8i think i'll try defying gravity
three strikes, you're out
I've been told one matures when in senior year. I fully expect this to occur. I've been looking forward to mature life for three years now, you know. As it happens, I'm still just as stupid as I was 1034 days ago. Why? Two words. Nick. Henderson.
...
-"even though she doesn't believe in love
he's determined to call her bluff
who could deny
these butterflies?
they're filling his gut"-
...
I have a subterranean mega-zit.
It is monstrous, it is gaping, it is ugly, and it is a unicorn pimple.
You know those pimples that always conveniently appear smack-dab in the middle of your forehead? I always get them. It's usually a blackhead, but apparently this is not my day.
I don't even understand how it developed so quickly. Diary, it is massive. It is Mt. St. Helens. It is Mount Everest. It's a volcano, and I am simply horrified at the prospect of when it might blow. I can't even pop it, because I've lost my ice pick.
Aren't I so funny?
Alright, so I've lost my ZitNeedle. (That's actually what they call it. The company, ModernMakeUp, has very many trademark brands, lots of capitalization, and absolutely no spaces between words.) And this pimple, being the subterranean bastard it is, I simply cannot pop without the Needle. I suspect my cousin, Delia (who is in her second year of college and has extreme boundary issues) stole it the last time she was here. Uncle Rick is a freelance PI, very poor, and Delia is scraping pennies off the road. I think she's turned to stripping by now, albeit. Delia's always been healthy around the middle, but these last few months of malnourishment has caused to to loose all her excess pudge, and dare I say it, she's smoking. She's always been conservative, so when she forced me to do her laundry last time she visited, the pink lace thongs and string bras were kind of a hint.
Plus, around her mother she was dropping hints like anvils. Despite Uncle Rick being a private eye, Delia has never quite learned the exercise of subtlety. I suppose I should just be thankful that she was extra cautious around my father. Old-fashioned Justin would have a heart attack.
But diary, I'm off subject. I am writing this in the mere seconds before my father deigns to finish getting ready. I swear, he's worse than a woman, that one. I might be pushing the limit as a princess, but he is just ridiculous.
I decided that attending school, especially where it might just be possible to encounter the bastard with this abomination upon my brow, would be disastrous. Ergo, faking a sickness was the only way to go.
Alas, my father is a cold, heartless ice king. He doesn't care that my hands were clammy, that my brow was hot, that my voice was hoarse. It was all expertly faked, but as a military sergeant Justin is... how shall I put this and remain a lady?
He's a very strict type of man. That hair-blower trick does work very well, though, I guess.
I should have been born to Uncle Rick. I might be missing my calling as a investigator.
See, diary, you just blow a hairdryer upon your brow, and eventually it's an extremely fevered situation. I have to give Dee credit, I suppose-she is clever. She told me about this trick after an unfortunate incident involving a boy, a transvestite and a desperate need for a mental health day. Uncle Rick is a total sucker.
Oh dear-I suppose I should check up on Justin. There's been a rather large crash and I'm afraid he's not the most balanced. That's karma for you.
Oh oh dear God.
I'm afraid that I really should have put much more effort into faking my father into calling me in sick. If only I was one of those girls who really should be in the grade above-I'd be eighteen, be able to talk for myself, and all would be well.
Before I finish this story, diary, I must dearly apologize for so ending my earlier entry. Though I suppose it doesn't really matter-I didn't properly end it and so I guess this is the same entry. Bah.
Oh, I'm beating around the bush. Fuck me. This is
Jesus, words cannot explain my current humiliation. I'll switch schools. I should have never attended a public school anyways-how would my future in laws react when they discover I went to Marlick High? They'll be devastated, of course-finally find a perfect girl for their darling son and discover she's only a peasant. And I'll be cast to the streets, doomed to go through life poor and low on the food chain.
Oh God. It's all because of this pimple. Why must my hormones still be so unbalanced-I am perfectly secure in my mind frame. I have a plan.
So, diary, would you like to learn about what has befallen your poor, unfortunate but absurdly attractive owner? I pray to God no one ever steals you away, diary. They'll know all my deprecating secrets.
But I'll guess I'm not so attractive now. No, the bastard will no doubt spread this all over MHS. I'll be forever an outcast, humiliated and disgusting.
It's all this pimple's fault. Though I suppose Henderson has a play in it too-he SHOULD NOT have been in the girl's bathroom. Can't he read signs? Or understand them. Men very clearly do not wear dresses, unless they are in a certain situation. It's just taboo.
Dear diary, I shall tell you straight out, I suppose.
I was at school. My father has very thoughtfully deigned to withhold me my own car, so I am forced to catch a lift alongside Justin, or ride the bus. But that would take an entire hour out of my schedule, and I'd have to ride from the Cent station (the town in which I live) to the Peak station (the town in which I attend school) to Mohawk street, the bus stop nearest MHS, and then walk two streets until I reach my school. Much more trouble than it's worth.. Peak is really just Peak and Cent combined. Cent is one of those crappy towns that just sort of exist beside rich ones. What can I say?
Justin's cheap.
And, diary, my morning was horrid. Everybody stared at me. No wonder-a unicorn pimple is utterly hilarious, especially when it's on the face of one always perfect and eloquent Ace Bray.
Marian, my very best friend in first period French, immediately began laughing as soon as she saw my face. I'd tried to arrange my side-sweep bangs into a clever little school-girl look, but it didn't work so well. It kept falling, so I kept trying to flip my hair back into place, and I looked like I was having an aneurysm. Marian is a very intelligent, Holden Caulfield type of girl, very pretty (dyed purple hair, blue-green eyes, button nose and pouty mouth) which is originally what attracted me to her in the first place-beauty is high up on the social ladder, right?
Wrong. Marian is also a prude, a teen queen, and a bitch who doesn't mesh well with the Valley Girls of MHS. I've done my best to cut my strings with her, but she's very unrelenting.
I'm higher up on the food chain than her, but unluckily, not very much.
"Marian!" I immediately cried when she busted out laughing. "Stop it!"
My agitation messed up my hair. I did a quick seizure and managed to resolve the problem.
While I stood there looking like a fool in front of the ever-smoking Jason Caroul and the ever-idiot Kyra what's-her-face, Marian was laughing herself to death.
"Fuck me," she giggled once she managed to get ahold of herself. "Ace, I don't think I've ever seen you with a zit. Do you even use your Needle?"
"I have very good cover-up," I muttered, dodging the gorgeous eyes of Mr. Jason Caroul. I considered taking out my ponytail for some extra coverage, but that would probably just irreparably mess up my social life. Not like Marian helps.
Oh, does she help. Just like my thirty-dollar coverup.
"Well now you know my pain," she snickered.
Please.
Diary, Marian has a minor case of acne of her chin. It's minscule. Microscopic. Sherlock Holmes couldn't see it.
Of course, Marian's hand immediately flew to her chin to make sure that her imaginary zits had resisted the urge to spontaneously spring up and do the hula. They were, of course, unsuccessful.
I amuse myself.
Alas, first period French was over eventually, of course, billions of mortifying moments, including but not limited to asking several times (each time progressively louder than the next) what 'fenetre' meant to our half-deaf teacher. He's blind too, by the way. He told me it meant heater.
I later discovered it meant window. Thanks, Mr. Ralphie.
Then went second period, of course being just as flawless as my morning. Kyra something suddenly realized what X was, Janis Caroul figured out that there were ninety-two tiles on our math teacher's ceiling, and that there were exactly one-hundred-twenty-five holes in each one of those. And then Nate Brouder decked our teacher.
So exciting.
Third period. Freddi Vintey got suspended for jacking off in Art. Kyra (once again, our little Einstein) discovered how to make the color brown, and then... it was lunch.
Diary, you know I'm stalling, right? I would hate for anyone who reads this to think I'm so socially challenged I inscribe my entire day in my journal.
I spent my lunch in a bathroom stall, unfortunately with no lunch like those losers in the movies. Before that, though...
"Ace! Get your motherfucking ass out here and buy me a FUCKING Twinkie! Bitch! Fuck me! Fuck!"
I had darted into the nearest bathroom in order to solve my zit dilemma. Marian had lost me somewhere over by the vending machines, and so I was clenching my cell to my ear with my shoulder like a damn housewife doing the dishes. Except I was trying to pop my pimple.
"Oh hey, Mr. Ahdel, how's your nose? Oh yeah, I heard, I know Nate's going to juvie. Well, news travels fast. I know. It's so good his parents are taking charge. You're going to sue? Cool. What? Who's yelling obscenities? I don't know. Probably that motherfucking crazy-ass chick down the hall... fuck. What? I think you're going pulling a Mr. Ralphie... sir. You should get that checked out... Yeah. I know the drill. Hey, isn't he the one who put the pal in principal? I'm not being ridi-fuck."
Marian's voice clipped off, and I gratefully let me phone clatter to the tiled floor. And then the batteries conveniently fell out.
And here... is the finale.
Fuck me.
First off, Nick Henderson sauntered into the girls' bathroom. Second, he slipped on my phone battery. It fell in a puddle. It died. Third...
I popped my zit on him.
Fuck me, who needs a ZitNeedle.
I have my ex-boyfriend, the one
and only
repulsed Nick Henderson.
-Ace
...
So. Originally I had another chappie on here, but I felt like I lost the Army mojo. So I deleted it. Then I rewrote it. This chappie is completely different. I apologize for the original.
And by the way, this story is going to be majorly humiliating. Or at least I'm planning for it to be. Hope it works.
Remembering Sunday by All Time Low. Best song in de world. Ka-boom.
TBC