Today would have been eventful if Timpani Man had showed up to the mall today. Which, granted, he showed up, but we were right around the corner from him, and we didn’t see each other. Damn.
I’m more than a little pissed at my mom, by the way, because she is in Lewisburg. I’m not going to explain my troubles with Lewisburg. It’s an amazing small town, the home of Bucknell University, and great for skating (skateboarding, duh ->Pennsylvania), but karma balances out Lewisburg’s perfection and makes it hell for me. I’m never going back, as far as I’m concerned. My mom changes when we go there, and she’s there now, and she was supposed to come home today but she’s waiting it out another day, as fucking usual. She views my outgoing cousin Shanananana (Shannon) as the outgoing daughter she never had. I talked to her on the phone today, and she was really spacey.
ME: When are you getting back?
HER: (talking to someone else, then snaps back to the conversation) So what are you doing?
ME: (unenthusiastically) Eating pudding.
HER: Where are you?
ME: On the couch…?
HER: So what did you do this weekend?
ME: I went to the Armenian Food Festival with
HER: (talking to someone else)
ME: Erika and Paige and Gil and John and Corey and Steven and you’re not even listening to me.
HER: Yes I am!
ME: I don’t feel like talking to you if you’re not going to listen to me because you don’t care.
I hung up on her, and about five minutes later, she called back; I guess she felt bad or something. Then again, when I get mad at her for Lewisburg reasons, she knows I’ll stay mad for a long time. So she tries to cheat her way out of it by pretending to care and listen to me, which is what I always yell at her for–she doesn’t really listen to me. I wish I had a smarter, more thorough mom. This phone conversation was even less enthusiastic than the first.
HER: So where’d you go with Erika?
ME: And Paige and Gil and the other guys? Were you even listening? The Armenian Food Festival.
ME: The Armenian Food Festival.
HER: Where was that?
ME: Off Patterson.
HER: (awkward silence) Did you have fun?
HER: Did you do anything else?
HER: Like what?
ME: We went to Gil’s house and watched Super Troopers and then went to Tropical Smoothie and Food Lion. And that’s all.
HER: What movie did you watch?
ME: Super Troopers.
HER: Oh. Was that good?
ME: (wondering what her point is) Yeah…?
HER: (awkward silence) I’m at Shannon’s soccer game; it was early so I decided to go.
HER: (awkward silence) Is it raining there?
ME: No. It’s sunny.
HER: That’s weird.
ME: Yeah, whatever.
Ever since maybe February, I’ve been having complications with her. Christmas, maybe even. I’m not allowed to go out as late as I want to, when I’m the oldest. I have no priveleges for being the oldest. And most of all, she doesn’t listen to me, so I don’t bother giving her details. I don’t tell her who I like or don’t like, and she complains about not knowing who I hang out with, but I talk about them; she just won’t listen. She pretends I’m irresponsible and immature. She pretends I’m failing all my classes when it’s only the fourth week of school; that’s not enough time to fail. And most regrettably, she doesn’t even know that I love French. I feel like Eloise, even if it’s only because of our mothers, at times. And our belly to leg ratios.
Enough about life, though. I don’t feel like talking about my mom. Or about Lewisburg.
I’ve been playing Sufjan Stevens’ “Chicago” way too much. It’s almost started to annoy me. I write too much about Conor Oberst, Elliott Smith, and Jenny Lewis. Blake Sennett, too. Let’s move on to less pressing indie matters and discuss Fall Out Boy.
I’m fucking serious, Fall Out Boy. I’m fully aware, by the way, that I feel bad for Patrick Stump for being less hot than Pete Wentz.
Which, by the way…let me mention something that at least slightly irks me. That would be when girls who are ugly claim via writing or publicly, and totally seriously that a celebrity is hot. Gorgeous girls, too, even, but maybe less so than ugly girls. I’m sorry, because I’ve done it before, too. But it just makes me wonder if they actually think that this celebrity is going to fall in love with them at first sight and marry them? I don’t think so. Everyone expects it, and nobody gets it. Probably most of the reason that this irks me is that these girls are basing their path of logic around looks entirely, or mostly, and not even musical or theatrical merit. I know that when some inferior* male thinks I’m hot…I get pissed off, big time. So that’s why I try to avoid awkward situations such as these.
*Inferior = lacking in intelligence, etc.
I totally lost my train of thought there. But for the record, I think Pete putting out n00dz was a pretty dumb thing to do. If you take them, the public will find them; it’s pretty much guaranteed these days unless they’re Polaroids or you develop your own film. Which is unlikely.
MySpace is wiggin’ out on me, so I promise I’ll write something more interesting tomorrow or sometime in the next two days. Pinkie promise. ♥
Oh, and for kicks and giggles, since I mentioned this in one blog entry, and just to bring my three favourite artists back into this…the “Rise Up With Fists!” videos. You’ll love it, I swear. Sarcasm, overacting, yeah. Great stuff, whether or not you adore quirky redheads like Jenny or tenderly gorgeous brunettes like the Watson twins.
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