Skip to main content

I Am a Settler of CATAN

I've embarked on a treacherous journey through the endless terrain of wheat crops worth far too less for the work I've done to obtain them. Through the daunting mountains with sharp-edged stones that cut and bleed me dry of time by searching for them. Between luscious forests, hills of brick, and vast fields of sheep, I've traveled everywhere. Even the boundless desert that provides an inner peace in its emptiness and solitude...

Oh wait there's a robber. Also, it's 4 a.m. Perfect excuse to pause the game since I'm going to lose anyways.

...or maybe...

Maybe just one more turn. 








Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Untitled

  Don’t worry Mrs. Liamini, I’m aware that this blog is late…but I guess it was an accidental artistic choice? Defying the construct of time, breaking boundaries like an admirable work of art usually does.   Contrary to popular belief however, I believe that art doesn’t require intention—but rather, interpretation. Let me begin by explaining that art doesn’t necessarily have to be man-made. Even the dirt sprawled across a sidewalk is nature’s conviction on canvas, as long as the eye of the beholder sees it that way. Intention is a complex trait attributed only to humans (unless you believe in a God or higher power), and I think that sadly limits our perspective of art to something that’s only touchable by humanity. Art isn’t simply pencil on paper. It isn’t just ink blotches on walls. Art is the blemished fur under a panda’s eyes. Art is the iridescent waves that engulfs the northern sky. Art is an abandoned leaf dancing through the wind. Although many religions may disagree, ...

Picture This

A week ago, my mom “caught me” reading a comic book. As she started laughing at me for what would be another good five minutes at least, I shamefully started concealing the pages and laughing with her out of sheer embarrassment. Not even 24 hours go by before I realize how mortifying this novel really is.  As soon I mentioned that this book was about the Holocaust, the room was silent immediately. Because only when they depict death and torture are pictures taken seriously.  Let's examine the last panel of page 72 in volume II. Before you scroll to the bottom to see the picture, this is what is says: "Prisoners what worked there poured gasoline over the live ones and the dead ones". Such a gut-wrenching sentence formed in such a nonchalant manner. You might raise your eyebrows, widen your eyes, but no feeling compares to when you see the image beneath it. The mice are burning alive, the flames consuming them, their faces in pure agony. You feel the terror with them, your ...

Pick-Me

I was ten years old and I'd never applied lipstick with my own hands. Couldn't walk in heels because I'd never worn them. Couldn't even tie ponytails with without my arms down and my mom running her own through my hair. The poise of this young girl is untouchable. Luckily I never had to face the demon of my girlish insecurities because it always masked itself in the makeup and pretty clothes of "I'm just a kid, I won't be judged" — that is until its nefarious face was unleashed in its evilest form: an Indian wedding.  Before we go on a trip to India, I'm required to attend training sessions of a class of me and my brother. "Be polite, these people are our elders. Respect them. Talk to them so they feel good, don't be shy." But even though it's just a lecture class, I'm still the worst student because somehow I'm the one always pulled over for an involuntary side bar. "They're going to want to dress you up, so let ...