March 11, 2009
Today was horribly dull. Class, homework and pb&j. Not to mention no mail in my box and no male at my house. My life is a stale color of gray—bet you didn’t think gray could be anything but stale. But take a glance at my life and you will see beauty and excitement in jail cell walls and file cabinet drawers.
The only hint of a thrill I encountered today was when a car nearly encountered me in the cross walk. You’d think they’d see my red jacket and blond hair as it contrasts against the overcast skies. Obviously not. As I scurried to the sidewalk like a rat caught in a monsoon, I didn’t even shoot the driver a glare or shake my fist at him. No, that would have been much too exhilarating for my sham of a life.Creative Entry:
March 11, 2009
Today was horrible dull—that is, until I woke up. Who really needs to pay attention in class anyway? I was walking home from campus, crossing the last street before I came to my apartment, when out of no where a white 1984 Buick Riviera came screaming around the corner, it’s disgusting grill aimed for me. As I caught sight of the gigantic hunk of metal through my bangs, I could think of only one thing: Why the heck did Buick ever make such an ugly car? My survival instinct kicked that thought out of my head and shoved in another just in time—I would not run away, but I would fight to survive.
Finally, after watching hours of movies and avoiding regular conversation, I would prove to the world I was not just an anti-social loser. With the speed of Jackie Chan and the grace of Ryan Evans from High School Musical, I leapt on top of the elongated hood. As I pounded my fist through the metal and ripped out the engine, I let out a scream of fury resembling a ringwraith from LOTR. If onlookers were not frightened by the oil covering my face and arms as I dismembered the Buick, they were certainly cowering now, covering their ears and wishing they’d slept through their 8 A.M. Econ. 100 class.
By the time police arrived, I had successfully torn apart Buick’s ugly mistake of 1984, made two girls and an elderly man cry, autographed the Buick’s bumper for my new fan named Geoff, and stained my favorite shirt. Afraid that I would go into another rampage, the police shot me with a tranquilizer and took me down town.
When I awoke, I was in a holding cell in the basement of the ASB. At least that’s what the accounting major told me whose cubicle was across the hall. I offered him a date for Friday night if he let me out of the cell. Even covered in oil and reeking of rage, he accepted eagerly.
I’ve been home for about five hours now and no one has come looking for me. I gave them a fake name, so I think I’m safe.
Overall, today was a pretty good day. Evaded campus police, made a clear point to all reckless drivers, and above all, got a date for Friday night.
Elizabeth Gosney is a Senior majoring in Print Journalism at Brigham Young University.