A very off day

What happened yesterday:

I am apparently really, really bad about noticing things in my surroundings.

When I got to school this morning, I ran into my ginger friend Hannah (I have at least five friends named Hannah so I have to refer to them by hair color or personality characteristic.) She was going to meet her parents to practice the skits we have to present in Spanish tomorrow. I started complaining (admittedly, loudly) about my crap partners and how they haven't done any work.

Later that day Kate (who I talk more about later) told me -- tweeted @me actually -- that Eli (one of the partners I have been complaining about) had heard me complaining about him.

A positive start to the day.

Later on, my guidance (aka my stalker) counselor came into our homeroom. She talked with whomever she needed to talk to or whatever and then left. My friend/bandmate Kate is in my homeroom so after checking that Henson had left to go to another homeroom I began explaining to Kate about how Henson's tiptoeing around me because I'm mentally unstable or whatever.

Somehow the conversation segued to me complaining (and generally being bitter) about how I wasn't allowed to to take AP Lit because I was still technically a junior in the eyes of the Lit Department. That pisses me off because I know that they let at least one junior (I know for sure) that they let take APLit last year. I continued on with my much thought on, prepared rant over the one person per graduating class that the school will let take any class they want.


So there I was, just ranting away. Kate and Megan, my physics partner from last year who was also there, were listening to me rant. It was a beautiful disaster.

Then from over on the far side of our homeroom: "Wow, Sam's really worked up about this." Mrs. Henson. She had never actually left our homeroom. Fantastic.

Luckily homeroom ended shortly after that so there wasn't anymore time for me to bad talk people in front on their faces.

Right after homeroom ended, though, Kate spent a good three minutes laughing at me.

I'm not looking forward to that meeting I have with Mrs. Henson tomorrow. I can't see it going well.

Saturday Mornings

DISCLAIMER: Below is a rant which includes me swearing for effect. I do that a lot when ranting.  Do not read past this point is you have problems with swearing or excessive complaining.

I am not a morning person. If you have ever met me, you can tell that. I am never pleasant in the mornings unless they occur after the hour of noon. Even if you give me a gallon of mocha with my wake-up call, I will probably still throw things at you for waking me up in the first place. Even after drinking my daily coffee, it still takes a little over an hour for me to stop feeling like a bitch.

I have never been a morning person. Even at the tender age of eight I was able to stay up until three and sleep until noon or later. I will never stop being a morning person. [By God, if I ever have kids they will naturally be night owls. If not, they can entertain themselves until I feel like dragging myself out of bed on a Saturday morning.]

Unfortunately, I live in a house of people filled with morning birds. My mother goes to the gym everyday at 4.30, my father is at work by 5.30, and my little brother, age 13, is anywhere between 6 and 7.30, no matter the day. None of them drink coffee. Yet, they are annoyingly conscious at ungodly hours.

The only other night person is my 20-year-old brother. Lucky for him, he lives in the basement and is able to beg out of any early morning procedure by claiming he was up late for work or studying.

Tomorrow is Saturday. This is what I should be able to do on Saturdays:

:opens eyes, stretches, looks at clock: Oh, look, it’s 12.30. Lovely. I want a coffee.

This is what tomorrow will look like:

8.15 --: Father knocks on door: Get up! I need your help.

            Me: No. Go away.

8.30 -- :Father opens door: Get up, let’s go. I warned you.

            Me: It’s still not nine.

8.45 -- :Father pulls blanket off me: Up and at ‘em! We have work to do.

            Me: :throws sharpened pencil/hardcover book/pillow at him:

9.00 -- :Father storms in screaming: Let’s go. NOW! I warned you last night. I am not going to argue this with you.

            Me: And I told you that there was no way in hell I was getting up this early. I’m tired. Go away.

After that it becomes a flurry of varied, indiscernible argument between me and my father. He usually threatens to do something, and I tell him that I don’t care.

He is determined to win. I am determined to sleep more.

Each week ends up a little differently.

Here’s to hoping that I get to sleep to a time closer to acceptable than 9 am.

Fingers crossed,

Sami

On a side note: I haven’t slept in at all this summer because I have either had to go to school or my Father has found something for me to do. Father knows this, I have told him, yet he still insists that I sleep enough and I need to get up.

Another note: Every single week he does this. He wakes me up when I am tired and I am unpleasant. He yells at me for being bitchy. (He does not use that word but that’s basically what he means.) I inform him that if I was allowed to sleep to a reasonable time I would be slightly more pleasant. I get yelled out for talking back. Rinse and repeat seven days later.

My family and I have a rather combative relationship at the moment.