Inadvertent Cockblock

Today I rode the late bus, because I missed my regular bus by about four minutes. Being an interloper on this bus, I was unlearned on the seating chart. This is a very important part of school life, where you sit on the bus and who you sit with. It seems like a simple thing, but sitting next to the same person for 40 minutes can get really weird if you don't know them and don't have a portable music device (I forgot my earphones).
I boarded the late bus, looking for an open seat, and literally every seat had at least one person in it. This usually means that seats are being saved. If a seat is being saved, you can't take it, it's just a rule. Even if all the other seats are taken, if someone behind you in line has the forethought to get someone to guard a seat for them, you're SOL. If someone messes up the seating system on our regular bus, people get really angry.
I board the bus, and make my way to the back, where I have friends. However, they're sitting together, which means I needed to find a new seat. There was one with a girl sitting in it, and without even thinking I just sat down.
As I realized what a grievous mistake I had made, I went to ask her if she was saving. I turned to her, saying, "oh God, I'm sorry, were you saving this seat," and I saw she was looking at the guy behind me, who, as I turned to him, was staring at me. And oh my Lawd, he was hott.
My eyes went wide, she was saving this seat, and like some entitled asshole I just sat down.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, do you want-" I began to stand up so he could take my seat.
"Nah, it's cool," he said, and just sat down in the seat in front of me. She looked cute and he was hot and I'd just inadvertently cockblocked the two of them, most notably her. A whole 40 minute bus ride and I felt terrible. If I had been saving a seat for someone as good looking as him, and I was going to have his undivided attention for over half an hour, and some chick just sat down without asking, I would have politely pushed her right off the seat.
I cannot believe she didn't try to kill me. I scooted over until I had about one cheek on the seat. If I was going to ruin her bus ride, might as well take up as litte space as possible. I consoled myself with the idea that maybe he'd wait for her when we got to school.
The bus pulled in, I stood up as fast as possible, and looked over. He was just now putting his earbuds in, opening up Pandora, and booking it the hell off the bus. He left her in the dust. I felt so bad. I wanted to crawl into some small hole and quietly expire.
I made sure to get the hell away from her too, just in case she decided to kill me for completely shutting her down. 

Tanner Foust and my inability to flirt

As a follow up to my earlier post about Tanner Foust, here are some shots of the lovely man himself, looking pensive and serious, shot in very deep black and white. Because that's the one adjective you can clearly apply to him. Deep. Or at least you can apply it to me. 

And an adorable Instagram picture he tweeted. Why is he so cute?

I won't apologize for my complete lack of shame. I'm not sorry. But look at me. Look at my life, look at my choices. Maybe he'll stop by Firebird Raceway sometime soon and I can abduct him meet him. That would be nice. He'll be charmed by me and my coquettish ways. I'll bat my eyelashes and twirl my fan around and maybe let him get a peek at my ankles. Because I can't flirt. If I lived in a Jane Austen novel or it was the early 1900's, I might be able to snag a man. Unfortunately I am not, and a woman's ability to catch a husband no longer rests with her ability to dance, smile and, in my opinion most importantly, have a good grasp of society, art, music, and the running of a large estate. 

Now, and even then, it's based on whether or not her boobs look good shoved nearly up her nostrils. But unlike then, a woman is found attractive if she isn't as smart. No longer is emphasis placed on knowledge. Glittering generalities, or do those awful blonde jokes have a grain of truth to them?

My argument is bolstered by the my father. Every once in a while when I'm creeping on the popular chicks in my school on Facebook (never in person), he'll pop up behind me and make awkward comments like "oh, she's cute." When I lament the fact that God is unfair and despite her having a small waist and a pair of 36Ds, she's as dumb as a post, Dad goes, "no, no, that's all right. Dumb is good." I give him my best "shocked and appalled" face, but he won't be chastised by me. 

My observations are also helped along by the amount of teen relationships in my school. Dare we notice who they are all between? The cliche jock and cheerleader/dancer? No! Say it isn't so! The hot guy, who himself is low on the brain wattage, picks the dyed blonde who wear his two favorite colors, short and tight? She laughs at all of his horrendously awful jokes and constantly tells him "I love you, baby, you're my everything." Oh horror! It's true!

Ergo, the best way for me to pick up dudes is to do a complete 180 on my personality and appearance. 

Thankfully for me and the rest of the downtrodden female population, deliverance is upon us. We just need more mature men! So far my mother's wise words have been repeated by such reputable sources as Jim Belushi and my best friend's parents. Men don't mentally mature past 8 years of age until they hit about 35-45 years old. Sad, but true. 

However my baby Tanner Foust is 38 years old (June 13, 1973, if anybody cares), so I think that he and I will get along perfectly. I'd better work on my giggle though. 

An Average Blogger's Foray Into Working Out

I'm sorry for not updating in a while, but school has recently started. Today marks my second full Tuesday back in prison my fine educational institution. I have been given the schedule from hell, which is a shame, since I signed up for everything I'm taking. Here's a breakdown of what I have, who I hate, and why. Today we'll focus on first period.
1st period is Advanced P.E. Now keep in mind that I am your average teenage blogger, the one that spends too much time slouching here in the glow of my sweet, comforting computer screen, and not nearly enough time doing anything remotely active. And now I have a grueling workout first thing every morning.
In order to take Adv. P.E. you must be participating in a sport, so I said I was going to be a thrower, meaning discus and shot put, for our track and field team. Big mistake.
My workouts include legs destroyers exercises (mandatory for all track people, whether runners, throwers, or jumpers) and heavy duty arm manglers . I have zero upper body strength, and my legs have the muscle consistency of jelly. What possessed me to sign up for this torture? I need a PE credit to graduate and there is no fucking way that I, as a self-important, pompous junior is going to slum with the freshmen in P.E. 1-2.
Today I had a routine that was nearly all legs, culminating in me falling over on the last set of weighted lunges because my hamstrings decided they were done with my nonsense. It was embarrassing, and I am reminded why getting a gym membership would be a nightmare.
However, the worst and the best part of my situation here is that my class has kids from softball (only 3, who are all my friends), track, tennis, basketball, wrestling, and baseball. Since this is PE, an elective that involves working out (and is not trendy, like dance) it's filled with guys. Hot guys. Hot guys that I get to watch work out. Hot guys that I have to work out in front of. Hot guys that I have to work out in front of who already know what they are doing so they look all sexy and shit sweating in the gym and I look like a complete loon in my ill-fitting uniform, sweating like a whore in church as I stumble around the gym. It's disgusting. I destroy the sex levels in that weight room.
Hopefully with all this getting swoll and stuff, I will be able to wear my jeans nicely, my ass won't look like a water balloon (and that's a sexy water balloon to you), and my gut will go away. Trolololol, this year is going to be awesome.
And I'll let you know if I get to hook up with one of the hotties in my gym class (not bloody likely, though. My sweat and body odor do not induce arousal. Perhaps revulsion...).