Prompt: Write a reflection on growing older, from your or a character’s POV. What do you notice? What does it mean to you?

Non-fiction Prompt: What parts of you are still yet to be discovered?

There's always a part of me that wants to be discovered. What about the part of me that has no such desire? The one that is content as is, fully discovered?

Prompt: Write your own eulogy. How do you want to be remembered?

We are all here today because your prayers didn’t work, but at least she didn’t die thinking about the Roman Empire the way some of you weirdos might. She lived a full life on little sleep and a lot of caffeine, which I’m sure didn’t contribute to her demise in the slightest. If anyone will mourn her death, it will likely be the marketers of Instagram advertisements, K-pop idols, dried fruit sellers, and Zhao Lusi, whom she threw her money at with wild abandon. Her biggest regret would probably be not seeing Taylor Swift crowned Queen of America, but she hopes you all live to see the day. So, let’s all pour one out for the woman who spent an entire year replying to work emails in Nicholas Cage memes and didn’t get fired...to K.

Fiction prompt: Write a scene where there’s some misunderstanding between characters. Be sure to make a reference to your favorite fruit (just for the hell of it).

“Did you get any pears?”

“Pairs of what?”

“Pears!”

“Ali. Pairs of what? Stop yelling the same thing at me; it’s not helping.”

“You are an idiot.”

“That’s not helping either.”

“I wanted pears. The fruit. And you brought me mushy red apples.”

“You didn’t put pears on the list.”

“Yes, I did. Let me see the list.”

“I threw it away at the grocery store.”

“Bullshit. You just know I’m right.”

“What are you doing? I told you I threw it away?”

“You stuck it in the grocery bag like you always do. Look right here. Pears.”

“Oh.”

Non-fiction Prompt: What parts of you are still yet to be discovered?

How fast can I run? (I hate running)

How loud can I scream? (I've never been in a location where I could truly scream at the top of my lungs without alerting someone)

What job would I be doing if I'd never wanted for money, and weren't materialistic, or at least an inheritor of my dad's money-anxious mentality? (We're a savings-motivated clan)

In fact, who would I be if I could shrug off the heavy mantle of expectation? Would I be in porn? I'd probably be in porn. (My OnlyFans phase totally came from a place of stable mental health, obviously)

How many hot dogs could I eat in ten minutes? (Props to Johnny Chestnut)

Do I love my loved ones, or am I addicted to the fact that they love me? (Acceptance is a drug. A lack of acceptance, the promise of potential future acceptance, is a drug. Disappointment is a drug. Love, to quote Professor Ke$ha, is a drug. I'm barely an identity, more accurately an animated crayon squiggle straught out of Harold's purple crayon, a drawing of a person made with parts of what each of my loved ones wants me to be, like that game where you fold a piece of paper and three people each draw a third of a body, a blindly assembled golem...)

Prompt: Take something that is hyper-personal to you that you try to avoid in life and write it into one of those 90s/00s-era, over-the-top, emoticon-laden cursed email chain letters.

In today's 📰, another man has died alone 💀💀💀. (https://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/16/insider/lonely-skeletons-what-happens-to-people-who-die-alone.html) "No one finds them, no one misses them." (Imagine the ones that aren't eventually 🔎 by a reporter.)

Will anyone remember anything you did when you're 😇/😈? How long will it take for your 🦨 to reach a neighbor before they call for help?

Make sure that you're not ⏭️. Share this with at least 8️⃣ people—if you can even find that many to share with.

If you don't see the book you want on the shelf, write it.