The Narrarator

I distinctly remember a time when I was younger and I was convinced that the word “narrator” was actually “narrarator.” I always got upset when someone said “narrator,” including the strange British punk in George of the Jungle who said, “Are you arguing with the narrator?” Because “narrarator” was such an integral part of my childhood, I have decided to keep it alive in the form of a super-robot called The Narrarator. Of course, this is all in the fun spirit of the announcement of the new Terminator movie. I saw the preview for it at the Batman movie. It will be coming out next summer. Christian Bale is in it. Mmm…Christian Bale. My movie, the one about The Narrarator, will also be starring Christian Bale.

In other news, I am going home at the end of this week! I am very excited to see my family, my house, my Daddy’s big screen TV, and my cat. Have I told you about my cat? He purrs to me over the phone. He sends me e-mails (they don’t make any sense—but that’s how I know he helped write them). He runs in place on the new hardwood floor. He fights with the cat in the oven. Don’t worry, no animals were harmed in the making of this blog post: my cat simply sees his reflection in the oven door and tries to attack it. What else does he do—oh yeah, he attacked Santa Claus last Christmas. We woke up and found presents strewn across the living room and other clear signs of a struggle. There were tufts of fur. The candy had been knocked over. And then there was the digital camera, sitting suspiciously by the fireplace. My sisters and I picked it up and checked the pictures. The first thing on the screen was a picture of the cat’s paw coming right for the camera! Santa had managed to take a picture of his attacker. Smart man. Not smart cat. We tried to give him a name to live up to. We called him Samwise. The Brave. Anymore, he just responds to Stupid Sam.

So that is what I get to look forward to when I go home. Yup, I have an interesting life. Be jealous. Especially since Christian Bale narrarates my life story.

Moonlight Logic

So, funny story (as if you didn’t already suspect it to be so). I would like to tell you the tale of how I came to believe I was dying when I woke up at 1:30 this morning. First of all, I woke up because the light in the vanity area came on, and I am extremely sensitive to light at night. Upon seeing the clock and discovering that it was 1:30a.m., I decided that one of my roommates was up. Disclaimer: understand that I have a hyperactive imagination as it is, but the hyperactivity is amplified when the sun goes down. Back to my story: as I sat up in my bed, I realized that I was feeling feverish and nauseated (note the correct form of the word!). I wondered if whichever of my roommates who was awake was also feeling sick. It’s not every night that two of us get up at the same time. I thought I was food-poisoned, but there wasn’t anything that my roommates and I had eaten together. We couldn't all be randomly food-poisoned. Then, I gasped. There was only one clear explanation in the middle of the night: we were being poisoned…by carbon monoxide. I knew that we had a carbon monoxide detector, but I deduced (with my great genius and vast intellect) that it was not functioning. And, having never before been poisoned by the gas, I had only a good guess at the symptoms: anything that involved discomfort. Besides, the only thing that my roommates and I had ingested in common was our air. That must be it, I thought to myself. What to do now? I opened both windows in my bedroom and pressed my face to the screen (that must have been an interesting sight from outside). “Air…” I gasped as I inhaled the fresh summer oxygen. As the breeze blew into my room, I started to cool down and stopped feeling so feverish. I yawned. It was now 1:40. I had lost ten precious minutes of sleep. I settled back into my pillow and got comfy again. As I drifted off to sleep, I stopped worrying about dying of carbon monoxide poisoning. Instead, I thought, “Well, at least I will die comfortable.”

Clearly, I did not die comfortable. In fact, you might be shocked to find out that I did not die at all. Later today, I discovered that my roommates had simply been up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. It was a coincidence that we awoke at the same time. They weren’t afraid of dying of carbon monoxide poisoning. I was quite embarrassed, yet relieved that no one had witnessed my moonlight logic. The whole disaster was all in my head. I’m starting to wonder what else is all in my head. For instance, the bogeyman that lives under my bed might not be a bogeyman at all: he’s probably just some lost creature from the black lagoon. Yep, probably.

Revenge of the Teenagehood

I am officially twenty years old now. However, my teenage-ness did not want to die ungloriously. With its last surge of energy, it raised up a gihugic zit on my chin: no joke, I have never before had a blemish this large! I nicknamed it Mount Doom. The last thing I need to have on my face is a fiery, evil volcano with little hobbits running up and down it. I am starting to believe now that we, as humans, have truly been made from the dust of the earth. Earth has volcanoes, we have volcanoes, we are like the earth--there you go. I just hope this zit does not leave a scar. And I pray that my skin snaps back to its original elasticity.

Curse you, teenagehood! You have left your mark, but do not take my words lightly: you shall have your comeuppance. My face shall be avenged.