The Talk

 “So, yeah, they do not just fall from the sky.

It actually takes a lot of effort to make one.

Basically, you have to undress everything first

And then, when no barriers remain,

Put your bare lot into the blessed place

Where the magic happens.

From there, just kind of mix it up, all together,

And you’re done!”

Ms. Serensky talked to us about how to make a smoothie today.

We all felt weird about it.

            Starting at the title, the above poem evokes extreme discomfort from readers. The ominous allusion to “The Talk” brings feels of awkwardness and embarrassment for people of all ages, but particularly for teenagers who may have had the misfortune of hearing a certain talk from their parents in recent years (title). As well, the vague diction used throughout, such as “they” and “everything,” allows room for the reader’s imagination to take over (1, 3).Though the poem remains about the art of smoothie making, the title combined with its purposeful vagueness causes some readers to recall memories from health class and those awkward parent-teen conversations. Moreover, the allusion to a superior, “Ms. Serensky,” combined with the idea of a non-English related topic generates pathos, students of Ms. Serensky feel intense distress at the idea of their teacher having an off-topic lesson (9).  The poem evokes an overall sense of unease, though the majority of this discomfort forms out of the reader’s own imagination.

To My Pre-Pubescent Self

Dear 11-year-old me,

                I am going to have to be blunt with you in this because, despite what I know you think, you are not the coolest person on earth.  Let’s start with attire: sorry, but wearing two different colored Crocs in order to perfectly correlate with your double-layered polos will never be cute. Shocking, I know. Also, try to avoid the “rebel” stage you will soon enter, mostly due to the fact that your definition of rebel focuses on wearing a different DELiA*s graphic tee everyday with your lime green Nike dunks. I realize you adore those shoes, but I also know the main reason you like them remains the fact the Chandler Pisczak complimented you on them. Speaking of Chandler, just because he decided to dress as Mario character for Halloween the same year you did does not mean he is in love with you. I am just preventing your future heartbreak here. The truth hurts. Also, the fact that Rory Gilbert gave you grape flavored Bubble Tape for your birthday does not mean he is the perfect boy who knows your favorite gum flavor, it means he forgot your birthday. I know all this seems pretty crazy, but I promise these are the things you will look back on and regret.  Honestly, I could go on for hours criticizing your current lifestyle, but I will spare you and move onto advice time. First off, involve yourself in the world. Pay attention to the events and people surrounding you.  Not things like how Nick Jonas’ hair looked on a particular day, things that truly excite you and will one day benefit you. Also, try to start veering back to Katherine or some variation of it. Although Roo will make for a clever Twitter name, you will eventually find yourself in the middle of an existential crisis as you try to decide what your name will be when you go to college in five months. But mostly, keep reading. Even if you just have time for a few pages each day, read them. You will thank me and J.K. Rowling one day. Oh, by the way, I hate to say it but your Hogwarts letter will not come during your 12th year on this planet, but you never give up hope. The owl just went on a seven year detour, I am positive. And finally, good luck. You will turn out alright in the end.

                        Best Wishes,

                                    18-year-old you

P.S. Do not get a MySpace.

Tick Tock

                As the clock’s thin hand glides over the 12, I realize that is the last simple rotation I will ever experience. Such a modest thing, a clock, but when you only have 60 more ticks left in your life, everything becomes so much more important. I never thought I would find myself counting down the seconds of my last minute, yet here I am. With each tick of the second hand, the realization sinks deeper and deeper: I am earnestly about to die. Gone. Forever. Perhaps I deserve this, no, I do deserve this, but, at the same time, it all feels so terribly inhumane. I guess I never attempted to empathize with anyone who has stood in my current position because no one like me should ever stand here, no one who always demonstrated impeccable citizenship should ever receive a death sentence. But I slipped. The hand glosses over the three: forty-five more ticks. With only three-fourths of a minute remaining in your life, you may think one would begin to really consider what happens after death, but, for me, I chose to ponder my funeral. What colors everything would be, what pictures my family would use etc. Would anyone even come besides her? At least I can join the small club of individuals who knew the date of their own funeral weeks before death. 30 more movements. Now, I begin to search for some small joys, those little things you overlook daily but make your life worth living. The list proves short and, soon enough, only 15 more. Despite my efforts, the only thought in my mind proves the consideration of her last seconds. The ones I ended. I have the clock to remind me of the impending destruction, but she had nothing to forewarn her. So, as the second hand reaches nears the top, I think only of her. The hand strikes 12 and, for a short moment, the hand and I are one, both beginning our falls down to 6. But mine comes faster as the floor beneath me disappears, and I sink into my death.

Life's a Puzzle

*Ding* I glance down at the piece of high-tech machinery I had always used for trivial, childish things before. But now I have seen the light. Now I know the real reason I was blessed with an extravagant phone. I discovered the truth and have realized my destiny: I am a Ruzzle prodigy. With each swift move, I intricately form labyrinthine words that aid me in not only annihilating my opponent but also in continuing my quest for future fame. As each round passes, I search for the power-ups and complex words that will increase my score in the game and in life. My body enters a hyperactive state and every conveniently placed Double Word or Triple Letter causes my heart to instinctively skip a beat. When the countdown starts, I transform into a jaguar, expeditiously barreling around the board, earning numerous awards for my polysyllabic and rare words. The game loves me almost as much as I love the game. Although, I should not use "game" because it is not just a silly game, it is a lifestyle. My whole life rides on my every victory: my parents' happiness, my college education, my future. Everything. I need to be the next Ruzzle Champion. So I win. I practice hourly, contesting, and destroying, every comrade I possibly can. But champions have to work harder than that, so I do finger stretches, repeat extensive drills to increase thumb/eye coordination, memorize dictionary pages, anything that will help me become the best Ruzzle player this world has ever seen and ever will see. I already feel close and have received the title "The Michael Jordan of Ruzzle" more than once, but I reject comments such as this. Why? Because I never had a moment of weakness like many of the players whose stories America soaks up. I never got cut from my school's Ruzzle team, encouraging me to work even harder to become the best champion this world has ever seen. No. I did that from the start. I founded and am captain off the Ruzzle team. I am a new breed of athlete, ready to take on the world. But, since I know exerts from these blogs will one day appear as the feature story on multiple magazines, I will share my coveted, soon-to-be-reached goal: I want to achieve the perfect game. One day, soon, after finishing a round I will see a glorious statement along the lines of "You found 271 out of 271 possible words." Some say it is impossible, I say "impossible" is too long of a word to play on a Ruzzle board and is thus not in my vocabulary. I know this may come as a shock to many of you who have not had the privileges of attempting to dethrone me, but I promise you that I only tell the truth. Start to mentally prepare yourselves for the inevitable influx of reporters at our school doors and the strangers meandering around town, wanting a glimpse at sport’s next best thing. And, finally, to answer the question on all of your minds, yes, you can have my autograph.