No, stupid. It's June. Duh. Has been for ten days. Sheesh. Why do you as such dumb questions?
Okay. I'm sorry, dear blog reader. You aren't stupid. You're really smart. But whoever the hypothetical question asker is must be pretty dumb, okay?!
Wow. This is a really weird blog already--can't wait to see what else is in store! (Even I don't know because I don't have anything planned; I just desperately felt like posting again since I haven't for the past month and a half.)
I've spent a little of my free time the past couple of days catching up on my favorite blogs (Maureen Johnson, hayleyghoover, and italktosnakes), and it's apparently lit the flame of blog writing again in my dear heart. I've kind of missed putting my thoughts down for random internet users to peruse, which sounds like it could be some weird mental disorder, but feels quite normal when it's actually happening to you. Sooooo, what to write about?
Love life? No such thing...hmmm
Scholarly pursuits? Nope.
My job? Not really...well...okay...sort of.
So, life at the writing lab lately...my friend Katie recently got hired as a tutor at my Writing Center, so we've been having a lot of fun on Tuesday nights when we work one overlapping hour (the golden hour from 6:30-7:30). Thus far we've spent said time showing each other entertaining things on the internet, having both philosophical and trivial conversations about books and our shared acquaintances, and suffering through a really bad student paper submitted to us online which may or may not have included a source by the name of--I kid you not!--Winkeljohn. How can I take a research paper seriously that keeps quoting Winkeljohn?!
So anyway, moving back to the subject at hand, the other day Katie and I were discussing our high school English classes and I made mention of a certain short story I wrote in my sophomore year (age 16-ish for you non-yanks) which featured Katie as one of the main characters. She didn't remember it, so I found a copy I had saved in my e-mail and we read it aloud together. It made for extremely enjoyable reading. In Katie's words it is "like a really weird mixture of...Twilight and...Agatha Christie." However, bear in mind that comparing my sorry attempt at a murder thriller to Agatha Christie is kind of like comparing a three-year-old plunking away on a piano to, like, say...Beethoven.
I will include an exerpt now for your amusement at my expense:
It was now that she truly wished that she didn’t live alone. She normally avoided relationships, feeling that she didn’t need a man to make her happy, but now she was very much in need of a strong and study husband to make her feel secure. Little did she know that the answer to her query was waiting on her front porch just about to ring the doorbell.
As the bell sounded, Thorpe began his usual barking to notify her that they had company.
“Shh! Thorpe, calm down…,” she consoled her dog, “It’s okay…” She swung the door open halfway and peered up at an amiable police officer, just older than she, standing up straight and tall, looking all business. “Um, Hello officer,” she greeted him, blushing a little and wishing she would have done something with her hair before answering the door. “Can I help you with something?”
“Actually Miss, you could. I’m from the Crime Scene Investigation Unit here in town. We have several sources that point straight to your residence as the hide out for an armed and very dangerous killer. May I please inspect your home? That is…if you don’t mind of course.” His voice was soothing, creamy. It had a certain quality to it that sounded cultured and gave him a proper tone that suggested a slight European accent. Something about the way he spoke made her like him the moment she met him, but no matter how kindhearted and smooth the words came out, they still stuck in her head and registered fear and coldness.
“Oh, of course I don’t mind! I would really prefer it if you took a look around, to tell you the truth.” She had a way of keeping her voice completely calm and under control even though on the inside she was completely shocked, panicky, and having a nervous breakdown.
He stepped inside and began his investigation. She noticed that even his stride was distinguished. Why on Earth did he become a police officer? He should be a lawyer or professor or leader of a big firm, she thought. What she didn’t know was that he wasn’t a police officer. He was playing a double role in coming here.
This chunk is a good example of what the entire story is like. It's completely ridiculous. Katie and I were excessively diverted by this crap-writing. If you were entertained by it even a tenth of the amount that we were I have fulfilled my purpose in this blog post. I'm glad that the paper I actually ended up turning in for this assignment was significantly better--and that my teacher encouraged me to go in a different direction and use a true story from my life instead.
It's funny how perspective changes; I remember writing this story and thinking it was dang good stuff. How very wrong I was! Now it's only purpose is to perpetually engage all those who read it, not on its merit as a chilling tale, but rather, its merit as poorly-written rubbish and its nostalgic value. But, as a wise man once said, "We never write as well as we think we do in high school!" (Winkeljohn)
Under-Appreciated Vocabulary Word of the Day:
encapsulate (v): to make concise; condense.
Random Movie Quote for Your Entertainment:
"You can't just ask someone why they're white!"
--Gretchen Weiners in Mean Girls