The other day I had an hour to kill before seeing a movie with my dad. I had options. I could write the next scene of my short story, read some poetry, or breeze through a chapter of my current novel. Instead, I went on Facebook. Then I checked my inbox on Yahoo. Then Gmail. Then Goodreads. Back and forth, from site to site, for 60 minutes.
By the time my dad came up to pick me up, the hour had disappeared. I had actually lost an hour online. Continue reading
The day after I published my post about hating straight white men, my blog reached 600,000 views – huzzah! This post itself acts as my 450th, and thus, I thought I would reward everyone
and make their confidence as drivers increase indirectly by sharing a picture of my somewhat ratchet parking, from the folder on my computer titled “Ratchet Parking Compilation”: Continue reading
About a month and a half into summer vacation, I still have not published much on this blog. I ask myself why: is it a bad case of writer’s block, or have I lost interest? At first I wondered whether I was just waiting until after I got my license to start anything serious, but even after attaining it
after endangering the lives of me and my examiner, here I am writing this post. Continue reading
A week ago, I came home from my first year of college. The night before I left I watched one of my favorite films, An Education, with one of my best friends, and I went to bed with a new motto in mind: fear, no more.
Carey Mulligan and Peter Sarsgaard, playing Jenny and David respectively. Also, my new screensaver. Image via entertainmentwallpaper.com.
An Education‘s story centers on sixteen-year-old Jenny Mellor, a bright and hard-working girl who lives in the suburbs with her parents and dreams of studying English at Oxford. Continue reading
I didn’t feel so well the other day. With ten minutes before class, I placed all of my books in my backpack, turned off the light switch in my dorm room, and slid my fingers across the door handle. A slight breeze from the AC unit made me shiver, a sign of sin to come. After a second of deliberation, I dropped my hand by my side.
Then, I skipped class. Continue reading
I rolled out of bed last Wednesday morning, my legs kicking back sheets and the sun bathing my belongings in pale yellow. Shuffling around in my dorm room, my sandals smooth across the linoleum floor, I brushed back photos of Britin and little letters from friends on the surface of my desk and opened my laptop. The usual rotation: Goodreads, WordPress, Yahoo, Facebook, and finally, Gmail.
Thank you for your application. We have drawn up a shortlist of candidates to be interviewed. I very much regret that it was not possible to include your name on the list.
I read the email twice, just to test myself, to ensure my eyes could see my defeat. Continue reading
“You’re a liar,” she says.
“Nope,” I say. “I’m an introvert. Just like Jane Eyre.”
“You talk so much though,” she says, eyes wide with shock. “You get along with everyone. You have so many friends!”
Now you’re the liar, I think, I don’t have friends. What are those? Also, you ignored my allusion to the best book ever. Our friendship is over. I cough a little bit into my hand to cover my disdain, and I lean back into the hard wood of my dorm room door.
“Have you met my roommate?” I ask. “Now, he’s an extrovert…” Continue reading
Back in junior year of high school, my AP US History teacher scared the heck out of everyone. I think he liked me well enough, but I recall how every time he would ask a question – what was the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo? why did Andrew Jackson shut down the National Bank? – all my classmates and I would look down at our notes, afraid of making eye contact. One day, he asked a different type of question.
“How much good do I have to do?” he asked. “I work hard to teach you guys, I do my best to be a good husband to my wife and a good father to my kids. But how much more am I responsible for?”
As a freshman in college, that question still gets to me. Continue reading
“Your first free write is to describe a setting,” my Creative Writing professor says. “Any setting. Go.”
My classmates’ pens hit paper like divers launching into a swimming pool – a blur of movement, and they’re off, splashes of syllables and sentences trailing in their wake. Meanwhile, I clutch the edge of the desk, my pencil forgotten in the kiddie pool.
“I cannot believe you would date him,” I say. “He’s clearly an idiot. Like 2% milk, just replace ‘milk’ with ‘brain cells.'”
Wait, I think, that’s dialogue, not setting. By the time I finish one sentence about a sprawling suburbia filled with shallow parents longing for their kids to do something other than each other, my professor calls time. I glance at my friend across from me, and I take a small breath of relief when I see she’s only written a couple of sentences.
Until she flips the page of her notebook, revealing several fleshed-out paragraphs. Go figure. Continue reading