The game is this:
I set up five pairs of identical looking shots:
pineapple juice or lemon juice,
Chinese sugar tea or apple cider vinegar,
flat coke or soy sauce,
water or distilled white vinegar,
and tomato juice or Tabasco sauce.

I challenge a player in the circle to a color. They pick one and I take the other, with our best poker faces. Other players have to guess who got what.

It’s like the Princess Bride/A Study in Pink but no one gets poisoned!

What If Dreams

What if dreams

This is for every dateless Friday, every girl who can’t sing; who wears a push up bra form pink and knows that she is false advertising, who dances alone during a slow song.

This is for every kid who still wets the bed or can’t tie their shoes

This is for the know-it-all class clown looser who puts on the same pair of Nikes everyday even though they don’t match.

This is for every picky paper guy and quiet genius.

This is for the notebook marked with a burn notice

This is for every stereotypical student who lives under the perpetual pressure to perform.

This is for anybody who has never been listed to, who sits alone at lunch and has played the “what if” game

It goes something like this,

What if the universe was endless, every galaxy a new world, every supernova brighter and more blinding, every black hole more endless and deadly.

What if Barak Obama was never president and the Taliban never existed and everything was like an episode of Arthur.  Life would be different less complex more elementary.

What if the war on politics was over and won, it would have settled and started to collect dust, the newscasters would be on strike and the tea party at bay.

What if every happy meal was an okay meal, everyone would be the same equilibrium, scientific, clean, no garage sale hope to be packaged away and taken to the goodwill.

What if forgetting was as easy as patching a hole in my jeans, erasing every embarrassing moment, obscure dream or scaring movie.  I don’t want to be terrorized by my own paranormal activity, in love with James Bond and dreaming of Jason Bourne.

What if enough was never beneficial, if perfect was normal an beautiful was extravagant .

What if every word could be erased, every hat turned backward and every golden ring reached, would innocence still exist?

What if every chemist had a cure, every school full of Einsteins and every museum overflowing with the art of a first grader.

What if you could read every thought that flashed across my mind in a blizzard of questions; for sure it would explain everything. It would make this a whole lot easier guarded by my own hypocritical Hitler I cannot fight for what I desire to say most, but would someone care, would I be heard?

What if

What if

What if!!!

But I can’t change, so now what? Stop imagining a dream, get off this one way road of “what if” leading from this trashy reality to a new possibility of a party of Fifth Avenue? Of a chance to grow and change,

It is impossible; it is more than a dream, a desire, a chance, a simple “what if” spoken by a nobody.

But what if this is my life?

And it can be whatever I what if it to be

So for all those who can’t tie their shoes, forget their way home, or are afraid to speak their own words when words are needed most.

For the ones who hesitate to take a chance and reach that extra inch, for all those who sell their reality and never buy back their “what if dreams”.

I am here, vulnerable and poor, quiet and sincere,

Speak to me when no one else will listen.


I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while we eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selfies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages
b.e. fitzgerald (via crackademia)
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