FML

When Marissa (meandyourmum.blogspot.com) and I were in gym class together, we complained a lot (despite the obvious benefits of regular exercise, I, for one, would rather become obese, lonely, and more susceptible to Coronary Heart Disease), thereby giving rise to certain phrases derivative of FML. Like Free My Llama and Fun My Life (since swearing is bad and your mum told me not to do it). Now, I was reading one of Ashleigh's (mytofuchicken.blogspot.com) recent posts, where she shares a writing piece she did, and it reminded me of this really odd--emphasis on the odd--short I did a long time ago that had a sort of FML theme. And now, because I am a genius and kept it on my computer, you (as in, the two or three people who might possibly read my blog) get to enjoy/scroll down to skip my cutting examination of self-aware stationery (who, in fact, are not stationary, but become so by the end).

(drumroll, please.)

Once upon a time, there was a bright yellow sticky note. It enjoyed frolicking amongst fresh blooms—although it had never actually done so, having been trapped in a fourth-floor office building most of its life—and holding deep, philosophical and politics-related discussions with groups of equally profound adhesive-backed stationery, despite the fact that it hadn’t the tiniest inkling of what was going on in politics, nor did it really like philosophy.

“Hey, look, a paperclip,” noticed the sunny sticky note.
“’Hey’, yourself, you don’t even have eyes; how do you know I’m not a rooster with bad intentions and a bowler hat?” replied a mysterious voice, that, in all honesty, didn’t sound much like a paperclip: paperclips tend to have a bit of a southern drawl, and this voice sounded like it was busy eating a lukewarm tomato whilst brushing its teeth.
“I…errr…because roosters don’t wear bowler hats?” the sticky note really hoped that roosters did, in fact, not wear bowler hats, because it was still feeling quite muddled after being informed that it couldn’t see. Already the world looked less bright.
“Nonsense. I’m wearing one right now.”
“Oh!” Alarmed, the sticky note made up a rather unconvincing prior engagement that it happened to be exceedingly late for, and began to walk away.
“You can’t walk, you know.” The sticky note froze, and fell over. It had never thought of that.
“Well how’ve I been getting around all these years? What else could I do? Stick myself to a coconut being gripped by an African swallow?” The sticky note no longer felt the need for politeness or decorum, having been seemingly robbed of both sight and mobility in the blink of an—oh, never mind.
“Not another bird migration joke. I’m really going to lose it,” the lukewarm tomato voice turned icy, and therefore even less easy to understand, as an icy tomato is much harder to chew. “Bloody inanimate objects, making cracks about airborne tropical groceries; don’t know the damage they’re causing.”
The sticky note, feeling quite affected by now, let loose its tongue, flinging terribly rude and hurtful insults at the voice with reckless abandon:
“You stink! I hate roosters AND bowler hats, and you sound like you’re choking on a mouldy tomato!”
Silence followed for what seemed like an eternity, as the normally agreeable post-it began to feel quite remorseful, but on the other hand, still very perturbed.
“Sticky notes can’t talk, either.” The voice dealt its last card.
The silence returned, and as the sticky note lay prostrate and speechless upon something it could not see nor move off of, it felt a lot like the Helen Keller of office supplies.
Fun my life, it thought. Fun my life.

THE END.

Weird, I know. I don't know how I think of these things, nor how I can employ that many big words when I sound like a toootal idiot when I'm, like, talking and stuff, 'cause, you know, it's all like, whatever. Haha, anyway, I hope you at least mildly enjoyed that. If not, just be grateful that it was short.

blueish bodies of water and your mum - part two

The only real point to this post is to rave about my future husband:

[this is where the picture goes when I find my camera cable. use your imagination for now]

His name is Chance, but it was no chance that we met. We were made for each other, like strawberry jam was made for alfalfa sprouts. The very mention of his name would send me into raptures about his beauty, his elegance, his perfection. He had come camping with his family (soon to be MY family), and the distance from his campsite to my bed in the cabin loft (I left the tent after Alanna showed up) was something I often thought about while I couldn't sleep for the lovesickness I was feeling.

Now, to details:

He's 15, exquisitely rude, and should have pictures taken of him from the back put on posters to warn children against the dangers of buying pants that fit poorly, consequently exposing completely indecent amounts of your excretory system aka, PLUMBER'S CRACK. And he kept cheating when we, the cousins, invited him to play kick-the-can with us one night. That pretty much sealed the deal, haha.

Chance and I shall be mailing wedding invitations shortly, and would prefer if you would RSVP before the end of september.