11:00 China

Some people like to say they wouldn't do something for all the tea in China. What's that about? I like tea. I like China. But I don't need a whole country's worth. A cup is enough for me. Why do people need so much tea?

And for that matter, what's up with the Great Wall of China? I've seen walls before. What makes this one so great? Show me a Great Roof of China, maybe I'd be impressed then.

People say China's going to take over the world. That's fine with me, I've never had much use for the world. And the Chinese are efficient - maybe they'd have a good way to distribute all that tea.

Why do they call it Orange Chicken? It's not orange. Or maybe it is - I'm not a color expert. Chicken is pretty good, though, although that's just my opinion. Maybe you don't care for chicken. Someone who told me they didn't like chicken, I'd tell them to take a slow boat to China.

What's that about? Why do they make slow boats? Just take the parts from the fast boats and make them fast. Then build them out of that stuff they make the black boxes in airplanes from.

They probably make them in China.

TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK

12:00 - Tell the story behind the 15th picture of you on facebook

When you're younger, you're desperate to form an identity. To convince yourself that you're part of something larger than yourself, that the connections you've formed with another person aren't just lies. And that's why, almost inevitably, you start naming your social groups.

Because once you've put a name on something, it's real, right? You're not just people hanging out together because no other group would have you... You're a team. There's a bond there.

And that's why this picture exists. Because several of the young men posing there once proudly declared themselves, semi-ironically, to be in a gang. And that gang was called The Ineffective Funk.

I had forgotten the name of the group, until I ran into a former member last month. Makes me feel sad.

Makes me feel old.

INEFFECTIVE FUNK FO' LIFE, YO

11:00 Map out a road trip you'd like to take

Aw, come on, Google. Meet me half way here. It's only 2 light years away...

10:00 - Make a treat of a gift for your friends and blog about it.

My previous post was a subterfuge. You see, my true gift to my friends... WAS THE GIFT OF MYSTERY!

A few hours ago, I hatched a scheme: I would take control of Blog Day by grasping the seat of Blog Day's power: The blog topic box.

It is not easy to steal a box off of a table that 6 people are sitting at, even if they are distracted by typing. The key was in the recruitment of an accomplice, the deft-fingered Andrew Preston. With his help, and just a smidge of subterfuge, the box was stolen away. The fate of Blog Day was in our hands.

Of course, to take control, we must make demands.... and those must be done anonymously, through a proxy. And thus was the Twitter client @BlogDayBox birthed. BlogDayBox quickly began following all of the BlogDay participants, tweeting taunting clues at them. It was a MASTERSTROKE OF DECEPTION only slightly marred by the fact that nobody seemed to notice it was happening.

So I walked into the dining room and asked if anyone else had been followed by this mysterious Twitter fellow. Then everyone accused me of stealing the box and engineering some sort of stupid mystery. After a BRUTAL interrogation, Andrew and I relented, and the box was returned from its hiding place... And a wonderful time was had by all!

But my true gift is this: I call for someone else at today's Blog Day to take the Box. The password to the Twitter account is "blogday". Take it over, hide your treasure, and confound us all with your genius!

MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!

9:00 - Pick a random sentence from a random book. This is the 1st line of your story.

"But he has clearly been working toward some evil purpose for many years."

"Doug? The captcha writer?"

"We're a billion dollar company. Why do we need a guy to write captchas for our web sites? Every other company has an algorithm for it."

"Well, it's artisanal. Hand-crafted captchas, perfectly tailored to the individual. It's a service!"

"That's SO inefficient! And some of the captchas are kind of... sinister."

"Sinister? The last one I got was 'LUMINESCENT CARDBOARD.'"

"Really? All of mine are stuff like 'APOCALYPTIC BLOODFIRE' and 'WOMB EXPLOSION'"

"Maybe it's just a coincidence."

"Well, lately they've been weirder. They all have a number in front of them, and then 'IT COMES'."

"That's terrible web security. A computer could totally get through that, no problem. Someone should talk to that guy."

"I'm not worried about f*cking spambots! I'm worried that he's a crazy Satanist trying to bring about the end of days. The last one I did was 664 IT'S COMING!"

"Well.... maybe you shouldn't fill out any more captchas. Just in case?"

"Screw that, man. It's the only way to get into my e-mail."

"Fair enough."

8:00 - Go outside. Pick a starting spot and direction. Walk 100 steps. Find something from that spot and blog about it.

Nobody sees me. I blend perfectly into this grass. Man, this grass is tasty, I should take a nibble...

NO! Discipline is my shield and my sword. Even if someone sees me, they will think I am a beautiful statue of a bunny, sitting on the grass. The delicious, springy grass...

I am a Suburban Bunny. I flee the dog and imperil the garden. When my Bunny King demands, I steal through lawns and under fences, seeking carrots and dispensing lapine justice. I am not controlled by my base impulses to mate with OH GOD THERE IS A FEMALE BUNNY OVER THERE

NO MUST BE STRONG

Soon, I will steal away. Back to my den, to report on the state of the neighborhood. I am a hero. With any luck, the Bunny King will choose me to carry on after he is run over by a car. He will name me the Royal Hare.

In the meantime, maybe just a nibble of grass...

7:00 - A look at yourself through the eyes of your pet

It is cold and dark here. That is a lie. It is nothing here.

If I was smarter, I would tell myself it was cold and dark, because then I could comfort myself with the thought that I still exist. But I am not that smart. I am a dog.

I was a dog.

The boy? The boy was fine. Fed, watered, loved. As much as a dog could want. But I do not have much memory. I am a dog. Mostly I remember the pain. When you are a dog (I used to be a dog) you can only remember yesterday and maybe the day before. And yesterday was pain. Today was pain, until today was sleep.

Some spark of training remains. Sit, stay. Sounds, not words. Lifted into the car. Up on the table, girl. Sit.

Stay.

The boy is not there. I lied, there are memories that do not leave. The pack. Pack of two. The boy and I. But he has been gone so long. Grown up, gone away. Just the mother and me and the pain. Sometimes he comes back. But he has not come back today. Today the mother put me in the car and we drove and she cried and it hurt so much. Today I went to the place with all the other dogs, but they were not my pack. When I fell asleep my pack was not there.

A smarter person would say "The boy was there in spirit." "He loved you even if he couldn't be there." "He wasn't told that you'd be gone by the time he came home." But those are people thoughts. Those are the comforts of intelligence. I am a dog. I was a dog.

My name was Hannah, and now I am where it is not cold and it is not dark, and there is no pain.