Dear Derek,

            Hello there my eleven year old self. Possessing the ability to view all events from your present time to your senior year, I have some advice I would like to give to you. Let us begin with the topic of girls. Firstly, do not talk to girls from now until the time you reach 11^th grade. The definition of “talk” in this case, means to never make eye contact with people of the opposite gender unless over the age of thirty…seven. In all honesty, girls do not want to talk to you. I had the misfortune of not realizing this until too late. In fact, women to this day have no interest in interacting with me. With that in mind, you can probably skip Mrs. Rathbone’s second semester class (the reproductive unit) because you most definitely will not need that information for a long, long, long time. Now that we have that touchy topic covered, let us move on to advice about school, or more specifically, English class. To begin with, go out of your way to help out Mrs. Wallenhorst in any way possible; she is a saint. The following year, however, you will receive She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for your English teacher. Have fun re-enacting “The Diary of Anne Frank Play” for three and a half months. Yet try and persevere, because your English teacher your freshman year remains one of the coolest cats ever to walk the halls of Chagrin: Mrs. Ashkettle. Ask her strange questions about her daughter Frankie, and all that weird jazz you somehow tend to have a knack for. Finally, you will remarkably make it to junior year and meet the legendary Ms. Serensky. Fun fact for you: the seemingly hard to read, blunt and harsh Shakespeare professor actually spends her time angelically dancing to Zumba in her spare time. Remember this when a big fat 1 appears on the grade of one of your in-class essays. Another thing I should make known to you: some students actually obtain essay scores of 8’s and 9’s, you just suck too much to get such a score. In all honesty, I do not know why I have shared this tidbit of information with you since such information only further lowers your writing confidence. O well, humility is a virtue. Allow me to shift our conversation to the topic of style. When you feel like wearing something, wear it. Dress for comfort, if you would like. If a teacher one day calls you a name like, o I don’t know, a lumberjack for instance, because you decide to dress normally in a plaid shirt and jeans, let the comment bounce off your shoulder. Remember that only insecure people make fun of other people’s apparel. Good luck in the future and I hope this advice helps you out in your endeavors.

Two is Better than One

            I had told her I would arrive at her doorstep at six. Here I stand, 29 minutes after five, waiting in the rain, holding a blue umbrella in my left hand. I use my second hand to ring the doorbell. Her father answers the door. I glance at his gun collection over his shoulder. Uh oh. The second hand reaches itself out to firmly shake his hand. His daughter appears at the door. The second hand guides her down the slippery stairs to where my car remains idling. I scoot ahead to open the passenger door with my second hand, and then follow her into the car.

            We drive through town. One hand remains on the wheel while the second hand strokes and caresses her fingers. “Even though it’s raining, you’ve got your shine on.” Stupid. I mentally smack my head against the window. She smiles. We reach the roller rink. I jog ahead of her to open the doors. Surprisingly, my outstanding strength cannot open the doors with one hand. The second hand comes to the rescue. Close call.

            I slide my arm around her waist.  Using my second hand, I pay for our tickets, flaunting my wallet. She seems unimpressed. Note to self.

            I tie my skates tightly and quickly. The second hand reaches down to hold her laces while she knots them together. Brownie points. We skate out to the rink. I clumsily fall onto my face within the first few seconds. My first hand begins to break the fall. The second hand finishes the job. She must hold onto the railing from laughing so hard. This is too easy.

            Everyone starts circling together. We stick our first hand out and shake it all around. Next we thrust our second hand into the air and shake it all about. I love hokey pokey.

            The night comes to a close. I walk her to her door. She grasps onto my arm while my second hand protects us from the night’s shadows caused by the moon.

            I sit in my car. And thank God for giving me two hands.  

The Cowardly Lion

            The dull hum abruptly stops. Sweat beads my forehead. I gaze across the black nothingness to see my fellow accomplice shivering. He tends to do this in the face of danger. Nervousness seizes his body. We remain there in the darkness, contemplating our next move. So far, my partner and I have run into little interference in reaching and executing our quest. Everything went according to plan, just as the boss said it would. But here we sit, waiting to complete the last stage of the plan, unrewarded if we cannot reach our objective. The boss warned us of the vulnerability we would encounter in this next stage due to a “blind spot” in the operation. Now comes the time when the men separate themselves from the boys, when the soldiers separate themselves from the citizens, and when the courageous separate themselves from the…uncourageous. My companion and I look to each other, “1…2…3” we recite in sync. I thrust my weapon deep into my pocket as we step out into the tundra air. Time seems to slow as my instincts take over. I distinguish the outline of every snow flake whipping around my head while the wind howls with rage. My partner slithers around the left flank, as we practiced a million times back at the base. All seems well, until I venture a step from my concealed location. Immediately, lights shine upon me, igniting my body with a bright glow, resembling my grandpa’s birthday cake in a dark room. Unfortunately, I am slightly allergic to dying, so I dive behind a large, gray obstruction protruding from the ground. I hold my supplies near to my chest, cowering in the dark, praying that my leap to safety proved quick enough. My eyes pop open as I hear voices beginning to make their ways towards my location. Shadows materialize near my feet, and the sound of boots crunching on snow cause me to shove my head into my arms, hiding in fear. Yet the voices fade away as soon as they appeared. Did they not catch a glimpse of me? Am I still alive? I know the answer to the latter question because I can hear my breath rattling now in the quick confines of safety. Finally, after reciting Mel Gibson’s speech from Braveheart, I inhale deeply and then jump to my feet, flying across the icy ground. Bright lights shine upon my figure but I continue to push forward, no longer caring for the safety of my well-being. I trip over a low bush, losing my balance and hitting the concrete hard, yet land on my shoulder, enabling me to roll right back up and continue my sprint. Finally, in a breathless haste, I crash into the glass doors, fumbling momentarily with the handle before I am able to take a step into the cozy foyer of Chagrin Falls High School. I journeyed through Chagrin Falls, crossing the deadly senior lot, and have once again arrived to school on time.

The End is Near

            Our blogging adventure has at last come to a close for this semester. The New Year arrives and weekly habitual actions find themselves replaced by other, less desirable things. However, the AP English teacher decided to make the weekly action of blogging “go out with a bang.” All the AP English students know of our teacher’s dedication towards the sports world. Therefore, I think her students can all agree that ESPN’s top ten sports plays of 2012 inspired her with the idea of this next blog post. Why not take the coolest moments of our blogging adventure and compile them all into one paragraph? Genius. I look forward to reading this week’s list of blogs because it will parallel watching a highlight film of our class’s greatest works. So, without further ado, I take pleasure in sharing my own top features from my blog. A couple of blogs battled for the position of the “Most Well-Written Blog Award.” However, “The Surprisingly Dreadful Day” came out on top for a variety of reasons. To begin with, the blog catches the reader’s attention with a surprisingly ironic statement. I then continued to write about a small anecdote that happened in English class at the beginning of the second quarter, relatable to all my readers and containing a touch of humor to keep one’s focus. I proceed to transition to a light-hearted mood to a more serious topic of answering the question: why does a leader emerge within a pair of people? The blog analyzes the “Second Bakery Attack” to solve such a question in a very coherent manner if I say so myself. This blog also found its way onto the AP English Blogger Show, invoking pride towards this short paragraph. Next, we move on to the “Most Interesting Blog Award.” Again we had a war between posts to make it to the podium but only one prevailed: “Ernie Should Have Confided in Bert.” I believe this post proved my most intriguing piece of writing because it shared with my audience a lot about myself as a person. Looking back on it now, I think that after a summer of reading other’s blogs and commenting with one another, this paragraph deemed the breakpoint in my ability to feel comfortable with my blogging. Therefore one can understand why I find this post most interesting; I could not believe I voiced such strong opinions and disrespectfulness to my classmates and on the web. For example, I informed my peers of my fearfulness of finding myself in a situation necessitating small talk. Finally, Claire Kampman won the award for “Favorite Comment Award.” Let me share with the audience a snippet of her reply: “Competition drives success, and losing builds character.” I absolutely love this quote because I could not agree with it more. Competition drives the ways of the world and promotes hard work as well as entertainment. Thank you Claire for your enlightenment to my blog.

I Believe in Miracles

            Another day of English goes by and a paper-cut appears on my hand. Or maybe scissors created the blemish? Perhaps a crayon somehow scarred my hand. “Impossible!” you say to yourself.  “Only an idiot could cut himself with a crayon.” Well I have a confession to make: I am that idiot when it comes to art. In fact, when my English teacher informed the class last week that we would participate in a friendly competition involving creativity and imagination, my stomach landed on top of a freshman’s head while she sat in Mr. Kerul’s room. I hate art for a variety of reasons. To begin with, sharp objects and I go about as well together as Hanukah and Christmas. Let us flashback to my sixth grade year when my entire grade took a field trip to The Pond. To this day I do not understand how the ice became sprinkled with red while a puddle of blood formed in my right hand, all happening while part of my right pointer finger dangled from a thin piece of skin. I ended up losing that small portion of my finger and have the scar in remembrance. Again, I do not do well with sharp objects, like ice skates. Only to make matters worse, my siblings found it amusing to call me Peter Pettigrew the following month after the incident. Hopefully I have portrayed the fact that art utensils and I butt heads. My rock bottom creativity also adds to my distaste for crafts, such as creating collages. Allow me to explain. I think most teenagers enjoy decorating their Christmas tree with their siblings. I, however, can barely tolerate the experience. Many of my family’s ornaments come from the creations of the Stevenson children at young ages. Unfortunately, I learned how to draw a circle after I learned how to ride a bike. Therefore, the ornaments I created at a young age deem indistinguishable. My siblings, always the genuine supporting cast I need in my life, ask me if Stevie Wonder helped me meld together an attempted image of a star and manger. My creativity and skills with a marker depicted itself again just this past November. One of my mother’s friends walked into our home and pointed to one of my youthful decorations hanging on the wall: “Wow Barb! I cannot believe you’ve already started decorating for Thanksgiving!” In actuality, my mother had yet to relieve the walls from our Halloween decorations. Ouch. Despite these slight artistic disabilities, here I sit today, alive and well, writing on a keyboard with ten fingers and two eyes after cutting out magazines and gluing my hands together. I suppose miracles do have a tendency to happen.

The Power of Analyzation

            People express their personalities in hundreds of different ways nowadays. Individuals use clothing, shoes, cars, bumper stickers, jewelry, phone cases and other possessions to tell the world of their certain interests and pet-peeves. Posters remain one of the most widely utilized ways to assert such personality traits. I take myself as an example. If one has the honor to walk up the steps of my household to the hallway connecting my family’s bedrooms, they would see a larger-than-life size poster of the famous Sandra Bullock hanging from one of the doors. Not risqué in the slightest bit, this poster captures the amazing beauty of the brilliant actress in a gorgeous snow white dress, batting those mysterious luscious eyes of overwhelming delicacy. Above the worldly goddess resides a poster containing a cartoon replica of spider-man. To the right of this Marvel superhero sits Kobe Bryant, staring menacingly at the stairwell. After briefly analyzing the decoration of this door, one can imply that, most likely, two boys share this dormitory. Through the depiction of the posters containing a basketball superstar and an actress, one can infer that the older boy sleeping in this room loves sports while also possessing an unbelievable taste in women. From analyzing the Marvel poster, a bystander can come to the conclusion that the younger boy sharing this room enjoys movies and reading. Both assumptions would deem correct in this situation. So, if a simple poster depicts specific details about the owner, what does the poster hanging in Ms. Serensky’s room containing characters from the Harry Potter series portray? To begin with, I question why the poster chosen for our teacher’s room includes an advertisement for the fifth Harry Potter movie. The date on the bottom of the poster, depicting the release of the “Order of the Phoenix,” portrays that the hanger of the advertisement obtained the propaganda before the release of the last two movies. The poster’s owner’s decision to hang this poster however, a symbolic representation of the darkest of J.K. Rowling’s novels at the time, creates numerous implications surrounding the owner of the ad. I can infer that the inhabitant of the room containing the poster possesses a dark sense of humor as well as a complex mind. Those fascinated by the magical fantasies of Harry Potter and profound genius of Rowling’s work prove extremely intellectual. I support this claim through personal experiences. Also, the teacher’s decision to include a poster portraying various characters instead of a single witch or wizard proves interesting. The numerous characters represent the open-mindedness of the owner of the poster. Instead of analyzing things from one perspective, the possessor depicts his/her ability to evaluate things from numerous views. Finally, the poster’s deceptive location tells me much about its owner. By placing the poster nonchalantly on a filing cabinet in the back of the room, the teacher wishes to portray to others that the object proves of little value to her. However, the ad, almost directly sitting across from the teacher’s desk, depicts the necessity the owner feels in gazing at the propaganda. In conclusion, despite acting as if the Harry Potter books play a minimal role in her life, our English teacher lives day to day with the fond memories of Hogwarts.

Bitter Sweet

            The AP English Student of the Month Award remains one of the most valued endowments in the school. At least I like to think this. As the year progresses, however, such a distinction becomes less…well distinct I suppose. The preposterous fact that no person may receive the award more than once parallels the same philosophy to that of my kindergarten soccer coach. Sure, many of my teammates found it entertaining to pick daisies as the ball rolled pass their ankles. Sure, none of the kids on the field could even spell scoreboard. Sure, most of the players on my team showed up week after week solely for the free, grape snowcone they received after the game. However, these actions should not diminish the fact that, when the game ended, one team lost and one team won. Yet my coach allowed these small factors to change the rules of the world. After the game, my coach assured us that “we were all winners,” even after a lost. When we won, I knew the exact same scenario happened on the opposing sideline. I figured that I, a responsible human being, would inform the players on the other team that in actuality, they were in fact losers and that their coach lied to them simply to make them feel better. I remember this happening one Saturday morning, while lining up to shake hands with the other team after the game. My coach taught us to go through the line and say “Good game” to each of the opposing players. Even though anyone with the slightest math background understood that my team won the game by five goals, I knew that the opposing coach had repeated the cursed statement to his players. So, I figured I would act as the better man and go through the line saying, “7-2. 7-2. 7-2” and so on and so forth. However, I learned to live through countless scenarios of “spreading the wealth” (although my mother demanding that I share my Skittles with another boy because he cried almost killed me). For this reason, I believe that I will persevere through the rest of the school year, with the rest of my fellow AP English Students of the Month Award winners, despite knowing the fact that we will never again win such an award. Therefore, I will attempt to live by the cliché, “If you can’t beat them, join them.” Although winners of this high honor will never again feel the suspense that comes during the drum roll before the announcement of the victor of the award, I urge ex-winners to set aside their distaste for the rules of the world and support their new brethren. For example, brainstorming photo ideas for the new hero would prove exceptionally helpful. As the year continues, I expect the photo shots of the monthly winners to become more and more creative. Despite Osgood’s past, visionary pose, jumpstarted with Hinman’s stellar mannequin performance, I think such a goal remains reachable.