For our English course this semester, our theme for discussion this week is "entrapment." It's interesting because I've experienced feeling trapped in a lot of symbolic ways throughout the course of my entire life, be it a literal, well… almost literal, or symbolic sense. Thankfully, I was never kidnapped or held against my will in a literal sense, but there are times where I feel stuck in a way of living I wish I could change and a person I wish I could change. But as they say, we are all a "work in progress." Action Scene from The Yellow Wall-Paper by Charlotte Perkins Stetson It is so hard to talk with John about my case because he is so wise, and because he loves me so. But I tried it last night. It was moonlight. The moon shines in all around just as the sun does. I hate to see it sometimes, it creeps so slowly, and always comes in by one window or another. John was asleep and I hated to waken him, so I kept still and watched the moonlight on that undulating wallpaper until I felt creepy. The faint figure behind seemed to shake the pattern, just as if she wanted to get out. I got up softly and went to feel and see if the paper did move, and when I came back John was awake. "What is it that you think you're doing, little girl?" he asked, with a stern, stone-cold look on his face that matched his confrontational tone like a shirt and pants of the same color and style. I was startled. I had struggled to get out what little excuse i had for my actions, but stammers were all i could manage. "The-the-the sounds of the moving paper awakened me!" I finally managed to confess. "For that reason," said John, in a softer voice. "You must return back to bed. Please, my child." John inched closer and took his hand around my arm but I protested. "No!" I shouted. "Please tell me why I saw the paper move!" He looketh over my shoulder past me, at the rotten wallpaper. His facial expression grew into a smile. "There's nothing under the wallpaper there. I can assure you, dear." I looked at him with an annoyed and questioning look, wondering if there were just as something wrong with him as I thought there was with me. John simply smiled at me, saying yet again, "Now please… come with me." I backed away from him, again. That's when I heard the crinkling under the wall yet again. I looked at it. He did too. I saw faint movement beneath the wallpaper yet again. Then I looked at John, asking him, "Did you see that?" "No," he said simply. "Nothing." I became enraged. I refused to give in until the mystery was revealed. I knew he either was ignoring the wall to play some sickening mind game or became blind or deaf, especially under the darkness of night. Either way, I screamed in frustration to where I walked over to the wall, and ripped the ugly, stained paper off the wall. Jennie dropped to the floor. John looked down at her for a long moment as she took a moment to gather her bearings. His head slowly turned to mine until he and I locked eyes. I've never seen a man so angry, so indignant in my entire life. Then… he took slow steps toward me as I took steps slowly backward until my back was against the windowed wall. My Own Personal Action Scene A decision I made that made a negative impact on my life was when I let who I thought was my best friend downplay someone harassing me. It was a Saturday evening. We were returning from a shopping mall trip. As always, I enjoyed her company as she did mine. Throughout the course of our four-year friendship, I felt that I could talk to Myesha about absolutely anything that was on my mind... until this recent experience. During the ride home, I was telling her about an experience I've had with an Internet troll who'd been harassing me on a website that caters to the topic of reincarnation. For the purposes of this story I will call her Myesha. Myesha unbelievably had the nerve to not only downplay the negative and traumatic effect this person and my argument with him had on me, but also said she doesn't know why I devote so much time and energy focusing on my next life because she's not sure that reincarnation even exists, also going on that it was petty of me to keep responding to him if he was bothering me that much. She could not have been more crass. I very angrily explained to her that just because she would've went about the situation different, doesn't give her the right to call me "petty" for handling it the way I personally saw fit, and that she was wrong for downplaying the kind of effect the experience it had on me. I even yelled at her, "How freakin' dare you!" I also, to the point of nearly berating her, said that the ideology of reincarnation means a great deal to me personally and she ought to respect that if I mean as much to her as she say she does and there was nothing "petty" about the whole thing. We argued more until she finally dropped me off at my place. I viciously slammed her door upon exiting and I stood there in the darkness and stared as she drove off down the dark street. After I went in my house, I spent much of the night questioning my friendship with her and how much (or how little) of a friend I consider Myesha to this day after that experience. All this because some rotten bastard who apparently had nothing better to do with his life than to harass people, and who I ended up defeating nonetheless, thought he could make me one of his trolling victims. Disgusting!
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In this blog post, I am experimenting with ways both action and dialogue are used to compose a scene in a story. To do so, I recreated a scene from a chapter in Tobias Wolff's novel The Night in Question and then a very-recent-and-interesting moment from my personal life and worked with both elements. Take a read:
Action Scene from The Night in Question by Tobias Wolff It is a harrowing scene… an event, something so mundane as a routine trip to the bank, that took such a dark and frightening turn. Anders, a man in line of about 60 who'd been standing in line behind two women, much younger than himself, has witness much of robbers' activity as one of them had ordered one of the tellers to fill up a bag with all the cash they had. "There ya go!" says Anders, with an unusual smirk on his face. "Justice is served." As the woman turns and looks at him with an annoyed look on her face, one of the masked bandits rushes over to him and barks, "Hey, Bright Boy! Did I tell ya to talk?" "No." "Then shut your trap!" the robber declares. "Did you hear that?" says Anders. "'Bright Boy!' Right out of 'The Killers!'" "Hey, you deaf or what?" the masked robber asks, annoyed, as he pokes the muzzle of his pistol firmly into the man's stomach, almost tickling him. In order to resist the urge to explode into laughter, Anders stares into the bandit's sea blue eyes, both of which are plainly visible beneath the holes of his black ski mask. "You like me, Bright Boy? You wanna suck my dick?" wonders the annoyed robber. "No," replies Anders. "Then quit looking at me!" But then Anders, smiled a little — an idea had crossed his mind. "But I would, however, like to do this!" With that being the only warning Anders gave, Anders tackled the robber to the ground. Everyone, even the other robbers themselves, looked on in shock, no one from either side knowing whether they should flee or intervene as Anders and the blue-eyed robber were both on the floor, engaged in a mad-scramble for the gun. With the robbers distracted, a few of the customers and tellers fled the bank undetected. "Give me this shit!" Anders scowled. "Never in a million years, Bright Boy!" the robber scoffed. As the two continued to wrestle, the whole bank became a free-for-all. A few tellers and customers pounced on robbers, getting the jump on them. As Anders' opponent even took note of this, he became even more enraged. In one swift motion, the blue-eyed robber landed a well-placed kick to the gut, sending him sprawling backward without the gun, which was in the robber's hand. He then walked over to a defeated Anders, the gun trained right on his face. "All that for nothin', Bright Boy!" the robber taunted with a mirthless smile on his face. Then, the robber pulled the trigger. BANG! Anders was dead with a single gunshot wound to the forehead. My Own Personal Action Scene I am downtown at Central Philadelphia, at Jefferson Station waiting for the train, having just come from a doctor's appointment. Waiting at Jefferson, Suburban, or 30th Street Stations for a Regional Rail to return home, is like a semi-fun gambling game for me. This is just my personal preference, but I prefer the Silverliner 4 cars over the Silverliner 5 cars. The Silverliner 4 trains look much more beautiful, feel more comfortable to ride, and have a more of a "relaxing" vibe to them, and I've seen them in the movies. The Silverliner 5 trains have more of an uncomfortable, "industrial" vibe to them. As I wait on the platform for my train, patiently, I hopefully wonder to myself if I'm going to be riding a Silverliner 4, which I do every time I'm here. It has to be one of the two. The waiting time winds down. A Hispanic woman, relatively close to my age but a bit older, sits next to me on the bench. "Headed home?" she asks. "Yep!" I respond. From there, she and I continue this into a casual conversation, until our train arrives about less than a minute later. I stare down into the darkness of the trackway, its approaching golden lights growing brighter and brighter… until I can actually see the train at this point… and unfortunately, it's a Silverliner 5! I let out a grunt of dismay as we board the train (myself, and the many other passengers who were waiting for it). "I freakin' hate these trains," I sigh. "Why?" the woman asks, right behind me. "I just like the Silverliner 4 cars better," I said, in a flat tone, sounding a little bitter. "So do I," she says. "The old ones are a little faster." I grin half a smile. I was glad to have had someone who shares my opinion about the Silverliner 5 trains. There's always next time, I think to myself as I get off the train. I come into the city on the trolley and come back on the train on a frequent basis. It makes me feel better to think the logical scenario that I may be luckier next time than I am today—that my next train will be a Silverliner 4. I'm a fan of movies. I'm more into drama than any other genre of film. It's not so much that I like to watch movies (which I do, certain ones anyway) but I'd like to start making them. What really appeals to me is being able to write the kind of film I want to see make its way to the big screen, the characters, elements, and scenes I'd like to see in this film, among other things. What I'm about to write about here are the experiences I've had, the good, the bad, and the ugly, with this project that is me working on my feature film screenplay.
It's a Saturday afternoon. I am sitting in my bedroom, in front of my laptop, with a notebook right beside me which I've devoted strictly to my ideas of what I want in my feature film. I follow my own rules of writing, one of which being to let the story write itself. I step back after having ran into "Writer's Block" and I decide to return to what I often like to call the "drawing board", which is really my notebook. Then I turn to a fresh page and begin writing down how I'd like a particular scene to play out. To help some mental juices flow, I grab myself a glass of water. I drink as I write. I can feel the cooling refreshing water giving me those comfortable chills as I think and write things over! As I resume writing, I jot down every little thing I think I could want in this particular scene, even something as menial as the color of a shirt someone is wearing or a particular hairstyle someone's hair would be in, not that I would be writing these details in the script themselves, but rather I am in giving birth to my vision for my feature film, in a sense. I don't even know how much time has passed but when I write something in, I end up deep in thought, pondering what other scenes I'd want to be in the film as well as its plot, which interestingly enough, I don't have completely thought out yet. I don't at this time have a set plan as for what I'd like this film to be about, but I remain optimistic that at the right time, the right ideas will come to me, so I chose to remain calm and remain patient for them. But something catches my attention... Somewhere toward the back of my notebook is a sheet of paper folded up and attached to the last few pages with a paperclip. I open it, forgetting what this is or even that I had it here, and as soon as I do, I am delighted to remember this was a plan of scene and story outlines I had worked on while I was on campus at Delaware County Community College on one of the computers and had printed it out. I am happy to have found it! Now I remember some of the piece of action and dialogues I wanted to include in my script! Also, I can't help noticing how fresh the paper is and feels despite the hard crease across it. The fascinating scent of the freshly-printed ink on paper straight out of the copy machine fills my nose. Getting straight back to work, my fingers dance across my laptop keyboard, rapidly hitting keys as I could feel the dialogue, scene descriptions, and actions flowing right through. The sound of the keys rapidly being pressed is music to my ears! I am excited to see five to seven full pages of script being written in not even three minutes! This is awesome! I resume writing my script, writing larger portions! But after about ten minutes or so, my hands start to ache from typing so much and it must be time to give my hands a break... for now that is... I'm about to tell you a brief story... of an event from my not-too-distant past. I feel as though this particular event partly symbolizes why I like horror movies... well... some of them anyway. But I like night. I like being out at night. Despite that I am afraid of the dark, I like the thrills of being in certain places. There are aspects of this event that I would've liked to have seen happen along with this (full moons, which I really like, being with a friend, etc.) but this was a pretty memorable and fun experience for me nonetheless and I will tell you exactly what happened to the best of my memory. Take a read: It is a cloudy, chilly night, approximately 6 p.m. according to the time on the screen of my smartphone. It's interesting because based on how dark it is out here, I could've sworn we were in the 8:00 hour. I know I'm probably in the minority but I love this kind of weather... and that we're in that season when nightfall occurs during the late afternoon hours (around 4:00 or 5:00 p.m.). I step off the 102 Trolley at Lansdowne Avenue, walk down Lansdowne Avenue (passing Bonner and Prendie High, Upper Darby High, and Delaware County Memorial Hospital) and I wait at the nearby shopping plaza for the bus, which I then ride up to Pilgrim Gardens Shopping Plaza, which was unfortunately the last stop—I'd gotten on the wrong bus... well, I had the correct route but I failed to notice it wouldn't take me all the way to my destination. Standing at the bus stop outside a closed Chickie and Pete's restaurant, I dig my phone from my pocket and open up my Google Maps app to see the fastest possible route to the Marple Crossroads Shopping Plaza. It recommends I walk down to a bus stop for the 110 and 111 buses which is located outside a gas station at State and Township Line Roads, and so I do exactly that. Here's where things get a little sketchy: I walk down Township Line Road, a street which has only one sidewalk. Its other side has only a median and a vast lush of trees right next to it. A few minutes later, complete, eerie, creepy silence. No cars are zooming past. The road is dead empty. No other pedestrians but me. This is like a haunted ghost town. It's almost like something out of a horror film. Especially when I hear something or someone approaching me from behind. The ticking sounds are faint but clearly sound like footsteps. Believing someone is following me, I pivot around very fast. To my relief no one is there. It was just a leaf on the ground being blown around by the chilly gust of a windy breeze this comfortably-cold night air had to offer. I feel my heart rush. I can feel tingles on my tongue, like I could taste the adrenaline rush! I smile to myself, enjoying that thrill it gave me, turn back around, and continue down the street. I wonder to myself if I should include it in a horror film I plan to produce. It feels good to be out in the dark nonetheless. I am not scared or nervous. Motor traffic begins to resume on Township Line. I make it to the bus stop near the gas station. As I do, I lean my lower back against the steel median, which feels nowhere as chilly as this outdoor air. I also carry my smartphone in one hand, feeling the smooth, soft pink silicone of my phone case. I like how the protective case feels on my phone. To pass the time I wait for the bus, I watch various clips of a game show called Greed, which features creepy music and sound cues. I eventually reach my destination, the Springfield Mall. As I step off the bus, I can feel very-ignorable, small, light drizzles of rain sporadically tapping my head. I could even smell the rain as I walk across the parking lot to the mall. Oh, and I love how the streetlights light up the mall’s parking lot whereas there’s no full moon to do that job, which I would’ve liked a lot better. CREDITS:
Springfield Mall parking lot: Renee Hogan on Twitter.com Springfield Mall and Ruby Tuesday storefront: zippyshell.com I’m a long-time, avid writer… but I am not famous. No one knows me. Only a few people who do are aware of my writing talents. I’ve written books, novels, and screenplays that went unpublished and unproduced. I’m actually glad most of those works went unpublished. Here’s the thing though – I’m okay with being unknown. I’m not in this for the fame. I just like to write because I have a medium to translate my creative visions into stories in the form of a Word document. Whenever I open a blank Word document and begin to write a story or a novel, even when I know what the scene is I want to write or even the very sentence I want to write I have a habit of going on Google Books, looking at previews of other novels of a similar genre to see if the author of that work worded a similar sentence in a particular different way. My favorite part of a novel is the author’s creative writing. Seeing how other writers creatively form their stories and sentences word by word is how I hone my writing craft… that being the reason why I’ve recently examined the works of three talented writers… and they are Don Murray (https://www.heinemann.com/shared/onlineresources/0600/web%20sample_murray.pdf), Maria Popova (https://www.brainpickings.org/2012/11/20/daily-routines-writers/), and Anne Lamont (http://engl210-picetti.wikispaces.umb.edu/file/view/Lamott_Bird+by+Bird.pdf). Under some amazing circumstance did I have the honorable privilege of meeting these three talented authors after they were so gracious to take the time out of their busy schedules to discuss with me the writing process and their tips for creative writing.
It was a cloudy, drizzling, comfortably-chilly Saturday afternoon when Don, Anne, Maria, and I were seated at a bookstore café, where they agreed to meet me. Nice choice of atmosphere. So relaxing and ambient. "Only write when you feel like writing," was my quick response when Maria asked me what rules I personally set for myself when I decide to write a story. "And don't ever let anyone else tell you when or what to write or not. If there's something you ever want to write about, be my guest," I suggest. I then went on with Don about how good it would feel when you finish that piece, but embarrassed you'd initially feel when you ask your editor or publisher to be that extra pair of eyes to review your work. Are they going to read your piece for grammatical, punctual, or sentence structure errors? Or is your piece so good that your publisher will get so distracted by the actual story that she decides to publish it, exciting you enough to take action to get it published but then you look down at your copy for not even 5 seconds when you find errors that your editor missed because she got distracted by the plot? Is that a good or bad thing? Anne, who'd been holding her coffee cup with both her hands wrapped around it, giggled one of those soft "that is so true" chuckles, intrigued by this all. Then she offered me her own suggestion, just going "I always show my work to one of two people before sending a copy to my editor or agent. I feel more secure and connected this way, and these two people get a lot of good work out of me. They are like midwives; there are these stories and ideas and visions and memories and plots inside me, and only I can give birth to them." [1] (http://engl210-picetti.wikispaces.umb.edu/file/view/Lamott_Bird+by+Bird.pdf) This really intrigued me. I liked how she described that. But before any of us could give their thoughts on that, she delivered something else that was interesting and that stuck with me just as much as the last one did if not more. "I just smile, geishalike, and make little fluttery sounds of understanding. Then I go on telling people to consider finding someone who would not mind reading their drafts and marking them up with useful suggestions." [2] (http://engl210-picetti.wikispaces.umb.edu/file/view/Lamott_Bird+by+Bird.pdf) Don shot a look at Anne, almost looking perturbed as he said to her in a slightly-annoyed tone of voice "Teach writing as a process, not product!" [3] (https://www.heinemann.com/shared/onlineresources/0600/web%20sample_murray.pdf). Maria and I shot confused looks at each other, then at Don and Anne. Anne didn't seem too fazed by Don's burst of hostility but the way he spoke to her made me wonder if they were rivals or something. Maybe they were, maybe he just disagreed with her teaching style. Don apologized quickly, looking a little embarrassed as he took a sip of his coffee as i did my tea. Anne simply flipped her hand in a carefree manner and said "no worries" as if that was something she expected from him. Maybe they were rivals at some point or still are, i thought. But Maria and I both deduced the writing process was something Don was the most passionate about. Don seemed to have had the most passion for the process itself than any of us at our table. Maria shrugged and said to all three of us, "My passions drive me to the typewriter every day of my life, and they have driven me there since I was twelve. So I never have to worry about schedules," quoting Ray Bradbury. [4] (https://www.brainpickings.org/2012/11/20/daily-routines-writers/) Don asked me if I had any other rules I'd set for myself, as i was taking another sip of my tea, and I could not have been more happy that he did. I was so eager to answer his question that i nearly choked on my tea as it almost went down the wrong pipe. I took a few long seconds to recover, coughing once, then finally answering "Write what YOU like, not what everyone else likes or what you think they like. The piece has to be a product of YOUR imagination. YOUR creativity. YOUR inspiration." All three of them loved this advice. Don was the fastest to jump in, saying it was "a brilliant suggestion" then he'd added, speaking only to me, "Our critical skills are honed by examining literature, which is finished writing; language as it had been used by authors." [5] (https://www.heinemann.com/shared/onlineresources/0600/web%20sample_murray.pdf) Just as I thought they would, he and Anne went back and forth arguing about whether good writers examine pieces from famously-known, experienced authors (Don's viewpoint) or whether a good writer is born by starting small and just write what comes to their heads and go from there (Anne's viewpoint). She liked to call them "shitty first drafts." She fired at Don, "Now, practically even better news than that of short assignments is the idea of shitty first drafts. All good writers write them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific third, drafts. People tend to look at successful writers who are getting their books published and maybe even doing well financially, and think that they sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars, feeling great about who they are and how much talent they have and what a great story they have to tell; that they take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter. But this is just the fantasy of the uninitiated. I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafts. All right, one of them does, but we do not like her very much." [6] (http://engl210-picetti.wikispaces.umb.edu/file/view/Lamott_Bird+by+Bird.pdf) Everyone at our table fell silent. Listening to Anne and Don bicker back and fourth served as entertainment for me and Maria. The exchange even caught attention from the people around us. To kill the somewhat-awkward silence, I stepped in, addressing both of them, proposing, "Write from your heart and soul… and it will be golden. You’re basically allowing for the story to write itself here… and when you let a story write itself the piece will be as if it came straight out of Heaven itself… to most people who will look at it, anyway." Maria, who I thought was the quietest out of all of us, finally spoke up, adding, slowly nodding her head looking down at the table, "A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper." [7] (https://www.brainpickings.org/2012/11/20/daily-routines-writers/) She clearly agreed with me. But then she spoke to all three of us, "A writer takes earnest measures to secure his solitude and then finds endless ways to squander it." [8] (https://www.brainpickings.org/2012/11/20/daily-routines-writers/) Honestly it took me a minute to understand what she meant. Don and Anne had near-blank looks on their faces themselves as they pondered what she might've meant by that. Maria explained that she meant that when no one else agrees with what you say or even write about, let that be the case because in the end, you being alone in what your argument is or what you decide your subject matter will be about when no one else approves will be all worth it in the end. I find this to be a fun—yet often frustrating—thought-provoking activity and I enjoy answering questions about my personality because I see it as an easy and fun way to tell the asker about myself be it things I like, my personality traits, and things of the like, without the person just coming out and saying to me “so tell me about yourself!” in which case I’d have no clue where to start. Here’s the thing though, my focus and goal here with this activity is to reveal as much about myself as I feel necessary without giving too much away. After all, everything’s not for everybody. Shoot, I barely know the people and professor in the class in which I’m completing this activity for! Well, this is an assignment, but I see this more as an activity than an assignment to be completed for a grade and handed in to my teacher. For anyone else who would like to complete the Proust Questionnaire themselves, here’s the link: https://www.vanityfair.com/magazine/2000/01/proust-questionnaire/amp My Responses to the Proust Questionnaire Questions
1. What is your idea of perfect happiness? Manifesting my way to the life of my dreams. 2. What is your greatest fear? My greatest fear is that (in the words of Timo Cruz from the 2005 film Coach Carter) we are powerful beyond measure. Just kidding. Okay, seriously, my biggest fear is being in the dark and someone or something terrifying is coming at me. That’s the best way I can answer this question. 3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Overlooking things too easily, not standing up for or defending myself, etc. 4. What is the trait you most deplore in others? Inconsideration, selfishness, using “to” when it should be “too”, self-righteousness, judging others, etc. 5. Which living person do you most admire? Don’t have one. 6. What is your greatest extravagance? Don’t have one yet, but mine would be getting my first car and driving instead of having to rely on Septa. Also, I love to travel, so being on an airplane or an Amtrak train would also be up there. 7. What is your current state of mind? I seek to just living life the way I see fit and that will make me the happiest. I can’t wait until my next life, so I guess I might as well try to make the most of this one! (I’m a visionary… see myself as one anyway.) 8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Patience, forgiveness, and staying in the now. For me, there’s a tie among all three of the above. 9. On what occasion do you lie? Whenever I feel it’s necessary to preserve the emotional and physical wellbeing of myself and everyone involved in a past, present, or future situation. 10. What do you most dislike about your appearance? My facial hair, stubble, and Adam’s Apple. 11. Which living person do you most despise? A past teacher of mine whose name i will not publicly disclose. 12. What is the quality you most like in a man? If I were interested in a romantic relationship (which I’m not) I would want a man who accepts and respects all that I am and a nice-looking body wouldn’t hurt. 13. What is the quality you most like in a woman? If I were interested in a romantic relationship (which I’m not) I would want a woman who accepts and respects all that I am and a nice-looking body wouldn’t hurt. 14. Which words or phrases do you most overuse? “Whatever” and time-fillers like “like” or “at any rate” and it’s a really embarrassing habit. 15. What or who is the greatest love of your life? Don’t have one… yet… 16. When and where were you happiest? The time back in August 2014 when my then best friend, her sisters, and her cousins, and myself, all went to Six Flags in New Jersey. It's been my dream and so it has been a great experience! 17. Which talent would you most like to have? Being fluent in Japanese. 18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? My height—instead of being 5’11, I’d be 5’7. The other things I really want to change about myself is too personal to share with the public. 19. What do you consider your greatest achievement? Manifesting over $1k in the summer of 2014 and getting all As in the fall 2017 semester. 20. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? A human female. Hands down. I will not have this any other way. In fact, I hope to be female in at least the next… ten or fifteen lifetimes from now. 21. Where would you most like to live? The county I live now... which is Delaware County, PA. 22. What is your most treasured possession? My Beanie Baby that has my late dad’s birthday in its tag. It's very sentimental to me and so i couldn't fathom losing it. 23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? The lowest depth of misery for me is living life based on everyone’s/anyone’s expectations of how I should live my life or how I should be as a person. 24. What is your favorite occupation? Favorite occupation… hmmm… I haven’t yet had the pleasure of working here but I fancy the idea of working at a store like Forever 21 or Sephora! I also would love to get into filmmaking and acting. 25. What is your most marked characteristic? Anyone who gets to know me well enough knows me for being an ambitious person, and i love that! 26. What do you most value in your friends? Just respect me, who I am, my belief system, that I refuse to believe in what people call “God”, my boundaries, and don’t cross any of my lines, and we’re good and I’ll show you the same exact respect. Also be there for me when I need you and I’ll be there for you when you need me. It’s as simple as that. 27. Who are your favorite writers? Don’t have any. 28. Who is your hero of fiction? I'll admit it... the Power Rangers. 29. Which historical figure do you most identify with? Don’t have one. 30. Who are your heroes in real life? Don’t have any. 31. What are your favorite names? Bethany, Holly, Aiden, Cupcake, Paris, Amy, Ross, Sydney, Ethan, Jackson, Lucas, Luke, Anthony, Monique, Wesley, Bartholomew, etc. There are few too many to list but that's just to name a few. 32. What is it that you most dislike? Christianity. 33. What is your greatest regret? Not standing up for myself all the times I felt I should’ve. 34. How would you like to die? I'd like to die peacefully, being loved and valued by others, and I'm honestly hoping i die in my fifties or sixties at the very latest but I'm hoping to die in my forties so i can live a short life but long enough to enjoy every this present incarnation has to offer and live longer in my next. 35. What is your motto? Don’t have one. |
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who sees life as a giant canvas, on which an artists paints her portrait. What will you paint on your canvas of life? Archives
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