If this blog is boring, clap your hands!

Clap! Clap!
If it's boring and you know it, absence of followers will show it....
I can go on, trust me.
As I said, this is a boring blog.  No one - not even I - am interested in the dull details of my life.
Blah.  This post doesn't make much sense, I know - I'm rather weary, whine whine whine - but, then, what do I expect?  My thinking doesn't make much sense at the moment.

I Heart my Imaginary Boyfriend

Am considering creating an imaginary boyfriend.  Not only would it be fun to have one (while shopping, "Do you think my imaginary boyfriend will like this?"), it might scare people away.  Not the way declaring myself, like, Napoleon or a sausage would - but by whispering/mumbling/muttering "imaginary" I could fend off creepers. And one guy at school who, I think, if encouraged, would try to, gulp, ask me out. It is an invitation I hope to avoid at all costs.
So, the imaginary boyfriend would be very useful. Observe:

Guy I do not like-like, or even like, period, or am at all inclined to spend my time with shuffles up and accosts me in the dingy cafeteria - "Hey. I was thinking about you this week."
What do I say to that? Oh, I wasn't thinking about you? "Oh."
I am getting my hot chocolate as quickly as humanly possible.  I give every impression that I am in a rush.
"I never get to talk to you for very long."
(And here the IB comes in handy - see:)
"Oh yeah," I say, breezily, "I never seem to have time for anything nowadays! Rush! I neglect everyone. My poor imaginary BOYFRIEND. I see him for like, two seconds a day."
See how great this could be?  Subtle, but effective.
Farewell to all weirdos!  Adieu to awkward conversations!

I am a terrible person.  But a happy one.

blog blogging blahg

Amazing! I realized, about ten seconds ago, that I honestly don't care that no one reads my blog.  Really.  I don't.  Not just for the obvious reasons (It makes me sound like narcissistic whiner, it's boring, my grammar is terrible) but also because I'm genuinely glad that people have better things to do with their time.  I mean, you'd have to be desperate - or, like, seriously unhinged - to spend your battery power here and call it super fun.  Youtube anyone?  Or searching for good free stuff or sweet podcasts on itunes?  Hunting through the Netflix instant watch lists for a BBC mini-series yet unwatched?
Um. So, I have to go... do something else.


PS - since we are all about self-centered shallowness here, we are pleased to inform you that Miss Idler has found a transfer college to... transfer to. This has been a long, painful search for miss Idler, and we - her vital organs - are glad to see that the stress accompanying it will soon be a thing of the past.
("A thing of the past my ventricle!" Shouted the heart, reddening. "It's no good sniveling like a stupid baby, liver. She will kill us all with fretfulness. Just wait - we'll all be dead when she has to plan a wedding or something.")


PPS - Since we are also all about blogging this afternoon, may I say that I really love Blogger.  I mean, not only do they give me free blogs by the dozen, they supply me with hours of mindless enjoyment.  Does anyone else find it hilarious that, when you click "Next Blog", the next few blogs are, supposedly, intended to match your blog's subject?  Well, I guess thatisn't hilarious - but it is hilarious that I get ALL cricketing blogs when I click next in one of my blogs, and very eastern spiritual-ish blogs with another.  And, uh, neither of my blogs have anything to do with cricket or eastern spiritual-y stuff.  Oh, dear.

Live list: wear perfume

I bought my first bottle of good perfume with money I earned working over Christmas, and, even though it was expensive, I've never regretted the purchase. 

Which for me , is surprising.  But wearing good perfume makes me feel polished and pretty, even when I'm actually nothing of the sort.  Wearing Mary Kay perfume never made me feel grown up or mysterious or anything remotely resembling sophisticated.  But this does. 

Please excuse the green paint (not mold, thank you) on my hand.  Which sort of defeats the whole purpose of wearing perfume and puts my classy level at zero.  But I don't care.  I'm wearing nice perfume.

the only reason British Lit is survivable

We have conversations like this - 

I didn't quite hear what the teach was saying about affective piety (we were reading Julian of Norwich and Margery Kempe), and during the "group discussion" bits, I asked the guy next to me what he'd said.

"What was all that about them getting nail scars?"

"Oh, well, you know, when they're really feeling Christ's pain, the marks just appear."

"Oh! Like The Scarlet Letter?"

"Yeah! Exactly."

We sat there for a second. Then laughed our heads off. 

Not exactly the same sort of mark, is it?  All these lit people get my jokes too, which is nice. 

And then they made me their chief, which was nice. 

"There is a gigantic difference between earning a great deal of money and being rich."

baby

Waaaaaa! Somebody call the waaaaambulance! What a whiny blog I have.

Blah blah blah, I'm going to visit two prospective colleges next week.

My feet hurt from walking dumb precincts.  I have blisters.

Have decided (at least for this week) not to get an English degree.  I don't like talking about themes or listening to people jaw about what they think the author meant.  As brilliant friend Emily says (in a much more comprehensible way), if it's taken years and years of scholarship for an author's meaning to be figured out, that author didn't do a very good job communicating his idea, did he?

How boring is all this?
Pretty darn.
I might as well tell you what all I've eaten today.  Embrace the tuna sandwich.
Ah, well.
Goodbye.

P.S. Might as well tell you all the boring happenings of my life, dear void - I also found (oh, joy, joy!) an un-read Agatha Christie in my stack the other day.  The Murder at Hazelmoor or something.  Quite good. Though, Emily and I are beginning to worry about our deep interest in crime.  We are afraid that, when we eventually move to England (we made a pact, so it will happen) we will expect to be invited to someone's weekend party in the country and - because murders happen all the time at these events - solve a house murder.  That's just a customary weekend activity there, in our minds. It's just slightly worrying.

Day two of silly precinct walking is over.  I found out how much we're going to be payed.  Let's just say it's less than minimum wage and leave it at that.  Technically, if our beloved boss didn't think this the most important campaign on earth and therefore presume that we're all glad to work for free, we could just leave after we've filled our weekly quotas - with minimum wage pay.  But I doubt we will ever do that.  Whenever our feet hurt we shout "moneymoneymoney!" and our strength is renewed. Gosh, we're mercenary.  

I think after today we've got a good system that will work for the door-knocking.  I still think this is a colossal waste of time, but moneymoneymoney.  I desperately need it. 

This is going to be an exhausting two and a half months.  When will I study? Oh dear. I'm frightened. 

GAAA! I just realized we'll be working when my birthday rolls around! I REFUSE to work on my birthday! Turning twenty is going to be rotten as-is! I will not spend my birthday evening being hung up on by strangers.  I refuse. 

We tried to figure out why we won't just quit - and (besides moneymoneymoney) we decided that we're both overachievers.  We expect ourselves to beat these kind of things; we work hard, we kill ourselves to get A's, we're extremely careful and contentious when given tasks.  We can't quit because our reputations as fighters who can stick anything out will be tarnished.  If we can survive, essentially, four years of junior college drudgery - as my friend declared, "what purgatory would be if I believed in it" - we can conquer anything. 

But, I probably won't get to blog very often.  I don't care that no one will be sorry to see me go (literally) - I just find it rather therapeutic.   Same feel as journalling, but more legible and with pictures.  

Though, I suppose I should be grateful.  We could be payed, "Six dollars.  That's like a dollar an hour!"

A lot later:

HA! WA HA HA! Guess what I did?

I QUIT.  I QUIT THIS JOB. AFTER TWO WEEKS. And do I feel remotely like a quitter? NO WAY, JOSE.  I've seldom been prouder of myself.