That's the sound of me mercy-killing my victim in a red cross bronze-something water-centric lifesaving lesson. First I thought I was just having bad luck. Then I realized that I was just a klutz. And a really slow learner. And that maybe some higher power just doesn't want me touching him.
That's the sound of my heart yelling at me to stop eating all the Folkfest food-stuffs. The Saskatoon Folkfest, by the way, is a bit disappointing. Imagine cramming the entire senior population of your local city into a loud, large, yet ultimately tacky gift shop. Times it by however many pavilions you have, and you've got a Folkfest.
That's also the sound of my eyes rolling, amplified by a billion, at my sister's infatuation with shopping. I mean, don't get me wrong, I understand the allure, but the utter uselessness of the shops she visited struck me as...horrifying. Almost like a mental disability. A mental disability that, in case you cared, I've come to blame on a combination of Mattel, and pre-teen aimed television.
I mean, you shouldn't even pretend to be interested in boys by age eleven. These people are letting themselves get sucked into little miniature trends adopted for your use from people who might actually look good in them, and not just cute. "Cute" in the slightly bratty, coying sense of the word. Heard of the live-action Bratz movie that's coming out? Seen the reviews? That's what a lot of these people are buying into. That's what they're starting to emulate. They're becoming cliches. Disgusting.
That's me, in my head, taking a hammer to the radio. Have you noticed how the songs are all, with a few possible exceptions, starting to sound the same? They all seem to fit into a format more or less resembling this: "You're nice. I want you. I'll get you. Resistance is futile. You scumbag. I want you. I'll get you." Then it just loops like that for about three minutes. It's enough to make you (well, maybe just me) want to puke into the speakers of the radio.
That's the sound of my jaw dropping as I found out that my mom sounds serious about doing something with my desperate desire to get out of the four-grades-too-easy French classes I get with the school. Of course, they aren't supposed to be easy, but I suppose that's what you get for self-teaching yourself... Anyways, she started musing about enrolling me in French Immersion. Hmm...that sounds to me like chucking a wannabe-swimmer into the water, abandoning him, and expecting him to do homework on top of that. I mean, I can understand written French well enough, but they still talk too darned fast for me. Eh, but it's now or never, because grade eight's already a bit old. Eh, but I'd probably be held back a grade for everything else, because of lack of comprehension...I dunno. Part of me still thinks she didn't really mean it. I mean, it's pretty late in the summer...
Note to self: look up French Immersion success rates by entry grade.
Have you seen this? It's a disturbingly inappropriate kiddy book. It's kind-of message of gay acceptance is smothered by full-on messages of both acceptance of pedophilia, and the insanely incorrect idea that homosexuality comes as a direct result of child abuse.
The link: http://dormitem.com/blog/193