This is my story. I hope you all like it. I worked realllllly hard on it.

Hey Guys! Guess what! I wrote a story! "Why?" you ask! Because I wanted to! And because I did it for a writting contest! You should all read it! Because it's funny! Or, at least I think so! So, go on! Read it! Or I will forever torture you with my endless exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!






The Mystery of Bad Writing

He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he'd taken of his son. Which was, admittedly, rather difficult to do considering it was a life-sized, full color portrait that one overly-fond parent would likely hang above the mantle in their home. As he trudged through the rain, cursing as he ruined yet another pair of Versace custom hand-stitched leather shoes, he vowed that he would track down his son, even if it meant using the never-to-be-mailed child support check to buy another pair of designer loafers.

Yes, his son would be found. And he himself would be the one to find him, by hiring the best Private Detective money could buy. And once all of his efforts, and income, had been spent, he would be a hero in his son's eyes. But more importantly, he would make some pretty lofty headlines. The whole world would adore him as the clever, stubborn, determined--not to mention handsome--father who endlessly pursued the kidnapper of his only offspring and heir.

If only the rain would cease so he could get to the P.I.'s office before he ruined his tailored Armani suit, too. And this was his favorite one, hand knitted by thousands of teeny little silk worms. He often wondered how the worms could knit such fine fabric when they didn't have knitting needles. Or, hands, for that matter... But the suit was Eco-friendly and highly compostable, so when he threw it away next week, it would decompose into the land-fill, no problem.

He held on to his hat as a wind smelling of Creepy-Screams Donuts gusted against him, and a crack of thunder resounded through the heavy air. Turning into a back alley, he jumped when a flash of lightning zapped through the sky, briefly illuminating a silver and blue "happy birthday" balloon with a chihuahua tied to it bobbing through the sky. Looking onto this forlorn, and slightly disturbing scene, he wondered if sometime, somewhere his son was also floating through the sky, secured to a helium balloon.

In the blackness, he could barely decipher the rusting fire escapes that decorated the brick walls of the apartments he passed. It was strange, he thought, that The Best Private Detective Money Could Buy was located in such a shady part of town. That was the first incling he had that something might, if most certainly wasn't already, wrong. The second foreboding feeling came from the cliche foreshadowing that followed his suspicious thoughts.

Finally, after cutting through numerous backstreets and poorly lit cusdesac (did you know that "culsdesac" is the plural of "culdesac"?), he found the dimly luminated facade of Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I.

Emblazoned on the little half-umbrella-nylon type thing that hangs over the door so you don't get wet from rain, but that nobody really knows the name of, was a giant eye emblem, staring out at the bleak streets, red from the pollution caused by the smoke-stack houses. As he stared at the eye, he wished someone would give it some eye drops, because the irritated pinkness was really a turn-off. Suddenly, he realized how stupid he must look, standing there, and not underneath the half-umbrella-nylon type thing, and decided to step under it so that its life purpose would be fulfilled.

Feeling generous, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the building.

The first thing he saw was the secretary sitting at the reception desk. She was young, maybe in her late twenties, and she had a blonde, curly bob. She sat by the phone, flipping through a magazine and obnoxiously chewing a piece of obnoxiously pink bubble gum. He stood there, horrified, watching her mouth open and close, unable to look away as the slippery hunk of gum slid around on her tongue like egg-whites in the cookie batter, like a snake on the slip-and-slide, like Drano poured into a clogged drain, like.... Well, like something really slimy. It was kind of a turn-on.

The next thing he noticed was that the rest of the room was empty. He looked around and spotted an office door, wooden with a frosted glass window occupying the top half. It was dusty. On it was the same eye, still pink, probably because the janitor of the building obviously never cleaned any windows around here. Glancing back once more at the secretary, he adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket and strode toward the door. He was just about to knock, when a voice came from behind him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she told him with a little gesture he had never seen before. It looked rather stupid, especially combined with the lip-smacking chewing and bubble blowing coming from the secretary's mouth.

Predictably, he answered, "Why not?"

"I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work," she said as she bounced up and down.

"What?" he asked, assuming that she was crazy. And foxy. They usually go hand in hand.

Suddenly, she stood up from her chair and sauntered over to him, swaying her hips in an exaggerated way, so that when she suddenly stopped in front of him, she stumbled a little into his arms. Still smacking her gum, she looked up at him from under her lashes, and leaned close to his ear. Once there, she licked his earlobe, and said in what he assumed was supposed to be a sultry voice, "For the longest time they said we didn't need one, but then something changed and they said that we did."

Figuring she was cracked, and that he better humor her in case she snapped, he leaned forward and kissed her passionately. Then he stopped, cradling her in his arms and asked, "You didn't need what?"

She suddenly straightened. "Well aren't you a card!" she squealed. "A Private Investigator, of course. What else would we be talking about?"

He just nodded and smiled. Pacify the crazy ones, and they usually didn't make any sudden moves.

Twirling around like a ballerina, she continued talking. "You know, a boy with a parrot on his shoulder was walking along the railroad tracks."

Edging slightly toward the door, he tried to wrap up the conversation. "Well, how fascinating. Really, we must talk again soon. It was nice meeting you, nice indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

He turned and speed-walked to the door, thrusting it open and diving inside. Before he bolted the door, he swore he could hear the receptionist shouting at him, "Don't say I didn't warn you! He's going to take all of your money and leave you to die in a ditch!" But maybe it was his imagination.

He turned around, and straightened himself, smoothing his suit as he did so.

It was a normal, everyday kind of Private Investigator's office. There was a desk in the corner, with heaps upon heaps of papers covering the entire top of the desk. There was a small lamp, much too small to give of any real light, but enough to throw shadows around the room. There was a book shelf, with a book on it, and a garbage can full of empty gourmet coffee cups and Creepy-Screams Donut boxes. Behind the desk was a big, huge, giant window, with the shades pulled and set so that no light from outside could get in.

Oh, and everything was in black and white.

Behind the desk, in an equal lack of color, was Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I. He was a man in his late thirties, a camera strapped to his neck, and a magnifying glass gripped so tightly in one hand, death itself would have had a hard time prying it from his lifeless fingers. He wore a trench coat, the collar popped, and under it a white shirt without a tie. A fedora sat on his head, hiding his features and casting the good part of his upper body in shadow. The only visible thing under the hat, in fact was the glowing (in black and white) end of his hand rolled cigar.

He stared at Ignatius for a good three minutes, not saying anything until the silence that stretched became sufficiently awkward. Then, clearing his throat approximately 13 times, he said, "I've come because I need you to assist me with your services."

Ignatius ignored the question, and instead asked, "You been talkin' to Dolly?" He had a heavy Brooklyn accent, and it made it hard for him to concentrate on what the Private Detective was actually saying.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

"Dolly? The secretary?"

"Oh," he stammered, blushing at the mention of the P.I.'s crazy receptionist. "Well, she might have said a few things to me, but I assure you, I didn't take any of it into advisement. And I certainly didn't talk to her. I don't find it amusing to humor crazy rantings."

Ignatius chuckled. "Oh, Dolly's alright. A little eccentric, always feeding you the Firstline that pops into her head. She's a local."

"Awwww. I see."

Pacified at this new information, he offered his hand and said, "My name is Fredrick Richard Blake Wellington The Third. I'm afraid I need you help."

At this, Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I., stood and shook hands with him, saying, "The name's Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I. Please, have a seat. How can I be of service?"

Taking a seat in the chair across from Ignatius's desk, Frederick Richard Blake Wellington The Third opened his mouth to start talking, when Ignatius got up from his seat, picked up a baseball bat, and began bashing at the wall. From the other side, a loud thump, and then a wail waifed into the room. Ignatius stopped banging, and then shouted, "Go back to ya desk, Dolly! This meetin' here is con-fee-den-chal." He waited for a few moments, ear to the wall, before adding, "Beat it, kid! Scram! Or you'll never work in this town again!"
Nodding his head in satisfaction, Ignatius went back to his desk and sat down. "Sorry 'bout that. that girls' a little too nosy for her own good. Now, tell me what you need me to do."
Swallowing once, Fred began to tell his grueling story of loss, hard-ship, stubborn will, and hopelessness.
When he had finished, Ignatius said, "Okay. Now tell me the real story."
Fred let out a breath of astonishment, and then said, "Alright. I was at the grocery store, picking up some laxative, and the little shit wandered off."
He didn't know how he knew, but when Ignatius leaned back in his chair, Fred knew he was smiling. "And then your son walked off somewhere."
Fred nodded his head. "Yes. And I couldn't find him, so I came here. You see, my wife and I are divorced, and so I get him every other weekend. Well, I can't lose him again when it's my turn to watch him, otherwise the judge will take away my custody rights."
Nodding slowly, the Detective said, "I think I understand you, Freddy. You can't lose your son again, otherwise all those big investors who come to your dinner parties won't pay as much because your kid isn't there to charm 'em."
"Yes!" Fred said. "Yes, that's exactly it. So, will you help me?"
Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I., studied him for a long time. Finally, he said, "Did you know that Private Investigators are falsely named?"
Fred, scrunching up his brow in a cutesy way he knew was guaranteed to get him his way, said, "I'm not quite sure I follow you."
Continuing as if he had never spoken, Ignatius rambled. "Yes, P.I.'s were falsely named. They should really be called 'Private Observers.' But that wouldn't work for obvious reasons, would it? Damn the United States Postal Service and their 'P.O.' boxes! (It also sounds kind of dirty) So, Mr. Wellington The Third, I've observed you as you've been talking to me, and I've come to a few conclusions."
Fred, still inwardly chortling at the dirty joke, asked amusedly, "And what are those?"
Looking up, but still concealed under his hat, Ignatius said, "I see that you are a selfish, rich, melodramatic, rich, stupid, rich, greedy, rich--and I must say--handsome man who only wants publicity and money, the more the better."
Fred studied the Private I. in front of him. "So you won't help me, then?"
Ignatius back peddled. "Oh, no, no, I never said that. I quite admire you, really. You are quite cunning."
Fred, no longer laughing, rose from his chair angrily. "Then what is the problem?"
Ignatius followed the movement with concealed eyes. "Well, the matter is, is that I can't find someone who isn't lost."
"What do you mean, 'not lost?' I don't understand these words that are coming out of your mouth. Why, you might as well be speaking Swahili for the good it's doing me!"
Ignatius shrugged. "kusema chochote."
Fred grabbed Ignatius's shoulders and started shaking him. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING, MAN!?"
Ignatius was being jostled too hard to say anything other than, "Stop! Dad!"
At the sound of his voice when he said "dad," Fred stopped. "What?"
Finally, for the first time since they had met, Ignatius removed his hat.
Fredrick Richard Blake The Third gasped. Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker gasped. Dolly stuck her head out of the vent in the ceiling and gasped.
Even the studio audience gasped.
***
He pressed the back-space. All of the words that he had just written disappeared into a place where they could never be retrieved. It was worse than outer-space. At least you could see there was someplace to go, unlike the computer screen of his laptop.
Sighing, he closed the top, letting the small computer hibernate for a while.
He never had been good at writing mysteries.

Damn it all.

WARNING: IF YOU ARE MALE, YOU MIGHT JUST WANT TO SKIP OVER THIS ENTRY. YOU KNOW...FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY.

Okay, so I was PMS-ing. Is that really a very good excuse? And, in all actuality, it isn't even a legit excuse, since I was technically past the all mighty tyranny of PMS. Yep, definitely crossed THAT bridge. I was full on MS-ing... Uh, not like the disease, but like the "PMS" without the "P." Okay, that sounds too gross. Let's just call it PPMS. NO, SKIP THAT. That doesn't even make any sense. But I think you catch the gist of what I'm trying to get across here, people.

It was fine. I was fine. I was actually having a pretty good day. We (Grammy and Myself, minus the Mother of Diplomacy, who is currently on vacation without me:(:(:( ) , went out to lunch at a little dinner. We were getting along considerably well, considering the Mother of Diplomacy (who is aptly named) was not present. There wasn't much talking, but it wasn't hostile of awkward of anything.

Now, let's get to the real reason we were there: the food.

And I could have been naughtier than I actually was. I could have ordered a "cheese Frenchie," which is basically nature's version of an atomic bomb, only instead of nuclear waste eating the environment, it's the fat count sticking to your arteries and slowly inclining your cholesterol that do the damage to the metaphorical Hiroshima.

Anyway, what I ordered instead--cheese nachos with sour cream, salsa, and jalapenos--didn't add up to nearly the amount of destruction it could have.

It wasn't until it came that I realized I had made a mistake. Because the plate was bigger than my head. And I generally try not to eat more food than the circumference of my noggin. It also looked really greasy.

And after the first bite, I lost my whole appetite. Because--at that exact moment, when I was about gorge myself on unhealthy food because I have my period and that's always a good excuse to eat crap--that's when my body decides that it wants to remind me of the burden of being a woman.

It figures that God would do something like this to teach me to make a better choice the next time I went out to eat.

I got these massive cramps. No, not just cramps, but the Holy-Mother-of-all-that-is-HOLY kind of cramps. And I sat there (what else could I do?) and made pained conversation, and ate my food like a good little girl (trust me, no little girl would be in that much pain for that particular reason, ever in a million years), smiling and not talking between bites. Mind you, I wasn't even hungry anymore at that point. I was on automatic, trying to act like a normal person instead of an enraged lunatic, screaming about the monster eating everybody once it ate through my pelvis. Which is what I really wanted to do.

NO, what I really wanted to do was go home, and put on my most comfortable sweats (even if they weren't exactly spring fresh) and go lie in a corner moaning until the cramps subsided a little.

But there was no way in hell THAT was going to happen.

It took forever to get home. Why did the city have to pick now--NOW, when I'm about dying from womanhood--to tear up all of the main roads, and instead replace them with crappy detours that put you at least twenty minutes out of your way, just in order to get home?

The mysteries of the world.

And all the way home, all I could think was, "I hate my life. I hate myself." Now, you've got to understand that I'm not normally like this. And this wasn't even really hormone related either. But I'll give you the reasons, in a nut-shell, to why my thoughts were hostilely turned inward:

1) The ride was taking forever
2) If I wasn't a woman, this wouldn't be happening in the first place
3) My mom should be hear, listening to me bitch about this situation, considering this was all HER FAULT! for having me in the first place
4) I couldn't exactly "bitch" with my grandmother in the car
5) I was writing this blog entry, in my head, while driving in a car going 20 miles an hour, clutching my stomach, and in the background of my thoughts, clearly audible through all of the writhing and pain and blogging and personality, a sickeningly happy song by Ingrid Michaelson had the nerve to be blasting in the virtual speakers of my brain. If there had to be waiting music, then I at least expected something that fit the situation, like death metal, or Johnny Cash.
6) OH, yeah, and did I mention MY UTERUS WAS FALLING OUT!!!!!!!!!!, or in the very least doing the jitter-bug inside of my body, making sure to kick all organs in its reach.

So, yeah, I think I maybe had a right to keep thinking my life sucked, and that I sucked as well.

And as alarming as this testament might be, I should just tell you, I wasn't actually dying. This is pretty normal for me, ever month or so.

But is sure as hell sucks squid.

Naturally, after writing all of this, I would happen to come to the conclusion that I needed to talk about a very important issue in our society today....

Implants.

Yeah, that really just happened.

No, I'm just changing the subject, because I still have cramps, and I need to try to distract myself, and talking about how painful they are isn't really helping. (And don't think that I'm a wimp, because I actually have a very high threshold for pain, but they are extremely torturous this time around.)

So, on that note, you know how some people get boob implants? Well, I was thinking, what about people who get butt implants? And don't try to pretend that I'm the only weirdo out there who has ever thought about this. Because I know you're out there!

Anyway, butt implants. I know people get them. But, even in comparison to boob implants, they seem a little.... Well, stupid.

What happens when you have to sit? And what if you accidentally sit on something sharp?

Ouch! Oh nooooo!!! There goes ten grand down the toilet.....

And speaking of toilets. Would butt implants make it super weird to go to the bathroom? It would be like sitting on a cushion all the time...

And you wouldn't really be able to live in a cold place, because what if you accidentally left the window open, and the implants froze. Burrr! That would be CHILLY.

Same goes for hot weather; they would start to boil.

I guess it just goes to show that, whether it's cheese nachos or butt implants, there are a lot of bad ideas out there.

Thanks for reading!

P.S. THIS is a video of the totally kick-ass Ingrid Michaelson concert I went to on Sunday. She was hilarious!!! There was this little girl in the audience, who kept saying, "I love you Angle Michaelson!" and she interacted with her the whole night. In this video (I was standing right behind the person who took it), you can kind of hear the little girl. Anyway, this is a cover of "Toxic." Yes, the one by Brittany Spears. It's reallly funny, but not until the end. Just watch it to see what I mean.

What it's all about.

Okay, I'm freaking out. Just a little, though.

And I'm not reallllly upset. Not to the point of staying in bed all day, or staring at the ceiling, or throwing stuff.

It's just at the "writing angry--not to mention obscure--blog entries that nobody cares about". That's all.

So, I'm going to change the subject, and just hope that you'll forgive me for my bipolar attitude today. (Oh, and I'm not really bipolar... Just so you know. I'm just acting that way. Which, if you think about it, might actually make me crazier than you thought, since I really don't have an excuse like people with Bipolar disorder do.... I'm going to shut my mouth before something realllllllllly ugly flies out.)

I love watching artists do their work. And by that, I of course mean I love watching people sing. I guess it's fun to make fun of the insincere artists, who only write their music to get on the top 40 singles list... Because when they sing, they are often cold and indifferent, and a million miles away...

Example:

Pop Sensation, while preforming at a prestigious music award ceremony, isn't thinking about all of her crazy, screaming fans, or what her song is actually about, but instead is wondering whether or not she closed the fridge door after taking out a wine cooler yesterday, or if it would be really obvious if she shimmied a little to try and get the wedgie she currently had out of her ass.

But I love those artists who don't care about fame. Well, all musicians care about fame to an extent... But the ones who write their music for a legitimate reason. And I love to watch them sing and preform. It's one of the best things there is to see, in my opinion.

And it's people like that who make me want to do something with myself. And by that, what I really mean to say is, I want to make a difference. Even if not a lot of people notice it, it will still be out there, and it will have an impact.

So, in the spirit of deep musicians, here is a video of an artist who sings like that.

And I'm not saying that being an artist is pretty. This song illustrates that pretty well. But it means something. So, here is Jack's Mannequin featuring Mick Fleetwook, "God."

What's the point?

Ahhhh!!! What's the point of this, anyway?

What's the point of creating anything new when there isn't really any originality in the world?

Can you tell me that?

Because, when you think about it, you'll see that everything comes from somewhere, and that somewhere rarely comes from an undiscovered place. We all have influences.

Sometimes I wonder if that's all we are. If we are the influences that are around us, and they are us. But that wouldn't make any sense then, would it, because then they would just be feeding off of them selves.

Everything is recycled.

Everything is reused.

Everything marinates in this big circle of stuff.

Sometimes I wish that there was something new.

What would you say?

If someone ever asked you to describe your life in one word, what would it be?

This concept is not new. Not by a long shot.

But even though certain ideas have been visited, is it such a bad them to revisit them, every now and then, so that you don't forget what you've already learned?

I've got this thing, about not looking back. At the end of a day, at the end of a year, at the end of a book (unless I'm going to go back and reread the entire thing), when I'm writing, singing, walking across a room.

Even my life. I don't really like to go back and look at stuff.

I've got this other thing, about looking ahead. About the future. A lot of others join me in this... We keep our eyes forward, chasing after something that we are certain is attainable, if only we never deviate our gaze from that one fixed point.

But worrying about the future, about our plans, and what we will do... Is it really that healthy? It seems to me that most of us, if not all of us, spend too much time in the past of future. And not nearly enough time in the present.

Yeah, yeah, I know you've heard it before. But just listen, okay?

Just because you plan something all out, doesn't mean it's going to happen.

And if you're too busy looking behind you, you'll run smack-first into a telephone pole, and you'll find yourself staring at that poster for a lost pet tiger, last seen in Dallas, but escaped from the home of it's disgustingly rich owner. And that's when the panic will set in.

Okay, this isn't very cohesive, I know. Because I started out asking about how you would describe your life so far, and then I turned around and said that it didn't really matter. And part of me wants to stick to that theory...

And part of me doesn't.

Sometimes, looking back is a good thing. For example, when changing lanes. Or when your screaming kids are in the back seat of your mini van screeching and pulling each other's hair. In those cases, looking back really pays off.

Uhhg.... I don't even know what I'm saying anymore, and I can't even remember what I was going to write about.

Sorry, guys. At least I attempted to write something.

Thanks for reading.