At sixteen years old I had one thing on my mind and one thing only.
PARRRRRRTAY!
Did I ever party? Hell no. But that's doesn't change the fact that that's all I could think about. Boys? Psshhh. Cute boys? Psshhh. Boys with cars? Maybe. But aside from boys "with cars" (Cute boys with cars was just too good to be true.), I had the party thing goin' on in my head. Like a song. A song you only know ONE freaking lyric to and you just keep reciting that lyric over and over in your head. And you're like, "I have a song stuck in my head!" when really it's much worse. It's, "I have a sentence stuck in my head!" Sure, it has a catchy tune, but it's still just a sentence, possibly even a sentence fragment. NOT a good feeling. So, I had something like that stuck in my head, except it wasn't a song, just a question. "WHERE'S THE PARTY AT?" That's all I could think about. It made me very antisocial.
"Yeah, so he said he loved me, but like, he's not calling and I've left him messages and I texted him a few times, and that was after leaving him several messages and I don't know what's wrong with him, what do you think, Natasha?"
Where's the party at? That's what I'm thinking.
"I mean, do you think I should just give him space, or like, call him from another phone to see if he answers, or talk to his friends..."
Where'sthepartyatwhere'sthepartyatwhere'sthepartyat...
"Or like, should I hit on his friend and then maybe they'll casually mention it to him ad he'll get jealous and call me..."
"Maybe he didn't call you back because he was at a party."
"Maybe...I don't think he really parties though."
"Maybe he heard of a party and so he was calling people to find out the deets and so he couldn't answer his phone."
"Well the thing is he's not much a a "partyER" so..."
"Who isn't a partyer? We're sixteen, aren't we? Aren't we supposed to be partying? Isn't that what sixteen year olds DO?"
"Well I'm fifteen."
"Well he could be sixteen, and in that case I mean, DUH, he's partying."
"Aren't you sixteen?"
"Yeah."
"How many parties have you been to?"
"What kind of questions IS that? I'm SIXTEEN, for crying out loud!"
This is a common tactic used among homosepians called, "avoiding the question."
"Oh, so you've been to a lot?"
"I'm sixteen, aren't I?"
This is also a common tactic used by homosepians called, "answering a question with a question so you don't really have to answer the question."
"Yeah. So you party like every weekend?"
"Hell yes, I do!"
And yet another tactic frequently used that is most often called, "lying your ass off."
So, truth was, I didn't go to any parties. I didn't hear of any parties. All I heard were the stories on Monday morning of how AWESOME and how CRAZY and how "FUCKED UP, MAN" people's weekend had been. (At the parties.) Was I not elligible for a good 'getting fucked up' session? I would hear about who had hooked up with who. (At the parties.) Was I not fit for some good random fellatio with total strangers? Or better yet, guys who went to my school who I never talked to so I could come back and have countless awkward silences with them? I would hear about who saw who, who ran into who, who drank with who, AND I WANTED IN, DAMNIT. It wasn't until February that I thought I had gotten that chance.
My best friend, (BFF, girl! Turned out to be 'BFFN'...best friend FOR NOW. Heard that in a movie, thought it was very honest and so I liked it.) So my BFF at the time had a birthday coming up. What do people do on birthdays? That's right, baby. THEY PARTY. After weeks and weeks of planning, we were ready. I, having done none of the work to prepare whatsoever, had no idea what was in store. But oh, did I have my thoughts. BIG mansion, TONS of alcohol, LOADS of people, SEXY fellas, sexy while at the same time NICE AND CARING fellas, (what? nice and caring fellas don't party?), DANCING, MUSIC, DANCING TO THE MUSIC, all of it. You name it, I imagined it. The time...had come.
OR NOT.
I should have paid attention to the warning signs. The signs that were so blatantly obvious that I couldn't see them. The signs that blinded me with their blatanty making it impossible to recognize them. But I was sixteen, and like I said, I was ready to party. That's what happens when you want to party. You get wrapped up in it, man. Like a drug. All I could think was, "BITCH I KNOW WHERE THE PARTY'S AT!"
Warning Sign #1
I pull up in my car. (Actually it was my dad's car, being that I was sixteen and did not have a car of my own yet and therefore rocked the shimmery beige Buick LaSabre that I now miss since I never got pulled over in that thing because only 90 year old men drive those things and who's going to give a 90 year old man a ticket? Who's going to even try and communicate with a 90 tear old man?) (Besides Anna Nicole, that is.) (Yes, that was uncalled for because she is dead and yes, you read correctly. BUICK. LASABRE.) So I pull up in my beige "boat" that people used to refer to it as, and a 50 year old man with white chops speed walks over and taps on my window.
"WHO ARE YOU?"
Since I had never been to a party, I did not know at the time they they usually had middle-aged men as crossing guards. How clever!
"PARK OVER THEEERRRREEEE!"
"OKAAAAYYYYY!"
Since I had never been to a party before, I did not know at the time that the crossing guards extended all of the vowels in their words at a heightened volume right in your face. Party tradition, I guess!
Warning Sign #2
The door was locked. So I rang the door bell.
"COMING!"
Do people usually answer the doors at parties?
"Why, hello! You must be NATASHA!"
Do 50 year old women in velvet track suits usually answer the door at parties?
"Yep, that's...me!"
"Come IN, come IN! Just head on over to that table and Dot will help you!"
Finally, some ALCOHOL!
Warning Sign #3
"Hello!"
Do people usually keep the kegs hidden? Duh! So cops don't see! I am such a party pansy.
"Here you go, little darlin'!"
Dot hands me a permanent marker...oh wait, DUH. To write my name on my cup, I'm sure!
"And here's this!"
Dot hands me...a name tag?
"Write your name on this name tag and stick it right on your bosom there, honey. That way folks here know who ya are!"
After poking my bosom with a permanent marker of her own, Dot shuffles over to some stoned little mother fuckers who have probably done more drugs than centimeters her boobs have sagged and hands them a name tag. You know those times when you're embarassed for someone else? That was not this time. I was embarrassed for MYSELF.
Warning Sign #4
I walk into the kitchen. One, two, three, four, five, six, SEVEN adults stand there, clutching their booze. At least I get to drink! I head over to what looks to be "the bar."
"Ah Ah Ah! Miss...Natasha?"
Damn this name tag.
"I don't think you're 21, little missy!"
I don't think you are either, ya old fart.
"But we have something special for YOU!"
If he gives me a fucking goody bag...
"BAGEL BITES!"
Man I wish it was a goody bag.
Warning Sign #5, a.k.a. The Last Straw
"Who wants to dance?"
Music blasts on. Rap. Typical. But hey, it's a party, isn't it? People start dancing, grinding even! and I start to get excited for the first time that night. I rip off my name tag (it's good to start small), and start to head over to the dance floor. Time to PARRRRTAY!
"STOP IT STOP IT EVERYONE HOLD IT HOLD IT!"
Music cuts off. Everyone stops. Ol' Mr. Rogers lookin' ass is standin' there holding the iPod.
"Too loud, guys. Come on now, you all know better than that."
WHAT KIND OF PARTY IS THIS.
So I leave. Yeah, I left my best friend's birthday party, without even saying goodbye. Or thank you. Or picking up the name tag I had tossed to the "dance" floor. (More like "FANCE" floor. FUCK. ALL. NAME TAG. CARRYING. ELDERS. FANCE.) That was one of the lamest things I have done. But you know what? That was THE lamest party I had ever been to so I think that must give me SOME kind of leeway. I guess what I took from that experience was that I had been asking the wrong question all along. You don't ask, "Where the party at?' What you need to be asking is, "Where the party at and WILL THERE BE FUCKING NAME TAGS BECAUSE IF SO THEN I'M NOT GOIN." With that advice, all you 16 year olds of the world, go party.
"Natasha Ferrier is absolutely HILARIOUS." - Natasha Ferrier, self-quoter
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Shout Out To The DONK!
"GIRL GOT A DONK!"
Okay. May we stop and analyze the fact that the entire male species suffers from Tourette's?
"GIRL LEMME BRING DAT DONK HOME WIT ME TONIGHT!"
Because they do.
"Hey Annie!"
"Hey, what's up?"
"Who's yo friend?"
"This is Natasha."
"GIRL GOT A DONK!"
First of all, can you not just ask ME what my name is? I'm standing not two feet away from you, not two inches from the girl you just asked my name for. Second of all, who uses the word 'donk?' It only makes me think of donkey, which makes me think of a...ahhh...I see now...okay so it's kind of clever, but it still sounds dumb. (For those of you who have trouble catching on to my unspoken "dot dot dot" epiphanies, 'donk' means 'ass.' 'Ass' is another term for 'donkey' yada yada yada I hate explaining myself.) And third of all, YOU ARE RUDE. Now I can't turn around, because I'll be feeling self-conscious and extremely aware that you'll be looking at my ass, hence the self-consciousness. And for those of you who are thinking I'm writing this post to boast about my ass, you are incredibly mistaken and should be embarrassed. Would YOU take someone yelling at your ass as a compliment? SHOUT OUT TO THE DONK! No. I don't understand this "ass craze" people seem to be going through. It's a phase, I tell ya. An ass-craze-phase. A big ass only means someone has been eating a lot of lard and that lard has gone straight down to the area above the anal canal. That's right. If baby got back, she really just got a hunk of lard sitting on top of her ass hole. WHAT IS SEXY ABOUT THAT? Please tell me. I'm dying to know. So, in conclusion, NO, I don't take someone telling me I have a donk as a compliment. I take offense to someone telling me the area below my back has a few layers of fat piled up on to it. Now back to what I was saying. YOU ARE RUDE. And, MEN HAVE TOURETTE'S.
It's not that women don't find parts of the male's anatomy as visually pleasing. We just decide to keep these thoughts to ourselves. I don't know, it's like, for some reason, we decide NOT to yell out random comments depicting parts of the naked body to total strangers as they pass us. I know, weird, right? Same thing when we're driving in the car. If someone is walking on the sidewalk of the opposite sex, we just never have the impulse to roll down the window, press the middle of the steering wheel with the palm of our hand to make a "BEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP" sound, and then yell out word fragments, such as, "AY BABY!" or, "LOOKIN GOOOO!" and then drive away, roll the window back up, and act as if nothing happened. It's not like we'll be thinking about that one person walking their dog who we impulsively screamed at for the rest of the day. Therefore, we decide to not make complete asses of ourselves over an ass you can't even see because it's covered in pants. ABNORMAL, I KNOW. I was contemplating over this, and a thought struck me. Do men think women get turned on by the fact that they were just yelled at by a stranger? I can see them thinking this. "Aw man, that girl is gonna be thinking about me for the rest of the day. She'll tell all her friends about the guy who almost gave her a stroke by screaming at her from the road as she was trying to go for a walk in order to get some peace and quiet, not to be blatantly honked at. She was just THAT fine that I had to yell, "THAT DRESS WOULD LOOK EVEN BETTER ON MY FLOOR!" and that will totally boost her confidence, man. That chick is gonna be dreamin' about me tonight no DOUBT." So if you're a guy thinking this, thinking that we just love when unattractive guys we've never seen before and never WILL see again yell inappropriate "compliments", you're wrong. Wrong.
I'm not gonna lie. If a random guy yells at me as I pass, it's entertaining. I may tell a couple of friends. I may laugh about it the next day. (Unless he's one, in his 40's. Anything below 40's is relatively young, anything above 40's is just hilarious because those would be some old dudes yelling at you, but 40's is just gross because that would be someone my dad's age. Or someone my dad knows. And yes, that would in fact disturb me for days. Two, he's driving a pick-up truck. Those guys are creepy, probably in-bred and possibly rapists. Three, he has his kids in the car. I've never actually witnessed the third one, but you have to admit, that's pretty fucked up if some guy has his children in the car and he's yelling at girls closer to their age than his to bend over.) Other than those three, it is pretty funny. But I'm not sure if men know that we LAUGH at them for doing that. We're not flattered, or turned or, or curious as to..."ooh who was that guy...", we're embarrassed. For you. And it's funny. (At the same time we pity you. And feel bad. Because you're suffering from Tourette's.)
Maybe it's the words we get thrown at us that aren't cutting it. Maybe if you yelled something like, "YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL!" instead of, "SEXY THANG!" out your car window. Or instead of, "MILF!" you yelled, "A ROSE WOULD ENVY YOU!" as you pass us on the street or maybe instead of "GIRL GOT A DONK!" you could yell, "YOUR GLUTEUS MAXIMUS IS THE MOST CAPTIVATING GLUTEUS MAXIMUS MY EYES HAVE EVERY SEEN, MY STUNNING PEAR-SHAPED LOVE!" I don't know. It's hard to say. But the other thing definitely isn't working, (has a woman ever asked you out to coffee after you screamed at her in public about her "twins?" NO, and if she did, she's probably got a couple of straight jackets hanging in her closet), so you may want to give it a try. Or you could just book a doctor's appointment. Not that it would help. There's no cure for TOURETTE'S.
.
Okay. May we stop and analyze the fact that the entire male species suffers from Tourette's?
"GIRL LEMME BRING DAT DONK HOME WIT ME TONIGHT!"
Because they do.
"Hey Annie!"
"Hey, what's up?"
"Who's yo friend?"
"This is Natasha."
"GIRL GOT A DONK!"
First of all, can you not just ask ME what my name is? I'm standing not two feet away from you, not two inches from the girl you just asked my name for. Second of all, who uses the word 'donk?' It only makes me think of donkey, which makes me think of a...ahhh...I see now...okay so it's kind of clever, but it still sounds dumb. (For those of you who have trouble catching on to my unspoken "dot dot dot" epiphanies, 'donk' means 'ass.' 'Ass' is another term for 'donkey' yada yada yada I hate explaining myself.) And third of all, YOU ARE RUDE. Now I can't turn around, because I'll be feeling self-conscious and extremely aware that you'll be looking at my ass, hence the self-consciousness. And for those of you who are thinking I'm writing this post to boast about my ass, you are incredibly mistaken and should be embarrassed. Would YOU take someone yelling at your ass as a compliment? SHOUT OUT TO THE DONK! No. I don't understand this "ass craze" people seem to be going through. It's a phase, I tell ya. An ass-craze-phase. A big ass only means someone has been eating a lot of lard and that lard has gone straight down to the area above the anal canal. That's right. If baby got back, she really just got a hunk of lard sitting on top of her ass hole. WHAT IS SEXY ABOUT THAT? Please tell me. I'm dying to know. So, in conclusion, NO, I don't take someone telling me I have a donk as a compliment. I take offense to someone telling me the area below my back has a few layers of fat piled up on to it. Now back to what I was saying. YOU ARE RUDE. And, MEN HAVE TOURETTE'S.
It's not that women don't find parts of the male's anatomy as visually pleasing. We just decide to keep these thoughts to ourselves. I don't know, it's like, for some reason, we decide NOT to yell out random comments depicting parts of the naked body to total strangers as they pass us. I know, weird, right? Same thing when we're driving in the car. If someone is walking on the sidewalk of the opposite sex, we just never have the impulse to roll down the window, press the middle of the steering wheel with the palm of our hand to make a "BEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP" sound, and then yell out word fragments, such as, "AY BABY!" or, "LOOKIN GOOOO!" and then drive away, roll the window back up, and act as if nothing happened. It's not like we'll be thinking about that one person walking their dog who we impulsively screamed at for the rest of the day. Therefore, we decide to not make complete asses of ourselves over an ass you can't even see because it's covered in pants. ABNORMAL, I KNOW. I was contemplating over this, and a thought struck me. Do men think women get turned on by the fact that they were just yelled at by a stranger? I can see them thinking this. "Aw man, that girl is gonna be thinking about me for the rest of the day. She'll tell all her friends about the guy who almost gave her a stroke by screaming at her from the road as she was trying to go for a walk in order to get some peace and quiet, not to be blatantly honked at. She was just THAT fine that I had to yell, "THAT DRESS WOULD LOOK EVEN BETTER ON MY FLOOR!" and that will totally boost her confidence, man. That chick is gonna be dreamin' about me tonight no DOUBT." So if you're a guy thinking this, thinking that we just love when unattractive guys we've never seen before and never WILL see again yell inappropriate "compliments", you're wrong. Wrong.
I'm not gonna lie. If a random guy yells at me as I pass, it's entertaining. I may tell a couple of friends. I may laugh about it the next day. (Unless he's one, in his 40's. Anything below 40's is relatively young, anything above 40's is just hilarious because those would be some old dudes yelling at you, but 40's is just gross because that would be someone my dad's age. Or someone my dad knows. And yes, that would in fact disturb me for days. Two, he's driving a pick-up truck. Those guys are creepy, probably in-bred and possibly rapists. Three, he has his kids in the car. I've never actually witnessed the third one, but you have to admit, that's pretty fucked up if some guy has his children in the car and he's yelling at girls closer to their age than his to bend over.) Other than those three, it is pretty funny. But I'm not sure if men know that we LAUGH at them for doing that. We're not flattered, or turned or, or curious as to..."ooh who was that guy...", we're embarrassed. For you. And it's funny. (At the same time we pity you. And feel bad. Because you're suffering from Tourette's.)
Maybe it's the words we get thrown at us that aren't cutting it. Maybe if you yelled something like, "YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL!" instead of, "SEXY THANG!" out your car window. Or instead of, "MILF!" you yelled, "A ROSE WOULD ENVY YOU!" as you pass us on the street or maybe instead of "GIRL GOT A DONK!" you could yell, "YOUR GLUTEUS MAXIMUS IS THE MOST CAPTIVATING GLUTEUS MAXIMUS MY EYES HAVE EVERY SEEN, MY STUNNING PEAR-SHAPED LOVE!" I don't know. It's hard to say. But the other thing definitely isn't working, (has a woman ever asked you out to coffee after you screamed at her in public about her "twins?" NO, and if she did, she's probably got a couple of straight jackets hanging in her closet), so you may want to give it a try. Or you could just book a doctor's appointment. Not that it would help. There's no cure for TOURETTE'S.
.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Hurl Like Garth
I remember the days when I got up in the morning for school and showered.
Those days are gone.
I remember the days when I got up in the morning for school and put on mascara with my mouth gaping open because for some unknown reason you cannot tend to the hair on your eyelids without your jaw hanging open like Lassie. I can't explain it, and neither can anyone else.
Those days? Also gone.
I remember the days when I got up in the morning for school and physically put on clothes.
Those days went capeesh.
The days when I did my hair?
Capoosh.
The days when I brushed my teeth for longer than 23 seconds?
Capish.
The days when I knew what a mirror was and why I needed one?
Casplash.
I've been in school for a good 13 years now and the truth is, I have no one left to impress. I see the same people every damn day. I've seen these people every damn day for at least 4 years now. I don't notice how they look and I was 100 percent positive they didn't notice how I looked.
The days where I was 100 percent positive my fellow peers didn't notice how I looked?
Gone.
"Hey Natasha!"
"Hey Gail! How are---"
"MAN you look tired!"
Okay. What am I, an idiot? Everyone knows that when someone says, "You look tired!", it really means, "Wow! You look like shit!"
"Really? I'm not, really, at all."
"Oh are you sad about something?"
Same with this little number. "Are you sad?" really means, "Man! Your eyes are abnormally puffy and those dark circles are noticeable today!"
"What? No. Maybe it's the glasses. I don't usually wear them."
"I don't think so. I just think you're EXHAUSTED."
Another thing people like to do is repeat themselves. I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME. What? You didn't get the reaction you were hoping for? Well guess WHAT. Saying it again and again is not going to get you a different reaction each time, my friend. You don't just try out insults until you get the response you were looking for. My reaction is going to be the same every time: NO bitch, I'm NOT tired, why don't you do what you're supposed to be doing and go lead Dorothy down the yellow brick road and leave me the hell alone.
"Ummm no. I'm pretty wide awake. WIDE awake."
So after this unexpected encounter, I run into another one of my good ol' buddies. Same hallway. Same minute. SAME FRICKIN' COMMENT.
"Hey Natasha! Whoaaaaa...looks like SOMEbody got no sleep last night!"
Whoaaaa...looks like SOMEbody got 9 months pregnant after a few of those Big Macs!
"What? Why do you say that?"
Is this not a hint that what I thought you just said was rude and unnecessary? This obviously means that I, myself, have not noticed that I look like shit and therefore you, yourself, have no right pointing it out to me. And what if I did notice? What if I was like, "HEY, yeah I know! I look like a piece of shit today! It really boosts my confidence when I know others notice it, too! AND as SOON as they see me nonetheless! That's right! We're not even five feet apart and you're appalled by my appearance! Thank GOD someone else noticed how ugly I look besides me! BOY, DO I LOVE HAVING FRIENDS!
"You just look so tired! I've never seen you look so tired!"
So I look bad, okay. Maybe I wouldn't mind so much if you balanced out your insults with compliments. (Not at the same time, because how obviously fake would it be if someone said, "You look like Quazimoto, but where'd you get those CUTE shoes, girlfriend?!" Pretty damn obvious, THAT'S how obvious.) Why doesn't anyone ever feel comfortable saying, "I've never seen you look so smokin' hot, you foxy momma!" I think everyone would much rather be called a fox than a turd. But does anyone ever say that? NO. Let's focus on the NEGATIVE to make ourselves feel better, then when it comes time to be positive let's all get jealous and hate that person for doing their hair that morning. What a plan. WHAT. A. PLAN.
"Oh, it's probably just because I didn't put on make-up today."
"Wow, you look THAT different without make-up?"
If I go from painting my eyelids purple, streaking a black line across the brims, clumping my eyelashes together with black goo and making my lips red and shiny to nothing then YEAH, I'm gonna look a little different. Why do you think clowns make kids laugh? MAKE-UP. Why do you think people are comfortable with seeing the deceased at an open-casket funeral? MAKE-UP. Why do you think transvestites think they're fooling anyone? MAKE-UP.
"You're probably just not used to seeing me au natural."
"You should really go home and get some sleep."
My god, is it really that bad that you don't think I should show my face on these premises for the remainder of the day? Okay so now I'm feeling a little self-conscious.
So I continue walking down the same hallway. Towards the same class I've been trying to get to and that I would have already gotten to if it weren't for these abnormally observant little freaks who I guess are just THAT obsessed with me that they have to STARE at me and make assessments then TALK to me about them because they're obsessed and I know I'm fascinating especially when I look like excrement but people need to keep their infatuations to themselves. I mean, please.
"Hey Natasha!"
See what I mean? OBSESSED with me.
"Hey!"
My voice is enthusiastic, but my head...is down. Yes, I want your sympathy right now. It's not that I let people get to me, I just want to get to class. Thats it. Class. Maybe I LIKE looking grungey-and-not-in-the-cute-hip-90's-way-but-in-the-bad-disgusting-make-ya-wanna-hurl-like-Garth-way.
"What's the matter?"
I get asked what's wrong if my head is up; I get asked what's wrong if my head is down. I can't win. I simply cannot win. So, I lift my head.
Can you saaayyyyy...BIG FUCKING MISTAKE?
"AWW MAN, YOU LOOK TIRED!"
Third time. In a row. You got that? This is not an exaggeration. This is real life. Like reality TV. Except real. And my life. MY REAL LIFE CONSISTS OF THESE UNFORTUNATE EVENTS. MY REAL LIFE CONSISTS OF BEING TOLD I LOOK LIKE SHIT THREE TIMES IN A ROW IN THE SAME FREAKING HALLWAY.
"I KNOW, RIGHT? I LOOK LIKE SHIT!"
"No, no! I didn't mean it like that! I just mean you look, like, you haven't gotten sleep in a couple of days."
"Do people who haven't gotten sleep in a couple of days look spik and span? No. Actually, I think people who haven't gotten sleep in a couple of days look like ZOMBIES. Are zombies considered to be attractive? Would you DATE a zombie? NO. You wouldn't. Because they look like SHIT."
"I'm sorry, I just...uhhh...see ya later, Natasha."
Great. Now I LOOK like shit and I'm treating people like shit. I should just go for the triple-header and smell like it, too. At least I'll be guaranteed that everyone in the entire school would notice!
I remember the days when I didn't care about how I looked at school, the days I didn't do my hair, didn't do my make-up, didn't wash my face, didn't care one single bit what people thought of me.
Those days...are now gone.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Cool Girls Coloring Book
At age 5, I was sex-crazed.
At age 6, I was Danny Zucko.
At age 7, I was a young entrepreneur.
That's right, a young entrepreneur. This stage in my life came shortly after I realized I could never be Danny Zucko because I was missing the one part that made him the Danny Zucko, (There is a scene where Rizzo asks Danny, "Where ya goin', to flog your log?" and I realized that va-jay-jays look nothing like logs unless mine was just THAT unique which I'm sure it wasn't and even then I wouldn't know because not only did I not have many to compare it to, I was not all that fascinated with mine and therefore did not look at it that often. Or grab it, for that matter, which, YES, some girls my age had grown accustomed to doing, and then it hit me: something ELSE looks like a log, though! A penis! AHA!), and so I moved on to, of course, what would obviously come next after it's hit you that you're a girl and you'll stay a girl (unless, of course, you do the whole "operation" thing, and NO, I'm not talking about that extremely inappropriate game with the naked man lying on the table where you stick things in all his holes, nooks, and cranny's and then start laughing when BZZZ! he's shrieking in pain because you just stuck a COLD, metal STICK in HIS STICK which I'm sure doesn't feel very good to cross sticks like that. I'm talking about the kind of operation that went down when you see a half-boy/half-girl, kinda-like-a-boy-but-then-look!-oh-that-looks-girlish...to make a long story short, BOY GEORGE.) So what comes after this self-realization? ENTREPRENEURSHIP, OF COURSE!
It all started out with this really smokin' hot chick with some fly 80's do---
*Note to readers: I have just realized that I have said many things that may portray me as a lesbian. I, Natasha Lee Ferrier, am NOT a lesbian. I just sometimes SAY lesbian "things." Thank you for your time, and attention.
---so this smokin' hot chick with sex hair, basically, had been drawn on a white piece of paper. (Is the color of the paper relevant? No. Does it add an unnecessary adjective? Yes.) So, I drew (keep in mind it was just her neck up, so her whole face filled the page) a girl, and showed it to my mother. My mother likes it. Not only does she like it, she then goes and pulls a Forrest Gump on me and tells me she likes it a lot. So what do I do? What any child would do to make their mother happy, draw more and more AND MORE until there is an unnecessary amount when really your mother was just trying to be nice and didn't really like it all that much to begin with!
After I had 13 girls...
1.Sex Hair Girl
2. Glasses and Braces Girl
3. Short Hair Girl
4. Long Hair Girl
5. Medium Hair Girl
6. Black Girl with Beads Hanging From Her Head
7. Black Girl with those Big Ball-Things Attached To The Hairbands Hanging From Her Head
8. Girl with Two Lines For Eyes (I was trying to make her look like this Chinese girl in my class. COME ON, I WAS SEVEN.)
9. Girl With Hair Like A Boy (I was trying to make her look like this lesbian in my class. Lesbians at 7 years old, you ask? Uhhh YEAH.)
10. Girl With Side Ponytail
11. Girl With Braids (Dorothy wannabe)
12. Sex Hair Girl #2 (but with longer eyelashes)
13. Sex Hair Girl #3 (I mean I knew she was going to be the favorite.)
I didn't color them, mind you. I was going to draw them all and then staple them together and then show everyone and then color them. (It's called ORDER.) (Some call it OCD, I call it order.) (Slingblade.) However, after I showed my mother, she really did go nuts.
"YOU'RE BRILLIANT!"
Next thing I knew, we were at Kinko's.
"Make the copies."
"I want more copies."
"No my daughter drew them."
"She's a genius it's not a big deal just make the copies."
"Natasha go grab some neon folders."
"Natasha don't drop the neon folders all over the floor I just said you were a genius."
"She's still a genius."
"Natasha go grab some labeling stickers."
"Natasha go grab those silver and gold sparkly pens."
"Natasha I know what I'm doing I'm in business grab the sparkly things right now."
"The sparkly things are very important."
"My daughter really is a genius."
I was feelin' pretty good, my mom was good at that, making me feel like I was the most special person on the planet. If there's one thing parents should do for their kids, it's not buy them Osh Kosh BiGosh overalls or enroll them in Art Class, it's tell them what a genius they are. Anyway, I'm sick of being sappy and meaningful; back to ME.
So it had just hit me that was a genius and because of this I suddenly had a lot of responsibility. I was going to sell these coloring books and I was going to be held accountable for the profit I made. I put the labeling stickers on the neon folders, put a coloring book in each folder, posed for a baker's dozen of pictures my mother took of me, grabbed the gold and silver sparkly pens and went to school.
THEY WERE A HIT.
Man, I was bankin' all through Recess. Cha-Ching! Cha-ching! Cha-ching! At one cent to 5 cents a pop, (whatever change customers had left over from lunch), I was making some serious dough. I used the gold and silver pens to write their names on the labels, and on each of the covers of the coloring book, I would draw a little heart and inside of it write, "GIRLS ONLY."
But it wasn't long until boys started pulling me aside to ask if I had any "stuff" left over.
"Whaddaya got?"
(That was my catchphrase. I decided that every genius needed a catchphrase.)
"Two pennies."
"Hand 'em over."
Whenever boys bought a coloring book from me, I would write on the cover inside of a heart, "GIRLS AND BOYS ONLY." I guess that meant men and women weren't allowed. (Although I did have a woman customer once, who thanked me for drawing a black girl, and for including a girl with glasses. Shit! I thought, why didn't I draw a black girl with glasses? I got over it when I started making tens of twenties.) (I know what you're thinking. That's a lot of pennies.)
However, my short-lived success proved to be just that. It wasn't long until customers, and myself, weren't coming back in after Recess when the teachers were calling us. The lines for the goods had just become too long. One hour wasn't nearly enough time for distribution! My first grade teacher crawled underneath the slide one day and picked one up, reading the cover aloud:
"THE COOL GIRLS COLORING BOOK."
And then she banned it.
I had made 12 dollars total from my selling, and though my mother wanted it to go on, wanted to go on strike, wanted to kick my teacher's ass, I had grown weary of the business life. So monotonous. I mean, I hardly had time for family anymore and I was rarely home for supper. It had taken me over, and it was time to go back to being a kid again. But I will never regret experiencing life as a young entrepreneur. I just wish I had included more Sex Hair Girls. (They were the favorite.)
At age 6, I was Danny Zucko.
At age 7, I was a young entrepreneur.
That's right, a young entrepreneur. This stage in my life came shortly after I realized I could never be Danny Zucko because I was missing the one part that made him the Danny Zucko, (There is a scene where Rizzo asks Danny, "Where ya goin', to flog your log?" and I realized that va-jay-jays look nothing like logs unless mine was just THAT unique which I'm sure it wasn't and even then I wouldn't know because not only did I not have many to compare it to, I was not all that fascinated with mine and therefore did not look at it that often. Or grab it, for that matter, which, YES, some girls my age had grown accustomed to doing, and then it hit me: something ELSE looks like a log, though! A penis! AHA!), and so I moved on to, of course, what would obviously come next after it's hit you that you're a girl and you'll stay a girl (unless, of course, you do the whole "operation" thing, and NO, I'm not talking about that extremely inappropriate game with the naked man lying on the table where you stick things in all his holes, nooks, and cranny's and then start laughing when BZZZ! he's shrieking in pain because you just stuck a COLD, metal STICK in HIS STICK which I'm sure doesn't feel very good to cross sticks like that. I'm talking about the kind of operation that went down when you see a half-boy/half-girl, kinda-like-a-boy-but-then-look!-oh-that-looks-girlish...to make a long story short, BOY GEORGE.) So what comes after this self-realization? ENTREPRENEURSHIP, OF COURSE!
It all started out with this really smokin' hot chick with some fly 80's do---
*Note to readers: I have just realized that I have said many things that may portray me as a lesbian. I, Natasha Lee Ferrier, am NOT a lesbian. I just sometimes SAY lesbian "things." Thank you for your time, and attention.
---so this smokin' hot chick with sex hair, basically, had been drawn on a white piece of paper. (Is the color of the paper relevant? No. Does it add an unnecessary adjective? Yes.) So, I drew (keep in mind it was just her neck up, so her whole face filled the page) a girl, and showed it to my mother. My mother likes it. Not only does she like it, she then goes and pulls a Forrest Gump on me and tells me she likes it a lot. So what do I do? What any child would do to make their mother happy, draw more and more AND MORE until there is an unnecessary amount when really your mother was just trying to be nice and didn't really like it all that much to begin with!
After I had 13 girls...
1.Sex Hair Girl
2. Glasses and Braces Girl
3. Short Hair Girl
4. Long Hair Girl
5. Medium Hair Girl
6. Black Girl with Beads Hanging From Her Head
7. Black Girl with those Big Ball-Things Attached To The Hairbands Hanging From Her Head
8. Girl with Two Lines For Eyes (I was trying to make her look like this Chinese girl in my class. COME ON, I WAS SEVEN.)
9. Girl With Hair Like A Boy (I was trying to make her look like this lesbian in my class. Lesbians at 7 years old, you ask? Uhhh YEAH.)
10. Girl With Side Ponytail
11. Girl With Braids (Dorothy wannabe)
12. Sex Hair Girl #2 (but with longer eyelashes)
13. Sex Hair Girl #3 (I mean I knew she was going to be the favorite.)
I didn't color them, mind you. I was going to draw them all and then staple them together and then show everyone and then color them. (It's called ORDER.) (Some call it OCD, I call it order.) (Slingblade.) However, after I showed my mother, she really did go nuts.
"YOU'RE BRILLIANT!"
Next thing I knew, we were at Kinko's.
"Make the copies."
"I want more copies."
"No my daughter drew them."
"She's a genius it's not a big deal just make the copies."
"Natasha go grab some neon folders."
"Natasha don't drop the neon folders all over the floor I just said you were a genius."
"She's still a genius."
"Natasha go grab some labeling stickers."
"Natasha go grab those silver and gold sparkly pens."
"Natasha I know what I'm doing I'm in business grab the sparkly things right now."
"The sparkly things are very important."
"My daughter really is a genius."
I was feelin' pretty good, my mom was good at that, making me feel like I was the most special person on the planet. If there's one thing parents should do for their kids, it's not buy them Osh Kosh BiGosh overalls or enroll them in Art Class, it's tell them what a genius they are. Anyway, I'm sick of being sappy and meaningful; back to ME.
So it had just hit me that was a genius and because of this I suddenly had a lot of responsibility. I was going to sell these coloring books and I was going to be held accountable for the profit I made. I put the labeling stickers on the neon folders, put a coloring book in each folder, posed for a baker's dozen of pictures my mother took of me, grabbed the gold and silver sparkly pens and went to school.
THEY WERE A HIT.
Man, I was bankin' all through Recess. Cha-Ching! Cha-ching! Cha-ching! At one cent to 5 cents a pop, (whatever change customers had left over from lunch), I was making some serious dough. I used the gold and silver pens to write their names on the labels, and on each of the covers of the coloring book, I would draw a little heart and inside of it write, "GIRLS ONLY."
But it wasn't long until boys started pulling me aside to ask if I had any "stuff" left over.
"Whaddaya got?"
(That was my catchphrase. I decided that every genius needed a catchphrase.)
"Two pennies."
"Hand 'em over."
Whenever boys bought a coloring book from me, I would write on the cover inside of a heart, "GIRLS AND BOYS ONLY." I guess that meant men and women weren't allowed. (Although I did have a woman customer once, who thanked me for drawing a black girl, and for including a girl with glasses. Shit! I thought, why didn't I draw a black girl with glasses? I got over it when I started making tens of twenties.) (I know what you're thinking. That's a lot of pennies.)
However, my short-lived success proved to be just that. It wasn't long until customers, and myself, weren't coming back in after Recess when the teachers were calling us. The lines for the goods had just become too long. One hour wasn't nearly enough time for distribution! My first grade teacher crawled underneath the slide one day and picked one up, reading the cover aloud:
"THE COOL GIRLS COLORING BOOK."
And then she banned it.
I had made 12 dollars total from my selling, and though my mother wanted it to go on, wanted to go on strike, wanted to kick my teacher's ass, I had grown weary of the business life. So monotonous. I mean, I hardly had time for family anymore and I was rarely home for supper. It had taken me over, and it was time to go back to being a kid again. But I will never regret experiencing life as a young entrepreneur. I just wish I had included more Sex Hair Girls. (They were the favorite.)
Sunday, January 25, 2009
ACTION!
So I have come to the conclusion that high school life is nothing like The Breakfast Club. (Five completely different people can all get along; girls can use their cleavage to put on lipstick.) Or Grease. (High school seniors look like they're in their early 30's; cars can fly.) Or She's All That. (There are ballin' parties in giant mansions where hundreds of people go and there's free alcohol for everyone and yet it never gets busted; nerds can get Prom Queen.) I have, however, come to the conclusion that high school life is something more closely related to that of Dazed and Confused. (Teenagers drive around all night looking for something to do; it's all about the weed.) Or Pretty in Pink. (You still go running back to him even after he's been a complete asshole and has hit on other girls and ignored you and made you cry and even though you have a Ducky of your very own you never have feelings for him even when everyone else is rooting for him instead of the asshole; Prom is LAME.) Or High School Musical. (You only date someone if their skin color is similar to yours; gay guys love musicals.)
If I were to turn my high school experience into a screenplay, it would be honest. It would be real. It would judge everyone and put a stereotype on all, because that would be honest. And real. It would group all the attractive people together and all of the unattractive people together because that would be honest. And real. And it would provide lots of eye-candy because if your movie is solely made up of ugly people no one would go, not even the uglies themselves, because just because you're ugly doesn't mean you think ugly people aren't ugly because you know they ARE you just wish you weren't one of them and then your movie will bomb. That fact right there was honest. And real. I would take real-life experience and morph them into scenes. For instance, last Saturday night.
Scene 16---Absolutely Nothing To Do And It's Saturday Night For Crying Out Loud
Action!
April---Anything goin' on tonight?
Jane---Not that I know of.
Claire---I don't think so.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Jane---Hey Betty, what's up? Not that I know of. Okay, bye.
April---Did Betty say if anything was going on tonight?
Jane---No, she wanted to know if we knew.
Claire---Oh, so she doesn't know of anything?
Jane---No.
April---Hey! Who's that going into Dunkin- Donuts?
Jane---Uhhh I'm not sur---
April---I think that was Emmett!
Claire---What? I don't see his car anywhere.
April---No, no! I think that's his car right there! And that guy was tall! And he definitely had Emmett's neck.
Jane---His neck?
April---Yeah, his neck.
Jane---He had his neck?
April---His neck, YES! Let's go drive by and see!
Jane---Okay!
Jane takes a left, drives by the window, hits a speed bump and accidentally honks the horn. All three guys in Dunkin' Donuts look up and see the three girls. April ducks. Claire stares, and Jane starts laughing hysterically, making her appear as if she might be mentally ill. They take a left out of the parking lot.
April---Was it him? Was it him?
Claire---No!
April---It had to be!
Claire---April, I was staring STRAIGHT at them, and that tall guy with the "neck" definitely wasn't Emmett.
April--Damn!
Jane---Shoot, I'm in the left turning lane again!
Claire---Should we go by again?
Jane---YES!
Jane takes a left, drives by the window, hits a speed bump and accidentally honks the horn, once again. All three guys in Dunkin' Donuts look up and see the three girls. April ducks and hides under a robe.. Claire stares blankly, and Jane starts laughing hysterically, making her appear as if she might be mentally ill, then almost hits a person coming out of Dunkin' Donuts. They take a left out of the parking lot.
Jane---HAHAHA!
April---Yeah. That's definitely not Emmett. Damn.
Claire---THEY WERE LOOKING RIGHT AT US!
Jane---Should we go by again?
Jane takes a left, drives by the window, tries really hard not to hit the speed bump, but in the process of avoiding it hits a hole in the road instead which makes her elbow hit the horn even harder, producing a much louder, and longer, honk. All three guys in Dunkin' Donuts look up and look at the three girls like they are idiots. April ducks. as usual. Claire stares, about to laugh, making her smile creepily instead, kind of like a pedophile. Jane is laughing so hard she has tears coming out of her eyes, causing mascara to run down her face, making her appear like a washed-out mime woman. They take a left out of the parking lot.
Jane takes a left, drives by the window, hits a speed bump and accidentally honks the horn. All three guys in Dunkin' Donuts look up and stare at the three girls with disgusted looks on their faces. April ducks. Claire stares, and Jane starts laughing hysterically, making her appear as if she might be mentally ill. They take a left out of the parking lot.
Jane takes a left, drives by the window, hits a speed bump and accidentally honks the horn. All three guys in Dunkin' Donuts don't even need to look up and see the three girls because they have been staring already since from Dunkin' Donuts, the left turn they keep continously making is in plain view, so the three guys knew they were coming for what could be the sixth, seventh, or eighth time.. April ducks. Claire stares, and Jane starts laughing hysterically, making her appear as if she might be mentally ill. They take a left out of the parking lot.
Jane takes a left once more, drives by the window, tries to avoid the hole in the road and hits the notorious speed bump, accidentally honking the horn. All three guys continue to rudely stare at the three girls. One of them gets up and starts running to the door. As he opens it, all three girls scream.
Jane---WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING?!
April---THAT'S DEFINITELY NOT EMMETT! DAMN!
Claire---JUST DRIVE!
April ducks. Claire stares, this time with her mouth open, and Jane starts laughing hysterically, making her appear like a mentally ill mime woman. They take a left out of the parking lot and drive to Walgreens.
See, that is a realistic portrayal of life of a high school student. (Or maybe that's just my life, which, in that case, is incredibly pathetic and now I am very paranoid that that IS only my life. Hmmm. Shit.)
The only problem with the Realistic Portrayal Approach is that...NO ONE WOULD GO SEE THE DAMN MOVIE. If only life was more like American Pie. (There was one universal book of sex tips with pictures;foreign students masturbate in stranger's bedrooms.) But, as far as I know, it's not.
If I were to turn my high school experience into a screenplay, it would be honest. It would be real. It would judge everyone and put a stereotype on all, because that would be honest. And real. It would group all the attractive people together and all of the unattractive people together because that would be honest. And real. And it would provide lots of eye-candy because if your movie is solely made up of ugly people no one would go, not even the uglies themselves, because just because you're ugly doesn't mean you think ugly people aren't ugly because you know they ARE you just wish you weren't one of them and then your movie will bomb. That fact right there was honest. And real. I would take real-life experience and morph them into scenes. For instance, last Saturday night.
Scene 16---Absolutely Nothing To Do And It's Saturday Night For Crying Out Loud
Action!
April---Anything goin' on tonight?
Jane---Not that I know of.
Claire---I don't think so.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Jane---Hey Betty, what's up? Not that I know of. Okay, bye.
April---Did Betty say if anything was going on tonight?
Jane---No, she wanted to know if we knew.
Claire---Oh, so she doesn't know of anything?
Jane---No.
April---Hey! Who's that going into Dunkin- Donuts?
Jane---Uhhh I'm not sur---
April---I think that was Emmett!
Claire---What? I don't see his car anywhere.
April---No, no! I think that's his car right there! And that guy was tall! And he definitely had Emmett's neck.
Jane---His neck?
April---Yeah, his neck.
Jane---He had his neck?
April---His neck, YES! Let's go drive by and see!
Jane---Okay!
Jane takes a left, drives by the window, hits a speed bump and accidentally honks the horn. All three guys in Dunkin' Donuts look up and see the three girls. April ducks. Claire stares, and Jane starts laughing hysterically, making her appear as if she might be mentally ill. They take a left out of the parking lot.
April---Was it him? Was it him?
Claire---No!
April---It had to be!
Claire---April, I was staring STRAIGHT at them, and that tall guy with the "neck" definitely wasn't Emmett.
April--Damn!
Jane---Shoot, I'm in the left turning lane again!
Claire---Should we go by again?
Jane---YES!
Jane takes a left, drives by the window, hits a speed bump and accidentally honks the horn, once again. All three guys in Dunkin' Donuts look up and see the three girls. April ducks and hides under a robe.. Claire stares blankly, and Jane starts laughing hysterically, making her appear as if she might be mentally ill, then almost hits a person coming out of Dunkin' Donuts. They take a left out of the parking lot.
Jane---HAHAHA!
April---Yeah. That's definitely not Emmett. Damn.
Claire---THEY WERE LOOKING RIGHT AT US!
Jane---Should we go by again?
Jane takes a left, drives by the window, tries really hard not to hit the speed bump, but in the process of avoiding it hits a hole in the road instead which makes her elbow hit the horn even harder, producing a much louder, and longer, honk. All three guys in Dunkin' Donuts look up and look at the three girls like they are idiots. April ducks. as usual. Claire stares, about to laugh, making her smile creepily instead, kind of like a pedophile. Jane is laughing so hard she has tears coming out of her eyes, causing mascara to run down her face, making her appear like a washed-out mime woman. They take a left out of the parking lot.
Jane takes a left, drives by the window, hits a speed bump and accidentally honks the horn. All three guys in Dunkin' Donuts look up and stare at the three girls with disgusted looks on their faces. April ducks. Claire stares, and Jane starts laughing hysterically, making her appear as if she might be mentally ill. They take a left out of the parking lot.
Jane takes a left, drives by the window, hits a speed bump and accidentally honks the horn. All three guys in Dunkin' Donuts don't even need to look up and see the three girls because they have been staring already since from Dunkin' Donuts, the left turn they keep continously making is in plain view, so the three guys knew they were coming for what could be the sixth, seventh, or eighth time.. April ducks. Claire stares, and Jane starts laughing hysterically, making her appear as if she might be mentally ill. They take a left out of the parking lot.
Jane takes a left once more, drives by the window, tries to avoid the hole in the road and hits the notorious speed bump, accidentally honking the horn. All three guys continue to rudely stare at the three girls. One of them gets up and starts running to the door. As he opens it, all three girls scream.
Jane---WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING?!
April---THAT'S DEFINITELY NOT EMMETT! DAMN!
Claire---JUST DRIVE!
April ducks. Claire stares, this time with her mouth open, and Jane starts laughing hysterically, making her appear like a mentally ill mime woman. They take a left out of the parking lot and drive to Walgreens.
See, that is a realistic portrayal of life of a high school student. (Or maybe that's just my life, which, in that case, is incredibly pathetic and now I am very paranoid that that IS only my life. Hmmm. Shit.)
The only problem with the Realistic Portrayal Approach is that...NO ONE WOULD GO SEE THE DAMN MOVIE. If only life was more like American Pie. (There was one universal book of sex tips with pictures;foreign students masturbate in stranger's bedrooms.) But, as far as I know, it's not.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Fudge Ball
Girl meets Guy. Girl is a non-stop-chit-to-the-chat-dimwitted-little-dare-I-say-it-fudge-ball. Guy is deaf.
Girl asks Guy to be her boyfriend. Guy nods.
Girl asks Guy what he is getting her for Valentine's Day. Guy shrugs.
Girl tells interpreter to tell Guy that she wants his number. Guy tells interpreter it's pointless to get his phone number. Girl says, "Oh yeah!" I say, "Dumb bitch."
Girl tells interpreter to ask Guy if he has texting. Guy tells interpreter to tell Girl that he can't text her because he doesn't know how to write English.
It gets even more ridiculous.
Girl asks Guy for a hug. Interpreter is not present. Guy doesn't understand and so he walks away.
Girl asks Guy to go on a date with her. Interpreter is not present so Guy shakes his head. I know he is shaking his head because he doesn't understand what she is trying to convey. Girl thinks he is shaking his head saying, "No, I will not go on a date with you." Girl becomes upset.
Girl stares at Guy. Guy stares at girl. I begin to think this is more of a physical-attraction-type-thing.
Guy gives girl a teddy bear. Girl gives guy chocolates. Guy is allergic to chocolates but Girl doesn't know this since she doesn't know much about Guy at all since they never talk and so she becomes offended when he doesn't eat her poisoned chocolates.
Guy eats chocolates to be nice. Girl gives him a hug. Guy starts sweating profusely. Girl stops hugging him and says, "Ewww." Good thing he can't hear her rude remarks about his phermones.
I ask Girl what she likes about Guy. I assume she will not tell me the actual truth and say, "I'm dating him so everyone will think I'm a saint who's not shallow and sees people for who they really are and maybe MTV will put me on a reality show about dating a deaf guy 'cause I'm retarded and that would be even cooler than being on Rock of Love BUS." Girl doesn't. Girl says, "He's nice...he has blue eyes...hehehe."
Lots of people have blue eyes, you dimwit. If you're looking for blue eyes, why don't you go find yourself a Nazi?
I decide not to judge. Maybe they have a connection. Maybe they're soul mates. Maybe they love each other so much, they don't HAVE to speak. Just their presence is enough. I feel ashamed for judging.
Girl dumps Guy.
I ask Girl why she dumped Guy.
"Girl says, "I needed more communication."
Random Fellow says, "Like someone who could talk? HA!"
Girl says, "Well YEAH!"
Girl is a non-stop-chit-to-the-chat-dimwitted-little-dare-I-say-it-fudge-ball for the rest of her life.
The End.
Girl asks Guy to be her boyfriend. Guy nods.
Girl asks Guy what he is getting her for Valentine's Day. Guy shrugs.
Girl tells interpreter to tell Guy that she wants his number. Guy tells interpreter it's pointless to get his phone number. Girl says, "Oh yeah!" I say, "Dumb bitch."
Girl tells interpreter to ask Guy if he has texting. Guy tells interpreter to tell Girl that he can't text her because he doesn't know how to write English.
It gets even more ridiculous.
Girl asks Guy for a hug. Interpreter is not present. Guy doesn't understand and so he walks away.
Girl asks Guy to go on a date with her. Interpreter is not present so Guy shakes his head. I know he is shaking his head because he doesn't understand what she is trying to convey. Girl thinks he is shaking his head saying, "No, I will not go on a date with you." Girl becomes upset.
Girl stares at Guy. Guy stares at girl. I begin to think this is more of a physical-attraction-type-thing.
Guy gives girl a teddy bear. Girl gives guy chocolates. Guy is allergic to chocolates but Girl doesn't know this since she doesn't know much about Guy at all since they never talk and so she becomes offended when he doesn't eat her poisoned chocolates.
Guy eats chocolates to be nice. Girl gives him a hug. Guy starts sweating profusely. Girl stops hugging him and says, "Ewww." Good thing he can't hear her rude remarks about his phermones.
I ask Girl what she likes about Guy. I assume she will not tell me the actual truth and say, "I'm dating him so everyone will think I'm a saint who's not shallow and sees people for who they really are and maybe MTV will put me on a reality show about dating a deaf guy 'cause I'm retarded and that would be even cooler than being on Rock of Love BUS." Girl doesn't. Girl says, "He's nice...he has blue eyes...hehehe."
Lots of people have blue eyes, you dimwit. If you're looking for blue eyes, why don't you go find yourself a Nazi?
I decide not to judge. Maybe they have a connection. Maybe they're soul mates. Maybe they love each other so much, they don't HAVE to speak. Just their presence is enough. I feel ashamed for judging.
Girl dumps Guy.
I ask Girl why she dumped Guy.
"Girl says, "I needed more communication."
Random Fellow says, "Like someone who could talk? HA!"
Girl says, "Well YEAH!"
Girl is a non-stop-chit-to-the-chat-dimwitted-little-dare-I-say-it-fudge-ball for the rest of her life.
The End.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Survival of the Bitchiest
Usually it hits in seventh grade, infecting all female 12 year olds like a plague. For me and my friends, it came a little early.
"You should really get a nose job, Kelly."
"Yeah, Kelly, it would fix that under bite of yours."
"Too bad it won't fix the width of those hips, though!"
BITCH FEVER.
It all started at the lunch table. There were seven of us, and guess how many could sit at the lunch table? Only SIX. (This little random side fact is of no importance now, but it will come into play later.) I was the newb back then. I guess you could say I had intruded on "The Six," but they didn't care, for it was I, Natasha Lee Ferrier, who introduced them to a whole new side of pre-teen obsession:
PERV FEVER.
That's right. You said it, I'd decode it.
"This hot dog is so big!"
"Whoa, Tess, what does THAT mean?"
"BAHAHAHAHA NATASHA YOU'RE SUCH A PERV!"
"I can't believe it's been raining all day. I'm so wet!"
"Whoa, Tara, keep those comments to yourSELF!"
"BAHAHAHA NATASHA YOU'RE SUCH A PERV!"
"Want some chicken?"
"Chicken?"
"Yeah, chicken?"
"Whoa, Tina, I don't know if you should be offering me your chicken."
"What?"
"I think you should save your chicken for the roosters, if you know what I'm sayin."
"Uhhh...no not really."
"You know...chicken...CHICKEN...chickennnnnn..."
"BAHAHAHAHA NATASHA YOU'RE SUCH A PERV I still don't get it."
(There were those times when I tried a little too hard.)
So after Perv Fever wiped out 6 of our most promising 6th grade honor-roll students, Bitch Fever struck. Personally, I was completely content with being Perv Natasha, but times change, and I had to succumb to the evil doings of...Bitch Natasha.
"So, there are seven of us."
"And only 6 can sit here!"
"And Ms. Strings said that if she sees seven of us at this table one more time---"
"---she'll suspend us!"
"Guys, I can't get suspended! I'm only 12 years old!"
"Yeah guys, we have our whole lives ahead of us!"
"We can't throw our lives away for one thrill! One dare! One stupid MISTAKE!"
"Guys, I have an idea."
Whip!Whip!Whip!Whip!Whip!Whip!
(the sound of 6 heads whipping to Perv With the Plan)
"Let's play SURVIVOR!"
"AND VOTE SOMEONE OFF?"
"Yes!"
"GREAT IDEA!"
"Yeah! Man I thought we'd never find a fair and just way to do this!"
"We'll all choose one person to vote off---"
"---and whoever has the most votes, is gone."
"FOR GOOD."
"For good!"
"For good!"
"For good!"
"For good!"
"For good!"
"For good!"
"We'll whisper our votes to Tara."
(Tara was always the mediator. The neutral. The one who saw both sides. Basically, the boring one.)
Sppppssspppssppppssppp...
"Okay, I have a winner."
"Or loser."
"Or outcast."
"Well I have it."
"Just say it."
"I don't want to say it."
"Why not? You agreed to hearing all the votes!"
"But I didn't agree to saying it."
"That makes it so anti climatic, Tara."
"That's okay. It should be subtle. That way the person isn't embarrassed."
See? BORING.
"JUST SAY IT."
"I'll tell Natasha."
"What?"
"I'll tell you, then you say it out loud."
"Why me?"
"Cause you're the only one who will do it!"
"Okay."
Bitch Fever.
Sppppssspppssppppssppp...
"Okay, I got it."
"Say it!"
"How about I do something besides saying it?"
"Like..."
"I'll close my eyes."
"Okay..."
"And when I open them, the first person I turn my head to and make eye contact with, is the one who got voted off."
Yeah, baby! Look who knows how to make a soap opera ending! Natasha 'Bitch' Ferrier, that's who.
Blink.
...Blink.
...blinkblink...
blink...
...BLINK BLINK BLINK!
She had to have known. I was looking right at her. No one else. Just her. And I was blinking like a maniac. Staring. Blinking. Nodding. Feeling uncomfortable. Then feeling really, really annoyed...
"IT'S YOU, TINA. YOU'VE BEEN VOTED OFF. YOU. TINA. YOU'RE GONE. I'M SORRY."
It would have been much easier if she had just accepted my blinking instead of staring at me like a retarded iguana.
"Sorry, Tina."
"Sorry, Tina."
"Sorry, Tina."
"Sorry, Tina."
"See ya, Tina."
And that's how bitches roll.
"You should really get a nose job, Kelly."
"Yeah, Kelly, it would fix that under bite of yours."
"Too bad it won't fix the width of those hips, though!"
BITCH FEVER.
It all started at the lunch table. There were seven of us, and guess how many could sit at the lunch table? Only SIX. (This little random side fact is of no importance now, but it will come into play later.) I was the newb back then. I guess you could say I had intruded on "The Six," but they didn't care, for it was I, Natasha Lee Ferrier, who introduced them to a whole new side of pre-teen obsession:
PERV FEVER.
That's right. You said it, I'd decode it.
"This hot dog is so big!"
"Whoa, Tess, what does THAT mean?"
"BAHAHAHAHA NATASHA YOU'RE SUCH A PERV!"
"I can't believe it's been raining all day. I'm so wet!"
"Whoa, Tara, keep those comments to yourSELF!"
"BAHAHAHA NATASHA YOU'RE SUCH A PERV!"
"Want some chicken?"
"Chicken?"
"Yeah, chicken?"
"Whoa, Tina, I don't know if you should be offering me your chicken."
"What?"
"I think you should save your chicken for the roosters, if you know what I'm sayin."
"Uhhh...no not really."
"You know...chicken...CHICKEN...chickennnnnn..."
"BAHAHAHAHA NATASHA YOU'RE SUCH A PERV I still don't get it."
(There were those times when I tried a little too hard.)
So after Perv Fever wiped out 6 of our most promising 6th grade honor-roll students, Bitch Fever struck. Personally, I was completely content with being Perv Natasha, but times change, and I had to succumb to the evil doings of...Bitch Natasha.
"So, there are seven of us."
"And only 6 can sit here!"
"And Ms. Strings said that if she sees seven of us at this table one more time---"
"---she'll suspend us!"
"Guys, I can't get suspended! I'm only 12 years old!"
"Yeah guys, we have our whole lives ahead of us!"
"We can't throw our lives away for one thrill! One dare! One stupid MISTAKE!"
"Guys, I have an idea."
Whip!Whip!Whip!Whip!Whip!Whip!
(the sound of 6 heads whipping to Perv With the Plan)
"Let's play SURVIVOR!"
"AND VOTE SOMEONE OFF?"
"Yes!"
"GREAT IDEA!"
"Yeah! Man I thought we'd never find a fair and just way to do this!"
"We'll all choose one person to vote off---"
"---and whoever has the most votes, is gone."
"FOR GOOD."
"For good!"
"For good!"
"For good!"
"For good!"
"For good!"
"For good!"
"We'll whisper our votes to Tara."
(Tara was always the mediator. The neutral. The one who saw both sides. Basically, the boring one.)
Sppppssspppssppppssppp...
"Okay, I have a winner."
"Or loser."
"Or outcast."
"Well I have it."
"Just say it."
"I don't want to say it."
"Why not? You agreed to hearing all the votes!"
"But I didn't agree to saying it."
"That makes it so anti climatic, Tara."
"That's okay. It should be subtle. That way the person isn't embarrassed."
See? BORING.
"JUST SAY IT."
"I'll tell Natasha."
"What?"
"I'll tell you, then you say it out loud."
"Why me?"
"Cause you're the only one who will do it!"
"Okay."
Bitch Fever.
Sppppssspppssppppssppp...
"Okay, I got it."
"Say it!"
"How about I do something besides saying it?"
"Like..."
"I'll close my eyes."
"Okay..."
"And when I open them, the first person I turn my head to and make eye contact with, is the one who got voted off."
Yeah, baby! Look who knows how to make a soap opera ending! Natasha 'Bitch' Ferrier, that's who.
Blink.
...Blink.
...blinkblink...
blink...
...BLINK BLINK BLINK!
She had to have known. I was looking right at her. No one else. Just her. And I was blinking like a maniac. Staring. Blinking. Nodding. Feeling uncomfortable. Then feeling really, really annoyed...
"IT'S YOU, TINA. YOU'VE BEEN VOTED OFF. YOU. TINA. YOU'RE GONE. I'M SORRY."
It would have been much easier if she had just accepted my blinking instead of staring at me like a retarded iguana.
"Sorry, Tina."
"Sorry, Tina."
"Sorry, Tina."
"Sorry, Tina."
"See ya, Tina."
And that's how bitches roll.
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