My Summer Vacation

That's Jeremy Piven in the back.

The due date for my first graded essay in two years is coming up. The problem is, I don't think I can write under the academic construct anymore. The longest paragraph ever in this blog was about four sentences, and that was when I quoted an excerpt of Ayn Rand's We the Living. None of the content in this blog is factual or relevant to reality, which I suppose my international relations teacher (who is a centaur) would frown upon. I don't even actually type the words here. I use a Java program to create strings of sentences from words on web pages I frequent. Facial, I suppose the last time I really put effort into a formatted work was when I resigned from Tutor.com in 6 pages of single-spaced huff. Humility aside, that resignation really was a tour-de-force of strongly-worded language, with just a hint of TOTALLY NUDE BARMAIDS!!!

To rediscover my education, I am going to practice some scholarly writing here. If you have something better to do than read what-could-end-up-being-the-greatest-essay-ever, then do it. I just want to warn you that this essay could be really good, so you don't want to miss it. Whoops - I'm already getting into bad habits and doing things I shouldn't be doing. I'm being redundant. I'm repeating myself.

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Harry Brammer
Ms. Graber's 7th Grade Social Studies, 3rd row, Desk 14, Behind the girl with headgear
November

The Rise of the Machines

Have you ever really wanted to see a movie in theaters? I did last year, but my mom didn't want me to go. She said I would just end up getting carded for a PG-13 movie and embarrass myself. I snuck out of the house and tried to see it anyway. My mom was right. Now I don't have any friends. In the next few paragraphs, I'm going to show that people who don't have friends develop better imaginations than people who do have friends. My three supports are Jeremy Piven, the mob mentality, and relative chess.

I had a dream last night in which I became friends with Jeremy Piven. I met him whilst we were waiting in line for something, and he asked if I could hold his spot while he took some hot girl to the bathroom. He's really cool. When he got back, we talked for a bit. He said I should fly out to Los Angeles and audition for a role in Entourage. I didn't tell him how overrated that show is, but I did tell him I could do it. Then I remembered I had to go to school. So you see, normal people would have had a dream about a real friend. Because I'm friendless, I instead dreamed of an actor I marginally care about. In retrospect, though, I should've gone to the audition. As the timeless Ayn Rand said, "You can always go back to school, but premium cable opportunities come along only once in a lifetime."

Later in the same dream I tried to buy a Nintendo Wii at a store that slightly resembled Circuit City. In real life, I bought my Nintendo DS at Circuit City. Do dreams and the real world connect? I think they do. Anyway, there was a big mob trying to buy the console. I was there first, but then I had to leave to go to the bathroom (without a hot girl). When I got back, the crowd was upset because they thought I was cutting in line, but I ended up escaping with a Wii. So you see, normal people would've had a dream about going to a party or something. I, because I have no friends with whom I could dream about partying, instead dreamed I bought a console with which I could imagine myself as an elf. Or a surgeon.

Finally my dream reached a point where I imagined my friends Dave and Pat playing a version of chess called "relative" chess. Every time you say the name of the game, you have to insert onomatopoeia between the two words, like so - relative "ba donp" chess! Dave and Pat always said "ba donp," so maybe you can only use that sound. Whatever the rule, I think that's the only way it's different from normal chess. This proves that normal people would've had a dream about normal chess, whereas those people without friends dream about alternative, more imaginative chesses. Some critics of this argument point out that I actually identify friends of mine in this dream, which contradicts the underlying argument of my thesis. Those critics are all dead.

In conclusion, I've developed an essay about things. If my essay reveals anything, it's that we need to nurture our imaginations. Otherwise, we will essentially transform into machines. I end with another quote from the timeless Ayn Rand: "The first man to become a machine will become a pencil sharpener. The second will become a pencil. And in the end the world will be nothing more than a system of writing, with no human mind to create the language."

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Practice essay reflections:

I remembered to put the weakest supporting paragraph in the middle.
I forgot to include a bibliography.
I remembered to use the word "nurture."
I forgot to make the essay good.

I Can Write in November?

I've spent this month preparing myself for excitement I will never be able to experience. I've had my ear to the baseball rumor mill, loving the fact that the Orioles have signed the best left-handed reliever on the market, but loathing the reality that the Orioles won't make the playoffs for another decade. I've gobbled up video game news, despite the fact that I won't buy a new system until next year (and would be arrested if I even tried to get a PS3 over here now. I think the legal problem is that you're not allowed to ship soulless products into the EU). And I've traveled to Scotland, breathing the beautiful clean air of the highlands only to have my oxygen-filled heart stolen by an unattainable siren named Jamie singing at an Edinburgh bar.

Jamie is a girl by the way, not a guy. The Orioles' new pitcher is named Jamie, too, but he is a guy. It's confusing, but the one I would kiss is the girl, unless the guy threw a really wicked screwball with extra mustard on it like six times in a row. That would just be too cool. Anyway, I got Jamie the singer's autograph on my train ticket stub, so you can check the curliness of the letters for yourself and know that she's a girl. Here, look, I'll take it out right now and show it to you...

(The room lights go out)

Uh oh. I think my residence might be having one of those London electricity problems you hear about in action dramas set in the near future when environmental terrorists blow up local power plants to save the Earth.

(The window lights up. My plant and the rabbit who lives under it are gone. Instead I see the British countryside in motion, as if I'm driving by it.)

That's odd, but now that there's some light I can at least get that ticket out and show you how not gay I am...

(Acoustic guitar begins to strum.)

Who's there? If you're a thief, I need to warn you that you're in danger! I'm taking a self-defense class for women next week. And I looked at some pretty sharp knives in a store last week.

(A girl's voice begins to sing. It's some kind of Norah Jones-ish song, mixed with Radiohead beats and a Coldplay sentiment. It doesn't sound at all like Anna Nalick, that one-hit hack who teased us all with her momentarily-low jeans.)

Jamie the Scottish vocalist? Is that you?

(Passing by the countryside
Ticket in hand, but nowhere to go.
Thinking about the sheep on the road
Wondering who they see and what they know.)

It is you! I think about animals a lot, too! Like, there's this rabbit who always sits under my plant Planty. I mean, he disappeared when this surreal experience started, but he's here a lot. I really do like animals, though. I had some pets and stuff.

(Do they know the future?
Do they know the past?
Do they know the present
And how long it will last?)

I took a class on time travel once. It centered around time travel in Star Trek. I once had this really cool dream about a virtual video game where I actually got to walk around on the bridge of the Enterprise. Don't you think that's cool, Jamie?

(I can't keep going on the track I'm on.
It ends right now and it always will.
If I jump I could make it.
If I jump I could try.
If I jump I could make it.
And finally die.)

What? Don't be so negative. I mean, we just met and all, but I think I love you. I never even listen to music, except on the radio in the car, and on television when it's used for setting, and sometimes when I do homework just to drown out the silence... But I could listen to you sing for a million epochs. That's a long time, I think, though I can't remember if I'm using "epochs" correctly. It's a big word, because I am pretty smart. You do like me, right?

(In the end I'll stay
And keep watching the sheep.
Knowing that as I move
They'll always be there.
And so will I
With ticket in hand.)

(The song fades away, the lights come back on, and everything is the same.)

Goodbye Jamie. When you're famous, I'll be glad to know I hallucinated your first music video in text. Until then, I'll be preparing myself for the excitement.