Sunday, September 20, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
here are a few photos I took on a trip to double falls with my besties, Shannon. there are a few here for you Dad (the water stills)! we had an awesome time, and I miss her mucho out here in Tactown. i've just been looking through the photos from our adventure to cheer myself after an exceptionally crappy science lab. :D (click to enlarge, as always)
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
- A new powercord for my computer, as I can predict that the one I have will be biting the dust in the near future.
- A new pair of running shoes.
- A backpack
- This Jacket
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
A pink smoothie was an undesirable choice for him. Strawberry, cherry, watermelon and other fruity pink flavors had never seemed particularly appetizing. But this morning, he saw the pink smoothies everywhere, and his mouth began to water. He spotted a pink smoothie in the hand of a girl walking her small and fluffy dog down the sidewalk. He caught a glimpse of a pink smoothie on the table of a mustachioed man reading the morning’s paper. He even noticed a group of giggling blond teenagers each holding a pink smoothie topped with a dainty swirl of whipped cream. With each sighting, his cravings for the bubblegum-hued monstrosity doubled, tripled and quadrupled.
In class, his mind strayed. He saw the figures from Russian history projected brightly on the screen, but in his mind, their fur hats were pink. In biology, every cell was pink. Every organelle was pink. Every tissue was pink. He twirled his golden curls distractedly around his finger and failed to take any notes. Staring blankly at the flag pinned up on the wall of his French classroom, the colours shifted from bleu, blanc and rouge to bleu, blanc and rose.
His hours at work passed in a manner that can be described only as agonizing. One person visited the menswear shop where he worked, and she was simply looking for a tie to give as a gift. As he tidied the store, he glimpsed himself in the strategically placed mirrors. Even the red shirt he had chosen after rolling out of bed that morning betrayed him, appearing pink in his peripheral vision. He watched the clock and envisioned pink hands pointing to pink numbers. Finally, 5 o’clock came, and as he locked the doors and counted the money in the till, his heart began to pump harder.
By the time he made it to the coffee shop down the street, he could barely contain the violent hunger. He placed his order with the bubbly barista behind the counter. When she asked for three dollars and ninety-five cents, he wrestled his wallet from his back pocket and fumbled for a few dollars. He handed the money over, almost shaking from anticipation as he heard the blender start. He hovered near the counter, never taking his eyes from his prize.
Finally the smoothie was his. The cold plastic cup was placed into his sweaty-palms and his eyes shot from one end of the building to the other. Bee-lining for the door, he glanced at the drink in his hand, his excitement building. He took a deep breath, and lowered his mouth to the straw, taking a long and drawn out sip. He spluttered, his mouth involved in a sudden traumatic experience. The colour was not all this smoothie had in common with Pepto-Bismol. The taste was identical, and the texture had the added pleasure of chunks of ice. He coughed and spat the mouthful of smoothie on the sidewalk in an attempt to expel the horrible taste from his mouth. Disappointment slowly emerged from beneath the grimace of disgust on his face. He chucked the cup in the direction of the garbage can, quickly turning and stomping away. The cup hit the sidewalk and cracked. Smoothie oozed across the pavement, seeping into the cracks, and flowing stickily into the gutter, dyeing everything in its wake pink.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
It rained cats and dogs when little Samson Turner was born that day in June at Decatur Memorial Hospital. His parents laughed each year and claimed that he was their bright light, and that was the reason it hadn't rained on his birthday since. This year was no exception. This year’s birthday was a perfect example of the splendor of June. And as Samson’s father laid on the deck soaking in the sun, his mother spent the morning wringing her hands and wondering about the 26 invites that had been sent to 26 students.
He’d always been acutely aware that he wasn’t quite the same as his classmates, and unfortunately for Samson, they were aware too. In first grade, when the students were encouraged to share something no one would know about them, Samson didn’t share his favorite colour or the pride he felt at Thursday night violin lessons like the other students. He made the mistake of revealing that sometimes he would forget to breath and remember only when his chest was aching and his heart was pounding. Even the teacher stared at him as though he was something far more abominable than a small tow-headed six-year old. He was a tomato in a garden of vegetables; it could be argued that a tomato is a vegetable, but no amount of rhetoric will make it stop being a fruit. This Samson had also realized.
Standing in the warmth of the afternoon sun, sightless with the blindfold required to crack a piñata, Samson spun giddily. He swung the broom handle in the direction of the llama hanging in the tree. The handle made contact with the animal, a dull thud, but not the crack that would signal candy.
In the silence of his second grade classroom, he had once started singing unintentionally. His mind was focused on the multiplication tables neatly stacked across the blackboard in his teacher’s handwriting. Samson had always imagined that her handwriting was made from the walking-stick-bugs in the insect book he kept in his bedroom on the second shelf to the left. As he stared at the board and willed the insects to come to life and prove everyone wrong, his mind and mouth had disconnected, and the song that he always sang with his mother in the morning had escaped without him knowing. The notes flew away like birds he could never get back and he didn’t even realize until he could feel the eyes of his classmates burning into him.
Samson held the broom handle high above his head, giggling and smiling the unique half smile that he’d had since birth. He swung again, but didn’t hit the piñata. He heard the wind rustle the tissue-paper fur of the llama, and knew he had been close. He shook his head and went in for one last crack. With all the strength his tiny frame could muster, he swung wildly. His arms stopped suddenly as he hit it, a brutal crack following. Samson grinned his biggest grin and tearing off the blindfold raced for the candy that poured from a gash in the llama’s side.
He dove into the shower of sweets, but there was no struggle to get the best goodies. No one had come. Not one of the 26 students invited to his party had arrived. The laundry list they were keeping of all the strange and unnatural actions of little Samson Turner had grown too long for them to associate with him. But as the candy rained down upon his head, the hurt Samson felt drained away into the joy of the evening sun.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
This weekend was AMAZING!!!!!