My Favorite Boy Band: Simon and Garfunkel


All of their music is some of the best poetry that I’ve ever heard.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

And the sign said, “The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls, and echoed in the sounds of silence.”

I love how this song emphasizes how you don’t have to speak to come together and speak out. Actions can be louder than words.

–––

Still a man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest.

A detailed and harsh description of reality, loneliness, and all things cold and dark.

–––

Gazing from my window, to the streets below, on a freshly-fallen silent shroud of snow.

A song of love an loss. Feeling like every kind of friendship has failed you, and you have failed every kind of friendship.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Just thought I might share, to get you as far away as possible from other boy bands, like, oh, say, that nightmare One Direction. (No offense 1D fans… but…)

Basically all their music is epic-mazing, but these are my 3 favorites.

Yay 1960s!!

Ciao for now,

Mikki

The Shoe Store: A Short Story


I used to work as an assistant manager at the local shoe store. The place was called Burt’s Foot Supply, and they had just opened their second location when I was hired there. I have a really keen eye for shoes, and I quickly rose through the ranks. Usually I sold shoes for girls between the ages of 10 and 19, and usually I knew what kind of shoe they needed by their toenail polish or their lack thereof. Telling for boys was a little more difficult, because they didn’t have such obvious displays of how they wanted to look. Usually it was in their pants and how they wore them.

Having one pair of shoes that are you is a necessity. If you can’t own your feet, then you’re going to have a hard time walking.

One day, I think it was a Monday, or maybe Thursday, this girl and her seventeen-ish older brother walk in. Most of the time I didn’t assume two people were siblings , but these people were practically identical. If you forgot they were about ten years apart and different genders, you could see that they had the same thin, elvish faces, round, dark eyes, and deeply defined cheekbones.

“Hi, can I help you?”I chirped.

“No thanks,” the brother huffed.

With a shrug, I pushed backwards. It was a slow day for a Monday or a Thursday in July, so there was pretty much nothing for me to do.

“Slow day,” I said to Greg, the cashier, once I had managed my way over there.

“Yep.” Greg didn’t talk much.

“Did we even sell anything yet today?”

“Yep.”

“What did we sell?”

“One of the lip balms,” he answered simply, giving the plastic jar a half-hearted nudge. All the tubes rattled around.

I either gave a nod or an acknowledging grunt then. It doesn’t really matter.

Suddenly, the girl came running from behind a shelf. Without asking questions or permission, she pushed me, all the way into the aisle she and her brother were looking at something in. Before, with the light from outside the automatic doors, her brother’s hair had looked more like it belonged on the Chocolate Lover’s Delight side of the crayon box. In here, it looked a little more Deep Prairie Sunset mixed with Creamy Rich Auburn.

“Hey,” the brother began, “I’m really sorry about my little sister forcing you over here and all.”

“That’s alright,” I replied, shaking my head and smiling like people do in awkward situations.

“No it’s really not.” He looked sternly down at the girl. “Holly, can you please apologize?”

Instead of apologizing Holly started talking as though her intentions hadn’t been interrupted. “I’m getting shoes for my cousin and I want to get her these, but he wants to get her these.” In her left hand was a right shoe, pink and sparkly and embedded with a plush Hello Kitty bow. In her right was a sensible blue canvas high-top, plus elastic that left its mate dangling. It wasn’t hard to guess who wanted to get which shoe.

“Holly.” The brother was clearly disgruntled, like he had spent way too much time with her already.

“It’s really okay,” I reminded him, then turned to Holly. “Now how old is your cousin?”

“She’s going to be twelve on Saturday.” It went through my mind then that buying two days ahead for a birthday was a little late, so it must have been Thursday.

“Well,” I said as gently as I could, “I don’t know much about your cousin, but I don’t think the pink one is quite…right.”

“What do you know about shoes anyway?” she growled immediately. “You don’t even have feet.”

Holly!” her brother shouted.

The sound was so angry, disgusted and loud, that as a result Greg flipped in his chair and the jar of lip balm toppled to the floor.

“Holly!” he repeated, a little more subdued. “Apologize. Now.”

“Well she doesn’t!” she squeaked back. “See? Her legs stop at her knees.”

“Holly!”

She looked straight at him like a dare.

He looked down to me. “I’m really sorry about my little sister, I don’t know what’s into her today.”

“It’s okay, I get that a lot,” I shrugged.

“No––HOLLY!”

The next thing I knew, my wheelchair was speeding down the aisle. Instead of letting myself crash with the chair, I jumped out and rolled to the side. A shelf shook on impact and five boxes spilled onto the carpet.

Now that, I thought, that was not okay. And I had a feeling that the girl’s brother would have agreed with me, had I said anything. But that would have violated virtually everything that makes an everyday employee into an assistant manager.

“Pretty impressive jump,” the brother said to me, “But Holly––”

“Why don’t you have legs?” Holly asked, interrupting her brother.

Everything was suddenly silent. Holly’s brother didn’t try to interrupt back, and instead focused all of his attention on me.

Everything was very silent.

“Car accident.”

The brother looked down at the carpet, and, while making his fixations on the thread, looked like he would cry for a minute.

“Our Uncle Terry died that way,” Holly said. “He’s my cousin Samantha’s dad. Her birthday is on Saturday.”

Silence.

“Holly.”

“Let’s get the shoes, Mike. The blue ones.”

“Alright, Holly. Let’s get the blue shoes.”

I clambered back into the wheel chair, but left the boxes for later, or for Greg, or a combination of the two.

“We’re going to get ice cream later,” Mike said sheepishly.

“Yeah!” squealed Holly. “You want to come? We’re going to Ben and Jerry’s! Do you like chocolate or vanilla?”

“I like vanilla,” I said to Holly. “And yes, I would like to go,” I said to Mike.

“Cool,” Mike replied, nodding. “When does your shift end? We were thinking of going––”

“To Ben and Jerry’s!” Holly reiterated.

“––To Ben and Jerry’s,” Mike continued, “At around six.”

“My shift ends at seven.”

“Did I say six? I meant seven.” He had a nice smile.

“You’re asking her out, Mike!” Holly complained.

Mike shrugged. “See you at seven.”

Holly and Mike bought the blue shoes.

It was a slow Thursday for July at Burt’s Foot Supply.

Can Someone Explain Why People Want to Read This One Post?!


I’ve noticed that I get a lot of views on this one post.

It’s a not-particularly-well-written section of a not-particularly-well-written story that I started and only got through to ten (technically eleven, one of them was nine and a half) parts. I really don’t understand the appeal here, but clearly there is some.

For those of you who don’t really want to read the actual post, basically what happens is a girl (who has found herself on a computer chip) speaks with an obnoxious computer who seems more like a dorky kid at the back of the classroom (you know the type) than an emotionless computer just interrogating her out of duty.

A lot of these views, I’ve noticed, must come from the search term from the search engines: computer chip. What I’m wondering, though, is a. why are people looking up computer chips so much? and b. when they do, what leads them to my story instead of some helpful article on computer chips? and maybe also c. why is it part two?

Maybe for NaNoWriMo I could edit every section one by one (and continue the story, at long last…) But even then I won’t understand why this post has had over four times as many views as the runner up, a more recent and much-better-written post.

Please leave any explanation you possibly can give in the comments!

Ciao for now,

Mikki

The Epic of a Girl: A Poem


So there’s this really cute guy

he’s in my Spanish class

and anyways did I mention he’s really cute?

So usually I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or

the wall behind me or

this other guy who sits in front of me

who he seems to be friends with,

and I don’t know if I really

like

him because he’s friends with all these

buttheads.

There are other words I could use to

describe his friends but

let’s keep things PG. So

anyways

The only kid who I know looks at me is

this anti-attractive butthead

who is so much “no” that

there isn’t enough time in the day to go into detail.

I don’t know, it seems like

that’s the only kind of guy that will

ever like me

ever,

which is sad because I have

way

too much self-respect

to stoop my standards so low.

Why can’t cute guys ever like

me,

what did I do

so wrong?

But I guess that’s totally unrelated to

what I was writing about in the beginning,

which was, I believe

that cute guy in my Spanish class who might or might not look at me.

Which in itself is irrelevant because

I just talked myself out of believing he

looks at me

or caring either way.

And this is why I envy guys, because

they don’t seem to think about it that much.

filler!

Being a girl is terrible.

Friends?


I have sort-of-high standards as to who I consider my friends, being someone who can’t even say the word “friend” without feeling a little awkwardness.

But here are my own standards.

If you’re going to be friends, it will be apparent within the first five minutes. If you can’t keep positive, constant conversation for that interval, then you’ll never get along well enough to really be friends. If you are only friends with them to get to someone else or make someone else jealous, then you’re not really their friend at all. If they, in any way, make you feel uncomfortable, then get the hay out of there.

On the other side, here are the ways to tell if you’re really friends. If you hate them and complain about them constantly but still love them to death, then yes you’re friends. If you two can throw insults around at each other and both of you leave feeling better than before you started, then yes you’re friends. If you find yourself doing something for them and you’re not even sure why, then you’re definitely friends.

Friends are some of the most amazing things a person can ever have. They love you and you love them, and that enough is great. They would go out of their way for you, you would to it for them, and most importantly they’re NOT embarrassed to be around you. (If my friends were embarrassed to be around me, I might not even have them!)

But if you’re not friends, and you find yourself relating more to the top list, get out of there. You deserve someone better than that, because you are an amazing person. NEVER put your trust or your love with someone who doesn’t deserve it, ever, in ANY kind of relationship.

That message is a total cliché, I am aware, but it’s so important because getting around with people who don’t really love you is unhealthy and, unfortunately, all too common.

And with that being said,

Ciao for now,

Mikki

A Dream of Driving


I always have dreams about driving. Sometimes I’m driving, sometimes my mom’s driving, or my friend’s mom, or my little sister.

I drive because I’ve been abandoned, with the car, at the side of the road, and still have errands to run or we have to get home. Usually I don’t even know where I’m going, I just need to get there. The roads are filled with overpasses and underpasses and right and left and up and down turns, and there are so many exits and I don’t know which one to take. On one side of me is the city of Chicago, which bears no resemblance whatsoever to the city of Chicago, and on the other side is more and more highway, unless there’s a lot of open country. That happens sometimes.

The car is often a smaller car, with two rows of seats. My younger siblings are there the most often but sometimes it’s one of my friends. They are counting on me to get to the unknown destination, but are very quiet and collected. I panic while I keep passing the same exits over and over again, and despite this I turn the same way, and keep going in the same circle.

My Life in an Incident


I have this really great story started, and I’ve been thinking about it all day. (I’m not going to say what it’s about, not only is that irrelevant but I also don’t want to become a victim of Idea Theft.) I’ve been so desperate to get working on it that I’ve gotten both chills and heat. (I don’t know how many other writers there are out there who experience such desperation, but if that number is 0 than I suppose I’m just a bit of an oddball.)

When I finally got home, the upstairs computer, which I had been working on, was occupied. So I hurriedly stuffed it onto a flash drive and went to the downstairs computer, not considering any of my other priorities i.e. greeting/acknowledging everyone else.

I got a bizarre warning message that said there wasn’t enough power to support the external device, and so, in a rage of upset, I ripped the drive out and shoved it back in again, only to find that the message was the same.

A recommendation had also been embedded in the message: try plugging it directly into the computer. The drive came out of the keyboard and replaced the printer in the one USB port the computer has. Hyperventilating with excitement, I double-clicked on the flash drive’s white icon (which bears my name in case I become a victim of Thumb Drive Theft) and then opened the file which is my story.

A message of only a few words but rang as a death sentence in my ear blinked: Word cannot find the converter for this file. It was angry, those few words, because of my own anger. Many not-so-kind names flew from my mouth and landed upon the inanimate object of the monitor.

I could have cried.

And that is  my life in an incident, which, collectively, sums less than 24 hours.

Ciao for now,

Mikki