This week is hell. I mean, seriously. This week is like, when your concentration camp officer comes over and says to you, "Do ten trillion sit-ups and clean up that pig shit, then we're going to gas you. GO!"

Wow...all the Jewish humor coming into play. This is fucking scary.

Ever since I've been spending too much time with Sarah S (Runs With Scissors), all these Jewish euphamisms are sneaking into my everyday conversations. Words like..."canolie." Or however you spell it.

I don't care if it's from "The Godfather." Shutup! I associate Godfather humor with Judaism! So gas me.

All right, all right, I'll shrink back into my normal pointless humor and respect the million dead at Hitler's girly little hands.

Heh.

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I'm skipping school on Tuesday to get drunk and stoned in the French Quarter! And give some guy a hand job so I can get into art school this summer.

Hah...all right, that's not exactly what I'm doing.

I have an audition in the middle of the day for this really prestigous art school in town (I'm going for musical theater) and I am such a primadonna that I insist on the whole day off, despite it is the dreaded Testing Week at school, where they ask you "Check what box applies to your decision on what you're going to do for the rest of your natural life. Remember, this can never be changed!! So make it count, bucko." I need to rest my weary wussi-fied body and voice and sip martinis while I am cooled off by my 20 Spanish maids fanning me with palm branches and Brad Pitt gives me a pedicure.

Seriously. They build up this testing thing like we're fucking going to the moon and back. They gave me the third degree of hell in the guidance office when I told them I would have to miss a day.

ME: I have to miss Tuesday's test. I'm auditioning for that kick-ass art school on the river.

GUIDANCE COUNSELOR: What?? NO.

ME: You don't understand. There's only one other audition date after that, and I can't go because I have regional Mock Trial competition.

GC: Fuck Mock Trial! You have to take this stupid fucking test before you can speed off into the sunset in your motor vehicle, waiving your acceptance letter from art school in the wind.

ME: You're not understanding me. You encouraged me to go to this school. I got three teacher recommendations from you people. You have to let me go or I'll bring down your School Performance Score, and that'll let some other school be best in the state. How do you life that, huh? And don't give me that assified answer! I'm fucking going, do you hear me?!

GC: *huge, exasperated, over-dramatic sigh* Okay, you can make it up on Thursday during lunch.

ME: _{THANK YOU.}

You see that?! You see what I put up with on a daily basis?!

And you people wonder why I'm psychotic. *sigh* Christ on a whole-wheat cracker.

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Speaking of Mock Trial competition, it is next Saturday. My attorney/coach (Mr. Carver) gave me advice concerning my cross-examinations.

CARVER: Most of the team members will surprisingly be white guys. So you have an advantage here.

ME: ????

CARVER: You are the only white girl on the varsity team. All the other girls are either black or Indian.

ME: ????

CARVER: You flirt with them and it messes them up and they lose points, you get more points, we win nationals, and I won't have to take you in the parking lot and flog you to death.

ME: ????

CARVER: Just suck it up and prostitute yourself so we can win. Please.

ME: ....

CARVER: Here, let's practice. Broderick! Come over here!

ME: Sorry, Broderick. I'm doing this against me will. But let's go.

So get this: he actually found me a guy from a rival school and introduced us. A half-an-hour later, he asked a girl on my team for my phone number. (Since I was skilfully secluded in the safety of a conference room two floors above.)

Now they've got me dating a guy I don't even know just to gather information about their case strategies. Jesus.

The coach made us these shirts as a joke. On the front, they say "WE'RE NOT ARROGANT, WE'RE JUST SUPERIOR" and on the back, they have some nickname or phrase of ours. For example, on the back of this guy named Rajat's shirt, they put "RAJEEZY.COM". And on the back of another shirt (of a very agressive lawyer), they put "I SMELL BLOOD".

And on the back of mine?

"MATA HARI."

We go out for our pre-game meal (last supper of ther condemed man?) on Friday night. I'm putting Ex-Lax in their mineral water. That'll teach them not to fuck with Ms. Mata Hari, Esq.

Shitheads.

Maybe I'm overreacting. But when a criminal defense lawyer tells me to prostitute myself to win a court case and then sets me up with the captain of a rival team, I can get pretty damn snarky.

If they smell a dirty little clever rat, I'm totally ratting Carver out.

Or maybe not. After all, he DID let me take his Corvette for a spin.

Then again, he has three of them. Ggrrr.

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This guy teaches at my school and made me wet my pants once.

© alexa

The counter keeps breaking and pissing me off, so NO MORE COUNTER! Mwahaha!