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By Henry Imnottellingyoumylastname,youstalkers Bio Poem w/Reflections..4 Quatrain w/Reflections5 Haiku w/Reflections6 Ballad w/Reflections7 Copy Change w/Reflections9 Harrison Burdick Story w/Reflections...10 Character Sketch w/Reflections.12 Three Warm-Ups w/Reflections14 Two Pages From My Novel w/Reflections16 The Journal To End All Journals...18 I just realized that putting in the table of contents is kind of a waste of time considering webpages aren't broken down into pages...but...uh...hey, look over there! Hi, my name's Henry and I'm a high school senior. I'm a Leo, I enjoy long walks on the beach and stealing shopping carts. The following material shows some of the work I've completed in my Creative Writing class. Most of it is strange. Not much of it makes any sense. If anyone has a problem with it, I don't care. This Final Product is all about me, not you. You can sit down and read this stuff if you want, but please don't complain. There may be typos. There may be places where I begin to ramble in circles. All I ask of you is that you lay your eyes upon this garbage with an open mind and possibly a bucket nearby because my writing has been known to cause nausea. My writing is not recommended for pregnant women or for people who have lower back problems, heart conditions, or stupid hats. I hate stupid hats. Please don't make fun of my writing or I'll be sure to make fun of your haircut. Yes, you. Your haircut looks like it was done by a blindfolded gorilla with child-safe scissors. Anyway, read this now. I Am Henry, Hear Me Roar Henry Thoughtful, tired, vulgar, demented Son of Kathy and Henry Lover of women, music, and writing Who feels out of place when at a football game Who fears rejection, waking up, and the police Who would like to see a Pulitzer, 'Nsync break up, Canada taken over (If you think I'm giving my last name to you people, you're crazy) I really didn't like this poem very much because it had to stick to a very specific format. I didn't really have much of a chance to mention pirates, midgets, or midget pirates. I did, however, get to tell how I'd like to win a Pulitzer or something similar. Heck, being published wouldn't be bad, either. First, I'll get a Pulitzer and then I'll take over the world! Ha! Wait, on second thought I think I'll just write something, try to get money from it, and then retire on a phat* palatial estate. *For those of you who don't know what "phat" means, just know that its synonyms include words such as "dope" and "bling blingin'". A sample antonym would be "wack." But then again, I'm not sure any of these words are real. I just heard them on MTV.<br> Four Lines, Zero Value This right here is my quatrain It's nothing special, just four lines I apologize if it sounds too inane At least all of it rhymes Please don't ask what I was thinking here. I don't know if I was thinking at all. Men with big gold teeth Rap about the big pimpin' And stupidity. I'm not really much of a haiku writer. Haikus are normally about nature and its beauty, not rap music and its booty. I guess that's why I had to write three of these things (I only showed you one) to make sure I wasn't going to lose credit because I can't sound like a fortune cookie or mysterious karate instructor. Burning Yearning He was about to make his way to her place To see her, the one he admires With visible nervousness on his face And eyes as bright as two fires For him, spending money was scary. A good gift he didn't need to buy her So he got flowers from a cemetery And glowed with more warmth than a fire He walked on at a speedy pace And not once did he think he would tire He had a determined look on his face That had the intensity of a raging fire At last he arrived at her door With the flowers he planned to supply her Until he could stand there no more His anxiety ate him like a fire He thought maybe he should go Or stab his eye with a pair of rusty pliers Instead he glanced inside her window And saw two sticks of wax topped with two fires "Candles," he thought, "She must care." "I'll enter before night expires." When he opened the door he saw there Were two people getting hot like fires He stood and watched them in the dark As they necked like two vampires The guy was a mailman named Mark His anger burned like wildfires He felt he should run amuck For his heart was now wrapped in barbwire Then he stopped that guy's mail truck And his rage heated like hellfire He pulled a flamethrower from his pants And sang out his pain like a choir As he used his weapon, screaming chants Until that mail truck was on fire He wanted to disappear like a magician For his soul had been thrown on a pyre But the cops beat him into submission Then took a match and set him on fire Now his life sucks like a louse For he had failed to check the entire Street name and address of that house. His mistake made him crash then burn like a fire What a fiasco this was. It started off making sense with a nice little fire motif going on. Later, it turned into a big waste of effort. You have no idea how hard it is to think of words that rhyme with fire and then use them coherently. If I had a time machine I'd go back to the past and stop myself from making this horrible, horrible mistake. Then I'd go to the future and get a jetpack so I could come back to the present and fight crime or at least make a lot of money doing shows in Vegas. Bus Drivers Are Trying To Kill Us All Then the giant twinkie, the school bus, swerves violently, recklessly, charging like a drug-crazed bull, pretending to be a banana, now a mailbox, now a harmless yellow SUV, while it continues to speed up. It honks and accelerates at the mongoose, as it approaches, its bright headlights shine and its unhalting body doesn't slow itself. Then suddenly it stops completely in its tracks, as unexpected as a female stripper popping out of your grandma's birthday cake. It rolls slowly toward the mongoose only inches away, there is a loud splatter, and the murderous school bus flees, while the remains of the dead mongoose terrorist lays in the street. After reading this, one would assume that I was on some mild narcotics while writing this. One would be very wrong, though, because those narcotics weren't mild at all. I'm kidding, of course. I'm not aware of any drugs that I'm on unless the vitamin I take every morning is really ecstasy and my kitchen is really a rave. I don't like copy changes. If I want to have to abide by someone else's format. If I wanted to write only part of a story I'd buy a MadLibs fairy tales book and write all about "Jack and the Fruity Telescope." Those stories are so funny because they make no sense at all! Telescopes can't be fruity, but the MadLibs said they are! That right there is comedy gold. (Background info on this: I was given a picture of a nun floating in a chair so I had to write a story about it. I'm sorry it turned out so stupid. Back before the first man put on his first loincloth, they existed. Long before the last dinosaur was destroyed by a big piece of falling meteorite, they thrived. How long have they been around? Why were they created? Who forged them from the inner bowels of the earth? More importantly, what are they? Long before humans dominated the planet, a savage creature roamed the earth. No, they weren't dinosaurs. They weren't even reptiles. They were clowns. There deadly beasts were scavengers on a not-yet-finished land. Among these clowns were five beings much stronger than the rest of the clowns. They were mimes. Not the mimes the common man can see being pelted with loose change on street corners. Oh no, these mimes had superpowers. They could create chairs! Not just any chairs, of course. Flying chairs. Using all their secret mime powers, they nailed together five magic chairs. Why would they make chairs? Why would they get trapped inside invisible boxes? Mysteries such as these have always been associated with mimes, which Is why they're often considered to mysterious. "My, what a mysterious looking chair," said the priest browsing the strange antique shop. "I could bring this home and share it with the church. Everyone could probably sit in it or something." With that said he shoved the chair down his pants and shoplifted it. Hours later he was back at his church with an empty gas tank and a cramp in his leg after having had a chair stuck in his pants for a long period of time. I probably should have just taken it out when I got to the Church Mobile, he thought. With that he shrugged his shoulders and dragged the odd chair he permanently borrowed into the church lobby area. A nun passed by. He promptly turned toward her and politely screamed, "Hey nun, get over here and test this chair for me!" after throwing an empty beer can at her nun hood thingy. The nun, being an obedient woman, said nothing. This could also be because she was mute. Either way, she plopped herself down on that chair. Suddenly the chair began floating. She would have thought, Wow, this chair is floating, but the fact that she was mute inside her head kept her from having internal monologue. She allowed herself to be lifted out of her church and brought to an anonymous island named Canada. Strangely enough, she was not the only one being brought to the isle by a chair. Four other people sitting on chairs were floating toward the small island. After the chair gracefully crashed into a tree, the nun picked it up and walked with it to a large ominous tree looming over everything else on the island. The other four confused people followed, dragging their chairs behind them, too. Once they all met up, the nun got a clear view of each one of them. She saw a samurai, a ninja, an ostrich, and a tree. Wow, this is bizarre, she almost thought. Just then the samurai spoke up and said, "You people here to fight! Fight with Honor! Ride chair to fight many dragon warrior!" Apparently his English was slightly better than that of a Russian sock puppet. Everyone understood him, though. With a couple weeks' training, that five person squad quickly evolved into SNNOT, an international crime fighting team. SNNOT (Samurai, Nun, Ninja, Ostrich, Tree) soon replaced every other existing superhero with their mighty chair powers. Together, they battled and defeated many enemies, such as Freddy Fascism, Max the Mad Mailman, and, of course, the country of France. All of these adventures are far too exciting to be explained in only a page or two, so they won't be mentioned any further. One such story should be told, though. How did everyone fine their chair? The nun had received her from a thieving clergyman, but where did the samurai, ninja, ostrich, and tree get theirs? "I find in Arby's restaurant and it leave!" hollered the insane samurai at the floor. "I found this mystic chair deep inside a cave of wondrous things. It was next to the mystic table and mystic lamp," explained the ninja. "Caw!" said the ostrich. 34;I believe I discovered this particular chair while on an expedition in Southeast Asia with some old buddies from my Harvard days," said the tree. "My God, the tree can talk!" cried the rest of the rest of the group (excluding the mute nun) in unison. "Just kidding. I can't talk!" joked the tree. Then everybody let out a hearty laugh. Man, that is one funny tree. I love the ancient Chinese art known to all as the anticlimax. I wrote that big long story about a crime fighting quintet and I ended it with a talking tree telling a lame joke. I'm sure I'm the only person who finds this stuff amusing, but oh well. I write for me, not you. It isn't always about you, you know. Stop being selfish, you filthy reader. Character Sketch for Jack O'Leander Jack O'Leander popped out of his mom on April 23, 1984, a cloudy spring day. From then on he grew into the age of seventeen in Sunnyglenn, Ohio, a town he'd grown to hate during his developmental years. In his opinion, any city with a name that cheerful needed either a new name or a population consisting of nothing but smiling elves and dancing children with rosy cheeks. His face usually wasn't smiling or rosy. He wasn't very happy with his life. He was in chess club. He didn't know why he was in chess club. He didn't want to be in it and he wasn't sure why he signed up. He hated himself because he was in chess club and he hated chess club because he was a part of it. He thinks he joined it because colleges like that kind of stuff. Chess club, marching band, football. All of these things would get him one step closer into being accepted into a university. He was too tone deaf for band and too smart for football. And with all the jobs he had, who had time for that kind of commitment? It's not like he had all of these jobs at the same time, though. Every week or two brought upon him a new job to be fired from only so he could seek out yet another job that would end in ruin just like the previous. He wasn't sure why he did the things that he did to get kicked out of so many jobs. It wasn't his fault he got bored. A job at a fast food joint was quickly ended after he began swearing at a portly woman who ordered a Diet Coke with her artery-clogging Meal of Death. After being screamed at by a manager for about ten minutes he calmly drove home in his 1990 Cavalier. Halfway home the car broke down and he was forced to walk home. Fortunately, he lived about a quarter mile from that particular Burger King. He didn't know why he drove there in the first place. Why was he driving a '90 Cavalier? His parents must have hated him. Both of them were Irish, which meant they were strictly Catholic. As Catholic doctrine commands, he reasoned, it was his parents' job to do whatever felt the worst because Catholicism forbade his parents from doing what they felt pleasurable. They tried loving him, but that felt good which meant it was bad. They tried hating him, but that began to feel good, too, which was even worse because his parents normally hated hating things. His parents decided to be firmly lenient and liberally strict to solve their problem. This forced his parents to be not mean enough to not buy him a car but not mean enough to deny him of one. They did the expected thing and bought him the kind of beat up junk he'd expect a homeless man to sleep in. He immediately told his parents that he hated the car they bought him, but they were too drunk to listen. They were Irish, after all. Jack often told people what he thought without caring what their response would be. Telling men his opinion often resulted in them saying something equal in value, whether it be positive or negative. "Your shoes look like you stole them from a colorblind clown," was responded to with, "That work shirt you're wearing looks like the kind of thing a gas station employee would wear." Jack never felt like continuing the verbal battle whenever someone mentioned his wardrobe because half the time the other male's insults were true. The work shirt he was wearing was from a gas station. In fact, he'd still be working at the gas station if he hadn't decided to place ash trays by all the gas pumps. Someone would pull up, start pumping his or her gas, see the ash tray, get out a pack of Marlboros andwell, let's put it this way. Jack couldn't work at that gas station again if he wanted to. "Good riddance," he'd think. Not many things mattered to him and those that did annoyed him because he liked them and that left him vulnerable. He didn't hate everything, of course. He had his own set of friends who felt similarly on many issues. If they didn't agree with him, he'd probably insult them only to have his wardrobe insulted yet again. One day in third period Government a girl announced that Ben Franklin was her favorite president. Disgusted by her ignorance, Jack told her that her parents were most likely related and that that could be the only logical explanation to her blatantly stupidity. On his way to fourth period her football-playing boyfriend slammed him against a locker and threatened his life. If only I were slightly dumber than a cabbage. Then I could be this guy's teammate, he thought as he gave Johnny Football Hero an insincere apology for insulting his inbred girlfriend. Jack wasn't much of a fighter. Standing six feet fall, no more and no less, he could have been a beast if he wanted to be. Instead, he was too lazy to lift weights so his physique was light. He preferred to do his dark hair messy simply because he could say it was "casual". That way, he wasn't dirty. He was contemporary. As a physical specimen he was nothing special as far as the ladies were concerned. Fortunately and unfortunately for him, he was too disgusted with his female peers to want to date any of them. Besides, they all had boyfriends who wanted to punt his face. He could always become a jock and gain acceptance, but being accepted by what he hated was much worse than any broken bone or bruised kidney. That's why he was sure to swear at every member of chess club as soon as he entered. I kind of liked the way Jack became a real person to me. I knew exactly what he would do because he was such an outspoken cynic. Some people read this and asked me if any of it was based on me, and I guess some of it is. I think what Jack says. The whole work shirt thing is based on the fact that I own a bunch of work shirts but I rarely wear them to school, but I love them anyway. I figured Jack is who I would be if I could didn't care what people thought. This turns out to be a big flaw for Jack, who ends up getting threatened by football players. If I were to write a long story about Jack, I'd probably have him get beaten up a couple times. Oh, and for those of you who didn't catch this, an oleander is a poisonous flower as well as Jack's last name. I think I actually took this assignment seriously, although I don't know why. I think it needed more hookers. Warm up #14: Write about a ghost. Write about a ghost, huh? Patrick Swayze is cool. He was in Dirty Dancing. I didn't see Dirty Dancing, but I'm guessing it involved some dancing and maybe some mud or something. After he became a ghost and was in that movie where people tango in the dirt or whatever, I haven't seen him in anything else. Usually when a person's career is on the skids they do collect call commercials. Take, for example, Carrot Top. He sucks. If Pauly Shore and the cast of Full House had a child I'm sure that it still wouldn't be as unfunny as Carrot Top. Fortunately, Patrick Swayze hasn't worn a big dial pad on his shirt and yelled "Hey kids! Call 1-800-CALL-ATT to make your friend pay a couple of bucks instead of paying 35 cents on a payphone yourself!" And then a piano would fall on him. Sure, that's not how those retarded phone commercials don't usually end, but they should. Then Patrick would become a real ghost! Wow, I didn't even plan that. Wait, that last part was inner monologue. I wasn't supposed to write that. Warm up #17: Describe your perfect date. The perfect date would involve sitting around, being relaxed, and maybe even a girl! The girl who goes on this ate with me would have to be intelligent and easy to get along with. It wouldn't hurt if she was gorgeous, either. The date would begin with me knocking on her door and greeting her with a bouquet of flowers (or lawn gnomes if I'm living in world with no flowers). She'd open up the door, smile and put her roses/lawn ornaments away. Then we'd receive an urgent call from the mayor. Men dressed up as dolphins dressed up as clowns are robbing a retirement center! So my date and I would quickly put on our matching crime fighter costumes and hop into our large black car with fire coming out of the exhaust pipe. We'd drive down to the Retirement Village and beat up the evil man dolphin clowns who're attacking the elderly with trout twisted into the shape of puppies. We'd kick and punch the bad guy s and then the words "Punch!" or "Blam!" would pop up in bubbles above our heads. Then we'd return to our secret lair below our secret mansion maintained by our secret butler. That is my perfect date. Wait, that's an episode of Batman. Nevermind. Warm up #35: You're on an island with 10 supplies My supplies: 1. Tent 2. Spears, Britney 3. Dog 4. Rope 5. Seeds 6. Gasoline 7. Matches 8. Robot Britney clone 9. Trombone 10. Pirate sword First, I'd bring a dog. I've heard about that movie, Cujo, where some dogs killed people or something. A dog could eat any trespassers. Also, to defend myself, I'd bring spears. Britney Spears. In one of her music videos she went to Mars. If she can survive there, she could live on the island. I'd also bring a tent so Britney and I had a place to sleep. Note that I didn't' have any room to bring clothes for Britney. If Britney acts up, she'll need to be punished. That's why I'm bringing a trombone to hit her with and some rope to gag her mouth with. This way, she can't start singing. Because eating is good, I'll bring seeds to grow food. Also, I could hit Britney with the food. If Britney gets gold, I could chop down a tree, gather some logs, and then douse Britney in gasoline and et her on fire using matches. If pirates or aliens or pirates dressed like aliens show up, I could attack them with the pirate sword I brought that can shoot lasers. When I get to return to America, I'll make sure I've kept my robotic Britney cyborg replica in good condition. That way, nobody will know that the real Britney was set on fire and fed to a dog. What's wrong with me? Seriously, I wonder where I come up with this gibberish sometimes. Looking back at this stuff made me consider seeing a therapist, but I decided against that idea when I realized that my therapist would need a therapist after seeing me. I need medication very badly. Instead, I think I'll just buy some Twizzlers. They may not make crazy minds become sane, but they make mouths happy. Mmmmm.delicious Twizzlers. I like candy. What is it good for? Absolutely Nothin' I had been drafted. I wasn't even eighteen and as far as I knew there wasn't a war. After reading the letter that said I was to join the military, I looked up from my potential death sentence and glanced around me, half expecting a group of people to come out from hiding behind a tree holding a camera and telling me that I was on some cruel comedy program, but they never showed. How lazy of them. I checked the address on the letter and it told me to go not to a government agency, not to an army recruiting center, but to a Burger King. I rode my shiny new Schwinn up there and sat in a booth. Someone might have asked me if I wanted to buy something but I wouldn't have known. I was concentrating. I was the solitary master of my own mind, body, and soul. And I was soon escorted out of Burger King by security for loitering. Outside, my bike wasn't parked where I left it. It was mounted on the back of a black Volkswagen speeding out of the parking lot. That whole letter must have been a fluke. I should have known. It was addressed to someone who wasn't me and the person who wrote it used a red crayon and signed it "Bike Thief." I thought it was maybe some sort of pet name. I walked home. As if God decided to admit that he hated me, it began to rain. Not just any rain. Cold, unforgiving rain. I decided to blame the Volkswagen. Since I didn't know who was driving it, I figured I should hold the car responsible. I saw the car committing the crime. I didn't see if anyone was driving. It was now my job to destroy every Volkswagen. I wouldn't smash only the black ones carrying bikes identical to mine like one would expect. The evil car could always get a paint job, leaving all cars vaguely resembling the culprit to become a victim of the bloody revenge I planned to wreak. This was war. Combat boots adorned my feet as I strode toward a parking lot clutching a Nerf bat. The strode grew into a jog. The jog grew into a sprint, and the sprint grew into desperate panting. I should start working out. I took the bat and smashed the windshield while screaming foreign obscenities. I wasn't sure what language all those cars spoke so I was sure to learn multiple languages so I was sure to offend them when I cursed. When I left the parking lot the ground was littered with small pieces of windshield and rear view mirror. I thought I was the victor, but I had no idea how wrong I was. A Volkswagen I had missed roared to life with the turn of a key. Angry headlights shone on my face as I spun around in shock. It sped toward me at a blazing five miles per hour. A chase ensued. I ran from the car and it rolled in my direction. The pursuit went on for about fifteen minutes before I turned around and yelled for it to stop. Little did I know, but cars don't have ears. It kept going forward and it slammed into my midsection with all the force of a crippled bull. After I'd taken the blow, I fell to the floor muttering about all the pain I felt. Then I went home and watch cartoons. Tomorrow will be a big day. 
Here I am, being violently struck by a Volkswagen in a parking lot that looks suspiciously like a suburban neighborhood. Oh, the humanity! As you can see, I went all out on that picture. I went out into the field and made sure I was struck by a Volkswagen so this assignment would be the best it could possibly be. Some people might say, "But Henry, it looks like you're sexually assaulting that poor car!" To that, I reply, "Shut up! Are you a prosecuting lawyer? No, you're not. So stop judging me. That car and I are in love, can't you see that? The car's red with passion for me. Now leave me alone!" There, I think I cleared everything up with that. Dog Kicking, Hitler, and R.L. Stine Why is kicking dogs looked down upon? Seriously, they have their fair share of having their way with humans. You ever have your leg humped? Of course you have. Why? Because dogs are mocking us. They get to laugh their little doggy butts off when we humans pick up their defecation and put it in a bag. I'd bet that they can use the toilet, flush, and then do our taxes just to make us look like idiots. They're just being lazy. I think laziness is a large contributor to all the evil in the world. Adolf Hitler probably suffered because of it. I bet one day he woke up and he had that retarded little half mustache growing and he didn't want to shave it. He went to work looking that way and he probably got laughed at in the break room by his coworkers. From then on Hitler decided to be a jerk and do horrible things like genocide and not shaving. I bet making friends was kind of hard when he was a fascist dictator. People would start to disagree with him and then think "Oh yeah, he'll kill me if I don't agree." So then they'd smile and walk away thinking "Man, what a jerk. Why doesn't he shave that mustache thing?" And then Hitler would sit down and cry. Nobody loves an oppressive dictator for who he really is. I'm sure all Hitler wanted was someone to hold his hand when he crossed the street and someone to read Mein Kampf to him when he goes to bed. Sure, he wrote it, but he probably forgot all the good parts. Like when he finds the magic camera that predicts the future only the future it exposes is really evil! Wait, no. That's a Goosebumps book. They're the same general thing. They're both written by people who have sold their souls to Satan. Hitler got a lot of countries and R. L. Stine got to have a lot of crap published. Not just any crap. Weekly crap. Libraries kept this stuff in bathrooms. No, not so people could read it while they're taking the Browns to the Super Bowl, but because it belonged with the rest of the feces. And.uhthat's all. This was the last journal I turned in for credit. I guess it's pretty powerful because it single-handedly brought the journal assignment to its knees. I don't see much wrong with it. I just have a problem with how dogs jump up on you and how Hitler was dirty and how R.L. Stine needs to go to Uncrappy Writing School so his books won't be so poorly written.  ;
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