First JOURNAL entry

Last Thursday, I had my very last classroom management class EVER! Yes, the year is coming to a close. Monday and Tuesday I'll be in the classroom, observing; Wednesday will be a university day, Thursday will be a field trip to Calloway (sp?) Gardens; Friday will be field day in which I get the honorable task of hosting the ping-pong tournament. I'm actually really excited about Friday. Not so much sweating off all my concealor and trying to pretend that I know what's going on in between times, but giggling at uncoordinated adolescents cursing under their breath when they miss a shot, like I can't hear them.

As I said in previous posts, I'm trying to write more; it's a goal I'm setting for myself this month/year/whatever. Now, obviously it's not working out too terribly well since I've only had two posts in the past two or three weeks, but thankfully I have a little assistance. Last Thursday was a day in which our professor wanted us to bring in visuals. One fellow student brought in a list of journal entries that "work", meaning her students responded positively to them, writing and sharing a lot. Now, some of these prompts I'm not a huge fan of (they don't excite me as a writer), but I'm willing to give them a shot. I would like to write every day, but any self-help guru will tell you that when trying to make lifestyle changes, it is imperitive that you don't set unreasonable goals for yourself. So, the goal I'm making myself will be to post at least three times a week. To help me along will be the following journal entries. I'll post the question along with the entry, so if some random blogger does come across this, in all unlikelyhood, please comment your responses. Or e-mail, I'm not sure if you can, but try:) <--last time you'll see that...I secretly despise text faces, even in the most appropriate of settings.

1. If you could become any item found in Wal-mart, what would you be and why?

Well, when I first saw this question, I immediately thought: bouncy-ball. Easy. They get to hang out in the middle of the aisle in an obscenely large crate with all their bouncy-ball friends. With all the different patterns, colors, sizes, and textures, diversity is not only represented, but cherished. Children (and let's face it, adults) salivate over them. They're inexpensive, uncomplicated, and when used put a smile on everybody's face. Come on, name one time when you've bounced a bouncy-ball and not laughed hysterically. Even the hollow "poing" sounds they make when they hit cheap tile floors is cheerful.

The only problem I have with bouncy-balls is that they're easily disposable. They're kind of like the crack-whores of the toy department. They huddle together in broad daylight, they've all been felt up at least a million times, most of them are disfigured from some kind of rough play. Although their low price tag may be a virtue for the consumer, it sucks for the ball. They become easily disposable, ready in mass quantity. Ready to be bounced for an hour and then thrown up in the gutters/tree/attic/basement/sewer (depending on the size) and forgotton, only to be replaced by another ball, perhaps a more expensive one.

It doesn't stop there. Think about those annoying stickers the seller puts on those things. The ones that declare the toy to be safe for kids 3 and up, the ones that forever brand the ball to be 50 cents (or 99, the economy's pretty low right now). The ones that cannot simply be peeled off -- oh no-- they must be plucked, picked, scraped, sanded, etc. Once said sticker is off they leave a nasty mystery goo. This sticky substance never comes off; it's always there, like a scar that attracts dirt and leaves and whatever other unmentionables might be in the way of its glorious bouncing.

Also, who makes these bouncy-balls? It's not as romantic as how humans are made. As baby bouncy-balls, they're not as cute as puppies or even mice. No, they're mass produced at some smoke and sweat filled factory in China. The (un?)lucky ones are plunked from a quarter machine at a tender age into the sweaty palms of a 14 year old in the grocery store. The ball is bounced in school, inevitably pissing off some teacher, where it then spends its remaining years shoved into a drawer where it is poked with paper clips and busted pens. And you thought your adolescence was hellish.

In conclusion, while being a bouncy-ball might have its virtues, overall it sucks. Hard. Tomorrow, I have to buy groceries. I'm out of toilet paper and am desperate for some sweet tea, plus, I have no breakfasts for the mornings. I am resolved tonight to buy a bouncy-ball at Wal-Mart and give it all the tlc it deserves. I think I might name it Ralph and keep it on my bed (or at least in that vicinity). I encourage all to do the same.

bock-bock-bock.

I think I'm a chicken.

Strike that. I know I'm a chicken.

There have been times in my life when I know I've been brave. I moved out of state without knowing a soul for college. I took Restoration and Early 18th Century British Literature. I've eaten Indian food.

But I'm terrified to get to things I really want. To this day, if someone asked me why I got into teaching, I wouldn't know what to say. The platonic answer I would give is that I want to empower youth and give them the tools they need to be productive members of society, but I can't really let myself believe that this is true. The truth is that I was a sophomore completely out of core classes to bullshit with and I needed a major. Yes, I admit it.

Don't get me wrong, I love teaching now. I love designing lesson plans. I love talking to kids. I love having control of a classroom. I don't, however, love the idea of staying in Alabama for my entire life.

I've come to accept that I probably won't go to England next year as I originally planned. That sucks. A lot. I guess I'll stick it out here and save some money and try not to get sucked into a permanent position. But I'm so terrified that will happen. Bock Bock Bock.

Since I was in high school, my crazy never-ever-in-a-million-years-will-it-happen-not-even-if-I-went-on-Oprah dream has been to work for National Geographic magazine. To go to remote places, travel, put myself into political and social unrest, photograph a rebellion, etc. etc. But I never had the guts to join even my high school newspaper because deadlines and the evil troll who headed the paper scared the living piss out of me. Bock Bock Bock.

When I came to college, an advisor suggested to me that I go into journalism. However, that would mean that I had to write for the Plainsman. The thought of my peers reading my incredibly insightful exposes on the Concourse bricks makes me want to vomit. Bock Bock Bock.

So here I am, finishing up my fourth year as an intern. Although I'm excited about the prospect of graduating and getting a job and an adult salary, I wonder if perhaps I'm being a chicken. It really is too late to turn back, and like I said, I like what I do; I'm good at what I do. But am I playing it safe? Is this what I want?

I've spent so long defending my career of choice, I'm starting to think I don't even believe in it anymore. That scares me. I can't be scared of what I know I'll be doing for at least the next 30 years of my life.

I try to placate myself by dreaming of writing novels or doing free-lance journalism, or moving to England to marry Bear Grylls. However, what's going to happen to me when I realize those dreams are a wasted look at a life I'll never have?

Bock. Bock. Bock.

First Ever Blog

Writing is important.
Writing is thinking.

That being said, I welcome you to my first ever blog.
I admit, internet blogging is one of the lamest past-times ever created. Not because it is mostly bored people yapping about their misinformed political views or their pathetic relationships, but because the words they carefully type into these tiny text boxes are hardly ever read by anyone other than their friends or the douche bloggers that peruse these sites to pick fights from the comfort of their parents' homes.

I'm not writing this for these people. I'm writing this for me. More later...