Sofy Dzhanashvili
03/26/09
English 211W
Professor Henkle
Ways to deal with a divorce:
1. avoid eye contact with all family members
2. torture the guilty party (the father) by dating older boys
3. exploit the situation, aka ask for a lot of money
4. Bob Dylan
5. display histrionic scenes of teenage frustration (examples: slamming doors, stomping up stairs, refusing to eat dinner, ect.)
They didn’t sit me down, their eyes full of concern, my father clearing his throat, my mother patting my knee and explaining “We are just taking a break now from our marriage, but we care about you so much and want you to know that your relationship with either of us will not change.” No, it didn’t go=2 0the way it’s supposed to.
The real version involved loud screaming, an illegal business transaction, packed suitcases, public humiliation and no good-byes. I was 14. I knew nothing more than my self-pity and collection of classic rock albums.
My mother remained motionless in bed for the entire weekend, living off of sleep and anti-depressants. She was in my sister’s bed, of course, since she refused to sleep in the one in her room (and continues to do so).
My grandmother came over the morning after my father left, apparently (in my sister’s words) to “diffuse the situation.” She brought over napoleon tarts and a lot of bad advice. She rubbed my brother’s shoulders and told him that he was now the man of the house, and therefore should b e there for his sisters and stop smoking weed. She told me to lose weight. She yelled at my sister to always have her hair down. She scolded my mother for allowing my father to leave her. I prayed for all of them to disappear. They didn’t.
So I took initiative and disappeared on my own.
It began slowly. First, with running up to my room the minute I walked into the house. Then, in long, pregnant silences at the dinner table, continued with constant wearing of headphones and tuning-out of all outside noise. Finally, when all social contact had been reduced to “yes or no” answers and nods of the head, I withdrew completely into the seat of an eighteen-year-old’s beat-up Chevy Nova. He liked wearing hats and apologizing, and I liked making lists and escape. We made a good match.
Fact: all parents mess up their children.
But this comes in varying degrees, unfortunately.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Damn, Late Again!
Westley Chow
March 26th, 2009
Damn, Late Again!
Being late to class is a regular thing for me. I used to care about being on time; it gave me a slight sense of satisfaction knowing that I made the effort to be there before the teacher, ready to fall in line like everyone else. These days I don’t really care for being on time to class unless I’m up for a presentation or a reading like this one. Shit, I might not even show up at all. I’m so conditioned to being late all the time, that I’m late more often than I am on time, and it’s only once in a blue moon that you’ll see me show up early. It’s awesome.
As I’m writing this, I’m anticipating being a bit late for this class. It’s 10:00AM and I should be in Biomechanics jotting down notes like a good Asian student. Instead I woke up late and skipped class to write this paper. “Teacher, teacher, me so solly.” Inspiration sometimes strikes at the most inconvenient of times. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel somewhat bad for showing up late… sometimes. I’m not a total asshole; it’s just what New York City has turned me into… I’m the victim here.
Understand this though; there are many benefits to being late to class. First of all, you can sleep a few more minutes; who doesn’t like that? I’d much rather continue dreaming about how heaven doesn’t want me and that hell is afraid I’ll take over. I’ve got Lucifer in a rear naked choke! Oh wait, that’s my pillow. Besides catching up on a few Z’s, being late to class means that you’re in class less. This is one of those situations where less is more, and more is less. I’m only saying this assuming that you guys are like me and study every single minute outside of class. If you’re Asian, you’re supposed to live at the library right?
Another one of big perks of being late is what I’d like to refer to as the walk of shame. Call it whatever you want, but everyone knows what I’m talking about and what it feels like. It’s grrrrrrrreeaatt! That period of ten seconds when you interrupt class and everyone’s looking at you thinking “Wow, that guy’s a dick.” Was that what you were thinking today? That’s cool with me; I’ll take my ten seconds of fame however I can get it. There’s no such thing as bad publicity am I right or am I right? I’m probably wrong on that one.
I’ve got to wrap this up, it’s 10:50AM and I should be in Henkle’s class giving my respect to the other students who’ll have to listen to my bullshit in a bit. I’ll be a little late guys, feel free to hate on me, but don’t try to be like me. Being late regularly and pulling off good grades takes tremendous talent and micromanaging abilities that I don’t even have. I wish this piece could be longer, but I’m late for class as usual. Scott Henkle looks like Christian Bale.
March 26th, 2009
Damn, Late Again!
Being late to class is a regular thing for me. I used to care about being on time; it gave me a slight sense of satisfaction knowing that I made the effort to be there before the teacher, ready to fall in line like everyone else. These days I don’t really care for being on time to class unless I’m up for a presentation or a reading like this one. Shit, I might not even show up at all. I’m so conditioned to being late all the time, that I’m late more often than I am on time, and it’s only once in a blue moon that you’ll see me show up early. It’s awesome.
As I’m writing this, I’m anticipating being a bit late for this class. It’s 10:00AM and I should be in Biomechanics jotting down notes like a good Asian student. Instead I woke up late and skipped class to write this paper. “Teacher, teacher, me so solly.” Inspiration sometimes strikes at the most inconvenient of times. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel somewhat bad for showing up late… sometimes. I’m not a total asshole; it’s just what New York City has turned me into… I’m the victim here.
Understand this though; there are many benefits to being late to class. First of all, you can sleep a few more minutes; who doesn’t like that? I’d much rather continue dreaming about how heaven doesn’t want me and that hell is afraid I’ll take over. I’ve got Lucifer in a rear naked choke! Oh wait, that’s my pillow. Besides catching up on a few Z’s, being late to class means that you’re in class less. This is one of those situations where less is more, and more is less. I’m only saying this assuming that you guys are like me and study every single minute outside of class. If you’re Asian, you’re supposed to live at the library right?
Another one of big perks of being late is what I’d like to refer to as the walk of shame. Call it whatever you want, but everyone knows what I’m talking about and what it feels like. It’s grrrrrrrreeaatt! That period of ten seconds when you interrupt class and everyone’s looking at you thinking “Wow, that guy’s a dick.” Was that what you were thinking today? That’s cool with me; I’ll take my ten seconds of fame however I can get it. There’s no such thing as bad publicity am I right or am I right? I’m probably wrong on that one.
I’ve got to wrap this up, it’s 10:50AM and I should be in Henkle’s class giving my respect to the other students who’ll have to listen to my bullshit in a bit. I’ll be a little late guys, feel free to hate on me, but don’t try to be like me. Being late regularly and pulling off good grades takes tremendous talent and micromanaging abilities that I don’t even have. I wish this piece could be longer, but I’m late for class as usual. Scott Henkle looks like Christian Bale.
My Friends
I live out in Valley Stream, Long Island. I’ve met quite a few interesting characters since I moved out here. Back in High School, a few years ago, I had decided to attend school out in Valley Stream and stay going to school in Queens. A bunch of my buddies out in Valley Stream made me partially regret not staying out on Long Island for school, imagine the fun I would have had. But I left things the way they were, I found comfort in familiarity, and I stayed at Academy in Queens.
One of my friends in Valley Stream has interesting name, to say the least. What his parents actually named him had us laughing every time someone tried to beat the dead horse dead and make a joke about Charles’ name. You see, Charles would almost always be called Chuck. His middle name, Anthony, would usually be shortened to a simple; “A” for joke purposes and his last name was, unfortunately, Weiner.
We would constantly joke about Chuck’s dad sitting in his shed, laughing through the smoke as he finally realized he named his kid Chuck A. Weiner.
One thing I knew was inevitable once I realized I was keeping two, very different, circles of friends was that eventually, like a Venn diagram with ridiculousness on one side and shenanigans on the other, my two circles would overlap. It came sooner than I though because in 10th grade James, a friend of mine from Woodhaven, Queens decided to come out and stay at my house for a few nights.
We decided one night to go out and do something. We would hang out at Kelvin’s house, one of my Valley Stream friends, until nighttime drinking up his older brothers beers. Nothing says, “welcome to suburbia” quite like underage drinking. James had brought some fireworks up from Pennsylvania so we knew we were having a fun night.
When it got dark we went off to the local elementary school to dump the bottles and set off some fireworks. James, Kalvin and I on our skateboards and Chuck and Ted followed on their bikes.
When we got to the schoolyard, Kalvin immediately blurted out, “I have to take a shit.” I saw the light go off right above James’s head as soon as I realized he had a backpack full of fireworks. His wonderful idea involved hiding behind the handball court wall (to give Kalvin his privacy, of course) he would then insert a few rockets into a pile of Kalvin’s poop and hide behind the wall again. We did it and as the wall was splattered with fresh feces, laughed our collective asses off.
We were about to light off a few more bottle rockets when we all had another collective “Jackass” moment. We would light a bottle rocket from the crack of someone’s butt. Chuck had too much back fat so he was out, James wanted to do the lighting, Ted had to go home soon (his parents were like that) and Kalvin didn’t want to do it so it was up to me. Not once did anyone realize that it might have been a bad idea, until of course I felt sparks singing my backside and heard a loud whistle shoot up past the back of my head.
We got it on film. It ended up on YouTube. And my back hair was singed for a week. This is what happens when your like-minded best buddies meet.
One of my friends in Valley Stream has interesting name, to say the least. What his parents actually named him had us laughing every time someone tried to beat the dead horse dead and make a joke about Charles’ name. You see, Charles would almost always be called Chuck. His middle name, Anthony, would usually be shortened to a simple; “A” for joke purposes and his last name was, unfortunately, Weiner.
We would constantly joke about Chuck’s dad sitting in his shed, laughing through the smoke as he finally realized he named his kid Chuck A. Weiner.
One thing I knew was inevitable once I realized I was keeping two, very different, circles of friends was that eventually, like a Venn diagram with ridiculousness on one side and shenanigans on the other, my two circles would overlap. It came sooner than I though because in 10th grade James, a friend of mine from Woodhaven, Queens decided to come out and stay at my house for a few nights.
We decided one night to go out and do something. We would hang out at Kelvin’s house, one of my Valley Stream friends, until nighttime drinking up his older brothers beers. Nothing says, “welcome to suburbia” quite like underage drinking. James had brought some fireworks up from Pennsylvania so we knew we were having a fun night.
When it got dark we went off to the local elementary school to dump the bottles and set off some fireworks. James, Kalvin and I on our skateboards and Chuck and Ted followed on their bikes.
When we got to the schoolyard, Kalvin immediately blurted out, “I have to take a shit.” I saw the light go off right above James’s head as soon as I realized he had a backpack full of fireworks. His wonderful idea involved hiding behind the handball court wall (to give Kalvin his privacy, of course) he would then insert a few rockets into a pile of Kalvin’s poop and hide behind the wall again. We did it and as the wall was splattered with fresh feces, laughed our collective asses off.
We were about to light off a few more bottle rockets when we all had another collective “Jackass” moment. We would light a bottle rocket from the crack of someone’s butt. Chuck had too much back fat so he was out, James wanted to do the lighting, Ted had to go home soon (his parents were like that) and Kalvin didn’t want to do it so it was up to me. Not once did anyone realize that it might have been a bad idea, until of course I felt sparks singing my backside and heard a loud whistle shoot up past the back of my head.
We got it on film. It ended up on YouTube. And my back hair was singed for a week. This is what happens when your like-minded best buddies meet.
What People Do For Love
Now I’ve been to Six Flags a million times. I love the adrenaline that gets pumping throughout my body every time I am on line ready to ride a roller coaster; I love roller coasters. I have ridden Medusa and Batman a billion times; Superman is my favorite though. It took me awhile to work up the courage to go on Nitro however, because the thought of one little tiny string of train balancing a line of carts on a steep diagonal line, just didn’t seem too safe. My friends begged and begged me to go on it, so I eventually caved. It was awesome! I little scary though because you literally life out of your seat and you feel like you are free falling. But, none the less, I did it; huge accomplishment of mine.That happened two summers ago, and just when I though it couldn’t get any scarier then Nitro, King DA KA was invented. The news paper said it was the tallest roller coaster in the country. I already knew that there was no shot I was even coming within a mile radius of that ride. Or was I?
I started dating this guy that I was “in love with” for so many years. It was a beautiful morning and we had met up with some of our friends and began our car ride to Six Flags for the millionth and one time. On the way over, he was trying to persuade me to go on; “Come on it’s really not that bad...it’s over in 30 seconds...you’re going so fast you won’t even realize it when it’s over.” Well gees, that is comforting to know that take off is at 150 miles per hour, real comforting. I thought to my self I will just nod my head and say yes and then later I will come up with an excuse as to why I can’t go on. Maybe if we rode it last I could tell him I was tired or not feeling to well or some bullshit like that. So, I turned to him and said “How about we save it for last? I have to start out on the smaller ones first, that way I won’t be so scared to go on that one.” “Sure” he said and I felt a little proud of myself that I out smarted him into thinking I was actually going on it. Ha.
As we pull up to Six Flags, my stomach started to churn and I felt a bit queasy looking up at that ride and only seeing that ride in the distance. I remembered reading that a middle age man had had a heart attack while riding it and I couldn’t stop thinking about what the hell would happen to me; the queen of anxiety attacks. We walked through the gates and started heading towards Medusa, or at least I thought we were. Nope. I was wrong again. Somehow I was blinded for a few seconds talking to my girlfriend and the next thing I knew, we were standing on line for King DA KA. What the fuck just happened I thought, but tried to act as cool and as calm as possible. “Babe, I told you I wanted to ride it last, c’mon let’s come back I promise I’ll go on it later.” He wouldn’t move. It was like his legs became a part of the cement he was standing on. “No later on the line is going to be ridiculous! Let’s just do it now.” But that was exactly what I wanted! I wanted there to be a long line, I wanted to feel sick and too tired to go on it. This really blows. “Fine” I said as I stood next to him shaking, my heart pounding and my stomach feeling as if it were in my throat.
We were next on line, and I was trying to figure out how I was going to get out of it. I thought about climbing over him right before the ride would start but it wouldn’t have worked because we would have already been strapped in. Then I thought well I could make myself pass out or cry or something, but then I’d look like a pussy in front of him and I couldn’t have him think that of me. Shit. I was actually going to ride something someone else had already had a heart attack on.
As we cocked back, I saw my life flash before my eyes, actually I saw what happened earlier that day flash before my eyes and before I could get to the part where I was going to get out of going on King DA KA, we took off. I can’t even begin to describe what happened because A) we went way to fast and B) somewhere in between going straight up and straight down, I lost my contacts. Yup, they just flew right out of my eyes, a part of me thought that God was watching over me and didn’t want me to see what was happening because at that point, I was too mad that I couldn’t see to even concentrate on my anxiety.
After the ride, I was pissed, I mean super mad because I am literally blind without my contacts. “So, what did you think? It was awesome right?” I turned to Mark, said “Fuck you” and headed back to the parking lot, where it took me an hour trying to figure out, blindingly, where we were parked.
I started dating this guy that I was “in love with” for so many years. It was a beautiful morning and we had met up with some of our friends and began our car ride to Six Flags for the millionth and one time. On the way over, he was trying to persuade me to go on; “Come on it’s really not that bad...it’s over in 30 seconds...you’re going so fast you won’t even realize it when it’s over.” Well gees, that is comforting to know that take off is at 150 miles per hour, real comforting. I thought to my self I will just nod my head and say yes and then later I will come up with an excuse as to why I can’t go on. Maybe if we rode it last I could tell him I was tired or not feeling to well or some bullshit like that. So, I turned to him and said “How about we save it for last? I have to start out on the smaller ones first, that way I won’t be so scared to go on that one.” “Sure” he said and I felt a little proud of myself that I out smarted him into thinking I was actually going on it. Ha.
As we pull up to Six Flags, my stomach started to churn and I felt a bit queasy looking up at that ride and only seeing that ride in the distance. I remembered reading that a middle age man had had a heart attack while riding it and I couldn’t stop thinking about what the hell would happen to me; the queen of anxiety attacks. We walked through the gates and started heading towards Medusa, or at least I thought we were. Nope. I was wrong again. Somehow I was blinded for a few seconds talking to my girlfriend and the next thing I knew, we were standing on line for King DA KA. What the fuck just happened I thought, but tried to act as cool and as calm as possible. “Babe, I told you I wanted to ride it last, c’mon let’s come back I promise I’ll go on it later.” He wouldn’t move. It was like his legs became a part of the cement he was standing on. “No later on the line is going to be ridiculous! Let’s just do it now.” But that was exactly what I wanted! I wanted there to be a long line, I wanted to feel sick and too tired to go on it. This really blows. “Fine” I said as I stood next to him shaking, my heart pounding and my stomach feeling as if it were in my throat.
We were next on line, and I was trying to figure out how I was going to get out of it. I thought about climbing over him right before the ride would start but it wouldn’t have worked because we would have already been strapped in. Then I thought well I could make myself pass out or cry or something, but then I’d look like a pussy in front of him and I couldn’t have him think that of me. Shit. I was actually going to ride something someone else had already had a heart attack on.
As we cocked back, I saw my life flash before my eyes, actually I saw what happened earlier that day flash before my eyes and before I could get to the part where I was going to get out of going on King DA KA, we took off. I can’t even begin to describe what happened because A) we went way to fast and B) somewhere in between going straight up and straight down, I lost my contacts. Yup, they just flew right out of my eyes, a part of me thought that God was watching over me and didn’t want me to see what was happening because at that point, I was too mad that I couldn’t see to even concentrate on my anxiety.
After the ride, I was pissed, I mean super mad because I am literally blind without my contacts. “So, what did you think? It was awesome right?” I turned to Mark, said “Fuck you” and headed back to the parking lot, where it took me an hour trying to figure out, blindingly, where we were parked.
The unwritten rule
I am not going to start out by telling you a joke, I will simply tell you what happened and then you can decide whether or not it is humorous.
On March 17th 2009 I walked into class to find another girl in my seat. In college there aren’t assigned seats, as adults professors believe we can find our niche wherever there is an option. I do not believe their logic, in every class I find one seat (after trying out other unsuitable options) and then commit to it. It is mine. It is the one sure thing in my day at school. Other students, abiding by an unwritten rule, acknowledge one another’s choices and tactfully avoid those territories. In the off chance someone defies the status quo and sits where they do not belong, the owner will come into class, see the thief (be irritated but not show it) and find another place to sit without one word ever being spoken.
Upon=0 Acoming into class and seeing this girl, smiling while plugging in her laptop, a dull sort of anger coursed through me. To the left of her my friend, noting my arrival, shrugged her shoulders in regret mouthing, “I’m sorry.” The boy Sam who sits in front of me gave me a what-can-you-do? kind of look. A confusion had taken over at this point as well because, this being a huge lecture class, there were numerous empty seats. Why would this girl pick my seat? In the midst of a group of people she doesn’t know?
I took a step forward (before that I had been standing quite still, just staring with eyes full of clouds) half planning to just sit on the opposite side of my friend, she would have moved her stuff for me. Then another thing occurred to me, my sociology professor had spoken of an experiment where one purposefully sits in another’s seats just to gauge the reaction. The professor claimed that most would be annoyed but never engage in a confrontation. I took another step forward, imagining sitting in that foreign place, no wall to lean on and no Sam to gossip with.
My steps carried me up the aisle and=2 0in front of the girl. She looked up in confusion but I was full of righteousness and I would smite her. “You’re in my seat.” The unplanned words came out with no hint of uncertainty (I never even considered the possibility that I was wrong). “Sorry but I’ve been sitting here since the beginning of the semester and this is just my seat.”
The girl kept looking at me in bewilderment so I went on “I’m sorry but are you friends with Sara (who also looked astonished at my behavior)?” Never during this interaction was my voice cruel; it came out more apologetic and full of compassion for this girl who had made a mistake. “This is-”
“Don’t worry I’ll move.” Her voice was short as she gathered her things then awkwardly sidled around me to find a place for herself further back.
I sat down happily, pulling out my notebook, sticking my bag under the chair and then turning to chat with Sara with my back resting comfortably against the wall. The first words she said were “You’re crazy, I can’t believe you just did that.”
Everyone I’ve told this to has been shocked and told me that I was wrong, rude and/or insane. Their reactions have been bad for my psyche because I’m always certain that I’m right. A lot of my beliefs are being questioned, why was it wrong to take back what belonged to me? Why would the girl have sat there in the first place? Was it a challenge? Are there no unwritten rules? My conclusion is that maybe there is a whole world out there and that a lot of the intense philosophical certainties I have may not be shared by other people.
But this instance was not one of those times, I was right.
On March 17th 2009 I walked into class to find another girl in my seat. In college there aren’t assigned seats, as adults professors believe we can find our niche wherever there is an option. I do not believe their logic, in every class I find one seat (after trying out other unsuitable options) and then commit to it. It is mine. It is the one sure thing in my day at school. Other students, abiding by an unwritten rule, acknowledge one another’s choices and tactfully avoid those territories. In the off chance someone defies the status quo and sits where they do not belong, the owner will come into class, see the thief (be irritated but not show it) and find another place to sit without one word ever being spoken.
Upon=0 Acoming into class and seeing this girl, smiling while plugging in her laptop, a dull sort of anger coursed through me. To the left of her my friend, noting my arrival, shrugged her shoulders in regret mouthing, “I’m sorry.” The boy Sam who sits in front of me gave me a what-can-you-do? kind of look. A confusion had taken over at this point as well because, this being a huge lecture class, there were numerous empty seats. Why would this girl pick my seat? In the midst of a group of people she doesn’t know?
I took a step forward (before that I had been standing quite still, just staring with eyes full of clouds) half planning to just sit on the opposite side of my friend, she would have moved her stuff for me. Then another thing occurred to me, my sociology professor had spoken of an experiment where one purposefully sits in another’s seats just to gauge the reaction. The professor claimed that most would be annoyed but never engage in a confrontation. I took another step forward, imagining sitting in that foreign place, no wall to lean on and no Sam to gossip with.
My steps carried me up the aisle and=2 0in front of the girl. She looked up in confusion but I was full of righteousness and I would smite her. “You’re in my seat.” The unplanned words came out with no hint of uncertainty (I never even considered the possibility that I was wrong). “Sorry but I’ve been sitting here since the beginning of the semester and this is just my seat.”
The girl kept looking at me in bewilderment so I went on “I’m sorry but are you friends with Sara (who also looked astonished at my behavior)?” Never during this interaction was my voice cruel; it came out more apologetic and full of compassion for this girl who had made a mistake. “This is-”
“Don’t worry I’ll move.” Her voice was short as she gathered her things then awkwardly sidled around me to find a place for herself further back.
I sat down happily, pulling out my notebook, sticking my bag under the chair and then turning to chat with Sara with my back resting comfortably against the wall. The first words she said were “You’re crazy, I can’t believe you just did that.”
Everyone I’ve told this to has been shocked and told me that I was wrong, rude and/or insane. Their reactions have been bad for my psyche because I’m always certain that I’m right. A lot of my beliefs are being questioned, why was it wrong to take back what belonged to me? Why would the girl have sat there in the first place? Was it a challenge? Are there no unwritten rules? My conclusion is that maybe there is a whole world out there and that a lot of the intense philosophical certainties I have may not be shared by other people.
But this instance was not one of those times, I was right.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Kids Are Amazing
At time kids will be little brats that will annoy you and do some of the craziest things that may make you want to scream at the top of your lungs Although I have to admit that kids are the most honest people out there. If you want to know the truth about anything, do not look to someone your own age because most likely they will lie to your face and you'll end up looking like an idiot. I decided to dye my hair a week before prom (I highly recommend for no one to ever do this) and after I rinsed the dye from my hair, I see that instead of it being the light brown on the box, it was blonde. If your hair color blends in with the color of your forehead it is not something you would be happy about. I asked my silblings how did it look and they said it wasn't that bad, and at the same time my 3 year old nephew said "Titi Kathy oh no, what did you do to your hair"! That's when I realized that if I wanted an opinion about anything I would always ask a little kid, and it's not only because they don't lie, but they notice everything.
Everyday once I get out of school I go to work at an after school program with a group of kids between the ages of 5-13. Sometimes I like to straighten my hair when I have time and when you have curly hair if you straighten it, it will be longer . So this little girl that is 10 years old comes in, and of course she notices right away that my hair is straight but she smiles at me and says "Wow Ms. Kathy your hair looks nice but next time you get a weave you shouldn't make it so long because now everyone knows it's fake". Trying to explain to her that it was not a weave after that was impossible, because she was convinced that real hair could not be short one day and long the next.
Another thing about kids is they won't forget anything either. Don't promise a kid something if you are not going to do it, they will remind you about it every five minutes until you do it. God forbid you do forget and you end up not doing it, they will hold it to you until you make it up to them. Also never and I mean never talk about something around a kid that you don't want anyone to know about, because they will repeat it and it won't be intentionally either. My friends and I at work have learned that the hard way by talking about our relationship problems when we think the kids aren't paying attention. We now see the little girls at work talking about the things they do with their boyfriends, and when we tell them to be quiet all they say is "Why were talking about our mean boyfriends just like you big girls do".
Everyday once I get out of school I go to work at an after school program with a group of kids between the ages of 5-13. Sometimes I like to straighten my hair when I have time and when you have curly hair if you straighten it, it will be longer . So this little girl that is 10 years old comes in, and of course she notices right away that my hair is straight but she smiles at me and says "Wow Ms. Kathy your hair looks nice but next time you get a weave you shouldn't make it so long because now everyone knows it's fake". Trying to explain to her that it was not a weave after that was impossible, because she was convinced that real hair could not be short one day and long the next.
Another thing about kids is they won't forget anything either. Don't promise a kid something if you are not going to do it, they will remind you about it every five minutes until you do it. God forbid you do forget and you end up not doing it, they will hold it to you until you make it up to them. Also never and I mean never talk about something around a kid that you don't want anyone to know about, because they will repeat it and it won't be intentionally either. My friends and I at work have learned that the hard way by talking about our relationship problems when we think the kids aren't paying attention. We now see the little girls at work talking about the things they do with their boyfriends, and when we tell them to be quiet all they say is "Why were talking about our mean boyfriends just like you big girls do".
Modern Sensibilities
Sartre was correct in theorizing that hell is other people and they exist to torture us. Most people, myself included, have utterly annoying tendencies and it is our curse to suffer their idiosyncrasies. While washing my hands the other day in the men’s room at Rathus Hall, I could not help but notice that there was a low mumble coming from the stall behind me. At first I figured someone was talking to themselves, which I would have preferred in this case, unfortunately it was not. The gentlemen occupying the stall behind me was engaged in an argument with his significant other, a woman of obviously poor choice, named Natalie. Apparently Natalie did not wake this man up like he had asked her too, and because of her incompetence, he was late for school. I wonder how intense the frustration or anger needs to be in a person that it requires a toilet bowl call to quell. Unless we have finally reached the point where we need technological stimulation to distract us even in the bathroom, which, for humanities sake, I hope we haven’t. Either way, my sympathies go out to Natalie.
I’ll admit that one of my annoying and perhaps intrusive habits is smoking, and while others might not appreciate my behavior, I do not appreciate their efforts at avoiding my exhalations. I’ve noticed that there are two standard ways to approach the old carsonagenic shuffle. The first is to engage in an exaggerated bout of coughing while passing said smoker. Yes, cigarette smoke may irritate the throat, nose or lungs of the odd passer by and it may require a cough or two to alleviate, however, there is no way that passing by a plume of second hand smoke can cause you to violently convulse as if you are suffering a pulmonary embolism. If it does, then breathing in second hand smoke should not be your main health concern at the moment.
The second approach to “avoiding” second hand smoke is the hand wave. A person will either walk past you, most often while entering or exiting a doorway, see the smoke, exhale loudly and then rapidly wave their hands in front of their mouth and nose in rapid fashion. I see flapping their hands like Icarus avoiding the stratosphere while passing me is going down.
The lines at Starbucks are insufferable at times, but there is always a light at the end of the tunnel that makes the wait worth all the while, sweet, sweet coffee. It is hard to stand patiently while a gang of sixteen year olds clog the line, punching away on their smart phones placing overly complicated orders. Sure you can pass the time while they slow the line down with orders for drinks that take fifteen minutes to make by looking at the other patrons in the store. Most often the random sixty year old reading a book, do you not have a quiet room to read in your house to read, why would one come to a loud, over crowed store to read the latest New Yorker, and then leave it behind on the table along with the crumbs from their raspberry coffee cake. Alas, they finally all place their orders, ”I’ll have a grande, sugar free, caramel frappachino”, (Which I’ll also order without making eye contact to the human taking my order because I’m texting on my blackberry that my parents bought me and which I do no deserve). What a time to be alive.
I’ll admit that one of my annoying and perhaps intrusive habits is smoking, and while others might not appreciate my behavior, I do not appreciate their efforts at avoiding my exhalations. I’ve noticed that there are two standard ways to approach the old carsonagenic shuffle. The first is to engage in an exaggerated bout of coughing while passing said smoker. Yes, cigarette smoke may irritate the throat, nose or lungs of the odd passer by and it may require a cough or two to alleviate, however, there is no way that passing by a plume of second hand smoke can cause you to violently convulse as if you are suffering a pulmonary embolism. If it does, then breathing in second hand smoke should not be your main health concern at the moment.
The second approach to “avoiding” second hand smoke is the hand wave. A person will either walk past you, most often while entering or exiting a doorway, see the smoke, exhale loudly and then rapidly wave their hands in front of their mouth and nose in rapid fashion. I see flapping their hands like Icarus avoiding the stratosphere while passing me is going down.
The lines at Starbucks are insufferable at times, but there is always a light at the end of the tunnel that makes the wait worth all the while, sweet, sweet coffee. It is hard to stand patiently while a gang of sixteen year olds clog the line, punching away on their smart phones placing overly complicated orders. Sure you can pass the time while they slow the line down with orders for drinks that take fifteen minutes to make by looking at the other patrons in the store. Most often the random sixty year old reading a book, do you not have a quiet room to read in your house to read, why would one come to a loud, over crowed store to read the latest New Yorker, and then leave it behind on the table along with the crumbs from their raspberry coffee cake. Alas, they finally all place their orders, ”I’ll have a grande, sugar free, caramel frappachino”, (Which I’ll also order without making eye contact to the human taking my order because I’m texting on my blackberry that my parents bought me and which I do no deserve). What a time to be alive.
Useful Observations
I was a freshman in high school, about 14 years old, when I became witness to one of many instances of where my older brother had to dig up an excuse from out of his ass in order for him not to have gotten caught cheating by his girlfriend(s). At that age, I was very into “Dawson’s Creek” and really thought I will also find my “Dawson” in high school. How stupid was I? Then again, I can’t possibly be that stupid, for I have used these events as useful observations towards life, men and their stupidity. I’m 25 years old now and am able to smell an asshole from a mile away.
My brother had just gotten home from school and already the phone started to ring. It was for him, so he took the phone to his room and I can hear him say “No Isabel! Those are all rumors; I would never cheat on you. I SWEAR!!” He continued on for another 10 minutes and finally got off the phone but the phone rang again. It was for him and I heard “No Christine! Isabel doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s not my girlfriend, you are. You’re just falling for rumors; I would never cheat on you. I SWEAR!!” He hung up the phone 5 minutes later and I just looked at him as he went to the fridge for some orange juice. That’s when he looked at me and said something I will never forget, “That’s what I get for dating 2 girls from the same damn school.”
He knew he was entering dangerous waters if he continued seeing both girls from that school so he dumped Christine first, he just couldn’t let Isabel go…..YET! He finally got the courage to dump Isabel a month later… by phone… in front of me. He told Isabel “It’s not you; it’s just that I’m going through a lot right now ever since my grandmother passed away”. After he hung up the phone, I shook my head and said “Alfonso, Abuelita Maria died three years ago! We only met her once and weren’t even that close to her” and he said “Well, she doesn’t know that.”
I can go on and on with stories of the “Casanova” of my brother. I always wondered how my brother would come up with all of his excuses, strategies, etc. It had to have come from somewhere. Then after conversing with my uncle it dawned on me that all of this was hereditary. I have not met all the men of the universe, so I can’t say that all men are the same. But I have met every male in my family, and I can vouch that this male way of being is hereditary.
My uncle has had three marriages with three children from each wife. Yes, that’s nine children all together. I still haven’t met all of my cousins…..from that particular uncle. I asked this uncle how he met his third wife and he told me “I met your aunt at a gathering. I originally was checking out her sister and wanted to ask her to dance with me, but she was with her boyfriend, so I asked her to dance with me instead.” How lucky was she?
Last month my cousin came back home from being deployed to Qatar. I knew before he left that he was in a serious relationship and I was curious to see how being away for 9 months had affected that relationship. He told me that they decided to part ways and that absence does not always make the heart grow fonder. I was driving him home and as I exited the Belt Parkway and got to a red light, I turned to my cousin and uttered these words: “Cuz, you’ve been away for 9 months. Whatever girl you meet from now on, just tap that and leave it.” After I said these words, I wondered if the females in my family can inherit this mannerism too, for I think I did.
My brother had just gotten home from school and already the phone started to ring. It was for him, so he took the phone to his room and I can hear him say “No Isabel! Those are all rumors; I would never cheat on you. I SWEAR!!” He continued on for another 10 minutes and finally got off the phone but the phone rang again. It was for him and I heard “No Christine! Isabel doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s not my girlfriend, you are. You’re just falling for rumors; I would never cheat on you. I SWEAR!!” He hung up the phone 5 minutes later and I just looked at him as he went to the fridge for some orange juice. That’s when he looked at me and said something I will never forget, “That’s what I get for dating 2 girls from the same damn school.”
He knew he was entering dangerous waters if he continued seeing both girls from that school so he dumped Christine first, he just couldn’t let Isabel go…..YET! He finally got the courage to dump Isabel a month later… by phone… in front of me. He told Isabel “It’s not you; it’s just that I’m going through a lot right now ever since my grandmother passed away”. After he hung up the phone, I shook my head and said “Alfonso, Abuelita Maria died three years ago! We only met her once and weren’t even that close to her” and he said “Well, she doesn’t know that.”
I can go on and on with stories of the “Casanova” of my brother. I always wondered how my brother would come up with all of his excuses, strategies, etc. It had to have come from somewhere. Then after conversing with my uncle it dawned on me that all of this was hereditary. I have not met all the men of the universe, so I can’t say that all men are the same. But I have met every male in my family, and I can vouch that this male way of being is hereditary.
My uncle has had three marriages with three children from each wife. Yes, that’s nine children all together. I still haven’t met all of my cousins…..from that particular uncle. I asked this uncle how he met his third wife and he told me “I met your aunt at a gathering. I originally was checking out her sister and wanted to ask her to dance with me, but she was with her boyfriend, so I asked her to dance with me instead.” How lucky was she?
Last month my cousin came back home from being deployed to Qatar. I knew before he left that he was in a serious relationship and I was curious to see how being away for 9 months had affected that relationship. He told me that they decided to part ways and that absence does not always make the heart grow fonder. I was driving him home and as I exited the Belt Parkway and got to a red light, I turned to my cousin and uttered these words: “Cuz, you’ve been away for 9 months. Whatever girl you meet from now on, just tap that and leave it.” After I said these words, I wondered if the females in my family can inherit this mannerism too, for I think I did.
In Defense of English
If you are in the majority of Americans, you probably sound like an idiot, and you almost certainly write like one. Somewhere between instant messenger and text messaging we have lost our way. Charles Dickens and other dead writer guys are rolling in their graves because you cannot use an apostrophe, a comma, simple words, or the plural form. Just think of the poor sweater vested English teachers who tried to teach you proper English while you rolled your eyes and called Beowulf a stupid monster story when in reality he was one bad ass Stone Age dude. They have devoted their entire lives to the art of the English language, and yet you still have the vocabulary equivalent to a sixteen-year-old girl from juvenile detention. So like, listen up, yo. Shit’s about to get, like, mad interesting. (When it’s on paper can’t you see how awful it is?)
It is a statistical fact that 99% of English language users only use apostrophes when they are unnecessary. For example, they replayed the Mets 1986 World Series on television the other day, and some bonehead in the crowd held this sign: “Lets go Met’s!” In this sentence, the Mets do not in fact own anything. They are a plural entity thus not requiring an apostrophe. ‘Lets’ is not plural. It is a contraction, and yet for some reason the apostrophe is nowhere to be found.
Speaking of apostrophes, remember the comma? It looks like the apostrophe but upside down, flipped around, and on the ground. You, probably, know, it, as, the, thing, you, use, too, much or that thing which you decide never to use and in the process make teachers employers fellow peers and any audience you hope to have wince because their eyeballs are going to fall out of their skull and they are going to lose their breath. Here’s the deal. Commas are used in lists: I bought apples, oranges, and pears. (The official grammar people change their mind about every other second about whether or not you need a comma before the ‘and’ so that’s your choice.) Commas are also used in compound sentences: Yesterday we went to the store, and then I gave birth to a Martian.
It’s not just apostrophes and commas. If English teachers had a penny for every ‘alot’ they read in student writing, there wouldn’t be any English teachers left. They’d all be in South Beach drinking wine and reading As I Lay Dying. So do them a favor and either start giving them a penny every time you write like an idiot, or separate the two words.
Another equally aggravating and idiotic mistake is the confusion between ‘their’ and ‘there.’ The former refers to possession, as in a group of people, and the latter refers to a place. Their house is beautiful. The house is over there on 123rd Street. Get it? Good.
Oh, good. Pizza tastes good. Those jeans look good on you. But you? You are well. You are feeling well; you are doing well, the jeans fit well, etc. You are not good. Good is for degenerates who hold signs saying “Lets go Met’s!” at sports games.
Another way to avoid sounding like a moron is stop trying to pluralize words which are already plural. Lazy Americans should be able to appreciate that these words are already doing the work! Children, women, men: not childrens, womens, mens. And don’t make singular words which can never refer to more than one plural. ‘Mines’ is not a word. If your attempt is to express possession, you are failing miserably. See: “That’s my dog” or “That dog is mine.” It’s not “Mines dog.” Mines refer to those places they get coal.
No one is perfect. Even Grammar Queens have occasional mishaps. Certainly no one expects you know whether to use ‘toward’ or ‘towards.’ It’s one of those words which differs between standard British and American English and keeps grammar nerds up at night. But you can avoid looking and sounding like a complete moron if you stop committing grammatical suicide. Like, okay?
It is a statistical fact that 99% of English language users only use apostrophes when they are unnecessary. For example, they replayed the Mets 1986 World Series on television the other day, and some bonehead in the crowd held this sign: “Lets go Met’s!” In this sentence, the Mets do not in fact own anything. They are a plural entity thus not requiring an apostrophe. ‘Lets’ is not plural. It is a contraction, and yet for some reason the apostrophe is nowhere to be found.
Speaking of apostrophes, remember the comma? It looks like the apostrophe but upside down, flipped around, and on the ground. You, probably, know, it, as, the, thing, you, use, too, much or that thing which you decide never to use and in the process make teachers employers fellow peers and any audience you hope to have wince because their eyeballs are going to fall out of their skull and they are going to lose their breath. Here’s the deal. Commas are used in lists: I bought apples, oranges, and pears. (The official grammar people change their mind about every other second about whether or not you need a comma before the ‘and’ so that’s your choice.) Commas are also used in compound sentences: Yesterday we went to the store, and then I gave birth to a Martian.
It’s not just apostrophes and commas. If English teachers had a penny for every ‘alot’ they read in student writing, there wouldn’t be any English teachers left. They’d all be in South Beach drinking wine and reading As I Lay Dying. So do them a favor and either start giving them a penny every time you write like an idiot, or separate the two words.
Another equally aggravating and idiotic mistake is the confusion between ‘their’ and ‘there.’ The former refers to possession, as in a group of people, and the latter refers to a place. Their house is beautiful. The house is over there on 123rd Street. Get it? Good.
Oh, good. Pizza tastes good. Those jeans look good on you. But you? You are well. You are feeling well; you are doing well, the jeans fit well, etc. You are not good. Good is for degenerates who hold signs saying “Lets go Met’s!” at sports games.
Another way to avoid sounding like a moron is stop trying to pluralize words which are already plural. Lazy Americans should be able to appreciate that these words are already doing the work! Children, women, men: not childrens, womens, mens. And don’t make singular words which can never refer to more than one plural. ‘Mines’ is not a word. If your attempt is to express possession, you are failing miserably. See: “That’s my dog” or “That dog is mine.” It’s not “Mines dog.” Mines refer to those places they get coal.
No one is perfect. Even Grammar Queens have occasional mishaps. Certainly no one expects you know whether to use ‘toward’ or ‘towards.’ It’s one of those words which differs between standard British and American English and keeps grammar nerds up at night. But you can avoid looking and sounding like a complete moron if you stop committing grammatical suicide. Like, okay?
Why Does Sex Haunt Me?
I heard a shout, it sounded like someone saying my name and I ran. Typically my Dad would call me while he lay in bed asking for a sandwich or a drink, so it wasn’t like it never occurred. I swung the door open and began to scream, “Ewwww. Oh my god Ewwww!” I don’t think they were calling me… My parents were getting it on and I walked in. “Get out! Don’t you knock? What’s wrong with you?” My mother yelled at me. She looked petrified. I ran out screaming, yelling, disgusted. I just saw my parents having sex.
One night my dad called for me. This time I made sure he really was calling me and not being a kinky man-whore. He asked me to make him a sandwich. It was like 1 a.m. but it’s typical of him. I ran down to the kitchen and began the process. I got the sliced bread, the cold cuts, the tomato and lettuce and began to layer everything. I needed mayo and realized we had none in the fridge. I had to go to the basement and get a new jar from the Costco storage my dad created in the back room. Note that my brother’s room was in the basement. I opened the door to the basement, and began to hop down the steps. Suddenly I realized there was hot lesbian porno on the TV. I looked down and there was my brother with his hand under his blanket. “Get the fuck out!” and I ran away, laughing hysterically. “Pervert. Jerk off,” I yelled back at him. I ran upstairs… ran to my parents room and said, “I just wanted you to know your sandwich has no mayonnaise because your son is playing with himself and won’t let me get any from the back room.” My parents looked at each other…and laughed.
Close friends of my boyfriend and I were getting married in Vegas. I was asked to host the Bachelorette party. I decided to take all the party favors and supplies in a carry-on and the suitcase with our outfits would be checked-in. When we got to the check point, we passed our carry-on through the detector and we asked to step aside. The guard asked me to remove all of the items out of the bag. “Why? I don’t want to take anything out of my bag!” I probably turned beat red and look scared to death. I didn’t have a choice if I wanted to board my flight. I unzipped my carry-on bag and opened the flap. He asked me to remove the items into the plastic containers. Out came the large 12 inch dildos and the pink, green and blue vibrators. There were feathers on sticks, blind folds, teasers, silk scarves, and boxes of flavored condoms and lubricants. Then I took out the handcuffs, nipple clasps, and whips. “This is what went off; you can’t take these on the plane.” He was holding up the handcuffs which were rimmed with leopard print, pink print and zebra prints. My boyfriend was laughing and hiding his face in his palms. I looked away, now hysterically laughing. “I am hosting a Bachelorette party. It’s not like all this is for me.” The security guard was smiling from ear to ear, looking very amused. “Ma’am you do not have to give me any explanations. This is your personal items. I can not let you go on the plane with these handcuffs.” I was pissed off now. Each pair of cuffs was worth 25 bucks, but I had to let them go or I’d miss my flight. We put our dildos, whips and chains back in our bag, zipped them up and walked away.
One night my dad called for me. This time I made sure he really was calling me and not being a kinky man-whore. He asked me to make him a sandwich. It was like 1 a.m. but it’s typical of him. I ran down to the kitchen and began the process. I got the sliced bread, the cold cuts, the tomato and lettuce and began to layer everything. I needed mayo and realized we had none in the fridge. I had to go to the basement and get a new jar from the Costco storage my dad created in the back room. Note that my brother’s room was in the basement. I opened the door to the basement, and began to hop down the steps. Suddenly I realized there was hot lesbian porno on the TV. I looked down and there was my brother with his hand under his blanket. “Get the fuck out!” and I ran away, laughing hysterically. “Pervert. Jerk off,” I yelled back at him. I ran upstairs… ran to my parents room and said, “I just wanted you to know your sandwich has no mayonnaise because your son is playing with himself and won’t let me get any from the back room.” My parents looked at each other…and laughed.
Close friends of my boyfriend and I were getting married in Vegas. I was asked to host the Bachelorette party. I decided to take all the party favors and supplies in a carry-on and the suitcase with our outfits would be checked-in. When we got to the check point, we passed our carry-on through the detector and we asked to step aside. The guard asked me to remove all of the items out of the bag. “Why? I don’t want to take anything out of my bag!” I probably turned beat red and look scared to death. I didn’t have a choice if I wanted to board my flight. I unzipped my carry-on bag and opened the flap. He asked me to remove the items into the plastic containers. Out came the large 12 inch dildos and the pink, green and blue vibrators. There were feathers on sticks, blind folds, teasers, silk scarves, and boxes of flavored condoms and lubricants. Then I took out the handcuffs, nipple clasps, and whips. “This is what went off; you can’t take these on the plane.” He was holding up the handcuffs which were rimmed with leopard print, pink print and zebra prints. My boyfriend was laughing and hiding his face in his palms. I looked away, now hysterically laughing. “I am hosting a Bachelorette party. It’s not like all this is for me.” The security guard was smiling from ear to ear, looking very amused. “Ma’am you do not have to give me any explanations. This is your personal items. I can not let you go on the plane with these handcuffs.” I was pissed off now. Each pair of cuffs was worth 25 bucks, but I had to let them go or I’d miss my flight. We put our dildos, whips and chains back in our bag, zipped them up and walked away.
Essay 7: Comic Writing
Don’t Touch that Dog!
Author’s Note: I think it funny to point out that when I signed on to do this discussion, I thought it would be on comics, not comedy. Next time…ASK!
You ever laugh at something you wish hadn’t about years later? Do you find yourself still laughing about it now in private, guilt settling in when you realize the one person you wish to share it with is no longer around? I have, and I do. This story goes way back when. Me. Ten years ago. My grandmother’s house in the Bronx. My cousins. The backyard. And one very big Rottweiler.
You ever laugh at something you wish hadn’t about years later? Do you find yourself still laughing about it now in private, guilt settling in when you realize the one person you wish to share it with is no longer around? I have, and I do. This story goes way back when. Me. Ten years ago. My grandmother’s house in the Bronx. My cousins. The backyard. And one very big Rottweiler.
At the start there were three of us; myself, my cousin Al, and his little brother Jesus, who we called Chu. Chu was eleven and he always loved playing with things that did not belong to him. Take the dog’s bowl for example. Conan, for that was Rot’s name, was just a puppy yet he was bigger than me. He liked to play too. Only today his toy was an eleven-year old boy.
Chu teased him, kicking his doggy bowl around the yard like a ball. Conan thought he was playing…thought being the key word. I don’t know how it happened, I was talking to Al who was standing on the porch at the time but before we knew it we heard a scream. I turned, and Conan had Chu’s foot in his mouth, pulling with all the vigor of a young pup. Chu was scared. He was yelling for him to stop. The next thing I knew, Chu is holding onto the bars of the porch, hanging with one leg in the air and the other in Conan’s jaws stretched out horizontally.
The scene was like something from out of a cartoon. Chu was screaming. He was angry, but Al and I could not help but break out into a fit. The thing is, at least I tried to help. While Al, mind you his brother, was laughing his ass off on the porch, I, through fits of laughter, tried to tell Chu what to do.
“C-Chu…le…let…g-go,” I tried to say through grinning teeth. I figured that if he released the porch gate then Conan, who held onto him like a toy, would let go of his foot. Then again he could have just dragged the boy through the yard, but I wasn’t thinking straight. I was bent over laughing.
“Fuck no!” He’d scream. “Get him off! Ah! Stop! Let go!” His cries caught the attention of my other cousin, Mike, who came running out. No sooner did he see the situation when he joined us in our mirth. “STOP IT!” Chu yelled. Conan pulled harder.
Now I feel guilty looking back on it. Chu was scared and all I could do was laugh. I did try to pull the dog off his foot but that only made it harder for Chu to hold on. The three of us just continued laughing until Mike had enough sense to call my father who was in the living room. My dad laughed too, but he was adult enough to gather his wits and help Chu. Between him and Mike, who was the dog’s owner, they managed to distract Conan long enough that he let go of the foot.
Chu was crying. His face was all red from the exertion the incident put on his small body. Conan thought it was all a game. He still wanted to play with Chu but when he came close, the boy would scream and Mike had to pull him away, grinning of course. As my dad escorted Chu back inside from his ordeal, he looks back at Conan and mutters, “Stupid dog!”
That was one of my fondest memories of Chu. To be honest, all of my funniest memories are with my father’s side of the family. I could write a novel based on the numerous comical incidents, stories, and events that have transpired over the years, but this one moment stood out. Maybe it’s because I miss him. He was the brunt of many of our jokes but no one was laughing the day he was hit by that car. Nineteen years old and having yet to leave his mark on the world.
Jesus Revilla
Rest in Peace
You live on through us
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Wilderness
Raaid Bacchus
E211W: Diary/Journal
May 14, 2007
Got off bus. Ride was too long, people too annoying. Found clear spot to pitch tent, right under two trees. Keep low profile. This trip is going to be a learning experience. I would have never imagined this place to exist in such close proximity to New York City. Hard to believe this is Jersey.
Cook group is annoying. Consists of two Jews, both practicing and celebrating some holiday. For some reason they abstain from bread and meat. Not bad guys but we cannot so much as share a meal together. It’s a bit awkward. I eat in my tent.
Nightfall. Flashlights. I once again sneak off to the woods. Our group try to start a fire, succeed, fire lasts about 1 hour. Start talking to people from other circles. Turn out we have more than a few things in common. Make friends with a Mexican guy who soon becomes my partner. Julio, he calls himself, we plan on canoeing together. Better get to know the guy. Also met Sameer, a Pakistani immigrant. Shared food. I enjoy his company. We say up later around a large fire masterfully created by our Mexican friend. We all talk. I meet a few girls but have a hard time matching up faces and names due to the wilderness being… dark. I’ll get to know everyone in the morning.
May 15, 2007
It is damp out but no rain. The morning dew saturates my tents rain fly. I stumble out after laying in my sleeping bag for an hour. My Jewish friends have started to cook something. I share a piece of matzo with them, it is dry but I enjoy it. I feel like this flat, dry bread is as much a part of their culture as the yarmulke. They’re good guys. I pump some water out of the ground and they begin lighting the stove. After heating the water we each enjoy a cup of hot chocolate. This is a great way to start the day.
Doc gives each pair a cushion, 2 oars and 2 life vests. He’s a few short so we get one. Whatever, I’ve been on a small boat before. We set out on the lake. The water is murky and black, it isn’t running and smells like a sewer in some places. Not at all difficult to navigate, however, we just row and row. Julio mans the rear of the boat while I hold down the front. I believe that makes him the captain. Doc proposes a race. We all line up, about 15 groups at the very least, in a rude half-circle on the lake. Doc gives the call. We all rush forward; I can’t even recall the incentive Doc promised. We furiously row foreword with countless groups following. We turn hard. Their bow rams into the stern of our ship. Funny how I remember these terms now. We end up falling in the lake. Julio thinks he is drowning. He is lying on his back, gasping for air. Flapping his airs wilding in the water. I watch him. I’m standing. I am in the lake. Our boat has capsized. The water is about 3 feet deep and dirty. Stand up, Julio!
May 19, 2007
I haven’t had much time to write after our trip to the lake. We have been on various rivers throughout the week. In fact this is our last day. I made friends with almost everyone on the trip. Some are, in fact, the douche bags I thought they were from afar. Others are incredibly friendly and intelligent, I am glad to call some of these people my peers. I would have to say that the good has far outweighed the bad in that department. I know we will all meet up on Facebook after this is over. It’s the last night so I figured I would wrap it up, I can’t wait to get home and back on a computer.
I made some good friends on this trip. I also learned a lot about myself but the most important thing I am taking back is my memories. This record only serves to remind me how miserable I was at first.
E211W: Diary/Journal
May 14, 2007
Got off bus. Ride was too long, people too annoying. Found clear spot to pitch tent, right under two trees. Keep low profile. This trip is going to be a learning experience. I would have never imagined this place to exist in such close proximity to New York City. Hard to believe this is Jersey.
Cook group is annoying. Consists of two Jews, both practicing and celebrating some holiday. For some reason they abstain from bread and meat. Not bad guys but we cannot so much as share a meal together. It’s a bit awkward. I eat in my tent.
Nightfall. Flashlights. I once again sneak off to the woods. Our group try to start a fire, succeed, fire lasts about 1 hour. Start talking to people from other circles. Turn out we have more than a few things in common. Make friends with a Mexican guy who soon becomes my partner. Julio, he calls himself, we plan on canoeing together. Better get to know the guy. Also met Sameer, a Pakistani immigrant. Shared food. I enjoy his company. We say up later around a large fire masterfully created by our Mexican friend. We all talk. I meet a few girls but have a hard time matching up faces and names due to the wilderness being… dark. I’ll get to know everyone in the morning.
May 15, 2007
It is damp out but no rain. The morning dew saturates my tents rain fly. I stumble out after laying in my sleeping bag for an hour. My Jewish friends have started to cook something. I share a piece of matzo with them, it is dry but I enjoy it. I feel like this flat, dry bread is as much a part of their culture as the yarmulke. They’re good guys. I pump some water out of the ground and they begin lighting the stove. After heating the water we each enjoy a cup of hot chocolate. This is a great way to start the day.
Doc gives each pair a cushion, 2 oars and 2 life vests. He’s a few short so we get one. Whatever, I’ve been on a small boat before. We set out on the lake. The water is murky and black, it isn’t running and smells like a sewer in some places. Not at all difficult to navigate, however, we just row and row. Julio mans the rear of the boat while I hold down the front. I believe that makes him the captain. Doc proposes a race. We all line up, about 15 groups at the very least, in a rude half-circle on the lake. Doc gives the call. We all rush forward; I can’t even recall the incentive Doc promised. We furiously row foreword with countless groups following. We turn hard. Their bow rams into the stern of our ship. Funny how I remember these terms now. We end up falling in the lake. Julio thinks he is drowning. He is lying on his back, gasping for air. Flapping his airs wilding in the water. I watch him. I’m standing. I am in the lake. Our boat has capsized. The water is about 3 feet deep and dirty. Stand up, Julio!
May 19, 2007
I haven’t had much time to write after our trip to the lake. We have been on various rivers throughout the week. In fact this is our last day. I made friends with almost everyone on the trip. Some are, in fact, the douche bags I thought they were from afar. Others are incredibly friendly and intelligent, I am glad to call some of these people my peers. I would have to say that the good has far outweighed the bad in that department. I know we will all meet up on Facebook after this is over. It’s the last night so I figured I would wrap it up, I can’t wait to get home and back on a computer.
I made some good friends on this trip. I also learned a lot about myself but the most important thing I am taking back is my memories. This record only serves to remind me how miserable I was at first.
Bla bla bla bla bla...
Sofy Dzhanashvili
03/10/09
English 211W
Professor Henkle
March 2, 2009
8:50 pm
Texas Hold em’. I lost last night to Stace and Carl and ended up covering everyone’s drinks. D. fell into a homeless man on the way home, bugged out and refused to go on the subway. We all had to squeeze into the back of a cab and there was an accident on the Midtown Tunnel, so I had to spend a good forty minutes with my face pressed against the window. I’m never going to get into graduate school.
March 6, 2009
10:30 pm
So I figure that when I’m a famous writer this journal will be probably be sold to the highest bidder on e-bay. They’ll chronicle my life in accordance to entry. They’ll pay for insider information to match names with faces. I’ll probably be really self-righteous by then and refuse to disclose any information. They’ll admire how I quote Nietzsche. They’ll frame the doodles I’ve drawn in the margins. It’ll be great.
March 12, 2009
2:30 am (?)
Hookah bars are overrated. The only fun thing about flavored water pipes are that you can make smoke rings. You sit there and pass around the hookah and nothing really happens. The whole experience is disappointing and anti-climactic. This time we went to Horus, which is right by Alphabet City and full of underage high-school kids who constantly make overly dramatic hand gestures and only come for the belly dancer on Thursday nights. I really don’t think it’s a big deal that the chick can do stomach rolls. I’ve been more impressed by a guy who played the clarinet by the subway station on 34th.
March 16, 2009
11:20 pm
Birthday’s suck.
Turning legal totally doesn’t outshine my Peter-Pan-complex.
I. don’t. like. getting. older.
My grandma gave me a pink nightgown and told me to wear it on my future wedding night. It was mortifying. I don’t even have a boyfriend now. Last year she gave me a vase that had gold rims and weighed more than my Neuroscience textbook. It’s still hiding in my mother’s dining room closet.
I’ve been pissed all day. I walked in to all of my classes late and I didn’t even have to- I just decided that I needed to get coffee before each one. I haven’t been picking up any calls and have left all the overly-excited birthday messages to go straight to voicemail. Dave always spoke about how he never understood my moodiness. The DMV sent me a new license that doesn’t have “Under 21” written on it in bold red ink. I’m feeling a bit melancholy about not having to use a fake ID anymore- it was fun being Anna Tsiporin for a few years. I know her address and everything. Oh and she was born on August 14th, 1984. I’ll always have it memorized. And I don’t even know who she is. It’s sad that I can’t be sneaky anymore.
Since I’m celebrating at Empire with D. on Thursday night I ended up just going to dinner with my parents and then coming home to find myself re-organizing my accessories drawer and re-reading The Alchemist. I pretended that I was doing something more exciting. Paulo Coelho may have just been readmitted to the psych ward, but he is one hell of a genius.
Happy 21st. Yay.
March 17, 2009
Late-ish.
“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”
Apparently, much can be learned from Dr. Seuss.
March 18, 2009
7:45 pm
Tam called to wish me a belated happy birthday and told me about adding fresh garlic to the original guacamole recipe that she had told me about last week. Totally a good call. I ate a complete bowl full while I went through an entire folder of old essays I had on my computer. I forget about my Dickinson obsession- the semester where I thought I had a special connection to Dickinson’s poetry and believed that I understood it on a level that was beyond above everyone else. Recreational drugs may have played a factor in this delusion. I wrote four different essays all in November 07’ and I don’t even remember if I did well on them. Did I even have my poetry classes then? I was completely obsessed; this was another “existential crisis” of mine and I was compelled to replace my inability to accept reality with Dylan or photography or the ego-feeding pretentiousness of documentary films. It’s sad to realize how people boil down to pattern. I can be so predictable. My life has been a tennis-match of yo-yo dieting and random artistic mania. “Are you Nobody too?”
03/10/09
English 211W
Professor Henkle
March 2, 2009
8:50 pm
Texas Hold em’. I lost last night to Stace and Carl and ended up covering everyone’s drinks. D. fell into a homeless man on the way home, bugged out and refused to go on the subway. We all had to squeeze into the back of a cab and there was an accident on the Midtown Tunnel, so I had to spend a good forty minutes with my face pressed against the window. I’m never going to get into graduate school.
March 6, 2009
10:30 pm
So I figure that when I’m a famous writer this journal will be probably be sold to the highest bidder on e-bay. They’ll chronicle my life in accordance to entry. They’ll pay for insider information to match names with faces. I’ll probably be really self-righteous by then and refuse to disclose any information. They’ll admire how I quote Nietzsche. They’ll frame the doodles I’ve drawn in the margins. It’ll be great.
March 12, 2009
2:30 am (?)
Hookah bars are overrated. The only fun thing about flavored water pipes are that you can make smoke rings. You sit there and pass around the hookah and nothing really happens. The whole experience is disappointing and anti-climactic. This time we went to Horus, which is right by Alphabet City and full of underage high-school kids who constantly make overly dramatic hand gestures and only come for the belly dancer on Thursday nights. I really don’t think it’s a big deal that the chick can do stomach rolls. I’ve been more impressed by a guy who played the clarinet by the subway station on 34th.
March 16, 2009
11:20 pm
Birthday’s suck.
Turning legal totally doesn’t outshine my Peter-Pan-complex.
I. don’t. like. getting. older.
My grandma gave me a pink nightgown and told me to wear it on my future wedding night. It was mortifying. I don’t even have a boyfriend now. Last year she gave me a vase that had gold rims and weighed more than my Neuroscience textbook. It’s still hiding in my mother’s dining room closet.
I’ve been pissed all day. I walked in to all of my classes late and I didn’t even have to- I just decided that I needed to get coffee before each one. I haven’t been picking up any calls and have left all the overly-excited birthday messages to go straight to voicemail. Dave always spoke about how he never understood my moodiness. The DMV sent me a new license that doesn’t have “Under 21” written on it in bold red ink. I’m feeling a bit melancholy about not having to use a fake ID anymore- it was fun being Anna Tsiporin for a few years. I know her address and everything. Oh and she was born on August 14th, 1984. I’ll always have it memorized. And I don’t even know who she is. It’s sad that I can’t be sneaky anymore.
Since I’m celebrating at Empire with D. on Thursday night I ended up just going to dinner with my parents and then coming home to find myself re-organizing my accessories drawer and re-reading The Alchemist. I pretended that I was doing something more exciting. Paulo Coelho may have just been readmitted to the psych ward, but he is one hell of a genius.
Happy 21st. Yay.
March 17, 2009
Late-ish.
“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”
Apparently, much can be learned from Dr. Seuss.
March 18, 2009
7:45 pm
Tam called to wish me a belated happy birthday and told me about adding fresh garlic to the original guacamole recipe that she had told me about last week. Totally a good call. I ate a complete bowl full while I went through an entire folder of old essays I had on my computer. I forget about my Dickinson obsession- the semester where I thought I had a special connection to Dickinson’s poetry and believed that I understood it on a level that was beyond above everyone else. Recreational drugs may have played a factor in this delusion. I wrote four different essays all in November 07’ and I don’t even remember if I did well on them. Did I even have my poetry classes then? I was completely obsessed; this was another “existential crisis” of mine and I was compelled to replace my inability to accept reality with Dylan or photography or the ego-feeding pretentiousness of documentary films. It’s sad to realize how people boil down to pattern. I can be so predictable. My life has been a tennis-match of yo-yo dieting and random artistic mania. “Are you Nobody too?”
Dear Jeffrey
August 14, 2002
Dear Jeffrey,
Hey cousin! How are you? How are things on base at North Carolina? I really wished I didn’t have to write you this letter. I mean, I always enjoy our letters. But this letter is not like our other letters. I’ve been trying to call you since early Tuesday, August 13.
I just want to tell you that this isn’t how I pictured telling you this. As I said, I tried calling you, and so has your mom. Abuelita Carmela passed away yesterday morning. Again, this letter isn’t like our other letters.
All of us in the family have known that this day would come since she was diagnosed with liver cancer in 1997. I mean the doctors were never able to pin point on how much longer she had to live. They would say “It can be 6 months, a year, or more, or less.” We surely lucked out that we had 5 years.
Jeff, the thought that comes to mind as I’m writing this letter is the day you said goodbye to her this past June, June 3rd to be exact. Remember, you, Alfonso and I went to IHOP to get our last breakfast together before you went off to base. We asked you if you were sure about volunteering these next four years of your life to the army. We told you that there is most likely a possibility that you would be deployed to Iraq. But as always, with your delicate voice, you said you were 110% positive about this choice. I respected then, and still respect it now. Then you came back home to spend time with Abuelita. Then you asked her to give you her blessings before you left, just like she used to do to us when we were kids leaving home for school. You got in your car, and as you drove away, her little hand waved goodbye, doing the sign of the cross. That’s our Abuelita Carmela, our sweet grandmother.
I just want you to know that she did not suffer like other cancer patients have. She succumbed to cancer’s final stage on Monday, July 8. I still find this whole thing so crazy. We had just enjoyed Fourth of July weekend at your house. And as always, Abuelita was drinking her Piña Coladas, with extra rum. She had a great time, and she sang her songs like she used to do when we were kids. It was a great Fourth of July weekend, the best at that.
You know we were never able to tell her she had cancer. How could we devastate her heart in that manner? We made sure she went to her appointments and just told her she needed to get checked especially because of her age. She never noticed anything wrong and we just made sure that she had the best day each day. She said this to me in the hospital “In all of my life, I’ve never had to stay in a hospital bed. My time has come, but that’s ok, I’m ready.”
Don’t worry about me, cousin. So far I’ve been taking this well. I’m watching “The Parent Trap” as I’m writing. Gosh, I really enjoy Natasha Richardson’s British accent, and something about that red-headed, freckled face girl, Lindsay Lohan, just gives me the wrong vibes. We’ll see if she’s a train-wreck in a couple of years.
Abuelita’s funeral will be on Friday, August 16. As I’m writing down the date, it just occurred to me that it’s on my birthday. Now I know that forever and ever, as long as I live, my birthday will never be the same again. Love you cousin, and always remember that so did she Jeff, so did she.
Always,
Stephanie
Dear Jeffrey,
Hey cousin! How are you? How are things on base at North Carolina? I really wished I didn’t have to write you this letter. I mean, I always enjoy our letters. But this letter is not like our other letters. I’ve been trying to call you since early Tuesday, August 13.
I just want to tell you that this isn’t how I pictured telling you this. As I said, I tried calling you, and so has your mom. Abuelita Carmela passed away yesterday morning. Again, this letter isn’t like our other letters.
All of us in the family have known that this day would come since she was diagnosed with liver cancer in 1997. I mean the doctors were never able to pin point on how much longer she had to live. They would say “It can be 6 months, a year, or more, or less.” We surely lucked out that we had 5 years.
Jeff, the thought that comes to mind as I’m writing this letter is the day you said goodbye to her this past June, June 3rd to be exact. Remember, you, Alfonso and I went to IHOP to get our last breakfast together before you went off to base. We asked you if you were sure about volunteering these next four years of your life to the army. We told you that there is most likely a possibility that you would be deployed to Iraq. But as always, with your delicate voice, you said you were 110% positive about this choice. I respected then, and still respect it now. Then you came back home to spend time with Abuelita. Then you asked her to give you her blessings before you left, just like she used to do to us when we were kids leaving home for school. You got in your car, and as you drove away, her little hand waved goodbye, doing the sign of the cross. That’s our Abuelita Carmela, our sweet grandmother.
I just want you to know that she did not suffer like other cancer patients have. She succumbed to cancer’s final stage on Monday, July 8. I still find this whole thing so crazy. We had just enjoyed Fourth of July weekend at your house. And as always, Abuelita was drinking her Piña Coladas, with extra rum. She had a great time, and she sang her songs like she used to do when we were kids. It was a great Fourth of July weekend, the best at that.
You know we were never able to tell her she had cancer. How could we devastate her heart in that manner? We made sure she went to her appointments and just told her she needed to get checked especially because of her age. She never noticed anything wrong and we just made sure that she had the best day each day. She said this to me in the hospital “In all of my life, I’ve never had to stay in a hospital bed. My time has come, but that’s ok, I’m ready.”
Don’t worry about me, cousin. So far I’ve been taking this well. I’m watching “The Parent Trap” as I’m writing. Gosh, I really enjoy Natasha Richardson’s British accent, and something about that red-headed, freckled face girl, Lindsay Lohan, just gives me the wrong vibes. We’ll see if she’s a train-wreck in a couple of years.
Abuelita’s funeral will be on Friday, August 16. As I’m writing down the date, it just occurred to me that it’s on my birthday. Now I know that forever and ever, as long as I live, my birthday will never be the same again. Love you cousin, and always remember that so did she Jeff, so did she.
Always,
Stephanie
Questions. And Answers? An Internal Frame of Reference
Westley Chow
March 19th, 2009
Questions. And Answers? An Internal Frame of Reference
Saturday March 14th, 2009
It’s another one of those days. My fucking head hurts. God, I hate how I’m so undisciplined. I should have woken up at 10am this morning, had some low to medium glycemic carbs, and gotten my shit together for training. Instead, I was out last night cause Paul’s been in town the past week, and we went out drinking. I was so drunk and dehydrated that whatever I booted looked solid like a friggin’ meatball. I woke up late as usual on days after I’m out late – 4pm this time. Damn, I hate how I’m so weak! I say that I want to be a champion and that I want to do this and that, but I have no discipline.
I mean, I’ve always known that I’m a sprinter and not a marathon runner, but facts are facts. I’m gonna live to be 100 years old and I’ve still got 79 years to go. That’s a shitload of time. I need to take a step forward with correcting my bad habits and change something. If I REALLY want to get PUAStyles and Showroom launched, I’ve got to get my priorities straight and just do what I NEED to do, not what I WANT to do at the moment. I’ve gotten into too many bad habits. I need to listen to Stephen Covey’s 7 Habits of Highly Effective People again. I need to clean up my life. Gotta call Kim today.
I’m meeting with Danny, Ben, and Eddie tonight to talk about Showroom. We said 9pm as usual since Ben gets out of work at 8. Damn, I need to do the research on PHP and RSS feeds, and we need to get those tickets to LAX. On top of that, I still haven’t had a chance… No, I haven’t gotten around to installing Photoshop, Illustrator, and Dreamweaver. I’m behind on work as usual. Thank god I don’t have any case studies or papers due this week. Just need to read. Can’t run today, my body’s weak. I’ll run tomorrow. Remember the lion and the gazelle.
Sunday March 15th, 2009
Damn, the meeting got cancelled cause Danny and Eddie had dinner, plus Ben and I were dehydrated and hung over. So I just goofed off all day yesterday and played DOTA. I need to delete that shit from my computer and keep it uninstalled for longer than a month and a half. I hate times like this when I’m all in my own head questioning what my goals and convictions are. I NEED to be training MMA more, doing my strength and conditioning more frequently, reading more, and moving forward with my projects. Plus, I need to put that weight on that I lost last month from being sick. I know that I should live a well-rounded life and also enjoy being in the moment, but COME ON… I NEED to FOCUS and get to work. I want to live a clean life.
I emailed Sally today about the payment I sent and she said they’ve only got 8GB Unlocked 3G iPhones in stock, no 16’s this time. What a bitch, she tells me this AFTER I send payment. I’m annoyed, but dealing with Alex is a hassle, so what can I do. Guess I won’t be getting any 16’s this shipment. God, business over there is SO different than over here. I need to live in Beijing, Shanghai, or Hong Kong for 6 months or so to get accustomed to the customs, language, and business practices. Damn, I need to finish this stupid degree already so that I can move out to California to train and fight pro.
Wednesday March 18th, 2009
My left ring finger is still popping after being dislocated in BJJ on Monday. The pain is insignificant, but the rehab is annoying. I finally deleted WarCraft 3 last night before I went to sleep. Gonna stop gaming for at least two months this time. I broke my record last time by going for a month and a half; I can do better this time. Also came upon the idea of using YouTube and Twitter as a marketing tool for myself and PUAStyles. Also, I wanna try 10% discount codes on referrals for phones. Need to write for my English class, catch up on Biomechanics for the midterm review, and write the circuit entry on my blog, plus catch up on my Todo list.
I feel good, maybe it’s the weather. According to weather.com, it’s supposed to be in the 50’s all week. I love it when it’s hot… can’t wait till it’s blazing in the 80’s. All my professors are talking about next week’s midterms. I’ll start busting ass after training tonight. No one can match my hustle. I’ll never forget those 100 hour work weeks that NO ONE my age could do. I need to be more humble. I need to live a clean lifestyle if I want to accomplish everything I’ve set out to do. I’ll listen to Tim Ferriss’ 4 Hour Work Week again.
March 19th, 2009
Questions. And Answers? An Internal Frame of Reference
Saturday March 14th, 2009
It’s another one of those days. My fucking head hurts. God, I hate how I’m so undisciplined. I should have woken up at 10am this morning, had some low to medium glycemic carbs, and gotten my shit together for training. Instead, I was out last night cause Paul’s been in town the past week, and we went out drinking. I was so drunk and dehydrated that whatever I booted looked solid like a friggin’ meatball. I woke up late as usual on days after I’m out late – 4pm this time. Damn, I hate how I’m so weak! I say that I want to be a champion and that I want to do this and that, but I have no discipline.
I mean, I’ve always known that I’m a sprinter and not a marathon runner, but facts are facts. I’m gonna live to be 100 years old and I’ve still got 79 years to go. That’s a shitload of time. I need to take a step forward with correcting my bad habits and change something. If I REALLY want to get PUAStyles and Showroom launched, I’ve got to get my priorities straight and just do what I NEED to do, not what I WANT to do at the moment. I’ve gotten into too many bad habits. I need to listen to Stephen Covey’s 7 Habits of Highly Effective People again. I need to clean up my life. Gotta call Kim today.
I’m meeting with Danny, Ben, and Eddie tonight to talk about Showroom. We said 9pm as usual since Ben gets out of work at 8. Damn, I need to do the research on PHP and RSS feeds, and we need to get those tickets to LAX. On top of that, I still haven’t had a chance… No, I haven’t gotten around to installing Photoshop, Illustrator, and Dreamweaver. I’m behind on work as usual. Thank god I don’t have any case studies or papers due this week. Just need to read. Can’t run today, my body’s weak. I’ll run tomorrow. Remember the lion and the gazelle.
Sunday March 15th, 2009
Damn, the meeting got cancelled cause Danny and Eddie had dinner, plus Ben and I were dehydrated and hung over. So I just goofed off all day yesterday and played DOTA. I need to delete that shit from my computer and keep it uninstalled for longer than a month and a half. I hate times like this when I’m all in my own head questioning what my goals and convictions are. I NEED to be training MMA more, doing my strength and conditioning more frequently, reading more, and moving forward with my projects. Plus, I need to put that weight on that I lost last month from being sick. I know that I should live a well-rounded life and also enjoy being in the moment, but COME ON… I NEED to FOCUS and get to work. I want to live a clean life.
I emailed Sally today about the payment I sent and she said they’ve only got 8GB Unlocked 3G iPhones in stock, no 16’s this time. What a bitch, she tells me this AFTER I send payment. I’m annoyed, but dealing with Alex is a hassle, so what can I do. Guess I won’t be getting any 16’s this shipment. God, business over there is SO different than over here. I need to live in Beijing, Shanghai, or Hong Kong for 6 months or so to get accustomed to the customs, language, and business practices. Damn, I need to finish this stupid degree already so that I can move out to California to train and fight pro.
Wednesday March 18th, 2009
My left ring finger is still popping after being dislocated in BJJ on Monday. The pain is insignificant, but the rehab is annoying. I finally deleted WarCraft 3 last night before I went to sleep. Gonna stop gaming for at least two months this time. I broke my record last time by going for a month and a half; I can do better this time. Also came upon the idea of using YouTube and Twitter as a marketing tool for myself and PUAStyles. Also, I wanna try 10% discount codes on referrals for phones. Need to write for my English class, catch up on Biomechanics for the midterm review, and write the circuit entry on my blog, plus catch up on my Todo list.
I feel good, maybe it’s the weather. According to weather.com, it’s supposed to be in the 50’s all week. I love it when it’s hot… can’t wait till it’s blazing in the 80’s. All my professors are talking about next week’s midterms. I’ll start busting ass after training tonight. No one can match my hustle. I’ll never forget those 100 hour work weeks that NO ONE my age could do. I need to be more humble. I need to live a clean lifestyle if I want to accomplish everything I’ve set out to do. I’ll listen to Tim Ferriss’ 4 Hour Work Week again.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Life at 14
Katherine Scott
English 211W
March
Thursday, February 26, 2004
I haven't wrote in here in such a long time, so for starters i can just say that today at school was just a pretty dull day, no drama for once. I was happy though because after school my sister and everett picked me up and I finally got to see my nephew. He's 3 weeks today and i'm just amazed with how big he already got. So they took me to my last orthadontist appointment, THANK GOD! I loved the people there but after having braces for 4 years, you would of been happy too. After that my sister took me shopping, and she bought us matching outfits! Well now I'm home and I'm about to play with my adorable nephew since I have no homework to do. I still can't believe he's so big already!! I'll write more later or whenever I have time.
-xoxoxo
Saturday, February 28, 2004
Well I can tell you I hated the fact that my parents woke me up so early just to go shopping! It actually turned out that I was happy that I went with them because I got my second hole 2 day, after years and years of begging my parents. Well it actually wasn't planned but I was able to convince them once we go to the mall. After we did all our shopping, my sister surprised me and came to visit with my nephew. Yeah but i didn't know the big surprise was that i had to babysit. I love him to death, but taking care of him is a handful. I tell you I don't know how these single girls that get pregnant can do this by themselves everyday! Especially the ones that have more then one baby at a time. Yikes, better them than me right!
I'm exhausted so I'm going to sleep finally! Goodnight!
-xoxoxo
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Sorry it's been a while since I last wrote in here, everything has just been so crazy! I have been getting so much school work, that all I do is come home do my work and sleep. Today I finally got a break, I don't understand why my teacher didn't give us homework cause she usually does but I'm not complaining. I'm relieved we got no homework though because Andrea just told me after school that her mom found out she has cancer. I tell you I couldn't even think straight when she told me, and I wanted to cry but I had to be strong for her. All I can do is just pray for her now. Ughh life is just not fair! I pray to god she can fight this! I can't write anymore so i'll leave you with that!
-xoxoxo
God bless Tara!
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Once again I haven't wrote to you in a while, but I've just been in a daze for over the past month. So lately Andrea, her mom and I have been trying to have alot of fun because we don't want to waste any time in our life! We all went shopping, bought new outfits and I finall got the diesels I wanted after so long! I finally bought them to match my outfit for Andrea's mom's surprise party. That party was so much fun! She had no idea what we planned and she looked so happy to see everyone. We danced the whole night, I had my first shirley temple with Andrea and it was so GOOD! After the party we all went back to Andrea's house and everyone spent the night. It was so nice because the whole family stayed up talking and in the morning we all ate breakfast together. Andrea's mom and I went to drop her off at the airport because she was going to florida. On the car ride back to my house, her and I started talking about everything! She is such a sweet lady, and she treats me like her own daughter too. She told me she was scared for Andrea because she doesn't want her to go through all of this, but she's happy that Andrea has a friend like me to be there for her. We started to cry together and I didn't say this to her, but I just kept wondering why her? WHY? Out of all my friends Andrea has been the one that was always there for me, and I hate that out of all people she is the one that has to go through with this. I just hope her mom can fight this cancer! I need to stop before I start crying again. So I'm ended this on that note tonight! Later.
-xoxoxo
God Bless Tara!
English 211W
March
Thursday, February 26, 2004
I haven't wrote in here in such a long time, so for starters i can just say that today at school was just a pretty dull day, no drama for once. I was happy though because after school my sister and everett picked me up and I finally got to see my nephew. He's 3 weeks today and i'm just amazed with how big he already got. So they took me to my last orthadontist appointment, THANK GOD! I loved the people there but after having braces for 4 years, you would of been happy too. After that my sister took me shopping, and she bought us matching outfits! Well now I'm home and I'm about to play with my adorable nephew since I have no homework to do. I still can't believe he's so big already!! I'll write more later or whenever I have time.
-xoxoxo
Saturday, February 28, 2004
Well I can tell you I hated the fact that my parents woke me up so early just to go shopping! It actually turned out that I was happy that I went with them because I got my second hole 2 day, after years and years of begging my parents. Well it actually wasn't planned but I was able to convince them once we go to the mall. After we did all our shopping, my sister surprised me and came to visit with my nephew. Yeah but i didn't know the big surprise was that i had to babysit. I love him to death, but taking care of him is a handful. I tell you I don't know how these single girls that get pregnant can do this by themselves everyday! Especially the ones that have more then one baby at a time. Yikes, better them than me right!
I'm exhausted so I'm going to sleep finally! Goodnight!
-xoxoxo
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Sorry it's been a while since I last wrote in here, everything has just been so crazy! I have been getting so much school work, that all I do is come home do my work and sleep. Today I finally got a break, I don't understand why my teacher didn't give us homework cause she usually does but I'm not complaining. I'm relieved we got no homework though because Andrea just told me after school that her mom found out she has cancer. I tell you I couldn't even think straight when she told me, and I wanted to cry but I had to be strong for her. All I can do is just pray for her now. Ughh life is just not fair! I pray to god she can fight this! I can't write anymore so i'll leave you with that!
-xoxoxo
God bless Tara!
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Once again I haven't wrote to you in a while, but I've just been in a daze for over the past month. So lately Andrea, her mom and I have been trying to have alot of fun because we don't want to waste any time in our life! We all went shopping, bought new outfits and I finall got the diesels I wanted after so long! I finally bought them to match my outfit for Andrea's mom's surprise party. That party was so much fun! She had no idea what we planned and she looked so happy to see everyone. We danced the whole night, I had my first shirley temple with Andrea and it was so GOOD! After the party we all went back to Andrea's house and everyone spent the night. It was so nice because the whole family stayed up talking and in the morning we all ate breakfast together. Andrea's mom and I went to drop her off at the airport because she was going to florida. On the car ride back to my house, her and I started talking about everything! She is such a sweet lady, and she treats me like her own daughter too. She told me she was scared for Andrea because she doesn't want her to go through all of this, but she's happy that Andrea has a friend like me to be there for her. We started to cry together and I didn't say this to her, but I just kept wondering why her? WHY? Out of all my friends Andrea has been the one that was always there for me, and I hate that out of all people she is the one that has to go through with this. I just hope her mom can fight this cancer! I need to stop before I start crying again. So I'm ended this on that note tonight! Later.
-xoxoxo
God Bless Tara!
The Slopes
Lauren Malvica
March 14th
Dear Diary,
So as you can probably already tell, I survived the sky diving expedition that I was forced into. This week I’m trying yet another “new excitement” as the girls would call it, skiing. We just arrived at the hotel Hunter Mountain and I have to tell you, I am the least anxious to hit the slopes which is basically why I’m writing to you, trying to avoid any contact with the six people staring at me, to procrastinate my untimely death on the bunny slope. Yeah so I may be exaggerating a bit but whatever, I am terrified. I hate trying “new things” which I could have killed my mother for even offering her opinion when I had the girls over trying to decide how we were going to end off the winter. How come when I need my mother to tell Mark, when he calls the house and I’m home, that I am actually not home, she hands me the phone and when I need her to tell me I am not allowed to go skiing she tells me I should try something new? She never says the right things when I need her too. So anyway here I am about to bury myself under layers of clothing which are going to be a bitch to get off later especially since they are going to be soaked which is going to make it harder for me to get out of. Gabby just called me lazy and told me to “get off the couch and get your ass in your ski gear or we are gonna leave you here”. I’m just going to ignore her because personally I don’t give a shit if they leave me here, I want them too. I thought they’d get the point since I’m sitting her still in my jeans and sweatshirt writing to you. Now none of them will leave me alone. I’ll have to get back to you.
Love, Cookie
March 14th
Dear Diary,
So it’s officially been an hour and I gave up. We went down to the lodge and were sitting at one of the table waiting for our ski’s when the bartender turned the T.V. on and there it was, my sign to NOT SKI EVER. Natasha Richardson, brain dead after skiing incident. That’s all I had to see in order for me to trot my ass up the stairs, spend a half hour getting out of the un used, expensive gear that I bought at Sports Authority, and fill you in on the gossip. Oh, and NOT ski. My mother just called me and yelled at me for even thinking this was a good idea. Me? She’s the one who opened her big mouth and practically offered my life in exchange for a little “new experience”. My friends are taking their skiing lessons anyway but as for me, I trip over my own two feet and there is no way I am getting on a slippery slope ever in my life. That’s just a death waiting to happen. I can see the girls from my window, or at least I think it’s them. I’m all alone and pretty bored sitting here in the room with nothing to do but confide and talk gossip to something that can’t even talk back to me. I think I’ll go down to the bar and talk to that really cute, really tall, gorgeous bartender that was giving me the eye before. So until my next adventure in life...
Love, Cookie
March 14th
Dear Diary,
So as you can probably already tell, I survived the sky diving expedition that I was forced into. This week I’m trying yet another “new excitement” as the girls would call it, skiing. We just arrived at the hotel Hunter Mountain and I have to tell you, I am the least anxious to hit the slopes which is basically why I’m writing to you, trying to avoid any contact with the six people staring at me, to procrastinate my untimely death on the bunny slope. Yeah so I may be exaggerating a bit but whatever, I am terrified. I hate trying “new things” which I could have killed my mother for even offering her opinion when I had the girls over trying to decide how we were going to end off the winter. How come when I need my mother to tell Mark, when he calls the house and I’m home, that I am actually not home, she hands me the phone and when I need her to tell me I am not allowed to go skiing she tells me I should try something new? She never says the right things when I need her too. So anyway here I am about to bury myself under layers of clothing which are going to be a bitch to get off later especially since they are going to be soaked which is going to make it harder for me to get out of. Gabby just called me lazy and told me to “get off the couch and get your ass in your ski gear or we are gonna leave you here”. I’m just going to ignore her because personally I don’t give a shit if they leave me here, I want them too. I thought they’d get the point since I’m sitting her still in my jeans and sweatshirt writing to you. Now none of them will leave me alone. I’ll have to get back to you.
Love, Cookie
March 14th
Dear Diary,
So it’s officially been an hour and I gave up. We went down to the lodge and were sitting at one of the table waiting for our ski’s when the bartender turned the T.V. on and there it was, my sign to NOT SKI EVER. Natasha Richardson, brain dead after skiing incident. That’s all I had to see in order for me to trot my ass up the stairs, spend a half hour getting out of the un used, expensive gear that I bought at Sports Authority, and fill you in on the gossip. Oh, and NOT ski. My mother just called me and yelled at me for even thinking this was a good idea. Me? She’s the one who opened her big mouth and practically offered my life in exchange for a little “new experience”. My friends are taking their skiing lessons anyway but as for me, I trip over my own two feet and there is no way I am getting on a slippery slope ever in my life. That’s just a death waiting to happen. I can see the girls from my window, or at least I think it’s them. I’m all alone and pretty bored sitting here in the room with nothing to do but confide and talk gossip to something that can’t even talk back to me. I think I’ll go down to the bar and talk to that really cute, really tall, gorgeous bartender that was giving me the eye before. So until my next adventure in life...
Love, Cookie
A Sound Mind
September 9, 1953
Third day with out sleep and my tooth aches like broiled cabbage. There’s no solace anywhere, not amongst the letters but i feel I’m getting close. My eyes play tricks on me, the clock on the wall changes time almost mechanically and I grow more weary as the hands spin. It happened again today, I got so close and then it vanished, like a childhood dream. The cat hasn’t moved in a week, its discipline and self control amazes me. How lifeless and still it can remain all the while without making a peep. I wish I could have his self control
September 10
The rain keeps trying to invade my privacy. They plan organized offensives upon my windowsill and rattle the panes with their furious air raids. I shutter to think of what they are capable of if they ever do penetrate my flat. My freedom rests in the hands of one, hopefully well constructed glass pane. I know no means of combating their coupe and would have to surrender in irrevocable shame if they storm through the glass trenches and begin their occupation. It seems to be keeping them at bay for now.
September 11
I managed a letter today but did not have a stamp to attach to the envelope. I tried to create one from scratch but as usual, it ended in utter disaster. At first I could not think of a suitable design, I figured anything patriotic would be best. The Postal courier would certainly accept my letter if it were to bear the flag of our nation. However I could not recreate the colors of the flag accurately, which caused me indescribable frustration. The better part of my precious morning was spent in trial and error. The shades of color were either too dark or too light, an issue which I soon remedied by blending ammonia and peroxide together with diluted gin to create an exact replica of our motherland’s flag. The next problem was to shrink the flag styled stamp down to scale. I figured 1:52 scale would be well and good, but could not find anything in the flat efficient at reducing paper down in scale. The letter will have to wait. Fashioned the prototype stamp to the window pane to let the rain know that we are compatriots and that I mean no harm.
September 12
This cursed tooth ache is an abominable plague on my senses. It drives me mad. I claw at the walls in search of some relief but yet the remedy evades me. I plan on trying the floor boards soon enough. My only fear is that it hasn’t managed to get itself in the electoral outlet and wiggled its squirmy way through the circuit and out the breaker. Small mercies, small mercies. The flag seemed to work as planned, the sun has been shining its victorious rays all afternoon. We did it. Staved off invasion with our crafty thinking and quick action. Note to self: create reward for cat, silence and patience like his, needs to be acknowledged.
Third day with out sleep and my tooth aches like broiled cabbage. There’s no solace anywhere, not amongst the letters but i feel I’m getting close. My eyes play tricks on me, the clock on the wall changes time almost mechanically and I grow more weary as the hands spin. It happened again today, I got so close and then it vanished, like a childhood dream. The cat hasn’t moved in a week, its discipline and self control amazes me. How lifeless and still it can remain all the while without making a peep. I wish I could have his self control
September 10
The rain keeps trying to invade my privacy. They plan organized offensives upon my windowsill and rattle the panes with their furious air raids. I shutter to think of what they are capable of if they ever do penetrate my flat. My freedom rests in the hands of one, hopefully well constructed glass pane. I know no means of combating their coupe and would have to surrender in irrevocable shame if they storm through the glass trenches and begin their occupation. It seems to be keeping them at bay for now.
September 11
I managed a letter today but did not have a stamp to attach to the envelope. I tried to create one from scratch but as usual, it ended in utter disaster. At first I could not think of a suitable design, I figured anything patriotic would be best. The Postal courier would certainly accept my letter if it were to bear the flag of our nation. However I could not recreate the colors of the flag accurately, which caused me indescribable frustration. The better part of my precious morning was spent in trial and error. The shades of color were either too dark or too light, an issue which I soon remedied by blending ammonia and peroxide together with diluted gin to create an exact replica of our motherland’s flag. The next problem was to shrink the flag styled stamp down to scale. I figured 1:52 scale would be well and good, but could not find anything in the flat efficient at reducing paper down in scale. The letter will have to wait. Fashioned the prototype stamp to the window pane to let the rain know that we are compatriots and that I mean no harm.
September 12
This cursed tooth ache is an abominable plague on my senses. It drives me mad. I claw at the walls in search of some relief but yet the remedy evades me. I plan on trying the floor boards soon enough. My only fear is that it hasn’t managed to get itself in the electoral outlet and wiggled its squirmy way through the circuit and out the breaker. Small mercies, small mercies. The flag seemed to work as planned, the sun has been shining its victorious rays all afternoon. We did it. Staved off invasion with our crafty thinking and quick action. Note to self: create reward for cat, silence and patience like his, needs to be acknowledged.
going away to college
August 24, 2006
I moved into my dorm at New Paltz today, and things look promising. I went to a ΚΣ party. I feel comfortable at parties, surrounded by the smell of beer and sweat in crowded rooms. I feel together and alive, yet apart from the world outside. On the ride up I was thinking how I want to be a famous writer and how it would be if future English nerds tried to get my dorm room like how at Smith girls want to be in Sylvia Plath’s.
It’s crazy to think that I am really here. And that Pierce and Lisa are, too! I’ll only be here four years, and in that time I’ll have had four rooms. Imagine how many people have called each of those spaces home. I think this lends itself to poetry. I know so much will happen in the short amount of time I live between these asbestos laden walls (there really is a sticker, half peeled off the wall, warning about possible exposure to asbestos and the entire time I was moving in I could only hope that Jocie wouldn’t see it because she worries about me but also because she went to Brandeis and I don’t think it’s a concern there).
October 11, 2006
Phrases to consider using for public art project: Pin-Up Girl of the Universe, I wish I’d kept a scrapbook, This is art.
Someday when I have a daughter, I think I’ll name her Page because it’s what you turn to find out what happens next, the reader’s most physical connection with books.
I love Pierce, and when we break up (which is slowly happening) I will never think of him as a period but as a dash which started the subsequent phrase.
November 25, 2006
My date with Chris went better than most, I think. We ate Indian food and drank a bottle of good wine, not the kind you get in a box or get served at a wedding. I am not now, nor will I ever, be in love with him, but I will go out with him again and will probably even sleep with him. It is difficult to imagine that because I am still mourning Pierce. He is the most genuine and gentle soul I have ever known, but in truth I am not gentle, and these things alone do not make someone a good boyfriend for you.
Notes: a play, good Christian wife, child dies, she doubts God, leaves husband “All my life I’ve waited for something that may never come. One of the things that I did wait for just got taken away, by a car, which is just a bunch of metal and glass. Isn’t it absurd? A child is an organism of breath and cells, and, and dendrites. Please understand, Howard. All my life I’ve been waiting, and waiting is lonely. I’m not waiting anymore, so I no longer need someone to wait with.” Very Ibsen-esque.
For some reason I feel compelled to tell mom about all this, how I am overwhelmed with grief and joy all at once & how I want to embrace it, like throwing myself into the waves that first day back on the beach every summer, but I know she would not understand in the way I’d like. Mostly I want her to know I’m doing fine.
January 21, 2007
Pierce and I broke up for forever this time. All this last while I have also been seeing Mike, which is ironic because he gave me this journal as a going away gift when I went away to school, and now I’m with him and ending the journal and possibly even coming home next semester, as if he gave me the paper to write the story. I can’t believe I thought people at college would care more about the world. It’s good to give up illusions. Somehow this is a fitting end to this journal, and I don’t know that I’ve ever had a fitting ending before. It’s not a completely happy end, but it’s not a sad ending, either. It’s not much of an ending at all, which I suppose is the point since I have a new journal to begin, and all one’s journals seem to be on a continuum.
I moved into my dorm at New Paltz today, and things look promising. I went to a ΚΣ party. I feel comfortable at parties, surrounded by the smell of beer and sweat in crowded rooms. I feel together and alive, yet apart from the world outside. On the ride up I was thinking how I want to be a famous writer and how it would be if future English nerds tried to get my dorm room like how at Smith girls want to be in Sylvia Plath’s.
It’s crazy to think that I am really here. And that Pierce and Lisa are, too! I’ll only be here four years, and in that time I’ll have had four rooms. Imagine how many people have called each of those spaces home. I think this lends itself to poetry. I know so much will happen in the short amount of time I live between these asbestos laden walls (there really is a sticker, half peeled off the wall, warning about possible exposure to asbestos and the entire time I was moving in I could only hope that Jocie wouldn’t see it because she worries about me but also because she went to Brandeis and I don’t think it’s a concern there).
October 11, 2006
Phrases to consider using for public art project: Pin-Up Girl of the Universe, I wish I’d kept a scrapbook, This is art.
Someday when I have a daughter, I think I’ll name her Page because it’s what you turn to find out what happens next, the reader’s most physical connection with books.
I love Pierce, and when we break up (which is slowly happening) I will never think of him as a period but as a dash which started the subsequent phrase.
November 25, 2006
My date with Chris went better than most, I think. We ate Indian food and drank a bottle of good wine, not the kind you get in a box or get served at a wedding. I am not now, nor will I ever, be in love with him, but I will go out with him again and will probably even sleep with him. It is difficult to imagine that because I am still mourning Pierce. He is the most genuine and gentle soul I have ever known, but in truth I am not gentle, and these things alone do not make someone a good boyfriend for you.
Notes: a play, good Christian wife, child dies, she doubts God, leaves husband “All my life I’ve waited for something that may never come. One of the things that I did wait for just got taken away, by a car, which is just a bunch of metal and glass. Isn’t it absurd? A child is an organism of breath and cells, and, and dendrites. Please understand, Howard. All my life I’ve been waiting, and waiting is lonely. I’m not waiting anymore, so I no longer need someone to wait with.” Very Ibsen-esque.
For some reason I feel compelled to tell mom about all this, how I am overwhelmed with grief and joy all at once & how I want to embrace it, like throwing myself into the waves that first day back on the beach every summer, but I know she would not understand in the way I’d like. Mostly I want her to know I’m doing fine.
January 21, 2007
Pierce and I broke up for forever this time. All this last while I have also been seeing Mike, which is ironic because he gave me this journal as a going away gift when I went away to school, and now I’m with him and ending the journal and possibly even coming home next semester, as if he gave me the paper to write the story. I can’t believe I thought people at college would care more about the world. It’s good to give up illusions. Somehow this is a fitting end to this journal, and I don’t know that I’ve ever had a fitting ending before. It’s not a completely happy end, but it’s not a sad ending, either. It’s not much of an ending at all, which I suppose is the point since I have a new journal to begin, and all one’s journals seem to be on a continuum.
Future Endeavours
Dear Diary,
So this is how I want it all to be, someday and I am hoping it will begin one day soon. The sooner the better honestly, but I know it all has to start with nobody else but me. It must come from within as well as from without. I must push myself to be all that I want to be and do all that I must do in order to achieve all that I am setting out to. How hard could it really be? I mean it all has been done before. I will not be the first nor the last one to set out on this self-improvement journey. There is a quote that i like very much, spoken by a woman named Maria Robinson and it goes something like this; "Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending." So here I go, I am about to start something new, and this is all that I want to do. First and foremost, I must start to be more optimistic and have more faith in myself and know that those around me truly do love me and want what is best for me. I need to say that I love myself for who I am and accept all the good along with the bad because no one is perfect and that it is alright. I envision myself finishing undergraduate school at Queens College and finishing it with a 3.0 grade point average or higher with a major in English and a minor in Media Studies. Regarding this topic of school, I hope that I can become more studious and strive to do better academically so that I can be proud of myself. Then I would love to go to graduate school either at Adelphi, Hofstra or maybe even Columbia University someday. I know that I am aiming qiute high but I also know that if I really want it and set my mind up to work hard and do it, I can get there without a problem. So this is exactly what I shall do. From this day forward, I will put more effort into my schoolwork and study more than ever, because like my parents always remind me, it is not like I have children to take care of, or a job that I need to be at. I have all the time in the world to dedicate towards my future. Speaking of future, my main goal is to be successful, and I do not only mean wealthy. I dream of being successful in every sense of the word. Let me explain myself. Yes, I want to be rich and have a lot of money to splurge on material goods and things along those lines, but I want to work hard and honestly for it. I want to be famous as well, and I do not mean famous as you might be thinking in the Hollywood way. I mean, yes I do mean it in that sense too, but I am aware of the fact that that is quite impossible. But what is possible is to be famous in my own little way at for example, school or work and with my friends and family. Another way I wish to be successful in is, as shallow as this truly is, to be very beautiful. Beautiful both inside and out. Beautiful in the attractive sense as well as in the sweet sense too. All in all, I would love to be admired by others for all that I am but of course, mainly loved by me. On another note, knowing how music is my number one love of all time and for all time, I dream of working in the music field, whether it be writing songs and having someone famous at the time sing it, or working on the radio. As for going in another direction, yet still sticking to the media field, I would like to work for a magazine such as Glamour, or for a catalogue such as Victoria's Secret creating slogans for their wonderful issues. I know I can do anything, after all this is the land of all opportunities and my parents did bring me here from an early age so I could dream the American Dream as well as making it come true. One more thing that I could think of that I hope never happens. Knowing how I love to eat, healthy as well as junk food, and I somehow manage to stay slim, is a miracle in my eyes and I am very thankful for that. My main concern though is, how long will and can this last, in all reality? What if I become obese with all of my habits? It was just in the news yesterday that obesity takes years off your life. Oh boy, is all I have to say to that. Anyways, diary, wish me luck, please in all of my new endeavours.
Yours truly,
Anda
So this is how I want it all to be, someday and I am hoping it will begin one day soon. The sooner the better honestly, but I know it all has to start with nobody else but me. It must come from within as well as from without. I must push myself to be all that I want to be and do all that I must do in order to achieve all that I am setting out to. How hard could it really be? I mean it all has been done before. I will not be the first nor the last one to set out on this self-improvement journey. There is a quote that i like very much, spoken by a woman named Maria Robinson and it goes something like this; "Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending." So here I go, I am about to start something new, and this is all that I want to do. First and foremost, I must start to be more optimistic and have more faith in myself and know that those around me truly do love me and want what is best for me. I need to say that I love myself for who I am and accept all the good along with the bad because no one is perfect and that it is alright. I envision myself finishing undergraduate school at Queens College and finishing it with a 3.0 grade point average or higher with a major in English and a minor in Media Studies. Regarding this topic of school, I hope that I can become more studious and strive to do better academically so that I can be proud of myself. Then I would love to go to graduate school either at Adelphi, Hofstra or maybe even Columbia University someday. I know that I am aiming qiute high but I also know that if I really want it and set my mind up to work hard and do it, I can get there without a problem. So this is exactly what I shall do. From this day forward, I will put more effort into my schoolwork and study more than ever, because like my parents always remind me, it is not like I have children to take care of, or a job that I need to be at. I have all the time in the world to dedicate towards my future. Speaking of future, my main goal is to be successful, and I do not only mean wealthy. I dream of being successful in every sense of the word. Let me explain myself. Yes, I want to be rich and have a lot of money to splurge on material goods and things along those lines, but I want to work hard and honestly for it. I want to be famous as well, and I do not mean famous as you might be thinking in the Hollywood way. I mean, yes I do mean it in that sense too, but I am aware of the fact that that is quite impossible. But what is possible is to be famous in my own little way at for example, school or work and with my friends and family. Another way I wish to be successful in is, as shallow as this truly is, to be very beautiful. Beautiful both inside and out. Beautiful in the attractive sense as well as in the sweet sense too. All in all, I would love to be admired by others for all that I am but of course, mainly loved by me. On another note, knowing how music is my number one love of all time and for all time, I dream of working in the music field, whether it be writing songs and having someone famous at the time sing it, or working on the radio. As for going in another direction, yet still sticking to the media field, I would like to work for a magazine such as Glamour, or for a catalogue such as Victoria's Secret creating slogans for their wonderful issues. I know I can do anything, after all this is the land of all opportunities and my parents did bring me here from an early age so I could dream the American Dream as well as making it come true. One more thing that I could think of that I hope never happens. Knowing how I love to eat, healthy as well as junk food, and I somehow manage to stay slim, is a miracle in my eyes and I am very thankful for that. My main concern though is, how long will and can this last, in all reality? What if I become obese with all of my habits? It was just in the news yesterday that obesity takes years off your life. Oh boy, is all I have to say to that. Anyways, diary, wish me luck, please in all of my new endeavours.
Yours truly,
Anda
A letter
Dear Matthew McConaughey,
It is my opinion that you are a man of great talents and handsome good looks. I see the way that the women look at you and I ask, ‘Why, God, why not me?’ But He has His plans, and honestly, He didn’t do bad by me. I’ve got my health, of course, and my Miriam; I’ve got my Datsun- well I don’t actually have it but I’m sure I will one day. No, the Lord didn’t make me a knockout hunk like you, but I’ve got my strong suits. I write a good letter, as I’m sure you’re discovering. You probably don’t get a lot of captivating fan mail, and I’m always happy to mix things up a little by providing you with some popping prose, dazzling diction, and a nice lexicon. But that’s neither here nor there. I just wanted to tell you that I admire your work very much, particularly in The Family Stone and Failure to Launch. Do you have to work out much to get such nice muscles like that? Oh, and another thing. I wanted to ask you who’s your dentist? I see that you have such a great smile, really a dashing smile, and your teeth are perfectly straight and nice, it must take a lot of upkeep to take care of a smile like that. You know my brother-in-law has a practice in Canarsie, and if I put in a good word for you, I’m sure he can take you at a discount. It’s just something to think about. Why pay so much for the fancy celebrity dentists, you know they are just trying to swindle you people. ‘You people’ - I’m sorry to refer to movie stars in that way, I know it’s not politically correct these days and all. I’m not prejudiced, there were a lot of Jews in showbusiness at one time, you know. In fact, my cousin used to be good friends with Mayim Bialik, so in a way, celebrities are in the family.
In any case, I was just writing as a fan of the cinema, I love your work, and maybe, if you had the time one day, we could sit down for a cup of coffee in the city or something, or even go to dinner somewhere. I’m sure you know all the swankiest places to go and it’s been a long time that you’ve been served by the best gourmet chefs, but maybe, if you want, I’m not putting any pressure on you or anything, it’s OK to say no – it’s not rude – but maybe you’d like to come over to the house for dinner one night and we could chat, tell some stories about our careers- you can tell me about Hollywood and I’ll tell you all about being an insurance adjuster. I’m kidding, of course! I would never bore you with such humdrum prattle as the insurance business. But seriously, you should think about coming over, Miriam makes the best pot roast you’ve ever tasted and I’m sure you could do with some nice home cooking. You could even bring a date, you know, and we could play charades or- what’s that game Miriam likes? Scrabble. That’s the one. I’ll bet you’re great at scrabble, what with all the words and talking in the scripts you read every day. So, nu, drop me a line and we can set something up. I wait patiently for your response.
Your fan,
Yaakov Schwartz
P.S. I spoke to Bernie Madoff the other day and he told me that your investments were OK, he’s got them in a secure account so you have nothing to worry about. Just kidding! That momzer ran away with all our money and he’s going to burn in hell. Talk to you soon.
It is my opinion that you are a man of great talents and handsome good looks. I see the way that the women look at you and I ask, ‘Why, God, why not me?’ But He has His plans, and honestly, He didn’t do bad by me. I’ve got my health, of course, and my Miriam; I’ve got my Datsun- well I don’t actually have it but I’m sure I will one day. No, the Lord didn’t make me a knockout hunk like you, but I’ve got my strong suits. I write a good letter, as I’m sure you’re discovering. You probably don’t get a lot of captivating fan mail, and I’m always happy to mix things up a little by providing you with some popping prose, dazzling diction, and a nice lexicon. But that’s neither here nor there. I just wanted to tell you that I admire your work very much, particularly in The Family Stone and Failure to Launch. Do you have to work out much to get such nice muscles like that? Oh, and another thing. I wanted to ask you who’s your dentist? I see that you have such a great smile, really a dashing smile, and your teeth are perfectly straight and nice, it must take a lot of upkeep to take care of a smile like that. You know my brother-in-law has a practice in Canarsie, and if I put in a good word for you, I’m sure he can take you at a discount. It’s just something to think about. Why pay so much for the fancy celebrity dentists, you know they are just trying to swindle you people. ‘You people’ - I’m sorry to refer to movie stars in that way, I know it’s not politically correct these days and all. I’m not prejudiced, there were a lot of Jews in showbusiness at one time, you know. In fact, my cousin used to be good friends with Mayim Bialik, so in a way, celebrities are in the family.
In any case, I was just writing as a fan of the cinema, I love your work, and maybe, if you had the time one day, we could sit down for a cup of coffee in the city or something, or even go to dinner somewhere. I’m sure you know all the swankiest places to go and it’s been a long time that you’ve been served by the best gourmet chefs, but maybe, if you want, I’m not putting any pressure on you or anything, it’s OK to say no – it’s not rude – but maybe you’d like to come over to the house for dinner one night and we could chat, tell some stories about our careers- you can tell me about Hollywood and I’ll tell you all about being an insurance adjuster. I’m kidding, of course! I would never bore you with such humdrum prattle as the insurance business. But seriously, you should think about coming over, Miriam makes the best pot roast you’ve ever tasted and I’m sure you could do with some nice home cooking. You could even bring a date, you know, and we could play charades or- what’s that game Miriam likes? Scrabble. That’s the one. I’ll bet you’re great at scrabble, what with all the words and talking in the scripts you read every day. So, nu, drop me a line and we can set something up. I wait patiently for your response.
Your fan,
Yaakov Schwartz
P.S. I spoke to Bernie Madoff the other day and he told me that your investments were OK, he’s got them in a secure account so you have nothing to worry about. Just kidding! That momzer ran away with all our money and he’s going to burn in hell. Talk to you soon.
Essay 6: Journal
Entry 1 – Somewhere in Beijing
I was lost—well, not really. I just didn’t know where I was going. No map. No guide. Just me and my troupe of five lovely, young women trampling through the streets of the capital. Mind you we’re not tourists, we’re ambassadors. Meet new people. Make new friends. Ni hao! Wo jiao David, ni ne?
Of the six of us, I was the only who spoke any Mandarin. My skills were limited but I took the helm at most conversation periods. Which was good because we had a ways to go. The Chinese military museum at train stop 111 was our goal. As a native New Yorker I must say the Beijing Subway System was very clean. Even the tracks shined. And what spacious traveling conditions. I could actually stretch my arms. For a city of over eight million people in a nation of one-point-three billion, there is a lot of space.
We arrived. Stop 111. We had to buy tickets to get into the museum. Luckily, our student IDs gave us discounts. I approached the ticket lady. Liu ge xuesheng. That means six students. We entered the museum, China’s impressive military history displayed before us. I recall most vividly the statue of Sun Tzu, the infamous philosopher strategist. So many statues of the Communist Era—Mao’s era. Mao’s Zedong. Guy’s freakin’ Jesus over there. Mao’s the Coca-Cola of China.
Entry Five – Xian
Days have passed and we’ve finally arrived at the ancient capital of China—800 years running. The Old City is walled off from the New. Standing atop the ramparts, I can see two worlds in time. Some of our fellow bike ride across the wall, one wearing a Michael Jackson back before the “incident.” It seems anything that’s old in America is new in China. People love him over there; MJ, not the guy wearing the shirt. To them, he’s just a bairen-white person. Me? I’m not white, but I am a waiguoren…foreigner. Not that it was a bad thing. Most people thought I was Indonesian or Southeast Asian. Can’t figure out why. Guess it depends on the perspective.
Entry 12 – Tibet
We’ve arrive at Lhasa. In the distance I can see the Potala Palace, former residence of the Dalai Lama. It’s much colder here but it is still the height of summer in this part of the world. We’re on top of the world. Of all the legs in my journey, this will be the most memorable. Tibet is fascinating. I even picked up some of the lingo—tashi delek! It’s how the locals greet one another. The most spiritual part of this adventure was visiting the many temples that dot the city’s mountainous landscape. One could breathe in the serenity of this magnificent place. I did not want to leave. I could not leave. A part of me remained there to this day.
I was lost—well, not really. I just didn’t know where I was going. No map. No guide. Just me and my troupe of five lovely, young women trampling through the streets of the capital. Mind you we’re not tourists, we’re ambassadors. Meet new people. Make new friends. Ni hao! Wo jiao David, ni ne?
Of the six of us, I was the only who spoke any Mandarin. My skills were limited but I took the helm at most conversation periods. Which was good because we had a ways to go. The Chinese military museum at train stop 111 was our goal. As a native New Yorker I must say the Beijing Subway System was very clean. Even the tracks shined. And what spacious traveling conditions. I could actually stretch my arms. For a city of over eight million people in a nation of one-point-three billion, there is a lot of space.
We arrived. Stop 111. We had to buy tickets to get into the museum. Luckily, our student IDs gave us discounts. I approached the ticket lady. Liu ge xuesheng. That means six students. We entered the museum, China’s impressive military history displayed before us. I recall most vividly the statue of Sun Tzu, the infamous philosopher strategist. So many statues of the Communist Era—Mao’s era. Mao’s Zedong. Guy’s freakin’ Jesus over there. Mao’s the Coca-Cola of China.
Entry Five – Xian
Days have passed and we’ve finally arrived at the ancient capital of China—800 years running. The Old City is walled off from the New. Standing atop the ramparts, I can see two worlds in time. Some of our fellow bike ride across the wall, one wearing a Michael Jackson back before the “incident.” It seems anything that’s old in America is new in China. People love him over there; MJ, not the guy wearing the shirt. To them, he’s just a bairen-white person. Me? I’m not white, but I am a waiguoren…foreigner. Not that it was a bad thing. Most people thought I was Indonesian or Southeast Asian. Can’t figure out why. Guess it depends on the perspective.
Entry 12 – Tibet
We’ve arrive at Lhasa. In the distance I can see the Potala Palace, former residence of the Dalai Lama. It’s much colder here but it is still the height of summer in this part of the world. We’re on top of the world. Of all the legs in my journey, this will be the most memorable. Tibet is fascinating. I even picked up some of the lingo—tashi delek! It’s how the locals greet one another. The most spiritual part of this adventure was visiting the many temples that dot the city’s mountainous landscape. One could breathe in the serenity of this magnificent place. I did not want to leave. I could not leave. A part of me remained there to this day.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Heaven on Earth
From Far Away ..
Like most places in the world, Aruba is infamous for being a breathtakingly beautiful location. From the airplane, up above flying through the clouds, I can remember being a fifteen-year-old kid and being absolutely amazed by how gorgeous this island looked. It was as if I had left Earth behind, and was now somehow transported to Heaven. The water was a crystal topaz blue and shone so beautifully with the sunshine that beaming down upon it. It seemed as if this beautiful water went on forever without an end. As the plane got lower and was closer to the ground, I could now also see pretty sand that was the color of a Persian kitten with golden colored fur. That sand belonged on the beaches, which were filled with what seemed like a million people. From the airplane, I could see the sun, and knew that it was the perfect place to find myself in, and that i was about to have an experience that would last a lifetime within my memory.
From Close-up ..
After settling down at the resort my family and I were staying at, and putting on my bathing suit, I was ready to see what this dreamland really had to offer. I stepped outside of my room, and could not believe my eyes. The view in front of me was beyond belief. The sun seemed and was so distant yet it seemed so near-by as it illuminated the whole entire image that was before me. The water was the most gorgous topaz blue I had ever seen and it just gave me such a devine feeling that I just had to smile. The sand I was stepping on was warm but not too hot. I bent down to feel the sand within my hands and watched it as it trickled down my arms and back onto the ground. The palm trees that surrounded me were the greenest of green and had quite the height. This was the most amazing place I had ever been to and I had just arrived yet I already knew that. This was Heaven on Earth, and there was no doubt about it.
Like most places in the world, Aruba is infamous for being a breathtakingly beautiful location. From the airplane, up above flying through the clouds, I can remember being a fifteen-year-old kid and being absolutely amazed by how gorgeous this island looked. It was as if I had left Earth behind, and was now somehow transported to Heaven. The water was a crystal topaz blue and shone so beautifully with the sunshine that beaming down upon it. It seemed as if this beautiful water went on forever without an end. As the plane got lower and was closer to the ground, I could now also see pretty sand that was the color of a Persian kitten with golden colored fur. That sand belonged on the beaches, which were filled with what seemed like a million people. From the airplane, I could see the sun, and knew that it was the perfect place to find myself in, and that i was about to have an experience that would last a lifetime within my memory.
From Close-up ..
After settling down at the resort my family and I were staying at, and putting on my bathing suit, I was ready to see what this dreamland really had to offer. I stepped outside of my room, and could not believe my eyes. The view in front of me was beyond belief. The sun seemed and was so distant yet it seemed so near-by as it illuminated the whole entire image that was before me. The water was the most gorgous topaz blue I had ever seen and it just gave me such a devine feeling that I just had to smile. The sand I was stepping on was warm but not too hot. I bent down to feel the sand within my hands and watched it as it trickled down my arms and back onto the ground. The palm trees that surrounded me were the greenest of green and had quite the height. This was the most amazing place I had ever been to and I had just arrived yet I already knew that. This was Heaven on Earth, and there was no doubt about it.
DUST
Sofy Dzhanashvili
03/12/09
English 211W
Professor Henkle
The dust that settles upon the radiator
is enough to put any obsessive neat-freak into a panting sweat. When standing by the door of your room, there is not much that is out of the ordinary: two colonial style twin beds (intended for you and a sister who has long ago married and moved out of the house), a dresser drawer (clad with blackmail-worthy 8th grade graduation pictures), a red-oak desk with a Dell flat screen computer, and two paintings of tulips (one version has slightly more purple flower buds) which Aunt Michelle sent you from the overcrowded garage junk she has stored in her home in San Francisco. It's the room you've grown up in- so completely familiar, except... the dust. You notice it’s presence and instantly say "No, I don't like that." Dust belongs in dark basement cellars or forgotten tombstones or trapped inside Windexed paper towels; it has no place in this room of yours, audaciously taking invite into your residence. The shades are open and the spectacle stands in front of that window directly across from you (the one right on top of the radiator). As the 5 o'clock sunset allows for a ray of light to flash through that window and right down to the purple carpeting of the room before you, colonies of dust, dust, dust rise and fall amidst the empty spaces. The nerve. The particles float about the room, highlighted by that sunbeam that now inches away from your feet, and seem to have found themselves most at home on top of the radiator, which you like to use as storage for a variety of random articles: a torn copy of The Babysitters Club: Little Sister Series, an issue of Newsweek dated back to the summer of 1997, a broken wooden ruler that only measures half a foot and a faded green award you received in 5th grade for having the most creative Mother's Day project. A film of dust rests on top of all these objects. Panic. You cannot tell what type of particles they are, but all you know is that they float about the room and into your psyche and cause a few heartbeats to be skipped. Dust , dust, dust. It is enough to put any obsessive neat-freak into a panting sweat. You cry.
The dust that settles upon the radiator
is enough to make even an alpha-male sneeze, especially when up-close (when your nose is pressed against the window panel). The room virtually doesn't exist from this angle and you refuse to move from your position because you are highly engrossed in the dramatics of the dust particles around you. Little tiny specks interact in the open space and you notice their provocative dance. They are no longer a singular entity. Millions of particles float, fall, settle down and collide, each with a colony of friends and each with a story. You’re entranced as you wastefully fantasize the personification of inanimate molecular particles. It’s science, really. You’re caught in their soap-opera until the show is interrupted when you do notice something new: one of the dust particles that sit on the left-most corner of the radiator seems more familiar than usual. It's a small round piece of lint- a chaos of blue string- which suddenly strikes you: blue Tory Burch sweater bought three summers ago in Woodbury Commons when shopping with your mother during the long July 4th weekend. The thinly braided threading sits coiled in the corner amongst all the dust, tanning in the sunlight. You think "Of course, the lint has the same exact fabric!" and realize that you haven't even seen that blue sweater of yours in over a year. With your nose pressed against the window panel, the string is now only a bitter reminder of how irresponsible you are and how often you lose things. You cry.
03/12/09
English 211W
Professor Henkle
The dust that settles upon the radiator
is enough to put any obsessive neat-freak into a panting sweat. When standing by the door of your room, there is not much that is out of the ordinary: two colonial style twin beds (intended for you and a sister who has long ago married and moved out of the house), a dresser drawer (clad with blackmail-worthy 8th grade graduation pictures), a red-oak desk with a Dell flat screen computer, and two paintings of tulips (one version has slightly more purple flower buds) which Aunt Michelle sent you from the overcrowded garage junk she has stored in her home in San Francisco. It's the room you've grown up in- so completely familiar, except... the dust. You notice it’s presence and instantly say "No, I don't like that." Dust belongs in dark basement cellars or forgotten tombstones or trapped inside Windexed paper towels; it has no place in this room of yours, audaciously taking invite into your residence. The shades are open and the spectacle stands in front of that window directly across from you (the one right on top of the radiator). As the 5 o'clock sunset allows for a ray of light to flash through that window and right down to the purple carpeting of the room before you, colonies of dust, dust, dust rise and fall amidst the empty spaces. The nerve. The particles float about the room, highlighted by that sunbeam that now inches away from your feet, and seem to have found themselves most at home on top of the radiator, which you like to use as storage for a variety of random articles: a torn copy of The Babysitters Club: Little Sister Series, an issue of Newsweek dated back to the summer of 1997, a broken wooden ruler that only measures half a foot and a faded green award you received in 5th grade for having the most creative Mother's Day project. A film of dust rests on top of all these objects. Panic. You cannot tell what type of particles they are, but all you know is that they float about the room and into your psyche and cause a few heartbeats to be skipped. Dust , dust, dust. It is enough to put any obsessive neat-freak into a panting sweat. You cry.
The dust that settles upon the radiator
is enough to make even an alpha-male sneeze, especially when up-close (when your nose is pressed against the window panel). The room virtually doesn't exist from this angle and you refuse to move from your position because you are highly engrossed in the dramatics of the dust particles around you. Little tiny specks interact in the open space and you notice their provocative dance. They are no longer a singular entity. Millions of particles float, fall, settle down and collide, each with a colony of friends and each with a story. You’re entranced as you wastefully fantasize the personification of inanimate molecular particles. It’s science, really. You’re caught in their soap-opera until the show is interrupted when you do notice something new: one of the dust particles that sit on the left-most corner of the radiator seems more familiar than usual. It's a small round piece of lint- a chaos of blue string- which suddenly strikes you: blue Tory Burch sweater bought three summers ago in Woodbury Commons when shopping with your mother during the long July 4th weekend. The thinly braided threading sits coiled in the corner amongst all the dust, tanning in the sunlight. You think "Of course, the lint has the same exact fabric!" and realize that you haven't even seen that blue sweater of yours in over a year. With your nose pressed against the window panel, the string is now only a bitter reminder of how irresponsible you are and how often you lose things. You cry.
The Bridge
Westley Chow
March 12, 2009
The Difference
Amidst the concrete jungle of New York lies one of its most prominent bridges connecting Queens and Manhattan, the Queensborough or 59th Street Bridge. At 5:45AM, it’s not as busy as it is about to be in the next few hours. How long will it take to cross over the bridge? I anticipate just some very light traffic, so maybe four to six minutes today. The only people driving over right now are the early morning hustlers, ready to take the world into their own hands, ready and willing to do what others won’t.
The rush of people on the street are all walking in the same direction half-asleep like a crowd of lifeless zombies and robots programmed for the same function. Everyone’s heading into Manhattan, that’s where all the jobs are. What’s around here? Tiny stores, a few office buildings, restaurants, and a few strip clubs; basically nothing. Queensborough Plaza is to my left and every day, the same faces walk these streets in their two or three piece business suits, shoes, tie, and everything. On my right is a smaller group of people; these guys are a little crazy. Men and women in a different type of suit, a suit of Underarmor. From head to toe, dressed in skin tight clothing with their crotches tightly hugged, they’re either running or cutting the runners off on their bikes.
Underneath the slab of cold steel and concrete lies the East River, a body of water separating two boroughs as if they were two entirely different countries. If you live in Queens, you’re just not a true New York City resident; don’t lie to yourself. The City is in Manhattan, the heart of New York. Everyone knows that a true city person eats, sleeps, and breathes in Manhattan. On this side, everyone’s a wannabe.
The Trip
The roads suck just as you’re about to get on the bridge. There’s a pothole to my left and to my right, which one do I drive over? Neither, I’ll just drive into the other lane a bit. The stupid taxi next to me honks as usual; I ignore him just because I know he’d do the exact same thing to save his shiny new yellow Toyota Highlander Hybrid.
The weather hasn’t been great this year and the bridge’s condition is a reflection of it. Chipped paint coming off the steel bars, what else? A few cracks in the foundation. Hey the bridge might collapse and I may just die today. Yeah right, it’ll take a lot more than a crumbling bridge to kill me.
Who’s on the road today? It’s early in the morning and its funny, I always happen to see the same green BMW 6 Series at the same time every day. It’s probably some thirty year-old yuppie executive coming in from Long Island. Kind of seems like I’m always cutting the same trucks off also. Let me change the song on my iPod.
It’s misty, but cool outside and the glare of the reddish-orange sun is shining as it’s coming up. I roll the windows down and retract the sunroof as I’m cruising fifty on the bridge. Smooth sailing. The wind is blowing in my face and the air is crisp. It’s 5:50AM, it took me five minutes to cross today.
I exit off the bridge heading towards 1st Avenue and make that you-ey right by Blue Room where they serve those really good Atomic Wings I like with Blue Moon on draft. Almost there. To the left, I notice something different. Scores is closed. Guess business wasn’t good the past few months. I hop over onto the left lane and bust a left at the light… Any meters? As usual there are a few lined up just for me. I snag the one closest to the corner and work on my city parallel parking skills. Oops, love tapped the guy in front of me. It’s all good. Open the door, step out, grab my shake and walk up the block to 330 E. 61st Street. I always recall the same phrase that I read in a sales book a long time ago right at the moment before I enter the front door.
“Every morning on the plains of Africa, the lion awakes, and knows it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death. Every morning on the same plane, the gazelle awakes and knows it must outrun the fastest lion, or it will be killed. It doesn’t matter if you’re the lion or the gazelle. When you wake up in the morning, you’d better be running.”
March 12, 2009
The Difference
Amidst the concrete jungle of New York lies one of its most prominent bridges connecting Queens and Manhattan, the Queensborough or 59th Street Bridge. At 5:45AM, it’s not as busy as it is about to be in the next few hours. How long will it take to cross over the bridge? I anticipate just some very light traffic, so maybe four to six minutes today. The only people driving over right now are the early morning hustlers, ready to take the world into their own hands, ready and willing to do what others won’t.
The rush of people on the street are all walking in the same direction half-asleep like a crowd of lifeless zombies and robots programmed for the same function. Everyone’s heading into Manhattan, that’s where all the jobs are. What’s around here? Tiny stores, a few office buildings, restaurants, and a few strip clubs; basically nothing. Queensborough Plaza is to my left and every day, the same faces walk these streets in their two or three piece business suits, shoes, tie, and everything. On my right is a smaller group of people; these guys are a little crazy. Men and women in a different type of suit, a suit of Underarmor. From head to toe, dressed in skin tight clothing with their crotches tightly hugged, they’re either running or cutting the runners off on their bikes.
Underneath the slab of cold steel and concrete lies the East River, a body of water separating two boroughs as if they were two entirely different countries. If you live in Queens, you’re just not a true New York City resident; don’t lie to yourself. The City is in Manhattan, the heart of New York. Everyone knows that a true city person eats, sleeps, and breathes in Manhattan. On this side, everyone’s a wannabe.
The Trip
The roads suck just as you’re about to get on the bridge. There’s a pothole to my left and to my right, which one do I drive over? Neither, I’ll just drive into the other lane a bit. The stupid taxi next to me honks as usual; I ignore him just because I know he’d do the exact same thing to save his shiny new yellow Toyota Highlander Hybrid.
The weather hasn’t been great this year and the bridge’s condition is a reflection of it. Chipped paint coming off the steel bars, what else? A few cracks in the foundation. Hey the bridge might collapse and I may just die today. Yeah right, it’ll take a lot more than a crumbling bridge to kill me.
Who’s on the road today? It’s early in the morning and its funny, I always happen to see the same green BMW 6 Series at the same time every day. It’s probably some thirty year-old yuppie executive coming in from Long Island. Kind of seems like I’m always cutting the same trucks off also. Let me change the song on my iPod.
It’s misty, but cool outside and the glare of the reddish-orange sun is shining as it’s coming up. I roll the windows down and retract the sunroof as I’m cruising fifty on the bridge. Smooth sailing. The wind is blowing in my face and the air is crisp. It’s 5:50AM, it took me five minutes to cross today.
I exit off the bridge heading towards 1st Avenue and make that you-ey right by Blue Room where they serve those really good Atomic Wings I like with Blue Moon on draft. Almost there. To the left, I notice something different. Scores is closed. Guess business wasn’t good the past few months. I hop over onto the left lane and bust a left at the light… Any meters? As usual there are a few lined up just for me. I snag the one closest to the corner and work on my city parallel parking skills. Oops, love tapped the guy in front of me. It’s all good. Open the door, step out, grab my shake and walk up the block to 330 E. 61st Street. I always recall the same phrase that I read in a sales book a long time ago right at the moment before I enter the front door.
“Every morning on the plains of Africa, the lion awakes, and knows it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death. Every morning on the same plane, the gazelle awakes and knows it must outrun the fastest lion, or it will be killed. It doesn’t matter if you’re the lion or the gazelle. When you wake up in the morning, you’d better be running.”
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A Jogger Passes/ A Jogger Enters
A Jogger Passes
A jogger passes by 63-33 Forest Avenue every morning, between 6:30 am and 6:37 am. She never arrives before 6:30 am and never after 6:37 am, always in between. It can be drizzling, raining, humidity so thick you can cut your hair with a butter knife, or just dry air like the air you breathe through your nose when you have the flu (you know that kind of air), the jogger is there between those times given.
She never fails to glance over at the red brick, three-family house, full of maroon awnings and where there is a long-black gate guarding its property as well as their cars in the driveways. The black gate is more like a shiny, black patent-leather stiletto color, surrounding the red brick, three-family story house with the maroon, or pooh color, awnings covering each window. There are also red bricks surrounding the house’s small garden. It has a tree with branches that are as strong as a 5’9 man weighing 110 pounds, showing his “guns”. It’s that thick.
Between 6:30 am and 6:37 am, the jogger will see a dog running across that house’s yard, following the direction as the jogger as if wanting to follow her if he were led out of the gate. The dog’s bark can be used to wake up prisoners at their camp; only that dog is not your usual German Sheppard, but a white Pit bull. The Pit bull is full of cheerfulness, especially that early in the morning. His barks are loud, but not vicious like his cousin, Cujo. The dog does look huge, like a polar bear cub running across its pond in the Bronx Zoo.
It is now 6:38 am, and the jogger has long passed the white Pit bull with the loud bark and everything pertaining to 63-33 Forest Avenue.
A Jogger Enters
A jogger passes by 63-33 Forest Avenue every morning, between 6:30 am and 6:37 am. She never arrives before 6:30 am and never after 6:37 am, always in between. This morning was different, for she pulled a muscle right in front of the red brick house at 6:36 am. She decided to stop and rest by the black gate surrounding the house. As she was hanging on, she saw that in their front yard was a wooden bench. The jogger decides enter the black gate to rest there.
What the jogger thought at first of the shiny, black patent-leather stiletto colored gate, was no more. The gates lacked luster, the paint was rusting from behind, and some paint chips had stuck on behind the jogger’s hand. She sat on the light as brown sugar-coated, wooden bench and gazed at the small garden with the “strong” tree. She underestimated the strength of the tree’s branches. It is still winter and as the other trees in the neighborhood had branches so weak that you can twist them off with your fingers or let the wind blow them away, this tree had branches as strong and vital as the branches of a bamboo. The maroon colored awnings on the windows were not “pooh colored” and the purplish burgundy complimented the red brick house tremendously.
As the jogger was ready to stand up, she heard the garbage can collapse and something panting her way. It was the white Pit bull, but it did not bark at her but rather jumped on her as if hugging her. She noticed the Pit bull wasn’t completely white, for he (she checked that too), had two medium brown spots on his back that were shaped like the number 8. She sat back down, and the hazel-eyed beauty sat also, and gave her his paw, like a high-five for actually stopping by to visit him.
It is now 7:04, and the jogger still has not left the white-brown spotted Pit bull and his residence, 63-33 Forest Avenue.
A jogger passes by 63-33 Forest Avenue every morning, between 6:30 am and 6:37 am. She never arrives before 6:30 am and never after 6:37 am, always in between. It can be drizzling, raining, humidity so thick you can cut your hair with a butter knife, or just dry air like the air you breathe through your nose when you have the flu (you know that kind of air), the jogger is there between those times given.
She never fails to glance over at the red brick, three-family house, full of maroon awnings and where there is a long-black gate guarding its property as well as their cars in the driveways. The black gate is more like a shiny, black patent-leather stiletto color, surrounding the red brick, three-family story house with the maroon, or pooh color, awnings covering each window. There are also red bricks surrounding the house’s small garden. It has a tree with branches that are as strong as a 5’9 man weighing 110 pounds, showing his “guns”. It’s that thick.
Between 6:30 am and 6:37 am, the jogger will see a dog running across that house’s yard, following the direction as the jogger as if wanting to follow her if he were led out of the gate. The dog’s bark can be used to wake up prisoners at their camp; only that dog is not your usual German Sheppard, but a white Pit bull. The Pit bull is full of cheerfulness, especially that early in the morning. His barks are loud, but not vicious like his cousin, Cujo. The dog does look huge, like a polar bear cub running across its pond in the Bronx Zoo.
It is now 6:38 am, and the jogger has long passed the white Pit bull with the loud bark and everything pertaining to 63-33 Forest Avenue.
A Jogger Enters
A jogger passes by 63-33 Forest Avenue every morning, between 6:30 am and 6:37 am. She never arrives before 6:30 am and never after 6:37 am, always in between. This morning was different, for she pulled a muscle right in front of the red brick house at 6:36 am. She decided to stop and rest by the black gate surrounding the house. As she was hanging on, she saw that in their front yard was a wooden bench. The jogger decides enter the black gate to rest there.
What the jogger thought at first of the shiny, black patent-leather stiletto colored gate, was no more. The gates lacked luster, the paint was rusting from behind, and some paint chips had stuck on behind the jogger’s hand. She sat on the light as brown sugar-coated, wooden bench and gazed at the small garden with the “strong” tree. She underestimated the strength of the tree’s branches. It is still winter and as the other trees in the neighborhood had branches so weak that you can twist them off with your fingers or let the wind blow them away, this tree had branches as strong and vital as the branches of a bamboo. The maroon colored awnings on the windows were not “pooh colored” and the purplish burgundy complimented the red brick house tremendously.
As the jogger was ready to stand up, she heard the garbage can collapse and something panting her way. It was the white Pit bull, but it did not bark at her but rather jumped on her as if hugging her. She noticed the Pit bull wasn’t completely white, for he (she checked that too), had two medium brown spots on his back that were shaped like the number 8. She sat back down, and the hazel-eyed beauty sat also, and gave her his paw, like a high-five for actually stopping by to visit him.
It is now 7:04, and the jogger still has not left the white-brown spotted Pit bull and his residence, 63-33 Forest Avenue.
The Harbor House
The Harbor House
As you look upon the dock, its dark brooding complexion reflects broken sunlight off the bay, and often in your eyes. A few steps on the creaky, swollen, truncated boards, slippery and splintered with the scars of summer showers, propels you to the old boat house. The once glamourous and imposing structure, lay in the middle of the jettisoned dock. It’s roof, a green copper toned pigmentation is only a remnant of its prior majesty. A glance along the front walls and one becomes witness to times cruelty, as vandalized wooden boards shutter the windows and blockade the heavy steel doors. An orange rusted chain smothers the door handles together, although it can not help but allow a westward breeze to rattle the jambs in a muted clanger of life. Surrounding the antiquated rotunda of the boathouse is freshly painted pair of safety rails, running parallel to each other in a seemingly continuous pattern.
If one were to walk around the extinct structure and along the rails one would come across a set of wooden benches set every five feet apart and five feet away from the rail. The benches have been neglected far worse than the boathouse and are mostly in a state of disrepair. Engraved in each bench is a commemorative plaque with gold type set on black matted backgrounds. Each one a tribute and acknowledgment to a deceased local married couple. Much like the area itself, the plaques serve as a visual testament to each passerby of the martyred causalities of time.
The Boardwalk
The wooden slats fit unevenly together, plagued by erosion and over use. The wood, perhaps procured from some weaker perennial plant, such as pine or birch, whose weak constitution is evident upon close inspection of the boards. Each solitary board is laden with wayward splinters thats reforms the board into an obtuse rectangle. Like scratches on a prison wall, each splinter acts as a calendar on the wood, pulled back to represent year upon year of abuse. Shards of metal nails, perhaps iron, pierce each slat four times on the far ends of the boards, horizontally spread two feet apart and vertical separated by four inches. Remnants of white paint is sparse but sprinkled along the ends of the board, once used to illuminate and direct pedestrians along the stretch of land. The boards are joined together through a simple angular pattern which gives one the illusion of an arrow, much like the tip of a “one way” street sign. Some gouged out portions of wood now house small pools of water and refuse. The merger of waste and resource are both an annoyance and nourishment to the local wildlife, among which include insects and birds. One can hear the current tensile strength in the boards with each step. The rather stable boards expel a subtle creak, similar to the friction of bone and sinew one hears during an early morning stretch. The weaker of the boards groan with exhaustion as it braces the burdening weight above, shuttering in horror as fears of fracture channel through it’s consciousness. Like a deep breath trapped inside empty lungs, and exhaled with relief as the weight above moves on without damage.
As you look upon the dock, its dark brooding complexion reflects broken sunlight off the bay, and often in your eyes. A few steps on the creaky, swollen, truncated boards, slippery and splintered with the scars of summer showers, propels you to the old boat house. The once glamourous and imposing structure, lay in the middle of the jettisoned dock. It’s roof, a green copper toned pigmentation is only a remnant of its prior majesty. A glance along the front walls and one becomes witness to times cruelty, as vandalized wooden boards shutter the windows and blockade the heavy steel doors. An orange rusted chain smothers the door handles together, although it can not help but allow a westward breeze to rattle the jambs in a muted clanger of life. Surrounding the antiquated rotunda of the boathouse is freshly painted pair of safety rails, running parallel to each other in a seemingly continuous pattern.
If one were to walk around the extinct structure and along the rails one would come across a set of wooden benches set every five feet apart and five feet away from the rail. The benches have been neglected far worse than the boathouse and are mostly in a state of disrepair. Engraved in each bench is a commemorative plaque with gold type set on black matted backgrounds. Each one a tribute and acknowledgment to a deceased local married couple. Much like the area itself, the plaques serve as a visual testament to each passerby of the martyred causalities of time.
The Boardwalk
The wooden slats fit unevenly together, plagued by erosion and over use. The wood, perhaps procured from some weaker perennial plant, such as pine or birch, whose weak constitution is evident upon close inspection of the boards. Each solitary board is laden with wayward splinters thats reforms the board into an obtuse rectangle. Like scratches on a prison wall, each splinter acts as a calendar on the wood, pulled back to represent year upon year of abuse. Shards of metal nails, perhaps iron, pierce each slat four times on the far ends of the boards, horizontally spread two feet apart and vertical separated by four inches. Remnants of white paint is sparse but sprinkled along the ends of the board, once used to illuminate and direct pedestrians along the stretch of land. The boards are joined together through a simple angular pattern which gives one the illusion of an arrow, much like the tip of a “one way” street sign. Some gouged out portions of wood now house small pools of water and refuse. The merger of waste and resource are both an annoyance and nourishment to the local wildlife, among which include insects and birds. One can hear the current tensile strength in the boards with each step. The rather stable boards expel a subtle creak, similar to the friction of bone and sinew one hears during an early morning stretch. The weaker of the boards groan with exhaustion as it braces the burdening weight above, shuttering in horror as fears of fracture channel through it’s consciousness. Like a deep breath trapped inside empty lungs, and exhaled with relief as the weight above moves on without damage.
The YMCA
The YMCA
As I wait at the stop light before I turn into the parking lot to my job, it stands before me on my left hand side. The big red sign with YMCA written in bold letters leads you to look at the bulletin board of all the activities going on inside that are available for kids. Evenly cut green grass and an even amount of bushes on both sides of the two entrances surrounds the front of the red brick building. A second level, which is not made of the same red bricks but just a white wall screams for your attention as your driving by with the big bold red letters that also say YMCA.
The Main entrance with the faded burgundy awning and the address written in what used to look like snow white colored numbers, lest anyone enter through the double glass doors. Two big glass windows on the left side of the main entrance that are the same length as the building front, let you see straight in to the nursery rooms with loud colors of art work and furniture where the children are seated on. To the left side of the window leads you the entrance which is only for Pre-K and nursery students and their parents, as it clearly says on the sliver awning in black bold font. As I turn into the parking lot I either see people rushing into either entrance or rushing out. For a fairly large building the parking lot in the front is only the size of a parking lot that is at a fast food restaurant, and every spot is taken. This will lead you to drive to the back parking lot, which is also has about the same amount of spots as a fast food restaurant does, but very tight like a back alley. In the back parking lot you see the back of the building, which is bare because unlike the nice green grass in the front, cracked cement surrounds it. There are two entrances, the one on left with the same double glass doors as the front and the doors at the entrance to right are rusty blue and the paint would just take a second for a person to peel off. Once you get out of the car in the back lot you smell a musty scent of dirt and sweat. A pine green track to the left of the yard is the cause of the smell of sweat and the smell of dirt comes from the patches of dry dirt and dry yellow grass surrounding the large colorful playground for the kids. Viewing the front and back of the building, may make one question what does inside look like?
The YMCA
If one were to walk through the main entrance of the building and from the metal surrounding the glass double doors, the handles are always cold. When you walk through and open the second set of double doors, a gush of warm air hits your body and the smell of chlorine runs straight up the nose. The two big swimming pools, one to the right and one to the left give off that strong aroma, and the smell continue to get stronger as people pass by you in their dripping wet bathing suits. A large blue desk that's straight ahead covered from head to toe in fliers makes one stop to look and see what activities are available. All along while you are looking at the fliers the receptionist stares you down and before you can even read a word, questions you for your id. The colors in the lobby consist of red ricks, off white, deep blue, dark yellows, and bright reds. Very loud vibrant colors are throughout every hall way, along with the loud noises of children coming from each direction. The first floor is always crowded with parents running in and out to pick up their kids, and the two entrance doors in both the front and back of the building are the
cause of this, because they all lead to the same hallway. Hot and musty is the feeling of the building because of all the different activities going on throughout the building ranging from all ages of people. The two stairs cases you find inside both have the smell of sweat because they both lead to work out facilities, where only adults are aloud, and that explains why the smell is always so fowl. Very narrow hallways cause people to bump into each other or the walls, which is why you will see maintenance cleaning the walls and floors the whole time you are there. After being inside you get the sense that the sign of good security they are trying to portray from all the different labeled entrances is misleading. Once your inside and you show your id, a person can walk in from the main entrance and can easily walk straight to the nursery or anywhere else throughout the building once their id is checked. As your inside the thought that it is a large building goes away, once you’re in you'll feel like your crammed in a tight hallway during the break between two classes in high school.
As I wait at the stop light before I turn into the parking lot to my job, it stands before me on my left hand side. The big red sign with YMCA written in bold letters leads you to look at the bulletin board of all the activities going on inside that are available for kids. Evenly cut green grass and an even amount of bushes on both sides of the two entrances surrounds the front of the red brick building. A second level, which is not made of the same red bricks but just a white wall screams for your attention as your driving by with the big bold red letters that also say YMCA.
The Main entrance with the faded burgundy awning and the address written in what used to look like snow white colored numbers, lest anyone enter through the double glass doors. Two big glass windows on the left side of the main entrance that are the same length as the building front, let you see straight in to the nursery rooms with loud colors of art work and furniture where the children are seated on. To the left side of the window leads you the entrance which is only for Pre-K and nursery students and their parents, as it clearly says on the sliver awning in black bold font. As I turn into the parking lot I either see people rushing into either entrance or rushing out. For a fairly large building the parking lot in the front is only the size of a parking lot that is at a fast food restaurant, and every spot is taken. This will lead you to drive to the back parking lot, which is also has about the same amount of spots as a fast food restaurant does, but very tight like a back alley. In the back parking lot you see the back of the building, which is bare because unlike the nice green grass in the front, cracked cement surrounds it. There are two entrances, the one on left with the same double glass doors as the front and the doors at the entrance to right are rusty blue and the paint would just take a second for a person to peel off. Once you get out of the car in the back lot you smell a musty scent of dirt and sweat. A pine green track to the left of the yard is the cause of the smell of sweat and the smell of dirt comes from the patches of dry dirt and dry yellow grass surrounding the large colorful playground for the kids. Viewing the front and back of the building, may make one question what does inside look like?
The YMCA
If one were to walk through the main entrance of the building and from the metal surrounding the glass double doors, the handles are always cold. When you walk through and open the second set of double doors, a gush of warm air hits your body and the smell of chlorine runs straight up the nose. The two big swimming pools, one to the right and one to the left give off that strong aroma, and the smell continue to get stronger as people pass by you in their dripping wet bathing suits. A large blue desk that's straight ahead covered from head to toe in fliers makes one stop to look and see what activities are available. All along while you are looking at the fliers the receptionist stares you down and before you can even read a word, questions you for your id. The colors in the lobby consist of red ricks, off white, deep blue, dark yellows, and bright reds. Very loud vibrant colors are throughout every hall way, along with the loud noises of children coming from each direction. The first floor is always crowded with parents running in and out to pick up their kids, and the two entrance doors in both the front and back of the building are the
cause of this, because they all lead to the same hallway. Hot and musty is the feeling of the building because of all the different activities going on throughout the building ranging from all ages of people. The two stairs cases you find inside both have the smell of sweat because they both lead to work out facilities, where only adults are aloud, and that explains why the smell is always so fowl. Very narrow hallways cause people to bump into each other or the walls, which is why you will see maintenance cleaning the walls and floors the whole time you are there. After being inside you get the sense that the sign of good security they are trying to portray from all the different labeled entrances is misleading. Once your inside and you show your id, a person can walk in from the main entrance and can easily walk straight to the nursery or anywhere else throughout the building once their id is checked. As your inside the thought that it is a large building goes away, once you’re in you'll feel like your crammed in a tight hallway during the break between two classes in high school.
Blue Dress
Lauren Malvica
Eng211w
“BlueDress”
From afar:
It was magnificent from a far; it twinkled against the glare of the sun. It was as if the sun followed it wherever it turned. “How’s my makeup? How does my dress look?” she would ask, and everyone had the same response “You look great!” Everyone did look amazing though, but it was that one dress that stood out so much more than the others. It was blue, but not just any blue, it was sparkling, almost twinkling, it almost made you want to make a wish upon it. You couldn’t describe it, it was too beautiful for words, and she was too beautiful. If I knew then that something indescribable and tragic would happen to the girl in the blue dress, I would have wished too stay in that moment forever.
She looked like a princess, like she belonged in a fairytale. Her makeup was done to perfection. She had a little shiny tiara right in the middle of her head with curls up all around it, and that dress was stunning. She stood quietly, yet anxiously waiting to partake in what was supposed to be the best night of our lives. She would take a few sips of her champagne and then smile for pictures. Finally, we were off.
When we walked through the door, the entire ballroom couldn’t help but stare at her from across the room. I sat from afar and could still see that amazing dress, so full of life and beauty. I just couldn’t take my eyes off of it. It was May 20th, 2005 our senior prom, our last prom ever. It was a night I would never forget, until now.
Up Close:
As I walked into the room, there was no laughter, no happiness, no one even spoke, there were just whispers. There was only quietness and sorrow that filled the room. Everyone had that same dazed and confused look on their faces, like they did on prom night. There were no fancy dresses or flashing cameras, just black. The room began to shrink in size and in the distance I could see that dress and as I got closer to it, the flashbacks of all of our memories came at me all at once, but it was different, the dress seemed different. It was still blue but not twinkling like I had remembered; it was dull this time, dull and lifeless. She still looked beautiful with her little shiny tiara, but pale and sound asleep. I stood in front of her; I bent down, kissed her forehead, held her hand and said “You look beautiful Joanna”. I guess I was expecting one of her infamous smirks, but got nothing. There were people sobbing loud at this point asking “Why?” I touched her dress now, trying to re capture what it once felt like and looked like and this time, it felt and looked so different. It lost its twinkle and shine somehow. I looked at all of our photos, one in particular. It was a photo of all seven of us girls at prom and that dress stood out more in that picture, at that moment, even more then it ever did. My eyes filled with tears and my heart started racing, and I started to think “Wow, this is real, this is happening right now”. I looked at her and realized how much of an angel she really was. She looked like a princess waiting to be kissed, in order for her to wake up, but it wasn’t that easy.
I will never forget the way she looked in that dress; and although I will always remember our prom night, I will never forget and I will always remember how she looked in that same dress on December 2nd 2005 resting lifelessly in the funeral home.
Eng211w
“BlueDress”
From afar:
It was magnificent from a far; it twinkled against the glare of the sun. It was as if the sun followed it wherever it turned. “How’s my makeup? How does my dress look?” she would ask, and everyone had the same response “You look great!” Everyone did look amazing though, but it was that one dress that stood out so much more than the others. It was blue, but not just any blue, it was sparkling, almost twinkling, it almost made you want to make a wish upon it. You couldn’t describe it, it was too beautiful for words, and she was too beautiful. If I knew then that something indescribable and tragic would happen to the girl in the blue dress, I would have wished too stay in that moment forever.
She looked like a princess, like she belonged in a fairytale. Her makeup was done to perfection. She had a little shiny tiara right in the middle of her head with curls up all around it, and that dress was stunning. She stood quietly, yet anxiously waiting to partake in what was supposed to be the best night of our lives. She would take a few sips of her champagne and then smile for pictures. Finally, we were off.
When we walked through the door, the entire ballroom couldn’t help but stare at her from across the room. I sat from afar and could still see that amazing dress, so full of life and beauty. I just couldn’t take my eyes off of it. It was May 20th, 2005 our senior prom, our last prom ever. It was a night I would never forget, until now.
Up Close:
As I walked into the room, there was no laughter, no happiness, no one even spoke, there were just whispers. There was only quietness and sorrow that filled the room. Everyone had that same dazed and confused look on their faces, like they did on prom night. There were no fancy dresses or flashing cameras, just black. The room began to shrink in size and in the distance I could see that dress and as I got closer to it, the flashbacks of all of our memories came at me all at once, but it was different, the dress seemed different. It was still blue but not twinkling like I had remembered; it was dull this time, dull and lifeless. She still looked beautiful with her little shiny tiara, but pale and sound asleep. I stood in front of her; I bent down, kissed her forehead, held her hand and said “You look beautiful Joanna”. I guess I was expecting one of her infamous smirks, but got nothing. There were people sobbing loud at this point asking “Why?” I touched her dress now, trying to re capture what it once felt like and looked like and this time, it felt and looked so different. It lost its twinkle and shine somehow. I looked at all of our photos, one in particular. It was a photo of all seven of us girls at prom and that dress stood out more in that picture, at that moment, even more then it ever did. My eyes filled with tears and my heart started racing, and I started to think “Wow, this is real, this is happening right now”. I looked at her and realized how much of an angel she really was. She looked like a princess waiting to be kissed, in order for her to wake up, but it wasn’t that easy.
I will never forget the way she looked in that dress; and although I will always remember our prom night, I will never forget and I will always remember how she looked in that same dress on December 2nd 2005 resting lifelessly in the funeral home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
