Alarmingly Strange Stories
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I've been given a lot of pointless metaphors for graduation. Suitcases, rocking chairs, the Spanish Inquisition, and nothing seemed to work, except for reading a book. Perhaps because it's the only one I can identify with. Or maybe because I'm doing it now, or will be shortly. Writing down what I remember, without the help of any fellow readers. But whatever I write, I hope it translates into a good book. I don't think that I was adequately prepared for high school. Oh, I know my multiplication tables and who wrote the "Oddessy". And it didn't matter. I think I was a sophomore the first time that I heard someone say that you can only write what you know. I don't think that means that if you know something really well, you can write about it really well. There's nothing I know better than myself, but if I don't know where to put my commas, the written translation will suffer. I suppose that style and talent will ultimately determine how well you write, and your intelligence and experience will determine how much you know. It would take genius that I don't have to string them together. Now that I think about it, I don't know myself that well. I have so many fantastic, detailed dreams and tell so many exotic lies that I'm not sure which world I live in is real. I lie to myself, so maybe my subconscious and my mind are fake. But, since I lie to everyone around my, maybe I actually am what I say I am. Or I yam what I yam, Popeye. I don't know. I do know that you can oversimplify anything (anything can be oversimplified). Almost every movie can be boiled down to a love story, plus subplots. Almost every song can be pared down to its refrain, and every book to its theme and moral. I'm sure it's been said before, but details are what make life worth living. So why would you want to look past them to the often boring, big picture. In a way, that's the problem with metaphors. If you think about it, graduation isn't at all like a suitcase. I was sent to Mr. Nathan, the guidance counselor, because I had trouble deciding what prospective occupation to sign up for on career day. He greeted me cordially, automatically, and bade me sit down. It seemed as though he wanted to get started quickly. "I guess we'll get right to the point," Mr. Nathan said to me, his desk creating a comfortable wall between us. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" "Caucasian," I replied quickly, before Mr. Nathan could respond, I continued. "I'm not a racist or anything. I just know that Caucasians do get higher wages and better promotions. Its all statistics."

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