I used to spell "school" with a K. On purpose.


This year, for NaBloPoMo, we're gonna take a little walk down memory lane. I've been blogging since April 2002, which means that I started at the oh-so-awkward age of sixteen. I haven't yet put all my Diaryland and LiveJournal archives here at Rachelskirts.com, but let me assure you that I have a wealth of truly cringe-worthy memories stashed all over the internet. I think it's time to start rooting through those and sharing them with the world. After all, I feel bad picking on other people, but I can certainly pick on myself.

(Actually, I pick on people all the time. Ruthlessly. Wanna be friends?)

Anywho, check out this priceless tale from November 1, 2003:

Oh man, Mr. Funkhouser, the P.E. teacher, pulled the best prank yesterday. Apparently, students have been eating Mr. F's food off of his projector cart that he leaves in the music room during certain hours. Anyway, he's sick of people eating his food and taking his gum, so he set up a trap. He put Oreos in a bag, and he placed those on his cart before fourth period. The point is to check back after fifth period and note that if any Oreos are missing, the kids from Spiritual Life / Chapel Band are the culprits. However, Mr. Funkhouser, always trying to teach you to expect the unexpected, messed with these Oreos. Three of the Oreos were filled with toothpaste, three had garlic powder sprinkled onto the cream, and three had chili powder sprinkled onto the cream. Three were left untouched and oh-so-delicious.

Riveting stuff, huh? I also was really embarrassed by the grade I was making in history class at that point, so I made my friends decode it using my cell phone number.

Ok, pretend that my cell phone number is ***-****. Take the sixth digit and subtract one. That's the first number in the grade. The second number in the grade is the fourth number in my cell number. Yeah, that's horrible. I seriously contemplated crying... or at least sniffling.

I was getting a 74. I'm still embarrassed by that. I must have somehow pulled it up, since I wound up graduating with a 4.0+ GPA.

(Never underestimate the powers of being a teacher's pet.)

The entry that cracks me up the most, however, is the one from last year, mostly because I wrote this really overdramatic piece on how much I was falling for this guy and what a cool person he was and how I should probably move on since he was NEVER EVER gonna like me back. I felt free to be really boy-crazy on LiveJournal because of the whole option to make "friends-only" entries. Seriously, that blog is like a really bad soap opera without any action.

Instead of getting a butterfly tattooed on my lower back two years ago, what I needed to do was tattoo a reminder across my hands saying, "Stop obsessing over the boys whom you cannot have." [Having the word "whom" tattooed on my body would make me feel incredibly superior to the snotty professor who wrote the article in the Northwest Herald a few years back saying that "whom" should no longer be included in English dictionaries. He felt it was an obsolete word. Fool.] Perhaps the tattoo would've have been enough to keep me from falling for the most recent fellow to inadvertently seduce this pirate wench.

But yeah, here I am, exactly one year later, still pining after the same guy and wanting to gush all over the place about how dreamy he is (way dreamier than Panera Kyle even) and blah blah blah. I also really want some Oreos.