D4: Numbers

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40.  41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50.  Would you like to know something cool?  Apparently numbers count as words in Microsoft word!  I think this is cool because 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99.  ONE HUNDRED.  102. 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141.  I have a joke.  So Watson goes up to Sherlock Holmes and he’s like, “Sherlock what’s your favorite tree?”  And then Sherlock goes, “A lemon tree, my dear Watson.” 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 two hundred and fifty words and now there are 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 274 275 276 277 278 279 280.  Oh, whoops, I accidentally put two two hundred and seventy fours.  Oh well, but now I have 300 words.

D2: Favorite Class

My favorite class so far is, you guessed it, online publishing.  I like this class because I get to sit here for eighty minutes and write blogs.  It’s really exciting.  Well, that pretty much sums up my entire blog.  I could keep writing, but it would be pointless repetition.

I still have to have three hundred words though, so I’ll take this time to apologize for the quality of this blog.  The truth is, these are due today, and I only have two out of four done.  The class started out with only one done, but I spent a bunch of time on my “Teacher that Impacted Me” blog.  You should read that one; it’s pretty good. 

I just got pulled into Mr. Currin’s office for being offensive.  This is the third time this has happened this year.  I’m not offensive; I just don’t like Mrs. Hilburger!  Sorry, Mrs. H. 

One downside of this class is where I sit.  Don’t get me wrong, I like Jake, but directly to my left is Sophie.  You are probably looking over to my seat right now, thinking “Nobody sits next to Ben; he sits in the corner,” but Sophie is not a human.  Or rather she is, but she is more of a being, the remnants of a person who once was, or for all we know, still is.  It is a photograph of a little girl.

Her eyes follow you, I swear.  Ask Jake.  He’ll tell you.  Every class I turn the picture away from me, but her eyes always find her way back to me.  One time, I opened up the disc compartment in my computer and she popped out, staring at me.  Her eyes were dilated to black orbs.  It is the curse of the bottom left corner.  I would tell you more, but I’m currently crying and I’ve reached three hundred words, so see you around

D1: The Teacher that Impacted Me

Has a teacher ever impacted me?  Yes.  But this is a subject that I find very hard to talk about.  I suppose I will tell my story though.  It was about a year ago, about a month after I got my first detention.  It was given to me by Mrs. Hilburger for arguing with her about whether or not I could get a calculator for a math quiz.  My locker was RIGHT DOWN THE HALL, but I digress.  This story takes place after the fact, at my next encounter with Mrs. H…

I walked into geometry class, anxious to learn about shapes, smiling like a person who smiles really big.  That’s when I saw her: Mrs. H, the substitute teacher who is also my arch nemesis.  Her thin lips curved into a malevolent smile on her wrinkled face as she saw me.  She held up her gnarled hand with its yellowish white claws, and scratched them along the chalkboard, cringing with delight as she did so.  Oh wait, never mind, that was just her talking. 

                “Well, well, well,” crooned Mrs. H, “If it isn’t Ben Hoy, my little crow.”  I winced as she spoke and covered my ears.  Did she eat nails for breakfast?  Probably, and without milk.

                “Mrs. H, I’m just here to learn geometry,” I said.  Mrs. H cawed, and lightning flashed as it darkened and started to pour outside.  The door shut behind me.  I looked behind me, startled, and as I looked back, Mrs. H lunged at me, spewing out a sound like a cross between a vampire ostrich and a Hummer screeching to a halt in front of a baby fox, but making sure to half crush the baby animal so it would die a slow, painful death.  Her fist rammed into my stomach, and I went flying into the wall at high speed.  On impact, the wind was knocked out of me.  She screeched again like a group of vultures fighting over the remnants of a dead kitten.  I pulled out a wooden stake and ran her through.  She burst into a cloud of ash.  It was over, which was good, because I had forgotten to bring my calculator.

D3: When I Get Out of High School

When I get out of school, I’d like to become the world’s first white rapper.  Doing this will be hard, and I might end up being like a hobo, livin’ in the SOHO, playing with my yoyo,  fighting in a dojo, doing Tai Kwon Do, epic like slo-mo, fast like I’m from Togo, like you’re super Moto, jumping like a pogo, stealing all your mojo, pirate’s life; yo ho, gettin’ down, low, low, got my bling like Frodo, sticking to the bro code, going crazy loco, I can’t take it no mo, but I’ll keep up fo’ sho’, breaking up the system like Yoko Ohno, Whoah ho, life is like a row boat, treading in the woto, like playing water polo, but it’s gettin’ so-so, rejected like the oboe, now you’re flying solo, got my huge longbow, shootin’ all the arrows, go hard or go home, now you’re going global, don’t end up like the dodo, barely dodged death row, nice hot cocoa, with Tops brand hohos, ridin’ bulls YOLO, catch ‘em with a lasso, explain it to me one mo’, gotta be thorough, or I’ma pull a no show, outlaw like Pluto, stealing from old folks, packin’ heat in my afro, running from the po-po, living for tomorrow, now I got my phone broke, now I’m out of Cheerios, I have no dough, never thought I’d get so low, it feels like I’m a robo’, domo arigato, no mo’ showboat, life just snowblows, now I’m up again so, I’m famous like J-Lo, or maybe Flo Jo, got my own logo, pimpin’ in my Volvo, stormy like the tropo, going with the flow yo, getting down on the flo’, found El Dorado, so I take a photo, not in Alden anymo’, better tell Todo, then I’ll go home just, wake me up befo’ you go-go.

C2: The Doesn't Exist Diner

My favorite restaurant in Alden is a diner called the Doesn’t Exist.  In this diner, all the food is really good.  The people that work there don’t have deformities, nothing is served cold or burnt, it is located in a convenient place, and the people that eat there aren’t mostly men whose first car is a lawn mower and whose second car is a public bus. 

The Doesn’t Exist is a great place to go if you are feeling sad.  It’s the kind of place where everybody knows your name, and they’re all glad that you came.  You want to go where everybody knows your name. 

Makin' your way in the world today

Takes everything you've got

Taking a break from all your worries

Sure would help a lot

Wouldn't you like to get away?

All those nights when you've got no lights

The check is in the mail

And your little angel

Hung the cat up by it's tail

And your third fiance didn't show

Sometimes you wanna go

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

And they're always glad you came

You wanna be where you can see

Our troubles are all the same

You wanna be Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Climbing the walls when no one calls

You've lost at love again

And the more you're down and out

The more you need a friend

When you long to hear a kind hello

Roll out of bed, Mr. Coffee's dead

The morning's looking bright

And your shrink ran off to Europe

And didn't even write

And your husband wants to be a girl

Be glad there's one place in the world

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

And they're always glad you came

You wanna go where people know

People are all the same

You wanna go Where Everybody Knows Your Name

C1: Refried Beans and Tacos, My Favorite School Lunch

I think the best school lunch ever is tacos and refried beans.  One thing I love about this meal is that it stimulates all five senses while you are eating it.  Let’s start with the refried beans.  Your first impression is the look of it.  It resembles a steaming scoop of chocolate ice cream that never melts; if anything it grows.  When you smell it, you’ll realize with disappointment that it is not ice cream, as it smells not of cream, but of everything else forged in the cafeteria.  The fact that the refried beans resemble ice cream will give you an experience similar to eating a pizza flavored donut.  As you fork the beans into your mouth and chew, you will become aware of the texture:  lukewarm; gritty in some spots yet mushy in others, like a cold pool with pee floating in it.  Then your tongue does its thing, and taste flavorless beans with a hint of sweat, like the breath of your long-lost uncle who lives in the woods.

Yum!

The only thing I love better than the school’s refried beans is their tacos.  The sight of it is a limp tortilla that is flopped over a spoonful of drab brown meat that’s temperature is fading quickly, like a dying man in freezing temperatures, slitting open his horse and crawling inside as a last resort of warmth.  As you pick up the taco, a long trickle of orange grease spills onto your tray.  Biting the end of the taco off, the meat instantly becomes mush, yet the tortilla remains stiff, breaking like a wannabe nacho.  You grab your “milk”, which is fitted with a straw hole that is impossible to punch through, and flush down the food in your mouth.  Of course, it’ll come back later, but that’s just another reason I love the meal so much.

C4: My First Dear Ben That Unfortunately Did Not Get Published

This is my first “Dear Ben” article.  It didn’t get published, but I figured I could post it on my blog without getting in trouble.

Dear Ben,

As you know, today is Yom Kippur.  My family is Jewish and today is one of the only times in the year I celebrate my religion by wearing a Yamaka.  But kids in school just don’t understand.  They make fun of me and steal my Yamaka.  How can I make the rest of my classmates understand that Yom Kippur is an important day for me without making myself look like an idiot?

-M.S

Dear M.S,

                First off, I just want you to know that you are a very lucky kid.  Out of thousands of letters, I chose you because I think your situation is something everyone can relate to.  The truth is, kids these days are always looking for new things to make fun of.  The best way to handle situations like these is to either laugh it off or ignore it.  Whichever way you choose, just stay confident and don’t play their game.

                Sometimes kids make fun of things because they don’t understand what they are.  Explain to them that you are Jewish, and that wearing a skull cap on Yom Kippur is a normal Jewish tradition.  Be assertive.  Organize an assembly and put together a wicked awesome Yom Kippur slide show with rock music in the background.

                As for the Yamaka itself, I have some tips that might earn you a little less ridicule.  Make your Yamaka a fashion statement.  You don’t always have to go with the traditional plain black.  I found a website, Judaica.com, which sells graphic, patterned, and colored Yamakas.  You may find that a Yamaka can be as cool and expressive as a tee shirt.  But just in case people still try to steal it, I would pack a few extra in my back pocket, just to be safe.

                Finally, don’t be ashamed of your culture.  If people make fun of you, and an explanation doesn’t work, walk away and tell a teacher.  Religious prejudice usually isn’t allowed in schools.  Enjoy your Yom Kippur!

Sincerely,

Ben

C3: The Story of Brian

If you go to Tops, what do you see?  Food, cashiers, shoppers… but one thing that you may not see very often is an employee in his twenties, wearing a “Hello, My name is Brian” nametag, pushing past people and sprinting to the front of the grocery store.  This man, Brian, is what my story is about.

                It all started last summer.  My mom was walking out of tops with a cartful of groceries, when an employee called to her from inside the store.  “Would you like a carry out, ma’am?” said Brian in a slow, droning voice. 

                “No, thank you,” my mom replied.  She walked out to her van, put the groceries in it, and drove home.  It was a normal encounter at Tops.  The next week, as my mom was taking her groceries to the van, Brain asked her again if she would like a carry out.  She politely refused him again.  So far, this is a perfectly normal story.  But then it gets weird.  For the next month, every single time my mom went to Tops, Brian would offer her a carry out, and every time my mom would refuse.  I saw her come from Tops each time more and more exasperated.  She would rant about how Brian KNEW that she wouldn’t want a carry out, and that he wasn’t as stupid as he made himself appear.  So I decided to investigate; I went with my mom to Tops the next week to see if my mom was going crazy.

                As we exited the store, my mom looked around wildly.  Sure enough, Brian came up to us and asked my mom if she needed a carry out.  Mom pushed past him and said in a rude voice, “No!”  As we left the parking lot, I noticed plenty of other people Brain could have helped going past him; some were even old ladies.

                Three encounters later, my mom ignored Brian altogether.  She insisted the dull person he portrayed himself as was an act, and that he was harassing her.  I didn’t buy it.  Until the next week, when my outlook changed dramatically.

                It was raining, and I had accompanied my mom again for entertainment.  As we left the store, my mom told me to hurry up as we powerwalked away towards our van.  I actually thought we had escaped him, but when we were thirty feet away from the van, a slow droning voice pierced the sound of the falling rain. 

                “MA’AM, WOULD YOU LIKE A CARRY OUT?”  We were almost to our van, and he was at the entrance to Tops.  My mom ignored him and kept pushing her cart.

                “MA’AM!  EXCUSE ME, MA’AM!”  I turned around, laughing and slightly shocked.  When he saw me turn around, he began to jog towards us.

                “MA’AM!  MA’AM!”  My mom and I got into the car, genuinely scared, and pulled out of the parking lot.  As we pulled away, it might have been all in my head, but I swear I saw him smile.

                Is this man Brian really who he appears to be?  Is he an innocent, slightly touched boy who works at Tops, or a perfectly intelligent man?  Maybe this whole thing is a power struggle between him and my mom, and he won’t let her say no to him.  I honestly don’t know what to think, but that was the last time I went to Tops with my mom.