As the carriage pulled away from the castle the newlyweds looked at each other and smiled, in this moment their future seemed so bright, most would genuinely believe they would live happily ever after.
When the new couple returned from their honeymoon even the most naive servant was able to see something was not quite right. In a matter of fourteen days the magic between these two, which everyone had felt so strong during the wedding, had worn off. Their meals were eaten in silence, their was no laughter, no smiles, only silent indignation. Cinderella, who so recently had felt forever indebted to the Prince, now felt she could've done better. The Prince greatly reciprocated this sentiment. Maybe basing your love in a shoe size was not a great idea.
At first the two stayed together out of mere guilt. But after one month together it became much more complicated. Cinderella was pregnant. Conceived during their unfortunate honeymoon, this child would prove to be the frequent target of resentment. This loveless couple quickly became a loveless family.
Their son, Prince Jr., was born on a Tuesday afternoon, the Prince was away, Cinderella believed him to be away on important prince-related business. Cinderella held Prince Jr. for a few moments before handing him off to the nanny, she couldn't bear to look him in the eyes. That night she cried enough to make her once again beg for her fairy godmother. She never came.
The Prince returned three weeks later, he patted his son on the head before retreating to his den. He sat there for hours, in darkness, in silence, slowly destroying his liver one drink at a time. He looked back on his life, he had only one regret, but it was a big one.
That night the Prince stood over his son's crib and whilst tears fell from his cheeks he begged his son for forgiveness. The Prince didn't pack much, a few outfits and some food, he wanted to travel lightly. His horse was waiting for him in the stable. As he left the castle grounds he looked back just once, he looked at everything he was giving up just to get away from her. Two years later he was found in a ditch. It's still unclear how he died, but one thing is for certain; even in the end he only had one regret.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Sentiment
...........................................................................................................................
"I don't consider myself a pessimist. I think a pessimist is someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin." -Leonard Cohen
"Just one" quickly became "just one more." Within the hour, Eric's inebriation was complete. The bartender cut him off and sent him on his way. Lucky for everyone, Eric didn't drive to the funeral, he was supposed to call his wife when it ended. Calling her now was most certainly one of Eric's least intelligent ideas, she would not be impressed.
After that call Eric did not get a ride home, nor did he have a wife. She told him that she just could not be around such a self-destructive person, that she was sorry, and that he needed serious help. Eric called her a "bitch."
Eric stumbled home stopping at two different liquor stores, the first refused to serve him, the second asked if he wanted anything else. His home was empty. Normally Eric would've passed out on the couch, purposely avoiding his wife, but as he was alone he slept in the master bedroom. He did however enjoy his habitual post-alcohol cigarette.
That night, whilst Eric slept, a series of events occurred that dramatically changed Eric's life. His still smouldering cigarette fell from his lips and rolled off the bed. The cigarette landed in a trash bin, normally empty, but on this night it was nearly filled to the brim with tissues, Eric's wife took the break-up much harder than Eric. The fire quickly spread throughout the bedroom. A startled Eric awoke, nearly trapped, but he quickly ran from his room, from his house, leaving behind the knick-knacks and sentimental items that he once looked at with such superficial affection he almost believed them to be important. The only item Eric managed to grab on his way out was his jacket, it was leather and very nice.
As Eric stood in his front lawn, still quite drunk, watching his house burn to the ground, he placed his hands in his jacket pockets hoping to find either a flask or another cigarette. What he found instead was a note and a pamphlet. The note, from his wife, simply expressed her sincere hope for Eric, it was quite sweet. The pamphlet was for a rehab centre just outside town.
It would be about four months later, but Eric would end up at that rehab centre. He lost his job a few weeks after the fire. His boss was a nice guy, but could only put up with so much of Eric's neglect of his work. Eric's lowest moment was when he awoke one morning in his car somewhere out in the countryside. He had little memory of the night before, he could only assume he had driven himself out there. His heart sank, he thought about Patrick, he thought about that nice girl, in that moment he cried more than he had in the lifetime leading up to it.
Eric composed himself and tried to start his car. It didn't start, not surprising as regular maintenance hadn't been a priority. Eric, frustrated, depressed, alone, walked across the street to the only building around for miles. The sign out front read "A New Beginning," it was the rehab centre Eric's wife recommended. "This is it, a new beginning," Eric thought to himself as he checked in, determined to change. A nice sentiment, to say the least.
"I don't consider myself a pessimist. I think a pessimist is someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin." -Leonard Cohen
...........................................................................................................................
The funeral was scarcely attended; the few who came did not cry, did not mourn, they simply were there.
Eric was there. His questionable feeling of obligation to the now deceased Patrick had led him to the funeral home that day. He and Patrick had met during an alcoholic's anonymous meeting the year prior. They had bonded over their commonalities, the principle being their abusive addiction.
Eric had long since stopped attending those meetings. He had always thought about calling Patrick, but couldn't think of what to do with another guy besides get a drink. And he was working off the assumption that Patrick was still in the program.
"Surprised" is much too strong of a word to describe Eric's reaction to the news that Patrick had caused a fatal collision. Two dead, Patrick and a seventeen-year-old girl, she had been heading home for dinner, a special congratulations dinner, she had just passed her driver's license test. The average citizen would mourn the loss of this girl more than even Patrick's closest "friends" would mourn him. Eric didn't know it, but he was Patrick's closest friend.
Eric left the funeral home
contemplating a great many things. The funeral had affected him more than he
thought it would, he didn't expect to be happy obviously, but he had gone in
feeling apathetic to whole scenario. Something about the funeral had made him
care, whether it was the lacklustre eulogy, or the lack of attendance,
Eric began to feel he had more of a role in Patrick's downward spiral than he
ever would have considered. Eric needed a drink.
"Just one" quickly became "just one more." Within the hour, Eric's inebriation was complete. The bartender cut him off and sent him on his way. Lucky for everyone, Eric didn't drive to the funeral, he was supposed to call his wife when it ended. Calling her now was most certainly one of Eric's least intelligent ideas, she would not be impressed.
After that call Eric did not get a ride home, nor did he have a wife. She told him that she just could not be around such a self-destructive person, that she was sorry, and that he needed serious help. Eric called her a "bitch."
Eric stumbled home stopping at two different liquor stores, the first refused to serve him, the second asked if he wanted anything else. His home was empty. Normally Eric would've passed out on the couch, purposely avoiding his wife, but as he was alone he slept in the master bedroom. He did however enjoy his habitual post-alcohol cigarette.
That night, whilst Eric slept, a series of events occurred that dramatically changed Eric's life. His still smouldering cigarette fell from his lips and rolled off the bed. The cigarette landed in a trash bin, normally empty, but on this night it was nearly filled to the brim with tissues, Eric's wife took the break-up much harder than Eric. The fire quickly spread throughout the bedroom. A startled Eric awoke, nearly trapped, but he quickly ran from his room, from his house, leaving behind the knick-knacks and sentimental items that he once looked at with such superficial affection he almost believed them to be important. The only item Eric managed to grab on his way out was his jacket, it was leather and very nice.
As Eric stood in his front lawn, still quite drunk, watching his house burn to the ground, he placed his hands in his jacket pockets hoping to find either a flask or another cigarette. What he found instead was a note and a pamphlet. The note, from his wife, simply expressed her sincere hope for Eric, it was quite sweet. The pamphlet was for a rehab centre just outside town.
It would be about four months later, but Eric would end up at that rehab centre. He lost his job a few weeks after the fire. His boss was a nice guy, but could only put up with so much of Eric's neglect of his work. Eric's lowest moment was when he awoke one morning in his car somewhere out in the countryside. He had little memory of the night before, he could only assume he had driven himself out there. His heart sank, he thought about Patrick, he thought about that nice girl, in that moment he cried more than he had in the lifetime leading up to it.
Eric composed himself and tried to start his car. It didn't start, not surprising as regular maintenance hadn't been a priority. Eric, frustrated, depressed, alone, walked across the street to the only building around for miles. The sign out front read "A New Beginning," it was the rehab centre Eric's wife recommended. "This is it, a new beginning," Eric thought to himself as he checked in, determined to change. A nice sentiment, to say the least.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Short-Changed
It wasn't supposed to happen like this, everything was supposed to work out. They promised...
Daniel was not an interesting person. He strolled through his life at a leisurely pace, finding most of the world too mundane to put in any effort. He believed his soul accomplishment, the only aspect of his life that he could take pride in, was somehow he managed to convince a girl to love him. A task he had all but given up on before he met Penny.
Penny was not an interesting person. The main difference between Penny and Daniel, however, was that Penny recognized her life as boring. She always knew there was more she could be doing, but her crippling phobias prevented her from truly enjoying life. Instead of travelling, or learning to ski, she stayed at home, ensuring her apartment was clean and free of spiders.
Daniel and Penny's meeting was an accident. You could replay the same scenario a dozen times without them ever meeting, Daniel could have been his usual indifferent self, Penny could have been her usual quiet self, but that day everything worked in their favour.
Penny was in a hurry, she was late for her therapy session, all she had asked was if she could cut in line, not an unreasonable request. She wanted to buy a pack of mints, she was always worried about her breath during therapy since all she did was talk, but that self-righteous woman with the cartful of groceries couldn't be bothered to listen to reason, rather she took the time to explain why that wouldn't be fair to her or the rest of the line. "Get over yourself," Daniel said from behind the register. The woman, completely taken aback, would proceed to complain to the manager about Daniel, his third complaint in the last month, this little comment cost Daniel his job, but it was best thing he ever did.
The next day, with advice from her therapist, Penny tracked down Daniel, determined to apologize and relieve some of the guilt she felt so strongly. "You don't need to apologize, that job was a joke," Daniel said, not trying to console Penny, rather just being honest. Penny smiled. Daniel smiled.
The two went for coffee. They talked, they laughed. They immediately got along, but don't think that they were "soul-mates" or perfect for each other, they were simply comfortable, which they both would misinterpret as love. It would only be Penny that would realize this.
The two stayed together for a year. Daniel's parents and the few friends he had left were thrilled, Penny's were less so. At first they thought he was great, but they soon realized that Daniel enabled Penny's lack of living. Daniel's overall disinterest complimented Penny's fear of the world nicely, the two spent hours together not really doing anything. Daniel was content, but Penny, with support of her friends, grew indignant.
Penny moved out on a Sunday, only two weeks after she had moved in. Her car, filled to the brim with boxes she never bothered to unpack, pulled away. Now, Daniel stands alone in the street, a broken man who was never fully put together to begin with.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Slight
Malcolm strained his neck and fixed his posture as he stood in front of the sign, he had always hated carnivals.
The drive home was long and mostly silent. Between Malcolm's self-hatred and Audrey's guilt, the two had little to say to each other. Audrey apologized for her poor choice of destination; she clearly did not think it through. Malcolm gave a sheepish smile as he closed the car door and walked towards his apartment building.
Malcolm's night would prove to be sleepless. At 1:06am he fixed himself a drink, scotch and soda; he always liked the idea of drinking scotch, but couldn't stand the taste. Malcolm stared at his television screen, not sure whether or not he was actually watching something, his oscillating fan whirred in the corner. Malcolm's thoughts, like most nights, were fixed on a series of what-ifs. He liked to picture himself almost completely different. He'd keep his chestnut hair and his ironic sense of humour, but change most everything else.
The next day Audrey called and to her disdain continued to only be connected with Malcolm's voicemail. Immediately after she finished recording her message Malcolm was listening to it. By the third message her voice was harsh. She would say a great many things that later she would regret. Malcolm grew increasingly more fond of these latter messages, merely because he knew that she always thought those things, and Malcolm craved validation in any form. Over the last few weeks Malcolm had grown to realize that Audrey looked down on him in more ways than one.
A week passed since the carnival; to Malcolm it felt like one long hazy day. His perpetual stupor continued from that first night into the rest of the week. His cell phone's battery had long since died, Malcolm had already assumed he had lost his job, Audrey had finally given up after her twelfth call, and besides that no one else would probably call, and no one else probably cared.
Malcolm finally had to leave his apartment eleven days after the carnival; he had exhausted his supply of alcohol. It could've been the group of women snickering, or the teen-aged liquor store attendant who demanded ID, but when Malcolm returned to his apartment he decided he was much too tired of this world.
As Malcolm struggled for breath and his feet kicked around barely hovering above his apartment floor, it occurred to him that this would have been much more difficult to do if he had been taller.
The drive home was long and mostly silent. Between Malcolm's self-hatred and Audrey's guilt, the two had little to say to each other. Audrey apologized for her poor choice of destination; she clearly did not think it through. Malcolm gave a sheepish smile as he closed the car door and walked towards his apartment building.
Malcolm's night would prove to be sleepless. At 1:06am he fixed himself a drink, scotch and soda; he always liked the idea of drinking scotch, but couldn't stand the taste. Malcolm stared at his television screen, not sure whether or not he was actually watching something, his oscillating fan whirred in the corner. Malcolm's thoughts, like most nights, were fixed on a series of what-ifs. He liked to picture himself almost completely different. He'd keep his chestnut hair and his ironic sense of humour, but change most everything else.
The next day Audrey called and to her disdain continued to only be connected with Malcolm's voicemail. Immediately after she finished recording her message Malcolm was listening to it. By the third message her voice was harsh. She would say a great many things that later she would regret. Malcolm grew increasingly more fond of these latter messages, merely because he knew that she always thought those things, and Malcolm craved validation in any form. Over the last few weeks Malcolm had grown to realize that Audrey looked down on him in more ways than one.
A week passed since the carnival; to Malcolm it felt like one long hazy day. His perpetual stupor continued from that first night into the rest of the week. His cell phone's battery had long since died, Malcolm had already assumed he had lost his job, Audrey had finally given up after her twelfth call, and besides that no one else would probably call, and no one else probably cared.
Malcolm finally had to leave his apartment eleven days after the carnival; he had exhausted his supply of alcohol. It could've been the group of women snickering, or the teen-aged liquor store attendant who demanded ID, but when Malcolm returned to his apartment he decided he was much too tired of this world.
As Malcolm struggled for breath and his feet kicked around barely hovering above his apartment floor, it occurred to him that this would have been much more difficult to do if he had been taller.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The Value of University
Due to popular demand, meaning my boredom, I've decided to resume my blog. Today's topic; the controversial Kony 2012 movement.
So those of you that pay any attention to my facebook, or have talked to me about this, know that I'm not a fan of this misguided movement. I'm not going to get into all the reasons why I'm against because I feel I've already made that clear, namely it's outdated, oversimplified, and offensive. Anyway rather than writing specifically about the movement, I'd rather take a closer look at the response to the movement.
Already the video and the proposed movement have gained incredible amounts of support. It's been reposted by a number of my friends and it's been talked about all over the twitterverse by celebrities and influential people. This support literally grew overnight and out of nowhere. For me this leads to the question; why? Why has this gained so much support?
I had to ask this question because after I watched the video I did not feel like reposting it. Sure, it made me think, which is rarely a bad thing, but it made me think about different sides. Now I'm not saying that I wanted to hear Kony's side, because rarely does a warlord have a justifiable reason to murder and pillage, I mean the side of the Ugandans. Since the video was clearly made by an American it made me wonder if he was as informed as he seemed to think he was. After doing a relatively small amount of research it was clear that he was not.
That still leaves the question as to why this movement has gained so much support? I think it's pretty simple. Overall most people are good, or at least they believe themselves to be. That being the case when a "good" person sees the video they are upset. They want to help, but what can they do? Wait, all they have to do is repost the video? And maybe if they feel like helping even more they can buy some bracelets and a poster. It's so simple. It's so easy. And therein lies the true genius of this movement. Us "good" people want to help the world, but honestly it's a lot of effort to make a real difference, and we've got stuff going on. But this movement allows us to feel like we're making a difference with just a few clicks. It's what Tim labeled "slacktivism," which has got to be my new favourite word.
So if it was so easy for me to just share the video and feel good about myself why did I choose to go down the much more tumultuous road of denouncing it? At first I thought it was just because I'm so cynical, but I've realized that isn't it at all. If it was just cynicism I'd be dismissing this movement based on it's efforts. I'd simply believe that no matter what you try the situation can't be fixed, but I don't believe that at all. I denounced the movement simply because it is misguided and it really only took a little critical thinking to discover that. Honestly I think this "critical thinking" is the best thing I've gained from university. Not just the ability to think about something in-depth, but the need to. I mean, a few years ago when I was in highschool I would've loved this movement. I mean social media combined with street art to take down a warlord, it's got everything. I was talking to Tim the other day and he agreed that before university he would've been into it as well. So obviously university is not just about the facts and the books, but truly a different way of thinking. I believe this is what Rick Santorum is so afraid of. It's like when you go to a magic show, you don't just think "wow," you think "wow, how'd he do that?" In a way that's how I see the world now. Face-value is worthless in such a convoluted world.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Morality and Torture
Occasionally I like to write about something that actually matters. So if you opened this up hoping for my usual nonsensical musings, well best to turn around 'cause things are about to get real.
So this semester I'm taking political science 383, for those of you that don't have the course list memorized that is Crimes against Humanity. This course has been really great, probably one of my favourites. The prof, Dr. Adam Jones, is awesome and he somehow manages to make a super depressing topic interesting.
Anyway last week I had to submit my research paper, we had to pick a specific crime against humanity and write 2500 words about it, I chose torture. Now I'm going to be honest, the only reason I chose to research torture was because it was the only one I could actually find books on. So two weeks ago I sat down at my desk with a stack of books about torture not sure what I was going discover. What I ended up discovering was an incredible ethical dilemma, the likes of which I had never been confronted with.
I started out with the feeling, like I'm sure most of us have, that torture is wrong. And by the end of the paper my feelings against torture are much stronger. It's unthinkable that it still goes on, not just because of the obvious pain and trauma inflicted on the person, but because of the whole host of other problems associated with it.
Now at this point it seems like this is a pretty one-dimensional problem, but let me present you with the other side of the argument. The other side, the advocates of torture in specific circumstance, relies heavily on a fictional scenario entitled "The Ticking Bomb." Essentially the scenario is set up that there is a bomb placed somewhere in the city, we have the person guilty of placing the bomb in our custody, and the only way to get him to admit where the bomb is placed is by using torture. The way this scenario is presented it feels like you have no choice, right? It seems like torture would be justified in order to save hundreds, or thousands of people. But I wouldn't choose torture.
Why wouldn't I choose torture? There are many reasons such as the fact that torture doesn't work like that, I mean you can't just flick a switch and make someone confess it usually takes weeks of continual torture to see results, also the problems with how exactly we know the person in custody is guilty, and if he is actually a terrorist he'd probably have training to resist torture, or he could just lie. So besides all those problems one in particular got me thinking. Basically the logistics of the circumstance creates a greater moral dilemma than previously thought. Think about it. At what point is torture justified? Does it have to be over one thousand people saved? One hundred? Just one? How many lives does it take to compromise your morals? And if at some point you're willing to compromise your morals, did you ever really have them? Heavy stuff I know.
Before I wrote the paper I probably would've at some point compromised, only because the situation is designed for it, but after researching it for myself and realizing the ineffectiveness of torture, I can now say that there is never a justification for torture. But taking this same idea of compromising morals you can open up a whole can of worms. Like being a pacifist is all good, but at what point do you pick up a gun and fight back. It reminds me of Batman, like he could easily just kill the Joker, but he doesn't, even though it would probably save a lot of lives. That's true morality. Not that I'm suggesting that because people have breaking points we're all immoral, I just would like in some cases for people to recognize their flawed morality. What pisses me off in the world is the hypocrisy that stems from a lot of these situations. One of my least favourite organizations, PETA, is incredibly guilty of this. They protest pounds for putting animals down, but then they proceed to do the same thing. Or they attack science labs that use animals for research, but when they need the medicine that was developed through animal research, like insulin, they have no problem using it.
So somewhere in this blog I kinda got off topic. All I was really trying to say was that nothing in this world is black-and-white. You can't take things for their face-value. And sometimes it's okay to over-think stuff. I mean we have to confront the limits of our morality to grow. If I hadn't done research and thought about the "Ticking Bomb" scenario in depth then I would still have the wishy-washy opinion of torture I held two weeks ago. I mean we're all human, we all have breaking points, except Batman.
So this semester I'm taking political science 383, for those of you that don't have the course list memorized that is Crimes against Humanity. This course has been really great, probably one of my favourites. The prof, Dr. Adam Jones, is awesome and he somehow manages to make a super depressing topic interesting.
Anyway last week I had to submit my research paper, we had to pick a specific crime against humanity and write 2500 words about it, I chose torture. Now I'm going to be honest, the only reason I chose to research torture was because it was the only one I could actually find books on. So two weeks ago I sat down at my desk with a stack of books about torture not sure what I was going discover. What I ended up discovering was an incredible ethical dilemma, the likes of which I had never been confronted with.
I started out with the feeling, like I'm sure most of us have, that torture is wrong. And by the end of the paper my feelings against torture are much stronger. It's unthinkable that it still goes on, not just because of the obvious pain and trauma inflicted on the person, but because of the whole host of other problems associated with it.
Now at this point it seems like this is a pretty one-dimensional problem, but let me present you with the other side of the argument. The other side, the advocates of torture in specific circumstance, relies heavily on a fictional scenario entitled "The Ticking Bomb." Essentially the scenario is set up that there is a bomb placed somewhere in the city, we have the person guilty of placing the bomb in our custody, and the only way to get him to admit where the bomb is placed is by using torture. The way this scenario is presented it feels like you have no choice, right? It seems like torture would be justified in order to save hundreds, or thousands of people. But I wouldn't choose torture.
Why wouldn't I choose torture? There are many reasons such as the fact that torture doesn't work like that, I mean you can't just flick a switch and make someone confess it usually takes weeks of continual torture to see results, also the problems with how exactly we know the person in custody is guilty, and if he is actually a terrorist he'd probably have training to resist torture, or he could just lie. So besides all those problems one in particular got me thinking. Basically the logistics of the circumstance creates a greater moral dilemma than previously thought. Think about it. At what point is torture justified? Does it have to be over one thousand people saved? One hundred? Just one? How many lives does it take to compromise your morals? And if at some point you're willing to compromise your morals, did you ever really have them? Heavy stuff I know.
Before I wrote the paper I probably would've at some point compromised, only because the situation is designed for it, but after researching it for myself and realizing the ineffectiveness of torture, I can now say that there is never a justification for torture. But taking this same idea of compromising morals you can open up a whole can of worms. Like being a pacifist is all good, but at what point do you pick up a gun and fight back. It reminds me of Batman, like he could easily just kill the Joker, but he doesn't, even though it would probably save a lot of lives. That's true morality. Not that I'm suggesting that because people have breaking points we're all immoral, I just would like in some cases for people to recognize their flawed morality. What pisses me off in the world is the hypocrisy that stems from a lot of these situations. One of my least favourite organizations, PETA, is incredibly guilty of this. They protest pounds for putting animals down, but then they proceed to do the same thing. Or they attack science labs that use animals for research, but when they need the medicine that was developed through animal research, like insulin, they have no problem using it.
So somewhere in this blog I kinda got off topic. All I was really trying to say was that nothing in this world is black-and-white. You can't take things for their face-value. And sometimes it's okay to over-think stuff. I mean we have to confront the limits of our morality to grow. If I hadn't done research and thought about the "Ticking Bomb" scenario in depth then I would still have the wishy-washy opinion of torture I held two weeks ago. I mean we're all human, we all have breaking points, except Batman.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Why am I Passing?
So this picture is the notes I have taken from my last two Latin American history classes. Needless to say, I'm not sure if I'm devoting all of my attention to the course. In my defense October 28th was "movie day" so taking notes wasn't all that necessary.
Looking through my notebook I'm reflecting on my career as a university student. All the times I've dozed off in class, all the times I didn't do the readings, and all the classes I've just missed, and I'm forced to wonder why am I passing? You'd think I'd have made some irreversible mistake by now, like I'm not paying attention and the prof changes the due date of the paper, or I try to study my notes and all I learn is that I'm awesome at drawing dragons. But here I am in my third year and I've yet to ever miss or fail any exam/paper.
The only explanation I can come up with is simply I am the luckiest university student in the world. That somehow I've managed to listen at key moments in the lectures and am able to magically throw words onto a page that makes up a coherent paper. For example, my poli-sci midterm. It was a take-home exam, I had to write two short essays. Not only is poli-sci one of my weaker subjects, but I had so many other papers to write I polished off the midterm in an afternoon. I wasn't confident in the least, I figured if I passed it would be awesome. But I get it back and what?! 85 on the first essay and 90 on the second. There must have been some mistake.
I'm not writing this to let you all know I'm going to buckle down and be the best student I can be from now on, and I certainly am not bragging about how I get awesome grades without trying. Because in all honesty when I am writing a paper I do usually put a fair amount of effort into it, I just never feel it deserves as high of mark that it usually gets. And it's true, if I really concentrated in class or started working on my papers weeks in advance, then I'd probably get better grades or at the very least feel that I deserve my grades. But guess what? I'm going to continue doing exactly what I have been because, let's face it, it's working. Even right now in my peripheral vision I can see a stack of books I should be reading for my paper that I should be writing. But will I start it? Maybe, we'll see how I'm feeling tomorrow.
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