dear washer and dryer,

the other day my challenge was to write about the relationship i had with my washer and dryer. 
i set it aside and eventually forgot all about it until laundry day, a.k.a the day in which i face adversity. 


so naturally, i wrote a letter to washing maching # 8 and dryer # 22.

            Allow me to be blunt. I love you. I adore you. Without you I cannot live comfortably. I would be stale; I would have an odor of decay about me, as if I was dying without you. I think about you all the time, wondering when I will be able to see you. Sometimes we’ll meet after my afternoon class, other times late at night when the rest of the complex leaves to engage in nights of debauchery, leaving us alone. But alas! You run so cold and hot! There are moments when I feel as if I am the only girl in the world. But then there are the days when I feel as if you do not even remember who I am. I walk in and see all of these people using you, talking to you, but yet you stay with them, those that do not respect you, they sit on you and leave you messy and in disarray. They don’t love you like I do, but I feel as if you won’t make room for me, so I leave. Have you no soul? Do you not understand the mind of a teenage girl? All of this switching back and forth has done a number on my heart.  I run a few more miles on the treadmill, fix my hair, finish the rest of my textbook assignment, wash dishes, bake muffins, and get an update on the political ticker. I do anything that would make me more appealing to you when I return. Because I always return. Rather than ignore me, you jeer at me. You disagree on everything that I say. I say hot, you say cold. I want brights and you want wool. You refuse to work, you yell at me incessantly, you burn and shriek and gnash your teeth.  I resort to kicking and screaming, hoping that you would open up to me. You make me wonder why I stay with you, why I couldn’t will myself to walk out the door and never see you again. But you are not a friend that I can delete on Facebook. I can’t leave you. You have what I need, what I’ve been longing to get back all day.  You finally stop, once we realize how silly we look. I walk out the door, knowing that time will heal all wounds and I will forget how difficult you are just in time to go through it all again. 

this is how doing the laundry makes me feel. 

meet lola.

my challenge today was to spend twenty minutes drawing an object. well, that didn't really happen. but i did draw what i thought a robot would look like if she went to the gym. 


she would do cartwheels. 

and jumping jacks. 

and after she got the courage, she would face down the pull-up bar. 

i just really like this song. 

cage match.

my essay topic for english was to choose an argument that we feel passionate about and try to persuade everyone to agree with us. others picked topics such as whether Genesis is true, the legality of abortion, the double standard of rappers and the language they use in their music, but i lack the ability to be serious so i wrote about the dire need for cage matches. 

Rednecks Need to Find Something Else to Carry in Their Pick-up

It saddens me to see my fellow countrymen divided due to the never ending debate of gun control and whether the government should place restrictions on who is allowed to have a firearm and how and when are they to use it, or if the controlling of guns is unconstitutional for any sort of regulation would trample an American citizen’s right to possess a firearm. The argument consumes the dinner table conversation, church sermons, Facebook notes, text messages, grocery store check-out lines, and park benches. The controversial topic of gun control has torn the grand country of America apart, and even though regulations such as restricting guns and other firearms from felons, keeping an up-to-date registry of all of those who have purchased a gun and for what use, and the ordinance that all those who carry guns must carry a permit as well may be the easiest and most logical solution, when one looks past the surface, one would see that it would never work for it does not solve the real problem.

According to my research, the real reason behind the need to possess a gun is not to protect oneself or one’s family, but the possession brings the owner to his or hers most primal, barbaric instinct, the need for violence. Owning a gun gives the owner the security that they are capable of being violent. With this discovery in my cranium, I easily found the solution while watching the Tyra Show. The host, Tyra Banks, was interviewing teenage girls that recorded their fights and uploaded them to the website YouTube. The girls claimed that fighting made them feel good and that there was absolutely no other way to solve their disputes. Most times, the girls agreed that there wasn’t even a dispute to fight about, they were just bored. How quaint.  This approach towards violence brought many of my other observations to light, such as the fact that everyone loves a good fight club. In fact, students at Armstrong Atlantic State University made an attempt to begin a fight club of their own on Club Day, and even though the club was shut down by the administration before the eleventh student was able to sign up, the bestial desire for violence lived on. These two occurrences brought me to the conclusion that the solution to gun control is the abolishment of all guns and firearms, for the weapons will no longer be needed when cage matches are ruled as the law of the land.

The government of America was modeled closely after the Roman Empire. The Romans idea of a good time was a good old fashioned gladiator fight. And if the system to cut down on prisoners and captives of war (terrorists) was good enough for them, cage matches should prove quiet successful for the United States as well. Of course, there are those who believe that without firearms, the United States would have no way to ward off threats from other countries with weapons of mass destruction. To this, I say, no one has nuclear weapons because all of the countries signed an agreement to destroy them, which means there shouldn’t be any left because everyone kept their promise, right?

Cage matches will cut down on deaths caused by firearms and will clean up jails and prisons, for people will have a legal and nonfatal option to solve their problems. For when one truly thinks about why one argues with others, it is because one feels the need to crush their opponent by any means possible, each insult being a metaphorical slap in the face or kick in the knee.  Therefore, the emotional state of America would be astronomically happier, for the people would be able to release the animalistic urges that society has told them to suppress, and if one is being honest with oneself, one would agree to the fact that it is much easier to recover from a punch in the face than it is to recover from an insult.

The matches will allow men to feel like men, to become the people they used to pay to watch at a bar. They will no longer be forced to keep the act up, to pretend as if they are fighting for their girl’s honor, they will be allowed to return to what men truly are, animals in a cage.

The government would take on a role like disillusioned parents, desperate to be hip and young, who allow teenagers to drink in their home because they truly believe that as long as the alcohol is consumed in a controlled environment nothing could go wrong. They believe that trouble would not ensue and perhaps the teenagers will become bored with the alcohol and decide to never drink again. The cage matches would be a way to bring domestic violence out into the open. Rather than keeping the terrible secret, using tax dollars to create domestic violence shelters, and having the police called to the house by a concerned neighbor only to hear that the couple is in love and they just had a bad night; if cage matches were legal, the couple would pay the government to participate in domestic violence. Eventually the couple would both become bored with the fighting and stop completely or they will pay such an incredible amount of money to fight that they would become bankrupt and would no longer have the money to participate.

The rules of the cage match are that a fight can happen at any time, any place, as long as a cage is in the vicinity, the fight will be barehanded-no weapons of any kind will be allowed, the fight will last ‘till the death (or when one of the opponents tap out, whichever comes first), fights outside of a cage is illegal, and spectators are welcome. The score will not be recorded which means that each cage match one enters will be assumed one’s first. Waivers and other procedures used to cover one’s butt will not be required for solving one’s problems by dueling another is the law of the land, meaning that it is the only way.

The Cage Match ordinance is a multi-faceted regulation, for it will create jobs and will overall rid the country of its economic crisis. People will be needed to construct the cages, keep record of cage match appointments, referees for the matches, doctors and medical staff for the end results, and kickboxing classes for those who would like to go into the match prepared.

Overall, cage matches can cause what beauty pageant contestants desperately wish for, world peace. Besides, cage matches have to work, for everyone must work out their problems or stay in the cage until they do. 

not a music video, but a must see youtube video. 

top ten.

my challenge today was to list the ten things i would want to do every day. 
rather than going the "these are all of the things i wish i could do" route, i decided to make a realistic "to-do" list of sorts, with the hope that all of these things will actually happen on the same day. 

fly a kite on the beach


have chocolate milk and pancakes for breakfast


see a play that makes me laugh and i end up quoting it for the rest of the day thereby becoming obnoxious to everyone around me. 


listen to music


open my mailbox and have mail


pretend i have my own cooking show as i prepare dinner


write an essay in hopes that one day it will be published


have a good hair day


play a round of "spoons" late into the night


go on a bike ride 


it is impossible to not have a good day after you listen to this song. 

it's anthropology, my dear watson.

today i proved that i didn't have to take notes, pay attention in class, read my textbook, or read the outside reading assignments in order to get a 98 on the test. i would take the time to question the legitimacy of the course , but instead i chose to do something more productive, such as solve the mystery as to why the professor's hair is always wet. 

reasons why your hair is wet:


you are an olympic swimmer in training. 


you put on some beyonce and have a hair-flipping session to pump yourself up for class. 


you threw a coin in the fountain and fell in. 


it is your attempt to stay cool in the savannah heat. 


you had the choice of either wearing too much bronzer or drying your hair and you went with the former. 


the constant pulling of the fire alarm on campus has inspired you to be as fire resistant as possible. 


you heard a rumor that jane goodall never dried her hair. 


your wool cap matched your outfit today, but by the time you got to school your head was sweating. 




and now for a playlist inspired by hair:
freak'um dress, i am not my hair, samson. 

the giving tree.

happy is a yuppie word.

           

      The first thing I noticed was his shoes. They were moccasin styled- striped pink and green. A sort of shoe-slipper hybrid you would expect to be worn on a granola head. The green stripes really made his green polo pop, so much so that his collar did the same thing. “Popped” collars are a culture shock to me. I always thought that it was a look that only Johnny, Soda Pop, and the gang from Grease used, much less yuppie, old dads at a fall ball lacrosse game. But there he was, in all of his popped collar and high waisted, steam-pressed jeans glory. And we were the lucky ones who sat behind him.

            “He does forty push-ups before each game so he can play with a certain finesse.” Yes, I am certain that Carter (the unfortunate son of the yuppie dad) does push-ups in hopes of finesse. As if with every repetition he completes he thinks, “I really hope the rest of the guys notice my finesse,” or “I can’t wait to wear the tee shirt with the sleeves cut out so I can show off my finesse.”

            And the game begins.

            I’ve never been to a lacrosse game before and I was most surprised at the violence. The boys ran up and down the field as they pummeled one another. No, seriously, they just kept wacking each other with sticks. I feel as if some of the players forgot about the rubber ball they were supposed to be chasing. And that was how the group of parents sitting on the sidelines separated each other.

            A woman under an umbrella with red hair that appeared to have the texture of straw, screeched “hit him harder, hit him harder” as a Kennesaw Mountain High School Mustang fought a Woodstock High School Wolverine for possession of the ball. I was confused as to which player she was giving parent-of-the-year advice to, but then when the Wolverine smacked the Mustang on the head she was in search for a referee.

            That was when the rather violent mother and the yuppie old man with a son that is the “utility tool of the team because he can play every position in lacrosse” found each other and began talking smack about the other team. The woman didn’t know who the opposing team was and Carter’s dad knew that the team was good, just not “state-championship caliber” like their boys. As if the lacrosse game was a cosmic joke, Carter, the golden boy who has “plans of going to West Point” and “puts red bull in his cereal” was caught twirling his lacrosse stick.

            Yes, the yuppie dad’s son stood on the field and twirled his lacrosse stick. The dad’s cover up? It was fall ball lacrosse, and since “any boy is allowed to play” the others simply cannot compete to Carter’s standards. So Carter twirled his lacrosse stick in boredom. It is such a pity that the game wasn’t challenging enough, Carter worked for all of that finesse for nothing.

            But as the parents wondered who Carter belonged to and for once the dad wasn’t willing to admit that he was the gene pool that created that stud of a boy, the players stampeded down the field; the ball was in the Wolverine’s court. The yuppie dad, in an effort to remove himself from his baton twirler of a son, yelled for Joey to go deep. I guess Joey ignored the yuppie dad’s requests because the dad looked at the other parents (how dare the witty comments he makes not be heard by everyone) and said, “I wish they wore shock collars so we could control them.” That sounds like a swell idea, really. Why would we want the team to listen to their coach when they have screaming parents on the sidelines? Yeah, that makes sense.

            At the beginning of the game I was excited. I knew my brother was pumped and I couldn’t wait to see him play. And then as I waited for the game to begin I read my book and enjoyed the autumn weather. I laughed when I noticed the shoes of the man standing in front of me and I thought of him as a goober and then turned my attention to other things. If he spoke softly or if I sat on the other side of the field he would have been nothing other than the guy with the funny shoes and this essay would have never been written. But as he talked (so loudly that reading was out of the question) I began to learn an incredible amount about the man I didn’t know and his family I never met. I don’t even know what Carter looks like, but I do know that were he was going to college was a running joke in the family because the college of his choice seemed to change every week. I do know that his father wants him to go to West Point and that his sister, Katie, has her act together. I knew that the man worked for an airline and he didn’t like the new boys that “just got out of college and seem to know everything” and all he wanted to do was “show up, fly the jet, and leave.” I suddenly found myself with enough information to perform a quick search on Facebook and steal his identity; not that I would want to have the identity as the goober old man who has the ability to enrage those that don’t even know him, but I could if I wanted to. I turned to my parents and found that I was not the only one who was more irritated than amused by this man. I was a savage beast on the inside, I promised myself that I wouldn’t care if the Wolverines lost every game left in the season, I just couldn’t let them lose this one, I couldn’t bear the thought of yuppie old dad leaving in victory. But alas, I suppose the goober knows what he is doing after all, for the Kennesaw Mountain High School Mustangs win, dashing all of my hopes of watching Carter’s dad eat his words. And that was that, the game was over, the dad could now update his status and have other yuppie parents comment on it and tell him what a grand dad he is, and I left a touch more jaded of the world than when I came. 

this post has a case of lisztomania.