Operation: Bagel Shop

Being home with the fam-bam is great and all, but there are really only so many times that I can answer the question: "And what do you plan to do in the future?"

Graham and Bethany find themselves in a similar conundrum. I guess people don't really understand what people in an acting program intend on doing for the rest of their lives. I always thought it was kind of obvious what they wanted to do. Hence their major.

Anyway, since the three of us are sick of being pestered, we have decided that we're going to open a bagel shop. Graham will make our bagels, Bethany will clean, I will write catchy advertisement jingles and be the resident author.

And we will become billionaires. Just you wait.

Writing

Today, before I got stranded in Salt Lake City, I had my creative writing final. The assignment was to write something--anything, really--that could be read to the class in three minutes or less. I am quite pleased with the result and thought I would share it here. Pictures (taken by yours truly this past May) are included for your benefit.

Ironic

The very center of the known universe had to be the Necropolis behind Glasgow Cathedral. Darren was convinced of this fact. From the very center of the Necropolis, which was green this May and smelled of plants and birds and life, he could see all of Glasgow. All of the important parts, leastways. To the east was Alexandra park, where his sister had once counted over forty Galswegians walking around without shirts on when the weather had been abnormally hot for spring. To the south was Clyde River. Darren liked to walk on the footpaths alongside it while the sun set, liked watching the golden light reflect crimson and orange off the water. Nothing particularly interesting laid to the north, just city stuff, stuff that didn’t interest him. And to the west—he loved looking west whenever he was in the Glasgow Necropolis—was Glasgow Cathedral.

It was St. Kentigern’s Cathedral—or St. Mungo as he was also known—and the black spires of the church rose into the air, cutting shapes into the sky line. Darren was a particular fan of the mint green shingles that could be seen from the Necropolis. Black and mint green, he thought, was a peculiar sort of combination, some sort of odd mix of the decaying gothic black of death and the fresh mint of living plants. Just like a reflection of the odd mix of ancient crumbling monuments, crypts, and tombstones and freshly mown grass.

When Darren walked over the wide stone bridge that connected the cathedral to the graveyard, he remembered all the times he chased his sister over that bridge in one of their post-apocalyptic zombie games that they had played long before zombies ever became vogue. In the warm May air—unseasonably warm, like that April four years ago with the forty shirtless Glaswegians—he could still hear her shrieks of laughter echoing off the cement memorials. She always turned right when she reached the ancient peachy-salmon and grey monument that welcomed guests to the Necropolis, and she always lead him on a wild chase through the graveyard, weaving in and out of decrepit stone before flopping onto the grass under the shade of a towering tree. There, she would prop herself up on her elbows and say something like, “Wouldn’t this be a great set for a horror movie? C’mon, Darren, think about it!”

He’d flop next to her and they’d search for the most interesting monument nearby and swap stories about it. It was at his favorite monument that Darren stopped at today. Peter Lawerence, sculptor, who died the 27th of January in 1839. He was forty-five years old. There was nothing that set the large cylindrical pillar apart from the other dark grey memorials, only the remains of the statue that once crowned it. What once had been, according to a Google search, a seraph with great wings was now nothing more than a pair of feet on top of the grey pedestal. It was ironic, Darren thought, just like the smell of life in the City of the Dead, that the memorial for a sculptor was now nothing more than a pair of feet.

And it was ironic like being at the Necropolis to mourn for his sister and feeling like everything was lost and everything was cold and then stumbling upon a wedding party at the cathedral and watching a kilted groomsman and a young flower girl—her hair brown and curly just like his sister’s—skipping in tandem and laughing like the whole world was new and all their very own.

Stranded

Let me tell you a story. It's not about a man named Brady. Today, Beth-dawg and Graham-cracker and I were taking a little trip to the Salt Lake City airport so we could go home. Tomorrow, we were going to go Christmas shopping and eat some Chipotle. Sadly, there was a snag in this story. This snag is usually referred to as "conflict" and it came in the form of a traffic accident. I'm not certain of the details of this accident, seeing as how I was not involved, but it ended up closing three or more lanes of traffic on the highway. Three is a lot, so traffic was backed up. We were already running a bit behind to begin with, but the insane amount of merging that had to happen slowed us down even more. We ended up getting off the highway earlier, taking some back roads and then taking 215 to the airport. We didn't even get off the highway until about 2:47.

Our flight was scheduled to leave at 3:05.

Needless to say (though I'll say it anyway) we didn't make the flight. And now I'm currently snuggled up in a hotel room (graciously paid for by my mom who loves me) instead of flying a few thousand miles in the air on my way to Chicago and then onto the Akron-Canton airport. Disappointing, yes, but hardly the end of the world. In fact, I'm more frustrated by the fact that this means I have to postpone reading my book (Behemoth by Scott Westerfeld, sequel to Leviathan--great steampunk YA books. I highly recommend them) because I want to have something to read on the air plane tomorrow. Alas. And Westerfeld happens to be one of those really brilliant authors who knows just how to end a chapter to make it absolutely crucial for you to keep reading.

Is it really ridiculous that I'm just as upset as postponing my book as I am about not being home when planned?

On the brightside, the hotel room has a beautiful flat screen TV and I finally have a chance to see the last ten minutes of The Blind Side, which is playing right now on HBO.

Merry Christmas.

This is the Problem

So, this is the problem with being Mormon: you don't know how to conclude any sort of oral presentation without the words "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

I can't very well end my paper presentation that way tomorrow, can I? I wish I could, though, because my conclusion in the actual paper is dreadful.

Public speaking is not a problem for me. I've been speaking in front of audiences since I was in primary. As long as I have some sort of outline, I can handle myself. I just have no idea how to conclude without bearing my testimony or simply saying "the end." Neither of which, I imagine, will get me very far in this class.

Twas the Night Before Finals

So this is what happens to me during finals week: I go to extreme lengths to not study when I should. I've already put in a good deal of work this semester, and it seems unfair to expect me to do more. This semester's exteme procrastination stunt: poetry parodies.

And with no further ado, I present: The Night Before Finals

Twas the night before finals and all around campus

All students were learning and their skin was all damp-us.
The books were spread on the table all over
In hopes that these finals soon would be over.

The students were tired, their heads in their books
With visions of straight A’s from classes forsook.
And boys with computers and girls with their pens
Prepared for all-nighters and prayed the week would soon end.

When down in the library there rose such a clatter
One tired student went to see what’s the matter.
Away from his desk he flew like a flash
And tore through the shelves and the books he did bash.

The student on the stairs of the campus library
Sought for the source of his noisy quarry.
When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,
But some buckets of ice-cream that made his eyes tear.

With a big tub of sprinkles, so colored and bright,
He knew in a moment this would be a delight.
More rapid than eagles his friends they did come
After he texted and messaged about this great fun.

“There’s chocolate! There’s sprinkles! There’s toppings galore!
There’s ice-cream a-plenty, who could want more?
To the shelves of the libr’ry! To the book-covered walls!
Now come join me! Come join me! Come join me all!”

As small ants that scurry to a picnic so big
So did these students come to eat like a pig.
Down to the library these students they ran
With their books abandoned and cell phones in hand.

And then, in a twinkling, they heard in the stacks
The sound of their teachers munching on snacks!
They stared in amazement, in wonder and awe
As professors devoured all the food that they saw.

Teachers were dressed in bathrobes and slippers
And one even came with shiny nail clippers.
Unfinished tests sat in great piles
And the ungraded papers went on for miles.

Their faces—how flushed when the students they saw
Their cheeks were like roses while on food they did gnaw.
The whites of their eyes looked like fresh driven snow
And they hoped they wouldn’t see a student they’d know.

The teachers, they knew that their secret was out
That even for them finals still made them pout.
The students they smiled, they snickered and grinned
And they knew that their finals would not be so grim.

Their teachers were impish and a little embarrassed
To be caught with their snacks, so unaware-ssed.
A wink of their eyes and a twist of their heads
Let the students know they had nothing to dread.

Teachers and students—they spoke not a word
But each filled their plates with seconds and thirds.
Quietly retreating, their bellies now full
Students and teachers tried to look cool.

The students retreated and the teachers as well
Back to their books, all feeling quite swell.
And one tired student knew as he read
That all of his stress was just in his head.

You know that thing...

So, remember all those times you opted out of going to a cool party because you had a paper and five million other assignments looming over you? And remember how you had this really great plan to get everything done so that you'd still have time to sleep?

And remember when you abandoned your plan and spent three hours watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer on netflix instead?

Yeah, bad idea.

With the last day of class looming before me in a a few hours (and by a few I mean 9 and a half, but I feel a surge of melodrama overtaking me)I still have that paper to finish and those readig journals to catch up on. On the bright side (there's always a bright side . . . or at the very least a less dim side--sometimes bright sides are more like a dull metallic-y side, but dull metallic-y has the potential to reflect light and be bright so it's not that bad--but in this case, this is a legitimate bright side)tomorrow is the last day of class this semester and it does mark the week countdown until I get to go home and hang out with my super rad family for two+ weeks.

Jumping on the Bandwagon

It seems blogging has become the family epidemic and apparently my technologically illiterate padre believes that every writer needs a blog (advice, as far as I can tell, that he has failed to take for himself). Alas, we still love him. So, I am shamelessly jumping on this family-filled bandwagon for an assortment of reasons.

First and foremost being the procrastination benefit. There's nothing like the impending doom of finals week to make me want to push off all my homework (including those two papers due this week) until the very last minute. Usually, I scour the library and find a new book to read, but the book I wanted is checked out and I'm waiting for the book I ordered (after much tribulation) to arrive in the mail.

Second, blogging is trendy right? This is supposedly a way to boost my nonexistent career as a writer. One day, maybe people (other than my highly esteemed family and friends) might care what I have to say. And in my fantasy life, I have a horde of adoring fans who eagerly await the latest post, craving for some tidbit about my next great novel. I'm very well respected in my fantasy life. After all, in a parallel universe, I am probably already a highly acclaimed writer with scores of fans who write tribute poetry about my wordy prowress. Why not make that universe this universe?

Those are really all the reasons I have. Although, I suppose my post-novel writing month depression counts as a reason. I slogged out a hundred seventy paged novel in the month of November and I miss it. I'm currently editing it, but some of the rush is gone. I need something to fill the void.

As blogs about single people aren't nearly as endearing as blogs about married couples with adorable children, I hardly expect this to be a smashing hit, but I fully intend to enjoy myself. After all, if I write to please myself, then I know I have satisified at least one person.