"He'll sit there and go, Dipsy... Po... Dipsy... Po. I honestly don't think he knows colors. Just Teletubbies."


Cate is Depressed, Thus Her Sharing of the Most Morifying Moment of her Life Thus Far

Oliver Beene did get canceled. I am going to find an address where I can write to Wendy Makkena and tell her that I will miss her delightfully sarcastic self and that she is the best nun in the history of cinema and television, even better than Sally Field, and she didn't even have to fly to get that title, just lip-synch! (Sorry if you are reading this, Miss Makkena. I don't actually try to be this demented. It just sort of happens.)

Note: Mariana now will be referred to as B.B. For reasons only the Select Few may know.

The Story Of Hot Boy

And since my first paragraph just didn't give you enough of an idea of how deranged I truly am, here is a story that will prove that accusation beyond a reasonable doubt. In our cafeteria, we are forced to line up by the Blessed Are the Pacemakers mural. And on the mural, there is a very homely boy riding an elephant. So, of course, I immediately start pointing and singing "Hot Boy!" over and over again and shaking my butt, as it is, of course, natural human instinct to do. Then I announced, loudly, that his feet were the hottest part and did some more rump-rattling and pointing and singing. And, of course, as it would naturally happen, my homeroom/social studies/art teacher (oh, shut up. We go to a Catholic school, what do you think happens without government funding?) walks by. It was truly mortifying, much more so than the time I ran down the halls singing, "PAAAAAARAAAAAAAA-MEEEEEEEEEE-CEEEEEEEEEEEEE-UMMMMMMMMMM" in this ridiculous baritone voice whilst the same teacher walked past.

I worry myself.


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