and now it becomes painfully obvious that I am, in fact, a teenage girl.

              It all began second period today. Well, not really. Technically it began last June-ish, but we're starting at second period last Friday. You see, I write for The Brave Times, which is by far the coolest school newspaper on the face of this earth. Oh, and we're basically broke.
             So last Friday we had a little meeting about how we're broke, and we need to get ads or all of our hard work will go to waste and no colleges will want us and our parents will all hate us and think we're failures. Needless to say, it was a rather inspiring meeting, so we all went out into the world that day with high hopes to save our beloved school newspaper from going under.
              And who do I run into later that day (in Jazz band, to be specific) but the super-cool owner of our local music shop! So I came up to him, and I said, "Hey Pete! Would you like to advertise with our school newspaper?"
             And Pete, a strapping young lad of about 60, with spiked hair, blue jeans and tennis shoes replied "Sure!" And here's where the problems started.
            You see, when I do something well, or I am the first to do it (in this case, the first to procure an advertisement), I tend to get carried away. So this morning I marched into Journalism, and drew a little chart on the board mapping out our fundraising endeavours. And I was quite certain I would get the most ads ever. I would be an ad selling goddess.

            After school today I found that my carpool would not arrive until three forty-five, so I figured "Hey, I'll just walk down to those shops, and see if any of them would like to put an ad in the paper!" Which is where problem number two arises-- like most teen girls, I am weary of going places by myself. Not because of any practical reason, like safety, but because I (a very awkward person to begin with) find that having someone with you exponentially decreases the risk of an awkward encounter with a stranger or uninvited aquaintence.
            So I scoped out the area, and feasted my eyes upon my good(looking) buddy Fabio*! So I went to talk to Fabio for a while, and mentioned what I was going to do, and he volunteered to come along. So we walked over to the shopping center (along the way I fell of 2 curbs and ran into a wall), and began our sales-pitching.
            As far as the selling went, it was pretty sucessful; we talked to the guys at the card shop, the flower shop, the bike shop, and the book shop, and got a definite "yes" from one, and a "probably" from the rest. So we were feeling pretty good by the time we started heading back to school. Until we started talking about finals.
       I think the time has come to describe Fabio; he is probably around 5'9" or 5'10" and has shoulder length dirty-blonde hair, oh, and the bone structure of a god. Handsome or not, he still looked kinda sketchy with all that hair, which is why you must understand that the mistake I made was not completey baseless.
        Well, the conversation had to lead there eventually, what with finals looming over our heads like a dead goose and all, but what I didn't know at the time was that Fabio is an accomplished baker. So when he mentioned he had to "bake" before finals, I was definately a bit taken aback.
           I'm not quite sure how much my readers know about "baking", but it has two meanings, one is the baking in which you make cookies, or chicken, or a pie. The other is where you (by some means or another) put illicit substances into your body in order to get high. Needless to say, I assumed he was talking about the latter.
         To spare myself some embarassment here, I will not include any details, but after much confusion I realized he was talking about the perfectly socially-acceptable form of baking, which he could most definitely talk about in front of my mother without risk of life or limb (although she may question his manhood).
          In any case, here I was looking the fool with this wonderful(ly attractive) friend of mine, who carried my books and opened doors for me; the friend I had just accused of planning to get high before finals. And he wasn't even offended.
           And now here I am writing what is probably my longest post ever because I wish every boy in the world was exactly like Fabio instead of the majority, who are much more like DJ Vilardo in my 5th period english class; you know, the not-so-attractive boy that thinks its okay to make comments about your Ruben-esque figure? Yeah, that one.


Well, at least everyone knows why I'm not going to pass my Pre-Calc final tomorrow.

*No, his name's not actually Fabio. Oh, and if you're reading this, we're not just friends because you're good looking. But it'd be a lie to say that isn't a factor.