I’m the president of my school’s Peace Club. I plan events, I bring in food, I recruit new members, whatever. My most important duty, in my humble opinion, is making flyers. Flyers for events or just to promote the club in general. It doesn’t matter, I’ll take any excuse to make one. It’s come to my attention, however, that I really suck at making flyers. Like, badly. I know this because I’ve yet to get a single one approved by our club’s moderator. This isn’t a rant article, I’m just petty. Below the cut are all of my (great) rejected Peace Club flyers. 
Continue reading Rejected


How to be a Successful Teen

Webster’s online dictionary defines the word marketable as: “able or fit to be sold or marketed”.  If you were expecting something more poetic, you’re not alone because I definitely was too.
When I typed marketable skills into Google, the first three results were about how to form your college applications, followed by memes.

This all begs the question: Am I a highly effective teen? If Sean Covey saw me right now would he be proud? Probably not, considering I’ve never read his book since I don’t go to a school that encourages self help reading. (2 million copies sold, at least 50% of sales coming from the Chicago youth). And anyway, the only advice I trust comes from Carrie Bradshaw and/or Dr. Phil.

The answer is yes. I am a highly effective, very successful teen. My entire life I have lived by two simple rules.

1. Be more likable. 

This piece of advice was given to me by my dad years ago. Do you want to fit in? Be more likable. Did someone call you weird? Be more likable. Was your life threatened? It was probably your fault. Be more likable. 

2. Speed X Synergy = Success

This second one has been repeated to me over and over by my grandpa since I was in the womb. Up until now, I haven’t been sure what it’s supposed to mean. Work hard? Eat a lot of fiber? It’s an enigma. But after once again taking advantage of the online dictionary, this is what I’ve managed to find out: Speed is “the rate at which someone or something is able to move or operate.” That’s simple enough, I’ve taken physics. Now, synergy. “The interaction or cooperation of two or more organizations, substances, or other agents to produce a combined effect greater than the sum of their separate effects”. That’s…. chilling. I wish that was the definition of marketable.

My life has been a series of wins and successes one right after another. In first grade, I won a spelling bee in front of my mom, brother, co-writer, and entire middle school with the word “check”. In third grade, I made myself a pot of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese by myself without sustaining any 3rd degree burns. In fourth grade, I managed to miss every Friday for nearly two months while simultaneously avoiding my teacher, who threatened to call child services. In eighth grade, I missed 24 days of school, no consequences. My highschool years so far have been riddled with triumphs, too many to count and list here. (Check back in two years when I make a recap post.)

Sidenote: Interestingly enough, the co-writer of this blog lost the 2nd grade spelling bee on the word “log”, burned herself making Maruchan instant ramen when she was 7, and gets her grade lowered a whole letter if she’s absent more than five times a semester.

I owe all of this to the two pieces of advice listed above. Despite what my co-writer may say, I am the smartest 15 year old female in the country. And, by default, I’m smarter than every boy who ever lived. A combination of charm which has given me the ability to talk to adults and con any person I choose, and the incentive to go really, really fast because of a phrase told to me by my grandpa have laid down the building blocks of life for me. I can do nothing but be great and successful. Take these words, and go. 

Summer Vacation: Captivity

Day 1:

It’s the first day of my captivity: May 30, 2014. Today is a Friday, I think. My last day of school. Hours ago, I entered my “home” carrying orange juice, a hash brown, and a breakfast sandwich that I acquired from a building en route. They were gifts that I brought in hopes of quelling the beast that lurked inside this “home”. It was hot and stunk of body odor and grease — the building, not the “home”. Old men stared at me, and in response, I put on bright sunglasses to intimidate them. The people in line kept repeating a name: McDonald.

“Who is Mr. McDonald?”, I wanted to ask them.

I went through the possibilities: a local farmer or possibly their god, from how reverently they said His name. On my way “home”, I sat on a bench and contemplated my fate while sipping the orange juice. It was delicious, but lacked the tiny beads of “pulp” as stated on the bottle. It also stated that it was Maid in a Minute. I found that very hard to believe, but drank on. I wasn’t sure what would happen to me when I arrived. Torture? Enslavement? Being forced to listen to the Glee version of the late I Will Always Love You on repeat? The possibilities were as terrifying as they were endless. Eventually, the device the people in my “home” had strapped me with began to vibrate. (NOTE: They called it an Apple. I always thought it didn’t taste much like anything, especially fruit. Soon I decided that it would be in my best interest to not stick foreign objects in my mouth).

“This is it”, I thought, “It’s going to explode, and I will burst into a million bloody pieces. It will be a difficult cleanup job for the city.”

I felt relieved. It didn’t blow up. However, it was persistent and began to vibrate again. I pressed on the little green circle with my forefinger, experimentally. A tiny, angry voice sounded from it. I lifted it to my ear fearfully.

“Where the f*** are you?!”, the device yelled at me. I was confused, since the Apple and I had never made a date. 

“You’re supposed to be home by now.”

Finally, I realized it was the beast that lurked in the “home” speaking to me. The way it contacted me amazed me. I wondered for the thousandth time who exactly it was working with or how it got its power. Surely, God had never meant for the human race to speak to each other using apples. In fact, the last time humans had done something questionable with apples there were rather, um, grave consequences. Existence altering, in fact.

“I– I’m on my way. I’m on the bus.” I couldn’t help lying to the beast. I did it too often to catch myself.

“I… got you something” I said, but the beast hung up on me.

I made my way “home”. (NOTE: I want to take the time now to tell you that I am writing this from the bathing quarters where the beasts sit on ceramic pots and … “relieve” themselves. I claimed a stomach flu to gain the extra time to write this entry).

When I finally entered the dwelling of the beast, it was watching questionable daytime television. It started asking me questions, feigning interest in my daily life, probably because it had yet to decide what to do with me.

“How was your last day? Did you say bye to all your friends?”

I wanted to ask it “Why? Because I’ll never see them again? What do you have planned for me?”

Instead, not wanting to anger it, I answered, “Good. It was fine. Yes.”

Its lips curved up while it bared its teeth at me. I prevented myself my cowering backwards.

“You look tired”, it said to me, “Sleep”.

Its kind suggestion was anything but. I feared what it would do to me in my slumber, but I did as I was told. I laid down on the cushiony leather monstrosity in front of me and let the darkness envelope me.