A Beautiful PAIN-ting

What's light blue and hazy green and rosy pink and bright red and deep purple, all swirled into one?

Is it:

A) The Northern Lights?

B) My tie-dye shirt?

The answer is neither. If I ask you a question and give you multiple choice answers, you will never get it right because I will always add another answer, that is to say,

C) My bruises on my knees, from failing my Sex and The City audition.

Okay, not literally.

But have you seen that show? Sarah Jessica Parker in it, she wears flippin' four-inch high heels and runs along the street trying to hail a taxi. I swear, her feet must be genetically fused into those things, the way she runs with them so naturally.

So, being the idiot-stupid-dumbo-airhead-and basically all the bad names I called myself when I got my bruises, I decided, hey! Why don't I try that?

Why not, indeed.

So I got myself into some high heels. Walked around, for a while, enjoying my extra four inches. (When you're only four feet and a bit, that's a BIG deal. Geddit? Big?)

Then I decided to run.

BAM, slip, fall on both knees, and somehow on the left side of my butt at the same time. I don't even know HOW that's possible. I have bones, you know, and yet my butt managed to suddenly become flexible and hit the floor.

Nice.

So I hobbled back inside and decided to lick my wounds. I figured they'd be purple, like usual.

But maybe having an extra four inches when you fall does something to your blood vessels, because now they're all pink and green and blue too.

Weirdly beautiful, actually.

So nice I actually made a painting of my bruises. A PAIN-ting.

And if you don't think THAT's a weird sentence, maybe you should read it again.

And the worst part? My sister walked in on me peering at my knees and painting.

Oh, sure, let's just make fun at your sister when she's fallen on both her knees and the left side of her butt at the SAME time.

Scientifically, bruises sound a lot worse.

I mean, instead of just saying, "My knees and butt are bruised," scientists say stuff like, "My capillaries and venules have been traumatised, allowing blood to spread into the extracellular space. Did I mention that they are on the kneeus leggus* and on the left side of my buttus?"

Actually, I think I wanna try talking like that. Sounds fun.

Later,

A beautifully bruised Random Awesome



*Of course, I don't know what the PROPER latin name for knee is, but it sure is fun saying it!

A Punch in the Stomach

Random Awesome, that's me.

Am I tough? I once ate a whole chocolate bar in twenty seconds.

Am I hardcore? I laugh at Puck from Glee.

Am I strong? I watched My Sister's Keeper without shedding a tear.

Did seven random words from a complete stranger make me feel like I'd been punched in the stomach?

HELL, YEAH.

Here's how it happened.

The exams were last week, so everyone was running around saying, "I bombed that last history test SO badly," and "I'm going to die."

Nothing new there.

So I was walking along the corridors, when this girl barges past me, yelling, "AWESOME! I'll go tell my best friend!"

Whoof.

That was the sound of the breath leaving my body all at once. And no, I was not the Big Bad Wolf blowing down the piggie's house.

It was just that I realized that I didn't have a best friend anymore.

They used to be Marsh and Naddo and Larry, but they were all gone now. (Oops. I think I forgot to mention that Larry left school. We still keep in touch though).

I mean, sure, you can give all that crap about being friends forever, and long-distance friendships, but in the end, give 'em three years and they won't remember your name. They'll have new best friends. New classes. New teachers. New habits. A freaking new life.

So in Science I drew up a list of possible best friends. (And I was still totally paying attention, mind you).

• Marsh. (She moved away to Qatar. Nope.)
• Naddo. (Ditto).
• Larry (Yep).
• Logan Lerman (He doesn't even know I exist.)
• Angelina Jolie (Why the hell did I even put her name?)
• My cats, Ben and Jamie (I love them... but they're freakin' cats).
• Inanimate objects (they seem the most likely now.)
  
• My English teacher. And this shows just how desperate I was for a friend. Although, to be fair, she IS quite nice. And I know Ryan Seacrest.
  

It was hopeless.

Sorry, that came out wrong.

It still IS hopeless.

Anyone out there who wants to be my friend, drop me a line. If you aren't interested, then can you at least:

• Get me Logan Lerman's phone number.
• Get me a ticket to Qatar.
• Sneak me into Angelina Jolie's brood and kick one out, like maybe Shiloh. I could totally be the next Shiloh.
• Get me to talk to cats.
• Stop me from becoming totally insane, NOW.
  

Random Awesome

Just Your Average Picnic in An Abandoned House with A Stray Cat for Company

Agent R.A, signing in.

Today's mission? Sneak into abandoned, possibly haunted house, and have a picnic, of all things.

Dressed in: A black shirt, black pants, and a dark blue windbreaker. Not because it was cold, or anything - actually it was pretty warm - but because I felt that it was more... sneaky-ish. Slippers. Backpack.

Backpack filled with:

• Bag of roast nuts, 1
• Bottle of water, 1
• Bar of chocolate, 1
• Handful of fish crackers for Mango
• Flashlight, 1
• Butter knife, 1
  
• NO anti-zombie-ant spray, sadly

(Oh, wait. I guess I should explain the butter knife thing. It's like this. Being 30 kilos and scrawny, I figured that for any kidnapper lying in wait, I was easy pickings. So it was time to use brains over brawn. My Butter Knife Theory worked roughly like this: Some guy tries to kidnap me. I whip out my butter knife. He laughs, and says, "You gonna spread me with butter, kid?" I answer, "Yeah, the butter tin's behind ya!" He turns. I run. I am smart.)

I was ready to hit the road, folks. Of course, I still had no defence against ghosts but Mango. The cat was so hideous I figured he would scare any ghost we met. Either that, or he was so hideous the ghosts would want him to join them. Either way, I was cool.

I picked up Mango along the way and slipped inside.

It was exactly the same as it was last week: quiet, dusty and empty, except for where - oops - I had left dirty footprints. Oh well. Zombie ants wouldn't mind.

Okay, I thought, you can do this. Conquer your fear.

Turns out, big surprise, that I couldn't.

Y'see, I had envisioned me boldly sitting in the middle of the house, eating my picnic with bravado and pride, unafraid of anything.

The reality? I was hunched near the door, my foot firmly in the crack. What if the door blew shut? I would be trapped. Chocolate and nuts wouldn't get me very far. Then my only source of food would be Mango, and truthfully, I'd put my money on the cat.

I hastily stuffed my chocolate and nuts in my mouth, swallowed almost without chewing, tossed Mango the fish crackers and fled.

So the important thing is, I tried. I really did. I tried conquering my fear.

Tried being the operative word, of course.

Later,

Random Awesome