Embarrassment. Emphasis On Ass.

So as most of you know, my lazy ass has had the ability to take a simple task such as cleaning my room, and stretch it out over a span of, let's see, we're going on 4 months now.  Well today while I was stuffing my closets with clothes I haven't worn in ten years but am convinced I will someday need, I came across some "books" that I wrote in elementary school, courtesy of McKinley's ultra-professional Publishing Center.  One of these books was a collection of poems that I wrote in 3rd grade, and I vividly remember carrying around a pad of paper with me for weeks, writing down poems whenever I got the inspiration.  At the time, I was sure that these were works of art that no other 8 year old could possibly think of- although reading through them now I suddenly remembered my mom at the time looking through a couple and saying, "Um, Alexis?  Just cause it rhymes doesn't mean you have to make a poem out of it".  I'm pretty confident that she was talking about the following world-stopping classic, entitled "Couches and Houses":

Houses have couches

Couches come in houses

Together they make couches in houses

I know.

Another winner that I found was about a little girl named Mackie who befriended a leprechaun after finding him at the end of the rainbow (he was trying to take the pot of gold that Mackie needed to prove to the bullies at school that her beliefs in vampires and leprechauns were real...you know, standard 7 year old stuff).  After this whole story about Mackie's quest for this gold and her newfound friendship with this little green guy, the climactic last page reads:  

"So they split the gold and became friends until the leprechaun died.  Mackie cried for three nights and two days.  But she got over it and lived happily ever after."

Apparently Mackie got a bit of an ego and became quite the wretched bitch.  On this last page I have a pretty rad drawing of a bright green coffin with a giant pink RIP on the side.  Lying on top is a bouquet of what I think are supposed to be flowers, but actually look like a cluster of meatballs shooting spaghetti out the sides.

Why I haven't already won the Pulitzer is beyond me.  And I wonder why I don't have a writing job yet.