Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...

Marissa's Attempt at Cleaning Her Room, Part 1:
It was the last door on the hall. Tentacles wiggled and writhed their way through the bottom, latching onto any unfortunate soul who happened to walk too close and dragging them deep into the depths of the room. A sign hung from the knob. "Abandon all hope, yee who enter here."
I bit my lip, thrust my machete forward, straightened the brim of my safari hat, and entered.
Immediately, my nostrils were assaulted by the stench of decaying flesh. The pile of bones to the left of the door was probably the cause of it, I thought.
Also, that explained where my brother's annoying friend Tyler went to...
I ventured further, hacking away at the vines hanging from the ceiling.
A pair of yellow, unblinking eyes stared out at me from underneath the piles of clothes of questionable cleanliness. Corpses of discarded empty soda cans lay crumpled and misshapen in the corner. One poor almost-empty can crawled close to me.
"Save yourself," the beverage said weakly, before coughing out its last few drops of Diet Coke and collapsing to the floor to join its fallen bretheren in Soft Drink Heaven.
I turned away, supressing tears.
"I'll avenge you." I whispered, trying not to choke up.
I straightened my hat yet again (it always seemed to be getting lopsided.) and headed onward into the heart of the bedroom...

Sigh.

It seems to me like I should be updating Le Blog more often.
Really can't think of anything to say, though.
Nothing witty, anyway.
I mean, it's possible I could just post this entry with me just saying I've nothing to write about.
But that would be quite dull.
And I'm sure my followers (OMG WTF BBQ, I HAVE FOLLOWERS!) would be quite unhappy if I did.
Because I am sure they expect something a bit more entertaining than me just blathering on about my lack of inspiration to be quirky and strangely amusing.
Hmm.
Write about my life, you say, mysterious voice from nowhere?
No-no, that won't do.
I am not particularly interesting.
Except for the odd occasion when I hear mysterious voices suggesting topics to write about. Also, my fingers can talk. And they are not fond of me. I really can't blame them.
What's that, Mr. Voice?
Stop blathering and post the dang entry, you say?
Well.
I can do that.
And I shall.
Adieu, my unhappy followers.

The Creative Process.

For those of you curious as to how I come up with my posts, I present to you...

The Creative Process:
Every so often, I'll open up a new draft on Blogger and try to think of something to write.
I'll stare at the blank page for, oh, about a half hour or so, until, brows furrowed and eyes blinded, I'll squint angrily down at my fingers on the keyboard.
"Write something," I tell them.
"Be quirky and entertaining," I say, close to begging.
My pleading is to no avail, of course.
They continue to sit motionless, mounted atop the spacebar, as if mocking me.
The buttockses.
Of course, by this point, I get frustrated.
Frustrated meaning I get the kitchen knife and threaten the lazy fingers with a game of Five Finger Fillet.
"She's bluffing!" the middle finger cries out to his fellow digits, trying to reassure them.
Oh, but I wasn't bluffing, and 2 fingers later, I managed to come up with this lovely entry.
Please enjoy as I head off the the emergency room, as the bloodloss is making me somewhat woozy.
Adieu.

I got a review?

Granted, the review was from a (the only) follower of mine, but t'was a nice gesture indeed.
This anonymous blogger thanks yee kindly, Alicia.
This was not my intention, however, to be an anonymous blogger, so perhaps I shall share a bit of information about myself.
Unfortunately, the only relevant thing I can think of to say is, "Hi, my name's Marissa, and I enjoy writing.", which really isn't anything new.
I mean, you can find that information on my Profile, as well as a lovely picture of my thumb dressed up as a smiling cyclops-type thing. What more could you want?
All my personal information, you say?
No-no, Mr. Spam E-mail. I don't care if I've miraculously won the UK national lottery, and all I need to do is enter in my social security, date of birth, and credit card number. I was told to keep that information secret.
Besides, I'm an American citizen, and it makes little sense for me to have won the UK lottery.
Anyhow.
Perhaps I should just make a list of things that I enjoy...
Voyons...
Writing, reading, learning languages, watching movies, finding interesting music, talking to the Internet (not people on the Internet, mind you. Just the Internet.), having unhealthy obsessions with fictional characters, quoting various things, playing the bass, doodlin' stuff, making peculiar clay creations, baking things (burning things, rather.), and sleeping.
Those are in no particular order, mind you.
If I had to organize them from most-liked to least, sleeping would be much closer to the top of said list.
Anyway, one believes that one has shared enough personal information about oneself, so one shall bid you adieu.
Adieu, mes chous.

Sweet merciful crap!

I got a 97 on that Crucible essay!
Which is hard to believe, considering I only changed 2 sentences from the rough draft, on which I got a 91, but I am not one to argue with my english teacher's grading habits, especially not when they turn out well for a change.
So, now that that's all said and done, I can finally write something that isn't about my irony essay.
Or, rather, I would if I were remotely creative with my writing, but, alas, I am not.
All those years of sitting in front of the television whilst drinking beverages laced with articficial sugar and trace amounts of bug feces have rotted the creative, as well as most of the analytical, portions of my brain.
Which is indeed quite depressing.
However, I will continue to write despite my festering imagination because I've nothing better do to.
So. Lovely weather we're having lately, eh, Blog?
Oh. You wouldn't know? You say you live on the Internet?
Well, surely it's nice on the Internet as well...
No? You say that at night, when the spam blocker goes to sleep, you are incessantly tormented by pop-ups advertising natural male enhancement pills and mail-order brides from Russia?
Well, that's simply depressing, Blog. So depressing that I shall stop typing and maybe go outside for a change.
I bid you adieu for this evening, sweet Blog and Follower.
Au revoir.

Further procrastination.

Blargh.
Don't you hate it when you find out a band has free downloads for their music on their website after you already went ahead and bought the album on iTunes?
Why bother putting it up for sale if you've got free downloads?
Solely for the purpose of irritating those who were too stupid to Google the band before purchasing the songs?
That must be it.
Music is out to get me.
It's the only logical explaination.
...Anyhow, on a non-paranoid note, I've still yet to finish that irony essay.
Rather, I've yet to finish the final draft. (Miraculously,) I managed to get an A- on the rough draft, so I only need to tweak the intro a mite.
Can't seem to get motivated enough to do that, though.
Which is fine with me.
I write my best work at 3 o'clock in the morning anyway.
So, I shall bid you adieu for this evening, my sweet but imaginary blog readers.
Adios.

Procrastination.

So, I am currently putting off doing my irony essay at the moment.
I've been doing pretty much everything but.
It's a bit like that old Spongebob episode.
"Spongebob: I can't write my essay knowing there's a mess in the kitchen, Gary!"
"Gary: ...Meow."
Except I don't have a snail named Gary, so I made do with my cat, Peng-Peng. Also I wouldn't be caught dead voluntarily cleaning, because that'd just be silly. If I were dead, I wouldn't be cleaning anything. I'd just be, y'know, decomposing.
Anyhow, it went a bit like this.
"Me: I can't write an essay knowing there's ingredients to make myself a sandwich in the kitchen, Peng-Peng!"
"Peng-Peng: ...Meow."
I don't know why I didn't start that stupid essay earlier. I don't even know why I'm not doing it now. I mean, it's already 6 o'clock. And I've not even started the thing.
I suppose it's just stupidity on my part.
Sigh.
All right. I'm off to attempt to write that essay. And make myself a sandwich.
I bid you adieu, sweet blog reader.