My waffle cone of life

Over a week ago now, we stopped at a place called Charbroil (a small burger joint) and got ourselves some ice cream. Mom got her chocolate and vanilla twist and I got my favorite chocolate peanut butter cup (I prefer hard ice cream) cone where I always forget that it has too much peanut butter in it before I order it.

We got back in the car where Jordan and Grady were waiting, and off we went again. They settled into the secluded driver and shotgun conversation, so I put Pandora in my ears and listened to something of my own. This whole time I was licking my ice cream and loving the extra peanut butter. I pet Grady, changed a song once or twice and licked my ice cream while staring out the window and admiring the vineyards rolling by.

I didn’t even realize that I had reached the cone until the automatic response to bite the cone overwhelmed me. That’s when I found out the sad truth. The girl who had scooped out the ice cream and placed it into my cone hadn’t shoved it down to the bottom of the cone. She just scooped it and put it on the top without bothering to push it down.

So, here I was, absolutely horrified that I had licked it leisurely thinking I still had the rest that was in the bottom of the cone to enjoy. I wolfed all of the scoops on top down because I was looking forward to what was in the bottom, which is my favorite part. Then, to find that it wasn’t there? It hit me hard. And, I realized that that is exactly how life is.

We’re all too busy living as fast as we can; trying to grow up before we actually have a chance to. We wish our lives away because, apparently, being older and responsible for ourselves is supposed to be more fun than having adult supervision all the time. The truth is, it’s not.

I ate the ice cream on top super fast because of my anxiousness to get to the bottom. But, I didn’t realize what I had until it was gone. I had to push what was left of the ice cream down to the bottom with my tongue, just so I wouldn’t be eating a dry waffle cone. My childhood went too fast…now I’m trying to push as much of it down to my waffle cone of life just to coat it enough so I can remember my childhood forever. It’s almost gone, and I’m just realizing how amazing it was.

Advertisements

Emily’s poetry, a history

I’ve been writing poetry for years. My mother named me after her favorite poet, so why not carry it on? I started out with a composition notebook that I decorated with stickers. Everyone just assumed it was my diary, as if it couldn’t be anything but a shallow notebook with all of my deepest secrets and fears hidden inside. Nobody gave me enough credit. Boys would steal it from me, but I managed to get it back without any harm done. They were only teasing. Teasing is harmless, right?

After that was filled, I moved onto a pink camouflage notebook that had pens attached to the front of it. It was nifty because if I had an idea I didn’t have to hunt for a pen before being able to write it down. The pens were just there. That notebook was also known as my “diary” and even a teacher asked: “why do you bring your diary to school?” To which I simply replied: “it’s not a diary.”

I poured random thoughts and whimsical dreams into those notebooks. Within about a month, the pages started ripping out of the pink camo notebook, so I saved the paper, but threw the rest of the notebook in the garbage. It was time to move on again.

I found a regular old yellow spiral notebook and plastered it with quotes, stickers, drawings, and pop-up sunflowers that I ripped off a thing I had at home. Poetry was transferred from my head onto the pages of that thing for about a year. I entered the seventh grade with the same notebook, and only showed the ones I was proud of to my then English teacher (who is now a teacher in the high school). The boys in my grade grew up a little and stopped calling it my diary, and I continued writing.

For my birthday that year, one of my best friends (we barely speak anymore…) bought me a hardcover spiral notebook with puppies on the front. Said notebook lasted me for nearly two years. That notebook taught me something important. Because I wanted the notebook to last, I only wrote poetry when I really really felt like it and had a good feeling about an idea. I decided that I didn’t have to write about everything – but there are some things that I will always wish to remember. I still have one page left in that notebook that remains empty. If I fill it in, the notebook is done forever. I always want to have the option of being able to fill it up totally. It’s amazing to go from the earlier poems in that book to the last few. It’s like traveling through two years of my life in thirty minutes.

Eventually, I took a little notebook that was a party favor at some birthday party I went to (I think it was Carin’s) and ripped out the used pages. I then covered it with duct tape, and voila! New notebook.

Using the duct tape notebook, I rewrote some of the ones I am really proud of, but I also wrote a year’s worth of new material. I am still busy filling it up with my life, so it’s a work in progress. It’s crazy to see how much I have grown in the past year. There are some poems in said book that are extremely naive and young-sounding. I know I will say the same thing in the future when I look back at what I wrote when I was fifteen (the present… for now), but I like what is exploding out of my pen at the moment. Maybe I will post some examples in the near future (which is defined as: later today).