Is This Bad?

I am the debate club president at my school. It's a good role. I love debating, and I love sharing my knowledge of debating with my peers. I'm so happy with it.

Part of my role as the debate club president is to recruit people into the club. This is especially important at the start of the year. Naturally, you want a big club at the start. You want to get your club as exposed as possible. This bigger group of participants translates directly to a larger pool of selection for things like tournaments. Moreover, since every club dwindles down throughout the course of the year, starting with a bigger group leaves you ample space for the inevitable dwindling. The final perk of a big club is of course the funding. As a club, you can request funding. Now, the principal isn't going to fund a club that consists of you and your 3 best friends. He will, however, fund a club of 20 or 30 students. So, when you are president of a club you want to get as many people as you possibly can into your club. Not only for the reasons already listed, but also because it makes you look good as a president. People, and universities, are impressed if you manage to get a substantial group interested in your initiative.

Hopefully you now understand the reasoning behind working up a mega-club. 

Now let's talk about my dilemma:

I have about 5 friends at school, but I have an abundance of acquaintances. Thanks in part to the fact that I am very audible in the halls, and in part to the fact that I am Caucasian in a sea of Asians, a lot of people know me. Thanks to debate, I have become very talented in marketing. I can, almost literally, make the floorboards sound interesting. So, I am good at this recruitment thing. But here's the thing; It sucks to see people sitting in your club with bored faces. I hate looking out onto the people in the club and seeing them on the verge of slitting their wrists. That is part of why recruitment is slightly bad. A lot of people join the club because I tell them to. Once the recognize that it is surely not their cup of tea, they feel too obliged to me to quit. It's not fun for anyone. So, I have let recruitment be more organic. I bring up debate in conversation, but I don't so blatantly advertise my love for it anymore.

Anyways, I little while ago, I was telling my friend something about debate. I had just completed an uproarious speech in my history class. I was posing to be Clemenceau at the Paris Peace Conference. I gave a speech explaining why Germany should virtually be eradicated as a nation, but I spoke with my usual conviction and passion, and I used my excellent vocabulary. During my speech I was heckled by the boy who was posing the German government. I got the highest mark in the class on this assignment. After this achievement, As I did this, it caught the ear of the boy representing Germany, and sitting close to us. He's a nice guy. He inquired about debate and I explained it to him as best as I could. Somewhere in between I mentioned that I was president. He then boldly proclaimed that he would be attending our next meeting. His tone appeared sarcastic to me, so I didn't expect anything from him. 

Furthermore, and this would make more sense to you if you knew him, he is not the type for debate. He isn't interested in politics. He likes, and this is in his own words "babes and planes". So, I didn't expect him to show up. But then, on Wednesday, he came up to me and said "so, are you going to debate?" I said "yes." And he said "which room is it in?"

I told him. 

I still wasn't certain that he would be coming, though I was pleasantly surprised that he had remembered that Wednesday was debate day. I went to my locker to leave my school things and grab my debate things, and started making my way to debate. As I approached I was having a betting match with myself; guessing whether or not he was there. Much to my dismay, he wasn't there when I got into the room. But I was just blind. He was nestled on the couch on the corner, and stood up quickly when I walked in. I was again pleasantly surprised, even more so. It was nice of him to come, but I was well aware of what would go on for the duration of the club meeting. He would play on his phone for the entirety of the meeting and then walk me home, and politely explain that he loved the club, but that, for some strange reason, he will never be able to attend it ever again. Yes, a sad reality I face.

But I couldn't have been more wrong.

When I provided the topic for debate, I asked who wanted to debate today. A few regulars raised their hands. Kids never volunteer to debate in front of the rest of the club unless they are very experienced and very well-acquainted with debate. Then, out of the blue, he pulled one of his headphones out of his ear and gave me a look which seemed to request a repetition of the question. So, I did. Almost instinctively, he raised his hand. He wanted to debate. This had never happened before. The boy had zero debate experience, and he was aware that the people he was looking to compete against were quite a bit more versed in debate than he was. It didn't deter him. He wanted to debate.

After the preparation period of 15 minutes, he spoke. It was such a valiant effort. More importantly, he made everyone laugh more than is possible in debate. His funky, wonky style won everyone over. This led to the vice president referring to him as a "God". It was quite incredible, actually.

Afterwards, we walked home and I congratulated him on his great speech. He took it modestly. That was that. I didn't expect to see him back in debate club. He had come, he had done his part, and he had made me happy by attending the club. I expressed to him that he shouldn't feel obliged to continue, and that I would take no offense to him to showing up again. It was all fine.

The next week rolled around. I had to leave early on Tuesday, so I didn't walk with him or my best friend, Violetta. Almost ideally though, Violetta, the boy, and his best friend walked home together, instead. Violetta's younger brother and the boy's best friend are on the soccer team. So, Violetta asked the boy if he was going to come and watch the game the following day. According to Violetta, he began to say yes, but then stopped himself and said "I can't. Tomorrow's Wednesday. I have debate with Nat." This statement made Violetta laugh, and I don't blame her because it must have sounded completely absurd coming from him. After she realized that he was indeed serious, she asked "So, do you just follow Nat around? Like, do you just go wherever she does?" And to this, he replied "She makes everything fun!"

Let's be real. I'm a riot, but I'm not so incredibly cool that guys are willing to abandon things like sports to hang out with me and the nerds in the politically engaging debate club. I'm just not. I know my limitations, as much as I wish that I could say I had none. So, he was probably going, you know, because he thinks that, well, I got me a darn purdy face.

Yeah.

(He will eventually go on to describe me as "smoking hot", so this isn't just my delusional fantasy.)

That Wednesday, as we were sitting in class, Violetta asked if he was going to debate. He said that there was no point in going if I wasn't going. Well, that confirmed my suspicions. And that is what makes me upset and causes me some sort of dilemma.

Should I be happy that he is coming to debate, regardless of his motives for doing so?

This situation has happened a few times now. It happened last year and the year before that and before that. One year, a particularly brave boy came up to me during his first debate club practice and said "I''m only here for you." 

I am rarely upset by it. The way I look at it, it's just an extra member on paper and an extra hope for funding. But I feel like looking at it that way is terribly calculated. I believe that I should feel insulted or upset with the knowing that these boys are only participating in debate to have a chance with me, or something like that. Sure, one part of me wishes that their desires in debate club consisted of more than just getting closer to me, but then the other recognizes that them getting close to me is a my decision alone. They will only get as close as I let them get, so who cares what their motives are?

This guy speaks in an engaging way; he should be in debate club to exercise his skills, not to wink at me. 

Look, I'm not trying to sound pretentious. This post is not meant to be my version of "gosh, being, like, pretty is, like, so, like, difficult." Being pretty is not difficult. I get a lot of perks from it. I'm actually super stoked that my situation is the way it is. It's dank. I wrote this post simply to see if I should feel like that. I basically want to use this to see how unmoral and unethical my view is. Is it really as bad as I think it is?

Back to School. Mortified.

Here you are: My longest post to date! A whopping total of 7133 words.

I just looked at a thesaurus. I was looking for a synonym to the word "petrified". I'm tired of using "petrified" and "very scared". I want to use something fresh to ring in the new school year. More importantly, I wanted to use something stronger; something emotionally evocative and potent. I've stumbled upon "mortified"! Yes, that works! How exciting!

In just a few very short, very sweet, very speedy hours the first full week of school will begin. September 14th will mark the beginning of of my end. By "end", I mean both demise and literal end. In layman's terms, it will be the mortifying start of grade 12, the mortifying crescendo of high school, the abrupt opening of the doors of adulthood, the real world and all its responsibilities. This is the unpackaging of me from the bubble wrap emballage (wrapping material) I have spent my life thus far in.

Subconsciously, this is the matter which pierces and paralyzes me with fear in the depths of my heart. Superficially, it is the applications and rejections that cause me the most preemptive grief. The notion that I will now have to advertise myself like a cereal box to the very qualified folks at admissions boards around the world is tear-inducing. I have always had trouble and reluctance at directing glassy eyes to stare at me. Coming from an avid debater, this might sound strange, especially when you consider my "line of work". So much of debating consists off of adequately displaying your strengths. Actually, the communist inside of me hates it. Scratch that, it's not the communist - it's the lazy, parasitic turd that is well aware of her own shortcomings and lack of advertising material. Naturally, this scares me; no, mortifies me, because I know that this ability to advertise is the sole solution and glimmer of hope I must cling on to. That is what my years of "living life" have reduced me to - a blank cereal box.

As a cereal box, I have no brand name on my label. In fact, you've probably even heard rumors about my icky taste. If not, then all you have to do is flip to the back of the box, find the ingredients list, and see that I am full of shit. Unlike my competitors, I have no brand name, no pretty advertising, and most of all, I have no nutritional value. Of course you aren't going to serve me as breakfast to your kids.The fact is that, in my generation, there seems to be more and more good-looking cereal boxes. I look increasingly dull; you might not even notice me. If you do, you'll either put me down, or even chuckle at how sad and tragic my appearance looks amidst all those shiny boxes. You will have rejected me.

Again, who could ever blame you? Why would you pick a lack-luster box, which contains sub-par ingredients? 

Just why?

Next to me, we have boxes that have won countless award; boxes' whose manufacturers have worked tirelessly at making them special in some way. So yes, it is obvious that you would reject me. And get this: I don't blame you. I wouldn't pick me either.

Rejection is tough. It's not something that I am accustomed to.

And this is the case that plagues so many universities. This surplus of impressive students. This overproduction that means that even some of the good ones won't get in. There just isn't enough room. So, where does this reality leave the decent, average Joes (i.e. me) at? It leaves us with a broken heart and a letter of rejection. Some can shrug it off, find a silver lining, be an optimist, and so on. Others, well, others just can't. They start meticulously looking back  at where it all went wrong. Regrets flood their mind, they fret, they enrage themselves and they get whisked away to the darkest pits of melancholia. The saddest part of it all is that all that retracing, all that regret, fret, anger and depression amounts to nothing. It doesn't get you accepted; it doesn't change anything but your own mental state. It's that terrible feeling where you don't see a purpose in something negative, but you do it regardless. And that further perpetuates sadness. Now, you're sad that you're pointlessly sad, and so on, and so forth. You become pathetic.

It's that rejection that mortifies me superficially. I know, I should've kicked it into overdrive a few years ago, when my mother pleaded me to do so with tears in her eyes. Out of plain laziness, pure indifference, or rabid spite, I did not. I assured myself that I was better than the rest; that I stood out and that any university worth its salt would see that. I failed to recognize that I was a sum, a number. My SAT score, plus my school grades, plus my awards, equals me. However unfortunate, it's true. We can debate that these factors do not determine success, we can raise ethical concerns about the process, we can take the stance that a person is more than just the sum of their parts. We can do all that, but it won't change anything. 

Maybe, I'm just really lame. Maybe I'm not special.

For a prestigious school like, say, Harvard to shuffle through 37307 applicants each year with a highly personal approach would be impractical, inefficient, and really stupid. They have a limited time. Time is a commodity. Time is money. And so they have better things to do with that time.

Back to cereal:

Why spend hours at the cereal aisle in the supermarket contemplating the intricacies of brand A and brand B, when you could just grab the first good one, and be on your merry way?

If you've ever heard the song Changes by the small-time band Stars (Before you click the link note that the video features a naked woman dancing. She has boobs, a perfectly shaved vagina and a strange Splice-like tail. They are all visible, so if that mortifies your Puritan mind, just skip the video and check out the lyrics instead.), you may be able to recall some pertinent lines: "Changes, I've never been good with change/ I hate it when it all stays the same/ Caught between the cold and the wave/ My heart beats up again"

That's the predicament I'm in.

My whole life, I've looked forward eagerly to the graduation of high school. (Always pictured myself as valedictorian, by the way). Now that it is so close and I'm supposed to start making accommodations for the path past my secondary institution, I'm getting cold feet. I want the change; leaving high school is what I crave. I would hate it if it stayed the same, but I'm mortified of change. This is deep down, of course. Because superficially, I'm not afraid of making that blind leap, I'm afraid of not being given the opportunity to do so (i.e. not being accepted to university). Sure, I think well, and my grades are OK. I have a lot of extra-curricular activities on my not-really-existent resume. I even have a few awards under my belt. But I lack one fundamental thing: work ethic.

I'm like Greece, on a small scale, and without all the debt. I think that I don't have to do anything, but that I can still live lavishly.

I know a boy who just started school at Berkeley. According to Facebook, he's studying political science. I remember taking the bus with him to school many mornings in elementary. I remember taking the bus home with him many afternoons in high school, in my grade 8 year. I look back, and I think of him. I reflect on how we have both grown and how our paths have diverged. In hindsight there were probably subtle signs that made that diversion foreseeable. I'll give some examples: In elementary, he knew a lot relative to the rest of our class. Our class was even a class specifically for kids with high I.Q.s. To stand out academically there? Well, it's no small feat. Most vividly, I recall how, during a class research trip to the library, as I was daydreaming and wasting my time away, he was looking at something in a book. The question of who invented the train drunkenly tumbled into my mind and I set out of a quest to find the answer, and disturb as many people as possible in the process. No one knew as I blurted out the question to people ignorantly. Until I arrived at him. He looked at me seriously and responded "James Watt". I was taken aback at the fact that he actually knew and so I stood there with a dumb face. So, he elaborated: "James Watt invented the Steam Machine."

I shook the feeling and said my clearly brilliant reply of "Cool, thanks."

Then, as I further reflect, I remember him sitting on the bus everyday and reading. He seemed so deeply enthralled in the content on the pages of his fat books. He loved reading. I remember one time when he missed his stop on the bus because he was too into his book. I so envy him. His enjoyment of reading was something I was not born with, but something I so wished I had. In fact, I remember the teacher of our class consistently checking up on him to make sure he was doing his work and not reading for pleasure, instead.

When I left the school that we both attended to go to my new one, I loosely kept in touch with him through Facebook and text message. We didn't talk often, but we were aware of what was going on in each other's lives. After all, that's the purpose of Facebook, right? I would see him post new photos, I would like them, as to acknowledge that I have seen them. I texted him once accidentally. His name was next to the name of another one of my contacts on my phone. I had meant to send that other contact a message about meeting for a project of some sort, but it ended up going to him. He responded, informing me of my mistake. I apologized and figured that I may as well use this mistake to see what he's been up to since my departure from his school. He informed me about how he was soon going to leave for about a year on a trip around the world. The very notion was fascinating to me. Apparently, his father had a sabbatical in Australia, and decided that he should extend it to a full-blown trip. Pretty cool, eh? I suggested some places and that was about that.

I saw his travels on Facebook and I was naturally a little jealous of his year-off. He explained that he was still keeping up with all his schoolwork on the trip, which, in my mind, kind of sucked. If anything, it took away from the premise of travel. Why would you work during such an incredible experience? But I digress.

He came back to Canada in the Spring or Summer, I think. I left a brief comment on a post of his on Facebook, and, apart from a message wishing him a happy birthday in August, it was basically the last I heard from him until the next school year. That's when I had to take my SAT. What mortification.

Since none of my friends could provide any insight unto the daunting SAT, I turned to him. I fired him a quick message, which was less intended to get any information than it was to calm me down. He did calm me, and truly expended quite a bit of time answering all of my questions very adequately. At one point, during a text discussion, I put my Psychology 11/12 class knowledge to use and mentioned id. "Id" is basically the opposite of superego. Here's a quick explanation:

Supposedly, we have two voices in our head that determine our decision making. One is superego, the other is id. Superego is the voice that strives for perfection. It adds up all the things your mind has declared as ideal (i.e. finishing your homework on time, washing the dishes immediately, exercising, not consuming the whole chocolate bar etc.), and encourages you to take actions in accordance with those ideals. Then there is id. If superego is the angel on your shoulder, id is the devil. Id goes for indulgence over moral superiority; id gives into temptations. For every decision you make, both id and superego are at play. They provide their arguments for their respective sides in your mind, and your mind decides which one to listen to. Now, some people usually go with id, others usually go with superego - and it is this statistic that labels you as either more id-driven, or more superego-driven.

Here's the scenario that our teacher gave to us to see if we were more id or superego driven: You have a paper due tomorrow for school. It's your average essay, on your average subject. Your teacher wants it in tomorrow, and if you don't hand it in, she will take off 10% for every day that you're late. Today, your friend calls you. Surprise! S/he has just come over from the adjacent province for a vacation, and will be in your city for 5 days. S/he wants to hang out right now. You were best friends a year ago, but s/he moved and now you only message/Skype each other. You really like your friend, and you obviously want to see him/her, but your paper is due! So, do you put off the paper, and go hang out with your old friend, either accepting the 10% late consequence, or telling yourself you'll get it done in morning? Or, do you tell your friend you'll hang out in few days because you really need to finish this paper, and risk either not making the most of your friend's short time in your city, or having other things come up which would further jeopardize the chances of you seeing each other in the short 5 days?

If you pick the former option, the chances are that you are more id-driven, and if you pick the latter option, the chances are that you are more superego driven.

I would drop everything and head for my friend, but I know that most of my schoolmates would not.

So, I mentioned that I was more id-driven, and for the first time ever, he asked me a question. He asked me what the term meant. He hadn't taken psychology because of a timetable conflict So, I explained it to him almost exactly as I did above, and asked him where he sees himself. He responded that he was probably more superego, and soon thereafter, he pulled a superego move on me. He ended the conversation, telling me that he had some sort of track and field race in the morning, and needed to rest. I smiled a sad smile, not at his statement, but rather at the fact that I knew that I would never be able to make such a statement myself, and said "sleep well".

I distinctly remember my friend once blabbering on and on to me about something completely pointless one night, and me patiently listening and responding until she finished. By the time she finished, it was 2 in the morning. I was similar in stature to a corpse, and my brain felt as if it had undergone shock therapy (i.e. fried and scrambled). Now, that would've been just fine if I didn't need to wake up the next morning; it would be just fine if I had nothing brain-requiring to do the next morning, but I did. I had a huge debate competition to attend - the biggest of the year, in fact. I needed to be rested physically, so that my body could tolerate the travel to the tournament location, the long hours of debating on food with no nutritional value, and the waking up at 6:30 in the morning. But more importantly, I needed to be rested mentally. How do you think of points and draw on information deep in the crevasses of your mind, when your mind feels like a plate of greasy spaghetti? It's excruciating.

The entire time while she was rambling, I was asking myself "how?" How was I going to do tomorrow? I debated how I would wake up, how I would think, how I would avoid passing out. And to every doubt, I provided an answer. The same way I always thought of an excuse for not finishing my homework, the same way I always managed to assure myself that things would work themselves out, I managed to convince myself that the universe had a plan for me, and that, if I failed tomorrow, it would be destiny. I told myself that I would find a way. I would manage, even if that meant fainting once I got home. And I asked myself the most important question: Is it my moral duty to listen to this girl? And the answer was yes. I knew that I wouldn't be nearly as upset to do badly at my tournament, as I would knowing that I was too busy to lend an ear. If anything, I was bringing myself good karma prior to the day.

I went to the competition and did well, as per usual. I scored in the top 8%, I think it was.

I felt like I did the right thing. My id allowed me to hit two birds with one stone. We can argue that I was could've done better had I been well-rested, or that I wouldn't have gotten sick afterwards had I slept, but who cares? But, maybe it wasn't my id, maybe it was just my father's words resonating with me.

But I'll discuss that a little bit later. Let's just talk about a few small points I endured with my Berkeley friend:

After a few years of not seeing each other face to face, a free day at my own school gave me the opportunity to visit to his school. I wasn't going with the intention of seeing him specifically, but I knew it would be nice if I ran into him. I found my best friend first and walked around the school with her. I noticed some of the changes, and greeted some of the familiar faces. I texted the Berkeley Boy (good ring to it, eh?) to find out where he was. He gave me his locker number, and I decided that I would pay him a visit, when I had the chance.

I saw him walking outside during the lunch break, but I was occupied with some old friends, so I couldn't quite meet him. I later saw him walking the halls with a girl, while I was sitting in on my best friend's class. I quickly debated running out of the class and catching up, but I remembered that my best friend had told her teacher that I was a non-English-speaking Serbian girl. Running out and saying "hi", in English, to the Anglo-Saxon Berkeley Boy would be suspicious, to say the least. So, I waited until school was almost over, and made my way to his locker. He was there talking to a friend, and I greeted him with a smile.

The encounter was slightly awkward. In fact, I still feel as if he wasn't even sure that it was me greeting him. He gave a rigid smile and an alienated "hi". I thought that he was going to stop for a second and ask me about how I had been, but he didn't. Instead, he made a confused face and told me that he had something to do. In the spur of the moment, I responded "Oh yeah, me too. I just wanted to say 'hi'. Good to see you!". Naturally, I didn't have anything to do, but I didn't want to come across as chronically available, either.

When I was very little, I vividly recall my father telling me "Natasa, it is the ugliest thing in the world when a person doesn't have time. Always have time for people. Always." To this day, I hold my father's words as true. It's so ugly, for lack of a better word. When I see someone saying "sorry, I gotta go!" in the middle of a conversation, it upsets me. I know that, in reality, it's unfeasible to always have time. We aren't all unemployed, careless, whimsical students like me, but I wish we were. I think that people would be a lot happier. If you ever doubt it's possible, remind yourself of this: my father is a Ph.D, and a big shot at his company, and he is the one that said those words to me. I don't know if I'll make it far in Western society where time is a commodity, but I don't want to be heartless and say no.

This Berkeley Boy ended up travelling Europe for a month, or so, during summer break, before touching down in California. His time was so wondrously allocated. It was as if he was a living spreadsheet. Every moment of his being seemed meticulously dedicated to one thing. He had a time for his academics, a time for his sports, even a time for his fun. His life seemed planned out to a tee. I was slightly envious, of course. Most of my life is spontaneous. A friend calls me and asks me if I'd like to go on vacation for 3 days with her, starting tomorrow. I say yes.

So, of course I would not have turned him away, if he had arrived at my school. I mean, realistically, I would've stopped and chatted with him regardless of the affairs I had planned. Being late to my sports practice, or even missing it altogether, wouldn't render me, or my day, worthless. I would make the time to catch up with him, but I respect his decision nonetheless. He obviously has a different priorities list set out for him.

In my mind, there are very, very, very few things that cannot wait. If you are rushing to the hospital to support your wife in childbirth, I understand telling someone that you can't quite chat right now. The same goes for, say, a very special kind of doctor's appointment (you know the kind that you have to sign up for months in advance?). But the majority of things can. Work can wait, in most cases. So can school. So can practice, and so can dinner. What can't wait, or what takes priority in my mind, is people. But that's just me.

The Berkeley Boy did try to make it up to me, in a between the lines sort of way. I think that this was because he recalled our relationship in grade 8. In grade 8, we used to wait for each other, take the bus, and sometimes even literally go out of our way to hang out. We would sometimes get off ~6 blocks early, just so that we had more time to talk. Occasionally, we would stop at a coffee shop along the way, and enjoy our coffee. It was very chilled out. Sometimes, he'd even bus the entire way to my part of the city. I doubt that he would do that right now, and that's just a life lesson - people change.

Anyways, The Berkeley Boy texted me later that faithful day I visited the school with a piece of information. He let me know that he and his friends were on their way to see a movie in my part of town. This was sent to me in the form of a statement. He didn't invite me to see this movie with his friends. He just let me know that that was what they were doing. I think he was informing me of this, so that I would come along, but he didn't make that clear, so I didn't show. I appreciate openness. If you want to see me - tell me straight up. That's why I appreciate a certain boy at my new school, but we'll get to that later.

There you have it - Berkeley Boy:

There you have it. That is the profile of a person that successfully gets into Berkeley, and likely goes on to have success in the future. There you have it.

I wish him all the best because he's a great guy!

But, do I stack up?

I'll never be able to so perfectly prioritize tasks, and manage time. I'll never be able to so miraculously deny temptation, and go do what I have to do to achieve that higher goal. I'll never be able to pinpoint that one goal and perseverantly pursue it. I'm a failure. And, as a result, I will not be accepted into Berkeley, unless God Himself descends on Earth and uses his mighty whatever to get me in. The same goes for all the other good universities. Honestly, I'm questioning if I'll even be able to get into my local, solid, decent university of BC. I don't know if I have what it takes.

Maybe I am just an uber-pessimist. However, when I take a look around my high school, I see what all the other kids are putting in. Girls are suffering nervous breakdowns, people are on the brink. I have been told, on two separate occasions, but two of my friends, that they were seriously thinking about killing themselves. Yes, that's how bad it is.

Take another example. I got 4 tickets to see a play tonight. My mom, dad and sister have all already seen it, so they don't feel like going again. I have 3 extra tickets, and I don't want them to go to waste, so I turn to texting as a method to get them used. I send a text message to a few kids I feel will be interested. My best friend has a hike to go on, so she can't make it. My other best friend has a band practice at 7 in the morning on Monday, and cannot risk getting home at 11pm. Fine. So, I guess I'll have to find some less-close friends. So, I fire a text to a girl who graduated last year. She took me on a 3 day vacation for free, so I guess I kind of owe her. This girl didn't go to university. Until January, she is doing nothing, and she has never said "no" - she always has time. Nothing changes this time, and she accepts the offer gladly, on 4-hour-notice. Her boyfriend's sister will tag along. That's two down. I have one more ticket to give away. But who will take it?

If I got the offer, I would gladly take it. Not because I'm a big fan of theater (I'm really not), not because it's a 55$ value (I don't need the money), but simply because it would be fun to go with a friend and because it would be something a little out of the ordinary. Instead of sitting home and wasting away, I would be watching a play.

I text one guy first and he says "I'm sorry, I can't. I'm afraid I'm too busy this weekend."

I text the second guy and he says "Oh my gosh that sounds so dope! Unfortunately, I can't come with my tight schedule, but have fun and tell me all about it tomorrow!"

Did you hear those responses? Would you expect such grown-up replies from teenagers? Moreover, note that it is the first week of school. We don't have pounds of homework yet, so why are they so busy? It's that competitive. I have given up. It looks like that final ticket is indeed going to waste. I can't bear to hear another "My busy schedule won't allow me." The only people that ever have time are the people that aren't going to university; the people that are destined to be failures. How does that make sense. It seems that you cannot be successful unless your schedule is jam-packed. I don't want that.

My parents think that it is possible to be super successful and still have tons of time for fun. They couldn't be more wrong. The fact is that my parents raised me to be this way. To have time, and to have a life is what they saw as important. If you want to go to university, both life and fun need to be put on an indefinite hold. And I know that my parents would hate seeing me locked up in my room, behind a textbook, memorizing anatomy and SAT tricks. I know that they would hate if I was a one-trick pony, who only knew about academics, and didn't know anything about pop culture, or communication, or sport. But that would be the reality that they would need to accept.

We are the millennial generation, and we are well aware of how hard it all is. We know today that a Bachelor's means nothing. A Master's is decent, but far from a shoe-in . And well, don't even expect a sure thing with a Ph.D. It's so much more competitive than anyone not currently suffering through it can imagine.

My friend's tutors for calculus and for physics both have Ph.Ds, but they are working as tutors because they don't have any work. These are degrees in the sciences. Can you imagine what the case is with a degree in the humanities? There is an over-saturation of goodness. Let's go back to cereal boxes:

How do you choose a box when all of them have nice packaging, similar nutritional value, and good taste? How do you narrow it down? What are you forced to look at? Moreover, what happens to the lack-luster boxes like me? Do we end up collecting dust on the shelves, until the manager decides to put us on super-sale just so that we disappear from his aisle shelves? I think so, and to some extent, I've come to terms with that. I know my short-comings. I know that I don't stack up. The issue that protrudes even further, though, is my parents. My parents and their great expectations.

They came from a socialist country. University was free, and everyone lived in similar conditions regardless of their work. You didn't need to go to post-secondary, but you really could. Acceptance was dependent on one entrance exam, for the most part. There was very little pressure. Strangely, I am not the only one in this predicament. I'm not the only one with parents like this. Sure, not everyone's parents came from Socialist Yugoslavia, but nearly everyone's parents grew up in a very different time.

I watched the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off a few days ago. Ferris Bueller talks about getting into university. He doesn't even ponder the possibility that he won't manage to; instead, he frets over the possibility that he won't get into the same university as his buddy.

Ferris Bueller.

Ferris Bueller could make it into university.

I am not as bad as Ferris Bueller, but unlike him, I live in constant fear that I won't be wanted. I wish I had such security and assuredness.

I sympathize with my parents. They were raised in those types of conditions, so naturally they expect the same for me. They believe that I will get into an incredible university, study well, have fun, pass, and go on to have a marvelous career that fills me with joy. When I tell them the situation, they reassure themselves, and me, that there is still a solid chance. They say I write well, I think well, I get on well with people, I have fantastic exam marks, which make up for the fact that I have average school marks, I'm charming, and anyone that takes the time to know me will recognize that. But who will take the time to know me? Which admissions officer? Please let me know, because I will be quite keen to apply.

In a fit of sadness and low-self-esteem, I sent a message to the University of Chicago. They had sent me an email advertising themselves to me and encouraging me to apply. At first I was gleaming! Then, I got suspicious. So, I went online and I looked up the situation and found that, much to my dismay, U of C had sent about a million other children the same email. I read further and learnt that certain universities do this to seem more prestigious. Basically, they encourage a ton of people to apply, and then their acceptance rate appears lower. It's an artificial form of making yourself seem more wanted. I was flabbergasted and very sad when I found this out, so I turned to my release method - writing.

I gathered up the nerve to write them a letter, with the subject line "Am I Really Special?". I figured that I had nothing to lose. They weren't going to accept me for sure, so making myself stand out in some way may give me a very faint ember of hope. In the satirical email, I explained my failures, and questioned their motives for inviting me to apply. I, of course, knew that the motive was a perverse, self-interest one, but was nonetheless eager to hear their response. Very quickly, I received a reply that said something along the lines of "our admissions process is very holistic; we look beyond the numbers. You should reply regardless because, if you apply, there is a chance, but if you don't, then there isn't even a chance."

I mean, it was wise advise. If you aren't afraid of rejection, applying everywhere isn't a bad idea. It really doesn't cost you anything, except the small application fee, which can even be waived in some cases.

My situation is strange to me, but not to my peers. Basically, I don't know if it is I who is mortified of rejection, or if it is I who is mortified of my parents reaction to my rejection. I don't want to crush their hopes. I don't want my little sister to be scarred with the notion that she may not have a chance of university regardless of how hard she works. My sister is a hard-worker, really! She tries very hard, and pours her heart into academics. She organizes her time spectacularly and is oh-so on top of things. I adore her and am so glad that she is the way she is, but I am scared that my short-comings will have an adverse effect on her.

I don't know what to do with myself. I'm almost 18-years-old, and I am at the maturity and life-preparedness level of a two-year-old. I look at the people around me, and they all seem to have it all figured out. No one seems to be facing the dilemma, as much as me. But then again, if it weren't for this blog, I bet that the majority of kids at my school would feel the same way about me; they'd probably think I had my whole writing career planned out - from bestseller, to anthology. I project myself well, but when it comes down to it, I'm struggling... a lot, but so is everyone.

It seems to me that, no matter what age you are, no matter what position you hold at the office, you are always unhappy; you always see flaws. No one seems to be at peace with themselves. No one seems to be able to accept who they are. Why are we all so unhappy with the people we are? Why do you feel like you could always be something more? Why does society put so much pressure on us to be something and someone?

I feel like we all end up badly. Those of us that completely reject the "be someone" philosophy end up bizarre by social norms and discarded by society. Those of us that embrace the "be someone" philosophy, and the greasy ladder and the ambition, end up in a mid-life crisis. What are we to do?

I look at my neighbor. An Eritrean immigrant, who is on welfare and spends his life walking around the neighborhood looking for someone to chat with. I look at my other neighbor. A Canadian, alcoholic man, who believes firmly that he is a photographer, musician, sailor and singer. As weird as their days seem to be, they are at least expected and planned for. There is a certainty about them. The Eritrean man knows that he will go for a walk, stop someone and chat about nostalgic times. The drunk knows that he will wake up, chug down a liter of Irish Cream, walk down the street with his camera in hand and eventually stop at the Sea Wall, where he will shoot some pictures of the ocean.

Then there are the kids at school. You have the Chinese girl, who suffers mental collapses because of the 98% she gets in a class, and whose planned path is to get into Harvard and become either an accountant, a lawyer, a doctor, or an engineer. You have the white stoner who knows that he will come to school, skip math, skateboard a little, get high and then go to a trades school to become a plumber.

Everyone fits into their own little area. Then there's me. I don't know what to study in university. I don't fret over 98% - I celebrate. I don't get high, nor do I want to go to trades school. Quite simply, there are too many things that I don't know. Sadly, I'm too afraid of the remedy, as well. The remedy being that I just need to try it out, and see what works. I'm too much of a wuss. I like certainty too much. I don't want to deviate from sureness. High school's monotony and routine is sureness, but it's so boring.

Remember how I promised to come back to the boy who tells it like it is? Well, it's time for that now. Here is the story of the artistic stoner/skater at my school.

He stands out at my primarily Asian school, not just for his race, but for his demeanor too. He takes photographs, skips class, doesn't try hard at school, isn't worried about university, and he is very blatantly honest. He likes me, and he doesn't do some between the lines flirting - he makes it very obvious. He tells me he wants to sit next to me, he tells me he wants to hang out, he tells me things sometimes even too crudely.

One time, I mentioned that he was socially awkward. He was very upset by this. Note that I am crying of laughter while I write this paragraph. So, he stopped talking to me for about a week. After a week, he broke the silence. He came up to me while I was standing with a crowd of friends and asked me for some of the chocolate I was handing out. I smirked a little because I felt strange about the situation. Then, after eating the chocolate, he remained in his spot standing. His best friend stood behind him and tugged at him to leave, but he wouldn't budge. And very soon, he spoke:

"I'm not socially awkward, you know."

"Touché." Is all I could think. But, instead of saying that, I said:

"I know, I'm sorry if that upset y--" and I was cut-off.
"Yeah, it really did. It made me really sad." He said with the saddest and most serious of faces.

This whole time I was fighting bursting out into laughter.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, it's just that someone told me that." I justified.

And his poor friend is still gently smiling at me, almost apologetically, and tugging at his backpack.

"Well, I don't know who told you that, but they're wrong." He replied; his face equally serious.

And now his friend spoke and said "Come on, dude. Let's just go. You said what you wanted."

He didn't even turn to look at his friend, instead he dismissed this remark and said "I'm not done!" Then, he turned his attention back to me, and spoke as if he was completely oblivious to the crowd of our peers watching him.

"Okay? I'm really not. I'm not socially awkward, and whoever told you that doesn't know me."

I'm rarely at a loss for words, and I'm rarely as taken aback as I was in this scenario.

"Okay. Sorry." was the only thing my puny mind could fathom saying.

And, for the first time, his friend's tugging came to some avail, since this guy turned his back and walked away.

Now, what was the point of this anecdote? I don't know. What's the point of most of my anecdotes? I think that folks retain information better when they a bunch of relatable examples to call upon. I know I do.

What I'm trying to show is that as peculiar as that boy's actions were, they were straightforward , unmistakably honest, and very stand out. All this aside, these actions were very distinct to him. He knew, and knows, who he is and what he wants with himself. He has his plan, planned. He may not go on to be a lawyer, engineer, accountant, or doctor, but at least he knows that and is at peace with it.

But here I am, wallowing in pity. Stressing and worrying over some things I should've stressed and worried about years ago. I'm so tired of being sad. It's exhausting. Should I accept the fact that I'm done? Am I done? All I get is mixed messages.

I'll end this monstrously long post with a song and a bit of hope. Perhaps I am falling and failing, crashing and burning, but I heard a song called First by a band called The Cold War Kids. In one portion of it they say "Flying like a cannonball/ Falling to the Earth/ Heavy as a feather/ When you hit the dirt/...". That's all I can hope for. Maybe I'm falling, but perhaps the fall won't be so bad.

But then again, maybe I won't go through a mid-life crisis, or be discarded by the world. Maybe, and this is a really small maybe, I'll be OK, and so will everyone around me.

The Girl at the Pool - Part 10

I woke up on a terrible Monday to get ready for school. Luckily, I had gone to bed early and was well-rested. I put on my debating skirt, -boy, are skirts ever uncomfortable- my black pantyhose and my debate face on. I knew that talking to Mr. Forman would not be easy, so I had to be prepared. The previous night,  I had talked to my true friend and she had agreed to come with me to talk to Mr. Forman, as he had sent her an email requesting to see her as well. When I got to school, I began ranting about the issue to my girlfriend. I don't think that she was listening. She's heard me rant about so many things, so many times that I'm sure that she has a mechanism to go deaf each time I start ranting.

My classes weren't going well, all I could think of was what I would say to Mr. Forman. I was stressed,  but nonetheless, I kept a straight face. Over lunch, I saw my true friend, and she told me to not go off on a whim about the freedom to expression/speech. She told me to basically just say that I was wrong. As the gangstas would put it: "AWWWW, HELL NO!" There was no way in hell that I was going to accept guilt. I had done no wrong, and of that, I was sure.

My true friend came to my last block class to pick me up. We walked down the hall and arrived at the room. Mr. Forman was sitting there and he greeted both of us with a really nice "hey girls!" Then we got into what had happened. He asked if I understood his problem. I said no, because I honestly didn't. I couldn't believe it when he told me that his issue wasn't the emails, it wasn't my actual post, but rather that it was the comment that I had left about his "forcing". My mind flooded in disbelief. I honestly thought that he had some problems. A grown man was nit-picking over one word, telling me that he didn't force me.

I said, "okay, but then what would you call it?"

His answer was "nothing, your outburst was out of line, and apologizing was the right thing to do."

"Okay, I understand that it was out of line, but I still don't see why I shouldn't have used the word 'force', what else could I have called it?" I demanded.

"It wasn't force because it was the right thing to do, no matter what you think it was right, and I'm right. I'm done." He said, as he stammered out the door.

Wow, right? In between this issue, he had stated that he hadn't received the emails from the wretched woman until last night, and that he was upset by them. When I asked him what he intended to do, he simply responded that he wanted to forget about it. So why wasn't I allowed to forget about my outburst? Why was I FORCED to apologize for my statements? Most importantly, why was this woman getting a free pass?

The Legalization of Prostitution

My friend Ivan has a wonderful blog, the only difference between myself and him is that his blog is absolutely right-wing. Last night, he posted a very long post against prostitution and in support of some Swedish model. Considering that he is a good sport and that we used to be debate partners, I took it upon my left-wing self to rebut his points and give my stance on why prostitution should be legal. Be warned, he has thoroughly researched the topic, I have purely refuted his points on little to no foundation. Here is his article: http://ihsieh.blogspot.ca/2014/05/prostitution-commercialization-of.html?m=1

Here is my response, which you can also find in the form of a comment on his post:

Oh Ivan! I adore your right-wing, intolerant speeches. They are just so fun to discuss! You know I have to rebut: :) First, I don't like being called an "ill informed liberal moron". Second, it is absolutely lovely that you want to protect women; sadly, it is not your place to do so as a man. Most men are unable to understand women and your view especially, is exceedingly naïve.

SOURCE: conservativepapers.com

You must ask yourself what is wrong with having a man turn a woman "into a living, breathing, masturbation fantasy." Personally, I don't see anything wrong with the statement, if the woman consents to it. Most men have this goal, and prostitution is an ideal way for it to be achieved and satisfied. Regardless, what you fail to realize is that men and women are already doing this on a very regular basis, and would continue even if prostitution was eradicated. What I am speaking about it "one night stands". I'm sure you know what this is and I have no need to further elaborate. The only difference between one night stands and prostitution is that prostitutes get paid for sleeping with a client, whereas those who participate in one night stands do not. It is so common for both men and women to disregard the personality of a person and treats them as genitals. It happens in high school all the time. As for the statement "She acts the part of the thing he wants her to be." you fail to realize that the man also acts as what the woman wants - a client with cash.
I am rather uninformed on the prostitution models around the world, so I won't say anything about that.
Next, "Trudeau like imbecile"? Really? Trudeau was a great man, who did many great things thanks to his charisma.
Ok next, Ivan, why do you think that personal questions are not allowed in debates? Exactly for the reason of tolerance variations. A person may support legalizing marijuana, but be opposed to having their child smoke it. They support legalization because they want that option to be available to the general populace, not necessarily because they want to participate in the action themselves. I too would not like it for any of my family members to be hookers, but would not mind seeing hookers on the streets. I also, for example, would not support a family member's decision to become a trapeze artist, but would I prevent the people from doing it? No. There are a flurry of dangerous/degrading jobs out there, but there is no need to disallow them. Somebody has to do them. Think about the tremendous taboo which society puts on prostitution, if it did not exist everything would be fine. As for prostitutes not choosing their jobs, - I agree completely. Ask yourself however, if the cashier at WalMart legitimately grew up hoping to be a cashier - probably not. They too are pushed to society's classist perception of the "bottom rung of society".
Next, your argument about the scarring which occurs due to prostitution makes me happy. Do you not realize that if legalized, they would no longer be scarred - the government would regulate it. I bet that the Netherlands model could have succeeded had the police out an emphasis on regulating brothels. Prostitutes would have better living conditions, including being subject to minimum wage. Don't be sleezy, no one is "coerced" into being an escort. They know what they are getting into and have their own reasons for it. Prostitution does not harm society as a whole. To finish my rebuttal (it didn't let me post the whole thing at once)
Granted, the government has role to protect the citizens, but to a certain extent. Only recently has prostitution become taboo. It is the oldest profession of all time with reason.
Morality is part of forming law. But it is a VERY small part. Prostitution is Only morally wrong in our eyes because it is propagated that way. It shouldn't be taboo.
I beg to differ that, if enough care is put into regulation, prostitution conditions can only get better.
Lastly, that is absurd!!! You want to stop men from wanting to have casual sex? Are you kidding? You'd have to either castrate them at birth, or live in an entirely gay/asexual society. You can put pressure on men to not find prostitutes, but rest assured that then the one night stand rate would go through the roof. Humans thrive in casual sex, it's a sad reality from primitive times, but you have no right to try and change nature by eliminating chances for men to have sex. It is their right. No one should be forced into a monogamous relationship. Kk, I think I said my piece. I'm so happy you finally posted again!!! :) Keep it up!!

The Girl at the Pool - Part 9

My cursor was headed for the "pokes" button, I poked back all the people that had poked me. As soon as I was done, I was off back to the newsfeed, with every intention of logging off. Something stopped me, a comment from my old coach at my old school. She was telling me that she was dealing with the issue, and that I have no reason to write a response. She understood my anger, but cautioned me against writing the email. Though I am not sure of the exact timeline, I believe that my ex-partner private messaged me to say that I was putting my debating career in jeopardy, if I were to send this letter. I expected him to say this, so I didn't think anything of it. I thought however, that my old coach would be more supportive and she wasn't. I don't blame her, in fact, she may be right. Okay, okay, credits to my ex-partner too.

Alright, I obviously had to explain the circumstances to them fully. So I did, and I added that I was forced to apologize by Mr. Forman, and I implied that he needed to do something about it, just like my old coach had done for her school. Look, he made me apologize for something that was actually fairly justified, but was he going to do anything about this crazy woman who was making unjustified, false allegations against my ex-partner and I? I didn't know yet, it was already around midnight, and I didn't expect any sort of answer from him until morning. I went to bed that night with a clear conscience.

I woke up in the morning, and had a really good breakfast. I gobbled it down, despite the fact that I wasn't hungry. Then, I proceeded to logging onto Facebook. I was interested in seeing if Mr. Forman had responded or not. Surely enough, there it was; a scalding, scorching, rage-filled comment from him. He told me that my comment was "out of line" and that he hadn't "forced" me to apologize, but that that was the right thing to do! I was in utter shock. I mean, I know that he isn't an English teacher, but still, is he unaware of the meaning of the word "force"?

First of all, I don't believe that my post, or comment, was out of line. I simply responded to a person's comment with clarification for why I would need to write a response to this tournament director. Secondly, I was indeed forced to apologize. Maybe I'm retarded, but from what I know "forcing" is when you make someone do something against their will. I apologized to that woman because Mr. Forman requested it of me, not because I felt like it. Mr. Forman forced me to apologize. Regardless of whether or not apologizing was the right thing to do, I didn't want to do it, hence I was forced. Also in his comment, Mr. Forman told me that he would speak to me after the weekend about the remarks I made. I was excited. I loved getting in trouble when I was right!

The Girl at the Pool - Part 8

The debates were finished, I was happy, and off to the awards ceremony. Hopefully I wouldn't make another scene. My ex-partner was sure that he hadn't made it to Provincials, but I was sure that he had.  20 kids were going to pass. They announced the novices first. Now, it was time for the juniors. The senior results had already been announced and they weren't pretty. This served as no comfort.

"Number 18, from University Hill..." Oh my, I had just barely made it!

"...Emily!" Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! My fantastic partner had moved onto to Provincials! I was so happy!

"Number 15, from Eric Hamber…" Oh my! I knew that my ex-partner was only being hard on himself!  He had made it!

"…[My ex-partner's partner]" Good job! Even better, now my ex-parnter would definitely be on the list and higher up.

"Number 14, from University Hill…" Okay, as much as I'd like to seem humble, I wasn't. I knew that it was me!

"...Nat Mico!" I freaked out, and danced as if I had been possessed by the devil. Also, I knew that because my ex-partner was better than me, he'd for sure get through to Provincials.

The numbers kept progressing to no avail. My ex-partner had not made it through. I was heavily depressed for the rest of the night.

I arrived home that night, to a congratulations from my father. I logged onto Facebook. My true friend from the start of the this story had posted a congrats to all, and misspelled my name in the process. I commented on her post, explaining how to spell my name. Then my ex-partner chimed in and copy/pasted a comment, in which I had explained how to spell my name to him. Then when my true friend was getting annoyed, my ex-partner posted another comment, only this time in Serbian. In translation, it meant "the language is hard". My true friend was freaking out and telling us "evil little grade 10s" to "get off her post". Anyway, my partner went on to make more Serbian comments, which he would later delete for God knows what reason, and my true friend told us to "stop flirting". Okay, we weren't flirting. Up until a few days ago, I had thought that my partner was asexual - not necessarily a bad thing. Disregarding my anecdotes, let's move on to my next point.

Being the lovely human I am, I got off my true friend's post, and proceeded to create my own. I wrote a brief post on the Debate club's closed group page. In this post, I thanked my partner, congratulated everyone, and all that other crap. However, there was one thing in my post, which I would find out would come back to "bite me on the butt". At the end of the post, I explained that I wouldn't be on Facebook for the rest of the night, for I would be formulating my response to the terrible tournament director of the previous tournament (not Regionals).

Stop - Part 3

Like the weather, this guys "smooth" moves were horrendous.
The boys had asked us about what bus route we were going to take to get home. Kindly, my friend and I explained that we live in Kits and Coal Harbour respectively and that we could thus take the same bus  as we do everyday. Now, knowing that these boys live in Shaughnessy, and that they'd need to take the bus route in the opposite direction, we pretended to be dumb and asked them about their route. They told us that they indeed do live in Shaughnessy, but that they could take any bus route they wanted. I told them that their bus stopped right in front of the school and that they could get on there. However, due to the fact that a sex-deprived lunatic was running around campus, grabbing women's bottoms, the boys decided to walk us to the bus loop.

That was very nice, but I mean really very unnecessary. Actually, it only seemed unnecessary to me. To this boy, walking the love of his life to the bus loop was quite necessary. In fact, despite the almost impossible chance of my friend and I getting sexually assaulted whilst walking to the bus loop, I'd venture to say that he had a feeling of heroism while walking us to the bus loop, as if he had just saved our lives from the maniac on campus. Anyways, instead of making the long walk in the crappy weather, we caught a bus for a few stops to the bus loop. In that time, my old partner was incredibly silent, with his black, puffy hood covering most of his forehead. The other boy however, seized the opportunity to talk to my friend. At least, he tried. My friend wasn't really talking much, and I, being her best friend, felt almost obligated to save her from the clutches of this boy. So, when this boy brought up the topic of modelling, and questioning my friend about her modelling, I jumped in.

Considering the fact that I have a vast knowledge of modelling, (and I say this with no irony. I know that it's become difficult to differentiate my sarcasm from my truths, but actually, I have a small, possibly partially lesbian obsession with models.) I used it to my advantage. I started asking him about the most famous model in his country (native country). He knew her, but not very well; what a shame. I then went on to list -out of route memory- her measurements and a cover shoot which she was in, where she looked particularly beautiful. He was in awe, almost as much as my model friend was. I turned, first to my friend and said "I told you I know a lot about models." Then, I turned to the boy, who I knew had heard this statement, and said: "Seriously, ask me about anyone of the Victoria's Secret Angels, and I'll give you everything from her birthday to her measurements." I think that he responded either with a smirk and the implicit question of: "Isn't that a little lesbian?" or with a cool statement of "Impressive!"Regardless, I didn't care. My knowledge of everything modally had come in handy because by the time I was done raving about Adriana Lima, Alessandra Ambrosio, Cameron Russell, Emily DiDonato, Laetitia Casta and Bar Rafaeli, our bus had arrived at the bus loop.

At this point, we all got off. My friend and I pointed the two boys to their bus, which was about to leave, and occupied our stop in the line for the Downtown bus. They obediently headed off to their bus, which was surprising, as I had thought that they would actually request to head all the way home with us. They didn't make up some lame excuse about "taking precautionary measures against all those rapists out there"and thus needing to take us to the front doors of our buildings. They just walked away.

When their bus drove away, my friend and I commenced gossiping about the boy. We talked about how creepy he was, how desperate he must be etc.. Neither of us liked the fact that he had talked about another boy behind his back. There was obviously a feud going on between the boy that was hitting on my friend and the boy he was gossiping about, because the boy had painted the other in such a bad light. Why? Well probably because they were both after the same girl at their school. Anyways, all the criticism directed towards the other boy was totally unwarranted, as that boy is great. He is quite hilarious and despite the fact that he too hits on 27397549 girls at a time, he is still fun. See, both of these boys had hit on me at one point, one at a debate tournament and the other at a debate practice, and I can now say that the boy who had his arm around me at the awards ceremony of a debate tournament is much funnier and chill, in a weird, poser-ish way.

Anyways, I disclosed to my friend that I thought that the guy was hitting on her throughout the whole day, and that tomorrow she'd see him in front of her building with flowers. She laughed and said that she noticed, but that she thought that he was hitting on me at first.
"Yeah, you're right. But then you walked into the room and lit it up, he fell for you and now you will be carrying his babies. That's why he put so much emphasis on telling you that he is partly of your ethnic background. That way, your babies won't be halfies, they'll be almost fully your background." I poetically described with an immense amount of voice fluctuation for dramatic effect.
My friend had a sort of shocked face, but she was laughing so hard that her face just looked deformed, it was pretty funny.

When the bus started moving, we kept talking about him, and listing observations. Actually, it was mostly me making fun of him and making my friend laugh. I really like making her laugh, her facial expressions are so mutated that it makes me laugh. Also, considering that my sense of humour is demented, not many people can understand it, and think that I mean certain things with malice, whereas my friend, well, she really gets it. So we basically spent that whole bus ride in mutual laughter, her at my jokes and me at her face. I walked her home and then sat myself on the next bus, but not before I told her to give me a call if a creepy figure appears in her garden's bushes. (I said this as a joke, the guy is not crazy enough to stalk her, okay? He's a regular teenage boy, like all of them, he wants to sleep with girls, particularly hot ones, and I need to make fun of him because he hit on my best friend and she didn't like him. As well as because I just need to make fun of people.)

It seemed like that would be the end of that. I had protected my best friend from the creepy dude who wanted to date her purely for sexual reasons, and for his ego. He wanted to date her for the ability to tell his friends that he is dating a model, and that was pathetic, but normal. Regardless, I thought that that was the end of this issue and that in a few days, we'd forget that this ever even happened. Sadly, this boy did not let us forget it, neither did my old partner, and what happened in the days following the encounter was truly -for lack of a better word- hilarious. 

Stop - Part 2

Once upon a time, my partner and I had the debate-fanatic idea to come to each other's schools for extra debate practice. So my partner came, but he had brought a friend - this boy. My best friend hadn't stayed at the practice that day, but she was waiting for me downstairs, and was going to come and pick me up at 5. Throughout the whole practice, I felt like the boy was hitting on me. I guess that he's pretty desperate. 

Anyway, my sweet friend arrived, as obedient as ever, at 5 to pick me up. We hugged at the door and I told her that I'd like to introduce her to someone - my debate partner was who I was referring to. She said sure and walked in. All the other members of the debate club had already left and it was just me, the boy, my partner and my best friend. I introduced my friend, and started to make small talk. Somehow, the topic of my best friend being a model came up. All of a sudden, the boy's attention shifted from me to my best friend. Makes sense, right? After all, she is the model.

I excused myself to go and make drinks, or rather, hot-waterize drinks for everyone. (I know where the teacher, who sponsors the club, keeps his stash of drinks, which are made for retarded people and only require adding hot water.) I asked what everyone wanted, a choice of tea, hot chocolate, or milk tea. Two teas, a hot chocolate and milk tea for myself. So I went out the door, and turned on the electric kettle. I still had a clear view of everyone, though - one of the perks of the fully made of glass school I attend. They continued chatting.

The light on the kettle changed, signifying that the water was boiled. I poured the water into the two styrofoam cups, each with a teabag in it. Then, I added 4 spoons of powdered hot chocolate and covered with water and stirred. Lastly, I took the milk tea pouch and emptied it's contents into my cup and covered with water and stirred. I brought in the two teas and handed them over to the two boys. Then I went back and got my drink and my friend's drink. When I came back, we were all together again.

So I was back together with the group. Everyone thanked me for my making of the drinks and restarted their conversation. My debate partner said little, as he usually does when he is meeting someone new. Anyways, lover-boy started to ask about my friend's athletic interests. He found out that she liked running.

"So how much do you usually run?" Questioned lover-boy.
"Umm… Usually 3 kilometres. What about you?" My friend replied in a shy voice, as she tried to continue the conversation, which she shouldn't have.
"Oh you know, usually 10 kilometres. I really like the long distances." He braggingly answered; as if his running of 10km a day was no big deal.

Oh this guy; he was trying so hard that it was funny. Knowing that my friend was basically incapable of telling the guy that she doesn't want to talk to him, I tried to save her. I would interrupt and ask the guy some questions or at least bring him into some other conversation, which I would start with my debate partner. I was waiting for everyone to finish their drinks, so that we could go our separate ways. Quickly enough, the time came and I saw that everyone had finished their drink.

"Uhh guys, I gotta go pick up my little sister at swimming, so I have to leave. My friend and I go home together, so I guess you guys should get packing so that we can lock the door of my teacher's room." I said to the boys, while motioning to friend to come with me and get her jacket.

Everyone obediently got their coats, my partner collected the garbage from our drinks and swept the room a little with a broom from the janitor's cart. After about 5 minutes, we headed down my school's enormous hallway down to my locker. Once there, I got my necessary textbooks, packed my bag and threw on my hood. I had seen the disgusting rain outside and knew that I needed to cover my lovely hair somehow. Eventually, after preparing my soul to go outside for the millionth time this month in the pouring rain, we headed to the door.

The Girl at the Pool - Part 7

The next day was Regionals, it started off bad. I looked at the schedule of debates and it was tough. In fact, I'd have to face my polite partner and his new partner from two nights prior in the third round. Honestly however, I knew that I wouldn't make it to Provincials, and so I was really only coming to have fun. I regret that I ever gave up on winning. Our first match was against the school which had hosted that tournament two days prior. Guess who sat in to watch? Yes, the bitchy tournament director. I almost fainted thinking that she would be my judge, so I came up and I asked.  I was determined to have her transferred to a different room, if she was a judge. She said that she was just a spectator and I was elated. I knew that she had only walked into that debate to throw me off with her presence, but what that lady didn't know was that I feed off hate. I love it, it's motivation for me to do well. Like with all my first debates, I wasn't as good as I could've been, but I was decent. Luckily, the girls we were facing had no idea what they were talking about, so we seemed better than we actually were. My partner from my school was fantastic and gave some of the best debate speeches of her life. AMAZING JOB, EMILY!

At the end of the debate, the judges provided feedback, as they are required to. Then this old, shameless tournament director proceeded to give her own feedback.

"Oh, I didn't know that you were a judge." I stated.

"I'm not, but I have some feedback as well." She replied.

"Well I really don't feel that non-judge feedback is relevant, so I'd prefer that you don't give your feedback to me." I POLITELY declared.

She blushed and went outside to give feedback to her debaters.

My second debate had my heart racing. I was going up against the reigning champions. Oh god. As it appeared, they weren't actually all that good. I think I did really well against them, so I was super happy after that round. Then it was dinner time, and there was some damn good food. Lasagna, salad, pasta salad, coffee, tea, cookies - the works. My dinner happiness was cut short however, by the partner from my old school. According to him, he had failed in his first two rounds. I brushed it off by saying that he's just being hard on himself - as usual.

Next round was awesome! "Ex-debate partners take each other on!" I could see it in lights. Okay, so I was sort of intimidated because he is so good. I screwed that speech up so bad. HORRIBLY! Oh well, I knew that if anything, I had lost to him. He deserved it, he had prepared far more material than my 3 hour research had.

Last round was fine. A couple of good debaters, and luckily for me, a good judge. Who? My ex-partner's dad was judging me. That went down fine.

Off to Victoria!

The Girl at the Pool series has not yet been fully published, so some of you may not be aware that after coming in 14th at the Lower Mainland West Regional competition in debate, I advanced on to Provincials. This is my first year to be able to do so, and I am very grateful for the opportunity, especially considering the fact that I had to overcome many obstacles to actually make it.

The first obstacle which stood in my way was all those private school kids, who always have the upper hand - I did that. Secondly, I had advanced onto Provincials with that partner I had talked about it my previous post incompetence. (I refered to her as the one who has a long way to go in debate.) Usually, that would be a great thing, because I really think that she was a good partner, who worked well with me. Here's the problem, two days before registration for the tournament is due, she dropped out on me. She had a bunch of excuses and sort of left me hanging, but I'm a big girl and I can fend for myself.

Scrambling, I emailed the tournament director and kindly asked if there was anyway for me to still attend the tourney. Amazingly, this fantastic tournament director found me a partner on a few days notice and I could still attend. Funnily, my new partner was also from a public school. What's more, is that my new partner was the girl who had won first place at the tournament where I had made a scene. I was pretty sure that she had hated me, but when I finally met her, she seemed as nice as possible.

We discussed our topic of prisoner voting, and came up with a few points. Then we went on to recount some debates we had been in, which we considered to be horrible. This girl has had considerable success in debate, considering that it's just her first year. We parted ways after a few hours and she set up a Google doc for us to share and add any other facts to.

I had succeeded in getting that sorted out and I was going to be able to compete in my tournament. It would really be a shame if I was unable to sort it out since I had already booked a hotel and called up my two best friends in the whole wide world to come and be my moral cheerleaders in Victoria. They agreed, and I was/am excited to be going with them!

Last night, I packed a change of clothes and a set of debate clothes, I packed my phone charger, my toothbrush, my hairbrush, and some snacks for the ferry trip. Despite having sent both my friends an itinerary, I called them to confirm some aspects of the trip. (They aren't the types that would actually take the time to read an itinerary, so I'd rather be safe than sorry. Despite having told myself that i would go to sleep early so that I could wake up refreshed for the debate, I went to bed around half past eleven.

When I first started debating, I would be unable to sleep the night before the debate due to nerves and excitement, after a few debates however, the feelings died down. Now it is 6:00am the day of my debate. I was supposed to wake up at 8:00am to catch a ferry. However, something isn't letting me sleep. Instead of sleeping, I am blogging.

It doesn't really matter, I guess. But despite my immense confidence, I have a few butteflies in my stomach. I tried to disspell these butterflies and cast them away by listening to Polyushko-Polye on repeat last night. I feel like Soviet Communist Party march songs are extremely inspiring, and listen to them whenever I am in need of a morale boost. 

In a few hours my friends will be here, they will assure me that I will do well in my debate because I am the best at what I do. We will get on the ferry, and probably be reported as nuisances for being so loud and obnoxious. It's going to be fun. In Victoria, they'll probably watch a few of my debates and go do some of their touristy activities. I'll go to my end banquet and have a good time. Honestly, I probably won't be able to sleep in Victoria either, in part due to nerves and in part due to the fact that one of my friends sleeps like a starfish, and if I end up sharing a bed with her it's going to get ugly.

When I get back, I will post all a out what happened, but for now, I am going to really try and go to back to sleep, or at least go to my living room so that I don't look like a blogging nerdy loser. (Right now, I am sitting on my bed typing out this post on my phone; my phone is getting really hot).

Whilst writing this post, I have seen the sunrise, and the sky change from a smokey navy blue, to a dim and pale sort of blue. I have watched as the thick clouds of dark blue have evaporated away from my window, to reveal the cloudless sky, which is still not a bright blue since the sun hasn't fully rose. I have heard my mom wake up, something which almost never happens. I have heard the pitter-patter of her steps on our wood floor, as they made their way to our bathroom, then to our kitchen, where I heard the tap begin it's irrevocable waterfall. She's washing dishes.

I know that when I do wake up, she will look at me with loving eyes, and beg me to go back to bed, or at least tell that I have nothing to worry about. 

As this day gets brighter and the sun climbs higher into each pore of the eternal sky, I am feeling strange. Some feeling of such utter beauty is overcoming me. Some feeling which is encouraging me to be an early riser. My eyes keep drifting from my phone to my window, and I cannot stop them. It looks like it's going to be a beautiful ride on the ferry.

The Girl at the Pool - Part 6

So what did this terrible letter say? Well apart from all the stuff about how she was unhappy with how the night went down in general, she provided three main reasons:

A) My partner and I cheated her in order to be a hybrid team.

B) We delayed debates by taking extra time in the hallways to prepare.

C) I had an extremely embarrassing outburst at the awards ceremony.

Okay, I can't deny C, but I can say that I proudly stand by it. I voiced an opinion, as I was taught to do - both by parents and educators. My statement was justified, and required no apology to this woman organizer. The only person I may have need to apologize to -if they had requested it- was the girl who had won. I was being the change I wanted to see in the world.

Next is A, we cheated? Okay, let's look at that. She claimed that my partner had told her that we were permitted to participate as a team. Clearly, by the emails, anyone can see that we never said that. We said that there is a rule in the DSABC constitution that apparently allows hybrid teams, but that it is an unclear rule and that we are discussing it with the president of the DSABC. This unfit tournament director simply said that our registration has been accepted. She payed no mind whatsoever to the rules, and signed us up as a hybrid. Meanwhile, the DSABC president got back to us. She said "no". Why would she say such a thing when the rules clearly state that hybrid teams are allowed without restrictions as long as they are approved? Well because she is the coach of a private school, and god forbid that they don't come out on top. Officially however, she said that her "no" was because she didn't want to create "power teams". Anyway, since I knew that she was just lying, I replied to her and asked her for clarification, and why teams were allowed to compete before. She replied after a couple weeks, and avoided all the questions that she couldn't make up an answer to. Once again, the answer was "no". Fine, but we were already registered and could not change that. Because this tournament organizer hadn't bothered to check the rules, because it was too late, and because we really didn't want to not go together, we didn't say anything. Everything was rosy when we got there and she hadn't said anything about the rules. So a blatant lie from a blatantly bad person.

As for B and delaying debates. That also wasn't our fault. That was her fault, due to her terrible organization. She hadn't briefed the judges about why and how long the preparation time would be for the impromptu topic. The judges in our room looked at us and asked us if fifteen minutes would be adequate preparation time. Both my partner and I and the opposing team agreed, and we left the room to prepare in the hallway. Nice of us, eh? Anyway, this woman had now made another rampant lie without any evidence to back it up.

This whole email was obviously unacceptable and extremely unprofessional. Worst of all, it CC'd the president of the DSABC. I was deeply hurt and I immediately forwarded it to my parents. They too were appalled. Along with what I had seen, there was also a defending email in response from the Hamber coach, who I had previously mentioned has taught me everything I know about debate. Another response from my partner, who was being too nice, as usual. The woman was talking behind my back, and she was absolutely horrid. My parents asked me to formulate a reply, and I did, but I didn't send it.

Stop - Part 1

I'm going to be honest: I started this post with the intention of making it short and sweet, but then I realized there was no way that that would happen. I'm going to publish this story in parts (hopefully only a few) so that no one is going to have to read more than a 1000 words at once. I hope you guys enjoy this series of posts!

Some people just don't know when to stop. That is the issue that I will be discussing today, as it has been pertaining indirectly to me these pass couple of weeks. It has to do with my best friend, and a guy that is madly in love (oops, I mean in like) with her. This boy, apparently, does not take hints. He is obsessed, and thus, he let's every small word act as a enormous, grossly-exaggerated glimmer of hope. He is blinded by his infatuation. He is oblivious to the signals that the people around him are giving. He is, or is being, stupid. Most importantly, he needs to stop. 

Before I get into the whole scenario, allow me to give some background: 

My best friend is an exchange student. She moved here from a cold, dark and desolate place in Eastern Europe 1.5 years ago. Her parents encouraged her to come here in order to improve her English, despite it already being very good. I guess her and her parents picked Vancouver because of the climate, because you'd be really dumb to pick it because of anything else. (A lot of aspects of Vancouver suck, but it's a nice place landscape-wise. It's really rare that you get to have the mountains and the beach on your doorstep.) Anyways, she came here in grade 9 and is going to stay here until the end of high school. She's really nice and funny, and she's a great friend who really cares, not to mention the fact that she is tall, skinny and pretty. 

***I guess that she's from Tennessee, because she's the only ten I see! 

Anyway, I didn't really know her in grade nine, but this year we have grown pretty close and now spend every lunch together eating ice cream, and thinking about what homework we have forgotten to complete. Luckily, we have a lot of classes together and we get to talk a lot. We also both live far away from our school, so we get to take the bus together after school. When I have extracurricular activities after school, even really long debate practices, she usually waits for me at my locker just so that we can take the bus together. Despite her hatred for debate, she still comes to some of my practices just to watch me, and encourage me. She sounds perfect, right? Well she is! So I understand that the boys are flocking to her. 

Now for some background on the boy that likes her (probably only sexually). He is from Vancouver, and he is a year older than my friend and I. He is from my old school, which I went to for one year in grade 8. Strangely enough, I never actually met the boy before this year. Apparently, he went to his parent's native country for that one year, so I could never meet him. The boy isn't gorgeous. He is fit, though. He is a debater, too. And he is friend's with my insecure debate partner, who I have discussed in previous posts. Honestly, I don't want to say too much about the boy, since I don't know him that well.

So how did my friend, who has zero interest for debate, meet this guy? They go to different schools, and they don't really have many mutual interests. It's me and my insecure partner's fault. 

The Girl at the Pool - Part 5

My parents gave me their take on things: from what I had told them, the judging sounded horribly biased, and I was right to raise awareness. My dad however, did suggest that I do it in a more civilized way next time. Thanks for standing by me guys! That was the end of that day and night. After having a late-night snack, to compensate for my sixth place shortcoming (as individual speaker) I was in a dream state. In many cases, I dream about debates, and really good speeches after I attend them. However, the debates of that day were so horrid, so bad, that I couldn't dream of anything.

This whole day had felt like one short film. The outburst, the lone child agreeing with me, the laying alone in a desolate school gymnasium, the tears, my friend calming me in the halls, the snazzy dude stopping me at the door, the look of utter shock on the faces of all these people, the undeserved apology I gave, the final goodbye from my partner, the cold, wet walk to Mr. Forman's car, the drive back, the bright, distorted lights, the crossing of the Burrard Bridge with my imaginary music playing, the ride up to my apartment in the elevator, the soothing by my parents, and my eventual sleeping.

I woke up in the morning, refreshed and feeling better. I was sick with some sort of stomach ache, so I didn't attend school. I stayed home, in bed, for I was both mentally and physically sick. I tried to busy myself with catching up on homework and other things of that nature, but was unsuccessful. All that my mind was capable of bearing was the events of the night prior. Call me unforgiving, call me Miss Grudger, call me spoiled, but I couldn't wrap my head around that night, or the apology. Being the kind person that he is, my partner had provided me with the password to his email. Being the cunning person that I am, I figured that this ass-a-holic lady would most likely send an email of disdain to my partner, for she did not have my email account. So I logged onto my partner's account. I knew that even if an email had been sent, he wouldn't let me know for some time. Why? Because Regionals were coming up the next day, and I'm assuming that he'd want me to have a clear mind, so that I could kick some Lower Mainland West booty.

Regardless, I logged onto the account, and found myself to be right. This tournament director -who had preached professional behaviour to me the previous night- had written an extremely accusing and hatred filled letter to my poor, polite partner. She is 55-ish years old. My partner is 15. Is it okay for a woman, who runs a website/company on communication skills, I might add, to send a terrible letter to a teenager? I don't think so. I mean, look, if you are really unable to overcome that outburst by this adolescent, then you probably aren't fit to be working with adolescents. If you can't take "the high road", then why wouldn't contact the child's teacher, or their coach, instead of the child himself? I don't know, maybe hormones screw up after menopause.