Talk:Essay: I am From Poem (Anouk)
All right, buckle up, because some dude with too much time on his hands chose to go around ravaging other people's essays on RealCTY. What a noble hobby. Many of us wrote these essays when we were tweens or teenagers, trying to process our feelings for a camp the likes of which we'd never experienced before. While your "review" below reminds me that the internet is forever, I hope you will remember that there is always a person behind the screen.
I like you, I love you, I CTY you,
- Anouk
Alright, buckle up, because this piece reads like the fever dream of someone who just discovered their deep, undying affection for "quirky" camp memories—and then proceeded to write an incoherent stream-of-consciousness manifesto about them. It's like if the internet, a bottle of sparkling cider, and a handful of random CTY experiences decided to team up and create an abstract poem that’s equal parts self-indulgent and perplexing.
Let’s start with the building description, shall we? The 12-story red building is “shrouded in smoggy skies and misting rain,” which sounds more like the beginning of a gothic novel about a haunted institution rather than a campus where kids are supposed to be having fun. If you're going to make a statement about the setting, at least try to sound like you’re living in the present instead of dramatically invoking a weather report you'd hear in a post-apocalyptic movie. Also, "cornstarch-based packing peanuts" and “squishy, slimy strawberry with tendons”? What even is that? Are you telling us you're making a gourmet dessert out of old packing materials and something that sounds like it came from a lab experiment gone horribly wrong? It’s not even clear if the “strawberry” part is literal, but it’s disturbing enough to evoke images of a failed biology project, so let's move on before we all lose our appetites.
As for the next section, you're “building functional things out of ⅛ inch balsa,” throwing frisbees into fountains, and playing soccer with small dogs? A feverish attempt at sounding adventurous and “fun,” perhaps? But it’s hard to take seriously when the most daring thing you've described involves failed egg-dropping experiments involving parachutes. Not to mention, the use of "overly padded boxes" as a safety measure isn’t exactly the blueprint for a groundbreaking scientific achievement. Let’s call it what it is: a creative way to waste materials and time while avoiding the inevitable “You broke the egg” moment.
Then we get to the gem of the whole piece—the paragraph about your Keep Smiling lemon and synchronized showers. First of all, why is the lemon a thing? Are you trying to channel a motivational poster or some sort of bizarre inside joke that no one outside the camp could possibly understand? And synchronized showers? Really? The phrase alone conjures up an awkward image of a group of people getting into an unspoken, unplanned routine of showering together—a scenario that probably should remain unspoken unless you’re auditioning for an absurdist drama.
Moving on, your random blend of disjointed moments (“KFC spicy crispy chicken ads interrupting amazing singing,” “improvising an ad break for the ad break”) is like a montage from a TikTok video that was clearly made by someone who watched too many indie films without fully grasping what makes a film “indie.” The “Dial Super-Stinky Soap” ad is a nice touch, I guess, but it feels more like the kind of inside joke you make when you realize no one else in the room is laughing.
But let’s talk about the best part: “Screaming the lyrics to American Pie.” Is this what you imagine “fun” to be? Yelling your lungs out to a song that, frankly, no one under 40 really cares about anymore? If this is how you think real fun works, then your “screaming” sounds a lot like desperation trying to convince others you're having a good time.
The frantic and haphazard list of activities continues with “RAs dancing to Let it Go” and the sheer chaos that follows. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t include an entire paragraph about a dance-off involving synchronized moves to Frozen songs in a desperate attempt to tie everything back to your childhood. And who could forget the iconic “Leave me alone!” moment when someone asked for directions to Idaho? You’re really pushing the boundaries of “strange and amusing” with this one.
Next, we move into the musical selections that are part of your “bedtime ritual.” “Periodic Table Song playing in an infinite loop as bedtime music” sounds less like a bonding moment and more like the kind of horror story parents tell their kids when they want them to fall asleep faster. The dissonance between chaotic activities and mundane routines is exactly what makes this piece feel so off-kilter and exhausting to read. It's like you’re desperately trying to impress us with your hip, quirky camp experiences—except instead of coming off as "cool" or "adventurous," you sound like you’ve given up on ever having an actual conversation about what it was like to be at camp.
And who can forget your "deafening Spotify parties" and "mattress dead set on falling off a bed frame"? Wow, how exhilarating. I can hardly contain my excitement about your late-night slumber party antics and bedframe mishaps. If there’s a more overblown way to describe a "college dorm room vibe," I haven’t heard it.
Let's wrap this up. If you wanted to create an emotional tapestry filled with chaotic memories and a strange sense of nostalgia, congratulations. But if you wanted to make us believe that CTY was some kind of whimsical paradise filled with quirky moments, you missed the mark. Instead of reading like a fun, creative ode to camp life, this piece lands somewhere between rambling and overdone nonsense. It’s like trying to understand a dream that makes no sense, only to wake up with the lingering feeling that you’ve wasted too much time trying to decipher it.
So, in conclusion, if you want to truly capture the essence of CTY Seattle, maybe tone down the abstract chaos and focus on creating something that doesn’t sound like a fevered, unedited manuscript. A little less random trivia, a little more reflection on what the experience really meant to you, and less emphasis on bizarre phrases like “nicitating membranes for windows.” You’re not writing a Monty Python sketch, after all.
