Bri in the "D"

Midsummer Bloom

2011-03-19T18:46:00.001-07:00

Published under Lynn Riley in Mirror New's "Through Our Looking Glass"

Watching the awkward, gangly
mess of weeds growing in the mirror.
They told me it would bloom in spring,
And I waited…
The neighborhood boys spit on it,
Sometimes they would grab its vines
And rip it down from the lattices
Reluctant, obstinate weed…
Still lingering in the sun.

Watching, dismayed…
The slow, steady summer days turning.
Hanging high as the sun shone down
And I waited…
The local girls despised the weed for
Sharing the sun with annual and perennial blooms.
The tore at its roots to plant their own
Ripping apart and manipulating its vines
to make crowns.

Watching blindly, as the
Buds began to bloom
in the midsummer heat
And I waited…
The boys and girls looked on astonished.
Ignorant to the new wave of the stares and snickers,
because the girls spit on it, the boys despised it.
Never noticing the staggering change
of full bloom in the mirror.

Upon the Flooding of Our House

2011-02-28T19:34:00.001-08:00

Dreaming,
While the walls
Are weeping
the plethora of
Tears
repressed by pride.
Semi conscious while
wading in the deep end
of my feelings.
Fear
turns my
back on...
Pride wavering
Under the pressure
Of inconvenient
emotions.
When the clock
Won’t stop ticking,
the pages
Won’t stop turning,
regret
Won’t stop piling up
Under requirements
That stop
The natural flow
Of humanity.
Eyes closed
…Reason is forfeited
by levees
breaking…
as tears
Seep through
The walls
While I am sleeping.

I'm Affected

2011-01-22T18:53:00.000-08:00

I’m Affected
Published as Nicolas E. Miller-O’Riley (NEMO)

Moonbeam street lights-
Ghosts pass over the pavement
Leaves detaching
from their hosts,
and scurry down the sidewalk.
Faltered, fallen,
Anguished; I am condemned.

Emotions drift with the moon,
Rocking back and forth.
Crashing against
the cliffs of my skull…
The current tears my body from
soul… drowning any
semblance of rationality.

Floundering,
against the maelstrom
Fingers probing
for a moral floatation device.
Salvation is unfeasible
under the heavy hand-
Day dreaming of original sin.

Confined to darkness by the
beast of afflicting affection.
Consuming the quintessence
of my marred intelligence.
Wanton stares intertwine,
standing in for the flesh
melted away by carnal desire.

It is What It is

2011-01-22T18:51:00.001-08:00

“We’d like you to stay,” the man insisted, the bartender nodded and flashed a smile while pushing a martini across the bar top towards me.
“That’s very flattering, but I have to go. I have obligations,” I pushed the drink back towards the bartender. He flashed a wink as he pushed it back again.
“All you do is complain. Complain about obligations, deadlines, and requirements. You are weary. So, why don’t you stay?” The man insisted, staring deep into my eyes. I stared past his eyes; mesmerized. I stared inside, where the soul is supposed to be. I found only darkness; nothing. I desperately searched my mind for another valid excuse, as his smile began to fade. Staring into his eyes, I became consumed by the darkness inside.
Nothingness enveloped me. I searched for up, then down, for balance and symmetry, for right side up, or upside down. My fingers desperately flailed for texture, my eyes for a scene, my ears searched for sound; but the only sound was that of my own thoughts. All of my senses, all of me, became entangled by nothingness.
A light flickered somewhere in the distance of the nothingness. As the light grew, it built walls. The walls swayed to and fro in a non-existence wind, as I was thrust face first to the floor. Looking up from the floor, at the four monumental walls that surrounded me; large slabs of gray brick stacked on top of the other with no end, swaying in the nothingness. Where one would expect windows, there were small bricks filling out the recessed spaces. A bookshelf stood against the wall next to a fireplace, the bricks around it were singed and matted with soot. Across from the wall of faux windows was a door with no handle and shadows passed by with no sound.
My whole body burned and tingled from the fall. I crawled my way to the crack under the door, hoping the shadows passing by could open it, “Hey you! I can see you! Hello? Can you hear me?”
“Yes, We hear you.” The shadows replied, hundreds of voices in unison.
“What is this place?” my voice quivered with fear.
“It is not this, this is It. It is what It is, and that is what It is.” The voices replied.
“Who are you?” She asked, but fumbled over the words.
“It is, this is It, and We are It too.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, my face hot with fear and frustration.
“It is not meant to be understood, It is what It is, and It is, and that is all.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” the pain was making my temper short, and it made it difficult to understand what was going on.
“With you, It formed in the darkness.”
“But I’ve never been here.”
“You’ve always been here.”
“I have never in my life been here, and I don’t want to be here.”
“Well, It is what It is, and we must be running along, try to make the best of It. We must go. We’re not taking any pleasure in this conversation with You.”
Confused and sullen, I pulled myself off the floor away from the door, and limped towards the bookshelf. Old books with bindings of all shapes, sizes, and prints resided there. They had strange titles like, “It’s History”, “The Battle of U Over I,” “The Evolution of You”, and other titles that seemed terribly strange and horribly boring, I grabbed “It’s History”, curious to see if “It”, could have a history. As I pulled it from its place the books hurdled themselves in all directions. Dropping to the ground, I watched the books hit the floor and the walls. The pages ripped themselves away from the spines, and folded themselves into paper cranes. They fluttered around the room in a tumultuous furry. The bookshelf had collapsed and sunk into the floor, the brinks of the walls began to vibrate, and the mortar started to crumble.
Through the nothingness, above the chaos of fluttering pages, hundreds of little eyes descended from the darkness. The amalgamation of chaos and darkness prevented my eyes from seeing their true forms. The floor continued to shake, rumble and water began to seep through the cracks. Terrified and confused I tried to stand. My eyes dilated, heartbeat erratic, and paralysis over came me as grotesque monstrous hairy legs descended on silken ropes from the abyss and encapsulated the poor birds. Fear gripped my every sense as hundreds of red beady eyes fixated themselves in my direction. I dropped to the floor. The water began to seep through the walls as it filled my nostrils. I tried to scream, but nothing but bubbles of air came out as water filled my throat. The moment their ugly legs tapped the surface of the water they retreated back into the darkness from which they came. I watched the birds flock from one wall to the next as my body began to relax and the water enveloped me.
A wave blew the door open and tossed me against the walls. The floor began to crumble away and sink into the darkness. The remaining cranes flocked through the fireplace and I swam against the bedlam to follow. Once again, plunging into the darkness I climbed up though the soot and filth of the chimney. My body was sore, cold and heavy from water. The cranes, in a panic flocked around me, and I could hear the water rising beneath me, after some time I realized there was nowhere left to go. I felt the darkness above me, the water below me. The water was rising, and I could feel it at my feet. Sticking my hands through the blockage above me, my fingers sensed softness, stringiness, and sliminess. A light began to shine down, through the muck and the birds began to escape through the hole. Water, heaviness surrounded my waist as I pushed my arms through the hole and pulled myself up into a meadow.
The man was sitting against a large tree playing a guitar, he watched me crawl into the meadow, with a smirk. The song, I knew that song, it was the only thing familiar to me. He turned to look at me, and laughed with his dark, soulless eyes.
“Are you enjoying your stay?”
“No, I want to go back! I have to go back, this place is not for me.”
“No, this place isn’t for you, it is you.”
“I don’t understand,” I stammered cold from the wetness, “This is not me.”
“You…” he said as strummed the guitar.
“I know that song! I have to get out of here! I have to leave!”
I ran passed the man, as he tried to grab me. Looking for an escape I saw nothing on the horizon, the only way to go was up. I climbed up the notches and branches of the tree the man had leaned against. His guitar continued to played, as he laid it on the ground. He became angry, and started screaming, but I could not hear his words over the sound of my own heartbeat. He pushed and shook the tree’s trunk. I tried to hold on, but the tree swayed back and forth so violently as if it were made of rubber. My little hands started slipping. I was so high up that the fall felt infinite, falling through the nothingness. I slammed into something soft, and silky. I strummed my fingers over the textures. Next to my ear the guitar kept playing. I looked over, the clock said seven so I pressed my snooze button. Just lying there, paralyzed. I was too scared to get up. I was more frightened to go back.

Master Violinist

2011-01-22T18:50:00.001-08:00

Master Violinist

Grittily dragging your bow across my heartstrings. In such monotonous perfidy.
Holding me so tightly against you, I groan and creak under the influence
My seams come undone from the pressure of your embrace. We are no longer in tune; your melancholic melodies have distorted my bridge and unraveled my strings. Your once soft fingers are hardened and callused, deteriorating my varnish as your fingers move up and down my neck. I try so hard to scream, but the sound intertwines with your exquisite vibrato. Wrapping your fingers tighter around my neck, picking up pace, running up and down a series of demonic chromatic arpeggios; violent passages of trills, turns and ungraceful notes. Shivers resonate in my core, before all I can manage is a faint, but frightful final gasp.

Do I Ever?

2010-09-22T18:21:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel like you're on the brink of a moment where pure genius is just ready to spew from your fingertips, in a fantastic display of pyrotechnics. I am not quiet there yet. Perhaps, it's the full moon that looks like its been wrangled in to light up this post-stormy night. Maybe, perhaps, its the quad-shot grande americano, chased by a twenty ounce black coffee that's creating a surge of euphoric grandeur. Or the thrill of a package I received from ModCloth. Or the thrill of knocking my Children's Lit presentation out of the ball park, by playing both Sophie and the BFG. Well that moment hasn't come yet, because I have an assignment to complete on Natural Selection, and an essay to write about the average number of planets that can potentially support life around stars that have planets. However, once these tasks are accomplished... something genius this way comes.

S**t I say...

2010-08-06T23:11:00.000-07:00

Ella- "Yeah, they're moving me to the North Terminal. We'll have real food there like sushi, lasagna, and other stuff. I don't understand why I have to get a new badge with a Customs emblem."

Me- "Perhaps, its because you are serving foreign food?"

*Laughter*

Lynette- "Only Bri would think of that."

*Everyone nods their head in agreement and giggles*

Arline- "YEAH!"

Broken Down Palace

2010-08-06T22:22:00.000-07:00

Broken Down Palace

From the pulpit of Mammon, they beg the world,
“Please, take back your tired,
your poor, and your huddled masses.
Breathing in our land is no longer free.
That will be a dollar ninety-nine per minute,
And counting…”
Brilliant minds no longer think alike,
the synaptic connections
cannot create ideas,
a side affect of the limitations of political ideals.
Track records morph
into downward spirals,
of agendas, returned favors,
and lobbyism.
Direction is fuddled,
as the navigation system coolly replies,
in a collected British tone,
“Recalculating.”

Ticker tap replaces a flame,
spelling out.
“NO VACANCY!”
“PUT UP THE WALLS,
AND BURN THE BRIDGES!”
Sarah Get Your Gun!
All boarders,
However, no limitations.
“Freedom,” the people cry,
as they crawl through
mud and gunfire.
Mow my lawn,
and I will give you a
glimpse of freedom.
The cogs in the machine
along the rust belt have oxidized
Please go back
from whence you’ve came,
Our boys from Detroit
can take your place.

“Freedom,” the people cry,
as their mail boxes and voicemail are over taxed
“You are free,”
claim the creditors,
“Free from the obligations
of your home, your car,
and your phone.”
“I had a bicycle once,”
the little girl moans
A grimy fish smelling
hand tugs are your coat
Her mother pulls her away
because she knows
no one believes, no one cares
if you were once
royalty of a suburbanite utopia
Washed up, washed out, washed away
Into the abyss of
swill, anonymity, nothingness.
Your securities have been exchanged
for the greater good.
Let us capitalize on this misfortune,
shall we?

A soldier yells about the evils of Ellis,
What we have become,
his wasted time.
“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass,
I’ll take a side of nachos with that.
If you blow the Middle East to hell,
It’ll still be a desert.”
With a lingering threat, he yells,
“When I’m done with Iraq,
I’m coming for Dearborn.”
You son of a, son of a son of a…
Man, right off the boat,
Scrapping for the American Dream,
A bite of the Apple
Did you submit to God?
in the face of combat?
Who and what are you fighting for?
When and why, are you
putting your life on the line?
Whom are you trying to
Instill a new hope for?
Excuse me, sir please,
a moment of your time.
“A dollar ninety-nine and counting…” he says.
In God We ALL Trust,
May I have my change,
please?

NEWSFLASH from KBRI

2010-07-23T23:39:00.000-07:00

Arnold Schwarzenegger takes a break from his job as governer to appear in the new film, "The Expendables". When asked about his return to film he said, "Its easier to pump up my biceps, then to pump up the Californian economy."

Fairytale of Detroit

2010-05-19T21:42:00.000-07:00

Children are raised on fairy tales and happy endings. This world is the real world, and I cannot begin to understand why people cling so desperately to such trivial fantasies. Conclusions such as “Happily Ever After” don’t happen here. I didn’t ride up here on a white horse; the weight of shining armor is too much for me to bear. Despite my own ego, I know that I am not handsome, and my charm is nothing more than a facade. I’m no hero, so she cannot complain. I’m nothing more than mere mortal; I am only a man. ....

Black netting flowed out of her hair and covered down to her nose. The short black dress clung like a Chinese finger trap to her every curve, making her pale skin ghostly. The sun glistened over her skin, her black hair turned almost red in the sun. She was something out of another time, another place. She possessed a queer sort of grace, a raging animal magnetism, and the vulnerability of a child; she was magic and poison. A plume of smoke rose from her perfect little mouth, but all of these obstacles did not prevent her green serpentine eyes from piercing through my flesh, straight down into my soul. Her stare sent a surge of electricity through the crown of my skull down through the souls of my feet, and straight into the earth.....

.. ..

“Seems perverse doesn’t it?” She said in almost a whisper. ....

....

“What?” She had caught me off guard.....

.. ..

“That God would let the sun shine like this today?” she said, staring off into the heavens. ....

....

“Then it would rain every day.”....

.. ..

Her mouth formed a half pirate smile; “Touché, that it would.” She held out her gloved little hand. Her fingers were so small; they looked like those of a child. “I’m the grieving widow of sorts.” ....

....

“O, that’s you under there. I couldn’t see you with all that shit over your face.”....

.. ..

“I guess they were right, you are an asshole.”....

.. ..

“Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner. So, dear, what are you doing out here?”....

.. ..

“Waiting for you,” she said as she grabbed my hand to squeeze it. I expected her little porcelain hand to crumble in mine. I made the mistake of looking into her eyes, and even beneath the mesh obstacle I could see a little glistening tear. It moved down her cheek slowly, into the corner of her mouth where she lapped it up with her tongue, and gave that queer sort of half-smile. I wanted to take her and run, to forget this place, and all these people. I wanted to devour her soul, to take it and make it my own. ....

“Well here I am,” I said stepping back and opening my arms to prove that I was finally in her presence, in the flesh. ....

She turned and started walking towards the doors of the church. Once under the trees her flowing hair returned to its ebony color, and she glanced back slightly to ensure that I was following. She grabbed the large iron handle, but all her might couldn’t make the large wooden doors budge. She stepped aside, and motioned that I give the monstrosity of a door a go. The door moved with very little physical strain and she let out a small whisper of a giggle. We moved through the church, through a cascade of sobs, noses being blown, hands being shaken and held, hugs being exchanged, pats of comfort being offered to the grief-stricken. My eyes were so transfixed by the little body, in the little black dress. I hoped that her movements would thrust the hem just a little bit higher, so I could see just a little more. The sun was glistening through the stained glass windows and the breezes of the trees behind them made the Saints look as if they were shaking their heads in shame and disapproval. There he was at the front of the church, just a little box of ashes and ashes, nothing more than dust. It was more than my mind would allow itself to comprehend. We took our seat on the pew, at the front, by the box. The box stared at me like it knew me better than I knew myself, and perhaps at one time, the contents did. All I could do was look down at her legs. The procession went on and the priest came to speak, but I heard nothing. My mind just wandered up her skirt into her body, imagining that I possessed it in its entire splendor. ....

At the end, we stood in a long line against the back of Ste. Anne’s, and people gave us their hugs and their regards, like it was supposed to cure the world of hurt we’d have to endure for the years to come. Sometimes I wonder if deep down they weren’t thanking their lucky stars it wasn’t their brother there in that box, not their best friend. Bianca stood next to me in line; the electricity that oozed from her pores almost choked the breath from my body, as if it was trying to force our hearts to beat in sync. People’s condolences and tears and hugs seemed so superficial, like a play we’d have to reenact numerous times, over and over through the course of our lives. I could hear their accusations and whispers: why wasn’t I there: why wouldn’t I come home; must be heartless, or maybe I’m a coward. I don’t care what they think; they know nothing about me. ....

“Dear, are ya driving to the wake?” My mother said in a half sob.

Bianca intervened, “Mrs. Finnegan, I was thinking about just leaving my car and walking, I think a little exercise in the sun might be nice. I’m not really sure about walking to the tavern in Cork Town myself. Do you think you could spare Tomas, so he may escort me?”

“Of course dear, you take good care of Miss Riley. I’m goin’ to find ya fatha,. See ya at the pub.” My mother kissed us both, and ventured off and took Lafayette towards Cork Town. ....

She removed the veil from her face, and stared up at me with eyes like a child’s, her eyes sparked like two priceless emeralds in the bright sun. “Sometimes I think your correspondence is the only reason I survived.”

“Why did you stay"

She put the veil back over her face as if to hide part of herself. “That’s not a simple question, and I cannot give a simple answer.”

“We’ve got a little time; we can walk a little slower, but you seem like you’re in such a hurry.” She slowed her pace to equal mine.

“Like I said, it’s really not that simple. I guess I’ll have my time; two years isn’t a long time for me, considering I’ll live another fifty or sixty,” she lifted up half of her skirt to take her cigarettes and a lighter from her garter. Then lifted up the other half to grab a small flask, took a sip, and handed it to me.

“Got anything else under there? Jesus, woman! The way you smoke you think you got another fifty or sixty years?”

She gave me a devilish sort of smile, “It depends on what you’re looking for sir. And perhaps, I do, perhaps I don’t, and I won’t smoke forever. Overall, I don’t think anyone should have to die alone. No matter how much of a bastard they are, no one deserves to die alone.”....

“To be honest, I’m shocked you came back,” I said, and she looked at me half terrified, half shocked. “So you came back because you felt sorry for him?” I asked.....

“No, I didn’t feel sorry for him, per say. I’m not sure. I guess I can explain myself as well as you cannot explain yourself for never coming to see him for two years.” She retorted in an almost accusatory tone.

“You know nothing about me, or my life!”

“O, so the big strong doctor can dish it out, but can’t take it back? You’re the only one who knows about the breakup; do NOT tell you mother. I’m tired of death and funerals, and I’m not ready to send her to hers. Is it a habit of yours to judge another’s character? Should I judge you for never showing your face except at the wake? What should we all assume about your character?”

She had struck a chord, and she seemed satisfied that she had wounded my ego, after I had grazed hers. I wanted to rip her to shreds for a moment. I grabbed her arm walked her into the closest alley, and threw her little body up against the wall.

“You understand this kid,” my finger pointed in her face, “I have my own reasons and I will deal with them myself. They are not your concern.” Blood was surging through our bodies, our animalistic senses were taking over our minds, our breaths were quickened, our senses sharpened. I pulled that awful netting shit out of her hair and grabbed her face. She didn’t fight me, and I allowed my hands to explore everything I had dreamt about for all this time. It seemed like a moment and eternity. All at once she pushed me off, and picked her cigarettes and lighter, and the damn net thing off the ground, and put herself back together. She grabbed my hips, threw her hand into my pockets and grabbed the flask taking a few large gulps before lighting a cigarette. She breathed the smoke into my face and wiped the lipstick from my mouth, shoved the flask into my chest, and walked away.

We passed the rest of the time in silence. Eventually we made it to the pub, and my dad pardoned his interruption, and dragged me by the arm to the bathroom. “I don’t know what the hell you think you are doing son, but I saw you two, and you better thank your lucky stars your mother was too busy crying her eyes out to see it. What the hell are you doing? You’ve got a fiancée at home, and we just said our goodbyes to your brother. Bianca is a lovely, but lonely girl, and her head is a hundred kinds of confused. She’s nothing more than a kid. She ain’t got her head together. What are you going to do to that girl? What wrong with you? You’re brother’s girl, and he’s barely been dead a week. Yeah, just walk away son, that’s what you’re good at eh?”

I walked back towards the bar to find Bianca waiting for me with a drink. The band was playing “Finnegan’s Wake.” I wish my brother would just wake up at the end that it would all be some sort of comical misunderstanding, but those things don’t happen here. People ate, drank, and sang, but it was all more than I could take. So I just kept drinking for the most part, but her intoxication couldn’t hold a candle to any amount of alcohol I consumed.

“Bianca, I need to talk to you; let’s get out of here. Can you call a cab? I’ll give my cousin your keys and just say we’ve had too much to drink.”

“Yeah, I’ll go out and call a cab."

I met her outside, and the cab surprisingly didn’t take long to arrive. So we crawled in. “Motor City Casino,” I said to the driver, and we were off. We passed the trip in silence, with my hand in her hand. My fingers studying the texture, the length of her fingers, the temperature of her skin. We both just sat there in silence, until the ride came to an end. She paid, and I just let her.

I grabbed her hand as we passed through waves of smoke, old ladies in visors, waves of noise, flashing lights, and fanny packs, until I realized I was basically dragging her. We were already at the elevators. She must have been nervous, and curious, as she began to chew on her nails, and I think I heard her crying a bit, but that damn thing was in her face again so I couldn’t be sure. We got to the room and we sat down.

“You said you had something to say to me, but I have something to say first. I can’t hold it in anymore. Every day, every e-mail, every text message, every letter they are all I had to live for. You have been the best part of my day, my life for the last two years, and I couldn’t have made it through them without you. You’re my best friend, and I know it sounds so wrong, but I love you.” She said as she sobbed.

I grabbed her and kissed her face, and took her as I had dreamed of for the past two years. It was even better than I had dreamed, than I had imagined. Her perfect little mouth, her soft pale skin, her smell, her taste; I loved it all. She was everything that I had wanted, that had possessed me over these years. I had loved her charm and her childish vulnerability, but something was lost after that moment. I had taken the light that surrounded her and made her my own, and there was nothing else that I had wanted. I tried to take it again, but it was gone; I already had it. She kissed me and said those three little words, and it took everything in me not to laugh at her, as she fell asleep. I watched her for awhile, as she fell asleep, watched as she changed, watched as her little light went out. As she slept, I gathered my things, and just left. Some day when she’s older, she’ll understand that I am no saint, no savior; I will never ride a white horse. As I walked away, I felt the weight of the burden of the armor she made me wear fade away. Some day she’ll understand. There are no princes and princesses in this world. Some day she’ll understand that after all, I’m just a man.

Taste In My Mouth

2010-05-19T21:36:00.001-07:00

'm not really into writing poetry, I prefer reading it, but we had to write a poem for class on a childhood experience. It is said that memories are caused because they are linked to pain. Guess its why I remember it so well, and I now have thalassophobia.

"The Taste in My Mouth"

Florida,

I have never flown before.

I watch the ground

below as we take off,

The world looked so small,

toy miniatures,

ants.

Watching,

As the plane landed,

The ocean looked so vast,

Sparkling,

dazzling majestic crystal blue.

It looks like it goes on forever.

Standing,

In awe, knee deep in the water.

Wiggling the grains of sand,

Awkward tickling

in-between my little appendages.

Splashing,

The waves pulling themselves

back and forth,

Thrusting from the abyss,

to the shore line

with a thunderous roar

I anchor my little feet in the sand

I won’t be carried out to sea.

“Taste”,

My father urged,

“Taste the water”

everyone watches in anticipation.

I cup my little hands,

holding a minute fraction

of the majestic crystal blue

I gulp it all down.

Choking,

Gasping, coughing,

salt burning my esophagus

Face puckering like a raisin

Pride shattered

My stomach is turning, gurgling.

Frozen,

I stand,

Hairs on my body stand up

Neurons firing

around my ankles

Sending messages to my brain

I can’t move;

my eyes are too clouded to see

“Shuffle,”

My father says.

“I can’t,

they’re everywhere.”

He shuffles,

throws me under his arm

I’m parallel with the surface

I can see;

To the ocean

I am a toy miniature

Ruined,

My first oceanic experience,

The water will forever

be cloudy and gray

Shortness of breath, dizzy,

heart pounding, breathless

Leaving a bad taste in my mouth

“Hate,”

I say, “I hate the ocean.

There are things in there,

and they’re going to eat me.

Do we have to go to Sea World?

Because I’ve had enough!

Nobody,

I mean nobody,

better fuck with Disney World!”

The Beautiful Words

2010-05-19T21:33:00.000-07:00

George’s father threw his hands down onto the table, launching his spoon into the vat of gravy. The splatter caused a cast-off spray pattern of all over the faces of Missy Prissy Pre-med and the Archetype Architect. The mother had her head down, buried in her hands, crying into the caldera in her mashed potatoes.

“You know what happens to English majors?” her father asked rhetorically, “They live poor, and they die poor. You want to live in a cardboard box for the rest of your life? You’re a disappointment to me, and this family. You’re killing your mother; you know she’s a nervous person. Now she’ll be up every night worrying about how you are going to survive!”

‘Fretting’, would be a more appropriate word.” George replied icily. Her father continued his ranting and raving in an attempt to drive his agenda into her earlobes in the hopes that they would infiltrate, and eventually infest her gray matter. As his lecture continued he grew redder and redder, and the veins began to pop out of his neck.

“Dad, you’re veins are popping out of your neck, you’re going to have an aneurism! STOP IT! George, look what you’ve done!” Miss Prissy Pre-med cried out.

“Actually, those are probably his carotid arteries, and he won’t have an aneurism, he just needs to breathe before he faints.” George said while looking chipped black polish on her finger nails, “Well, this has been another super fun family gathering, but I must go before the villagers come with their pitch forks.”

“Resistance is futile!” her father said with a cold, determined stare as he watched George put her arms though her jacket. She opened the door, and began to walk out. Right before she was about to shut it she popped in her head and only her head.

“If it weren’t for writers, that phrase wouldn’t exist.” She shut the door just in time, as she hear the clankity-clank of silverware hitting the door.

The long drive back to campus forced George to reflect on the twenty three years of her life. From the very beginning she had never lived up to her father’s expectations. For starters, he had all of his hope set on a second son; another architect just like him, just like her brother would be. He desperately wanted to see the golden placard etched, “Mr. George Jacobs & Sons” on his building. However, not even changing George’s diapers was enough to prove to him that he had, in fact, bore another daughter. George’s father didn’t allow her to have pretty things like dolls, dresses, and other things suitable of the female persuasion; George was given blocks and Legos and other things against her feminine nature. The only pleasure she took in building was setting the projects on fire the moment they were completed. The only girly thing she had ever owned was a single porcelain doll her grandmother had given her in secret.

George walked into her dorm, Connie and Raymond, who where were supposed to be at home with their parents, were making out in the common room of her and Connie’s dorm.

“GAH!” George exclaimed while covering her eyes, “No making out in the champagne room! Hey wait a minute; aren’t you two supposed to be visiting your parents?”

“We told them that we were getting married, my mother told me, and I quote, “It is ridiculous of me to even consider marring English major.” Connie said, all in one breath, and then let out a long sigh.

“My father thought it was great I found a woman who’s ready to be a house wife.” Raymond interjected.

“It isn’t fair, how could your father say something like that about me, while I’m sitting there?” Connie began to sob, until George chimed in.

“Well, I am glad your night was just as fabulous as mine, and I’d hate to miss more melodrama, but I am taxed. Let’s go seek sanctuary tomorrow? Please proceed with eating face upon my departure.” George said as she headed towards the fridge.

“John K. King?” Connie asked.

“WRONG, all answers must be submitted in the form of a question.”

“What is John K. King?” Connie and Raymond said in union, while hanging over the back of the couch to watch George.

“Ding, ding, ding.” George said line a lifeless tone, as she reached for the vodka,” I’m looking for something out of print.”

“I’ll take potent potables for two hundred.” Raymond said sarcastically.

“Daily Double!” George exclaimed as she lifted two shot glasses in a cheer, and gulped them down. “I bid adieu, to you, and you, and you.” She said to Connie, Raymond, and the bottle of vodka. Then placed it back in the fridge, and retreated to her room.

Floors and floors, and rows and rows of books; an eccentric display of creative chaos, to the literary oriented mind this place is heaven on earth. The whole store smelled of paper, ink, and glue, the slow break down and decay over time. Connie had to pop a Claritin in preparation, but George walked up to the shelves nose first into the books to take in the aroma. George loved the sound of the old wooden floor boards creaking beneath her feet, the sun creeping through the windows, the dust fragments reflecting the light like glitter. Raymond thumbed the spines, and grazed over the covers. A silent awe fell over them, and a blissful peaceful state of being. For about ten whole minutes…

“I still can’t believe you father said that to me,” Connie blurted out; her faced all contorted like she couldn’t wrap her troubled little mind around the situation.

“At least you didn’t have to deal with the Wrath of Khan.” George said.

“Connie, ignore my dad, he’s just ignorant about the professional possibilities por poetic lyricists like you,” Raymond interjected.

“I like how you had to use French to lengthen your alliteration,” George said while skimming through antique copy of Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities.

“Thanks,” Raymond said putting his hand against his heart, and beamed with pride.

“Honestly, you guys, enough is enough,” George said sternly while slamming the book closed and replacing it on the shelf, “I’m going to rebel, and you both are coming with me. I’m going to protest!”

“Like a real protest? Connie asked.

“Yeah, that’s perfect, with signs and shouting and stuff. DOWN WITH THE BOMB! VIVE LA FRANCE!” Raymond shouted, and was met by evil glares and shushes. “So how are we going to do this Madame Defarge?”

George gave Raymond a look, “We’ll we can go to other campuses and post flyers, but why don’t we do a book drive, and collect money for literacy projects. So that way it isn’t just about us. We can get other students who have faced the same emotionally crippling opposition as ourselves. It’s brilliant!” She said as she bestowed kisses on a row of Dickens’ novels. “I love this place. It makes me brilliant!”

Over the next few weeks the groups coordinated holding the rally on the pavement outside the bookstore. They were busy collaborating with student artists to create flyers, they wrote blogs, created social networking groups, met with city officials, contacted news stations; they decided that everyone should dress up as their favorite authors or characters. They went around to every college campus within the county and posted flyers, and gave presentations at some schools. For their costumes, Raymond decided upon Hemmingway, completed with a grey comb over, beard, an intricate knit sweater, and lots of padding. Connie was hell bent on dressing like Scarlett O’Hara, corset and all, despite her friend’s warnings, but the look accentuated her small features and stunning blue eyes.

“Raymond, henceforth you shall be known as Sir Ashley Wilkes. O Ashley, Ashley.” George snickered, and then batted her eyes like Scarlett O’Hara would.

“Sure, I’ll be glad to share in your misfortune of having a name unsuitable for your gender,” Raymond poked. George decided to dress as Austen, and even cut bangs so she could curl the shorter pieces around her face. To complete her look she ordered a cottage bonnet, and a sprig muslin cross-over dress directly from Bath.

With the rest of their funds combined they rented a moving truck, and a megaphone. When the day of the protest came, they were all excitement and nerves. They were asked to participate in an interview on the morning newscast, in full costume, for the daily six through ten morning broadcasts. Unfortunately, for the young group, it was the news station that their parents watched religiously. As their story began to air, the parents whose offspring were featured were soon wiping coffee they’d projected from their mouths and noses from the television sets. The sets were promptly abandoned as the parents set off for Detroit.

That afternoon as the crowd began to gather, the three friends were awed by their work. People came from all over; students, professors, administrations, writers, avid readers. Some in costume, some in slogan shirts which read things like, “I’m With the Banned”, “Protagonist”, “Careful or you’ll end up in my novel,” and “Reading is Sexy!”

George addressed the crowd via megaphone, “On behalf of my friends and myself, I’d like to thank you all for coming, and for your generous contributions to our joint literacy project. It was here that my friends and I become inspired to unite people under a common cause. Not just to protest the injustice that we face from people for forcing us to justify our love for the written word, but for us all to come together, united in love, and adoration for the great authors and poets that have come before us. Though not all of us have been called by the higher powers to write, some of us were meant to read, other were meant to teach; however, never mind your calling, because all of us make up a segment of the intricate web of the written word; the beautiful words that beckon us, like a lighthouse beckons a ship in a storm, through the monotony and gray dullness of day-to-day life. The three of us, found consolation in one another from the hardships we faced in the name of our most passionate love, never had we expected so many to share in this love. It is an abundant joy, to see all your beautiful faces, as you look around, I hope you all that in the imagery of this great and symbolic scene. Carry with you for inspiration for all your future endeavors. Now please meet, mingle, network, and form bonds through your common passion for literacy. Thank you!”

The group was met with a wall of applause. The people began to talk with one another, debate about different authors, and discuss the up and comings of the present century. As the small group of friends began to make their way through the crowd and join in discussions, church bells throughout the city began to chime noon. As the bells ceases, screams rang from the edges of the assembly.

“GEORGE! GEORGE!” her parents yelled as they fought through the crowd to approach her. “This is all very cute, but we think it is best that you leave school and come home for awhile. Obviously, school is not your calling at the moment, and your mother and I believe that it is best you come home for awhile to put your head back together. To get your priorities straight.” The people began to crowd around the little side show, and watch in awe. George felt overwhelmed by the mass of people, and the mass of anger she was trying to fight back.

“Are you serious? Why are you doing this to me? Obviously, my head is together, otherwise none of these people would be here right now. Look at what my friends and I have done! We’ve brought people together; we raised money and awareness for Literacy Projects here in the city!”

“This is all very cute and fun George, but this post-teenage angst rebellion is getting a little old, and don’t you think it’s about time you pull your head out of these books and being to do something useful.” George’s dad said as he tried pulling her to the car by her arm, but the crowd grabbed her and started pulling back.

“Useful, USEFUL?” George, scream in their faces,” You see that van there it’s full of books and money. We’re not just here to protests against people like YOU, but to preserve a legacy for future generation by assisting with literacy project in the area. So don’t tell me that I am not being useful, stop telling me that I am wrong. Your path is not the only path, your view isn’t the only view, your thought and ideas are your own, but they are too narrow to share with me. You build foundations, and structures your way. I’ll build foundations and structure my way.” George began to walk back into the crowd, but her father reached out, grabbed her bonnet and ripped it off her head. George cried out as the pins in her bonnet pulled out her hair. He threw it on the ground and stomped on it.

“Son of a bitch, that’s from England.” George cried.

Other parents began to show, and the crowd already angered by George’s father’s actions met the ignorance of the other parents head on. Ignorance and intolerance pulled apart the gathering by the seams, just as it had tried to pull apart every individual dreamer. Chaos ensued, and not before long the scene took on a similar feel to the ’67 riots. By the grace of God, all the books had been safely stored in the moving truck or all of the literature would have been destroyed, and all their efforts would have been gone with the water as the fire trucks were forced to use hoses to break apart the mob. Later, many of the parents were taken away in squat cars, and students were forced to use what little remaining financial aid they had to bail them out. After the trio had taken the books and money to various locations they had to use the trucks to collect their childhood valuables off their parents’ lawns, where they had been abandoned, before the crazies of suburbia began to crawl out of the word works to pick apart the dead reminisces of childhood like vultures. To them it was the sweet smell of success sweeter than the smell of must, paper, glue and ink. They were heroes, trailblazers, and that in itself was enough satisfaction to patch the twinges of disappointment and guilt the scene caused them. It was more to them than any memory they could muster up from their childhoods past.

“I guess our parents were right.” Raymond said.

Startled, George threw the only doll she had ever owned on the pavement, and its porcelain face shattered on the cement. “What are you crazy? No, we proved if we put our head together we can accomplish anything! Isn’t that enough? After we began this it stopped being about proving a point, it was about doing something greater than just doing something for ourselves.”

“I only meant that we’ll probably have to live in cardboard boxes this summer. I know a great viaduct, near a field of daffodils.” Raymond replied, as the friends giggled grabbed things to finish loading the truck. Then George got really serious for a moment.

“No need for that, I got a job, from someone at the rally. I’ve also found an apartment; we’re going after we’re done here to sign the lease. Rent is one me until you guys can find something. Do be quick about it, I’m not a fricken Vanderbilt.” Connie and Raymond stood in front of George in awe and just stared for a moment, “SURPRISE!” she yelled in their face, and turned around to pick up the pieces of the doll off the pavement. The friends were silent, as the contemplated their next adventure, real life.

2010-05-19T21:30:00.000-07:00

At work, displaying my ardent dislike for carrots

The Rents First Visit

2010-05-19T20:55:00.000-07:00

My breath shortens, my pulse quickens; I have exactly one week left until my parents arrive in town. At first I was excited about seeing both my parents for the first time since we cut the chord; however, now I am filled with dread. I have spent the last year of my life crawling out of the A-town gutter, and into a new life here in Detroit. I daydreamed about hugs, kisses, and warm "hellos." Now I am not so sure what to expect.
Let me explain something, I love my parents, but their tendencies to over critical of my life really sends me into a negative place in my head. They have a tendency to find the negative in all aspects of my life: grades, money management skills, time management skills, romance, non-romance, friends, lack of friends. The lingering memories of many a phone call to announce something positive brings on an acerbic tone, and an attack on yours truly. Like if I had enough time to accomplish one item, why did I neglect to accomplish another. Which resulted in my forgetting all my accomplishments, and spending a night in absolute melancholy, and self-medicating with Ben and Jerry's.
I moved away from home, started going to school, found a job, bought a car, won an award for writing my second semester, and ended my year with a 3.8 cumulative GPA. Yes, I still have a ton more to do with my life, but for being away from home less than a year I think I'm doing very well for myself. Yet, the looming insecurities brought on my the way I was raised to think of myself leave me feeling neurotic and insignificant. Perhaps, I am afraid that they'll think I am not assiduous enough. Or perhaps I am attempting to not to get my hopes up about a fairytale family. I am not quite sure, but after my initial excitement subsided all I am left feeling is impending doom. We shall see how this experience turns out.

Overdue

2010-05-17T15:42:00.000-07:00

I have not written a blog since September, my reasons for not writing are as follows:

1) I was going to school full time
2) I started working full time
3) Above stated actions took up all my spare time, and infringed on sleeping time.
4) Above stated lead to an overabundance of consuming of caffinated beverages.
5) All the above stated lead to nervous and semi-psychotic tendancies
6) Did you know in 2007, Harvard Medical School did a study that linked sleep deprivation to psychosis?
7) Thought I was not involved in this study, I became an exceptional lab rat, after having a total of atleast ten mental breakdowns during the 2009-2010 school year.
8) End result, I ended the year with a 3.8 GPA, dark under eye circles, and a padded cell.

Fashion No-Ho!

2009-09-21T19:37:00.000-07:00

I remember when I was a girl my mother swore that two things that would never ever come back into style the first being leg warmers, the second being leggings. However, both are back and at full force. Now there is one thing I swore would never come back is tie-dye. Today, both of us were very, very, very wrong and so was this girl's outfit.

First and foremost, LEGGINGS DO NOT LOOK GOOD ON PEOPLE WITH THICK LEGS! I have thick legs, so bye-bye leggings! Now this young lady in question did not have thick legs, but I believe that if you're not emaciated leggings just aren't that attractive. If you are emaciated, watch out because I'm going to hog tie you and force feed you a sandwich.

I'd had a long day at school, and as walking off campus there she was...

It was the tie dye shirt that initially caught my attention, and then I realized it was dreadfully short. Like when girls get the kiddie boy white tee shirts so they're tight on the chest when they go to do home made tie-dye. Anyhow, I go to mentally critique the rest of her ensemble expecting that maybe she's wearing Birkenstocks. O no, what I did catch was her crotch eating her leggings. Tip to young ladies: CAMEL TOE IS A NO, A NO... UNLESS YOU IS A HO, HO! Her nether regions were better outlined than my notes for political science. GAG!

Ladies, seriously. Didn't you're mother tell you to leave something to imagination? I'm not going to be a gyno when I grow up; I don't go to school to get an eye full of crotch-ola. I don't care how it looks in a magazine, so very few women are of the same body type of the emaciated tooth picks that grace the glossy pages we flip through religiously. The vast majority of what you see on models, in magazines and in fashion shows will not fit the average woman. If you dare to try it, it will most often look gawd awful. You can be one of the most beautiful women in the world and clothes can still plain ya down.

What I suggest pairing with leggings: miniskirts, shorter dresses, shorts, and tunics. However, I suggest AGAINST leggings if you're shorter or if you have athletic to thinker legs. If you fit in this category go with opaque tights that aren't patterned, or brightly colored. It won't appear to chop your leg at the ankle or calves. Leaving you with a more polished and stream lined look.

I'm a curvy girl. I've got a small waist, but I've got wide hips (think the red head from "Mad Men"). So I pick classic pieces, inspired by the 1950-1960s where women were allowed to be women. Allowed to be voluptuous. Seriously, this culture isn't working for us girls. Pick your own look, pick your own style. What works for one, doesn't work for another. Having an independent style, a signature look will not only make you feel confident, but you'll feel like you're being true to yourself. Figure out what your body type is, try different styles, maybe even try ranging sizes. So finish your Chubby Hubby tonight, pick back up on the Pilates in the morning. You're beautiful the way you are (as long as you're not in tie dye or putting your legging munching cooter on display! Even then you might still be beautiful, but who would notice?

"Jennifer's Body"

2009-09-19T17:13:00.000-07:00

Here's an idea. How about I get to possess Megan Fox's body for a week? I would love to prance around in her size one jeans for a few days. I must say, I rolled my eyes at the previews for a few weeks, until I realized it was written by Diablo Cody. After seeing it I must say I was impressed. I was plesantly suprised, and highly recommend it. I've never seen a horror movie that I found to be amusing, not campy-amusing, but it was actually funny. It was Carrie meets Mean Girls meets The Hot Chick. It was well written (of course), and had a few really great one liners. Its definately a must see!

Tit and Tat. Freud must be right... I Meant This and That

2009-09-18T20:13:00.000-07:00

Me: I am reading an article about how women dress best while at their peak level of fertilitiy, which would mean I guess that I'm at my peak level of fertility.

Angelica: You looking schnazzy today?

Me: I dress up nice everyday now.

Angelica: McNippy and I didn't make out yet.

Me: Aw, you're taking it slow how cute.

Angelica: I cupped his boob

Me: Which one?

Angelica: The one with one nip.

A Tit Bit Nipply

2009-09-17T19:37:00.001-07:00

This blog is an actual conversation which took place today around 7pm (Eastern Time), the names of the not so innocent have been changed so I don’t get verbally lashed by anyone mentioned within the conversation.

Angelica says: Hey you. What you up to?

bRi* says: Just finished my math. I didn't get it the first time so I had to do it all over again… boo!!

Angelica says: Oh that sucks. Math is no fun. I'm reading this book for my organization behavior class about how men and women are biologically different (physically AND mentally). it talks about how women can't read maps because we think differently and actually the book kind of pisses me off

bRi* says: Yeah I'd probably end up throwing it at some dude’s head and then shout "Bet you'll process differently now"

Angelica says: LOL that's why i adore you

bRi* says: Thanks

Angelica says: It talks about how we're not equal and how we're not inferior to one another, but just different. It makes me mad. I can do anything just as well as a guy.

bRi* says: Sing it with me, “Anything they can do I can do better, I can do anything better than them.” All I need is a bunch of blondes and a 6 pack of beer, and they'll be so busy with their other brain I and they’re out of the running.

Angelica says:… or redheads or brunettes or walking vaginas

bRi* says: is your prof in that class a man or a woman? You know what that book sounds like a book of shitty excuses, it defiantly was written by a man, for men to enjoy when it pisses off women.

Angelica says: It's a man of course

bRi* says: Who wrote it, Douche-bag?

Angelica says: ha ha no it was actually co-written by a married couple.

bRi* says: Wel,l she's an idiot. That book gives men an excuse for being remedial.

Angelica says: I agree. Okay so I kind of have a date to make out with McNippy tonight. Is that weird?

bRi* says: You made a date solely to make out? Yeah, that’s weird.

Angelica says: Sort of. We're hanging out tonight and he asked what we're going to be doing and I said maybe a movie, maybe shopping, maybe go for a walk and he said how about I come over and make out with him because his parents are in Phoenix.

bRi* says: Hey my parents are in Phoenix, small world. At least let him buy you a drink, or an ice cream or something before your tongue puts out. Come on woman, don’t make it so easy.

Angelica says: You are cracking me up. I should tell him you said that.

bRi* says: You can quote me on that.

Angelica says: McNippy thinks he is for sure getting some tongue tonight, but I think I need to see this third nipple before we round second base.

bRi* says: HE HAS A THIRD NIPPLE! DUDETELL THE BANKER NO DEAL!!!

Angelica says: Yes, he has a third nip, and I have not seen it

bRi* says: OMG! OMG! O-M-G! OOOOMMMMMGGGG! EWWWwwwww.

Angelica says: Barb tells me it's quite common. I say, If we end up getting married he has to have it removed

bRi* says: I’ll have to take your word for it. Hey wait a second! Yesterday you didn’t want him; today if you get married he's getting it cleavered off. You are something else. I guess the responsible and wise thing to do would be to look at the possibilities life from multiple angles.

Angelica says: Bri if you know anything about me it's that I am completely indecisive when it comes to boys.

bRi* says: And I am completely naïve, when it comes to them. I’d much prefer to be indecisive than naive. So you’re doing better than myself.

Angelica says: He's so skinny but apparently he has that V muscle on his lower abdomen and I'm all about that so I thought I’d give him a shot. I’m sure I’m just hormonal. You know we're supposed to be breeding at this age?

bRi* says: Well all the people that breed before the peak age were at now have persuaded me to keep my eggs in their pouch until my early to mid-thirties.

Angelica says: I hear that and me too, but biologically we're supposed to be breeding and that's why we're so crazy.

bRi* says: THAT IS THE BIGGEST LOAD OF HORSE SHIT I HAVE EVER HEARD IN MY LIFE!!

Angelica says: What?

bRi* says: I want the title of that book and the publisher's name so I can go over there and shove it up the couple's asses we are 23-24 we are not supposed to be breeding... we're not fucking dogs and neither one of us are crazy.

Angelica says: Calm down sheeba.

bRi* says: I swear Im not crazy lmao

Angelica says: I'm not saying the author said that!

bRi* says: I thought you got that from the horse crap book

Angelica says: I'm saying that biologically our hormones are going nuts because we're at the peak baby making age my mom isn't boy crazy like me and I think it's because she has no hormones

bRi* says: I am boy crazy, but I am also severely terrified of relationships.

Angelica says: Yeah, but you'd still like to sleep with some random guy, right? Or is that just me? (Sans VD)

bRi* says: No, no random. More like no, no one. I can't get over the thought of someone seeing me naked. It grosses me out.

Angelica says: I've never done that. Oh my gosh you are totally focusing on the wrong things. Have you had that class with the cute boy in it?

bRi* says: My math class guy? No he's too skinny. I’m like two of him. This conversation is making me hungry. I want some chips.

Angelica says: How skinny is he???

bRi* says: Same size as ex-boyfriend who dumped me for being 145 lbs skinny.

Angelica says: So you haven't talked to him since?

bRi* says: I told him where he can stick his exponent. We most complain about the teacher and how cold the class room is.

Angelica says: Oooo I like where this is going. Dude, I ate some fried halibut and I am feeling so fluffy.

bRi* says: What if you get the burps and you burp halibut flavor into that make out session of yours? Friggen sexy. Back to the "V" muscle thing won't the mcnippy-nip-nippleage distract you from the v muscle?

Angelica says: See i don't know I have no idea what the nip looks like.

bRi* says: What if you sat there and just looked and on and looked at the other and just like couldn't figure it out?

Lesley says: If it's got a giant areola I am going to be majorly creeped.

bRi* says: At least he has three and not one massive one

Angelica says: Uni boob?

bRi* says: It wouldn’t be a bood just one massive nipple, it be even better if it was like in the middle of his chest.

Angelica says: Sick, you are twisted.

bRi* says: I know

Angelica says: What if it just looks like a mole?

bRi* says: Then just pretend its a mole

Angelica says: What is an umbrella exactly?

bRi* says: Umbrella? ella ella eh eh eh

Angelica says: No Rihanna keeps saying i can stand under her umber-ella, I’m so confused.

bRi* says: Maybe it’s a metaphor? Pop songs and stars usually don't use them because their audiences wouldn't understand them, but I guess if it sounds good people generally don’t care.

Angelica says: I would prefer to stand under just a plain umbrella. Personally, but I guess I'll huddle under Rihanna's umber-ella.

bRi* says: I'd want a Burberry umbrella

Angelica says: I want a pair of high end high heels

bRi* says: Im really into boots, not like hooker boots. I like to wear boots with dark denim.

Angelica says: Me too, but my calves are too fatty to zip them up

bRi* says: I wear the ankle ones

Angelica says: Those aren’t hooker boots silly.

Curiosity Killed the Cell

2009-09-17T12:39:00.000-07:00

As Posted on Facebook/ Myspace Blog June 12, 2009

I usually pride myself on my super human intelligence. The average average IQ of the average American is 98; I am above a 150. This means I am considered superior to most of the American population. However, its days like today that make me question the validity of IQ tests.

I had just finished reading, “Bitter is the New Black” by Jen Lancaster (awesome read by the way, check it out). It was about one am maybe, I am not sure. I decided I was too tired to read, but not exhausted enough to throw in the towel and pass out. So I could not think of anything better to do than play with my cellular device. For those of you who do not live under my rock I just got a new phone with my Michigan number so I did not have a lapse in service.

Well, I have a best friend who will remain anonymous (until now, Mallory) who is really good and destroying phones or abusing them until they commit suicide. Therefore, when the time came around for me to get a phone I decided to learn her lesson and get the free ones that come with the plan. Well at a new stage I am entering in my life, I figured I step it up a notch and get something a little fancier. Therefore, I opted for the LG XENON, mostly because it had a GPS device and I do not want to end up in the wrong parts of Detroit, if there is not a part of it that is not wrong. (BTW, I love Detroit. It is like a lost, emaciated and severely abused and misunderstood creature that just needs a lot of rehabilitation and tough loving care.)

I digress. Therefore, I decided that I for whatever reason was going to set up security on my phone so I would have to log in with a password. Well I accidentally activated the security setting before I even established a password. This is very retarded on the person who created this phone’s end. Why would you allow a phone to activate its security when there is not a password to base it on? You are bag-a-douche, back to the drawing table mister. So I tried with the password I use for everything thinking “Maybe I already established a password since it is prompting me for one.” Hey, guess what Britard, “WRONG”.

My phone locked up and said I had ten chances to input my PUK code. Having no idea what in the Hades, a PUK code is. Therefore, that was not going to happen, and I did not have access to my browser on my phone, strike two. Then I realized at the bottom of the screen there was a button that said “Emergency”, so I pressed it. Thinking, “Yes, dear God this is an emergency I’m locked out of my phone. I need to wake up somehow in the morning and what am I going to do all day without MSN Messenger? I need to speak to someone at AT&T immediately”. Strike three, Bri. I am out of excuses for this one, my phone sent me to emergency dispatch aka “911”. Oops, I think I wore out my “end call” button in an attempt to hang up the phone. I was tweaking out, I totally called Michigan 911. Right? Way to start off on the right foot.

Since my phone was rendered useless by my curiosity I had to use my parents’ computer to figure out what a PUK code was, so yes, I Googled. Where I discovered that if I keep screwing with my phone my SIM card will self-destruct. Which made me think of that scene in “Mission Impossible” where Tom Cruise’s character’s mission tape self destructs 30 seconds at the end of the tape and a little cloud of smoke puffs out of the tape deck. I guess that you have to access the account online to get the PUK code, I guess that makes sense incase someone steals your phone. Still mad though, I don’t have access. So I e-mail my cousin, whom earlier in the day made a point to tell me that I was a “pain in the ass”.

Myspace Message Sent from Bri @ Sometime Yesterday/Today:

Um so idiot me forgot my pin code for my phone and it locked up my sim card. Im told if I keep f****** with it my sim card will destroy itself so I need you to go online and access the account and then go to the "unlock the sim" card option and then I need the PUK code. Im sorry, I made a boo boo.

Thanks for putting up with me,

Bri

Moral of the story: I discovered that an IQ is just a number, I’m “special”, and “I called Alaska 911 because it was the closest tower.” I think “special” might be giving me a little too much credit right now. I'm going back under my rock to sleep off the shame.