Pinch Me, I'm Dreaming.

So it finally happened, someone decided that my baby brother deserved his high school diploma... or else, they decided that it was in the best interest of the Spring Branch Independent School District to get rid of his slacker ass. I'm sure the faculty have been awaiting this day for eighteen long and arduous years.

But none could be more pleasantly surprised than we, his family. Seriously, my mom called his school no less than a dozen times over the past few weeks just to be sure the kid was going to graduate. After paying off some four-year-old library dues, forcing him to turn in some chemistry make-up homework that was a semester overdue, and probably a few monetary bribes and sexual favors granted to the district registrar, the answer was eventually YES.

For this blessed event, my brother wore his hair its greasiest, his shirt appallingly wrinkled, and his smelliest pair of blood-encrusted basketball shoes. The only "suggested" dress code the school enforced was for the guys to wear a WHITE dress shirt under their gown. Shea wore black. He couldn't go out without making a scene, as usual.

My brother has no idea what to do with himself now that he is a high school graduate. He has not applied to college, he has not taken his SAT's, he does not have a car nor a driver's license and he has a lousy part-time job at Kroger that he shows up to when he's out of pot and my mom's wallet is barren. He is basically my EXACT opposite, but that's okay. I am still proud of him, because I know that despite all of his stupid teenage mistakes, he puts a lot of effort into the things he truly cares about. It just so happens that, insofar as I can tell, those things include a) acting, b) X-Box, and c) pot. Hey, one outta three aint bad.

Congrats little bro! You're a big man now. (Oh my God, I just had a mild stroke after typing that.)


In other news, I know I haven't updated this shit for awhile, but I can offer you no apologies. I've been busy pursuing other ventures (about which an upcoming blog entry can be expected, of course) that have occupied the bulk of my time. I spent the weekend completely AWAY from the internet, much to the peril of my bank account, I'm afraid. I had a great time hanging out (aka spending money) with my boyfriend and family, and I didn't think about my blog or my email or any of you whiney bitches at all! Except for that one time I was driving on the freeway and saw a bunch of immigrants using a red Ford F-150 to tow an identical red Ford F-150 which was brazenly tagged across the back window with the phrase "IN-TOWN" in white tape. IN-TOWN indeed, my friends. I laughed my ass off over that one for a good five miles, then I wrote it down so I could blog about it later. I've missed you, internet!


Meet The Family: Part Two of A Series

(Click here to read Part One.)

I was nearly nine years old when my little sister Kira was born. By then I was all, “Babies suck!” and had learned that beating up my three year old brother was surprisingly easy and fun. So, as far as I was concerned, a new baby meant a new victim.

Because I was older and slightly more coordinated when my sister was born, I can honestly say that I didn’t drop her on her soft baby scalp nearly as often as I did my brother. She can count herself lucky in that regard, but otherwise she truly became the black sheep of the family. Growing up, she and my brother Shea were great friends. They played together until Kira was about five or six, by which time my brother had discovered that hanging out with your little sister was not socially acceptable, unless you planned on throwing dead snakes in her hair or shoving her face first into a pile of fire ants. Around that same time, Kira had developed into somewhat of a geek. Her shirt was always tucked in too tightly, her pants always hiked up well past her bellybutton, and she was such a goody-goody that she tattled on every little thing my brother or I did. She had effectively earned our resentment, and we have never let her forget it since.

We used to constantly tell her that she was adopted. Many times she believed us, and would run crying to our mother asking if she was really discovered in a dump truck wrapped in a tinfoil blanket. Eventually, after years of the adoption torment, she finally accepted the fact that she was NOT our sister. In fact, she was quite insistent on it. A favorite saying between my brother and I was, “that’s YOUR sister,” used when Kira did or said something that was lame or geeky. “Nuh uh, she’s YOUR sister,” was the appropriate response, which spawned Kira’s all time favorite catch phrase, one that she still uses to this day: “IF I HAVE TO BE EITHER ONE OF YALL’S SISTER, I MIGHT AS WELL BE ADOPTED!” It’s a good thing she finally embraced the truth; maybe now mom and dad can tell her what REALLY happened and stop pretending that she’s one of us.

After realizing that she really did not want to be our sister, Kira decided that she would, in fact, rather be “mixed”. Where a five-year-old child learned the definition of the term “mixed,” I have no clue. It became her new thing, being mixed. She told everyone about it, whether they asked or not. Friends, teachers, neighbors, grandparents, bus drivers, strangers… everyone knew that Kira was mixed.

“Oh, what a cute little girl!”
“And what’s your name sweetie?”
“Oh my. And how old are you, dear?”
“What would you like for Christmas, honey?”

It was all about being mixed. Finally, my mom asked her if she knew what the term really meant. “IT MEANS I’M HALF BLACK!” she shouted, and went on about her mixed business. Out of sheer embarrassment, my mom even tried to convince her to use to more appropriate term BI-RACIAL, but Kira just couldn’t accept that. She was mixed, and that was final. As the years went on, she elaborated a bit and disclosed to us that not only was she mixed, she was JAMAICAN. “Which one of your parents do you think is Jamaican?” my mother asked. “DAD AND I ARE JAMAICAN AND THE REST OF YOU ARE NOT!” my sister proclaimed. My dad just shrugged his shoulders, resigned to his new race, and flashed us the peace sign. A true Rastafarian if I’ve ever seen one. Kira later decided that our black and white Springer-Spaniel dog, Cookie, was also a mixed Jamaican. She and Cookie would have private Jamaican parties (known as “Jamaican Celebrations”) in my sister’s room. None of us were allowed to attend, because, of course, we were not mixed. She even had this really annoying song that she would sing while dancing around the house with Cookie, “IT’S A JAMAICAN CELEBRATION!” She was at least 12 before she dropped the whole “mixed” theme and reluctantly accepted her Caucasian heritage. She still sings that fucking Jamaican song just to get on our nerves.

(The Jamaicans)

Kira has always been very gullible, and our family is not ashamed to admit that we’ve taken full advantage of that fact. Once while we were out eating at Jason’s Deli (an overpriced sandwich shop which makes you pay BEFORE sitting down to eat their shitty tuna wraps, for reasons which are obvious only to those who have actually eaten their shitty tuna wraps) and as we were finishing our meal my sister asked my mom when she was going to pay. “Shhh,” my mom said, “I’m not going to pay. We’re going to make a run for it.” We all looked at Kira earnestly, as if the fate of the family rested on her participation in our top secret deli escape mission. Her eyes got huge and she began looking around the restaurant for any police officers or greasy-haired bus boys that might try to stop us. “Ready? On the count of three,” Shea said. “One… two… THREE!” My sister leapt from the booth and made a beeline for the door, shouting “RUUUUUUUUUN!!!” at the top of her lungs. She made it all the way to the car before realizing that we were still inside, laughing our asses off.

Today, Kira is a typical fifteen-year-old smartass. She locks herself in her room for days at a time and ignores every member of the family. Her current vocabulary consists of the words “gay,” “retarded,” and “shut up”. Any question can be answered with one or any combination of the above. In some ways, I suppose we all deserve to be called gay retards on a fairly regular basis for the some of the shit we’ve done to her. But believe me, it was all worth it.


Thoreau was a moist 19th century author...

So tomorrow is the big day: Spoonie takes the GRE. Dudes, I am SO gonna bomb it. Please pray for me. If you pray for me, I promise to use the word "moist" in one of my essays. That is my pledge to you.

I'm not freaking out too badly, just disappointed in myself that I didn't study more. More than anything, I am excited to get this shit over with and get my life back. Fucking quadratic equations have taken over what pathetic semblance of a life I USED to have. I have a feeling that in the very near future I am going to be likening myself to those idiotic people who couldn't get into college because they scored an 850 on their SAT. The people we've all secretly laughed at and gloated over. It's coming back to bite me in the ass; now people will be laughing at ME.

But there is still a glimmer of hope, despite my complete and utter math incompetence. Afterall, I know plenty of people who SOMEHOW got into college despite their sub-900 SAT scores. Like them, I suppose that all I've gotta do is find the important people and sleep with them.

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