Category Archives: Random Posts that Have No Meaning


Long time no see.

So, I feel like I should write something, seeing that I haven’t for the past several months.

And you know. I don’t particularly feel guilty, as I don’t think anyone’s reading this, but since I probably will revisit this site in the distant future and “smile” at my immaturity as an adolescent, I think updating is a good idea.


School’s almost done, and I am feeling great. I’m desperately hoping to get some projects finished with, this blog being one of them, and summer’s the best time to do ’em. So, everybody (or, you know, nobody). Hope to update you guys with my amazing talents in doing things no one really does (cause they don’t want to, not cause they can’t.)

I also have a special project coming up! It’s a secret, but if my friend and I can get it running, I will be forever happy.

Also, several drafts have already been started for new posts. I hope it’ll be fun. You know….


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A Day in the Park-A Short Story

He was pathetic.

A dry shriveled mackerel of a boy who constantly sniffled and wept.

What an idiot.

A light snowflake caught his eyelashes and fluttered into his fingers.

He shifted in his seat on the hard cold bench, his fingers playing with the snow that gracefully landed in his hands.

The year’s first snow. How lucky he was, to catch it.

A wind sang softly in his ears, and he shivered. He would soon have to go home.

He shivered again, unrelated to the icy breeze. His cheek still stung from his mother’s blow.

He saw her there, hunched with a world’s burden on her shoulders. She would stand in the tiny, dim-lit kitchen, muttering to herself, while stirring cabbage soup.

A world of pain went in that soup.

She would turn towards him as he timidly stepped forward, her face twisting into rage. She would reach for the spoons.

They were harsh spoons, made of wood and left him countless splinters. A lash here, a thud there.

Pain, swimming before his eyes.

She would hurl the words at him.

You’re a spiteful, lazy brat. Just like your father.


He was a stupid drunkard who left me with nothing but you.


You useless idiot.


You’ll grow up to be just like him.


A worthless man-whore.


Worthless gambler.


That drunk.


By that point, he would be on the rubber floor, trying to gasp air into his lungs, while his eyes started to swim. And an unspeakable pain would begin in his chest.

A throbbing would start in his back, spreading like fire from his cheeks to his legs.

And she would kick him aside, to go back to cooking.

He ran out of there, ignoring the harsh pain.

A day in the park.

It was a jolly set of words.

Gave you a picture of a family in yellow sundresses and hats, with the father playing catch with his sons, the mother telling stories to the girls, her little ones. They would be sitting on red-checkered blanket, a picnic basket open, sandwiches spread out among  them. A bright green meadow, dotted with yellow flowers, while people passed by them, sitting on benches, and a playground loomed in the open.

He wished.

He wished for it so desperately.

But a day in the park for him would be a cold hard bench, deserted grounds, and the icy wind blowing through his heart. And always, a hot tear dripping into his hands.

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The Little Girl and the Goldfish: A Short Story

Go on, read it.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived with her mother and father. They lived in a nice little house that people said was the place a little nightingale died giving its blood to a rose.

One day, the little girl went outside to play. The roses were bobbing their heads in the sunlight, and the grass sparkled. It rippled. Suddenly, she was in the middle of the ocean, flying high above the waves.  All manner of things came out of the sea to talk to her.

First came Mr. Whale.

“Why, hello Mr. Whale. How are you today?”

Mr. Whale gave a little shudder and answered in a deep sad voice. “I’m afraid I’m not at all well. My youngest son was harpooned by a Japanese fisherman. My other son was caught in an oil spill. And I have a terrible case of bumps.”

The little girl shook her head sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whale. But your sons are in heaven now, so it’s not so bad, right? Mother always said to look at the bright side of things.”

Mr. Whale nodded, and swam away.

Next came Mrs. Jellyfish.

“Why, hello Mrs. Jellyfish, how are you today?”

Mrs. Jellyfish dimmed and answered in a whining voice, “I’m afraid I am not at all well today. My native country, Australia, is suffering from weather, fire, and all manner of terrible things.”

The little girl let a little tear out. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jellyfish. But it’ll soon get better, right?”

Mrs. Jellyfish nodded, and swam away.

Finally, a little goldfish swam to face the little girl. She was delighted with the golden sheen of the fish, and pretty fins.

“Why, hello little goldfish. How are you today?”

And the goldfish stared at her sadly. In a tiny voice, it murmured, “Not very well, I’m afraid. All the other goldfishes have owners who love them. But there is no one for me.”

At this, the little girl beamed. She took out a little glass jar that was conveniently in her pocket, and swept some seawater and the little goldfish into the jar.

“I will be your owner, little goldfish. And I will love you very much.”

At that, the sea turned into grass again, and the little girl walked back into her house, still clutching the little glass jar. Inside the jar was the little goldfish, smiling like there was no tomorrow.

Then one day…

The little girl was playing outside again. This time, she was in a forest, dressed like a fairy. Then the forest disappeared, and she was grabbed by big rough hands. They slapped her, and made her close her mouth so she couldn’t cry. The little goldfish watched this silently.

The little girl widened her eyes as she implored silently.

But the goldfish made no answer. And the little girl watched in horror as the goldfish changed into a man, with dark eyes and a cruel smile.

“Bring her to the car, and let’s go. Her parents will come looking for her soon.”

The man who was holding her simply grunted and started to push her forward.

The little girl wept. What had happened to her dear little goldfish? She looked again at the strange man with dark eyes. He did not resemble her goldfish at all.

The car drove away, and the little girl struggled against the roped tying her. She heard her mother come out, yell for her, and go back inside, calling for her husband.

The man who had been her goldfish leered at her. The little girl whimpered.

“Foolish little girl. Your father was the one who caused the oil spill, killing many sea creatures. This is their revenge.”

The car stopped. And the big man pulled out the girl, removed her gag, and threw her into the sea.

“That should do it.”

They nodded to each other. And they drove off to collect their payments from Mr. Whale.

The end.

That was the most horrifying thing I ever wrote in my life. Ugh.


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Poetry: Coffee

Well, this is nice.

I’ve decided to try my hand at poetry. So people, pay attention.



The beautiful swirls in the mug

Makes me want to give a hug

Coffee makes me happy, oh yes

It even makes my headache quite a bit less

Mocha, frappuchino, they’re all very nice

Even though they require a slice

Of life, cake, and other fattening goods

Or you can drink it, simple and dood

The statement that is made in time

(this does not rhyme): I absolutely adore my coffee

I hope that can give Emily Dickinson a run for her money.

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Future Me, What will I be?

I found a new website. Called, you get to write emails into the future.


Anyways, I read some of the letters on the site, which were more interesting than writing one. Seriously. What do I say to my “future” self that pretty much doesn’t exist because it hasn’t been the “future” yet (duh) and therefore I cannot do anything to my future self since my future self isn’t my future self but my present self in the present and therefore is not my future self.

Eh hem.

ANYWAYS, this is basically how my letter went:

Dear FutureMe,

How are you? You must be in –th grade by now. Life’s hard, isn’t it? Is Janice (name changed) still hurting you? Haha. Well anyways, goodbye.

From, Nemphy (name changed)

Uh. Yeah. Weird.

So, anyways, I’m pretty tired, so logging off. Sorry for the random rant.

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My stomach, the hungry monster


My stomach just made the loudest noises I have ever heard. Grumble grumble grumble~


Anyways, I reckon it’s been seven hours since I’ve last eaten. No wonder. But, I’ve been starved (consciously) for longer periods than that, and it has NEVER made noises this loud. Now I’m seriously considering going to the hospital.

“Hey, Mom?”


“Can we go to the hospital?”

“?! Why?”

“Cause my stomach’s making weird noises.”


“So can we?”

“I’ll cook dinner. Maybe food will make you sane again.”

There you go. See what abuse I encounter in my home. My poor, teenage mind can no longer take any more of this. I will rebel, cut my wrists, and become emo. Then I’ll move out and become a genius inventor of the Parental Lip Lock, which lets kids to lock their parent’s mouths when they become to verbally abusive. Then I’ll be rich, famous, yet still sad, and die an early death, which will make my mother regret that she has ever said those words.

See how delightfully a tragedy unfolds?

All because of a stomach. My God.


Here’s something that’ll relinquish my moods:

 Oh jeez, I’m drooling…

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I. Am. Cold.

My room feels like a freezer, and my hands are so stiff I can barely type. My feet are like stone. The laptop is the only thing in this room that feels even remotely warm.

My face feels like ice.

In this cold cruel room, I am typing this. How I wish the sun’s rays will come towards me, and I will be joyful, dancing in the golden light.

Uh, er?

Poetically, I fail. However, I hope to make one statement clear through this post.

I. Hate. My. Room. Temperature.

The End.

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