Wasting time on the Internet
Eddie gave me several reasons for attending the National Book Festival on September 24. Ken Burns. The air-conditioned Walter E. Washington Convention Center. Stephen King. The air-conditioned Walter E. Washington Convention Center. Joyce Carol Oates. The air-conditioned Walter E. Washington Convention Center. I presumed that my coursemate would be a volunteer, as he emphasized the air-conditioned venue. He neither confirmed nor denied it. I would understand a budding writer's urge to meet his fellow writers, even meeting with authors who made it big. A starstruck moment that I could hardly relate to. It would be my second year in the English Department, and I learned my lessons from my first year. I became a worry wart, which would keep my sense of urgency.
My mother told me that I was wasting my time on the Internet. I didn't fancy going out of my (air-conditioned) room, as I couldn't wait for autumn. I might bite my tongue, as the winter season can start earlier than the weather forecast. And I could still recall my sore limbs after shoveling the snow. I was looking at the news with half interest until I stumbled upon an interesting trivia. New users accessed the World Wide Web on August 23, 1991. It was Internet Day to some people, as the world was never the same after that occasion. My old man told me that my generation was lucky, but I would suspect him holding back some words. I was a spoiled kid, and I wouldn't deny it. There were many things to learn from the Internet. White entitlement. White elephant. White lie. I would tell Eddie that I must be focused on the coursework, and I might consider the National Book Festival next year. I don't want to look far ahead, and I might be tempted to attend a party. I would love my housemates.
The history of immigration in America
"Wasting my time" on the Internet would yield unexpected results. I read an interesting article on Melania Trump, and I wasn't alluding to her plans to pursue legal action against certain publications. If Donald Trump would win the election, then her wife's life could become a Cinderella story for immigrants.
I studied film last year, which wasn't the plan at first. I chose it randomly after I figured out that the other modules would require me to read most of the time. (And it turned out that I was right.) My professor asked us to watch some films, which depicted the plight of immigrants in America during the turn of the 20th century. They turned American society into a nation it would be known for decades. It made me recalled "Brooklyn," Colm TóibÃn's coming-of-age tale of a young Irish lass in New York. It happened during the 1950s, and I was disarmed at her bouts of trepidation and loneliness days after leaving her small village in Ireland. I could sense her closeness to her older sister, who made her trip possible. If she were living now, then I would bet that she could have a change of heart after a day or two. Most young people would love to spend a year or two in a foreign land. And it could turn out to be their unforgettable moment. Many authors would attest to it. (And I was thinking of Alex Garland.)
Seth Grahame-Smith's mashup books came to mind. Abraham Lincoln moonlighting as a vampire killer was a silly idea, not to mention the mass migration of vampires from Europe after the French Revolution. And the native Indians couldn't think of a spell toward these nocturnal creatures. But I liked the depiction of Edgar Allan Poe as a mysterious fellow. He was on the verge of a breakdown. I was spooked out.
