Bedazzled: A Late Night Rambling of Words

Quirky people are like the bedazzled version of regular people. They just sort of absorb a regular situation just as it is, but then spin it back out all sparkly and covered in bows. And I love them. I love walking into a room, full of strangers, where I’m a fish out of water, and then, something happens. Someone just blurts out something amazingly random and seemingly obscure. But I, I can connect the dots, and I instantly feel a connection. Someone that sees something different, that can speak truth in the ordinary, but, makes it pretty and relatable, not simplistic and harsh. Someone who is just, not the same as everyone else, and in the best way possible.

Chances are, quirky folks, I notice when you talk with your hands, always sit on the left side of the table, and can maintain an entire stream of conversation with me involving hypothetical ponies and the magical mayhem they get into. Oh, and those people that stand within hearing distance of those conversations, looking at us like we’re crazy? Jealous. They are fighting a deep urge to join in with, “Hey, and maybe they could grow wings that are like brown and purple and we could call them Peanut Butter & Jelly Ponies, or like PB& J P for short!” They want to say it, but they just aren’t as cool as we are.

In case you haven’t noticed, the kid who gets picked last for dodge ball? That’s me. Because instead of focusing on the whole main point of dodge ball, I’m thinking: “I wonder if there’s an equation that can accurately express the exact velocity and impact levels that are about to commence during this activity.” “Why did they choose a red ball? Maybe it has color symbolism, like red is powerful or something, so it’s like this giant mass of red energy hurling through the air at you or something? Why not blue? A nice calming blue that lightly calls, ‘catch me!’ or something. I’ve probably read more books that involve dodge ball more times than I’ve actually played the game. Whenever I did play it I was always the girl that stuck out her hand and was like ‘Psst, right here...’ and tried to get out asap, before the instinctual violent tendencies of pre-adolescent youth reared their ugly faces.

 I don’t even know where I’m going with this, it’s late and I’ve lost track of my point, except that sometimes I wonder if it’s just me? Because I often get myself into situations where I can see the quirks of others as being wonderful, but my own odd tendencies as just a weird mutant form of quirky. That’s the root of the problem of being quirky. Sometimes it’s endearing, and offers a chuckle to the group, but at the end of the day, you go home and you wonder, Man, am I really the only one? Overall, I think I’m in pretty good company; it’s just that most people tend to keep their really dazzling quirks hidden. Sadly. There has got to be others that refuse to read the backs of books, that have a fascination with post-it notes, hate hand sanitizer, and eat salads with their fingers. There’s just gotta be. Or maybe you drink wine with a straw, can hold an entire conversation in rhymes, or have a love of crayons that just defies explanation. If so, I think we could be friends.

 Today, in fact, I was able to reach out to a friend through a very emotional time. I was watching an old episode of Roswell (think Dawson’s Creek having a love child with, I don’t know, maybe Smallville? But like, a really beautiful, brilliant love child, with brown eyes. ) on DVD no less, when I had a full blown meltdown regarding a plot twist. Yes, a plot twist involving futuristic aliens and true love, wrapped in a Sheryl Crow song circa 2003. This is how I know that my life is amazing. Because when I was audibly weeping, I had someone to text, and reach out to. That was able to make me feel better. Even though I’m a bundle of weird, I have these amazing friends, that don’t care. Or rather, they do care. It just doesn’t really bother them how odd I am. It probably bothers me way more than it bothers them. So thank you to my friends, that know me and love me just the same, and for seeing the bedazzled pieces of me and thinking that they’re not so bad at all.   

For Best Use

I just recently opened up a new candle. Inside, just below the lid, there was a little booklet that detailed the greatness of the candle I was about to light. It also congratulated me on my brilliant shopping ability in choosing such a high quality product.

 There was also a section headed ‘For Best Use’.

Under this helpful category was the sentence: “Although our candles and home scents may smell delicious, they are not edible. Do not eat.”  And there it is. I have, in my possession, a ruby red candle labeled ‘Crisp Mountain Apple’, that smells better than the actual apple I have sitting on my counter, yet I must not eat it. Sigh.

          I find it hilarious that such a sentence even exists. Mostly because, you know somebody, somewhere, tried to do that very thing. Below you will find a dramatic reenactment of this very situation.

(Candle is lit. Delicious scent begins to permeate the room.)

Person A: Mmm…that smells just like a real apple, maybe better! Maybe it tastes like an apple too!

(At this point a less than well-meaning friend speaks up.)

Friend: You should try it.

Person A: Come on dude. It’s a candle.

Friend: An apple candle.  That means there’s gotta be, like, real apple in it or something. It’s probably really good for you.

Person A: But, it’s on fire. Sort of.

Friend: Well blow it out first you idiot!

Person A: I don’t know…

Friend: I’ll give you five bucks.

Person  A: Five bucks? Really?

Friend: Ten. Ten bucks. Final.

Person A breathes out slowly, considering.

Friend: Whatever, man.

Person A: Okay. I’ll do it.

        And he does. You know he does. How do you know? Because now someone has the job of typing the little warnings on products that explicitly state that delicious smelling candles are not to be consumed into the human body. Which also tells us, that Person A’s story most likely didn’t end positively. Maybe the candle company even got sued over the fiasco, because they didn’t think to warn Person A that such a situation could happen, and that he should have resisted the temptation in the first place.

On this note, I feel I should stop writing, and go on a mission to find other potentially hazardous items in my home. Normally, I might not even have read the fine print that adorns those stickered labels. But now, after considering the fate of poor apple guy (I guess I don’t know for sure that it was a boy, but come on, really?) I figure it will be worth the effort to master the general dos and don’ts of the products that share my roof with me. Better safe than sorry, right?

Oh, and for you curious folks, other warnings listed under the ‘For Best Use’ category include:  “Do not put candles in the freezer.” and “Candles and water do not mix.” Yes, its official, I want to shake the person’s hand that wrote out this booklet.



Serve and Protect

I walked home in the rain today. Even though the weather forecast had predicted rain, it’s quite rare that I would have ever factored the prospect of it actually happening into my day. As a rule, I generally prepare for all weather or no weather. It strikes me as more than a little arrogant to think that Mother Nature can be crammed neatly into a 7-day forecast, right between a gang shooting and a playoff game highlight. The weather will do whatever it wants to do, and its’ fickle tendencies will play upon the Earth regardless of whether or not I remembered to bring an umbrella or not, which, by the way, I didn’t.

Umbrellas serve as protection. They protect us from the wet, the cold, the potential discomfort of our situation. Once I was without one however, I was struck by how little I actually missed it, and admitted that I didn’t really need to be protected at the moment. I was okay, getting wet and sidestepping puddles. It was nice to feel the breeze around me, chilling the raindrops that had blazed trail ways across my face and toes. I, of course, was wearing sandals.  

But I never would have realized this, had I had an umbrella handy before I stepped outside. How often do we do this? Protect ourselves as a precaution? Because something could happen, something might happen, because we have been conditioned and trained to take the least painful route possible. Honestly, it doesn’t make much sense. How do you even know that an umbrella is what you need in the first place if you’ve never felt the rain? Once you’ve felt that drenching, soaking sort of rain that chills you to your bones, only then can you appreciate the value of an umbrella.

And as immense a business of avoiding a broken heart has become, it is through the sole experience of having your heart broken that you appreciate why it might need protecting. The heart is a tricky place. I’m pretty sure mine is surrounded by barbed wire and snipers, with only a select few outsiders in possession of the access code. And even they have to pass a retinal scan. It is what it is, but I think I’m starting to figure out why.

When your heart breaks, it is painful simply because there is so much of it that breaks simultaneously. The scent of dryer sheets, an off-key song, a loose strand of hair curled around an ear; these are the things that break. A fissure exists in between the left side of the bed and a post-it note on the mirror. Hairline fractures freckle the landscape of my memories, because we used to slow dance in the living room to movie credit soundtracks, even though you rolled your eyes as you spun me around.

Breaking a heart is always an inside job; a regular, who knows their way around. Someone who helped construct the towers within, adding layer after layer of petal soft words, building entire cities from musical notes and apples in tuna fish. A person, who you waved through all of the checkpoints, and supplied with domestic weaponry never suspecting that it would be turned against you. Heart breaking is exactly that. Running through alleyways, pushing over skyscrapers, not slowing to watch them fall. A massive internal earthquake that leaves devastation in its’ wake.

As painful as it is though, once you have stood in those bullet ridden remains of your life, and felt the rain pour down your face, you now understand the importance of an umbrella.

I have rebuilt my heart from the ground up. I have gutted the cities and drained the sewers, and stitched the sky back together with strong, ragged strokes. And I’m okay. I survived the hidden fault lines of a naïve love, and gritted my teeth in the aftershocks that followed. My borders are guarded, heavily armed, and full of good intentions. My umbrella, stretching across the dust ridden terrain that I must protect.

Sometimes though, you leave your umbrella at home. And even though your instinct is that of panic, of distress, you take a step outside. And you’re okay. Your eyelashes are sticking together, and your toes strain to find purchase in the wood grain of Steve Madden, but you’re okay. It actually feels kind of, nice. To stop fighting back. Letting nature soften your edges, and erode your defenses. It’s messy. When you get home, you’ll have to change out of your sopping wet clothes, untangle your hair, and wipe off your face. But it is what it is, and if I find it arrogant to claim mastery over a weather forecast, how much more arrogant am I to declare jurisdiction over my heart?

 Life is messy, and love is the chaotic, rumpled web that holds all of it together. So while I hold fast to my feeble attempt at border patrol now, I know that I will not always do so. Not on the basis of what could happen, of what might happen. Because it’s obvious to see that we survive equally fine, if not unquestionably better, with the rain cascading down our faces, and that is, in the end, what should happen.

Among the Lost

*Disclaimer: This isn't really funny, but I've been stuck on what to write about lately, so I just wrote what I was thinking about. Welcome to my multi-faceted, emotional brain everyone...

Have you ever lost something really important? Something that you find yourself looking for again and again, even though you know it’s gone? You can close your eyes and see it sitting there, as it always was, but when you open your eyes, as if by bitter magic, it has disappeared; lost to the world as if it had never existed within that space.

People lose keys, money, sunglasses, and wallets. While inconvenient, the void that swallows these items is forgiving in nature. In fact, it barely nicks the surface of our lives in the long run. We grumble and protest, but quickly scab over and replace the tiny knick knacks that have become embedded in our daily ways.

  On the other hand, some people lose jobs, houses, cars, lifestyles, and perceived identities. This type of loss is bigger, and therefore, carries with it a larger ripple across our existence. Having a pronounced piece of your worldly life taken away levels you to a different altitude, a lower, more humbling panoramic view of life. You are still human. You are still intact. But inwardly, you must build yourself back up again. This time, hopefully, with a foundation stronger in integrity and balance than what was used in your previous structure.  

Some days our lives are so chaotic, we feel as though we’re losing our minds. As if they have abandoned our bodies, and left us to manage the muddled uproar of life unattended. We can lose sleep worrying, about things we have no control over; about situations that will never be remedied at 3:00 a.m. by pacing a path of carpet and tile, carpet and tile, carpet and tile.

Less abstract could be the loss of a loved one. This feeling of losing someone can be hollowing, as if a giant hand has scooped out your insides and sewn you back up. You face your familiar world with strange eyes, unseeing, and the gravity that holds you to earth is a leaded weight, crumpling your empty shell of a form. Accompanying this can be a loss of hope. Losing an ideal for the way things ought to be and should have been and will never truly be, ever.

With most of these, there comes a time when the looker, stops looking; whatever the object, whatever the value, it will not or cannot be found within reason. Some things cannot be fixed, or replaced, and searching for the piece in its original state becomes painful, and unhealthy.   When this happens, the lost status, or memory, or relationship undergoes transformation. Curiously, it is no longer lost, but rather, transitions itself into something new; a solid, well-worn piece of the owner, a building block of their story, a lesson that was learned. Suddenly, the owner doesn’t see the symbol as missing but rather uncovered. It is given a new place, a new format, a new look, but represents everything that came before it.  

I feel as though I have lost many things, the importance in each piece increasing as I get older. As you enter the land of grown-ups, the world loses a touch of its shininess, and you realize that some things are destined to be lost in a tangled web of circumstances and complications. As I rack up all of my losses, adding them up in long columns, an idea tugs at me that I find hard to ignore. 

What if, instead of thinking of me as this solitary person who has lost their surroundings, what if it is my surroundings that have lost me? Somebody, somewhere, could be turning over rocks, calling into canyons, biting their lip, looking for me; because I’m lost. I am among the lost things. Among the treasures that are hiding under the bed, seeing your eyes scan across me but missing me entirely; floating from thing to thing, untethered by ownership, by home, by belonging. Whatever will happen to me? Who, in this world, will find me, hidden in a crevice, in that space between the mattress and the wall, dig me out, dust me off, and estimate my potential value? Many times, we blame others for what it is that we have lost. They took it, they used it, they had it, and now it’s not here. But at other times, we honestly cannot do that. And who can you blame, in the unfortunate business of losing yourself? The blame game is halted, the finger tapping aimlessly, with no one at which to point.

In the end, we are all the losers of such precious things, and the finders of unexpected treasures. Our lives catalogue the give and take between the roles, and our internal growth is marked by the absence or presence of these objects, these people, these ideals. Indeed though, we are all, inescapably, lost. Lost to ourselves, lost to each other, knowing our circumstances only by the fact that we recall a time when we were not so. And we wait for a time when we will no longer be so, for a hero that we cannot predict an image of, and for our surroundings to take notice that we are, in fact, no longer even there. It is the latter, which becomes the hardest to endure.  

Girl Scout Cookies are Evil, End of Discussion.

 Let me preface this by saying that Girl Scout cookies are evil. So evil, that they have directly resulted in me posting back-to-back blog posts, which I have never done before. However, this message is crucial, and simply couldn’t be delayed for a later date. So, here it is.

For the most part, I have been fortunate enough to avoid the Girl Scout cookie dilemma. I never had friends with kids that were members of the troop, and whenever I ran into one of the booths they have set up at the store, I’ve always been out of money. Therefore, this recent experience with them has left me blindsided. I realize that some of you have undergone this process before. I kneel before you in respect. After I kneel, I’ll also lay down for a little while. This is not meant to offend you, but rather to give my body a break from carrying around the freshly minted 10 pounds I’ve added since my cookie order arrived.

It began with a photo; a kindergarten photo of a little girl, with long curly hair and sparkling eyes. A photo that screamed, ‘I am the future! I am dazzling and pure, I run through flowered meadows, play with puppies, and say the alphabet all by myself.” When you see this photo being slid across the table towards you, you need to run. Run fast, run far, don’t worry about pushing and shoving, because, while you may not know it yet, you’re in the center of a bull’s eye and you’re in trouble. I didn’t run. I didn’t see it coming. All I saw was cuteness; A bundle of cuteness that wanted me to have cookies. Needless to say, I did my part in filling up her order form.

The next step involves waiting for the cookies. This step was probably the easiest for me to bear. I didn’t have to pay for the cookies until they arrived, so I wasn’t missing any money, and I sort of forgot they were coming. I knew that someday cookies would come, but I wasn’t really fixated on that fact. As I said, I hadn’t really been exposed to the allure of the cookies prior to this. Those of you that are cookie veterans might suffer this step quite a bit differently than I did.

Fast forward to today. Arrival day. The big one. Box after box of cookies set aside specifically for me. Somehow, the numbers I wrote down on the order form didn’t seem that big to me when I had initially wrote them. Now though, I could see the sum of all those numbers in their glory. Now that the cookies were available, so was the bill attached to them. The bill was also a number that seemed to have grown more eminent as time had gone by. I high tail it to the ATM. Slide the card, enter my pin, withdrawal, punch in numbers, come on come on, no no I wouldn’t like my receipt it will just make me feel guilty later, p r o c e s s i n g , p r o c e s s i n g, out comes the money, and I run back to claim my packages!

This is the moment of truth. Where you can still turn back, you can pawn off your boxes on someone else, you can hurry into a large crowd of people and offer to share, there are many many options at this point that can still save you. What you don’t want to do? You don’t want to open the boxes yourself, when you’re alone, with no witnesses. That’s bad.

These cookies, these angelic, beautiful cookies that are helping to send smiling children to Disneyland, have betrayed me. They are not my friend. But it was too late. I had already invited the enemy into my home with welcoming arms. I was so naive.

Here is a running record of my thoughts during the past hour:

Mmm, cookies! Don’t mind if I do!

Wow, that was good. I’ve only had one; it wouldn’t hurt to try this kind either.

Well, I might as well try one of each kind, that’s only fair. Plus, sampling them will allow me to better judge their quality and taste.

(At this point all of the packages have been opened, and are all still positioned in front of me.)

Okay, those are good. But, I need to stop eating for a minute.

(Pause a moment, feel free to mock my attempt at self-control as I walk away.)

I sure do wish I had brought one of those cookies over here with me. I mean, just to nibble on as I sit here.

Okay, I’ll go grab one.

(I go over, and grab two. Just in case. )

Those disappeared fast; I better just bring the box over here. Maybe that box too, so that I can have variety.

It was sometime after this last thought, where I must have given in to an intense. sugar induced, comatose state. I have fallen victim to the Girl Scout cookie campaign of 2011. I have said Yes-I-Do to Do-Si-Dos. I have turned Thin Mints into ‘I’m Not Getting Any Thinner’ Mints. I walked into this path, unknowing, and it has cost me dearly. I may never be the same.

If you find yourself staring at a curly haired, doll faced six year old, I worry about your fate. I know that you won’t refuse her pleas, because I couldn’t refuse them either. Trying to do so would be futile, and make you look like a Grinch. So, I merely suggest that you are more intelligent than I was in this position. Limit yourself, share with others, and wear sweatpants instead of jeans when you’re eating them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to just lie here for a moment or two and catch my breath.

Now that's a great idea!

Whenever I'm given some sort of assignment to complete, I generally take a bit of artistic license in how I choose to complete it. I mean, brilliance, talent, success, it's all about your perspective. And believe me; I've got plenty of perspective. Currently I am working on a personal narrative. Well, to be completely honest, I actually "almost done" with it. "Almost done" is a code I came up with that translates to, "I have absolutely no idea what to do, and have no physical product to show for my hours spent racking my exhausted brain for something to write about". (It's a really efficient code.)

A personal narrative is supposed to capture a unique story about an individual; A captivating story about overcoming great odds, or a triumphant tale of exploring the world, or even something as basic as sharing your collection of 275 pieces of bellybutton lint that you've collected from strangers. But instead of a story, I have a problem. I don't see myself as overcoming any particularly unusual circumstances, and being broke impedes my ability to travel in a slew of exotic places, and I don't, I repeat don't,  collect bellybutton lint. That's just awkward, and I wouldn't have any good places to store it.  

My problem is that I have absolutely n o t h i n g. Nothing to write about. Nothing to share. Nothing of interest that sets me apart from the masses. I think it's beginning to give me a slight complex. Every situation I find myself in, I'm sampling the environment. Is THIS going to be my story? The harder I force it, the more pathetic my quest starts to look, and at this point, even I am worrying that my "almost done" code won't hold up when it's time to turn the damn thing in.

A major factor in my problem is that I keep wanting to write about things that aren't true. I'm not a liar; I just think that the stories in my head are way more exciting than anything I can come up with in reality. I've been wrestling with this issue for months, cramming my brain into the small space where truth and fact exist, and I've come up short, every, single, time. And I'm tired of it.

Therefore, I am granting myself permission to post my wonderful, hypothetical, outrageously false personal narrative ideas here. If anything, I'll be excited to just imagine I've done all of these crazy, beautiful things. Seriously though, if you can think of anything at all I can actually use as a springboard for my real project, I will give you something wonderful. Like a handful of chocolate chips. Mmmm...think it over as you witness my tragedy first hand.  

Idea #1: Forget world travel, say hello to the space age! This potential narrative highlights my trip to Mars, where I befriended local Martians and basically saved planet Earth from intergalactic warfare. 

Idea #2: Here, I will talk about my commitment to the community, and the importance of volunteer work. I focus in on me singing the Kit Kat jingle at a senior center.

Idea #3: What about a real tear jerker? In this plot, I am able to get hired for a job position, despite the fact that I have one major weakness: I care too much!

Idea #4: Choosing something really important to me is a snap when I use this story of when I traveled to a remote jungle. While I was there, I discovered the Unisauras! Wow, what a special day!

Pretty great, huh? If I could even develop ONE of these ideas into my personal narrative, I swear I would. I'd have it written, storyboarded, and outlined in glitter by the end of the week. I'd even put a bow on it. But no, it needs to be a grounded, detailed, emotionally transforming story about the real me. The real me that hasn't done any of those things. And the things I have been able to accomplish in real life, pale in comparison to the virtual playground my mind has built.

Therefore, I am enlisting your help, bribing you with delicious commodities, begging you to provide me with a viable person narrative topic, in order to prevent this:

Hi, my name is Nicklebee, and here is my personal narrative. (clears throat) I like to eat chicken nuggets sometimes. (cough) I eat other things too. Like bananas. (long pause) I am the creator of a multi-faceted code language. I would share it with you, but it isn't finished. Don't worry, it's "almost done". (Runs away fighting back tears of shame and failure.)

Remember: a handful of chocolate chips!

Nicklebee's Ultra Spectacular 'Are We Compatible?' Compatibility Quiz

I'm not sure if it's a February 'love is in the air' type thing, or an 'I'm getting older' type thing, but it has come to my attention multiple times recently that it might be the time to start looking for a mate. A steady Facebook news feed littered with engagement photos, anniversary dates, and newborn babies has started to get to me a bit, even though I feel it shouldn't.

After all, I'm pretty happy with where I'm at. I interact with the social world, I'm not living in particularly squalid hermit like conditions, I have a relatively stable career that I love unquestionably, and I generally keep myself pretty good company.

Plus, there are a lot of perks to being single in the world. There is never an accusation waiting for me in the morning over "stealing" the covers. The mountain load of blankets I curl up in are all mine, and I can twist, toss, and monopolize them to my heart's content. Also, scheduling works out well when you have only yourself to be accountable for. If I need to go somewhere, I go. If I'd rather not, I don't. There are fewer commitments and less stress when you don't feel required to align two busy agendas together in harmony.

Mostly though, the most secure thing about being single, is that you're single. There's not a lot of risk associated with it. There aren't dates that need to be remembered, fights to be avoided, or painful compromises to be made. You rely on yourself to make tough calls, supply your own happiness, keep your secrets, and plan out your own future. It can be so much easier than trying to rework your current path to include someone else that may or may not stick around anyway.

Nevertheless, I still find myself listening to the nagging thoughts that suggest the perks of such a solitude life will one day lose their charm for me. That maybe, one day, I'd be willing, if not eager to share my covers. That, just possibly, building a schedule of events with someone might not really be quite as inconvenient as I imagine it to be. Or that, as sensationally as I am able to navigate my life and the world around me, I could admit that it can at times be a little lonely, if not altogether tiring without a helping hand.

It is with this in mind, that I have decided to create a little quiz. You see, I seem to be sort of an odd human creature. Therefore, it makes sense to assume that if it is indeed in the cards for me to meet my match, that they too would be a bit atypical themselves. In order to weed out some of those potential fellows that may not make the cut in the long run, I have designed a helpful quiz to see if they're the right fit for a girl like me. I feel that this quiz spans a wide range of useful information, and if used correctly, will produce me with a suitable suitor. I've even included the answer key below for those of you that are curious to add up your score.

Without further interruption, I give you:

Nicklebee's Ultra Spectacular 'Are We Compatible?' Compatibility Quiz

Question 1: Do you believe in unicorns, dragons, and the existence of R.O.U.S.? (worth: 230 points)

a. Yes, of course! In fact, most of my closest friends are unicorns!
b. Even though I've never seen one up close, I'm 99% sure they are real.
c. Uhh,  what in the world is an R.O.U.S.?

Question 2: In the event that you are stranded on the planet Saturn, and must call on the aid of one of the groups below, who do you turn to? (worth: 38 points, with a bonus 1/2 point available for knowing who Tecnica, of Giavera del Montello is. )

a. The Jetsons
b. Tecnica, of Giavera del Montello
c. The Starship Enterprise

Question 3: Help! I'm trapped in a scary rain forest! Three creatures are looking to approach me, you have the power to defeat one of them. Which do you choose? (worth: 542.6 points)

a. A saber toothed tiger
b. A ladybug
c. A robotically enhanced chimpanzee

Question 4: A bomb is about to detonate, blowing up all of Middle Earth, and you are attempting to dismantle it. As the final seconds tick by, you decide to: (worth: 1,628 points)

a. cut the red wire
b. cut the blue wire
c. YouTube "How to Dismantle a Bomb That is Threatening Middle Earth", and proceed from there

Question 5: You arrive home one day to discover that I've set up shop as a magician. I need to practice some of my more dangerous tricks before I perform for a big audience, and enlist your help. You let me: (worth: 36,001 points)

a. Pull random coins out of your ears.
b. Saw you in half, and then put you back together.
c. Tell me I'm nuts.

Answer Key:

1. Correct Answer: 'b'. Let's face it, if your closest friends are unicorns, I am just not cool enough to be with you; if you're racking your brain for the definition of R.O.U.S. and coming up short, shame on you. Go read The Princess Bride, by William Goldman.

2. Any of the available answers are deemed acceptable. Consider this your freebie. Happy 38 points! (Don't forget to add on your 1/2 point if you knew that Tecnica, of Giavera del Montello was the creator of Moon Boots!)

3. Correct Answer: 'b'. Ladybugs are deadly, terrifying creatures and must be defeated at any cost. Besides, saber tooth tigers don't live in the rain forest, and I could just befriend the robot monkey.

4. Correct Answer: 'c'. It's okay not to know all of the answers to life's sudden emergencies, as long as you're willing to learn and find out! Oh, but subtract 359 points from your score if you don't know what Middle Earth is.

5. Correct Answer: 'a'. If you let me near a saw, you're not that smart. If you tell me I'm nuts, my feelings will be hurt, and I'll start to cry. Therefore, humoring me, but limiting my tricks to simple non-life threatening ones is the best choice.

Thanks for taking time to complete this quiz. If you feel that we might be compatible, please let me know. Otherwise, I wish you nothing but the best, and am sorry things didn't work out.