How Chicken Nuggets are Made…

You know you’re going to have a very fascinating day when you end up wrestling with C on the floor of the bus over who gets the window seat.

(I won by the way, and the window seat was very satisfying, thank you very much C)

On the bus, I decided to drive everybody insane by doing a comedy sketch in an Australian accent.

As usual, my “comedy sketch” ended up being possibly one of the worst and most confusing on record, what I classify as “funny” is what most others classify as “so confusing that I didn’t know what the bloody hell she was on about”.

Anyways, like normal, my comedy sketch was all about chicken nuggets.

I like chicken nuggets.

So I was in the car with my Mother the other day and she says to me, “Anna, what colour is the sky?”

So I put down my phone, I take a deep breath, I look her in the eye, and I say to her;

“I fancy some chicken nuggets”.

This was a very emotional time in the relationship between my mother and I.

So you know what happens then? We go home, and she makes me some chicken nuggets.

Then she says to me, “Anna, do you know what chicken nuggets are made of?”

And it hits me.

It finally hits me.

A nugget meets a chicken, they have sex and BAM.

You have a chicken nugget (:

By the time we reached our desitination, everyone felt like either slapping me or ridding the world of chicken nuggets.

We then returned back to school, where I experienced the bestest hour ever.

EVER.

Then, we had a speech lesson, where things got “steamy”.

I was innocently reciting my speech intro to my class, when my teacher looks at me and says “Anna, I can’t concentrate, you’re distracting me with your body!!”

I immediately starting laughing the hardest I’ve ever laughed.

Mrs. N then turned bright red, started laughing herself, and said “My God, I didn’t mean it like that!! That came out wrong!!”

It’s okay Mrs. N, I know you think I look sexy in a kilt too (:

-Anna xo

 

I Am Officially a Psychopathic Maniac, As Exemplified By The Following Reasons

It’s all in the title, I have finally snapped. SNAPPED, I TELL YOU! One day I just woke up and I felt like a mentally deranged, psychopathic lunatic. If you know me, then  you know that this doesn’t happen very often.

I am a very calm, mature, responsible, reserved, quiet person.

Always.

Mostly.

Usually.

Some of the time.

And I most certainly never bite people.

EVER.

But recently I have found that I cannot ignore the urge to dance wildly in art, scream “profanities”, attempt to murder my sewing teacher, kiss C on the cheek after biting her several times, and then slapping her.

C is very slappable.

I swear all these strange things are happening because of my “meds”. This is all your fault J.

Speaking of my “meds”, next week I plan to run into Social Studies late screaming “No…God, no… NOO!! I’VE FORGOTTEN TO TAKE MY MEDS!!” I think I would make a very good crazy person.

SPEAKING of my breathtaking talents in the performing arts field, I would also make an excellent sperm.

Honestly, if you’re ever casting a play and the main character is a sperm,

You know who to call.

I make quiet an extraordinary sperm.

I wonder if sperm are good at sewing?? Cuz I am utterly the most uselsess sewer on the bloody planet. My sewing teacher talks to me like I’m a slightly retarded two year old, especially after today when I managed to sew my finger with a sewing machine. (I told you I was extraodinary!)

I believe I am having the kind of day that would make even Mother Teresa want to kick babies.

-Anna (:

P.S I happen to look a lot sexier in a kilt than sperm does though. (That was a definitely a joke. Definitely)

My Hands, And What They Can and Cannot Do…

I happen to have an extreme attention to detail, which has often got me into trouble.

For instance; the time I noticed STRAIGHT AWAY that somebody happened to not be wearing a shirt in their profile picture.

This is totally unnecessary information, however; if they had been on fire and burning to their tragic and firy demise, then that may have been important.

The fact that my index fingers are really crooked from numerous netball injuries and that I currently have a broken finger, is IMPORTANT. However, what my hands can and cannot do, whatever that may be, is completely UNIMPORTANT.

Anyways, recently some mean person made the comment that my hands would be totally useless at doing a certain “deed”s because they are so small.

MY HANDS ARE NOT SMALL, AND I THINK I WOULD BE ABLE TO DO *Quote, Unquote* “THAT DEED” PERFECTLY FINE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Just to put things into perspective, I have included a photograph of my hand:

My Hand

That is my completely average sized, NOT small, and rather attractive (even if I do say so myself) hand.

There is nothing wrong with my hands, thank you very much, and they worked perfectly fine when I tried it out with a drink bottle, so why not the real deal?!

And I’m sure a certain someone (who’s name begins with J, ends in H and is four letters long) would NEVER say that about my hands, because he’s not a psycho, weirdo douchebag. 

-Anna

I Broke My Finger! (and other recent rendezvous)

After several torn ligaments, 3 broken fingers, a dislocated knee, almost falling into a fire and a plunge down a flight of stairs all in the space of two years, I think it is fair to say that I am pretty accident prone.

The truth is, I’ve always wanted a cast so people could sign it, but I’ve only ever broken pathetic things that don’t need a cast or almost cutting my leg to bits (don’t ask.)

So, I am sitting on the couch with a splint on my finger and a bag of frozen peas.

Fun? No.

Typical? Extremely.

After a trip to my Colombian doctor with the awesome accent who couldn’t read the x-rays and overall was pretty hopeless (how do YOU feel when someone tells you that you’ll be in the hands of a South American doctor?? Exactly.) and my devlishly attractive hand surgeon, I have come to two conclusions. One, my fingers are naturally and disgustingly crooked, and two, the hand sanitizer in clinics smells nice.

Going back to my “devlishly attractive” hand surgeon, he is BEAUTIFUL- his face is a work of art.

And I don’t mean Alex Pettyfer beautiful, I mean he’s like an ANGEL. I swear he glows in the dark.

No jokes, he could be like an underwear model or something.

AND he walks around like an angel too. In fact he doesn’t even walk, he FLOATS.

*Sigh*.

Which brings me to another point, libraries and scholarship exams can be very fun, you know. And I think Tuesday might be my favourite day of the week.

-Anna

20 Things I Did on Camp

1. Ate a fly. (Yes, it was dead, and I killed it.)

2. Killed over 30 flies with my bare hands, and then pulled their wings off and threw them in the fire. (Barbaric, but insanely addictive.)

3. Kept the campfire going all week.

4. Set fire to dinner. (Then I stupidly poured water all over the oil and ended up making the flame worse.)

5. Tried to jump an electric fence and got electrocuted.

6. Got told to drive the boat and keep it straight and almost crashed into a warf.

7. Had to lead my entire class through a forest even though I have absolutely no geographical skills whatsoever.

8. Kissed a girl.

9. Got over 40 cuts and bruises (one of which I got from trying to hug someone)

10. Started several flashmobs.

11. Adopted two new uncles (Uncle Des and Uncle Pete)

12. Broke someone’s ear drumb.

13. Became one of the most annoying people to sit in front of on a bus (tied with B.)

14. Slapped C.

15. Slapped C with a piece of salami.

16. Slapped C with my muesli bar.

17. Slapped C with a t-shirt tied in a knot.

18. Beat C  over 25 times at the question game.

19. Managed to maintain my given persona of a ‘gay Australian’ for over an hour.

20. Ripped a hole in the tent.

The Boringest Weekend Ever

Okay, so I’m not saying I was expecting fireworks, or a string quartet playing “Theme from Titanic” or anything, but it would have been nice for things to go out with a bang.

Alas, water under the proverbial bridge, proverbial cake I cannot both eat and have, and any other cliches and innuendos you can come up with.

Wow. Judy Blume didn’t prepare me for this.

Anyways, I can honestly say that due to my self-diagnosed insomnia, I have been extremely sleep deprived lately, thus resulting in the boringest weekend ever.

I think I spent Friday afternoon reading my horoscope, it turns out my lucky dates this month are the 18th and 20th, and this month I will find love.

Being extremely supersticious, I believed it.

I then spent Friday night reading crappy romance novels and painting my nails, not one of my most productive evenings.

I spent Saturday watching Japanese movies and annoying my siblings.

Then I spent Saturday night lying in bed waiting like an idiot for something exciting to happen.

Then, I spent Sunday morning cleaning my room, and then the rest of my family’s house. (Yes, I clean when I’m depressed. I’m so weird.)

On Sunday afternoon after my yoga class (I do a pretty mean tree pose.) I demanded that my parents take me to the Jazz Festival at the Domain.

I think I am the only person under 50 who likes jazz.

It is currently Sunday evening and I am being mildly infatuated, sitting in bed blogging and drinking iced tea.

I think it is fair to say that this weekend has been the boringest weekend ever.

Pride

Within the past few weeks, my pride and sense if dullusional superiority has been challenged several times.

First, I was beaten for the first time ever in a game of chess.

By a year 6.

If I’ve ever cried and thrown a tantrum over a game, it was then (I’m not really the sort who fakes an injury and throws a fit when something doesn’t go their way in a game of touch.)

Then, it was class photos, where we all had to practice the mundane activity of getting into height order. Anyways, last year I was easily the tallest in our class, no questions asked.

However, over the Christmas holidays, I literally shrunk.

Like… actually shrunk.

At the beginning of the holidays, I was 160 cm, now I am 157.8 cm.

My aspirations of being the tallest in our school were sadly and suddenly crushed as I was thrust into the front row.

For as long as I can remember, I have refused to say “I don’t know”, I have refused to ask for help, and telling someone that you can’t do something is simply out of the question.

It’s a pride thing.

Curses on my Attention to Detail…

For future reference; I must learn to differentiate necessary from unecessary information.

For example; whether somebody is wearing a shirt or not in their profile picture is totally unnecessary information, however, whether they are on fire and possibly burning to their fiery and tragic demise is completely necessary.

My fantastic attention to detail and superior observational skills have often landed me in deep sh*t, and have done so again.

But, just for the record, I would have noticed that with anyone, Nora. =P

Like, Comment, Keep Reading.

-Anna

My Step by Step Guide to Making Friends, for Socially Incapable Idiots

STEP ONE: For the time being, I shall assume that you are a socially incapable idiot, in which case Step One is to refrain from telling others about your lack of social skills.

Do: Pretend that your tendency to invade others’ personal space and constantly make an idiot of yourself is a professionally diagnosed medical condition, in which case noone will question you about it, for fear of insensitivity.

Don’t: Tell everybody about your broken home/non-existant social skills.

eg. “My mother says that noone wants to be my friend and that I have no social skills!!”

Doing so would create an awkward silence, something you should endeavour to avoid in the friendship building process.

STEP TWO:

It’s been said in kindergarten, but I’ll say it again:

Keep your hands to yourself.

In kindy it’s hair yanking, in high school it’s sexual harrassment.

STEP THREE:

Keep sarcasm to a minimum; my friends certainly don’t appreciate my unnecessary cynical and sarcastic comments at every oppurtune moment.

Like, comment, keep reading

-Anna

My Step by Step Guide on How to Make Friends, for Socially Incapable Idiots

STEP ONE: For the time being, I shall assume that you are a socially incapable idiot, in which case Step One is to refrain from telling others about your lack of social skills.

Do: Pretend that your tendency to invade others’ personal space and constantly make an idiot of yourself is a medical issue, in which case noone will question you about it.

Don’t: Tell everybody about your broken home/non-existant social skills.

eg. “My mother says that noone wants to be my friend and that I have no social skills!!”

Doing so would create an awkward silence, something you should endeavour to avoid in the friendship building process.

STEP TWO:

It’s been said in kindergarten, but I’ll say it again:

Keep your hands to yourself.

In kindy it’s hair yanking, in high school it’s sexual harrassment.

STEP THREE:

Keep sarcasm to a minimum; my friends certainly don’t appreciate my unnecessary cynical and sarcastic comments at every oppurtune moment.

Like, comment, keep reading

-Anna