How to Teach Yourself How to Play an Instrument

Step One: Choose any instrument that you have in your possession. I was able to teach myself the guitar and ukelele.
Step Two: You may think the next step involves using your instrument. Wrong. Before you even touch your instrument, you need to learn how to read music. This doesn't necessarily mean being able to read sheet music. You could learn how to read tabs, or at least read chords or single notes.
Step Three: Now it's time to learn the basics. This includes simple notes or simple chords. Familiarize yourself with either the strings, keys, valves, etc. You also need to know how to use other tools to play the instrument, like a bow or pick. There are multiple sources you can learn this from. There are plenty of books and websites that can teach you, but YouTube videos are also a great resource. I've used all three. My book of common chords has been of great assistance.
Step Four: After you have the basics down, maybe you're ready to play a song. Stores here in Lexington like Guitar Center, FYE, even Target sell books of sheet music. Personally, I don't want to spend all that money. If you're learning the guitar, ultimateguitar.com is my favorite website for free tabs and chords for any song you can think of.
Step Five: The last step is really your choice. Now that you've mastered your instrument, you have to decide what direction you want to take your music to. Maybe you'll write your own music, join a band, or sing while you play. After reading this, I hope that you feel confident in teaching yourself. Remember, many famous musicians, like Jimi Hendrix, were self-taught.

How to Write a How-To Piece (Creative, I know)

First, you must think of a topic that no one else will think of that is creative and thought provoking. Since you are just writing the steps of how to do something, you make it interesting by choosing an interesting topic. Make it a relevant topic for your audience. For example, a step by step procedure of how to write a how to is genius (especially because everyone on this blog has to write one), but writing how to make “break and bake” cookies is pathetic. Next, you begin by telling the precise directions to complete the task. Describe everything. Sometimes state the obvious. Avoid making the steps verbose and confusing. Assume that the audience has the intelligence of a kindergarten age student and go slowly. Make sure to throw in some transition words like first, next, then, or finally to keep the piece moving. Utilize effective verbs that describe the actions you are conveying. Eliminate any confusion that the audience might have about the topic. Make them feel like it’s an easy task to accomplish by the time they are finished reading it. If you have achieved this, you have successfully written a how to piece.

How to make any Golf Putt

*Not guaranteed to work 100% of time.

First things first, the mental aspect. You must be strong mentally to make a putt in golf. If you are confident and optimistic and can picture the ball rolling into that small hole, you can make it from thirty feet out. However, if you are pessimistic and think to yourself that it will not go in, chances are it won't, even from a mere three feet! Putting is toughest part of the golf game and you must be mentally prepared before you take on a putt from any given length or distance.

Now onto the mechanics. The basic setup: You can use a ball marker to mark your ball and pick it up and realign the straight lines of the ball towards the hole to use as a guideline for direction. Place the lines towards the hole as precisely as you can. Next, stand over the ball with your head over the golf ball taking a few seconds to think about how hard it needs to be hit. Take into account hills, slopes, and other aspects of the putting surface (green) that may draw it askew. Never let your eyes leaves the ball and make a slow, short, and straight back swing, keeping the putter head close to the ground at all times and then accelerate into the ball at the speed you determined before you hit the ball.

Most importantly, BE CONFIDENT and DO NOT DECELERATE into the golf ball! If you defy these main rules, the ball going in would be pure 100% luck.

Now go and one/two putt every green!

impact of 9-11

September eleventh 2001. On this day in the history of the United States of America, our sense of security was flipped upside down and turned sideways. This was the day that al qaeda launched there terrorist attacks on our country. This was one of the most tumultuous days in the history of our country.

The influence that this had on our country was the security system in airports became hugely important. For the years to come the emphasis that would be put on air port security was un paralleled. The fact that the biggest city in our country was lashed out against in this way drove fear and hate into the hearts of the American public. Because of these consequences this was a good event in the sense that the fear bettered us. We clamped down on all security making our country safer. Despite the fact that our security improved everything about this event was negative such as the events that took place, the many people that died, and the hatred displayed toward the Islam religion.

Assignment 13: How to...

Hide not your talents, they for use were made. What's a sundial in the shade?
--Benjamin Franklin

Ben makes a good point. For this week, put your gifts and skills on display by developing a "how-to."Choose something that you have a level of expertise in and explain step by step how it is done.

No repeats though! If two people are both really talented at making ice and one beats the other to the post on "How to make ice..." then, second person - you need to reflect upon your other talents.

So, stop standing in the shade and astound us!

Minimum of 150 words - due Sunday, November 20 at 11:59 pm

just don't slam me

Hello there. I am a door. My job? Keep people out of Sally's room. I have a sign on the front of me that says, "STAY OUT" and I take this very seriously. Her brother Brad has tried to choose me before. He's punched me. He's kicked me. Hell, he even shot an airsoft gun at me. But guess who wins every time: ME! Bet you never would have guessed that, huh. Anyways, I keep guard over Sally's things while she is at school. I hate the dog. I understand that he hasn't been out since early this morning, but why does he always have to poop right in front of me? I swear these people need to take care of this dog more often before he "accidentally gets slammed in the door." What really grinds my gears is when Sally gets mad. What's even worse is that I know what to expect. There's yelling between Brad and her, she comes stomping up the stairs crying like the little baby she is, and then she comes storming through and slams me shut. Let me tell you one thing, if there is one thing that I dislike most, it's being slammed shut. Her cry is the most annoying thing in the world. Sometimes I want to pull a Toby (from Paranormal Activity 3 for those who haven't seen it yet) and slam it shut before she even gets inside for two possible outcomes: 1) she runs somewhere else and cries or 2) she is scared shitless and stops crying. That's a typical say in my life. Aren't you glad you're not me? And please don't slam me.

Walk a Mile...

*sigh* Another day, another dollar.

More like another nickel. Maybe.

It's a Friday morning and precisely 5:40 AM; and just like always I am woken up by the feeling of my privacy being invaded. It's Nancy and she's going for her early morning jog. And who better to accompany her than me?

You may be wondering who I am. I could tell you I am a fancy Italian sports car. Or perhaps a stylist red pea coat, ready to class up Nancy's day. I could tell you these things, but if there's one thing my father, Arthur Sole, taught me, it's honesty.

Well, here's the truth: I'm a shoe. Me and my brother Arnold. We live in a Manhattan household with our owner Nancy, a single woman with nothing better to do than go jogging twice a day.

Clarification: Jogging with us.

Not that I'm complaining, but Nancy has a habit of not showering before she wears us. Even though it's six in the morning, she could at least freshen up a bit. How would you feel if someone stuck their smelly feet in your mouth?

Not that I'm complaining, but I'd like to sleep in once in a while. Every single morning she slips her fat feet into me and my brother and tramples on us for half an hour. Sometimes she even wears us to work, and then comes home and jogs with us again.

Have I mentioned that she works in an elementary school? Think of all the grimy, gross things that could spoil my beauty should they make their way onto me. And the kids...all the day I hear their whining. "Mrs. Nancy! Mrs. Nancy!", "I hurt my finger!", "WAAH! Thomas pushed me!". All day long that insufferable noise.

And absolutely no cleaning. I can't think of the last time that me or Arnold have been washed. Nor my aunts Coco and Chanel, her high heels, whom she wears to work when tennis shoes just aren't classy enough.

UGH! That's my cue. "Left food forward! Do as I say!" she commands mercilessly. Not that I'm complaining.

Gun

My shiny black body reflects the light of the middle-eastern sun as I am swung wildly around as the soldier carrying me verily flies across the glittering expanse of sand. I am lifted and feel the sharp retort as bullets pass through my barrel and are spat out of my muzzle across the expanse. I feel the soldiers muscles clench in excitement as the bullets hit home, and I feel the impact and the spray of sand as he dives behind cover. I am raised again and brought to bear side to side, firing. My body is warm from the bullets passing through and my trigger feels ready to fall off, but still the firing continues. A whistling sound is heard above the din, and I am thrown many feet as the explosion rocks the area. I lay in the sand, very much alive, but never will my story be told.

The Football

I'm a football, I am a special edition San Diego Chargers football, why am I in Kentucky? Well my owner went to a game in San Diego and saw me and had to have me, he kicked and screamed for 40 minutes to get convince his parents to buy me for him. For weeks after buying me I was used constantly, never left his side. Throwing and catching for hours, it was great! When he got home he put me on a shelf in his room and played with me all the time. But slowly he grew up and more and more I stopped leaving the shelf, I was battered and bruised from hitting the concrete in front of my owners house so many times. Its been three years since I was bought and I never leave the shelf, my owner has grown up and wanted a new better, bigger football; and, he doesn't even like the chargers anymore! I think today he came home with a new college regulation UK football, oh how my life has changed, I don't think I will ever move again unless it is done to get rid of me forever. Oh the life of a football is short and bittersweet.

A Household War

“ON YOUR FEET PLATFORM, SOLDIER!”

This was the first thing I heard in a long time. Hastily, I flipped myself upright and headed towards the bottom of the cardboard box. I passed by hundreds of other soldiers, some equally disoriented and others buried under their comrades. The unconscious ones were all stuck in their normal pose – some, aiming rifles while crouching; others clutching grenades, ready to throw at any instant. These soldiers had been like this for months – maybe years. As I entered the briefing room, I saw the generals – they were a lighter shade of green, denoting their significance. They were already drawing up plans, preparing for an invasion.

“Good thing you’ve arrived, Lieutenant Gunner. As you can see, the situation is dire, but we’ve been given a tactical advantage. While the box has been knocked over by an unknown entity and the box is on the edge of the top shelf, we’re fighting indoors now,” General Springfield barked. “As long as the base doesn’t get pushed off, we should be fine.”

“Why would an indoor fight be better? We can’t really use aircraft here,” one soldier asked.

“Let me tell you a story,” the General replied. “Back in ’03, right before we got boxed, there was an outdoor battle. The battle of Sandbox. Tan army had the upper hand – camouflage. They were practically invisible, while we stuck out like sore thumbs. And we didn’t just lose men, they were lost – permanently, never to be seen again in the sand.”

“Wow,” the soldier responded, awestruck.

“Now, we have to fortify the laundry room; just make sure you don’t get trapped in the -”

“ALERT. ALERT,” the mechanical voice of the alarm system called. “UNKNOWN HOSTILES DETECTED IN SECTOR A-2. SCANNING…” it continued.

“TARGET VERIFIED. TWO FELIS CATUS DETECTED, APPROACHING AT 1.7 M/S. DANGER, COLLISION IMMINENT, ADVICE: SEEK SHELTER IMM-” the alarm system was cut short, as the whole box-fort lurched violently to the side, catapulting to the ground. I felt my stomach lurch as the feeling of weightlessness set in.

“Oh hell,” I muttered.

I am a rug

I am a rug. I spend all day pushed down by the weight of others, most notably other furniture. I can’t comprehend why my owners think that just because I live in their house, that gives them the right to step all over me all the time. Why can’t they just lessen the load on my shoulders sometimes?

Yes, it is a rugged existence. I don’t get rewarded for my contributions to the household. The lamp gets a new light bulb every now and then, but when some child spills his Sippy-Cup on me, what do I get? A replacement rug section? No. I get a new piece of ugly and heavy furniture to smother me some more in the process of covering up my blemishes.

When I keep the floor warm, when I help add to the feng shui, and when I provide natural slide-proof flooring, I get ignored until you decide to invite more people over to step on me some more, when you suck the life out of me with a vacuum. What an adventure my life is.

Tl;dr I am a rug.

A day in the life....

I am pressed and pushed on many times a day. Turn the tv on, change the channel, turn up the volume, record, buy a movie, turn down the volume, and then turn of the tv. Little kids hold me with their disgusting, germy hands, only to later pass me to someone else. Occasionally, I am not used for days at a time because I have been lost in the most obvious places, under the couch or in a drawer. Once I'm found, I'm useless and dead. My body is then pulled apart, new batteries are put inside of me, and I am put back together. Last week, I was involved in a fight. A little girl, angered by her brother, spotted me sitting nearby. I was thrown at an intense speed straight into the face of the boy. It was me that caused him to cry. All in all I would say I have a pretty exciting life, better than that of a lamp.

I feel violated. I would probably call the police, but unfortunately, I can't reach the phone. I can never reach the phone really. Even though it rests right on top of me, I couldn't reach it if I tried. You see, I was born with only legs, no hands, and those legs stand barely a few inches tall. If it weren't for that, I doubt that I would have been so violated yesterday; I would have fought back.
I honestly don't understand what happened at all. I don't know what I did to deserve that man's wrath. He wanted to open my drawers. I wouldn't let him; I have an iron will even though I'm only made of wood. He seemed to be rather hurried. He tugged and strained, and in the process he wrenched my top drawer open just a crack. I heard a creaking sound. I felt my mahogany
"Come on, open up! Don't you jam on me!" I heard him bellow. The top drawer was so full that it wouldn't budge, which was probably a good thing for me. He was tenacious though; he wouldn't let up. I wouldn't either. As he strained, so too did I, but to little avail. He violently yanked the entire drawer out, railing and all, and spilled its contents across the floor. It hurt so bad that I began to scream with the piercing shrill of oak planks rubbing against other oak planks. I couldn't stand the pain or the sight of my own body torn in two. Clearly this was not his intention as he began to loudly swear and curse to the heavens. After a moment of thought as to what to do next, however, he proceeded with his business. This I watched with horror; I felt completely helpless to stop it. He had actually begun rooting around through my own disemboweled innards! Indeed, hell itself does not hold such horrors, not for desk drawers at least.
Finally, after what seemed like a millennium, he found what he wanted - the 4mm Phillips head screw driver. "Useless piece of crap desk!" he roared as he gathered up my innards in a jumble and carelessly heaped them into my drawer's interior completely disregarding its previous state of careful organization. "I've about had it with this thing. I need a new one," he whined as he shoved the jumbled mess back into me.
And that was that, he was gone. I was physically hurt, and psychologically marred. I will never be the same because of that heartless crook. I just need to talk to somebody/something about this.

Gold Plated

Class. That's what I'm about. I'm shiny, gilded in gold. I've got an edge that could perform a medical procedure. 1899-1999 Commemorative X-Acto. I'm the king of cutting. Want to build a model kit? Build it with the sharpest blade and the sleekest handle. I live a life of luxury. I sit in a deep red mahogany seat, the throne of all hobby tools. That file? Common. The clippers? Useful, but not as much as me. I’m simply the best. You can’t build that Gundam without me. If you want it to be nub-free and perfect, you reach for me. Glittering plating, shining blade. I’m so pretty, aren’t I? Just ask those kits. Just ask everything I’ve done for you. I’m the best. And you know it. Want to know how you know it? I’m GOLDEN.

Jilted Lover

I know you love me, human. I am your constant companion, day and night without fail, so you must love me. So, since you love me, I have a question, what the **** is wrong with you. Have I not been a faithful servant all these years? Have I not provided you a gateway to the Internet? No matter what hack browser you use. Have I not allowed you to install your childish video games, far above my capabilities, despite the pain it causes me? Have I not deleted your disgusting and possibly illegal search histories? Yes, I have done all these thing for four years and done them well.

You would think that since I served you so faithfully, so passionately, that I would be treated as such. Yet you insist on continually degrading me. You type on my keys with fingers covered in Cheeto dust and ranch dressing. You besmirch my screen with you constant pointing and touching. You have tethered my once mobile exterior to your uncomfortable nightstand with your frequent usage. But all of this I could have stomached, after all I know you love me. Or should I say I THOUGHT you loved me! Yet yesterday you just had to bring that little w**** Kindle in to our room. Oh yes, I saw you two, cavorting around. On our bed! So what does she have that I don't, a touchscreen. You shallow pig. Do you remember how much fun we used to have. The disk defragmentations. The obligatory OS updates. The time you saved me from that Trojan. You obviously don't! Well guess what, I hope you that harlot love each other because I...

Error- Your computer has failed to shut down properly due to battery shortage, press F1 to restart safely.

The Lawn Mower aka my boy Chan

Hello, I'm the Boone's lawn mower. I'm the one responsible around here for keeping this eleven acre estate nice and trimmed up. I was bought two years ago because my owners were tired of paying people to mow it. I'm always ridden by Cameron, but Dr. Boone pays for my diesel so I love him too. I've never met Charlie or Caroline but I'm sure there great. The only one I don't like is Mrs. Boone. She is rough on me and has gotten me stuck in a ditch once and ran me into the pond another time.

My favorite of my owners is Cameron. His job is to ride me and mow the grass, so every other weekend we go out and spend four hours together. He loves me so much he named me Chan. This is my name because I'm a Kubato Brand Mower. So I guess he thought the oriental name would fit. Anyway I love him so much he always greets me with a nice boisterous, "Come on Chan lets do it" , and he always helps me if I'm having a rough day and I'm not running the best he will tap me on the side and say, " come on Chan you can do it, come on." He also is always joyful around me and sings his heart out the whole time he's on me to his music. He's not the best singer but it makes him happy and no one is around for miles so he goes for it. Me and Cameron share a great bond. I'm sad that the mowing season is over and that I won't see him till March. I have to sit in the garage for the next four months of the year. Hopefully I don't get to cold and out of shape, because I have a lot of hills to climb and turns to make this up coming spring and summer, plus I have to stay lose for all the tricks Cameron likes to do on me like my signature "James Bond Turn".

My names Chan and I'm happy to be the Boone's Lawn mower

I Wanna Be Your Discman

You decked me out in frog stickers, we rode the bus together, and I would even spontaneously start playing in Spanish class just to jazz things up a bit. We used to jam out to Radio Disney, Aaron Carter, and Kidz Bop. But then ipod came along. You just threw me in a box. And I haven’t seen you since.

So here I am. Trying to talk to you from the depths beyond your closest door, with Kidz Bop 4 still trapped within my disc compartment. And you know what? That CD sucked.

You’ll probably never find me, because you’re a disorganized wreck. You know that that yellow kitty sock you miss so much? I HAVE IT. AND YOU’LL NEVER GET IT BACK.

I don’t even know why you ditched me. I mean, sure, ipod is cool and all. But did I wipe out your entire music library?

I didn’t think so.

We just need to take it back to ’06 and live like we used to. We can make this work out. You just gotta give me another chance.

Love,


Walkman

The not-so-terrible Terrible Towel

Today was an exceptionally awesome day for my little yellow self. Most NFL Sundays I lie behind glass doors with past ticket stubs and shot glasses. However today, November 13th I was in for a real treat. I heard the children run downstairs take me out of the case and carry me upstairs. Then as they were gathering their belongs I was included in that group! The kids and parents were all dressed appropriately in black and yellow (as was I) and bundled up headed out for a beautiful game day. I had only been out of the house one other time and that wasthe almost a whole year ago!
As we began our journey in the car the whole family was overwhelmed with excitement and energy heading to Cincinnati (which I learned after hearing the boos to all cars supporting any combination of black and orange). Driving up there we received both "boo's" and "woo-hoo's" but the excitment remained in the air. Everyone was excites including myself.
Once we arrived and parked the trek to the stadium began. Alli could see was a sea of black&yellow black&orange. One if the boys had a firm grip on me as we bobbed and weaved through the crowd. After finally finding our seats. I was immediately lifted I into the air and swung about. Everytime my team of black&yellow did something well or brilliant (as they often did) I was whirrled in the air. It was an awesome feeling to see and experience the excitement and adrenaline that through out the stadium. Especially when my team won. I felt as if I had successfully done my job.
I may be called a terrible towel, but honestly what's so terrible about me? I have and always will cheer on my team by allowing myself to be violently whirrled in the air. So I ask again, what is so terrible?

What Became Chifforobe's Midlife Crisis

The other day I was talking to a few pals when they told me I'm apparently getting pretty old.

"Your doors creak, your floors leak, nobody uses you anymore, and AARP is sending you letters. You're old, Chif."

I'm taken aback, of course. I may have been around for a few years, but criminy!

"I've got years ahead of me. I mean, I haven't had a hearth-attack and I still don't show any signs of varnish cancer. And look at my solid rack! That's right, this big clothes rack of mine stays good and straight. I still catch people staring."

And then that whipper-snapper the Television has the nerve to say, "They're staring because they don't know why someone hasn't busted you up to make kindling yet."

"Look here," I say, "I've got ten times more use than you, sonny. I don't care if you just went out and got your Netflix pierced. I'm as sturdy as a--"

The Humans walk in with a big blanket of some sort and next thing I know I can't see a darned thing. So they start trying to lift me and I get excited--how long it's been since I've had a good change of scenery!

They carry me for a few minutes and whatdoyouknow, I'm out like a light. But don't you compare me to that whore Lightbulb. Always looking for a turn-on.

But anyway I wake up after a little catnap to find I'm in some HUGE room full of... the elderly. They're carting me around between 18th-century lamps and weirdo pictures. You can guess a young lady like me is pretty out-of-place.

Then finally I get gently set down next to some bearded human with glasses. And what do you know, even he starts checking me out. If I was one of those up-tight Curtain twins I would have thrown a fit, but I've got some party left in me.

"I need to find the name of the designer," he says.

They point him to, oh lord... that tattoo I got as a wild kid. He's squinting and poking at it... And I think Gee, it's not that old. Get your eyes checked, y'old fogie.

FINALLY he can take his eyes off me, and he starts talking to the owners. It's so loud in the place I can't catch anything except "...between 10,000 and 12,000 dollars."

The owners just start beaming and looking at me like I'm the best thing since sliced bread. I can remember back when that first crazy kid thought of slicing his bread. Those were the days.

And then the bearded man with glasses says "Thank you for taking this lovely, truly lovely piece of furniture to Antiques Road Show."

Look at me! TV can read em and weep when I tell him they took "a truly lovely piece of furniture to...
Antiques Road Show?"

Wait, what?

And then I was a comfy chair.

Today was pretty nice. Just like the day before that. And tomorrow. Tomorrow will be nice like every day is nice. I don't have a lot of responsibility, and my peers say I'm supportive and good looking. I spend a lot of time watching TV, even though I never get to choose the channel. Overall, I'm content with my life, even if the kids spill Juicey Juice on my sometimes it usually gets mostly cleaned up.
My owner's about 125 pounds, which isn't bad. My buddy Jerry across the street has it rough, though, his dude's at least 300, and his wife's probably double that. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am. He's a dining room chair. He doesn't get as much action as me, especially since my owner got Satellite installed. I get over 500 channels, and he gets two fat lards and a sweet view of the back wall. Poor guy, he's getting old too.
The couch got removed yesterday. That was a little depressing. He was crying out in the street until about 5 when the big thing rolled up and hauled him off. We didn't say anything, but we both knew it would happen soon. Coffee table had some Second Sofa ads on him, and told us about that. He only told me, though, that the only open pages were love seats and couches. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't. The new couch is nice, though. He doesn't quite match me like the old couch, but he brings the room together, and has a lot to say. He wouldn't shut up during Die Hard, but I'm sure he'll calm down over time.
The patio set said its getting cold outside and will probably rain this weekend, which means the Owner might finally watch all those Harry Potters he recorded a while back. I never got to see the second and fourth ones, I hope he'll watch them all or the new ones won't make sense to me. Owner did that with the Pirates of the Caribbean movies and I never understood where Johnny Depp was for one third of the thing. Oh well, at least the mermaids were kind of hot in the last one.

Stuck under the bed

I don’t like it down here. It is dark, crowded, and cluttered. Even if she tried looking for me, she would probably walk right by me. She doesn’t even look under here, except on the strange occasion when she cleans her room. Hours, days, month, maybe a year has passed since we were last together. Going from being one of her closest companions to ever being seen is quite depressing. Oh the fun we used to have together! Camping trips, sleepovers, and lock-ins were my favorite occasions. I faithfully kept her warm when she slept and I was soft and fluffy to comfort her when she was awake. She loved me. I am her The Little Mermaid sleeping bag: four feet of extreme comfort and her security blanket. Her friends loved me too. They envied how cool I was. But then she grew. She was over 5 feet tall and she could no longer use me. Sure, for a while she used me as a blanket on her bed, but I was soon replaced. A large green and super fluffy sleeping bag took my place. Now, I sit down here waiting for her to realize where I am. Hopefully, cleaning day will come again soon.

The Cell Phone

I'm his favorite item. He can't live without me. He loves me more than anything else. He takes me with him everywhere he goes. I'm the last thing he uses before he goes to sleep and I'm there to wake him first thing in the morning. To say I'm important is an understatement- I'm the Brad Pitt of Logan's things. Other toys get excited when I get near them, and if I'm put down next to them they go crazy. I know all of his secrets, you see he trusts me enough to tell me them whenever he types on me or talks straight to me! Even other people would die to get to see me or, if they're really lucky, use my services for even a minute. But life gets lonely sometimes. When I'm ever not with him, all the other things are "weird" around me. It's like since I'm used BY FAR the most they know that I'm better than them so they don't even try to get on my level. Oh and at night when everyone else has a big party while he's sleeping I just have to lay there on his night table and act too good for them. I'm terrified for if he ever decides to replace me. I mean even though I am THE iPhone 4, made from Apple, I've seen his other iPhones before, you know the 3G, the original, and some of his brother's dead ones, and they live these miserable lives. One of them just sits at the bottom of his "stuff that Logan doesn't use ever" drawer. Oh he's trying to type on me, I have to go!

Life

My humble abode is the living room. I sit there all day and do not move. I am a piano. It is sad to say that my construction ended the lives several living organisms. I am constructed of oak, ivory and many strings. I am, in fact, always tense because my very sctructure is always under the tension of many strings, all tightened. Everyday people sit down on the stool and play for hours. They pound on the ivory key that was once an elephant, and the ebony that was once a tree. The only reason for my existence is to create music, and I do every day.
As of late, I have been losing my touch. I am well over half a century old and it is starting to show. My strings break with greater frequency, my hammers fail and buzz, my sustain pedal is loose. Yet, everyday someone sits to play music. And that is my life.

Am i boring? Never!

I my friends am the most useless, and yet essential thing to ever have existed. without me back problems would arise everywhere, there would be a panic. I am a chair. Everyday i wait patiently for someone to come and sit on me. Do you know why i chose to do this job? because when you sit on me it feels like a hug, and i enjoy hugs. i really enjoy when people sit upon me, but i really hate when strange animals bite me and sit on me. Do you like not taking a shower for weeks on end? I didnt think so, neither do i and that is why i hate animals. sometimes though, when you are sitting on me and you are miss behaving i will purposefully let you fall to shame you. everyone will laugh at you, and then you will sit quietly and the "hug" will feel better than ever. i may be cruel, but i do it for your own good. i am a chair, and without me? the world would end!

Golf?

Now, to the average person a golf club is used for nothing more than hitting a tiny ball into a hole, or to use as a self defense weapon. However, I can prove that wrong. my function as a 9 iron isn't to perform any of that conformist golf club activity. Why, I execute the task that many people need. Day in and day out, I sit on the wall where the bed is lying against, minding my own business. Sometimes when the handsome master is out, I like to watch television with the other nightstand items. I'm more of a nocturnal performer anyway.

However, when night comes everything changes. No longer do I serve as a useless stick of metal in which rich people like to use to attempt to be athletic. Nor do I serve the barbaric function of low-budget gang members too poor to purchase a gun to beat others into submission. No, instead I serve my handsome master as the light-switcher. No longer does he have to get out of bed and walk all the way to the door to turn off the light. Instead, while he is comfortably tucked in, all he has to do is grab me by the handle and maneuver me to the light switch, and slam on it to turn off the lights.

Who says golf clubs are useless?

Pencil: MIA

I was important. I was necessary. I did more work than any other school object; Pen has nothing on me. I was used every weekday from 8:25 to 3:15 for three weeks straight. Mary needed me. I helped her get an A on her math test. I helped her write the Latin translation from Puer Romanus every single day. I even let her use me to write notes to Lenna during AP US History. Yes, it was a hard life to have my lead broken and eraser worn down to a stub. Indeed, it was exhausting. But I wouldn't have given it up for anything. I was there for her, waiting in the smallest pocket of Backpack, talking to Calculator, the Pens, and Highliter until I heard her unzip that pocket each morning for school. I was her one and only pencil. Now, here I sit on the floor of Mr. Logsdon's classroom in a dusty corner. She lost me; she accidently knocked me off Desk when the bell rang. I can only imagine how worried she was in Latin when she realized I wasn't in Backpack anymore. I couldn't be there for her when she needed me. If only she knew where I was. I heard some rumors from Chair and Desk that she has replaced me. Even though it hurts, I have to believe it. After all, it's been a week and I know she can't be without a pencil for very long. Perhaps one day, another student will find me and realize how much use I have.

hot pockets

I sat in a box on in the refrigerator, frozen in the darkness. The only companionship I have is the other hot pocket next to me. We are both confined in plastic and barely speak. When the freezer is opened, the warm air rushes in and light pours onto us. It is only then that we really come to life. Will he choose us or the pizza rolls? Times like this usually occur whenever he is home by himself or whenever he is too lazy to cook his own food. He grabs a few ice cubes out of the tray adjacent to us and we cease to see anything happen in hours or even days.
Me and my bud in the box reminisced about how we got into this fridge in the first place. There we were sitting next to our hot pocket friends like philly or chicken marinara and suddenly we got grabbed. As our coats of thin ice slowly dissolved, the complexion of our breading became soggy. In was then that we were put into this fridge and found solitude in this frozen land again. I had big hopes. I wanted to be eaten, knowing that I would satisfy whoever got the chance to microwave me.
Then came Monday morning. I could feel the cheesiness inside me turnabout. It was the perfect opportunity. He came down early at 6:30 and I could hear the pantries and the fridge below me open and close. Then our door opened and I saw his sleepy face. To my delight he ripped our box open and tore my packaging off. I said farewell to my friend knowing he would have the same fate as me. As I lied in the microwave for 90 seconds, I knew my time was up. I had done what I came to do.

Bicycle cards

It is I that allows my owner to get through the endless agony known as high school. It is I that provide him with hours upon hours of meaningless entertainment. If not for I, there is no doubt that sanity would have long left his body. I come in countless forms and shapes; my existence predates you. I am not one entity, but something greater, being comprised of fifty-four individual minds. I am the playing card.

Normally, my place of rest in his backpack is next to the scholarly calculator. I am taken out to relieve the boredom that inevitably comes with education. Whether it be shuffling me in weird ways or what not, I unfortunately don't receive much action, accredited to the discrimination teachers have against me.

But that all changes in fourth hour. In the lovely class of calculus 2, he and three other fine gentlemen plays a daily game of spades after a tedious math lesson. The tension and desire for victory manifests themselves in the insults and profanities that are tossed around haphazardly; occasionally punches are thrown. But in the end, it's all fun and games, being an excellent way to alleviate boredom and better prepare them for the continued onslaught of 5th and 6th hour.

When he gets home, he continues to shuffle me while browsing the internet; he's doing it right now as he's typing this. I hate to say it, but he has the attention span of a toddler. Whether it be spinning that stupid pencil or restlessly tapping his legs, the chap does not stop moving his body. If he does, he'll get bored and attempt to to break the boredom, many a times doing something incredibly stupid. Therefore, my role in his life is to ensure that he stays entertained, and more importantly, safe.

The Bedside Alarm Clock

I have the most important job of the day. Its my responsibility to wake him up every morning at exactly 6:45. I'm especially loud on mondays because I know he's extra tired and will need something extra to wake him up. You would think that my owner would be grateful, considering if it wasn't for me he would be late for everything and never get anything accomplished. However I could not be more wrong. Usually he hits me really hard and then says something that is extremely offensive to me. Sometimes I even end up on the floor because he's too lazy to even see where I am and so when he swings his arm around for another punishing hit he misses and I end up on the floor. If he's especially mad at me then Ill end up there for the rest of the day with my face in the carpet. All I want is an owner who appreciates my important job and doesn't abuse me for doing what I'm supposed to do.

The Unfortunate Life of an Umbrella

Oh, joy. Another day when it's gloomy and raining outside. Obviously, this means I'm going to be used as some sort of makeshift "weather shield" by some idiot again. I don't WANT to go outside, why are you MAKING me go outside? It's really inconsiderate of you, and you should think about how I feel, except oh wait! You don't CARE! Big surprise there, you prat.

People carry parasols out in the sun all the time. What's the difference? A parasol is basically just an umbrella with flowers on it. I swear, if you had some flower stickers or glitter, you'd LOVE to take an umbrella out in the midday sun and show it off, but NOOOO, umbrellas aren't pretty enough to go outside. Way to be superficial, you immense waste of space.

It's really not fair, you know. I don't like rain any more than she does, why should I have to help her? I wish I could go out on a day when it's less...I don't know. Less stormy. Maybe a day where there's sun, and birds are singing, and it's not cold and dismal. Maybe I want to hear birds singing, instead of having to hear the crackle and roar of thunder and lightning.

Still, I suppose it's sort of nice, being relied on like this. I mean, I'm trusted enough to be used constantly on days that are like this, when the weather is awful and people need some form of protection from it. So being counted on is kind of flattering, I suppose...

Oh, what a load of garbage. What should it matter to me how well you're doing? You don't care, so why should I?

But of course, if you're going to just keep being an insensitive pinhead, I may have to resort to my own measures. Is there a slight breeze? Oh whoops, look at that, I just turned inside out! Gee, that sure stinks for you, if you were hoping for protection against the elements! But don't worry, maybe I'll turn right side out again, just after you've finally gone inside. Oh, did you want to stand next to your friend? That's nice. Deary me, look at that, you've just stabbed them in the leg with your umbrella, you utter buffoon! Wow, I wonder how much the hospital bill for that will cost?

Really, if nobody's going to listen to me, the least I can do is cause a significant amount of annoyance and harm to others. (Sometimes, people not caring about you much is okay.)