SHE ruined EVERYTHING.

SHE was not a girl I loved, or liked. SHE was not someone I knew personally. And most importantly, SHE ruined everything.

It starts like this. A boy (me) finds interest in an instrument that his parents aren't really forcing him to play. The more accurate term would be "nudging"; they were "nudging" me. So this boy plays for fun, follows along the instructional CD, and even begins to learn songs by ear. Call it natural if you may, but I really liked it. Then this WOMAN comes marching into my house every Thursday at 4:00 demanding more practice. Then the parents would demand practice, not satisfied by how much they were paying her. Not only that, but in retrospect, she was a horrible teacher. You'd think that with that much yelling some of it was for good. I'd have to say no.

Instead of teaching me the chromatic scale and all other related necessities in western music, she taught me that certain dots on the graph with 5 lines represented a finger I should hold down on my violin. This was already a plan for failure. Three Suzuki books in and I still wasn't capable of reading music. All I knew were fingers 1, 2, 3, 4 and occasionally 5, my pinky finger. Damn that woman. Really. Except the few times when she would scream G-STRING and me and my brother would just laugh because she said G-string, as in man thong. Besides that, she ruined it.

The overjustification effect in full effect I started to hate violin and violins in general. If dreams of burning violins isn't a sign of animosity, then I don't know what is. It's simple, force a kid to do something he already likes to do and he will slowly(or quickly) begin to hate it. Yes, even eating ice cream.

SHE came in to my life and blacked out music for 5 years, just like my high school language arts teachers turned reading into taboo. She didn't even teach me any music theory that I could accidentally recall now and then. Just 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. And here I am now desperately trying to make sense of the circle of fifths and pentatonic and diatonic scales.

I'm not regretful. Just mad. Age 17, it's not too late. Maybe I'll come out of the smoke victorious. Maybe I'll show this woman how much she sucked and become another worthless loser. Either way, when I have a kid, I'll nudge him to play some instruments. Then get him some worthless teachers. Then let him rinse and repeat on his own kin. Yea right.

Good Writing.

If the back cover synopsis of the the book you're reading turns out to be just that, a synopsis, then perhaps you'd be better off flushing that book down an industrial strength toilet and waste away in front of the glowing box. I mean, at least you'd enjoy the moments as your bone marrow rots away one atom at a time. The back cover should beckon you as does a seductress, but at the same time it should be an understatement of the prowess of prose and literary technique bound within.

In light of college apps, I've realized one thing. Good writing makes you think. It makes you flip back to page one when you read something that was innocuous and unimportant. Later you realize that the author gave you the conclusion clear as day 342 pages ago. So what about books makes taciturn children abide to and older adults hoard to? It's simple. As I said before, it makes you think. It draws you in. It only gives you enough information to go on with your daily life, without exploding in someone's face. Screaming, "WHAT HAPPENS TO MR. EDWARD DAMMIT!!!!?!?!" Perhaps you'll never know. Or at least not until volume two. For the same reason people play sudoku, people read. But instead of jogging your brain, it makes it run.

In light of college apps, I've realized one thing. I fail to write cohesively. Good writing reflects back on itself, or if it's a convex mirror, into itself. OooOoOo I actually learned something in Physics- watch out. Every line, every word, 342 pages in, or 23 pages back, it all reflects back on that main idea. As I attempt to write my personal statements, I find myself lost in a maze of fun house mirrors. Every sentence foreign to the one adjacent to it. If my essays had an attention span they'd be a about as long as... What was I talking about? I find myself reading books in hopes that the good writing will impress on me. But instead of writing and revising my personal statements, I find myself writing on meaningless unread blogs. I think "Let this essay be the end-all and be-all." Then instead of writing the essay, I go complain and whine about it on some useless sloppily written blog.

Ironic that I say I realized just one thing yet write about several separate and novel ideas in one essay. Like I said, I have a problem. Shakespeare wrote in Macbeth, "Glamis hath murdered sleep, and now Cawdor shall no longer" (Yea, I actually learned something in school.). In writing this essay, I've realized one thing. Reading good writing has made me a better writer. Whether I'm writing for college or for nonsensical teenage blogs, it all makes me a better writer. This essay is proof, I am not the same writer I was forty pages ago. Coherent, check. Cohesive, half-a-check. Well-written, for now we'll give it a minus sign with a few plus signs surrounding it to even it out. Willis hath murdered writing cohesively, and now more placebos for good writing, called blogs, shall be created.

remix.

I went to church the other day. I don't know what it is, but something about organized religion disgusts me - completely ignoring that the head pastor of my former church had an affair then beat her for telling. Don't kiss and tell, right?

Not right.

As I said before, I went to church the other day. A big one. 5000 members strong and more than 6 services throughout the week. What could go wrong?

Everything.

Let me describe the casual christian for you. This is the type of person who comes to church looking nice, laces tied, smiles on. This person has gone to church all their life. This person, she or he, buys the one hour Jesus sales pitch, sings the praise songs with eyes closed and lyrics memorized. This person has said the prayer and recommitted their life to Jesus, at least three times. Then communion medication time. He or she takes a pill of communion bread and swallows it whole with some communion grape juice - once a week should keep the devil meek. Or not.

The current state of mainstream Christianity is worse than we can fathom. When all is said and done, this person walks out, not fully grasping the meaning of the lyrics, or the fine print of the sales form. The pastor's message is already becoming a blur. The fondest memory is the joke the pastor cracked mid-sermon. This person is oblivious, but content. This person is me.

funny.

Imagine what it would look like if William Hung choreographed a dance for the Harajuku girls. There'd be plenty of uncoordinated arm flailing motions and some side to side steps (not in rhythm). And of course, gawky unmatched outfits. I imagined pink shirts tucked into goldenrod bell bottoms finished off with striped shoes. Maybe your imagination is not as merciful as mine and you imagined them wearing burlap sacks for shirts and socks. That is OK too.

Then you have me. Where do I fall into this picture?

7:25 every morning, William Hung's Harajuku girls assemble in front of Room 106 to show off their untalent.

My philosophy is this: A daily dose of manga keeps the normal friends away.

"Minecomp" (Meinkampf)

I am the most unproductive person on this planet. Ever try to drive a car that hasn't been started yet? Did you make it past the first block? I'm starting to think God forgot to turn my brain on before he woke me up this morning. He drove me past the left turn onto Fullerton Ave. into the school parking lot, into room 106 and still didn't realize I was off. This is cruel.

Then there is the problem of sleep. If Sleep is the devil, then I am its minion.

The right mixture of sleep deprivation and coffee and I am the most tranquil person in the world. Too much sleep and I am boisterous and verbose. ( I can achieve this through abusive amounts of coffee as well.) Too little, and I become an incoherent zombie life support for a brain and some muscles.

Microwaved frozen food in one hand, and coffee in the other, I make it to school just on time. Just on time to hear our beloved Mr. Yates switch his w's and h's. Hwat am I talking about? Hwales. Hwite. Cool Hwip. Such is life. Hcrap.

This post is a lie.