Showers

So today, I was looking at some random meme:

Image result for random things

Since everyone gets inspiration from memes, I decided to make a post about my own shower time limits.

When I was a small hatchling, my mother used to do this thing called Towel Time and showed me proportions of time passing using a towel. Each time she showed me this, she told me to spend less time in the shower since I was in there for too long. And I mean, extremely long—to the point to where I become a human prune!

Seriously, this meme dude has a firm grasp on this Towel Time concept because I don’t know anyone (besides the Grand Master Of the Towels, my mother) who would shower for such a short amount of time. When I step into the shower, time seems to just slip away as my fingers prune. To me, it’s like a drug—once you start, you can’t stop. Towel Time would be the creepy cigarette commercial after I’m done.

Now, let me break down the things I actually do in the shower.

Unlike the meme, I do not have the brain capacity to reflect on the universe and instead sing an odd blended combination of Kpop, the Heathers Musical, Disney songs and the National Anthem of the U.S.A. (I just really like singing the National anthem okay?). Also, bits of other pop songs I like on the radio are stuffed in as well. This takes about 70% of my shower time.

Before I start to sing, I talk to You for awhile and fantasize about situations could never be in. Of course, this is the other 29% remaining plus the other 1% dedicated to actually doing things that are supposed to be done in these water hubs.

Yep. Time Management.

 

 

 

 

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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.

What’s In My Purse?

I’m not one to flaunt around my femininity, but when I do, it’s with a purse. Some girls don’t like purses, but within my purse, I always have things that I need, such as earbuds for when the insides of my ears get cold, chapstick for glossing my always-dry lips, or spare change for a nice jingling sound at Christmas, only 11 and half months away.

So, what do I have in my purse?

  • My phone
  • My ID
  • Three mechanical pencils
  • Two Chapstick
  • A random highlighter I stole from an office
  • Spare change (eight dollars, six quarters, five dimes and two pennies)
  • A single dream-catcher earring
  • Two pens (one used to write in blue, but it is out of ink)
  • A scrunchie that I never use
  • Earbuds
  • My “bookmark” (basically a hollowed bag of gummies folded hot dog style to serve as a page holder)
  • A purple eraser
  • And a paper for some dentist thing

Honestly, I don’t remember what the paper is for exactly. It’s for the smiles are everywhere program that helps people with no dental insurance. But I have dental insurance…

It was actually for getting the free mints they were serving with the papers.

Showers

So today, I was looking at some random meme:

Image result for random things

Since everyone gets inspiration from memes, I decided to make a post about my own shower time limits.

When I was a small hatchling, my mother used to do this thing called Towel Time and showed me proportions of time passing using a towel. Each time she showed me this, she told me to spend less time in the shower since I was in there for too long. And I mean, extremely long—to the point to where I become a human prune!

Seriously, this meme dude has a firm grasp on this Towel Time concept because I don’t know anyone (besides the Grand Master Of the Towels, my mother) who would shower for such a short amount of time. When I step into the shower, time seems to just slip away as my fingers prune. To me, it’s like a drug—once you start, you can’t stop. Towel Time would be the creepy cigarette commercial after I’m done.

Now, let me break down the things I actually do in the shower.

Unlike the meme, I do not have the brain capacity to reflect on the universe and instead sing an odd blended combination of Kpop, the Heathers Musical, Disney songs and the National Anthem of the U.S.A. (I just really like singing the National anthem okay?). Also, bits of other pop songs I like on the radio are stuffed in as well. This takes about 70% of my shower time.

Before I start to sing, I talk to You for awhile and fantasize about situations could never be in. Of course, this is the other 29% remaining plus the other 1% dedicated to actually doing things that are supposed to be done in these water hubs.

Yep. Time Management.

 

 

 

 

Struggles of the Ambivert

Ambivert- a person who has a balance of introverted and extroverted qualities.

For me, my introvert and extrovert sides switch almost constantly in conversation. People think the Ambiverts get the best of both worlds (to quote a Hannah Montana song). Introverts think they have it hard, but my brain just toys with me each time I try to socialize. It’s bonkers! To illustrate just how weird and annoying this little Ambivert quirk is, here is an example of an ordinary small talk conversation.

Imagine a crowded hallway, filled with people walking in a single direction. A musty smell is in the air, the smell of rotten people. I finish storing some items in a room, when I emerge into the current disgusting humans. My nose is wrinkling, as I grimace, the introvert in me seeping out for the world to see.

As I walk in the same direction the people are going, I see a head poke up from the crowd. Her. A girl (let’s call her… Fishy) I haven’t seen for such a long, long time, not since lunch! Because this was the very last day I was going to be at the facility, I figured that I should go and hug her, just to be friendly. My extrovert spirit pushed me to divert through the crowd, going horizontal to their vertical, while painfully smiling and apologizing to people around me. I almost ran over a guy trying to find my through the crowd.

Finally, I made my way to Fishy, ready, my arms wiggling by my sides as preparation for a hug. The Extreme Extrovert throws down her chess piece, smiling, gazing intently upwards at her tall stature. Fishy will of course, hug me, saying that she’ll miss me. That is how she works.

“Hey,” she says, “You know I’m going to see you at your Some Random Party, right? You don’t really need to give me a hug.”

Or so I thought.

The shining extrovert in my eyes fades away, replaced by a dark, distant introvert gaze. Yeah, right, I thought, scornfully, You Frosted Flake. Of course you’ll be there! I giggled softly at my ill mannered mental insult. You see, Fishy, not to detract from her awesomeness, is sweet, but always comes late, or cancels last minute with plans. So that basically means that she is sort of fits into the flake stereotype. (If you happen to be Fishy…well, um, you are awesome, it’s just my introvert side just hates everyone. Sorry!)

“Bye,” I wave weakly, flustered. Red consumes my cheeks, flushed in embarrassment. Why did I start a talking spree? I think, skipping away, taking refuge at the empty end of the hallway. Paradise is here, alone with nothing holding me back. Or is it back in the crowded end of the hallway, where I could express my feelings with others?

I don’t know. I have the best of both worlds, but the certainty of none, without a strict border to bind me. I’m an Ambivert, after all.

Jackie- A Short Story

If can’t already guess by the title, this post will be about a story of mine.

Description:

A retelling of Jack and the Beanstalk!

Kicking rocks along the street, boots worn, and short ginger colored hair-this is the outward look of a girl with many secrets, most of which she doesn’t even know.

Jackie is a rough seventeen year old girl, hardened by the loss of her parents. Today is the ceremony of the Storytelling of Jack, a warrior who protected her quaint village from an aggressive giant. Every year the once poor orphaned boy is celebrated for his achievements. Jackie looks on to Jack for inspiration, and dreams to climb up the Beanstalk just like him. But she can’t. Or at least, not without some help.

Magic flowing to the tips of her fingers, huddled over a leather notebook, scrambling with a ink pen is the Giant, so far in the sky. She sits on her cloud, sighing as she nostalgically feels something she cannot remember. It’s fluid like soothing water, but passionately burning like fire at same time, a magic she can’t even begin to place. The memories are so palpable, yet so far away—a still emptiness.

Who will fill the void in her heart?

(I know, it’s corny)

Prologue: 

Giant’s POV

-Have you ever seen a giant climb down a beanstalk? No? Well, this is what I did that night… so long ago.

Found one.

The little girl scuttled away, racing through the fields, her feet making these soft taps in the dirt. The dust billowed upon my face, as I stifled a cough, hoping desperately that she did not hear me in the still sound of the night. Choo! I sniffled. Not apprehending my presence, the adolescent ran off into the village, wearing a mask of urgency and with a slight crook in her thick eyebrows displaying swallowed, compressed fear.

I crawled through the forest of trees, my giant monstrous body causing them to rattle. Leaves crunched under my hands as I hastily tried to maneuver myself, every move a hideous crash. A few paces later, I perked up, surveying a villa. It was small, quaint, with wind slipping through the cracks of sleeping huts. Then I saw her. A blast of red, then the lock of the door. Click!

Circling around the suburb, I restlessly settled myself down near the home the adolescent sneakily slid into. I looked through a window, eager for the story I was about to unravel. The girl’s eyes were wide as she flinched at each minuscule squeak. I folded my fingers together, tight, as my eager thoughts flipped to dread, waiting for what was to come next for the poor girl.

She trudged down the hall, as my curiosity went along with her, my vision darting towards the next window, inside a kitchen. The teenager was haphazardly throwing damaged pieces of silverware, opening wooden cupboards and loudly calling for someone. Seamlessly, her tension softened into concern which, of course, quickly fastened into worry.

-Humans have crazy emotions.

Her ragged breath blew in and out, fixing itself with the rhythm that the house was bouncing along with the thumps of my heart. Ta-dum, ta-dum, tad-dum. It was the only constant thing among the chaos of her crashing, clashing and screams.

“Mother!” The call was adamant.

Nothing.

Immediately, like lighting, the girl’s boots clunked up the steps. With my curiosity on full blast, I grabbed the top of the house, pulling my face closer, almost so the very tip of my nose touched the window. This one uncovered a bedroom and an older woman sleeping peacefully. I hope her daughter doesn’t disrupt her calm tranquil dreams. I swiped a quiet , calculating finger across the window, feeling the texture of smooth glass. It was new to me— I never had felt it before.

Then a red swish flew through the door. The girl, I thought, recalling when I saw the red haired teenager enter the hut. Her cheeks were red, her hair matted with sweat, as she climbed onto the bed. She whispered something, something I couldn’t hear from the outside, so without weighing the consequences, I pressed my ear against the wall. Warningly, the house wobbled, dirt and planks falling from the roof. The girl fell on her napping mother, somehow failing to wake her up, but didn’t even gaze in my direction. Thank goodness. My shoulders fell, as I blew a gust of air from my lips, fogging up the window.

A shrieking cry emanated from the room, an incredible, incoherent cry that shook me from my head to my toes. Tinglings of the shriek vibrated in my mind, as I wiped the fog off the window, slowly unclothing the scene, my eyes progressively dilating, my brows folded in disbelief. I gasped, my fingers fanning in front of my “o” of a mouth.

The mother’s chest was scarlet with blood, a knife glinting from the wound. The mother’s blanket was thrown to the floor, and with that a terrifying secret.

-Don’t ever ask me to describe “death” of those creatures.

I ran away. Up the Beanstalk, in the middle of the town. Giant goblets of water drooped along my long, narrow face, flicking themselves off my jaw, wetting my hair and chest. I clutched at my breasts, thankful that I still have mine. Remorsefully, I took one last look of the village. It was so beautiful, with eerie hidden horrors lurking inside, a world of stars never seen above the clouds. I was so sorry that I had to leave so soon.

A early rising lumberjack yakked at my appearance. He withdrew his axe,  quickening my departure.

 

So… that’s my story! If you want to check out more of it, the story is on Wattpad too. I hope you guys will like it!

 

 

 

 

How To Create a Difficult Time For A Person Who Wants to Borrow Your Pencil

“Can I borrow your pencil?”

We have all heard the phrase of the lunatic who can’t bother to carry a pencil or even a writing utensil at all times. Stupidity such as that just grinds my gears, because who wouldn’t want to have a multi-faceted-wooden-stick/writing-tool/weapon/stabber? I really can’t name a person who wouldn’t, except the pencil-borrowing shrimps who slug around and aren’t responsible enough to bring a pencil with them. Needless to say, I have been in the trauma-inducing situation of living without a pencil once or twice. But I am talking about that person who asks me ALL THE TIME for a pencil or pen and then ends up breaking it!

Do you want to get revenge on this person?

So first thing is first, find out about your borrower’s pencil habits. If not done so already, identify your pencil borrower. Do not just identify them, stalk them, know everything about them. See their behavior around pencils—what is his/her favorite type of pencil? What are his pencil pet peeves? How many times a day does he sharpen the pencil? How many lead refills does he need to last a year? These are all questions that are important to bring justice to your pencil borrower-breaker.

But the best thing to see, among all these things is this: How does he break the pencil? Keep in mind all his evil plans, from snapping the pencil in half to simply taking out lead from a mechanical pencil. Various writing-utensil-destroying methods may include exploding pens, filling in the top of a marker with another color, and pressing down on chalk so hard it becomes dust. Once you’ve realized what his worst type of pencil is, let’s say a normal wooden pencil, for example, move on to the second step.

From here, start giving out the culprit’s worst type of pencil, and make them almost unusable! Take out erasers, sharpen them until they are the shortest they could be, or do that thing where you take out the lead of a wooden pencil then put it back in so the next person who dares to borrow it has to go through the Seven Gates of Terrible Elementary Wooden Pencildom. So, for you rookies out there, let me introduce you to the seven gates.

Gate One is a dangerous warning of a dangerously stubby pencil— the master’s victim will have to push with all his might to get the last of the lead.

Next up, Gate Two, where he may have to go up to sharpen his pencil in front of the whole class with that old sharpener collecting cobwebs.

Now, he retreats back to his seat, ready for more writing when his lead snaps, which is Gate Three.

He goes back up again, Gate Five, his face reddening with shame.

Finally, when the sharpening is done, he wants to erase something, but he cannot because the lack of the eraser and also realizes that he has skipped the fourth gate, and now considers this the fourth gate.

The sixth gate involves asking desperately for an eraser and the master handsomely declines his request.

Annoyed, the master of the gates gives the young lad a handsome eraser.

The lad begins to erase, but he has scribbled all over his papers! The eraser writes instead of erases and is the greatest weapon in all of The Arts of Pencil Manipulation, also known as the last and seventh gate.

Step Three: repeat steps one and two over and over and over and over again. If your victim doesn’t get a new pencil, go on to the next step.

Now, it is ultimately time for step five, the most frightening and terrifying step of them all. Give them a vicious tool, an item that can never fill things in, virtually uneraseable:

THE CRAYON.

crayon-clip-art-crayon_purple

Hypothetical Situations

Hypothetical situations—we have all thought of what to do in them. Mostly, I think of what to do in “problems” that will never ever happen, such as finding the land of the unicorns, winning a Nobel Peace prize, or making a master plan to get myself out of prison (the last one is probable). Usually, I discuss these nonexistent moments while in the shower or when I’m in front of a mirror of some sort. For some reason, the mirror, while it makes most people feel self-conscious, makes me feel sane. I have named the mirror various names, Bob, Joe, Fred, Sally but then I realized that most of the names I call the clear reflective surface are for human beings and that seems out of place, so I simply call the mirror “you”. You always hear what I have to say about hypothetical situations and never gets tired of it. I’d say you is a great friend to have, but he/she/it never talks to me… which is kind of a downside, but who cares, right? You is just really shy, is all.

That’s why I’m revealing some of my hypothetical situations to you. I mean, to nonexistent readers, to you nonexistent readers. But you cannot read this so… you can read this, well… nonexistent readers can read this? This is too confusing!

From now on, “you” will be used to indicate nonexistent readers and “YOU” will be used to define BobJoeFredSally.

Let’s try this again. That’s why I’m revealing some of my hypothetical situations to you. Hopefully, you can talk, correct? It’s also for trying to make my habit of talking to myself go away, but that’s not important.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a Genie? Well, turn that whole thing upside down—make yourself the Genie. Even with all that power, the Genie is stuck in a teensy weensy little space and is imprisoned for life. He has to stay put in a lamp until someone walks on over and rubs it. Also, who rubs a lamp? Do you ever rub your lamp when you go to bed at night? Most likely not. I do, though, because I want to get a better job rather than be an author/blogger person. It pays so much more! Let me just tell you that. Here is how the conversation went with YOU while brushing my hair two years ago:

Me imitating the Genie: I just retired! Sorry. You are my predecessor now.

Me: What?

Me imitating the Genie: Bye!

Me: So what if that happened? What would I do? Do YOU have a stance on it?

YOU: …

Me: Waah! What is happening to me? *turning into a big blue giant in my imagination*

Me: Let me grant you some wishes! *paces* Was that a good performance?

YOU: …

Me: Not as great as Robin Williams! *some more paces*

YOU: …

Me: Can I actually do magic? *snaps fingers, nothing happens* It looks I’ll have to search for some stupid loopholes everywhere…

YOU: …

Me: Still better than the current position I have in life!

Another hypothetical situation that I often ponder is this, “If I die in a crime scene will the police look through all my personal belongings?” (you can think of the “personal” belongings I keep). If they do, what will they find? From diaries to terrible old drawings, to my secret code key that I use to write some pretty mysterious and embarrassing items, there are so many things that are strictly private! Honestly, I hope they don’t look through my records for my schooling. What if they find out that I cheated my education? That I snubbed a grade? I imagine them scowling then declaring my death of suicide because of all that guilt that I’ve been hiding.

You know what? I’m going to reveal my secret right now:

I was supposed to be held back in kindergarten because I did not know how to tie my shoes. Of course, to avoid this mishap in my education, I moved on to first grade in a different school.

**************BRAINWASHING ASTERISKS**************

I know it didn’t work.

What if that actually worked? I would become a master hypnotist! Does this mean little kids will go into my car for candy now? Whoa! Does that mean I can convince Arachnid that social gatherings are fun? Does that mean I can hypnotize the whole world to love me, to bow to my shins? IS THIS HOW I DOMINATE THE WORLD?

Are you hypnotized?

You never answer.

Come on, you can tell me anything. Just get in my white van filled with candy! You’ll love it, I promise.

Don’t call the cops!

NO!

**************HYPOTHETICAL SITUATION HAS ENDED**************

As you see, that is an example of how the wild beast Spinette acts in the wild when alone.