Someone should make mini lawnmower's for wheatgrass

I looked down at the small cup—it looked like a pool of swampy algae. Carefully I brought the plastic to my lips, breathing in air and this scent, this scent that reeked of “aged grass.” I can do it I thought, as I looked up at four eager faces. It’s just wheatgrass.
Tonight I went to Jamba Juice with some friends and was coaxed into trying wheatgrass. The workers cut the long pieces of grass from a plant, grind it up, and then put the pricy juice in a plastic container that is similar to what one would take Nyquil in.
Plastic cup stuck to my lips, I sucked in the foamy swamp with one swift sip, and chocked it down. A flavor that I imagine would be similar to a bite of my grandparent’s garden, filled my taste buds, but in a sense it wasn’t that bad, it was a natural taste right? The greenish goop slid down my throat and suddenly I felt stronger (on a subconscious level of coarse,) because this “health juice” was in me.
According to Jamba Juice, wheatgrass has some great benefits for ones body. Due to its content of chlorophyll and the fact that it contains all amino acids it’s nutritional. Some great benefactors are that it detoxifies your blood, makes your skin look better, assists in digestion, helps metabolize energy and fat, and helps bolsters your immune system.
So, if you are ever at a Jamba Juice and you want an overpriced, but healthy drink, then take a sip of the syrupy green stuff, and see what benefits wheat grass can have on you.

Watch Out Hollywood...Here Comes The Next Audrey Hepburn

“Yeah, sure, sounds like fun,” I manage to spill out as I survey my reflection in the dusty window pane. I had forgotten that I was standing in the dorm hallway looking disheveled, to say the least. I had on slippers, shorts, a tank top, and to set off the look, big round hot rollers in my hair, sticking up at all angles, creating an illusion that they were actually part of my head. I press the back of my cell phone to the front, closing the worn metal device, and run for my closet.
A friend just called me up to see if I wanted to act in one of his sketches, and thinking this was my chance to get my acting debut, or at least be on LATES’ website, I accepted the offer. I had just 15 minutes to disguise myself as pretty, in fancy clothes and heals, and then run up to the field to shoot the sketch.
When I got there I didn’t really know what I was getting into, you never do know with film majors, and with LATE…..
Before I go any further let me first explain what LATE is. LATE is Biola’s late night comedy show. The show started this year, and it stands for Los Angeles television experience. On the show students create skits and discussion that is suppose to enrapture Biola with intense laughter, and then they have a live taping Thursday night at 8. If you miss the taping, you can catch LATE on its website. The show is a great way for students to get comedy, production, and film experience, and is highly recommended if you just want to laugh.
The shoot for the sketch didn’t take long, and I just followed around my friend like a ventriloquist to a dummy, as he told me where to sit, what to say, and how to say it.
The sun was bright, and I tried to forget the camera was practically stalking me with its lingering stare, I tried to forget a roomful of people were going to stare intently at me when they watched this, I tried to forget how ridiculous I felt, and once I did that it became really fun.
The premise of the skit was for Valentine’s Day. We just meet each other, and we were communicating through candy hearts, in a, anything but romantic conversation. For a clearer outline of the story go to LATES’ website and you can see it for yourself! http://www.mcom.biola.edu/ev/late/
When the shoot was over, I was genuinely surprised at how cute the whole thing turned out. I was excited it was going to be on LATE, excited to be apart of this comedy experience, and excited that the jumbo hot rollers that were in my hair about an hour ago never meet the face of the camera.

A Dose of 3:37 Hopelessness

The room aches with silence, and I feel dead—dead to my heart. Locked away in the stuffy dorm room, as the window proves to be my only outlet to an outside world that I fear at the moment I am not strong enough to face.
Looking up and down the poorly lit dorm halls I can smell the scent that only this dorm harbors, a smell like no other. It is a pungent, wretched of a smell, the scent best being described as one that has been created, and with everything in this hall it has at one point reeked highly of this smell, but then had been sprayed with cheap cleaner in order to deafened a scent that cannot truly die.
As I walk down the hall, the walls are almost hugging my hips, as they secure their way to my place of residence. Directly outside my dorm room, there is a flashy lime-green exit sign, and the neon lime dances on and off, as it flickers its last breaths of energy, creating a picture that could easily be compared to a “no vacancy” sign one finds at a low budget motel. There are faces as I walk to my room, faces that I see almost as much as I see my own, but faces that don’t mean much more then the obviously hello’s that we exchange up to five times a day.
I walk into my room and it’s mellow. The kind of mellow I used to hate as kid. The kind where mom wants to take a nap on a Sunday afternoon, and dad has the meaningless tones of the jubilant football announcers echoing through our home. It is a melancholy mellow, evoking neither happiness nor depression, it just is, in all its reality, a reminder that tomorrow the week begins again, and until this happens room 145 will rest upon this.
I can hear the chattering of nature, as birds converse back and forth in what sounds like a broken melody, and then the powerful wind whispers its lullaby, cutting out the barking of the frantic dog in the near distance.
My eyelids feel heavy, as though a thousand bricks fall at my very blink, and my heart is swollen with anxiety and sorrow, as I pine the many troubles that induce me with an illness I am afraid I cannot immediately cure. I look around at myself, as I sit here unnoticed. I cannot help but dream of being somewhere else.
Maybe somewhere big like London or New York; I could stand stylishly on the sides of the cement sidewalk and pretend I know who I am, pretend I know where I am going. Or perhaps I could be somewhere more picturesque. I can see it now, rolling, lush hills of green, lakes of icy water, and rock formations that could take even the strongest mans breath away. Though both these ideas are nice, maybe I want to be somewhere warmer, possibly a beach, I could sit on the densely heated sand in a two piece bathing suit and trendy sunglasses, as I sipped on a fancy lemonade, and drifted in a thoughtless sleep as the calming waves kissed the sandy shore. I could out do this idea entirely, and go somewhere where I could make a difference. I could be a missionary in the thick jungles of Africa, I could walk into a village with my sun heated face and my heart would swell with joy at the smiles of the children, the love in the people’s eyes. No longer would I be consumed with small things, but maybe then, if only for that moment, I would forget about me, long enough to really give my love to someone else, a kind of love, Christ himself wants us to attain.
An exotic vacation would be grand, making a difference would be even grander, but as I sit here freezing on quite possibly the most painful chair, it is becoming more and more evident this is where I am. I suppose I could take off my dirt covered sneakers, the clunky earrings in my ears, and pull out my hair ribbon and slip quietly between the folds of my sheets. I could wrap the soft plaid comforter around me, and pull every blanket on my bed, up past my lips, beyond my eyes, and soon I would be covered, consumed, hidden, and forgotten. I could shut my tired eyes and dream of magical places where school wouldn’t exist and where my problems would no longer be quite as visible.
Ahh, but I cannot do that. There is a world to face, and there are things to be done, and nothing fruitful will be accomplished hidden away. So I must breath in, then breath out, do the things that are imperative that I get done, and pretty soon things will look better.