Works Cited

Photo Resources:

“Infographic: The Home Depot Announces Strategic Priorities & Long-Term Financial Targets.” The Home Depot, 13 Dec. 2017, corporate.homedepot.com/newsroom/home-depot-announces-strategic-priorities.

Mai, Jessica. “13 Fun, Free Places to Watch Fourth of July Fireworks in New York City.” Business Insider, Business Insider, 2 July 2016, www.businessinsider.com/new-york-city-fireworks-july-fourth-2016-6.

“Harlinton 5 Pc. Bedroom - Dresser, Mirror & Queen Panel Bed.” Price Busters Furniture, www.pricebusters.com/product/bedroom/bedroom-groups/harlinton-bedroom-group-2/.

“On the Road.” Maxwell Hillier, 25 November, 2018.

Music:

Roth, Ryan. “Va.” The Beginner’s Guide Soundtrack, 1 October, 2015.

Jorgensen, Austin. “Garbage Day.” LISA, 15 December, 2014.

Okugawa, Hideki & Suzuki, Marika. “Mall Theme 3.” 8 August, 2006.

Taniuchi, Hideki. “This World.” 8 October, 2007.

Takada, Masafumi. “Beautiful Ruin.” 26 July, 2012.

Hansen, Eddie. “Office Ambiance.” 29 June, 2014.

Story 1: Read Entries Top to Bottom

NOTE: The link in the first sentence is a song that is intended to last for the duration of the story.

When I was a kid, I was aimless. It was a drab Saturday. Fall never appealed to me on a precipatory level, as the rainfall filled me with malaise and apathy. Wearily and deliberately, I forced myself out of bed. At that age, I did not appreciate the simple pleasures of sleeping in, so I ran around the house. It was around half past seven, and none of my favorite TV shows were on. I ran to my mother, who was watching a TV show called Rome. She shooed me away, as I was eight and that it would be unseemly if I watched. Nonplussed, I wandered some more. I checked the pantry for chips, but it was empty. I rushed downstairs for entertainment, and stopped in the laundry room. Believe it or not, my dad is from Halifax. When he moved to Canada, he brought many belongings from his home into the garage and laundry room. Such was the source of enjoyment for many years.

That morning, I rummaged through my father's boxes with gusto. Or was it desperation? Whatever drove me, it led me to Kerouac. A novel titled “On the Road” sat in the middle of the box, covered by dusty dividers and binders. I pulled it out, staring at the cover and back. The front was a collage of photographs, and the back was positive reviews from print publications. It was a beat up little thing, with folds, markings, and an orange sticky note peeking on the top. Judging it on these merits, I was convinced it had to be a literary masterpiece. speeding upstairs, I resolved to ask my dad about it. I found him preparing a toasted peanut butter and jam sandwich in the kitchen.  “Are you hungry? Don't worry about me, we have enough for a second.” I politely declined, and inquired about the book. “Oh, you found that?” He rubbed his chin before continuing. “It is a nice book. However, you’re probably a bit young to get a kick out of it.” I asked if it would take long. “No, not really. Just hold on till you’re 12 or 13.”

Believe me when I say that I attempted to wait for that long. However, I couldn’t contain my curiosity, and started reading five hours after he told me to wait. I got about 20 pages in before I started yawning. Like my father suggested, it was not for me. Looking back at it, it is a novel that comes from good stock: the prose was well-structured and the setting feels wholly realized. But no matter how perfectly realized it was, it could not entrap me, as I had the crippling diagnosis of being 9 years old. When I was a kid, I had tunnel vision and aimlessness. If I held a greater understanding, many things would be easier. However, such limitations teach lessons later on. Perhaps, such tunnel vision is necessary.

STORY 1 END

Legal documentation is a blessing and a curse. Without it, I would be a nobody in the government's eyes, and have trouble attaining a legal job. But with it, I have something worse: renewing my passport. on a rainy Saturday morning, I went to the passport office to renew the document and end the sordid affair. The office was dank like the confines of a dungeon, lacking chairs that weren't taken. After getting my number, I stood waiting in a corner. After what felt like a millennium, I was called to one of the open counters, where a man sat across from me. From the get go, he looked unhappy, so I could tell it would be something of a trying, if not outright difficult time.  "I'd like to renew my passport." Pulling the documents out of my bag, I was certain of their validity. I had my references, old passport, birth certificate, etc. He glared through his thick rimmed eyeglasses, as if they were piercing through the documents. After a minute of inspection, he returned them to me silently, and returned to writing his papers. "So, is the renewal going to be in the mail, or...?" He stared daggers at me, and stated "your birth certificate is illegitimate. Not to mention, you need one more piece of ID." At once, I tried to salvage the situation. "What do you mean, it's illegitimate?" Without saying anything, he pointed at the birth date. The 2 in 27 was slightly smudged. "It was in my wallet on the way here. And look, all the signatures and stu-" He silenced me with a pointed look. "I don't care if it was in your wallet. I'm not going to argue." Defeated, I withdrew from the building, and returned home.

Honestly, I didn't mind renewing my birth certificate. It would take around 9 days, but that was more enough time for me to bounce back. The meat of the issue was the extra piece of ID. I knew that my best bet was my driver's license, but it was missing in my house. My room has three cabinets, and all of them have varying amounts of random stuffed items. Imagine trying to find one needle in three haystacks, and you get the idea. 

Note: This picture was chosen for the three cabinets. Besides this similarity, it looks unlike my room completely.

After maybe 15 minutes of searching, I called it quits. Calling my three most trusted confidants (henceforth A, B, and C), we met in my living room. I explained my plight, and asked for advice. A suggested I order a new license. No dice, that would take much longer than I had time for. B suggested I forge a license. It was a brilliant idea, but government clerks wouldn't fall for it. C suggested I ask my parents if they had seen it. With my pride in critical condition, I asked my mother if she had seen it. “I don't know where exactly dear, but I would check the coffee table. It might be in or under some books.” I began to frantically rush through the magazines on the coffee table, flicking through novels to look for it. My compadres did the same, and we found it in maybe five minutes or less. I can say with full confidence that the help of my mother saved me from extending the horrors of the passport office any further.  Some evils are simply not worth prolonging, and this was surely one of them.

STORY 2 END

The summer struck me a sickly sweet disposition, I fell ill with romantic idealism and preconceptions of adventure. My father told me to either take up a job or volunteer until September started, and I took his advice to heart. Doing the former, I began to work at my hardware store. It was a dull occupation, with little excitement or fanfare. My station was one of cashiership, a fitting job for someone my age. Rotating customer through customer with heavy eyelids, hoping that I wouldn’t be lulled asleep by the harmonious voices of disgruntled customers. This is not to say that it was without benefits. I befriended a student named Matthew, whose disposition matched nearly piece for piece. We went to different schools, but were of the same spirit. When the summer was near its end in August, the two of us decided to book a day off to enjoy the last fringes of summer.

We decided to go to the beach in earnest, and were not disappointed. The sun was holding high, and clouds were all but absent. Breeze was present, but the pleasant warmth counteracted it. After finding a spot for a towel and our bags, we set out to swim in the sea, and the day passed blissfully. By around seven, we decided to transit back home. It was still relatively bright out, so we decided to walk around one last time on the shore. We were walking on some logs when I saw something shine faintly on the sand, between two rocks. Kneeling down, I swathed through the sand for a second, until I was able to pick up the foreign object. It was cylindrical and had a conical end. It was very clearly a bullet, even though it didn’t register with me until a few seconds later. I decided then and there that since this was the last adventure of the summer, it had to end on a bombastic, if not misguided note.

Immediately taking our nearest bus, we decided to let my phone chart our course to the station, so that we could turn the bullet in to the police. Switching buses every so often, nighttime slowly encroached on our journey. I periodically checked my watch on the bus. It must have been nine or earlier when we heard fireworks. After briefly conferring with Matthew, we got off the next stop to get a better look. If anything, the bullets were simply a vague pretext  to go to the city. Sucking in the cool air, we began to walk down the block towards the fireworks. Even though I’d been in downtown before, it felt nice in a way I can’t explain. It felt right, like everything lined up correctly. At the very least, the streets were better than the drab insides of a police station. We reached the end of the pier, and the fireworks were in clear view. I don't remember what color they were, or what shapes they made. But it’s alright. I do remember smiling.

STORY 3 END