Pst… Pst…

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“We are like children building a sand castle. We embellish it with beautiful shells, bits of driftwood, and pieces of colored glass. The castle is ours, off limits to others. We’re willing to attack if others threaten to hurt it. Yet despite all our attachment, we know that the tide will inevitably come in and sweep the sand castle away. The trick is to enjoy it fully but without clinging, and when the time comes, let it dissolve back into the sea.”

Pema Chodron

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Nightmare

Version 2

Omnes vulnerant, ultima necat.

Every hour wounds. The last one kills. —Popular Latin inscription on sundials.


She woke up with a pounding headache, and slowly, the memories from her dreams the night before start trickling in.

A woman on her deathbed. Her eyes are bleak, and her skin clings to her bones. An eerie, gargle-like sound escapes her lips—the “death rattle,” they call it.

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Community Pool

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Warm-Up

It was a beautiful day for swimming, so naturally, the pool was packed.

While I waited for a lane to open up, I decided to do my warm up in the open area of the pool, where all the swim classes take place. As I would learn soon enough, sometimes it’s better to wait on the sidelines…

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The Shortcut through the Cemetery

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New England in the fall, and also the quintessential Instagram picture. I’m so proud.

“You can see how this book has reached a great boundary that was called 1900. Another hundred years were ground up and churned, and what had happened was all muddied by the way folks wanted it to be—more rich and meaningful the farther back it was.”

John Steinbeck, East of Eden

“The years go by, and I’ve told the story so many times that I’m not sure anymore whether I actually remember it or whether I just remember the words I tell it with… At this point, what difference does it make whether it was me or some other man that saw Moreira killed.”

Jorge Luis Borges, “The Night of the Gifts” (Trans. Andrew Hurley)

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My senior year of college, I lived in an apartment next to an old cemetery. 

The cemetery had headstones and crypts that dated back to the 18th century. Several of them belonged to the college’s first students. I always wondered whether they willingly chose to be buried there out of devotion to the college, or whether academic rigor got to them before they could graduate. I typically assumed the latter.

The cemetery was mostly green and wooded. Parts of it were steep, and it even had a ravine dividing it down the middle. With its tall trees and eery voices, the graveyard was hauntingly beautiful. During the fall and spring, I used to take a shortcut through the cemetery. I was drawn to the tranquility and quiet, and of course, the dining hall on the other side. I told myself it was a shortcut, but I still doubt if it actually was. I had to climb down a sharp incline then up another hill to get across, usually taking about as much effort as just walking around the cemetery. I never dared to take the path during winter, lest I came across winter gnomes, shout in surprise, then slip, break a leg, and freeze to death.   Continue reading

A Bad Essay on Charlie Puth’s “We Don’t Talk Anymore”

We don’t talk anymore, we don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore, like we used to do

Charlie Puth

The following satirical essay will be much more enjoyable if you’re familiar with Charlie Puth’s “We Don’t Talk Anymore.”  Most of the information in this essay is loosely based on true facts, but some of it is so loosely based on real details that it’s debatable whether “loosely based” is still an appropriate description.


Class: MUS 52.21 Contemporary Music

Professor Flibert

Due: In 1.5 hrs.

Let’s Talk about Why “We Don’t Talk Anymore”: A Lyrical Analysis of Puth

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My BIG High School Scandal

Okay, I’ll start off by saying that the title to to this blog post is very misleading (a trend in a lot of my titles). I was a bookworm and a nerd in high school (not much has changed tbh). Let me put it this way, one of my favorite high school memories was representing Iran in Model UN. My friend and I even founded the Model UN club at our school. Yeah, I think that sums it up quite well.

Last week, I wrote about my frustrations keeping up with the news. That post reminded me of the time I spread fake news before it was cool…

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Goico Lou Will Live Forever in Our Hearts

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Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion.
― Arthur Koestler

Mrs. Henderson was clearly losing the battle against her yard. Weeds had taken over most of it, and the overgrown grass hid a few newspapers scattered across the lawn.

Kate sighed as she picked up yet another newspaper on her driveway. She lazily threw it over the fence to join the others on Mrs. Henderson’s yard. To the dismay of both women, the Tribune never seemed to deliver the paper to the right house. Even after numerous complaints.

All Kate wanted to do was take off her heels and relax in front of the television with a glass of wine, which is exactly what she did. It had been a lousy Monday.

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