A Common Household Scene

(It is a Tuesday afternoon, and BRIANNA returns home after spending time at the local library (not the one she planned on visiting), applying for a job.  Note, "a job" because the application for that one stinking job took an eternity to fill out.  When we find BRIANNA, she is laying on her back on the hardwood floor of her family's kitchen while her father passes by to get to the family's computer room.  DAD is not paying attention, but doesn't step on her because that would absolutely awful.  MOM is chopping onions on the counter nearby.)

BRIANNA:  (undisguisedly pleased with herself) I applied for a job today!

DAD:  And?

BRIANNA:  And...I applied for a job today!

DAD:  And?

BRIANNA:  ...um.  It's not--

DAD:  Did you get it?

BRIANNA:  It's not an instantaneous thing...

MOM:  Now's the waiting game, dear.

DAD:  Oh.

MOM:  You're starting to sound like a Millennial.

BRIANNA:  Ouch.  On behalf of my generation, I am injured that you would call him one...

MOM:  Isn't it the Millennials that want everything to happen right away?

BRIANNA:  Maybe?  Did you also know that the older generations think we're shitty?  Thanks...thanks a lot.

(BRIANNA lays back on the cool floor as DAD heads over to play on the computer and watch drum solos of Katy Perry songs.  MOM continues chopping onions.

Scene.)

If I told you that this is a common conversation in my house, you probably wouldn't be surprised.  Well, if you know myself and my parents at all.  Okay, maybe the Millennial comment is unusual, but the rest of it is right on.  I just thought it was important to include everything in the conversation if only to get a decent length for this post.  Yup.

I really wish that this wasn't a common conversation.  What can I say, I'd like to be lauded for my single job application because it was for Walgreens, and it took me two hours to do.

So...what am I really supposed to say to that single word question: "And?"  I guess I can think of a couple things:
-  "And I heard that the Blackhawks lost, that's a serious bummer, right?"
-  "And the weather's pretty nice, did you need me to pick up sticks in the backyard?  I'm just going to go do that..."
-  "And I actually heard back from them at the exact moment that I pressed the submit button, and good news, I'm moving out and I'll have a pay check that's six figures!"

Really?  This is going to be a recurring rant until about the time when I get a job, and by then, it's going to be a rant about how my parents hate my job because it makes me poor, or how I hate my job because it eats my soul.  So anyway, I understand that my father wants me to have a job.  At least, that's the only assumption that I can make from this single word question, because it doesn't really sound like he's saying, "Rah, rah, good job, Brianna!  Go you for applying for a job!"  I mean, I would know how to respond to that, I would just beam happily and preen.  Why yes, I did apply for a job, thanks for noticing, would you like my autograph too?  So...why exactly is my father demonstrating more impatience with my situation than I am?  Is he really that eager to get me out of his house?  Just curious.

On another note, I had a really awful dream about our house burning down, and my thought in my dream was "Shit, I only have one copy of every poem I've ever written for the Poem-A-Day Project."  Because part of me fears this is my seer potential tapping into prophecy that something terrible's going to happen to my hard copies, I'm typing up every single poem I've written and uploading them to Google Drive!  Who's excited to read all of these poems again and get them into some cohesive order?  THIS POET!  Yup.  That's the plan.

"What good has impatience ever brought?  It has only served as the mother of mistakes and the father of irritation."

- Steve Maraboli

Hoppy Easter to Every Bunny!

This is it!  It's Easter Sunday for those who celebrate it, and another Sunday before April Fool's Day for everybody else.  It's the end of Lent as we know it, and you know what that means.

No more promises of regular blog posts.

Because I'm a bum.

I'm also a bum who's totally kidding because I should be writing things consistently and not necessarily poetry.

Plus I'm a bum who has loyal readers.

Out there.

Somewhere.

Anyway...

There's one thing that I've always wanted.  A white Easter.  Forget snow-covered Christmas, I'll settle for snow on a day when little girls are forced to wear white Mary Janes and flowered dresses so they have to also be forced into their puffy pink winter jackets.  I want little white snowflakes flying around my head as I trek out to the car for Easter brunch with a friend.  I would love for an icicle to form.

I'm not sure when this wish was created, but I was thinking about it, and for the past four years I spent Easter at school because our spring break never overlapped with the holiday.  And my school is super pretty when it's covered in snow.  I highly doubt that Easter could muster a snow dramatic enough to make the campus look like Narnia as it does in the winter, but I would love for snow on Easter.  That'd be great.

If there's a way to request certain types of precipitation, I'd like to submit a form for a white Easter for the rest of my days.  That would make me very happy.  I mean, it's possible.  This is Illinois, and weather is weird, especially with "global climate change" and all that.  So there is the slight possibility that the air might just get cold enough to freeze whatever precipitation might be promised for this Easter.  I'm really hoping that that possibility is high, but considering the 41 degrees that I'm seeing right now, it's more likely to get warmer as the day goes on.  Mildly depressing for the idle snow-wishers, but hey, the people looking for sunshine and daisies might get their wish, so at least someone goes home happy, right?

"Hedwig didn't return until the end of the Easter holidays.  Percy's letter was enclosed in a package of Easter eggs that Mrs. Weasley had sent.  Both Harry's and Ron's were the size of dragon eggs, and full of homemade toffee.  Hermione's, however, was smaller than a chicken's egg."

-  J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Dreaming of a White Christmas

That's right, I'm in Orlando and I'm still dreaming of a white Christmas.  Because it's what I'm used to, and it's what I love.  When I hear about the snow back home, I feel super jealous, and then I get reminded by those people at home that "it's warmer where you are, be happy!"  And I'm here to tell you, my friends, that it's not so much warmer here, it's only about 51 degrees here, windy and humid.  Just sayin'.  This is a poem that I wrote ages ago, and I felt like posting a poem because I haven't recently.  It needs another draft, so...here we go.

August 31, 2012

On days like these
I would wish
for a light covering
of snow,
just powdered sugar
on top of this donut.
Or a blizzard.
Despite knowing
it would melt
within seconds
of reaching
this zip code.
But that never stopped
my wishing
for hot chocolate nights
when I could break out
my winter jacket
and Doctor Who scarf
because I forgot
to finish the arm-warmers.
Oh well.
I always figured
I could steal your pockets
anyway.

Feeling Bookish?

Today I compiled a list of all the books in the house that are begging to be given away.  When I say they're "begging," I mean that they're piled up in separate little mounds of literature, attracting dust like magnets attract metal filings.  There are at least tree piles in the house.  There's the one in my room of all the books that I either forgot to sell back to school or had the mistaken impression that I would read them again when I wasn't being forced to.  There's the one in the front room of the family books, so that's a mix of books from my parents and a couple from my brother.  Finally, there's the tiny pile in the office which I had no idea about until about half an hour ago.

So I wrote up this list, organized it all pretty in alphabetical order (by author's last name), and posted the list on Facebook.

I have a point to this, I promise.

Giving away books to my friends who have been "dibs"-ing them got me to thinking about how I wanted to put together that cafe/book shop.  Honestly, that's why I took those business classes, because it would be good to have some basis for setting up a business.

I'm thinking that if I end up working in a book shop or running one, I'm going to put bookmarks in the books.  Just little things that I make.  I have a bunch of bookmarks that I made when I had extra paint-splattered-ness from my door decs last year, so I could use those.  Of course, there would be a method to the madness.  I would always put the bookmark on page 42.  Because of The Hitchhiker's Guide.  And because I like the number 42.  It might also be fun to put sheets of stickers or temporary tattoos between the pages.  I know when I get books from the library I always think it's neat if I can find things from people who had taken out the book before me.  So wouldn't it be fun if it could be something that sparked inspiration or made someone smile?  That's why I'm thinking tattoos or stickers.  Because it's a little silliness that would prompt a smile.

In my book shop, I would also cover a wall in Post-Its.  Maybe I could have book titles and reading recommendations on the Post-Its, and when a guest comes in, they have to take a Post-It off the wall.  They wouldn't necessarily have to go looking for the book, but if it ended up giving them a place to start, that would be really cool.

I would also have reviews for books or recommendations on the shelves.  Maybe I could even rig a treasure hunt of sorts to send guests on.  I'm not sure how that would work, but maybe it would send them from book to book, either based on title or knowledge of the book or location.  I would want to create some way for the guests to get involved with the books on the shelves, make them come alive somehow, even before you open their pages.

"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid."

- Jane Austen

My Life as a Poet

So this morning I saw on my blog feed list thing that Poets United has a feature called "Life of a Poet."  Though this is an interview type feature, I decided that I should do something similar for my blog and talk about what I'd like my life to look like if I was just a poet.  Here goes some fictional imagining.

If I was a poet and nothing else, I would live in a city.  Probably Chicago because I don't think I could get myself to move to New York, just because it's a matter of principle that I should display disdain toward the "big apple."  I would live in a tiny apartment with one bedroom and a drippy ceiling in the kitchen.  My living room window would look out at a tree-lined one-way street.  I would have to sleep on a double bed because anything bigger wouldn't fit in my bedroom comfortably, and I would have an east facing window so the sun will slant over my face and wake me up when the heat gets uncomfortable over my eyelids.

In the morning I'll wake up and pull on whatever t-shirt and pants are within arm's reach.  I'll pull my hair up and off my face by twisting it up with a pen.  I'll wear my glasses, of course, and pull my beat up messenger bag that's already packed and walk out the door, taking to the sidewalk.  The walk will always be nice, even if it's raining because the people I'll pass will be friendly enough to smile and sometimes stop to chat, but not that weird middle ground where you just mumble "hi" and keep walking.  They'll all understand that when they ask "how are you?" I will answer honestly and sometimes at length.  And that I'll really care when I ask the same question back.

I'll go to my favorite little coffee shop where I'll eat a blueberry muffin and drink a mug of hot chocolate every morning, but sometimes I'll shake things up and drink chai or order a cinnomon roll or maybe a freshly baked croissant.  I'll sit at the same table every morning and all of the employees of the coffee shop will know who I am, even the owner will come over to say hello.  I'd have the same tattered notebook every morning, maybe it'll be leather bound or maybe it'll be a composition notebook that's frayed around the edges of the cardboard cover.  I would write with a Bic crystal pen because fancy pens would just get smashed in my bag.  Visitors to the coffee shop would muse about what I was writing, and they would even make up stories about what they thought I was writing, some of the regulars will know my name, but will be too bashful to talk to me.

After breakfast, I would probably wander the streets looking around and window shopping.  I'll take a different route every morning.  Maybe I'll even ride the El all day one day.  I'll spend time in the museums, taking notes on things that I learn, and visiting some exhibits so often that I memorize what the little placards say.  I'll sit on a corner of State street and watch the shoppers, taking special note of who frequents which stores and following around the most interesting people.  I'll go to a tourist spot and observe non-Chicago-natives.  On nice days I'll even visit the beach and draw sketches of pigeons and waves and maybe some stick figure sun bathers.

I'll eat a proper lunch at a small sandwich shop or a diner that I pass on my wanderings.  It'll be a surprise every day, and I'll try whatever the man at the counter suggests even if it features sauer kraut because lunch should be spontaneous.  I'll sit in a park and eat whatever I bought and skip rocks in fountains.

In the afternoon I'll run errands.  Pick up dry cleaning if I have it, buy another gallon of milk because I finished off the last of it at midnight the night before, replenish my stock of honey sesame sticks because I always manage to run out at the least convenient times, and maybe meet up with a friend for coffee.  By this time I'll probably drink coffee because I'll be all grown up.  I'll listen to speakers and go to free events mostly because I won't have any money to spare, but also because I'll want to keep learning forever.

In the evening I'll read with a glass of wine under the glow of a single reading lamp.  The rest of the room will be hidden in shadow.  I'll eat dinner on my own and maybe dance a little while I'm making it.  And after watching a movie or a random television show on my TV that has a dysfunctional color tube or whatever, I'll settle into bed to cuddle and fall asleep.

"A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman."

- Wallace Stevens

A Letter to Sleep

Dear Sleep (or Slumber or Lengthy Nap Time),

I'm really glad we're friends.  We haven't had too many difficulties during the past years, mostly because I've kind of established my bed as a place for sleeping rather than a place for doing other activities (get your mind out of the gutter).  I've been told that if you do homework or read in bed that it stimulates your brain and you won't be able to fall asleep as easily because your body's accustomed to working on intellectual things in bed, so...it won't let you fall asleep.  I don't know if this is true, but I tend to think so because Sleep, you and I get along pretty well.

Except I really don't like when you leave me right after I roll over.  This morning, I rolled over, I took the time to roll so that I was facing the only window in my little room, and my alarm went off.  You just stood up and left me in a lurch, whining under the comfort of my covers.  I really didn't want to wake up this morning.  It might have been because you and I were reunited a little later than usual, but absolutely positively did not want to wake up.

The only thing that's helping me cope with my losing you is the prospect of breakfast.  I can already smell the greasy cafeteria food breakfast delicious and my stomach's growling in anticipation.  And I can take home a muffin for tomorrow's breakfast, and maybe a banana that I can eat with peanut butter...my future prospects are looking pretty good.

But Sleep, I miss you.  A warm and cozy oblivious state in which I can dream of absolutely anything.  In fact, last night I dreamt that I was moving back into my residence hall, and I was driving a little car (backwards) into traffic.  Luckily I didn't hit anyone, so that was nice.

Sleep, can we be friends forever?  Just do me a favor.  Please don't follow me to class.  I saw you in business statistics yesterday, and it was a very near thing, we almost had that heart-to-heart conversation that I was hoping for, but I had to resist because otherwise I'm not sure how I would learn what a null hypothesis is.  (Although let's not kid ourselves, I still don't know what a null hypothesis is.)  And then you followed me to Management, which was bad, because it was warm in that classroom, and I was bored with talking about goodness only knows what...

In short, I think we're doing pretty well, so let's continue this relationship.  Although I warn you now that I may sleep with Nap Time.

Cheers,
Brianna

"Sleeping is no mean art: for its sake one must stay awake all day."

- Friedrich Nietzche

Sleepy Time

Q: What time's your bed time?

A: How do you know I have a bed time, hmm...?

Q: I...um...well...I don't know!

A: Well it's pretty rude of you just to assume that I have a bed time, I mean, I'm over 20 years old.  I don't know very many 20 year olds who have bed times.

Q: Well...I...uh...

A: I usually fall asleep around midnight.  When I'm at school doing my homework, midnight hits and I cease being productive.  By that point, my bed starts calling my name and I just can't help but answer its call by brushing my teeth and leaping towards my pillow.  Which (if you've seen how my room at school is set up) is quite a comical image because I would have to leap and fly a little to get up onto my bed...which is lofted.  I've learned this midnight deadline through my repeated attempts at pulling all-nighters to finish my Senior Seminar paper last semester.  I would convince myself that I could take a nap and that I would wake up again, and then all of a sudden I would be asleep until morning.  Which was bad.

When I'm hanging out with friends (usually at school), midnight is the time at which I turn into a pumpkin.  Because I'm the carriage, not Cinderella.  (I have only just now realized this implication, and I find it hilarious.)  Anyway...I truly tell people, "I'm going to turn into a pumpkin soon, so I should take off."  Part of me wonders if my friends think I'm strange because of this, and the other part of me assures the first part that they already think I'm strange, remarks about pumpkins aren't likely to change that.

When I'm at home, it's a completely different story.  The house gets all dark around 10 PM because my dad's gone off to work and my mom's getting ready for bed herself...so it's weird.  Wandering around in the dark house just seems odd to me.  And it's really weird being one of the only two people awake (I say this because it's obvious my brother's still awake when I can hear him playing video games in the front one) so sometimes I end up passing out around 10 PM and waking up at whatever daylight hour I usually wake up at.  Which is usually 7 AM.  And then there are other times when I don't find the quiet strange.  When I actually want to stay up curled under a blanket with a good book and read under the horrible light until I'm sleepier or until it's at least a little closer to Pumpkin Time.  Or like last night I'll decide it's a good idea to read in bed until my pillow screams that I should sleep and so I rudely pass out while texting my boyfriend.  I'm so nice.

And I usually dream.  The last time I dreamt (Chrome, you know that's a word, so shut up), I dreamed that I was eating banana bread and talking to another RA about why he was quitting.  And that was the most normal dream I've ever had.  I've dreamed about training a person like a dog, I've dreamed about being lost in multiple schools, being chased by Teletubbies, killing kidnappers to save my family members, being in "CATS" again and not knowing the lines, directing a play...it goes on.  And on.  In one series of dreams (this went on over the course of a couple nights) I was dancing.  Like ballroom dancing.  With random people.  Beauty and the Beast style.  It was awesome.

"Sleep is the best meditation."

- Dalai Lama

What do you want?

I honestly don't know.

I have no idea what I want to eat for breakfast let alone what I want to do with my life.

So if I had to pick?  If I absolutely had to pick something because the rest of my life depended on it?  Would I be able to answer?  Would I be able to come up with something?  Let's see.

I want to be happy.  This has to be the broadest thing that I could ever think of, but there it is.  My ultimate goal in life is to find happiness and retain it.  It'd also be really nice if the people around me could also be happy.  I'm concerned about the people around me for all the obvious reasons in addition to the fact that I love them a lot.

I want to be able to have fun and not have to hide it.  I'm convinced that people get to a certain age and then they're not allowed to admit that they're having fun.  I like to think that they're not allowed to admit it because the alternative is that they're just not having fun at all, which is way too depressing to think about.  If anyone can tell me what age you have to be to be ashamed of admitting when you're having fun, I would really like to know because I'm concerned that I'm reaching that age, and in order to be taken seriously in "the real world," I might just have to renounce my ability to show when I'm having a good time.

I want adventures but I want safety.  Sometimes I'm daring, but more often than not, I play it safe.  I don't take risks.  I don't walk the edge.  I walk squarely in the middle and I get out of people's way when they come running towards me.  The adventures I have are under strictly controlled circumstances because I don't do spontaneity.  But at the same time, I want that.  So I'm conflicted there.  I want to explore, but I want to have the luxury of keeping a map in my pocket so I can consult it if I get lost.  I want to learn new things about where I'm at, but I want to have some place to call home so I can go back when I'm lonely.

I want to read.  For fun.  All the time.  I want to read everything I can get my hands on, even the dry and boring books because then I'll have something to complain about.  I want to read poetry out loud on street corners and draw the stares of tourists but it wouldn't matter.  Mostly because I would be having fun.  (See above.)

I want to write awful fragments of stories and random lines of poetry that never make sense together.  I want to write them all down, shuffle them up and hide them away in my writing box.  I want to keep them secret.  (Though I realize writing about them here kind of negates that secret bit.  Oh well.)

I want to fall in love.  I want to be able to open up to someone and trust them not to run away, but if they do, I want a broken heart.  I would want to feel the loss.

I want to feel.  I want to help people.  I want to do something worthwhile.  I want to make an impression.  I want to make my family proud.  I want to get so mad that I yell in public places.  I want to make a scene.  I want to walk until I'm completely exhausted.  I want to re-read my favorite books eight billion times.  I want to read Shakespeare aloud.  Somewhere.  I want to go everywhere and nowhere.

I want to live.

"With the past, I have nothing to do; nor with the future.  I live now."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Have a Little Class

Q:  So you just started classes again, what classes are you taking?

A:  I'm taking...

My English Senior Seminar.  It's called "Images of Self," and I'm not really sure what that means in relation to the books we're going to be reading, but it should be exciting.  I'm going to end up writing a 20 page paper for this class so I can earn my English degree.  I still resent that the novel writing class doesn't count as a "writing senior sem."  But that's another thing all together.  We're reading...The Complete Talking Heads, The Death of Artemio Cruz, Waterland, and Lady Oracle.  And I'm doing a presentation on our first book, The Complete Talking Heads, so that means Brianna is going to be doing a LOT of reading very soon.

And then I'm taking 3 business classes:
Accounting 2
Marketing
Financial Management.

It's funny, in every class the professor has asked what everyone's concentrating on within business and so everyone raises their hands at different points in the conversation except me.  Which is totally fine with me, I'm perfectly content with my happy little English degree that I'm working on.  They can have their business majors for all I care.

Besides, it's really fun to see the reactions I get when I explain I'm not a business major.

(The professor has just finished up explaining that for one "quiz," the class will be required to go to a meeting of a club in their concentration.  Like Accounting Club or the AMA.  BRIANNA raises her hand.)


BRIANNA: What if we're not a business major?


(The professor kind of starts, as if the idea of a major outside business is a completely new concept for him.  He blinks, gathers his wits and opens his mouth to answer.)


PROFESSOR: What is your major?


BRIANNA: English.


(The professor seems stunned for about a second, but recovers.)


PROFESSOR: Well then you would go to a club in your major...I don't know, Shakespeare Club?


Yes.  Shakespeare Club.  If there was one, I would be all over that.  Unfortunately there isn't, but I understand what he was going for.  So it's the thought that counts.

And you know how English majors constantly get the question of "so what are you going to do with that?"  I would like to go up to a business major and as "Business major, huh?  So what are you going to do with that?"  If they answer with "go into business," I'm going to smack them and ask them a series of questions about what type of business, what they can see themselves doing in five years, and whether they'll enjoy working in a cubicle.

Because let's face it, some business majors just need a shot of reality.
Just like the shot of reality everyone in the world wants to give to English majors.

"It's business, not personal."

Dream a Little Dream

To make up for not posting on Wednesday, I'm going to post an extra post today!  (How many times can I use "post" in the course of one sentence?)  I had a really weird dream last night, so I figured I could share that:

Last night I found myself in the 1800s version of my neighborhood.  I remember thinking that it was a little strange, but I still felt at home.  I assumed I was a time traveler of some sort.  So I was following around and hanging out with this guy and the woman he was courting, as well as one of my actors from The Grimm Players.  We all went to this guy's house, but it was under construction.  Everything was new plywood and naked beams and there weren't any walls, but there was this rough floor.  I sat on one of the stairs along with my actor, and the guy (we'll call him George) was taking off his socks and rolling up the legs of his pants so he could wash his feet in the stand alone sink that seemed to be in the middle of everything.

"Ooooh, ankles!" I said, laughing as I did.  I turned to George's love interest and asked, "What is it that makes ankles so alluring?"  As if she knew the context for my question.  I always wonder this because I've read things about long tablecloths being needed because the table legs would excite the men, and the idea of ankles being seductive.  I only wonder because they're bony and kind of knobbly and weird.  Ankles are weird.  Anyway.

I was walking around the dark streets with George, this woman and my actor, and we passed this large group of college girls that I knew were from my time.  I knew them.  If I was a time traveler, I'm not sure how I would explain their presence in the 1800s...but they were all in Halloween costumes, and one girl who was dressed up as Superman was beating on another girl that I knew.  The first time I saw this, I just walked away with my group, but the second time, I literally stepped between the two girls and told the Superman girl to back off and that the beating was really unnecessary.  I remember thinking that I was putting my RA skills to good use in real life.  I stood there protecting the other girl for a while before all these people started coming to stand behind me to separate the two.  George did, as well as a number of people from the group with Superman girl.

And as all dreams end...I woke up.

A Letter to Prince Charming

Dear Prince Charming,

My name is Brianna; I got your P.O. box address from a friend of mine (you might know her, then again you might not, she's the one sitting on the couch behind a book as big as her head) and I would like to take this chance to say a couple things.  For your convenience, I shall number them.

One.  I would like to compliment you on your perfection.  You really are spectacular.  It's alarming how charming...you are.  I would love to know who designs your wardrobe, because I'd like to talk to them about a wardrobe for myself.  Anyway.  You're perfect.  Not only are you devilishly attractive, but you're witty, intelligent, alluring, brave, adventurous, self-assured, and of course, highly desirable.  In fact, everyone's looking for you.  That brings me to my second comment.

Two.  Where are you?  I keep hearing about people looking for you, and I have to admit that I picked up a raggedy map that promised it would divulge your location, but I probably would have been better off using a GPS.  You seem to be lost in some unplottable location because I haven't seen on any Facebook statuses that someone's found you.  I would have thought I would hear by now.  If you've been lost for so long, it's only a matter of time that someone'll find you.  Maybe you should hold a press conference and give some clues as to where someone can find you.  Only the cleverest or most devious people need apply, unless you have clones that you can give to the less than worthy.

Three.  Where did you come from?  If you can't tell me where you are, the least you can do is tell me where you're from.  I'm guessing you're not from an alien planet or a different dimension (unless you're The Doctor), but you had to come from somewhere.  Who are your parents?  I get the feeling that you were raised by Optimism and Imagination with Disney as a close godfather who came over for dinner weekly.  Nurtured on the food of dreams, happy thoughts and pixie dust seasoning, you grew up to be your perfect self.  The most desired man in the world, right next to Mr. Right.  Unless of course you're the same person, but that's another question altogether.

Four.  What are you looking for?  Brains?  Brawn?  Beauty?  I know a couple people who would be prime candidates for your consideration, so if you're interested, you should really give me a call: ***/***-****.

Five.  What are you waiting for?  I find it really interesting that girls and women of all ages are looking for you, even though the majority of them wish to be pursued by you.  So are you waiting for them to find you so you can give chase?  But what if you're tired of the chase?  Where does that leave your ardent admirers?  I can tell you right now that if you just come out of hiding for a little while, you're bound to get laid almost immediately.  I say "almost" because it might take a little time for clothes to be torn off, but all the same, you'd be in pretty good shape considering you're in high demand.  If someone were selling you, they should hike up the price because there's only one of you, and everyone wants you.  Just think of the profit that people could make off of you...  (Cynical Brianna pipes up and points out that's how Godfather Disney did it.)

Six.  This may be a radical idea, and you might not agree, or this paragraph might be the reason why you don't write back to me, but can I be my own Prince Charming?  Theoretically, all I have to do is transfer those complements I gave you to me, and then I could be devilishly attractive, witty, intelligent, etc.  I'm not talking narcissism here, I'm talking self-love, which is a milder and healthier form of narcissism.  Would that be cool?  Would you be okay with that?  I'm saying that if I become the type of person I would find desirable, would you come out of hiding and introduce yourself?  Then there's the whole thing that maybe I would be too much like you that we couldn't get along, but we could work it out, right?  But if I become my own Prince Charming, will I still need you?  I also wonder if there will be other people in the world that will be drawn to me and my Charming-ness and maybe then I could settle for the court jester or a traveling minstrel or the jack-of-all-trades I saw working on repairing the waterwheel in town.  At that point would it still be considered "settling" if I had the attributes I find desirable in Prince Charming and then love between myself and a serf?

Don't get me wrong, I'm still a huge fan of yours, you're still on my Christmas AND birthday wish lists since just about forever, but if there's only one of you, and there are how many me's?  I'm just trying to figure things out so everyone can win.

Anyway, if things don't work out with Cinderella/Snow White/Rapunzel/Sleeping Beauty, give me a call.

Yours ever,
Brianna

P.S.  I found this super cute poem that I thought you might enjoy: Prince Charming.

Prince Charming vs. Dragon

"Someday your Prince Charming will come.  Mine just took a wrong turn, got lost, and is too stubborn to ask for directions."

- Unknown

Birthdays and Dreams

Q:  I have no questions for you today.

A:  What?  Really?

Q:  Well.  Go ahead and write something.

A:  Fine.  Well.  Last night, I had a really strange dream.  I was walking up and down the hallway of my building at school, the floor that I was in charge of during last school year.  But something was wrong because there were papers strewn about everywhere.  I remember thinking that I needed to check the floor lounge while I was on my round, but there isn't a floor lounge in that building.  Somehow in my dream I knew that there was and I didn't question it.  When I opened the door to the floor lounge, I was smacked in the face by this absolutely horrible smell.  It smelled just like vomit, and I looked around to find a bunch of papers all over, and trash...and when I looked down I found a puddle of vomit that I had just avoided stepping in.  It was just over the threshold.  And then I woke up.  Thank goodness.

Today is my birthday!  I've decided that that's going to be my answer to every question today.

1:  What did you do today, Brianna?

2:  It's my birthday!

1:  So what did you eat for dinner?

2:  It's my birthday!

1:  What do you think about world hunger?

2:  it's my birthday!

I woke up to the traditional door decorations that my mother put up at I have no idea what hour of the night.  There's a poster that says it's Brianna's 21st and "She's a shotglass of sunshine!"  Mom and I made up that saying I'm not even sure when or about what.  We may have been thinking of random band names, and that was the best we came up with.  We liked it so much that we never forgot it.  

My mommy got me this ring:

Thank you, as usual, Google!

It was in a box with a balloon attached to it and when I saw it I smiled.  I still can't stop smiling!

My dad took me to Charles Schwab to do something with money and stocks and retirement.  I didn't really understand it, but the lady at the counter just kept saying "God forbid something happens to you..." or variations of the same phrase.  I've never heard "God forbid" so many times in one twenty minute period.  It was awful.  Then we went to the DMV to see if we could get me a new license, but because of the power outages in the area, they were closed.  Luckily, Dad took me out to lunch where this attractive young man with tattoos and piercings put together a gigantic corned beef sandwich for me as well as one for Dad.  We decided that we probably should have ordered just one sandwich to share, but we hadn't thought of it.  Ah well.

And then I picked up sticks.  Because it's my birthday!

We're having French toast because it's my favorite, and I'm helping to make it because I know how it's supposed to be done.

And I have come to the realization that though I have gotten quite a few birthday wishes via Facebook and other means of communication, my own brother who lives in the same house with me has not wished me a happy birthday.  The real realization is how much I care about it and how much it hurts my feelings.  Who knew that two words repeated practically to meaninglessness could be so important depending on who they come from?  Go figure.

Towel Day

Q:  What is Towel Day?

A:  I'm not exactly qualified to explain what Towel Day is, but as I understand it, Towel Day is May 25th of every year.  It started the year Douglas Adams (author of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy) passed away on May 11th.  I'm not sure what the significance of having Towel Day two weeks after that date, but there you are.  On Towel Day, fans of Adams' works carry around a towel in order to honor him.

"Why a towel?", you ask?

Well, there's this fantastic quote from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy that explains why a towel.  It has to do with towels being the most useful thing an intergalactic hitchhiker can carry around, with that quote enumerating the different things one can do with a towel including (but not limited to) drying yourself off.

Basically, I love this book.  There are currently six books in the "trilogy," with the first five having been written by Douglas Adams himself, and the sixth written by Eoin Colfer (author of the Artemis Fowl) series.  The sixth book came about after Adams' death because Adams' estate said that he had always planned to write a sixth installment, and they (Adams' estate) decided that Colfer would be the right man for the job.  I personally think that the sixth book (And Another Thing...) stays true to the spirit of the original books, this coming from the girl who has read  the first book maybe three times, and the remaining books only once.  In short, I highly recommend the first, because it's my favorite, but I suppose the rest are worth reading as well, but it's not absolutely essential that you do.

Q: What are your plans for today?

A: Because today is so stormy, I'm probably going to go straight home after class and take a nap.  Or maybe I'll go home and pack, because that would be a little more useful than a nap.  It's days like these that make me really tired though.  The overcast skies full of cotton ball clouds dipped in gray.  Puddles shining on the sidewalk and the leaves looking either bejeweled or ten times greener when set against the gray.  Of course, the smell of wet pavement is always pleasant, and I welcome the rain, but it's highly inconvenient weather for carrying around poster boards.  But this morning the thunder woke me up.  I lay awake watching the storm for a little while, the lightning flash and the grumbling thunder that shook the building.  I think that's what woke me up, the thunder shaking the building.

And then of course when I woke up with the storm, I remembered my dream.  I was in a boat with someone else, but I don't know who it was.  This boat was on Loch Ness.  I don't remember how I knew, but I just knew that I was on Loch Ness.  Off in the distance, I saw some sort of animal, and my first instinct was to say that it was the Loch Ness Monster, because of course it would be the Loch Ness Monster in Loch Ness.  But whoever was with me said that it was a bear, and when I looked a little closer, I could see it's head poking out of the water as it swam.  I turned around and then I saw a whole bunch of bears just swimming around in Loch Ness.  I thought, "Oh, they're just bears."  Because the water was so clear, I could see their bodies paddling under the water, so I could see a whole bear.  But they looked small as far as bears go.  But it was a dream, so I'm really not questioning it too much.

"The towels were so thick there I could hardly close my suitcase."
- Yogi Berra

What are you going to do with that?

Q: So, you're an English major. What do you want to do with that, teach?

A: No, I don't want to teach. Mostly because as a writing major the only class I would be qualified to teach in high school would be Creative Writing, and the last time I was in a creative writing class, no one took it seriously. Not that I'm saying all creative writing has to be serious, but really folks? Writing poems that rhyme...with "cat" and "mat" and those? You can do better than that.

This may seem like it's in the same vein as Monday wishing, but here it is.

Want the realistic answer?

Q: Sure, why not? I'm a fan of realism.

A: I'm going to sit trapped for eight hours a day in a cubicle in a gigantic office building in the midst of ties and panty hose and I'm going to write jingles. And mission statements. And memos for my boss because he doesn't know the difference between "their" and "there" and also because I really don't want another memo saying: "Be their and make sure they bring there notes on the Berger merger." I'm going to make jokes about Chaucer that no one'll understand and I'm going to read poetry by the water cooler when I'm on my fifteen minute break because none of those accountants or other people are interesting to talk to.

Q: That sounds lovely, I don't know why you're so grim about it.

A: Because I want to write.

Q: But you are writing in that scenario.

A: No. I want to write for me. I want to write poetry that people think is ridiculous and brilliant and silly but profound. Something that makes people think while they're choking with laughter. I want to write a novel with characters that kids dress up as for Halloween, and I want every parent to recognize them and suggest another book for that kid to read. Because Brianna's great, but have you read Rowling or Adams or Pratchett or Gaiman?

I want to write plays and screenplays so quirky that they only cater to a specific audience. I want to write for my favorite TV show and make it even better than it already is. I'll write plays that Darren Criss will compose music for, and we'll both be such great friends that he'll invite me to watch the filming of next week's episode of Glee. I want to write skits that make me laugh every time I see them performed and I want kids to perform them and have fun doing it. No chore skits.

I want to live in a box on some deserted London street and support my "habits" by miming. Or monologuing. Or reciting poetry. Any poetry. Maybe even Shakespeare. I want people to be able to say "I knew her when..." and be proud when they see that I'm actually living out my dream. Show pride when they gesture towards my cardboard box, decked out with Christmas lights running on a portable battery.

I want to write until my keyboard falls apart or my fingers bleed. I want to write nonsense and things that make no sense just because I can. I don't want people to ask me what I write, and I don't want them to ask if they can read it. Not until I'm done. I'll sit in a local cafe and scribble on anything in sight from napkins to menus or newspapers. I'll do the crossword in the newspaper first, of course. The locals will recognize me because of my overlarge cream sweater with the adverbs dripping off the sleeves and the adjective stains.

That's what I want to do. I don't want people to remind me that I actually need money to live. I want to have come into a decent-sized inheritance so I don't have to worry about things like that. If I do, the street performing'll cover it. I don't want people to tell me that it's impossible. And I don't want people to tell me that I'll never do better than what's already set as a goal. I don't want people to tell me to be practical. Because that is practical. Reaching for dreams, shooting for the moon, facing the impossible, doing what you love. It is practical.

"Write without pay until someone offers to pay."

- Mark Twain