The Horror

   I woke with a start. My window was open again. Not wide open, just open far enough for an arm or a cat to slip through. And my blinds were raised, all the way, exposing me to the eerie blackness of the night. My window opened onto... nothing. There was nothing outside; no stars, no moon, nor ambient light from the city's blasted streetlights. Just blackness.
   It was hard to breathe. Fear constricted my airways more efficiently than any python could have hoped. I could not move. I was paralyzed by the blackness beyond my window panes. That deep well of darkness, home to everything I'd ever feared and many things I had yet to fear, stared at me, licking its chops, and savoring the smell of a girl paralyzed by its gaze.
   I struggled to move, to sit up, to stand and turn the light on. Maybe with some light I could allay my fears, convince myself that it was just a cloudy night. The light only made the dark seem more sinister; the light only revealed what the dark had hidden.
   At my window, so close that his nose almost pressed against the screen, a man's face appeared from the dark. He had sharp features, almost as though he were carved from marble. His high cheek bones, framed by brown curls, and refined nose might have rendered him handsome in combination with his deep brown eyes under other circumstances. These were not those circumstances, and I found myself legitimately afraid for my life.
   I kept my eyes on him, like I would a weeping angel. Don't Blink. Blink and your dead. I thanked the Universe for giving the world David Tennant. It was damn good advice.
   I recognized him after a moment. In Chemistry, earlier, he'd cheated off my test. I'd been sitting next to him in class for a week - didn't even know his name, it was something like Blue... Bruce? - and now he was cheating off me and watching me sleep. I'd read this book before.
   "Bruce," I said, suddenly angry.
   "It's Eric, actually," he said helpfully.
   I faltered for a moment. how could I have been-. It doesn't matter. "Eric, this is unacceptable behavior. If I ever catch you doing this again, I will stab you. In the chest. With a wooden stake," I said, glaring at him. "Then I will leave your shiny fucking corpse in the middle of fucking Venice or wherever the fuck it is, with a strongly worded letter to your sparkling overlords telling them exactly where your pot is."
   "You've read those...books...too?" His voice was fading and everything became blurry, washed out. "Do... hard it makes...for an Incubus...?"
   I woke with a start, sitting up abruptly at my desk. "What the fuck was that?" I murmured, looking around. Eric was beside me, cheating off my history exam. Catching my eye, he winked knowingly. I have yet to figure out if he was letting me know that he knew about my dream, or thanking me for letting him cheat off me.

   The preceeding was a fictionalized account. Any and all resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental. Well, except for the fact that I basically did have that dream, but at home, in bed, sans the conversation with the creep watching me sleep, plus a whole lot of me being scared half to death of open windows in the weeks following. Other than that, not a mite of this was true.

Derping Photos

   Normally, I ignore photos on Facebook, because, let's face it, most of them are crap. We all know this, so I don't need to comment on them most days. But, no, I signed on this morning and saw one that made me think.

Like this, only with real people.

   I would have ignored it - because, really, it was Karen and Brian¹, so they're exactly who I would expect to take derpy photos. No, it was the fact that I'd seen it before, only with different losers. I don't know what would possess someone let someone photograph them doing something so stupid. I mean, if nothing else, you're risking getting your face licked by a creature that knows better (not a dog) while simultaneously attempting to get so close to licking their face without actually doings so that you can taste what they had for lunch.  I'll ignore the other explanation - that the people in these photos are trying to French kiss and getting it horribly, horribly wrong on camera. Not that I'd be surprised if that were the case - I mean, I never see attractive people do this - and on the rare occasion you do see an unstaged photo of attractive people doing this, it looks less like derping and more like a mating ritual, as it should.
   In cases like this, it's not the camera's fault that you come out looking like you were on the wrong side of the door when God was handing out photogenics. No, it's entirely your fault for making yourself look stupid in the first place. You may have thought it would be awesome, but that's because you couldn't see the stupid look on your loll-tongued face.
   Sometimes, yeah, it's not your fault. For every awesome, or even relatively not stupid, face your face makes, there are around ten to twenty retarded transition faces. This is especially true for when you're talking. I've developed a hyper awareness to cameras for this reason, so that I don't end up in photos like this one:

Crappily drawn car innards are crappily drawn.

   I have a hard enough time looking dignified without people photographing me when I'm derping out to whatever happens to be blasting into my ears through my headphones at the moment. Unfortunately, this sensitivity to cameras usually kicks in about .21 seconds before the shutter clicks, giving me just enough time to look directly at it and widen my eyes in alarm, an involuntary action, I assure you.  So all 'candid' photos of me look the same.

A pretty accurate recreation of my expression when photographed.

¹ Karen and Brian here are used in reference to a Dane Cook sketch - The Friend Nobody Likes. 

My Cat Is Like Your Baby

Disclaimer: If you're easily insulted by the insinuation that cats are like babies that take care of themselves and manipulate us shamelessly, you should leave now. I apologize profusely for the insult to your cat and will gladly send your cat a handwritten apology if you email (it's there, on the left) me with your address and the plaintiff''s name or something. If your baby is insulted by this, you need to get a kitten immediately (I'd recommend an animal shelter, but then you miss the cute fluffy stage) and start educating it on the greatness of our feline overlords. No, that wasn't written at gun point. I don't know what you-. 


    Unlike some individuals of my gender and age, I do not have what we in the business call a "baby." If you've never had the confusing experience of being around a member of the human species before it reaches that stage of maturity where it's capable of taking care of itself, you may not understand what a baby is. Luckily, I've prepared a lovely way of explaining the common infant to you. Unless, of course, you've never spent five minutes around a cat. In which case, I'm sorry, but you'll have to learn from personal experience. Good luck, and keep your hair away from it.
    Babies are like cats. Or, rather, cats do a hell of a job acting like babies. In fact, cats are so good at pretending to be babies that their vocalizations are on similar frequency to a crying baby's. No, I'm not lying. Those of you who have a cat handy, I'm not one of you. My neurotic kitty is currently hiding in terror under my bed because we have family visiting.
    Look at your cat. What do you do for that cat on a regular basis? Chances are, you are its main source of food. It's not very good food - who the fuck decided that cats should eat corn/wheat based kibble in the first place? - but it's food, and it keeps them from actually having to risk injury catching a bird or something. Also, it's way easier.  Babies do the same thing, with one key difference: they are generally incapable of catching and eating birds. It's got something do with their immobility combined with their lack of immune system or something like that. I don't know; my experience with infants is limited to staring alarmedly¹ at them from across the room. 
    There is an equally good chance that you have a box full of a sand-like substance somewhere in your house for your cat to use for... ahem. Anyhow, this box requires cleaning every one to three days, depending on how many cats you have and how picky they are about the amenities.Some people can train their cats to use toilets, yeah, and some cats go outside, but, for the common house cat, it's usually the litter box for them. Babies require diapers - and they get rashes. Do you see where I'm going with this train of thought?
    Communication. Babies are pretty good at it. I mean, they cry when they want food or attention or have managed to get something wrapped around their own neck (until they can't cry anymore, at any rate), and they're damn persistent about it. They will cry themselves red in the face until you realize that it's baby thinking, Are you a fucking retard? I want that thing that's just out of my reach, not a goddamn bottle you moron. Some parents get lucky and have a baby that makes different noises for what they want - I'm pretty sure most of them have, like, two kinds of crying, and one of those happens when they want me to go away. 
    Compare this to the common house cat. Adult cats don't really bother with meowing at all unless there's a human present to take advantage of. Wikipedia says so, so it must be true. And it doesn't stop there, they have so many variations of the sound that we don't even know how it's supposed to be spelled (Squeaker insists it's mrow, but she might just be responding to the fact that I'm talking to her). Even better, cats understand our body language - so do babies, yeah, I know, but, you know what? Babies don't really get the connection between you pointing and the fact that their attention should be on the explosion you're pointing at until they've spent almost a whole year on this planet (at which point they use their new-found knowledge to point at things that aren't there and steal our souls).  Even at my cat's age - seven or eight - most kids lack the basic understanding necessary to realize that my body language says, I clearly do not want to associate with you, oh my God, will you go away and stop getting your sticky hands all over my stuff? Cats? Cats fuckin' get that, man (and their response is, usually, to love you like you've never wanted them to). 
    Have you ever stroked a baby? You, yeah, you in the back. Yeah, I'm calling the FBI. Step away from the baby you sick freak. So, for those of us who aren't getting arrested in the next day or two... moving on. 

    Cats are geniuses. No, I'm not just being biased, okay? Yeah, your baby? Maybe it's smart, for a baby, but compared to a cat, it's a moron. Mothers take care of babies - most of the time - because they have a biological need to and they bond with them because it's hard not to care for something you've put so many hours into (I mean, I care a lot about my Pokemon, too) even if those were not necessarily voluntary hours. Cat owners (and dog owners, to an extent) take care of creatures that actually don't really need us that much because we want to. Cats have so thoroughly manipulated us - usually by being adorable and fluffy when we first meet them - that we take care of them without needing a biological reason to do so. 

    Okay, I'll admit it, owning a cat can be like parenting a teenager in some cases. I mean, Merlin eats our food, sleeps in our house, would wear our clothes if he wasn't a nudist, and would use our internet if he could read, and yet he treats us (mostly me), for the most part, like crappy teenagers treat their awesome parents. So, yeah, owning a cat isn't always the greatest thing ever, and every cat you get is like playing Russian² roulette, where the bullet is actually the neurotic cat that doesn't want to be outside and will pee on you out of fear if she hears the neighbors while you're trying to help her conquer that fear. Also, if you're a male, you'll probably have a hard time getting a girl friend.

¹ This is not a word, but it should be. 
² Since a revolver loads six and kittens usually come in six-packs, like any respectable beer, I figured this was a pretty great simile. Just thought you should know that. 

The Joys and Sorrows of The Common Nap

   When was the last time you took a nap? If you said during U.S. history, I empathize with you, but you really don't know what you're missing. I, myself, just got done with a six hour nap, not because I was that tired, but because my body needed to repair itself, and I'm only halfway through the process. It's one of the many few joys of napping and one of the only situations I can justify wasting part of my procrastination hours on sleep.
   To nap, or not to nap, that is the only question¹, whether 'tis safer to suffer the slings and arrows of yonder head ache, or to take arms against head pain and by napping end them? Aye, there's the rub.
   Don't get me wrong, maybe normal people are perfectly capable of napping without consequence. I just know that I have a horrible time of it. And, by horrible, I mean ucky-feeling and self-kicking; and by time of it, I mean in the hours following my nap.
   First, it must be noted that, for every nap I take willingly, there are nine unwilling naps. These usually occur during Star Trek (or Doctor Who) when I'm on my couch being comfortable. If those conditions are met, there is a thirty-three percent chance that I will be asleep the next time you look at me. If I'm comfortably warm on a cold day, that probability doubles. If I obtained less than six hours of sleep the night before (almost every night) that probability rises by ten percent before it is doubled by being warm.
   When I nap without a valid need to do so, e.g. a migraine or relatives, I wake up feeling horrible. I'll have just enough of a headache to piss me off. My mouth will taste funny, and will make everything else tastes funny, and my stomach will insist I need food while simultaneously insist that I've poisoned it somehow. I might even wake up with a limb that doesn't want to move because I was sleeping on it and it's still a-fucking-sleep.  
   It's like my body has a hat full of bits of paper labeled "Nap" and "Watching Doctor Who" and other such activities,  and every day, starting at three o'clock and ending at ten o'clock, it draws a paper in fifteen minute intervals and determines my level of consciousness from it. On a good day, with optimal circumstances, there would be about three "Nap" slips for every six "Doctor Who" slips. Slips are added and subtracted based on various factors, until you have the current set up for the day. After that, it's like playing Russian Roulette with a gun that has six bullets. You're, well, I'm, fucked; unless you take preventative measure, there is no way to go unscathed.
   So, preventative measures; you'd think they'd be something I could just get used to doing everyday, yeah? Hah, you're funny. I can't always take the appropriate measures to avoid a case of the naps. Why? Well, part of it is because I haven't actually figured out all the things that cause me to nap. I know that not getting enough sleep at night, headaches, warmth, and watching my favorite TV shows seem to cause it. In the past I thought it was related to the protein content in my dinner, but I've since decided that excuse if bullshit. It's hard to prevent what you don't know about; for all I know, my mapping problem is caused by the government brain implant that keeps me as docile as they can manage (which, actually, is pretty damn docile). I don't know about that implant, but it might be the cause. My napping might be their way of ensuring that I don't have time to start a revolution against The Man, reducing me to simply raging against the machine² that allows the Man to have power. So, really, there's no sure-fire way to save myself. Or is there?
   Truth be told, I'm starting to suspect my entire personality is the result of living in a place where the sun only visits for the half of the year that I tend to spend being a hermit in the middle of town. Last summer, I only went outside because my mum wasn't in great shape, so if fell to me to water plants and shit. The summer before that, I don't remember even going outside - wait, no, I did, I went out for a robotics car wash and got a nasty sunburn, like always. So, what does sunlight have to do with sleep? Well, it stimulates your body, causing it to produce more serotonin, which is supposed to boost your mood (among other things, one of which is control your appetite), for one. For another, it also causes your skin to produce vitamin D₃, which is necessary for bone health, and just about everything, and has been linked to increased feelings of not-depression in depression patients (This is my source, by the way), though, D₃ may or may not be related to why I can't nap if I've gone outside and gotten a good dose of sunlight. 
   So, maybe, all I need to keep from wasting my time on napping is to invest significantly less time into exposing my skin to the sun and avoiding soap (because soap removes all the D₃
   Still, napping has its place in my life. Sometimes, it's worth just taking a nap for no reason other than the fact that your relatives are visiting and you really don't want to have a baby shoved in your general direction again. If you wake up while they're still there, you can always pretend to be asleep until they're not looking and slink off to your room to continue pretending to be in a coma. Or, you might have a migraine (I have one right now). Napping is a great way to get rid of those pesky migraines, man. Sometimes I'll be stubborn and attempt to fight my way through the rest of the day, but normally I just give up at the first sign of a headache, because, really, I cannot function in a normal capacity when my brain feels like it's got a rail-road spike in it that I accidentally jostle every time I think, whether I'm moving or not. I get them more often than I admit to because admitting to having one usually means admitting to having caused it by, theoretically, accepting ice cream freely given, for example. I get migraines from sugar. Or wheat. Or both. I really don't know. And, when I have a weak moment, god dammit, it's almost always in the face of ice cream or cake or pie, despite the fact that I don't even like that stuff anymore. I must be a masochist or something. No, really. 


   In other news it's the weekend, meaning I can sleep in for two days straight! So, have a great Saturday and Sunday (which comes after) and get some sunshine this weekend, guys. Seriously. It'll make you happier with your lot in life, even if only by a little.


¹Well, the only question relevant to this blog post, at least. Some guy named Hamlet said something about existing, but he was just being emo, yeah?
²Hello, not-so-subtle reference to a band I like. 

Being a Girl (Kind of Blows)

   Before we begin, I am obligated to inform you that this may not, in fact, be all that funny unless read in some variety of ridiculous voice. I recommend the deepest voice you can make.  Also, comments expressing clichéd sentiments about the subject matter will be frowned at and, subsequently, filed into the part of my brain with everything else I pretend doesn't exist. Your comments will be seated between the time I fell off the swings in sixth grade and the time that I accidentally went to hug someone when I intended to shake their hand. They will be seated behind every instance of me trying to use my left hand to shake hands ever. So, don't waste your own time; say something witty or rain praise down on me for being a god among men, better yet, do both. Keeping that in mind, let's proceed, shall we?
   I have been a girl for nearly nineteen years now,¹ and I have one thing to say about my experiences. "Being a girl has been the worst experience of my life." That's pretty bad, because my entire life has been spent as a girl - as much as dress and act like the boy I probably should have been, which is not to say I think I'm actually a boy in a girl's body, just that I'm one of those girls who didn't come out of the tomboy stage. I could list about a million things I hate about being female - one in particular happens on a regular basis.
   I think the one that bothers me most is that I retain weight more easily than I would if I were a dude. My body is stupid enough to think that I'll (a) attract a mate with all of this² and (b) that there will suddenly be a world-wide, massive famine that will render me in need of fuel for a baby I don't (or won't³) have.  Since males don't have to worry about losing babies to famine, they tend to retain less weight, on average, than females in general. I, of course, do. Of course, there's also the possibility that, since humans did not evolve to consume grains, my body assumed it actually was starving for fifteen or sixteen years, and I'm somehow failing to convince it that I'm not eating that shit anymore - which probably has more to do with the occasional cheat than what I eat on a daily basis. Just humor me for a moment, yeah?  Following this line of thought, my body has been like, "OMG, why don't you feed me real food, bitch? Oh, you know what, we must just be going through some kind of cow-shortage, because otherwise you wouldn't be eating your food's food," for the larger portion of my life. Now it's confused and complaining because, "Like, why is it that you continue to shove that shit into me if there are plenty of cows and other cute animals around to eat? I guess we're trying to re-establish cow herds or something, so I'll just dispatch the insulin squad to make sure you have plenty of energy stored away for when we're not allowed to eat cows again, in the hopes that, someday, there will be unlimited beef forever. You know, just in case you get knocked up or whatever." Because my physiology totally works that way.
   Normally, I only think about my weight in terms of, "This desk is tiny, I need to find a slightly bigger one," and "There's a gap between those two assholes in the hall, if I were just a little tinier, I could fit through it," and, my personal favorite, "God damn it, I wouldn't have to apologize for bumping into people in the halls if they weren't too dumb to realize that I'm standin-... maybe if I were tinier I wouldn't have this problem in the first place?" Honestly, I don't care about any of the social stigmas attached to being overweight - particularly since they don't really apply to me - I care because it's inconvenient. I like to think that, some day, I'll have to opposite problem. "Holy fuck this desk is big, I wish there was a tinier one," or, "If those assholes were tinier, there might actually be a gap for me to slip through so I could get to wherever the fuck I'm going faster," or "All these assholes keep bumping into me and they don't even apologize. I'd wish I had the mass to shove them around and demand one, but I've been there before and I don't want to do that again."⁴
   But, then you have days like today, or rather, tonight, where I realize things about myself that I really don't want to acknowledge - like the fact that I am, surprisingly, just as romantically inclined as any other female hermit. I go through my life actively avoiding that moment of epiphany where I realize that some guy I barely know is actually kind of attractive. Why? Because it makes life less complicated. Of course, despite my best efforts, it always happens anyway, usually for someone that is completely and totally out of my reach. Even when I could reach out and take them, I become a coward and refuse to act because I don't like being that public about my emotions. I'm emotionally repressed, so sue me. Really, when this does happen, it's not that big of a deal. Okay, it's a big deal, depending on the object of my affection's location in relation to myself at any given moment. But it's only a big deal because I go insane in the 'homicidal serial killer' or 'stalker' kind of way if they live too close to me or on a street that I use regularly. Seriously, I can be a real creep sometimes.
   Really, though, I don't kick myself too hard over the unobtainables. Having a crush on an unobtainable in my own life isn't too much different from having a fangasm every time I see a picture of David Tennant⁵; it's innocent (enough) and doesn't have the potential to make or break my year.
   The ones I always end up kicking myself over are the ones that actually might go places, under optimal circumstances. Sometimes, they might even go places despite the circumstances at the time.  I kick myself over it because, on occasion, I will clearly see that it can go someplace, maybe, and then I don't act on that moment of clarity. Why? Because I'm not an optimist; I automatically shoot thoughts like that in the head under the assumption that all of my feelings will, forever, be one-sided in every case imaginable.  You should see where I dump the bodies - it's not pretty.  I really need to find a new landfill to dump any new ones in before they start piling up in the street.
   But, you know what? No fucking longer. Okay, a little longer, but after that, fuck being a pessimist. Okay, no, being a pessimist is okay. Just... Look, this is what I'm trying to say - no longer will I be questing for the holy grail that is health, I'm starting a new quest, and it involves being in prime condition the next time I have the opportunity to pursue an eligible bachelor⁶. This quest also comes with a side-quest attached: "Satisfy Curiosity." I don't know what I'd look like as a normal person, so I'm going to find out. Period. End of story. I can only hope my boobs don't disappear in the process.
__________________________
¹It's entirely possible that, if past lives exist, I was a boy in one. I'm not qualified to say for certain.
²Yes, I did just gesture to all of me.
³Even providing for the future possibility of being in a situation where most people have children, I probably won't want to.
⁴The language used in these thoughts has been preserved in it's natural state to provide the reader with a more realistic reading experience.
⁵David Tennant is amazing. This is a universal truth.
⁶This, in no way, implies that I am unhappy with my chronic bachelorettehood. In fact, I take pride in knowing that I don't have to commit my time to more people than absolutely necessary.  I love being alone. In fact, I should just marry myself and move into a cabin in the mountains as far from people as possible while still having the internet.

Summarily Approaching Why I Shouldn't Have Gotten an Award

This is what I'm listening to now. 

Consider it a reward for finding your way here.

Also, I apologize if you find today's entry lacking in humor.

   Tonight, friends, was the night where my school honored the over-achievers of my class, and a handful of underclassmen. Yes, the fabled awards night, a clandestine experience where those individuals who don't know what an A looks like on a report card are not welcome.  Or, at least, they shouldn't come, because they'll just feel bad about themselves.
   Surprisingly, despite my chronic absences and distinct lack of giving a flying fuck in the past year (or two), I was present, not to support a friend, but to receive an award of my own. Really, this does come as a minor surprise to me. Why? To answer that, let's briefly take a look at why, for the past year or so, I've been a horrible student.
   At one point, man oh man, there was a time when I wasn't apathetic toward my learning experience in public school. I was determined to get A's in every last, damned class if it killed me, and it wasn't just because I was being bribed to do so. No, it was a matter of honor. If I couldn't be at the top of the heap in all of my classes, it would be considered a smudge on my otherwise impeccable - except for middle school - record, and I was perfectly willing to go ahead and commit seppuku  right there in the middle of the commons if it came to it.  I made up hours in P.E., made up time for percussion, did most of the extra credit that came my way (because having 105% in a class isn't enough over-achievement, not even once), and was generally a smug-ass individual about my obviously superior intellect as indicated by my equally obviously superior grades.
   For those of you who are riding a slow pony, I'm not like that any more. You want evidence? Okay. I got a C in P.E. That alone demonstrates a level of does-not-give-a-rat's-ass so great, that it's almost like I was unconsciously trying to get a bad grade. Like, my brain realized that if I didn't get a C sometime soon, I'd seriously screw myself over in college or something.
   And then there's the fact that I've missed an average of one day a week since the beginning of the year - this term alone it's closer to 1.5 days a week. Now, we've already established that I have an actually-cares-about-this level of about negative two when it comes to school, yeah? So, naturally, my grades are... significantly better than average? I have A's in all but one class. What the flying fish monkey is this? That one class. Yeah, it's piano and it's only a bad grade because I've been absent so much. I could just make up time, and Bam!, look at that, another straight-A report card.  Seriously, LHS, you've got to be kidding.
   So, given the evidence presented, it is not entirely outlandish to postulate that I really don't deserve to be ranked 27th in my class (last I checked). And yet I am. I've even got a medal, as of tonight, because of it. And, hey, I've got an honors diploma and four specializations. What the hell is this? I don't even-.
   If I were to try and find a moral in all of my high school experiences, it's this: you don't have to show up to be successful. This is, of course, completely and utterly untrue for most students and has absolutely no real world application. My brain recognizes this. My head, however, will need to experience total defeat before it realizes that my brain is, once again, the smarter of the two. See, my brain's smart, it knows all kinds of things, like the fact that that thing on the lawn mower doesn't even look like a fuel primer and actually looks suspiciously like a screw attached to the engine and that we probably shouldn't touch it because it will. Oh, look at that, head, you decided to go ahead and press it, and now your thumb has a circular burn. My head is so stupid.*
   Well, on the bright side, my brain is smart enough to recognize that I've been procrastinating on my homework by working on my novel, thereby voiding my procrastination entirely. My head is too stupid to figure it out, so maybe I'll continue to churn out words at an alarming pace for the next week or two. Somewhere in there, I'll find time for the homework that I have yet to finish. Maybe.

*Yes, that was a reference to Doctor Who.

"What's your book about?" "I DON'T KNOW."

   I ran into a friend's mom today during school and we got into one of those tiny conversations that I always hate to be involved in. You know the ones; you were on your way to do something else, or maybe you weren't, when they seem to come out of nowhere and ask you how you've been doing and talk about something you have in common and ask what you've been up to and you stand there trying to be friendly, all the while trying to think of a way to escape without seriously offending them. The worst part is I very well may have trapped myself; I may have instigated this encounter by asking her how she's been and I remember her trying to walk off at one point but I started talking.
   Anyhow, she asked what I'd been up to recently, and so I told about twenty-percent of the truth - "Oh, working on my novel, mostly." This, of course, is a lie of omission - well, actually, thanks to the mostly it's an outright lie - because, really, I also spend a good chunk of time doing nothing on the internet while still managing to feel like whatever I'm doing is somehow important. And when I'm not doing that, I'm watching Doctor Who or Star Trek. Really, most of my writing takes place during my third period and at one in the morning when I feel guilty because I haven't done any writing since I got home from school, and even then I allow myself to be a lazy bum by forcing myself to write only four hundred words.  For future reference, four hundred (out of context) words looks like this*:

   “Interesting,” River breathed. She took a moment to look at the girl. She didn’t look a day over sixteen; River had to wonder how old she really was. Lydania’s hair was a dark purple with the occasional silver streak and her horns curled similarly to Xylander’s. “You remind me a bit of Lord Holtman.”
   “His mother was a Mathis, like mine,” the girl answered. “At best, we’re distant cousins.”
   Something made River want to keep Lydania around. “With Eloise gone and the big wedding coming up, I’ll need someone to fill her duties. I don’t suppose you know your way around a dressing room?”
   “Well, Milady, I don’t mean to boast, but I did assist a theatre troupe, a pretty good one at that, with costumes and makeup before I started working here,” Lydania replied, smiling.
   “I’ll talk to Xavier about getting you reassigned, then.” River looked down at her night clothes; she had yet to get dressed. “In the meantime, I don’t suppose you could help me get properly dressed before he comes bursting in here and teases me?”
   “Of course, Milady.”
    Where it usually took Eloise half an hour, Lydania took only fifteen minutes to get River dressed and made up.  Eloise had always preferred to put River in warm colors, yellows and oranges, but Lydania chose earthier tones. Looking at herself in the mirror, River smiled; she liked the way the colors worked together and the way they didn’t bring out the blue in her skin. She’d almost gotten used to thinking of herself as a Smurf.
   There was a rough knock at her door, an impatient rapping of the knuckles.
   She sighed and crossed the room, but the door opened before she could lay a hand on it, and Xavier slipped inside. He was frowning and barefoot and looked like he’d just jumped out of bed. “This is the fifth time you’ve done this in the past week; they know you’re here,” she said bluntly as she close the door. “And you can’t just burst in her like that, I could have been in the middle of changing or something.”
   He scoffed and gave her a sidelong look. “It’s not like I haven’t seen an iceberg before,” he said flatly.
   “You’re as sweet as vinegar,” she said, feigning adoration.

   Using the default settings of Word 2007, that's a little over half a page. See how lazy I am? And that was a tangent.
   She seems impressed by the fact that I'm writing a novel - a sentiment I can't mirror, since I'm of the opinion that any idiot with a pen can write a story, maybe even a full-length novel - and asks me what its about. It's a question I've had to answer often enough. Every time someone finds out that I'm writing a novel, they ask the same question, "What's it about?"
   What I hate about this question in particular is that I can be perfectly prepared to start talking about my novel until it comes out of their mouth. Suddenly, there is literally nothing in my mind that could possibly be used to explain the damn thing. In fact, I'm pretty sure my mind has to reboot entirely before I can even begin answer the question, which explains the long pause that follows every instance of the question. This pause is usually followed by some horrible attempt to explain the plot without making it sound totally lame. This attempt is a failure. Sometimes I simply tell them my problem, "It's hard to put into words," or "It's hard to explain," or, "I don't know right now." These are my better moments in relation to this question. Today? I came up with one of the best answers yet, "Oh, it's fantasy." This is a huge leap forward in my attempts to explain the enigma of my novel.
   If they're still interested, I could elaborate. "It's a cross between a modern faerie tale," of course, they'd hear, "fairy tale," but I'd ignore that, "and high fantasy." Not completely accurate, but close enough for government work. It's a starting place, because that's really what I need. Then I'd be able to say stuff like, "It's about a high school student who agrees to help a demon usurp Hell's throne," or "Oh, it's about a girl and her involvement in the end of the world. Also, demons." See? Easy.
   Though, really, there's nothing quite as amusing as their reaction to, "I don't know." I can only imagine they think I'm some kind of head case. I know I'm writing a novel, but damn if I know what it's about. For all I know, it's just a 126,000 word long string of seemingly random characters. They see this; I know there are real words there, but there's no way to explain that with my limited vocal skills. I'm a monkey, and I've been mashing on a keyboaraf;lksdhgas s;adlkghas;dlgk has ;glksh gs.

*Actually, it's only 383 words. 
For the record, I did try to draw something for this. Yeah. No. It didn't work out at all. Maybe I should acquire an illustrator. Hmm.