This Is What a Disaster Looks Like

         I should, perhaps, begin this whole ordeal with a proper introduction of myself and the contents to follow. Instead of the possibility of a full on ramble; a task that I'm seemingly well versed in. Though, the point of journal writing is to let your thoughts just fall out as they are, regardless of how scattered they may be. At least that's what a few years of writing instruction from various (potentially reliable) sources have taught me to believe. Yet, if I wanted to, for example, share this disaster with others, how would one tell the truth about my name on the cover and the lies between the pages? Is there an assumption at my lack of notable fame that makes it so no one would want to pretend to be me or something else? I suppose that ultimately the decision weighs and rests heavily upon my open noted riddled hands. With all of that said and done and rambled through, let me give telling a handful of lies a chance.

         Authoritative sources have a general belief that my name is legally James Elias Kingston. Yes, I'm fully aware that your name doesn't have the same level of sophistication and pizazz, but we can't all be winners. The beginning of this journal (or rather what is created after this terrible introduction) will serve as the necessary ground stones to transport any halfway intelligent creature to the start of my junior year of high school. There's a vain hope for updates beyond the ones required by my English teacher; the sole push behind this project. Even without those potential updates this journal will prove to be successful enough for my satisfaction, and that's the important part of the situation at hand. At least as far as far as I'm concerned that is and I'm conceited enough to say only my opinion matters. 

         In regards to that, specific updated schedule times shall hover around class dates and theoretical writing assignments that call upon my drab prose. Which, judging by this class scheduling, will be approximated on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays unless there's a mix up in the main office or a special event proclaiming too many places to meander to and not enough time to enjoy a prompt (however mundane it may end up). Well, that and my favoritism in regards to procrastination of school required endeavors. All of which, in the end, would seem to mean I will lack consistency, but try oh so hard to promise the world it. A theoretical problem, but one that will only taunt me from the sidelines currently before full on striking later on in life; if it does at all.

         Now, with that all written and out of the way, this first entry seems to be complete. Enough edges left shredded to leave room for a chance at being amusing and clever in words that will likely be kept in the dark. Unless, of course, the urge to throw it into the lime light of those likely to give it only a passing, surveying glance and a possible nod or shake of the head. Really, who cares about the musings, the memoir-esque writings of a nobody when there's apt to be a new starlet or star piece hitting the shelves soon? Yes, sure, their struggles are so close to home, so real; so shoved down my throat on so many programs it has begun to hurt. Really though, if it's not me down someone of the female persuasion's throat, then I cannot promise to show interest.

         With that push towards an inappropriate comment and what sounds like the beginning of the chicken egg buzzer going off, I best end this start of a rambling mess. Goodbye myself and my imaginary readers.

- With love from Kingston

Insulted

Dear America's Future Failures,

          Kindly crawl back into whatever ditch you managed to come out of. No one in their right mind wants to deal with your surprisingly consistent ability to succeed at not following directions and forgetting important information seconds after it has been uttered. The drool dripping from your mouths as vacant expressions take over your faces is truly disgusting. I hope that I never have the distinct displeasure of having my head filled with air like yours.

With love,

Kingston

           That is the current rough draft of my speech/essay for this damned to hell English class. I have a sneaking suspicion that it will not over well with my dear peers of the future. Rather, it may insult the few fellow halfway intelligent classmates who may figure out that I may not be joking this time around. This may prove to be a mistake for my social life but then, that's what killer parties are for.

          As for my dear charming English teacher, well, I have the belief (read, strong, strong hope) that she'll enjoy it. The generic same old approach to assignments bore her half to tears; from what I can gather at least. Where as my take on the inspirational speech will likely make her smile to herself... Up until the madness of insulted teenagers becomes a problem.

           By the time that terrible revelation hits them the class should, with luck, be over for the day. The joys of asking for the last slot (and thankfully getting it) are almost endless. Had I been forced into the first slot of the period I would likely fair... Not so well to put it mildly. Every spot between my own and the end would result in growing pandemonium and hurtful jabs from my unpleasant, but socially necessary table mates. Fortunately, I will be presenting that rude speech at the end

           And, if my memory serves me, at least one (if not two) of my three table chums is stuck inspiring the masses as well. So they'll be busy fretting about their own miserable speech and less than focused on mine. Rather, Lisa will be fretting and double checking (then triple checking) all of her oh so precious notes. Then, if Eric is presenting, it will be me painstakingly helping him prepare for it like the oh such good friend that I am. Read, I am doing it to continue to stake a claim in the franchise of rich connections. Because while their children may lack intelligence, the parents and their well off friends certainly do not. After all, the perfect way to break free of this middle class life is to infiltrate something higher than it.