WA 11 Draft 3

Teenagers, parents, corporations, the united states, we all do it, we all know it, we all have addressed it, but no one does anything about it, because that is exactly what it is all about. We sit there, well aware of our own flaws and problems, and look up from them and glance, point, yell, wish, and stare at not ourselves, but others and their problems. All too often, in the face of adversity on the personal homefront, we compare our difficulties with those of others, reason to ourselves, find a scape goat, find two scape goats, even gather up a herd of these scape goats and quietly stick a finger in their direction, pointing away our problems. We unload our problems that we don't want to deal with onto the back of an excuse and hand deliver it to someone else. This delivery by way of hand comes in the form of an index finger. Even when we actually do confront our problems, rarely do we fully take it on, instead just sweep it up into a pile in the corner. Just remember next time you exploit your wonderfully useful digit, you will undoubtedly have three fingers pointing right back at you.

My suggestion: use your whole hand when pointing, or even perhaps a feirce glare...that should solve the problem. For now.

WA 11 Draft 2

Teenagers, parents, corporations, the united states, we all do it, we all know it, we all have addressed it, but no one does anything about it, because that is exactly what it is all about. We sit there, well aware of our own flaws and problems, and look up from them and glance, point, yell, wish, and stare at not ourselves, but others and their problems. All too often, in the face of adversity on the personal homefront, we compare our difficulties with those of others, reason to ourselves, find a scape goat, find two scape goats, even gather up a herd of these scape goats and quietly stick a finger in their direction, pointing away our problems. We unload our problems that we don't want to deal with onto the back of an excuse and hand deliver it to someone else. This delivery by way of hand comes in the form of an index finger. Even when we actually do confront our difficulties, rarely do we fully take it on instead just sweep it up into a pile in the corner. Just remember next time you exploit your wonderfully useful digit, you will undoubtedly have three fingers pointing right back at you. My suggestion: use your whole hand or even perhaps a feirce glare...that should solve the problem.

WA 11 Draft 1

Teenagers, parents, store clerks, the united states, we all do it, we all know it, we all have addressed it, but no one does anything about it, because that is exactly what it is all about. We sit there, well aware of our own flaws and problems, and look up from them and glance, point, yell, wish, and stare at not ourselves, but others and their problems. All too often, in the face of adversity on the personal homefront, we compare our difficulties with those of others, reason to ourselves, find a scape goat, find two scape goats, even gather up a herd of these scape goats and quietly stick a finger in their direction, pointing away our problems. Poor goats. We unload our problems that we don't want to deal with onto the back of an excuse and hand deliver it to someone else. This delivery by way of hand comes in the form of an index finger. Just remember next time you exploit your wonderfully useful digit, you will undoubtedly have three fingers pointing right back at you. My suggestion: use your whole hand or even perhaps a feirce glare...that should solve the problem.

WA 10 Draft 3

The morning humidity traps the sound of the commute to work. As the city awakens many clean cut busy-bodies make there way to work in their stiff suits still warm from the iron, and their intimidating brief cases, ready to make a forgettable impression. Even more ubiquitous than the aspiring businessmen was the indifferent cubicle worker, the business school burnout. Wearing a crinkled button down shirt and carrying a worn leather satchel in place of a jet black brief case, promotion to them was somewhat meaningless. They were satisfied yet not at all eager about their position in life. A workday that consisited of several trips to the coffee maker and Xerox machine accompanied by monotonous number crunching, filing, and solitaire was nothing to brag about, rarely involving excitement or risk of any sort. Day after day this urban phenomenon continued.His disposition to this society was often overlooked, his role deemed insignificant and not noteworthy. Every morning was the same, he would observe from behind the counter of his street vendor, quietly passing breakfast sandwiches and coffee out to the masses in exchange for a few wadded bills shoved into his hands without even a friendly glance. His family had moved to the inner city out of their home in a suburban area rife with crime into the inner city, where, even though they knew that crime and living conditions would be the same if not worse, they hoped to find a job. He, the father of a family of five, worked his street vendor from dawn until dusk, an existence that from the outside world would maybe seem demoralizing and low class. He looked out from his street vendor and only could think that these people however more fortunate than he, must be lonely, with their looks of scorn and bleak bland outfits that suggested they would go home to an apartment where they could only muse what it must be like to have a family where they must work the entire day without rest just to be able to keep their home. He was satisfied, his role amongst such men relatively insignificant, but he didn't mind, he told himself he was here by choice and falling into conformity wouldn't be nearly as entertaining.

WA 10 Draft 2

The morning humidity traps the sound of the commute to work. As the city awakens many clean cut busy-bodies make there way to work in their stiff suits still warm from the iron, and their intimidating brief cases, ready to make a forgettable impression. Even more ubiquitous than the aspiring businessmen was the indifferent cubicle worker, the business school burnout. Wearing a crinkled button down shirt and carrying a worn leather satchel in place of a jet black brief case, promotion to them was somewhat meaningless. They were satisfied yet not at all eager about their position in life. A workday that consisited of several trips to the coffee maker and Xerox machine accompanied by monotonous number crunching, filing, and solitaire was nothing to brag about, rarely involving excitement or risk of any sort. Day after day this urban phenomenon continued.His disposition to this society was often overlooked, his role deemed insignificant and not noteworthy. Every morning was the same, he would observe from behind the counter of his street vendor, quietly passing breakfast sandwiches and coffee out to the masses in exchange for a few wadded bills shoved into his hands without even a friendly glance. His family had moved to the inner city out of their home in a suburban area rife with crime into the inner city, where, even though they knew that crime and living conditions would be the same if not worse, they hoped to find a job. He, the father of a family of five, worked his street vendor from dawn until dusk, an existence that from the outside world would maybe seem demoralizing and low class. He looked out from his street vendor and only could think that these people however more fortunate than he, must be lonely, with their looks of scorn and bleak bland outfits that suggested they would go home to an apartment where they could only muse what it must be like to have a family where they must work the entire day without rest just to be able to keep their home. He was satisfied, his role amongst such men relatively insignificant, but he didn't mind, he told himself he was here by choice and falling into conformity wouldn't be nearly as entertaining.

WA 10 Draft 1

The morning humidity traps the sound of the commute to work. As the city awakens many clean cut busy-bodies make there way to work in there stiff suits still warm from the iron, and the intimidating brief case, ready to make a forgettable impression. Even more ubiquitous that the aspiring businessmen was the indifferent cubicle worker, the business school burnout. With a crinkled button down shirt, and the jet black brief case replaced by a worn leather satchel with papers spilling out. Promotion to them was somewhat meaningless. They were satisfied yet not at all eager about their position in life. A workday that consisited of several trips to the coffee maker and Xerox machine accompanied my monotonous number crunching, filing, and solitaire was nothing to brag about, rarely involving excitement or risk of any sort. Day after day this urban phenomenon continued.
His disposition to this society was often overlooked, his role deemed insignificant and not noteworthy. Every morning was the same, he would observe from behind the counter of his street vendor, quietly passing breakfast sandwiches and coffee out to the masses in exchanged for a few wadded bills shoved into his hands without even the friendly glance. His family had moved to the inner city out of the home in a suburban area rife with crime into the inner city, where, even though they knew that crime and living conditions would be the same if not worse, they hoped to find a job. He the father of a family of five worked his street vendor from dawn until dusk, and existence that from the outside world would maybe seem demoralizing and low class. He looked out from his street vendor and only could think that these people however more fortunate than he, must be lonely, with their looks of scorn and bleak bland outfits that suggested they would go home to an apartment where they could only muse what it must be like to have a family where they must he entire day without rest just to be able to keep their home. He was satisfied, his role amongst such men relatively insignificant, but he was a good man who was proud of many things.

WA 9 Draft 3

If there ever was one thing I was certain of it was that soccer was my passion. From the moment I first saw my brothers playing in the city streets ouside of our home up until now, I have been in in love with the game. Growing up in the sun burnt suburban sprawl outside of Mexico City, I was the sister of seven brothers. We lived in the back of the convenience store run by my father. With its flickering neon Open sign, and trademark faded pepsi-cola emblem, dad's store seemed to represent all that was suburban lifestyle, here on the outskirts of the heart of Mexico. My grandparents, mother, father, seven borhters, and I all lived here, me being the youngest. As a toddler in a family striving everyday to put food on the table, my parents rarely had enough time to manage their multiple jobs, let alone spend time with a needy youth. So I was taken care of chiefly by my grandmother, whose weathered hands of experience were always there to stop my fall, hold me close, and stroke me to sleep. I would spend hours tumbling and crawling around the living room in my faded pink smock, wide eyed and observant, swept up in the fascination of life. I vividly recall my first encounter with soccer. I must not have been more that four years old, I waddled my way through the side screen door of our house, my youthful hand grasped to the frail but strong hand of my grandma's, for she was taking me to get new shoes. Stepping onto the main road, I froze, thirty kids or more were laughing and yelling, running and kicking a tattered soccer ball around. I was in awe, love at first sight. When my grandmother first noticed my great interest in soccer, when all i would do was watch soccer on tv, she would come over and point out all the star players to me, spouting stories of how great my grandfather once was. She also promised to me that one day she would take me to a real match. She never did, not that we could have afforded it anyhow, for the following year my grandparents both passed away. They alone seemed to have been the anchor of our faily for once they were gone my brothers all moved out, and my father, mother, and I packed up and moved out to the states. In the United States, i still pursued soccer, playing on a boys team because our city did not have a girls league. I loved it all. Ten years later, i still love the game, although i do not play it anymore, but my young daughter seems to have taken to the game as much as i did when i was young. Every month i take my daughter to a professional game, which we both love, and as we watch i imagine my grandma there next to me pointing out all the great players to me on the field.

WA 9 Draft 2

If there ever was one thing I was certain of it was that soccer was my passion. From the moment I first saw my brothers playing in the city streets ouside of our home up until now, I have been in in love with the game. Growing up in the sun burnt suburban sprawl outside of Mexico City, I was the sister of seven brothers. We lived in the back of the convenience store run by my father. With its flickering neon Open sign, and trademark faded pepsi-cola emblem, dad's store seemed to represent all that was suburban lifestyle, here on the outskirts of the heart of Mexico. My grandparents, mother, father, seven borhters, and I all lived here, me being the youngest. As a toddler in a family striving everyday to put food on the table, my parents rarely had enough time to manage their multiple jobs, let alone spend time with a needy youth. So I was taken care of chiefly by my grandmother, whose weathered hands of experience were always there to stop my fall, hold me close, and stroke me to sleep. I would spend hours tumbling and crawling around the living room in my faded pink smock, wide eyed and observant, swept up in the fascination of life. I vividly recall my first encounter with soccer. I must not have been more that four years old, I waddled my way through the side screen door of our house, my youthful hand grasped to the frail but strong hand of my grandma's, for she was taking me to get new shoes. Stepping onto the main road, I froze, thirty kids or more were laughing and yelling, running and kicking a tattered soccer ball around. I was in awe, love at first sight. When my grandmother first noticed my great interest in soccer, when all i would do was watch soccer on tv, she would come over and point out all the star players to me, spouting stories of how great my grandfather once was. She also promised to me that one day she would take me to a real match. She never did, not that we could have afforded it anyhow, for the following year my grandparents both passed away. They alone seemed to have been the anchor of our faily for once they were gone my brothers all moved out, and my father, mother, and I packed up and moved out to the states. In the United States, i still pursued soccer, playing on a boys team because our city did not have a girls league. I loved it all. Ten years later, i still love the game, although i do not play it anymore, but my young daughter seems to have taken to the game as much as i did when i was young. Every month i take my daughter to a professional game, which we both love, and as we watch i imagine my grandma there next to me pointing out all the great players to me on the field.

WA 9 Draft 1

If there ever was one thing I was certain of it was that soccer was my passion. From the moment i first saw my brothers playing in the city streets ouside of our home up until now, curled up on the bed in my apartment dazedly staring out of the window reflecting on my journey to where i am today, I have been in in love with the game. Growing up in the sun burnt suburban sprawl outside of Mexico City, I was the sister of seven brothers. We lived in the back of the convenience store run by my father. My grandparents, mother, father, seven borhters, and I all lived here, me being the youngest. As a toddler in a family striving everyday to put food on the table, my parents rarely had enough time to manage there multiple jobs, let alone spend time with a needy youth. So i was taken care of chiefly by my grandmother, whose weathered hands of experience were always there to stop my fall, hold me close, and stroke me to sleep. I would spend hours tumbling and crawling around the living room in my faded pink smock, wide eyed and observant, swept up in the fascination of life. I vividly recall my first encounter with soccer. I must not have been more that four years old, I waddled my was through the side screen door of our house, my youthful hand grasped to the frail by strong hand of my grandma's, for she was taking me to get new shoes. Stepping onto the main road, I froze, thirty kids or more were laughing and yelling, running aroun kicking a tattered soccer ball around. I was in awe, love at first sight. When my grandmother first noticed my great interest in soccer, when all i would do was watch soccer on tv, she told me, in her soft and slow inspiring voice, "That could be you one day Sophia, i know it. They dont put the girls on tv, but if you always love the game as you do now, they will undoubtedly put the girls on tv, so we can all see you play." The following year my grandparents both passed away, within a week of each other, my brothers all moved out, and my father, mother, and I packed up and moved out to the states. In the United States, i still pursued soccer, playing on a boys team because our city did not have a girls league. I loved it all. I still do, ten years later, sitting curled up on my bed in my apartment reminiscing back to my youth and my journey to where i am today, on the national soccer team. As i continue liking my passion, I know that my grandma's inspiring gaze still follows me as i play the game i love.

WA 8 Draft 3

LORD OF THE PONG

Once upon a time deep in the realms frat house party life their was a player of beer pong. No ordinary pong player was he. He was the most fearsome and ruthless pong player of them all, his skill was unrivaled by anyone on campus, perhaps anyone in the world for that matter. He not only posessed great pong skill but he was clever and cunning, using his dominance in the game to intimidate others, lording over the campus with his pinpoint accuracy on the pong table. Although he was naturally very skilled, the source of his power came from a posession of his that could always be found on his person, the golden pong ball. This ball, or rather, weapon, could crumble any man's arrogant ego, and leave them defeated and in a drunken stupor.

This pong ball, forged at an ancient german brewery, had powers insurmountable by human will. The user of this pong ball would gradually become dependent on its power, while although they would still reign supreme on friday nights at fraternity pong tournaments, their clever witt and jocular outlook on life, common for college students, would fade away and turn into demonic, power hungry behavior which led to desire to take over the campus. Eager for pong bragging rights and control over campus he gained many followers, who aided him in his rule of late night pong playing .

His infamous constant strive for power had extended beyond the edges of the pong table and into campus life, unstoppable and untouchable, until two undersized underdog underclassmen stood up to his reign, seeking to destroy his means of such great power, for they knew that his prized golden pong ball could be destroyed in a german pub in the heart of germany. These challengers faced him in the most ferocious and intense game of pong ever played, and although they lost they managed to obtain his pong ball and proceded to make haste for germany in hopes in destroying this ball of power. Little did they know that their journey would not be an easy one, faced with unforseen peril and adversity that could only be overcome through extreme courage and strength of soul.

WA 8 Draft 2

LORD OF THE PONG

Once upon a time deep in the realms frat house party life their was a player of beer pong. No ordinary pong player was he. He was the most fearsome and ruthless pong player of them all, his skill was unrivaled by anyone on campus, perhaps anyone in the world for that matter. He not only posessed great pong skill but he was clever and cunning, using his dominance in the game to intimidate others, lording over the campus with his pinpoint accuracy on the pong table. Although he was naturally very skilled, the source of his power came from a posession of his that could always be found on his person, the golden pong ball. This ball, or rather, weapon, could crumble any man's arrogant ego, and leave them defeated and in a drunken stupor. This pong ball, forged at an ancient german brewery, had powers insurmountable by human will. The user of this pong ball would gradually become dependent on its power, while although they would still reign supreme on friday nights at fraternity pong tournaments, their clever witt and jocular outlook on life, common for college students, would fade away and turn into demonic, power hungry behavior which led to desire to take over the campus. Eager for pong bragging rights and control over campus he gained many followers, who aided him in his rule of late night pong playing . His infamous constant striv for power had extended beyond the edges of the pong table and into campus life, unstoppable and untouchable, until two undersized underdog underclassmen stood up to his reign, seeking to destroy his means of such great power, for they knew that his prized golden pong ball could be destroyed in a german pub in the heart of germany. These challengers faced him in the most ferocious and intense game of pong ever played, and although they lost they managed to obtain his pong ball and proceded to make haste for germany in hopes in destroying this ball of power. Little did they know that their journey would not be an easy one, faced with unforseen peril and adversity that could only be overcome through extreme courage and strength of soul.