Author's Note: Thanks a mil to all my reviewers. Let me know what you
think of this chapter! Katarina, I read some of your stuff. it's pretty
good! *too lazy to sign in*, I will get away from the book, don't worry.
I just wanted to establish a background. Katy, if I don't get very much
Mia-and-Michael stuff in here, I'm gonna write a companion that'll be
Princess in the Spotlight from Michael's point of view. hopefully that'll
turn out!!! Ax, I've added another lovely chapter for you to "review".
until I hear from you again, *i want a hippopotamus for Christmas!*. She's
A Star, here ya go!
~*Thursday, November 2*~
Mia was, like, totally gone today. She went racing off after school and I haven't seen her since. Oh, well. Her dad's here; what can I say? The child tells me everything, anyway. It's not like I'm not gonna hear about this tomorrow. Still, her mysterious side has never really been this secretive before.
Actually, everyone around here's been acting like that recently. Especially my very own darling brother, Michael Moscovitz himself. For, like, the past eternity, he's been just shut up in his room, doing NOTHING. Nothing he'll tell us about, anyway. The scary part is, knowing my lovely family, he's probably either psychoanalyzing himself to a crumb or building a bomb with which to slowly destroy civilization. Somehow, the bomb would surprise me less. I mean, senior year is hitting Michael pretty hard. He's so ready to get out into the real world that all this doing-nothing- ness of 12th grade is really pretty pointless to him. So why not blow it all up? I wouldn't be shocked in the least.
I think my parents know something about Ms. Thermopolis that I don't, because whenever I mention her and Mr. Gianini, they get all lookie-lookie secretive. It's sickening.
~*Friday, October 3*~
Could today get ANY worse? I wake up this morning because darling Michael sicced his sheltie, Pavlov, on me and conveniently drooled heartworm medicine frothy all over the comforter I only washed two days ago. Then, I go to meet Mia and there's some limo and a DRIVER there. And she won't tell me why. She says it's just 'cause her dad's visiting from Genovia and that she just looks depressed because of PMS, but, puh-leez, you can't fool me. Look at my family of psychoanalysts. I'm not like the English teacher you can pout at and say that your dog digested your assignment. Now she wants to spend the night at my house. Great. I really need a manic depressive freak at my house while I try and SLEEP. What is this child THINKING?????
In other news, Michael's preparing college applications. He's sickening me with his shining SAT scores and perfect GPA. Plus his little webzine, Crackhead, gets him bonus points in the community service section. As if. However, he has one teensy little problem. None of his teachers have given him back their letters of recommendation yet. Not a single one. And little Mikey can't mail out his little applications without them. I tried to tell him he doesn't have to send them in for months, but he got all freaked out about being "in with the crowd." My brother's even more of a freak than I am. Ha. Ha. Ha.
My adoring parents felt so sorry about this that they bought Michael some more memory for his computer. So here I sit, painting my toenails with a marker while I wait for Mia to stop arguing with her parents on the phone. I never, ever do anything with my toenails. At all. I'm scaring myself. I should talk about this on my show. Oh, wait. Showing feet=having to deal with Norman the Foot Fetisher even more. The guy's a sicko, so let's just forget about it. Marker, get back in my desk. It doesn't matter than seven of my toes are "electric lime" and the other three are still in their natural state.
~*Thursday, November 2*~
Mia was, like, totally gone today. She went racing off after school and I haven't seen her since. Oh, well. Her dad's here; what can I say? The child tells me everything, anyway. It's not like I'm not gonna hear about this tomorrow. Still, her mysterious side has never really been this secretive before.
Actually, everyone around here's been acting like that recently. Especially my very own darling brother, Michael Moscovitz himself. For, like, the past eternity, he's been just shut up in his room, doing NOTHING. Nothing he'll tell us about, anyway. The scary part is, knowing my lovely family, he's probably either psychoanalyzing himself to a crumb or building a bomb with which to slowly destroy civilization. Somehow, the bomb would surprise me less. I mean, senior year is hitting Michael pretty hard. He's so ready to get out into the real world that all this doing-nothing- ness of 12th grade is really pretty pointless to him. So why not blow it all up? I wouldn't be shocked in the least.
I think my parents know something about Ms. Thermopolis that I don't, because whenever I mention her and Mr. Gianini, they get all lookie-lookie secretive. It's sickening.
~*Friday, October 3*~
Could today get ANY worse? I wake up this morning because darling Michael sicced his sheltie, Pavlov, on me and conveniently drooled heartworm medicine frothy all over the comforter I only washed two days ago. Then, I go to meet Mia and there's some limo and a DRIVER there. And she won't tell me why. She says it's just 'cause her dad's visiting from Genovia and that she just looks depressed because of PMS, but, puh-leez, you can't fool me. Look at my family of psychoanalysts. I'm not like the English teacher you can pout at and say that your dog digested your assignment. Now she wants to spend the night at my house. Great. I really need a manic depressive freak at my house while I try and SLEEP. What is this child THINKING?????
In other news, Michael's preparing college applications. He's sickening me with his shining SAT scores and perfect GPA. Plus his little webzine, Crackhead, gets him bonus points in the community service section. As if. However, he has one teensy little problem. None of his teachers have given him back their letters of recommendation yet. Not a single one. And little Mikey can't mail out his little applications without them. I tried to tell him he doesn't have to send them in for months, but he got all freaked out about being "in with the crowd." My brother's even more of a freak than I am. Ha. Ha. Ha.
My adoring parents felt so sorry about this that they bought Michael some more memory for his computer. So here I sit, painting my toenails with a marker while I wait for Mia to stop arguing with her parents on the phone. I never, ever do anything with my toenails. At all. I'm scaring myself. I should talk about this on my show. Oh, wait. Showing feet=having to deal with Norman the Foot Fetisher even more. The guy's a sicko, so let's just forget about it. Marker, get back in my desk. It doesn't matter than seven of my toes are "electric lime" and the other three are still in their natural state.
