What One May Find There

Almost anything. If one can create any sort of ridiculous thought it will somehow be found, manifested there.

One can have corruption among the women, some of whom just live to claw at other's backs. It makes me ashamed sometimes, because these women and I have almost to many things in common. We all detest the same people, but go to them willingly, offering them our meager minds, in exchange for thoughts about topics approved by the law. We all have a great passion for something, and we give it our blood, sweat, tears, and more often than not, all of our time. And above all, we are all women. What I cannot understand is why we sometimes claw.

One may find love there, as commonplace. It comes in wholly in the broadest range of forms. Many of us love things like the chocolate muffins to eat. We love our athletic coalitions, regardless of how terribly they may preform. That is one of the biggest loves there. Some love one of their acquaintances in only a way one may love one other. The some are odd about it, wobbling with two left feet, as they haven't had much practice. But we all love those we lunch with, those who cry and cheer for us. Those are the best.

Triumph is there too, always, everyday. The simple fact that we don't run out of that place screaming. Or that we don't shred someone to pieces and incinerate what is left is great. The decree seems to think so. But sometimes we trip up. We may go away for a while, but return, much happier and sometimes closer than before.

The most obvious is work. It is the sole purpose of the place. We go to work, so we will know how to work even harder later. But I really think that is a big lie. We aren't receiving any compensation for doing what we do. None for whom we tolerate with a plastic smile fused to our face. Not a penny for the overtime we invest in the place. Not for the stress we must have over small things that they just forget, not even taking account for it. Letting it slide away, into the dark, like daylight. I've never seen a dime shelled out to anyone.

It is quite a wonder really. It is high school. Anything exotic or new or exciting or hateful can be found there.

The Abyss of Boredom and What is Found There

I often reach a point in my day when melancholy pays a visit.

Like most high school students, I despise it. Once you are done thinking about everything you care to think about, you mind keeps is left with a deep, dark abyss of consciousness to be filled. I do not know about you, but my mind steps right up to the edge and plunges into this great abyss. My mind falls down it swiftly, but it illuminates the abyss, which is nice. I get to know what is happening in my own mind. The best part is when my mind reaches the bottom of the abyss.

It is a treasure trove down there. It is where the "creativity fairies" live. It is where the brightest sparks of thought fly. I do not like going down the abyss initially, as it is really rather boring. But I forget that when I get to the bottom.

Yesterday afternoon, melancholy paid me a visit. The wrinkled old lady came into my Global Studies class and sat down in the desk beside me. Then I was bored. So, as my mind always does, it jumped into the dark abyss and threw its worries into the garbage can.

I hit the ground running, once I reached the sandy bottom. I realized I was thinking about random things that one would be surprised to find in the same sentence. Which is odd. Lately I've found myself making up Spanish stories or thinking of how this senior boy should not wear pink. Or most usually, I am thinking about "that boy." That last one really kills me. Just like everything kills Holden in Catcher in the Rye.

For those of you that are feeling like your six-year-old self, insanely curious, with your eyes wide, and nose squashed up against the glass, here are some of the thoughts that crossed my mind.

1. Garden Gnomes and Tijuana. When would someone ever have an innocent garden gnome go on a drinking binge in Tijuana? Never, that is when.

2. Toe Jam and Knitting Needles. I can't even explain how my mind went there.

3. Claude Monet and The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. Whenever would Claude's serene visions by marred by the corruption of the american meat industry? I'm coming up blank right now...

4. Sheep and Cupcakes. I've never heard of sheep wool being used as frosting.

Chemistry and a Boy

AP Chemistry, that is. I don't admit this to just anyone...but I actually enjoy the challenge. It makes my feel like Hercules, Batman, Luke Skywalker, and Wonder Woman all rolled up into one of those Chicken Cesar Wraps from John's Sandwich Shop. Those are actually quite delicious.

Regardless of my taste buds, Chemistry just makes me happy. I do not have the tiniest clue why--not even a clue the same size of an atom. I guess I just like to ask my self questions about masses, electrons, John Dalton, conversions, and moles rather than asking myself one question about a boy. That is always the worst for me. One thought about a boy sets the spark, which lights the fuse, which leads to the inevitable explosion of thinking about him for far to long. Which is rather painful.

Kate Nash can explain better than I can. Do you know the song called We Got On? That song is exactly how I feel, only the girl in question is very qualified to be his girlfriend, and she is not trashy in any way.

The worst part is that I blew my chance with him, just like the explosions dangerous chemical reactions can make.

He liked me, but I was too shocked to do anything in the pivital moment when I found out. And like a snap of your fingers, the chance evaporated. Which happens to be a physical change, in the off-chance you were wondering

A Certain Inability

I've always wanted to write, but the great Hoover Dam holding back my creative juices was a certain inability. The inability to organize all those chemical messages and electrical impulses called "thought."

But I could never organize my thoughts, not even into a a flow chart or one of those crazed "Brain Maps" your toad-like fourth grade teacher made you make. I really disliked those, because they told you to "be creative." But to me, even in the fourth grade, creativity meant Picasso, Degas, Monet, and Shakespeare. But for some reason I was not allowed to be like them, perhaps because I was too advanced for my teachers. But probably because their just was not enough time for my nine-year-old self masterpieces.

Today in English I sat my fifteen-year-old-sophomore self down, behind some stocky linebacker or wrestling buff. Since the class set of the House on Mango Street books have not yet arrived, my teacher is filling the void with seemingly mindless tasks and articles to decipher.

My class read an article by some unknown, yet famous author. The author talked about how people often try to leave an impression, but often that impression is not a true shadow of its creator. Thus, what else? It sucks. Its bone dry. And most commonly its not about anything. Good writing is like you and your passion.

I was inspired. Which is quite abhorrent, as I find "inspirational" pieces as assignments bland, nonchalant, and too lovey-dovey for high school.

Yet here I am, trying to overcome my inability to manifest my crazy, juvinille thoughts unto the public.