Tag Archives: creepy

I’m Creepy

I collect parts of my family.

It’s so weird.


It’s like I’m a serial killer that hasn’t gotten around to killing them yet but has the whole “keeps souvenirs” part down.



My sister loves pandas. I now love plush pandas, adorable paintings, things like that. Plus I like how bi-polar they are. Not to mention that they spend their days eating, sleeping, attacking each other, and you know, sleeping. I think they’re adorable now as I’ve been exposed to them due to my sister, whom I call Panda. I don’t know what it is but suddenly I see a panda plushy and think it’s the cutest thing in the world. (I don’t have a money tree in my basement for my unicorn to eat from though, so I can’t buy them all)

My mom loves cookie monster. Ever since I was a munchkin, she’s loved him. Now? I love him! Cookies? Sarcasm? Blue? Fuzzy? My favorite quote by the cookie monster is, “Today me will live in the moment unless its unpleasant in which case me will eat a cookie”. Chocolate chip cookies….. *heaven* Double chocolate chip cookies too, man.

Papa loves Snoopy. I now love snoopy. Epically. He’s a writer, he loves naps, and he’s a sarcastic dog. Can you get any better???




Don’t get me wrong. I am still extremely picky, with everything. Including pandas, cookie monster quotes, and snoopy comics. Not to mention I simply added these random pieces of my family to a… you know… me. And me already came with quite a few likes already. I have like fifteen plushies and I love them all, none being a panda, for example.



Anywho, it struck me as real strange, how I collect parts of my family. Next thing you know I’ll be hiding the odd leg or finger in my freezer.

It’s like I absorb parts of them.

Creepy, right?


Have you guys ever done this?



Filed under Stream of Consciousness

Ring Around the Rosy Meaning

When I was a munchkin, I’d often sing this song:


Ring around the rosy,

Pocketful of posy,

Ashes, ashes,

We all fall down!


We’d dance in a circle and fall down at the end, smiling and laughing, then get back up and do it all over again.



A popular theory of the origins connects this nursery rhyme with the Bubonic Plague.

People reason thusly:

When you have the bubonic plague, red circular rashes form on the body, connected to “ring around the rosy”.

A “posy” is a bouquet or small handful of flowers. People would often stuff their pockets full of herbs, in hopes that they wouldn’t catch the bubonic plague.

“Ashes to ashes” is representation of cremating all the dead plague victims’ bodies.

Obviously, the whole world seemed to be falling down at the time. Everyone everywhere was dying!


In reality, the rhyme has nothing to do with the plague.

The bubonic plague struck in the 1340s. This rhyme is first recorded in writing in 1881. Folklorists have a hard time believing it survived orally this long before anyone decided it was cool enough to write down anywhere, ever.


So what on earth does it mean?

Who knows.

My best guess?

Someone has a pocket of flowers.

Ashes to ashes is a popular phrase, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”, touching on how when we die we end up as dust, eventually. I have no idea if that’s what it means, but it’s the first thing that comes to my mind. Then again, I do write fantasy and horror and my mind instantly goes to fear, love, or food… so….that could simply be me.

If not, what are the ashes talking about? Ashes only come once something or someone has been burned. Ashes of your dead loved one? Ashes of your burned down home? Any way you throw this one, it doesn’t seem all that perky.

“We all fall down” gets me. We’d go from dancing merrily in a circle to falling down. Is this a comment on how no matter how beautiful life is, we all die? Or regardless of how positive a life we live, we’ll all fall down at some point – the otherwise positive feel of the rhyme edging us on to get back up and start dancing again?

As for ringing around a rosy – you got me there.



Honestly, I’ve never really thought about it before.

I thought the bubonic plague theory was kinda cool, as it was spooky.

Once I found out it wasn’t connected to the plague, I never thought to try to piece the rhyme to anything sensical.

Personally, I like the metaphorical meaning that we should move through life with happiness stashed in our pockets, and though terrible things happen and mistakes are made, get back up and keep on singing and dancing through our life, as best we can.



What does this rhyme mean to you?


Sources: http://www.snopes.com/language/literary/rosie.asp and http://blog.dictionary.com/hidden-nursery-rhymes/


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Filed under The Odd Bit

The Story

You know, reading a really good book always gets me excited to write all over again. Like reinventing the wheel every few days, if the book was a good one.

The book I just finished wasn’t amazing, didn’t blow me out of the water fantabulous. But it was good, really good.

And that’s just the thing – now isn’t it?

That’s why we do this thing. Writing.


Regardless of the rewriting and critiquing and cringing when people tell you that your book has some major issues and you’re red with anger or green with vomit faced embarrassment. The burn of rejection when another literary agent doesn’t love your story. It rips your heart out and spins your head in twenty different directions. But you keep writing, rewriting, sending to beta readers, off for critiques and querying agents. It’s all because the story is swarming about in your head and it can’t be ignored. The characters – they’re people. They’re real. They live, they breathe. They have something to tell you, to show you. Something that means something to you.

And it’s beautiful and tragic and hideous and amazing all at once.


It’s nothing but a book to some people. Just a book. Ink and paper and binding and words strung into sentences that have no value other than the press bought to print it.

But to us – to me – the story is everything. It is who I am. All the stories living inside me. Taking flight with wings of night and scales and the bite of fanged smiles. The slow creep of cold, watchful morning, while the mist clears and the life blinks into blurred eyes and the silent things continue to creep away. Out of sight.

But mostly, the burn of life. Of poignancy and love, pain and struggle and fighting when no one else will. Living.

Muriel Rukeyser said, “The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.”

I tend to agree.




Filed under Stream of Consciousness