It's always been expected that...well, to be honest, a lot of things have been expected, but have never happened. We stereo-type people so easily- well, I do- and label them, lump them together with what looks like their "friends". The Friend- whom I will name Friend- ...- oh, how original of me- and I tend to spend all our time stuffing our faces and grouping people during lunch. There are the Punks- Shamrock, Capitan (Spanish) and all their friends who, no, are not punks, but wear skater-jeans and bring nothing but their skateboard with them to class as if they are going to practic kick-flips on the desks- the Nerds- your typical glasses-wearing, candy-wrapper-collecting, bringing-lap-top-to-class-even-though-we're-not-even-in-college kids who, no, do not have any friends outside of their social group except on maybe the internet where their username is CoolGuy21 or SuperCool or whatever. I really don't know- and the Dye Group. This is the group lead by the busty, butty Seran-Wrap (dubbed thee[sp?] because of her hair's tendency to stay cemented to her scald just like seran wrap) who, one day, decided it was okay to dye her hair blood red. And, being her groupies and not having any other friends except on the internet, her friends followed, using those cheap, fake spray-on hair colour that you can get at a thrift store for a heypenny. They usually go with some outragious colour such as Pukey Pink, or What-Were-You-Thinking White. I know white is an okay colour, but with curly hair and leathery skin...Honey, you look like my dead grandmother...

 I find labeling immature and tasteless. Of course, I do more than my fair share of labeling, but really, who has time to think about these things? I'll tell you: probably not me...unless, of course, you pay the 'rents to move to Cuba and leave me with the house, but we all know that's illegal. (Just like gay-marriages. I've always wanted to participate in a protest about this, even if I am not gay. I'm just supportive.) I often find people will grimace or sneer when someone (a) wearing skinnies, Converse, fishnets and black eye-liner (b) wearing glasses, and regardless of their background or what they are wearing, looking nerdy walks by. This just disgusts me...and frightens me. I wonder what they'll think of the creepy-kid-that-wears-those-creepy-Plaid-pants-and-I-think-worships-pedophiles (This is so not true, byt the way, even if I do have a fetish for anything Michael Jackson related.) walks by. Well, I'll keep wondering, 'cause they're gone next year, thank God.

 Actually, I take that back. I don't have a religion.

 Just shut your face, eat your cookie, and learn your colours.

 Shut Up And Let Me Go, This Hurts I Tell You So.

 I think these lyrics hold meaning behind them...I'm talking about other than the fact that the singer wants you to shut your trap, take three steps back, keep going...and something else about pain. Today may not be my most literate days, but the fog of illiteracy hangs over everyone's shoulders at some point, right? No? Hm, you must me some sort of Literacy Terrorist, I'll have to sonsult you on your torture techniques some time sooner or never. *Ahem* Where was I? Well, seeing as how you can't answer, I shall actually read what I've written before I post it. Ah, yes, the lyrics: I find meaning behind them simply because I can relate to them. I find that when I lose- or never have in the first place, for that matter- interest in something, I tend to be a little moody. If someone is telling me something I don't want to hear- well, that must mean I don't want to hear anything, because half of my conversations have a question in them beginning with "What did" and end with "you say?"- I'll probably just tell them "whatever" or "yeah, shut up, please", but if this person I'm metaphorically speaking to, oh, I don't know...rates a five or higher on the meter-o'-more-important-than-that-candied-apple-you're-munching-on, then it'll probably sound something a little like a streight boy telling Michael Jackson to get up off 'is little nine-year-old-ass. Okay, he may not use that sort of lanuage, but we're talking metaphorically here, like Demetri Martin's Magical Place.

 As far as comedians go, Demetri is obviously an ameteur in the comical world, but he's certainly making his way up the ladder. Sure, he may not make me unable to breathe, like Dane Cook with Snake Dreams or Peace Be With You, but I can have a few good laughs with him.

 (Was that a paragraph up there? That sad, sorry little excuse of a pair of sentences?) ... (As well as ending a message in parentheses, I do not like starting with a pair. Ohh, I doubled O'Connor Doyle's bossiness by two.) Ah, yes, the insults. I don't try to be mean. It just ends up coming out that way. Like when the 'rents and I were driving in the car, and something brought up my parents themselves. Here's how the conversation went:

 Mum: We all have parents. Some of us may not have both, or we may not know them, or even have met them, but we all have parents.

 Ms. Bitch (my sister, for clarification): We also have favourites.

 Mum: Well, yes...

 Lufa: Yeah, like she likes you better than Pap, and I like Pap better than you. ...Oh, wait...

 Usually she ends up getting angry with me for being honest. And she wonders why I lie to her... Well, as far as lying goes- for me, anyway-...well, it isn't that far. I'm not going to tell the 'rents that I skipped school because there was an essay that, yes, like all essays, was quite important and very grade-A-threatening and I just did not feel like doing it. I'd probably tell her that Mrs. Random just marked me absent by accident- after all, she's done it numerous times before. I am quite a quiet student (which I think she appreciates greatly.)

 Instead of telling the truth and dealing with the consequences, just shrug it off and hope the lions aren't hungry.

 Whoa. I just finished fourty-four copies of worksheets and notes for my class, and I've also divided my speech into proportions so that each question for my interview will fit onto exactly seven 3-by-5 notecards. Now, just because you hear "my class" and "interview", that does not mean I am an adult. YET. ...Oh, who am I kidding? I'm a few ten or twelve years short of a college dissertation. Well, given that fact, you may wonder why there even is a "my class" or "interview". (Jeez, cool it with the quotation marks, Self.)

 By class I mean my foreign language class. Spanish, if you want to get into the specifics. The students have to prepare a lesson on a subject in our text-books, with an over-head, activity- really, Mrs. Espanol, we're not in second grade anymore- and worksheets for the whole class, including Mrs. Espanol. You must excuse me: I simply cannot find the little NYUH that goes over the 'n' in Spanish to turn Espanol into Espanyol. (If you don't know where that sentence came from, check your Big Book of Comedy: Jeff Dunham: Peanut.)

 By interview, I really mean a few questions handed out to the class by our...what shall I call it.. -loving instructor, Mrs. Cookie-Lover. Now, I may seem literate to whomever's eyes may be surfing these lines, but I'm anything but when it comes to preparing a speech. Especially when some of the questions are: What makes you the best person for this job? To me, that's like ending a paragraph with a sentence between parentheses- and don't get me started on that again-, which makes everything so stressful. I'm not being pessimistic, or anything of the sort, but what I'm saying is that it's just not in me to answer a question like that honestly. I really don't know, and that really pisses me off. I hate ranting- hopefully you know what I mean when I say that again- about myself, when I know there are other people standing in front of me who probably want to rant about themselves and probably have a better rant to rant off. It makes me feel...how should I say...self-absorbed? Of course I'm not, but I just can't help the way I feel when I give a speech about myself. I'm okay with doing one about maybe John McCain and- for all the haters out there who agree with me- how I am absolutely gay about the fact that he was not elected president.

 Oh, God, don't ask about him. I hate it when people approach me with the death-bomb labled "WTF? I VOTED FOR MCCAIN!!" and they go off about why I and Obama are wrong, and how McCain should have been the one to be waving around the flag of our unity, or whatever it is that presidents do. I'll just dish-out another cliche phrase that everyone uses because they think it's effective but really it's not because all you've ever done is desensitize me to it: It's a free country. You are entitled to your own unique opinion, just as I am. I'll tell you I like Obama. You'll tell me you like McCain. You say potato, I say potato, you say tomato, I say FUCK YOU. (Ha-ha. If you didn't get that, it was from...oh, never-you-mind. If you've heard that before, or any other funny phrase you think I'd like to hear, just hit me up. ...Yes, that was the first time I ever used that phrase, oh my God.)

 Whatever. You say tomato, I say Fizzle Squares.