Lack of Inspiration Produces Exceedingly Dull Bloggings

Today isn’t a day for blogging. I feel as if my blogging inspiration won’t come back until during or after winter break. Because there is only one week left, I am beginning to feel ever so slightly restless. I am very ready for a break.

I’m excited to make a to-do list for the break, and then check everything off. I plan to finish the book I’m reading, The Stranger by Albert Camus. I checked it out from the school library for a project, and its just about the coolest book I’ve ever had my hands on besides my Natural History illustrated textbook type thing from 1952 and my 1893 edition of Alice in Wonderland (that I got for a steal at 27 bucks plus tax on eBay, and that I have yet to finish reading, which I will also do over the break).

Anyway, this book has been checked out from Clark High School’s library since 1967, which is incredible in itself. Just imagine how many hands it has passed through… and it has that genuine old-book smell, which is nice. The cover is a lovely limeish green with a sixties kind of pattern. It contains twisted annotations that would send any AP Lang/Comp teacher into cardiac arrest: crossed out words because the reader felt their word choices were more appropriate, and other thoughts containing one “April Butterfield” and a statement about her physical attractiveness to the wielder of the writing utensil. I wonder where April Butterfield is now, how old she is, and the like. Is it possible that the anonymous admirer and Ms. Butterfield have consequently married? Who knows.

I also plan to do more art-related stuff because I haven’t drawn a picture in what feels like a long time. I’ve been too busy lately to be creative, so hopefully that will change this winter break. I would also like to make more bracelets because my favorite hemp bracelet broke recently, so I need to make another one to replace it.

My family and I are attending a Manheim Steamroller Christmas concert thing tonight, which is pretty cool… I’m curious to see how they operate live, because I’ve always been particularly fond of their Christmas songs. I should probably be getting ready to go to that at this very moment. But who wants to read about that, really?

I dislike writing about whatever I would like to do because I find it to be hopelessly boring and completely pointless to any reader. However, I could be wrong. Maybe I have thousands of dedicated fans out there somewhere that are just dying to know my Winter Break to do list is. Until my blog inspiration comes back, these lackluster musings will have to do.

The Downfall of a Blog

Because I am quite busy and have absolutely no time to spare, I find myself with no time to sit and ponder what to write about. For this reason, I must write about nothing in particular in order to check something off of my to-do list, which is literally a page long. (Hooray)

I feel acutely terrible for being generally uncreative with this blog entry, but for the sake of time this blog has become a martyr of sorts. Who knows, perhaps because of its selfless actions it will be celebrated in later years. One can never be sure, but I can vouch for the fact that this blog is kindhearted and truly deserves to be not sacrificed. However, because of self interest, it must be sacrificed anyway. This may come across as unconditionally cruel, and I certainly apologize, but there is nothing that can be done now.

This blog is perishing slowly at a constant rate, like one of those large containers of Ovaltine over a summer. Daily a mother will supply her child with a single tablespoon of chocolate powder diffused into a tall glass of milk. Each day the container loses one tablespoon, slowly chipping away at the whole until it is nothing but an empty shell. Yes, this situation is synonymous with the demise of this very blog. The fall is constant, unless of course the child discovers a stepstool as to reach the counter on his own. From there, the demise would occur sporadically- two or three table spoons one day, varying from the generous four table spoons of the day before. Occurring in spastic amounts, the fall is far more painful- like short bursts of agony. Now the blog’s fate is to be determined by the greedy, insatiable child instead of the level-headed mother.

Thankfully I believe that this blog is in virtually no pain and is at this very moment quite comfortable. I think it may even believe itself to be a hero. I will encourage this blog that it is correct in its thinking, but when I turn around I will cackle devilishly.

I do have a conscience, and it is thudding deeply in my skull, but I logically realize that as soon as this blog is done with I can devote my energies to other areas of study. True, the collapse of this blog is unfortunate, but it is of stark necessity.

Bizarre Flight Attendants

It has been my utter (and occasionally hilarious) misfortune to run into some of the strangest and most obnoxious flight-attendants ever while on planes (if that wasn’t obvious).

The first had an obsession with having all windows closed that bordered on psychotic. She would literally walk up and down the aisles, asking the passengers if they could please, kindly, shut their windows. We (being my mother, sister, and I) dubbed her “The Window Nazi” based on her ludicrous requests. For the entirety of the flight, she just about begged every person on the flight to shut the windows for no apparent reason. My mother muttered the sentiment “I paid for this ticket, and I’ll shut the window if I want to.”

The second flight attendant had a small pet peeve regarding the overhead bins, and she was the one designated to close them all before the flight began. If they didn’t close correctly on the first try, she would reopen them and rampantly rearrange the baggage, and then slam the doors shut as if they had personally wronged her.

The third, who I encountered yesterday while flying back from Denver, might have been the most hilarious flight attendant I have ever had to share an airplane with. I never saw this woman’s face, but learned enough about her through her speeches over the intercom to take her about as seriously as I do something that I do not take seriously at all. The first thing she did was tell as all that safety was her main priority.

She pleaded with us to please not get up when the seatbelt sign was on, for it was unsafe. She had already said the word safe about twenty-three times when the turbulence started. She came over the intercom, telling us to please fasten our seatbelts. I grasped my armrests in mock horror. The Safe Nazi said we were also going to have to put away our electronic devices early, because it was unsafe. She seemed rushed and anxious, as if we were experiencing a true crisis. She told us we weren’t allowed to use cellular phones until we landed, which we were all perfectly aware of. I put my hand on my mothers and said sarcastically, “Oh, good. I can’t wait to call our relatives to tell them that we are okay.”

When we finally landed, she began the spiel about “thanking us for our business.” Then she implored us to be cautious while in Vegas. She said to be careful with money, not to spend it all at once, and then to be especially cautious while driving, because “people drink here, y’know.”

This sent me as well as the people who I sat near into laughter. Because, obviously, Vegas is the only place where people drink. A boisterous man seating in front of me laughed loudly at the absurdity of her statement. An older woman beside me said “I think she just likes to hear the sound of her voice over the intercom.” I agreed with her. I wondered if the flight attendant noticed the distaste of her passengers, and hoped she did and would therefore stop being an infernal nag.

This experience set me to thinking. Do flight attendants become annoying deliberately? I can imagine that the job becomes tedious at points, and to break the monotony, perhaps flight attendants decide to do strange things in order to gauge the reactions of the people on the flight. A different personality every flight- that would certainly be interesting. But all in all I believe that maybe being in such high altitudes for countless hours, days on end, can turn young women into crazy old flight attendants with acute obsessions.

Image: http://brooklyn-newyork.olx.com/flight-attendant-training-course-online-iid-5178087

The Volvox: A Love Story

Looking back on myself as a bumbling freshman, I consider myself to have been one who held very few interests that intersected in any way with the academic studies undertaken in the high school environment. However, there are always exceptions to any standard set in place by The Man, and my exception was the Volvox.

Formerly unaware of the existence of this fascinating microorganism, I felt a fleeting spark of interest enter my mind when my Biology teacher first introduced to me this Volvox thing. It all began with a black and white diagram on a piece of printer paper, detail skewed and significance muffled by the grey residue which accompanies an image copied many times over. That, and a brief description of what the basic functions of a volvox include, a synopsis of its reproductive abilities, and other minor details concerning its existence.

In comparison to the multitude of other microorganisms we were studying, all of which accompanied the Volvox on the sheet of paper, one would think the volvox was as typical as its diminutive counterparts. However, I had an inclination that there just might be something special about this one, and thoughts of the volvox engulfed my brain for the remainder of the lecture.

We had the opportunity to see the microorganism of our choice by means of a microscope slide, and I knew what had to be done. I strode to my teacher’s desk and asked boldly if I could view the Volvox. She handed me a microscope slide which help a single drop of water in the center, which was plastered underneath a protective sheet. As I made my way toward a microscope, a great exhilaration passed over me and into the volvoxes which inhabited the slide I grasped with my fingertips.

I felt as if I wasn’t yet worthy of the honor of observing such a creature, shrouded in magnificence. After all, I had only read about them. Yes, I had seen the basic diagram, but I thought myself no expert in the ways of the Volvox. My hands were practically shaking. I was about to meet the Volvox, and I was thrilled.

I became further intrigued with the Volvox from the moment I laid eyes on it through the microscope eyepiece. The way they rolled around so blissfully- the effortless, soothing motion- in company with their almost fluorescent yellow-green hue was somehow breathtaking and charming. It was algae working in tandem, groups of cells coexisting together to create one being. It was a colony. It was brotherhood. And it was beautiful.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I stared with enchanted incredulity for a long while, mesmerized by the rhythmic revolutions of the round chlorophytes, until, unfortunately, I had to return to my work. But I will never forget and will remain forever changed by my enlightening day with the Volvox.

Antiques..

My mother and I frequently go on “adventures.” We enter any store we find interesting, threatening, or anything else that sparks our curiosity (pawn shops, “psychic” book shops, consignment stores, antique stores, Goodwill, and Summerlin furniture stores far out of our price range just to mess around, etc) These “adventures” usually consist of going on errands to find something generally out of the blue (and there is little chance we actually find it). This weekend, it was a chest of drawers.
The drawers in my room broke more than a month ago, and are now jutting out at strange angles. Not to mention, I can’t open the drawers and put my clothes inside, so the floor surrounding is stacked up with various articles of clothing. I never imagined how difficult it would be to find a replacement- something unique, preferably paintable for the sake of personalization, the correct size, and not hideously expensive.

So far we’ve had zero luck, and have gone out searching for said chest of drawers every weekend for nearly a month. This weekend my mother proposed we go downtown and check out the thrift and antique stores to see if we could find anything of interest.

We passed a large antique mall, and decided to venture inside. They didn’t have what we were looking for, but they had just about everything else one could possibly imagine.

Antique stores are inspiring in a way, and the items there spawn questions in my mind as I look at them. I am quite fond of old things. Old books have an exquisite, unique scent and are genuinely charming (Where were they shelved before this? Who read them?), old dolls are wonderful (Who played with these throughout the years? Who was this special to?), old photographs are enchanting (Who possibly could have parted with these? How did they end up here? Who are these people and what were they like?), and whatever I decide to purchase (if anything) makes me feel like I’ve come home with a miniscule slice of history, however worthless it may be.

Needless to say, it was nearly impossible for my mother to pry me from the store. It seemed to continue endlessly: I would spend a long while inside any particular section, gazing at perhaps old Star Trek figurines, and then something like an old telephone would catch my eye from across the room, but on the way I would just need to stop and look at a nameless woman’s ancient wedding photos, strewn helplessly among the lost articles of other people, fractions of unknown lives- an eerie sort of memoriam. Entire photo albums- the year 1927 of someone’s life, photographs paired with cursive-penned descriptions: a year lost and now stacked among musty bags of Marvel comic books and old postcards.

The Past 18 Minutes

Yesterday, when I plugged in my computer to the power strip sitting beside my bed, an error screen materialized after I turned on my laptop. It stated that somehow the power source was messing up or something, and wondered if I wanted to continue on down this seemingly threatening path.

Because I had never received such a message before, I was curious to see if I could discover the cause. So I checked to make sure the power strip was plugged into the wall completely, which it was. Then I checked to make sure the thingy that connects the laptop to the power strip was plugged in completely to the power strip, which it was. Finally, I checked to make sure the thingy that connects the laptop to the power strip was plugged in completely to the laptop which is was…n’t.

Actually, it was. However, the black covering had been bent to such extremes that it had ripped, revealing the wires underneath. Not the greatest of signs. Because of its potentially hazardous state, I resorted to using my computer’s battery instead, which is something I rarely do. Close to never. I only use my battery when I need to bring my computer elsewhere besides my all-too-comfortable bed, where it is about 99.7% of the time. (I understand that keeping a laptop in one place continuously defeats the purpose of even having a laptop, but that is an argument for later date.)

Using the battery causes the screen of my computer to become perpetually dim, which is disappointing in comparison to the brightly-colored and stimulating graphics that typically accompany the usage of my laptop. Instead of a pure, mind-boggling white, the background of this Microsoft Word document has a twinge of sickly grey, which looks downright unhealthy.

I do not use to battery frequently for that reason, along with the fact that using a battery instead of a constant power source can be utterly unnerving. I find my eyes constantly darting to the bottom right corner of the screen, checking to see just how much time I have left. The battery icon empties spitefully, its life shrinking down to nothingness, and it mocks me so cruelly: Only thirty-seven more minutes, Julia. Thirty-seven minutes until the end.

This was my experience today, when I opened my computer and turned it on to realize that I had but thirty-seven minutes to spit out this article. Now the malicious battery reads that I have twenty-four minutes until oblivion. Twenty-three now. Twenty-two.

So, I guess I will have to come to terms with the fact that my computer will look unwell and that this battery-anxiety will plague me until my mother can locate for me a new power-cord. (Twenty-one.) That, or I can risk electrocution by using my power-cord, which I am now (Twenty.) considering.

Nineteen.

BRAAAAAAINS

Halloween is a night dedicated to merriment and rambunctiousness supplemented by sugary treats (i.e. candy). I believe it to be one of the best holidays out there, because I enjoy dressing up in costumes, walking around at nighttime, and sugary treats (i.e. candy). Perfect holiday, no?

But there are some people out there who dislike Halloween with a frightening gusto, which is something I will never understand. I can not wrap my BRAAAIN around the fact that some people just don’t enjoy this tremendous celebration. Frankly, it scares me. It scares me more than zombies, werewolves, or vampires (“I’m here to suck you blood” vampires, mind you, not “I’m here to fall in love with you and be a sparkly Calvin Klein model” vampires).

I believe that those who dislike Halloween just do not comprehend its incomparable fun-potential and decide not to bask in its gory glory.

Halloween is obviously one of the best holidays available because it allows you to go up to random people’s houses and take things from them. Its virtually stealing, masked under the label of a holiday. Even if the only bounty recovered is Three Musketeers bars and sometimes-stale licorice, it’s better than getting arrested for breaking and entering and having that on your record. Kleptomaniacs, unite.

And it’s also undeniable that scaring young children is incredibly rewarding and entertaining. My parents like to go all-out for Halloween, which occasionally terrifies the unfortunate children under the age of nine: setting up dried ice in a cauldron that looks like a convincing witch’s brew, shrouding themselves in orange and green light, blasting a haunted Halloween soundtrack complete with grotesque noises, scattering foam gravestones and other props throughout the yard, and my father, dressed as El Viscula (A demonic combination of Dracula and Elvis) cackling like a madman every few minutes.

And what could possibly be more fun than being somebody besides plain, boring, old you for one night? Personally, I think its something to take advantage of. For instance, this Halloween I dressed up as my sister, and it felt just great. (See picture above.)

A Humiliating Lesson in Fashion

I was in the sixth grade, the awkward stage between full child and preteen, and I knew nothing of fashion. At all. I hadn’t even the vaguest of notions. So, because of this handicap, I wasn’t the flashiest of dressers.

I had a jacket in the sixth grade, a very old and decrepit one belonging to my mother. I do not understand was possessed me to wear it, but I wore it still. It was ragged and fell to about my skinny knees. The outside was an obnoxious teal (85 percent polyester, 15 percent cotton), the interior a different, tacky purple nylon (100 percent). There was a large hole in the collar. Needless to say, it was completely abhorrent.

The occasion was reading class, fourth period. We were learning about prefixes and suffixes, and to better learn them our teacher forced us to volunteer to act out specific prefixed-words in front of the class. The class would then guess what the prefix was, and after a correct guess we would smile, clap, and cheer. And, I assume, if we guessed incorrectly, we would be deeply saddened, begin to cry, get burped, and then lay down for a nap, being in the sixth grade and all.

The word to be acted out had the prefix “poly” (meaning multiple, much, or many, if you weren’t aware). The person who volunteered to act it out was a guy named Wayne, who I still share classes with. Before going in front of the class, he stopped by my desk and asked if he could wear my jacket because it was multicolored, and would be a good example. “Sure,” I said.

So Wayne put on my jacket and proceeded to strut to whiteboard, like a model on the catwalk of some fashion show gone terribly, terribly awry. He was grinning and showing the inside of the jacket to the class, so they would be sure to notice the multiple colors.

Then a child, opposite of the room to me, probably having not seen Wayne get the jacket from me, shouted loudly: “Poly-UGLY?”

The class erupted with laughter. I shrunk to a smaller size, if that was even possible. I can’t recall the rest of the acting out or if we even guessed the answer, but I do remember that Wayne had to return my UGLY jacket to me at the end of the skit, and I had to wear it for the rest of the day, which was tremendously humiliating.

It was there, in that classroom, that I learned the definition of fashion. It was a quite important lesson to learn, and has helped me out immensely in life and in dressing. If it hadn’t occurred, maybe I would still be wearing my poly-UGLY jacket around campus.

Spelling Error Leads to Hypothetical Jail Time

After failing my first driver’s test and preparing extensively for my second test, I was determined to leave the DMV as a licensed driver. The test went without incident, and I scored a ninety-three. I was quite pleased to finally receive my license, and all I had left to do was take my license picture. With a multitude of folded papers in my grasp, my mother and I made our way to the photo area, which consists of a blue screen, a computer, a camera, a desk with a person standing behind it, and a little machine which you must autograph before getting your picture taken.

I didn’t understand the significance of the signature-machine when I had received my permit, so the signature underneath that picture was downright atrocious. Not this time. I explained to my mother that I planned to write my signature more skillfully, in order to make my license look more presentable.

“Remember,” my mother said evenly, “write slowly.”

I nodded and said of course I would. After all, it was obviously impossible for me to mess up a second time.

And then the photographer said, “Write your name here.” He gestured to the mechanical-signature-signing-like-grocery-stores-have-machine. I approached it confidently. I picked up the pen-but-not-really-a-pen. And I put it onto the screen, and attempted to sign my name legibly and gracefully. As I finished my first name, I smiled to myself.

No more catching Julia Eppes off guard, I thought. No more deception. I was going to do everything right: pass my drivers test right, write my name right, and drive right until I die right.

I put down the pen and scribbled my last name. Everything was going smoothly; it was indeed far more legible than my previous attempt. I was pleased until I reached the very end of my simple, five-letter last name. When I finished my name, I froze in disbelief. The realization hit me that I had written a second “s” at the end of my name.

It read “Julia Eppess.” The singular misplaced “s” multiplied rampantly before my eyes. Julia Eppessss. Julia Eppessssssss. Like some sort of serpent was saying my name, tongue flicking between its teeth. Sssss. Julia Eppessssssssssss.

Before I could object, the signature disappeared from the screen and the man told me to stand in from of the blue screen and look at the blue dot and smile. I felt incredibly foolish. How could I manage to misspell my own name in the first place? Secondly, I realized my name was going to be misspelled on my driver’s license until I get a new one in 2013. And a third, more disturbing idea came to mind: Could there be possible repercussions to having a differently spelled name in comparison to the printed name on the license?

My mind flashed to a hypothetical situation: being pulled over by a police officer, (for a hypothetically small offense such as going 30 miles per hour in a 25 zone, which actually knocked me down a few points on my driver’s test) and him taking one hypothetical look at my driver’s license. “Why is it spelled differently?” he would ask, hypothetically. “Good sir,” I would graciously reply, hypothetically, “I accidently spelled it incorrectly.” He would be hypothetically skeptical, and proceed to take me to the hypothetical “big house.”

And I would hypothetically go down in history as the kid who hypothetically (hysterically) spelled her own last name wrong.

The Purple Mohawk: An Absolutely Smashing Revelation

Some people believe in intelligent life-forms on other planets. Others believe in Bigfoot, or different variations of such a creature (Like a yeti or a Sasquatch). And many believe it was quite rude for Kanye West to interrupt Taylor Swift at the VMA’s. I, however, believe in something far more realistic- I believe that Kaydee should get a purple Mohawk.

My belief travels far back into the depths of my freshman year, when a majority of my school day was spent with Kaydee and our mutual friend, Rachel. It was from Rachel that the overall concept of a purple Mohawk was spawned. It began on a typical day in our sixth period P.E. class. We were sitting in the locker room, spending our final moments before being maliciously sent to run a few laps around the track chatting and taking turns spewing out the communal sentiment “I don’t want to run today!”

I remember it quite well- as if it was only about two years ago. I was sitting on the floor and Rachel on the bench. She said something, and I looked up at her to either speak or nod my head in agreement. It was from this specific vantage point that I visualized something incredible: a fan of violet hair standing on end, jutting out from Rachel’s skull.

“Rachel,” I said. “Have I ever told you that you would look absolutely smashing with a purple Mohawk?”

She disagreed. I was disappointed, of course, but I soon realized that I had been very wrong. I discovered that purple wasn’t really her color.

It happened when I asked Kaydee what the Spanish translation for something was. The moment she turned around and said “nariz,” I knew. I saw the Mohawk instead protruding from Kaydee’s head. I almost spoke. I was dangerously close. But I was petrified of rejection, and so decided to wait until my theory was fully developed.

It took a long time. All summer, in fact. But by the time sophomore year began, I was ready. It was the first day of school, and Kaydee was in my early bird class. I walked up to her. I cracked my knuckles. And then I said something.

“Kaydee,” I said. “Have I ever told you that you would look absolutely smashing with a purple Mohawk?”

She looked at me quizzically, like I had said something totally ridiculous. She also disagreed. But this time, I persevered instead of letting rejection stop me. I’m proud to say that since that fateful morning I have told Kaydee to get a purple Mohawk nearly every day using a different phrase, according to what she is doing/wearing/talking about at the time.

For example, once Kaydee happened to be wearing a pink shirt: “Oh, Kaydee. I love your shirt. You know what goes nice with pink? Purple. So you should get a purple Mohawk.”

Or, on one occasion, she was eating a McDonald’s hash brown. I commented on the commonly-known fact that the hash brown was the designated food of the rock stars, and that she should also adopt the hairstyle of the rock stars (obviously the purple Mohawk).

So far, she has disagreed on that daily basis. But I’m sure that with my unfaltering dedication, I will soon persuade Kaydee to get a purple Mohawk.

Mohawk image: http://media.photobucket.com/image/purple%20mohawk/chevnic/Glare_and_Purple_Hair.jpg

Ballerina Revival: Hot Topic shoppers exchange studded belts for frills

I was once strolling down the mall, looking for nothing in particular. After finishing the last of my pretzel bites, I proceeded to do some window-shopping. I passed a few stores without incident, but when I hit Hot Topic my stroll fizzled down to nothing. What I saw in the store window made me want to regurgitate my Blue Raspberry Icee all over the shiny tiled floor.

They were tutus. Tutus. Similar to what a seven-year-old girl missing two front teeth would wear for a Christmas dance recital choreographed to the musical stylings of Mozart and Beethoven.

I mean, I’ve seen some ridiculous trends in my day. Like multicolored clip-on hair extensions, so every girl can experience the pure exhilaration of having a strip of synthetic, hot pink hair clipped to their scalp (but only temporarily, of course).

But really, a tutu? I figured a majority of teenage females had experienced their share of forced ballet lessons, and had finally whined and moaned enough that their mother finally agreed to cancel their childhood ballet-prodigy careers and let them stay home and watch Cartoon Network on Tuesday nights (At least that’s what happened to me.) So wouldn’t it be expected that most teenagers would be sick of and/or are too cool for tutus?

Apparently not, because even as the thought crossed my mind that these tutus could never possibly sell and would end up shoved together on the rack at some second-rate Halloween store or, more preferably, resold as house-breaking tools for new puppies, I began to notice that some girls at the mall were actually clothed in these abominations.

Some of these tutus were rainbow-colored, some hot pink, others a simple pearly white. The girls also wore the tutus in different ways: redundantly over pants, combined with striped stockings, or bravely all by their lonesome. But the girls all had one thing in common: they looked like they just got back from a dress rehearsal of The Nutcracker.

Did they secretly yearn to become ballerinas? Perhaps they felt a deep regret over cancelling their ballet lessons and were now trying to reclaim a segment of their lost childhood by pulling a tutu over a pair of ridiculously tight pants like an afterthought. Maybe their repressed ballet-related urges had now found a channel through which to be expressed.

There was also a chance that some of the girls thought they were being stylish, but they were blatantly mistaken.

To make matters much worse, a majority of the tutu-clad teens were also sporting clip-on neon hair extensions. This immediately reminded me of something not typically associated with Hot Topic or the clothing purchased from there: Barbie dolls. In fact, if any of these tutu-wearers were asked anything about Barbie dolls or ballerinas, they would most likely not reply positively. But when compared side-by-side, the similarities are overwhelming: Barbie has colorful removable hair extensions and ballerinas wear tutus, and so do these stylishly-misled youths.

So I ask, what will be the next deviously-devised fashion trend sent up from the depths to pollute the style of our teenagers? Can it get any worse?

Time Travel: Possible?

It was sophomore year, American Literature class. Teacher: Patrick Billings. Unit: Poetry. It was then that I flipped to the page that held the photograph of a famous poet named Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I wasn’t expecting to see anything but a typically-dull textbook page, but what was staring back at me left me entirely speechless, thoughtfully assessing and reassessing. Finally, I spoke.

“Evelyn,” I said. “Look. He looks just like Mr. Rehfedlt.”

Evelyn, who sat beside me, hadn’t yet opened her textbook. While she did so, I once again analyzed the face of Mr. Longfellow. Their features were identical. Right down to the expression on his face- that was Rehfeldt. The only noticeable difference was Longfellow’s sideburns and hair that fell to his chin.

“Oh my god!” Evelyn exclaimed giddily. “You’re right! It looks exactly like him!”

I whipped out my cell phone and snapped a picture, confidence now brimming with her approval. I wasn’t simply imagining things.

I asked a myriad of other students- thirteen, to be exact- all of whom agreed with my proposal. And these were not half-hearted agreements- they were animated “Oh my god!”s accompanied with many “That’s so weird!”s.

So I finally got around to showing the photo to Mr. Rehfedlt, and asked him if he saw a resemblance. He replied on the negatory. I asked him if he was serious. After all, fourteen people- not including me- had decided that they were very similar in appearance. He restated his answer.

Dejected, I made my way elsewhere. On the way elsewhere, I spawned a theory.

Why would he say no? It was obvious that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Brian Rehfedlt looked eerily alike, so why would he so vehemently deny it? One reason came to mind. Rehfedlt didn’t just look like Longfellow; he was Longfellow.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, using his genius poetical abilities, had built a time machine sometime shortly after the death of his wife, Frances, in 1861. She died after her dress caught fire. Hopelessly forlorn, he found a lowlife bum to impersonate him for the rest of his life, so he wouldn’t be missed. As the story goes, Longfellow’s severe facial burns acquired from trying to save his wife prevented him from shaving, which is why he sported a large beard. However, the truth is that the bum had a huge beard, which obstructed enough of his face so he could pass as Longfellow. So after replacing himself, Longfellow stepped into his time machine and traveled to the year 2003, where he then cut his hair, shaved his sideburns, and became employed as a history teacher at Clark High School.

He chose to become a history teacher, it was apparent, so nobody would make a connection between the English-junkie Longfellow and this new history-buff Rehfeldt. He can only pass as a history buff because he was actually there.

What he didn’t count on was an attentive sophomore to stumble across an un-bearded, young photograph of him in her American Literature textbook. So, when faced directly with the evidence, he denied it.

When I asked to take his picture to accompany this article, he didn’t refuse. See, that would be too suspicious, like refusing to take a lie-detector test. So instead he made sure the angle of my photograph wasn’t similar enough to the picture to incriminate him. Whenever I got the almost-perfect angle, he would break out in laughter, ruining the picture.

Sneaky, but not sneaky enough. Soon enough I’ll catch you, Longfellow.

Fact: I'm Either Julia or Mariah

Once, quite early in my freshman year, I was in the hallway, weaving past a million other kids on the way to a class. A blonde-haired girl walking past caught my eye, gave me a smile, and waved to me. I had never spoken to her or even seen her before, so I found it to be tremendously confusing. Engulfed my tremendous confusion, I didn’t acknowledge her at all.

A few days later, my twin sister, Mariah, had a story to tell me. She said she had been in class having a conversation with some people and had mentioned that she had a twin offhandedly. One of the girls claimed to have seen me, explaining a time when she thought she had seen Mariah in the hallway, waved to her, and got only a strange expression in return. I was shocked.

Back in the good old days when my mother would get my sister and me routine to-the-chin haircuts and dress us in similar clothing, I could let it slip if I got mistaken as Mariah once in awhile. After all, I was a little kid, and most of those things look the same anyway. So if you called out “Mariah!” it’s quite likely that I would look in the direction of your voice, solely from habit.

But it doesn’t make sense anymore. Mariah is brunette- my hair is like a dusty corncob. Mariah’s eyes are hazelish green, my eyes are brownish brown. I’m about two and a half inches taller than her. When Mariah’s wearing one of her formfitting girl-shirts, I’ve probably thrown on my baggy black Weird Al Yankovic t-shirt. Even the less noticeable differences- Mariah’s freckles and rosy complexion in comparison to my flat, pale skin; her dainty, size seven feet and my size 8½ Vans– should be a tell-tale sign. It is completely baffling to me that somebody could mistake me, without the knowledge that Mariah even had a sister, much less a twin- for Mariah.

For a long while, I had a theory: perhaps it was their psyche. Perhaps being aware of the fact that two people were twins made them look exactly alike through the eyes of a person, and made it possible for the person mistake the twins for one another. The word “twin” brings the image forth of two things that are identical- carbon copies. I began to wonder: did simply knowing of our twin-ness cause people to identify our faces as the same face?

I really thought I had something going, but that girl in the hallway ruined it all for me. She, independent of the knowledge that Mariah and I were twins, picked me out of 2,700 faces to be Mariah. Now that my theory has been shattered, I am left only with something that makes no sense… could Mariah and I actually look alike?

The World Hates Me, and I Have Proof.

The other day, I decided to wear my favorite pair of jeans out to some place that is completely irrelevant. However, upon removing them from my overstuffed drawer designated for pants, I noticed that they boasted a not-so-unnoticeable hole in a quite noticeable place where a pair of pants simply cannot have a hole in order for them to still be wearable in public.

No worries, right? They’re just a pair of jeans, easily replaceable, right? WRONG.
This specific pair of jeans happened to have been passed down to me by my great, great, great, great- friend, Nicole. They didn’t fit her, so they became mine. I practically lived in those jeans. They became a part of me, a part of my soul. So, when they were still wearable, I decided to go to their store of origin, American Eagle Outfitters, to get myself a second pair just in case they didn’t last forever. So I walk into the store (wearing the jeans) and look around, trying to locate an identical pair. I could find none. Nearly panicking, I caught the attention of the nearest sales associate.

“Excuse me,” I said, “Do you know where I can find a pair of jeans like these?” I gestured to my pants, as if this employee had memorized exactly how each pair of pants the store sold looked on different people.

“Oh, what are they called?” the girl replied, because she obviously hadn’t memorized exactly how each pair of pants the store sold looked on different people.

I told her the name, which was “Stretch Skinny Flare.”

“I am so sorry,” she said with sympathy, “but American Eagle has discontinued production of that type of jeans.”

It was then I learned that the world hated me. And it wasn’t based solely on this event; this was simply the final straw that broke the camel’s back (Look at me, being a big shot. I used two idioms at the same time.) You see, throughout my life, whenever I truly adore some type of product, it is viciously removed from the market and from existence altogether.

Exhibit A: Hot and Spicy Chex Mix. From the tender age of eight, I had been addicted to the hot and spicy flavors of Hot and Spicy Chex Mix, and it had become a staple in my evening routine to have a bowl at around eight o’clock… until General Mills pulled the plug. However, they had the nerve to re-release the flavor, but it tasted completely different. Ironically, when I finally got used to the new flavor, they stopped selling it in stores. Now I can only find it in school vending machines, so I get my daily Chex Mix fix during lunch.

Exhibit B: Hearty Chicken Cup of Soup. I wouldn’t have survived the summer before my freshman year without this disgustingly unhealthy excuse for real food. I literally ate this daily, although I could feel my arteries clogging with every sodium saturated sip. I was in shock when this went out of production, going as far as to write an ode to its departure, but now that I’m looking back it may have been for the better.

Exhibit C: My poor jeans, of course.

I don’t know how I will go on knowing that the world hates me, but I think I’ll manage. Hopefully I’ll never like you.

Going Green: The Government-Planned Conspiracy

Once, when I was a young, starry-eyed elementary-schooler, the word “green” made me think of just one thing. Green was a crayon. Green was used to color grass. Green was also commonly used to color in foliage of any type. But I was wrong. Dead wrong. Green means so much more.

You see, back in those days, the world was a twisted and backwards place, before Jesus was elected President of the United States, and if anyone mentioned the phrase “going green” it could mean only two things: one) that you were about to be sick; or two) that you were becoming the Hulk. Now, though, in grander, more promising times, its most commonly used to describe putting spiral-shaped fluorescent light bulbs throughout your humble abode to conserve energy.

“Going green” may sound plausible, but before you go out to

purchase those bulbs that resemble severed pigs’ tails, you should know that it’s all a huge, government planned conspiracy, named only for the greenish tinge fluorescent lighting gives to all faces. How, you ask? Read on.

It’s a commonly known fact that fluorescent lighting is the least flattering for anyone’s face. (Unless of course you’re Michael Jackson under a blacklight.) Underneath a fluorescent light bulb, the beautiful become hideous, and the hideous become… more hideous. Here’s where the conspiracy comes in. By advertising and recommending these fluorescent light bulbs, it’s quite obvious that the government wants everyone in the United States to loathe themselves. And once you cease to love yourself that only leaves room for one person… Jesus.

Once all typical light bulbs are replaced with the imposters, and all of the people are distracted watching Barack Obama turn water into wine and spend tons of money that doesn’t even exist, the government will slowly take all normal light bulbs off the market for good. By the time people realize that fluorescent light bulbs are bad news, it will be too late.

A convenient repercussion of this “going green” conspiracy is the fact that when every household in America has switched to fluorescent light bulbs and the government has officially ceased production of regular light bulbs, people will go ahead to their last resort- they will never turn on any of the lights in their house again. Faced with the choice of having fluorescent lights or no light at all, they will choose the latter. Others won’t be able to adjust so easily, and will probably end up committing suicide or moving to another country.

Having no light bulb-energy generated from any household across America will save the government a bundle of cash, the original goal. And the people who didn’t survive the transition or moved to Canada just mean less money spent in the long run.

You’ve been warned.

Image: http://i135.photobucket.com/albums/q131/hockeygirl1252/compact-fluorescent-bulb.jpg