I have decided that, since I usually write such deep and sad things, that I would attempt a humerous story. You know, so that when I'm not in a particularly deep-thinking kind of mood but still wnt to write, I can just pop out another chapter here.

It does have a deeper meaning, though, and it'll come out eventually. Would you have expected any less from me, though? hehe. The main character is very insensitive, assertive, and determined. Dry humor and sarcasm galore. I found inspiration, this time, in a book called "Backpack" by Emily Barr

It made me want to write something funny.

And so I did. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter One:

I'm still waiting until I come up with a clever name

This may come as a rather incredible surprise, but despite popular belief, there are moments in my life –however few and far in between they may be—where I can tolerate a certain amount of idiocy. Given, if you know me at all, or if you have ever had the pleasure of witnessing my universally known, "Ice Bitch" attitude, then it is quite safe to say that I'm not a bullshit dealer. Meaning, in case you're daft, that I do not particularly make a habit of dealing with bullshit.

For example: There's some random walking-advertisement for anorexia and plastic surgery shoving her fake boobs in front of her wherever she walks, permanently upturned nose held high in the air, thin arms laden with brand-name shopping bags that, technically, probably should break off her flimsy limbs with their miniscule ten pounds of weight. She walks by, takes one distasteful glance around her, jutting out an already protruding hipbone and tapping her long nails on it irritably. Then she whips her head around so fast you'd think she might catch leprosy, simply by glancing at a group of teenagers not decked out in $200 miniskirts that can hardly be considered such.

My friends, if they can really be considered friends, will either do one of two things.

Smile excitedly and wait in silent anticipation, giddy and eager for the remark that will surely follow.

Or,

2) Put their heads down and groan at my hopeless inability to keep my mouth shut.

I am likely to loudly put out something alike to, "I didn't know anorexia had a spokesperson," With a pointed but innocent look right at the dumb bitch.

The scenario would go as follows. Anorexic/fake-tits girl will gasp and flip her long, platinum-blonde-hair-with-the-shit-colored-roots behind her shoulders, and I will probably mock her gesture, flinging my own naturally colored hair behind mine, flicking a few fingers up in a sweet wave. She'll pout and if she's brave enough to venture into no-designer-labels-land, then she'll stomp over and say something incredibly stupid where every other word is like.

But, you see, this will only further fuck her over because the nasally, presumably helium-induced voices of people like this really irritate the living hell out of me. Hence, she gets a casual jab about her shrill tone and something else, personalized, that I'll kindly throw in for free, and Barbie is running off in her clicking high heels for the safety of her expensive convertible with the pink seats.

I win, and a little bit of my bottomless pit of anger is released. Barbie has been put in her place, everyone else is amused, if exasperated with me, and I'm that much happier. It's a win-win situation, is it not?

However, I deduce, those tedious and irksome lose-lose situations, who like to make a habit of randomly popping up much more than you'd like them to, sometimes command me to keep my mouth shut. Oh yes, it protests avidly, pouring unsaid insults into my mind, which shrieks with laughter but cruelly won't allow my face to show any outward sign of amusement, so as to not break the my-mouth-is-shut-and-I-am-not-thinking-anything-even-remotely-disrespectful façade.

I hate having to pretend you have respect for someone when you don't.

Consequently, I rarely do it. Nevertheless, letting loose my stream of bitchy comments really won't help me get a smaller amount of detentions. Therefore, I am sadly reduced to sitting silently and expressionlessly in a comfortable office chair, letting my wandering mind revisit the good old days of humiliating anorexics and amusing my friends. I really don't know what he's going on about, and I don't particularly care. All I know is that I need to get home soon, or my dad will be pissed—ha, what a pun. Pissed as in angry, and pissed as in drunk also, get it?

Ah, you probably wouldn't. I expect too much.

"Am I right, Miss Connel?"

I turn my bored gaze to Mr. Baldie, which I have recently named him, because Mr. Brick doesn't really suit him as well. An added plus is that they both start with B, and so when I say something such as,

"Can you repeat that, please, Mr. B? I was contemplating what I'm having for dinner tonight,"

I can pretend that I am saying Mr. Baldie instead, and he won't have a clue. I know, I know, juvenile. Immature. Save the applause for later. But I'm in high school, I'm at that age, I'm a melodramatic hormone-crazed girl, what can you really do?

Well, besides giving me three Saturdays detentions for insubordination and another two afternoon ones for mouthing off and not being apologetic, I really haven't the foggiest.

I think he's just sensitive to the fact that I don't have an orgasm at the sound of his voice like he does.

"And if you skip again, I'm calling your father and suspending you!" He calls dramatically after my back, as if his threat is supposed to make a difference.

My dad will be drunk by the time he calls, after school, in the middle of the day, whenever. Either that or he'll be hungover, and he'll just rage about what a bitch and a loser and a whore I am, and then he will throw down the phone, stomp into my room, and beat the shit out of me again. Also, I won't show up to the lovely detention, on account that I had to either sleep outside because I was afraid to go back in, or because I'm so bruised up people will ask questions or poke fun.

And you know what happens to people who piss me off. They tend to come out worse for the wear.

So, really, this entire situation will just backfire on me and him both. (Karma does like to bite people in the ass.) It did the last time. I didn't come to school for three days after my missed detention because concealer doesn't hide a black eye. Now I have sideswept bangs. Easier, more convenient, more theatrical, too. When people snidely call me emo, thinking I care about their idiotic, judgmental thoughts, I have the simple joy of doing the stereotypical hair flip and winking at them as I walk by and flick them the bird.

I turn around and quirk an eyebrow at him. "Why is it," I ask him seriously. "That you suspend the skippers? It's what they want, really, unless you—" I point an accusing finger at him and narrow my eyes. "Are secretly plotting to give them exactly what they want?"

He stares at me in disbelief, the overly bright light illuminating the shiny spot on the top of his head. It'll take over, soon.

"It's a conspiracy!" I exclaim, and throw my hands up in the air.

My proclamation seems to have snapped him from his shock-induced state of half consciousness. "Giving them what they want would encourage the behavior, and I am in no way trying to do that," He replied primly.

"Really?" I pretend to ponder this seriously for a moment, and I laugh. "Then I suppose if reverse psychology is the route you're taking, then go for it." I salute him. He scowls, and I take that as my cue to continue, "In which case the whole school might as well bolt out the back doors before first period, do a little pot, go have a lot of unprotected sex, and then come back pregnant and high. What would you do then?"

He is gaping at me once again. It's pathetic and almost unbelievable, really. You'd think that after three and a half years of dealing with my "antics", he'd be used to them by now. I know the secretaries are. The are currently chuckling quietly at me, as they always do when things like this occur, and hiding their amused snorts behind large stacks of paperwork.

I get a pass to speak with my counselor first thing Monday morning. She thinks I need medication and a full-time therapist. Oh, yippee. At least I get to miss math and Mr. Spitty, who unfourtunately likes me right in the front of the room, where he can make sure that I don't drop my head onto my book, snoring, in the imddle of algebraic equations. As this is a downside in itself, because first period used to be my time to catch up on missed sleep, it is just a double whamme that when he talks, he sprays as much mist out of his mouth as Niagara Falls when you're standing too close.

I take a bow at the secretaries before I leave, and they don't hide their smiles from old Baldie. I feel honored. As I walk out of the school building, some stoner who tries way to hard to be "cool", who obviously thinks he's a lot hotter than he could ever hope to be, wolf-whistles at me and says something incredibly gross. I turn around, give him my best, "you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me look," and then when he just gives me a very sexual gesture, I drop my backpack to the sidewalk and stroll lover to his little posse.

Giving them the wrong idea indeed.

"How ya doin?" He asks, nodding his for head for no apparent reason. His hat is on the wrong way, and I have the urge to rip it off and throw it in the large mud puddle nearby.

"I'm about to be sick, thanks," I reply dryly.

The dumb irritant doesn't catch my implication, and ignores the fact that bile is rising up in my throat as we speak.

"You should come hang out with us," He wiggles his bushy eyebrows. I try not to throw up on his shoes. Not yet, anyway. "We got stuff that makes you have a great time." He look sme up and down. I barely contain my twitch of revulsion.

Oh, yay. Weed and sex. Just what I've always wanted. He says it as if I should feel that Christmas has come early. Not that Christmas is much of a celebration for me, anyway. Nothing much to celebrate, as I don't expecially believe in God.

"You know what you should do?" I ask him sweetly, getting extremely close, my voice low and conspiratorial.

"What?" He asks cockily, glancing over at his idiotic friends with a huge smile, like he's by far the brightest crayon in the box. I am seething with anger, losing inumerable brain cells by the second from being in this close proximity with him, but still very anxious to put him in his place. Oh, hate to break it to ya babe, but your sad, deluded, disgusting little bubble is about to be popped!

And oh, how I will enjoy doing it.

"You-" I poke him hard in the chest. "Should get some pants that don't hang off your fat, lazy ass and stop whistling at random girls walking by," I declare, emphasizing every other word with a hard poke, as if it will drill reality into his poor, mislead mind. He opens his mouth to respond-- "And shut the fuck up, please. I'm getting embarrassed for you. You do not look cool, pot is not going to make your poor, pathetic life get any better, and if you ever treat me like a fucking piece of meat again, then you will never have the hope of bearing children. Do you understand me?"

"Awe, come on babe, don't be like that." He gives me a look that I'm sure he thinks is sexy. Repulsive, is more like it.

"God," I mutter in disbelief, looking up at the sky as if God is playing another on eof his oh-so-hilarious jokes. "You really are as stupid as you look."

Instead of being embarrassed or put out, like any normal person would be, he suddenly grabs me around the waist as I attempt to walk away from the idiocy, and unexpectedly yanks me towards him. I feel like a cartoon character when their ears are about to propel a large amount of steam.

God, he smells like shit.

"You know you want me."And then there's the straw that broke the camels back. My butt was given a hard slap.

Ok, that's it. You are going down, bukko. Down. Invading my bubble and being that much of an idiot really should get him more than I'm about to give. I dig my nails into his arms until he yelps like an abused puppy dog and lets go of me. I laugh with merriment at his misfortune to have picked me as his target. And then, for the kicker, I knee him in the balls and as he crouches down and drops to the parking lot asphalt like a dead fly, I lean down and whisper nicely.

"That is why you don't act like a masochistic, personal-space-invading jerk" I tell him sweetly. "Because sooner or later, someone is bound to give you what you deserve, and I'm glad to say that I had the pleasure of doing it. " I stand back up, straight and composed, and ask the rest of the group if they would like me to give them another demonstration. Because I gladly will.

They back away, shaking their heads fervently. That's the tough-ass stoners of Paine High School for you. They stand in parking lots and talk too loudly about their illegal activities, don't care about their friends, hit on anyone, and back away from a little blonde girl of 5'3", possising no semblance of dignity.

That's what I like, of course. That people assume that since I'm little and blonde that they can mess with me. I love proving them wrong. Ah, cheap thrills, cheap thrills. But what else does my life really consist of?

I stroll away happily, with a small, satisfied smirk on my face, and pick up my backpack.

Is it just me, or is the sun shining a bit brighter now?