First off, I want to thank those who gave me ideas... It took me awhile to finally write something, and honestly... I'm not sure if it is really that great of an argumentative essay... But it works... Here is my 5 page BLAH... Haha... Enjoy!

Textbook Tragedy

Growing up, many children dream of becoming doctors, lawyers, astronauts, teachers, and so on.  As they come to the end of their high school experience though, they are rudely awakened by the possibility of never realizing their dream due to the prohibitive prices of higher education.  College prices are skyrocketing out of reach for the average middle class high school graduate.  Tuition fees can increase about 32% during the course of a four year degree, at a boost of approximately 8% annually.  But, assuming one could conquer the extreme tuition expenses through scholarships, loans, grants and savings; let us look at another often overlooked factor of this imposing problem.

One aspect of college expenses that seems to be increasing at an exponential rate is the cost of textbooks.  College textbook prices have increased at twice the rate of inflation within the last twenty years, and have followed closely behind tuition increases.  This has become quite an issue for the average college-age American because, price of textbooks aside, they already struggle with being financially cleared for classes.  What can be done?  There are several approaches that could be taken and some are in the process at high state levels.  Yet, there still remains a need for a realistic solution.

In the United States, textbook prices nearly tripled from December 1986 to December 2004.  American students pay significantly more for the same book than students of other countries.  Sometimes the cost difference can be half again, or even up to two thirds more in price.  What is the reason for this radical difference?  Could it really be that printing costs are that much more in America, or is it simply that American publishers are greedier, and their priority is profit?

At an average of every three years, publishers are putting out “new edition” textbooks and selling them for a higher price.  Often times, the only updates in these versions are simple sentence changes to keep up with the culture.  Unfortunately, they then stop printing the old versions, and thus the old versions become obsolete and cannot be used unless there are enough in a campus bookstore stock to prevent purchasing for a period of time.

If the purpose of the writers and publishers is to help students develop a well balanced and exceptional course of study, wouldn’t they want it to be for as many as possible to benefit our society today?  If publishers reduced their production costs, so that more students could afford to purchase their products, then their profit margin would remain the same while allowing more to participate in the education benefits which they purpose to pursue.  Writers and publishers need to make a living too, but why not make their products affordable to the students so that college can be within the reach of more young people?

Approximately, 70 percent of high school students attend college within two years after graduation.  For the other 30 percent, cost is often their main deterring factor.  The percentage of students attending college is growing because of the educational requirement for most employment positions.  Only the most determined middle and lower class students push forward and struggle with the cost.  Many of these are often left with daunting loan repayments for years after graduation.  Although the college prices may play a big factor in this fairly large number of those who never attend, perhaps appealing to the publishers is where this battle of bills should begin.

Part of the publishers reasoning has been thought to correspond with the rising secondary markets.  Internet sites are booming with buying used textbooks and reselling them to students at a lower cost.  To avoid the problem of a decrease in sales, publishers print Fourth, Fifth, and even Sixth editions, so that students have to purchase the newer versions.  By this, they are making the value market for used books nearly zero.

Perhaps part of a publisher’s problem is in no longer being able to sell new textbooks because of the used book sales among students and the flourishing market of used bookstore companies.  Their strategy then, is if they can keep putting out new editions, they will continue to make their profit.  But, with the printed copies publishers sell now, they often sell their large quantity of textbooks, and that is all the profit they make until their new edition is printed and sold.

Thus, the argument for publishers could come into account that if their books are simply being cycled around, they will never make a profit and slowly go out of business.  Where would our textbook industry go?  Would new text books ever be published to inform us of new information?

In August, 2005, the Government Accountability Office said students could spend up to as much as $900 a year on new textbooks and supplies.  This is definitely not uncommon.  It is reasonable for some textbooks to be of a fairly high cost, because there is a price to pay for the graphics and even some of the information used in the material.  Also, textbooks are often printed on high quality paper, whereas a common novel is printed with a lot less cost and can be printed in mass for much less.

What options do we, as college students, have?  What can the teachers do about it?  Students spend a majority of their time online, so why not offer electronic textbooks online or by CD?  Professor Terry Lovell, at Yavapai College said, "Textbooks are 15th century technology; we need to step into the 21st century."  Lovell also commented, "If we use (online textbooks) we can save up to 50 percent, and they can update as new information comes, instead of needing to replace them."

Publishers would still make a profit by charging students to gain access to internet based materials, and the cost would go down considerably for college students, because there would be the elimination of printing costs.  The problem that could be foreseen, as far as profit goes, would be students sharing the access.  However, realistically, students already share textbooks in an effort to save resources.  Worse yet, sometimes they don’t even purchase them because of the prohibitive prices, thus losing the educational opportunity that would be provided with access to these resources.  Some schools, in an effort to accommodate lower income students, purchase a library copy of certain textbooks so that students may have access.  Obviously, while this is helpful, it severely limits students’ ability to study outside of the library’s hours of operation. 

Bundled textbooks are the books that come in plastic wrap and have extra material included, such as CD’s and other supplemental materials.  With these simple, cheap additional items, they feel they have the right to charge a large sum more.  All publishers should make unbundled books an option to students and teachers, because the bonus material is often left unused.

Publishers want to make more profit and offer other materials, but if these materials are so important, they would be used more often.  Teachers should have the option to purchase them separately if they decide that the materials are important to their student’s education.  But, most professors admit that the bonus material is never used in their courses.

There have been many attempts to make a difference.  Students have set up petitions, taken bills to be passed to state officials, sent letters to some of the publishers, but perhaps there aren’t enough students requesting that they do their best to make textbooks as inexpensive as possible without sacrificing the educational value.  Also, we need to urge them to make new editions only when it is educationally necessary.  Certainly it is understandable that certain new developments in science would warrant significant changes in textbooks, but is it truly necessary to reprint an entire edition of a poetry book?  Does the content change so significantly?

Some teachers request new teacher’s materials, as well as updated and attention grabbing charts.  By this simple request, they are causing publishers to put out new editions which in most cases are sold with a fifty percent increase from the previous edition.  They edit minor things in the textbook itself and also tend to bundle some additional materials rather than coming up with the requested information that can be sold separately.

If the current trend continues, by the time babies today enter college, they will be paying three times the current rate for college tuition.  Correspondingly, college textbooks will also rise to an extremely high cost.  College degrees will become more important to attain for a supportive job and high school graduates will have an even higher need to complete college.  If a family waits until their child reaches their freshmen year of high school to start saving for college, they will need to make and set aside $56.12 weekly to make the same amount they would if they set aside $10 a week at birth at 4% interest to accumulate $12,663.44.  This, of course, will not cover the entire cost of college, but will set a good foundation for at least their first year.

In summary, it is important to find ways to make college education less expensive.  There needs to be an emphasis for college textbook prices to decrease rather than increase.  Education should be valued above money, and many institutions are barely breaking even to manage this standard. Publishers can make a difference, but perhaps they need a good push. Write letters, sign petitions, or even better, become a publisher or textbook author and put an end to the madness of the outrageous expenses of education.

Bibliography:

FinAid Page, LLC; Mark Kantrowitz, Publisher. (2008). Tuition Inflation; Savings Goals. Retrieved 2008, from http://www.finaid.org/savings/tuition-inflation.phtml

Kinney, D. (2007 , May 28). Parents: It’s never too early to start saving for college. Retrieved April 2008, from http://www.fwbusinesspress.com/display.php?id=6123

Kirst, M. W., & Venezia, A. (2003). Undermining Student Aspirations. Retrieved 2008, from http://www.highereducation.org/crosstalk/ct0203/voices0203-undermining.shtml

Longley, R. (2005, August). GAO Probes College Textbook Price Increases. Retrieved April 2008, from About.com: http://usgovinfo.about.com/od/consumerawareness/a/gaobookcosts.htm

Meurer, D. (2008, March 11). Yavapai College board approves tuition increase. Retrieved April 2008, from http://www.dcourier.com/main.asp?SectionID=1&subsectionID=1&articleID=53274

The Editorial Board. (2008, April 10). Retrieved April 15, 2008, from New York Times: http://theboard.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/04/10/that-textbook-costs-how-much-200/

The State PIRGs. (2005, February). Retrieved April 2008, from Make Textbooks Affordable: http://www.maketextbooksaffordable.org/newsroom.asp?id2=15618

This is a cool story that was read in class. Enjoy!

Love is a Fallacy

by Max Shulman

Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute—I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And—think of it!—I only eighteen.

It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Bellows, my roommate at the university. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it—this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.

One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. “Don’t move,” I said, “Don’t take a laxative. I’ll get a doctor.”

“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.

“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.

“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.

I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental. “Why do you want a raccoon coat?”

“I should have known it,” he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have known they’d come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and now I can’t get a raccoon coat.”

“Can you mean,” I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”

“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where’ve you been?”

“In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.

He leaped from the bed and paced the room. “I’ve got to have a raccoon coat,” he said passionately. “I’ve got to!”

“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They—”

“You don’t understand,” he interrupted impatiently. “It’s the thing to do. Don’t you want to be in the swim?”

“No,” I said truthfully.

“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”

My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I asked, looking at him narrowly.

“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.

I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn’t have it exactly, but at least he had first rights on it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.

I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.

I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer’s career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.

Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt that time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.

Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—without even getting her fingers moist.

Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.

“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?”

“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied, “but I don’t know if you’d call it love. Why?”

“Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like that?”

“No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?”

“Is there,” I asked, “any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

I nodded with satisfaction. “In other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open. Is that right?”

“I guess so. What are you getting at?”

“Nothing , nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out the closet.

“Where are you going?” asked Petey.

“Home for weekend.” I threw a few things into the bag.

“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you’re home, you couldn’t get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”

“I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.

“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.

“Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. “Holy Toledo!” he repeated fifteen or twenty times.

“Would you like it?” I asked.

“Oh yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. “What do you want for it?”

“Your girl.” I said, mincing no words.

“Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper. “You want Polly?”

“That’s right.”

He flung the coat from him. “Never,” he said stoutly.

I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to be in the swim, I guess it’s your business.”

I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a torn man. First he looked at the coat with the expression of a waif at a bakery window. Then he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then he turned away, but with not so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning. Finally he didn’t turn away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.

“It isn’t as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly. “Or going steady or anything like that.”

“That’s right,” I murmured.

“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”

“Not a thing,” said I.

“It’s just been a casual kick—just a few laughs, that’s all.”

“Try on the coat,” said I.

He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. “Fits fine,” he said happily.

I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand.

He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said and shook my hand.

I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey; I wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner. “Gee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the restaurant. Then I took her to a movie. “Gee, that was a marvy movie,” she said as we left the theatre. And then I took her home. “Gee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she bade me good night.

I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task. This girl’s lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be taught to think. This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey. But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.

I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course in logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my fingertips. “Poll’,” I said to her when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over to the Knoll and talk.”

“Oo, terrif,” she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go far to find another so agreeable.

We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly. “What are we going to talk about?” she asked.

“Logic.”

She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. “Magnif,” she said.

“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight.”

“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.

I winced, but went bravely on. “First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”

“By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.

“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise.”

“I agree,” said Polly earnestly. “I mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it builds the body and everything.”

“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people. Otherwise you have committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?”

“No,” she confessed. “But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!”

“It will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. “Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t speak French. Petey Bellows can’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French.”

“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”

I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion.”

“Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly. “This is more fun than dancing even.”

I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing if not persistent. I continued. “Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let’s not take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take him out with us, it rains.”

“I know somebody just like that,” she exclaimed. “A girl back home—Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic—”

“Polly,” I said sharply, “it’s a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.”

“I’ll never do it again,” she promised contritely. “Are you mad at me?”

I sighed. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.”

“Then tell me some more fallacies.”

“All right. Let’s try Contradictory Premises.”

“Yes, let’s,” she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.

I frowned, but plunged ahead. “Here’s an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do anything, can He make a stone so heavy that He won’t be able to lift it?”

“Of course,” she replied promptly.

“But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone,” I pointed out.

“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, then I guess He can’t make the stone.”

“But He can do anything,” I reminded her.

She scratched her pretty, empty head. “I’m all confused,” she admitted.

“Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?”

“Tell me more of this keen stuff,” she said eagerly.

I consulted my watch. “I think we’d better call it a night. I’ll take you home now, and you go over all the things you’ve learned. We’ll have another session tomorrow night.”

I deposited her at the girls’ dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a perfectly terrif evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.

But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening; I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind a few members still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into flame. Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.

Seated under the oak the next evening I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam.”

She quivered with delight.

“Listen closely,” I said. “A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his qualifications are, he replies that he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the cellar, and winter is coming.”

A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.

“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s no argument. The man never answered the boss’s question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss’s sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?”

“Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.

I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes. “Next,” I said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations. After all, surgeons have X-rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an examination?”

“There now,” she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I’ve heard in years.”

“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren’t taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situations are altogether different, and you can’t make an analogy between them.”

“I still think it’s a good idea,” said Polly.

“Nuts,” I muttered. Doggedly I pressed on. “Next we’ll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”

“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.

“Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium.”

“True, true,” said Polly, nodding her head “Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean he fractures me.”

“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “I would like to point out that statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can’t start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it.”

“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly, “I hardly ever see him any more.”

One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. “The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”

“How cute!” she gurgled.

“Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say.’ ... Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What’s wrong?”

I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly a glimmer of intelligence—the first I had seen—came into her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she said with indignation. “It’s not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?”

“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One hundred per cent right. It’s not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start ... Polly, I’m proud of you.”

“Pshaws,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.

“You see, my dear, these things aren’t so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think—examine—evaluate. Come now, let’s review everything we have learned.”

“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.

Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, I began a long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without letup. It was like digging a tunnel. At first, everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.

Five grueling nights with this took, but it was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me, at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.

It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary. Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine. I decided to acquaint her with my feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.

“Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”

“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.

“My dear,” I said, favoring her with a smile, “we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched.”

“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.

“I beg your pardon,” said I.

“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated. “How can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?”

I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. “My dear,” I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty. After all, you don’t have to eat a whole cake to know that it’s good.”

“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly. “I’m not a cake. I’m a girl.”

I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper word. Then I began:

“Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”

There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.

“Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.

I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically I fought back the tide of panic surging through me; at all costs I had to keep cool.

“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile, “you certainly have learned your fallacies.”

“You’re darn right,” she said with a vigorous nod.

“And who taught them to you, Polly?”

“You did.”

“That’s right. So you do owe me something, don’t you, my dear? If I hadn’t come along you never would have learned about fallacies.”

“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.

I dashed perspiration from my brow. “Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn’t take all these things so literally. I mean this is just classroom stuff. You know that the things you learn in school don’t have anything to do with life.”

“Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.

That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will you not go steady with me?”

“I will not,” she replied.

“Why not?” I demanded.

“Because this afternoon I promised Petey Bellows that I would go steady with him.”

I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand! “The rat!” I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. “You can’t go with him, Polly. He’s a liar. He’s a cheat. He’s a rat.”

“Poisoning the Well ,” said Polly, “and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”

With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice. “All right,” I said. “You’re a logician. Let’s look at this thing logically. How could you choose Petey Bellows over me? Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Petey—a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who’ll never know where his next meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Bellows?”

“I certainly can,” declared Polly. “He’s got a raccoon coat.”

Well, like I promised... I am adding one of the papers I wrote for class. Now, bare in mind that there may be some mistakes in this one, because it is the unedited version. The reason that I chose this one, was because it had more details... So, technically it is an 8 page paper... The edited version was cut down to just over 5 pages... The assignment was to write about a journey we had experienced, that expressed a quote by  Confucius; “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Well, I hope you enjoy! Comments are welcome

"Unimaginable Journey"

I stepped outside the large green door into the alley way between apartment complexes where the rusted, metallic garbage cans were kept. Lifting the lid from the closest receptacle, that over powering, sickeningly sweet and sour aroma of moldy tomatoes, bananas and bread flooded my nostrils. Gagging, I quickly released the large black bag and returned the lid to its position. Gripping the opening of my maroon sweater, I tightly wrapped it around me as I turned to go back inside. Suddenly, I was startled by the shadowy figure in front of me. My heart pace quickened. My breath shortened.

“Please, don’t be frightened,” the man assured calmly. “I need your help.”

“Uh oh,” I thought. “What on earth does he want MY help for?” It was nearly 3 o’clock in the morning, and my mind felt like corn meal mush. I tilted my head slightly and spoke up, “My help?”

“Would you mind stepping inside? Just into the apartment stairwell will do; I’d like to speak with you about something.”

Technically, I couldn’t say no. He was standing in front of the apartment building door, which remained unlocked. He had a large build, but a soft voice. I made a rash decision; one I would unlikely make at a more convenient hour. “We can go up to my apartment,” I whispered quickly.

***

The old metal stairs clanked loudly as we made our way to the third floor apartments. We walked midway down the hall, my eyes wavering from the worn brown and red designed carpeting to the bald head of this stranger in front of me. “Twenty-four,” I hummed gently. He stopped in front of my red door. I unlocked it and paint peels fell as I turned the knob and pushed open the door with my other hand.

Broken tiles made up my two-foot entry way, beyond which my two tattered couches and bean bag chairs crowded the living room area. “Please have a seat,” I instructed; my hostess instincts kicking in. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you,” he said positioning himself on the couch facing the hall.

I sat across from him on the opposing couch. “So, you said that you needed to talk to me. I’m sure you can tell how curious I am by now.”

Thus began his captivating story. He had married a woman from Nepal and had one child with her. When he left she had just found out she was pregnant with another. This was two years before, and he couldn’t make it home on his own. A group called “Koomzad” was trying to find him and according to their rules, until he returned home to his wife, they had free reign to kill him. Apparently I was recommended as the perfect person to help him on this journey, but he could not say who had told him of me.

I breathed a prayer for a moment of inspiration; “I’ll do it!” I was taken back by my own loud response and slapped my hands over my mouth. I couldn’t believe what I had said, and so abruptly, too! Little did I know that this journey of his would also become a journey of my own.

***

Scrambling through my dresser drawer, I thought to myself frantically; “What on earth do you pack for this kind of trip? I’ve never had to do this before!” I rushed around grabbing random items and throwing them on my bed. I stopped. “What am I doing? I’m not going on vacation!” I quickly grabbed the essentials – a pair of jeans, a light jacket, a few shirts, a pair of shorts, toothbrush, toothpaste, water purifying tablets, first aid kit, and most importantly – my piggy bank (a tall blue cloth covered Electrasol can filled with random coins and dollars I had been saving for a trip to Australia). The contents I dumped on my desk.

“Four hundred dollars,” I whispered to myself as I slid the last quarter off the desk. It was now almost 5am as I carried my backpack out into the living room and threw it on the couch. The man lay sleeping while I had been packing for the last hour. I gently shook him. “Breakfast?” I asked.

He jolted awake, cocking his “guns” into a combat position. “What? Sorry. Breakfast? What time is it? Yes. I’m starving.”

I withheld the giggles. “Yes, as in the food to break the fast. It’s almost five. What would you like? Tofu and Little Links?”

“Tofu? Umm… Sure! Sounds great!”

With his hesitant answer I wasn’t convinced. But with the time frame, we rushed through breakfast without a word, until I grabbed his plate to wash it. “What’s your name, by the way?” I asked. I had just realized I didn’t know it.

He answered with an outstretched hand, “I apologize, I’m Frank Jacobs.”

“Well Mr. Jacobs, I guess we’re ready to embark on our journey.” I assumed to give him a proper title, for he was older than I by at least 10 years.

“Please, call me Frank. We’ll certainly be spending enough time together.”

***

Grabbing my black bag from the couch and flipping off the light on the table, Frank opened the door and stepped out. I took a single step out of my apartment and gazed at the shiny gold number as I locked the door. 324. Realization hit me of what I had taken on, how long I’d be away from home, and what troubles I may face along the way. I clung to the knob a moment longer, lingering at the door with thoughts of hastily returning inside, dead bolting it and remaining there until he had no choice but to leave. That first step seemed to be the hardest at that point, but I turned and made my way down the hall.

As we reached the street, we walked about half a block down the long aisle of cars. “This one,” I said motioning to the bluish-charcoal clunker. I saw the look on his face; disturbed by the sight of it as I got in. I unlocked his door while putting the key in the ignition. The engine made a soft hum as I threw it in drive.

***

This journey depended on money; lots of money. Whoever these people were – they were good. He used my cell phone to schedule several flights to throw them off, registration under his name was definitely a dead give away. We drove as far as we could until we stopped to get some food and that’s when the car broke down.

It wasn’t safe to say we were out of harm's way stranded in the middle of Ohio, although I wish I could have. Just about the time those thoughts entered my head, Frank saw them. Next thing I knew, we were down in the sewers, running adjacent to a stream of sewage. My bag swung over one shoulder; I struggled to attach my backpack to both arms. I didn’t quite understand the situation, wasn’t sure where we would end up, but I did know our destination – where we wanted to be.

***

Soon we crawled out of the man hole a couple miles away. No car. We walked to a gas station about a mile down the road where we hitched a ride with a truck driver. I fell asleep and the next thing I knew, we had made our way to New York.

Inside the city, he let us off at a street corner. We began to walk into the run down areas. Women stood on corners, groups of young men stood in alley ways; some with their arms draped around a young girl. An ominous voice shouted at us as we walked past a dark alley. “Hey! You’re not from around here, are you? Get lost on your way to a Father-Daughter outing?” He cackled.

“Keep walking,” Frank sternly barked in a hushed tone. I did, but it didn’t work. The man with a group of others strutted towards us. “Run!” Frank insisted as he hurriedly shoved his hand across my back. We both took off down the street. Creepily, they remained at their rapid swaggering pace. Somehow I knew that they were going to catch up to us and we would have to stand our ground, they knew to.

Turning a street corner moments after Frank, I was pulled into the alley way. A hand over my mouth, “Keep quite. It’s me,” the voice whispered. “We’ll have to fight them if they find us. We can’t run anymore.” Frank handed me a metal pole lying on the ground. “Ever play baseball?” I nodded. “Good. Hold tightly and swing.”

***

My arms ached from the swinging motion, and a trickle of blood dripped from the side of my head from a light blow. I looked around to six bodies lying amidst the dumpsters and randomly placed trash cans; three of the men ran away. I held back the tears from the overwhelming event that had just occurred. “Now what?” I asked dabbing gauze to my wound; hissing from the pain.

“We get on a boat,” he announced. “I don’t want to take the chances on a plane.”

“Neither do I. I’m not so sure I like alleys anymore. I met you; I met them… It just gives me a whole lot of experiences I’m just not sure I’m prepared to face.”

“You’re prepared. I saw you. I appreciate your help. You’ll be needed terribly for our next phase. Let’s go inside the convenience store and clean up. Change your clothes. It looks like there is a rack of clothes inside. I’m paying for your wardrobe change.”

***

Hesitantly, I stepped out of the small bathroom in a skirt and slightly large shirt. “Frank, I think I need a smaller size for this top.”

“No,” he said reaching for the hem of it. “It’s perfect.” He placed a piece of round foam under my shirt. “Tuck it in… Now, see what I mean?”

I looked at the potato chip rack, with its silvery mirror-like sides. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Pregnant lady coming through! Do you really think they’ll buy this?”

“Oh, I would. You’ve taught drama, right? It’s time to fit into the role as my pregnant wife.”

“But the cruise will take months.”

“Yes, I know. Here is some other foam to make you bigger, and a smaller piece to start you out with. We can put some in my bag and some in yours.”

***

I pulled out my passport and handed it to the ticket master on the docks. “Sir, my husband and I need to get back to India.” I said motioning to Frank standing at a port gift shop stand. “He wants his child to be raised among his family there, but he lost his passport.”

“Funny. He doesn’t look Indian.”

“No, Sir, his mother is Indian, his father is British. And well, his hair was thick and black before he went bald. Please, I’m four months pregnant. I want to give him this before he dies.”

“Dies?” The man asked.

“Yes sir. He’s balding from cancer treatments. Less than a year to live,” it was the strangest thing I had ever done in acting - force out and hold back tears.

“So you’ll be stranded in India with a baby and his family? That hardly seems fair. How does your family feel about this?”

The twinge of guilt began to sink in from lying, but I continued. “They don’t. They passed when I was young.”

He hesitated. “It’ll be $300, ma’am.”

“Thank you!”

***

We had registered under my name. It had worked; no need for his passport to be shown. We boarded the boat and found our room. With nearly one hundred days in front of us, we began thinking ahead. Frank gave me back the $300 I paid for the tickets; and he seemed to have plenty more with him. He paid for all of our meals, extra clothes, and after months of “adding on the pounds,” we arrived in Mumbai, India.

***

We began to travel. Rest was something we got plenty of on the boat. Hitching rides with locals combined with miles of hiking through Bombay, Kalyan, all the way to Kanpur; finally we made it into Nepal.

I thought that was it; simple for the most part. Yet again, I was wrong. It seems the Koomzad could track those thoughts, because they showed up again; several of them.

At that time of our journey, we were blessed having hitched a ride with poachers. Tranquilizer guns were a perfect fit for these men, for death hardly seemed the answer on either end. Thirteen trained Koomzad against three poachers, Frank, and me.

With a dart held tightly in my hand, I took on the smallest of the band. We circled around each other. He lunged at me; he missed. I lunged at him with my right hand aiming for his stomach; my left hand, clinching the serum, went straight to his bicep. At that point, I ran. He speedily jolted toward me, but soon slowed to a swift halt; he landed face down in the dirt.

The fight was over, and I realized our journey would be soon. We made our way into the villages of Nepal, and I realized that even though this journey would end, it would live with me forever.

***

Finally we made it to his home near Humla. The scene played like a movie; a woman squatting in a garden patch beside the house and two young boys handing her half-grown foods. I stood back and watched as Frank gently called her name. Her face turned up with knowledge of who it was; the tears welling in her eyes as she ran to his embrace. I turned to face the mountainous path that started me back on my journey home; I stopped, in awe of the masterful sight before me.

Startled by an obnoxious buzzing, my eyes opened to the flashing red numbers on my alarm clock. This had been the third time I had awakened with this memory. To some, this may be considered just a dream, but for me, that’s often where the best journeys begin.

***

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” –Confucius

Wow - Time has PASSED since I have blogged... So - I have something I need to ask YOUR help on... I have to come up with a topic for an argumentative essay... So, if you could give me ideas, and I'll tell you my opinion on it and you can tell me if you think I have a good argument for or against something... I have to have enough content to complete a 5 page paper... So, help with ideas would be much appreciated...

I'll post in the next couple of days some old papers I have written for classes - At least those I think might be found interesting to those OUTSIDE of my classes....

Have a great day!!!

Wow... It's shocking that I've only posted.. what, 6 blogs since LAST Christmas? How crazy is that? I guess it just goes to show how busy I've been.

Well, I don't remember if I posted about being homeschooled through my entire highschool experience... I'm pretty sure that I did... But I just recently finished my first IN school experience, and first semester of college... AMAZING...

Haha... It was awesome, honestly. I love being in a class room, having deadlines, etc... It really motivates me to keep moving and doing stuff... Plus, it keeps me busy enough to stay out of the majority of trouble that I could get in... and helps me learn along the way...

My grades were finally posted the other day for this last semester... And although I know I'm not keeping a 4.0 throughout college, I didn't do too terribly. 2 A's, 2 A-'s and a B-... So that means that so far I have a 3.57 GPA... Not too shabby...

Well, I'd like to share a poem with you guys that I wrote... I was having a conversation with someone about how we've just grown accustomed to the blood and gore from movies and such.... That it was something that people used to grimace at and turn away from, but now it becomes almost humorous in many situations. Anyway, this is just a random thing I wrote a few days after that conversation... Enjoy

Hey mister

Yeah, you

Do you understand this, dude?

No glory

No friends

And we wonder why he’s dead

He lay there

No pain

Cause life ended yet again

We’re numb

No tears

We’ve lost our deepest fears

The blood

The gore

We’ve seen it all before

The end

Will come

No worries ever more

Yes, I know... I haven't posted anything in ages... Full time student with two part time jobs and still the several ministries I'm involved in doesn't leave much time for things.. but I'm on Christmas break.. So... You'll possibly get a few

What Happened to the Money?

(Photos by Amy Sancetta, AP)

 

 

 

"Live the parable of the talents!" Throckmorton exhorted, as assistants handed out hundreds of red envelops stuffed with crisp $50 bills and stunned church members did quick mental calculations, wondering where all the money had come from. There are about 1,700 in the congregation, though not everyone attends each week.

The cash, Throckmorton explained, was loaned by several anonymous donors.

In her regular pew at the back of the church, where she has listened to sermons for 40 years, 73-year-old Barbara Gates gasped. What kind of kooky nonsense is this, she thought.

"Sheer madness," sniffed retired accountant Wayne Albers, 85, to his wife, Marnie, who hushed him as he whispered loudly. "Why can't the church just collect money the old-fashioned way?"

In a center pew, Ann Nagy's eyes moistened as she considered her ailing, beloved father, his suffering, and the song she had written to comfort him near death. She nudged her husband Scott. "Give me your $50," she whispered. Nagy knew exactly what she would do.

Throckmorton wrapped up his two morning services by saying that children would get $10. And he assured the congregation that anyone who didn't feel comfortable could simply return the money. No consignment to outer darkness for those who didn't participate.

Throckmorton is warm and engaging and approachable, as comfortable talking about the Cleveland Indians baseball team as he is discussing scripture. At the Federated Church, he is known simply as Hamilton.

But as church members spilled into the late summer sunshine that morning to ponder their skills and their souls, there were many who thought: Hamilton is really pushing us this time.

"There was definitely this tension, this pressure to live up to something," said Hal Maskiell, a 62-year-old retired Navy pilot who spent days trying to figure out how to meet the challenge.

Maskiell's passion is flying a four-seater Cessna 172 Skyhawk over the Cuyahoga County hills. He decided to use his $50 to rent air time from Portage County airport and charge $30 for half-hour rides. Church members eagerly signed up. Maskiell was thrilled to get hours of flying time, and he raised $700.

His girlfriend, Kathy Marous, 55, was far less confident. What talents do I have, she thought dejectedly. She was tempted to give the money back.

And then Marous found an old family recipe for tomato soup, one she hadn't made in 19 years. She remembered how much she had enjoyed the chopping and the cooking and the canning and the smells. With Hal's encouragement Marous dug out her pots. She bought three pecks of tomatoes. Suddenly she was chopping and cooking and canning again. At $5 a jar, she made $180.

"I just never imagined people would pay money for the things I made," Marous exclaimed.

Others felt the same way. Barbara Gates raised $450 crafting pendants from beads and sea glass - pieces she had casually made for her grandchildren over the years. Kathie Biggin created fanciful little red-nosed Rudolph pins and sold them for $2.50. Twelve-year-old Amanda Horner pooled her money with friends, stocked up at JoAnn's fabric store, and made dozens of colorful fleece baby blankets, which were purchased by church members and then donated to a local hospital.

And 87-year-old Bob Burrows rediscovered old carpentry skills and began selling wooden bird-feeders.

But it wasn't the money; everyone said so. It was something else, something far less tangible but yet so very real. For seven weeks an almost magical sense of excitement and energy and camaraderie infused the elegant red-brick church on Bell Street, spilling over into homes and hearts as the parable of the talents came alive.

In her sun-filled studio on Strawberry Lane, Shirley Culbertson felt it - a joyful sense of purpose that she had rarely experienced since her husband passed two years ago. Culbertson, 81, is a gifted painter and watercolors fill her house. But she discovered another talent during this time - knitting whimsical eight-inch stuffed dolls with button noses and floppy hats. She raised $90.

Zooming down country roads clinging to the back of a leather-clad biker, Florence Cross felt it too. For the challenge, Barry Biggin had parked his 2006 Harley Davidson Road King outside the church, offering 12-mile rides for $30. Cross was the first to sign up. Never mind that she is in her mid-80s, had never been on a bike, or that her husband of 60 years had to hoist her up.

"Oh, it was such a thrill!" said Cross, her face glowing at the memory. Her friends now call her "Harley Girl."

Martine Scheuermann lived the parable in her Elm Street kitchen, transforming it into an "applesauce factory" for several weeks. The 49-year-old human resources director would rise at 6 a.m. on Sundays in order to have warm batches ready for sampling at church services.

In his origami-filled bedroom on Bradley Street, Paul Cantlay lived the parable too. Surrounded by sheets of colored construction paper, the 9-year-old crafted paper dragons and stars and sailboats. He set up an origami stand at the end of his street, charged 50 cents to $5 depending on the piece, and raised $68.

Talents began multiplying at such a rate that the church held a bazaar after services on two consecutive Sundays for people to display - and sell - their wares.

The pretty little village on the Chagrin River falls had never seen anything quite like it. Everyone seemed to be talking about the talent challenge: over the clatter of coffee cups at Dink's restaurant, at the Fireside bookshop on the green, sipping drinks at the Gamekeeper's Taverne. Even members of other churches weighed in: Have you heard what's happening at Federated?

"Anyone can open their wallet and give cash," Kris Tesar said. "This was just an extraordinary process of exploration and discovery and of challenging ourselves. It became bigger than any one of us or than any individual talent."

Tesar, a 58-year-old retired nurse, discovered her talent in buckets of flip-flops for sale at Old Navy. She stocked up on yarn and beads and made dozens of funky, fluffy decorative footwear that were a huge hit with teens. Tesar raised $550 for the church, is still taking orders and is thinking of starting a business. Now even her children call her the "flip-flop lady."

People also got to know the "hen lady" - Gabrielle Quintin, who took to raising chickens on a whim 23 years ago when she moved into a 180-year-old house with a barn. Her "ladies," as Quintin calls her backyard flock, provide a welcome distraction from her nursing job in a cancer center. Quintin decided to put her brood to work for the church. For $10 church members could "hire-a-hen" and get three dozen fresh eggs complete with a photograph of the "lady" who laid them.

"It wasn't exactly spiritual, but I had a lot of fun," said Quintin, whose husband, Mike, made glass birdfeeders. "And it was just this great way of bringing everyone together and connecting with the church."

Kathy Wellman quilted. Mary Hobbs knit shawls and penciled portraits. Cathy Hatfield auctioned a ride in her hot-air balloon. Norma and Trent Bobbitt pooled their money with another church member to hire a harpist from the Cleveland orchestra and host an elegant evening dinner party. Folks paid $50 each to attend and the Bobbitts made over $1,200.

And physician Peter Yang took over shifts from other doctors in his partnership (he used his $50 for gas to get to the hospital) and raised $3,000.

The deadline to return the money was Sunday, Oct. 28. Nervously, some church council members suggested posting plain clothes security guards at services that day. But Throckmorton would have none of it. He insisted that the spirit of the challenge, which had already inspired so much goodwill, would carry them safely through. And it did.

Organ music filled the church as people silently filed down the aisle, dropped their proceeds into baskets, and offered testimonials about what living the parable had meant to them. Throckmorton thanked everyone for their generosity. Then he started counting.

A week later he delivered the joyful news: They had more than doubled the amount distributed.

The initial take was $38,195 over the loan, but the amount is still growing. Some people didn't make the deadline, or extended it in order to finish their projects.

The final sum will be divided equally between three charities: One-third will go to a school library in South Africa where the church is involved in an AIDS mission; one-third will go to micro-loan organizations that provide seed money for small businesses in developing countries; one-third will help the Interfaith Hospitality Network in Cleveland, specifically programs for homeless women.

Throckmorton is asked all the time if the talent challenge will become an annual event, but he is doubtful. It was a special time and a special idea, he says, and he is not sure it could be re-created or relived.

Yet in a very real sense, it lives on. Church members who never knew each other have become friends. And orders for applesauce, flip-flops and Rudolph pins are still rolling in for Christmas.

There are other, more poignant reminders. Like Ann Nagy's haunting tribute to her father, who died of brain cancer on Oct. 11.

Nagy, 44, has always been a singer with a clear lovely voice. It wasn't until her father grew ill and moved into a hospice that she started writing songs. She found solace in the music and a way of communicating that was sometimes easier than spoken words.

At hospice, patients are taught five simple truths to tell their loved ones before they die: I'll miss you. I love you. I forgive you. I'm sorry. Goodbye.

Borrowing from that theme, Nagy wrote a farewell song for her Dad. She pooled her $50 talent money with her husband's share and cut a CD to sell to church members. Ironically it was finished just an hour before her father passed, on Oct. 11. Nagy stood by his bed and sang it for him anyway.

On Nov. 11 - her father's 72nd birthday - Throckmorton preached a sermon about dying. He invited Nagy to the altar. There, accompanied by a cellist and a pianist she sang "Before You Go."

Her voice soared. The congregation wept. The parable of the talents had never seemed so alive.

Wow... I haven't blogged in ages... Things have been pretty busy. Skits here and there, babysitting, boys, cars, pathfinders, youth groups, basements, and GRADUATING!

It's strange to be homeschooled, especially when you come to that point in your life to kiss highschool goodbye... I don't get a year book for all of my friends to sign... I don't want to march alone with a bunch of people coming just to see me... It seems ridiculous, and I'm a pretty realistic kind of gal... And with everything going on in my life... I don't have the time to have a party, either...

Most people are filled with memories from highschool. The nerds, preps, jocks... Their group of friends... Their favorite teachers... And please don't think I'm pouting and complaining, but I didn't get that...

I'm a very serene person. Nothing seems to phase me. I take things as they come and don't fret about disappointments... And, I don't get very excited about things... especially not visually excited. People generally have to ASK if I'm excited about something.

Another thing that will be keeping me busy is work... I'm heading off to camp again this summer. Last summer I was a part of the kitchen crew, but now there will be a huge change... I'm going to be in charge of a class. Creative Arts - Drama, Sign Language, Arts and Crafts... I'm also in charge of props and costumes for all of the evening programs... Exciting, right? Well, to be honest, I'm filled with mixed emotions. I'm excited, confused, worried, stressed, and even a little scared...

I never have experienced emotion on an extreme level... I rarely show my emotions... Many people think it's unusual. I love and care for everyone... But, to show that emotion on a higher level then a smile and hug when I see them... It just doesn't come very well sometimes... Although, a lot of people aren't as friendly as I am... and unfortunately... people keep falling for me.

That brings me to another problem I've been having... People falling for me. One of my biggest problems is that I tend to send the wrong signals... Something as simple as a smile can seem flirty with me... apparently? It seems crazy sometimes... I'm pretty observant, but every time someone tells me they like me... I'm surprised... because even if I've thought about it, I always tell myself I'm wrong... every time... Why? I don't know... I tend to read people right the first time, second guess myself, and get it all wrong.

Well, I don't want to make this too terribly long. No one really read my last post... It was WAY long. I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend!! Ciao!