This post shows my week of only focusing only on the positives. This is what Positive Psychology Program teaches. Being happy will keep you happy. Forcing yourself to do good also leads to do good results. UC Berkeley's Project Home Page has criteria that focuses on happiness. And this post is based on Three Good Things (Greater Good in Action). My life isn't that exciting, but even the smallest things can make it on this list.
Tuesday: English Composition class ended. The Lyft that I use to take home costed less than usual. I had a good dinner made by my mom. Wednesday: My shift for work ended earlier than usual. Then, I hung out with my friends for the night. There, I revealed my costume to my friends (Finn from Adventure Time). Thursday: Found more information about a game that will be coming out by watching a video. After that, I remembered that my first class was cancelled. After school I played video games with my sister. Friday: I finished Biology lab earlier than the other students. I left, and slept in until I had work. After work, I took a nice shower. Saturday: Started watching a new show called Superstore. I liked it. I bought a new video game I've been wanting to try. For dinner I made a sandwich for myself. Sunday: Stayed in my bed for most of the day. After, I cleaned my room, did my laundry and took a deserving shower while listening to my favorite music. Monday: I woke up for work feeling a little sad, but it felt like a short shift, so I was glad. I went home and watched Netflix. Dad bought Chinese for dinner.
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Intro:
I rewrote my previous blog post with more visiual detail. The reading, My Mother Gives me a Writing Lesson (Martin Lee), clearly says that a good setting sets up the characters. So I added a "nut paragraph" in the beginning. I as well added a few changes in syntax for better sentence flow, as well as a few grammar mistakes. The season of summer ‘14 was ending; the sturdy trees were letting go of their warm-colored leaves. The sun was not quite setting, but was overlapping the roofs of the neighborhood houses. I was outside on my abroad front yard, playing with my pet cat, Luna. She was a pure white cat, with vivid, green eyes. She was skinny and nimble, darting from one side of the yard to the other. I was so careless, while I was playing with her, I stumbled over a divot on the ground. I fell hard on my side. I thought I was okay, so I got up. It turned out I wasn’t. My left ankle was broken, or at least sprained, and it hurt badly. I fell down again. I wanted to yell, but I didn’t want to cause a scene in my quiet neighborhood; I prayed that no passerby was looking my way. I probably looked like a fool. My cat, Luna, hurriedly ran towards me. She looked worried. She seemed like she wanted to help me, but she couldn’t do much. I used my arms to slowly crawl to my front door. It was a good thing wasn’t too far from my house; it was about fifteen feet away. I shamefully continued to stretch my arms and used my right foot as extra force. It seemed like a long time, but I made it to the front porch. Luna was still by my side, silent but caring. I forced myself to reach up to the door handle. While I was opening the screen door, I my pushed my body upwards onto the hardwood floor. Luna eventually decided to scamper back into the yard. My 9 year old sister was watching a cartoon on Netflix. “Flo, help me. I broke my ankle.” I groaned. “How'd you break it?!” she exclaimed “Just help me get on the chair. I’ll explain later.” My sister abruptly paused her show and slowly helped me onto the fabric armchair. She then continued to play the cartoon show. “Flo, go to the freezer and get me two ice-pops. One for my ankle and to eat.” She giggled a bit but followed my orders. She ran to the kitchen. A few seconds later, she came with three different colored pops, one for herself. She tossed them over the chair and onto my lap. I put one between my ankles and ripped the other one open with my mouth. Several minutes later, my father came from downstairs. He probably just woke up from a nap. He passed us, and paced towards the kitchen. “Troy, wash the dishes now!” he shouted from the kitchen. “I can’t!” I replied. “What do you mean?” “I broke my ankle.” I mutter. “What?” “I said I broke my ankle!” I shouted. I heard heavy steps creaking on the old wood floor coming back from the kitchen. “So, you gonna do the dishes or not?” I was so confused. Did he not hear me or not? “Do you think I’m lying? I broke my ankle.” “How?” he questioned. “I was, like... running outside and I misstepped into a hole and like... fell down.” “I don’t believe you. You’re always so lazy. Wash the dishes now!” My sister pauses the show. She silently watches. “Why wont you believe me? You see this thing on my ankle? I actually broke it or something!” “Get up right now.” I was completely silent for a few seconds. Intro: Inspired by Lulu Lang's podcast, What You Don't Know. More about Lulu Lang: Lulu Wang's Website. Info for podcasts: Overview of Podcasts. This is a not to distant event I think about whenever I see my dad. Today, we don't speak of it. I try to forget it and forgive my father, but I don't if I can ever. This will be my Narrative Project, so more will be written there in the future, in better detail.
I was so careless, while I was playing with her, I stumbled over a divot on the ground. I fell hard right on my side. I thought I was okay, so I got up. It turned out I wasn’t. My left ankle was broken, or at least sprained, and it hurt badly. I fell down again. I wanted to yell, but I didn’t want to cause a scene in my quiet neighborhood; I prayed that no passerby was looking my way. I probably looked like a fool. My cat, Luna, hurriedly ran towards me. She looked worried. She seemed like she wanted to help me, but she couldn’t do much. I used my arms to slowly crawl to my front door. I wasn’t too far from my house, about fifteen feet away. I continued to stretch my arms and used my right foot as extra force. It seemed like a long time, but I made it to the front porch. Luna was still by my side, silent but caring. I forced myself to reach up to the door handle. I opened the screen door. I pushed my body upwards onto the hardwood floor. Luna eventually decided to scamper back into the yard. My 9 year old sister was watching a cartoon on Netflix. “Flo, please help me. I broke my ankle.” I groaned. “How did you break it?!” she exclaimed “Just help me get on the chair. I’ll explain later.” My little sister paused her show and slowly helped me onto the fabric armchair. She continued to play the cartoon show. “Flo, go to the freezer and get me two ice-pops. One for my ankle and to eat.” She giggled a bit but followed my orders. She ran to the kitchen. A few seconds later, she came with three different colored pops, one for herself. She tossed them over the chair and onto my lap. I put one between my ankles and ripped the other one open with my mouth. Several minutes later, my father came from downstairs. He probably just woke up from a nap. He passed us, and paced towards the kitchen. “Troy, wash the dishes now!” he shouted from the kitchen. “I can’t!” I replied. “What do you mean?” “I broke my ankle.” I mutter. “What?” “I said I broke my ankle!” I shouted. I heard heavy steps come back from the kitchen. “So are you gonna do the dishes or not?” I was so confused. Did he not hear me the dishes or not? “Do you think I’m lying? I broke my ankle.” “How?” he questioned. “I was, like, running outside and I misstepped into a hole and fell down.” “I don’t believe you. You’re always so lazy. Wash the dishes now!” My sister pauses the show. She silently watches. “Why wont you believe me? You see this ice-pop on my ankle? I broke it or something!” “Get up right now.” I was completely silent for a few seconds. Sources: Hills Like White Elephants (Ernest Hemingway) How to Format Dialogue Symbolism Intro This true story happened a week ago. The whole time I was clenching my heart over the smallest thing. From the moment I woke up, until I signed that paper. My unreasonable anxiety causes me to lose control of myself. l wake up on my bed, the daylight hits my body through the dusty window. "Oh crap, I'm late." I scramble to find my uniform. It does not smell good, but I put it on anyways. I hastily brush my teeth and skedaddle through the front door. The sky is full of grey clouds, yet it's still hot. The walk to work is ten minutes, but I'm already ten minutes late. The heat steadily wares me down as I pace down the streets of Springfield. After a few minutes, I see my workplace down the way. There it is, Chick-Fil-A. I can feel my heart bumping vividly. I have been late for work on multiple occasions already. I think, "Who knows what they'll to me." I reach out open the glass door. The store only has a few customers, but I can feel their eyes looking my way. I try to clock in without letting anyone notice. It's 12: 23. I regrettably walk into the back of the restaurant, and put my belongings in a locker. I turn around and I stumble into one of my managers. He towers over me, with his body. I notice his phone in his hand. I know he was trying to call me. "Troy, there you are! Why are you late?" "I'm sorry. My phone was on silent mode, so I did not hear my alarm..." "Troy. This is the third time this month. I know you are a good worker here, but your tardiness cannot be excused." "I'm sorry again." I'm about to say that I won't do it again, but I know I probably will. He goes into his little cramped office to go finish some paperwork. I go back up to the front of the restaurant to get my daily job. Another manager sets up my cash register. I continue on through the day, like a normal day of work. A few hours in, a coworker approached me." Hey Troy, they want you in the manager's office." I reply, "why?" "Just go, any you will know." I already knew what was going to happen. I was only trying to delay it. I slowly walk down the pathway to the manager's office. My heart bumps furiously again. I arrive. I open the heavy metal door. Inside, there were two managers, none were the manager I spoke to before first. The manager spoke with a careful tone. "Troy, I heard you were late to work again. Is that true?" I hesitate for a moment. I reply, "Yes it is." "Alright, I just need you to sign this paper about this misconduct." I lean in to grab the pen and write down my signature on the bottom of the paper. "Troy, I like you, you're a good worker. Just don't let this happen again. You do know what happens if it does?" I stay silent. "You have a meeting with the managers. Nobody wants that. If you need to change your schedule to fit yourself better, do that. Now get outta here." Yeah, I knew it. It was a write-up. It's over now though. My heart can finally relax. Sources: Intro:
This story doesn't seem very unique, but it's what's been bugging me for years now. I often think too hard and have to pull myself back to make myself feel better. It's a routine I'm used to. All of it is stuck in a remote part of my brain, and I don't want to unlock it. I lift my wrist shakily up to my eye. I feel so senseless and empty. I have no direction for myself, and I have no one to call to who seems worthy. Yet, I still go through life, looking unfazed, knowingly that I am a broken being. I just lost myself in my own thoughts again. I shake my head and get a grip of my conscience. I am on king-sized bed, all lonesome. My fan whirs chilling air towards my feet. The window reveals a strong light coming from the playground across the street. A string of Christmas lights surround the walls, faintly lighting the room.My Alexa is softly streaming music I've accustomed to listening to. I sit up from my bed sheets and pull out my phone. It is 12:30 AM. I don't want to sleep. I go back into my covers and scroll through multiple social media apps, wasting my time away. Just like I do every single night. Minutes of wasting my time turn into hours. The screen hurts my eyes, but I hate to sleep. I understand that it is healthy to sleep, but I ignore those thoughts. I distract myself from thinking too hard about myself. My head aches from no sleep. My body is sore and permeates with sweat. My eyes feel like they will suck into my skull if I don't rest now. So I rest now. "Alexa, stop." The sound of a faint rhythm that had filled my room before came to an end. I unplug the Christmas lights, turned off the electric fan, and closed the heavy curtains all the way, blocking the streetlamp. Total silence. Nothing to distract me from getting a mediocre night's sleep. I lay there for what seems like an eternity for me. My body turns left and right through the thick blanket. I find a adequate position, with my head resting on my arm. My last conscious thoughts are drifting off when going to a deep sleep. An abrupt quacking noise disturbs me from my sleep. It is morning. I pick up my phone and put it on snooze. It wakes me up again. I don't feel any better. I shut the alarm off for good. and force myself out of the the warm bed. Upon exiting my room, I smell my father's coffee from downstairs. It wakes me up a bit, but I hate coffee. I go to the bathroom to briefly wash my face. I put on a cozy hoodie and slim dark jeans. My friend has been waiting outside my house for a while. I snatch my bag and boost through the front door. Fresh air his my exposed skin. I rush myself towards the passengers seat. "Hey Troy, How are you?" "I've never been better." 'Twas the late evening. The most notable writers have been invited to The Gala. The Gala was filled with men in suits and Women in a variety of gowns. The rooms were dimly lit. I've seen notable faces such as Suzanne Collins, John Green, and James Dashner, to name a few. I was only with my group of friends. We were on the terrace where we could see the clouds of day fuse with the stars of night. I was with my pals Don Murray, Susan Sontag, Joan Didion, and Anne Lamott, and we were talking casually our personal lives. When unexpectedly, the owner of the ball waltzed toward us.
Stephen King greeted us with an enthusiastic tone. He gave the five of us a glass of rose wine. After a few laughs, he told us that we was starting a class in English Composition. He wanted advice on the experience of writing. We were all shocked to find that Stephen King wanted advice from us, but we wouldn't refuse. Murray was the first to say anything after the prolonged silence. "Instead of teaching finished writing, we should teach unfinished writing, and glory in its unfinishedness. " Murray paused for a moment to think. "Prewriting is everything that takes place before the first draft. Prewriting usually takes about 85 percent of the writer’s time. " Anne Lamott agreed with him. She went off of what he said into her own words. "Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts." King pushed up his glasses and whipped out his phone. It seemed like he was typing notes on it, but I couldn't tell. I decided to say something first. I gulped down some wine and spoke, "If a writer wants to separate them from the other writers, do not follow the simple formula of the mainstream. It sounds simple at first, but writing something so different without and reference to previous examples can be challenging." King pushed up his glasses again, then puckered his mouth back and forth. We were confused, but he was just waiting for someone to say something else. Susan gathered her courage and decided to give her wisdom.""I will write in the Notebook every day. " Stephen nodded steadily in silence, his eyes stuck on the phone. No one could tell if he liked that information. Susan was flustered. She had to think for a long time. So I decided to go instead, to break the awkwardness. "I think that with writing, you have to just go with your flow. Do not stop to think too hard. You will have time to edit it in the end." King seemed to like that information. Murray leeched off my comment, "And you don’t learn a process by talking about it, but by doing it." Even though it was pretty helpful advice, I felt like he was just rewording my quote. Susan came striking back, with more powerful words. "I write in spurts. I write when I have to because the pressure builds up and I feel enough confidence that something has matured in my head and I can write it down. The King chuckled a bit, but kept typing. I didn't want to stray too far behind, so I said, " Starting off writing is not simple. For warm ups, write two or more things that seem like they would never interact, and let them interact." King picked up a glass and sipped his wine. Anne Lamott finally came rolling back with her words of wisdom. "Practically even better news than that of short assignments is the idea of shitty first drafts. All good writers write them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific third drafts" The King finally looked away from his phone, and to Anne Lamott. He excited agreed to that statement. If this was a contest, Anne would be winning so far. But then King noticed someone who hasn't talked yet. Joan Didion was awfully quiet. King abruptly told her to give him some advice, measly as it is. Joan hesitated. But she looked up and to Mr. King and firmly spoke. "I need an hour alone before dinner, with a drink, to go over what I’ve done that day. I can’t do it late in the afternoon because I’m too close to it. Also, the drink helps. It removes me from the pages. " She nonchalantly sipped her wine. Mr. King's eyebrows heightened. He didn't expect that from a quiet girl like her. King decided that was enough information. He waddled off to another group of writers not too far off. Anne Lamott was somewhat annoyed. She wanted to say something else, but he left too early. She tried shouting to Mr. King, "We all often feel like we are pulling teeth, even those writers whose prose ends up being the most natural and fluid!" But he couldn't hear her. She whimpered as she got shown up by Joan. We all chuckled as we drank our wine in the dark. This short story includes how I think teaching writing should be done, by using quotes from writers, as well as my own thoughts. I may not be the best in writing, but it is something I enjoy. It is the bridge between language and art, which is quite mesmerizing to me. Sources: ,Teach Writing as a Process Not a Product (Don Murray) The Daily Writing Routines of Great Writers (Maria Popova) Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (Anne Lamott) __1.__What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Not regretting my choices __2.__What is your greatest fear? My choices getting judged harshly __3.__What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? My emotion of being too sensitive __4.__What is the trait you most deplore in others? Ones that feel like they always need to state an opinion __5.__Which living person do you most admire? Kevin Abstract __6.__What is your greatest extravagance? Procrastination __7.__What is your current state of mind? Constantly tired __8.__What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Being "relatable." __9.__On what occasion do you lie? Anytime the truth affects other people badly __10.__What do you most dislike about your appearance? My knees __11.__Which living person do you most despise? My parent __12.__What is the quality you most like in a man? Humorous and Immature __13.__What is the quality you most like in a woman? Chill and laid-back __14.__Which words or phrases do you most overuse? Low key __15.__What or who is the greatest love of your life? Friends who I can be truly open with __16.__When and where were you happiest? When I was a child in New Jersey __17.__Which talent would you most like to have? Able to have a steady hand __18.__If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? I want to be able to do things on time __19.__What do you consider your greatest achievement? Getting a job and surprisingly not getting fired __20.__If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? Anything that's not human. Maybe an octopus. __21.__Where would you most like to live? Vancouver or Chicago __22.__What is your most treasured possession? My phone __23.__What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? Harming yourself __24.__What is your favorite occupation? Anything chemistry/biology related __25.__What is your most marked characteristic? Able to think out of the box __26.__What do you most value in your friends? Able to do things without being judged by each other __27.__Who are your favorite writers? Lemony Snicket, J.D. Salinger __28.__Who is your hero of fiction? Link __30.__Who are your heroes in real life? My friends __31.__What are your favorite names? Lucas, Jake, Leila, Marcy. __32.__What is it that you most dislike? Small talk __33.__What is your greatest regret? Anytime I don't think before I act. e.g. Fighting with my siblings. __34.__How would you like to die? As soon as possible, but only by accident. A quick painless death. __35.__What is your motto? Live Hard or Die Trying All of these answers to the questions are quite to the point. I do not take my time to explain, for I feel like that would be too drab. I want this to be as honest as possible, so I am going to answer as many I can with little fear. Source: The Proust Questionnaire. |
Troy BergadoWhatever's on my mind, from feelings to discoveries, I will write down here. ArchivesCategories |