Elmer: "Oh no! The staple came out of my Taylor Swift songbook!"
Sally: "Just re-staple it."
Elmer: "I can't just RE-staple it. Do you know how hard it would be to get it exactly centered?!"
Sally: "Good point...I know! You could get a new one!" :D
Elmer: -_- "No. This one's special."
Sally: "Okay I'll go get my compass..."
Monday, October 29, 2012
Thursday, October 25, 2012
*A SNOWBALL FIGHT*
Book club was canceled today, so I kind of just waited around the school with the gang until they stopped messing around and got in their cars and went home. Then I saw Lafflin (who draws the pictures who I am creepy to) walking with a few friends, talking and laughing.
I walked a little behind them, and watched.
Lafflin hung a little behind the small group for a second, reached down and scooped up some snow. I smiled. I knew what was coming.
He held it in his hands, patting it, compacting it, making it perfect, tripping over himself as he tried to keep up with his small little legs. Then, he swug back a little, sideways, and tossed it perfectly through the air. His friend turned and moved the back of his head, just a little, just a tad, and the snowball went cutting through the air and exploding to a stop in the rode. Lafflin's friend turned and looked at him, but said nothing else.
So he made another one, just as perfect, as the other boys left, until it was just Lafflin and his friend. The air was cold but the sun was warm, and the trees were drooling onto them as they fought. The sky was a perfect wool gray blanket, the trees black skeletons, the snow soft and white, with the yellow of autumn peeping under them. It was such a perfect shot, if I had my camera, to watch them play like that. Spinning, bending, scraping up melting snow, pffffft, pfffft....pfffft. They laughed half-way broken laughs, laughs of an unforgotten childhood, running sideways in the sun.
I stopped at the stop sign I usually wait at when I saw Jake.
"Jake!" I said.
He was walking his slow Jake walk, holding a poster board from History. "Shady...!" he said.
"Jake!" I tend to be more enthusiastic than Jake is. "Come with me and throw snowballs at Lafflin and his friend!!"
"...I have a poster board..." he said.
"Oh come on," I said.
We walked for a couple blocks or so, just talking, and then I ran a little ahead, and then he started running, and then we raced - the first race I've had in a long, long time - until we finally caught up with the two kids.
Lafflin saw me coming, as the fight was heating up with his friend. His smile and easy, doe-eyed gaze caught me, and his braces made a rare occurrence as he opened his mouth, panting in the polluted, frosty air. I reached down and took up a snowball, and Jake consented to do the same.
Lafflin's a shy kid. I don't talk much either. He doesn't really try to avoid me, but I yell hi whenever I see him, and he smiles back. Not in a forced, polite way. In a raw way. Like he can't help himself.
Today was what made it official.
I threw.
He dodged.
I missed.
Lafflin threw.
I dodged.
He missed.
I threw again, and got him on the shoulder, and then Jake threw an easy one at Lafflin's buddy, and then, just then, the four of us were an unspoken friendship in the afternoon autumn air. We made our way down the quiet, abandoned rows of houses, laughing and choking, the snow biting into us, down our collars, cutting into the ground, soft pats of frozen butter softly spreading the silence out with little snowball sounds.
Lafflin threw again, and this time I misjudged it, and he got me in the hood. I turned back, looking for more snow, as all I heard behind me was an unsure laughter as the kid pumped his fists into the sky and quietly shouted, "Ten points for Gryffindor!!"
I almost said something. Then I just stopped and turned back around and laughed, and thought about it, and laughed some more.
Footsteps, shuffling across the rode: two quick and soft paddings, two slow and solid footfalls.
Out-of-breath, hustling across the wet roads, dirt on our knees and sun on our faces.
One was a cartoonist.
One was a writer.
One played football.
One played lacrosse.
Something about the snow, maybe. Something about the accidental and yet purposeful companionship made with no words. Something about the air we were breathing, the numb fingers, the gray-blanket sky. But whatever it was, when I had to run back, I felt like screaming, and fist-pumping on the top of a mountain.
Five minutes of victory.
Victory over the bad.
Victory over the stuff that makes you want to die.
Victory over test scores, and future, and death, and longing, and over-dosing on gummy vitamins and wishing you could understand Shakespeare.
Victory over thinking too much.
Victory over the big things, the bad things, the hurt and the pain and the putting a razor blade in your pocket that morning 'just in case.'
I remembered as I turned the corner. The other guys were far behind me. I reached in and pulled it out and laughed. I laughed loud.
I ran up to some muddy bark dust and dropped to my knees. I found a stick and dug a few inches, and placed the blade cleanly in the dirt hole, and covered it over. A truck drove up as I made one last perfect snowball and set it on top of the little grave.
A little grave of the bad, for the victory of a five-minute snowball fight.
I walked a little behind them, and watched.
Lafflin hung a little behind the small group for a second, reached down and scooped up some snow. I smiled. I knew what was coming.
He held it in his hands, patting it, compacting it, making it perfect, tripping over himself as he tried to keep up with his small little legs. Then, he swug back a little, sideways, and tossed it perfectly through the air. His friend turned and moved the back of his head, just a little, just a tad, and the snowball went cutting through the air and exploding to a stop in the rode. Lafflin's friend turned and looked at him, but said nothing else.
So he made another one, just as perfect, as the other boys left, until it was just Lafflin and his friend. The air was cold but the sun was warm, and the trees were drooling onto them as they fought. The sky was a perfect wool gray blanket, the trees black skeletons, the snow soft and white, with the yellow of autumn peeping under them. It was such a perfect shot, if I had my camera, to watch them play like that. Spinning, bending, scraping up melting snow, pffffft, pfffft....pfffft. They laughed half-way broken laughs, laughs of an unforgotten childhood, running sideways in the sun.
I stopped at the stop sign I usually wait at when I saw Jake.
"Jake!" I said.
He was walking his slow Jake walk, holding a poster board from History. "Shady...!" he said.
"Jake!" I tend to be more enthusiastic than Jake is. "Come with me and throw snowballs at Lafflin and his friend!!"
"...I have a poster board..." he said.
"Oh come on," I said.
We walked for a couple blocks or so, just talking, and then I ran a little ahead, and then he started running, and then we raced - the first race I've had in a long, long time - until we finally caught up with the two kids.
Lafflin saw me coming, as the fight was heating up with his friend. His smile and easy, doe-eyed gaze caught me, and his braces made a rare occurrence as he opened his mouth, panting in the polluted, frosty air. I reached down and took up a snowball, and Jake consented to do the same.
Lafflin's a shy kid. I don't talk much either. He doesn't really try to avoid me, but I yell hi whenever I see him, and he smiles back. Not in a forced, polite way. In a raw way. Like he can't help himself.
Today was what made it official.
I threw.
He dodged.
I missed.
Lafflin threw.
I dodged.
He missed.
I threw again, and got him on the shoulder, and then Jake threw an easy one at Lafflin's buddy, and then, just then, the four of us were an unspoken friendship in the afternoon autumn air. We made our way down the quiet, abandoned rows of houses, laughing and choking, the snow biting into us, down our collars, cutting into the ground, soft pats of frozen butter softly spreading the silence out with little snowball sounds.
Lafflin threw again, and this time I misjudged it, and he got me in the hood. I turned back, looking for more snow, as all I heard behind me was an unsure laughter as the kid pumped his fists into the sky and quietly shouted, "Ten points for Gryffindor!!"
I almost said something. Then I just stopped and turned back around and laughed, and thought about it, and laughed some more.
Footsteps, shuffling across the rode: two quick and soft paddings, two slow and solid footfalls.
Out-of-breath, hustling across the wet roads, dirt on our knees and sun on our faces.
One was a cartoonist.
One was a writer.
One played football.
One played lacrosse.
Something about the snow, maybe. Something about the accidental and yet purposeful companionship made with no words. Something about the air we were breathing, the numb fingers, the gray-blanket sky. But whatever it was, when I had to run back, I felt like screaming, and fist-pumping on the top of a mountain.
Five minutes of victory.
Victory over the bad.
Victory over the stuff that makes you want to die.
Victory over test scores, and future, and death, and longing, and over-dosing on gummy vitamins and wishing you could understand Shakespeare.
Victory over thinking too much.
Victory over the big things, the bad things, the hurt and the pain and the putting a razor blade in your pocket that morning 'just in case.'
I remembered as I turned the corner. The other guys were far behind me. I reached in and pulled it out and laughed. I laughed loud.
I ran up to some muddy bark dust and dropped to my knees. I found a stick and dug a few inches, and placed the blade cleanly in the dirt hole, and covered it over. A truck drove up as I made one last perfect snowball and set it on top of the little grave.
A little grave of the bad, for the victory of a five-minute snowball fight.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
If you touch him, you die.
Did I tell you about my comic board at school?
No?
Well I have a comic board at school.
I've had it since last year. It moved downstairs when I did.
So anyways, Mr. Wood told me there was this sevie that wanted to draw for it every week like I had done last year, which nobody else had been doing so far, and I was all, "okay!" And then the kid showed up and suddenly it was like I had never met a cooler person in my life.
Mr. Wood brought him up to me at my locker during passing period. He's like so small and has brown eyes and dark blonde hair, and it grows down over his eyes and is kind of messy, not because it looks cool but because he doesn't have the time to worry about it. He stood as if he wasn't sure whether or not he was there, or wanted to be, and was kind of shy and had a pencil in his hand. And he really wanted to draw for my Board.
I was so excited.
It was like a Martian seeing a Martian for the very first time, and suddenly realizing it wasn't alone on this earth full of non-cartoonist humans.
Not many kids answer when you ask them what they want to be when they grow up, 'cartoonist.' So I was considerably happy. In a fangirly sort of way.
The next day Ms. Comma gave me a pass to go to her class the period he was in it.
I walked in and came up behind him. He was reading Calvin and Hobbes. (egads!!)
Then he turned around and looked up and Ms. Comma told him to go out and talk to me for a second.
"Were you expecting this?" I asked worriedly. I understood how scary I was. I didn't want to freak anybody out.
He stood his ground in a strange way, quiet and dignified and I guess just chill.
"No," he said with a small smile.
"Oh haha I'm sorry," I said. "So um...about the comic board."
"Yeah?"
"Have you drawn anything for it yet?"
"Um yeah, I have."
"Oh! Awesome! Do you um, do you have it with you?"
"Yeah in my locker."
"Oh! Do you- c- can I see it?"
"Sure."
He walked me down to his locker.
It was really messy, as I had expected, and took a while for him to find it.
When he came back with the paper and handed it to me I smiled. It was a pencil drawing of an angry Pacman yelling at a ghost that had a fork and a knife in its hands and a napkin around its neck, and Pacman was saying "No You will not eat me!", and the ghost was making a :o face and saying "Okay." He had the bestest freaking handwriting ever.
I asked him if he ever colored them, and he said he didn't, and seemed a little embarrassed. I told him, a little too enthusiastically, that that was okay and we were really glad to have his comics on our board. Then I told him I should probably get back to class and he said he did too and I didn't walk him back to class even though I really thought I should because he is so tiny and just little and somebody could have hurt him. He could have fell down.
The next day, Mr. Wood called me up to his class and gave his drawing to me, this time cut out into a strip and colored. I went downstairs and hung it up with four complete staples.
If it was ripped off, somebody was gonna die. -,-
Soo...I guess I'm writing this so that I don't post something on facebook like "there is a cute little tiny sevie child who is drawing for the comic board now and if you touch him you die", because that would be hard to explain.
As it is now...
Well anyways, he is my hero because he reads Calvin and Hobbes, his hair is messy, his locker is messy, and his lines are straight. Also he is a beautiful person and I love him. And if you hurt him, I will find you and kill you and no one will ever remember you. And also we will dance on your grave.
No?
Well I have a comic board at school.
I've had it since last year. It moved downstairs when I did.
So anyways, Mr. Wood told me there was this sevie that wanted to draw for it every week like I had done last year, which nobody else had been doing so far, and I was all, "okay!" And then the kid showed up and suddenly it was like I had never met a cooler person in my life.
Mr. Wood brought him up to me at my locker during passing period. He's like so small and has brown eyes and dark blonde hair, and it grows down over his eyes and is kind of messy, not because it looks cool but because he doesn't have the time to worry about it. He stood as if he wasn't sure whether or not he was there, or wanted to be, and was kind of shy and had a pencil in his hand. And he really wanted to draw for my Board.
I was so excited.
It was like a Martian seeing a Martian for the very first time, and suddenly realizing it wasn't alone on this earth full of non-cartoonist humans.
Not many kids answer when you ask them what they want to be when they grow up, 'cartoonist.' So I was considerably happy. In a fangirly sort of way.
The next day Ms. Comma gave me a pass to go to her class the period he was in it.
I walked in and came up behind him. He was reading Calvin and Hobbes. (egads!!)
Then he turned around and looked up and Ms. Comma told him to go out and talk to me for a second.
"Were you expecting this?" I asked worriedly. I understood how scary I was. I didn't want to freak anybody out.
He stood his ground in a strange way, quiet and dignified and I guess just chill.
"No," he said with a small smile.
"Oh haha I'm sorry," I said. "So um...about the comic board."
"Yeah?"
"Have you drawn anything for it yet?"
"Um yeah, I have."
"Oh! Awesome! Do you um, do you have it with you?"
"Yeah in my locker."
"Oh! Do you- c- can I see it?"
"Sure."
He walked me down to his locker.
It was really messy, as I had expected, and took a while for him to find it.
When he came back with the paper and handed it to me I smiled. It was a pencil drawing of an angry Pacman yelling at a ghost that had a fork and a knife in its hands and a napkin around its neck, and Pacman was saying "No You will not eat me!", and the ghost was making a :o face and saying "Okay." He had the bestest freaking handwriting ever.
I asked him if he ever colored them, and he said he didn't, and seemed a little embarrassed. I told him, a little too enthusiastically, that that was okay and we were really glad to have his comics on our board. Then I told him I should probably get back to class and he said he did too and I didn't walk him back to class even though I really thought I should because he is so tiny and just little and somebody could have hurt him. He could have fell down.
The next day, Mr. Wood called me up to his class and gave his drawing to me, this time cut out into a strip and colored. I went downstairs and hung it up with four complete staples.
If it was ripped off, somebody was gonna die. -,-
Soo...I guess I'm writing this so that I don't post something on facebook like "there is a cute little tiny sevie child who is drawing for the comic board now and if you touch him you die", because that would be hard to explain.
As it is now...
Well anyways, he is my hero because he reads Calvin and Hobbes, his hair is messy, his locker is messy, and his lines are straight. Also he is a beautiful person and I love him. And if you hurt him, I will find you and kill you and no one will ever remember you. And also we will dance on your grave.
CARTOONISTS UNITE!!
Monday, October 1, 2012
Sunday, September 30, 2012
FLYING PURPLE KITTEH
I find it strange that you somehow don't know of Kitteh yet.
And then I remember how long a story it is, and how long it would take to tell it.
So I'll just tell you now.
It originally happened on facebook, when I didn't have as many friends and people didn't know me as well. Usually, I am very quiet around older people I don't know. Therefore they think I am just some awkward little towering teenage girl who doesn't say much and is all sweet and innocent and whose head is probably okay on the inside, but who never really cares to show it.
And then, somehow, through one facebook comment after another and the rediscovery of Microsoft Paint, I proved them all wrong.
And they loved it.
So here is the story, through pictures and facebook comments, of how The Adventures of the Flying Purple Kitteh and Land Shark came to be like my new full time career.
(I couldn't really take a screenshot of the facebook bit, so I had to take away most of the comments and stuff, but I left in some of them just to show how the story developed. The story pretty much just made people I didn't really know like me more, which is weird, but it's what happened. I just thought, if you wanted to know....)
It started out of sadness.
I was sad so i decided to draw Happy stuff to see if it affected my mood.
And then all that Happy just made me more sad so I drew a dragon that scared away all the Happy because it was STUPID.
THE END.
THE END.
Pen: WHAT DID YOU DO TO THE KITTEH. D:
Shady: Those are scratch marks. It scratched itself. Dragon claws would have left a deeper mark.
Pen: WHY THE FLIP WOULD IT DO THAT.
Shady: Because.
Shady: Wait- I guess that doesn't really make any sense...
Pen: YOU DONT SAY? D:
Shady: Okay, I'll draw another one.
Jason(my stepdad's friend from college): Kitteh was freaked out by the dragon so it went berserk and started scratching everything as Kittehs do...see - I get it. It all makes perfect sense.
Okay, so it turns out there were all these little knives raining down everywhere and that's how everybody got scratched up. Because apparently it doesn't make sense for a cat to scratch itself. -,-
(I then realized what Quiet Internet Shady had done to her reputaion)
I apologize to everyone who was disturbed by the previous drawings. I am sorry for your eyeballs. Here is the kitteh and he's all better now. Look! He's even doing a little jig in the sky. :D
Pen: DAWWWWWWW.♥
Jason: Her's all betteh now...until...Bwahahaha
Shady: o.o until...?
Julia: yes, Shady make an until picture!!!!
I might have gone too far on this one. But don't worry, this isn't the end...
...or is it? O.o
"Kitteh had been receiving death threats in the mail for some time now. Apparently, if he didn't jump now, a sniper was already prepared to kill his wife and children."
And then...
And it wasn't JUST a Land Shark...
it was a LAND AND SKY shark!!
And you thought this was the end!! ;)
Jason: It's like batman and robin.
Just like Batman and Robin.
Jason: Such a good team...
And thus followed other adventures, in Depression and Autumn and Mathland, with Massah and dead sunflowers and such. It's a never-ending kind of thing, and somehow, drawing and writing with such a sick sense of humor makes me, and the rest of my facebook friends, happier.
PS: Oh, that's just the worst tree I've ever drawn...I still can't get over it, even now...
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Music
I play the cello.
His name is Gerald.
Here is his picture:
Oh, he's such a pimp.
But anyways, what I was meaning to say was that it's nearing that point to the concert deadline where we're really starting to get good.
Good as in, we're an eighth grade orchestra and we know mostly all the songs we're supposed to be playing. I'm not sure why, but somehow, this orchestra is actually kind of alright. Last year I remember all these other conductors and random musicians from the state would come in to hear us, and our conducter would just stand there smiling at them. We'd play our hearts out then, and Isaac would rip his bow across his viola and tear my eardrums out, and Huong would just move her spastic vibrato violin fingers like lightning, and Pen would just get in there, deep, deep in the sound, and forget where we were or what else was happening- we'd just play.
It's a good feeling, playing in an orchestra. It makes you forget yourself, makes you just want to be a part of something bigger. A bigger, deeper sound, that you get to be a part of.
I'm second chair. I sit in the front. Pen's first chair, and Isaac is second chair viola- (out of two ;)- so he sits by me, and Huong is over in second violin section, and we all do well together.
My only problem is that I don't really listen to music the way most humans do.
I mean- I really, really don't listen to music.
I have a two inch by one centimeter ipod shuffle, with like 20 ed stockham songs on it that I listen to when I'm working on my stop motion film and need to get 'in the zone', but that's about it. Otherwise, orchestra is forced into my brain every day after first period.
So we'll just be in the hallways, derpin' around, and it gets really intense, right, and everything's moving so fast and suddenly you come up and you're about to intercept someone you know, and it's
all adrenaline and hormones, and suddenly you just want to SING.
And you're searching for words, a song everybody knows, that everybody would want to join in singing; just a few perfect, fist-pumping lines, but the only thing is- you play the cello.
"BUM BUM, BUM-BUM BOOM, DAA DEH-EH DUMMMMMMMM!!!"
._.
Usually when I feel that this is about to come out of me, I try to keep it quiet.
...Or another cellist starts singing with me. ;)
His name is Gerald.
Here is his picture:
Oh, he's such a pimp.
But anyways, what I was meaning to say was that it's nearing that point to the concert deadline where we're really starting to get good.
Good as in, we're an eighth grade orchestra and we know mostly all the songs we're supposed to be playing. I'm not sure why, but somehow, this orchestra is actually kind of alright. Last year I remember all these other conductors and random musicians from the state would come in to hear us, and our conducter would just stand there smiling at them. We'd play our hearts out then, and Isaac would rip his bow across his viola and tear my eardrums out, and Huong would just move her spastic vibrato violin fingers like lightning, and Pen would just get in there, deep, deep in the sound, and forget where we were or what else was happening- we'd just play.
It's a good feeling, playing in an orchestra. It makes you forget yourself, makes you just want to be a part of something bigger. A bigger, deeper sound, that you get to be a part of.
I'm second chair. I sit in the front. Pen's first chair, and Isaac is second chair viola- (out of two ;)- so he sits by me, and Huong is over in second violin section, and we all do well together.
My only problem is that I don't really listen to music the way most humans do.
I mean- I really, really don't listen to music.
I have a two inch by one centimeter ipod shuffle, with like 20 ed stockham songs on it that I listen to when I'm working on my stop motion film and need to get 'in the zone', but that's about it. Otherwise, orchestra is forced into my brain every day after first period.
So we'll just be in the hallways, derpin' around, and it gets really intense, right, and everything's moving so fast and suddenly you come up and you're about to intercept someone you know, and it's
all adrenaline and hormones, and suddenly you just want to SING.
And you're searching for words, a song everybody knows, that everybody would want to join in singing; just a few perfect, fist-pumping lines, but the only thing is- you play the cello.
"BUM BUM, BUM-BUM BOOM, DAA DEH-EH DUMMMMMMMM!!!"
._.
Usually when I feel that this is about to come out of me, I try to keep it quiet.
...Or another cellist starts singing with me. ;)
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