Lol… Trust me, you really don't want to get me started on our ahem "president".
It's funny, though, 'cause when I wrote that, it was just a convenient excuse for him to leave. 'Cause that's like the exact reason he left in the show… lol… And I didn't even mean it as an insult, but yeah… The president needs Jared's help. A lot. 'Cause our country's in quite a bind, really, but that is a topic for another day.
Actually, though, the fic I was talking about was the first one I ever wrote… I think I wrote in the beginning of seventh grade… Man, that was a long time ago. Not that I ever finished it… But it was all twisty-and-turny and totally unrealistic and unbelievable, but hey, it was AU and that's how it was supposed to be.
Man, those were the days. Actually, though, it wasn't a Recess fic. It's on this site, actually… Kate Jones and the Last Rambaldi Device. A rather witty title, if I do say so myself… Anyways, my first Recess fic was a one-shot called The Magic of Snow. It's kinda bad.
My first Recess fic was Betrayal… It was only like four chapters, but hey, pretty cool. That was actually the first fic I ever finished too.
Seriously, I read so much fanfic… It's not even funny. So I kinda have this little monitoring system of knowing if things are good… Like, if things aren't capitalized or are when they shouldn't be or words are misspelled in the summary… Generally a bad sign.
And if you wanna find out what kind of 'shipper someone is, just look at their profile, and if it's not there, then just look to see what kind of stories are their favorites and which kind they write. Oh, and OCs… I usually really hate those, because they're all Mary-Sueish or like, hooking up with a character I don't want to… Or they've got a sad past or something… There are a few exceptions, though.
Ooh, and it's annoying when there's like a gazillion song-fics of the same song. Or when there's a crossover that makes absolutely no sense, as in, like, not even in the same time period without the use of time travel… And when they get numerous facts wrong about the show that they include… That's always annoying, but hey, I'm a stickler for these odd things.
Which is why I prolly try to keep them as much in character as I can. And Spinelli is, but I dunno about T.J.
Seriously, though, I've read like a gazillion pages of fanfic. It's scary.
Anyways, here we are… Back at the prom again…
T.J. shoots me an intense look.
"I wish I could."
Then he walks over, getting two cups of punch. He hands me one. We drink the alcohol-saturated juice in silence. I glance over at him. He's focusing on consuming his drink. I gaze around at all the other people. Vince and Gretchen still aren't back yet. Someone's up at the DJ's turntables.
I think it's Francis, actually. Suddenly, the very familiar chords of one of my very favorite songs begins to play. A grin stretches across my face for the first time all night, and I throw the punch down, looking over at T.J., who winces, crushing the drink in his hands.
8 o'clock Monday night and I'm waiting
To finally talk to a girl a little cooler
than me
Her name is Nona, she's a rocker with
a nose ring
She wears a 2-way, but I'm not quite
sure what that means
I grab him, pulling him out unto the dance floor. A scowl is plastered across his face. I shoot him a look, but he remains stiff.
And when she walks, all the wind blows
and the angels sing
But she doesn't notice me
It's a fast dance song. But T.J.'s acting really strange. I mean, sure he's dancing, but his face is all screwed up and everything.
"Why do you look like that?" I ask, curious.
He shoots me a clueless look. Yeah, right. Like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. Sure. Liar.
"Look like what?" He questions, feigning naivety and innocence.
I roll my eyes as he cringes at the next lyrics.
'Cause she's watching wrestling
Creaming over tough guys
Listening to rap metal
Turntables in her eyes
He shivers, shaking his head.
"I hate this song," He mutters violently.
I give him a look and he cringes once more.
It's like a bad movie; she's looking
through me, if you were me then you'd be,
Screaming "someone shoot me,"
as I fail miserably,
Trying to get the GIRL ALL THE BAD
GUYS WANT…
I shoot him a questioning look.
"Why?" I inquire, still dancing.
Everyone's rocking out here. I jump up and down with them, glancing at T.J., who's stiffly doing the same.
She likes the Godsmack and I like Agent Orange
Her CD changer's full of singers that are
mad at their dad
She said she'd like to score some reefer
and a 40
She'll never know that I'm the best that
she'll never have
T.J. shakes his head, not giving me an answer. This girl the band's talking about is really strange. Ugh, I could never date a redneck. I could date a guy who drives a Trans Am, maybe. No moustache or mullet though… Ugh.
"Why?" I joke, smirking, "Does it hit a little too close to home?"
She likes them with a moustache
Racetrack season pass
Driving in a Trans Am
Does a mullet make a man?
He says nothing.
Was I right?
T.J. looks up.
"Yeah, actually. It's a bit of a joke among my friends, to tell the truth," He confesses, sounding somewhat bitter.
The words that follow (in the song) are my favorite. But T.J. cringes worse than before.
There she goes again with fishnets on
Dreadlocks in her hair
She broke my heart, I want to be sedated
All I wanted was to see her naked
I grin, laughing at the lines, but he shivers a little.
"Oh, come on, T.J., like there's a girl you couldn't get…" I reply, not buying it.
He looks me straight in the eyes.
"You'd be surprised," He mumbles, sounding somewhat sad.
Now I'm watching wrestling
Trying to be a tough guy
Listening to rap metal
Turntables in my eyes
I can't grow a moustache, and I ain't got
no season pass
All I got's a moped
I shoot him a look as he winces once more.
"What do you mean?" I grill.
He sighs.
"You always want the things you can't have, Spinelli," T.J. replies sadly.
Who is he talking about?
"Who're you talking about?"
He smirks mysteriously.
"I would've thought that you'd know by now, Spinelli."
Loren ;
Hmm. Oh, don't own the song, by the way. Or Recess. The song's Girl All the Bad Guys Want by Bowling for Soup. I dunno why, but for some reason, it always made me think about Spinelli and T.J. No idea why. I think it's the wrestling thing…
Anyways, yeah…
Gym is evil. Shakespeare is evil. I am being tormented by a dead British dude. I must be some bad luck magnet or something. A dead British guy and a very-much-alive C.A. Teacher. And my crazy 'roid-popping (I swear, I mean, I bet that's why he's so short… and bald) lazy Gym Teacher who constantly barks at us while he just stands there in all of his steroid-enduced glory, egging us on with barks and yells to run or die.
Well, okay, so it's not exactly like P. Diddy's voting campaign, but the yelling is so freakin' annoying. I mean, he's a wrestling coach, for cripes' sake… What the heck does he know about running! He seems to think that we're animals who enjoy being raced and bet on and against. We had to do "The Death March" yesterday, and yes, it is as bad as it sounds. See, you run around the top of our extremely wide gym (it takes nine-and-a-half-laps around it to make a mile!), then JOG down the stairs (as he kept yelling at us… I swear, I'm scarred for life, I'm gonna have frickin' nightmares about it), then JOG back up for three minutes, punctuated by a one minute break, then back to running for two minutes, then a one minute break, then back to running for a minute, then walking again for one minute. And then the vicious cycle restarts itself. It continues like this with threats that because people stop (I mean, duh, it's gonna happen, 'cause we're not freakin' robots) he'll stop the timer, thus making us really run for like thirty minutes straight, instead of the twenty we're supposed to.
My friend's face was purple, she could barely breathe (and she doesn't even have asthma). The idiotic negligent gym teachers, as usual, did nothing… Nothing includes NOT telling her to stop, walk, slow down, NOT taking her to the nurse, NOT asking her if she was okay, and NOT forcing her to stop.
Of course, our gym teacher has yet to realize that we are not perfect. We are Americans, and thus, two-thirds of us are overweight (as a population), and thus, most of us, are out of shape. Not to mention that we girls have been swimming for three weeks, and so we weren't really used to running for so friggin' long. Or, for that matter, doing the Death March, which we never really do (Not that we don't do bad stuff… I mean, usually they do the whole stop and start thing by making us run around up there… Sans steps. We ran around the track for ages… Oh, and there was an obstacle course too… Blech).
Aside from that, I'll speed up and hustle once I DON'T have a cold and have figured out the secret to anaerobic respiration. I mean, you need air to run, to bring blood to your muscles, duh! I mean, shouldn't they kinda know that? Anyways… Thus ends my freakishly long gym rant. Ugh, I've got it tomorrow…
You prolly didn't want to hear all that, but hey, you got a new chapter outta it! Yay!