Toad Problems

The hole that I dug in the post "Routines and Whims" hasn't been dug in recently for many reasons, and the biggest cause for this is a series of events that I will describe below:

The last time I dug the hole, I suddenly realized that the bottom of the pit was covered in worms. I'm talking twenty to thirty moist earthworms in a hole with a diameter of 12 inches. Seeing those dark, disgusting strands just chilling at the bottom was disgusting. After I had gotten two or three shovel-fulls of dirt and worms out of the hole, the scene got much worse. It was so shocking that I remember what happened next very clearly.

The earth on the bottom of the hole began rotating. It took me a couple of seconds to register this sight. It was rolling like a wave approaching the beach, with a tall crest of white foam visible. But instead of white foam, it was a white belly. Then two little black hands protruded out from the white belly and stabilized itself. I was left staring at a toad that had just emerged from hibernation. I was thoroughly grossed out, and ran into my garage. The image of the white belly was seared into my mind, and I spent a minute or two doing some weird wiggly-jiggly-shaking-out-every-appendage dance that was almost involuntary. Disgusting.

Disgusting.

I felt extreme guilt from that day on. I had brought out the toad from its underground slumber, interrupted its sleep, and now it'll die in the upcoming winter. I visited it once or twice; it just stood there stone-still, its black eyes just staring at the dirt walls that confined it. Then, most recently, I went back and checked, and it was gone! Did it dig further down into my hole? Did my cat, Tiger, or his neighbor-friend come and eat it?

Through some research I found that toads wake up after hibernation in the spring, then mate and produce eggs; I think I'll leave this hole alone, for I've disturbed this toad one too many times, and interrupting the toad in the middle of his (or her) spring rituals would just be plain uncomfortable.

Drag

Talking to my parents has become a drag nowadays. Somedays I'm so used to the quick efficiency that is necessary for finishing homework that having conversations seems like slow motion. I feel this struggle the most whenever I talk to my mom about school events.

"Hey Mom, can we make sweet potatoes for Food Pantry Club for Monday?" I ask, while I finish my dinner.

"Sure. What is the sale for?" she asks.

"Food Pantry's Thanksgiving Sale."

"When is it?"

"Monday."

"Can you say more?" She asks, turning to me, slightly irritated.

At this point, I am annoyed, and kind of confused. What more could I say about this topic?

"CAN WE MAKE SWEET POTATOES FOR THE FOOD PANTRY THANKSGIVING SALE THIS COMING MONDAY?" This is a mouthful, and it makes me exhausted, but I make sure to cover everything. Take that mom.

Other times, my parents ask me how my day at school was. After my mother banned me from casually saying "Good." as an answer, this question was like a curse. At the end of the day, after embracing the comforts of my home, I'm in no mood to revisit my school day. Each time this question is asked, it makes me think hard for at least thirty seconds.

What did I do at school that is worth mentioning? ... I got it: My lunch, that was leftovers, looked disgusting; tons of white radish, a few bits of old chicken, rice that was hard as stone, and some slimy-looking spinach. But, it tasted much better than expected! It was a nice surprise. Wait. Hmmmmm. Better be academic related, otherwise they'll get worried. 

"In Japanese class, Sensei said that there's a meeting for the Japan trip."

"When is it?" my mother asks, checking her calendar.

"Tomorrow at 6." I reply, too lazy to elaborate, but fully aware of what's to come.

"Can you say more?"
 

I am so close to strangling Tiger, whose sitting in my lap with his eyes closed. But maybe I'm overreacting?

Leprechaun's Game

I once met a leprechaun, who introduced me to his game. He wore a green hat, a green jacket, and had curly hair that looked aflame. We would walk around town while staring people down, in hopes of getting into a fight. And every time, when someone agreed, he giggled in sick delight. When a fight occurred I didn't attack, I'd retreat deep into the black. I couldn't bring myself to play his game, but beware, don't call me tame; his every punch seemed full of hate, like no one ever had a clean slate.

Each time a lad took a blow to the face, it would turn blue, green, and indigo. But when it also turned red and orange, I could vaguely see a rainbow. And thus I learned of the leprechaun's power: that with each forceful blow, your skin would flower.

Now tonight, for the leprechaun, was the same as other nights. From his patchy green hat to his torn green jacket, he was itching for some fights.  But from my head you could tell I was ready to rumble, because all that remained was a bit of black stubble.

We spotted a single, towering, hulk of man, and after we set upon him, he ran. We chased him into an alley so dark, that I gained confidence, much like a bloodthirsty shark. But as soon as I entered that deep dark abyss, my blows, out of practice, all seemed to miss. And then, hitting my head, was a blow like freight train, a punch that was evil, cruel, inhumane. Out of consciousness and feeling, my mind was thrust, while two leprechaun hands eased me onto the dust. And there I lay, like a stack of chopped lumber, as my eyes closed reluctantly, into deep slumber.

I awoke, painfully aching, and while my hands were still shaking, I stumbled into a public bathroom. Grey walls and grey stalls inside of grey halls, all added to my existent gloom. But while I stood and glared at the cracked mirror, something behind me began to grow clearer. I whipped around quickly, though feeling quite sickly, and was appalled by my own squalor. But from the mirror anterior, I could see through the posterior, that the back of my shaved head was in color. Azure, magenta, and crimson red, dripped from my head like a black widow's thread. Gold, prune, and robin egg blue, dangled from the wound like laces on a shoe.

And at this moment, I then realized, the leprechaun was the one I always despised. This was an ultimate form of backstabbing, and I dread the moment when the wound will start scabbing. The colorful wound should have one sole aim: to remind me to never, ever, play the leprechaun's game.

Dog Police

Palaios sat in the backseat like he always did, hidden behind the tinted windows and on the floor of the van. His brown German Shepherd eyes darted from my hands on the steering wheel to the rain battering the windshield. Neos, the Siberian Husky sitting in the passengers seat, groomed his grey and white fur, looking his best as always. He didn't need to be sitting straight-backed, displaying his magnificent fur coat, because pedestrians could see him clear enough already; pasted on the side of the van was a photo of him wearing a cop-hat, in mid-stride, chasing a criminal. Overlapping the image were the printed words: Dog Police.

Our unit had worked hard tonight; we had taken care of three separate cases of attempted burglaries. Palaios had performed well, and had managed to chase down every single suspect. However, Neos always outshone him. Neos was always present to perform some sort of last-minute, heroic act that would nab the criminal for me. Sometimes he would even act out of impulse, something that him and Palaios were trained never to do. But it just got the job done.

Suddenly, my radio sounded: "We have armed-men in the bank on Jun & Ior Avenue, we need you there now. Over."

Fear gripped my heart, and while my brain was frozen, my hands automatically engaged the turn signal necessary to make it to the bank. Not only were armed robberies the most dangerous for the Dog Police, but the bank at Jun & Ior was rumored to be one of the most difficult areas to chase down criminals.

I turned around and saw Palaios, looking tired as ever, begin to stand up. His weak legs were shaking and the bald patches in his fur stood out more than usual. Even Neos seemed lethargic as he gathered himself for the task ahead. Mystery surrounded the new case on Jun & Ior; would Neos break the rules again to finish the job? Would my two dogs even survive the operation?  We all felt slightly burnt out after the three cases we had earlier, but we still had some energy left in store.

Watch out Junior Year, the Dog Police are here!

Priorities

Nowadays, with an increasing amount of activities filling up a rigid time frame, there is always the problem of deciding what to devote your time to. When we decide what to do, we are influenced by the people we know, the events that have happened, and our own preferences.. Encompassing all these influences, in my opinion, are two categories: short-term and long-term. Whether or not one gives an action priority depends on whether or not one looks at the consequences in the near future or in distant future.

This issue came up recently when I had trouble deciding what path to follow: study fastidiously for standardized tests or continue to participate in sports at Uni. Looking at this conundrum through my short-term lenses, or perhaps my parents', the former path seemed more logical. I sacrifice a portion of my social life and some of my physical health for a better chance of entering a well-acclaimed institution of higher learning. Imagining myself standing in my 25-year-old shoes, studying hard for these tests clearly seemed like the right choice. My parents would be as proud as I would be if I got into a good school. I would be surrounded by intellectuals and I would be getting payed high salaries. I probably improved the quality of my life significantly by getting accepted into this great college.

You may be wondering why I categorized this as a short-term priority, because it seems so far away. Let us take a bigger step back.

I now imagine myself standing in my 65-year-old shoes, and suddenly devoting huge amounts of time to these tests seem kind of foolish. When I think of my teenage-years, will I remember the long hours studying into the night, or the happy moments that I spent with my cross-country and track teammates? More importantly, will I want to relive those tedious moments? No, I'd want to remember myself as a playful youth rather than a child who wants to grow up too fast. True, getting into a better college may beget more great memories than a sports-season can, but they won't be the same.

Routines and Whims

I thrive on the predictability of my day. Take the two-egg scramble that I make for breakfast as an example: I turn the stove on HI for about two minutes, lather the skillet with prodigal amounts of extra-virgin olive oil, crack two eggs on the skillet and watch it sizzle. After waiting about ten seconds for the eggs to solidify, I demolish the unmarred surface of the egg with a metal spatula, until the egg is sufficiently scrambled, and I put it onto a medium-sized plate. You can see me perform this ritual twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, at around 7:00 AM.

Conversely, I take even more pride in being able to act in a whimsical manner once in awhile. Recently, after an argument with my parents over my time commitment to extracurriculars, I suddenly decided to vent my anger in an outward direction instead of the usual inward grudge. I grabbed the long-bladed shovel from the garage and set to work on the empty grassland next to my house. I tore up the long grass, mashed up the dry dirt, and blackened my hands. Soon I was standing on a pile of dark soil, oblivious of the mud seeping through my socks, peering down into a hole that was as deep as my knee (trust me, I stood inside the hole to check). Digging this hole was my catharsis; I had uncovered the dirt that was weighing me down and now I felt emptied of my anger. When I felt sufficiently cleansed, I cut a few long stalks of wild grass down and lay it over the hole in a lattice. Walking back into my house, I was a bottle of mixed emotions. The scowl on my face to show my parents belied the joy that was within me. I had something special in that lot next to my house, and it was my secret. Digging the pit was like pulling the flush on a toilet; if things got too piled up, I could simply flush it out of my thoughts by working on this hole.

Reaching the equilibrium between structured and unstructured living is a goal in all of our lives, and one that no one achieves. But that is the struggle that makes life interesting and full of the surprises that characterize it.

A Bell-Shaped Curve

Up from bed, down the stairs. Bread goes in, toast comes out. Put soap on, wash soap off. All that is in my mind is the quiz that will be returned today in school. With nothing to look forward to, life is bland.

The moments leading up to the returning of the quiz are tasteless as well. Open my locker, close my locker. Stand up, sit down. Unzip pencil case, zip pencil case. Grab the returned quiz, release the returned quiz. Close my eyes, open my eyes.

But our moods are subject to change at all times. My countenance is suddenly altered by the perfect 20/20 score like a calm-blue sea is creatively sculpted by unexpected gusts of wind. While I blithely read over the successful quiz that was just returned, I sponge the sanguine checks-marks off of the bone-white page that seemed so ice-cold the day before, letting that good feeling permeate through me. My backpack is hollow like a gourd as I effortlessly hoist it onto my back, and the tumultuous, chaotic crowd of subbies outside the classroom seem to lift me like an air flow gives a paper airplane one final boost. I am soaring above everyone; soft, down feathers supporting the rigid exterior feathers, my hawk-vision piercing every piece of prey that averts its beady eyes from me. Each bounding step that I take clears me even further from the cloud cover that tries so doggedly to hold me down. Pristine oxygen floods my lungs and my mind is purged of all its fatigue. Gone is the familiar drowsiness that affects everyone. Everyone but me.

Just like a cross-country runner that starts the race too fast, I lose my adrenaline and "runner's high" after I settle into the race. I stop noticing the surroundings that I had been paying close attention to during my euphoria. Things go back to normal as I trudge through the rest of my school day. A single question lingers in the back of my mind: What defines me if simple events influence me like so?