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A possible Hiatus

Dear Loyal Readers (Hi Mom!),

It has become apparent by my dwindling posts and sub-par subject material that my life is no longer active enough to sustain or warrant a blog. I have been trying to translate my overactive mind onto these pages, but at this point even those discombobulated thoughts are hardly blog-worthy. But put away your tissue boxes and wipe those tears away this is not the end of Marissa Brady. My life may be boring, but my love for the pen has not yet passed. Therefore, it is only natural that I move to fiction! I have decided to focus my literary efforts towards a full length novel. I will include you on the progress of this endeavor, thus this is not “Good Bye”, but more closely “See you Soon”.

Warmest Regards,

Marissa Brady

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Oh the Places You’ll Go

I am an avid people watcher and while most people desire a night of dancing on bar tops or canoodling with sexy coeds in order to consider their night successful, I could be perfectly content to watch the world coalesce around me like an intricately choreographed ballet. However, either I am some sort of potent magnet for a pastiche of aberrant characters or 90% of this fine Nation’s population is of this sort. At first I blamed Florida (which I might add is burning down as we speak… maybe I actually am in hell??), but due to the aforementioned blaze I will cite my increased awareness as the cause of excessive saltiness.

The first encounter that led me to begin my assessment of the population was my trip to an establishment called Blue Martini where scantily uniformed cocktail waitress butler out miniscule portions of the namesake for the entirety of the night. While I was reaping the benefits of said feature, I noticed an elderly gentleman occupying the stool next to my own. “How adorable”, I thought to myself “A little couple is exploring the Southern Florida nightlife after a night filled with Bingo, Bridge, and Parcheesi.” But soon this gentleman began to appear less and less wholesome and more and more seedy after repeatedly chanting “Legs are for dancing” while putting a less than Grandfatherly hand on my knee. Then there are my seemingly straight-laced neighbors one of whom accosted my non-smoking father for hours one night begging for a smoke while drunkenly shouting obscenities at neighbors passing by and the other who told me she doesn’t like “eating”, and was last seen garishly wandering around our common gym barefoot consuming potato chips as if we were meeting in her own living room rather than a less than sanitized public gym. I would also think chips might be considered food, but I let that one slide.

There was the woman in the supermarket spilling her recent hospital troubles involving a catheter and her back to the checkout worker. HELLO! Does anyone other than me understand what “Too Much Information” means??? There is Scowling Helen, seen daily walking with her battered suitcase soon to be filled with groceries. (As a side note, I think all of Helen’s problem’s may be solved by a bigger suitcase, which I may provide as a parting gift so that she doesn’t harass any other residents for rides filled with her brackish mumblings.) There was the bird-like Aussie that labeled me a Tribal African, despite my freckled ivory mug, and informed me of my need to feel the rhythm of the universe in order to be a successful dancer. Why does everyone enjoy peer pressuring me to dance? I will boogy down when I damn well please!

I’ve dealt with thong bathing suits on wrinkly men, people with countless birds and snakes gracing their shoulders, being cut off, cursed at, flashed by a male while on I-95 (fortunately my car companion began dialing 9-1-1, which was enough to scare off the perpetrator), and generally been made to feel like I need some sort of passport in order to extend my trip further. And although I previously stated I would not attribute the lunacy I encounter to my state of residence, I do often compare the population with that of the sediment in wine. It’s as if all of the nut jobs merely sink to the bottom of this fine country to intermingle with the likes of me. The sediment isn’t really bad or harmful, but if the quality of the wine could improve with the use of a decanter, then by all means decant!