THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
I stayed home from school today.
And, yeah, just in case anyone asks, I'm really feeling the remorse now. I mean who wouldn't want to be at school where you go to twenty minute classes where your teachers just yell at you and complain about their lives and then go stand on a field until 2:30 getting sunburnt and pretending to have school pride because they police the bathrooms and there's nowhere else to hide?
We discovered something about the deans yesterday.
One of them had this freaking beehive-kinda hairdo and, even though she's usually not quite up to Himmler levels like the other one, was really mean to Emily (You know in a kind of "Take off your sweatshirt!" "Okay." "What's your name?" "Emily H(blahblah)" "What?" "Emily H(blahblah)." "Hey! When I tell you to do something, just do it" kind of way). So as soon as she walked, Emily figured it out.
She was hiding Voldermort in her hair!!
And it was just the Dark Lord speaking, instead of her. (And people dare question our genius? Please!)
I think I mentioned Sarah D. having a breakdown in the middle of mass yesterday? Mrs. Barnes followed her in there. Just as, appearently, Kim and Emily were composing a tap number about hurling her off a jagged cliff into a pool a venomous pirhanas.
And let me explain about Mrs. Barnes. Nice as she may appear, she's fucking crazy. At least about Sarah. She tried to institutionalize her.
And we think she gave her Prozac cake. Because, like, who the hell just gives someone a weird little chocolate cake with rainbow sprinkles because she thinks she has no friends?
Well, we showed her though. We ate the whole thing. And it had strangely calming effects...
Conspiracy? Oh, yes, my friends.
And now... Drama news!
French is trying to get Rocky Horror show down for next year's DTASC, and she wants me in it. Mr. B, however, has oh so poetically explained that I am "only a commodity" and shall only be "used for my script cutting and blocking skills".
Can you say... Backhanded compliments?
I've been doing a lot of tech work lately. I think I've written all about it already, but I'm feeling really, really interested in myself lately- and I'm sure it's a shared sentiment- So I'll just keep on going.
Me and Becca were doing our "Ohh Moving Up from the Ninja Gigs!" business and manning the tech table [Me on lights her on sound] [You'd never imagine how much prestige you get from clicking one button. Each.] And to sum up our job, the designer of whatever group's going on, comes over to The Tech Table Extroirdinaire (Miniature Version), stands behind us and when they need a light cue they turn to me and say "Go." and when the need a sound cue they turn to Becca and say "Go."
You know. In theory.
The conversations went kind of like this:
GIRL: Turn on the green one!
ME: Which green one?
GIRL: The one after the orange one.
ME: Come here. (Points to screen). These are your cues. They are written "Cue 1", "Cue 2", "Cue 3", "Cue 4", "Blackout", and "Work Lights". They are not written "Orange Lights", "Green Lights", "Blue Cycs, Orange Sides, and the dance Gobos". Okay?
GIRL: Oh. Uh...
Or
GIRL: Turn on the next sound cue.
BECCA: I can't.
GIRL: What?
BECCA: I'm just controlling volume.
GIRL: Well, where's the CD?
BECCA: I don't know. It's your CD.
GIRL: Oh. Uh...
Or, you know, our personal favorite: The one girl who came over, attempted to touch everything and do it herself, and then, upon our refusal to let her, stood incredibly close to us and snapped her gum and blew bubbles RIGHT NEXT TO OUR EARS.
Which was really great. What with my extreme distaste for mouth noises.
It got so distracting I accidentally kept hitting cues forward and backward which made Mr. B come over and ask if I was having seizures...
Fun night, I know.
Anyway, it's my sister's birthday tomorrow. Weird. And my iPod keeps breaking.
And I want Andy Warhol and Oscar Wilde to have a son and I want him to marry me.
Any takers?