What do you think?

I'm thinking of writing some one-act plays or scenes/skits. The following passage would be the opening of a conceptual one-act play called "My Own Best Nephew." Tell me what you think.

CARLOTTA

(Walks onstage in heels, holding shopping bags, chewing gum, and sporting sunglasses. Answers her buzzing phone): Hello, this is Carlotta Fenzi?...Oh, HELLO, Mrs. Jenkins! (Makes a disgusted face)…What’s that?...Oh, my Tommy? Again? It’s only the third week of school. Do I need to walk over there myself and smack his little…Oh? I thought I had warned administration (All the while, Carlotta paces around, looking uninterested.) …I KNOW this isn’t the best time for him, Mrs. Jenkins. It’s not the best time for me, either. …Why didn’t I tell Tommy sooner? It would’ve shocked him! Now was…well, it was the right time. For reasons you can imagine. …Look, Regina—can I call you Regina? …Look, Mrs. Jenkins. I am an extraordinarily busy woman. A bee can’t be in all parts of the hive at once! …Oh, so you don’t need me there at all? All right, fine. …Oh, I just thought I would have to leave work, is all. …Where? (Looks at her bags)…At a department store…Which one? Why, uh, Lord & Taylor. …That’s right. ...There IS a sale going on, that's correct! I would highly recommend it! (Under her breath) Well, not for YOUR body type… Nothing! Well, Mrs. Jenkins, I tell you, between my interminable work hours and my family and the whole, you know, situation here… I see. I’ll set him straight. He’ll be happy as a clam tomorrow. No swearing at all. I don’t know where he gets it from, the little bastard. …No, no, I said “a little faster.” As in, “I wish this conversation would move a little faster.” (Winces at her mistake) …Now, don’t you worry, Mrs. Jenkins. Go continue your principarial duties. I’ll be sure to give you a discount at Bloomingdale’s. …LORD & TAYLOR! Right. That’s what I meant. See how stressed out I am?! (Fake chuckles)…Yes…well…good day, Mrs. Jenkins. (Hangs up the phone. Under her breath) Whore.

n_q_t

Find Your Jesus/ Find Your Kubrick

predisposed

disposables.

Marilyn

Judy

Sylvia

tell 'em how you feel, girls.

~thIs Is WhAT mY mIND looks Like>>>> .

I WISH I WAS PETER PAN

? questionmarks.

w00tw00tw000tw0w0w0w00w0w0w0w0w0w0w0weeeeeeee

hiphiphooray

dude...no. just..no.

I Just at Some M&Ms

And they were delicious.

My brother finally got his long-awaited auto harp and is playing non-stop ballads while singing along. They're classics. "Over the Rainbow"..."Speechless"..."What Dreams are Made Of" from "The Lizzie McGuire Movie"...joy.

Anyway, day 3 of high school is already over...it's pretty chill. I feel the academics are easy and hardly prevalent in the day's schedule...of course, I've only been there for three days.

Stay tuned for more musings.

n_q_T

Songs that are stuck in my head!

I will constantly be updating this post, so remember to check every now and again. I must chronicle every musical migraine!

August 31--"Papa Don't Preach" (Dianna? What are YOU doing here? {Madonna=pshaw})

September 1--"On Dit Dans la Rue"; "You Keep Me Hangin' On" (Oh, Dianna....)

September 4--"So Happy I Could Die" (GAGA!)

September 6--"Eleanor Rigby"; "Dance in the Dark" (Especially the S-s-s-Sylvia part)

September 7--"At the End of the Day"

September 8--"The Cave"

September 9--"Born to Run"

September 15--none?...why not?

n_Q_t

What a Beautiful Day to Blog

So. It's pretty much beautiful outside, but I am blogging instead.

n_q_t

How True...How True.

But even if everything else turns to dirt
We'll be the one thing in this world that won't hurt.

I'm a bit depressed at the moment. Not to worry. The drama will be over soon.

I just wish everyone could realize that when I say things from the heart...I mean them.

No lies.

I don't do lies. It's not my thing. And they stop today.

The friends, the fam, and the music will always be there for me. And the food. Food, too.

That is all I need.

n_q_t

Being Orientated

Today, I was orientated.

*Oriented? Orientationed?

Orientatedtationationopenended?

Idk.

For high school.

'Twas fun, one supposes.

Mais, bien sur, je suis nerveux.

Pourquoi? you may ask.

Oh, I don't know.

BECAUSE IT IS HIGH SCHOOL?

Oh, you may say.

YEAH, I say back.

BUT I AM STILL VERY VERY VERY EXCITED.

Everyone shall be there. Everyone.

Except for the obvious ones.

Even my brother, TrendsFX will be there! w00tw00t seniorrrs '11

N_q_t

Woopsy Daisy

WOW. I have not been blogging in a long while.

And when I say a long while, I mean a long while.

I apologize to my .5 follower. (I'll make it to 1 someday!) May I never forget to blog again.

Actually, it wasn't that I forgot...I've just been really busy with High School orientation and New Jersey and reading and family and stuff..and...stuff.

Like "Dinner for Schmucks." (Rating: C-)

And Girl with a Pearl Earring. (Rating: A-)

And Cape May. (Rating: A+. Always.)

But back to the point. The whole point of this blog was that I could get at least one contribution a day--and I need to stick to it. I need to write. I need to. Need, need, need. Want, want, want. Economics 101 with CloutzMaGootz. Yes.

On a random note:

Psychopharmacology.

Glad I got that off of my chest.

Anyhoo, I'm back. Be prepared for a reboot like no other.

Lights, camera, action!

...If only I had the former two.

N_q_t

...

WaterCress is still my life, no matter what anyone else says or thinks.

N_q_t

kwerteeooeeop.

He had nothing else to eat.

Frost had formed on the split ends of his long, scraggly locks.

He decided to give up.

He ate his arm.

Oh well.

But who was the real victim here?

The man? The arm?

Since the arm is part of the man, was the man the ultimate victim?

Since the man was the owner of the arm, did the arm too suffer?

Paradoxical parrots.

N_q_T

Holiday Fun!

In honor of August--aka The Month Where Nothing Happens--I've decided to look back on the holidays so far in 2010 and I will try to remember what I did. Let's start with--of course--

• New Year's Day--According to my planner, it seems that my cousins from Rochester were visiting! (Apparently.) I'm sure it was buckets of fun. You can always count on mah four cousins (codenames Mollster, LineyLo, ChiefM, and BurgerB) for a rambunctious visit. I'm seeing them soon, actually--can't wait!!
• Epiphany--I got to celebrate the historical significance of the magi visiting the baby Jesus and bestowing upon him frankincense, myrrh, and gold with an ERB test at school. Lovely.
• Martin Luther King, Jr. Day--No school--w00t! After a quick stop at the Wilton Playshop, it was off to see "The Lovely Bones" in Norwalk with HaleYes, Shanaynay, MegOCals, and SKatz. Very fun.
• Groundhog Day--Must have been uneventful. But then again, I celebrate privately.
• Valentine's Day--Next year, I hope my mailbox isn't as lonely on February 14th. I'm sure I ate something yummy, though.
• Mardi Gras--I do remember a French class bonanza complete with beads and dancing (ugh....) and I'm pretty sure my whole family pigged out. For Lent this year, I gave up cookies. Next year I'm giving up all after-dinner foods. Be warned.
• I missed Purim, for some reason.
• St. Patrick's Day snuck up on a Wednesday! It's also my cousin (codename ABanana)'s birthday. Hope he had fun playing Digibak, or Pokeformers, or whatever.
• Palm Sunday! Lent ends, and you know what that means next--church all week, basically!
• AND EASTER! Count on a great partay in Marlboro for a celebration commemorating the resurrection of the Messiah, juxtaposed with a creepy hare who hides unborn chickens in your lawn for your children to find and fight over! And I wore a smokin' shirt.
• Mother's Day--Yet another excuse for Mater to make us do stuff around the house while she watches Bravo! I love life.
• Memorial Day--The annual parade in town is where I was at, sporting a Wilton shirt and tootin' on Clarence the clarinet (now retired). Besides that, it went by really fast and I'm sure I had a lot of homework or something.
• Father's Day--Like Mother's Day, only no one cared.
• 4th of July--New Jersey with the fam. A night at the beach. Glowsticks. Fireworks. Smoothies. What could be better? Idk.

Well, that's it so far. I wonder what the rest of the year will bring me. A birthday, maybe. Christmas and stuff. Unless the world ends before that. If so, send me gifts now. Just in case. Thank you kindly.

N_q_t

Gah!

So I haven't been as avid in my blogging for the past 24 hours. Sorry.

I have to stop saying "sorry." I'm serious. WaterCress has dared me to stop saying it so often, and it's a challenge I'm going to ACCEPT. It's like in the olden days, in the... days of France, when men wore gloves... and slap each other with their, y'know... "D'Artagnan!"... y' know, "How dare you talk to me like that, you!" and... smack 'em!

Oh, I crack myself up.

Well, here's the first blog of the day. I hope y'all (all one of you) have been enjoying it so far.

Send me suggestions as to how I should improve! There ARE some times when I actually tolerate criticism!

I've got to work on that, too.

So--no "sorries." GO!

N_Q_T

BTW.

WaterCress is my life.

Thank you.

N_q_t

Musings.

I do love au gratin potatoes. Oh so much.

But I don't want this blog to just be snippets of things I like...I'm afraid it's going in the wrong direction. What do you say to another rant?

Why do people get headaches?

I have one right now, in fact. And it hurts my brain with a seething pain. Poetry. It's amazing how something so excruciating can be molded into a beautiful work of art. Though that was just rhyming...not the next "Road Not Taken."

Notice how I didn't put "The" in the title of the aforementioned Frost poem. Because "not the next 'The Road Not Taken'" sounds clumsy. Writing is confusing.

Speaking of poetry, I've just had THREE poems included in the "Very Bad Poetry" blog! Don't worry, they're purposely bad. http://www.verybadpoetry.com/people/show/saladontop/

Headaches. They ache. :(

N_q_t

Blue Spaghetti

I wish some people would stop bugging me.

I wish people could understand my wrecked-up mind.

I wish I could read other wrecked-up minds.

I wish I was an Oscar Meyer Wiener. Then everyone would be in love with me.

I wish I could read faster.

I wish I had longer hair right now. (Haircut=meh....)

I wish Heaven was accessible now and again for the living.

I wish the word "wish" didn't seem so weird sounding as of now.

I wish I could fly, and magically appear and disappear.

I wish I could blow a bubble with gum.

I wish I could eat blue spaghetti. But I can't. Because it doesn't exist.

I wish we all could get along like we used to in middle school... I wish I could bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat and be happy.

I wish too much.

N_q_t

Do I Dare Write? Yes.

"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." Walter Wellesley Smith

Random Carp!

Here are some story beginnings I wrote ages ago. Some are creepy, others funny, most probably can't be fleshed out. Sometimes I write best in snippets. Observe, if you will.

• Yuri kicked the sand in despair. Callie had been dead for two weeks then, and Miss Cranberry certainly wasn’t helping with the investigation. In fact, Beryl was, at that very moment, dipping her feet in the Pacific tide, treating herself to a King-Size bag of Fritos.

• There was once a time where everybody was happy. The year was 3920, and smiles adorned everybody’s face. Prisoners were happy. Homeless men were happy. Murderers and their victims never felt guilt or sorrow or pain. Everybody had the exact same look on their face: of utter nirvana. That was a much better time.

• Grandpa beat me at cards again this morning.

“I think something’s wrong with Grandpa,” I said to Aileen during breakfast.

My older sister stared at me casually as she took a bite out of her semi-black toast. She waited until she had begun to chew when she said, “Now you notice?”

• Where to begin, where to begin? I suppose I must begin with a title. “The Story of Me.” Yes, that will do nicely. “By Me.” Yes, I suppose that’s necessary, to write the author’s name after the title, for who will know who wrote the wonderful story about me? Then again, my name will be mentioned a lot during the story, as it will be about me. So perhaps I should leave the space for the author’s name blank. Of course, my name does kind of roll of the tongue: Rudy Randolph Ralinda…Rudy Randolph Ralinda…

• I had another dream that I was being chased by a pair of scissors--but they were sharpened this time--and that Hobo Harold had saved me again from a pointy and scratchy demise. As always, I thanked Harold, and then he disappeared back into his lava lamp sanctuary without a trace. I had been getting used to the same storyline, but there was just one thing that had been on my mind for the past month: Who the heck was Hobo Harold?

• Santino Sanchez was the giddiest and most peculiar person I had ever met. His mannerisms made me laugh, his attire would make me chuckle, but no matter how hard he tried to convince me, we were not “friendalicious.”

• Ghghdhhsd453879jf kjfd

“No, Bailey, that’s not how you type words. Watch me.”

Hello my name is Christina.

“Now you try.”

hdeyiusa 854RJ45HYUIDAFS

“Oh, Bailey, if only you knew how to type words, we could make a fortune and move to California.” At only three years old, Bailey sure wasn’t ready enough to be a promising act.

“Bailey! Christina! Lunchtime!”

I sighed at the sound of Mom’s voice, but Bailey ran to the kitchen in a flash. He sat himself down at the largest table in the dining room, and began to chow down on a wholesome hamburger. I sat on the floor, awaiting my gruel. Mom splattered some cold yesterday’s goulash into my red bowl.

Bailey had just finished scarfing down his hamburger when the little beagle turned to me, smirked, and said, “You know, sooner or later, you’re going to spoil me.”

Mom yelled at me to eat and I turned back to my bitter cold Hungarian meal.

• It was February then, and all the crisp, white snow and elegant icicles of the winter had mixed with dirt and mud and had become a gray-brown color, covering the town in a bleak blanket, longing for warmth and security. There’s just this weird feeling you get in the winter--like, you’re on your own and it’s every man for himself and the bracing chill of the lip-chapping air is ready to expose you and every one of your secrets.

I guess you do need to suffer to write.

• Dr. Kantokovich would always show me pictures of the same things, obvious things: an octopus, a nurse, a clock, a lamp. Then he’d say, “What does THIS one look like?” Then I’d always say the obvious answer: an octopus, a nurse, a clock, a lamp. Then after a long period of deliberation, Dr. K would look me in the eye and say, “Same diagnosis, Chaz. You’re still crazy.” The ninth time, I said that the pictures looked like a squid (it had eight arms), a policewoman (she was dressed in white), the moon (it had numbers and hands on it), and an umbrella (there was a light bulb in it), respectively. That time, Dr. K looked me in the eye and said, “Congratulations, Chaz. You’re not crazy anymore.” Well, at least Doris the secretary wouldn’t need to give me those revolting butterscotch lollipops from now on.

• “Be quiet, I’m trying to die here.”

Dick Clark in person was much more annoying than on reruns of “Pyramid.”

• It was 5:13, and my tennis lesson began at 5:30. But Mom was still at a parent-teacher conference with my older brother’s physics teacher, Mr. Cornish. A fly crept up the ruddy high school wall and the red plastic chair I sat on in the hallway creaked. I shivered; the school was still being air-conditioned in October, and I was wearing my exercise shorts. I had developed a slight headache, realized I hadn’t brought a water bottle to hydrate myself, and the high school hallway smelled of revolting cigarettes and even more revolting bubble gum. You can see why I was frustrated.

• Astrid Alabaster and Risto Rands used to be the best of friends. Before the catastrophe with Mr. Shrimp, they used to do everything together. Yes, Astrid and Risto were inseparable--until they met Alfredo. If Alfredo Shrimp had just listened to his GPS, Charla, and taken a right turn to the highway to the city instead of making a left turn to the small town of Jimbo, Astrid and Risto still might have been friends today. But between you, me, and the newfound breeze I feel on my head, both kids still stay away from Shrimp Alfredo as well as Alfredo Shrimp.

• The noose was nigh.

• I was driving back from the airport after a business trip in Miami and there was a huge traffic jam on the highway. I called my wife and told her I would be staying at a motel for the night. I made my way onto Exit 55 and found myself in a sleepy town called Mushtree. It must have been twenty minutes before the Evening Star Motel’s fluorescent sign, followed by a flickering “VACANCY” underneath it, caught my attention. Upon parking my Toyota Solara in the small parking lot, I walked up the soiled steps of the motel and made my way through a creaky revolving door. The walls of the eerie overnight shack were adorned with various fishing hooks and rusty silver stars. I was greeted at the front desk by a harried, sinewy drunk who called himself “Snuffy.” I pointed out to “Snuffy” that his frayed nametag read “Moses” and he chased me out of the motel with his “pet broom”, screaming, “Only that scumbag who Irene cheated on me with would know my name!” Then he chucked an empty beer bottle at me, hitting me square in the head. I slipped on the wet sidewalk and landed face down in a pile of yard trimmings.

The next morning, I had an enormous migraine. I realized what had happened the night before upon spitting out dirty grass. I hope nobody had seen me. The CVS across the street caught my attention, and I decided to buy an aspirin. I went into the quaint, air-conditioned pharmacy. I passed a heavy set black woman in the cosmetics aisle who periodically glanced at me. She told me I had some schmootz on by face and proceeded to use five Kleenexes to wipe off the grass stains. I told her how much I appreciated it, but I needed an aspirin and the perfume she was wearing was making my headache worse. The woman, who had introduced herself as “Lolly,” then slapped me across the face and stormed out of the store, proclaiming to the entire shop that her grandmother had given her the perfume right before she collapsed of a “cawdy ack oh-rest.” Flustered, I speed-walked over to the pharmacy section and picked out myself some Tylenol as well as some Neosporin for the mark Lolly had made when she slapped me. Her two-inch nails had probably injected nail polish into my system.

Yeah. Some of these are baaaaaad.

n_q_t

Remains of the Day: August 9th

Just some mental notes from today's many misadventures.

• I think, for this blog, every day should include a "big post" about really deep or comical stuff. The rest of the day shall be composed of poems, works of fiction, quotations, random thoughts, fun facts, and tiny tidbits. I want to refrain from too many pictures and videos as well.
• Fettuccine Alfredo is a very heavy dish.
• God works in mysterious ways. One day he created bullsh*t and now we call it the Teen Choice Awards.
• Follow-up to last bullet: Katy Perry can't sing. Side note: Neither can Ke$ha.
• "The Nanny" is a really great show. Genuinely entertaining.
• I wish I could cry purple teardrops.
• I HATE JUSTIN BARFER MORE AND MORE EACH MINUTE. SRSLY.

I'll add some more later...maybe

N_Q_T

Marootio

So scared of breaking it
But you won't let it bend
And I wrote two hundred letters
I won't ever send
Somehow it is cut so much
Deeper then they seem
You'd rather cover up
I'd rather let them be

So true, so true. And now a quote from our faithful friend, Mercutio.

If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking and you beat love down.

Trueness all around. I thank you all.

N_q_t

The Status is NOT Quo.

Labels. Lay-BELLS. I don't know anyone who pronounces it like that, but I'm sure there is someone who does. Like (pseudonym) BekkaBenz, for example, who says "iron" like "I-rawn." Please. And people still make fun of the way I say "water." I'm not a hillbilly. I don't say "WAAAAAHHHH-terrrr." I was raised by New York natives who simply say "water" as "wutter." Is that a crime? I've had people tell me I have a New York accent. They obviously haven't met my extended family.

What were we--what was I--talking about?

Labels. Right.

I hate 'em.

I despise labels. The minute you try to label me, I WILL prove you wrong. Then, being an American (most likely), you'll attempt again to label me as this or as that. I will again contradict you. On and on will the pattern go until you can only label me as "other." This I am content with, actually. Just be warned.

I mean, how can you possibly categorize me? What am I? Sometimes even I don't know.

To quote The Sound of Music, "How do you catch a moonbeam in your hand?" You can't. So you don't. Contrariwise, with labeling, one CAN label me as something--as anything. Whatever they perceive me as. But they will be wrong every time--so they shouldn't.

I'm not talking about regular labels, like "friend" or "cousin" or "confidant" or "book reader" or "singer" or "rower." I'm talking about the cruel ones that have ever struck a nerve with the victim of a labeling. "Jock." "Nerd." "Ho."

I've never been called any of those, actually.

Moving on. I honestly don't think anyone's persona can be put into words in the English language. A few cases are obvious: Lady GaGa, me, Chuck Norris. Labelers think they can generalize other people, however. But no one on Earth--I repeat, NO ONE--can have a personality that is so easily pin-downable as paper on a bulletin board.

Get your heads checked, everyone. God made each and every one of us special. Yes. God. He exists. Get over it. After all of these years, it's a shame that we still need to get people to believe in God. By now, we should have all have had the epiphany that--surprise--a greater power than we can contradict is watching over us (and NOT making us make mistakes!). As long as we all believe that something, somewhere, is keeping the world from crumbling, then we can get somewhere. Even if you believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Or if you're a Wiccan. You get my drift.

Even if you believe aliens made the Pyramids and what not.

Okay, done. I don't want this to turn into a Sunday School Class.

Speaking of: Confirmation. 1 year and 2 months to go, approximately. Confirmation name? Anthony.

The kind of label I like. That of a saint.

n_q_t