My Reindeer Flies Sideways

Our topic on which to blog today is graduation, which will take place in a few weeks.

Well. Hmm.

I do not plan to take any sort of trip after graduation, until my college orientation session in June. Nor will I attend a wild, raucous party that night and become heavily inebriated. To be honest, all I want to do after graduation is go home, sleep, and not wake up until 7:00 the next morning.

But I'll be spending the night at a school-sponsored overnight party with my classmates, which promises to be interesting at the very least. And prior to the ceremony, my family is hosting a graduation luncheon/party for extended family and a few friends; that will likely be fun.

However, during the ceremony, only one thing will be on my mind. A theme which has dominated my thoughts at the close of each school year since seventh grade and which I feel reflects my hope for the future: the "Sideways Reindeer" song.

This song, which I discovered in an Internet animation at age 13, runs as follows:

My reindeer flies sideways;
Your reindeer flies upside-down.
My reindeer flies sideways;
Your reindeer is dead.
Bum bum bum...
[repeat ad infinitum]

As you've probably guessed, these lyrics are sung to the tune of "Pomp and Circumstance" (aka the Graduation Processional Song). Ever since first hearing the "Sideways Reindeer" song, it's all I can think of when the piano strikes up "P&C" at graduation.

So fare thee well, my high school alma mater. Your reindeer is dead.

Soror

Our esteemed teacher has declared today, "Free-Write Friday-" we may blog as we please on any subject. Therefore, dear readers, permit me to tell you about my sister. My sister is the best sibling in this or any other world. That's not a boast, but rather a statement of fact. You wish you had a sister this fantastic, and will soon go home to your lesser siblings (who I'm sure are nice in their own ways) and weep for your lot. For blogging purposes I'll call her Isabel, though that is not her real name; I don't want any of you being driven to insanity by her greatness and trying to stalk her. Isabel is 12 years older than me and a few inches taller, blue of eyes and chestnut-brown of hair. She is a musician and songwriter extraordinaire. She writes hilarious stories, draws photorealistic portraits, and gives excellent advice. Upon first meeting her, you are like the Titanic before the iceberg. Now, don't think I'm being insulting; it's nothing you can help. "She's sweet," you'll think, "but so shy and retiring! What an innocent, delicate young lady." I forgive you, but you're being an idiot. True, Isabel is reserved with strangers. True, she seldom swears or raises her voice or causes trouble. But when you look at her and see a shy, retiring flower, you couldn't be more wrong. My sister is not a Victorian maiden so much as a 1950s starlet. To those who know her, she is witty, wry, and outspoken. All that glitters she adores; her closet is stuffed with red, black, and gold clothes in slightly daring cuts. You know the titular practice of Audrey Hepburn's character in "Breakfast At Tiffany's?" My sister has done it, munching a bagel from Panera Bread while browsing cases of diamonds she could never afford. Our mother often says our personalities got switched before birth. I, with my tiny stature, preference for delicate jewelry, and pale coloring, am bold, sarcastic, and outgoing. Isabel's flashy rhinestones, curvy figure, and torch-singer voice bely her shyness. But in spite of our differences, we get on wonderfully; I can never remember a time (even when, as a child, I hit her for no reason) that I haven't loved my big sister. So, here's to Isabel: the older sister you never knew you always wanted.

Description Exercise

"Don't get your hopes up, kid." Emil looked up sharply, an almost guilty expression on his face. He glanced around, unable to pinpoint the raspy voice's source until the stranger spoke again. "You also might not want to assume you're alone so quickly." It became apparent that Emil's observation skills were lacking; the man sat slumped in the open confessional to his left. He couldn't have been older than thirty-five, but looked as if he'd seen enough trouble for a hundred years. His features, beneath a layer of stubble and ingrained dirt, seemed vaguely Middle Eastern. Strands of shaggy, dark hair curled around the collar of a striped shirt that might have come from the same dumpster as the dingy maroon pants. "Seen enough?" he said with a dry chuckle. Emil, a flush rising on his cheeks, realized he'd been staring. "No," the teenager replied, "I mean, yes. I mean...what are you doing here?" The question sounded childish, and as soon as he'd spoken Emil regretted it. The man shrugged and took a swig from the bottle in his left hand. "I was sleeping 'till you came in, started talking to yourself." "Sorry. I didn't know I was being so loud. Sometimes praying gets me carried away," Emil replied. To avoid staring further, he busied himself with his satchel, digging for the lost water bottle. Another hoarse laugh from the battered wooden structure made him glance up. The stranger took a silver lighter from his pocket and flicked it at his cigarette. After taking a deep drag, he spoke again. "Listen, kid, don't waste your time here. It's just another dump, and not the best in the city neither. And that guy there?" He gestured to the giant crucifix at the front of the sanctuary. "We're not his type. Look somewhere else for answers, 'cause He ain't listening."