Confessions of a Racist?

So, it looks like you know now. I'm a racist.

Apparently, that is!

Of course, to myself, I am not, in any way, racist. In fact, I would consider myself someone who strives for bettering the racial situation in society. I don't condone racism, and I would, of course, love to see it eradicated. I would love to see a dawning of a more perfect world, where no one is judged on the color of their skin. I would love all this, but my peer(s) believe me to be part of the problem.

Before the gist of my rambling begins, let me explain what inspired me to write this post after my rather long hiatus. You see, with this being the last summer break before my adult, university life begins, I decided to really exploit it. I spent little time at home, much to the dismay of some, and even tired myself out some days. I would go out, spend lots of time with friends and partake in very fun activities. I experienced many "firsts" this summer break, which is rather reasonable considering my age. Needless to say, this break expired very quickly, and I felt as though I hadn't caught up on nearly as much rest as I should have. That being said, I would rather feel like I did enough than as if I rested enough. Rest is for seniors. Plus, with the way I've organized my university schedule, I won't be missing out on much rest during the school year either, so I'll have time for recovery.

That is why this darling blog has suffered from a lack of words. I've just been tremendously busy. I expected to have a miserable summer break. One in which I would be cooped up and bored since my main friends had dispersed on various vacations, but it proved to be quite fun! And I still have a few things to do to top off my joy!

One of the sadder parts of my break has been watching my friends go away. Many of them, thanks to the academically rigorous mindset of my school, have chosen to go far away from Vancouver to study. 

It's a plan that doesn't make much sense to me. After all, you're always told that adapting to university life will be hard. Why make things even more difficult by forcing yourself to adapt to a new city and environment as well? My family is in Vancouver, my friends are in Vancouver (at least most of them are now), a decent university is in Vancouver, so it just doesn't make sense for me to leave. Then again, I'm not overly ambitious. But I digress.

Considering that I selected friends in high school who were, likewise, not overly ambitious (ok, that's an understatement, my friends were not ambitious at all), I didn't have to endure too much heartache from seeing people go. That is, because not many of them left. Only 3 people I care about have gone, or are soon to go. Their names are, in order of departure, Lucia, Steven and Nima.

Lucia is my therapist, who was discussed in my posts about my prom trip, and most specifically, the post "A Chat with my Therapist". I went to two sleepovers with Lucia and the same prom goers from the prom trip. Those only further cemented my adoration for Lucia. Then we have have Steven. Steven is one of the truest and kindest friends I ever found. He cared so deeply for me, and was so selfless around me that I began to feel as though he was the closest thing I would ever find to a soulmate. I felt as though every trouble he had was one of my own. Now I'm beginning to re-jerk my own tears, so I'll stop talking about him until I have to again. Finally, there's Nima. Nima has been a good friend to me since I started my new high school in grade 9. In grade 11, Nima began boarding school on Vancouver Island, but we kept so closely in touch that I never even noticed his absence too much. Moreover, with Vancouver Island being so close to Vancouver, Nima visited every long weekend and spent considerable time with me. He played guitar and I sang, and our relationship was very relaxed and hippy-ish.

We made a point of spending 3 whole days with Lucia before she walked through the departures gate at the airport to her new home of Mississauga. We celebrated her birthday by playing lazer tag, watching a movie and ending the night with a wonderfully authentic Japanese dinner and poker. I was unable to join the next day, but the girls spent it kayaking. And on the third day, the girls were treated to a fabulous (if I do say so myself) rooftop lunch and tour of downtown by yours truly. Then they treated me to a night of karaoke, which was made more fun by the lack of talent. (Note: the highest mark was 39/100). I saw Lucia off with a hug, an exchange of Skype addressess, and a promise of more fun to come for Christmas vacation. 

Yesterday, I went to see off Steven. It was one of the most heart-wrenching things I've ever had to do. Now, before you roll your eyes and laugh at the obvious inconsistencies amidst my hormone levels, note that I am a teenager. Of course I am prone to exaggeration and drama. 

I was not alone in my escorting of Steven to the airport. I was joined by two fellows from school. Between me and Steven's fond recollections, the two fellows would chime in. Okay, that's all a lie. The majority of our expedition was spent listening to me talk. I had a lot to say, as per usual. Steven and I restated, for the millionth time, our promise to write each other a letter per Friday. Can you tell why we get along so swimmingly?

We got to raiding a home decor store. Really, we just wanted to use their display chairs as seating. There we all began abusing the powers of social media. That morphed into chatting about something. That something led to me remembering a conversation I had once had with one of the present fellows. That conversation, which took place a number of months earlier while we were in school, ended very badly. That is how most conversations about "touchy" subjects end with this girl. She is somewhat of a hipster, but she tends to lose her cool incredibly fast. She is one of those people that considers herself a champion of everyone's rights. Feminists, minority groups, disabled people, she represents them all. And not just a mildly, no, she represents these groups passionately. She pours so much into her defenses of these people that she sometimes changes skin color. (I mean she blushes). It's awe-inducing. 

As our conversation changed course, we found ourselves discussing how beautiful it is for South-East Asian women to dye their hair blonde. I remembered that this girl once got very defensive when she showed me a photo of an Asian model, with blonde hair. Upon seeing the photo, I remarked "Oh, she's very pretty for an Asian girl!" This really struck a chord with her. How dare I say "...for an Asian girl"? I remembered our discussion and recalled how seemingly banal and stupid it was. I also recalled how in the right I was, so I took the opportunity of being surrounded by 3 Asians to pose the question once more. To clarify: Steven, and both of these girls were Asian.

I asked the group if saying "...for an Asian girl" was so offensive. Steven didn't speak on the subject, rather, he didn't have the chance to, because the girls' faces turned red with rage before I even finished my question.

Steven is generally laid back that's why I love him. He doesn't take things too seriously. And I do not recall him taking offence to anything I ever said. Perhaps that was because he loved me, perhaps it was because he didn't want to enter into debates with me and perhaps it was because he genuinely was not easily offended. I don't know, but I liked it. 

Anyways, the originally offended culprit stated that she didn't even want to discuss this again because it just got her so angry. But, once the other girl spoke up, the original girl couldn't resist retelling her problems with my words.

Saying that someone is pretty "for an Asian girl" constitutes the belief that the Caucasian race is superior to the Asian. By saying what I had said, I had cemented myself as a white-supremacist. I'll tell you, if that's the case, I'm the darkest white-supremacist ever, but hey, I guess the white Ku Klux Klan sheets will contrast nicely with my skin tone. But I digress.

Obviously I had no intention of saying that the Asian race was inferior to the White. I didn't believe that statement. But for some inexplicable reason, that is exactly what I had meant according to this girl. In her discourse, she explained that by saying what I had, I was practically saying that the ugliest White person is still more physically beautiful than the most aesthetically-pleasing Asian person. Again, not my intention at all. I'm not retarded. I am well-aware that there are plenty of very good-looking Asian people, many of whom look better than their white counterparts.

However, I won't lie: I do not find the Asian race as physically attractive as the White. Simple as that.

If you were to place your average Asian male beside your average White male, and then ask me which of the two I find more physically attractive, the chances are that I would point in the direction of the White man quite definitively. Of course, I don't need to mention that there are aberrations. If you were one of those geeky people, and you set up a simulation of the scenario I described above, you would certainly notice that I would sometimes pick the Asian person. But I do believe that that would be a rare-ish occurrence.

Upon explaining that to the two attacking girls, they seemed unmoved. The just continued bombarding me with their propaganda. I was a racist, and the fact that I would choose the White man more frequently than the Asian only made that point more crystal clear.

Then I brought up something else - Yellow Fever.

If you're young and cool, you'll know what I'm talking about. No, it's not the horrible acute, viral, mosquito-transmitted, hemorrhage-inducing disease. The Yellow Fever I'm talking about is the new dating trend. Basically, and I'm sure your deductive capabilities are strong enough to have figured this out by now, but just in case, I'll spell it out for you: White people who enjoy dating Asian people, for the most part, have Yellow Fever. It's mostly to do with men who date Asian women, but I think it works vice versa as well.

So I innocently asked if having Yellow Fever is a better thing. And, of course, the fury was reactivated and the girls released a resounding "no!" Yellow Fever was no good. But why? If I'm a racist for finding White people generally more attractive, why are the white people that find Asian people more attractive also bad? Well, here's the answer, and I suggest you sit down to take it in because it's profound: Those White people like Asians for all the wrong reasons. These girls know exactly what the White people are thinking, and they were kind enough to lay it out for me: White men believe that Asian women are submissive, and that's why the White men have Yellow Fever. It's not because they actually find Asian ladies more sexually attractive, it's plainly because women of their own race have been too liberated by the feminist movement to be submissive. This is where I cut the conversation off since it was beginning to go off on a tangent about why Asian women aren't submissive and why they need feminism - a contradictory argument in itself. Get it? If they aren't submissive, why would they need feminism?

How did I reign the conversation back in? Simply, I asked the girls the very sophisticated question: What's the big deal?

So what if I don't find Asians more or equally attractive? Why is that such a horribly racist thing to say? I know that you've likely been indoctrinated, as have these girls, with the belief that statements like mine come from a high-and-mighty position from a white-privileged person. But step away from whatever has been drilled into your mind and take the time to give this issue some sober second thought. Just think.

If you walk into an art gallery and tell your friends "I generally don't like Picasso's works. For some reason, cubism just never appealed to me." No one looks at you and calls you a "piece of arrogant shit". People accept that. Aesthetically, you don't find the distinct features of cubism pleasing, and nobody sends you a barrage of insults for that. Why? Because it's just fine for Picasso to not float your boat. If you add on more to your original art critique and say "On the other hand, I love Dali's work; I find it immensely pleasing." No one will call you a bad person for finding Dali's paintings better than Picasso's. It is perfectly acceptable for you to feel that way.

What makes people so much different than art? When you judge the physical beauty of another person, you are using the same sensory functions as when you judge a canvas at the gallery. So why is it bad to not find one certain race as attractive as the other? You're not saying that that race is inferior, you're not saying that they're worse that you, you're not saying anything negative. The only thing that you're saying is that the distinct and typical features of that particular race are not eye-candy for you. And I don't think that there is anything wrong with that.

I think that there is also a subconscious factor that needs to be taken into account during this debate. I'm not sure what it's called, or if it even has a name, but I'll do my best to explain it: Imagine you're a kid in a white family. Your mom and pop are both white, your brother and sister are white, and you are white, too. You live in a predominantly white neighborhood, and most of the people that you see during your daily routine are white. You wake up, and you see your family. You see yourself in the mirror. You go to school or work and see your peers. What does that do to you? Your subconscious makes a note that white is normal. You feel most comfortable and most normal among the white people you've grown up around and amidst. They don't seem foreign to you.

Now, you can move to a place with many people of a different race, and you can accept them, come to enjoy their company and however many more positive things. And you can ask yourself if you find them attractive, and the answer may vary, but if the answer is no, that doesn't make you a racist, does it? You could simply not be used to their distinct appearance, and it could appear to be "foreign" to you. After all, you had really only known one race prior to your move.

So, when my offended friend extended her rant, after I said that my eyes were normal, to including that there is no such thing as "normal", she was wrong again. There most definitely is such a thing as normal, it just happens to vary from person to person. In certain cultures it is completely normal to slurp your food, in others it isn't. In certain places it is just fine to avoid eye contact, in others it isn't. What I would propose alternatively to my friend is that, because the definition of "normal" varies so much from individual to individual, she become accepting to all, or most, definitions, so long as they aren't harmful in some way. And, I think that I have effectively demonstrated that saying a certain thing is "normal" is alright, and should not be considered hurtful.

But, just to reiterate, if Steven called his eyes "normal" and implied that mine were abnormal, I wouldn't be hurt at all. I'd completely understand his stance considering the circumstances under which he was raised.

In my high school, Mandarin was the "normal" language. You heard more Mandarin when you passed through the halls at lunch than you did English. In fact, when I heard too much English on some days, I got a sort of strange, uneasy feeling, as though something wasn't quite right. The same feeling would be present if I walked through the halls and saw a lot of white people. I was perfectly used to standing out as "the tall white girl". In some other school, this definition of normality could be completely different, but that wouldn't make either definition incorrect.

By now, you've made a decision of your own. In your eyes, that question mark that ends the title of this post has evaporated. You either think that I am a racist or you don't, and either opinion is your prerogative to have.

As I was sitting in my sociology class a few days ago, the professor, a raging feminazi, brought up how women weren't on banknotes in the USA. My thought was "who gives a fuck?", but that was starkly opposed by the reaction of the majority of the class. Some girl sitting next to me turned to me to say "Oh my gosh! That just makes me so mad!" I, unmoved by her reaction, simply turned my head and smiled, as to acknowledge her statement. But the girl on my other side was profoundly affected by the statement. She responded to the first girl in question and said "I know, me too! Just to think what women have been through!" Her statement prompted the woman sitting in front of me to join the group therapy by saying "It's like it'll never end! Our struggle for equality just seems impossible!" The first girl responded to her by saying "Oh yeah, and it must be especially hard for you being a black woman." The girl nodded. And that is when something I can never forget happened.

The boy sitting beside the black girl in front of me spoke. He said "I know I'm speaking from a point of total white male privilege, but I can totally sympathize. What men have done to women throughout history is so appalling."

Well, what can I say? I utterly pity him. That poor boy feels like he has to introduce himself into a conversation with "I know I have white male privilege..." As though his opinion is easily voided otherwise. Well, what can I say?

I just wonder if that boy feels like he would be racist if he didn't introduce himself like that. I don't think that would deem him ignorant or racist, but I wouldn't be surprised if the feminazis around me disagreed.

I don't feel like a racist. A lot of my friends are Asian. Steven is a boy I adore and he's Asian. My current boyfriend is Asian. So, I obviously don't have any underlying prejudices or hates against the Asian race, or any race for that matter. But because of my statements on things I've observed, I'm still apparently a racist. How does that happen?

Sorry

I'd like to take the time to apologize to you, my readers, for my sporadic and infrequent posting. I wish that I could write all the time, but I can't. Summer's are especially difficult since inspiration is harder to come upon. When I go to school, inspiration is everywhere, when I sit at home, it's not.

But, don't fret too much! The summer will come to a close and I will begin university. Once that milestone takes place, I will surely have plenty of inspiration for posts. I'm almost certain that an abundance of things will irk me in my new place of learning. All of those things should make for rather decent posts. Yay!

I actually have been writing. I've been writing about such horribly banal topics that no one would enjoy reading them, so I don't post them.

I'll try to write more often during the summer. I'll try to bring my lethargic body to begin typing. I'm sorry if I don't succeed.

As soon as possible, I'll give you an update on my summer and any upcoming plans I have so that you can revel in the ever-riveting state of my mind. You're welcome.

A Chat with my Therapist

You should read Can You Take a Joke - Part 1 before reading this just so that you have some context.

High school was a glistening journey for me. I was socially quite well-off. I endured so few of the problems that children in high school generally do that I think it is fair to call myself lucky. Unlike others, who went through heart ache and bullying and growth spurts and whatnot, I remained in a rested stagnantly in a peaceful bubble of familiarity. My friends stayed the same, my teachers didn't change too much, my social status never trudged through hateful gossip - high school was good to me. Of course, I too saw some adversity, but not nearly as much as I could have. I was largely spared by the vicious claws of society and my high school peers. In fact, up until recently, I had no perception that high school, especially the studious, non-Hollywood-like one which I attended, could have caused anyone any sort of social pressure. (Academically, it was a different story because 98% was an upsetting mark to some.)

Upon attending the prom trip with my 3 friends, my eyes were opened to the obvious struggles which I either blissfully ignored, or was not asked to face. The three of them all despised high school; they argued that elementary was far better. Quite the contrary, in my opinion. I hated elementary school; everyone was rabidly cruel. I arrived in high school with a fresh slate, and loads of luck. By having certain important people take an interest in me, I was propelled up the social ranks and came to be tolerated by all -- at least I think so. Nonetheless, my three girlfriends discussed the torments and adversities they faced almost daily in their partly drunken stupor. I, as best as I could, consoled them with hugs and kisses, though I lacked any personal experiences to share.

Each girl poured her heart out, and when my turn came, I had nothing to say. So, I spoke truthfully and said "high school was really quite alright for me". They, still mostly in tears, blessed me and told me how lucky I was. I nodded faithfully along in hopes that their depression would wear off, as their bodies metabolized the alcohol. It did to some extent. 

We all went to sleep and I hoped that the morning would prove more peaceful and joyous. It did. We went grocery shopping and I made some amazing chicken crepes, which the girls said constituted the best "white person food" of all time. We hiked through a forest during a torrential downpour, which made hiking seem more like a water sport than anything else.

The trail

And though I complained an uncountable number of times that we were going to catch colds and regret our decision to do this hike, I really did enjoy it. As we made our way up and down the trail we discussed the events of the night prior, and we came to the realization that the forest was a safe place to vent. So, into the emptiness, we screamed confessions in hopes that they would help us find closure. 

I had only one confession which I felt warranted my vocal strain into oblivion. That confession was to do about my dislike for the only boy who had caused me significant pain in high school. No, surprisingly, he wasn't a romantic interest at all. He was the romantic interest of my best friend. He, after nurturing a rosy friendship with me and my best friend, woke up one morning and decided that he would not speak to us any longer. He never told us why and we could not unearth any plausible cause except that he was indeed crazy, but after 6 months of silence, he found the nerve to come sit next to me in class and speak to me as if nothing had happened; as if those 6 months had been wiped from the time continuum altogether. I couldn't bear this disrespect and I angrily moved my chair to the farthest corner of the classroom to indicate my disinterest in speaking with him. I hated him.

Despite the sincerest wishes of all of my family and friends to render myself indifferent to him, I couldn't. So, I walked through the hallways of my school and felt a stabbing pain in my chest each time I saw him. I couldn't physically, nor spiritually, bear the burden of the hate I felt for him. There was no logical reason to so passionately dislike him for 2 years of high school, yet I did. I think that the reason why lies in the damage he inflicted onto my enormous ego. He was the only stain on the nearly spotless white t-shirt that was high school to me. For that reason, that stain was evermore visible and ugly. 

I knew that I needed to let that burden go. I needed it desperately, so I sought closure in the forest. I yelled that I hated him and felt remarkably better. As if a certain weight had been alleviated from my shoulders physically. It wasn't the closure I had envisioned, but it was something, and I felt decent enough to go forwards with my life in that way.

After we arrived to our house, blistering cold and wet, I had the absolute pleasure of speaking to the budding psychologist in the group. She, after seeing my only confession, wanted to pick me apart in her scientific way. So began an absurdly long conversation. 

From her perspective, the discussion would provide immense material for the university-psychology papers she would be writing in the fall. From my perspective, the heart-to-heart would possibly find me at peace with the one blemish of high school that I had allowed to cause me unreasonable amounts of fury.

We talked. She insisted that I saw the matter as bigger than it was, which was undoubtedly true. She explained that life would throw a great deal of equal, and even worse, people my way and that the only adequate way to deal with them would be to learn through this experience. She claimed that I'd be quickly somatized by every bad person if I couldn't cope. All this was true, but one question remained: why did someone with as fabulous a high school career as me allow this one negative event to over-shadow my existence? We came to the conclusion that it had something to do with the fact that it was my first time experiencing hardship in high school. Up until that boy, my high school social-life was A+ and my ego could not sustain that extremely unexpected blow. This is where my new psychologist said "God dammit, I hate you. Why did high school have to be so good for you?"

Umm, unprofessional! You never say that to a patient!

Regardless, this is where the discussion took on a lighter tone. We began talking about my triumphs in high school. I was far from the best student, but something about my extroverted nature made my social life very easy. Speaking to people came very naturally to me and I never felt awkward in social situations. This allowed for me to carry myself through the halls with a certain air of dainty happiness. In the words of my new-found and dearly beloved psychologist that air made it ok for me to not wear make up, which is something that the other girls had all done for a long time. Apparently, no matter how I looked, and no matter how dark the circles under my eyes were, I managed to exude enough confidence when I walked through the halls that the dark stains under my eyes would be voided. Thanks for that confidence booster, girl!

My therapist now wanted to explore what exactly made me the extroverted, dainty, happy gal I was since, apparently, high school's purpose was to ravage happy children and create insecure conformists. I couldn't answer her question since I didn't know myself. I told her that I felt that it was simply my nature. Just like some people are born blonde, and others are born brunette, I believe that some are born happy and chatty and others are born sad and quiet. She told me that that wasn't the case. The color of your hair is determined by nature, but your approach to life is determined by aspects of nurture. So, to find out what nurturing brought me to the denouement of high school with a happy glow, my therapist went back... way back.

She asked what I remembered of my days before elementary school. I really didn't remember too much, of course, but what did remain in the crevasses of my brain was exceedingly happy. It is literally sunshine and ice cream cones. I remember waiting for the ice cream truck and turning to my father, who always had the right amount of money in his hand to give me. I would get a pink panther ice cream because it was my favorite. I remember playing on the park, being a little bit of a bully to the other kids when I wanted to play on the things they were playing on. And though I did live in a place with distinct seasons, my only memories are of sunny days. I don't recall any gloomy clouds or rains or snows.

How was my familial relationship? Excellent. I told my therapist that my parents and grandma had never been less than supportive. That was the eureka moment for her! Apparently, Asian parents tell their children that they are bad and dumb and whatnot in hopes that they then feel motivated to do great things. That, for lack of a kinder term, seems fucked up to me. 

My parents always told me that I was a very pretty, very smart and very wonderful little girl. And yes, they repeated it so many times that I came to believe it. Despite my staggering height and my adorable beer-belly, I walked with such an unparalleled fierceness. I went to the beach unaware of the fact that the 2-time-daily jumbo croissant with Nutella was causing me to have a less-than-perfect beach body. My body was ideal - that's what my grandma told me when she slobbered my plate with ridiculous amounts of greasy, but oh-so tasty food. I was the prettiest girl in my school - that's what my dad told me when I asked him if my bowl-haircut looked nice. And I was the smartest kid in my entire school - that's what my mom told me when I justified a bad mark on a spelling test by saying I was just plain stupid. 

So yeah, I guess you could say that I had a really happy childhood. And yeah, that happy upbringing stemmed into a happy future.

But my therapist was not completely content yet. She asked if my relatives still say those things to me and if they still hold the same value to me. The answer was that my relatives obviously still complimented me, but in a lesser degree and less frequently. Of course, as I got older, I did recognize that my beer belly wasn't as hot as I thought. I came to terms with the fact that a bowl-haircut was not "in", nor had it ever been. And it also dawned on me that there were smarter people out there.

Now my psychologist found herself at a bit of a crossroads in her dissection of me. She knew that my ego was quite big, but if my family was no longer providing a consistent flow of praises, who was? My family had simply laid a foundation for the person I was to become. That foundation, however, could have been very easily shaken and even demolished by my external environment. For some reason, it hadn't been, and that was why that strange boy's actions crippled me as much as they did. The reason was right in front of me. 

The darling psychologist asked about my friends. They were nice, of course. In my largely Asian school, it had just so happened that the majority of my friends were not Asian, so perhaps they had similar upbringings and we connected that way. I can't be sure.

My therapist was determined to figure out where my tremendous confidence comes from and so she persisted. Do my friends compliment me? Well, of course! Violetta is a prime example. When I read my blog posts to her, she lauds them as being equivalent to best-sellers. Does she tell me I'm pretty? Yes, sometimes! But, I tell her that too. We're very supportive of each other and enjoy dishing out the praises. I don't think that there's anything wrong with that. Well, my therapist firmly believes that those reciprocal compliments allow us to walk through the halls with out heads held high. That seemed logical, but then I recalled that Violetta had recently begun wearing make up , which meant that the psychological Sherlock Holmes I was sitting with would have to dig even deeper to find what exactly made me so whimsical. And the answer lied in the revelations of this year and the last.

Boys!

Wild, I know! I wonder how we had managed to talk for 3 hours and not touch on that subject, but we did. Now it was 1am. The other two girls were washing the dishes, and though we should've offered help, we were both far too enthralled with our own conversation. In the middle of a sentence, we were interrupted. The other two girls wanted to go star-gazing since it was a clear night. It sounded romantic enough that my therapist and I decided that we could continue our discussion on the dock 15 minutes away, under the endless shimmer of the sky, beside the vast glimmer of the ocean. We all left. Once we made it, we laid down some sleeping bags and began listening to the astronomer of the group. She showed us the big dipper and the little one and a plethora of other constellations and celestial bodies. That was too much education for my therapist and me. We were eager to get back to boys. Oh, how hormonal we sound!

What happened with boys this year? Wow, so much. Like I said at the very start of this post, you should read Can You Take a Joke - Part 1 to get some flavor of my predicament. 

They adored me. Up until last year, really, I was an exclusive friend to basically all boys. They thought I was cool like a guy, but not cool as a girl - if that makes any sense at all. The point is that no one seemed to be interested in me in a romantic way, though I had plenty of male friends who treated me very well. They would ask me for my opinions on girls they were interested in and tell me some of their personal secrets - the types of secrets that you don't want your potential romantic partner to know. I was very comfortable with the position I held with guys, actually. Then last year someone had to see me in a different way and start a perpetual cycle of life-ruining.

Wait a second.

You're not supposed to know that this all accumulates with "life-ruining" - you're still supposed to think everything is rosy and my ego is being boosted. Which is genuinely the case, for the most part. Let's pretend that I haven't definitively foreshadowed the ending of this post, though. That will make it easier to follow. But then again, what is there to follow?

The Title

No, I didn't make a mistake when publishing this post. I intended to name it "The Title" because that is exactly what I will be discussing in today's angry post.

With only about one week left of school before I graduate, the pressure is on. Generally, the ends of terms are harried with various tasks that you would rather not do. All those assignments you procrastinated on during the months; all those little things that cause you far too great of a hassle. That description is only valid when you exclude grade 12. See, at the end of the year in grade 12, things are even worse. Not only do you have to do all those missed assignments so that you can maintain your university acceptance, you also have to deal with all those things that come with graduation. 

In fact, tomorrow, I walk across the stage and grab my diploma from my principal, thereby signifying that I have persevered and achieved what has been my societally imposed purpose for the past 13 years. Really, it hurts just seeing it written out - "13 years". I spent 13 years in school everyday to get what? A piece of paper? How sad. What's more sad is that those years feel nearly totally wasted. I can't figure out why I did the daily grind, and that's unfortunate. But, I'm not going to whine about that right now. I'm going to count my blessings as a student gaining some minimal amount of freedom from the shackles of my community-college-educated teachers. At least now, when I begin to pay for school by attending university, the capitalist system should allow me voice dissatisfaction and potentially have my grievances be sustained. Right, hopefully university is better. 

Back to the big final weeks.

One of the major things that usually follows graduation is prom. Prom is that amazing day, filled with wonderful people, beautiful dresses, lots of liquor and plenty of fun. At least that's what it's supposed to be. From my experiences, and through ample hearsay, I have learned that prom is seldom that. Most of the time, you aren't friends with everyone in high school - far from it. You're generally friends with a small clique. Why? Because that small clique is the group you choose to spend you're time with, supposedly because they are most similar in ideology to you. Not necessarily political ideology - you get it, I'm sure. 

Then there's the second aspect - the outfits. Those "beautiful dresses" that all look like they were made by a blind, candy-store owner. Hideous and tacky, sometimes outrageously colorful, and sometimes made of fabrics akin to those of spacesuits - these are the dresses for prom. Worst of all, they are all strikingly similar. The same ugly sweetheart necklines and the same ugly lengths. They're horrible. I'd argue that prom dresses are just re-purposed curtains, but that's just me.

Then there's the liquor, which is supposed to exist, but doesn't because parents stand on the perimeter and inspect prom-goers. At least that is the case at my upcoming prom.

Did I mention that this all costs you a hefty 175$? 175$ for dinner and a dance and 3 hours of your life. Obviously, if you have a date, the price will double.

So, does that all sound like fun? I'll tell you something: Of the 150 people in my graduating class, only about 65 are going to prom, and the price is the least of the concerns.

My school wasn't even planning on having a prom. In fact, around March, I asked the social coordinator at my school if and when prom was happening. She told me that prom was "Such a white girl thing to do", and that, if I wanted a prom I should go and organize one. Well, thanks for the advice, social coordinator. Regardless to those remarks, a short while later, my social coordinator went on the school Facebook group and asked how many people wanted to have a prom. Lo and behold - many. Then, she began preparations.

After spending 4 years at my school, I realize that I am not friends with many people. We're all very different in ideologies. I don't like to take caffeine tablets in order to prolong the amount of time I can physically study my physics homework. They do. I like to do things other than study. They don't. You get the idea. 

So, when the prom plan was revealed. and the price was announced, I considered all options. I realized that I probably wouldn't enjoy being cooped up in a window-less ballroom with those people. I wouldn't enjoy paying 175$ for that experience and I wouldn't enjoy picking out a bubblegum colored curtain to use as a dress. So, I decided to do my own thing. My parents encouraged me, and a lot of the other kids at school were also doing it. After all, everyone wants celebrate the end of school, and, if ~90 kids aren't going to the official prom, that means that there are a lot of "mini-proms" happening. 

I decided to organize my own mini prom. My parents had told me that they'd gladly give me 175$ if I wanted to go to prom, but they'd give me that money if I wanted to do something else too. I figured that I could book a trip for a few days somewhere close by for about the same cost, and I began preparations. Oh, the obstacles just seemed to never end!

Initially, there was plenty of interest, but that just kept dwindling. Some people decided that they would go to school prom, others had overly-protective parents who wouldn't let them spend 3 nights away from home, others couldn't afford the price tag, which I set at 200$. I advertised my trip as being basically the same price for 3 nights, as prom is for 3 hours. I expected it to be fantastic. Eventually, the 17 people who had initially expressed interest dropped out and left only 6. It was going to be only 6 of us girls. The group of the girls actually was formidable. I feel highly comfortable around all of them. Moreover, boys would have detracted from the comfort-level. Even moreover, the smaller the group, the less the chance of something bad happening. When you're in a house with 20 teens, it's risky. When you're in a house with 6 teens, the odds are much better.

Things seemed perfect.

I finally had the money from all 6 and was ready to book. All those obstacles I had had, had melted away. I just needed to find a nice place for 6 and book it.

Of course, that would be too easy. The universe needed to throw me another curve ball.

It came in the form of my best friend telling me that she would like to reschedule the trip. Why in the world would she want such a thing? Because she wanted to go to school prom. "I just think that we could do both." is what she said to me. She wanted to go to school prom, and then go on our trip some other time. Obviously, I wasn't going to agree to this. 

First of all, my one friend didn't warrant the rescheduling and restarting of planning for this trip. Second, she wasn't special. I wasn't going to alter everything for the other 4 girls and myself in order to accommodate her current whim. Third, I had no intention of going to school prom. I don't fancy those people. I don't fancy their over-priced price. I don't fancy 3 hours of parent-supervised dancing to top 40 music. Frankly, I'm too cool for that. I thought that my friend was too. After all, she had seemed very excited and had given me her 200$ just a few days prior. So, what could've possibly instigated this drastic change? I asked.

She first told me that she had hoped that more people were going. How she had realized it, a lot of people were going to go, and they were all going to be our friends. Well, that deserved two responses. The first was that yes, a lot of people were going to go, but fewer people was easier logistically, and I also personally preferred it to the discomfort that would come with having a large group of acquaintances. The second was that our only true friends through high school had been each other. She wasn't highly socially active when I met her, and I was. I had had many acquaintances, she hadn't. Nonetheless, those people were all acquaintances - she was my friend. Now, however, those acquaintances of mine had become hers, apparently. And apparently, she was so close to those acquaintances, that she wanted to spend the night with all of them rather than 5 of us. 

I think she missed the talk about quality versus quantity. 

After a day or so, she told me that her reasoning was different: Now, she had done some introspection and stumbled upon a big philosophical question: How would she feel in the future, when she reflects and recognizes that she had never gone to "official prom"? She didn't want to risk that potentially negative feeling and therefore needed to go. That was all fine, and I was not going to hold her back. She worried if I was mad. Well, of course I was. Here she was, posing as an enormous obstacle to my success of planning this trip. But, I wouldn't tell her that.

I don't want to hold her back from her desires in what is her last week of school. Obviously, we aren't going to stay friends forever, so what's the point of trying to force it in this home stretch of high school. She had changed a lot over the years, and perhaps I had too. After considering this all, I told her I would do my best to accommodate her. And, really, I am going way out of my way to make this pleasant for her. I am doing her a giant favor, really.

I know what her two reasons are in actuality. The first is the lack of people. When I met her, she was new to the country. She didn't have enough connections in order to get invited to parties and social gatherings. She was quiet and not particularly social. That was attractive to me. I was a social butterfly with plenty of connections, but I needed someone quiet to keep me grounded. I genuinely thought that she was the way she was authentically. I didn't think that it was any facade. But it was. Because as soon as the opportunity presented itself, she jumped on it. As soon as she found a group that invited her to parties, she was partying well into the nights. She wasn't actually a quiet person at all. It's just that, at school, I had fulfilled that niche since the start, so there was no space for her to be a partying, loud kid; she felt pushed into the shadows.

For her, a party of 6 likable girls isn't fun. If there aren't going to be police coming or if there aren't going to people choking on their vomit and nearly dying, it just isn't worth it. 

The second major reason lies in the title of this post. The title of "official prom" is a difficult one to miss out on. It doesn't matter that it will be terribly lame and boring, it is called "prom". It doesn't matter that everything about it is tacky and gross, it is called "prom". It doesn't matter that all those people there are acquaintances, at best, to her, it is called "prom". You have to go to prom. That's just a rule. You can't go against the grain and do your own thing, you have to conform to prom. 

It's like Bachelor and Bachelorette parties. You know? People go to Vegas and get wasted, and get with strippers and hookers, but it's ok. Even though they have a fiance(e) and are going to get married within a week, they can have guilt-free sex because it's their Bachelor party, and it's their last bit of freedom. Why? Didn't their freedom disappear when they started seriously dating their significant other? No, their freedom will only go away when their significant other attains the elusive title of "husband" or "wife". How sad. That's the reality. 

It causes me some sadness to think that my friend falls into that category; to think that maybe she has always wanted to be someone else, but that I have held her back by being louder and more social. I really shouldn't be worrying though, I too am graduating, I too should be happy-go-lucky. I have wanted nothing more than to escape the confides of my uninspiring high school and my uninspiring peers. The time is finally here. 

Is my friend doing anything malicious? No, she's just following her heart, and who could blame her for that? Certainly not me. So, is this a smear post? No, it's just a sort of pitiful expression of sadness. Why did I hold her back? 

I think far too much. I graduate tomorrow! I'm free tomorrow! Life is upon me and it's all going to be perfect. I feel so loved by everyone around me that I am a fool to let something so minuscule in the grand scheme of things upset me. I shouldn't. I'm going to book that trip now, and I am going to have a great time knowing that I was cool enough to let "official prom" pass me by. Furthermore, I'm going to have a great time with those girls, whether my friend decides to show up or not.

I'm going to go book that trip now. Thanks for reading.

Can You Take a Joke? Part 1

I am about to speak to you from vast experience, so buckle down, grab your notepad and listen up.

A few weeks ago, my rather uneventful romantic life took a drastic leap. All of a sudden, as of what I firmly believe was a curse, boys left, right and center, were very interested in me.

The curse? Well, one day, while I was sitting plainly in my music class with a group of friends, someone brought up romance. Everyone shared a story of love - crazy girlfriends, current crushes and whatever else. There I stood completely silent. That's when Gavin, the leader of the conversation, who also happens to be one of the biggest players in the city, turned to me and smirkingly said "So, Nat, how's your love-life going?" I smiled politely, and responded "Oh, you know, it's not moving." Both of us giggled. Gavin found my reply cute. Our conversation progressed onto other matters and all that was spoken about quickly found itself buried into the depths of our minds.

Until the next day.

The very next day, everything began tumbling and, like any tumbling object, gaining momentum. It all started with my friend of 4 years asking me to prom with romantic intentions. This situation was dealt with effectively. I simply expressed my desire to remain friends, and friends alone, and my friend agreed very easily. We made the mutual decision to forget the event and continue on the happy road to graduation as nothing more than friends. According to my friend, Violetta, however, a man and woman can never just be friends - the man always seeks more. I disagree, but that's a discussion for another time. 

Soon after the slight misunderstanding, as I'll refer to it, with my friend, I had to deal with a whole other issue. A house party.

Seemingly banal and regular, I attended a house party hosted by a friend from school. This particular friend didn't have many friends at our school since he was new to it, so the party consisted mostly of people I didn't know from his old school. Initially, I was afraid that it would be awkward for me to be at a party where I didn't know anyone, but my friend assured me that all of his friends were very welcoming. I took the risk and it paid off. True enough, all of his friends from the school in the suburbs were pleasant and friendly. They made me feel very comfortable.

I spoke with most of them and they shared stories about each other to me. I learned about the notorious alcoholic, the desperate dater, the celebrity, and a plethora of other fun titles. I envied the group a little because of the level of comfort they felt amongst themselves. They felt completely free to insult and taunt each other, like true close friends. No one ever got legitimately angry at anyone. At my school, that seldom seemed the case: People get highly offended by joking remarks and seem generally less free in their speaking amongst themselves. But I digress.

After I spoke with however many people at the party, I had to go home. What a bummer because I was really enjoying the company. So, I rested through the rest of my weekend and showed up to school on Monday. This is when I received some confidence-boosting news. 

Violetta, myself, and the host of the party I had just attended, all walked home together. This was rather typical for the three of us. Violetta and I needed to reach the bus stop, and he lived on the way, so it was logical. He usually was even kind enough to wait for the bus with the two of us -though sometimes it was just me- for as long as it took. But, as I mentioned, that day's stroll brought with it some exciting news.

My friend asked me if I remembered a certain boy from the party, I did and I told him so. Then, my friend tried to elaborate on that boy, but I, in my usual fashion, interrupted him. I believed that it would be rude to speak of matters that Violetta was unaware of without filling her in, so I took it upon myself to first do that. Violetta, obviously, hadn't attended that party and therefore needed filling in. I explained the boy to Violetta, and, after about 10 minutes, asked my friend to continue with his story. By now, the story had slipped his mind, but, after insisting he pour every ounce of his energy into recalling the tale, he remembered it.

The boy from the party had told my friend to pass along to me the message that I was cute in his opinion. I was flattered. 

No matter how many times I get told I'm pretty, no matter under what circumstances the compliment is received, it never gets old. I love it. And, of course, I do wish that someone would see something more to me than my outstanding facial symmetry, but I'm not going to complain. So, I was cute and that was the end of the conversation.

I got home, and after having a bite to eat, received a text message from the party host. His words (and emojis) were full of vibrance and happiness. Something had apparently made him so excited that he simply had to share it with me. I was in shower, and so ignored his messages. By the time I was finished, I had approximately 10 unread messages waiting in my inbox from this boy. I was surprised and asked him to please share. The line of questioning began first with what my opinion was on being told I was cute by his friend. I again expressed that I was flattered by the remark. He told me that he had a similar message to share. According to him, I was very popular with his friends from the school in the suburbs. A second friend of his had confided in him that I was cute. Contrary to the first friend, this one expressed an interest in dating me by asking if I was single. 

How flattering.

The party host asked me if the romantic interest was mutual. Of course it wasn't. I had known the boy in question for 1 hour, and in that one hour, he was slightly under the influence anyways, so I didn't know him nearly well enough to feel anything romantic towards him. Moreover, at the party, the particular boy had come across somewhat full of himself. He told me about so many achievements of his and all about how great he was. This, in and of itself, was a turn-off for me. I don't need you to advertise yourself to me - if you're great, I'll see that, thanks. Naturally, I didn't say any of this to the party host, who was texting me this and acting as an intermediary because I didn't want to offend his friend.

After I explained that I was not interested in his friend, the party host decided to do what is known as "wing-man-ing". This is when you talk up your friend in order to entice interest in him. I read the host's messages and grinned. How utterly cute it was to play wing man; what a friend! Nonetheless, I wasn't changing my mind. And that's when the weird thing happened: The party host, who has been passing on messages to me and talking up his friend, stops replying to my messages briefly. This is highly unusual for him; he is the type who is readily available on phone. So, I put my phone down and went to chat with my friend, who is the guitarist in my band, and who will be discussed in greater detail later on. I made plans with the guitarist to get churros and bubble tea. I can't remember why churros, but that's irrelevant anyways. After I made plans, my phone lit up again. I pulled my thumb downwards to display the message that I had just received and there it was, in all of its adoring glory.

The message, from the host of the party himself read "Maybe I'm interested, listen, fuick everyone else wanna go out?"

My-oh-my! Well, wasn't this just grand?

A third suitor altogether. That tumbling object that was my love life, was tumbling and even gaining momentum. Of course, the message was, again, highly flattering. This boy knew me more so than the rest of his flirtatious counterparts, so his disclosure of interest was even more flattering. And so, everything was looking just rosy, except for one small detail - this amor was a one way street. 

Personally, I had never seen the boy in question as anything more than a friend. Though he was a fun guy to be around, and always had interesting stories to tell, something about him guarded me from feeling anything romantic towards him. I adamantly believe that it is the height-ist inside of me. See, I have always pictured my significant other as someone significantly taller. This boy is shorter than me; not a lot, just a little, but still. Furthermore, his appearance is just generally not one I envision myself with. I know, it sounds superficial, but that's not all. I think that, if I actually really enjoyed his company, I could overcome the physical barriers, but I don't enjoy it that much. Why? Well, because of the title of this post, of course! 

The Broken Proletariat

Did I ever mention that I go to a music school? What a wonderful place that is. I so totally love that music school, that words would do my feelings no justice. It's my fourth year in it, and I will not be applicable for re-entry after I graduate from high school, so I am highly upset by that right now, but it was good while it lasted. 

For four years, I have been in a DJing program. I've learned how to manipulate music software, mix songs, create them, and later spin them up on the turntables. 

This year, things changed slightly. I was put into an extra program on top of the DJing.

It's a band. 

Since my music school teaches many things, they had the smart idea of putting various students into a single band. You have one kid that's a pianist, you have another that's a guitarist, a bassist, a singer and so on. Now, all of these kids take the classes that qualify them as their respective instrumentalists on top of the band class. Of course, as a DJ, I don't fit into a traditional band. I expressed this after being asked to join, but the registration lady assured me that it wouldn't be a problem. She said that if DJing was not malleable enough to be used in the band, the instructor would just do his best to teach me quick bits on other instruments, so that I could be useful. It was worth a shot, so I did it. The instructors at the school are great, classes are free, and the other students are amazing, so I had nothing to lose except an extra 90 minutes each week.

Here's a little about my DJing class: About two years in, I had mastered most of the software stuff, become good at making songs, and become coordinated enough to use the turntables. So, after those two years, my DJing class had morphed into something that I hadn't originally thought it would be - therapy. Yes, I know. But I have an excuse:

See, the school that I go to is on the cushy west side. Money isn't an object and people are, in general, not the best. The school is toxic because everyone's ambition is sky-high. Kids don't sleep; they are too bogged down with APs and SATs. Very few of them can carry a conversation that goes beyond the realm of the school chemistry curriculum. The way they look at me is strange; as if I have some rare blood-condition that makes me terminal. And to them, I am inflicted with the plague of mental-illness. Many of them think, because of my happy-go-lucky attitude, my "hippie-ness", my lack of homework-completion and my excess of blogging (i.e. doing things that don't count towards my grade), I am sick. Yes, to them, I suffer from optimism. It's difficult.

That is why DJing is therapy. I get together with probably the coolest kids in the city. Kids that don't have unhealthy ambition, kids that enjoy their time skateboarding, and kids that are generally content with being kids. We talk and make music, and it's highly relaxing for me. I don't feel like I suffer from a terrible plague when I'm around them, and it's quite nice. So, I look forward to Tuesdays. 

This is why I accepted band class.

What a good decision it was! I learned a little bit about playing synthesizer because I needed to play that for one rendition we played. I learned about piano for something else, and I am presently practising a part on Vibraphone for the song we just wrote. It's great.

We sit together and pool ideas for melodies and lyrics. We play them and we learn other stuff in the process.

Hold on: My absurdly long introduction is not done yet.

Due to my instructor's constant lateness to class, me and my 5 band-mates have a lot of time at the start of class to chat. From what I recall, at the start of this year, none of us knew each other, but we've gotten to know each other decently since then, mostly because of these chats. 

As is customary however, as the year progressed, we formed into smaller groups.

Two of the girls in our class became very close. I became well-acquainted with the lead guitarist. And, the other two band members are usually late of absent, so their presence is scarce in the chat-sessions.

The first class, I met the lead guitarist and he introduced himself. He played guitar well, so that was an automatic big plus. He seemed like a nice person - that's the vibe that he gave off, at least. I began talking to him gradually. It was good. It became fairly usual for us to sit together for an hour after each class and talk. I liked it, and it served as a chance for me to get to know him better.

Now, I know what you're expecting - a love story. But, no, that's not what this is. I'm just trying to give you a feeling of what he's like.

He's a nice type of guy. Really. He isn't quiet, but most of what he says is intended to be a joke. He is so frequently sarcastic that I have found it difficult at times to distinguish between his serious statements and his sarcastic statements. I most vividly remember the first night that he decided to take the bus in my direction: He made a joke, which I took seriously, so I corrected him in his fallacy. This is laughable. After I began elaborating on the mistake he had made, he looked at the ground in sad silence, and said "I was making a joke. I keep trying and you just keep knocking me down." That I do. I was sad at my stupidity and at his sadness so I laughed nervously and told him I'd do my best to differentiate between his jokes and serious declarations in the future. 

Another time, I recall him joking that his grand father is Obama.

Best of all, I remember one of the first nights we talked, when he very openly showed me that he has diabetes. Diabetes is awful. Apparently diabetics have insulin pumps attached to their, well, asses. And no, I don't mean their pet donkeys, I mean their butts. How do I know that? Because he showed me!

One of the first classes we talked, I offered him a hard-boiled quail egg. He told me that he hated eggs, but I insisted that quail eggs were completely different and that he should really try one. Kindly enough, he did. He bravely put that whole miniature eggs in his mouth, and then his face cringed. He looked horrible. His cheeks swelled, so as to make ample space in his mouth so that he wouldn't have to swallow the currently chewed-up egg. I was laughing, but eventually managed to push through the giggles to tell him that his is welcome to spit it out. Without hesitation, he turned his back to me and spat out the egg with vigour. I apologized for causing him pain, all while laughing at him. I offered to make it up to him by baking something actually decent for him and the rest of the class. I asked what he likes to eat. He couldn't think of anything, so he said "good ole cookies". Then he told me he had diabetes.

That scared me because I didn't know what diabetes meant. I asked if he could still eat cookies and he said "yeah. I can eat anything". I inquired if that would cause his sugar to skyrocket and thereby cause him to be dead in band class. To that, he very proudly pulled the backside of his pants down a little to expose part of his ass. There, a little plastic tube sticked out. He pulled the little tube, which led him to his pocket where a small cassette-player-like object lived. It was his pump. He told me that he just presses a button after a meal, and the machine does the rest for him. So cookies it was!

Eventually, the often-absent girl in our band asked me about my relationship with this guitarist guy. I told her that we just talk, she expressed regret at that and told me that she "ships" us. I had to go to Urban Dictionary to find out what that means. It means that she endorses a relationship between us. Well.

Then some other random guy in our music school, but not in our band class, asked us if we were dating. The answer was no. The boy has a girlfriend. See? I told you that no romantic love was involved.

As of late, the boy doesn't accompany on the bus anymore; he goes the opposite way, but we still talk a lot before class. 

The boy was nice enough to help me once. We were all learning how to play drums: Being the uncoordinated and pathetic creature that I am, I couldn't manage to play the slightest rhythm on the chair we were hitting with sticks. The time came when the teacher requested that we all give the rhythm a try on the real drum kit. I didn't want to try. The teacher didn't notice, which had meant I had gotten away with being pathetic on a personal level only. Then the boy asked me if I had tried, I told him honestly because I thought that it wouldn't matter to him at all. I was wrong, because then, the boy did something unlike himself and shot his hand up to inform the teacher that I hadn't tried the real drums. The teacher then made me get up and play. In hindsight, I am happy that he did that. I played better on the kit than on the chair anyways. So thanks to the diabetic guy for that!

All this is fine. I've spent ridiculously long creating a great image of the protagonist of my post. Now that we've all agreed that he's a fabulous fellow, let's talk about what he said. His statements on this Tuesday panged at my heart, and some uncontrollable urge forced me to write about them. Perhaps I subconsciously want to return the favour that he did for me by ratting on me to get me to play drums and do something new. Regardless, I feel inclined to tell his story.

Now, the introduction is over and the real story begins, so get ready!

This Tuesday we were talking as per usual. Under the most absolutely average of circumstances, this diabetic boy, who I shall call Sugars herein, mentioned a job. Just plainly, like every other teenager ever, Sugars told me that he has work on the weekend, or sometime soon.

Up until that moment, the two of us had been discussing our futures beyond high school. From very early into the year, Sugars had told me that he had no intention of going to university because school "wasn't for [him]". He had also structured his classes in such a way that entrance into university would be close to impossible. He was only taking 5 out of 8 classes, one of which was Planning 10 (a class that everyone took in grade 10, but that he had somehow managed to evade up until now). The rest of his classes consisted loosely of various courses that his counsellor had assured him would be easy. Sugars, in fact, had so little ambition that he complained about taking Geology 12. According to him, the counsellor had told him that the class would require little to no effort. The counsellor's words, however, seemed to have been proven false, since there was apparently some minimal workload in existence in the class. Other than Geology and the mandatory course of English 12, Sugars was taking classes like Soccer (a real class apparently), PE, and Art, or something like that.

He does like soccer! He considers Luis Suarez, a rotweiler in human form, to be the best player in the world right now. The man bites people quite regularly - am I the only one that sees something wrong with that? Attacking aside, I'm still quite certain that there are better players out there. I'm not qualified enough to put forth other players, or rather, I'm not knowledgable enough to, but I'm sure that some readers out there may have logical reasons for picking some other players over Suarez.

But I digress.

When the topic came back on this day, I asked what he planned on doing past high school if not university. He wanted to work. I wanted to know where. He expressed a desire to begin working with his mother or his father, so that he could get paid beyond minimum wage. He was hopeful that he could climb aboard his dad's ship as a set-designer. This would pay about 20$/hour. This was better than minimum wage. This all sounded very nice. Though unclear, it was the skeleton of a plan. It was whimsical and optimistic, of course, but I wouldn't expect any less from Sugars.

Here's another side-note: A little while ago, I was talking to a friend, who coincidentally happened to "Prompose" a week ago, I proposed the idea of not going to university to him. He took this as blasphemy. Then, after I nudged him slightly, he appeared to become more accepting of the idea, even though I think that he was faking his acceptance to please me. He claimed that anyone who didn't have an absolutely perfect plan for the future had to go to post-secondary education. Not doing so would qualify you as an idiot. This was my promposal-provider's theory. I didn't, and still don't, agree with it. Sugars only served to further reassure my convictions. I'm sure he'll be OK, even with his not-so-foolproof plan. Where's the fun in certainty anyways?

That's the end of my side-note.

After Sugars told me his plan, he asked what I was going to study in university. When I said "Arts", and he gave me a sort of thumbs up. It was a welcome change from what everyone else had been telling me. I know what you're thinking - "Nat! Please let me know what everyone else had been telling you! I can't figure it out myself!" Oh, well, OK, I guess I could do that for you. How benevolent I am.

So, let me sum that up for you in the form of one joke that my dear friend told me about Arts: "What's the difference between an Arts degree and a bench?"

Think.

"A bench can support a family."

Laugh. It's OK, I did.

Sugars didn't have that sentiment, and it was, to me, therapeutic to be finally in an environment where people were relaxed enough to not hassle me about my program decision. But Sugars did inquire if there was anything I would rather be doing, and I told him the truth. The dream is to open a café, which has a ceramics workshop in the back. I make all of the cups and plates that the coffee I make gets served on.

He smiled and actually supported my idea. Again, what a welcome alternative to the laughs that I generally get when I mention my dream. Sugars said that I should do that because it wouldn't even require too much money, and because he would come in for coffee every day, which would pay off the loans. It was wonderfully relieving. But then I turned the attention back to him. I asked him what his current minimum wage job was.

Guess. It should be your first guess regardless of where in the world you're reading this from.

McDonald's. The Golden Arches employed Sugars.

As soon as he said this, he started to tell me a story, but very quickly, he stopped himself and, with slight giggling said, "nah, never mind, you don't want to hear it anyways." But I insisted and so he continued.

He then proceeded to tell about his adventures, the first of which was to clean vomit from the sink in the bathroom. As I would soon find out, the majority of problems in McDonald's do regard the washroom. This, I guess, is perfectly logical. I would like to point out, however, that a large part of this is likely thanks to the clientele which frequent McDonald's. Let's all be real here: rich people from my part of town go to McDonald's rarely - they're rather preoccupied with finding new ways to incorporate kale into their diets. People looking for cheap and quick, those are the people that go to McDonald's. Likewise, they are likely the people that make the clean up in McDonald's bathrooms so unpleasant. I recognize that what I just said was completely hoity-toity, rich, west-side girl-speak. I recognize that I just put down the lower class, but I am still a decent person because I have dedicated this massive post, in its entirety to speaking up for them.

Back to barf:

Cleaning puke? More like inducing it. That's the only thought that could possibly simmer in my brain while he told me about that.

I, personally, have never had to clean puke, and I don't think that I have ever even seen puke in a public place. I would imagine that every time I came close to dealing with some sort of bodily fluid, I avoided it at all costs. Even when I was to blame for the mess, I never had to deal with it. Once, I spat out an enormous amount of juice onto my hardwood floor. I didn't flinch because I knew that it wasn't my place to deal with it. My mother and grandmother very quickly began mopping up my mess, while I just sat back. In fact, the only request they put forth was for me lift my feet, so that they could get under them. So, can I sympathize with Sugars? No, but I can only theorize that the experience must have been putrid.

Have you ever heard the expression "It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it"? Of course you have. But I would advocate that an extension be added onto that idiom, which would make it read "It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it, and that's exactly why they should be paid a lot." I know that it doesn't have the same ring to it, but I do believe that it sounds a fair bit more rational and coherent.

Once Sugars had completed his vomit story, he started a new one - one about feces. Now, I'd like to explain to you that the manner in which Sugars told these stories made them sound as if they were perfectly common and acceptable in nature, which they obviously weren't in my socio-economic situation. He simply listed them off as if they were ingredients on a shopping list. He would say "One time, I had to..., and then another time, I had to..." I found it mesmerizing.

So yes, let me tell you about how someone smeared their poop all over a stall in the McDonald's bathroom, and left it to Sugars to clean. Wait, no, let me not tell you because it really is a graphic tale. Instead, let me tell you this: The rich corporate bureaucrats of McDonald's are surely uninterested and unenthusiastic at the prospect of cleaning shit, so why not pay more? Being the smarty I am, I'll answer the question I just posed: Because the proletariat is uneducated and doesn't bother creating uproar at the tasks they are being asked to complete. The worker, in this case sweet Sugars, speaks about his job as something completely reasonable to be doing for minimum wage. That's just how his circumstances have raised him. Ridiculous.

OK, so at one point, he does coyly and blushingly acknowledge that he performs these menial tasks for minimum wage, but it doesn't faze him. Alright, perhaps it does faze him, but he's learned to swallow his pride, and every other negative feeling that I imagine would be insinuated by cleaning vomit - and that is exactly what the big guys want.

If I was asked to clean turd off a wall, I would utilize my noodle-arms to knock a person out. I wouldn't take it. Imagine me as a McDonald's employee: what a failure that would be. Now imagine all the employees of McDonald's being like me: Well, that's the end of the golden arches.

But now turn your attention to the men with small penises in the big velvet chairs: ask them what the price for their manicured hands to be adequately submerged into their customers' bodily fluids is. I can guarantee you that if the answer isn't "priceless", it's a number pretty close to there. How strange is that?

Sugars gleams at the notion of making 20$/hour working as a manual labourer for the VSB, and I feel immense sadness and pity for him because I already make more than that as an English/debate/political tutor to the children of the elite. But what can I do? Nothing, my words fall on deaf ears, and bring no change. Because people don't like change.

See, if the status quo isn't seeing Sugars starving, then Sugars doesn't see a reason to rebel. In fact, I'd argue that, even if Sugars began to trudge through difficulties, he'd keep quiet, or coyly and blushingly speak. And that is meaningless. It's happened all throughout history - nobody rebels until they're on the brink.

But, it's different here: What has really happened is that the whole invisible system has made Sugars a-okay with hardship. For him, it's just a part of normal existence. Some willingness to rage against the machine has, inexplicably, been broken inside. Maybe it's due to the lack of education, maybe it's because of his allowances growing up, and maybe it's just because he doesn't feel bothered enough to revolt. I can't speak to that, but neither can he because he isn't sure himself.

His revolts are limited to smoking weed in some parks and going out late at night to do stupid things. For him, those stupid things are small doses of opium that make him feel as if he's made his voice heard - the graffiti, the weed, and everything in between. And they're all pointless. But that's the niche that society has asked Sugars to fulfill and he, as the predominantly obedient citizen he is, has performed his task. And maybe he has done so because society has punished him for the trivialities like his marijuana and graffiti and told him that, because he was naughty, he should pay by cleaning shit. And there's the painful double standard because when however few wolves of Wall Street destroyed the lives of however many regular people, they were rewarded with a bailout.

Something makes it hopeless here in Vancouver and I don't know what it is. You would think that, because we have so many hipsters, because we're right on the west coast, and because we're stereo-typed as "so progressive", we'd be immune to the class divide, but we aren't. In fact we're so far from it that, when I take the bus home from my music class, and exit the uneasy East and enter the cushy West, I pass a large neon sign that reads "Let's heal the divide". That horrid divide that makes some completely comfortable with cleaning shit, and others incapable of imagining shit. I don't think that the citizens of any other country in the world would tolerate having the poorest postal code in their country be bordered by the richest, as is the case here. Yet somehow, in some highly potent way, the wretchedly poor do not exit their postal code to disturb the rich, and they don't feel the need to say anything against the situation because they're accustomed to it.

It seems to me that, in the West (and this time I mean the developed nations of the world, not just the West-side of Vancouver), minimum wage jobs are the equivalents of mandatory military service. And, of course, only the lower class needs to serve in this system of living. I know, from stories, that, when my father was serving his military service in his country, he did have to do vomit-inducing jobs, like cleaning poo. But the difference lies in one subtlety: Sugars is cleaning poo for the benefit of the rich, my father was cleaning poo for the benefit of the entire nation - all classes included.

In summation, Sugars is a great kid, who I praised excessively because he deserved it. My music school is wonderful on so many levels. And most importantly, the proletariat in the West has become so heavily broken and burdened by the opulent beasts of capitalism that drastic measures are in line.

When and if I live to see the revolution, I'd like to use this post as proof of my loyalty. Thanks.

A Shiny Apple

Well, here's the big news... again: I've been accepted to university! And, now this big news is accompanied by a big post!

I'll give you a few seconds to thank the lord for answering your prayers, and another few to applaud me adequately.

Have you applauded? Let me brag:

I had gone to Hawaii for my spring break.I was going to absorb the sun, salt and surf for 12 days without the slightest care. Everything was going to be perfect. I also was aware that I would be missing the first week of school; a notion which made my trip even more pleasurable! How lovely it would all be!

Aren't I a talented photographer?

The day of my flight, I began packing my summer clothes. A text message wishing me a safe flight inadvertently caused my mind to spiral brashly to the dark side. My "dark side", I mean serious matters. I recalled that, while on vacation, I would have one rather large cloud looming over top of me - the university cloud. This cloud had the potential to grow so big that it would block out the beautiful Hawaiian sun.That cloud, however, would only grow so big if I let it do so. I vowed to not think about it while on vacation. After all, the chances of me being accepted seemed so remarkably infinitesimal that wondering about and checking up on my application status seemed futile. 

I arrived in Hawaii. The first few days were hazy, yet the sun was still apparently dangerous. I learnt that lesson the hard way after being subject to a burn after falling asleep on the beach on the first day.

Laugh at me; laugh at my pathetic skin.

A few days passed in the fashion that I had hoped for them to: with no attention paid to university matters. Everything went well until the morning of the 26th of March, which saw my tired eyes waking up to the eye-blistering shine of the sun. (For the record, I don't, in the slightest, mind being awoken by bright sun. I see so little of it in Vancouver that it has become something of rare treat.)

As I woke up, something, presumably a higher force, prompted me to think about the dreaded subject. I was petrified and disappointed at the same time. Part of me was jolted and scared to know that the results had probably come out, and the other part was upset that I had allowed such vile things to make their filthy way into my mind. Of course, I wouldn't check the results. That would not only defy the terms of the treaty that I had made with myself, but bad news would also easily spoil my vacation.

I decided to take my mind off the evil, which had crept into my brain, by going to my email. Here, I was keeping in touch with some friends. I would read happier messages, and focus on the trivialities that we were all discussing. But it was inevitable. 

I logged on and saw a few unread messages. The first was attributed to Violetta, who was spending her spring in the motherland, Russia, and more precisely, Siberia. I clicked on the message and began formulating witty responses to her statements about the below zero temperatures. After I had written a sufficient amount of cleverness, I sent the message and returned to my inbox. I had two other messages from my peers. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind that the messages could have something to do about university. I was quite sure that they were going to be either updates on the weather back in Vancouver, or grievances about the lack of hot girls to date. Both of those subjects would have been perfectly satisfactory. In fact, any topic other than post-secondary would have been fulfilling. I would've been happy to read a detailed breakdown of my friend's fungal infection in his esophagus (does that even exist? I'm being hypothetical), if it meant that I didn't have to hear about university.

I clicked on the first message and it said "yo dudeeeee!!! check your ubc app stat... shit's been updated. i got in!!!!!" 

The terror! The horror! The gut-wrenching pain! There it was! Oh no. University updates were stalking me! I immediately pitied myself for being the object of God's fury. I was being coerced into checking the bad news, and watching my vacation disintegrate.

If I were to check the news, I'd surely have to share it with my parents and sister. They'd be tremendously saddened to know that I'd be bumming around next year. My sister would be devastated that I didn't manage to do something so important in her mind. She'd cry for the simple fact that I would be destined for certain failure. My parents would have the luxury of giving me a speech on how nothing can happen without hard work, and how now I'm going to have to work at McDonald's for the rest of my life. My parents would have the luxury of being right; how annoying! I just couldn't check it. I was now well aware that the rest of my vacation would be plagued by the knowledge that an admissions decision had been brought, but it was a sacrifice I had to make so that the rest of my family could enjoy their time. What's more? Imagine how painful and potentially embarrassing it would be to reply to my newly-admitted friend that I wasn't in the same boat as him. 

I wasn't going to check.

So, I returned to the inbox, disregarding my friend's message, and clicked on the final message.

At this point it was just a cruel joke. How was it possible that both of my friends had written the same email? OK, it wasn't the exact same. This friend just directed me to check the "app stat"; he didn't tell me whether or not he had been accepted. I felt like I was in one of those bad dreams, where you try to escape from something, but it just keeps finding you. I quickly closed my primary inbox. That action sent me to my "promotions" inbox. This inbox's purpose is to basically collect spam-like stuff. Now do you see how desperate I was? I was willing to read spam.

And then, a bright light!

In my promotions inbox, I saw a message from UBC. At first, I thought it was an email of rejection, but it didn't seem like it. I anxiously clicked it, and saw a message addressed to me. This is what it said: 

"Hello Natasa,

Are you considering your offer of admission to UBC Vancouver's Faculty of Arts? Are you already preparing for your first year on campus?"

My heart stopped. I reread the words and began scrambling. It felt like I had been accepted. (As I reflect now, I see how nervous I truly was since the message clearly indicates that I had been accepted.) I analyzed the words. "Offer of admission" and "preparing for your first year on campus" all sounded extremely promising. Could it be that, by the miraculous stroke of God, I was accepted?

I told myself that it was obvious that I couldn't run away from the app stat any longer. I had to check. So I went to the login page. I typed in my username and password extremely cautiously; I naturally didn't want to be delayed in seeing my decision by mistyping my login information - that would kill me. I wrote everything, and my fingers shook with fear as I attempted to click the button that would lead me to see if I had effectively bought myself 4 extra years of slacking. The feeling within me was caustic. I felt my skin get paler despite being blackened by the sun. I felt myself getting colder despite being in 30 degree weather. And, I felt that awful feeling in my torso. As if my entire body was engulfing itself; as if I was inverting all 178cm of skin and bone into one singular morsel of flesh. Ineffably horrible, to say the least.

But I gathered up the nerve by telling myself that I was acting like a little bitch. I didn't like being called a pussy by anyone, especially myself. In that moment, I calmed myself. My own derogatory comments towards myself instilled peace into me. I felt tranquil. I told myself that, even if I didn't get into university, it was all going to be OK. After all, for the majority of my life, I have been telling myself that things are going to work themselves out and that everything is going to be OK. Some of my friends weren't going to university; there were other things that you could do. Everything was going to be just fine. With that momentary serenity, I clicked the button, and patiently looked through the flurry of words on the page. There were some stupid notices about sending documents to the school, and whatnot. After getting through those, I came to see the title "Choice #1 - Bachelor of Arts - Vancouver". I looked below it, and I saw the "Congratulations! You have been admitted!" And that's all I needed. 

I didn't bother reading whatever else it said below; I had what I my decision and it was glorious. Unfortunately, because I had become practically vegetative prior to clicking the button, I wasn't too excited. I wasn't jumping with joy or anything else of that sort to celebrate. I just faintly smiled to myself, and looked around the empty hotel room. I looked out the balcony and told myself to take in the view because this was a special day that I would likely want to reminisce on frequently in the future. After that, I thanked God. Though I'm not religious, I always feel inclined to thank the man upstairs when something good happens. I'm not sure why. It's as if I become religious in great moments, and likewise, in terrible moments. I question the universe when bad things are happening, and praise it when the scenario is opposite. 

I began thinking about what my next line of action should be. Who should I tell? Should I tell anyone? 

My mom and sister were out, my dad was sleeping, and everything was quiet. I contemplated not saying anything, waiting until we got back to Vancouver, and then treating everyone to a nice dinner, where I would make the announcement. But I probably couldn't retain such divine information for so long. I decided that my little sister, who had been enduring and protective of me, and who had been my only believer in this struggle against post-secondary, was the most deserving. I knew that the news would make her the happiest.

When my mom and sister arrived, they did something un-noteworthy. My mom left again. She had forgotten to buy something, I presume. My sister was on her bed, and she made her customary way to mine. She wanted to chat about her fun times with mom. After she finished, I decided to share the news. I clicked the screenshot album on my phone and set everything up to show her. I wasn't sure how or when I was going to break the news to my parents yet, so I said "Mila, I have secret." and she laughed. Since I said this smiling, and due to my inability to be serious, she automatically presumed I was setting up for a joke. She played along and said "OK." I said, still smiling, "No, I'm serious. You have to promise to not tell mom or dad because it's a big secret." She, being a good sport, played along even more and said "OK, I promise." So, I turned the phone to her, and watched her skin turn pale, as mine had. Contrary to me, she wasn't at peace. Her eyes scrambled frantically, more frantically than I had ever seen. She was completely frantic; her wits were not about her.

She had seen the title UBC, and knew that she was looking at an admissions decision, but she just couldn't locate it on the page because of the chaos that was enthralling her. So, I put her out of her misery and said "I got accepted! It's good!" And then the waterworks. She sobbed of joy and hugged me while saying "I knew you could do it! Mom and dad were so mean to you and they didn't think you could, but I knew you could!"

All true words. 

When we heard the door knob shaking, we knew that mom was in the vicinity. I quickly notified my sister and commanded her to stop crying so that mom wouldn't think anything was up. She did. When my mom walked in, she noticed the remnants of tears on my sister's face and inquired as to what was happening. Generally, my sister crying led to me getting scolded for being mean to her. I assured my mom that it was all good stuff. And then broke the news to her. She shook my hand and congratulated me.

It wasn't the way that I wanted to tell her, but hey, that's not the point. She then passed on the news to my dad when he woke up, while I wrote Violetta an email telling her to check her app stat. Smiles all around. 

I probably would've listened to Declan McKenna's song Brazil for a few hours, after midnight on the beach while watching the stars twinkle, had I not been admitted, but this wasn't necessary now. As a side note: I just realized that Declan McKenna is my age. Weird.

I went to the beach and recalled the start of the year when my counselor, a chronically annoyed and tired woman, indirectly told me that I had no chance of being admitted to a respectable institution, like UBC, and that I should resultantly have, and hope for, a "back-up plan". This back up plan that she suggested was to go to community college. I guess I don't blame her for saying that because my grades are shit. But, I remembered her telling me that and I felt very proud. I felt like I had proven everyone wrong. Most teachers probably felt the same way about me, but weren't brave enough to tell me. I really think my writing was what set me apart, and I blame the teachers for not recognizing that. Moreover, I blame the teachers for fostering the most sick environment in our school, and consistently telling all of us that getting into university was so tremendously difficult that it was rather pointless to dream of admission. They should've been more realistic and supportive. After all, our school is the best public school in the province; if we don't have a chance, no one does.

Violetta replied to me later in the day, informing me that she had been accepted to UBC, but not the one in Vancouver. She got into her second choice program, which was UBC Arts in the Okanagan. She isn't interested in going to live in Kelowna, so chances are that she'll be staying in Vancouver, going to SFU, and that we'll be together for the next four years!

When I returned to Vancouver, university talk was hot. Everyone was discussing where everyone else was going. I was pleased to hear that most of my friends, who I had initially thought were going to leave for university, were actually staying at home! I still have one friend who I am trying to keep close by, so we'll see how that goes.

Things just kept getting better, honestly, and I feel like, too often, I use this blog as a medium for venting my dissatisfaction with the state of things. I think that it's only fair to also give praise where it's due. Things have been really grand, and I don't have too much to criticize - not that that's a bad thing. In fact, things become even rosier.

At school, I attended the awards assembly. I truly didn't expect an award, since I have never received one in my life. Lo and behold - Friday of my first week of school was my lucky day! As I sat through the grueling assembly where the same is repeated so many times, I made jokes to my friends about getting the awards myself. I joked that I had actually won every award presented, but that they didn't want to make the other kids feel bad, so they couldn't present them to me. My friends laughed.

As the teachers called up kid by kid, award by award, my name wasn't being called. I had rather tuned out because I was well aware that none of the information would be pertinent to me. The final award was announced - The Renaissance Award. I would like to tell you the exact definition of what this award embodies, but, like I said, I was tuned out, so I didn't hear what the principal defined it as. I'm sure you can figure it out, though. If a Renaissance Man is "a person with many talents or areas of knowledge.", then the Renaissance award is probably for that. By some strange fate, my name was called for the award. I was so tuned out that I wasn't sure if it was my name that I had heard. Then I noticed the principal making eye-contact with me, and I was elated. I turned to Violetta, with my eyes-wide and said "Oh my god!"

The other recipients of the previous awards hadn't been remotely as surprised, nor content, with their respective awards. They were all gracious. They calmly walked down the steps of the bleachers, calmly crossed the stage, and calmly shook hands with our principal. What can I say? I'm just not elegant.

I stumbled my way out of the bleachers, nearly breaking a boy's kneecaps in the process. I walked half-way down the stairs with the biggest grin on my face, and then I remembered something! This moment needed to be immortalized with a photo, so I turned back to Violetta and yelled "take a picture" while mimicking a camera with my hands. At this, the entire school laughed, and continued watching my triumphant march to the stage. Once I got to the stage, I decided to let all of my emotions pour out, so I jumped as high as I could, like this:

Thanks for the inspiration, Jo-Wilfried

Once I landed, I stuck my hand out to shake the principal's, but my principal had noticed that he had just stumbled upon someone who was especially happy with their award, and he knew that a handshake would not suffice. So, he spread his arms out as wide as he could, and offered me a hug which I gladly accepted. I almost pushed him over in my hug, but I was ecstatic and therefore unfazed by that. I took the award and the whole school cheered me on. I exclaimed "Wicked-Cool, man!" and kept smiling as I examined the award. One girl in the crowd said "look at her! She's so happy!" and I kept smiling. I really was over the moon. I stood there and posed for Violetta to take a picture. Once I was allowed to return to my seat, a friend in the front row of the bleachers extended his arm for me to high-five, many kids followed his initiative and stuck their own hands out as I made my joyous way back to my seat. There, many hands of friends went up and I high-fived everyone else. I was on top of the world. One of the boys that was offering me congratulations laughingly said "Congratulations, man! I'm so happy for you that I don't even notice the pain in my knees that you broke on your way down." I said "Oh! Haha! Sorry!" and he expressed that it was fine and that he was just kidding.

I called my mom right after the assembly to tell her the great news.

I'd like to make this noted: if I had not been admitted to university, and told my mom about receiving the award, its value would've been severely undermined, and ignored. But, since it came post-acceptance, it was greeted with open arms and happy smiles, which led me to be treated to a pleasant dinner at a cool local restaurant.

I'd like to think that I am unfazed by her and everyone else's disbelief with my acceptance, but it does naturally sting a little bit.

I do, however, really appreciate all the supportive people. How sweet of them!

There were two other really great things that happened to me recently. I'll tell you about them, and then I'll let you go. I understand that this has already gotten a little long.

At my dad's work, every few Fridays, one of his colleagues has to provide snacks for the team. This Friday happened to be my dad's turn. He asked me to make my Macarons, which I have already posted about. You can look at them here. So I gladly did. His team members loved them so much that they said "Opening a shop that serves these macarons would be equivalent to receiving a license to print money."

A license to print money. Let's let that reverberate. Oh I was so proud that they were so popular and so quickly devoured!

The second thing lies in a slightly different place - French class. In my French class, the student teacher decided to make language learning more interesting by creating a sort of "Amazing Race". We were asked to scavenge around the school and pick up clues. My partner and I got first place. Can I get a what-what?

I write about this all because I rarely have such good things like this happened! I don't know if it's just my perception that has changed, but I really hope the good times keep rolling here. So, thanks for lending an ear. It's been really wicked-cool, man.

Thus far, I only have two things I need to get sorted out. The first thing is my friend. I need to set her straight. She is still waiting to be accepted by UBC, because she has been "wait-listed". Whether or not she will get accepted, I don't know. All I know is that I already have been, and it was because I wrote a damn fine personal profile.

The second thing is the blog quote. As some of you desktop users will know, I have a quote right under my header. I change the quote infrequently. Right now, the quote is a line from Augustines song "Chapel Song" . It reads "I'm a bowl of bruised fruit/ Inside a chapel of shiny apples."

When I posted the quote, I felt bad about my chances of being accepted. I figured that everybody else at my school would be admitted, and I'd be the odd one out. Well, I can now quite proudly say that I am not the bowl of bruised fruit - I'm a shiny apple.

Look at me gleam!

I know, it's strange. Everyone at school sees me as a hippy. They thought, as did I, that my admissions decision would be completely irrelevant to me. But I think that I was just thinking that way because I was trying to comfort my notion of not being accepted. I didn't know how much it would mean to have something as simple as a piece of paper that says "Congratulations!" It's really fabulous. And, if I ever have kids like me, who think that they are careless hippies who couldn't care less about anything, I'm going to direct them to this post. Those bitches don't even know what they're in for. That being said, I do have a few friends who aren't going to university and I solidly believe that they're going to do spectacular. Of course university isn't the only path. I'm probably going to hate prolonging school for myself; maybe work would've been the right course for me. But, at least I now have the chance to test it out. University's purpose, as per the ancient Greeks, was to achieve a higher learning, not necessarily to become employable afterwards. I want a higher education, and the experience - employ-ability would be a nice bonus, though.

Hollerado may have been right when they sang about having to lose love to find it, and I had always believed that I would have to lose school to find it, if that makes sense. What I mean is that I always thought that I wouldn't be accepted at first, and then I'd have to go back, retrace my steps, find the wrong turn and correct it. But, I don't. Because, well, as much as I trust Hollerado, going to school isn't the same as finding love. ;) I know you're probably a little tired-out by all of the hipster music references, but I'm going to keep going because I'm a winner!

My last few years have played out somewhat like the chord progression in the song "Hearts Like Ours" by The Naked and Famous. Everything starts out with the makings of a sad song, but then it grows and it builds into something grand quite unexpectedly and it makes you feel triumphant. And that's the word: Triumphant! I slayed the beast of university. Yeah, man, I did. Take that! It's definitely not as big a deal as I'm making it sound out to be, but then again, it's all a matter of perception. To someone with stellar work-habits, UBC may seem like a natural next step, but to someone like me, well, gosh, it's pretty dandy.

Like my mom said, this miracle is just a second chance. I spent 13 years of high school slacking. I now have 4 more offered to me, let's all hope I slack significantly less.

And let's clear one more thing. This is important... actually. If you read my blog religiously, as I suspect most of you do, you will recall this post I wrote at the start of the year. It's all about the hopelessness I feel with regard to university admission, and how difficult it is to get accepted. It's pretty depressing. I talk about how a person is just a number to a university admissions committee, and how that basically dooms fellows in my generation to failure. I guess I lied. Why? Because UBC saw something in me, and I can guarantee that it wasn't a number.

So, it's been just wonderful. Apart from today, that is. Today I ordered oysters at The Fish Shack in Vancouver, and I got food poisoned. It's terrible. It's so bad that it's difficult to hold back the vomit from spilling onto the keyboard while I type this. Yeah, pretty gross. But I won't dwell on that, instead I'll give you another pretty picture to look at:

I know there's a lot of rock.

So yeah, I guess it's fair to say that my break was better than yours. I had a great time. It happened to be a great time filled with great news. It's like a cannelloni where the filling and the shell are yummy. Or, like a girl that is pretty and also interesting to talk to. The spring break that I feared more than any other proved to be the one that I adore the most. It was amazing.

And it came with amazing scenery too!

By the end of the vacation, my back had morphed from a terrifying shade of red to a tastefully beautiful shade of bronzey-brown. I had re-built some of the muscles I had lost since I stopped swimming. My family wasn't in shambles. And, I had been admitted to university. "Paris, je t'aime!"? I don't think so. Try "Hawai'i, aloha au la 'oe!" That's music to my ears.

Fuck Disneyland. Hawaii is the Happiest Place on Earth!