Thanks For The Memories!

It's been a great semester. Really and truly, I've adored it- although I've genuinely (and openly) despised the workload. Next semester seems as if it will be preety good- what with my MWF's off =)

However, looking back, I feel I need to bring light to those who made this semester what It really was- what with Alyssa and my daily trauma's and issues with our laptops and other electronics, Farls, and how positively red he gets when Jojo and Christina tease him, Phil Richie and Vito continuously trying to kidnapp me and take me off campus, finally succeeding somewhere around April, and fianlly (and what i consider to be one of the funniest things ever to happen) was my minor incident at the end of the year BBQ. No comment. That story is taken to the grave with Christina, Jojo, Phil, Vito and myself.

So, it comes down to this. It's been great; It's been real. We've grown together, laughed together, stressed over Farley's papers together (Farls, JKING!! ) Got semi lost in Staten Island while I was driving together- I just hope, know, rather, that the rest of our years will be as good as this one. Thanks for the memories guys ♥

Another Reccommandation

Another blogger from Farley's class. Love her. She's a profesional blogger, but she works with advertising her photography. She has some really great stuff, and I'd love it if you lookd at it. Like you actually care what I love or not. Sorry- had some brain block =)

http://www.ninakatchadourian.com/index.php

My Reccommandation

I found this blogger through Professor Farley, through RedStorm Writing, and i check up on her about every week or so. I don't know if this author knows it; in fact, I highly doubt she does. But if you love what I do, then you'll certainly adore K. I do =)

http://almostliterary.blogspot.com/

Changed For the Better

Overall, the blog has changed me-changed me for what I feel to be the better. I feel as if this outlet makes me a more educated and cultured individual, as well as more social, as I connect with hundreds, maybe even thousands of others through the simple means of a humanistic primal need- communication. As a person, my improved writing is what has astonished me the most, as I often surprise myself, but then again, one is never too old to let life surprise you. In a public setting, I have not only joined the world of cyber space as a blogger, giving communication a whole new meaning in my life. Blending my personal and public life, the real lesson learned has been the comfort of being me, being real in a public setting- something I’d never been before. My writing now has a showcase, something I’d always wanted for what talent I’ve always known I’ve had. In a class setting, I feel that it does serve some credential, as the use of technology and freedom of what an individual chooses to write about meets my standards of what I’d expected in a college class. Coming in, I had expected such freedom, such a work load and definitely an increase in my creative level. This blogging project has opened so many new doors for me, some of which I hadn’t even discovered.
As a part time student and full time appreciator of the arts, my appreciation has only deepened. Professor Farley’s assignments, increasing my ranges of how deep I could go with personal experiences, yet sticking to a formal class that actually teaches something rather then the regurgitation of book-read facts, is truly everything I’d ever wanted in one English class- and is something I’d never gotten until this semester. I’m truly happy that I’ve taken the class, had this opportunity to grow, and forever grateful to Professor David Farley for changing my life more than he could ever know.

Quote of the day...

I kinda put this together, although it probably is completely unoriginal, i still did. but hey. It means something to me, so i guess it's just some food for thought...


"Live life without regrets because when you regret and look back, you'll miss what's passing you by..."
~ Me

Hate & Love Are Opposite Emotions, But More Often, Are Paired Together…

I hated this blog. Legitimately. I despised that it had a constraint and had to be written on frequently. And yet, as I type these words of pure hatred, I have to say, I fell in love. Blogging helps to clear my soul of its imperfections. It has given me a place to put the words that bounce around in my head throughout the day. But after all the time, effort, aggravation, nights spent typing these things out, and more importantly, the quality increasing over time, I am glad to say that my hatred has led to a deeper love. That I plan to keep this blog long after my class ends. That my babbling, confusing day to day sagas and rambles will still be here. Day after day- they’ll be here. So, even though I expressed hatred, laziness and a lax attitude, I truly have one person to thank. Farls- wherever you are, I know you’re reading this for my grade, but, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for giving me a space to write.

Imelda Marcos Doesn’t Have Anything On Me…

Flats. Peep-toe Espadrilles. Pointy black heels. Sequined thongs with a corked heel. Signature Burberry wedges. Flip-Flops. Stilettos.

Eight pairs of shoes. I couldn’t believe it. I had bought eight pairs of shoes in ONE single hour. I had cashed only 100 dollars from my check, and soon realize that I have an addiction and am in dire need of rehab; yes, I am now an openly, and self proclaimed shoe whore. And yet, as I sit in my room, piles of shoes surrounding me as I wonder where I will neatly store my newfound treasures, I gaze down at my naked feet- each of my ten toes perfectly pedicured, and I ask myself- if I have so many shoes, why am I always barefoot?

In a sad attempt to answer this, as well as solve my space dilemma, my alternate personality, the 8 year old child with ADD, takes over me, and I calmly leave my heap of shoes in my room, on the floor to go downstairs because I really just want an apple.

End of the Year Paper

End of the Year Paper

When I began my English 1000C class, titled creative non-fiction, I knew that I would easily transition into the work load. As classes continued, I began to awaken myself to a different side of my writing. While I was primarily an academic writer, the blog assignments opened me to a creative side- a side of my work that now allowed for the true essence of writing to easily flow. Through this class, I have certainly become more confident in my writing abilities, as well as more open to different kinds of artistic writing. Learning to incorporate an artistic way to what I’ve always known writing to be opened so many new doors- especially the blog which I certainly intend to keep much longer than my class permits assignments. The blog, as well as other assignments this class offered, was radically different from my others- and I began to look past academic writing that limited me to reading certain novels and works of literature and in the end, spitting back information read and what I had inferred on the topics.

Last semester’s English class was one that I had despised- rooted in world cultures in literature, my professor conducted a typical class of students reading the works, having to takes notes and respond with the correct answers to prove that we did the work. These classes in particular do not work for me, as I have mentioned in a number of personal works, as well as my blog, that writing is not all academia- but more of a part of the writer’s soul; each work encompasses the true meaning of what it is to be an educated and inspired human- no matter what the personal talent is. In Eng 1100 I found myself, more often than not, searching within myself to pull papers from a place where I didn’t think I’d be able to- I truly hated the constrictions of thesis papers based on specific works that allow for little to no freedom of the art that writing truly is.

As a writer I would categorize myself as one that acts on literacy based on circumstance- for the sheer beauty of it- that writing comes from a place inside rather than answers that are regurgitated onto a word document to sum up some made up thesis to compensate for a grade. My strengths lay in my experiences, my life, my soul- my loves. My weaknesses are deeply entwined with my own procrastination and lack of ever being on time. Should I ever change my ways- ever to become more organized, maybe that will change ;-)

Definition Of Creative Non-Fiction- An Assignment

I had never before heard of Creative Non-fiction before this spring 2008 semester. If you had asked me last year, I would have guessed. And yet, as this semester comes to a close, and I have spent what is almost 16 weeks with Professor Farley, I have a much better understanding of what was unknown to me, and truly, a deeper respect and love for the genre. I now have a definition that I could inform and educate others with- a definition that has changed me as a writer forever.

To define creative non-fiction as best I could, it would be a genre that acknowledges life as a whole- a reality that has been transformed into a beautiful, well written piece; making a piece of reality an enticing work. And yet, these words that describe it so perfectly cannot suffice for the true definition that I understand as a person and writer. The definition does not come from a book, or from any resource; it comes from me and my growing as a writer. The time and place where I truly began to experience and learn about the genre (more importantly, appreciating it) was with my blog. My blog, although personal, is written with a certain flair and touch that it becomes a work of art- my thoughts that bounce around all day have become my creative expression of my daily routine- my crazy antics that are truly non-fictional, and yet, are written completely creatively.

The two books we have read in class, “All Around the Town” and “The Curve of Binding Energy”, although they are more historical, are great examples of the genre. They are written in an aesthetically pleasing vernacular- enticing in the way that one wants to read them, and yet- they are completely and truly non-fictional. It helps one to understand that this genre is one of the easiest to write under, as it is completely open ended. It has the beauty of being able to be completely over exaggerated, melancholy, or even nostalgic- any emotion known to man- and be true and real at the same time. It is the almost perfect genre for college students, much like myself, to learn to appreciate as well as write under, as learning to write in such a way that hooks and entices readers as well as educates them, while getting a writer’s point across is vital to any one subject; creative non-fiction is not limited to one topic. While creative writing connects to the writer, and many oftentimes, the reader, it does not have the same level of intensity as its counterpart, non-fiction. Non-fiction carries a part of the writer itself, and is oftentimes the more preferred of the two as it is easier to lets one’s inner experiences and soul out into a piece as such; The open ended-ness and ability to be extremely frank with readers is almost like a drug that entice writers and readers alike to this specific genre.

Creative non-fiction is the one genre I had never known about, at yet, it is the only one that has changed my writing style and capabilities, not only for the better, but for good. As a writer and lover of the arts, I could never look back; I have found my niche in the lack of boundaries that I have discovered- a style that allows me to be random, be creative, to be me.

My Sincere Apologies, Monsieur, But You Must Understand...

I don't know why I forget to blog. I really don't. And I do realize that I don't. For those of you who read my blog faithfully and are my audience, I deeply apologize. You see, it's a difficult thing to explain. For me, writing isn't an assignment- it's a way of life. It's the expression of feelings, whether it's anger, despair, ingenious design or sheer bliss. This whole 2 blogs a week thing doesn't work for me- especially with mandated papers that must be written, as if they are such a simple task. But my blog is different.

While the other papers are structured, gathering my opinions and thoughts on certain topics controlled by my brain and conscience, my blog comes from my soul. It's like my art- it just happens; my art could never be forced because it becomes, in the same instant, an assignment- completely void of any importance to me.

One can therefore derive, my faithful readers, that this page, although simple in appearance, using simple words to tell the story of a simple girl, very simply gives me a stage in which to portray and display my soul. Not many humans do what I do. Who knows why. Probably fear. Fear of being made fun of. Of being looked at differently. Of having their personal business displayed, their dirty laundry hung-to be naked in the eyes of the public. The way I see it? Well, everyone has their dirt and their flaws. Mine just happen to be particularly entertaining ;-)

April 18th 2007- April 18th 2008: A Year In Perspective

Very simply speaking, Friday was one of the worst days of my life. And as impossible as that sounds, given the circumstances of my usual day-to-day hysterics, it was. For weeks, it had been a day I was least looking forward to, praying that by some sheer miracle I could skip over it and wake up Saturday morning. Memories I am forced to relive everyday are now on a more emotional level, and are fixed on a set path that is more traveled than not, and yet, the more I try to build a fence to lock those memories away, I find myself more often tearing down what little progress I have made to lovingly visit what I can reach out an try to grab to only, once again, painfully wake to the reality that what I recall is the past and will never again be my present.

As the blare of my radio forced me out of bed, my eyelids blink violently to force out the light that was then flooding into my now naked pupils, fully dilated after my night of tossing and turning. Going through the movements of pulling myself out of bed, merely 10 minutes after 6 in the morning, I scratch the leg of my Sponge Bob Squarepants pajama pants and glance in the mirror of my paiopa wood dresser, the shell etched designs framing my appearance. Dark, almost, as my frame of dark black curls hang, leaving one perfect spiral to rest alongside my bare shoulders. I remember. I don’t know why, but I do, and, without any further notice, my chest tightens and I feel my throat close around the perfect swell that has formed. I choke as the stinging pain from what seems to stab from my brain to the backs of my eyes brings back a sensation better left and sadly, better known. What knives that stab the backs of my retinas now slide silently down my plump cheeks, rosy and tanned, the result of months spent in a tanning booth. I push them away and suck up my tears- try to pull together what hard shell I have grown over the past year; a steel shell that is only a false appearance to shield the world from what liquid state that my body has assumed. What little remnants remain of my heart have become solid stone- in a sick response to its lack of warmth, affections and the increased amount of rejection aimed at it directly. I relive, standing in my room at dawn, the soft embrace of what was our first kiss. My waist still tingles in the spot where his arms once wrapped me tightly close to him, my ears echoing his voice as clearly as that night…”…Alyssa, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Baby, you’re my everything. I’d never hurt you. Please…don’t ever leave me…”

That was one year ago. 365 days passed since my meager life had finally come to some pinnacle. 8,760 hours since my Cinderella story became my reality. 525,600 minutes standing as soldiers in between myself and the only person I’ve ever loved. And better yet, 1 single moment to rip apart my soul. 60 seconds to allow the person I loved so dearly, who so carelessly threw words around with no consideration of what would occur some 9 months later when their validity would be tested to walk out of my life by simply hanging up the phone. And now the slow waltzes are gone, and the arms that held me from danger suddenly let go- and I’m falling. What footsteps mirrored mine on my life path have slowly disappeared and now I only see my own.

He said it quietly, in a quick kind of way. Almost as if I’d understand what he was saying because I’d heard him say it hundreds of times before. “Uhm, so, listen. You deserve a lot. Actually you deserve a lot better- definitely more than I could ever give you because I have so much going on in my life that I need to sort out and a lot of it is unnecessary- you’re unnecessary. Make believe you never met me; forget me-that’s what I’m going to do to you. So, have a good life, Alyssa, you deserve it.”

Unnecessary. Such a simple word; a word I had said and passed thousands of times in my life, and yet, never had such a strong gravity until that one moment, where I learned that it only takes 3,600 milliseconds to completely destroy a person. A year later I still hear his vindictive words echoing as I awaken myself; That I’m in my room. That the tears of acid that burn and fall from my swollen eyes have rolled down my plump cheeks and pool around my chin. That I need to get ready for school. That it’s April 18th 2008. 2008. A year later. And he’s not by my side…

Looking Back On the Things I've Done...

I guess I've always had this knack for writing. As I sit at my desktop, Friday night, reviewing my old files for some weekend-kick, I find something I wrote, very literally, on the eve of my birthday- the transition time between my sweet 16th year and my, what would turn out to be, sour 17th. It is a description of my life- the person I am, the person I aspire to be. I'll leave it here- for the simple reason that its time I write a new one; as I read it over, I've seen how it emvbodies the person I was, not who I am any longer...well, then again...that's for you to decide =)

Listen, my dears, and you will hear the story of a girl ♥

Now, this isn't a story like all those other fairy tales you kids live off of. There are no princes, daring swordfights, magic spells, dragons, evil sorceresses or all that jazz, even though, that was all she dreamt of. It is just the simple story of a simple girl just simply trying to live. She was just a girl, not a day over 17. She wasn't what one would consider popular; she didn't wear the newest and most expensive fashions and she didn't give in to everything deemed cool for the time. She was a nerd, a loser in every sense of the word. She broke her glasses often, and she often spent Fridays at home with a book. She didn’t drink, she didn’t smoke and she never did any drugs. She tumbled down stairs as frequently as possible and tripped up them just as often. She might not have been popular, but God was she well loved. She surrounded herself with the people who made her happy, the people who made her laugh, smile, and cry, scream, and raise every emotion she never thought she had. These girls completed her life, and she would have never survived her high school years without them. They were there when she was down, when she was up, when she needed a shoulder, as she was there when they needed her no matter what. They saw past everything else, really saw her soul, and that’s all that mattered, both to them and to her. She wasn’t what one considered “wildly gorgeous”, and she definitely wasn’t one of those model type girls. She was beautiful in her own way, with delicate and soft features, though most saw her as being more on the hard side. Her conceit and self-absorption certainly came off as strong, but not even she could lie about it, it was a cover-up to hide her own visions of her perfectly plentiful flaws. She was perfectly flawed and that was all right. She was ingeniously smart, although it didn’t always show. She had the brains any man would die for, but it was all at academia. She could quote the best of any classical author, whether it was Homer or Margaret Mitchell. She lived for the arts, and only felt at peace with herself when she was simply drawing. It was her smallest joy in life, that reaped the greatest rewards and achievements she ever thought would be possible in her mediocre life. She had the drive, the ambition, the desire, and god damn she could really draw as of late, but it still wasn’t enough to her. It was her only hole to confide in, her drawings were her only things to hold on to, her security, her being. Quite frankly, it was her only constant, the only thing in life she could truly control. While the rest of her life crumbled around her, it was her only perfection. She was articulate, outgoing, warm and giving; intelligent in every sense of the word.

Once let out into the outside world, forced to deal with real issues, real people- life, she was a failure. She searched and searched for love, the truest love, the one you find in those fairy tales. She constantly waited for the day her prince would come, come and take her far away from her world on his white horse. She was influenced and led by Disney and a world of make-believe, where in the end of every story, there would be a happy ending, no sorrow, no heartbreak; a happily ever after. Such a story never happened for her. Time after time she gave her heart away, never receiving anything back in return. She always fell fast and hard, and for all the wrong ones; the ones that would take her breath away, the ones who would help her to deny her better judgment. A big smile and a gorgeous pair of eyes could set her off for months, helping her hold on to him tighter and tighter, never to let go. Her stories were always the same; the gorgeous guy would sweep her off of her feet, flash a smile and she’d be hooked. Friendliness to her was always perceived as love, because she truly never knew any better. She always held on too tight, because she always lost them in the end, and always to someone better than her. There was always someone better than her in their eyes. When properly sized up, the other girl really didn’t have all that much on her. The truth remained the same; she was ready to love but there was no one worth her devotion. Because of these bad relationships, she beat her self up emotionally, tearing herself apart over people not worth her time. She cries often, and wrecks herself on why she is still alone. She tells herself over and over again and eventually convinced herself that she hadn’t met the right one, while she really knew deep down she wasn’t good enough.

The story isn’t a Cinderella story, where the one magically sweeps in and saves her from her solitude. No villain is against her; her only enemy is time. There are no obstacles, magic spells, just the magic lacking from her life. There aren’t two handsome princes fighting over her, where the one she truly loves triumphs over the undeserving opposing suitor. It ends without a prince, without the big white wedding, without the happily ever after. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a happy ending. She’ll eventually teach herself to pick herself up, and to move on. She’ll see, once again, how much she has to offer, and eventually she’ll be all right and pull herself together. She always does.

I always do.

Nothing Left To Say...

This is not like me. At all. This actually is no where near my style of writing, and yet, I'm letting it all out. My current thought for the moment is blah. Just, blah. And as English class ends, and I pull my bug-eyed sunglasses on, I can't help but rush across campus to my car, blast my radio and drive to work...

Funfetti Cupcakes Part II

My mind flashes back to the previous night. The mixing. Pouring. Baking. Cooling. Frosting. Decorating. The mess I was forced to clean up. All on a quiet Thursday night in anticipation on my partner's upcoming birthday. I wonder if all my negativity toward baking is a terrible beginning and curse to her special day-and quickly stop those thoughts. I casually and somewhat cheerfully finish my job, finally wrapping myself up in bed somewhere around 2 a.m.

Now, as I stand in the hot, clustered cafeteria, all eyes on me and my corral of farm animals, the realization that my hard work, struggle, and anticiaption has gone to waste as my cupcakes are senteced to a gruesome death. My argument is not strong enough, as nothing I can do will budge this higher power; the twitch that I had so masterfully controlled all this while has returned, and contolling that minor defect in my life is now the farthest thought from my mind. I slowly turn to face my aluminum fortress-what the hell am I going to do with 50 cupcakes?

As much as Colleen tries to hold up a solid countenace, the hurt behind her sparkling green-blue eyes runs deep; her simple wish for a cupcake celebration with those who mean the most to her has been dissapated. Our distrought emotions have distressed the children now; I start to genuinely get nervous- My flace flushes red. My hands tremble and not God Himself could settle these nerves. Steven, hiding in the kitchen lifts his head to check in on me; typically his perceptiveness lacks somewhat, however, this time, he tries to comfort me. Desperatley trying to get me to smile, he suggests I should go on the corner and sell them to neighbors. My black raincloud begins to dissapate and as it does, Steve takes a bite out of one particularly perfect one, after a long struggle to convice him that one cupcake would not destroy his buff and gym-cultured body, as I joke that I could bake and cook rather well- that he'd never be hungry so long as I was a Sicilian woman.

He eats it, jokingly moaning to prove he genuinely enjoys the dessert. "One more." he says, smiling briliantly, and when he completes it, finishes with "Alyssa. It tastes like clay." Knowing I'll push him in some sad attempt to get even with him, he swings his other arm around me to imply a hug, and slips one last cupcake out of the tin behind my back. "Alyssa...you're the best. Bake again tomorrow." I promise to leave them on his car, my face now flushed from the simple rush of being in his presence. I can't help but smile- the excitement coming hand in hand with newly found attraction.

"Alyssa, what are you doing giving cupcakes to Steve?"

I panic, worrying that my somewhat short reign as Group Leader has now come to an end. I open my mouth to come up with some response, but am quickly stopped.

"Leave three on my desk..." she says, strutting away smiling as my mouth gapes open....

Funfetti Cupcakes Part I

50 cupcakes. 50. 50 Pillsbury Funfetti cake cupcakes. 50 Pillsbury Funfetti cake cupcakes perfectly frosted with vanilla icing and sprinkles on top. I race to store them in the backseat of my car, carefully strapping my precious cargo in with the swift click of a seat belt. 2:18- the need for my being at work in this precise second has never been greater. As I slam my car door shut, ripping open the driver's side door, my body throws itself into the heather grey seat, impatiently starting the car, speeding off down the block just to make the light. A battle for time, my Sentra seems to lift off the ground as I fly the 4 blocks to my school.

"Her birthday comes once a year" I repeat to myself, thinking how in God's mercy my partner ever makes the simple action of baking for every holiday, and still comes in looking as good as the day before and smiling brilliantly. Of course I couldn't let her bake for her own birthday. And yet as I trudge up the steps calling for the security guard to open the door for me as I barely balance 4 metal tins stacked up the 10 marble steps to the chipping and somewhat rusting hunter green double door, insanely, I love it.

I can't see him, but I recognize his voice as he swiftly picks two tins off my stack and carries them into my room for me. He questions as to why my disheveled countenance is now substantially more rattled than usual, he chuckles. "Kid. You think you've got stress now with a couple of cupcakes, I don't think I wanna see you in a few years huffin' and puffin' after your own little ones." A thought that I hadn't contemplated for that day, and now a rude awakening that settles in my stomach and seeps outward to raise my anxiety. I chuckle, because he is right, and stumble in to the office to clock myself in.

I have formed one complete goal- Snack time. All thirty of them had better eat every single last morsel of the cupcakes. I plow through Math, Science and English- mentally aware of the screaming coming from my class alone. I know this will be trouble, and soon. they laugh, smile, grab across the table. I turn to look, and instantaneously, I know the cafeteria packed with 160 somewhat children will soon be devoid of every positive emotion known to man. click click. Her heels violently click against the floor of the room- and my heart races, and my head spins as I know that the brunt of the anger will be taken out on my class, as the inital force has been exerted on the flimsy floor tiles. I stand, red-faced, embarrassed, and feel a failure as my boss rages about the misbehavior of my children- how they lost all control. How I have no control. And faster then one's mind can comprehend, these 32 bodies are now on trial for their crimes.

"Well third grade, I really hope you're happy, because you just lost you're party. Alyssa- They can't have their cupcakes. Throw them out the window for all I care."

...and just like that the mallet dropped and the verdict was called for all to hear.

One Line Story

I've loved and lost, and lost dear love- and yet the only thing I've gained is unbridled sorrow...

Music Feeds the Soul...

There are many in my English Class (the reason for the creation of my blog), as well as the dear Professor Farley who just want to forward themselves technologically- they want music on their blogs. When creating my blog, I felt it was not properly expressing me as, well, me, unless there was music. The beauty of words and linguistics are a large part of me, as well as many others in my class- So I'll lay a helping hand.

This website, actually found by Dan (thanks hun, lol) is www.esnips.com, where one creates a "widget". I know, a lot of you are saying "Huh? widget? Alyssa...English please!" Well, let me explain. Once the page has opened, by scrolling down you will find a tab stating "widgets", with a red icon on the right hand side.By accessing that tab, the page actually does give a tutorial, and yet, i feel as if I should give a second. In the upper right hand corner there is a search box- you can access any uploaded file by typing in the name of the song and artist- Don't panic- we're almost done.

A list of files will load, showing the title, artist, how many users use this file, and so on. By selecting "Add to Quicklist", that file is being processed so you could access it as an html code to put into your blog. The only thing left for you to do now is customize its' appearance. The link will now say "Go To Quicklist", but you must scroll back up to the top and click "Create Playlist Widget" in a new animated task bar located under the neon orange task bar strip. A new page will now open, allowing you to select the color, and whether or not the link will play automatically of by manually starting it up. After all selections have been made, select update, and the new html code will appear in a scroll box. The last step left is to choose where you want the widget to appear on your blog. These particular files only play on the specific blog that you post- which allows for the freedom of eclectics- you can change your song as often as you update.

This works for me because, well, I'm never the same on any given day =)

With You...♥

My head against the glass window of my car, I can’t help but smile. Any other day of the week I’d be cursing the traffic, out of state drivers and any traffic signal on the all of one mile stretch of street between St. John’s University and the Verrazano Bridge. And yet strangely, I’m calm. The person in the passenger seat of the car next to me unfortunately caught in the same gridlock traffic gazes, wondering if I am at all sane, and if those of my status should be given a license to drive on the New York streets. My normal countenance has escaped me, and yet, as I begin to wonder where it has gone to, the thought leaves me. The stresses of the previous few days of constant supervision and observation of superintendents at the school are gone, and regular activities should be given to my class, rather than the hodgepodge entertainment my partner and myself have been forced to create on the previous two days. But today, today was different. Today was Wednesday.

Wednesdays usually bring a certain eclectic air to my usually troubled work week aura. Knowing that there are only two days left of the week, I am given a certain false hope that it will all fly past me, and I’ll suddenly find myself on Friday night at ease. I become uneasily aware of the fact that while I’ve been living in my thoughts, I’ve managed to mount the bridge, letting the accompanied anxiety and nerves seep out of my body. Somewhere, lost in my thoughts, I hear the hum of my radio crooning a love ballad. Our ballad. Or at least the ballad I’d like to consider to be ours. My body has a strange reaction to this new catalyst- this formation of words that seems to perfectly describe the complex rivets of emotion I feel.

And while I am aware that Chris Browns’ “With You” is not the most romantic choice to describe us, the Wednesday afternoons where I sat cross-legged with Steven singing our hearts out as our gym class continued without us causes my entire solid composition to reduce to nothing more than a puddle of emotions. My heart flutters, and I could feel myself fluster as I recall a memory that had meant so much to me, and must be long forgotten by my counterpart. My expedition home has now become nothing more than a mad rush to just have the plain and simple courtesy of being able to gaze into his eyes. My body pulls my brain into the reality that I am forced to live in, I bid farewell to the other half of me- my world of beauty that I can only visit and not reside. I walk into work, his smiling face my only mental image as my paradise is ripped from me with the latest update from my boss “Alyssa, Steve’s out today- there’s no gym.”

But...Can I Have It?

This weekend, I was somewhat down, due to a random change of plans that set my whole weekend off. After being sick the week before spring break, then throwing off my homework, due assignments, as well as what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation- complete with regular work hours, and hours of unfisnished assignments. However, it was lightened when a co-worker emailed me this Mad TV sketch from youtube- at least it made me laugh for 5 minutes =)

Laughter Is the best medicine....

“Miss Alyssa, I think I broke 3 of my livers.” I stare blankly into my young students’ face, and as my initial shock fades away, I chuckle. “Honey, a person only has one liver”, I respond, trying as hard as I can not to laugh at him to demean him. The mind of a child has always amazed me- I watch in awe as they soak up every last tidbit of information. And yet, as I watch him accept this new information, rolling it around a little, I can’t help but chuckle. Something lurks behind what quizzical façade is visible to me. I know some smart remark is sure to follow quickly as his small brown eyes brighten up as the sparks of the fire of childhood are hastily ignited. He pauses, and begins to smile, small-almost unnoticeable at first, spreading out from the right side of his mouth. Rumors of his supposed tri-organ internal bleed have spread across the class, and now a small crowd has attracted to the magnetic episode. I turn to my paperwork, hoping that the crowd will dissolve and my student will return to his homework, but my non-existent luck has once again escaped me. He wittingly shoots back- “But Miss Alyssa that means I broke my one and only liver! I’m dying!”
My partner, who has now dropped all the jackets she was hanging up due to her laughing fit, throws her arm around me laughing into my shoulder. I see the tears in her eyes from laughing as hard as she is, and she has spread her contagious infection; I am now doubled over- red as ever, wiping tears from my eyes. Of course, I become the spectacle of the lunch room, forcing my boss to strut over- confused and full of questions as to why my job has come down to hysterical laughter.
There is no other reply besides “I’m sorry- we’re under control. We just broke three livers.”

The Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head...

Payday. Bittersweet. As happy as we should be that our meager monthly checks are finally coming into our possession, there is just a drab and dragging aura pulling us all down. Well, some of us. The cramped room in which we occupy is beginning to get muggy, and yet, in the same instance, I feel cold. I ponder this odd feeling, but quickly become distracted as the cheer of my children playing Scrabble rise above a normal level. My partner hushes them with ease, as she herself seems perfectly content and occupied playing with the children. Our specialty was canceled, and in our split second of desperation, had decided on board games. Lots of board games.

I sat in the teacher's desk, which was an action explicitly forbidden, but with the way the game boards were set up, I was significantly more comfortable pulled and nestled tightly in the swivel chair. My head against the damp window pane, I daze. It perplexes me how I could be sitting in a warm and muggy room, nestled against a window with a class of third graders, and yet, where there are not five inches of cement between me and the outside world, the winds rage below zero and the rain pelts so hard it hurts your skin. Although I would much rather be indoors, the sound and rhythm of the raindrops soothe my otherwise raging internal emotions. My thoughts cease as I am suddenly aware that the window is leaking, and the roots of my hair quickly dampen. I rearrange myself in hopes that I will find a new and more comfortable position, and as I hike my left leg up, folding my right leg underneath me, I could die of boredom. 4:29 p.m. I begin to spin my chair in circles, both clockwise and counterclockwise. I pursue this new and enticing activity until the children stare as if I was in a mental institution, so I stop. I check the clock again. 4:31 p.m. I am now tempted to crawl under the desks and sleep, but I know I'd risk serious trouble from the office. I search desperately for some relief, and pray to the gods of entertainment that maybe, something shiny will catch my eye. I roll my chair over to my partner and assume another position, pulling my knees to my chest and leaning my head on the back of Colleen's chair.

The gods do not take long to answer my plea of desperation. A small thud echoes above my head. Steven has pushed his face up against the glass window on the door. His face perfectly fits the size of the window, his handsome features flattening out against the pane. He seems different to me-sad almost. His eyes that usually are jumping with life behind them seem worelorn. At first I worry- for Steven to be so subdued, something must be wrong. I rack my brain, then finally comprehend; my friend and I connect on a level only we could understand- sheer boredom. He grins slyly at first, making me crack up. I lighten up, and Steve continues to smile brilliantly- a smile I absolutely adore. I coyly wink and blow a kiss, casually joking, as we both blush and laugh. He waves, conveying a message I clearly understand: "The gym opened up and I have to teach a class...I'll talk to you later."

A fleeting emotion- for those five seconds- I forgot how bored I was. Flushed and laughing, I look down at the Scrabble board Colleen has been filling out, a clear difference between her words and the kids. I smile, knowing there was only one hour left until I was free for the weekend.

The Basis of Insanity

Everyone has to start somewhere, right? Such a mantra is something I find myself repeating over and over for my own mental sanity. The stresses of a classroom teacher are immense, and the stress levels they encounter must be outrageous. While these are real and true emotions and feelings, there is little doubt in my mind that there is something far worse; being an Early Childhood Education student, completely lost to the world of classroom management and dealing with children, in charge of the safety, well-being, and entertainment of 30 students in the after-school system. Now add in that you’ve been in college since, oh, about 6:45 a.m., with solid classes until 1:30. These are the simple thrills of a college freshman.

My days of leisure are long gone with the winter intercession, and have quickly been replaced with the afternoons spent going 50 miles per hour, almost very literally, flying through the Staten Island streets in some hope that I could make it into Brooklyn in 15 minutes- a typical 25 minute drive with loving regards to the construction on the Verrazano bridge. The feeling of my stomach knotting as I habitually curse the driver I have the great misfortune of driving behind is beyond words, and still the best is yet to come. Adrenaline begins to seep in slowly at first, and increase until a fit of complete inner rage at the traffic light system erupts. I have always been taught to caution myself when approaching a changing green light, but today, that idea quickly flies out of my passenger side window that’s letting in the twenty-degree freezing wind that cools the bullets of sweat forcing their way through the layers of my forehead. I try not to let the horrors of parking on a block where the mass construction of the new middle school clamors throughout our daytime hours penetrate my already aggrivated condition, but my hardest is not good enough because I am now 2 short blocks away from my ultimate destination. I am only seconds away from cracking, when I realize that it’s Wednesday, and alternate side opens up a spot directly in front of the school. As I pull my keys from my exhausted and considerably gas-drained Sentra, I take note of the time. 1:59. Which means that I have one minute to cross the street and enter my school, ready to prepare for my day of now entertaining 30 plus children, who’ve been in school just as long as I have, and would rather be anywhere else in the world then stuck with me for the next three hours and fifteen minutes.

I casually greet my bosses, but instantaneously comprehend the energy in the room in the amount of time it takes me to turn my head. The looks that I receive could kill, and should they be any stronger I would have a series of burn holes through my body. “What?” I asked quizzically, not comprehending the reasons for the grilling looks and snickers I receive. “Why are you so dressed up? Where are you going? Trying to impress someone maybe?” hinting a sly remark at the growing relationship between a co-worker and myself. I laugh, thinking this is a joke, but I quickly see that they are as serious as they ever were. As I stand there, mouth open, dumbfounded by the audacity of the intrusion of my social and private life, I try to make a mental note. It is by some miracle that I made it to work on time, and the amount of sweat that my body has exerted between 1:30 and now is immeasurable. My once curly locks are now pinned to my head in an insanely, unattractive mass, resembling that of a savage. The lack of sleep from the search for my friend’s mix CD certainly contributed to the exasperation on my face, and I am not completely aware of this, but by instinct, I just know that my right eye began to twitch. My mouth gaping open, (although I knew this was the most unprofessional stance and expression I could have assumed, it seemed appropriate considering the lack of appropriateness observed in the first 2 minutes of my being at work) I pull my binder out, clock myself in, and stagger out of the office, all the while, and rightfully so, controlling my right eye from twitching, and trying desperately to convince myself “I love my job…I love my job…I love my job…”