weekend

I wanted to get to this earlier, but I've been home sick for the last couple of days and haven't been in much of a mood for writing. I'm feeling a little better now, though, so it's time to tell about the LAST SPEECH MEET OF THE YEAR! Duh duh duh DUH!!!

Well, technically it's no the last meet. We still have districts, but it's the last normal meet. It was last Friday. I had felt fine in the morning, but after the hour long drive to the school were it was being hosted, I had a sore throat, headache, and a fever. Yay, me. All that made the competition interesting. Very interesting, in fact. More so than I had expected, because for some reason, I made it into finals!! I don't if this sounds like a big deal or not, but I haven't broken into finals once all year. Being the last meet before districts, I was elated. I ended up getting 11th place out of 70 odd competitors over all. Now I'm excited for next week. I feel as if I might have a chance at making it to state.

The ride home was unpleasant, despite my high ranking. It was the wind was blowing like mad, sweeping snow over the road and blocking our vision. There were times when we literally couldn't see anything. I was scared out of my whits. Plus, my headache had come back worse than before. I was in tears by the time we were finally home.

After a long sleep, my headache was gone, but my throat was still sore and my fever hadn't gone away. For three days, I was confined to my room which gave me a lot of time to do stuff like watch a ton of movies and a few episodes of an anime that my friend introduced me to on youtube. That and talk for hours on the phone with my boyfriend. He was a sweety, saving me from my lonesomeness.

So that was about the extent of it all. My fever went away last night, but I'm still to weak to try to go to school yet. Maybe tomorrow. At least I'm not contagious so can be upstairs now.

Intro

As the title suggests, this is the intro to the book I'm writing. I'm hoping that by having people read as i go, it'll give me more of a motive to finish it. But don't get too attached, because knowing me, that won't happen. Anyway, here's the preface.

Tyleen stared out the window, wanting to murder the mailman. He was an older model, the city didn’t often replace their worker robots, so he wasn’t able to move extremely quickly, but it seemed to Tyleen that he moved deliberately slowly today. His box-like figure inched carelessly along on rickety wheels driving her nearly insane. By the time he began crawling up her front walk, she was kicking herself to keep from rushing out to him then and there. If she ran out and created a scene, the others would see. They would know.
The doorbell rang. Tyleen squeezed her eyes shut and slowly counted to three. She didn’t want to open the door too soon and appear anxious. Taking a deep breath, she stood and strode to the door. After inhaling once more, trying to compose herself, she opened it.
“Good morning,” said the box. His voice was dull and metallic, one of the things Ty hated about the old models.
“Just give me my mail,” she retorted irritably.
A small slot opened and half a dozen letters slid out. She grabbed them, perhaps too quickly, and shuffled through them, checking names, addresses, and anything else she could think of that might hold a sign. There was nothing. Her shoulders dropped, and with a furious sigh she put her hand on the door, ready to slam it shut in the robots stupid, blank, metallic face. Before she could, however, a larger slot opened on the mailman’s front.
“You have a package. Please sign and place your finger on the sliver box.”
Tyleen’s heart pounded as a writing pad and pen appeared from the opening. She quickly scribbled her name on the digital screen, returned the pen, and placed her finger on the small, sliver square that the robot offered to her. There was a quick pinprick as a sample of her blood was taken, and then she pulled her hand back. The mailman had already pulled a medium sized cardboard box out from somewhere in his interior with tow metal claws.
Tyleen snatched the box, shut the door, and rant into the kitchen, leaving the other mail on the living room couch.
This was it.
Using a pair of scissors, she cut through the packaging tape and tore open the cardboard flaps. Shining beautifully on top of a bed of packaging peanuts were two small, platinum blasters. On top of one was taped a small note with four hastily written words.
“Don’t tell your mother.”