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--there were bloodstains on the carpet--
Sep. 20th, 2005 12:04 amAll right, that last post really was complete, fabricated nonsense, and given that I had asked my dad-the-orthopedic surgeon about it when I got home and he had confirmed that it was nonsense, I have no excuse for it other than "I was in a really weird mood."
And, apperently, I have been writing the saying "What the deuce?" incorrectly for a long time. I've always written "What the Deus?" It made sense to me. I forgot why. I guess I was under the impression that Deus was another word for God, like Dios.
Double-owned for ignorance. Oh well. Live and learn. Let's move on.
I was at the rocket project until late evening, ending with launching tests. As soon as I find my camera charger (I'm progressively more convinced it is in Palm Springs), I will post pictures of our pilgrimage to the SCC parking lot. I wouldn't call the launches a complete failure, though I did get good video of one rocket shooting off parallel to the ground. A couple of launches got pretty good altitude, but not good enough. It's a start. We're still well ahead of almost every other group in our class, which is saying nothing, but nominally it's an honor. Sadly, my rocket, the Aussie 5000, did not get a launch since the mouth on its pressure chamber was too small for the air compressor's nozzle. And I wanted to see how it would do; it has an unorthodox fin design involving halved shampoo bottles. We have to remake the parachute and two nose cones, and life goes on.
Beyond that and the fact that I haven't even started reading An Enemy of the People yet, which is due tomorrow, nothing much else of note happened today. My ASU packet arrived in the post. I missed the season premiere of Arrested Development since I was playing pseudo-NASA, but my parents taped it for me and I have yet to watch it. My foot's all better now, really, which means I'll start playing DDR again. And this time I'll remember my tennis shoes, since stomping on metal in socks isn't proving safe. I can't get Michael Jackson out of my head. I had ice cream for dinner. We have fresh raspberries in the fridge. Calculus sucks.
It's time for Sparknotes, but I desperately want to sleep.
And, apperently, I have been writing the saying "What the deuce?" incorrectly for a long time. I've always written "What the Deus?" It made sense to me. I forgot why. I guess I was under the impression that Deus was another word for God, like Dios.
Double-owned for ignorance. Oh well. Live and learn. Let's move on.
I was at the rocket project until late evening, ending with launching tests. As soon as I find my camera charger (I'm progressively more convinced it is in Palm Springs), I will post pictures of our pilgrimage to the SCC parking lot. I wouldn't call the launches a complete failure, though I did get good video of one rocket shooting off parallel to the ground. A couple of launches got pretty good altitude, but not good enough. It's a start. We're still well ahead of almost every other group in our class, which is saying nothing, but nominally it's an honor. Sadly, my rocket, the Aussie 5000, did not get a launch since the mouth on its pressure chamber was too small for the air compressor's nozzle. And I wanted to see how it would do; it has an unorthodox fin design involving halved shampoo bottles. We have to remake the parachute and two nose cones, and life goes on.
Beyond that and the fact that I haven't even started reading An Enemy of the People yet, which is due tomorrow, nothing much else of note happened today. My ASU packet arrived in the post. I missed the season premiere of Arrested Development since I was playing pseudo-NASA, but my parents taped it for me and I have yet to watch it. My foot's all better now, really, which means I'll start playing DDR again. And this time I'll remember my tennis shoes, since stomping on metal in socks isn't proving safe. I can't get Michael Jackson out of my head. I had ice cream for dinner. We have fresh raspberries in the fridge. Calculus sucks.
It's time for Sparknotes, but I desperately want to sleep.
So, today in the car Rachel and Mom were talking about Rachel's (terminal life-threatening horrific) stretch marks, and why she has them and I do not. It boils down to relative hormonal levels, etc--I started menstruating in fifth grade, when I was still very young, and females only have two to three years to keep growing after they start that fun business. Rachel started later, obviously, which caused the stretch marks, or something. Rachel asked why I started so early; Mom said that it was because I had hit a certain weight at a very young age.
I took my headphones completely off at this point.
WHAT THE FUCK I COULD HAVE BEEN TALLER?
Granted, Dad's the relative growth expert and he says the age-weight theory on mensuration is bullshit, but it's disheartening to think there is a chance I could have gained one or two inches if I hadn't been chubby at age 10. I dislike my height. I got genetically shorted, given that a good portion of my family is relatively tall. 5'4" is not bad, all things considered, but I want to be tall, goddamnit. I know I would never have been as tall as, say, Kaity or Adrienne, but even hitting 5'6" would be an improvement. 5'10" or taller would be ideal, but I can dream.
In other news, I worked on the rocket project with Sam and Fillman; pictures promised when I finally remember my camera. We have three prototypes we want to launch at West World tomorrow after school. Yes, we have a launcher because Filly and his Dad spent far too much of their weekend making one. I don't know whether to be in their debt or to whack Fillman silly for not spending that time doing something utterly unproductive, which is what weekends are for.
This weekend was very schoolish. And next weekend I'm going to Amarillo to help Mom with the Race for the Cure. Suck, but at least I'm getting stuff done.
Rachel wants to have a rave for her birthday. A proper rave. Given that she splits her birthday party with her best friend, and that friend's parents are CEOs of a national corperation, this might happen. Their last birthday party consisted of 80 (no I'm not kidding) of their closest friends, a lot of food, and a lot of noise. Since it's sweet 16 they might blow out all the stops. If I chaparone I'm promised at least a burger or something.
I took my headphones completely off at this point.
WHAT THE FUCK I COULD HAVE BEEN TALLER?
Granted, Dad's the relative growth expert and he says the age-weight theory on mensuration is bullshit, but it's disheartening to think there is a chance I could have gained one or two inches if I hadn't been chubby at age 10. I dislike my height. I got genetically shorted, given that a good portion of my family is relatively tall. 5'4" is not bad, all things considered, but I want to be tall, goddamnit. I know I would never have been as tall as, say, Kaity or Adrienne, but even hitting 5'6" would be an improvement. 5'10" or taller would be ideal, but I can dream.
In other news, I worked on the rocket project with Sam and Fillman; pictures promised when I finally remember my camera. We have three prototypes we want to launch at West World tomorrow after school. Yes, we have a launcher because Filly and his Dad spent far too much of their weekend making one. I don't know whether to be in their debt or to whack Fillman silly for not spending that time doing something utterly unproductive, which is what weekends are for.
This weekend was very schoolish. And next weekend I'm going to Amarillo to help Mom with the Race for the Cure. Suck, but at least I'm getting stuff done.
Rachel wants to have a rave for her birthday. A proper rave. Given that she splits her birthday party with her best friend, and that friend's parents are CEOs of a national corperation, this might happen. Their last birthday party consisted of 80 (no I'm not kidding) of their closest friends, a lot of food, and a lot of noise. Since it's sweet 16 they might blow out all the stops. If I chaparone I'm promised at least a burger or something.
