English 1301

I just wrote the funniest essay about writing essays ever written.

Awesome!

I have a follower.

Well, its snowing in Houston (the only place that snowed today, mind you).

“Come now my child, if we were planning to harm you, would we be lurking here beside the path in the very darkest part of the forest?”
- Kenneth Patchen

Stupidity

I sit alone in this crowded room filled with criminals and stoners and degenerates, watching the time pass slowly. The room is silent aside from the sporadic shifting of legs and arms, and the dull hum of the radio that I have now grown accustom to hearing everyday. I sit with only my thoughts that creep in and make my stomach turn: if only I hadn’t said no to him, if only I had watched her better, if only I hadn’t taken those bars. My life changed the day I got sent to alternative school, because it taught me to take responsibility for my impulsive actions.

I could feel the blood pounding from my heart and into my cheeks. My hands clenched into fists and tears streaming down my face. The cause of my disposition was not anger, not despair, not betrayal, but hopelessness. I had all the anger that was previously built up inside of me released at once in a flood of blood to the brain. My friend since birth had betrayed me with the boy that I loved, no less. They had been dating secretly for a month now. Everyone knew about it, so I guess the only secret was hiding it from me. All of our ‘friends’ knew. It just added up at that minute. I had been wondering why everyone was acting strangely, but the answers were no good until the day I found out the true answer to the equation: the betrayal of all my close friends. Ouch. Sitting alone in a bathroom stall, red hot tears found no rest in my eyes. I had just found out from a friend and I was afraid to go to class in fear I might start bawling again. Sleep pervaded me that night and it so consumed me until finally, I needed an escape and I knew exactly where to find it.

The next day, I held the tiny pills in my hands, debating. I needed a release, yes, but was this the way to do it? And in school? It had to be done. Everywhere I looked, a different shade of pain was revealed to me. It had to end immediately. I couldn’t wait till after school. I popped the bars into my mouth, drank some water, and waited. I woke up to people yelling at me in muffled voices, a supreme look of distress of their face.
“She’s breathing!” Someone yelled.
“Oh my god!” Someone else breathed.
I was disoriented for a moment. Wasn’t I just awake? How long had I been out? And how was I going to get out of this situation. I contemplated this as I was carried to the nurse’s office and then set down as a waited for my mother to be called. I think in the course of the thirty minutes it took my mom to arrive, I just about used every excuse in the book as to why I passed out in Algebra. I was taken to the minor emergency center and given a pee test to only further confirm the weight of my decision. Of course, the school was notified and the next day at school, I was promptly yanked out of class to speak with the assistant principal. She informed me that they know my passing out was no accident and that they knew the guy who sold me the bars. She told me with a frown on her face that she was sending me to alternative school and that she had no other choice. She lowered her head, and after a moment of silence, she told me that something similar had happened to her and that if she had been so easily available to such drugs, that she probably would have done the same thing I did. She smiled and it warmed my heart a little to know she understood. I swallowed deeply the itching feeling of pride in my throat and took my punishment, literally, sitting down. She promised me it would be okay and I actually believed it would. I grew up within a matter of a few days. I then realized that even though I was past the point of hurt, it doesn’t mean I can try to escape from my pain. As I left her office, he handed me a pamphlet reading: “The anger inside of you and how to deal with it”. I would read this when I got the chance.

I could say, reader, that I was one-hundred percent willing to take responsibility for my impulsive action, but I would be lying. It took me every will my body had to step into the Alternative Placement Center, to walk down the hall alone, to walk into the room and talk to the red-faced man sitting at the desk.

“I’m Emily Williams.” I said, hoping he would know who I was.
He only looked up once from his newspaper to say, “I suggest if you have a phone on you, that you turn it off immediately or it will be confiscated. No weapons, paraphernalia, phones, ipods, gaming things, or anything of that matter will be tolerated. You hear me?”

I nodded.

He nodded back. “Good, well, then sign here stating that you will not enter Crosby High School property for ANY reason until your sentence with APC is complete or you will face a $2,000 dollar fine. Do you understand that? Also, you will be required to wear a white collared shirt, a tie, and blue jeans only. Do you understand that?” He said mechanically.

I nodded again, forcing back tears.

After I signed the necessary papers, he pointed to what was to be my seat for the next three months. The room was a dead silence as I took my seat and I felt eyes following me. Why the hell was I in there with all those criminals? I was a good kid and now I have to sit in a quiet room, quietly doing my work, quietly eating my lunch at my desk, while I force back not-so-quiet thoughts. This was the worst punishment: to be left alone in a crowded room to just my thoughts, but I finally got over myself and resolved to go about this diligently and reverently. I worked hard on my school work and received straight A’s in all the work that I did. Later, I was even promoted to a Grader, which meant that I graded everyone else’s things and that I would receive 100’s for doing so. Also, I got my speech credit done in 3 days, never to worry about taking it after I resumed high school. One day, with nothing to grade or work on, I picked up the Anger pamphlet and began to read. It taught me a breathing exercise that I still use today when I feel the anger rise up from below. One instance, when my car was towed a few months ago, rage filled my face once more, but instead of acting on impulse, I just took a few deep breaths to clear my head and think things logically. And sure enough, the situation worked itself out nicely.

That moment made me the person I am today. I am a calm, logical person who is not so quick to anger as before. I am willing to take responsibility for my actions readily and without complaint and in them, I find the time to work on the things I need to improve upon. I am now a more responsible person because I swallowed my pride and faced my punishment for my petty impulsive actions.

One Day: The Allegory

Imagine, if you will, a blind-folded soldier shooting his gun aimlessly with an X over his heart and one word on his mind, "Kill."

One day, I hope, the ever-brave soldiers will put down their guns, because they will not have a reason to fight anymore.
It's called tolerance. It's called peace.

Now imagine, if you will, a heart sergion, destitute and poor, standing on a street corner, holding a sign that reads, "I save lives, but I should have worked at McDonalds." Where has all the years of college gone?

They say that, "Money is the root of all evils." But they've never been poor. I understand. Health care should be for people who have made something, or have at least tried, of themselves. Not for the ones that want a handout because they dropped out of high school and now are on Food Stamps and WIC.

Lastly, imagine, if you will, a man who had just smoked weed and is now occupying his couch, eating from a bag of chips.

Now, imagine, if you will, a drunk man swerving in and out of traffic and tragically killing a young girl who could have been our first woman president, or someone to cure cancer, or someone to end world hunger.

Imagine the irony of that fucking situation.


So What?
So we need some change. This is not good.

Texas Time

School's back, but this time I'm in college, which is probably the most fun I've had in school since kindergarten.

But I do think High School is an important part of growing up. It gets you ready to deal with all sort of situations and people. It sets you up for dissappointment and for achieving goals as well.

Plus, prom weekend is always a BLAST. My advice to people who haven't been to prom, don't go. Just skip out and go to the parties that following weekend. You will not regret it.

I got a scholarship to a community college recently, so, of course, I decided to go there and I think it was the best decision I could have made. Small class. Good teachers. Clean campus. Helpful people. And it's 30 minutes away from my house and 10 minutes away from a mall. People are more laid back. Well, it is Texas, so people are already laid back, but I digress.

My advice to you would be to follow your dreams. I know it sounds Disney, but its the best decision you will ever make. I'm going to college for Theater. Many people think this is REALLY DUMB, but it makes me happy as hell.

Its sad, really, when most of the people you went to high school with are going to college to pursue some kind of medical degree. I KNOW not that many people want to be nurses, doctors, specialists, but they have to because it makes good money. I could never do that. Does that make me dumb because I'm not choosing the "practical" or "acceptable" choice?

Well, ignorance is bliss.

I'll live my life being happy, doing what I love to do for a job and other people can come home everyday and hate their lives for making the "practical" decision.

Seems like a fair trade.

Scene Kids: An Essay

My Definition:

A bored, rich kid trying to fit into the hardcore underground of society, but ultimately, only skimming the top of just a fad...like bell bottoms. And we all know how much people hate those.


mmm....attractive.

By cutting their hair and wearing 'unique' clothes, these young idiots assume that they can automatically play an instrument and as soon as a 'scene click' is formed, so is a band. (if you can call it that).

They have been known to make music that sounds like a very large pig dying, which contrasts their 'ideals' of vegitarianism (also, another popular fad in the scene world).

All you have to do to make Scene music would be to scream and make an obserd amount of gutteral grunts, not unlike a pigs.

Go live in a barn, swine.

The Mosh.
The ONLY way to properly mosh is to physically inflict pain on another person. If you come out of a mosh pit without making someone else bleed and/or actually bleeding yourself, you better get your punk ass back in there.

But the Scene way to mosh is to flail your arms and legs about, attempting a poor pass at dancing. You can not touch anyone else that is 'hardcore dancing' around you, because that would be disrespectful and rude to the Scene society.

That is reason numbers 1 and 2 that I will not show up to any venues like:
Fuel
Java Jazz
or any other pussy place like that.


-A draw back to 'Hardcore Dancing'


If you are from the Houston area and are offended by the words I say, don't bother replying by saying,
"We wouln't want you there anyways, cunt!*"

*That is a nasty word. Don't make me puke my guts out, please!

The Fact is:
Scene kids are scared to actually BE hardcore.
You wanna know hardcore? Go pick an actual fight, or deface government property, or even smash a glass bottle (if you have the strength).


I am tired of these scene wierdos.

Good Night.