All the Single Ladies, All the Single Ladies

To update my readers (*cough* Guys? ....Hello? Anybody here?):

1. I'm growing out my bangs.
2. I decided that I love school because I have the coolest friends in the world.
3. I'm still single.

Inexcusably, horrifyingly single. Heck, it seems like we all are! What's with this world?

Because I'm feeling strangely analytical today, and perhaps I need some stability in my life, I'd like to take some time to offer a few equations:

T α 1/D

T= Time left in junior year

D= Desperation

T α Rf

T= Amount of MicroFoaming Toothpaste used

Rf= Rabies Factor: How much you look like you have rabies

M α H

(This one's only for a select few. H ≠ Hannah, or Hollberg. Never fear.)

Oh the irony (this one goes out to Françoise) that I'm making mathematical equations here. Seeing as in math today... Yeah. My hands are still shaking.

I may still be single, but at least I have guy friends. Phew! And I'm lucky enough to get to go to Junior Prom with the coolest one on Saturday -- thanks, Evan! I'm super excited.

Sometimes, I'm kind of a tool.

Honestly, I'm not exactly sure of the true definition of a "tool," but it's been used lavishly around me recently and my mind is pretty hooked on it. Best to get it out.

I have this brain-mouth thing that doesn't always work. Honestly, it hardly works. I have doubts. You just have to realize that sometimes I'm going to say something that I don't mean, or makes me look like a fool, etc. I don't try to, I swear. It just happens. I am so, so very sorry.

On a similar note, after I get my wisdom teeth out here in a few weeks, I'm going to lock myself in my room for the following 3 days. Having seen the after effects on someone else, I don't wish to burden society like that. I'm sure that I'll be even more high and crazy and destructive. This is what I'm going to print out and put on my door:

HANNAH.

YOU ARE HIGH.

YOU ARE MEAN.

DO NOT LEAVE THIS ROOM.

DO NOT TOUCH YOUR PHONE.

YOUR FACEBOOK PASSWORD HAS BEEN CHANGED.

SINCERELY,

NORMAL HANNAH.

But really, to those of you I have said something insensitive to, been sarcastic to, made fun of, etc. I am truly sorry. My thought process is broken. My brain has been hiding from me. I didn't mean it. I'm not thinking of a specific instance here, but I have to say that it's been a reoccuring instance. Please, ignore me.

What do I need?

If you're bored, and possibly procrastinating (hey, I guessed right!) you may want to try this. Go to Google and type in your name + needs.

Example: "Hannah needs "

Well Google, what do I need? Here are my top 15 favorites, not in any particular order.

1. Hannah needs to freely explore her world.
2. Hannah needs a farm visit.
3. Hannah needs a Foster home.
4. Hannah needs a good break.
5. Hannah needs Roomies! (Actual inflection)
6. Hannah needs a photo of a Marine Corps dress, blue buttons. (Oddly specific)
7. Hannah needs food, walks, and a steady supply of tail-scratches.
8. Hannah needs a hug.
9. Hannah needs some alone time.
10. Hannah needs $3 million.
11. Hannah needs your money.
12. Hannah needs some sensitivity training.
13. Hannah needs to die off or something.
14. Hannah needs to tan.
15. Hannah needs to be loved.

Isn't that pathetically revealing? I thought so. Apparently I need to open up to the world (perhaps through a farm visit), be more sensitive. Then and then I can be tan, loved, and rich! If that doesn't work, I just need to die off or something.

This is almost as funny as the controversial Google Suggest. I suggest that you try it. I've even set another one up for you about the human race! Just click on *Update*.

Through this experience I have not only learned that a surprising number of Hannahs are Jewish, but that if people actually took Google's advice, we would be a very bewildered, uncertain people with few/no philosophical values.

Pronounced "JIN-juh"

The common redhead, or flavus humana rubra, has hair natually varying from a deep burgundy to bright copper. Approximately 1% to 2% of the human population is affected by this rare anomoaly, which appears in people with two copies of a recessive gene which causes a mutation in the MC1R protein. Gingerism is associated with fair skin color, lighter eye colors (gray, blue, green, and hazel), freckels, and senstivity to ultraviolet light. Cultural reactions have varied from ridicule to admiration, with many existing stereotypes regarding redheads.

Commonly known as coppertops, fantapants, gingarians, ginga ninjas, ginge-tinges, carrot tops, rust heads, and copper knobs, these fiery fellows have been walking the earth for about 50,000 years. Throughout history, their presence has left a mark upon society that can be found through literature and art. During the midieval ages, red hair was thought to be the mark of beastly sexual desire and moral degeneration. Montague Summers, in his translation of the Malleus Maleficarum, notes that red hair and green eyes were thought to be the sign of a witch, a werewolf or a vampire.

(A fresco of a red-haired THracian nonble woman in the Otrusha Mound in central Bulgaria, 4th century BC.)

There are two kinds of redheads existing in our world today, the first of which being the ginger, or sapien flavus rubra. This creature is typically shy, self-concious, intelligent, and socially awkward. Gingers have a certain inclination to wear shades of purple or pink that clash magnificently with their frizzy mane of fury. They enjoy spending their time meticulously practicing the piano, knitting socks, and singing to themselves. Clingling to familiar habitats, gingers can be found in various dark places such as their mother's basement or a cassette rental store. Once fully grown and matured (a feat requiring at least 30 years), gingers usually end up owning either:

a) A large, successful company,
b) A steady supply of prostitutes,
c) A creepy shack full of cats.

The common ginger is not to be mistaken wit the Cohors hominis spectantia flavus rouge, or gang-dwelling ginga, which is a whole seperate species of redhead. Gingas have an extreme terperament which matches the flaming color of their foreign hair. They are stubborn, demanding, critical, easy to upset, clever, competitive, violent, loud, sarcastic, and hot-headed. A ginga never forgets, and a ginga never forgives.

Gingas are identified as cap-busting, kitten saving, well rounded people. "Do not mess with gingas; they are thugs who don't show if from their skin or hair, but are likely to carry a Glock without you ever expecting it. They ain't afraid to kick your [booty]." (Anonymous classmate)

Gingas are oft found relaxing at classy piano clubs, arguing with brunettes, or fighting Gingerism hate crimes with piercing intellect and strenght as a minority group in the American community. They enjoy good music and creativity, and are not afraid to get sassy on anyone--white freckly-kid style.

Redheads may be commonly mistaken for hall passes, road construction signs, basketballs, carrots, pumpkins, and road cones. No matter how hard it seems, you must never confuse redheads with these items.

Here in America, film and television programs often portray school bullies as having red hair; for example, Scot Farkus from A Christmas Story, the O'Doyle family in the movie Billy Madison, or the bully character Caruso in Everybody Hates Chris. However, children with red hair are often themselves targeted by bullies; "Somebody wit hginger hair will stand out from the croud," says anti-bullying expert Louise Burfitt-Dons.

Although they may be different from the rest of the world, gingers are people too. They enjoy long walks on the beach and evenings with their ginger-haired sweetheart and a glass of wine, just like any other person. Redheads even feel pain--recent studies have shown that gingers need twenty percent more anesthetics to loose their pain reflexes than the average brunette or blonde. So next time you pass a ginger--or ginga--by on the street, stop for a moment to appreciate the rare genetic mutation. They add a little more diversity to our lives. And they're pretty dang funny to watch.

Feeling Self-Concious

After reading my last post, one might be confused as to the state of this blog. Have I completely abandoned it in the past five months? Talk about a complete reversal... The filthy hypocrite!

Maybe it's because school started. Whenever I get into a very... involving... english class, I have to be writing so often that my brain does a complete flop and I can no longer write outside of boring essays arguing controversies that no one has heard of. Gosh, listen to me now. I'm not even coherent, and I've stuttered over five months to be able to build up to this.

Yes. I have written about a dozen or so posts. They are currently residing in the lovely place where saved drafts live on the blogosphere. But everytime I open one of them up to edit/publish it, I feel like a total idiot for writing it in the first place and I feel like it doesn't represent me at all because it's too silly or too depressing. So pretty much, I'm a bipolar freak who has trouble staying in one emotion over time when writing. You know. Ha. I'll probably hate this tomorrow.

That, and I feel completely scrutinized for my work. It's as if there is some hawk-of-an-AP-Lang teacher staring over my shoulder, diving too deep into concepts, being too opinionated, and absolutely shutting my warrants down. Like some mean, destroying machine. Killer of children and small, furry animals.

I can't even THINK for myself anymore! Any deeper, philosophical thought that I might have relates to some discussion that we've had in class, and I suddenly feel self-concious like I have something to say and I want to say it, but I can't unless I am 100% sure it's impressive. I feel like I could argue over anything. I feel like I can't talk about anything. It's like I'm stuck in some monkey-hell limbo. That was a Mighty Boosh reference.

I may have to do a post on that show.

So.... You may or may not be able to imagine how I've forced myself to trudge through the past weeks, ignoring that tantalizing picture of blueberry-cake-whatever-it-was-after-all (which, as a matter of fact, was not too successful at persuading me to post as soon as I should have).

You know what, grammar? You suck. Nobody likes you. You have no friends.

*Smacks forehead*

I don't know how to write _ _ _ _ anymore. I cannot. It's as if somebody threw a rice bag over my head and threw me into a lake.

Haha, that would actually be fun.

No, dangit. It wouldn't!

*Smacks forehead*

It's so strange to think that it was JULY last time I posted on here. Now, it's mid-November, we're preparing for Christmas in dance, and there's snow on the ground. Eff.

[Untitled]

It's crazy to think that last time I posted on here, it was summer.

I've been having some conflicting feelings, as of late. Mainly, it's all about balance: When to do this, when to do that. If a joke is appropriate. If it's over the top. If it's underrated. This is a completely fine assessment, I know, for a teenager to be going through. It's just... I don't know. Not harder, per se, but more interesting than I thought.

Yesterday, a rather self-absorbed girl leaned over to me during French III. "Oh-mi-gosh," she said. "I just LOVE pop. It's my favorite genre." I honestly had nothing to say to her, having no visible way of either agreeing pitifully or shooting her down truthfully. I just managed to raise my eyebrows at her for a moment and returned to the lecture. But honestly, is this what we've come to? Thinking that A: POP is a genre and B: You are then inclined to just like what everyone else is liking? That's what pop is--what's popular. It's pretty disappointing...

The whole image of reputation and popularity is such a fickle concept. Honestly, it's so immature. Will we ever grow out of it? I still find myself frowning when I see adults who are so self-conscious and oriented around others. I kinda feel badly for them, really. It's not a fun position at all. But it's not a big deal to just walk away from that whole conception and be able to see the greater perspective of, I don't know, being friends with everyone. It must have been hard for them in high school.

I used to be one of them. I was so unhappy, though. I remember it still: there was always so much drama, and even if you were in the popular group, there were many divisions within. Bad feelings, back stabbing, gossipping... all of it was there. I don't hate these people--no not at all. I just know that they are so much better than that.

Can't we all just... be more classy? More sportsmanlike? Those kind of people are so much more attractive; I mean this in the literal meaning of the word.

Whatever, I have the best friends in the world.