Excitement

So I've stumbled into some excitement in the past few weeks.

It all began with a snow day. Which, for my school, is like finding one of Disney's classic movies being enacted in full by the poor that flood the scummier parts of New York. The Asian and I decided to take advantage of it and shop for our friend's birthday. (After it was first decided that the Asian must dress nicely and preceding the confirmation that she thinks of me before sleep.) We forced her into nerdfighteria with Paper Towns and bought her a dirty, dirty game. We deemed her a future trophy wife and added a mug to her pile, as well as some horrendous underwear that holds a double-life with the facade of being a headband.

Time was spent at school before I could visit this friend and present her with her share of amazing things. We then destroyed brain cells at a coffee shop doing homework and spent the night playing a dirty, dirty game and watching The Daily Show and The Colbert Report.

Here the excitement died down a bit until yesterday, when it was confirmed that teenagers are becoming more and more resemblent to filthy swine. (Or, in some cases, a simple sack of excrement.) There was a disgusting melee in the center of the school, followed shortly by another brawl in a classroom, the ultimate result being police involvement and a hospital check-up for a teacher.

Thus, sister and I compiled some gifts for some teachers, because we're such fantastic examples of good teenagers and what not. This was appreciated.

Alas, I mourned the loss of harassing someone during lunch, and then was unable to remedy this today as my lunch was usurped by a needy counselor. To make certain that this was not appreciated, I responded only in clipped, scornful sentences and snidely pointed out his grammatical errors. As well as spread threatening and hateful ideas.

This was followed shortly after by a waste of a class, with a teacher that knows absolutely nothing about inspiring creative writing. (I have been writing for the past ten years, thus I can say this with confidence.) She is also, regrettably, particularly ignorant and immature. She spends most of class time gabbing (ew, never using that word again) with certain students. When asked to present us with our assignment for the day, she acted haughty and offended. She blew up a few minutes later, claiming that she's not as oblivious as we might thinks and she saw the expressions preceding the request; that we should just not take the class if we feel such things. And, while I am sure that her class is a waste of time, she could not have assumed a more wrong conclusion. Her childish acts directed at a friend of mine were uncalled for, as she should feel pain for reducing my friend to tears.

Preceding this, I sent a teacher into a frenzy (a rather angry one) for saying that I am not a fan of Odysseus. (Really though, the character's a prick--I wouldn't want to be anywhere near him.) I also found it funny that he was so adamant that a girl/lady would only date a "man of action" when I find skinny nerds attractive. x.x

With such excitement afoot, I felt it fitting to write a short, angry scene about an assassin (with a rather large amount of expletives, but they were necessary):

There was a duck in the road. Just squatting there, commanding the dirt path through which he needed to pass. How ridiculous, it wasn't even doing anything!

Jesus, where was he, anyhow? In the middle of fucking no where. No where, where ducks take over the roads. Could you even call it a road? It wasn't even paved, barely discernible in the barren landscape. It was just there, as though some monstrous vacuum had ingested all the trees and buildings that may have once towered there and had regurgitated a sandy trail in their place.

This was definitely not Sandusky. This was not his destination, and he didn't have the fucking time to backtrack. Fuck, he was supposed to be there by now! Twelve noon, that was the window. If he was just a minute late he would have missed it, and that man could not make his plane. That was the agreement, he was to be delayed indefinitely. And how was he supposed to do that from here? Fuck!

It was all that fucker's fault! Filth, swine! Who could be so stupid as to give these directions? Foul, fecal man! He must have known, that was the only explanation. But how could he? And what could his connection to this job be? Fuck! He should have seen it coming. He never should have fucking stopped for directions. How the hell was he suppose to get back on track?

He slammed at the dashboard, glaring at that fucking duck. Just the fucking icing on the cake. A fucking duck! What was he suppose to do? Run the fucking thing over? Fuck it all. Snarling, he reached toward the seat beside him in search of a map. "Fuck!" he cursed when the pile of papers in the seat spilled onto the floor and through the window.

Still expelling expletives, he exited the vehicle and spat venomously toward the duck. Just his fucking luck. He stomped and he roared before grabbing angrily for the fallen papers. Why was he even searching for the fucking map? He didn't know where the hell he was--what use would a map be? How the fuck was he suppose to find his position on it? It was fucking garbage.

Fuck! His watch read 12:03. It was too fucking late now, anyway. Too fucking late. Growling, he kicked his tires, eager to cause some damage; to enrage the fucking planet that had conspired against him. And that fucking duck was still there, staring at him! Did it never fucking scare? God, what did he have to do? Crack its fucking wing? Because he fucking would!

Muttering under his breath, he started toward the impertinent creature, careful to kick up as much dirt as possible with his toes. The cloud of dust did not faze the duck. "What the fuck?!" he swore when the cloud dissipated and the duck continued to watch him. A low, guttural sound rose from the back of his throat and the duck shifted its weight, allowing what looked to be an egg to roll out from under its weight. "Are you fucking serious?!" he cried out.

Fucking ridiculous. This was just fucking ridiculous. He turned to punch a half-open window but stopped when something inside the car caught his eye. "Perfect," he grinned, his thoughts suddenly clear of expletives. He reached through the window for a dark object buried between the seat and the door: It would be horrible to waste a present, even if it couldn't be used on his initial target. The prime minister could live to see another day--no big deal, he thought, as he cocked his gun. He would find another job the next day, a higher paying job. But this bullet needed to find a home.

His eyes twinkled manically as he took aim. So long, duck, thanks for the fucking company.