feliz navidad

i forgot how much i hate going to the dentist.

(my appointment was yesterday.)

so like, i show up and they bring me into The Uncomfortable White Room to sit upon the Sterile Plastic-Wrapped Chair of Death and like, i gte as comfortable as i can, which is really difficult considering my eyes were burning from the intensity of the room's whiteness and my legs, since i still was in my school uniform, kept sticking to the plastic wrap on the chair with my sweat and just general grossness.

but that was child's play to what would come in the next three minutes.


The Cleaning.


actually, 'cleaning' may be too gentle a word. it was in reality a full jihad on my face.

she stabbed my mouth with the metal cleaning instruments with such a ferocity i found myself desperately wondering if i had ever done anything to her. like, i don't know. stolen her peroxide so she couldn't bleach her hair.

and everytime she turned around to get a new knife to continue with the mutilation, i swear i could hear her sharpening the blade on a rock first.

and this was all happening with "feliz navidad" blaring in the background.


it was honestly like stepping into the Office of Hell for the afternoon.


but, i guess that's the price one pays when living in america. the price of great dental care.

....

but, i guess the improtant thing to remember is

16 years and i've never had a cavaty. <3

joy to the world

i saw some christmas carrolers the other day. i can't explain why, but i suddenly had the irresistable urge to just shout "oh go fuck yourselves!"

i used to like christmas. really.

until one day the u.s. postal service put an article in the newspaper about how they sent the same stationary and letter every year out to all the children who write to santa so the kids feel like he's really writing back.

i was one of those kids.

it has never been the same since.

like the other day, that old school claymation santa clause movie was on. you know, the one that tells the true origins of santa.

that he was raised by elves, and named chris cringle, and married some hott chick who later turned out to be mrs. clause, and that he had a beard because he was running away from the mafia or something, and loved spreading joy and eating cookies and playing with small woodland creatures.

that's a load of crap right there.

the real santa clause, or saint nicholas, was mad sweeter than that. he was the bishop of turkey and patron saint of not only children, but of pawn brokers and beer makers as well. that should tell you a little bit about him already.

so the legend goes that every christmas (or december 6th if you're european), the bishop of turkey would arrive at a child's house with four to six black guys. if he was good all year then he would get a toy.

if he was bad, then "santa clause" and the four to six black guys would beat him with sticks.




i'd like to see a claymation of that.

oh what a beautiful morning

i had a really bad day.









it's hard being a catholic school girl.




and i had to strip down to my bra today in front of a male doctor.





because i needed to get a hideous skin tag cut off my the part of my arm closest to my armpit.






it is durring the course of days like this that i find myself paralyzed with the sudden urge to climb to the top of the highest mountain and shout with The Will of God unladylike profanities.









i'm done with this.

in the name of god, bathe, woman.

lately the smell surrounding my locker has trippled in its intensity since freshman year.

it has gotten so bad that my locker neighbor tarym went out and bought us both air fresheners to stick in our lockers. i strategically placed mine on the lower vent hoping that maybe some of its freshness will waft out and into the corridor, combatting what smeels like and shares simmilar qualities to a sort of nauseating sulfur-like gas. unfortunately, this dream has not yet been realized.

and it's not like i can even keep my locker open to send the air freshener vibes out because aparently it's against fire safetly rules. i say whatevs. if the school catches on fire, we're all going to die anyways because it's so old/unsafe, and by this point we've all pretty much lost the will to carry on. or we'll have already passed out from the Smell.

but more importantly, i wouldn't keep my locker open because i don't wnat that hideous odor latching itself onto my stuff. god knows if i would ever be able to get it clean again.

and you ask, what could possible be semlling so bad?

i will tell you.

it is The Smelly One.


she is so smelly, i feel obligated to report her to the governemnt or the swat team or like the UN or something else extreme for its cruel and unusual nature.

stop eating fried artificially cheesy garlic filled chips at 7 in the morning and, i don't know, maybe bathe every now and then. maybe brush your teeth. with toothpaste. i mean, this is america for god's sakes, there's toothpaste everywhere.

take one for the team. honestly.

so anyways.

i'm going to london and paris this febuary with my friends. it's going to be so bomb it's like not even funny. especially london. no one could even fathom how much i love british accents.

the other day on newbury street (that "posh" street in boston with all the sassy stores) some startingly good looking man stopped my sister and me asking us if we could trade two quarters for some other change so he could use the parking meter.

when i gave him the two quarters, he tried to give me equal change back, but i was like "no, it's ok". but then he kept persisting and like so much that i was backed up into a building. by this point i noticed his beautiful english accent.

fox: no please, i insist, let me give you equal change back.
me: look, you are not even from this country.

which i now realize was a very rude thing to say, although i meant it as a segway to my next statement:

me: please, take this as a gift... from america!!

and the gayest thing ever screamed on the streets of boston to a british male since the revolutionary war goes to...

stephany, because she sucks at life.

but he was like "oh thankyou, that's very kind of you". but deep down i bet he was like "wow... 50 cents. thanks america, please fuck yourself."


maybe i'll just do the world a favor and never be nice to anyone ever again.


yeah.



that's happening.







get ready, europe, because i'm afraid you can't handle this.

hot potato, hot potato

so i got a peek at the class ring i catalogue ordered a few months ago.


and i'm not going to lie, i was a little disapointed.



it was soo small. i was half expecting to go around flashing a rock like jlo. like a massive super-bowl type ring. i literally had to squint to find the stone.


yeah, i guess you could say i am a little pissed.


well, i suppose these things do happen.


but there's always marriage.


so the other day my extremely quiet/cynnical private mean art teacher pulled me aside to tell me a story. we withdrew deep into the shadows of the classroom. i knew he had to tell me a big story, and not just gossip, because when he feels like talking trash about the other students he just lets it out in front of the whole class (all 5 of us).

me: yo, what's up.
art teacher: yeah... so i went to a concert the other night and-
me: omg who did you see?

i was instantly curious because he's such a music snob, so if he did waste money to go to a concert, it must have been a good one. but he refused to tell me.

art teacher: we don't need to talk about that. it's not important or any of your buisness.

but i pushed it. i pushed it real good. (ala salt n peppa)

art teacher: ok, fine... i went and saw....

he looked around to see if anyone was staring.

art teacher: *whispers* ..... the wiggles


.....


what the hell.

i couldn't even listen to the rest of his story i was laughing so hard. and then i yelled it out to the whole class and we all had a good laugh together. he just kind of sulked and was like "yeah whatevs" and receeded further into the shadows of his cynicsm.

(however you spell it.)

it doesn't matter to me that he has a four year old daughter, or that he was a nice dad taking his kid out, he is my evil hate-all of-life jackass art teacher, and he totally jammed on saturday night with the wiggles, whom by the way i totally SWEAT.

like, in the words of my best girl emfo, "sweetest jams evz". (we pretty much know all the words to every song, especially the hot potato one. die hard fans. in fact, i'm thinking about tatooing the asian one on my ass.)

and has anyone else seen wags the dog without his costume? fox to the max.


anyways.


oh the secret lives of art teachers.... i'll play your game you rogue.

huzzah.

mom: stephany? come here. i need to talk to you.

me: oh god oh god oh god.

maybe she found my blog or myspace or i am failing a class.

mom: it's extremely inportant. i will need your full attention and cooperation in this.

me: ok mom....

oh no, what if she lost her job? we'll be totally destitute.

mom: it's about... your hygiene.

....

!!!!! have i smelled like that Smelly Girl at school my whole entire life except everyone has been too polite to tell me so? i will die, i will die, i will die.

me: oh my god, mom... am i....
mom: ..yes?

oh, it was loathe to say.

me: .....odoriferous?
mom:..? what? no, of course not, it's just your hair is kind of weird looking in the morning. go put a comb through it.

oh.

honestly, that woman is going to give me a heart attack.


smelling like The Smelly Girl at school is a fate worst than death. if you smell her you will know what i mean. it's like inhaling nauseous gas.




so i guess i'm cool for now.




Smelly Girl, tonight i put a comb through my hair and think of you with fondness. one hundred times huzzah; i am clean.

hells yeah

so after a brief vacation from my previous blog i decided that it dosn't matter if i have absolutely nothing of significance to write about, because there will always be some dumbass bored enough to actually give a shit about what i did today.

but i don't mean you guys or anything.

this year i have the worst chemistry teacher like EVER. i've never met anyone that sucked more in my entire life. you can totally tell that as a geeky and unfortunately retarded youth he loved listening to himself talk so much that he was inspired to become a teacher.

if he can't talk to any of us in class, he'll talk to himself instead. like in the third person schitzo style and everything.

mr. walczak: now, we're going to use fire today in the lab--
mr. walczak to himself: but mr. walczak! what if there's a fire?

and then he proceeded to answer himself.

in like a calm and reasoning voice.

talking to yourself is fine. everyone does it. but he takes it to the next level. like this one other time before our first lab report was due...

mr. walczak: now, the lab is due thursday--
mr. walczak to himself: but mr. walczak, wha--
mr. walczak (original): no buts! gosh, i just gave you the answer. man. honestly. now class, sorry after i just so *rudely* intereupted myself, but as i was saying...

and then he drifted back into loon land for the criminally insane, taking us all with him.


by the end of class i was deeply disturbed. i'm not going to lie.

now imagine trying to reason with him. even asking him a question becomes a huge project, that, instad of helping you learn, merely seeks to embarass you and make you feel as if you just shit your pants in front of the class.

mr. walczak: now, if a star becomes large enough it will become a supernova when it dies. stephany, you have a question?
me: yes, i just wondered what--
mr. walczak: IF A STAR BECOMES LARGE ENOUGH IT BECOMES A SUPERNOVA WHEN IT DIES.

(he thinks if he shouts what he previously just stated the class will suddenly understand).

but that wasn't my question, so i raised my hand once more, or tried to interrupt him.

but it was too late;


we were all back in loon land.