Posted in lovey-dovey shit

a L.O.V.E. story

L is for lingering touches on bristly skin, O is for over him never, V is for the vexatious poison in your kiss that I can’t help but want; and finally, E is for how one can become another’s everything within a nothing.

I remember the exact moment I fell in hopeless love with your stupid face. I remember your beguiling smile, your tattooed arms and watching your lips form perfect syllables. I remember your hand reaching to mine. It held mine and I traced imperfect circles over the veins pumping scarlet blood through you. The cab seat we sat on was both velvet and concrete at the same time. A sharp and beautiful tingle shot up my spine, through my fingers when your lips brushed mine. I felt it then.

I still can’t explain it. It’s a feeling all its own. When you realize you love someone. Not anything like the nervous blood sprinting in your veins when you say it aloud, because that moment could be weeks, months or years later.

This moment is pure endorphins running to every part of your body, it’s a calm cool heat. It’s like on one end your whole body freezes but a part of you that is brand new just unthawed.

You don’t just feel it in your heart you feel it in your ribs, tingling and tantalizing your toes, a pair of woolen socks wrapped around frozen feet.

I looked up at you and realized your calloused thumb rolling over my fingertips, how I could never be over you, the infection of your lips and how after this moment you had become my everything from nothing.

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Posted in Writer's Craft

Margarine

Margarine

A short story by: Alicia Mooers

I hadn’t had a drink in nearly 10 years, however as soon as I got to my high school reunion I knew that was about to change.

I had bought an impeccable tweed suit for this occasion, the pairing of my palomino tweed with a raspberry button-up could not have looked better. I do hope it survives high school. The 3-hour production of a short, coiffed hairstyle I was sporting was looking mighty fine, if I do say so myself. I will need this suit for my sister’s wedding on Thursday as well. One last check and fluff of my pumpkin spice latte colored hair and I mumble “You got this, Willie” to my reflection in the trophy case adjacent to the circus doors, and I walk in.

As I entered, the old musty sock smell that seemed to take permanent residence in the “vintage” gymnasium instantly reminded me of my personal hell, P.E. class in freshman year. I haven’t run a mile collectively since those dark days.

The gym is decorated in maroon and gold. The faded colours of the same decorations that are brought out every occasion are stirring up the old memories of my high school graduation. I remember that my mom had bought me a suit and it was three sizes too big… bless her heart. The combination of my oversized suit and the too-small graduation gown I had ordered made me look a bit like an overstuffed turkey.

There are tables filling the room brandishing the same gaudy centerpieces used at my senior prom, and I watch my graduate class milling around having awkward conversations with their bored spouses in tow. I sit back and watch them struggle to remember all that was dear to them 20 years ago. The faces, I watch one of the head cheerleaders back in the day (who I may have had a giant crush on for the whole of high school – only because she had a “bangin’ bod” – ahh, to be young) as she tries to use her university-educated-with-daddy’s-money brain to identify her supposed best friend from the past. I can practically hear her two brain cells rubbing together from here. But, alas I think it is a lost cause – she just can’t get her perfect, pink fingernail on who is standing before her.

As I chuckle to myself at the sight, I hear an all too familiar screech that hits me like a bludger to the head. “OH. MY. GOD. – WILLIE MIKLET!?!” Instantly, I panic. It couldn’t be… no… I thought she moved out east! As I reluctantly turn around, my eyes land on the one thing I didn’t want to see here. The only high school girlfriend I ever had was standing about 6 feet away from me. The unparalleled existence of Margie Rynne, yes, as in sounds like margarine. Oh god. No. This can’t be. If there is anything in this whole world that will knock me off track… it would be Margie, 5 minutes would turn anyone to drink.

Wow, she looks exactly the same – and not in a good way, nothing has changed since our 6-week totally 80’s awkward-fest we called a relationship. First I see the long, matted blonde hair with her signature immaculate straight-across bangs… The only feature not radically 80’s on this girl. I always thought that hair of hers made her look like some sort of seriously abused Barbie doll. Like, “left in a mud puddle outside for weeks and then put in the dryer,” kind of abused. I also see that she still hadn’t figured out makeup. Now, I’m not saying that I am some sort of makeup guru of any sort, but I do know that mascara is not supposed to double as an eyeshadow. Yikes. I still remember having to clean clumps of thick, black, mascara clumps out of my mom’s good Christmas towels because Margie decided they made the perfect tissues on one self-conscious night. Everything about this hen made my sober brain crave a drink. I decided, sober or not, I would get through this night with Margie. I put on my best fake smile and yelled back “Margie! *sigh* Long time no see!” my best futile attempt at appearing excited.

 Impact.

The next thing I know she’s practically strangling me, I know she’s wearing those god-awful fake nails with some sort of rhinestone on the top because they are making tiny canyons in my flesh. Ow. I inhale the regrettably familiar scent of Margie, Cotton Candy and bad breath. Dear Lord, I think her breath actually got worse. As she squeezes, I feel like I am sinking deeper into an endless void of polyester and spandex. “O.M.G Willie.. You just went and became a little hottie-patottie didn’t you?!? I bet you have all the girls fawning after you dontcha?” I don’t even comprehend what this gluttonous mass standing in front of me said because I am too busy focusing on the repulsive slap of her chewing gum that might as well be hitting me in the face. She looks at me expectantly. Did she ask me something? Oh dear, what did she say? I decide on a slow nod accompanying a “Yeeess…” She looks content so I guess that was the right answer. I look past her enormous face and just beyond the large, neon enamel earring staring into my soul, I see an open bar. Yes! My salvation. I say “I think I’m going to go and get a drink…” and then, when I thought the coast was clear and I could happily avoid her for the rest of the night… “Oh, Willie! You always were such a sweetie, don’t tell me you’re still too nervous to ask me if I want a drink?” I stared at her. She stared back, a sickening grin bounding from ear to ear stretched across her face. I turned to go, defeated, and behind me I could hear the clicking of her heels as she followed me to the bar. I decided Margie was as good a reason as any to start drinking again. Otherwise, this was going to be a long night.

I lumbered up to the bar, with the clicking not far behind and ordered a gin and tonic. As the bartender handed me my drink, I heard an “ahem” on my left. Margie was standing there with her enormous cow eyes flitting between me, my drink and the bar. Another “ahem” and I caught on. This narwhal beside me wanted to order her a drink. Seriously. By this time the bartender asks “… and for the lady?” looking straight at me. I grumbled “Whatever will get her drunk…” and left.

I found a nearby table covered in “Congrats Grad!” confetti and a faded maroon tablecloth. Settling into a hard, plastic chair that is decorated with multiple carvings, one of which is a rather large engraving of a lopsided heart with a “Jace” professing his love for a “Madi” … “Jace and Madi 4 Eva!”

As I am getting comfortable and lifting the glorious gin and tonic to my mouth, I hear the clicking again. Before she can get any closer, I take a big gulp of my drink. The intoxicating buzz of bubbles on my tongue sets off a rush of instant gratification and I started to remember less and less why I quit drinking in the first place. The clicking gets closer and then is beside me. Then the pecking begins. “Sooo when did you get a little chunky in the trunky?” or “Why did we even break up in da first place?” her voice is reminiscent of a dog toy. I keep sipping and nodding.

After what feels like an eternity of meaningless questions, and about 6 gin and tonics later, she starts with “Willie, you think *hiccup* we could *hiccup* reconnect?” when I say nothing back, she inches all 200 pounds of pleather and cheetah print closer and hisses the words that are only ever brought up after eight vodka shots and ten years “Like in an intimate way”. I struggle to keep the gin and tonic down. I may be drunk but all the alcohol in the world could not make me get with Margie ever again. I say “no Margie, we had our times… you’re very drunk, and I don’t think you wouldn’t be saying that sober.” Her grey eyes burn into mine. They start to puff up. Crap, she’s about to push me down a waterslide I did NOT sign up for.

“How could you!?” *hiccup* she continued with “I am NAAAT drunk…! I still love you Willie! Why do ya think I came back to this hellhole?” *hiccup* “The thought that I would’ve have a chance with you again is the only thing that keeps me …”

Chunks.

Yes, Margie Rynne vomited on my new tweed pants. Wonderful. I guess I’m going to need a new suit for my sister’s wedding on Thursday after all. I stare up at the leopard print porpoise that ruined them. Behind her matted yellow head of hair, I see the whole reunion laughing. A couple of them have big lumps of the Welcome Back Class of 1987 cake in their hands, others are in the corner holding handfuls of confetti and chips near the industrial fans. What in the world is about to happen?

FOOD FIIIIGHT!!!

Now I understand all the food in people’s hands. I stand up, unzip my smelly, soggy pants and add to the noise of by yelling “STRIP FOOD FIGHT” – don’t ask what possessed me to do this, because I don’t know – but to my surprise everyone actually listens. I grab a chunk of cake from the table nearby, I ball it up in my once beautiful tweed pants and chuck it at a previous football quarterback who, upon impact, squeals like a girl I once dated at the sight of a bumblebee. A miraculous thing happens next, he turns and right when I think he’s going to charge, yells across the madness “nice shot!” and continues to pelt people with napkin-made spitballs.

I hear clicking behind me and for the first time all night I don’t care if it’s Margie. As I turn, it’s the brainless cheerleader I had observed earlier, now pants-less and standing right in front of me. She says nothing except – “You’re actually pretty cool” and plants a highly intoxicated kiss on me right in the middle of the chaos. Better than Margie I guess.

When the drunken cheerleader becomes bored with me and goes back to her football-star husband, I decide this has been enough fun for one night. As I turn to leave the chaos I started behind me, I see a half of a cheetah print ball laying facedown under one of the tables. Margie must have either died or it couldn’t handle all the physical activity and liquor, and so it passed out. I walk over to the large spandex covered gluteus-maximus and poke it with my shoe. The mass of Margie Rynne grunts, well she is at least alive. I turn to leave.

One last look at the chaos that my high school reunion and I see “nerds” fighting alongside “jocks” – something that would’ve never happened all those years ago. I see Margie’s rump sticking out from under that table. Banners are being ripped down and being used as shelter. There’s chip shrapnel flying and cake-confetti mixture splattering on nearby walls, various items of clothing decorating the floors but still the gym sock smell remains.

I walk through the doors and out into the hallway. The same trophy case that self-selected its own glory is staring me in the face and my once perfect hair is misshapen and cake bits are doubling as styling gel. I now have a quite literally raspberry coloured shirt, as I am coated in berry juice. My tweed jacket has seen better and I sigh for my missing tweed pants.

I would get them cleaned, if only I could remember where they ended up.

Posted in Writer's Craft

I am Number 4 Movie “Review”

Hello peeps. I wrote this movie review for my Writers Craft class and now I am going to share it with you because I think it’s pretty funny.

I am Number Four (IMDB)  – In case you don’t know what movie I am talking about.

I am Number Four Movie review. 

Alicia Mooers

Okay. Let’s start by addressing the fact that the only way this movie would get more than 3 stars from any self-respecting critic is if they were judging solely on abs. There are a lot of alien-boy abs seen in this movie, and that is about the only good thing it is useful for.

Now to move onto the other aspects of this less than satisfactory movie. One thing that should be known is that this movie was adapted from the book series originally written by Pittacus Lore. This is the first and last movie made in the series I hope. For the love of all that is good and holy please do not make any more of these movies, DreamWorks. I am begging you. And, if you absolutely have to make another, may I suggest dropping all the things like dialogue and plot and switch genres to something more fitting for this amount of alien abs… Maybe more of an “Adult Film”. I think you could really have something there.

As with all badly made books-turned-movies; this one was no different. It had an angry, angst-filled teen alien dude who moves around a lot and hates his guardian because of it (but secretly loves him all the same and when he dies in the end, angry alien dude cries), an innocent artsy girl who is somehow not freaked out by the fact that her soon to be boyfriend’s hands glow; and a shady ass lizard-turned faithful dog- turned demon protector dog that is the size of an elephant (which obviously gets injured in battle and I honestly don’t remember if he dies or not. Frankly, I don’t care.)

In the end, all the abs in the world could not fix this preteen wet dream of a movie.

 

Posted in comedy, tattoos

Hello 2016!

Okay so I know I’m a little bit late on the whole “Happy New Year” thing and all as it is January 2nd, BUT I’m still writing this within the first week and that’s a win in my book.

Anyway, I felt I have not written on here in a while and decided to check in. Some things have changed for me and I made some resolution-type things for 2016.

Let’s start with what I have been up to.

Well, I got a job. I’ll admit, its not my favorite place to be in the world all the time but my co-workers are funny and it isn’t a hard job. So yeah that’s a thing.

Next, (with my first paycheck from aforementioned job) I got my second tattoo. I have been planning it since I got my first one and I am totally in love. It is a peacock feather on my thigh. It flows with the muscle and makes my leg 100% more interesting than it was before. My other leg feels neglected now because it is not half as beautiful.

Fun Fact: My legs are my favorite part of my body. Cellulite and all.

Now, onto the “resolutions” for 2016 I made for myself.

  1. As always, to try my very best to not go completely insane one day and become so possessed by anger that I become some sort of redheaded gorilla and attack a city.
  2. Write more.
  3. Graduate High school.
  4. Change; just a little bit. (I know I will do this, it happens every year.)
  5. Maybe find a boy to hypnotize and drug so he will fall in love with my beautiful monkey of a self and become my boyfriend. (There’s always got to be a completely unattainable one — I will be just as single next year as I am now.) *Laugh-cries*
  6. Snuggle my cats against their free will more.
  7. Idk do something cool.

I think that is a pretty extensive list.

Here is a picture of my tattoo.

IMG_7898.JPG

I took this on the night I got it so it is red and puffy here. Still quite swollen, but ain’t it pretty?

It hurt like a bitch. (I’ve never understood that phrase, like what does it mean “Hurt like a bitch”? Do women hurt really bad all the time? Did a female dog bite some guy and then a couple weeks later his wife left him so he was like “wow, this hurts like a bitch”? Who knows….)

Fun little story, while I was getting the beautiful tattoo up there, It hurt really bad (especially on the side of my leg) and there’s something wrong with me so I deal with extreme pain (and extreme anger) by giggling uncontrollably. It is a problem. Anyway, while I was in immense pain, I began to giggle and I could tell that my tattoo artist, Roger, was probably thinking *What the hell is this girls damage? Is having needles jammed into her skin thousands of times a minute somehow enjoyable for her? Does she like pain? Is she a Satan worshipper? She has red hair, so it would make sense…* In reality, none of this went through his head at all, but that’s what my anxious brain produced for the situation.

I never know how to end these stupid things.

Goodbye!

no, I use that too much.

So, that’s it!

nope.

bfhdfn efuowe hep

what the hell is that?

Wherever you are have a nice night. Ill see you guys next time!

there is so much wrong with this one. you are a blogger, you never”see” your readers. and if you did it would not be “you guys” it would be one person, you narcissist.

Oh eff it, just bye.

a little aggressive, but okay.

STUFF YOU SHOULD LOOK AT:

Tattoo Artist (Roger)

https://www.facebook.com/Lords-Ink-Canada-233836682474/?fref=ts

… yeah that’s all I got for you