Entry Eighty-Three

There is no way out.

What have I gotten myself into?

I'm lost in my own brain. Great.

So, what now?

You Decide!

Should I:

A) Take a nap and when I wake up, hope that the door has come back?

B) Put on some more dream sunglasses and see if I can dream a way out?

C) Run around screaming until I have no energy left and fall into an exhausted coma?

D) All of the above?

Me, I would choose D. But because that would take much too long to type into some kind of story, I am going to choose for you.

I pick B.

I go for another blank pair of sunglasses. What better chance do I have of finding a doorway out of my brain than by going further into it, right?

I take a deep breath and slid on the eyewear.

The scene before me is all to familiar. At the same time it's a place I have never been before. Bob Evans. You know those dreams where you are in a place you go often but it doesn't look at all like that location in real life? It's like that. I have a tray in my hands with food on it.

In that instant I begin to panic. I haven't served in 8 months! What table does this go to? I don't recognize any of the dishes on the tray. What am I giving people? I look around the restaurant. There are no other employees. Just tables filled with people. There doesn't look to be an empty seat in the house. People all over the floor hail me with raised hands. The din of voices is deafening. There are more people coming in at the door.

What do I do? I can't even think straight and my feet won't move.

This cannot be happening.

With that thought comes understanding and the first sense of calm. Of course this can't be happening. I'm can't be working at Bob Evans. I am stuck in my brain. I just had a momentary lapse in concentration and forgot what reality was. I drop the tray which is now empty and watch as the guests melt away.

I am alone again, but still in Bob Evans. So where do I go? I'm looking for a door out of the right side of my brain. I don't know how long it's been or how much time I have before the way back into real life is shut. So there is only one thing to do.

Start trying doors.

The first one that comes to mind is the door to the walk-in. Without moving, I find myself there. Convenient. I grasp the handle and pull hard. Cold air rushes out and welcomes me in.

Instead of food, there is a snow covered forest. Beautiful and peaceful. Well, why not?

I step in. The snow is knee deep and still falling. Pines stand tall against the grey sky. Everything smells black and white. I'm in New Hampshire. Well, that's a step in the right direction. When I entered my brain I was in New Hampshire. If I can just find a door that leads to my cabin, maybe I can find a way back to reality. So I look around and take bearings. I'm in a part of the woods I don't recognize. And I have no coat or boots or anything like that.

Hey, maybe if I just stand here I will get cold enough that I will wake up. But as I stand the snow begins to melt. Everything that was black and white melts away into greens and browns and yellows. And everything gets warm. It's spring all of a sudden.

And then...

...How did I get to the lodge?

But there it is. Another door, another place. Further and further into my mind I go.

Handle, door, hinges, etc. The scene inside is well, I would say it wasn't what I expected, but I don't know what to expect anymore.

It's a version of my bedroom from years ago. A house I lived in when I was very young. The floor is moving. Little ripples. I place 1 foot on the floor.

*Crunch*

Um...

I put another foot down.

*Crunch*

Okay...

Meanwhile the ground continues to undulate in an unsettling away. I'm afraid to move but I don't have to wait long. Through a small hole, hundreds of spiders burst forth and begin crawling all over. I move. I move as fast as I can, trying not to freak out. I turn to go out the door I came through but it's not there.

These doors really need to stop disappearing.

There's the closet door. In crunch across the sea of spiders, wincing at each squishy impact of my feet.

In and out I go to the sweet bliss of no more spiders. Instead, I'm sitting in a chair. A desk to be precise. A small crowded desk and my old AP Lit. teacher is at the front of a small classroom. I am aware that it's college, and not high school which doesn't make sense. My teacher is looking at me expectantly.

"Well?" He says.

What am I supposed to do? He obviously sees the confusion on my face.

"To pass the test you have to recite the entire final act of Romeo and Juliet."

What?!? Not only is that unreasonable, that is one of my least favorite plays. No. I'm not going to do it.

"You will fail the class if you cannot. Sarah, we talked about this. I set this up for you because you said you could do it."

My heart sinks. I don't want to disappoint him. He's my favorite teacher. He's taught me so much. I feel like I am going to cry but then I am no longer in the body sitting a the desk. I'm floating above watching the scene and the girl that I was does break down and cry. The class all get up from their seats and converge on her giving her a big group hug. At that moment I would give anything to be back in that body. But I can fly so I might as well take advantage of that while I can.

I fly out the open door and look for one that I can open and go through to a new scene.

I fly and fly and fly...Going nowhere. And suddenly I realize that I am bored with this. Irreversibly board. Why is this still going on?

And I fall.

Jolted awake. I'm on the white floor of the dream glasses room. When I sit up and look at the wall across from me, I see the door.

The one I had been looking for all along.

It probably doesn't matter, I say to myself. There is no way that I got through all that in time to make it out of my head. I'm probably stuck in here. I better just go back to the memory room and lose myself in the good days.

I exit the room and prepare to sit in the chair to watch the memories that have already started streaming along the walls. But the idea of watching anything else in my mind tires me. I wonder if I can find the brain radio and turn it off so that I can sleep in the foyer.

When I open the door the first thing I hear is, "Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice and she said 'we are all just prisoners here of our own device.' And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast. They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast."

Wait...Maybe that song has been playing this whole time. But somehow I don't think so.

Did time move? Change? It is my brain. You can get lost in there for years and it be only a split second.

The phone rings. "The Downeaster 'Alexa'" plays from the old rotary phone.

I pick up.

"Hello?"

"Sarah." A familiar voice says. That British Harry Potter narrating guy.

"Yes?"

"Are you ready to come out?"

"What?"

"Have you spent a sufficient amount of time visiting the right side of your brain?"

"Last time you gave me a 2 minute warning."

"That was from the structured side of your brain. The right side has little structure and would not mind at all if you go lost in there for the rest of your existence. It's a good thing you got out."

"So..."

"Are you ready to come back to reality?"

"Yes."

Reality can't be any scarier than the stuff in my brain, right?

Entry Eighty-Two

What could it hurt?

There is no handle, so I just push on it and it opens. I enter into an expansive room about the size of a small gymnasium (to me it seems about the size of the gym of Blue Ridge Elementary). A light comes on the second I walk in. There are just the 4 walls in the room. And along the walls are row after row of pairs of sunglasses. At least that's what they look like. I turn to the wall immediately to my left. Each pair is hanging on a hook with a label below it.

I look at the first label. It says, "The one where I was a male goat." Next to the label reads, "The one where I was in the land of giant broccoli.".

Dreams. They have to be.

I look to the top of the column of these dreams and there is a large brass plaque that says "Really weird dreams/Misc." The column next to it is labeled "Out of control driving dreams". Next to that is "Dreams where I am in Love."

Part of me want's to put on a pair of these sunglasses. The rest of me is afraid of what will happen. Will I be transported into a dream world from which I can never return?

I turn my back on this wall and walk straight to the back wall of the room. A large brass plaque (larger than any of the others) labels the whole wall. It says "NIGHTMARES".

Morbid curiosity draws me to it.

I read some of the labels.

"The one where Naomi and I drowned."

"The one with the shark coming out of the floor."

"The one where my parents eyes glow."

"The one where Frisky kicked her legs off at me."

"The one where I got drunk."

"The one where I couldn't run away."

I stop reading. I know for a fact I will not be putting any of these sunglasses over my eyes.

I turn my back on this bleak wall and look to my right. There are more dream labels.

"The one where I am part of an orphan gang."

"The one with Bruce Willis."

And so on.

Finally I turn to the wall with the door. There are more sunglasses surrounding the door frame but there don't seem to be any labels. I walk to the wall and sure enough. Each dangling pair of eye wear is label-less.

What does it mean?

The most of me that was afraid to put on a pair of these glasses is overpowered by the curious part rest of me. I grab the first pair my eyes fall and on, and without hesitation place them on my eyes.

I draw a sharp breath in the form of a surprised gasp which resonates throughout the room because I am suddenly enveloped in complete darkness.

This lasts only seconds, however, because my eyes are then filled by an unrecognizable scene-blurry around the edges and not in any way tinted by the glasses.

I'm outdoors. The room is gone. I think I am in a forest, but as I gaze about at the trees and vegetation I recognize none of the plants that exist there.

Maybe that's how it is in a dream world.

I am afraid to move, to breathe, to do anything really.

I notice there is a weight in my hand. I lift it and see the familiar shape of a lightsaber.

No. Flippin. Way.

I turn it in my hand to search for the ignite button. (Every action I make feels familiar. Even my surroundings seem known to me now. Like I've been here before). I find the button and press it. Energy flows from the end of the weapon and through my arm. The blade glows a powerful and reassuring lavender (In all my fantasies my lightsaber has been this color). I feel a thrill go through me.

I don't remember dreaming this dream. So why does everything feel like a deja vu?

There is a rustle of leaves ahead and a figure emerges from out of the trees.

It is Luke Skywalker. A much older version than the on in Return of the Jedi, but he is unmistakable.

"Good, you are prepared." He says in a voice I recognize from the films I used to adore.

"Master," I answer without thinking. He ignites his own azure lightsaber and utters one other word: "Begin."

And then we are sparring. Every move I make feels like liquid and I can anticipate all the moves he is going to make before he makes them. I feel the force. Our blades crackle and hiss as the make contact again and again. I am grinning from ear to ear as I practice being a Jedi Knight with my master Luke Skywalker.

I notice that I do not tire even though I am exerting myself more than I ever have in real life.

Just as I think I could lose myself in this dream, there is a sound in my ear completely detached from the situation. It's a kind of buzzing. Perhaps a large insect. I try to push it out of my thoughts as I continue sparring.

The sound doesn't stop. In fact it's insistence increases until my ears are filled with it which causes the clarity of the scene to decrease. Exponentially.

In the next few seconds Everything has disappeared and it's dark again. I wait for the dream to come back. I doesn't. I remove the glasses and my eyes are pierced by the light of the dream room. I blink against it, letting my pupils to adapt.

That was...

...what was that? It seemed so familiar now that I think about it. Like I've dreamed it before. Maybe I had. Maybe that's what those unlabeled sunglasses are. Forgotten dreams.

I turn to the wall to place the pair in my hands in their place. It now has a label. "The one where I am Luke Skywalker's Apprentice."

I look at the wall for a long time. Wondering what other lost dreams there are. Debating with myself. Wondering if I should lose myself in another dream. I question vaguely how long I have been here. It seem's like hours.

I shrug and select another pair and put them on.

There is darkness again.

6 pairs of sunglasses (a nightmare I wish I had never relived, some tears of longing, Harry Potter, a maze of sock puppets, playing with the Cardinals, and the worst work stress dream of my life) later I decide that it's been long enough. I should probably think about leaving. I pull off the sunglasses after what feels like hours of working as a waitress. I would have done it sooner but my brains took far to long to realize that I was in a dream, it was so realistic. I replace the sunglasses and then turn to where the door should be.

Imagine my surprise when I see that the only thing on that wall are rows of sunglasses and nothing else. I look at all the other walls.

Sunglasses as far as the eye can see in a room the size of the gym at Blue Ridge Elementary.

There is no way out.

Entry Eighty-One

I live to tell another tale.

Apparently my life is not as dramatic as a Stephen King novel. I thought I was a gonner yesterday when I was plagued by a headache. But alas, it was cured by taking a small blue pill.

So here I am.

And I bought another ticket to celebrate. I could not procure any more monopoly money no matter how many black market properties I sold to the highest bidder. They were only using LIFE money. The exchange rate is steep and so it cost me a lot more to get another two way ticket into my brain. It will be worth it though because I go to visit the right side of my brain.

And so I shrink again. Through the eyes once more (they are a little bleary this time. I blame it on the tedious training I just went through).

And here I am in the lobby. This time, the live version of Hotel California by The Eagles is playing. I stand and listen for a bit.

"Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice and she said 'we are all just prisoners here of our own device.' And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast. They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast."

I remember that I have a limited time, and with the cost of these brain tickets going up I need to take advantage of all the time I have. So, ignoring the chrome door, I focus my sights on the one that is blue and wooden. Wasn't it green the other day? Oh well.

It looks worn. As if it has been used over and over again for years. If this part of my brain we a house I would guess by this door that it was a very old and lived in house. The handle is brass and tainted.

I grasp it and hardly have to turn and the door opens up to me.

Within is a small, dark room with a single TV and a squashy recliner in the middle. The recliner resembles the blue one currently in residence at my home.

I am, I must admit, a little disappointed.

I expected a lot more from my right brain. Maybe the creative side of me is exhausted.

Might as well see what's on the tube, though. Maybe there are some good channels into my mind.

I cross the short distance to the chair and sink comfortably into it. In the arm of the chair, the one that lifts up, contains a remote control. There is only one button.

It says On/Off.

I wish controlling creativity were really that easy.

With no hesitation, I pressed the button that said On/Off.

I am hit by a wave of confusion. And it's not even the TV that does this.

Suddenly the room is full of color and light. There are blurred objects whizzing by on the walls. At first I can't make out anything clearly and so I wrench my eyes from the chaos and direct my gaze to the small TV. Blazing from the screen is a familiar image.

It's a video of children plating London Bridge is falling down and other such games.

It's a birthday party. My birthday party. I can't be more than 5 years old. As I watch this video make it's progression (all the kids are laughing and smiling-it's a good time) the images swirling on the walls begin to slow and take shape.

I am at April Bliss's house. We have a play date and we are watching Sherri Lewis and Lamb Chop.

Next to this image I am on a pony at Two-Mile Prairie.

And over there, there I am being coaxed into a barn I have been told is haunted.

And right there I am sneaking candy from a house that is not mine.

These images scroll on the walls in a semi-jumbled manner. All the while that video of the birthday party plays on the TV.

As my eyes rove these memories, my thoughts flip to a different part of my childhood and soon the video on the TV has changed to one of me racing up and down the streets of Parks Edge Place. There is a rope tied to the handlebars of the bike and I am holding the rope pretending they are the reins on a horse. Along the expansive walls are images and memories all pertaining to that location. Butler getting attacked by that neighbors husky. The friends I had there. Most especially the hodges and playing My Little Pony with Sapphire. Trying to "sell" my drawings to people off the sidewalk. They were horrible.

The onslaught of all these memories are a lot to take in. Each time my thoughts stray to another topic, the TV shows another clip of my life. And then the walls are reeling with all other thoughts tied to that memory.

The images on the walls aren't always videos. Sometimes they are still photos. Sometimes smells are associated with a memory. The room will be suddenly filled with the scent of baking bread or damp forest. Chlorine. Dust and dirt. The ocean.

There is never anything tangible when it comes to these streams of memory. Only sights, sounds, smells...

I watch the TV and the walls for what feels like hours as the room sifts through my lifetime of events. Some make me laugh. Great billows of laughter that fill the room and cause my sides to ache.

Other times that ache becomes the one associated with the deepest sorrow. Those times I find my eyes wet. In these moments there is bitterness, guilt, grief, and longing.

As time passes I begin to feel a crick in my neck. I've been watching TV for too long. I tear my eyes from screen (it's now showing the time that I fell into a marsh in Rhode Island and Corey just stood there and laughed) and try to ignore the walls (they are showing other incidents like falling into the marsh in New Hampshire, tripping up stairs, getting my hand stuck in a tampon machine, etc. ). I give the room one last look to see if that's really all there is to it.

It's then that I see a crack of light near the floor about 12 feet away in the ever changing luminosity of the room.

I walk to the light and see that it's another door. Why didn't I see it before?

Should I go in?

Tune in next time and see.

(hopefully the next entry into my brain will be sooner coming than this one was)

Entry Eighty

I purchased a two way ticket into my brain.

I bought it with monopoly money.

I simply shrink myself and go in via my revolving door eyes.

I find myself in a rather spacious, but somewhat dimly lit lobby. 15 paces in front of me is a circular service desk, needlessly elaborate with gold finishing and silver fish patterns all over the marbled front. There is no one waiting there for me. No call bell, no computer. Just that empty desk with a single old fashioned rotary phone. Ivory and gold.

Calling all firing synapses.

Playing softly from the speakers is the song "Love Song" by Sara Bareilles. Why? Because it's my brain and there is always a song in it, whether I like the song or not.

On either side of this desk is a door. Two doors. Uncomplicated. Mordor, Gandalf, is it left or right?

I go left first. Because who ever really wants to visit the left side of the brain? The right side is more fun. But I'm saving it for last.

The door itself is chrome silver. Perhaps it's made of chrome. There is no door knob. Instead there is a combination panel to the side. There are the usual numbers. And then below that are 4 characters. A banana, a pillow, a music note, and an easy chair.

It's my brain so I know the combinations. The number combo is 0816. The character order is pillow, banana, easy chair, music note. There is a series of metallic clicks coming from the other side of the door because what self respecting chrome door with a combination panel wouldn't have metallic clicks coming from it as it opens? The door swings slowly inward, inviting me to enter. And so I do.

Within is a library. It's a bit smaller than most libraries. One room, about the size of an average size lecture hall. Wall to wall with a maze of bookshelves, crates of books on the floor as well as with free floating books scattered about. I have to pick my way through. There is no apparent labeling system. So I go to a shelf at random. There I see a book entitled "The Dark Crystal". Next to it is "The Labaryinth" and next to that is "The Never Ending Story." Next to that is "Krull". I reach for this last and pull it off the shelf.

A cascade of index cards come tumbeling down and fall to the floor. It is then that I notice that smashed in between every book is a little stack of these index cards. I bend over and pick one up. It has "Micropterus salmoides" written on it in smudged letters. It's hard to make out. On the other side of the card is written "Largemouth bass". I select another card from the floor. This one has the word "Puella" written clearly on one side and "girl" written on the other. There are similar cards now all over the floor with latin words and equations, and facts written on them. All the random little things I've tried to memorize throughout my life.

I pick a new shelf. I look up and down and see more books, only these ones say things like "Into the Blue", "The Man", "Scary Movie 4", and "Twilight". I shudder. Time to move on.

On another shelf there is Lord of the Rings and Star Wars and Harry Potter and Stephen King books out the Wazzoo. As I wander I find more and more movie titles. There are also books on TV shows (Including many multi volume collections for "Lost", "Supernatural", "The X-Files", and a rather dusty 5 volume collection for "Smallville"). There are also what appear to be normal books. Novels that I have read throughout my life. I scan some more and find a small little book entitled "Lord of the Rings card Game" and smile fondly.

Finally, after much more browsing, (I found a book on Leonardo DiCaprio and several volumes on M. Night. Shyamalan) I reach the back of the room. On the wall is a shelf filled with neatly organized series' of books.

There's a book on Plant Systematics, on physiology, on human dimensions in Natural Resources. Ichthyology, Botany, Entomology, Ornithology, Geology, Psychology, Russian literature, British literature. And towards the bottom we had several skinny books on algebra, calculus, and statistics. Statistics is clean but algebra and calculus are crusted in dust. I pull out calculus. Another avalanche of index cards falls out. I spot one that says something about Ronald Regan and a date. I flip through calculus and realize that many pages are missing or blank.

Yup, this is my brain.

I see the book "The Medium is the Massage" and smile as memories of English 1000 flow through me in ribbons. I reach out and pull the book forward and suddenly the well organized shelf of academia slides aside, revealing a small hidden doorway. Barely large enough for me to crawl through.

"Enter" the entrance seems to call. I comply.

I stand into a room lit with a single dangling light bulb complete with chain. In the small and cramped room are two rows of filing cabinets. The first cabinet says "Kindergarten", the second "First Grade", the third "Second grade" and so forth all the way until 9th grade. 10th-12th must still be awarded a placing in the more open reaches of the left side of my brain. In a few more years I imagine they will be shunted back into this little secret room. I open the 7th grade cabinet and find folders on math, science, art, social studies, etc. All those things I learned years and years ago that are barely a memory.

I want to explore this place more and see if there are other secret rooms but I know that I don't have eternity in my brain and I still haven't visited the right side.

I crawl back out of the small room and into the library again. I head to the exit and, without a second glance, leave the room. The slamming of the chrome door leaves a ringing in my ears.

Playing in the lobby is the song "Valencia!" by The Decemberists. Good song. It HAS been rattling around in my brain for the last week. There is still no one at the front desk, just that phone.

And so I go to make my way to the other door but as I do, the phone rings. Even though it's an old rotary phone, the sound that comes from it is a "Time is running out" ringtone by Muse. Should I answer? What will happen if I do? Who is calling my brain?

What the heck, what's the worst that could happen. It's my brain, right?

I pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Sarah. This is reality. The last open doorway out of your brain is closing in two minutes." This voice sounds a lot like the guy who narrates the Harry Potter books. He also narrates the Harry Potter games. That slightly sad sounding British voice.

"Two minutes is cutting it a little close don't you think? I haven't even seen the right side yet."

"I apologize but you were un-reachable in the left-side library. Remember that if you stay you will be stuck here until a professional can come dig get you out."

"Alright, alright. I'm coming."

I look longingly back at the inviting, green-painted, wooden door that is the right side of my brain and heave a sigh of regret. I'll have to get more monopoly money and buy another ticket on another day. My right brain will be waiting.

And so I walk slowly through the revolving door of my eyes, trudging the footsteps of the bitterly disappointed.

Once I am outside myself, I regrow and go on to face the day.

My friends, I have now written 80 posts on this blog. I predicted that the reason it took me so many tries to get through entry 79 is because I was meant to perish after entry 80. Be assured this does not mean I will take my own life to fulfill this prediction. I am simply being cautious. I would love to return here for entry 81 and continue the journey through my brain.

If however you never hear from me again, you know what happened.

I bid you all a very fond farewell.

Goodbye.

Entry Seventy-Nine

Attempt number 5 at entry 79. Apparently I am not meant to get to entry 80. Maybe once that entry is written I am meant to suffer a horrible and gruesome death.

That sounds like something that Stephen King would write.

How fitting because in this 5th attempt I am going to mention this critically acclaimed writer a bit.

I think it's interesting that books written by this author of all things unsettling should be the ones that inspires me the most right now.

No, nope. I will not start this entry over! I am determined! I will get through entry 79 this time.

Stephen King. Fearless. Cheeky. Personal.

He know how to hook you to his characters and make you love them. Even if you don't want to sometimes.

He knows how to reach deep down there and pull up thoughts and emotions you know didn't know exist. His fiction is the most believable collection of unbelievable stories ever written and I love it.

I wish I could be 1/15th the writer he is.

I will read "On Writing".

I am filled with this burning desire to finish. To get it done. To create!

This is all that I have. I had more but I had to leave and come back. That's why it has taken me so long to write this entry. Why it took 5 attempts. But who cares. I am posting this.

And after writing entry 80 I will prepare myself to die a romantic and unexpected death.

Entry Seventy-Eight

Oh of only things could be as simply wonderful as French Onion Soup.

Okay, I'm stopping now.

I am, however, still in a funk. Just not a French Onion Soup funk.

Maybe the fact that I was so close to getting some tonight and it didn't happen is part of that.

No. Can't be. I'm not that dependent on food to make me happy. Especially not savory, melty, oniony, hot, delicious, mouth watering French Onion Soup.

Maybe I have a problem.

Maybe that problem lies elsewhere and I am tying it to French Onion Soup.

Didn't I say I was stopping?

I think it was the text I got last night. I think I am missing home a little bit this week. In a weird way. In a way that is different to the way I was missing home a couple months ago. This is a deeper longing for the small things. Especially the small things that I loved about Missouri in the spring.

The evening drives with the windows down. Spring Thunder storms and finding the perfect place to watch the lightning. The smell of the flowers growing in peoples yards.

I miss Bob Evans. I know, I know! I can't believe I made it this far without missing that place. In Rhode Island it was a month before I began to long for the food and miss working with the people there. This time I lasted 4 and 1/2 months. I am so proud of myself.

I miss the university ward and it's security. I miss knowing that I would be able to go to church every week.

Out of all these things, what I miss most of all really is what I have missed all along and that is home.

But that longing has decreased and I can't decide if that's good or bad.

Everyone is figuring out what they are going to do after this. And here I am, procrastinating as usual.

Who wants to commit to something? How many people find happiness when they do that?

That was a rather down remark and I apologize.

And then this post ended just as it started: with no idea where it was headed or why it existed.

Entry Seventy-Seven

Hah.

I laugh.

I also cannot help but find the most mundane activities dangerous.

I also constantly ask people their medical history if they complain of eye pain or stomach aches.

Then I laugh again.

What is this place doing to me?

I am morphing into a new person with the old person still hiding deep inside. Maybe not deep. Maybe it's more like I am shedding off a thin exoskeleton layer of the person I used to be and the new me, who is still much of the same me, is emerging.

I don't like this metaphor.

Anyone else got a better one?

I've got three words. Three and that's it. I am in word poverty.

Those words are as follows: French.

I bet you weren't expecting that. I mean who would ever chose to have the word French in their word bank? They do have good food which may or may not elude to the next couple words.

Onion.

Well there is the food I was talking about. But Onions aren't really exclusive to the French. I bet most of you (who ever you are) know the next word. So lets all say it together.

Goog.

Hah! Fooled you! There is no way that you would have thought of that word. I didn't even know it existed until I decided that I was going to look up other ways to say "spectacles" in slang terms. But seriously. That's not the third word in my word bank. "Goog" is worth at least 50 words and I would be much richer if I had it.

Soup. That's what I was really going to say. Soup.

French. Onion. Soup. Three words that, alone, mean little. Put them together (Frenchonionsoup) and you have a word that makes no sense at all and is worth virtually and actually nothing in terms of words. Put those words next to each other but keep them seperate (as in French onion goog, I mean soup. French onion soup) and you have the most amazing thing ever invented in the food universe.

French onion soup has now officially replaced pizza as my favorite food. Don't worry though, Pizza. You are still my favorite breakfast leftover.

I am obsessed. I have now had French onion soup in 3 different locations in New Hampshire. I can tell you who has the best soup and who has the cheapest out of these three and I intend on exploring the French onion soup galaxy further. I think French onion soup only occupies a galaxy. As much as I love it I doubt that it fills a universe.

You have The Puritan Backroom Restaurant in Hooksette (it might actually be in Manchester but who can really tell?). Their soup is middle in the price range but ranks first in quality. You get a delicious, well seasoned and well portioned crock. The atmosphere in this place is also great but you are more than likely going to have to wait for a table. Even on a weekday. This place is insanely popular.

Next you have the Corner View Restaurant in Concord. Their soup is the most expensive but it also comes in the largest crock (even if it is only sloghtly (I did mean to type sloghtly. It's a smudge less than slightly. Yes, I did mean to type smudge. A smudge is an atom smaller than a smidge which is a word that Blogger tells me doesn't exist. And yet "Blogger" does exist. Of course that makes sense.) larger than the one found at The Puritan. It's very good but almost too much food in one sitting. The service there is mediocre.

Last there is the French onion soup at 99. Being a chain, you can't expect all that much. I mean, chains always taste rusty and are way too hard to chew. I have lost too many teeth. Anyway, their soup is good but not the best. It's whats to be expected is what I am really trying to say. You can get it in a cup or a crock. Putting it in a cup makes it hard to eat because you're trying to drink it the whole time and all that happens is the broth seeps around the cheese and you don't get any onions or bread. And the crock is huge. I mean, a whole crock pot of French onion soup? Killer. It's worth the money you pay though. (I'm sorry. I know I need to stop with the word play, it's just too fun. That's why it's word play and not word work).

And why have I taken you on this goog, I mean soup, peregrination? (Do you wonder if that word is tied at all to Peregrine falcons? Because I do and I have no answer.) Because I have nothing better to write about. That's not true but the truth is the other things I could write about would bore you much more than the soup talk.

Great, now I want to have a talk show called "Soup Talk" in which each week we learn about a different kind of soup and ways to make and prepare it.

I love soup. I would also love to have a talk show about pie but I don't know what I would call it. Who wants to tell me their ideas?

I love pie and soup.

Also, from now on I am going to type French Onion Soup with all three words capitalized because if French has to be capitalized, the other words need to feel equal. And so they will be. Someday.