Every time I try to write something on here, it sounds like a pimply seventh grader decided to barf up some writing. That sounds disgusting, I know, but it's the truth. That's because I'm pretty much forcing myself to write about things I really don't want to.
I mean I could write about stupid AP tests (well, test) and how I discovered I have a horrible habit of clenching my teeth together when I write essays that I'm pretty sure will ruin my mouth if I ever take another AP class that has anything to do with writing essays. And then I would talk about how I'm sick of writing essays and if I ever have to write about how the stupid post service is dying out then I will shoot someone. (Oh no! I talked about an AP question! Will my score be terminated now? What ever will I do?) But why would you want to hear me talk about that?
Or, I could talk about how I designed a shirt for Franklin Elementary School's Fun Run and it is a gorgeous specimen of a design if I do say so myself. Then I would probably show you a picture of that design and you would leave a comment telling me how much you wish you had that shirt and how cool I am. But, honestly, why would you care about that, either?
And then I might tell you all about MORP and how we went up the canyon and we played games and had a BBQ and we drew with chalk and watched Back to the Future and I had a great time with this kid:
And I could tell you how we sent each other on really random (and kind of mean) scavenger hunts to ask/answer each other for said MORP (and I could show you a really embarrassing picture of three certain friends of mine... Perhaps it had something to do with the letters Y, E, and S painted on chests? But just maybe. I think I would spare you that one, though...)
And then I could tell you about how Mr. Calvin here set my hair on fire or how I spilled a cup of water on myself trying to balance it on his finger... But they take too long to explain and you don't want to spend the next year of you life hearing about that stuff.
An finally, I was thinking about telling you that every time I push the shift key with my left pinky, there's this agonizing shot of pain that rushes up my arm because I skinned the side of my hand yesterday. Then you would feel bad for me and I would tell you that I'm done with this post.
So as you can see, I have nothing to write about. Nothing at all.