Doritos; my long lost love.

So today there was an offer on Doritos at the shop near my school. They were half price. It was beautiful.
I bought a bag of the chili heatwave ones.
So when lunchtime rolls around, I sit on the floor and start at these doritos. It was like an epic journey. I was a climber, and these doritos were my Everest. I ate half of them in one sitting, and my mouth was on fire.
Despite the burning pain of the doritos, I still wanted them. But apparently the sight of me sitting there with half a giant bag of doritos with my mouth hanging open meant that I didn't want them.
But I totally bloody wanted them.
Some teacher strolled past me, and reached in to grab a handful. He took an entire handful. No thankyou, no hello, nothing. Just stealing my doritos like he owns the place.
BTW, this teacher is the one who pooped a rainbow. Just sayin'.
 
Seriously, am I being melodramatic, or was he being out of line? Those are my doritos, for crying out loud! MINE! After that handful, the only ones left were the tiny little crap ones that were all crushed.
I legit felt like crying. Those were my doritos, not his. I loved them like a child. Like a lover. They were mine and I was theirs, it was a beautiful relationship.

See these pill bugs? It was like that. Only instead of three of them, it was just me. Or maybe my soul split up into fragments over those sweet doritos. The one on the left, he is climbing them. That part of my soul wants to achieve the consumption of every dorito there for the purposes of enlightenment. That part of my soul knows what true power is, true strength. It wants and it shall have. That middle one? That part of my soul is just going for it. It wants to be full. It craves food like a fat person on a celery diet. It wants those spicy delicious chunks of fried potato inside of it. It must have it. It wants to gorge forever in spicy paradise. And gorge it shall. That big one on the right is being cautious. It loves those doritos like a soulmate. that part of my soul wants to cherish them forever, to be a part of them and to mould into one beautiful, blissful chunk of love. It knows how to please and savour those doritos, and it wants a fully serious relationship with them. Possibly with children.

That is how my soul wanted to deal with those doritos. But no. That teacher broke my heart, by stealing them. I can never love like that again.

I will be heartbroken for the rest of my tortured, doritoless life.

Zeus: Lurker of Toilets

Today, I lamented over my complete lack of followers.
Therfore, this blog post is addressed to me. Hi, me. How are you doing?
I WILL NOT LET THIS GET ME DOWN

So today I only had two lessons. First and second. Then four hours of sweet nothingness. Although there was a bit of a dilemma in my second lesson, as I realised I needed the toilet (I am fully aware that by telling this story, my first two blog posts become toilet related). Now, it was chemistry... and I do not understand A-Level chemistry (But that is another story), so basically, I didn't want to miss any of it. So I held it in for an hour.
Then came break... but it was not a relief. You see, the toilets at my school are used as a hangout for the easy, makeup-slathered fourteen year olds. Call me a wimp, but I don't like going near them for fear that they'll hit me with their cheap extensions or something. The only time to be safe from them is to go in a lesson. So I held it in longer. An hour and twenty minutes I lusted for the toilet today.
And I am proud of myself for it. Damn proud.

I also got to witness the beauty of my English teacher acting out 'The Jabberwocky'. She had a plastic sword which she finally found after forcing my classmate to look for it in her closet, and then she pretended to slay the Jabberwock (a year seven who had been sent in the room to work quietly). We are not even doing 'The Jabberwocky' for this course.
BUT THAT COULD NOT STOP HER VALIANT WIELDING OF THE VORPAL SWORD.

I think I'll tell you all (AKA me) about the fourteen year olds who haunt the bathrooms. I shall call them 'JC', 'AL' and 'CM' ... otherwise known as 'Their Initials'. JC lives across the road from me. She isn't too bad. I haven't seen her bother me or my friends, so I don't have much of a problem with her. AL is funny. I used to be best best best friends with her, until I started High School. She has a really deep voice. I know some girls have pretty deep voices, but AL's is unreal. It's a beautiful thing. She opens her mouth to make some neanderthal remark, and the echo of a booming giant is emitted. She does not just talk - she resonates. There is nothing quite like the deep voice only a God could achieve spurting out the language of a Valley Girl. It's something special. AL herself is possibly a marvel of nature - the rest of her family are petite and blonde with blue eyes. AL is a natural redhead, but has dyed it a worrying fake shade of black, and she is tall. Not just tall, but large as well. Not fat, not muscley, just sort of big. 
CM isn't as funny. She is less that 5'0" tall, with messy, bleached blonde hair and VERY fake extensions, and she had an abortion when she was thirteen.
AL makes me laugh. CM just kind of worries me.

Last year, I saw AL sprain her ankle in neon pink heels outside a club. That was the highlight of that particular week.

I know that's you, AL. Stop pretending to be a barely-teenaged girl.

Foetal Tories vs. The Poo Rainbow

Hello.
Seriously, I don't know what I was thinking. What makes me think I can run a successful blog? I wanted to write about politics, but that isn't going to happen, because:
A) I know barely anything about politics.
B) I have far too many opinions to be unbiased.
So you can see where I'd have trouble.

So I might just talk about my daily life. I'm a 16 year old girl halfway through my first year of sixth form, and it sucks. Sometimes I think the people there have porridge for brains, and sometimes I think that I have porridge for brains. I can't really see myself passing.

So, why am I writing a blog? Because I want to be a journalist, and someone told me that this was good practise. We'll see.

So today, I was sitting in my history class; my presentation on Margaret Thatcher had just finished, and the teacher was asking pointless questions and recieving pointless answers. I got to thinking about blogs. Could I ever run a successful one? Because it defeats the points if nobody ever reads this. Then my train of thought was interrupted by my friend, who asked me how it was possible for Thatcher to reproduce.
"She impregnates people by looking at them."
"She just slowly divides into two separate Thatchers."
"She steals the youth of others and turns them into aging Tories, then uses their life energy to clone herself."
"She gets herself pregnant."
"When people injure her, the injured body part falls off and grows into a new Thatcher."
We managed to continue in that manner for forty minutes. And the teacher didn't stop us. I can't decide whether or not I should be worried for my education.

My school is funny, you see. Some of the teachers are great, and I actually learn. Others, they turn my mind into mush the second they open their mouths. A year ago, my geography teacher told the class that he gave his girlfriend an Alaskan Firedragon next to Lake Windermere.
Go and look up 'Alaskan Firedragon' on Urbandictionary. I dare you.
My teacher told us that. He also told us about the marvellous Poo Rainbow.

Don't worry, I will tell you about the Poo Rainbow. So, my teacher was on a trip to Thailand. He'd eaten a lot of spicy food, and caught some irritating parasite. He was on a coach to their next destination (several hours from a bathroom) when the coash stopped so that they could stretch their legs. Teach decided to remain on the bus... but he couldn't hold it for long. Soon, he was sprinting out of the bus, undoing his trousers as he ran, unable to keep his excrement within.
The story goes that he pulled his trousers down and leapt over a ditch, pooing as he went. Pooing through the air... the Poo Rainbow.
He then had to return to the bus, trousers stained, dignity stained, watching the disgust/awe/horror form on the faces of his peers.
Teacher finished his story, and then the bell went for lunch. Tasty.

I will never be confident of my education.

Prepare for an infestation of foetal Tories within your soul.