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