When it's Nine in the Afternoon, your eyes are the size of the moon...

Midnight and somehow I have yet to fall asleep though I did spend a decent 2 hours tossing and turning, after a very long weekend of no sleep and very little in the way of productiveness. I suppose I could be working on my play or on my research paper but I've spent so much time today thinking about Strindberg today that I'm fairly certain the right side of my brain just went on strike. My play...gah, my play. Right now I have the attention span of a 5 year-old on speed when it comes to that particular project. I'm supposed to be writing something I'm passionate about, but all that comes to mind are gin martinis and summer reading. It doesn't help that we focused absolutely no time over the past semester discussing on HOW to actually write a play (No, no, no, that would be far too formulaic, far too logical, far too intelligent...aka anything that encapsulates my professor's critiques of my personality. Prof: You want to OUTLINE? What, what, what? ME: I don't think I'm in the Lit Department anymore...damn me for leave the sequined heels at home!)

I even spent time pouring over Poppy's book, trying to figure out how he managed to write his books. Turns out this is definitely a family thing. The quirky, dark, what can only SOMETIMES remotely be considered a "sense" of, humor that I have been accused of is a nice gift that has been passed on through the family. My grandfather's stories are quick anecdotes of an adventurous life set in a remote place where no one can hear you scream. And like all the stories ever told in my family they all come with a punch line.

A few of my favorites (I'm just giving you the punchline, you can imagine the exposition yourself) :

- " He announced that he was not a vengeful person, but his honor was at stake. He would re-name his boat 'The Dirty Bitch'" (Kinky)

- "His fellow sourdoughs were about to nominate him as their candidate to the next Liar's Club Convention when a man in the gathering got up, walked up to the podium and stated that he could verify the story because he was there when all this happened and further, that he was one of the participants. He hitched up his pant leg to his thigh and lo and behold, he displayed his wooden leg." (Katalla- The Doctor Wasn't In)

- "The driver said he would be most grateful for a ride back to his camp. Jack said he would be delighted to do so on one condition, that the driver introduce him to his Mess Sergeant and say he was a good guy. The driver said, "No, problem, I am the Mess Sergeant"" (My Snowstorm Expeditor)

Those are literally the last 2-3 lines of those three stories, and honest to God, if I were to sum up the way my family behaved it would be in a format that ended exactly like that. My entire family (whether they choose to accept it or no) is filled with orators who ALWAYS talk like they have the best joke in the world for you. Even my father, who claims he has no aptitude for writing or story-telling, could write stories that would all end up in a similar fashion. So, with that being said I'm going to post one story I was told was not appropriate for my one-person play. I¸n the spirit of my family at least tradition was upheld...

"I remember the very day my parents announced that they were discussing adopting another child, a girl. I remember sitting on our felt-like blue couch staring at them like they had told me Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and The Easter Bunny in fact truly did exist and at any moment they were going to come stomping through our living room and set me on fire. Both of my parents looked expectantly at me, like somehow I was going to be the chief decision maker in this discussion. Apparently being 5 months older than your brother means that for the rest of your life all chief decisions are to be made and discussed with you first. This does NOT, however mean that you get to stay out longer, see a PG-13 movie first, use a blow-torch, or get to do anything that could remotely construed as being "fun".
"Well?" They asked, "What do you think?"
My brother, true to his ambivalent state on anything that doesn’t directly hurt or concern him, shrugged it off. To this day my brother is unable to hold a direct or strong opinion on any subject that doesn't revolve entirely around him. If my parents didn't tell him to call me he would absolutely forget to call me on my birthday and getting him to sign the card is a task that even Hercules wouldn't be able to manage. Even those subjects that do affect him, such as career and college, are brushed off with an eye-roll that would make Janice Dickinson look sane. However I, being the logical 7 year old I was at the time, decided that two kids in the family was one too many. I was very adamant about not having a baby sister. One kid per parent was barely enough, particularly when you already have a brother who was gunning to be the first kid on Ritalin in the 90s. Of course my parents disagreed with me, since as far as I know they already had the paperwork in and the kid picked-out. Running the idea by us was just a not-so-clever rouse of TELLING us there was another intruder on its way. They insisted that I would just LOVE playing dress-up with her and being able to play games with her. Of course my only reaction to that was to give them "The Look".
“But don’t you want another sibling to play with?” they asked.
I looked over at my brother who was making shrieking noises at the top of his lungs as another Hot Wheel met its fiery death.
"No" I said, " I'm good."

So , not quite as good as Poppy's punch-lines, but I think there's a similarity there. If nothing else this lets me bemoan the story that was never appreciated in a writing class. Alas...

And with that I am off to bed.