Cardboard boxes

Today my 12 year old cuz came over to visit and we hung out and spent some time on the internet and I decided to show her my blog. She noted that it had been a very long time since I last wrote on it. So, she said that I should write about something random and that something was cardboard boxes. Little did she know where this would take us...

Comments by a 12 year old:
Fact: Cardboard boxes are brown like the color of my hair.
They also don't need deoderant to stay clean because a good day spent in the shower washes them down the drain.
They probably are the thickness of my pinky finger.
They don't have a digestive system because they don't eat, and if they were alive, they would be too skinny anyways to have one and probably think that eating, is pointless.

Wrap up by me...
Do you ever wonder what it would be like to live in a cardboard box?
Me too:)
(But I don't think I will test that thought for now;))

Well I hope you have enjoyed randomness with Amy and Natasha.
Good day!
Out
P.S. Tune in next time when we talk about sticky things:P

Grammar

I would like to say how frustrating it can be to have people correct your grammar all the time. What's even worse is if you are an English Honors Major and continually use improper grammar. Apparently if you are an English Honors Major you are expected to have perfect grammar. If you fail to meet that expectation everyone finds the need to point out your ill usage of the English language. I would love to meet the person who has perfect grammar and then once I met that person I would like to throw them down a well and leave them there to rot. But I think it is very doubtful that this person exists so I don't see my self committing a homicide any time soon.
This is a message to all those who correct other people's grammar. You know who you are...Your not perfect so if your going to correct anyone's grammar do us all a favor and correct your own! Does being grammatically correct really make you a better person? I think not!

Lazy Days

Lazy days are so lazy that I'm even too lazy to write a blog. I thought of it and then was like...nah...I'm going to procrastinate some more.haha Well, there's the phone...hope your using your snow day wisely;)

Partying

Do you ever think that partying and drinking excessively is imature? Or maybe not. Maybe its just one of those activities in life where you can let loose and say, "Fuck You!" to the world and not worry about the outcome cause you can blame it on the large doses of alchol consumption. Its one of the few activities where you can escape the confines that society is putting on you to dot your I's and cross your T's.
Or is it really? Or maybe its societies way of saying, "Fuck You!" back. Drink you bastards and waste your time on meaningless thoughtless brain damaging binge drinking. Rather than conforming to the well educated society you are now entering the relm that society calls popularity. Drink this and you will be liked by everyone. If you are drunk you can entertain us as we watch you make a fool of yourselves. As a more equal alternative they drink with you and you all make fools of yourselves together!
What about the Biblical implications? The most popular explaination given by the non tea toddlers for the consumption of alchol is the expression, "Jesus turned wine into water." Oh, and don't forget to add that alchol must be taken in moderation. Don't bother to examine what the meaning of "strong drink" means. And was the alchol of the Bible times the same as the 21st Century? Wans't their water quality poor or something like that. Whatever!
"Drink and be Merry for Tomorrow we die" Whoever coined that statement certainly understood the philisophical thinking of their day. Apparently they never understood the word Hangover!
Can you believe one thing and do the opposite? How many of us have a clear understanding of what is right and wrong and still choose the wrong? Oh, wait Apostle Paul talks about being inheirently evil and how it is a struggle to battle our desires to just let loose and party! And don't forget about the fuzzy grey areas! We excuse it the next day with twelve cups of water and popping back tylonal hoping that this mornings service does not go as long as last Sunday. "Father forgive us!" PRESTO! Problem solved we are forgiven. Well, that is until next weekend. Or maybe we find the places where those who would confront our somewhat desructive behaviour (well to them) melt into the back of the semingly endless crowd of partyers!

Now take into consideration while reading this blog that you are reading the ranting of a certain person who is more than slightly intoxicated and can not sleep at 4a.m. Which of course puts me in an akward position given the somewhat judgemental tone against drinking in the above blog. However, I mean not to judge anyone who drinks by my above entery but mean to in a rather unusual way (for I am not accustomed to swearing) to cause people to think before they act and why they might or might not drink. Or maybe its more of a self awarness thing, but I either way I would love to get your feedback on the subject. Oh, and I'm fully aware that it might not be the most theologically sound way of presenting and argument. Phew! Now that I got that out of the way...Any thoughts on the subject?

I Dreamt of Becoming Famous

Here is a funny dream I had about becoming famous. The funny part is what I became famous for!

I dreamt that I won a contest to spend a day with Paris Hilton. We were at a press conference and I reached over to pet her chihuahua, but it looked like I grabbed her boob. The press blew it out of proportion and it was posted all over the tabloids that I had grabbed Paris Hilton's boob! Then Oprah had me on her show to ask me if I had grabbed Paris Hilton's boob. I had one of those moments where people just shake their heads and say, "Oh, Amy." I responded to Oprah's question with, "Why, would I grab her boob when I have two of my own!" Ya, even in my dream I knew I should stop talking. However, it was not all embarassing...well...Then Oprah had one of her people bring in a basket that had a chihuahua with a blue bow on it. I was so excited that I had a puppy! Unfortunately on national TV I picked the dog up and looked to see if it was a girl or a boy. It was a boy, which I should have know from the blue bow. Overall it was a good dream because I became famous for something I didn't do, I was on the Opera show, and I was given a chihuahua.

Traveling

Here is a poem I wrote.

I walk alone
Down an empty path
The air is devoid of familiar noises
Where is the sound of wind?

I open my eyes
There is no green grass between my toes
The water I see is bright yellow
Where are the familiar colors?

I am naked
This place is very warm
My gait is effortless
Where are my clothes?

Behind me is a spherical machine
I’m sure it brought me here
I was in there for a long time
Where is here?

I look about and I see
That there is no wind
That the foliage underneath my feet is dark purple
My clothes are inside the machine
Could I be on another planet?

Green Door

I wrote this story for Creative Writing I. Also, this story was published in the Minstrel!

Sammy is fumbling down the corridor of his parent’s two story house. The doors blur as the toe of his sock is caught on a protruding nail. His slim frame tilts towards the wood planks, but his arm jerks out, breaking the fall. The sock is released and Sammy is up and running again. He searches frantically for a place to hide. He can smell the breath of his father as he staggers up the stairs shouting his name. Sammy’s stomach lurches like the turbulent waves of a violent storm as he darts behind his bedroom door. The room is dark and the curtains are still broken from his father’s last episode. Just past the window, the light of the stars produce just enough light for Sammy to see the shadow of his father enter his room. Sammy leans deeper into the corner. He can hear his heart racing wildly as his father comes further into the room. His round hairy arm comes into view. Sammy winces. The arm reaches around the door and before Sammy can react; his father has a firm grip on Sammy’s shoulder. The pain in his shoulder is severe, but he knows that to cry out in pain will only make it worse. The hand comes down and lands hard against Sammy’s small frame sending him crashing to the floor. Sammy scrambles to his feet, but before he can catch his balance he is struck across the head and the room turns completely black.
The sun intrudes; it illuminates the room revealing what the darkness once hid. Speckled across the walls are hundreds of tiny brown footballs. The light travels down the bed posts and comes to rest on the empty pillow. There on the floor lies the body of a nine-year-old child prodigy. Sammy begins to stir. He wakes with a pounding headache and he can not remember where he is. The light hurts his eyes and he goes to cover them with his right hand, but draws it back quickly in pain. His shoulder feels like it is on fire. Suddenly last night comes rushing back to him. His mind is spinning; what day is it? Just beyond the window he can hear the horn of the school bus. He scrabbles to get his stuff together. He softly passes the room where his dad is sprawled out on the bed breathing heavily and reaches the door just in time to wave to the school bus driver to let him know that he is coming.
Later that day, Sammy arrives home from school and heads for the garage. The garage is his domain; his parents rarely enter the garage. He shuts the green door behind him and his body collapses in relief. He sinks into a sitting position against the door and allows for his body to cool against the rough stone floor. His eyes close, and he is just about to drift into a light slumber when his body is snapped back to attention as he feels a shadow pass over his face. His nostrils are filled with a putrid smell, but he knows that garbage day was on Monday. He opens his eyes and is alarmed to see two chocolate brown eyes staring back at him. With a jolt of surprise, Sammy suddenly realizes that the chocolate brown eyes belong to a man. The man shifts his body weight and raises his finger to his lips. Sammy just stares. The man saunters back to the table where he has a chess board set up. He motions for Sammy to come join him. Sammy slowly makes his way over to the table and takes a seat across from the man. The man begins the game by moving the white Queen’s pawn forward. He doesn’t talk much, but Sammy doesn’t mind -- he is just happy for the company. Sammy becomes thoroughly engrossed in the game. With every move that Sammy makes the man grunts in approval of Sammy’s choice. With each white piece that Sammy conquers he becomes more confident and forgets that a stranger is sitting across table. The stranger is a man of large stature, who wears a trench coat that is three sizes too big. It is soiled to the point that its original color can not be discerned. On his right wrist is a loosely fitting watch . His jet black hair is permanently stuck in a chaotic mess of curls. He is unshaven and leaves his left hand in his coat pocket. Sammy recognizes that he is a homeless person, but he does not care. He continues to play.
Sammy is just about to move his bishop into position for check mate when the green door bursts open. There in the doorway is a man whom Sammy barely knows. It is his obnoxious father and he looks like he just woke up. At his side, Sammy’s father is loosely holding a rifle in his hand. He leans heavily on the door frame and coughs into his red hanky. Sammy jumps out of his seat alarmed and runs to his father’s side. He grabs his father’s arm and tries to lead him out of the garage. His father jerks his arm away and pushes Sammy outside the green door and bolts the door shut. Sammy bangs on the door screaming at the top of his lungs for his father to let him back in.
“Don’t hurt him dad. He didn’t mean any harm.” Sammy sobs from outside the green door. Sammy can hear his dad’s voice talking to the homeless man, but he can not make out the words.
“So you like to play with little boys, eh?” says Sammy’s father to the homeless man. “You think that you can play with my son do you? I’ll teach you to go after little boys…”
BANG!
Sammy runs around the side of the garage to where there is a window. He reaches the window in just enough time to see his dad squeeze the trigger and watch the bullet pierce the body of the homeless man. The bullet throws his body backwards and he lands on the chess board and all of the pieces are scrambled on the floor. There his body lies amongst the strewn queens, bishops, and pawns.
The body is taken away and Sammy is left shivering outside the garage window. It doesn’t take long for the police to show up. An officer walks over to Sammy and rests his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Son, I need you to come with me now. Everything is going to be ok. Your father has been taken into custody,” says the officer.
Sammy climbs into the back of the officer’s patrol car, but before the officer closes the door he asks, “Sir, can I see the homeless man one more time? I never got to say goodbye to him.”
Against his better judgment the officer takes pity on the boy and drives him to the morgue. The officer takes him outside the viewing window and then leaves the boy alone. It is just Sammy and the body of the homeless man. Sammy moves closer until his body presses up against the glass. Finally, Sammy speaks in a hushed tone to the homeless man, “Did you fear him?”