The list of prompts I am using does not have a Day 11, so I will use this opportunity to write freely.

A few weeks ago I met a girl with blue hair. She had on a floral dress and a cardigan, sparkly tights and a gold clutch. I told her I liked her tights. She told me where I could get my own pair. She said, “They go with everything.”

I don’t think that glittery tights go with everything, and in fact, if I had a pair, and I do want a pair, don’t get me wrong, I would rarely wear them. It’s just that my years of dressing with any sort of weird-girl flare are dwindling, and if I can’t wear something silly or glittery or gold or gaudy without toning it down so that it’s just another boring, plain outfit worn by some girl with brown hair, the same brown hair she was born with, then I don’t want to wear it.

I am a very boring person. People don’t notice me, and I don’t think I want them to. All of my goals are prudent and obtainable. I shop on sale, I take great pleasure in cleanliness, I make lists and I don’t even want a dog anymore; two cats is enough.

I told the girl with the blue hair that on that particular evening, I was trying to look a little more interesting than usual. I wore a deep orange cardigan with a navy and maroon printed dress, white fishnets and gunmetal gray oxfords. It was daring, but only slightly, and I brought it all together in a way that was casually cool, but only slightly. Mostly I was just another girl in another dress at another party. Very few people noticed.

I told the girl I was trying to look a little more interesting than usual and the girl with blue hair said, “Sometimes I think my life is so boring that I have to dress up to keep things interesting.”

I am very boring; I make good choices and plan for things that probably don’t have to be planned for. My hair is the same brown that I was born with and my clothes are not often glittery or eye-catching. I like it when my house is clean, I like to keep things organized. I am very boring, but that doesn’t mean my life is.

Day 10 —What do you want to be remembered for?

She kept a lovely chicken coop and was generous with the eggs.

Day 9 —What was your favorite childhood toy?

Swallowing.

There is something magical about swallowing.

You put an item into your mouth, perhaps chew, and then swallow

and it’s gone. Forever. You will never see it again. Like magic. Like the mouth is a portal to another dimension. A black hole. A gateway. Like magic.

Pennies, dimes, the occasional nickle (they are a bit big) and of course

buttons.

My mother inherited a large cookie tin of buttons that had been collected by her mother or someone’s mother, but perhaps her mother’s mother (whom I did not know) and then her mother, for at least twenty years. The cookie tin was a terracotta red with bits of rust showing through here and there. It was completely filled with buttons, some in little plastic bags and others still attached to the card they were purchased on.

I would sort through the buttons one by one, touching them gently and imagining what they would feel like when swallowed. The magic of swallowing was lovely, but the feeling was divine.

Rounded objects were nice, smooth, and feeling their hardness as they slowly, unnaturally moved down your throat and into the other dimension was what I loved.

Another important aspect of swallowing was what the object looked like. Pennies and dimes were easy to come by and not very pretty, so the buttons shined like jewels when I was allowed to look at them. Pretty pink and teal buttons were enticing, but ones shaped like little fruits were almost irresistible. Aesthetically they were beautiful, colorful, but their feeling going down was sharp, rough, more of a challenge than a smooth, round button or dime. Once they had disappeared, though, as you reeled from the experience, there might be the sweet lingering taste of the fruit the button had been modeled after.

One day my mother cut the buttons from a sweater that no longer fit and left them out in the open. Perhaps she even forgot about them. Perhaps she said I could keep them as treasure. I do not think she knew I would put the treasure inside of me.

These buttons were shaped like animals. There were four of them. They were colored soft pink, green, blue and yellow. One was a lion, and perhaps another, the pink one, a lamb. I believe the blue was a seal with a little ball upon his nose. They were the most beautiful buttons I had ever seen and I knew immediately, even as a child, that they must be cherished and savored and saved for a special day. These buttons were not dimes. These buttons were not buttons. They were not even smooth colored jewels. These buttons were fine wine, filet mignon, a 20th wedding anniversary, the birth of your first child. These buttons were heaven on earth.

I hid them in my most secret place: the ripped sleeve of my winter coat, and waited.

Day 8 —Tell your life story from someone else’s point of view.

Rhiannon is a spoiled brat. She always has been and always will be.

Her dad paid for her to go to college, paid for all of her expenses and anything she wanted or needed, even after she dropped out.

She got arrested when she was 19 and he even bailed her out then. She probably never even paid him back.

Her mom died a few years ago. I think she had cancer or something. This could be a lie, though. She has been known to lie.

Rhiannon is the meanest, rudest person I’ve ever met.

She’s a slut and will fuck anyone so long as they buy her something she wants. Sometimes all it takes is a pack of cigarettes.

Well I guess now she’s married, but even that’s just a ploy to get whatever she wants. Her husband spoils her stupid. She gets whatever she wants, whenever she wants. She barely even works.

She has the dumbest tattoo I’ve ever seen.

She used to be pretty and skinny in high school but has gotten so fat in the last few years. Probably all the drinking and being lazy as fuck she’s been doing since she got married.

She gets whatever she wants and never does anything for herself and everything she has just falls into her lap and everyone loves her anyway.

I hate that bitch.

Day 7 —What sets you apart from the crowd?

I have the face of a horse.

That’s not to say I am ugly, or have a long face, or big teeth or dark, deep, frightening equine eyes. It is to say that I, quite literally, have the face of a horse.

I was born with this face and no one is sure why, though I know my father harbors some suspicion of my mother and how much time she used to spend out in the barn. He ought to be reminded that the only horses we’ve ever kept were mares, but I suppose when your child is born with a horse face you’ll accept even the most absurd answers just for the impression of understanding.

Growing up was quite difficult for a time. The children at my school often brought me apples, carrots, salt and sugar cubes, once even a whole bag of oats. I am thankful none of them ever got a hold of a saddle, or worse, a bridle.

I think childhoods are difficult for everyone, though, and as I grew, as we all grew, I was accepted by my peers and in turn I learned to accept myself. Jimmy Grant was the only boy in town with red hair, and Marjorie Clark was the only kid with braces. We all have something that sets us apart. There is no one like me. I have a horse face. I’m just like everyone else.

Day 6 —Write about a person who would buy all of those items in Day 5.

My husband enjoys sweets.

I like pickles and saltines and olives and cheese.

My husband would buy and bake and frost and eat a cake.

We fell in love in two weeks, that is, a period of two weeks, and at some point during that two weeks we bought and baked and frosted a cake. We put an entire box of candles on it and lit every one. The entire cake was aflame and wax melted on to the cake. We declared that day, a day in March, our birthday, and blew out the candles, and then never ate the cake.

We didn’t have any reason for not eating the cake; we just didn’t.

Of course I don’t like sweets very much, but that wasn’t the reason.

The cake was put away in an empty cabinet to protect it and soon it was forgotten. It was there for weeks.

We were already in love.

We just didn’t eat the cake.

Day 5 —Pick a letter of the alphabet.  Now imagine two aisles of your local supermarket.  List everything found in those two aisles that begin with that letter of the alphabet. V

In this aisle there is no one but me. It is clean and well stocked. The items are brightly colored and neatly pushed to the front of each shelf. There are spices. There is vanilla extract. It is $3.84. A different brand costs $4.68 but is in a smaller bottle. The bottles look like potions. They smell like potions, too.

Further down the aisle are boxes with delicious warm, wet cakes on the front. Each cake looks delicious, sugary and spongy, glistening. These boxes are meant to be purchased with a companion jar of frosting. Like suiting separates or a watch set that comes with different detachable straps and faces, the cakes and frostings are meant to be mixed and matched. You can buy a chocolate cake mix with chocolate frosting, or a vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. Or a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting. I do not buy anything at all.

Day 4 —Write a story/excerpt to include the line, “Sorry, we can’t insure you for a journey like that.”

“Hello.”

“Hello! And welcome to Universal Traveler’s Insurance, where the universe is at your doorstep. How may I help you today?”

“I’m looking to purchase insurance for an upcoming excursion.”

“Of course. Where will you be traveling to?”

“Inside the human body.”

“Sorry?”

“Inside the human body. You see, I’ve developed a shrinking ray and a specialized submersible that will allow myself and four passengers to see the inside of an actual human body from the vantage point of a red blood cell! It’s really quite remarkable.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“So we’ll need to insure the submersible, the shrink ray, Manfred (that’s my boy), the camera…”

“Sir. I’m sorry, but we can’t insure you for a journey like that.”

“And why not?”

“It’s against company policy.”

“Is it the human body thing? Because I have considered trying it out on a dog first…”

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s not that. We have a strict “No Shrink Rays” policy here.”

“I see. Well how about an intergalactic voyage? I have been meaning to get my rocket out of storage for some time now. I could bring Karen… why she’d love it!”

“Sorry, sir, but no.”

“But you’re called “Universal Traveler’s” for God’s sake!”

“It’s just that with the rising costs of rocket fuel, a company of our size simply can not afford to insure travel that extends beyond our own atmosphere.”

“Fair enough. How about to the center of the Earth?”

“Oh, heavens, no! What with all the mole men…”

“Right… the mole men. I forgot about them.”

“Perhaps you’re considering another journey that does not go below or beyond our planet?”

“What about through time?”

“Forward or backward, sir?”

“Backward!”

“…sorry.”

“Christ!”

“It’s just that we can’t be responsible for the changes in history that our time travelers may make…”

“Not even to kill Hitler? You wouldn’t even want to be responsible for that?”

“If you only knew how many times a week I hear someone say that killing Hitler is their reason for traveling back in time… You know, all it takes is one looney to go back and step on a butterfly…”

“Right, right… I understand.”

“We do have a plan for forward time travel…”

“My machine only goes backward. And anyway, I don’t even know if I want to go forward. What if there are monsters? What if there are apes?”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“It’s all right. I thank you for your time.”

“Thank you, sir. And if you think of another trip you’d like to take, please keep Universal Traveler’s Insurance in mind.”

Day 3 —Write about the worst time you’ve ever put your foot in your mouth.

I once put a dog’s foot in my mouth. The foot belonged to my dog, a 13 pound salt and pepper Miniature Schnauzer named Snuggles. I don’t know how old we were, but we were probably young because as she aged her feet grew to be quite course and rough, not at all like something I would ever put in my mouth, and as I aged I grew to be not so impulsive as to put a dog’s foot in my mouth.

This is a true story, you know. I’m not making this up.

I have always liked animal feet. I do not like human feet, but animal feet are generally quite lovely. They are perfectly designed for functionality, but are often beautiful or interesting to look at as well. Take the foot of the emu: a three-toed, bluish-black talon with scales like you’d see on a a lizard or maybe a rhinoceros. The foot, no, the whole bird is positively primeval. Looking at such a thing reminds me that the world and the universe are so marvelous and amazing that even a bird’s foot can be remarkable.

The feet I like the most belong to the small, furry creatures you might keep as a pet, such as rabbits, cats and dogs. I like the way the animal’s fur comes together at the point of the foot, the way the muscles and bones can easily be imagined underneath the skin, the toes, the pads, how the whole thing can spread out and come back together again like a strange little hand. I enjoy watching such animals move and how the foot works with the leg to propel the animal forward. I like to get very close to the pad of the foot to look at the skin and examine its color and texture.

I can’t say for sure why I put Snuggles’ foot in my mouth, but I did do it. I liked the way her feet smelled like corn chips, so perhaps that’s why. Or maybe it’s as simple as children liking to put things in their mouths, especially things that fascinate them, and so that’s why. I do know that today, as an adult, I sometimes look at the feet of my cats and think… but I wouldn’t. And I know I shouldn’t. I do like them, though.

Day 2 —Tell about a character who lost something important to him/her.

You can lose shoes, money, sandwiches, novels, earrings, underwear, and none of those things, not even $100, not even your best pair of chones, is like losing a cardigan.

In 2006 I lost a loose-fitting angora blend in Canada. It was a crisp evergreen color, v-neck with pearl buttons. No pockets. It looked amazing with white t-shirt underneath, boy cut jeans and brown boots. I woke up hungover in Canada, in my car, shivering, covered in clothing I’d been keeping in a trash bag in the trunk with the intent of someday, one day, eventually dumping the whole thing off at the thrift store. The same thrift store where I’d bought the cardigan in the first place. I woke up in my car and my cardigan was gone.

The second cardigan I lost was in 2008. Another second-hand number, it was a size large yellow cotton blend v-neck with little pintuck details all over giving it the look of stripes. The buttons were large, flat plastic, not very pretty, but the sweater was fun and bright and loose and boxy. I wore it with a blue and white striped t-shirt and Levi’s. I don’t know how it was lost, but I miss it.

Then there was the kelly green number I lost the night I was arrested, the pale pink with the ribbon inset, the mint crew neck with the optional flower pin, the soft navy blue one that I wore with warm brown lace-up cowboy boots and sequin-and-lacy camisole. And the leopard print one with the velvet inset and pink crystal buttons.

Today I have another yellow cardigan, but it’s all wrong. The fabric isn’t right, it pills, the color isn’t as bold or Crayon-like as my lost sweater. I still have not found a proper green or even mint. I have a nice, boxy pink knit I inherited from my mother, which I love, but I still get so sad thinking about all those missing cardigans.