[null, null, null, null, {"document_url": "http://www.brodinary.com/2011/", "unformatted_src": "http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_VpQm9HUna0/TWTnV6MxHyI/AAAAAAAAABQ/JtFaLE1fjOM/s320/RECIPIE.png", "src": "http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_VpQm9HUna0/TWTnV6MxHyI/AAAAAAAAABQ/JtFaLE1fjOM/s320/RECIPIE.png", "formatted_filename": "RECIPIE", "rendered_width": 320, "rendered_height": 184}, null, {"document_url": "http://www.brodinary.com/2011/", "unformatted_src": "http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhXsaYGZcd4/TWTm1TwVrsI/AAAAAAAAABI/gl_wLR7DCHo/s320/Cookies.png", "src": "http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhXsaYGZcd4/TWTm1TwVrsI/AAAAAAAAABI/gl_wLR7DCHo/s320/Cookies.png", "formatted_filename": "Cookies", "rendered_width": 320, "rendered_height": 221}, null, null, null]
My Sad Little Story There is a story about a close relationship I would like to share with you all. It involves a regular couple, Jim and Samantha. Now Samantha is your average girlfriend, but she is absolutely in love with Jim. Jim is the same towards Samantha and they make sure to let each other know this every day. Jim was always a gentleman, treating Samantha like a princess, like every girl dreams about, until one day he had proposed a little game for them. Jim had asked Samantha to see if she could last 24 hours without contacting him or any of his close friends or family. Of course Samantha refused to at first but Jim upped the stakes and promised that if she could succeed in this task that he had asked her to do, that he would love her for the rest of her life. Samantha being a very sensitive person reluctantly agreed, noticing how badly Jim had wanted her to do this.

The following day started and Jim was not lying beside her in their bed. The 24 hours had started and she could tell it would be a hard 24 hours already. She had made breakfast accidentally for two and watched the untouched eggs from across her table as she ate solemnly. She watched TV lying down on the couch without knees to rest her head upon. She stared at her cellphone contemplating whether or not to text her beloved, but thought otherwise. Jim must have been doing something very important or something very mean. Thoughts of malice began to crawl into Samantha's mind. Jim could be out drinking with his friends because he was tired of being with her, or worse. He could be out cheating on her with a different, much more beautiful woman.

Samantha began thinking of all the times he could have begun his little cheating ways. He had told her many times that he was heading for the hospital for his checkup, but it always seemed fishy to her that he went so frequently. She had trusted him completely so she would not question it otherwise, but now it got her thinking. What if it was true? Jim could not have asked her to not contact her for 24 hours just to go out with his other lady friend; he could have done it like before if it were true. Samantha sighed in relief, Jim would never do such a thing, they had been through far too much. The rest of the day was eventless and Samantha had retired to bed early in an attempt to end the day as soon as possible.

The next day, Jim was not beside her again. She had received no texts or any messages in their answering machine about his whereabouts. It had been 24 hours, she was sure of it. Samantha drove to Jim's parents' house to find out exactly what was happening. She was far too occupied in her mind to notice all the cars parked around the building. Her spot right on the driveway was empty and seemingly reserved if anyone else had noticed other than her. She could hear noises from inside the house, many people were in there. She knocked on the door only to find it open. She entered the house and saw many of Jim's close friends and family with looks of sadness upon them, some of them crying and visually upset. Her confusion deepened and she began to feel a different emotion creeping up, dread.

Jim's picture upon a frame was placed on top of an adorned coffin in the middle of their living room. Her eyes slowly examined the scene, unnoticed that all the eyes upon the room were now upon her. There was a note, a note addressed solely for her placed on top of the coffin that no-one was to touch other than her. Samantha quickly grabbed the note, pushing back the obvious scenario in her head and thinking that this was all a charade. The note had read, "You did it baby, I'm so proud of you. I knew my princess could do it, now can you do it every day? I love you forever and ever."

Jim had been slowly dying from cancer for many years. He had tried his hardest to keep it hidden from Samantha, some people say he was a selfish person for keeping it hidden from her, but it was his own decision. Life gives us moments like this that shape who we are. It may not be quite as extreme as Jim and Samantha's story, but hardships are part of life, and it is something that we all share.

 Different type of story I've written today! Hope you all enjoy it!
I’ve recently been occupying myself with some shows in the wee hours of the night. I watch during the time where most people in this world of ours are busy indulging themselves in their dream world and the restless like me sit and enjoy shows that they would otherwise not enjoy.
Simply put I believe that I myself am an insomniac. I spend many hours watching useless infomercials for products I will never purchase, old TV sitcoms which I will never understand, and commercials that I will never recall. It’s during this time that my mind is at its most vulnerable.  Unlike shows I watch in the afternoon or early evening, I don’t attempt to comprehend every detail in which is conveyed to me. I do the opposite.
I attempt to compare things that I watch to other things that might otherwise not be related in any way, shape, or form. In essence it’s how I exercise my creativity. That is how I came up with my recipe for happiness. I was channel surfing one night when I came upon the food network program which depicted a rather plain looking woman making herself a complicated dish. I do not recall the dish anymore but I do recall how complicated it was and how she kept reminding her audience to take extra vigilance when doing the dish. Apparently one mistake and it could make the dish rather disgusting. I myself not being much of a chef found this strange. I never would have assumed that cooking had the same static characteristics as that of a mathematical equation.
I decided to try out my new found discovery by making something significantly simpler, Peanut butter cookies. Like I had mentioned before, I am not much of a chef, so I had to Google the recipe and find the simplest way to make these cookies. After numerous hours of being sidetracked I finally came across a rather simple recipe that required very little steps. I decided to make haste and create these soon to be delicious creations that I could devour. The recipe itself scrutinized just how exact I had to be with the measurements, which further solidified my belief that cooking was exactly like math. So I followed the steps, used the proper measuring tools and applied the perfect temperature and eventually all the gooey cookies I had molded with my hands of absolute creation had been prepped for cooking. I was ecstatic to say the least. Do bear in mind that beforehand I had not eaten for 2 days straight for some forgotten reason, so these cookies were looking already delicious raw and doughy.
Now my readers, comes the sad part. I had put them into the oven and smiled to myself over the extremely excellent job I had done producing said peanut butter cookies, when suddenly I re-read the recipe and came across a grave fatal mistake that I had done. There had been a footnote at the bottom of the page I had printed out regarding my peanut butter cookie recipe! It read,
“Caution only use Smooth peanut butter, not crunchy peanut butter.”
This was around the time I panicked, everything I had worked for was now destroyed because of some foolish blunder! Oh how I had wished I read everything over three times instead of two and caught my fatal mistake before I had placed my cookies into the oven.  I panicked and grabbed the oven handle opening it the door with complete panic and zest. I stared at the cookies basking in the warm glow of the interior of my oven, like calm brown rocks sleeping underneath the warm sun.  I promptly closed the oven door and shrugged, walking away from the oven and sitting back down upon my couch.
I had learned a lesson that day, a very important lesson. There are only two things in life that don’t let you make mistakes, University Professors and Women. Don’t let the little things bug you like that; mistakes are but a window showing you into the correct path. I smiled to myself, bit into one of my scrumptious peanut butter cookies and realized just how amazing of a chef I am.

Strange First Impressions It was high-noon when she came around. At the time we only knew each other by the pensive glances we gave when dragged around by our overly-vivacious parents. But it was to change today. I knew her from around already; she was of the high class families, the ones who owned the automobiles, and big houses. They acted like they were above our Lord. And for that, I was taught to despise her. It was all quite depressing really.

I sat upon a green little hill. The village was abundant with them. But this particular hill looked down upon half the village. This half of the village housed the forbidden Billiard place, the place that housed many good and many horrible memories. But they were MY memories, and it saddened me that I was reduced to looking from afar. It was during my little nostalgic moment that she walked up to my hill to me – no she strode up with her stridey little stride.

"Hello Miss," I said, being careful not to show any sense of disposition.

"Spare the pleasantries Ren, I already know who you are," She replied, taking her place next to me.

"I was just in the middle of prayer; would you care to join me?" I asked, expecting the answer already.

"Oh please, how very quaint," She laughed.

Although I expected her to do such a thing, It was against my nature the simply take an insult to the lord like that. Was this a cross-road in which I picked the right, or wrong path?

"Holy Mary, mother of God," I began, "Pray for You sinner,"

"Hah Hah," She laughed yet again, not understanding the magnitude of her problem.

"You! Miss," I suddenly said, stopping my prayer, "What is your name?"

"You know my name Ren, everyone knows my name!" She laughed again, that shrill stupid laugh.

"That is what Father does when he is trying to be stern with someone" I replied, red-faced, "Annabella."

"Don't call me that Ren, only Mommy calls me that, and only when she is angry at something I have done."

"Is that not your name?" I asked, suddenly noticing her eyes again.

Those eyes, those black, black eyes

"People call me Bella, or Ann, But not Annabella," Then her face lit up, "Oh I do wish people would call me Bell, like that princess!"

"Mommy says that Disney movies are wrong and only a fool watches them," I said, matter-of-factly.

Suddenly Annabella turned red.

"Oh to Hell with your mommy and you,"

I gasped, absolutely struck, absolutely dumbstruck. How could a mere child like herself damn Mother so painfully?

I honestly believed she had morphed into some sort of unholy manifestation, but it turned out to be my own vision. My own vision… Red.

I saw everything happening already… Presque vu… Those eyes, her black eyes, staring, judging, mocking.

I hit her.

She had sprawled upon the green grass. A rag doll, a marionette who's self-righteous strings were suddenly cut during her beautiful performance. I heard nothing but the raw pounding of anger pumping through my ears. She had not only banished me to hell, but my mother, my precious mother.

The world had become a flourishing red and green. Everything moved in slow motion, and I couldn't help but stare in agony as Annabella had slowly gotten up, tears streaming down her face. I regretted it, of course I did, and I knew I was going to be punished. But a part of me, a deeper part of me, loved the fact that she had been knocked out of her high, proud stance, forced down to humility like the rest of us. I couldn't help but smile.
 As I leaf back through my memories, I find that given the same opportunities that I had then, added with my lofty knowledge gained only through personal experience, I would have done exactly everything I had done, just probably with a bit more style. I also always find that every time I try to recall these certain memories that twist and turn in the deepest part of my mind, like a labyrinth that has no end, only countless beginnings, they seem to change. No not change, simply waver. Things I deemed certain before seem to change, seem to heighten. Exaggerate. Like a boy, who's one aim in life is to impress his glowing mother… exaggerating… eliciting some extravagant reaction… all for that reaction. What reaction was I aiming for? Well I was seven during that day; at least that I can be certain of…
Seven was when I met my Annabella, the moment still fresh in my rotting mind. A newly vased bouquet of extravagant and thorny blue roses. My Annabella, like that feeling that you just can't explain, but you want very badly to… that was my Annabella.

It seems that when I nostalgise about the past, my memories resemble that of an old film being watched through an older film filter; blurry, out of focus, and infuriatingly sepia. But Annabella, god, she was different; she was my blue rose among a field of red roses. Annabella, her picture, her visage, was driven to me like a proverbial stake, breaking through the norm and hurting me in ways that I would not think would hurt. I close my eyes and she is as exact as she was many years ago. Burned into the deepest darkest catacombs of my mind, eating away at my sanity, a beautiful parasite more than eager to take me away… and what's to say I was not more than willing myself.

I might even go as far as to say that one will not, or has not, experienced true madness without seeing such a phenomenon. Like I said, my memories, and I am sure everyone else's memories are re-conveyed to them in the form of blurry, old
film-esque style. But when I see Annabella in the darkness of my eyelids, her form is true. That image, the first realization that she was mine, I remember everything. She wore her daunting sky blue dress resting upon her like a fitting curtain, with the green printed apples trimming the hem of its skirt. And her hair, she had it drooping lazily off to one side, as if to put it aside to get a better look of me. And her legs, dotted with the childhood injuries that one might expect from a little too much playing. But to me, dotted like the perfect cuts of a coagulated ruby, exhibited for the world to see. And finally… her eyes, those eyes, the eyes, those piercing eyes, blacketh of the night, shadow of the unknown. To me, she had the darkest, most unique eyes. Her pupils, larger than ordinary, but also the darkest shade of brown anyone can ever conceive…one might even call them black. This was not natural… the eyes, the recollection of her image, the darkness. In my mind, she was completely lit against a dark world. As if basking upon some alien light, the world around her black… a world struck with perpetual darkness… a world fated to never experience the light of day again.
