Meg Cabot is TEAM UNICORN!

Best Selling Author MEG CABOT joins The Faerie Drink Review to share why she is Team Unicorn!

Why am I Team Unicorn?

Honestly, I have nothing against zombies. I've seen every zombie movie ever made (The Crazies, both the remake and the George A Romero original, are sitting on my DVD shelf right now. I honestly can't decide which I love better . . . well, OK: I'm Team Tim Olyphant). I love screaming, "Oh my God, BEHIND YOU!" at the screen.

But who'd want a pet zombie? You'd have to keep him chained in the yard, poor thing, and then you'd have to keep up a steady supply of brains, which would be difficult, though not impossible, as I know from experience, unfortunately, because of the decade I worked in a dorm at NYU, where a "hilarious" prank of the students was to leave human brains (from the medical lab) in various places for hapless bystanders to find.

This was how I happened to be sitting at my desk one day when someone knocked on the door to my office and said, "Excuse me, miss. But I just thought you should know. There's a brain on the elevator."

Yes. I had someone say that to me. At work.

And then I had get up and go look at it and determine that, yes, indeed, it was a brain, and then listen to the endless jokes as people took pictures of it (because we had to shut down the elevator and wait for the coroner, because when you find body parts in real life, you have to report them to the coroner's office, even when you know they're a prank and from the medical lab, and in NYC, it takes like FIVE hours for the coroner to come. Which is a lot of time to not have an elevator work in a 17 story building).

(And no you can't move the body part in the interim, or the coroner gets mad. TRUST ME ON THIS ONE.)

And everyone would say, laughing as they took their photos, "Dude . . . this is your brain. On the elevator!"

(You know, from that old Keep Off Drugs ad, the one with the frying egg? "This is your brain, on drugs." OK. Never mind.)

So, anyway, I would rather have a pet unicorn, because they eat lovely things, such as Lucky Charms (well, I don't know, but maybe) and flowers and apples. Not brains. Which are gross in real life if you've ever had to see one up close while putting up CAUTION: CRIME SCENE. DO NOT CROSS tape in front of it, and then sit next to it for hours to make sure no one touches it until the coroner comes.

I'm just saying. Team Unicorn.

Any questions, you zombie wussies?

Follow Meg Cabot on Twitter!

Purchase Zombies VS. Unicorns here!

Carrie Jone's 20th Birthday!

Let me say that my 20th birthday totally sucked because it was not a normal day. Believe me, it isn’t everyday -- and especially not every birthday -- that your Nana and the entire Eastern seaboard of the United States plus Vermont hears you sniffle on television and say, “And then he stuck his penis into my vagina.”

This is a good thing.

Because when they do hear you say that lovely, little sentence fragment, they totally, irrevocably freak.

Believe me, I know.

They all missed the first part of the six o’clock news story that stressed that college school students organized and participated in a mock trial. Or if they did hear it they somehow forgot the fact that MOCK means FAKE, which being old people you’d think they’d understand. Or maybe since they were older Americans, the closed captioning on their television couldn’t figure out the word MOCK and wrote MOP instead, or something, I didn’t know.

All I knew was that the closed captioning did a really good job writing it in all capital letters AND THEN HE STUCK HIS PENIS INTO MY VAGINA.

Right above these large white letters in a black text box was my sick looking face with the red nose and the runny, watery eyes as I sniffed and said my sentence fragment to the entire Eastern seaboard, grandparents and all. My sentence fragment, once again, not only included the words ‘penis’ and ‘vagina,’ it also had the word ‘my.’

Only I, Carrie Barnard, would be on television with a stuffy nose and red, watery eyes and a 101 degree fever, because only I would get sick for the mock trial we’d been preparing for all year. And only I would be dumb enough to play the rape survivor because Megan Hairymen* wimped out at the last minute because she had a pimple on her nose. Okay, it was a blemish the size of North Dakota, but way to not be a team player, there, Megan.

The phone calls at my house started flying in before my mom was done with her “I’m so proud of my little socially conscious baby doing such a good, brave thing” riff.

And in the entire bro-ha-ha that followed everyone forgot my birthday! Seriously, everyone. It was easily the worst birthday ever because I had to spend the entire day convincing people that I wasn’t recently sexually assaulted.

Did I get a cake?

No.

Did I get a balloon?

No.

Did my Nana give me a pair of Carebear pajamas that were size 6x even though I was 20? Did any of my friends jokingly give me My Little Pony figurines? Gift cards? Cash? Did my Dad send my a card with a $5 check in it?

No.

Devyn, I implore you, that whatever you do this birthday do not participate in a televised mock trial in any capacity. I’m not even going to go into what happened to the guy who played the rapist. Not good… not good at all… He healed quickly though, right? Silver lining?





*Not her real name, but I totally wish it was because she deserved that name. No offense to her.

** I will give a free copy of NEED to a random commenter.

- Carrie Jones