Thursday, September 22, 2011

Fish 'n' Chips with a Side of Madness

-Whew!- I'm just taking a quick break from my flurry of cooking to write up this post. The chips (fries for you Americany people) are toasting in the oven, fish are waiting to be cooked (they're dead and breaded anyway, they can wait a few minutes) and the various side dishes, sauces, and silverware is set out on the table. I'm afraid that there won't be any fruit because we're too busy to buy it fresh and the can opener is trying to be aloof and elusive. Mission accomplished, can opener, i've even looked in my sister's bedroom and I can't find you. I did find the scissors and my lil' 4 year old sister yelling, "MY THUMB! BABY JESUS IS ON MY THUMB!"

Welcome to my mad, yet marvelous, life.

Right, back to the subject of this whole thing-a-ma-blog. Time I explained why I have a blog in the first place.

I started writing emails to my friends telling them (whether they wanted to know or not) about my school frustration, thoughts, problems, and bizarre stories. Apparently there was something entertaining about the ramblings of a strange teenager, so they sent the emails to their friends, and pretty soon I had a pretty big group. As someone with a silly name once said,

"The insane, on occasion, are not without their charms."-Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Just to make things more convenient plus be able to add pictures, videos, and links I set up this blog. That way anyone, not just those who hack my email, can see my ramblings. Usually most of the people who do read my blog are friends, family, and people who google "suave mustache pictures" (?), and some stray Canadians. (Really, the second biggest demographic behind Canada is India. Weird, huh?)

Anyway, my french fries are hissing and my sisters have set up what sounds like a MMA fight in the garage, so i'd better go and resume my duties as eldest sister. Oh, see, I can hear one of them crying right now. For a bunch of little kids they hit hard. And bite hard. I should know.

Fishsticks and Custard,

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Is This A Banana I See Before Me?

Things are simpler when you are exhausted from a day of school and haven't eaten anything but inhaled chalk dust all day. If there is a banana laying on the table, you eat it. That's just the way it is. Even though you don't know where it came from or why it was on that table. Or where that table came from. After so many classes i'm lucky enough to remember what a banana is. 

My day was quite eventful. I adopted an felted owl-penguin crossbreed, was taught by my circus friends how to juggle (we're working on sword-swallowing next week, i'm sure), and...and...ok, so a busy day with a few interesting highlights. The only other unusual thing I can think of is observing my friend Laurel (um...I mean, Laura) eat a can of asparagus. Swallowed whole. Without chewing. And drink the juice afterwards. Come to think of it that isn't too unusual for Laurel...

This happens every time I don't blog for a few days. One minute i'm prolifically inspired by milkshakes and crickets, the next i'm resorting to telling you in detail about eating a banana. If I keep waiting too long in between writing you might just get post entitled things like "101 Ways to Painlessly Remove Nose Hair", "An Essay on the Difference Between the Phthagoream Theorem with Negative Integers", and "I Can Believe It's Not Butter: How Fake Dairy Saved My Life."

If you've ever read the classic-worth-reading "The Little Princess" where the servant girl awakens every morning to find her dingy attic filled with lovely things and an almost magically appearing meal, you have a somewhat-similar example of what has been happening since school started up and Dad has promised to make dinner every Tuesday Night. We come home, dragging ourselves through the door like tube socks that have been through the wash (and the little ones are just as teary) and there, unexpected before us, was a feast of Little Princess proportions! Only Dad wasn't wearing a bedraggled gown and holding a porcelain doll.(Thank goodness. I'd be mighty suspicious of the chicken if he was.)

Sure, the chicken was a rotisserie chicken from Sams. And yes, the creamy potato salad had been poured from a plastic tub into the porcelain serving dish. And Dad didn't bake that crispy French bread, just had it sliced and arranged. But when all you've had to eat all day was a mysterious banana and you expected to be dining on cereal and past-date milk? It was heavenly. The herb butter sauces (yes, he DID make that) and frosted donuts didn't hurt, either. Watching all that Food Network on vacation has finally payed off.

I'm sure i'll be struck with new literary inspiration to write on something very soon, like staplers. Or pineapples. Until then you'll just have to live a while longer in the depressing, hopeless state that is without-Hannah's-Emails. Keep calm and carry on, mate! As for me, i'm going to go fold myself into the my warm, fluffy bed and sleep like a very happy rock. Well, until my mom turns on the lights and we stumble outside to go running at 6 a.m. I'd rather not think about that right now.

Custard-Filled Clouds,


Tuesday, September 6, 2011

My Last Milkshake and Testament

The gleaming steel of the firing squad's rifles glowed dusty pink in the sunset that was dramatically dying behind me. It lingered, as if it knew it was the last sunset i'd see before- well, that part will come soon enough. Every man in the firing squad had chill, unflinching eyes. They had trained all summer were prepared to finish me with the precision of a practiced killer, their eyes even looked eager under the brims of their flamboyant sombreros. Their cracked lips twitched under dark, dense mustaches. Not charming ones, like Rhett Butler, but like the the Caterpillary clumps of hair that you find clogging your bathtub drain. Not exactly the last thing you want to see.
See this face? This is my "You-wish-your-mustache-was-as-suave-as-mine" face. I use it alot.
The sergeant's crackly leather boots hit the thirsty ground, stirring orange dust in the still summer air. 
"Are you ready to pass on, Miss Hannah Musick?" he chuckled like a amused swine. "Any last requests?"

I lifted my chin. "Yes. I'd like a Reese's Peanut Butter Milkshake. That is my final request.Oh, and tell my family I love them."

The sergeant gestured with his hand and a small boy ran forward with a milkshake. I sipped the creamy delicious through the straw as loudly as possible. After a moment, the sergeant lost his patience.

"Enough! Men, fire!"
Before I could even react, the rifles were cocked and triggers pulled. As they fired and smoke burst from the air, I involuntarily fell to my knees. As consciousness fled and the edges on my vision faded to black, I saw a flag had burst from each rifle barrel. As I slumped to the ground, summer dying within me, one sentence surfaced in my mind: 


So yes. That was my unnecessary and overly dramatic description through symbolism that today is the last day of summer. I could have just said "Today is the last day of summer", but then wheres the fun in that? 
There was so real firing squad today (mom would never let me get out of school that easily) but I did go out for Reese's peanut butter shakes with a friend, our last salute toward summer. There are worst things in the world than a very heavy school year (Ke$ha, Chinease Water Torture, and...well, thats it) but it would be a shame to waste the opportunity to exploit it. 

If there is one thing to demonstrate that movies aren't real, it's the workload of high school students. Alien cowboys and kung fu pandas I can believe, but the lifestyle of High School Musical students? Forget it. Like anyone has time to fall in love, conduct a musical, learn how to sing and dance, and look camera-ready while passing chemistry? Now THAT is fiction.
Enough drowning in the puddles of self-pity, i've got to go get ready for tomorrow. You know, the usual back-to-school hum drum: packing my bags, looking through preliminary lessons, ironing my prison uniform and sprinkling it with rosewater. The usual.