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Today I came home to hear some of the best news I have all week.

President Obama hates standardized testing almost as much as I do.

The Obama administration has come up with a new plan for standardized testing; capping standardized testing to 2% of classroom time.

Someone finally understands the pressure.

I have spent the past week agonizing over my latest SAT scores.

After receiving a score that I believe it so sub-par to the standards set, I sat in my room for hours and considered my options: maybe I won’t get accepted to any colleges, maybe I should just give up now, maybe I should spend an extra three hours a day studying for this test.

For this is a test that does not demonstrate the magnitude of what I have learned throughout the course of high school, but a test that displays how well I can adapt to it’s irrelevant questions.

Questions that are completely meaningless in the grand scheme of things, questions that do not reflect how intelligent I am, or how successful I will be in my college career.

Rather, this test gives college admission teams the ability to put my knowledge into a category of advanced or average.

The pressure I have felt throughout the past four years of my life to meet the “above average” score of this test is obscene.

I have spend countless nights laying awake in my bed wondering if the work I have completed in the last four years will be dismissed because of an average test score that I have earned through sitting at a desk for four hours.

The standardized system is flawed.

There is no standard anything for a million adolescent brains that function at different paces and in different ways.

Talking to you

I want to talk to you at three in the morning, when I’m laying in bed, with waves of emotion rushing over me. I want to talk to you when I wake up from a bad dream – drowning in my thoughts, suffocated by my imagination.

When I can barely talk, overrun by emotion – I want you to be there, welcoming my grievances. Listening to my rants, my aches and pains, and my worries.

When all I see is blackness, and all I feel is pressure, I want to talk to you. My support – a shoulder to cry on, someone to vent to – you are who I turn to.

I have a lot of thoughts. Good and bad, light and heavy, they consume me. And when I wake up in the middle of the night and every inch of me is devoured by these emotions, it is you who I want beside me.

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Dirty Feet Blues

I want to live a life with permanently dirty feet.

The assertion that one is obligated to be confined in shoes, at a job, where you sit in the same spot, and do the same thing everyday.

When I was younger I would play for hours on end without shoes on my feet.

I’d like to think of my dirty feet as an accomplishment. You’ve connected with the earth for so long that is has had time to change you.

The wicked cycle of an endless suburbia is keeping our feet much too clean. The same thing every single day.

Switch it up, take those damn shoes off — forget about your work emails for half an hour and take a minute to be alone.

Uninterrupted, just you and the earth. Breath it in. Feel the dewy grass tickle to spaces between your toes. Feel the rough asphalt grind away at your skin.

I would like to live a life with permanent dirty feet. In this technological age, people are seeming to forget that they’re washable.

You can get as dirty as you want because you can be cleaned. You can wash away the silt from your socks but you can’t replace the feeling of truly connecting with the earth.

Stop checking Twitter and take a look around. See the life that you’re missing out on being glued to the screen of your phone and go get dirty.

You’re too busy Instagraming at the tops of mountains for the likes rather than the memories and sense of accomplishment.


Whether you hold this true to yourself or not — this time we’re living in feels so artificial.

So, disconnect from the screen and go connect with what’s green.