(A Random Post)

Spring Is Here

How’s It Going To Be – Third Eye Blind

I’m sitting in my Short Story class listening to Professor Odozor rant about this piece, Bartleby, The Scrivener. I actually enjoy it, the story that is. His lecture is insane. For one thing, he has this terrible habit of asking a question and when you answer, his response is this: “(pause) Hmm…yeeeess…” He clearly doesn’t care what we have to say at all. Then he starts trying to explain how the story can be read from a Marxist point of view and I’m just like, “Oh, fuck this guy.” The last part of his lecture, which went overtime by the way, I can barely remember as it had something to do with religion, Terence McKenna’s Timewave Theory and the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow. Or something. I kept thinking one thing:

I wish Angel was here.

There was one positive thing to be taken from showing up for class today. I got to hang out with Wendy Shen, previously credited in blog posts as “Girl in Short Story class who I knew from Markham District” and “Girl who handed in my paper for me”. After some solid guest work, I figure it was time that she got her own episode. Professor Odozor had apparently come to the conclusion that I’d been skipping tutorials (wow, completely untrue), so instead of tearing his bulbous head off and taking a dump down his neckhole, I decided to just complain to Wendy after class. I went on for about ten minutes straight about how I wanted to physically harm him and how I wished bowel infections upon him and his descendents and truth be told, I felt a lot better. It was only fair that I let her get hers after.

It’s funny how we think other people’s lives are so much better or more fulfilled than our own, when in actuality everyone’s got their own shit to deal with. Pardon my French. That’s not to say that Wendy’s not doing well, but I realized that beneath her calm surface, there lied a raging river of emotion. Okay, I’m just going to stop that now.

I knew Wendy as someone who was involved in lots of school things. She works as a UofT tour guide, but she also volunteers for student councils and choirs and things of that nature. Whenever I talked to her, I always thought, “Now this is someone who’s taking advantage of university opportunities!” That statement remains mostly true. I think all of these things she does outside of class are genuinely rewarding. Frankly, I was content believing that she had it all figured out.

Somewhere during our hanging out in Hart House – me staring at a painting, her eating her dinner – she decided that it was time for me to hear about the bad stuff. It was inevitable. She isn’t completely happy with her program. Who is, eh? She’s mad at her ex-boyfriend, who broke things off for questionable reasons. Is there ever a good reason? We talked about these things for a couple of hours. I, being the biggest drag in the world, was excited that she was choosing to share these things with me. Maybe she shares these things with everyone. Maybe not. Either way, I felt privileged. Sorry, I don’t mean to make it sound like I enjoy hearing that people have problems, but for some reason it’s one of the only things that I feel confident talking about. That sounds ridiculous. Regardless, I couldn’t help but indulge in the strange pleasure we all seem to get from hearing that people’s lives are just as pained and troubled and miniscule as our own.

I think my being sick has made me kind of pretentious. I’m a bit subdued, my “loud, piercing voice” (as my friend Leanna calls it) having been quieted by a small cold. I find myself thinking a bit more before speaking, I think, so I was saying all kinds of cryptic, overly dramatic things like how I enjoyed being in the Earth-Science building for the first time because it was a new experience. What can I say, I’ve always wanted to be Dr. Manhattan. Everything was going so well until a couple of her friends from her upcoming class popped up and started chatting with her. Unfortunately for me, one of them was disgustingly beautiful. I said, “This is getting a little crowded I better…” Then Wendy said, “Since we’re all standing around, I might as well introduce…” Then I said, “That’s okay, let’s not do this. I’m just going to go.” And I exited out into the snow.

I hate meeting new people. I’m awful at it.

PQ:
Why is it you have to do it? What is it about rescuing Cassidy that sets it so squarely on your shoulders?
‘Cause he did the same for me.
Do you mean that time with the Saint and the pickup truck?
Uh-huh.
Jesse, that was the worst fucking rescue I ever saw in my life! It didn’t even work!
He tried, is the point. He had no reason to after I insulted him before, except he knew he had to do what was right. Now that may be kind of old-fashioned principle nowadays, but not to me it ain’t, an’ the way I see it that makes ol’ Cass a fella I’m proud to call my good friend. An’ you turn your back on your friend, you may as well go ahead an’ join the asshole squad, ’cause you just became one more reason why the damn world’s gone to hell.

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Destined to fight the world's evil, The WAMBAG endures massive battles involving impossible stunts, races on horse-pulled carriages, and the desecration of enchanting medieval castles (all done with dizzying computer graphics). Not only does the eye candy keep on coming, the tongue-in-cheek writing and deep Transylvanian accents perfect the film with a dose of dark humor.

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