Family outings are like Russian roulette. I mean, I still go because even if things go bad I get some food that I don't have to microwave. But tonight went bad. First off, my sister started on my damn hair again. When I cut my hair a year ago, it finally shut her and my mom up, and now I find that that bliss lasts about a year.

Sis: Wow, your hair's getting long again
Me: Yeah, well it's been about a year since I got it cut.
Sis: WHOA!
Me: Uh, its not that big of a deal. I hadn't got it cut for 3 years before that.
Sis: How do you do it?
Me: grow hair? Well, there's these things in my head called follicles....
Sis: No, I mean, don't you have split ends?
Me: Well I never blow dry it or put on hairspray, so that helps
Sis: You don't get split ends from hairspray, you get it from brushing.
Me: Oh, well I guess I don't know how to spot them then.
Sis: Your hair gets frizzy if you have split ends.
Me: Well, I don't think it's frizzy, really.

And then, I don't remember how, but we got onto the fact that I can't add. Yes, that's right America, I cannot add numbers in my head. Are you happy now? I apparently was a slow kid in early grade school, because I can't tell time very well either. Which comes into this later.

So my sister mentions that I can't add in my head, something to do with board games and dice that we were talking about. I don't really mind her mentioning it. Or being teased about it a little. But my dad all got onto this HUGE tirade about how I can't add at all, it's not just dice. Which is obvious from the fact that I can't add two dice. I mean, I don't think there's anyone out there who's bad at adding dice, but is somehow great at adding in their head otherwise. So I get it. I'm a feeb who can't add. You really needn't rub it in.

On the way out of the restaurant (Panera, btw. A kind of middle ground between deli and Taco Bell, though only one person reading this will get that comment) I look at my watch, because I have to decide whether to go to my sis's and hang out for awhile or go straight to class. So I look at my watch and.... (I really can tell time, but I'm a tiny bit slow at it sometimes) my dad gets impatient and shouts out the time like I can't tell it myself. In fact, I came up with it and said it at about the exact time he did, so it was really not necessary. Really. Come on. If I wanted you to just tell me the time, I would ask you. But instead you had to make me feel like even more of a feeb. Thanks.

So anyway, I felt great after that. And also the, "Mmm, we're having baby!" joke was not well recieved when they decided to put the 'phew in his carseat on top of the table, leaving no space for us to eat. But really, last time I saw the 'phew, my sister made a hitler joke when he raised his hand in sort of the heil way. So eatin' baby was comparatively not that tasteless of a joke, I felt.

Then I went to class for Blue Velvet. It was okay, I guess. You can tell it's supposed to be controversial and polarize you either for or against it, but I just kind of felt detached from it all. What really drives me nuts in that class, though, is that it's open for anyone to take, as opposed to the other classes I take that only others with a film studies minor can take. As annoying as I sometimes find the artsy fartsy more intelligent than thou film minors, they are not near as annoying as the general student population, who for some reason love to shout random things, laugh at inappropriate moments, and yell EWWWW!!! at gory bits during screenings.

Is it his brown eyes?
I know blues eyes get boring but
I'll wear dark glasses all the time
and hey, if you want me to I'll take a knife to
my own bright eyes

--"Sell My Old Clothes I'm Off to Heaven," Saves the Day