Gah! Two Years Already . . .

So WordPress very kindly reminded me that today is the two year anniversary of my blog.

 

Why, thank you.

I started this thing mainly out of boredom and mixed feelings of hey-I-should-get-more-stuff-to-boast-about and hey-people-are-idiots-let’s-turn-to-the-internet.

I’m not sure what to do with this blog anymore. Mainly because when i started this, I was just getting into writing for other people and I didn’t know how.

Most of what I’ve written in the early stages include masterpieces ranging from “When she was talking about Peace, why did I have an image of flamingoes down by the lake?” to “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Yes, well . . .

I digress. I really don’t know what to do with this blog anymore so if humans/genetically advanced lifeforms/that guy I met on the bus is reading this, please deign to read comment praise maniacally. Praising maniacally. Yes that works.

Meanwhile, I’ll have cake.

Wait . . . Where did it go?

Aaaaah.

*backs away slowly*

Never mind.

Bookworm Problem#13

Parents of (relatively) normal teenagers: “Why don’t you get your head out of that ipad/iphone/smartphone/other-gadgets-that-I-don’t-know-the-names-of to go outside and socialise or maybe read more maybe read books like that quiet friend you have (me)?”

The death glare over the top of the phone.
“Moooooom, I am socialising.”

My parents: “No. This is for food and school fees. You cannot live off of printed pages of books alone. And no, smelling them does not count as sustenance.”

“Now who said I can’t live off books?”
“No dear, I meant as a human.”

Bookworm Problem#3

Three words: Never enough books.

This is the ineveitable spiral into insanity and doom . . .
But hey! World needs crazy.

 

P.S. I’m just adding the Bookworm Problems in a random order. Don’t think too much about it.

Pictures

The boy stared up at his mother’s face as she slowly gathered up the firewood and arranged them together. It seemed a normal thing to be doing on a camping trip, yet the ar had the atmosphere of the calm before the storm, or perhaps the mere wait in bated breath when a train wreck was in motion.

“Mom?”

She looked up, and down again. Arranged the wood once more.

“Yes dear?”

She held up a matchstick and lit the firewood. The campfire cracked and growled between them.

“My Dad . . .”

“Hm? What about him?”

“I never knew him.”

“Yes dear.” Quiet. Not wanting to say more.

The boy would not give up. “Do we have pictures?”

She looked away. “No pictures,” she said then added, “Stolen. There was a burglar . . .”

Of course. There was a burglar. Last time, there was a fire, but she seemed to have forgotten that. And before that, they were accidentally binned.

The boy wondered if his mother even knew who his father was. But she was looking away, into the forest.

Not now, then. Maybe next time, she would make a more convincing story. Maybe she would tell the truth . . .

Doubtful.

The fire cracked and growled between them.

#AHobblerInspiredStory

W/N: This little bit of writing had been written down in my notebook for quite a while, but I couldn’t bear to show it to anyone. For it’s inspired–in a very loose sense of the word–it has none of the charm and command over words thehobbler has. She uses few sentences and fewer descriptions to make scenes of life that has emotions running high. She effectively makes everything she writes reader territory and probably goes sitting in front of the screen, “Go crazy with this” or maybe that’s just my overactive imagination (seriously, who imagines flying larynxes when somebody shouts, “My throat is gone.”) but I wouldn’t know. Anyone reading my blog, go over to hers and weep your heart out over her most recent post, Writing the good, the bad and the ugly.

Also, compliments and/or crying over my story makes me flail happily and constructive criticism is highly appreciated.

What Matters More

W/N: It seems all I’m doing nowadays is writing about serial killers, death, angst, hallucinations and plain heart-wrenching plots. I have no idea how far it affects people since the only friend of mine who reacts properly to my stories loves lovey-dovey and gooey stuff and she keeps shouting why I don’t write fluffy stories. Also, my parents are mumbling in the background about my career choice and why I can’t study something else, so I pretty much lost the whole point of this note. Aaanyway, enjoy this little thing I’ve written. Compliments and/or crying over my story will make me flail happily and constructive criticism is highly appreciated.

I met him on the street leading to my new home outside a small café.

I guess I should add again.

Those were new streets, a new café. Thousands of new memories to be made by us but were laid out by the Fates. Yet the meeting was something familiar; something warm.

He hadn’t changed. Of course not.

Death changes only the living, not the dead.

And now he was standing before me, fifteen years after his death, and he hadn’t changed.

I looked around at the street and back at him, wanting to touch him but afraid that he was not real.

“I am not real,” he said, confirming my fears.

“Brother . . .” I started but he silenced me.

“But that doesn’t mean that I am not real to you.”

And that’s what he is to me. Real. Not some half-formed fantasy, a delusion, a hallucination. Even if he is, it didn’t matter.

Because he is real to me, and that’s what matters more.

 

W/N: All that blabbering over such a short read was probably unnecessary.

Bookworm Problem#21

When I let someone borrow my book:

“Listen to me clearly. I will only repeat this once. If you dog ear the pages or drop food items  or open my baby more than the necessary forty five degrees, I will string you up and stab you until you die from blood loss and excruciating pain while I laugh maniacally in the background. Do you understand?”

Suffice to say, people have stopped borrowing stuff from me.

And yes, I would be smoking hot while doing it too.

Bookworm Problem #30

We ask people to read a book because it’s ‘good’, but in reality, what we actually want to say is, ‘Read this godamned book so I can discuss it with some human other than the ones who have already heard me fangirling giggling over crying over talking about it a thousand times a day, so that after I get you hooked on to the fandom we can fangirl giggle over cry over talk about this book a million times a day.’

Blame Google

Tea, British People and It’s a Bit Not Good I Somewhat Understand More Jokes About London Than Where I Live

Watching British people on telly sipping tea and conversing about the fate of the world in their gorgeous accent has ruined me for life. Apparently, my taste buds have some kind of link with my eyes and ears. I can’t stand the mediocre tea offered in most houses we visit (generally of the fleeting acquaintances. Thy can’t be bothered to make an impression). That, right there, is a major social failure.The looks I keep getting when I can school in my more . . . horrified reactions range from ‘Who the hell is this girl? Let’s ignore her even during the conversation where we talk about her.’ to ‘Your face offends me. Get out.’

Not bad. This can be vaugly qualified as sweetened dishwater.

Happy Sad Eating

My response to a pair of jeans going tight?

Cake.

I’m a genius. At everything. I’m just too damn lazy to show it.

Seven Ways My Brain Works/Overloads

Why stop at six, eh?

 

• I have trust issues. That is, I don’t question people I trust. So if my best friend hands me a bomb, I’ll be all like, “Sure, yeah. I’ll hold on to this for you.”
• Imaginary images conjured up by the Person in my head scare me greatly. So, I have great fear of flying snakes. And flying lizard tails.
• I have a thing for charming BASKs – Badass Serial Killers.
• I love sleeping. Apparently, I sleep even in my sleep. And then I sleep in my sleep sleep. It’s a sleep paradox.
• And there is the dream paradox, where there is an earthquake in the dreams of my sleeps. But then I wake up, and realise that those earthquakes were actually mom snoring.
• I despise cushy lovey-dovey stuff. But as I’m forbidden by the Person to kill anyone, I vent out my frustration in my stories. You’ll notice that whoever seems just a tiny bit happy, she/he/it gets blown up/chopped up/boiled/thrown off a cliff/chocked . . . You get the gist.
• I have an urge to run away to the Himalayas to make my own cult. It involves frying one of your limbs for the initiation. What wants to join?

P.S. Hypothetically, if evidence against me killing people surfaces, this blog cannot be used against me. Reminding you again that this situation is a purely hypothetical.

Grace

JM Randolph, accidentalstepmom

Eight years ago today my nephew Mark was born.

I can’t think about Mark now without also thinking about my niece Colby, who was born in January of 2010. Both of them were born with different, fatal birth defects.

Mark had Anencephaly: A congenital absence of the brain and cranial vault, with the cerebral hemispheres completely missing or greatly reduced in size.

Colby had Trisomy-18: A genetic disorder in which a person has a third copy of genetic material from chromosome 18, instead of the usual two copies.

Years before Mark was born, I became aware that the way babies are allotted here on earth can at times seem remarkably unfair. I’ve known people desperate to conceive, who can’t; much-wanted babies who stayed only a short time; people completely unable to care for a child who do conceive despite precautions. It seemed to me that whoever was in charge…

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I have two personalities – The Writer, and The Cynical Reader.

Recently a new one had appeared. Go Anywhere, Fall Everywhere on Your face personality.

Tsk. So annoying.