I typed in my name slowly. My brain no longer possessed the ability to use all ten fingers to type, so it had resorted to the single finger poke method. The screen refreshed, nothing had changed. I looked at the time again, time zero was still smirking. Had I made a mistake? My hands were shaking so fast that even the single finger poke method was slowly failing. Again the screen did not change.
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The same day breast cancer took my mothers life. The same day, hours before her death, that I promised her I would find a dissertation cure to cancer. My binder was that promise. A promise i had made almost a lifetime ago to someone that I loved more than life itself. A promise that was made to someone that was no longer around to see this binder be filled, or to see what was to come in the minute, or to tell me i should calm down, breath, and believe that was to happen was meant. A promise i would fulfill no matter the circumstances that faced. A promise that I felt could only be realized if in the next moment I could achieve the impossible. My heart decided to mimic my bed and turn into a rock. I couldnt breathe, my fingers froze as the time seemed to stare me down as if to say, yeah, ive been coming for you. However, i was ready. I was terrified, i was hungry, but I was ready.
After flipping through an eternity of pages, one would then reach a paper with an orange post-it note. My paper, my proudest accomplishment, my one contribution to the world I wished to be a part. Unlike the others, this paper did not contain orange highlighter, nor my handwriting. It was not wrinkled or stained. It sat crisply in the back of an army of papers simply staring at me, my name sat proudly in bold at the front of a line of far more nurse qualified names. At the end of my last name sat a little 1, a number I felt I didnt deserve, but would wear with the upmost humility. This paper was special. This paper was the one thing I felt showed that I was truly fulfilling a promise i had once made to someone i loved. The binder was born november 21, 2007.
The first paper sat within a mangled page protector that had not done its job very well. The paper was black along its edges from strange particles that had easily slid through its not so protecting covering. The paper itself looked much like the pages of the notebooks, full to the brim with scribbles of hopeful ideas that would pop into my mind, or explanations to words I didnt understand. Along the lines of the paper ran streaks of orange highlighter that would identify text I deemed particularly important; therefore, the whole paper was almost entirely orange. The pages that followed mimicked the first. Though not in page protectors, the poorly printed papers that followed all had the same orange highlighter sliding across the text. Each page was individualistic, slightly different from the page that sat next. Some had holes punched on the wrong side, or an extensive amount of my own writing, or none of my writing at all, or an author whose name was circled, or an images that were printed in color.
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My summer adventures, the time i felt for once i was beginning to make some sort of impact of this world of mine, for. Me being just me, me just being yet another ordinary kid living an ordinary life hoping that something extraordinary might maybe possibly happen to me, against. These thoughts would flow in time with the ever increasing beat of my heart: positive, negative, positive. The thoughts did not cease, ford but due to their neutralizing nature i felt no better or worse about my current situation, i just felt overwhelmed. I had hoped that my stomach would continue sucking in the thoughts that would leave my mind, but it had decided it was no longer hungry. As with my bed, i just sort of let it. I looked around the room hoping to find something to occupy my parading thoughts.
It sat on the floor, calling out for. It had a hard white outside scattered with particles of brown dirt, and a front flap that was now more bent than straight due to being stuffed far beyond its intended capacity. Inside there were two notebooks, a black five subject spiral, and a green single subject with the words questions of Life written on the front. Both were slightly tattered, containing wrinkled pages from water damage and small stains from various foods. Neither of the two books were full, but the amount of writing per page was twice that of a normal sheet of paper. Along there pages were scribbles of chemical compounds, biological makeups, drug delivery ideas, and of course questions of life. After flipping through the notebooks, one would be met with a fleet of papers, each new paper being marked with a worn yellow post-it note at the top of the first page.
1 minute. The air around me was completely still. Instead of comforting me with a gentle breeze, it simply sat with hands on my neck looking over my shoulder at the computer screen. The sun was having a joyous time dancing along my back in its high heels, stabbing my skin with its piercing heat. Below me my bed had decided to become a rock. I honestly have no idea how, i am not a bed scientist.
My bed had been with me for 15 years, and honestly, i had decided to stop arguing about when it should be a rock and when it should be a bed. I just sort of let it. Something instantly changed within my head. My thoughts had evolved to become purely anaerobic, and with their newfound trait they began to flood my mind. They rushed into every unoccupied space of my body demanding that every surface within me know what it felt to lack the oxygen that was so often taken for granted. There were two types of thoughts, those that were for me and those that were against. The call I had gotten two days earlier, teasing me with the idea that I might have some sort of chance, for. The results of my last exam, i had done well, but that meant nothing when all they would take was great, against.
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Each set seemed to reflect upon their waxy essays exterior a different emotion: boredom, support, nervousness, belief, fear, and that emotion, that feeling that you just want to go back to whatever it was you were originally doing, but cant because you are obligated by social. I looked desperately into the darkness resume of the jet black irises hoping that I might be able to find some sort of understanding. Someone that could hear the oxygen deprived screams of my mind, but they couldnt. Honestly, if these eyes would do nothing, but sit above me acting blind to the tears that wish I could cry, then I would much rather them leave me alone and allow me to suffer without their judgement. However, i was obligated by those pesky social norms to act as if i appreciated their presence. So instead, i responded by moving the corner of my mouth slightly towards my nose. That should be enough to keep the eyes from thinking I had died. Back to my phone.
I checked my phone. The last time i tasted anything besides water had been two days before. I was animal hoping fasting would bring me some sort of ease about what was to come, and it had, until now. I thought that through my fasting I had transcended fear and accepted that what was to come was unavoidable; however, it was all for naught the moment my efforts would matter most. I had long stopped feeling hunger, but the void in my stomach seemed to swallow any sort of intelligent thought that had survived the oxygen deprived wasteland in my head. I checked my laptop again. I looked up only to meet 6 sets of eyes.
mit is the dream we have worked for years to finally reach. This is just a little excerpt on me getting into mit and why it meant so much. I sat on my bed silently. My fingers were numb and my breaths were shallow. I would look at the time on my phone, then on my laptop, then on my phone again. My head seemed eerily quiet, but not empty. It was as if my mind had exceeded capacity, and there wasnt enough oxygen for each thought to speak.
I run this site as a hobby, on my (increasingly limited) free time. I also get a lot of mail. I do my best to answer, especially when someone points out a mistake or inaccuracy. However, i will not respond to emails that: ask me questions already answered in the. Faqs; in particular, emails that ask what are my arms? Or where does my name come from? Ask me for genealogical advice, or how to trace ancestors; ask me questions unrelated to the contents of this site; ask me to help with a term paper due in three hours. The list is not inclusive. Sometimes I forget to reply, or reply weeks later.
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Increased volumes of junk e-mail and virus-infected messages have forced me to red make it less easy to reach. How to contact me, send me mail. At the following address: you can't begin to compose the email by clicking on a link, or even copy-pasting the address: you'll have to type it out manually in your email application. Sorry.and fill in the subject line! If you put something meaningful in the subject line, it will be easier for me to separate it from spam. Don't put "Question" but rather "question about a coat of arms" or something to that effect. Why am I doing this? If I write out the address or, worse, include a mail link, the address will be found by e-mail harvesters and included on junk emailers' lists; also, it will appear in the browser caches of thousands of Internet users where it will be found.