YOU KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS

Yup. It's TUESDAY. YAYYYY. Everyone loves tuesdays (hahh... so funny) and FRIDAYS. But this week's friday isn't very important, is it? Nuuuuu it's not. Tuesday is better. Much better. Why? Today is a bright, (not so) sunshiney day, (partly) full with smiles, laughter, and (not) cake. I FORGOT ABOUT CAKE. HOW COULD I HAVE BEEN SO STUUUPID. WHAT GOOD IS A TUESDAY WITHOUT CAKE

Yeshh, you probably guessed it since you're such a smart person (and also this video is shown on the home page and it says BirThdayZ on it). Today's my birthday

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XWPdH-PYQSk

TO-OO-DAY, IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY. TO-OO-DAY, IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY.

WAIT. WHAT IS THAT I SEE? CAKE? PROBABLY MADE FORM BRAIN BATTER? Gross. BUT IT'S STILL CAKE. Why'd you just drop in on the floor? Huh? Huh? You couldn't just set it on the floor like a decent zombie? IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY TODAY, JESTER ZOMBIE. BE THANKFUL FOR THAT DELICIOUS LOOKING CAKE. That chocolate icing squiggle looks heavenly. AND THOSE CANDLES. SUCH FANCY CANDLES. YOU JUST DROPPED THEM ON THE FLOOR WITH THE DIRT AND DUST AND HAIR. NOW THEY WILL NEVER SEE ANOTHER CAKE AGAIN. SHAAAAAMMEE

(don't know how to transition. decides to not even try)

In Creative Writing, I passed in a short story about a girl's birthday. I'll post it here so I won't have to later when they delete my Google Docs account.

~*~

Reality

When I was a little girl, I dreamt of becoming a princess just like Rapunzel. I imagined living in a room covered in fuzzy cushions in a tower of chipped ice that sparkled in the sunlight like a billion tiny diamonds. The princes who tried to rescue me would take forever to climb the rough surface, past my thin blond hair that stretched for miles, to my voice that sang to every sunrise and sunset.

Now, I’m stuck in reality, where cold sandwiches of canned tuna and processed cheese substitute imaginary feasts of grilled shrimp on a bed of creamy alfredo and warm fettuccine. My velvet gowns and gossamer robes have become only a couple of oversized shirts and baggy jeans from local thrift stores. The princes of my neighborhood prefer not to socialize with me. They think it's strange that I can’t afford new textbooks or the school’s greasy lunch. Sometimes, I feel invisible. It’s nice to be forgotten sometimes, to imagine who I could’ve been if I didn’t live in the tiny hut by the shore.

Today, it doesn’t seem like it’s my birthday. The sun is still rising, beautiful as ever against the soft waves of salty water a hundred feet away, even if it’s slightly blurred. Seagulls still drop little white splotches onto our poor roof. Mom sits across our tiny TV in the living room, eyes permanently locked to the actors and actresses, still wondering if she could’ve been beside them right now if I hadn’t happened. I make breakfast for us, two tiny bowls of cereal, and set one in front of her with a bent plastic spoon. She only eats during the commercials.

A few months ago, I decided that birthdays aren’t for celebrating my birth, but for thanking the one who put in so much effort bringing me into this crooked world. Today, I’ll be a wealthy director just for her. My first movie is coming out, and Mom has a VIP ticket. Her feet will walk only on red carpet, and bright flashes will follow her everywhere. Without a doubt, she’ll the heart of the event.

I’m ashamed to admit that the carpet is made of dyed fuzzy socks and the camera flashes are broken Christmas lights. I don’t want to remember her in polyester and cracked beads when she could be in the finest silk and diamonds. I want the best for her, because I know that somewhere deep inside her heart, she loves me too.

My movie is nothing other than a collection of singing and building sandcastles with Mom, but I hope that after she sees herself on screen, she’ll break down her wall of neglection. We can be a family, complete with a golden-haired princess and a gorgeous actress. Classic and modern; a timeless masterpiece.

After dinner, I turn off the TV. Her head snaps up and she stares at me with shark eyes, void of any emotion. I take a deep breath. In and out.

“It’s my birthday today, Mom,” I say. She keeps staring. “I made a red carpet just for you, and sent invitations to the paparazzi. It’s my first film, and I’d like you to watch it with me. Please.” She hoists herself off the couch and disappears into her room. I panic for a bit, then assume she’s just going to change her clothes. I sit where it’s still warm and wait.

Two minutes later, I hear her TV turn on. I stumble to her door and try to open it. It’s locked.

“Mom. Don’t leave yet. Your fans are all waiting for you. You don’t want to disappoint them, do you?”

“I don’t have any fans,” comes a muffled voice.

“Yes, you do. You have me. And today, since it’s my birthday, I wish for you to become a great actress, one that everyone looks up to. I wish for you to be happy.” It's hard to breathe, but air comes second to Mom. “What do you want me to do? How can we be a family again?”

She repeats the words from the TV.

“Go away, Anna.”

“My name isn’t Anna,” I whisper. Willing my lungs to stop dying, I turn to the coat rack beside me, throw on my worn rainboots and fly out the door, past memories of warm hugs and bedtime stories. I was so stupid as a child. Broken dolls can’t be princesses.

At the edge of a rocky cliff which once served as my tower, I stretch out my arms and welcome the feeling of loneliness.

~*~

I edited some of it to make it seem less choppy. I never knew my writing was so choppity chop choppy.

This story doesn't seem very fit for a blog. Oh well.