The Laundry Room

When I was in grade eight, I hung out with a boy who would grow up to become a stoner. We hung out together because we balanced each other well. I had a lot to say, he had a lot of time to listen. I wanted someone to agree with me, he wanted someone to agree with. I was hyper and gleeful and he was calm and content. He radiated a serenity and always made me feel better. He was always willing to listen and strived to make me happier in times of sadness. He was really great. We hung out together because we had known each other since elementary school, and because we made each other's transitions to high school smoother. He always had my back and was always on my side. Most of all, he never asked for anything in return for all that he did for me; we were just happy to be together.

We went through this phase together, while we were in grade eight. We decided to not spend our lunches with the rest of our friends at school because school was too draining. We set out to find ourselves a place that was private; a place where the noise and hustle and bustle of school lunch hour wouldn't be able to reach us. Unfortunately, most of those places were taken. The older kids, the cooler kids and other social groups, had marked certain locations as theirs and we were in no position to invade. Instead, we decided to extend our search for the perfect place beyond the confines of our school. Luckily for us, our school, despite being in a quiet residential neighbourhood, had a few good shops.

The first place we decided to test out was the next door hospital. Believe it or not, the food was decent, but the noise was far worse in the hospital cafeteria than in any other place in our school. Moreover, we sort of realized that two teens hanging out amidst cancer patients on their lunch breaks was a little weird. So we kept looking.

We tried out almost every small café, every organic juice press place and even a grocery store and video game rental shop. But not one of the said hospitality establishments was perfect. Some cafés were great in atmosphere, but lacking in coffee quality. Some places were vice versa. Some places were too loud and busy during lunch rush. Nothing seemed perfect, but we were determined to find the ideal place.

After exhausting all realistic options, we turned our attention to the only remaining establishment within walking distance - the local laundromat. It was practically empty when we walked in that first day. I asked my friend what we were doing here and he told me to never judge a book by its cover and to give the place a shot. Since it seemed like our last resort, I succumbed to the idea and entered the dim, dingy, gray store.

Washing machines were stacked in pairs along the entire wall. They looked old-fashioned. Actually, everything about the place was old-fashioned. The sign on the door looked like it was resurrected from a fifties movie. The front-loading machines were a pastel beige color, reminiscent of old detergent commercials. To be perfectly honest, the lights were dim, making me feel as if they hadn't been changed since the fifties either. Inside there was an openness. High ceilings, long rows of chairs and the murky way the room looked in the light added to the feeling. We sat down in two of the chairs. And there was nothing. No machine was on. It was just quiet.

Then the owner approached us and asked us what we were doing at his shop without a laundry basket. My friend responded on both of our behalf's, honestly explaining to the owner that we were looking for a relaxing place to spend our lunches at.

"Have you tried the library?"

"It's too far" my friend explained.

"Do you guys plan on washing any clothing?"

"We were more hoping that we could just sit here."

The owner took a good long look at us, examining every pore of our being, and produced a small nod. It was with that nod that the owner disappeared into the back of the shop, and that we took a sigh of relief and sunk into the peace of the laundromat. 

We had bought some danishes at the coffee shop across the street before coming into the laundromat, so that we wouldn't be starving over our lunch break. They were really good danishes, actually, but I was in such a state of Zen that day that I didn't notice the deliciousness of the pastries; I didn't really notice anything. It was so calming in there that I could sit there without the slightest bit of worry or care.

We kept coming back to that laundromat often. In fact, we were there everyday, except for the times we needed to be at school for some event. Sometimes, we would just watch as the machines spun round and round, becoming almost hypnotized by the motion. Sometimes, we would just stare through the glass covers of the machines into the steel plating of the machines. It was almost as if we felt like we could see our souls in the depths of those machines.

I reckon that it was that year of my life that made me so happy fold the laundry for my mom every week. I reckon that it was that year of my life that made me fall in love and feel at complete peace in the laundry room.

To this day, I still ask to go to the laundry room downstairs every time there is a fresh batch of laundry in need of folding. I enjoy it so much and that is what brings me to the complaint I have.

I go to the laundry room and enjoy my time, but I always see people who don't. People who are so incredibly busy in their sad lives that they do not have the minimal time needed to fold their clothes in the laundry room to spare. They place their clothes into the machines, and exit the laundry room. Fine, that's fine. But you know what really irks me? The lifelessness of their existences. The fact that they go home after placing their laundry in the machine and set a timer to remind them to pick it up. They run like clockwork.

The machine washes the clothes for 29 minutes, and in exactly 29 minutes, they return to place their wet clothes in the dryer. The dryer washes the clothes for exactly 55 minutes, and in exactly 55 minutes, they return to place their clothes into their baskets and carry them to their apartments. To some, this sounds like a respectable action; to some, this doesn't even sound strange. And to those, I pity you. If lack so much in your life that you eagerly wait for the beep of watch to tell you to pick up your clothing, you have no life.

Those sad, menopausal women I encounter have nothing to do with their lives. They put their clothes to wash, go home and watch an episode of Dora the Explorer and anxiously get up to place their clothes in a different machine. Such a miserable routine, don't you think? How is it possible to never forget your clothes? How is it that you can never be pre-occupied with anything enough to forget to barge into the laundry and take your clothes?

You would think that such banal women would enjoy to come to the laundry and spend some of their abundantly free time riffling through their clothes; searching for bleach stains perhaps? But they don't. They walk in and take care of their business in record time. No stopping for anything, as if someone is holding a gun to their heads; as if they actually have something to do in their apartments. But they don't. They prove that they don't because they are so punctual in retrieving their laundry. So they don't have anything to do at home, yet they don't have time to spare to fold their clothes, or check them in the laundry room. How does that make any sense?

They disturb me. They make me feel like they are androids. I resent them. Not only am I always late to retrieving the laundry, I also relish the time I spend folding it in the laundry room. Not to brag, but isn't that how it should be? I hate punctual people. I feel like being overly-punctual sends a bad message - a message that reads "I have no life". Just chill out. 

Welfare: Fair or not?

This is badly written, but bare with me because I am enraged.

As I was stalking a former debate partner of mine on ask.fm, I noticed a extremely long answer. It was the size of one of my typical essays. Compared to regular answers on ask.fm this one was beyond over-the-top. Most questions are a few words, and most answers follow suit, but this one stood out like a sore thumb.

As I zoomed in closer on my phone, I realized realized that there was actually a continuation of the answer on another question. Ask.fm had actually stopped working for the boy who was typing outrageously, at a rapid pace. It had become necessary for him to continue his answer/rant on another question. I'll be perfectly honest - it is very hard to achieve the character cap in an ask.fm answer. But he had managed that and then some. But why should I keep describing the essay to you when you could take a look for yourself!

Naturally, you may not have enough time to read through it all, or you may not want to, so I'll provide my summary of his statement.

Basically, he was asked for an opinion of global warming, if he thinks it's real and what some possible repercussions could be. Now rather than answering that with a simple "yes/no" and going on to briefly discuss the consequences, this boy took the time and effort to rant about the question. Obviously, one cannot write so much about global warming itself unless they are an expert (which I am quite sure he isn't), so he naturally went off on a tangent. And that tangent is what created an unsilenceable urge within me to respond to him the best way I know how - a blog post.

Quickly, let me mention the Nordic countries. You know, the most developed countries in the world? They have the best education systems, are the least corrupt and the most progressive. They are welfare states. But I'll get into that a little later.

His tangent began very soon after he addressed the point at hand and it was majorly about the problem of welfare. It did bring up nuclear Armageddon and space exploration among other things, but it focused majorly on the need for a dictatorship, the need for abolishing welfare and the dire need for being judgemental. At least that is what I got from it. And before I start taking apart his thinking one step at a time, let me remind him publicly that I am owed a hi-five!

Most of the time, I wouldn't pay attention to a rich, entitled douche who stupidly rants about his treacherous life, but in this case, for the simple fact that I like the guy somewhat despite everything, I am inclined to respond.

I won't address the point of nuclear Armageddon. I am honestly not informed enough on the subject and don't care enough to talk about it.

So let's move onto space exploration, and very possibly, the only matter I agree with him on. Space exploration probably is futile. My reasoning differ slightly from his however. I think it would be a little hard to move the world to Mars or whatever, whereas he thinks a retard is going to drop his pet rock on the life control panel, but that's minuscule. It would be very hard to make it independent - I'll give you that, Thomas.

And finally, the good stuff! Firstly, the term "landwhales": that is pure gold. I am completely serious here. I recently watched that British anchor talk about Kelly Clarkson being fat and it made me laugh a lot! I will admit that, if she had used the term "landwhale", I would have laughed even more! So that was great. Would the landwhales have problems with getting to the moon? I doubt it - I would think that such an advanced machine would probably be able to easily accomdate fatties. But nonetheless, McDonald-consuming, flabby fatties talking about "skinny privilege" does annoy me. I mean, you don't get fat unless you are careless and lazy (medical conditions excluded), but that whole thing is for another post. I won't go off on a tangent like my former partner.

Arctic petrol without the suing? Have you completely lost your mind? A system of checks and balances is the building block of any successful thing. So let's talk about why a dictatorship is ineffective. Oh I don't know? Could it be because liberties are oppressed? Let me put it this way: if a dictatorship were in place, where I was the dictator, comments like Thomas's would be prohibited. Not only would I take down his complaint, I would send my men to Thomas's door and I'd have him and his family exiled to a concentration camp, disguised as a remote island. So that wouldn't be very nice. 

But here's the second part: Throughout history, dictatorships have never worked. At some point or another, a revolution takes place and the government is overthrown. Yugoslavia, the UK, Czechoslovakia and so on. How do you like them statistics? Reasons may vary, sure, but the fact stands that they don't work. But back to the arctic petrol. 

If a spill were to happen, and no one were there to criticize and make sure that such a spill does not happen, it would be pretty much equivalent to dropping a small nuclear bomb on that part of the ocean. (Ok, not that bad, but still.) If people didn't criticize the government, they could do whatever they wanted, like export oil from the arctic, which I may add would probably have horrid repercussions on global relations, and lead us into devastation. 

So, some "butthead" sues the government and puts off oil drilling for a few years even, and what is SO bad about that?

Okay, I'm not sure what that whole thing about invasion of group A to group B is, but I'll interpret it as best as I can.

Why should we pay for roads in less developed places? So that they can indeed develop. Because, think about it: If we make those roads, they can do things and share them, helping all of us. How would you feel if you didn't build the roads and then that remote community discovered a cure for cancer, and then you, the dictator, got cancer? You'd be like "Hey, give me some of that cure, I don't want to wither and die a slow, painful death." And they'd be like "Hey, remember when we wanted roads and you said no? Maybe if we had those we could export our cure and you could get it, but now you won't. Too bad." And naturally you'd be like "No, I'll send my private jet to get some from you, so you won't need the roads - don't worry about it!"And you know what any self-respecting group of folks would say? "We would rather be dead ourselves then give you that cure you need!"

Poor dictator.

Moral of the story: transportation is the most fundamental thing in society. Build roads if you want to live and better everyone. A road will pay for itself eventually. 

Survival of the fittest? Uh, yeah, it's not fair to the less advanced, but we aren't in some video game where the guy with the mega-bronze-annihilator-shield can take down the guy with the biodegradable-peace-shield. There's a reason why men have, for the most part, ceased in having sex with as many women as possible in order to have the widest clan. It's because that's no way to live. 

Oh, your grandchildren will have problems supporting the "freeloaders", eh? What if your privileged grandchildren aren't so privileged and they become the freeloaders? Would it be fun to watch them disintegrate because you fought loudly to not pay for welfare?

Yes. You're money should be going to that landwhale that can't find a job, know why? Because it is your fault that she cannot do so. You, as a dictator, made it so that only those who win the lottery of birth can get a decent education. Those landwhales, who cannot afford to be properly educated, they can't get a job and end up sucking up your dollars. So how about this: instead of just having your money and tax dollars go to your Aryan children's education, have them go to everybody -including the landwhales'- educations. That way, you'll spare your children from having to pay the welfare of that fattie.

The sad thing is that I am only just arriving to what the most appalling part of your essay is. This sentence: "The government should totally be in control of who gets to do what. 

For example, which families get to [have] kids, and which people get to study what, or who gets access to technology".

That is pathetic, for lack of a better word. How entitled can a person feel? How would you decide who gets to have kids? By financial income? Maybe my rich husband is a psycho and, despite his cash, he's going to rape my children and beat me, therefore creating a few new dependant individuals. Either dependant on welfare or anti-depressants or something else. How would you determine who gets access to technology? You don't like that I criticize you, so you take my Internet away, so that I become stupider, more complacent and unable to criticize you. And how do you determine who can study what? Maybe you think that a person will be better at science, so you force them to study medicine, but as a result, you lose an incredible potential author. But maybe nothing is getting through your skull. Maybe you truly are the most ignorant person out there. 

We aren't all equal, but we are all born equal, and it is our government's job to make sure that we all have equal opportunity. The fact is that when you have to save someone from death, you probably aren't going to know them well. And you'll save randomly, as opposed to taking your time and weighing the pros and cons of saving either person. You cannot be so cold and heartless - it's inhuman.

Judging people is indeed necessary, but by their personalities, not by their social standings. I'll skip the rest of the judging.

Why should we not spend more money on the people who are paying the taxes? Simply because they can manage. All citizens are comrades, they are like brothers, and we are all human. If you can thrive on your salary, why would you want more? Is it perhaps because you are a douche? If you can help your neighbour, why wouldn't you? Why do you need, no, why do you want more and more and more? That's what this consumeristic, capitalistic system has done to you. Made you completely oblivious to the needs of the others. And it is that is the worst thing possible - a lack of empathy. 

I'm not trying to preach here. And Thomas will be the first to agree that I am not over-sensitive, but some things are senseless and need to be brought to light. If everybody thought-process was like Thomas's, then where would the world be? Would we progress? Likely not. And it is because our fundamental goal as a society must be progression that we must strike down absurdities like the ones that escaped my friend's mind. School starts tomorrow, and I'll be disappointed if I don't hear a response from you, Thomas.

The Death of Lady Liberty: A Short Story

Have you ever seen that ancient movie, where that guy screams, "you can't handle the truth!"? I have. I've never actually believed that the truth couldn't be handled. I've always been an idealist, wanting freedom, equality and, most of all, justice for all. After all, that's what encouraged me to become a lawyer.

Law today is a lot better than law was in 2010 - it’s a whole lot easier to resolve disputes. Back then, at least according to B2T5, the professor emeritus of my law school, people would place their hands on a book and agree to not lie in their testimony of what happened. How stupid was that? Can you imagine just having fate in some completely unverified witness to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? I cannot. It seems absurd and it seems wrong. Furthermore, it strikes me as very inefficient.

When I was 18, I gradated at the top of my class from law school. I was immature, and confused – living in a whirlwind of ideals, and preconceived notions about the apparent functions and uses of adulthood. Ever since I was 13, I had wanted to be lawyer. Mostly because that was the time in which the BrainScan-It was being developed. Each night, while watching the news, they would talk about how this was the next big thing in law, how the rates of crime would decrease dramatically, how all reasonable doubt would be eliminated from court cases. It seemed like the perfect option.

The news was already being broadcasted via hologram to each citizen’s living room, take-out was as easy as pushing a few buttons on your building’s vending machine, and learning a new skill was as easy as attending a “hologram hall” -just like an ancient lecture hall, except in the comfort of your home with the prof appearing in front of you- for a few months.

They had determined that the youth learn best from TV. From the mistakes of the past generations, we were being bettered as a society. In the past, adults couldn’t even vaguely recall the structure of a plant cell that they learned in school, but that they could remember the slogan of every commercial. Some education reform groups argued that that was as a result of the different relaxation level of the pupil in their home and at an outside-facility. Others argued that it was simply because TV, no matter the place, was more engaging. So they reached a consensus: Holograms for students in the comforts of their own homes. And they were right! Within a few years, children were learning more, faster, and it wasn’t long before the education board deemed general school durations to be shortened. By the time you were 13, you had enough knowledge to know exactly what you want to specialize in and do it. By the time you were 18, you could graduate with a law degree and begin practice.

So in 2102, I was a graduate of law. Finally, I could begin to work and reap the miraculous benefits of the BrainScan-It. I was going to put the worst of the worst into jail. I was going to perform my civic duty and achieve my life’s purpose of bringing wretched humans to justice. Moreover, I was never going to reach a moral dilemma because I would always know that the right thing had been done. And, for the most part, things had been going exactly as I had thought they would.

My father and his mom raised me, I never knew my mother. My father had told me, when I was 25, that she had been deemed killed when I was a year old. They had never caught the guy. In fact, they had never even found a body. I had hoped, with my entire soul that I could one day bring the person responsible for my mom’s murder to justice. Actually, I had wanted to kill that person myself for depriving me of a mother, for limiting me in my personal growth. But I couldn’t do that because I never knew who that horrid person was.

It was a cloudy day when my mother’s body was found. A serene sort of day when everything feels at ease, but not that good kind of calm – the kind of calm that serves as a memo to the storm ahead. The sky was the perfect shade of gray, a slightly lighter color than concrete, which would imply that it was going to become sunny in the near future. Nonetheless, at the time it was calming and I had gone out with Quinn, my best friend of a long time. (My future wife would go on to describe Quinn as “pretty” for his girlish features and perfect, tan skin. I started to see it myself as I got older and the stigma of judging guys’ physical appearance started to wear off – he was like a work of art: flawlessly beautiful.) Anyways, my house was being renovated, actually demolished, so I had no choice to stay in, but then again, I wouldn’t have wanted to stay in on a day like that. I had earned enough money in my 10 years of law that I could afford something more lavish, and as any guy in that age, I wanted to show-off.

Quinn and I were sorts of hipsters. Unlike our peers, we preferred to travel to the “Space Bagel”, a bagel store on the other side of town. Our other friends would just order from the building vending machine; they were too lazy to make the 7-minute transport to Space Bagel, but Quinn and I were not. There was something nostalgic about going there, and we found the seven minutes and thirty-six seconds of travel to be nice downtime for chatting about girls we slept with recently, assholes who were giving us hard-times, why they hadn’t managed to find a way to alter the weather yet and so on. That day was especially funny; in fact, it was like a sort of foreshadowing to the events, which would manifest themselves in the next few hours.

Quinn started rambling, in his usual demeanor, about all the real chicks I could score in my new crib. It was customary to him to blurt out a kooky laugh in the midst of a sentence. He was one of those people who laughed at everything: his own jokes, even if no one else did, other peoples’ jokes and even hard facts sometimes. I remember that, even in elementary, we would call Quinn “Quirky Quinn”, for his enthrallment with the past. Something drew him to the ways of life 150 years ago. He never wanted to take the efficient path. When he was younger and we were playing, Quinn always wanted to play with the yellow school bus instead of the spaceships. I never understood him, neither did anyone else; he was peculiar in that sense, and it’s probably under his influence that I started to see the seven minutes and thirty-six seconds of chatting, not as a waste, but as a reward.

During our Space Bagel rendezvous I got a call. The phone spoke to me to inform me that it was 7RY21Q, the manager of the demolition crew working on my house. I answered

“3BX67T?”

“Yes, speaking?”

“I’d rather not discuss this matter on the phone, but something alarming has come up with regards to the demolition and we would appreciate your presence.”

“Alright, I’ll be there in 10 minutes”

And he hung up.

Quinn inquired what had happened. I shrugged and laughed it off by saying “incompetence”. Quinn greeted the response in his usual way – by cachinnating. We had been taught from an early age that fear was the enemy of progress and therefore I didn’t fear the fact that something so mysterious had come up that my presence was necessary.

We packed up our stuff and made it onto the transport.

On the transport back, Quinn got a message from a girl, requesting some sort of comfort after breaking up with her boyfriend. It was too good an offer to pass up on for him, so, with a wink; he quickly diverted transports and headed over like a knight in shining armor to help this damsel in distress. I travelled, gazing out at the seemingly endless sky.

When I got to the site of my future home, I discovered the entire crew standing idly.

“What’s the problem?” I inquired.

“We can’t demolish this part of the wall.” He obediently responded.

“Why? Something to do with pipes, or…?”

“Actually, there seems to be some sort of steel encasement in the wall. We didn’t want to demolish until we checked to see that this wasn’t something important to you”

“I inherited the place from my dad when he retired and moved, but I don’t know anything about this.”

“Ok, so would you like us to continue the demolition process?”

“I guess, but try and keep the box together, I want to see what it is.”

“As you wish, sir.”

A few whacks later, nothing remained of the house I had once known except a steel box. After a relentless attack by crowbar by a Middle-Eastern looking man, the box opened.

Inside was a perfectly preserved, mummified corpse. I didn’t see the body behind the wrapped bandages, nor would I have wanted to, but common sense told me that it was perfectly preserved because of the lack of exposure to the elements. Whoever had killed the person had obviously put a lot of effort into keeping them beautiful. After some inspection by the police and the Coroner’s office it was found to be my mother’s body. My mother’s body in my father’s house. In my state of terror, I immediately assumed that suspicion would fall to me first, and that, that was scary, but naturally it didn’t. Looking back, I think that that is what I regret the most: the fact that my first reaction to my mother’s corpse was not one of sadness or grief, but one of selfish fear.

After a few weeks, the dust had settled. My mom was discarded, as all dead bodies were, to outer space. The prime suspect, my own father, was in custody, along with his assumed accomplice, his mom. I was the prosecutor in charge.

Despite the fact that my superior was an android, he had had enough humanity to ask me if I had wanted to take on the case, if I felt fit to do so, if my human emotions could be pushed aside in favor of unraveling the truth. My first instinct was no. How could I ever use a cool head to bring my father to justice for the murder of anyone, let alone my mother? But that was the fear inside of me talking, and fear is the enemy of progress. I was in no position to block progress; I had no right to do so. I was a prosecutor. I signed up knowing I’d have to deal with gruesome situations. I signed up with the intention of doing what was right. I was a servant of the state, and nothing was to come between that. My parents were my parents, but more importantly they were citizens, citizens like you, like me, like Quinn, like the waitress in the Space Bagel and like everyone else. They were not above the law, and I was not to let them be. Equality is prosperity, and giving my parents’ case special privilege was not treating them as equals. 

Naturally, Quinn was strongly opposed to me taking on the case. He spoke about emotions, and with utter disregard for the ideals of our nation. He said that treating people as equals was important, of course, but that these were my parents, not just some strangers. He claimed, with complete confidence, that this case would be the end of me. That the sheer horror I’d go through would change our relationship, my career and me. He begged me pass up on the case and let someone else handle it.

“No one would blame you.” He announced.

“But I would blame myself. I can’t stick my head in the sand. They’re my parents!” I refuted him.

And it was with that statement that I agreed to take on the case of my parents.

I went to Quinn’s house, my makeshift workspace until construction of my property was completed. Despite Quinn’s opposition to my decision, he did let me use his house to work, but our relationship was becoming increasingly strained and tense. I set up my case file. All signs pointed to my dad. I knew how this would turn out. No amount of hope would change that.

The day had finally come. I went to the Earth holding facility where my dad was being held for the BrainScan-It to work it’s magic. I asked him to recount the events leading up to the murder of my mother, and without hesitation, in an almost obliged tone he responded:

“Ilya, you know that I love you. But I never loved your mother. She was never fit to be a mother. She was crazy: in love with the past, living in a constant state of fear, an obstacle in the path of progress. She loved you more than other children, and opposed equality as a by-product. But she had the perfect gene set-up. She was beautiful, and her I.Q. was exponentially high. Her hopeless romanticism allowed me to woo her, and you were born. For the first year of your life, we needed her to feed you, but after that Lucille and I could manage. I couldn’t let her have a say in how you were raised, to let her poison you with some ideals of the past.  She was crazy. Lucille was the epitome of a perfect mother; her raising you was a much safer idea. We were great parents – you’d attest to that, surely. Your mother is Lucille. Clare was simply your gene donor.”

The BrainScan-It beeped. At this point an inexplicable fear struck my heart. My mind flooded with memories and thoughts about our society. It was as if time stopped and everything disappeared. I could feel and hear my own heart beating; my head felt like it was submerged under water. My father’s conformity to the ideals of the state had justified murder in his mind; murder of a person, who now seemed strikingly similar to my best friend.

“But why kill her?”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen. I wanted to simply divorce her and take custody of you, but she refused. She felt a puzzling intimacy towards you and refused to give me custody. I asked mom what to do and she said we had no choice.”

The BrainScan-It let out another beep.

“Lucille told you to do this?”

“Please don’t call her Lucille, she’s ‘mom’ to you. Well, we were left with no choice, Clare was incredibly persistent.”

Another beep.

“I was her son, why wouldn’t she persist?”

“You see, her genes were great, except for this part. You seem to have the same sort of passé view. You were her son, but you were a citizen like everyone else. I know that she would not have persisted if you weren’t her son.”

A final little beep protruded from the BrainScan-It. It was the signal that the statement made by the subject was true. I looked at him; at his stoic eyes, his remorseless lips, and his sterile, brainwashed figure. My mind raced, my blood boiled and I frantically looked around the room, desperate to find something to kill him with. But there was nothing. The rooms were designed to keep the peace. And so I fantasized.

“You’ll have to forgive me someday, Ilya. You’ll see that what I did was good.”

I frapped the door for the guard to let me out and after a small intermission, where I spilled tears onto the ground; I made my way to Lucille’s holding cell.

“Ilya, darling, you do look charming today!” She proclaimed.

“Lucille, you encouraged John to kill my mother, didn’t you?”

“Darling, I know you’re upset but that’s no reason to not call me ‘mom’. And I did, only because she left us with no choice and we wanted what was best for you. That woman was no good for you, or your dad“

Again, I frapped on the door and was let out by the guard.

I realized that, in a way, she was the mastermind of it all. My father was weak and succumbed to all of her commands. I hated them both and did my utmost to make sure that their sentences were maximal. My lengthy career had given me a definite intimacy with judges, so they heeded my recommendations for sentences almost blindly. I came to the conclusion that the greatest punishment for them both was to separate them, so I requested that they be sent to different outer space prisoner colonies and my request was accepted. They wailed when being separated and I realized that the only person either of them could ever truly love was the other.

At their final goodbyes to me they were noticeably angry and refused to communicate with me, rather continued weeping at their separation. I went to my father and I said one thing to him:

“Don’t cry, she’s just another citizen – you wouldn’t cry if it wasn’t her.” And I left the room.

When I got to Quinn’s house, I decided that I should try and make amends, but I never really succeeded. As the days progressed, our affair drifted further and further apart. We went separate ways. This wasn't a messy and vile case of friends becoming foes – it was a drifting apart. Slow and steady, but sure. The type of scenario where, after the friendship, there are no hard feelings, no backstabbing, no gossip - just neutrality. In hindsight, Quinn was right: that case took away my morality and my humanity – it changed me. I was different.

Despite everything, I do not regret for one moment disregarding Quinn’s advice and taking on the case. I was brave, as I should’ve been. I saw the travesties that exist in the world and I am glad to have done so. I couldn’t have lived my life with my proverbial head in the proverbial sand.

After that case, I retired. I had enough money, I had a house (minus a mummy) and I had met a girl.

I never heard, nor did I try to hear, what happened to Lucille and John. I heard that Quinn had gotten married, had a few kids and encouraged them to study history. I did see him, only once after though, at a bar, while on vacation with his family. I invited them over to our place, but Quinn said that they couldn’t make it.

I felt like I had received my, not daily, not weekly, not yearly, but lifetime dose of evil, and as if I didn’t need any anymore, ever. When my girlfriend got pregnant with our first kid, we moved out to a tropical place; leaving everything behind. We started life anew. When our daughter was born, I felt as if my life was complete and as if everything was somehow going to work itself out – and it did. We lived completely carefree, and I still do, as a very happy, very proud grandpa of three.

An Enhanced Analysis of Enhanced Interrogations

Happy New Year!

It's been a while since my last post and I apologize for that. But to come back in style, I have decided to write a nice article on torture!

There's been a lot of talk lately about torture and human rights. Justly so, considering that a few days ago, the US Senate released a report on "Enhanced Interrogation Tactics". Yes, enhanced indeed. Before I get into my thoughts, let me quickly propose a change to an out-of-date term that is bound to come up a lot in this post - "terrorism". I think it should be coined as "Aggrandized Goal Achievement Strategy" (AGAS). How does that sound? Pretty good, right? Anyways, if you are yet to discover the magnificence of rectal feeding, rectal rehydration and waterboarding, I suggest you set some time aside this holiday season to do so - it's sure to be fun for the whole family! But that's not my job… No, I'm not here to shed light on specific torture methods - that's the US Senate's job. I'm simply here to discuss America's essential role on the global stage.

The United States has, since as long as my youthful existence can remember, been the most major player on the global stage. They have had a lot of control, in a lot of the world's decisions. They have went on countless "humanitarian missions", they have imposed regimes on sovereign states and they have acted the way neo-fascists with little opposition would.

Their methods for intel collection have long been known - just never verified - until now!

Regardless, let's discuss the fairness of the situations:

If you have the right to sing to your neighbor, then isn't it only just that your neighbor have the right to sing to you? If the US has a right to use legal loopholes like Guantanamo for their benefit and a right to play God in decisions about the treatment of other humans, why shouldn't other places? Why is it such a grave situation when an American ex-navy seal is beheaded by ISIS while on humanitarian work in Syria, but not when a group of many Syrians are forced to endure elephant sized tubes filled with mushy falafel and hummus, up their assholes, literally. (Generally, this is the part where I would apologize for my unladylike language. However, in this specific case, I feel like you have no one to blame for your nightmares but the US Government.) Not to defend the terrorists, who are terrorists in most part because they are brown, but those American soldiers and newly-reformed humanitarian workers are no saints.

But OK, let's not dwell on that, ask yourself this: why is the US government forgiven for all their infractions, when they rarely turn a blind eye to offenders? Is that fair?

Yes! Why of course it is! I mean, it's not like we're talking about some third world, little rectum of the world country, right? We're talking about America the brave, the glorious. The country which has the right to do as it pleases in the world. So of course they can do whatever they want! I mean, it's not like they were torturing anyone, you know? They were simply enhancing their interrogation techniques for the greater good. So what if they decide what is in the world's best interest? They are America! Right? What if they play the most major, most unethically deserved role on the global stage? They are America! Right?

No, let's come back down to planet earth for a second and ask ourselves this: How would the US react if they found out that the AGAS users were using enhanced interrogation on captured US soldiers? They would have a spasm. Obama would get out there and say something about how there will be no place to hide for the AGASists. Dick Cheney, who has said that he would approve the torture - I mean enhanced interrogation - in heartbeat because they prevented another mass casualty event against the US, would probably have a fit. Dick would spit on the Obama regime for not taking a tough enough stance and condemn the people who were  responsible. Did I just say "people"? Oh, those people would probably be dead, beheaded, murdered, gone and face down in a ditch with no teeth, a smashed-in skull, no fingernails, no record of existence, and no other identifying features whatsoever. But people are no biggie, especially to a faction as big as the US government. People are just people. Individuals, or inconspicuous dust flying around in the atmosphere.

But, imagine that these people were part of something bigger - government! I think that this government -if the US wasn't already caressing it with its perverse paws- would immediately be liquidated. Either physically ("BANG BANG YOU'RE DEAD!") or from the inside, via putting in place a puppet government.

It's happened before and it will happen again.

It's like when Iran started developing enriching uranium and the US freaked out. But that's a whole different story.

The US reacted to this situation the same way they reacted to the spying scandal that Snowden brought out. They brushed it off. I mean, the US doesn't even feel a need to justify it's actions anymore. It has become utterly immune to international law and it knows it. Lucky them.

My poor, crappy little country of descendance is being forced to put aside its values and rights to free speech and free thought in order to enter into European Union, which is a failure by the way, but America - they can spy on whoever it wants, it can invade any country it wants and not worry about repercussions. They never get forced into changing their ways. You know why? Because you cannot break the rules, if you make them, right?

Now I'm just ranting. Honestly, I've been shaking out of rage for the majority of the time I have been penning this post. In reality, I know that this post probably isn't going to make a lot of sense. The anger will probably take over, causing me to write one big, senseless rant. But I'm ok with that, I'm prepared for that, actually. So let's move aside from my self-pity and rambling, into some talk about the fabulous electoral options -in light of the recent scandals- for the American people.

Democrats or Republicans?

I used to think that the Democrats were better than the Republicans. I used to think that the Democrats had a little more humanity than the Republicans, but throughout the recent scandals, I've discovered that the Democrats are no better than the Republicans, they are just better at hiding the truth than the Republicans. The Republicans make it part of their whole stance to represent the hillbilly patriot of America. You know what I mean, right? The type of person who doesn't care about the people, only themselves. The kind of person who likes to hang the confederate flag on their trailer. The kind of person who deep fries their Thanksgiving turkey in 5 minutes in an enormous oil barrel. The kind who likes to shoot up a bunch of empty beer cans in camo and stand their ground when a black kid wanders past their house. The Republicans are loud and they are proud of their stance.

The Democrats are basically the same, minus the loud and proud thing. (Now you say "Oh no they're not!" And I say:) If they weren't, then wouldn't the gun laws in the States undergo some sort of reform? Wouldn't Obama have an answer less sleezy than "we are not tapping your phone and we will not be tapping your phone" when the German Chancellor asks him about whether or not he had been spying on her previously? Wouldn't something be done about the police brutality against the colored kids south of the border? Wouldn't enhanced interrogations be prohibited? Uh, yeah, they pretty much would, or at least, they'd be well on their way.

Now I know what you're thinking: the democrats had no clue that this (Enhanced Interrogations) was going on right under their noses. No, poor little, oblivious Democrats. Innocent and naive; believing that the world is fundamentally good. Poor little minority house leader Nancy Pelosi. She had no idea that these types of obvious human rights trampling-s were going on under her nose. Oops! My bad! What I meant to say was that she had condoned the actions! Not just for a little bit of time, but for 14 years worth of it! And according to Jose Rodriguez, a not-so-secret agent man from the lovely CIA, she never objected to it. Not once. Pathetic.

So are the Democrats so much better? Nah, they're just better at concealing certain things. Is that good? Morally, no. Business-wise, yes!

So do the American people have a choice when they go to the polls? Not really; sucks for them.
Regardless, should we get back to the major theme that I promised I would talk about at the start of this post? Of course! America's essential role on the global stage:

The US's role in the world is to act as a watchdog of sorts, but unlike your regular watchdog, who barks when something seems out of place, the US bites. They invade. They attack. How, is questionable, but the biting part isn't. This persistent and unequivocal biting has created a world in which such a large animosity exists against the US that they themselves must live in fear. Had the US not gone on frequent moral crusades, they would not have to fear being attacked, and hence, not have to use enhanced interrogations.

They propagate, to their very own people, that they have to defend their blessed land against the evils around it. That they have to protect the land from a insurgent force. And that they are justified in using any means possible. What they fail to explain to their people is why other countries are not constantly living "under threat of a mass casualty" (that's how Dick put it, not me). Actually, maybe not! Maybe they do explain to their people why they are the forsaken ones. Because they are the only good ones.

In a sea of evil, America glimmers, glorious as ever.

They are the only ones smart enough to take preemptive actions, they are the proactive ones. And their people blindly believe them. They don't question why the US is going into yet another humanitarian mission. They just see it as the right thing to do. They don't ask why toppling a sovereign state's government is unfair, they just chant "AMERICA!" at the top of their lungs. They have been conditioned to love their country's actions, so much so that basic humane values do not matter. (Or at least, they have the wrong values instilled upon them). So much so that the most fundamental value of any civilized society "Do not do unto others what you do not want others to do unto you", is completely ignored.

At least, that's how my rabid mind sees it. (A very brief explanation, indeed.)

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. I have met some Americans with progressive minds. Americans who did not lovingly embrace the rape committed by their government on other countries. Good people, with good values. It's just that, somehow, unfortunately, they seem to be chronically outnumbered by their hillbilly counterparts. Actually, I think that American people, as individuals, are a riot. They're a lot of fun to be around and they're funny (keep in mind that I am speaking from my incredibly vast 16 years of knowledge). They are a lot less politically correct than their neighbours up north - a quality in my eyes. They are a lot less bounded by societal rules in some aspects, hence not fake-smiling for prolonged periods, it's just that government is just not one of them. In fact, one of the few people, whose opinions and thoughts my egocentric self ever put merit on and admired, was American. He's only a year older than me, but he's very smart.
(I met him in elementary and he knew a whole lot more than anyone else about anything else. And he was not a cynic, though everyone did consider him to be, he was a just a misfit. People didn't like his whole approach because, simply put, he didn't like to smile about everything, as they did. Regardless, he was very nice to me, perhaps nicer than I deserved, but I learned a lot from him. It's too bad that I don't get to talk to him much anymore, it was one of the downsides of switching schools.)

So, what have I tried to convey today? That the real AGASists may not be the ones who are brown and wear ghutras, they may just be the ones on humanitarian missions. If random "suspected" brown people can be captured and subjected to enhanced interrogations, what is so different about an ISIL member capturing an American? Both parties simply want to do that which they see as best for their respective country. Each party is messing with the other.

Did the US blow up countless schools full of children in the middle east while fighting the "war on terror"? And did they suffer no consequences whatsoever for their actions?

Yes, yes they did. But keep in mind that they are untouchable.

Moreover, when this scandal about torture came to light, isn't it true that it only received about a few days of news coverage before it stopped getting air time, whereas the beheading of an American  by ISIL received nearly a month?

Yes, yes it is. But keep in mind that white, American lives are always worth more than the lives of anyone else.

ISIS

Prime Minister Stephen Harper recently announced, during a rare address to parliament, that Canada would be going the fight against ISIS. He informed the MPs that, though there will be no ground troop deployed, air strikes will commence and continue for up to six months, at which point the situation will be reviewed and efforts will possibly be extended. According to Harper, the airstrikes are planned for Iraq, but could potentially be expanded to Syria. 

Additionally, Harper explained that Canada's participation will be limited to only countries where there is a supporting and legitimate government (thus excluding Syria). Parallely, the government will extend it's original 30 day advisory mission, which is supposed to contribute 69 special operations officers, in addition to the 280 aircrew personnel. Despite admitting that eliminating the Islamic State is likely impossible, he said that he does believe Canada's efforts will "significantly reduce" the threat. 

Parliament will vote on -and likely pass- the proposition on Monday, due to the Conservative majority. Both Thomas Mulcair and Justin Trudeau, leaders of the NDP and Liberal parties respectively, said that, as oppose to airstrikes, other means could be explored. Mulcair said “The tragedy in Iraq and Syria will not end with another Western-led invasion in that region." Similarly, Trudeau said that Canada can make a much more prominent impact on the war on ISIS by using some unspecified "non-combat roles", rather than "a few aging warplanes".

The US's airstrike campaign against ISIS has seemingly come to no avail. Not only has it cost them approximately 1 billion dollars to date, but it has cost them the literal heads of 3 citizens (The US refused to pay a 100 million ransom for each kidnapped journalist, and the journalists were hence beheaded). Other countries have joined the airstrikes and threatened to revoke the passports of citizens that go to aid ISIS, but it doesn't seem to be having a potent effect either. 

The only troops on the ground at the moment are Kurdish (An Islamic minority being targeted by ISIS) and Iraqi militia and soldiers. "Not good enough" according to a flurry of critics, who believe that the only remedy to the ISIS plague is ground combat. It is undeniable that ISIS must be stopped, but to what lengths should Canadians and the rest of the world go to? How much tax-payer money should be expended on this? Is there more that Canada can do? And most importantly, is this fight, especially from Canada's perspective, in vain?

The Personal Bubble

"Don't invade my private space!"

"This is my personal bubble!"

"Could you just not be so close to me?"

These are all phrases which I have heard all too often.

When I was younger, and attending elementary school, I was faced with the concept of "the personal bubble". It was a very challenging concept for my extroverted mind to grasp. Nonetheless, I tried; naturally, I failed. No, I wasn't very good at "keeping to myself". When I would talk to my friends, I would touch them. It was nothing inappropriate; just the occasional tap on the hand, the hug and the pulling of the jaw to adjust the line of sight. At least, I thought it was nothing inappropriate. 

According to a countless array of Super Vision Aids, teachers, counsellors and friends, however, I was extremely aggressive and impolite. In fact, I was even once told, by a teacher, that my touching could be viewed as a form of harassment. Apparently, tapping your friend's hand to get their attention, holding their hand while walking to some place you're really excited about and adjusting their line of sight via jaw-pulling, could all be potentially traumatic and harassing experiences to a person, even if that person was your friend. It was a good thing to learn. It gave me a better perspective of what constitutes a friend and of the society I live in. It was tough lesson to learn at a young age, and it was, in a way, very shocking. Needless to say, it was a lesson which I was bound to learn the hard way. In hindsight, I am actually quite happy to have learned the lesson at a young age, for it put a lot of  society's mannerisms into perspective for me. Additionally, that lesson became the foundation for many soft skills that I would learn in the years to come.

Obviously, I still touch people; not as much as before, but still. Actually, I am able to judge which friends of mine would greatly mind me invading their personal space and which ones wouldn't. Last year, I made an error in judgement. I was talking to a petit Asian girl in my fantastic planning class, and when she started to stare out the window, I poked her leg as to have her turn her attention back to me. My poke succeeded; she focused on me again, but quickly drifted off again. This time, I didn't want to poke her, rather I came to terms with the fact that she didn't want to listen to me. Regardlessly, I kept talking because I was so enthralled in my own story that I simply had to say it, and didn't care if anyone bothered to listen. During my riveting monologue, I placed my hand gently on top of hers in order to imitate and add some depth and texture to what I was saying. To this touch, she swiped her hand away from under mine and gave me a look of fury. 

"Can you stop touching me?! No seriously, it's like every story you tell you have to rape me!"

Rape her? I didn't know that tapping her hand constituted rape, but I guess it did to her. 

Luckily for me, my planning teacher heard this, and turned her head to give me the most degrading and confused look possible. I immediately addressed her confusion with the line: "I only touched her hand!"

"Look Nat, I know, it's just a difference in culture. You have to understand that this isn't Europe, people don't like to be touched."
Okay, I guess I understood. People are, for whatever reason, petrified of being touched. I myself, can never truly relate to those people, but then again, I'm European, right? We barbaric Europeans, we feel the need to express our emotions fully and to the highest possible degree. To achieve this, we use hand gestures and touching. They convey the story a little better; they dramatize the story a little more.
Allow me to move from this small anecdote into the reason I am actually writing this post.
Everyday, on my daily commute, I see people who know each other, avoid each other on the bus. They politely nod and say "hi" as the make their way to the back of the bus. They don't stop to speak to the person they know; sometimes, they don't even sit down next to the person (provided that there is seat available). They walk on by without giving so much as a second thought to speaking with each other. It's repudiating. If it weren't for the pathetically induced polite "hello", one would think that the two didn't know one another.
Many of you reading this are probably taking into account how well the two folks know each other. You probably are thinking "well, you can't talk to someone if you don't know them well enough to know what to say - you could offend them." That's true enough, but are there really things that you think/say that could offend them so much? I would hope not.
It's really annoying and sad when I see it. I say a little prayer to myself that I never become associated with such individuals. Even if a person had only met me for a few minutes at a mutual lecture, I'd still hope that they'd be willing and decent enough to strike up a conversation. I'd rather have them sit beside me and talk about anything, than have them ignore me while they walk to the opposite side of the bus. Wouldn't you? See, I would feel like a bad person if someone didn't want to sit near me. I would question what I did wrong in order to have that person feel that way about me.
But, what would make me feel the worst? If that person sat down beside me and then ignored me by putting their earbuds in or opening up the newspaper.
I could barely believe my own eyes when I saw it! A man donned a proper nod to some woman he knew and -I believe it was out of decency- sat down in the empty seat next to her. They exchanged greetings that lasted about 30 seconds. A "hi" and "how are you" per person. Then the they got bored with each other, or they came to a lack of words, or, most likely, things just got awkward. The man pulled out his tablet and started repairing some excel spreadsheet, and the woman, keeping her plastic smile in full throttle, stared out the window.
It looked like something out of a SciFi movie, where aliens had programmed people to say "hello", yet be emotionless. She reminded me of a Stepford wife, and he, he just looked pathetic. Overall, it was a very sad and depressing scene to witness. It was almost as if the end of human interaction was pending.
Worst of all, when the man checked his Facebook account, I saw that he had 568 friends. 568 friends in cyberspace, yet he couldn't even properly speak to one for twenty minutes.
Just like people feel uncomfortable with me touching them when I tell a story, I'm sure they feel uncomfortable to speak to each other if they aren't very well acquainted. What's the point of a life when you have no one you can talk to? What's the point of life when you are too frightened to speak to your fellow man? Can living truly be called living if it is wretchedly stiff?
I wouldn't write about this if it was a "one-off", but unfortunately, it's not. It's an event I see at least once a day on my commute, and it's an event which sours my entire day and causes me to lose hope in this interactionless society known as "humanity".

Unwise

Three years ago, when I was in grade 8, I witnessed a boy win the student election at my school by giving a speech about turtles. Like all the other candidates, he got up on stage and recited a carefully written speech about turtles entering the salt water of the beach from their sandy birthplace. He then made the correlation, the connection, the metaphor that all of us kids are turtles entering the ocean that is high school. As he spoke, he trembled and shook the way a leaf does when hit by a raindrop. He stammered and stuttered the way a toddler does when lying to his mother about stealing cookies from the cookie jar. Sweat dripped from his forehead the way juice drips from a rotisserie chicken. His speaking skills were inadequate to say the least, and he was petrified, yet he went on to win the grade 8 presidential election. His win was purely based on his creatively themed speech. His charisma, his thoughts, his future actions were not addressed in the slightest in his speech. Not one of my peers cared about what that boy was going to do to bring change to our school, nobody cared about how he would improve our grade's position in school decision making and nobody cared about what kind of person, and more importantly leader, that boy would make. The only thing that that group of 13-year-olds cared about was the hilarity of their peer's speech. 

I'll give credit where credit is due however. That boy earned his win because he knew how to appeal to a group of his peers. He was clever. He knew that any young adults would enjoy his funny speech. He knew that any adolescent child would rather listen to a guy talk about cute turtles and make them laugh, rather than listen to a boring speech of someone's vision for a better future - and I commend him for that.
This little anecdote is what brings me to my point: the legal voting age.
I have read countless articles written by children of my own age boasting the benefits of allowing those under 18 to vote. I have even read articles by adults insisting that children are capable of making a serious choice in an election. Some of my peers have gone so far as to say that they feel that all children, as of age 16, should and would be excited to vote and inform themselves about politics. I, however, disagree, and with each pro-lowering-the-voting-age paper I read, I feel a sense of immaturity, rebellion and even disgust.
I am repulsed by the Napoleonic attitude of my generation and their absolute certainty in their decisions.
Feelings aside, I would like to bring forward a series of arguments as to why children of my own age should not be able to participate in one of society's most important and defining functions - elections.
From the story I described above, one can conclude that children have an issue separating entertainment from reality; a problem which can encourage a party to alter the focuses of their campaign.
Well, okay, maybe not change everything, but definitely some things. It is undeniable; parties would have to endeavour to gain the votes of the young. Surely, they would attempt to create a campaign based majorly in social media, as that is what we youth spend most of our free time on. Surely, they would attempt to make a profound and thought-provoking campaign, but the question remains: what would they do after their mature campaign failed? Would they allow the youth's votes to go to waste? Would they change their campaign to appeal to the masses of the youth, hence risking the revocation of older peoples' votes? Or, would all those children's votes become the votes of their parents?
Regardless of your opinion, I'd like to provide another example:
During a debate with one of my peers on the subject, I was faced with a question: "You and I are perfectly capable of making an informed vote, so is it not arrogant and wrong of you to assume that the rest of the kids here can't?" An excellent question, which I believe I answered with an equally excellent response. I figured that words could simply not express and disprove my peer's theory as well as an example could. Considering the fact that we were in school on our lunch break, it was very easy for me to pull aside a child to use as my example. A sandy-haired, pale and muscle-less boy was in the middle of his enormous sub sandwich when I pulled him aside and asked "If you could vote in the next election, which party would you vote for?" After a series of "umms", "whats" and "uhhs", his response was exactly what could've been expected from the average adolescent boy. "The Awesome Party". I responded by inquiring about what was important to him. "Video games" was the ideal response to cement my point to my peer.
The sad truth is that that boy represents the masses of my generation. Despite the fact that I have met a multitude of clever, witty, smart and well-informed children my own age, I met far more who are dumb. So, to those that argue that not allowing youth to vote deprives them of expanding their horizons, getting involved in their community and expressing themselves, I disagree. I think that disallowing youth to vote actually prevents all the stupidity that could come out of my age-range.
And let me just pre-emptively address an issue which is sure to arise: Allowing 16 year olds to vote, is not going to encourage them to get involved in politics. We see this through history in countless like-examples.
Lastly, my opinion changes on a whim. I have a different view on a different subject on a near daily basis. Take my future, for example. I am never sure what I want to do after high school. I feel like I have a general idea, but nothing concrete. So should someone like me truly be able to vote - only to make a decision I could regret the next day?
So, why the long post about why kids shouldn't be allowed to vote? Because of the boy who won the student election? No. Was it a big deal? No, being the grade representative of the youngest high school grade does not change the course of humanity, nor does it have a tremendous impact on a student's life. The truth is that teachers and administrators continue to make the majority of the important decisions. Student council is more a way of providing false hope and assurance to children that they indeed are equal to the rest of society. But what that speech was, was a testament to the immaturity and the incapability of youths to make serious decisions.