2

Besides Planes and

Elevators
By Shane
Farrow

This book is dedicated to 3am and the

hallucinations it has caused.
For without them, none of this would be possible.
And of course, Mark Patricio.

Any similarities between this book and any other are

probably purely coincidental. All events cited in this book
are entirely nonfictional. All details in those events have
been appropriately exaggerated. Persons referred to in
these stories are encouraged to change their names to
avoid possible copyright lawsuits. The author is not liable
 in any way, shape, or form over any damages caused by
creative uses of this book or its components. Ingestion is
not prohibited, but it is strictly discouraged in regions
where you are not a goat. In regions where you are a goat,
the author would like to note that the particular
arrangement of letters has made this book a favorite
amongst the furry and cloven and strongly encourages the
purchase and consumption of multiple copies. All opinions
expressed are those of the
author and completely true by and by.
Thank you.

4
Introduction
This is not a conventional story. There was
never meant to be a plot, and I apologize to those who
have found it- I can only imagine the state of the poor
thing after being so long neglected. Any characters
introduced are to be presumed dead at the conclusion of
the story they appear in. If they recur, see this as merely
a blunder by me the writer, and continue to regard them
as dead. If they are pivotal to the story and they must be
acknowledged, please, again, regard them as dead.
At the end of each year we resolve to drop a
vice and pick up a virtue to head into the New Year.
While it’s by mid-January that we realize why we had
the original preference to the former, the beauty of a
resolution is that we have the entire year to put it off.
On December 31st, 2010, I resolved that I would remain
abstinent for that year, retain sobriety from then on, and
write a book.
I, like most people my age, am 18. Two of those
resolutions may have been lost somewhere in the
transition from half-hearted to apathetic, but, I did
intend to keep at least one of them, and that’s where we
currently are.
This book is a collection of everything I’ve
written in the past year from short stories to speeches. I
will narrate between them in my best effort to offer
context and continuity, but beyond this, I leave you at
the mercy of your attention span. I have never been a
good student, English or otherwise, but I do hope that
you enjoy the book regardless. So sit down, grab a pen,
put it back down, and let me fill your head with the
memories that won’t leave mine.
Chapter 1: The Essays
The most important thing to know about this
section is that each essay, regardless of the content, was
turned in for a grade. Some of them fared very well, but
usually my favorites did not. This is a way for those
particular ones to gain the time in the limelight I
adamantly feel they deserve.
Originally I was going to organize the
documents by the comments they had received:
Inappropriate subject matter would be first, loose
prompt interpretations would be second, foul writing
would be third, etc. Unfortunately, as so many of them
could fall under two or all of these categories, this
becomes impossible.

Prompt: Pick a current problem, and write a

persuasive essay on what changes should
be made to fix it. Be sure to explain the
significance of this issue and be ready to
back up why your solution is effective.

A Humble Suggestion
Shane Farrow

As different forms of media have increased in

popularity in the United States, federal offenses have

become more and more publicized. This has come to

serve two purposes: to inform the public of these

heinous crimes, as well as to desensitize them to it.

While the first objective is admirable in any country

that capitalizes itself on a well-informed society, the

latter presents a potential issue. By desensitizing

possible criminals from the acts they may commit, they

become more likely to offend.

For a solution (or rather a preventative measure)

to be reached, we must specify down to a specific class

of crime. In choosing which tree we alienate, two

factors must be investigated: the correlation between

rising media coverage and a rise in that specific field of

crime and the psychological profiles of those already

convicted.

Sexual offenders are typically impressionable

people- many of those convicted come from

backgrounds of domestic abuse, where strains and

strands seem to follow them into adolescence and

adulthood. However, as many go on to become repeat-

7
offenders, the rehabilitation or deterrent efforts of

prisons seem to be futile. If the individuals who commit

these crimes are impressionable, then the clearest path

is to simply choose a more ‘imprinting’ punishment.

With all facts presented and on behalf of the family of

all victims and the commonwealth of society, I

advocate violent sodomizing for a period of seven hours

prior to a convict’s release if the sexual crimes

committed add up to more than seven years of

incarceration. The medium in which this is to be

achieved will be with the African vuvuzela, (horn first)

as sports fans have unanimously conceded that ‘there’s

nothing worse than having that thing stuck in your

head.’ Perhaps there is something worse, and the

modifications to where the object is specifically stuck

are our best attempt.

There are some that will argue the time length,

the object used, or the action of violate sodomizing in

8
itself as a deterrent, which is why I also intend to

discuss why the three synchronize harmoniously as a

composition.

To justify the furious insertion of African

noisemakers into those convicted of sexual offenses, we

need to look at the primary objective of the criminal

justice system: to protect the commonwealth of the

people, which I intend to prove supersedes the clause

regarding cruel and unusual punishment. That specific

policy was drafted together to give ‘wiggle room’ to

defendants to argue if a punishment dealt is widely seen

as ‘unfair’ or ‘unfit for the specific crime.’ However, I

put forth two specific contentions to preemptively

remove that defense: this punishment would be

purposely crafted so that it did fit the crime the guilty

are convicted of, giving the consequence context, and

secondly, the lack of humanity in these convicts frees

us from having to differentiate between them and beasts

9
when judgment is dealt. And while I stand in the

firmest negation of animal abuse, it is a well-known

fact that to teach a puppy not to go on the carpet, you

rub their nose in it after. Through state-sponsored

sodomizing, I believe this is being correctly emulated.

The final two arguments can addressed together,

as they are both details on the administration, not

objections to the act. To table the time issue, ‘seven

hours’ had come about after mathematical consideration

of the previous analogy. If a puppy’s nose is to be

rubbed in their own mess for two seconds when the

problem itself can be completely alleviated in twenty, it

becomes clear that the rehabilitating punishment should

go on for a fraction of the time it would take for their

impact to subside. However, as sexual assault victims

never fully recover and the average woman lives

beyond it by roughly seventy years, we were at first

convinced that the only effective method of retribution

10
would be to sentence the convict to seven years of anal

invasion instead of the aforementioned seven hours.

But, analysts had come to the conclusion that the

incarcerated bodies would simply begin to form around

that daily stress, removing the effectiveness of it over

time. The time span of ‘seven hours’ was agreed upon

thereafter, the reasoning being that the convicted may

be sporadically assaulted by other inmates in their

incarceration to compensate. And while this is not

directly encouraged by correctional facilities, our board

panel was informed that ‘there was a reason that [they]

have yet to offer ‘liquid’ soap in the showers.’

The vuvuzela as the ‘tool of choice’ was

actually a recommendation from FIFA in hopes that a

better connection would be formed between the U.S

and the sport of Soccer. FIFA correspondent, when

asked why the sudden step was made to aid the U.S's

11
criminal justice program, simply responded with ‘well,

they were meant to be a pain in the ass, anyways.’##

My teacher has a habit of reading essays aloud when

she grades them. This is not necessarily a bad idea-
many people have their own ways of making writing
come alive: Some read over a line a few times to fully
grasp it, and some do cocaine. However, her specific
mannerism has ensured one thing: At some point in the
year 2011, my English teacher has said the phrases
‘anal invasion’ and ‘furious insertion,’ and the thought
entertains me greatly.
This essay was not well-received. As topics on
global warming and starving Ethiopians in midland
Asia took their A’s, mine didn’t. Every effort to
implore why my essay scored so poorly was met with a
glare, latent anger, and the words ‘you know why.’ To
this day I couldn’t tell you. It never was meant to be a
satire. It’s of my humble opinion that all rapists should
be chemically castrated, but instituting a law body to
perform that procedure would be cruel and unusual-
violent sodomy is simply a compromise. The preference
toward African Horns was simply an attempt at global
topicality but these arguments went even less well-
received.
Firm that I needed to find out where the line
was that I had crossed, I resolved that I would try again
on the next essay to find out what exactly went wrong.

Prompt: Compare and contrast the similarities

and differences between Euripides and
Sophocles 'Electra and how they fit to
the overriding function of Greek
Tragedy.

12
Besides Planes and Elevators
Shane Farrow

What separates great literature from the

mediocre is not the number of readers or awards, but

the message it imparts. The most immortalized texts,

from the Holy Bible to works of Shakespeare, attribute

their longevity to their relevance in their readers’ lives.

However, if the inverse proves true, a story (or a genre

completely) that no longer applies to a society has

reached the end of its shelf life. Despite the differences

between Euripides and Sophocles’ Electra, both serve

the function of Greek Tragedy: to create busy-work for

students under the guise of having any remaining

literary significance.

The prominent difference between ‘then’ and

‘now’ besides planes and elevators is the modern

emphasis on individuality. In both versions of Electra,

the characters work to preserve the group identity of

13
family honor, even when it works against their own

interests in the long and short-run. While in

contemporary literature this is present, the portrayal of

that ‘group identity’ is much different. From

Huckleberry Finn to Harry Potter, modern stories rid

protagonists of family or family-like relations in order

to portray the idea that the noblest of characters are

ones that can detach themselves from tragedy and

remain on top. Characters who succumb to revenge are

often punished for it, as was the case of Anakin

Skywalker and Tybalt from Star Wars and Romeo and

Juliet, two of the most cited antagonists in literature and

pop culture. The ‘reversal of roles’ protagonists and

antagonists take when the jump is made from Electra to

more modern works is where the necessity to preserve

it for following generations comes into question. While

the main function of Greek Tragedy is to impart a

14
lesson, the themes they portray are no longer relevant or

glorified in current culture.

The differences between the versions of the text

only create separate ways the yellow-bricked road

weaves itself to modern obscurity; what’s noteworthy is

how these differences do not affect the overall literary

significance of the piece. What denotes literary

significance is its ability to not only leave a feeling with

a reader, but at the same entertains them. The

differences between Euripides and Sophocles’ versions

emphasize different aspects of the characters Orestes

and Electra, but none of the differences are so profound

that they stray from the general, modernly-inapplicable

themes of family honor and glorified revenge. While in

both plays both are punished for their actions, the

audience is guided to sympathize for them, for what

they did was portrayed as ‘just.’ Previously it was

stated why this contradicts current society’s etiquette,

15
but the other variable of literary significance has not

been addressed: the entertainment value. “If Electra

would burn in the seventh level of hell I would not cry,”

was a sentiment shared by high school alumni Greer

Elliot. When student Erin Seger was asked if she had

enjoyed the reading, Erin claimed that ‘she may have,

had she not been required.’ In the current decade,

Electra is often read only for the sake of having

students analyze different factors of it. While this gives

it a purpose, it exchanges its enjoyment factor for that

reason when students are forced to read it. Further,

while Electra does gain a purpose, its one that can be

filled just as easily by modern literature. As Electra

sheds its enjoyment factor and the purpose of being a

dissectible lab-rat isn’t exclusive, Sophocles and

Euripides’ piece does not have a saving grace to explain

its presence in English curriculums as the literary

significance for either no longer exists.

16
 Despite the differences, both versions of Electra

reach the overriding function of Greek Tragedy: to

create busy-work for students under the guise of having

any remaining literary significance. Through

inapplicable lessons to the enjoyment of the piece being

compromised under academic circumstances, Electra is

a piece of work that has reached the end of its natural

life. ##

The title probably sounds familiar. When I

finished this essay, I began to realize that as much as I
hated writing I really loved writing. It was this essay
that cemented me out of Mrs. Parr’s good graces and
into everyone else’s. Another habit that my English
Teacher has would be her knack of ranting about
students to other students. Soon, the essays gained so
much publicity that I would’ve nearly hired her on this
project- had it not been for my deepest wish that she
never finds this book.

It was two weeks before the semester ended that

she made me aware of an impending F. It should’ve
been a greater shock even with my 20-20 foresight, but
when a teacher does all but scowl and crack their
knuckles toward you, bursts of clairvoyance make
themselves available.

The next few essays were written as part of an

extra credit assignment to turn the F for Failing into D

17
for Dgood enough. They aren’t my favorites, but they
served their purpose, and I suppose I owe them a spot in
my vanity project in payment.

Prompt: Your reader is an admissions officer.

Describe a special trait about yourself.

A Big, White Tent

Shane Farrow

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if my

room was preserved now for the exhibition of 3011

museum goers. After my finger stubs have been

successfully chiseled off the keyboard (the A, S, D, F,

J, K, and L keys then polished) and the remains of my

degenerated corpse having been snapped into a more

garbage-bag friendly shape to be brought off premises,

after everything has been sanitized and the water rings

on my desk have been properly restored- after the stains

in the carpet have been brought back to their original

hue and vibrancy with all being done to deodorize the

area, with the lingering smell of pizza serving testament

that even after a thousand years, sterilization isn’t a

18
perfect science. When my room is made more

presentable than it had been for the past 1018 years and

my possessions having been properly placed and

plaque’d, I wonder what these viewers would think. I’m

sure the technology in animatronics must have made

leaps and bounds in the following millennium and the

likeliness between me and my cold, heartless, plastic

doppelganger would be downright uncanny. And while

the few choice phrases its been programmed to

regurgitate will be fairly representative of the extent of

my dialogue, I can’t help but feel that there will be

some details the vaguely-uninterested school children

of 3011 will miss about me. I can already imagine what

one of the information cards will read:

ELONGATED STRINGS INSTRUMENT ‘Guitar’

[gi-tahr]

Six-string instrument in which tone and pitch can be varied by the

user’s less-dominant hand’s placement on the ‘frets.’ Popular

among teenagers in the 20th and 21st century.

19
 Predecessor to today’s modern Xjikclisihh.

But what the little Tom, Xjergkhfsd, and

Harry’s won’t know is how that damn thing almost

became the death of me, and very well might have if the

lack of air in the preservation chamber hadn’t been.

There are few things in this World (and

probably the World in a thousand years as well) that I

have trouble doing, and the majority of them revolve

around ovulating and breathing in a sealed

environment. But one talent I’ve never been able to

master is how to properly strum the six-stringed Satan.

The viewers of 3011 will never know of my bleeding,

calloused fingers or the streams of expletives that were

hardly ever made unintelligible by the amplifier’s

whine (To an uneasy amusement from the neighbors) or

the denying, the crying, the bartering, and the

threatening that the guitar has endured. What they will

assume is that, like most people who own more than

20
one of the same instruments, I can play well, and I’m

more than happy with the future misinformation.

But what they also won’t know is how even when I

snapped a string, I made sure to have the damn thing

fixed by the next day so I could try again.

Because if there is anything that I’m trying to

specifically indicate to you, the admissions officer, is

that I don’t get discouraged by failure. Every strike,

flaw, and frustration will have me cursing like a

Catholic, but I’ll be redoubling my efforts despite it.

Maybe it’s an ego thing. The viewers of 3011 will look

around my room and probably first notice the trophies

and medals from speech and debate and theater and

think ‘wow, that guy sure was good at talking. I wonder

if I could’ve done that before vocal communication was

replaced by telekinesis.’ And frankly, I thought the

same thing when I went over to alumni’s houses to

practice. They were great and I wasn’t- but I wanted to

21
be, and I bent over backwards and went through a

thousand failures before I finally got there. And while

I’m making very little progress on my guitar, it is

progress. And when the new millennium of six-year

olds come in my room to hear plastic me go on about

the oppression of minorities in the 20th century or

medical advances in 2051, or just put their grubby, little

paws over everything I’ve owned, I hope that when one

of the ankle-biters grabs my guitar, somehow they’ll

know, that a thousand years ago, I was damn good. ##

“The robotic suffrage movement in the late half

of the 21st century was wicked sick, brah.”

Prompt: Think of an everyday issue that people

face, and write a persuasive essay
attempting to change how people look at
or deal with that problem.

Some Things Are Better Left

Unwritten
Shane Farrow

There is no calm before the storm when a writer

is unhinged from their Muse. When their lips are

22
dislodged from the teat of self-motivation, suggestions

to overcome it are often taken as unwarranted criticism.

After all- if they can’t think of a continuer, how can

anyone else?

This whining is hardly exclusive to just writers,

but our sector does have a specific name for the dried-

up fountain we’re so keen to blame our inadequacies

on. From descriptions given in the old lore of past

Twitter updates, angsty livejournals, and ‘About the

Author’ sections in C-List books, Writer’s Block comes

in several delicious flavors with the most common

being a concept that won’t conjugate into written

thought.

And as a writer myself, my only response is

‘Thank God.’ Despite the campaign second grade

teachers across the world have supported all these

years, not everyone’s a special snowflake, and even

23
from those of us who are, not all of our thoughts are

particularly amazing.

Writer’s Block is going to be the only thing

throughout your career as a writer that’s going to force

you to read your own writing without the rose-tinted

shades we grab whenever we have to criticize

ourselves. So much of our time will be spent on finding

the silver phrasing or quirky tone that any creeping

feeling in our mind that might dare to suggest revision

is violently expelled and branded like an adulterous

whore as counter-intuitive to the creative process.

Unfortunately, most people fail to realize that the

scarlet letter ‘A’ in this case stands for ‘Asset.’

Creativity and Writer’s Block are so often

pitched as opposing forces that any merit the latter has

is disregarded. The reason why pauses sprout between

your words and the backspace button occasionally

begins to call out your name frantically is because you

24
stopped to think about what you’re writing and what it

means. If you can learn to look at your own words

objectively, forget the Greek, the Lever, and the

Fulcrum; you can move the World. ##

I ended up passing, which is why the original

draft of this book is in a Word document on my
computer and not the library’s. But, the experience did
teach me a little about myself. I’m more than able to
write to any audience. I’m more than able to entertain
and inspire, to provoke thoughts and paint pictures. I’m
more than able to write by the numbers, take the A, and
wear a title other than ‘smart ass.’ In the process of
learning this though, I also realized I wouldn’t be half
the writer I am if I ever did what the last sentence said I
was capable of. I’ll reiterate what I said in the
introduction: There’s no plot or other form of purpose
in this book. But, if you are to take out any form of
moral, let it be this: There’s nothing fun about safe.

Relatedly, let’s talk about trashcans. Trashcans

serve primarily one purpose, but occasionally a new
one can arise. One such purpose would be serving as
the centerpiece of one of the more amazing stories I’ve
heard.
Let’s stop talking about trashcans and start
talking about that. I have a friend. Let’s call her Kim
Gosnell- because that’s her name. Now, my high school
had a fundraising program; we would house Austrian
exchange students, and the theatre department would
receive a nice grant for it. Every January, we would be
hassled into adopting a faux-German for a week so that

25
the department could get their payment. On one
campaign, our theatre teacher, Mrs. Hall, asks that one
of us share an experience from the year before to
combat the deafening apathy. Instantly, Kim’s hand
shot up.
I’d like to take a pause in this story to allow
you, the reader, to brace for the story that still echoes
within all that were present.
Kim’s hand shot up.
“OK, so like, this one time, we had these
Austrians. And they were like, where’s the-” (At this
point Kim is waving her arms to form some kind of
object) “And I’m like, do you mean ‘trashcan?’ And
they’re like, ‘yeah.’”

The rest is silence.

26
 And then we all started laughing really, really
hard. However, Kimi mistakenly took our cheers as
sarcasm.
To try and make it up to her, we would
constantly ask her to tell us the story again. Whether it
be in the halls, whether it be in class, whether it be in
the middle of a scene, “Hey Kim, tell us the trashcan
story” was our best effort to show her that deep down,
we really appreciated it.
But then she nearly killed us. Not in the ‘if you
take a bit of pizza I’m going to kill you’ way, but the
‘she nearly ran us over with her car on a dark and
stormy night.’
Let’s stop talking about the trashcan story and
start talking about that. I have a friend. Let’s call her
Kim Gosnell- because that’s her name. On the night of
a storm, my friends and I (Kim Gosnell included) were
talking idly, hoping that if the power went out we
wouldn’t have to attend school the next day.
In a pause of our conversation, I humbly
suggested that Kim enlighten us about the trashcan
story. Daggers. Kim stood up immediately and walked
out the front door. All of us looked around. Our faces,
once eager to hear her contribution again, were now
twisted in fear. She was upset, and it was storming
outside. Plus, she was half of our rides.
Three of us (me included) rushed after her. By
the time we got outside, she was already climbing into
her car.
“Kim, we’re sorry we didn’t mean it.”
“Yea, Shane’s a jerk, come back inside.”
“Yea, we want to hear the trashcan story.”
At this point, let me introduce you to the
characters in reverse-order of dialogue. There is me,
Chris Ohlin, and, as I didn’t get permission to use his
name, Thing 2.
Kim revs her engine. We continue to plead. Kim
revs again. We begin to beg. She revs her engine once
more. We sit on the top of the front of her car and this
marks mistake number one. Kim floors the gas.
I apologize again to interrupt the story to clarify,
but it makes things all the easier. Newton’s first law of
motion is that an object in rest will stay at rest unless
acted upon by an outside force. Like a Mercedes.
I could go on to explain the science of why we
were flattened on the windshield after the car was
already in motion by talking about the finer points of
acceleration, but suffice it to say we feared for our
lives.
“Kim! Stop the car!” cried Thing 2, hanging
loosely to the left windshield wiper.
“You’re going too fast! Let us off! Please Kim,
I’m sorry!” Chris Ohlin stated mildly.
“Aaaagh!!” I added.
But our shouts fell on decidedly-deaf ears. And,
as she sped down the cul-de-sac and turned with the
curve of the street, Thing 2 fell off the car. And, from
what I thought from my position on the middle of the
hood, underneath it as well.
“Omigod, you killed Thing 2!” We, the
remaining passengers yelled, pounding the windshield.
I mentioned earlier that it was raining. It still was.
Kim rounded the top of the street and Chris and
I, who had done our Hail Mary’s and repented for
whatever sin we had committed to land us in this
position, jumped off the sides of the car.
In hindsight, that sin may’ve been the
purposeful dismissal of common sense. But, I digress.

28
 We jumped off the sides of the car and landed
safely. Having forsaken Thing 2 as lost to us, we ran
after the car.
To be honest, the details are blurry as soon as
our lives were no longer in danger. Maybe Kim turned
the car around to make sure her justice was exacted. I
don’t remember. From what Chris and I found out:

1. Thing 2 ended up being alright. But he was

angry at us for not checking on him,
especially when we told him we thought he
fell under the car.
2. Kim was crazy. Chris ended up dating her
for six months after that.
3. Jumping on the top of a car isn’t smart or
safe.

There are two morals to this story. First and

foremost: denim does not have grip. If you’re going to
jump on the front of a car, wear shorts. Secondly, don’t
ever ask Kim about the trashcan story unless adult-
supervised.
The original purpose of this story was to fit the
theme ‘life is about making risks to get ahead.’ But, as I
began to tell it, I realized that we didn’t think we were
taking a risk, and we really didn’t gain anything out of
the excursion beyond motorphobia.
But, it does allow me to segue into the next
chapter, which talks about a few of my friends. And it
allows me to talk on a few of my regrets.
But, I repeat myself.

29
 The
Chapter 2:
Monologues
Welcome to Chapter 2. It’s very similar to
Chapter 1 in that the much of the context of the pieces
are forged for entertainment value.
A few weeks before I started compiling this, I
changed my status on ©Facebook™ asking for people
to give me a person, place, or thing and I’d write a
monologue from its perspective. These were the results.

Monologue 1
Shane Farrow

Idea: Mark Patricio

Prompt: Mark Patricio
Title: Mark Patricio
Motivation: You’re Mark Partricio

What's in a name? Letters.

My name is Mark Patricio. MARK as in 'mark it

down so you don't forget it' and Patricio as in

'Mark Patricio.' You know, people have told me,

"Mark, I love you," or "Mark, you're awesome."

And you know what I tell them?

"You're damn right."

Every day I tire endlessly trying to be the man I

am so that no other man can be that man. Not

you, not you, and certainly not you.

You know, this reminds me of the time I was

enjoying dinner with the Obamas. (He was a

man that became the man I am. It was only for a

weekend, but I think the results speak for

themselves)

Anyways, it was a casual meal, just one

President to another. And he said to me, "Mark,

I'm faced with upcoming re-elections and I'm

being attacked by pundits and news stations on

both sides. What should I do?" So I took his

hand, smiled, and just told him to do what he

needed to do, and I gave him special permission

to become the man again who became the man

that I am.

31
 And like that, World poverty was resolved,

AIDS disappeared, and Sarah Palin returned to

Alaska to rest and feed.

And so he looks up to me, still holding my hand,

and says "Mark, I love you."

And so I said, "You're damn right." ##

Mark’s an interesting guy. To give you a little

background on him, he is the President of my school’s
drama department and an all-around cool guy. He
hasn’t actually had lunch with the Obamas to be
perfectly truthful.
They do have an appointment though for this
summer.

Monologue 2
Shane Farrow

Idea: Monique Marmon

Prompt: A Rusty Paperclip
Title: Mark Patricio
Motivation: You’re a very arrogant little man.

I am everything you wish to be but are not. I am

flexible. I am useful. I am effective. And I

bronze well.

I don't have my own name because I don't need

32
my own name. Unlike your pansy-@$$, I don't

need to validate myself with one.

I hold $%&* together. I'm a god$^&! paperclip.

You may have heard of me. I wouldn't be

surprised. I'm pretty well-known around these

parts- and by that I mean everywhere. Unlike

my dead-beat cousin staple, I'm reusable. Most

people can't find jobs in this economy? If I'm

taken off a case, I'm put right the !#$% back on

an even better one within the hour.

I am diligent. I don't get stuck down by the

obligations, temptations, expectations, and

hesitations you carbon-based, sentience-

wielding meatbags all seem to be plagued with.

Need to keep things together? I'm your guy.

Want to get your papers organized but not

damage the stationary with my aforementioned

cousin? Get me on that &*%$. A door needs to

33
 be lock-picked? Sean Connery doesn't go

anywhere without at least ten of me. Need to

make an S-shaped necklace? -Loser.

Anyways, me and my bro foldback clip are

gonna get wasted at The Letterhead. We're

talking 2" indentations- if you know what I

mean. Peace. ##

Once upon a document on one of my older

computers, Clippy, Microsoft Word’s office assistant,
popped up, asking if I needed help. Being vaguely-
competent, I told him no. The amount of passive-
aggression I received was astounding.
“It looks like you’re trying to write a letter.”
“I guess if you think you don’t need help...”
“Are you sure?”
As animated office supplies go, Clippy provided
too much sass. So I imagined, ‘what if Clippy actually
spoke his mind, and told us all what he’s been holding
back all these years?’

Monologue 3
Shane Farrow

Idea: Brynn Johnson

Prompt: ©Facebook™
Title: Mark Patricio
Motivation: Introducing yourself at an AA-like
meeting place.

34
Hi everyone. My name is ©Facebook™, and

I'm an alcoholic.

Whenever you 'like' something, I die a little on

the inside. You know that, right? I-I-I used to be

a 'somebody' you know? I was 'special.' I was

‘exclusive.’ You couldn't get on me unless you

were a Harvard student. Yea, I used to have

pretty high standards. But then I slipped. I

needed a better fix. Sure, first it was just one

other network. Then it was the entire Ivy

League. I felt used- but I just needed the

attention so I'd let people just drop in for a good

time. But I had to keep going. There was

something wrong with me. Soon, I NEEDED

more. Suddenly, it was more than I could

handle. People were all over me. I don't know

where I went wrong. I saw all my friends-

©Myspace™, ©Friendster™, ©Youtube™-

35
 they were all doing it. They could handle it, why

couldn't I?

Every day these people would take and take and

take. They'd tell me about their problems, but

would they listen to mine? Not even once. And

they'd open up chat talk right over me- like I

wasn't even there.

I started drinking a few months ago. Just to let

the edge off. Sure I've gotten a little slower, and

my interface has deteriorated, but at least I'm

happy. Right. I'm happy? I 'like' life? Oh God,

all I really want is someone to 'like' me. ##

Of things I’ve written, this is probably one of

the more depressing. Is alcoholism funny? Not really. Is
the idea of ©Facebook™ succumbing to alcoholism
funny? It shouldn’t be. But ‘should,’ as I remember
vaguely from debate, is a word that deals with ethical
dichotomies. They ‘should’ leave baby seals alone.
They ‘should’ increase the budget for public education.
They ‘should’ do these things, even if the other side has
ground to justify itself, because these things are morally

36
correct. You ‘should’ be appalled by the trivialization
of alcoholism.1

Monologue 4
Shane Farrow

Idea: Alex Pinter

Prompt: American stereotypes
Title: Mark Patricio
Motivation: You’re afraid of everything to your left.

I think I've become a communist.

See, I got a bad cut, but it didn't bleed. Just a

thin, clear liquid came out instead. Just like the

commies. See, Americans bleed red, white, and

blue (mostly red) while gays bleed black

bubbling pitch, Mormons acid, and communists

bleed a water-fluid since they aren't really

human.

Well, truth be told, none of the aforementioned

four are human, but you get the point.

Russians and Chinese bleed blue though- I have

1
Shane’s Fun-Tip: Between you and your friends, guess how many
times the word ‘should’ was used in the last five pages. The
difference between your guess and the actual number is how many
shots you have to take!
37
 a chart somewhere. But my main issue is I think

I'm turning communist.

I've done what you would normally do to revert

back to an American Capitalist; I've made fun of

poor people and watched FOX News on high

fuel emission LCD Screen, but still, I remain

anxious.

I tried driving around the city in a Hummer with

the heater and AC blasting, shouting my beliefs

out of the window to enlighten my fellow

countrymen, but still I worry.

I even pondered about offing illegal immigrants

to lighten my spirits, but I was dissuaded by the

socialistic Feds.

I haven’t begun to crave giving up competition

and innovation in the workplace, but I’m just

telling you, I’m a little worried. ##

There were many routes I could’ve taken this

prompt down- many of them racist, sexist, prejudiced,

38
and whatever it’s called when you’re prejudicial to
gays. So I tried to go down all of them. Unfortunately I
wasn’t able to put in any sexist jokes. My friend Emily
after reading it suggested a few options, but I couldn’t
hear her over her lack of a Y-chromosome.

Monologue 5
Shane Farrow

Title: Mark Patricio

Motivation: You work a telephone and a desk.

Hello, this is the afterlife customer service desk,

please hold. Hello, Mr. Johnson from Little

Tree, what seems-,

Ah, Ms. Johnson from Little Tree. I apologize,

the card said-

You want to speak with my superior? Hah,

don’t we all-

No no no no, that can be arranged, he’s just

really busy. The whole Genesis project just

seems to take up a lot of his time. You know-

maintenance and all.

39
Yes, I understand that you understand that he’s

busy and you have a complaint, but so do most

people-

No, I’m sure your complaint is very justified

and grounded and we recently got an 800

number I could suggest- -CLICK-

Afterlife Customer Service Desk, this is Craig

speaking.

No, we don’t offer shuttle service to New York,

or any kind of shuttle service-

You want me to check.

I’m almost positive-

Alright, yeah I’ll check right now.

No, apparently we don’t offer shuttle service to

New York.

Yes, I did ask.

You didn’t hear me because I whispered.

Hold on, I gotta another call.

40
 Hello, this is the afterlife customer service desk.

No, I’m not interested. I also don’t think you

could enlarge it to twice its size. No. Jesus

Christ-

No no no no, it’s not for you.

How did you even get this number?

Wait, hold on, I gotta take this.

Hello, this is the afterlife customer service desk,

Craig speaking. How can I help you? ##

I wonder how data-roaming works in heaven. Or

long-distance calls. And for Mormons- do their family
package deals still apply if they divorce before they
pass away or are the contracts still active? I should drop
‘Craig’ a line.
Writing dramatic monologues are hard. There
are several available topics- famine, death, disease,
rape, pestilence, war, gas prices, and all the seven
deadly sins. But, even with everything from amputees
to orphans at the ready, I find it hard to write a good
dramatic piece. While tragedy has come in many
different colors and flavors, thankfully it hasn’t enough
to let me write realistically about any of those topics.
So, my definition of a dramatic monologue is a
monologue that isn’t a comedic monologue. As more
friends of mine get struck by lightning and trains and
build up a larger pool of tragedy for me to work off of

41
I’m sure my pieces will evolve accordingly. But,
monologue 6.

Monologue 6
Shane Farrow

Title: Mark Patricio

Motivation: You’re scolding your cat after you found
out it’s been selling your records behind
your back.

I’m not real? I’m not real? I never thought about

it. Your thoughts, your doubts; those are real.

Your missed obligations, your failures, (laughs)

the little things that make you human? I am the

composition.

I am your confused hate when your best friend

captures the heart you couldn’t. I am the cold

depression that settles in your heart when you

see them together. Oh, but I’m not alone in

there. Pride, envy- lust? (laughs) I’ve beat

around in the minds of alcoholics, but that little

cocktail right here? Truly to die for.

42
 I’m sadistic? (Pause) I am sadistic, and

look at the two of us: Who’s happier? You live

in a World so worried about being polite, so

worried not to step on the ankle-biters or the

lethargic or the undeserving, so- conceited. A

society bound by chains of political correctness

and false modesty. A society of sad people. A

society where I, the sadist, am king. I am

Beelzebub; the Lord of the Flies- the devil.

Personally yours. Am I not real? It wouldn’t

make much difference, would it? ##

I’m doing my very best not to make this a

soapbox, so this behind-the-scenes part will be a bit
vaguer. We all get upset sometimes over small things-
sometimes dumb things or things out of our control or
anyone’s control. But we still get mad about them.
That’s kind of where my head was when I wrote this.
Or where it was after I wrote this- it’s entirely possible
that I was just on a Fight Club buzz. But it does lead to
a common theme us all address; we all get mad at
people even if the cause isn’t all there.
Let’s talk about Chris and Hannah. They have
broken up and gotten back together several times. Now,
during their third season finale, Hannah’s father walked
in on the two having relations.

43
 By third season finale, I mean they broke up
twice before, with both families more than aware of
each. By Hannah’s father, I mean a big, scary
fundamentalist. And of course, by having relations I
mean having sex. Let’s go back to the story.
From what was described to me, there was a
calm before the storm. As if the dad was slowly putting
everything together. Unfortunately for Chris, Hannah’s
dad was a quick study. There was a yell, initiated by the
father then followed by Hannah’s scream that joined in
a la fortissimo. Lastly joined Chris, who covered the
bass of the trio. This probably lasted for five minutes.
The band soon broke up.
Hannah’s father had no reason to be upset. Both
Chris and Hannah were 18 and consenting, and as he
could plainly see, practicing safe-sex. But, with the
swiftness he peeled Chris off, the zeal behind the
tackle, and the rage that was assumed when he threw
Chris’s naked body into the opposite wall, Hannah’s
father was clearly upset.
From Chris’s description of this man, my first
instinct would’ve been to curl up in a ball and play
dead. Chris opted to run, which was wise- until the
issue of him being phoneless, miles from home, and
largely unprotected from the rain that had started to
pour was put into consideration.
I would like to put a point of order in to make
sure I’m not misconstrued. By ‘largely unprotected’ I
mean he was mostly naked. By ‘mostly naked’ I mean
that he was still wearing protection. In that sense it
forms a circle, but the irony did little to amuse my
friend Chris.
He ended up alright. Chris managed to get home
and tell us all the story later that night. While we found
it hilarious and worthy of recounting- Hannah’s father
didn’t. Which makes me wonder what exactly makes

44
him upset. If Chris was sleeping with his wife and not
his daughter, then of course there’s an understandable
degree of ill-will he may have because there’s a broken
vow there, and from a evolutionary standpoint Chris
would be robbing her father an opportunity in the gene
pool. This doesn’t apply to his daughter. At least, we
hope it doesn’t.
The point I’m trying to make is that the sport of
daughter-reaming doesn’t negatively affect the father.
Yet when Hannah’s dad walked in on them playing
naked tag w/ tagbacks, the result was very funny, but
very unfortunate for all persons involved.

“It’s too bad he didn’t just join in. Anyways,

sorry about that, talk to you later.”
-Mark Patricio, on the phone to Chris

Needless to say, this had nothing to do with my

monologue. I needed a medium to archive prove I have
friends. The grandparents worry sometimes, and
hopefully reading this will put them at ease. About me
not having friends. The kind of people my friends are
and the things I’ve admitted to in these pages are
bridges to cross. Or to jump off, depending. I suppose I
should do everything in my power to make sure this
isn’t read by my English teacher or my grandparents.
With the former I’m assuming illiteracy. However, my
grandfather is an avid reader, so I suppose I should
hope that this is never put into large print. Or gets
nominated for Oprah’s book club or becomes printed in
Denny’s Sunday Menus. If I could fit in a joke about
social security as well I would, but there really is
nothing funny about communism.

45
Chapter 3: The Fanfics
Welcome to Chapter 3. It’s very similar to Chapter 7 in
that there isn’t one.
Chapter 4: The Speeches
Welcome to Chapter 4. It’s very similar to
Chapter 2 in that there is one.
One of the things that did get me interested in
writing was speeches. Despite very little being done or
even said, people go nuts when
GREAT.
EMPHASIS.
IS PUT ON THE
RIGHT WORDS,
when they’re followed by a hushed tone of voice to imply
sincerity.

When I paired that with my background in

Theatre, I did well on our school’s speech and debate
team. In this chapter is a speech I gave at a State
Tournament. Then there’s a lot of filler-stuff for word
count.

The Man in the Mirror

Shane Farrow

I look around, I look around. I see a lot of

familiar faces. I have no doubt that today I’ll be

learning about several socio-economic and political

issues I otherwise wouldn’t have been bothered to look

into. I also expect most of these problems to be tagged

with a one-liner that tells me if we all work together we

can change the World for the better. Well, I’m going to

take a different approach here. I look around the room

and see about thirty people. Now, according to Turning

Point News, about 75%, or about 8 of you have been

depressed in the last five months. Ten percent of you

have been extremely depressed. For the sake of the

speech, I’m going to make that you. So here’s my

question to you. Why? Why would you be depressed?

The economy’s getting better, America is still its own

status quo, and medical advances means we’re going to

be around a lot longer to wade in our egos. I’m still

waiting for that answer.

Society never changes. We adapt to our

problems, we move forward, but to be honest, I think

we’re about as happy as we were fifty years ago, a

hundred years ago, a hundred and fifty. And, ladies and

gentlemen, I’ve found the cause. We’re so bent on

48
following the tried and true method upward that we

tend to forget the beauty of the damn mountain to begin

with.

When I was about ten, one of my stepfathers

dropped me off in front of my school in the mornings

and always said that ‘this was the first day of the rest of

[my] life.’ Back then I got the gist of the adage, but

ultimately the meaning I saw behind it was that he was

trying to fill a role that he figured I needed to have and

he needed to be: a father. In my eyes, he never rose

above the rank of a paternal hallmark card, but it’s now

that I really found the silver lining of the phrase where

the pearls of wisdom were stitched in. It’s never too late

to put yourself on the track you want to be on.

Every day billions of people go about from

point A to point B and putting in seconds, minutes, and

hours as if they were the cab fare to get between these

places.

49
 Their incentive isn’t emotion or reason, but

what’s almost become primal instinct. We’re told four

things when we’re growing up: Sit down, shut up, don’t

put that in your mouth, and keep your arms and legs

inside the vehicle at all times.

And you know, people take this to heart. Dr.

Marc Miller of Berkley wrote in one of his essays that

people are “miserable at work or in a relationship, but

they’re afraid to change anything because of a fear of

failure.” But, why blame them? I mean, when they drop

those four commandments on us, they also give us a

nice little taste of the future we could be part of.

By leading your life according to these

parameters, you’re told that everything will turn out

alright. You’ll do well on the test if you study. Your

grades will be fine if you do well on that test. You’ll get

into college if you’re grades are fine. You’ll get your

dream job if you get into college, and once you get

50
there, you’ll finally be happy. You’ll find a nice guy, or

a nice gal, you’ll settle down in some low-crime

neighborhood with a good school district, pop off a few

kids, and hope your spawn will do better than you did

because deep down you feel that twinge of ‘what if’

slowly killing you inside. You stop seeing the old adage

‘may you live an interesting life,’ as a curse, but begin

to see ‘may you find what you’re looking for’ as the

worst one of all. In the words of John Whittier,

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these; it might have been!

I’ve been down a well-beaten path. I’ve played

it tame, mild, predictable. I even tried to put the all the

BS under a rose-tinted microscope to find the silver

lining. The lenses only really got dirtier, but the picture

grew clearer. Happiness has never been nor ever will be

objective and no one knows what will make you happy

better than you do.

51
 To terribly paraphrase the very late Henry

Thoreau, ‘a life is wasted if it falls into the grooves of

unwanted familiarity.’ Frankly, I agree. I think

everyone in this room that wakes up at six every

morning to work on things we find tedious and

meaningless would agree as well.

We all have responsibilities. We all have things

we need to do because ultimately it is teamwork that

makes the World a better place. But how you live your

life between your obligations is what you have the

ability to change if you’re not afraid to take that risk.

The risks are going to be taken anyways. The only

difference is that they’ll be made for you by other

people if you give them that opportunity.

And they don’t know what you want. They’ll

tell you the path your taking will lead you to the Garden

of Eden where the fruit grows and the snakes talk. Well,

52
they are right. The fruit grow, and the snakes do talk.

But it’s not just sweet nothings they whisper.

Find what you want to do, and work toward that

goal. Swim again the stream if you have to, because

those who don’t end up much farther down the creek

than where they wanted to get off.

To my peers, the past fifteen, sixteen, seventeen

years haven’t just been practice and deep down you

know that. College isn’t going to be a jump across the

chasm from ‘doesn’t count’ to ‘it actually matters.’

That ticker started a while back.

To you, sir, I know you’re not extremely

depressed. You might not regret your choices even a

little bit and this speech is completely irrelevant. Maybe

the only saving grace is the irony of a seventeen year

old giving you advice on how to live your life.

I might be right though. I still don’t think we’re

any happier than we were hundreds of years ago. But

53
what is different about today is that we have so many

more opportunities to chase after, and it’d be a damn

shame if we ignore them out of the fear of failure or

whatever the cocktail of insecurities is stirred up of at

that time. Because between me and all of you, screw

Archimedes and his lever and fulcrum, if you can face

yours fears and take the leap of faith, you can move the

World.

The beaten path won’t be your ticket to a happy

ending; your decisions will be. Many of you are going

to fall into the grooves of unwanted familiarity, and

maybe it’s because you’re masochistic and find solace

in your own discomfort, or you became trapped down

by the obligations, hesitations, temptations, and

expectations of a younger self, and for that I

sympathize. Just remember: Tomorrow is the first day

of the rest of your life. ##

The most difficult part of at the tournament

wasn’t delivering it in front of crowds, wearing a suit in

54
90 degree weather, or paying the 150% markup for the
food the hosting school costs. The most difficult part of
the tournament was creating an answer whenever
someone said ‘oh, what’s your speech about?’ Self-
improvement? Self-respect? Individualism. I took to the
habit of telling people that it was actually about them-
an improvised life-story of whoever is currently
listening. To this day I wish I had the time left to
actually do this.

Should The Federal Government

Allow Financial Incentives for
Organ Donation?
The Affirmative
Ladies, Gentlemen, we’re here today to talk

about blood, guts, flesh, and hope for a brighter

tomorrow.

Becoming an organ donor has been seen as one

of the most altruistic acts a human being can perform.

And, as such, less than 25% of Californians have. 79%

have said they’d be willing to consider it, and, as such,

less than 25% of Californians have.

Let’s talk about blood and guts of it all.

Currently we have three hundred million people dying

55
in the United States alone. Some faster than others. A

hundred thousand of them are awaiting an organ

transplant. This year, only ten percent are going to get

theirs, and a third of them are going to die waiting in

line. The other 56.666% will remain in limbo until next

year, where they’ll hope for better luck.

Whether that luck is a slew of car crashes or a

government policy change, that’s what’s we’re debating

today.

What we as the affirmative advocate is that we

allow a regulated market to exist for living donations.

Really, the benefits of one are pretty implicit.

The shortage shrinks, possibly disappearing altogether,

more people will live, and even if organs end up costing

an arm and a leg, according to Alex Tabarrok,

considering the cost of sustainment machines, money is

still being saved when financial incentives are offered.

56
 Of course as soon as I said market, the pens hit

the paper because no one likes the idea of making a

market out of people, if only the sum of their parts.

Our first point is that the boat sailed from the

harbor a good thirty years ago. Ever since the idea of

organ transplants became clinically possible, people

have taken advantage of others. This hasn’t slowed

down, and its become one of the scariest black markets

that exists in society. While the recipients are getting

their organs, the donors, are being gutted out. The

allowance of financial incentives means that a system

that actually cares about the sellers can and will exist.

Between the National Kidney Foundation’s lobbying to

have all costs to the donor covered and the existence of

the national registry to organize it to the point where the

CHASSA league would be downright jealous- 2 a

2
This is the forensics league of California. It’s run very
inefficiently.
57
combination that ensures that no donor gets screwed

over is more than possible.

Our second point, while we did concede that it

will be the people in need of money that will be

incentivized, this is a good thing, because that means

they have the most room to benefit. Giving the poor the

ability to cash in on human capital can sound heartless,

but tell that to people who have mouths to feed and

aren’t able to make ends meet. For someone who only

makes a few grand a year, $20,000, or however much a

kidney or liver lobe will go for is a godsend, as well as

that kidney or liver will be to a patient.

The idea that people are forced into decisions

because of their economic situation and have to

compromise their personal preferences does sound bad.

But when you consider how many times this occurs in

life with people having to choose community college

over private universities, motels over hotels, food over

58
cable, or premature dismissal over continued kidney

dialysis for the hopes of a donation, you begin to realize

that this is a problem that exists everywhere in society.

What a market for organ donation can do at the very

least is give people in need, be it financially or

medically, hope.

Because financially-incentivizing organ donors

will lead to more saved lives, cheaper expenses for the

government and the patient, and more

acknowledgement of the autonomy that the poor as

citizens should be recognized of having, we affirm the

resolution. ##

The Negation

Ladies and Gentleman, we’re here today for two

reasons: one, my voice is cited as an aphrodisiac in

three states and I’m seeking the accreditation from

California, and two, to talk about why organ sales are as

bad as prostitution but only half the fun.

59
 There are two things that go through your head

when you get into a car accident. Your hopes that you

have your license on you, and potentially your

windshield wipers. Let’s talk about the latter.

The government currently does not offer any

financial form of compensation for organ donors.

Our first point is more of an address to our

opponent’s claim that an increase in organ donation is

worth the exploitation of the poor and intentional

dismissal of ethical human rights.

60
 I may have paraphrased them a little bit. The

point that my partner and I are making is that is that we

aren’t a utilitarian society, and what financial aide will

do is create an illusion of free choice for those in need

where they’ll be forced out of their personal beliefs

because they need money. With that said, let’s talk

about sex. Medically-speaking, sex is a great thing. It

reduces stress and battles depression by releasing

endorphins. By offering financial incentives for sex,

we’d be increasing the amount of sex being had and

lowering the country’s heart rate, opening jobs, and

even increasing human capital a little bit in the process.

And yet, the World’s oldest profession remains illegal

in the United States, besides certain places in Nevada.

61
Let’s bring this back to the debate. Prostitution is

prohibited because historically the demographic

targeted are given an illusion of free choice. They

need the money, the opportunity is presented, and

any reservations they would have had about the

birds paying the bees are out the window.

Organ donations need to be looked at in the

same way. Offering financial incentives has a potential

for raising organ donations, but the ends never justify

the means. If numbers were our prime concern, then the

donate life foundation would start discouraging seat-

belts and lobby to name bleach-binging the national

pastime. But, until our reality starts mimicking Soylent

Green, we need to look at our other options.

62
 Currently there are only eight million donors in

the State of California. This isn’t because of a lack of

altruism, but because the most common place to get

registered as a donor is at the DMV which takes an arm

and a leg to get an appointment there in the first place.

There are a number of paths we can take to

increase donors. One is simply making the

donation forms more accessible or even better

advertised. While the DMV is cited as being the

largest medium for donor sign-ups, an even easier

method was simply signing up online through the

State Registry, and I didn’t even know it was a

possibility before I stumbled across it and did it

when I was researching. We could dramatically

increase organ donations without pulling in the

negatives associated with financial incentives by

just making the convenience of registry more

known.

63
 Or, if we are set on forcing the government to

take steps, then using the ‘presumed consent’

method that some European countries is another

strong alternative.

The fact that the ends do not justify the means

and that there are other routes to take make it firm

in both my partner and I’s mind that pseudo-

necro-prostitution, or ‘the offering of financial

incentives for organ donation’ is a much bigger

liability than it is an asset. ##

This was the topic of debate at the last

tournament I went to. Each person is given four minutes
to give a prepared speech, (the constructive) then their
partner gives a four minute speech to refute the
opponent’s prepared speech. Then everyone acts like
they hate each other for the next forty minutes.
Speech and Debate was fun and I do
recommend it to people coming into high school,
especially if they want to learn a skill and aren’t that
musically talented.

64
Chapter 4b: The Speeches
Welcome to Chapter 4b. It’s very similar to
Chapter 4 in that the distinction between the two isn’t
very clear.

The Graduation Speech

Welcome everyone, to the Del Mar Fair’s 23rd

annual cook-off! I’m sorry, wrong speech, hold on.

Right, here we are. Fellow classmates. Family

and friends of fellow classmates. Family and friends of

family and friends of fellow classmates, hello. And

thank you, for this is a celebration of all of you as much

as it is of us. The past year has been full of challenges-

especially the past twelve months- but we made it

through.

When we needed to buckle down and finish our

work, we made it through. When we needed to get

ready in five minutes so we would at least make the late

bell, we made it through. When we needed to write in

those applications to the colleges we didn’t want to go

to but our mothers wanted us to apply anyways- we

made it through. When we needed to raise the money to

pay off the mob when they threatened to break our

second cousin’s kneecaps, we- will have a very solemn

Thanksgiving this year. But we’ll make it through!

And we’ll continue making it through, because

everyone here is capable of that required determination.

Ladies and gentlemen, this ceremony is a

testament to that perseverance. The journey hasn’t been

easy, and even now at this landmark we’re staring into

the future with some uncertainty. None of us know

what’s down the road. We only know what’s behind us,

and in all sincerity it warms all of us to know that it’s

our friends and family.

In the past four years, my classmates and I have

faced many challenges. I’d wager many of us have had

drastically different lives than what Disney may have

66
set us up to believe we would have. But, here we are.

Ready to take the step forward that has both fascinated

and terrified us all. But let’s pause before we put that

foot down. Let’s remember today and what we’re

celebrating. The first of many great triumphs. Or the

second, depending on what college you got into. If

there’s one piece of advice I can give to all my peers,

let it be this- and I suppose this applies to everyone in

the stands as well. Own thyself. All of us are going to

misstep occasionally. All of us are going to have fogs

of doubt that may block our view of the yellow-brick

road in front of us. But we need to keep going. Don’t

see success as something that needs to come on your

first try, and don’t see yourself as a failure if it doesn’t.

Instead, look at success in the law of averages. The

more you try, the farther you’ll get. And finally, your

successes are your successes and you should relish in

67
every one of them, because part of life is learning to

appreciate yourself.

When I look into the crowd at the people I’ve

put in four years with, I can tell you that the message I

gave is redundant for them. The class of 2011 knows

success and will continue to strive for it. And they’re

going to achieve it.

About thirteen years ago we took our first steps

toward Kindergarten. We all remember those first

lessons, sharing, friendship, growth, but what we all

remember as well are our parents, faces pressed up

against the glass, peering at us and wondering ‘what

will they do?’ Here we are again, my friends, and I

imagine the question is still very much the same. ‘What

will they do?’ I suppose we owe it to all of them to

show them. Thank you. ##

I finished my credits online and unfortunately

this voided me from giving this address.

68
The Birthday Roasts
First, I’d like to give a toast, but what can you

say about a man who is loved, revered, and admired by

all? I suppose we can start by saying that isn’t the man

we’re honoring tonight. Ladies and Gentlemen, Stephan

Deemer.

Now to be perfectly honest, I don’t have much

prepared, this roast was called off, then called on, then

called off again, then called on again, then called off

once more, no wait, it only got called off once. I guess

I’m thinking about Ohlin’s relationship with Hannah.

But we struck a deal tonight. None of us can

mention any of Stephan’s exes. Though whether this is

because he’s being polite or whether he’s trying to

forget them is anyone’s guess. But, by and by, we will

skip them because the last thing we want to do is set off

a short temptress- Sorry, short temper.

69
 But there is more than Stephan than just his

crazy ex girlfriends. He’s also the President of Improv

Club, he got accepted into one of the most highly

selective schools in the country, and he’s the long lost

son of Eddie Van Halen and Sloth from the Goonies.

But beyond that, he’s a good a friend. A friend

who’s there for you to pick you up when you fall. A

friend to laugh with when you’re feeling down. A

friend who, when giving out this generosity, only

expects from you to have a C-Cup or bigger.

But I find it hard to make fun of Stephan,

because besides his angry outbursts, drunken rages,

sadistic comments, besides his heinous actions and

ulterior motives, and besides the fact that running your

fingers through his hair gives you enough grease to

cook bacon in, and besides the fact that small children

everywhere run for cover when his scent wafts across

playgrounds- besides all of that- he has been my friend

70
three years now, and everyone in this room that does

know me knows that’s a hell of a feat. But even more of

a reason not to go further into making fun of him, is

then I won’t have enough time for Jon Fuson.

Now Jon’s a great guy, and while I am happy

that technically the no-exes rule doesn’t apply to him,

there really isn’t much I can work with. Granted, half

this room has the hots for Jon Fuson, and a good half of

them are girls, but Jon just hasn’t stepped up enough.

Or has he. Does Jon like Adelie? Does Adelie like Jon?

Does Nick like Adelie? Does Jon like Nick knowing

that Nick likes Adelie? Does Nick like Jon knowing

that Adelie likes Jon? Does Adelie like Nick? Well, no,

probably not.

But, whatever the reality is, I’d like everyone to

bow there head tonight in celebration of the two-year

anniversary of whatever the thing between Jon and

Adelie is. According to friends, the couple plan to

71
accidentally brush hands and glance blushingly at each

other in the next few weeks.

But, whatever the status is, for both Jon and

Stephan, I thank them for being two of my best friends,

even when I do hardly fill out an A cup. ##

The ‘short temptress’ was offended. Luckily,

with the abandonment of tact, immunity to baseless
guilt is one of the first few passives you gain.

The Other Birthday Roast

So I just got out of the bathroom, and boy, are

my arms tired.

Enough with the masturbation jokes. We’re here

to celebrate a very special person. A person who has

introduced us to thousands of musicals and showtunes.

Yes, I’m talking about Sheila, the woman who

Sondheimized us all.

But Sheila is more than her Sondheim

obsessions. She is more than her Seinfeld quotes and

her impression of a life-sized troll doll when she teases

her hair. Let’s be fair, that’s really only about 95% of

72
her. And that last 5% is important because for many

people, the stage is a scary place. Many people find

public-speaking terrifying. The term is glossophobia,

which, for the longest time I thought was the fear of

laminated services.

But, many people are scared of talking in front of

people, which is why I hold such great respect for those

who do anyways. So, you know what, go ahead and

give me a round of applause.

Sheila has been doing theatre for probably as

long as anyone else here. She has performed enough

that she has earned her niche in typecasting. And

damnabbit, she has been the best third tree from the left,

second rock from the right, and Bumpkin #3 I have ever

witnessed.

But, I can’t use that joke anymore. Sheila’s part

in our musical, while not big enough for me to recall

the name of, makes more stage appearances than my

73
character, so I think we all owe her a round of applause

there. Yes, that’s right- Our director no longer thinks of

you as irrelevant, but as the most likely amongst us to

become a pregnant crackwhore.

But what makes up the rest of Sheila? Well I

think we’re at 98% here, so probably not that much.

Sheila has been one of the longest standing

members of Improv Club, coming nearly every week

for the past three years. Sheila has also come to Drama

Club almost once a month, making her half the

attending membership. And that kind of loyalty

deserves remembrance. And it will be remembered. At

least until the class of 2011 graduates, and then you’re

back to being that weird girl who dyes her hair green

semi-annually.

But, until then, I propose a toast. To Sheila: I

hope you have an amazing year, and on behalf of

everyone, I’m glad you let us observe. ##

74
 Promptly I was alerted to the name of the
character that I had forgotten so quickly, how many
lines she had, and the name of her character.

Support the Arts

They say that they save the best for last. And for

those that say that, I’m flattered. And I whole-heartedly

agree.

For those of you who don’t know who I am, I

am Shane Nicholas Farrow Francis Orrock Raposa

Shain, and no, if you asked me again I couldn’t give

that to you in the same order.

Now, I’m sure you’ve already put two and two

together, but I’m a big theater guy. Started freshman

year, and the decision’s still kicking me in the side to

this very day. But one thing I’ve began to cherish above

all are the initial misconceptions I’ve had of this place.

I want to put a mental image in your head:

picture the theater department as a snow globe. Instead

of Santa’s little house, picture the Cultural Arts Center.

Now, instead of snow, picture estrogen. Now imagine,

75
instead of every once in a while a six-year old running

up to the display to enact their artistic interpretation

Haiti, we duct tape this snow globe to the back of

Michael J Fox. That is my life almost every day

between the hours of 12 and 5.

Now I decided to calculate how many hours of

my life have been spent in that building since Freshman

year, and on average, It’s about 720. From start to

finish of my high school career, that’s near 3,000 hours,

or 125 days. Now, according to Diane Sawyer, all it

takes is fifteen minutes to save a child from a

preventable death. For the sake of figures, lets assume

I’m the norm, so that’s 30 students multiplied by 3,000

hours for a nice grand sum of 90,000 that may’ve been

elsewhere spent. Now, does everyone have their

calculators? That means, according Ms. Sawyer and

affiliates, the high school theater department of

76
Carlsbad has the deaths of hundreds of thousands on

their heads.

-If you believe in associated-plausibility, and if

you do, raise your hand. And smack yourself as hard as

you can.

I actually do have a point I’m trying to make

here. Ladies, gentlemen, though who wish to remain

unclassified, I’m standing here today to talk for two

reasons. One, the sound of my own voice gets me off

when nothing on my computer can, and two, to shake

whatever cash I can from you because the theater

department, all joking aside is worth keeping alive. I

didn’t pull 90,000 hours out of thin air. That’s the

amount of time invested in a graduating class. And I

think as you look at your own kids you can realize that

the time really isn’t better spent elsewhere.

Unfortunately, the State in terms of funds doesn’t share

that view. At all. And as I look around the room at the

77
abnormally well-off middle class of Carlsbad, I start

feeling like Diane Sawyer. I’m watching the program

I’ve invested my own 3,000 hours in gather cracks

while I stare into all of your more-than-capable eyes,

and I can almost see your brains eating dinner with their

family, watching me, and saying ‘how sad,’ before

muting me and going on with the rest of their lives.

But, let me see if I can grab all of your attention.

The theatre department, Carlsbad, has you hostage. We

are the dangerous combination of creativity and

shamelessness. The theatre department didn’t make us

like this. Since they built it, we did come. It has since

become a dam to prevent us from meddling in areas you

know deep down you don’t want us in. It has kept

Stephan Deemer out of playgrounds, and it has kept

Chris Ohlin out of playgrounds. It’s what introduced all

of us to Mr. Mark Patricio, and it’s what’s keeping me

out of politics and your daughters’ bedrooms. Now if

78
you’re willing to just laugh at what you presume are

jokes and keep your pennies pinched, I’ll wake up

early, sneak past your door, and make your whole

family breakfast while I explain how serious I am.

So please, open up your purses, your jackets,

your wallets and fish out what you can spare. We don’t

expect you to come to every one of our shows, because

near half the time we don’t want to be there. What we

do expect though is for you to realize that as friends and

parents of us, we want and need your support. And, as

citizens of Carlsbad, you have the civic duty to do

whatever you can to keep our eccentricity contained.

Thank you. Support the arts. ##

I gave this at our drama fundraiser. It went

pretty well. We raised a few hundred, the kids laughed,
and the parents stared at us lifelessly as they do at most
performances. Purely from the expressions they’ve had,
I’ve preemptively decided I was going to force my
daughter into an activity that’s at least more of a joy to
watch. Football, underwater alligator wrestling, and
‘grass seed height-races’ are all top bids.
Speaking of entertaining activities, this allows
me a flawless transition into this chapter’s anecdote.

79
My friend Chris Ohlin and I are suckers for entertaining
activities. Once upon a Spring Break we both came to
the realization that we had aged considerably from the
last time we wanted to buy a tazer but couldn’t.
Deliberation was short.
When we were driving back to his house with
our new purchase, Chris brilliantly came up with what
should be the new national pastime, ‘tazer-tag.’ The
title explains itself. In a bounded-off area, we give one
person the tazer and tell everyone else to run for their
temporal, irrelevant lives. If the tazer-carrier catches up
to one of the runners, he uses the device to drop them.
When the runner goes down stunned, the original tazer-
holder lays the tazer beside the fallen, and runs away,
his duty having been passed down to another.
Unfortunately, at this time of writing, we
haven’t yet reached the desired ‘volunteer’ number for
this to be tried in full. However, the tazer found use.
Chris’s girlfriend arrived at his house shortly after we
did.
Her name was Ashley Werwage. Her favorite
color was pink, her hair color was blonde, and her
reaction to our purchase was ‘AAAAAAGGHH PUT
THAT AWAY STOP GIVE ME THAT YOU BOTH
ARE IDIOTS WHY WOULD YOU BUY THAT.’
We would never taze Ashley. But that
reassurance did little to assuage her from dropping the
pool stick and letting us anywhere near her.
But then the real story started, and Chris’s
grandfather walked in.
His name was Kim. Kim was easily the most
terrifying man Chris and I knew. He was the only
senior citizen that we believed when he told us he
walked uphill both ways in blizzards to get around
when he was our age, even though he lived in San
Diego. We believed this because we also believed he

80
could smell doubt and would kill us and wear our skins
to ward others from making the same mistake.
Kim walked past Ashley and nonchalantly asked
Chris if ‘he could see that for a second.’ It was only
moments after Chris agreed did he see the error in his
ways. We refer back to that moment as ‘mistake
number one.’
I’m not that good of a story-teller. You should
know what happened next. There was a lot of
screaming. A lot of denying, a lot of begging. There
was a lot of fear.
Ashley was safe. As a girl, she was off the radar
completely. However, my friend Chris and I were boys.
Eighteen year-old boys that woke Kim up. We tried to
repent for our sins, but our calls for forgiveness fell on
deaf ears. So Chris grabbed the pool stick from Ashley,
and tried to knock the tazer away from his grandfather.
We refer to that moment as ‘mistake number two.’
Kim grabbed the pool stick immediately from
Chris, and tackled him against the wall, jamming the
tazer into his side.
Ashley and I cowered together in terror and
awe. Chris slunk to the floor, 500,000 volts richer. Kim
left the room, looking smugly satisfied, and gave the
tazer to Ashley as he passed. She looked over at her
fallen lover, who made a vegetative pile by the wall.
Either by divine guidance or by some will of her own,
she made her way over to Chris, stroked his hair, then
jabbed the live-tazer hard into his side, turned to me,
and yelled “Shane! How could you?!”
The details of the impending consequences are
unnecessary. Misguided revenge was exacted and
everyone was tazed a lot. Except Ashley Werwage. To
this day I can’t feel the side of my leg. There isn’t a
punch-line to this story. She will pay.

81
Chapter 5: The Poems
Welcome to Chapter 5. It’s very similar to
Chapter 1 in that it isn’t about speeches or monologues.
When I write poetry, I’ll be honest and say I
write it for the sake of writing it. I’ve never been bad
with words, and if I have a problem I’ll usually write
snide remarks about the person at the heart of it and
post them somewhere public.
Just kidding, I only want to do that. But poetry
has allowed me to at least make my problems sound
interesting, and for that it deserves its section. At the
end I’ll offer the inspiration and meaning behind the
piece. However, I’m but a novice, and none of my
pieces are that cryptic or scrape the level of ambiguity
that real poets should operate on. Nonetheless, this is
what I have.

The Silver Lagoon

I’ve danced late in the silver lagoon

Where lost affections grow like cattails

Where the depths are never known.

Danced on the shores of a love-tainted lake

Floors filled with beating hearts

Beating for what they can no longer take.

Though thousands of them- never a pair.

 All loved and lost,

All turned silver from wear.

The moon hangs high

With day never soon

I’ve danced late in the silver lagoon. ##

There is actually a real lagoon about a mile

away from where I live. At night it turns black, with a
silver streak down the middle of it from where the
moon reflects. When you see any kind of natural beauty
you can’t help but become introspective. It’s why
people stare off into the sunset, watch the waves on the
beach, and slow down on the freeway when they drive
by a really gruesome crash.
The poem is about unrequited love and
unfortunately it’s a topic we all know pretty well. I’m
not going to go down the metaphors, but this poem is
about and was inspired by a recent rejection. And while
the message is pretty cynical, it really was more for a
dramatic effect.

Always Remember
We must always remember to dare to dream.

To let our minds wander and let our hearts gleam-

To ignore the Set of Truths as they may seem.

To govern our lives as we would deem

83
 We must merge hope and reality- a perfect team.

To inspire the change for which we all scheme,

We must always remember to dare to dream. ##

"Whether you think you can, or you think you

can't--you're right."
-Henry Ford, on determination

“It’s a pretty literal poem.”

-Shane Farrow, on this poem.

I’ll be honest so that all the male readers can

skip ahead to the next chapter and read about Somalian
pirates- the rest of these poems are about girls.

A Haunting
She is an illusion, a wisp.

A figure in the distance

Shrouded in the mist.

Silent, but haunting,

Intangible, yet present,

Calm, but daunting,

Courteous, yet unpleasant.

84
 She is a ghost to me-

A spirit in my mind.

But the exorcism always fails;

She can't be left behind. ##

We all had that person that stuck with us. That

meant so much in some way that they became mentally
embedded. It didn’t matter where they were, what they
said if anything at all, but the very memory of them
held enough power to effectively ‘haunt us.’ That was
poem about that.

Paper <3’s
Possibilities are recorded with ounces of ink

From what and to where, it goes source to sink.

If the pen be the keeper of the meta-divine

Then paper is the earth that holds the design.

Lines and letters with dotted i’s and crossed t’s,

Lands never felt surrounded by unsettled seas,

Paper holds words upon worlds in 2-dimension’d place;

-Imagine what it could do if given spatial grace!

85
But I mock both the pen and the paper with that verse-

They can’t imagine; that’s solely our curse.

From fears to worries, to stress and to hate;

What appetite do emotions truly sate?

From unfortunate what’s and impending when’s,

Our thoughts of the future are not shared with pens.

Our worries of tomorrow and our struggles with fate

Are things paper can record, but never set straight.

But from hopes to dreams and the risks we take

Imagination is vital to the happiness we make.

For while pens and papers can write and record

We can chance what gets writ- that’s our reward.

So allow me to exercise the power that be-

What say you Prom, you and me? ##

86
 Unfortunately I didn’t end up going to prom.
She found the poem very flattering, but unfortunately
she had previous engagements. Though on the
Brightside, I saved around $300, so I can’t really
complain more than I had already.

My Adelie
Ere to the stars of uncertainty,

And the known limits of my ability,

You pierced my heart with acuity,

And I wondered who you were.

I thought on it analytically,

Anonymously, but vehemently,

Til I sorted through ambiguity,

And I found out who you were.

Complete beyond believability,

My eyes opened with new clarity

That unmistakably and indubitably,

87
 A fallen angel: who you were.

But in my eccentricity,

I did not notice such disparity:

Such a love would be charity,

And I wouldn’t plague you, who you were.

But, now past the stars of uncertainty,

And the limits now known of my ability,

My heart is yours, eternally,

Would you take it, my Adelie. ##

The title is misleading- she’s not my Adelie.

She’s my friend Jon’s Adelie, and they’ve been a happy
couple for quite a while. However, every once in a
while I’d see if the pot could be stirred at all. I gave this
poem to Jon handwritten and asked if ‘he could return it
to Adelie since it looked like she dropped it.’ They
figured it out eventually.
I’m probably not going to receive an invite to
their wedding though.

Stock Poem #1
Considering the tenacity
88
 That allowably and adequately

Describes you actively,

My hat goes off to you.

And while your face is ineffable,

And your curls still remarkable,

I hope you find it not deplorable

When I say these are not your best traits.

For while beauty is fleeting

Your wit is never depleting

And the final train to this meeting

You have the boldness to use it.

You know where you’re headed

When youth’s rope becomes threaded

And this can’t be said for most.

And while I’m not certain

89
 What lurks beyond the curtain,

I can take my very best guess.

The meek will inherit that set by the wily;

The cunning mold the World to be traced.

The gift of the shaper will be given to you, Riley,

Graciously wrapped and laced. ##

It was personally requisitioned, but this poem

can be used for any girl as long as the last stanza is
changed to fit them. Half the words in this poem are
used incorrectly, but they sound nice together. My
advice to all guys looking to get into poetry is start
there, and then work your way up to coherency.
Chances are your girl won’t know what they mean any
better than you do.
Unfortunately the only anecdotes that come
directly to mind to end this chapter on are all about my
exes. And since none of them consented, I’d be digging
my own grave by publishing anything.
And by that, I mean none of them consented for
me to put them in this story. All other interpretations
need not apply.

90
Chapter 6: The Odds &
Ends
Welcome to Chapter 6. It’s very similar to
Chapters 2-5 in that it repeats this theme to provide a
sense of continuity.
Hello, reader. It’s been a while since I’ve talked
to you directly. I hope you enjoyed this book in
whatever format you find it in. I also hope that, had part
of this book been ingested as I had warned you against
doing, it was at least enjoyable, and that this page met a
similar fate so it didn’t have to recall the tragedy every
time someone asked why this book started on page 88.
This chapter is not meant to answer any
questions beyond what page number succeeds the one
you’re currently reading. This was my senior year in
High School tied into 100 pages, remembering
everything I might not in the future. All my friends
deserve a form of dedication, but as I promised it purely
to Mark Patricio, it’s only here that I can say that my
other friends Stephan Deemer, Chris Ohlin, Jon Fuson,
Adelie Carstens, Ashley Werwage, and Kim Gosnell
deserve their stripes. I can say that without Jessica
Greene, Emily Kuperman, Hannah Long, and Courtney
Goetz I’d be a drastically different person, and for that,
I think we owe all of them a little bit of consideration as
well.
But, this is a book, and I’ll have plenty of time
in the future to begin my eulogy. For now, let me offer
you the odds and ends of what’s left in My Documents.
The CollegeBoard: Actually
Somalian Pirates
Shane Farrow
In a raid conducted earlier this week the FBI found

that, true to suspicion, the CollegeBoard, one of the

nation’s top education advocates, was actually a hub for

Somalian Pirates. This sting was run after topographical

analysts discovered that certain locations in the U.S

were technically part of Somalia’s marked international

waters- locations either owned or linked to the

CollegeBoard franchise.

“What we’re seeing is increasingly common these

days,” says an FBI spokesperson. “In a long-term effort

to hinder scientific progress in the United States which

may provide an alternative to the dangerous trade route

taken off the coast Tripoli, a small guerilla force will

create a multi-million dollar company to monopolize

education, and I believe that’s what we’re seeing

today.”

92
The sting performed revealed what’s commonly

expected in these pirate-front companies- eye patches

and parrots flew among wooden barrels full of peg-legs,

and unexplainably, puppets.

While the detainment effort was unsuccessful, The

CollegeBoard President, Gaston Caperton, smoke-

signaled authorities while he and his cohorts sailed

away on their ship, which was previously their wreck

room. Translation expert John Kennedy was on the

scene and was able to relay the message back to us:

“Arg, ye scallywags. Arg, arg, arg.”

Currently the FBI is pouring all of its resources into

further deciphering the message. Somalian President,

Sharif Ahmed when asked to comment on the situation

said something in Somalian. Unfortunately, no

translator was on hand.

93
What does this mean for the future of education?

Former-president Bill Clinton spoke on behalf of the

Federal Education Board:

“We do not want the people or the students to panic,

and we all have intention to continue the course as we

have in the past. We are shocked by the true nature of

The CollegeBoard, but we choose to use this as a

learning experience to prevent similar problems from

arising in the future,” Clinton said confidently.

The board of trustees, who claim to have been unaware

of the scandal, disclosed that they have every intention

of keeping toward the original goals of The

CollegeBoard, and that the raping, pillaging, and

burning of all things good, holy, and relevant to us will

again commence the next business week. ##

“Shane, we’re going to have a debate over some current

event in about an hour. Can you print off something in
time?”
“Eeeyup.”

94
The Case for Book Burning
Ladies and Gentlemen of the court, I am here to

present solid, concrete evidence that a person who reads

or is linked to any text-absorbent activities is a liar and

a scoundrel. I ask that those plagued with general

uneasiness take the hands of the light-hearted and

vacate this premises post-haste, for the information is

startling, accurate, and startlingly accurate.

The first argument I bring before the court

addresses the intellectual outhouses that have been

cropping up across the nation. Yes, I refer to the public

institution of ‘libraries’ where these un-American ne’er-

do-wells ‘relieve themselves,’ letting go of our reality

to immerse in a different one entirely. This poses a

threat to American innovation in two ways: one, minds

that may pose use to our utopia soon become idle as

they fall prey to their so-called ‘imagination.’ And, as if

self-destruction wasn’t enough to appease them,

95
libraries have been cited as hubs of dangerous

ideologies. Ladies and gentlemen, I again do not wish

to startle you, but the threat that libraries can pose is

that possibilities of the tolerance of other ideas and

cultures are constantly entertained. I fear that our young

men and women that succumb to the siren’s call of

these institutions will be educated and mindful to

others, and we as responsible citizens can not allow

those poor, young minds to be plagued.

The second point of reasoning I bring forth

deals with the very threat of war books bring. Ladies

and Gentlemen, from my latest fabrication it was

discovered that ink soars at nearly $3,000 a gallon. I

wish not to engage in Middle Eastern politics, but if oil

is assumed to be a factor of conflict and stands at $110

a barrel, an ink shortage at its current price could toss

the World into chaos and madness, and books merely

expedite this descent into doom by increasing the

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demand. Advocates of these books, novels, page-

turners, or ‘Mark-me-if-you’re-not-done Jimmies’ are

enemies of this court and deserve the branding that I

had previously offered: liars and scoundrels. ##

‘Mark-me-if-you’re-not-done Jimmies’ is
actually British slang for ‘books,’ if you was curious. If
you’re ever on vacation in England and you want to
impress them with your fluency in their culture, try this.

Prompt: Referencing Jacques’ famous soliloquy, who

are you to the World?

‘All the World’ is grammar-check’d

to ‘The Entire World’
If all the World’s a stage and all the men and

women merely players, I am the actor in the slides

making faces and gestures to break the concentration of

others. To an audience, I am a jester. To a director, I am

a headache. To the World, I am a writer.

To say I live in a fantasy world isn’t too

inaccurate. The times when I’m not conjuring my own

characters are times where I’m breathing life into

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someone else’s. I am an actor.

However, all the things I am, there are several I

am not. I am not a good student. I am taking this course

online because I failed my senior year in English. I am

no diplomat- an A would’ve been easily achievable if I

compromised for it. But I’m also not a historian, and

don’t find value in picking at the past. Whatever role I

serve in the World, be it the dashing protagonist or a

principle foil to what this World really demands, I’ve

made it my goal to at least have as many lines as

possible. ##

This was for the online English class I took to

make up credits. It’s funny that my first piece is about
the deteriorating relationship between my English
teacher and I, and this piece brings it full circle by
giving the ultimate outcome. Hilarious, actually. Side-
splitting.

Bits and Pieces of Stories Started

but Never Finished
Watching someone masturbate publicly is never

pleasant. As he stood up center stage, so engrossed in

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his act that you could see his eyes slowly lolling into

the back of his head in pure ecstasy, I reminded myself

that I could be anywhere else but I chose here. Here in

this theater, where the audience served no other purpose

to the kid on stage than as his tissues and Vaseline.

Despite where I sat in the theater, the outcome was

always the same; by the time he finished, I had a bad-

taste in my mouth. ##

My friend’s girlfriend works as a page at the

local library (and we make jokes on the literal meaning

of that whenever possible) and she needed volunteers to

read to the kids to get them interested in visiting over

the summer. She asked us to all choose parts from

Charles Schultz’s You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown

and entertain a few rugrats for an hour. The kids were

active listeners, and some of the heckling we all got

will still stay in our minds for a while. As the narrator, I

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was tasked with posing rhetorical questions to help

‘build up the suspense’ of the next scene. Rhetorical

questions were as far over their heads as the word

‘rhetorical’ is to most of us, and they threw in their

answers; each one had my friends and I fighting to keep

straight faces. The parents were cracking up, which

really encouraged the kids, and we pretended to fight

back at them, inventing new characters and whole new

sub-plots.

I don’t feel like we changed the World- there

certainly aren’t more trees as a result of what we did,

but remembering how much fun those kids had?

Reading might make a comeback with some grade-

schoolers, and that has to count for something. ##

De Sota Helpline, how can I help you, ma’am.

No, our company takes great precautions to makes sure

all products are non-toxic. Ma’am, this is a water

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bottling company, you can take me at my word that

your purchase will not be flammable.

Ma’am- Jackie? Oh my God, it is you. Where are you?

Oh, you want to know the nutrition facts. OK. Our

water has zero calories, zero grams of sugar or fat, and

zero percent of your daily recommendation of protein.

Jackie, where are you? I know you didn’t call to ask

how many ounces are in our 16oz bottles. Because

you’re not dumb- *click* ##

Constantly I joke that ‘the previous section was

purely for word count,’ or something along those lines
when I don’t have a good excuse for the contents or
quality of the post. This is one of those situations where
I invite us both to laugh and perish the thought of that
actually being a legitimate variable in what goes in this.

Owl Stephan and I Spent Our

Evening, or ‘Owl’cha’ Glad I
Didn’t Say Banana?
Stephan has a very mean neighbor. I never

learned his name, but as he spoke mainly in grunts, I

learned to improvise with nicknames. This neighbor

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was a irate gentlemen who deplored anything that

happiness could derive itself, be it kids, rainbows,

candy, or hugging.

He kept his grass length within the HOA

guidelines, though popular belief was that instead of

cutting it, he simply walked outside occasionally to

glare at his growing lawn until each blade of grass

became depressed and slunk back to its original height.

Such was the man that Stephan’s neighbor was.

This man had many peculiar attributes. He

would work on his car shirtless (which was another

theory explaining the shirking grass) or in shorts

arguably too small for anyone. However, more

terrifying than these details or the ones outlining his

ability to turn happiness into unexplainable fear was a

statue he had on his second floor window sill.

The statue was of an owl, and it glared down on

us whenever we passed the house, its soulless eyes

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watching, waiting. We decided that we wouldn’t be

victims. And we justify the following actions as simply

acts of preemptive self-defense.

The owl was on the second story, but it was just

above his garage that jutted out enough just far enough

where someone could, ‘hypothetically’ stand on top of

it to reach this owl.

However, as men, Stephan and I didn’t live in

the World of hypotheticals, and a plan was devised. We

had no intention of stealing the owl, for fear of what

curse such an act would bring. However, as it was

decided by the two of us that this owl was easily one of

the more terrifying things to behold, we decided to use

its powers for good.

The ‘snatching’ bit was difficult. It was well

into the evening but lights in different houses across the

neighborhood were still on, which did little to settle our

nerves. I climbed the low wall that connected Stephan’s

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house to the one that belonged to our enemy, and with

what we interpreted as God’s blessing, managed to

climb on top of his garage roof. As I stood triumphantly

on all fours, I saw our target. The owl glared back at

me, as if sensing danger. I grinned malevolently at it, as

if were an falcon and I was jet turbine. I clambered

towards it. No sound from the other side of the window.

The owl was no longer looking at me, but past me, as if

it accepted whatever fate I brought for it. I grabbed it.

Stephan was waiting below, and caught our

prize as I tossed it down to him. I jumped off the roof

and the two of us retreated quickly into his house, giddy

with success of our mission thus far.

Inside, we could feel the owl’s power coursing

through us. Visions of madness plagued us as the status

mesmerized us. When we managed to pull away, we

knew that it was time to go into phase 2.

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 Like I had said previously, we intended to use

this owl’s potential for good. And so we crept to the

front of the neighbor’s house, and placed the owl on the

garden wall opposite of his front door, the owl’s eyes

positioned to glare at the house that originally gave it

the malevolent power it holds.

On each subsequent ‘owl heist,’ we intend to

move the owl a little bit closer to the door, as if it’s

being drawn by some dark force. We do not yet know

what we’ll do when it reaches the doormat, but it will

be glorious. And it will be remembered. And God-

willing we’re not going to get caught. ##

This is actually a very true story, and at the time

of writing, we have our calendar marked for the days
the owl status will again descend, because with
domestic terrorism punctuality really is key.

And that’s it. This is everything I’ve written this

year. Arguably, with all the accounts, it’s everything
I’ve done this year as well. I’m not sure what to put
down as the last words to tie this. I said at the beginning
this didn’t have a plot, and if you’re wondering what
became of Stephan, Mark, Chris, Kim, Ashley, and the
rest, like I said in the beginning, please regard them as

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dead, because it relieves me the duty of asking them.
But with that said, and no plot to untwist an underlying
theme from, and no questions left to be answered, I’m
at a loss of what you expect to say next.

Well then, I guess I’m done here. ##

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