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.