Oh, Double Cheeseburger

I've been thinking lately that maybe I'm anemic, but that thought has been tossed around with other gems like Maybe I'll move to Boston, or I should enter the school's writing contest - so you can see first that I have no prolonged attention span, and second, my thoughts are so flighty and grand and varied all at once and together, that it's really hard to trust anything I think.

But I can't ignore that I take several naps a day just to make it all the way through, and that I eat hardly any red meat, ever. And when I do, like tonight, my body seems to rebel.

"Nooo, what's this!" it screams. "You're treating me too well! I don't want it. And I don't want you to have nice things," and then it proceeds to do something like throw up the meal that I splurged on, or make me wish I could figure out a way to divorce mind and matter.

The more important thing, though, is that I really should enter that writing contest and win, because there's a cash prize involved - that I can actually claim this time.

Fat People, and a Dance

The nation really needs to quit it with the whole health conscious approach. Yes, we'd all like to have less junk in our trunk, and maybe then other countries would take us more seriously, and we'd be happier, blah blah blah whatever.

But have you considered the side effects of quitting your junk food binges? HAVE YOU? Probably not, because I know I was all for a sexier new nation until Monday, when I realized that all of you salad eaters are putting me out of a job. Quite seriously. No one is buying fast food anymore! I mean, some people are, but it's not like it used to be, in the golden days.

Bring back love handles, people, before you starve me into the streets! Oh for the love of all that is good and decent, listen to Damien Rice and learn to love your double chin. And order a pizza, before it's too late.

In other, happier news, I have a date to the big dance, which means I get to dress all pretty-like, and I get to pretend that I like shouting small-talk into the ears of overheated people I barely know who don't quite care, but they can't hear me well enough to KNOW that they don't care. My date has been nominated to be Mr. SVU, which means he's practically the most popular boy in school. I am waiting for the "Ricky Mania" posters and the clods of screaming, adoring fans. And the witchcraft. Oh, the witchcraft. (See what you have done to me, Teen Witch? Do you see this? This is all your fault. Yours, and the eighties.)