Slam Book 3.0
because versions one and two were total disasters.
Entry One I feel obligated to say that I think I just ruined the next four years of my high school life by announcing accidently on the school PA that I love Sasuke Uchiha.
Chapter One
I hate when authors think that readers need to be spoon-feed every detail of every scene to the readers. It annoys me. Like, seriously, why waste a paragraph on information that could otherwise be assumed based on the character's interactions. The way I see it, if Becky and Amy are said that they are pointing at store windows, exclaiming about some super awesome sale while being enchanted by the smells of salty soft pretzels and greasy pizza, I don't think it's all that necessary to say their at the mall.
Sure, the author might have to add that they were also being stalked by super creeper boys that were planning on doing some super naughty things with them, but, hey, that's what the space that was wasted on creating the scene would've been for. But, no, you've already lost my interest by taking up three pages on explaining what Aero looks like right down to the micrometer sizing of the tiles on the ground.
I also hate when they start at the beginning of the story. Why do that? The beginning is just boring introductions and, ugh, if I wanted a biography I would've went to the biographical section of the library with all the moldy yellow paper and old people smell. I want a story. Start with the good stuff, get me hooked, then to get me even more enchanted, throw in some key items that would make the characters even deeper and mystifying. If you give me all about the characters in the beginning, I'll have absolutely nothing to look forward to. Got that? Good.
So, don't expect me to go on long rants explaining this and that. No. I absolutely refuse.
Suck on that popsicle stick, Kakashi-sensei.
I was mainly on that book rant because me, Ino, TenTen and Hinata were all at the library working on this project that stupid Kakashi had assigned. You see, we had to write about ourselves in a novelistic form in order to create our writing personalities. That in itself is complete and utter bull because it isn't like I haven't been writing as if I'm talking to myself—not like I do talk to myself, or anything weird like that—since, like, grade three. So, yeah. And, I don't want him to know everything that goes on in my life just for a measly 210-point assignment. Psh. That's like NOTHING.
(Okay, I do realize that can take my A to a probable C if I completely don't do it, but, I am trying to make a point that not worth making, so, if you do not mind…)
It didn't seem like anyone else was having much difficulty, going off all the scratchy pen noises. I couldn't do anything. Like…ugh, how do I express my personality and not get a detention for disapprobation?
Ino seemed to have noticed my FAIL face, so she was like, "Hey, Sakura, you should write about—"
But, I was all, "I would never!"
My sudden outburst of noise and other loudness dragged Hinata out of her studiousness—the freaking nerd—and she giggled. "You should, S-Sakura-chan. I'm sure it would win Student Writer."
Just the mention of that stupid award caused me to regurgitate minuscule amounts my delicious lunch of Subway sandwich. That retarded reward was created by people who think that all you need to get along in life is a pretty face, dazzling smile, and ability to form sentences.
TenTen cracked up (no, not her physically, since that would be one hell of a puzzle to put back together), casting gazes from other losers in our direction. The librarian glared at us all and sent the brunette child to a rushed hush.
"Don't tell me you're still peeved about losing every year, Sakura-chan. There's no guarantee toward winning unless you try, but theirs always a guarantee to lose if you don't."
Thank you, oh wise TenTen.
Why would I not be peeved about losing a competition that I signed up for every year since my freaking birth? I get second to the same freaking person, and for no apparent reason. She's stupid and whorish and ugly and soooooo—
My throat released a low, "Ughhh," growl when the doors to the study section of the library swung open, a gust of wind that quite literally came from nowhere blowing papers off their staples on the wall and onto the floor.
One day when I was four, Karin stepped on my shoe and I dropped my lunch into a mud puddle. She laughed at me like an ugly fart monkey—because at that age I didn't know the word bitch-ass—until the teacher passed by. At that point, she immediately made her cackles sound like concerned wails and she dropped to the pavement, scarring her tights with water and mud—since of course it had to be raining, right?—and helped me up.
She said, "Are you okay?"
I said, "What do you mean! You stepped on my shoe you meanie!"
For emphasis, I stuck out my brand new light up Skechers and consequently jarred her in the face. It had happened as an accident but I wasn't complaining. Karin's face twisted and she started bawling to the point that I could differentiate her tears from rainwater.
The teacher rushed over. She looked at me, then at Karin who was pointing at me, then looked at her bloody ripped tights, and then gave me time out.
Karin took my lunch from the mud puddle. And ate it. In my face. While I was on time out. She even had the audacity to tell me I owed her new tights.
So then, I tackled her into the block box where she mysteriously received a black eye.
Ino was forced to drive me home after I told her that I was going to staple Karin to death with the Library Stapler—totally worth the caps; those things are heavy duty—if she kept on giggling and shoving her boobs into every male in the room's face so obviously. She wasn't even trying to hide her whorishness. Who comes to the library to flirt?
"Calm down, Sakura. I don't think people are supposed to be able to break the stress balls," Ino advised, slowly turning into our subdivision.
I looked down into my palms and sneered, "They broke themselves."
Stupid shelf stockers at Walmart always have to put the dysfunctional shit in the front so the customers are forced to come back and pay full price for crap that they bought seventy-five percent off the week before. Ingenious bastards.
a/n: off hiatus. CELEBRATE!
~Legit