My Love!

I FUCKING MISSED YOU!
No, not you. Well, kinda you, though I've never met you before, but I was actually talking to my blog, which is illogical anyway, but if me missing you would make you follow and comment and shower me with bacon and rainbows, then yes I was talking to you. But I was also talking to my blog. And the internet, even though it hates me.
My dears, I was grounded. Though small-town groundation is just not the same as groundation in places that actually have places people would want to go to. Oh no. I was grounded FROM THE INTERNET.
Seriously, is that even legal? It seems like a crime against humanity. Or like, cruel and unusual punishment.
But, I do get where my mom was coming from. A sixty-four in French is frowned upon in this establishment for obvious reasons.
But anyway, after the conjugation of so, so many verbs, I'm back! And, well, not much has happened. A lot of reading, starting a few new Sci-fi serieses (Leviathan, Chaos Walking), finishing up some others (One book to go in the Percy Jackson category),  anticipating the release of the next, the FINAL Maximum Ride book. Which won't be until next August, actually, but I can still anticipate it now. Also, there was some more crappy nonsense poems and a major change in fangirlism (Expect some more posts about that soon).
Anyway, I leave you now with this inspiring quote I typed up when I was really really bored, shortly before The Grounding.

RANT: The Internet Hates Me. I Have Proof.

EXHIBIT A!

Everyone but me already knows how to make a Paffendorf dance meme. For those of you who don't know, a paffendorf is... hard to explain. Here, just look at this video of a Maximum Ride paffendorf dance (That I don't own or know how to make!)

Is this some sort of conspiracy? A conspiracy to keep me from ever learning how to Paffendorf? DOES EVERYONE ALREADY KNOW BUT ME?! 'Cause I can't find instructions. CAN'T FIND THEM ANYWHERE!

EXHIBIT B!

In our family, we have two computers -- the laptop (Which works great), and the desktop (Which is a prehistoric peice of poo). And now, the desktop is not ONLY a prehistoric poo, it's now a prehistoric poo that's been invaded by nekkid people. And no, REALLY, I don't want to see your naughty bits. All I wanna do is look up the name of that song that's been stuck in my head for a week and I know the words but I don't the title or who sings it and I REALLY NEED TO FUCKING KNOW SO GET YOUR YOU-KNOW-WHAT OUT OF MY FACE!!!!!1!

And this really has nothing to do with anything, but someone deleted Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World from our DVR recordings and that pisses me off more than it should and STOP EATING MY BROWNIES YOU ANNOYING BASSIST!

Guilt Trippin'

Hi there Sunshine!
Teenage Venom, the crazy friend (Everybody's got one), has been bugging me to post or, and I quote, "I'LL CRY TEARS OF SADNESS AND COLORLESS RAINBOWS!".
Even when I responded to her IM's with an endless stream of super-sad-face emoticons, all she said was "NO BE SAD!", then sent me the following.

And after I told I was busy plotting world domination  checking my email, she sent me THIS.
So here you go, Venom. A post. Happy now?

Happy Early Birthday, JRose!

JRose, author of "I'd Like Cheese on my Entire Family!" (http://www.cheeseblarg.blogspot.com/), is an obsession of mine lately. And a few minutes ago, I read that it was her birthday...
...In a month.
But still, I couldn't wait a month to make her a present. Crappy though it may be, here's your present, JRose! I would send it to you in some way that didn't make it seem like I was just trying to lure you to my URL so that you'd read my humble posts, even though you'd have no idea what I'm talking about because, to the best of my knowledge, you've never read Maximum Ride (although you should), unless you're one of those people who read it and hated it, then I'd be really crushed, but... *Cough* Anyway, this is the only way I could think of to send it to you, plus I kinda do want you to read my humble posts.
Without further ado, here it is! Your early birthday present.

Time Freeze Outside the Decaying Speck

The Speck. My hometown. Blink and you'll miss it. It consists of a post office, a library, a gas station, a junk store, three churches, and a bunch of run-down smallish Victorian-style houses. Back in the olden days, when the railroad still came through, it was a busy place. Lots of artists, I've heard. People still sometimes find drawings and things in their walls once in a while. The river, which is haunted by an Indian chief according to legend, runs through, twisting Southward. The Speck is squished down in a valley, tree-covered hills swooping up on either side. It's beautiful in the Fall. In Summer...
Well, let's just say, it's quiet.
But where I live, a few miles outside the Speck, it's like time is frozen. Right now, nothing is going on. NOTHING! I'd give anything for something to happen, anything just to lighten the load of this never-ending BOREDOM! PLEASE GOD, MAKE IT STOP!
And yeah, I know I'll be missing the stagnant relaxation of August once September rolls around and the drama starts in again, but until then, I'm awaiting the start of school with open arms, if only for the fact that I'll get to see my friends again. They all live in the Speck, so I can't just walk down the street and pop in whenever I want. The only times we see each other is at school and on AIM. I've seen Venom once or twice, but Jaybrams doesn't even have an AIM. We haven't talked in months.
And yes, we have telephones. I just have an unnatural mistrust of them. It's... hard to explain...
So, to all of you awaiting the end of Summer with dread and nostalgia, I say, Pfft! It can't come soon enough!

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?