If I have to think of a title every time, I'll die.

So, today I intended to weigh myself. I somehow managed to leave the house this morning without doing so, so I didn't do it, since I had lunch as soon as I got home. So, maybe, we'll have a semi-official weight tomorrow. Or the next. Meh.

I think, for today, we're going to look at my daily routine, since I think I'm very interesting, starting at, like, 1 AM when I go to bed for the night. Since yesterday was relatively typical day, I'll go over it.

After a long night of strenuous internet usage, I'm finally tuckered out and ready to sleep at around 1 AM. So I shut my laptop for the night, turn off the lamp, put my glasses on the shelf or on top of the laptop, and curl up under the covers. five minutes pass, and sleep still doesn't come. So I roll over.

By this time, my cat, Tardzilla (Squeaker's her name, actually) has come in and situated herself in the most inconvenient space possible. Whether she's laying in the space where I plan to put my leg next, or sitting on my laptop threatening to knock my glasses across the room, she always manages to delay my sleep by at least an hour. After several more changes of position, and shoving my cat out of the way three or five times, I'm forced to listen to her purr inexplicably (despite the fact that I've just abused her verbally and somewhat physically) for the next twenty minutes while I attempt to distract myself by thinking about ways I can continue writing on my novel. Or scenes I really want to write, but can't because I need to write all the shit between said scenes and where I am at that point. moving on.

So, eventually, in spite of my cat's attempts to keep me up, I fall asleep. On an optimal night, I wake up six hours later (which feels like fifteen minutes when you're asleep) and get ready to leave home for my daily visit to the mandatory fascist brainwashing facility that is high school. On a not so optimal night, I will wake up like I did yesterday: via cat-tard.

My eyes snapped open, reacting to the alarming noises of something being knocked around. In my sleep starved state, I mistake this noise for any number of sounds, from the death throes of a book in distress, to a pervert watching me sleep. Assuming one of my books is in peril, I grope around in the dark, discovering that my feline nemesis laying between my head and my books. Finding nothing amiss, I go back to sleep. Rattle-clack-sngher! Fuck my life. I open my eyes again - a wholly useless gesture, since I have the vision of an eighty-year-old woman with cataracts without my glasses on - and grope around some more. That cat is still there, and nothing is wrong. One more cycle of this noise and me waking up, and I'm thoroughly pissed off - all I want is sleep and something is inhibiting my pursuit of Zs. This time, when I grope around, I catch a furry arm pawing at the pepsi bottle I tucked into the shelf behind my bed the night before. Cursing under my breath, I seize Tardzilla and kick her out. No more cuddles for you, bitch!

At some time between 8:10 and 8:35 in the morning, and after a cup of coffee that varies between normal and huge sizes depending on the number of minutes left before "getting ready to leave" time, I leave for "school" (the aforementioned fascist brainwashing facility). During the winter, I curse under my breath the entire way: "Fuck it's cold." I arrive to find on of two things: my parking space is either open or closed. If it's closed, it's always occupied by the same bike. Now, because this has rarely happened before, and never with the same bike multiple days in a row, I've been assuming, for the past two months that the asshole taking my spot is a freshman and/or transfer student. I tell myself every time they're there, "I'm gonna wait for this guy to come unlock his bike after school, and I'm gonna kick his ass." I never do, largely because by then I've just decided I want to go home. Today I had the pleasure of arriving to school and finding that his bike is missing its rear-wheel, for whatever reason, and I'd like to think that it's because somebody was all "That asshat's parked in Shqueer's spot." It probably wasn't, but, whatever.

So I lock my bike up, right? And, after arranging my headphones and my hair so that nobody that matters (administrator types) can tell I'm listen to music (today was a hip-hop day, if you're interested), I go inside and, two days a week, listen to (a recording of) Dave Ramsey tell us all about this magical land of his where you can get 12% of your money via investing and where carrying $5000 in cash on your person is not a horrible, horrible idea.

Second period rolls around: P.E. So I go through the no longer mortifying process of undressing in front of other, more attractive females (I stopped giving a flying fuck about their opinion long ago), and spend the next hour jogging, stretching, playing some ridiculous sport, and/or weightlifting. This week we're doing badminton, which I'd have a hell of a lot more fun with if there weren't rules. I keep thinking Steven and I should just be all "so, like, let's not play by the rules and you guys can just win automatically, because it's more fun that way. ;D" It's a valid idea - the rules to that particular game are retarded anyway.

Third period - Chamber choir. I love chamber choir, guys. Best class I have. However, it's less enjoyable following P.E., largely because I'm hot, still somewhat sweaty - because I don't shower at school - and tired of not sitting. My body temperature is high enough that, for whatever reason, when I stand up, you can see the places on my chair where my jeans weren't making contact. Today Our teacher brought us doughnuts - which he promised the class last Friday. If you've never set two dozen of those puppies down an offered them to a group of females number, probably twenty, you probably don't know that all twenty-four pastries are claimed within minutes. Given that excess sugar prompts my brain to assume the Migraine position, I wisely chose to forgo my "treat." In retrospect, I think Wongiun is attempting to kill me.

At lunch I sit with Smut-Face, my only friend still attending the mandatory brainwashing facility, as all the others have moved on to the land of, supposed, free thinking (college). We usually find something to talk about - which usually amounts to complaining about school or students that just get on our nerves - for the duration of lunch.

Then I go to Government. Where they teach us about how they lie to us about how America's government is run, and claim that it's one of the best ones ever. Given that I'm enlightened, I tend to look at all of this very cynically, and sit in the back of the class to avoid mouthing off where the teacher can hear me. This class is privately referred to as "Brainwashing 503: The Final Rinse" by our overlords.

Then it's back to choir, where I get to interact with the best freshman I've ever met who wasn't me. He's not enlightened, unfortunately, so when politics came up while talking to him last night/ today, I felt that I may have ruined my chances of being able to come back three years from now and see if he's evolved into the attractive, sensitive young man I hope he'll be. He has the most adorable curls. I digress.

Seventh period: Writing 121, also known, to me, at least, as "that class where I get praised all the time and get to show off how truly awesome I am at existing. 8D"

After a long day of school, I gather my things and head home, usually choosing to accompany Smut-face part of the way because we're buddies. At this point, all I've had to eat so far that day is not even food: it's that cup of coffee I briefly mentioned seven paragraphs ago. Mom has, in recent times, chosen to prepare lunch/dinner at a time that coincides with my arrival home, since I have a bad habit of eating when I get home from school. After foodening time, I spend the rest of my day on the internet or working on my novel, unless I have homework due the next day, then I might do that. Lately I haven't been hungry, like, at all, so I don't even bother finding myself things to snack on during the eightish hours between then and bed time. Just a square, or two, of 90% dark chocolate, and that's usually because Mom has offered it to me, making the task of obtaining it effortless.

Then, after a long night of strenuous internet usage, I am finally ready to repeat the process all over again, so I can battle the forces of fascist brainwashing and doughnuts with renewed strength.