Dear Future Daughter,

Dear future daughter,

I know you don't exist yet, even as just a thought, but there are a few things that I would like to tell you about gender and society. There are going to be times in your life when you are judged by standards that were created hundreds of years ago. There are going to be times that if you don't live up to those [silly] standards, opportunities will not be made available to you. And for that, I'm sorry. Cross your legs, chew with your mouth closed, walk with your back straight, oh, and remember to always be beautiful. Now those are some of the things that society is going to require of you... don't let them be your prison. Play along when you need too, to get to where you need to go, but remember that these traditions are ancient, and that not everyone will hold you up to them. You don't need to hold yourself up to these unrealistic images of beauty, there isn't a woman in the world who can.

Al(ien) Gore on the Environment

It took me a long time to work through the obvious hiprocracy that takes place while raising awareness for global warming. Al Gore flys around the world in a privage jet telling people to conserve energy, to walk to work, to ride their bikes and to stop using thier toasters - because having toast with breakfast is simply not worth the devistation that would be caused with the melting of the icecaps. Alright, you cought me. I made that last one up. I know that I'm not the first person to publicly ponder this hiprocracy. How can someone who flys around in a private jet, a jet that polutes more in one hour than I will in one year, tell me to WALK to work? This just doesn't make any sense. In fact, it makes about as much sense as the coke addict telling people not to do drugs. But wait - that actually does make sense. Cocaine addicts have seen the dark side, they've lived through the horrors and devistation caused by the drug and they wouldn't wish those horrors on even their most hated enemies. This analogy leads me to only one possible conclusion - Al Gore has lived through the horrors and devistation caused by global warming.

Al Gore is not from this Earth. I'm convinced. This is the only reasonable explination for his strange actions. I mean, look at Mars. That planet is obviously the victim of over polution, which lead to the melting of it's ice caps, and the destruction of its ozone and the eventual evaporation of its water! Al Gore must be a martian in disguise to warn us, of his first hand experience, what being a pollution addict can do to a planet.

We must heed his warning.

Liar, Liar

I believe in the power of lies; more importantly, I believe in exploiting the unlimited power that the ability to lie bequeaths upon the human race. This belief stems back to one of the most prevailing events in my memory: when my mother first explained why one person would attempt to deceive another. You see, we were late for my doctor’s appointment, and not just the ignorable ten of fifteen minutes late either. Big time late. More than an hour late. We had made, well she had made, a ‘minor’ miscalculation as to what time we should leave our humble home. Before entering the doctor’s office, my Mom instructed me to endorse her story that we had gotten a flat tire on the way to the office, so that we wouldn’t have to reschedule my appointment. Being a toddler, I of course had to drop the infamous ‘Why?’ bomb. The explanation shocked me, and the seeds that were sewn into the fertile fields of my young, easily influenced mind on that day still guide me today.

As I grew up, I perfected the art of deception. I became one with my inner devil and imprisoned that pesky angel that once squatted upon my shoulder inside of a cardboard box. The box was then sealed with duct tape and the box opener was thrown away. Without the interference of that angel I lied about everything. When I got caught, I lied some more. I was living the good life; there were no problems that couldn’t be solved with a simple lie. Forged parent signatures, forged report cards, free field trips, not having to dress out in gym class; I could lie myself out of a hedge maze.

Writing Exercise - Description?

As if frozen in a block of solid ice, the second hand hasn’t moved for hours. The clock, mounted on a mirror, no longer has any light to reflect for the last bit of sunlight is longer gone then it is to come. A dim light from the computer screen is all that illuminates the room, it is nowhere near enough, but I dare not turn on a light for fear of my parents seeing it. The room, usually as cheerful as it is busy, now looks to be the residency of a bear. 2:56. Tick tock. A few more clicks of the keyboard and the essay is starting to take shape. Not sloppy, nor hard to read, nor grammatically incorrect, the essay resembles many written before it. 3:15. Tick tock. The sun will be rising soon, to send its beautiful rays in my window signaling the start of a new day. Too soon, for the night is growing old, and the day is still quite young. 3: 22. Tick tock. Like the police stopping a speeding car, a writers block pops into my mind, taunting me, and not letting me finish the essay. I managed to beat it though. Haha I win. Tick tock.

Writing Experiment - Snowboarding

“I now realize that the small hills you see on ski slopes are formed around the bodies of forty-seven-year-olds who tried to learn snowboarding.”

-Dave Barry

Again, he goes. Up the ski lift: to the top of the mountain. Shivering, he pulls on his facemask to protect his newly chapped skin from the bitter wind that can often be found up in the peaks of the Appalachians. It was winter, and a cold night at that. No bit of protection from the unforgiving temperature will go unused on this ski trip; he doesn’t want to get frostbitten after all. The low temperature warnings that are periodically announced over the loudspeaker don’t seem to faze him.

Example warning:

“Please be advised: the current temperature is negative 15 degrees. A frostbite warning has been issued. Please be careful. Thank you.”

Or perhaps, he was too enchanted by the stars to be fazed. They twinkle: both hypnotically and sporadically, or maybe so sporadically that it’s hypnotic… Or so hypnotic that it seems sporadic? Irrelevance. He reaches the end of the ski lift and gracefully slides down the off ramp. Bracing himself, he looks back up at the dancing night sky.

“When it is darkest, men see the stars.”

                                    -Ralph Waldo Emerson

The comfort is short lived, however. The evil black of the double-diamonds shocked him back to the brink of nervousness. And nervousness brings injury. He fills his lungs with the frigid air, in preparation for the two-hour-long-ten-minute-trip down the mountain.

“Anxiety is a thin stream of fear trickling through the mind. If encouraged, it cuts a channel into which all other thoughts are drained.”

-Somers Roche

After what seemed like both five seconds and several eternities, he reached the bottom of the slope – unscathed. He looks up towards the sky, once more. This time, however, not at the stars but instead up at the once-impossible slope. This time, not in fear but instead with a sense of accomplishment.

And that’s when I conquered the mountain. 

Creative Writing - Control the Mountain

A blast of cold, fresh, winter air hit me in the face, begging to be inhaled. I surrendered to its plea, shut my eyes, and up my nose the crisp, clean, mountain air went. With a sigh, I released my hold on it, knowing that there was plenty more where that came from. The air up here, so high in the mountains, is like a candy bowl. You know, the kind that sits on the counter, and is far out of your little brothers reach, so it’s always full? After a few more minutes of relaxing and enjoying nature, I realized that the end of the ski lift was approaching. A look to the left, and a nod to my friend, and then the board touched the snow. Up I stand. Balance is gained. Control is taken.

Using the momentum taken from the lift, and the snowboards on our feet, we glided gently over the hard packed snow, as thousands before us have, to the bench. The bench was a homemade deal; it was simply, an old snowboard nailed to a couple pieces of wood. We sat, and buckled our right (back) foot into the endless tangle of bindings. I looked over at my friend, he muttered a few words, but the only one I heard was ‘race’. Up I stand. Balance is gained. Control is taken.

With a push from the bench I’m off, and thoughts of winning streamed into my head. I started down the slope, and the wind blew my beanie off, but I didn’t care. The experience was even more magnificent, and cold, hatless. For the wind could run freely through my hair, and cool the sweat that had accumulated along the hat line. All was going well, when out of nowhere I hit a bad edge and fell. Then I got sprayed with snow from under my friend’s board as he swerves to avoid me. Up I stand. Balance is gained. Control is taken.