Plants+cooking=people?

Junior year is almost over already and I still have no idea what college I would want to go to, nor do I know what I really want to major in. My friends all seem pretty oriented at this point and I honestly feel quite low because of my undecided choices. My friends said I should talk to my counselor. She said, "...in the future You should be doing what You love to do." What do I enjoy doing?* Writing is pretty cool I guess. "Maybe she meant hobbies" is what my friends said.

The study of plants is botany. Botany has been around just as long as there were humans. The very first records of plant-based studies date all the way back to the Neolithic Revolution (at this
point writing had just begun to develop). These rudimentary studies done at that time were driven more by curiosity rather than need or benefit. However, the various health benefits humans know of today could not stay veiled forever. Research done for actual purpose appeared through Theophratus' (student of Aristotle) teachings in Ancient Athens, 350 B.C; most consider this the origin of modern botany.

The study of preparing food are culinary arts. Likewise, the need for food has always been around just as long as there were human. But the very first records of cooking date all the was back to the Middle Paleolithic Era (at this point hearths or stone ovens had just been created). Unlike botany, cooking has always been a luxury, hence the reason it is referred to as the arts. Art  is human expression; beyond defining a man for who he is.

The studies of human interaction is sociology. People have been doing this as soon as they pop out of the womb. The very first records logically would have appeared after Adam and his wife/gal-pal realized they were naked. Sociology is both like botany and culinary arts. To an individual some others are significant, while others appear to be just there. Like botany, a child doesn't realized the need for friends. The child creates relationships out of pure interest. The peer group the kid develops begins defining who he is. Eventually the kid becomes a teen, then a man, and all throughout the process of aging, the boy now adult, realizes friends are in fact like plants and Theopratus was right. He is now matured--a realized demand for and importance of others.

Sociology, culinary arts, and botany all sound pretty awesome to me. Its just too bad that you can't triple major in college. I think I'll just double major in culinary arts and botany--or maybe just music and botany. Eh, I think I'm just going to ask my friends, tomorrow.



*not active reading and Cornell notes

How it Feels to Be Perfect Me

It all started on the day I was born. I was a perfect baby, perfect length, perfect weight, and perfect health. It was then when my parents declared I would become the world’s greatest lawyer, because I was perfect.
When I was four years old, I loved watching Teletubbies, the perfect show for the perfect toddler. My favorite episode was when the kids for hermit crabs. I remember it because it was one of the few full episodes of the show I ever actually watched. Whenever I tried to watch my show, my parents would sit me down and make me endure the presidential debates that were broadcasted on television around the time. Both candidates were idiots. George W. Bush even created a word for the idiotic linguistics he stated on live television, bushism, and Kerry would not stop discussing a war that ended three years ago. If it wasn’t for all the people who had realized the fallacy of having an absolute moron returning to the hot seat, John Kerry probably would have only gotten two votes. These idiots did not compare to Perfect Me, the Perfect Me who could barely add or subtract and had no idea what words such as “unrealistic” and “superstitious” meant.
After another year of dealing with my older siblings’ mistakes and failures, my parents deemed me to become the perfect son. The weight of those words never really struck me until I was eight or nine, but it was alright because I was perfect so I could handle it. At eight years old, Perfect Me could describe the basic skeletal structure of a humanoid and at nine years old, Perfect Me had memorized the multiplication and division table and was reading at a sixth grade level. At eight years old, I would be the last pick for every game at recess due to my size and at nine years I stopped going out for recess and sat inside, surrounding myself with books and knowledge whilst the other children wasted their time smiling, laughing and enjoying childhood. At ten years old, Perfect Me would help out the teacher, grading papers and tutoring other students. Perfect Me was universally sought out for my wisdom by my peers, asking him, “what would be the best way to deal with a friend who I don’t like” and “how should I tell my friend I broke his transformer.” It was almost as if Perfect Me was child Dalai Lama, giving the perfect answer to all the lost sheep in the world. At ten years old, I began to run away from home after my parents whipped me for bring home any grade below an A+. This was perfectly understandable as the perfect son must obtain the perfect grade. Running away from my problems was the perfect solution as well, as you should never voice your opinion and should always avoid confrontation if you want to live the perfect life. I know this because I was born as Perfect Me so I can tell you anything about being perfect.
During middle school, Perfect Me had perfect grades, had found perfect “friends” (who, by the way, were perfect as well, but not as perfect as Perfect Me), Perfect Me had moved into an elite soccer club that travelled the nation, the perfect soccer team. Perfect me was also on the school’s MathCounts first team, placing fourth in regional’s, as well as on team gold for four events in Science Olympiad, winning two first places, one second and one third during the state competition. Perfect Me even became first chair for his violin section for a short period of time.
During middle school, I would be up until midnight. Every day I had to stay after school to finish seventy-five math problems, headed to a speed training and weightlifting class, had a science Olympiad meeting, had violin class or practiced violin, then headed off to soccer practice, before returning home around 10 pm to finish up homework. If I finished my homework early, I would spend the rest of my time before 12 continuing my job as dalai lama for at the time, only a few students. As I laid in bed every night, I was in a cold sweat not only because I was still afraid of the dark, but because I didn’t know what was in it. I could hear the shouts of my classmates asking me for help on a worksheet, my teachers asking me to explain in class how the carbon cycle works, my “friends” consulting me about a conflict with one of their friends and my parents’ statement, “You are going to be our perfect son.”
When I did fall asleep it always started the same. I would have visions of myself in an ash gray suit with a navy blue tie holding a mahogany brown briefcase, standing inches away from a door in a white room. The settings would then change almost like a flipbook, a soccer field would flip by, then a classroom, a cubicle, and even a forensics lab. Regardless of how the order pages would change each night, the last page always remained constant. I was in lying in a chaise longue, still in the ash gray suit with the navy blue tie and gripping a mahogany briefcase. I would look around the room only to realize there weren’t any walls or flooring just jet blackness, only to find a sanguine red spinning chair in front a desk that was cut from a bleeding oak tree. The chair would then swivel, only to reveal a boy wearing an ash grey suit and a blue tie wearing a bauta mask with a pair of thick rusted chains crossing his chest and over the chair. The bauta mask would then fall off, revealing short lengths of black hair hanging over a shattered mirror for a face. Perfect Me would then look at myself in the chaise longue for a few minutes, shrug off the rusted chains, put the bauta mask back on, then walk out door that stayed throughout the settings. I would then wake up shaking with tears in the contours of my eyes, which was then followed by a search for the topography of my nose and my mouth. I wanted to make sure I was still there.

Sincerity

Let's analyze these passages/scenarios and "dig deeper" in each.

1.  What behavior (attitude etc.) does the artist want to convey or reveal?
2. How does the artist clarify the truth of his/her intended purpose?
3.  What is his/her true opinion?

A) IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is  so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters." ...Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

A)  1. behavior: Women are absolutely better than men
      2. clarification: complex sentence structure to show intelligence, capitalization to      emphasize  
      3. true opinion: Austen commentates on definitive societal standards that have established            through American History with extreme intelligence and a foolish truth. 

Sarcasm

B)  1. behavior: people are dogs to the government
      2. clarification: anthropomorphic dog receives orders from government official
      3. true opinion: humans are controlled by the government 

(over-analyze) Satire 

C) 1. behavior: women are silly for trying to step up 
         onto the same platform men exist  
     2. clarification: woman is silent, and submissive 
         just as it God designated
     3. true opinion: men will forever reign as the 
         dominant gender; woman should remain 
         behind or beneath His greatness where she 
         belongs

     Epithet

 D) From The Onion: 2005 Free Response Question 2
But while other insoles have used magnets and reflexology as keys to their appearance of usefulness MagnaSoles go several steps further. According to the product's Web site, "Only MagnaSoles utilize the healing power of crystals to restimulate dead foot cells with vibrational biofeedback...a process similar to that by which medicine makes people better."                                    In addition, MagnaSoles employs a brand-new, cutting-edge form of pseudoscience known as Terranometry, developed specially for Integrated Products by some of the nation's top pseudoscientists.  D) 1. behavior: This review is complete blasphemy, holding no purpose or meaning whatsoever       2. clarification: The onion is the worst vegetable. Seemingly sweet and bright, in actuality is layered in sharp bitterness and kick which is very well known for making children cry. Similarly, any publication from The Onion is stringent and  exposes others' imperfections to attempt to overshadow its own ineligibility as a substantial provider of viable criticisms                              3. true opinion: (From The Onion POV)- "I am worthless and disgusting. I provide bogus            information to my gullible audience. I am miserable and try to cover my insignificant sugar-      honey-iced-tea with sardonic commentary. I should donate my brain to science. But even if I       did, they'd likely throw it in the composter due to how much waste it's filled with."Sardonic
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Note: This post doesn't state my true beliefs; it was created as a parody to the worksheet given as homework over the weekend

Expansion on Irony found in Champion of the World

Expansion on Irony found in Champion of the World

Throughout Champion of the World, Angelou utilizes irony to create a realistic perspective regarding treatment toward the Afro-american race in a white society. This chapter of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is a retelling of the Brown Bomber's title match through the eyes of a younger Angelou. In her recollection of the fight, one of the radio announcers claims that he "ain't worried 'bout this fight" (Angelou 88). Although this can be taken as a bout of confidence it is in fact the very contrary. Before the Announcer broadcasts this assertion, the author creates a mood of urgency. Angelou writes that every "last inch of space was filled" because not a single person wanted to "miss a word" (Angelou 88). She also follows by describing that children were "perched on every lap available" as if there was no one (babysitters included) to take care of the kids at home--or possibly that this event was so important that parents didn't want their children to miss such a grand event. The setting is also narrated to carry an "apprehensive mood" as a "black sky streaked with lightning" (Angelou 88). By creating a tone of anxiety and uncertainty, it's fair to say that the radio announcer's worry-free nature is anything but comfortable. When in a predicament, it is natural for man to speak some gobbledygook to bolster his confidence: a placebo effect. By recapitulating the desired outcome over and over again, regardless of the likelihood of the actual future, the human mind accepts this proclaimed fate that he covets. At this time period, the majority of the Afro-american race were seen as stupid and weak. Not only that, not one Afro-american had held the WBF Heavyweight Championship Title in twenty-two years. The odds were definitely stacks against Louis' favor. In short, the Announcer is not actually stating that he "ain't worried 'bout this fight" out of confidence, but rather he is trying to rectify or invalidate his own skepticism. What's so important about the inclusion of the Announcer's declaration is the fact that his statement is not only something that belonged to him, but rather belonged to the entire Afro-american race. This inclusion of verbal irony ,that in actuality implies a sense of "apprehension," reflects weakness that the Afro-american experienced in that aeon (Angelou 88). Think about it. Throughout the entire chapter, Angelou refrains from describing all but a few of the tons of characters that congested the shop, as if none of the other characters beyond Angelou herself, Uncle Willie or her friend, Bailey, have an identity in the "Store" (Angelou 88). She even refers to her fellow people as a "crowd" as if one body and no individuality (Angelou 89); and without individual worth, these people have no real value. The words are not of the Announcer's own, but rather a cry of the entire Afro-american race trying to reassure itself that it is not worthless, not only "a little than apes" (Angelou 90). By doing so, Angelou successfully places her audience in the perspective of a black man or woman, clearly depicting the struggles and self-conflict that they had to trudge through as life passed on in a white society.



P.S.
Here's a picture of a black man



Here's one of a black woman


(Both photos are left uncredited due to lack of identity)

I am

I am unstoppable and unreasonable.

I hear iron slamming and heavy breathing,

I see blades of green plastic in a sea of rubber pellets,

I grip an iron bar enwrapped in a rigid surface  in my hands.

I want to become what they told me I could never be.

I am unstoppable and unreasonable.

I pretend only I exist in this singular moment of space and time.

I wonder if this is truly worth the cost, even though they told me not to count it.

I worry this thread of time, holding this anvil of risks and gambles, will snap and plunge atop me.

I cry because every time I get up, I get knocked down on my back

I laugh at this insanity, this cycle of never ending pain--

But I get up.

I am unstoppable and unreasonable.

I understand I am crazy.

I speak of the unfeasible,

I dream the unimaginable,

I hope for one day--one day to be my day.

I reach for something that only my mind’s eye can see.

I am unstoppable and unreasonable.

Gatsby's Daisy and the Diamond as Big as the Ritz

Foreword

To all the creative minds that scan blogs for interesting and thought provoking ideas and views on humanity and its course, I apologize for this post. My writing is unorganized, my thoughts are unoriginal and my methods are unorthodox--at least that is what I've been told. If after reading this post you want the last three minutes of your life back, I apologize. If you feel the need to murder me solely on the awfulness of this post, please don't do that. I promise I'm a nice guy. 

———————————

The higher I climb, the air seems to thin; it seems breathing becomes more difficult. 

I remember back in elementary school all I ever had to worry about was--nothing really. In the morning, Mom would wake me up at about 8:00 am. She'd then proceed to make me breakfast. I'd whine to her about the scrambled eggs being "overdone" while I sat on my future ACT and SAT textbooks. She'd say sorry. Then she'd drive me to school. There the teachers walked me through new activities: finger painting, counting numbers and reading. The teachers would evoke my imagination and told me to explore myself. They'd read me fairy tales with happy endings; Cinderella kissing her Prince Charming and Snow White riding off into the sunset with hers. The teachers would constantly badger me about how "everything is possible as long as you believe." 

Then came the middle school years, and ooh they were R-O-U-G-H. In the morning, I'd wake up at about 6:40 am and make sure Mom was okay. I'd then proceed to make Mom breakfast, bring it up to her on the foldable table. She'd whisper to me "I love you" and "thank you" while she laid in her recliner bed. I'd close the door and say sorry. Then I'd walk down two blocks to ride the bus to school. There I scribbled notes through my classes: double-advanced math, advanced English, sciences. I would learn to think and see things linearly and I told myself to become someone others liked. I'd read Grimm's fairy tales; the sisters visions' were pecked out by doves and the queen is bound to burning-hot iron shoes until she perishes for trying to maintain her status. I would constantly remind myself about how "at the end of everything is nothing, at the end of beliefs are empty promises."

Everything seems to get worse as we age--especially in America's literature. 

What I read in preschool about the muppets and the friendly purple dinosaur, contrasts largely when compared to books America considers classics, such as "The Bluest Eye" and "The Great Gatsby"; both which examine humans driven into a deep desperation by society. I understand that these pieces are so great because of their critical and true presentation of our evil nature, calling readers to action or at least to attention of needed change in society. But why can't it just be me loving you and you loving me in the first place? And if mistakes happen, why can't we just stop blaming each other and clean up, clean up everywhere with everyone doing his or her share?

I just don't get it. 

Maybe I will when I finally reach to top (if I make it). 

But Daniel, at the top of Everest, everything below you, you've already seen and done and there's nothing but open air around and above you. 

I guess we were right about that then weren't we?

I guess we were right about that then weren't we?

Delirium

Hey how are you today?
Come and play.
Come in--it's okay.
There's nothing to be afraid of.
Come Inside.
It's beautiful.
There isn't anything quite like it, is there?



Haha.
Hiya red!
How are you doing?
Haha.
No.
Yes.
What.
Shut up.
Please don't stop the music.
Tiny Tim touches Tough Tommy's heart.
Chug-a-chug-a-a-a-achoo!
Bless you.

Haha.Haha.
You see the blue squares rotating?I see nothing!
I think you're a great person. You really should know that.
Haha. Haha.
No. Yes.
What. Shut up.
So back to what I was saying--money makes the world go 'round--
Peter Piper picks a peck of pickled peppers.Does he though?
Spinning.Spinning.
Who are you?The real question is who am I?
In the name of God the father I cleanse you.Be freed


HahaHahaHaha.
It's yellowA bright marigoldIt's mine.
C'mon nowJust relaxHave some fun.
HahaHahaHaha.
NoWhatShutup.
I really do need youWhere are you now that I need youWhere are you now.
Mary had a little lambA little lambA little lamb.
Splish splashSplish splashSplish splash.
Why are you hereWhat did you come forWhy do you do what you do?
I pray Lord that you'd help him seeHelp him unsterstand what I've doneAmen.


HahaHahaHahaHaha
ItsblackItseverywhereItsbeautifulItsdisturbed
HereletmehelpyouBreatheLetgoofthetensionswitinLetmebeincontrol
HahaHahaHahaHaha
NoYesWhatShutup
DontyouknowImlocoInsaneinthemembraneInsaneinthebrainInsaneinthebrain
IloveyouYoulovemeWithagreatbighugandakissfrommetoyouWhywontyousayyoulovemeback
HeavybreathingfearRunquickrunHeavybreathingfearRunquickrun
YouwillstaywontyouYourenotleavinhareyouWhatareyoutryingtodoWhy
AndonthethirddaythesonwillriseagainHewillriseupfromhisgraveHewillriseHewillconquerdeath
C
O
M

E



B


A



C







K

Please.

Dont leave me.