Extreme Drug Abuse

My boots hit the hard wood floor on the cold February morning. My hazel eyes find its shimmering black handle and explore the contours of its perfectly round shape: the Cuisinart coffee pot. Slowly, I approach it. My hand reaches out to touch it. I go to grab the bulbous container…but my hand shrinks back from the radiating heat. As Leontes from The Winter Tale would say, “Too hot! Too hot!” With a to-go cup quivering in one hand, I make a second attempt at the pot. This time, my hand clasps the handle. The muscles pulse in my arm as I lift it towards the cup. I feel nervous, but I cannot hesitate for a second. Sweat pores from my brow in furrowed concentration. Slowly, so slowly, the pot moves from the machine to the cup, like two lovers reuniting at long last. And finally, with much care, I tip my hand to release the steaming, beautiful liquid into the synthetic mug. I can feel the glee bubbling within me. But wait! I have not yet won the battle. I reach for the sugar in the cabinet above. As I begin to pull the sugar away from the wood, I feel a resistance. Honey has stuck the sugar to the cabinet! I take a step back from the counter and begin to stretch. This task could prove difficult. Then, with a running start, I lunge and snatch the sugar from the shelf. Victory is mine! I watch the beautiful waterfall of crystallized glucose cascade into my cup, each gem a star in the pool of caffeine. I meet my final challenge: the milk. Hand outstretched, I reach towards the nearby fridge. But out of nowhere comes a true villain—my little brother, in need of the drink for his morning cereal. He cackles manically as he snatches the skim milk, and my heart breaks in agony. Hours seem to pass before his bowl of Trix fills to the brim, and I waste no time making my move to the jug. In one swift move, I spin around to pour the milk into the to-go cup. I can hear crowds screaming in exuberance in the background. “We are the Champions” plays from the speakers of Heaven. I grab a spoon and swirl the concoction furiously. Finally, I go to bring the smooth taste of coffee to my lips. I smile in triumph.

Oh My Blog.

Before I began my senior year, many former AP Englishers gave me a word of caution: blogging will take over your life. I laughed at their close-minded attitude. Sure, I will let Twitter or Pinterest take over my life, but the educational blather of my peers? Please. Let me return to more stimulating material, such as intellectual tweets from the account “White Girl Problems.” Blogging did not initially come easily, but with the progression of the semester, I began to actually enjoy the activity. In regards to my most well-written blog, I believe the award must go to “This Little Light of Mine.” One only has to see my use of the word “depress-fest” to automatically grant me the most well-written blog (ever?), but I also really enjoy the tone in which I set the entry. I effectively communicate the way in which I view the world around me with the help of vivid diction. With my parallels between my Michigan acceptance, the shooting in Connecticut, and the poem “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” I create an opportunity for readers to express their grief in a way that also allows them to celebrate life. Secondly, for my most interesting blog award, I chose “Citizens Arrest!” As I made my decision, I had to think about what the descriptor ‘interesting’ really meant. Logically, I turned to Google. The search engine defined interesting as “arousing curiosity or interest; holding or catching the attention.” Although my rants about cats and North Korea certainly aroused curiosity in regards to my sanity, “Citizens Arrest!” caught my personal attention the most. The event proved so out of the ordinary to my everyday life, I still think back in bewilderment. I also think my step-by-step narration of the crime also arouses curiosity in my readers (Why did she leave? What will Mrs. E do about it? Why oh why did they receive such a ghastly punishment?!) By also relating The Great Gatsby to my blog, I hope I made my classmates look at Jay Gatsby’s offenses in a different light. To conclude this egotistical post, I chose Mairin Magnuson’s comment on my blog “The MarCATS.” Mairin confessed a love for felines equal to my own, and she also connected to my message that AP Englishers need to stop the search for deeper meaning in everyday life. The theme of empathy proved recurrent in many of my classmate’s comments: no matter how strange I made myself seem, at least a few people could connect and empathize with my life. Now when I see veteran AP English 12 students who warned me about the posts, I will concede to their argument. Blogs have provided a way to bring our class together, from our most light-hearted moments to the darkest of tragedies. And that, my friends, is the real reason for our weekly banter (insert group hug here).

This Little Light of Mine

Caution to all blog readers: this week’s entry takes a turn towards the deep. I tried to come up with yet another witty anecdote about myself to share, but I cannot ignore the events that have occurred this past week. As I left eighth period commons on Friday, I received a text from my friend in Connecticut.  It read just this: “There was a shooting at an elementary school 25 minutes away.” I paused as I passed the central office. What did she mean? I drove home quickly to see my mom pouring over AOL news, and together we attempted to make sense of the terrible event. But, as it always does, life had to keep moving. I went to swim practice and came home to eat before I had to babysit that night. I sat down with my soup when I received an email from the University of Michigan, congratulating me on my acceptance! I could not contain my happiness, and I must admit I cried tears of joy right then and there. For a brief moment I erased all the grief from the day, and I only focused on the fact that my dream school actually wanted me amongst their student population. After many hugs and congratulations, I left to babysit. In the car, it hit me: how could I feel such joy when such a horrible thing had happened? I felt almost guilty for rejoicing in my acceptance when twenty children will never have the ability to experience the same. I came to the conclusion, however, that I should not take the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut in this way. As my mom tells me and the disaster confirms, life is not a guarantee. Unlike the urn in John Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” we move from day to day, scene to scene, trying to find what Jay Gatsby proves as the goal of life: happiness. If we overwhelm ourselves with tragedy and lose sight of life’s pleasures, then our lives will just become one big depress-fest. And nobody wants that. We should mourn and remember the dead, but our remembrance should go even further. We should celebrate moments like college acceptances, for they prove our vivacity and prosperity in a world with no guarantees.

 

Citizens Arrest!

            This past week, the unthinkable occurred: I, Alyssa Marquette, became a commonplace hooligan. Along with fellow AP Englisher/hardened criminal Abby Weber, I decided to leave eight period commons ten minutes early. I needed to assemble my supplies for the afternoon’s swim practice, so I figured that my necessity outweighed the associated disobedience of the insubordination. Alas, Mrs. E did not agree. Without going home, I returned to the school in a state of panic when friends called and relayed to me that Mrs. E had sent my name to Mr. Winton. I had no idea what to do, for my rebellious phase had peaked when I crossed my eyes at my eight grade band teacher. Thoroughly determined, Abby and I marched into Mr. Winton’s office to defend our honor. We earn decent grades, volunteer regularly, and do not have any sort of a record, so why should we obtain Saturday schools? Unfortunately, our punishment became just that. Our confidences crumbled, and Abby and I became blubbering messes. Every department head in Mr. Ast’s office had a perfect view of the two mutineers brought to justice, their reign of terror over the school finally brought to an end. In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, the author reveals the illegal ways in which Jay Gatsby incurs his money. Although many readers may frown upon this discovery, I wish to give Gatsby a pat on the back. Good for him for wanting to make a better life for himself! After my mishap with the school law, I see myself as somewhat of an expert on the subject of criminality. Consequently, I throw my wholehearted allegiance to Gatsby’s plight. Just as I simply wished to acquire a bathing suit and towel from my house, Gatsby simply wants the finer things in life. Fortunately, my punishment has consisted only of a Saturday school and perpetual references to The Breakfast Club from my family. But Jay Gatsby’s insubordination comes with a much higher risk. For me, I think I must retire from a life of crime. I mean, really, with all the annotations I have to finish for AP English, who would have time for such an existence?!

Good Fences Hide Bad Neighbors

           

            As I skim through my recent blogs, I feel somewhat surprised as to the number of secrets I have confessed in the Chamber of AP English 12. From my love for cats to an inner desire to beat small children, my declarations seem to create an image of myself that many of my fellow classmates may repel. So why stop the fun now? I have yet another admission I wish to reveal: I love documentaries. I could literally spend an entire day watching various National Geographic specials. Through my perusal of various informational films, I have discovered an immense obsession with North Korea. Since my family has learned to tune me out whenever I find an opportunity to broach the subject, I turn to my fellow bloggers for understanding. Before anyone makes quick judgments, picture this: if America would earn a five on the AP grading scale, North Korea would earn a -12 for its concentration of wealth, widespread hunger, and isolationism.  Although North Korea’s northern neighbor, China, knows of the suffering that occurs in the country, they will send back any refugees who cross the border for a better life. In this situation, I cannot help but disagree with the age-old adage “‘good fences make good neighbors’” that Robert Frost espouses in his poem “Mending Wall” (44). Throughout the poem, the speaker’s neighbor’s repetition of this mantra eventually convinces the reluctant speaker to believe the validity of it. But what if the neighbor actually beats his child behind the wall? Even if the speaker knows of the suffering that occurs, the neighbor brainwashes the speaker, just as North Korea brainwashes China, into believing that boundaries serve a purpose. This analogy may come off as slightly twisted to the point of discomfort, but the reality of the state remains very real for North Korean refugees in China. From watching the documentaries that describe the conflict, I cannot help but want to fix the neighborly tensions between the countries. But my problem remains just that—I can only watch. I sit behind a computer screen, in all my teenage wisdom, silently cursing the stupidity of a country that has existed for over 5,000 years. I hope someday that China can find compromise with the antagonistic North Korea, and maybe I could even play a role. But for now, I think I will stick to simply writing out my frustrations and confessions for the world of AP English to hear.

The Babysitter's Club (Pun Intended)

At the ripe age of 13, I came upon the root of all evil in the world: money, or my personal lack thereof. With little inclination to partake in a “normal” part time job, I opted for child care. I even attended a program at the library in hopes of becoming the best babysitter in all of Chagrin Falls. As my business expanded, I realized my customer base mainly contained males. This did not surprise me, for these children seemed the easiest to entertain. Simply feed, bribe, and pit them against each other in order to lure them into sleep. I believed I had developed a fool proof method for the care of tiny men, but unfortunately my unparalleled babysitting skills had to meet their match. Let me introduce “Larry” and “Evan,” two boys aged six and five respectively. Not only do these boys scream, cry, fight, and talk back, but Evan has yet to learn how to use a toilet. He does not, however, wear a diaper. Needless to say, my frustration often hits its limits. Tonight, I found myself yet again babysitting these two tiny fiends. As I walked them upstairs, I realized that Evan had yet again wet his pants as a result of his inability to step away from a video game. After letting the child sit on my lap all night, I felt irate. But as I watched the boys fall into the humble clutches of sleep, I thought back to my AP English class’s discussion of happiness. Many espoused that a person can only find true happiness when he or she finds pleasure in the simplistic elements of life, such as surrounding oneself with family and friends, reading a good book, or listening to a good song. Who, I thought, could find anything simpler than a child? The world has not yet blinded a child from finding happiness in playing a computer game all night or reading Curious George to his or her heart’s content, making it easy to find joy. As a result of society’s image of happiness as a straightforward concept, I think we all constantly try to regress to the purity and innocence of youth. We can never really succeed, but the bliss we find in happiness brings us back to our effortless childhood. Although I often want to sprint from Larry and Evan’s house at full speed, I look fondly on their naïveté. One day they will discover the woes of the world, and they too will start on the road of regression that we all continually walk down.

The MarCATS.

As I sit down on my bed to write my second blog for AP English, I cannot help but feel a sense of discomfort. Two sets of gleaming, furry eyes lay focused on me, and their rumbling bodies purr. Yes, AP Englishers, I am a crazy cat lady. Although my house remains in balance with two dogs and two cats, I must admit that I spend the majority of my home time with my cats, Maisy and Tigger. One of my favorite discussions this year came as the discussion of jobs that we have held throughout our lives. Anna Witkin shared her tales of “cat sitting,” involving intricate joint exercises that she provided to the felines. Although I cannot say I have reached the levels of care that this cat owner extends to her pets, I do admit to caring for them just as much. Unfortunately, my family does not feel the same proclivity to Maisy and Tigger as I do. My dad often jokes about feeding each of them to circling hawks, and my brothers openly hiss whenever either walks by. They have even taught my dogs the same hatred—whenever someone ekes a “meow” from anywhere in the house, my dogs will literally BOLT in order to nose dive under my bed in search of their nemeses. I try to protect my cats, but more often than not my efforts fail, and the age-old canine versus feline battle ensues. I have noticed this same sort of protective nature evolve in certain characters of each short story we have read, even if their efforts remain equally futile as my own.  Although living through different scenarios, one thing every protector holds in common becomes how their actions prove relatively ineffective. The wife in “The Second Bakery Attack” may or may not have removed a curse. The Misfit’s gang shoots the grandmother’s family in “A Good Man Is Hard to Find”. Many citizens remain opposed to the presence of the inventor’s balloon in “The Balloon”. The police can do nothing to resurrect the old man in “The Tell-Tale Heart”. As students of AP English 12, we always put our best effort into every work we do. We may not receive our desired grade, but we can build from the experience in order to improve the next time. In order to stay true to the balloon inventor’s advice, I try not to search for too much deeper meaning in my cats. Even as I write, Tigger snores noisily and Maisy remains busy licking herself. I can only take from them the lesson of caring for something I love, ranging from my own home to my school work and beyond.