Lord of the Cheese

Textbooks hurt your head when you have to read them three times over.  They also hurt your head when they repeatedly make contact with your face.  Here’s a tip: don’t read a textbook and take a nap at the same time.  That’s a multi-task feat that has never worked for me, especially since I can’t sleep with my eyes open or keep my face from hitting my textbook.  I really need to think about investing in some eBooks, or perhaps a book made out of pillows and equipped with a detachable down comforter.  Or maybe a textbook made of the fluffy chocolate in Three Musketeers bars.  Then I would have a comfortable surface to hit with my face and a delicious snack to boot.

But it is not to be.  I’m stuck with my brick-hard psychology textbook and nothing to snack on but stale wheat thins and despair.  I would cheer myself up by taking a walk, but I think that requires actual movement.  So no walking for me.  And I don’t have a car to drive, or a horse to ride on, or a boyfriend who is also a centaur who can give me a ride to Disneyland or maybe just the mall. 

I suppose I could count the blessings I have instead of the centaur-related ones I don’t.  For one, I have two boxes of Fruity Pebbles cereal.  Two!  That’s almost as good as a Three Musketeers pillow.  I also have all ten fingernails.  And a little scar on the back of my hand.  I mean, who doesn’t want a little scar on the back of their hand?  No one, that’s who.

I also have a tiny tribe of people carved out of string cheese who worship me regularly (if they don’t, I eat their little canoes).  I’m like, super grateful for that.  It’s pretty nice being worshipped by cheese-people.  The cheese-people live in houses made of the empty wrappers from whence they came.  The houses are on my desk.  To appease my overlord whims, they build me cheese statues and do my easier homework assignments for me.  In return, I give them more wrappers so they can make additions to their houses.  One of them is putting in a pool tomorrow.  But some of the teenage cheese hooligans have been spray-painting my statues. I think I’m going to have to eat a couple of canoes sometime soon to show them whose boss.

But it is time for the baby cheese nomads to go to bed, and my loud typing is keeping them up, poor things.  Why didn’t I write my blog earlier, you ask?  Because I am lazy and illogical, that’s why.  Advice of the day: If you have little nomads made of cheese living on your desk, you probably shouldn’t tell your roommate that they make canoes and worship you. 

Empty Twinkies

There are so many things I could blog about right now, and I don’t know where on earth to start.

For instance, I could blog about how string cheese was on sale today.  I bought seven (lucky number) and I plan on making them all into a fleet of little canoes before I eat them.  They are much more delicious in canoe form.  But first I will need to acquire the necessary tools to make the canoes.  I already have teeth and fingers, but I would like to have a toothpick to carve my name on the sides so my roommate doesn’t think they are hers and eats them herself.  But the only place I know that has toothpicks is Tucanos, so I will have to save up enough money to buy a meal there before I can have my toothpick.  Until then my string cheese will stay in their wrappers like little logs cut from trees made of delicious fake cheese.

While buying cheese was probably the most exciting part of my day, it was not the only part worth mentioning.  I went to the international theater again, but I left it as uncultured as ever.  Apparently the labels on my new black turtleneck and beret that advertised they would make the wearer more cultured were exaggerating slightly.  I’ll be returning them tomorrow and I expect a full refund and a sincere apology from the sales clerk. 

The most boring part of my day was when I arrived to a class half an hour early and was forced to pretend to read my textbook while I waited.  I couldn’t actually read my textbook because textbooks are boring and they suck the happiness out of you like my brother sucks the filling out of my Twinkies.  Eventually I remembered that I have Tetris on my phone, and I settled down to playing the only sport I show any aptitude in.  This passed the time quite nicely, and before I knew it I was sitting in class and creating some wonderful doodle specimens in my doodle notebook.  I think I’ll have that notebook published.  I’ll call it, “Sara’s Encyclopedia of Under-Appreciated Doodles.”  It’ll fly off the shelves.

And now I have to wash my face before my roommate comes back and catches me using her nice face-cloth.  Advice of the day: If life gives you empty Twinkies, try filling them with Jr. Mints.

Secrets, Poop, and Stiletto Heels

The other day my roommate said, “Sara, can you believe it?  We’re in college!  We go to relief society!  We aren’t young women anymore, we are women!”

She beamed at me, and I smiled wanly, hoping that I hadn’t blown my cover.

My roommate turned back to her homework, humming contentedly.  I too returned to my homework, my hands a little sweatier than before.  There was something my roommate couldn’t know, something no BYU administrator can ever know.

I have a secret.

Did you know that BYU does not let children come to their school?  It’s the fifth rule in the BYU’s Underappreciated Rulebook for Poor Students, or BURPS.  It clearly states that all students must possess adult-like qualities in order to be accepted into BYU. 

The problem is, I’m not an adult.

Oh, sure, I may be physically old enough to go to college, unless my doctor has been lying to me all these years.  But mentally I’m a giggly little girl who doesn’t belong in the “big people” school.  I managed to slip through the system by faking maturity, which I have been doing since grade school.  It’s not too difficult, really.  I just have to nod when someone else talks, restrain myself from throwing my food at the ceiling to see how long it sticks, and pretending I enjoy sophisticated things like stiletto heels and beach volleyball.

So far my immaturity has passed by unnoticed, but I can’t keep it a secret forever.  Sometimes it slips out against my will.  For instance, I can’t help but snort with laughter when I hear words like “poop,” “burp,” and “more poop.”  Grownups don’t think poop is a funny word.  I know this because I yelled “poop” at my mom and she just stared at me (like “poop” isn’t a perfectly acceptable word to yell in Nordstrom’s).

I’m sure that in accordance with BURPS, the school will soon conduct a campus-wide “immaturity hunt”, where they will line the students up and yell “POOP!” at each one in turn to see if they laugh.  The moment I catch wind of the surprise inspection, I’m hopping on my tricycle and peddling my way to a land where it is acceptable for adults to watch Barbie movies and wear pajamas with feet in them, somewhere where I will not have to pretend I enjoy ridiculous things like volleyball (seriously, it hurts my little arms).  Until then, I’m laying low and working the system for as long as I can.  Just don’t tell BYU.  Or my roommate.

My Stupid Head

I was in a bad mood today, and to make matters worse I had a devil of a time finding something to blame it on.  The weather was nice, my soup was hot but not so hot that it burned my tongue, and my hair practically did itself.  Have you ever heard anything more awful?

Glaring at the sky, the mountains, and my complacent hair (really, I can’t remember the last time it was that easy to do) I walked to class in high dudgeon.  I narrated my feelings in my head with over-complicated words like dudgeon and irascible and composed an emotional poem that I planned on submitting to a “Shakespeare hates your emo poems” contest (the contest doesn’t exist yet so I’m starting one in November). 

But I still had nothing to blame my mood on.  It couldn’t be my fault because I’m almost a perfect person and my hair looked nice.  I tried blaming it on the leaves crunching under my feet as I made my way to physical science.  Some of them weren’t crunching nearly loud enough, and I can’t see how anyone could stay in good humor after being abused like that.  Stupid leaves.

I added the leaves to my poem (Wet leaves that refused to crunch beneath/my morose, cantankerous shoes) but it wasn’t very convincing.  I tried to think of other things to blame my mood on.  Men, people who part their hair down the middle, and the relatively new writers of Spongebob Squarepants crossed my mind.  They were all good options, but they lacked the umph I needed for when I would complain to my friends and random people on the street later.  I needed something dramatic like my hands falling off or my hamster maxing my credit card on the shopping channel.  Stupid hamster.

A few moronic poems later, I was left with nothing but a splitting headache.  Not even one plausible excuse for my belligerence.  Stupid brain.

The headache grew like a nasty, radioactive super-plant and I was forced to take some advil and a two-hour nap.  My head is still throbbing, though.  I suppose a good eight-hour sleep will help abate the pain, but who can tell?  And I still haven’t thought of a plausible excuse for my bad mood.  Stupid almost-migraine headache.

How Youtube Robin Hood Failed Me Again

Last week was national Don’t Write Anything on Your Blog Week.  Really.  If you don’t believe me, go ahead and send the government an email.  It’s govemailtherealone@governmentsite.spam.net.  They’ll be happy to reply with multiple emails that might even answer your questions.

Today I was trying to avoid homework and this blog just wasn’t cutting it, so I decided to search for the newest episode of the BBC’s Merlin.  Usually some youtube Robin Hood will illegally post these episodes online, but this time they let me down.  Either Robin was taking a vacation or I’ve got to bust him out of jail.  I’ve seen five minutes of The Great Escape, so it shouldn’t be too hard.

Until I manage to buy a motorcycle and a busting out of jail kit, I will have to make do without my current favorite show.  It really is a good one; you just have to be able to overlook the stiff acting of the Morgana character, the horrible special effects, and the blatant historical inaccuracies.  My favorite part of the show is Merlin, played by Colin Morgan, an actor who is so attractive that I actually bothered to memorize his name.  Other actors included on this list are Brad Pitt, who looks really good when he eats food, and James Marsden, who looks really good when he bites his fist or scoffs. 

Stop looking at me like that.

Anyway, when this homework avoidance mechanism failed I was forced to resort to sitcoms from the eighties and ice cream bars.  I couldn’t concentrate on the stale jokes or grainy images because I kept thinking about Colin Morgan and badly animated dragons.  Oh Robin, how could you have failed me?  HOW?!?

I need to look at Colin Morgan pictures on the internet and deplete my supply of ice cream bars right now, or I’ll be forced to actually read an entire chapter of my psychology textbook before class, and nobody wants that.  Trust me. 

(P. S. – I just broke the record for my shortest blog yet!  WOOOOT!)