Writing Personal Column [For Journalism 1]

[Mitch]

[size=1]"You sure grooved Daaron today, Mitch," they would say. Or, perhaps, out of some pure heart, "You're so gay."

I remember their faces too well. There was Jayson, that reclusive fat kid. And just like all other fat kids of his breed, upon hitting puberty, he had "grown." He'd decided to be the self-respective worshipper of himself. Donning a smug grin and an even more explicit weapon: words. Sticks and stones do break bones, and words do hurt you; to the shallow, that is.

Then there was the so overly stereotypical jock, who's name I had never caught, nor could I care less. He'd do everything in gym better than everyone else. He was the champ as long as he had his balls, which, of course, were made of nothing less than kryptonite.

He was faster than you; he was stronger than you; he was better looking than you. Oh, and, of course, if you were to do one thing wrong on his conditional turf, you were condemned forever, like some Jesus undergoing an inflicted crucifixion. For, of course, his sacrifice was yours.

"Don't sit so close to me," the jock would say. "You jerk." Or, perhaps, out of some pure heart, "You dork." For, of course I was a dork, and this was his turf. Made of craters, iron, and jerks like me. Dorks like me.

Our gym class was dotted with other minefields, of course. Matt, the handicapped kid. The jock hated him. He'd often, taking his hand for emphasis, say, "This retard's so annoying," as if it were the end of the world itself. Luckily for Matt, he could care less. He was happy, he was Matt.

"Hiiiiiiiiiii Jenna," Matt would often yell to his favorite girl in the class, standing over her and clapping like a happy penguin, smiling.

"Hi," Jenna would say, kind and concise, a smile too lighting her face.

Then there was Denae. She too was different than everyone else. At first I didn't think much of her, but that all changed near the end of that semester of gym, when we were doing dancing.

I remember it so well, that time in class when she'd shown me something quite different. Something better than the jock had shown me or Jayson. Or Gym itself had ever ever shown me.

It was when we were doing the two-step dance in gym.

At the beginning of class, I had put on my FITNESS shirt, as we usually do. I came out and into the gym, everyone else, in some stark and soon understood way, was not wearing their shirts.

"Look at Mitch here," Jayson said. "Wearing his fitness shirt."

"I thought we had to," was all that I managed, walking away back to the locker room to put back on my clothes.

Soon, I was back. I hadn't been back long, when Jayson decidedly pointed to me.

"Yeah, Mitch here put on his fitness shirt," he said.

I just looked at the ground, ignoring him. I didn't even let his words touch me at all. I was a gargoyle. Devoid of anything but stone.

I heard someone's footstep rustling over.

"Leave Mitch alone," a familiar voice said. It was Denae. I looked up to see Jayson smirking at her.

"And why should I leave him alone?" Jayson said.

"Because he's a quality guy."

Quality guy? Me? This moment still runs through my mind, sometimes seeming surreal, sometimes seeming too good to be true. But it did happen. What was it that I actually felt from her then? Kindness?

No, that isn't the word. There isn't a word for it.
And later, Denae surprised me. Again.

Our teacher, Mrs. Olson, proudly it seemed, proclaimed that she was going to play "that fishing song," and that it would be the last two-step dance of the class. Needless to say, I was happy that class was almost over. Dancing like this for long periods of time was like being a hamster, strapped to a wheel, and spinning and spinning in a torturous loop. It certainly wasn't good for one's self image.

I immediately left the red-haired girl I had been two-stepping with, wandering around in hopes of finding someone to get this thing over with. No one came, and, soon, everyone was clustered and grappled with whom they were going to dance with.

I moved to the side of the gym, looking at the ground. Alone. Through the ground's reflective slate, I could see dozens and dozens of human forms, jostling back and forth in unison. To me they seemed like but shadows, nothings.

I stood like this for what, to me, was a long time. And then, through the reflection of the floor, I saw a shape coming over. I looked up to find Denae, having left the person she was dancing with, coming over to me.

"Would you like to dance?" was all she said. But those aren't even the words for what it means to me.

[font=rockwell][b]Very[/b] rough.[/font][/size]

[conpiracymonki]

[b][size=1]
I felt I had to post because I liked this so much, Mitch, lol.
I don't really know what to say.

Everything I would've asked/commented/mentioned though, had I not been talking to you over AIM, lol:[/b][/size]

[FONT=times new roman][b][color=red]AJ:[/b][/color] read it
[b][color=red]AJ:[/b][/color] it is absolutely brilliant
[b][color=red]AJ:[/b][/color] but one thing I don't get >.>
[b][color=red]AJ:[/b][/color] first line, lol
[b][color=red]AJ:[/b][/color] "You sure grooved Daaron today, Mitch,"
[b][color=red]AJ:[/b][/color] whassat mean?
[b][color=blue]Mootch:[/b][/color] Okay, I'll explain.
[b][color=blue]Mootch:[/b][/color] There's this video we had to do in gym.
[b][color=blue]Mootch:[/b][/color] "Daaron's dance grooves"
[b][color=blue]Mootch:[/b][/color] It shows you how to do the dances.
[b][color=red]AJ:[/b][/color] oh
[b][color=blue]Mootch:[/b][/color] For videos like Nsync and stuff.
[b][color=blue]Mootch:[/b][/color] Just to be mean.
[b][color=blue]Mootch:[/b][/color] Post if you like. ^_^
[b][color=red]AJ:[/b][/color] I am
[b][color=red]AJ:[/b][/color] lol[/FONT]

[size=1]^_^[/size]

[GinnyLyn]

My dear dear Mitch...

I hope I sorta got across what I was trying to say in our AIM convo, too.

This speaks of one of my personal pet peeves--fake people. And into my blog I wrote of a similar situation, though now I see what I was really trying to write about, thanks to you and this. Stone can be warmed by the distant sun or by blood-filled hands. *soft smile* I'm learning from you.

Go Hctim.

[Mitch]

[size=1][font=rockwell]Glad you guys liked it. Eh, well, yesterday I found out it's going to be in the paper that my J1 class puts out, so I have to revise it. If anyone'd like to look it over and help me, I'm up for it. Because right now it's about 500+ words, and I need it to be 500 or less-ish words.

I've already revised it a bit last night...not much, though. It's pretty hard since what I have now is pretty solid for a rough draft. So I've already gotten out a few things, but Mr. Winter, my Journalism teacher says it needs to be shorter, as I said.

Ah. And here's a pretty final version:[/font]

"You sure grooved Daaron today, Mitch," they would say. Or, perhaps, out of some pure heart, "You're so gay."

I remember their faces too well. There was Jayson, that reclusive fat kid. And just like all other fat kids of his breed, upon hitting puberty, he had "grown." He'd decided to be the self-respective worshipper of himself. Donning a smug grin and an even more explicit weapon: words. Sticks and stones do break bones, and words do hurt you. At least that's what I could hear from Jayson's smirk.

Then there was the so overly stereotypical jock, who's name I had never caught, and so, cared less. He'd do everything in gym better than everyone else. He was the champ as long as he had his balls, which, of course, were made of nothing less than kryptonite.

He was faster than you; he was stronger than you; he was better looking than you. If you were to do one thing wrong on his conditional turf, you were condemned forever, like some Jesus undergoing an inflicted crucifixion. For, of course, his sacrifice was yours.

"Don't sit so close to me," the jock would say. "You jerk." Or, perhaps, out of some pure heart, "You dork." For, of course, I was a dork, and this was his turf. Made of his sacrifices and his falls, with a small trove of jerks like me.

Our gym class was dotted with other minefields, of course. Matt, the handicapped kid. The jock hated him. He'd often, taking his hand for emphasis, say, "This retard's so annoying," as if it were the end of the world itself. Luckily for Matt, he could care less. He was happy, he was Matt.

"Hiiiiiiiiiii Jenna," Matt would often yell to his favorite girl in the class. Standing over her, elated, he'd bounce and clap his hands together like a penguin yapping for a fish.

"Hi," Jenna would say, kind and concise, a smile lighting her face too.

Then there was Denae. At first I didn't think much of her, but that all changed near the end of gym, the week we did dancing.

I remember it so well, that time in class when she'd shown me something quite different. Something better than the jock had shown me or Jayson. Or gym itself had ever shown me.

We were doing the two-step.

At the beginning of class, I had put on my FITNESS shirt, as we usually do. I came out and into the gym, everyone else, in some stark and soon understood way, was not wearing their shirts.

"Look at Mitch here," Jayson said. "Wearing his fitness shirt."

"I thought we had to," was all that I managed, walking back to my locker.

Soon, I was back. Jayson pointed at me.

"Yeah, Mitch here put on his fitness shirt," he said, gesturing to Eric beside him.

I just looked at the ground, ignoring him. I didn't even let his words touch me at all. Perhaps they did hit, but it was only with a dull thud in my mind. For, I was a gargoyle. Devoid of anything but stone.

I heard someone's footstep rustling over.

"Leave Mitch alone," said Denae. I looked up to see Jayson smirking at her.

"And why should I leave him alone?" Jayson said.

"Because he's a quality guy."

Quality guy? Me? To me then and to me now it's too good to be true. But it did happen. It goes through my head nearly every day. I often wonder, as I think about it, what it was I actually felt from her then. Kindness? No, that isn't the word. Maybe there's not even a word for it.

And later, Denae surprised me. Again.

Our teacher, proudly it seemed, proclaimed that she was going to play "that fishing song," and that it would be the last two-step dance of the class. I was happy to hear that class was almost over. Dancing like this for long periods of time was like being a hamster, strapped to a wheel, and spinning and spinning in a torturous loop. It certainly wasn't good for one's stamina, nor self esteem.

I immediately left the red-haired girl I had been two-stepping with, wandering around in hopes of finding someone to get this thing over with. No one came, and, soon, everyone was clustered and grappled with whom they were going to dance.

I moved to the side of the gym, looking at the ground. Alone. Through the floor's dull and reflection, I could see dozens and dozens of human forms, jostling back and forth in unison. To me they seemed like but shadows; nothings.

I stood like this for what, to me, was a long time. And then, through the reflection of the floor, I saw a shape coming over. I looked up to find Denae, having left the person she was dancing with, coming over to me.

"Would you like to dance?" was all she said. But those aren't even the words for what it means to me.[/size]

[Charles]

All right man, this was great. I just provided some suggestions. My revisions aren't necessarily better. I'm just giving you things to think about. Good luck.

You sure grooved Daaron today, Mitch," they would say. Or, perhaps, out of pure heart, "You're so gay."

I remember their faces too well. There was Jayson, the reclusive fat kid. And he, just like other fat kids of his breed, upon hitting puberty, had "grown."

He'd decided to be the self-respective worshipper of himself. Donning a smug grin and an even more explicit weapon: words. Sticks and stones do break bones, and words do hurt you. At least that's what I could hear from Jayson's smirk.

Then there was the so-overly stereotypical jock, who's name I had never caught, and so, cared less. He'd do everything in gym better than everyone else. He was the champ as long as he had his balls, which, of course, were made of nothing less than kryptonite.

He was faster than you; he was stronger than you; he was better looking than you. If you were to do one thing wrong on his unconditional turf, you were [b]stigmatized[/b] forever. [strike]like some Jesus undergoing an inflicted crucifixion. For, of course, his sacrifice was yours.[/strike] [color=red][b] If you're trying to cut this article down, I [i]suggest[/i] this part be axed. We all have those sentences we love, but you'll find that you really don't lose anything by removingit.[/b][/color]

"Don't sit so close to me," the jock would say. "You jerk." Or, perhaps, out of pure [b]disgust[/b], "You dork." [strike]For,[/strike]Of course, I was a dork, and this was his turf. Made of his [b]human[/b] sacrifices, [b]his human stepping stones,[/b] with a small trove of jerks like me.

Our gym class was dotted with other minefields, of course. Matt, the handicapped kid. The jock hated him. He'd often, take his hand for emphasis and say, "This retard's so annoying." [strike]as if it were the end of the world itself[/strike]. Luckily for Matt, he could care less. He was happy, he was Matt.

"Hiiiiiiiiiii Jenna," Matt would often yell to his favorite girl in the class. Standing over her, elated, he'd bounce and clap his hands together like a penguin yapping for a fish.

"Hi," Jenna would say, kind and concise, a smile lighting her face too.

Then there was Denae. At first I didn't think much of her, but that all changed near the end of gym, the week we did dancing.

I remember it so well, that time in class when she'd shown me something quite different. Something better than the jock had shown me or Jayson. Or gym itself had ever shown me.

We were doing the two-step.

At the beginning of class, I had put on my FITNESS shirt, as we usually do. I [strike]came out and into[/strike] entered the gym [b]and[/b] everyone else, [strike]in some stark and soon understood way[/strike] for reasoing unbeknownst to me at the time, were not wearing their shirts.

"Look at Mitch here," Jayson said. "Wearing his fitness shirt."

"I thought we had to," was all that I managed, walking back to my locker.

Soon, I was back. Jayson pointed at me.

"Yeah, Mitch here put on his fitness shirt," he said, gesturing to Eric beside him.

I just looked at the ground, ignoring him. I didn't even let his words touch me at all. Perhaps they did hit, but it was only with a dull thud in my mind. For, I was a gargoyle, a stone statue incapable of feeling. [strike]Devoid of anything but stone[/strike].

[b]That's when I heard a lone voice of reason penetrate the cloud of ignorance in the gymnasium.[/b][color=red]I don't even know if I like that better than what you had. I was just having fun. lol[/color]

"Leave Mitch alone," said Denae. I looked up to see Jayson smirking at her.

"And why should I leave him alone?" Jayson said.

"Because he's a quality guy."

Quality guy? Me? [b]I still can't believe it. It was too good to be true.[/b] But it did happen. It goes through my head nearly every day. I often wonder, [strike]as I think about it[/strike], what it was I actually felt from her then. Kindness? No, that isn't the word. Maybe there's not even a word for it.

And later, Denae surprised me. Again.

Our teacher, proudly it seemed, proclaimed that she was going to play "that fishing song," and that it would be the last two-step dance of the class. I was happy to hear that class was almost over. Dancing like this for long periods of time was like being a hamster, strapped to a wheel, and spinning and spinning in a torturous loop. It certainly wasn't good for one's stamina, nor self esteem. [b][color=red]But didn't you say you're a gargoyle?[/color][/b]

I immediately left the red-haired girl I had been two-stepping with, wandering around in hopes of finding someone to get this thing over with. No one came, and, soon, everyone was clustered and grappled with whom they were going to dance.

I moved to the side of the gym, looking at the ground. Alone. Through the floor's dull [strike]and[/strike] reflection, I could see dozens and dozens of human forms, jostling back and forth in unison. To me they [b]were[/b] [strike]seemed[/strike]but shadows; nothings.

I stood like th[b]at[/b] for what, to me, was [strike]a long time[/strike] [b]an eternity[/b]. And then, through the reflection of the floor, I saw a shape coming over. I looked up to find Denae, having left the person she was dancing with, coming over to me.

"Would you like to dance?" was all she said. But those aren't even the words for what it means to me. [b]GREAT ending. I love it.[/b]

[Mitch]

[size=1][font=rockwell]As I said on AIM, thank you very much. This is going to help me with editting this thing [b][i]A LOT[/b][/i].

Okay, I've finshed editting it mostly now . So here's the very near final version, heh. I'm going to have to change the names to symbolic names, since that's the agreement me and Mr. Winter [Journalism teacher] have come to. But I'll paste it like it is.[/font]

"You sure grooved Daaron today, Mitch," they would say. Or, perhaps, out of some pure heart, "You're so gay."

I remember their faces too well. There was Jayson, that reclusive fat kid. And just like all other fat kids of his breed, upon hitting puberty, he had "grown." He'd decided to be the self-respective worshipper of himself. Donning a smug grin and an even more explicit weapon: words. Sticks and stones do break bones, and words do hurt you. At least that's what I could hear from Jayson's smirk.

Then there was the so overly stereotypical jock, who's name I had never caught, and so, cared less. He'd do everything in gym better than everyone else. He was the champ as long as he had his balls, which, of course, were made of nothing less than kryptonite.

He was faster than you; he was stronger than you; he was better looking than you. If you were to do one thing wrong on his conditional turf, you were condemned forever, like some Jesus undergoing an inflicted crucifixion. His sacrifices were yours.

"Don't sit so close to me," the jock would say. "You jerk." Or, perhaps, out of lesser disgust, "You dork." For, I was a dork, and this was his turf. Made of his human sacrifices and his human stepping stones. In the center of these various sacrifices, there were people like me. People that were constantly crucified, placed on his cross and left to bleed.

Our gym class was dotted with other minefields, of course. Matt, the handicapped kid. The jock hated him. He'd often, taking his hand for emphasis, say, "This retard's so annoying.? Luckily for Matt, he could care less. He was happy, he was Matt.

"Hiiiiiiiiiii Jenna," Matt would often yell to his favorite girl in the class. Standing over her, elated, he'd bounce and clap his hands together like a penguin yapping for a fish.

"Hi," Jenna would say, kind and concise, a smile lighting her face too.

Then there was Denae. At first I didn't think much of her, but that all changed near the end of gym, the week we did dancing.

I remember it so well, that time in class when she'd shown me something quite different. Something better than the jock. Better than gym itself had ever shown me.

We were doing the two-step.

At the beginning of class, I had put on my FITNESS shirt, as we usually do. I entered the gym, finding everyone else, for some reasons I didn?t know, not wearing their shirts.

"Look at Mitch here," Jayson said. "Wearing his fitness shirt."

"I thought we had to," was all that I managed, walking back to my locker.

Soon, I was back. Jayson pointed at me.

"Yeah, Mitch here put on his fitness shirt," he said, gesturing to Eric beside him.

I just looked at the ground, ignoring him. I didn't even let his words touch me at all. Perhaps they did hit, but it was only with a dull thud in my mind. I just stood, stoned to the ground.

That?s when I heard her voice.

"Leave Mitch alone," said Denae. I looked up to see Jayson smirking at her.

"And why should I leave him alone?" Jayson said.

"Because he's a quality guy."

Quality guy? Me? It was too good to be true. But it did happen. It goes through my head nearly every day. I often wonder what it was I actually felt from her then. Kindness? No, that isn't the word. Maybe there's not even a word for it.

And later, Denae surprised me. Again.

Our teacher, proudly it seemed, proclaimed that she was going to play "that fishing song," and that it would be the last two-step dance of the class. I was happy to hear that class was almost over. Dancing like this for long periods of time was like being a hamster, strapped to a wheel, and spinning and spinning in a torturous loop. It certainly wasn't good for one's stamina, nor self esteem.

I immediately left the red-haired girl I had been two-stepping with, wandering around in hopes of finding someone to get this thing over with. No one came, and, soon, everyone was clustered and grappled with whom they were going to dance.

I moved to the side of the gym, looking at the ground. Alone. Through the floor's dull reflection, I could see dozens and dozens of human forms, jostling back and forth in unison. To me they were but shadows; nothings.

I stood like that for what, to me, was an eternity. And then, through the reflection of the floor, I saw a shape coming over. I looked up to find Denae, having left the person she was dancing with, coming over to me.

"Would you like to dance?" was all she said. But those aren't even the words for what it means to me.[/size]