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George Beckert

My friend and I pick up trash at the bottom at the bottom of the lake, we must have it clean before the
king gets here! The Great Eel seems especially angry, and as we throw the trash into its mouth it stares
malevolently, thinking I will kill them all. Suddenly, instead of swallowing the trash as usual, he breaks
free from the pipe we have squeezed him into. Eating my unnamed buddy, the thing burst from the
water and went tearing across the great desert. I knew I needed a ride to catch so I walked to the sheep
pasture. A goat there seemed o have wings on his head, so I asked him for a ride. Then I woke up, to a
blaring alarm clock and another day at school. I am not average, but not necessarily in a good way. I am
not even sure the extent of my strangeness, as I cannot explore others minds as easily as I would wish. I
don’t know if others have dreams like mine, or if I’m unique. How can I know how weird my mind is if I
have no comparison. Sure, I could read books, but they represent only a small fraction of intellectuals
who choose to write books, an even smaller portion of those, the ones who write about themselves, and
the even more tiny and miniscule group that haven’t lied or made a complete documentation of their
thoughts. As the last subgroup is impossible to tell from its parent group, there fore I will never the
extent, or, the absence if my uniqueness. The reader, however, can make a comparison to themselves,
to there own thoughts, from the evidence I write in this essay. Obviously I cannot state my most
grotesque thoughts, my darkest secrets, so even their assumption will be incomplete or entirely
incorrect. Also, my apparent weirdness will differ depending on the weirdness of the reader, making my
essay a meaningless paper for a grade, no help to society, maybe even a hindrance to it.

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