Bloggin' about the same old same old

Remember, kids - I am blogging against my will!



TODAY, WE WILL DISCUSS DRUGS. YUMMY DRUGS! REMEMBER, KIDS, DON'T DO DRUGS! STAY IN SCHOOL...AND DO DRUGS. :)






It is not an addiction, but a necessity, to become the person on the inside who I contain within, and that can not be done alone, no sir or madam, it cannot. It is now mandatory to release this being, the cancer in my blood, the mentally unhealthy vision of myself, a true monstrosity among the of mankind and its critical outlook. We, Hyde and Jekyll, live as two but feed as one on my brain matter, brawling over control of the body. The potion has fabricated a parasitic organism, and I am its host, drained of freedom to choose my fate. The face of Mr. Hyde is burned, branded into the creases and wrinkles of the diaphanous original, where pain of continuity has aged me so. Should one want to live forever? As a man leading a star-crossed double life, one phase in which I am dead already, I am uncertain which road is safe. Despite this inevitable fate indicating loss in a near future, I must alternate to give myself rest, but soon, the drug will lead me into either a graceful angelic state in which I am saved from the curse of humanity, or the better deserved and more realistic banishment from where I already survive half-heartedly in exile. I take the solution in regularly to shift from one man to another. A ritual like this completes my life, rather the two sides of it I have. I do not sleep. I work by day as Dr. Jekyll, and when his time is done, Mr. Hyde releases himself from the tragic tugs and pulls of everyday life. Arbitrary in direction, with of a multiplicity of powers, they control who I am and conduct the stressors of my life, propelling me into a redundant reflective prospect of duality. Every day, I lead the same two lives, as they both continue in their pointless endeavors. Acceptance bleeds out of me and my blood boils down to solid deposits of curds, as it is not enough to appreciate who I am in my indigenous flesh. I have no home inside my own body. Completely and truly, I represent a heartless, soulless, mindless freak, but no one connects the dots between the personas. Perhaps that matter is for the best. Duality in a state loose of sanity is far below sacred. Is it that they are too foolish to understand, or are other men in the white-collar industry afraid to know the truth? Of me, the truth is simple. I am not one, but two. If I am a best friend to you, so is the grim Mr. Hyde whom you hate and fear. I feel a belonging in this mortal body's flesh encasing, but the true spirit and mind I hold has distinct halves. Juxtaposing the two, none is greater than the other, but the less fortunate twin does not hold the burdens endured throughout the daytime. My solitary desire is to make people understand, withstand and behold the disgrace that is my inner self, Mr. Hyde. He hides behind a curtain of grief, concealing his face in the light because what is seen as his face cannot be captured as beautiful, but in the darkness, there is nothing to hide. I grow dependent on this drug in a desperate hunger to feast when I famine, to make me become who I chose. It is involuntary to want this potion's aid now. I created it, yet it creates me and controls me so. A virulent concoction dictates my fate from the morning to twilight. The brew tastes so strong. It satisfies my need to be someone of the ground level of self-medication, but I also need this crutch like a drug. Habitual intake has become integral as to me is breathing in air, yet unlike breathing, the process isn't subconscious; I can perceive it. In harmony with breathing, I do it all the time - in my sleep, when I wake, and as long as my heart continues beating, I will alternate between these two indefinitely temporary forms. Duplicity like mine is vapid and void of enjoyment of the singular blisses in noncontiguous life.

JH + 3 vocab words (no thesaurus)

From birth-no, long before it-I was not one fetus, but two separate twins. My mind's eye had a cross, a twitch if you will, and growing up in a proper home with a quality education, curiosity began to brew inside me at a level unlike I've ever known was normal to a man before, so I attempted to conceal this evil identity by bringing it to the outside. With a swig of a concoction, I reversed my flesh from the inside-out to display the true monstrosity within. The skin I am in is really only diaphanous; it is so paper-thin, it cannot contain neither the physical no spiritual bounds that do not stop my volatile sanity from shattering the fourth wall into sparkling miniscule shards.

The thirst for blood was overwhelming in this troglodytic state. I was me, but only less...me, yet I was so much more. While others loathed my vulgar appearance, I didn't care, nor did I want to belong with the rest of society. Society should travel down my path, for society does rule the world! Feeble society should join me, for it is so much better to unleash all the wrath, to feel the cold knife bleed through a human's gut, to be free without the goodness of heaven, to have no judgment from such a deity.

Nevertheless, I am still encouraged to become Dr. Jeckyll again, the austere man with inner flaws that I hide under masquerade. I am propelled to live in this self again because not only is it who I am by default, but while I may creep about freely in the night in my double life, the hunger to be loved overwhelms my gut no matter how emotionally vapid I may devolve myself. Friends in this real realm would take a bullet for me, cross a bridge of one thousand miles to visit me, and make a vast array of ludicrous actions without hesitation that I'd shy away from in even less of an instant. To be loved is not to love, but it is to be needed, and to love is to need another. I grow dependent on those around me to do as little as to keep me alive and breathing. A person as minute and grotesque as Mr. Hyde will never find acceptance in a modern world, nor will he be happy, but he is chaotic and wild and free and satisfied, but what satisfaction is elicited by evil? The answer is the curiosity is unleashed among society, for it to fear and hypnotize. Enchanting, enticing call to the dismal side of life is inevitable, while we push it back and resist, keeping our lives in order. Blackness beneath my ribcage stays a part of me that even I do not accept as my true form. Perhaps that acceptance as a unity rather than duality reveals the key that will save my life rather than another dose of toxic potion.

Jeckyll And Hyde: 3 (Not Serious!!!)

Mr. Hyde was so ugly that everyone died.

The End.

Jeckyll Hyde and things

First off, I really like the way Jeckyll is spelled. I want that for a last name so badly, I'm beginning to sound serious.

And now for something totally different.

This poem is called Grotesque.

Grotesque

Inexplicable
Freak
The monster from within
The feeling from the darkness that lives inside his skin
It haunts me
It bites me
Yet I'll never know
The mystery that covers up the rage that binds me so





I'm supposed to be doing this for an hour, so now for filler.
Play us out, Johnny!

LoTF Creative Response William Golding style portrayal

I am posting this to kind of hide some of the crummier middle school things.
This is about an atheist scientist who mathematically disproves the existence of a God (I am not an atheist; so many people assume this!!!!!)
Out of everything I've ever written, this is my best work.

My day begins when I wake up. According to the clock, I’m late for the assembly in the stadium where I talk to more people about more crap I knew that everyone else was too stupid to realize a month and a half ago. Without taking a shower, I hurriedly pick a suit that’s not even nice to wear and rush through my ill fated morning. Right leg through right pant leg, left leg through left pant leg. Actually, I don’t even know if that’s it because I didn’t pay attention to which side of the pants the tag was on. Erasing that from my mind, I conclude that I just need to get out of the door, and all that matters is if I went to the bathroom or not.

The hazy sky looks about as pale as the terrain. It appears that today, the sun was also a late sleeper. With a sigh, I venture outside and bring the window scraper with me. The real Elwood Boyle still feels tired, still hibernating in that luxurious king-sized bed chamber. I begin the loathsome process of vehicle preparation in the chilly winter season. My fingers freeze, almost as if the blood inside the veins across my fingers is becoming solid, despite that I am wearing high-maintenance gloves. Although I cannot waste any more time, I sit down inside the SUV, warming my digits, seeing little harm in the situation. As I do this, I think to myself and evaluate the consequences of this dawn. Part of me decides that I should just forget what I’m doing if there’s nothing in the day that I should care about.

I shut off the heat and silence the car engine. If I had kept going, I could have arrived there only fifteen minutes behind schedule. There was no purpose, no potential at all in organizing this speech. The itinerary planned for today was my last concern. I wedge my hands in my pockets and walk up the driveway in a position as if I am wearing a straightjacket. I glance in the attended portion of the car’s front window, questioning the mirrored perspective. It emulates my solitary gait with taunting detail. I want demolish that posing reflection.

This impulsive violent idea entices my feeble patience. I access the garage and meet paths with a small industrial hammer. Quickly, I return to my neglected vehicle. With endless frustration, I let out a loud cry and break the useless, mocking windshield. Triangular pieces of glass encased in robes of frost shatter and sparkle like snowflakes. These elegant shards sparkle with beauty and reflect the sun that has just begun to arise between parting clouds. I keep smashing the edges the windshield with remaining unbroken material, only hungering for more to destroy. My breath is heavy and visible in the low temperature. On my left wrists, a few cuts had formed on that were imperceptible at the moment I took them in. Some blood pools inside of them, and I respond by licking my dry thumb and rubbing them to soothe the pain, albeit mild.

A nimble rabbit spots me in this noisy scene, takes interest, judges me, and scurries away. Why is that an archetypal instinct to attempt flight from the inevitable death of such a petite, powerless creature? In its last few moments of life, why does it choose to run in fear when death is only a few creeping moments away from capture? Has the hare ever thought to be bold and stand straight in its still structure, in all its glory, for its final breath? Why does it continue to run when there is no escape?

I unlock the door, walk through house, listening to the lonely echoes of my footsteps and observing the clouded dirty watermarks my shoes leave on the perfect floor. Finally, I reach the lavender bedroom. The colors sing me back to sleep. I hear them, and I can hear nothing else. It is as if I lie down in this world alone and solitary in a state of flux, numb and half-awake, resting until the world’s end awakens me, serving as some sort of figure to be glanced at and then passed by like a statue in an important museum exhibit. My imagination no longer inhabits my body as it drifts off into space for what seems like eternity. In my bed I lay for hours, not dreaming of anything at all besides an empty slumber. Perhaps this is how it would feel to be—

A strident alarm abruptly intercepts my reverie. It’s my cellular phone. Lazily reaching over, I realize that it is Lucius who called me. As common courtesy, I return his call. The line barely rings before he picks up. I listen, not quite wide awake, to his rambunctious rambling.

Lucius scolds, “Elwood, are you on your way? I haven’t seen your SUV yet, and they’re all here. They’re all waiting for you.”

In a tired monotone, I respond, “Tell them I’m not coming.”

“What?! People have driven from miles, and you know you’re very responsible. These people are magnets, and they are attracted to you and your discoveries. You’ve corrected their vision from the mirage we’ve believed since history was documented on paper. They’ve flocked like birds to our assembly to hear your reasoning. Only you can do this, Elwood.”

“No. You’re more qualified.”

“Is this some kind of joke? What would you expect me to do?”
“Tell them to pray.”

“But you’ve proven-“

“All I’ve proven is that if there ever was a God, we—No, I killed Him. I am not coming because no one is coming for me. They are coming to hear a requiem for their savior. The only faith humanity had, I’ve tried to drive away by striving for too much knowledge. I finally understand it now. Having something to tell us right from wrong, somewhere to whisper your hopes to, a well for your greatest wishes, strength to overcome life-destructing hindrances and obstacles… That tome of oracles they call the Bible is just as important as any laws of physics or numbers. Religion isn’t about what’s created how and what isn’t. There is no contradiction that religion makes the human a more delicate, domestic, docile being. Lucius, you are a holy man. You’ve been trained to preach and to make people pray. In a time like this, there’s not another option. Now, go show them what you can do. Even I will chant with you…in prayer…pleading for forgiveness for making a fool out of myself. Our race needs to be saved.”

“So surely, it would take some effect into the crowd and regain faith?”

“Surely… Why do words of such assertion smack so much uncertainty when spoken? Not surely, Lucius. Assuredly. Assuredly, our God will return for us. When he does, I, too, will come back a new man.” A bit of short silence follows this.

“Okay.”

I hang up. His final words fully confirm to me that he believes and understands me like a true companion. Wise men need not ask questions. Wise men perform actions. I was a smart man. I am ready to become wise.

I get on my knees and bite my lip.

“Can you hear me?” I mutter in a sheepish tone. I know that the motionless air in the master bedroom that I speak to will not provide coherence. I reiterate my statement louder, almost shouting, my voice cracking like a fissure. Emotions inside of me react virulently from my heavy past burdens and disbeliefs that have disgraced the world. They are exiled from my body and exit my mind and soul condensed as sincere salty crystalline tears through my true, lucid blue eyes.

Bittersweet flavors of this moment fade the colors of the scenery to a somber grayscale and decrescendos natural sounds to null. Everything is sucked into a vortex of silence like a vacuum. It allowed me to meditate internally and only focus on one thing in my mind. Although nothing else is present in the room besides me, it seems like the air and all swathed in it was providing something its full attention, waiting for any response, whether it would be the quiet dropping of a pin or a big man barging through the fancy door.

Suddenly, some power, some slow-pulsed frequency in my mind tells me that there is a very subdued presence in distant skies. I put my palms together and believe. I put all my trust in that starving, neglected slice of modernly forbidden hope. With all of my might, willing to sacrifice every material asset to my glorified name for one chance to regain prosper, even if everything isn’t enough, I prepare my position.

I pray.

Remembering Sunday (short story HE10)

Michaela was the smile on my face when it was storming outside. Every time the skies turned gray, as if it were about to thunder, she would call me to her house to listen quietly. In my older age, when I hear a storm, I hear the calm ringing of her voice as I remember my childhood and the downhill years that followed, but she always seemed to keep me happy enough.

She sat me down for breakfast: two eggs and a cup of coffee. Her home emitted a very classic mood. The curtains were a vintage green checker plaid, and the dining table was made from pine wood with a satin tablecloth with lace trimmings. No matter how cozy and warm her shelter may be, what really gives the place its glow was Michaela’s warm, peaceful heart. Her smile lit up the room. Unfortunately, Sunday morning was the last time I would see it.

The death of her parents had visibly aged the pitiful creature, although was only in her mid-twenties. Slowly, the youthful smile that enticed me to befriend Michaela dissolved, evaporated, and faded away, just as I did from her life. It was time for the move. My parents had packed up all of our belongings. I hadn’t played with Michaela for almost a month now, but my feelings drove me to knock on the door. Her grandmother opened the door, insisting that she wasn’t home. A droopy look masqueraded my face. My footsteps heavy, I sulked to mom’s truck and got inside. I didn’t say a word for the rest of the long car ride to Minnesota. I acknowledge this departure had branded incessant grief to Michaela like it had to me. Much too hard it is to bite the prospect that her own invisibility and silent weeping had met her with a terrible fate.

I still can’t forget her. No matter how hard I try to move on, her bright, warm face invasively tugs at my mind and heartstrings. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on. The piercing blue-green lake in her eyes made a rainbow appear less lively in juxtaposition. I had to see my friend again, even if my life depended on it. Every time she crossed my mind, I’d feel the sweet but sour essence of mixed feelings and corrupted interpretations of past mementos. Tonight, there is nothing more to do, or to think about, in isolation, so I do the only thing I can. I rest myself, bringing my body onto a drifting cloud where there is no past, present or future; nothing, calmness, but a fantasy show that unrolls itself before my mind’s eye.

In my dream, we were there again. We were back in the warm house where we used to play together. Nostalgic scenery crowded her bedchamber. The scents of pine and oak and other rustic odors alerted my nostrils. It all seemed to short and simple to be a dream. I am not a lucid dreamer, but I’ve never had that firm grasp on reality where I could draw a line between what’s rational and what’s not.

I returned to the little house on Park Street where I spent my childhood. I was going to find Michaela Hill. I rapidly knocked on the door, my fist slamming, demanding a response, or at least an echo. The place seemed a bit beat-up. The air of somber flavors filled my nostrils. Something had happened here. An old woman with a resemblance to Michaela answered the door, and told me that she had moved away. I nodded and thanked her as she sat down in a rocking chair in front of a television that, oddly enough, was not powered on. Soon after, it began to drizzle, but I did not quicken my pace even as the precipitation grew heavy. I let it wash the fear from my face, but it did not wash the memories out of my hair or out of my mind. My desperate endeavor to find my true love was a treacherous journey. I haven’t been sober for three days. The breeze, more like forceful gusts of wind trying to steer me away from my mission, was of a very frigid wind chill and nipped at my unprotected digits. Still, I pressed on. I continued walking until I became lost, unable to retrace my steps back home.

I’d lost track of the days that I was looking for this girl. I carry a picture of her with me and nothing else. From time to time, I will ask passersby if they have seen my Michaela. Some say yes, some say no. By now, I would consider myself homeless. Winter has begun, so I found myself two gloves from separate pairs lying on the streets of a small market town that I frequent.

I ventured into nowhere again, foolishly, without food. I again collapse under tears, and soon drowned in salt all hope of the mission. However, I saw my Michaela at last. I was dizzy and weak, but I saw her, nice and young and beautiful again. I had grown old, weary, and stressed, but she was as beautiful as always. She was dressed warm and comfortable. The chills make me weary, but if any malefactor were to come of it, I would be safe from all harm. The snow had become a friendly fire to me, and I learned to bask in its blanketing just like the planet. I managed to hold one mitten-encased hand, vaporizing as if it was a translucent figure, but then I slipped into the snow. I fell asleep. Yet I am nothing more than alive, than I am that emptiness is one of the instinctive responses of the unconscious mind – one of the vile inevitable consequences, or feints, which give style to the deployment of failure.

Better poem

You know how I said I can't write a serious poem? Well, thanks to my daily dosage of 60 milligrams 'o Vyvanse, I can. Haha! Haha! Haha!

So anyway, I chose to write a Megan-style prolonged poem in preparation for the poetry unit (which we may or may not do) last night. I tried to incorperate a lot of romantic symbolism into this one, and some more metaphors and symiles and such. And by the way, NO THESAURUS. I never use a thesaurus. It's all from my big vocabulary! You know, isn't there a lot of ironyin the sense that I was in WordMasters, Write Away, a handful of spelling bees, and I got sat down here in normal-level Language Arts? Well, at least I have an Honors reccomendation for next year, but so does every other kid, so screw me feeling special. Anyway, here is my ten-minute masterpiece. Please do comment, and enjoy.

Behold.


Emotional Roller Coaster

I wake up in a silver car
On a coaster I’ve seen somewhere before
I don’t know how I got here,
But this is where I am.
Seatbelt won’t eject
Can’t see where the tracks end
We’re going for a ride.
It’s traveling up the hill
Moving a little slowly
Still don’t really know where I am
A familiar face next to me
He says “hello”
That boy is a beautiful swan
Long pale arms like tree branches
Lengthy blonde hair past his shoulders
And eyes a pale blue like the morning’s clouds
Just as we reach the top,
The sun starts to set
Maybe I’ll stay here for a minute
I look at the boy
When our gaze locks, he looks away
I do the same in disgust
Is it for myself or the boy?
Too late to think now,
We are dropping fast
Hold on tight
Feel the adrenaline
It burns so much, but I feel like I need it
It distracts me from wondering how I got here
It’s short but sweet
Painful at the same time
But now it’s over
The boy leans in for a kiss
We turn our heads to the right
Getting closer
Roller coaster turns right
Our heads butt instead.
Roller coaster turns left
He cuts me with a knife.
From a pocket, he pulls a bandage
His touch is so soft
It makes the stinging evaporate to mist
But now we’re going upside down
I close my eyes tight
I feel a sensation
Halfway through the loop, I drop from my seat
Never felt anything more painful.
The ride comes to a halt
Allowing me to get back onWithout hesitation, I do.
Then I see that there is only one silver car.
The boy isn’t there
Just some luxurious seating
As I step inside, it feels empty
The car starts moving on the tracks
It twists around a couple of times
I feel nothing
Out of thin air, the boy reappears from the shadows
Has he come back for me?
Or maybe to enjoy the ride?
Intensely the roller coaster is zooming forward
I’m scared
The shimmering railing is all I have to hold on to
The emotion that I once hung on to has numbed
I see the boy staring at me again
Now I know where I am.
As soon as I find my sense of direction
The silver tracks continue no more
Now we’re falling
Falling
Falling
Falling
And we never stop

"The People Could Fly" essay

Free Falling

____Have you ever dreamt of flying? In the short African fable “The People Could Fly” by Virginia Hamilton, the people with the purest souls really could fly. The slaves thought that flying was a sacred gift, and the idea soon worked its way into their religion. Even though Virginia Hamilton’s story “The People Could Fly” is a tale of African folklore, it has a lot of spiritual meaning not only to blacks, but to all races as well.
____In this romantic short story, a wise old man from Africa along with many other of his African comrades are taken from their homeland to be slaves in America. The wise and pure knew magic, and had wings like a blackbird's which would enable them to fly. These wings represent freedom. However, when they are taken in to slavery, they are stripped of their freedom, and therefore, their wings. They are forced to live a cruel life where all hope for their race is dead. Sarah, a mother who once possessed the gift of flight, was living her worst nightmare when the Overseer whipped her infant because it was crying. Toby helped her to escape from this evil man’s clutches by instructing her to fly again. “Go, as you know how to go!” he exclaimed, and after Toby chanted some magic words, she flew away from the white Overseer with her beloved baby in her arms. Later, he helped many others fly away from the torture. As the Overseer was about to kill Toby, he used his magic to fly away along with every slave in the plantation. Soaring away to happiness was the life symbolism which appears in the end of literature in the romantic mode.
____Even though “The People Could Fly” is based on African beliefs and myths, it is very similar to the popular religion Christianity. Flying away from the plantation is like going to Heaven. In Christianity, the people who resisted sin and ordained the word of God were accepted into the gates of Heaven, the perfect paradise. Along with that, Toby can be compared to Jesus, the son of God. Like Toby from “The People Could Fly,” Jesus saved innocents from terrible fates with miracles. Even though they are from two very different origins, these two religions are rather similar.
____Another part of African religion that connects to this story is the art of music. According to www.negrospirituals.com, negroes often expressed their faith through hymns, or spiritual songs. Even in modern times, African-Americans sing in Christian Gospels. This is a tradition which started way back in the day. Toby’s magic words “Kum…yali, kum buba tambe” are really from a negro folk song called “Song of Solomon.” This was sung in the slavery period and accurately depicts what Sarah is going through in the story. “Black lady fell down on the ground, kum buba yali, kum buba tambe. Threw her body all around, kum konka yali, kum konka tambe.” There is a good chance that Virginia Hamilton took Sarah’s character and Toby’s chant from this song.
____Black history and the slavery period are very important pieces of the black culture. Even if you are from a different faith or race, you may learn something about life if you analyze the morals carefully. A good place to start is Virginia Hamilton’s “The People Could Fly.”

Transformation ("The Ugly Duckling" essay)

Transformation

____Everybody possesses a quality about themselves that just isn’t right. Your hair might be the wrong color, your feet could be too big, or maybe you stutter whenever you try to speak. As they say, nobody’s perfect. So why do people beat themselves up about these qualities? The answer is simple; so, they can fit in with society. Having trouble fitting in is exactly the situation that the cygnet is stuck in in the story “The Ugly Duckling” by Hans Christian Andersen.
____In this story, the cygnet is born a misfit in a nest of ducks. All the ducklings are prettier than him, and he is treated as an outcast by everyone just because of his physical appearance. Here is where the theme, Man versus Society, comes into play. It is here where society begins to nip at his self esteem.
____Even though it has an ironic theme to it, “The Ugly Duckling” is in the mode of romance. The swan is a romantic symbol which symbolizes transformation, and that is what takes place in this fairy tale. The protagonist, the cygnet, was tortured in his childhood, but he wouldn’t let that get the best of him. He turned out to evolve into a beautiful, respected swan, and swam off with his family in peace. That shows that just because something is wrong with you in your youth, it can change in the future.
____Other stories share this moral as well. In the story Cinderella, a girl is treated like a slave. Everyone hated her, and she never felt beautiful, just like the cygnet. Then she transformed into the most beautiful thing of all! This story compares to The Ugly Duckling a lot because similar things happen to the main character and they’re both romantic fairy tales. However, not only stories can be compared to this story.
____Real-life examples often portray the idea of transformation from the child’s tale. In Prentice Hall’s “Literature,” it is stated that Hans Christian Andersen wrote autobiographies periodically throughout his life. Andersen believed these autobiographies were necessary to display how far he had come. They talked about growing up as a peasant and expressed the struggle achieving success in his later life. This man likes his characters to be individuals, like him. In fact, “The Ugly Duckling” was very symbolic to his life! When he was young, there was so little respect in the world for him because he was considered unattractive. On top of that, he struggled with dyslexia, a reading handicap, while trying to become a writer, but he broke through the strife. He became one of the most famous authors in history. Even though his death occurred thirteen and a half decades ago, his fame and his literature still live in all of us.
____You can easily connect Andersen’s life to his fairy tale “The Ugly Duckling.” For example, the cygnet is unnamed in the fable. This may be because the ugly duckling is really Hans Christian Anderson. That is one of the most important pieces of symbolism in the story. Andersen’s symbolism is the glue that holds the pages together. Who knows? Maybe “The Ugly Duckling” is really another autobiography behind the mask of a fairy tale.
____Almost everybody has heard the age-old saying which says that everybody should be themselves if they want to acceptance in this world. It was that little moral which earned Hans Christian Andersen his long, successful life. All he wanted was to fit in, but when he chose to express himself instead of hiding behind a fake personality, he got more than he bargained for and rose above the rest. Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale “The Ugly Duckling” shows that beauty comes naturally if you accept the person you really are even if nobody else will.

Mythbusters - George Bishops: LEAVE KAITLYN ALONE!

From my YouTube video "Mythbusters - George Bishops". Unfortunately, it cut off during the Leave Kaitlyn Alone part, but I am going to redo it without the explanation of the "contreversy" which pressured me to make the video. This remake will be titled "LEAVE KAITLYN ALONE!" and will be more centered on the video which it is parodied on ("LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!" by Chris Crocker). For example, I will be in a white T-shirt and lying on a tan sheet. Anyway, here is the script.

How dare anyone out there make fun of Kaitlyn after all she’s been through. She went through Grimace, appeared on the internet in a bear mask, and now some guy named George Bishops is claiming to be her boyfriend and she doesn’t even know him. All you people care about is gossip and calling her weird. She’s attention deficit! And what you don’t realize is that Kaitlyn out there making all these lip sync videos for you and all you do is write a bunch of crap about her. She doesn’t even have a Facebook OR a boyfriend. She gives and gives and gives but all you people want is more, more, more, more, more… Leave her alone! You’re lucky she even performed for you! Leave Kaitlyn alone, please. Perez Hilton talked about professionalism and said if Kaitlyn was a professional, she would have pulled it off no matter what. Speaking of “professionalism,” what kind of a professional publicly busts her when she’s going through a hard time? Leave Kaitlyn alone, please. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah Leave Kaitlyn alone RIGHT NOW. I mean it. Anyone who believes George Bishops, you deal with Angry Mitchell, because Kaitlyn is single right now. Leave her alone!

Here is a link to the original video, "Mythbusters - George Bishops": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMylqEM4GJQ

"The Lie" essay

Balance of Order

Kurt Vonnegut portrays a moral society in his short story “The Lie.” He does this by using a private boys’ school as his setting and calls it perfect. This shows that he has a lot of respect for order in this world, because fancy prep schools like the one in this story display a lot of strictness. In fact, the element of order can be found throughout the piece. However, chaos mixes into the story soon, and it causes a lot of trouble for the main character. “The Lie” by Kurt

Vonnegut shows that lying is never the right thing to do.
Whitehill School for Boys is just beginning to accept black students into the mix, and a good example of the order in the story lies here. The white students share no hate or bias against their colored classmates, which shows that they have a lot of self-control. The school’s name, Whitehill, does carry symbolism that whites are what to be expected in this school. Even though there is a lot of order in this piece, chaos is everywhere, and it can’t be stopped. The event of chaos is what makes this story interesting.

What would you do if you were forced to live a lie? In “The Lie,” Eli Remenzel is expected to

attend a school founded by his family. All boys who are members of the Remenzel family have attended this school. The young boy disdains this type of education, but applies anyway because his father believes that is what’s best for him. However, Eli does not pass Whitehill’s acceptance exams. When his father hears of this dreadful news, he rips up his test results and lies to permit his son to attend. Before he does this, the story even labels it as chaos. On page 39, it says “The chaos that followed this statement was not only emotional. It was real as well.”

The reality of this is that lying gets you nowhere in life. Sylvia, Eli’s elegant mother, was scared for her son because she knew of the “hideous trap Eli had caught himself in.” She was definitely right! Eventually, when Mr. Remenzel confesses of his wrongdoings, Eli shows very much resent. He has been hurt; torn at the heart from his trusted parent’s betrayal. Not only did Mr. Remenzel lie to the school board, but he lied to his own son as well. He apologizes to Eli, and promises that he should attend Whitehill no more. With that, the story is over, but if it were continued, it would most likely take Eli a while to forgive his father for his lie.

Chaos and order need balance, but in this story, one man goes too far. He hurts his son deeply with a lie he has forced him to live. In Kurt Vonnegut’s short story “The Lie” teaches that lying is never the answer.

Poem for group

Glowing Soul

Through heaven and hell,
There is a light.
Through thick and thin,
It burns bright.
With its prideful glow,
Passion ignites.
The glow of the soul is the only thing
That guides us through the fog of life.
Everybody loves someone,
If it dies, it cuts like a knife.
However, when all hope is lost,
The soul passes the strife.
Others are found
Safe and sound
Makes you feel whole.
Love and loss are boundaries to cross,
Just follow the glowing soul.

The Necklace Essay by Kaitlyn

In the short story “The Necklace” by the French author Guy de Maupassant, an egotistical woman by the name of Madame Mathilde Loisel envies the rich. Even though she has a kind husband, she takes him along with everything else she has for granted because they aren't high enough class for her. Many women are similar, selfish people just like Mathilde. If they read "The Necklace," maybe they would understand a little more. People need to learn not to be self-absorbed.


Many women today are egocentric, caring for nothing but their own selves. In my life, my grandfather's wife, Ariel O'Hera, is an egotist. She leaves my grandfather to suffer while using his money to buy designer things and travel...WITHOUT HIM! I can compare Ariel to Madame Mathilde Loisel because she is selfish as well. She pushes her huband out of his way so she can get whatever she wants. He got her a ball invitation, but she refused to go unless he bought her a fancy gown. Hadn't he gone through enough trouble already?!? A lot of husbands wouldn't even try to get to the ball. He must have tried for weeks to get invited since they are a mere clerk's family! And when she lost her friend's necklace, it was HIM that did most of the work to pay for a new one. Both of these women are incredibly rude, and don't deserve such kind husbands.

The struggle to afford the nechlace was her fall. Her tragic flaw was being so selfish and foolish, not simply being honest that she had lost it, because soon after her poverty years, Madame Forestier tells her that the neckace was worth only 500 francs, a tiny percentage of what she had paid to replace it! Worst of all, she blamed her suffering on the innocent woman! Envy is not the answer to anyone's problems. As expressed in this short story, it digs you in a deeper hole. Respect that other people are more fortunate than you, and that you are more fortunate than others. Mathilde takes everything for granted. Even ten years of being poor didn't teach her any respect. We don't need stubborn people like her in this world. They are weighing us down; not letting us progress in anything. All they do is try to get their way.

This is in the tragic mode because it follows the mode line. It starts in chaos when Mathilde's husband tries to get her to go to the ball while she refuses to go without luxury. She rises to power when she goes to the ball and is the most beautiful woman there. Her flaw is when she is to self-absorbed to be honest to her friend, and her fall is her poverty. The loss is the loss of 10 years.

Some women in this world are very egotistical and envious. Mathilde Loisel suffered for her egotism, and she deserved it! "The Necklace" shows this. Maybe if the self-centered people read this short story, they would realize that they are wrong and correct themselves before it is too late.

Journal 1/19/10

An example of one of the three short stories my class read for Language Arts that reflects the Man VS Himself theme is the story "The Necklace." In "The Necklace," a woman named Mathilde is very egotistical and envies the rich. Her kind and selfless husband makes a nice gestire to Mathilde and gets her a very rare ball invitation. She makes him buy her an expensive gown, then demands jewels. She ends up borrowing some jewelry from a very high-class friend of hers. She attended the ball with the diamond necklace she had borrowed and lost it after the ball. She and her husband purchased a similar one, which caused them to live in poverty for ten years. Later, the rich lady told her that the necklace she had borrowed was worth far less then the one she and her spouse had replaced it with. Then Mathilde blamed her misfortune on the rich lady! This is clearly themed with Man VS Himself. If Mathilde had not been so egotistical and jelous, she wouldn't have dug herself in this hole. It was a terrible fate.

Writing Goals for Today

For today, I know that I need to expand my ideas. I know I can do this, because I am the most creative person I know!

Journal 1/18/10

In Jack London’s “To Build A Fire,” the ironic theme is “Man VS Wild.” Even though the mode in “To Build A Fire” is tragedy, it shows the theme. The man is trapped in a blizzard and dies. The wild conquers the man. His life is stolen. Jack London adapted this theme perfectly into the story! The other ironic themes are Man VS Man, Man VS Society, and Man VS Himself. Try to see if you can find these themes in other short stories!

Stuff I'm supposed to update about today

Current News Event: A couple snuck into a Thanksgiving dinner party at the White House without an invitation. Jay Leno's reaction? "The last time someone got into the White House that didn't belong there, he stayed for eight years!" Reffering to GWB. LOL.

OMG. THAT WAS A CURRENT NEWS EVENT AND A QUOTE. MULTITANLENTED!

Dictionary.com word of the day: Couture (ooh, that's a good one!)

1. The business of designing, making, and selling highly fashionable, usually custom-made clothing for women.
2. Dressmakers and fashion designers considered as a group.
3. The high-fashion clothing created by designers.

adjective:
1. Created or produced by a fashion designer.
2. Being, having, or suggesting the style, quality, etc., of a fashion designer; very fashionable.

New vocab word of the day:
co·her·ent
adj.
1. Sticking together; cohering.
2. Marked by an orderly, logical, and aesthetically consistent relation of parts: a coherent essay.
3. Physics Of, relating to, or having waves with similar direction, amplitude, and phase that are capable of exhibiting interference.
4. Of or relating to a system of units of measurement in which a small number of basic units are defined from which all others in the system are derived by multiplication or division only.
5. Botany Sticking to but not fused with a part or an organ of the same kind.

Writing goals: Don't have any, this year I've had literally nothing but 100%'s on my papers!

Poem

I think I will be TERRIBLE at this. But I read Sparkles's poem, it was so emotional, so I will attempt to write a sad poem. Attempt to.

WARNING: This is gonna blow. Sheild your eyes!

CEREAL MASCOTS

Trix Rabbit is depressed
For his life is unfair
Because the Lucky Charms Guy
Gets his cereal no matter where
But Trix is for kids
And not for rabbits
And writing terrbible poems
Is now one of his terrible habits

...That was TERRIBLE. I don't know how I thought of that! Don't ask! I thought of a topic randomly, and it was the Lucky Charms guy. That poem was awful. I apoligize.

Forensics Speech

For my un-origional speech, I am doing "LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!" by Chris Crocker. I edited it a little so it would be appropriate. I will sound like I am crying, though. When I was rehearsing, people thought I was crying for real! I am a great actress. I know. This is gonna be great!

Here's my speech.

How dare anyone out there make fun of Britney after all she’s been through. She lost her hair, she went through a divorce, she had two kids, her husband turned out to be a user, a cheater, and now she’s going through a custody battle. All you people care about is readers and making money off of her. She’s a human! What you don’t realize is that Britney is making you all this money and all you do is write a bunch of junk about her. She hasn’t performed on stage in years. Her song is called “Gimme More” for a reason because all you people want is more, more, more… Leave her alone! You’re lucky she even performed for you! Leave Britney alone, please. Perez Hilton talked about professionalism and said if Britney was a professional, she would have pulled it off no matter what. Speaking of “professionalism,” what kind of a professional publicly busts her when she’s going through a hard time? Leave Britney alone, please. Leave Britney Spears alone RIGHT NOW. I mean it. Anyone who has a problem with her, you deal with me, because she’s not well right now. Leave her alone!

People's life struggles

I see that lots of people struggle in life. But I will say this:

The only life worth hating is one spent hating it.

-me