One of 3 assignments I actually did in 10th grade...

I thought this time I'd just post an old "poem" I wrote for my 10th grade English class. The assignment was to take an everyday activity and write a poem describing the action in "slow motion", where slow motion just meant dragging out a boring, stupid, everyday activity into an equally boring page-long poem. Naturally, I wrote it just before it was due, like I did with everything that I actually turned in.

It's a poem in the loosest terms, and it didn't exactly respond to the prompt we were given, but my teacher loved it anyway. She said it was wicked. I also submitted it and had it published in our annual high school poetry and art magazine, at my teacher's suggestion... which resulted in me having to do a "reading" of the poem when the magazine was released. Ha. Me. Reading poetry. In public. That will probably never happen again.

So, here for your enjoyment is my poorly written poem...

Serendipitous Septicemia

Cheese
Glistening in a divine, whitish way,
Held lovingly in her soft, delicate hands,
her mind pondering and thinking,
twisting ideas around and trying to decide.
She stands still, like a grazing cow.

A flash,
and a purpose is planted.
Turning, she reaches and pulls open a drawer.
Reaching, grasping, clawing for the necessary tool.
Finally, FINALLY!
She closes her hand and brings out
the instrument of doom.
The cheese grimaces.

Menacingly, she displays the grater
to the cheese for an instant,
and then brings the cheese to it.
She draws the white block along the side of the jagged metal,
Ripping and tearing the cheese apart.
The cheese, emitting a cultured, fromageish smell,
defends itself as best as it can.
But it is no use,
the Woman only cackles and continues to grate,
Her wrist twisting and flexing to adjust to the pressure.

Horizontally, vertically, diagonally,
She pulls and pushes the cheese,
Sometimes squiggling it. Gradually,
the long strands of cheese become shorter and sadder.
The cheese, unconscious by now,
is nearly gone...

The Woman, noticing a pain in her fingers, stops grating.
The cheese wedge is no more.
On the counter lies a pile of cheese-strands, sprinkled with blood.
Smiling, the Woman sentimentally molds the cheese into a ball,
And rolls it delicately between her fingers.
She lifts her hand to her now-open mouth,
and pushes the cheese in with her bloodied digits.

The Great Country Time Lemonade Flavor Drink Adventure

It was a cold September morning. The rain was pounding, and as I ran through it it gradually changed into hail. Though I lacked umbrella, jacket, or hat, I was only vaguely aware of the little ice balls smashing my head and the slow loss of feeling as the cold numbed my fingers and toes. I was thinking on other things, and when my mind is focused nothing can distract me. "What is the other natural flavor?" was the question that haunted my thoughts. Indeed, my desire -- no, my need to answer this question was what prompted this sudden mad dash out into the unknown.

I was sitting in my home watching a fine episode of Rocko's Modern Life (which I discovered on a video tape while going through some old boxes of stuff), and thoroughly enjoying Heifer learning French ("J'ai besoin de papier de toilette") when suddenly there was a deafening and oddly terrifying knock on the door. It was odd, because I don't really know how a knock can be terrifying, but this one was. So I grabbed my butterfly knife and opened the door, but there wasn't anyone there. Instead, there was a can of Country Time Lemonade Flavor Drink at my feet. I almost didn't see it, and even when I did I nearly kicked it out into the street. I would have too, but my conscience didn't think that would be too environmentally sound, so I brought the can into my house. "No way will I drink that. Artificial lemonade makes my stomach hurt, and who knows where it came from anyway? I'll just throw it away." But I never did. I picked the can up and looked at it, and that's when I saw the words that would burn themselves into my mind: Natural Lemon Flavor with Other Natural Flavor.

"Other natural flavor." That's odd. If there's just one other natural flavor, why not say what it is? Lemon Flavor with Lime Flavor, Lemon Flavor with Guava Flavor, or even Lemon Flavor with Lettuce Flavor. Any of these would have been less interesting or curious to me. If they won't say what this singular "other" flavor is, there must be a reason!

These are the kinds of thoughts I had. At first it was just a minor curiosity. I laughed at the absurdity of it all, and went back to watching that old tape and then went to bed. But the can was still there when I woke in the morning. I glanced at it quizzically, but had to hurry off to work since I only woke up with 10 minutes to get there. I found it exceedingly difficult to focus on my work that day. Everything reminded me of those words. "What other tasks are you working on?" someone would ask, but all I'd hear is "What other natural flavor are you working on?" When we were sitting around imbibing delicious beers, a colleague would say, "Mmmmm! Smoooooth flavor!" and I would shout out, "Is it natural? Would you put it in lemonade?!" My co-workers were quickly becoming aware that I was going crazy. No one thought much about it though, since computer programmers are actually more effective when they're insane.

I went home that night and the can greeted me. Not literally, mind you, it's just that it was the first thing I saw when I came in. It's a figure of speech. Anyway, it was sitting there and that really pissed me off. "Why are you sitting there?" I shouted. So I took it and put it in a cupboard so I couldn't see it. Then I popped in a DVD of Futurama to try and take my mind off of it. Unfortunately I wasn't thinking clearly, and I started to watch the episode where they go to the Slurm factory. If you've seen it, you know why it was a bad idea. Now I simply HAD to know what that other natural flavor was! I went to the kitchen to open the cupboard, but then I stopped. "No! You can't let the lemonade control you!" So I left. Then I came back. Then I left again. I paced back and forth for several hours until I got a charley horse and collapsed in pain. "Argh! Curse you, potassium!" were my last thoughts as I blacked out.

The blackness turned into a swirling mist of natural flavors. As I looked on them, I saw many familiar ones. Peach, mango, tomato, banana, strawberry, orange, and of course lemon. I smiled as each one drifted by, priding myself on my ability to name each one. I made my way through hundreds and thousands of natural flavors, becoming happier and happier as each was identified: cucumber, blueberry, maple, vanilla, cherry, apple... But then something horrible happened! A natural flavor drifted by, and I couldn't tell what it was! A voice asked, "What natural flavor is this?" and the only response I could find was: "other". As I whispered the response, I woke up in a cold sweat. I was still lying on my kitchen floor, my head resting in a surprisingly large puddle of drool. I jumped up and ripped open the cupboard, removing the Country Time Lemonade Flavor Drink. "I WILL FIND OUT WHAT FLAVOR YOU ARE!" I screamed at the can, and jamming it in my pocket I rushed out the door.

So now we have come full circle. I was running through hail on a cold September morning, consumed by the question "What is the other natural flavor?" I did not know where I was going. I hadn't eaten anything since drinking those beers at work. I was sprinting blindly through body-numbing coldness, desperately hoping that in doing so I would somehow find the answer I sought. It was then that he grabbed me. A strange cloaked figure had appeared out of nowhere, taken a hold of my neck, and slammed me down on the ground. "I knew you couldn't resist," he hissed, "but some things are best left unknown." This felt oddly like something out of 1984. Not the whole Big Brother thing, but that bit about being set up because "they" knew that Winston needed to have his way of thinking "altered". Enough with the Orwell references. The point is that this was obviously planned. Here was the man who could produce terrifying knocks on wooden doors, and this time I didn't have my butterfly knife. Things were looking grim.

"Look, I don't know what's going on! I just want to know what the other natural flavor is in Country Time Lemonade Flavor Drink!" I said. He let out a freakishly creepy laugh. "That is not for you to know! If you were to discover the source of the other flavor, you would tell everyone, and then Country Time would lose their 33% market share of United States lemonade consumption." Despite my fear, I laughed. "You're crazy! I'm just a lowly programmer who loves beer. I'm not proactive and I certainly wouldn't have the motivation to do what you claim I would. Besides, no one would believe me." He glared at me, and something about his stare cut my breath short. "You have no idea who you are," he said mysteriously. The mystery was soon gone, however, as he continued, "You are the so-called chosen one who is destined to reveal the other natural flavor to the world."

Me? A chosen one? Someone made a prophesy about this incredibly mundane subject? Why couldn't I have been chosen for something at least mildly cool? Then I had a question. "Wait a minute. The Dr. Pepper/Seven Up, Inc. (DPSU) enterprise sent some madman after me just so they could maintain lemonade market share?" "Naive fool!" he shouted, "DPSU is nothing but a division of London-based Cadbury Schweppes plc. We are a major international beverage and confectionery group selling brands around the world. Any loss of market share is incredibly important to us."

I was in shock. Surely the company that makes Cadbury Creme Eggs -- my most beloved of Easter candy -- wouldn't want to harm me. Reality was crumbling around me. If the company that brought me such joy as a child could plan such a heartless plot against me for the sole purpose of making money, well, nothing mattered anymore. Nothing, except revenge.

As the man stared at me, I made my decision. Like lightning I reached into my pocket and ripped out the can of Country Time Lemonade Flavor Drink. I saw the light behind the man's eyes change as he realized what I was doing, but I was too fast (like lightning, remember). Before he could react, I smashed the can into his left temple. I hit him with such force that the can exploded, and other natural flavor was everywhere! As he crashed to the ground, I kicked him a few times in spite and then took off. I ran and ran, but this time I had a destination: Plano, Texas -- the location of Dr. Pepper/Seven Up, Inc.

Needless to say, I didn't run from Salt Lake City to Plano, but through various means of transportation I finally arrived. Through all kinds of exciting and interesting events I managed to infiltrate the bottling plant and locate the actual recipe for Country Time Lemonade Flavor Drink. I also snuck a couple of Cadbury Creme Eggs from someone's desk (London sends them here year-round, lucky jerks...). I read over the recipe as I sucked the creme out of an egg. It was all here. I finally knew what the other natural flavor was, and it terrified me. Fortunately, about this time I was apprehended and taken to a room where unspeakable things are done to people like me. Good thing, too, because some things are best left unknown. I know I don't have much longer to live, but as I look up at the giant poster of Country Time Lemonade Flavor Drink with Natural Lemon Flavor and Other Natural Flavor staring down at me, my eyes fill with happy tears as I smile. I love Country Time Lemonade Flavor Drink. Perhaps this is 1984 after all...

Et le monde les regarde sans parler...

The world is not ready. Chances are, it never will be. Even when this land is covered in ash, the ground scorched and blackened, and the sky filled with the tattered remnants of unknown works; even then They will demand more time. But this time is not Theirs to request, and surely it is not mine to give. They have had their chance, and They have squandered it.

I did not come here to punish Them -- that was never my intention. Indeed, I still do not see it as punishment, though I know They do not understand. To Them, I am the one who will ruin everything, and They believe that I do so because They are "unworthy" or "lazy". But this is not retribution. This was always going to happen, no matter what They did. They perceive things as They are able, and I feel no need to correct Them. Let Them comfort themselves in whatever ways They can.

The one request made of Them was that They prepare themselves for this moment. They were told what They must do, and They were told what would happen. Most if not all of Them made efforts at first, but as time wore on each One lost sight of His own purpose, and without purpose motivation dies. Thus we find ourselves at this point: Them unprepared and frightened, and me with my job to do. I can't help but feel sorry for Them, but soon enough it will all be over.

And so I begin my work, with these thoughts troubling my soul. This is the way it is -- nothing can change that -- but I am not an unfeeling being. I suppose that is why I was chosen. To do what must be done without feeling would be to dishonor Them. And They are worthy of honor, let no one doubt it. Great deeds have been done by Them, great works created. They should not be scorned or hated, despite Their failures. So I honor Them even as I take away that which They value most. I have hope that perhaps this time, finally, They will learn...

It's been a frustrating day.

Out of an inconceivable blackness comes the slobbering documentation demon! Its eyes burn with an unnatural fire that was stoked before the beginning of time, and that thrives not on oxygen but on the endless supply of blood which the demon drinks from its victims. I turn and attempt to run, but it is too late! The documentation demon has already wrapped its barbed and acid-drenched tentacles around me -- each sucker lined with tiny teeth that tear haphazardly at my flesh. But the worst is yet to come.

As I scream and writhe in pain, several white hot needles are strategically inserted along the length of my spine. I cry out, "But it was written to your specifications! Why do you blame your unstable opinions on me?!?", but the documentation demon just opens what I assume is its mouth, fiendishly pausing to allow its sub-zero saliva to drip into my eyes. The documentation demon pulls out a cute little hammer (you know, like with little floral designs on the handle) which it uses to shatter each of my eyeballs. Fortunately by this time my brain is focused more on the lava being pumped into my body (is it considered magma if it is inside of you?), and so I am currently unaware of having lost my ability to see.

I should be dead. If there was any kindness or mercy in this world I WOULD BE DEAD! But I'm not. Somehow, the documentation demon is keeping me alive, ensuring that I feel each and every pain it is capable of causing -- and I have reason to doubt that there is any pain it cannot inflict. By this time I have become aware of my blindness, and this depresses me. "I never saw true beauty!" I scream silently as I begin to cry -- well, "cry".

The documentation demon laughs -- at least I think it's a laugh. It is clear that the beast is beyond content. Perhaps it is even happy, if this creature is even capable of feeling such emotions. Suddenly it loosens its grip. The needles are removed, and with one last bit of contempt the documentation demon slowly drags its barbed tentacles off of my body. I can sense its departure...

...it seems like I've been lying here forever. I am weighed down by the igneous rocks that have formed inside of me, I am incapable of seeing, and my flesh is a pulpy mess. Regardless, I know that I need to feel my way back to the keyboard and make those revisions to the document I was working on. It's going to be a lot more difficult since that stupid documentation demon blinded me, but if I don't do it I... well... I don't really want to think too much about that.

Money is everything.