My fictional life

69. Jesus loves me.

2005-05-09T11:05:00.000-07:00

See Jesus can’t love me. He was alive like 2000 years ago, built some houses, performed some hoax magic, tricked a bunch of people, died, and his energy went back into the circle of life. It’s that simple. I hate people who try to push their religion on me. I am agnostic leaning heavily towards atheist. I don’t trash on people who need religion in their life. If you need someone to tell you what is right and wrong, that is your issue. I have my morals, based on what I believe. Over the last twenty-one years I have lived my life, and while I can’t say that I’ve done it all, I have seen enough to figure out what I find is right. In my eyes, organized religion, specifically all denominations of Christianity in America, is merely a way to control the masses. Organized religion stifles free thought, promotes bias of all types, and creates unequal living standards. So FUCK JESUS. He and his befuddled, misguided followers can go force their rhetoric on some unsuspecting victim. I’m happy leading my life by MY morals.

Prompt #13

2005-04-27T09:39:00.000-07:00

60. "We are gathered here today to remember....."

My youth. Yes I know I’m only 21, but damn I feel old. My high school classmates are getting married. Some of them are having kids. Music that was new and I loved in Junior High is getting play on classic rock stations My “little” cousins are in high school. I remember all the great things from the 80’s that all these “kids” here have never heard of. I looked at pictures from high school and I look young in them. My little sister is getting her license soon. My half sister is thirty, 30! I found a varicose vein. All my life I never could see life past 20. I’m going to be 22 in two months. I have exceeded my life expectancy. All my friends are graduating college soon and will be settling into their “real lives.” Everyday I am surrounded by people who can stay up later, drink more, run harder, smoke more, and seem to have no worries. Not many people seem to be coming back next semester. They’re all taking time off from school. I remember being 18 and saying I was taking a semester or two off. Three and a half years later, I’m finally here. Though some people may say that I wasted my life, I don’t think I did. I have to remind myself regularly that I have a lot to show for my time off. Nothing physical of course. I worked for three years and merely lost a lot of possessions. I own less now than I did four years ago. Hmmm, that doesn’t make sense. Oh well, I learned a lot. I learned important life lessons before I went to college. Not that I can remember what any of these lessons are, I spent too much time killing brain cells and my liver to remember. But maybe I will someday, when I really have gotten old.

Shitty Ass Concert Schedules (Freestyle #12)

2005-04-24T22:29:00.000-07:00

So I’m pissed off again. All the bands I want to see this summer aren’t coming to Boston. However, they will all be In Philadelphia within a week of each other. GODDAMN IT. When I’m in Philly I have no one to go to concerts with and lots of concerts to go to. I move home and there are no concerts and tons of people to go with. Why can’t I have my fucking cake and eat it too. It’s one thirty in the morning and I am officially wound up. I want to go bust some taillights or slash some tires. I don’t care whose car it is. I just need to release some anger. Who the hell did I piss off for my concert dreams to be smashed repeatedly. I’m all up for driving 12 hours to go to a concert, but NO. No one want to drive it. I have somewhere to stay, but no. I think I need a fucking cigarette. SHIT!!

Prompt #12

2005-04-24T22:26:00.000-07:00

54. Headin' down the hiway, lookin' for adventure....

I was just reminded why I moved back to Maine. For the last few months I’ve been beating my head against the wall slipping into the typical twenty-something mentality of “Maine sucks.” To many people the first sign of spring is a robin, or the first crocus of the year. For me it’s my first whiff of the ocean. When that fresh salty smell finally tickles my nose after a long winter of being suppressed by the cold, I come alive. I’m finally excited to be back. I grew up on the coast. Being stuck in Bangor this summer is my version of hell. No doubt I’ll be making the Irving Corporation richer this summer by driving down U.S. Highway #1 to Hancock County every chance I get. It’s adventure time. Four wheeling with my little sister, mini golf, dancing the night away with my big sister, road trips to Boston and Philadelphia, learning how to ride a motorcycle from my step-dad, night swims, strawberry or blueberry picking with my mom, visits from cousins, driving to Canada for the weekend, all night drives to see concerts, pirate pillaging, parties and canasta marathons at the cabin, days that last into the night, and nights that last into the day. It has begun. So if you can’t find me it’s cause I’m in my car “Headin' down the hiway, lookin' for adventure....”

Bill OH Bill Where Art You? (Freestyle #11)

2005-04-15T06:18:00.000-07:00

I miss Bill. He’s like my surrogate boyfriend. We’ve never kissed or even cuddled. He’s just always there for me. Anytime I need a date for things, he’s there. He has a permanent invitation to family dinners, especially those involving lobster.
Since the beginning of the semester, I’ve barely seen him. It’s hard as hell to go from seeing one of your best friends at least every day to not seeing him at all, it was like I had moved to Philadelphia all over again. About a month ago I finally confronted him about why he never wanted to hang out. He said that he needed time to “be his own person.” I respected that and gave him his space.
Monday night I saw him at Wal-Mart and he actually seemed receptive to hanging out. Last night I logged on to Yahoo Instant Messager and before I could even see who was on, Bill popped up and apologized, admitting that he had been a major asshole as of late. We ended up having this great conversation as to why everything that has been happening has been happening.
I understand his needs more now and we’re hanging out on Sunday. I’m uber happy. I love those conversations that are a long time coming and intense. As long as I don’t have to start them. So this is my reason for being happy regardless of the fact that I had to get up before I wanted this morning.

Prompt #11

2005-04-15T06:16:00.000-07:00

49. Doesn't matter where you begin, you'll end up back here.
50. If you don't believe I'm leaving, you can count the days I'm gone.

One very scared twenty year old girl. A U-Haul containing every last possession. Three packs of cigarettes. Four hours of sleep. Seven states going south. Thirteen hours. Dozens of interstates and eight lane highways. No CD player, countless local radio stations.
“I’m moving to Philadelphia. I leave the seventh.” “No I don’t have a job there yet.” “Of course I’ll be back eventually.” “I’m moving into Amy’s place. They have a spare bedroom.” “Yes, I’ll go to college once I get down there.” “Yes it’s for real.” “No, it’s not my first choice, it’s my only choice.” “Yes I know, I am excited I’m going, I just don’t like the circumstances.” Through the tears: “I’m going to miss you so much.” “I wish I didn’t have to go.” “Bye.”
One year and two months later:
Four Hundred and Forty-Four Days Later:
One very happy girl. One older sister. One very cramped mother. A Grand Jeep Cherokee containing every last possession. One pack of cigarettes. Six hours of sleep. Seven states going north. Eleven hours. A dozen or so interstates and eight lane highways. One CD player, countless CDs.
“Yeah I’m coming home, I’m leaving on the twenty-fourth.” “No, I don’t have a job, or a car.” “I’m going to stay on Emily’s couch until I get on my feet.” “I was enrolled at PCC, but withdrew when I decided to move home.” “Yes, I promise I will go to college once I get back.” No, I’m really not joking.” “This is most definitely what I want to be doing. This is my choice.” YES, I’m excited. Going home is all I’ve thought about for the last 15 months.” With a huge smile on my face “I’m back.”

Contrast Essay Reflection

2005-04-11T06:30:00.000-07:00

Wow. That is how I can most simply sum up my feeling on my contrast essay. While many of the ideas and sentiments expressed are ones I have had for years, many of the contrasts are ones that had not completely dawned on me. I was drained emotionally when I finished and while the words flowed easily, I had to take many breaks while writing in order to keep from crying. I’m glad I wrote this essay. Over break I sat down, on separate occasions, and shared many of my observations with my mother and younger sister. I think my mother was surprised at how I interpreted her two husbands and respected how “adult” I was being. I think when I discussed my observations of her father, I believe my little sister began to understand the reasons behind her anger toward him. While this essay was a long time coming, I think now was the time to do it.

“A little madness in the Spring is wholesome even for the King.” - Emily Dickinson (Freestyle #9)

2005-03-30T10:06:00.000-08:00

Everyone’s high this week. The most natural drug in the world has hit this dorm like a tornado. No one is safe. It’s the first week of Spring and everyone has become disturbingly laid back. Even the big things can’t seem to get anyone down. A friend who would normally dig right in and fight with her boy got up and walked away before the fight really even started. Another friend who is incredibly chaste did more than just kiss a boy she had just met. Another friend bought a very sexy outfit, just for hell of it, something I never pictured her doing. My mom doesn’t know what day of the week it is, something she’s always on top of. My best friend has forgiven me for transgressions she usually would never let go of. My sister isn’t picking fights with her boy on a daily basis. Everyone seems to have a heightened sexual awareness. Everyone seems to want to hook up, perhaps even to the point that they are willing to lower their standards. You can feel the electricity in the air. Sparks are flying and everyone wants to get burned. I’m restless as can be and have simply too much energy to contain it.
I want to get out there and do crazy things. If Spring had a motto it would be, “Spontaneity now, responsibility later.” I want to live that right now, I want to lay it down on the floor and roll in it. I want to wrap it around me and frolic in the mud. I want to put it in my mouth just see what will pop out. I want to put it on my hook and see what I can catch. I want to put in a glass and drink it, just to see how it tastes. I want to make it the glimmer in my eye and see what I want. I want to put it on my feet and see where it takes me. I want to dump it over other peoples’ heads and see what THEY”LL do.
This is the one time in the year when you can get away with saying “Fuck it all,” and doing what pleases you instead of what pleases the huddled masses. I implore you all to get out there and do something crazy. Ask that girl out, try that new sexy outfit, forgive someone, let your mind wander, whatever it is that is holding you back, whatever it is that is making you say “What if.” Do it.
Forget all your fears and see what will happen. I’m not claiming any responsibility for the results, and I want you to be safe. I’m not saying to go out and see what it feels like to kill someone or jump off a bridge without a bungee cord. I’m not saying to go out and do hurtful things or go out and be completely safe. Use a bungee cord, a designated driver, a condom, whatever it takes. Just get out there and be spontaneous. Now, go why are you still reading? Vamoose.!

Prompt #10

2005-03-30T10:04:00.000-08:00

43. No matter how many times I've been told and no matter how many times I tell myself, I just don't change. (Wow I think this one may have been written just for me.)

I’m willful, no, I’m resolute, no I’m stubborn, no wait, I’m obstinate. Once my mind is set, it’s set. And my mind is set on a lot of things. Procrastination is a reasonable plan of action. Pink Floyd is the best band in the galaxy. Children with red hair are the cutest. Heck, so are the adults. Green eyes are the most beautiful. The English language is the best artistic medium. Pro-lifers are close minded religious assholes, even the ones I like. Your Mom is the funniest car name ever invented. The only place you can get a good cheese steak is Philadelphia. The happiest place on earth IS Disney World, especially when you’ve had a few drinks. And many more, I simply don’t feel like sharing with you right now, and you’re just going to have to deal with that. And if you don’t like it, I don’t care.
I’m right and you’re wrong. Ask my mother, she’ll tell you. (Not that I’m right and you’re wrong, but that I’ve always thought that.) From the time I could breathe, I’ve been demanding things my way on my time. I’m not greedy or selfish and I don’t have an inflated ego, but hell I was an only child until I was fourteen. I think that entitles me to a certain degree of consideration. And who the hell are you to try to change me. I’ll change in my time with my conditions. And there’s nothing you can do to change my time.

Prompt #9

2005-03-30T10:03:00.000-08:00

Still, he needed socks to keep his feet warm.
(A prompt from http://onemillionfootnotes.blogspot.com/)

From the time I was fourteen, I lived in a house with radiant heat. (This is where you put hot water tubing in the concrete below the floor, an economical and toe friendly way of heating your house.) Oh, how I miss radiant heat, sigh. So when I moved out of my parents house, I could never figure out why my feet were always cold in the winter. I’d be standing in the kitchen of my apartment, doing dishes, unable to figure out why my bare feet felt like they were blocks of ice. I went two months that yeaar wih fozen feet, before someone suggested I put on socks or slippers, hell maybe both. Now that may seem like the most reasonable idea in the world, but after you’ve live five years in a house with radiant heat, it seems ridiculous to HAVE to wear anything on your feet if you don’t want to. But, I’d rather have warm feet than make a point, so now in the winter I wear socks to keep my feet warm.

“I think, therefore I am.” (Freestyle #10)

2005-03-30T07:07:00.000-08:00

I write, therefore I am. If I’m not in a emotional or mental place where I can write, I don’t feel a live. It doesn’t matter what I’m writing, as long as the words are flowing, I’m happy. I haven’t been writing for myself since this semester has started, but you know, I still feel alive. Between the prompts and the freestyles for this class, speeches for Lewandowski, and even papers for History 101, I’ve been doing enough writing to get all the crazy thought energy out of my head. It makes me happy. I can feel my brain tingle as synapses fire and ideas being born. It’s a fantastic thing. I hate things that make me smile without my permission and thinking about the ability to let words tumble from my hands is making me smile right now. But I’m not mad, I’m just happy at how alive I feel. Not only am I writing but at least one other person is reading it. Yay!

Classification Essay Reflection

2005-03-21T09:33:00.000-08:00

I had a hell of a lot of fun writing this essay. It was an interactive experience unlike any other. I kept on having to leave the computer lab while writing in order to step outside and make myself laugh in order to jog my memory. I knew all my laughs, but had trouble describing them without hearing them in the flesh. It took me awhile to figure out when I use some of them, but it was fun. This essay was a puzzle made up with extremely familiar pieces that seemed oddly foreign. I enjoy studying the well-known and analyzing from angles your not used to. It’s great fun.

Dear Mr. Goldfine, (Freestyle #8)

2005-03-18T09:46:00.000-08:00

I am writing to let you know I won’t be able to make my payment due for week seven on my prompt account. As you know, I have not missed a single payment on any of my accounts, only been several days late on a few occasions. I will not be late for week seven on this account, I will not be making this payment at all. I absolutely refuse. I also will claim no responsibility on missing this payment. I’m not saying that I am blaming you for this transgression, but it kind of is your fault. I mean you are the one who decided how I am to make my payment. I, without exaggerating, have sat down and tried to make this payment almost every day for two weeks. I’ll start to write out the check, and just cannot do it. I have tried every form available to me to make the payment, but it simply is not happening. I’d like to apologize for this transgression, hope it will not reflect too poorly on my credit report, and promise you week eight’s payment come hell or high water. Thnk you for your time regarding this matter.

-Stephanie J. @#$$%&

Why oh why? (Freestyle #7)

2005-03-14T21:25:00.000-08:00

Why is it that when it rains, it pours? Why is that when you want something, you never get the amount you want, but tons more? Why are boys so ambiguous? Why can’t they just say how they feel or not make you think things that aren’t true? Why the hell can’t I read signs that are being fed to me? Why can’t I just say what I want to without fear of repercussions? Why the hell do I have to put things off for so long? Why can’t I make the first move? Why am I so afraid of answers when I want them so bad? Why are things so confusing? Why can’t I prepare for things ahead of time? Why do I want things I can’t have? Why are there so many questions I need answered? Why am I here at midnight asking them of something that can’t answer me? Why am I stuck in all these self destructive circles? Why can I never get enough nicotine? Why do I have urges to drink all the time? Why is it that I become mentally, if not physically, addicted to everything in the world? Why can I never be happy with what I have? Why am I always planning for tomorrow instead of today? Why do my plans for tomorrow never come true? Why can I never manage my money properly? Why can I never meet the type of people that exist in my head? Why am I always lonely? Why is it that I always want and want and want? Why do humans need companionship? Why do I have these physical cravings for the physical presence of others? Why can’t I be calmer? Why do I worry about things that don’t need to be worried about? Why is the world so screwed up? Why can’t people accept other people? Why am I such a grammar freak? Why am I the way that I am? Why does any one person matter? Why do people think they can change the world when they can’t? Why do I care about my future? Why does it matter that I succeed? Why does it matter that the human race continues? Why are there so many things that I don’t understand? Why do people throw away opportunities? Why can’t people learn from other’s mistakes? Why can we pass inventions and ideas from generation to generation, but not lessons? Why do people still believe in creationism? Why is it that colors entrance me so? Why do I think the way I do? Why does anyone get out of bed each morning? Why do people decide on the careers they chose? Why are people right wing conservatives? Why is that being Christian gives the people the right to control others? Why am I still asking questions for? Why are people so damn inquisitive? Why is that makes other people not care? Why can’t people just be happy? Why do people rage war? Why do some people never think about the big things? Why can’t some people put things in perspective? Why do some people feel so little about themselves that they want to die? Why some people care so little about other people that they can walk all over them? Why does it seem that some people are good at everything they touch? Why do some people seem to suck at everything? Why am I sometimes so inspired that I just can’t get it all out? Why do I sometimes have such issues finding inspiration? Why do people live the places they live? Why do they move there and why do there children stay there? Why is that family holds such power over us even when we don’t like them? Why is that we let our friends get away with things we don’t let other people get away with? Why do have any type of loyalty towards anyone? Why is health care so expensive? Why do some people have so much money and others have none? Why do I jump from one side of an argument to the other like a Mexican jumping beans? Why do certain cuisines appeal to some people when other people can’t stand them? Why is that we all have the same type of taste buds but everyone perceives food differently? Why do some people just click together? Why do some people that seemingly have a lot in common just aggravate the hell out of each other? Why do some use profanity as a crutch? Why do some people see profanity as such a horrible thing? Why are people offended so much by words in general when they are only symbols? Why are there so many languages in the world? Why do people have strong opinions on topics they don’t really understand? Why are people afraid of the things they fear? Why are people so redundant? Why oh why?

I-search Reflection

2005-03-12T09:46:00.000-08:00

I’ve found the first three parts of my I-search a breeze to write. Granted I’ve been avoiding going back to them because I’m trying not to edit them yet, so maybe when I go back I won’t think they were so easy. You see, I’m the world’s toughest self editor. I can’t just edit, I have to go back and rewrite the entirety of a piece. I want to get some of my research done and distance myself from the pieces, then I can go back and relate to the substance without being distracted so much by the form. However I’m going to have to go back and read them so I can reflect on them honestly. Thanks a lot, Goldfine. The easiest section so far has been my background, because I just pulled most of that from my brainstorm. It wasn’t a breeze, but I didn’t have to really stretch that much to write it. The why section wasn’t hard either, but I found it rather dry to write and can’t imagine that it’s very fun to read. I know it needs work. The what I know section was definitely the most fun. Because of the nature of the topic I am writing about, I was able to just let my thoughts flow and come out on the paper. I’m also sure that as I research, I’ll come up with more things that I already know and will be able to make the I know section a bit smoother in form. I’m excited about my paper so far and am starting my research this weekend.

Classification Essay Intros 1 and 2

2005-03-11T06:14:00.000-08:00

Intro 1

People seem to find my laughing humorous. Nearly everyone I know has, at one time or another, teased me about my laughing. Not that I can blame them, because I will fully admit that I have problems laughing. Not with being able to do it, but being able to do it normally. I mean I do it all the time, but the sounds I make are usually on the bizarre side. I rarely giggle, can’t chuckle, and seldom snicker. I have three basic groups of laughs. There are the silents, the noises, and the deth.

Intro 2

“I love to laugh.” I am so sick of hearing people say this. It’s like, “Whoa step back, you hear that guy, he loves to laugh. I don’t know about those people, those people who… well like to laugh, there’s something funny about them.” Come on, just once I’d like to hear someone say “I hate to laugh.” That’s the kind of person I can relate to. Not that I hate to laugh, don’t get me wrong I love laughing as much as the next Captain Obvious, but I hate my laughs. I think that when I was a child I may have laughed normally, but as long as I can remember, people have been laughing at me while I have been laughing. I have difficulties laughing normally. It’s so bad that I don’t snort, but reverse snort. It’s ridiculous. Over the years, I’ve managed to organize them into three now infamous groups: the silents, the noises, and the deth.

My Research History

2005-03-06T15:29:00.000-08:00

I prefer what I call active research. Most of my research has been through experience. You might say trial and error, often with the emphasis on error. I often date people before I get to know them, and have learned that this isn’t such a great idea. Hmm that may be the reason I haven’t dated in two years, Once I get to know them, I don’t like most people. My entire life I wanted to live in the big city and move to Philadelphia. I visited often as a child and liked it. So instead of researching the living differences between Ellsworth, ME and Philadelphia, PA, I moved. I spent a year in Philly and realized that I couldn’t live there without a profession. I just wasn’t making enough money to do more than get by. The same thing happened with college. After three years my research was completed and I decided that the real world is too hard without education. On occasion I do small research to figure out where I can get the best deal on such things as an oil change by gathering information before making a decision. However, even most of my day to day living is research by trial and error. Which coffeehouse is best for me, what type of books I prefer, whether I should pay my bills or go to a concert, and which way to get from my place to where ever it is that I’m going are all trial and error for me. I now know that while the concert was a blast, it wasn’t ruining my credit over, but some research still has provided no definite answer. I have driven from Ellsworth to Bangor hundreds of time. Still to this day as I approach the ramp for 395, I’m not sure whether I’m going to take the highway or go through Brewer. I often don’t make the decision until my body does it for me. I’ll debate the pros and cons for a mile or two before the turn off and it will still come down to whether my hand reaches for the turn signal or not, always without me sending it a clear decision. So I guess you can call me an ineffective, indecisive, active researcher.

Prompt #6

2005-03-06T12:33:00.000-08:00

27. The safest place in the world....

The light filters through the trees in that sleepy way that reminds me of childhood adventures. When I was little my dad put a chair out here so I could read in comfort. I used to marry trees to each other by popping sap pockets and sharing the sap between two trees. This is where I developed entire worlds where I was always well liked and friends with all sorts of mythical creatures. This is where I would hide from all the bad feelings. My dad was healthy, my mom was happy, and I had siblings. The good guy always won here. I could cry here without worrying about being heard. Sometimes I would run around and tear things apart, just to get the anger out. Other times I would just sit and listen. When I got older and my imagination began to be stifled by life, I spent less time here. This is where I used to make myself sick when I was bulimic. This is where I would cut myself to kill the pain. This is where I would go to smoke when my parents didn’t know I smoked. This is where I would walk just to get away. When I began writing I started coming back here again. My chair had since been thrown away but I found a rock pile where I could sit on a blanket and smoke while writing away the hours. I would carefully put the cigarettes out and burry them in the rocks. This is where I could sing along to my head phones without anyone telling me I was hurting their ears. This is where my dad was still alive and I wasn’t failing senior English. This is where everything was ok, and I was always happy even if they weren’t and I wasn’t. This is where I could just be. I didn’t have to meet expectations. I didn’t have to answer to anyone. Anything I wanted to do or be was acceptable. These woods behind my childhood home are my safe haven. But they faded into my dreams when my parents sold that home. I’m lost without them. Even after I moved out of my parent’s house, I always knew I could go back. But now they’re gone, sold to another family, existing to me only in my dreams.

Entranced by the Horror (Freestyle #6)

2005-03-06T12:27:00.000-08:00

Slow Motion by Third Eye Blind

Ms. Jones taught me English, but I think I just shot her son
Cause he owed me money, with a bullet in the chest you cannot run
Now he’s bleeding in a vacant lot
The one in the summer where we used to smoke pot
I guess I didn’t mean it
But man you shoulda seen it
His flesh explode

Slow motion
See me let go
We tend to die young
Slow motion
See me let go
What a brother knows
Slow motion
See me let go

Now the cops will get me
But girl, if you would let meI’ll take your pants off
I gotta a little bit of blow
We could both get off
Later bathing in the afterglow
Two lines of coke I’d cut with Drano
And her nose starts to bleed
A most beautiful ruby red

Slow motion
See me let go
We’ll remember these days
Slow motion
See me let go
Urban life decay’s
Slow motion
See me let go

And at home
My sister’s eating paint chips again
Maybe that’s why she’s insane
I shut the door to her moaning
And I shoot smack in my veins
And wouldn’t you
See my neighbor’s beating his wife
Because he hates his life
There’s an arc to his fist as he swings
Oh man, what a beautiful thing

And death slides close to me
Won’t grow old to be
A junkie whine-o creep

Hollywood glamorized my wrath
I’m the young urban psycho path
I incite murder for your entertainment
Cause I needed the money
What’s your excuse?
The joke’s on you

Slow motion
See me let go (aaahh)
Oh yeahSlow motion
See me let go (aaahh)
Ahhhh
Slow motion
See me let go (aaahh)
Oooh

I can’t get this song out of my head. It has this beautiful melody and is sort of slow and calm. Aargh, it’s driving me crazy. It’s like I’m addicted. Other people here the lyrics and are appalled. Me, I love them, I know the message is not so positive, but I’m entranced.

Classification Essay Comments (an act in brevity)

2005-03-06T12:25:00.000-08:00

I rather liked the classification essays. They almost like narratives and made me sympathize with the writers. I love how each writer made his or her piece do personal without boring you with details that didn’t pertain to the writing. I just wish there had been more to read.

Prompt #4

2005-02-27T19:03:00.000-08:00

You go on a journey.

My friends and I like to go on little trips. One night we were bored so we drove up Route 9 to Baileyville. It was one of those nights you remember forever. Great music, fantastic conversation, your best friends, and the open road. There’s a turn off on Route 9 that my friends and I call The Big Pretty, it’s just beautiful, and it was our original destination. I’m not sure what really happened, but we just kept going and going and going. It was about a month after I had moved back from Philadelphia and it was the first time we had gone on a drive. It was just incredible to be together.
We do this all the time. We can’t find anything else to do so we’ll go for a ride. I’m not sure if we’re trying to run away or find something. I think sometimes it’s both. When we were younger and still lived with our parents, it was pretty much our only escape. We had dozens of different drives we would take and just as many destinations.
To this day, I’ll still make or the call. “Wanna go for a ride?” The answer is always yes. Sometimes, a night will start with a drive, other nights end with one, and some nights, it’s all we do. I know it probably sounds immensely lame, but it’s nice. I can’t explain the feeling of driving down an empty road in the middle of the night on that first perfect spring night, hanging out the moon roof just laughing. The closest I can get is alive.
Maybe we are searching for something. The feeling of truly being alive. Maybe we’re attempting to stop going through the motions, and find what it is to really be alive. Perhaps, it’s our attempt at reconnecting with a world we feel so detached from. Or maybe, we’re just disassociated youth pretending we’re alive.

Cause Essay Reflection

2005-02-27T13:57:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school, I positively loved writing five graph essays. I know it sounds geeky, but I did. While I can’t say that I loved writing this particular essay, it was nice to get back into the swing of things. I’m not very happy with the piece that I wrote for this assignment, but I have a tendency to over work things, so I decided to see what happens when I don’t. While the topic itself wasn’t difficult to write about I suppose I should have chosen something a little softer. I mean I haven’t written anything (without getting paid) that had to be judged in years. But honestly, I did enjoy writing it. I just can’t wait to see what my teacher has to say.

My Dream (Freestyle #5)

2005-02-19T19:00:00.000-08:00

I had a rather bizarre and perhaps wishful dream last night. This is a product of my brain processing information I accumulated yesterday. So in a sense, it is a work of fiction and I may withhold or change names to protect the innocent and save myself embarrassment. There were probably events leading up to the beginning of this story, but since I don’t remember them, I suppose I’ll just jump right in.

So I’m on my bed, making out with my friend “Jason,” we’re well on our way to doing the dirty, when I realize that the most obnoxious girl in the dorms is sitting in my room. I ask her to leave but she refuses. I obviously have more interesting things to be doing at the time, so rather than fight with her, I go to find an RA to have them remove her from my room. However, the RA wants nothing to do with the situation, so I go back to my room to fight the behemoth. By this point I’m irate at being denied the good stuff, which is never a good situation for me to be in. When I return to my room, there are five more girls in my room. Suppressing the urge to go berserk, I begin physically removing people from my room. By the time I got everyone out and I locked the door, the mood had definitely been lost. “Jason” decides to leave. For some reason, we go outside to say goodbye. We end up hiding in a snow bank from the girls I had just removed from my room. They see us, so we run away. I see some scaffolding on the side of the building, so I jump up onto it. Just as “Jason” is climbing up behind me, I fall off and tumble down several stories. Upon landing on the ground, I die.

I’m tend to overanalyze my dreams and wonder if this means I shouldn’t pursue a relationship with this boy. Or maybe it means that I just need to get the hell out of the dorms for awhile. Perhaps, and most likely, my brain just needed to file some information away. The odd thing is that this is the third dream in which I’ve died. All of them have happened the night before someone in my family died. My grandmother died this evening.

Five Graph Outro

2005-02-16T06:14:00.000-08:00

Readers: Please be kind. I have problems writing closing parargraphs without the body of the essay to guide the tone, this is a work in progress and will be updted as it improves.

I’ve seen a lot of movies, bad and good, and over the years you think that I would have learned how to translate previews and movie box blurbs, but I’m still clueless. Nevertheless, I think twenty years from now I’ll still be watching everything I can get my hands on. I’ll still be hoping that one day I’ll fall asleep watching a really good movie and wake up living one of the lives I see on the screen. Until then I’ll keep watching, and I’ll keep on owing Blockbuster exuberant late fees.

Five Graph Intro #3

2005-02-16T06:13:00.000-08:00

When I was five, my parents separated for awhile. At the time I didn’t really know what was going on, but I think subconsciously I had a feeling that things weren’t right. I’m not sure how long my father was gone, but in that time I developed a life long habit. I watched the movie Hairspray repeatedly. I knew every word to the movie and wanted more than anything to be Ricki Lake, have her friends and live her life. To this day I find my release in the cinema. I subject myself to some of the worst films in the world, just to find ones I can escape into. I have some of the most interesting friends in the world. The problematic thing is that they don’t know I exist, and I’ll never be able to meet them. The problem lies in the fact that, well they’re fictional characters, only brought to life by an actor. Movies are a crutch for me. I use them to work out emotions and thoughts that I don’t have the strength for in the real world. They introduce me to characters that become real people to me. Mainly, though, they let me escape everything I don’t want to face.

Five Graph Intro 2

2005-02-14T06:40:00.000-08:00

When I was six I already loved movies, so when my grandparents told me that they were taking me to see “The Lady and the Tramp” I was thrilled. So as you may or may not remember, a dog gets hit by a car in this animated feature and you are left to think the dog is dead. So I started crying, I mean really crying. Being the considerate people that they are, my grandparents removed me from the theater immediately. To this day my grandfather refuses to set foot in a movie theater with me. On my own, it’s a completely different story. I live for movies. There are many reasons that I subject myself to some of the worst that the world of cinema has to offer on my journey to find the best movies in the world, the most important, though are the ones that have been with since my Lady and the Tramp days. They help me deal with emotions that I have problems with in the real world; they introduce me to characters that become real people to me, and most of all they let me escape.

Five Graph Intro

2005-02-13T09:52:00.000-08:00

“Ello.” “Did you just say ‘Hello’?” “No I said ‘Ello,’ but that’s close enough.” When I say movie quote, you say… Everyone has a favorite movie quote, that one line from that one movie that they just latch onto and make their own. For me, it varies. Granted, I’ve been using this quote from Labrynth since I was 5, but it fades in and out of my repertoire, sometimes disappearing for years. On the whole, though I love too many movies and too may movie lines to have a favorite. I’ve been a movie lover since before I can remember and prefer movies to most television and there are many reasons for this. Movies invoke so many feelings for me, they introduce me to characters that become a part of my life, and most of all they let me escape.

My Pissed Off Life (Freestyle #4)

2005-02-08T16:53:00.000-08:00

I’m not really sure what is wrong with me lately. I usually have no problem latching onto an idea and running with it, but not now. I simply cannot fall in love with a single topic that I think of for an I-search, and it’s really starting to piss me off. Then there is the whole Valentine’s Day thing coming up which just aggravates me more. Ugh! And the whole thing with the computer lab and Ron Turner or whatever his name being so condescending. And my home team lost the f@ing Super Bowl. My W2’s still haven’t come in so I have no idea when I’ll be able to do my taxes. I usually like to have them done by now. And I overslept and missed class on Monday so I don’t really know how to do the homework and I can’t find anyone who actually went to class on Monday. I wasn’t hung-over, just tired from being up so late drinking, I guess that’s why no one else went to class. I hate the day after a really good day, it’s always such a let down. Oh, and I worked my butt off on my history paper and studied the chapter so I could get an A on the quiz last night so I could have it done for class this morning. I get to class at 8 am and he tells us he’s going to give us another two days on the papers and he forgot the quizzes at home so they’re not until Thursday either. I think that is all for now, but I might add stuff later. Damn, I’m bitchy.

Five Graph Essay Evaluation

2005-02-08T16:41:00.000-08:00

Five paragraph essays are probably my favorite style of writing for classes. They have form but aren’t terribly constrictive. I’m also (or at least to be) very good at them. However, I don’t necessarily enjoy reading them, at least not for fun. The bad ones are like forms where people filled in the blanks and the good ones always leave me wanting more.
The ones posted for us to analyze do absolutely nothing for me. The girl complaining about love hurting needs to grow a back bone and get over herself enough to realize that the pain she felt was completely her own doing. Plus her style is rudimentary and uninteresting. Personally I never found the need to take dance lessons or join an activity just because someone else did, so the ballerina story holds no interest for me. However I must admit that it was well written and I like her style. The baseball story would be interesting any where else in America, but here in New England, it’s old hat. I don’t even like sports and I knew everything related in the paragraph. These are my observations on five paragraph essays. Sorry if it’s blunt, but I’m in a bad mood.

Prompt # 4

2005-02-08T10:52:00.000-08:00

Who's the first person you remember?

My mother is my hero. She has stayed with me through all the bull shit I have given her. She still loves me when many would have given up. She lost her husband to Cancer when she was 42. She managed to hold up both her world and mine. When I was 15 and she was looking toward her life post kids, she remarried and got a nine year old daughter. Unlike many parents, she admits mistakes she made with me and is doing her best with my little sister. When she was laid off from a profession she had devoted her life to, she didn't fall flat on her face, she saw it as a door opening to a new career. At 45 she went from being an LPN to running the office for my step-father's business. Like everything else, she conquered it. Last year, she was diagnosed with Breast Cancer. Just several months before she turned 50, the world threw my mother another curveball. She was weaker than I have ever known her to be, and being 600 miles away from her when she was going through everything absolutely killed me. Even over the phone, I knew that she was doing well, but having trouble handling everything. My mother may be difficult and kind of kooky at times, but I will be lucky if I grow up to be half the women she is. I hope I will never forget her and everything she has given up for me. She is the only thing, or person, who has been there for me through every step, both the triumphant and staggering.

A Person I Know Graph

2005-02-08T10:35:00.000-08:00

I once asked my 16 year old sister who happens to be the most twisted person I know, Courtney, if she would be sad if our parents died. I wish now that I hadn’t done so. This came about after an especially bad session of parent bashing I had with Courtney and our older sister Jessica. Now our parents don’t beat us, but they’re a little nuts about some things and tend to be a little harder on us than most parents. So we’re in Disney World over Christmas, and the parentals, as we like to call them, were being complete assholes because we wanted to do different things then they did. Their response, rather than talk about it to us like adults, was to kick us out of the family for a few days and make us spend the days by ourselves. So of course we spent the whole day bitching about them. When we met up with them for dinner on the last day, they were really nice and everyone got along. So later that night, the three of us girls were in our hotel room talking and having lost a parent myself, was interested in the severity of Courtney’s hatred for our parents. She sat for a moment thinking and simply replied, “It’d be awkward.” Knowing this, kind of worries me. I wonder if some night she’ll call me to tell me that there was an ‘accidental’ fire at my parents and that she ‘barely escaped’. I guess time will only tell.

Thing "Graph"

2005-02-03T08:30:00.000-08:00

I have a large chunk of green glass on my dresser. It weighs about five pounds and could be a formidable weapon, but to me it is anything but dangerous. It’s a memorial. My father’s ashes are buried in New Jersey and I only get to the cemetery once every year or so. My mom has a bronze casting with a small part of his ashes inside, but it doesn’t say “Dad” to me. This huge piece of glass though, it reminds me of my father and the stories he told. To me it’s beautiful. My father must have sanded the edges at some point; you couldn’t cut yourself if you tried.
My father wasn’t a great man. He had his faults, and some not so nice personality traits. He wasn’t ready to be a father to me or my half sister. It took him many years to learn how to be a husband and even then he wasn’t so great at that all the time. But he did his best and loved us more than anything
He was a great story teller, though he never knew it. I loved listening to his stories. No matter how many times he told them, I always wanted to hear them again. His voice was soothing and he just had a way with words. It saddens me now because I’m forgetting both his voice and his stories. Even the ones I do remember lack his luster when I tell them.
In 1974 my father was about to break up with his girlfriend and go back to school when she told him that they were going to have a baby. Rather than follow his dreams, he married her and got a good union job. My father worked at a glass factory for twelve years supporting both his first and second families. In that time he saw many crazy things. FBI raids, lunch stealing cats and fights are just a few of the many stories he told about his years there. This story is one of my favorites and the one that I am worst at telling, so bear with me.
The glass was made in varying room sized sheets, at least several inches thick. One day a machine carrying several of these sheets broke dropped them, or the assembly line broke down or something and there you have several tons of broken glass on the floor. My dad just happened to be working that day. Workers were stealing pieces of the ground left and right, and all of them ended up in trouble. My dad did the right thing and asked his foreman if he could take two pieces, one for his mother and one for his wife (not my mother). The foreman said to go right ahead but don’t let everyone know about it. So my dad did.
The piece of glass he gave to his wife has disappeared over the years and my sister will never understand why this piece of glass means so much to me. When his mother passed away several years later, my father asked for the piece of glass back. Then twelve years later after my father passed away and my mother remarried, I commandeered it. I know it’s just a big hunk of glass from an accident that happened before I was born, but to me it’s so much more. It’s all the good things about my father. It’s all the things that were so hard for my macho Harley riding, leather wearing, beer drinking father to do and say until it was too late. It’s all of his intentions and wants for his family, rather than the actions that so often spring to mind unheeded. When I start to cry because I’m pissed off at my dad for all the bull shit he put my mom and I through, I look at my big hunk of glass and cry because I miss him instead.

Prompt #3

2005-02-01T18:10:00.000-08:00

"Argument between me and myself"

Shut Up!
No.
Yes, no one wants to hear your voice.
You’re wrong.
You’re incapable of rational thought right now, stop before you embarrass us.
I’m thinking perfectly fine, you’re the one that everyone is looking at funny.
They’re looking at me like that because they are wondering why I’m with you.
That’s my question, too.
What?
Why are you with me if all I do is embarrass you?
Because I don’t really have a choice, do I?
Everyone has a choice.
Everyone but me.
You could leave if you really wanted to.
I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.
Oh I understand what happens if we are separated.
So you want me to die.
What happens, happens
And you don’t care if you die?
Eh.
I can’t believe how passive you are. You’re willing to kill us both because you’re pissy.
No, it’s cause I’m sick of you
Not nearly as tired as I am of you.
Oh go to hell.
I’d only have to take you with me.
I’m going to bed.
The hell you are!
What do you mean, I’m tired and I want to sleep.
Well I’m wide awake and I want to go out.
It’s 10 o’clock on a Tuesday, no way.
Well guess what, we’re going.
ERRRRRR!!!!!
Ha, ha, I always get my way.
Fskdghaskdjnpenicillinicfhachklrhflncnn.
What the hell was that.
Me, damning you to hell.
Well that is just too funny.
Funny like your face.
I’m shutting off, you go have fun.
I kind of need you, please
Akfjakjlfhas.
And that was…
Me damning you to hell because I can’t say no to you.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Ah shut up.

All Fucked Up (Freestyle #3)

2005-01-30T17:37:00.000-08:00

So I’m writing this while I’m high as a kite. I’ve been sick the last month and this morning, I finally gave in and went to the hospital. They diagnosed me with a double ear infection and I had a temperature of 102 degrees. They prescribed me Augmentin (an antibiotic) and Vicodin for the pain.
I’ve never taken a narcotic before. It’s kind of fun. I feel normal for the first time in weeks, and above that I’m all warm and fuzzy inside. I can understand now why people become pill heads. I feel so fantastic, my throat doesn’t hurt and the pressure in my ears seems to be nonexistent. The words are coming really easy, but I’m having trouble spelling. I’m tempted to leave all the typos in, but I know that when I go back and read this in a few days I’ll fix them all anyways. I haven’t had the chills, hot flashes, or goose bumps in hours. I will admit though, that I’m rather groggy and I bit itchy, which are kind of fun, but still quite weird, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being miserable. Well I’m having trouble focusing on this so I think that I’ll end here. Maybe I’ll go sit in the dark and listen to some Pink Floyd. Yeah that sounds pleasant. Goodnight.

Unique

2005-01-30T16:28:00.000-08:00

I play drunken Full contact croquet.
I lead the Hancock County P’Diddle league in running lights.
I enjoy Moon roof surfing.
I play card games until the wee hours of the night.
I know the words to nearly every Pink Floyd song ever made.
I’m running out of room in my head because it’s filled with movie lines.
I’ve been to Disney world 5 times and still want to go back.
My mother was diagnosed with Breast Cancer when she was 49.
My father passed away when he 45 after a 6 year battle with a rare form of Cancer.
Both of my grandmothers succumbed to Cancer, one in her 30’s the other in her 50’s
My paternal grandfather and uncle both had heart attacks by the time they were 36.
My maternal aunt had a hysterectomy in her thirties.
I smoke a pack of Camel Filters a day.
I eat too much.
I have a half sister, but was raised an only child until I was 14.
When my mother remarried, I became the middle, red-headed stepchild.
I still have pillow fights in my pajamas with my gal pals.
My sisters and I fight over who gets to drink the olive juice.
It’s nearly impossible to offend me.
I have a non sexual argyle fetish.
I love gross things.
My middle name is a third generation family heirloom.
I dream about owning colors.
I’m unique.

Inventory Graph

2005-01-30T16:26:00.000-08:00

I don’t understand this girl. On one hand she seems rather sentimental and on the other you have to wonder why she is storing family heirlooms alongside a dead lighter. You would think that she would treasure her great grandmother’s wedding ring over such things. What is with the five year old rolls of film? I know film development is mad expensive, but honestly, you would think that in FIVE years you could find the money to develop some god damn film. And why does she have her baby clothes? I thought that parents were supposed to keep those in boxes in the basement. What a random assortment of stuff. This is a bin under her bed, there must be some form of organization involved, but I can’t find it. She has a jewelry box in with books and t-shirts along with some of the most random assortment of stuff. This girl must either be nuts or… well just plain crazy.

Prompt #2

2005-01-29T08:36:00.000-08:00

"If This Hair Could Talk"

Ow. If you were to give my hair a voice, that’s probably the first thing it would say (if it wasn’t dead of course). I’ve been taking my frustrations out on my head for the last eight years. Whether I was ready to kill myself or someone else, cry or scream, bored or too full of energy, my hair was the front line in the war against life.

It has been trimmed, cut, chopped off, bleached, dyed every natural color and some not so natural colors, low lighted, and high lighted. I’ve dyed my hair as many as three times in week. When my mother took too long making an appointment for me to get a trim my freshman year, I took manners into my own hands. By the time I got it even, I had lost a good eight inches, and my father wouldn’t speak to me for two weeks. I used to spike it with Knox gelatin and dye it with Kool-Aid. In an attempt to spike it out, I once used an entire jar of pomade, which has the consistency of petroleum jelly. It took me an entire day of experimentation to get it all out, I tried shampoo, hand soap, dishwashing detergent, and vinegar. I finally used Simple Green and after three or four rounds with that, it was clean. When I am bored I try out new hair styles, many hurt my scalp and few are practical or look good. Quite honestly I’m surprised that I still have hair.

My hair knows the story of my life better than I do, because it bears the scars of all the things I have chosen to forget. It remember the long nights being soaked with tears, and would tell you about stories about my friends trying to straighten my curls at sleepovers. It would speak of being yanked around by the hair in fights and during nights of passion. It would have a word with me about my nonchalant manner toward it. Most of all it would thank me for not giving in to the urge to shave it all off.

Course Reflection

2005-01-29T08:17:00.000-08:00

In regards to this course I am rather pleasantly surprised. Every story I have heard about an English 101 composition course has been terrifying. I was expecting the horrors of an entire grade depending on one research paper and teachers who use archaic citation styles. The thought of an entire of semester of researching one topic and writing only about that is petrifying to me. I came into this class ready to be bored stiff. On the contrary, it’s my favorite class. The assignments are thought provoking, the work so far is similar in structure, but varied in notion, the professor is animated and helpful, and I’m actually using my brain on a daily basis. I know that this sounds like I’m sucking up, but it’s complete truth.

Blog Hunting Report

2005-01-29T08:09:00.000-08:00

Picture in your mind the last clerk you encountered at an unfamiliar gas station. Can’t do it, can you? To you, that person is nothing more than an extra in the play of your life. But to them, you’re the same. Almost certainly, you’ll never know anything about, and unless they caused some disturbance in your little world, you’ll never remember them.

I think a lot about how many people there are in this world. I watch cars pass and wonder about the people in them. Who are these people, where are they going, and what are they doing? I don’t know, I never will and they don’t matter to me, or to most other people.

It intrigues me that the entire population of Maine could be wiped from the Earth and within a very short period of time become nothing more than a page in a book. In the scheme of things what do 1.3 million people account for? Though each life is immensely complex, there are billions of people on this planet and each person accounts for so little.

We so often forget that 6.3 billion people are living their lives out there in the world. That’s why I love blogs. Each time I click the “Next Blog” button, I don’t know what I’ll find. Who will this person be, where will they be from, how old, or young will they be? I don’t know, but still I get to understand some small part of their lives. It’s amazing, it’s legal voyeurism, it’s like a fix for the overly curious side of me.

I've found the cure (freestyle #2)

2005-01-25T13:59:00.000-08:00

So I believe that I have found the cure for pack ratism. Move. A lot.

When I still lived with my parents I would rearrange my room every three months or so, this being the only time that my room would actually get cleaned. Each time I did this, I would throw out two or three overfilled contractor size trash bags. The sad thing is that most of it wasn't what I had previously labeled trash, but things that I had deliberatly kept, had at some point found useful. I would spend a whole weekend, even a week going through nearly every thing that I owned. I would reread pieces I had written, letters and notes from friends and family, and passages out of favorite books I thought I had lost. It was exciting because I never really knew what I actually owned and I would find things that I had thought lost forever.

I would sit in the middle of my bedroom floor, the entire room covered in things that had been pulled from the closet, from under the bed, out of drawers and off shelves. I would go through everything, weighing each piece in my mind before placing it in the right pile, after which I would move it from pile to pile several times. Everything seemed to have either potential future use or some ambiguous sentimental attachment. You would not believe the things that went in the kept pile time after time after time.

I would make four piles: wash (mostly laundry), keep, trash, and review again. Most of what ended up in the review pile (and frighteningly large percentage of what was in the trash pile) was kept and still I would end up with humungous bags of shit to throw out. I’m not really sure where most of the stuff in my room came from and really can’t fathom why I kept so much of it for so long.

Then I turned nineteen and my parents told me not so subtly that it was
time for me to leave the nest. That’s when I began to get a clue to the cure for my ridiculous attachment to material goods. I was moving into a very small apartment which I had to share with my boyfriend. I had to get rid of things because I would no longer have room for them.

In just over two years I moved ten times, and each time I had to pack I sold
or threw out more and more stuff. Lugging it from apartment to apartment, house to house, state to state got really old very quickly. It became quite liberating actually. Just when I thought I was operating at the bare minimum, I’d have to move again and as I packed, would come across things that I hadn’t used in months. The only part that continues to be difficult is getting rid of books, I shiver at the thought of how many books I have sold, given away and “Gasp!” thrown out over the years.

Otherwise, it’s almost become a game with me. I ask myself, “What do I need and what can I walk away from?”. It used to take a cube van and several car loads to move me. In October I moved from New Jersey back to Maine in a Jeep Grand Cherokee with two other people in it. It was rather cramped, but I did it.

On some level it is frightening to think that everything I own can fit in a mid sized SUV, but I know that is the pack rat in me talking. I’m sure some day, when I own my own house with the wonders of a basement and attic, maybe even a space above the garage (sigh and smile), I’ll start packing it away again. For now though, I’m enjoying the simple pleasure of actually knowing what I own and where to find it.

Inventory (Big Bin hidden Under My Bed)

2005-01-25T13:04:00.000-08:00

I kneel beside my bed and pull a large bin out at random. I’m almost frightened of what will be inside, this is what I find.

Ten rolls of exposed, undeveloped film. Three rolls black and white, the rest are color the oldest dating from 2000.
Three decks of cards (you need two for canasta and it’s always good to have a spare)
Five Harley Davidson shirts from my childhood (zero to nine years old)
A home made screen print I used to make custom wrapping paper for my sister’s graduation present.
Slides of my high school art work
Several scripts from plays I did in high school
Diary from my Junior year
A child’s personalized tape wishing ME a happy birthday from my intergalactic friend Zoom. (I still listen to it every year on my birthday.)
A jewelry box that belonged to my father’s mother, Mom-mom
- Three broken watches (two dead batteries, one broken face)
- Great Grandmom Granato’s engagement and wedding rings
-The pearl ring my mother and step-father had made for my eighteenth birthday
- Grandmom Bishop’s (the real one) ring I received for my twenty-first birthday
- Several silver necklaces I’ve been given over the years
- Pearl necklace and earrings my real father had made for me when I was 12 and 13
- Earrings ranging in gauge from sixteen to two
- A DuMaurier lighter I bought with a kiss on the elbow, now out of fluid
“The Trouble with Bubbles” by Jim Tobin (My favorite book as a child.)
“White Oleander” by Janet Fitch
“Monstrous Regiment” by Terry Pratchett
“Good Omens” by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
“Hocus Pocus” by Kurt Vonnegaut
“Memoirs of a Geisha” by Arthur Golden
“I’m a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America after Twenty Year Away” by Bill Bryson
“Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” by John Berendt
“The Hotel New Hampshire” by John Irving (read so often it is missing several pages)
“Godpeed” by Lynn Breedlove
“The Complete Guide to the Music of Pink Floyd” by Andy Mabbet (inherited from my father)
“Johnny the Homicidal Maniac: Director’s Cut” by Jhonen Vasquez
“Squee’s Wonderful Big Giant Book of Unspeakable Horrors” by Jhonen Vasquez
“The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams
“The Restaurant at the End of the Universe” by Douglas Adams
“Life, the Universe and Everything” by Douglas Adams
“So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish “by Douglas Adams
“Mostly Harmless” by Douglas Adams
“The Magician’s Nephew” by C. S. Lewis
“The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe” by C. S. Lewis
“The Horse and His Boy" by C. S. Lewis
“Prince Caspian” by C. S. Lewis
“The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” by C. S. Lewis
“The Silver Chair” by C. S. Lewis
“The Last Battle” by C. S. Lewis

My Worst Teacher

2005-01-21T06:48:00.000-08:00

I’m not an auditory learner. I can’t process more than 3-4 numbers or words at a time, and I write rather slowly. My tenth grade History teacher was a lecturer. He sat at the front of the room and read the same notes form the same book he had been using for twenty years. He wasn’t especially mean, or hard, but to me his class was hell. He was old and set in his ways. I’d sit in the second row and try desperately to focus, to no avail. By the end of the first semester, I was failing with a 46. I managed to transfer to a class with a younger teacher who used a variety of teaching styles and ended up passing for the year with a C. I've had teachers who were cruel, didn't care about their students, and were indifferent to their position in this world, but this teacher was worse. He claimed to care about his students, but did little to nothing to help me when I went to him and explained my problems with his class. "Listen more and maybe you'll get it," was his response to my pleas.
Though I did a little dance of joy the last day of my class with him, and I know he got the better of me, I prevailed in the long run and can say that on some level I survived History II. He passed away a few years ago and though a part of me still hates the old bastard for his teaching style, I was a little sad when I heard the news. His class was a rite of passage, generations of Sumner High students can say that they too lived through a class with Mr. Monroe, and my little sister got off scott free the little twit.

maybe, just maybe (freestyle #1)

2005-01-21T06:16:00.000-08:00

I’ve been trying to write this blog all day, but no words have come to me. I used to write all the time. The words would flow out of me at an incredible rate. Day after day I would write pages. I’m not sure where it all came from, I had at lot less life experience. Looking back it seems as if I had nothing to write about, I’d never loved, had any real responsibilities, or had to worry where rent money was going to come from.
It’s been nearly four years since I’ve been able to write without focus. In that time I have moved ten times, had more jobs than I can count, broken hearts, had my heart broken, lived in a house that barely had heat, met dozens of the most interesting people, and can’t write a word about any of it. I feel inspired, sit down to write and within fifteen minutes am doing something else.
Maybe I was able to write on my own because I had to write for other people so much. Perhaps it is as if I have too much to write about and am subconsciously intimidated by the amount of experience I have to draw off. Perchance I have become lazy.
I think the real reason though is that my brain has become cold. Through lack of structured stimulus, I have been unable to use creative thought. Though the long term goal of no longer having to wait on people to make ends meet is the major reason I am excited about school, there is another, even more selfish reason. Perhaps I’ll begin to write on my own again.

Prompt Reaction #1

2005-01-20T15:59:00.000-08:00

"Alone in a quiet room. But what is really happening?"

I hate hospital beds. They are always so hard and you have to wonder how many people have died in this bed. It’s late at night and the whole wing is silent. I wish that I could turn on the television. At least that would give me some company. My parents are in the next room, my mom asleep in a chair. It was supposed to be outpatient surgery, but there were complications, the bleeding won’t stop. Why on Earth would you give someone a blood thinner during surgery when they needed weekly blood transfusions to survive?
I roll over again in my ceaseless attempt to find some iota of comfort. I hear the nurse come in to check the bandage. In the eerie quiet I can hear her shake her head as she makes notes on a pad. Is another transfusion on its way I wonder? I don’t think that the blood will ever stop. I fantastic way to spend my Christmas break, but I guess I can’t really be mad, I’ve spent half my life in the hospital.
I finally give up on sleep and get out of bed. I walk across the hall to where my parents are. I should have been used to it years ago, but seeing my father lying in bed with the wires and tubes still bothers me. I look at my mom and sigh, she looks so tired, even when she is asleep. I curl up on the window sill and watch my father’s fragile chest rise and fall until I finally fall asleep.

My hands

2005-01-20T11:32:00.000-08:00

My hands are most likely the most abused part of my body. The skin is always dry, the nails chewed to nothing, covered in pen marks, paint, super glue, scars too numerous to count. A callus on my right hand is shaped perfectly to a number two pencil. When I see girls who barely use their hands, have a conniption if they break a nail, and spend inordinate amounts of money to keep their hands perfect, I laugh. What can you do with those hands? Hands are works of functional art, to baby them until they’re useless is to insult the genius of evolution. Though my hands may be rough and a bit unsightly, I’m not afraid to use them, or even abuse them.