1. Wordle's being a jerk right now, not working with the javascript, and when that is resolved, you will see a BEAUTIFUL wordle, worth of remembrance through the ages
2. Ten possibilities of stories? I can do that:
-Michelle, Crazy as Hell (How to deal with a crazy bitch)
-October 26: 26 Things I Screwed up That Night (Fuck, I don't even know where to start for this one)
-Super Smash Brothers: The Hype was Real (So many options in a brawler, only a few can be ones that work)
-Take Me out of this Weight Room (do I focus on baseball, or music?)
-So You Think You Can Play Lead Trumpet? (I wasn't even supposed to be the lead trumpet player!)
-Super Smash Brothers: Disrespected (I can't let someone else come to my house, and kick my ass with my own character)
-The Sunderman Conservaty Tryout (Moral of this one: BE PREPARED)
-Technically, She isn't really my Cousin... (JOKING OF COURSE)
-Considering That I Have Decided What To Write About
-Do I really Need All These Extra Ideas?
3.Free Write: This looks like it will be the opener of my "This I Wonder" Essay...
I entered through the double doors of the workout room. This was a separate entity from the gym, but it resided right next to it. My reasons for staying after school to head to a workout room were simple. I was an eighth grader, and a baseball player. I had come to the 8th grade workouts. These after school meetings were designed to smooth the shock from being transplanted, not unlike a bulb of a flower, into high school. Eighth graders could experience the regimens that the high school baseball team performed every week, and this peek into a possible future would help a prospective player decide whether they wanted to commit to a serious, high school sport. And I was one of perhaps 20 ankle-biting eighth graders mulling about in the high school workout room. Names swirled through my head, names of people who were damn good at baseball; Randy Frankenfield, Tommy Kline, Will Ligus, Jake Fischer….and me. I was in the same pond as these big fish. Could I hold my own? I was lost in thought, until the shrill, unique tone of a high pitched whistle brought me back to reality.
I was excited, ready to work hard, but as the tall, intimidating head coach went through his obviously well-rehearsed speech, something caught my attention. I couldn’t figure out what exactly it was then, and I sure can’t remember now. However, my attention was caught nonetheless. What I saw shocked, then terribly upset me. I saw unspoken anger being stabbed at me, silent insults swarming through the irises of many. I saw body language. As someone who was completely aloof of how he would interact with others, and unknowingly push them away, the fact that I saw these quiet objections meant that it was plain and obvious for anyone to see; I was not wanted anywhere near these people, much less working with them on a team. I was fighting for a lost cause
2. Ten possibilities of stories? I can do that:
-Michelle, Crazy as Hell (How to deal with a crazy bitch)
-October 26: 26 Things I Screwed up That Night (Fuck, I don't even know where to start for this one)
-Super Smash Brothers: The Hype was Real (So many options in a brawler, only a few can be ones that work)
-Take Me out of this Weight Room (do I focus on baseball, or music?)
-So You Think You Can Play Lead Trumpet? (I wasn't even supposed to be the lead trumpet player!)
-Super Smash Brothers: Disrespected (I can't let someone else come to my house, and kick my ass with my own character)
-The Sunderman Conservaty Tryout (Moral of this one: BE PREPARED)
-Technically, She isn't really my Cousin... (JOKING OF COURSE)
-Considering That I Have Decided What To Write About
-Do I really Need All These Extra Ideas?
3.Free Write: This looks like it will be the opener of my "This I Wonder" Essay...
I entered through the double doors of the workout room. This was a separate entity from the gym, but it resided right next to it. My reasons for staying after school to head to a workout room were simple. I was an eighth grader, and a baseball player. I had come to the 8th grade workouts. These after school meetings were designed to smooth the shock from being transplanted, not unlike a bulb of a flower, into high school. Eighth graders could experience the regimens that the high school baseball team performed every week, and this peek into a possible future would help a prospective player decide whether they wanted to commit to a serious, high school sport. And I was one of perhaps 20 ankle-biting eighth graders mulling about in the high school workout room. Names swirled through my head, names of people who were damn good at baseball; Randy Frankenfield, Tommy Kline, Will Ligus, Jake Fischer….and me. I was in the same pond as these big fish. Could I hold my own? I was lost in thought, until the shrill, unique tone of a high pitched whistle brought me back to reality.
I was excited, ready to work hard, but as the tall, intimidating head coach went through his obviously well-rehearsed speech, something caught my attention. I couldn’t figure out what exactly it was then, and I sure can’t remember now. However, my attention was caught nonetheless. What I saw shocked, then terribly upset me. I saw unspoken anger being stabbed at me, silent insults swarming through the irises of many. I saw body language. As someone who was completely aloof of how he would interact with others, and unknowingly push them away, the fact that I saw these quiet objections meant that it was plain and obvious for anyone to see; I was not wanted anywhere near these people, much less working with them on a team. I was fighting for a lost cause