I am beginning to love this whole memory theatre thing. I memorized the 12 tribes of Isreal in about 20 minutes, which is incredible for me considering I have the WORST memory ever. Anyways, this is my memory theatre:
When you walk up the stairs, you run into a reuban sandwich and a glass of water where I used to leave my dirty dishes for maid service to pick up (...mom). Across the hallway is the bathroom where Levi and Simeon are chilling with a bottle of hydrogen Peroxide. I imagine Levi as a gigantic pair of jeans and Simean as a big red cinnamon human being. In my little sister's room is a stuffed animal lion on her bed and his name is Judah. On the floor, among a collaboration of Lego creations, is a Lego ship, where we are introduced to Zebulan. At the window, is my little sister, at about age five, is pointing and saying, "Iss a car, iss a car!" while wearing a donkey hat, which, of course, is Issacar who means donkey. In my old bedroom is Dan who is sniffing my diry underware...and his special name is "snake". He is standing over Gad who means "trampoled on". In my mother's room is Asher who means "rich" because that is where my grandmother used to stay when she stayed with us....she smokes, so she would ash her ciggs there, too. On the wall is an aweful plack of my step-dad's, which is in the form of a "humorous" deer holding Neptune's septor. And that is Nephtalia. In my mother's closet is Joseph eating grapes, because his name means "fruitful bows", and Bennjamin is jumping up and down in a "Team Jacob" T-shirt because he means "wolf".

Brother Dearest

I definately had to laugh when the topic of cruel sibling names came up. I used some pretty awesome names for my big brother growing up, but not so much for my little sister (I pretty much only called her big-head....which wasn't a lie, in my defense). In fact, I think it struck me as particularly funny because not even three days ago, I texted my brother and offered him a big, juicy, "Hey f*&$ face, what's up?" and when he didn't answer, he got an endearing, "Hey, homo f%$@. Answer me." I find it rather funny because he is such a straight-edged chum. When I use vulgar language it gets the BIGGEST rise out of him.... he gets so upset! Its the best. I think harrassing him was my favorite past time growing up... I can't remember specifically what I used to say to him back in the day, but I know I loved pushing his buttons. But he was a sh*t head (sorry about the word choice. I did think about an alternative word, but nothing was quite as fitting) back when I was just a tater tot...he used to pull me off the couch by my feet and my head would smack the floor. He thought it was hilarious. He was so much bigger than me, all I could do was get under his skin. And even today, I know that he is always going to love me no matter what, so it really doesn't matter what I call him....so I think he can just deal with f&*^ face. Or else.

I don't have an epithet, yet. I have been bouncing potential ideas off my off-white, poorly puttied bedroom boundaries and wonder aloud why, oh, why, have I not come up with an epithet for myself? How is it that "Grace" is so hard to attach complimentary words to? So,  I sit here on my messed up and rather green bedding imagining a picknic get-a-way as plush as my covers and far away from the woodland troll creatures of clothing who have seemingly swollowed my bedroom floor and wonder to myself if my ever journying thoughts could be the reason for my lack of thinking success. Maybe this is the reason I am the last remainding Oral Traditions student without an epithet... It seems as though "Grace" would be one of the easier names to create an epithet for....or maybe one of the more difficult considering I refuse to be called "Amazing Grace", "Gracefulness", "Grace the not-so-graceful", etc. (I am a waitress; I hear them regularly... and I still have to smile and pretend I have never heard that one before). Maybe I should just go with something along the lines of Grace the epithetless. I think that would solve all our problems, and I could get back to lunch with Tigger and the seven dwarves.

Alright, thanks to the expertise of Rio, I have finally set up my blog.
First thing is first: my memory palace hosting the nine muses. Welcome to my head; here goes nothing.
Calliope is standing on a bar stool in the walkway of my parents house singing an epic song, garnished with a halo of poppy flowers and a ray of California sunshine encompasing her. Cleo is chillin on the couch decked out in her Elizabth Taylor Cleopatra gear giving Euterpa a wierd look for playing her ekulele in front of the T.V. Melpomone is dramatically passed out on the bathroom floor while Mel Gibson cries "Action" over her. Terpsicore is doing an interpretive dance down the hallway with an apple core. Erato is posing erotically on my brother's bed before I beat her ass. Across the hallway is my parent's room where three Polyhymnia sit on my mother's side of the bed reading the Bible and singing Psalms. In the closet is Urania hanging herself on one of those science fair models of the solar system while Thalia and I sit in airport chairs laughing at Urania's epic fail.
That was superisingly easier than I thought. It took me probably fifteen minutes to  memorize those, which is amazing because my memory is pretty much shot to Hell.