A Mike and His Words

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getacollegelife:

Classes don’t start again for another week (and I can’t wait), but I was on my way to an appointment and happened to drive past campus. 

I became very emotional. UCLA is really important to me. It’s a tunnel out of what looked to me to be a dead end future, professionally and intellectually. Maybe I was right, maybe I was wrong about where I thought I was headed before UCLA, but that’s what it felt like to me. 

When I started classes,three years ago I had just spent five years auditioning for parts I didn’t get and pitching tech/entertainment projects I had written/designed that people seemed unready for or frightened of, I don’t know which. I had projected forward in my mind what the FOLLOWING five years could be and it made me feel dead inside. 

I can’t stand “not moving forward” (as I’m sure you can tell by now) and the idea of a repeat performance of the previous five years was a horrible one to me. Going to school was a way to traverse out of that projected future and into one that had many more options of a much richer, more diverse nature. 

I don’t care how bloodied my elbows and knees get from crawling through this tunnel. I don’t care how many cave-ins seems to narrow the tunnel in places. UCLA is the tube connecting my past to my future, my first life to my second, and I will never cease to be grateful for that. 

I don’t think I’m going to be able to see through the tears of appreciation the day I graduate.

getacollegelife:

Classes don’t start again for another week (and I can’t wait), but I was on my way to an appointment and happened to drive past campus.

I became very emotional. UCLA is really important to me. It’s a tunnel out of what looked to me to be a dead end future, professionally and intellectually. Maybe I was right, maybe I was wrong about where I thought I was headed before UCLA, but that’s what it felt like to me.

When I started classes,three years ago I had just spent five years auditioning for parts I didn’t get and pitching tech/entertainment projects I had written/designed that people seemed unready for or frightened of, I don’t know which. I had projected forward in my mind what the FOLLOWING five years could be and it made me feel dead inside.

I can’t stand “not moving forward” (as I’m sure you can tell by now) and the idea of a repeat performance of the previous five years was a horrible one to me. Going to school was a way to traverse out of that projected future and into one that had many more options of a much richer, more diverse nature.

I don’t care how bloodied my elbows and knees get from crawling through this tunnel. I don’t care how many cave-ins seems to narrow the tunnel in places. UCLA is the tube connecting my past to my future, my first life to my second, and I will never cease to be grateful for that.

I don’t think I’m going to be able to see through the tears of appreciation the day I graduate.

4,678 notes

bill:

Alright, let’s talk about this. Whoever wrote this trite nugget from the sweaty nightmares of Nicholas Sparks wrote it on a Build-A-Bear receipt. What’s so special about this Build-A-Bear receipt, you ask? Well, for one, our author purchased a hot pink Hello Kitty Build-A-Bear with leopard print accents, and added a few customized messages. But it’s where this Build-A-Bear store is that is the real story.
This is in Niagara Falls, Ontario, right on Victoria Avenue in Clifton Hill, which is a terrifying amalgam of Las Vegas, Myrtle Beach, and Tijuana, an unsophisticated casserole of unskilled teenagers and Chinese tourists seasoned with regurgitated Jägerbombs and baked to a limp sludge in $30 motor inns. It’s the destination for American kids aged 19 and 20 who can’t yet drink in the States, and the destination for Canadians who want a fabulous, once-in-a-lifetime chance to stare at Niagara Falls for three minutes and then spend the rest of their time drinking Al Keith’s in their room at the Days Inn.
I can only imagine that our heartbroken receipt-scrivener scrawled this after her boyfriend (who was named Bobby, no question about it) left her right outside the Ripley’s Believe-It-Or-Not to get back with his girlfriend Tammy back in Kitchener. She rushed to the Build-A-Bear and constructed this hideous monument to Bobby, which she still keeps next to her bed every night, even though she never mentions to her new boyfriend why.

bill:

Alright, let’s talk about this. Whoever wrote this trite nugget from the sweaty nightmares of Nicholas Sparks wrote it on a Build-A-Bear receipt. What’s so special about this Build-A-Bear receipt, you ask? Well, for one, our author purchased a hot pink Hello Kitty Build-A-Bear with leopard print accents, and added a few customized messages. But it’s where this Build-A-Bear store is that is the real story.

This is in Niagara Falls, Ontario, right on Victoria Avenue in Clifton Hill, which is a terrifying amalgam of Las Vegas, Myrtle Beach, and Tijuana, an unsophisticated casserole of unskilled teenagers and Chinese tourists seasoned with regurgitated Jägerbombs and baked to a limp sludge in $30 motor inns. It’s the destination for American kids aged 19 and 20 who can’t yet drink in the States, and the destination for Canadians who want a fabulous, once-in-a-lifetime chance to stare at Niagara Falls for three minutes and then spend the rest of their time drinking Al Keith’s in their room at the Days Inn.

I can only imagine that our heartbroken receipt-scrivener scrawled this after her boyfriend (who was named Bobby, no question about it) left her right outside the Ripley’s Believe-It-Or-Not to get back with his girlfriend Tammy back in Kitchener. She rushed to the Build-A-Bear and constructed this hideous monument to Bobby, which she still keeps next to her bed every night, even though she never mentions to her new boyfriend why.

(Source: fearlessknightsandfairytales, via wilwheaton)

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Building a Mystery

WD

What I love about writing is that I don’t know where it will take me creatively.  Writing truly is an act of discovery.  What I’ve discovered lately is that I want to try to my hand at writing mystery stories.

When I was a child, I devoured Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Trixie Belden, and Encyclopedia Brown books.  There was even a comic strip in the 1980s called Hawkeye and Amy, and I would cut them…

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