My Acceptance Speech

"I am proud to announce that coming September I will be attending a Bennington College. It is an amazing liberal arts school of no more that eight-hundred undergrad students. Bennington College is located on a quaint little mountain in North Bennington, Vermont. The college opened only seventy-five years ago. The land the school was built on used to be a farm. Many of the buildings still remain from the conversion. All of the literature classes are held in what used to be the main building. The admissions are kept in the old farm house. Many new additions have been added though. There are new student housing complexes, a new student center, and most importantly a new art center. In the art center there are three theaters, the largest spring dance floor in Vermont, and independent studio space for all students taking an art class. It is here that I hope to take architecture and spend my time revolutionizing the way I look at building design.

The student body consist of mostly females--a three to one ratio of girls to guys. This is due to Bennington's long history of being an all girls school. It wasn't until 1969 that they decided to start admitting males. I'm under the assumption that this unfair balance of girls to guys will work in my favor. I visited Bennington last fall. I was witness to many beautiful women in need of companionship. I feel that it is my duty to help them attain it."

-This is the speech I was hoping to give you.

Here is the truth-

Currently I am sitting at my desk (upstairs, on May 29th.) Outside it continues to rain. A chill breeze passes as I attempt to type what I'd rather not. The sad truth is that I was not excepted. It was a long time ago (in mid April) that I received my rejection letter. It was sort and curt. No fluff. Just got to the point. Bennington doesn't want me. It's disappointing not to get in to your first choice, but it's so much worse to not get excepted to your only choice. Yeah.. I sort of made the mistake of only summit my common application to one school. But I have a new plan..

School. Rather important. Although it is far too late to apply to any Private or State School, I can still go to community college. MCTC to be exact. Yes I know it's a bit less glamourous, but it's my only option. Truthfully though, I'm rather thankful that it has come to this. My whole life I've thought of school as something to feud with or as an optical to overcome. It has caused me much unneeded stress. In fact, right now as I write this to you I should be writing an eight page paper. A paper that is required for me to graduate. But once it is done I will be able to graduate. And then I will be free. Well sort of. Which gets me back to what I was trying to say. Being able to take a year off will be relaxing. And the credits I will receive will be far cheaper. Thus leaving me in less debt. My living arrangement makes thing even cheaper. I will be living rent free in Minneapolis with my good friend Zach Werner and his parents. All of this is great. But my hidden goal is to transfer out to Bennington or a different liberal arts school next year. Wish me luck.

I must cut this post short... If any of this is to come true, I will have to get to work on my ever so important paper. The topic of which is Commercial Urban Farming. If you don't know what that is, I guess you'll have to wait until my masterpiece of a paper is finished. I know. I know. Waiting sucks. But sometimes we all must succumb to the passage of time.

My Addiction

If you are planning to read an aimless rant about nothing (mainly me being lame) you will be highly disappointed. The issues brought up in this post will not be about lava lamps, tight pants, or maggots. This post will mean something. Everything. It will reinvent your view on what is important. Orphans, wars, and drowning polar bears are of no concern. These issues are too small; they are hardly worth mention. I'm here to cover what matters to me, and therefore to everyone. Now without delay, I will bring you the body of my ever-so important rant.

The consumption of drugs can be dangerous, even lethal. People die every day, overdosing; after deciding that their short stack of pancakes would taste far better if they sprinkled a little bit of heroin on top. Only to end up downing a whole gram, completely forgetting about the bacon and side of over-easy eggs. Others, while participating in drinking games chose to snack on pills of adderall in attempt to ensure their victory. These "victors" are found the next day dead on the floor, after their heart could not decide if it was supposed to sleep or to dance.

My problem is far more concerning. My addiction will never kill me. It is not stoppable and everyday it grows stronger. Soon it will be it that consumes me. Morning, day, and night I am kept awake wondering if maybe just a little more might make everything all fall into place. Maybe everything will be better. But I know, not so secretly, my life will stay the same.

It got worse no more than a month ago. Nothing big happened in my life. There was no traumatic event that pushed me over the edge. I just started to become a more heavy user. There was I time which I just did it socially. Me and some friends would pool some money together to get a little bit. Then we'd huddle in corner or under bridges, so we could do it in our own way (some preferred to dilute it, but I have always taken it straight.)

After awhile I came to enjoy it more and more. I found myself coming home at night, only to hide in my room to quench my thirsty addiction. The good thing, or maybe the curse, is that I will never run out. I will always be able to score some more. It was a couple weeks ago that I decided to bring some paraphernalia to school so that I could be on the stuff even when I was in class. The piece sits calmly on my desk. Few people even notice, and those who do rarely know what it is.

I have a few friends that join me in this activity. But others are disgusted by it. My habit changed my behavior, stained my teeth, and it's taste still lingers on my tongue. Days that I do not get my fix, I suffer from headaches and sleepiness. Despite this, I'm not sure I want to change. I know that sounds bad. But I think it's true. As long as I keep it up I should never suffer from it's side effects. I've found myself able to accomplish more when I am under the influence (which I am as I write this). I have also become more conversational at social events. In fact I find myself not able to stop talking. Which is what I must do now. For when this chemical is in my body it makes me want to write. I have already said too much. And unless I stop now, I may never stop.

There will come a day that I will find it necessary to go cold turkey. But until then I will continue to consume and to write. Curse this liquid dependence, that I have come to call "coffee".

If Sadness Was a Piece of Hard Candy (Taken From Long Ago)

I have not had a new thought for a while now. Nor has anyone I know. The river which carries thoughts to my small village has long been dried up. We live here on this barren land. Without thought or idea. Exiting on instinked and routine. Living a rather mondain life. We only wait for the rain to come. It will come cascading down from the mountains flooding our patties and rejuvinating our village. Hope has run out a long while ago if only we had hope. We live like zombies. Never thinking, rarely speaking. Carring out our daily task never straying from what we had done the day before. We use to have philosiophers but they have all withered away. Every once in awhile a cloud passes over but no one ever takes notice. Sand covers our streets, our homes and our hearts. I no longer know weather I'm alive. If I were, I'd wish to die, but that isn't part of the routine. So I live.

Writing. Writing. (Written Awhile Back.)

Writing. Writing. Writing. My mind is a blank slate encompassing my body. I sit frozen staring at my computer screen. Every click of the keyboard reverberates in my skull. My thoughts lay dormaint in a crevase not seen for eons. I only wander what it is like for the charecters in my story. Are the dissapointed in me for failing them or have they been the one all alog conspire to freeze this plot so that they will never meet what was meant to be. Think. Think. I have chosen not to attempt to write untill my thoughts flow onto the page peacefully, of their own will, like that of a cascading waterfall. They will not be forced, backed into a corner, through mind maping and charecter analis. Not knowing what the ending leads one to feel that you may destroy what you have already written. I know my ending, its a master peice, but getting there has become a feet unsurmountable to meer mortal.

My story start like this.

.

It's a period. They are used to state the ending of an idea. I have chosen to place it at the begening. What does it mean? Well I have decided to leave that up to you. I know. But does that what I think it mean is the only answer? Yes. But you can still think of something regardless of the fact that it's bound to be wrong. After that artistic concept I chose to take the story to a mind blowing level. I leave the next 42 pages blank. Then I in the center of the 43rd page is the main charecters name. Although it is written in brail. And this is where I've stopped. I have the best story (or close to it) ever written this week. I'm thinking of making it a trilogy. Originally this was not my plan. I thought one long book with a rather large appendisies would be substantal. 3 is after four and before six. (That's depending on the relm in which you concepulize rational figures, such as numbers.)

You might be starting too see how this book of mine has come too a stand still. I could see how it migh be hard to conseptulize my highly sapirior concepts. But bear with me I due not find myself better than the average person, just my ideas. I write this to you hoping that one might become able to reach the same tear on the mountain of creativity. That's enough of my ideas. Back to my writer's block.....

College?

So anyways, I'm not sure how interesting this post will be. The context of the post is going to consist of numerous details on my sucking at applying to college. If thats your sort of thing read on. If not. You might as well read something else. Like me sucking at: parking, shopping, summers, act, life, lava lamps, and plenty of things. Now to continue with the body of the post.

The time is 10:01pm. I am sitting at a booth inside a diner called the Bad Waitress. Located in Minneapolis it is not far from my sisters close friend's , Amy, apartment. Amy is a very pretty girl who with short dark hair, 21, skinny, but most of all pretty. She lives up here with her boyfriend Nathan (tall, dark hair, nice guy, quiet). They are both great people, except for the fact that they have stolen Jaime (my twenty-two year old sister, with curly brown hair, brown eyes and red tights). They have taken her across the street to a bar called Azia. All of this would be fine, but my sister is to be helping me with my Common App essay. The essay in which I am currently at a loss of words. Again this would be fine. If it wasn't that the essay needs to be sent by the third of January. It is to be sent to my college of choice, Bennington...

I know I could continue on this rant, but I just got a surge of motivation for my essay. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it..

Fifty Dollar Parking Spot

Today I woke up the day after our first snowstorm. Slowing arising from my insufficient slumber. I stayed in side delaying the inevitable. Reading. Waiting. I finally got up the courage to go outside to free my car of the snow that must have fallen on it overnight only to fine in snow-locked from the road it was once parked on. It must have been around 4:27, or so the ticket wedged neatly in my driver's side door reads, when a snow plow passed encasing my car in over a foot of compacted snow. Wade through the snow drift and force my car door open and collect the ticket, to whom which my misery is home. I am to be charge $50 to shovel my car onto the road. Starting my beast of a car to turn on the heat and blast the defroster will my my task somewhat less tiresome.

I leave my car and attempt to enter my friend, Max Pascall-Zimble's, new home were I stayed after moving his belongings from Lakeville down to Northfield. I turn the knob but it refuses to give. The door must be locked from the inside separating me from my bag and my warm mittens, the mitten I will need to shovel my way out. I go around to attempt to enter from the garage, but it is also locked. Max and his whole family had already left taking the keys. I return to my Oldsmobile grabbing the shovel on the way out. Receiving help from Allen, who's Blazer is in the same condition as my car, it only takes a few minutes to free the snow around my car. I am left alone to drive myself out. Throwing my car in to first. Then reverse. Back it to first. I inch my way out of my poorly chosen parking spot. Finally being free I have time to notice how much my hands sting from the cold. I wait for Allen to free himself. Then drive away.

Now I am at Blue Monday, writing this pointless post about how I was slightly inconvenienced by a pile of snow. This amount of snow was nothing, more will come. I will be come stuck over, and over again. Maybe going deep into the ditch, where it will take more hands and time to get out. I glad the snow has come. But having spent my last two dollars on a cup of coffee, I am not looking forward for the service charge for being buried by a snow plow.

my pathetic life

This is a note written to myself as to inform that I am indeed pathetic. If you are not me and you are reading this please do so it will help you feel better about yourself. You may have noticed that I am writing my life story on a stcky note (in which the the real world equivalent would be a post-it.) That is due to the shortness of the interesting parts of my existence. This may seem gloom to some, but it is not so. I have been conditioned to be meaningless. And as such have found it to be rather "enjoyable". (Some words from thus forward may be in quotes due to my warped view of reality. e.g.. staring at a white wall for hours on end might be considered "enjoyable".)

Now to write the second paragraph. The second paragraph is meant to describe one of the leading arguments of the thesis statement. And I believe that talking about what a second paragraph is meant to do I am indeed fulfilling it's purpose. So to get back to what I was talking about. A second paragraph is meant to tell the reader why he thinks he is undoubtedly right. In this case I am trying to prove that I am boring. Do you get the point of this paragraph?

Onto my "warped reality". I am "weird". But more importantly I am more "interesting" than you in every-way. (If you have forgotten I am writing this to "myself" and you are indeed a peeping tom.) I have "good looks"; at least it appears so in all the specially designed fun house mirror all around my house. I am also "smart". Not just tech-book "smart", but nonsense "smart". If you know anyone that is smarter than me you must not be me, so you really shouldn't be reading this seeing as it is not addressed to you. I have decided that I should finish this this paragraph saying that I am the nicest guy I know and if you don't agree I hope the plague kills your family and you are forced to live the rest of your days knowing that it was all because you chose to object to a crazy "man" claiming that he was nicest guy he knew.

You may be wandering why I am so pathetic if I am indeed great in so many ways. That's a good question. After all that is why you are still invading my privacy. So the least I could do would be answer you query. I have done nothing this summer. Not just your travel around the world meeting all kinds of new "people" nothing. But some really hard core nothing. e.g. " ". You may feel a small amount of pity for me or think that I'm "lame", but you seem to have "forgotten" I'm not "like you" I'm "crazy". I'm used to being bored. I bask in it. I have more time to appreciate the little things. Like sleeping in a "little longer". Forgetting to eat or bathe; Or remember that there really is an "outside". After all it's the little things that count, not friends, family, or "women". People need to take big chunks out of there life just to waste it. Skip a their birthday and just spend it in their room not getting out of bed. Or take all that time misspent eating and just look at it and put back in the fridge. After all if you actively participate in life you might just lose.

*Some, in fact most, statements may be false. Readers discretion advised.