Artist

The glow of the computer screen hit my face, making my already glow-in-the-dark white skin shine a hideous shade of blue-green. I swayed slightly to the beat of the music; Dirrty, by Christina Aguleria. Unfortunately, the situation at hand called for the mother load of SLop music.

Like always, I was procrastinating my English essay by playing the most time consuming of quizzes. 'Right-Click...the shooting star, THE SHOOTING STAR,' My brain was shouting at my fingers. I internally cursed my lazily slow reflexes as I impatiently navigated my mouse toward the red X at the top of the Internet window. I would have to get past that level sooner or later, but I was born to the generation that instinctively chose the latter. I stretched my long arms over my head and yawned; it was quite amazing how tired you could get by moving your finger along a touch pad...amazing, and pathetic.

My gaze shifted to the glass cover that failed in it's task of protecting my battered, old wooden desk, while my left hand rummaged through my English binder, attempting to find the crumpled paper that declared what I had to write in my essay. I hated restrictions and requirements in my writing. I was an artist; my markings on paper could not be tied up in this learning garbage. But, my need to please those judging me surpassed my want of freedom, so I hastily read the assignment:

Write a standard 5-paragraph essay on someone you admire, love, or
respect. Include aspects of that person that your reader could relate to,
and personal experiences that show why you chose this person.

I rolled my eyes; The stupid, mindless respect essay assigned once again. I pulled out a fresh piece of college-ruled lined paper and my trusty black ball-point pen, wrote my name at the top and continued to gaze at the faint pink lines that covered the paper. By habit, the end of my pen found its way to my lips and I began to suck at it while my mind debated itself over who to choose.

'Sucking up always works. C'mon, choose Mrs. Valry. . .she'd love it,' The sensible part of my mind dictated. 'You're three points away from that A, just do it and be done with it.'

'But you know perfectly well who you want to choose, don't try and hide it from yourself,' The slightly more reckless side of me taunted, 'Fits all the criteria. You admire, love, and respect-'

'Nobody will believe you,' The sensible part of me shouted, 'They'll think we're crazy!'

"I am crazy!"

I blinked and realized that I was on my feet. It took me a moment to notice the ink covering my hands too, and that the bitter taste in my mouth announced that my pen had once again exploded. I needed to stop thinking so hard; these episodes were not good for my psyche. I pulled the broken, useless pen from my mouth and threw it harshly on the desk. My eyes roamed the room for something I could guiltlessly wipe my hands on, when I spotted something red and shapeless lying on my torn-apart bed. I did a double take and felt the air escape out of my mouth. My brain forced my eyes shut and I turned on the spot to face my computer screen again.

You need to clean your room.

Sure enough, my word processor was open, and the black text was clashing against the virtual white paper. I felt my knees give way; luckily my chair was right under me. I landed harder than was comfortable against the stiff-back chair and gazed open-mouthed at my monitor. My trembling ink-covered hands found my keyboard, and I typed faster and sloppier than I intended to.

I know. I wish you would st0p doinng this.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Part of me, the book smart, responsible, adult part of me prayed he wouldn't respond. The hopeless romantic part, however, couldn't wait to open my eyes and see his bold text written in front of me.

Don't tell me you don't want to see me again. It would absolutely ruin me...

My physical self rolled my eyes again, knowing that his words were dripping with sarcasm, but inside my heart skipped a beat. Ruin him to not see me again. Or having me not want to see him again. I couldn't tell if it was romantic or vain upon further inspection. Not wanting to act the fool, I smiled to myself and responded with some dry humor.

Oh, I'm sure about that. You would absolutely die if your ink-covered stalker didn't want you anymore. Really, though, why must you always come at times when I would be completely mortified to see you?

I laughed to myself as I pictured his reactions. I drummed my fingers subconsciously on the now ink-splattered glass of my desk and hoped without hope that the preliminary spook-chat would be over soon and I could look at him again.


Mortified, really. You know perfectly well that I don't care if you're covered in ink or your own internal juices. And since when are you my stalker? I thought I fully filled the guidelines of being the stalker here.

I closed my eyes and shook my head as I read his text. If there was one thing I didn't like about him, it was his use of words. Stalker, for instance, made my sensible radar go off. I thought of what my parents would say if they knew I was talking to my computer screen, or that occasionally an unknown teenage boy from nowhere appeared sitting on my bed. Grinding my teeth I responded to his message.

You know I hate that word, William.
I wrote quick, then weakly added,
Now, when can I see you?

“Turn around,” Said a deep voice from my bed, “And what else would you call me, if not stalker?”

I turned around as slowly as I could, but upon seeing him I seemed to glide to the bed and land next to him. My brown eyes found his green, fathomless ones and I stared deplorably into them. It took me a while to realize that he was waiting for my response. I shook my head, and my dark hair miserably whipped my face. I became fully aware of how idiotic I must look, my hair almost strangling me while my mouth and hands were covered in ink. Your advanced geek.

“Er...” I started, not quite finding the words, “Well. Stalker. Kind of...strong.”

“I am strong,” William whispered into my ear, his warm breath seemed to stroke my skin, “If not stalker, how about lover?”

“Will,” I said in my most responsible voice, turning my head away from him so I could gain some composure, “You need to stop. You know how that makes me melt. I'm tougher than this. You know I am.”

I sometimes noticed that my anger at Will was due to the disappointment I felt of myself. Lacey Craig was a strong, responsible girl. Independent. I'd never let a boy get in my way before, but now I was finding that harder. Will seemed to know all of my weaknesses somehow, and when I thought about him he was everywhere, like he responded to me thinking of him.

“I'm sorry, dearest,” He said in a soothing voice. I looked back at him and noticed that he had moved. He was kneeling next to me, his hands extended, waiting to take mine in his. I gave in and gave him one of my hands. It was surprising how pale it looked next to his tanned skin. He caught me staring at our hands and he flashed me a brilliant wide grin. I returned it and opened my mouth again.

“How do you do it?” I asked bluntly. A moment too late I realized that this statement indeed made no sense, and I had once again made a complete buffoon of myself. I felt my face flush and looked down at my knees, knowing he was giving me a superior look.

“Do what?” He asked, half laughing. I felt his warm hand under my chin, pulling my face back to look at his. I was surprised to see it so close, but this time I was ready and answered without skipping a beat.

“Everything,” I said, smiling when he finally looked like he was confused. Not wanting to see the tortured expression on his face any longer I elaborated, “Know how to...well, how to make me act like a sixteen year old girl. How you move like you aren't moving. How you come when I think of you...” I let my words fade away, then grinned at him as if these were just some benign observations, and not questions that had been burning inside of me since I had first seen his beautiful face.

“Now why would you want to worry your pretty little head over something like the way I move,” Will laughed, moving once again in a blink of an eye so he was sitting next to me, yet again, on the bed. His hands found the shapeless red object I had seen earlier, and I noticed that it was a square of satin fabric. He dabbed at my face with it, then took my hands and wiped them once with the red cloth. I looked down, amazed, to see that the were instantly clean.

“My little sexist lover,” I said sarcastically, secretly burning with curiosity at how he had cleaned me off, “I'm just a pretty little head now, am I? Well, if that's what you think of me...” I made to get up in protest, but found myself pulled back down on the bed. I bit down on my lip, something habitual that I did when I was nervous, and landed with a small spring on my back. Sooner than I could have ever expected, Will's elbows were on either side of me, propping him up so he was hovering over me. He moved his lips to my ear.

“No,” He whispered in the same fashion as before, his breath giving me goosebumps, “I think you're the most brilliant, independent, reckless young lady I have ever and the pleasure to lay eyes on.”

He had done it. He had pushed the brilliant button, and he knew that he had done it. He was positively irresistible when he complimented my intelligence. I closed my eyes and felt my face move to where I thought his lips were.

“LACE,” Came a harsh voice from the other side of the door, “It's time for dinner! Mom's been calling you for ages! Get your butt up there, I'm starved!”

My eyes flickered open; Will was no longer there. I was slightly embarrassed but mostly disappointed as I realized my lips were still puckered. I groaned and rolled onto my stomach and off the bed. “Thanks a lot, Stephen Michael Craig,” I shouted at him, though I know he didn't deserve it, “Idiot.” I muttered under my breath. Why did that always happen, and why did Will always have to disappear?

Another Sunday...

It's Sunday again; oh boy. I've been sick and I'm irritable and just don't want to go back. Being sick and irritable plus the fact that there is end-of-term stress equals a Becca you just don't want to talk to. I can't count the number of people I've snapped at over the weekend.
A good fact about tomorrow is that there is NAL. That always brightens my day; even if I am nervous. What's more is that I get to miss seventh period all together. I guess that would be more pleasing if I actually did something in seventh period, preferably something that I didn't enjoy doing. I love school but I can't help but be bored.
I think I work better in an environment that requires constant studying, instead of the occasional test and busy work every night. I'm more determined to study from my notes than doing a worksheet I know I could do just as easily that morning. I think a lot of us are like that, knowing that something is easy enough to just postpone. I really wish I went to a private school, or college, or somewhere that I actually could take what I wanted and wasn't bored by the easiness of all of these mediocore classes!!! A class that required notes-study-activity-notes-study-activity-test. Mr. L does an excellent job with that, in my opinion.
To get my mind off the fact that I'm basically snoring in my classes I will now talk about NAL, one of the things I thrive at doing my best at. It's like modest bragging; you answer as many questions that you can and gloat later. We totally creamed the competition at our last game. We doubled their score--65 to 29. I'm hoping we'll do the same next game. We've got a wicked awesome team, some of the smartest kids in the school...but most of them are new and don't know that specific technicallities that could lead you to miss something. After the last game, though, I think they're set.
I should really go to bed now, seeing as I have to make up a test I missed on friday. Why all the sudden is my life filled with funerals? I hope it's not foreshadowing something in the future.

Shakespeare's Authorship

Like many issues over the years; religion, politics, and how the Aztecs disappeared, the issue of Shakespeare’s authorship has been highly debated among many. What does this say about our society? We don’t like to make things easy.

While researching this issue I came across a website entitled Beginner’s Guide to the Shakespeare authorship problem. This site is run by the Shakespeare Oxford Society, and they argued why they believed that Shakespeare was actually Edward De Vere, Earl of Oxford. An Earl of Oxford is a title of nobility in the community, and this title stayed within the Vere family until 1703 when the twentieth Earl passed away. I believe that the Shakespeare Oxford society doesn’t give enough evidence proving that Edward De Vere was the author of Shakespeare’s works, hence ruling him out on my personal list. Edward De Vere also died in 1604, disabling him from writing some of Shakespeare’s works that were allegedly written after Vere’s death.

Several other authors of Shakespeare’s time may have written “Shakespeare’s” work. One of these is Francis Bacon. Sir Francis Bacon was and is an excellent poet; some of his works include The Life of a Man, and Guiltless Heart. He, like Shakespeare, was very well educated and knew the law. He often made references about the law in his writing, making him much like Shakespeare. While Bacon refers to the legal mumbo-jumbo quite literally, Shakespeare uses a slightly more metaphorical format. It is also argued that with Bacon’s many obligations it would have been impossible for him to write one hundred fifty-four sonnets and thirty-six plays.

Another man many have considered to have allegedly written these works is Christopher Marlowe. Marlowe was a very dramatic poet and had many works under his belt. Marlowe, however, died in 1593 and therefore couldn’t have written most of Shakespeare’s work. Those that support Marlowe claimed that he didn’t actually die and went on to write all of Shakespeare’s great works, but in my opinion that’s just the Marlowe supporters being stubborn.

The last man I will discuss is William Stanley Derby, a Poet of that time and husband of Elizabeth Vere. The Shakespeare Oxford Society seems to like this option because he could have aided Edward De Vere in writing the scripts. In several letters it states that Derby was only interested in comedies, and thus rules him out for writing Romeo and Juliet among many other works. Also, his life does not fit in with the autobiographical achievements of Shakespeare, therefore disabling him to write any of the works.

I have discussed four capable men, all of which I have ruled out. This leads me to believe that either Shakespeare was Shakespeare himself, or that he was in fact a woman. I’m leaning towards the Shakespeare is Shakespeare himself. Right now we’ve got a story that fits with when the plays were written and I don’t think that we should question that. As long as we’ve got the texts, who cares who wrote them?

Einstien's Theory of Gravity

Einstien's Theory of Gravity. This theory is incredibly complex and uses alot of high-level math to be acurate. This theory, however, is highly accepted among the field of physics, even more so than Newton's Theory. Why, then, do they still teach Newtonian physics in school? The simple answer to this question is because it's easy. It is also somewhat accurate when comparied to Einstienain physics. The harder question is do we, (me in particular because I'm planning on majoring in astrophysics when I get to college) really want to be taught something that is not accurate. We get these numbers and facts jammed into our head just to find out when we reach higher levels of this class that it's all obsolete? That's just not right.
Lets face it. Those of us that really remember these laws and the rate that things fall at due to gravity are those of us that really enjoy physics! If you ask me the three laws of motion, I can reply with a heartfelt answer. Ask someone that hated physics and got a 30% on the test and they couldn't tell you. They don't care about physics, those of us that do well--and I mean really well--and can actually remember the stuff now probably are interested.
I will now give a very basic and brief description of Einstien's theory. You can follow along with the diagram above, too. Basically what Einstien says is that everything is trying to find its straight path through the space/time continuem. When a large body, like the earth, is in the continuem it warps it in a way by sinking in (embeding in) and thus corrupts it. Everything that's trying to find a straight path is now going to the center of the earth, because it has been warped. That, Einstien concludes, is why things fall to the center of the earth i.e. ground.
Now, for those of you that don't remember your Newtonian physics: What Newton says is that gravity is a force. A force just as basic as friction and pushing and pulling. This force pulls everything toward the ground. This theory is realtivly easy, and thus provides a good way for early physical education to give us the fundementals of gravity. You can probably ask any shmoe on the street what gravity is and they'll respond "The force that pulls us down." Probably not in those words, but they'll say something to that effect. What Einstien says is that gravity basically isn't a force at all! It's rediculous to make those of us that really want accurate (at least as accurate as we can get today) information suffer through these obsolete beliefs. In my opinion, although I love Newtonian physics, it should be taken out of the cirriculum or the fundementals of Einstinian physics should be taught. Thank You.

Christmas Spirit

I temporarally took my last entry offline because I thought it was too personal--and heaven forbid that I actually show some emotion! The truth is that I wrote it at two in the morning when I was having when of those scared attacks and wasn't doing my best. Now, for the replacement entry.
I'm not trying to be unoriginal here, but Christmas is one of my FAVORITE things in the whole world, and I thought I dang well better dedicate a single entry to it, even if a million people have already. What I am trying to do here though, is prove my fellow honors student wrong. Ren, as most of you have read, wrote that he thinks christmas is overrated. Later on he wrote a slight reproach of his entry, because everyone was ganging up on him. In this blog entry he said that "Pessimism is king." I'm going to totally destroy that thought by writing a KILLER entry about how much I love christmas. In otherwords, I'm going to write an optimistic view on christmas.

Christmas is a word superior to all at my house. My mom is the biggest fan of Christmas on the Earth and one word couldn't bring more excitment to her darling little face. Her love of this holiday has spread through her kids and everyone she has touched the life of.
One of the best Christmas I have experienced in my life thus far is when my mom decided that she was really going to impact someone's life. At this point in my life my mom was working as a shelver at Maceys in the middle of the night because of some financial troubles. This alone touched my life but she didn't want to stop there.
A young lady that she worked with was the bacon bringer at her house. Seeing as she worked in the middle of the night at Maceys shelving food, it wasn't enough to provide food for her developing family AND by Christmas presents. Her husband had actually gotten recently layed off, so this $6.50 an hour for four or so hours was there ONLY income. My mom, being the natural claus that she was decided that she wanted to help this woman out. A family going without christmas was like a family going without food to her. A couple days before christmas, my mother, and several others she got involved at her work, brought big shopping baskets full of christmas presents for the woman's family and presented them to her. The woman was so greatful that she started to sob, the thought of her children going without christmas saddened her, but the thought that people cared about her well-being more than she thought was the ultimate gift. My mother provided a christmas for those kids, and just hearing the story touches my heart and makes me realize how important giving is.
For years my sister has sung her heart out at stores all over the state to encourage people to donate toys and money to Toys For Tots. When she heard that there is usually a lack of gifts for teenagers in the family she was upset. Usually in these low income families teens are responsible! They usually either get jobs and provide money, or raise the kids. Them going without christmas was horrible, they should deserve one day where they can just be a kid. My sister started a project called Toys For Teens. She sings all over the state still, but in places where gifts for teens are common. It is a yearly event taken place over several months, and she raises thousands of dollars in gifts for the children that act more like adults. This is what we should be doing at Christmas at times.
There are a few, I won't deny it, that take Christmas as a time to get presents, not give presents. The best thing to do at christmas time is to give--esspecially to those most in need. Christmas lights and music warm spirits and touch people's hearts. It is NOT overrated--just look at all the people that are truely making a difference in people's LIVES durring Christmas. If you think Christmas lights, music, and other festivities are overrated than you should take a good look at the people that really make an impact in people's life. My sister starts Toys for Teens MONTHS before thanksgiving, and my mother is excited and shopping for christmas year round. These people are not to be looked down upon. Think about what Christmas brings when it comes; happiness and joy. A thougt of peace around the globe (at least to the Christain Community) Trying to spread peace and joy around the world is not something to frown at. Next time you look at people that try to bring the christmas spirit earlier in the year think about how you can raise the chrismas spirit, and how chrismas as a whole makes you feel. Don't judge and especailly dislike people that trying to spread love, not crap.
Thank You

Then I realize that it can't be a coincidence.

Following is a very small part of a story I started to write today. It is very obsurd and confusing, but just keep in mind that I wrote the majority of this after midnight. Feel free to comment, good or bad (not too mean though, no use in giving mean critiques) Constructive criticism is very welcome although some of it is not.
EXAMPLES OF BAD CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM:
"Good try"
"I don't understand it."
"I think it was lacking"
"Make it longer."

In other words, please try to help rather than make me feel bad...please. :D.This is a small part of chapter one and the introduction. Everything isn't in place yet and it isn't supposed to make complete sense. If you are going to be constructive please state the problem specifically. I know there is alot things I should fix, and I would love your help. :D! Comment over on the tagboard! Oh yes, and be completely honest. Don't tell me you like it if you don't.
Thanks,
Becca

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I breathe death. It freezes the air; and it scares me. Everywhere I go it follows after me, there’s no escaping it. It makes me have crazy feelings; makes me insane and unproductive. I get so scared sometimes it’s all I can do but collapse. I know I must be strong; so it was written, it must be true. I stay indoors, try to make little contact. Every person I meet and learn to love stabs me in the back, bringing forth more pain and agony then ever imagined. I must find my Utopia.

It started when I was young, barely able to communicate effectively with others. I didn’t mean for it to happen; it was written. It said that I would bring death to all that loved me, thus leading a forbidden life. My family soon perished, not physically but emotionally. They turned me away to find someplace where I would be accepted. They said it was written, therefore it must be true. They said they loved me too much to see me live this life, and they would rather not to see me at all than to suffer. What they don’t understand is that I suffer everyday without them, and will continue to until I find my utopia.

Chapter 1

“You can’t”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

The voices alternated, one being mine and the other being the guard’s. He wasn’t letting me in. “I really don’t, sir. Could you refresh my memory?”

“It was written. Now I’m sorry but I can’t let you in. We just can’t deal with this right now.” He turned his back on me and refused to speak when I spoke.

I started toward the next city. It wasn’t different, only a few would actually let me in. I knew that the ones that did had something to give me; not materialistic but emotionally and spiritually. A high good; something intellectual. That’s what I was interested in finding, after all. It hadn’t been long since I was turned away from my family, forced to live a life of lack of love and belonging. I wander, that’s what I do. I bring horror to some towns, and relief to others; some just want to know that what is written is actually true and they aren’t the ones suffering. I suppose seeing my face, dirty and scratched being turned away countless times brings them pleasure. Somehow it’s right to see me loveless.

I had been on my own so long I had forgotten how to make words into sensible sentences. With the aid of a prisoner at a jail in the first city I had visited I learned quickly enough to eventually ask for help. That jailbird was one of the only organisms in the entire town that had tried to trust me, but by the time I had left he was hung, for offering help to something disapproved of. Sometimes I look at these things like they’re not my fault; and then I realize that these things can’t just be coincidences. Several have died offering me aid and love.

Once word of these deaths had spread I was not accepted in many towns. I wasn’t accepted before, but these brought it to an extreme, more than 70% were cruel; a lot more so than the guard I had just spoken to.

Stray Animals

We all know about Stray animals roaming the roads without any rhyme or reason, no home, and no place to belong. They eventually end up dying, because we're too afraid to touch them because of the deadly diseases they contain. My answer to this problem? Sport.
Alot of people go hunting anyway, why not kill two birds (or in this case dogs and cats) with one stone? We can gather them all up using very protective equipment (as not to catch their very fatal diseases), release them in a 3 mile radius (fenced off, of course) and send everyone off hunting. This, of course, provides many things. Sport for the highest race, and an answer to the stray problem. No longer will we have to see these muts wondering around durring the winter, begging for food. No longer will we have to come to an abrupt stop to wait for these evil beasts to make their way across. They won't be an issue! It will save many, many lives and provide entertainment and humor to the society. Thank you.



sat-ire

1. 1. A literary work in which human vice or folly is attacked through irony, derision, or wit.
   2. The branch of literature constituting such works. See Synonyms at caricature.
2. Irony, sarcasm, or caustic wit used to attack or expose folly, vice, or stupidity.

That's right, I'm using satire. It's all a joke, sorry to all of you that might have been offended.