I

This is it. The I. The first and most crucial year of this delicious, daring blog's existence! Today is the first day of my first official post, "Can I Hide a Butterfly?." It is still located in the 2011 June section of My Noodles. I would like to give a few shout-outs to Miranda, Genna, Alex, Mom, Dad, Natalie, and Drama Llama for the HILARIOUS inspiration they gave me. (And yes, I'm sort of making a joke about how klutzy and spazzy we all are sometimes.) In honor of this AMAZING milestone, I am going to show you some pictures of what the real people and things that have been referenced on this blog look like. First up: me!

Second up: Natalie!

Drama Llama!

And Dad!



Thanks to everyone for all of this! This week is celebratory, because hey, SCHOOL'S ALMOST OUT!

Rant on Speedos

What is it with guys and speedos? Really! I was at our local high school's pool today and noticed that the larger of the two was being occupied by water polo swimmers! There were boys there ages twelve to around sixteen, swimming about in the skimpy, bikini-like bathing suits. And that wasn't the worst of it! My friend Alex and I positively GAWKED at how skinny  they were! Their muscle tone was ZERO, which I usually don't worry about or look for, but these boys literally looked like skin stretched over bones. And in a sport as rigorous as water polo is, you'd expect these boys to actually have some form of muscular progression!

But nooooooo, these guys just hop out of the water on their break with their protruding adolescent ribs and their frayed up, spiked wet hair like platypuses from a sewer.

Not only that, but during the half way point of the game, then the players got out and all started to watch as the little kids (like my sister, Natalie) tottered about in the second two-foot deep pool. It was really irritating.

HOLY DRAMA LLAMA speedos are annoying! On top of that, I know a guy at our school who plays water polo, and just thinking that he wears those skinny, unfashionable bathing suits on a weekly basis... just... UGH!!

Anyway, that's my rant on speedos... follow-up on that later. Sorry it's such a short post. I'll try and make a longer one another time.

Tomorrow's the first anniversary! Woo hoo!!

Inga.

Someone came up to me today and told me that she wanted to be on my blog. I persistently said no, but she ridiculed me and divulged plans to take over my entire blogosphere's networking until I caved and gave her the chance. She was a quirky little girl, with large, black locks puffing out into a fluffy ebony Afro, with a velveteen Victorian style dress, complete with lace trimming and a felt rose inset into it. Her lips were dominantly oversized, with beady little eyes and a small, skin-colored head band.

Her name... was Inga.


I failed to mention in the previous paragraph Inga's stature: she is a 2 1/2 inch tall person, with no arms or legs. Yes, Inga is a Finger.

Inga has decidedly been everywhere. Inga has been to a bookshelf.

Inga at the bookshelf

Inga in the savannahs

Inga at the Mall of America

Inga on the grand piano

Inga in a saxophone

Inga at the Eiffel Tower

Inga has drastically increased her ratio of travelling lately, and here are some more pictures from her more extreme adventures.

Inga in Antarctica

Inga on the moon

Inga on a satellite

Inga with the statue of liberty

Inga at the Kremlin

Inga in SPAAAACE

These really should not be that fun....

Fish Dawg!

No, not a fishdog.

A fish dawg.

n. Fish Dawg: (Phish·Daug) Someone or something that wreaks of fish and looks like a dog, or something similar to said canine. An example of a fish dawg would be a fifty year old spinster or a thirty-year old who doesn't shower and dumps makeup onto her face by the gallon, bought from Costco.
"Did you see Nurse Gertrude?" asked Johnny. "She is a fish dawg!"


There are many fish dawgs lurking in the world, but some of the most fishy preside at my middle school. They take the forms of 62-year old yard duties who are skinny down to the bone, with Brooklyn accents, and clothes that should be worn by someone at least a third their age. They also drown themselves in a perfume that resembles closely what my three-year old sister uses to get rid of the stink of her poo. It's like a mixture of fermented Febreze, baby powder, and antiseptic. 


A particular fish dawg is said 62-year old  yard duty, who also looks identical to a weird, medieval-esque clown with oil drums of blush, lipstick, eyeliner and mascara she gauges mercilessly into her wrinkled, yam-like flesh. She saunters over to our table nearly everyday and starts up chats about what kinds of underwear we wear--what store, brand, fabric, design--who is an eighth grader and who is going to Disneyland, and other awkward or else inane conversation topics that imply she considers us her best pals since birth, and wants a fresh update on every meticulous detail going on in our lives.


It's annoying as hell.

Here is a very accurate mugshot of what I'd imagine she'd look like in cartoon form, complete with tacky jewelry and a five dollar walkie-talkie from Walmart. 


Notice the cheap, gargantuan gypsy-like hoop earrings, numerous and excessively colorful arm bands/ bracelets bought from the side counter of the 99 cent store, and grayed hairs that have been feebly attempted to be dyed "Hazelnut Husk." Her belt and jeans don't help the hippy figure, either. Please, fish dawg, what fish--or dog for that matter--wants to endorse the boy band "One Direction" to an audience of swooning adolescent twelve-year olds on the pruney bag of bones that is your thorax, you stick bug? Seriously, in real life, she looks even skinnier than here!!


Do the right thing: recognize a fish dawg before it recognizes you... and starts stalking you... and calls you buddy... and won't give you a moment's peace... and touches your hair.










Bye.

Bullying: A Dangerous and Satirical Hobby

Question of the Day: Have you ever been bullied? Why's it such a big deal?


I know what you're thinking. Here we go again, Anna and her drama. No wait, Here we go again, another "STOP YO' BULLYING, BYOTCH!" campaign. Well guess what? I'm doin' it.

Bullying is a sensitive subject. I've been bullied, and in one of the cruelest ways possible: elementary school. There's something about saturnine remarks about my physical and mental well-being that tweaks a string in my duodenum that makes me detonate and hurl out into a terrifying, hormonal rage of body-produced saline and hoarse-voiced exclamations. 

Or something like that, anyway.

You might say I was "the perfect bullying victim." I came to school every fourth grade day wearing softball shorts from first grade that always had the drawstring hanging out of them and a ripped up Charlie the Unicorn T-shirt, with very messed up hair brushed by a mushroom comb and old stinky exercising sneakers that looked like they should be worn either by a single Olympic athlete or a sixty-two year old fish dog. (Future post!!) Let's not forget the bad habit of tying up my hair into knots and then yanking them out to create even more hair drama and a consistent smelling of fingers for some reason.

 Yeppers, I was pretty much the best target for a bully and the worst for my friends, who slowly slacked off of communicating with me as I dug myself deeper and deeper into emotional trauma. But I was smart, and that's the thing that kept me going.

By fifth grade, I was one of the top ten bullying hot spots of humiliation. I guess I was also taunted for not having much of an outside social life and because I could spell antidisestablishmentarianism in nine seconds flat. On top of that, I wore thick, tacky glasses--which I do not portray on the blog because it interferes with the look of my characters faces--and would burst out crying at any given moment.

 Since third grade, I had attended therapy sessions with a 65-year old psychologist by the name of Elaine Chernoff and spent my moody Tuesday and Thursday afternoons on the comfortable beige couch of her air-conditioned office. 

This also made me the successful rage magnet from my peers. I became known as "The Walking Dictionary/ Encyclopedia," with the names varying depending on the context of what people needed me for. I became an inanimate object, pushed around and grabbed tightly by the arm like a book off the shelf and forcibly told to decipher some word or another, or perhaps define something and then give an in depth explanation. After my services were satiated, I was "relieved of duty" and pushed away coldly. Any time, I could be derpin' around, drinking my apple juice, when suddenly a poplar girl would grab me by the arm and ask me to explain to her what a "pseudonym" was.

 

Comment if you've ever been bullied, or if you can relate to this. Nerds and geeks will one day be your boss, so why not be one instead of taunting one? Never get that promotion....

P.S.: More posts to come!!

P.P.S.: IT'S ALMOST END OF SCHOOL!!!AAAAAAAH!!!

P.P.P.S.: The blog's nearing its first anniversary! June 10th hear we come! Stick around for the celebration...