pure FORESHADOWING (nifra_idril) wrote,

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They're only scratching their heads.

Today I read a romance novel which starred the twin heroines, Miranda and Amanda. Their nicknames were, naturally, Randi and Mandi.

Randi was about a minute older than Mandi, and as such, was a more calm, collected, level headed pragmatist. Mandi was an impetuous hedonist. The girls told each other everything. They were bosom friends, particularly after the tragic death of their parents which left them to fend for themselves in the world at age 18 (a nubile, beddable, weddable age) and set off into the wild west to find a handsome and lanky gentleman cowboy and an untamed and untameable brave, respectively.

Mandi was the spitting image of their mother, with gold curls and blue eyes and pink cheeks and bow lips and a generally classic Southern Belle kind of charm and beauty while Randi was the exotic double of their father, an Apache brave.

Twin sisters, one of whom managed to get all of the hundreds of years of blonde blue-eyed genes, and the other received all of the 'noble savage' beauty of her father's people. I'd really like to see what Gregor Mendel would make of that.

Plus, they were named Mandi and Randi and they were twins. I mean, really. Please try harder next time, writer lady. Thank you.


Yesterday was not a pretty day for me. No, I was wearing jeans that belong to my 14 year old sister, a sweatshirt covered in cat hair and a pair of slippers that could kindly be referred to as 'highly ridiculous', mostly due to the leopard print and large floppy fake flowers on them. My hair was up in a bun, I had a huge zit in the middle of my forehead, huge purple circles under my eyes from my bronchitis keeping me up at night, the whole nine yards.

And yet it was yesterday that when I was in Blockbuster, some knuckle dragger decided that it was a brilliant idea to talk about the general size and shape of my ass complimentarily and loudly as I walked past him. I'm doubled over coughing, and he's saying things like, "So round, I want to touch it".

This, I realized as I nearly coughed my lung onto the hideous industrial carpeting, was clearly a judgment upon me.

Meanwhile, my brother is there. My brother is 15. He is ready to defend my honor, and wants to get into a fight with Cletus, The Five Houndred Pound Lard Dick.

In my head, I can hear one of the songs from West Side Story, "Be Cool, Boy, Real Cool" or something, and I keep thinking, "Dear God, Blockbuster is not the place for my baby brother to die" and envisioning obituaries that read "15 years old, and bludgeoned to death by a copy of 'Uncle Buck' -- a true tragedy."

My brother's cracking his knuckles, and saying things like, "That's my sister" which I'm sure would have been far more intimidating if his voice hadn't cracked, and I'm trying very, very hard to think up a way to a) stop coughing and b) stop the tension from escalating to violence, and so finally, when I can breathe again, I let go of my iron grip on my brother, turn to Cletus, and say calmly, "I'm a pro-choice lesbian, good day sir," and walk up to the counter.

Behind me, I hear the guy sputtering to himself about the devil and tarnation and I don't know, my immortal soul or something, and beside me my brother says out of the corner of his mouth, "Don't worry, I won't tell Mom and Dad you're pro-choice."


Writer's Block Update, Take 1:

James Lipton: Tell me, Nifra, are you still blocked?

Nifra: *leaps across the table and kills him with a faux Tiffany lamp*

Audience member: Dude, I thought this was about acting?

Writers Block Update, Take 2:

Tom Brokaw: In other news, Nifra Idril is still blocked. Let's go live to Connie Cheung, on the scene. Connie, what's the mood down there?

Connie: Well, Tom, in the past few days we've seen desperation, fury, sorrow and the agony of defeat. Today, we've reached a fever pitch of all those emotions. I'm not entirely sure how safe I am here. James Lipton's intenstines are staining my shoes.

Tom: They were cheap and ugly anyway.

Connie: WHAT?

Tom *rips off mask and reveals that he is Nifra, as Vin Diesel, wielding a chain saw with which to destroy things and allay frustration due to writer's block*


Lastly, I'd just like to say that people jogging always look utterly miserable. I use this to explain why I don't jog. That and laziness. And a ruthless efficiency. And a fanatical devotion to the Pope.

I'll come in again.
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