The Difference

    I constantly watched the clock counting down every minute until it was time to go to recess. Every moment pushed me closer to a different world full of a once hushed and quiet class. The girls who failed in class were suddenly at the top of the pyramid and in charge of those around them; while the girls who had grades of a scholar were almost instantly at the bottom of the food chain. I was the girl at the bottom of the food chain, scraping the good off of the “popular” girl’s shoes. Back then I didn’t realize how much better off I was compared to them and I decided to walk down to their level.  My story begins when recess started as I sat on the monkey bars, one chilly day. Sitting on the monkey bars was not my usual recess activity but today I was sick of being the invisible girl no one saw hiding in the slide, wishing for friends I thought I would never have. Instead I had come out of hiding today and sat higher than the rest of the kids on the playground. I liked it up there because I could see everyone despite where they played their games. Behind me the crazy boys played soccer, to my right the softball and baseball players made-do playing kickball, to my left the goody two shoes swung on the swings, beneath me were the weird kids who didn’t have friends. Subconsciously the whereabouts of all the different people were obvious but my focus was elsewhere. Right in front of me the jock boys and pretty girls played revenge on the basketball court. I watched wishing I wasn’t so shy. Wishing I was more pretty. Wishing I had friends. Wishing people cared enough to talk to me. Wishing my only friend hadn’t become one of those girls shooting basketballs. Wishing I knew what I had done wrong.
    That day as I longed to change what “wasn’t good enough” about myself, I made a promise. A promise that I was going to become one of them one day. I was going to become cool; I was going to get at least a little bit of attention. At that moment the strong determination to change myself to someone who I thought was better than who I already was, began a change that would distort my entire life.
    The next day as I waited for lunch, I hardly paid any attention to the teacher. I was trying to gather every ounce of courage I had, so that I would be brave enough to sit by them during lunch. As the bell rang my stomach dropped but I knew what I had to do. I was higher in line than the rest of the girls I looked up to and got my lunch first. I took a steadying breath and sat down on the long table, that according to some unwritten rule, was their territory. Shyly I ate my lunch hoping they wouldn’t be angry for the intrusion. Each girl sat down and took no notice. It seemed like they didn’t mind me sitting there. When they threw their lunches away I followed them silently like a shadow. I stood around and watched as they played revenge again. Watching as they would laugh and cheer when they would out shoot a boy and shout with flirtatious anger when one of the cute boys shot them out. The first day seemed to go well, as in they hadn’t torn me apart and left my bones on the side of the road. I continued this shadowing craze every lunch, and it seemed that they began to accept my presence, it was almost as if they didn’t even mind it. I started to feel like one of the popular girls.
    Being in their presence changed how I did everything. They slowly tore apart what I looked like and I began to mold myself to their idea of “beautiful”. I started to straighten my hair, I bought different clothes, I wore more make-up, and I gossiped about the other girls. When I went to hang out with boys on the weekends I lied to my parents about who was there. When the few friends I once had talked to me, I acted astonished at their bravery to approach someone as high up as I thought I was. If only I had realized sooner that I was rude and that true friendship isn’t someone who tells you how to look, who ignores you when you aren’t pretty enough, and who is quickly angered by ridiculous rumors. 
I followed these girls and hid who I really was for years. I didn’t find out I actually had a personal opinion until early senior year. It’s all thanks to a boy named Scott. He was my very best friend, the only person to like me, not for what I looked like, but for who I was. Of course how I looked must have been what originally sprouted his interest, but to my delight, he only pursued when he noticed that I had a different personality than the others.

He saw me for the unique person I was, but I didn’t realize that until I broke up with my best friend. On the day our relationship ended, I found for the first time I had no one to tell me that I looked bad or good. At first I didn’t know how to deal with it, but in time I realized I could finally choose for myself.

Suddenly the influence of the media and a cultural idea of perfection didn’t matter to me. What I wanted to do or wear was much more enjoyable than what my friends liked or what my boyfriend liked. I realized that being weird and a little different was very fun. I also found the more I acted like myself the more people wanted to be around me and become my friend. For the first time I didn’t feel shy because I no longer cared what people thought of my words. These changes made me feel more beautiful than I had ever felt before. Whenever I heard anything as simple as, “I like your shoes!” to “Wow, you look beautiful today!” a smile beamed from my face, because for once they were complimenting the way I projected my personality.

I found who I am, and discovered how much I like the person that lives inside of this unique, little body. This realization made me bold enough to stick it to the society that had sculpted me for so long, I stopped wearing makeup. To most people that may seem small and ridiculous, and they might no even notice, or they just don’t think anything of my refusal to paint my face. But In my perspective it is a symbol of being myself, showing my face completely natural, and being proud of every freckle and the pale color of my eyelids.

If you are nearly done reading this and you still sit there and wonder what in the world was the point of this story about a shy little girl turned popular and then weird. Well the message I hope to share is an appreciation for who you are. I spent most of my life wishing to be someone I am not. Most girls I know are obsessed with how they wished they look, they see every single spot they think is wrong on their faces and instantly look over all the good that is there waiting to be acknowledged. They think that their personalities are too crazy, not funny enough, too weird, and too different. This is ridiculous! Why not take the time to find something about yourself that YOU like, embrace who you are and share your personality with the world! People will appreciate someone who has finally left the cloned population created by the media; a little originality is fun and interesting.

Mocha Brownies

It all begins when you look at the rich, mahogany colored, thin and smooth surface of the miraculous brownie. The color alone invites thoughts of eating into your mind, the smooth surface infuses an interesting curiosity. A precise square is formed as the knife sculpts and leaves a slightly moistened wake. The perfect shape is professional and appetizing. The cut releases an aroma, full of warm coffee beans and sweetened cocoa, a homely smell that brings people floating through the door, hoping for just a crumb.

As the Betty Crocker Mocha-Brownie is placed before you, you notice the colorful beads of chocolate sprinkled on top, immediately recognized as mini M&Ms. A wonderful, new idea for the common box mix brownie. My friend Jared smiles and graciously invites you to enjoy his treat.

    A Salivating mouth, waits impatiently to experience the flood of taste soon to come. Once a piece of brownie has taken place on the fork, it is guided to the mouth. As the scrumptious piece melts on the tongue a homely, comforting sensation warms the soul. A brownie that is perfectly moistened and fluffy, pleasing the taste buds with a desirable balance of mocha and chocolate.

Suddenly the crunch of the M&Ms adds a new dimension. The addition creates a relationship like that between a firm, hearty man and a calm, trustworthy woman. The pair unseperable, once they have found a comfortable place together.

After the short time it takes to create this remarkable brownie, a smile is found along with the feeling of accomplishment, despite the little nutritional value it holds. Surprisingly this fulfilling brownie was made from a box mix, although one might never be able to guess this single shortcoming because of the rich, fresh flavor. I would definitely recommend this delectable brownie to any who wish for a soothing, homely dessert.

It was tasted professional despite the informal setting of a small college apartment. This was a charming atmosphere that comfortably seated at least ten people with the stadium seating couches. The chef and waiters were kind and friendly, warmly inviting us back countless times for other delicacies. It was a remarkably cheap dessert, not even a penny was wanted in trade, rather a tip paid in kindness and a promise for cookies another day. The brownie was well worth the price. If you get the chance, visit my friend Jared to share this journey in eating his delicious Betty Crocker Mocha Brownies, with mini M&Ms.

Don't open the door

Dear Arthur Kipps,

When you are in a house that is silent, except a heart throbbing, mysterious pounding in the upstairs nursery, your first instinct might be to find what is making the noise. You might even feel as Edgar Allan Poe elucidates, “Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.” Were you possibly dreaming to see your long dead wife? I must beg you to come out of that wishful moment and look at the facts in front of you. There is that incredulous pounding coming from a room formerly thought to be empty in an old house. A house thought unoccupied just moments before.  A house left to be sold by an estranged mother who angrily committed suicide. After reviewing the former I would most definitely advise you not to open that door.

You have been in this bleak little town long enough to see people die, to glimpse a dark soulless ghost and to be at least slightly knowledgeable about the crazed mentally lost Jennet Humfrye who once lived there.

You should have been told enough to know that Ms. Humfrye is a mother who desperately fought for a child she didn’t have the mental stability to care for. If her child had stayed he could have possibly by emotionally wrecked and physically scarred in her care. The poor sweet innocent child was killed in the depths of a marshland. This child’s caregiver had been tricked into a visit like a rat eating craved cheese from a trap. This distraught mother couldn’t handle what had happened to her beautiful small boy. Dealing with the disparing loss led her to think of only one option; she hanged herself.

This relieving event caused the village to hope that this vicious woman would finally be gone but their desperate plea was shattered by a line of mysterious deaths. Village children were dying in simple painful ways and at every heartbreaking death a sudden glimpse of the heartless vengeful woman.

Shame on you if you don’t believe in ghosts, Ghosts roam the earth right next to the living. “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?” according to Mr. Poe.

Mr. Kipp, how could you be so mindless to open the door to the murderous queen. This wench thrives on the blood of children and you do in fact have precious son to protect. Your son is the only living person left to carry on your late wife’s heir. Holding him in mind at the very least should keep you from opening that door despite the curiosity coursing through your veins. When the door to death is shut, it is most important for that door to stay shut. Opening the door to the wicked Pandora’s Box is not the option to choose.

If  you continue to feel the urge to go through that door that holds a curse to haunt generations for eternity, you surely have an incredibly sluggishly selfish mind. I am clearly explaining shortly and simply why opening the door would be an idea that is as friendly and comforting as an atomic bomb. Here I sit writing this letter even though a wiser writer once said, “Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality,” Maybe these next words will be enough to impress your mind.

After selling your soul to devilish Jennet, leaving your needy hands to shake and perspire, causing your mind to become torn hopeless, letting fill with bizarre, threatening voices causing your morals and dreams to be ripped apart you will see.

I can only hope that after realizing you have left your son to a gruesome and heart wrenching fate. After seeing him die with a blank look rather than a hopeful tear stained face. You will finally realize that block of wood acting as a simple sturdy door, is the only thing keeping you from this murderous tormenting woman with a flagitious mind.