The Gym Rat Epidemic
The infamous term “gym rat” categorizes the type of person who unceasingly talks about the gym, thinks about the gym, and even goes to the actual gym. These “gym rats” can be identified in a variety of ways, one of them being through their social media pages. These pages, such as Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook, are littered with all that has to do with gym life and a “healthy lifestyle”. They gain a thrill and self confidence through posting multiple pictures of their “progress” and of themselves physically at the gym; their favorite picture to post is that of the high protein and low fat diet foods that are pathetic excuses of a meal and proportions that are the size of a peanut. Countless “FitnessLove” and “FitnessLife” accounts, which spew gym rat vomit and quotes of motivation that intend to be inspiring but which actually come off as ignorant, make up their followers and retweets. The gym is constantly on their mind; everything relates to the gym or a certain work out or food, thus hindering their ability to perform in every day, normal activities, such as school or work. Even their ability to recognize their friends and loved ones is distorted; they see the face of their favorite trainer instead of their family or loved one.
This has become to be known as The Gym Rat Epidemic, a widespread, infectious disease, affecting the vulnerable teenagers of the nation and the insecure twenty-somethings. The disease targets those who are insecure with their bodies and then fabricates an obsession for the gym and all things associated. To alleviate the stress of having to deal with both school or work and the need for gym, the nation must relocate these gym rats from school or work and into a boot camp designed specifically for them, where they will go for eight hours a day on all seven days of the week so that they can remain focused on their workouts. They will eat twice a day, and the meals will contain of one soy nut (because all things soy are healthy) and half of a piece of lettuce (to keep consistent with proportion sizes, of course). Through this, the gym rats will be able to remain in their “happy place” for longer periods of time and maintain their healthy lifestyle easier. After all, Gym is love. Gym is life.
AP Students
AP students. We are all unified through one thing: stress. Stress has integrated within and has become a part of all of us; it is no longer an emotion or feeling, it is embedded within our personalities, permanently casting an edge of worry. However, how each of us, as students, perceives this stress and our work ethic to try to alleviate this constant anxiety weighed upon our shoulders is what divides us.
There are three categories of AP students: those who are “naturally smart”, those who study unceasingly, and those who are qualified as your archetypal charlatan, or better known as the infamous “cheater”. Those who are naturally smart can be determined through their test scores in comparison to the amount of time they study. Typically, those who are deemed as “naturally smart” do not study or study comparatively less than that of the assiduous AP student, yet receive the identical or, perhaps, even surpass the scores of the strenuous studier and the deceitful student. Students such as these have an advantage that the other students do not; among the intelligent students, they are the most gifted. There is a hierarchy within the AP student body, and these students are at the very top, fabricating their own elite circle that is both criticized yet admired by the lower tiers of students.
In contrast, the diligent AP students study vigorously and are usually perceived as organized and the ones who possess the greatest time management skills, a commendable quality. These students may not receive the highest scores or comprehend concepts as quickly as the “naturally smart” students. They require more time examining the curriculum and consistent patterns of study for success. It is these students who make up the middle tier of the hierarchy; they are not the best, yet not the worst either. They are the middle ground of the AP student body, the “average joes” within the group of intelligent students.
The lowest of the low, the cheaters are on the bottom of the hierarchy. Their success is all due to the work of others, whether from their fellow peers or from the copious amount of outside resources available to them, such as the internet. They possess the tendency to never study and filch other people’s work and deem it as their own. These students exemplify the idea that even within the most sharp and exceptional group of students, there are always those who swindle their way through and find a loophole in the system.
These varying differences compose the entirety of the AP student body and make us what we are: the highest ranking and top students of our school, whether due to innate intelligence, deceit, or strenuous studying. We are AP students.
Hate
Hatred. The simple, general word hate suggests passionate dislike and a feeling of enmity; it is to loathe, execrate, or despise. However, it is not just a mere word. It is much more. It is real; it is substance.
Hatred is the feeling you get when you see that one person, the one whom you put all your faith and trust into, who then proceeded to betray and deceive you, exploiting your innermost intimate secrets for the whole world to know.
It is that knot in the pit of your stomach, growing and making its way to wind itself around your heart, strangling it and turning your heart cold and shriveled, leaving you with no mercy for those who have wronged you.
It is that incessant searing sensation in the back of your throat when fighting back tears of frustration and anger after receiving a failing grade given to you on a paper that you spent numerous, strenuous hours working on, craning your neck over a dimly lit screen and typing over one thousand words with cramped fingers and weary eyes as an attempt to satisfy the teacher and earn the coveted “A”.
It is the burning, searing feeling that encompasses your body when you see your significant other sharing intimacies with another while you two are still in an established relationship.
It is the aching numbness you feel when you evaluate the downward spiral of your life and then blame yourself for the misfortunes and your own shortcomings, thus the term “self hatred”.
Hatred exists. Hatred is real.
Sunset
Joe closed his eyes, leaning against the trunk of his old, favorite tree, feeling the bark press into his back, a reminder that he can still feel. He lit up a cigarette, putting the butt between his chapped lips, and inhaled, the glow from the other end of it matching the sunset before him. Joe never did like autumn much. He despised the litter of leaves and hours of endless raking, the brisk wind nipping at your clothing, not cold enough to be winter, yet past the point of summer. Though it wasn’t his favorite season, Joe had to admit to the unique beauty and allure of an autumn sunset. He found himself watching sunsets lately. With the way things were going in his life currently, it had an eerie calming effect on him, soothing his sanity which threatened to slip away after each passing day.
The large, grandiose yellow disk descended slowly from the sky, signifying the oncoming of night. It resembled the long, gentle strokes of a painter’s brush in hues of crimson, gold, and rose. The horizon was a thin, bright gold thread dyeing the sky a gradient of hot pinks, oranges, and yellows. It was as if pigments of colors bled into the sky, seeping through the seams of the clouds. The season cast an orange haze above the horizon, lighting up the sky as if lit by fire, yet the haze is so crisp and clear. The sun was so large that he felt he could almost touch it. It seemed to look at him with a dull glare, knowing its own beauty and strength, and that the earth’s dependence on it was vital to the survival of the planet. As it set, he could feel the last of the sun’s warmth; its one final embrace of the earth before it departed.
Joe leaned off the tree, feeling the leaves that littered the ground crunch under his feet and his shoes seep into the wet, muddy ground as he slowly trekked towards his cabin. The sun was nearly as orange as the sky, like a ghost almost. Yet, even from behind the trees, it seemed to stare at him; a silent ball of wonderment, yet a raging protuberance of Hellish fury. Joe closed his eyes. He began to ponder about the sun. It is the source of life, yet possesses the ability to just as easily extirpate and utterly destroy life itself. It is conscious, substantial, yet holds a transcendental quality, something undefined. By the time he opened his eyes, the sun was gone, and in its absence was a sea of dark, lonely clouds in a twilight sky.
He flicked his cigarette, rounding the corner to his cabin. He knew things, like the seasons would change and everything would be just fine. He knew that he, himself, much like the sun, could not be defined by one simple thing, but that he held something more, something deeper, substance. And that, in itself, was a comfort.
Colors
By: Ireland Bhatia
Red. The flash of red, hot anger pulses through my veins; a fire igniting my soul. Black. It is the dark embodiment of hatred and pain, burning a hole through my heart. I step out onto the sidewalk, the same sidewalk I have taken for years, paving its way down to my home. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a car window, not recognizing what I see. Green. The putrid shade encompasses me - self disgust. I look up at the sky. It’s an opaque gray, the color of loneliness. I hesitantly approach a shabby, dilapidated building, the empty shell of what I used to call home. One. Two. Three. I count the steps as I go up. I open the door. My eyes trail over the room. The color of blue blinds me; a deep, wrenching sadness takes over. I stumble through the doorway, my back hitting the wall as I collapse to the ground. A picture falls, and I reach over to pick it up. My fingers trace over the delicate frame. A shimmering gold lights up my eyes, the color of my mother’s hair. The same hair that was splayed across the pavement that night, a sharp contrast between light and dark. Pink. The color of my mother’s lips, spread apart, gasping for the last breath she would ever take. I throw down the picture. I stand and walk into what used to be my room. Purple. I look down on the floor; eyeing the dress I wore for what was supposed to be one of the most exciting nights of my life. I sit on my bed, staring at the chestnut colored headboard that I had begged my mother to buy me. Brown. The color of her eyes which listlessly stared up at me from the pavement with no trace of life to be found. The same eyes I had looked straight into that night and lied to, making a promise that I did not keep. I reach over to turn on my lamp, light illuminating the room. I see head lights flash before me, my reaction a second too late. I turn my head away from the lamp, closing my eyes, willing myself to forget. I push myself off of the bed, my foot kicking an empty glass bottle in front of me. I close my eyes again. I see the cloudy film of intoxication which had dulled my senses as I got in my car that night to drive home. I open them now to see a red blanket spread out on the floor. Red. I saw the light I ran. Red. I saw the sparks fly as I collided head on into another car. Red. I saw the blood of my mother, pooling into the black pavement, her life draining from her. Red. I see my broken promise.