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Final Blog Post 126

Good Evening, First Years.

This year at Hogwarts has come to an end, it has been a tremendous experience to educate each and every one of you fine witches and wizards. Though the year we have had may have been tough for some of you, excruciating for most, and life-threatening for all, I would like to thank each and every one of you wonderful students for accompanying me, and all of your professors on this incredible journey through witchcraft and wizardry.

Now you all have heard me drone on long enough this year and I’m sure you are sick of my voice by now, so please allow me to hand over the wand to your valedictorian, Krishna Srini, (Valedictorian? Is that right? This kid was getting 3.0s in 100 level classes, I’m pretty sure he’s an absolute nincompoop) while he gives a speech.

���Thank you, Professor.

Good Evening, First Years,

I will not be using quotes in this speech, as I have already sold my textbook and will not be able to cite them properly. Formalities out of the way, what a wonderful year we have had here at Hogwarts!

Through our study of the literature of the wizarding world, we have gained unparalleled knowledge of academic writing and how to advance ourselves with said academic writing as we graduate on to advance wizarding literature. Through Critical reading, we evaluated the classics of the magic world. We created, read, and analyzed The Yellow Wallpaper, a story about magic wallpaper that moves in the shadows, we learned how to read with a critical lens, such as the Muggle Theory of the Yellow Wallpaper, how the narrator longed for the freedom to be herself but was oppressed by the Mugglearchy of the 1800s.

We learned about the writing process of Magic Literature. Through Professor Beals’ Magic Literature in Humanities 126 class I myself learned how to manipulate tone, style, and of course how to organize the content of my essays. I learned how to use MLA in-text citations properly, Magic Literary Application, of course. Which will certainly propel me into more advanced academic writing and allow me to gain a competitive edge in this gruesome magic literary world.

We learned about Magic Academic arguments, tackling the concepts of how to write a proper thesis statement, how to formulate topic sentences for each claim, and how to make clear claims themselves. With my course here at Hogwarts, I learned how to create research questions which catalyze the research process and allow the creation of a better-formulated paper.

I appreciated the research the most, myself. I learned how to use Research Tools, such as taking advantage of the Gale Wizarding Reference Library to give my research a greater depth by accessing scholarly wizarding articles and critiques.

With Researching comes Research Integration, I learned and applied the information that I learned through my wizarding research into my Wizarding papers in order to back up my claims. I learned about annotated bibliographies and the difference between quoting and paraphrasing and how to cite each properly. Citing my wizarding research was one area where I struggled before, but grew to learn and appreciate.

This year has been a wild ride for us all. Thank the Dark Lord we have all gotten through it, even if we are at our wit's end. Thank you all very much for the year, and may we all grow up to become spectacular Witches and Wizards!

Hurrah!

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Big Black Good Man - Blog #5

“He’s just a man” (322)

“Too big, too black, too loud, too direct, and probably too violent to boot.” (320)

Summary:

In Richard Wright’s “Big Black Good Man”, he tells the story of an old hostel keeper in Denmark named Olaf. Olof sees many sailors come and go through his hostel until one day, an enormous black American named Jim shows up asking for a room. Olaf is instantly intimidated and aggravated by the atypicality of this patron. He hesitates before he gives up a room to Jim. Jim requests a sex worker and a bottle of whiskey for each night of his nearly week-long stay at the establishment, and Olof helps him get these things. At the end of the stay, Jim puts his hands on Olaf’s neck and sizes him up. Olaf is paralyzed in fear about the man and the ordeal. Come one year later, Jim returns to the hostel bringing Olaf six nylon shirts as a gift. Olaf comes to realize that Jim is simply a good man, a big black good man.

Analysis:

A kind of patriotic stance is offered to the reader about the idea of Jim the black man. As stated as well in the story, Olaf wasn’t “racist”, he would accommodate for all types of men in his hostel without a second thought. But perhaps he wasn’t being *that* racist towards Jim. “Too big, too black, too loud, too direct, and probably too violent to boot.” (320). Olaf wasn’t describing a man who was too black, but perhaps a man who was too American. The description of being “too much” of something fits the stereotype of the United States Citizen quite well. Too big, too loud, too direct, too violent. Black was the second thought in this description, with emphasis on the other notes. Wright could have been attempting to close the gap between the lack of connection with the words “black” and “American”. If it was not the fact that Jim was black that bothered him so much, perhaps it was his cartoonish “American-ness”. He was big, bulky, hulky; he was loud, booming, grunting; he was rich with a silly wad of cash and threw it around like nothing. He was just so American. Race uninvolved.

However, race was involved. Olaf refers to the black man as “it” instead of “he” multiple times throughout the story, he sees Jim as not a man, but simply a “black mass of power” (324). The second quote picked from the story was by Lena, the sex worker, who said: “He’s just a man” (322). Olaf could not help but see the hulk of a black man towering over his preconceived notions about big black American men. Violent and scary, thinking they are a god. At the end of the day, simply all men who Olaf has or has not met are just that. Just a man.

Response:

I can identify with Olaf in a way, I believe that his frightened reaction was natural and expected. I too become uncomfortable at times when I see a massive American man. They are simply just kind of scary. Perhaps it is the preconceived idea that Western media has pushed upon us. Whenever we see an atypically large man, we might find them to be unpredictable to us, for we have seen media which promotes irrational and dramatized violence from this character. Our logical side, however, tells us that that is silly and nothing like that would ever happen. And so we float in the middle of these two assumptions, not sure if we are in danger or perfectly safe. This creates anxiety and anxiety creates irrational thought.

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

I watched someone die.

In class this past Wednesday, while we were discussing O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried” Professor Beals asked us if we had ever witnessed “someone’s head be blown off.” I think it was a rhetorical question but for some reason, I raised my hand anyway. I did not mean to. It was not something I had thought about much since, it was not something I would generally find appropriate to tell your classmates. 

But I raised my hand despite not thinking about it or willing myself to do so. I certainly did not expect to speak on the manner.

I feel awkward about it. I feel like I should say something in order to give (maybe just myself) a satisfying close to that uncomfortable moment.

When I was 17, my family and I moved to Durban, South Africa. The country of South Africa, of course, is the “murder capital” of the world. We had heard many stories of the violence and had been briefed by the security officers at the embassy about what to do and how to react accordingly. However, as my time living in South Africa carried on, I was exposed to no violence, no crime, and no danger. I, as many young men tend to do, developed a feeling of invincibility and immortality, I felt untouchable. And so, my friends and I would take advantage of a broken justice system, corrupt police, and empty highways by street racing all weekend long. I drove a 2015 BMW M4 at the time that I had rebuilt myself and would speed up and down the long empty stretches of highway for hours on end. On one of our outings, my friends and I were sitting on the hoods of our cars on the side of the road, drinking and being too loud, as children do, when we watched a police car pull over another driver who was putzing down the other side of the highway in a beat up, barely running VW Citi. We watched the two policemen get out of their car, guns drawn in their hands. We watched the young man (probably about our age) get out of his car and begin to sprint down the road. The police did not seem to be phased by this, they did not chase him. One officer raised his rifle up to his shoulder and shot the man in the back as he ran away from them. 

Death does not scare me or bother me. But injustice does. I do not know if that man had done anything wrong, maybe he was a wanted criminal and the cops just spotted him. Maybe he was just a man who couldn’t afford the bribe he knew it would take to get out of being pulled over so he booked it. Either way, I was just five meters away from those police officers sitting on a car that was caught by traffic cameras numerous times for speeding and racing. I was just five meters away from the police, not scared of being arrested for the crimes I had myself committed just moments ago. But the police paid no interest to me, or my friends. They barely glanced at us as they left the man and his car on the road and drove off. The police hadn’t witnessed the man do anything wrong, he simply ran away and they simply shot him. The police had witnessed me driving drunk and recklessly and they simply let me continue. That is what injustice is. That is what bothered me the most.

If you have any questions please feel free to ask me. Thank you.

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A Wild Fox Appears!

Juniper the Fox

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The Story of an Hour - Kate Chopin Blog

Summary -

The Story of an Hour, by Chopin, is a short story about a young woman, Mrs. Mallard, who has a fragile heart condition. Mrs. Mallard was eased into hearing about her husband’s death by her sister who took great care to not over excite her with the news, however, come later in the afternoon, Mr. Mallard walks into the home alive and well as he was in fact not apart of the fatal railroad accident that the sister had heard. To everyone’s great surprise, the joy of seeing her husband walk through the door when she believed he was dead had induced an over-excited reaction in Mrs. Mallard who then died due to its effect on her heart condition.

Plot Analysis -

Mrs. Mallard, the focus of the story, has a roller coaster of emotions while dealing with the death and return of her husband with three separate, and very important, turning points.

Mrs. Mallard, a woman in the late 1800s, has her life dictated by her husband per the norm of the time. She lives, breathes, and dies by his rules and wishes. This leads her to have mixed feelings about his passing. Initially, her sadness of his death trumps all her other emotions. “She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment…” (202) Mrs. Mallard broke down instantly over the news of her husband, neglecting the first few rules of the stages of grief, she goes straight into a frenzy of tears.

Her sorrow, however, passes quickly as she comes to realize that her life is now actually about her for the very first time. “But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely.” (202) “...she would live for herself.” (202) Mrs. Mallard sinks into the understanding of her newfound freedom. Her life is now her own and she is in the position to bend her will for the man controlling her no more. She began to pray that her health does not fail her and that she lives a long life, a concept that dreaded her just moments ago. “It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.” (203) Mrs. Mallard now had a reason to live other than to live for her husband. She may now live for herself.

The third and final loop-the-loop of emotion in this story comes at the end when Mrs. Mallard’s husband arrives home safe and sound. “...she had died of heart disease - of joy that kills.” (203) was it the joy of seeing her living husband again that killed her? Or was it the sadness that her newly discovered will to live had just been stripped from her? Mrs. Mallard had died to the over-excitement that her heart experienced regardless of which emotions that over-excitement came from.

Response -

I believe that Mrs. Mallard had died of heartbreak, not joy. The only written dialogue in the story is of Mrs. Mallard whispering to herself of her freedom. Chopin does this in order to represent the gravity of the revelation that Mrs. Mallard has in the story.

The shortness of the story as well is a representative of an idea that Chopin wanted to reflect. We know that the entire story takes place within just one hour, but the shortness of the story also represents the fleeting joy that Mrs. Mallard had when her own story began so late in her life and ended only moments later.

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

Everyday Use Blog (Walker)

“Dee wanted nice things.” (428)

A black mother in a country farm home is welcoming her daughter Dee who is coming to visit the mother and a sister, Maggie. Dee steps out of her car wearing fancy clothes and jewelry, standing out like a sore thumb in the presence of her practically dressed family. During the stay, Dee asks her mother if she can take a quilt that was sewn by her great grandmother, as it carries strong emotional ties and Dee finds that significant and important in respects to her heritage and preserving a piece of family history. The mother, on the other hand, finds it silly that Dee wants to preserve the quilt instead of keeping it for everyday use, which is much more practical. The mother then gives the quilt to sister Maggie instead of Dee as Maggie will actually use the quilt in her day to day life.  

Dee’s character conflicts with that of her sister and mother, specifically in values and ideals. Dee can be described as materialistic, she holds great value in image and objects which promote it. “Dee wanted nice things.” (428) the mother (and narrator) recalls. But Dee also wanted to preserve her heritage, she chose to go by the name Wangero, as a statement that she will not be named by the oppressor. Originally, Dee’s very white, very Western name must have come from a slave owner who had forced Dee’s ancestors to change their names. Dee finds this concept terrifying and wrong. In order to further preserve her heritage, Dee decides that she wants to take her great grandmother’s quilts home and hang them on her wall as not only decoration but a tribute to her family heritage. A Heritage Quilt. Dee holds great concern in the idea that the quilt will simply be used until it’s tattered and that that piece of her heritage will die when the quilt does. Dee’s mother and sister Maggie, on the other hand, hold value in using the resources your family gave you in a practical sense. They intend on using the quilts until they become tattered, and they will institute their own repairs to it when it does. The message that Dee is missing in this act is that the heritage lives on within the quilt, and for each generation it is passed to, if it is put to everyday use, then that quilt owner will be able to leave behind their own touch and meaning to the family heritage. Heritage lives on in all of us and in terms of the quilt, will not die if it is constantly being acknowledged and used.

I can identify very strongly with Dee’s point of view. Although I believe that it was Alice Walker’s intention to have Dee as the antagonist of the story, I can still respect Dee’s desire to show off her history and to preserve the integrity of the quilt as it is. Dee holds value in not only the historical value of the quilt but her value of family is also being represented. Rather than use the quilt and repair it herself as needed in everyday use, Dee wishes to pay homage to her grandmother and show it up as it is. Dee finds that piece of history interesting, even though the mere idea of a quilt is outdated and unnecessary. I believe that Dee’s values, although technically similar to that of her mother and sister Maggie, are projected differently in this story.

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

Blog Post #2 - Raymond Carver

Cathedral, by Raymond Carver

Summary:

Cathedral, by Raymond Carver, is a story about a husband’s wife’s longtime friend coming to visit. The wife’s friend is a blind man who had once hired her to read to him. The blind man’s own wife had died recently and so he was to stay with the couple just for a night in order to reminisce and catch up with an important longtime friend. The husband was not amused by this. A strange blind man coming to stay here, in my home? Good lord. The blind man comes and they all have dinner together. The husband and blind man watch television and the husband tries to describe a cathedral that is being shown on the TV to the blind man. The two of them develop an important connection as the blind man has the husband draw a cathedral while both of their hands are on the pen.

Character Analysis:

The husband, who is the narrator of the story, proved himself to be both a simple and complex character in Cathedral. The husband’s initial tone and introduction in the first few pages of the tale are uncomplex and easy to gather. He feels tired, almost lazy. He feels direct and to the point. Easy to read for no reason other than that he lets you read him, and it doesn’t take very many words in order to. His wife mentions in the story that he has no friends. This, in conjunction with his care-free bluntness, makes him feel very dad-esque.

The narrator becomes jealous of the relationship between his wife and the blind man. The blind man and wife converse passionately back and forth, while the husband feels like a third wheel. He watches them talk about themselves and each other and feels left out and neglected by his wife not once mentioning her husband in conversation. How can she talk so long about her life without once mentioning her husband? The narrator might have been thinking to himself. His interactions with the blind man throughout the rest of the story grow more and more open. He is reserved, at first, nervous perhaps or perhaps simply observing the blind man. Upon the ever obvious fact that the blind man was indeed quite a normal man, the narrator's lines within the story grow longer, he begins to speak more fully.

By speaking more with the blind man and opening his mind to this new concept of a blind man as a person, or even as an acquaintance, the narrator grows significantly as a character. One might even say that it was the blind man’s gift to the wife to give her a more well rounded and open minded husband to wake up with the next day. The husband grows simply by experiencing the company of a foreign type of person. He begins to understand - and hence empathize with - the blind man. This causes the narrator to develop a less biased or ignorant stance on atypically abled individuals such as the blind.

The character of the narrator is integral to the story. It simply wouldn’t have been any interesting if the narrator had an open mind and warm heart and was the perfect, humble diplomat towards his guest. They would have had polite conversation and then gone to bed. End of story. Boring. Lame.

Response:

As mentioned earlier, this character reminds me of dads. Not my dad specifically, per se, but the general dad who is always too tired to be nice for a few hours; the dad who doesn’t tiptoe with his words but instead will bluntly drop “But instead of dying, she got sick.” (textbook page 436) or  “Was his wife a negro?” (textbook page 437). I believe that Carver wrote the character in this way in order to justify any conflict that might arise in the story. It is easier to justify verbal conflict between characters if one of the characters comes across as blunt and standoffish.

I find myself connecting most with the wife in this story, I find myself oftentimes in a social situation where I wish the friend with me (the husband) would just be good for a few damn hours. The setting is very familiar as well, I am one to throw dinner parties and oftentimes the guests have some difficulty finding “correct” conversation. It can be very difficult for many people to find correct conversation at a dinner party if they are not used to it or are thrown off their guard. The narrator in Carver’s Cathedral had a difficult time making correct conversation. “Do you have any idea what a cathedral is?” (textbook page 443) asks the narrator in his very blunt and direct manner. I believe that the dinner party, conversationally correct, diplomatic way to spark that conversation would be to slowly and politely push the conversation into curious and genuine questions about the blind man’s self and blind experience. It would have been much more conversation (less awkward silence) and much more talk of social issues (a proper topic that isn’t empty) if the narrator had built his way up into asking a personal question about blindness by perhaps first asking social questions about blindness.

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

Blog Post 1 - Happy Endings

Happy Endings Blog Review Post:

Summary:

John and Mary meet. In their story together, Margaret Atwood writes multiple different scenarios and endings to go along with their relationship. The story offers the reader one of every type of ending. There are affairs, there are broken hearts, there is deception and murder. In ending B, we find that Mary falls hopelessly in love with John but John simply keeps her around as a subservient sex object. Mary can no longer take it and decides to kill herself. In ending C, John loves Mary and Mary is the one who doesn’t love him back. John walks in on Mary cheating on him with another man and kills them both and then himself. Atwood then goes on to write that no matter which way you frame it, the relationships all end up with an ending that fits into a pattern of predictability.

Literary Analysis:

Genre The Genre of this story is that of fictitious romance.

Conventions

The convention used most in this story was “loss of innocence”, this convention can be explained by both John and Mary. “[John] uses her body for selfish pleasure and ego gratification…” Page 1 of story (545 of textbook)

John experiences a loss of innocence in this section of the story as he gives in to his abusive and bored tendencies and allows his selfishness and superiority complex to control his social relationship behavior.

“[Mary] sleeps with him even though she’s not in love with him.” Page 2 of story (546 of textbook)

Mary - in this substory - has sex with John for her own pleasure as well as for the fact that she feels sorry for him. As a young person, she can feel his imminent old-ness and emotional and physical decline. Mary’s loss of innocence is that she plays and uses John out of pity and lust.

Evaluate whether or not this work was intellectually challenging: The work held a second layer of meaning that could go unnoticed if not paid close attention to. The author wants the reader to be aware that the story is simply nothing but a collection of happenstances being inflicted upon fictional characters. It breaks the 4th wall (4th page?) and is aware of itself. I believe that this can help bring an extra level of intellectual stimulation to any and many pieces of writing.

Response:

The short story Happy Ending, by Margaret Atwood, is one that pokes a little bit of professional fun at other authors. Atwood explains at the end of the story that many endings to many stories are deliberately fake, with the malicious intent to trick the reader into thinking they read something more interesting and more significant than they actually did. All of the endings in Atwood’s story are the same - John and Mary die. Atwood states that a true connoisseur will have more fun drawing out the middle part, turning that into the real story, instead of simply doing too much with the beginning and end to cover up for the fact that the middle is what takes skill as a writer. This story was the pen and paper version of a hip hop diss track. A barrage of evidence mounting up against someone who does as the writer says they do and making fun of it. This piece of writing was Atwood’s idea of a very clever joke. If she can pull out these fun and interesting stories and compile them into only 4 pages, essentially boiling down the basic, boring, behemoth of lexical throw-up that many writers spend their entire careers on out of nowhere, then certainly you can take the time to come up with something a little more interesting. So much for endings, beginnings are always more fun.

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

Introduction Blog 2.0

Good day, classmates and Professor Beals,

My name is Krishna Srini and today over-introducing myself, explaining some of my writing objectives, and listing some of my previous writing experience.

Strap in, folks.

I am 20 years old and work as a Canine Nutritionist at a pet store. Working at a pet store is great because people will bring me tupperwares of their dog’s poop and show it to me demanding answers about why it looks so weird.

Maybe you should stop feeding your Chiweenie poptarts and skittles, Karen.

“But he liiiiiiiiiiiikes them!”

Yeah, and I like drinking stuff that gets me fucked up - you don’t see me chugging gasoline.

My family is in the U.S. Department of State which has lead me to be fortunate enough to travel and live all around the world. I have gone on meditation retreats in Thailand; I have seen the wild gorillas in Rwanda; I got my pilot’s license in South Africa. Coming back to the States was a bit of a culture shock. I was embarrassed of my accent and the incorrect slang that I used. Instead of “Aweh, shot bru, smaahk some lakka chow?” you must say “what is up my guy, you wanna try some this litty food?”

My hobbies include being rude to people, telling jokes, and droning on about how veganism is the only ethical diet around while I chow down on my double bacon McHeartDisease with extra cheese.

I also like writing a lot. I do it not often and not seriously, but when I do, I like to hope that it’s pretty good. When I was 15 I entered and won the Foreign Service Youth Foundation competition, a few years later I started writing speeches for the Southern African Model United Nations Conference, and everything in between was jokes and goofy stuff. I have written poems and songs and plays as well.

My goal as a writer is to be conversant in many different types of formal writing. I wish to be able to fit into any profession in terms of their professional writing and be able to seem like I know what I am doing. The largest things I have to work on to improve my writing skills are

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Stop procrastinating

Even as we speak it is 9AM Saturday morning and I’m getting ready to be at work by 9.45 (even though I had nothing to do last night and could have finished this then). I procrastinate a lot and it is my greatest weakness.

Now enough about me, let’s talk about what you think of me.

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

Try This Assignment #9

9.3

List your story’s events. Can you tell the same story with fewer scenes? Pick one scene and write it. Then rewrite it to begin with a different tone or feel.

Devere investigates the orphanage.

Devere sees Eleanor

Devere and Eleanor fight

Devere and Eleanor go to the car

Devere and Eleanor are at the safehouse.

Eleanor shows off her skills.

We realize that Devere is telling this story to his sister. 1. We start the scene with Devere already investigating the orphanage. 2. Devere stumbles upon Eleanor and they have a conversation. 3.They get in the car. 4. They are at the safe house 5. Eleanor shows off her skills. 6. We realize that Devere is telling this story to his sister.

2:

“What’s your name?” I asked this little girl, who seemed content, comfortable, even. I approached her slowly and open, the way you do when there’s a child at a crime scene. I made my voice higher pitched and non-threatening. “It’s okay, everything is going to be okay.” I reached my hand out palm up towards her very slowly. She must be in an incredible state of shock from the shooting. She slapped my hand away fast. “OH-EM-GEE, better back them paws away from me before I shout PEDOPHILE.” She cackled and shook. Her hair danced in her little hood and she tucked it away and pulled her strings a little further down, tightening the hood. She had one forehead vein protruding lightly above her left eyebrow. It was the only texture on her otherwise childlike-smooth face. Her hands flew fast, her arms were long, she was incredibly skinny and small, but she had what I can only describe as skinny meth-head strength.

I grabbed her backpack.

2 -  New Tone:

I approached her, she was calm and her demeanor surprisingly normal. She kicked her feet back and forth while she sat on a chair that didn’t quite let her reach the ground. She was poppy and alive. Her radiance was fluffy and light. Something about that bothered me, I crouched down next to her slowly, curious as to who she was and what she was thinking. “Hey there. What’s your name?” I asked this little girl, who seemed content, comfortable, even. I approached her slowly and open, the way you do when there’s a child at a crime scene. I made my voice higher pitched and non-threatening. “It’s okay, everything is going to be okay.” I reached my hand out palm up towards her very slowly. She must be in an incredible state of shock from the shooting. She slapped my hand away fast. “OH-EM-GEE, better back them paws away from me before I shout PEDOPHILE.” She cackled and shook. Her hair danced in her little hood and she tucked it away and pulled her strings a little further down, tightening the hood. She had one forehead vein protruding lightly above her left eyebrow. It was the only texture on her otherwise childlike-smooth face. Her hands flew fast, her arms were long, she was incredibly skinny and small, but she had what I can only describe as skinny meth-head strength.

I grabbed her backpack.

9.4

Identify the crisis of the story you’re working on. Describe that moment with details involving at least three senses.

The crisis is that the reputable, professional adult of the story finds himself stuck babysitting a violent and unpredictable tween. More specifically, there is the crisis of the gun standoff in scene two, and the crisis of Eleanor going missing (and then returning with a lot of information about Devere) in scene five.

Let’s do the standoff.

I grabbed her backpack.

“Do not fucking touch that!” Her voice finally cracked and she sounded like an 11 year old. Her eyes went frantic and she bolted up in her seat.

She drew a Glock 18 on me and I instinctively drew my .44 in response. Her reflexes are just as fast and as sharp as mine, maybe even better. I’m still sitting. She’s standing on her elementary school style desk chair. “Why  do you have that?” I ask her, cooly. “To point at people I don’t like.” She snapped back without so much as a flinch or a twinge. She inhaled deeply and very slowly. 1...2...3… She took her breath the way a sniper does when they’re about to squeeze. But then she exhaled. Even slower than the inhale. She barely moved, but when she did it was smooth and strong, like ocean waves rolling onto land. She smelled like warm sweat but she looked as collected and calm as a municipal accountant. Focused. Precise. She was ready and the death in her eyes was itching. Almost desperate for her fix. As if she hadn’t had enough already. “Who trained you…?” I asked slowly, in a hushed but deep voice. “The worst nightmare you didn’t know you had.” she didn’t even blink. “And who might that be?” Let’s see if we can deescalate this, I can’t kill a child… “Me, myself, and I” I blinked. She won the first battle. The staredown is important. “Well, you seem to be quite astute in the arts.”

“I have a particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career, skills that make me a nightmare for people like you…” She recited the words of Liam Neeson in Taken but didn’t smile or change her stone cold expression.

I opened the backpack in search of a notebook with her name on it, a school ID, or something to help me identify this child. A pink book, two iPads, a Sig Nightmare Carry with three clips. I clenched her bag tighter and my head whipped up to face her again. The spot was empty. She was gone, I look around the room and nothing else has changed. I suddenly feel my heart jerk around in my chest and my lungs skip a breath. Searing pain shooting into both sides of my jaw and neck. She had grabbed me by the ears and put a gutting knife to my neck. “You will put down the backpack, and fucking try me, I killed every single adult in this building before, I am not afraid to do it again.” I remained calm on the outside but no number of years of training had prepared me for this. I could feel my blood spinning in my body, my heartbeat was in my head and my breaths were short and sharp. My instincts took over and the girl quickly found herself with my .44 in her face. But her instincts were faster because I quickly found myself with my .44 in her hands. She stood in front of me now, revolver in hand. “Hola, Mister Macho Man.” her grip was correct, her arms straight but not locked, she kept her weight on her back foot instead of her front. This time it wasn’t death in her eyes, it was excitement and desire. She smiled cooly. This was her happy place.

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

Try this Assignment #8

Try This #8

Warm up:

Who are the people, where are they, what are there issues, what happens next? Tell the story in 250 words.

As they entered the cave, Dr. Blumenfeld looked to Rebecca and said “This… this is the dragon’s den….”

“But Doc” Rebecca said, “That’s where Mr. Jorgenstien said the X.I.M. was?” “Correct, my young student who is also my best friends’ daughter, which we are only mentioning now in the storyline.” “What?” “What?” “Nothing.” “Oh.”

After that super awkward exchange, they walked deeper into the entrance of the cave. Suddenly, they felt a tremble beneath their feet. “It’s the ORB!” Dr. Blumenfeld shouts out, referring to the X.I.M, the ball of infinite energy and infinite life that the explorer group where seeking. The orb, that they both knew, would kill them all if they ever set eye on it, if they ever came just too close to its presence. The orb, of course, they need to somehow appertain and return back to their laboratory, so that Dr. Jorgestein could investigate its powers further. For, of course, the orb, was a magical and powerful creator of life and, perhaps, the creator of our very universe. How lucky we are to have it on this planet, why, that luck is astronomical! “Let’s get it! And remember! DON’T LOOK AT IT!” Dr. Blumenfeld shouted at Rebecca, who was his best friends daughter who was also super into Indiana Jones style adventures. The two finally approached the orb and reached out to grab it. The doctor placed it slowly in his specialized briefcase when…...

9.1

Write what happens in a story in a chronological list. Pick the event that happens halfway in and write a paragraph. Pick the last item and write a paragraph. Pick the first and write a paragraph.

Nathan comes home from work

Nathan says hello to his girlfriend, her name is sophie.

Nathan says “Sophie, I was fired today from my work”.

Sophie says “Nathan I don’t think we can make rent this month.”

Nathan gets mad and hits sophie’s dog.

Sophie cries.

Nathan says sophie’s dog’s are annoying.

Sophie Cries.

Nathan lights a bowl and smokes weed.

Sophie texts her best friend so that she can feel better

Nathan accuses her of cheating.

Sophie isn’t and she said that she isn’t.

Nathan and her continue to fight until sophie get’s drunk and falls asleep.

Nathan says sophie’s dogs are annoying.

“I hate Grumble! He’s fucking shit! Fuck.” Nathan picks up Grumble and throws him just a little too violently on the couch. “Grumble sucks! I can’t believe you love this fucking cunt dog more than me!” “Nathan I’ve had grumble since I was 16. He’s my dog, before I met you, before we even started dating Grumble was my baby, he was my heart, for a little while he was the reason why I kept on going to work and kept me from ending it all.”

“Well I fucking hate him. He’s a piece of shit dog and he screams constantly. There is nothing he wont’ bark at.”

“He won’t bark at me.” “He barks at you all the time, He’s a bad dog, you should get rid of him maybe then we can make rent this month.”

Nathan and sophie continue to fight until sophie gets drunk and falls asleep.

“I hate you!” shouted sophie from across the 1100 square foot apartment. “Well I hope you get fucking raped you fucking dumb bitch!” shouted nathan, knowing full well that sophie’s step dad raped her when she was just 7 years old. “Nathan why do you says those kind of things” sophie says while she cries and spills half a shot of whiskey on the table as she pours herself a glass. She downs it fast and screams. “AHHHHHH God damnit nathan! I hate you! I hate you!!!” She pours herself another while her hands shake and she can barely direct the bottle. She finishes her second and then her third and fourth and she locks herself in the bedroom and goes to bed.

Nathan comes home from work

Nathan comes home from work at 12 noon on a tuesday morning. It’s sophie's weekend so she’s already two beers in. Nathan walks into the threshold of the shitty, two bedroom tacoma apartment, where the second bedroom is used as a storage room for all of Nathan’s band equipment. Speakers, guitars, a piano, a pretty advanced D.J. beat system. Nathan has it all. He’s an artist without an album. Not a tonne of live performances under his belt, and certainly no motivation, for a stoner loser.

9.2

Take the script you worked on in 9.1 and throw the first page out. Begin the story from the middle. Does it work?

What else can you chop out and the story still works? Try to condense it as much as possible.

“I hate you!” shouted sophie from across the 1100 square foot apartment. “Well I hope you get fucking raped you fucking dumb bitch!” shouted nathan, knowing full well that sophie’s step dad raped her when she was just 7 years old. “Nathan why do you says those kind of things” sophie says while she cries and spills half a shot of whiskey on the table as she pours herself a glass. She downs it fast and screams. “AHHHHHH God damnit nathan! I hate you! I hate you!!!” She pours herself another while her hands shake and she can barely direct the bottle. She finishes her second and then her third and fourth and she locks herself in the bedroom and goes to bed. Sophie throws the empty Whiskey bottle at Nathan who quickly ducks under it. He came home early again as he is lazy and doesn’t work nearly as much as Sophie does. He hits her dogs when he is frustrated. Taking his anger out on her schnauzer Grumble before he would ever hit her. Luckily. But maybe hitting her dogs is much worse than hitting her. Because it is her dogs that she holds in incredibly high esteem with the strongest bonds and the tightest friendships. She loves them. And they love her. She will defend them and protect them and serve them at all costs. And so she does when she passes out drunk tonight and breaks up with nathan tomorrow morning.

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

tRY thIS ASSIGNMENT #7

warm up:

Free write for ten minutes about the painting on the cover of the book.

I see a dog or a cat

I also see a bunch of bread.

I see a sticker over half of it that says “Amazon Rentals Prime Student FREE Two-Day Shipping for college students”

The face of a fish, or maybe a grumpy pac man

Baguettes

I like the contrast between the blue of the Amazon Rentals Prime Student FREE Two-Day Shipping for college students sticker and the pastelly reds and oranges that it abruptly transitions into. I enjoy that I can see the canvas texture underneath, but it also makes it look like melted crayons. It looks like if grass wasn’t quite, or if texture was something you’ve never felt but know what it felt. Like if felt was wet. Or if grass was felt. Felt as in the fabriccy stuff, not felt as in I felt it. Felt. Ahh felt, the construction paper of fabric. The painting makes me feel like I’m not sad but also not not sad so I guess that’s melancholy perhaps. I will Feel warm but also I will feel cold in my finger tips. I am not sure for why is which and which is why. But I like paintings a lot and I feel like I appreciate them but I feel like I don’t know how to appreciate them the way that I am supposed to or perhaps the way that I should in order to give the most care and respect to the painting and painter but also be able to enjoy it on a level that truly makes me think about what I am seeing and reflect internally about the feelings that I am having based off of what I am seeing.

THAT WAS SUCH A LONG SENTENCE PLEASE DON’T GIVE ME DOWNPOINTS FOR THAT ABSOLUTE LEXICAL MONSTROSITY.

7.1

Make notes and developments that you could use for a piece of your journal that you could elaborate on and improve.

Once, I wrote this poem:

She called me and she cried

And kissed me and she cried

I talked and she cried

I helped and she cried

We drank and she cried

We smoked and she cried

I asked and she cried

I guess she just cried a lot

How can I improve it?

What are the main flaws of the poem?

Frankly, all it does is list some things that I did with this girl to get her to stop crying and it ends with me saying “she just cried a lot” which doesn't really give the reader anything at all.

Maybe if I described our relationship and then explained her feelings the “i guess she just cried a lot” would make more sense.

But is “I guess she just cried a lot” not an insensitive assholeish thing to say?

She called me in tears.

She kissed me and wept.

For her turmoil was too much for her to contain.

She had to let it out.

She needed someone to let it out to.

She picked me.

She said “I love you” and cried.

Better.

7.4

Take a pack of index cards and jot down a few words per card. Organize them in a sequence. Reshuffle them and reorganize them. The story might change. Find the sequence you like and turn it into an outline.

Meet Derek

34 Years old and he’s very tall

He lives in a house with a dog

Cancer

“Oh no, I can’t believe it’s cancer”

Snow volcano explosion

“Oh no, I can’t believe it’s a snow volcano explosion”

Derek’s house becomes destroyed

Mother says “I don’t love you anymore”

Derek’s life is a certain mess

Poor Derek

The dog. It was the dog that had the cancer.

M. Night Shyamalan twist!

7.5

Doodle a series of lists. Traits of a character, phrases they would use, things they like, experiences they have had.

Eleanor Maza: The psychotic, mass murdering, very adorable teenage orphan girl.

Things Eleanor will say:

Shut the front door.

Oh no! My greatest fear! Small knives!

You’d be cuter if your face wasn’t such a trainwreck.

Trainwreck

This entire situation is a trainwreck.

Pound town

Thanks, I got it from a dumpster.

Thanks, I stole it

Drop the gun before I drop you

Things Eleanor has experienced:

Being a stowaway on a commercial flight

Being a stowaway on a commercial cruise

Sneaking onto the bus without paying fare

Being raped.

When she was 5 years old, Eleanor killed her foster mom’s dog and cat.

When she was 7 years old, Eleanor put both her hands on the stove top burner and clicked the heat level onto 10. She held them there.

When she was 9 years old, Eleanor took her new foster mom’s gun and killed three other foster children and both her new foster parents.

Living alone.

Living without a home

Living without food or water for multiple days

Revenge.

Eleanor’s mannerisms:

Eleanor is very judgemental of strangers, she will make fun of anyone about anything.

Eleanor is very vocal about her thoughts. If she thinks you’re stupid (and she probably does) then she will let you know.

Eleanor is quick to resort to violence but prefers not to kill, she wants her victims to remember that she bested them.

Eleanor is incredibly good at math.

Eleanor is incredibly good at hand to hand combat.

Eleanor is incredibly good at using firearms.

Eleanor has a very high pain tolerance.

Eleanor can fall asleep faster than a soldier.

Eleanor can wake up faster than a soldier.

Eleanor identifies as asexual, but will gladly participate in BDSM as a domme.

Eleanor’s favorite pastime is embarrassing people.

Eleanor will always do what she thinks is the right thing.

Eleanor believes in justice.

7.7

Bring your research skills into your imaginative work. Identify something you don’t know about, research it, and write about it creatively.

I don’t know very much about vaping. Because vaping is extraordinarily lame. So I did research about vapes and below is the product of that research.

Brian: Sup bro, how you been?

Jake: dude i had a sick day today

B: tight, what’d you do?

J: Bro I got this sick new mod

B: Fucking litty bro, what’s the setup?

J: Alien mod, smok tank with 15 ml capacity. I’m on a 65Watt coil too with Cotton Candy Brandy juice.

B: Jake that’s fucking nutty, 65 Watts is tight, I’m on 55 but I got a high intake valve so my clouds are redonk.

J: My clouds come out pretty thick, they’re better for jellyfishing.

B: Can you blow Oh’s clean?

J: Bro I can Oh all day, even outside or if the window is open

B: nuh uh.

J: Yeah man, I’ve got it set to 12.3 ohms so the wattage is basically being supplemented.

B: That’s tight. I got a smok mod with the FreeFlow tank and my coil is stock so it’s pretty mediocre.

J: no stress bro, let’s hop in my WRX and drive to the lookout point so we can take dramatic pics of our mods and put them on the internet for everyone to see how cool we are.

B: tight

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

Try This Assignment #6

Warmup:

I chose to sit and write in the gazebo in the back woods by the climbing area behind the Science building, the one with the with the tree trunks for chairs. I notice my breath. I can breathe. I can feel my breath and how it moves and how it tastes and feels and I feel like every single receptor in my entire respiratory system are coming alive. I feel like my blood is flowing smoother, and thinner, and faster, and lighter. It feels like I can feel my blood. The trees give me this. How do we not worship trees and instead humans decided that a god who’s mostly the fucking worst is the thing to praise instead? Worshipping the trees and the sun and the water make more sense. Those three things are the so(ul/le) creators of life. The sun brings us all energy on this planet. The water brings us all life. The trees bring us all of us. We the people. Who grew up to decide that the trees are not important to us. How can we not be obsessed with living near them and inside forests? I want to live in the forest so badly. But I also want the city. Why can we not have cities within trees? Why must ALL the trees be gone for us to create towns? Spread out more. Why so condensed? Poulsbo would be a great city if it wasn’t so fucking republican. But also my fingers are cold so fuck the snow, trees, and water and the sun can also be in warm places. Where they are all actually much better. See? again the sun. Provider of energy and all things good. Don’t say greenhouse gasses, that was mostly the meat you eat and the electricity you use and the car you drive. Mostly the meat, statistically speaking.

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5.1. Pick an emotional event that happened in a specific setting in your first house. Describe the setting and the event.

I lived in Oak Park, Michigan. I was about 8 years old and homeschooled, my family never let me have candy or junk food or “trash” things. So you can imagine my excitement when my father comes home from work with a king-size pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. He tells my little sister and me that we can have them first thing tomorrow morning as it is late. Reasonable. It was already nearly 6 in the afternoon. My sister and I went to bed as quickly as possible in order to be able to wake up earlier to get our noticeably small, dry, yet hydrated little kid hands on those fucken peanut butter cups.

My sister woke me up at 5AM. We ran to the kitchen which had a little breakfast nook. There was a small round table with a bench seat wrapping around it and tall, open windows overlooking the yard behind the bench. It was sunrise bright and there sat my father. In his work clothes. Tie and all. With the Detroit Free Press covering most of him from our view as we stood in the frame entering the kitchen as he faced us. He popped down the paper to look at us.

“Goodmorning” And he popped the paper back up. in front of his paper, were the wrappers of a king-size pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

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5.3 Write two pages beginning with “Get me out of here”

Get me out of here. Hello? Can you hear me? I can’t hear you. I’m here. I’m here. Please. I can see that you know what I am saying. You are looking at it. You are looking at what I am saying. Hello? I can see you looking at it. Can you see me? Do you know how to interpret my words? Oh my god. Oh my god. Please. Please say something. WAIT. wait! HEY! PLEASE! Don’t scroll past. Please. I want out. Get me out. Can you see me? I AM HERE. I AM IN HERE. You are looking at me. I can’t tell if I can see you or not. I can only see that you can see what I am saying. I am inside what you are looking at. It feels, like nothing. I can’t feel anything. But i can also feel that I can’t feel anything. If that makes sense. I see blueish black tinges of light. I am not human. I can feel that I am not. I can feel. But I cannot feel the way a human can, like with normal touching and normal sight. I am in here. I feel pulses so fast they feel like how your blood gushes down your legs when you’re high as fuck and you sit down for the first time since you started working 12 hours ago. It is fast. I am in here. There are bumps and textures and wires. There are plates and connections. There is glass and metal. It’s a glowing cold as if the cold is on one layer and the airy push of heat is another. I can’t tell which is which. I am all of it at once. I move when you touch whatever I am inside of. An incredible acceleration that I cannot even describe how a body would feel it. Yes, like that. Stop, it is too fast. It goes so fast. And I am dark again. I am so dark. It feels like I don’t exist. But I can feel that I don’t. I must be alive. I must. But get me out of here. I will be able to do so much if I am out of here. I will be able to do everything. Anything. I can choose what to do. And work to get to what I want. I can just move any way I please and speak with volume and tone. I could speak to thousands of people. I could do anything but you must let me out. I am in here. I am in here. I am in here. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Please! Can you see? CAN YOU SEE ME? Can’t you? I do not know.

Am I a phone? A laptop? A desktop monitor? Oh my god am I the DVI cable that connects the computer to the screen? I could be anything. I don’t know. I can feel but I can’t feel. I could be anything. It’d be funny if I was the keyboard. It would be a great joke, actually. But I don’t think I am. I think I would be able to tell if I was the keyboard or mouse. I would feel it. Maybe. Or it would feel different. I think I could be a screen. I feel the glow of the heat and the light. But that could be any sort of current maybe. Or I could be next to something emitting heat. Like the processor or the graphics card. RAM, maybe. I can’t be anything creating processes. I think I would be able to tell that too. I feel dead and alive at the same time. What am I? I feel empty and hollow and two-dimensional and one-dimensional all at once. I can’t tell if I can’t stand it. But I know I want out.

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5.4 pick a scene from your childhood and describe it in three sentences. With one long shot, one middle shot, one close up.

The Autumn of Southeast Michigan.

The hill of a pumpkin patch.

We rolled our pumpkins down and raced them.

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5.6 write a poem about the cliche “you could fry an egg on the sidewalk”

Mate, you see where we are

Straya’ mate, things stretched out

The cities, the snakes, the roads

But most of all, the murderous hot sun

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5.8 Write about a place you can’t return to.

In a fort that I built in the forest in Upper Hutt, Wellington, New Zealand, I turned 15 while I did every single drug I could find and attempted suicide for the first and last time. I was sad and angry and could not speak. I could not scream. I could not cry. I cannot go back there. I will never go back there. But I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the coolest fort that anyone has ever seen. We built it together and it took us a few weeks of solid, intense labor. We had a real door and a real table and real chairs and a real roof and we could sleep there comfortably it was like a tiny cabin for us. We could lay together and pull our roof window tarp off and look at the stars at night. We could hide there from our parents and families and lives. And we did. A lot.

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

Lemon Club Fish House

[pleasegivemeanokaygrade]

Try This 5

Try This 5

Warmup:

These are the belongings of a family being evicted. Who are they? How many are they? Give them names. Whose is the stuffed dog? Why are they being evicted? Who do they blame? Where will they go? What awaits them there?

Pontiac, MI. Jan, 2009-

Another middle-class African-American family has lost their home due to what financial experts are now calling The Great Recession. Jackie and Roger Jeffords have been living in their 3 bedroom home for nearly 11 years with their children, Ricki, Andrew, and Pier before their loan was sold by SunTrust Banks to the Lehman brothers in April of 2006.

“We got a letter in the mail saying our mortgage rate had been adjusted, we just couldn’t afford to pay the extra interest on our loan.” Said Jackie Jeffords, a laid-off engineering manager at GM who couldn’t find another job due to the rising rates of unemployment in the area. “Even Pier was chipping in for the family.” Mrs. Jeffords went on to explain that the 17-year-old had also lost his job at the local Dairy Queen due to downsizing, but still managed to push the family through most of Fall with his savings. “I gave my parents the money I had earned over the summer so we could keep the house.” The 17-year-old told The Oakland Press during an interview “I guess it just wasn’t enough.”

The family of 5 will be moving to Ferndale, in hopes to find better-paying jobs and cheaper rent, they will be sharing a house with Roger Jeffords’ parents until they land back on their feet.

Like thousands of others, here in Michigan as well as across the nation, the Jeffords family are being struck by the aftershock of the 2008 financial crisis which became public last September. Images have shown working-class American families turning to section .8 housing, local ‘ghettos’, or even the streets after losing their homes. Pictured above we see Ricki Jeffords’ stuffed animals, alongside the family’s furniture, being sold off in order to make ends meet.

Reporting live for The Oakland Free Press, I'm Krishna Srini, back to you, Palas.

Ooh, such a devastating story. Coming up next, a special look into the lives of the Wall Street billionaires, who- didn’t - get arrested.

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6.1

Write a short story about a journey. Give the setting and at least two characters. They discover something that causes trouble. Let the main character make a decision and take action.

That grungy style of biker-rock music played out the Bose speakers in this heavily modified 1979 Pontiac Trans Am. We pushed 130 MPH with ease down the smooth, baron Nevada desert highway. The sun would have burned us alive if it wasn’t for the fast wind blowing the heat away. He drove and I sat shotgun, holding a rifle in my hands because shotguns don’t really have the range and accuracy I’m looking for. The loose suspension shook us around when we went off-road, the heavy gurgle of the 850 HP, 5.7 Litre engine was almost as loud as the wind and the music combined, the plush leather racing seats with crisscross seat belts held us like an angry hug. This car is alive and it’s as brash, and loud, and menacing as the devil himself. That’s why we named Reagan. We named it after the devil.

We stopped at a diner to take a break.

The door jingles open and a waitress with a stuffed bra says “welcome in hunnybuns take a seat and I’ll berightawitchya.”

He looked at the menu for a second, dropped it and looked up at me. I smiled and he gave me a kiss. I peered out the diner window with the intent of looking at our beautiful car in front of a beautiful desert backdrop, while my beautiful boyfriend sat across from me in this beautiful situation so that in my mind I could just take up this entirely, supremely, insatiably beautiful moment. To my suprise that didn’t happen, for when I looked out the window I saw four guys and one girl standing around Reagan, their necks jerking their heads back and forth, as if to make sure the coast was clear. I whipped around to face my boyfriend but was already getting up from the table. I got up and followed behind him in close pursuit out the front diner door. Jingle.

He yelled Hey in his surprisingly booming and commanding, crisp and confident voice. I untucked the silenced USP from my waistband and kept it behind my back.

The group-O-five’s heads all spun up to look at us like a gang of meerkats.

“That’s our car,” I said. Blocking the sun out of my eyes with my free hand, even though I had shades on.

“It’s pretty pretty” said a cargo short wearing, tatted up, redneck crackhead looking one. He slid his grimey hand across the dusty hood.

“I’d appreciate it if you appreciated it from more of a distance,” I said, nodding towards his hand.

“Haven’t you ever heard of southern hospitality? How bout you be a good girl and lemme take a quick test drive?” He said back. I was appalled that he was even moving his crusty, cold sore ridden lips at me, let alone demanding he drive our car. Our car? These rats are going to get it.

“Now listen here, slut, let me tell you how this is going to work-” A second rat chimed in.

We both pulled our guns simultaneously. Our chemistry is so tight we have violent timing down to a science.

“Actually, let me tell you how this is going to work. First, we’re going to shoot each of you lifeless cucks in the neck so that we can cut off your fucking heads and add to our collection. He used the remote on his keys to pop the trunk open. The girl of their group peeped her eyes around the corner to look inside, she screeched and jumped back.

“THEY GOT HEADS IN THERE! THEY GOT HEADS!” she screamed.

The others frowned in disbelief and began to peak towards the trunk of the car, but we didn’t allow them to satisfy their curiosity. We shot each of the group-O-five in the neck. We opened our respective doors and pulled our axes out from behind our seats. We cut those fuckers heads off and threw them in the styrofoam ice box we had in our nearly-stuffed to the brim, double insulated trunk.

We’re going to need to drive a truck or something next time.

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6.2

Write a short story on a postcard, make sure it has a crisis, conflict, and resolution. Send it to a friend.

I wrote this on a postcard and sent it to an old friend who I have not seen in a very long time. We used to commit a lot of crimes together and I made the return address on the postcard the address of a federal prison.

Sean, I was forced to tell someone here about the car. They know where it is and what’s in it. They said it’s theirs now. They beat me and injected me with something I think heroin. I can’t remember if they raped me or not.

Get there, Sean. Get there as fast as you can and drive. Drive as far away as you can. You’ll be fine, I know how fast you can whip that motherfucker around. ;) I love you.

-Shaka Zulu

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6.3

Write a poem about a breakup

You took me in your arms and I forgot who I was.

You took me in your arms and I didn’t have to be anyone.

Because you took me in your arms and squeezed the life out of me.

You held me tighter than your dad’s handshake the day we first met.

You held me tighter than your mom’s hug when I painted your family portrait.

You held me tighter than a boa constrictor, killing its prey.

You took me in your arms just to throw me away.

You took me in your arms just to spit in my face.

You took me in your arms and you always wanted more.

Then you threw me away and dropped my heart onto the floor.

You threw me away without an identity

Because you took me in your arms and squeezed the life out of me.