(INT. - LIT CLASS, DAY.)
Boris, hold down your bangs.
(BORIS holds them down a bit.)
No, hold down.
(ELISE obliges by demonstrating.)
Wow, your hair's gotten long.
Yeah, it's been that way for only, what, half a year now?
(RAX, whose name I typed FAX at first, comes over and clings to his head a bit.)
Um, God? A little help here? Smiting, please?
(ERIN comes over and, in lieu of a full smiting, hugs RAX's neck from behind.)
Are you trying to strangle me, or did you just suddenly decide you needed a hug?
One of the two.
Boris, if I start making sounds like this - ahck, aaaaahck - help me, okay?
I have quarters floating around in my backpack.
Where's that part, where's that part? Where he writes the letter to the magazine, something new...ah!
(Reading from The World According to Garp.)
'I am only mildly interested in your magazine, and still doing nothing new with language or form. Thank you for your request, though.' I would so do that."
(I actually remember the context of this, but an observer watching the conversation would have seen only two kids writing, and then one looking up, and then the following.)
(Virtual cookies if you know what this was actually from.)
Okay, I went out, and bought the 365 poems, and it cost like fifty dollars. So you all need to give me,
(holding up four fingers)
four dollars each, or I will tell Ms. Boto that you didn't pay, and you don't love her. All right?
Right. Trying to plug the computer into the radiator. That was a stroke of genius, there.
Radio contests started awarding things to "caller seven" or "caller ten" rather than "caller one" because the early adapters with push-button phones were always getting to be first, and they wanted it to be fairer to the people with phones with dials.
Also, Grape-Nuts were invented in the 1870s. (My theory: all the Grape-Nuts were invented in the 1870s.)
*types sonnet from memory, to see if she can*
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half-sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cool command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings.
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
*heighs ho to the Carver Wiki entry*