PWNed by Dead People

Anyone who knows me knows that I am one of the most uncoordinated beings to ever exist. Even hand-eye coordination is out of my range. Sports? Forget about it. I have issues walking. Not to mention, sporty things are just as boring as HECK to me.

So, while my brother, cousin, and grandma went off to do something sporty a few days ago, I was left to wander my Grandma's large-ish, creepy-ish house all by my lonesome with three hyperactive dogs. Me and the brother had been exiled there once again, not that it was much of an exile. Grandma Patti would let us get away with murder. And parental advisory CDs.

I -- well, it should be obvious by now that I believe in ghosts and such. Unhealthy Ghost Adventures obsession and all. If a normal person hears a noise at night, they think "Burgular!". If I hear a noise at night, I think "HOLY SHIIITE GHOSTS! CALL ZAK BAGANS!"

But it wasn't night when I heard a noise, it was morning. So instead of running to the Travel Channel, I just had a minor heart attack, then burst into song. I'm no Amy Lee, but I have an okay voice. Sort of a Christina Perri-Sara Bareilles-only-not-as-good voice. And I have fun singing. So whenever I'm alone, I usually just burst into song at random moments. Much to the chagrin of whatever unsuspecting dogs are within hearing distance.

While the dogs stared at me in alarm and I warbled "BRRRIINNNG MEE TOO LIIIIIIFE!", I walked up the stairs and decided to take a shower.
Fifteen minutes later, I stepped out of the shower and glanced to my right off-handedly, where a stack of towels rested on a small table. But I noticed something odd, and did a double-take. Squinting closer, I saw that yes, smack in the middle of the top towels was a wet handprint, fingers spread apart. Um... o-kaayy... I definitely did not randomly reach out and pat the towel on the back. Good job, towel. Keep on sitting there. And it wasn't there when I got in the shower, either. Besides that, when I spread open my palm and laid it across the print, the print was bigger than my hand.
Whoop whoop whoop. Paranormal alarm going off here. I got dressed and got the fuck out of there -- Fast.
(Background info: The house is pretty old, and the previous owner, Fred, actually died there a few years back. This I did not know until the next day when I told my Grandma about what happened. She's mentioned some strange things happening to her there as well.)
Anyway, I scampered back down stairs, leapt up on the couch and sat there, unmoving for a few minutes. It's the frog philosophy. If you've ever been near a pond with bullfrogs in it -- We have two -- If you get close, they don't move. You can even poke them sometimes without them hopping off. If... I... Don't... Move... They... Don't... See... Me... I guess it's sort of like little kids hiding under the covers.
I finally decided I would try to read something to calm down, and went into the dining room, where my grandma kept the hidden treasure: FIFTY THOUSAND FUCKING JAMES PATTERSON BOOKS.
Oddly enough, I had read most of them.
But anyway, I found some sort of thick old paperback behind all the J.P. A little something by V.C. Andrews.
When I read, it's hit or miss. Sometimes the ADD wins and I can't read more than half a page before I'm off somewhere else again. Other times, I enter a Book Trance.
A Book Trance is a sort of semi-concious state in which I'm only aware of what's going on in the book. A fucking nuclear war could break out around me and I wouldn't notice. And even if something does manage to get my attention, I feel like I'm one wavelength removed from everyone else for a while afterwards. Muffled, you know? I went into a Book Trance with the V.C. Andrews book. It was done in four hours.

Now, apparentally, V.C. Andrews has reputation for writing some strange, disturbing crap. This, I did not know when I unsuspectingly picked up the paperback. By the end, I had gone WWWWHHHAAATTTT THHHEEE FFRRRIIIIICCKKKK!!!! several times, but what really made me go WWWWHHHAAATTTT THHHEEE FFRRRIIIIICCKKKK!!!! was found when I flipped back to the VERY first page in the book and found something I had not seen before, some sort of note from "The family of V.C. Andrews."
They basically told me that V.C. was dead (Common knowledge, though not to me) and that they had not actually written this book at all -- No, in fact, V.C.'s family, NONE OF WHOM were mentioned by name had penned the entire thing theirselves, along with the help of another author, ALSO UNNAMED.
My first thought? Who in the hell would write a book and put their dead family member's name on it?!
Second thought: Is this even legal?
Third: Who in the hell would write such a sick, disturbing book and put their dead family member's name on it?!?!
It was only on my fourth thought when I realized that I had been PWNed by a dead person -- Twice.
In one day.
Oh, life. Why must you always poke me annoyingly?

RANT: One of Those Days...

Hi there Sunshine!
Today was just one of Those Days.
You know, one of Those Days that everyone always talks about but never really explains? Yeah. I get it now.

Here are the qualifications to know that you are having One of Those Days:
It usually starts with ominous foreshadowing the night before. As in, you're laying in bed trying to go to sleep when you suddenly remember you were supposed to stay after school in the Homework Room. But since you didn't, you now have an automatic write-up. Which only gives the insane Science teacher another reason to hate you. Yes, ol' Demented DeGlee will have a field day with this, even though you shouldn't have to stay after anyway since you're not even failing.
The next morning, do not be fooled by the fact that you are having a good hair day. This is only fate satisfying their sick sense of humor by lulling you into a false sense of security. After all, what can go wrong on a good hair day?
Hah. Cue humorless chuckle.
By the time you're on the bus, you're already about to explode in someone's face. Namely, your best friend Kayla's horrible boyfriend, Arnold. I swear, every other word out of that dickwad's mouth is not only completely irritating, stereotypical of a classic "Gimme your lunch money" bully, completely disgusting, profane, and sexist, but also So. Fucking. Loud.
And trust me, I'm not usually the type to swear. But Arnold, he brings out the "SHUT THE FUCK UP" in me.
Anyway, classes start out bad and get worse. Science is first up to bat, and if that's not bad enough, Demented DeGlee appears to be as pissed off as me. Like, when I don't have a paper (I skipped bringing my binder ONE DAY, and what do I get?) she starts screaming "YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BRING A PAPER AND A PENCIL EVERYDAY" She might as well have topped it off with a good "OR I'LL RIP YOUR FUCKING ORGANS OUT". Then she stomps over to my desk, at which I am scrunched up in with my head between my arms, crying because I that's what I do when I get mad (Don't ask me why), and SLAMS down a paper in front of me, then starts obsessively clicking through the slides so there is absolutely no way I can copy the notes down.
After Science is Art. Which would be great, if our teacher knew what the hell she was talking about. I mean, I can draw better than her. 'Nuff said.
Between classes, I was walking out of the bathroom, when who should be on the other side of the door than... HANNAH THE BITCH FROM HELL! I will not even go into what she did to Kayla last year. But she takes one look at me, rolls her eyes and says "Um, ew!" in a whisper that could be heard in New Zealand. I, being rather mature, rolled my eyes in my perfected Bratty Teenager technique and walked away.
A few classes later, it was lunchtime. Usually at lunch, I go with my friends to the uber-exclusive and oh-so-chichi... NERDY BOOK CLUB IN THE ENGLISH ROOM WITH OUR HIPPIE TEACHER!! YAY!!! It's great.
Except today, Mr. English Teacher had somewhere to be, so we had to go to the cafeteria with the rest of the populace. And may I just say, Aiyaiyai! Elbow room is a myth!
Afterward in Study Lab, Kayla spent the time mostly complaining along with me and inadvertantly cheering me up. Mostly because -- and she'll kill me for this -- Her face is so funny! I was having a mad laughing fit at her facial expressions while she just stared at me going "What? What?"
Then Social Studies rolled around and Kayla and I had to do research for our report on Benedict Arnold. We ended up discussing my new nickname for Derrick -- Schkiggledeenyo (I'm always coming up with nicknames for people) -- And wondering how it was even possible that Benedict died from a goldfish disease. Seriously, does anyone know?
Math was a blur, and so was the last period of the day, Magazine. I'm pretty sure I got yelled at, and somewhere along the way I think I staged a silent protest in front of my locker and told my friend Nichole that I was never going to class, EVER. She made me go...
What's the worst day you've ever had? Go ahead, make me feel like a whiner.

Signing off,
Sweet but Insane