Fiction Friday-WOOOOO!

News: I  have an official boyfriend, he met the family, they love him, Bailee quit PMS, I cried and now I'm PMS'ing.

Now on to Fiction Friday.

I had a friend comment on a status update with "Mmmm, brains." So. That's gonna inspire today's Fiction Friday.  I hope you like it.

Brains

by This Girl

I've been sitting here, in this jar, for what seems like ages. Floating around in formaldehyde, with no stimulus other than the occasional mad scientist's assistant coming in to steal one of my neighbors for some crazy, misguided experiment. They never pick me.  They barely even glance in my direction.  I'm going to be honest and say that it's beginning to effect what was once a brilliant and somewhat egocentric mind.  I was never the last one picked. Always the first, always the best.  And now there is a film of dust covering the label on my jar that screams to the world two names that during my life were connected with the word genius.  I honestly couldn't tell you at this point of my death what those two names were, but I hope you'll forgive me as it's been years since this brain was actually inside a skull.

I can remember how I died. An argument with the wife distracted me whilst I was combining elements that required precision in measurements, and boom! My hands were blown to smithereens and I bled out on my laboratory floor while she screamed like a banshee for help that never came. Why I ever married that woman is a question I have pondered on countless occasions while on this shelf. I should have stayed in the lab when my dear mother told me to come upstairs for that ridiculous party.  I should have never bowed to societal pressures and began courting that ridiculous creature, and should definitely not have placed a carbon allotrope ring on her finger.  She was always nagging about how I loved my work more than I loved her, and she was right. That night she had gotten upset about my missing a dinner party. She claimed my absence caused her embarrassment.  Usually, her complaints fell on deaf ears, but the addition of flying missiles being hurled at me from the staircase caused my attention to wander.  I'm sure she has since remarried, or has died of consumption. I don't know and I don't care.

I long for the day when a hunchbacked Igor will grab my jar from the shelf.  When a Dr. Frankenstein will take my gray matter into his hands and plunge me into the cavernous skull of some patchwork cadaver, then animate me with the electricity of the gods.  The day will come when I will be able to walk and talk and create again.  My research was on the verge of completion when that harpy ended my life with her absolute idiocy.  An irony to die while researching immortality, but no one can say that I don't have a sense of humor.  Didn't have a sense of humor, as I can hardly laugh in my current state.

The day will come. I'll be plunked from the death I could not avoid and live again. My hands may be larger and rougher than my delicate, white hands with which I was born.  My gait may be lumbering.  My speech may be impaired, but the ideas and the genius behind them will be immediately recognizable.  I will outreach even my new master in regards to fighting and beating death.  I will conquer death and with it, the world.

If I had a mouth, I would maniacally laugh right now.

   

Happy Yew Near!

Have I mentioned that I hate the holidays?

New Years Eve is no exception. It's not just that it is just another couple's holiday where singles are pressured into finding someone, anyone to kiss at midnight. It's not because of the old adage that whatever you do on New Years Eve is what you will be spending the next year of your life doing. It's not because of the champagne, and Auld Lang Syne, and watching Dick Clark fight through a stroke to still be the face and voice of the NYE celebration in NYC (Ryan Seacrest can go eff himself).



It's because of the ball dropping.

How many balls had I dropped, in terms of my career, love, life, friendship over the past year? How many times had I let someone else down? What could I have done differently? What can I do differently in the next year to make sure I'm not in the same place on December 31st, hoping and wishing and making plans for a future that is unsure and fraught with questions? I reflect on these things as the countdown starts and see the next year looming as 365 days of potential doom.

I may be a pessimist. But I'm a pessimist with a sense of humor.

You see, if this New Years is the bar to which I should measure the next year, I will be spending 2011 with friends and loved ones, slightly tipsy on Jello shots and vodka cranberry, scarfing a gourmet spread made with care by my two dear friends. It will end with me climbing up on a rooftop, still tipsy and in heels, hanging out with a handsome man until three in the morning, and will be swept off of my feet into his muscle bound arms and dumped in front of my car door before I make my way wearily home to bed. I will then wash my face by splashing water on it clumsily, brush my teeth so as to not give plaque the ability to deteriorate my tooth enamel, and pop my bleary, make up clogged contact lenses out of my eyeballs into solution to sit there until I wake up at 8:30 to start the day.

Bring it on, 2011. Bring. It. On.