My sister has been bugging me. What else is new? She claims a friend of hers is a gazillion times better at writing than myself. I asked her to show me a sample of her work. She gave me a poem. I stopped reading it after the first two lines:
Life is a roller coaster
It has ups and downs
So now I find myself asking: Did I really think that poem was a piece of shit, or was just because it was from a female underclassman and (bonus points) is a friend of my sister. I admit it: I do have a much greater respect for a piece when it's been published or is by a well known author. If someone wrote The Death of Ivan Ilych and published it in The Ridge or Kaleidescope I probably would have thought that it wasn't very good. So I try my best to keep my judgment at bay from the warping of opinion, but the battle isn't going too well. I stopped reading my sister's friend's short story in The Ridge after the first paragraph.
On that note, I decided to type up a sketch from my notebook this morning. It's basically telling the story of the freshmen orientation from a senior anti-socialite. The name of the city is Blue Town. It's only a sketch so don't expect a masterpiece. Enjoy.
I came into Blue Town on a Friday morning in late August, but the weather would have been fine for mid-December. When you walk into or through Blue Town you feel like you're going to get swallowed by the crowded streets or devoured by the tall green trees. Of course, I would never have felt that way when I moved. It was thirteen years ago.
Today, which is also in late August on a Friday morning at eight o' clock, I am in an auxiliary gym at a high school. The high school, I should say. Mind you, we never called it Blue Town High like the adults, it usually went by School, or Fucking School.
I am being plagued by loud music and bright lights working seamlessly together to make life hell. This along with the din of thousands of laughing and chattering students on the bleachers. They are freshmen and they're all wearing uniforms: white button-down shirts with black pants. They look like an array of ghostly tombstones in a volcano.
I am amongst the seniors who are shepherding kids to their seats and prodding the quiet intellectuals lurking in the back to join the inferno. The only thing missing to go with their seizure-like waltzing and chesire cat smiles are the martini glasses in their summer-tanned hands.
Life is a roller coaster
It has ups and downs
So now I find myself asking: Did I really think that poem was a piece of shit, or was just because it was from a female underclassman and (bonus points) is a friend of my sister. I admit it: I do have a much greater respect for a piece when it's been published or is by a well known author. If someone wrote The Death of Ivan Ilych and published it in The Ridge or Kaleidescope I probably would have thought that it wasn't very good. So I try my best to keep my judgment at bay from the warping of opinion, but the battle isn't going too well. I stopped reading my sister's friend's short story in The Ridge after the first paragraph.
On that note, I decided to type up a sketch from my notebook this morning. It's basically telling the story of the freshmen orientation from a senior anti-socialite. The name of the city is Blue Town. It's only a sketch so don't expect a masterpiece. Enjoy.
I came into Blue Town on a Friday morning in late August, but the weather would have been fine for mid-December. When you walk into or through Blue Town you feel like you're going to get swallowed by the crowded streets or devoured by the tall green trees. Of course, I would never have felt that way when I moved. It was thirteen years ago.
Today, which is also in late August on a Friday morning at eight o' clock, I am in an auxiliary gym at a high school. The high school, I should say. Mind you, we never called it Blue Town High like the adults, it usually went by School, or Fucking School.
I am being plagued by loud music and bright lights working seamlessly together to make life hell. This along with the din of thousands of laughing and chattering students on the bleachers. They are freshmen and they're all wearing uniforms: white button-down shirts with black pants. They look like an array of ghostly tombstones in a volcano.
I am amongst the seniors who are shepherding kids to their seats and prodding the quiet intellectuals lurking in the back to join the inferno. The only thing missing to go with their seizure-like waltzing and chesire cat smiles are the martini glasses in their summer-tanned hands.
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