O Magic Bullet

The Magic Bullet. 

Back when I volunteered in a care home, infomercials for The Magic Bullet happened every other week. At first, I ignored it. I had better things to do, like mercilessly crushing my elderly opponents in a game of blackjack. But over time, I began to pay attention to the fanatical praise the underpaid actors were blurting out about it ... and I became fixated on The Magic Bullet ever since.

Don't ask me why I became so fixated on the Magic Bullet after only two viewings of the infomercial, because I can't even pinpoint the obsession myself. I think it's the idea of how many things I can make so effortlessly and with so little ingredients. I'm not entirely sure. 

I have two friends who have Magic Bullets, and every time I visit their house, I beg and plead to let me make something with their Magic Bullet. A smoothie, a shake, a cup of juice ... anything that can be mashed and blended with its sharp, changeable, easy-to-clean blades. I was refused each time, accompanied by the phrase, "Stop being so creepy." 

The reason I made a whole post about The Magic Bullet is because I want one. So bad. The thirst. It is real.

I will be participating in NaNoWriMo this year and I have read on many blogs of people who have 'won' previous NaNoWriMos that using a blender to make homemade fruit juice is an excellent idea during the arduous writing process. Not only does it wake you up with the natural sugar content, but it is a much healthier way than simply reaching for that cup of coffee or that bar of chocolate. Plus, depending on what exactly you put in there, it could be filling enough to serve as a meal, thus helping you cut back on fat.

It's literally win-win! There's no way to lose!

Except I don't have a blender. 

Back in my old house, we had this one old blender that's practically my age. I've seen the thing ever since I lived with my parents in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. And that was when I was two years old. Yes, I remember events from around that age. Two or three, I'm not exactly certain but I can remember the apartment, the nights of watching Jurassic Park with my parents, the pain of falling off the bed and hitting the back of my head while I was watching The Lion King ... happy memories.

But I digress. The point is, that blender reached its factory life long before I even hit my teens, and it couldn't even make me a canned juice by the end. We threw it out when we moved and that was that. I never found a need for blenders and so refrained from buying one, holding out hope that my dad would listen to reason and buy the Magic Bullet that we so desperately needed, for the sake of saying we had one. But then he left for Taiwan. 

My friend, who might become my roommate come January/February, has said that she might bring her Magic Bullet with her, or that we could get one as a housewarming present. This hope that I could get my Bullet without paying the entire pricetag is the only thing stopping me from grabbing my credit card with the intent to pay for some magical goodness. 

But could you imagine life with a Magic Bullet? Readers who already own Magic Bullets, just imagine life without a Magic Bullet, and then imagine yourself in that life imagining yourself with one. My current goal is mainly so that I can use it to make fruit juices or smoothies as a way of losing weight and gaining the nutrients I desperately need due to my admittedly unhealthy culinary choices. 
Beyond NaNoWriMo, though, it's a whole new world. I could make sauces for meats. I can make cappucino. I can apparently even make a whole variety of desserts with the thing, and it can totally cut down on the amount of bowls and stirring utensils that makes baking such a pain. According to the website, I can even make my own toner and my own conditioner using the Bullet. 

I could literally become a god with this thing. A god of the kitchen. A god of the apartment. I could take over the world with the Magic Bullet and oh my goodness, I need one right this second. 

If you're out there, Great Pumpkin, I wish, I wish, with all my heart, to blend with the pros, in time for NaNoWriMo. 

Pokemon X

I got Pokemon X today and I'm probably going to be busy with it for a while. I haven't worked on any writing and I haven't looked for any prompts. I'm so sorry. But Pokemon.

Prompt: "Did I die?"

   Did I die?

   Laying flat on his back in the snow, Max stared up at the inky sky, his thoughts as dark and murky as water in a well. There was a throbbing pain in his head and he could feel rather than see something blood brain life seeping into the white around his body.

   I can't be dead. It hurts. Everything hurts.

   The wail of sirens sounded through the air, breaking through the fog of his mind. Max struggled to move but something moved wrong in his torso and he let out a sharp hiss of pain. Despite himself, he slumped into the snow again. The icy cold bit into his skin where's my jacket I swear I had a jacket on but surrounded him, embracing him like a possessive lover.

   Lover.

   Jacqueline.

   "J-," Max tried to yell but he was interrupted by his own cough and the sound of someone approaching him, calling for him to stay still and quiet and that they were going to help him. No, they can't waste time with him; where's Jacqueline? 

   The men - paramedics, Max managed to recognize even with his addled brain - helped him onto a stretcher, carefully supporting his neck. It was a haze of movement and noise as they placed a breather around his nose and mouth and carried him to the hospital.

   He reached out with one hand and weakly grasped the jacket of one of the paramedics, who looked down at him. She had big brown eyes. No, Max wanted to see Jacqueline's blue ones. Blue like the lakes and the sky and the sea of cornflowers that grew in their backyard.

   "My wife... Jacqueline... where is she?" He breathed heavily, panting and struggling around the artificial air pumped into his lungs.

   The paramedic looked at her partner and frowned, a silent question in her eyes. She looked back down at Max and stated in a calm, soothing voice, "Sir, you're the only one we found. The police are examining the remains of your car but - "

   Even with the hard stretcher underneath him, Max felt as if he was falling. The remains of the car. He could remember it, faintly. The truck. The tree. The crushed remains of their small Honda, smashed as if it had been caught between the hands of a giant. How did he survive? How did he survive when Jacqueline...

   I made a mistake.

   I did die. 

Marinated pig ears

   I was inspired to make this post about marinated pig ears after demolishing half of the little carton box I got from T&T today after my STAT midterm, which is why there's no picture of the marinated pig ears. It's not exactly the prettiest sight and I can't find my camera anyway.

   If you've never had marinated pig ears before, you are missing out, my friend. Thinly sliced and tasting of soy sauce, sesame oil, chili paste, and green onion, these are the perfect savoury snack on an abnormally hot October day. Crunchy yet soft, marinated pig ears have the funniest texture in the world.

   There's no point to this post. I just love marinated pig ears a lot.

The Search

   The soft rhythm of jazz was a comforting backdrop against the muffled zoom of the city, as people clicked and clacked down the concrete streets, and cars drove by in bright streaks of noise and exhaust. Peter played with the handle of the ceramic mug. There was a thin crack near the rim; he said nothing to the barista but shifted the cup so that he was no longer in danger of cutting his lip open.

   The warm scent of vanilla roast coffee made him smile unconsciously but when his gaze fell to what was before him on the table, his face fell.

   A blank sheet of paper sat accusingly in front of him on the table, intimidating in its sheer whiteness. The pen in his hand was useless without his brain to guide it, and Peter's brain was stuck in an odd sort of limbo. He looked around - left, right, left again, outside the window where he caught the eye of an old woman, down to the paper ... his mind was racing just like his line of sight. 

   What should he write about? His notes were scattered before him, his neat cursive decorating the papers. But to Peter, they were nothing more than a jumble of letters and words. Meaningless. Worthless.

   "Would y'like some more coffee, love?" The barista appeared at Peter's side, holding a pot of coffee in her hand. Her long red hair was tied in a side ponytail and she looked bored. There was none of the false cheer on her face that Peter saw adorning the ones on young students sweating their summers away at Starbucks.

   "I need to write a story," Peter found himself replying instead. "I need to write a story but I don't know what to write about."

   "Didn't ask you that. Asked if you wanted coffee," the barista huffed. She turned away, taking Peter's answer as a no. Peter watched her as she returned the coffee pot to the machine and began to bustle about at the counter, her long hair swishing like the tail of a fox.

   What was her story? How did you start working at this coffee shop and why? Was it to pay off student loans? Was it to pay for school? Maybe she's saving up to go to Europe and expand her horizons, and maybe meet a handsome French man and enjoy a hot date at the Eiffel Tower?

   Peter thought these thoughts and pondered these ponders. He picked up his pen, twirled it once, and then set it down. He took a sip out of the coffee and found that it had become cold.

   He picked up his pen again, and began to write.

Scene from a Coffee Shop

   “I like your dress. It looks really good on you.”   
   “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”   
   “It really brings out your eyes. They’re a beautiful shade of ocean blue.”   
   “…Thanks.”   
   “I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. My name is Terry. Terry Pratt. And you?”   
   “Madison.”   
   “Madison what? What’s your last name, please?”   
   “I’m sorry, I must have forgotten my manners. Madison Perry.”   
   “Ah! Perry. It rhymes with Terry. It’s a lovely name for a lovely woman. Madison is.”  
   “Oh. I thought you might have meant Perry.”   
   “No, no. Madison.”   
   “Okay, because it sounded a lot like you thought Perry was a nice name because it rhymes with Terry.”   
   “No, no. Madison is a nice name. Perry is a nice name. They’re both very nice names for a nice lady like you.”   
   “Thank you, Terry. I appreciate it. I would also appreciate it if I could drink my coffee and read my book.”   
   “Of course, of course. What did you order? What are you reading?”   
   “Um, I’m reading this book. It’s called Please Go Away and Leave Me Alone.”   
   “I’ve never heard of it before. Is it good?”  
   “Not right now, no. It’s not very good.”  
   “That’s too bad. Do you want to grab a drink with me, then? Not here in this danky coffee shop, but maybe at that bar down the street?”   
   “I’m meeting a friend.”   
   Madison closed her book and shoved it into her bag. Without a backwards look, she strolled out of the coffee house and began to trek toward the train station, shaking her head. She pulled out a phone and dialed her best friend’s number. “Oh my God, I just had the worst encounter at the coffee shop. Some creepy bastard wouldn’t stop talking to me! What an ass!”   
   “Yeah, girl. He must have been a real fucking douche.”   
   “Ugh, tell me about it!"

   Meanwhile, Terry, still in the coffee house, leaned back in his chair. He frowned. "Huh." He pulled out a Dating For Dummies from his bag and flipped through the brightly-highlighted pages. "I suppose common slang would have been much more advisable in a situation like the one I had just found myself in. A pity; Miss Perry seemed like she would have been a most delightful conversation partner. Ah, well. Better get going. It's poetry night at the bar."

--

Creative writing assignment from last semester.

Fake Nails

   Olivia watched in awe the way that the crowd in the mall seemed to part like water as Irina swaggered forward confidently, her heels clicking sharply against the fake marble floor. Her perfectly manicured nails caught the artificial glare of the fluorescent lights with each swing of her hand. Olivia had tried to wear some of Irina’s body-length dresses and shoes before and had failed miserably, only managing to walk a step before stepping on the overlong hem. Her cousin managed to make it seem effortless, like she was gliding instead of walking.

   Irina didn’t visit often; her life in New York was a never-ending haze of parties, work, and more parties. When she did, however, she insisted on spending her time with Olivia.

   “You’re my cousin,” Irina had said with mild surprise on her pretty face, “so of course I like to hang out with you. Why would you ever think otherwise?”

   Looking at Irina with her flawless skin, perfect auburn curls, and extensive collection of the latest fashion and makeup, it was pretty obvious just why nerdy Olivia would find it strange that Irina insisted she be accompanied by Olivia on her jaunts through Surrey.

   Irina looked back at Olivia with a small smile on her glossed lips. “You want to take a bit of a break? Maybe we should go get something at the Orange Julius.”

   “Nah, they only sell fattening stuff there. I’m on a diet.”

   Irina frowned and paused, uncaring that they were in the middle of the mall. “You look fine to me.”

   Olivia fiddled with the hem of her ratty t-shirt. “It’s just … I don’t know. I’m heavier than I should be, I think.”

   It was hard not to feel unconfident next to perfect Irina, but Olivia kept her mouth shut.

   Suddenly, Irina reached out and grabbed Olivia’s hand in a startlingly tight grip, her sharp nails digging into Olivia’s skin. Looking up in surprise, she saw that Irina’s eyes were wide and serious, her lips pulled in an uncharacteristically somber frown.

   “Never think that about yourself, Olivia. You’re beautiful, just the way you are. Don’t change yourself into something you’re not just because someone else wants you to.”

   Irina’s lips were trembling and she pulled away, brushing at an errant curl that had fallen in front of her face. Olivia looked at her cousin. Really looked at her. And for the first time, she saw that the perfectly filed cherry-red nails on her hands were nothing more than fake nails. 

--

A former creative writing assignment that I wrote.

Well, this looks familiar

Here I am again. Sitting at my desk with a cup of Earl Grey tea in my hand and an unfinished essay in front of me. I know that my dog is licking himself again on the couch because of the incessant noise - it's making such a din that I find myself being morbidly curious despite myself of just how much strength a dog puts in licking its own privates.

But I digress. Further thinking on that topic would open doors I am not interested in opening!

Writing about feminist issues in John Donne's Elegy 19 'To His Mistress Going to Bed' sounds like such fun but it really isn't. Is it really just objectifying and glorifying the female body? Or is it really nothing more than a satirical response to Petrarchan poetry? I wouldn't know - I hardly pay attention to my lectures, let alone online ones.

What is the point of this blog, you ask? 

Aside from the daily ramblings of an aspiring novelist/screenwriter/forever single with too many pets, it's a place where I would like to showcase my writing. Having it on the Internet is better than having it collecting dust on my hard drive, that's for sure.