Hey, Hey!

I got into university. Haha.

More elaboration to come soon. I would've posted sooner, but I wrote my post onto paper, so it's going to take a while to type it out. :) :) :)

Why I Dislike the New Curriculum

Here's something else to keep you occupied over this fabulous Spring break. This is about the new curriculum, which will be implemented after I graduate high school. It's an article I wrote for the school newspaper. If you want to read more from our school newspaper, take a look here: https://uhillhawkseyeblog.wordpress.com/

My school journey has been special. It has been a jumbled pile of programs, schools, teachers and curricula. Based on this, and the following accounts, I intend to demonstrate that I am quite qualified to speak on the effectiveness of the new curriculum; at least, more so than some ministry bureaucrats that last attended school 30 years ago.

After finding class overly easy in grade 4, I was volunteered, by my school, to take an IQ test. I scored highly enough that the compilation of enigmatic determiners of my future decided to deport me from traditional learning at my comfortable downtown school, to the contemporary and whimsical learning at the MACC program, located on the other side of the city. Oh, the MACC program – what a fantastical flop of education that was. The MACC theory: you get 30 kids, in grades 4 through 7, who score over 130 on their IQ tests, or are deemed to have incredible artistic abilities, and you put them in a room together – you see magic happen.

Assuming that you’re a logical reader, the question you’re presently asking yourself is the ever-important “how?” I’ll give you the laughable answer that the idealistic organizers thought of – “let their minds run free!” This is where MACC, an idea with potential, becomes a farce. To take 10-13-year-olds, no matter how big their brains, and expect them to have a distinguishable passion and enough insatiable desire and motive to innovate upon that passion is absurd – and I say that nicely.

So, when I hear that the new curriculum is meant to provide more free-reign to students, my post traumatic stresses from MACC become resurrected, and I shudder. After 3 years of MACC, and after a year of “Hamber Academy”, a program similarly developed off the principle of Google’s “20% Time”, I can assuredly say that the proposed programs are not in the students’ best interests.

Am I advocating for something so ultra-traditional that it mimics the educational system that my parents were trudged through in Socialist Yugoslavia? Not at all, I’m merely encouraging school to provide its most essential service to its -and society’s- most valuable consumers – children. I mean, looking at the children who have come here from traditional-style schools in, say, China, what we see is kids who are staggeringly better at both exams and at innovation. Why? Because innovation is impossible without a solid base of traditional-learning.

School’s purpose is to expose children to as many activities as possible, so as to allow for children to discover a talent or passion, which they would then continue on later in life. Generally, children cannot find a passion themselves, not only because humans are innately lazy creatures, but because they don’t have a breadth of resources and activities on their doorstep. If this dangerous transition in school’s role, and in students’ lives, takes place, it poses a threat to a plethora of sectors: pro-traditional-learning parents, namely immigrants, like mine, will be enraged with the lack of concrete work. This has already happened at Norma Rose. The importance of teachers will diminish, as they will begin to be seen as supervisors instead of educators. After all, my MACC teacher was easily replaceable. And, most critically, we will see an increase in unprepared students graduating; students who may have viewed their “inspiring” learning-hub as an excellent excuse for wasting-away. And no one would notice, because, obviously, the marking system would have to be changed as well, and would likely move to one more akin to the MACC one, where each student grades themselves. Kids need direction and they need adults. Let’s ease-up on them gradually, but equip them with a traditional-learning-base first – they can’t be creative without one.

I turned out an ambition-less, depressed and lazy child. I had potential, but it disintegrated without guidance. Transitioning to U Hill was difficult, and I cannot accustom myself to it still, but I definitely have learned something in this system. No number -no IQ- will ever change that. I was not an aberration. Out of my MACC class, I know of two kids who had already discerned their passions at 12, worked on them, and flourished in a way that would not have been possible in a regular school environment. That’s 2 out of 30 – I may be failing math, but even I know that those aren’t very good odds, especially when applied to all children, not just the “gifted” ones. MACC was a failure – a lot of us emerged less smart; a lot of us exploited the freedom, but who could blame us? We were just being kids. The same will happen with the new curriculum.

Why You Should Elect Me Valedictorian Speech

I'm running for valedictorian at my school, so a lot of my writing time has become devoted to that. Since I've left this blog fairly bare in the last little bit, I've decided to post this speech here for why I think I should be the valedictorian. Enjoy!

Purpose. Purpose is a word that, in high school, practically loses it's meaning. We hear it repeated so many times that it becomes diluted and foggy in our minds. High school is viewed as time in which, unless you want to endure a mid-life crisis at 50, you should discover your ever-important purpose. Frankly, it goes in through one ear, and straight out the other. But let's get back to it from a different context. What is the purpose of valedictorian? I believe that it lies, quite simply, in harnessing the scattered thoughts of the graduating class and vocalizing them. In a good valedictorian speech, you should hear my diction, my voice, but underneath it, all you should hear is a reflection of your message, and your tone. Now, it is a difficult task to harness 100 voices, but it is one that I am very ready to take part in, and frankly, one that I have already been taking part in for 4 years now. Furthermore, it is a task that I, as per my resume, am most qualified to take on as well. Let's delve into that.

Perhaps it's because I am white, but it seems to me that I am well-known throughout the school. In fact, in some way, I am recognized as the loud, talkative and perhaps occasionally irritating student. If you've ever sat in an English or Socials or anything else for that matter class, you likely witnessed my oration of a rant. You've probably been annoyed by my unwillingness to stop talking. So, since most of us can attest to that, is it not fair then to assume that the giving of a speech will come most naturally to me? But wait, there's more:

Unlike my opponents, I have been debating for 7 years now. Last year, I introduced debate to Norma Rose and sent two of their debaters to provincials, this year, I became president of our school club. I have won countless competitions in debate, which in and of itself should demonstrate that I can talk about anything pretty well. Right? I know what you're thinking though: debate is political, valedictorian is a completely different subject matter altogether. But here's the kicker: I have already wrote a winning valedictorian speech. A year ago, the VSB contacted me to help two teachers teach a gifted workshop to students on public speaking. After doing so, I was contacted by certain parents and asked to tutor their children in speech-writing and debate. I took on the job. Most notably, I tutored one girl from York House, a private school. Anyways, she had a speech competition at her school where she needed to write and recite a valedictorian speech for the chance to advance to the Provincial speech competition. I wrote it for her, and I spent hours painstakingly helping her recital seem natural. I didn't know anything at all about the girls at York House, but I managed to write such a speech that that girl won her school competition and advanced to Provincials. This year, her younger sister had the same task. This year, I again wrote a brand new valedictorian speech for her sister to recite to the girls at York House. This year, her younger sister had the same outcome.

The fact is this: I have dedicated a large portion of my existence to writing and giving speeches, and there is nothing more that I would like to than give a speech to everyone here at grad. I'm pretty good at it. In grade 10 planning, after my vitamin presentation, Ms. Silvers herself actually stopped and told the class to take note of my presentation skills. I have for the past 4 years had a blog dedicated completely to speeches and essays. One of those was published alongside Maclean's Magazine.

But hey, maybe all those qualifications just can't trump the importance of voting for your friend who is standing up here. My 7 years of debating, my 4 years of blogging, may be meaningless to you. And I'm here to tell you today that they shouldn't. Why? Because valedictorian is no popularity contest. No, that's prom king and queen. Valedictorian should be the position for the best and most qualified speaker, and I'll leave that decision up to you. Just don't let the purpose of valedictorian become skewed. I promise you this: I will not run for prom queen (if that is a thing you run for), this is all I want. And thus, you, you can elect your friends for other things and hear your friends talk whenever you want and you can elect them prom kings and queens, and elect them to prom queens and kings.

U Hill has always been a fair school. I remember coming here from Hamber in grade 9. In Hamber, when you peer-marked anything, everyone in the class got 100%. Not because they deserved it, or because it was fair, but just because. At U Hill, people are much more fair. When we peer-mark, you get the mark you deserve. Make the same apply to valeditorian.

There is one more thing that I'd like to bring up: most of you likely know me as the blabbering girl, but some of you may know me as a social chameleon, one that is able to adapt to any social situation. That's me! Do you know that then, I will be most adequate in taking in each and every person's input into creating my speech? You want humor, you got it! You want somberness? You got it. You want turtles? You got it. After all, it isn't MY speech, it is yours, I'm just the one that needs to say it out loud and in front of 100 people.

Turtles are actually a good analogy for what we're going through in the graduation of high school. I used to spend lots of time in Hawaii surfing. One time, on the Big Island, on one of those gorgeous black sand beaches, I saw something that, to my 5 year old eyes, was spectacular. I saw a little cluster of white specs. I, being stupid like any five year old is, asked my dad if they were those fabled pearls. He told me that pearl came from the goofy mouths of oysters and that those instead had little baby turtles living inside them. I was in complete awe. I asked him, with eyes wide, when they would begin looking like real turtles, and he agreed to indulge my youthful curiosity by camping on the beach. We stayed there for two nights, while my mom and sister stayed in their hotel confused, and on the second night, my dad woke me up to tell me that the white specs were turning into green turtles.

I rubbed my eyes and immediately I was mesmerized. These little white specs had surely undergone a tremendous transformation, and they were now, racing with all their tiny might into the great big ocean instinctively. They didn't know why they were racing, they just were. My dad and I tried to clear the way for them to protect them from the nasty seagulls. My dad told me that the seagulls might try to eat them, and I passionately expressed my hatred for seagulls by saying that I would eat the seagulls first if they tried that. The seagulls did attack, one pooped on my head. I threw sand at him. But in the end, I did see one little straggler being picked up. I furiously yelled at my dad to save him, and my dad, with his impeccable aim, threw a rock at the flying gull, which knocked it down, and saved the turtle. Please don't call PETA on us.

That night, all the turtles made it. Just like we will. We're not all the same, most of us will follow the guarded path into the wide ocean. Some of us will get caught behind, but we'll all make it into the ocean eventually. And that's the green light. Personally, I'm no good at the sciences – humanities is all I do. Right now, in my running for valediction, I am like that turtle in the gull's ugly beak. My fate is uncertain – nothing is to say that I will surely be valedictorian. But your vote is like that rock that my dad so raggedly launched at that nasty vermin. You have the power to free me. I just need you to throw that rock, and by rock, I mean ballot in my favor, at that gull, and by gull I mean ballot box.

I've never ran for anything before. Not for school president, not for SoCo, nothing. Do you know what means? That I really want this. I desperately do. I have failed math because I have been too busy blogging to study logarithms. Please don't let that failure be in vain. Please don't let the gull take me away.

Despite my passion for writing, I persevered through an abhorrent struggle to write this short, but extremely meaningful piece. Excluding my blog, this is one of the few things that I am going to look back on in 50 years, so naturally I want it to be good. But what will make it good? I contemplated what to write for this highly significant work, knowing that the diction, tone and message would be immortalized. Should it be philosophical? Profound? Charming? Funny? What about the wording? Elaborate and complex, or plain and simple? That will be for you to decide if you elect me. But I think that now, what's in order is to get a taste of your potential valedictorian speech, if I win.

Want something deep, yet hopeful? Here's a flavor:

We're 18, but we are still green. Yet, somehow, society expects us to move on with our lives and willingly take our first steps into the gaping unknown. They expect us to make the abrupt transition from dependance to self-sufficiency. Absurd. Not only are a few of us likely incapable of such a move, we're also highly unwilling to take part in one. The conclusion? Life will continue regardless of how we feel. Time knows not of our fears, mounting responsibilities, or stresses - it's cruel that way. My elaborate and wordy point is that we've managed 18 years, and we'll manage 88 more. Our lives will not end spiritually due to some numbers called age. If anything, they'll enlighten and thrive. We, regardless of how we do financially, familially or _____, will be fine -and potentially even good- as long as we perceive it that way. As whimsical and hippie as it sounds, its true.

Want something humorous, yet still profoundly meaningful?

Don't worry, there are plenty more stories like the turtle one.

I'd just like to end this by, once again, begging you to vote for me – I want this more than anything right now, and I really hope that I have managed to prove that.

The point is this: I don't always run, but when I do, I prefer valedictorian.

My Green Light

My best friend is vacuous. When I met her, I saw that particular trait as a destructive flaw. Her willingness to take steps into the gaping unknown, with little to no consideration for potentially brutal consequences struck me as dumb. But now, after enduring a solid chunk of years in a perpetual doubting game with myself, after unwillingly questioning, and usually coming to regret, nearly every decision, all I want is to be more mindless. What a blessing it would be to stop the over-thinking. What liberation it would be to achieve nirvana. What a green light it would be to find a green light that I could be sure in.

If you asked me what the last decision I made with utmost certainty was, I would answer you firmly. I would say "I chose to go to the bathroom about an hour ago." Confusion would trail you as backed away slowly from the obviously incoherent person you had just spoken to. Sadly, that person is me. I am not someone who has ever had great ambitions, nor am I someone who has ever truly experienced goal-setting. I have come to take things as they come to me for the simple fact that I cannot effectively choose them myself. Needless to say, I have expended countless Kilojoules of energy on trying to make a decision myself; a decision which I would not regret within a matter of hours. I have futilely attempted to emancipate myself from the motions, and I have been largely unsuccessful. Notably, I once set a goal to save up a certain amount of money in my bank - what a miserable failure that turned out to be. After saving for a few months, I questioned my motive behind saving. Was it to please my parents? Was it to seem better than I was to myself? After plentiful time devoted to thought, I, solely, recognized that either option would be atrocious. So, I withdrew my money and went on a rampage of purchases.

Within a few hours of draining my funds, an overwhelming sadness and regret befell me. I started questioning my motives yet again; I started ruing my decision. Moreover, I could not come to terms with the fact that I had done something so misguided. I was so stupid. In a fit of melancholia, I called my mother in and explained the situation. She counselled me, telling me that there was no going back now, so there was no point in tears or sadness. Logically, she was perfectly right, but I was hysterical and completely ashamed at my irrational behavior, so I ignored her words.

I came to realize that she was right, and endeavored to make use of her advice. This, however, led to a totally different set of issues. Now, I would cease to regret decisions by not making them at all. I began living as a beach ball on the ocean - slowly drifting atop waves with sheer disregard for what they bring. Decisions, like waves, began to come to me. My parents would tell me, for example, that I should study for my SAT exam. I would not request a reason, nor would I question why doing the SAT was beneficial - I would just do it. Everything appeared perfect. There was no burden upon me to choose, and any regrets would fall unto my old folks.

Quickly, my parents recognized the possible consequences of such an action, and lovingly pushed me into my greatest fear - the gaping unknown.

The time for university had come, and it carried a significance with it: the need to choose a path. They asked me what I wanted to do, and I questioned it myself. It had, after all, been quite a while since I had made a decision of such gravity myself. I was certain in one thing - no sciences. High school science courses had traumatized me too much to continue them into the future. So, art it was. I had made a conscious choice in grade 8 to join debate, and I had grown to be very good at it (which I've always felt has contributed to this great ordeal of mine, but more on that later), so a natural transition would be political sciences. And that is what I signed up for.

Soon thereafter, a series of doubts began plaguing me. I was no longer even sure that university was the right path. Everyone's elusive final goal is happiness, and perhaps, for me, that happiness came in the form of opening a coffee shop, with a ceramics studio in the back, in Olympia, Washington. That sounded wonderful, but would it really be a good idea? It would mean missing out on the university experience and on the education. I do not want to be stupid. I battled this doubt.

After that, I heard someone declare Arts diplomas worthless, and then a whole new series of struggles began to riddle me. Should I have signed up for the sciences? Sure, they are scarring to my whimsical mind, but they are far more secure and lucrative.

And so the cycle continued. Thought after thought, doubt after doubt. Worst of all, these doubts were not limited to the academic realm of my existence. They affected me in every fiber of my being. In vibrant, young relationships and infatuations I was the same. One month, I would be married to the idea that stoners were my type because they never criticized, or offered opposition. But then I would ponder the normality of wanting a near vegetative person for a romantic partner. I would proceed to change my type to someone with more ambition and drive, and then I consider the dark side of ambition - the unquenchable thirst for reaching farther, moving faster. I would not like that either. There was just a problem with everything.

After the fact, I commenced fainting and sleepwalking. Countless visits to the hospital proved fruitless. I was given a plethora of diagnoses, a different one from each doctor. One suggested something unexpected, though - stress. He inquired as to how this busy year of grade 12 had unraveled. and I told him of my feelings and stresses. He brought up a very interesting political-debate-parallel to my life tumults: In communism, life is easy. When you walk into the grocery store to buy a bag of chips, you have three options, maximum. When you walk into a grocery store in a capitalist country, however, you have, at least, thirty different choices for a bag of chips. Of course one was to be more chronically dissatisfied in a land with such an abundance of options, than in one without. Regardless, his diagnosis was wrong because further tests proved a heart condition was to blame for the intermittent black outs, but perhaps he was right on a different level.

All these available options had likely made me dazed and confused. It would be far easier to choose from a streamlined list of things, than a jumbled pile of them. It would perhaps even alleviate the dreaded doubts. Unfortunately, life does not come as a neatly organized as an excel spreadsheet. It requires you to weave through it's threads to find some meaning, some purpose, some green light. Life carries with it a tremendous amount decision-making, but I should cope with that and deny it the pleasure of causing me grief. I should stand tall and firm with my choices. When I make a decision, I need not fret. I need to stand with confidence and accept the potential imperfections as my vacuous friend recommended.

There is a limit to debate. In fact, its whole purpose is to arrive at a solid conclusion. Yet, here I am, skewing its whole purpose, and debating into oblivion with my only true opponent - myself. Why I so immensely lack a sense of purpose and certainty, I do not know. Why I blossom to be unhappy and regretful with each choice, I also do not know. Even the most seemingly simple and obvious decisions pose as enormous obstacles to me. Consider this hypothetical scenario: I have been given a free trip around the world. Who in the right mind would forfeit it? Perhaps I would because I would question whether missing university, and escaping the nestling of my home, constituted as reason enough to see the vastness of the world. How very strange I am.

Maybe I just have the whole concept wrong. What if the only reason that I am unable to find my green light is because I am so desperate to find it? I feel as though time is running out. As soon as I graduate, I will have infinite time, which I should invest towards seeing my green light come to fruition. But I have no stable green light, so what am I to do with all that time? What if, on a whim, I choose to not go to university, and open my coffee shop instead? Will I be happy? Will I have a steady green light? Frankly, it is all I want. I am so enamored by the idea of being happy and at peace with a self-imposed choice.

I have faith that I will.

One day, you may find me sitting on the beach, sipping a cute umbrella drink after a vacuous day of making London Fogs served in handmade ceramic cups. You may ask me what the last decision I made with utmost certainty was, and I may answer you firmly. I may say something like "I decided to have a fourth child and simultaneously expand my coffee shop in Olympia". You may remember me as that very frazzled adolescent you met some years ago in Vancouver and you might ask yourself what in the world had happened in between these years. In fact, you may even be so bold as to vocalize that question to me, and I may or may not answer you with the words of Dr. Igor, a character from Paulo Coelho's novel Veronika Decides to Die, and say "People only allow themselves the luxury of being insane when they are in a position to do so". You will consider my words, and know that I am simply too enthralled with daily life to worry myself with banalities. And finally, you will likely ask yourself what then exactly permitted me to be insane all those years ago. Was it my cradled upbringing? Was it that I was spoiled? Was it my environment? Was it a lack of maturity? Was it the fact that I had too little to do, especially considering the fact that I skipped out on plenty of homework? Or was it, perhaps, a culmination of all of the above?

The Song-Essay Parallel

The song "Sorry" by Justin Bieber has been doing really well in the music world. It is no longer possible to turn on the radio without hearing The Biebs asking you if it's too late to say sorry now. But sometimes I catch myself wondering what exactly he's apologizing for? Is it all the atrocious past music? No, I don't think that he feels too much remorse for that, considering the fact that he made a copious amount of moola from it. 

So then what exactly? Let's take a look at the facts: we know for a fact that part of his intention behind apologizing is getting you back on him. But that is only part of the broader, more profound picture. He clearly states that he is missing more than just your body.

Fine, you can appreciate that his intent behind apologizing, though thoroughly rooted in primitive sexual desires, is not completely founded in them. And herein lies the problem I have with this song. Justin, though likely not him personally... Let me rephrase: whoever wrote the song, seems to have probably failed high school English class. One of the most important rules of proper essay writing is to elaborate on the exact statement you make. In fact, the way I learned it, one should follow the PEE acronym when making arguments in essays. P stands for "Point", E stands for "Example" and the second E stands for "Explanation". Though you're likely highly intelligent, I'd like to clearly explain what the acronym means. 

In essay writing, you're supposed to bring up an argument (the "Point"). You then need to support your brilliant point with with an example. Once you've stated that example, which may or may not be directly related to your point, you back it up with the "Explanation". That's pretty straightforward. If you'd like a deeper explanation of the whole argument-building idea, take a gander at my first post - the debate guide! As a side note: I just think that it's funny that I brought up the idea of a high school English class here and then brought up logical arguing because that's the latest thing we've been discussing in my high school English class! 

Back to the matter at hand:

What exactly irks me about sorry: I do not appreciate the fact that JB has left so much unexplained. It's like those European Indie movies (which I just happen to watch constantly - thanks, mom). They have always annoyed me, but my parents seem to find great pleasure in the uncertainty which accompanies them. In almost every European film, there is an unresolved or unelaborated ending. The screen writers leave the denouement in your hands. They end the movie, but it doesn't feel like it has ended. A perfect example escapes me at this moment, but I'll give you something general to ponder, and then I'll follow it up with a shitty example, which I will attempt to make sound valid:

1 - General: The protagonists have their ups and downs throughout. You persevere through 90 minutes of utter despair, hoping with all your heart that the circumstances become favorable to the two lovers. You pray that the realistic, real-world ending, which will surely tear them apart, does not befall them. You hope that they defy the odds. In good, old Hollywood, they always do. The protagonists always find each other in the end and share a passionate kiss and ride off into the sunset. How fantastic. It makes you happy. More importantly, it provides you with the closure you so desperately desire. Then you have the sad endings. You know, like The Notebook? They both die at the end. But there is closure; there is a definitive ending. They're dead. That's it. By far, the worst scenario is the European vagueness of the situation you vicariously live through for those 90 minutes. Your 90 minutes are rewarded with no sureness. You don't know if the characters have made it, or if they have not. You're left with the task of contemplating that question yourself. Well, frankly, I don't want to expend energy on contemplating the intricacies of the characters to unravel a definitive answer. It's just not something I feel like doing. Honestly, it irritates me, no, more than that, it frustrates me!

Here's the example: Think of a romance movie. The two leads have gone through triumphs and torments. Say, for clarity's sake, that one lead had traveled overseas to pursue a career. The other had been left alone in the original country. The separation is bitter. Jane doesn't want to move to a different country, and doesn't want John to leave without her. So, naturally, it's a very salty situation. But, after a few years, John recognizes his undying love for Jane and decides that he'll take his chances and travel back to find her. He does so, but Jane is no longer in the same place. John sets out to find her, and gathers the information that Jane has discovered a new lover. After a few months, he finds Jane and her lover in Nepal. John's presence brings stress and tumult on Jane's new relationship, as she struggles with the old feelings she has for him. Eventually, us, the audience, see Jane leave her lover, but we are unclear on whether or not she is leaving him to go back to John. Maybe she wants to just take some time to clear up the jumbled emotions in her mind. 

Anyways, the final scene of the movies is this: Jane goes to the business party John is supposedly at, but is unsure of her goals. So, she gets to the door, and rings the bell, some random person lets her in, believing that she is part of the company. She walks in, clearly unsure of her own feelings and next steps. From behind a group of people she sees John kissing some woman. At the painful sight, she turns her back and heads out, suppressing tears. She runs out into the night, but John appears to have seen her (though it is not certain that he has). He stops making out with this other woman, and goes to the table to grab a stiff drink. Looking out into the night, he sees Jane walking in distress, her face romantically lit by the street lights, which are being reflected by the puddles on the cobblestone streets (yes, apparently these do exist in Nepal). He looks down at her, and as he does, she drops something. Stopping to pick it up, she looks up, and she and John make eye-contact. To break the moment, the woman John was previously making out, walks up behind him, and says something inaudible. He turns to her to hear what she's saying, points at some other place in the room, as to tell her to go over there, and she obeys. He turns back to the window, and puts down his drink, and the movie ends. 

This is agonizing. We don't know what he sees through the window. Is Jane still standing there? We don't know why he put down his drink. Was it to go after her, or to just continue going about his party. Oh the spiritual struggle. This is exacerbating.

Now for the more specific example:

2 - Jeux d'Enfants: This is also a romantic film. It's French. The French are, in my mind, the most notorious for inflicting this kind of suffering on viewers. In this movie, the two leads have known each other since they were little kids. Eventually, after the mandatory ups and downs, the find each other again, and they decide to start making out. But it just so happens that this location they choose for making out is some hole that is about to be filled with cement. The construction workers seem to pay them little mind, and flood the hole with cement slowly. The two continue making out, completely disregarding the cement which is engulfing them. When the cement is up to the characters' crotches, we see one construction worker notice them and begin screaming at his coworkers to stop. But the movie ends and we have no closure to what happened to these two people. Did they die in the cement? Did the cement stop pouring? Did they ever get extracted from the cement? So many questions. I despise it.

So the deal is the same with Bieber's song. So many unanswered questions remain. It's oh-so confusing. And I know what you're thinking to yourself - "Man, she must have consumed a few pounds of shrooms before writing this post. Who gives a fuck what Justin Bieber meant; it's just a stupid song!" But, it really got to me yesterday. I was listening to the radio on my commute, and I couldn't help but wonder what the rest of his reasoning for saying sorry was. What in the world had he done? He wants to apologize, but what for? All we know is that a part of his goal is to get you back in bed, but what's the deeper bit? I mean, obviously, I'd appreciate knowing what he did to put himself in the position where he would need to apologize. What did he do to have his significant other deny him sex? And, please, what is the other part he wants? Does he want some riveting conversation with Selena? Or maybe he's also missing her musical input and advice? I just can't be sure, and that is what plagues me with grief. I am terribly interested in knowing what all these factors are, and what culmination of events led to this obviously heart-wrenching existence.

Gosh, my pain is too real. I so wish that essay writing and song writing were the same. I wish that Justin would be forced to explain the intricacies and complexities of his song lyrics. I wish that he had to obey PEE. But, he is just above the law. How upsetting. I don't know how I'll ever manage to cope. I firmly believe that this will be a thought which forever stumps me, while simultaneously looming ominously over me.

I'll end with this plea: Justin, please make my daily commute less mentally-occupying. Thoroughly elaborate on your thoughts, and free my mind from these horrid burdens of ponder. 

It's a Phase - A Sort of Epilogue to the Previous (yet ongoing) Series

I'm one of those children (well, now I'm an adult! Yes, I turned 18 a couple weeks ago, so this post, though being pretty "meh", is a big deal considering it is my first post written as an ADULT!) who tells their parents a lot about the social situations at school. I've looked to my parents for guidance ever since I was young, but in a strange way. What I mean is that I rarely disclose information relating to myself to my parents; I always tell them about other kids. In a way, it's my mechanism for proving to them how superior I am as a child to the rest of the children my age. It demonstrates to them that they were apt enough to raise the most profoundly intellectual, talented and fantastical creature known to man. 

Now, obviously, I am not the most profoundly intellectual, talented and fantastical creature known to man. I'm pretty standard. I may be a little taller than everyone else, a little darker than your average pasty white person, and a little better at writing, but in the grand scheme of it, I'm just an Average Joe. But, I've always felt a duty to portray myself as better than I am. Once you decide upon painting yourself to be great, you have basically two options for how to do it: Option 1 is to work... really hard. Work to sincerely achieve greatness. I've never been too fond of work - I've always found it terribly difficult and tiring. So, I always pick option 2: to paint the mass as wretched, and therefore come across as incredible yourself, relative to the crowd. Let's put this into simpler terms, since that sentence was incoherent and I can't think of a way to change it to make it logical-sounding: If everyone else is a meth-head, and you're just a marijuana-using-stoner, you're not too shabby, right? 

In a sense, and correct me if I am wrong here, but every child wants to seem good in their parents' eyes. Unless, of course, you're in some rebellious phase. And though this, paired with the title, may make you believe that I am about to tell you about various teenage "phases", I'm not. This was just a long digression, meant to serve as an introduction.

I have this friend. He goes to a different school, but we keep in touch occasionally through messages, and calls, and whatnot. We're not best friends, but I know what's happening in his life to some extent through what he tells me, what peers tell me, and the conclusions I draw based on various things. What's so special about this darling friend of mine? He started experimenting with drugs and alcohol sooner than anyone else. Most kids start their -as I like to call it- "substantial-awakening" (it's ironic, because I'm referring to "substances", but I say "substantial", which has a polar-opposite connotation!) in their mid-high school years. Grade 10 is the usual time that kids try their first stuff(s). That is general. My friend started his in grade 8. He attended a school that was a perfect breeding ground for negative things like those aforementioned. Both of us are now in grade 12, albeit in different schools.

From grade 8 to grade 12, my friend has been trying a plethora of drugs, strains, and drinks, observing how they made him feel. (I realize that I just made that sound as if he was doing all these drugs in the name of research.) He tried "molly, shrooms and weed" at the same time one night, and got "really fucked up". That's just one example. He's had nights where he has been paralyzed with drug-induced fears. Nights where he's been practically immobile from the "vibes" of certain strains of weed. And, nights where he has felt really great. None of these nights were isolated incidents.

If you're older, that statement may not make sense, but let me explain: You have two types of drug-users in schools: There are the ones that take drugs every few months, at parties and such, and then there are the ones that take drugs all the time. My friend belonged to the latter category.

There was a period, towards the end of the last school year that he tried to get off the stuff(s). He decided to quit smoking pot every night before bed. It was difficult for him. Up until him, I had only seen withdrawal effects in movie characters, like Christian Bale in The Fighter. To be quite honest, up until then, I had also believed that marijuana wasn't even a real drug, and that one couldn't become dependant on it. But I was wrong. (Before I continue, let me clarify that my friend's withdrawal was not nearly as gruesome as Christian Bale's in the movie.)

Apparently, if you "blaze" every night, your heart becomes used to marijuana slowing it down and your brain becomes used to pot putting it to sleep. Once you get off the weed, your body finds it hard to put itself to sleep without the aid of the cannabis. Now that you know this, before reading on, take a moment to imagine what could happen to one if they suddenly stopped smoking the dank cush after smoking it almost religiously for an extended period of time.

I'm glad you thought about it.

Now, I'll provide the right answer to you, and you can compare it with your own: you cannot sleep. That's the answer. So, my friend began looking like a walking corpse. He was pale, and his eyes were bloodshot, and he was horrendously tired.

Some nights, I stay up late because I'm doing something stupid and I wake up after about 7 hours of sleep. I feel tremendously tired, and I say things like "oh man, this sucks, nobody sleeps less than me!". But, of course, that's just my silly teen angst talking and people do sleep less than me. The point is that I can't function with less than 9 hours of sleep. In front of me, however, was my friend who was attempting to function on no sleep. He disclosed to me that he hadn't slept for 2 days straight, and that he was, therefore, feeling pretty bad. I couldn't fathom his situation.

He was proud that he had stopped smoking, but at the same time, he was in a zombified state. So, I suggested that he maybe smoke a little bit that night just to come to his senses. It's a very paradoxical statement, you know? He reminded me that I was the one that, just a few days prior, "with sad eyes", told him that maybe he should lay off the drugs. OK, sure, I said that, but I hadn't adequately recognized the consequences. It's easy for me to dish out advice. I've never been dependant on drugs. For me, the notion of quitting cannabis is about as daunting as brushing my teeth (i.e. not at all daunting). I didn't know that it could lead to this current picture. I explained that to him, but he was too proud to succumb back to the grass, and moreover, he was regarding the whole situation as a sort of game. I had told him to quit, he had decided to, and now he just couldn't allow himself to give in to the temptation - some sort of strange spite. He confided in me that he was now going to gradually fix himself. He would first quit smoking daily, lowering the frequency to weekly, after which he'd lower the frequency more etc..

It was a seemingly good plan because, after each weekend, he'd come to school looking refreshed. In his own words, he "hibernated during the weekends." Things were looking up! He was now "turning up" only once in a while. Once the school year ended, he reassured me that he'd keep up the good work in the new year, and only do drugs every so often, for special events. This was a better-than-expected outcome.

But naturally, he relapsed the next school year, and, after I found out, he justified it to me as his way of "just tryin ta have fun". Only, this year, he wasn't just taking just weed; it had escalated to peculiar concoctions of chemistry. Oh well. I was a little disappointed. I think it's hard to be quite upset with someone when you don't see them regularly. I just expressed my discontent with a sad face emoji, and promised to not patronize him any further. He was a little saddened by my remarks, but it wasn't anything a little chemistry couldn't fix. I thought that that was it. I thought that his fate was sealed.

I explained this whole situation to my parents. Unlike my sister, who firmly claimed that, by hanging out with such a guy, I myself was becoming a druggie, my parents were more moderate. They understood, or at least trusted, that I was not an idiot to be pulled into this perpetual whirlwind of better living through chemistry.

Through discussing it with them, I came to a lightbulb moment. I realized that there was, like with everything, a potential blessing in disguise to my friend's current troubles. My wise mother even agreed with me.

You see, now, in grade 12, a lot of kids who you'd never expect to be interested in drugs and alcohol, begin to show their true colors. At this delicate transition from high school to the supposed "real world", these kids are starting to find relief in numbing their stresses and pains with substances. This is dangerous because it sets them up for failure at an important stage - the stage that could potentially determine their futures comforts. (Good university = good job = good life). When the drug-loving phase passes for these new-drug-experimenters, there is a chance that many important things will pass them by.

But look at my friend: His drug phase is already starting to wear off. I know for a fact that he is going to less parties, using less drugs and generally leading a healthier life. It's almost as if his substantial-awakening was a phase, and is now nearing the end of its existence. Who would have guessed that someone so seemingly enamored with the party-life would live to eventually see it lose its lustre? It's so funny because just as everyone else's love of drugs is ramping up and going wild, his is decaying. I imagine it as two urns: Each urn is respectively filled -to a different extent- with the juice of party-loving. One urn belongs to my friend, and the other belongs to everybody else. It's as if his urn is draining, and each drop that it spills, plops beautifully into the other urn, fuelling everyone else's desires to get numb and wasted.

So maybe that is the benefit of doing all of that reckless stuff when you're young - you have nothing to lose.

As for my friend, well, he's doing decently. He is definitely uninterested in university. In fact, that ship has sailed for him (application dates for respectable universities have passed). But, his plan of becoming an electrician is still valid and possible. The application for that hasn't passed. And, his prospects are looking up. His interest in doses and mimosas continues to lessen, and his plainness and simplicity of life continues to increase. I'm interested to see how he turns out. I have a feeling that, in a few years, when most of my old peers are found passed out in fraternity bathtubs, my friend will be hard at work fixing wires (or whatever it is that electricians do) with drug-crazed nights in the deepest crevasses of his mind. He'll be a typical worker, and the most calm, plain, mature and normal of us all. That's all just predictions, of course.

He's slowly on the path to a negative urine test, and a positive life. And that's all that I, and his parents, can hope. 

It's All Over-Rated Except Drugs and Alcohol - Part 7

It's the eve of New Year's Eve. The New Year is supposed to be all about awakening, resolutions and positive changes. So, I've written a story bearing that in mind. This is one about a not-so-positive change, but hey, this series hasn't been positive in the least thus far. Maybe, and just maybe, to ring in the new year, I'll post something positive to get off to a good start!

8. Viva Italia!

On a school-sanctioned trip to Italy one year, a girl got bored of following the guided tours around the historical landmarks, of little to no significance. So, naturally, she did what any other bored teenager would do - ask Siri to list the best clubs in her vicinity in Rome. Siri, obedient as always, spewed out her favorites. Now, going to a club by herself (or rather, with only Siri by her side), would be un-cool, so the girl was first going to have to befriend some locals.

She arrived at a fountain. It was one of those typically Roman ones with baby angels spitting out water through conchs. Nearby, just lazily enjoying the sun, were a few hot Italian ladies, who seemed to be about the same age as our dear protagonist. She walked up and said "Ciao!". Through Siri, she expressed the desire to get wasted at a Roman club because, well, "when in Rome". Keenly, the girls accepted the offer, and asked for the location of the girl's hotel. She gave it. They agreed on a time. The blueprint had been laid.

There was one small issue. This being a school-sanctioned trip, there was supervision. Unlike our darling alcoholic-on-vacation from story #7, this girl did have some elders to report to. Upon arrival to the hotel, the girl began drafting plans for how she would escape the hotel past curfew. She painstakingly did this, failing to realize that the supervisors here were on vacation themselves. Sure, the adults in the hotel were supposed to make sure that the students were safe and sound, but they weren't going to make their own lives more difficult by standing over each student like a hawk. They trusted that the students present on this excursion were A) Too fearful of the system to try anything. (By "fearful of the system", I mean phased by the simple notion that adults were "watching" them). and B) Old enough to safely and securely manage to survive the 10-day trip, without too much assistance. After all, why would you destroy your own vacation by making yourself a surveillance device, just to make your students lives miserable?

So, all this girl's planning was irrelevant. She walked by her supervisor's room to hear if she was asleep, and instead heard laughter and clinking glass. The teachers were having just as much fun. The girl walked down to the lobby at around 10pm and found her new friends waiting for her in skimpy clothing. She wasn't dressed like a nun herself. They headed out into the Roman night. It was beautiful. They arrived at some nearby club, where the girls knew the bouncer (lucky for the girl. How did she manage to make such suiting friends?). They went in, and it was everything our sweet girl could've hoped for. She was content. First thing was first - sex. No, no, not sex per se - sex on the beach: the cocktail. They ordered a few. Down the hatch they went. Then a few more. Then a few more. Eventually, the girl lost count.

Regardless, she kept dancing! After a night well-spent, she had to get back to the hotel. 9am was the time of the next guided tour that everybody had to be present for. By this point in the cocktail-count, the girl didn't care for going back to the lame hotel, but her adoring new friends did. They, being more stable, decided to take her back and drop her off. They lugged her through the beautiful, moonlit streets, where she broke both her heels. The entire time, she gushed over how exhilarating the night had been.

They made it to the hotel. The Roman girls brought their Asian-American friend to the reception and asked for her room number. The fine Italian gentleman at the desk looked at the situation in front of him quite normally. He asked if the girl was part of the Canadian excursion. That she was, and the Roman girls knew it, so they answered the man. The receptionist thought that his task of finding the exact room of the girl would be easy. He told the Roman girls that he would just look for a Chinese name on the list - a "Ching or a Chang or a Wang". (Living in Vancouver, I have a lot of exposure to Chinese culture, so this man sounds like an idiot to me, but perhaps Rome is lacking in Oriental flavors.) The task was much more difficult than he had imagined since everybody on the list had a Chinese last name. The school that had arrived on the trip was from my city of Vancouver. It was from my school. At my school, the population is predominantly Asian. He asked if the part-conscious girl had a first name. They weren't sure, but they tried to recall what she had said. After a few failed guesses, one Roman bambina, remembered that, on one of the texts she had received, the girl had written her name. She scrambled through her phone and found it. They now had the name, and resultantly, the room number.

The receptionist, highly understanding, handed one of the girls a set of keys to the room and requested she return them later. They got in the elevator, dropped the girl on her bed, and left after scribbling a quick little note to her about what happened.They gave the key back to the receptionist and left.

In the morning, the girl was awoken by a banging on her door. Another classmate had been sent by the teacher to awake her. She got up, scrubbed her face with a wet towel, threw up once, slipped on some less-tattered clothes and exited. No one noticed anything. One teacher called her "sleepyhead" and blamed the inability to wake up on jetlag. And it was just that easy.

With this night, our dear protagonist discovered that, as she would later confide in me, she was a "heavyweight". She explained how grateful she was to the Roman ladies for helping her and being so caring and attentive, and how grateful she was to the fine, Italian gentleman-receptionist for not saying a peep to a teacher.

She referred to that night as her "alcoholic-awakening". (Get it? There is a "sexual-awakening", but this is with alcohol. Ha-ha!)