I have made a discovery. Life is not this series of big, defining moments. Life is one long string of little, every-day moments with the big defining ones scattered around.
You can't live for the big moments. You have to live every minute. Take every dull, every-day moment and make it the kind of minute that you want to live in.
Drive on a cold day with the all the way windows down and the radio all the way up. Sing as loudly as you can and nod at the passer-by who looks at you like you're the most obnoxious person to ever live, and feel like you're going to drive right up into the sky.
Swing at the park when you're 18 years old. Let your hair get tangled and staticy, and show your butt to the whole world. Let your flip-flops fly off without worrying about how you're going to stop the ride. Let gravity coax out your 5-year old's giggle.
Dance at work. Listen to your favorite songs and bust a move right there in the aisle. Let your feet move, keep the beat in your hips. Spin from time to time. Your autopilot can work while you have fun.
Play basketball with your brother. Duck and dive and flail all over the place. Shove and insult and yell and laugh. Ignore the small fact that you suck at this game, because every time the ball goes through it feels like you've conquered the world.
Ru through the rain. When you've been working for hours and your brain is coated in a fine layer of book dust, feel the thick, cold drops pouring down in sheets. Swing around a light pole and belt out, "I'm singing in the rain! What a glorious feeling, I'm happy again!" Then you run with everyone else back to the shelter of the building. But their coats are over their heads and they pick their feet up over offensive puddles. Let your bare feet make tsunamis in the puddles, and let your arms and legs move to a song that only your body can hear. Walk back into work with the whole front of you damp, your hair frizzy and your socks wet. Let your fingers tingle, and your face glow.
It's not about going out to get life. It's about letting life happen to you. Let go. Give up, give in. Feel. Breathe. Live.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
Quotes
Between study halls, english classes and gym teachers, this is really why I show up to school every day.
"Man, I'm so sick of US History. We've spent two whole days on the nuclear bomb."
"Really? We haven't talked about that yet. All we've been doing lately is the atom bomb."
"That sucks. You're gonna have to know about the nuclear bomb for the final."
"I'm iron definciant."
"What's that mean?"
"That means I don't have enough iron in my blood. Which I why I've been so cold."
"What?"
"Yeah. Iron is metal, which conducts electricity, and electricity is hot."
"Oh. So now that you're taking iron, you won't be so cold anymore?"
"Yeah."
"Do we understand what the author is saying about these waves? They're not pretty, gentle, let's-go-swimming waves. These here are some nasty-ass waves."
"So what kind of character is Melville's Handsome Sailor?"
"Well, according to Melville, he's young, and strong, and has.....a nice face."
"He's basically ripped."
"He's hot."
"He's fictional!"
"Hey Rachel, you playin' badmitton today?"
"Yeah, it's my favorite."
"But don't you suck at it?"
"Man, I'm so sick of US History. We've spent two whole days on the nuclear bomb."
"Really? We haven't talked about that yet. All we've been doing lately is the atom bomb."
"That sucks. You're gonna have to know about the nuclear bomb for the final."
"I'm iron definciant."
"What's that mean?"
"That means I don't have enough iron in my blood. Which I why I've been so cold."
"What?"
"Yeah. Iron is metal, which conducts electricity, and electricity is hot."
"Oh. So now that you're taking iron, you won't be so cold anymore?"
"Yeah."
"Do we understand what the author is saying about these waves? They're not pretty, gentle, let's-go-swimming waves. These here are some nasty-ass waves."
"So what kind of character is Melville's Handsome Sailor?"
"Well, according to Melville, he's young, and strong, and has.....a nice face."
"He's basically ripped."
"He's hot."
"He's fictional!"
"Hey Rachel, you playin' badmitton today?"
"Yeah, it's my favorite."
"But don't you suck at it?"
Saturday, April 21, 2007
I have a sunburn!
I'm missing it again. It was sitting in the sun that did me in. Mercilessly exposing my winter-white arms and legs to the glaring sun. Letting the heat dry my hair instead of doing it myself. Falling asleep after the sun worked out every bit of stress. It's the first time this year that I've done that, and it just all comes back.
My last night in Madrid, at three in the morning I was sitting on my tiny balcony in my pajamas, watching the city glow. The balcony was so small even when I leaned back on the wall behind me, my legs were dangling six stories over the street. Mopeds and tiny cars zoomed quietly down the street, one at a time. The magnificent train station accross the way was quiet. I could hear the fountain in the turn-around splash, and some people were already opening their stores. I listened to their foriegn, groggy converation, and the swish of their brooms on the sidewalk, and I watched as the deliveries began to arrive. The lighting was golden, and the streets shone like water, and the buildings gave off their own light. The moon was the same kind of glowing gold, and I watched it arc all the way through the sky. I sat and soaked up all of the heat that I could, all of the humidity, and laughed at how two weeks ago I couldn't stand that feeling. I was so tan that I could go fourteen hours of tropical sunlight without any sunscreen. I was strong from countless miles and climbing stairs all of the time. I had nothing but unbelievable European food in me. I was older, I was stronger, I was happier.
I woke up the next morning, after 2 and 1/2 hours of sleep, and I felt terrible. It was a two hour flight from Madrid back to Paris, and I think I cried the entire way. Not all-out sobbing, but my throat was tight and my eyes kept burning. And it was ok. The most important thing I learned in those incredible two weeks was this. Sometimes, loving some place, or something, or someone means being sad. No one talks about this because no one wants to hear it, and as a result some people never know. I didn't know it until I was on a plane, and I was ending the best experiance of my so-far life. I loved it, and I was sad to leave it, and it was ok. Sometimes that's the only way you can love, is by hurting.
Here's the funny thing. I love that place as much as I always have. And sometimes it still hurts. But the sadness goes away. Even after most of the pain has gone, and all that's left is this twinge of longing, the love is still there. The bad things will end someday, and no one will remember them. But the good things last forever.
My last night in Madrid, at three in the morning I was sitting on my tiny balcony in my pajamas, watching the city glow. The balcony was so small even when I leaned back on the wall behind me, my legs were dangling six stories over the street. Mopeds and tiny cars zoomed quietly down the street, one at a time. The magnificent train station accross the way was quiet. I could hear the fountain in the turn-around splash, and some people were already opening their stores. I listened to their foriegn, groggy converation, and the swish of their brooms on the sidewalk, and I watched as the deliveries began to arrive. The lighting was golden, and the streets shone like water, and the buildings gave off their own light. The moon was the same kind of glowing gold, and I watched it arc all the way through the sky. I sat and soaked up all of the heat that I could, all of the humidity, and laughed at how two weeks ago I couldn't stand that feeling. I was so tan that I could go fourteen hours of tropical sunlight without any sunscreen. I was strong from countless miles and climbing stairs all of the time. I had nothing but unbelievable European food in me. I was older, I was stronger, I was happier.
I woke up the next morning, after 2 and 1/2 hours of sleep, and I felt terrible. It was a two hour flight from Madrid back to Paris, and I think I cried the entire way. Not all-out sobbing, but my throat was tight and my eyes kept burning. And it was ok. The most important thing I learned in those incredible two weeks was this. Sometimes, loving some place, or something, or someone means being sad. No one talks about this because no one wants to hear it, and as a result some people never know. I didn't know it until I was on a plane, and I was ending the best experiance of my so-far life. I loved it, and I was sad to leave it, and it was ok. Sometimes that's the only way you can love, is by hurting.
Here's the funny thing. I love that place as much as I always have. And sometimes it still hurts. But the sadness goes away. Even after most of the pain has gone, and all that's left is this twinge of longing, the love is still there. The bad things will end someday, and no one will remember them. But the good things last forever.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Take That, Winter.
I cannot believe it. It is April 16. The first day if spring showed up on my calendar almost a month ago. And slush is literally falling from the sky. When I walked into school this morning, my hair was soaking wet. Freezing cold water was rolling off my head and into my coat collar. I went to take a sip of my hot coffee, but rain had pooled into the top of the lid and I got a mouth-full of that instead. My new shoes squeaked all the way down the hall.
I stopped looking out the window halfway through the day. I couldn't stand the grey sky and the rivulets of water coursing down the glass anymore. And the tulips, bent under the weight of ice-cold sleet. Poor tulips. It was depressing. They weren't even as yellow as they should have been.
So I walk out of school and it's just as bad, maybe worse. I have the collar on my bomber jacket zipped up to my ears, past my nose. My hands are crammed deep into my pockets. And it is cold. The wind is driving little bullets of slush against my head, and I can feel the frigidness drilling into my brain.
All the way through the parking lot Mel and I are mumbling about how miserable everything is. "This is unbelievable," and "I've never seen weather this bad in my life," and "Spring break! Yesterday was spring break!" Then Mel says "Arugh! My feet are getting all wet!" And I said, "Well, if they're gonna get wet then dangit, they're gonna get wet." And I ran to the deepest puddle I could find and jumped in it. And I kicked water in a shining arc across the pavement. I stomped and I jumped until my new sneakers were dripping and my jeans were soaked to the knees, laughing insanely the whole time.
The sleet was still drilling into my skull. The water was painfully cold and my toes were kind of tingling. Mel was yelling at me, and I knew I was crazy. But it is April, and if winter thinks it can keep me all mumbling and huddled up and miserable, ha! It's got another thing coming.
I stopped looking out the window halfway through the day. I couldn't stand the grey sky and the rivulets of water coursing down the glass anymore. And the tulips, bent under the weight of ice-cold sleet. Poor tulips. It was depressing. They weren't even as yellow as they should have been.
So I walk out of school and it's just as bad, maybe worse. I have the collar on my bomber jacket zipped up to my ears, past my nose. My hands are crammed deep into my pockets. And it is cold. The wind is driving little bullets of slush against my head, and I can feel the frigidness drilling into my brain.
All the way through the parking lot Mel and I are mumbling about how miserable everything is. "This is unbelievable," and "I've never seen weather this bad in my life," and "Spring break! Yesterday was spring break!" Then Mel says "Arugh! My feet are getting all wet!" And I said, "Well, if they're gonna get wet then dangit, they're gonna get wet." And I ran to the deepest puddle I could find and jumped in it. And I kicked water in a shining arc across the pavement. I stomped and I jumped until my new sneakers were dripping and my jeans were soaked to the knees, laughing insanely the whole time.
The sleet was still drilling into my skull. The water was painfully cold and my toes were kind of tingling. Mel was yelling at me, and I knew I was crazy. But it is April, and if winter thinks it can keep me all mumbling and huddled up and miserable, ha! It's got another thing coming.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
I'm Not Stupid, I Swear
I just took my placement test for Behrend next year. The English was easy, but that math and chem...
Can you get thrown out just from your placement test scores? I haven't taken math in a year, and I've forgotten everything I've ever known about trig. I took chemistry two years ago. Two years is a lifetime! I think I got 2 questions right out of 20. I don't think there's a chem class low enough for me. Maybe they'll have to invent a new one. Chem -202. Take it back to tenth grade. At least I'm confident that I finally have basic algebra down. But I saw symbols that I have never seen in my life, and graphs going every which way. I didn't know there were so many letters in math.
I am so much looking foward to walking into my advising meeting. "Well Rachel, you can't handle anything we're teaching in the realm of math and science, but Prof So-and-So has volunteered to make you her special project. Make space in your weekends for some extra studying, and youll be up to speed in no time. Or at least by the time you graduate. Hopefully. Oh, and the FBI is going to cross-examine you for a bit, as your placement test scores are so incongruent with your SATs."
Why am I so lop-sided? Writing, reading, history, psych, politics, economics; I can handle those. A Shakespearean sonnet always ends in a rhyming couplet. Facsism is extreme conservatism, socialism is extreme liberalism. Not to be confused with communism, which is the socialist utopia, and has not yet been achieved. Freud was a crackpot, but he got other psychologists, like Jong, to study the unconscious. It was a combination of WW2 and Kensyian economics that pulled the USA out of the Great Depression. Which, technically, is the same thing as a recession, but no one likes the term "depression" because it makes everyone panic and sell their stocks, and then you have a real crash. But ask me the domain of g(f(x) and you've lost me completely.
My ego hurts.
Can you get thrown out just from your placement test scores? I haven't taken math in a year, and I've forgotten everything I've ever known about trig. I took chemistry two years ago. Two years is a lifetime! I think I got 2 questions right out of 20. I don't think there's a chem class low enough for me. Maybe they'll have to invent a new one. Chem -202. Take it back to tenth grade. At least I'm confident that I finally have basic algebra down. But I saw symbols that I have never seen in my life, and graphs going every which way. I didn't know there were so many letters in math.
I am so much looking foward to walking into my advising meeting. "Well Rachel, you can't handle anything we're teaching in the realm of math and science, but Prof So-and-So has volunteered to make you her special project. Make space in your weekends for some extra studying, and youll be up to speed in no time. Or at least by the time you graduate. Hopefully. Oh, and the FBI is going to cross-examine you for a bit, as your placement test scores are so incongruent with your SATs."
Why am I so lop-sided? Writing, reading, history, psych, politics, economics; I can handle those. A Shakespearean sonnet always ends in a rhyming couplet. Facsism is extreme conservatism, socialism is extreme liberalism. Not to be confused with communism, which is the socialist utopia, and has not yet been achieved. Freud was a crackpot, but he got other psychologists, like Jong, to study the unconscious. It was a combination of WW2 and Kensyian economics that pulled the USA out of the Great Depression. Which, technically, is the same thing as a recession, but no one likes the term "depression" because it makes everyone panic and sell their stocks, and then you have a real crash. But ask me the domain of g(f(x) and you've lost me completely.
My ego hurts.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
whistle while you work
Another beautiful thing no one tells you about growing up: breaks from school completely change. When I was a kid, breaks meant actually taking a break. Sleeping in all the time, spending every day with friends, movies and shows and ice cream galore. Avoiding your little bit of homework like the plague, going full days without picking up a pen, or even knowing the date and time. You look foward to break as a time to forget responsibility and relax.
Then, somewhere along the line, life starts. And instead of saying, "A week off to do absolutely nothing!" you say, "Oh thank God, I can finally clean!"
Instead of resting and sleeping, and playing, you see break as a time to get everything done that you never have any time to do. My to-do list for this vacation is as follows:
~ clean room/launder every article of clothing I own
~ get my ball dress hemmed
~ buy running/every day shoes
~ finish english paper
~ start european review project
~ take the 4-hour long placement test for Behrend
~ go summer job hunting
Basically you take a break from every-day work to get some more work done. This isn't even really the sad thing; the tragedy is that you actually start to enjoy it. Like today, I'm sitting at my computer at 11:00 in the morning, with the sun coming through my window and coffee less than an arm's-length away. The idea of having hours and hours just to get my paper done is pure bliss. And going back to school next week, even though I'm walking into four weeks of full-scale AP hell, I will have that beautiful, rested feeling that everything else that needed to be done is done.
Growing up is a lot of work. But life gets bigger and wider and more exciting anyways. Working to pay for college as opposed to working for CD and clothes money are very different things. When you say "Next year, can I fly to Boston for a weekend to visit a friend?" your parents say, "Ok, just not the first semster- let everyone settle in." Doing an assignment for journalism will be very different from doing yet another pointless french project. You work more, but the work gets better.
Then, somewhere along the line, life starts. And instead of saying, "A week off to do absolutely nothing!" you say, "Oh thank God, I can finally clean!"
Instead of resting and sleeping, and playing, you see break as a time to get everything done that you never have any time to do. My to-do list for this vacation is as follows:
~ clean room/launder every article of clothing I own
~ get my ball dress hemmed
~ buy running/every day shoes
~ finish english paper
~ start european review project
~ take the 4-hour long placement test for Behrend
~ go summer job hunting
Basically you take a break from every-day work to get some more work done. This isn't even really the sad thing; the tragedy is that you actually start to enjoy it. Like today, I'm sitting at my computer at 11:00 in the morning, with the sun coming through my window and coffee less than an arm's-length away. The idea of having hours and hours just to get my paper done is pure bliss. And going back to school next week, even though I'm walking into four weeks of full-scale AP hell, I will have that beautiful, rested feeling that everything else that needed to be done is done.
Growing up is a lot of work. But life gets bigger and wider and more exciting anyways. Working to pay for college as opposed to working for CD and clothes money are very different things. When you say "Next year, can I fly to Boston for a weekend to visit a friend?" your parents say, "Ok, just not the first semster- let everyone settle in." Doing an assignment for journalism will be very different from doing yet another pointless french project. You work more, but the work gets better.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Finally Giving In
Ok. I've told everyone that I've changed my mind from film to public relations. And in retrospect, I realized that the way I described it made it sound like a whim, and that it's only a matter of time before I changed my mind again. So, here's the real reason.
I'm not a filmmaker. I'm a writer. Of course my family and closest friends already knew this about me, but I have only just figured it out. Don't get me wrong, I love the idea of movie making very much. And while I knew that I could go to school to learn how to make movies, and I could be pretty good at it and make a decent career for myself, and enjoy it, I knew that at the end of the day I would come home and I would open my journal or sign on to my blog and I would write. I don't collect movies, but the odd corners of my room have stacks of books that don't fit in my bookcase. I don't know the names of all of the best directors, but my brain seems to have no limit on lists of various authors. When I watch a movie, I'm not looking at the cinematogrophy, I'm listening to how it's written. I wouldn't be devastated if I were blind, but if the part of my brain that controls language was damaged I don't know how I could live. I don't take pictures or make little videos for fun - I write.
I could be filmmaker. I could like it. But that is not what I am made of. Pictures don't come out of me, but words do. It isn't a passion, it's a system of thought, it's a way of life.
I have finally been realizing this, very slowly, over the past few weeks. It started with an assigned essay in English class. It was analyzing a poem about blackberry picking and finding the metaphor for life that was deeply burried in it. I mean honestly, who gives a rip? But that was the best essay I've ever written. Before, either one of two things happened; the essay just kind of rushed out and landed on the page, or writing it was like pulling teeth. This essay, however, was a work of art. It was like I could see everything before I started- I had the entire english language at my disposal and all I had to do was assemble it in the best way possible. Every sentance was slow and careful, and it was a short essay considering the time I had spent writing it. But every word was exactly where I wanted it, every point I made was in the right place and perfectly supported; I actually knew what I was doing.
A few days later I had to write an essay about how western Europeans and colonial natives viewed Imperialism. Again, who cares? But I didn't care what I was writing about, all that mattered was that I had a point to prove, an idea to communicate. It's like being a painter that will paint anything so long as he gets to paint. The structure, the word choice, breaking down evidence and putting it in the right places- I lost track of time and my hands started shaking. I loved it.
That's when I knew I was a writer and could never be anything different. God made me to write in exactly the same way that he made birds to fly and fish to swim. I only realized this when I stopped being raw talent and potential and became a writer. I'm still an ignorant and immature writer, but I have arrived.
But I don't think that I can graduate college and sit down as a 22-year-old and write novels for a living. Like I said, I'm an immature writer that can't carry the same thread of thought for more than 20 pages. I also have this youthful need to be around people and noise and a little bit of chaos. On top of that, I don't know enough about life to write about it just yet. In PR I can get my people and busyness and loudness. I can also learn how to be a good writer, and learn how people work and what everyone needs to hear. I can move around and practice writing and learn about life. You can't push something like this, you have to take it easy, and feed it, and wait for it to evolve. It takes patience and dedication. I'll break into the world when I'm good and ready.
I'm not a filmmaker. I'm a writer. Of course my family and closest friends already knew this about me, but I have only just figured it out. Don't get me wrong, I love the idea of movie making very much. And while I knew that I could go to school to learn how to make movies, and I could be pretty good at it and make a decent career for myself, and enjoy it, I knew that at the end of the day I would come home and I would open my journal or sign on to my blog and I would write. I don't collect movies, but the odd corners of my room have stacks of books that don't fit in my bookcase. I don't know the names of all of the best directors, but my brain seems to have no limit on lists of various authors. When I watch a movie, I'm not looking at the cinematogrophy, I'm listening to how it's written. I wouldn't be devastated if I were blind, but if the part of my brain that controls language was damaged I don't know how I could live. I don't take pictures or make little videos for fun - I write.
I could be filmmaker. I could like it. But that is not what I am made of. Pictures don't come out of me, but words do. It isn't a passion, it's a system of thought, it's a way of life.
I have finally been realizing this, very slowly, over the past few weeks. It started with an assigned essay in English class. It was analyzing a poem about blackberry picking and finding the metaphor for life that was deeply burried in it. I mean honestly, who gives a rip? But that was the best essay I've ever written. Before, either one of two things happened; the essay just kind of rushed out and landed on the page, or writing it was like pulling teeth. This essay, however, was a work of art. It was like I could see everything before I started- I had the entire english language at my disposal and all I had to do was assemble it in the best way possible. Every sentance was slow and careful, and it was a short essay considering the time I had spent writing it. But every word was exactly where I wanted it, every point I made was in the right place and perfectly supported; I actually knew what I was doing.
A few days later I had to write an essay about how western Europeans and colonial natives viewed Imperialism. Again, who cares? But I didn't care what I was writing about, all that mattered was that I had a point to prove, an idea to communicate. It's like being a painter that will paint anything so long as he gets to paint. The structure, the word choice, breaking down evidence and putting it in the right places- I lost track of time and my hands started shaking. I loved it.
That's when I knew I was a writer and could never be anything different. God made me to write in exactly the same way that he made birds to fly and fish to swim. I only realized this when I stopped being raw talent and potential and became a writer. I'm still an ignorant and immature writer, but I have arrived.
But I don't think that I can graduate college and sit down as a 22-year-old and write novels for a living. Like I said, I'm an immature writer that can't carry the same thread of thought for more than 20 pages. I also have this youthful need to be around people and noise and a little bit of chaos. On top of that, I don't know enough about life to write about it just yet. In PR I can get my people and busyness and loudness. I can also learn how to be a good writer, and learn how people work and what everyone needs to hear. I can move around and practice writing and learn about life. You can't push something like this, you have to take it easy, and feed it, and wait for it to evolve. It takes patience and dedication. I'll break into the world when I'm good and ready.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Spreading Easter Cheer
Again, I haven't blogged since the dawn of time. But I have been extremely busy.
Mel and I decided to have an Easter Egg Hunt the day before break (today). We went to Wal-Mart and got 1,000 plastic easter eggs, and then to the Dollar Tree to get enough candy to fill them all. We spent the rest of our Saturday loading and closing- so much easier said than done- about one quarter of our eggs. Sunday we spent all afternoon and evening finishing up. By Tuesday we had a plan. And today we had a success.
On the way to school this morning, I stopped by Mel's house and we loaded four full black garbage bags of eggs into my trunk. I played the theme to the new James Bond movie all the way to the school, even though I got made fun of for it. Mel got into the school first while I drove up to an out-of-the-way entrance, where I pulled over and put on my flashers. Teachers were driving by, and I don't know what they thought when they saw a hooded student carrying stuffed black garbage bags into the school in the pouring rain. I'm glad I wasn't arrested.
By the time I had unloaded, parked the car, made it into the building and into our little hallway, people were already in action. Six people were shoveling tons of eggs into Wegman's bags and running off to various parts of the school. I put on my white bunny ears headband and went to work. I must have covered a quarter of the school with a couple hundred easter eggs in 15 minutes. Any time a teacher approached me, I handed them an egg, said "Happy Easter!" and was off.
It wasn't a massive operation; it wasn't a brilliant prank, and people had forgotten it by second block. But the handfull of people that asked increduously "Wait, you did that?!" and the phone call summoning me to my AP's office, and the 40 minutes spent scarping crushed jelly beans off the floor instead of being in french class made everything worthwhile. Until the first classes started, everyone was talking about it- how many eggs there were, how much it must have cost, whose idea it could have been. It may not sound all that impressive to you. But walking down the hall today with my bunny ears and bagfull of eggs, I got my 15 minutes of fame.
Mel and I decided to have an Easter Egg Hunt the day before break (today). We went to Wal-Mart and got 1,000 plastic easter eggs, and then to the Dollar Tree to get enough candy to fill them all. We spent the rest of our Saturday loading and closing- so much easier said than done- about one quarter of our eggs. Sunday we spent all afternoon and evening finishing up. By Tuesday we had a plan. And today we had a success.
On the way to school this morning, I stopped by Mel's house and we loaded four full black garbage bags of eggs into my trunk. I played the theme to the new James Bond movie all the way to the school, even though I got made fun of for it. Mel got into the school first while I drove up to an out-of-the-way entrance, where I pulled over and put on my flashers. Teachers were driving by, and I don't know what they thought when they saw a hooded student carrying stuffed black garbage bags into the school in the pouring rain. I'm glad I wasn't arrested.
By the time I had unloaded, parked the car, made it into the building and into our little hallway, people were already in action. Six people were shoveling tons of eggs into Wegman's bags and running off to various parts of the school. I put on my white bunny ears headband and went to work. I must have covered a quarter of the school with a couple hundred easter eggs in 15 minutes. Any time a teacher approached me, I handed them an egg, said "Happy Easter!" and was off.
It wasn't a massive operation; it wasn't a brilliant prank, and people had forgotten it by second block. But the handfull of people that asked increduously "Wait, you did that?!" and the phone call summoning me to my AP's office, and the 40 minutes spent scarping crushed jelly beans off the floor instead of being in french class made everything worthwhile. Until the first classes started, everyone was talking about it- how many eggs there were, how much it must have cost, whose idea it could have been. It may not sound all that impressive to you. But walking down the hall today with my bunny ears and bagfull of eggs, I got my 15 minutes of fame.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
