Poetic empty thought bubbles

Clearly I lied when I posted yesterday, cuz here I am again. This is actually prompted by something, though: today I got another packet of mail forwarded from my mom, and among the bills and stuff was a postcard from my middle school English teacher, Mrs. Ambler. She published a book for teachers with various exercises designed to encourage creativity through poetry for students of all ages, and sent me this postcard referring me to the website, because some of my own creations were used. A poem I wrote in the 9th grade is included as one of the samples for an exercise where you write something about the winter season. That this is here is ridiculous for two reasons: 1. I grew up in Southern California and hadn't the faintest clue what I was talking about, a few ski vacations notwithstanding. 2. I wrote this is my free time in high school (yeah, I didn't really run with the popular crowd), when Mrs. Ambler was no longer around encouraging us to write about whatever. It seems Michael Moore's proclivity for convenient half-truths is far more pervasive than I thought.

Another interesting find: the sample anthologies, several of which were done by people I went to school with and something of which I have several vivid memories of completing (I used to be pretty artistic, believe it or not... now the only (dubious) remnant of said creativity is my Absolut door. I know all my college peeps remember the Absolut door... I still have it.). I can only assume that the reason why my own anthology isn't on there is because my own credentials aren't nearly as impressive as those of the other students up there (a Master's from Northwestern at the age of 22 just isn't worth what it used to be, I guess).