Contest Entry

I couldn't decide whether or not to submit my social witness essay about sexual exploitation or my moment of being essay about discovering my dad's cancer. Actually, I lied. I could decide and did so quickly. I'm going to submit my moment of being essay (and I'm banking on no one from class reading this, so as not to jeopardize the fairness of judging). It was an easy call. To me, the moment of being piece is a lot more personal and important, and therefore, better writing in my opinion. Also, if I'm getting judged by students I don't think they will be impressed by the academic nature of my social witness essay. To the world, my social witness essay and rhetorical project are far more valuable than my dad's cancer. To me, nothing could be farther than truth. Let 1/2 instead of 1/8 girls get raped if it saves my Dad's life. He would be disgusted if he read that, and I am disgusted with myself that I mean it.

Anyhoo, back to more pleasant literary discussions. The final paragraph of my moment of being essay I think is the best bit of writing I've come up with this semester. It still holds a lot of sentimental value (that doesn't necessarily have to be positive, right?) to me, and I think it comes through in the writing. It has gone through several stages of revision, and where its at now, although not done, is a far cry from where it started. Like Jenna advised, I went through it and sought out the bits of  creative expression that just didn't work, and enhanced the ones that did. I fine tuned the grammar and present/past tense. I'm still not sure about my choice to switch from first person to second at certain places. At the end, I know it is appropriate, but I do it in the middle, too. My reasoning is that I use it whenever I hope the audience can relate to the experience, or needs to to get the impact of my message. I think the essay is strong, overall. It is a poor memoir in the sense that there is no experienced narrator's voice. I do not resolve anything, or explore deeper emotions or meanings. Well, I guess I analyze the fear of the unknown versus the fear of the known, but even then I answer with sarcasm and don't really draw any conclusions. As far as a moment of being essay though, I think it is very strong. I think the reader empathizes with the piece, and me, and is hopefully affected by it. Sam out.

Thrift Store Shopping

I don't have enough warm clothes. Or rather, I didn't. I went thrift store shopping and got some sweet deals. I went to the thrift store next to Fry's on Grant and 1st. I was kinda hoping to find some really....quiche? (I know that's the food but I mean the homonym that means kinda tacky) sweaters and stuff, but I actually got some quality clothes. All their nice sweaters were size L or XL, but I realized that is perfect. They're huge and frumpy and cozy, so I got two. One of them is this black, green and yellow color scheme that is so ugly it is my new favorite. I also got the perfect hat for 1.50. It's a beanie with a small brim and its long enough for it to double over on my ears. I also got some gloves. I tested the left one to see if it fit, and it did! They're cool. Driving gloves, woven with leather padding. The problem is, when I got home I realized the right glove (the one untested) was ripped and the leather lining was falling off. A bit of sock and some super glue and they look good as new. Also a 1.50 purchase. The two most expensive purchases were overalls and a jacket. The overalls I kinda bought for the novelty, especially since they are too tight. I looked up advice online about how to stretch out pants, and sorta extrapolated on what I found and came up with my own solution. Right now, dangling behind me from a tree branch are the overalls with a bunch of rocks stuffed into the pant legs to keep them taut. Part of the handle to the household Swiffer is stretching out the waist. Periodically, I throw hot water on them. Tomorrow I'll try them on again. The jacket is just really nice. It is egg shell white. It is shorter than a duster but longer than a normal jacket. Its got a belt and a bunch of pretty buttons and I'm kind of afraid its a womens coat, but I don't care. The pockets are deep and its got this wooly lining that makes it super warm. Needless to say, I am set for anything this desert can throw at me. Temperature wise, I mean. I am totally unprepared for rattle snakes or dehydration.

Inglorious Basterds

Brad Pitt leads a team of American Jew military men behind enemy lines to lead an Apache based guerrilla warfare type Nazi slaughterfest. So why are there only two scenes with Nazi slaughtering? Goddamnit Tarantino.... Brad Pitt was such a bad ass character. You let him carve 2 swastikas into 2 guys heads, and thats about it. You create the Steiglitz character, the rogue SS Gestapo-targeting serial killer and he doesn't do shit except stab a dude in the neck and then die. Damnit man. C'mon. The chick with the movie theater was a sweet back story and good job, she burned it down and killed the high command of the Third Reich but did that really deserve half the movie? The Basterds and her never even directly cross paths. You made two movies and just combined them. Damnit man, you're making me mad. Lieutenant Aldo sooooooo cool with the O' Brother Where Art Thou George Clooney southern drawl and happy go lucky confidence and you sequester him into less than 1/3 of the movie? Jesus man. Just tell us his story from beginning to end, burn down the movie theater in the end and either get rid of the vengeful Jew girl or give her 15 mins to establish her backstory. Why does she need a lover? Why does the main actor need to fall in love with her?

Two movies:

Movie one: Inglorious Basterds

8 Americans go behind enemy lines and mercilessly slaughter Nazis with baseball bats, machine guns, knives, booby traps, and end up sabotaging the der feurer at the movie premier. Boom. Great movie.

Movie two: Jewish Girl's Revenge

The sole survivor of a family slaughtered by the SS, she makes it to Paris and opens a movie theater. By coincidence she catches the fancy of German war hero starring in a new movie. He talks the producer/director into hosting the premier at her movie theater. She crosses paths with the man who murdered her family and she has to earn his favor to her horror. Finally, her and her black lover take the ultimate revenge and burn down the theater with the entire Nazi high command inside watching a masterpiece of propoganda.

So make up your fucking mind next time, Tarantino.

Cooking

I am making steaks right now. I seasoned them with salt and pepper and steak seasoning (which I'm pretty sure is just salt and pepper) and Worcestire sauce. It is bottom round flat steak. I have never cooked such a steak before, and am worried about cooking time. I am cooking it on the broiler because A) I think the grill is out of gas B) It is raining C) I like them broiled just as much as any other way prepared.

I like to cook a lot. Lately, I made a bomb pork loin marinated over night in balsamic vinagrette, and other spices. I served it with a side of rice and wilted spinach. Also, I made a pot roast. Pot roasts are easy to make, cheap to buy, and so super delicious. I should look into making more pot roasts. Well worth the time. In the past I've made orange glazed sword fish, bacon and brie burgers, and some nachos that would blow your mind. Hold on, I need to check on the steaks. They were good to be flipped. In a few I will retrieve and consume them. Well, I consume one of them, my roommate will handle the other. We didn't have any fresh garlic. Normally I stuff a whole clove of garlic inside of the meat and let it cook like that, then cover it in olive oil. It is bomb. These steaks will be sub-bomb. Also, we are going to watch Inglorious Bastards. Tonight should be a good night. Tom is making Ratatouille for tomorrow. I'm not sure if I have faith in his skills. He's a french man though, so he should be able to pull it off. I'll be back later with some thoughts on Inglorious Bastards.

The reason for the training

I want to hike the Appalachian Trail with Gency. I wanted to do it this summer. The problem is, the trail takes about 6 months to hike. I'm hoping I can squeeze in a trip from my Grandparent's house in VT to my dad's house in NC. That's part of the reason I'm working so hard with Gency. I figure that stay and come will be the two most important commands on the trail. I'm trying to get her to respond to strangers or dogs on the street by sitting and waiting patiently for them to approach. We are making progress, but she still likes to make the first move, and that won't fly with surly hikers. Also, most of the trail has strict leash laws for dogs which I don't plan on following. Ideally, Gency will walk by my side, explore the woods to her heart's content, and ignore any hikers and animals that don't feel like being bothered.

For Christmas, I asked for a dog back pack for her. That way she can carry her own food and water, and while we're training I can fill it with sand to get her to build some muscle. She should like that, due to her inclination to pull. It would be really great if I could pull this off. A logistical obstacle is money. I might have to increase my student loan to fund the trip. I could justify that if I could get the Eng dept to give me some sort of independent study credit for the trip if I wrote about it or something. I've always enjoyed camping and hiking and that sort of stuff, but usually with other people. If it ends up being just my dog and I, it will be a very different experience. I've heard there is a very large social aspect to the trail, like people meet up and walk a few days together. So maybe that will happen. Perhaps I can find someone to do it with me though. That would be pretty cool. Wish me luck!

Gency

My dog is my best friend. Man's best friend is literally my best friend. Like, I'm more likely to hang out with her any given night than anyone else. For awhile I was interested in training her to do cool tricks like crawl and roll over, but now I'm working on much more practical stuff. More than anything I am focusing on sit, stay, come. She's getting really good. Whenever she thinks I want something, her go to reaction is to sit, so that part is pretty easy. She is really good at stay as long as she can see me. I walk for a couple of minutes down the alleyway away from her. I turn around and shes just sitting there waiting for me to call her. However, if I walk the opposite direction that she is facing, it is very hard for her not to pivot on the spot to watch me. Which is ok, I suppose, and it doesn't really interfere with the whole staying part, but I'd really like it if her stay was super solid. Also, "heel" is a pretty essential skill I'm teaching her. Teaching her to walk well on the leash is the hardest thing I've done with her. By nature, she just likes to pull. At first, I tried just walking the opposite direction every time she pulled. But then she just got kinda confused and started pulling in circles at the end of the leash. Finally I got through her skull just by having a piece of meat in my hand that she follows. Now, if the there aren't any distractions, she follows by my heel almost naturally. She'll do it if I'm jogging too. If I can get her to trot next to my bike, that would be awesome, but she's a little bit terrified of the contraption from our first attempt at that. Also, whenever people are hanging out outside, and she decides to lie down, I throw chunks of dog biscuits at her, making sure she doesn't realize the source. Apparently, it should reinforce the desire to lie down and chill out when people are around. For the most part, she's super chill, which is great, and a top notch cuddler. When new people arrive, though, she tends to jump up on them, especially women. I'm using pepperoni to interrupt that behavior.

Poker

I started playing poker again. Well "started playing poker again" has connotations that I haven't really fulfilled yet. I used to play a lot of poker. For a month or two I supported myself by playing 2/4 and 3/6$ limit on the website PokerStars. I was worth about 7$ an hour. So, I was making minimum wage, basically, but it was fun. I burned out and didn't want to play anymore. I went through phases where I would go back to the past time, but I never took it seriously like I did back then. I lost money overall, I'm pretty sure. If you look my pokerstars name up on sharkscope.com (Azraeel) I show a profit of $600 or so dollars. If you go to trackmybets.com and look at my Beaver Dam profits, its well over $1000. I'm pretty good at poker. My number one problem with it is taking it seriously. I want to play big, deep stack tournaments, but the problem with those is that they last for like 5 hours and I just get kinda bored and burned out. I put $100 online before thanksgiving planning to spend the break pursuing riches (not really, my outlook on poker is realistic and pragmatic, and I know that playing the appropriate stakes with a $100 bankroll is a verrrrrrrrrry long and slow road to riches). I've been playing 180 man sit and go tournaments, and showing a healthy profit from those. I've also played some of the larger, 1000+ tournaments, and like always I succumb to the boredom and fall victim to my own apathy as far as game play goes. When you're in a tournament with 7,000 people, generally the top 700 get paid. It can take three or four hours to get to that point, and the good money doesn't start coming until the top 70. And that takes a verrrrrrry long time. You really need some concentration and drive to stick in it that long. When the buy in is $2.20 it is very easy to do stupid stuff knowing that it was cheap to do so. I really miss live games of poker. I was better at live games because of the physical chips in front of me. They held my attention a lot better than a screen can. All the money online is virtual. It is hard to attach realistic significance to those numbers if you don't feel the green in your hand.

One More for Good Measure

Today I saw a dog. I don't remember the last time I went a day without seeing a dog. If I was a good writer, I would make some sort of point out of that. Right now, I am not trying to be a good writer, I am trying to fill blog requirements. I am trying to survive. How many more days until I remember how to write. I'm hoping for one. I'm betting on fifteen. I heard that Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul pays $300 for every story they accept. I might look into that. The problem with trying to be a writer is that there isn't very much money behind it. Even if you take the moguls like Stephen King or David Sedaris, I imagine the median income for "professional" writers is well below the poverty line. Oh well. I don't especially care about money, because people keep giving it to me. The government gives me money so I can go to school. My parents give me money so I can sleep in a bed. My job gives me money so I can buy milk. Middle class really doesn't appeal to me. I don't want to live in a subdivision. I want to live on the wrong side of the tracks or in a multi million dollar estate on top of Mount Everest. I wonder which is more likely... With writing like this though, I imagine its only a matter of time before the money starts rolling in. One day I will have to be self sufficient. That is going to suck so much. Right now I kind of ignore my bills and creditors, knowing that one day it will bite me in the ass. But right now, I don't have to worry about it because I am young and stupid. Being young and stupid is awesome. The only problem is that right now and I imagine for the next few weeks I'm going to be young, stupid and totally miserable. I don't like being miserable because I don't know how to cure it. I know how to numb it. Right now my only numbing options are video games. Which is ok, I guess. I really like some video games, a trend I thought I escaped years ago. I am so hungry. In half an hour I get to go to La Salsa for the lit mag Persona's Dinner. That'll be dope. I think I will get something involving beef and cheese....probably a tortilla, too. Definitely salsa, of course. And sour cream. Sentence fragments woot.

I am behind in blog entries

I really want to learn to play the violin. I'm afraid I've past the point to teach my brain to think in musical terms, though. Listen to Flogging Molly's Float, and you'll know why I want to learn the violin. Not some crappy, ancient classical bullshit but a really dirty gypsy riff. I would love that. Or bluegrass fiddling. Mmmmmm no instrument talks to my heart like a violin. I have a friend who has 2 violins and is very good and used to teach lessons. She will not let me hear her play or teach me how to play. It is quite obnoxious.

I like my doggy. I need to kennel train her. She will come to North Carolina with me over Christmas break, and she will spend 10 hoursish in her crate. She came to Tucson in her crate, and now she is terrified of the thing. I started throwing bits of turkey in there so she has to run in and grab it. Hopefully if I keep it up for a few days I can throw in a bone, close the gate and let her gnaw on it for a little bit. It should be doable. My dog is my best friend. She has all the qualities of a fantastic friend. She is loyal, playful, sympathetic and licks my face. It is depressing though, that she is not only my best friend, but my only friend in Tucson. Solitude is getting to me. I cannot hang out with anyone but my roommate, and the two of us going to hang out always seems a bit silly since we live together and are always hanging out.

This weekend I called the police on my own house. A girl was passed out with her face in the dirt and somehow people were fighting the idea of taking her to the hospital. So I called an ambulance. All the minors disappeared like illegals responding to policia!  The girl made it to the hospital. She had alcohol poisoning. I keep making my roommates friends hate me. Boo hoo.

Lets Try Again

I want to live and I want to write. I want to live like I write. Honest. Witty. Profound. Entertaining. 

I need to start over. Somewhere I went astray and now "normal" hurts. My head aches. My ribs hurt. My heart pounds. I need so much attention but I don't want to be around anybody. The people I love the most are the people I want to hear from the least. 

My pants were stained with blood and mucus. I don't remember where that bruise on my hip came from. My body started leaking blood and bile. And I miss that. I am in a computer lab. I see a kid playing WOW. I see a kid 10 tabling on Poker Stars. That's hardcore. I struggled with 9 and was never profitable at more than 4. 

I demand love from others I am not willing to give myself. I am much better at taking care of others than myself. I feel boring. I feel obnoxious. I feel fatigued, and I feel like I'm drowning. They say it will get better. I believe them. Right now, it sucks. Right now, it hurts. 

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I feel like I'm going to spew

Where is my creativity?

My brain is made a little bit out of mud right now. Trying to concentrate on anything is exhausting. I'm going to spit out some random thoughts.

The woman who got her face ripped off by a chimp looks really bad. Doctors had to remove both of her eyes. That's pretty awful.

The thought of an overly agressive drunk woman at a bar saying to a confused gentleman, "I'm gonna fuck your dick off."

A hack saw splitting a live head in two. How far would the blade get before the screaming stopped?

Goddamnit. I was ok for 15 minutes. Why can't I wake up?

Los Muertos

It is a typical hospital room. The lights are dim because the occupants are going through detox, and bright lights are irritating. Two cells separated by cloth curtains make space for two occupants. The bed closer to the door is occupied. With no fan fare or introduction, the cloth barrier surrounding the room is pulled back and a Vanna White joke is made by one of the orderlies wheeling in the second occupant. He is hispanic, shirtless, and almost unconscious. He moans while they adjust him into his slot of stay. The nurses try to figure out who speaks Spanish. The one who made the Vanna White joke started experimenting with different ways to say "not much" in Spanish. They leave and the man continues to moan.

A different nurse goes up to the man and tries to get his attention and ask him how he is feeling. After several failed attempts he says he is cold. She retrieves heated blankets and spreads them out over his body. His skin is jaundiced. One family member walks through the room, past the first occupant and into the tiny space around his bed. Shortly another comes. Shortly, the entire half of the room is packed shoulder to shoulder with concerned family or friends. The man moans. In Spanish they express their concern. While the family fears, a doctor and a nurse hold a loud conversation in the hallway. The doctor is angry. He says, "You know I didn't ask for this case." The family has started an intense, almost lyrical prayer.  The doctor enters the room in a huff, passes the first partition and squeezes into the unfortunately sterotypical bundle of Mexicans. In a loud, anglo, annoyed voice he tells the family that he can cure the infection but he can't cure the cancer, and frankly it would be a waste of their time. There is a translator, and therefore a delay in the response. The news  is relayed before it hits like a bullet. The room is as quiet as it has been since the Vanna White joke. A few more exchanges are made through the translator and they take the conversation outside. Two women remain and the women sob on top of the man. They cannot stand the news. A woman from hospice comes in and helps wheel out the moaning man.

going out with a bang

I don't remember very much over the past few weeks. I need to go the hospital, and I am in a few hours. I am embarrassed and scared. I  want to be normal and better and understand other people. I think this is the first step. My brain isn't working right. Or, it is working differently. I am comfortable being rational. Now, the ol' gray box isn't doing so well in the logic department. I know what I feel, and that is what I feel, and a part of me still says it doesn't make sense but when I start to think about it I shut down. That sentence was confusing and would be better illustrated by an example. I can't think of one though. Perhaps this blog entry is a good example. Wait, no, it isn't. There is dog poop around the corner from where I am sitting. The flies prefer to congregate on me. That is a nice little image. I should tuck that into the old brain box for future use.

dont make me write

i dont want to write because i cant and because im tired of it and im not gonna punctuate as a non violent protest five hundred words takes up more words and space than 500 words its really hard not to punctuate my instinct is to hit that period or comma or to type and and then spout off and and and and nothing where ever my muse was shes hiding now i miss the incentive and burning in my gut that makes me want to write the value of my day was often based on the quality of my blog entry and i dont want it to be a chore and i want to do it and i dont want to produce muck and this is certainly muck and there is nothing of value to this punctuationless rant there is no creative incentive behind my lack of structure and gramattical failings i just dont know how to write anymore i would burn down that house if i thought it would spark my mind because i think i need delusions of grandeur to write for me to disseminate my thoughts and opinions i have to believe that i am something special and right now i feel like the scab festering on top of any wound attracting flies and bacteria i can live with not knowing what to right about but i cant live with not wanting to write this whole entry is a confession that right now i do not want to write and have not for several days and i fancy myself a writer that is gross and sad and i feel as sorry for you as i do for myself now im only half way to my word count for the day let me start listing off the words i know radical spontaneous bogus infatuated inflated groin great grating fantastic faggot furnace failure epic proportion correlation dissidence disappointment pathetic plethora pancreas placenta pussy penis pejorative principal palpate pulsate pupate copulate murder homicide genocide regicide infanticide fratricide burger steak chicken cordon bleu belch bile vomit spew hurl chunks blow stink smell reek forget promise remember never lie ok thats 358 words lets start going for phrases i know it is better to have loved than lost time heals all the sea is a cruel mistress get over it grow up learn to love turn the other cheek she loves me she loves me not fuck i just deleted something this was supposed to be a seamless expression of my sentiment and i censored myself i dont even remember what i was going to write this is pretty damn close to five hundred thats right 500 five hundred not two thousand not thirteen not seventy five not even one hundred and eighty two but five hundred words read em and weep marry my magic im out peace.

Monster

The monster had a scab on his foot. He made it himself by prodding an itch with his sharp and unkempt toenail. The more he irritated the itch, the more it bothered him. The more it bothered, the more he itched. Finally what was a blotchy bug bite turned into a festering flesh wound. He sat and stared at the pink, wet and raw skin. Flies competed for access to the wound. A mini dog pile they made on top of the hole. They fought for control of whatever juices were excreted. One would squeeze into the pile and displace another; batting wings and frantic attempts at the pile indicated their distress.

Freewrite

I'm listening to Gigantic. The Pixies were the first band I ever really loved. The songs Brick is Red and Break my Body moved me to tears on several occasions. Listening to them now, I have no idea why. The music is really cool, but it doesn't have the same value to me anymore. It is just music, not the anthem it once was. I remember really liking the Pixies and trying to get Dylan to listen to them in his car. He refused and asked what the big deal with the Pixies was. Once Jordan and Corey started listening to them he was all about them. That sucked. I wonder if any of the three of them will read this, and what their feelings on that will be. That was back in the days of skateboarding. I miss skateboarding. It was my best "sport" endeavor. I was good at skateboarding, at least compared to those boarding with me. I kick flipped the seven stair. Skateboarding did things that were good for me. I liked the independence and purpose it gave. Me and Michael and Jeff would pick up and hit a gap for a few hours. We sweated and sat on our boards and put our elbows on our knees and wiped our faces with our shirts. Grimy asphalt worked itself into the creases of our bodies. Sometimes I carried a bottle of seltzer water with me. Sometimes Michael was hijacked by the stoners and then skateboarding wasn't as much fun. Bleary eyed, he would sit on the curb and say silly things. I haven't found something comparable to that sense of accomplishment after landing the perfect flip, or olliing 5 skateboards stacked, wheels interlocking. I biked across the country in 9 weeks, and I am still prouder of my multiple attempts at olliing the 11 stair, even though I never landed it. To bike across the country all I had to do was wake up and put one foot after the other. The 11 stair ate two of my skateboards, and was never conquered. But to face her was to face an Everest. It took some balls culminating in a poetic pop-woosh. The pop was the tail of my skateboard clacking on the sidewalk inches before the abyss. The woosh was the flight. Like an arrow I flew through the air and down the stairs, an unusual approach to descending stairs. Time after time I landed with a crash. Sometimes the board shot out in front of me and my ass hit the ground. Twice I landed perfectly but the thing wood of my board just couldn't survive the impact, and the stress points of the contraption splintered, making me do the splits, one foot on each half of the skateboard rolling away from each other. Once I gave up half way through the air, kicked the board away from me and landed in a crouch like if I had jumped without the skateboard. My head, or eye, more specifically, collided with my knee with the force of 11 stairs skipped. That one is on film.

EmotiX

I am tired of trying. TOO BAD. It hurts in my heart. GET OVER IT. My pain is profound. WAA WAA WAA.

A childhood friend of mine was murdered. My roommates parents are separating. My dad has cancer.

Feelin' blue? Join the crew. Rhyme away your time.

Anguish allows apathy. Alliteration alleviates angst.

My sorrow is like a simile.

My tears are metaphor.

I'd fight off 10,000 hyperbolic armies for your love.

I am depressed. I DON'T CARE. I have issues. WHO DOESN'T. I need love. WAA WAA WAA.