What Rings But Can't Be Answered by Rebecca Lindenberg

You are beautiful as a telephone, colors
of bone, rocket ship, and cocktail lounge—

Hmm, says the neon sign, starting
an unfinishable thought.

Where do we go from here?

I’m a balloon,
each minute you don’t call is a breath
you blow into me.

I want to be the crackers in your soup,
I want to be your brass compass. Oh, mister,
just thinking about you curls the ends of my hair.

The clock tisk-tisks.

Moon, you old spinster, don’t you mock me
with your pockmarks and your slow, slow travels.

Moon, what would you know, cold as cheese?

Hmm. Tisk-tisk.

Behind a far-off door, a thought about me is being formed
out of nothing but light.

And when that phone does ring—

-Rebecca Lindenberg 

The Shark Week Saga or Why I Will Never Be A 90 Pound American Apparel Model

So I was just in the shower, washing my hair, and I decided to put some olive oil on it, because in case you didn't know, apparently that makes your hair shiny and soft (in my case those things are synonymous with soft and greasy, like pasta, which is fitting.)  And all I could think was, my hair smells like the bread at Olive Garden....should I have some before-bed ice cream to go with my at-work ice cream?

And then of course, I came to the tragic realization that I will never be ninety pounds because I eat alllll of the things.

*Disclaimer: I do not really care about being 90 pounds.  I am not a morbidly obese person with unrealistic goals, nor am I three feet tall, so being ninety pounds is not really a "thing" for me.

Anyway, as I was massaging the olive oil into my hair, I made a scientific discovery!  The reason why I am incapable of resisting all the things (foodwise) is because of Shark Week.

For those of you who don't know what Shark Week is, it is not, in fact, the TV special that features lots of videos of sharks, I am assuming.  I am just calling Shark Week Shark Week here so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of my readers, of whom I am certain there are many.

So, anyway, according to Science, the Cycle of Shark Week goes like this:

But according to ME, the cycle goes like this:

You can all thank me later for this dose of Science.

In which I detail my time as an illegal alien in France

So today for lunch...or whatever you call a meal you eat at 4:30, I had bread and butter.  And I thought to myself, "no wonder the phrase 'it's my bread and butter' came about.  This is delicious."

Then I thought about how European I felt.  Then I wondered if just eating bread and butter would be something Europeans do.

I decided yes, it was definitely something Europeans do.

Then I thought about how I am definitely going to go to France ASAP, run away, disappear into the French countryside, and likely work in a patisserie under the assumed name "Simone."  Or perhaps I will just keep my name because it's pretty French anyway.

Then I will fall in love with the local boulanger named Guillaume, and though we will be poor because I am an illegal alien and he bakes bread for a living, we will be very happy.

Until, of course, the government discovers me.  At which point I will have to tell Guillaume of my real identity.  And he'll be all, "tu n'es pas Francaise?!"  (Which roughly translates to "wait, for real?  You're not French?!"

And I'll be like..."non." (Translation: Nope.)

At which point he will say, "mais tu as le meilleur accent francais!!!" (You have a bitchin' french accent.)

And I'll be all..."je sais, Guillaume.  Je sais."  (I know, right?!)

Then we will have a green card marriage, which will rapidly disintegrate after the french version of the po-po are off my trail, because really, neither myself nor Guillaume was built to be married.

I'll have to quit my job at the patisserie.  Seeing Guillaume will be way too awkward.  But the skills I've gleaned will help me to move to another small french village in the middle of the night and establish myself at another local business.

I will keep doing this until I am deported or dead.  Either way, whenever I eat bread and butter I will think of my time as an illegal alien in France.

Fin.

You were right, Katy Perry, I AM a Firework!!! (Not sure why that is capitalized, but it's whatever, OK? Just shut up.)

A conversation between myself and my darling Colton Iverson.

Background: Colton told me, yet again, that I make bad choices, but that is why he likes me (a rather sad compliment, but I'll take it.)

Me: 

I know, I'm fun to watch.

On occasion.

Like...fireworks. But on a windy day

where you're kinda like..

shit.

I hope those don't blow over.

And light things on fire.

Colton:

BUT THEY'RE SO BEAUTIFUL

Me:

PRECISELY

but they're also kind of loud

and they do the same thing over and over

and you're like...

"I'm not that impressed" after about an hour

Colton:

But theres the ooooooooooh! aaaaaaaah! effect!

dont forget that!

totes worth it

This is a firework in the wind.  Just so you know.