Dysfunctional student puts stuff in boxes.

I hope that all my little freshman friends read this and choose not to make the same mistakes that I did.

The past three days have been a set of incremented move-ins. Monday was the monstrous furniture day, yesterday was the unplanned appearance at the homestead where I dropped off my water bottle day, and today was everything else plus myself hastily shoved in the back of the van and unceremoniously dumped in my bedroom day.

Of course, because my family is so adventure-prone, it’s been much more than a move in. In my mind, at least, it more resembles what would happen if someone built a plaza containing Bed Bath and Beyond, Forever 21, Target (always), and a used book store on the top of Mount St. Helens, and it went off in my house. Which wouldn’t happen, of course, because Mount St. Helens is in Washington, and most contractors know better than to build shopping complexes on active volcanos. BUT. It is done. Regardless of volcanic activity, it is done. We just need to go to Target (again) for some minor omissions, but the remainder of my existence is organized in a set of plastic shelves and six drawers, and I am currently sitting in the very comfy blue armchair with my laptop and my lap desk, typing away this beautiful story as I soak up the air conditioning that WE DON’T HAVE TO PAY FOR BECAUSE WE DON’T HAVE A UTILITIES FEE! WEEEEEEE!

I’ll just tell you the story before I start jumping around like an idiot.

Monday, as I mentioned, was the shippin’ of flippin’ ginormous furniture day, but it was also Mommy-goes-to-work day (as it is every day, and yet we still have not learned to cope) and Big Little Brother’s first day of junior year at his old school, and Baby Brother’s first day of eighth grade AND first day ever at the aforementioned school. Naturally, transport of oversized furnishings was second priority. That morning, I got up at whatever ungodly hour was required to get them to school on time, brushed my teeth, drove that stupid route for the millionth time while realizing being around that school still makes me sick to my stomach, dropped off two boys, two backpacks, ten thousand sets of football gear, forty million books, and America’s stock of writing utensils, and spent the drive home bawling over how old they are now. (As you can see, emotional instability is going to be a theme of this post.) Exhausted, I came home and agreed with my dad that we shouldn’t leave until eight-thirty. I woke up at nine-thirty and didn’t care. But finally, with everything stacked tetris-style in the back of his vehicle (a.k.a., the baby monster truck, to give you an idea of how much crap I have), we migrated towards the mod, passing the time with a nice, awkward discussion about how holding hands leads to pregnancy. Don’t ask.

(For reference, a mod is basically a mobile home, split in half between two living assignments and their corresponding ant colonies, and built with walls that threaten to fall over when you hammer into them, but probably won’t. Ours is blue.)

Everything went off without a hitch, because I had Daddy, and Daddy has chosen to ship our family across the country with twenty times the amount of boxes before. Twice before. We’re experts. Really, if we’re honest, it was easy because all we did was set down boxes of stuff in the respected rooms, put a few bottles of cleaning supplies under sinks, and mutter about where the furniture should go. He offered to help move a couple of things, but I said no thanks, because we didn’t know what other furniture was coming, and if it did, we knew boys that could help us. Looking back, that wasn’t the best idea, because Daddies hate not helping their daughters almost as much as they hate when they know boys.

He doesn’t need to worry. I moved my desk myself, and apparently all the boys we know have done is leave the toilet seat up in our bathroom and comment on how our apron defines our societal role.

I wasn’t actually planning to come back yesterday, but it so happens that after I had to get up at another ungodly hour to drive my brothers to school again, my roommate (Camille) and I were asked to be makeshift caterers at our other roommate (Kelly)’s grandpa (Earle)’s funeral reception (may he rest in peace; from what I heard, he seemed like a really boss grandpa), and I ended up driving her (Camille) home. Lo and behold, she already is in residence at our modular apartment. Instead of driving home from there, though, I thought, “Hey, why not make this move in a hundred times more complicated than it has to be?” Seeing as my mother works at my university (no, I’m never going to get away), I figured we might as well save gas, and she could take me home and then drive me and my avalanche of belongings in her van the next day. I left my water bottle in the fridge, so I count that as a minor yet necessary step of the relocation process.

I just want everyone to know this: waiting until ten at night to pack when you’ve been up since seven and have been on a bogus sleep schedule since May is probably the stupidest thing you can do, not only because you’ll move more slowly, but because you’ll spend a lot of time staring at the floor, wondering why you can’t just get up in the morning to do it, convincing yourself you can stay up, deciding to take a shower, doing the world’s tiniest load of laundry, walking outside to unlock and start packing the car, and realizing that the moon is really pretty and you should sit in your driveway and journal about it instead of looking for your philosophy textbook. Sometimes I tell myself I think more clearly at night than most people. This would not be one of those times.

This morning, I woke up at the most frighteningly early hour of them all, with none of my boxes or bags or multicolored, dorm-section-of-Walmart storage units in the car, and (shocker) made my mom late for her carpool, because we still couldn’t find my philosophy textbook (my dad took it and then put it back and then my brother did his homework on top of it or something). She still bought me coffee, which I spilled on myself and the parking lot and the twelve napkins I accidentally pulled out of the dispenser. And we actually still got her to work on time…holla! All I had to do from there was drive to my little mod and voila! The story is over!

But you see, the story is not over, because despite the fact that I have several friends, even guy friends, who vouch for my driving abilities, this week has not been very good for my self-confidence or my car’s shocks. Of all the trips I have made this summer, the worst trip I have made was from WEST TO EAST CAMPUS OF MY SCHOOL, in which I went the wrong way out of a parking lot, realized it when I was approached by another car containing my mom’s coworkers, ran into a small wall to avoid them, ran a red light (barely) to turn onto a street, and bumped the car next to mine’s mirror with my door. Worst. Drive. Of. The. Summer.

Aside from yesterday, when I was almost flattened by a truck driver on a cell phone.

And had to cross the double line of the carpool lane to get to an exit.

And drove into the curb.

And ran another red light.

…

I’ve spent the rest of the morning with the car parked, trotting back and forth between the mod and the vehicle in an old T-Shirt and gym shorts, hoping no one comes by and realizes that I’ve given up on life. But really, if you can’t organize and unattach your hangers with any sort of poise or control, you really start to wonder what has made you think you could even come close to passing Organic Chemistry.

I have found myself thinking things like, “Wait, why did I pack this sweater? I decided I was not going to pack this sweater. I didn’t want this jacket either! What’s wrong with me!? WHY AM I SO STUPID!? HOW…hmm…actually I might wear this.” Or, “I really don’t think I can bring these pictures from high school to decorate my wall, because…wait…who are these people.” Also, “How the heck am I going to fit all these pants in this drawer if it’s so dang small?” (for your sake, I edited my thoughts, and for my sake, I folded them) I have searched high and low in the car for razors that were actually neatly packed in a jar. I have realized, that despite all my roommates’ efforts to make their work and living spaces creative, fun, and pretty, all I brought to decorate was a wooden frog and a poster of Katniss Everdeen. I have debated on whether or not I should set up the giant mirror, and of course, chose to err on the side of narcissism. I have brought a few things that I didn’t need, like bubbles, play dough, season one of Royal Pains, four pairs of converse (I know, right? I was supposed to get another one for my birthday, but everyone forgot), and measuring cups that are shaped like turtles, but have forgotten a few vaguely important life implements, like band aids. And socks. Somehow, I have miraculously organized my desk, but only with the help of an entire drawer dedicated to nonacademic, “fun” things, namely, every movie that every girl brings to college, ever. I even threw up a little (that was weird, and I'm fine now). Now I’m eating Cheerios straight out of the box.

Something is wrong.

But all the same, all is well. I am here, finally. We have some great chairs, some great appliances, and one too many bath rugs. Our roommate painting is unfinished, but for an unfinished painting, it looks pretty dang good. We have a vinyl couch, which is good, because bed bugs don’t like vinyl (they are the classiest variety of parasitic insects). I have a giant pillow I can jump down onto in the mornings so I don’t wake all my roommates up when I crash to the ground from the top bunk. We have a guitar that no one can play and wind chimes that play themselves. We have an apron that does NOT define our role in society and magnets on our fridge that almost spell out our names. We have four different air fresheners, because at the moment, we are more comfortable with the destruction of our ozone than our closest friends knowing what we actually smell like.

I am home.

WE are home.

Well, once Nicole gets here. And Kelly.

Until then, Camille and I are home.

Actually, Camille's gone.

...you get it.

fin.

Ish my baby brother says.

I have this eighth grader who lives in my house and says fun things. Apparently we're related, which would explain why we have the same face, but his brain operates on a completely different angle than mine. And yours. And everyone's. This makes him one of my favorite people to talk to.
I've mentioned that my he would outdo me if he started blogging, so I decided to kick start his popularity.
All quotes taken over the course of the summer.

---

Dad: "I've decided I'm starting a rock band, son. It's time."
Brother: "What?!"
Dad: "You've heard of the band 'Yes'? Well, here I come with the band 'No'."
Brother: "Or you could be like the band 'Kansas', except 'Kentucky'!"
Dad: "Yeah, that's a good one!"
Brother: "Dad, I have a good name for your band. How about 'The Alzheimer's Association'?"

Me: "Once my roommate and I ate a whole Little Caesar's pizza all by ourselves."
Brother: "You know how pizzas have eight pieces? Well once I ate thirteen pieces. And I threw it all up in Sam's sink."

Me: "What's your favorite kind of flower?"
Brother: "...I don't know. But my favorite flower name is a chrysanthemum. Or a poppy, because... 'poppy!'"

Brother: (while stretching) "OH! Kidney cramp!"
Me: "You can't have a kidney cramp; it's not a muscle."
Brother: "But I just DID!" (falls over)

Me: (singing offhand) "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy..."
Brother: "...but here's a technical, so go Miami!"

Brother: "This isn't a poem! It doesn't rhyme!"
Me: "It's free verse."
Brother: "Free verse sucks!"

(concerning Pinterest)
Brother: "Why aren't you pinning half of this stuff?"
Me: "Because most of this stuff is a waste of time!"
Brother: "This whole thing is a waste of time."

Brother: "Did you know you have more tendons in your hand than teeth in your mouth?"
Mom: "Wow! No, I didn't know that. What an interesting comparison. Where did you hear that?"
Brother: "I made it up."

Me: "I'm sorry I missed your game tonight."
Brother: "Yeah, it's too bad. I was a little LeBron."

Me: "Why don't I have any clean underwear?"
Brother: "We don't fold your underwear. We only fold MEN'S underwear."

(while looking at pictures) 
Brother: "LOOK! You're so pretty! Do you think you look pretty?"
Me: "I guess. But I think they look prettier."
Brother: "No! They're ugly! They're farm animals compared to you!"
(This one was kind of funny, but more sweet. And a blatant lie.)

Brother: "You know what kind of movies I like? Japanese movies."
Me: "Are you just saying weird stuff so that I'll blog it?"
Brother: "No, I'm not! Because I was watching Rebirth of Mothra 3 the other day. You know how there are like five Mothra movies? Mothra, Birth of Mothra, Rebirth of Mothra 3... Death of Mothra... Mothra's Babies..."

"Every day, I wake up, and morale is soaring. And then it just plummets, like a runaway rocket, except that those actually go up. It plummets like a rocket whose engines are on the tip of the rocket, and then it goes down."

"Dad wants to know if you've fed the chinchillas...and I know what I'm going to name my kid."

(during Olympic gymnastics)
"Quit watching sissy men and help me!"

"Why don't we give wilted flowers at funerals?"

"Everything that comes in a box is special. 
...wait, I didn't come in a box. Am I special?"

"Your friends are just little Catholic schoolgirls!"

"You look like Queen Amidala. That's not a compliment."

"Once, he told me that he dated a girl with more arm hair than he had leg hair, and I asked if she was part gorilla."

(concerning my dog being in heat)
"Mom, are those her utters?"

"I learned that I was changing schools, and I ran into a door."

"Wait...the Beatles did drugs?"

(while holding stuffed animal) 
"Remind me not to get a girlfriend. I have this dinosaur."

"Remember the pizza story? Well, once for my birthday, I ate half the cookie cake. And then I ate a whole bag of Munchies. The cheesy things. And then I ate two things of Dippin' Dots. I was in Mom's bathroom throwing up all night."

"I need a tattoo that says...not Mom or Dad, but...Authority Figure."

"Blink...hundred eighty-two...is that a rapper?"

"How old is she? She's really getting up there. I'd say she's in her hundreds."

"What if I named my child Fandango?"

"I feel like this post is going to give me some unwanted popularity."

Kristen Stewart does it again.

I've never had a moment where lightning struck me and showed me where my life was supposed to go. I don't know what I'm supposed to do as a career or as a person or even as a daughter who is eagerly waiting on dinner. I'm usually in the dark about things until someone else's decision makes it clear that maybe I shouldn't turn there or buy that brand of peanut butter.
Today, however, I did have one of those moments while I was at the movies. There wasn't any actual lightning, which would have been nice, because it was so dark we couldn't find a flippin' seat. Also, a really long preview for Brave was playing, and we thought we were in the wrong theater. That kind of threw us off initially, so even when we did find an unoccupied row, it was several rows further up front than it needed to be. Finally, I sat down, on top of Katie, and then on a seat too far away, and then on a good seat. The previews finished and the long awaited title scene flashed past us.
Thirty seconds later, I realized that I needed more than anything in my life at that very moment to blog about Snow White and the Huntsman.
So here we go.

I don't ever review movies, and I don't know what parameters are established around what you can and can't say, so I'm just going to tell you everything that happens and hope you can get over having such a masterpiece of film spoiled for you.
Organizationally, I will be chunking (not a word; that's dumb) the major events into sections, headed by the exclamation I proclaimed into the theater at that time.
P.S. This is why no one likes watching movies with me.

Snow White and the Huntsman (alternate title, Ten Seconds of Abs Make This Movie)

"That's......nice."
In a creepy twist, we find that the naming and coloration of the princess was based off of an incident in which the queen pricked her finger and blood dripped onto the snow, and her mother decided she wanted a child with skin as white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair dark as a raven's wing (wherever the raven came in, I have no idea). Lucky for them, it actually happened, and even luckier for them, they were cast in a fantastic society in which a name like "Snow White" would not ostracize their child. Cue heartwarming scene of Snow White and potential (duh) future love interest, William, saving injured bird, and symbolic image of partially eaten apple falling to the ground. Then of course the queen dies, like she does in every princess movie ever, leaving the king emotionally ravaged and unstable and susceptible to the wiles of a psychotic hottie.

"I don't want to see this."
Post two-second inadequately-explained fake battle, psychotic hottie (told you) weds grieving father, and wedding night "ceremony" commences. Truthfully, nothing really happened, but some of the things that Papa mumbles to his new Queenie suggest that perhaps he was not grieving as much as he let on. Anyway. There was a lot of neck kissing so that Blondie could perform an untimely soliloquy, and you could just tell she was about to do something kinky, which is why I said what I did, and then she stabbed him, so I guess I was right. King dies. Kingdom flushed down metaphorical toilet of selfishness. OH. Debut of Creepy Brother, as well as Man in Mirror, who confirms to Angry Blonde Queen that she is, in fact, way sexier than the survivors of her rampage.

"You forgot something."
Snow White, like every other princess ever conceived, is imprisoned in the north tower until her 18th birthday. Somehow, she has learned to make fire, and she sets up a small altar, where she lights a bonfire but not the candles around it, clutching dolls while she prays all but the end of the Lord's Prayer. I don't know if that was a religious statement or just lack of research. Either way, her lonely routine is interrupted by the imprisonment of a neighbor, a girl named Greta. Greta asks fearfully what awaits her; Snow White just stares at her.

"Ew."
I don't remember the purpose of this first scene, except that Psycho Lady eats a bird heart. (Hence "ew.") Flash to her throne room, where stabbing of the tyrant is attempted and failed, revealing Queenie's imperviousness, and stopping of the heart of the attempted stabber is performed, revealing Queenie's tendency to overreact. After a vague, possibly incestuous rendezvous between her and Brother King, Greta's purpose is revealed: the queen literally sucks the hotness and youth out of her, turning herself back into the Crazy Seductress we all know and love, and turning Greta into a vivacious yet unbecoming old lady. The Man in the Mirror decides now would be a good time to announce that Snow White is actually better looking than she is. Oops! Also, because she is so innocent and sweet and kind, she has magic blood, and the queen has to cut her heart out in order to have immortality and eternal hotness. Of course.

"Ew."
I said it again because Creepy Brother decides, like his sister, that seduction would be a good way to get his victim to comply, except he's the kind of person that would make you tell your children to come inside after seeing him at the park. In accordance with her innocent, holy reputation, Snow White chooses to deny his make out attempt and shanks him in the face with a nail, still showing no sign of emotion. Old Edition of Greta encourages her to "go on without her." Heart-wrenching. Some magpies (they're key) flutter around and show her a hidden passage out of the castle, a.k.a., the sewer, and she becomes the first fugitive to escape successfully. Lucky her. The magpies flutter around some more and direct her to a lone, conveniently-located white horse that carries her away from the approaching soldiers and into a forest.

"Ooh...oh my gosh."
I didn't expect this movie to have such intense special effects. Snow White finds herself in the creepiest forest ever imagined by human minds, complete with oysters oozing tar, living fungus, toxic gas, beetles, worms, dead magpies (there they are again), trees with arms, dementors, and a creepy giant winged bat thingy that is weirdly attached to a trunk... I don't know. No one follows her in, and she stumbles about between alternating angle shots of her face and enhanced heavy breathing sounds. Eventually, she hyperventilates and passes out on the ground.

"There he is!!!!!"
Because Snow White is in the aptly named "Dark Forest," no one wants to go in and get her, because they're all secretly babies, and someone who has already braved the dangers within has to be hired as an assassin. Apparently creepy healing powers aren't enough to stop demonic bats. But it's okay, because that means we are introduced to the huntsman (YAY), a.k.a., The Huntsman, because they actually did not give him any other name in this movie. Huntsman is an untrustworthy drunkard who is conned into procuring the princess by a promise of resurrecting his dead wife, because every good hero has to have an angsty, sensitive side. Cue journey.

"That's hot."
Mission: accomplished. Creepy Brother: spills beans about lying concerning resurrection abilities of Freaky Seductive Queen, also escapes Dark Forest when Huntsman OBVIOUSLY switches sides and peaces out with the girl. Awkward conversation between Dead Fish Princess and her new friend occurs, where Huntsman tells her the forest feeds off her weakness or something, and then tries to teach her how to sword fight, and then cuts off her skirt to reveal her more war-appropriate pants. Snow White's innocence level falls ten points, and her increased level of pensive stares heightens the sexual tension. Ooo.

"Best role in the whole movie."
There's some random village scene where they end up somewhere after Snow White stares down a troll (she does a lot of staring in this movie), and they meet some lady who feeds them and informs Huntsman of his sidekick's identity as a magic princess (surprise!), as well as helps provide them with shelter from their enemies, but most importantly, provides the sole opportunity for Chris Hemsworth-ab-viewing by applying a poultice to his injured left pectoralis major. Oh, and the village catches on fire because the crazy soldiers found them. But they escape again.

"There they are!"
The nifty escape leads the unofficial couple to...dwarves! Because they had to come in eventually! All of them have bad haircuts and strongly opinionated personalities.

"...this is so cool."
Again with the special effects. The crew sets up camp in magical forest, surrounded by slowly unfurling ferns, blueberry fungus, mushrooms with eyes, butterflies, hanging jellyfish flowers, magpies (hello!) that give birth to small fairy people (what!), floating sparkles, butterflies, turtles covered in moss, unidentified rodents, tiny birds riding said rodents, beetles (nice ones), butterflies, all stereotypical mammals used in classic Disney movies, and white deer with giant branching horns who eventually dissolves into...butterflies. Amidst the overwhelming nature of the...um, nature, Snow White performs a supes awk dance number with a flirty ginger dwarf, continuing to stare at Huntsman, and the dwarf with the worst hair stops speaking English. Later on, there's a vague hint at Snow White's impending usefulness, and an unexpected fight scene (they found them!) where Creepy Brother finally dies, impaled on a jagged stump with a shard of tree jutting out of his body from a place that could not have been an accident on the part of the director.

"THIS IS NOT HOT."
I don't actually know what part of the movie this was, but there's a shot of Queen Freaky's naked back where you can see her skeletal system very prominently while she has a flashback, and I was quite near to announcing to my fellow audience members that her body shape was unhealthy and not a physical trait to be sought after, and that the movie had failed to mention the queen's eating disorder.

Good grief this is getting long. I don't remember a lot of the things I said, so here's a summary of a good chunk of the movie:
There's a nice long trek across all kinds of irrelevant landscapes that kind of appeared out of nowhere, the long lost William sneaks his way into their party and Huntsman is obviously jealous, and more pensive looks from Snow White. The love triangle is pretty common knowledge. Somehow, Snow White and William end up wandering around the snowy forest together (it snowed in one of the landscapes they crossed), and he gives her an apple.
Of course everyone knows the apple is bad, but no one knows how. Everyone's more confused by the fact that they just kissed, because Huntsman is WAY hotter than Childhood Sweetheart, even with the mud that's been smeared on his face since the dark forest. Plus there's all that unanswered sexual tension! And staring! Meanwhile, the bitten apple starts growing fur, and Snow White starts crawling around on the ground and gagging, and for a second I thought she'd turn into a monkey, but she just dies. Apple-giving William turns into the Blonde Tyrant and vanishes in a flock of ravens, and real William kisses Snow White's dying self, but nothing happens. Body is transported to nearby castle. While paying his respects, Huntsman starts downing more booze and plants one on the corpse, because everyone in this movie has to have a pervy side. I guess the alcohol answers the question as to why the hero kisses a dead girl in the story, but someone failed to explain how kissing would end up breaking this movie's rendition of the spell. But of course she wakes up, and gives a rousing speech, with plenty of volume to make up for the lack of facial involvement, and the now formidable army rides off to fight the Hated Blonde, Snow White sans helmet, because it's not like she's going to die AGAIN.

"Wait...what!?"
You know what happens. They win. The Scary-But-Now-Potentially-Misunderstood Queen dies at the hands of the Innocent Princess turned Feminist Role Model. She becomes queen and stares at her people. The dwarves toast her. She stares at William, she stares at Huntsman.

The end.

No seriously. As in there was no resolution.

That's it.

Go home.

Have a nice day.



GET OUT OF THE THEATER.

fin.

Musings of the uninformed.

Look how SPECIAL this is. Another blog post. Right now.


I'm not one to say my opinion of politics, because I'm a firm believer in muttering the answer quietly to myself when the teacher calls on the class. (Career option #218: gone.) 
I do however, have to vote this fall, and since I pretty much bash everything else on the planet...why not the presidency. I think I represent about, I don't know, all of voting America when I say that I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. And yet, even with all the uninformedness running around out there, I still feel like I'm the only one who hasn't made some outright, bold-faced, utterly wrong conjecture and posted it to my Facebook. And I feel left out.
So. Here is me, looking out for the little people, joining with the 99% (whatever that is), taking a stand for complete incompetency, doing something to make the world just a little bit brighter. You know. All that crap.

Lydia's Bold Political Statement: Pun Intended

-Guaranteed to be longer than you care about!-

So.
I'll just start out by saying politics make me grumpy. There are many reasons, but first and foremost, it is because it makes my dad grumpy. And when my dad is grumpy, we end up doing a lot of chores. Secondly, I'm absolutely terrified of all solicitors. I hate insulting people. I hate being rude. And I hate having to run into Target with a crowd of strangers so that I don't have to sign a petition and/or admit that I'm still not registered. (She's still not registered? How is she even qualified to write this!?) Unless it concerns sex videos where they step on puppies and baby rabbits. I'll sign bills against that all day. (I don't actually sign the bill, do I? I think I just vote for it.) Even if the guy with the bill/petition/legal paper of importance has a Canadian flag tattooed on his wrist. Long story. (Once my mom was signing petitions outside of Target, and the guy had a Canadian flag tattooed on his wrist.) 
Thirdly, I live at college, and that means that my mailing address, what with all its numbers and P.O.'s and university memorabilia, 
WILL NOT FIT IN THE BOXES,
and no matter how hard you try explaining that to your mother, she still says it's a stupid reason to not be registered.


Let's discuss solicitors now, seeing as I'm in control of this conversation and you are not. Aside from my terror, I do not have a problem with soliciting, unless of course, there is an obvious sign or angry manager that says, "No Soliciting!" And then you should not do it. But if you feel like you should do it, then maybe you should do it. Because that's how the world works, you just go with what you feel and make run on sentences and do what you want and wear shirts with Bob Marley on them even though you know deep down that you're a poser. Um. But I think that soliciting for petitions is probably good, because it's a good way to...um, find people to sign them? I guess. You just have to realize that a lot of people are just going to avoid you very purposefully, a lot will probably be rude, and a couple (one) (me) are just going to stare at you very uncomfortably and then decide to go to a different store. My biggest issue is that you HAVE to be a respectful solicitor.
Good example: "Hello, ma'am, I'm sorry to bother you and interrupt all your important errands and jeopardize the nourishment of your family, but I'm working on this petition for the rights of all humanity..." 
Bad example: "Would you like to help us send Obama on a permanent vacation?" (this was something I heard today, and I know it was about impeachment, but it sounded like assassination, and if I remember correctly, that doesn't work.)


Now I just have some general questions.


Two General Questions:
Firstly, aren't we supposed to vote for people besides the President? Who are they, and why aren't we hearing about them?
And secondly, are we supposed to capitalize President? (I've been doing it both ways and hopefully you haven't noticed. Oops, I just told you. Oh well.)

I know what you're thinking. No, seriously, this time I actually do. It's, "How the heck did Lydia pass Government?"
I don't know. But I passed Economics, too. And nothing against my teacher, but...we'll just say favoritism wasn't an issue.


I'll pretend, however, that a few of you are thinking, "Man, Lydia would make a crappy President." And that gets me thinking.
What would I do if I were president?
I pretty much know nothing. 
Or maybe I'm pretending to be stupid like I did all through high school.* Bam.
I just lost all my friends right there.

Regardless of my intellectual ability, I do bear strong animosities toward a lot of stuff. And since vague hatred is all it takes to put up an argument in these here United States of Dissatisfaction...this is a list of all the things that I would do/illegalify if I was Mrs. President, the head honcho, Captainette America.


Lydia's Presidential Campaign:
You see this? Lydia is happy: happy blog post about happy music playlist. Lydia is grumpy? Long list of death. Controversial death. This could end up bad for everyone.


First of all, we get rid of the obvious problems. Slugs are gone. Worms would be on a form of permanent parole in which they could live peacefully as long as they stayed in the dirt, but immediately penalized/squashed when coming within a two inch radius of the sidewalk. I realize that's discrimination, but we have to stand for something. We bail on all "paranormal teen romance" books ever. That genre needs to be thrown out a metaphorical window. My brother thinks we should also ditch combination locks; I think there's always a place for nepotism in government. PLUTO COMES BACK. The word vase is pronounced right. Like v-ay-ss-e, and not like you have a hoity-toity head cold. Okra would be the national vegetable. Do we have a national vegetable? WE DON'T. This could happen. I hope okra is a vegetable. Hedgehogs are legal in California. Oh, what? That wouldn't work because hedgehogs would overproduce and then run rampant over the state? Um, who said THAT was a problem?
I can't deal with Snooki, I can't deal with Kim Kardashian (or her family), I can't deal with Nicki Minaj but I don't have to, because she's British. The other two can be sentenced to community service for destroying television because if I put them in jail, they'd probably die. Kristen Stewart can retire from acting forever, but she can say she's doing it so she can raise her and Rob Pattinson's vampire spawn. (I wrote this before anything happened with infidelity...........too soon.) Lady Antebellum Lipton commercials? Are you KIDDING me? Also, news stories will contain NEWS. (If it's CRUISE, it's not NEWS.) Miley Cyrus would be sentenced to being Hannah Montana until she died. 
"Hannah Montana Forever"...FOREVER.
Fourth grade would be entirely devoted to the differentiation between its, it's, their, there, they're, your, and you're, because it's not like we learn anything important in fourth grade history or science in the first place. I'm allergic to mangoes, but they are tasty, so for the good of this country, we can keep them. 
Also, I also have a theory that if we actually charged people the fines that we assigned to littering in the first place, we could pay off the national debt with the money gathered from California alone.
So let's do that.



...presidents can't do any of that, can they?





fin.








*that was a lot more personal than I intended to get in this post. Woops.