Strange Things I Tell You...

My brother celebrated his birthday over the weekend. Now he is a teenager. Guess who is having this drilled into her head. Yup. Me. Guess who is having it drilled into his head she ain't driving him anywhere. Ever. Unless a Zombie eats his brains and thus steals his ability to talk. NO. Not him. Sadly. The correct answer is Dave. Who some claim is non-existent and I should stop talking to. Whatever.

But, that is beside the point (whatever that means. Honestly, I think that is so far away from the point that you would think they hate each other. Can points hate each other?).

The point is, I got dragged around everywhere on Saturday and learned and few things.

Such as...

Constitution Island is a whole lot of fun. Especially when I am sitting on a rock dangling precariously over the Hudson River while writing a story I abandoned due to an over-whiny, pain in the rear, super romantic character. Oh, and getting lost while climbing humongous rocks that dwarf an average sized person is enough to make me smile at the creepy random people I see.

There was this really weird trail there that began in the middle of the woods, so I decided to follow it, seeing as I had managed to get lost. Out of nowhere, in the middle of the flippin island, it disappeared. It was sooo weird. I was tempted to begin talking to the trees, asking for directions. Then I realized this is Reality. Reality sucks. (In other, more "normal" words, trees here, do not, of course, talk. And, if they do, it certainly is not the English language.)

Never jet-ski with loose pants on. You crash, they fall off and you are stranded in the middle of the Hudson with your bare-naked rear. (Then little people on passing ferries get really excited and bite their older sister who is not letting them see the naked man in the river. She begins screaming about creeps and someone named Zipporah and how naked men are a curse upon the world and in the end screams "Mydearfuzzywuzzybunnyslippers, you're a creep!")

Apparently, if you hint to a slightly awkward guy that you are writing a story in hopes of it becoming a book, he becomes really interested in you. And then, if you tell him that it's about somewhat vampire-like creatures that you created and then your amazing friend (*cough* Naomi *cough*) made it something new and then it just became this big thing that haunts your dreams and invades your mind and thoughts and lurks around every corner he then decides to stick himself at your trying-to-write feet and question you and question you. And then you feel all weird because, once again, there is a guy who seems to like you and you want to throw something at his face and scream "I'm a major psychopath! Leave me alone!" Except, you are wayyy too nice and are enjoying explaining this world and leaving Luna in thee dust.

But, see, that's the problem. The wayyy too nice part. I am not way too nice. I beat this kid up a million times in the past, slapped his face in the morning, and told him I would rather eat fish scales than look at his face.

Oh, and, get this, as I explain the whole thing to him (while trying not to randomly get up, kick him in the side and begin screaming at him in "nonexistent" languages) another guy comes over. And then two more. And I am sitting there wondering how Miss. Anti-social-I-Hate-The-World-Can't-All-The-Idiots-Die! end up with a host (to her messed up mind) of guys literally at her feet, listening intently to her ramblings.

They were all a few years younger than me (this person I keep changing the perspective on). And it was CREEPY!

Why doesn't insanity scare people away? Why does it attract them?? AAH! *runs, jumps down a hole, looks for a white rabbit, can't find it, gives up, and curls up in a ball with notebook cradled in arms, writing furiously*

(I now wonder if this made any sense. Well, whatever.)