On A Scale Of 1 To Awesome These Ideas Are At Least A 3

A few months ago I began creating titles for new adaptions of classic works.

Miss Ratched with an army of ancient dinosaurs to help her control the ward.

Their love will never go mainstream

European imperialism just met its match: Zombies!

Then of course there's also The [Yellow Brick] Road: A Wizard of Oz post-apocalyptic crossover!

Right now I'm reading Hamlet in English and thinking, wouldn't this be great to combine with a chick flick: When Hamlet Met Sally

A Conversation In Three Parts: Part 3: The Story of How A Chicken Named Chippy Traumatized Me For Life

This is a very true account of how a chicken named Chippy traumatized me.

Once upon a time, we had chickens. There was Henrietta, Dotty, FeeFee, Chipple, and ... Chippy.

We got them when they were tiny little balls of fluff with beaks and we raised them in a box in our house until they got too big and had to be moved into an enclosure in the great outdoors.

We soon realized that Chippy was different. Chippy, was a rooster.

Or at least he was supposed to be. He never really quite got the crowing down. Every other day or so, around noon, he made this warbling noise that sounded like a cross between a broken vacuum cleaner and hyperventilating toad.

This may make Chippy sound somewhat endearing, but trust me, deep down he was a terrible and evil creature capable of heinous acts.

One day I went to collect the eggs. That's when Chippy came whirling around a corner and attacked me with everything he had.

And believe me, that chicken could bring it. He was a beast, a monster, and he definitely had some pterodactyl blood in him.

Quite honestly, I don't remember a lot of that fight. I've tried to block it from my mind. There was.... a lot of feathers. I remember kicking and kicking with all the strength of your average crying scrawny small child.


I lost that fight that day. I lost the fight with the Chippy the rooster. I never ventured into that enclosure again whilst Chippy was there.


You could say that he was just being territorial and that is very common in roosters. And your average child would not lose a fight to a chicken. But I know that Chippy was just plain evil.


To this day, a rooster's crow makes my blood turn to ice and my heart stop. I'm still a little nervous around small animals. You never know what they're planning.


A note: This, like all my other embarrassing stories is completely true. I was beaten up by an adolescent chicken as a small child. Although my family remembers Chippy a little differently:
 

A Conversation In Three Parts: Part 1 : Alligators and Fireflies

So, this morning I was talking to The Parents (2/3rds of them, my mother & stepfather) about fireflies. I'd found this really cool light that imitates fireflies, and I was very excited. A firefly light would be just the thing I would use if I were hosting a cocktail party outside in a fancy garden. If, you know, I could host cocktail parties and wasn't a high school student and had a really fancy garden.


But nonetheless, I found (and still find) the light beautiful and captivating and so I rambled on about how I love fireflies.
Then Parent was like, You find fireflies in swampy areas. Like Georgia. Where there are fireflies there are gators.
Which we all realized was rather a bad combination. A person would be mindlessly chasing fireflies and then get eaten by an alligator. Or maybe that would just be me.

So I came up with the marvelous idea that we should cross-breed fireflies with alligators so that alligators will light up when they get excited.

So imagine an alligator is hiding in a shrubbery

As it turns out my idea to draw an alligator hiding in shrubbery to avoid having to draw an actual alligator was a bad one because 1) I'm not much more capable of drawing shrubbery then I am of drawing alligators and 2) there is really no evidence alligators hide in shrubbery.

It's difficult to see when one is focusing with their entire heart and soul on capturing fireflies. But with an alligator-firefly cross breed, when the alligator got excited, it would look more like:

It still does not look like a shrubbery. It doesn't even look like it wants to be a shrubbery.

The Parents were skeptical, but I am positive this could be a thing.

It's Been a While, It's Going to be a While

I've not posted in a while, but I am not brainwashed, kidnapped, or off on a magical adventure.

My favorite teacher died and I'm just not in the right mood for posting anything right now.

More later.

How To Make Fantasy Stories More Interesting

For people who've read fantasy stories, or even just seen the book covers, it's obvious there are certain stereotypical characters and creatures that will appear. The quirky old mentor, the spunky love interest, the dragon, the unicorn, etc.

 I'm proud to say I've come up with a clever way to spice up stereotypical fantasy stories: new creatures never before used!!

The Merclops

 

 The Drancess

 The Dwairy

 Add any one of these three new creatures to any fantasy story, and things are bound to get more interesting!!

How The Story of Little Bunny Foo Foo Really Went Down

Sergeant Good Fairy never forgets to read the perps their Mother Goose Rights (which were enacted after Mother Goose was arresting for supplementing her income by selling swan eggs on the black market but got off free and clear because no one told her her rights).

Many don't realize this, but the old nursery rhyme of Little Bunny Foo Foo is really a celebration of the effective employment of law to punish repeat offenders. The real story started out like an episode of Cops and ended like an episode of Law and Order.


However the original rhyme didn't sound so catchy when detailing the arrest, arraignment, jury selection, appeals and witness testimonies.



On the subject of  nursery rhymes: Why do the king's horses try and put Humpty Dumpty back together again? I mean, I know it was a group effort, but I can't see the horses possessing enough fine motor skills to really be of any use.





Sorry I have not posted recently, I'm sick again, working on college applications, and attempting to do National Novel Writing Month (the NaNoWriMo is tough).

I've Created a Whole New Page

I've created a whole new page, purely for some of my more brilliant ideas. Which currently contain charity organizations like Damsels4Dragons.

Recently I'm sort of a nervous wreck anxious about hearing back about if I qualify for this nice scholarship, so I decided to create a whole new page on my blog instead of making this a productive weekend.


 Well this post is boring, so here's an old doodle I did in math class a few years ago:

I Might Just Have The Reincarnation of The Black Death

First off, I want to apologize for posting nothing in so long. In my defense, I'm back at school wrestling derivatives, grappling existentialism,  brawling with the Spanish past participle, battling dual federalism vs. confederal federalism, and tackling Bizet's Carmen. And, I'm sick.

You see, for me sickness comes in a few key stages. Like with most situations, my first reaction is denial.

Denial

"It's just allergies! I'm not sure which one, but it is!"

I'm at first convinced my sneezing is allergies, even if it isn't allergy season. Or convinced my stomach ache is imaginary, even if I'm grabbing my stomach in pain. Or convinced my cough is all the dust in the air, even if I cleaned the house yesterday.

This period can last an embarrassingly long time.

At some point though, when it seems I'm reaching the depths of my misery, I'm forced to admit I'm sick.

This brings us to the stage I like to call Sick and Desperate.

Sick and Desperate

At this stage, I've already admitted I'm sick. I'm carrying around a tissue box like it's the latest and greatest accessory that I simply can't put down. I carry throat lozenges in my pocket like spare change. 

It's at this point that a desperate need kicks in to be surrounded by people. I think this was a clever ploy created by the germs, a need to be social right when you're most infectious. I start trying to get people to hug me, and try doing things with friends, not wanting to be left alone in my pathetic contagious state. They just want to escape whatever super-germ has possessed me.

There is a state after this, and it is even worse. I call it the Uhhhhgggmgmhhm State.

The Uhhhhgggmgmhhm State

This is the stage where I stop caring about things like appearance. It's where I don't even care anymore what day it is or that I don't recognize myself in the mirror. I just want the sickness to go away. Usually I'm curled up in the corner somewhere, muttering  something like 'uhhhhgggmgmhhm' every few minutes.

At this point I usually don't believe there is such a thing as healthy anymore. 

That's kind of where I am now. I have the back-to-school plague, the common cold made deadly through the cesspool we call the student body. Usually my colds only last like three days, one day for each stage, and then they're gone. However, during the school year I can't afford to miss my AP or college credit courses, so I'm at school getting reintroduced to germs on a daily basis.

If I do not start coughing up blood, or losing limbs to leprosy,  I hope to blog more often in the future.

Uhhhhgggmgmhhm.

There ARE Monsters In Your Closet, I Killed One The Other Day

The other day, I was going through my closet, minding my own business when I saw something that made my blood run cold.

A giant spider perched on an orange tank top. Some might say he was minding his own business, but I believe differently. I think he was lying-in-wait, preparing for the one day when I would wake up and decide, "I should totally wear my orange tank top!".

Luckily for me I was not attacked because I was not alone in the house (take that evil spider! ha!) and I was able to raise the Special Spider Detection Alarm (ie I gasped, jumped back, and cried out for help like a small child).

Help soon arrived to whisk away the shirt and shake out the spider, but deep down my primal instincts told me it wasn't over. This is why it's always important to listen to your instincts, because I was totally right.

The day past, and I soon forgot about the monster that had lurked in my closet, until I returned to my room to sleep. The house was dark, I was alone, I turned to look back at my closet (maybe it was some sort of sixth sense) and I saw it.

The spider was back, sitting and waiting at the corner of my closet, near my bedroom door. He was trying to force me away from the door, I just knew it. I had to admire the spider's devious tactics. On retrospect I'm pretty sure he spent his early days growing up on some army training camp, or special ops facility.

I realized I was trapped, and I couldn't call for help. I had to act.

What Happened Next

 Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and bravery filled me from head to toe. I knew it was time for the final face off, the last stand. I did what any brave soldier would do. I grabbed my Hawaiian themed umbrella and attempted to whack the crap out of the spider

You're probably thinking, "Wow Kendrah! That is incredibly brave and self-less! You must have done him in with one hit!" but you'd only be half right. The spider, upon seeing my brutal strength and keen intelligence made a run for the door.

Blows glanced off his exoskeleton (it was probably infused with titanium or some such substance) as I chased him. I knew I had to end it. I had to protect my people, I couldn't let him get away. One hit from the umbreella seemed to stun him momentarily, I saw my opening.

I went into a berserker's rage, swinging and swinging and jabbing with my weapon until the spider was lifeless. 

Then I calmly deposited his body into the trash and slept with the calm and grace of a seasoned warrior.

What Actually Happened Next

I froze for a moment and just stood there staring at the spider. Fear coursed through my veins. I stood there for another moment. I grabbed my Hawaiian themed umbrella for protection. I felt filled with nervous energy but I knew my emotional and mental state was quickly deteriorating with the close proximity of the spider.

So I tried to hit the spider with my umbrella and missed miserably. The spider started to run away. I knew I had to end it. I had to protect myself from being haunted by this spider's possible continuing existence in my house, I couldn't let him get away.

So I kept trying to beat the crap out of the spider, but after every hit he kept moving a little.

So I hit him a bunch more. Then I realized it was the force of my blows that were sending his dead body flying.

So then I hit him a few more times.

And then I hit him a few more. 

And then I stared at his corpse with the sinking realization that I was going to have to clean it up. Otherwise I would be up the whole night half convinced he wasn't really dead, and his body was so close he could definitely come after me.

Shaking, I snatched up a wad of tissues that was equal to about half the box, I gingerly grabbed the body and (still shaking) deposited it in the trash. 

Then I slept with the calm and grace of a seasoned warrior.

My ancestors from which I get my warrior instincts:

 

Turns Out Doodlers Don't Make The Best Scientific Illustrators

 Last year my friend started a Scientific Illustration club at our school. What is scientific illustration you may ask?
I'm still not really sure I'd answer. In fact if you asked me that I'd probably do some sort of spastic shrugging motion and say, "It's where you illustrate things.... scientifically."

The very friend who created the club asked to be apart of it. At first I was like:

"........Okay"

Because my drawings are not exactly scientific I would be a 'doodler' among many 'illustrators' and YES, there is a difference. But then said friend mentioned there would be free food, and I was all

"You can't keep me away! .... Seriously"

I'm a sucker for free... well just about free anything. So I found myself there, every other week, attempting to illustrate scientifically. Remember like three lines ago when I mentioned there's a difference between illustrators and doodlers? Well I found that out.

See I would start out drawing, as scientifically as I possibly could without fully understanding what that meant. I would dutifully sketch the picture of a clover, flower, gourd, or, in this case, mushrooms and a stump:

 

My Illustration

See, the mushrooms even have a sort of mushroom-shape. If someone were trying to impersonate a mushroom, and they looked like this, you'd clap your hands and be like "Yes! Great mushroom impersonation". So you see, it all seems very scientific and you could even classify this as an 'illustration'.

But then something would happen.I would finish a little before all the other scientific illustrators, and flip over the paper, and draw something like this:

The Back of My Illustration

I would crank out an illustration of something pretty and dainty, and then spend the last 2/3rds of my time drawing a clawed unicorn, a conversation between a pen and an eraser, or an all-out Appliance War.

The other Scientific Illustrators, when they finished early, would water color their works, or do another. I would flip over my paper and doodle toasters and snowmen. That is the principle difference between an illustrator or serious artist and a doodler: One can do the other, but it's bout what fills the margins of your pages, and what runs through your mind.

And I really am a doodler at heart, no matter how mushroom-like my mushroom sketches may appear.

The Exact Recipe For Disaster

Now most of you probably don't know, but for someone to follow through with a really bad idea, you need a few key conditions. One of which is of course, time to follow through with whatever stupid idea that pops into your head. Another is no one around to stop you..... But there's an addendum to that one.

I call it: the Occupancy-Stupidity Curve. The Occupancy-Stupidity Curve merely illustrates that the more people you get in a room, the more likely a majority of them are to egg a member on to do something really stupid. Large bodies of people come up with great ideas, but they also latch on to utterly moronic ones.

So you need time and no one around to stop you (taking the Occupancy-Stupidity Curve into account), but my many experiences with bad ideas has also taught me you need one more thing: A Tool of Destruction.

Usually duct tape or glue or sharpies or an electric shaver or scissors, a Tool of Destruction is anything that can cause long term damage.
Which for some of us is just ourselves.

Next, you need a certain mindset, a delicate mix  that I can only really illustrate with a visual aid:

As the person who as a child cut her own bangs right before Picture Day (I'll tell that story later), set the oven on fire baking cookies, and spilled black cherry soda on the white couch within a week of its purchase, I can personally certify my Recipe for Disaster is entirely fact and statistic-based. 

Sort of.

Calculus Will Probably Be The Death of Me

Next year I don't know if I'll be able to think about everything but math, because next year.... I'm taking AP Calculus.

No, wait. Let's try that again:
Next year I won't able to think at all because next year.... I'm taking...  AP Calculus


Yes, I realize last year I took honors pre-calculus and naturally the next step is AP Calculus but that doesn't make it any less worrying.

People who've already taken it tell me it's not that bad. However, I don't believe them because:

1. People who took AP Calculus in their junior year of high school probably have a different view of what's 'not that bad'.
2. I think they've been brainwashed. I think AP Calculus brainwashes the mind and smothers the soul.
3. Somehow I managed  to make it through a full year of honor pre-calculus with an A- and only a vague idea of what calculus is. 

Yes, next year I will be fighting the most nefarious of enemies, the cruelest of the cruel, the monster that hides under regular monsters' beds and makes them yell for mommy. It makes X run and hide, shaking in fear as AP Calculus hunts it down, narrowing the range and domain until it has its prey.


More on this later.


P.S. Remember, when you hear "AP Calculus" think:

Capitalization Is my Best friend!

Okay, so, I have this problem I like to think of as capitalization dyslexia. I'm happily writing away, misspelling a word every three sentences, but doing fine until I come to the title, words in parenthesis, or book title. I freeze up. 

I love capitalizing words, but I know that words like 'and', 'the' and 'is' don't get the privilege except in Special Circumstances. However, when it comes to grammar, I'm bad at detected Special Circumstances. So I panic and tend to capitalize everything. 

I admit it, when there are two words together like Briarwood or Greenstar, I write it BriarWood and GreenStar whether it's supposed to be that way or not.

In fact, recently I read a book in which a girl capitalized everything however she pleased, saying how capitalization is arbitrary. I felt understanding well up in me when I read that.

I've attributed my problem with detecting Special Circumstances and grammar in general to how I learned to read and write: at the unpredictable pace of a three-legged galloping giraffe. It's like I learned in what situations something was supposed to be written a certain way, but not the underlying rule for that something. I tend to understand when sentences are incorrect, but not the why.

I also have that problem with pronunciation. I love words, and I read a lot, but it's like the rules of pronunciation are written  in a special language that only I don't know.

All that being said, I pride myself on my ability to combat these various issues and take grammar seriously.

otherwise I would Capitalize words for Emphasis or Importance and look like a Complete Idiot.

My Cooking Pearls of Wisdom

I've decided to impart the greatest cooking lessons I've learned, and they are pure gold nuggets of knowledge. They boil down (pun intended) to three basic rules:

1. You can never stick to the recipe entirely. It's not physically possible. Seriously.
You can measure exactly, heat the oven correctly, and be on the brink of perfection:

And something will go wrong.

 

It's part of the laws of the universe.

2.  How you feel when your cooking will come through in the meal.
There is great truth here. If you cook angry, it will taste different, and possibly even look different.

3. Always, always, always use the minimum amount of tools that have to be hand washed.
This is my third and greatest lesson. Only superwoman could finish baking/boiling/broiling/stir frying food into existence and have the energy to wash dishes afterwards. For me cooking is emotionally, mentally, and physically tasking, and I usually finish looking something like this:

At my house, if you cook just for yourself, you clean too. So in order to maximize laziness I've gotten creative.
I use the 1/4 cup for all measurements, so I only have one measuring cup to wash. I try and use dishwasher washable bowls for mixing, and use the smallest easiest-to-clean pans. A few hours ago I made a pie and I only have two items to wash: a knife and the pan.

So there are my three truths of cooking I've learned through the creation of many delectable masterpieces and exponentially more failures.

A Story About........ Socks

So, this should be a post about the next great charity ad I'm creating, Moustaches4Villains - But it's not.

I have been cleaning my room like crazy recently, it might have to do with the fact I'll be applying to colleges in a matter of months, and then moving out and maybe I don't need my silver sparkly top hat or giant dollar-sign sunglasses (Okay, I admit it, I still refuse to part with the top hat).

Yesterday I ambitiously decided to go through my clothes and sort into a I-Never-Wore-It-But-Feel-Guilty pile, Sure-Maybe-One-Day-I'll-Wear-This pile, and a God-I-Still-Have-This?!! pile.

While doing so I found socks in my pants drawer, I found socks in my pajama pants drawer, I found socks in my pajama tops drawer, I found socks in my underwear drawer. I found socks under my desk. I found socks everywhere.

Everywhere I looked I found blue and black socks, it was like my room was heavily infested.

I have so many socks in my room it suggests I have an unnatural amount of feet. Like I'm part caterpillar.

And then, I find a bag hidden and long forgotten in the depths of my closet......... Containing at least six pairs of new blue socks with the price tags still on them. According to my calculations I would have to go to the store and be like:

"I need more socks!"

......... and get like six pairs.

And then do that three more times.

"I need moooore socks!"

 

"I need moooOOre socks!"

"I need MOooOOOre socks!"

I don't even have any memory of purchasing any socks.

A Recent Update: So far I've paired up most of the socks but I have six missing their mate. There are still six renegade socks loose in my house.

I'm a little concerned about my sanity right now.....