Women. They make up over half of the world. They birth our children. So why are women so under appreciated? A better question is, why don't women appreciate themselves? Why don't we appreciate our bodies? Our minds? Before others can appreciate us, we must learn to appreciate ourselves. Women are beautiful, and every female should know this.
When flipping through the pages of People or Vogue magazine, a women sees what the media wants her to believe is the ideal woman. A celebrity, 5'7", 120 lbs, long shiny hair and flawless skin and makeup. The ideas these magazines put in women’s heads makes it very hard for them to have high self esteem, because in all honesty, most women do not look like Catharine Zeta-Jones. What kind of message is this kind of media giving women today? Media may have the right to freedom of the press, but women also have the freedom to fight back in their own way, therefore, I believe we have the power to change this. We are strong, and we are beautiful. If you believe no one can tell you otherwise, you will be much happier.
Who makes women feel worthless besides ourselves? Who makes women feel like they aren't good enough? Men. Sorry boys, it’s the truth. What woman hasn't been degraded by a member of the opposite sex? Men don't understand the complexities of women, put more importantly, they don't understand women's potential. Women have been considered to be "under" men practically since the beginning of time. It's time to change this, ladies. We are strong, and we are not worthless. If you have a boyfriend, tell him he must to respect you, and appreciate you.
Being the smart, college educated women that we are, I believe we have the power to change other women’s views about themselves. Think about how a simple compliment makes you feel. What if everyone woman got a compliment every day? In my opinion, women’s self esteem would sky rocket if everyone got a compliment every day. Just a simple “your hair looks great” or “that skirt is really flattering on you” could make a huge difference in the lives women in the world. What else can we do to make other women feel appreciated? What can we do to help other women love themselves? Why not a magazine with pictures of real women. How about asking celebrities if they would become involved with some kind of ‘real beauty’ project? We are women, and we are strong, so why not spread this strength around the globe?
I know I don’t have to convince anyone that women have made enormous accomplishments since the beginning of our existence. Its obvious that without wives and mothers in the world, the world would not exist at all. We, as educed women know that statistics: we make up over half of the world. So what’s not to celebrate? We are strong. We are proud. We are women.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Appreciating Yourselves
Women. They make up over half of the world. They birth our children. So why are women so under appreciated? But a better question is, why don't women appreciate themselves? Why don't we appreciate our bodies? Women are beautiful, and every women deserves to know this.
Who makes women feel worthless? Who makes women feel like they arn't good enough? Men. What woman hasn't been degraded by someone of the opposite sex? Men don't understand the complexities of women, and the also don't understand women's potential. Women have been "under" men, practically since the beginning of time. It's time to change this, ladies. We are strong, and we are not worthless. If you have a boyfriend, tell him he must to respect you, and appreciate you.
But before others much respect you and appreciate you, you must learn to apprecaite yourself. When flipping through the pages of People or Vogue magazine, a women sees what the media wants her to believe is the ideal woman. A celebrity, 5'7", 120 lbs, long shiny hair and flawless makeup. This kind of body image makes it very hard for women to have high self esteem, because in all honesty, most women do not look like Cathrine Zeta-Jones. What kind of message is this kind of media giving women today? I believe this should change. Media may have the right to freedom of the press, but women also have the freedom to fight back in their own way. We are strong, and we are beautiful. If you believe no one can tell you otherwise, you will be much happier.
Who makes women feel worthless? Who makes women feel like they arn't good enough? Men. What woman hasn't been degraded by someone of the opposite sex? Men don't understand the complexities of women, and the also don't understand women's potential. Women have been "under" men, practically since the beginning of time. It's time to change this, ladies. We are strong, and we are not worthless. If you have a boyfriend, tell him he must to respect you, and appreciate you.
But before others much respect you and appreciate you, you must learn to apprecaite yourself. When flipping through the pages of People or Vogue magazine, a women sees what the media wants her to believe is the ideal woman. A celebrity, 5'7", 120 lbs, long shiny hair and flawless makeup. This kind of body image makes it very hard for women to have high self esteem, because in all honesty, most women do not look like Cathrine Zeta-Jones. What kind of message is this kind of media giving women today? I believe this should change. Media may have the right to freedom of the press, but women also have the freedom to fight back in their own way. We are strong, and we are beautiful. If you believe no one can tell you otherwise, you will be much happier.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Writing Assignment 6, Draft 2 (Final)
Hello, my name is Mitchell Samson. I grew up in an up-scale neighborhood with my two parents and a sister named Georgia. During my childhood, I was spoiled. Spoiled rotten. Father is a lawyer, and Mother is a doctor, so they had quite of bit of money to spend on me. Georgia and I were always straight A students in high school, and now at university. I am currently enrolled at Yale University, and my sister at Harvard University. You could say we are the perfect family. You're right. Looking in from the outside inside out, we are indeed the perfect family. But when one reaches perfection, what do you strive to achieve from that point forward? Well, that's what led me here. To Brooklyn, New York. I decided I need to take a trip. A trip, in the name of imperfection.
Although my parents are wealthy, they don't just hand everything to me. I earned my way into a great university, and they expect me to earn my own money as well. Because my wallet is a little dry during the school year, I opted to take the bus instead of a plane. I sat down, and was there only a few minutes before what looked like a homeless women sat down beside me. She has several large bags with her and her clothes were dirty and worn. As she sat down, her eyes glazed over me like I was a hot honey bun. Women have never really be interested in me. And frankly, I wasn't interested in them, I've always been focused on my studies. But when she looked at me that way, I wondered why? Why would she choose me to sit next to? As she locked her eyes on mine, I couldn't help but attempt to stare into her soul. Although her hair was thin and looked as if it had not been washed in months, and her face looked tired and dirty, I saw before me the most beautiful women my twenty one year old eyes had ever seen. I welcomed her with an awkward smile, not really knowing what else to do. She smiled back, and my stomach felt as if it had small mammals crawling around inside of it.
I was too shy to say anything, and I believe she sensed my inexeperience. She introduced herself, her name: Rachel. I told her mine. My intentions for my trip to New York were not exactly clear, but when I heard her voice, they immediatly become crystal. As we started conversation, I tried to plan a way to go with her to wherever she was going, because I really had no idea which direction I would travel after stepping off the bus. When she spoke, my heart skipped beats. Was I having a heart attack? I've heard people speak of this phenomenon before when talking about being in love. Was I in love? Was this love at first sight?
I made the bold move of asking her where she lived. She told me she lived on Forty-fourth Street. Forty-fourth Street was now my destination. We continued talking until our eyes awkwardly met again. Her deep brown eyes were trying to tell me something. But what? They never teach you the language of love in high school or college. I ask her what she plans to do when she gets off the bus. To my surprise, she tells me just what the animals in my stomach want to hear. "Well I was hoping you'd follow me back to where I'm headed." I was ecstatic! Rachel was the first women to ever ask me back to her place! I don't recall most of the rest of the conversation until we got off the bus, but I do remember the sensation that shocked my entire body when, as we were stepping off the bus, Rachel gently took my head, and started leading me to Forty-fourth Street.
It was a long walk to where she lived. She held hands the whole way, and that was fine by me. When she stopped walking, I took in the scene around me. Graffiti. EVERWHERE. This, was truly imperfection. Rachel noticed my grapefruit sized eyes and smiled. "Why don't you take a picture, it'll last longer," she said. That's right! My camera! I take it out of my fanny pack, hearing a giggle behind me. I snap a picture of the graffiti that says "fatty" on it. As I turn around, I see Rachel unrolling a sleeping bag next to some trash cans. I almost forgot she was homeless. She invites me to sit next to her. My instinct tells me to put my arm around her, so I do. I feel like I've known her my whole life. As I look around at the other homeless people across the street, at the cars driving past, at the amazing women beside me, I start to realize. I realize that what seems like imperfection is really the only thing I ever needed.
Although my parents are wealthy, they don't just hand everything to me. I earned my way into a great university, and they expect me to earn my own money as well. Because my wallet is a little dry during the school year, I opted to take the bus instead of a plane. I sat down, and was there only a few minutes before what looked like a homeless women sat down beside me. She has several large bags with her and her clothes were dirty and worn. As she sat down, her eyes glazed over me like I was a hot honey bun. Women have never really be interested in me. And frankly, I wasn't interested in them, I've always been focused on my studies. But when she looked at me that way, I wondered why? Why would she choose me to sit next to? As she locked her eyes on mine, I couldn't help but attempt to stare into her soul. Although her hair was thin and looked as if it had not been washed in months, and her face looked tired and dirty, I saw before me the most beautiful women my twenty one year old eyes had ever seen. I welcomed her with an awkward smile, not really knowing what else to do. She smiled back, and my stomach felt as if it had small mammals crawling around inside of it.
I was too shy to say anything, and I believe she sensed my inexeperience. She introduced herself, her name: Rachel. I told her mine. My intentions for my trip to New York were not exactly clear, but when I heard her voice, they immediatly become crystal. As we started conversation, I tried to plan a way to go with her to wherever she was going, because I really had no idea which direction I would travel after stepping off the bus. When she spoke, my heart skipped beats. Was I having a heart attack? I've heard people speak of this phenomenon before when talking about being in love. Was I in love? Was this love at first sight?
I made the bold move of asking her where she lived. She told me she lived on Forty-fourth Street. Forty-fourth Street was now my destination. We continued talking until our eyes awkwardly met again. Her deep brown eyes were trying to tell me something. But what? They never teach you the language of love in high school or college. I ask her what she plans to do when she gets off the bus. To my surprise, she tells me just what the animals in my stomach want to hear. "Well I was hoping you'd follow me back to where I'm headed." I was ecstatic! Rachel was the first women to ever ask me back to her place! I don't recall most of the rest of the conversation until we got off the bus, but I do remember the sensation that shocked my entire body when, as we were stepping off the bus, Rachel gently took my head, and started leading me to Forty-fourth Street.
It was a long walk to where she lived. She held hands the whole way, and that was fine by me. When she stopped walking, I took in the scene around me. Graffiti. EVERWHERE. This, was truly imperfection. Rachel noticed my grapefruit sized eyes and smiled. "Why don't you take a picture, it'll last longer," she said. That's right! My camera! I take it out of my fanny pack, hearing a giggle behind me. I snap a picture of the graffiti that says "fatty" on it. As I turn around, I see Rachel unrolling a sleeping bag next to some trash cans. I almost forgot she was homeless. She invites me to sit next to her. My instinct tells me to put my arm around her, so I do. I feel like I've known her my whole life. As I look around at the other homeless people across the street, at the cars driving past, at the amazing women beside me, I start to realize. I realize that what seems like imperfection is really the only thing I ever needed.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Writing Assignment 6, Draft 1
Hello, my name is Mitchell Samson. I grew up in an up-scale neighborhood with my two parents and a sister named Georgia. During my childhood, I was spoiled. Spoiled rotten. My father is a lawyer, and my mother is a doctor, so they had quite of bit of money to spend on me. My sister and I were always straight A students in high school, and now at university. I am currently enrolled at Yale University, and my sister at Harvard University. You could say we are the perfect family. Your right. Looking in from the outside inside out, we are indeed the perfect family. But when one reaches perfection, what do you strive to achieve from that point forward? Well, that's what led me here. To Brooklyn, New York. I decided I need to take a trip. A trip to imperfection.
Although my parents are wealthy, they don't not hand everything to me. I earned my way into a great university, and they expect me to earn my own money as well. Because my wallet is a little dry during the school year, I opted to take the bus instead of a plane. I sat down, and was there only a few minutes before what looked like a homeless women sat down beside me. She has several large bags with her and her clothes were dirty and worn. As she sat down, her eyes glazed over me like I was a hot honey bun. Women have never really be interested in me. And frankly, I wasn't interested in them, I've always been focused on my studies. But when she looked at me that way, I wondered why? Why would she choose me to sit next to? As she locked her eyes on mine, I couldn't help but attempt to stare into her soul. Although her hair was thin and looked as if it had not been washed in months, and her face looked tired and dirty, I saw before me the most beautiful women my twenty one year old eyes had ever seen. I welcomed her with an awkward smile, not really knowing what else to do. She smiled back, and my stomach felt as if it had small mammals crawling around inside of it.
I was too shy to say anything, and I believe she sensed my inexeperience. She introduced herself, her name: Rachel. I told her mine. My intentions for my trip to New York were not exactly clear, but when I heard her voice, they immediatly become crystal. As we started conversation, I tried to plan a way to go with her to wherever she was going, because I really had no idea which direction I would travel after stepping off the bus. When she spoke, my heart skipped beats. Was I having a heart attack? I've heard people speak of this phenomenon before when talking about being in love. Was I in love? Was this love at first sight?
I made the bold move of asking her where she lived. She told me she lived on 44th street. 44th street was now my destination. We continued talking until our eyes awkwardly met again. Her deep brown eyes were trying to tell me something. But what? They never teach you the language of love in high school or college. I ask her what she plans to do when she gets off the bus. To my surprise, she tells me just what the animals in my stomach want to hear. "Well I was hoping you'd follow me back to where I'm headed." I was ecstatic! Rachel was the first women to ever ask me back to her place! I don't recall most of the rest of the conversation until we got off the bus, but I do remember the sensation that shocked my entire body when, as we were stepping off the bus, Rachel gently took my head, and started leading me to 44th street.
It was a long walk to where she lived. She held hands the whole way, and that was fine by me. When she stopped walking, I took in the scene around me. Graffiti. EVERWHERE. This, was truly imperfection. Rachel noticed my grapefruit sized eyes and smiled. "Why don't you take a picture, it'll last longer," she said. That's right! My camera! I take it out of my fanny pack, hearing a giggle behind me. I snap a picture of the graffiti that says "fatty" on it. As I turn around, I see Rachel unrolling a sleeping bag next to some trash cans. I almost forgot she was homeless. She invites me to sit next to her. My instinct tells me to put my arm around her, so I do. I feel like I've known her my whole life. As I look around at the other homeless people across the street, at the cars driving past, at the amazing women beside me, I start to realize. I realize that what seems like imperfection is really the only thing I ever needed.
Although my parents are wealthy, they don't not hand everything to me. I earned my way into a great university, and they expect me to earn my own money as well. Because my wallet is a little dry during the school year, I opted to take the bus instead of a plane. I sat down, and was there only a few minutes before what looked like a homeless women sat down beside me. She has several large bags with her and her clothes were dirty and worn. As she sat down, her eyes glazed over me like I was a hot honey bun. Women have never really be interested in me. And frankly, I wasn't interested in them, I've always been focused on my studies. But when she looked at me that way, I wondered why? Why would she choose me to sit next to? As she locked her eyes on mine, I couldn't help but attempt to stare into her soul. Although her hair was thin and looked as if it had not been washed in months, and her face looked tired and dirty, I saw before me the most beautiful women my twenty one year old eyes had ever seen. I welcomed her with an awkward smile, not really knowing what else to do. She smiled back, and my stomach felt as if it had small mammals crawling around inside of it.
I was too shy to say anything, and I believe she sensed my inexeperience. She introduced herself, her name: Rachel. I told her mine. My intentions for my trip to New York were not exactly clear, but when I heard her voice, they immediatly become crystal. As we started conversation, I tried to plan a way to go with her to wherever she was going, because I really had no idea which direction I would travel after stepping off the bus. When she spoke, my heart skipped beats. Was I having a heart attack? I've heard people speak of this phenomenon before when talking about being in love. Was I in love? Was this love at first sight?
I made the bold move of asking her where she lived. She told me she lived on 44th street. 44th street was now my destination. We continued talking until our eyes awkwardly met again. Her deep brown eyes were trying to tell me something. But what? They never teach you the language of love in high school or college. I ask her what she plans to do when she gets off the bus. To my surprise, she tells me just what the animals in my stomach want to hear. "Well I was hoping you'd follow me back to where I'm headed." I was ecstatic! Rachel was the first women to ever ask me back to her place! I don't recall most of the rest of the conversation until we got off the bus, but I do remember the sensation that shocked my entire body when, as we were stepping off the bus, Rachel gently took my head, and started leading me to 44th street.
It was a long walk to where she lived. She held hands the whole way, and that was fine by me. When she stopped walking, I took in the scene around me. Graffiti. EVERWHERE. This, was truly imperfection. Rachel noticed my grapefruit sized eyes and smiled. "Why don't you take a picture, it'll last longer," she said. That's right! My camera! I take it out of my fanny pack, hearing a giggle behind me. I snap a picture of the graffiti that says "fatty" on it. As I turn around, I see Rachel unrolling a sleeping bag next to some trash cans. I almost forgot she was homeless. She invites me to sit next to her. My instinct tells me to put my arm around her, so I do. I feel like I've known her my whole life. As I look around at the other homeless people across the street, at the cars driving past, at the amazing women beside me, I start to realize. I realize that what seems like imperfection is really the only thing I ever needed.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Writing Assignment 5, Final Draft
My special day is finally here! Everything looks beautiful, just like I pictured it.
Earlier this morning, large white posts with platforms connecting them were placed near my home. I woke up to the sunlight being blocked by what looks like a large white clothe.
100 white chairs are set up under a white tent.
There are colorful flowers everywhere, but not they're not growing out of the ground.
Hundreds of flowers have been arranged.
A gathering of some sort seems to be starting. I have seen these giants walking around before, but never this many at a time. Suddenly, all the giants, except for a few standing in front of these rows posts with platforms, stood in front of a platform.
Here we go. Time for me to take the first steps of the rest of my life. Everyone stands up, they turn around and look at me. I smile and walk slowly to the rhythm of Pachelbel's Canon in D because played by the string quartet.
This was so odd, I, being the curious lady bug that I am, needed a closer look. I decided to fly up and take a peak at this gathering, and landed on the shoulder of the giant walking towards the other giants that were standing. I believe it was a female. Her skin was covered by white clothe; she must have done business with my friend the silk worm.
When I'm about half way down the isle, a lady bug lands on me. Oh no. Please! This can't be happening! I have hated lady bugs ever since one peed on my hand in second grade right in front of Jimmy Peterson.
As she walked, I spotted a water droplet dripping for her eye, that had lots of colored dirt around it!
I didn’t even noticed myself crying, I hope it doesn’t smear my makeup. Just...try to stay calm. I look at Sam, he looks so classy.
She had long, yellowish hay sprouting out of her hair, that was fashioned into spirals that I decided to crawl onto.
Oh my God, it's crawling into my hair! I look at my maid of honor, Julie. She smiles. Finally, I'm at the alter.
When she stopped, she was standing in front of what I thought was a man, wearing black clothe, and another man, who was facing the rest of the giants. They all bent their knees and placed their behinds on the platforms. The man facing out began to speak. I crawled down to the woman's hand, and I saw another hand reach for it.
The ceremony started, and all I could was the lady bug crawling up my arm. Sam puts the ring on my finger, noticing the lady bug. He knows what happened in second grade, so he whispers "It's ok," with a smile.
I retreated back up her arm, as the man placed a shiny ring on one of her fingers.
We say our vows and are pronounced man and wife. We run through the isle (partly out of excitement, mostly to get the lady bug off me) and towards the limo.
A few minutes later, the man and women, who seemed to be mates, walked back the way the woman had come, while the other giants took their behinds off the platforms and put their hands together to make slapping sounds. The mates began to run, making my ride a little bumpy! They headed toward a long, black box, which was sitting on two with large circles.
Sam opens the limo door and I slip in, as he follows close behind.
As the man opened the side of the box, the women entered it, and the man followed and closed the box. I felt myself moving, and decided I need to get out of this moving box. I crawled up onto the woman's nose.
As the limo starts driving, the lady bug crawls onto my nose. I let out a scream.
She squeaked.
I open the window. The lady bug flies out of the window.
She opened a portal to the outside and I made my escape!
Now....now I can focus on the rest of the evening with my husband.
The other giants were still clapping.
Earlier this morning, large white posts with platforms connecting them were placed near my home. I woke up to the sunlight being blocked by what looks like a large white clothe.
100 white chairs are set up under a white tent.
There are colorful flowers everywhere, but not they're not growing out of the ground.
Hundreds of flowers have been arranged.
A gathering of some sort seems to be starting. I have seen these giants walking around before, but never this many at a time. Suddenly, all the giants, except for a few standing in front of these rows posts with platforms, stood in front of a platform.
Here we go. Time for me to take the first steps of the rest of my life. Everyone stands up, they turn around and look at me. I smile and walk slowly to the rhythm of Pachelbel's Canon in D because played by the string quartet.
This was so odd, I, being the curious lady bug that I am, needed a closer look. I decided to fly up and take a peak at this gathering, and landed on the shoulder of the giant walking towards the other giants that were standing. I believe it was a female. Her skin was covered by white clothe; she must have done business with my friend the silk worm.
When I'm about half way down the isle, a lady bug lands on me. Oh no. Please! This can't be happening! I have hated lady bugs ever since one peed on my hand in second grade right in front of Jimmy Peterson.
As she walked, I spotted a water droplet dripping for her eye, that had lots of colored dirt around it!
I didn’t even noticed myself crying, I hope it doesn’t smear my makeup. Just...try to stay calm. I look at Sam, he looks so classy.
She had long, yellowish hay sprouting out of her hair, that was fashioned into spirals that I decided to crawl onto.
Oh my God, it's crawling into my hair! I look at my maid of honor, Julie. She smiles. Finally, I'm at the alter.
When she stopped, she was standing in front of what I thought was a man, wearing black clothe, and another man, who was facing the rest of the giants. They all bent their knees and placed their behinds on the platforms. The man facing out began to speak. I crawled down to the woman's hand, and I saw another hand reach for it.
The ceremony started, and all I could was the lady bug crawling up my arm. Sam puts the ring on my finger, noticing the lady bug. He knows what happened in second grade, so he whispers "It's ok," with a smile.
I retreated back up her arm, as the man placed a shiny ring on one of her fingers.
We say our vows and are pronounced man and wife. We run through the isle (partly out of excitement, mostly to get the lady bug off me) and towards the limo.
A few minutes later, the man and women, who seemed to be mates, walked back the way the woman had come, while the other giants took their behinds off the platforms and put their hands together to make slapping sounds. The mates began to run, making my ride a little bumpy! They headed toward a long, black box, which was sitting on two with large circles.
Sam opens the limo door and I slip in, as he follows close behind.
As the man opened the side of the box, the women entered it, and the man followed and closed the box. I felt myself moving, and decided I need to get out of this moving box. I crawled up onto the woman's nose.
As the limo starts driving, the lady bug crawls onto my nose. I let out a scream.
She squeaked.
I open the window. The lady bug flies out of the window.
She opened a portal to the outside and I made my escape!
Now....now I can focus on the rest of the evening with my husband.
The other giants were still clapping.
Writing Assignment 5, Bride's View
My special day is finally here! Everything looks beautiful, just like I pictured it. 100 white chairs are set up under a white tent. Hundreds of flowers have been arrangedHere we go. Time for me to take the first steps of the rest of my life. Everyone stands up, they turn around and look at me. I smile and walk slowly to the rythm of Pachelbel's Canon in D because played by the string quartet.
When I'm about half way down the isle, a lady bug lands on me. Oh no. Please! This can't be happening! I have hated lady bugs ever since one peed on my hand in second grade right in front of Jimmy Peterson. Just...try to stay calm. I look at Sam, he looks so classy. Oh my God, it's crawling into my hair! I look at my maid of honor, Julie. She smiles. Finally, I'm at the alter. The ceremony started, and all I could was the lady bug crawling up my arm. Sam puts the ring on my finger, noticing the lady bug. He knows what happened in second grade, so he whispers "It's ok," with a smile.
We say our vows and are pronounced man and wife. We run through the isle (partly out of excitement, mostly to get the lady bug off me) and towards the limo. Sam opens the limo door and I slip in, as he follows close behind. As the limo starts driving, the lady bug crawls onto my nose. I let out a scream and open the window. The lady bug flies out of the window and now....now I can focus on the rest of the evening with my husband.
When I'm about half way down the isle, a lady bug lands on me. Oh no. Please! This can't be happening! I have hated lady bugs ever since one peed on my hand in second grade right in front of Jimmy Peterson. Just...try to stay calm. I look at Sam, he looks so classy. Oh my God, it's crawling into my hair! I look at my maid of honor, Julie. She smiles. Finally, I'm at the alter. The ceremony started, and all I could was the lady bug crawling up my arm. Sam puts the ring on my finger, noticing the lady bug. He knows what happened in second grade, so he whispers "It's ok," with a smile.
We say our vows and are pronounced man and wife. We run through the isle (partly out of excitement, mostly to get the lady bug off me) and towards the limo. Sam opens the limo door and I slip in, as he follows close behind. As the limo starts driving, the lady bug crawls onto my nose. I let out a scream and open the window. The lady bug flies out of the window and now....now I can focus on the rest of the evening with my husband.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Wedding, Draft 1
Earlier this morning, large white posts with platforms connecting them were placed near my home. I woke up to the sunlight being blocked by what looks like a large white clothe. There are colorful flowers everywhere, but not they're not growing out of the ground. A gathering of some sort seems to be starting. I have seen these giants walking around before, but never this many at a time. Suddenly, all the giants, except for a few standing in front of these rows posts with platforms, stood in front of a platform. This was so odd, I, being the curious lady bug that I am, needed a closer look. I decided to fly up and take a peak at this gathering, and landed on the shoulder of the giant walking towards the other giants that were standing. I believe it was a female, she had long, yellowish hay sprouting out of her hair, that was fashioned into spirals that I decided to crawl onto. Her skin was covered by white clothe; she must have done business with my friend the silk worm. As she walked, I spotted a water droplet dripping for her eye, that had lots of colored dirt around it! When she stopped, she was standing in front of what I thought was a man, wearing black clothe, and another man, who was facing the rest of the giants. They all bent their knees and placed their behinds on the platforms. The man facing out began to speak. I crawled down to the woman's hand, and I saw another hand reach for it. I retreated back up her arm, as the man placed a shiny ring on one of her fingers. A few minutes later, the man and women, who seemed to be mates, walked back the way the woman had come, while the other giants took their behinds off the platforms and put their hands together to make slapping sounds. The mates began to run, making my ride a little bumpy! They headed toward a long, black box, which was sitting on two with large circles. As the man opened the side of the box, the women entered it, and the man followed and closed the box. I felt myself moving, and decided I need to get out of this moving box. I crawled up onto the woman's nose, and as she squeaked, she opened a portal to the outside and I made my escape! The other giants were still clapping.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Writing Assignment 4, Draft 2
Congradulation on being ellected! Although I am too young to vote now,
you would have recieved my vote if I were of age. I am honored to call
you my president. You are have intelligence that could surpass the
intelect of any president before you. This, I know, will help you
during the next four (hopefully eight) years. As you have stated, we
are in crisis, and I have a few suggestions on what issues to tackle in
your first year in the white house.
Millions of lives are being affected by the war in Iraq. I believe
this issue should be addressed first, because of the vast amount of
people affected by the war. I don't know much about politics or
miltary, but I don't see how this war is helping anything. If it were
my decision, all troops would be withdrawn from Iraw, and returned to
their families. However, I know this is not possible because the
American millitary has a reputation to uphold (reguarding its stamana).
The second issue to be addressed is the economy. If the world ran on
love and puppies, then we would never have to address these problems.
But unfortanetly, money controls alot of the world. IÕm not very
educated about the way the economy works either, but if there were a
way to reboot the market and increase stock market productivity, many
other problems could be solved. I really agree with you tax plan, even
if some perceve it as "socialist". Your like a moderrn, and moderate
Robin Hood!
Education is deffinetly a topic I know you're considering. No Child
Left Behind has be1en a nightmare for teachers and students. The amount
huge of testing and standerdazation has compromised America's children's
learning expiriences. Because the teachers are have to teach their
students required material over and over again (because if the children
donÕt pass the tests, the school wonÕt get government funding),
alternative teaching styles arnÕt possible. If different kinds of
teaching were possible for teachers, the relm of learning would be
greater improved.
Being able to say I was alive when the first African American president
was in office is something I treasure. But the reason I belive you can
change the country is not simply based on the color of your skin. I
know you will adress crucial issues, and address them with the up most
Obamanocity.
you would have recieved my vote if I were of age. I am honored to call
you my president. You are have intelligence that could surpass the
intelect of any president before you. This, I know, will help you
during the next four (hopefully eight) years. As you have stated, we
are in crisis, and I have a few suggestions on what issues to tackle in
your first year in the white house.
Millions of lives are being affected by the war in Iraq. I believe
this issue should be addressed first, because of the vast amount of
people affected by the war. I don't know much about politics or
miltary, but I don't see how this war is helping anything. If it were
my decision, all troops would be withdrawn from Iraw, and returned to
their families. However, I know this is not possible because the
American millitary has a reputation to uphold (reguarding its stamana).
The second issue to be addressed is the economy. If the world ran on
love and puppies, then we would never have to address these problems.
But unfortanetly, money controls alot of the world. IÕm not very
educated about the way the economy works either, but if there were a
way to reboot the market and increase stock market productivity, many
other problems could be solved. I really agree with you tax plan, even
if some perceve it as "socialist". Your like a moderrn, and moderate
Robin Hood!
Education is deffinetly a topic I know you're considering. No Child
Left Behind has be1en a nightmare for teachers and students. The amount
huge of testing and standerdazation has compromised America's children's
learning expiriences. Because the teachers are have to teach their
students required material over and over again (because if the children
donÕt pass the tests, the school wonÕt get government funding),
alternative teaching styles arnÕt possible. If different kinds of
teaching were possible for teachers, the relm of learning would be
greater improved.
Being able to say I was alive when the first African American president
was in office is something I treasure. But the reason I belive you can
change the country is not simply based on the color of your skin. I
know you will adress crucial issues, and address them with the up most
Obamanocity.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Writing Assignment 4, Draft 1
Dear President Obama,
I am honored to call you my president. You are have intelligence that could surpass the intelect of any president before you. This, I know, will help you during the next four (hopefully eight) years. As you have stated, we are in crisis, and I have a few suggestions on what issues to tackle in your first year in the white house.
Millions of lives are being affect by the war in Iraw. I believe this issue should be addressed first, because of the vast amount of people this war affects. I don't know much about politics or miltary, but I don't see how this war is helping anything. If it were my decision, all troops would be withdrawn from Iraw, and returned to their families.
The second issue to be addressed is the economy. Unfortanetly, money controls alot of the world. If there were a way to reboot the market and increase stock market productivity, many other problems could be solved. I really agree with you tax plan, even if some perceve it as "socialist".
Education is deffinetly a topic I know you're considering. No Child Left Behind has been a nightmare for teachers and students. The amount huge of testing and standerdazation has compromised America's children's learning expiriences. If different kinds of teaching were possible for teachers, the relm of learning would be greater improved.
Being able to say I was alive when the first African American president was in office is something I treasure. But on top of that, I know you will adress crucial issues, and address them with the up most Obamanocity.
Your fellow citizen, Emily Thomas
I am honored to call you my president. You are have intelligence that could surpass the intelect of any president before you. This, I know, will help you during the next four (hopefully eight) years. As you have stated, we are in crisis, and I have a few suggestions on what issues to tackle in your first year in the white house.
Millions of lives are being affect by the war in Iraw. I believe this issue should be addressed first, because of the vast amount of people this war affects. I don't know much about politics or miltary, but I don't see how this war is helping anything. If it were my decision, all troops would be withdrawn from Iraw, and returned to their families.
The second issue to be addressed is the economy. Unfortanetly, money controls alot of the world. If there were a way to reboot the market and increase stock market productivity, many other problems could be solved. I really agree with you tax plan, even if some perceve it as "socialist".
Education is deffinetly a topic I know you're considering. No Child Left Behind has been a nightmare for teachers and students. The amount huge of testing and standerdazation has compromised America's children's learning expiriences. If different kinds of teaching were possible for teachers, the relm of learning would be greater improved.
Being able to say I was alive when the first African American president was in office is something I treasure. But on top of that, I know you will adress crucial issues, and address them with the up most Obamanocity.
Your fellow citizen, Emily Thomas
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Writing Assignment 3, Final Draft
Emily Thomas
1221 Mountford Ct.
Charlottesville, Va 22901
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me understand that I’m not alone. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I can relate to the stories you tell, which makes your book very compelling to read. Your writing flows, and is very easy to read quickly, which is much appreciated by those readers (myself) who are not the fastest readers.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's Crystal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compelling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortunate real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refereed to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, while still sounding graceful by telling your story with poetry.
Out of your four books, Impulse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharpened razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controlling her beyond her own behavior. Her involuntary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning, yet makes them easier to comprehend.
And on a lighter note: reading your work is a breeze. The flow of each page makes it easy to devour your books in only days. Being dyslexic, I have never finished a book in less than about a week, and when I picked up your book Burned and couldn’t put it down, I finally felt like I read at the pace of a normal teenage reader. Your books gave me the confidence to read more than I had in the past.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world. I love your books so much, I have read several more than once. Reading your work is a pleasure that never grows old. Thank you so much.
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
1221 Mountford Ct.
Charlottesville, Va 22901
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me understand that I’m not alone. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I can relate to the stories you tell, which makes your book very compelling to read. Your writing flows, and is very easy to read quickly, which is much appreciated by those readers (myself) who are not the fastest readers.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's Crystal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compelling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortunate real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refereed to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, while still sounding graceful by telling your story with poetry.
Out of your four books, Impulse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharpened razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controlling her beyond her own behavior. Her involuntary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning, yet makes them easier to comprehend.
And on a lighter note: reading your work is a breeze. The flow of each page makes it easy to devour your books in only days. Being dyslexic, I have never finished a book in less than about a week, and when I picked up your book Burned and couldn’t put it down, I finally felt like I read at the pace of a normal teenage reader. Your books gave me the confidence to read more than I had in the past.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world. I love your books so much, I have read several more than once. Reading your work is a pleasure that never grows old. Thank you so much.
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Monday, December 1, 2008
Writing Assignment 3, Draft 2
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compeling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortanet real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refered to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharped razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controling her beyond her own behavior. Her involentary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compeling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortanet real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refered to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharped razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controling her beyond her own behavior. Her involentary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Writing Assignment 3, Draft 1: Letters About Literature
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admited to a psychiatric hostpital was comforting. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admited to a psychiatric hostpital was comforting. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Final Draft, Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s appearance, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into the eye hole an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, dropplets sitting in his beard, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can and out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, his heart was pounding. He had never been fond of insects or bugs as a child, but the years of loneliness left him numb to hear childhood fears. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into the eye hole an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, dropplets sitting in his beard, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can and out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, his heart was pounding. He had never been fond of insects or bugs as a child, but the years of loneliness left him numb to hear childhood fears. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Draft 2 Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s appearance, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, he stayed calm. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, he stayed calm. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Monday, October 13, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Draft 1 Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s unavailing, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were sizzled onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at a skull (air brushed to perfection), he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a severed human hand! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s dirty, stubby fingers. The hand crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the hand, walking around on it’s fingers, he stayed calm. The hand, a spider not so nimble, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the hand was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the severed hand. “Come,’ Joe said, and the hand sheepishly stepped onto the hand that looked quite like it’s self. The hand needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were sizzled onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at a skull (air brushed to perfection), he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a severed human hand! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s dirty, stubby fingers. The hand crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the hand, walking around on it’s fingers, he stayed calm. The hand, a spider not so nimble, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the hand was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the severed hand. “Come,’ Joe said, and the hand sheepishly stepped onto the hand that looked quite like it’s self. The hand needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Writing Assignment 1, Draft 3
Before I begin writing about my emotional experience, I believe that I should write a quick introduction. Mental illness is an extremely serious issue. There is nothing funny about it. By posting this for all to read, I am trusting that who ever may choose to read this will not take advantage of this information. On the contrary, please don't feel sorry for me. I'm not looking for attention, I'm just telling it like it is. This is what makes me emotional, because this is what used to control my emotions.
The Monster
Lying on my bed, staring at the clock. 8:32:54. It's moving; but me? I am numb. I'm lying here in this one moment in time, mind is racing, but there's no time to think. The thoughts in my head, like race cars speeding down the track, going right by me. Trying to identify each one would be like trying to tell the difference between two galloping zebras. But I try to slow them down. I relax my mind until I can filter the thoughts, take the time to inspect each one. The first, is of last night. Hormones racing; so much energy. This doesn't happen when I'm gray. Gray is in between high and low, and gray is fading away. I'm about to touch the moon I'm so high, as I slip out the downstairs window. I think I'm going crazy, as I get in the car. And then mom calls his phone. From my phone, which I left at home. So I get home and ring the door bell at one in the morning. Their voices don't even penetrate my brain, they just wisp right over my forehead like wind, and I am coming down. The high I had only minutes ago is slipping away. Slipping into sleep....
As I wake up at 8:23:12, the Monster hits like a train going 185 miles an hour. Sleep was my temporary escape for the reality I had entered last night. The monster is clawing at my pajama bottoms, taking me to the dark depths of his layer. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the sexual escape out the basement window, different from the temporary escape the night’s sleep brought. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down at the pavement that could bring my skull the comfort I want. I Need. Adrenaline pulsing through my body like blood. Heart palpitating, pulsing, thumping, wanting to break out of my rib cage and tumble out the window. So heavy with feeling it will drag my limp body by the arteries down the side of my house. My tense body shaking. Shuttering in the skin I don’t want. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes, I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. My skin is wrapped too tight. The mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance. It was a long ride on a stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did the monster come? Because the mania left. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. Put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
What pain? Little girls can not feel pain like you describe. Little girls can’t love and loose. Little girls can not possibly understand what it is like to have someone give you everything you ever thought you wanted and have it taken because of something uncontrollable. Little girls can not comprehend the fact that it is wrong for men to touch little girls. But now you are a big girl. Now I am a big girl and I know it was wrong. Maybe that is why I feel so much pain, because I see it was wrong. Because I’m not a little girl like everyone thinks. I am Emily Thomas, and I know what love is. I know what lose is. And I know what pain is.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. And this gave me hope. Really, there was no where to go but up. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was starting to claw my way through everything that was holding me back. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
The Monster
Lying on my bed, staring at the clock. 8:32:54. It's moving; but me? I am numb. I'm lying here in this one moment in time, mind is racing, but there's no time to think. The thoughts in my head, like race cars speeding down the track, going right by me. Trying to identify each one would be like trying to tell the difference between two galloping zebras. But I try to slow them down. I relax my mind until I can filter the thoughts, take the time to inspect each one. The first, is of last night. Hormones racing; so much energy. This doesn't happen when I'm gray. Gray is in between high and low, and gray is fading away. I'm about to touch the moon I'm so high, as I slip out the downstairs window. I think I'm going crazy, as I get in the car. And then mom calls his phone. From my phone, which I left at home. So I get home and ring the door bell at one in the morning. Their voices don't even penetrate my brain, they just wisp right over my forehead like wind, and I am coming down. The high I had only minutes ago is slipping away. Slipping into sleep....
As I wake up at 8:23:12, the Monster hits like a train going 185 miles an hour. Sleep was my temporary escape for the reality I had entered last night. The monster is clawing at my pajama bottoms, taking me to the dark depths of his layer. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the sexual escape out the basement window, different from the temporary escape the night’s sleep brought. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down at the pavement that could bring my skull the comfort I want. I Need. Adrenaline pulsing through my body like blood. Heart palpitating, pulsing, thumping, wanting to break out of my rib cage and tumble out the window. So heavy with feeling it will drag my limp body by the arteries down the side of my house. My tense body shaking. Shuttering in the skin I don’t want. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes, I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. My skin is wrapped too tight. The mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance. It was a long ride on a stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did the monster come? Because the mania left. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. Put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
What pain? Little girls can not feel pain like you describe. Little girls can’t love and loose. Little girls can not possibly understand what it is like to have someone give you everything you ever thought you wanted and have it taken because of something uncontrollable. Little girls can not comprehend the fact that it is wrong for men to touch little girls. But now you are a big girl. Now I am a big girl and I know it was wrong. Maybe that is why I feel so much pain, because I see it was wrong. Because I’m not a little girl like everyone thinks. I am Emily Thomas, and I know what love is. I know what lose is. And I know what pain is.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. And this gave me hope. Really, there was no where to go but up. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was starting to claw my way through everything that was holding me back. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Writing Assignment 1, Draft 2
Before I begin writing about my emotional experience, I believe that I should write a quick introduction. Mental illness is an extremely serious issue. There is nothing funny about it. By posting this for all to read, I am trusting that who ever may choose to read this will not take advantage of this information. On the contrary, please don't feel sorry for me. I'm not looking for attention, I'm just telling it like it is. This is what makes me emotional, because this is what used to control my emotions.
The Monster
Lying on my bed, staring at the clock. It's moving, but me? I'm lying here in this one moment in time, mind is racing but there's no time to think. The thoughts in my head, like race cars speeding down the track, going right by me. I can't see them. But I see their colors. I try to slow them down. I relax my mind until I can filter the thoughts, take the time to inspect each one. The first, is of last night. Hormones racing, why so many? This doesn't happen when I'm grey. Grey is in between high and low. I'm about to touch the moon I'm so high, as I slip out the downstairs window. I think I'm going crazy, as I get in the car. And then mom calls his phone. From mine, which I left at home. So I get home and ring the door bell at one in the morning. Their voices don't even penetrate my brain, they just slip right over my forehead, and I am coming down. The high I had only minutes ago is slipping away. Slipping into sleep....
The Monster took me while I was sleeping. He's bringing me down with him. The monster is what makes me think my next thought. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the night before. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down , heart racing. I'm shaking. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. I'm trapped inside my own skin, the mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance was a long ride on the stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did it all start? The mania. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. You put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
Yeah, I knew. I knew the humiliation I felt when word got out about me being a slut. I knew the frustration of not being able to take everything back. And yes, I even knew the devistation of depression.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. It calmed the chemicals in my brain. Controling me. And this gave me hope. Odd isn’t it, that something taking away your freedom could give you hope. But in this strange, twisted world, anything is possible. So by controlling my emotions, keeping them under control, I was set free. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was escaping. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
The Monster
Lying on my bed, staring at the clock. It's moving, but me? I'm lying here in this one moment in time, mind is racing but there's no time to think. The thoughts in my head, like race cars speeding down the track, going right by me. I can't see them. But I see their colors. I try to slow them down. I relax my mind until I can filter the thoughts, take the time to inspect each one. The first, is of last night. Hormones racing, why so many? This doesn't happen when I'm grey. Grey is in between high and low. I'm about to touch the moon I'm so high, as I slip out the downstairs window. I think I'm going crazy, as I get in the car. And then mom calls his phone. From mine, which I left at home. So I get home and ring the door bell at one in the morning. Their voices don't even penetrate my brain, they just slip right over my forehead, and I am coming down. The high I had only minutes ago is slipping away. Slipping into sleep....
The Monster took me while I was sleeping. He's bringing me down with him. The monster is what makes me think my next thought. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the night before. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down , heart racing. I'm shaking. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. I'm trapped inside my own skin, the mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance was a long ride on the stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did it all start? The mania. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. You put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
Yeah, I knew. I knew the humiliation I felt when word got out about me being a slut. I knew the frustration of not being able to take everything back. And yes, I even knew the devistation of depression.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. It calmed the chemicals in my brain. Controling me. And this gave me hope. Odd isn’t it, that something taking away your freedom could give you hope. But in this strange, twisted world, anything is possible. So by controlling my emotions, keeping them under control, I was set free. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was escaping. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Writing Assignment 1, Draft 1
Before I begin writing about my emotional experience, I believe that I should write a quick introduction. Mental illness is an extremely serious issue. There is nothing funny about it. By posting this for all to read, I am trusting that who ever may choose to read this will not take advantage of this information. On the contrary, please don't feel sorry for me. I'm not looking for attention, I'm just telling it like it is. This is what makes me emotional, because this is what used to control my emotions.
The Monster
Lying on my bed, staring at the clock. It's moving, but me, I'm lying here in this one moment in time, mind is racing but there's no time to think. The thoughts in my head, like race cars speeding down the track, going right by me. I can't see them. But I see the colors, maybe even the number. But I try to slow them down. I relax my mind until I can filter the thoughts, take the time to inspect each one. The first, is of last night. Hormones racing, why so many? This doesn't happen when I'm grey. Grey is in between high and low. I'm about to touch the moon I'm so high, as I slip out the downstairs window. I think I'm going crazy, as I get in the car. And then mom calls his phone. From mine, which I left at home. So I get home and ring the door bell at one in the morning. Their voices don't even penetrate my brain, they just slip right over my forehead, and I am coming down. The high I had only minutes ago is slipping away. Slipping into sleep....
The Monster took me while I was sleeping. He's bringing me down with him. The monster is what makes me think my next thought. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the night before. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down , heart racing. I'm shaking. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. I'm trapped inside my own skin, the mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance was a long ride on the stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did it all start? The mania. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. You put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. And this gave me hope. Because, really, there was no where to go but up. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was escaping. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
The Monster took me while I was sleeping. He's bringing me down with him. The monster is what makes me think my next thought. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the night before. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down , heart racing. I'm shaking. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. I'm trapped inside my own skin, the mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance was a long ride on the stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did it all start? The mania. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. You put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. And this gave me hope. Because, really, there was no where to go but up. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was escaping. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
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