Okay, so, something new. A little writing experiment. It is currently Monday, and I am going to write a little bit of something, I dunno just what yet. Tuesday I will write more, and then more on Wednesday, and so on and so forth until I have a conclusion of some sort. Every day.
I'm doing this because I haven't been writing (fiction) as much as I should be, and I need to get back in the habit. Also because there is a room in my head and I don't know what it's doing in there...

The sunlight slunk in through the tattered curtains sluggishly, winding sulkily through the dust and the gloom to puddle in triangular slants on the beaten, scuffed wooden floor. One of these slants cast itself across the cushion of a chair with an elaborate red and gold pattern that had faded and now sat layered with dust. Beside the chair was a cheap lamp, tall and lean and brass with a simple white shade perched on top. Behind it, junk and memorabilia was piled high; once-wanted things that had been stored and forgotten-- a hat box, four packed leather suitcases, and several stacks of cardboard boxes with books, treasures, and once-grand clothes packed away neatly inside.
Across from the window an old wardrobe with a tarnished mirror reflected the struggling sunlight with stubborn persistence into the eyes of the person collapsed on the thick, dusty, patterned rug on the floor, but the man there did not yet wake. It was another ten minutes of gaudy yellow light pressing into his eyelids before he stirred, sat up, and groggily considered the world of dust around him.
The first thought to occur to the man was that he was hungover; the second was that he did not know where he was. After that, a cold pulse of panic took over as the man realized he could not recall his own name, or anything of the events of the time previous to his awakening here. There were blurry imprints of grass and swing sets and bookshelves on the back of his eyelids, but they were not what the man was looking to remember.
The room suddenly felt foreboding and ominous-- the dim light made the collected clutter into unpleasant silhouettes, and the dust seemed heavy with a silent scream of warning.
Abruptly, the man was overcome by the feeling that he had ought to turn around right away. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled upward as the man whirled quickly around.
Absolute anguish awaited.

Dreidels and Junk

She’s giving me dreidels but I’m not Jewish.

Maybe she’s been telling people that I’m Jewish? But no, why would she do that? That’s silly.

My best friend has given me a dreidel for Christmas. She can’t think I’m actually Jewish, but she has given me a dreidel. It’s not the first time, either—she gave me a whole pack of them early in December. Then she got upset with me when I gave them to an actual Jewish kid in my class, Sleepy Tommy. He seemed to enjoy them. He spun them around on his desk a bit.

Anyway.

So there are little squiggly figures on all of the sides-- nun, gimel, he, and shin, apparently, letters from the Jewish alphabet—except I don’t really know what that’s supposed to mean, so my friend Sarah and I came up with new meanings.

The first one looks a little like some kind of wonky crown, so we interpreted it as meaning, “You’re the queen!”

The next one looks a little like the symbol for pi. So it means that we’re going to eat pie. Yum.

Sarah said that the next one looked like a person raising their arms above their head, so it means that we’ve got to dance.

The last one looks a bit like me, lying out flat on my bed with my legs propped up and my hands holding a book in front of my face. Sort of, anyway. If you turn it sideways. So it means that I’ve got to read a book. I like that one.

More Helpful Suggestions on Avoiding Reality:

--Hairspray. This is a really amazing musical. Zefron is beautiful here; I’m sorry, but he IS. You’ll want to get up and dance. Actually, you should probably stand up while you watch it so you can easily dance. It’s a riot.

-- Spirited Away. You’ve probably should’ve seen this already. In fact, if you haven’t, I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Get moving!

--The Sisters Grimm series by Michael Buckley. This follows the adventures of Sabrina and Daphne Grimm, descendants of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. The two girls have moved in with their grandmother to Fairyport Landing, where various fairytale creatures are trapped, so long as a member of the Grimm family survives. My favorite character is definitely Puck. He’s a hilarious little delinquent.

In other news, Greece’s economy has been downgraded to bat mucus. (Just passing on the news; this is not an original statement.)

Poem No. 5

Also, because I'm currently sick as a dog. I went scrolling through stuff I've written, and I found a poem that I wrote the last time I was sick which is about the poems I write when I'm sick. It isn't finished, but I'm not delirious enough to continue with its train of thought. And I don't think I ever will be.
It's very strange. And no, I don't understand why I called it "Poem No. 5." It's definitely not the fifth poem I've written. I think maybe I just liked the way it sounded. Or maybe I really did have some reasoning. Whatever; I'll never know. Here it is:

"Poem No. 5"

I get a little funny when I’m sick

I only write unusual things—

And by unusual I mean a little, well, ick.

I write ‘bout how it feels to be braless

I describe the jigglyness and relief.

I write about how my cat is still clawless—

Reading over it, I think, “Good grief!”

I write love poems that are more than a little odd—

Saying things like “I’d straighten my room for you,” “Your smile is as clean as soap,”

And “If you asked me to, I’d wash my hair only with pesticides for the rest of my life.”

I should probably stop.

Some Helpful Suggestions on Avoiding Real Life

I'm reading, or re-reading actually, the "Bloody Jack" series by L.A. Meyer. It's extremely good, one of my favorites, but I realized when I was reading "In the Belly of the Bloodhound" (which is the fourth book in the series) that I hadn't spread the word properly.
So here I am. Word-spreading.
The series follows the extremely peculiar adventures of Mary "Jacky" Faber, who starts out as a lowly orphan living on the streets. She decides to better herself, as it were, by becoming a ship's boy. The problem with that being of course that Jacky is a girl.
Jacky is a delightfully robust character, clever and cheeky, good at heart, and intent on the preservation of her own perky tail.
I recommend you read it if you have a soul. If you don't have a soul, it probably won't be of any interest to you. But if you do, you'll find it highly entertaining. You'll chortle randomly in the middle of your classes and everyone else will stare at you, and the best part is you really won't be able to help yourself.
In other news, I'm currently on season three of Doctor Who. If you haven't watched that show, you haven't lived. You suck, you suck, you suck. You need to watch it! Like on the episode with the Carrionites, if you're a Harry Potter fan you will SCREAM. Out loud. I did, at like twelve in the morning; my mom came running and got cross with me because I was still up.
It's literally the best show ever. You can't even understand until you watch it.
So WATCH it. Just do it! You won't regret it, I swear.
Another really great book I've managed to tell only a few people about is Diana Wynne Jones' "Howl's Moving Castle." Totally brilliant. Another book that gives me a case of the giggles in public places. This book is so so so good. It was my favorite before I read Harry Potter (I was late; I didn't read the Potter series until 7th grade), and it's my second favorite now. It's about a girl named Sophie who works in a hat shop, and then she gets cursed by the Witch of the Waste so she goes off to seek her fortune, even though she's doomed to failure.
And... now my cat is staring at me. I think she wants me to stop blogging. Can't say I blame her. But she did something really cute earlier, something which actually does need to be recorded on the internet forever. She ate my chicken noodle soup. I didn't notice; I was too busy paying attention to the Doctor as he pursued a sort-of kidnapped Martha Jones in the slums of New New York. And then my cat went and drank out of my cup of water. I guess the soup was salty and she got thirsty.
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^ That was her. You know how cats are-- always have to have the last word.