Hello, internet. Lovely evening, isn’t it?
You know, I’ve had my eye on you for quite some time-
Wait! No! You’ve got it wrong-
Look, I’m not here for-
What? You mean really people do that?
What, me? No! No, no, no, you’re not reading this thing-
Well, I mean… I guess I didn’t really come over here because you have an awesome personality-
No! It’s your eyes! They’re… magnetic!
What? That’s… preposterous! I was looking at your eyes the whole time-
So. That was fun.
Where are my manners? How are you doing, you glorious blog-clicker?Oh, you and those magnetic, little eyes!
See, my blog is mostly a place to show of the online book I wrote, but, seeing as it’s slightly dead back there, I decided to tell a (true) story. You know, in hopes of hooking some of you fine catches!
(All of this is ironic because I’m secretly a fish)
I meant to say fisherman…
(I promised I’d tell the truth)
Fisherman admiring is kind of like bird watching. Only, slightly creepier.
Okay! We seem to have veered off subject! This is supposed to be a story about this time I got sent to the principal’s office.
Not long ago, I was taken out of class. Apparently, if you write a personal narrative about poisoning friends, one-by-one with poison ivy and keeping a collection of doll heads under your pillow for each success turns you into some kind of… “deranged sociopath” (Quote, vice-president of LoneStar). I mean, really–
I’m not sure if I cited this right.
You think citing is funny?! Citing is important!
(That statement might be biased; I sort of wrote a book)
Um, here… How about we just imagine a works cited page? Full of bunny rabbits and candy cane meth labs where Santa watches over his sleeping elves with hard eyes and tight lips.
We love you Santa.
Which brings me back to my main point. Love. That most precious of feelings, of which I feel for attention.
(Is that retarded or ironic?)
Before you start judging, hear me out. I’m not your usual breed of attention-whore – the way I do things is special.
You pass me on the street and I’m just your average guy, wearing fading jeans and a striped shirt. Rocking a pair of frameless – yeah, you read that right – glasses. The future is now. We walk towards one another, share a glance, and a good morning, and then we continue on our way like two average, normal, little patriots.
But when I went to school, I only pretended to pledge my allegiance.
Trust me. It was totally genius.
(Explanation): The preppy girls were all, “Whoa! He’s so into American and that’s, like, my country!” and the rebels dudes were like, “This guy has what it takes to fool the system. I’m going to make him a lieutenant in my skateboarding-panda-fighting-ring.”
See, I just don’t feel the people that try to be the center of every conversation. I don’t have that kind of energy. My attention syphoning stems exclusively from writing. Which is why I wrote my personal narrative about killing a dude. Writing has to be violent to get noticed.
(I didn’t really kill a dude. I apologize for the decepting you.)
But I did get called out of class.
I ended up in a room of suits and shaded windows, sitting in a stream of early sunlight.
Shadowed faces surrounded me. I was alone against the horde of dark eyes and grave expressions. The smiling man who’d led me there retreated to the back of the room. He looked relieved to have finally cut contact with the deranged, psychopath student to which he’d been forced to interact. (That’s me!!!)
They started talking about school shootings and other atrocities like that, which I thought was a little out of line, so I stopped listening. I kinda regret zoning out though; because if they were threatening me or whatever I could probably sue their teaching butts and get, like, a million and a half dollars!
Really it wasn’t my fault that I wasn’t listening. There wasn’t any choice. See, they brought in two female counselors (7/10 and 6/10, respectively) to psychoanalyze me. So while the vice-president went on and on and on and on, I wiggled my eyebrows at them. Flirtatiously, of course.
(I think they got the message).
Now, even though I didn’t score that fine afternoon, I learned a lesson–and here it is: You got to hit at every ball that comes your way.
Pay attention guys!
See, if I hadn’t slapped that vice-president’s balls, I would still be in the office. Only, that office would be in jail.
Okay fine, I didn’t hit no vice-president in the balls. But I wanted to, like, super bad…
Okay, maybe I didn’t really consider that the idea until I wrote that one thing up there^ about hitting every ball that comes your way.
Not like it matters (more than a teardrop).
Stay safe. And remember: Love.
Guys, you still need to pay attention; upon reading this, girls will most likely realize the balls are a weak spot. Which they aren’t.