Finger Guns: The Future of Communication?

Snap! Snap! Snappp! We have all heard the standard finger gun sound. It works for every awkward and non awkward situation, and acts as an outlet for my introverted side to dip into my awesome extrovert side!

A friend you haven’t seen in years due to the war? Finger guns!

A beautiful girl you admired from afar for all of highschool? Finger guns!

A gassy hippopotamus? …maybe finger guns can’t solve that one.

But, you get my point.

This is a fun and fast way to get comfortable with someone without touch, if you don’t prefer the cuddles and want to stay away from germs. You instantly give your friend the impression that you are comfortable enough to shoot imitation guns at them, friendly enough to snap and smile to get their attention, and respect their privacy (although if you really want to feel the love, you can ignore the last one).

Finger guns are the way of the future, and if we all converted to finger gunning, we would be able to help all types of people! Deaf people would see the finger guns and blind people could hear the sounds of the different snaps.

In fact, it’s been seen in nature with colonies of solider ants, or between blue whales busting water from their blow holes. It has been around for centuries dating back to -1 B.C. when the world didn’t even exist!

The finger gun is a truly perfect example of wonderful seamless communication.

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A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 3 (Short Story)

Part 1

Part 2


I’m curled up on the cold, cement floor of a small, windowless room in the basement. After Blue left, Shabby pulled me inside, his grip even tighter than Blue’s, and shut the door. I tried to memorize the stars. It felt like the last time I’d see the sky. He didn’t talk to me at all, he just shoved me in this little room and left. I didn’t get any food and my stomach is growling.

I have nightmares when I finally fall into the darkness that has been tugging on me, tearing me to shreds.

 

Three days have passed, and I’ve started to fall into a routine. Twice a day, I’m given bowls of cold oatmeal that slide down my throat like an eel. It’s always slipped in through a panel on the door. The food is disgusting, but I still eat it. Every other time I’m given food, I make a nick on my sword with a rusty nail I found to keep track of the days that have passed. There’s a small bathroom attached to this room where I bathe and get my water. My sword is always clutched tightly in my hand.

No one has come to rescue me. I burst into tears quite often. Obviously, I’m upset I’m still here, but I’m more upset that I didn’t tell Mother and Father that I love them before they left. I can’t help but think that was goodbye forever and I did it wrong.

Once, a long time ago, Mother told me, “Don’t ever get into a stranger’s car.” I forgot and I’m cursing myself.

 

It’s my birthday today. I’m finally actually six. My sword tells me three months have passed. I cannot remember the color of Father’s eyes or the smell of Mother’s hair, but my tears have dried up. There’s nothing left. I’m having trouble sleeping. Whatever brief moments of rest I do manage to capture are plagued by dreams of dark shapes that try to steal me away and rip me apart as Mother and Father watch. There are tears, but nothing can be done.

 

I’ve been staring at the wall for a few minutes, or possibly a couple hours, when I hear the door open. The sound claws at my ears until they bleed scarlet and I drown in my moon-warmed blood.

I don’t turn around, so Shabby walks across the room until he’s in front of the wall. I haven’t seen another human in around 94 days. Shabby doesn’t quite fit his name anymore. He’s in much better hygiene. He’s taken a shower and cut his hair and shaved and his teeth are still white and straight. He’s wearing new clothing.

He smiles at me in a way that tells me I’ve just seen evil’s face. It’s so much worse than poisoned candy. He’s hiding something behind his back and won’t let me see it. I don’t think I want to.

“I’ve drained all the ransom money I could from your dear parents, so you’re of no use to me anymore,” he sneers. He sees a treasure to take when he looks at me. I shiver.

He steps forward and his smile is scary and I don’t know what he’s got behind his back and I’m scared. I scream and swing my sword.

My left-hand shudders as the sword hits his head and he stumbles, tripping over a crate, and he falls and groans. What was in his hand has fallen and it’s a gun.

I freeze, but I have to act now, before he can hurt me. I run forward, fast enough that you cannot see anything of me but my essence, and I grab the keys to my dungeon from a hook on Shabby’s pocket. He lunges at me, but he’s disoriented and I’m fast and I skitter out of his way, but I stumble and fall to the cold stone floor. I scramble up and hurry to the thick door trapping me here, away from the moon, and shove the key into the hole and dart outside and slam the door shut behind me, locking Shabby inside. I can feel the vibrations through the door as he bangs on it.

I run up the stairs to the main floor and I make it as far as the porch when my knees give up and the tears come. They don’t stop until water fills my lungs and steals all my air, but Mother isn’t here and Shabby’s in the basement and I have to get far away. I clutch my sword and I dry my tears on my dirty sleeve and I march on.

The house isn’t in the middle of nowhere. It’s in a tiny neighborhood and there are street lights and other signs of life. Really, the house looks like every other house here, even though it’s actually a prison.

I’ve been walking for awhile when I see another person at a street corner, and I quicken my pace despite my dying muscles. As I approach the man on the corner, I slow down. Can I trust him? But then I see he’s wearing a uniform and he has a sirencar next to him. He’s an officer. Mother says that I can trust officers above all other adults. They don’t count as strangers. I’m still wary. I’ve learned my lesson.

I tap his elbow and he glances down at me and stares.

“I’ve just run away from a dungeon,” I tell him, pointing at the direction from which I’ve come. “There’s a man who stole me and he tried to hurt me with a gun.”

He blinks three more times then says in an awed voice, “You’re Sam Warner. Everyone thought you were dead.” But I am clearly alive.

 

The officer said something into his walkie-talkie and more officers came. They asked me to tell them what the house and Shabby and Blue looked like. Now, I’m in the backseat of a sirencar with a dark-haired officer lady. She says she’s going to bring me to my parents.

***

Mother, Father, and I sit by the fireplace and we watch the snowflakes drift outside like puffy miniature clouds. I sip my hot chocolate, burning my tongue. I love it anyway.


© ARACHNID WEAVER 2018

Mellow Yellow Episode 21: True Love

TICK, TOCK, ARA, and CHLOE are at a diner, waiting to be served.

CHLOE: We are just throw away characters! We have no story!

ARA: Except Mellow Yellow, I guess. I was in Outside In for a very short period of time.

TICK and TOCK: So… are we here to organize your next debut?

CHLOE (nodding): Yes.

ARA: But I’m dead!

CHLOE: I could bring you back to life with true love’s kiss! And it’ll be with a sunset and flamingos and gummy worms and dramatic lighting.

ARA (Catching on): OOoooh with stars too! (bumping TOCK’s shoulder) I’ve heard that you make a great star.

TOCK: I guess I am

CHLOE: And since the sun IS a star, you can be the sun too!

TOCK: Wait. That won’t fit into the story… It’ll be too cheesy.

TICK: Not to mention the mouth to mouth tension.

ARA: We don’t have to debut in Downside Up. I mean, we can always go to Ned the Narwhal, right?

CHLOE: NEIGH! WE’LL BECOME HORSES!

ARA: So… not Ned the Narwhal. How about SOSP?

CHLOE: I do approve, but did you like my pun? It was hilarious! (Laughing at own joke)

ARA: What pun?

CHLOE smashes ARA into a conveniently placed brick wall

CHLOE (ugly crying): ARA! WHY DIDN’T YOU GET MY JOKE? HOW COULD YOU?

(starts eating Tic Tacs)

TICK and TOCK look at each other with questionable faces.

RUE walks up to the table sporting a suit and tie.

RUE (In a silent French accent): Hello, good madames! Here is what you ordered! (Puts down plates and plates of shrimp sticks, red velvet wall cake, and little pieces of LENA’s rotten baloney)

TICK: Thank you, waiter. As you see our guests are a bit… emotional no— (Goes to sleep) ZZZZZ

RUE shrugs and walks away.

Suddenly JAY rushes up to the table.

JAY: Sorry, I’m late! (gobbles up some shrimp) So… when and where is the new debut of ours?

TOCK: Haven’t decided. (Rolls eyes at ARA and CHLOE) And you actually have working emotions!

JAY: Yeah. I got them fixed by MANAGER OPPA. So when is the debut?

TOCK: They said they wanted it in Ned the Narwhal with a sunset, flamingos, gummy worms, dramatic lighting, and stars. Ara will come back to life with a true love’s kiss and you will probably just be awkwardly standing there, censoring the mouth to mouth tension.

JAY: What part of the story? How long are we in it?

TOCK: Maybe just a sentence. In the middle. I’ll type it up once I get home.

JAY, CHLOE, and ARA: JUST A SENTENCE!?

TOCK: It’s important to be a necessity to the plot.

CHLOE: What if we are the judge’s three children? And Ara is from Earth so she can’t marry me legally. But the judge wants me to be happy, but he cannot break the law, so he sends me to Earth! And then on Earth, we kiss in front of a sunset once finding each other on the vast land!

TICK (awake from her slumber): GREAT IDEA!

TOCK: That will definitely be written into the story!

CHLOE and ARA: Hooray!

JAY: What about me?

TICK (ignoring JAY): I guess it’s settled.

JAY: WHAT ABOUT MEEEEE?

 

~~~END

 

*THis is AN Epilogue, oh WoW im sMarT*

TICK: So, Author, will Chloe, Ara, and Jay make a comeback?

AUTHOR: NEVER!

LICORICE: (running away) AAAAAH! SOME EARTHLINGS ARE KISSING IN FRONT OF THE SUNSET! THEY ARE CAUSING A SCENE! UNICORNIA IS BREAKING!

TICK: Really? WHOA!

TOCK: (Taking TICK’s chin in her hand) I wonder if we kiss now if the whole world would implode!

LICORICE: DON’T DO IT!

The world becomes a black hole

AUTHOR: THE SHIP HAS FINALLY SAILED! (ship sails in distance)

JAY: They’re sisters remember!? The line that you put on that family tree was a mistake!

AUTHOR (with dread): What have I done?

 

~~~END

 

Funny Scenarios

I was carefully spoon-feeding my boyfriend the bits of my leftover pizza when my little sister walked by. A piece of pepperoni fell on her head as he refused another bite. My sister made a face. “You people are weird.”

Suddenly, a giant broccoli sprouted up from the ground, spraying dirt all over my neon-plaid farmer’s overalls. I cried, “Stupid carrot!”

I was walking down the street, gulping down an 11.9-inch sub. A cute dog gave me sad puppy eyes, panting for a strip of bacon lolling on the edge of my meal. Those eyes were so adorable that I ended up giving the little dog the whole thing. Of course, puppy eyes sell high on the black market as well.

The large football player walked up to me, grunting like a caveman, “What grade I get on math test, Teacher?” I declared his grade, “A++++++++!” and darted off, hoping that he wouldn’t pound me into the ground for giving him such a terrible grade.

A cat slunk under the bathroom stall, its whiskers brushing against my bare ankle. He chomped at the clipped nails I left for him, purring at the bent metal. “I must be going now, cat.”  I pulled up my shorts and left.

Casually, I slipped out the of the Skee Ball section of the arcade and headed for Pac Man, my favorite game. There was one machine and a fish was taped onto the screen. I took the fish and got 10,000,000 tickets.

The cloaked man relayed the message into my ear, “Thanks for joining this important FES conference. The Flat Earth Society has members all around the globe, just like you.”

I was a naughty kid this Christmas and, as usual, Santa gave me heaps of coal. While my brothers and sisters were opening up their presents, I was wasting my time watching a documentary on global warming and how burning coal destroys the ice caps. Now I know what I’m doing for my New Year’s resolution.

“Mom, it’s cold in here!” My son hugged himself, his teeth chattering from the AC turned all the way up. I turn to him, sighing at his stupidity. “Go to the corner, Jimmy.” I walked him over to the corner of the room. “Why?” he asked, still shivering. I answered, “Aren’t you getting any warmer? This corner is 90 degrees!”

I’m an astronaut. I’ve been missing my family and I want a party when I go back home from this space trip. Up here though, there is no way I could planet.

 

 

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 2 (Short Story)

Part 1


I stare at him. My mind has gone blank. Mother and Father are so strong. Who could hurt them? There’s urgency in his eyes. He keeps glancing around my house and then back outside. I can tell he’s in a hurry to get going. He’s an adult. I can trust adults, so he must be telling the truth, and my parents are in danger. I still haven’t grasped this impossible possibility.

“I’ll be a moment,” I say. “I need to grab something to help.” He gestures for me to be quick.

I run upstairs and rummage through my toy chest, scattering my things throughout my room. I find what I need and tug it out. It’s a wooden sword Father made last summer after he read The Three Musketeers to me.

As I’m walking down the sweeping staircase, I notice the man reaching toward the oil painting on the wall. I slow down for a moment, but I shake away any doubts. He’s an adult, and adults always do what’s right.

Father says I walk like a cat, my steps near-silent, but now I stomp down the rest of the stairs. The man is startled, but he quickly collects himself. He clears his throat and says, “Shall we go, Sam?” For a fleeting moment, I wonder how he knows my name. I tell myself it’s nothing.

 

His car is a couple houses down from mine. He could’ve parked it closer; it’s not as if we have guests over in the middle of the night. The man’s car is a rusty truck with two rows of seats. It looks like his clothing: old and well-used.

The man opens the back door and motions for me to get inside. I stare at him. He looks at me like I’m insane and asks, scowling slightly, “What?” He’s getting more hurried. I can tell by the way his brow is furrowed. He keeps glancing left and right.

“There’s no car seat,” I say.

“Car seats aren’t important,” he replies. I disagree, but I’m not supposed to talk back. I get into the car, but without a car seat, I can’t see out the window. It’s too high up.

We drive for twenty minutes and it seems like the man, who I’ve decided to call Blue for his clothing, is trying to hit every pothole in the road. Each bump and break is jarring and I slam against the seat belt. I shove my sword inside my jacket to protect it from the rough ride.

When we finally stop, Blue opens the car door and my eyes trace up the long gravel drive to a ghostly house in the midst of nothing. The vinyl is a putrid shade of gray, like a graveyard’s tears. I look at Blue, bewildered, and say, “This isn’t the restaurant.” My parents had taken me there with them before. It was nice with flickering candles and a sweet smell, although I never found out what the scent was.

Blue ignores me and grabs my forearm. He’s hurting me, but I fail to wriggle from his grasp. I have to half-run to keep up with Blue’s long strides as he leads me up the long gravel drive.

 

I stumble on the porch steps, but Blue yanks me forward. He pounds on the door, so hard I’m surprised his fist doesn’t go through the frail wood. When no one answers, he knocks on the door again, this time so loud that I would shield my ears if Blue weren’t holding my arm so tightly.

The door is opened by a glowering man who’s even shabbier than Blue. He’s narrow and he’s got long and scraggly hair that’s in dire need of a brush. When his grayish eyes find my face, the frown disappears and is replaced with a crooked grin. His teeth are extremely white and they clash with the rest of him. I decide to call him Shabby in my head.

Shabby is still looking at me and I shrink under his searing gaze. He asks Blue, “Is this the Warner kid?” Blue nods and Shabby gives him money.

Blue hands me to Shabby then heads down the long gravel drive and gets in his truck and drives away. I suddenly want him to come back. I want him to take me back to evil Emmica.

Part 3


© Arachnid Weaver 2018

My Bookish Identity, A Book Tag

I was tagged for this by the wonderful Kelly | Another Book in the Wall. Check her out, nonexistent readers, she’s got brilliant posts.


What Dystopian/Fantastical World Would You Want to Live In?

As much as I love books, I probably wouldn’t want to live in most of these worlds. I mean, they’re insane, and I’d rather be chilling out and doing nothing, not running for my life, thank you very much.

But if I had to choose, I’d probably go with the wonderful Wizarding World of Harry Potter in a time of peace, ’cause you gotta love Hogwarts.

HogwartsCastle_WB_F4_HogwartsThroughTheTrees_Illust_100615_Land

Who Would Your Partner Be?

Keefe Sencen from Keeper of the Lost Cities, because Keefe is the absolute best thing in the fictional universe.

Keefe_Sencen_Color

Who Would Be Your Godly Mother/Father [Percy Jackson]? (Quiz)

Okay, guys, I’m going to admit something here. I’ve only read the first book in the Percy Jackson series and I despised it.

rr-godly-parent-quiz-hades_72378ec8

I got Hades.

I could really use some emojis right now.

You know what, it makes a lot of sense.

 

Would You Be a Downworlder or Nephilim [Shadowhunter World]? (Quiz)

I haven’t read this either, so no idea what this means.

Okay, I’ve just found out this is a TV series, which just further illustrates my point.

shadow hunter

I’m a Shadowhunter! Yay?

 

Which Hogwarts House Would You Be In [Harry Potter]?

The Pottermore quiz told me I’m a Gryffindor.

HouseCrest-Gryffindor-large.png

 

Which Faction Would You Be In [Divergent]? (Quiz)

I haven’t read this either… But I’m planning to soon!

 

divergent

I got Divergent! (Whatever that means)

You deviate from the norm. The aptitude test is inconclusive. It cannot determine just one faction for you, Divergent. Your mind is ceaselessly changing. You’re creative, with a strong sense of self, and you have a clear picture of who you are and what you want. You stand out from the crowd. You may pose a threat to the norms of society, but you are unwilling to give into them.

Sounds about right.

 

What Would Be Your Daemon [Northern Lights]? (Quiz)

You guessed it! I haven’t read this either.

osprey.png

Well, okay. Ospreys are cool birds. I relate with the woodpecker more, though.


I am tagging the following peeps plus any other marshmallows who feel like doing it.

Mellow Yellow Episode 21: Revenge

TICK is braiding her hair, humming Rawr.

JOHN: Why are you humming that?

TICK: Hmm?

JOHN: Why are you humming that―that disgrace instead of California Gurls?

TICK: What’s a gurl?

JOHN: Well, it’s like a mashup of girl and hurl. It really is quite obvious. I’m almost surprised you couldn’t figure that out on your own.

TICK shrugs lazily.

JOHN: And no one knows what Cali―

TICK (angry): I didn’t ask you what California is. I know what it is, anyway.

JOHN: (jaw drops) You―you know what California is?

TICK: (Shrugs. Says nonchalantly while unbraiding her hair) Yes. That’s what I just said. It’s an area of land, called a state, in another country in an alternate universe where the writer of the song is from.

JOHN doesn’t believe her and walks away, shaking his head in an attempt to remove this insanity

TICK braids her hair again

TOCK enters and stands silently in the doorway for fourteen minutes and 32 seconds before leaving again.

TICK is unbraiding her hair when she hears a doorbell. She opens it and calls over her shoulder

TICK: Quinn! It’s for you!

QUINN walks in and yelps

QUINN: Yelp

An army of bread sandwich ghosts led by BREAD SNADWHICH III converge on QUINN and he is never seen from again

 

~~~~END

 

#conquerhatewithlove

Dear World, Originally I was going to post about some of my favorite music, but I changed my mind due to current events in our world today. On Wednesday the 14th, a former student of Parker High School, Nikolas Cruz, started shooting at his school. There were 17 dead, and many more in the hospital. […]

via #conquerhatewithlove Campaign and Giveaway — Just Another Nefelibata

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 1 (Short Story)

Hey guys! I recently wrote a short story, but it’s far too long to put in one post because humans have short attention spans, so I’m going to break it up into a couple parts. As you are reading it, the beginning may tickle your memory because I did post the first page or so when the story was still a fledgling, but now it has been completed and is somewhat different.


Ihug my blue teddy bear, Zachy, tightly as my parents prepare to leave. Mother says his name is actually Zachary, but my little two-year-old tongue couldn’t say so many syllables and he became Zachy from then on.I like “Zachary” much better. It sounds more refined, but Zachy will forever be “Zachy.” It’s too late to change it.

My parents are going on a date tonight. I asked them not to. It’s cold and cloudy tonight, and I can tell I’m going to have nightmares. Father said I’m a strong boy and as long as I have Zachy and Emmica I can do anything. I said I’d be brave for him.

Mother hands Emmica, my babysitter, some money. She smiles at them. Her smile is like poisoned candy. I don’t like her, but my parents think she is lovely. Mother says to trust Emmica, that she’ll always do what’s best for me.

Emmica is a pretty girl, like the kind you see on TV. She has straight, white teeth and green eyes and dark brown hair. One streak is pink and blue. I haven’t figured out how she makes her hair colorful. I’ve tried concentrating, but my hair has not turned orange yet. My floppy yellow hair always stays floppy and yellow no matter how much I try to change it.

My parents hug me and then leave. I flinch as the door slams, locking me inside with Emmica. As soon as the front door is shut, Emmica’s pleasant smile morphs into a scowl. I grimace. She doesn’t like to be here, but she also loves to collect money. She says, her voice sweet, “If you need anything, I’ll be at Izzy’s,” and heads out the door. I flinch again as it closes.

I gape at where she used to be. I don’t think Emmica is supposed to leave me alone, as I’m only five—nearly six—and children are always supposed to be with someone older. I’ll tell Mother about her when they get back. Maybe then I’ll get a new babysitter who has a pleasant smile.

Izzy lives close by and Emmica likes her much more than me. I don’t like Izzy. Sometimes, she plays loud music at night and makes it hard to sleep. I can feel it echo in my bones.

Emmica has never left before, and I’m alone for the first time. Usually, she never pays attention to me, but she stays with me. I’m scared, but I’m almost six. I can do things by myself and I’m strong.

I’m hungry. I may be almost-six and I may be able to do things by myself and I may be strong, but I cannot cook. It’s already an hour past my dinner time and the door doesn’t open. Mother gave Emmica a key a few weeks ago, so she shouldn’t need my help to come inside.

I’m at war with myself. I want to find Emmica because I want food, but I’m not supposed to leave by myself. My hunger wins. I grab my sweater and a set of keys from the closet and I head outside. My friend, the moon, is hidden by heavy clouds that hang low in the dark sky. A biting breeze blows litter and dead leaves across my feet. I shiver.

I walk down the porch steps and the driveway until I’m on the sidewalk. I run, unsettled by the night, next door to Izzy’s house and ring the doorbell. Nobody answers. The music is playing today and I can feel the porch shaking under my feet. I count 120 seconds then ring the bell again. There are neon lights in the windows behind the curtains.

This time Emmica answers. The door flies open and she leans against the frame. There’s a fading smirk on her electric-blue lips and her eyes are glittering. She’s wearing a short maroon dress and shoes that make her look like a giraffe. I have to tilt my head back to see her face. Music pounds behind her and I can hear people shouting.

“Well?” she asks. The happiness has drained from her face and has been replaced with her usual expression. It looks like she’s eaten a sour grape.

“I’m hungry.”

She smiles that ugly smile and says, “You’re a smart boy, Sammy, right? You can figure it out.” I wince. No one but Mother is allowed to call me Sammy.

She slams the door in my face.

Emmica told me I could figure this out. I look at my kitchen and think it’s improbable.I’m not allowed to touch the knives or the oven or the microwave and I don’t know how to cook.

I open the refrigerator and scan its contents. There’s milk, but I can’t make cereal since the milk jug is too heavy for me to lift. The freezer is too high for me to reach and I’m not supposed to stand on the chairs since I fell one time and broke my arm.

The clock says it’s past my bedtime. I sigh, giving the kitchen one last long look before heading upstairs to brush my teeth and head to bed.

I spit into the sink and when I look up, I see that I’m frowning, so I make a silly face and smile. Smiling is so much more pleasant than frowning unless you smile like Emmica.

I’ve just slid between the freezingcovers when the doorbell rings. It must be Emmica. She’d want to return before Mother and Father come back, but she has a key. She shouldn’t need to ring the bell, but maybe she left her key at home.

I slip out of bed and pad down the stairs, but I stop before reaching the door. Usually, Mother or Father answers the door and they always look through the peephole, but I can’t reach it without standing on a chair. But if it’s Emmica and she doesn’t have a key I need to open the door for her because she can’t spend the next three or four hours on the porch and I need her to make me food.

The door bows open and it isn’t Emmica standing on the other side of the threshold. The street lamp on the far side of the road flickers, turning the tall man in front of me into a shadow. He takes up too much space.I have to take a step back to breathe.

The street lamp flickers for a bit longer, caught between light and darkness. It chooses darkness, but the light from inside casts a warm glow on the man’s face.

“Hello,” I say. It comes out meeker than I intended, so I try again, stronger.

The man is strangely dressed in a baby blue suit. Father always wears black or white, or if he’s feeling spontaneous, a color like vanilla pudding. The suit is sharp and creased in all the right places, but it’s old. It’s worn so thoroughly in some places there’s only thread and I can almost see his white shirt beneath. The edges of the sleeves are frayed enough that it looks like he’s decided to tape his dog’s shed fur to the edges of his sleeves. The man doesn’t have a beard, but he doesn’t not have a beard either.

He says, “Quick, come with me, Sam. Your parents are in danger. Only you can save them.”

Part 2


© Arachnid Weaver 2018

Spinette’s Tips for Flirting

Honestly, I could write all about this topic to fill seven dictionary-sized books, but for today, I’ll keep it brief. These quick tips will change your terrible love life to an amazing one in just a single moment! Love is in the air, so on Valentine’s Day being able to make words fly out of your mouth like an angel is advised to get a lifelong partner. Is your love interest about to leave you? Do you want to ask your crush out to the dance? Here is the hub of all your answers!

Tip 1: Make eye contact

This is rule number one! Don’t blink, just stare away. If you do blink make sure you do it one eye at a time, so it comes off as a wink. This is how your love interest knows you’re listening, When they bring up something you’re into in conversation go on and wink or raise your eyebrows. For maximum affect, do the two actions at the same time. Also, when they question your staring make sure to stare even more— they didn’t think your constant eye contact was good enough.

Tip 2: Trap them from the very beginning, throwing a casual pick up line

“Hey hot stuff, you are looking real FINE tonight!”

“I barely know you.”

If your love interest responds with this phrase, that means you are heading in the right direction. This means that the love interest wants to know more of you, and is willing to devote his or her time for you. Do something that will ensure that he or she stays in your company such as sitting on their lap, holding their hand very tightly, or the classic breathing down the neck technique.

Tip 3: Touch those forearms

Touching the forearm is an essential part of the flirting process. Make sure you get in that forearm, that you caress that forearm, that you pet that forearm like it’s your puppy. Go up and down in obvious sweeping motions as you invite the love interest to grab yours. If he/she says yes, this probably means that you are going to get married someday.

“Do you want to touch my forearms?” *sweeping love interest’s forearms*

“Uh…um…yeah, about that, I really need to g—”

“Shh!” *puts finger on his/her mouth* “You’re my puppy now!”

Tip 4: Use metaphor and simile

Remember what your 3rd grade ELA teacher taught you? Here is the time to put it in action. Make sure, like any good compliment, that the flirts are oddly specific. A good example would be:

“Your dress is poofy as a bunch of upturned cupcake wrappers stacked on top of each other!”

Or…

“Your eyes are as green as strawberry flavored American Haribo gummy bears.”

This will make your love interest think that you are an intelligent and poetic person. Also, all the flirty compliments have to be related to food since really that’s your true intention.

Tip 5: Be a cat or dog!

Everyone loves cats and dogs! Adding a cute purr to every sentence, or giving adorable puppy dog eyes will enhance the flirting experience. Once your love interest is about to leave the party, give them a lick to the face.

The Most Hated Item in Existence (According to me)

You all have probably encountered this thing in your lives. Probably on numerous occasions. Almost every day for some. And if you are like me (as most are, at least in this case), then you hate this thing with a fiery passion.

Yes, you have guessed correctly. This thing that I am talking screaming about is the dreaded alarm clock.

That necessary evil in your life that resides on your night table and shrieks at you much too early in the morning.

Sometimes with incessant, monotonous, and redundant shrilling beeps or sometimes an initially lovely tune that you have slowly developed a deep-rooted hatred for.

The thing that shatters your dreams of unicorns, flying cupcakes, and fictional characters and welcomes you to the dreaded state of being awake. Oh, dreams are so much better than real life. If only they could last. WHICH THEY WOULD IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE ALARM CLOCK.

The horrible welcoming committee that greets you into an unbreakable cycle of wake, eat, work, eat, sleep, wake, work on and on for circles that loop infinitely until your inevitable death, however close or far away.

Sometimes you wish to take deserved revenge. You blame your alarm clock for every bad day. If only you had stayed asleep.

But, trust me, one day you will get your revenge. You will one day decide that enough is enough and you will take a sledgehammer and smash your alarm clock until nothing is left but the remnants of shattered dreams, long ago shriveled and withered and so very brittle.

And you will sleep for as long as you want.

Spirals

Spirals are really scary shapes. I’m not sure why or how, but they just send the heebie jeebies down my spine. Endless staircases are the same way— I never know what’s at the end, but that uncertainty is what scares me. I can never find anything definite with these things, nothing solid I know would be shocking.

I remember this specific Super Mario 64 game on my DS. There was an endless staircase leading up to Bowser’s lair, and I vividly recall my fear after seeing the same portraits lining the terribly animated 3D walls. A wall of black seemed to hold my Mario character back ominously. Needless to say, I had a lot of nightmares about that night.

So the other day, I was looking up a little something about insanity. Besides random workout videos with Dwayne Johnson-type muscle men and girls whose stomachs represent pieces of paper, a particular thing showed up. It was an odd picture of a weird lady with a spiraled face.

I searched up the picture, stumbling across this horror manga artist by the name of Junji Ito. The spiral face lady came from his manga, Uzumaki, about a man who slowly becomes obsessed with spirals.

Soon, everything around him becomes a spiral from a girl’s hair, to the ground, all the way to even him. This abstract shape gradually shaves its way into every single thing on page.

It may not seem as scary in words, but trust me, this story gets me trembling. Also, Junji Ito has a collection of a lot of short scary stories, one of my favorites detailing an ice cream man.

Imagine this: It’s a dark night, and you, a single father, is walking down the street with your small child. You see a big group of children smiling, gathered together as you hear a peculiar tone you’ve never heard before.

“Daddy!” Your child says, pulling you towards the congregation, “Ice cream! Can I have some ice cream?”

You see a white truck wheel up, with a smiling man giving ice cream to a girl with petite curls. Your son practically drags you towards the truck as you stare at man inside. He seems perfect, almost too perfect, like a member of boy band. His eyelashes are long, feminine, and his hair compliments his ice cream vendor-hat as if he has been wearing that hat all his life. Of course, you shrug it off, realizing that your kid is lost in the crowd.

You ask the mothers of the other children, busy swooning over the ice cream man. “Where is my child?”

One mother responds, “He’ll come back after he takes a ride! You’re boy is new, but he’ll love it.”

You, not completely knowing what she meant, wait for your son. Then the ice cream man opens the door of his truck and the kids barrel in like animals, eyes struck with instinct. “Wait!” You object, squealing children drowning your voice out, “Where are you taking them?”

An old lady replies this time, “He is just taking them for a ride around the neighborhood.”

The truck comes back as expected, but you see something different in your child’s smile. Ice cream paints his hands and shirt in a way that feels off, as if you were teetering on a tightrope trying to balance.

To be continued. (Not really)

Mellow Yellow Episode 19: Pool Party

In CYRA’s homely cottage, setting up a kiddie pool

CYRA: (whipping LUR) All done! I think your blood has filled up the pool!

LUR (weakly): Get me out of here.

CYRA: Yay! I’m going to change into my swimsuit, okay? You wait here.

LUR: I’m tied up! (struggles with the ropes)

 

***

 

CYRA: I’m back! (Now dressed in a green bikini, and is untying LUR)

LUR: What is this? A pool party?

CYRA: Yeah! I got the drinks too! (holds up a wine glass filled with blood. ZHAN’s eyeball floats on top) Want one?

LUR: No.

CYRA: Not even with these silver noodles he had clenched in his hands? (slurps TICK’s hair) They are quite tasty.

LUR: NO.

CYRA: Don’t you want to have some fun? (Puts hand on his shoulder)

LUR: … (Flashbacking wildly)

CYRA: Hello? Lur? (waving her hands frantically in front of his face) Oh well, I guess I could just look in that bag that you have…

LUR: … (Lost in the land of Flashback)

CYRA: (rummaging through his bag) Let’s see… bullets, an array of forks from different countries that don’t exist, Slugventures, and a single by Katy Perry. (Rubbing dust off the cover) Ooooh! California Gurls! This is perfect!

LUR: (back from his journey) Hey! What are you doing?

CYRA places the disk into a conveniently placed disk player.

California Gurls plays

LUR (Singing along): CALIFORNIA GURLS, WE’RE UNDENIABLE, DAISY DUKES… (Looks from his swim trousers to her bikini frantically)

CYRA: EIFFEL TOWERS ON TOP! (An Eiffel Tower grows out of the ground behind them)

QUINN is in the bushes with popsicles, ready to fire, along with his army men, JOHN, and LENA.

CYRA and LUR: FUN, FRESH, FIERCE, SO HOT. WE’LL—

QUINN: FIREEEEEWEEE! (JOHN fires the popsicles, but they melt in the air)

CYRA and LUR: MELT YOUR POPSICLE!

QUINN: So this is the true power of the Fire Nation.

JOHN: Yes, they are almost untouchable!

LENA: But it looks like they are having a lot of fun. Look at those yummy snacks they have!

JOHN: Let’s go!

JOHN and LENA rip off their clothing (they are wearing bathing suits), running toward the pool party, leaving QUINN all alone.

QUINN: Hello darkness, my old friend.

LENA: (wearing a blue bathing suit, settling down in the blood pool) Hey guys, what’cha up to?

JOHN: Yeah. What up? (In red swim trousers)

LUR: (with an idiotic smile) The Eiffel Tower!

JOHN’s eyes narrow.

CYRA sucks on ZHAN’s disembodied finger

JOHN: You are supposed to say “the ceiling” (Disgraced, he leaves the pool, tripping over the finished glasses of ZHAN’s blood)

LENA: I guess it’s just us now, huh?

LUR: Hey! I just realized now that I can escape!

CYRA takes LUR, folds him into a sandwich, and sits on him. She finishes him off with a dagger to the cheek.

LUR: Ow.

LENA: (Petrified) What? Is this stuff not fruit punch?

CYRA grabs LENA’s swimming suit, folds her into a burrito, and uses her as a footrest. She slurps her ZHAN-blood desperately trying to fit the eyeball into her mouth.

JOHN: (In the bushes with QUINN) The Fire Nation is truly despicable.

QUINN: Yes. (bites Bread Snadwhich three)

 

~~~END

 

Gum

My favorite flavor of gum is cinnamon, of course. Everyone should love cinnamon gum. (I also have cinnamon toothpaste.) A close second is mint-flavored.

I hate fruit-flavored gum. Just…Ew. Watermelon is the worst. Watermelon is like a combination of a random lifeguard’s stolen fruity perfume/cologne and all the mushy bits of watermelon that no one likes.

I also despise bubblegum-flavored gum, but it’s located a hairsbreadth above fruit on my gum list. I used to chew Bubble Dubble a lot, though. Bubble Dubble’s bubble-blowing capability is superior to all other gums (but the flavor sucks).

I remember once, in second grade (second grade was an intense year), I discovered this new type of gum. I’ve only had this gum once in my life (that time in second grade), but it’s still my favorite of all gums. So anyway, it was sour on the outside and obnoxiously sweet on the inside. But it was the perfect amount of obnoxious to be lovable. But the thing that truly made this gum shine was its bubble-blowing potential. It’s way better than Bubble Dubble.

It was green.

Anyway, so I was chewing this gum and I blew a giant bubble. It was the size of my head. It was brilliant. It was amazing. It was wonderful.

I quickly went to show my parents my terrific bubble-blowing skills before it deflated.

It popped on the way and covered my entire face with gum.

It was in my hair.

I just couldn’t get it out.

 

I remember chewing that gum for a ridiculously long amount of time before that final pop. I wanted it to last as long as possible because there was only one piece. It tasted horrible. It was probably for the best that I was forced to let it go.


So now let’s get to the whole point of this random post.

GUM ON THE FLOOR/STREET/GROUND/ETC.

It’s despicable.

We all hate it.

It’s worse when it’s inside a building.

We’ve all ruined our shoes.

Our prized flip flops.

SO STOP!

 

~~~END

It’s Kind of Like Cinderella! (A Short Story)

Today (actually yesterday), I wrote a story based off of and including eight randomly generated words. The story took a very odd turn.

So here are the eight words:

bucket ~ first on the bucket list!

miniature~ yay! cute things!

summon~ the first thing I think of is an exorcism.

herbs~ pickle, pineapple, strawberry!

beg~ so it’s gonna be about a poor street rat.

shoes ~ red heels have such a lovely aesthetic to them.

purring~ meow, meow.

seduce ~ I’m going to have fun with this one!

It’s Kind of like Cinderella!

“Oh, Maria!” Kara’s cheeks lowered into a fiery bliss, “Look at these new shoes!”

Maria watched her go tap tap with her heels in moonlight, enjoying the sliding reflection on the tips, but even more so the toes tucked inside them. She sighed hollowly; the sight of her feet was enough to seduce her.

Cautiously, Maria took her hands and brushed them against the shoe, noting the pure quality of plastic but also the mere millimeter she was away from touching Kara’s ankles. She could feel herself heating up already, desire welling up in her veins. All she would have to do is lower the bucket.

“Do you like them?” Kara purred softly.

Maria blinked twice. Surely she was imagining things, since her friend never was this appealing before. Was it her perfect feet summoning her? Those baby-like miniature red nails?

“It’s nice,” was all Maria managed to say.

It was as if the stars of Paris, France were ready to supernova in her chest. Her thumb teetered on the edge of the plastic just about ready to touch Kara’s skin, to build a portal to unlimited toe grazing. Oh my, Maria thought in pleasure, I just need to move my finger! Why won’t it move!

Kara stepped away to look at the stars above them, grinning, “It’s so pretty out here.”

Maria’s hands clenched the brick bench she was sitting on, a cold, hard floor to bring her back to reality. Still, the girl hoped, taking on this idiom she learned recently, If it’s called being between a rock and a hard place, where is the rock? The flame of desire didn’t go out yet; Maria would do anything to touch those feet.

For some odd reason, Kara’s voice seemed more poetic rather than the usual squeal, “I know this is weird, but can you…” A clumsy poet begging for money, but the nonetheless, she continued, “give me your…”

“What?” Maria questioned. Did she want to swap shoes? Jackpot!

“…Your feet?” Kara’s face beamed bright pink, “Please! I know it’s weird! I just want to touch them, maybe take a picture? Just for a bit!” she begged.

A new fresh-herb confidence waded over Maria as she kicked off her tennis shoes, stomping to her goal. She gently took off her friend’s heels, placing them on the cement, making sure to caress the undersides of her toenails while she was at it. Kara gave her private smile, urging her to go ahead.

THE END.

Boredom

Boredom is infectious, there is no doubt about that. Once a single person catches it, it just goes on to someone else, little by little, before the whole place is painted with the expression of “meh”.

As the certified doctor I am, I will diagnose symptoms of this viral disease and finally find an end to the epidemic.

Let’s start with an example:

A group of girls are sitting on a bed. They talk up a storm, singing even with cheeks red, drunk on the fun they are having. Then one girl says she needs to go and eat dinner. Once she comes back, everyone looks at her with jaded, grey and boring expressions while two tap along on their phones and the other is staring blankly at a wall. The girl who went to go eat (let’s call her Spinette) pales, seeing the disease take over her dear friends.

Her eyes dart around the room, searching for the boredom starter. First, her pupils land on the phones resting like kings in two girls’ soft hands. But then she remembers singing a Kpop song with her friend with earbuds and a phone. She looks closer at one of the songs her friends are listening to.

Dean’s instagram. The song details the separation one feels when on his phone from the rest of the world and how miserable he feels. However, Spinette loves the song. Why would it plunge anyone into boredom?

Next, her eyes land on Fishy, the other girl on her phone. She is doing a role-play sort of game that involves long texts of story. Jokingly, Spinette waggles eyebrows and says,”You texting your boyfriend?” She adds an unhinged “rrr” to the sentence to make it extra flirtatious.

“No! I’m doing a role-playing game,” Fishy cries.

“I heard he’s pretty hot.”

Ignore.

“I’m quite jealous,” then she says, “You doing it tonight?”

“Oh Morgan Freeman, Spinette! You need holy water!” She freaks out at my implied statement and throws a post onto Wattpads that I need holy water, whatever that is.

And boredom ensues.

So Spinette keeps on joking, hoping it would take the boredom away, but it doesn’t go, not even after she leaves.

Ever since that incident (which was yesterday) I have been determined to find the root of boredom and cure it.

After extensive research I have discovered that boredom blossoms by routine, by doing something over and over again, or keeping things the same. The two constant things in that bedroom were the Hamilton music playing on the speakers and the arrangement of which we were on the bed. So Trapezoid (one staring at the wall) must have gotten bored by the Hamilton music or the arrangement and that spread onto to Mew (one listening to Dean’s instagram) and that spread onto to Fishy.

But it didn’t spread to me.

I was lying down next Fishy, one of the people infected. I was touching her skin! (She’s really warm) But it didn’t spread.

Maybe it was because I was making jokes. By this logic, joking around, keeping oneself occupied is sort of vaccine. It’s like a flu shot people get at the doctors. You get a flu shot to prevent the flu, not to cure it.

So keep yourself occupied this winter to chase away the boredom!

Mellow Yellow Episode 18: The Hardware Store

 

ZHAN screams in frustration as he tries to pick up a wrench, but it falls through his ghostly hand. ARA watches with an amused half-smile on her face.

ARA: Just use a ghost wrench.

ZHAN: (Looks at ARA like she just said that bacon could fly.) What in the pickle bottom is a ghost wrench?!

ARA: (says slowly like she is talking to an idiotic giraffe) It is a wrench for a ghost. It won’t fall through your hands.

ZHAN: (rolls his eyes, but seems vaguely interested) And where do I acquire this so-called “ghost wrench”?

ARA: The ghost mall of course!

ARA grabs ZHAN’s hand and flies up through the ceiling. They continue north until they reach the Imoloupe Desert Sand Falls. They fly through the sand and somehow end up in a ghost mall. Everything is transparent and foggy.

ZHAN: Whoa!

Ara: (Smirking) To the hardware store!

 

At the hardware store

 

ZHAN: (picking up a wrench) Whoa. I can touch this. How I’ve missed touching things. (Turns to ARA) Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?!

ARA: (Shrugging) You didn’t express your dislike of being a fluid surrounded by solids.

ZHAN: (scoops up an armload of tools. Turns to the rest of the tools still on the rack) I shall be back soon, my pretties.

 

At the checkout counter

 

ZHAN: I want to buy these precious tools. (Holds out a wrench for scanning porpoises.)

CASHIER PORPOISE: Is that corn? (muttering to himself) I didn’t even know we sold corn.

ZHAN opens his mouth, but ARA cuts in.

ARA: Yes, you do sell corn, and we would like to buy this armload of corn.

CASHIER PORPOISE: So much corn! What are you planning to do with it if not eat it?

ARA: Build fancy gadgets.

CASHIER PORPOISE (muttering to himself): I didn’t even know that corn could do that!

ARA: Corn has ways of surprising people, doesn’t it?

CASHIER PORPOISE: Yes, yes. Of course. (Slides forward a little rectangle.) Please lick this.

ZHAN: What, why?

ARA (impatiently): They don’t have money in the ghost world. You have to pay by giving them a piece of your DNA.

ZHAN: But ghosts don’t even have―

ARA: Just lick it.

ZHAN: But it’s so unsani―

ARA: Just lick the dumb rectangle!

ZHAN: But―

ARA: JUST LICK IT!

CASHIER PORPOISE (Cowering behind the counter): Here, take all the money! Take all the rectangles! Take the old ugly guy, for all I care! Just please, spare me. I’ll give you all our corn.

ARA: That’s not―

ZHAN: Give her all your corn!

 

~~~END

 

Football: Some Random Thoughts

I wrote a post a while back about football, and as I’ve heard that the Super Bowl is today, I am shuffling this post to the top of the card deck. (Yay analogies!) I’m not really a sporty person. I have no idea what the football is actually supposed to be about. It’s a sport. (???)

I’ve always viewed sports as sort of a mock-war to satisfy the human thirst for violence while being less-violent because we value life. A sports-person would probably disagree. Even I sort of disagree with myself. *Shrugs* It seems as though I’m having trouble forming coherent thoughts today.

I usually just watch the Super Bowl for the commercials and the half-time show. I don’t even know who’s playing. (I don’t know how I missed this. I mean everyone’s talking about the Super Bowl.)

GO SPORTZ!!!

(I like hockey the best, but I don’t really keep up with it.)

So yeah. Football!


I am very clearly not an athletic person. The only game I can somewhat play almost decently is tennis, but I dislike playing tennis, and the only sports game I watched was hockey. But I only watched hockey twice, and it wasn’t really of my own free will.

So being generally unathletic, I tend to look at sports differently than athletic people, which brings us to our question of the day: Why is a football called a football?

First, let us consider the first part of this compound word: foot.

Even with my limited knowledge of sports, I know that footballs are usually carried or thrown, and things that are carried or thrown by humans are usually carried or thrown by the hands, not the feet.

But we shall let this part of the word slide because footballs are occasionally hit by the foot (aka “kicked”) when a player is attempting to launch the football in a parabolic arc through the tuning fork-shaped apparatus.

So the “foot” part of “football” has been considered acceptable, although it is not the ideal choice of word. The most troublesome part of the word is “ball,” anyway.

According to Dictionary.com, a ball is “a spherical or approximately spherical body or shape; sphere.”

A football is clearly not a sphere.

It’s shaped more like a lemon.

Let’s all call it a footlemon!

P.S. That looks like foo-tulle-mon, but it is pronounced foot-le-mon.

The Liebster Award!

Hello nonexistent readers!

We’ve been nominated for the Liebster Award by the lovely teaandbeesandthings. Do check out the blog. It’s wonderful and funny.

Ze Rules:

  1. Acknowledge the blog who nominated you for this award.
  2. Answer 11 questions the blogger gave you.
  3. Give 11 random facts about yourself.
  4. Nominate 11 blogs.
  5. Notify them.
  6. Give them 11 questions to answer.

Why 11?

Anyway, on to the questions!

1. If you could say one thing to the you of 2028, what would you say?

Why only one thing? Why not a conversation? And what is considered a thing? Is it an entire conversation? A single word?

For the purposes of answering this question, I will assume that “thing” refers to a single piece of advice. But if so, wouldn’t it make more sense for my future self to give me advice? But doing so might change the future. Unless, of course, the future me also got advice from the future future me when she was young. But that means that I got advice from myself for an infinite number of times and that doesn’t make any sense because who would have given me the advice in the first place?

I would probably say, “Always and forever love mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

2. You have just won the billion dollar lottery. What is the first thing you do?

Scream, probably. In joy, not fear. Then I would buy a ton of trees and land and plant an enchanted forest. If you were wondering what the second or third, or even fourth, things would be, I would buy more books, go to Disney World, and donate to a charity that supports the environment. And buy chocolate.

3. What’s one thing you would change about yourself?

There’s not really much I would change about myself. I am already perfect. But, I do have black hair, and black hair absorbs a lot of heat in the summertime. With slight exaggeration, it gets hot enough to fry an egg. But I like my black hair, so I’d make it so black doesn’t absorb as much heat.

But really, that’s not changing something about myself, that’s more changing a property of the color black.

4. One thing you would never change about yourself?

My inability to sing because that means that (a) I appreciate other people’s songs better and (b) when I sing along to other people’s songs, it annoys my brother a lot.

5. What would you like your last words to be?

This is a rather morbid question.

“Mint chocolate chip has been my one true love.”

6. The best film you’ve ever seen? Why?

I don’t really watch that many movies. Currently, my favorite movie (I’m pretty sure “movie” and “film” are the same things) is Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. I don’t know why. I just really like it. But the first time I watched it, I hadn’t read the Harry Potter series yet, so I had no idea what was going on and it was my favorite movie anyway.

7. What is one thing you will never get tired of talking about?

Either Six of Crows or Global Warming.

8. Which punctuation mark is your favorite? (Like, ‘!’, ‘.’, ‘?’, etc.)

My favorite punctuation mark is: the colon. I love: using them incorrectly.

They are also: a necessary aspect of emojis.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

9. A lie you’ve told someone?

I’m a bad liar.

😉

(I know I used a semi-colon there. *Sigh.* But colons sadly cannot be used to form winking emojis.)

10. Something you wish you knew before that you know now? (Essentially, what would you tell your past self?)

“Don’t waste your time being serious.”

11. You are in a blackened room. You cannot leave. A single spotlight shines on a metal table. A man in a rubber horse mask steps forward and places two things upon it: a lilac washable marker and a plastic, orange Mardi Gras bead necklace. Which one do you pick up? Why?

I probably wouldn’t pick up either. “Never take lilac washable markers or plastic, orange Mardi Gras bead necklaces from a man in a rubber horse mask” is a moral from a well-known cautionary tale that I live by.

But if forced to take one, my choice would depend on the horse-masked man.

If he is the antagonist of this story, then I would take the necklace because that’s a much better item to use as a weapon than the marker because it can be used as a choking device.

If he isn’t the antagonist, then I would take the marker because I generally dislike those beaded necklace things.


11 Random Facts About Myself

  1. My favorite bands are Imagine Dragons and The Score.
  2. I have never tried coffee.
  3. I like to draw.
  4. If I were contemplating about starting a collection of some sort, I’d probably collect either chapsticks, spools of thread, or mugs with funny quotes.
  5. I didn’t read Harry Potter until 2017.
  6. I lack a favorite number or color, although I do prefer some over others.
  7. I want to grow up to be The Supreme Leader of The Universe. (Everything would be better if everyone always listened to me, anyway.)
  8. My least favorite motion is that of worms.
  9. I suck at poetry.
  10. I love Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream.
  11. The darker the chocolate, the better.

11 Nominations

  1. Jina S. Bazzar
  2. It’s Just a Restless Feeling
  3. Wallflower Wife
  4. All ‘Bout Them Books and Stuff
  5. Illuminati Gone Wild
  6. Kelly | Another Book in the Wall
  7. Noel White
  8. Megha Bhargava
  9. Sophia Ismaa Writes
  10. haveyouevernoticedblog
  11. Erik McManus | Breakeven Books

11 Questions!

  1. If you were suddenly given the power to create your own planet, what would it be like and what creatures would inhabit it?
  2. You’ve created a new color and you can use other colors to describe it. What do you do? (Like, you can’t say “it’s blue-ish with a touch of yellow” or “it’s the color of sparkly dandelion fluff”)
  3. Would you rather eat nothing but [insert most hated food item] for the rest of your existence or bathe only in mud for the rest of the year.
  4. You are making a new signature perfume. What does it smell like?
  5. You decide to invent a new writing utensil. What does it look like?
  6. You want to plant a garden, but you are absolutely terrified of worms, what do you do?
  7. You are at a concert. The band has slept in and missed their flight. Because of this, you are forced to sing on stage in front of a million raging fans, desperate to listen to their favorite band perform and they are stuck with you. They are armed with tomatoes. And you are tone-deaf and the only song you know is “Mary had a Little Lamb.” What do you do?
  8. What’s your favorite color?
  9. Write a guide on how to do the thing that you are the most unskilled at.
  10. You are making a company, but you want to do something creative. What does your company create?
  11. You get a letter in the mail. It says that you won a raffle that you don’t remember entering. It says you’ve won a million dollars and a miniature pony. All you have to do is go to a warehouse alone in the middle of the night to collect your prize. The letter seems official. What do you do?

Lays Potato Chips: A Rant || (And Netgalley)

This was inspired by a post of Spinette’s that I found in the trash. So yeah, credits go to Spinette.

So before I rant about Lays Potato Chips, I going to rant about Netgalley for a bit (a really little bit, don’t worry. You’ll get to your grease slices soon enough.)

So I was going to finally sign up for Netgalley today (Well, yesterday, when I’m writing this) because they have Tess of the Woods on there, a book I really want to read but hasn’t come out yet.

So I filled out all their blanks and then it asks for my birthday, so I’m scrolling through the years available, and it stops at 2000.

ARACHNID RAGE!

You have to be 18?!

People younger than 18 like to read, too!!

(A note: The lower limit of the years was 1918. What about all those 101-year-old book reviewers out there? Can’t they participate either?)

 

Okay, okay. Lays chips.

Hmm…

What if I do this rant thing in the form of poetry? I’m practicing my poetry.

 

Warning: Bad Poetry Ahead

Lays, oh Lays

A bag three-quarters full of air

25% chips

You’re ruining the world

Polluting the Earth with excess plastic

 

You’re terrible in ways more than one

People crave your misleading snappish crunch

And fill themselves up with grease and salt

 

Oily fingers

~~~~End

 

(My favorite chips are Pringles.)