Bruised Ego

I've been trying to write for a project in my drama class. I've had writer's block for a few days. But it's not because I'm uninspired. I am deeply motivated to write but I'm afraid.

See, a few years ago, I joined my school's speech and debate team. I wanted to compete in original prose. I had just finished an original short story and I was very pleased with myself. Delusions of grandeur haunted my mind. When the first debate tournament was up, I decided I would dive head first into the mess without much training from anybody in particular. Needless to say I gloated to my speech and debate coach about my work. She didn't disagree with me and told me to go right along with it. So I did.

Early Saturday morning I got up, got dressed and had my mom drive me to the high school where the tournament was being held. I was not informed of the dress code. I came in casual clothes to a formal event.

Taking my fashion faux pas in stride, I decided to go along and compete. I signed my name on the roster went to the classroom, took a seat and noticed that I was the only one representing my high school.

As I listened to their stories, cold dread was creeping up my spine. My prose was not in the fashionable way, that is, in first person and memorized. I find it fascinating how in one fell swoop, one's confidence can burst into flames, turn to ashes, and blow away like dust in the wind. As I stood up in front of my smug audience, I could feel my poor little knees shaking. Even as I read my melodrama I found it sufficiently disgusting and loath able. I only had ten minutes to read 6 pages. I cut it dangerously close. As I finished my totally unlikable drama I heard snickers.

Then I heard my heart drop and shatter into a thousand pieces. I screwed a smile on my face and heard the rest of the stories out. Afterwards I went up to the people whose stories I was really moved by and shook their hands. While I was devastated, I was determined. Someday I'd be like them. I'd learn from my mistakes and become great. That's why I joined drama in the first place. I wanted to be able to speak in front of people without sounding like a stuttering Stanley or some nerd who just locks herself away in her room and writes stories.

But now comes the test. Can I just stop crying about all this that happened so long ago and get over it and get to writing? Well. I guess only time will tell that.

Apparently, some people are up in arms about Prince's very suggestive shadow when he played the solo for "Purple Rain" during his halftime performance during the Superbowl halftime show. Some cry "malfunction" with hindsight to Janet JacksonGate.

I know it definitely is reminiscent of a particular scene in "Robin Hood: Men in Tights" but come on. He's a guitar player not a pervert. People just need to go on and get thier heads out of the gutter already!

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In other news, I'm working on a script for my drama class that might be promising. At first, Papageorge (commonly called Papa) told us to find a fable and use the moral of the story as a launching point for our own ideas. I chose "The Fox and the Grapes," the moral of which is "It is easy to despise what you cannot get."

I have about five characters who envy each other's lives... which might turn out well, or it might it might suck because I've never written a real script before. But I'll keep you guys updated on that. Chow.

I was awake today in my stats class and I feel as though I have more than a glimmer of hope of passing the class. Hooray!

In my Econ class, Mr W was trying to do stand up as usual and failing miserably. He decided to try to flatter us...

"Wow, you guys are stars of Economics already! They should have a reality show about us. Yeah I'm sure that'd go over..." he paused and of course, being the smartass I am I interjected.

"Like a lead balloon."

I thought my comment might go unnoticed as I am in the back of the class. But no. Of course not. W picked up on it immediately and decided to play off what I was saying in his incredibly lame way.

"Oh yeah. Just like how Led Zeppelin got thier name, right M? Why don't you tell the story of how they got thier name?"

I was mortified at the thought of playing along with his little routine.

"No no no. Why don't you tell it, Mr. W."

It would be more your era afterall, I wanted to say.

So he rambles on and on, pausing for laughter and gets none. This man has no comedic timing and is simply just clueless. He isn't paid for his jokes and I don't understand why I am forced to listen to them.

... Is highschool over yet?