A Formidable and Chivalrous "Expository" Essay

This just goes to show what will undoubtably happen when I am asked to write an expository essay about an emotional experience from my past. Haha.


I am a knight. I have been since age eight. Or nine. My memory is hazy. That's what becoming a knight does to you. Once that sacred sword makes contact with your being, symbolizing your advancement from peasanthood to knighthood, recalling things as trivial as dates becomes obsolete. However, the memory of my very first knighting is so vivid, so vibrant, so emotion-fused , that I could not forget it, not even if aliens beamed down and attempted to pry it from my large and tremendous mind. Would you like me to recall the occasion for you? You would? Spiffing. This is a wondrous tale that you shan't soon forget.

Before I begin my tale, I have some 'splainin' to do. The kingdom I resided in at the time of my knighting was the great and spacious Texas. Within Texas is a small hamlet in which is a very fine school for young peasants. At said establishment, all us younglings were commanded by our Queen, Principal Fezziwig, to live the value of the month, so that at the end of said month, we may be eligible for the honor of being knighted.

Alright, I’m going to switch dialogues here. Now, I know that this all sounds fictional and somewhat ludicrous...but I am far from kidding. Everything I’ve said so far is completely factual. Except the bit about Principal Fezziwig. The name was, indeed, procured from A Christmas Carol. I used the name for one of two reasons. One: I can’t remember the Principal’s name (see paragraph one) and two: because I love the name Fezziwig and desperately wish that it was the nameless Principal’s name. But wishing gets me nowhere. Telling the rest of the story, however, might.

Dialogue switch. The value of the month, the value which led to my knighting, was that of tolerance. I was the one doing the tolerating. I was not the scum that was to be tolerated. My toleration was apparently so impressive that my elders supposed that it was high time that I be promoted from meager peasant to shiny knight. On the day of the knighting, the air was buzzing with such excitement that it was almost tangible. I felt that if I could take a bite out of the air, the taste would be the taste of...victory. I had somehow discovered, with the knightly powers I was about to attain, no doubt, that this was my day. I sat down upon the cold tile before the stage with my peers. I was one of them, yet above them. I glanced around, and saw my parents standing in the back of the chamber, their eyes aglow, beaming smiles, video cameras in hand. Yet further evidence of what was to come. I smiled to myself, and glanced around at the sea of inferiors surrounding me. Ha! Then, quite suddenly, the time had come. The names of those who were to be knighted were read. I heard my named called. Pleased, but not at all surprised, I rose to my feet, and took a step towards my destiny. As I did so, I glanced around, and saw all the little peasants whose names had not been read weep with envy. It was a miraculous thing to behold. I mounted the stage, smiled at the appointed knighter, kneeled, bowed my head, and was born again. My new life had begun. The life...of knighthood.

Dialogue switch. Again, this all sounds like a preposterous falsehood, I know. But honestly. This school was big on chivalry. A knight was our mascot. Every month, a sweaty man with a mullet showed up in fifty pounds of glistening armor, names were read, five year olds were told to kneel before him and stay still while he tapped a terrifyingly real looking sword to both shoulders. Then they were handed a medal and a coupon to McDonalds and sent home. It was a fantastic, albeit creepy system to get children to behave. And it was a incredibly potent emotional experience for all. Hence this essay.

A regular Dr. Suess, I am.

My thoughts have been waxing poetic. Really. I was on the bus this morning, thinking about nothing in particular, when WHAM. I looked out the window, and saw a snow covered tree. But that's not really what I saw. I saw a thousand pairs of hands, reaching up to heaven to receive oh-so-lightly falling snow. It was beautiful. And for the rest of the day, every time I saw a tree, that was all I could see. A thousand pairs of hands. And I felt it was important. And rather trivial. But still....it made me happy. And that's all that bleedin' matters, right?

Epiphany

I walk. At ease, at peace. Naive.
A flurry of motion.
A streak of hair.
Blotchy red.
Shaking shoulders.
Fingers clutching at her supporter's neck.
They disappear into the nearest bathroom. I stare, but continue to walk.
I walk. Troubled, shaken. Naive.

"Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks." Matthew 12:34

Quote of the day:
"See the elk. See the elk run. See the elk get shot."
-Mr. Boice, Drivers Education teacher.
This beautiful peice of poetry was delivered whilst driving by a pen of elk in the wee small hours of the morning. I almost crashed the car out of hysterical laughter.

Another bit of news: I am officially in love with the theatre and having an affair with cheese rolls.

Musings of a Bibli-Music-Rickman-ophile

I’d fling myself down the rabbit hole
Fly Across the Universe
Battle Lord Voldemort
For Alan Rickman

Those Green Eyes
Are the spotlight
That illuminate my pitiful existence
And those lovely, temperate, luscious locks
Make heaven drowsy with their harmony.

There is no better man
No Eggman
No Walrus
No Carpenter
That can compare
To this man
This Scrumdiddlyumptious man
Who is the wind beneath my wings.

I am grateful for...

Alan Rickman
Toilets
Ice Cream
Dustin Hoffman
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
Shakespeare
Tim Burton
Pajama pants
Balloons
Rain
Spain
When the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.
Hugh Laurie
Monty Python's "Flying Lesson"
Harry Potter
Douglas Adams
La Vie en Rose

But most of all........The Muppets.
Yes, THE MUPPETS.

Today, I made the most important discovery I have ever made, or will make, in my whole life.
The Muppets singing Bohemian Rhapsody.
You heard me!
Prepare to burst into tears with joy.

Holy.......CRAP!!!!!!!!

Oh my........what in the.........it's.......AUGH!
You know what? I'm not even gonna try and explain it. Just watch.



NOVEMBER, PEOPLE!!!!

Writer's Block Ahoy!

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I am willing to pay a hit man...TO PLACE A BURLAP SACK OVER THE UNRULY HEAD OF MY WRITERS BLOCK AND PITCH IT INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE CASPIAN SEA AHHHHH!!!!!
*pant pant pant pant*
Really though. If you want to try your hand at hit manning, call me. This could be your lucky break.

Anyhow, I apologize to my multitudes of admirers that have been neglected. I shan't abandon you for such an excessive amount of time again. Wait, no, I lied. I will be abandoning you. Forever. Unless, of course, my bleedin' writer's block suddenly turns into a stroke of wordsmith's genius and I can take up my pen once more without bursting into defeatist tears. *sniff*
So, until that fateful day, enjoy this sneezing baby panda.

I've got a Golden Ticket!!! Ya dah dah dah dah dah dahh!

Well, actually it's a purple ticket. But I've got it anyway. Yeehaw!

Expound? Certainly!

The Book Fair, which I haven't had the pleasure of going to in years, has finally returned to me. And with it: a writing contest. The dealio was to rewrite an opening/closing chapter of a favorite book. Grand prize= $20 worth of goodies at the shindig. Since I had already rewritten a chapter from Jane Eyre two months ago, I thought I'd turn it in and see what happened. I didn't think anything of it, seeing as the chapter I butchered was from neither the beginning nor the end. But, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, I got a magical, glowing purple note from the office, demanding my presence at the library. Terribly long story short, I won the twenty bucks, the praise, and the crown of writing glory that will set me apart from all inferior authors for the rest of my writing career. *snort* But really, terribly good fun.
So, if my story is just silly enough to win a contest, it is most certainly silly enough to post here.
While you dabble in the insanity, I shall go wet myself thoroughly (in a good way) whilst partaking of Pride and Prejudice. AND ZOMBIES!

This is an insult to Charlotte Bronte. I can hear her turning in her grave. But here it is nonetheless: the thoughts and feelings of Mr. Rochester as Jane is leaving him.

   I paced angrily about the room, using every ounce of willpower I possessed to prevent myself from destroying everything in sight. "Damn him!" echoed through my mind again and again, "Damn that vile scum of the earth to the deepest pit of hell!" I growled this repeatedly under my breath, in the foolish hope that it would indeed happen where Mason stood. "I should have let him die that night. I should have let that scourge of God tear him to pieces, so that he might feel one-thousandth of the agony that kills me now." I stormed with even more spite about the room, cursing everything in my path, while hate spread like fire through my veins. I wished every livid footstep I took were a dagger to plunge into his monstrous heart. Then Jane, as she so often did, crept into my thoughts. "I shouldn't have waited." I stopped my murderous patrol and collapsed in despair onto the sofa beside the fire, my head in my hands. "I should have taken Jane away as soon as she said she'd have me. I should have taken here where none of this could have touched her. But alas, I didn't. The chips have fallen. The deed is done. And now she can no longer love me. How can she? A wondrous creature such as she cannot dare to even look at a monster such as I, let alone love. It is against the force of nature and the power of God. But still, I hope..."
   I pondered over the previous night. That silence, my precious Jane's broken silence, was worse than tears. "I wish I could run to her, to hold her in my arms again, to tell my darling angel how desperately I love her." I wrestled with myself for a moment. "I can! I will! This very moment!" I jumped to my feet and looked around wildly for the clock. It was not past five. She wouldn't be up yet. I began to pace around the room again, each step matching the click of the clock. I paused only when I heard the creak of a floorboard outside the door. Deciding it had been Pilot, I resumed my impatient walk. Tick tick tick. Every second was agonizing, yet I did not abandon my routine. Tick tick tick.  I continued to walk and battle with my thoughts until I heard the sound of footsteps rushing down the hall. Jane! At last! I raced the door, arms wide, ready to receive my love. "George?" my arms were still aloft as the servant entered the dreary chamber. I dropped my arms. "Where is Jane?" "That's just it, sir!" George said, rather breathily. "She isn't here. She has left!" He looked at me in surprise as I laughed wryly. "Jane, gone? George, you've been at Grace Poole's rum, haven't you?" "No sir, I was most sober. I was taking a bit of breakfast up to Miss Eyre's room when I saw that she had gone!" I laughed again. "Surely she is in the library or with Adele-" "I was just in the library sir, Sophie as well. She stated she had not seen Jane and had been searching also. She is gone, Mr. Rochester! I am not mistaken-" "YOU ARE MISTAKEN!" I shouted. I watched the old man's mouth open in surprise. I was shaking with anger as I shouted again, "You are mistaken! Wake every living soul, and search all of Thornfield again and again, and don't you dare come back without her!" 
   George turned and hastened out as I stood there, head pounding, blood racing. "She has not-she will not leave me." I exited the room in a sort of trance, unconscious to the bustle of servants, running about and calling a name. I found myself in Jane's room. I stood there, dazed, surveying the abandoned chamber. The cold bed, the empty wardrobe, the pale wedding dress that hung, suspended like a ghost on the wall, mocking what had never been. I removed it from it's post and held it in my arms, running my fingers over the cold, dead fabric. "Jane." I whispered her name to the dress. "Jane." Her name was a kiss, fleeing from my lips into the frosty, unfeeling dawn. I repeated the name again and again, falling to my knees, as if pleading for mercy, and crumpled onto the floor. I cried her name over and over, holding the dress that had once held my life. Hot tears fell from my eyes, onto my breast, burning there like fire on my shattered heart. "Jane." I pronounced her beautiful name, that glorious syllable once more. Then all went black, and I felt no more. 

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

Even in his freaky apparel, Johnny Depp remains ever so sexy.
Tonight.
Midnight.
"All alone on the pavement."
AAHH!

Happy Womb Emancipation Day, Alan Rickman!

Oh, Allie.
You have inspired a deep, fiery love in me, that as Buttercup would put it, cannot be tracked by a thousand bloodhounds, or broken with a thousand swords. You are the cheese to my macaroni. My other half, my one coquette. The answer to my love's duet! Though age may hunch your back, or British tea drinking cause all those wondrous teeth to fall from your head, I-eeee-iiii will always love youuuu!
May you stay forever sexy.
Your dulcet, devoted darling,
Laura Perfervidly Twitter-pated Chapman

And here's to you, Mr. Darcy...

Blah. I wrote this a couple of days ago for a book report. I do hope Simon and Garfunkel won't be too displeased....

And here’s to you, Mr. Darcy
Lizzy loves you more than you will know
Wo wo wo
Collins bless you please, Mr. Darcy
Hertfordshire holds a place for those who flirt
irt irt irt...irt irt irt


We’d like to know a little bit ‘bout why you’re such a jerk
We’d like for you to learn to drop some pride
Look around you all you see are Lizzy’s pretty eyes
Stroll around her house until you feel in love


And here’s to you, Mr. Darcy
Lizzy loves you more than you will know
Wo wo wo
Collins bless you please, Mr. Darcy
Hertfordshire holds a place for those who flirt
irt irt irt...irt irt irt


Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes
Put it in your pantry with your tea-cakes
It’s a little secret, just Mr. Darcy’s affections
Most of all you’ve got to hide it from Lady Cathrine


Coo, coo, ca-choo Mr. Darcy
Lizzy loves you more than you will know
Wo wo wo
Collins bless you please, Mr. Darcy
Hertfordshire holds a place for those who flirt
irt irt irt...irt irt irt


Sitting in the parlor on a Sunday afternoon
Watchin’ Ms. Bennet play
Think about it, dream about it
What have you got to loose?
Just your connections and your pride


Where have you gone Mr. Wickham?
The militia turns it’s lonely eyes to you
Woo woo woo
What’s that you say, Mr. Darcy?
Whippin’ Wick has left and gone away
Hey hey hey...hey hey hey





Also written a couple days ago for the book report:

Dear Abby,
My once seemingly amiable cousin, whom I shall call “Elizabeth” has just rejected my offer of marriage! I do not understand this refractory refusal! The very nerve of the woman! If you think this a matter of looks, have faith in my words dear woman, I am far from plain. My manners are exquisite, and my sermons, (oh my sermons, my glorious sermons,) are food for the soul from the very bosom of our Lord. It was out of pure sympathy and compassion that I expressed my affections. I felt genuine sorrow when she defied my hand. Sorrow for her! I knew the first time I gazed upon her that her receiving an offer of marriage was as likely as America winning the war! How very put-out I am! She could be toying with my emotions, but in any case, my patroness, the most highly esteemed Lady Catherine De Bourgh, will be very displeased with this situation, I am afraid. And her opinion is the only one that matters.
What is one to do?
-Harassed in Hertfordshire



Dear Harassed,
It is in my professional opinion that when one is attracted to a cousin, they should seek medical attention. Immediately. ASAP. Forthright. Have a good day.
-Abby

I've actually read a Dear Abby terrifyingly similar to the one above. Blah.

Fun with Jane and Jane...

I wrote this about a month ago, but never posted it because at the time it was crap. But now it doesn't seem to be the crap I thought it once was. Hurrah!

I have switched gears from Jane Eyre to Jane Austen. Double Jane. This can't be healthy....
So, why the sudden Jane obsession? Fate. My Jane Eyre obsession happened after watching the movie and happening upon the novel at Deseret Book for about $4. The Jane Austen obsession, however, was born last night, at about 12:30 in the morning, after watching Becoming Jane for the first time. My impressions? They are as follows: *ahem*......... *giggle*, awww, GAH! *sob* THERE'S A KNIFE IN ME HEART!!!!
After I calmed down a bit and dried my tears, I laid there for a while, just observing a forming epiphany. And here she be: Decisions are everything. Every thought, every action, every blink of an eye, is a choice. The choices Jane Austen made in the film affected her thoughts, her character, her happiness, and ultimately, the entire course of her life. THE choice, the choice to leave Tom Lefory, was agony, and in the opinion of many females in America, the worst choice a woman could possibly make. But no matter how much they think so, the fact remains that Jane's choice was the right one. To quote Albus Dumbledore, "The time will come when you will have to choose between what is right and what is easy." What an awesome quote. And it's so true, too! In Jane's situation, staying with Tom, marrying him, living with and loving him until she died was a glorius, easy proposition. But she was so selfless, so in love with Tom, that she was able to do what was best for him, even though it tore her soul to pieces. Love, true love, requires sacrifice.
Which brings us to a gospel tie in. The Atonement was a choice. It was essential to the plan of salvation, yes. There would be no plan of salvation without it. But it was a choice. In Gethsemane, Christ could have walked away. He could have said "Nope, sorry, I'm done!" He was tempted to. But then love kicked in. Love for his Father, love for you, love for me, and love for all of the world. True love. True love requires sacrifice. The ultimate sacrifice. Without the Atonement, the ultimate sacrifice, there would be no love, no bliss, no anything. A bunch of mindless robots forced in a "The Giver" world. No color. No emotion. No love.
I love these kinds of movies. The gospel is so THERE and prominent in them, even if those who create them don't even realize.
How incredibly, inconceivably, almost irrationally awesome.

My Life-Altering Ingrid Michaelson Experience

BLOGGING BLOCK AHH!
It just won't go away! GRRRR. So please enjoy this article I wrote for the school newspaper about my Ingrid Michaelson experience, while I go cry in the corner for my lack of creativity. *sniff*

It was mid September (probably on a Tuesday. Don’t all things momentous happen on Tuesdays?). I was lying around, clogging my arteries with pounds upon pounds of veggie chips and ranch dressing when I was hit by a sudden inspiration. I leapt into the air, sending the tasteless green chips (which are likened unto packing peanuts, unless ruthlessly drowned in Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing) in every direction, and bolted for the computer. I quickly googled Ingrid Michaelson’s official website, and clicked the “tour” button with the energy of a 2 year old hyped up on mommy’s secret stock of Ferro Rochers (tee hee). I quickly scanned all the locations Ingrid was going to be gracing with her presence this year. My finger froze on the cursor. I stared at the screen, beyond feeling. I couldn’t believe it. It was too perfect. Ingrid Michaelson, goddess of music, was coming to Salt Lake City on October 17. I felt giddy with euphoria. I was on the brink of insanity when I looked at the price of the tickets. They were only $15!!!!!!!!! AHHHHH!!!! This was on a level of perfection that no one, not even the makers of Barbie or the Victoria’s Secret catalog, could have even dreamed of dreaming of.
I raced to my mother, expecting her to join in on the rejoicing. “Mommy mommy guess what? Ingrid Michaelson is coming to Salt Lake next month and the tickets are cheap to the extreme can we go please please please oh mommy dearest?” I wasn’t even halfway through with my disgraceful begging when I knew it was of no use. Nonetheless, I stood there, staring at my mother in disbelief as her head slowly swung from side to side, shutting the one door that allowed a small flash of light into my poor, pitiful, dull, dark blip of an existence. This was Ingrid Michaelson we were talking about!! How could she pass an opportunity like this up?!?! Things like this only happen when wands and a magical force that makes ticket prices go unnaturally down are involved! I went into surly teenager mode, and demanded to know why she was murdering all the happiness left in the world. She gave her reasons, but I was feeling rebellious and didn’t listen.
I stormed off, in such a foul mood, I was considering kicking puppies and burning down an orphanage or two. If I couldn’t be happy, nobody else could.
Later that night, my mom found me sulking, apologized for the trauma she was causing me, and promised me a CD. This lifted my spirits a bit. She bought me the CD on the day of the concert, so I could listen to it while the actual shindig was going on. Nice, I thought. Sad, but nice.
“Be Ok” is a miracle. My limited ninth grade vocabulary prevents me from saying anything that can even begin to do it justice. Since receiving it, I have probably listened to it about three-hundred-and-five times. I wonder when the government will legalize marriage to inanimate objects…

AURGHAGRAURHGAUGHRAHHHHHHHHH!!!!

That's my "I HAVE BLOGGING BLOCK" war cry. So, until my blogging block decides to take an overdue holiday in Fiji, please enjoy this knee slappin Baloonshop video.

Baytowne Heights

And this picture of George Clooney.