Monday Bear

So Michele told me at ballet, “Liz, the pooping blogs have to stop.” Since I am her favourite blogger, I regret to inform all of you that I can’t poop anymore. Welp, at least, I can’t poop and blog-tell you. But I can call you while I’m pooping and tell you about it. If you like. Or anytime you think I might be pooping (which is often, as you all know), you can call me, and I’ll give you explicit details. But anywho, no more Poop Blogs. Sorry, folks.

Blame Michele.

While I’m at it:
“I’m a real ballerina now. I even have legwarmers.”
- Michele.

She’s just too cute. And she has the -best- hair.

I guess since I can’t talk about pooping, I’ll talk about masturbating.

Just kidding.

HA! Check out what just happened when I was typing pooping. My mom is filling out this thing for Freshman Orientation (now she decides to be involved, but that’s a different story), and as most of you know, I’m majouring in Premed/ Chemistry.

Mom: What’s your majour?
Liz: Pooping. (I mean’t to say premed)
Mom: There’s not a code for that. Stop blogging about poop. It’s not ladylike.

So I don’t really want to go to prom. I know I’ll have fun with Micheal, we always do, but it’s just that prom… is so… highschool? I’m -so- above that : ) Because, psht. I have an ipod. I’m a hep college kid now…

No, I know we’ll have fun. Even if I wouldn’t, I’d still have to go. I already made that -prom-ise. Get it, -prom- ise? Crazy old homo : )

“Prom is so gay”
“Oh my gosh, mine really is going to be!”
hehe, I’m so full of wit.

“Most Wittiest”

MY MOM IS GOING CRAZY!

At church, Sunday, they announced my graduation shindig, and my mom burst into tears. Just like the thirteen year old girl she is, she made everything all dramatic and ran to the bathroom. I followed her, grabbed her, and said, “What is your malfunciton?!?!” She sobbed, “I don’t want you to graduate!”
TOO FUCKING BAD.

It’s 5:55, make a wish.

I’m PMSing and she’s on the rag. EVERYTHING SHE DOES IS GETTING ON MY NERVES. When I’m “hormonal,” I don’t get angry or bitchy, I just get annoyed way too easily. It doesn’t help that my mom is a teenage girl. Just to be fair, it also doesn’t help that I -have- to be right all the time.
She just told me that I was living with my dad this summer, because if I insist on living with Matt, she won’t have any part in it.
However
She’s always saying things like, “What would I do without you?” or “I don’t know what I’m going to do when you leave.”
So why the hell would she be kicking me out? She didn’t think I would agree to it. Now she’s upset.
When people tell me to do something, and I don’t have a problem with it, I do it.
I’m not saying I’m moving in with my dad, because once I start packing, she’ll more than likely beg me to stay. If she doesn’t, fine.

And I don’t like her stupid boyfriend.

So I’ll stop blogging about how much I hate my parents. I’m not forteen. Nor am I that one girl.

I could use a good list right about now:

Things I can’t wear and why:

1. Things with cinched waists, because they make my midsection appear larger
2. Ankle strap shoes, because they make my legs stubbier.
3. Horizontal stripes, because I’m just too fucking fat.
4. Capri pants, because for some reason, short people aren’t supposed to wear them.
5. Chokers, because they make my neck look shorter.
6. Flippy haircuts, because they make my face look wider.
7. White, because it clashes with my skintone.
8. Black because it makes me look pastey.
9. Long skirts, because they make my legs look shorter.
10. Black or Blue eyeliner, because I’m a “warmtone”.
11. Tight shirts, because I have “masculine abs”.
12. Crew necks, because it shortens my torso.

If you’ll notice, I wear almost all of those things.

At least I don’t wear crocs.

Erick, Cederic, and Jamie came over last night. There was a pregnant chick on my bed and a black man on my computer. That was a crazy night.
I did my Physics homework.

Those fuzzy bunny ears are really cute : )

Matthew: but i love you and your dancin ass

I really should be dancing right now with Erik. I don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want to. Maybe if I walk out the door kicking and screaming, it will make me feel better. That’s what I used to do on days that I didn’t want to go to work.

“I DONWANNA GO TO WORK!”

And you know what? It made me feel better.

I think we should all be children sometimes. When the time is appropriate. We should be children when we’re being too grown up. We shouldn’t be children when we reflect on our parent mistakes and want to run away from them. Whoops.

So in conclusion, I need to go buy a crimping iron. With all that money that I have. Mine broke. I could just do like I did in the 4th grade and braid all my hair the night before. Nah, that won’t work. The kids at school called me Tina Turner. I wish I had her legs.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 18th, 2006 at 4:41 PM and is filed under Dance, Pooping, School. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.