Welcome back, I'm on my fifth mission. Today I was assigned the task of analyzing the first draft of my memoir by answering some questions below. I also was asked to watch Wizard of
•Oz: If I Only Had The Brain, Heart, Nerve •Wizard of Oz: Meeting the Wizard •Wizard of Oz: You've Always Had the Power. Please watch these videos, for the nostalgia. I can recall not really understanding the message behind this film when I was younger. Now I'd say Wizard-Of-Oz was showing how you should believe in ones self instead of doubt ones self. That's my guess at least, what's yours? Analyzing IT WAS ALL A LIE -Draft 1 1- How does your narrative allow you to travel into your brain (mind) then and now? My narrative makes me think on how broken I was after hearing the truth back then. Now I think I always knew the truth though, not fully but instinctively knew the truth about my family. But just didn't realize I knew until they told me bits and pieces. 2- How does your narrative allow you to travel into your heart (emotions) then and now? Have you ever noticed how a light can really brighten up a room? Have you also notice how if you turn off said light how dark the room feels? Not is, feels? Because that's how I felt back then, all the joy, all the happiness, all the light has been sucked out of me. Just leaving a dark empty shell behind. Now I appreciate that summer, It gave me the strength I needed to escape those who manipulated me. 3- How does your narrative meet the nerve (high-stakes) element of meaningful storytelling? At the time destructive thoughts ruled my mind with an iron fist. I lost a sense of who I was, I didn't know my past anymore, I didn't know who to trust. When I found out the truth, everyone around me was my enemy. It was like being in prison, always having to watch your back and I'm blind. 4- How does your narrative enable you to re-examine the power (agency) you have in authoring your life-story? My narrative allowed me to see just how powerless and vulnerable I really was. My family could tell me any lie and they did, and I wouldn't have a single clue. But I also saw how in my moment of powerlessness, how I gained complete power to control and dictate my own life. 5- What shapes our sense of identity: Life events or the stories we tell ourselves about life events? I say both. I believe it's a cycle and a necessary one at that. These events and the stories we tell ourselves help shape who we were, are, and are going to be. In order to be the best you, at least in my opion, is to realize that you do have the authority to dictate the stories you tell yourself about those events. Once you realize that, I believe you'll grow exponentially. Please read my first draft: IT WAS ALL A LIE. I don't really like it that much. I wanted to tell this story in a way that will entertain you guys but I might of failed at that. Anyways, I'll do better on the next draft. It's a promise. Help me out by commenting any thought that passed through your mind while reading my draft:)
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We have to stop meeting like this. Anyway, I'm on my fourth mission. My job is to read Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway. An interesting read if you get the chance. If I was to draw a comparison between my story and Hemingway's, I'd say manipulation is a big factor. Little by little you gather a piece of the insane puzzle I call my life. Hopefully you're entertained for that is my goal. And hopefully I gradually grow in my writing. Now my friends, on with the story. Also, don't be afraid to comment whatever you think. Whether you believe it's good or bad, I'll be waiting to read them:)
WHEN THE KILLER WAS BORN Believe it or not, I was raised to be the perfect child. My emotions were to be in check, my opinions to myself, and my voice always to a low tone. I couldn’t disagree or that would be disrespectful, I only speak when asked to speak, and no one was to know what happened to me within the household. “Bedouens, are you afraid of me?” my mom asked one day. Yes, I was terrified of her, but I can’t say that. She’d kill me. “Why do you say that,” I replied buttoning up my school shirt. My mom was in the bathroom. These are my earliest memories so I don’t recall everything. “Because I want you to be,” she responded. Well it worked. When I was around my mom, I could hardly breathe. I recall how one time in church, my stomach started to ache. But my mom told me to stand on my feet for God, so I did and didn’t sit back down. My stomach was killing me to the point where I started slowching. My mom noticed and asked me what was wrong. “I’m okay,” I lied. My mom went back to praising God, But a few seconds later, she noticed me clenching my stomach. “Bedouens, tell me what’s wrong with you now,” she demanded. Out of fear that she’d hurt me more than this stomach ache, I told her. “My stomach hurts that’s all,” I answered. She told me to sit back down and that If my stomach was hurting this whole time, I could of just taken a seat. “That’s dangerous Bedouens. You never know if it was something that can kill you. Don’t put yourself through pain like that,” she told me. My mom is a haitian woman who has a heavy accent. And she gets angry, really fast and stays angry for really long. Back to the time when she was in the bathroom and I was getting ready for school, I didn’t know how to tie my shoes at that time. So, she called me over to the bathroom so she can tie them for me. I have no idea why but I took my time getting to her. Once I reached the door of the bathroom, my mom got impatient with me and pulled me and struck me in the stomach. Not just anywhere in the stomach though. She hit me between the lower part of the chest and upper part of the stomach. I felt like my soul had left my body. I instantly fell to the ground, looking dazed. I assume I looked dazed because right after, my mom apologized. “She never apologizes, this must be serious,” I thought to myself. There was one more time I could remember when my mom apologized for hitting me. If you don’t know already, I’m visually impaired. But I can see better out my right eye than left. Now I believe it’s due to me being more right dominant but when I was younger, I blamed my mom. I use to lie a lot because my mom made this rule. If you tell the truth, you won’t get a beating. I tried telling the truth and still got a beating. So at least with lying, I had a better chance of escaping a beating. I don’t exactly remember what happened, but one day, my mom was beating me in the bathroom, and hit me in my left eye with the belt. For a few seconds I couldn’t see out of my left eye. She stopped when she noticed and ran to get me an ice pack. She apologized and stopped beating me. Now I’m sorry if all those stories bored you. Honestly, I don’t like going back to this day. This is why I like to hurt other women. Particularly ones I start to like. I have a phrase for why I’m sadistic and it goes like this; “If I love you, then I must hurt you. Because the one who loved me, was the same one to hurt me,”. Anyways, again I digress. It was night time, my little brother and I were watching tv. Scooby doo was our favorite cartoon. My stomach growled, so I entered the kitchen to fix myself a bowl of cereal. My aunt was on the sofa behind my brother. It’s a tradition in our family to have the captain crunch cereal in a jar instead of a box. I grabbed the jar and accidentally spilled all the cereal all over the floor. Hearing the commotion, my mom ran to the kitchen. “What happened!” she yelled. Shaking at the sound of her voice, I quietly answered. “Sorry, I dropped the cereal,” I answered. I don’t know why she got so upset, maybe it was a bad day at work for her or something. Because the next thing she did was grab me by the throat, and drag me to the bathroom. I couldn’t speak, because I was trying to apologize the whole time but I couldn’t breathe. But that wasn’t the worst part, that’s not what turned me into the monster I am today. She grabbed a bucket, filled it up with cold water, and proceeded to hold my head under said water. When your body isn’t getting any breath, it will try anything and everything to get that breath. But I was just a little boy, my mom was way stronger than me. I feel like crying right now but I won’t give her the satisfaction. I thought I was going to die. Whatever death was at that time, I was about to meet it. Not being able to breathe was the worst feeling I ever felt and for it to be done by someone who says they love you. That made it even worse. She stopped eventually, but that night, she didn’t apologize. Maybe because there was no physical scar for her or anyone to see. But her or even I at the time didn’t know the mental scar it left on me. Not so much now, but there are times when I can’t breathe when i sleep and feel like I’m going to die right in my bed. There are times throughout the day when I feel someone’s hands around my neck, squeezing my life away. And there are times where all I feel is a cold wind blowing through my chest as if there was a whole in place of my heart. That is when I feel like losing, losing control. Over time, I’ve gotten better with controlling the urge to hurt people. Back then, the only way I would be satisfied, was if that girl I liked, would die by my hands. But after the eighth grade incident, I had to learn how to tame myself. And being sexually sadistic allowed me to. Here’s how it works, If you’re a guy, I’m not sexually sadistic toward you. I’m just extremely competitive, like if we were to box, I will give my one hundred percent. And if we ever had beef to the point where you wanted to fight me, I would let loose on you. For females, if I find you attractive even the slightest, I’ll want to hear, feel, and watch you suffer. I wouldn’t want to kill you, not anymore at least. I know, scary. That’s why I broke up with my first and only girlfriend a couple of months back. A lot of little boys messed her mind up, she was extremely insecure, but I stuck around. Because I saw something in her. I saw a strong, vibrant, woman. But I broke up with her for three reasons. One, she drained me of my character. Two, I no longer had time for her, and three she might of said she’s okay with my sadistic side, but she’s not as submissive as she believes. So to not harm her, I left her. And if you’re in my class, you would of seen me crying in class. I was crying because that same girl I saw as this beautiful flower just waiting to bloom, proved me wrong. I went to an alternative school because I got banned from Upper Darby School District. That alternative school raised me, they helped me becoming the independent man I am today. They gave me the values and morals I carry with me. They became the family that I so desperately needed. And my ex, she knew this more than anyone else. Well on Thursday morning, the coordinator of school banned me from ever visiting them. The coordinator is like a mother to me, that entire school is my family. They’ve known me for five years straight. And when I heard that I wasn’t allowed to come back because of some spun up lie made by my ex and her friend, I was furious, saddened, and disappointed. My ex, due to some petty, devious, and childish behavior, ruined my life. By taking my family away from me. She can spread all of these rumors about me sending nudes to her underage friend all she wants, I don’t care because that’s not true. But to have the audacity to lie to my mother, to my family, to the point they fell like they have to protect there other children from me, that really hurts. And I hope she’s reading this some how, I use to respect you. THE END Hi again. I hope you're having a wonderful day. For my third mission, I was asked to speak about a time I felt intense emotion. Whether it be happiness, sadness, anger, and etc. While reading this blog (a you'll know a little secret about me. Before I wrote my story, I was to read three readings What Is Creative Nonfiction By Lee Gutkind, Making Scenes In Memoir By Lee Martin, My Name Is Margaret By Maya Angelou Unfortunately, I wasn't able to read Maya Angelou's memoir because the website was acting strange, Lastly, I was suppose to draw comparisons to Maya Angelou's memoir but as I said, I couldn't read it. Based on what my professor had told me, there are some parts in Maya Angelou's story, where she is very angry. You'll find that within my story, I am angry at some points as well. I tried to link the readings for you. I apologize if it doesn't work, I'm new at this. In due time though, I will improve. Now, on with the story.
WHEN THE KILLER WITHIN GOT OUT I flew pass the security guard and rammed through the doors of the school. As the cold wind blew against my face, and sweat cover my skin, I thought, “Look what you made me do! Now I’ll have to be on the run all my life,”. I know that sounds purpostorious, but I’m fourteen years old. And I just committed attempted murder. Everything feels heightened as I try to get as far away from that school as possible. I can feel my heart pounding out of my chest, I feel like someone is watching me, and I can hear the leaves crunch beneath my feet. They crackle just like the heart of the person I harmed. I ran four blocks, “That should be far enough,” I thought to myself. A white car stopped in front of me before I could cross the street. My principle steps out of the vehicle. “I should make a run for it, or fight him,” I planned. But I couldn’t move, I was too distracted by the crying of her. The crying of the one I tried to kill. “Come on Bedouens, let’s go back to the school okay,” he said laying his hand on my shoulder. He slightly nudged me toward his vehicle but I was stiff, as stiff as the tinman without his oil. “So, what happened that made you leave school grounds Bedouens?” the principle asked. My soul began to throb as I cried. Cried like never before, I was drawing for breath, my throat hurts, and my eyes overflowed with tears. “I don’t know,” I replied. I didn’t want to revisit what I did. I still didn’t believe what just happened, so I kept quiet throughout the ride, just focusing on the outside. I stopped crying, I was distracted by the houses, the quietness of the neighborhood, the dead leaves littered on the sidewalk and grass. Maybe signifying the day I died inside. We reached the school and I noticed she had stopped crying as well. She got out of the car in silence and left. The principle told me to hold on, giving her some time to get in her car and leave. She didn’t just physically leave that November thirteenth day, she left me, all alone. But it’s my fought, I pushed the only person who cared about me away, the only person I would call mother. But she wasn’t my mother, she was my vision teacher. “Alright you can step out now,” the principle urged. I stepped out and headed for the school. For the first time, I felt oddly a calmness. It’s like I was walking down death row, accepting what’s about to occur. The principle walks beside me, putting his hand on my right shoulder while walking on my left. He didn’t trust me, he didn’t know if I’d run away again. I thought to myself. We entered the school, and I felt a weight upon me. Everyone was staring at me. The teacher’s passing by, the students in the hallway, and the guard I ran past before. It was like everyone already knew what I did, and they were disgusted with me. The principle, still controlling me like a puppet, nudged me to the office. He sat me down at a desk, and sat on the other side. “So, what happened that made you leave the premises Bedouens?” he asked again. I ignored him. Instead I listened to the lively sounds of children outside, I listened to the idling engines of the buses. “Bus one twenty seven, my bus is waiting for me. What will they tell him,” I thought. “Bedouens I need to know what happened. So I can tell your mother why you might not be coming home today,” the principle expressed. I looked at him with gleaming eyes. “I’m not going home today?” I asked him. “I won’t know until you tell me what happened,” he replied. “I don’t want to go home,” I said. The principle found his target and leaned in. “Why don’t you want to go home?” he questioned. Heat ran through my body. “Because, I want to escape,” I answered. I could feel him looking at me as if he had stumbled upon treasure. “Escape what?” he persisted. “If there’s a way for me not to go back home. I’ll take that way. I want to escape my mom,” I expressed. The principle folded his arms. “Why do you want to escape from your mom? Did she do something to you?” questioned the principle. I felt the need to share how I felt inside with him, he cared about the students at Drexel Hill Middle School. But I don’t trust anyone anymore, only Mrs. Julia. “I just hate my mom, that’s all,” I responded. The principle leaned forward in his chair. “So what happened with Mrs. Julia. She told me that you were acting a bit strange and that she felt a sharp pain at her stomach before you ran out?” he explained. I started to cry again, shaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I thought I stopped myself before I could,” I yelped. The principle grabbed some tissues. “Bedouens here’s some tissues. Please tell me what happened, I don’t like seeing you like this,” he said. I wiped my tears but to no avail. This may sound fictional, but there’s a monster inside me. And on that horrid day, I lost control of it. “She was reading me my grades for braille. When, I felt an urge to hurt her. But I fought it off. The urge came back though, came back stronger. And again, I fought it off. But I didn’t notice that each time the urges came, I got closer to the knife in my bookbag. The urge came a third time, and I pulled out the nife and tried to stab Mrs. Julia. But when the third urge came, I was gone. All I felt was an emptiness. It felt like cold wind blowing through a whole. I thought I stopped myself though. I thought I pulled myself out of that feeling some how. Your saying I actually stabbed her,” I cried. The principle looked upset. “Bedouens, you’re an A student. We love you here at DHMS, why did you have to go and do something like that?” he said sort of like he was hurt. I cried even louder. ‘'Because I hate my mom. And Mrs. Julia was like a school mother to me. So I guess I let my anger out on her,” I wept. But that was a cop out. The real reason why is because Mrs. Julia was a beautiful woman. I may have not understood it at the time, but deep inside I knew I was sadistic. I wanted to hurt her, I wanted to make her scream, I wanted to feel her blood on my hands. But I didn’t want to believe it at that time. Yes my aunt made me this way but it’s just as much my fought as it is hers. But at fourteen, I couldn’t believe believe that I wanted to hurt Mrs. Julia. I thought some demon controlled me, but it’s me, I’m the demon. I couldn’t understand because how could I hurt someone I loved, someone who loved me. Maybe because I was harmed by the person who said they love me too. The principle took a deep breath. “So where’s the weapon?” he asked. My head was down, the guilt was too heavy. “In the room we were doing braille lessons in. It’s in my bookbag,” I confessed. The principle turned to his secretary. “Can you go check his bookbag please,” he said unhappily. The secretary left the office. He looked back at me. “Bedouens, stay here. I have to go make a quick phone call,” he told me. I sat and waited, disgusted with myself. But deep inside, now that I’m all alone, I regretted not killing her, not hearing her scream. And I knew that and was repawled. He came back almost looking saddened. “You won’t be going home today,” he ensured. A few seconds later, an officer came into the office. “Bedouens Philistin, please put your hands behind your back,” the officer said. Maybe it was the shock, because I couldn’t believe I was getting arrested. I was a good kid, the perfect child. That’s the way I was raised to be, but here I am getting arrested. When the officer started moving me out of the office, I said by to everyone there. “Bye guys. I’ll see you on Monday,” I said unknowing “By Bedouens,” they responded. Back to the hallways, everyone was stearing. I could feel there judgemental eyes. I felt like I knew what they were thinjking, because even though it made sense, I thought the same thing. How could this nice, A student kid going to jail. The seriousness of the situation struck when I sat in the back of a police car. “I’ve never been arrested before. Are you taking me to jail?” I asked a bit curious. There was a cage like thing that separated the front of the car from the back. “No, later tonight you’ll be going to a juvenile detention home,” the officer answered. “What’s that,” I asked. The handcuffs were sinking into my risks everytime we hit a bump. “It’s like jail but for non adults,” the officer explained. “Anyway, why did I have to arrest you? You seem like a nice kid,” he said. I looked outside, feeling a little sad. I thought I was going to jail forever, I thought I’d never see the houses, stores, and trees we were passing again. “I did something very bad. Something I’ll never forgive myself for,” I replied. It was quiet for a second. “Well don’t hold a grudge against yourself kid. Hopefully you just learn a lesson from all this,” the officer advised. We arrived at the police station. The officer stepped out of the car and opened my door.then scared “Can you step out okay?” he asked. I don’t know why but I was more curious then scared. I think that was my mind trying to forget this whole ordeal. “Yes, I can,” I answered him. It wasn’t easy with handcuffs on, but I got out of the car. The officer grabbed me by the risks and guided me toward the police station. When we entered, they sat me down in a small room. They told me to take off my belt, and the laces off my shoes. After doing so, they left me alone and had someone watch me from outside. I had a lot of time to think about what I did. When I went to Lyma, a juvenile detention home, I left the police station hating myself and even hating my mother more. THE END Bedouens: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Writing Process Podcast. I am your Professor, Bedouens Philistin. (Excited) We got a huge and I mean huge episode today. So without further adieu. Please welcome to the stage Don Murray, Mary Karr, and Anne Lamott! Woooo!
(The class applauds) Bedouens: Welcome guys, happy to see you. Diving right in, I love to right and I loved my english class. But that's because at my high school, teachers could be flexible with what they were teaching. I wasn't judged on my writing skill, I was allowed to write whatever and just learn more on how to improve. So again, I love writing. But what about those in the public school system? Don Murray: Naturally we try to use our training. It's an investment and so we teach writing as a product, focusing our critical attentions on what our students have done, as if they had passed literature into us. It isn't literature, of course. Our students know it wasn't literature when they passed it in, and our attack does little more than confirm their lack of self-respect for their work and for themselves; we are as frustrated as our students, for conscientious, doggedly responsible, repetitive autopsying doesn't give birth to live writing. The product doesn't improve, and so, blaming the student--- who else? --- we pass them along to the next teacher, who is trained, too often, the same way we were. Year after year the student shudders under a barrage of criticism, much of it brilliant, some of it stupid, and all of it irrelevant. Bedouens: The criticism is irrelevant. So what's more important in aiding us students in the process we go through? Don Murray: We have to respect the student, not for his product, not for the paper we call literature by giving it a grade, but for the search for the truth in which he is engaged. Bedouens: A lot of students don't even like to write. I don't know why though, I find writing to be fun. Mary Karr: Writing is painful--- it's "fun" only for novices, the very young. Don Murray: (Adding on) Writing is a demanding, intellectual process. Bedouens: Okay, I'll agree that there are times, there are times when writing can be stressful. There are moments when I think too much on what to write down that, nothing, nothing is what I end up writing. How can I and others who face this, get pass it? Anne, let's hear your thought. Anne Lamott: Plug your nose and jump in, and write down all your memories as truthfully as you can. Bedouens: If I'm to be honest with you Anne, there are times when I find myself writing about my memories as truthful as ever, and I have to stop. I don't allow myself to continue, writing about my pass can put me in my feels. Not a lot of people want to be in their feels. Anne Lamott: (Shrugging) Maybe your childhood was grim and horrible, but grim and horrible is okay, if it's done well. But don't worry about doing it well yet, just start getting it down. Bedouens Philistin: (Scratching his chin) Okay okay. So you're saying just start writing and if stuff about your life start coming out, just let it happen. But what about in that moment of feeling overwhelmed, do you believe in writer's block? And this question is to any of you, not just Anne. Anne Lamott: Now, the amount of material maybe so overwhelming it can make your brain freeze. Mary Karr: Actually, every writer needs two selves--- the generative self and the editor self. Bedouens Philistin: Can you elaborate? Mary Karr: In the early drafts, the generative self shakes pom-poms at every pen stroke and cheers every crossed t. In a month or so, this diligent and optimistic creature gins out, say, two hundred pages. The editor self then shows up to heft the pages, give a sniff, and say: Yeah, but. . . The editor condenses two hundred pages down to about thirty. I don't mean she cuts the rest; she may well boil the whole thing down so the same amount of stuff happens more economically. Bedouens: Okay so the generative self is who we all start with, and the editor self comes to revise our rough draft. Bringing it back to writer's block, it occurs with the generative self? Mary Karr: I find generative me harder to get going. But through sheer hardheadedness, even I can grant myself permission to run buck-wild down the pages with sentences dum as stumps and few glimpses of anything pretty. The idea is to get some scenes down. Let your mind roam down some alleys that may land in dead ends---that's the nature of the process. (The class applauds) Bedouens: Wow bringing it back to writing being a process not a product, I learned something today. And hopefully class has as well. Don Murray, Mary Karr, Anne Lamott, thank you for joining us and teaching us how to get started on writing. Class is now over, I hope to see you guys on the next episode of The Writing Process Podcast. Bye bye. The End Hi there. Welcome to my first blog assignment, The Proust Questionnaire. Sit back, relax, and let's dive in.
1. WHAT IS YOUR IDEA OF PERFECT HAPPINESS? I'll find my perfect happiness when I'm surrounded by family, love, and life. Family doesn't have to be a blood thing. My family are those I met through schooling or outside. Now when it comes to love, I don't know much of it. But what I do know is, I want to be loved and give love. Whether that's with people, my team, or a girl. I believe that perfect happiness isn't bound by materialistic things. I believe that you must surround yourself with everything lively. Such as: nature, people, and vibrant energy. 2. WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST FEAR? I'm scared, really scared. Why? Throughout my life people have taken advantage of my visual impairment. Even my aunt, the one person who was suppose to love me. I want to be something called a creative influencer. I want to impact the lives of others. I want to make a movement. But, the social media world, isn't the nicest place. People will betray you, people will stomp on you. But you need a team, it's rare to make it to the top alone. It's not easy to accomplish all those things I've listed without a team. But I'll get over this fear and find my team. Because I'm chosen. 3. WHAT IS THE TRAIT YOU MOST DEPLORE IN YOURSELF? If I'm to be completely honest, I'm perfect. An angel sent from God himself. What, you don't believe me. Hell yeah you don't. Perfect, perfection isn't something to be reached only on some occasions something to strive for.h I digress, my deplorable trait is laziness. I hate being lazy, but I'm that all the time. But I'm working on it okay. Don't dare judge me with those eyes of yours. Or go right ahead, the matter of the fact is, I'm always improving. 4. WHAT IS THE TRAIT YOU MOST DEPLORE IN OTHERS? Alright you caught me. I use to be a liar but not anymore. I don't like when people lie. I believe it's the cowards way out. And you're not a coward are you? My viewers can't be cowards now. Lying isn't good, unless you're married. Lie all you want to protect yourself, it's a necessity. Anyways, if you want me to like you, be honest. 5. WHAT LIVING PERSON DO YOU MOST ADMIRE? If I say Sabatino Mangini, my professor, will I automatically get a passing grade? No, alright then I don't admire you anyway. You're dead to me! Haha, I love joking around. The person I admire today is Dwayne The Rock Johnson. This mountain of a man is the physical interpretation of hard work. His work ethic is beyond crazy and I only hope to have that same drive one day. 6. WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST EXTRAVAGANCE? I got to ride in a nice limo. I mean, it was for a funeral which is sad. But I was in a clean suit and a nice limo so... 7. WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT STATE OF MIND? Accomplishing my little dream of becoming the most impactful social media influencer in the world. I'm working harder than ever before to make this a reality. It's hard, it's tough, it's stressful. But I made a quote that I copyrighted so. The quote is "Finding the treasure, isn't meant to be easy. Unless the treasure isn't that valuable," words of chozen. 8. WHAT DO YOU CONSIDER THE MOST OVERRATED VIRTUE? Being kind. No, I'l say being overly kind. I was raised to be a cristian. So the rule was always to turn the other cheek. I call that a push over, and I once was just that. But when you go through something they call life, well you tend to grow a little back bone. At the least, I have. 9. ON WHAT OCCASION DO YOU LIE? Me, lie, never. I hate lying, don't you recall? I mean, I use to lie like a tired person. When I was younger, but that was out of fear. I'd lie to protect myself from my aunt's fury. So random but I'm watching this show, Agents Of Shield. Give it a watch, It's good! 10. WHAT DO YOU MOST DISLIKE ABOUT YOUR APPEARANCE? Now I feel like I'm answering questions for a dating site. Proust Questionnaire, more like Group Questionnaire. Bu the O is shaped like a heart. I'm not funny? Okay you're right. I don't my face sometimes. Puberty is really trying to hold on to this one sided relationship. I don't like these bumps on my face, stop it. 11. WHICH LIVING PERSON DO YOU MOST DESPISE? No one. I'll never despise anyone because that's a waste of my time and energy. I use to despise my aunt, but I've matured since then. 12. WHAT IS THE MOST QUALITY YOU MOST LIKE IN A MAN? Now the immature youngins are going to thinjk this question is gay. But I like it when a man has his stuff together. He knows what he's going to do for a living, is hard working, and just trying to be the best that he can be. I find that admirable. 13. WHAT IS THE QUALITY YOU MOST LIKE IN A WOMAN? Hey immature youngins, does this float your boat? I love it when a woman has her own goals and dream. I like when a woman can understand a man's ambition and help them get there. I believe that if a man and woman were in a relationship, it would have to be to individuals colliding to dominate life. Wow, sometimes I impress myself. 14. WHICH WORDS OR PHRASES DO YOU MOST OVERUSE? O.L.O.B my friends. It's a term that I created. And it stands for one life, one body my friends. I mostly use it in my youtube videos. A phrase I use everyday is be safe when I'm saying goodbye to someone. 15. WHAT OR WHO IS THE GREATEST LOVE OF YOUR LIFE? Creative influencing. I love to create art, I will never stop doing so. And if the art I create can impact a person's life, then I'm all in. I can't see myself doing anything else with my life other than being a creative influencer. A person that has the power to move people. 16. WHEN AND WHERE WERE YOU HAPPIEST? Currently. I am no longer held down by those I was once surrounded by. My life is an interesting one, I HOPE ONE DAY YOU CAN READ ABOUT IT. I live on my own, my youtube channel is growing, and I'm attending college. I'm almost truly happy. 17. WHAT TALENT WOULD YOU MOST LIKE WANT TO HAVE? The art of dancing. Now I can move my body real nice, but when it comes to dancing skill, I'm out of luck. Hey maybe you can teach me to dance. If you're patient enough to deal with my visual impairment. 18. IF YOU COULD CHANGE ONE THING ABOUT YOURSELF, WHAT WOULD IT BE? Back then I would say my visual impairment. But I've learned to utilize by impairment to inspire those who constantly make excuses on why they can't. When they see me, a blind kid, accomplish his goals. I want that to inspire them to say I can. 19. WHAT DO YOU CONSIDER YOUR GREATEST ACHIEVEMENT? For those of you who don't know me, I attended an alternative school. My school was one out of five and my school didn't have a sign. Every new bus driver I had, kept saying where's the school and I have pride for my school. This is the short version of the story, eventually, I got tired of hearing people diss my school. I spoke with the head of the school to give us a sign. One day, I'm coming to school as usual and there it was, a red and white sign saying, CSF BUXMONT ACADEMY. It's funny how the blind guy gave the school something visual. 20. IF YOU WERE TO DIE AND COME BACK AS A PERSON OR A THING, WHAT WOULD IT BE? I'd come back as an alien. I already lived on earth for nineteen years, I'm a bit bored. So let me see other planets, let me take an outer look of earth and those who inhabit it. Interesting... 21. WHERE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO LIVE? At this moment, California. Only reason is, there's a lot of people who do what I want to do. And that is create content. So it would be the best if I could surround myself with other creatives. But that's slowly changing, wanting to live in Cali. 22. WHAT IS YOUR MOST TREASURED POSSESSION? My body, soul, and mind. I want to take care of these things so I can live a long prosperous life. 23. WHAT DO YOU REGARD AS THE LOWEST DEPTH OF MISERY? Humans are really their own worst enemy. Same goes for yourself, you are your worst enemy. So I believe that you are most miserable when yourself, becomes the problem for you. 24. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE OCCUPATION? Youtuber, they had to fight for respect. Traditional media saw a youtuber as someone who just makes stupid videos online. But now traditional media are using the YouTube platform to reach out to an audience they never had. I want to be a youtuber. I believe they have the capability to do unthinkable things. 25. WHAT IS YOUR MOST MARKED CHARACTERISTIC? They say I have a magnetic personality. But I'm very to myself so where'd they get that idea? 26. WHAT DO YOU MOST VALUE IN YOUR FRIENDS? My friends are creative, hilarious, weird, and caring. If you aren't these things, we're not friends are we. 27. WHO ARE YOUR FAVORITE WRITERS? If I say Sab (What, I already said that joke? Oh okay). Um, J.K Rollings and J.R.R Tokken are two of my favorite. Yes I'm a nerd and I've proud. 28. WHO IS YOUR HERO OF FICTION? My pick isn't really a hero but that's why I love him. He is the deadliest of poolsm Deadpool. (Oh I knew this day would come, I'd like to thank Thanos, and SpiderMan for letting me borrow his costume. Oh I'm crying tears of joy!) You're welcome Deadpool, you're welcome. 29. WHCIH HISTORICAL FIGURE DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH? I have no clue. I'm not anyone other than Bedrock. I'll be my own historic figure. 30. WHO ARE YOUR HEROS IN REAL LIFE? All those who have the ability to impact a life, are more than a hero in my book,. Those like: officers, doctors, teachers, firemen, soldiers, and creatives. 31. WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE NAMES? Bedouens Philistin, I must put my name up there. Um, Jinson Cajamarca. I like names that are rare and unique. 32. WHAT IS IT THAT YOU DISLIKE? I don't like it when a person throws away their dreams and settle for less. They're your dreams and goals, let yourself be happy by accomplishing them. 33. WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST REGRET? I knew this was going to be asked eventually. I regret hurting someone who I meant a lot to. They were a mother, wife, and my teacher. She cared about me more than my own blood could ever. But... I lost control. 34. HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO DIE? Oddly, I prepared for this question. I'd like to die protecting those I care about. Wait, resserect me because I'd also like to die in a glorious fashion. Sorry God, bring me back again, I promuse just one more. I'd also like to die protecting those who hate me or I have a problem with. 35. WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO? O.L.O.B my friends. It means one life, one body. And this is true so, work hard, love yourself, and be strong. I love you. THE END |
bEDOUENS PHILISTINMy stage name is t.m chozen. It stands for the messenger chozen. And to the world, my stage, boy do I have a message for you. Archives
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