While exploring the deep depths of my sleep deprived mind, I came across a certain bear's poem that, for all the people who need a little refreshing, goes something like this:
Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie
A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly
Ask me a riddle and I shall reply
"Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie,"
Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie
A fish can't whistle and neither can I
Ask me a riddle and I shall reply
"Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie,"
Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie
Why does a chicken? I don't know why
Ask me a riddle and I shall reply
"Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie,"
No doubt, those of you who didn't know before, now realize that bear is perhaps the most cherished and loved icon of children all over the world, known as none other than Winnie-the-Pooh.
I paused, not knowing what exactly would come next. I stared at the screen for the longest time... it was an incomplete paragraph... then, it occurred to me that Pooh-Bear would most likely not know what a paragraph even was, and tell me to just keep writing what was in my head. I chuckled to myself at the absurd thought. Every good writer knows that for any story, book, novel, or anything else you might come across in writing, one must have completed paragraphs... for that is just the way it is... unless, of course, you happen upon asking a certain lovable bear.
"What are you writing?" my brother asked me, climbing onto my bed, obstructing my view of the computer screen in front of me.
"A story about cottleston pie," I huffed, pulling him back so I could see the two-hundred-and-eighty-two words that I had already written.
"From Winnie-the-Pooh?" He frowned as I nodded. "You do know you're in high school, right?" he asked. I nodded again. "What good does Winnie-the-Pooh do you when you're in high school? I doubt you'll get an A," my brother protested, sitting down beside me.
I replied with silence. For the many who might view this action as not replying at all, they would be terribly wrong. I replied with my words, just not the kind you speak. My brother sat there, on the side of my bed, careful not to block the view of the screen again for fear I would tell him to leave, watching my fingers fly across the keys, though not without thought. Grace, wit, thoughtfulness, and cation all filled my fingers as they typed the words quickly, yet methodically. My mind whirling around with ideas, concepts, and morals as such thoughts tend to do on blustery Wednesdays.
"You spelled 'Wednesdays' wrong," my little brother stated with a smirk. "And I'm bored."
"Firstly, you wouldn't have known I spelled it wrong if the red line hadn't have come up on the computer," I said, crossing my arms. And secondly, perhaps you would understand my writing better if you better understood the topic I am discussing. Here, I will scroll up so you can read the poem again."
I scrolled the screen up, wondering to myself how I could be seventeen-years-old and not remember spelling "Wednesday" correctly a day in my life. I heard Winnie-the-Pooh in my head telling me that "Wednesday" wasn't spelled "correctly", it was spelled "Wednesday" and then asking if I could spell "Tuesday."
