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Here is where I will feature an article that I have found or wrote. Check back every week for a new one.
This week's article is from Rantnotebook.com, a very nice site made by a very wise and wonderful wordsmith.
SLOW SEARING STRING SLIDE or META4Z -fo- LYPHE: HOW I FUXX0RED MY LICENSE PLATE UP REAL GOOD y0 Allison wishes she didn't take everything so damn seriously, but she does, so you pansy whiners who keep suggesting I'm merely a self-important teenage poser liability who cannot write more than a paragraph without lapsing into complete gibberish are...ABSOLUTELY RIGHT! *sob*
While the rest of you are rocking rapidly back and forth on the floor, synapses overloaded with the magnificent notion of being so abruptly and completely freed from high and/or middle skool, I am pondering. Long-time readers of this site know that I ponder frequently. You might say it's my hobby. It may look like I'm drawing rather inept pictures people with pencils in their empty, soulless eye sockets. It also may look like I'm peeling my fingernails apart in layers and then throwing the shredded pieces at people I hate. I'm actually pondering. Trust me on this one. Today, the subject we'll be pondering is that of a maxim. I thought of several I'd like to ponder today. The first one is that the opposite of Cinemax is cinnomon. This was so mind-enriching that I had to hide under the bed. I only did this until 6:50 this very morning, however, because there was required learning that had been scheduled. I obeyed the call, and by way of a small, black-green "coupe" and a twenty-minute turbo trudge across a frozen wasteland of concrete and mud, I arrived at my second maxim, which is "Wherever you go, there you are." The ridiculous parade of horrible truly does not get better. Metaphorically speaking, getting up and going to school every day for twelve years is like sliding down a piece of flaming string. The further you go, the closer you get to the end, but that still does not change the fact that the string is on fire and it's burning the living crap out of your pathetic body portions. [RELENTLESS BITCHING BEGINS HERE. TURN BACK WHILE YOU STILL CAN] Today, I was gifted with a zine. It was not subtle. It was pink and vomit green, and it said "PUNK PLANET" in the largest letters currently allowed, by law, in the state of Illinois. Still, I clutched it tightly and smiled. I've never been the one to look a gift horse in the mouth, except when I thought it might make me more popular and accepted by my spikey-haired peer group. I was flipping excitedly through it like a child on Chanukah morning, when a large wad of stained paper was dropped in front of me and my lunchtime Snickers bar. I vaguely recognized that paper, as I had personally made it at my local Kinko's outlet. Actually, Kevin and Katie made it while I stood uselessly in the center of the room with my head tipped to the side. However, that is not important. The paper was a stapled wad of my beautiful ska fliers. I was fond of those fliers, in fact, more fond than I am of most children. They featured a good bit of my abjectly terrible handwriting and a large, semi-artistic picture of some drooling zombie preppies fresh from the grave. The premise was that the show was going to be so incredibly wonderful that even deceased preps would rise from the dead to see it. The hair of my zombies were colored pink. Their AE shirts were scribbled with plaid patterns. I own nothing plaid, for the record, but I do have a button-up that's seersucker. I only mentioned that because it's fun to say. Seersucker. The flier-defacer had lacked the proper mind cells to comprehend my absolutely sterling sense of humor and had instead considered it a "punk rock" attack on the fact that some members of the student body occasionally wear Abercrombie clothes (the choice of zombies everywhere). They had covered the paper with a lot of closely spaced, personally targeted incoherencies. The only one that really stands out was a long piece of vitrol about how much I hate the Casualties because they sold out, even though they used to be my favorite band, etc. It was news to me that the Casualties are my favorite band, but I believe everything people tell me is true. Which brings me back to my zine, which was now forlornly abandoned on the table. I noticed that it said PUNK in four, count-em-four places in 92-point font on the cover alone. Suddenly I felt incredibly stupid. Moronic, even. I felt...TEENAGE. I've tried my damnedest to keep my ridiculously overblown, half-formed opinions about pretty much everything safely on the internet and out of my actual life, but here I'd gotten all giddy over my power to make copies of stuff. I was living in a large chunk of my own poorly worded hatemail. DAMMIT. Eventually, I slid a bit farther down my own personal length of burning string and the school-day ended with the fresh promise of two weeks free from the searing pain of my own idiocy. I skipped blithely out into the blizzard conditions, whistling a tune and hoping that everyone involved would smoke an incredible amount of marijuana over the winter break and forget I existed. I was still whistling that tune as I piloted the Flange back home down Forward to Death Road with the Pop-Punk Pom-Pom Girl riding shotgun. We pulled up to a stoplight, next to a bus full of middle-schoolers. Hands lightly tapping the wheel, I stared at their acne-raddled faces with fascination. For them, the pain was only beginning. As I pondered, my foot slid dreamily off the brake pedal, and I smacked the Flange into the back of a large turquoise pickup truck with a suprising amount of force. I watched in horror as the burly construction worker in the driver's seat slowly opened his door and came out to speak with me. It burns.
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Sylvia
sippy_anne@hotmail.com
Date Last Modified: 06/12/2002
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