Judas-Juda-Ah-Ahs! Gaga!

I don’t care what anybody else says, I like this song a lot. It’s got such a fun beat, you know? And the tune is cool. And it’s not exactly the same as “Bad Romance”. Okay, similar, fine. But not the same. “I’m in love with Ju-da-us! Judas!”

Anyway, tonight’s the last night of May, which means that–finally–I don’t have to write these damn stories every day anymore. I’m sorry, I know that if it was bugging me so much (and it’s no secret that it was, I complain every day about it!), I should have just quit earlier. It’s not like anybody’s making me do it, I know, I know… It’s just what I’ve been saying to everyone who points that out: I want to be someone, someday. I mean, I can’t be satisfied with an average life, just working a normal job, waking up at six and going to bed around ten or eleven.

I need to be a neurotic writer, god dammit! I need a little bit of chaos, you know? I want to just wake up when I want and stay up as late as I want and just write all day. Except that I think if I worked from home full-time I’d probably have no motivation to, like, brush my hair or eat breath mints or keep my clothes in good condition… Yeah, if there was no reason that I had to leave home every day, I wouldn’t, and I would just become a total mess.

Agh. These little thoughts are the ones that scare me.

Anyways, it’s very nearly time for me to take a shower, so I want to get started on my story a day. You know, instead of watching Lady Gaga interviews on Youtube. My god, she’s so funny.

My eyes bounced back and forth as I followed the ping-pong match going on in front of me. “So… guys…” I said quietly.

They were in the zone, though. Their eyes were glued to the ball, and they wouldn’t be moved to do anything else, it looked like.

I sighed and looked back at my graph-paper notebook. It had all the information we needed to put together a good slideshow presentation for our final project in Algebra. I even had some of the stupid jokes we had brainstormed during class written down, and I was sure that the guys would be able to supply more, if necessary.

That is, if they ever decided that the project was more important than taking advantage of the game room.

“Hey!” I heard a hoarse voice shout from the doorway. I winced, and both boys dropped their ping-pong paddles. The ball bounced quietly on the table.

“Hi, Sarah,” Craig–who had been winning the ping-pong game–said uncomfortably. “Jake, I told you we needed to get back to work.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Um, I believe it was Jasmine who bet you couldn’t beat me at ping-pong. So really, it’s her fault.”

“I never said that…”

Sarah, pushed the plastic box of sugar cookies into my hands. “Alright, guys, enough goofing off. Jazzy, you’ve got the notes?” I nodded at her. “Great,” she said. “Craig, boot up your laptop already. Jake, be a dear, would you, and unfold a card table so we can work.”

Jake grabbed one of the folded up tables and quickly got it set up. He ran to get chairs and I set down the cookies and notes.

“Thanks, Sarah,” I said.

“Not a problem, Jazzy. Be more assertive.” I nodded awkwardly, then followed Jake’s path to help carry the chairs.

“Oh, hey, Jazz. Thanks, but I’ve got this,” he said when I offered to help.

“Oh, okay,” I said.

“By the way,” he interrupted as I was turning back towards the game room door. I looked at him curiously. “By the way, if it’s worth anything, I think you’re perfectly fine, all unassertive and stuff.”

I nodded and smiled. “Well, okay, then! Um… thanks?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I’m serious. I think it’s nice.”

“Well. Okay.”

Then it got awkward. I didn’t mean for it to, but there we were–Jake standing across from me, looking all cool, leaning on a folded up metal chair, and me, smiling uncomfortably at him, my lower body already turned towards the door but my torso facing him.

“Guys!”

Leave it to Craig and Sarah to break our little moment of discomfort with their presence.

“Hey, I want to sit sometime today, can you please bring the chairs back?” This was Craig. Only he would be so unfocused on the project itself that he was more worried about the chairs than he was about actually getting the work done.

“We’ve got a PowerPoint to make, okay? It shouldn’t be hard,” Sarah said in her gentlest voice–which was probably still harsher than my harshest voice, but that’s just Sarah.

I always admired Sarah for her abrasiveness, even despite Jake’s friendly little comment. I wanted to be assertive. I just didn’t know how to be.

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