Thursday, August 7, 2014

Bed of Sin

                I come home from class, slouching under the weight of my backpack, and waddle into my room. The light blinds me for a moment as I enter, and then, as I slide off the bulk from my back, I pause and stare at my stripped and open bed.

                 It’s simply sitting there, calmly, as if it was truly as innocent as its quiet state implies. But I know better. It’s been waiting for me, and now that I’ve arrived, it’s pulling no punches. It wants me, and I want it. There’s no hiding the truth; we can both feel the pull.

                I try to turn away from the three layers of blankets piled atop another, each lush and warm and soft, but the curves of the pillows and the eager stillness of the askew bedding already have me salivating. Carefully, I take a hard swallow, and allow myself a long look down at its sheets. It doesn’t say a word, but I can feel it calling for me. I can’t, I mustn’t, but still I hesitantly reach out and stroke my open hand down the microfibers of its pink blanket.

                A sudden ache fills my bones, and my joints creak and cry until I moving towards my bed, helpless to its siren’s call. I give in. I lay on it, wrap myself in it, and we are together once more in sinful bliss.

                A gasp jolts through my body. I wrench upwards, and suddenly, I’m fully upright in the middle of class.

                No one glances my way; they’ve gotten used to this wired behavior. Slowly, I wipe the corner of my mouth free from a light coating of drool and squint hard at the white board at the front of the class. It’s littered with conjunctions, semicolons, and sentence examples. No beds, blankets, or pillows.

                It’s study time.

                It’s always study time.

                I use my pencil to prop my head up and try not to let my brain melt out my ear.
                Somebody help me.

***Say yes to sleep, guys. It’s a beautiful thing. But utilize your nights for that sole purpose, and say nay to sleeping in class. It’s rude. And if you were a teacher, you would put shaving cream on you if you were sleeping too.

I am a future crazy English teacher (with shaving cream and onions at the ready) and despite being a hypocrite, I approve this message.  

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

A Day in the Life of my Laptop

So, dear readers, I was a part of a class that frequently gifted me with prompts and ample time to write. I was asked to write from an inanimate object's--the ultimate form of personification. Ah, English classes. 

So, here it is. A day in the life of my long-suffering, sweet, poor, wonderful (have you forgiven me yet?), laptop.

Dear Reader,

There’s one special girl in my life, and like most relationships where you know you need to leave and just can’t, she treats me like crap. 

She knocks me around, throws me in her backpack, jogs around, uses me up into the dead of night, and forgets my charger so I go into repeated emergency shut-downs. Not to mention she hammers on my keys like she’s trying to carve a stone fresco out of my plastic.

Sometimes she lets me sleep on her, but that’s more from passing out while surfacing my face for internships than actual affection. Plus she’s a messy sleeper, so she ends up throwing me off the bed somewhere around 3:00 in the morning, sleeping peacefully in her sheets while letting me crash face first onto her chair. 

She bought me a bed table to try and avoid that, but being who she is, she manages to knock us both off.

So why don’t I leave? Why don’t I just stand up, tell her I’m worth more than this, that I won’t take any more of her abuse, and walk out of her life forever?

Well, sometimes she treats me like gold. Holding me to her chest, clutching my sides with her soft hands. Sometimes, she’ll even encourage me when I’m having a rough time loading, or let me rest in her bed with her as she sleeps.

That, and I don’t have any legs. 

Honestly, I think my laptop's not being fair. I mean, I give it a home, and what does it want from me? Better treatment? Pssh!

So how about you guys? How do you think your laptop/iphone/table feels about you? 

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Yeah, My Pants Fell Down

Hey guys! It's been a while, so I thought I'd apologize with a self-depreciating, and generally hilarious, story about how I lost my pants one night at a park. 

Ready? Set, go!

So, My Pants Fell Down      

My roommates and I were swinging on swings. I was wearing sweatpants which, as I’ve now learned, are extremely slippery and should not, under any circumstances, be worn out on adventurous activities. Ever.

Don't let the comfy fabric fool you. Sweatpants are secretly plotting your demise.

This is a very important lesson, guys. You want to know how I learned it? Well, my friend B decided to tickle me. My tickle-sense works differently than most, though, so instead of a giggle, I basically exploded, slipped off my swing, and apparently, so did my pants.

My roommates immediately busted out laughing. My butt was cold, so I reached around and pulled my pants back up, but the fact that my booty had been exposed didn’t quite compute yet. Luckily, B hadn’t realized what had happened either (thank you, dimly lit parks, I’ll never complain about you again). Then, when I realized I was sitting on my neck, and my pants were finally back up around my waist where they should be, I paused. I looked at the stars. Considered life for a split second. 

Then I roared with laughter.

B helped me up, sniggering awkwardly and with a slightly confused expression. I, still laughing, slugged him straight in the ribs. He took it like a champ.

You’re a good man, B. But if you ever tickle me again, you’ll be a good, dead man. 

I reserve this face for the worst offenses: tickling, and the misuse of "their" and "they're"

What’s today’s moral of the story?

Don’t where sweatpants to parks.


What's the most embarrassing story you have? Does it involve sweatpants, strange guy-friends, or parks? I sincerely hope not, for you sake.
Unless it's this guy in a dimly lit park. Then I just envy you. 

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Jacob Black and Snow White, Sitting in a Tree...

It's no secret that Agent 00Comma is an English Demon. It is a lesser known fact that Agent 00Comma is a relative of the Grammar Nazi. It is an even lesser known fact that she--that is to say, I--have a sense of humor. And that's why I thought I'd share this with you today: A scene from Twilight with Snow White replacing Bella as narrator!

Agent 00Comma, what are you thinking?! 

Well, I'm not really thinking. I'm shaving my pencil-stache for a day, putting up my feet, and avoiding taking my English 252 test. Really. I need to take that. Like, right now.

I actually wrote this in class for an activity. We were given character cards and asked to do this Twilight scene from their perspective. Unsurprisingly, I enjoyed everyone else's perspective over Bella's--even Gollum's. 

So, without further ado, prepare yourselves for...

Jacob Black and Snow White, Sitting in a Tree!     


Jacob strolled to a nearby driftwood tree that had its roots sticking out like the attenuated legs of a huge, pale spider. I paused, my heart fluttering. Why, it was so beautiful, I had simply had to take a moment to enjoy it. Spiders can be quite nice, really, if you sing to them in a nice low, tone. Their ears are tender, you know, so you have to be gentle about it. Poor little things--they were always getting the brunt of people's anger. Didn't deserve it really, the dears. I shook my head and smiled as I found Jacob perched lightly on one of the twisted roots. I moved my long, yellow skirt aside to take a seat beneath him on the body of a tree. 

He stared down at the rocks, a smile hovering around the edges of his broad lips. I batted my eyelashes and giggled. Why, we looked just like a wolf and a little girl. No, we were practically the Wolf and little Red Riding Hood, if I thought about it.

Oh, please don't misunderstand. I didn't fear Jacob at all, really. The comparison isn't quite so frightening or fearsome as Red Riding Hood would make it out to be. The whole confrontation was her fault, really--not that I think she did it on purpose. She just didn't think to stop and talk it out; he probably wouldn’t have been so cranky if she'd shared a few of her sweets. I'm sure her grandmother wouldn't have minded, old dear that she is.

You know, I bet Red and the Wolf could have been as good friends as Jacob and me, if she’d been a touch nicer. I glance back up at the dear, and he grins at something below. Oh, he's about to try an impress me, I believe. I do enjoy a good moment of excitement now and then.


It was probably the most entertaining thing to write--EVER.

If you were going to ship/pair Jacob with any other ridiculous fairy tale character, who would it be? Strangely enough, I can see him and Snow White getting along pretty darn well. Until Bella gives birth, of course--then things would get pretty messy.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

All the Powerful Ladies--Put Your Hands Up!

            Ladies—it’s time! The world is ours (to be in, but not of), the future a stretch of endless possibilities (literally), the barriers of low-self-confidence stripped away. Wait, that last one wasn’t quite as congruent, huh? That’s because that’s my plug today.

                You are beautiful. You are strong. And you are women.

                What is woman? It’s not petticoats—but it’s not business suits either. It’s not aprons, and it’s not name-tags. It’s not heels versus boots, or long locks against pixie-cuts. Woman is you at your finest. Woman is power in the most subtle, discreet, and impacting way.

                That’s not to say women are generally discreet, or should be, for that matter. I’m not, that’s for sure. Except for my chronic-lurking.  Being discreet or not is left up the individual lady, but womanhood is a power that is so subtly in and of itself, we as women don’t seem to appreciate it. And if we don’t, you know the men aren’t. Girls—value yourselves! Understand what you are and how much effect that will leave on the world.

                 Sometimes we women get goofy and demand to wear pants to church, to not wear bras in the 60’s, etc., and forget that we don’t need to be men to be powerful. In fact, I get affronted when people suggest radical feminism to me. What, being a woman isn’t good enough anymore? I have to deny my beauty, deny my curves, deny even my rights to wear skirts (they’re comfy, guys), because that means I am suddenly less powerful?

                 I have to be a man now? No thank you.

They smell. And I enjoy smelling nice, thank you very mas.

                The point is, girls, being a woman is powerful. Being a homemaker is powerful, wearing aprons is powerful, baking is powerful. So is going out to work, wearing suits (I’m a sucker for a nice pencil skirt, myself), and buying TV dinners—okay, maybe not the last one. I’m not sure I’ve known anyone who actually enjoys those. I think everyone craves a home-cooked meal, whether or not it was made by mom.

                Ladies, young adults, girls! Wake up! You don’t need to put yourself in a box. That’s what true, original feminism was supposed to be about. You don’t need to be the homemaker if that’s not what you want to do. But you can be a homemaker if that is what you want to do, and don’t let anyone disrespect it. Some women like being the bread winner, others don’t. I’d venture to say most don’t, generally, since that usually means your man is a wuss, but maybe that’s just me.

                I like aprons! With frills and patterns and everything!

                I like being maternal, thinking about how I’ll decorate my home one day, and letting men open doors for me. Yet, if you asked, my friends would definitely say I was more on the feminism side of the female spectrum. Why? Because true womanhood is self-respect. A woman who respects herself understands that she is a woman, not a man, and can still go about doing things men might do. Or not, as she chooses. I want to get married. I want to cherish my husband and bake cookies for him. I also expect him to cherish me, and fix my computer or car for me. I want to stay at home with my kids. And before that, I want to be a teacher—during, I want to be a writer. He can be what he wants, as long as he takes care of us. We is we, I am me, and He will be him.

                My favorite, and admittedly fictional, example of this is Captain Janewey from Star Trek Voyager. She is the commander of a starship, an irrefutable source of authority, and one of the most fantastic leaders on television. Yet, she can be extremely soft, and, no matter what, she is always feminine. She’s a woman, guys. She didn’t turn herself into a man to be a Captain! She didn’t forsake her nightdresses or long, beautiful hair. Janeway is a woman with self-respect.

                Self-respect is today’s mantra, guys. You thought it was feminism? Nope. Self-respect, and an equal respect for others, is what makes the world go round.

                Okay, actually, the world goes ‘round because of some laws of space and gravity and the sun or something, but you know what I mean.

Okay, never mind. Just repeat after me:


Thursday, October 24, 2013

Agent 00Comma: “If I don’t tell you, then I might have to kill you . . . for irritating me.”


Below is a list of grammatical un-pleasantries which, upon hearing, can send even the most resilient Grammar Agent into a rabid editing streak. This list should not be read by small children, people with heart problems, or the Super Dialect Intolerant. If your hand begins to itch for a red pen while reading the list below, please separate yourself from this blog immediately and contact a physician or your local poison control. 

                ***I am Agent 00Comma, and my pencil-stache approves this message.

To begin:
               1) “I don’t care to,” means you do not care for, or desire to do, whatever it is I just suggested to you. It doesn’t mean you don’t mind. You’re not saying you want to help me, you’re telling me you don’t want to help me. Jerk.

                2) Yu’uns. This is not a word. You is both multiple and singular. I am not a yu’un, I am a “you.” What species is a yu’un?

A wild Yu'un with a pencil-stache appeared! Do you fight? Or run away? 

                3) Tortilla is not pronounced TOR-TILL-A. It’s pronounced TORR-TI-YAH. Respect the Spanish, bro.

                4) Quesadilla is not pronounced QWUES-EH-DILL-A. It’s CE-SE-DIY-A. Respect the Spanish, bro.

                5) “Totes,” are bags. Not adverbs. Ever.

                6) “Amaze-balls” is a contraction between amazing and balls. Two words that should not be contracted together for any reason. Except in playpens at Chuckie Cheeses. Those are some amazing balls.

              7) “Do you mind if I play with you guys?”
                 “Yeah, sure.”
                 Never say yes to a “do you mind” question because you are telling them yes, you do mind

                  And that’s mean, bro.

What are some of your grammar pet-peeves? Or just pets, if that's how you roll. 

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Junior Mints and Bigger Hips

                I like to eat my feelings. I admit it. On the other hand, I like to eat in general, so maybe I just like the excuse to eat some more.

                Ugh, I shouldn’t eat so much! I’ve already accepted the fact that I’m never going to be slim, tall, or any socially appropriate form of beauty. I’m a 4’ 10” half-Mexican, half-British combo meal of a small and curvy composition. Surprisingly enough, I’ve come to like it. Everything from my strong, British nose to my short, wide (or luscious, as I like to call them) thighs. I even like my boobs. I’ve considered naming them, like my best friends has to her own (Bonnie and Clyde—great gals, really), but I never remember names so I just gave up on that.

                My problem isn’t hating my curves or my wide build. Not even my stumpy height. It’s that I want to be fit.

                I want to eat well. Not just “not eating pure death.” I don’t survive on reheated pizzas through college like some, but I want to become a master of taking care of my body. It’s probably no secret by now that I have a thing for progression, and perfecting myself. I’m not very good at it, but I plan on changing that about myself too—EVENTUALLY!

                I have a guy friend named Bra—uh, we’ll call him B here. B is always screaming “Eventually!” I’m pretty sure it’s a reference to something, since everything that comes out of his mouth is. I thought I was a monsto-nerd until I met him. Then I realized I only knew half of the underbelly of the internet. He knows 150% of it. Does anyone get that reference? It’s involves striking a dramatic pose and screaming “Eventually” in a rather heroic voice. Someone. Help me.

                Anyway. I want some Oreos, and a Hershey’s chocolate bar, and a box of Junior Mints. Actually, I might even settle for the Junior Mints. In fact, yes, I would. I’m pretty sure I’d marry Junior Mints if it was legal to do so...

...and also legal to eat your spouse. 

If anyone wanted to kidnap me and sell me on the black market in Amsterdam, basically all they’d need would be a big box of Junior Mints and a net. I might not even struggle.

             Guys, what do I do? Poor people used to eat healthy because healthy food was all they could afford. I’m a college student in the U.S.’s Days of Obesity—which means that cheap food equals trash food. I don’t like spending money. I don’t like surviving on Kraft Macaroni (hate that stuff—if you’re planning on kidnapping me, don’t use that as your lure. I’ll run the other way). So what do I do? How do I save money and nourish my poor, 4’ 10” halfie body?

                I don’t like the answer, but I can practically hear my mother whispering it in my ear. “Victory Garden.”    

              Unfortunately, the closest thing I have to a victory garden is this:

Anyone else have an idea? Any super-special eating well advice out there for a lonely college girl?