Physics.

Note the capital letter and period at the end; this is a serious subject. There are lives at stake here. (The lives of brain cells...and I wouldn't be surprised if people died of despair after receiving lower than a 90.)

Now, I consider myself a relatively intelligent person. I -gasp, shock!- actually like math. (Yes, I am a dork. I made my peace with that a long time ago.) However, Physics is not math. It's Physics. This is an Important Difference. (Capital letters and all.)

For example, it is far more violent. Here is a sample question: "You throw a bomb at 3,4 metres per second. It explodes 10 seconds later, catapulting three different pieces in three different directions at three different speeds. If there is a density of 5,3 mutant squirrels per square kilometre, how many mutant squirrels will each piece hit?"

...Yeah. Okay. This is against both my vegetarian and hippie principles. (Not that I would want to eat a mutant squirrel even if I wasn't vegetarian... they're a little too green for my taste, or anyone's who doesn't want food poisoning.) Are they training us to become assassins? (Hmm... that might actually be interesting. However, in our bright yellow uniforms, I can't see us getting close enough.)

My other problem with it is that I am forced to beg other people for help. This requires a lot of preparation, both mental and physical. Much makeup and smile practice is necessary. (While shopping the other day, I found foundation with a shovel applicator. YES! I don't have to forge my own trowels anymore!) 

This is also where my amazing mascara comes in handy. I've used eyelash batting to great effect, saying "...will you please help me?" and insert sweet smiles. (At least I'm hoping it's sweet. It might just be frightening... Maybe he thought I was about to bite him and that's why he agreed. But I'd rather believe that it was just my natural charm.) 

Physics thus works on many life skills at once. (Does that make it sound like a good thing? Whoops.) However, if you really want to become an assassin or a professional flirt (groupie?) I would suggest going to a school that doesn't have highlighter-neon uniforms.

procrastination is a wonderful thing

You must be amazed- two entries in two days! What is this? It's my amazing writerly dedication to you, my amazing audience. I know, I know, it warms the heart. It's definitely not because it's Monday morning, I'm exhausted and I don't want to work... Who would do that? Not me, that's for sure -innocent smile-. No, today I will talk about something very important. That is... maps.

Who doesn't love maps, right?

There's all those nice lines! Some of them are squiggly and some of them are straight! There's all these different colours! And they mean different things! Wherever you are, they'll help you not get lost! Let's have a cheer for maps- one, two, three...

Okay, and now you're thinking... what kind of a weirdo is this girl? Last entry she said that she only attracted freaks... it's totally justified. Well, let me explain. The other day, my friend and I got lost in the schoolyard.

-Insert moment of stunned silence here-

Yes, it's true. It is possible to get lost in the schoolyard. (In our defence, it's pretty big. We couldn't see from one end to the other. Except that might be because we weren't wearing our glasses/contacts.) But see, if we'd had maps, we wouldn't have gotten confused. We wouldn't have walked around in a circle for fifteen minutes. We wouldn't have had to re-enter the school, to jeers and snickers, and ask for directions. (And then, after all that, we got lost again on our walk. Whoever said life wasn't fair wasn't joking.)

See, if we'd had maps, this whole tragedy would have been averted. Since that day, I've discovered a newfound love for all things direction-related and live in fear of the same thing happening again. (Did you know that compasses can make a great fashion statement when worn as earrings?) My friend wasn't quite as scarred. She went on to actually be somewhat capable in directions; I think that this event, that messed up my mental GPS maybe forever, somehow managed to rewire hers so that it worked.

And what, you might ask, was so important to justify this long and confusing walk? The answer is simple. More procrastination. (It was either walk to the school-ordained crossword tournament in the February rain and potentially be late, missing out on more than half of it, or take a toasty bus and actually have to pay attention. Which would you choose?)

they exist only to torment us

Today I'm going to talk about a subject that's both relevant and near and dear to all our hearts. (Does it still count as both if there's three items?) That is... boys.

Yes. Whether they come from another planet or are merely bizarre, it doesn't matter. We still love them and hate them in equal measures. We dissect their smallest sentences (does 'Hey' count as a sentence? In that mysterious language known as 'Teen Boy' it seems to have many meanings, some still unknown) and their briefest smiles. And yet... they never seem to notice us. (I can't be the only one who attracts only weirdos. Or maybe I just have a sign stuck to my back saying, "I love freaks!")

Example: Friday. The scene: French class. (Yes, despite going to a French school I have French class. You have English class, don't you?) The lightbulbs have just burnt out, as has the computer screen. (It was too bad... we were watching a fascinating documentary on waffle making, too!) I and a (very cute, non-freak... I think) person of the male persuasion are sitting in the class, alone, side by side, in the dark. A perfect moment for...

Origami, apparently. He just pulled out a piece of paper and started folding, leaving me staring with my mouth wide open.

Sometimes being the good girl is a good thing. On one hand, it means that teachers are comfortable leaving me alone with a member of the opposite sex in a room with no lights. Sometimes it just means that nothing ever happens. On the other, it means that absolutely nothing happens in the aforementioned dark room.

I mean, really?

It's a darkened room. There's no adult supervision. I'm not completely hideous (at least, not once I've put on my blue mascara. It is a thing of beauty). What more are you waiting for, a written invitation? Dearest sir, Miss Zia hereby requests you to take liberties. I smiled. I leaned closer. I winked. (It is only now that I realise the wink may have been a bit much. Maybe that's why he gave me a puzzled look and asked if there was something in my eye.) And yet... Nothing happened.

Oh well. If no romance, at least I got a beautiful little fish out of the deal. (Ok, so he didn't give it to me... I stole it from his desk. Whatever.) The worst part? This isn't even an April Fool's joke.

the joys of yearbook

So... the yearbook is finally done.

HAHAHAHA.

You might be wondering why I find that funny. Actually, I don't. I've said those fateful words about fifteen times now, and each time they have been untrue. There's always another wound to discover, something more you wish he'd say... That song suddenly came into my head and I have no idea why. But it seemed to fit, because every little edit I make is like a wound to my heart... -sniff sniff- (I know, I know, I have the best imagery ever.)

Note to everyone in the world, ever, I don't care if you're an Einstein-level genius: working as yearbook editor will KILL YOUR BRAIN. WITH A CHAINSAW. AND LOTS OF MUTANT SQUIRRELS WILL COME EAT IT. (Note this use of caps lock. I hate caps lock. It sucks. But I hate yearbook more.) (And really, if you're that smart, you should already know to stay far, far away.)

And yet... I said I would do it again next year. I think that's a sign that my brain really has died.

I think I'll just go hit myself with a hammer now. It's just as productive.

blood and bright colours

Art class. The words conjure up visions of paint, of serious students focused on the creation of a beautiful work of art. It's a class that people want to be part of; since it's an optional class, there aren't any students disrupting the serene atmosphere of creativity. Nowhere in this idyllic fantasy is there room for screams.

So, of course, that's what happens in mine.

Right now, you're thinking- OMG OH NO! Is someone dying? What kind of catastrophe is this? Did a fisher wander in and destroy a priceless work of art? Was there a disagreement over paint colours during which someone was strangled? (Yes, those art students can get pretty fierce when someone harms their work. Also, they have access to all sorts of weird solvents. So, basically, if you've made one of them mad and your Ice Capp tastes off... don't drink it.)

No, what actually happened is that someone got stabbed by a chisel. More precisely, me. (DON'T WORRY, I'M STILL ALIVE. Mostly. Feel free to send flowers, though.) Now you're thinking- you just told us not to make an art student angry. Follow your own advice!

...The truth is, I have a nemesis. There's nothing I can do. She's hated me from the moment she came to this school, and she was just waiting for the perfect opportunity to POUNCE... or stab, as the case may be.

NO. IT'S A LIE. (Okay, the nemesis part is true. More about her another day. But she didn't stab me.) The actual truth? I am a klutz. I trip over orange squares on the floor. (In my defence, I had my eyes closed and my balance was impaired. No one believed me.) Giving me a chisel was a really stupid idea. (I told my teacher this, but he didn't believe me. In fact, he laughed.)

Well, he wasn't laughing when there was BLOOD ALL OVER THE FLOOR. I think one girl actually fainted at the sight. (The stereotypical art student: pale, thin, glasses if they're male, hands stained with various mediums- not blood- nervous, apt to throw random references to artists into their conversation. So, not the sort of person who's really comfortable when one's hand starts gushing.)

And what do I end up with at the end? A blob of wax. (Yes, we were carving wax. No, I don't know why.) Not even an attractive blob, just a blob. (Also, there might still be blood on it. I'm a little scared to check.) Compare this with the princesses and penguins and platypuses (platypi? They're one of my favourite animals and yet their name still confuses me. Maybe it's the blood loss) that my classmates ended up with, and you can see why I'm feeling a little disgruntled. (Also confused. From the blood loss. I'm not usually confused, right? HAHAHA. Feel free to laugh now.)

sunscreen is my new best friend

And... I'm alive! I'm sure you were all bereft without the excitement of my amazing life. (Eat some cookies. They make everything better. So do cupcakes.) I apologise for not posting in several weeks. This absence is due entirely to one thing- the rare and mysterious beast known as the yearbook. It roams the school, causing chaos wherever it goes- watch out for papercuts and photos that make you look like a cow with indigestion or some equally lovely creature. Even better, it takes hours to make tiny edits. (Why do so many elementary students have to have weird nicknames? Who calls their child Lizzo, and why would they want that in the yearbook?)

Even better, my class picture makes me look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. The photographers couldn't have warned me that my hair was tucked into my collar? Or that one of my eyes was closed? No. That would be too difficult. They can only manage to tell me to 'widen my legs' despite the fact that a) they don't show in the picture and b) I was wearing a skirt. Awkward... (Many cupcakes were needed to make myself feel better after that.)

It also seems bizarre that, last time I posted, I mentioned how cold I was. Now, it's only a few days into spring, and I already have a sunburn. (This does not bode well for the rest of summer. I have a feeling that I'm going to look like a tomato for the rest of the year. At least that wasn't the case in my yearbook picture... I don't even want to imagine the cross between a tomato and a hunchback. A hunchato?)Take that as a warning, dear readers- sunscreen is your best friend. (Unless you find tomatoes attractive. And if you do, please seek help, right now.)