Ask Swifty 43: The Best Episode, in MY Opinion

Seriously check this guy, swiftkaratechop/ swifty out, too :D this is my favorite episode of Ask Swifty, so indulge meh, okeys??
Check out http://www.youtube.com/user/swiftkaratechop?blend=1&ob=4

WTF is a Cake Pop? Youtube Sample Vid

This a sample of what's on my youtube! For more awesomeness featuring me, Amanda, and various other oddities, go to http://www.youtube.com/user/TaneDelleVolpi?feature=mhum

More Infamously...Me and Alex

More infamously, as I said, is my friendship with Alex Kaehler, my other sister. We haven't been friends for as long as Amanda and I have been; our friendship was forged in the beginning of seventh grade as a result of lack of other options. We were both new kids, and the only person we actually knew was Amanda--we'd all gone to elementary school together, and Alex and I went to the same public school for sixth grade. We'd been acquaintances then, cordial nodders, smiling faces, acquainted through the Spelling Bee--a competition from which I procured two shiny trophies. Anyways, so, in seventh grade, we became friends, and with Amanda, we were like a trinity of wretchedness...but it was fun. Like, we weren't miserably wicked, we were the kind of wicked people you invite to the party to keep everyone entertained. Ah yes, we were always the big obelisks from which the rumors stemmed. All kinds of things circulated about each one of us: apparently, I'm some rich idiot who sleeps around, and Amanda is a prospective mass murderer, and Alex is the greatest extortionist who ever lived. None of these claims are true, of course. Anyways, we were the conversation pieces of our class, and it only worsened when Amanda left. This need for a fellow in mire brought us closer and really helped us to become the great of friends we are today. People have said that I bring her down, and she brings me down, but neither of those claims are true; not entirely. You see, when you're the only two people who think a certain way, you end up being cooped up with each other for seven hours, for five days, every week. And no matter how much you like a person, sometimes you need your space. And people were starting to view us as one and the same, so we had a weird identity crisis. But we worked it out and the Terrible Trio is still just as well-bonded as ever :)

Me And Amanda: An Alliance Made in Hell

Amanda Luzader is my sister. Not biologically, but we are sisters (along with Alex Kaehler, which I will explain in another post) But the history of our friendship is actually quite interesting.

When Amanda and I were in kindergarten, she used to be friends with a girl named Kaylee, and I, being smaller and weaker than both of them and a notorious crybaby, was their favorite target. They weren't teasers and name callers...they were just violent thugs. Five-year-old thugs. One day, Amanda smashed my face into a red tube slide. I cried, of course, that's all I ever did in elementary school--which, by the way, earned me a reputation I couldn't shake even in sixth grade. I've always been a disliked individual for the stupidest reasons known to mankind. Anyways, so Amanda and Kaylee skipped off, arm-in-arm, laughing at my agony as small children are usually wont to do. But as time wore on, the game grew old, and Amanda came forth and apologized for the months of woe and fear she'd wrung over my small child head. And ever since then, we've been friends; but we didn't become best friends until third grade, during which we goofed off and made the life of our teacher, Mrs. Workman, a complete and utter hell. We were bad kids, I guess...well, not bad per say, but definitely precocious. Obnoxious. Irritating. Not much has changed since then, I suppose. Anyway, we were the most pugnacious brats in the room, so we formed a sort of comraderie. This alliance of evil, the Axis Powers of the third grade classroom, cultivated a friendship that has lasted for over eight years. With girls today, always backstabbing each other, this is a major accomplishment!

Second Soliloquy: My Affection for Flourescents and Prismacolors

For those of you who have never seen my artwork or my clothes, I am almost freakishly fond of neon and floursecent colors. This photo is the best example I possess of this affection for all things bright and obnoxiously colorful. Almost everything inthis photo is blinding: from my hairbow, to my bedding, to my walls, to the decor of my bedroom--even the map looks like a five-year-old scribbled all over a piece of paper with a highlighter. (and yes, this is a picture of myself)
The reason I am unintervenably enamoured with flourescents is that they make me happy. I am aware of how stupid that sounds, but this actually goes much deeper. When I look around me and see busy brightness bustiling blithely beyond basic comprehension, and am overwhelmed by sheer color, it makes me feel elated. This feeling, this intoxication that only can be wrought by rave-like shades of pink, green, and blue, could explain several things--my taste in clothes, my personality, and my obsession with using Prismacolors on black paper. But seriously, have you ever tried that? Prismacolors are nothing like colored pencils. If you push down really hard on an ordinary colored pencil on black paper you still get a washed out shade of salmon, puke, and baby food. But with Prismacolors, it's the complete opposite. On white paper, they're still pretty opaque, but on black paper, a straight line in blue Prismacolor almost looks three-dimensional. The first time I ever got to experience the faace-meltingly awesome sensation accompanying observing Prismacolors on black paper was last year, when my art teacher Mrs. Palmer suggested that should be my medium for some drawing of a bicycle tire I did. Anyways, it turned out spectacular, because everything looks incredible with those freaking Prismacolors. And after that, real life colors just didn't look as good. So I decked out in flourescents to make myself feel superior to everyday life. Which was a little pretentious of me, but it made me happy. Nothing beats being truly happy.

Prospective Tattoo

Doesn't that look impressively painful? This isn't the best picture, since it's not completely inked in yet, but you get the general idea. Basically, I want something like this, only instead of going up the back, I want it going up the side. And I'm not so keen on purple...I would like to have it be bright blue or something. There's a few drawbacks to this, however. First of all, the more elaborate (i.e; colorful, detailed, intricate, etc) the tattoo is, the more it costs...and the second...it'll hurt. It will hurt to degrees unfathomable by human minds. But this is pretty spectacular by my standards. I'd love to get something like this done. The details at the top, though...I think I might exclude those and just get a band straight across instead. Not only because I think it'll look better, because I feel like that might hurt less...and it may cost less, too.

I have to wait...one more year (technically...)

Ode to the Player

All hail the infallible Womanizer! Bow down in staring wonder before his insuperable trampling feet. Come, all of you doe-eyed fawning girls, with the flawless and holy oblation of your hearts and minds, and bestow them upon him, the greatest of deceivers. But, loves, be forewarned--you will never mean anything to him. Not ever. Once he's gleaned what he wanted from you, with your blind and swampy eyes and your stupid, smiling lips, he will abandon you and you will be lost like murderously precocious child in a mall. The only difference between you and that child will be that no one is looking for you.

First Soliloquy, Something Like English Class

Most classrooms are constructed in a rectangular fashion--as is the case with most corporate buildings in America. The English room bares no exception to this basic law of construction, as learned in a class for future architects that must've been called Cubes 101 or something like that. Well, despite this prismic construction, the actual motif of the room resembles more of a Bermuda triangle, with apathetic teenagers, drooling on their scrawled-over desks with glazed eyes taking up one base corner, the teacher's desk taking up the other, and the dysfunctional wall clock dwelling at the apex. Where I sit amongst the aforesaid drooling teens, along the base line of the triangle, is about sixty-five degrees away from the clock; so it's definitely at an angle where I can see it without much opposition through my periph. And on Tuesday the 22nd, I happened to have moved one desk over, so that I positioned in a straight-shot line from the clock. This would not have posed much of a problem had I not been so easily distracted by its sporadic, metallic ticking, only noticeable in the lulls between the teacher's long-winded lectures on transcendentalists (these lulls, in their respective silence, practically scream teenage anxiety and lethargy, a strange and somewhat paradoxical blend of emotions). The ticking...the horrible ticking. My ability to focus was slowly slipping away, dwindling, sliding through my fingers like mercury. I clung to my attention span desperately, like a small child clings to their mother amidst the zoo affectionately known as Disney World. When it became apparent to me that these endeavors were in vain, I gave up on trying to pay attention, and began to write, in my barely legible Edwardian script, a sort of...status, if you will. I maped out whatever I was feeling and thinking at that precise moment in time. Here is what I wrote:

I feel like I'm literally going to vomit. I'm sitting here, in this forsaken room, and I am noticing--with a sort of renewed yet equally warped perception--things I'd not noticed before. For instance, it's apparent to me that there are blemishes of red and green marker staining the white surface of the white board; remnants of some kiss-up's attempt to erase the board. They linger there, like hieroglyphics telling the archaeologists, who will scour the ruins of our school once one of those low flying planes finally crashes into our questionable building perched out of the way of the 'worldly people' up on its sacred little precipice, of a lesson no one cared about--we were all too busy looking out of the window when the plane smashed into us. I wonder if they will find my chair, and my desk. They would know it to be mine, of course--anyone with an elementary school education could deduce that someone named Brianna sat at that desk from there being the name Brianna written on its surface. This morbid daydream pirouettes out of my mind as quickly as it waltzed in. Now I'm staring at the scuffed-up beige tile floor, in a mixture of rapture and contempt at such a bland and muted tone. I'm wishing that this floor would fall back to reveal an icy, yawning void, like the chasm Ginungugap of ancient Norse mythology, and that I would go hurtling into the shadowy eternity.

Before I could reach the pinnacle of my despair, the bell rang, and ended my dastardly reverie, sending me scooting off to the next 45 minutes of pure, unadulterated torture.