Good reading is super-exciting, so I whole-heartedly wish I could’ve come back to this saying, “Sh*t! Dad just crashed the Elise into a hedge swerving to avoid a speeding G-Whizz (For those lucky enough not to know about the G-Whizz – the most utterly useless car of all time, no, seriously – maximum speed is 50mph! Shocking!) Unfortunately, but also fortunately I guess, nothing over-exciting happened. Not of course, to say that nothing exciting actually happened, we may have further contributed to an episode of Attenborough involving a reduction of wildlife around the world due to rising Carbon Dioxide levels, and we’ve dropped a few pennies in the till for the world’s rubber plantation owners, all that rubber we melted into the road. Ridiculous, childish fun!
If you happen to remember, I just sat my last two GCSE’s. Chemistry was the easiest thing since those TV public competitions before the commercials, and French was easier than rocket science. Not by much, it has to be said. Actually, I tell a lie, don’t you find it stupid how people consider rocket science as difficult as understanding infinity, yet it’s actually not said to be all that hard. I mean, the phrase could be changed to “as hard as brain transplanting” or “as difficult as making a nuclear reactor from wool”. Having said that, it’s rich coming from me, to say that rocket science isn’t hard – but I’m just saying, in comparison, the other two are more difficult. No wait, no-one knows if making a nuclear reactor from wool is actually that hard... That’s it; I’m sending a letter to all the sheep industries telling them to make all their ewes reproduce. Not personally obviously. I need more wool to test my theory – you could be reading from the early words of the most famous Wool Nuclear Reactor Builder in the w... in the world!
What do you mean, I get sidetracked easily?!
Okay, in simple language, I am failing French very fast, and very dramatically.
Right now, I’ve just showered, changed into jammies and am reclining in my swivel-chair in the home-office. “Swivel chairs,” repeats my ICT teacher, again, “...greatly reduce back strain and reduce your chances of RSI.” Speak English, what the hell is RSI? Rough Sexual Intercourse? Who does she think we are? It’s not like our minds are surgically connected to the Internet... But never mind, back to the script. I’ve just got frustrated playing frickin’ solitaire online so I’ve given up and left that to do this. It’s still on screen, I hate the way the cr*p cards sit nonchalantly on top of the card you know has to be the Ace of Diamonds. Have you noticed how the King of Hearts is most often portrayed with a sword sticking out of his head? That’s why they call him the Suicide King. Don’t believe me? Go find the nearest pack of classic cards... You’ll see...
Anyway, after I’ve done this I’m going to go and choose my clothes for tomorrow. You don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow yet do you? Cripes, well, the crew and I are going to meet up for an über size end-of-exams rave! God damn, did I just say über? Speak English, you God damn freak! As Mom would say “I haven’t forgotten the war!” Tongues to all the modern politically correct forgive and forget nonsense. But yes, we are going for a rave, and it’s going to rock. Gem is hosting it, it’s going to be immense – Jenny is bringing the WKD in crates. WKD is the best thing since Cookie Dough Ben & Jerry’s. I LOVE it. It’s going to be Gem, Jenny, Violet, Alex, Rose, Emilie and I. I’d love to announce that the aim is not to get p*ssed off our heads, but... These parties... Crazy-ass times.
It’s an all-girls though, so hopefully it won’t get TOO crazy. I think the worst that can happen is I slap Bane of my Life #2: Fake Tan all over myself. When I come to power, the penalty for the possession of fake tan will be to drown in a fish tank full of the damn stuff. There’s a distinct 100% overproduction of the stuff anyway, and drowning offenders seems to be a fair way to kill it off. God, the Trend Disciples always come out of the process looking like they used Celtic Battle-Woad, the streaky paint the Celt-dudes used in war, as inspiration for their look. The streaks always make me burst out laughing, how dim-witted can you get? These are the sort of humans that spend their days trying on expensive lingerie, fail to afford them, take the bus home, eat a few peas then watch Paris Hilton’s British Best Friend... And if you look on the sides of their legs, you’ll see the join in the plastic that you get on Barbies, and sticking with the Doll theme, they won’t have anything under their panties, either. What a thought.
I can guarantee that no-one who remotely resembles an orange zebra will be within a mile of our rave tomorrow. It’s going to be a long night. However, I have a feeling I will be needing tonight’s sleep as much as I ever did, so I will be leaving you to your lives for the time being – I’ll be back tomorrow morning... Beware!