La Computadora Vive!
I might have forgotten to mention in my last entry that my computer fan stopped working after the little triple-bypass PCI surgery it had on Sunday. The fan is an integral part of any computer, as important as sweat glands in humans. It keeps things cool, in more ways than one. And so I’ve had to do my homework and coding while listening intently to make sure the fan didn’t stop suddenly. Until now. For the new fan has arrived, four days ahead of schedule. And it whirrs nicely.
So after that was done and I had watched That ’70s Show, it was time for homework. And so much homework. Well, not really. All I had to do was compose about eight lines of a script for a skit in Spanish. Someday I’ll force my Spanish teacher to compose eight lines for a database abstraction layer in PHP. We’ll see who really has the gift of tongues. Slave labor rocks.
And so does music. I haven’t yet shared that I love music about as much as anything. Except rap. In my opinion, rap is nothing more than some jumbled words about sex and drugs strung together and spoken by some white freak who wishes he were black. And because of that white freak, whose name commonly starts with ‘E’, all the white kids in the world want to be black too. As if skin color makes a difference. Then there are the black rappers, who are admired and continue the trend toward skin color conversion. This is just weird. This is Michael Jackson. Let’s not go there.
You may be wondering what happened to my once-eloquent speech. It died. I just read another blog by some guy or another, and he types in lower case sentence fragments. My English teacher would be appalled. It was quite entertaining though, because he talks about weird things like the monkeys that invaded his house and his love for parades and how he wants to get a screenshot of the infamous Paris Hilton sex tape that isn’t pornographic. “Is that even possible?” asks his imaginary buddy.
Only one thing to say about a blogger like him: weird keed. People like that shouldn’t blog. But if that rule were enforced, I wouldn’t be blogging either.
That last sentence could have been the end of this entry. But no, I chose to continue, losing all the drama of that conclusion. I’m like that. Anyway, today was a good day, and it was proclaimed by the great Gimnacio (Jim) that today is Brett’s Good Day, a day that comes only on Wednesday, December 3rd. Third days of other months are good too, especially if they’re Wednesdays, and December 3rd is sacred. But when it is Wednesday, December 3rd, then, the planets have truly aligned. For today I scored the first goal in a floor hockey game.
You scored a goal? you ask. That’s it? You don’t know how rare it is for me to score a point in any sport, except maybe basketball. And this wasn’t just any first goal, this was a Perfect goal. (Note how Perfect is capitalized for emphasis.) It went like this:
The puck was about three feet in front of the opposing goal. Five people dived upon it, hacking and slashing with their sticks. It was getting bloody, when, lo and behold! The puck escaped the brawl and scooted lazily toward me! I raised my stick high, and hit hard, sending the puck through a gap, straight into the goal! And it went directly in! Dead center! And so, today became a good day. And I found a PE sport that I could enjoy.
The actual proclamation came at lunch, when poor Tyler was attempting to goad the temperamental soda machine located near the Bench of Elevated Seating into giving him a Pepsi Vanilla. Angered when it said placidly, “Try Another Selection,” Tyler was forced to settle for a lousy Sierra Mist.
Then I said the Perfect quote. It went, “‘Try Another Selection’ doesn’t mean push another button. It means, ‘Find another machine, because you put your dollar in a crappy one, you dumbass!’”
This Perfect quote was said with such force and seriousness that it became funny. It’s not so funny now, but that’s how things always are. You can make anyone laugh if the joke is said at the right time, in the right context. I got lucky again.
And today would have been more Perfect, except that I stayed after for a Literary Magazine meeting and was dismayed to see that all we were doing was take a yearbook picture. So I went over to Sonoran Trails (my old middle school), and got some Europe pictures from my old math teacher, Mrs. McBeth. Then I went to the library and reminisced with Mrs. Buck for a while, returning to CSHS at about 3:45.
Another lucky thing happened at this point. The library (at CSHS) actually had TWO (count ‘em, two!) reasonably interesting books! I checked them out quickly, fearing some predator would usurp my newfound treasures. And I was pleased. The world was right.
Eggplant.