...got along with adults so well, I must be pretty much on par. I knew I had facts and figures to learn, but obviously I operated on a similar level. But then I turned 10, and I could plainly see how much sophistication I lacked when I was only 6. I’ll skip the montage, you get it, this is an ongoing process. But think about this. Now that you’re an adult, when is the last time you can remember being young and dumb? What is the oldest you can remember being, when you were a categorically different person? I remember turning 18, and I’m talking to this girl online for a couple months, and fast forward a year and I’ve eloped with her. That was dumb. I’m 21, I’m spending a lot of my week as an officer in this “business fraternity” at my third tier business school because I have this vague idea that it’s a “great networking opportunity,” whatever the fuck that means. That was pretty dumb. It gets fuzzier at that point. As an adult you have fewer growth experiences than you do as a child, so it takes longer. The gap between now and when you were young and dumb gets longer and longer. That’s a bad thing. I have a theory that you should strive to keep that gap as short as possible. Every year you should look back and think about what a dumbass you were a year ago. That way, you know you’re growing. To phrase it another way, if you look back and don’t see how much of a dumbass you were a year ago, then you’re still the same dumbass from a year ago. 2. The perception...
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...that formed across her cheeks. The beautiful sister knowing that her beauty was gone forever, seemed to let it go like it was a burden to her for the longest time. After all those years of watching her sister nurture her beauty, the narrator knew more than anyone else what those tiny blue stitches would cost her sister. The narrator reflects back to high school years when her sister had perfected the art of being a dumb blond, the way she stood in the breezeway tossing her “bedspring” hair. “Laughing with that canary trill voice,” her specialty. There were hints of jealousy from these statements. She had a football player for a boyfriend, most likely the star of the team. He would do anything she wanted as you could tell from the “pained expression in his eyes.” The beautiful sister didn’t date men; she held “auditions,” looking for the one man who had the attention span that would hold her interests. She looked for ten long years, and still was not married. In these times most women were married younger, but these women didn’t have my sister’s agenda. Mapping out her life events, confident that she could control them, she always thought she had the world in the palm of her hand. Then one day it was all over as quickly as the blue stitches on her face appeared. Now, the sister who once traveled in the same inner circle of the other beautiful women in magazines, the one’s that always thought that there beauty...
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...In this moment, I am not afraid. It doesn’t matter that the barrel of a gun is pointed towards me. It doesn’t matter that the man holding that gun is promising that he will shoot me if he has to, if I don’t cooperate. It doesn’t matter that I am the only one standing between this man’s weapon and my best friend. I am not afraid. Of course, being bulletproof might have something to do with my newfound bravery. The man is still raving, but his words are only noise to me. I don’t think he really wants to shoot the gun, either, or he would have done it by now instead of talking about it so much. Maybe this man isn’t a killer. Maybe he’s not ready for the consequences becoming a murderer would have him face. To make his decision easier, I grab...
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...High School Reflection My high school experience was good and bad at the times. What I enjoyed the most from high school were the classes and the teachers in the classes. My moments are not a lot because I really don’t talk in class; I just try not to get attention on myself. My moments were mostly just times in class when I was with friends working together and getting to know each other while talking. Another moment that I would remember would be how everybody makes fun of each other, even the teachers. What I least enjoyed from high school were the people that were doing bad things to eat. How they wanted to destroy the school by burning, littering, and graffiti. Another thing that I didn’t like was how some teachers teach their lessons in class, they teach one way that you would understand but then give something hard. I didn’t like how some people were bothering me during classes about dumb stuff and just didn’t shut up. I also didn’t enjoy the little party festivals that they had during school because they were not that interesting. During my freshman year I came in with a positive attitude to school. Then, after 9th grade I became more of a lazy person and began to lower my grades and got my first F. My 11th grade I was beginning to get my mind straight and tried not to get lower grades. So I would say I changed into a person that I didn’t want to become, a lazy person. Now in my senior year I’m not going to fail because it’s the last chance so there is no time for...
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...learning to read is from when I was five years old. My mom was busy getting ready to go out. Mark my oldest brother attempted to teach me. Michael, my older brother teased me. His teasing was hurtful. Mark, didn’t let him get away with it. My lesson in reading ended before it began. At the age of five, I became interested in books. I found the pictures intriguing. I felt that the words in a book were for adults, and the pictures were for kids. I was in kindergarten when I realized they weren’t. I remember my teacher Mrs. H, passing out a list of books to read over the summer. I asked my friend “What does she want us to do with this”? My friend faced me and said “Read them”. Other classmates chimed in with titles of their favorite books. I felt embarrassed and dumb. That was the moment I realized, I need to learn how to read. Later that night at home, I was upset about what happened at school. I went right to my room. Laying on my bed, I stared at the books on my bookshelf. I got up from my bed and decided to try to read. I picked up a book off the bookshelf. The book was The...
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...101 SIMPLE THINGS WHY I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND ♥ •I love his eyes. •I love his smile. •I love the way he laughs. •I love moments when we can finish each other’s sentences. •I love it when he holds my hand. •I love it when we look into each other’s eyes and the rest of the world disappears. •I love it when he looks at me, talks about me and touches me as if every part of me is precious. •I love the fact that we dream of a grand adventure together. •I love the fact that he values my opinion. •I love it when he kisses me on my forehead; it is the deepest feeling of love and peace. •I love the fact that though we have tough times together, he still chooses to be with me. •I love that he loves taking stolen pictures of me. •I still look beautiful in his eyes no matter how bad I think I look. •I love when he said he’d still love me even I get SO FAT! •I love that he gets jealous with other guys. •I love that I am his reason why he wake up so early. •I am myself when I am with him. •I don’t need to clean the house before he comes over. •I can tell him every little thing about me. •I can ask him a dumb question without feeling dumb. •I love the fact that when I’m around him, I can be myself and not worry about what he may think of me because I know he loves me for who I am. •He is very patient even when I’m yelling. •He is overflowing with confidence. •He can handle adversity and come out stronger. •He is Intelligent. •I feel so secured and loved when he hugs me tight...
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...teacher because she wanted to stand up for kids who did not have a voice. “Before there was a book, before there was a movie, there was a group of students who were tired of being invisible, tired of being on the fringe and just wanted to matter, just wanted to be heard,” she said. Gruwell said when she was in graduate education classes she noticed a disconnection between theory and practice. “I realized this when I walked into my first classroom and my students could care not less about stories, and books, and Shakespeare and tales about Homer,” she said. “My students cared about would I make it home alive, am I gonna get home and see my hardworking mom with those cockroaches and those rats in that tiny one bedroom housing project, and will there be dinner, would their be food on the table, are those cupboards going to be bare again.” Gruwell said all of her students buried friends due to senseless gang violence by the age of 14, and it made her desperate to show them stories written about teenagers such as Anne Frank. “At that moment I wanted to find books written by, for and about kids,” she said. “Kids who lived in real wars, kids who didn’t pick up Molotov cocktails or spray cans or use 38 special handguns, kids who picked up a pen and tried to write along, kids who picked up a pen and tried to write their own ending.”...
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...dedicated almost 20 years of service to this line of work, and I know that I have made some of the greatest memories here. We’ve all been through the thick and thin, worked hard to get the job done, and never have we had a dull moment between us. Each and every one of us chose different paths and approaches in life, and we all ended up together, for better or for worse. It was a long and difficult process but many of us have pretty much reached the end of our careers here which is why I am here today. My name is Oliver and today I am announcing my retirement and graduation from school. They were the best of times, meeting some of my best of friends, having unforgettable moments when slacking off, and pretty much everything that didn’t involve actually, well, working. Then there were the worst of times, where I feared for my grades, got into detention, and even had to stand in time out. Nevertheless, I know that I will miss everything about going to school once it’s gone. I will always take to heart the life lessons and knowledge I have gained all these years. I will miss getting hammered with good company and going out for pho the next day to cure our hangovers. I will always remember the fun times going out with friends to hang out and doing incredibly dumb things together. However I am happy to know that I will definitely not miss other things for sure. I am glad that I will no longer have to worry about waking up at 7 am for school, dreading to take exams, and having to sit through...
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...that most of the people I've met at parties have read my novels or short stories or feature articles; when they ask, "Have I seen any of your stuff?" I shrug and the conversation moves on. If I want attention for an hour or so, however, I'll tell them my horrible secret — for several years I made much of my freelance income writing term papers. I always wanted to be writer, but was told from an early age that such a dream was futile. After all, nobody ever puts a classified ad in the paper that reads “Writers Wanted.” Then, in the Village Voice, I saw just such an ad. Writers wanted, to write short pieces on business, economics, and literature. It was from a term paper mill, and they ran the ad at the beginning of each semester. Writing model term papers is above-board and perfectly legal. Thanks to the First Amendment, it’s protected speech, right up there with neo-Nazi rallies, tobacco company press releases, and those "9/11 Was An Inside Job" bumper stickers. It's custom-made Cliff Notes. Virtually any subject, almost any length, all levels of education — indulgent parents even buy papers for children too young for credit cards of their own. You name it, I've done it. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the plurality of clients was business administration majors, but both elementary education majors and would-be social workers showed up aplenty. Even the assignments for what in my college days were the obvious gut courses crossed my desk. "Race in The Matrix" was a fashionable subject...
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...Akgul (Page 1) My Poetic Self Concept I wrote the self concept poem without much thought and from my opinion, without excellent deliverance, yet it felt good, every word, because as I plunked away at the keyboard I felt this overwhelming pride of who I was as a child and who I am today because of my childhood. Ironically, I also unexpectedly felt a rush of sadness pour through me as I wrote the poem. It was if I had already memorized and recited it a million times before, because it came from my soul so fluid and so real. Thinking wasn't an option for me at that moment, my memories and emotions had all the control. Like a feeling robot typing out the words read aloud from another entity, I felt frozen and captive to thoughts that were racing through my mind and heart. Remembering is so bitter sweet for me. So many powerful memories on so many levels, a weak person might crumble under the pressure of such historical personal experiences. I wallow in them almost as if I need to remember who I am and where I came from. This need I cannot suppress. It seems to be embedded in the very fibers of my whole being, entwined and siblinged with my soul, I feel disconnected, dicontented, and disenchanted daily yet I need to remember as if it were yesterday. As a child, growing up was tough. I lived in a home of seven siblings, an overly abusive step-mother who's name was Remona, and my father, Larry. My siblings and I were raised to believe that we were worthless, dumb, ugly and going...
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...into town, they got into an accident and killed Tom’s mistress, Myrtle. “’Wreck!’ Said Tom. ‘That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at last’” (Fitzgerald 137). This shows dramatic irony because Tom does not yet know that his mistress, Myrtle, was killed in the accident. It was until Tom pushed his way through the crowd of people that he sees that it was Myrtle who got hit and killed. Also Tom does not yet know that Daisy, Tom’s wife, was the one who was driving the car that killed Myrtle. Another way Fitzgerald uses dramatic irony is when Nick questions Gatsby on who was driving the car that hit Myrtle. “’Well, I tried to swing the wheel- He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth. ‘Was Daisy driving?’ ‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘But of course I’ll say I was’” (143). The way...
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...Checklist 1. My title and introduction are enticing. 2. I have an effective thesis. 3. I have included enough details so that the reader can visualize my experience. 4. The events are presented in s logical sequence. 5. I used transitions to help the sequence of events to flow smoothly. 6. I did use a dialogue in my essay. 7. I used consistent point of view and verb tense. 8. My point in my narrative are evident. 9. I ended my story satisfactorily. 10. I have proofread several times thoroughly. Earning My Degree I have always wanted the best for myself and family, so one day I decided to work towards my future. I have always been the type to work hard at what I do. I try my best to get what I want. I thought of my accomplishments and I figured I was missing something. I had a job, but I knew it was going to be a dead end one. I was already a high school graduate, so I thought why not go back to college and further my education. I was on the road to success, after that idea. Choosing my program was not hard for me. I have a long line of family members that are in the health field. So why not I thought, I would be following in the footsteps of my elders so they can feel that they have set an example for me. I decided on becoming a Medical Assistant. This way I could still set my goal in pursuing me education and apply for better jobs upon graduating. I have always loved to help people. Communicating and meeting new people are my strong points...
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...I was suddenly woke up by the feeling of excitement running through my veins on that hot September morning. I couldn't wait till my boyfriend would get off work that evening and take me dove hunting. The excitement drove me crazy all day long as I tried doing things to keep myself occupied. To pass time I gathered up all my favorite camouflage attire along with my brown leather boots. I walked out to my daddy's shop where I was lead to the gun cabinet. And there sat my very own pink Remington 870 12 gauge. The gun was my first and carries so many days of happy memories from my childhood. I'm sure it will be put back in this cabinet tonight with another day of happiness and memories. As five o'clock rolled around...
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...Captain of my fate? “Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship’s crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.” (Line 195). The Rime of an Ancient Mariner is a poem that narrates the story of a Mariner who, out of no apparent reason, decides to shoot an albatross when being in a ship-wreck with the rest of his crew in the South Pole. As a result, Death and Life-in-Death, two spirits that follow the crew to punish them, are to decide his fate, his life, to a game of dice. Entities beyond mortality gamble the future of a guilty, yet helpless man. Doesn’t this sound familiar? Don’t our lives seem, sometimes, the result of a game of dice being played by someone/something bigger than ourselves, even bigger than life itself? Just the fact that we are who we are is nothing but a result of chance. This statement, beyond its recklessness appearance, has an explanation consisting of three moments of existences that are determined by the roulette. The first one goes back to before we’re born. Have you ever thought of how many billions of chances were there when your parents’ genetic material mixed to create you? I, for instance, could’ve been blond, tall and smart. Or short and dumb. Or anything. But, somehow, I turned out to be me, out of what appear to be infinite chances of who I could’ve been. And this process follows no logic or intervention from our part: is the work of randomness. The second moment, chronologically, involves our environment. Where we’re born...
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...My presence here today is proof that you are my true strength. I never expected that I will be here taking my oath of office before you, as your president. I never entertained the ambition to be the symbol of hope, and to inherit the problems of our nation. I had a simple goal in life: to be true to my parents and our country as an honorable daughter, a caring sister, and a good citizen. We all know what it is like to have a government that plays deaf and dumb. We know what it is like to be denied justice, to be ignored by those in whom we placed our trust and tasked to become our advocates. Have you ever been ignored by the very government you helped put in power? I have. Have you had to endure being rudely shoved aside by the siren-blaring escorts of those who love to display their position and power over you? I have, too. Have you experienced exasperation and anger at a government that instead of serving you, needs to be endured by you? So have I. I am like you. Many of our countrymen have already voted with their feet - migrating to other countries in search of change or tranquility. They have endured hardship, risked their lives because they believe that compared to their current state here, there is more hope for them in another country, no matter how bleak it may be. In moments when I thought of only my own welfare, I also wondered - is it possible that I can find the peace and quiet that I crave in another country? Is our government beyond redemption? Through good...
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