The Perks of Getting Enough Sleep

Tech week starts tomorrow!!!! *internal screaming*

In other news, I read The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Steven Chbosky a couple days ago.

I actually really liked it but then...

then end...

was...

challenging.

But no spoilers! You have to read it yourself. Or watch the movie maybe, but it's so much better to read the book first and then watch the movie because the book is almost always better than the movie and also a book is basically a movie you get to direct in your head so if you watch the movie first it's all ready directed for you.

I hope that made sense.

Probably not.

I really need to get more sleep but whenever I try to go to bed early my brain says, "Just read a bit of you're book first."

And then it'll get later and I'll decide to go to bed but my brain will say, "Now would be a great time to catch up on all the latest videos from your youtube subscribtions!"

And by then it's starting to get really late so my brain says, "Might as well just go on Tumblr for a bit then."

And next thing I know my alarm clock is going off and I'm back in full-on Dementor mode again.

It's a problem.

Expecto Patronfudhgiuagruogbkzv

Just a friendly reminder that tech week (aka hell week aka staying at school to rehearse for drama until ten o'clock at night) is coming up in the soonish region of the future, so I will not be posting anything during that time and if I do it will probably go something like 'asdguifgo so tiredhsjkfhleghulayaruhulleof' because that's about as coherent as I get during tech week.

I am a delicate creature and I need at least 8 hours of sleep to function, 10 in order to voluntarily interact with other human beings. Anything less than that and I have a striking resemblance to a dementor.

You know, those things from Harry Potter that wear dark hoods and suck out your soul and devour happiness.

Also if you try and use 'expecto patronum' on me it doesn't work, so arguably I am more dangerous without sleep than any petty dementor. 

Here Goes Nothing

Happy late Halloween, blog minions! I couldn't write on actual halloween because I was too busy pretending to be a lot younger than I actually am so that I could get more candy.

In other news, today is the second day of NaNoWriMo. I somehow managed to meet the daily word count yesterday and today but I am all ready wishing I could throw my pathetic excuse for a novel out the window.

I'm sticking with it, but I have a feeling a lot of my characters are going to suddenly develop stutters and there are going to be a lot of really weird and extensive dream sequences to up my word count. 

This is why I normally never write anything over a thousand words because I start to become moody and reclusive, and begin to plot the gruesome murder of every one of my characters.

Thankfully, I was able to kill off one of my characters really early on in the novel, so I was able to let off some steam.

I've decided to write a thriller novel about a serial killer but it's sort of boring to write at the moment, probably because I haven't quite figured out who the serial killer is and also I can't write his maniacal speech revealing everything until the very end of the novel.

Live the Fall

It's short story Friday! Yaaaaaaaay!

“I’ve never really… done this before,” I said, glancing over at Scott. His face was unreadable as usual.

“There’s and H-level gravity net,” he said, “you’re perfectly safe.” I swallowed and looked over the edge of the platform. The landing square below looked miniscule, the maintenance staff barely visible ants scrambling across it’s surface. The gravity net was invisible of course, but even the knowledge that it was there was not reassuring.

“Don’t think, just jump,” Scott advised. Easy enough for him to say. We were so high up that I could barely stand, my head dizzy with height. The sky was clear and blue, perfect weather for jumping. I stared straight ahead into the blue and walked forward, my legs shaking slightly and my breath coming out in shivers. I kept walking until I was at the very edge of the platform. It was now or never.

Spreading my arms out, I leaned forward and let myself fall off the edge. 

I immediately felt a rushing in my ears and I could have sworn I left my stomach up there at the platform above me. Wind whistled in my ears and tore at my clothes. I felt like I was floating and sinking at the same time.

When I hit the gravity net I had the weird sensation that I was falling through gel, my fall slowed down to half speed, the air thick around me.

The gravity net dropped me ten feet above the platform and I fell again at normal speed, hitting the ground awkwardly on my side. I heard a cracking sound come from my shoulder and pain shot through my arm, but none of that mattered.

I was alive. 

Well Played, Tuesday

Tuesdays are almost as bad as Mondays. Tuesdays are sort of like that day of the week that wishes they were as evil as Mondays, but never quite got there. Like, they try to instill despair into the minds of hopeless teenagers, but they just aren't as good at it as Mondays.

Somehow though, this Tuesday managed to reach the same level of evil as any Monday. I congratulate you Tuesday, on achieving your dreams. However, I would like you to go back to being significantly less awful.

Maybe it's because Friday doubled its level of awesome by being a no school day, so Tuesday felt like it had to step up its game.

Omigod, what am I even talking about.

I really need some sleep.

Or extensive time in a mental hospital.

Or both.

Klutzy Kryptonite

Not only am I a reclusive nerd with questionable social skills, but I am also a complete and total klutz.

Like, I will actually and literally walk into walls. I'll just be walking around the house, minding my own business, when WHAM wall to the face.

Of course nothing hurts as bad as stubbing my toe. It happens at least once a day, and it's ALWAYS THE SAME TOE.

Always. The. Same. One.

At this point, stubbing my toe hurts worse than a stab wound. Not that I've ever been stabbed, but let me tell you I am 100% sure stubbing my toe is more painful than any petty stab wound.

Okay, 99% sure.

Along with stubbing my toe, paper cuts are also one of those things that just hurts way worse than it should. I mean, they're maybe, what, half a centimeter long? HOW CAN SOMETHING THAT TINY HURT SO MUCH.

Maybe I just have a low pain tolerance, I don't know, but stubbing my toe and paper cuts are basically my kryptonite.

Like, I could be a super hero facing off the evil boss villain, and I would be invincible until the villain brought out a piece of paper and swiped it across my finger. Super hero me would instantly fall to the ground and the villain would win, eventually taking over the world and enslaving its inhabitants thanks to his knowledge of my fatal weakness.

Maybe I shouldn't try being a superhero...

Grey

Well would you look at that! It's Friday again! Which means short story time:

The boy sitting across from me never stops fidgeting. By now I’m so bored that I count the number of times he does each quirk. Hair tugs: 5. Knee taps: 20. Finger cracks: 3. When he moves on to twist his bracelet tightly around his wrist I give up counting and look out the bus window.

The sky outside is the color of slate. The scenery is barren except for a few scraggly half-dead trees and endless road. I still can’t tell where we’re heading. I look down at my own bracelet, identical to the fidgeter’s except for the numbers that read: 1206.

We each have our own identification number bracelet. That and the bright orange jump suits expose us for what we really are. Prisoners.

A tall man in front of me stands up, even though the bus is still moving. The guards at the front and back of the bus clutch their batons, ready to fight.

“Sit down,” says one of the guards. The hand that grips his baton is white at the knuckles.

“Actually, I’d rather not,” says the prisoner. I hear a shuffling sound and see a gun in his hands, pointed at the guard who spoke.

The guards at the back of the bus tense and begin to move slowly towards the man with the gun, not willing to risk the life of an officer.

“Stop the bus,” says one of the guards. He sounds confident, but I can here the tremor in his voice.

They’re terrified of us. Everyone is. I know what they call us.

Murderers.

It stings that the word rings with truth, but they don’t know the whole story. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“Put the gun down,” the chief officer says through clenched teeth. The prisoner takes a moment to reply.

“You,” he says, “Are going to let everyone on this bus go, or I am going to shoot.”

I can see the movement of the officer’s throat as he swallows. His dilemma is hard. Self-preservation, or the safety of the entire country, maybe even the world?

Self-preservation wins.

“Open the doors,” he says to the bus driver. Inwardly I sigh in relief. We were lucky, getting a bus with such weak willed officers. The ones on the other buses will not be so  lucky.

One by one, we file out of the bus.

I stand under the slate sky and will myself to feel the joy of my newfound freedom.

The joy does not come.