Petty Pyromaniac

I am so incredibly sick of the topic of materialism. I do not want to discuss it any longer, but yet, we have one more blog that has  to relate to Fitzgerald's stories before we can move on as a class. So, rather than writing a spin-off of one of my older, depressing blogs about how location is whack and my memories are haunting me, lets take a second to look at Fitzgerald's thoughts... Let me just start off by saying this man was royally messed up. While refusing to write my essay on materialism, and instead using the theme of 'love', I just wanted to travel back in time to ask him..who hurt you! Daisy and Tom constantly mentally abuse each other, as they are both obviously immensely jealous people, but continue to devote their lives to showy infidelity. They apparently still share some emotional connection, but weirdly love the pain that comes along with their relationship. Daisy only engages in an affair to regain her husbands interest, and her husband only ...

Alright. I'd hate to have to write what everyone else seems to be writing about but... Honestly, I can't help myself. To start off, it might help to explain that I find great meaning in the past. Around the walls of my room, I have hundreds of photographs surrounding my bed. Every little photo is more than just one moment, it symbolizes how I felt at that specific moment in time. Right now, I find myself staring at a photo of my best friend and me at the Rochester Lights last December. The picture oozes jealousy, selfishness, and oblivion. But there's also an underlying happiness to it. A picture of my friends and I at Starbucks, that same month, elicits painful memories. Staring at our hands making one big heart, I am reminded of my support system, but also the ecstasy-filled beginnings of a time in my life that eventually crashed and burned. It's sort of like dramatic irony. The photographs, all sorted in chronological order, play out like one extraordinarily lo...

I am 15 hours and 30 minutes away from one of the places I'd love to call home. Living here, within the bitter, sharp air, rain or snow or the occasional beams of sunlight, grass yellow and temperatures jumping, I know I was not born to live in Troy, Michigan. My mother knew it before me, even, telling me at a young age that she saw me moving away as soon as I was done with my education. Of course, me being only seven, I denied it. I never saw myself claiming any other area as home, living apart from everyone I had ever met. As I grew up, however, I slowly began to realize how right she was. Like Nick in The Great Gatsby , location has the potential to both derive me of life, and also deliver the utmost amount of happiness to me--simply due to its environment. Nick describes eating in the Yale Club as "the gloomiest event of [his] day," while loving New York for its "racy, adventurous feel." At every turn of his life, Nick is constantly naming locations, all...