Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

6:15 am --> get up, realize I have to make compensation chocs for Ron

So I woke up this morning all brain-dead, per usual. It's around that time I realize that the events of the previous weekend – the under eighteen cross-country heats bode an ill morning for me. I managed to goad one of my less-buff friends, Ron, into coming to run with me. He whined and grumbled and went on about breaking a nail, just like a girl, but I dragged our freezing half-assed butts out there with nothing but coffee to sustain us. Ron was convinced he would collapse on the track and I'd have to drag his sorry body through the mud and grit, mussing his hair along the way, so that he could be airlifted to the nearest trauma hospital. I remained unfaze. But as it went on, Ron is surprisingly talented at negotiating – when he wants to be. I was coerced into a deal in which if he survived the whole cross-country without complaining, I'd make him chocolates. Ron, in his usual sleepy fashion went “chocolates from Fia? No freakin' way. That's legendary”. My chocolates are something of the fabled Aztecs, so the deal went down nicely ^_~

On my end, I never expected Ron to be able to hold up through around thirty-five minutes of solid jogging. So how'd the freaking guy turn up to place UNFREAKING BELIEVABLE FIRST out of twenty-seven runners? I was flabbergasted, to say in the least. And Ron? He got his two pretty girls with pink lipstick that smeared all over him, and his shiny medal. He was a brilliant scarlet and barely able to puff out two words without collapsing. But you know what the sucker punchline of this story was? The ridiculous moral? I, who had dragged him out here for a crash course in P.E, I had who had brought out this fit-as guy, was forced under duress of pointy talon of trophy girl to cook him more chocolates. I had no choice, but lemme tell you this; all that I did was unwilling.

7:51 am --> twenty tiny delicious chocolates made, baked, wrapped and ready to go

Sometime around now, my parents were throwing a braingasm downstairs. Something along the lines of 'HOMINAGAWD OUR FREAKING DAUGHTER IS LATE ONCE MORE!'. I wouldn't blame them; I had around nine or less minutes to run around four blocks and five miles [eight kilometres] to school!? That would give anyone the sheiks, and my parents were close to commiting dramatic suicides. So, being the trustworthy daughter, I shoved those twenty-odd chocolates into the very cramped bag, and dashed out the door still brain-dead, unshowered and looking like the walking dead in every way. Somehow, I managed to sprint around three and three quarter blocks before snagging a lift from a desperately worried mother of a seventh-grader. I think my huffing and puffing, my redfacedness, and my twitchy desperate seizing of the air two miles before the school gates had her worried about what sort of boy her son was going to grow up to be - and what kind of girl he was going to date. I still didn't give that much of a good image either; my wheezing sort of threw things out of whack.

I get to school fifteen minutes late. FREAKING SEVENTH-GRADERS WHO ONLY HAVE TO COME AT EIGHT-THIRTY. But then again, maybe my rambling of 'stupid Ron-!' didn't give the unclued-in mother the hint that I needed to be at school by eight. The receptionist throws a fit at my lateness and I apologize repeatedly. Ron swings by my locker just as I'm chucking stuff into it in a vehement fit, and what does he ask?

'Hey kid, you got my chocolates?'

12:40 pm --> lunchtime

So, Ron totally knocked himself out with my chocolates. They were a smash-hit. Encore. I believe he guzzled seventeen of those in one recess alone. Then suffered from post-deliciousness withdrawal at lunchtime, when there was only three left. I, who had made an extra batch for myself, and myself only, found this very amusing. It didn't help that the boy in question was sitting on my right-hand side, whining and groaning and clutching his stomach in a melodramatic way as he eyed my chocolates. So what was the strategic thing to do?

A) hand over half of the chocolates
B) glare, spit, and say 'IN YOUR FACE LOSER!'
C) give them to the rest of the class except for him
D) eat them very, very slowly and tantalisingly so as to taunt him. then hand him the last one.
E) look apologetic but it's his own fault.

What would you do? [WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? lawl XD]


I went with option 'D'. That's just the way our twisted minds work, huh? I let my friends snag a handful once I was done, as well as giving Ron at least one - or two - or three; I seriously couldn't eat a dozen chocolates all by myself, no matter how delicious they were. For some reason, my stomach is tiny. But then again, I get cravings to eat stuff like strawberries and chocolate mousse and PB&J sandwiches every now and then, only in small-form. It's like I'm a compulsive snacker O_o. What I lack in physical excercise I make up with gluttony. That's pretty much the way it is with me. One of these days I will be old and grey and fifty with a huge pot belly. And I'll still be snacking. I mean, c'mon; food can't be wasted, can it?

2:10 pm --> exhaustion in the P.E hall

Fully loaded on sugary chocolate goodness and looking forward somewhat to our P.E session: that was my status at the time. Sure, I was sort of in a choccoma and zombielike state, only responding mechanically when Lianna or Josh said something, and even then it was only a weird grunt of a sound. But all the same, I was alive! Ron, somewhere across the hall and attempting to catch the eye of a cute, petite Asian [and not having much success] looked similarly bloated. The P.E teacher took one look at us, and ordered us to lap the footy field. Five times. I think it was the chocolate around our mouths that gave it away.

Lap 1 : feeling goooood~
Lap 2: talking to michelle and still high~
Lap 3: tiring easily, no breath to talk with
Lap 4: straggling at the back of the group, marcus pulling me forward with every step [he's a demented little kid]
Lap 5: half-dead. stumbling along at the back.

That pretty much sums up half of the lesson. We redid those five laps. Oh, how we redid them. Over and over, until the teacher was pleased with our form. She was somewhat pissed at me - 'HOW THE EFFING HELL DO YOU GO FROM STATE-GRADE SPRINTER TO THIS ZOMBIE KID!?'. Good question. How the hell was I supposed to know, though!? Chocolate overdose? Death by cooking? One of those two? She didn't give me much chance to explain myself, although through the grumbling and high-pitched snarls I got the occasional grunt and 'Um, Miss' in. I don't think it was enough - being a state-grade athlete I was supposed to flex my muscles, barf up all my chocolate sugariness, and turn back into super-fit-runner-chick once more. Sorry, Miss, I'll do that next time.

It was a hungry, strawberries & cream, mud-caked, chocolate-hating, Ron-loathing Fia that grumbled, groaned, and shuffled back down the four blocks and five miles that evening.