Twilight Zone: Miss Serensky losing her 100% passing rate

Good god, can I get a break already, if I have to drive one more mile in this I might keel over, which honestly, would not bother me too much, I could use a nap. At this point, I really wish spending the winter in the Keys or something did not seem as far fetched as a solid week of pleasant weather in good ol' Crosby, Maine. This snowstorm just makes me lust for a hot bath and a donut, or maybe a donut and a hot bath, oh I just can not decide! How could I possibly decide when both sound so- *thump*, oh for crying out lo- *thump* *thump* *thump*. I am far too old for this nonsense. Well, unless I want to ride my rim out to the point of extinction I should probably change this abominable excuse for- wait a minute. I do not change tires, Henry always changes the tires, and he left for New York, no, no, no, Olive, pull yourself together, someone will stop. After all, this is only a desolate road, in the middle of Maine...during a blizzard...OH GOD. No, no, stay strong sister, you can- oh, look, headlights, wonderful! "Need a hand, I worked on a pit crew for an amateur NASCAR fan racing rec league, I can get this baby pullin' tread in no time". "Oh my, well thank you darling, I just did not know what I would do had you not stopped"! I graciously replied, although the amateur NASCAR thing seems odd. "So, your name"? I asked. "They called me 'Buckin' Bobbie' back in the pit, but now I go by Joe-Bob, maybe a little bit of Miss Serensky here and there". "Well, what a, pretty name, Joe-Bob" I hesitantly lied, Joe-Bob, I don't even, must be a nickname, so many questions. "So what brings you around these parts, sort of out of the way of everything", I ask, trying to spark conversation over the whipping wind and snow. "Ya see, I teach an AP English class back down in this tiny town in Ohio, and I have a 100% passing rate, well, I DID. I just got the results back, and found out it dropped to a 99%". "Oh dear" I reply, confused. "A 99%, WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE, THEY TRY TO MAKE ME LOOK LIKE SOME SORT OF IGNORAMUS  UNACCEPTABLE, so I fled the state before I could become a mockery" she yelled with more force than a left hook from Mike Tyson. I stared, shocked, the tire still sat there, the tire iron trembling in Joe-Bob's bitter hands.

Take it or Leave it: Arguably Awry Advice

You may want to take the following advice I give to you and crumple it into a ball, set it on fire, then throw the ashes out the window. Because if anything, there exists no way to take on AP English head on and avoid any mishaps, as a matter of fact, if you have that mentality you will most likely trip over yourself and fail miserably, seriously, do not get cocky. Also, do not expect to succeed, no, one does not excel in AP English, Ms. Serensky just permits you not to fail. Furthermore, always write in pencil, it shows you can swim against the stream, look in the eye of danger and not even flinch, you can erase those mistakes instead of crossing them out, and if that does not get you hyped then go home. Oh another thing, just forget about home, because home does not exist as you know it any longer, room 30- whatever, has become your new home, because if you want an A, you have to devote every waking minute of your life to SOAPSTones and twenty minute essays. Speaking of those, the common misconception of SOAPSTone standing for speaker, occasion, audience, purpose, subject, and tone must get tossed immediately  What it really stands for: Satan, organizing, a, paper, similar to, torture. If you do not believe me then fine, you try writing like sixteen hundred of these over the span of two years and tell me how tolerable it feels. Slaving away in the ninth ring of hell for eternity will seem like better of the two evils real quick. OH, right, and make sure you follow good ol' Ms. Serensky on twitter, and always RT or favorite her tweets, its not brown nosing if it is virtual. Also, make sure you never do your blogs, ever, she respects thinking outside of the box, and if anything not doing assigned work stands as the epitome of that sort of thinking. Sure, technically I just told you that in a blog but I already told you not to listen so get over it. Ah, how could I forget, change your name to Leonardo DeCaprio, she will not only pass you, but give you 9+/10s on your essays, oh that does not exist? Sorry, who needs the advice here? You. So shh. Now, lastly, I would recommend procrastinating EVERYTHING, because if one thing exists that Ms. Serensky loves, it would come in the form of people who prioritize poorly and disregard efficiency. Take it from the master himself, she loves me more than oxygen and I will hit the submit button five minutes before the deadline. Call me crazy, I call it....well, crazy, yeah no other word for it, probably should stop doing that.

True Life: My Writing Partner Hates Me

Wow yeah, what a great point, really, spectacular logic on that one. I wonder if he can even pick up on sarcasm. "That was good"! Ha. Yes. Nailed it. He suspects nothing, I feel as if I come off too, hang on, I can not think of the word, oh yeah, "nice". Whatever that means, dear god if I have to sit next to this oaf for one more day begrudgingly tossing out another "good point" or "I see what you mean" I think I might snap. But no, snapping does not stand as an option, cool and collected, I can do this, only about, what, 12 days of school left, no prob- ARE YOU KIDDING ME, YOU DID NOT JUST SAY THAT STOOD AS A SYMBOL FOR SOCIETY'S STRUGGLE TO CONFORM. Honestly, I think I might not even belong in the same classroom as him. How did he get into this class to begin with, I feel like some money exchanged hands somewhere in the recommendation process because listening to his writing makes me want to drink bleach. Or make him drink bleach, no, too far, cool and collected. Possibly I think too harshly on occasion, maybe that could stand as a symbol for society's struggle to...I can not even think this with a straight face, a rock with a pen taped too it would make me more confident in my partnership. I think every time I sit next to him my IQ drops a point or ten, the struggle, oh well, at least I can learn something from Ms. Serensky. Oh wait, Ms. Seresnky, do not even get me started. Okay, too late, I started, the nerve of her, the audacity oh her to pair me with someone who does not even write his annotations neatly on post-it notes like me, he writes IN his book, like some peasant. Does Ms. Serensky not realize that I do not work with, with PEASANTS. Ugh, well at least he comes prepared...OH WAIT..."Hey, do you mind if I borrow a pen"? Sure, sure, WHY DON'T YOU JUST BORROW MY BOOK TOO, OH HERE, MIGHT AS WELL JUST TAKE MY BACKPACK. "Oh, sorry this is my only one", ha. Hahaha. HAHAHA. I have a pouch in my superfluously organized backpack dedicated to the sole purpose of housing my plethora of fine pens, and he truly thinks he deserves to lay his grubby salad fingers on them!? Psh, what a twit, if he even dares to ask for my college-ruled Five Star exquisite wood grain paper I will- "Hey, do you have any paper I could borrow"? I wonder if he can see the steam coming out of my ears, maybe my face, which I assume looks as cherry-red with anger as it feels drops the hint well enough for me to not have to say anything. "Anna"? "Sure, haha, of course you can"! How can he not notice my hand quivering with anger, oh right, because his head has more density than a block of solid concrete. This makes me feel like I have a pan-handler sitting next to me day in and day out "Spare some paper. Spare a pen"? SPARE A PIECE OF DIGNITY AND STOP FORGETTING YOUR SCHOOL SUPPLIES YOU ARROGANT APE. Ahhh, that feels better. Wait, what the...what's with all the staring...why do they all have that look on their face,  dear god, I need to stop thinking out loud.

How I Will Become the Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bagels, or Bread, Whatever, I Forget How it Goes

One factor I invariably keep in mind: originality. Originality with a style, originality with an essay, originality regarding which toppings I get on my burrito at Chipotle. Yes, how original of me to declare originality as a trait with which I strive for. I know I come off as the kind of guy who has about as much originality as the dude who put on a backwards bathrobe, called it a "Snuggie" and made millions. However, I must say, I do pose a few unique traits which I would not mind contributing to my legacy in college. I would like to think of myself as an afficianado of sorts when it comes to hatching ridiculous plans running with the idea, whether or not it guarantees the safety and/or sanity of myself or others. Sometimes something as simple as going for a run in a thunderstorm comes to mind, or sometimes something more extravagant like trying to organize a flashmob in town at 3am on a Sunday (the thought has gone through my mind). Case in point, I like to think of crazy stuff to occupy
any wasted brain space not getting put to use, which always ends in an adventure, and who does not like adventure, no one, absolutely no one. Thus, I think based on the fact that nobody else has the ignorance to attempt heinously stupid plans like myself, and at least live to tell the tale, I must have some originality to me. Not to mention, everyone wants to make friends with the guy masterminding the Guinness World Record for the world's largest dance-off (the plan still has some kinks I have to work out i.e. nobody I know can dance), so needless to say everyone will bow down to me in affection. I suppose if I had to pinpoint another quality from my vast array of amiable characteristics, I would have to center in on the fact that I can sail, seeing as I was not gifted with hand-eye coordination like most people football, baseball, heck, even soccer became out of the question. So I picked spending my time in boats, cool eh? By the time girls get to college they have seen it all, they probably met their fair share of football jocks, or lax bro's, what they need: a refreshing change, that change: moi. A guy who can sail boats, how much more random could one get when it comes to picking a sport no one ever even thinks about. And thus, I shall use that off the beaten path talent to attract the female's, not that I need to, I mean look at me, I look like the long lost love-child of George Clooney and Marilyn Monroe. Truth aside, you can meet a lot of interesting people when they look you in the eye and say with a sense of profound confusion "you sail, like in boats, on like water"? Which brings me to last quality, actually, no it really does not, this did not serve as a good segway at all. Whatever, finally, I love cats, did you know that? Sure you did. One thing that every human being on this rock loves: not world peace, not bacon, not free samples, not oxygen, but cats.  I can walk in to my first class sporting my renowned cat shirt, heads will turn to get a glance of the almighty aura that shall surround my belittling presence. I will have people falling to their knees when I flash them a picture of my flirtatious felines, I will have so many people lining up just to get a chance to shake my hand I could start charging and turn it into a fortune 500 company. Thus, using a mix of my horrible ideas, knowledge of sailboats, and alarming over-association with cats, I can climb my way to the top of campus-social life, maybe start a frat in my honor, my legacy has just begun.

Sizzling Advice from Sista Serensky

"My boyfriend wants to break up, but I dont"

Mmm, yes, I can see where the problem lies here, fortunately, I have just the right motivator to help you with this, dire, dire, issue. Allow me to present to you my sassy alter ego, Sista Serensky. I will now leave you two to discuss your trials and tribulations (heads up, quite a fiesty one, to say the least).
GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL, uh-uh, you really want this man?! You, want him!? You listen up sister, this pig clearly does not deserve to pull on your heart strings, he does not even deserve to poke at them a little bit. You know why? Because little miss sunshine over here can shine on without dwelling on a disconcerted meat-head who will not even give you the time of day! Listen to yourself woman, you really think I will rattle off a magical secret formula that you can use to conjure your “man” into falling in your pretty little arms again?! Uh-uh, think again, Cinderella stories stopped applying to real-life on your ninth birthday sweetheart. The only way you will get this morally inept hunk back is with a rag of chloroform and handcuffs, which, even disregarding the possible prison sentence, would require a stupid amount of effort. So look me here in the eyes, drop this clown, drop him like its hot, drop him like Michael J. Fox trying to hold an egg in a spoon. I guarantee he moved on days before he even decided to muster up his arrogance enough to tell you of his decision to leave you in the dust. Unless you want to latch on to his ankles like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum on his mom after getting dropped off at day-care then brush off this chump like the dirt off your shoulder. You need a re-evaluation, a wake-up call, hear that? That piercing shriek in your ear, nope, not that soccer mom screaming like a banshee because you cut off her minivan in the express lane, but the sound of your consciousness cursing you for losing sleep over the guy who forgot your name two weeks ago. Listen to your mind, imagine your mind as your grandma, smacking those cute little knuckles with a wooden spoon for eating desert before dinner, I bet it hurts. GOOD. It should hurt, I want it to hurt, because you know what will really hurt? Confessing your undying love for mister congeniality over here in a last ditch effort to win him back and then watch his ignorant lips curl into an “it’s not you it’s me”. HONEY, if you get hung up on him, sitting at home pounding down pints of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia while he hits the clubs getting hung up on god knows who pounding down god knows what then who do you think feels worse here? Mmmmhmm, not him, not Monsieur man candy, so chin up sweetcheeks, and repeat after me in a sassy black woman voice “I AM A STRONG AND IN-DE-PEN-DENT WOMAN AND I DON’T. NEED. NO. MAN”! Feel better? I know you do, now get out there, call up your gals, put down the ice cream (maybe after the next bite), and hit the town, make him the one sitting at home sobbing over ice cream, go out and get it gurl, work what you got.

Honing in on Heroism

Black Hawk Down, a true account of the 1993 Battle of Mogadishu, Somalia in which 18 American Delta Force operators, Army Rangers, and Navy SEALs lost their lives making it the largest combat loss of American troops in any single battle since Vietnam. The precedents of heroism and sacrifice that took place during this battle left me speechless, I could not help but marvel at the valor with which the servicemen fought through such brutality and violence. For me, Black Hawk Down altered the image of the fearless invincible American soldier whom I so innocently imagined, not in a negative sense, but gave that image emotions, humanity, compassion, a respectable endowment to fear. I finished the movie with a renewed outlook on the human conflict associated with war, the struggle not to just stay alive and protect yourself as I had once believed, but to fight for the person next to you and gift him the opportunity to return home. For me, the movie withdrew a primal instinct with which I never quite realized I had in me, an odd sense of realization that fighting does not just entail survival but promise. Promises that a soldier makes to his comrades to ensure that they can make it on the plane back home and catch their child's fourth birthday, or to see their wife standing in the threshold of their home teary-eyed waiting for their triumphant return. The irony of this comes with the fact that I have never come close to experiencing even a slight hint of the bonds they share, not even a tinge of relativity, as to the way they endure, not only literally, but mentally and emotionally as well. This movie portrayed the heartache to war, the atrocities, the unnecessary  casualties, everything wrong with the way humans resolve conflict. Yet, just as beautifully as it shows the horror and the gore, it shows valor and camaraderie with which the men persevered, and although the suffered losses beyond measure they triumphed against all odds by holding out together. While other war movies glorify the image of the United States in all its glory, "Black Hawk Down" glorified the soldiers behind that image, the actual person under that uniform, and therein lays the reason this film rests on a pedestal for me. Because it exemplifies that the true valor that our soldiers bolster does not rest in their iconic image the media broadcasts, but the underlying grit and perseverance instilled in them as human beings.

What's Poppin'?

The grumbling tween rose from bed
only to find a supple and moist white head
perched atop his brow he ran his fingers over the outer crust
he fondles the chunky formation with a questionable lust
not often does an abscess of this magnitude squish its way into vision
this necessitates excretion with precision
with fortitude and concentration he squeezes the boil
the puss oozes, the excrement dripping out with little toil
as he evicts the last residual dribble
he spots some left over debris, and decides to take a nibble

Alright, well first off, I felt the need to gag profusely just by writing this monstrosity of a poem. I attempted to picture the most vile subject I could think of that still withholds the title of "school appropriate" and popping a fat zit immediately came to mind. In writing about this taboo, and rightfully so, topic I attempted to use completely over descriptive diction and imagery to convey my sense of total and utter discomfort and/or slight nausea. Before writing, or even knowing my subject matter, I brainstormed a list of the most grotesque and phonically unsettling words I could imagine. Then after analyzing and reducing my list to the top ten most vile pieces of diction, I meticulously crafted each adverb, adjective, and noun into the most gut-wrenching imagery you pubescent angst one could imagine. In depicting popping a pimple, which alone makes me feel a slight shift in my seat and vehemently describing every moment of it I can effectively make appetites vanish. For instance, just listen to this word: "pus", yeah, ew, so logically a whole poem concerning this must singe one's comfort zone into a menial pile of ashen hopelessness, and therein lies my poem's beauty.

You Watch My Back, I'll Watch Yours....Mine...Ours?

Alright dude, first off, lose the Abercrombie, the epitome of perturbing awkwardness with pseudo-fashionable clothing rests in your every stride. Let me simplify that, you look like a try-hard. Maybe if you ditch the Abercombie tee, the American Eagle button down, with a popped collar, WITH A POPPED COLLAR, what goes through your head!? I am at loss for words now, cant even finish my thought, the fact that you assume, with any level of continuity that a pink button down would be okay ON TOP OF a pink tee that reads "A & F" in cursive infuriates me...er uhm...us. Whatever, I...uh...we? Alright, this irks me, I will just stick with singular pronouns from here on out. Anyways, the purpose of writing this does not come with bashing your dress game, although I still feel it stands as one of the main reasons. But, I digress, you see young grasshopper, you have much to learn, and in my infinite wisdom , I shall enlighten your feeble mind. Well, first off, I would like to inform you NOT to give that valentine to Kristin, you know, the blonde gal that sits two rows in forward, who always has a capri sun at lunch. Yeah well she will take the chocolate and throw your love note in the trash, but chin up, she gets chicken pox two weeks later, karma has your back, bro. On to more important matters, well actually, this may sound weird, but I thought that maybe you could give me so advice. See, I remember explicitly sitting in Mr. Faranacci's 6th grade class and pondering what I would look like, where I would live, who I would befriend, and what I might think of myself as a teenager, a big, bad, teenager. And, honestly, me, I do not quite know how grand and enticing the ever-thrilling existence of a teen really stacks up. Quite frankly, the things I would love to go back to a day when after my school schedules consisted of catching up on my Club Penguin account and seducing the ladies on AIM, after a quick snack of course. Now after school consists of homework, college applications, government applications for college, college scholarships, college, college college, and mom yelling at me about college. Sure, most of that has passed now, and second semester senior year has its perks but you get the idea. Point in hand, stressing about which pair of crocs you should wear to school (Crocs, oh my god, you totally wear crocs, I forgot about that, you need help child) as opposed to fretting about meeting deadlines that could ultimately decide your future for the rest of your life seems quite more amiable. Not to mention, you can still rock out to "Kidz Bop" without eliciting judgement, not that I still...I mean...uh...oh, and I guess one more quick piece of advice, stop caring so much about what people think of you. Do not quit the flute because that little urchin behind you said it was "a girl instrument". Do not deny the fact that you played Rooster Hannigan in "Annie" for the 5th grade play because you overheard someone say doing drama club "is gay", you barely even knew what that meant in 6th grade, kid. Do not take down the transformers poster you had in your locker because the kid next to yours took down his posters. Man up bud, take control of your life, live it how you want it, because if you make the same mistakes I did, and quit doing the stuff you thought was fun because other people did not think it had the same "cool" factor as their new bmx bike then you'll lose what makes you, you, even if you're individuality culminates in your stupid, god awful crocs. But all in all, rather than giving you advice, and preaching to you as if I know everything about the inter-workings of life, I guess I want to know something from you. Honestly, if you look upon my life, how I live now, who I am, well, would you be proud of me? Until next time, dude.



Seriously, crocs?

What Could Be Worse Than Second Hand Smoke?

Her eyes met mine with an otherworldly glare, as if my eyebrows had just spontaneously combusted into a shower of ethereal sparks. Or at least basic sparks, I mean, a spark is a spark, as long as I am getting across the point that she looked quite flustered. Oh, right, I should explain, ever heard of second hand smoke? Sure...(“everybody has, the fact that I have to explain this to you exemplifies your ignorance”)..., what, no I did not hear anything. Anyways, when you ingest something you would rather not come in contact with, one can classify it as “second hand”. Well, when people imagine birth defects they think of an extra toe. Or a genetic disorder, a dwarf, or possibly even someone who licks windows on public transportation. But I have yet to find another with as unique a feature as mine, or at least one as invariably unsettling. Everyone has those thoughts they dare not say whilst having a conversation with an adversary whom they may not particularly like, or possibly the quick mental jab at the irksome enemy as they brush by in the hall. Yes, we all have these thoughts, and thank goodness they remain thoughts because, I mean, speaking them would surely lead to a fierce confrontation to say the least. Now, imagine how awful that would...(”It surprises me you can even read”)...okay, enough beating around the bush, think second hand smoke threatens the safety of people? Try having second hand thoughts. Mmhm, every thought I have,  I unwillingly mumble on the spot...(“as if your pathetic excuse for common sense could not have figured that out already”)...I did not mean that, I swear. Nothing personal really, the combination of being a cynical pessimist  and the inability to keep my thoughts to myself has led to some awkward situations before, much like right now. Allow me to use the example I started in the beginning, the time I met Oprah at a book signing. I approached her desk...(“why I would waste my breath telling you this story baffles me”).

The illustrious calling of Cat photography

I know what goes through one's mind when they hear I have fourteen cats, sure, they immediately assume I live in a derelict trailer neck deep in kitty litter, and they may even conclude that I register as legally insane and/or solemn and lonely. But, allow me to diffuse those ludicrous opinions, my trailer has a built in hot tub, the litter boxes only overflow twice a day, and obviously I can not register as insane since I technically do not have legal citizenship in the United States (long story). However, I do have a reputable business with a diversified clientele and am contesting for a spot on the exclusive Forbe's fortune 500 list. Okay, so maybe I just lied to your face. But, hey, that's business. By now one must ponder how exactly I turned my fourteen cats into a lucrative business, and for that answer one must consult the monolith of Instagram. Yes, Instagram, I take pictures of cats, and put them on Instagram, but these do not compare with the sheepish, poorly captioned "lolcats" as one may presume. No, these works of art boast exquisite lighting, arduous timing, chiseled poses, and each cat must possess the proper "qualities" if you will. Whilst most cat pictures that litter the internet and the deep realms of Instagram consist of shaky, low quality abominations taken with an iPhone, my technology stands at the forefront of feline photo capturing technology. I sport a "Nikon X-2000 Jingler" yes, the jingler, a cat toy that dangles from the lens harnessing the feline's perfect attention. Not only does my technology cost exponentially more than my luxurious crib but it captures every last flea resting upon the supple snout of each cat and kitten. Each photo requires meticulous preparation and grooming, each cat must receive exactly five strokes with an ivory brush, diamond encrusted brush on each side of its body. Followed by a fluffing period of 4 and a half minutes using a ten-speed cool breeze hair dryer equipped with the built in scent of Japanese orchids. Finally, I set up the lighting, two Hawaiian imported bamboo tiki torches, to set the mood, and a military grade searchlight, because the best way to bring out a cat's eyes comes with the illumination of a 760 terrawatt bulb. Finally, I put on a cat suit of my own, a skin tight spandex jumpsuit with genetically engineered fur on the exterior so I can be one with my feline models. Who finds interest in these stupid cat pictures? Ah, what a moronic question. I spend 13 hours a day among my companions, watching them bathe in Mediterranean imported catnip, gallop over and throughout their hand-crafted furnishings, and tussle among one another over hypoallergenic, Gucci cat toys.  Then I capture all of this through the tantalizing visual medium of Instagram, put a sepia filter on, and send them away to receive from all of my humble followers. And the question still arises, who finds interest?! Blasphemy, my 460,000 (I just lied to your face once again) followers will quickly answer that feeble question for whatever peasant finds it necessary to ask. How do I profit from uploading free pictures to Instagram? Ha, these questions just keep getting more menial. Like, seriously? How do I profit?! Ha...haha...what a stupid...yeah..uhm, I do not. I work at a Denny's.

DJ CC's Greatest Hits

Since I must now shatter my humility and brag about how well crafted one of works seems, I shall take full advantage of this opportunity. All in all, most of works seem to tip the scales of sheer brilliance, so narrowing in on just one masterpiece takes time. However, the piece most likely to bestow upon me the title of a Nobel laureate comes in the form of my most recent blog entry: "Societal Alzheimers" , circa December 18th 2012. I feel the piece mirrors my superb writing skills in its specific and well-executed critique of society's misadventures, the concrete and well-placed examples, and finally the vocabulary so exquisite it seems as if a thesaurus regurgitated on my prose. For instance, I find myself touching on one or two, often stretched, examples in my writing, yet this time around I honed in on real-world happenings relevant to my subject of a frenzied "tempocolypse" (A temporary apocalyptic scare, Corrigan-Chaillet ®). "'December 21st apocalypse'...most searched term...2010", stands out as one of the more notable pop culture observances I included in my observant look at the temporary obsessions of our society. Furthermore, this piece stood out in its exquisite and fervent vocabulary which graces the eyes and mind of the reader like diamond dust blowing in a warm summer's breeze. For example, the word "cacophony" replaces a more simple adjective such as "a lot" or the the word "scoured' taking place of the feeble verb "searched". Little additions like these ameliorate the sentence structure of my writing by adding resonate syllables and intellectual undertones the reader can associate with such prolific word choice. On another note, a very interesting piece which I gave my audience the pleasure of reading comes in the form of my December 4th 2012 blog post, "The Great Gatsby: A Great Conspiracy". The intrigue of this post comes from my own deep-rooted skepticism which never quite eludes me in reading or in life for that matter. Allow me to elaborate, classics such as F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby” have undergone insurmountable analyzations by professors and students alike over the decades. The similes and allegories in the book so overdone and overstudied that they hold not even a shred of mystery for reader anymore who may now just google the implications behind them. But what I like to do, as exemplified in my blog: conspire as to the deep, interwoven possibilities laying under the ink of every page. For instance, the interest my post holds comes with the look at unspoken outliers in the plot, such as the possibility that Gatsby himself arranges Nick’s placement alongside him in West Egg to get close to Daisy. The probability of that seems absurd but the evidence I cited supports this tangible, yet skeptical claim. Thus, the interest of this piece lies within a theory pushing the boundaries of what otherwise stands as a widely accepted and static plot of a stroke of luck in the love department which evidently leads to tragedy. Therefore, my blog post brings about the possibility that maybe Fitzgerald's plot does not in fact piggyback off the shakespearean romantic tragedy theme as once thought but maybe he encompasses a new meaning in Gatsby bringing his fate upon himself by manipulating Nick to achieve his love. Finally, the comment which holds the highest regards among the plentiful praise I have received over these last few months belongs to Andrew Phillip Osgood. He responded to my blog observing the sharp contrast between the two camps of thought among my peers when it comes to justifying something so concrete as robbery, against something as abstract as love in “The Second Bakery Attack”. In my blog I attempt to argue that love conquers the implications of petty robbery where none endure any harm, yet Andrew retorted in a way which I had nothing but gratitude for as he opened up a train of thought for me which I had not yet pondered. He asked: “How can the robbery have righteousness if it does not actually ensure permanent happiness and the couple does fall apart in the future”? To which I immediately acknowledged seeing as there exists no definite permanence to the short burst of affection the couple shares after the robbery. I thought about this for the next few minutes (because honestly these kinds of questions do not exactly keep me up at night) and I could not seem to find a stance with which I felt confident on. Yet, Andrew, in thinking about your question I found the problem with your question. Maybe there stands a point where a story must remain as it stands, with no more speculations, and no more contemplations. The reason I can not figure out an answer simply roots back to the possibility that maybe the story ends as it does for a reason, so that the reader can visualize their own ending. So as you visualize your epilogue of fallen love and subsequent arrests in connection with armed robbery, I visualize my epilogue of a rekindled love, sparked in the flames of adrenaline and fast food. Thus, in the end I do not have an answer to your question, but rather, a compromise.

Societal Alzheimers

Does anyone remember the wide-spread pseudo-panic that swept the country this time last year? The vehemence with which we all mercifully chattered about the inevitability of our fates? I do. And I find it quite odd that staring at the same date that two years ago would spin our country into a societal meltdown brings only a smile to our faces. Allow me to elaborate, as the Mayan Calendar supposedly predicts, the world and all of its wrongdoings will meet a swift and violent end come December 21st 2012. When this theory came began to become publicized by the media the peoples interest morphed into gut wrenching fear. Maybe this theory no longer fell under the category of a simple conspiracy? The thought crossed my mind more than once, and rightfully so. Within days of comprehending the apparent severity of the situation I along with millions of others contributed to "December 21st apocalypse" as the most searched term on google for 2010. As I scoured scores of websites I came across methods of our demise ranging from planetary collision to zombie infections. What crushed my dismal hope of survival further came with the release of John Cusack and all his glory in the cinematic flub of the century 2012. This film lit the fuse, turning an already impressionable mentality into a cacophony of despair. Millions searching for this event turned into hundreds of millions, including myself and it got to the point of absurdity that NASA began releasing articles disproving the theory in order to calm the public. However, their release only calmed the those skeptical of it in the first place and for the most part, those plagued with concern found no solace. With all of the internal chaos swarming around for the weeks after the film I can still remember my little cousin coming to me teary eyed asking about the verity of his certain end. At that point a realization struck me that only have us as a people created this mad theory to the point of ludicrousy. As I sat there explaining the scientific and archaeological evidence in as best a way a nine year old could comprehend I found myself feeling more relaxed than him, even though he simply smiled and went to finish his hot wheels track. With my explanation of the impracticality of such a stellar end I found myself feeling elated, on a higher tier of thought than everyone else still frantically searching for reassurance. However, this great catastrophe of panic and outrage fizzled as quickly as it detonated, exemplifying an overdone theme in life: time, does in fact heal everything. Within weeks conversations never even contained a hint of the subject, as a matter of fact, when I brought it up to see what reaction I would net, all I got was an indifferent shrug. To this day this mystifies me. How could those who seemed so ignorantly humble in the face of the “ apocalypse” now hold less interest and fear than I? Well, maybe the answer lies in the overdone theme of time healing all wounds, or quite frankly, the lack thereof, honestly, all this shows: society gets bored. Yes, this profound absence of emotion over an event so turbulent that it prompted thoughts of suicide among pockets of our population all boils down to societies innocent boredom, the passing of a trend. Quickly our minds rerouted themselves from fiery death to Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez kissing at the beach, which I suppose acts for the better. Society seems to function much better when they sit panting over their computers fretting over the ending to Gossip Girl rather than purchasing the deeds to underground bunkers to ride out a solar flare, hurricane, earthquake, tsunami storm. Thus, the beauty of our society resides in our ability to move on when necessary, and never look back, thankfully. Because if we did not possess this ability then our town of Chagrin Falls would most likely find itself in a frenzied destruction over our judgement day this Friday, which on the bright side would mean no school. I mean, if we had a hurricane day already who says a pre-apocalypse day seems like too much to ask?

Envy: A Fuel For Inspiration

The pompous, the wealthy, and well, those just shy of royalty, we all stumble upon their lairs every once in awhile. Sometimes we just observe their affluence from the road in a solemn wonder, staring at the fruits of capitalism. In no way am I critical of the extravagancy these people enjoy, for the most part they earned their living and consequently elicit respect from my envious gaze. Living in the area we do, Chagrin Falls, upper-middle to upper class living hardly makes me bat an eye anymore, just a way of life. However, this past spring break I traveled to the epicenter of the one percent, ground zero of  opulence, pinnacle of the american dream: Malibu, California. Mansions and Porsches that left me in envy here gave way to oceanside villas and Bugattis there. Hence, I found myself in a bit of a stupor driving down the Pacific Coast Highway getting passed by Ferraris with massive sprawls of gated estates and the pristine beaches competing for my attention. I sat there picking up my jaw from the floor so frequently my arms became sore. These people have, with no exaggeration, everything. Now I understand the implications of this claim: "Oh but I'm sure they are not truly happy", or "They could have depression". Surely their lives must lack some aspect that could help alleviate the sheer jealousy of those driving past the massive sprawls of their beachfront property. Yet, when I went for a stroll on the beaches, passing by the owners of these lavish palaces and fast cars, all of them had a vitality in their eyes that only a sense pure contentment could bring. These people possessed this incredible lack of worry and consternation to my sheer disbelief. However, where most find themselves cringing with jealousy, prying their perfection for a downfall, a kink in their armour, I found myself studying them, their mannerisms, the way they carry themselves. Yes, instead of envy my consciousness honed in on interest, instead of disgust I felt inspiration. The CEO’s, entrepreneurs, and inventors walking alongside me on this beach did in fact have it all. But, they took the same strides as I, they kicked up the sand the same way I did, their hair blew in the wind the same as mine. This parade of success on Zuma beach struck home a precious thought: these people are only human. Sure, I do not know their life story, how they acquired their profound achievement, but I do know that within myself awaits a lustful ambition much akin to what must reside within their own minds. The only thing standing in between my life at a desk job working a nine to five, and diving into an infinity pool overlooking the Pacific: the key to unlock the ambition stowed away within my mind, within all of our minds, and forge it into fruition. To find the key, one must simply find a motivation, an inspiration, and for me that rests within my memories of staring in awe at the vigor of the successful. Thus, I do not look back to the shores of Malibu with a passive longing for the lives of those I walked next to on that beach. But rather, I think back to that pristine shoreline confident that someday I will strut through that same sand which instilled in me inspiration, with a smile of contentment upon my face, knowing I made it. Does that sound a little overconfident? It might, but it not matter, for I have found the key, and the journey starts here.

The Great Gatsby: A Great Conspiracy

Hardly ever do I encounter profound epiphanies, they seem quite rare in their timing and presence, but then again that probably constitutes their profundity. Furthermore, the categorization of an epiphany varies for many and usually encompasses a life altering revelation, maybe at lest a temporarily ameliorating or devastating thought. However, today during the last thirty seconds of my ever awakening first period AP English class an epiphany struck me with the force of a Mack truck t-boning a Smart car. What if Nick's luck of moving into a proverbial "shack" so seemingly different from all other houses in the area, mansions of sorts, took place at the hand of the mysterious Gatsby himself? Does not it seem suspicious that this man with no prevalent reputation lands a house right next to the vast estate of the fantastic Mr. Gatsby? However outlandish this may seem, and however idiotic I may look to many of my peers who unlike myself have read this classic already, it may just come to fruition. For instance, a questionable deal lands an astray Nick Carraway next to Mr. Gatsby in the first place reflecting on how an unnamed young man "suggests [they] take a house together" (3). Normal, yes, but at the last minute "a firm ordered him to Washington" (3). Thus, I believe Gatsby played a hand in that young associate of Nick's convincing him to move right next to him, where he would remain at the disposal of Mr. Gatsby, who we found out in our last reading desperately needs the help of Nick. How seemingly perfect to have Mr. Carraway, the key to reaching Daisy, quite literally at his doorstep. Now, before jumping to conclusions that all of this seems a conspiratorial claim one must account for the resourcefulness of Gatsby as seen in chapter four. He feverishly searches for Daisy, cutting out newspaper clippings of her in the Chicago newspapers, eventually moving into an incredibly expensive mansion just across the bay from her. Therefore, Gatsby obviously has no reason not to do research to find a connection with Daisy in the form of Nick he could use to bridge the abyss that grew between him and his lost love. The idea that the same man that has cities like "Chicago calling him on the wire" and "lived...in all the capitals of Europe" (48, 65) possess the ability to pull strings in such a manner to track and influence an average man from the Midwest does not seem so brash. Finally, the finishing touch on my pseudo-revolutionary epiphany comes with the motivation that backs his drive to perform all of theses tasks to get to woman across the bay. What more could a man with seemingly everything, money, cars...hydroplanes want? Maybe he wants the one material possession that can complete structure of his happiness: love. The one thing he can not purchase with money or influence he can not have, and thus he channels his ambition, I would say more-so than greed, to put Nick under his influence, and acquire that which lays just beyond his reach, the green light across the bay, his own american dream, love.

The Redefinition of an Undefinable Word

Happiness, yes, my entire class probably detests the word now thanks to its fervent over usage in discussions, writings and homework as of late. The word itself so seemingly bland and overdone yet so inherently inexplicable. Not a single person could paste a concrete and universal definition to those three syllables. However, I find solace in Albert Camus' take on the elusive noun: "You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life". Although Camus may seem a hopeless pessimist based upon this quote, I can not help but find this cynical outlook on happiness...eye-opening. Oddly enough, it makes perfect sense: if one plagues themselves with searching for happiness, how could they know when they finally obtain it? Unfortunately, I have absolutely no possible answer to that question, at all. And more importantly, why should I? The way I see it, nobody should possess the ability to answer such a conundrum. To give happiness a criteria parallels the absurdity of giving fun a strict set of rules. Thus, happiness itself must remain untethered. However, people do not seem to like such ambiguity when it comes to emotions, as far as society concerns themselves they either come in black or white. And, therein lays the problem, in order for society to feel comforted they must have the ability to categorize themselves as happy. For some it could come with a new car, for others something as simple as going for a walk around the block on a warm night. Yet, both extremes seem to always long for what the other has that makes them happy. The wealthy man, sitting in their new Porsche may see the walker with his kids strolling the block, on that warm summer night, smile on his face, and then long for that, just wanting to lay low and take a walk with his own family. On the contrary, those who find joy in a warm breezy night walking, hand in hands with their kids may long for the delicacies of life, maybe that Porsche that just drove by. Evidently, happiness comes differently for each and every one of us, and we must relish in what we know we have that brings a smile to our faces, not longing for what brings a grin to the faces of others. As Mr. Camus might agree, one must cherish their own treasures in life as opposed to wishing to experience the bounty of others, not in a selfish way but in revolutionary way, rewrite what happiness means to society, and tailor it around what it means to you.

An Examination of the Specimen Known as: "The New Kid'

The new kid, we all can picture him: quiet, shooting quick grins at his new peers who still appear so foreign. You know, the kid aspiring to find his place, working diligently to play it cool,  fit in, yet always managing to make an utter fool of himself. Ah yes, the wonders of the ever elusive new student, an interesting specimen, one that I have a special familiarity with, after all, I walked through the front doors of Chagrin Falls middle school as one myself not too long ago. Switching schools does not come with ease, as I discovered quite rapidly. Packing up my belongings, trading familiarization for uncharted territories. Free falling took on a whole new meaning when I dove into the abyss and  left behind my closest comrades while embarking on a new and furtive chapter in my life to the "bubble" of Chagrin Falls. My journey only entailed a 20 minute drive from Shaker Heights, but to me, I might as well have crossed an ocean. Yes, I will admit it, I whined, complained and wanted to return to my roots on Van Aken Boulevard, however my displacement in no way trumps that of the amiable Joseph in Roddy Doyle's 2008 short story New Boy. Whilst we did in fact share the same label of a "new boy" at one point in our lives that seems to act as the only similarity myself and the African Refugee share. However, when reading about Joseph's predicament's on his first day of school I found myself humbled by the way he handles his predicaments. While I did not exactly come to face death threats from obnoxious bullies on my first day of school down at the "prestigious" Chagrin Falls Middle School I did manage to stumble with pronouncing my last name for some profound reason, nerves I suppose. Although a menial mistake, I let it wrench at my inner consciousnesses  For the next four days I convinced myself everyone thought I rivaled that of a dunce, an overreaction of course but what could a thirteen year old do to tell himself otherwise? I still look back upon that first week and think that there existed no better way to have handed that situation, even though I handled it poorly, until the humble and naive Joseph proved me otherwise. When confronted with a situation, exponentially more dire than my own, a simple "you're dead" from the class bully Christian Kelly, young Joseph simply brushes it off thinking "all men must grow and...die" (82). A profoundly simple thought, all men must grow up, and all of us will eventually die, although his naivety obviously plays a role in his oddly unconcerned reaction he did in fact teach me a valuable lesson. While I fretted over a matter so simple , yet so ludicrously complicated thanks to my worry over what others think, Joseph simply takes matters where they stand, not over analyzing, just an innocent interpretation of an empty threat. I now realize, although five years too late, that through the same innocence and simplification, nobody even knew the right way to pronounce my name, and more importantly, nobody cared. Thus, Joseph left me with a clear understanding that sometimes a tinge of naivety fused with a little simplicity, can make the first day of school's problems, and life in general a little more bearable for us new kids.

The Ethical Divide: An Inquiry Upon Justification Versus Meaning

The discussion which our class shared over "The Second Bakery Attack" by Haruki Murakami still weasels its way into my thoughts every now and then, particularly concerning the subject of whether or not the robbery the couple partakes in constitutes necessity. For the most part my class stood on fairly even planes regarding the issue, around half of us, including myself, contending that the robbery saves their still infantile love, others leaning back upon robbery's immoral values. I however could not let go of the highly blurred moral line between the two, and how my peers and I seemed to support something so inherently wrong with such vehemence  The illegality of armed robbery does not ever come into mind as something that deserves further inquiry, yet, the severity of the robbery in the case of the troubled lovers does not seem comparable to that of such a crime. Therein, lays the point of contention. The issue with the discussion rests within the fact that the author wrote the story under the genre of fiction, fiction represents a theme, a lesson learned behind the story, and that seemed to have escaped the thoughts of those who only saw the robbery as illegal. These contenders kept retreating to the grounds of robbery's horrid nature, the illegality  the sheer horror! Yet, the author obviously did not intend to pen a short story with the purpose of simply condemning robbery. I believe the sincerity behind the robbery that arose thanks to their adventure breeds a new found intimacy among the two lovers. Thus, the author intends for the immoral characteristics of robbery to take a spot on the back burner and for the reader to simply look at the profound change within the couple's relationship and not spend so much time focusing on the crime itself. Accordingly, some of peers could not seem to grasp that concept over the injustice of the couple's misadventure. Therefore, I think that the author raises an interesting assertion by simply leaving the story open for the reader's discussion as so happened in my class. The assertion that the justification of right and wrong trumps the freedom of thought to interpret the meaning of what lays between the two. The salvaging love versus the robbery's ethical wrongness falls into this grey area and presented it's relevance to his assertion in our discussion. Thus, I can reflect on the confliction between the two standpoints as a prime example of how the author's assertion demonstrates itself in the minds of my generation. The sharp contrast between the two camps of thought among my peers, proving just how differently our synapses fire when it comes to justifying something so concrete as robbery, to something to abstract as love.

The Case of the Missing Theme

If I had a chance to sit down with the Pulitzer Prize winning author Elizabeth Strout I would have several inquiries in which I would like to see answered. However, one such question regarding her 2008 novel Olive Kitteridge has meddled itself into my thoughts since finishing the book and even during the story itself. "What is the overall theme of your novel"? It seems such a basic, shallow, and unspecific question however I can not seem to pinpoint an overall purpose for the story. The brunt of the issue lays within the way Strout writes: thirteen separate stories within themselves each with ostensibly little to no underlying connections with one another. Aside from basic plot developments connecting from one story to the next unearthing a carrying over theme seems nearly hopeless. Given, each story has its own set theme which presents itself without much need for analyzation. For instance, the theme of Ship in a Bottle: "sometimes one has to sacrifice what they think is right choice for the betterment of others". Strout proves this theme when Winnie's sister runs off with her boyfriend instructing Winnie not to tell anyone. Consequently, Winnie "almost cried" due to her yearning to tell her parents, and second guessed herself thinking "they could still do it [get her sister], she was still here" (197). However, Winnie does not give it up until her sister had already left, validating the theme. Likewise, other passages have their individual themes, take A Different Road  for example, Strout includes an individual theme of how "One needs to cherish everyday because anything can happen". This exemplifies itself in how quickly a normal day turned into a life or death situation for Olive. When at the hospital for a surprise check-up "A tall man holding a rifle" and a "person in a blue ski mask" take her and her husband hostage (113). They end up making it out alive but not after they have guns pointed at their heads and threats made, this external conflict supports the theme associated once more exemplifying how each story has its own theme. However, therein lay the problem for me. I could not help but search for a connection, a vague similarity, I expected that the last story would provide some sense of closure. Unfortunately the last story seems to posses its own theme as well. Not to mention no connecting of the characters or events took place at the end either which I could bear, but still the question keeps nagging me. Without a universal theme, however ambiguous, how can there be a true purpose? So please Elizabeth Strout, drop me a hint here, what did you intend for the universal theme? Unless each individual theme somehow harnesses a purpose which I have yet to ascertain.

Ovations for Olive

During the first third of Elizabeth Strout's 2008 novel Olive Kitteridge I harbored a slight resentment towards the pseudo main character Olive due to her seemingly insensitive behavior. For example, when in the presence of company, her husband Henry accidentally knocks ketchup over, and she sneers: "Leave it alone, Henry. For God's sake" (7). Olive's derisive tone through the commanding diction of "leave it" makes for quite an uncomfortable situation for her guests. Not only does this spout of anger leave her one guest "looking stricken" but it also indirectly characterizes Olive as spastic but it also forms a slightly menacing persona for her (7). Likewise, my disdainful feelings towards Olive arose once again when at her son's wedding a sobbing sister-in-law asked Olive if she cried at weddings to which olive replied "I don't see any reason to cry" (67). The juxtaposition of a seemingly crass Olive against her emotional counterpart furthers Olive's seemingly cold and inhumane persona. Thus, I could not help but hold a standoffish  mentality against Olive and her sheer apathy for others . However, further on in my reading I began to notice my feelings for her evolve into more of an appreciation for her cynical tones and realistic outlooks on life due to signs of her not being so tough and insensitive after all . For instance, when Olive finally spends time with Chris in New York City she could "not let go of a certain happiness inside her" (220). Strout indirectly characterizes Olive as upbeat, dare I say, jovial and she has finally began to shed her persona of a dispassionate hermit. Olive's dynamic character delves into so many levels, but through this "happiness inside her" she seems to embody a characteristic which every other character has had from the beginning: emotion. I can not help but crack a smile knowing Olive finally has something to smile about herself.  Likewise, the unfamiliar personality of Olive arises again when Rebecca recollects that Olive had told her "If you ever want to talk to me about anything", she could (242). The reassuring tone via the friendly diction of "anything" shines Olive in a light unlike any before, Strout interestingly reveals Olive's gentle and compassionate side through another characters story instead of through Olive's own dialogue. Furthermore, Strout indirectly characterizes Olive as benevolent, a characterization which I had never expected to associate with her, especially back during her days as a school teacher. I am now beginning to believe that Olive has a tough exterior but under her thick figure and allegedly horrid dresses lies a warm, wise person enduring a struggle to uphold her facade as a resilient and tenacious woman.

Conservative Charazterization

The main characteristic that makes Elizabeth Strout's 2008 novel Olive Kitteridge shed the visage of a painfully average book would undoubtedly be the vast amount of characters present in the story. Not only does Strout introduce fresh new characters each chapter but she also paints the characters in their own unique image abstractly detailing them within sometimes just a few sentences. Thus, Strout provides the reader with an opportunity to make accurate assumptions about the characters without spending countless pages describing them all. For example, when introducing Henry Kitteridge Strout simply states that he "Retired now" and how he "wakes early as though the world were his secret" (3). Whilst this may not seem like much Strout says so much about Henry's character which I can easily interpret. For instance, the direct characterization of Henry as a retired man indicates he has quite a few years under his belt  which could give me the sense of him as a decrepit old man. However, by including the simile about Henry's mornings seving as "his secret" Strout gives the apparent husband to Olive Kitteridge a slightly whimsical and friendly charm. Furthermore, Strout indirectly characterizes Henry as innocent and almost child-like through having his own little "secret" time alone with the world. Although this might all seem like an opinion, it holds true later on in the story when Henry exemplifies his inferred friendly and innocent persona by  inviting his employees over for dinner, or having the "need to keep everyone content" (4). Likewise Strout's ability to  inadvertently describe a character furthers itself when first discussing how Christopher's new wife Suzanne "will take over...coming from money the way she does" (63). On the surface Strout seems to only indirectly characterize her as wealthy. However by saying this through the often accusatory tone of Olive Kitteridge I am led to infer that she posses the qualities of a spoiled brat. Furthermore, the foreshadowing of Suzannanne "taking over" Christopher's life led me to believe she will act as more of an omen to Olive and Henry rather than a loving daughter-in-law. Again, my inferences thanks to Strout's open-ended characterization of Suzanne as a control freak prove accurate once more when Chris tells his mom that "Suzanne and I are moving to California" (142). Through Strout's ability to develop a persona through only a sentence or two I have come to appreciate the vast amount of characters that I would otherwise detest due to the prospect of memorizing them all.