Friday, October 24, 2003
Cat: "Ian talked me into taking an autobiography English course next semester."
Christ: "Autobiography?! I'd hate writing about my life! It's so boring! Maybe if I won a billion dollars and was famous or something."
Cat: "No, that's the challenge: take something seemingly ordinary and turn it into something exciting...everyone's got something that makes them different and special."
Christ: "Oh my God, you've really changed."
I probably haven't changed that much, I was mainly just in a good mood. But I think it's true; everyone's got something that makes them unusual. Even if there's someone who's completely ordinary in every way, that would make them unusual because the chances of being exactly average in everything are nearly impossible. Even my enemies are special...they're just special in a villianous, won't-pay-you-back-for-last-semester's-bills-and-have-psychotic-family-members-that-control-their-children's-every-move-and-thought sort of way. There are a lot of crazy characters out there in real life. Some of them would make great characters in a novel. I think that writing an autobiography describing these wackos and how they've affected my life would be a lot of fun. And with the right spin, I'm sure I can turn some of my semi-interesting stories into a great read.
"The rhythmic thumping breached the thin wall between our rooms, rattling the floor and preventing my sleep. Suddenly, I reached my breaking point. Enough! Four consecutive mornings of this nonsense was infuriating me- the time had come to confront her. Despite my agitation, I knocked only timidly on her door. The daughter opened it slightly, and I passively asked, "Do you think you could wait until a little later in the day to do that? It shakes the floor and I can't sleep."
In the far corner of the room I could see the mother standing atop a chair, apparently in the middle of her morning exercises. A wave of disgust swept across her face as I made my request. From her initial body language I detected a hint of embarrassment from being caught in such a ridiculous position, but she rapidly toughened her exterior. "I pay just as much rent as you do!" she screeched before leaping down from her perch and stomping out of the apartment.
Puzzled and still half-asleep, I stumbled back to my room and crawled back into bed, unaware that the mother was strategically planning a confrontation of her own."
That is one of my more dramatic tales to begin with, but it'll take practice before my more ordinary stories seem exciting.
"The four of us set out on an expedition to the Syracuse mall. While my intent was to search for wholesome fall sweaters, an elaborate series of events threw a wrench in my plans and I instead returned to my abode in posession of a pair of sparkly sneakers.
I loved those sneakers and they loved me. As summer faded into fall, we created many memories together. We strolled down Ho Plaza, hiked up Catherine Street, and went for long walks in the evenings, just the three of us. In my darkest moments I could always look down to those sneakers; the glittery flash they beamed gave me the strength to carry on.
It began as a day like any other. With several classes to attend, I needed comfortable footwear that would cradle my feet as I tromped around campus. As usual, my sparkly sneakers were there for me to rely on. With their support, I endured most of my day. When I cut through Upson Hall to return home in the afternoon, however, the stairs to the parking lot were tragically blocked. Following the cue of the couple in front of me, I traversed the grass behind Ward Laboratory to reach the trail that ran parallel to the gorge.
By the time I realized what had happened, it was too late. The grass, donning a facade of bright green strength and vigor, was in fact nearly the consistency of quicksand. My sneakers sank down into it and mud smeared across their formerly pristine sides. Hurriedly I questioned whether to turn back or hustle across the remainder of the shortcut. In a panic, I chose the latter. By the time I reached the path, my sneakers were fatally dirty. If I had decided to turn back, would it have made a difference in the fate of our relationship? Perhaps the most troubling aspect of the disaster is that I may never know."
Ok, I'm officially nuts. I should go to grad school at Crazy Go Nuts University.
Christ: "Autobiography?! I'd hate writing about my life! It's so boring! Maybe if I won a billion dollars and was famous or something."
Cat: "No, that's the challenge: take something seemingly ordinary and turn it into something exciting...everyone's got something that makes them different and special."
Christ: "Oh my God, you've really changed."
I probably haven't changed that much, I was mainly just in a good mood. But I think it's true; everyone's got something that makes them unusual. Even if there's someone who's completely ordinary in every way, that would make them unusual because the chances of being exactly average in everything are nearly impossible. Even my enemies are special...they're just special in a villianous, won't-pay-you-back-for-last-semester's-bills-and-have-psychotic-family-members-that-control-their-children's-every-move-and-thought sort of way. There are a lot of crazy characters out there in real life. Some of them would make great characters in a novel. I think that writing an autobiography describing these wackos and how they've affected my life would be a lot of fun. And with the right spin, I'm sure I can turn some of my semi-interesting stories into a great read.
"The rhythmic thumping breached the thin wall between our rooms, rattling the floor and preventing my sleep. Suddenly, I reached my breaking point. Enough! Four consecutive mornings of this nonsense was infuriating me- the time had come to confront her. Despite my agitation, I knocked only timidly on her door. The daughter opened it slightly, and I passively asked, "Do you think you could wait until a little later in the day to do that? It shakes the floor and I can't sleep."
In the far corner of the room I could see the mother standing atop a chair, apparently in the middle of her morning exercises. A wave of disgust swept across her face as I made my request. From her initial body language I detected a hint of embarrassment from being caught in such a ridiculous position, but she rapidly toughened her exterior. "I pay just as much rent as you do!" she screeched before leaping down from her perch and stomping out of the apartment.
Puzzled and still half-asleep, I stumbled back to my room and crawled back into bed, unaware that the mother was strategically planning a confrontation of her own."
That is one of my more dramatic tales to begin with, but it'll take practice before my more ordinary stories seem exciting.
"The four of us set out on an expedition to the Syracuse mall. While my intent was to search for wholesome fall sweaters, an elaborate series of events threw a wrench in my plans and I instead returned to my abode in posession of a pair of sparkly sneakers.
I loved those sneakers and they loved me. As summer faded into fall, we created many memories together. We strolled down Ho Plaza, hiked up Catherine Street, and went for long walks in the evenings, just the three of us. In my darkest moments I could always look down to those sneakers; the glittery flash they beamed gave me the strength to carry on.
It began as a day like any other. With several classes to attend, I needed comfortable footwear that would cradle my feet as I tromped around campus. As usual, my sparkly sneakers were there for me to rely on. With their support, I endured most of my day. When I cut through Upson Hall to return home in the afternoon, however, the stairs to the parking lot were tragically blocked. Following the cue of the couple in front of me, I traversed the grass behind Ward Laboratory to reach the trail that ran parallel to the gorge.
By the time I realized what had happened, it was too late. The grass, donning a facade of bright green strength and vigor, was in fact nearly the consistency of quicksand. My sneakers sank down into it and mud smeared across their formerly pristine sides. Hurriedly I questioned whether to turn back or hustle across the remainder of the shortcut. In a panic, I chose the latter. By the time I reached the path, my sneakers were fatally dirty. If I had decided to turn back, would it have made a difference in the fate of our relationship? Perhaps the most troubling aspect of the disaster is that I may never know."
Ok, I'm officially nuts. I should go to grad school at Crazy Go Nuts University.
