Say "Cheese"

I walked into the unfamiliar room to meet the man I only knew through email;

He greeted me with a sly grin as a single bead of sweat ran down his messy brow.

He instructed me to change into my “special outfit” as he slowly sipped his ginger ale.

Nervous, I obeyed. It must happen now.

The man, twice my age, led me to a single chair,

Demonstrating the position in which the light would perfectly catch my face.

I followed his exhibition and faked a smile as he handed me an orange teddy bear.

Lights flashing I knew- my daunting and awkward task I must brace.

Boy, I do hope my senior picture turns out well,

The thought of returning to Ripcho Studios makes me want to yell.

Initially, I found great difficulty in creating an awkward topic to share with my fellow AP English students. Surprising, I know, as some people would call me the most awkward person alive. However, I believe that any of my peers can relate to the discomfort aroused by taking senior pictures. My description of my photographer evokes great anxiety from the audience as I make him sound almost pedophilic: “sly grin” (2). The mysterious diction of “sly” creates unpredictability for his intentions especially as I directly characterize him as “twice my age” (5). As the man stands much older than me, the email conversations suddenly become problematic and totally inappropriate (1). Furthermore, for anyone as addicted to looking at awkward family photos as me, the teddy bear in line eight only heightens the uncomfortable task of posing in odd positions for a yearbook photo. Sitting backwards on a chair stands as one of many distorted and strange poses that my photographer instructed me to do. All in all, I find the whole process of taking pictures uncomfortable for every party present. I say we ditch the cameras and start taking mental images. John Mayer seems to think it a good idea as well. 

Howdy there, Pikachu. How you doin'?

A Blast from the Past

Dear eleven-year-old Shan,

When you open this letter, I would like you to find a nice, quiet room to read it in as it contains heavy criticism of your past and top-notch advice for your future. I write to you with nostalgia and regret. I miss the innocence that came along with the fifth grade life and at the same time, I feel such shame in my addiction to Webkinz and the recorder. Let us begin with a reflection of your past thus far. You have ratted out friends to Mr. Bondy for taking the possessions of their first love when you attempted the same thing. You have promised, but not executed, the entire Intermediate School population an extra pizza line to reduce waiting time. And finally, you have shown up to CAA basketball tryouts in a tight-fitted Abercrombie shirt. How do you feel about yourself, your life, and your poor decisions? I can tell you how it feels right now: embarrassing, degrading, and criminal- as criminal as wearing jeans skiing. First piece of advice: DO NOT PULL THOSE KIND OF STUNTS EVER AGAIN. They will haunt you and your friends will hold it over your head, forever. Yet, I cannot say you have completely messed up your life this far… Keep up the good work with finally learning how to spell you own middle name. Pat on the back for the astounding accomplishment, kid. I can already tell you will make it far. I could tell you that things get better from here, but they do not and I would hate to lie to myself. Next year you will proceed through a preppy phase in your dress game. Four out of five days in the week, you will wake up and layer three collared shirts on top of each other, “pop” the collar, and throw your hair into two slicked back ponytails. Not months after, you will change your mind and go for the Hot Topic sweatshirt that reads “PUNK! ROCK! REBEL!” in black and blue. Like any other teen in angst, your attitude will influence your outward appearance and however “depressed” or “Hannah Montana-y” you feel, one day you will look back and laugh at yourself. Rock out to Red Jump Suit Apparatus and cry to the Jonas Brother’s soundtrack- do not let anyone dictate your life or tell you that you have to fit into a certain mold. So concludes my second piece of advice: make yourself happy and stay comfortable in your own skin, no matter how ridiculous you may look or sound- you rock. Yes, I semi-respect you as an eleven-year-old but you should also notice a certain air that surrounds this letter. Soon you will understand my constant tone of condescension and identify yourself as one of the most sarcastic people you know. Many frown upon sarcasm but like me, you will use sarcasm in 98% of your conversation and laugh at your own jokes… everyday… shamelessly. If you can find humor in the darkest of days, I have faith in you and all of your abilities. Everything seems like the end of the world during the next few years but listen to my final shred of advice: take a nap, drink some tea, blink your eyes and no one will remember yesterday’s petty gossip. The road ahead looks treacherous and winding, but after middle school (I hate to break it to you- it sucks) it gets better day-by-day so keep your head held high.

Love always,

Eighteen-year-old you.

P.S. A last piece of awesome advice: invent a robotic personal assistant program, name it “Siri,” and sell the idea for billions of dollars to Steve Jobs of the Apple Company. You are very welcome. 

In Need of a Second Hand

            Like any other day on the job, I could not tell what today had in store for me. As a C.I.A. agent, weeks of daunting missions and dangers tasks were promised to me by the never-ending war. Three years had passed since the Martians unleashed havoc on the United States for no apparent reason. One minute we sat with pounding hearts waiting for the announcement of Earth’s Next Top Model, now we sit with pounding hearts waiting to hear that Earth still stands.

            Government officials from every country gathered together after the first attack and decided that sending us to space would maximize the human race’s probability of surviving the nuclear attacks. The further we drifted into space, the further food prices skyrocketed, literally. So, I soon found myself in the most undesirable occupation available: weapon disarmer. Everyday, a new Martian weapon crossed my path, waiting to spew out alien poison, or the blood of a fallen soldier. I had seen it all and I had stopped it all as the only remaining disarmer in the shuttle.

            When the emergency alarm sounded, I had forgotten what it meant because of the minimal performance it played in my life thus far. I found myself running to the laboratory to find a frantic lieutenant screaming about a ticking package on my desk. Upon scanning the mysterious object, I began my diligent work and kicked the distracting man out of the room. Pulling, cutting, and rewiring the fuses, I felt no worry in my impeccable performance. Yet, as time wore on I found myself entangled with more and more wires until I realized what I had created: the weapon to inflict inevitable termination of the universe.

            I needed a second hand to fix the mess I had made but I stood alone. No one could hear me; no one knew to come to my rescue. The end had come by my careless hands.

            BOOM!

The second hand danced along the surface of the clock as the alarm clock buzzed. A sigh of relief brushed past my lips: “time to wake up.”

                                       

Destroyed by the Bell

I awake to two sounds every morning: the sound of my mother furiously thundering, “SHANNON,” at the top of her lungs, and the ringing of the tornado sirens that I have somehow managed to sleep through… again. At this point in the school year, checking the time only slows me down because, as usual, the clock reads 7:10 and I have twenty minutes (accounting for ten minutes of travel time) to get ready, eat breakfast, and hop on the racetrack to school. As I peer into my closet, I see emptiness slightly masked by a few scattered hangers grasping the bare shelves of the forgotten wardrobe. I have to sport the torn leggings and mustard-stained flannel yet again. Then, I undergo my typical beauty routine (if I can even call it that): scrub my face half-heartedly, brush my teeth unenthusiastically, and stroke my eyelashes with a single swoop of mascara quite hastily. In the cloud of darkness that shrouds my hallway, I trip over the slippery wall my parents refer to as “stairs” and tumble down into the kitchen where a piece of toast on fire finds its way into my hands. My mother kicks me out of the warm house with no jacket and no concern for the inevitability of me catching the deadly cold in the desolate air of Cleveland, Ohio. I now have ten minutes to get to school in order to make the late bell but alas, I have lost sight of the roads under a heavy covering of glistening snow. “Here goes nothing,” I reassure myself. To set the tone of the following ten minutes, I play my “Crap, I’m Going to be Late” playlist and rev my engine a few times at the neighborhood animals and anyone else who happens to watch me from beyond their drawn curtains to show them that yes, I do mean business. I swerve out of my driveway and immediately hit a patch of black ice as I exit the neighborhood. Suddenly, my head is turning as the car spins round and round, far beyond the left-of-center line. This continues for several seconds and the car begins to flip until a nativity scene stops the force of my five-ton car. Shoot, I hope that does not come back to bite me one day. I reach out of my shattered window to knock three times on the adjacent Pine. Superstition never ceases to take priority in my mind. I carefully back out of the yard making a mental reminder to write them a formal apology during Psychology class. Continuing down Miles Road at a steady 95 miles per hour, I just barely make the stoplight as it fades from a tempting yellow to a dangerous red. As I run through three consecutive stop signs, I see flashes of our nation’s colors in my rearview mirror: the cops. Pfft. Some justice system we have where abiding by the law reigns over getting to school on time. With only five minutes to reach my destination, I make the executive decision to evade the law and continue my merry way through town. Yet, a case of bad timing strikes me again as I see the line into school piling up miles deep. With no time to spare, I drive over the patiently waiting cars in line, careful to throw my trash out the window to reduce the amount of weight crushing my peers. As I approach the front of the line, I spy the source of the traffic jam: a 2001 Toyota transporting an old man with the audacity to block others from turning right on red into the school. I park my car on the decrepit man’s trunk, hop out of my monster truck, and look him straight in the eyes as I say, “time to have your day ruined.” With justice on my mind, I drag my keys across the fresh paint job and take a crow bar to the windshield. Satisfied, I climb back into the car and race at 45 miles per hour above the school zone limit and create my own parking spot directly on the lawn of the outside common area. The policeman, who apparently recruited an army to capture me, surrounds my car; yet, I bounce off of the belly of a donut-loving cop and find myself sticking the landing safely in the foyer. YES! I ARRIVED ON *ding ding ding.* “Late again, Miss Fung. Detention after school,” taunts Mr. Kirk. How sadly anticlimactic.