Ender’s Game

Not obsessed at all.

 

Ender’s game three times

Ender’s Shadow

Shadow of the Hegemon

Speaker for the Dead

PIGGIES MILO</3

 

okay I’m creepy.

Bye.

Graduation [2]

We had a nice casino-themed graduation party. The teachers/decorators went to great lengths to bring out the casino-feel to the party. In fact, they put balloons with “Casino” written on them AND scattered cards over some tables AND even put chocolate coins on some!

I mean, don’t you think that’s just a bit TOO much work? They did so much for us, and all we did was cause so much trouble for them, just like any other graduation class.

 

And plus the music hurt my ears, because it was so loud.

And plus we played a card game that I’m still trying to figure out.

And plus we ‘danced.’ As obliging Asians, we did the ‘toss the rice’ dance from David Seo. Or however you spell his last name.

 

And plus that’s probably all I feel like writing now.

The last ten minutes of the party was pretty---

huggy.

 

I tried not to cry. And I did not. I kind of was amused actually, how I didn’t. But I got less amused in the car when my parents were awkwardly sitting in the front seat hearing their daughter sob her eyes and throat out.

WHY YOU LEAVE ME.

 

Okay I’m done. Nobody read that. Kaythanksbye.

GRADUATION [1]

AWWW I WILL MISS YOU EC AND TC AND AJ AND LL AND RTH AND VL AND EH AND HM AND JW AND ALL OF THE OTHER FRIENDS WHO ARE GOING TO OTHER HIGH SCHOOLS OH OHOH OHOHOHOHOHOH NONONONONONONO

 

Okay I’m done.

But literally, I was sobbing for quite a while after I came home, starting from the car.

ANYHOW.

 

Graduation is a terrible thing for me because it means saying good-bye to people I don’t want to say bye to. I think this is the first time I’ve actually had to say a serious and solemn good-bye to people.

I mean, besides in second grade when I burst into salty water when I had to move away from all of my friends, but that’s a while ago.

And the time I had to move away from my friends in third grade.

And in the beginning of fourth.

…But that’s not that big, because I didn’t really make much of a big deal of it, anyhow, the longest I’d been with any of them was three years, and that was just from kindergarten to second grade. But this--

after I moved here in the beginning of fourth grade, and up till now, which is eighth grade, which is four years (one more year than the kindergarten years, I know, but still). I had lots of great friends and lots of funny memories (wow this sounds so cheesy. I bet my side comments make it even cheesier. Ugh I wish it didn’t sound so cheesy.) and lots of laughter and stuff like that.

But now that I have to say ‘bye’ to them—that’s just terrible.

I mean, I’m sure we’re going to see each other in the summer, meet, and have fun somewhere other than school (obviously school’s not the only place you meet your friends). But I know that as years pass, they’ll make new friends who they’ll meet more often than they will me, and they’ll gradually drift farther and farther away from me, and my name will go farther and farther from their center of memory and thought.

Soon enough, we’ll meet somehow and then look at each other, all the friendship and kindness and cheesy memories gone, just strangers to each other’s eyes, and we’ll be as awkward as one is to another in a first meeting.

Thinking of that, just having said goodbye to my friends less than a week ago, breaks my heart.

(Wow that sounds cheesy, too. D:)

I guess with ‘facebook’ we’ll know what we look like, and we’ll know that we’re alive, but that’s all how it will probably be for a long time, before we’ll be thinking, “Oh yeah, what’s her name?”

And their names will be farther from the center of our minds, too.

This is what makes me so sad, and this is what brought the flood of tears onto my pillow.

Wait I didn’t say that.

What pillow? What tears?

No, no, I deny it all.

 

SO ANYHOW.

 

I really will miss you all, Allison and Lani and Tiff and Eunice and Rachel T. and Victoria and Jonathan and Keira and M(******) (might not want her name mentioned) and Emma and all of those whom I have regarded as my friend.

It’s out of honor that I had to write your names in (except for M, because she wants her unique name anonymous C:), and that I will try not to forget all of you even if you all forget me.

Because all those fun times during lunch and gym and science (COUGH MRS. Y) and DC and math and Spanish and just

yeah.

I hope that all of you, when you go to the high schools that you’re going to, will find your hopes in life and whatnot (all of those wise adulty stuff), find the meaning of your life and pursue your dreams and stuff, and you won’t give up and you’ll achieve that dream and you’ll succeed and you’ll be happy because technically if you’re sad your whole life that’s pretty depressing but that’s just weird and I’m kind of getting off track so I’ll just stop.

But you know, I hope that you all have a nice life after high school.

And beyond.

And good luck.

And bye.

And--

SOBS INTO KEYBOARD.

Really, I will miss you all. I hope last Wednesday wasn’t the last time I saw you guys. I hope that in ten years, we’ll see each other in a coffee shop, and neither of us will tilt our heads and say, “I’m sorry, do I know you?” When the other comes to greet an old friend.

I admit, some of you I have known more than others, and whatever it is, chances are slim that in exactly ten years we’ll be in the same coffee shop, out of all the places in the world, but we get those chances and I hope we won’t miss them.

 

Yeah, so,

good luck in your careers.

I hope you’ve all made the right choice.

I hope I’ve made the right choice, too.

 

For now,

bye.

 

TY A HAND.

~
Celine

SUBSTITUTES

So I’m writing this post actually on June 22, but to keep posts chronologically correct, I’m putting the post date as few days before June 20th, which is the day of Graduation, which is what I will write about after I finish writing this.

I have a lot to write.

I haven’t posted here in quite a while.

Anyhow.

 

Substitutes.

It’s a while ago, but here’s the story I HAVE to write.

 

So, here it is.

 

Substitutes are poor creatures. They have to stand up in front of a classroom full of strangers, who resent you because you’re in charge and you’re probably going to make them do boring things. You’re already on their bad side, you have no idea what they are like. But the strangers in the classroom have dealt with teachers since they were in first grade, and this is their eighth year of experience. You lose.

I never thought that this would be true.

I mean, I just thought that substitutes were there to take the place of a teacher in case he or she decided to ditch school for a day or two. The obvious definition.

Well, I learned that all is not what it seems.

One fine day. I have Science first period, and it’s first period, so I walk into the science classroom. My friend E and R are already in their seats, because their homeroom classrooms are closer to the science room, meaning they get there first.

I look to the front of the room, and see that we have a substitute teacher today. Mrs. Y, let’s call her. So much for ‘I’m not absent often.’ (Quote, from my Science Teacher.)

Anyhow, I sit down, expecting the kids to torment the substitute as they usually do. And this time, I’m also half expecting her to burst into her speech about her community service thing.

You see, I had this particular substitute, Mrs. Y, as an art substitute before (or was it science? I don’t remember). But she had spent quite a lot of time telling us about her community service group that she made, something about Savoring One’s Life or something like that, and telling us that we should really join the group and telling us ‘advice’ for high school. AND about her book that she wrote, that honestly, nobody will probably want to read.

So anyhow.

I sat down in my seat, next to E, because that’s my assigned seat. We’re the first ones in the classroom, besides this chubby kid who sits in the back corner and doesn’t say anything much.

The teacher’s all cheerful and nod-y and happy. Guess she doesn’t know what she’s in for.

So more and more kids come in, and as usual, the ‘silly’ kids, the ‘popular’ kids come in last, because they’re out in the hallways talking to their friends and whatnot.

As they come in, they see Mrs. Y and when their back’s to her, they grin this evil-teenager smile like they’re plotting something. I just roll my eyes (to myself) and think, “what now.”

Because my science class fellow classmates have a gruesome history of torturing and ripping apart substitutes’---

sanity.

So the bell rings and we’re all obediently sitting in seats, never mind the fact that half the people aren’t sitting in their ‘assigned’ seats. They’re all neat and happy and looking at the board and not talking and folding their hands like they’re actually deciding to be OBEISANT for a day, but I know better they’re probably plotting something even worse than introducing themselves to the teacher and then shaking their hand and saying “Nice to meet you, (insert substitute victim name here),” and doing all sorts of stupid stuff you don’t do in a classroom.

The teacher clears her throat and says, “So, guys, you have a lot to do today, you have two packets to highlight and finish, and Mr. S (our science teacher) wants you to do this—“

She peers from behind her glasses at the student in front of her, slightly startled. The student is raising her hand ever so patiently yet very eagerly, waving her hand a bit in the air.

“…Yes?”

“Mrs. Y, can you tell us about your book?”

And from this, the whole class catches on.

“Yeah, Mrs. Y, we really want to hear about your book.”

“Mrs. Y, please?”

And I guess she’s never had so many students so interested in her book. She kind of smiles, and says, “No, guys, we have so much to do—“

“Oh, Mrs. Y, Mr. S said that we can do this tomorrow!”

She looks at the student, let’s call her S. S is nodding as she says this, probably a smile on her face (I can’t see her face, she sits in the front).

Mrs. Y is not thick-headed. “You’re lying!” she says.

“No, no, I swear,” S says, probably putting on a solemn face that can even swear on the Bible, if asked.

Okay, so maybe she is thick-headed. “Are you sure?”

I watch in disbelief as the class nods and shouts out ‘yes’ from different disobedient corners of the classroom, and even more incredulous astonishment as the teacher FALLS FOR IT.

Mrs. Y, probably so moved by the newfound interest in her otherwise pathetic book, says, “Okay guys, just five minutes. Just five.”

And even the kids who have coaxed her into this are looking back at each other, not believing what is happening. Has ANY teacher been so ignorant?

So the class is all hyped up at this.

And Mrs. Y is a talker, so she rants on for ten minutes. Everyone isn’t listening, but that doesn’t matter. The main part is that we’re not doing the boring work we were supposed to. That fact, in itself, is enough to amuse us and help us endure the boredom that Mrs. Y’s speech itself is emitting.

Near the end of the ten minutes, she mentions her “Savoring One’s Life” community service group thing. And the way she phrases it is as so: “…you know, Savoring One’s Life? You’ve heard of that, right?”

And of course, the students catch onto that question like it’s an inviting treasure. They rush to it like it’s a magnet, cling onto it like they’ll never let go. It’s an opportunity they could never miss.

“NO, NO WE DON’T.” S says.

Mrs. Y looks at her and says (again), “You’re lying!”

(I don’t know if it’s because she wants to end the conversation and start class, or if she can’t believe anyone hasn’t heard of her SOL (I’ll abbreviate it) community service thing.)

But the whole class says that they swear, they haven’t heard of it before, and somehow convince Mrs. Y that we can do the packets tomorrow.

And we spend thirty minutes listening to her rant about her SOL thing and her book and her brother, whom I do not want to condescend on or be mean to, but you know, things CAN get boring.

And then she realizes there’s like fifteen minutes left of the period and she says, “OH MY GOD WE MUST DO THE PACKET.”

And literally.

We highlight and take notes on the packet in.

Literally.

Three minutes. No kidding.

She tells us, “Now, guys, when you’re in high school, you have to know what to highlight, so that you can only see the important key points. DUHHH!”

O.o

And then she reads all of the ‘supposed to be highlighted’ words of the packet all in one breath (almost), pausing to say, “DUHHHH” in between every few phrases, just to make it seem like she’s teaching us something. And the sillier kids of the class catch along with her mood and say “DUHHHHH” with her.

Other kids are just rolling their eyes and highlighting almost three sentences per second.

After that, because we’ve done everything (and finished the questions in the packet, more like, wrote down the answers she gave us—“Gee, guys, you’re smart kids! Smart kids!”), we have time left.

So what we do is--

we look at pictures of her brother, who was the center of the whole SOL community service thing, and also was disabled after an unfortunate car accident. (Sorry, Mrs. Y’s brother, we don’t mean to hurt you, but it’s just to say.)

Obviously, my friend E and R and I are not interested, but the rest of the class sure is, and they all go up to the computer to look at her slideshow of her brother.

You see her commentating here and there, even once saying, “OH. You’re not supposed to see that, you’re not.” And you hear S say, “No, it’s okay, we see a lot worse” or something like that.

…

Oh, substitutes.

I have so much more stories, but I’m lazy, and there’s a lot. But trust me, things can actually go as movies illustrate. Which actually surprises me, because most people say life isn’t like 'in a movie.’

Oh well.

Sleepyhead

So today I woke up late.

More specifically, I woke up the time my bus cones.

I missed the bus.

The school bus.

Not the High School bus.

There were no more buses coming to our house that would take me to my school.

And my brother was late to his band class.

So my mother dutifully yelled us awake, and then took us to school.

So on the way to school, me in one seat and my brother in the other, me thinking to myself, “Why, I’m late. I’m late to school.” and not really thinking through about it,

my mother says,

“If there are any detours on the way to school, that will be the. worst.”

Because recently, the construction worker people have been obsessed in blocking usual routes to school, meaning my road-blind mother would have to find her way through the town to reach my school.

And there would be detours one day, no detours another. You really couldn’t know the schedule. It wasn’t too… organized.

So we say, “Yeah. That would be terrible.”

I mean, Lateness-to-school PLUS Detours PLUS Roadblind-Mother equals…

Disaster.

We’re reaching an intersection, and I say, “Dear God, Please let us not be late to school. Amen.” (Because if we’re good enough, we can get there on time. At least, I can.)

Two split seconds later, we stop at a red light.

!?!?!?!?!? God, I thought you were all forgiving and merciful! And school is a very educational place!

Well, He has His reasons.

ANYHOW.

So now we’re getting more and more late, thanks to the red-lights, and we reach a detour.

A DETOUR.

But my mother drives on INTO the detour road, so that we have to swerve into another road, where there are lots of houses and stuff, and then my mom’s freaking out while I’m getting the GPS (turns out, it’s out of battery. Dx we had to charge it), and finally after turning it on,

it says,

“Acquiring Satellites.”

And it ‘acquires satellites’ for quite a while. In fact, it kept on acquiring satellites. All the while, my mother is frantically driving here and there randomly, waiting for the GPS to hurry up and finish acquiring the satellites.

Then, we pass a familiar sort of path.

It doesn’t ring a bell until we actually find ourselves at school. Miracle!

Opening Locked Doors for Dummies!

So there are many things I am good at, many things I am bad at. I mean, it’s the same with everyone. For example, I am good at saying my name, opening my eyes, and failing at tennis. I am bad at tennis, bad at sports, and bad at opening doors.

 

What did you say? Opening doors, you say? Why, that’s a simple everyday task!

Well, unfortunately, when I was born, Dear old God deprived me of such supposedly easy everyday tasks. For example, very often, I lack common sense. So in a sense (XD it’s a PUN I just realized), for me, it’s not common at all.

And I’m not good at noticing things unless you actually say it really obviously. I can see, hear, taste, smell, and feel, but I’m not too good at any of those either. (Bad eyesight, bad hearing, don’t know about taste and smell and feel, but pretty sure they’re defected in some way or another.)

And besides common sense, I lack the ability to open doors.

Of course, I can open them. It’s just the matter of unlocking them. With those keys, jingling on the keychain, the one you stick into the keyhole and then twist it to unlock the door?

Well, I’m not too good at it.

I mean, just today, I was locked out of my own house even though I had the key in my hand.

Do you want to hear my pathetic story?

Hear, hear.

 

So it’s a nice and sunny day.

No.

It’s actually pretty cloudy, and I’m coming home from school, (got off the bus and stuff), said good-bye to my friend-neighbor whom I walk home with, and I go to the door.

It’s a normal day for me, supposedly, because (1) I’m still short, (2) I am still alive, and (3) there are no sudden atrophies in my health.

So I had nothing under suspicion, not even the squirrel that chitter-chattered as it scrambled up the tree nearby.

Then, I reached the door of my house. The looming, big, green door.

You see, our door is not any ordinary door. Like me, it has some flaws and imperfections. For example, the screen door will not shut. In fact, if you live in my house, like I do, after you shut the screen door, within about three minutes, you hear that irritating CREEEEEEEEEAAK CREEEEAAAAAAAK coming from right outside again. (Recently my dad fixed it, so now it never opens properly—it shuts closed even if you prop it open.)

Then, for the real door (not saying the screen door is fake, but just as a figure of speech). Gawd. So the doorknob thing isn’t a round-ish sort of circle, like most doors. Ours is like a handle sort of thing.

^ Like that.

So anyhow, we have ANOTHER lock on TOP of that.

So anyhow, the handle of our door (shown in the picture above), broke a while ago. And then, one fateful day (the phrase comes from Drums, Girls, and Dangerous Pie by Jordan Sonnenblick), while we were hurriedly rushing our reluctant selves out of the house, the handle just came loose and got ripped right out of the door.

…Which was pretty shocking, considering we were (probably) pretty late to wherever we were supposed to be getting to.

SO ANYWAYS, our father eventually “fixed” it (just a week ago it came out again, but now we’ve all just given up), and now the little pushy thingy that goes in and out as you turn the handle—the small metal chunk thingy that clicks the door closed and keeps it closed—you know that, situated at the edge of the door, the thingy protruding out of the rectangle of the door? Well, it stayed inside the hole thing. I guess it’s gone through a lot in its life, and decided that ‘that’s it,’ and it would never expose itself to the outside world once again.

SO now, we can open our door just by pulling the door handle (no need to turn the knob and then pull the door—just pull with no turn). Which, sometimes, the handle comes off just as the door creaks open.

AND THEN. I’m not even done.

The Doorbell. Geez, someone messed with that, because our doorbell is cracked. It is CRACKED. Like, someone got real angry and decided to put it out on a poor little doorbell, so that the plastic covering that hides the little LED light is out. It’s just cracked and open. So now, friendly neighbors trying to be social are awkwardly knocking on the door instead of pressing the cracked, dilapidated, neglected doorbell.

Oh, well.

La boca de mi casa es muy viejo y roto.

Well, you can call it the mouth.

Anyhow. We have a very messed up front-of-the-house.

ANYWAYS.

Back to the main story. I reached the welcoming entrance to my cozy home and pushed the door to open it (at this time, we’re so used to the broken door that we don’t even think about turning the handle, we just push the door in and it opens).

It didn’t open. Which meant—the door was locked. Of course the lock on the doorknob/door-handle itself was broken—everything about that was broken, but the lock above that (remember, we have two locks, one on the doorknob and one above it) was locked. It’s our only  means of security.

So I flipped my backpack onto my tummy and opened the front pocket to get the key.

Whew, it’s there.

Then, unclipping the key from the bag, I stuffed it into the key-hole in attempts to unlock the door.

It didn’t open.

So there I was, standing pathetically at my OWN FRONT DOOR, with the KEY TO THE DOOR, TURNING THE KEY, and I STILL COULDN’T open the darn DOOR.

You see, as much as I twisted the key this direction and that, it just DID NOT BUDGE.

So I got really scared, and I wondered if I should stay at a friend/neighbor’s house—but what could I say? “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to get into my own house even though I have the key.”

So I called my mom, who said she’d be coming in five minutes.

Then, returning to the door-unlocking business, I continued to bite my tongue off trying to get the key to UNLOCK THE STUPIT DOOR.

I felt like a total idiot.

Please excuse the use of the word, but I really did. I mean, really. Who can’t open a door?

Well, apparently, me.

Who Knew?

Oh, I think this title is so well title-d. It fits the situation perfectly. Who knew. Why, who did? Well, nobody. Except for my mother, but she didn’t exactly know, more like, she expected. Hoped.

So, remember that post I made where I talked about the Sejong Writing Competition?

Here’s the link: http://sugarsweetlemons.blogspot.com/2012/03/on-top-of-world.html

You know how I said “I don’t think I’m going to win”? Well, I did.

OF COURSE NOT FIRST PLACE. Dang, that’s way too high for national competition. I got ‘Honorable Mention.’

Quite exciting way to find out about it, I had.

You see, after sending the essay for the writing competition, I really didn’t give it a second thought, not that much. I just thought to myself, “Well, I’m not that good at writing, and besides, it’s better off if I vilify my expectations in this so that I don’t get upset whatever happens.”

And I forgot about it. It was totally off my mind.

So, going back, when I sent the essay, they made you give your email, and also your teacher’s email. Your English teacher, because apparently most kids enter the contest via their school’s requirements or something. Of course, I didn’t. It was more of an on-my-own thing.

And so I put my English teacher’s email in, and mine, too.

And these days, with Washington and all, I didn’t really check my email much.

So today, Monday, just another day to drag yourself to school, I went to English class, disappointed that the Graduation Practice had been cancelled, because that would mean we’d miss two periods of class (including English). I plopped myself down into my seat, and listened to my English teacher rant on about his philosophies in life and the way Honors English should not be called Honors English, particularly. It was a normal, boring day for me.

So then, my teacher realized there was a LOT of time left, so he just waved us off and said, “just study for the grammar test,” which is open notes, by the way, so I didn’t study at all. I just sat there, and in the midst of explaining the difference between “Lie” and “Lay” to my friend, my teacher yelled out, “CELINE! WHERE ARE YOU!”

Psh, like the room’s that big he can’t find me.

But I stand up anyway, my eyes all wide and stuff, wondering, What did I do?

He says, “Come over here!”

So as an obeisant student, I saunter over to his desk, which is conveniently located across the room, and look at him all confused, because obviously he isn’t calling me over to give me my vocab test—already got that five minutes ago (got a 100, thank you very much).

He peers at me, like a coup d’oeil, from the edges of his old-man glasses, and says, “Whatcha win?”

And then I’m doubling back, thinking, “What in the world is this man talking about?”

And apparently my thoughts are visibly shown, because he says, “You know, that thing—the Korean thing you entered! Did you enter a contest?”

And then it begins to dawn on me. Korean thing… Contest…

“I—uh, I think so…”

“What’s your last name?”

“Choo.”

“Yeah, you won something!”

At this I look at him, because the truth is finally uncovered in my brain. I won something in the Sejong Competition?

What?!

And then he says something about a teacher wanting to read my essay to the class, how, quote, ‘all the teachers are talking about you.’

And I think, What in the WORLD!

But then again, the world is pretty big, so you never know what to expect.

Anyhow, he says something about me going to the teacher’s room and telling her that I’d like my essay read to her class, thankyouverymuch. (Not exactly in that tone, but I wanted to use “thankyouverymuch.”)

Then, realizing I didn’t know where this teacher’s room was, and that my friend was hovering over me, I said, “D’er… Idon’tknowwhereherroomis. I need someone to help me find it…”

And my teacher rolls his eyes and says, okay, R, you can help her.

And just as I’m about to leave, he booms out to the class, “HEY GUESS WHAT C WON SOMETHING IN A WRITING COMPETITION!” or something like that, and I’m backing out of the room with my eyes wide at the widespread attention suddenly dumped onto my shoulders. I’m not good with public attention, you know.

So R (my friend) and I go to her room, which is two hallways away, so we have plenty of time to think about it. At least, I do. And all that’s racing in my head is:

Whatwhwat? what? what? What? What? WHAAAAAAATTTT?

And then I tell the teacher, let’s call her Miss W, that it would be kind of her if she could read it to the class, but I had to sort of yell it out because she was sitting in the back, and we had entered through the front, and apparently she felt no need to walk over and talk where we could hear each other.

Then, the air conditioning got way too loud (or I was too soft), and my friend had to translate my words and yell them out to her.

Then, still in a What-y haze, I went back to my English class and spent the rest of the time talking/thinking about it.

 

YAYZERS!

Well, anyhow. I would like to post it here so that the memory will stay longer than it might without it being written down and published.

Have a nice day!

WASHINGTON!

AND ENDER’S GAME!

So for our Class Field Trip, we went to Washington and stayed there for two nights and three days. We wake our drowsy, unwilling (and yet willing) selves up out of our beds and drag our drowsy selves and heavy suitcases or whatever to school at FIVE O CLOCK.

And anyhow, we stayed there (got there Wednesday) and then came home today, at approximately six or five thirty in the afternoon.

It was fun, but most of the fun-ness was with friends, not particularly anything about Washington. It may have just been any other place in the world and we would have had just as much fun. We played Asian Mafia, ate Ramen, talked, ran around, played finger puppets (for like two minutes), and other worldly things.

ALSO.

Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card is the best book you will ever read, whether you know it or not. Ender’s Shadow is good, too. And it’s not like Harry Potter or the Hunger Games, because it’s much deeper than that.

In fact, so deep that KIDS IN HIGH SCHOOL READ IT FOR THE STUDYING SORT OF THING! So before reading it in school and thinking it’s so boring and dreadful (like most books turn out to be when you read them in school), read it on your own so you can fully enjoy the wonders and perfections of this book AND spoil the ending for everyone when you’re reading it in school! (If you are, that is.)

Ender’s Game I’ve read two and a half times already, and now I’ve re-started so that I have read it two and two half times. (Because reading the first half twice does not mean that I’ve read the whole book once.)

AND PLUS they’re making a movie in 2013. But Ender is the actor from Hugo, Ava something or something like that, and he doesn’t look ANYTHING like Ender. YOU PEOPLE.

Then again, how many actors are there out in this world who can look and act like a six year old and yet have a charismatic aura about them, as well as some genius intelligence?

Not many.

BUT ANYHOW IGNORING ALL LOGICAL EXPLANATIONS WHY COULDN’T THEY CONJURE UP SOME CHILD WHO LOOKS LIKE ENDER.

 

You know I really didn’t mean to make it caps lock, and I’m not all that mad, but my pinky finger disobediently pressed the caps lock key, and by the time I realized how angry it seemed I was (in the text), I wrote too much and I didn’t feel like erasing it and re-typing it un-capitalized. So I am sorry if you are shrinking back in your seat because of my nonexistent wrath and fury.

 

Kaythanksbye.