So, I realized how much the other essay sucked, so I completely changed the topic, and it’s much better I think. Tell me please which one’s more fun to read. That’s the objective, at least for me. I like entertaining with my writing.
I’ll just come right out and say it: Never write a 27-page manifesto professing your love for the copy-editor of your high school newspaper.
You look confused. I’ll elaborate.
It took me 15 years to gain some cojones, figuratively speaking, and join my high school newspaper, the Outlook, and I’m pretty sure that it was the greatest decision I ever made. I met some of my greatest friends, did some of my best writing, and learned so many lessons that I never would have had I not joined Outlook.
And one of those lessons being: Never write a 27-page manifesto professing your love for…you see where I’m going with this.
After my first year on Outlook, I wrote a “manifesto” as I’ve come to call it, about my experience so far on the newspaper. That manifesto included vivid descriptions of my thoughts and feelings towards my fellow staff members—one of those people being Jordan.
To say it lightly, I had a major crush on Jordan.
After he graduated, I finished my manifesto and printed it for the rest of the staff to read, not realizing how infamous it would become. It took the name “Hotel California,” but that’s too long of a story to explain. And Hotel California was passed from person to person almost like my own personal “Mean Girls” Burn Book, only I didn’t accuse my math teacher of selling drugs. I revealed my feelings for everyone, including Jordan.
It was the very last day of newspaper my junior year, a whole year after Jordan had graduated, and as most Outlook alumni do, he came back for a visit. To tell you the truth, I was slightly more apathetic than I thought I would be. That was until my newspaper adviser, Mr. Smith, begged me to let Jordan read my manifesto. By now, all the pages were laminated and bound in a two-inch binder, as if it were as sacred as the first documentation of man. Initially, I declined Mr. Smith’s request to hand my book over to Jordan, but after constant pleading, I finally gave in, and let him give it to Jordan.
I did not expect it to be so nerve-wracking.
I sat at my desk, staring blankly at my open Word document, glancing to the door every once and awhile, sweating almost as much as Ruben Studdard in the finale of the second season of American Idol. I could just picture Jordan in the other room, laughing at my horrifically embarrassing manifesto, basking in his own delight. I didn’t even want to think about what he was going to say to me once he walked through that door. The door that separated room 530—my sanctuary—from the rest of the world, where I was the laughing stock of my high school, and its alumni.
I darted to the bathroom to avoid passing Jordan as he left, and to release my anxiety via toilet bowl. Why had I even brought myself into this situation? Why had I let Mr. Smith give Jordan my manifesto? Why did I even write it? Those were all the questions going through my mind as I heard Jordan walk by the bathroom door into room 530, where I was supposed to be, to face my fate.
So I left the bathroom, my dignity still intact, ready to completely lose it.
I quickly ninja’d my way into my seat without anyone seeing me, but then I heard my fellow staff member, Ross, shout out “Oh, there’s Abby!” I froze. Why, Ross, WHY? Then I saw my life flash before my eyes, in a blaze of glory, out with those of Outlook legends, only mine was one of humiliation, not of journalistic excellence.
He stood there above me, staring down at my timid little face, ready to witness his amusement in exchange for my pride.
But he didn’t. He didn’t laugh at all. There in room 530, Jordan reached his arms open wide like a anxiously-awaited security blanket and said, “Give me a hug, Abby.” I stood up and hugged the man that I had so wanted to hug for such a long time.
I then realized something—I lived through all the anxiety for nothing. My weird, obsessive compulsion in writing my manifesto paid off. It wasn’t my original intention, but things worked out for the better. Don’t worry, be happy. Take the risk and let the cards fall where they may. Yes, I just stated two ridiculous clichés, but hey, they fit.
And again, don’t write a 27-page manifesto professing your love for your copy-editor, just to be safe.