DELETE is the easiest button to hit on nights like these. Nights that end while still unfinished. Nights that make you smaller than ants that crawl on walls. Nights that make sleeping a difficult task.
When you’re 18 and your expectations exceed the limit, and no one listens to you when you need them to, simple things no longer make you happy. Simple things become ordinary and boring. Your mind expands its imagination capacity and fantasies suddenly become musts.
I used to be at the top. I used to be up. I used to be happy with little things.
Now it’s time to have more. I’ve turned into a displeased, greedy 18 year-old and…
I can hit DELETE and get rid of these useless words, but I’m not going to.

Americans are scared. They’re scared because they feel vulnerable. They are scared because terrorism isn’t supposed to be an issue for them. Because they were always safe and what happened in other countries was only five minutes of news on their TVs. But today, they fear everyday. They’re no longer safe and they know it.
“Terrorism scares us because four men in casual suites can bomb a bank. The weak are the ones who we have to worry about now and that’s what scares us. The rich do it with war, the rest do it through terrorism,” Ms. L says.
As a group of 16-18 year-old students, we argue back and forth on whether war is the same thing as terrorism. We try to figure out situations in which killing becomes okay.
Is it ever okay to kill? Haven’t we been killing each other for centuries? Why is terrorism any different than war?
Back in the day, terms like sex and birth control were taboo. Today, it’s things like gay marriage and terrorism that incites controversy. But we can’t just walk away from these issues. We have to talk about them, discuss them, and look for ways to change them and learn about possible solutions. We need to stop whispering. We need to stop changing the subject. We need to stop changing channels to watch our favorite soap operas. We need to start looking for solutions. We need to talk.
I admire Ms. L because she decided to make a difference by teaching. After years of actively participating in rallies and protests, she saw that the only way she could do something was to teach. She didn’t stop her activism. She didn’t stop believing that there was a solution. She simply chose a different method, one that made sense to her. And it’s working. She is making a difference everyday.
In a world where there is war, crime, corruption, and a list of other things we rather not think about, there are people around us that strive to make change. Ordinary people do great things everyday and that is something we shouldn’t forget.
***
Class ended with an unfinished discussion and a variety of answers and questions marks. But we talked. That’s a good start for now.

What’s great about America is that you can have your coffee ready at a nearby Starbucks or 7-11 as early as 6 or 7 a.m. What’s great about America is that when you buy a shirt that doesn’t fit or that you simply don’t like, you can return it, which may or may not require a brief note of explanation. What’s great about America is that you can get a job at 16, go to school, play sports and watch R-rated movies on Friday nights with an adult. What’s great about America is that you don’t have to be GREAT; you can be a drug dealer on the streets, selling dope and still be satisfied.
What’s not so great about America is how easily kids drop out of school, how you can start smoking at 18 and drive under the influence of alcohol. What’s not so great is how half the magazines in bookstores are about celebrities, models and ads that make women sex objects. What’s the message, if the article is about a girl who isn’t just a pretty face, but has brains and a 4.0 GPA, when the ad right next to the page is a half-naked girl next to a Budweiser?
What does it take to be successful and rich in America? Does it come with a red lipstick and a pair of jeans with “Booty” sewed on the back? Does it come with your eyes or what you write? If you don’t make your life a reality show for the whole world to see, who’s gonna notice your talent?
What does it take to make it in America?
But for better or for worse, I do love America. In sickness and in health, I do take my Grande Late. For richer or poorer, I do want the Chevy Convertible.
I do love Hollywood and happy endings…
I do…’till death do us part…

Our high school career is coming to an end and we are still trying to grasp the idea. For some, these last days of high school will be the last time they ever sit in a classroom.
We are like a small family who now has to part and go in different directions. Some of us will decide to keep in touch with the rest of the members. Others of us will simply move on and meet another in-group, or a group they feel they belong to.
Everything we do will be for the last time. We will have the last test, the last homework assignment, the last project, the last dance. What do these “lasts” and goodbyes mean? What are we really saying good-bye to?
I’m saying good-bye to four years of bittersweet memories. I’m saying good-bye to the English classes that were almost always my favorite and the acquaintances I made in them. I’m saying good-bye to after school clubs and plays in the Auditorium. I’m saying good-bye to four priceless years that I will never get back.
My friends and I have reached a certain level of maturity that enables us to look back to the time when we were a group of naïve freshmen students. Those days, we felt trapped and wanted to get out to the real world. Now, we sit here and we know how corrupted, unsafe and cruel that world is. We know that being late won’t cost us a detention, but rather a meeting with the boss who’ll say “you’re fired”. We know and we’re not afraid to admit it.
Our high school career is coming to an end and we are still trying to grasp the idea that we’ll no longer be high school students.

Motivation is what many teens lack today. They lack the enthusiasm to sit in a classroom without needing to listen to their iPods once the teacher starts talking. They slack off during class, come late, turn in little if no homework and refuse to participate in class. They are satisfied by Ds just to pass. They walk, simply dragging themselves from room to room, barely raising their head, barely looking up to see the teacher who smiles and wants to help them succeed.
But success isn’t really a goal anymore for many. The goal has become living easier, having more, more money, more drugs, more pain relivers, more sex.
Living easier is possible in America because we have too much of everything. We have too many cars, too many wire-less communication devises like cell phones and computers, too many resources. We have so much that we’ve forgotten their values.
Values are almost meaningless as the media continually influences our perspectives and outlooks. The media is our way of seeing the rest of the world. We get a single image of a single event that happens somewhere across the Atlantic, and the rest becomes Hollywood, Madonna, Britney Spears and Donald Trump.
So why is it that we’ve become almost immune to what goes around us? Why do we not care anymore? Why is being rich suddenly more important than having an education? Why have we become so desensitized?
“We’ve seen it all,” my friend S tells me. That’s why.
My English teacher worries. He worries because we don’t care. Because we just sit and stare at him and have no answers. I’m sure he is not the only teacher who is troubled by how little we care for our education, how little we strive, how little we give a damn, how little we step up, how little we think.
“Apathy is not an option”
The poster reads.
But here in our classrooms, apathy has become the only option.

Desensitized. Apathetic. Cynical.
Our generation, the undeveloped brains of teenagers, has often been called one with extreme apathy and lack of concern.
And sadly, in a way we have lost our enthusiasm and concern for many things. Things that were once so arguable, so analytical, so important and notable. Things that meant a great deal to us. Things that we gave a shit about. No, things that we cared for.
So why is it that we are not shocked by underage kids who smoke pot and get drunk every night? Why is it that we are no longer shocked by images of pornography or sex? Why are we so used to hearing curse words even on the local radio station?
What is happening to us?
We sit in English today and talk about society’s influence on how apathetic we, the laborers of tomorrow, the hopes of future, have become. We can either blame it on our parents, who either didn’t raise us the right way or didn’t enforce the right punishments. Or we can blame the media. Or we can blame ourselves.
But even if we do blame ourselves or others, what can we do now to fix our views?
“What’s going to shock you?” he asks the class.
And none of us has an answer…

Everybody looked so damn happy. There was big traffic on the sidewalks. I guess it was because of Easter. People are always looking for an excuse to get out. Almost all the mothers who were pushing their strollers were pregnant. Everybody seemed happy. God knows how they actually felt.
I asked her to make coffee even though I hate coffee. I ended up making it myself though because she was busy. So I made coffee for the first time and it actually wasn’t too bitter. At least it wasn’t as bitter as I was.
The moon was orange tonight. I got bored again so I went to the damn balcony and felt lousy looking at the stars. I was so cynical. I kept thinking. I’m a writer and the only thing I know how to do best is thinking. The only trouble is over-thinking, which I often tend to do.
A bunch of men are out on the balcony across from me. I think they’re playing cards. I can’t really tell because it’s too dark and I’m not wearing my glasses anyway. So I assume they’re all men and they’re playing cards while taking a puff at their cigars. Their cigars are not expensive though. I’m assuming they’re not rich.
Meanwhile, I play with my iPod, changing song after song, getting more depressed by the minute. I keep listening to a French song by Raphael; French men don’t have last names. I have no idea what he is singing, but I’m in love with my own interpretation of this song. I pretend it’s about wanting to run away, wanting to get lost. I’m a writer, I can make up anything.
I must come to a conclusion after all this nonsense and incessant rambling. But the funny thing is, there is no conclusion. There is never a conclusion. We all want to make a point out of what we say. But tonight, I’m going to let you make your own point from these sentences. That is if you choose to make one. It’s really up to you because frankly there really might not be any point.

I went out on our balcony. The rain had stopped, but I could still smell its presence. The laundry room’s lights were on and a woman was taking out her clothes out of the dryer. Everyone else was probably asleep. I stood in my pyjamas. As the night wind brushed against my face, I suddenly had this deep urge to fly.
I didn’t get to fly though. I just thought about it for a while. The woman left the laundry room, but I remained standing. I don’t think she saw me. Even if she had, she wouldn’t know why the hell I was up on the balcony so late at night. I don’t think anybody would have cared to know.
So I finally left the night’s embrace and went back inside. Inside where the lights kept me awake, kept me thinking and reasoning.
Back inside the living room, it was just me and my laptop. I knew it was going to be a long night…
It’s 1:30 a.m. now and I’m still awake, writing the night away…
I wonder if the woman put her clothes away first and then went to bed.

After a good cry, this night doesn’t look too bad. The moon is a full one tonight and I won’t fall asleep…
Leaning against my open window, I feel so vulnerable, so loose, so shaken. Mom pats my shoulders gently and tells me not to expect so much from myself at 18. If only her words would stay in my head. If only I would listen, it would be so much easier…
The wind hears my anger and frustration. The wind listens. I close the window and leave my room.
I talk to Nura. She listens and responds. She is a friend so she listens. The wind listens but without a response.
It’s almost 1 a.m. and the odor of this room is killing me. I open the window again and the wind is still there, listening. Except I’m quiet now. I am quiet in my head…I want to sleep.