Snowdays Seresnky Style

With each tick of the clock, the snow piles higher and higher. Great, typical Cleveland. I let out a heavy sigh and resume focus on my pre-writing practice after a scolding look from Ms. Serensky. I finish analyzing another poem (most likely incorrectly) and hear the sharp beep which preceeds an anouncement from Mr. Ast. Oh no, here it comes. He is definitely about to call the seniors down for a berating about the fire alarm. Instead, he actually delievers good news. "School will close early tody due to inclement weather," the room erupts and cheers, featuring a "skeerrrt" from Adam. However, one face does not mimmic our joy. Ms. Serensky's portrays a look of sheer rage as well as intense concentrtion. 'Alright, here's the plan: we will stay here until the weather clears. Please contact your parents and confirm that you may stay. I cannot risk not seeing you guys tomorrow this close to the AP test," she declares. No way. I haave to say something, "But the AP test is not for four months!" I recieve a look of scathing hostility, "Exactly." I cannot believe this.
After a few hours of the class rotating in front of the heater, that I still remain convined actually blows col air, and Osgood and Rachel conoodling for "warmth" in the corner, Ms. Sersnky's sister arrives with her daughter in order to deliver some supplies. I breifly wonder how they managed to drive in this terrible storm, but I then remmeber this is a fiction story so whatever. "This is my niece, Pammy Buchanan," our wonderful teacher proclaims. Wait, what?! I glance around at my classmates and none of them seem thown off. Huh, maybe I misheard. However, after a few minutes, the similarities prove far too close, and I have to say something. I approach the young girl and she explained in a hushed whisper that she had, in fact, time-traveled from Fitzgerald's Jazz Age. I could convy only pure shock and quickly inquire about the logistics of such an endeavor The small child appears reluctant to share but seems to lighten up when I ask if she would like to accompany us to the Gatsby movie later on. Just as she starts to tell me details, the familiar sound of the class bell fills my ears, and I regain conciousness. Whoops, guess I fell asleep. Sorry about that nonexistant pre-writing.

ANTMS

                So you think you have what it takes to become America’s Next Top Model Student? Well, to begin, you need to form a solid base of English skills and make sure your portfolio has stunning images of English perfection. You need to at least make it past the audition process. Next, prepare for a makeover. No matter how talented of a student you are, you need to be open to improvements and perhaps even a dramatic pixie cut. Study habits, work ethic etc. will all need to improve tenfold.  Now that you made it this far, make sure to pack for every environment. You could end up in sweltering Australia, but, more than likely, you will feel colder than you would doing as swimsuit photoshoot in Antarctica while sitting in the English room. Bring a Snuggie. As well, accept that you will lose friends along the way. After all, few can continue on each quarter in hopes of becoming America’s Next Top Model Student.  Do not, under any circumstances, give up. You do not want to have to immediately return to your locker, pack up your belongings and go home. Work hard, it is worth it. For every time you feel on the verge of stress-induced breakdown, know the good always outweighs the bad.  Finally, do not let yourself get too intimidated by Ms. Serensky’s prestigious reputation and focused attitude, because she proves one of the rare teachers that truly cares about you as a person and a student. Plus, Tyra is a lot worse: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6Shpn5WCFs

An Average Day in the Style of Hinman

           I roll out of bed at exactly 6:15 a.m. and head into my bathroom, ready to conquer one of my last few mornings as a CFHS senior. While performing my morning routine, I come up with a fantastic idea: teeth brushing Vine! After filming the sick video that is sure to get tons of likes, I throw on a crisp waffle tee and snag some breakfast from Lori. I head outside and step into my sleek Saab where I start blasting the ultimate classic: “Who Let the Dogs Out?” as I pull out of my driveway. I finally pull into the perfect spot in the Senior lot after yelling "WHO? WHO? WHO?" in synch with the Baha Men the entire ride. First period flies by, and I head to my absolute favorite class of the day: Newspaper. You know you're a tough guy when you refuse to do work 4/5 days a week. Then, I walk down to the calculus room with dread; Mr. Maas always has to dog me with these practice AP tests. Luckily, the problem involved only a few simple integrals, and I destroy it. 9/9, at least. I continue through the rest of the day with ease after another productive class period and even throw the girl a wink in the hallway. She’s lucky. I finally remember to save my water bottle after lunch (just so I can refill it, do not get any ideas) so today is going pretty great. As the final bell rings, I sprint out of my seat in order to make it out to the baseball field with a bag of sunflower seeds in hand. I have a great practice and knock it out of the park (literally and figuratively); plus, Sweeney and I confirm our bro status. Score. I drive home with a smile on my face and some classic rock blaring in the background, perfection. To polish off my perfect day, Paul cooks a nice batch of hamburgers and the family, including our Labrador, Maggie, sits down to cheer the Indians onto victory. God bless America.

College.

As more and more students make their college decision, the search for a quality roommate remains in full-swing. The idea that a future living mate will often judge you solely on your Facebook profile, including those awkward selfies from freshman year, proves terrifying. But, soon, we will not only have to decide how to portray our online profiles, but also how to portray ourselves. For many, college offers a chance to reinvent oneself; however, I only seek to improve upon my current self. For instance, though I can call many of my current classmates friends, when I move onto a much larger atmosphere, I hope this still reigns true. I want to become a comrade to my future college counterparts, and hope that I will never have a walk to class in which I do not stop and chat with friendly face. Furthermore, I want students to see me remain confident in my current interests as I used to often conceal my tastes. Hey, maybe I will even let it slip to a few people that I like One Direction despite the possible judgments. As well, I hope my fellow students view me as a hardworking and dedicated individual since, though I sometimes hate to remember it, the real reason for attending college remains to learn. With this at the forefront of my mind, I aspire to become someone my future friends will admire for my intellect and dedication. Finally, I want my classmates to see me as someone they can always have fun with, regardless of the situation. At anywhere from a party to a study session, I hope I can make my prospective friends laugh and that they always enjoy the time they spend with me. Whether I become one in 27, 500 at Michigan or one in 1 in 15, 700 at the University of Virginia, I hope I can stand out to my fellow classmates as an outgoing and devoted student.

Dump Him Like Last Week's In-Classes

Dear Jejune Juliet,
Well, I believe you knew I would say this, but, to humor you, I will state it: break-up with your boyfriend. I realize this remains much easier said than done and that you will surely miss him, however, you need to. It will hurt. You will feel lonely. You may despise me for encouraging unavoidable pain. But, I promise you, it will prove worth it. Separate yourself form the situation and ask if you would approve of one of your friends continuing a completely one-sided relationship. You, hopefully, answered yes and, if not, go back to the fictional Jazz Age and hang out with Gatsby's clan because you have some seriously skewed views about relationships. And you really do not want to end up like them. I mean, Jay himself died mid-swim. So, unless you want to end up floating face down in a crimson stained pool, stop forcing a relationship that should not exist. Although you will definitely experience some post-breakup sadness, you will heal and can fill the void with other forms of love. You may believe you need this guy in your life, but I can guarantee you that you will turn out fine and, most likely, a hell of a lot happier in the end. You really need to just Zumba or dirty dance your way out of this relationship ASAP. Good luck.
Sincerely,
Ms. Seresnky
Advice Columnist
DiCaprio's Devoted Chairman
The New York Times

Marry Me, Bridesmaids

Let me start by stating that I generally do not enjoy movies, and I have a tendency to try to compensate for this by constantly quoting things but, trade secret, they all come from three movies. Despite a broad cinematic range, I still struggled to choose my favorite film for today’s topic and think we should have had the ability to choose multiple, I mean it’s civil rights, this is the ‘90s. However, after much deliberation, I decided on the modern classic Bridesmaids. I know my young self just winced in pain when I did not remain loyal to the incredible Mean Girls, but how could I not pick Bridesmaids when the first time I watched the comedy it looked into my g****** soul? I will forever stand on the side of humor, though, as we always stay the same, but grow, I guess, a little bit. What originally drew me to the film proved my friends’ constant praise of it, one of them even felt it proved more beautiful than Cinderella, and, after watching it 15+ times, I definitely agree. The film’s brilliant humor and exceptional quote-ability increased my love for the tale, in addition to its uncommon inclusion of a depressing storyline. It's the first time I've ever seen a comedy seem ugly and that makes me kind of happy. After my first viewing, I knew I would always remain hooked, and my parents eventually gave into the constant remarks of “Help me, I’m poor!” and bought me a copy. That is when the addiction really kicked it. Why would I not watch it every weekend after that? I mean, it’s for free! I also used the film as a source of renewable entertainment because, I know you look at me now and think, boy she must have breezed through high school, but that is not the case. They threw fire crackers at my head. Fire crackers. I mean literally. I’m not saying that figuratively. I got fire crackers thrown at my head. Do you think I let that break me? No. You know what I did? I watched Bridesmaids as much as possible. Thus, my ironic nostalgia for the time of constant Bridesmaids marathons and the movie’s incredible comedic appeal allow it to overcome any possible cinematic opponent. I cannot resist a quality comedy with mostly intelligent punch lines and Bridesmaids provides this, plus a moving central plot. So, to my favorite movie, khob kun Ka (It means "You are a part of me, a part that I could never live without. And I hope and I pray that I never have to.")

Thanks again to Derek Stovenson for the topic! (What kind of a name is 'Stovenson” anyway? Are you an appliance?)

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.

Loggin' My Bloggin'

            Well, we made it halfway. As the first semester comes to a close, I would like to thank Ms. Serensky for providing me with my only slightly bearable homework, the weekly blogs. Each entry aides me in articulating my thoughts in a humorous way, and I always look forward to reading my classmate’s fantastic entries. I hope I provided them with some enjoyment as well and that my efforts to impress succeeded. I remain particularly proud of one of my entries, “Pondering Purposes,” and believe it stands as my most well-written post. My successful integration of a humorous anecdote and analysis of the importance of instilled meaning made the post both enjoyable and thoughtful. Moreover, I utilized relevant quotes from “The Balloon” and literary terminology without it sounding like term-dropping. I believe the entry flows well and holds interesting thoughts, and I hope it proves an entertaining read. Another entry I enjoyed writing and trust readers would appreciate, “Materialistic Monkeys,” contains a variety of tales form my work experiences. I find this blog post particularly interesting as it contains multiple humorous anecdotes. By emphasizing one story in particular, I illustrated the initial judgments of materialism we all often express. However, I also wanted to portray that we all contain this greediness and share it with many of the characters in The Great Gatsby. In addition to the entertaining tales, I hope my blunt assertions increase the appeal of this entry. Although I thoroughly enjoy composing blog posts, my favorite blog-related activity remains reading comments on my writings and remarking on others’ works. I received many amusing comments throughout this semester but my favorite came from Victoria Sevich. After a week of speculation regarding Gabe’s mysterious absence, I decided to blog about the relation between the rumors we started about his location and the fallacies about Gatsby.  Victoria commented on this post stating that she knew all along that Gabe just went to Florida, and only made a single, feeble attempt to clarify it. I found her statement extremely humorous and began to imagine her as the Nick to Gabe’s Gatsby, the only one who Gatsby trusts with the truths in his life. I look forward to reading more comments like this in the second semester! Furthermore, I cannot wait to attempt to entertain and be entertained as our classes’ blogging skills continually improve.

Materialistic Monkeys

            I enjoy working at Math Monkey, or “The Monkey” as the cool kids say, for a variety of reasons, but the main perk lies in the plethora of relatively humorous stories I now have in my repertoire. For instance, just yesterday, when I asked what president is on the nickel, a child replied “Oak Obama?” (pronounced oh-bam-a).Somehow this sparked a light in another kid who then shouted “MITT ROMNEY.” So close. Or I can always fall back on the kid who peed his pants the last four weeks in a row, despite his mom’s forced bathroom trips before class. A little bit sad, but I always find humor in these situations. Though I generally find these stories solely amusing, one of the students I tutor allowed me to greater understand The Great Gatsby and empathize with its characters (except Jordan Baker, I still hate her). Allow me to set the scene: I assist a sixth-grader who has a great personality and appears very intelligent, but really reveals the woes of a modern preteen. This Tuesday, she entered, no, strutted into the tutoring room wearing a thick coat of glitter pink eye shadow and mascara, and I let a subtle look of confusion slip due to the fact that I struggle to wear basic make-up on a daily basis as a senior in high school. I then noted her iPhone 4s, emphasis on the s, she does not mess around with any old iPhone 4, that she had contained in a giant silicon bunny case, tail and everything (for a visual). I could not retain my curiosity and inquired about when she first received a cell-phone, and she promptly informed me she acquired it in fourth grade. At this point, I started to feel a little old as I relayed the classic “When I was your age” routine. With the thought of Daisy in the back of my mind, I immediately became critical of the girl’s apparent materialism, despite enjoying her character and intellect. However, I soon realized I would have, and still do, act the same, just in different ways. This forced me to note the similarities between myself and all of Fitzgerald’s characters. I think we all contain at least of touch of materialism and sense of entitlement, but, when observing our own flaws, we often criticize without recognizing the commonalities. Some may argue that the booming economy and celebratory attitude of the 20s instilled much of the character’s greediness, but did our society not create the Hummer Stretch Limo? We all always want more, and neither I, nor my tutee, nor Daisy, nor any of the characters in The Great Gatsby, act any different.

Combating the Common Cold

            I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to everyone who had the misfortune of sharing a class with me during these past few weeks. The constant sniffling, coughing and nose blowing surely annoyed you as it does me. I interrupt my every attempt to speak with an extreme cough or, at the very least, a minor sniffle. To give you an idea of the scale of my struggle, I attempted to count my sniffles during a ten minute period and had to give up when I reached 146. It is a little difficult to make an impressive, analytical argument that people will take serious when your sentences sound like this: "I *sniff* think that *sniff* the green light *series of coughs* acts as a *sniff* symbol of hope *cough* can I get a tissue?" Just a bit annoying. To the extent of my knowledge, I never experienced a true cold prior to Thanksgiving, but I have definitely complained about others’ sicknesses. Sorry, but we all can admit blowing your nose is not cute. My experiences with this terrible entity have forced me to realize I must try to act like more of a Nick Carraway when I inevitably become the healthy one forced to listen to the nasal wars of others. Although I originally scuffed at his idea of "reserving judgments" to a point, my vexing virus has taught me that I truly do not know the extent of everyone else's issues, and I cannot judge until, excuse the trite, I have walked a mile in their shoes (2). I absolutely abhor having a cold and hope I never have to experience it again, but I definitely learned a lot from it. On top of the gained empathy for those battling illnesses, I feel my sickness allows me to relate to those who have to excuse themselves to cough or sneeze as well. As Fitzgerald notes, the division between the sick and the well proves the most fundamental separation and one of the few that appears exempt from all other factors. It does not matter if I have not spoken to someone in years or talk to them daily, I will still have a great conversation with them as we approach the tissue box at the same time or reach for the Purell in unison or even provide medicine for each other (shout out to Jessica Walker for the Tylenol). So, to my fellow sicklings, I finally feel for you. And to those fortunate to have an immune system comparable to Fort Knox, I know the coughing annoys you, but I guarantee you will experience the same one day so do not hate on the sniffles.

The Great... Gabe?

            No one can escape rumors, but extended absences leave one particularly vulnerable to the power of fallacies. We all spread them and hear them about ourselves, yet they consistently vary in interpretation. You have your Gatsby’s, for instance, who live for the mystery and love staying elusive. They enjoy the extensive stories swirling around their name and only reveal truths when absolutely necessary. Although you sometimes have the temptation to hit them in the jugular, you continue to facilitate the stories and secretly find pleasure in the drama. Whenever you feel tired of these Gatsby’s, search for the Gabe’s in your life. He misses a few days of school for a family vacation and suddenly our class determines he needed to fly to Mexico in order to inspect his sector of the drug cartel. But in reality, he did not even visit Mexico. He went to Florida. Bland ol’ Florida. Nevertheless, upon his return, he exhibited nonchalance and did not act the least bit restrained when clarifying the truth. Score. Our class experienced all the fun of drama and mystery without the frustration of a character such as Gatsby. Not everyone lucks out like first period, and the complexity of rumors never ceases to amaze me. Any mystery or source of speculation causes rumors and gossip, so, really, Gatsby’s reserved nature and Gabe’s vacation to “Florida” do not have too many differences. I guess the only question that remains is when will you start throwing the massive ragers, Gabe?

Myrtle Wilson: the Original Black Friday Enthusiast

            After a day dedicated to giving thanks for one’s possessions, Americans believe the only logical follow-up involves trampling one another in order to nab the last marked-down Wii U on the second biggest shopping day of the year. Although my food coma consistently prevents me from experiencing the phenomenon of Black Friday, or anything involving movement, the affair never ceases to fascinate me. The dedication of hardcore shoppers who wait hours on end and put themselves in potentially life-threatening situations rivals that of Olympians, and I cannot resist reading about the ramifications of their quests.  Despite the humor these consumers provide, the repulsion for such extreme consumerism remains. However, with some attempted sympathy and after noting the similarities between Myrtle Wilson from The Great Gatsby and the Black Friday heroes, I began to understand their positions. Though both the shoppers and Myrtle appear very materialistic, their reasoning does not prove that illogical. The shoppers wait for hours and risk harm in order to save money. Myrtle cheats on her husband to achieve higher social status and have a wealthier life. Does anyone disagree with wanting wealth and social promise? The paths Myrtle and the extremist buyers take seems corrupt and excessive, their logic proves reasonable. For instance, during Tom and Myrtle’s party, the adulteress describes her extensive list of items she needs to purchase while with Tom (36). The novelist presents situational irony as Myrtle generally remains superficial, yet her decision to utilize Tom’s money, rather than her own, remains wise, but immoral. Although I do not condone Myrtle’s behavior in anyway, I recognize that the benefits and rewards of her risk prove worth it for her. Both parties, Myrtle and the deal seekers, put themselves in danger in order to achieve monetary benefits, and I have to respect their efforts. I differ in values from them, but I, too, have made extreme sacrifices for various items or circumstances I wanted acquire. I advocate that we all have a bit of Myrtle and the intense consumers within ourselves, we just need to look past our original moral judgments.

Pondering Purposes

       For an unknown reason, my dreams become something out of a Lewis Carroll novel whenever I try to conclude a stressful day with an afternoon nap. Yesterday’s dream proved no different: my mind concocted an alternate universe in which all of the AP English 12 students lived in a small cottage on a secluded island off the coast of Australia with Ms. Serensky as our housemother. I kid you not. I could not make this up if I wanted to. In this crazy world, Ms. Serensky would leave us at home alone each day to work on our short story worksheets; however, one this particular morning, we discovered a quidditch set and decided to orchestrate a tournament rather than analyze the significance of stealing thirty Big Macs. In the midst of the first match, a man, who bared a striking resemblance to the Misfit in “Black Hearts Bleed Red,” infiltrated our home and claimed the new quidditch set as his own. In this unrealistic universe, I stood up to the man and, in return, he shot me just to gain a quaffle, two bludgers and a snitch. Although, I have to admit, the snitch seemed pretty high-quality. Obviously, I woke up extremely confused and, as Ms. Serensky has taught me, began to look for a purpose or meaning in my imagination’s creation. Although I do not possess the amazing talents of Sigmund Freud, I still managed to come up with a variety of possible meanings, yet none seemed right. I found myself further empathizing with the public in “The Balloon,” we all stand searching for something that may or may not exist. A world of conceivable answers remains, but one can never know for sure. The author of the short story, Donald Barthelme, notes “all… motions… were within one's possibilities” in regards to the citizen’s reactions, highlighting the claim that the balloon can receive many different interpretations (2). Although the narrator hints of a purpose, he never reveals the true meaning behind the balloon, just as I will never know the reasoning for my in-depth death by quidditch. Furthermore, Barthelme states that the most important result of the balloon proved what people felt standing under it (3). This declaration uncovers the writer’s assertion that our personal interpretations of the world create the vital or uneventful impact of happenings. Through these ideas, “The Balloon” exemplifies the belief that all meaning proves constructed meaning, a thought that stands central to my personal ideals. We decide what matters and we instill these items or, in my case, dreams with significance. Although I can pinpoint a variety of interpretations of my strange dream as well as Barthelme’s balloon, I will never know whether these connections proved correct or incorrect. However, these constructed purposes can still have a monumental impact on my life. Perhaps the writer did not intend the balloon as a symbol of art, this connection still allows me to evaluate the role of arts and literature in my own life and grow from that thought exchange. Moreover, if I ponder the possibility that my dream means my civic duty stands as risking my health for literature, then I can use this connection to deeply evaluate my interest in writings and how important they remain to my being. Just as Barthelme depicts the limitless understandings of an event, I affirm that every occurrence has infinite purposes. As well, I advocate that the deeper analysis and questioning of the world enhances our lives, regardless of whether our conclusion proves the “right” or “wrong” answer.

The Klausner Within Us All

            As I scrolled down my Twitter feed yesterday, I could resist letting out a yelp of triumph upon reading the school cancellation announcement. However, my joy soon disintegrated as I thumbed down to the next tweet: “Death toll rises, thousands without power.” A wave of guilt swept over me as literal waves crushed homes just a few hours away; who knew such powerful juxtapositions existed outside of literary world? As Hurricane Sandy tore up more and more of the coast, my frustration increased proportionally. Reading posts about how great a hurricane seemed solely because it caused a school cancellation proved extremely irritating, and I found myself wanting to lash out at anyone praising the storm. But I never did. I realized the issue and never did anything about it until it proved too late. Consequently, while watching “the Sound Machine” today, it occurred to me that Klausner and I share this trait. Klausner acknowledges the plants’ pain, but continues to wound them and ruins the potential of his machine before it can truly make an impact. Moreover, I discovered a clear connection between the unsympathetic tweeters and the doctor. Both parties realize the pain and destruction; however, rather than acknowledging it, they choose to ignore the damage and focus on their own lives. As much I wanted to dismiss and judge Klausner and the doctor, I often act identically, and I assert that everyone does. The vast majority of humans prove guilty of this apathy and society even ignores this simple fact. Although I believe this issue necessitates amelioration, in reality, not all aspects of it stand as detrimental. Humans have inherently selfishness tendencies, and I believe the act of ignoring major issues exists as just another mechanism by which people allow for their own happiness. If everyone could feel the terrible pains of others, society would reduce to shambles. Generally, humans have the deepest and most intense reactions to the events that directly affect them or that they directly caused. Similarly, the most influential of the plants’ cries proves the one Klausner internationally generates. Yes, he sympathizes with roses cut by his neighbor, but the tree he stabs himself evokes unavoidable guilt and devastation. Not only does Dahl’s work highlight society’s tendencies to ignore its effects on the earth, it illuminates the overall tendency of people to disregard other’s issues for the sake of their own contentment. As with all generalizations, exceptions do occur, and I believe everyone needs to become one of these exceptions in order to truly sympathize with one’s neighbors. However, the troubles of the world recognized by all would lead to destruction and mass devastation. 

Insightful Olive

            Books offer readers a unique opportunity to see inside someone else’s head and live a different life, unveiling insights one may have never considered. Such is the case in the novel Olive Kitteridge by award-winning author Elizabeth Strout. Strout tells the chronicle of Olive Kitteridge through thirteen short stories focusing on various residents of Crosby, Maine as well as Olive herself at varying ages. The tales focusing on the Kitteridges at an older age especially resonated with me and taught me valuable lessons. After losing both of my grandmothers, I had never taken the time to truly comprehend their passing’s effect on my grandfathers, only how it impacted me. Through Strout’s depiction of Olive losing her husband, Henry, I began to genuinely understand and sympathize with my grandpas. For instance, after Olive’s friend and widower, Jack Kennison, declares that his wife had recently passed away, Olive states “Then, you’re in hell,” (55). Her short syntax and simple statement evokes pathos, generating empathy from those who have lost a loved one. Personally, Olive’s facile declaration allowed me to understand what my grandfathers have to deal with on a daily basis: a living hell. Moreover, Olive noted how young people do not understand that “aged… bodies were as needy as theirs,” (270). Through this simile, Strout asserts that humans, especially the youth, tend to forget that all people stand as equal and have the same needs, regardless of age; we all want to love and be loved. Admittedly, I have forgotten this more than once, but Olive’s cogitation combined with the portrayal of her loneliness allowed me to understand how important a thought it is. Throughout the novel, I would think back to the times where I would not stay home for a family dinner with one of grandfathers because I had plans to hang out with my friends and felt immense guilt. I used to treat outings with my friends as more important, despite seeing them every day, but Olive taught me to treat those you love equally as just that: equals. I believe Strout writes to people like me who did not take time to fully understand the struggles of aging in order to illustrate how much the elderly value companionship and that one should cherish each moment spent with loved ones.

Olives Have Layers

                Elizabeth Strout, a New York Times bestselling author, combines thirteen short stories about the residents of Crosby, Maine in order to tell the complex story of the title character in her 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge. Written in modern-day America, where many have questioned if society has become progressively crueler, Strout depicts the growth of Olive Kitteridge and her struggle to overcome her husband’s stroke. Although I sympathize with Olive, her attitude in the first half of the novel appalled me. For instance, prior to his stroke, Henry solemnly noted how Olive has “’never once apologized. For anything,’” (123). Henry acts as a synecdoche of those who have experienced Olive’s cold personality and his defeated tone, implied through his short syntax, illustrates how frustrated Olive can make people, including her own husband. Strout evokes pathos by having Olive discourage Henry, who people repeatedly call a “’nice man;’” readers, including myself, who sympathize with kind, innocent men like Henry feel shocked by Olive’s harsh treatment of him (149). She mistreats various other characters throughout the novel’s first half; ergo, I did not feel particularly fond of Olive, despite my extreme compassion for her struggles. However, as the novel progressed, and especially after Henry’s stroke, Olive learned to contain her adverse thoughts, and I began to enjoy her character more. Olive even volunteers to help at a funeral because she knows Henry would have wanted to if he had the ability. At the event, she offers “’Put me to work, Molly’” (167). The novelist’s overall juxtaposition of Olive’s bossy past-self and her helpful, submissive self illustrates her attitude shift. Although Olive did not become an instant saint and still had negative thoughts, her efforts to act outwardly kind impressed me. My sympathy for her remained constant throughout the novel, but my overall opinion of Olive became progressively more positive as she began to internalize her criticism and assist others. I advise those who dislike Olive to acknowledge her difficult life and appreciate her efforts to become kindhearted. Furthermore, I encourage those who found themselves relating to Olive’s actions in the novel’s first half to mirror her attempt to increase her compassion.

Powerful Parallels

            Elizabeth Strout tells the story of Olive and Henry Kitteridge through delicately woven chapters, each resembling a short story, in her 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge. Written in modern-day America where over 40% of marriages end in divorce or separation, the small tales mostly feature various relationships in the shared the setting of Portland, Maine, a small-town similar to the one Strout grew up in. The novelist’s reoccurring parallels between the various chapters appeal to me due to their unique way of both telling and showing Strout’s assertions. For instance, in “The Piano Player,” Angie O’Meara receives a visit from her vindictive ex-boyfriend, Simon. After Simon degrades Angie in order to compensate for his lost dreams, Angie describes his actions as “thin milk” (58). By comparing Simon’s actions to nutritionally insufficient thin milk, the author asserts that people rarely gain genuine salvation through vengeful actions. Rather, one achieves a temporary satisfaction that fails to eradicate the true source of their dismay. In the next narrative, the first of Olive’s own stories entitled “A little Burst,” Strout reverses her narrative position and illustrates the assaulting perspective through Olive. After her son Christopher’s wedding, Olive overhears her new daughter-in-law, Suzanne, criticizing her mother-in-law’s dress and the already agitated Olive reacts strongly. Olive resolves to steal a few of Suzanne’s clothing items and draw a black streak on Suzanne’s sweater; when looking back of her actions, Olive reckons “It does not help much,” (73). Strout juxtaposes the two chapters in order to demonstrate that neither side benefits from spiteful reactions, and the repetition of this idea emphasizes the assertion’s prominence. Furthermore, Strout anticipates the possible judgments of readers and, thus, positions Simon’s outburst prior to Olive’s in order to prevent overzealous criticisms of Olive as almost all of society has had a vengeful impulse. Although I believe these kneejerk reactions often prove unpreventable, I encourage excessively hostile readers to recognize the uselessness of their actions. Moreover, I advise victims to acknowledge instances where they have done the victimizing and understand the trivial nature of their assailant’s actions.