Wild for the Night

I walk into the AP English room only to find a black hole of doom sucking my classmates and me into its dark shadows. As we swirl around in the space-time continuum, we collectively decide we have stumbled upon a time-traveling machine. Several images of significant past and future events flash before our eyes before we see Ms. Serensky dancing the Charleston, clad in a black sparkly dress with her short hair in tight curls. Instinctively, I jump out of the vortex to come face-to-face with Ms. Serensky’s dancing partner, Mr. Jay Gatsby. With a smirk on her face and a twinkle in his eye, I understand that Ms. Serensky simply forgot to close the time portal and every day travels back to the Roaring Twenties to visit her soul mate. He introduces himself and greats me with “welcome to my house party” as he takes our hands and drags us to the heart of the carousal: the vod… food. Luckily for us contemporary girls, kale chips remain non-existent at this time so we enjoy REAL food and observe our fellow party guests. We spot mob members and priests, to girls fidgeting with their dresses and women passed out from too much eating (a.k.a. food coma). Jay suggests we enter the dance contest so we make our way over to the disc jockey booth. We agreeably decide on “Three O’Clock in The Morning” by Paul Whiteman. I decide to watch from the fountain as the couple dances circles around everybody else. Suddenly, a ghastly howl crawls out of Ms. Serensky’s mouth as tears stream down her face, smudging her delicate makeup. I run over to check on her just in time to hear her scream “YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO A SENTENCE WITH A PREPOSITION?” In the moment, I realize Jay Gatsby does not hold the key to the world, he holds terrible grammar. Before Ms. Serensky has the opportunity to dropkick him in the jaw, I drag her back to the portal as she yells eloquent profanities to the smoky air behind her. When I go to comfort her, she refutes and mutters something about a blue rebound or something of the sort. I stand fairly certain that Ms. Serensky and I have eaten too much and therefore our thoughts remain fuzzy and fragmented because as soon as we arrive in the classroom, I cannot form words to describe the experience to my frazzled classmates. 

How to become Serensky's Shining Star

 Dear brave student,

Congratulations! I must give you a pat on the back for making the daunting decision to enter the world of an AP English student. Tough times lie ahead but trust me, you will get through the countless essays and you will stand forever grateful that you took on the tasks that no ordinary student ever would. The things you will discuss in this class will range from awkward to serious, from laughable to obscure. Every minute of every day will bring an opportunity to recognize a new potential in yourself or a new light in which to view the world. AP English will teach you how to write an essay in twenty-five minutes, a skill most coveted by any procrastinating college student. So, now that you have made the decision to take on Ms. Serensky’s world, it stands as my job to teach you how to survive in the wild world of AP English.

Step 1:

Take your parents’ credit card to the nearest CVS, Target, or OfficeMax. Buy yourself 100 pens (blue, black, and red), two of the biggest binders you can find (one per semester), and one million sheets of college-ruled paper. You will need to return to the store to buy more paper after the first quarter.

Step 2:

Do some hand and finger exercises. Carpal tunnel remains an unfortunate inevitability for every AP English student. You may as well try to prevent it for as long as possible.

Step 3:

Please, for the love of Mortimer, do the following for the only easy points you will ever receive in this class:

1.     TURN IT IN TO TURNITIN.COM.

2.     TYPE ALL PAPERS IN TIMES NEW ROMAN, FONT SIZE 12 WITH 1” MARGINS, DOUBLE SPACED, AND A HEADER.

3.     DO NOT DOODLE ON YOUR PAPERS.

Step 4:

Run a few miles prior to entering the classroom. The arctic tundra may ironically stand as the first thing to kill you.

Step 5:

If you do not have an intelligent question to ask, do not ask one at all. Think it over in your head and ask yourself “will Ms. Serensky want to hurt me after I let this leave my mouth?” The answer? Probably yes.

Step 6:

Have fun. No other class in the high school allows you so much freedom when it comes to answering a question or talking in a discussion. No other class in the high school will have an open-ended discussion on why you remain alone on the holidays, or how you turn into a monster once a month, or where your opinion lies on tramps named Laurie.

Honestly, there remain many more tips and tricks to survive your years in AP English but I cannot share with you because that would ruin your whole experience. You will laugh and cry and cry of laughter; you will jump for joy and curse the name Elizabeth Strout; but, you will never forget the hard work and time you put forth on your way to finally receive a hug from the one and only, Queen Serensky.

Best wishes,

Dshannon: AP English Extraordinaire.

A Case of THE Bradley Mundays

My parents named me Bradley Munday but most people refer to Brad, B-Mund, or THE football/ track guru. I have always stood as a fan of Mondays (obviously) because they allow me a fresh start to a new week under my motto: “Work hard. Play hard.” You see, most people would call me multi-talented and although I consider myself humble, I cannot disagree. During the week, you can find me working on homework from one of my many AP classes in which I thrive. Calculus BC? Please, the limit never exists for Bradley Munday. Chemistry? Call me Dmitri Mendeleev. Computer Science? I speak java in my sleep. English? Well… uh… I… you see… Jon and Laurie… and yeah… Olive, too… I think… pathos. Trust me, you cannot and will not stop my academic grind. I carry out my intensity all the way until I reach the front of the line on Pasta Wednesday. I mean, jeez Megan, THAT’S how you make pasta. *Insert the B-Mund head shake here* After school, I book it to the holy football locker room to get myself amped for another three-hour practice at Harris Stadium: my home away from home. Man, the memories I have made with my friends, no, brothers will carry me throughout the rest of my life. Seriously. After scoring an average of six touchdowns a game with the help of my baby bro, Michael, I talk to my many adoring fans (mostly girls) and head to the hottest social scene to get my groove on. You could call me the greatest dancer alive or you could not. But the latter would make you wrong and a wrong answer deserves an extra long head shake. Look up “Harlem Shake CFHS AP Chemistry” and watch me head-BOB across the camera. (Notice the difference between the head shake and the head-bob). So many talents, so few people to share them with, which remains why I chose to attend The Johns Hopkins University in the fall of 2013. There, I can put those wannabe intellectual peasants in their places and wreak havoc on the gridiron with my dude, Soup. Everyone wants to live a day in the life of Bradley Munday, the big man on campus, as Mr. Maas would say. One day, you will all regret laughing at me when I stand ruling the world with a new Spain t-shirt on my back and my long-long-term girlfriend, Megan Stricker, on my arm. God, those memories with my football boys… awesome. 

Bow Down to the Queen

In a matter of weeks, we, the class of 2013, will move adventurously on toward the future leaving the names we have made for ourselves at Chagrin Falls behind. Some of us anxiously wait for the moment when we can throw our embarrassing titles out the window (for the record, I passed my driver’s test on the first try… flawlessly); some of us deservingly hold on to the auspicious titles given to us by our classmates (Blythe- we all hate you. YOU KNOW WHY).  For me, I find that I have made several names for myself during my years here, both good and bad. Life of the Party: awarded by classmates, frowned upon by Ms. Serensky. Worst Driver: one time. One time I hit Andrew Osgood. One time. Token Asian: the Chinese take over America? *hint hint* Totally a real thing. Dshannon: self-explanatory (for those who do not see the explanation in itself: I kill slave owners with a German dentist in my spare time).These names have given me a run for my money, but I stand ready to move on and show my true colors. We all have labels, whether we like it or not; however, as we move forward, college provides us with plenty of papers on which we may signature a new name. Mine? Queen of the Nerds. Who needs to party with Greek Row when a perfectly good marathon of The Lord of the Rings coaxes you to stay in your cozy 10-by-10 dorm all weekend? Truly, I have a flare for the supernatural, an obsession with magic, an addiction to re-reading the Harry Potter series, and an unhealthy craving to win a national LARPing tournament. As college stands as the opportune moment to spread my wings and fly, I plan to join the Squirrel Watching Club along with a plethora of other unusual clubs to establish my dominant presence on campus. I want my future classmates to view me this way because I have hidden this side of myself for far too long and I fear that if I keep it down any longer, I will face unfortunate victimization under the Dissociative Identity Disorder. Perhaps I will cheer up my stressed classmates with a Spock sign as they walk to class as I often feel that a simple solute to my home planet will put a smile on anyone’s face. I firmly consider the obviously truth that showing your true self to others will draw them toward you. I also hope that this new name will encourage me to study harder and work more diligently in academics as I may finally get the compliment of “you work TOO hard.” I believe that those habits will happily juxtapose those of my current status as I fail to do most of my homework (excluding English, of course) until the due date. I find myself restless with excitement for the debut of the new and arguably improved Shannon Fung. Just wait until our ten-year reunion when I promise, I shall make my entrance on a glimmering Segway with a robot boyfriend on my arm. 

No Leo? No Go.

“Dear Ms. Serensky,

My boyfriend wants to break up, but I do not. Help me!

Sincerely, Desperate & Confused”

Dear Desperate & Confused,

Look, honey, you need to listen to the directions of life: Wash your hands thoroughly until you have wiped yourself clean of all germs. Your boyfriend stands as the flu-carrying germ in your life. No one begs to get the flu unless they hold a serious mental derangement. Do you hold said problem? I sincerely hope not, and I shall continue on in my advice as if you do not. You need to make a clean break from this indolent caveman and move on with your life. Why would you ever want to attach yourself to someone who clearly does not care about your life, interests, or aspirations? I mean unless your current love interest stands as Leonardo DiCaprio, I see no benefit in keeping a relationship sinking faster than the RMS Titanic. Pun totally intended. (*Side note* If this boyfriend does go by the name of Leonardo Dicaprio and he acts in many movies, my previous advice cannot reign as applicable or useful in any way, shape, or form. Hold on to that man for as long as possible. Do not let go. Ever.) I can tell that you hold great potential to flourish, individually, into an awesome and independent person. Do not let one person in a world of seven billion hold you back- that would fall under the category of “pitifully stupid.” So, with my expert advice, I suggest that you dump the fool first, and work on finding a real man who will buy you tampons when you need them. Study diligently and become the valedictorian to show him who runs the world (the answer: girls). Work hard and become the most well-respected employee of your work place to teach him how to fear power. Break a sweat at Zumba to make him regret ever wanting to leave a sizzler like you. If you find yourself needing more advice on this topic, I implore you to dive into He’s Just Not That Into You by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo. They should definitely help sort some things out for you mentally. Good luck and remember if you ever find yourself in a sticky situation, ask yourself: “What Would Bobbie Jo Do?”

Sincerely, Ms. Serensky. 

Dshannon Unchained

You can call me Shannon… or you can call me Movie Buff the Cinephile, Fiend for Film. Yes, I quite like that. The search for entertainment in my life habitually ends when I log onto Netflix, flip to Movies on Demand, or drive myself to the theatre. Do I re-watch a classic or do I adventure into a new director’s world? No matter what I choose, I always find myself fully engaged in the actors, script, and direction. Ryan Gosling chick-flicks? Yes. Harry Potter enchantments? Absolutely. Oscar-worthy movie-to-book adaptations? The more the merrier. Japanese anime? Well, eh, not so much; but, hey, I cannot stand as one to judge. Recently, my passion has turned 180 degrees from romantic comedies to gore- unedited, immoral, cut-through-the-bone gore. And where else does one turn to quench their bloody thirst other than the one and only Quentin Tarantino, director of my new chart-topping favorite, “Django Unchained.” First of all, dang! Tarantino’s mastermind somehow takes such a dark part of American history, puts a dramatic spin on it, and turns it into a story of love, determination, and yes, murder. From start to finish, the 180-minute movie captured me with its unexpected humor yet emotionally daunting character development. Jamie Foxx, Christopher Waltz, and Leonardo DiCaprio take on the main stage among a star-studded cast and nail their transformation into characters of the Deep South in an era of unjustified slavery and conflict beyond one’s wildest imagination. Tarantino takes on a new level of ambition as he creates a sadistic tone and pushes the effects profanely over the top. Blood spews uncontrollably every time someone receives a gunshot wound as if they hold no bones in their body. Yes, unrealistic as it may seem, the deranged yet lovable director themes this masterpiece off of revenge and disregards a flare for the practical. I love it. Only Tarantino can handle this level of irony and violence in one film and still have the ability to make every moment tense and unpredictable for the audience. I warn, “Django Unchained” may arouse great discomfort in some due to its use of language and heavy sadistic attitude toward a touchy mistake in our nation’s past; however, I encourage those mentioned to look past the sometimes politically incorrect script and see the movie for what it truly remains: a fun, thrilling, over-the-top adventure meant for enjoyment, not political debate. 

"Django. The D is silent." 

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.

            

Thespian-Lovers Rock at Blogging

As I prepare to take on the coveted title of “Second-Semester Senior,” I look back on my past years of high school quite fondly. Thinking about both the good and the bad times, thankful cannot accurately describe what I feel toward my fellow seniors. They have struggled with me in school, worked hard with me on the field, and celebrated the excitement of our hard work shown through the multitude of college acceptance letters currently circulating the community. Chagrin Falls has brought us together through the traditions of the Pumpkin Roll, the Zoo, and Blossom; however, I must thank Ms. Serensky for bringing a select group of the senior class together through AP English 12. To my fellow thespian-lovers and literary-questioners, I feel a special connection to all of you for accompanying me on an adventure through Strout’s depressing stories to a general disappointment of a delayed Gatsby film. Most importantly, AP English 12 has shown me a side of all of you that I never would have seen without reading the weekly blog posts. The blogs connect our commonalities in embarrassing awkwardness, random happiness, and frustrated questioning of life. As we each share our stories and secrets week by week, I grow more and more confident that this blog project has kept me from wishing for the end of high school and the start of a new life. Blogging has also provided me with a newfound confidence in my writing that hid from me in the past. I believe my “most well-written” blog stands as “Shannon Plus Dedication Equals Nine.” For one thing, I nailed the punctuation and I only let myself show arrogance because one could habitually classify my grammar as subpar. This blog represents my long awaited acceptance into the group of students who do not lose a plethora of points for leaving out commas. I also feel that this piece of writing does a good job of highlighting the juxtaposition of my siblings to me, an intended effect to aid the characterization of myself as ambitious and thirsty for literary blood. I believe that this thirst created a humorous anecdote about true events in my life, making it relatable to my readers (except for Ms. Serensky because Valedictorians do not have to compete with their incompetent siblings). On a different note, I believe my most interesting blog serves as “Reaping the Rewards of Redemption.” First of all, what an awesome alliteration. It begins with a single word “redemption.” POW! I felt that the simplicity brought a dramatic tone to my piece about the intensity of extra credit in English class. I believe this blog sparks interest in my readers because I give an honest look into my imperfect life in both Corn Hole and AP English 12. I admit my flaws shamelessly and accept that a little boost never hurt anybody. I enjoy this blog the most because I broke out of my blogging shell to produce something funny that does not analyze a piece of old literature. I do not always post hilarious blogs, but when I do, they generally involve my awkward and embarrassing life. Many of my peers have made comments on the tales of my uncomfortable life, including Kate Mackin. Kate chose to comment on “Shannon Plus Dedication Equals Nine,” the piece about my determination to live up to the standards set by my intelligent siblings. She chose to metaphorically push me down a sewer and leave me their to cry in my shame of imperfection by admitting that my post brought her no sympathy but did make her appreciate her foiled role as the eldest, most prosperous sibling. Well Kate, I would like to congratulate on your perfect, no-stress life. Only joking! Your comment actually made me appreciate my role in the family as well. Both of us have different statuses within our families but I must say that we both turned out pretty well, definitely better and cooler than our siblings, at least. In these comments, blogs, and my own writing, I have learned more about myself and my peers than I have through simple interactions in the classroom environment. Each AP English 12 student shows amazing talent and promise for the future. I look forward to reading more blogs in the future but for now, my fellow seniors, enjoy your auspicious title as a second-semester senior! 

Fabulously Permanent

Kids, listen up. When your teachers and parents tell you that everything you post on the Internet stays on the Internet, they speak the truth. Unfortunately, this also holds water if someone else posts about you. Of course, I have felt the same blasting force of this truly unfair rule from the day I joined the social networking world. In middle school, I, like any other wannabe facetiously cool tween, registered for Myspace and began my journey into the world of sharing photos, messages, and interests with friends. First and foremost, I had to design a flawless profile ten times cooler and more appealing than all of my friends’. I spent an average of three hours a day creating sparkly gifs that read “ShAy FuNg” and finding songs to accurately describe my distressed emotions of the “tough” times of middle school… I went with the inspirational “The World’s Greatest” by R. Kelly. The description in my profile read somewhat like so: “The name’s Shannon but you can call me Shay, Fungy, or Shah! (If you have any other nicknames just LMK!!!!!) I hate drama, love the movies, and think Nick Jonas is really really hawt! Callertext me!” Let us call that paraphrasing because I have mostly blocked that blimp in my life out of my memory; but, I do clearly remember that I absolutely HAD to have the coolest, “selfie” as my profile picture. So, naturally I took my super enviable LG Chocolate, popped open the camera, and had a ball taking mirror pictures of myself chucking up a peace sign and pouting my lips to make the perfect I’m-so-mysterious-and-moody face. Really cool, Shannon. Really cool. After two years I apparently lost interest in the world of narcissism and deleted my profile, thank a higher power. Recently, I thanked my younger self for holding the good sense to delete those dreadful documented moments until I stumbled upon an old album on my sister’s Facebook page. Stated simply, the album consists of about twenty-five percent of my old Myspace pictures ranging from bathroom self-portraits to bird’s-eye photos of a girl wearing too much eyeliner and even more sass. Just when I thought I had escaped my past, these pictures reappeared in my life, reminding me that I can never retrieve the information I once released on the Internet, especially because my sister apparently hates my existence and wants me to die a slow social death of humiliation. Sadly, my middle school misfortunes do not end there and posts get creatively more and more embarrassing. Among the seemingly greatest sabotages (according to the popularity of favorites and likes on social networks):

     -Fourteen-year-old Shannon Fung belts a rendition of “Fabulous” by High School Musical’s Ashley Tisdale. I really encourage everyone to look up the real video on YouTube in order to fully understand how the video of me trying to reenact this scene in my room looks. I wanted fabulous, but I did not want my attempts presented to the world before my official debut.

     -Shannon Fung straight out of wisdom tooth surgery photos. Truly, my friends bombarded me merely two hours following the extremely painful removal of my wisdom teeth and approached my swollen face with a camera phone. Boom. Up on Facebook they went. I applaud you if you find them, you will surely laugh at the fact that I look exactly like Glimmer from The Hunger Games after the vicious Tracker Jackers attack her face.

To me, the Internet holds the same powers that John Keats’ urn does in his poem “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Like the immovable pictures on the urn, the photos and videos posted of me of various social networks will never come down. They remain permanently within the realm of the Internet world now, readily available to all who search hard enough for them. The pictures on the urn will always depict the couple as young lovers and the desolate town as sacrificial just as the Internet will forever show my embarrassing antics as a young teenager. While anyone can paint over the urn’s old pictures, they will always remain underneath it all; I can paint over the pictures of my past but even I will never forget what came first: a chubby idiot.   

Because I mean like, really cool picture, Shannon.

Shannon Plus Dedication Equals Nine

I come from a seemingly long line of Fung children. I, personally, like to think of our group as “The Gang of Four;” unfortunately, a group of four Communist Chinese men previously claimed that name decades before my family’s legend began. As the youngest child, I often times find a struggle in making a name for myself under the shadows of three radiant and talented siblings. Justin, my oldest brother, reigns as the naturally brilliant, retro-hipster, Columbia student unaffected by any problem that crosses his path. Lauren, my only sister, finds her uniqueness in her ambition. The hardest worker, she always pushes her limits in determination to impress anyone that enters her life. Finally comes my second brother, Brendan. Teachers remember Brendan for his charisma- a spirit filled with optimism, wit, and the all-around awesome ability to just live life the right way. All of my superiors hold their own unique voice, separating themselves from the blob that many people often identify us as. Recently, I found myself flipping through the pages of their old binders, curious as to my own teacher’s interpretation of their past students’ differences. And, for the first time in my life, I saw that all three siblings held one common ground: An incredible talent within the realm of Ms. Serensky’s AP English class. Never in my past two years of taking this class have I seen students receive so many eights and nines on in and out of class writings. Initially, I found myself lying in fetal position in the foyer wanting to quit, believing that my own writing would never receive the appreciative “very nice!” or “excellent!” reviews from Ms. Serensky. For a few minutes, I wallowed in despair and jealousy of my siblings’ greatness;*sigh,* living the life of the youngest child never stands as an easy feat. As I walked toward the kitchen to bake away my feelings, I had a sudden epitome-WWBJD: What Would Bobbie Jo Do? Would she run away to bake delicious cupcakes instead of fighting her problems? Absolutely not! She would sit down at the computer, write a blog about her revelation, and take AP English by the horns. I plan to do the same. Picture me clad in seventies workout gear going through a montage as I knock down all of my obstacles to “Eye of the Tiger.” Like a good, old Rocky movie, the notorious lyrics by Survivor will guide me through my ambition to the top. From here on out, I plan to work under the goal of receiving a “very well-written, Shannon,”and a big, fat, awesome sticker at the top of my paper placed specifically next to the words, “Rubric Bonus +2.” Doubt me all you want but just like the heart, the mind wants what the mind wants, and I want it all (just like Ashley Tisdale in “High School Musical 3: Senior Year"). No longer will I live a perpetually sad life in the shadows of my siblings known strictly as “Life of the Party”  (already associated by Ms. Serensky under negative connotations) or “She Who Makes Good Cupcakes.” Get ready, Ms. Serensky. You should probably hit up Michael’s because your sticker collection will begin to dwindle along with the red ink in your pens from writing a mountainous amount of awe-inspired comments on my work. Through my new ambition for greatness, I hope to join my siblings in their defeat of AP English and truly become a worthy member in "The Gang of Four." Perhaps English will never hold the key to my strong suit, but I refuse to let myself fall below Ms. Serensky's preconceived expectations of quality Fung work. Putting aside the daily stresses of English, the Data Sheets, the in-class writings, and the dubious mounds of homework, the class has inspired me to push myself beyond what people expect of the girl who turns in her blogs at 11:30 at night. I do not want to leave this school as another blimp on the radar; I do not want to go down without a fight. I hope to end the year on a bed of eights and nines as Ms. Serensky congratulates me at graduation: “Shannon, you are far cooler than all of your siblings. You are without a doubt the best Fung… EVER.” 

These fantastic pictures stand as my current inspiration. Each of these come from one of my sibling's papers. Cue jealous rage. 

More Used than a Porta Potty at Blossom

I would like to ask my readers a serious question: do you like when new acquaintances use you for your personal connections or take advantage of your tolerant and helpful personality? Personally, I do not; however, Nick Carraway seems careless when his new neighbor “friend,” Jay Gatsby, chooses to execute a plan using Nick to achieve his goal. Surprisingly, to me, we did not address this situation in class while I see it as a large complication in both the characterizations of Nick and Gatsby. From the start of Fitzgerald’s novel, Nick adamantly shows his fascination in Gatsby and his desire to befriend his new neighbor. Nick finds solace in Gatsby’s genuine kindness and devotion to creating a strong friendship, later destroyed by Gatsby’s revealed intentions of befriending Nick to enhance his chances with his ex-lover. After pursuing Nick with trips to the city, rides on his boat, and extravagant parties, Gatsby indirectly asks Nick to host afternoon tea and to invite his cousin, Daisy (78). Initially, I felt that Fitzgerald evoked sympathetic pathos from readers who have experienced the same feelings of distress after discovering the true purpose of a hurtful friendship; however, Nick’s only response shows his dedication to helping Gatsby at any cost: “the modesty… shook me” (78). Disappointment filled me as Nick overlooks his neighbor’s rudeness and apparent claim to superiority. In both the West Egg and East Egg, Nick holds only few friends among a community of self-centered and fake people: Gatsby tricked Nick with his façade. Did no one else feel the devastation of such a seemingly awesome character turning evil at the prospect of love? Or even the immediate recall of masculinity by Nick as he allows Gatsby’s “plea” to turn into a demand? A classic case of commensalism, perhaps even an alpha male of the pack situation. In Layman’s terms, Gatsby benefits from Nick’s tolerant personality while he, himself, reaps none of the rewards. This external conflict proves problematic for me: I no longer have a protagonist to cheer on. Not Gatsby, for he holds the characteristics of an unfaithful friend. Not Nick, for he shows weakness and inevitable failure. At this point, I can only hope that both men see their flawed figures and attempt to fix their disturbing definition of friendship. I may show extreme passion in this seemingly small event; yet, I believe that I would have responded quite differently to the request. How? With an absolute “no.” Hosting afternoon tea would entail me to clean and you can bet, I will not clean prior to an answer to my question, “what’s in it for me?” 

YCLF: You Can't Live Forever

Eighteen: a small number when looked at on a number line to infinity, a large number when looked at in regards to a lifetime. Yet, infinity remains a number of years unknown to mankind and the Guinness Book of World Records. As the clock approached twelve this morning, I found myself in a panic as the last seconds of my childhood slipped between my fingers. Memories flashed across my mind: the time I fell asleep while tying my shoes, the time I ate croutons off of every salad plate in a restaurant, and even the time I stuck tweezers in an electrical outlet. Yes, thinking about the past eighteen years has evoked a large dose of nostalgia into my life today; however, as I delved into the work of F. Scott Fitzgerald in The Great Gatsby, four words turned my frown upside down: “’you can’t live forever’” (36). Spoken by Myrtle, she reflects on her initial thoughts as she decides to take a chance and make a huge risk in her life. As I absorbed this claim, I realized that dwelling in my awesome past would not help the transition into adulthood. I have to brace my new age, new responsibilities, and the new expectations set by the people around me; yet, how can I embrace this shift in the times without losing the values of childhood that I already cherish? I must synthesize my old ways with my new expectations. I will not give up my desire to live in a land of no consequences forever. I will buy my Powerball Lottery Tickets (thirty dollars worth of tickets to be exact) and I will get as many tattoos and piercings as I want (which will probably amount to zero due to my irrational fear of blood). Why? Because, I can make my own decisions as an adult, despite if they seem stupid or ridiculous to the outside world. I cannot live forever. Life encourages me to go out into the world with an open mind and a desire to take risks and make mistakes. Today, I learned that no curse lies in aging, only promise for a more exciting tomorrow. Unlike Myrtle, I will not commit adultery. Like Myrtle, I will take chances to fulfill my life while I still have the opportunity. Eighteen rocks and the time has come to embrace my new freedoms. 

A Dash of Devotion

Dear Ms. Serensky,

I wish to prove your preconceived notions about my recent superlative award, "Life of the Party," wrong. On the morning of Homecoming, I entered the cafeteria to meet you in my groggy and slow state of mind. While you blamed my fatigue on my "secretive nature" and Friday-night-antics, I knew the real reason for the bags under my eyes: a temptress by the name of the Food Channel. For years, she has used her almighty influence to destroy every last ounce of my own willpower. Every night, her replays of Cupcake Wars forbid me to complete any assignments and beg for me to cater to their deliciousness. How can I possibly resist? The episodes entertain me for a few hours; yet, I still have not stated the real reason for my... um... occasional days of pure exhaustion. With my right hand on my heart and my head to the ground, I shamefully admit that once the first batch of fresh cupcakes appear on my screen, I cannot withstand my shutter-inducing need to bake these scrumptious delectables in my own kitchen. With this in mind, I find that I can relate to the crazed speaker from "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. No, I do not plan on ravenously murdering an old man because he has a vulture-eye; however, I believe that we relate on the conceptual level of needing to fulfill our plans. Throughout the short story, Poe makes the clear assertion that once an idea becomes implanted in an individual's mind, it becomes difficult to ignore until someone has fulfilled the deed. Like myself, the dedicated man claims, "the idea... haunted me day and night" (3). By personifying "the idea," I feel as if he understands my unexplainable and incurable duty to address the nagging idea in my mind after watching Cupcake Wars. By no means do I advocate his violence and, well, illegal actions; however, I find his powerlessness in denying himself pleasure very intriguing and relatable. I so desperately wish that my devotion to fulfill my conscious mind's priority list held schoolwork in the top spot. But, I have discovered that when I bake batches of cupcakes before completing work, my mind temporarily lets go of all the stresses caused by school, sports, and work. My mind prioritizes baking because it brings me peace and joy, not unlike the initial feelings that the satisfied speaker feels after his expulsion of the bothersome eye. We both have a secret passion unseen by the public until our own admittance of our separate guilty pleasures: I love cupcakes and the murderer loves tearing human limbs from their sockets. Perhaps our superficial features do not match up, but together we fall victim to Poe's assertion that people suffer under the temptations of individual happiness. Yes, I have released my secret to the public. I cannot avoid and I have stayed home more than a few times on Friday nights to experiment with recipes while my peers "hit the town." So, Ms. Serensky, the next time you see me in a reverie in the hallway, you will know the real reason. They call me Shannon Fung, "Life of the Cupcake Aficionado Party."

Sincerely,
I just made (if I do say so myself) an impeccable batch of Cookies 'n' Cream cupcakes.

Reaping the Rewards of Redemption

Redemption. A word loaded with passion, power, and determination, it holds enough promise to restore hope in the hearts of millions. But what does redemption mean to me? Redemption finds its way into my veins after shamefully losing to my eight-year-old cousin in Corn Hole at our annual family reunion. The sun decides to shine right into my eyes, but that never convinces anyone else. I cannot let one blemish tarnish my reputation as the Corn Hole Queen. Four more hours remain in the gathering and desperation fills me as I search to find a way to put this bragging ignoramus in her place. Eating contest? No, that corned beef and hash smells like Aunt Nancy’s dentures. Texting race? No, kids these days do technology so much better. Thinking, thinking, thinking, and then it hits me, Capture the Flag: the ultimate test of intelligence, endurance, and thievery. Not that I have any particular experience in stealing… *cough* Pumpkining *cough*. I gather the forces because I no longer wish to involve myself in one-versus-one combat with this demon. I find my tallest uncle, my fastest cousin, my oldest grandparent (because who really wants to harm the frail one?) and we prepare for war. To say that we dug and marked her grave before she could infiltrate our boundaries would stand as a large understatement. Ah, the sweet taste of redemption on a warm summer night. Not to characterize myself arrogantly, but I often reminisce on that moment and link the unmatched feeling to my life in AP English. AP English: (n) the sole class in high school that will take you on an emotional roller coaster on a daily basis. Every nine weeks of the school year, my brain throbs, my fingers cramp, and I swear by Shakespeare’s holy name that I have carpal tunnel syndrome. I begin to lose faith that I will ever catch a break and then, suddenly, a beacon of light shines through the windows in room 329. Call me crazy, but I believe that after four years of annotating with literary devices, I can apply symbolism to this majestic moment. This light symbolizes ebullience, happy endings, and fluffy unicorns in a horror movie. Why? Extra credit season has finally arrived and let us justsay the best way I know how to spell redemption looks a whole lot like b-o-n-u-s-p-o-i-n-t-s. The time has come for me to overshadow my humiliating loss against my number one enemy, grammar. I quickly scan the room for my usual crew, Kackin* and Mampers* (rest in peace, Sockie Slemens*). Our creation of a three-headed monster works diligently under the pressure of practice AP testing dominance. Yes, we miss questions from time-to-time, but working with two of the most intelligent people I know gives me great confidence that our success will prevail in the end. As they say, “three heads are better than one.” Not only do these bonus points give my grade a desired boost at the end of the quarter, but they also help alleviate the pain from my occasional “what was I THINKING?” essays. So, what have I learned from extra credit? For one, I have never appreciated an opportunity provided to me in high school more than Ms. Serensky’s extra credit. To future students, take full advantage of this day, make it fun, cheer obnoxiously, and thank your teacher for throwing you a lifeline at the end of a dark tunnel. Second off, life will throw its ups and downs at you. Sure, you may botch up a few times, but whatever path you choose to take, I can guarantee that at the end of that road, a little girl stands waiting to serve you a cup of sweet, sweet redemption.

*Pseudonyms used for the protection of students' identities. 

So Much for Happy Endings

Finished. The last line of my summer reading complete. Relief. And extreme discontent. Why Strout? Why! Elizabeth Strout, author of a disappointing and fairly depressing book, Olive Kitteridge, writes thirteen short stories majorly surrounding concepts of loveless marriage, cheating, and desire to return to the "golden ages" of youth. Surprisingly enough, not the adventurous and thrilling reading book I typically imagine completing during the summer season. If I ever meet Strout, I plan to slam her with riveting questions. But first and foremost I will ask Strout, "Why does love exist in such a dark place in your mind?" Throughout the novel, Strout expressed the great disappointment of love as couples age, grow far apart and lose touch with the person they once thought of so fondly. For example, as Olive confronts Henry of not protecting her, Henry fervently claims, "'all the years... you've [never] once apologized'" (123). As Henry's emotions finally boil over the top, his claim creates an external conflict between a confused Olive and his own fed-up self. The conflict only adds to the growing gap between the once young lovers, desperately passionate and kind toward each other. As they age, however, Strout seems insistent on making their lives more miserable as they fight and struggle to find words to speak to each other without adding a tone of patronization. Similarly, after discovering that her husband, Roger, cheats on her, Louise speaks with extreme hatred claiming, "his heart beats twice an hour" (153). Through her livid tone, Louise indirectly characterizes herself as hurt and betrayed by the love of her life. I simply do not understand why Strout feels the need to destroy every relationship in this novel by one fowl swoop of her pen. An innocent Louise crushed by Roger's heartlessness, Nina left in the dark as Tom sleeps with another women, and even poor, old, Olive feels such betrayal as Henry moves even further away from their marriage. To top off my disappointment with the novel, Olive declares, "'I don't care if I die'" to a man she meets on a bench in her old age (254). Left alone by Henry and separated from her son, Christopher, Olive's life of continuous hardships finally catches up to her. While Strout creates sorrowful pathos from other elderly people who remain alone in the world, she writes Olive as sadly accepting of her own death due to the loneliness that drowns her. With no one left to love, her desperation breaks my heart, knowing that even after her father's suicide, her life never turned back around to present her with a slice of happiness. Does Strout assert that happy endings simply do not exist in real life? That only in fairy tales with longing princesses and handsome princes can a life full of love truly work out? Thanks to Strout's dominant tone of sorrow throughout the entire work, the future frightens me as I acknowledge the hurt that anyone can cause me. Overall, I feel that I will never understand the level of resistance the Strout so heavily enforces against love in the world. Why, Strout? Why?

"Olive" is an Anagram for "I love"

Since my adolescence, I have adopted a rather present sense of pride to my personality. This said, I naturally do not enjoy when people of any age speak to me with tones of condescension or judgment. So, I found myself in a constant state of aggravation whenever Olive voiced her snarky opinions throughout the beginning of Elizabeth Strout's Olive Kitteridge. Bouncing between Strout's thirteen short stories, the early words of the novel left me unimpressed with Olive's repetitive disrespect for her husband, Henry, and her resistance to showing any emotion, even to her loved ones. However, as the novel turns to focus solely on Olive's thoughts in the chapter, "A Different Road," I found myself feeling sympathetic for the woman stuck half-naked in a hospital bathroom. While I originally characterized Olive as old and bitter, she showed me a different side when she explains that she "pictured teaching [her son's]... children how to plant" (107). Through her hopeful diction of "pictured," Olive speaks with a disappointed tone as she shows the audience her deep sorrow upon her beloved son, Christopher's, departure to California. Olive humanizes herself as she shows her deep love for her son, despite the fact that she can hardly admit compassion for her own husband. Not only does Olive mask her loving emotions from the world, but also her emotions of fear or hurt. Like a brick wall, Olive shows no disturbance as a nurse at the hospital informs her that she needs to see a doctor for fear of her dying from a crabmeat allergic reaction: "'for God's sake,'... but her heart banged fast" (110). Hear, Strout highlights Olive's inability to show weakness to anyone but herself. While she indirectly characterizes herself as brave and unfazed, she gives the audience a hint that she has walls built up around her heart, implying that someone or something has hurt her deeply in the past. As the reader later finds out about her father's suicide, Olive's bitterness finally begins to make sense. Her internal conflict to show emotion creates pathos from people who have suffered a traumatic event, evoking pity as Olive forces herself to face the world alone. Similarly, as Olive sits trapped and threatened in the hospital bathroom with a gun waiting to fire, "she was crying, everything was all messed up" (121). The amount of sympathy I feel for Olive as she lets all of her bottled emotions out remains immense. Not only did she lose her own father to suicide at a long age, but she also lost her son to a controlling wife, lost her husband's heart to a young coworker, Denise, and now sees the world losing touch with her. Finally, I can appreciate Olive, no longer a heartless robot, but a regular woman, facing her own struggles as life passes her by. Reading her thoughts, Olive has changed my once bitter emotions toward her and has taught me that more often than not, human nature makes it easy for us to judge people upon a simple look or greeting. No one can fully understand the life that someone lives day-to-day, so do not try.

Time Tales

As I prepare for my final year of high school, my final year before I reach "adulthood," I ponder how time has so stealthily carried me quickly through the past three years. As a child, I dreamed about the days when the law would allow me to drive, when I would have a curfew later than sunset, and when I would finally be tall enough to reach the microwave buttons without standing on a chair. So, now I stand at a crossroads: once a naive child longing to grow up, now I stand as a young adult pleading my mother to stop nagging me about filling out college applications. Do I want to move forward into independence or do I wish to remain in a carefree time of acting young and reckless? In Elizabeth Strout's novel, Olive Kitteridge, the author address the major conflict of time passing which affects the lives of many characters. The conflict holds a definite role in the middle-aged pharmacist, Henry Kitteridge's, life. Working with a young woman named Denise, Henry often finds himself infatuated with her "childlike" essence (9). As his marriage finds itself dull and passionless, Henry feels an intense desire to "be in... presence of this young couple [Denise and husband, Henry]" (5). Strout juxtaposes the exciting marriage of the young couple to the distant one of Olive and Henry. As Henry indirectly characterizes himself as jealous of the young couple's spark and extreme devotion to each other, he speaks with a nostalgic tone as he longs for the days of immense happiness with his wife. Through the nostalgic tone, Strout asserts that people often lose touch with their own youth, only erasing the worry-free world they one existed in. While I have never experienced marriage myself, I understand Henry's wish to return to his days of carelessness with Olive. I often reflect on my childhood days with my oldest brother, Justin. Once duty-free, we held the ability to play games for hours, while nowadays we have grown apart due to the hectic working world he now resides in. I truly miss the close relationship we once held, just like Henry misses his own with Olive. On a different note, Strout introduces the character of Kevin Coulson, a young man still in the process of growing up and finding himself. Looking from a different perspective, Kevin acknowledges that the world's youth tries too hard to grow up. Kevin thinks to himself deciding it "sad... always a new age dawning" (42). Through his declaration, Kevin seems disappointed as he backs Strout's claim that people need to slow down and enjoy today. As a teenager, I admit that I fall victim to Kevin's point. With each crave to snag the next iPhone, each desperate need catch the latest celebrity gossip; I have unfortunately let my days of youth pass me by. Always longing for the next best thing, I have allowed myself to miss out on the small things that make these years so special; however, I also acknowledge that I cannot turn back time as I also wish the characters in Strout's novel would realize. Always melancholy and nostalgic, characters like Henry, Kevin, and many others waste their lives trying to turn back the clock. I believe that at any age, young or old, people will wish for something they once held, or will hold in the future. Embrace the time given, "today is a gift, that's why they call it the present."