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!