In lieu of a real blog post, I've decided to type alot of gibberish to fill up my life's blank pages.
patronizing Philadelphia cheesecake sausage lamb ham entry face milk turtles potato pancakes Joy lemon eight force fart cake dial nose error pizza pencil twelve cup camera lotion monitor freckles Juice breath skin elves Brian nerd cheeks butt neck knees wrist computer post-its Brittany Spears fourteen paper stapler garbage Paris Hilton Drudge Report earrings bangles mortician fingers typing numbers calendar spitwad dollar sign money friction plethora ludicrous asterisk tennis makeshift airplane rocket buttons glue Jiff necklace question worthy enemy retard tower yuppie underwear ignorant opera palace arrogant saucy depth forks spoons grace head Jolly ketchup lipstick xanthophyll zethyr cookies varnish baby nuggets unworthy machinery acorns math studies books cartilege depression ring alchohol purple monky dishwasher twirly maggot twin potato twilight crane
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
Valentine's Day
Yesterday my locker vomited out not only my spare fleas but an envelope. Juice was in the middle of saying that maybe if she wasn’t in her pretty-in-pink hunchback phase she might be able to get a date. I was saying, “No way. You’re too ugly. Unless you won some beauty pageant for pear-shaped chics you couldn’t get a date with a chicken muscle. Hark! What’s this?” I picked up the vomited envelope and opened it.
“Maybe if my lipstick didn’t always match my clothes--” Juice was babbling on.
Inside the envelope was a valentine from Brat, the school’s most logical dreamboat and captain of the fishing team, saying that my face was as lovely as a basketball with peas for eyes and that he loved me so much he painted half the school yellow. “I hate yellow,” I squealed, hugging my inflated rubber cheeks with my hands, “but I love him! Hearts are floating around my head, Juice!”
“Maybe if I smile provocatively at him he’ll love me too,” she said, straightening her phase-enforced hunchback posture. “I’m desperate.”
Always true to my best friend, I met up with Brat outside after school and told him, “Brat, I love your card, but you’ll have to share your love with Juice too.” I was confident enough in his logical love to manipulate it in that way.
“Are you nuts?” he said, backing into a protruding brick corner of the building. “That pretty-in-pink hunchback? I’d rather carry books in my fly. Observe!” With that he snatched the valentine from my hand, shoved his books in said fly, and ran away from me, saying, “This is uncomfortable. Hey you! Girl with the nice butt! This is for you. I hope you like guys who wear purple pants.”
“He unzipped his fly sorta-kinda in your presence,” Juice commented. “At least you can remember.”
I told her to shut up. What made matters worse, once I got home I found that Mom had gotten her hair redone, so my sobbing refrain became: “Your hair looks like snakes, and why is my stupid cat smiling? I should have left it at the pawn shop. Oh Mommy, Brat loved me for a moment.”
“I’m sick of snake jokes,” Mom said. “I like my hair.”
Just then the doorbell rang, but it was only my nerdy boyfriend.
“You’re not Brat,” I told him. “Leave me alone, Jiff.”
“I don’t know how,” he shrugged. “But guess what? I got my palms read today and I’m going to win a shoelace! Why don’t we hitchhike our way to the Shoelace Lovers Festival downtown? They have shoe-flavored ice cream floats.”
“With shoelace straws?” I exclaimed. “I’m so there!”
So we spent the evening having staring contests over a shared shoe-flavored float until my eyes dried up. I think Jiff was spitting into the float and I was sucking up his spit.
“Maybe if my lipstick didn’t always match my clothes--” Juice was babbling on.
Inside the envelope was a valentine from Brat, the school’s most logical dreamboat and captain of the fishing team, saying that my face was as lovely as a basketball with peas for eyes and that he loved me so much he painted half the school yellow. “I hate yellow,” I squealed, hugging my inflated rubber cheeks with my hands, “but I love him! Hearts are floating around my head, Juice!”
“Maybe if I smile provocatively at him he’ll love me too,” she said, straightening her phase-enforced hunchback posture. “I’m desperate.”
Always true to my best friend, I met up with Brat outside after school and told him, “Brat, I love your card, but you’ll have to share your love with Juice too.” I was confident enough in his logical love to manipulate it in that way.
“Are you nuts?” he said, backing into a protruding brick corner of the building. “That pretty-in-pink hunchback? I’d rather carry books in my fly. Observe!” With that he snatched the valentine from my hand, shoved his books in said fly, and ran away from me, saying, “This is uncomfortable. Hey you! Girl with the nice butt! This is for you. I hope you like guys who wear purple pants.”
“He unzipped his fly sorta-kinda in your presence,” Juice commented. “At least you can remember.”
I told her to shut up. What made matters worse, once I got home I found that Mom had gotten her hair redone, so my sobbing refrain became: “Your hair looks like snakes, and why is my stupid cat smiling? I should have left it at the pawn shop. Oh Mommy, Brat loved me for a moment.”
“I’m sick of snake jokes,” Mom said. “I like my hair.”
Just then the doorbell rang, but it was only my nerdy boyfriend.
“You’re not Brat,” I told him. “Leave me alone, Jiff.”
“I don’t know how,” he shrugged. “But guess what? I got my palms read today and I’m going to win a shoelace! Why don’t we hitchhike our way to the Shoelace Lovers Festival downtown? They have shoe-flavored ice cream floats.”
“With shoelace straws?” I exclaimed. “I’m so there!”
So we spent the evening having staring contests over a shared shoe-flavored float until my eyes dried up. I think Jiff was spitting into the float and I was sucking up his spit.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
winter slump
I still can’t seem to get that plaster out of my mouth, but I can talk more coherently now. I was complaining to Mom today that my bath towel kept turning into a giant sponge. Mom just told me to go jump over a candlestick. Then she made fun of my robe and how the sponge towel was wrapped around my head, saying “You can wear that to school on Middle East day.” Little does she know my robe and towel happen to be the latest fashion trend from the Parisian dumpsters, and I have every intention of wearing that ensemble to school.
I stormed into the living room, where Dad was doing arm curls with a piece of firewood. After he strained his back, Mom gave him an “I told you so” slap in the face, and to vent his feelings he started pinching my cheek like a maniac. I told him to stop and he said, “Call me a maniac one more time and this cheek comes off and goes into my mouth.”
“Stop making fun of me, you badly-dressed weasel!” I screamed.
“She has no taste in clothes, honey,” Dad said to Mom.
“Maybe she hasn’t tasted enough clothes to be able to distinguish,” said Mom, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s feed her.”
Then my parents changed their minds and once again decided to eat me for a snack.
“Not with my turban,” I pleaded.
“Go get the pepper, honey,” Mom told Dad. “We’re going to have a feast. I’ll toss her in the fire.”
After they tasted me and whined that I tasted like cafeteria water, they decided to make me smile through my flute instead, while they sang, “One hundred gospel greats on the wall, one hundred gospel greats, sing one badly, drive people madly . . . .” Aargh! I still have that in my head!
Later I bit my tongue so hard while trying to pull a s’more apart that I cried.
While typing this up, the two halves of my brain have been fighting with each other.
Right Brain: I rule because I revel in mushy love.
Left Brain: I rule because I can calculate my superiority.
They both shut up once I turned on my new blow dryer. It’s so strong it can shove my mouth to one side.
I stormed into the living room, where Dad was doing arm curls with a piece of firewood. After he strained his back, Mom gave him an “I told you so” slap in the face, and to vent his feelings he started pinching my cheek like a maniac. I told him to stop and he said, “Call me a maniac one more time and this cheek comes off and goes into my mouth.”
“Stop making fun of me, you badly-dressed weasel!” I screamed.
“She has no taste in clothes, honey,” Dad said to Mom.
“Maybe she hasn’t tasted enough clothes to be able to distinguish,” said Mom, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s feed her.”
Then my parents changed their minds and once again decided to eat me for a snack.
“Not with my turban,” I pleaded.
“Go get the pepper, honey,” Mom told Dad. “We’re going to have a feast. I’ll toss her in the fire.”
After they tasted me and whined that I tasted like cafeteria water, they decided to make me smile through my flute instead, while they sang, “One hundred gospel greats on the wall, one hundred gospel greats, sing one badly, drive people madly . . . .” Aargh! I still have that in my head!
Later I bit my tongue so hard while trying to pull a s’more apart that I cried.
While typing this up, the two halves of my brain have been fighting with each other.
Right Brain: I rule because I revel in mushy love.
Left Brain: I rule because I can calculate my superiority.
They both shut up once I turned on my new blow dryer. It’s so strong it can shove my mouth to one side.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
post-Christmas stuff
Today was my first day back at school after break. Mrs. Sute (whom everyone laughs at because her name is Polly Esther) gave a bowl-cut to some guy who sat in front of me in tolerance class. She was scolding him, “Young man, the next time you don’t want the sides of your head shaved, try not making fun of my outfit.” She was wearing a bright pink suit, but I didn’t laugh much because I was still daydreaming about my vacation.
I still can't believe that after all the Christmas shopping I did, all I bought were some empty cardboard boxes and a mini-breadstick that I had mistaken for a toaster pastry crescent roll. Then on Christmas Eve I got my holidays confused and dressed up for Halloween instead. My parents and I spent Christmas Eve making dozens of hamburgers, absorbing the grease from the hamburgers by covering them with dish soap. I cleverly wrapped up my radio as a gift so Mom couldn’t tell I was listening to ButtLovers, whom she hates. Dad tried to hang foil stars in the window like he does every year, but I had deliberately moved the Christmas tree in the way of the window--tee hee! After Christmas I used our greeting card collection as toilet paper, but Mom made me wash them all and hang them out to dry.
The only interesting gift I received for Christmas is a lip liner pencil that I can also use as an eraser, but it makes my armpits sweat so much I've been constantly drying them by our fireplace. That's ok; I've been using my time by the fire to practice clawing like a cat in the absence of Whitey, whom I had to pawn off in order to buy presents. I'm getting pretty good at clawing too, though it keeps Jiff from trying to kiss me.
I still can't believe that after all the Christmas shopping I did, all I bought were some empty cardboard boxes and a mini-breadstick that I had mistaken for a toaster pastry crescent roll. Then on Christmas Eve I got my holidays confused and dressed up for Halloween instead. My parents and I spent Christmas Eve making dozens of hamburgers, absorbing the grease from the hamburgers by covering them with dish soap. I cleverly wrapped up my radio as a gift so Mom couldn’t tell I was listening to ButtLovers, whom she hates. Dad tried to hang foil stars in the window like he does every year, but I had deliberately moved the Christmas tree in the way of the window--tee hee! After Christmas I used our greeting card collection as toilet paper, but Mom made me wash them all and hang them out to dry.
The only interesting gift I received for Christmas is a lip liner pencil that I can also use as an eraser, but it makes my armpits sweat so much I've been constantly drying them by our fireplace. That's ok; I've been using my time by the fire to practice clawing like a cat in the absence of Whitey, whom I had to pawn off in order to buy presents. I'm getting pretty good at clawing too, though it keeps Jiff from trying to kiss me.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Happy Holidays
Yesterday was the last day of school before Christmas, and Juice had entered yet another phase. I was in the middle of asking her “Juice, why are you dressed like that?” when the short guy in our class who always wears an orange shirt and green sweatpants ran right between us, pushing her back against the wall. “Take that!” he shouted.
“I told him I wasn’t really from Star Trek,” Juice said. “Sheesh!”
“Stupid Trekkiephobe,” I sighed, looking up into my empty locker. “I’ve tried to come up with dogs and cataclysms to attack him in my dreams, but I think I’ve got a better chance of carving a picture in my nose.”
“Who cares if he raids your locker?” Juice asked. “At least he does your homework for you. He made fun of my haircut, and he cut it for me! Male haircutters are all a hundred percent jerks.”
“He’s the one who threatened me to wear this hat or marry him,” I said, holding up a large white puffball I had cast onto the floor of my locker. “And so many people laugh at me when I wear this hat that sometimes I wish I had married him. I just wish I knew his name.”
“But he hung your sock on the office bulletin board!” Juice exclaimed.
“And he knows I’m afraid of bulletin boards,” I whined. “I’ll never get it back, and that was my favorite sock.”
“Mine too.”
“I wish I didn’t have to share socks with you, especially when we have to wear them at the same time.”
“It’s sort of hard to walk that way, klutz,” Juice said, drinking out of the water fountain with the words “Drink me” graffitied on it. “But that’s what happens when friends combine their money to buy clothes that neither of them can afford by themselves.” Suddenly she turned toward me and stuffed quick-drying plaster in my mouth. When I asked her why she did that, I don’t think she understood what I was saying.
“Face it,” she said, “you hate me, not him. Good. The truth is, I’ve hired him as my temporary twin. We must persecute you until you say ‘Merry Christmas.’”
“In a public school? I’ll stick with the plaster in my mouth, thanks,” I said. Unfortunately Juice still couldn’t understand what I was saying.
Mphwy Cwphmph.
“I told him I wasn’t really from Star Trek,” Juice said. “Sheesh!”
“Stupid Trekkiephobe,” I sighed, looking up into my empty locker. “I’ve tried to come up with dogs and cataclysms to attack him in my dreams, but I think I’ve got a better chance of carving a picture in my nose.”
“Who cares if he raids your locker?” Juice asked. “At least he does your homework for you. He made fun of my haircut, and he cut it for me! Male haircutters are all a hundred percent jerks.”
“He’s the one who threatened me to wear this hat or marry him,” I said, holding up a large white puffball I had cast onto the floor of my locker. “And so many people laugh at me when I wear this hat that sometimes I wish I had married him. I just wish I knew his name.”
“But he hung your sock on the office bulletin board!” Juice exclaimed.
“And he knows I’m afraid of bulletin boards,” I whined. “I’ll never get it back, and that was my favorite sock.”
“Mine too.”
“I wish I didn’t have to share socks with you, especially when we have to wear them at the same time.”
“It’s sort of hard to walk that way, klutz,” Juice said, drinking out of the water fountain with the words “Drink me” graffitied on it. “But that’s what happens when friends combine their money to buy clothes that neither of them can afford by themselves.” Suddenly she turned toward me and stuffed quick-drying plaster in my mouth. When I asked her why she did that, I don’t think she understood what I was saying.
“Face it,” she said, “you hate me, not him. Good. The truth is, I’ve hired him as my temporary twin. We must persecute you until you say ‘Merry Christmas.’”
“In a public school? I’ll stick with the plaster in my mouth, thanks,” I said. Unfortunately Juice still couldn’t understand what I was saying.
Mphwy Cwphmph.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Christmas cookies!
This week I went to the doctor’s office for a checkup after that unusual bowel movement, but all my doctor told me was that I would probably go blind if I kept calling her Snigglefritz. Rather than change my ways and thus limit my enjoyment of life, I've decided to learn Braille while I can still see.
“Does that say ‘The fish can flee the country?’” I was asking yesterday with my eyes closed while I was practicing my Braille reading at Juice’s house.
“No,” said Juice’s little sister, who was sitting on my left thigh, sandwiching me between Juice and herself on the couch. I felt and probably looked like a hot orange. “It says ‘See Spot run.’ You gotta try harder, Jolly. You’ve been reading the same sentence for four hours straight. I’ve learned the entire Braille alphabet and I’m only five!”
“Jolly, you have to feel the bumps with your fingers to read it,” said Juice. She held her happy-face mug up to the book. “Look. My mug is reading Braille. Isn’t that adorable?”
“Just great,” I said, reaching forward to grab one of Juice’s mom’s freshly-baked cookies from the Antarctica-shaped platter on the coffee table. No sooner had I taken my first bite than someone suddenly turned out the lights, or so I thought for a few moments.
“Golly, I guess I’m blind now,” I said, not quite grasping the reality of the situation. “Oh well. At least I have this booze-infested cookie.”
“Nothing makes Jolly giggle more than booze cookies,” said Juice. “Don’t tell her the recipe, Mom; it’s all mine! What is it?”
“Well, you’ll never guess what my secret is,” I heard her mom say.
“Booze?”
“Nope. No booze. I grind up these Christmas tree strings of beads and mix them in. The chemicals give people an intoxicated feeling without bad breath. Of course, there are side effects, like diarrhea, temporary blindness, and blackheads.”
“Is that why everyone in your family has a black head, Juice?” I asked, my vision already beginning to clear. “Because you eat too many of these cookies?”
“Yup. But our bodies are black because of Mom’s chocolate salad,” Juice said between bites of cookie.
“Does that say ‘The fish can flee the country?’” I was asking yesterday with my eyes closed while I was practicing my Braille reading at Juice’s house.
“No,” said Juice’s little sister, who was sitting on my left thigh, sandwiching me between Juice and herself on the couch. I felt and probably looked like a hot orange. “It says ‘See Spot run.’ You gotta try harder, Jolly. You’ve been reading the same sentence for four hours straight. I’ve learned the entire Braille alphabet and I’m only five!”
“Jolly, you have to feel the bumps with your fingers to read it,” said Juice. She held her happy-face mug up to the book. “Look. My mug is reading Braille. Isn’t that adorable?”
“Just great,” I said, reaching forward to grab one of Juice’s mom’s freshly-baked cookies from the Antarctica-shaped platter on the coffee table. No sooner had I taken my first bite than someone suddenly turned out the lights, or so I thought for a few moments.
“Golly, I guess I’m blind now,” I said, not quite grasping the reality of the situation. “Oh well. At least I have this booze-infested cookie.”
“Nothing makes Jolly giggle more than booze cookies,” said Juice. “Don’t tell her the recipe, Mom; it’s all mine! What is it?”
“Well, you’ll never guess what my secret is,” I heard her mom say.
“Booze?”
“Nope. No booze. I grind up these Christmas tree strings of beads and mix them in. The chemicals give people an intoxicated feeling without bad breath. Of course, there are side effects, like diarrhea, temporary blindness, and blackheads.”
“Is that why everyone in your family has a black head, Juice?” I asked, my vision already beginning to clear. “Because you eat too many of these cookies?”
“Yup. But our bodies are black because of Mom’s chocolate salad,” Juice said between bites of cookie.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
what's wrong:
I did end up talking to Dad about my problem, and we agreed to take Mom out to dinner at Gimmiquelesse yesterday before breaking the news to her. That evening I wore another empire-waist dress, and I could tell by the expression on Mom’s face that she had noticed the dress and the enlarged stomach beneath it. The dinner went well for the most part aside from the tomato dessert thing we got, but towards the end Mom suddenly grabbed one of the pink linen napkins to cover over her right wrist stump.
After a few unrepeatable exclamations, she said calmly, with half a smile, “As soon as I realized that Jolly was pregnant, my hand fell off in shock.”
“Stop punching my shoulder, Dad,” I said.
Dad bent down to reach under the table and sat back up again, saying to Mom, “Here’s your hand back.” He and I proceeded to help Mom out of her seat the way Dad had helped me out of my seat the week before.
“But it’s holding someone else’s purse,” Mom said, staring at the hand shyly.
“Never mind that. It might have money in it,” I said, pulling her out of the restaurant to a shop directly across from it in the mall.
“Why are we heading toward the Purple Portrait Studio?” Mom asked.
“I wanted to get a picture of myself in this condition,” I said, my voice shaking and crumbling more with every syllable. I led her away from the Purple Portrait Studio and into Keystone Plumbing, the store with everything and a whole bunch of toilets.
“Look, strangers!” Mom exclaimed, spotting two elderly, unfashionably-dressed women. She was as easily distracted as Dad and I hoped she would be. Mom loves strangers. “Let’s clap our hand and sway with them.”
“Quick! Group hug before I fall over!” I said, delighted at Mom’s pleasant shift of mind. “What’s more, I’m not really pregnant. I just ate most of your Aegean sea sponge collection!”
“So that’s where they went!” Mom said, resting her reattached hand on her cheek and shaking her head. "I could have sworn I had more than that one Calthropella stelligera sample on my dresser."
“Can I join you guys?” asked some thirtyish lady stranger with big hair and big earrings. “I’m lonely.”
Mom, the two old, acceptable strangers and I turned away from her while Dad took care of her. We tried to carry on our conversation but the lady stranger interrupted us again, saying, “Hey, why is he flushing me down the toilet?”
“Because you’re invading our conversation,” I said through my clenched-teeth grin.
“Jolly, I’m so glad I’ve finally found people who wear white bead necklaces like me,” Mom said, resting her reattached hand on my shoulder and her eyes beneath her eyelids.
“It’s a relief,” added one of the acceptable strangers, who wore large glasses made out of red licorice.
“I thought I was the only one,” added the other, shorter, and more decrepit old stranger.
“You’re all a bunch of Wilma Flintstone wannabees,” I told them. “What I don’t understand is where Dad disappeared to, and why you’re getting out a hankie.”
“I’ll show you in a minute,” Mom said. She put her arms around me and added, “I’m so happy and full of red hearts that my hand fell off again!”
She held her hankie-covered stump to her cheek until Dad mysteriously reappeared and fetched her hand for her. Then Mom let go of me, and I had a tremendous urge to let go of some huge bodily waste. Fortunately I had my pick of toilets, and my parents and the strangers waited patiently as I tried them all, successfully releasing what was left of Mom's sponge collection into a bright turquoise model. A salesperson--a guy-girl or a girl-guy, I forget which--ushered me out once he/she/it realized that I was not in labor. Dad followed with the sponge remains. Mom followed with my undies. The strangers followed the salesperson.
After a few unrepeatable exclamations, she said calmly, with half a smile, “As soon as I realized that Jolly was pregnant, my hand fell off in shock.”
“Stop punching my shoulder, Dad,” I said.
Dad bent down to reach under the table and sat back up again, saying to Mom, “Here’s your hand back.” He and I proceeded to help Mom out of her seat the way Dad had helped me out of my seat the week before.
“But it’s holding someone else’s purse,” Mom said, staring at the hand shyly.
“Never mind that. It might have money in it,” I said, pulling her out of the restaurant to a shop directly across from it in the mall.
“Why are we heading toward the Purple Portrait Studio?” Mom asked.
“I wanted to get a picture of myself in this condition,” I said, my voice shaking and crumbling more with every syllable. I led her away from the Purple Portrait Studio and into Keystone Plumbing, the store with everything and a whole bunch of toilets.
“Look, strangers!” Mom exclaimed, spotting two elderly, unfashionably-dressed women. She was as easily distracted as Dad and I hoped she would be. Mom loves strangers. “Let’s clap our hand and sway with them.”
“Quick! Group hug before I fall over!” I said, delighted at Mom’s pleasant shift of mind. “What’s more, I’m not really pregnant. I just ate most of your Aegean sea sponge collection!”
“So that’s where they went!” Mom said, resting her reattached hand on her cheek and shaking her head. "I could have sworn I had more than that one Calthropella stelligera sample on my dresser."
“Can I join you guys?” asked some thirtyish lady stranger with big hair and big earrings. “I’m lonely.”
Mom, the two old, acceptable strangers and I turned away from her while Dad took care of her. We tried to carry on our conversation but the lady stranger interrupted us again, saying, “Hey, why is he flushing me down the toilet?”
“Because you’re invading our conversation,” I said through my clenched-teeth grin.
“Jolly, I’m so glad I’ve finally found people who wear white bead necklaces like me,” Mom said, resting her reattached hand on my shoulder and her eyes beneath her eyelids.
“It’s a relief,” added one of the acceptable strangers, who wore large glasses made out of red licorice.
“I thought I was the only one,” added the other, shorter, and more decrepit old stranger.
“You’re all a bunch of Wilma Flintstone wannabees,” I told them. “What I don’t understand is where Dad disappeared to, and why you’re getting out a hankie.”
“I’ll show you in a minute,” Mom said. She put her arms around me and added, “I’m so happy and full of red hearts that my hand fell off again!”
She held her hankie-covered stump to her cheek until Dad mysteriously reappeared and fetched her hand for her. Then Mom let go of me, and I had a tremendous urge to let go of some huge bodily waste. Fortunately I had my pick of toilets, and my parents and the strangers waited patiently as I tried them all, successfully releasing what was left of Mom's sponge collection into a bright turquoise model. A salesperson--a guy-girl or a girl-guy, I forget which--ushered me out once he/she/it realized that I was not in labor. Dad followed with the sponge remains. Mom followed with my undies. The strangers followed the salesperson.
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