It’s hard to come by original ideas nowadays. Actually, I don’t think there are anymore original ideas. It seems as though that everything, from books to art work, plagiarized something. I found this essay quite humorous and I quite agree with what the author was saying. There is in fact a lot of plagiarism in music, literature, and other works, and many of these plagiarized ideas are well loved by the public. It’s kind of sneaky, though, how these artists sneak it in. It could be a quote, a concept, an idea, a plot, or a one liner, but they can relish it to make it seem like it was of their own. However, it’s not that these artists can’t come up with their own things, it’s that these earlier works have greatly influenced their works. It’s thanks to these early or unsung pioneers for giving creative material for these great artists to be inspired by. For some of the examples that this author mentioned in the essay have created very influencial and likeable pieces. I also enjoyed the many examples that the author included in this essay. I was familiar with some of them and was shocked that these works had some plagiarism in it.

This essay by Kate Bernheimer is a well written praise for the structure and techniques used in fairy tales. She writes about how people usually don’t appreciate the true beauty and magic within the writing of these sotries. No, she’s not talking about the meaning behind it or anything cliche like that. She address the four elements of fairy tale writing, gives examples, and eloquently explains them. Lots of familiar titles, characters, and plots appear in this essay. I enjoyed reading it, because it was well written, organized, clear, and it offered a different perspective. It was a very insightful piece and I throughly enjoyed reading what she had to say. It definitely wasn’t boring, even though it was 13 pages.

I hate mucus, well excess mucus that is. The ones that drip out of the nose, down the throat, and down the nose to the throat. It is more than annoying, it’s vexacious! I hate how the tissues pile up and so does the pressure in my sinus. Blowing my nose constantly, and this may come as a surprise, is not my favorite activity. Clearing my throat once an hour is irksome and rude. Why does our immune system have to go hyperactive during a cold and allergy season? Is there that much germs in our system that our cells have to override the mucus content? I think we got it all out of my system 200 tissue balls ago. Wait, is that a fever I’m feeling?! OH NO! Just when I thought I was getting better, I’m getting worse. I hate whoever infected me. Dang, who was it? My boyfriend? My hula sisters? My family? There’s too many people that I have contacted with. I don’t even feel sick! I just feel gross. 
	Oh how I hate the mornings when I have all this mucus. It changes to digusting colors like yellow, green, and sometimes a mustard yellow. UCK! HOW GROSS! WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?! All these meds don’t seem like they’re working! I take pills after pills, and nasal spray after nasal spray. Saline and antihistamines why are you failing me so? When I want to go out and have fun, or at least get my mother off of my back. Why do colds have to happen on weekends? A cure isn’t coming for another week isn’t it?

I hate mucus, well excess mucus that is. The ones that drip out of the nose, down the throat, and down the nose to the throat. It is more than annoying, it’s vexacious! I hate how the tissues pile up and so does the pressure in my sinus. Blowing my nose constantly, and this may come as a surprise, is not my favorite activity. Clearing my throat once an hour is irksome and rude. Why does our immune system have to go hyperactive during a cold and allergy season? Is there that much germs in our system that our cells have to override the mucus content? I think we got it all out of my system 200 tissue balls ago. Wait, is that a fever I’m feeling?! OH NO! Just when I thought I was getting better, I’m getting worse. I hate whoever infected me. Dang, who was it? My boyfriend? My hula sisters? My family? There’s too many people that I have contacted with. I don’t even feel sick! I just feel gross.
Oh how I hate the mornings when I have all this mucus. It changes to digusting colors like yellow, green, and sometimes a mustard yellow. UCK! HOW GROSS! WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?! All these meds don’t seem like they’re working! I take pills after pills, and nasal spray after nasal spray. Saline and antihistamines why are you failing me so? When I want to go out and have fun, or at least get my mother off of my back. Why do colds have to happen on weekends? A cure isn’t coming for another week isn’t it?

A cigarette is a handheld Holocaust. Noses will crinkle and judgemental eyeballs will be staring. Yucks and groans will be heard. The odorous chemcial and tabbacco mixes in the air as little, white puffs. This is what happens when a cigarette is lit up. The title: smoker isn’t a very pretty word, so why would anyone be proud to be called that? If smoking is something natural to a person, then why does it seem like they’re shameful for doing so? Hiding in allies, behind stores, and in other tucked in locations. Too much leaves a terrible taste in the mouth and it kills the tastebuds. Are you willing to give up chocolate cake, cookie butter, roast beef, and pastrami for ash? Too much causes cancer and lung complications. Are you willing to shorten your life for some nicotine? “It calms me down.” is the only defense the smokers can utter when being lectured; however, there are many alternatives to relieve stress. Excercising, painting, singing, talking to a loved one, cooking, and the list goes on. The toxic remains of the butt litters and kills Mother Earth. She cries when a burning butt smashes and scorches her skin. It floats in our waters, it suffocates her, and it trashes up our bus stops. When standing up, a cigarette looks like a smoke stack; standing maliciously like the ones in the Holocaust. The smoke rising from the embers, wraping itself around the necks like hands. Dropping it’s ashes at the slightest touch.

A cigarette is a handheld Holocaust. Noses will crinkle and judgemental eyeballs will be staring. Yucks and groans will be heard. The odorous chemcial and tabbacco mixes in the air as little, white puffs. This is what happens when a cigarette is lit up. The title: smoker isn’t a very pretty word, so why would anyone be proud to be called that? If smoking is something natural to a person, then why does it seem like they’re shameful for doing so? Hiding in allies, behind stores, and in other tucked in locations. Too much leaves a terrible taste in the mouth and it kills the tastebuds. Are you willing to give up chocolate cake, cookie butter, roast beef, and pastrami for ash? Too much causes cancer and lung complications. Are you willing to shorten your life for some nicotine? “It calms me down.” is the only defense the smokers can utter when being lectured; however, there are many alternatives to relieve stress. Excercising, painting, singing, talking to a loved one, cooking, and the list goes on. The toxic remains of the butt litters and kills Mother Earth. She cries when a burning butt smashes and scorches her skin. It floats in our waters, it suffocates her, and it trashes up our bus stops. When standing up, a cigarette looks like a smoke stack; standing maliciously like the ones in the Holocaust. The smoke rising from the embers, wraping itself around the necks like hands. Dropping it’s ashes at the slightest touch.

I promise I’m not a hoarder, but don’t criticize me for wanting to keep all of my shoes. Why would I want to keep these broken, run down, sole less scraps that I used to wear on my feet? They hold memories of the adventures that I embarked on. I remember the night shenanigans that I did in my first pair of Chuck Taylors. When I see those used to be white sneakers that was dipped in seven layers of mud, it reminds me of that summer where I did a hike every weekend. When I was finished with them, they have holes on the toes and the soles are reduced to nothing. I went to my first dance in these black, velvet heels that look like scratched up vinyl. I almost went to the hospital in these white vans because I was just learning how to skate and almost got hit by a car. told the first love of my life my feelings with these cracked slippers. But remember that I promised that I don’t hoard, so I eventually do throw them away. It’s a bittersweet goodbye to those memories. I would be lying if I denied that a couple of times my heart dropped when I dropped them into the trash can. It’s almost like a funeral. However, that melancholy feelings are soon forgotten when I realize that I can buy more memories. Maybe I’ll invest my money into more durable footwear, so that my adventures can continue for forever.

I promise I’m not a hoarder, but don’t criticize me for wanting to keep all of my shoes. Why would I want to keep these broken, run down, sole less scraps that I used to wear on my feet? They hold memories of the adventures that I embarked on. I remember the night shenanigans that I did in my first pair of Chuck Taylors. When I see those used to be white sneakers that was dipped in seven layers of mud, it reminds me of that summer where I did a hike every weekend. When I was finished with them, they have holes on the toes and the soles are reduced to nothing. I went to my first dance in these black, velvet heels that look like scratched up vinyl. I almost went to the hospital in these white vans because I was just learning how to skate and almost got hit by a car. told the first love of my life my feelings with these cracked slippers. But remember that I promised that I don’t hoard, so I eventually do throw them away. It’s a bittersweet goodbye to those memories. I would be lying if I denied that a couple of times my heart dropped when I dropped them into the trash can. It’s almost like a funeral. However, that melancholy feelings are soon forgotten when I realize that I can buy more memories. Maybe I’ll invest my money into more durable footwear, so that my adventures can continue for forever.

Brrrring Brrring. Buzz Buzz Buzz. Brrrring Buzz Brrrring Buzz.
I see more and more people being glued to their phones. It’s funny, amusing, and a little annoying. I can say this because I, too, am becoming a part of that phone zombie apocalypse. Zoning out and staring aimlessly at my screen. Tapping the little buttons on my key board and waiting for a reply. It’s worse in Japan. I remember sitting on the subway train and looking all around me, only to find the tops of people’s heads, facing me. Their necks are parallel to the floor and head permanently cocked down. I’m sure they all suffer from stiff necks and bad posture. A few times, I saw mothers and fathers who were more occupied with smiling at their emojis than their own adorably bored babies. The only people who aren’t this attached to their cellular devices are the elderly, who burry their faces into the newspaper. Sure it’s sad, but it’s not that much different from New York. Is this an epidemic? No, just our generation’s process of utilizing advancing technology. Is it bad? To a point; I’m the only relative who takes away iPads, iPhones, and such at family gatherings. Once my uncle was complaining about how he has to pay for my ten year old cousin’s iPhone bill. I replied with no sympathy. I scolded him for giving an iPhone to such a small child who doesn’t use it for anything else than playing games. He could of gotten him an iTouch or a book.

Brrrring Brrring. Buzz Buzz Buzz. Brrrring Buzz Brrrring Buzz.
I see more and more people being glued to their phones. It’s funny, amusing, and a little annoying. I can say this because I, too, am becoming a part of that phone zombie apocalypse. Zoning out and staring aimlessly at my screen. Tapping the little buttons on my key board and waiting for a reply. It’s worse in Japan. I remember sitting on the subway train and looking all around me, only to find the tops of people’s heads, facing me. Their necks are parallel to the floor and head permanently cocked down. I’m sure they all suffer from stiff necks and bad posture. A few times, I saw mothers and fathers who were more occupied with smiling at their emojis than their own adorably bored babies. The only people who aren’t this attached to their cellular devices are the elderly, who burry their faces into the newspaper. Sure it’s sad, but it’s not that much different from New York. Is this an epidemic? No, just our generation’s process of utilizing advancing technology. Is it bad? To a point; I’m the only relative who takes away iPads, iPhones, and such at family gatherings. Once my uncle was complaining about how he has to pay for my ten year old cousin’s iPhone bill. I replied with no sympathy. I scolded him for giving an iPhone to such a small child who doesn’t use it for anything else than playing games. He could of gotten him an iTouch or a book.

Although Cupid is usually depicted as a baby in a diaper, angel wings, and shooting people with love arrows, most people are not truly aware of Cupid’s true form. According to Greek and Roman mythology, it is true that he remained in his juvenile form for a very long time. This worried his mother, Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, because she feared that her son will not be able to find a mate. She was informed my the Delphi that once she gives birth to her second son, Cupid will turn into a man, which did happen. I bet a lot of you didn’t know that Cupid accidentally shot himself with one of his arrows. His jealous mother wanted to smite this poor, innocent, and extremely beautiful girl named Psyche. Why? Because mortals started declaring that she is more beautiful than Aphrodite. Cupid was supposed to shoot Psyche and make her fall in love with a monster, but ended up being so amazed by her beauty, that he shot his foot. They ended up getting married. However, Psyche screwed things up with him when her jealous sisters convinced her to break one of his rules. They eventually made up, but Psyche had to put up with all of Aphrodite’s vengeance in order to see her husband. Speaking of Cupid’s love darts, they aren’t really arrows. Instead, these “love arrows” are purple pansies. Yes, my friend, you weren’t shot by arrow, but by a purple flower. This concludes the lesson for today.

Although Cupid is usually depicted as a baby in a diaper, angel wings, and shooting people with love arrows, most people are not truly aware of Cupid’s true form. According to Greek and Roman mythology, it is true that he remained in his juvenile form for a very long time. This worried his mother, Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, because she feared that her son will not be able to find a mate. She was informed my the Delphi that once she gives birth to her second son, Cupid will turn into a man, which did happen. I bet a lot of you didn’t know that Cupid accidentally shot himself with one of his arrows. His jealous mother wanted to smite this poor, innocent, and extremely beautiful girl named Psyche. Why? Because mortals started declaring that she is more beautiful than Aphrodite. Cupid was supposed to shoot Psyche and make her fall in love with a monster, but ended up being so amazed by her beauty, that he shot his foot. They ended up getting married. However, Psyche screwed things up with him when her jealous sisters convinced her to break one of his rules. They eventually made up, but Psyche had to put up with all of Aphrodite’s vengeance in order to see her husband. Speaking of Cupid’s love darts, they aren’t really arrows. Instead, these “love arrows” are purple pansies. Yes, my friend, you weren’t shot by arrow, but by a purple flower. This concludes the lesson for today.

I never really pictured a beanie as a symbol of a relationship full of potential. Actually, a beanie being anything symbolic is just out of the question. It was purple, old, worn, too big for my head, and was owned by another. If you were wondering, reader, I did not steal this hat, it was a token. I met this beanie giver a while ago at a party. He was this cool and classy guy who rode on a penny board (a really small and ridiculous skateboard). I could tell by one glance that he thought that he had all the swagger in the world. He was slick with the girls around him, then he saw me. I don’t mean to sound vain, but he was speechless with me. Mr. Swagger forgot his suave and adopted this dorky, awkward personal. Let’s just say that he didn’t manage to get my phone number at the end of the night. I met him again on the North Shore; I was hopeful to see him try to charm me, however I was disappointed. Gone was his confidence and in comes the raw vegetables that he would shove in his mouth when he tried to say something to me. He eventually got the courage to talk to me. He and I soon started to become intimate, sharing everything to each other. We have a lot in common, which included mutual feelings for each other. Then, he gave me this beanie as a token of his affection.

I never really pictured a beanie as a symbol of a relationship full of potential. Actually, a beanie being anything symbolic is just out of the question. It was purple, old, worn, too big for my head, and was owned by another. If you were wondering, reader, I did not steal this hat, it was a token. I met this beanie giver a while ago at a party. He was this cool and classy guy who rode on a penny board (a really small and ridiculous skateboard). I could tell by one glance that he thought that he had all the swagger in the world. He was slick with the girls around him, then he saw me. I don’t mean to sound vain, but he was speechless with me. Mr. Swagger forgot his suave and adopted this dorky, awkward personal. Let’s just say that he didn’t manage to get my phone number at the end of the night. I met him again on the North Shore; I was hopeful to see him try to charm me, however I was disappointed. Gone was his confidence and in comes the raw vegetables that he would shove in his mouth when he tried to say something to me. He eventually got the courage to talk to me. He and I soon started to become intimate, sharing everything to each other. We have a lot in common, which included mutual feelings for each other. Then, he gave me this beanie as a token of his affection.