Posts Tagged ‘plinky’

Stomach story

August 11, 2010

I ate at an all-you-can-eat sushi bar yesterday. Today, I checked some Plinky archives and found a prompt where I must write an entire poem using only words that start with the letter “s.” I didn’t think it was possible (what about prepositions?!), but apparently, it is. This poem is proof that too much delicious raw seafood can directly affect your brain.

Succulent sushi.

Sensational spectacle:
Salmon sashimi surrounds seafood salad,
Seaweed shamelessly shelters sea bream snapper,
Simmered scallops support salty squid structure.

Some scents seem superfluous:
Sweet soy sauce.
Some scents seem significant:
Sliced swordfish,
Spotted sea trout,

Said smells stimulate salivation.



Alliteration much?

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I don’t like this game.

July 10, 2010

Okay so I’ve been waiting for that Plinky sonofabitch to give me a prompt that I feel like responding to, but alas. Plinky has failed me by asking boring things like “What’s the most confusing part of life?” “What book could you read over and over?” “How much wood can a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” Just kidding about that last one. (Everyone knows the answer is three cords.)

Anywho, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands by telling you a wonderfully gruesome tale, combining the criminal genius of the Saw saga with the war-like emotion of District 9 and the unnecessary amount of killing of any Holocaust movie. This is a true story. That took place in my brain. While I was sleeping.

Once upon a time, in an abandoned warehouse in the slums of a metropolitan city, there were five people fighting for life. Two of them were bound to each other, sitting back-to-back in uncomfortable school chairs. Their names are forgotten unimportant. One of them was in the loft, with a bag over her head and explosives around her feet. Another one was strapped to a gurney, immobile, in a tank that was slowly filling up with water. And the last one, the heroine of the story (if such a character exists), just woke up in a pit full of worms.

Our heroine let out a blood-curdling scream as she struggled to get out of that pit. But she couldn’t find any edges to pull herself out. And come to think of it, the walls of the pit stretched endlessly upward. She was literally in a bottomless pit. With worms. She sank down into the gooey mess, clutching her forehead in agony, the tears streaming down her face. How the fuck was she going to get out of here? That’s when she noticed it: a tiny message written on the wall opposite her in what appeared to be blood, but was probably just a red pen. You can’t always move up in life. Sometimes you have to bring yourself down to their level. Oh, the beautiful metaphoric imagery that only a psycho serial killer can think up. She looked around. The worms had stopped moving. She started pacing. The worms started moving again. She stopped pacing. The worms stopped moving. Wait, what? She knelt down in the wormy goo, and took up a handful of the limp creatures. She picked one out, sniffed it a few times, and popped it in her mouth. “Gummy worms!” she exclaimed. Our heroine loves gummy worms. Then she remembered the message on the wall and figured that she had to eat her way to the bottom of the pit in order to escape. Which is exactly what she did.

The two guys were sitting in what appeared to be a history classroom. Blindfolded, gagged, with their hands behind their backs and their ankles tied to the legs of the chairs, they were in a pretty helpless situation. What they didn’t know was that the heroine of our tale was about to kick the door down to rescue them, but in-so-doing, she would also ignite the petrol that was poured all over the floor of the room. Oops.

Quickly, she darted through the flames and to the screaming bodies. She desperately tried to untie them, but the guy who made the knots must’ve been a sailing enthusiast or something, because they were elaborate and strong. So instead, she grabbed the chairs, and started dragging them to the door. She stopped suddenly, because she saw another message on the wall. One is a serial rapist, the other a pediatric surgeon. But the rapist has a family who loves him and the surgeon is all alone in this world. You can only save one, so who’s it going to be? Unsure of how to proceed, she then noticed that each of the guys had a “Hello my name is…” sticker on their shirts. “Hello my name is… rapist.” and “Hello¬†my name is… surgeon.” She decided that the killer probably reversed the two, because killers are typically sneaky like that, and decided to save the rapist, leaving the surgeon to burn alive. Once safely in the hallway, she untied the victim, who immediately took her into his arms and started crying. “Oh my God, thank you so much. I have a wife and child who love me. I have a hospital of children who need me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you saved that other guy instead.” She smiled inwardly, proud of herself for having watched enough scary movies to know when to switch shit up. “Don’t worry doctor,” she said in a cheesy, scene-transitioning voice, “I’m sure he got what he deserved.”

Somewhere in the loft of the warehouse, the girl with the bag over her head was kicking and screaming. So hard, in fact, that she tripped some sort of wire and heard that unmistakeable sound of a pin being released from a chamber and thus starting a ticker to count down from 05:00. She didn’t know how much time she had (because that bag was really dark), but she assumed that once the ticking stopped, the bombs would detonate, and she would be blown into a million pieces.

At this point of the story, I woke up. I went downstairs to get some water, stopped by the toilet for a quick pee, and went back to sleep.

Suddenly everyone was running. All the nurses, the Egyptian tailor, those two guys (the rapist and the surgeon), everyone. They made it to the end of the hall and found an emergency exit door, which I quickly slammed open. Outside, we found ourselves in a grassy area with benches and trees and sort of resembled a park or the outside of a university dorm complex. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, a little boy was playing frisbee with his dog, a butterfly landed on a dandelion – everything was oddly perfect.

“Hey has anyone seen my sister?” I asked. I was doing a head count and noticed that everyone was there except Ten. Weird. I could’ve sworn I saved her from the explosive-ridden loft several hours ago. But as I looked around, everything became quick and flash-backy, like the end of a Quentin Tarantino film, when everything comes together and makes sense. The warehouse, the two guys, the chick with lung cancer, the loft, the bomb, the chairs, the scene where I was in the worm pit, the history classroom, the gurney, everything was beginning to make sense. The killer wanted me to save them. He wanted me to bring everyone out into the open. He wanted me to believe I saved Ten when in fact I hadn’t. Or had I? Was this a trap? Or is this right and the trap is back in the building behind the door? Was she alive? Was she dead? Was she in on it? Am I the killer? Am I dead?!

The camera then slowly panned across my face, showing the confusion from all angles. Flashback scenes were intermittently thrown in and the theme music that ties everything together leapt into a crescendo. And then I woke up.

Disclaimer: 1.) You must keep in mind that due to the burst of reality mid-way through the dream, I couldn’t pick up exactly from where I left off. Hence, discrepancies amongst the cast and scenes. 2.) I myself don’t understand the ending, so don’t ask me what it means or what happened. 3.) The first part of the dream took place in third-person, and I didn’t realise I was the heroine until the second part of the dream, which was in first-person. 4.) I wish I was in a pit of gummy worms in real life. 5.) I fully understand that Saw is not a Tarantino film, but I felt that clip was appropriate.

When did I last thank someone?

July 3, 2010

I thanked someone over the phone not two minutes ago, for informing me that she has 75W infrared bulbs in stock.

Amadeus broke his light a couple days ago (and I can only imagine that he accidentally whipped it with his surprisingly strong iguana-tail) and hasn’t been eating normally since. The reason being, reptiles cannot control their own body temperature, and need to be a certain level of warmth in order to correctly digest food. So I went on an expedition around town to every single big pet store, in search of another infrared bulb.

One store had them, but they were like a gajillion watts and even bigger than Amadeus, so I decided that was ridiculous. Another store had a 60w infrared bulb, but it was ceramic, and I prefer the red ones because they help improve Amadeus’s night vision. So I didn’t get that one. Another store just placed the order and would be getting the new shipment in a week. And the last store I went to was also out of stock, but they had one more left in their display-iguana’s cage! I went to check it out (they were going to give it to me for free), but it turns out that she, too, whipped her light into a broken state of uselessness.

Defeated, I went back home empty-handed and went to sleep.

This morning, I thought of one last place that I know of, that I haven’t yet checked. But I wasn’t feeling too optimistic, so I decided to call first (before I drive all the way out there in vain).

“Hey, uhh, do you have infrared bulbs in stock?”

“Just a minute ma’am, let me check.”

“Kay cool thanks.”

“Ma’am? Yeah, we do have them.”

“Oh okay, but I don’t want the ceramic ones.”

“They’re not ceramic, they’re the red ones.”

“Oh. Okay cool, but I can’t handle eight trillion watts either, I don’t want my house to explode into a supernova of infraredness.”

“Well I have 60W, 75W, and 100W.”

“You… what?”

“I said, I have 60W, 75W, and 100W. And they’re not ceramic. And I’m pretty sure your house won’t become a supernova. Aaaand, we have a part sale going on, so if you buy one, you’ll get the second one at half price.”


What would I do with unlimited resources?

July 1, 2010

When I first read this prompt, I immediately thought WORLD DOMINATION! But in retrospect, I concluded that 1.) revealing my evil ploys is probably not a very strategic maneuver, and 2.) world domination isn’t really a “creation” per se. So with a little added thought, I changed my answer to a different thing that I would create, given unlimited resources.

That thing would be a teleporter. Having my own teleporter would definitely come in handy. I still haven’t decided on the final design of it yet, but I’m considering making the first version look very old-school (i.e. typical textbook teleporter that you must crawl into, flashing lights, beep bloop bleep, etc.), but then coming out with a fancier, slimmer, portable one a couple years later.

Three Crayola Crayons

June 29, 2010

I only get to choose three crayons for my picture. Hopefully I’m lucky and I get to select from one of those Crayola 64-colour boxes, because some excellent colours reside inside. Which ones would I choose?

Tickle Me Pink
Pink invokes happiness. It sparks a sense of liveliness, not in a crackhead roadrunner sort of way, but in a refined, blushing cheeks sort of way. It is a combination of White and Red, both beautiful colours, but sometimes too bold and attention-grabby on their own. Pink is the perfect blend of positive emotions.

Burnt Orange
Orange is an underrated colour, perhaps because it’s the secondary offspring of primary Red and Yellow. But I love it. Burnt Orange is especially nice because it’s warm and earthy. Sitting next to a fireplace on a cold winter night, watching the sunset after a long summer day at the lake, eating a slice of Grandma’s delicious pumpkin pie – these are all feelings associated with Burnt Orange. And it’s never overwhelming, even if it’s the only colour you use.

Every picture needs a blue pigment. Whether it be used for something as ordinary as the sky or as deep as the innocence in a child’s eye, Cerulean is a multi-purpose colour that never fails to portray the correct sensation. Cerulean changes its own colour based on its surroundings. Next to Burnt Orange, Cerulean is the royal blue, the grandfather of blue, the loyal, serene, powerfully silent blue. Next to Tickle Me Pink, Cerulean is the lively blue, the playful blue, the bright, mischievous, afternoon blue. It is the perfect counterpart to any colour.


June 29, 2010

Okay so you know how I have a problem with being a regular blogger? I found a cure! It goes by the name of Plinky. And I only stumbled upon this little miracle today. is a new service that generates a prompt on a daily basis, for people like me (who suffer from writer’s block) to answer. So I just set up my account, but today’s question* doesn’t apply to me, so I guess I’ll have to start tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll go through the archives and answer a previous one just to test out the service. We’ll see what happens.

*”What do you like most about your job?” – Hahaha, trick question! You can’t fool me! I don’t like anything about my job!

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