Note: Esco gave me the idea for this with his blog: 10 Signs You're On FN Too Much, so I give him all the credit where it is due.
The damn alarm clock shrieked (again) at 7:00. I blindly reached out from beneath the old Harry Potter comforter to strangle the stupid device. Daylight was spilling into the room and yet I refused to open my eyes. Sadly, I'm one of those rare people that don't have it either way. I can't, for the life of me, stay up past 11:30 PM no matter how many pieces of tape I use to keep my eyes from slipping shut. Neither can I get up in the morning, as fresh as a Georgia peach unless I've gotten at least 8 hours of sleep. As this thought passed my delirious head, I groaned. Why couldn't have God given me enough stamina to make it through the night? This way, I could actually talk with my pals at the FN group, the Night Owls!
While I grumbled about my loss, I bitterly rose out of bed to make myself presentable for school. After an hour of searching for the perfect outfit, I just gave up and slipped on a cute dress and some matching flats. When I looked at myself on the mirror, I almost cried in pure devastation; I could never ever be as sexay as Gu3. I shook my head in disgust while I lamented that a 13 year-old boy on a sports site could have such an influence in my impression of myself.
To increase my ire, the fates that were with Napoleon at Waterloo chose to terrorize me today. Out of the blue, I just realized that I didn't do any of my homework last night due to FNing. Hot damn! I scrambled around, stubbing my retarded toe on the equally dim-witted bedpost. Biting back a naughty cuss that would've triggered Hooah into telling me to wash off my potty fingers, I rushed down the stairs and grabbed my backpack. Shoving a bagel in my mouth, I quickly spanned out the papers I had to finish before 1st block this morning onto the kitchen table. Ah... 4 pages of fifth roots along with factoring the sum/difference of cubed binomials. Life couldn't get any worse.
Oh, but it did. Come 4th block, I was thinking that Oso could teach Spanish better than my own profesora when I got an 80 on my recent preterite/imperfect grammar quiz. Might as well look at this on the bright side; at least in this language, I wouldn't have to worry about spelling "safety" wrong lest Big Ben the Grammar Shark comes to hunt me down. When I turned to my friend Ana to explain my sudden contentment with my grade, she just shook her head and mumbled, "She's gone nuts."
But I haven't gone nuts! The only reason that I'd been squirming in my seat for the past hour was because I'd been aching to get an opportunity to get on the computer, pretending to do those Quia reviews while I navigate on over to FN. Alas, I finally get my opportunity but was promptly disappointed when I found out that everyone at the T&R were having lunch. I wish they'd just stop eating all together like I have so that they could be on FN all the time to talk to me!
Dejected and lost, I didn't even respond to anybody trying to make conversation with me on the bus. All I said was, "Tom Coughlin smells like rose potpourri" over and over again (seriously, the guy looks like an old woman, and old women usually smell like dead roses...) until I was sure that all of them would leave me alone forever. But I didn't care. I only thought about Mr. Panda's fate when I unleash my terrible anger upon him. He'll join Bugs Bunny in the crevasse of all my broken stuffed animals due to the depression I get when there's nobody to talk to at the T&R or the Mill.
When my mother came upstairs, violating my privacy by marching into my room without knocking, she saw Mr. Panda in shreds while I lay on the floor staring with glazed eyes up at the ceiling. Surprisingly, she didn't even scream, yell, or throw a huge fit that would've rivaled any of mine. She just rolled her eyes and said, "Change your clothes. You're going to the psychiatrist."
After about a 30 minute ride to the shrink, we were subjected to wait for another couple of hours because my mother didn't even call ahead for an appointment. When I was finally admitted in, I was forced to sit on a plushy leather couch while the psychiatrist finished some business on his laptop. He guffawed from the bottom of his belly and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. I guessed that whatever he was doing in that computer was hilarious business so I waited. As I sat there, I looked at my shrink's desk. He had tons of Redskin stuff strewn casually all over his neat papers. Ah, a fellow brother. We should get along fine. My parents should've taken me to him earlier on when they suspected that I had Homeritis. At least he would've understood my predicament.
Finally, he got up from his perch behind his desk and sat on a chair next to where I was lounging. He smiled and began the conversation. "So, how was your day?"
I replied with a cutting, "Fine."
A frown creased the psychiatrist's brow. "If it was fine, then why did your mother bring you here without as much as a by-your-leave?"
Then my big mouth betrayed me and began telling the shrink about all my thoughts through out the day and how closely they ran along with FN and how much I loved Mr. Panda but my anger got ahead of me. I closed my tirade by saying, "I'm not a sound-minded mentor for Dudeman. He's my Protégé, you know. But the kid can TD better than me!"
I finally dared to look at the man that was assessing my mental incapability. Much to my chagrin, the guy was practically falling off his chair out of good-natured laughter. I quickly grew defensive. How could this dude laugh at my life when we're paying him a couple hundred bucks an hour to make it all better? The only thing that kept me from bolting from the room was the fact that he was a fellow Redskin fan.
He finally stopped laughing long enough to take a few deep breaths. Another couple of seconds bought him time to compose himself. Finally, with a huge grin he said, "You're not exactly perfectly healthy in the mind, Mimi. What you've got is unique... only about .001% of the American population has it. In fact, if it makes you feel any better, I've got it myself."
My breath stopped before I whispered, "So... whatcha got that I got, Doc?"
"Whaddya think? I was reluctant to leave my computer when I was supposed to be working."
My eyes got big. "Omigod..."
He nodded ever so slowly. "Yup. We'll valiantly face the stark truth... you and I both have the infamous FN Addiction Syndrome."