Welcome, Fellow Gnerds!

A gnerd [pronounced, "NER-dh"] is a noun.
It is used to name someone who both reads Asimov and can fix a computer virus.

We know every line from Dr. Horrible and the subplots
and backplots of Who.

We lurk around bookshelves.

We listen to Josh Groban and Chameleon Circuit.

We are every Judith, Max and Russell.

We congregate conventions.

We are the next generation.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

The Shoes that Took A Bullet

    Today, as I sat down in my usual seat in Honors English, I noticed that my left shoe had ripped completely open up the side, exposing my rather red, unsocked foot. I was in a hurry today, no time. Now, obviously, I am upset about this. I hate buying new shoes because I really like old ones. I am so comfortable in those shoes, they know me and fit me perfectly. Plus, those shoes have been places. They have memories.
    They were there when I heard that Michael [not Jackson] had died, and they took me to his funeral. They walked on the beach with me in the Bahamas, and chased after Alec in the snow when he built his first [sort-of] snowman. They have stepped in gum, snow, piss, poop, grass, blood, barf, dirt, mud, water and dead mouse with me. They have supported me through not one, not two, but three diets, and have comforted me with Coldstone Icecream when they failed. They saw me through being a vegetarian to becoming a vegan, and guided me through the croweded aisles of church on Christmas Eve service without tripping me.
    They have seen Josh Groban, Storyside B:, John Reuben, Fairgreen, Brooks&Dunn, Rodney Atkins and 2 Hawk Nelson concerts. They helped me walk away from bad decisions, and they pushed me towards some good ones. They were with me on my first day at Kent, they went with me on several college visitations. They've been hit on several times, and been on the receiving end of many compliments. They traveled to New Orleans three years in a row and witnessed first hand the destruction of Hurricane Katrina, and got stuck by a needle in the backyard of an illegal tattoo artist's house [took me half an hour to determine if the red was ink or blood. It was blood].
    They have played tag with Jonah, kicked Joshua, broke Jacob's toothbrush, and tracked dirt on my mother's floor. They walked away from the greatest guy in the world, and they hosted a great 16th birthday party. They have smelled bad, good, like peppermint, like hairspray, and like mud. They have danced in several rainstorms, and participated in a particularly good game of "Did-You-Know?" Once, they won a race, and twice they've lost. They helped a woman cross the road [really], picked up some people when they were down [figuratively], and even kicked some people in the cojones [both]. They have visited New York but never got out of the car, been to Florida, and seen the very first Borders ever [<---OMGOMGOMFG!].
    They had dreams, wishes, a to-do list of their own. They'll never get to finish that. They were going to go to Savannah, London, Paris, Nice, a Michael Buble concert, the Craig Ferguson show, winter formal, on a road trip, to see the Great Lakes, to get the first loan, make the first walk of shame, see the world and be a part of a crowd somewhere. Now, they have to say goodbye to those dreams, and hope that whatever pair replaces them can fill their shoes...er, wait.
    Its kind of a Doctor Who kind of deal, if you think about it. The man is essentially the same, just a different DNA structure and physical make-up. The feet remain the same, but the shoes that cover them change with time. I just hope I can find a pair as trustworthy as that one. They took me where I needed to go, went on in a hurry, and didnt mind being covered with the most fantastic display of paints and colors known to man. Goodbye, paintballed RocketDogs. I will never own another pair of shoes like you.

Lesson I learned Today:
Hamlet wasn't mad, he was just the only one who could understand him.

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