Fastfood Fanfiction Friday #1

Apologies to NASA for (mis)using their beautiful picture in this undignified post

Up until this post, my fastfood fanfiction was merely an occasional tweet to pour out some of my ongoing diet angst into 140-character love notes to food. Now, I present to you Fastfood Fanfiction in a longer form because I can. Note, these are ludicrous and over the top. Like a good fart joke, I hope it will make you laugh, groan, and feel something you’re sort of embarrassed to admit. For bite-sized morsels search for #fastfood #fanfiction on Twitter.

"A Wrap in Time"

Commander Macon mindlessly glossed over the reports from the overnight crews. God, I’m glad I got off the night shift. “Boring.”

That damned chirpy ensign jumped up.

“Did you need something, sir?”

“Nothing. As you were.”

More than a little hungover, the only thing that sounded better than a shot of whisky was one of those giant breakfast burritos from the mess hall.

Go to space, they said. It will be fun, they said. Hot, alien girls, they said. Macon groused and scratched where his beard would have been if regulations permitted such a thing. All the aliens in this quadrant are the space fish-monster types. I haven’t seen an alien in months that didn’t immediately make me want to say, “Release the kraken!”

An enthusiastic beeping noise interrupted the heavy sigh he was brewing.

“What is it? Is it a colony ship?” He perked up considerably.

Even though every little noise was like a level four laser through his skull, the beeping might be a message from one of those advertised hot alien chicks. Or it might just be another bit of space dust the sciencey types were going to ask to stop and look at.

Ensign Excessively Chirpy punched a number of buttons that surely do something, but Macon wasn’t a man to care about details. She turned in her chair with a stricken expression.

“It’s … the space cannibals, sir. They just jumped out of warp off our bow.”

Commander Macon groaned and issued a captain’s chair worthy face palm.

“Cannibals again? They’re hungry. I’m hungry. God, I just want a burrito.”

“What do we do, sir?”  

“Burrito cannon,” he mumbled under his breath. The whisky-influenced idea just might be a two birds, one stone solution.

“What, sir? ... Sir, now they’re blasting through the airlock on deck 5.”

“Contact the mess hall and tell them to save me a burrito.” The ensign stared at him blank faced. That was apparently not the answer she was looking for. “Also … notify the captain about the cannibals. I’m headed to deck 5 to take care of it,” he grumbled and marched off the deck.

“I swear to the breakfast gods, if I don’t get one of those burritos I’m going to …”

On deck 5, the lift door opened to Captain Greggs' angry face. Macon paused.

“Cannibals before I’ve had my coffee?” The Captain tossed Macon a laser rifle. “They don’t even know the hell that’s about to rain on their heads.”

Macon gave one solemn nod to acknowledge the disrespect of disrupting a man's coffee. He took the rifle off stun.

“Sir, there’s a burrito with my name on it on the mess hall. And right now? I’m hangry.” The first of the cannibals broke through the airlock and was instantly blasted back by Macon's rifle. “For the burritos?”

“The burritos.” Captain Greggs hit the next unlucky cannibal to come through the airlock. “And coffee.”

_____________________________________________________

Many thanks to WordNerd @Dammit__Woman for the title suggestion "A Wrap In Time"! 

Faces of the Crying Girl

J-Maddz

I haven’t blogged in over two hundred years, so this post may come as a shock to you. What have I been doing since James Madison was president? So glad you asked.

I wrote a thing. Then I submitted it and somebody put it in a book. Um, how cool is that?!  

I’m talking about the Faces of the Crying Girl anthology. The basis of this project is Alex Nader’s (website, Twitter) short story “The Crying Girl” where a girl is seen crying at a metal concert right before heads literally start exploding. In our anthology, thirteen authors give their take on who this mystery girl is and why she’s crying.

The Faces of the Crying Girl is FREE (my favorite number) between now and 9/4/15. There is seriously no better time to check out this great indieproject. 

Xavier knows what's going on.

But, of course, it wasn’t just me in this glorious anthology. We have a really great crew of authors who took part in this awesome adventure. Check out the interviews below for a chance to get to know the authors a little better. Want to internet stalk them? (It’s ok. We understand.) There’s this handy little Twitter list where you’ll find us.

Many thanks for Alex for putting together these interviews! Also, if your eyes are sensitive to the majestic glow of cursing, avert thine eyes.

Ken Mooney

What makes you metal (as fuck)?

As if my taste in music didn't do it, the piercings, the tattoos (Thomas Pynchon, X-Men, Nine Inch Nails & my own work), the love of the word "fuck." I'm also (probably) one of the few published authors who has had a waking craniotomy which really helped to get out a significant number of the amount of fucks I give.

What aspect of the original story inspired you the most? (i.e. the music, the blood, the supernatural, the drugs?)

A little bit of everything, but some of it was location. I spent a lot of my teenage years and early 20s at concerts and gigs, and here in Dublin, a lot of those venues are old converted theatres, places with a real sense of history and decadence. Seriously, have yourself a google of the Ambassador or the Olympia (ad a Dublin to the end of that image search) and you'll see where I see this stuff playing out in my head.

Ashley Davis

What makes you metal (as fuck)?

The love of my music life is TOOL.

What aspect of the original story inspired you the most? (ie the music, the blood, the supernatural, the drugs?)

The idea of Audiophilia is what got my wheels turning. I liked the idea of a drug that blurred the line between a high and reality, so I ran with that.

Bart Van Goethem

What makes you metal (as fuck)?

I’ve seen KISS, Metallica, Iron Maiden, Dream Theater, Joe Satriani and many other metal and hard rock bands live in concert more times than you can imagine. I won’t even bring up my metal record and cd collection.

What aspect of the original story inspired you the most? (ie the music, the blood, the supernatural, the drugs?)

The girl. Who was she? How did she end up at the concert? In my eyes she was innocent.

Jessica West

What makes me metal as fuck?

My voice (the writing one and the actual one). It's deep and loud and clear when I don't hold back, and can be incredibly harsh or surprisingly pleasant depending on which way the switch is flipped. Like metal, my voice is typically visceral, brutally honest, gritty, and, on rare occasions, insightful and eloquent. Kind of like Slipknot, I guess.

What aspect of the original story inspired me the most?

The story was great, but it wasn't the story itself that drew me in, it was the first three writers who really brought it to life that did it for me. Alex Nader, Chris (Joriah Wood), and Jon (J. Edward Paul a.k.a. Eddy a.k.a. The Sexy Mailman) formed a natural collaboration and it worked out so well, I really wanted to be a part of that. Thanks for making that happen.

Rachel Ortego

What makes me metal as fuck?

The metal mod on my amp. Especially when I crank that bitch up.

What aspect of the original story inspired me the most?

The idea that music is powerful enough to have a lasting impression on people (even if it does kill them) has always been fascinating to me. What is it about music that transcends cultures and language barriers and all that stuff? When I read the original story the idea for my story just kind of came to me and I had to write it.

T.R. Orchulek

What makes you metal (as fuck)?

I spent five years in a metal band, playing shows and worshipping at the altar of bands like Tool, Metallica, Faith No More, Mastadon, Pantera, and the Deftones. I know that mindset. I know that life. I still listen to it everyday. It's in my blood. Now, I channel those same feelings and urges through my writing. So, naturally, there's a lot of chaos and violence and rage, but also beatuy, love and hope.

What aspect of the original story inspired you the most? (ie the music, the blood, the supernatural, the drugs?)

The mystery of the thing. The girl - who is she? What's her story? What happened to her before that fateful night? What is Audiophilia, and where can I get some? What would a Throat Slit Six song sound like?

Katsyarina

What makes you metal (as fuck)?

I’m pretty far away from this music genre usually but after watching "Deadman Wonderland" for me it’s one song – “One Reason” by Fade that was opening there – a story of bloody metal reality I loved. So, yeah, it makes me feel that way every time I hear it.

What aspect of the original story inspired you the most? (ie the music, the blood, the supernatural, the drugs?)

For me it was this mad desire of Johnny to have his show (this special moment for him) no matter what – it made me wonder about the price he’d pay for it and this girl definitely had something to do with it.

Edward Paul

Why I'm metal as fuck:
I am NOT metal in the slightest. No tattoos (terrified of needles), no extreme sports (allergic to pavement burns), and no musical talent to speak of (tone deaf). I've never even broken a bone. Closest I get was having hair down to my ass in highschool. Does that count? Then 1/100th metal as fuck.

What inspired me from the original story:
It was the girl for everyone, wasn't it? How could it not be? The supernatural quality of a still, suffering beauty in a sea of discord. It's an image that begs exploration.

Chris Forshner

Metalness:

My mom was scared to send me to Kindergarden when I was proudly declaring Alice Cooper as my favourite and singing along. I grew up in a house of rock, and threw everything else in along the way. It's impossible to write without a song to distract the brain into focus.

Story:

Blood always captures my attention. Why is it there? What effect will its leaving have? Growing up in a pile of horror novels, it's always a sign of something.

Rachel O’Neill  (ME!)

What makes you metal (as fuck)?

I didn't choose the metal life. The metal life chose me. Just joking! I'm definitely not metal in any way, but music speaks to me. With metal you have to go all in - full blast, leaving nothing behind. I love that passion. It makes me want to put more passion into life.

What aspect of the original story inspired you the most? (e.g. the music, the blood, the supernatural, the drugs?)

The power of music is so important to me and I felt The Crying Girl was a really cool interpretation of that. Music is what gets me through the day, so seeing music be such a heavy part of violence made me want to dig in and know more.

///Tangentially, on the power of music, in the "unpleasantness" between North and South Korea this week, South Korea blasted K-pop songs at the border (including one of my fav songs lol). North Korea was like "Um, Dude. That's gonna have to stop. Like, RFN." This concludes story time with Rachel.///

Daniel Cotton

What makes you metal (as fuck)?

Musical taste more than anything else - first gig was Rammstein, seen Slipknot, In Flames, RATM amongst others since.

What aspect of the original story inspired you the most? (e.g. the music, the blood, the supernatural, the drugs?)

Personally, the single most powerful aspect of the original story was the image of the crowd and the crying girl captivated by the live music. It encapsulated the spine-tingling connection between a spectator and the artist, which somehow means that everything outside of that connection becomes diminished and non-existent during the live music experience - and this particularly resonated with me given that I have seen a host of awesome metal bands live.

Chris Smith

What makes you metal (as fuck)?

Ultimately, what makes me metal as fuck is not caring if people think I'm metal as fuck. I know what I like, I know what moves me, and I put my energy into the things that are most fulfilling. It's not that I don't like people, or want them to like me--quite the contrary. I try not to be a jerk about it, I want to get along, but if you don't like what I do? It's cool. I don't mind. We can all be ourselves.

As far as the trappings though--I have a sweet metal goatee, examine my playlist and you're gonna find about 85% of it is the tightest metal you've ever heard, and the biggest problem with "11" is that it's never loud enough.

What aspect of the original story inspired you the most? (ie the music, the blood, the supernatural, the drugs?)

First, the atmosphere. I could feel the crowd's energy, and the band members standing on that precipice between nerves and release.

The funniest part of the whole thing is that I somehow missed the drugs the first time I read it through. In fact, I missed the drugs totally until *after* my story was written. Would that have affected the route I took? Most definitely. I think I worked them into a later draft, but my own sloppy reading skills changed the whole course and direction of my story.

Really, though? The image of a girl crying at a metal concert...if you've seen it, you know why cameras cut to them. Music is an emotional experience to begin with, and when someone is crying at a concert, you know that they're totally captured by something. There's an emotional purity there that is going to be hard to find anywhere else.

And when those tears turn to blood? Come on...who doesn't want to know what happened there?

Andrew Moore

Metal:

I hitchhiked across the Kavango region in northern Namibia, spent the night with a stranger in the regional capital, then walked 4 miles to a hospital in the morning with a bag strapped to my back: I did all of this with blood poisoning working its way from my right thumb to my heart. I was out of the hospital in an hour and continued to my thing.

The story:

Having complete control of creating this girls life story while trying to make it fit within the general theme of the original plot. It was a good exercise and a lot of fun.

Alexander Nader

Well, fuck. I just sat down to organize this post and read through everyone’s answers for the first time. Immediately, I am humbled that these excellent story tellers took cue from something I wrote. Second, all of their answers kicked ass, what in the hell is left to say?

What makes me metal (as fuck)?

Ummm, shit. I once bit the head off a bat. No, wait, that wasn’t me. Okay, this one time I totally…no, wait, that was Danzig. Okay, okay, fine. I listen to my music like really, REALLY loud. Okay? Maybe?

And as far as the story inspiring me, it’s funny. The original story was all about the guitarist for me. The girl was an afterthought of sorts. Then Chris was like, ‘Dude, I have to tell her story,’ and I was all, ‘Go ahead, bruh’, and then Jon jumped in like, ‘Hey, guys, can I play too,’ and I told that fucker no, but he showed up anyway, and then Jess got all on Twitter like, ‘Hey, you guys should make an anthology,’ and just like that Faces of the Crying Girl was born.

The book is awesome and it’s free for a few days. I promise it’s worth at least ten times that much.

Thanks for joining us! I hope you enjoyed hearing from the great Faces of the Crying Girl crew. Get this FREE anthology HERE.

When Your Story Isn't Turning Out “Right”: Writing Week #4

I'm in the last week of my self-imposed writing challenge to write every day in July. For Week 3, in lieu of a normal blog post, I wrote a story for Elise Valente's blog. 

“The Fourth Instance” is a scifi story about what happens when you procrastinate on your current WIP. Um, oops, no. But that's actually how I wrote this story. Never underestimate my ability to procrastinate by doing something “useful” and “important.” But I digress.

I worked that short story up one side and down the other (is this just a southern saying?) and still never quite got what I was looking for in the pacing and the voicing. Then there's always the conflict of “what I originally imagined” and “what something turns out to be.” Why is it that even if something is going well, if it doesn't look like our original plans we feel a little upset, striving to get to that original view?

Working through some of these feels generated other feels. I most epically don't have all this figured out, but some of the things that are helping me right now might help others, so here goes.

When Your Story Isn't Turning Out “Right”

Consult an expert. This may look different for each person. I'm a verbal processor, so I don't even know what I'm thinking until I've had the chance to talk it out. Sometimes all I need to do is try to explain my situation to my husband and then stuff becomes clear.

Put the offender in time out. Take a little time away from whatever is misbehaving and do something else. You can ignore the troublemaker for a couple minutes to give yourself some new perspective. Or, if it's really stuck, put that story/piece of art/song/whatever in time out and come back to it tomorrow. Take the weekend off for that particular project and write something else just for fun. Read something new. Don't let the story tangle you up inside.

Remember that you can always change things. I am a compulsive hoarder of words. I save old drafts as a safety net in case I do irreparable damage. Just knowing that I can change things, to refer back to old notes for some ridiculous minute detail, helps me have courage to go for big changes.

Roll with it. Who says that this new thing that your story is morphing into isn't going to be cool? Or better? Maybe it won't be what you originally expected, but maybe it's going to be way more awesome, deeper, and more colorful.

Stop judging yourself. Yeah, I know. I just said for you to build a life size Empire State Building using only Cheesewhiz and a prayer. What you write today is setting the stage for what you will write tomorrow – figuratively and literally. You don't know the full effect of the experience you are gaining as you put together every blog post, short story, novella, or novel draft.

Stop judging yourself, part 2: Everyone has to start somewhere. Give yourself permission to suck. My friend John Adamus (Twitter, Blog), masterful writer-editor-encourager, changed the way I think with just that one phrase: “give yourself permission to suck.” It's ok for things to be “rough,” but the point is that you can learn from it and get better.

Do you know what for me the most comforting part of having my stuff not turn out “right” is? This means that I am writing, creating, and working. I'm actually doing something. I'm making progress.

My Sidekick Is a Spreadsheet: Writing Week #2

Week 2 of my self-imposed writing challenge is now done and I’m 12,005 words “richer” than I was on June 30. ICYMI, my focus for July is primarily to get in the practice of writing every day.

As with any goal, knowing your strengths and weaknesses can make a big difference in the journey to achieving that goal. In my efforts to write every day in July, I’ve called upon the two main heroes of my life: To Do Lists and spreadsheets.

I am a big fan of lists. I am the dreaded list-maker your mama warned you about. Lists, and other linear paths of organization like spreadsheets, are how I keep sane.

Other list-makers out there (all the list-makers in the house say “Heeeey!”) know that there is nothing quite like crossing an item of your To Do List.

But, if you read last week’s post, you know that procrastination is one of my great weaknesses. What happens when a master list maker is also a master procrastinator? Inner turmoil. Ha.

The result is that as much as I get the “planner's orgasm” from crossing items off my To Do List, I will do almost anything to procrastinate on my To Do List.

That being said, if I put Writing on my To Do List I am 62% more likely to at least attempt my writing for the day so that I can cross it off the list for that little completion afterglow. I’ve discovered that reaching my goal word count for the day typically isn't very hard. I often reach my goal before I realize it. Like many things, the hard part is getting started.

Namor knows the power of the spreadsheet.

After I get started, my good friend the Spreadsheet keeps me rolling. I like to see that word count climbing. One cell calculates how far I’ve come and another cell shows how close I am to achieving my goal. It’s like magic.

The only thing that keeps me from procrastiworking on my writing by something like “I'm going to draw stick figure art to accompany this scene!” is that I can't count it towards my word goal for the day. Otherwise, you can bet your last brownie that I would suddenly want to design special art for each chapter and page heading.

Right now I’m just trying to keep focused on throwing words on the page. They say “write drunk, edit sober” but that's never going to be me. One ounce of wine and I will be ready for nap time. For me, I think the motto will be more “write passionately, edit dispassionately.” Throw my heart into it now and my critical, judgey mind can sift through the garbage later.

Now's the time to shovel some words out of the deep, dark hole of my mind. My word count is growing with each shovel ... and so is an ever-so-tiny bit of confidence. I might be getting in the swing of things. 

The Fine Art of Avoidance: Writing Week #1

Batman knows procrastinating when he sees it.

As part of my goals for 2014, I'm working on the hyper-specific, professional, and detailed goals of:

1a) Write Stuff

1b) Finish Something

I'll wait while you take a moment to deconstruct those complex goals.

As part of working towards these goals, I've challenged myself to write every single day in July. I have a comparatively low word count goal to achieve, since the main point is for me to get in the practice of writing every day.

Writing every day is such a basic, fundamental task for writers. “Writers write,” they say. “Write what you know,” they say. (“Stop telling fart jokes,” they say...) This writer should write about fear because that's what I know.

Fear has kept me from putting words on the page for a very long time. I gave in to fear for far too long.
 - Fear that I wouldn't be able to finish anything (which, strangely enough, didn't help me have courage to finish anything …).

 - Fear that what I write won't be worth reading.

 - Fear of success (it's another flavor of my great nemesis: the unknown).

 - Fear of my own shadow, etc.

When fear wasn't lurking, there was another one of my good friends: laziness. Why try this new, scary thing called Finishing Something when I can sit here and watch Netflix while I eat brownies? Brownies and Netflix. :::sigh:::

Seems legit.

My other great partner in “crime” is procrastination. I am a master procrastinator. In my bag of procrastinating tricks there's something I like to call “procrastiworking.”

Procrastiworking is when you procrastinate under the guise of doing legitimate tasks (cleaning the kitchen, paying the bills, doing other tasks that you're also wanting to avoid, etc.). You feel legit and adult-y while procrastiworking, but you know the only reason you're cleaning out the edges of window frames with an old toothbrush is because you're avoiding something.

I have brought the art of procrastinating to such a magnificent level that my tablet occasionally suggests “procrastirachel” as a word choice. Yes, my tablet downgraded me from a proper noun to shame me in my misbehavior.

I know I'm not alone in facing the old frenemies of fear, laziness, and procrastination. If you have old projects, big projects, scary projects, dream projects, or new projects that you have shelved for whatever reason, let's work on those a little bit at a time in July.

I'm still finding ways to procrastinate and I'm stumbling on little places where the fear is keeping me tame, but I'm moving forward. I'm making progress, writing every day, and Doing The Stuff. My word count for the first 7 days of July: 7069 words. That's not a lot compared to what others have written in the last 7 days, but that's about 7000 more words than I put “on paper” in probably the last 5 years combined. It's my victory – and it's just the beginning. There are 3 more weeks left in July.

But don't ask me how long I procrastinated on writing this post. Let's just say my kitchen is really clean right now.

Mustaches & the Invisible Orchestra: A Visit to the Salon

Whenever you go into a salon (hair salon, nail salon, spa, etc.) they always try to get you to purchase some sort of add-on service. For some reason, their favorite suggestion for women is always an upper lip wax.

Actually, I know the reason. They know that at the slightest mention of facial hair a woman will react violently out of paranoia and say, "By all means, get rid of it! Kill it with fire, if you must!" 

But, if you are like me, you turn down the service because 1) you don't think you need it, 2) you're offended, and/or 3) you're cheap. Unfortunately, you then spend the next 3 days paranoid about your upper lip and you may ask honest friends if you actually have a mustache. You will also pass every mirror afraid that you will suddenly see this: 

At some point you start to feel annoyed that you are giving headspace to someone who merely is after a bigger commission. After several days, the offense wears off and you go on your merry way until the next time you go to a salon and the cycle starts anew. 

One time, this happened.

Woman: "Would you like your mustache waxed?" 
Normally, at least they "pretty it up" by calling it an "upper lip wax." I tamped down a bit of outrage, but responded with a polite, "No, thank you."
Woman: "Really? You don't want to have a smooth lip for your boyfriend? I'm sure he would like it."
Me: "No. My husband likes me as-is."
Woman: [Sullen silence] 

During the rest of the appointment, in my heart I was exuberantly conducting an invisible orchestra using only my middle fingers.

This woman didn't want to let it go. After a bit, she broke the silence. 
Woman: "You think he likes the mustache?"
At this point I was having a hard time staying cool.
Me (in my best deadpan): "Yes. It's his favorite."

I led the invisible orchestra into a crescendo. 

Normally, I just keep it to the most polite "no, thank you" I can muster, but when they push me I get more creative. Sometimes I just want to say: "No! I'm growing out my mustache as bushy as possible to deter the throngs of suitors who have been camped out on my doorstep."    

Later in this seemingly infinite appointment, she also offered to wax my "sideburns" and my neck. I started to feel like I was slowly morphing into Beast while I sat in her chair. Man, she really wanted that sale. 

And the orchestra played on.

Labels Are For Boxes, Not People (AKA The Post Where I Get Rant-y)

We put labels on boxes so we can know what's inside. The labels are there so we can evaluate what's inside the box without looking, learning, or investigating for ourselves. We take for granted that the label is all we need to know.

How often do we do the same to people? We quickly label them and decide their “worth” by whatever quick label comes to mind.

      Unemployed. Employed. Poor. Rich. Middleclass. Upper class.

When was the last time you sized someone up based upon a quick label?

      Fair skinned. Dark skinned.

Do you put labels on people and take for granted that you know all you need to know?

      Introvert. Extrovert.

After nearly 10 years of marriage, I can tell you that I am still learning about my husband and he is still learning about me. Believe me when I say: In the most intimate of relationships, with open sharing, we can still misjudge each other.

      Fat. Skinny. Health nut. Junk food addict. Vegetarian.

So, why do we think we have strangers all figured out by a simple label? Why do we presume to guess the motives of others based on a label?

      Sinner. Saint. Bigot. Religious. Athiest. Agnostic.

When you put someone in a box with a neat little label you stop learning about them.

       Republican. Democrat. 

Don't label and certainly don't stop learning.

      Highschool education. Higher education.

The nature of human beings is that they will surprise you. We aren't meant to be kept in a box.

You are the sum of your life experiences, the choices you make, and the people you influence. Not the sum of the labels society places on you.

One day, can we just stop evaluating someone's worth all together?

You are a person. You live, you breathe, you matter. Full stop.

*********

POST SCRIPT BLAH BLAH BLAHS:

I don't consider this to be an end-all-be-all on the topic of labels in any way. This is just a brief introduction to the giant Rant-y Land I wander into when we talk about labels and putting people in boxes. This topic started with this tweet or the tweet started the topic? Chicken vs. egg. Any way.

Legit Box I don't mind if you put me in.

Night Birds

One of the perks of living in the southern parts of the U.S. is that while much of the country is still covered in snow, we are starting to see spring. Hate us or love us for it, spring is here.

The flowering trees here are stunning in the spring. Unfortunately, right now, the Bradford Pear trees are blooming. While they are particularly beautiful they have a soul-wrenching odor. Look upon the trees but do not stand downwind from them. The fumes wafting off those blossoms smell like a giant vat of urine that's covered in mold. Wikipedia actually describes the smell as "a cross between rotting fish and semen."

But I digress.

This weekend it was warm enough that we opened the windows at night for fresh air and a breeze. My husband and I cuddled a little, awake in the excitement of leaving the windows open for the first time this year. 

We made hushed small talk about how much we enjoyed the fresh air and I commented on how much I enjoyed "to just lie here and listen to the birds chirping."

We cuddled some more and listened to the night noises. It suddenly occurred to me that the noises were from bugs, not birds. From the sound of it, these were giant, mutant crickets of a violent sort.

As is my brain's natural inclination, I started to wonder exactly where those bugs were. Are they on my windowsill? Do they live in the trees? Did one climb in our bedroom?!? My brain helpfully supplied lots of thoughts about the bugs we were hearing (why is the word thorax so disturbing?) and it started to damage my calm. 

About this time, my husband caught on to the "bird noises" and he clarified, "Actually, I don't think those are birds, I think they're-"
"I know. I'm trying not to think about it."

"I mean – those are night birds," he corrected in an innocent yet manly falsetto, trying to redirect the conversation. "The birds that chirpy at night!"

"Uh, night birds, yeah."

We lay in an uneasy silence for a while, the magic of the moment lost. Finally, I got up and shut the window. He thanked me, saying, "I didn't want to listen to the bugs- uh, BIRDS any more either."

Ah, the perils of spring. If I haven't mentioned it previously, I do not like bugs. This is only the sweet chirping of crickets. When we hit the foul days of summer and cicada season you will find me in the fetal position trying to find my mind palace. 

May your windows be open, the breeze be pleasant, and the midnight chirping be night birds.

-Rachel's spring proverb

Random Thoughts on Tea

Judging you.

I had the most majestic cup of chai today at Starbucks. The fact they couldn't make it sugar free tells me they made it from a syrup, but I can live with that.

People ordering at the Starbucks counter use such careful and thoughtful mannerisms like they are receiving important advice from a consultant rather than ordering a beverage.

Starbucks always makes me think of that scene in You've Got Mail. "Tall. Decaf. Cappuccino." It really does make me feel like I accomplished some small thing in life by choosing a beverage and bravely facing the barista/consultant with my choice.

I rarely go to Starbucks. I normally brew my tea at home, and I'm always fascinated by the directions on the side of the box. 

Apparently, pouring the water over the teabag is a very important, non-negotiable step to making tea. Adding the teabag to a cup of hot water is “right out” (vague Monty Python reference). Google this if you wish to read a lot of people have anxiety over the pour vs. dunk debate.

My box of decaf chai says that not only should I pour the hot water over the teabag, I should by no means squeeze the teabag. My husband theorizes they were thinking of male body parts when they included this instruction.

There are no real rules to how I make tea. Tea is supposed to be relaxing. The more rules applied to the tea making process, the more I've defeated the purpose of the tea.

To "real" tea drinkers I imagine my methods and tastes for tea are something akin to a Neanderthal bludgeoning a small rabbit and eating it raw. *crude grunting*

I have many different varieties of tea, and I'm often struck by how the different brands of tea show different personalities on the box. 

The Celestial Seasonings box makes me think of a fun bunch of laid-back people. Twinings makes me feel a little inadequate, like I'm not worthy, but I drink it anyway because 'Murica. Bigelow is somewhere between Celestial Seasonings and Twinings, for me.

The Tazo box makes me think that "maybe I should've accomplished something with my life today, but if I'm yearning for an accomplishment I may miss the path to inner centeredness and is this tea done steeping yet?"

On that note, I have a cup of freshly made tea waiting for me. I performed a hybrid "pour + dunk" maneuver with the teabag, in case you're wondering.

Mitten Tragedy

Artifact: Hipster Mittens, c. 1982

If you don't make your word count goals then your favorite pair of mittens will fall in a muddy puddle. The puddle may or may not be 6 inches deep and contain puddle-dwelling piranhas. Your favorite mittens will be soggy and gross for an unspecified amount of time from said muddy puddle. Get those words down on paper and avoid mitten tragedy!

Did you have "Idiot Mittens" when you were a kid? You know, those mittens with the string attached between the two mittens so you would have to have special talent in order to lose a mitten. Sadly, the string was never long enough and I always ended up trying to play in the snow with awkward T-Rex arms. T-Rex arms are such a disadvantage during a snowball fight.

Please, feel free to leave a comment below suggesting a better title for this post! I'm totally not feeling the "lets make a catchy title!" vibes today.

That Special Sauce

If you don't meet your word count goals a random person's armpit hair will end up in your sandwich tomorrow. Stone-ground whole wheat bread, low-sugar organic blueberry preserves, all natural peanut butter, and the hair from some stranger's unwashed arm pits. So. Get writing!

You don't eat PBJ? Let me know in the comments what kind of sandwich is your favorite!

Time Travel is a Harsh Mistress

"Finally. At last. The moment I've been training for."

Seriously. You don't even want to know what those piranhas are planning to do when they time travel. (I don't think he will become his own grandfather. Just sayin'.) So keep on writing! Whether you're doing NaNoWriMo or you are working at your own pace, keep at it! If you stop, 1) The terrorists win, and 2) Piranhas will gain the secret of time travel (see #1).

What do YOU think piranhas would do if they could travel through time?

a) Eat a bite of every American president?

b) Enjoy the giant, moving smorgasbord known as The Dinosaur Kingdom?

c) Establish an empirical piranha colony on the moon?

d) OTHER! (Leave your guess in the comments section!)