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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 2 months

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A Girl That I’d Kinda Be Into - A Parody of Be More Chill's "A Guy That I'd Kinda Be Into"

Timeline: Post Canon Ships: Brooke x Christine and Pinkberry Link to the Original Song

Summary: Brooke has something, or rather, someone, on her mind during rehearsal. Lucky for her, Christine is always happy to listen to a friend vent with no additional alterer motives! Nope, definitely not! (alright, maybe she just really likes listening to brooke talk, sue her)

[Brooke:]

Say there's this gal you chat with in the hall every day

You've known her since seventh grade

You're used to thinking about her in a certain way

From the persona that she displayed

And then you both makeup, and she changes

From a girl that you'd never be into

Into a girl that you'd kinda be into

From a girl that I'd never be into

Into a girl that I'd kinda be into

Is she worth it?

Christine?

Is she?

[Christine, internally:]

Is she talking about me? Wait, no, this sounds like it’s about her and Chloe. Oh...

[Brooke:]

Say there's this person you always knew totally well

[Christine, internally:]

Least they’ll be happy together

[Brooke:]

You thought that you had her pegged, but now you can tell

She's gone from a

Girl that you'd never be into

Into a girl that you'd kinda be into

From a girl that I'd never be into

Into a girl that I'd kinda be into

Should I tell her?

Christine~?

[Christine:]

Absolutely

[Brooke:]

Though I’m usually great with other people my age

They have to be chill like you

There are so many changes that I'm going through

And why’d I bother you with this

Guess I just figured you would get it

And maybe part of me wants to, who knew?

I guess a part of me likes to talk to you

I guess a part of me likes to, who knew?

I guess a part of me loves to sit with you

I guess a part of me loves to, who knew?

I guess a part of me’s kinda into you

I guess a part of me-

*Loud cell phone buzzing*

Jenna Rolan calling

Should probably take this but before I do

Those girls that I'm so kinda into

[Christine:]

Those girls? that you're so kinda into

[Brooke:]

Yeah those

[Brooke and Christine:]

Girls that I'm totally into

[Brooke:]

Are Chloe and...

You

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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Clementines, Mandarins, and Other Orange Cravings: The Dictionary - Page 60

(Volume 1 and only, written by Noone You Need to Know)

Note: I wrote the entirety of this piece to nothing but this song on loop and I highly recommend reading it that way too :) Pg. Index and pg. 225, 401, 145, 159, 167, 152, 151, 60, 92, 134, 149, and 203

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clementine (hi • e) adj. adv. conj. n. prep. v. a fruit that functions exactly like an orange and is fully capable of everything an orange is capable of, save for its easily underestimated size, which is, on average, 1-2 inches smaller than an orange, along with its generous pliancy, opening itself to its owner like a friend does/wants to, but can’t quite work up the courage to at such a late hour after such a rough day at work. Somehow different from a mandarin(e). [The same fleshy crevice between snuggling, clinging bodies the orange crawled out from.] ; orange.

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#orange #oranges #definition #creative nonfiction #essay #clementine #fruit #fruits #creative writing #nonfiction #writing #dictionary #personal essay

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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Clementines, Mandarins, and Other Orange Cravings: The Dictionary - Page 151

(Volume 1 and only, written by Noone You Need to Know)

Note: I wrote the entirety of this piece to nothing but this song on loop and I highly recommend reading it that way too :) Pg. Index and pg. 225, 401, 145, 159, 167, 152, 151, 60, 92, 134, 149, and 203

Orange warmth (o • er • an • juh woo • oer • m • thu) n. The heat emitted and/or stored by an orange, dependent solely on how roughly an individual bites into it. If the cold insides are allowed by the teeth to slowly escape the membrane, they will level out in temperature by the time the individual swallows. If the freezing wet is spritzed against the back of their throat, startling the individual, it will either scratch their throat with acid or refresh it with acid. Do not see: orange.

[Image of the warmth of a sunkissed, outstretched hand transferring into half of a lovingly peeled orange]

#creative nonfiction #essay #orange #oranges #definition #suggestive #intimacy #tenderness #creative writing #nonfiction #personal essay #writing #fruit #sensory #taste

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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Clementines, Mandarins, and Other Orange Cravings: The Dictionary - Page 152

(Volume 1 and only, written by Noone You Need to Know)

Note: I wrote the entirety of this piece to nothing but this song on loop and I highly recommend reading it that way too :) Pg. Index and pg. 225, 401, 145, 159, 167, 152, 151, 60, 92, 134, 149, and 203

orange noise (noi • z) n. a noise color designed to invoke a sound based on the social, literary, and historical connotations of the color orange, despite being unable to truly do so in the same manner a musical note’s timbre is incapable of capturing the “warmth” or “brightness” found in the color orange. See also: noise color and orange noises. Do not see: orange.

[Image of some of the many shades orange noise could have theoretically represented. Beneath it, an image of a poem representing the shade of orange that stains your teeth as you smile within lines 1-3 of stanza 1 of itself]

orange noises (s • kwi • sh, spl • at, p • ah • p, sk • er • i • cha) n. The crunch of the twist of an orange stem straight from the tree curling into your front porch, followed by the twist and pop of the root from its fortress of puffed-up orange skin coagulating at the top, much like a tumor. The patter of blemishes and pores rolling down the curve of the kitchen fruit bowl. The peel of the skin. The snip of the leftover strands. The thump of mandarins into the bottom of the bowl. The squirt of juice when you puncture the membrane with your thumb. The rip of the skin. The squish of pulp between your teeth, the kind of sound you feel in the back of your throat, especially strong against the roof of your mouth when you giggle at whatever your friends are giggling at, a few drops of juice spilling down your chin. The pitter-patter of juice sinking into the sofa for your mom to worry about later. See also: orange warmth. Do not see: orange.

[Image of a rhythmic tearing noise as a middle-aged mother dutifully turns an orange, tears away a patch of its skin like it is nothing, and repeats the cycle until she has enough for her daughter and her little friends in the next room to claim they don't need, but slowly devour by the time the first girl's father arrives, visualized via a graph simulated by a signal generator]

#creative nonfiction #essay #orange #oranges #definition #creative writing #nonfiction #writing #fruit #taste #audio #soundscapes #colors

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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Clementines, Mandarins, and Other Orange Cravings: The Dictionary - Page 92

(Volume 1 and only, written by Noone You Need to Know)

Note: I wrote the entirety of this piece to nothing but this song on loop and I highly recommend reading it that way too :) Pg. Index and pg. 225, 401, 145, 159, 167, 152, 151, 60, 92, 134, 149, and 203

grapefruit (o • • th • ang • ks) prep. the interior gut muscles rotting openly in the corner of your fruit bowl, much to the distaste of your houseguests. too clunky and oafish to share in any meaningful way. dirtybadwrong. [somewhere cold and cruel, most likely unnecessary.] Do not see; orange.

[Image of an artistic rendition of a grapefruit, stylized for safe human consumption]

#orange #oranges #creative nonfiction #essay #definition #grapefruit #fruit #food #soft gore #creative writing #writing #nonfiction #personal essay

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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Clementines, Mandarins, and Other Orange Cravings: The Dictionary - Page 134

(Volume 1 and only, written by Noone You Need to Know)

Note: I wrote the entirety of this piece to nothing but this song on loop and I highly recommend reading it that way too :) Pg. Index and pg. 225, 401, 145, 159, 167, 152, 151, 60, 92, 134, 149, and 203

mandarine (in • e) adj. adv. conj. n. prep. v. the more fitting name for the mandarin, a fruit that functions exactly like an orange and is fully capable of everything an orange is capable of, save for its easily underestimated size, which is, on average, 1-2 inches smaller than an orange. Somehow different from both the clementine and the orange. Somehow. [The same desperate desire the orange sprouted from.] ; orange.

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#orange #oranges #definition #creative nonfiction #essay #mandarin #creative writing #nonfiction #writing #dictionary #personal essay #food #fruit

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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Clementines, Mandarins, and Other Orange Cravings: The Dictionary - Page 149

(Volume 1 and only, written by Noone You Need to Know)

Note: I wrote the entirety of this piece to nothing but this song on loop and I highly recommend reading it that way too :) Pg. Index and pg. 225, 401, 145, 159, 167, 152, 151, 60, 92, 134, 149, and 203

orange (o • er • an • juh) adj. a mixture of the colors red and yellow. [The appearance of the fruit.]

[Image of a select collection of different shades of oranges, particularly the ones stored away in a lava lamp once the feeler realizes that the era of free love, unbound by social conventions or relationship status or even coherency, is over by now]

orange (l • ov in er • e ac • sh • on) adj. adv. conj. n. prep. v. an icebreaker. A safety net in situations where you don't know anyone else yet. Understanding shaped in the sight of your mother's bare frame when she's late for her night out with her buttoned-up husband and he's slumped back over the edge of the couch cushion, watching the evening news, forgetting where everyone is. Raw, exposed shame you feel bad about letting go to waste that you pack in your lunchbox, eagerly waiting for someone at the lunch table to ask for a trade. Intimacy, not as it should be, but as it is tonight. The things you shove into your gaping mouth to muffle the wailing, slice by patient slice, wondering if the fridge light has always been that blue and how to convince your mom to let you and your playdate to say home from church tomorrow and why they offered to sleep on the floor after you made sure the sofa would be taken by the time either of you hit the sack at your parent's request and that their side of the bed caved in just enough for them not to notice. A last-minute addition to your grocery list, shoved between the words "water jugs" and "avocados". The ache when the friend you invited spends the whole time talking to the partygoers you introduced them to. The way your knee "accidentally" rubs against hers as you squash deeper into the back of your roommate's getaway car. Something some people pack in their tiny favorite backpacks that their fathers force them to eat on the way to work because they've been feeling sick since an hour before they got into the car and their father thinks eating something might help since they haven't eaten anything all day, much to their father's and grandmother's displeasure. The only food you can share on a whim (unlike an apple that you need to go out of your way to open up the knife drawer and cut in half or a meal you need to make extra of), requiring you to actively appreciate the one you're sharing with in that exact moment, as opposed to beforehand, when it's already too late to retract your offered love, lest all this food go to waste. The only food capable of saying "Hey, by the way, I love you. Right now, and maybe even later." without the help of those eating it. [All of the earth.]

[Image of a poem depicting the definition of an orange better than this dictionary ever could, the way a kindergarten teacher does to a kid who got the answer, but refused to show his work. Beneath it, her work, a decade late, scribbled onto a bathroom stall in the space between 6th period and the grandma reading a murder mystery, waiting patiently from the car line to pick her up and take her on a few errands before her mother gets home. Beneath it, a poem depicting what you do for a few minutes after your mother catches you glowing in the sobering blue light and tells you to get back to bed, slurring her words just enough not to make you tremble and making so many pancakes in the morning that your friend has to share, for fear of upsetting her enough to no longer be allowed over]

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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Clementines, Mandarins, and Other Orange Cravings: The Dictionary - Page 203

(Volume 1 and only, written by Noone You Need to Know)

Note: I wrote the entirety of this piece to nothing but this song on loop and I highly recommend reading it that way too :) Pg. Index and pg. 225, 401, 145, 159, 167, 152, 151, 60, 92, 134, 149, and 203

parental apology (He • er) n. v. an apology issued by a parent or parental figure. Usually consists of five eerily formal steps:

Peeling the skin off of a mandarin.

2. Peeling off a slice.

3. Eating it to keep the tone casual as you roughly peel off a second slice, squirting some of the inner juices onto the spot on her laptop where she's been resting her wrists more and more through the night.

4. Handing it to your daughter as if you didn't just trash your bedroom in a violent, audible rage after being told, by said daughter, that she hadn't completed her midterm or missed assignments on time.

5. Telling her you're sorry for trashing said bedroom.

6. Promising not to ever explode like that again after asking her to promise not to lie again.

7. Reassure her that your promise is not dependent on whether or not she breaks hers.

Steps 6 and 7 are argued to be optional by most. [God's willing grace.]

[Image of a poem depicting a (presumably parental) apologetic overdose]

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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Clementines, Mandarins, and Other Orange Cravings: The Dictionary - Page 167

(Volume 1 and only, written by Noone You Need to Know)

Note: I wrote the entirety of this piece to nothing but this song on loop and I highly recommend reading it that way too :) Pg. Index and pg. 225, 401, 145, 159, 167, 152, 151, 60, 92, 134, 149, and 203

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red noise (reh • d • ca noi • z), n. a noise color designed to invoke a sound based on the social, literary, and historical connotations of the color red. See also: noise color.

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#definition #creative nonfiction #essay #orange #oranges #soundscapes #creative writing #writing #nonfiction #personal essay #dictionary #audio

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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And the lights are not fluorescent, and there are no words on the page. - Second Literary Communities Essay

Author's Preface and Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7

Description: My final portfolio for one of the creative writing courses I took based around exploring the creative nonfiction essay in its many literary forms, with any and all identifying names or signifiers censored out.

To: [REDACTED]

From: [REDACTED]

Dear graduating class of 2027,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and good spirits! I know that’s a bit of a rare combination these days, but I know that if any one of you isn’t feeling the best when you hear this, my mother will only be reading it because she thinks you guys’ll get a kick out of it.

That happens a lot actually. My mom bringing up me or my dad’s existence and her students at the time freaking out over it (in a good way, usually). I think it’s because being your age makes you see teachers through this sort of rose-colored lens (or an ugly shade, if you don’t like them or school). You spend your whole itty-bittie life around your parents or whoever takes care of you, with little glimpses of other adults buzzing around you every once and a while, above you and never sparing a full conversation. At the very least, not one that spans past “So, do you know when you're gonna start school?”, before they nod along to your answer, smiling without any teeth and occasionally glancing back at one of your parents, waiting for you to finish so they can start chatting with them.

And then, all of a sudden, you’ve got a whole adult they ship you off to for 7 whole hours, one who asks you questions and compels you to speak with the point of a finger, who listens to you all the way until they finish walking you to lunch just to come get you back at the end of recess, who crouches down to almost reach your eyes, looking you dead straight in the eyes as they ask why your whiteboard is empty while you stare up at their forehead.

I’d be pretty weirded out if they mentioned a family of their own. It’s a bit of a TV cliche at this point, but I think I get why some younger kids assume their teacher’s live at school (even though I’m sure you guys already found out by now, from finding a teacher account on your For You page or something or other) Maybe I was just a bit too attached to mine in grade school, but it almost feels like my teachers were my adults. Not in a selfish way, per say, just that it doesn’t make much inherent sense for anyone else to be known in the way they knew me.

And it’s funny, ‘cause my mom’s been a teacher all my life, and she brings up what her student’s did that day every family time, it’s her first conversation starter every night, only she calls her class her kids or her children, or sometimes even her babies if you guys did something particularly cute, and the day I got old enough to find interest in adult conversation, I asked how work was that day, and the day she first said fine, I asked if the kids did anything interesting that day because somehow, by that point, they felt like my kids .

Or family. More like family, like her and my dad and my grandparents whenever they came over to come get me on Fridays, but mostly the way my highschool friend group was “the kids”, and mom, and baba, and sibling, and auntie, and my little baby brother, even when only one of them got nicknamed mom.

…

My mom used to enlist my help in grading, sometimes. I found it lame, when I didn’t get to use the elusive red pen, or when it reminded me of grading the weekly times test of the person in front of me, knowing I would get mine back in red and white and black, but mostly red, or even when it was math booklets or vocab quizzes or something else I could accidentally breeze over and mark a point off when I wasn’t supposed to.

And I’d say I did it to help out my mom around the house, and I did, but I did —always—do it for a chance to read what they had written.

And by written, I mean the journal assignments where you had to write about what you did over the break in terrible spelling and sentences with the words smushed together at the end of every line, or card you wrote and I wrote and everyone wrote on a few specific holidays, the grammar sentences that you tried to shove an entire story into, not even because you wanted to even, but because your brain, in the earliest stages of development, told you you should.

It reminds me of myself. In the way I can tell which genes I got from which parent and which friend is like me enough to stamp them as family in my mind. It reminds me of the first time I sat down in front of a blank Word document and banged out the first few pages of a voluntary story.

I read the pieces you guys wrote about animals in their habitat. I hope your next teachers’ kids get to read your next works. Until highschool, at the very least.

Sincerest wishes,

[REDACTED]

#creative nonfiction #essay #email #writing #my observations #random observations #observing #children #childhood #teachers #schools #students #prekindergarten #family dynamics #family dinner #letters

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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Think the Button Might'a Skipped a Beat... - A Stanarrator Fan Game

The Narrator introduces the player to the Skip button. Stanley has no movable mouth, yet is determined to scream. (A 2000+ word, story-driven Twine game made with love and two possible endings)

You can find the itch.io page here!

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 3 months

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And the lights are not fluorescent, and there are no words on the page. - Literary Communities Essay

Author's Preface and Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7

Description: My final portfolio for one of the creative writing courses I took based around exploring the creative nonfiction essay in its many literary forms, with any and all identifying names or signifiers censored out.

In my many years as the daughter of a full-time teacher (in companion with my few years as the daughter of two full-time teachers), I have bore unwitting witness to a myriad of violations of the human spirit. One wide and ever-expanding enough to fuel one of those documentaries that makes people tear up in the theater and leave telling each other something along the lines of “Wow, that was so deep.”, over and over and back and forth.

I’ve seen class disparities become educational disparities, the breakdown of the overarching student drive and the subsequent breakdown of the heart of teaching (aka the literal teachers themselves, the deterioration of licensing standards for teachers across the board. I was even (un)lucky enough to gather around the dinner table, each and every sorry night, to be sorely reminded of most below-the-college grade level educator’s mainly shared experience of taking second retail or service jobs to balance out their salaries that are blatantly below minimum wage, intense and inescapable job creep, and their time wasted by the endless meeting and group exercises and always unraveling assignments and requirements, always at the cruel hand of the undeniably cruel act of having each and every decision they make in regards to their own classroom scrutinized, critiqued, and forcibly “mended” by politicians, principals, and committees with absolutely no experience in their line of work, nor clue what the everliving heck they are on about.

I will not even bother, my dear School Superintendent, with the regurgitation of my dear mother’s testimony of the grueling and degrading reality of teaching Pre-K within the state of Florida today, along with the past 25+ years. You do not, I presume, need that burden of knowledge anymore than I do.

However, just like the previously mentioned theoretical documentary, awareness of these issues is usually meant with the proverbial “Damn, that sucks dude.”, followed by the gradual chatter of resumed conversations and the scattering of unfazed individuals.

In the interest of actually having something done about even just a tiny, miniscule part of literally any of this, I am writing to you today an introduction of a concrete proposal concerning the overwhelming need for a comprehensive writing program in [REDACTED] elementary schools’ shared [REDACTED]’s curriculum. For years, teachers have used antiquated means and methods to teach creative writing, failing to teach anything that truly sticks with their students outside of the educational environment, let alone anything that applies to the world of creative writing outside of said environment. My proposal calls for a group of reading/literacy coaches and experts, experienced in the field of creative writing and training and instructing others, to direct work and collaborate with teachers to train them for the effects of the implementation of a proposed replacement writing program.

With your approval, this proposal will be later presented to the School Board and all teachers and principals statewide, for funding and/or collaboration with this plan. Thank you for your time.

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 4 months

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Clementines, Mandarins, and Other Orange Cravings: The Dictionary - Page 159

(Volume 1 and only, written by Noone You Need to Know)

Note: I wrote the entirety of this piece to nothing but this song on loop and I highly recommend reading it that way too :) Pg. Index and pg. 225, 401, 145, 159, 167, 152, 151, 60, 92, 134, 149, and 203

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pink noise (p • ing • ca noi • z), n. a noise color designed to invoke a sound based on the social, literary, and historical connotations of the color pink. See also: noise color.

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#creative nonfiction #essay #orange #definition #oranges #creative writing #nonfiction #personal essay #writing #dictionary

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 4 months

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Clementines, Mandarins, and Other Orange Cravings: The Dictionary - Page 145

(Volume 1 and only, written by Noone You Need to Know)

Note: I wrote the entirety of this piece to nothing but this song on loop and I highly recommend reading it that way too :) Pg. Index and pg. 225, 401, 145, 159, 167, 152, 151, 60, 92, 134, 149, and 203

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noise color (noi • z ca • lor) n. a sound cultivated with focus on different auditory frequencies from other noise colors, imbuing them “…energy in different parts of the sound spectrum,” (Stacey 1) that gives them “…a quality that’s boring to the brain and makes other sounds less perceptible.”; Often used for “…drown[ing] out unexpected or disruptive sounds that would distract you or compromise your attention.” (Stacey 1). See also: white noise, pink noise, red noise, green noise, blue noise, or gray noise for more. Do not see: orange noise.

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#creative nonfiction #essay #definition #orange #oranges #creative writing #white noise #dictionary #nonfiction #writing #audio

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 4 months

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And the lights are not fluorescent, and there are no words on the page. - Imitatio Essay

Author's Preface and Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7

Description: My final portfolio for one of the creative writing courses I took based around exploring the creative nonfiction essay in its many literary forms, with any and all identifying names or signifiers censored out.

My dad has the feel of the texture of the angler, ugly little minimalist-style loveseat in the corner of our living room practically inside him at this point, and it's all my fault. But mostly his.

This certainly doesn’t come as a surprise, in my case. He’s the one who paid for my room and board, who always said to follow my dreams and gave me “Sure, that’s great!” the day I first shoved the fanfiction.net homepage in his face and said I wanted to make one too. He sounded confused as he said it, the way he does whenever I show him a particularly offbeat show, like he couldn’t follow my way from singing to dancing to acting to writing creative fiction in his head. But he knew he held my tiny hand along the cobblestone walkway, so he added an audible optimistic tilt to the corner of his voice and is always the one to sit across from me in that damn chair when my mother refuses to watch any “dumb cartoons”.

I don’t particularly know why I make him do this, but I know that the fact that I don’t gives me claim to ignorance, making it probably his fault as the only other party in this recurring scenario, and he always likes whatever I pick anyway, so there.

It’s usually been that way, since I started placing myself in charge of family movie night. First because I wanted the three of us to trap ourselves with approx. 2 hours of media we all enjoyed, and then it was in efforts of exposing my family to what I had deemed “quality art” (or, at the very least, art that wasn’t the same 3 crime and/or medical shows, low budget comedies where everyone involves only signed up for the project for a free vacation, or generic action thrillers) in hopes they would enjoy media as much as I did after growing some standards. Of course, my mother had a tendency to kick and scream her way to the couch for these viewings, but my heart was in the right place (or, at the very least, somewhere within the left hand corner).

But then I didn’t know. And I couldn’t explain myself as I tucked myself into the side of that couch, glazing back at my father to find his reaction. The captions on, to make sure he caught all the words. The “Are you paying attention?” and the pausing, the shushing and shushing back.

He’d playfully shove my head to the side, and I’d giggle, and finally he’d ask why I care about his impressions of a webtoon pilot I found off the backwaters of Youtube, and I could justify myself just fine, but I couldn’t answer him.

I figure, faintly, in the recess of my gaping mind, I could wave at the recent scientific discovery that my father would never understand me on the carnal level I hoped he would when I got old enough.

A myriad of reasons dangled behind my actions. Maybe I’d get to probe him for first impressions afterward (Just first—My dad wouldn’t sit through a rerun), not have to worry he won’t get the full picture of my 40-minute character analyzing info dumps, the hopes that he likes it. Really, I’d just wanted him to bear witness to it too, for my own sake. To see if it tugged at him enough to turn to my mother, carefully setting the coffee machine for tomorrow, and go “Hey, [REDACTED]. Come check out this thing [REDACTED] found.”.

I guess I suppose I think I figured that, as long as he was experiencing the same thing I was, he would figure it out then and there, he would call my mother over like that for my TV debut.

#creative nonfiction #essay #art #family dynamics #sharing art #nonfiction #creative writing #light fluff #fluffy #fathers #writing

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 4 months

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And the lights are not fluorescent, and there are no words on the page. - Zuihitsu/Hybrid Essay

Author's Preface and Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7

Description: My final portfolio for one of the creative writing courses I took based around exploring the creative nonfiction essay in its many literary forms, with any and all identifying names or signifiers censored out.

This essay may not actually, in the most technical sense available, “pass” as a submission to the “Essay 3: Zuihitsu/ Hybrid” assignment.

If you are interested in financial compensation for your loss, feel free to contact us at 1-800-THIS-AUTHOR-IS-PHYSICALLY-ALLERGIC-TO-UNDERSTANDING-BASIC-DIRECTIONS. We are taking the time and liberty to inform you of this upcoming inconvenience not only as a hook for the first line of this essay, nor to plead “ignorance of the literary law” during its grading process, but rather to provide a reference point based in where said essay is coming from, and where it plans on going for the remainder of its duration.

As we’re sure you’ve found in your time as an academic instructor working at [REDACTED], [REDACTED]’s famous claim of a “gradeless” curriculum in the traditional sense (ie. a lack of letters or percentiles) may hold up in the previously mentioned technical sense (excluding the GPA our final evaluations get translated into during the grad school application process), however, most of the expectations and requirements professors hold in their classrooms act as a sort of “pass/fail” grading system anyway, though the unique teaching philosophy shared amongst them and facility tends to inspire only two genuine points of grading criteria: “Is the assignment complete in provable effort and its entirety?” and “Does it follow the awarded instructions?”

After countless scouring on the internet, our class notes, the description and examples left in the Canvas page, and our memory of class the day you explained it, we have come to the dreaded conclusion that this essay may not fit the second criterion.

Our continued rough drafting is committed, rather, to the hope that our confusion on the nature of the hybrid essay, the actual difference between Zuihitsu poetry vs Zuihitsu essay writing, the necessity of following a particular theme or idea throughout, the assigned process behind this essay, each supposed segment’s expected length or whether this portion’s subject matter qualifies it as an actual part of the essay, or even the correct way to separate each section, will somehow act in the spirit of Zuihitsu literature: Following the pen wherever it leads you.

Wish us luck, dear reader.

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I found the same kind of fun in the animal diary that I find in all our in-class hands-on work: Obvious, self-explanatory, and buried deep within the depths of the most artistic/freeform aspect of the activity. Like clockwork, it requires me to brush away the specks of uncertainty in the directions, my withered hands revealing the big, bright label plastered on top.

It reads exactly how you imagine it reads: “See!! See, look, I told you I was here! You were so focused on making sure this assignment helped you towards your next essay, you thought you wouldn’t have room for me, but here I am, idiot! You’re having a good goddamn time drawing a funky little platypus, and it’s all thanks to me! Leave your thank you on the way out, ya dumb bitch!”

Apart from the question of why this metaphor requires a labeling gun with such long stickers, one has to wonder what disgusting alleyway all that distracting stress crawled out of. The supposed safety net of my professors, generally speaking, knowing what exactly they’re doing (those PHDs don’t exactly just pop into existence one day) does quite little to sway this approach to learning in all its hypervigilance. I’ve posited many theories over the years, tangentially and never allowing myself the time for a full conclusion; It could be the looming threat of how little time I have to devote to brainstorming how to attack my assignments, maybe the unshakable internal insistence (blame capitalism or the public schooling for that, either’s a fine scapegoat and the “why” is too abstract to help me in the middle of class) that learning has to be productive towards a traceable later goal, instead of myself as a whole and an academic (if I have nothing tangible to show for my efforts, how can I be sure I even followed the directions correctly?).

The most troubling option, embarrassing as it is for someone who claims to prioritize her career as a writer above all else, is that I’m simply trying to justify using the skills and techniques as they are given to me, in hopes that the results they wield in class are shiny enough for me to actually use them outside of the class.

I do wonder if I took the animal diary this seriously when I first encountered it. My memory flickers under the winds of time, but I’m leaning towards no.

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It does, of course, come to my attention what asking for clarification on the instructions could do, but the things classification has done in the past (make just as little sense as before, confuse me further, led my mind even farther from the intended understanding, you know the drill) brushes the thought away.

Years of fractured, sprawled-out education has taught me my best approach for tasks I’m not fully sure about is to set my concerns aside and simply go with what I think is best, consequences be damned!

(And by damned, I mean, as I’m sure you guessed, professionally dealt with at a later date.)

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Maybe the apologetic, justifying tone gives me away, maybe it's the heavy overarching theme in this freeform-style essay, but I should confess that my current thoughts are mixed in the way they always are. Half are swirling around the task at hand and what little attention I can pay to it (as always). The other half is on what I really wish I was writing (ie. what I am always thinking about, somewhere, way in the back): Whatever nonsense my brain has deemed flashy enough to name my current hyperfixation (The Stanley Parable at the moment I’m writing this, though I’m sure it’ll have changed by the time I come back to edit this).

That latter half, of course, brings me to the conundrum I’ve left out to dry ever since I labeled myself a writer. I want to spend this entire essay rambling on about this stupid little video game, and its two stupid little main characters, and the actually brilliant way they need each other more than the narrative itself needs them in one blog-style expository essay, well underneath 750 words. But that just won’t work, in the same way that what I wish I was writing even more than that (fiction, prose in particular) won’t work either. In the simplest of terms, that’s not what this assignment is about. And in order to actually learn, to grow as a writer, I can’t just write what I want to. I have to write what I need to.

#creative nonfiction #essay #the stanley parable #scattered thoughts #experimental #creative writing #nonfiction #themes #creative process #realization #creating art #emotional #musings #writing

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hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo · 4 months

Text

And the lights are not fluorescent, and there are no words on the page. - Form Essay Rewrite

Author's Preface and Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7

Description: My final portfolio for one of the creative writing courses I took based around exploring the creative nonfiction essay in its many literary forms, with any and all identifying names or signifiers censored out.

Player 2 moves black pawn to a5.

Player S̵̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white pawn to a3.

Player 2 moves black pawn to b5.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white pawn to b3.

Player 2 moves to black pawn to c6.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white pawn to c3.

Player 2 moves black pawn to d6.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white pawn to d3.

Player 2 moves black pawn to e5.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white pawn to e4.

Player 2 moves black pawn to f6.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white pawn to f3.

Player 2 moves black pawn to g6.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white pawn to g3.

Player 2 moves black pawn to h5.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white bishop to f3.

Player 2 moves black pawn to g4.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white bishop to g4.

Player 2 moves black pawn to f4.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white bishop to f4.

Player 2 moves black pawn to e6.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white bishop to e6.

Player 2 moves black queen to d7.

Check.

Player S̵̳̈͂̅͌̂͒̈́̈́̉́͊̌́͝ moves white bishop to d7.

Checkmate.

Shorthand Key

a5 - Putting your best foot forward a3 - Steady travels b3 - False hope c6 - The numb, knee-buckling realization that this will not work for you long term, hitting you like an explosion hits an unprotected ear born and raised in conflict-free suburbia. (Regardless of whether or not the player is using the black or white chess pieces, all they can see is blinding light. The other player is not obligated to wait for the player’s vision to recover to allow them to take their next turn) d6 - The exhaustion slowly spilling out to every corner of the board. (re: a1) e5 - The swish of the adrenaline rush in your blood that comes from pulling an all-nighter for a midterm, only to complete 40% of it in between the last two hours before class, frantic pacing that melts into stimming hard enough to hurt your wrists, wailing that cuts into hyperventilation that cuts into wailing that cuts into coughing that melds into the low, gravely whine that your smoker aunt makes when you shake her away for breakfast. As evidenced by the nonsensical description surrounding it, players disregard any piece standing on d6. h5 - The new approach that’s totally gonna work, Dad, don’t worry about it, I promise. h3 - If a pawn is standing on top of it, the disappointment of your new clever, emotionally invested in approach doing absolutely nothing to lighten the load or prepare you for virtually anything. If any other chess piece is standing on it, the ineffable horror of the further setback. g4 - The player stalls for time, either with academic sacrifices, overcompensation, or that goddamn work ethic of theirs that everyone is obsessed with, you know, the one that hasn’t worked for them in 3 and a half years? Lies, appeals to emotion, or half-brained excuses are also viable moves, though they are discouraged by all involved parties besides the two players. (Note: The other player can waste this time by adding extra pressure, work, or burnout, or crushing them with the reminder of a forgotten assignment or the fact that they’ve only spoken to a friend outside of an academic setting 14-15 times this entire semester, in order to advance across the board and remove their chess piece from the board) f4 - Prolonging the inevitable e6 - Prolonging the inevitable, but more outwardly pathetic. d7 - The glaring, dumb mistake on your handling of your finals you knew you were going to make since the second week of the semester. Check - Pass your classes. Maybe. Probably. You don’t really know, and you’re a little too afraid to find out, but you’re going to have to anyway, at some damming point. Checkmate - Death, in the academic and literary sense. The losing player must reset them both, but the student will instead. In this inevitable case, scold them for their inability to follow the rules to ensure the chance of future gameplay.

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