Wednesday, October 27, 2010
English Class10
Hi...its been a long time since i have been able to use my computer...so i was kinda late on this blog and the last one. So anyways i apolagize for my tardy ness to all of this i wish it coulda been sooner but...oh well...i hope mr.P is very understanding about this and that he gives me at least 75% percent on this...because i care about engllish class more than most of my other classes, because when i grow up i hope doctor/Writer. so far i have writen a couple of stories in the past that has never been read by anyone else but me. I more of a typer than a reader. I dont like reading most of the time but i like writting, and when i write; i do expect some one to read. i think i'll be a better writter if i work on my grammar more and if i know what the public wants to hear. I'll like to be a writter that can touch inside of peoples heart and give them exactly what they want...i know that this might just be my most boring blo ever but i go nothing else to write about. i'm a type of writter that likes to write things as they happen. other than becoming a writter i'll also like to have a future in tomorrow...sight i mean a future in comedy...i'll like to become a directer of comedy shows like those on disney channel...and those on BET. i also like poetry...basically rymes that make sense...thats the only reason i appreciate lil weezy cuz he teaches me every day new words that ryme and how to put them in a sentence that would actually make sense and at the same time give people what they wanna hear...Other than becoming a poet i'm also thinking about becoming a soccer player for the USA and make it big in the future of tomorrow...i'll like to meet all of my desired people in life....if i had a chance to pick whoever i wanted to see that lived a long time ago i would probably pick Jesus Christ...because he is my domain...and the purpose of my life...i believe in him and i hope o see him when i go to heaven some day....anyways...currently i'm very busy so ima make this quick...i gope the blog iss long enough for mr.potter to belive that i spent a lot of time in this...so i just wanted to say all of this...because i have no idea what i just wrote about...anyways i think this is as far as i would go....PS: I realized that i get faster and faster everytime that i write my blogs...bye ya'll:)
Saturday, October 16, 2010
english class
Recently the book that we are reading in english is fanstatic...i cant believe the girls name doh....its scout...i mean wat kind of a girls name is scout? Well anyways...i appreciate it...and idont appreciate this blog...at first i though it'll be cool...but then...its taken time away from me now...i think Mr. P is just trying to make us ready fo long paper essays in college...and its a skill that cant be bought...anyways i hate it for now....because its takin time from me...and i have a lot more of important stuff to do...for example...like biology....i have a lot more stuff to do in there...im failing it...its not a good sign...i have never failed a class before....so for now on....im not gonna have fun with anyone...im gonna stick to my priority. Which is too fimish my school and get a good job....Peace...LANCE T. VANCE is out!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
English 10 Class
English class is so fun. i love it! since i got nothin to say im just gonna tell a random story...here goes nothing!....
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as manywomen have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under hte breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that owuld belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they ahve a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills. thats the end...i got no idea wat its tlking about.
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under hte breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that owuld belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they ahve a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills. thats the end...i got no idea wat its tlking about.
Monday, October 4, 2010
English 10 Class
i love english class....but here is a funny story. I'm a blog junkie. It's okay, I'll admit it. I especially like the funny blogs- blogs that make me laugh so hard I'm close to tears. While there are a lot of funny blogs on the Internet, there are very few that I keep
going back to everyday to see what could possibly be more hilarious than the day before. I've picked five of my favorite funny blogs to share with you. These range from the random weird people you know on Facebook to annoying husbands. These are blogs that guarantee to pass time and force you to procrastinate more than you had intended to.
Funny Blog #1: Facebook Status Updates Gone Wrong at Lamebook.com
Lamebook is dedicated to all things Facebook that can make you groan, laugh, or quickly defriend one of your connections. The thing I love about Lamebook is that these screenshots are sent in by Facebook users- and we all know how private Facebook is. That's how good of "friends" these people are with eachother. Good friends share your stupidity with the rest of the internet. The submissions are usually horrendous typos, status updates that offer way too much information, and pictures that would make the most desensitized person blush. Of course some of these will make you laugh, especially if your friend feed isn't anything like these poor people had to read. Lamebook gives a quick view into the world outside of your own Facebook and will really make you think about your next status update or picture.
Funny Blog #1: Facebook Status Updates Gone Wrong at Lamebook.com
Lamebook is dedicated to all things Facebook that can make you groan, laugh, or quickly defriend one of your connections. The thing I love about Lamebook is that these screenshots are sent in by Facebook users- and we all know how private Facebook is. That's how good of "friends" these people are with eachother. Good friends share your stupidity with the rest of the internet. The submissions are usually horrendous typos, status updates that offer way too much information, and pictures that would make the most desensitized person blush. Of course some of these will make you laugh, especially if your friend feed isn't anything like these poor people had to read. Lamebook gives a quick view into the world outside of your own Facebook and will really make you think about your next status update or picture.
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