Worries originating from the last economic strategy, by Bush, and regarding the use of the
money could possibly be cumbersome.
All of these alternate wordings have about the same meaning as the original, just as before.
Most of the words I chose to replace ‘questions’ and ‘concerns’ have a slightly more emotional and
impassioned tone. The word in the first paraphrase could cause some issues because it is not expressly
clear that President Bush did not also create the new plan, but this small ambiguity is clarified in the
first sentence and also exists in the original sentence. I would say all the sentences are about as
descriptive except that all of the paraphrases again lack the term stimulus package, which is very
efficiently descriptive.

The bottom of your hamburger is soggy with grease. The French Fries are already cold and
shriveled. You can’t take your eyes off a yellow stain on the maroon seat. The material clings to your
bare skin against it. It is a nuisance. You try to avoid contact but your hands continue to sink down
absentmindedly. The fans buzzing loudly above you are helpless against the overwhelming heat of the
summer. Your hands feel gross. You rise and sling your black bag over your shoulder. You head to the
bathroom, eyes focused on the golden man against the rich brown of the bathroom door.
You stand in front of the sink, washing your hands. The mirror is smudged and greasy—your
reflection is barely visible through it. The sliver faucet curls over the edge of the sink, dripping pink
globules into a ball of slime that looks on the verge of falling down to the drain. Cracks run through
the skiers cruising down a mountain on the yellowing wallpaper by the mirror. You stare into your face
in the mirror, carefully examining the tiny imperfections in your skin. Your eyes meet your eyes. What
a vacation it has been. You blink, carefully watching your eyes as well as you can.
Your bag still slung over your shoulder, you walk into one of the stalls, your feet sticking just a
little to the floor. You carefully open the Ziploc bag and dig your hand into the dark squishy matter
inside, squeezing it and letting dark red ooze through your fingers. The liquid drips from your hand to
the toilet. The walls of the stall around you feel somewhat like a cubicle. The only difference is the
odor. The smell is putrid. It is unclear whether the smell originates from the clump in your hand or
simply emanates from the dirty bathroom.
You dip the baggie in the toilet, rinsing the red remnants off to leave it clear. You drop the
clump into the toilet. You watch it slowly spread out in the water. You flush the toilet, watching the
mush circle around and around and finally disappear down the hole. The clump almost blinks at you.
You can’t quite explain it. 