So the other day I was at Disney Store in the old Metro town Mall. It was glorious. It was like Disneyland was a dandelion and a seed has fallen off and gracefully floated into our little corner in Canada. My friend Kirstin and I gawked at all the wondrous things with gaping mouths and wide eyes. We skipped around joyfully drooling at all the merchandise willing wholeheartedly to hand our money over to franchise.

The whole excursion was a dramatic and excitable sort that need not be explained in detail because what really stuck in my mind the most was not the two shirts I bought or the Winnie the Pooh bag I proudly swung on my arm as I left, but the Petite Asian Sales Lady who seemed so sweet to start.

At first she seemed to share in our excitement of things and even taught us how to use a magic mirror that showed us Disney Princess scenes (A F@#$ING MAGIC MIRROR) and introduced us to Mickey and Minnie stuffies  dressed as bunnies for easter that smelt so convincingly of chocolate my mouth watered as I attempted to take a bite of my beloved childhood. Then we went to the till to purchase our fantastic finds and the following conversation took place.

Petite Asian Sales Lady: So what grade are you guys going into next year?

Me: Oh, we are graduating.

The Petite Asian Sales Lady looked at us in mock laughter as though for a moment her judgement of two 17 year old girls galavanting through chidhood was a bad thing. Pft.

Petite Asian Sales Lady: Oh? really?! I though you guys were way younger like grade 10 or 11.

Congratulations to you Lady, if your intent was to insult me you had succesfully done so. After a long and uncomfotable silence and a bruised self-esteem, I gather all the wit one can while in a Disney Store and haughtily replied.

Me: That’s strange, I usually get the opposite.

At this point, the Petite Asian Sales Lady looks up at me from the debit machine and then promptly looks down again.

Petite Asian Sales Lady: No.

She says with a dismissive and defiant shake of her head accompanied with small smile. That damn smile.

Whether is was our animated faces of exploding features that made us look like we were (to ironically compare) kids in a candy shop, or the Petite Asian Sales Lady’s poor judgement, I still think about this blow to my already fragile self image of myself and continuously dwell on whether or not I am a child or a woman. I mean come on, the lady looked 12 herself.

            Sincerely, the inferior to a Petite Asian Sales Lady and Socially Inept

*NOTE TO READERS*: This is something I wrote a very long time ago after I had finished reading the book and the excuse I am going with to explain its prolonged publication is that my friend was currently reading the series and threatened to punch me in the boob if I spoiled anything. Ouch.

I had read the first and second books of the Hunger games three years ago and devoured them lovingly and with ecstasy. Within the few days that followed after my completion of the second, I ventured forth to Chapters to enthusiastically purchase The Mockingjay. The cashier recognized the novel and asked me how I liked the series. After replying she looked at me almost sternly and said in a warning yet taunting tone, “Just remember to read it slowly, because once you finish, it’s over.”

Shit.

What was I supposed to do?  The suspense of District 12 being no more and the not-knowing of what was soon to come was far more appealing than putting an end to the adventure so soon. So I then made a deal with myself that I was to read one novel and then allow myself to continue the series. Well as my inevitable procrastination produced, that one novel turned into two, and three, and so on. It wasn’t until my faithful friend Kirstin hounded me on my slow reading skills and my procrastination of indulgence that I was finally forced into high gear to immediately, if you will, get it over with.  I had seen the contorted faces of pain and disappointment upon my other friends’ faces at the mention of The Mockingjay, so I suppose that was haunting me that the back of my mind as well – I didn’t want to be disappointed like everyone else was.

But here I am having just sounded that final clapping of the covers closing together with gusto as my eyes traced over the stabbing words, “THE END.” I finished this book in little over 24 hours of no sleep and school. What I am about to write is about to soon transform itself into an ugly rant of betrayal and rage. SO here we go.

Having read The Hunger Games over three years ago, as any reader would be, I was more than a little sceptical. You have movies where a book’s plot is attacked with a machete like Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire where I may have been seen screaming at the screen “WHERE IS DOBBY!?!?” Or Inkheart when you took one look at the trailer made from a book you loved as a child and immediately declared “NOPE! NO SUCH MOVIE EXISTS IN MY MIND.” What ever the traumas you have been subjected to by paying $12.95 to see a beloved story told through someone else’s eyes, scars have been left as reminders that there is a possibility you may, once again, utterly hate it.

Never the less! I braved my doubt and spontaneously pulled a U-turn in the middle of a road after work tonight and booked it straight to the theatre. I was aware that Susan Collins was on board on writing the script. This provided some comfort, but the question that remained was to what degree would she sell out.

I shall cut to the chase and declare that I loved the movie (excluding certain parts of it), and the following will tell you why. Chronological order shall we?

*NOTE TO READERS*: This is written about the staff of an old restaurant I used to work at called Andrea’s. It is my professional opinion that building should be avoided at all costs if you wish to stay in good health. This in no way what so ever reflects upon the staff of the place I am currently working at now. :)

Waitresses are vultures. I should know, I see them at their best. I am a busser.
They circle the restaurant like vultures as they scavenge for a glimmer of shiny coins that catch their eye. As a waitress opens her talons and reaches to snatch that precious pray, I catch a flicker of fierce black savagery and know what they are really like behind those otherwise sparkling eyes (which are surrounded with a little bit too much eye liner I might add).

NO! You may NOT see my iPod. I am very protective of my possessions and my iPod is the most valuable of them all, but that isn’t why you aren’t allowed to touch it (I have it currently encased in a beast of an Otterbox so there is little harm you can do to it that I haven’t done already). Oh I get it, you want to see my iPod because you want to take a gander through my music right? No. You are forbidden. No exceptions. You see that’s why you can’t see my iPod - the music on there is bizarre and no amount of “dude, no judgements” can ever protect me from the hot humiliation I’ll feel while I anxiously gaze upon the scrolling eye in the face of the person who is going through my music - my life’s soundtrack. My soul.

It all started with high hopes, a lust for adventure, and a general need to get out of my house on Friday night. But what began with a couple of hours in front of the mirror turned into an evening of humiliation, romance, and horror…

After posting a picture of my friend, Sienna, and I ” Chinning for the Winning”, one of her friends I don’t know decides to take a shot in offering his hand in friendship…

So my parents where out of town for an entire day with my little brother and sister to see a baseball game and car show - and they left me a car! For a girl who has only had her ‘N’ for about a week, this was pretty stellar and I was ecstatic.

I go to pick up my friend Sheamus, as we both needed to get out of our houses, and do various chores. I hop into my dad’s little black Saturn to find it completely repulsive. After I had cleaned, I jumped in and started her up. Now this is my dad’s car, I had previously only been driving my mom’s giant suburban so this was a big change for me, and for the following tales of woe, I hope this provides more understanding. The first thing I noticed about a smaller car is that you merely touch your toe to the gas and you zoom off. I was being tossed back and forth and was extremely embarrassed as I picked up my friend and tried to convince him that I normally am a good driver and am just not used to this car.

First stop was the bank, as I progressed from his house to there my pedaling improved a little. We arrived at the bank and sat in the parking lot and talked about the ‘N’ test as Sheamus’ test is in less than a week. We popped out did banking for about ten minutes and then jumped back into the car. I started her up and as soon as I presses the gas I heard the most god awful sound.

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!

Whilst trolling through my old school assignments, I came across a gem in which I had long forgotten about - my Lord of the Flies rant. Scrawled upon a shard of loose-leaf paper, it lay tucked and folded into my actual Lord of the Flies project which I shall share too.
So here is my rant, enjoy.

THE LORD OF THE FLIES RANT:

3 A.M. on Monday morning this spring break, I lay restlessly determined to finish the novel Lord of the Flies. Pardon my French, but what a shit ending! Ralph was running through the burning jungle and had all these escape tactics formulating in his head; my heart was racing with suspense of the chase, when suddenly a guy MAGICALLY appears from the jungle at the precipice of Ralph’s fate and takes them home!
                   SHIT                                                         ENDING!
I wasn’t expecting to become so attached to this book, much less like it. But as I was completely enthralled into it, it RIPS my heart out!
Maybe that’s why people are afraid to love… because it may have a shit ending like the Lord of the Flies.
Good job William Golding, you can add that one to your list of allegories.

THE LORD OF THE FLIES ALTERNATE ENDING WRITTEN AND CONCOCTED BY THE OBSCURE MIND OF YOUR’S TRUELY:

Now it’s been a while and I remember my teacher pointed out a few typos while marking it, but I have since been too lazy to go back and fix them. If you do read it in it’s entirerity: you are amazing and I give you a cyber high-five. I find it just peachy how I can’t attach a word file of any sort to tumblr, so this is basically the unformatted copy and paste job from Microsoft word. So go on, what are you waiting for? Click that little ‘read more’ button!

Dear tumblr,

Greetings, you are a strange and foreign site to me and it has only taken me a half hour to figure out how to make a text. Making a blog upon you was my friend’s idea, not mine, so I too am intrigued as to how this is going to play out. Perhaps this could be the start of a beautiful friendship? Or maybe you will be like an old diary I might have had when I was 12 and abandoned after six entries.  Either way I am hoping we have the potential to have many an adventure together. And even though there is no way I am paying $50 dollars for an attractive theme or wield the creativity (or attention span) to make one, I hope my words are enough to keep the minute number of people possibly reading this vaguely entertained and contented.

Sincerely, Bailey - a new blogger

 P.S. Dear lord, I feel like I am contributing to some sick stereotype.