sister to take care of. Well, later, I get this text. From the stepfather. It said, and I quote, "i sent my sister up ther. u will not b rude to my family do u understand me?" I didn't understand him so I didn't reply, but I think what offended me most was that he has a full QWERTY keyboard on his phone and still insists on using chatspeak, which I cannot allow.

So that's my rant. There's the end, finally. Off to watch some cheasy chick flick and nurse my wounded pride! [insert overexaggerated sniffles here]

xoxo

Well, Then You Are Pretty, Mr. Queen

I don't understand myself sometimes. And really, my bestest friend ought to do her job and not allow me to speak around men in uniform. On my way to the Sunshine State, there were a few Air Force boys and I told 'em I'd give them all the money in my wallet [it was starving, so they wouldn'ta gotten much] if they'd strip 'cause I do love a man outta his uniform as much as I like 'im in it. Now this. At the school were some very nice gents, no clue what branch they were in [Navy or Marines, I'm not dumb, just special] and a girl told one he was pretty.

"Pretty? Now, I woulda gone with handsome or stoically...erotic anyway, pretty works. Je peut dire: Vous etes joli, monsieur. C'est gauche mais..." Is my French terrible? I was in France for three days. It might be terrible. But I digress... Someone asked if the man's last name really was Queen and he said it was, and I have no brain-to-mouth filter so I blurted ever so kindly, "Well, then, you are pretty, Mr. Queen." So now you know.

These guys with ridiculously deep voices came through my line the other day. I'm bad at flirting. Maybe someday someone'll like that. Anyway, that wasn't important.

My first ever blood donation is tomorrow at two. Good times.

Yesterday, I had this very nice photographer Katie Chapman, whose link is in the title, do my senior photos. Sweet woman, really nice. Go to her. Tell her Shaylee sent you. It won't get you a discount, but I told her I'd tell people so, there you are.

I took some valerian root pills in hopes that it'd make me sleep, I'm tired. So tired. Maybe I should crash some help groups and pretend I'm dying. Would that help me sleep? Did alright in Fight Club. Anyway, it tasted like the smell of old socks.

I hate people who smell bad. I s'pose this is my slandering post but where are your friends, people that smell like B.O.? I would love to be nice to you, but I can't breathe around you. Shower. Antiperspirent. Look 'em up.

xoxo

Yeah, Yeah, Just Put the Wine in My Beer Can

Wondering bout the title? Yeah, well, best not keep you waiting, huh? Okay, last night's dinner: tostadas. The best feature: boxed wine. See where I'm going yet? My stepfather's brother was asking for last call, Sean [the stepfather] tossed him an empty beer can and said, "Yeah, fill it up." ...

"You might be a redneck if..."

Welcome to Texas.

Maybe we're crazy because of the water here. Perhaps it's the recession?

The world may never know.

I apologize if, on the off chance there's anyone reading, I seem to be lacking in my usual light fluffiness. I seem to be slipping back into the old Depression Regime. I'll get over it.

I still have nothing to say. My tea is delicious. No more updates.

xoxo

Swimming in Bodies and the Discovery of a New "Project"

It is rather hard, as I'm sure you can imagine, to drink scalding tea AND take a picture. My lip and tongue are burnt, thanks for asking.

Okay, about the day. If you were not in Granbury's Kroger during the course of this fine blackhole in my life, you are among the only ones, I'm sure. Today was the day we doubled all coupons up to a dollar. Let me start by saying: Dear Lord. The day started, as all my days start, at seven thirty. I was lucky, though, because my faithful canine allowed me to snooze until seven fifteen. Good dog. Well, I take him out and then lay back down (I am a lazy kid, get over it) for a little bit [three hours and counting]. Boring so far, my alarm goes off and I wake up. Check the blog, no news. I have one reader, and I know her personally [hi, Lauren!] so of course I flicked through some other blogs, looking for something interesting. I had to go in at eleven thirty, had to leave at eleven. No big deal, I had both my keys and my name tag the night before. And I even assured myself a nice morning by putting [hiding] them in a place I couldn't possibly forget.

Ah, the best laid plans.

This couldn't be happening, because I would never lose my keys, or my name tag, right? Well, yeah. Gone. Couldn't find them. My bedroom (no picnic to look at before) turned into ground zero of a place where some cataclysmic event happened. Hurricane, earthquake, tornado, take your pick. Still couldn't find my keys. Eleven fifteen. Oholyshiznet! Long story short, I ended up having a tiny little meltdown (laying off the caffeine, see?) which ended in my crawling around on my hands and knees bawling like a baby. My mother was going to let me borrow her car but that still left the name tag. Not a big deal to you? I have very little in my life. EVENTUALLY, I find my keys and even later--you know, after I had given in, called my boss (still crying) and told him that I was having trouble getting to work and would hafta come in late--find my name tag.

I clocked in at 12:05 pm.

Then comes the real experience, the true test that all heroes must pass before admittence into Olympus and--oh, wait, sorry, summer reading=Mythology. Okay, okay, so nothing as monumentous as that, but it was hard. You know that woman you hate, the one you are forced to stand behind as she doles out her billions of coupons to the zombie-eyed cashier? That was every customer today. They came in flocks, with there miscellaneous items and their fistfulls of coupons, half of which wouldn't work the first time. To get out of the store was a huge task on anyone's patience, and it showed. Boy, did it show. I would love to tell you how many times I was yelled at today, but let us save that for a later date.

I go on break. I return, woeful that my rest must end so soon.

Ah-ha! But some good may come of it yet! You see, I had this one customer, a very nice woman who talked to me about ginger. She said that if you boiled a cinnamon stick with some sliced ginger in water (I add a bit of sugar) for a time and drink it as tea, it helps your menstral cycle. I got home, did my research, and decided to try it. Delicious, by the way.

That's what it looked like. So here's my project, that I hope not to screw up too badly. My appointment with my lady doctor is on the tenth of September. Every day til then I'll drink this tea. It's almost a month, that's long enough to test whether or not this tea is the real deal or just some folk tale, right? Here goes.

xoxo

P.S. If you can think of anything else for me to try, go for it! I am all sortsa into trying herbal remedies and whatnot.

The Age of Online Social Networking

Yes, I did draw that on a CoverGirl compact with liquid eyeliner and yes I do think myself rather clever for doing so when I was supposed to be finding, folding, and boxing clothes for charity.

Anyway, I came upon a startling realization that any sane human being in this day I think needs to come upon before they can progress. That was that there are way [waaaaa-ha-ha-haaaay-uh] too many sites out there on which people are just putting themselves out there. I realize that we live in an era that you need to make yourself available in any way possible. But we have Myspace we have Facebook, Twitter, Flickr, Youtube. There's DeviantART and Friendster (which is big in Asia, not so much here) and Gaia Online. And let's not forget all the dating sites.

Look. I have an account for MSN, for Yahoo!, for AIM, and two of those I no longer use. I have Skype, and MyspaceIM. I have a cell phone, where I receive alerts from Gaia Online, though for me right now it is very much Gaia Offline. What else do I have? I had Flickr, but (not to knock it) it wasn't for me. I have a Youtube account, a Myspace account (since I was twelve or thirteen), a Twitter that only lets out a death Tweet every two or three months, and my Facebook account was canceled. I have an account on InterPals, even. I go to church every Sunday and we talk about who saw that new thing on Youtube. My best friend and I talk more through digital means then face-to-face--and we work together!

I remember when I was like nine years old and I remember that I had these things that I held dear to my heart: my stuffed bear (yes, I still loved him), my bike, and my friends down the street. No cell phone, no internet. Golly-gee-willikers, my family didn't have internet in our house until I was nine or ten. It's been a few years (not as many as I'm sure you're thinking) and we now have wireless internet, each of us has a computer in our bedrooms, my mother and stepfather have laptops, and we IM eachother throughout the day.

We are living the American dream, people.

I live in the bedroom above my mother's room. She texts or IM's me to tell me simple things like "Call g'pa" or "Feed dogs" even "Make dinr, chkn's n the fridge". (Chatspeak makes me shudder, by the way.) Sure, she could yell up the stairs, but what fun would that be? I'm not complaining or judging, but only making observations. What else is technology for but to use it?

But this comes with serious heartbreak. Facebook deleted me, I cried, there go some irreplacable [single serving] friends. My internet gets cut off or I get a virus, I can't visit InterPals for days, or, God forbid, weeks. People all over the world think I'm snubbing them. I become The Snubber. I stop checking my Space, the people there get too boring or are ignoring me. I miss the biggest news about my friend becoming engaged. I am out of the Loop. How sad. And in the background you can hear a priest saying [ashes to ashes, dust to dust] a few last words over a casket. You know what the headstone would read. "Here Lies Shaylee's Social Life" and beneath it "Oh, Ye Young One Who Had Hardly a Chance". *

I'm not being high-and-mighty, I'm just saying that some of us have priority issues we need to work out. But as you can see I'm online, I'm using my blog. And you could assume that I have two or more pages open to different sites open, and on those pages, multiple tabs. But you'll never know. Goodness, Charlie, I'm exhausted. Let's just end this broadcast, huh?

xoxo

*The situations explained here were fictitious and of the author's own mind. They are not leaks of what will come in the future. Please do not think this is a cry for help, only the rantings of a bored young girl who needs an outlet.

First Post with Nothing to Say

I wake up every morning at seven thirty. On the dot. My dog [whinewhinewhine] insists upon it. And at that time when I rise from my bed, when I complain that my bed is way too high up, there are things swimming in my head, ideas floating in the grey matter packed into my skull. It is one fifty-nine in the afternoon. I have nothing to say. Watching episodes of Maury on Hulu, waiting for my mother to call up that I need to do the dishes/laundry/dog manure outside/any other random chore, I have the urge to write but I don't have inspiration enough to write about anything at all.

I'm Shaylee, as far as you can be concerned, I have no last name. Like Madonna. Wait, bad example. I would narrate the day's events for you, but I can't for fear that, if there is anyone out there reading this, you would very soon hang yourself out of sympathy for my uneventful life. Dear goodness, I'm writing a blog of fluff.

I have no social commentary. J.K. Rowling took rather good care of that, didn't she? Sorry, Harry Potter reference. I'm chalk full of those. I went to Europe for twelve days, and one of the girls in our group, she was also a Sorcerer's Stoner, and wouldn't you know we found a way to tie Harry Potter everywhere. We went to St. Pancras Station in London. Sorry to say, we got a lot of dirty looks from a lot of people. Maybe the refs were a bit much, but we couldn't help ourselves.

Kids have no business having sex. When we live in a society where a thirteen-year-old is getting a girl pregnant, we should definitely stop and take a moment to think about the values we're trying to pass on and whether or not we're doing an adequate job of it.

Okay, that was boarderline incisive. I'm rather proud of myself. Anyway, welcome to my blog, Botching It and in the future I'm sure I'll have more to say. Or less, depending on how badly I screw up future projects. My next one is just cleaning my room. Ugh. After that comes the fun stuff.

xoxo