Dear high school secretary,
Firstly, I want to commend you for going four years without once cracking a smile. It's very honorable to shoot venom off your tongue and napalm out your eyes whenever someone waves hello. Seriously, ma'am, this world suffers a deficit of truly miserable people. I applaud your momental accomplishments toward combatting this problem.
Remember the time in tenth grade that you screamed at me-- quite literally, at full voice-- for leaving the cafeteria on invitation to have lunch with my English teacher? Remember the time you accused my Yearbook press pass of being counterfeit, and I had to miss class during a deadline to retrieve a note from the advisor, verifying that I was a staff member? Remember all the times you practically bounced with glee (still glaring, of course) when I was called into the principal's office, even though it was never a result of my being in trouble? You always found little ways to brighten my day. If I said, "I need to purchase a parking permit," you never failed to reply, "You mean you'd like to apply for a parking permit, and I'll decide whether you deserve one... or not."
Thank you, Secretary. Without you, I may still be hopeful and happy to this day.
Hayley Hoover xoxo bff 4eva
Hey, guys. I want you to all close your eyes now. Visualize the amount of drama you inferred from my little anecdote about running into Andrew yesterday. Okay, now divide that in half. Then in half again. In fact, take about one sixteenth of the Inferred Drama, and that's how big a deal it was. I didn't elaborate further on the story yesterday because nothing else happened. We all laughed, we all ate, we were all merry. Sorry to cause any heart attacks; the boyfriend is still intact.
Oh, and while we're on the subject, I had my first contact in several weeks today with Justin Timberlake. I was at the middle school/high school band concert to cheer on a friend, and in between countless clarinet squeaks and awkward announcers saying in twenty minutes what could be accomplished in two, I received a text.
JT: Would it be possible to someday break our silence for a short time, to ask some questions about the wedding [of our friends, Graham and Sarah]?
HGH: What would you need to ask me that you couldn't find out from anyone else?
JT: You're both knowledgeable and able to hold a conversation via text, unlike others.
HGH: You should ask Graham or Sarah.
JT: I have. Graham has yet to respond to various inquiries that date weeks, probably months, back. And I don't want to bother Sarah.
HGH: But you'll bother me.
JT: Mhm. Because everyone else either doesn't wish to speak with me, or else they don't know squat. So that leaves you.
HGH: I fit into both of those categories.
JT: Dag, yo. Well at least I tried.
How'd I do? I'll admit, as the conversation ended, I immediately imagined my frequent blog commentors sitting at a long gymnastics judges' table, holding up score cards. Those of you who encourage me to cause him bodily harm are giving me a 7 for snippiness. Those of you who preach "time heals all wounds" are giving me a 5 for giving in and responding. How about everyone else? What's my composite score?
Anyway, tomorrow is my last full day of high school. Friday is the senior picnic, during which I have to pretend the vast majority of my class doesn't infuriate me/make me cry. I have a few insignificant exams, etc., that happen next week, but it's all pretty much done. I know I'm being whiny, but as I was lying in my front yard today with a raspberry popsicle in one hand and Maureen Johnson's The Bermudez Triangle in the other, wincing from the sun but loving how my state in May always smells like mown grass and produce, all I could think about is how long and painful school is in comparison to the rest of my life. These past few months have lasted for what feels like decades. Decades, like, wearing a chastity belt and those tribal rings that make your neck two feet long. Constantly observed, constantly oppressed, constantly in pain.
Sexy: This is really weird to say... and I do NOT mean every aspect of the '70s... but some things from the '70s. We're watching a boring movie in Government, and the only way I can stay awake is by checking out the guys' longish blown-out hair. Plus, I have had this stuck in my head for the past two weeks.
Unsexy: To reinforce that I meant it when I said SOME things from the '70s, the clothes and facial expressions in this = the definition of unsexy. Although they're definitely not unentertaining.
Chipotle burritos this year: 19
Days left of high school: 3ish
Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. <3