A Tasty Afternoon Snack

He reaches his pudgy fingers into his greasy hair

Itching around with his overgrown fingernails.

He tries to keep his craving a secret,

But he doesn’t know that I am watching

When he feels that he has enough under his talons,

He excitedly examines the treasure that he acquired,

And rapidly munches on the scalp skin he found.

If you think I am kidding, I am sorry to say

I watched this boy eat what he picked off his oily head

Every. Single. Day.

Honestly, I found it difficult picking a topic that remained school appropriate. So, I thought I could write about something disgusting that happened during school. I thought back to a time where I wanted to vomit sitting in Spanish 3 my junior year. Said boy, to my dismay, loved eating his own scalp skin. Not only was his body odor enough to make me sick to my stomach, but his greasy snack literally made me gag every single day.  I believe that many of my descriptive word choices enhance the grotesque scene, allowing the reader to gain an image of what I went through every single day. Also, the fact that this event actually happened arouses discomfort. The idea that that person sitting next to you could feast on their left over skin left in their slimy hair. I believe this story not only arouses discomfort, but arouses fear. The fear of witnessing this occurrence. The fear of watching this boy devour his afternoon snack.

YOBEO: You'll Only Be Eleven Once

Dear Becky,

You keep on rocking the moose and seagull logos. However, you really can show up to school without wearing Abercrombie or Hollister. But if you really want to wear plaid Hollister bermudas with the matching layered polo with the popped collar, you go for it. You might want to think about losing the black and pink etnie skater shoes though. Kind of clashes with your preppy, Abercrombie model wannabe look.  

I applaud you on listening to music all the time. My eighteen year old self heard a fact not too long ago about how the music you listen to when you are eleven and twelve mean the most to you in your life. And I still shamelessly whimper and reminisce when I hear any of the billboard top 100 from fifth grade. Play “Hollaback Girl,” “1,2 Step,” “Gold Digger,” and “Candy Shop” on repeat. They’ll still make you happy in seven years.  

I know that you were just shoved into middle school a year early. It’s not your fault that you have 540 kids in your grade and they don’t have room for you at the elementary school anymore. I know you get frustrated being in class with 40 other kids, but you’ll learn just fine. You’re actually considered smart! I’m going to break the news to you now. You’re going to move in three years. 800 miles away. But, you’ll survive! Spend as much time as you can with your friends, and cherish every moment you have with them. They will still be your best friends in seven years.

There remains only one piece of advice that I really want you to understand. You need to cherish every moment. You will think about your middle school years very frequently when you grow up. You are not normal, therefore, you’re middle school years will be some of your favorite years of your life. Make memories every day. Take a million pictures. Make as many friends as you can. Be fearless. Involve yourself in a million activities. And have fun! You can only be eleven once.

The Miracle of the Second Hand

Not everyone gains a second chance at life.  Thankfully, miracles do happen. This miracle in particular took place right before my eyes.

My best friend’s father voyaged to the doctor’s office after battling what he believed to be common cold. After a quick examination, he was immediately life-flighted to the hospital and diagnosed with viral and bacterial pneumonia, then swine flu. After the news reached my household, I was told to prepare for the worst, for the chances of survival were slim to none. I learned that as the sickness crept deeper into his body, he started to shut down. For two and half months, the machines remained the only thing keeping him alive. On seven different occasions, his family received a call from the doctors, asking them to come to the hospital and say their goodbyes. Seven times they traveled to the hospital, prepared to see their loved one for the last time. He lived as the sickest man in the entire nation. His name was seen on prayer lists of churches around the country. Miraculously, his soul never perished. He fought on. Slowly and steadily he made progress with the help of the innovative technology. At the end of it all, the machines only sustained his vital organs. Both legs and his right arm were amputated.

And he received a second hand.

Not only a second hand, but a second chance at life. Through the power of prayer, combined with his resilient fight for life, he lives as one of the happiest men I know today. Every time he uses his second hand, he remembers the miracle that occurred. And every single day, when he attaches his second hand to his arm, he remains thankful for the life he was given.  He does not become frustrated when his second hand does not do what he wants it to do. He does not feel anger when he remembers all of the things he used to be able to do when he possessed an ordinary hand. He views his second hand as a gift. His second hand is a miracle.

Bun Head Hardships

6:00. It’s time. Run. My fellow prima ballerina’s race down the salt covered hallway, into the back nook of the dance studio where the race begins. Who will make it into ballet class first, winning the spot at the front of the barre?! I choose to start with the bun. My disheveled ponytail, tousled by my previous jazz class, is quickly swept up into a tight, neat ponytail. I quickly snatch my convenient handheld hairspray and harden the wispy baby hairs into an invincible mold. I quickly twist the horse mane into a cinnabon shape, tying another hairband around the snug knot. I scramble to find the four extra-long bobby pins I need to accurately secure my professional grade ballerina bun. I bite open my first pin, and stab it into my skull. I wince when I feel the piercing pain, but I do not want to be sat out because my bun fell apart. Not this girl. After I inserted the remaining three pins, I violently shake my head, checking that my bun remains immovable. What’s next?! I panic, looking around at my supplies that surround my feet. JAZZ SHOES? Fix it! I hastily strip my jazz shoes off my feet and sit down to endure the process of putting on my pointe shoes. I cram my foot into the hard shoe, forcing my toes to face the solid block of wood that resides at the bottom of the shoe. Once my heel enters, I quickly wrap the ribbons around my ankles. Over, under, over, under, knot, tuck. I regained my focus and repeated the process on my other foot. Only one thing left, the easiest task of them all. Leotard. I rapidly slip the bright blue leotard onto my body, untangling the straps around my shoulders. I am ready. I gallop to the studio, dodging the salty residue on the floor due to the snow storm. I made it. I won. Front of the barre for me!