Monday, October 24, 2011

Last week: something about religion, something about the Christian C.O.R.E group, something about dancing, something about praying, something about music, something about me and Emzy walking into the middle of it all to hunt down for free food, something about the awkward moment where some lady thought me and the equally non-believer best friend wanted to join in the dancing and clapping for God. I was there for the food. Which there was none. Tis okay. They looked happy. I think.
Apparently Monday: Erm...something about Abortion Day? What? Classmates of mine walked in with duct tape across their lips and a paper in their shirt with the words LIFE, representing the...erm...babies that never got to speak due to abortion? The problem with trying to argue with people--even in a logical manner--is that they start talking over you. And over you. And over you. The silenced people couldn't say anything, but they had their little pack of friends right behind them who stared going "YOU'RE KILLING A BABY, IT'S KILLING A BABY." Yes. A zygote is a human being. As is an embryo. Because any cell(s) with the potential for human life IS human life. You heard that? Potential for human life? Obviously, we better do something. Time to start rounding up all the women who get their period and convict them for involuntary manslaughter every month. And anyone who masturbated at least once in their life--why you're a murderer. Because if a zygote is human life, then so is a sperm!

God, I was so tempted to find some tape, slap it across my lips, and go around with a piece of paper that said, "Today I will silence myself to represent all the women that had their ability to chose taken away from them."

Yes, I'm pro-choice. Shocking. Wait till you find out I believe women have the right to vote.

This entire week: I can ramble on about Spanish class and how it's a flashback of Humanities with all those "young thinkers" and philosophers in the making whose pencils probably hold more ground breaking ideas than whatever they were rambling on a couple of classes ago. I was in Chemistry the other day--and I love Chemistry, I love, love Pre-Cal even though I have a cursed B in the class, and I got my grades to go up a little bit, but do I really need school? Do I really? I learned more by reading the 300 dollar books they assigned than anything they said in class. So far, my AP American History teacher hasn't taught a thing, and if it was a real college class, I would have poked the dean to death or something. I love learning, but I'm not too keen on having my entire life be determined on a couple of standardized Q&A papers passed out every year. But I need to do it--like I need to do it even though it's wasting money on my parents--and god my parents, right, we have this thing, this thing called a family with uncles and aunts and cousins and stuff. And an aunt that I liked when I was little and a cousin that I liked when I was really little is coming over and I have to miss Speech and Economics because family is important, because we haven't seen them in so long, because I'm eight years old and still believe in Santa Claus and Ghosts and family.

And now I'm stealing from Wintergirls.

Alright, it's been a weird week. Not in the sense that something crazy happened, but in the sense that I feel like a sleepy program, newly awokened with information overloading into my brain like there's no tomorrow. There's this contest thing for scholarship money I'm going to enter. One Sci-Fi story, and maybe enter the poems category. I have an idea for the sci-fi story, but if I explain it, it'll sound stupid. Oh cheese.

I've been thinking of Brook. A boy in her class committed suicide yesterday. Yes, yesterday. She called me crying, angry, and alone, because she didn't know what to feel. She thought it was selfish that he had done such a thing, she thought it horrible that he would never get to live, and so many words I couldn't repeat in my head because I needed to figure out what to say. Because what could I tell her? Like the capital punishment, I don't know what I think about suicide. But I won't write my thoughts today--class is starting. And it'll take a while.

On a last note, you know your school's gone to crap when in the newspaper, a seventh grader's talking about true love and...mates. In a poem. Because it's deep.


Rest in Peace, Ritchie.
Oh, and...Gadhafi's dead. Is this just the year my eyes are suddenly working and I'm taking notice?

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"Science and science fiction have done a kind of dance over the last century... The scientists make a finding. It inspires science fiction writers to write about it, and a host of young people read the science fiction and are excited, and inspired to become scientists...which they do, which then feeds again into another generation of science fiction and science..."
- Carl Sagan, in his message to future explorers of Mars.