Miranda is a sickeningly ordinary person, and the Museum of All Things Brilliant is a sickeningly odd place. When the two collide, interesting things happen.

Miranda did very many things, or rather she did very few things very many times. Each weekday she woke up to the screeching of a rabid alarm clock, got dressed in drab clothing, left in an entirely ordinary car, went through four boring classes, returned in the same ordinary car, watched uninteresting infomercials, completed a regular amount of homework, and fell into a dreamless sleep. Each weekend, perhaps, she would do something different. Perhaps she would visit a mall to buy more clothes stitched from pure normalcy, or eat at a local restaurant that served positively average food.

And if these weekend activities were pushing the border of "unconventional"--in Miranda's book, at least--what she was doing right now was far, far off the cliff of insanity.

Right now she was standing in front of a brightly-painted building and wondering how it had snuck past her into this town when she passed right by the place it shouldn't have been every single day. It was a brick building, but each brick had been painted a more horrendously loud color than the nones next to it. It contained two doors on the very center of the front wall, but those doors seemed to be made of many layers of tinfoil pressed together. It was of average size for a shop, but judging by the to-the-point neon sign hanging above the double doors, it was not a shop. It was a Museum. Museum, that was all it said. Nothing more, nothing less.

And while Miranda's head said to continue on her walk and perhaps to watch a bit of an uneventful soap opera when she returned, her heart said to march right into that building and ask them what the hell they were doing, barging into her life unnanounced. Who do you mean by "them?" she asked herself, suddenly realizing that she had just had a momentary vision of an army of middle-aged men in clown suits waiting beyond the crinkled doors. She shuddered as she ushered the image out of her mind, now more determined than ever to forget that this "Museum" had crashed her terribly usual party of a life.

Miranda took two steps away from the building, shut her eyes in resignation... then immediately rushed into the building which very much resembled a large clump of Fruity Pebbles. It was not her head which had told her to do this, nor was it her heart. It was some small, unexercised muscle in the corner of her body that screamed, "This is going to be insane, terrible, and a huge mistake! But that's exactly why! So go! Go on and enter the place!"

As she collapsed, huffing, onto the floor (Which was, thankfully, made of perfectly average tile... she thought) she heard a voice from in front of her. Oh, God, she thought, remembering her vision of the men in the clown suits, They are here, and they're talking to me.

"Welcome," announced the voice which may or may have not belonged to a forty-year-old man with only a slight amount of blue-dyed hair and a tomato in place of a nose, "To the Museum of All Things Brilliant!"

The End

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