Regarding the fate of frogs, fairy tales are fibs

This week saw to the unfortunate fate of moving seats from the back of the biology lab to a spot directly under the teacher’s nose. I guess this is what microorganisms under microscopes feel like, what with having a magnified pair of eyes glued to your face, your answers [or lack thereof] in full view.

Defeated, I accepted my new dwelling. Wondering, what on earth probed me to take this bloody subject (caught the pun? No? Okay.)

…Back in the days when I thought photosynthesis was a process involving flashing camera’s and attractive looking plants, I had a mischievous neighbour. One afternoon while swimming, he dived deep into the depths of our shallow splash pool-or bathtub as is more appropriate for it’s dimensions. Soon after he emerged with his phalanges clamped around some sort of jumpy object. As I went closer his caged clasp flew open and unleashed a slimy, slobbery, scabrous, sand papery though smooth animate being. I know this because its texture had a make out session with my face. Yes, I’ve had a mouth to mouth make out session with a caecilian croaker , unfortunately this frog didn’t metamorphose into Price Charming. Therefore, regarding the fate of frogs, fairy tales are fibs.

Compelled by chagrin due to the fact that we wouldn’t be returning this Prince to a palace and I’d remain a princess with a permanent unchanging frog (who was a terrible kisser might I add).We opted for a carton and a freezer. Now in case you were considering it, putting a forg in a container in a mini iceland and remembering it 3 weeks later isn’t a wise idea. For one, he did not decompose. He swelled up and if your neigbour’s anything like mine, the poor frog will become a football.

Reverting back to the point, this uninformed experiment led to biology becoming a suitable subject choice. Morose to report that it’s been two years and our scalpels remain perfectly polished and free of frog poison.

This wave of nostalgia washed over me today as I stepped out of the car, tripped over the flat ground, which saw to my biology text book taking a graceful ballerina spin and landing on something squishy. When I went to retrieve it I was met with the petrified statue of a frozen frog. Looks like mother nature decided to teach these amphibians a lesson, what can I say? They just can’t seem to stay away.

Kisses
_Quixotic Novelist

Breakfast at his best

**An amusing anecdote from my trip.
Your laughter at my expense, what can I say? I’m a giver-and you’re yet to discover why:

Having existed since the beginning of time: a product of Adam and Eve and millions thereafter; a specific four lettered, single syllabled word with the might to melt even the rockiest hearts… Kids.

I’m one of those who squeal with delight at the sight of a room full of mischievous munch kins. Thus, I offered my highly qualified expert baby sitting services to a very exhausted mother for a hyper four year old. All she requested was a mere 90 minutes of sleep. Piece o’ cake right?

The little boy and I made our way down to the all-you-can-eat breakfast room buffet. First on the menu would be a bowl of cereal, since I’m not a religious breakfast eater I went with what I recalled having as a child. Here’s what transpired:
“I’ll have some rice crispies”
*2minutes later*
“Not those ones! I want chocolate rice crispies…”
*2 minutes later*
“My mommy gives me bigger rice crispies…”
*2 minutes later*
“Hey! Did you see they’ve got Nesquick cereal! Sssh… What’s that? Oh. Okay. Uhmm, my tummy says he wants some of those…”
Surrounded by four bowls of cereal variations I received a beleaguer glare from a waiter, practically pleading ‘why are you making my job so difficult?’ -ha ha , you’ve got nothing on my current occupation, buddy.

By now my stomach was boisterously booming the beat of it’s bodily bourgeoisie so I was infinitely grateful to be handed oreo after oreo by my meal mate. Wait, WHAT?
“Uhh, what are you doing?”
“Your tummy made grr , so I’m doing what the little boy does to his dog- hey! Did you know you look like a dog when you drool at the boy at that table- anyway, I remembered what the boy on the advert said :’ Mom says chocolate is good for dogs’ and so I licked in, then I twisted it and now you ated it! Maybe we’ll come on TV in the oreo advert too!” My visage shone a shade of green. I’m no fan of contamination and here I, the slobbering mongrel, was sharing drool with a dude who only just mastered the art of brushing his own teeth.

We continued without further entertainment. After declining a very vibrant veggie omelet, the little gentleman settled on an egg with was mutilated to form the River Yolk, which, believe me, ran further than the Nile- up to the managers very expensive, reflective Italian shoes….Preceded by pancakes, ‘why pour them when you can drizzle syrup directly down your throat?’
Finally paying a visit to the fruit bar, having a bite out of seven identical apples, chewing on grapes, pineapples, strawberries, kiwi and oranges only to spit them out into what can best be described as rainbow fruit salad mash up. Secret ingredient: saliva.

I’d lost both my appetite and my patience, my it was inches away from departing the sane train and permanently stopping at insanity factory. Making up my mind to run when I so much as sniffed the scent of toddler and over dosing on birth control, two stringy arm snaked themselves around my neck [in a hug, not a strangle]. This wasn’t the usual awkward collision of two bodies in a polite yet uncomfortable embrace. This was a snuggle from every fibre in his tiny being. From his mountainous, erratic, sincere heart. Just like that. I didn’t care that I’d appeared an incompetent maniac who was two seconds away from being escorted out by hotel security or that this hair brained four year old boy had captured my heart and was not , very smugly, rubbing custard into my hair and strategically placing a chocolate coated pout onto my cheek.

_Quixotic Novelist.

Fishing for compliments

I don’t know about you but I’m not really a fan of fishing. The damp surrounding area fills my shoes with a muddy mix of murky liquid and the occasional drowned fly, the buzz of groaning boat engines send my head into a spin. This, all before you’ve even picked up the tangled fishing pole. However when it comes to more superficial matters we’re all fishermen.

Deny it all you like, but you, I and everyone else have the tendency and instinct to ‘fish for compliments’ because let’s face it, we all want to be told that we’re beautiful or that we’re good at something and so the sport begins.

This got me thinking: our world is infested with insincerity, so when someone says “I love your dress!” or “Nice hit!” Do they really mean it? Are they just bitter because they couldn’t get their size in the garment you’ve donned? Maybe they’re not proud that you scored the winning shot, just envious that it wasn’t their effort that led the team to victory.

So just yesterday I received innumerable praises for my appearance, but how many people were truly and unconditionally, happy for me. This questioning brought me to a certain decision: I don’t want your compliments.

I really don’t. They’re monotonous and tautological. “You look so nice/pretty/gorgeous/stunning/BLAH BLAH BLAH…” I can think of about a dozen and more synonymous to replace those just mentioned. We’re sick of hearing them but as human beings we still WANT to hear them.

So, what’s the solution?
Don’t call me “different”, “pretty” or “perfect”. Yes, these are completely flattering but just as we’ve sucked the earth dry of it’s resources, we’ve overused these words to the point of little bearing.
Instead call me “breath taking” “alluring” or “unprecedented”.
I want so desperately so be adulated with words that exceed the majority, because when you call me “gorgeous” or “stunning” it makes me feel average.
If you really admire and adore me spend your time thinking of me, thinking up the words that accurately describe me. Don’t suggest that I’m “perfect”. I’m not. ‘Perfect’ is too easy a word to think up.
I want to know that you’ve wondered about me, imagined me in a way unparallel to any other. You achieve this through eloquence in the way in which you describe me. Read the dictionary till 2am if you have to, but please, don’t insult me by ascribing me to the mediocre of your life’s acquaintances.

_Quixotic Novelist

Diamond in the rough

**I realize I’ve vanished for quite a while. My apologies. I’ll be posting a few moments, memories and messages that I’ve collected during my trip a few weeks ago. Enjoy! **

A few nights ago, I was suspended in a stagnant crowd, the air, a ruthless suffocation of humidity. Perspiration was the scent of the moment. Internally I gagged at the amount of people clogging my personal space, borrowing my air supply. The shuffling began, pushing and shoving as I, and just about everyone else present was tossed from side to side like veggies in a stir fry.

The motions caused my surroundings to become a blur, just as a shocking gaze pierced right through me:
Two identical emerald orbs holding an ocean of mystery, their colour, alien. Unprecedented against the commoners. They were such a naturally, abnormally brilliant green- a physical oxymoron. Hypnotized, I couldn’t tear my own eyes away.

Mirroring my discomfort, two perfectly plucked jet black eyebrows met in confusion at the close proximity of the congregation.

Her mesmerizing beauty was expertly emphasized by a background of velvet skin. An abundance of dune coloured surface which bore almost twin resemblance to a camel’s back or creamy desert sand.

About five seconds had passed since I’d first sighted this spectacular being, I was still staring at her like a love sick puppy. The restless crowd began its migration and both she and I floated away into sea’s of opposite currents.

This was by far the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. Her striking aesthetics unparallel to those on the heavily photo shopped fallacious covers of Vogue and Cosmo. She was a gem buried deep within the arabian soil, once who very few would have the grace of seeing, and you know what’s the best part?
Her entire body was concealed in layers of black cloth. Apart from her striking eyes, her visage donned the niqaab (face veil)

_Quixotic Novelist