My Own Brand Of Legendary

     I reached a new level of stupidity a few weeks back. Several Fridays ago, I was making lunch for my dad, happy and free. My emotions and mental energy were wrapped around a 2002 miniseries on the life of Napoleon. At one point I came across an unusually stubborn package of liverwurst. Now, I am not a deft person, particularly with knives. As I pulled my kitchen knife up to slice the plastic, I failed to notice that the knife edge was facing up, and I was pulling that edge towards my face. Nor did I realize that I was using the sharpest knife in my house. So, like any normal person, I was shocked when the knife suddenly popped up through the plastic and smacked into my own dumb face. 

    MY OWN FACE TRIED TO COMMIT HARA-KIRI.

    I stood there for a moment in shock, eyes closed, before reaching up to feel my face. My hand came down covered with blood, and I froze. From the outside, I seemed merely stunned, but for a brief moment there I wondered if I'd stabbed myself in the eye, or perhaps chopped the upper half of my face off. 

   I steeled myself and felt around again. My eyeball was still there, but I could make out a deep cut above my eyebrow. Still holding the knife, I ran to the bathroom. As I prodded the gash in my forehead, I wondered what sort of opportunity this might hold. What amazing stories might I weave around this new scar? What excuses might I make, what yarns might I spin to make this story seem less stupid?

     I couldn't think of any. 
     As my family and friends found out what the lame half-inch-long cut above my eyebrow was from, I had nothing to tell them but the truth. They weren't surprised at any of it, except for the apparent small miracle that I hadn't actually hit my eye. 

     It was then that I realized that, through years of experience, I have built up a repertoire of klutziness. So much so that I can't faze anyone who knows me well, unless it involves an amputation or a wake. And somehow that kind of inspired me. I may not be a hardcore falcon-wielding lone ranger with an eyepatch, a source of lores and legends, but I guess I have my own legacy. I'm as graceful as an undead manatee. With all the force of a great typhoon. So I have that going for me: my own brand of legendary. 

Dream big, guys.

words and art copyright 2013 by Sabrina Smith

I Hate It When That Happens

     When my bedtime rolls around, Mr. Sandman generally has better places to be. I've had trouble falling asleep since I was pretty young. My sleep patterns go through cycles. I fall asleep at gradually later and later times, and every few months I end up staying up all night, and it resets itself. This happened again a few weeks ago, on a Saturday night. I tried not to pay attention to the clock, but I couldn't help but notice the sky getting lighter and lighter. I kept telling myself it wasn't too late yet, and that sweet, sweet repose would soon fall upon me. But I lied.

 

 

 

 

 

      As 4:00, 5:00, 6:00 came and went, I drank a pot of coffee and watched the sun rise over the valley, something I hadn't seen for a long time. I decided to stay awake until evening and fall asleep at a decent time, rather than sleep all day. Every time I felt remotely drowsy, I sucked down another cup of coffee. Things started to feel so surreal, like my brain was separate from my body and the things I said and did.

 

     I stumbled around my house in frustration. Finally, I resorted to a can of Full Throttle and took my sister to Target.

     I felt pretty alert, so we went to see Oblivion at our local discount theatre, where we sat in a dark, empty room for half an hour. I started to feel the energy escape me with with the same ease with which convicts escape Arkham, and by the time the movie began, I was barely hanging on.

   

     

     The movie was longer than I'd expected. We walked into the main entrance of the theatre. I was so tired.

 

 

 

 

     At this point my sister and I both decided that it was probably best if I didn't drive. I called our mom and told her I was too tired to drive and asked her to pick us up.

 

 

        My sister and I sat in my car while we waited. We both marveled at my weirdness. It became less and less funny the longer I thought about it.

 

 

      On the entire ride home, I cried. I pondered the deep questions of the world. I laughed at my own jokes. I chewed my nails and thought the world was angry with me. I thought I was utterly insane, and to make things worse, I couldn't stop crying. Every time I stopped, some new tragic thing would come to mind, and I would resume sobbing in my Honey Bunches of Oats. 

     I never want to feel that weird again. Since that day, I've been trying to go to sleep earlier, keeping distractions out of my room at night, and waking up at the same time every day. But in all seriousness, even though my addled mind was under the impression my world was ending when I finally fell asleep that night, when I woke up to go to work the next morning, my first thought was, "This has to go on the blog." As long as you people get a chuckle out of it, the whole experience was well worth it. 

     Now go to bed, you noobs.