But something makes me pretty sure he was referencing the almighty CLITORIS.

I have no reason to mention this quote other than to say I still don’t get what the Dad meant. How is it like a guitar string? What exactly is getting plucked? I’m not going to lie: I’m VERY familiar with my “sex” parts, but I don’t know anything down there that requires plucking. Rubbing? Sure. Stroking? Of course… but plucking? Not so much. I pride myself on having a good relationship with the big “V”. We’ve known one another my whole life, and the relationship is so good I don’t even have to call before I visit. And let’s face it: whenever I DO drop by, we both know it’s only for one reason. Well, if you want to get into specifics, maybe it’s more than just ONE reason, but you get the picture.

In other news:

The job is going well… I guess. The money is good, but it’s certainly not doing anything to warm me up to the idea of having kids myself. And I am definitely no closer to being able to tolerate teenagers. As of now, I do a pretty good job of ignoring everyone on the bus and only speaking when someone speaks to me first. I’m pretty sure the students and counselors think I hate them, but I don’t worry about it too much. In the end, the only thing that matters is me getting them to their destinations safely and on time.

So there are these little boys who like to sit behind me and talk to each other the entire trip. Everyone else has enough sense to bring an iPod or fall asleep, but not these boys. The first time they sat behind me I thought they were retarded because they kept making cow noises and rocking back and forth. But it turns out they’re just stupid. Kids these days. I want so bad to turn around and tell them I see many many years of Virginity in their future.

I’ll be honest and say that I’ve thought about shutting this blog down. Jan can’t help but remind me EVERY DAY how many deadlines I’ve missed. Seriously. He tells me even before he says “Good morning”. I would leave him, but then I’d have to get a real job. And well… real jobs suck. However, I do wanna extend my appreciation to the people that visit even though the site has gone to crap. You know who you are.

Don’t worry, I’ll make it un-crappy.

As a kid, I was taught to clean my ears with a Q-tip and a bit of alcohol (NOT the Jack Daniels kind). I would immerse one end of a q-tip in the sanitizing liquid, then stick it in my ear and swirl it around. This accomplished two things: 1) absolutely nothing; and 2) it pissed me off. Apparently this method only served to shift the wax slightly to the right instead of just removing it altogether. After a few failed attempts with this system, the time had come to move on.

So I graduated to bobby pins.

Bobby pins are perfect for all your ear-cleaning needs. You simply aim the rounded end toward the suspected problem area, then ’scoop’ and remove. On several occasions, this technique has allowed me to discover pesky nuggets of wax that would eventually interfere with my hearing. It also prevented me from later panicking about whether or not something had finally found its way into my ear.

I discovered I got quite excited when I scooped out a hardened ball of wax, the feeling was one of triumph and such purpose! It was all quite addicting. Once I hit my stride with the bobby pin, there was no stopping me. No place was off-limits. I was cleaning at school, work, homes of friends, and sometimes at the dinner table following a pleasant meal. If there were disgusted looks, I didn’t notice. All that mattered was the feeling of digging around dangerously close to my eardrum and ridding myself of all my wax. Sometimes, if my findings were especially impressive, I would show others. It’s been said this habit has something to do with why I’m no longer welcome at parties, but who cares? Ever since I armed myself with the perfect ear-cleaning instrument, I refuse to let stifling societal mores stand between me and my anti-wax & insect crusade.

Currently I’m sitting at a solid number 2 in the lunchroom. It took months of bugging my mom, but I finally got her to bump me up to Salami sandwiches with an extra dessert, instead of carrots and that horrid Egg Salad shit she tries to pass off as food. What’s wrong with her anyway? Doesn’t she know what sells? Her concoction of eggs, relish, and mayonnaise is so bad the dog won’t even touch it. Every operation has a weak link, but I never thought it would be my own mother. If my cards aren’t played right, I could wind up with a scandal on my hands. When Jeff Wright accidentally traded away several spoiled turkey sandwiches, he almost lost it all. Even now he struggles to break back into the Top 20. There’s no humor in shame like that.

Everyone knows I covet the Top Spot. And it’s true I stepped on a lot of people to get to where I am now. It was me who added cayenne pepper to Billy’s Mediterranean chicken, it was me who stole the extra bags of chips I knew Cindy brought to school, and it was me who committed one of the worst deeds our lunchroom has ever seen. I got David Trekker suspended for a fight I started, when he jumped in to break it up, I lied and said everything was his fault. And the teachers believed me, they always do.

Whatever. I couldn’t stand David anyway, especially the way he wore his sweaters tied around his neck. How fucking gay is that?

But there is one person who stands between me and #1.

Susy Thompson. I hate her.

Susy has what people want and she KNOWS it. Every morning we file into class and she greets me with the sweetest ‘Good morning’ I’ve ever heard. Oh she smiles, but it never quite reaches her eyes. I respond with a casual ‘Hey’ and we nod to one another. It’s not a nod of respect, but of things to come. I know Susy has more than luck on her side, having held the desired spot for the last 2 years. Kids have talked of how she single-handedly rolled through her competition. Any witnesses to her methods have all been silenced, whether through blackmail… or other means. And I know what makes her so damn popular, too.

Susy Thompson prepares her own lunch. Her parents work a lot and because of that, she has more freedom than any other kid in the industry. Damn her! She has it all: fresh oven-baked chicken, cookies, slices of homemade lemon cake, pudding; she is every lunchkid’s wet dream. FUCK! She and I both know my game needs stepping up if I am to oust her from the throne on which she sits.

The battle lines have been drawn and I don’t intend to lose. I hope she’s ready.

*Photo courtesy of alisdair