Friday, March 5, 2010

Lenny the Solidified Fruit Juice

After much deliberation, I've decided to call him Lenny. He has pretty humble beginnings, I guess. It was just another day that XeHatter and I threw our after-school responsibilities to the wind and went to get some McDonalds. I got Lenny. At that point, he was harmless fruit juice in a paper McDonalds cup, cheerily decorated with colorful images of a duck. I'm still uncertain of how this duck relates to McDonalds, but I guess we don't question such traditional things.

We put him in the back cup holder of my car and more or less forgot him. Lenny wasn't much for conversation. Then Christmas break went by, and Lenny spent two weeks untouched in my car. He leaked out of the bottom of his cup and began to rise up in the cup holder, threatening to drip over the edge. But he didn't. Out of morbid curiosity, I left him alone. I wanted to see how long it would take him to either spill over or evaporate or dissolve parts of my car.

About a month after Lenny's great cup escape, my mom noticed him in my car. She took the cup out and threw it away but, for reasons unknown, she didn't drain the liquid out. Perhaps Lenny was too charming to get rid of. Anyway, there he remained, until two days ago. I guess that's three or four months, give or take. It's been cold recently. I figured he wasn't evaporating because of that.

So, XeHatter and I were driving home and it sort of happened just like this:

"You know how when you leave melted cheese out it sort of grows a skin over the top?" this was XeHatter, I was driving and therefore completely unthinking.


"I think the juice grew a skin."

It was good that we were at a red light, because I would have looked anyway. "Holy crap," I said, because there were telltale lumps on the top of the juice puddle.

"Ew," XeHatter said. Then she made some noises like she was either giggling or throwing up a little. I wasn't sure.

"Poke it," I said.

"I'm not touching it."

"Find something to put in it."

"Can I stick this penny in it?"

"Sure, what do I care? It's just a penny."

She dropped the penny in. It was followed by squeals. "It's sitting on the top of the skin!"

It was a good thing that this red light was lasting forever, because I would have looked anyway. "Holy crap. Put another one on there."

We did. "It looks like it has eyes."

"It looks like it has boobs."

XeHatter poked the penny. "Oh, my God. It's hard underneath the skin. I think it froze."

I poked one of the pennies and it stayed resolutely in place. It felt like solid ice underneath. "Holy crap."

I moved it around with my finger. The skin stretched. "Oh my God, you've got to move it around. You will not regret this feeling."

"I'm not moving it!" XeHatter made more gigglingvomiting noises.

I looked back at the cupholder. The skin had wrinkled around the penny when I'd moved it, but now it had smoothed out again. "It reformed."

"I know!" XeHatter exclaimed, curiously moving a penny. The light turned green. I looked away for a second and suddenly there was more shrieking. "OH MY GOD IT WENT UNDER THE SKIN!"


"I didn't mean to!" XeHatter gagged in the direction of my window.

"I think this is a great opportunity for scientific exploration," I said. "Unless it starts growing something, then I'm cleaning it out."

"Yes," XeHatter agreed. "That's too much."

So I decided to call it Lenny.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

To Preface... Belatedly

This blog is a project for my Creative Writing class. We're not supposed to mention our high school or else we'll get censored out the wazoo. Just know that it does exist somewhere in Kentucky and I'm not writing to you from my summer home beneath the Atlantic ocean. I plan on writing frequently, as you may have guessed, seeing that I have written four entries already and this blog has only just begun. My life is interesting like that.

I'm a Gemini. We talk a lot. I promise to make it good for you.

I'm also seventeen. My favorite color is green and I love spicy foods. I find video games to be the most romantic thing in the world. My good friend XeHatter wrote my about me section, but yes, I am just narcissistic enough to write something like that about myself. Only in private, though.

This is as private as it gets. I hope to amass some followers through some form of magic or another. I think I'll begin by tweeting about it because I am a social butterfly of many colors.

The Third Floor Gorilla

It is like some law that if anything goes amiss in the school, the Creative Writers are to blame. Harmless things, of course, like putting posters where they don't belong, publishing illicit magazines, and dressing up like a gorilla and parading about the school. If you haven't guessed yet, I am one of these Creative Writers. Hey, I've even been the gorilla.

We bought a gorilla costume about a month ago for $100 or so. We even had a gorilla fund to which several people donated. Our gorilla has since terrorized the school in new and inventive ways, pedalled our newspapers to innocent bystanders, and taken part in a dance off at the school assembly.

I'm just here to affirm the gorilla rumors as being true. There is a gorilla, he is on the third floor, and he is here to stay. So stock up on bananas. If you encounter him in the hallway, he's going to want some compensation.

The Banana Was a Nice Touch

Let me paint the scene, as I am so adept at doing.

Friday. Halloween is tomorrow. My motley crew and I are packed like sardines into my tiny, white Ford Taurus. There are at least three things touching me that I wish weren't. We're driving away from school. The ability to drive to and from school is like being trapped on an island for a year with no proper socialization, given a boat, and then told to come back to the island for two more years at 8:00 AM each morning. I digress.

We're stuck in traffic because there is a holiday coming up soon and that gives everybody the excuse to drive like pumpkins. That was an allusion to Halloween festivities.

Recently, they built some new apartments on North Broadway to house the raucous college freshmen. They are drab, cookie cutter little things, identical right down to their tiny pseudo-balconies that are made from iron scraps and chewing gum. We drive past, although I wouldn't call it driving since I'm positive that we were passed by a few turtles.

All of the sudden, Rain is pointing out of the window as best she can given that her elbow is wedged up against three suitcases, a bag of food, and a giant sleeping bag. We all look over in time to see a gorilla standing nonchalantly on one of the balconies. He is wearing a hoody and has a banana clutched in his hairy paws.

This has special signifigance to everyone in the car, because we have our own gorilla costume that I will probably blog about later. I roll down the window so we can catcall this gorilla. He turns around and does a gorilla dance for us, his hairy mane waving in the wind like a glorious ebony flag. Traffic moves on but we continue screeching at him and he continues dancing. It is a pretty marvelous moment for all.

I imagine that it will be somewhat like this when they unfreeze Elvis.

Ode to the Gas Station Gods

I will start this blog with a classic example of how my life is awesome.

I was fourteen. My family was on a trip to Corbin, Kentucky to see my grandparents. We had stopped at a Shell to put gas in our car. Gas makes cars go.

We went inside because my nubile, fourteen-year-old body was craving caffeine. We bought some Slim Jims and a big Mocha frappuccino that I could barely hold in my tiny sausage fingers. There was a balding man behind the counter. As my dad was pulling out his credit card, I decided to be adorably cheeky, as was expected of people in my age group.

"You can control the intercom, right?" I asked as the balding man rang up my giant frappuccino. "So, you're like, the gas station god. You could make them do whatever you wanted."

"We think she needs medication," my dad interjected. "We just aren't sure what kind yet."

The balding man handed him his credit card, looking disinterested. As we exited the store, a crackle sounded above our heads and echoed in the gas station's lot. The two other people present looked up in confusion as deep laughter rang out from the intercom in terrifying waves.

"Muahahahaha. I am the master of the intercom! Bow to me and despair!"

I recognized balding man's voice. Throwing my arms up in a signal of ultimate triumph, I shouted, "YES! YES, I LOVE YOU, INTERCOM GUY!" as my father dragged me back to the car.