fall: A Poem


today i felt that kind of feel

that feels like the fall

the kind of feel that feels surreal

and smells like a new football.

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The Miracle of Science


(I realize that not all my readers believe in evolution. That’s okay, I’m not asking you to.)

Millions of years ago, billions of years ago, everything living was all tiny phytoplankton that drifted and didn’t do much.

Before that, there was no life, at least not on Earth. Everything was bits of elements that would someday be some life form. And somehow, when those strands of carbon and hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen combined in a specific way, they created something that could collect energy from the sun. the first living thing.

Isn’t it amazing that that is possible?

And then these things somehow made bits of nucleotides and double helix structures and things communicate with the outside world to improve themselves. How is that possible? How can combinations of atoms communicate? The communications created evolution. It made things with instincts, and complex body structures, then to things with emotions and motor skills. All from some phytoplankton.

Those things evolved into things with independent minds. Then to things with imaginations and theories and theories on theories on imaginations.

It’s a miracle. Whether you believe it’s a miracle of science or a miracle by other means, it still is a miracle.

You are the most miraculous thing in the universe. Your existence is amazing and unfathomable.

Don’t forget it, don’t take it for granted, don’t abuse it. And most importantly, don’t let anyone tell you it’s not true.

Ciao for now,

Mikki

The Most Amazing Person I’ve Never Been in Love With: A Short Story


Oliver Rowe was tall, not too tall but tall enough. The top of my head would come up to his shoulder. He had hair the color strawberry lemonade might be if companies didn’t add dyes to titillate children. His eyebrows faded into his forehead like they weren’t even there. His eyelashes, however, despite being the same color as every other hair on his head, would stand out like a sore thumb, in a good way, because if any light at all hit them, from the sun or the moon or the stars or a lamp, they would glimmer like a million rainbows. His eyes, if someone could dare call those things eyes, were every shade of brown from topaz to soil and back. His nose was as straight as a pin. His smile was a smirk.

Oliver and I would hold hands in the hallways and hug each other on every occasion. He was at my grandmother’s funeral, and I was at his cousins’ weddings. My family thought of him as an adopted son; his, of me, an extra daughter. Although our parents would come up with numerous faults with the other set of parents, we would occasionally have a dinner together some evenings.

But when Avery Mitchells showed up to school in his football jersey, I didn’t complain. I wasn’t a shade jealous.

And when Mike Cotts invited me to Homecoming, Oliver slapped me on the shoulder and congratulated me.

If only Avery and Mike didn’t get so upset when I was wrapped in Oliver’s arms all the way to fourth period that one Thursday in September. Or when I pecked him on the cheek that Friday in October. Or when he braided my hair during lunch.

My family was unfazed and undisturbed every time I came home with Oliver and he and I would lock ourselves in my room for hours on end. Those were the best parts of my day; hours with undisturbed and perfect Oliver. He was the one who knew all my secrets. Like who I was dating behind my parents’ eyes or who I wanted to date, maybe both at the same time, depending. I never held a relationship with any guy for any length of time, because sooner or later they would all begin to get angry with my relations with Oliver. The same went for him, and the girl he always wanted the most; Julia Patterson, who, coincidentally, had the orangiest red hair you’d ever see on such a pretty, pale-faced girl, and was as well matched for Oliver in looks as she was in personality. The guy I desired a chance to speak with, but never actually considered what I would ever say to him ever, was Ethan Chavez, who had a mother from the South Pacific and a father from South America, and he pulled off the look so well that sometimes I forgot that he had a mastermind behind his blackish eyes.

Oliver could sway me into anything. One time he tried to convince me that we really were dating, like everyone else thought. For a day or so, I believed him, but then I told him he was being silly and I pinched his nose.

The one time he tried to tell me that we were married, I laughed and laughed. Even he broke a smile after a while and joined me in amusement.

And every moment we spent in that room, locked away and so giddy with togetherness, meant nothing in the terms of love. It was a bond of friendship, a form of sacred trust, and every moment in there was of being the best friends in the world and had exactly no relevance to being in a relationship beyond that. Oliver was perfect, and he was amazing, but we were never in love.

Something Funny Involving Broccoli


The other day I was pulling a bowl of broccoli (in water) from the microwave to set it on the table. Forgetting to drain it and that the plastic wrap won’t keep the stuff in, I titled the bowl slightly, spilling scalding broccoli water on my stomach.It really wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for my slow reaction time.
That slow reaction time of mine is a nasty thing in many situations. Sometimes when people try to touch me (I do NOT like it when people touch me) I’ll scream and jump away about two seconds after the fact making it seem forced and rude.
I can’t stand hugs unless I’m related to the other person, in which case I can tolerate them. Unless I’m grumpy, in which case BACK OFF YOU LITTLE TWIT.
Yes, I do say twit.
I admit to having called many people “twit” over the span of my life.
Better, though, than a lot of movies, where someone calls someone else a “doofus.” NO ONE uses the term “doofus” unless they themselves are a “doofus” and think themselves “cooler” than they actually are.
Anyways, what was I talking about?

All my beautiful wickedness!

Ahh, yes, the great broccoli tragedy of 2012. It was an awful thing, really…I didn’t even notice that my stomach was being melted, similarly to water on the Evil Witch, until a few moments after the fact. And at that point, I didn’t even try to stop the pain first thing. I just really wanted to get the broccoli to the table.

Oh god, that thing burned, but I didn’t care enough to keep constant cold to it because the burger was so delicious.
And so is life.
Ciao for now,
Mikki

The Liking Issue


Do you know something that really gets to me? Something that really makes me sad?

Let me give you a hint: it’s not ASPCA commercials. Although it might be if we didn’t have wireless remotes for our boob tubes.

It’s seeing people who’ll get 500+ likes per post.

Here’s me: “OMG I GOT 4 LIKES! THIS WAS A REALLY GOOD POST!”

The first like I ever got, I went ballistic. “OMG SOMEONE BOTHERED TO LOOK AT MY POST!”

I think the most likes I’ve ever gotten a post was maybe…7?

I feel so ashamed to say it. It’s like saying you’ve only ever had three nice things ever said to you in your entire life. It’s like admitting that you have nothing that anyone would say anything nice things about, even though you have more potential than a ball about to roll down Mt. Everest.

(Oh, physics humor…)

Anyways.

And then there are these people who get approximately 300 likes on every post they put up, even if they got the idea at three in the morning, and their eyes were too crusted over to see the computer screen and they were gnawing giddily on their knees as they pecked away. People will like anything they post, maybe because it’s that specific person posting or maybe because they desperately want the attention. Like some crying hungry kittens who will do anything to get food.

I can imagine these people, thinking themselves oh-so-artsy with their sepia tone photographs and some meaningless explanations, a cigarette in one hand and a mouse in the other, giving a hungover spit at the number 3.

“Oh look, she thinks she’s so cute. Little Mikki Aaron has gotten 3 likes on this. And look, there’s even a little comment! How adorable!” Suddenly they’ll all turn to their own screens, and say, “600 likes? 400 comments? WHAT IS THIS?” And, in a moment of ‘artistic’ rage, as they witness a startlingly low number of people who took the time to look at their huge, fantastic, wonderful, and, of course, ‘real’ blog, they flip their cigarettes behind them and burn down their apartments and their ramen noodles. And their multiple cats.

I hate cats.

Anyways.

I take the time to look at at least one post from every person who likes or follows or comments on mikkiaaron. I bet those big-timers can’t say that!

So HA!

Who’s cute NOW?!

Ciao for now,

Mikki