Timothy Simon Wilkelvenstein II

Timothy Simon Wilkelvenstein II was a "fat ass". A "fatty fatso", an "enormous hunk of living lard" and - my personal favorite - "what you'd get if the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man ate a zeppelin full of the 1976 Miami Dolphins' Offensive Line, shat it out and died on top of it in one grotesque, soupy, fat mess". In fact the kids along Lewis Street had just about every name in the book for poor Timothy, and many more (I can't imagine a book simply full of hurtful obesity jokes, but with the material bouncing around that two mile suburban road, there could be an entire encyclopedia.
I've heard much controversy over whether or not Timothy Simon Wilkelvenstein II had, in fact, eaten his former, but evidence of such is purely circumstantial here-say.
Now you may feel anger towards all those stuck-up child products of white suburbia, but in truth Timothy W was thrice the age average for weight. He towered over his peers when he was lying down. His abdomen had swelled to nearly 80% of his body mass. Beneath it stood his struggling legs, partially swallowed by his enveloping fat rolls. His head had expanded so much that bald spots appeared in places hair roots could not reach.
'He's quite the site to see,' said the doctors with their stern amazement. 'Such a being is an anomaly,' they agreed. One that would certainly die before the age of 15.
Yes, poor Fatty Fatso II had little chance of making it into his late teens. Perhaps a primary cause of this inevitable statistic was his immense diet and severe lack of physical activity. For the most part, Timothy passed his days sleeping atop the family sofa or snuggled tight in his bed, only waking for the occasional snack or monstrous stretch. Eventually he was banished from the couch; booted off every time he was caught burying himself lazily amidst the deep cushions. But Timothy was a stubborn one, and simply rearranged himself cozily on the living room floor. During this time the kids would spy on him through the large bay windows or through the front screen door and laugh. It was then poor Timothy endured the harshest of their teasing, sleepily opening a single eye and cocking an ear to their scowls.
"Look at you, you dumb fat slob!" shouted Joe Hambucker who lived in the raised ranch two houses down.
"I bet you never get up because if you did your fat would jiggle so much it was knock you over!" jeered Michael Fenley, the school track star.
"Oh look Rhonda!" snickered Joanie Richards, "His head is moving!"
"That's his ass!" hollared Rhonda Cessman. All four of them broke into a collective, hooting snarl and barked laughter in his direction. Timothy just stared.
Nobody, of all the kids, of all the streets, of all the towns, of all the world ever had anything nice to say about poor, fat Timothy W. But do you want to know the incredible part of my story? The part that makes all this worth telling and worth reading? Good ol' Tim didn't care one bit.
Not an ounce.
Not a smidgen.
In fact, he couldn't care LESS. Day in and day out, kid in and kid out came and insulted him - hell even their parents let him have it - and he wasn't bothered one bit.
Not by the jokes.
Not by his appearance.
Not even by his fate.
It is completely safe and truthful to say none of these were problems to him. He just didn't care. Why? How?
He had a secret. He had the key to indifference, the strength against all words and the ability to take any and all insults head-on with no damage to his self-esteem whatsoever.
If you, or someone you know, could benefit in any way from this knowledge, I suggest you read closely and listen intently.
Are you paying attention?
Are you listening?
Timothy Simon Wilkelvenstein II was a cat.

College Essay

It's about time I finished this-

I am passionate.
Network's Howard Beale was passionate about the depreciation of society through mass media, but not me. That's not to say I don't care about such things - about the ever-waning minds of reputable, fashionable and oh-so-venerable people- I do, but that's not the point. My passions (and there are many) reside elsewhere.
Given the nature of my college outlook and intentions, you might be surprised to read that film is not my passion. Neither is acting. Not even writing.
As I said, my passions reside elsewhere, like in apple crepes, for example.
“A crepe is made with love,” my mother always said, as mothers always do. Crepes are very delicate foods, not only in their consistency but in the difficulty of making them truly delicious. Details must be accounted for, and the strictest attention must be paid to every ingredient and each step of their preparation (we took our guidance from a 1980s Betty Crocker cookbook) or they will simply fall lifelessly apart. To tell you the truth, I am describing a painstaking and frustrating process that brings many a family to madness, but our plates were graced every holiday (some birthdays included) with lush fruits and tender crepes. My parents never gave up, for they shared the same qualities that I find in myself: ambition in passion, passion through production.
On crepe days, my mother and father rose early and reported to their respective positions in the kitchen: mom at the stove - coring, peeling, and baking the apples for the filling, and dad whisking and pouring the batter. Over the years, the whole process has become a family routine, with children waking to the surprisingly bitter, yet wonderfully-familiar, smell wafting through the house. Gradually, I learned and I progressed in the art, slowly improving with each and every crepe - just as any ambition progresses with effort and the passing of time - from wish to accomplishment.
Then it was time to eat.
But crepes at the Wiedeman home aren't just crepes, just as anything you love and put your heart into isn't just that. To my brother, the oldest, they were a mess, an ooze of apple and cinnamon bulging through the pancakes until they tore, splattering their contents all over his eager face. To my sister they were plain and simple; she never even put the apples in. To me, they were clean, equal, and perfectly-positioned portions on my spotless plate... unless that crepe day was different; unless I was the one waking up early, breaking out Betty Crocker, cooking and fashioning the morning feast for the rest of my family; unless I stood at the counter, my arms coated in moist batter and my hair matted with misplaced apple goo; unless my hands formed the fragile shapes and placed each before my excited family. That changed everything. For me anything I make with my hands, with my mind and with my will, is special. Those crepes were special because I put my heart into them, just the way Howard Beale puts his heart into his words and just the way I put my heart into something else: my films.
My experience with film has oddly enough been similar to my experience with crepes. Over time, I have developed a love for both, especially in their creation. It's when I can call what I have made 'my own' that I am truly proud; truly happy. The same way I love the sweet, warm taste of apple crepes, I love the essence of a good movie. But only when I am behind the camera, or move the pen across the page, do they really touch me; when I know I love what I am doing.
Yet my passion is not film.
It's capturing the touch of emotion through movement - the harrowing swing of a bloody ax or the twitch of an eye - and a lens. My passion isn't writing, it's breathing life into my own skewed perception of the world around me; giving my own beating heart to Ben Childs or Felicia, my own separate beings. It isn't acting, it's transforming myself into the quizzical, riotous or melancholy faces of emotion. My passion is not my success, my success is living my passion. That is why I say no, I'm not here to make movies, to write scripts or to read lines. I'm here to enthrall you, entertain you, sicken you, strengthen you, and impact you - and I will not give up until I have done so with everything I create, every time. And at the end, I want you to get up, turn around, and walk back towards reality, only to discover that your entire world has changed because you are a changed person, from the pores of your skin right to the very depths of your soul. If that can't happen, so help me, I'm not passionate in the least because I'm mad as hell and I am NOT going to take this anymore.

Irony of Life

Here's something I wrote about two years ago. I'd definitely like to make it into a movie. Maybe I'll ask Dominique to borrow her dad and his car one day...

Two teenagers sat in the back of the car, both in deep thought. The boy stared out the right window while the girl's gaze traveled out of the left. Minutes passed without a word or blink. Sound was a stranger to everything except the gulls overhead and the nearby crashing waves.
Finally the boy spoke: "Think we've wasted any part of our lives?"
The girl turned to make contact with him.
"Yeah, some." she said.
"Yeah, me too. Like all those hours spend playing video games and stuff- I could've been studying or... I don't know, writing a book."
"I started writing a book."
"Why didn't you finish it?"
"Got bored of it. Became more interested in a guy."
"Yeah, girls probably took up a big part of my life. I don't think any of them were even worth it."
There was a long pause and the girl turned once again towards the window. The boy stumbled for words.
"I kind of regret not paying attention to my dog. He died like a year ago," he said. She turned back to him.
"I never had a dog. All the pets we had died in like a month. Fish, gerbils, turtles... all of them. Maybe we were just bad pet owners."
"Nah, I'm sure it wasn't you. Pets like that never live long."
"We went through nine gerbils in two years..." she replied flatly. He raised his eyebrows and they both laughed.
"Wow, we have kind of screwed up a lot. I wish I could go back to parts, you know?"
"Yeah..."
"Hey, I know. Why don't we make a pact? From now on we're going to pay more attention to life; really live it. Time just goes by too quickly to always walk with your head down. We have our whole lives ahead of us, and we only have one shot, so let's make it a good one. What do you say?" He stretched a hand out to the girl. She shook it and smiled.
"Here's to life."

Just then the door opened. A man in uniform took his seat behind the wheel. The girl sat up to talk to him.
"So where are we going?" she asked, her fingers poking through the metal caging.
"Prison of course, now keep it down back there," spoke the cop authoritatively.
They did as they were told, and the car took off down the road...

Here's a little diddy I wrote just for you!!!!:

As we come to a conclusion of the first decade of the twenty-first century, it seems that all these new gadgets, cell phones, laptops, iPods, etc… have hindered peoples ability to read a book. For this reason, here is a fool-proof process to find a book that is right for you and read it!
First, you must find a book to read. There are two options, they have both been heavily disputed and the outcome is what you would expect, both are good. The first way is to do research on the internet before you go to your local library or book store. This way can save a lot of time and is sometimes cost-efficient as you can compare prices of different stores. To find a book this way you can choose to search different genre’s and read descriptions of books until you find one that is appealing, or you can search authors you’ve heard of; note that this is only for those people who know of a specific book or author that they want to read. The second option is kind of a wild card. This involves going to the book store or library and schmoozing up and down the aisles until you find one that catches your eye. This way can be fun, but a warning, there are tons of books, so once you find about four or five that seem interesting quit, or else you’ll end up buying the whole store out. Some tips for this option, I would recommend looking at the best-seller section, clearance section, and fiction sections. Buying books from the best-sellers list is never a bad choice, and it may help you find an author you like, so you can try option one the next time. Another tip is to not always judge a book by its cover; while you may find ones that look cool be sure to read the brief overview located on the back or inside cover to make sure the book is right for you. One more precaution for this option, do not be afraid by the multitude of books that are available, start small (such as the front displays) and work your way up to the larger sections of books.
Next, you must read the book. While part once may seem fun, the real adventure lies between the front and back cover. For those not acquainted with this form of entertainment, the idea is to open the front cover until you see a page denoted Chapter 1, Introduction, or some sort of prologue. Now you read from left to right (left page, then right page) and run your eyes over each word. The idea is not to fly through these pages, but to comprehend and interpret their meanings. Relaxing your eyes and glancing is NOT recommended because you will lose some of the value stated in the sentence above. Note that you may feel some twinge of emotions as you read a book; it is not something you ate (well most likely not something you ate) and you may be empathizing or some sort of ‘–pathizing’ by the end. You will be shocked at how much fun it can be! Now go out there and buy some books!!


Please disregard spelling and grammar mistakes

Amber's Autumn Piece

This was the first piece I wrote, a narration of autumn, before we were told it wasn't supposed to be a narration, but enjoy!


I button the very top of my black pea coat as I continue walking down the back road to my house. With my head bowed towards the ground and hands back in my pockets, I shrug my shoulders in hopes to shield my neck from the soft chill of the wind. When I realize my shoe feels a bit loose, I bend down to tie it. The wind gradually picks up allowing my hair to sway in front of my face. I pull the dancing strands clear of my eyes revealing the red leaf caught under my right shoe. It looks frightened, like a mouse trembling under the paw of a cat. Standing up straight again, I allow it to escape. The wind continues to move through my hair and the trees on both sides of me. My eyes follow the leaf, moving up and down, twisting and somersaulting through the air. Mother Nature’s very own gymnast, I think to myself. When the red leaf reaches the other side of the road I can no longer see it among the collage of red, orange, yellow, and brown leaves. I take a deep breath and allow the cool air to cleanse my nose and lungs. The wind dies down and I kick the small pile of leaves lying next to me off the side of the road. I hoped that they would perform for me just like the red leaf had. But my intentions fail and the frozen ground arrests my bliss. My only notion left? These leaves forever remain on the floor. And with that I slay any hint of theatrics remaining. I shake my head in utter disappointment. No true loveliness can come about this season. Because no matter how gorgeously vibrant the red leaf of the oak tree, no matter if that oak leaf danced for you, the return of fall, the loss of color, means loss of chlorophyll, the loss of food, and ultimately, the loss of life. A shiver runs through my spine. Looking away from the pile of leaves on the floor, the purple sky warns me of the time. I check my phone. Five O’clock. I hurriedly continued my walk home, hoping that I might make it in time before the sky stretched to black and trapped me in despair.

Autumn II

Hurray college english! This really reads like prose, not a story.

Fallen amber crushed beneath running feet, but it forgives. Minds awaken themselves for the coming renewal and they take an anxious breath. Children - us too - quiet themselves just before dusk as the sun glares peacefully beneath clear eyes. Life written in the present tense lives for the future.
We all value our own achievements most now, our determination ready to leap before time runs out and sleep takes over. Second chances begin here, each year, not to be wasted - although naturally some do die with the coming of snow, or just the darkening sense of such.
So we gaze around beautiful, deserted playgrounds.
Even the tourists hush between the long rows of fruited wood, their own eager smiles too pure to speak out. Those same fruits embrace our kitchens to lend us flavor for our tongues and our happy noses. Pleasant, heated aromas sneak about from timid grates and candles forgotten amidst the plainer seasons and a chair - our chair - rocks gently to the winds smooth, simple rhythm.
So we find comfort in a time of dying.
Quick car rides move in slow motion, though we go without spinning wheels. Sunrises last forever. What number of oppurtunities must dart past, alive and vivid to our suddenly seeing senses that we accept the passing of so many? Only joyous faces grip us, friendly hands throw our bodies and a calming October mist spits our way; a smile for every leaf lost, a smirk for a growing challenge on cool ground, next to the drive.
So we dream, too much good and too much undertaken.
Pile it up, pile it up, we've become invincible in our happiness, but still we pursue real goals.
Legs carry us, legs enthrall us; "drunk with love" never appears more literal. Suddenly conversation sparks admiration, hopeful hearts beating with childish excitement in a chest full of memories. Infatutation runs wild, but only for now. Soon a shuttering silence freezes over loving souls, closing out our venerable, open pride. Change stills and that soothing quiet hardens into a veil to protect our worrisome facades.
So we run, drenched in the crisp colors, atop fallen, forgiving amber. I present to you, autumn.

Autumn

I didn't feel like writing this for college english because I thought it was stupid and a waste of time, so I made it depressing!!:

The wind hits my face as I stare out at the colorful trees. Finally, I can sleep comfortably with my windows cracked, no more relying on the air conditioning. The wind picks up and the trees sway under the pressure of the wind, and after so much bending the leaves fly off their thin branches, cluttering the ground. In these large fields the colors make a collage of false inner-meaning (from examples I’ve heard the meaning is only as profound as the person’s capacity for pseudo-meaning). ‘Leafers’ make the trek up to admire this short-lived foliage, and see Hudson Valley’s true (and really only) beauty. Wildlife is scarce except for the squirrels that scamper through the thick layers of leaves looking for the ‘sacred’ acorns, never satisfied, always more to be found.
Journeying up to the tree that a squirrel is situated under I see the life fading out of it. It bared its fruit, and the lively green of the leaves, from the chlorophyll begins to wane. The fruit surrounding this suffering tree begins to rot, not accomplishing their evolutionary goal; to penetrate the soil and germinate. For the apples that are luckier and picked, they become the chief fruit staple in the homes across the area, crisp and sweat, the best around.
Soon this beautiful landscape will seem barren, nothing but the brown of the bark under a white cover of snow. The wildlife will take shelter and the scene will look dead. But, alas, these to fleeting weeks of prismatic color betray the true meaning of this season, autumn. For the tree’s, time slows as it sheds its life, a decrepit frame of a once formidable, lively tree. Just as the leaves fall, summer leaves our homes and our mindset, as we brace for yet another satisfyingly long winter.