Barbecue Chips

I sit here. As I sit here I’m thinking. I’m thinking, “I hope my Internet connection doesn’t cut out,” and, “I wish this download would finish sooner,” and, “I wish I had some barbecue chips.”

I sit here. As I sit here I’m surfing. I’m stumbling into everyone else’s ‘I miss you!’ s and their ‘I can’t wait to see you!’ s and their ‘Hey, I read your blog the other day...’ s.

I sit here. I find your blog. I browse it until I find whatever they mentioned. It’s not what I thought it would be so I take it back out of context and add it to my list of disjointed romanticisms. I wish I had some barbecue chips.

I sit here. As I sit here I’m...

I’m crying.

I wish I had some barbecue chips.

Independence, Blistered

The cycle is constricted
by an outside force.
Inner workings flare up
in unsuccessful attempts to
remain in control.

Little victories power this night.
Mental breaks accompany
mental breakdowns
in efforts to keep them
from happening again.
The past does not fade away
during times such as these,
instead gaining intensity,
snowballing small but
ever-present obstacles
in ways which the victories
could never hope to combat.

Quick fixes rule the day-to-day,
like a band-aid on a bullet wound,
preventing more interference
from an outside force,
leaving inner workings to fester
in their failure.

Independence, Begrudging

Your eyes are saying,
      "No," and your face is saying,
      "No," and your whole body is saying,
      "No."
      Eventually, your mouth says,
      "No."

      I say, "Yes. Fuck you,"
and nobody moves on.

Lamp poem

An armchair crashes
in the light reborn
preceding the lawless beyond the unknown.
All who look on shudder.

Camera-eyes write in howls,
the cyberspace enterprise.

Us, language diverging in passes,
we stir with inchoate sounds
music.

Words,
dark roads of winged philosophy,
birds of narrow lies,
wind upward through the mute wood
and unchanged grasses.

The first emails wait
in the shadow
writing truth
in a still world.

Debrief

I hold in my head a True Vision,
but you don't care,
so you won't See.

You Look for the Conrete
meaning
in an intolerant world,
too constricted to recognize
Real conflict.

Imaginative exploits bring
out of my Mind
an Eye-
opening rendition of
You
as I wish you were.

Shy wonderings hold us
back, back
from Us and
we couldn't care but We
are begging
for a release.

The lock is ticking
away the minutes till Our
chance is no more.
A smith could fix
this, but You have
the Key.

Use this Information wisely.

An Ode to Why I'll Still Be Studying Tomorrow

Fuck this solitary addiction, solitaire
Confining me to academic heartache
With one ace shot.
Endless variations, tantalizingly new
Configurations still familiar
By virtue of the pack
Passed down through generations.
The rigid formation leaves
Little room for creativity, allowing
Emptiness to reign in the
Mind-numbing, card-thumbing
Edge of desolation.

My friends are doing their homework.

You gain a firm grasp on a cold, lonely reality. The quiet seeps in from all sides, as all the color sneaks out. Drunken promises, that joyous toxin happiness, fade away like blackout memories. Time stops, but life spins out around you. You fall out of orbit, stuck by the wayside. The everyday drags you in at first, but eventually you lose your thirst, your hunger, your desire. You scramble for control, for stability, in a painfully empty existence. People, you think, people. You want to be put back into the center of life; there aren't box seats on the fringes, after all. But the everyday holds on to its spot, because you are an exception, and the everyday hates a change in pace.

"It's my birthday!!!"

... said the blog.

That's right, ol' buddy, ol' pal, ol' readers of mine. It's this blog's first birthday. This means that I am entitled to type about how I and my blog-self have changed in the past year.

But that's not gonna happen.

Instead, I'm going to babble some more. Stick with me while you can; it usually gets funniest about two-thirds of the way through.

So, babbling onward. Now I'm on the spot, though, so it's actually harder to babble, you see. I mean, look, I'm babbling about babbling right now, and that's not funny in the least.

Things in my line of sight worth babbling about: Uncle Buck. God's gift to movies made in the late 90's. On DVD for $5 at Target, I am honored to own this movie. I just watched it, in fact. It is full of awkward, apparently-only-PG hilarity, and also giant pancakes. Oh, the giant pancakes! I want them so much. Do ya feel me, people who are physically near me on the date of my birth? I would love giant pancakes on my birthday.

Other things in my line of sight: all the artwork from MCM (that's Minnesota Children's Museum) that I never got around to wallpapering my room with. Fingerpainting, a bit of circle drawing, and a general boat-ton of truck-painting. Yeah, you read that right: truck painting. Painting with trucks, and other assorted vehicles. Lots of tire track patterns and stuff like that, but mostly awesome splattering when you find one of those self-propelling cars (you know, the ones where you pull 'em backwards, and then they're off), drag it backwards through the paint, hold the wheels still as you position it over your paper, then hope you remembered your apron as you let 'er rip.

This is how I spent my summer. I took children's painting activities, deconstructed them a bit, and usually ended up with fingerpainting, now that I think about it a bit more. All the colors were supposed to be red-themed for Clifford the Big Red Dog (you know who I'm talking about), but eventually there just wasn't enough red/pink/white to go around, so we added yellow and orange, and finally blue. So, I would mix the colors I didn't have, searching for just the right hues of brown and green to go with my current paint-flinging project. Then, I'd let a kid use my hue, and it would all go to hell, 'cause he'd mix too much yellow in there or something. His project was cooler than mine in the end, though, so I didn't really care.

Those kids were awesome painters, fo' real. And this is a museum, not a summer camp, so there were different kids there everyday. (I was there for a week at a time.) Every day, when I went to the Curiosity Center (where the paint lives, keep up!) to set up all the paint and paper and stuffs, I'd have to get rid of all the projects left on the drying racks that no one came back to get at the end of their visit. Only I wouldn't get rid of them all. Instead, I would look through them, find the particularly amazing ones, and keep 'em for myself. By the end of the summer, in combination with my own paint creations, I had about 5 plastic bags full of painting. But they're all awesomely unique, so I couldn't throw them out, like my mom would have preferred. So I brought them to college. Where they sit next to my bed, waiting for me to get into the creatively motivated hub of procrastination, waiting to get collaged in a manner that befits them.

Umm, I'm done babbling now. Sickness makes me sleepy. I talked about MCM and painting, and just talking about those is as good as a virtual birthday party. And this is a blog-birthday, so a virtual party is exactly what's called for. Feel free to go find yourself some virtual cake and ice cream, or whatever other virtual birthday treats you prefer. I recommend looking here.

Products of sleeping when the sun is up.

Sickness is so goofy. It's two o'clock in the morning. I should definitely be asleep right now. I am not physically capable of anymore sleep. Eight hours' sleep plus an eight hour "nap" with only four hours of consciousness inbetween equals insomnia during normal sleeping time.

My laptop is right under my bed. I could for totes be watching this week's White Collar. At the very least, I could be actually writing a post on this blog, instead of writing an email to my blog because Safari on my iPod is kind of a jackass.

Harrumph. I don't really want to be awake. I'd much rather be sleeping, 'cause I've got stuff I could be doing tomorrow. I just realized how messed up my sleep schedule is gonna be with just a few days of this. Good grief. Good gravy. Ooh, I wish my throat wasn't so stupid right now so I could drink some chocolate milk. That always makes everything better.

I think I may be legitimately addicted to chocolate milk. As in, I've acquired a physical dependence on it. Yesterday, when my throat hurt but not to the point that I was grimacing with every swallow, I kept drinking chocolate milk even though it bugged my throat and didn't taste very good. That's nonsense. Pure, utter, psychologically misaligned nonsense.

Speaking of nonsense, it is ridiculously hard to eat when you've got absolutely no appetite for anything. I can't decide whether I'm really not hungry, or whether my stomach is just ignoring its own emptiness. To be honest, I won't be eating much more than crackers, should food truly prove itself necessary. Crackers and water. Lovely. It's no wonder I've got no appetite when that's all I can stomach.

The invisible string of narration connecting each of these paragraphs is getting thinner and thinner as I continue to babble. I think I'm gonna call it a night, eat some crackers, take some Tylenol, and try
to catch a few zzzs.

Five bucks says that if you called me an hour from now, I'll still be playing solitaire on my iPod.

Sent from my toaster.

Sunday Musings: A poem with no title

I don’t want to spend my whole life getting ready,
Dressing the part,
Setting the trap,
Waiting for someone to take the bait.
My hunting style
Is not standing by the wayside,
Hoping to happen upon something worthwhile,
Taking what I can get,
And not looking back.
Because I would look back,
And I would hate what I see,
What eventually came along,
What I could have,
Would have,
Should have had all along.

Mechanical traps can win out in the end,
But hunters who stalk their prey,
Learn their ways,
Know how they operate,
And discover their weaknesses,
Have better success stories.

Taking Inspiration

I can see you.
Yeah, you.

But I can't hear you
from way over there.

You should come closer.

I know why you're here.
Oh, yeah, I know alright.
So, get started.
Hop to it.
Don't just stand over there,
all alone,
waiting for me to come
and bring you here
myself.

I can't do it
by myself.
I can't do this
by myself.

You should come closer.

This isn't the first time,
yours,
or mine.
We've both been here
before,
and it's turned out alright.
Right?
It'll all be okay.

You can come closer.

I've been so patient,
waiting for you
to return.
You're such a quiet,
indecisive,
self-conscious thing,
you,
rarely speaking above
a whisper.

You must come closer.

That's it.
Just a little further.
You're almost there.

Now,
was that so hard?

Actually, Alicia is on break

While off at the ever-lovely Knox, I have severely neglected this blog. Mostly, this can be attributed to the fact that I have been neglecting my creative writing as well. Also, I am lazy.

Anyhoo, my infinitely adorable suitemate (but not friend) Maddie and I have decided to join forces over the course of our six week-long winter break and joint-blog about it. I'll be baking the heck out of every cookbook I can get my hands on, and she'll be trying on a boat-ton of clothes and perusing the internets for her fashionable pleasure. I'll also attempt to get back into my creative writing, but I've picked up the habit of knitting recently, and, well, typing is pretty difficult when your fingers are clutching a bunch of yarn.

So, join me over at the aptly-named Six Weeks of Break. It'll definitely be worth your while.

Shallow

So poetry is passion,
Right?
But storytelling takes practice.
(Or so I'm told.)
Storytelling is an art form,
A craft,
A way to entertain,
Or to make a living.
Poetry,
On the other hand,
Is
Instinctual,
Primal,
A basic
Need.
Storytelling is in words
Always.
Poetry is words, too,
And also pictures-drawings-sketches,
And movement-music-masquerade,
And expression-emotion-feeling,
But never
Always-something-anything-please.
Storytelling is history-moral-reason,
Yes,
But storytelling can be
Synopsized-summarized,
And really only ever taken at
Face
Value.

Coupla Haiku (Haikus? Haiki? Hike High in the Mountains?)

Prairie
Bobbing in the breeze,
Majestic sea of long grass,
Midwestern glory

(untitled)
Timpanis build up,
Strings and brass in harmony,
Sound epiphany.

Flakes

At 7:28 on Thursday morning, Agnes had already showered, dressed, and was halfway through her daily bowl of cornflakes with skim milk in the cafeteria two blocks down. Rereading the assigned chapter for her 8 a.m. History of Ancient Civilizations class (to which she always arrived at exactly 7:54), Agnes and her bleak breakfast kept to themselves amidst the shuffling hoards of semiconscious students mumbling their omelet orders with borderline coherency.

Agnes’ cornflakes were quite fed up with being just one of many pillars of constancy and routine in her life. They longed for the freedom to mingle with banana slices, or to be smothered in sugar, or, at the very least, to soak in two-percent until they were barely solid. But, alas, having no way to communicate their desires, the cornflakes settled for leaping from the bowl to one of Agnes’ many textbooks, or falling from Agnes’ spoon about 1 inch too soon. These little occurrences were misinterpreted by Agnes to be simple accidents, and she never thought much of them.

After finishing the last of the unruly cornflakes, Agnes made her way to her class, and took her usual seat two rows from the door and three seats back. She placed her practical backpack on the floor, and removed a red notebook, identical pens in black, blue, and green ink, and a large Nalgene bottle filled with water. She arranged these supplies on her desk with the mindless precision of someone who has made this particular display on a daily basis for quite some time. As the clock struck 8, a breathless boy came tearing into the room, planting himself in the seat next to Agnes, in the row closest to the door. The professor gave the boy a reproving look, resigned to letting him enter in this manner for every class, and began his lecture.

The boy did, in fact, appear to all of his classes just as they were beginning, and he left them as soon as they ended. Agnes, however, was subtly disrupted from her chronic normalcy by the fact that, today, Astin had not seated himself in his usual spot, the very last desk in the row he presently occupied. Though this was but a small change, Agnes was totally shaken by the fact that he was sitting next to her, and it showed. Not only did she use the black pen to write all the dates in her notes instead of the green one, but towards the end of the class, she knocked her abnormally half-open water bottle onto the floor, where it landed at the feet of the subject of her agitation.

As the professor signaled the end of class, Agnes rushed to pick up the bottle, murmuring quiet apologies about water damage. With an odd smile, as if he were suppressing laughter, Astin assured her that his shoes were fine and that his bag had accrued no permanent damage, and sauntered out the door. Still quite flustered and embarrassed, Agnes quickly gathered her things, left the classroom, and found a seat outside to organize her belongings into their places in her backpack.

The next week, following an otherwise identical Wednesday morning for Agnes, class was interrupted by the half-hour tardiness of a new transfer student. She whirled into the room in a cloud of cloying perfume, clunked her overlarge tote bag onto the professor’s desk, and introduced herself to the class as Vyra-from-Louisiana, just like that, as if it were all one word. She then took her bag and gracefully fell into a position resembling someone giving their utmost attention, in the desk right in front of Agnes: two rows in from the door, two seats back, and right next to the seat which Astin was using that day.

When the professor ended class, Vyra instantly turned and, placing her hand on Astin’s arm, made a personal introduction, to which Astin responded with a captivatingly simple, “Astin.” The two shook hands for a beat longer than was strictly necessary, their eyes boring into one another’s. Vyra invited him to the welcoming party she was throwing “to get to know my new peers” that night at the Kappa Delta sorority house, where she was a new resident. Saying he’d “think about it” in a tone which suggested he already planned on attending, Astin collected his bag and left.

Noticing the way Agnes stared with unconscious longing after Astin, Vyra turned to her next, offering her hand and saying with an ooze of southern charm, “I’m Vyra. I’m so sorry, honey, is he yours? I had no idea! You’re welcome to come, too.”

Confused, Agnes cleared her throat and asked, “My name is Agnes, and what do you mean, is he mine? Like a boyfriend?”

“Whatever you wanna call it,” said Vyra, “but in that boy’s case, I’d say ‘man-friend’ would be a bit more accurate, right?” With a tinkling little laugh, she swung her giant bag onto her tiny shoulder and sashayed out of the room.

Blinking, Agnes stayed seated for a few minutes, until the professor asked if she had a question. With a quiet “no” and umpteen softly spoken apologies, she quickly shoved her things into her bag, and went home to plan her party outfit.

*          *          *

The party was in full swing when Agnes arrived, so no one, save for the person she body-checked when she opened the door, was aware of it. Music with a strong base line thumped through the house, out onto the lawn, and into the backyard, where fully-clothed men and barely-covered women splashed around the pool. She spotted Vyra holding court on the couch in the living room, entertaining at least thirty people with stories about her life in Baton Rouge and her trip from there to here. Vyra apparently spotted her as well, and she waved her over, introducing her to the throng of people as “my new friend, Aggie,” a nickname Agnes had never really liked. As Vyra continued to recount her many anecdotes, “Aggie” moved through the house, grabbing a red cup of putrid punch on her way.

Agnes downed the entire glass in three nervous gulps, and then saw Astin standing among a group of people who were talking with unnecessary volume, to attract the attention of others. Astin said something to the guy who appeared to be the leader of the group, then slowly made his way to the kitchen. Having just come from the opposite direction in the circular house, Agnes quickly backtracked into the kitchen as well, under the pretense of refilling her cup with more of that dreadful drink.

Astin was grabbing a beer from the fridge when Agnes finally reentered the kitchen. She moved to the punch bowl, but as she picked up the ladle, Astin lightly grabbed her wrist.

“You don’t want any of that,” he said, “trust me. You’d be better off with one of these.” He handed her a freshly opened bottle of beer. Agnes accepted the drink, and took a long, slow swallow, followed by a little hiccup.

He chuckled. “Sounds like you need a bit of fresh air. May I escort you outside?” He twirled his hand as he dipped into a sarcastic bow, bringing his face to the same level as Agnes’ chest.

Agnes was absolutely oblivious to this and, nodding demurely, allowed him to lead her out a side door onto the one patio that was completely unoccupied. They sat on the ground, leaned against the wall, and drank in silence. When a few minutes had passed, she turned to tell Astin that he could go back to the party if he wanted, but found she couldn’t say anything when saw him staring into her eyes.

His mouth suddenly covered hers in a sloppy, drunken kiss. Stunned, Agnes sat stock-still for a moment, then relaxed into the kiss. She only made him stop when she felt his hand start creeping up her shirt. With some struggle, she managed to shove him away from her. Mumbling that she really wasn’t “that kind of girl”, Agnes left her drink on the ground as she ran back into the house. Not knowing what else to do, Agnes sought the one person she knew could help her, Vyra.

Following her discoveries that Vyra was no longer on her pleather throne in the living room, nor was she in the kitchen, the dining room, or out by the pool, Agnes decided to look on the upper level of the house, even though she was quite sure that she was not supposed to go upstairs. She crept past entangled couples on the staircase and all down the hallway, not to mention open bedrooms containing other couples in even more interlocked embraces. Though Agnes tried asking, none of the couples could be bothered to say if they knew where Vyra had gone.

At the end of the hallway, there were three closed rooms. The first door was found to be locked. When Agnes opened the second door, she saw a group of people lying altogether like sardines on the bed, passing a joint down the line in silence. Agnes was coughing too hard from the smoke to ask if they had seen Vyra, but she had a feeling they wouldn’t have given her a real answer anyway.

Agnes paused outside the third door. She didn’t need to press her ear up to the door to hear the excited moans coming from behind it. Filled with an awful perception that she really didn’t want to see what was inside this room, she opened the door little by little, to keep from startling the room’s inhabitants. The door entirely open, Agnes stood utterly shell-shocked by the scene she had revealed. She couldn’t make out much with the light that spilled in from the hallway, but she could see well enough to know that she had finally found Vyra. Nonetheless she could also see well enough to tell that the source of all Vyra’s excitement was none other than Astin.

Her eyes involuntarily brimming with tears, Agnes tore down the hallway, forgetting all about shutting the door behind her. She thrust couples out of her way as she nearly fell down the stairs, rushed through the house, and ended up in the backyard. Unable to see through the tears streaming down her face, she separately but accidently knocked five people into the pool as she fought her way to the back gate. She wretched open the gate without stopping, and ran until her legs could no longer carry her. After puking in a bush with no one to hold her hair, Agnes slowly made her way home, where she stripped down, took a shower, and fell into bed.

That morning, another Thursday, Agnes sat down in her usual spot in the cafeteria, running five minutes late. Instead of her usual wholesome breakfast, she drowned her cornflakes in whole milk and smothered them with five heaping tablespoons of sugar. Her cornflakes were overjoyed at this unexpected occasion, so overjoyed they did not notice that Agnes was not reading any of her textbooks. In fact, they were so over the moon with this turn of events that they stayed on Agnes’ spoon all the way to her mouth with every bite, not that Agnes would have cared if they did. For the very first time, she was not impeccably dressed one of her conservative, professional outfits. Alternatively, she was wearing the sweatpants she had slept in the night before.

Agnes arrived to class breathless, just as her surprised professor was moving to shut the door. Neither Astin nor Vyra were present.

Mini-Vacation: Just What the Little Voice In My Head Ordered

I just need somewhere to rant about things. Like, for example, what I ate for dinner tonight.

Sounds boring, yes, but stay with me here. There's a story bit to open the whole thing, so bear with me until the mouth-wateringly fantastic description of Chicken Kildare works its way in here. A little background information would probably be a good idea right about no:. My parents are getting our bathroom redone this week, so they decided we'd just stay in a hotel downtown since we've got no running water for the next couple of nights.

I'm sitting in the...well, I'm not sure what it's called. I can see the actually lobby from here, so I guess this is like a garden or something. There's a waterfall in the middle of it, a pretty big one, too. And there's actual ducks in the water, at least seven of 'em. The ceiling is all glass, and this place is about 9 stories tall, so no matter what time of day it is, it seems like you're outside. It's fabulous. There's streetlamp-esque things to light up the garden; it's absolutely gorgeous.

For dinner, we ate at the pub in the hotel. There's a restaurant and a pub, but the restaurant's slightly pricey, and the pub has a little terrace into the indoor garden, so obviously that sounded like more fun. Given that it's a pub, it had a stereotypical Irish theme, so a lot of the items on the menu were of the play-on-Irish-words nature (example: Bangers and Mac, which is just mac & cheese with sausages on it, which "I can make at home thank-you-very-much so why would you waste money eating it here?").

Now, I have no idea whether the 'Kildare' part of Chicken Kildare is Irish or not (nor do I know its correct pronunciation, but that is beside the point), but I do have a first-hand (or, as I like to call it, a "fork-hand") idea of how utterly delectable it is. Picture it with me: a lovely, not-too-large, herb roasted chicken breast, surrounded by a mixture of asparagus, halved grape tomatoes, and artichoke hearts, as well as roasted "fingerling" potatoes (Does anyone know if this is a kind of potato? Or a way of preparing potatoes? Or a potato religion? I really don't know...it said "fingerling potatoes" on the menu, no clarification for those who do not speak potato.), with two little slices of a slightly chewy, subtly sweet bread which was excellent for soaking up the liquid whatnot left behind by the artichokes and other veggies.

Sounds really good, right? Well, let me tell you, it tastes even better. Hard to believe? Not once you've had a taste...

What I Did During the AP Stats Test

Dear College Board,

How can you take my signature for it that I'm taking this test on this date, but you can't take my word for it that my abridged version of Jean de Florette in the original French contains nothing that will help me with this test? Really, College Board? I know we've been kind of off-and-on for the past three years, but I thought we were closer than that.

I remember when we first met, that very first AP test: chemistry, sophomore year. I was sick with anxiety, but somehow we pulled through it. Then, we fell off that summer... Have you noticed how we're only together from mid-April until July? Maybe this is all just spring fever, but I thought we were closer than that.

Can I take a guess? It's because I chose the ACT over your SAT this fall, isn't it? I can't believe you'd hold a grudge over something like this. I'm really disappointed in you, College Board: I thought we were closer than that.

Will you at least listen to my side? We were on another break. It was right after you gave me that 3 for my work on the French Language exam...I still can't believe you did that. Sure, the oral caught me a bit off guard, but I thought I covered it pretty well. I thought I deserved at least a 4, but I guess we weren't on the same page. I thought we knew each other better than that.

Well, ten minutes left now. I suppose I'll just see you later, then, College Board, at the late AP Chemistry exam.

Forever Yours (Sometimes),
Alicia

Artist Boobs, yes, but nothing original on my part

So, I haven't posted anything in a pretty long time. However, when I was looking for whatnot to do over spring break, I discovered a few blogs I deem to be "of note" and would like to share them with you all.

==>Blog Numero Un: Constantly Risking Absurdity by Mariah Irvin

Quote from More Reasons to Say "Yay!" and Another Tease:

“Look,” I gestured at myself, “I have artist boobs. There’s no way I could wear that.”

“What?” Izzy’s eyebrows rose curiously.

“It’s like,” I broke off, embarrassed I had actually said what I was thinking. “My boobs are the size an artist would use, for like a painting or sculpture. They’re big enough to know the person that has them is female, but small enough not to be vulgar.”

Mariah Irvin "loves writing, reading, and sharing random thoughts with complete strangers in hopes that they won't label her absurd." I definitely do not label her absurd, and I love how every entry on her blog is just a scrape on the surface of the randomness past, the randomness at hand, and the randomness to come. My personal favorites the ones involving Barbie and Godzilla, or her psychotic laptop. All in all, an excellent way to chill out after a long day of whatever it is you do.

==>Blog Numero Deux: Blog Title. by :]

Although the postings are rather sporadic, the ones that do exist on this anonymous blog are very entertaining. This may, however, be due to their voice's remarkable resemblance to my dear friend and bestest pally, Wendy. Not much else to say...except that the blog is quite funny, and you really should go read it.

==>Blog Numero Trois: breadxbread by aw and JoJoJoJo

Just two dudes blogging about sandwiches. Any sandwiches, but mostly good ones, with pictures of every single one. It was something utterly random at the time I found it, but now I check for new posts on a regular basis. Yes, I don't live in the same area, so I can't go find any of the particularly mouth-watering specimen I'm reading about, but the posts are so descriptive, I could probably make them myself.

Well, there you have it. Three blogs, each enticingly random in their own hit-or-miss way. So, go check 'em out. Get to it. I won't mind if you leave. Really. Just come back evenutally, alright?

Alright??

More random questions answered: "Germaphobes! Ha!" and "Damn Ankles"

To Whomever May Actually Be Reading This:

I promise I'll have more posts that are not random-question related, but in the meantime, these both have pretty short answers, so I'll give you two of them.

Random Question #2: You laughed so hard you can't catch your breath. Stick out your tongue and show us what's funny:

There are over 300 different kinds of bacteria on my tongue, and everyone else’s tongue for that matter, but silly germ phobics won’t eat anything they think is dirty, even though they’ve already got a bacteria-covered tongue. Hahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!

Random Question #3: How is an ankle unlike a consequence?

Whereas a consequence comes as an effect of an action, an ankle can be the cause of an action, usually resulting in self-injury on the part of the ankle in question.

Random answer #1: "The bald frog and his Lilly"

This all started when I was editing my profile when I first joined Blogger (about 7 months before Creative Writing). I've since killed that blog, since it only had three posts when I forgot about it. I noticed the random question at the very bottom and, next to an answer box, instructions to check the small box below the answer bit and then save the profile to generate a new question. Curious, I checked the box and saved my profile, even though I hadn't changed anything. I scrolled anxiously back to the bottom of the screen, where, lo and behold, a new question had appeared. With childlike ecstasy, I repeated the process: check the box, save the profile, scroll down. Another new question materialized. When I did it all again, the first question reappeared. Slightly disappointed, but eager to discover how many questions there actually were, I decided to copy and paste each question into a Word document, just for the sake of collecting them. So far, I've got 84 of these different takes on random, and they just keep on coming.

Now, I have officially decided to answer each and every one of them. As I work my way down the list, I'll post my answers in this blog, instead of on my profile, for three reasons: 1)because it would take a really long time to bring the question I've answered back around on the profile bit; B) because apparently there's a word limit on the little answer box that no one told me about; and III) because I said so.

So there you have it. Official titles of each answer (if there are titles) are in the post title. Original questions will be in the post, right before their answer.

Random Question #1: The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig:

So there's this frog, Freddy, and he's trying to find a lady frog. He's about to start over to a lady frog that he's had his eye on, Lilly, when he looks down at his reflection in the pond and realizes that he's bald! Freddy had heard stories about how undesirable baldness was, so he makes himself a wig using a grassy plant near the shore of the pond. He gets the wig on, takes a look at himself, and decides right there and then that he is the finest little frog he's ever seen or heard about in his entire froggy life. Finally ready to introduce himself, Freddy hops across the pond, from lily pad to lily pad, over to Lilly. Just as he's hopping onto the lily pad right next to hers, Brad, who’s had it out for Freddy ever since they were tadpoles, jumps onto the lily pad himself! Finding himself mid-jump with no alternative landing spot, Freddy falls into the pond, and his wig away. Too sad for words, he gets himself back to his own lily pad, and sits in solitude for the rest of his poor froggy life.