The Gates

Today, write about a character (male or female) who ends up living in an unusual place, including the circumstances that led them there.

‘Abandon all hope all ye who enter here’

Made up the only sight that her eyes could see clear.

And for her other senses, besides her eyes

Misfortune finds that the only sounds her companion makes are lies.

The gilded cage that now surrounded her was much like the one she previously called home,

Yet this one, when touched would burn her flesh down to the bone.

And when her tears fell, she would become surrounded by smoke,

Leaving her with nothing to do but to melt and to choke.

Now her days were filled with nothing but the longing to die,

But the worst part, worse than the pain, the agony, the loneliness, was that she was being punished, but she had no idea why.

And for her inexplicable sins she was entombed outside the gates of hell,

And there they kept her, preserved in a feverish quell.

And there they kept her, not at all well.

Endearing

Write the last paragraph of your novel or short story. 

And so her night finally ended, much like the day that her body would never forget had begun. Her dead grandfather’s bolo tie draped loosely across her neck, circles of $3 mascara widening under her bleary eyes, and a profound lack of certitude about any of her situations. But she fell into her bed alone, a messy reflection of herself, yet still someone who she could be proud of. And she slept.

September 3, 2009 My Journey

OK, so this isn’t quite on the expository topics, but this is just where my brain went. Sorry.


The first step is always the hardest. I clamp my palm around the cold brass of the doorknob, its five friends closing in closely behind, offering both physical and moral support. Their grip manages to squeeze tight, if only just for a moment, turning the handle just enough to release the mechanism that holds in place the barrier between my safe, cozy world, and whatever it is that is out there. The slab of wood, shaped and placed by the hands of my grandfather, falls to the side, and I look out into darkness. I step out into the corridor, pressing my prepubescent butt cheeks against the back wall. Cue the hall scene from The Shining. Which one? Who cares, they’re all fucking scary as hell-riding the big wheel, the Alice in Wonderland twins, and of course that elevator full of blood. Cue them all-at once.

The first step is always the hardest. The real first step. The one where your sole notices the subtle, yet distinct difference between the warm carpet that kept you safe in your room and the warm carpet that may ultimately betray you to the hall monsters. Wall to wall Judas. Cue the stereotypical shot where our antagonist perches on the starting line of a lane of hot coals, ready to take a quick, yet transformative journey, if only she can gather enough courage.

If not for the small, beige nightlight sticking out of the wood paneling, beaming eerie orange echoes of light out toward my nemesis, these second, third, fourth steps would not be happening. If not for this 79 cent beacon, I would never have made it from under the covers in the first place. One step follows the other in such a rapid fashion that even the quickest of sneezes would make one miss witnessing the entire, frightening escapade. Cue the scene of our hero, racing across a failing, wooden bridge, over a river of jaw-snapping crocodiles.

I made it to the end of the hall, and with the skill and grace unbeknownst to our viewers thus far, I slide into my final destination. I shut the door behind me, careful to not let any light out. Old people need their sleep. I find relief here, in so many more ways than one. But now it’s time to do it all over again. I step back into the hallway, my eyes completely shocked by the dramatic shift from bright to dark. Cue the narrowing hallway set to the sound of shrill violins- this is very likely a Hitchcock device, so it fits perfectly here.

Cue the end. I’m back in bed, safe from the hall monster, and safe from the shame that would befall me the next day had I not actually made it to the toilet. This journey is not one that I will soon forget.

Lights dim.
Credits roll.

September 2, 2009 My other car is a pair of skinny jeans

I hate hipsters. I won’t tell you why-you know why. Sinclair has a theory that we (our group of friends) are all hipsters to some degree. I have to disagree. I like us too much. But, if we are, to some degree, that most sanctimonious of subcultures, then here are a few reasons why it’s ok:

Hipsters aren’t afraid to stand out against historical persecution: It seems to me that, for hipsters, the reclaiming of ugly clothes, like boat shoes and leotards, as their own, is their way of retaliating against “the man,” much as African-Americans reclaimed the ‘n’ word, and post-feminists reclaimed the ‘c’ word. They really are the pinnacle of modern day social activists.

Hipsters are living up to the saying on those plaques you can get at the mall: (not they would ever shop at the mall, unless it was for the sake of irony)-I’m particularly thinking of the ones that say “Dance as if no one is watching.” Because, yeah, that’s how they dance-unfortunately, we are watching…

Hipsters are helping the environment: Well, most likely inadvertently, but still! That whole not bathing or washing hair frequently has to be saving some serious water. And again, recycled clothing definitely keeps waste out of the landfill, and out of the hands of very low income people who really should not be trying to pay $2 for an old Coca-Cola shirt-they really just can’t pull the look off.

Lonely Island: enough said.

Irony: If it weren’t for hipsters, the general public might still think that irony is defined by that ridiculous list that Alanis Morrisette read off in the late 90’s. If it weren’t for hipsters, comedy just wouldn’t be as funny, Tina Fey might still just be that chick with the scar who shows up in the background on some SNL sketches, and we sure as hell wouldn’t have Stephen Colbert making amazing political satire. I honestly don’t think I could exist without irony. Wait, shit, does that make me a hipster?

i just found out about this website, today-have fun! www.latfh.com

I'm usually full of bad intentions...

I'm totally cheating!

Complete: I plan to complete this month by creating interesting and engaging writing topics, and actually writing about the topics that I post.


Accountability: Since my position in this group is a little different, I am placing accountability at the top of my intention. First, I have to be accountable to all of you, because if I do not do my part, then it is much more difficult for all of you to be successful. I also have to be accountable to myself: if I get all of the topics written and posted ahead of time, then I get to actually participate in the group, too.

Consistency: That goes without saying. I think I made it two weeks last time, and as long as I keep up with the accountability part, this should hopefully fall right into place.

Dialogue: I think I want one of my focuses this go ‘round to be specifically on dialogue. Considering most of my classy insults consist of “your face” and “your mama,” Gossip Girl has inspired me to work on better dialogue.


So, a little about my life as a writer. Well, I started in a Journalism class my Freshman year of high school, then gradually moved up in the ranks on the newspaper from Feature Editor to Editor-in-Chief (well, technically co-Editor-I had all the duties but not full title due to an incident the previous year; apparently shoplifting on a school field trip is not a good idea-funny story, though). I did the UIL business and all that, oddly enough winning First Place for a Sports Feature article, then applied to the UT School of Journalism. I so didn’t get in. Boo. So, I went the Liberal Arts route and kind of gave up on my Journalism dream.

After lots of fun American Studies classes with tremendous writing components (seriously, throw out a topic and there is a 47% chance that I will say “oh, I wrote a paper on that”), I ended up picking up little writing jobs here and there, even writing a bit of porn on the side (even though I wasn’t having sex at the time-my porn totally sucked-if only I had that job, now…) Two years ago I got a job with go2.com, writing text-message alerts about local events, and eventually horoscopes, a fairly lucrative side job that has definitely contributed to my drinking budget. Not long after that was the Club Gossip debacle, wherein I was the Editor of an attempted up-start magazine; it was a lot of fun, and I don’t regret it, but ultimately resulted in a giant mess. Finally, last summer I started writing for Austin.com, doing event previews, SXSW coverage, Weekend Picks, and more. I don’t get paid at Austin.com, but I do get lots of perks that pretty much outweigh a paycheck.

So, after a conversation with my BFF while visiting her in the Bay Area last fall, I came up with the idea for this group. My background, obviously, is mostly journalism, and I had never done much creative writing. I figured I would try my hand at it some, and bring a few friends along. This is our fourth go at our little project, and I am still loving it. Eventually, I hope to pitch this as a book to Chronicle Books, and to have all of you join me.

June 5, 2009 My bad

omg, how did i manage to not write yesterday? i am definitely going to come back to this topic, however, i am still in the game because i wrote a page of horoscopes yesterday-which totally counts as writing, woo hoo!

June 4, 2009 One last mistake

“Do you want to know what it would feel like if my fingertips touched yours?

What it would feel like if my lips, the slightest bit desiccated by the winter wind, explored the depths of your warm neck?

What it would feel like as we fought our way into the most intimate embrace?”

…

“Excuse me, what was that?”

“Hmm? Oh, uh, I said ‘you might want to cover your drink before you leave it. A lot of sickos out there, y’know?’”

“Oh yes, thanks.”

That smile. Enchanting.
Yeah, she wants to know…

June 3, 2009 It's just another word

WORK IN PROGRESS-i wrote this part at Ozomatli show to get my one paragraph done :)

Wow.

The foyer is bigger than our old apartment. Gold. It adorns things. Everything is all shiny. It's all I've ever wanted and all I've ever despised in one instance. But shit, it's free.

If free means giving up my freedom. If free means never seeing the rest of my family again. I'm living my own micro-version of The Patriot Act. Trading freedom for safety. Trading privacy for safety. Trading identity. For safety.

Am I really living if it's not my life? Is it worth being alive if I am experiencing a pre-death reincarnation? Where does that leave me on the karmic ladder? Closer to the Brahmans or do I get knocked back down with the Untouchables?

I could lie on my new California King and let my greay matter swim around in an existentialist mind-fuck all day.

June 2-Was Not Was was way ahead of their time

Note: I went to see Land of the Lost tonight. Just in case you were wondering where this was coming from.

Dinosaurs are soooo the new ish.

Ninjas? Fucking stomped. Pirates? Pushed the fuck back out to sea. Zombies? Those brittle teeth inside those mushy gums can’t even think about penetrating that badass prehistoric skin.

Now let’s talk merchandise. I’m thinking jackets with T-Rex teeth for zippers. Gloves with fake raptor claws. I’m seeing Betsey Johnson going totally avant-garde with her fall collection, Pterodactyl wings perched where 80’s power suit shoulder pads once lay.

Basically, you do not want to step to dinosaurs. The only thing they fear is Blair Waldorf. They know not to step foot on the Upper East Side.

June 1-Pieces of What

Topic du jour: Alrighty kids, it's back to Day 1-tabula rasa time. April was our best month so far, and I think June can be even better! So, this time around, day 1 is going to be a tiny bit tougher, so...

Part 1: Set your writing intention for the month. Pick 3-5 words on what you want to get out of this, where you want to go with your writing, etc, and elaborate on them.

Part 2: Since our group is growing and we no longer all know each other, give us a little bio of your life as a writer.



Accountability: Since my position in this group is a little different, I am placing accountability at the top of my intention. First, I have to be accountable to all of you, because if I do not do my part, then it is much more difficult for all of you to be successful. I also have to be accountable to myself: if I get all of the topics written and posted ahead of time, then I get to actually participate in the group, too.

Consistency: That goes without saying. I think I made it two weeks last time, and as long as I keep up with the accountability part, this should hopefully fall right into place.

Dialogue: I think I want one of my focuses this go ‘round to be specifically on dialogue. Considering most of my classy insults consist of “your face” and “your mama,” Gossip Girl has inspired me to work on better dialogue.


So, a little about my life as a writer. Well, I started in a Journalism class my Freshman year of high school, then gradually moved up in the ranks on the newspaper from Feature Editor to Editor-in-Chief (well, technically co-Editor-I had all the duties but not full title due to an incident the previous year; apparently shoplifting on a school field trip is not a good idea-funny story, though). I did the UIL business and all that, oddly enough winning First Place for a Sports Feature article, then applied to the UT School of Journalism. I so didn’t get in. Boo. So, I went the Liberal Arts route and kind of gave up on my Journalism dream.

After lots of fun American Studies classes with tremendous writing components (seriously, throw out a topic and there is a 47% chance that I will say “oh, I wrote a paper on that”), I ended up picking up little writing jobs here and there, even writing a bit of porn on the side (even though I wasn’t having sex at the time-my porn totally sucked-if only I had that job, now…) Two years ago I got a job with go2.com, writing text-message alerts about local events, and eventually horoscopes, a fairly lucrative side job that has definitely contributed to my drinking budget. Not long after that was the Club Gossip debacle, wherein I was the Editor of an attempted up-start magazine; it was a lot of fun, and I don’t regret it, but ultimately resulted in a giant mess. Finally, last summer I started writing for Austin.com, doing event previews, SXSW coverage, Weekend Picks, and more. I don’t get paid at Austin.com, but I do get lots of perks that pretty much outweigh a paycheck.

So, after a conversation with my BFF while visiting her in the Bay Area last fall, I came up with the idea for this group. My background, obviously, is mostly journalism, and I had never done much creative writing. I figured I would try my hand at it some, and bring a few friends along. This is our fourth go at our little project, and I am still loving it. Eventually, I hope to pitch this as a book to Chronicle Books, and to have all of you join me.

p.s. after reading this, if you have not taken my “How well do you know Laurie” Facebook quiz, I just gave you two answers. Go for it.

Dog Bed

Oh my bed. My bed so desperately wants to be my place of solace. Every now and then it manages that distinction, like last Saturday when I spent the day underneath the covers watching movies and playing on the internets. For the most part, however, my bed is a fairly gross place that no one wants to visit.

I originally purchased my bed to be this wonderful haven. I was so super excited to pick out the fancy bed from IKEA, one with a headboard, of course, then head down the hall to test out mattresses. I got the cutest sheet and comforter set, all Moroccan-inspired like the rest of my room décor intended to be. After many laborious attempts to put the damned thing together, and much assistance from Susanna, my cheap version of a craft-o-matic adjustable bed was finally done. And for a while, it was my sanctuary.

Then Ginger came.

I held my ground for a long time on the dog-in-bed situation, until Russell came along and guilted me into letting her sleep with us. It was over after that. Now, my bed is a pit of despair, covered in mud and hair. Gross? Yeah, I totally know. Don’t judge me.

The dogs always come first in my world. Even in my bed. I go to sleep every night, taking up less than 1/3 of my bed, with one dog on top of me, one dog in between my knees, and one dog next to my foot. My appreciation for beds in other establishments has grown exponentially, and nights that I get to stay at the Omni or Intercontinental (best beds in the world) or even when I crash with friends who snore a lot, I relish their comfy, clean, dog-free zones.

Hmm. Reminds me. I need to get the sheets in the wash.

Damnit!

So yesterday was my first day to not write about the 30DOW topic, and I am totally bummed about that. So, rather than throw something down, I am going to get back to it when I have time.

However, I did do some other writing: 12 horoscopes and a David Sedaris write-up, so I still met the writing criteria, so I'm gonna cut myself some slack on this one.

April 10, 2009 ROLB

(unfinished post)

Hmmm. Guilty pleasures, there’s really no better kind. I think the problem with the pleasures from which I partake, is that I have no guilt over them. Maybe I have transcended the plane of existence in which guilt and pleasure intermingle. Maybe I no longer fear a thrashing by the Bible belt (or maybe I would really enjoy it). Or maybe I just fully embrace one of my life’s most profound mottos: “I just don’t give a fuck.” Either way, you will find me hard-pressed to feel guilty about my Love of Lady Gaga, my aptitude for picking up strange men in a bar, or my willingness to laugh when someone hurts themselves. It doesn’t make me a bad person. Well, maybe a little…

So, the one thing that is closest to a guilty pleasure on my plate is VH1 Celebreality TV. Sure, many people can claim that Reality TV is their biggest guilty pleasure, but other than Fox, no one can take the cake on this genre the way VH1 does. The combination of washed-up child stars, drugged-out porn stars, and watered-down idiots who gained fame by wanting to date shriveled up members of the California Raisins all form the perfect storm of fucking train wreck television. And I find it masterful. Scrumtrulescent if you will.

There’s the herpes-infested contest for hair metal “hottie” Bret Michaels: Rock of Love and the follow-up Rock of Love Bus.

Gross

OK, so I haven't much time tonight to write, but I have yet to miss a day, so you get a little bit. I am a little sad that I am lacking time with such a great topic. I will definitely be going back to this one..

So, I am in the car, trying to think about some good words. I like the word 'smeg' as a scifi curse word. More like an insult. Like smog and egg together. Like "you're such smeg." But then I started thinking that I was pretty sure that there was already the word 'smegma.' So, I looked it up. And, um, ew. Am I stupid for not knowing what this was? Probably. Whatever.

p.s. that link is NSFW

Nerds will no Longer Live Long and Prosper

Austin, Tx-Leonard Nimoy, famous for playing Mr. Spock on the Star Trek television series and in the subsequent movies of the same name, is now famous not only for his acting work, but for a medical condition. After 43 years of constantly flashing the famous “Live long and prosper” hand sign for cameras and fans, Nimoy has developed digit-specific arthritis, with symptoms and treatment different enough from other types of arthritis that the condition has warranted its own name. He won’t die from it, but his Nimoynian arthritis will have major repercussions in his everyday life.

Nimoy recently appeared in Austin, Tx for a surprise appearance and screening of the new version of Star Trek, where he reprises his famous role. After sharing an evening with shocked and elated fans, and throwing a few of the standard nerd gang signs, Nimoy headed to a late dinner with his hosts. At dinner, he noticed that his hand was a bit shaky and that he didn’t have as much control of it as usual. The next morning, after flying home to California, he went to see his personal physician, Dr. Leonard ‘Bones’ McCoy. After many expensive tests, lots of poking and prodding, and consultations with other top physicians, McCoy had to reveal the bad news that his patient would have to find some other way to convey the universal phrase of peace and geekiness.

Nimoy’s former co-star and close, personal friend William Shatner came to be by his side while going through all of the procedures. Shatner was outraged at the prognosis that his friend would never be able to manipulate his hand to the famous crab-like symbol, and could not believe that his doctors could not do anything with plastic surgery to repair his condition. His outburst elicited Dr. McCoy’s retort, “Damnit, Bill, I’m a doctor, not a…oh, wait, I should totally be able to fix this.”

After undergoing treatments with steroids and other medications, Nimoy will face extensive physical therapy just to be able to utilize his right hand for daily tasks that require more localized use of his fingers, like buttoning shirts and handling writing implements. He can, however, look forward to the fact that he continues to receive a lifetime supply of Aleve, the arthritis pain medication after doing a commercial for them in 2006.

Nimoy’s current predecessor, Zachary Quinto, doesn’t seem too concerned about developing Nimoynian arthritis because “I do this other thing with my fingers in my role as Sylar on Heroes. I figure if I just make sure to not keep my fingers doing the same thing over and over again, and, you know, changing it up, I should be ok. If anything, I was worried about developing a little of the Sylaritis, if you know what I mean!” Quinto said.

Nimoy will be spending time healing with his family, and watching the finale of Fringe on May 12, where he will be playing a key character.

Sidebar: Among Mr. Nimoy’s crowning achievements in life, he lists making some babies, being an awesome Jew, donating the maximum amount allowable to Obama’s campaign, and sharing the birthday of March 26 with the almighty and awesome Laurie Lyons.
(haha, I didn’t know that til I was looking at his imdb profile)

Writer’s note: so, I had the idea for this “story” after Nimoy’s recent visit to Austin. While it is a fucking hilarious idea, I am apparently not the only one to have it, as Aleve actually paid him for a similar idea in 2006. I did not find this out until I was finishing up the article. Thanks for ruining my fun, Wikipedia.



This video cracked my shit up! Somebody REALLY loves Spock.

To Crystal

As I am sitting here, about to write about the animals in my life, I have four of the most amazing four-legged creatures I have ever met, lounging around me. Maggie, my cat is curled up on the table, her own version of a throne, as she looks down upon the rest of us. My two pups, Kyoko and Penelope, the silliest, cutest, oddest little dogs you will probably ever meet are curled around my right side, excessive heat being exchanged between all of our bodies. And Ginger, possibly the sweetest dog in the world, is lying at my feet, and oop, she just got a little belly scratch action…

If you know me at all, it is not at all surprising that I share my house not only with a human roommate, but four companion animals whom I am fortunate enough to get to care for. These girls are my world. I often sit in traffic, super anxious to get home, just so that I can hug them all. Yeah, kinda lame, but whatever.

I care for my girls and give them all of my heart, most of my lap (and the rest of my body at bedtime), and as much of my time and money as I possibly can. I do it because I love them and they love me (I do not subscribe to the notion that animals do not feel emotions similar to ours. I’m not a fool-I read books). However, in all of the years that we have had family pets, including ferrets, birds, cats, dogs, hamster, guinea pigs, etc., I haven’t always been that great to them. I can blame it on the fact that I was young and didn’t really know better, but what it comes down to, in all honesty, is that I was lazy. I was lazy then and I am lazy still, but then my sloth often led to my sweet, sweet English Springer Spaniel, Crystal, not getting as much quality care from me as she deserved. I didn’t pay attention to her as much as I should have. I didn’t bring her inside when it got a little cold out like I should have. I flat out did not treat her like such a special dog deserved. I often remember her and feel tremendous guilt about that.

I can never make any of that up to her. I can never make it up to the roosters that I amusingly and ignorantly watched fight to the death in the dusty sheds of South Louisiana. I can never give the lives back to all of the animals that I ate before 1998. All I can do is remember the harm that I caused or contributed to and do my very best to make sure that I never make those mistakes again.

I wish I had a picture of Crystal to put here. I think I have an actual photo somewhere, but no scanner. Instead you get pics of my girls now.


The little ones aren't actually demons, they just appear that way in this picture.


My pretty, pretty princess

Senryu

Poisoned on a Bus

Fake nails, fake tits, short skirts, and weaves
Two skanks left
Which will he choose?

Kiddo

Five fingered assassin
Cut through your former brethren
Your cub awaits



Damnit, this totally doesn’t fit the “less than 17 syllables” but I am posting it anyway

Saul Tigh-my BSG Counterpart

It’s not the eye of the tiger you lack
Just the eye of a man
Drunken robot, eternal Adama fan

The Plight of the Half-Gray/Half-Red Strand of Hair

disclaimer: this is off topic and not intended to be anything near good work. it is just some therapy that i needed right now.

I’ve always had a weird fascination with plucking gray hairs from their homes atop an aging head. I did it to my mother when I was younger, before she got smart and starting getting help from a box. She would always point to one and say “that’s from the time that you did such and such” (at this point I could fill in the blanks with so many options from the time she caught my boyfriend camping out in my closet to the time I got caught shoplifting). We would always laugh, her blaming her stress and aging on me, both of us knowing that her attempts to raise me alone were only part of the reason she was going gray.

I remember the day I got my first gray hair. Or at least the first day I noticed it. I was sitting on a bench outside, when my boss pointed one out. I immediately screamed and ran inside. Yep. There it was, attempting to hide amongst the sea of darkness to which it used to belong. I immediately yanked it from my head. It could hide at the bottom of the trashcan. I was only 22.

The women in my family are very lucky that we age very well. If you looked at my mom, you wouldn’t guess that she is 57. Our sprits probably play a decent role in this, but our genes definitely play an even bigger role. Our hair, however, tends to betray us in that area. Luckily, this is an inexpensive fix. I didn’t start dying my hair as a fix to me getting a few grays, but now I know that I can never stop dying my hair. Luckily, my best friend is a hair stylist.

I feel sorry for them, though. As I was standing in the mirror, tweezers in hand just a few minutes ago, I was staring at the tiny shaft in my grasp, and it told me a story. A sad story. The last time that I had my hair colored was a few weeks ago. My hair grows pretty quickly, and this piece of hair was half-gray and half-red. This tiny, dead piece of me reminded me of another dead piece of me. It reminded me of the night a few weeks ago and the unhappy events that occurred then, and following that night. Of the loss of something that I treasured and can never get back. It reminded me that just as my hair was losing the pigment that made it who it once was, I also lost something that made me who I once was.

I realized that part of the reason that I have been so down lately is that there are quite a few things changing in my life, one affecting the other, creating layers too thick for me to find their true center. They’ve all smashed into each other so much that I can’t figure out where the root of it all lies, but I have a good idea. But knowing the why and the where doesn’t really help. I can’t color over the problem with a simple dye job.

Technology

I began to stir as the sunlight streamed through the slits in the curtains. ‘Good,’ I thought to myself. ‘If I am waking up before the alarm, that means I get to go back to sleep.’ I stretched my arm out across the bed to grab the clock, and noticed that it wasn’t there.

‘Huh. That’s a little weird.’

There wasn’t enough light coming in through the heavy curtains to be able to do any real detective work regarding my most needed but most hated nemesis, so I got up to turn on the light. A blast of cold air hit me as I pulled back the covers, and I wondered why the heater hadn’t kicked in. I shuffled across the cold floor, my hands rummaging through the air and along the walls in search of a light switch. They found nothing but more air and bumpy wall patterns, and I quickly began to feel a welling of fear and frustration inside me. I felt like I was in a cave, cold, lumpy, dark. I finally summoned my courage and moved my way across the room toward the small shaft of light peeking from behind the curtain. I quickly threw the piece of material to the side, and what I saw horrified me.

As my eyes adjusted to the penetrating light, I saw…nothing. Nothing that seemed familiar, nothing that told me that this was my home, that this was where I belonged. It was almost like waking up in bed with a stranger after a long night of binge drinking, but way, way scarier. I looked around for something that seemed like it was part of my life, but the rickety desk and half-empty ink well only mustered a vague remembrance that I was a writer. But those aren’t a writer’s tools. Those are archaic and uncomfortable. Where was my IKEA chair with lumbar support, my laptop with spellcheck?

Furthermore, where was my TV to tell me what the weather was going to be like today? My beloved cell phone so that I could send out a mass text to try to find out what the hell was going on? Hell, I would even settle for something as archaic as a land line right now!

I stumbled through the rest of the house, and found only the same confusing relics. Oil lamps. Wood stoves. Dried meats. (where the fuck were my veggie burgers?!?!)

I could only come to one conclusion.

In the feverish haze that helped me float off to sleep the night before, I had transitioned into a world of horrific nightmares. The only way that I could see to save myself was to climb back into bed. The plump down comforter was the only solace I could find in that entire house, and I realized that if this was not, in fact, an illness-induced nightmare, likely brought on by a double dosing of Tylenol PM, that I would rather just curl up and die under here.

My Dream House

My house. Is a very, very, very fine house. It doesn’t have much in common with most of the houses you see in the movies. Although, the one from Twilight is pretty awesome. The only thing my house has in common is that it is settled in somewhere that’s green. Though the rest of her house is pretty gaudy, Audrey got that part right.

My house is not a monster. It doesn’t have marble countertops and stained glass ceilings. It isn’t a picture of decadence. It is energy efficient and nestled in the middle of a lush forest that is just far enough off the beaten path, but still allows me access to the fast pace of a nearby city. I’m thinking California.

I have no particular plan as far as shape, size, or layout go. I just know that I have to have the following amenities:

-a very large theater room
-a garden tub and a magic shower; but, like the biggest garden tub ever built, in front of a bay window so that I can watch the sun rise from it
-plenty of guest bedrooms for when my friends come to visit
-a giant library, most definitely with those large, rolling ladders (I totally stole this from you JBee)
-a reading room that is more like an open-air garden; if it is nice outside, I want to be able to open the ceiling-if not I still want to be able to read surrounded by plants and nature
-a huge playroom for my cat and an even bigger playroom for my dogs
-a gym
-enormous, enormous closets
-a huge kitchen-but no marble countertops

OK, so maybe it’s bordering a but on monsterdom, but hey-it’s my dreamhouse-why skimp?