...nightmare. I create hells within my head constantly and these hells usually corrupt and disrupt anytime I have within solitude. The older I get the more apparent it becomes that I must fight my fears and conquer myself because I know I will eventually be alone. And I swear I’ve been working hard towards it, but no day alone is ever a day that I feel comfort. Actually the former statement is false; a day alone is comforting but it is also painful, and wretched. I struggle for a stability that I have never had or will ever have. I like to believe that I am a controlled psychopath sometimes because my thoughts are so deranged, and obscene. Nonetheless I also believe that all my intentions are pure. I often escape to my imagination when the world is heavy; this is my vice but also like many drugs my imagination can cause horrific and sadistic thoughts, ideas, and scenarios. And today I was thinking to myself “like shit for all I do for people, why is it that I seldom come across people that genuinely just want to do nice things for me out of just love.” I once thought I had that with my ex girl but she is consumed, and enjoys her consumption of herself; I wish I had a luxury; better yet I wish I just had more moments of such. But even in my darkest times I know that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, but the distance is as foggy as my reflection in a steamed mirror. Like I know its there, but I often struggle for definition, and clarity. I am such a dark individual...
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...Anne Lamott’s “Shitty First Drafts” is an excerpt from her book, Bird by Bird (1994), where she argues to let go of the anxieties and fears of creating a masterpiece paper right away by simply writing without question in order to get all of your thoughts out first. She refers to this style of writing to one of a child’s while also reminding the reader to just freely write knowing that no one else will be seeing this initial draft. It’s clear Lamott wants to connect with her readers and help ease any worries when it comes to writing because even the most popular and well known journalists or authors all go through the same thoughts and process as well. Her style of writing shows she is intending this piece for students or anyone involved in writing, whether for school, career, or a hobby. I find Lamott’s argument very persuasive and was moved by her style and dictation. It is comforting to know that...
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...April drew in another deep breath and began to scroll through the empty pages of her application essay. Exhaling once more, she opened the novel, Outliers: The Story Of Success, and flipped through the pages while searching for nothing specific. Malcolm Gladwell wrote on page 79 that, “To get into and succeed in a reasonably competitive graduate program, meanwhile, you probably need an IQ of at least 115.” This concept awakened a thought, hidden until now, that transported her six years back to Manchester Middle, New Hampshire. Her teacher, while not a particularly kind woman, was returning the sixth graders’ essays with a smile and a positive comment for each student. Overall, the class had done marvelous, with the exception of the continuously...
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...The past couple of days had gone by in a whirl that Ian barely had time to process them. One minute he was going through his daily routine and the next, Mickey was back in his life giving him that thrill he never thought he’d ever feel again. It crazy how much time had passed since they last saw each other and yet, it was like no time had passed at all. The same sparks were there as they had been all those years ago when Ian barged into the Milkovich house with a pipe. Jesus. Had it really been that long? Ian glanced over at Mickey, who was looking up at the night sky. The corners of his lips pulled upwards as he thought about Mickey’s earlier words. Hey, you ever think back in the day, this is where we’d be? Ian had given him a different answer, but still, his mind flashed back to that night on the baseball field after Mickey had just gotten out of juvie. The older boy had dismissed the idea of them looking for shooting stars while spread out on a blanket. While they weren’t looking for shooting stars, they were still lying on the blanket Mickey had found in the car they had stolen....
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...My literacy journey began in my very home. I was home schooled from fifth grade to my freshman year of high school. Unconventionally, my parents were not my instructors or educators. Instead, I had various types of educators. One teacher in particular, John Overbeck who is a writer and a teacher (one that went in-depth in topics such as history especially for me), had commenced and progressed my literacy development. I can vividly recall waking up early every morning, getting out of bed and running downstairs to start my day excited about broadening my horizon of knowledge. Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, as usual, I would be awake at six A.M. waiting to start my school day. These days were special. At 8:00 A.M., on the dot, I would await for John Overbeck. While I enjoyed homeschooling from age 10-13, it became difficult for me not knowing what I was missing out on in a conventional brick and mortar school and it was educationally challenging (a good thing). Additionally, frustrated by the stereotypical “you must be religious,” “you are in idiot” that I would persistently receive, it motivated me to try to disprove these stereotypical notions, not give up, and to excel even when I was told I could not because I was not in the public sector of education. During this time, my brother who is two and a half years older than I am was also homeschooled. While he was homeschooled because of bullying in middle school, I wanted to be homeschooled because middle school would not have...
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...window, tracing her slim fingers along the rain droplets that has continuously fall since morning. She wished she could feel the texture of the droplets on her fingers, but she could only admire them as the window separated them. “What are you thinking about, Myeongeun?” As soon as she heard his voice, she smiled. “Nothing - I just thought the rain droplets are pretty,” there’s a hint of wanting, begging, in her voice. Taehyung understood what she wanted immediately, and sighed. “You’re asking for the impossible, Myeongeun.” Her heart dropped a little as ‘impossible’ rolled off his tongue. She nod slowly, twice, and gazed at the park which seemed gloomy, as it was drenched. A sigh escaped her small, pouty lips. Taehyung heard her almost inaudible sigh and kissed her left shoulder a few times, trying to distract her from whatever she was thinking about at the moment. His arms circled her waist before bringing her body close to his. Her back touched his chest, the contact made Myeongeun smile a little. “Taehyung…” Taehyung simply put his chin on her shoulder. “Do you want pasta for dinner? I found a new recipe for the carbonara sauce, thought we could give it a try,” Myeongeun tilted her head and laid it over her fiancé’s. “Don’t you think it’s a little early for dinner, love?” She emitted a soft chuckle. He tensed for a second at ‘love’. He didn’t think he could ever get used to this nickname. Taehyung released his arms and stepped back. Myeongeun felt the warmth fading...
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...slowly towards the door, waiting for the angel to save me from this sick body. The light beam shined through the cracks of my door, my eyes so sensitive I had to look away for a moment. The door slowly opened as I looked back, a warmth and caring face appeared, she walked over to my bed, gave me a tap on the head, and sat down closely next to me. Her voice was so soft I could hear my heart beat; the feeling was very comfortable I wanted to fall asleep again. As I start closing my eyes, she held me up against her, sitting up and half lying in her arms, she put a thin straw through my dry lips, I began sipping on the straw like a baby drinking milk. I didn’t know what it was, but I just started drinking. Only realizing it to be warm and comforting, the straw was slowly taken out from my mouth, she held me down on the bed, tucked me well under the sheets. Without any notice, I fell asleep as she quietly exits the room. I woke up from the noise around me, found myself lying on the clean grass in the middle of the playground. Children screaming happily at each other, playing like never before. I was so excited, wanting to join in the game. But wait, I almost forgot about being so sick in bed, why would I be sleeping on grass outside? I was so confused, Jason, my neighbor ran towards me and tapped me on the shoulder, “you’re it!” and ran off giggling. I stood up as soon as...
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...Sally’s house drinking alcohol and passing around joints even though two of the couples had children there. I felt like this added to the story due to the fact it showed their character. It shows that there is still some immaturity amongst them and added to the way they acted later in the story. The game they decided to play was called “Something Awful”; the point of this game was to confess the worst thing you’ve done or the thing you feel worst about and tell the group about it, then at the end they would vote on who they thought did the worst thing. To me this also displays the characters immaturity because I find this to be a juvenile game to play for the age of these people. One thing that stood out to me in Elaine and Jack’s relationship was the way Elaine just held her glass up in the air when she wanted a drink. That would really annoy me if I were Jack. I felt like this showed that Elaine was the more dominant partner in the relationship. I thought that also added to the way Jack was looking at Sally all night due to how he felt about Elaine and her dominating personality. I found Sally to be the most interesting person in this short story. She definitely was instigating drama the entire night and causing fights among the other couples. I had a hard time figuring out if this was the alcohol causing her to act that way or if there was a deeper meaning underlying the way Sally was acting. When Mark was talking about the so-called rape he witnessed which he did not report...
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...Mitul Brahmbhatt U81215304 The Water Rises The water feels colder than I thought. It’s a bit windy. But I don’t care she’s in my arms once again. It’s been so long since I’ve carried her. Reminds me of our wedding day. It was so hard to pick her up that day, tired from all the festivities before, knees weak as we started our life together. She could walk on her own then, but I wanted to sweep her off her feet, let her know that even when she was down I would pick her right back up and we would go through this together. That was the happiest day of my life. The day I knew that Diane and me would spend the rest of our lives together. Life was so easy then. Walking into our house for the first time married brought some doubt into my mind. “I won’t be able to.” I told Diane. I didn’t know it would be this hard to walk in when we got here. It hadn’t hit me yet. It didn’t hit me on the drive over to the river. It didn’t hit me on the way out of the car or wheeling over Diana to the bank. It didn’t even hit me when I picked her up out of the wheelchair. But, the second my toes felt the cold rushing water of the river it hit me. It wasn’t warm like I was hoping. It was colder than I was expecting, almost frigid. I looked into Diane’s eyes and could see her suffering. But even farther back I knew this is the way it should be. But, I still wasn’t sure if I could do it. I didn’t know if I could take the next few steps to the end. I felt ready to cry as I hung my head in shame. “You...
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...The Axeman Who Loved Jazz Nighttime comforting them as they slumber, yet suppressing the very thing they fear most. The most paralyzing figure watching them as they sleep. A man looming over them and watching every move they make. A “real-life” boogeyman; the Axeman of New Orleans. While the residents were content in their homes, he would beat them insensible until their life slipped away from their own eyes. From May 1918 to October 1919, the Axeman of New Orleans tormented the residents that lived there. His weapon was no other than an axe, but never the same exact one. “Often, the Axeman of Orleans would use whatever was available,...
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...Never too Late I am sitting in Iraq November of 2011 after spending 8 long years which included two tours of combat with the 3rd Infantry Division / 2nd Brigade of Fort Stewart, GA and 6 years with Kellogg Brown and Root a US Contracting Company thinking: what shall I do next? I thought: it’s never too late to return to school and start a new career. I already have one retirement and I am young enough to start another. I contacted the Veterans Affairs, filled out the necessary paper work and my approval was granted. I said to myself, “This Tour Is OVER!!!” I had already started packing when suddenly I received an unsuspected notification that my wife of 15 years was medevac’d to Savannah, GA, with severe chest pain. At that very moment, my mind was in a state of emergency. I had to get home. Education was far from my mind, and prayer was in order. I realized this was going to be a long flight home. Arriving and running through the Dubai Airport as I have done many times before was a nightmare because it was Ramadan and there were long exiting passport lines. Still, I had to remain calm so that I could get to my seat without feeling challenged by the diverse cultures surrounding me. Finally in my seat, I made a phone call to my oldest daughter to see how my wife was doing and to speak to the doctor or nurse if they were available, but they were still in surgery. This flight was 16 hours long and I realized that worrying would do no one good so I eased my mind; and begin to...
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...How are the Bahamas? Probably a lot better than Aunt Marge’s house. I mean, I love Aunt Marge and all, but something about her house is creepy. I hope you come to pick me up soon because I don’t feel like this is the best place for me to stay at, especially since she caught me trying to go in the room at the end of the hallway on the left. After you dropped me off, Aunt Marge took me into her house and gave me a peanut butter sandwich. The bread seemed to be homemade because it was a little doughy, and the peanut butter was smooth, but a little bland. The comforting gesture made me feel like the trip wasn’t going to be that bad. After the sandwich, she gave me a tour around the house, which actually looks a lot bigger inside than on the outside. When I first went into the house it...
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...cope with them. You also cared about the past experiences and what feelings are connected to that, probably in order to find out the source of the behavior and pain. If a therapist finds out the past event, and the past feelings, this could help in trying to accept it. You also repeated what the person was saying, I think in order to show that you understand, and also for yourself to see that you fully understand the client. This is in my opinion also a good way to gain time to figure out what to do next in the session. The client will also be assured that the therapist is actually listening and understanding. Last you said that you wouldn't want to make inferences about what the person is feeling or thinking, based on your own thoughts. I think that...
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...do not believe that our great accomplishment exists. We feel we can do better and often judge ourselves hard; thinking that perhaps someone else has done better. Through all the praises we still feel confused or uncomfortable accepting the praise from others. Maybe it’s the shadow of other fish, greater than his, the shadow of other men’s souls passing over him. (6) (Brown) In the part of the poem, the author is asking us a question. Is it that we are trying to live our life competing against someone else’s accomplishments? Trying to better someone else’s expectation but not sure if we can. Each day he grabs his gear and makes his way to the ocean. At least he’s sure of that, or is he? (7-8) (Brown) Every day we gather our thoughts and think of all we have accomplished. We sit back...
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...parents came to the U.S for a better life, they left the most important people in their lives behind in Mexico. I grew up hearing lots of Mexican myths and stories about their childhoods like La Llorona, a Mexican myth of a ghost woman who drowns and kills little kids and also El hombre Sin Cabeza the dangerous man without a head riding his big black horse in the middle of the night knocking doors and killing everyone that comes his way. I was always terrified of listening to these stories and it gave me an even greater fear since I knew I was going to Mexico. I knew that the only way my family and I could get to Mexico was on a plane. Which brings me to my biggest fear: I am afraid of heights! My mom knew about my fear, but she never thought of it when buying the plane tickets. I didn’t know how to react. I could only think negative like what if the plane fall’s in the middle of the ocean and we all sink and die! And what if the pilot doesn’t know how to drive and kills us on purpose! All these fears I had for just a simple plane ride to the scariest place on earth (In my opinion as a little kid). My call to adventure was accepting the fact that I had to get on that plane. Even though I didn’t want to, I knew there was no...
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