Friday, October 30, 2009


Drowned people have a smell, according to my mom. Her office is on the same floor as the morgue so whenever they have a person who had drowned, the people on her floor can smell the body. She calls them floaters. I am intrigued, bothered, and grossed out all at the same time.

Monday, October 19, 2009

My Skeleton, The Pimp

On September 29Th I was informed that we would be decorating for the glorious holiday of Halloween, one of my personal favorites. But, excuse me, sir, there is a problem. Its September. Or was. It was September when this story began. Stay with me, friend(s).

So since September 29Th, our house has been decorated with the mass of crazy decor that takes up its own personal chunk of our garage. The screaming bust that sits on the hall table, the spider that falls when to clap you hands, the vials and bottles of spooky potions, a parade of pumpkins, and skeletons on my brother and my doors. They are reversible, the skeletons, with a happy face on one side, see left and a scary face on the other. I like the happy face, as well as my brother, but my mom believes there should be diversity, so she keeps flipping my Skelly. But recently, I noticed something new of my friend that I didn't notice before.

He has testicles. Two orbs hanging below his pelvis. All I have to say is, "Why? Why does my skeleton have testicles." But really, who puts balls on a skeleton? They don't even have any! It's quite bothersome.
Now onto another note, one which doesn't conclude in undead reproductive organs, I have signed up for the word of the day to expand my vocabulary. I haven't used any of them yet.
So this is what is going on in my tiny little private schooled world of hot chocolate and college applications.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

The Great American Past Time

Although this is supposed to be baseball, it has unofficially become and official change. It is now the glorious sport of football.

Who doesn't like a sport that becomes a personality and a way of thinking? Because that's what this game has become. A way of life, starting with childhood. And not only does the child change, but the parent changes as well. A child will grasp the ball in his tiny hands after a pass has been thrown and fumble. Incomplete. The child will hang his head as the parent screams from the sidelines that they can do better, as if the rest of their life depended on keeping a firm hold on a ball out of your reach. The child will hang his head and fight back tears because he feels that he has let down his team, coaches, and worst of all, his parent.

No parent should act like this. Since Wyatt has begun football this year, I have seen the same parent scream from the sideline, attempting to direct the game, as if the coaches don't know what they are doing. This man is fat, bald, and obviously into the game, despite the players being ten years old. I assume this miserable human being is trying to capture something from his past through his young child. Last game I witnessed this man's son yanking off his pads in a fit of rage and disappointment after a losing game.

No child should be this upset over something so minuscule and tiny. Over a peewee football game. His father is doing him no favors by being a tool.

I loathe this mess of a past time.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Smoke Rings

I want to smoke.

But not be a smoker.

I have this idea of a steriotypical independant author, although I know it is completly unrealistic. So then I guess its not a steriotypical writer, but a strange image from a creative corner of my mind.

He is moody with messy hair and a cigarette dangling between his lips. He his hunched over a typewriter in his loft in a cabin in the woods, a desk lamp to his left being the only light in the room. His brow is slightly furrowed as he struggles to capture a scene.

I want to be just like that. The cigarette, the loft, the desk lamp, the cabin. But of course I would leave the cigarettes and bad attitude behind for they are both bad habits.