Authorship is exhibitionism, and readers a species of voyeur.

I have never been a good writer. I overuse words, insert useless punctuation, and lengthen paragraphs to excessive lengths. Yet for all my numerous faults, I love writing. It's a therapeutic outlet, so calming it's almost meditative. Before Non-Fiction Writing, I have never had much of a chance to experiment with writing. My voice had always been restricted to an objective, droning monologue perfect for scientific reports and historical analysis. I had to sound professional and mature in order to appease my teachers, but the writer they graded wasn't me.

I am a pestering and sarcastic prat. To those who tolerate and understand me, I can be occasionally humorous, but to those who frown at my quirkiness, I can be extremely vexing. (To the latter, I sincerely apologize.) This class has given me a chance to breathe and encouraged me to be myself despite the consequences. I can write whatever I want within reason. When it comes to creating blog posts, I enjoy myself immensely. The essays too have become a way to challenge myself to do something more. I have never been more honest and personal than I was in this class, and I hope the real me wasn't too much trouble to handle.

Lastly but not least, what's a good writing class without good reading choices? I'll admit that Mountains Beyond Mountains was a bit too righteous for my tastes, but The Botany of Desire quickly became a pleasant favorite of mine. It's unexpected yet refreshing, well researched yet effortless to read. If there was a writer I tried to emulate in this class, it would be Michael Pollan. Although essays are not my cup of tea (I prefer short posts and epic novels), The Art of the Personal Essay was strangely bewitching. It has become a book I can refer to time and time again, always finding something new to enjoy.

I thank you, Ms. Majerus, for giving me this opportunity to explore and expand. Even though I may never be a great writer, you have taught me to treat writing as a delight rather than as a skill, and that lesson has been invaluable.

P.S. Quote from Carrie Latet.

Zany Botany.

Nature has a strange way of lurking. It hides from the most ardent observers and flaunts itself shamelessly before others. It's so confident in its own beauty that the most casual of passerbys will find themselves enchanted by its boldness. I was such a spectator, one of the usual bunch of strutting teenagers who fancied themselves more adapted to the Internet and Super Smash Mario Bros than to the sunny and leafy Meijer greenhouse. My father, an avid recently-turned gardener, had dragged me unceremoniously to the flowering, buzzing, dripping, smelling, stifling, and sweltering plant-house. As I stood in a muddy puddle, silently cursing the lack of air conditioning, I clenched my hand around the book I had brought to comfort my foul-tempered soul. Oh look, it's The Botany of Desire, the irony.

I sulked down the aisles of blooming greens, swatting bugs left and right with my book. Pollan should be proud; his book might just "guide" an unsuspecting insect to une fleur provocatrice and kick off the next new flurry of botanical revolutions. You're welcome world, Annie's Tulip has just arrived, and bidding will start at $500. When I finally found a dried and semi-cleaned flat surface, I promptly flopped myself down and began my reading assignment. It was then when my eyes landed on the most gorgeous, extraordinary, and striking pot of plant named poa pratensis, or, as it is more commonly known, Kentucky Bluegrass.

Despite being the plainest and most modest plant in the greenhouse, the Bluegrass beckoned to me like a siren's song. Its unvaryingly green shoots barely swayed in the occasional breeze, and, if a plant could seem content, the Bluegrass would be positively humming as it basked in the sunlight. It was still relatively young judging by the shortness and tenderness of its shoots. I was overcame by a desire to run my hand over its sprouts. Would it be as smooth as I imagined, or would it be pleasantly bristly? My latter expectation turned out true. The grass was prickly, almost shyly so. The morning dew still lingered; when I pulled my hand away, a residue of soil and water clung to my fingers. Strangely enough, I didn't mind.

When I asked my father to let me plant some Kentucky Bluegrass seeds in an unclaimed corner of the lawn, he hesitantly agreed. I had never expressed much of an interest in gardening before, so he was justifiably concerned. I went ahead anyways, using the conventional shovel-and-seed method enshrined by novice gardeners around the world. Whether my seeds will ever poke their verdant heads through the dirt remains to be seen, but I can't help but feel a little giddy at the prospect of being partners with Nature. This little botanical patch of mine may not yield any vegetables or flowers, but that doesn't make it any less valuable to me.

Call of the mall, I mean wild.

I have never been one for long treks through the wilderness. The idea required a bit too much walking than my laziness was willing to give, and the thought of bug bites alone was too unappealing for my brain to handle. (I shuddered as I typed). Yet recently, perhaps because of these wilderness-centric essays we have been reading in class, I found myself daydreaming about ambling along forest-shaded paths, and marveling over nature at work. The solitude of such a task is daunting, especially for someone like me who enjoys the company of others so, but this urge to experience what others have glorified will not be squashed.

My friend, who is staunchly anti-nature (unless we are discussing organic hair products), snickered at my ideas. "Why would you," he chuckled condescendingly, "leave racks of cashmere and velvet for bark and dirt?" After pondering for a second, he amended his earlier statement, "I guess if you really wanted to go on a picnic, you might go outside. But still, even then, you don't leave your lawn for some trees and bears. That's preposterous!" I'll concede that the notion of meeting a bear is rather intimidating, but I feel compelled to explore this world around me. I have always appreciated it in the forms of shopping centers and artificial parks, yet never in the way that Nature itself intended me to. To do so, I must leave the comfort of modern society and into the unknown of majestic forests and winding mountains.

... Just kidding! Well, sort of. Being a lazy adolescent, I am confined by many restraints, among them my parents' wishes. Although my parents appreciate the outside world enough to plant a few trees (long dead) and plan a few trips (never came to fruition), they would never allow me to go on a hike alone into uncharted forests and live alone in a cabin on top of a forsaken mountain. I don't think they would necessarily stop me either if I decided to pack my bags and order a ticket to Alaska because they know that I would come scrambling home before I ever make it outside the borders of Illinois.

So maybe when I'm older, I'll go on this promised trip. Perhaps someday I'll be able to finally understand these epiphanies that one stumbles upon in solitude and nature. But in the meantime, I'll just have to wait and struggle a bit longer in this mundane life.

Groping frantically.

Lately, I've became addicted to Scrabble. For the unfortunate few who have not been introduced to the best invention of mankind, I will just say that it is a game that challenges the mind and entertains the heart. Invented in 1938 by the talented architect Alfred Mosher Butts, it was originally named "Criss-Crosswords." The layout and rules of the game were strikingly similar to what we use today; the players would be given a limited number of letters that they would have to use in order to form words on the board for points. Due to the difficult times (it was the Great Depression after all), Butts had no luck selling his game. It wasn't until the early 1950s that Butts' game gained popularity; it was quickly renamed to Scrabble, which literally meant "to grope frantically." Interesting change, is it not?

But to play Scrabble well, you need much more than just frantic groping. The game requires a depth of vocabulary knowledge, as well as the ability to recognize words, not by their meanings, but by their appearances. There is also an underlying strategic mindset that anyone who aspires to be a Master Scrabbler must acquire. Certain blocks have special properties: some for example can double the amount of point an ordinary word would earn, and others will increase the points a word earns if the word is oriented in a special direction. Of course, the most basic rule of Scrabble is that all the words must connect with preexisting letters at least once. Although the more connections a player makes, the more points he will likely earn.

This simple game has earned international prestige, and won measureless acclaims. It has provided an intellectual pass time that is somehow fun and entertaining for the masses. What more could you want from a game? It has an universal appeal mixed in with educational value; and if you will excuse me, I will now go reward myself with a game of Scrabble.

On the pleasure of whining.

Whining is an art form. When you can proudly introduce yourself as an accomplished whiner, there is a certain amount of respect to be demanded from the audience. Whiners examine life in minute details, and realize that the world doesn't orbit around them. It is a profound enlightenment, and something I would suggest that you realize as quickly as you can, then proceed to find a friend near you, and begin whining.

I am not an accomplished whiner although some might beg to differ. When I whine, I can't express myself in the needy yet persuasive manner the virtuosos can. If there was a talented whiner, the audience would be swayed by his complaints and find themselves helplessly captivated by his troubles. A whiner's services can be very rewarding, especially in discontented societies, such as America, where good whiners have made themselves fabulously rich and famous.

On a parting note, I would like to remind all of the whiner/millionaire wannabes that whining must be done with a purpose. If you whine needlessly, then you risk being despised by those around you. Once you do start whining, you will find that it is quite addictive and soothing. Burdens melt away at your words, and worries dissipate. Don't be afraid to whine, for I am here to listen.

Dear coffee, you have my heart.

When one of my friends accused me of ignoring her in favor of my coffee cup, I was tragically shocked. Coffee over friends? Naaah.

Well the truth is a sad thing to admit, but I will nevertheless bravely concede to it. Coffee is my object of adoration; it is everything I have ever hoped for - caffeine and deliciousness with a certain flair of style. During a blizzard, a fantastically warm cup of Caramel Macchiato melts my heart and soothes my soul. On a particularly hot day, a refreshingly cold cup of Iced Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha sweeps through my mind like a wintry breeze. Life is good when you have coffee.

Please reader, abstain from rolling your eyes and sighing in exasperation for just a moment. Haven't you ever had one of those days when the world seems to go out of its orbit to pester you? Have you never had a long night when things seem to unravel as soon as you finish them? Stop and think for a moment, were you ever the victim of an unceasing joke? Perhaps you were half-sick of shadows too?

My life as a high school junior is not that unpleasant, although this view does depend on your tolerance of pain and ability to empathize. It is hard to finish everything, and it is just as difficult to maintain a life outside of it all. Is it any wonder therefore that coffee has taken such an essential role in my life? It doesn't require extra attention (minus the 5 minutes it takes to brew), and it never asks anything of me. It is useful, inexpensive, and simply marvelous.

Seriously, if you're suffering from depression, insomnia, fatigue, or just about any other kind of problems really, give coffee a try! It might just be your thing.

A picture is worth more than 1,000 words.

There is an ancient Chinese belief that one can determine children's futures by what they do when they are three. To find out, one places all sorts of items (toys, make-up, pencils, etc.) in front of a child and observes which toy the child picks up first. While this is not a scientifically valid experiment, my parents tried it on me anyways. I'm sure they were not expecting anything miraculous to occur (i.e. the Earth to shake when my fingers brushes Excalibur on accident), but the result was interesting. Out of the pile of toys, money, and random crap, I chose a pencil. My dad reportedly frowned when I didn't choose money, but my mother was overjoyed.

A pencil could symbolize many things; most importantly, it signifies art, which has long been an interest of my mother's family. My mother herself loved to draw, her dad was an architect, her grandpa was a dabbler in the arts, and her great-grandpa apparently drew something valuable that was burnt by her grandpa during the Communist Revolution in China. It came to no surprise, therefore, that I would be "artsy" too.

I sketched her recently, isn't she adorable?

I loved to watch my mother sketch when I was younger. She was no professional, but her way of drawing always carried a serene air to it. It was calming and beguiling; I could watch her for hours. She never taught me to draw, but she did sow a seed of interest within me. I wanted to copy her, and so I tried. Whatever she drew, I drew too. My pictures at that age were the definition of ugly, but my mother was persistent (and maybe willingly blind). She simplified her drawings so I could copy easier, and when that failed, she brought me instructional books. Ever since then, I have learned this way, from books, observation, and my mother.

Now, looking back at it all, I still can't call myself an artist by any means. I do not have the experience or knowledge to deserve the title. Yet what really matters is that spark of content within me whenever I set my pencil down on something and draw. It's like that unconscious sigh of happiness accompanying the first taste of ice cream. For a brief moment, the world is on the other shore with all its problems, and only I am here, here in this world I created by art.

I shouldn't do my calculus homework because it's Isaac Newton's birthday.

Dedication: I would like to take a short moment to express my gratitude to Hoda Sayegh, without whom this post would not have happened.

A couple days ago, a friend and I went to a cafe, whipped out our identical calculus textbooks and proceeded to jump into the abyss of mathematical knowledge (with a velocity of v(t) = -19t - 1923 ft/sec and an acceleration of a(t) = -32 ft/sec^2, calculate the displacement on the time interval of [0, 12]. Go ahead, I dare you). At the beginning of our epic journey to mathematical supremacy, we eagerly traded off new ideas and (wrong) answers. She would ask for the answer of the question she had worked on with hopeful eyes; I would return the gaze while enunciating the answer in a hushed yet clear voice; she would inevitably frown. Repeat.

Needless to say, our enthusiasm was contagious. People all around us flocked with alacrity towards other tables far, far away. It was now nearing the medieval period of our calculus era. The early excitement was wearing off and something less than friendly had begun to settle in. It reared its ugly head around problem number 19. Instead of hopeful looks, we exchanged barely concealed grimaces, and as if those weren't enough, we began to grind our teeth. We were like two angry bulls on a rampage.

My friend had a better temperament than I did, and in her wiseness, she stood up and walked towards the counter to order a cup of tea. I trudged on, much like General Sherman through South Carolina. I demolished the resistance in problem number twenty-one, set fire to a particular tricky one in the thirties, and decidedly practiced total-war (total-calculator) techniques against number fifty-nine. All in vain. By the time my friend returned to the cafe table, she found me in hysterics.

She tentatively patted me on the back and promptly started laughing. I glowered with no avail. After [2(401) + 5 - 207]/60 minutes later, we returned to our original goal, accompanied with groans of misery and wails of helplessness.

The intent of this post, sadly, is not to be an answer sheet for calculus homework, past or present, nor is this a testament to the conquering power of friendship. Although I suppose if you read it sideways and squint, there might be something hidden in here. Really though, I would much rather you spend that time doing your calculus homework.

P.S. Don't forget to round to three decimal places!

Ninja Me.

Last Sunday was the first time I went to the children section of the local library in three years. Humming a tune out-of-tune, I was enjoying a good day. As I entered the sanctuary of my childhood, I was hit in the head, squarely, or maybe the politically correct term here would be 'roundly', by a ninja wannabe who actually had good aim, with a hardcover book. Seven inches wide, half an inch thick and roughly fifty pounds; mix in Newton's Third Law and that's a lot of force. Ouchy.

Following my untimely near-demise, a plump lady, with curls worthy of Marie Antoinette, a shirt covered in flowers so ginormous that I'm sure even environmentalists cringe at the sight, and a pair of jeans that takes "skin-tight" to a whole new dimension, bounced over. Yes, bounced. A better verb has not yet been invented, I apologize.

'She must be married.' I dizzily thought, 'no one single would dress like that.'

"Dear, are you okay?" She beamed, her boots subtly squashing into my toes. "Oh whoops, I am so sorry!"

I gritted, nodded and limped.

"I am so sorry -" the obscenity of humanity continued, "that my son hit you! He was only playing." She opted for a coquettish smile that didn't settle well with what I ate for breakfast.

I replied with what I hoped was a charming smile laced with a thick layer of please-leave-me-alone. It didn't work.

"Timmy! Come apologize to this nice lady right now."

... And then after a lack of response from her progeny:

"TIMMY!"

"It's alright, ma'am. Really!" I had to insist, otherwise she might think I was mute.

"MOMMY, I'M PLAYING."

"Don't worry about it!"

"TIMOTHY, COME HERE RIGHT NOW BEFORE -"

"FINE!"

The little giant stomped over, punctuating his stomps with haphazardly thrown projectiles. By the time he reached us, a few more victims were already down for the count. I vaguely wondered why the mafia hadn't recruited him as a sniper.

"Timmy, apologize to this lady over here." Mother Ugly said.

"I'm sorry." Son Uglier muttered, looking obscenely gleeful. He toyed with a building block that glinted dangerously in the dull library light and eyed me with a practiced assessment.

I gave him my best attempt of a withering glare, which failed, judging by his impertinent

grin. The rascal.

The mother continued to fuss and coo, but she eventually left with future-murderer-of-a-son in tow. I felt a vague tinge of regret at having judging her so unjustly, but I must excuse my behavior at this point, which has most likely been altered (whether permanently or not, I have not yet determined) by the blow to my head. I stumbled my way down the stairs and wandered, slightly dazed if the fact that I ran into a bookcase was any indication, towards the back of the library, away from the brouhaha of the playroom - where my accident egregiously occurred. I thought I saw a canoeing fairy, but that might have the bump talking.

I supposed the point of this essay, if any can be claimed for it at all, would be that anything can ruin a wonderful day. You are not alone, no matter how much you think you are. So the next time a little Timmy plays ninja with your head or a little Suzie uses you as finish line in her 100 meter dash, bear it like a pillar of steel. An ounce of hostility on your part is justified, but never a grudge. Life is too short to hold on to these ill wishes, or in other words, there will always be a sucker somewhere out there who's suffering worse from the whims of fate.