Aaaaaauuughhhhhhhhh. Human emotions are so stupiiiid. As a result of their existence, I can’t even think clearly. Especially about anything fun I wanna write instead of this stupid thing because my stupid brain’s all like “I don’ wannaa.” Ugh, I swear, I wanted to do some comical fictional writing or something that involved actual serious storytelling, but nnnoooooooooope, here we are; it has come down to this in the end. Yeah, I’m just going to rant about this one day that has been gnawing at me stomach-out (which, personally, instead of having dumb butterflies fluttering carelessly in my gut, I can feel the life draining out of them and their half-dead bodies dropping into and flopping around in my stomach acid) and hopefully all this easily-earned stress will disintegrate along with my (what I’m supposing to be) writer’s block.
This story is going to contain complaining. A lot of complaining. But I am not aiming to whine in your face, oh, no, I am way too nice; I am aiming for aggressive monkey screeching. Much more fun to listen to. Am I right? It’s the least I can do since I’m writing about an extremely biased topic nobody asked for and nobody wanted. (Not even me but I needed to for self-therapy I guess.) Soooooooooooooooooo, let’s get this over with, shall we?
All right, so just before we begin, I want to make clear that I will not name anybody in the story. This is because number one, I am at least somewhat mature; number two, you’d be amazed at how easily a name can slip out of my memory bank; number three, …number one was a lie. But then, to make it easier on lazy ol’ me, I’ll have to give all the main people fake names. And there’s only one other main person besides me. So I’ll name herrrrrrrrrr…………………… uh, Girl. Man, I am just so creative I totally have a bright future ahead of me I know you all can tell.
Okay, story time. Okay, so, uh Girl… and I… were partners for this Tech Lit assignment in our Tech Lit class. Consequently, we were to see each other’s opening paragraph for our research paper project through gmail and comment on it, suggesting what changes the other could make to improve their paragraph. Simple, right? But Girl… didn’t do her homework. (Now that I think about it, why did she ask to be my partner in the first place then??) At the time I was more like “Eh, sure, I guess” than mad, since these little slip-ups can happen, y’know? So she was going to correct my paragraph while I work on some of the classwork in that class. But she didn’t know how to correct it. (*Deep breath*) Reader (yes, you, I’m totally breaking the fourth wall here), you do not understand. Our teacher… he – he posted the mcfreakingdirectionsonGoogleClassroom.
My memory of this day is blurry as of writing this but I believe I asked her how come she didn’t know what to do, twice, because that is a very good question to be asking and you know it (because he posted the mcfreakingdirectionsonGoogleClassroom)! Both times she said she had no access to Google Classroom? Or at least the directions. …I’m sorry, what? I – …Okay, sure. So she began asking her friends (I mean, I think they were friends; they talked really casually with each other… but why would the teacher place them right next to each other then), and right after started doing her homework. In class. She didn’t ask the teacher what to do if she didn’t do her homework; she just began doing it. (*Sighh*) But now, come to think of it, Girl, if you had no access to the directions which was attached to the page where you were supposed to submit your work meaning you couldn’t turn in your stuff either, how on earth were you planning to send your homework to the teacher unless… unless yOU ACTUALLY WERE JUSTTOOLAZYTOREADTHESTUFFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. (Not to mention, oh wait – yes to mention – the teacher went over the directions in class literal seconds before we were assignedfvguyfjbgikqndiwnxpqwnvhgemvbj.)
At this point in time I had the impression that she was the type to not listen to anything and then regret it later. Cool. That’s probably how she didn’t do her homework in the first place. Heck, she didn’t know HOW to do her homework in the first place! I know because while she was doing it she freaking hAD TO ASK MEEE!!!!!!!!
Okay, skipping ahead of all that pain, she did correct my opening paragraph (though she did a bad job… and by that I mean doing most of what she told me to do to make my paper sound better would actually make it sound worse) but I believe she was rushing (yeah, no kidding). Which… okay, okay, sure, fine. I’ll let that slip. But then she sends to me her apparently now-finished opening paragraph (and realistically enough time has passed for typing up two to six sentences to be possible, so) and I find…………. one sentence. (……What.)
She wasn’t even finished. I pointed this obvious fact out and Girl’s all like: “I know I’m not done, but I wanted you to help me.” ……. Girl, Girl, sweetie, my assigned job is to suggest how to make your paper better by pointing out flaws and offering solutions. I flippin’ can’t do that if you’ve never completed your paragraph in the first place. Besides, I can’t “help” you. I can’t be your source of creativity. This has to be your own work; this isn’t a dumb group activity. (Whoops that rhymed.) What made you think otherwise? Oh yeeeaaaaaahh, you didn’t read the directions.
By now I was getting those “hey-can-you-do-this-work-for-me-‘cuz-I’m-not-gonna-do-it-because-I-don’t-feel-like-it-and-besides-I-didn’t-even-bother-listening-to-the-guy-who-told-us-any-useful-information-about-this-assignment-whatsoever-but-I-don’t-wanna-fail-because-grades-and-parents-XDDD” kind of vibes (basically the uncomfortable/cringeworthy kind of vibes) from Girl. I would’ve just straight-out refused her like what I was internally screaming at myself to do… except I have an incurable disorder called the “Pushover Syndrome.” Hm I wonder what this obviously totally official disease does.
(Psst! Hey there! Read this far?? Thank you and here’s a short story by me to give your mind a break from this boringly-boring real-life event as a reward for torturing yourself! (*Ahem*) Once upon a time there was a forest. And Mother Nature, on her daily stroll around the world to admire all her beautiful creations as well as the death and destruction of said creations, came across this forest and immediately found something odd about it. She said, quite sternly, to her work of art, “There is a man’s bed in the middle of you. Why is there an unnatural abomination on your forest floor??”)
(“Because,” Forest responded, “for-rest.”)
(Needless to say, Forest was unfortunately burnt down before Mother Nature went on with her walk.)
(The end. (*Slams shut invisible book.*))
I looked at her paper and Girl was writing about some guy who was apparently famous named… (hold on, just gonna hop to gmail for a sec and see her paper) …Shawn Peter Raul Mendes. Yeah, yeah, I know I said I wouldn’t name anyone but he’s not even in this school and won’t really be affected at all by me writing this. Also his name was easily copied and pasted. Anyways, I was getting this strange feeling that Girl expected me to do some of her work for her (though it probably was only my growing abhorrence for her causing me to feel that way) but I didn’t want to do any of her shikizzamekwezzers n’ crap because I just didn’t feel like letting her use me to cheat at the moment. Because that’s cheating. So instead I tried asking her questions about her topic to get her own brain chugging so she wouldn’t need to be so dependent on me. (Honestly, I would’ve given her a sentence as an example instead but she just really struck me as the type to take the shortest possible route, which is to copy whatever is given to her in this case, and therefore my trust in her was incredibly low.)
One of the questions I asked was who this Shawn-guy was. Because I really didn’t know who the heck he was and I felt I should have some background information if I was going to help her. Then she asks me if I have ever listened to music?? And she gives me this weird look?? No, Girl, stop. Don’t do that. I am not blind; I can tell you are visibly trying to make me feel ashamed and uncomfortable, not attempting to sympathise with your inner person. (On a side note, this reminds me of some other time during the beginning of the school year when I said I didn’t have a favorite food (though the truth was I didn’t remember what it was) and then this boy turned to me and asked me if I could eat. Wuh? A-am I not supposed to? Is eating something humans don’t do? Darn, being an alien blending in with these homo sapiens is much more difficult than I initially thought. But seriously, this was funny to me at the time although I highly doubt anyone could tell by my confused face. So I’m not sure why I took Girl kinda offensively. Guess it was her first impression.)
The other question I asked that I can salvage from my bottomless memory pit is what Girl knew about that famous guy (partially because I was concerned if she even bothered researching for the topic, the rest of the reason because if she did then her paper should be about what she knew the most about), to which she replied something along the lines of “Everything there is to know about my husband.” There is one, sole reason why I remember this answer at all. Take a guess, reader. Okay, guessing time’s up. The answer is because she freaking called this guy, whom she, more likely than not, doesn’t know on a personal level, her husband. (If you got the answer right feel free to pat yourself because there’s no actual prize. If you got the answer wrong, do the opposite of patting! Which is… not patting. …That was stupid. Fine. You are granted permission to pat yourself once. Because you tried. You’ve wasted your brain cells on this so might as well pat yourself once during your moment of silence for the death of… technically yourself. If you didn’t even bother answering at all… (*slowly turns to look at you in silence whilst squinting*) howdareyou.) I mean, Girl, why would you claim this person who, for all I know and care, could very well be living in Antarctica, to be your freaking husband?? It just… — It just makes no sense! Why would you do that???? If I were famous, I’d truly be disgusted at the thought of some complete stranger saying they were happily wed to me. Auggh. Welp, one of the many downsides of being too well-known, I suppose. (But honestly, I seriously do not know how teenagers define “love” anymore. Also, Girl showed me a picture of the guy through her paper (as it was still a shared document) and told me something like: “Don’t crush on him; he’s mine” but don’t quote me on that… or Girl, too, I guess. When I told her the picture made him look creepy, she pulled up another, less creepy picture of him. If she wanted me to not get in the way of her strange love life, why in the world of fiery death was she trying to impress me with pictures of him?? Man, her logic is so logical. (…That was sarcasm.))
Eventually Girl was bugging me for more of my help and eventually I got tired of being nice. I’m like outer space, people. I may seem like I have no limits (I don’t actually know if anyone thinks that), but boundaries are there. (That was probably a bad comparison since space’s confines are infinitely expanding while mine are… not.) My annoyance meter can only take so much before there’s a flood and all the logical voices in my head (Well, voice) are drowning in rage soup. Plus, the directions literally said, near the bottom, “YOUR GOAL IS NOT TO BE NICE TO YOUR PARTNER. IF YOUR BIGGEST FEAR IS UPSETTING YOUR PARTNER, THEN YOU ARE NOT DOING THIS ASSIGNMENT CORRECTLY.” And yes, that was all capitalized (all I did was copy and paste it). And, no, I didn’t blow up at her. I just politely informed her (don’t ask me how) that as her partner, my job was to suggest changes in her writing, not do it for her. Then Girl goes ahead and calls me “mean.”
(*Loss for words*)……… Whose child is this?? She has the mental age of (at most) a ten year old (but had the mental age of a creep/weirdo when she declared the famous guy to be her spouse)! She could’ve at least used a word that wasn’t first-grade level! “Mean!” Mah feelings!! Ow!! How could you! I am so offended! Oof!! Well, this is a multiplayer game, Girl. Two can play at this!! (*Cue evil laughter*) If I’m “mean,” then you’re lazy! Ha! Now it’s your turn to be offended!! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Truthfully though, if I were able to, I would’ve rage-quit life and repeatedly slammed my head against a wall. Girl was climbing close to rivaling my sister (who has once gotten me furious enough to break a ruler into three separate pieces by bashing it on the side of my desk) in levels of irritation and we have only properly met for one day.
…I’ve calmed down a bunch, now. Huh. I guess this “writing therapy” isn’t so much of a bust after all, then. ..Anyways, this next topic will be about me complaining about myself now since there’s not much else to really say about Girl anymore, except that after she called me “mean” (out loud, by the way – not by communicating through the paper like she knew she could), I got so ticked off that within a minute’s time I resolved to never ever interact with her again unless there was absolutely no way around it. Never everevereverever.
Do you recall earlier when I said “slip-ups can happen, y’know?” Well, the thing I did that I’m about to tell you was a slip-up, so I don’t really understand myself why I’m fretting over this mistake as much as I am. Like, it wasn’t a totally horrible oh-no-what-have-I-done-our-half-of-the-world-is-gonna-vaporize-within-sixty-five-seconds-and-the-other-half-will-be-burnt-into-bloody-crisps kind of a mistake. No, it was the kind of mistake anybody could’ve made. (But I was probably the only one who did………) (Shut up, me, I’m trying to shove the guilt off and you’re not helping in the least.) BuT TOO BAD because I’m still gonna rant about this regardless of anything and yOU CaN’T STOP ME. Plus the butterflies are still here and are still sizzling into messy black goop and it’s getting a bit gross, so I would like to be rid of them pleaseandthankyou.
Alright, so in the directions this was also written: “ Resubmit your opening paragraph to this assignment with your edits and comments visible.” (We submitted our original opening paragraphs (before it was returned back to us) to a different page/assignment/whatevertheheckit’scalled on Google Classroom.) Tragically, I was (mentally) worn down with putting up with Girl that my eyes skipped over “to this assignment.” See? A little, simple mistake anyone could have done under the same circumstances. So why am I freaking out? I dunno. But maybe it has to do with my Tech Lit teacher making it clear not to mess up on the submission stuff because he didn’t want any more notifications than what he would get from us in the first place. (*Sweats*) ..Ahahahahaaa……. aaaaAAAAAANyWaY sO I DIDN’T ReaD THe THInG in thE dIRECtiONS Like I JUsT sAID AND WHOoPS A PrOBLEm HAppENED I WONDER WHAT IT WAS?????? (*Screams into a pillow*)
Okay, uh, so, um. If I didn’t make it clear enough. I sent my paper to the wrong place. Which meant I had to go unsubmit it and turn it in to where it was supposed to go. Which I wasn’t supposed to do, either. Basically me having a conversation with myself: “Urghhhhgh I needa go unsubmit itttt.” “But the tEacher told us to fREAKING NOT TO.” “I hAVE mESsed Up. ThEre is NO GOING BACK.” “Do you guys have a pillow? I need to scream again.” (Except in here there’s another part of me that can see see the whole situation clearly and makes fun of me for overreacting. And I hate that guy because I know when it’s all over it’ll have been right all along.) Also another bad thing is this from the directions: “SUBMIT BY TH END OF THE PERIOD.” (Apparently the teacher has made a typo. Dunno what else to tell you.) It’s bad because I did the mistake at school (right after the Girl drama) and only realized it was a mistake when I came home. Crud.
So, my nonexistent therapist, I think why I’m having this problem is because I rarely make mistakes in real life, as a conscious choice. Which is a silly thing to do because “nobody is perfect.” A lot of people say that these days. And it’s true – but if this is so obvious, why are there people who are still so aware of their actions, even after hearing the “nobody is perfect” message over and over again (like me)? Were we taught to value perfection in childhood, perhaps through the grown-ups telling us what the things we did were “wrong” and how to make them “right”..? …And I didn’t mean to go this far down Psychological Road.
Point is, I try to not mess up, like, ever. So when I do happen to make a blunder, my mind… panics. In other words, all the alarms and red lights get triggered and do what they do best – freak people out – and all my brain people go bezerk and enter the room, speaking in a normal voice, “Hey, can you guys stop? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but, uh, it’s kinda loud in here? Which is a little bit inconvenient because I’m trying to concentrate to find a solution to this mess and none of this is helping… Can you maybe chill?” But nobody hears me because everybody’s screaming and there’s fire everywhere and I’m too lazy to talk louder or deal with anything. So I leave. And lock the door behind me.
……….Well. Um. I guess this was what I needed to let out? What I’m trying to say is I do feel better… but not a hundred percent like I kinda expected to be by the end of this story. More like seventy to eighty percent. Because I can still feel some of the goop butterflies left. Or it could be that I’m just hungry. I dunno, it’s late. (*Looks at clock*) Or technically early, I guess (I woke up at 3:00 A.M. to finish this and now it’s like 6:49 A.M.).
I’M… THIS IS MY SEVENTH PAGE!! MOLDY MUSHROOMS WITH KETCHUP THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE JUST FIVE PAGES LONG! WHAT HAVE MY HANDS TYPED!!!