Twenty-one

is the number of mosquito bites I got today from sitting in the grass near the beach for an hour and a half, editing other people’s works.

Yes. TWENTY-FREAKING-ONE mosquito bites.

Originally I thought there were six bites, which is bad enough. Then I looked in the mirror and found fifteen. Finally, after dinner, I took one final check and the total rose to twenty-one.

Do you know how impossible it is to live my day without at least one of these damnable buggers crying out for attention? I only caught one mosquito sucking on me, on my left forearm. When I tried to blow it off, it stayed, and I immediately thought, “Oh crap,” and smacked it off.

I was tempted to flex my arm to force the little devil to suck in more than it needed to. And then it would explode and die. Mwahahaha.

I do wonder why God ever created mosquitoes in the first place. To annoy humankind? Really, do they have any positive purpose at all, besides feeding dragonflies?

YOU MOSQUITOES SHOULD ALL DIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE.

…You know, reading what I wrote above, it sounds like I have major psychological issues. I just hate mosquitoes so so so so so so so so so much. My entire left arm is tingling right now.

Aside from the itchy torture, I walked two miles for lunch. In flip flops. And the supposedly legendary food wasn’t even that great. There’s a terrible blister on my right foot.

It was also very hot out today.

I discovered that Billy is very much in love with Emma Watson, which I thought was cute. He’s a total Harry Potter fan (which makes me like him more because I myself am a HP nerd), even taking the time to see the movie when it was released at midnight. He kept talking about her, how she’s pretty, she’s very intelligent, she’s an actress, she’s got the whole British thing going on, etc.

He even calculated that if he decides to attend Brown University, the place Emma will attend, he’ll be a freshman when she’s a senior. It kind of bothers me that he knows she’ll go there because that’s how dedicated he is. I wouldn’t be surprised if they end up getting together in the future, since Billy is a guy whose personality stands out from the rest AND has movie-star good looks.

Anyway, I’m rather anxious for Monday. We edited two of our writing class’s works today at the beach. I’d been anticipating the editing part because I still wasn’t sure how my writing would compare with others.

Would I outshine the rest and be the envy of everyone there?

Would I be horribly amateurish and they’ll have to force their grins and feed me false compliments?

Or would I be on the exact same level as everyone and not have to worry about anything?

I know for sure that my dialogue and technical aspects (grammar, punctuation, spelling) are top-notch because those are my specialties. Okay, maybe not so much the grammar. However, my writing, like my journal entries, is jumbled and rambly and confusing. My teenage characters are unrealistic because I’m one of the worst examples of a teenager you can find and therefore do not know how they behave. I may seem like one at times, but that’s because I refuse to allow Nana-me to spoil my lighthearted entries with my angst. The sarcasm is all her, though.

I also needed to type twenty pages in five days, and it absolutely astounds me that I finished in time. That doesn’t mean it isn’t rushed, though, because it is.

Er, right. Back to why I’m anxious.

Since mine is the second-longest piece in the group, the teacher distributed my paper to everyone to SCRUTINIZE, CRITICIZE, and TEAR APART over the weekend. After reading over the opening paragraph of my short story, I think I may die. Here, take a gander at this monstrosity:

Alan’s wilted body was draped over the bleachers. When Delia approached, breathing heavily and dripping sweat, he lifted his head to show her possibly the most dismal face she had ever seen. Alarmed, she didn’t notice when her basketball slipped through her hands as she hurried to his side.  A list of possible maladies streamed through her conscience. She was prepared to kneel and fawn over him until he would confide in her his problems, like she’d done so many instances before.

Why oh why didn’t I write that more carefully? It sounds AWFUL now that I’ve read it again. First impressions are everything, and I think I blew it. Compared to the pure epicness of Alissa’s entire story or to Joan’s perfectly written beginning, mine is going to be crap. The entire concept of it seems appallingly bad-teenage-literature-esque, like Twilight.

God, I’m so ITCHY.

Until next time,

~ Nana D:<

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