19:45 - 2003-11-05
Best of All-Hallow's Eve
It is November and alas!
Halloween has come and passed.
Halloween for me, like most things, was a stretch of walking, ruining, washing, giggling, and throwing candy at children.
The evening started with my frantic rush to pull on a bunch of black clothing and a swim cap, then to paint my entire head with Tempera paint. Because of the paint, more furnature was ruined that evening than in my entire history. The only reason I am alive to tell this tale, is that I covered most of the spots with random inconspicuous things.
Like sheets.
Then some friends came over, two of whom surprightened the rest of us by--not knocking, but--simply opening the front door to my house and walking in without warning.
It was then that (as usual) the paint got to be a hassle and as soon as the last guest arrived, I was off to the bathroom to try to get what of it I could off. This resulted in my spending half and hour scrubbing my head and neck, and ruining more clothes and towels.
When I emerged from the shower, looking somewhat scarier than before (when I had spent 5 hours with my face and head completely black, save for my two glowing eyes) and had to answer the door and dispense the last dregs of cand to three kids, all of whom were dressed as the Grim Reaper.
No Darth Mauls this year, very disappointing.
Suddenly, one of my friends remembered that he had provided the idea for one of my short filmed and boisterously and violently demanded that we watch it. This friend also had a weapon on him, so I was very cooperative.
I herded everyone into my room and we all experienced the masterpieces that incorporated premices such as terrorism, alien abduction, and crabs being taped together.
Just before everyone left, we shared a lengthy conversation in the doorway about certain peoples' abilities to make all their limbs go limp.
The next morning, my friend (who had eaten us out of house and home, in thy mercy) went back to her humble abode, and then the time came for things to start getting into our house by unknown means.
I was sitting in my room, listening to the radio and playing Solitaire, as I am prone to do on quiet evenings, when my sister burst onto the scene like a hideous marsupial holding a jar containing a spider.
And she showed me the spider, and I looked on it and saw that it was cool.
Then this little frog got into the house and my cat chased it all over the place, in a tearfully cute manner. Then I caught it and put it in a pan that it couldn't hop out of. Raymi (el gato) then batted it all over the place somemore, and I batted it around, and then we hung it from a string and burned it a lil', heh heh heh. At the time I didn't consider it, actually, but the whole thing was very Modred-esque, and for that reason I cherish those moments. Even more so becaus I didn't consciously think of Modred as I put him to shame in the art of torturing frogs.
The other day, in the car my father suddenly said, "Hey kids, your dad's been thinking of getting a job in an organization called the FAA, and the application asks where you'd like to live if you could live anywhere in the US."
"I like our house," I said, thinking of Cheryl and the monsterous horrors she could commit on a house we had not made our mark in already.
But Dee assured us that there was a very lousy chance of us moving any time soon, and even if we did, we'd still be coming home every now and then to see my mother, so we couldn't be completely uprooted.
Though lately, I've decided that moving might not be such a bad idea. If we relocated to say Arizona or Wyoming, I would probably see my close friends about as often as I do now: Hardly ever if at all.
And there would still be the internet, so ties could never be wholly severed.
Also, while school would still be dull and unpleasent, at least the weather would be nice and I'd have a real room to decorate the way I want. I'm under the impression that the is no escape from the scum of earth anyway.
Anyway, while my dad was asleep this roach came scuttling across the carpet near the desk where I live. I caught sight of it and immediately shrieked:
"CHECK OUT THE ROACH!!! HAHA!!" before I realized my father was asleep.
He was pretty grumped out about us waking him up over a roach and told us to take the blasted thing outside and to stomp on it. he was also ticked off about the drinking glass we dirtied up because we had to catch the thing. So I was forced to take the little roach outside and murder it with my boot, whilst singing the Cockroach song, and thinking that if our little friend was anything like Mr Samsa, we would certainly meet again.
My dad remained in a bad mood for the remainder of the day, partly because he was woken up, and other-partly because he has picked up a roachy-loathing from Cheryl, who hates roaches. Despises them.
If Cheryl ever moves into our house, I am prepared to fill it to the roof with cockroaches. I will not aruge that love cannot overcome all obstacles, even cockroaches, but I would rather live up to my neck in filthy, disease-mongering insects than with Cheryl.
School was miserable enough when I was forced to stomach all the filth and treatment I was barraged with every day. But things are unimaginably worse now that it seems as though all the vulgarity and grime of humanity is being wiped of onto me everytime I brush past one of the bloated, vile things in the hall.
With school...Every hill climbed is followed up by the standard-issue backward tumble, resulting in scraped, torn, battered shoulder blades. So after my shoulder-transplant, I should be back in school.
Cheryl, well, Cheryl just makes the bruises sting. I've been injured at heart for quite a while, and some things are soothing, and others are a seething acid poured onto tender flesh. As Cheryl's presence is.
I am undyingly grateful that my father was able to supply my dear friend with some calming, productive advice. It was more than I could do, in the distracted, paralyzed state I've been living in lately. But in my case, my father is much too busy. Any need or hope I may have for console is automatically bumped off the schedual by some event indirectly or otherwise connected with *scathing * Cheryl.
Selfish, yes! I KNOW. But if you had your most teeth-grating and heart-wrenching years smeared in your face every day, wouldn't you at least quietly resent the cause? Some stranger who is omnipresent in your home, folding your laundry, catting around with your father just like the pitiful, disgusting whelps at school, representing the very sickening idea that the two beings who spawned you spent 17 years denying their festering contempt for one-another unti one day when one of them finally snapped and let all hell break loose.
Yeah. There's been no real outlook for the dusty dream they call succor, no matter how deep the knife digs. Sure my dad'll ask, "Is everything okay?" but what does one say? "Same old, same old, Dad, I hate your girlfriend and the way you act around her makes me ill-to-retch, even though I have no right to and it's only natural that you'd want someone to be with."
And then the guy who sits in front of me in theatre pretended to be a bumblebee. Really he did. Laugh. Rinse. Repeat.
