Cats and Books
In literature class we recently began reading Mark Twain's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Of course, it's a wonderfully humorous book and all that, but something near the end of chapter 2 made my eyes bug out. Here it is:
"He had, besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jew's-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass doorknob..."
What struck me was the kitten with only one eye. And them tadpoles though. But especially the kitten. POOR CREATURE!!! :( :( :(
Also, in the paragraph after that, Mark Twain inserts his sass into the book, which bears an eerie resemblance to my own writing...
"If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do."
It would be totally typical for me to praise myself in a piece of writing, even when the writing is extremely irrelevant. For example...
"Staplers were invented by Frederick Swingline Stapler in the 1900s. His first stapler had to be refilled every time one staple was used, and eventually his invention evolved into what we find today at a store called Staples. Had Stapler been a fluent writer like me, his invention would have never been known."
I just made that up. I'm sure the guy who invented the stapler did not result with one that needed a refill after the use of one staple.
You know how you can't remember practically half of your childhood? I think that's pretty sad. Your life is all about you, and you can't even remember all of it. I can't even express my feelings about this very pressing issue.
I hate being mad, but it just happens. I hold grudges against the whole existing universe when I'm mad, and I throw things and destroy things. Occasionally I strangle people, but only when I feel they really deserve it. And I can't do this usually because the peeps I'm mad at are usually people I respect, or people I fear, or people who are too young/innocent/weak to duel with me. When someone makes me mad and I don't feel like being mad, I just walk away and cool off. When I'm mad, I mutter rude things. Do stupid things. Regret it later. What I do most is plot revenge. It never gets out, though, 'cause I cool off, and unfortunately, people perceive this as my "Not-Angry-Anymore" and they end up not knowing how much I wanted to previously cream them. I also want to rant when I'm mad but I know no one will care and they'll get back to me with what I say later, and I don't like that. I get too scared to explain my feelings to my parents. I sometimes feel like I barely know my family. Have I really lived with these people all my life?? I can't bring myself to complain anything to them.
Until next time! :)
"He had, besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jew's-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass doorknob..."
What struck me was the kitten with only one eye. And them tadpoles though. But especially the kitten. POOR CREATURE!!! :( :( :(
Also, in the paragraph after that, Mark Twain inserts his sass into the book, which bears an eerie resemblance to my own writing...
"If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do."
It would be totally typical for me to praise myself in a piece of writing, even when the writing is extremely irrelevant. For example...
"Staplers were invented by Frederick Swingline Stapler in the 1900s. His first stapler had to be refilled every time one staple was used, and eventually his invention evolved into what we find today at a store called Staples. Had Stapler been a fluent writer like me, his invention would have never been known."
I just made that up. I'm sure the guy who invented the stapler did not result with one that needed a refill after the use of one staple.
You know how you can't remember practically half of your childhood? I think that's pretty sad. Your life is all about you, and you can't even remember all of it. I can't even express my feelings about this very pressing issue.
I hate being mad, but it just happens. I hold grudges against the whole existing universe when I'm mad, and I throw things and destroy things. Occasionally I strangle people, but only when I feel they really deserve it. And I can't do this usually because the peeps I'm mad at are usually people I respect, or people I fear, or people who are too young/innocent/weak to duel with me. When someone makes me mad and I don't feel like being mad, I just walk away and cool off. When I'm mad, I mutter rude things. Do stupid things. Regret it later. What I do most is plot revenge. It never gets out, though, 'cause I cool off, and unfortunately, people perceive this as my "Not-Angry-Anymore" and they end up not knowing how much I wanted to previously cream them. I also want to rant when I'm mad but I know no one will care and they'll get back to me with what I say later, and I don't like that. I get too scared to explain my feelings to my parents. I sometimes feel like I barely know my family. Have I really lived with these people all my life?? I can't bring myself to complain anything to them.
Until next time! :)
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