perils with writing and whatnot
LifeWrite’s third module teaches how to use comparisons to describe something. At first I thought this would be relatively simple, yet after thinking about it for a while, I’ve realized that this lesson was as tough, if not tougher, than the previous one, Dinner with the Family. Nevertheless, this should be an interesting one.
During my entire life so far, I’ve had only two female best friends. One of them was Linda, a mischievous girl I knew during the years of grade school. The other girl I met when I was 16 years old. I could describe either of them for this module, but because of the use of comparisons that are being part of the package, I’ve decided on someone else, Dave.
I met Dave when I was 14 years old. He was slightly older than me, but not enough to put us in different grades in school. In many ways, including our genders, we were quite different from each other. Our approach to life was one of the biggies in that comparison field.
Dave reminded me of Sir Lancelot, including the way he had his hair cut. He was the leader of the pack. Surprisingly, he took care of each one of us as if his standing in the community depended on how well he did. For a kid in high school, I could never see how he could handle the burden with such grace. Somehow he did it nonetheless.
Being Sir Lancelot, his entrance into any of the gathering we had was one of ultimate pomp and circumstance. During the summer months, these gatherings were daily, lasting from about 11 o’clock in the morning to about 5 o’clock in the late afternoon/early evening. He had at least ten ideas each day as to what we could do for all those hours without even touching anything that would be on the shady side of being wrong. How his mind could work like this is still a mystery to me. Remember, we were teenagers. For many of us, trying to think of three things to do that wouldn’t get us into serious trouble was the very best we could do.
As good as this talent of his was, he was still all teenage boy. The stories I would hear from his girlfriend were shocking at times. Should I have doubted her? I think not. She just wasn’t the type of person to tell what we called fibs back then. Besides, all of us knew that he got in trouble at home on a regular basis. He definitely wasn’t a saint.
One of his self-proclaimed duties as Sir Lancelot was to keep the wenches of the clan safe and protected. Of course, he did have help from the other guys in our group, but somehow when I needed to be rescued, it was always Dave who came charging forward.
On the comparison scale, I would declare Dave to be the color, Royal Blue.
Where irrationality trumps reason
Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers. - Isaac Asimov
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