A Love Letter to my English Major
I wonder, sometimes, if you feel forgotten. After all, I did not become an English professor, as I once thought I might.
I wonder, sometimes, if you feel forgotten. After all, I did not become an English professor, as I once thought I might.
If you routinely hit signs, fire hydrants, lampposts, pedestrians, and other cars, the Impromptima won’t change any of that.
“Mature reaction to a routine colonoscopy: HE’S GOING TO STICK A TUBE SEVENTEEN THOUSAND FEET UP YOUR BUTT.”
Words are not the deciding factor here. Actions are met with actions.
There is increasing political talk in the United States about deporting the migrants who are apprehended at our border or inside of it. There is very little talk about what happens next.
Abby said I could write “500-800 words about anything under the sun,” so I wrote a computer game in which you play Rock, Paper, Scissors against a computer, but you always win.
Lens #1: Meet sympathy. Sympathy looks at another person’s situation and feels bad.
The freedom to be kids and learn via mistakes is one of the greatest gifts a parent can give, and my father gave it in abundance.
Still, there is not much better than holding a new record in your hands and getting lost in the art.
This is where I ultimately decide I could not be Amish; I simply love travel and experiences too much.