Or maybe it is.  Cliche preamble: “Oh my; I sure have gone a long time without updating this blog”.

See, I have been working full-time while attending UBC full time.  All work and more work = no time for leisurely blogging about extracurricular, non-academically focused topics.

I have started another blog, Really Awesome Blog Comments, which is sporadically updated as I come across real gems in the comment sections of the blogs or news story that I read regularly.

Otherwise, maybe I should write in this more.

Oh yeah.  You know what’s great about being a sociology major who feels like she no longer has a family (though does have individual associations with people of whom she is biologically related)?  Well, sociological theories are a great source of enlightenment, and almost cheer me up when I am on the verge of being awash with angsty emotions.   For example,  re-framing “family” as merely a social construct makes the realization that I am less a part of what I thought was my family than I ever was, while non-biological people I have never met have replaced me, seem much less painful.  That statement may seem harsh, but I’d rather feel enlightened making sense of changes in family structures than feel bitter about those changes.

Complimenting family as a social construct is the observation of how relationships exist amongst people with independent (as opposed to interdependent) self concepts. At 4:09 am, I am a bit too tired to go into detail, and risk plagiarizing a really great paper, so you can read it here, courtesy of the good old University of British Columbia.

Raymond Carver, an author whose work I am not too fond of, does a nice job at illustrating the emotional strain between wanting to believe that love is real and eternal, while facing the reality of knowing how transactional relationships really are:

“You’ve both been married before, just like us. And you probably loved other people before that too, even. Terri and I have been together five years, been married for four. And the terrible thing, the terrible thing is, but the good thing too, the saving grace, you might say, is that if something happened to one of us—excuse me for saying this—but if something happened to one of us tomorrow, I think the other one, the other person, would grieve for a while, you know, but then the surviving party would go out and love again, and have someone else soon enough. All this, all of this love, we’re talking about, it would be just a memory.” (Carver, 1981 — “What we talk about when we talk about love”)

The above passage is referring to romantic relationships, but it can be applied to any type of relationship. I love my brothers; I love my mom; I love my late father, but we are not a family anymore.  Once we were a family, but we no longer are (unless you want to get all Slaughterhouse Five on the linearity of our lifetimes).  Yeah, it’s painful to think about sometimes, but at least I have silly abstract theories to comfort myself with, right?

Goodnight. Good morning.

I was sitting in class, staring at an elderly man who had enrolled in the course, when I became full of fear and anxiety.

All I could think about was the idea that, unless I die young, I won’t always be the person who I recognize myself as.

There was a time in my life when almost everything that mattered, or defined me positively, was lost or taken away, through no choice of my own. I was young, and it was not a happy time.

And so, I started my life over, when virtually nothing was left; I was reborn at 21. (By reborn I absolutely do not mean in a religious manner.)

Some days I feel like I’m 10 years old, but also middle aged, but I look like a teenager.

I remember how when I was a kid, I couldn’t imagine being 18 — 20. I knew I would grow up, but the future was so far away. I would lie in bed, trying to stay as still as possible, hoping that I would actually get frozen in limbo, and not have to experience the terrifying ordeal of being old and become the face of imminent death. I think of how I’m 25 now, and 40 is still 15 years away. The time it took to reach 25 will have to pass all over again — my whole life span, until I reach 50. Terrifying?

And reading historical texts, in that class, where the elderly man sat, from over a thousand years ago reinforces how insignificant and useless angst is, when one day I will turn to dust and cease to be, whether or not I was momentarily pained over the notion of one day no longer being a hip, young thing.

“And I do not see how I can get out of asking this question: Does it matter to anyone or anything that all these peepholes were closed so suddenly? Since all the property is undamaged, has the world lost anything it loved?” – Kurt Vonnegut, Jr, Deadeye Dick

I’m studying for a final, and just noticed how incoherent my review is…Especially because I typed it.  If you read this, the last thing you would think is that I actually understand anything about what I am studying.  I consider my notes an art form.. Ha.  Here is an excerpt.  Note the disregard for grammar, spelling or logic:

Different perspectives[on suburban structure]
1.SUBURBS LAUNCHED GLOBALIZTION – needs people to consume. American suburbans. Owner ship.
2.Keeps people docile
3Reproduction of labour – mortgage workers are loyal workers
4.Feminist –patriarchical  condition – define gender roles. Dad works; mom locked to children without car. Requires igh injected of unpaid labour.

CBD = agrgressive, dangerous -> Men.  Suburb : PASSIVE, domestic , kids -> WOMENS.

STANLEY PARK – squeamish village. Became a military reserve. Fed govt leased park to vancouvs

Key TERM – TRAFFIC – aggregation – making a whole of things in a specific space and time.  Harder to drive. Further away with no public transportation. Post ww2- traffic incrase

COUNTERURBANIZATION – larger city people moving to smaller towns/”commuter cities” cheaper, less dense. Larger houses. TECHNOLOGICAL ADVANCEMENT ALLOWS PEOPLE TO LIVE IN RURAL AREAS WHILE ENJOYING CITY AMENITIES. TELECOMMUNITING + CARS.

CLEARANCE IGNORES SOCIAL PROBLEMS. Breaks cohesion . there is community in slums.

Blade Runner – replicants. No emotions. Used inslave labour.  overpopulation, globalization, climate change, over urbanization.

My #1 LOL is referring to the former Squamish village that was in Stanley Park as “squeamish village”

The title of this blog post is the name of a  film that I watched in my Urban Geography course this evening.  As far as I know, I’ve been living under a rock and everyone else has known about this documentary (made in 2004) except for me.  I had always been disenchanted by the Al Gore/Inconvenient Truth/Oil Oil Oil conspiracy stuff that has been going on for the last many years.  It’s not that I am ignorant, or against it — I just haven’t been too interested in getting all militant and obsessed about oil as some people have.  Anyway…

We watched this film in class. I would recommend people view “The Depletion of Oil and the Collapse of the American Dream”, not because I agree or disagree with its content, but because it had some thought provoking qualities.   The most impressive part about the documentary was just how prophetic it was.  Several scientists and academics make some predictions, which at the time seem unbelieveable to a global society so uneducated about what keeps their livelihoods from falling apart; and these predictions, for the most part, occurred — often, impressively, at the dates predicted.

People make predictions all the time.  I think when most predictions turn out to be fact, people are mildly entertained, or just neutral, or unaware.  Other times, obviously, the predictions are incorrect.  What stands out about what these people claimed would happen, is that they were predicting the equivilent of an apocalypse.  The inability to satisfy an overwhelming and exponential “need” for oil, for consumption, for a chaos theory kind of mob-mentality, consuming behaviour, means the death of a life that recent generations [from certain countries] feel entitled to, and inevitably leads to the loss of social cohesion and norms.  Most of the speakers in this film didn’t go so far as to predict a dissolution of any sort of social contract, but they do insinuate it.

So, pretty crazy stuff.

What I did take issue with, is that this film is, as can be expected, one-sided.  Obviously a film that is attempting to plead, intelligently, to the public, and to the slightly-above-layman audience that it needs to collectively WAKE THE FUCK UP and change if you want your children to see tomorrow is not going to present a lot of counter-arguments.  Fair enough.  I think anyone intelligent enough to watch this film (it’s pretty easy to follow, but not for Cletus) with an open mind can understand that it is one sided, and has a clear agenda.

Having said that, I study arts and social sciences.  I consider myself adequately educated in these areas, and can understand concepts.  However, I do not understand much about physical sciences; so, when the scientists in this film say that it takes more energy to create hydrogen power than it does to use it, or that such and such uses up so much oil, or that something is scientifically ineffecient, that isn’t good enough for me.  I would like, at least, a brief background to explain to the uneducated viewer in me: “this is why this is like THIS”.  It is important to recognize your audience, and this film obviously was not made for scientists.  If this film had been made for scientists, I would not have understood half of what was in it (or any of it?)  This film was made for people like me, like the general audience I referred to above, and most of us are not highly educated about these topics.  This film is like “Oil Mear-Mongering 101″, which is why it is so easy to watch.

Bottom few lines: Movie:

-interesting and thought provoking. Check it out!

- freakishly prophetic

- lacked empirical data for the physical scientifically uneducated geek in me.

Good night.

Hello Internets,

In contrast to recent discussions of dystopian cities of Gamblor and my disdainful fascination with the mainstream media’s coverage of various phenomena, I would like to “plug”, if you will, a website/blog/podcast.

Some fine gentlemen in Toronto, Tim (and contributing geek, Brad) have a blog called “Comma Error”.  Tim has done a bunch of reviews of recent video games, and dude knows his video game shit.  Tim and Brad also have started doing a podcast, which is pretty entertaining.  So check it out.

Also, now I shall plug myself, for the millionth time today: plug plug plug. For those who haven’t heard me brag about something that isn’t totally extraordinary:  I was accepted into UBC today and offered the President’s Entrance Scholarship.  It’s nothing too fancy; just based on academic merit, but I am still stoked.  I still have someone else’s money paying for my schooling, as a recognition of my brain power.  Woooooooo.

Nobody tells you what those public washrooms are really for when you’re a kid.
Sitting on the curb, counting little white pop rocks.  Why are there grown men sitting on the street counting candies in their hands? There are grown men in the street asking grown ladies on the street if they would like to buy a hard candy.  I asked Mom if I could buy some candy, but she said it’s not for kids.

18 years later, I’m following a path of dirty candy men.  My baby’s got his head stuck in a black cloud, and it’s not coming out anytime soon.

I grew up; he grew up.  He bought candy, I stayed home.  Nobody tells you, when you’re growing up, that candy’s not for grownups either.

They said “you’ll turn into a hooker if you buy it.”  ‘Cause hookers buy candy from grown men in the street.  And I don’t wanna be a hooker, so I’m not going to buy candy from grown men in the street.  But my baby’s not a hooker, and he’s disappeared into Candyland.  I saw him three days ago with an umbrella and a pack of smokes.

“Don’t go.  PLEASE don’t go.  I’ve cooked you dinner and paid the phone bill. Please….. Okay, I’ll give you my bus pass, but you’ve got to bring it back tonight, cause I have to work in the morning.”

So now I’m following a trail of crushed up, white candies; searching everywhere to find him.  I don’t care about the bus pass, I don’t care that I ate dinner all by myself.  I don’t even care that you never pay the phone bill.  Please.  Just please don’t end up like all those soulless zombies who float up and down the street.

I asked the men in the street, “have you seen Andy?”  They know who Andy is.  You know, Andy with the umbrella and “the hair like that”.

“No, I ain’t seen him in a while.”

But I know he’s seen Andy.

5$.  Now has he seen Andy?  He’s “seen Andy alright.  Yea, just around there, a little while ago.  Had a bag full of pens he was tryin’ to sell to the tourists who accidentally wound up down here.. heh heh..”

If I’m gonna find him, I’ve gotta be him.  So 10 more dollars to this man on the street.  I need some candy.  I’m going to stick my head into the black cloud and see if I can find Andy in there.  I told myself I’d never buy it.  I’d never buy the candy from the candy men.

It was then that I found Andy.  I had become Andy, and I’d like to think that I understood why Andy would disappear for days on end, and lose my bus pass, and  forget to pay the phone bill, and forget to turn the lights off at night… if he went to bed at night.  But no sooner did I turn into Andy did I turn back into myself, and I lost him again.

10 more dollars.  I have to find Andy.  I have to find Andy.  I became him again.  I saw the world the way Andy saw the world, but once again he disappeared so quickly, and my money disappeared so quickly. Suddenly was 3:00 AM and I was standing in the middle of the street with my boots soaking wet, pulling at my hair and shaking, while a million Andies all shuffled by me in the street.

I hailed a cab home, but realized I had spent all my money, so I shuffled, shaking, in no particular direction, hoping that I would reach home before the sun did; not even thinking that Andy might actually be waiting for me when I got back.

“You FUCKING BITCH.  How the FUCK could you do this to me? Who were you with? Who were you talking to?”

He could see it in my eyes, in my demeanor; he could see where I had been and what I’d seen.  Most importantly of all, he could see that I had spent the money, my money, that he had come home to get.

“Please, Andy.  I’m so sorry.  I swear! I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

I love Andy, and would do anything for him.  I’ll search for him when he’s been missing for days.  I’ll pay his bills.  I’ll tell his mother he’s sick in bed when I’m terrified he’s dead in an alleyway. I’ll do it all for him, because one day, maybe one day, I’ll save him, and he’ll love me, and he’ll thank me for everything I did for him.  Then I’ll be happy.

“I have more money.  We’ll go together.”

I got my Geography midterm back today.  I got an A.  I would have gotten an A+, but I only got 1.5 out of 4 marks on the map questions. BRUTAL.  Could you pick out Fort St. John, Campbell River, Nelson, the Kootenay River, Kelowna, the Nass River, Barkerville and Prince Rupert on a blank map of B.C. with about 100 different dots to choose from? If you hail from the Centre of the Universe like I do, probably not.  I came close.  Close isn’t good enough for geography.

Oh.. and on question 24 of the multiple choices, I dyslexically picked the wrong answer, but I did not contest it… really. My saving grace was that I totally owned the two essay questions, which were worth 14 out of a possible 30 points.  I got 13/14 (6.5/7 for each essay….) Ironically, the two topics that I have to write about were the  topics I was least prepared for…

Midterm = 30% of the mark; Research paper (due in 3 weeks… yikes) = 30% of the mark; final exam = 30% of the mark, and participation = 10% of the mark. So I am pretty confident I can maintain an A in this class.
I also got my Creative Writing portfolio back.  I only got a B+ (worth 20% of my mark).  I completely know why I got a B+, which is that my last piece in it was very weak. But I was well aware of that when I handed it in.  My instructor, who had initially been very harsh to me, said he “like [my] work” I had done on a series of pieces, and that he liked what I had to say about drugs, hospitals, rape and… get this… MY MOM. (That’s right mom… there’s one that mentions you..)

That B+ is okay because I got an A on a group project I did about a little magazine (also worth 20% of my mark…); I should be getting an A on my crits (10% of the mark); I have a presentation on Monday, which I am confident I will get an A in (20%)… Aand my final portfolio, worth 30%, I think I can garner an A.  Am I cocky? No. Just focused… and working hard, even if it seems like I’m slacking off.  Remember, I have 1 day of class per week, so I do have a fuckload of free time now that I’m unemployed.

With my 1200$ grant on the way (thank goodness I contacted Financial Aid to make sure they were still sending it to me), I don’t even need to have a part time job right now, so I’ll probably wait until I get back from Florida to get one…unless something cool comes up.

Di I say I was focused? Okay, that’s actually BULLSHIT AT THE MOMENT.   My Ritalin ceased to function a couple of weeks ago, and I had  to get my new, higher-dosage prescription mailed to me from Toronto (controlled substances bullshit.  I’m not explaining…). Finally, two weeks or so later, it has arrived.  I was fine for writing my midterm last week, apparently.

It didn’t arrive soon enough for me to take it before going to class today, so by the time 5:30 PM rolled around an Geogs  (English is 1:30-5:20had started, I was pretty fidgety.  By 6:30, I couldn’t concentrate on a single thing. I knew if I could stick it out until the coffee break I’d be fine.  Normally that’s at 7:00.  It was at 7:30 today.  I felt like I was going to die.  Ever had an ADD moment that was so… well, ADD, that you were on the verge of having a panic attack from being intensely incapable of concentrating on any one thing for more than like 30 seconds?

As soon as the break came I told the prof I was not well and had to leave… he knows I’m fucked in the head cause of the letter  from the disability department at school.

Now I just need to write some more stupid poems, go to a stupid poetry reading on Thursday, do a stupid presentation about said stupid poetry reading and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah stupid stupid stupid stupid.  I’m smart, eh.

This is the first piece I have written for Creative Writing.  It still needs some tinkering:

The Milk Crate

Written by Leora C-W

The happiest day of the milk crate’s life was the day he was thrown into the back of a garbage truck and crushed into oblivion…

He came out of the factory: shiny bright and blue.  A feeling of contentment, contentment that one, perhaps, would not expect of an inanimate object, washed over the plastic crate as he was loaded into the back of a delivery truck.

The milk crate:  He would bring health and happiness; hope and fulfillment.  Every morning he would greet a different family, bearing the rations they so greatly needed.  He embodied the symbol of a prosperous future, and couldn’t help but feel a little proud, if not honoured.

“I came into this world through no choice of my own, with responsibilities and expectations thrust upon me from some industrial god.  But this is what I was created for, and so I will gladly carry out my responsibilities until the day I cease to exist.

And so, for many years — many, many years, the shiny blue crate would dutifully provide milk to gracious families all over the city.  He would listen intently to the brief exchanges between the milkmen and the housewives, wondering what it must be like to be human; wondering what went on beyond the doors and the walls of all the houses he visited.

But tragically, as should occur with all naive, pure beings, the milk crate’s feverous approach to life only lasted as long as his abilities were needed.

A day came where no longer the milk crate was shiny, and his coat was a mere grayish-blue.  A Velveteen Rabbit in a sea of low-cost, high-bulk goods, the milk crate was left for dead in an alley behind a local crêperie.

Sad and confused, the milk crate sat in the alley for months, as other unwanted crates were piled atop or beside him.  Empty — every single one of them empty.  He did not understand why or how he could exist, no longer having a purpose in life.

One day, a boy of about nineteen came into the alley from the back door exit of the crêperie.  He eyed the grayish-blue object intently, and the milk crate was briefly filled with an ounce of hope.

What the boy did next would go down as the most painful experience of the milk crate’s life:  The boy pulled the crate out from under its fellow abandoned compatriots, and if you can believe, sat on it!

A painful epiphany came over the milk crate:  He had spent so much of his life fulfilling the needs of others, so humbly and proudly.  Never once had he been thanked, and never once had he been acknowledged for his fine service to society. And now. Now? Now the crate had been reduced to nothing more than a makeshift seat for a disrespectful teenager to sit on while he smoked cigarettes behind a crêperie.

Several unfortunate events were to follow the run-in with the boy in the alley:  One day, he came outside on his break to find a dead seagull in plain sight.  Disgusted, he picked up the milk crate, turned it upside down and placed it over the bird, so as to obstruct his view from something so unpleasant.  The following day, a destitute man in rags asked the boy, “May I use this crate to defecate in? You see, I have no home and I have no toilet.”  The boy, somewhat repulsed, but equally compassionate, shrugged “yeah whatever.”

The milk crate watched the pain that other humans experienced, as they would use him as a seat in otherwise furniture-less apartments, while watching loved ones shoot heroin from dirty mattresses with dirty needles.

And so, the milk crate was given a new purpose.  But this purpose did not fill him with pride; it filled him with anger.  Anger towards those who had taken his accomplishments for granted; anger at the world for creating people who lived in such desolate conditions that they never could have enjoyed his gifts during the time he was still valued.  Most of all, the milk crate was angry toward himself for having been so wide-eyed and unaware that there was a world beyond happy families drinking milk and leading fruitful lives.

Used! So used, yet neglected, the milk crate had lost his faith in humanity, and had no desire, nor expectation to bring good fortune to anyone who should cross his path.  And his sentiments were echoed by hundreds of thousands of milk crates, soured by the harsh truth of humanity.  They no longer could deal with the humiliation of being misappropriated into the whores of the manufacturing world.  Collectively, in a karmic fashion, they would reap revenge on those who had created, enjoyed, overlooked and abused.

It started out one mild May evening at a house party the milk crate had found its way into. A drunken young woman danced with the drunken young man she had so foolishly thought was the love of her life.  They danced briefly, until the man picked her up to swing her around in the air.  Consequently, due to his impairment, the man dropped her head first on the milk crate’s unforgiving edges.

Fifteen stitches. “Let him feel the guilt of causing the pain to one of many who have caused so much pain to me.”

From that night on, isolated incidents began to spring up across the country.  The teenager at the cr êperie fell off a pile of milk crates that had been unsteadily stacked.  The man who defecated on the crate was hit by a car while he crouched in an alley, searching for a place to relieve himself.  Plastic companies went out of business, not only because they had over-produced milk crates, but because of environmental concerns revolving around plastic “goods”.  And so life went on, and milk crates found their new place in society as a most reviled, feared object, all because of the mistakes by those who had created them.

The milk crate was not happy; he was not pleased.  He was mildly satisfied that he, too, could inflict pain, though disturbed that he had evolved into such a monster.  He was miserable, but at peace; resentful, but accepting of his place in the world.  And, most importantly of all, the milk crate felt as though he understood what it must be like to be human.

Right now I’m doing my University Transfer courses at Capilano College, as many of you may be aware.

Cap is a great school for someone like me, academically speaking.  The class sizes are smaller, the teachers are great, and it’s a good stepping stone from the 5-year-downward spiral-gap I had between high school and post-secondary.

That being said, Cap is on the North Shore.  I know several great people on the North Shore. My dad’s best friend lives on the North Shore, for that matter.  There are fun things to do on the North Shore.  When I mentioned to my friend Patrick, who does live in North Van, but attends UBC, that I was going to Cap he went “oooh…. you mean North Van High.”

This is a reference to the student body.

A lot of the student body is your typical mish-mash of liberal arts, bohemian, “I’M GOING TO SAVE THE WORLD AND SHOW EVERYONE ELSE HOW TO” type.

And then we have a group that would be considered, I guess, to be Canada’s equivalent of

characters on Laguna Beach or the O.C. or whatever.  I’m not sure, since I’ve never actually watched those shows.

Today I found myself getting dressed, and was about to pick up a jacket that I enjoy very much.  I got it at Goodwill for 5$ a few years ago, and it has seen better days.  It is ripped and shit, but I like it.

I realized that I don’t have expensive, or even new clothes.  I started feeling like the way I felt when I was a kid going to school in the Beaches.  I hadn’t really ever had that feeling since then.  It was strange.

I’m 23 now.

But it’s cold, and I can’t find my other jackets, so I’m gonna wear my ripped to fuck jacket to school, even if the people in my Geogs class think I’m a crackhead. (As one girl said to me “I NEVER go south of the water.Ugh!” For those of you who do not live in Vancouver, that is a reference to the Burrard Inlet which separates North & West Vancouver from the Lower Mainland.  It is the most expensive part of Canada to live in.

Creative Writing class is different.  It’s just a bunch of wackos like me.

When I was in Toronto, I was rummaging through the boxes of stuff I have in storage and came across two pieces of paper.  One was “Journal #10″ and the other was “Journal #11″ for Grade 9 English.  In this class, we would be given a question/topic to write one page about.  I thought I would post them here, because they are kind of funny and obnoxious.

Note that both journal entries begin with the same statement:

Journal #10 – The Telephone and its role in a teenager’s life 

I find this question quite offensive.  It discludes [is that even a real word?] life of Amish people who do not use telephones for communicating.  They are less inept at talking face to face.  If they were more shy, they’d use telephones too.

Some people who phone you talk for too long and don’t know when to shut their chatterbox [I was trying to restrain myself from swearing].  I don’t like talking on the phone, I prefer to talk in person with someone.

It’s good to have a phone with a little red light so you can tell if someone’s listening to you.

Sometimes you can’t tell if you’re really talking to the person you wanted to.  For example, my friend Chris has a brother who sounds exactly like him.  If he answers the phone, he pretends to be Chris until I say something  that makes him go “Ha ha! This is Matthew!” He’s a loser.

Telephones are not a big importance unless your friends live in Hawaii.  In that case, the telephone is important because otherwise you couldn’t talk to them.

Mark: 5/5. Teacher’s comment: “This would be a good idea for a story!”

#11 Thanksgiving: What I am thankful for

I find this question quite  offensive, because I am not thankful for Thanksgiving.

Actually, I am thankful only a handful of relatives showed up at my house for Thanksgiving.  I’m thankful I don’t eat turkey, our turkey was not featherless when my mom bought it.  It’s good to be vegetarian.

I am thankful that this Wednesday, coffee is only 16 cents a cup at Coffee Time meaning I could get 13 coffees for $2.08.  I think I’ll spend 5$ instead, because I’m thankful for finding a 5 dollar bill in my pocket this morning.

I’m thankful not to be sitting at Linda’s table, as she is annoying and creates quite an offensive sound.

Last of all, I’m thankful I’m not because.  If I were, I wouldn’t be able to write in my journal all the things I’m thankful for at this moment.

I am thankful my cat is getting spayed on Wednesday.

Mark: 5/5. Peer editing comment: “Amen – Chas”

Move along.

Walrus

Walrus

Walrus

Walrus

Walrus

Walrus

Walrus

Not a walrus:

Walrus

Walrus

Walrus

That is actually a ring-tailed lemur.  Not a walrus.

Zoology 101.

I just finished up my final paper for my CMNS course.  I’m on the fence about it.  I think in some ways it’s sloppier than my other papers, but at the same time it feels right.  I feel like I worked harder, and less hard on it than the other papers too.  I feel like how I did after my exam for that class;  I had done everything I could, yet I still had failed.  Of course, with that exam, I ended up getting a 96%.

This paper is not going to get a 96%.  I’m going to expect a B.  If I get any higher, I’ll be very surprised… But I guess I could be surprised again.

Still, I wasn’t expecting to finish this course so I’m proud.  I’m almost done my first semester ever in post-secondary school.  I am going to sleep okay tonight.

Steven pulled the best Poisson d’Avril on us. I fell for it. I am so gullible. It’s ironic, because I called him up this morning to get him to Fool Garry for me:

Last night a bunch of us went to see Jamus’s band, Cosmedic. At the Pic, this doodbox hit on me. I was quite amused. His name was Tommy. My friend Josh suggested I “go back home with him to Surrey.” For those of you not familliar with Vancouver, Surrey is effectively Vancouver’s Scarborough.

Anyway, I crashed at Kerby’s house.. so this morning I called Steven and told him to pretend I had called asking if he knew any numbers for Surrey cab companies, as I had gone home with Tommy. Steven hails from Surrey[ EDIT: WHITEROCK, NEAR SURREY], you see; this is why I would asked such a thing from Steven.

So knowing that Steven was clearly aware of what day it was, when I saw that sign up on our board, I kind of freaked out. Then I read further down and realized it was fake. One of the reasons for our eviction is “being from Toronto”. Another reason is something about arty farty party stuff. And homosexual activity.

I have not yet finished my essay. It is due in 25.5 hours.

This weekend, I ruled at life in the classic sense.  Now I must deal with the aftermath of a banged up head, a drawing on my leg that says “POO!” (no mom, not a tattoo.. just pen..), someone angry at me for covering their face with birthday cake and blue, shimmery makeup when they were passed out, and the deadline looming ahead of me for my CMNS paper.  It’s due in a week.  I’m almost done school.

Oh! Me and Aaron did this weird game. Well, unintentionally. Try what we did: So we were sitting in the living room.  Pretty quiet. No one else around.  We sat there in complete silence, and the loser is the person who speaks first.  It gets really funny and ridiculous.  It’s also interesting to see how long people go before they feel a need to say something– anything.

Yes we were stoned.

Try it!

Sometimes I think that my dad killed himself as a desperate sacrifice to my family.  Sometimes I think that the hospital my mom took him to was at fault for his death: if a nurse had not left him unattended for those five minutes, would he have died?

Sometimes, like today, I wish my dad could be here to proofread my papers and tell me how smart I am, and tell me how I’m everything he had wanted in a daughter.  I was a piece of clay he molded and molded into what he thought a daughter should be.  I want that praise, but not from anybody else.  Anybody else telling me I’m “good” makes me feel uncomfortable.  You haven’t made me your experiment, so you can’t really say that I’m the ends to those means.

March 29th is three weeks away.  My dad was still alive on March 29, 2004.  Part of me died on March 29, 2004; part of my dad died on March 29, 2004.  My dad died on May 21, 2004, and another part of me died that day too.

My stop was next, so I pulled the cord.  It seemed like the bus was about to slow down, but then it lurched toward the centre of the road.

I yelled (as loud as I could when I’m sick), “excuse me?!?! I pulled the cord!” but the bus  driver did not hear.

I scuttled to the front of the bus and once again said “excuse me, I pulled the cord but you didn’t stop.”

The bus driver–jovial, fat and Santa Claus-like swerved to the curb and stopped the bus:

“Just for you, I am making a special stop, and an anomaly due apology…”

He told me, somewhat insincerely, to have a great day.  I thanked him and somewhat insincerely gave him my wishes that his day could be as great of a day [as the one he wished for me??], but this was not going to be a great day.

Today will be another day of procrastination, lying in bed, blowing my nose, chainsmoking slightly less than when I’m not ill, and blogging about my little slice of life that I am illustrating in this here “blog”.  It’s not all bad.

Class was interesting? Read more.

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What I have learned in school, aside from the content:

-I am not interested enough in politics or the media to take courses about them as my electives

- next year: Drama(not acting,it’s an English course), Creative Writing, French, Intro to Linguistics

[remember to buy rabbit food and rabbit bedding tomorrow]

[remember to spend the rest of tomorrow save school and shopping for rabbit supplies doing more research for all my projects]

[remember to spend a lot of time devoting my energy to something useless to me]

[remember you can't drop your courses cause you'll lose your student loan money]

[remember you'll be tens of thousands of dollars in debt]

- chainsmoking does not help you study

[remember to re-quit smoking]

-generally I can become articulate, but apparently I can actually freeze up and forget a large portion of my vocabulary

[remember to read the dictionary on a daily basis, and a thesaurus on a semi-daily basis]

- I actually don’t think I even give a shit about my Communications class or Politics class, because I’m really not interested enough… and if I get lower than a B on any of those midterms, I’ll be seriously bummed.

-I’ve accepted the fact that I’m not going to get straight A’s in my first year back at school after 5 years out

Yesterday I had study group for my Politics course.  I have midterms on Monday, I am a little terrified.  I’m not as smart as I used to be… so I guess we’ll see what happens.

So I had study group.  Studying with political science majors is a bitch, because instead of studying they go off on tangents and preach the the converted about how fucked up this world is….. and how AWESOME KARL MARX IS YOU GUYZ.

Anyway, a few hours into studying, this fellow leans over to me and whispers into my ear, “that red shirt…… and those sunglasses, they really work.  It’s really sexy.”

To which I replied, “oh… thanks?”

“No no no. I mean, it’s really sexy, you look sexy.”

“Okay!!! heh heh heh [nervous laughter..]  So……. guys, what were Rousseau’s views  on property ownership???”

“It’s like that saying, ‘there are not ugly women, just women who don’t take care of their appearances…’”

“huh huh huh….” I try to slink away inside myself.
“You look really hot.”

Well, in 4 hours we did not get as much accomplished as I would have hoped, so we were  to meet up over the weekend to finish up our studying.  I’m gonna pass.

Hello.  I got an A- (82-85%) on my in-class Essay for Fiction.  It was worth 20% of my final mark, so that’s good. I could have done better, but now that I know what I did wrong, I can do better in the future.  A- is kind of a bummer, cause an A is.. well, an “A”. An A- is kind of like dangling the carrot.

Okay. So, sometimes I like to take a look at the news.  It’s part of what I’m expected to do in my Communications course anyway.  I can’t look at the news objectively anymore, but we’ve been taught to realise that nothing in the news is objective anyway, making it difficult for any audience to be objective.

Behold, the front page of CNN.com (It also mentions “CNN’s John Zarrella reports from Hollywood, Florida, where an autopsy is set for tomorrow.”)

DUMB THIEF WALKS INTO CLOSED DOOR, FALLS DOWN?!?!!?!?!?! HOOOOLY FUCK. STOP THE PRESSES.