You Win Some, You Lose Most

          We’ve all had rough mornings. We all – or at least most of us normal people – hate Mondays. We’ve all had days that just make us want to club a baby seal. I mean, of course we don’t. ‘Cause that’s pretty uncool. People who club baby seals – or seals in general – are people who should never see the light of day again. Or at least you can tell they’re people who've had a really, really bad day. This is my very own Monday from Hell. The struggle was finally real.

This image hits so close to home that I literally can't even.

          I went home for the night last night in order to make it to an early appointment this morning. But we’re not talking about Sunday. We’re talking about Monday. So let’s begin at midnight this morning, shall we? The bed in my room at home is a wee bit different from the one here at school. So the sleeping experience was, shall we say, less than pleasant.

Lose.

          Nevertheless, I woke up promptly to my alarm at 7:00AM so’s that I could make some chocolate chip cookies for some new friends who helped me move a couch into my room. I had a lovely cup of coffee and set to work.

Win.

          One of the three batches baked a tad too long, and they got a tad burnt.

Lose.

          I got all of my stuff together to go, loaded it up in the truck, gave my mom a big hug with a funny accent to get a hearty laugh, and hopped in the truck. I turned the key, and *click*. Huh. That wasn’t supposed to happen. *Click*. *Click*click*. I sat back, took a deep breath, and did a little diagnostics check in my mind. The radio was on, and the battery was relatively new, so it couldn’t be the connection or the battery itself. Which left - *click* - the starter.

Lose.

          Luckily, I drive a standard transmission, which means when push comes to shove (ha), the clutch can be popped and life goes on. I know how to pop clutches, so ultimately I wasn’t stalled for long. I stepped out of my truck, met my mother’s worried eyes, and looked around. I was nowhere near a hill. In fact, I was at the bottom of a few small hills. A valley if you will. Which meant if I was to leave the house at all, the truck was to be pushed uphill. Against gravity. In the dewy grass. In the already-unbelievably-thick Kansas air.

Lose.

          Oh yeah, and I’m still recovering from a torn MCL, which at times is a very painful knee injury.

Lose.

          Still fairly optimistic – oh, how naïve I was – I hopped out, pushed the truck with whatever sleep-lacking, knee-deficient strength I had toward the hill behind me. I made it an embarrassing 10-12 feet up the 50-60 foot hill and let it roll back down, jumping in and popping the clutch as it did so. It didn’t work.

Lose.

          Mom readily jumped in to aid me. With the two of us, we made it a relatively impressive 12-14 feet.

Lose.

          I texted Dad to see if the farm truck was running. The truck worked, so I drove it around, hooked up the chain, and tugged it up to the top. My truck rolled down, the clutch popped, and it didn’t work.

Lose.

          Luckily, I had enough hill left for a second try. My baby took a gasping breath and roared to life.

Win.

          At this point, I gave my mother another hug, apologized for being somewhat short-tempered, and plopped down in my truck. I was bathing in my own sweat. Gross, I know, but it’s important that you feel the sheer suckiness.

Lose (for both you and me).

          At this point, it was 9:38AM. My appointment was scheduled for 9:40AM. The office is 40 minutes away from my house. A little mental math, aaaaaaannndd…..

Lose.

          I called the orthodontist and asked them to remove me from the schedule. Again. I’m already two weeks overdue on my checkups, and I probably won’t get to go back again for another week or two at least. So in other words, I haven’t gotten a pretty important check up done and over with in over two months.

Lose.

          The road to Emporia was pretty uneventful. I managed stay awawke. Of course, I didn’t really have much of a choice thanks to the lack of air conditioning in my truck. Both of my windows were down. 75+mph.

Win/Lose, it doesn’t matter at this point, right? The truck disaster has been averted (for now), and I’ll be in plenty of time for my classes.

The End.

          

          Yeeeeeaaaahh, that’s what I thought, too. Until I had to take my ID picture for my newly issued student ID.

Lose. Lose lose lose. In every sense of the word. So much so, in fact, that as soon as my friend Teresa, who is sitting here watching me type this saw what I wrote, she immediately spun around in her chair, snagged my atrocity of a headshot, and laughed pitifully.

A 90-year old career meth-head is the most apt description, I would say.

Lose.

          I finally got to go to the theater rally and see all of my theater peepsk;ngsbeji;ofw

Lose.

*all of my theater peeps (Holla if You Hear Me (a 2Pac Musical (that closed very shortly after opening (look it up)))). Good times were had by all. And we did the Waka Waka dance.

Win.

          But I had to leave a little early for our RA staff meeting.

Lose.

          The conference room had a wall with all of the RAs and their strengths. Guess whose name didn’t have any strengths listed.

One of these things, not like the others, you know the drill.

Lose.

          There was a long black hair on my head. I haven’t had any interaction with a dark-haired female friend today.

Lose.

          Teresa and Courtney drew on my head with dry erase marker.

Lose.

          I now know that dry erase markers wipe off of my bald scalp.

Win?

          I just discovered that all of my nails have been filthy since this morning, and Teresa put a crinkly light brown hair on my head with the justification of, “Well, you were complaining about a black hair, so I put a light brown one on your head.” It’s been there for a solid half hour.

Lose.

          Oh yeah, remember that filth I rode to school in, baking in my non-starting oven on wheels? Yeah, I’m still wearing those clothes. I stink. I haven’t had a chance to change since I got back.

          Oh. And I’m dehydrated. And Paige took half of my remaining six cookies.

Lose.

          I’m watching Guy Ritchie’s Snatch.

…

         

          Anywho, you win some, and you lose the rest. And all pity parties - no matter how justified - aside, you have to remember the important things in life: funny accents that make your mom laugh, chocolate chip cookies, and Guy Ritchie.

Heroism in the Face of Certain Doom

Today, I crashed on my bike.

And it

was

AWESOME.

          Don’t get me wrong. My knee is killing me. I can’t straighten my leg and put any amount of pressure on it without squealing in pain like a 6-year old, but still. I should get a medal or something.

          There I was, riding my bike back from rehearsal, going no faster than normal – if anything, I was, in fact, going at least half the speed I usually go. I round an incredibly dangerous corner, complete with tripwire explosives

Tripwire explosives.

automated machine guns

Automated Machine Guns

and stinging nettles.

Stinging Nettle

          Have no fear, random obscure reader who stumbled across this blog by accident while misspelling the word “breast”, I usually make it through this incredibly volatile gauntlet with the greatest of ease. Picture a small child, frolicking through the meadow. I am the hunter on his deer stand, scoffing at that child’s naiveté. At least, I am when it comes to this particular corner on campus.

          As I approached this area, I battened down the hatches and leaned into the corner. It was just like any other day. With one alarming exception.

          Right at the start, surrounded by the alligators that usually reside in the moat at the end of the gauntlet, stood an anxious-looking mother.

And a stroller. With triplets in it.

And a dog.

          What was I to do? Without a moment’s hesitation, I bailed. I squeezed the brakes with all the strength in my fingertips, and when that wasn’t enough, I threw myself and my bike to the ground, losing a shoe and (the other) half of my hair in the process. And oh yeah, the lower half of my left leg rotated outwards with a forceful pop. It rattled my bones (that was for you, Brandon).

          

          I got back up, and once the insane amount of artery lacerations were repaired with an expertly steady hand and some barbed wire, the mother and her three children thanked me with celebratory Oreo Cheesecake shakes from Sonic, America’s Drive-In and a $20 gift card to Linens ‘n’ Things.

          Once the high from purchasing new decorative centerpieces and an alarm clock wore off, I noticed a faint irritation. An irritation most would consider alarming. I went to the emergency room, and they said it’s fine as far as they’re concerned, but they gave me a bionic leg anyway. So I am going to be the best gosh-darned dancing bear there ever was. And it’s all thanks to my daring bravery. As I said, I should get a medal.

(He allows himself to hang a moment, suspended in his own verisimilitude.)

          Sigh. I took a corner too wide, leaned into the turn more to avoid hitting a fence, therefore ruining my $5 bike, and hit the ground instead, ruining my left knee.

          At least there were a couple of ESU maintenance guys on a red gator who saw me hit. They said it looked pretty awesome. Courtney Romero and Nathan Short said the same. (I will be signing autographs and taking photos later this week.)

          Nevertheless, as Christopher Marlowe once said, the show must go on. It’s very possible that Evan Eisenbarth will be the World’s Greatest Dancing Bear, and I will be the Ringmaster, all pending an MRI in the next couple days. If that’s the case, go get ‘em boy-o. I know you’ll kill it.

For those of you who don't know, this is what happens with stinging nettles.

The Rollercoaster of Love... Yeah, I Said It

If you know my father very well, you know that to him, every good story starts with, “There I was…” So, hoping the line will deliver the goods, there I was…

… on my way to work one morning, later than usual – not late mind you, just latER – when the radio tells me about speed dating

wait for it

on a rollercoaster. A gosh gollly darned rollercoaster! I know, right! That’s what I said! Before I know it, I’m sitting in front of a computer, looking at a sign-up screen for Mix 93.3’s “Rollercoaster of Love” event. I couldn’t wait to tell people about it, because there’s no way to do so without applying my best Kool-Aid man voice. So there! I had no legitimate reason to NOT put my name down immediately! Except for the part where this rollercoaster happens to be the Mamba.

And I’ve never ridden the Mamba.

And it’s the tallest rollercoaster in the entire world.

And people die on it every day.

And there’s an actual snake at the top that eats 1/3 of the riders.

And no one has EVER made it to the end of the ride.

So now, not only do I have to worry about not dying, but there’s also the added pressure of being a lady-killer. Of course, even referring to myself as a potential lady-killer puts me pretty far behind in the running. However, the way I saw it, in twenty years, it’d make a great story for my kids: “You know son, one time I signed up for a speed dating session on the tallest rollercoaster in the world. Too bad I didn’t win,” followed by a heavy sigh and an “oh-well” gesture.

Two days before the event, I got the call from the station “congratulating” me on my win.

Yeah. Thanks.

You see, I never win anything, except the occasional game of Pong against my incredibly talented laptop. So all I really felt I had gained from this phone call was two days to sweat, get excited, ponder all the different ways one could die on a rollercoaster, and seriously consider opting out. Then it dawned on me that at least to some degree, a shortage of us handsome, daring devils had to be the culprit in my so-called victory.

Much to my forty-year old, story-telling self’s disappointment, I was right. Very few guys had actually signed up. So few, in fact, that most of the guys participating were either friends of the radio station’s interns or the plus-ones of actual winners (including mine, but we’ll get to that later). But you know what? I didn’t care. *WARNING: SERIOUS MOMENT* I wasn’t going to back out. I’ve realized more and more that my life is too routine, and I need to get out there and have good, clean fun with my friends.

(ENTER plus one, stage left)

At this point, I called my best friend, Bobby Jimmy Eddy, or as many of you know him, Bobby Edmonds. The day on which this event was planned happened to coincide with Bobby’s 16^th birthday (happy birthday, by the way bro. Enjoy your learner’s permit). I called him up, asked if he was interested, and he said yes, only he doesn’t like rollercoasters, large amounts of people, or fun.

Well played, my comically young friend.

So I called someone else who would also be fun to take. They were busy. So was everyone else I could possibly think of, so I finally resorted to calling Marcus Titterington. I have nothing against him personally, he just has a lot of consonants in his name and far too few vowels. Regardless, Marcus and I showed up that Friday, looking fly as ever. And instead of easing my mind by distracting me, Marcus decided to take it upon himself to tell me every story he could think of that even remotely involved a rollercoaster and fear, “The first time I rode the Mamba, I was so scared, and it took me forever to stop shaking when I got off.” Great. Thanks Marcus. I mean, that’s on the list of things you don’t do right up there with mentioning ex-girlfriends in your best man speech.

Our tour guide, Jessica. Not the bald one.
Or the creepy one on the tv.
The one in the middle.

When I had called Marcus originally, he had made it very clear that he did not want to talk to eight random girls, he just wanted to get into Worlds of Fun for free. I told him to relax, and that ten guys had already been picked and were jumping at the chance to do this. Little did I know, as soon as we were getting ready to begin the short walk to our imminent doom, Jessica, our Worlds of fun tour guide of sorts, asked if the plus-ones wanted to participate, but it was more of a statement than it was a question. Just like that, Marcus was pressured into doing this with me, and what ended up being the eight of us men prepared ourselves for the experience of a lifetime. Well, more along the lines of the experience of the year. Meeeehh the summer. Yeah, let’s go with summer.

And so began the Rollercoaster of Love.

Marcus had the very front seat, and I picked the seat right behind him.

I don’t remember them all, because, for the most part, the conversations consisted of the same topics:

·         Where you from? I’m from Tonganoxie. Yeah, it’s okay, most people haven’t.

·         Any brothers and sisters? Cool, cool. I’m the youngest of six. (General freak out here.) Yeah, holidays are pretty crazy.

·         You like rollercoasters? Me too, but this is my first time doing the Mamba.

By that point, we’re at the top of the hill, and it’s really windy, so it’s hard to talk. I do however, remember a few of them specifically.

Brie was the first date. If I was nervous to ride it, then she was about to have a meltdown. I comforted her with my super verbal comforting power, and convinced her it would be fun, but other than that, she was one of the above-mentioned conversationists. She did, however, have really pretty eyes.

Haley was three or four dates in. The first thing she did when I sat down was, “Here, quick, take a picture with me,” and held out her iPhone. If there’s one thing about me I don’t like, it’s how bad I think I look in pictures of this nature. Plus, I made the mistake at looking at the screen of the phone instead of the actual camera, so I’m not even participating in the picture taking process! Not the greatest start. After I introduced myself and we passed the usual banter back and forth, she said she only had one rule: after the first two big hills on the Mamba, I had to put my hands all the way up for the rest of the ride. “What about the first big hill?” I asked. She looked at me like I was crazy. “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun.” And after some convincing she did, and it was. Haley was really nice, and I really liked talking to her.

The fifth or so date was a woman named Stephanie. We spent the entire ride talking about movies. Go team.

In the second-to-last car was Shane – apparently, I’m the only guy who didn’t question the fact that she had a strange name – and all the way in the last car was Audrey. I remember these two because they were friends, and their names put together sound like a folk/alternative band, the likes of which I would never listen to: Shane & Audrey. We also orchestrated a four-person in-ride picture once Marcus was sitting with Shane and I was with Audrey. We were pretty proud of ourselves.

Finally, my last date was in the first seat in the first car at the front of the Mamba. This was with Natalie. She had that kind of quality to her voice to where “Natalie” kind of sounded like “Natalie-uh,” but it was still fun. This was the windiest ride, so by the end when we stopped, I had water running out of my eyes. Seizing the opportunity as I saw fit, I looked at Natalie-uh and said in my best Miss America crying winner voice, “Natalie, thank you so much for riding this with me, I’m sorry I got so emotional!” She laughed, etc., etc.

Funny picture, exhibit A.

Afterwards, we went to a restaurant on the Worlds of Fun campus and had so much food. It was ridiculous. Fries, more fries, more fries, and even more fries, followed by large amounts of sweet potato fries, chicken tenders, and buffalo chicken. All of which was amazing. Marcus and I sat at a table with Haley, her plus one, Katie (another one of my dates), and Stephanie. We all talked and had a good time, and after a good half hour of good food and good company, Marcus and I went to explore the park with conquerous spirits. I know that’s not a word, but it is now. Deal. We mostly just took funny/cool pictures and rode every rollercoaster in the park.

Funny caption.

Look at his eyes.
Creepy weightlifting eyes, if you ask me.
Not that anyone did.

That's Brandon. Not the bald guy.
Or the creepy guy with his collar flipped up.
The one in the middle.

We also picked up one of the guys who was there by himself for that last hour and a half. His name is Brandon, and he’s a pretty cool guy (that was for you, Brandon).

On a closing note, I would just like to say that Marcus has, in the past, been representative of the side of the spectrum where new people made him somewhat visibly uncomfortable. So it was no surprise to me that he didn’t want to participate. But when he got on that rollercoaster he owned the night. Most of the stuff I ended up using to break the ice with my dates, I got from hearing him talking to his. Who is this silver-tongued man and what did he do with my friend?? He also went up and tried to talk to one of the station’s interns who he thought was really pretty. He got shot down, but still. Props, yo. Mad props.

So while neither of us ended up meeting our future wife, we put ourselves out there into an unusual situation and still had a blast. Next up, freestyle rapping at Lego Land. Yeah, boi.

(drops microphone and walks off stage, seemingly for no reason)

I'm pretty sure there's a Calvin and Hobbes strip where Calvin is running away like this.
Awwww yeeeaaahhh...

A Scholarship Made With Me in Mind

If you’ve ever filled out a scholarship application or written an essay for a grant, you know it’s not the most glamorous process in the world. In fact, I’d rather run Hospital Hill again than spend a day filling them out (see Hospital Hill post: http://ejbrest.blogspot.com/2012/07/hospital-hill-painful-true-tale-of-one.html).

Nevertheless, I am a poor college student in need of money, so I began the search. In doing so, I came across a scholarship with an essay that I’m almost positive was made for me. It requires an essay of 250 words or less, which in and of itself is fantastic, because no one likes writing essays. Yet, even better, it poses the following question:

“Which superhero or villain would you want to change places with for a day and why?”

…

Is that really the question?

Nooooo……

No, I’m being punk’d.

Ashton Kutcher?

Ashton, are you here?

Will you sign my copy of “The Butterfly Effect,” even though I’m trying to sell it?

Nevertheless, my mind started filling with possible answers immediately. I never thought I’d say this, but my essay ended up being too long by twice as much. I had to shorten it to get it to barely fit in the box at 248 words.

However, I bring to you, family members and random people who clicked on my link on Facebook, the full and unedited version of my scholarship application essay. Found only here.

Enjoy.

“There are a lot of superheroes out there. No doubt, each one of “The Avengers” is still pretty big right now, but as far as which one with whom I would trade places, there are several schools of thought.

1) Superman: Superman is just that - a super man. Faster than the speed of light by some accounts, heat/laser vision, strength, flight, and invincibility are his most widely known superpowers. Not to mention x-ray and micro-vision. I actually gave a speech in Public Speaking last semester on why he’s all around a great role model for America’s youth (search, “why Batman is bad for kids” on YouTube). Without a doubt, Superman is my favorite superhero.

2) Spiderman: everyone who saw any of the Spiderman movies in the theater came out wanting to pretend to shoot webs at people. I’ll admit, I actually tried (it doesn’t work, and contrary to what your friends tell you, girls don’t find it quirky and adorable). This guy is a struggling college student who is madly in love with the girl next door who he could never get to pay him any attention, depending on what story line you go with. If nothing else, he’s very relatable.

3) Iron Man: Most everyone has thought to themselves, “Self, what it would it be like to be a billionaire playboy with a superhero alter ego?” Tony Stark is the perfect example! Yeah, okay, Bruce Wayne kind of has the same thing going on, but I think Batman’s a bit overrated. Again, watch my YouTube video. Besides, Tony Stark has a suit packed full of cool weapons and the voice of Paul Bettany to attend to his every whim. What more could you possibly want?!

4) Lex Luthor: Bald, rich, and the smartest man in the world. What’s not to love? What? He’s evil? Meh, minor detail. Besides, that’s all based on your perspective. Personally, I am a huge fan of Smallville, which chronicles Superman’s teenage years. One thing I love about that show is Lex’s growth as a human being. There is no defining moment which turns him to the dark side, but rather his friendship with young Clark Kent, a boy with many secrets who refuses to trust Lex enough to share them, drives him more or less mad (both actual anger and a little craziness).

5) Batman: … Ha.

In summary, Superman is my favorite, yes, but the amount of responsibility that comes with being invincible and faster than a speeding bullet is one I just don’t think I could handle.

Iron Man and Lex are also prime candidates, but Iron Man is too full of himself and Lex, well, yes, Lex is evil. I’m not. The two don’t go together very well. Even though we’re both bald, and he’s only evil because of Clark, but that’s a whole other essay.

So, Spiderman it is! He’s human with a genetic mutation, he can climb walls, he has a key to NYC, and the ladies love him. Not to mention he saves the day, like a BOSS!”

For my fellow scholarship hunters out there, here’s a link to this website: <http://www.scholarshipexperts.com>. They have a lot of great scholarships to offer with simple essay topics, as you can see.

Out.

 

(enter witty title about being star struck here)

I'm always fascinated at the thought of being star-struck. I mean, for crying out loud I get intimidated by my supervisors at work or even the teachers at school whom everybody finds to be below themselves. So me sauntering up to Jennifer Anniston and being all cool, saying, "How YOU doon'?"

Ya. Right.

But that raises the question: what would I say if I met my favorite actor/actress? In this case we'll use the stunningly beautiful and talented Anna Kendrick.



Yes, this is Anna Kendrick.



Here's how I picture it, in my perfectly legitimate and unbiased opinion:

I'm just a-walkin down the street on a mid-December day, mindin' my own, when who should walk out of a Chipotle with an aluminum-foil-covered burrito right in front of me but Anna Kendrick? What're the odds?

On the inside I'm freaking out. I have to say something. She's one of my favorite, most gorgeous actresses, and odds are I'll never get this chance again! But I have to be original. Everyone probably recognizes her all the time, and I don't want to be just another face in the crowd.

Having just walked out of the restaurant on a lovely, care-free day, she's standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, debating on which way to turn and walk. Half of me wants her to walk my way so I can say hi, obviously; the other half is relieved when she doesn't. She moves away from me, but it's chilly outside, and the gloves which she had in her coat pocket have fallen out onto the ground. Show time.

"Excuse me!" Rather than turn around immediately as most would, she simply stops, as though maybe I'd leave her alone if she wasn't moving. "Excuse me?" I stoop and pick up her gloves, walking towards her, and she relents, puts on her smile for the fans, and turns around.

Most people say horrible things about cameras: that Photoshop goes a long way, or some people just look bad on screen plain and simple, but the camera doesn't do Ms. Kendrick anywhere near any kind of justice. I immediately forget that I know who she is and I see her for what's right in front of me: a beautiful brunette girl with a shining smile and eyes at which i could look all day who, for whatever reason, rather than saying the obligatory "thank you" and moving on, is still looking at me, too.

"You dropped these," I say sheepishly, looking down at the soft, white gloves. She looks down too, smiling and brushing a lock of hair back behind her ear.

"Thanks." We look at each other again, and I'm absolutely surprised with myself. I've never been so comfortable around such an attractive girl who I've just met. So I make a decision to stick with this charade that I don't know her, and push this new found comfort to the breaking point.

"I'm Elliott." She bites her lip, knowing she's only in Kansas to see family for a few weeks.

"Anna," she says as she extends her hand, which I take.

"Nice to meet you, Anna." I gesture to her burrito, "Mind if I get one of my own and join you?"

"Oh, no, not at all!" she says, not in a cheesy, flirty way, but more of a why-would-I-care-it's-a-free-country kind of way.

Ten minutes later, we're sitting at the counter in Chipotle talking about everything two strangers might talk about during an impromptu Mexican lunch. I quickly find that she has a sense of humor which makes it that much easier to be comfortable around her.

Eventually, the topic of what she does for a living has to come up, and when she says she's an actress, I play dumb for a few more questions, then it "hits me": "Holy crap! You're Anna Kendrick!"

Boom. Originality achieved.

All fame aside, I ask her how much longer she'll be in town, and she gives me her phone number; something i hope few people have gotten.

And so on,


and so forth,


for several years,


until I get a lead role in a blockbuster movie making of, "The Common Sense Book of Baby and Childcare" with Bruce Willis and Denzel Washington directed by Quentin Terentino... abridged.

And Anna Kendrick and I, of course, eventually get married. That can't NOT happen in this kinda story, I mean really.

Well that's my take. And I can have that near-premonitive opinion, because it's my blog. Take THAT, small audience!

But let's be honest. Here's how such an encounter would really go:

She comes out of Chipotle, debates which way to go, and chooses my direction. My heart pounds, but I still manage a hello and a funny remark or two without embarrassing myself or boring her (I'd at least give myself that much).

I then kick myself for months for not getting a picture with her to prove to my non-believing friends.

So if you're out there, Ms. Kendrick, and you're rolling through Kansas City anytime soon (or ever), drop me a line. Or, you know, have your people call my-...

You know what, just have them call me. I'm the only Elliott Brest on Facebook, so I'm pretty easy to get ahold of.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream (within a dream (within a dream))

This blog is about dreams, and this movie is about dreams.
Unfortunately, that's about as far as the similarities go.

Generally speaking, Sigmund Freud would tell you that dreams pointed to your inner-most desires, which usually ended up meaning you were in love with your mother to some degree. All throughout history, mankind has put meaning to dreams, insisting that they all mean something. Even today, people are eager to convey that, for example, a figurative dove that dive-bombs a clay pot of Kool-Aid means that soon they will take an unexpected trip to Saudi Arabia and then drown when their plane suddenly crashes in the Red Sea!

Please.

Modern psychology, on the other hand, has come to the simple realization that dreams are merely a projection of our subconscious’s tendency to continue to work while we sleep. Well, yes there are exceptions! Thank you for asking! Really only one that I can think of: divine intervention. For example, a friend of mine was at a loss as far as what to do with his life, and he had been fervently praying about it. A few weeks into it, he dreamed he was on a stage, pounding a podium with one fist, holding a Bible in his other hand, and repeating the words, “Isaiah 40:3” over and over again. Now, he’s on track to becoming a pastor. There is no doubt in his mind that that was a message from the Lord, and certainly God has spoken in dreams before. As I said, this is the only exception I can think of. Otherwise, another friend of mine, a good, solid Christian, would have some serious family problems and internal rage brewing. He dreamed his mom kidnapped him, threw him in a helicopter, and flew like a madwoman around New York City while he yelled and cussed her out, but in no way does any of that stem from his day-to-day life or make him a bad person at all.

See my point?

That being said, the euphoria or terror that follows the grogginess of sleep after a good, vivid dream amazes me every time. What? What’s that, small blog audience? You want examples? Oh, alright!

Just the other night, I dreamed I had Clark Kent’s powers from season 9 of Smallville. I was hanging out with my best friend, Chloe Sullivan (also from Smallville) at a grocery store. She knew of my abilities and we had fallen madly in love with each other. She did not want to become romantically involved, however, because she didn’t want to endanger my secret. I came up with a great idea, and took her to the aisle that sold Kryptonite. Being the Man of Steel himself, Kryptonite is supposed to be able to kill me, but it didn’t bother me at all. Hey, I don’t control what happens, I’m just along for the ride.

Anyway, I assured her that dating would be a lot of fun, but she looked at me in disbelief. So naturally, I picked her up under her arms and pinned her to the wall several feet off the ground. “See? Isn’t this fun?” She looked back at me and said, “Yeah, I guess it is!” So I set her down, turned around, grabbed a funny-looking vial of Kryptonite, and gave it to her. She drank it immediately, gaining the powers that I had.

Now, does this mean I secretly wish I was Superman and that I have a celebrity crush on Allison Mack?

……

Personally, I don’t see how that’s relevant, and obviously, it’s not a secret. The point is, when I woke up, I felt seven inches taller and like I had the most beautiful supporting actress of a small-time network’s biggest hit on my arm.

Ejemplo numero dos:

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a nightmare, and I never like talking about them. Not because I don’t like to relive the experience, but rather because once you wake up and all the cobwebs of sleep are gone, they seem stupid and make you feel ridiculous in the retelling. Besides, I never remember much of them. This one was a few years ago, and all I remember is that alien from “E.T.” killing that boy who took him in, multiplying himself, unleashing a zombie virus while also giving all the zombies handheld cannons (genius if I ever saw it), and taking over the world. This dream was particularly terrifying because I have never seen “E.T.”, so that alien creeps the snot out of me, and apparently, the boy’s name is Eliot.

What can I say? Some people are scared of snakes; I’m scared of 1980s Hollywood aliens… and snakes.

I don’t know why, but I just love this topic and the infinite possibilities that could accompany it. Skyscrapers 

made of Peeps, bungee jumping off of the Sun into a black hole, and saving the world from an all-evil version of the Matrix cast with the ability to spew lava are just a few of the amazing potential plots of dreams. If you haven’t tried it, I highly suggest it.

Hospital Hill

 A (Painful) True Tale of One Man's (Peer-Pressure-Inspired) Journey

(That's me, over there by the tall white guy in running clothes.)

There are two kinds of peer pressure:  good and bad. Simple enough, right?

Good peer pressure gets one to ask a beautiful girl to dinner, and eventually they fall in love and get married. These are good things.

Bad peer pressure is the kind that gets young children to enroll in terrorist training camps for Al-Qaeda on a dare. That is a bad thing.

Obviously, these are not the only circumstances under which peer pressure comes along. It could also happen when, just off the top of my head for a random example, two sisters take up jogging. After a few races, they’ll build up their confidence enough to run a half marathon. Which is fantastic! The two of them probably convinced the other to accomplish a feat few can claim as their own. Then they do it a second time! It’s very impressive by any and all standards! This is another example of good peer pressure.

Of course to every silver lining, there’s a dark cloud. Or something like that. After one or two of these 13.1-mile adventures, the sisters then say to themselves, “Hey, let’s get every single one of our siblings to run one with us!”

As you may have realized by now, these are my sisters Amy and Katie. I’m very proud of the both of them and I support them all the way to and through the finish line. That’s where I drew the line. I ran in high school, but I was never very good and didn’t feel much like revisiting these memories. So when these two running maniacs decided to drag the rest of us into it, I was one of the first Amy approached. “Hey, dude! Katie and I are trying to get all of us kids to do a half marathon in June! You should do it with us!”

I have a hard time telling people “no” when they get this excited, because then I’m afraid I’m disappointing them. If I had to guess, I would have to say that this fear stemmed from an early failure to realize that my dad’s face is just stuck like that, and that he is not always disappointed. However, I stuck to my guns and replied with a reluctant, “Yeah maybe. I think I have to watch the news that day, but we’ll see.”

No peer pressure was needed for the rest of our siblings. Ben, Corey, and Chris were all successful runners in high school, and they grew up together so they’ve always been competitive with one another, as well as everyone else around them. I was never all that competitive because I'm the youngest in my family by six years at the closest sibling. So one mention of the race and all of a sudden five Brest-born children were signed up.

Enter peer pressure, stage left.

Suddenly, said five older brothers and sisters seemed to want nothing more in the world than for me to run thirteen miles with them. Great. I declined as long as I could, resorting to screening calls and casually not replying to texts. However, they went over my head, taking the home-field advantage for their own. During dinner one fine evening, Mom casually mentioned, “Oh so Elliott. Amy mentioned you’re running a half marathon with your siblings?” NO!!! They got Mom in on it! Dad, too! I quickly found myself drowning in pressure to run this race! The pressure built and built until I couldn’t take it anymore! Fine! I’ll run the race! I give up!

This is bad peer pressure.

So it began. By the time I was serious about training for this event, we were seven weeks away. Amy pointed me to a website for marathon rookies where I copy-and-pasted a training schedule. As it turns out, training schedules don’t do you much good unless you stick to them wholeheartedly, so by the time I was really serious about training for this event, we were five weeks out.

Three weeks of dedicated training and two weeks of not-so-dedicated training later, it was racing day. Not picture-tracing or doily-lacing day, but racing day. I had already received my race packet which included my bib number and a ticket for some free fancy flip flops, and I had been carb-loading for several days. 

After a fortunately great night of sleep, I arose from my slumber at 4:00 AM and rode with Amy to the race.

Hospital Hill is one of Kansas City’s largest races, if not THE largest. We somehow found the rest of the family among the almost 4,000 other runners that had signed up this year, and as everyone went through their final stretches, Ben, Liz, and I had to visit the conveniently-placed port-a-pottys one last time.

Had I been a 6-year-old boy at the very moment that I stepped out of that stall, I probably would have broken down and demanded that someone deliver my mother to me. Not a single person around me was one I recognized. We had each been assigned to certain corrals according to our estimated finishing times, however, so I knew the general area where they would be.

As I journeyed toward my designated corral, I made it a point to look for my brothers and sisters who had abandoned me, much like Joseph’s brothers did in the Bible. Only, instead of slavery and imprisonment, I could have been murdered, mugged, or stolen (thanks again, Amy!). Unfortunately, the corrals, while fairly large, were small enough that people were literally packed shoulder to shoulder. Any attempt to make it to my corral or to find the others was quickly decided as pointless.

So much for a round of Kumbayah and good luck wishing before the so-called festivities began. The rules were explained as well as the starting process, and before long, the time came for me to begin the journey. So I did.

Before I knew it, three street-side rock bands, four water stations, and six and a half miles had gone by without a sweat. Well, in truth, there was a lot of sweat, but regardless, I felt good. I was running slightly better than I thought I would, and I hadn’t stopped to walk yet. I wasn’t completely tuckered out, but I stopped for the next water station anyway as a kind of reward to myself: mistake number one.

Before I got to the station though, Amy had suggested a Five Hour Energy shot halfway through the race. So, I took one of those: mistake number two. If you’ve ever had one of those, you know just how disgusting they are. But we’ll get to that a little later.

Any runner that I’ve talked to agrees that water always seems to weigh their limbs down exponentially, and the fact that I wasn’t even half way done with the longest race of my life didn’t help morale either. Nevertheless, I gulped half of the water, threw the cup away, and immediately started back into my pace: mistake number three.

While water adds twenty pounds of lead to my arms after I drink it either way, it seems lesser when I sip the water instead of gulping. Besides, you know that stitch you get in your side sometimes when you run? Well, there isn’t any hard evidence as to the cause, but Amy found somewhere that it’s believed to happen after drinking large amounts of water quickly. For example, half of a Gatorade cup of water a little less than half way through a thirteen mile journey.

Enter pain, stage right.

I alternated between walking and jogging for the next two and a half miles with little relief, and to add to it, I had tied my shoes just a little too tight before the race started: mistake number four. The friction in my shoes built up and soon, the bottom of my feet felt raw. Luckily, the friction only started at mile nine. The pain associated with it didn’t fully manifest itself until mile 12.

These began to fade slowly by mile 11. There, two kinds of new evil reared their ugly faces. I was running up Broadway, starting to regain some confidence, and out of nowhere, my legs started to hurt. Immediately after this, they started to cramp; the entirety of both legs from the knee down. I’ve had a Charlie-horse before, everybody has. But these were so bad I couldn’t walk. Couldn’t even move my legs. One might say that instead of Charlie-horses, these were Charles-Clydesdales.

I bent over to rub my calves, hoping they would help, and as I did so, the Five Hour Energy shot made a comeback in the worst way possible: the kind of heartburn you can taste. At that moment a race pacer ran by and saw that I was having some problems. She stopped and, while running in place, said with a surprisingly confident Southern drawl, “Ya doin’ awll right there sah-weetie?”

“Ya I guess so. My legs are just cramping up really bad.”

“Well, by golly we can’t be havin’ that now can we? Here, take some mustard packets.” She dug into her fanny pack and pulled out a packet of Sonic mustard and one of Wendy’s mustard and handed them to me. I was dumbfounded, and she could tell. “If you eat ‘em, they sure help with cramped legs!”

And with a smile and what I can only imagine was a cheesy wink behind her sunglasses, she was gone. Mustard? I like mustard on ham sandwiches and potato salad. That’s where the list stops. I have long hated mustard, and for that I would have to blame my brother Ben. When I was little, he took his careful time and had me completely convinced that mustard was in fact cow manure straight from the bowels of a cow, which is why it’s yellow, not brown.

So there I stood in the 85 degree weather, near the end of my first half marathon, with mustard in my hand. Besides, I don’t care who you are, if you’re in the middle of any kind of race, no kind of food is anywhere on your list of priorities, let alone mustard; I don’t care if you do like it. However, if you have two miles left to go and you can’t move your legs, you’re willing to give anything a try.

After a few gags and another few minutes form forcing the mustard down and waiting for the pain to subside, I was back to hobbling, and I’m sad to say that that was the best I could do for the rest of the race.

The last two hundred yards, my family met me and cheered me in. I was embarrassed because every time I tried to run my legs would seize. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t let myself be the guy who walks across the finish line on front of a sea of spectators.

Had I remained on pace with my time at 8 miles, I would have finished in 2:11.00. As it happened, I finished at 2:51.37.

In my division (males 19 and under), I took 48/48.

In my gender (yes, males), I took 1654/1697.

And overall, I took 3202/3351.

So, in summary, I got smoked in my division, but I held true to my cross country goal: don’t be last overall... Oh, and I beat Amy and Katie.