toyyyys

life is a game worth playing

OMMWRITER

The experience of OmmWriter definitely wasn’t a bad one. I really enjoyed my whole screen having been enveloped in white snow and soothing music. Typing was so free to do. I’ve never had this sort of experience other than when I would play pinball on my old computers that would take over my whole desktop and all you could hear were the synthetic sounds of the ball throwing itself against the walls. The program didn’t correct my obviously misspelled words that were easy to go back to to change, and that part is nice for when you don’t mess up a word but use the wrong word that’s so close to the right. I feel as if I rely on my Word Processor to fix my mistakes when it can’t always do it. The music did remind me of Minecraft but there were others to choose from and they all have that calming feel to them. Honestly I brought the volume down to the minimum so that I could barely hear it but it was still there. Sometimes it was hard not to focus on it. Overall I really enjoyed myself.

Whenever you write, you almost always feel as if someone is going to read it. Even in a diary you write to the journal. In a blog you scribble to your future self. What if we wrote in a way that we were confident no one was going to skim over our twisting and twirling words? Would our letters fall apart at the seams or would they stitch themselves over and over and over? Do you think there would be much of a difference at all? If you were trapped in a forest with a pen and paper, and you wrote to keep yourself sane, would you even want to read what you wrote after? Some autobiograhies are painful. For the writer and reader, it seems. So what happens when you only write for other people and not yourself? Do those words lose meaning when you know you won’t ever have to look at them again? Or do they gain more interest that way? Maybe you didn’t even write to another person in that instance you had to type out why you did what you did on that day you don’t like to think about. Are the words more harsh? Or are they more gentle and soft, quiet like the Christmas mouse? I think that these questions are all subjective. They differ from person to person but in the conclusion that everyone writes to someone a majority of the time.

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ESSAY 2 FIRST PARAGRAPH AND A HALF

That man tried, and let me tell you, he tried hard not to cry. The heart beats in his chest rapidly increased, the sweat from his face fell from his face, and all so far from the abyss of his mind. How painful it was to hear the word that represented him, the word that he used himself to label and describe himself, to be used against him in such a demeaning way. It honestly doesn’t even make sense to use the word ‘gay’ as an insult, for it isn’t one. However using it as so shows that you imply negative ideas connected to the word and it’s orgins. Therefore, not only degrading the person, but all of their origins as well. This man wasn’t even called gay. In fact, someone described something they didn’t like as gay and that’s what impacted him. Although this word has been changed throughout a few centuries and has a pretty solid definition today of homosexuality, it still is used for several different occasions that aren’t the same but similar to everyone, and a lot of the time aren’t appropriate.

My father told me that gay people used to be categorized as mentally ill. The same people with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder were all thrown into the same crazy group of people that were diagnosed by doctors that their brains literally had deficiencies in them, or sometimes too much of something. Maybe my dad was referring to the fact that a lot of the homosexual people you meet have too much fabulous charisma about them. I think that this is a contributing factor as to why the term is used so often negatively.

–I’m not sure if I want to continue with this word because although I feel strongly about it, I’m not directly affected by it so it’s somewhat hard to relate to. I’m worried about my thesis statement and also how many commas I have. I also found this site for a tad bit of research and I don’t really know how to determine how reliable it is. There is an author but I’v never heard of this website. http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2010/02/how-gay-came-to-mean-homosexual/

BEFORE AND AFTER

Before:

In the United States, not all too long ago, it actually was illegal for a man to be bare chested on a beach. Groups of male citizens protested then got what they wanted: uncovered nipples and awesome tans to go along with them. Society has such constricting rules for the droopy bags of fat on a woman’s chests but none upon the stout man whom has twice the amount of breast tissue than most, not because men are superior, but owing to the fact that women’s bodies are objectified. You can see flawless models with sparkling white teeth, smiling and leaning on cars in photos advertising the flashy new sports cars to make them seem even more appealing than they were already. There’s no way that the new Corvette comes with smoking hot babes just waiting for you on the hood of it. That clever advertiser knew that someone out in the country would take the model in the photograph and not think that they would discover gorgeous women with their vehicle purchase, but think that the car looked as amazing as she did when her bum was firmly planted on the glossy crimson paint, immediately wanting one for themselves. The problematic motivation of persuasion is pushed from a director’s mind, to a TV commercial, to inside women’s minds that they must strive to be beautiful.

 

After:

In the United States, not all too long ago, it actually was illegal for a man to be bare chested on a beach. Evidently, groups of male citizens protested then got what they wanted: uncovered nipples and awesome tans to go along with them. Society has such constricting rules for the droopy bags of fat on a woman’s chests meanwhile none upon the stout man whom has twice the amount of breast tissue than most, not because men are superior, but owing to the fact that women’s bodies are objectified. In fact you can see flawless models with sparkling white teeth, smiling and leaning on cars in photos advertising the flashy new sports cars to make them seem even more appealing than they were already. However, there’s no way that the new Corvette comes with smoking hot babes just waiting for you on the hood of it. That clever advertiser knew that someone out in the country would take the model in the photograph and not think that they would discover gorgeous women with their vehicle purchase, but think that the car looked as amazing as she did when her bum was firmly planted on the glossy crimson paint. Of course immediately wanting one for themselves. The problematic motivation of persuasion is pushed from a director’s mind, and to a TV commercial, then to inside women’s minds that they must strive to be beautiful.

REVISION DIVISION

Revising as I write takes too much wasted energy. I must scribble scribble scribble down a draft and go from there. If I have to start over, it’s easier to give up something that took me thirty minutes to write rather than throwing away a well edited paper that I put an hour of my /precious/ time into that doesn’t even relate to the topic in which that was never addressed to begin with. However, even if I find myself painfully perfecting every line of my essay impulsively, then I must do what I have to do: drag that document slowly but surely across the screen to the recycle bin. Whether I screw up severely or not I try not to become embarrassed because I like to think that everyone makes mistakes. However, it hella sucks when I turn in an assignment and I spelled a word wrong and get marked down on it. But come on, you can’t cry over spilled milk– you gotta live and learn! My weakest areas in writing are probably commas and repeating words. To this day I find myself using too many of the words ‘and’ and ‘the,’ and when I’m writing in first person I almost always use too many ‘I’s. I also hate throwing quotes into the blender because its hard to make them smooth and flow with the rest of the paragraph. I don’t always allow myself enough time to give my projects a second look a few days later, yet oh my god is it important to do so. Although I’ve had lucky moments where an essay was perfect the first time I typed it; times like that are as rare as seeing a meteor shower.  Honestly you can’t have revising down to a science. Well, I suppose you could… But tasks like this have to come naturally because forcing yourself to do things step-by-step is not only difficult because of motivation but your mind is going to be at the last memory of yourself eating Nutella from the jar. Also doing the same things over and over is not only boring but repetitive and you’re not going to learn anything new. Which ever way you do it though, you have to. Lets get real; if you put your soul into your writing, don’t you want it to be your best?

AND THEN THERE WAS NONSENSE

Once upon a time there was a little girl in the fifth grade whom sucked at writing. You see, in her elementary school they wanted a head start on showing their kids what middle school was going to be like so they gave them four classes that they would rotate with their classmates to. This particular student had the writing class as her homeroom, and it was terrible. Her teacher was from New York with a thick accent and had that strict and brutally honest atmosphere about her that could scare any young kid. The child missed school sometimes and got left behind in the lectures and her lame writing skills became apparent. The mother of the girl was forced to put her into tutoring with the Brooklyn women that went on to show her the essence of writing and its ways of developing the world. The kid she taught? That was me.

I had a lot of difficulty in writing, however my fifth grade homeroom teacher made it seem like everyone did. She would ask me how crazy I thought it was to learn how to write well, and that someone teaching it had to be insane. For real though she scared the living shit out of me. My fear in her developed and changed into bliss as my attitude in writing did, and she taught me that you have to take risks to get anywhere– in life and in writing. “Writing is a part of life,” she told me countless times. Everywhere you go you must know what neon store signs scream and which way the door tells you it opens. This is reading, but without it there wouldn’t be writing. Putting a mechanical pencil in one hand and an imagination full of Pokemon and the reach of the universe in the other, I truly began to start my journey into storytelling. I loved fiction writing and despised writing about anything in real life. That spirit about me didn’t change until about eighth grade where I began to discover life as more than just breathing and doing. Don’t get me wrong, I was still a sociopathic creature like everyone else in the eighth grade and not some whimsical free spirit yet, but that’s when I truly learned to stop dwelling on things you can’t change. Yes this is when I really started to like graffiti and I do think of it as an important stepping stone in my writing history.

I never wrote on walls, truthfully. I still have the blackbooks full of sloppy and swirling letters that tell stories of my trapped thoughts and opinions. They’re a little bit embarrassing, and I continued to do them for only a few years, but they made me feel amazing. I’d scribble about my problems and stress I was facing. ‘Nonsense’ would be the correct defining word of it all. I wrote about how unfair the government treats their people and how we can change things like this if we all have a voice in harsh, sharp letters using straight-to-the-point words. This was a very negative experience for awhile since I also wrote about my mom with the teenage hormones you absolutely have no control over whilst being thirteen and fourteen years old; my parents had divorced later on inevitably and coping was all the much easier with my dozens of illegible throw ups I could never develop. I didn’t like my tagging though. What I really appreciated were my pieces I drew and the colors I painted them with that were signed by ‘Toy.’ Maybe that isn’t considered writing, but there were words there and the meanings went deeper than the pen could express. Such a bad thing turned into a great thing because it not only was reliving to do, other people would praise me for the gibberish I was drawing and I felt proud of writing for the first time in a long time. Since you have seen that I’ve took a part in graffiti writing, you have all the right to stereotypically assume that I didn’t participate exceptionally in school and didn’t do the work I was assigned very often.

Every essay I’ve ever written in high school was done the night before. Call me an overachiever. Many of my English teachers loathed me because English is super boring and the easiest class to sleep in. I like reading and I actually do enjoy writing but I’ve had a lazy schooling experience and writing a one page essay about Of Mice And Men was not compelling in the slightest. (I’ve been assigned to read that book three out of four years in high school since I jumped around schools.) Junior year’s last essay was done the day it was due in my fourth hour painting class, but it was unhesitatingly my best. I don’t even remember the prompt. Maybe it was about a life changing experience because I wrote about my Diabetes, who even knows.. But I remember how much fun I had writing it. The charisma I had felt in me was warm and bursting, for I was able to tell about a time I learned something very important to me and my life. After it was graded the teacher came up to me after class to inform me that I was a very smart girl. I’ll never forget how special it was, especially since it was coming from someone whom clearly didn’t always appreciate my presence in the classroom. I spent most of my high school career not doing many productive things but at that moment I knew I had actually been evolving in my writing and I was blind to it a majority of the time. Senior year is the year I had the absolute worst English teacher and hence my first blog was created. 

Tumblr is really awesome; I don’t know if you understand this. It’s a thousand times better than wordpress and for more than the reason that this website makes you pay thirty bucks just so that you may choose the color of your text. Last year I wanted to write my thoughts down but not on paper because I still live with my dad and having him discover a journal type of diary could potentially end me. My thoughts don’t have a filter and honestly neither does my mouth but that’s besides the point. I used to only reblog pictures on Tumblr but I then created a private blog to type out exciting adventures I was participating in at the time. I wrote, and still write, my evaluations on situations I live and see and post about a boy I care about a lot and stress my concerns about the things he endures on a daily basis. My friends wouldn’t mind my rambles, for they aren’t judgmental people and all five of them love me unconditionally, but writing it out feels so good and I can go back and see exactly what I was thinking on that specific day. It makes me happy and you should always do the things that make you the happiest.

At home I have my computer, iPad, and my speakers set out on my desk. Music will always play a role in my writing. Not because of the lyrics but because there aren’t any– I love my electronic dance music. The Showtek brothers are my heroes. It gets me pumped and prepares me for writing that is never dull but enthusiastic and allows me to find the things that are hiding in the back of my mind and bring them forth into the light and let them shine.

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YOUR ENERGY RECOILS

i was brutal in the second grade. made two girls cry because i wanted the third girl to be my friend and my friend only. when the teacher would read to us i would lay in this certain spot where that if anyone else sat, i’d push them out of my way surely. i remember quite clearly the time i had lied that my blood sugar was low to get out of class for a walk down the hallways. however, it was certainly a bad idea because then i was always second-guessed when i was in need of medical attention. in second grade i learned that you can’t always get what you want not because you just plainly can’t– but simply because sometimes it’s best not to.

i’ve learned things throughout my life because i misbehaved and made mistakes. never have i ever been discriminated against for my color or for any sort of abnormality i may have. Alexie let us have a walk in his shoes and allowed us to critically analyze his situation. i should be thankful for such insight but honestly i’m not very good at analyzing most things.

people cannot positively appreciate things they don’t understand. humanity pushes away variables that are seen as different. although there are many people with colored skin, they don’t blend in i suppose. they stick out like sore thumbs. it reminds me of how in world war II we took the american-japanese people and put them in concentration camps and not american-germans; /probably/ because although both the germans and japanese were enemies, asian people are much more distinct from the average white american person than europeans are. they were easier to discriminate against. Alexie states and i quote, “As my white friends revived me and prepared to take me to the emergency room where doctors would later diagnose my diabetes, the Chicano teacher ran up to us. “Hey,” he said. “What’s that boy been drinking? I know all about these Indian kids. They start drinking real young.” (Indian Education 57) the teacher clearly didn’t understand the situation and so he had a outwardly negative response to it. i’ve never heard of a stereotype such as indians drinking at a young age, but one incident can lead to an entire racial judgement and thus makes a group of people even more seemingly different.

society puts an emphasis on ‘normality’ when there really isn’t one. everyone has hope to fit in yet push away others who feel the same but don’t meet their own ridiculous requirements that are hard even for them to acquire. i wish i knew why these things occur, but i don’t. if i did i could help promote world peace in ways unlike a trendy hippie tree-hugger does and rid the labels. all people are judged and we all go through our own struggles and until we accept each other just for our souls that make us who we actually are, we will forever struggle with the burden of racism, sexism, and all those things that make the world spin backwards.