First, I'm going to start out with the buring hatred inside of me that inspired me to create this page: preps. Preps. What a concept. Let's make stores in overrated malls that sell clothes that everyone will buy! Conformity! Yes!
Well, I don't get it. Why would anyone in their right friggin mind want to shop at Abercrombie and Fitch or American Eagle or Aerogaystale? If God made us each unique, why would anyone want to go and spoil their individuality with a fifty-dollar gift certificate? I swear you can't distinguish a smart prep from a dumb prep: they all look the same! And, I must admit, they all act the same to a certain extent. For example, you spend two weeks either working your tail off at a job you don't particularly like or sitting on that tail at a job you hate to admit you don't particularly like. Then, come payday next Sunday, you get this biiiiiiiig check. Reelin' in the Benjies, baby. So, what do you do with it? If you have a dream, a plan for college, a car to feed countless gallons of gas to, a best friend's birthday in three weeks, you're going to save it or spend it on something sensible or useful that could possible benefit others around you. What a concept. However, as is the case with most of the working teens I know, that check goes straight to el banco Monday morning with mom, and since you just can't wait until Friday afternoon to blow it all, you go shopping that afternoon. What, pray tell, will be bought? Oh, I'll tell you what you'll buy. You're going to buy something that everyone already owns. You're going to buy a tee that advertises AE. You're going to buy a crude, incredibly suggestive shirt at A & F and wonder which teacher will mention it first... That is, if you're a prep.
In conclusion to a poorly constructed essay, PREPS SUCK!
On a somewhat more compassionate note, I'm pink with purple passionate blues. Do you know what makes me sad? The animal shelter. The youth in Asia. They keep killing those poor little puppies with their big, brown eyes watching them. I wanted to work at one over the summer, but I realized I just couldn't stand to watch those little guys go. My mom would get the youth in Asia to murder me, too, if I brought them all home. Do you know what I'm thinking? I'll bet you don't, so I'm going to tell you. I'm thinking we should all band together and save 'em! I think we should make a law that states that if you have an outdoor pet, it must be either neutered or spayed, unless the owner is willing to take care of the offspring that animal is almost guaranteed to produce. There are too many homeless pets that could love just as much as a purebred.
In case you haven't taken note of this yet, you may want to stay away from me. I'm moving to DC when I turn 22. I'll be one of those chicks with the signs protesting things people don't think about too often.
Now, onto the meaning behind the title of this page in my totally hip site. I don't know about you, but I personally don't like mean people. "Mean people suck." -A lot of people. Why be so angry when there is so much to be happy about? (Granted I just disproved that statement in my opening rant, but make no mistake: I'm not angry, just confused.) And by Beanies, I don't mean the hats. I mean the little stuffed animals that everyone collected five years ago, went to middle school, was told that "...Beanie Babies are for losers," and bagged them and sent them to the attic. By the next summer, they smelled like dust and old Halloween costumes. The relevance? Supposedly, they would become more valuable over time. The truth? Not one person out of ten very hard to find Beanie Baby online dealers will respond to my plea for a trade: I get money, you get a cotton-filled dust-mite Grand Central Station. Well, I guess I know why no one replied...
It has taken me a while to update this particular page, but I've finally found something that truly upsets me. (Insert anxious, whispering crowd sound effect here.) Nick Hornby, the author of About a Boy and, the first (and last) Hornby book I have read, How to be Good, is the first author I have sincerely praised for a sincerely good sincere sense of sincere humor. He even included a British phrase I had been searching for in the far reaches of my memory (which was "donkeys years, in case you were wondering). He somehow manages to fit in people with names such as GoodNews and Monkey, and the characters he introduces are so comical that I am forced not to read the book in class for fear of laughing out loud (otherwise known as "LOL").
I suppose the reason Hornby's comical side really shines through in this book is because it acts to counteract the depressing plot: a marriage is plummeting downward into hellish abyss, and the husband will not let his wife divorce him after a "spiritual* conversion." (*Here, the act of taking a weak, faithless person and showing him or her the appeals of charity, kindness, paitence, and generosity, but surprisingly enough, not vegetarianism...) It takes the wife the whole friggin course of the novel to accept the fact that hubby here is going to be nice from that point on.
The complaint? In the last MF sentence, the wife reveals that there is nothing left for her in her marriage.
That ruined my day. But, I suppose an element of last-minute (and by minute, I mean second) drama is what was required for Hornby to feel as though he had written a purposeful novel. I'm still thinking about it.
It has been brought to my attention that I do not have enough fixed opinions on here, so here goes another one: Build-A-Bear.
Problem No. 1: Predictability. Now, I know it's nice to go into a store and know what you're going to find in there. For example, you walk into the local Barnes and Noble, you get a bunch of wire-rimmed Frappucino Queens and Mocha Kings. But Build-A-Bear? Build-A-Bear?! Come on, guys! Give us some suspense! I don't live at 16610 Ispendwaytoomuchtimeupdatingthissite Drive. Creativity equals success.
Problem No. 2: Nomenclature. They come named. It's a freaking birthing center, this Build-A-Bear palace. Named. I can understand a child naming the toy after receiving it, but pre-naming the little guy is not a very bright idea. What if it was named after the cat your mom ran over last week? Would that not put a damper on your whole Build-A-Bear experience?
Problem No. 3: As a sensitive kid, I know that it would have bothered me to see me future best friend being made (Yes, I'm still talking about stuffed animals.). Would you have wanted to see a helpless little bear shape be stuffed up the wazoo with cotton? That's what I thought.
I could go on, but I've tired of ranting on these crazy things. Let us move on.
