Yep, you got that right. I'm sick. And it STINKS.
I don't even know what I have. I just feel awful and weak. My mom, who's in the midst of recovering from this weird thing herself, commanded me not to do anything. ANYTHING. That means no homework until I get better, you guys. This sickness only lasts four or five days, but I need to do homework because otherwise I'll get behind, and I have too many classes to get behind.
That thought really stresses me out, and I only do marginally well with stress. Marginally well meaning worrying non-stop and crying and cursing my workload and circumstances.
In the midst of this, I'm blessed, though. Next week I'm going to be in a play (April 1st and 2nd) , and we have rehearsals every morning, every day. We've only practiced two times before this, so I'm just glad I'll be better before then. It wouldn't do to have Rosa Luna, la cocinera mexicana especial, ill during play week. I'd have no clue what I was doing.
And it's spring break next week, so I'll be able to catch up on homework. Yay timing.
I am going to miss all of my classes and a choreography rehearsal, though. And this is bad, because I have a problem:
I can't dance.
I know people say that, but really. I have no rhythm. I have no time. I have no sense of what foot goes first. I cannot dance for the life of me.
And I'm at the front of the stage.
I know I'll get it before the play, but daaaaaaaaaang am I terrified. Me? Dancing? It makes me want to laugh. "HA! No." Fat chance. Rosa Luna already speaks in Spanish. Who says she has to dance?
Well, besides the choreography director, my lovely friend Lamboff. (She gets her name because she betrayed me and started to like Family Force 5 even after we agreed they were awful, and she backstabbed me by liking Lamborginis better than Ferraris, and admitting it before youngerbrotherLambofreak. BETTER THAN FERRARIS. This cannot be forgiven. So she gets a weird name on my blog. Take that, Lamboff!)
Well, I need to go now-- I have an appointment at 2pm to see the doctor. Before I leave, though, have a lame joke from this cherry popsicle I just ate:
"What kind of music sticks with you?"
Hahaha no. Puns are only cute when they fall from the lips/fingers of Adam Young, otherwise they are stupid. That was stupid.
Sorry this post went all over the place and any typos that might have hidden in here. My brain is a little gone. (Correction: My brain is a lotta gone. Because it always is.)
OH OH OH I did write something last night! Blaine and Caley as kids. Together. Yep. They're about 5, just before the accident, and they're so super cute. They make me giggle. :3
Okay, I really need to go now. XD
Better With Talking
March 22, 2011
“No—you get up there,” Blaine decided, pointing up to the seemingly gigantic card table.
Caley wavered by the thin leg. “Are you sure?” he asked, standing on his tiptoes to look across the green pleather tabletop. It was marred from numberless spills and scratches, telling stories of his parents’ late nights before he and his brother and sister were born. “Will it fall?”
Blaine joined him, inspecting the tabletop. “No,” he said, poking a small tear in the plastic fabric. “It’ll hold you.”
Caley glanced at his little brother sideways but said nothing. Instead he clambered onto the nearby couch and slithered his way on his stomach onto the card table. After a moment’s hesitation, he stood and looked down at Blaine. “Now what?”
“Fight something,” Blaine directed, holding an imaginary camera in front of him. “You’re Superman. Kick and punch and stuff.”
“Caley!” a sharp voice called out. “What do you think you’re doing?”
In a flash, Caley was on his stomach again, sliding off the table to the couch in his stocking feet. His green eyes were wide with guilt that he had been caught.
On the ground, Blaine looked up at their mother standing in the doorway. She had a nice dress on and a strand of pearls around her neck, though she wasn’t going anywhere in particular. She looked alarmed, her collected features skeptical and worried. “You’re not supposed to climb on that,” she said, watching Caley sternly. “You could fall and get hurt; you know that.” Her tone told him he was in trouble more than her words.
Without defending himself, Caley took his place behind his brother. He watched his mother’s face, waiting for Blaine to work his magic.
He didn’t wait long. “He was being Superman,” Blaine announced, catching her squarely in the screen of his imaginary camera. “I’m the director. We’re making a movie.”
A smile threatened to lift one corner of her well made-up lips, but she managed to keep a straight face as she looked at him. “Oh really?” she asked, tilting her head. Her blonde hair was done up in a perfect bun, a single elegant clip sweeping it away from her face.
“Uh-huh,” Blaine replied, tilting his camera with her face. “And he had to be on the table because he was on a cliff, and he was fighting.”
“I see.” Their mother nodded slowly, still fighting the smile. “That’s very creative of you. But let’s stay off of tables in the house, all right? I don’t want one of you to fall and hurt the other.”
“Okay.” Blaine shrugged and walked a few steps away. “Get on the rug, and it can be the ocean.” He grinned. “Then you can fight a sea monster!”
Their mother chuckled and slid out of the doorway. Caley moved onto the rug and watched his brother.
How do you do that? He was itching to ask. How did you get me out of trouble that easily?
Blaine noticed his stare and grinned even wider. “What, Caley? You should start fighting that sea monster before he gets you and you die.” He adjusted his invisible camera and held it up to his eye. “You have to beat him so we can make a good movie.”
“Yeah,” Caley said quietly. “Okay.” He readied himself, but stopped and turned to his brother. “I want to be the director now,” he decided abruptly. “You can be Superman.”
Blaine laughed. “No, silly brother. I have to be the director, because I can tell people what to do. You be Superman because you’re older. ‘Sides, you don’t have to talk. I’m better at talking than you are.”
Caley paused for a moment. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He knew that was what Blaine would say. He had only asked it to hear it again, to be reminded of why his brother could talk his parents out of anything. “What do you want me to do?”