I'm not entirely sure if my blog has "staples" - and what I mean by "staples" are recurring features; nowadays my blog has become somewhat scatterbrained, but if anything, I like the new direction of my humourous cynicism towards my own life, because not everyone enjoys reading woes. There's no point to living without a touch of humour, and there no point to writing if there's no point to living (considering I write what I live), and thus by default there's no point to writing without a touch of humour. (aha, an enthymeme; Aristotle would be proud) I've digressed. Back to my original point: I've read many blogs where recurring features such as weekly questions-and-answers or what have you are featured, and I don't think I've ever really done that, but if I had to pin down the closest I've come to creating this, I can come up with two: the first, My Drunk Blog, which in reality only exists to make my drunken ramblings "redeemable" (if that's possible), is a bit too unpredictable, a bit too problematic and a bit too despicable.
The second - and we finally get to the meat of my intended point (if you feel the need to punch me because of my verbal embellishment, do so; it's like an untamed monster that's been once again released due to the amount of academia language I've had to use for my schoolwork) - would be the Things I [adverb] Hate, which are always quite fun to write because it lets me get unabashedly heated towards the things that make my skin crawl. In the past, I've had such posts as Things I Hate, More Things I Hate, and, most recently (and, curiously, most verbally polished; hooray for a visible progression of the quality of my writing!), Things I Really Hate. Christ on a stick, I'm a hateful person! Again, I'm not entirely sure I'd count this as a concrete staple to my blog (given that I don't have a scheduled time in which I post these - I think a biweekly hate would be a little bit too much), but on the flipside, I should hope that when you, my fine reader, think about my blog to yourself, one of the first things to stick out in your mind is "that Matt sure hates a lot of things - but it's so funny! And, goodness, he's attractive."*
*optional
You might have concluded by now - well, you have had a fair bit of time to do so.. - that I'm about to launch into yet another Things I [Absolutely, Positively] Hate post, because 1. it's been a while and 2. there's only so long I can go with this internal hatred before I explode from not sharing it. (oh, and I guess another big clue might've been the title..) You'll notice that I'm sometimes only half serious, because, recall, I base a significant amount of this on humour; even with that in mind, my troubles do come from a real place, but in some cases, just rest assured that I am not actually as worked up about it as it might seem - the magic of hyperbole!
Things I Absolutely, Positively Hate
Victims. No, I don't mean victims to crime. How the hell could I hate someone who's been robbed? I'm not that bad of a person. Many times in my life - for reasons unbeknownst to me, but I guess I'll always be trapped in this sort of cruel cycle - I've had to deal with people who, when thrust into sticky confrontations, immediately retreat from said confrontation, and through their stepping away from responsibility they assume the role of the victim and thereby push the role of the "villain" (or, in plainer, non-comic book superhero terms, the one who's "over-reacting") onto the other (or, me). It's infuriating, because the second a person steps away from actually assuming responsibility in an issue, they assign themselves total innocence and therefore make the opposite person seem like they're a raving lunatic. I'm hoping this makes sense. This isn't just at a basic level of a discrepancy between to people, no; what I've spelled out can be translated to any significant hardship in life, and the moment something goes the slightest bit awry, victims curl up in defeat. These people who constantly whine and insert themselves into victimized situations need to grow up and face the reality of the world - one can't expect for everything to get better if one traps oneself in a nest of "woe is me," and brooding in this nest won't pacify anything. The world is tough. Things don't work out. Something I've learned to accept is no matter how mature you are or how positive you are in your outlook, there will always be someone around you who's still stuck in self-depreciation or who has a twisted outlook on what they do or say; that's the world. For goodness sake, don't take solace in making yourself the victim: live up to your maturity and tackle your pitiful problems in stride.
Mature students. I love the idea of an older person (I use the term "older" cautiously, but I mean not of the average age of a university student) returning to a post-secondary institution for a degree, but I hate it when these older people become the shining pupils in your classes and therefore make you (and the rest of your similarly aged peers) look bad. Take for instance an older woman in one of my English classes; she answers every one of my professor's questions, and it's to the point where my professor has even made remarks like "why don't the rest of you care as much as [this person] does?" I realize I'm coming across as a total douchebag with respect to this subheading, but recalling some people I've had this conversation with in the past, they agree with what I'm saying because they, too, have had this elusive older student upstage them.*
*I am seriously not an asshole. It's refreshing to see someone like that still passionate about school, and I have nothing but respect; but shush already.
Participation marks in class. What the hell is the point of allocating 10% of your final grade to participation? I'm at the point (in my third year) where I've nearly become an entirely autonomous student; that is, I attend lectures and take notes on what my professors have said, but I make my own understandings of the material through my own learning at home both before and after receiving the framework of the critical thinking from my instructors. That being said, I don't enjoy speaking in class - you'd think I'd advocate it, what with just explaining how I make my own ideas about things which would probably benefit others reading it, but they can suck it. It irks me when professors, at the beginning of the semester, say "it's alright if you don't like speaking up in class, not everyone is comfortable with that" - only to implement "10% of your mark is based on your conversation in class." What? I even, a few weeks ago, had a professor compliment one of my papers (it set the rest of my week off to be fantastic), and whilst talking to me she said "you're really shy, and I can tell! It's okay you don't speak in class" - only to call on me twice during the lecture. "Matt, why don't you give us your thoughts?" No. :(
Manufactured pop singers. It's no secret that current popular music (and by "popular," I judge what's put on heavy rotation on the radio and what's topping the Billboard charts) is largely dominated by women - think about it: we're in the time of Gaga, Adele, Britney Spears, Katy Perry, Rihanna, Nicki Minaj, dare I even say Ke$ha (she somehow keeps returning to that number one position..), Beyonce, and Justin Bieber. Naturally, I'm all for Gaga (no, really?), and I love her because her sound is fresh, her image is intriguing and underneath it all she has the voice to back it up. What bothers me is the kind of success that people like Katy Perry and Rihanna are receiving, when I would fully argue that neither is particularly a good live artist, but rather, they're heavily reliant on the manufacturing of their songs. It bothers me that a song like "We Found Love" is able to top the Billboard 100 when a song like "The Edge of Glory" cannot (and I don't say that with a personal bias: Edge of Glory is simply a flawless pop song, and it's undeniable); it bothers me that WFL consists of perhaps ten unique lines of lyric repeated constantly; it bothers me that Rihanna touts her eleventh number one when she quite literally put in the minimal effort - as far as I'm concerned, the most shining aspect of the song is the beat, and she has nothing to do with that. And don't even get me started on Katy Perry: she is 100% a manufactured machine to spew out hit after carbon-copy hit destined to invade the public's iPod and car radio. At the end of the day I'm not overly bothered by this; I'm able to retreat to the music I consider to be good, and as far as Lady Gaga is concerned (it's a crime she's only had three number ones..), her success is astronomical, and she'll be the one remembered in twenty years. Katy who?
That's quite enough hate for one day.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
No life November
It's November and the rate at which time has passed since beginning the semester is baffling. It seems like only yesterday I moved onto residence, acquainting myself with my class schedule and my independent domestic capabilities (which, I say, still suck, considering my room needs a dusting and much of the food I eat is from a box); instead, I lay in my bed with thick socks staring at my calendar on the wall filled with an obscene amount of readings and work to be done between now and the last day of classes, November 28th. The optimist in me idolizes the idea that we're 13.333% percent done the month of November already; the pessimist weeps and plans my own funeral. I'm left with three final tests and four major essays to hand in - the last full week of class makes me shudder, as two of the tests and one of the essays land someplace during that week - and the procrastinator in me chooses to write a blog post instead of starting an essay (and by start I mean even looking at the essay question, because I haven't) due on Thursday. As to not entirely ruin my weekend, I'm planning on visiting my assignment on Sunday evening, where my [projected] hangover from the [hopeful plans of the] night before will have finally faded.
My work motives have been put at a handicap by two rather large factors, one significantly more meaningful than the other. The first, for some reason, is because I've rediscovered [NERD ALERT: do not read on if 1. you do not think highly of me, because you will think less of me, and 2. if you do think highly of me, because you will think less of me] Pokemon after discussing it feverishly with a friend. By Pokemon I clearly mean the game (do they even still make the cards?), which I have downloaded an emulator for so I may play on my computer. I don't think I'll ever fully move on from those games from my childhood, probably because, well, they were my childhood, but also because even still to a 20 year old they're pretty amazing and the nostalgia while playing is intoxicating. (people never really understand unless they played them when they were a kid. I know this because I get weird looks from these people) Excuse me while I go read Aristotle or watch an R-rated movie or buy scratch tickets or liquor as to remind myself that I am a 20 year old..
The second, and, as you might have guessed, the more meaningful of the two, is because I'm participating (like many failed times in the past) in NaNoWriMo, or, if you don't know what that stands for, National Novel Writing Month. It's a "contest" (for the lack of a better term) where one may challenge themselves to write a 50 000+ worded work of fiction in the month of November; editing is discouraged, but given that I'm an extreme perfectionist, I rewrite passages twenty times until I deem myself fit to continue. Another general stipulation (if I recall correctly; I didn't "officially" sign up this year online because my user account with two failures on it is depressing enough - point is I haven't acquainted myself with the official rules) is that the story to write must be 100% original to the month of November, and that previous planning is discouraged. Well, screw that. The novel I'm writing is one that's been in my head for at least three years - the concept and characters, that is, who never saw the light of day due to my many failed attempts at writing it as well as a general lack of incentive. So I guess I'm breaking the rules in that it isn't completely original, but it's still my original work, and judging on my previous failures with NaNoWriMo, I think it's a safer bet to go into it with framework. It's all very exciting to me; I've long forgotten about how passionate I get when I actually have the chance to write, and it's all I think about, given that I'm not already thinking about the essays I need to write or the Pokemon I need to catch to complete my team. (goodness)
My progress? Zero words. I was up to about 2000 yesterday but after letting it sit in my mind I'm once again displeased. As I said, it's all because I'm a perfectionist. I've written far more in the past, but success only comes after I'm entirely pleased with my exposition; from there, I have enough strength to move past weaker segments of the body of the work and just keep writing, because I know my foundation is solid. I have yet to strike gold, but that's why I've allocated my Sunday evening to my schoolwork as to allow for the rest of tonight and the majority of tomorrow (given I don't occupy myself otherwise..) to writing. I guess it's sort of a punishment: don't work on meaningful things for school until you've written the opening to your story goddamnit!
As usual, I pull through. I have the utmost faith in myself as an essay writer since I've never received horrifying marks on the ones I've written, so I know I'll get the work done; it's just a matter of so many to-do things hanging over me that I collapse by the mounting pressure of "get this shit done and get it done now." I'm hoping my writing (fictional, that is) will provide for me the means to maintain my sanity by the month's end, but here's hoping that my novel doesn't drive me crazy like my schoolwork, too. Send creative brainwaves my way!
Monday, October 31, 2011
Troll! In the dungeon!
Happy Halloween!
I'd say Halloween is my favourite holiday, unless I decide that Halloween and Christmas are tied or that Christmas was exceptionally successful in which case Halloween would fall second. (you may or may not be familiar with my thoughts about Christmas, but I won't divulge into it [yet; it's not even November yet..] and seem like a Scrooge, it's too early) I've always been over-enthusiastic about choosing my costume for the year, usually beginning to think about it (and, if I'm particularly crazy, assemble it) during the summer. I usually am stuck with the repeating problem of what to be, because here's my philosophy: because I love Halloween so much, it seems a waste to me to be something like "police man" or "cowboy" because costumes like that are so generic. Given that I'm not overly good at thinking up clever costumes, I then stick to characters, because characters are memorable. Even still, it's difficult.
This year, my costume was essentially chosen for me. I was part of a big collective Grey's Anatomy costume spearheaded by the craziest Grey's fans I know, two of my friends, who also happened to be hosting their annual Halloween party along with their roommates at their house. Given that I'm tall, dark (I guess..), and not just handsome but sexy (ha!), I was given the task of becoming Dr. Derek Shepherd, douchebag husband and neurosurgeon extraordinaire - McDreamy himself. In preparation, recall, I watched the entire series of Grey's over the summer and experienced the roller coaster every Grey's fan I'm sure has experience only on super fast forward - that roller coaster being massive obsession to gradual disappointment (the Grey's obsessed I know have not yet reached that. They will always be massively obsessed) to dear God, just cancel the show so that I no longer must be obligated to watch every week, and yes I do feel that way sometimes because I can't just give up on those characters now. I digress. I purchased my navy blue scrubs months ago - I am, after all, an attending surgeon, so I get the navy scrubs - and dusted off my lab coat from the days when I was a failure of a science student. I must say, these scrubs are some of the most comfortable clothes I own. I am wearing them now. It saddens me that Halloween is on a Monday because the holiday isn't over but the festivities already are; regardless I remain in my scrubs and lab coat with my badge (the greatest addition to the costume by far courtesy of my friend) as I finish readings for the upcoming week - we obviously don't get kids living in a residence complex.
My Halloween consisted of attending the aforementioned Halloween party. I traveled there on Friday and was delighted to know the bar ten minutes away from the house was having a Halloween costumed event in addition to its weekly country night. I made it to the bar. I enjoyed the bar. I was kicked out of the bar not even an hour after arriving due to reasons you can conclude come with drinking I think it was nine beers in succession before leaving for the bar. I then proceeded to die.
Saturday was the worst day of my life. I woke up around 7am - I can never sleep in when I've been drinking - to the disgusting misfortunes of the night before. (I won't say, but I was still wearing my scrubs and we proceeded to wash them in the afternoon) Sitting upright was absolutely impossible so I remained curled in a ball on the couch until about 2pm when we all decided to visit the greatest and cheapest breakfast place known to man. I spent my deadly headache watching movie after movie, first Baby Mama then Bridesmaids, then once returning from brunch (I guess it was) moved onto Mulan and Aladdin. By then only the headache remained, and it was bearable. A Zola was purchased to make my costume more authentic (Derek and Meredith have attempted to adopt a baby from Africa named Zola) and in effort to gloss over the absolutely despicable actions that followed I will only provide that Zellers did not sell black baby dolls so alternative methods were employed. To stay true to the characters my Halloween wife and I decided to stash Zola away somewhere in the house during the party, proclaiming "Where did Meredith stash Zola?" (Meredith in the show stole Zola on the day she discovered they weren't getting her and hid her away in the hospital), and Zola spent the night in a washing machine, an oven, and a cupboard. My partying motivation was at a minimum due to the night before tainting the taste of beer, so I casually drank over the entire night (which lasted until freaking 4:30am due to a certain drunk person's entertainment) without actually getting drunk off of my ass like the Friday night bar excursion, but the party was still quite fun. The group donning the scrubs was fantastic when completely assembled, and I'm anxiously awaiting the number of pictures we took as a group as well as as characters and "couples."
As with any holiday, I'm always a little bit upset when things wind down. I'll conclude my Halloween night by finishing a book that needs to be read for class on Thursday, and to evoke the spirit one last time, I'll watch Rocky Horror Picture Show in my scrubs, of course. I'll miss the Halloween decorations I see in stores or even around campus, but I know come morning, the obnoxious amount of Christmas will begin to suffocate me since I notice the Christmas season always starts immediately. Here's hoping for a good Christmas this year! - I'm thinking it will be. But for now: boo.
I'd say Halloween is my favourite holiday, unless I decide that Halloween and Christmas are tied or that Christmas was exceptionally successful in which case Halloween would fall second. (you may or may not be familiar with my thoughts about Christmas, but I won't divulge into it [yet; it's not even November yet..] and seem like a Scrooge, it's too early) I've always been over-enthusiastic about choosing my costume for the year, usually beginning to think about it (and, if I'm particularly crazy, assemble it) during the summer. I usually am stuck with the repeating problem of what to be, because here's my philosophy: because I love Halloween so much, it seems a waste to me to be something like "police man" or "cowboy" because costumes like that are so generic. Given that I'm not overly good at thinking up clever costumes, I then stick to characters, because characters are memorable. Even still, it's difficult.
This year, my costume was essentially chosen for me. I was part of a big collective Grey's Anatomy costume spearheaded by the craziest Grey's fans I know, two of my friends, who also happened to be hosting their annual Halloween party along with their roommates at their house. Given that I'm tall, dark (I guess..), and not just handsome but sexy (ha!), I was given the task of becoming Dr. Derek Shepherd, douchebag husband and neurosurgeon extraordinaire - McDreamy himself. In preparation, recall, I watched the entire series of Grey's over the summer and experienced the roller coaster every Grey's fan I'm sure has experience only on super fast forward - that roller coaster being massive obsession to gradual disappointment (the Grey's obsessed I know have not yet reached that. They will always be massively obsessed) to dear God, just cancel the show so that I no longer must be obligated to watch every week, and yes I do feel that way sometimes because I can't just give up on those characters now. I digress. I purchased my navy blue scrubs months ago - I am, after all, an attending surgeon, so I get the navy scrubs - and dusted off my lab coat from the days when I was a failure of a science student. I must say, these scrubs are some of the most comfortable clothes I own. I am wearing them now. It saddens me that Halloween is on a Monday because the holiday isn't over but the festivities already are; regardless I remain in my scrubs and lab coat with my badge (the greatest addition to the costume by far courtesy of my friend) as I finish readings for the upcoming week - we obviously don't get kids living in a residence complex.
 |
| 100% authentic and pure genius. Gave me that extra umph to fully embody McDreamy, and that I did. |
Saturday was the worst day of my life. I woke up around 7am - I can never sleep in when I've been drinking - to the disgusting misfortunes of the night before. (I won't say, but I was still wearing my scrubs and we proceeded to wash them in the afternoon) Sitting upright was absolutely impossible so I remained curled in a ball on the couch until about 2pm when we all decided to visit the greatest and cheapest breakfast place known to man. I spent my deadly headache watching movie after movie, first Baby Mama then Bridesmaids, then once returning from brunch (I guess it was) moved onto Mulan and Aladdin. By then only the headache remained, and it was bearable. A Zola was purchased to make my costume more authentic (Derek and Meredith have attempted to adopt a baby from Africa named Zola) and in effort to gloss over the absolutely despicable actions that followed I will only provide that Zellers did not sell black baby dolls so alternative methods were employed. To stay true to the characters my Halloween wife and I decided to stash Zola away somewhere in the house during the party, proclaiming "Where did Meredith stash Zola?" (Meredith in the show stole Zola on the day she discovered they weren't getting her and hid her away in the hospital), and Zola spent the night in a washing machine, an oven, and a cupboard. My partying motivation was at a minimum due to the night before tainting the taste of beer, so I casually drank over the entire night (which lasted until freaking 4:30am due to a certain drunk person's entertainment) without actually getting drunk off of my ass like the Friday night bar excursion, but the party was still quite fun. The group donning the scrubs was fantastic when completely assembled, and I'm anxiously awaiting the number of pictures we took as a group as well as as characters and "couples."
As with any holiday, I'm always a little bit upset when things wind down. I'll conclude my Halloween night by finishing a book that needs to be read for class on Thursday, and to evoke the spirit one last time, I'll watch Rocky Horror Picture Show in my scrubs, of course. I'll miss the Halloween decorations I see in stores or even around campus, but I know come morning, the obnoxious amount of Christmas will begin to suffocate me since I notice the Christmas season always starts immediately. Here's hoping for a good Christmas this year! - I'm thinking it will be. But for now: boo.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
The one that got away
(Am I basing the concept to this blog post after Katy Perry's newest single? Unfortunately. However I do like the song despite my feelings about her, but that's beside the point)
A few weeks ago when listening The One That Got Away by Katy Perry a friend of mine brought up the potentially loaded question, "Aren't you ever scared about that? Letting the one get away?" (*paraphrase. In fact I don't even know if that's remotely close to what she said, but point is, the theme of the song was called into question: the whole "what if?" concept) I have no direct answer to the question; with respect to the fear of letting "the one" get away from me, I've never experienced that since I've never legitimately dated someone yet - therefore I have yet to lose someone / a potential "the one" candidate. Beyond a relationship standpoint, however, the general theme of the song can be considered (as previously mentioned) as "what would my life be like if x didn't happen?" If I were in a particularly science fiction-y kind of mood I'd probably morph this into a post about alternate timelines - and, essentially, that could be where this is headed - but naturally I've been letting the idea resonate in my mind as I sit at my laptop in the comfort of my home while a rerun of Saturday Night Live is playing on the television.
Like I said - I've never been in a position to let someone get away. But what if - what if, say, I didn't audition for the school musical in grade eleven? What if I moved to Phoenix when I was eight? What if I decided that Lady Gaga was too weird and decided to switch the radio station every time Just Dance came on? (that one is a joke) The thought of how different my life would be is intriguing - therefore, let's consider it together, shall we?
(I think I might take a chronological approach to this. I'm aiming to pick out a handful of what I consider to be the most pivotal moments in my life thus far - here's hoping they actually do hold up as significant)
When I was in grade two, my dad was offered a vice president position at his old company. The catch, though: he was to relocate to Phoenix, Arizona. So then: what if I moved to Phoenix? My life would be vastly different; in fact, I would wager that I would be nowhere near the person I am today since I consider the people I've known in my life as having been influential in how I shaped myself. Perhaps this blog would still exist if I was American (that thought makes me shudder), but I wouldn't know any of the friends I know and love now which is the most disturbing thought to me; I wouldn't have been privileged with a family close enough to see a few times a month; perhaps most importantly, I would've had to wait another two years to actually become legal to drink. The horror. In the end we didn't move because my dad was, at the time, considering another job offer (at the company he now works for now), as well as my parents deciding that it would be best for me and my sister to remain where we were accustomed to. I recall putting up a massive fight to the prospect of moving to the States, and if memory serves correctly, I tried sabotaging meetings with realtors.
What if I was more concerned with how I presented myself in elementary school? This seems extremely superficial and shallow at first value, and I know it; however - and I'm not meaning to be overdramatic or self-loathing - I wasn't exactly the most well liked person in elementary school, or even during high school. (the bigger size of my high school lessened that concern because it wasn't a forced environment with the same fifty people day in and day out) I made a lot of unnecessary "enemies" because, as I look back now, I realize I exhibited some fairly negative traits. I was so competitive for my marks that I know I came across as the teacher's pet; I was unnecessarily hateful towards some people because it's what others told me to do; I instigated things and I was honestly a bit obnoxious. This doesn't bug me that much. The past is the past, and all I care about is that I came out of those years with the best friends in the world, and I wouldn't trade it.
What if I didn't try out for Jesus Christ Superstar, my high school's musical, when I was in grade eleven? This seems a bit insignificant, too, but the school musical was probably one of the greatest times in my life. I used to be interested in acting in school plays in elementary school. By the time I got to high school, my confidence was quickly diminished - it's humbling to become one of two thousand students, so your overall presence quickly shrinks. Naturally, when auditions were announced for Jesus Christ Superstar, I wrote it off without thinking twice. I would consider myself to be a pretty good actor, but by god, I can't sing worth my life, so even if I was still interested in acting in front of people, I would've passed it off knowing that the entire musical is, well, musical numbers, and there is absolutely no dialogue. Regardless, I signed up for an audition time just to shut my friends up - my group of friends are fairly "artistic" as I know two dancers and a few are rather good singers - but it seemed that my commitment wasn't easily wiggled out of and I still had to audition. I was so uninterested that I read parts of my monologue off of cue cards and when it came to singing I sang only a single verse from a[n unidentified song from an unidentified musical], despite being asked to prepare two songs. And yet, I was cast as an evil priest - not to be egotistical, but one of the directors was my drama teacher and he liked me a lot. As I know now, iff I hadn't auditioned, my life wouldn't be the same: it was literally the time of my life. Rehearsals became an absolute joy due to meeting a whole lot of fantastic people whom I wouldn't have otherwise met. My memories of the weekend rehearsals running around the halls or complaining about [what have you] with my fellow priests are endless. I still look back at pictures from the play and rehearsals and said fond memories flood back to me, and I repeat, I wouldn't have turned out the same without the most amazing experience of my life.
When it came down to choosing my university, I was pretty much given the one and only option of science by my parents because at the time being an English major was out of the question. I therefore based my choice completely on which schools offered the best forensic science programs (a science I deemed doable, but we know how that turned out) - and, as a result, I ended up applying to UTM because of their reputable program. So then: what if I never went to UTM? I firmly say that if I was applying to schools for their English programs, UTM would never have been an option: I would've applied for the downtown campus, for one, and I would've put heavy consideration on the reputation of English programs in the province. Despite switching majors, my school still provided for me: I met some great people, and much like everything I've already talked about, I wouldn't be the same without knowing them; it's since been brought to my attention that UofT's English program is the seventh best in the world, so that turned out well, too. I enjoy my program, the classes I'm taking, the people I get to see. It's tough to think of, but (similar to everything already mentioned) if I didn't go to UTM, I wouldn't have known any different: I would've been taking equally interesting English courses elsewhere and I would've met some okay people. Needless to say I'm far from disappointed by my selection; forensic science didn't quite work out, but UTM still did.
This serves as only a selection of the most influential moments of my life: I picked the ones that stuck out to me upon first consideration and I'd say they're all vastly significant. Perhaps the most disturbing thing to consider is the concept of not knowing any better - what I mean by that is, if my life played out differently in each of these instances, I wouldn't have lived as "deprived" of the "goodness" that came out of them because I wouldn't have been alert to the goodness at all. If I moved to Phoenix, I wouldn't have grown up with the four girls I call my four extra sisters; if I didn't try out for the musical, I would've missed the opportunity to meet so many new people and create so many more memories, but I wouldn't have been attentive to the possibility of said memories; if I didn't choose UTM as my university, I'd be taking just as interesting English courses elsewhere (preferably not York) spending time with other people for whom it would be impossible to gauge as better or worse than the people I know now - it's just impossible because I haven't lived all possibilities. Honestly, though, I will never feel the need to know what things could have been: I'm entirely happy with where I am now. Here's hoping I don't launch into such deep thought every time I hear Katy Perry's song though.
A few weeks ago when listening The One That Got Away by Katy Perry a friend of mine brought up the potentially loaded question, "Aren't you ever scared about that? Letting the one get away?" (*paraphrase. In fact I don't even know if that's remotely close to what she said, but point is, the theme of the song was called into question: the whole "what if?" concept) I have no direct answer to the question; with respect to the fear of letting "the one" get away from me, I've never experienced that since I've never legitimately dated someone yet - therefore I have yet to lose someone / a potential "the one" candidate. Beyond a relationship standpoint, however, the general theme of the song can be considered (as previously mentioned) as "what would my life be like if x didn't happen?" If I were in a particularly science fiction-y kind of mood I'd probably morph this into a post about alternate timelines - and, essentially, that could be where this is headed - but naturally I've been letting the idea resonate in my mind as I sit at my laptop in the comfort of my home while a rerun of Saturday Night Live is playing on the television.
Like I said - I've never been in a position to let someone get away. But what if - what if, say, I didn't audition for the school musical in grade eleven? What if I moved to Phoenix when I was eight? What if I decided that Lady Gaga was too weird and decided to switch the radio station every time Just Dance came on? (that one is a joke) The thought of how different my life would be is intriguing - therefore, let's consider it together, shall we?
(I think I might take a chronological approach to this. I'm aiming to pick out a handful of what I consider to be the most pivotal moments in my life thus far - here's hoping they actually do hold up as significant)
When I was in grade two, my dad was offered a vice president position at his old company. The catch, though: he was to relocate to Phoenix, Arizona. So then: what if I moved to Phoenix? My life would be vastly different; in fact, I would wager that I would be nowhere near the person I am today since I consider the people I've known in my life as having been influential in how I shaped myself. Perhaps this blog would still exist if I was American (that thought makes me shudder), but I wouldn't know any of the friends I know and love now which is the most disturbing thought to me; I wouldn't have been privileged with a family close enough to see a few times a month; perhaps most importantly, I would've had to wait another two years to actually become legal to drink. The horror. In the end we didn't move because my dad was, at the time, considering another job offer (at the company he now works for now), as well as my parents deciding that it would be best for me and my sister to remain where we were accustomed to. I recall putting up a massive fight to the prospect of moving to the States, and if memory serves correctly, I tried sabotaging meetings with realtors.
What if I was more concerned with how I presented myself in elementary school? This seems extremely superficial and shallow at first value, and I know it; however - and I'm not meaning to be overdramatic or self-loathing - I wasn't exactly the most well liked person in elementary school, or even during high school. (the bigger size of my high school lessened that concern because it wasn't a forced environment with the same fifty people day in and day out) I made a lot of unnecessary "enemies" because, as I look back now, I realize I exhibited some fairly negative traits. I was so competitive for my marks that I know I came across as the teacher's pet; I was unnecessarily hateful towards some people because it's what others told me to do; I instigated things and I was honestly a bit obnoxious. This doesn't bug me that much. The past is the past, and all I care about is that I came out of those years with the best friends in the world, and I wouldn't trade it.
What if I didn't try out for Jesus Christ Superstar, my high school's musical, when I was in grade eleven? This seems a bit insignificant, too, but the school musical was probably one of the greatest times in my life. I used to be interested in acting in school plays in elementary school. By the time I got to high school, my confidence was quickly diminished - it's humbling to become one of two thousand students, so your overall presence quickly shrinks. Naturally, when auditions were announced for Jesus Christ Superstar, I wrote it off without thinking twice. I would consider myself to be a pretty good actor, but by god, I can't sing worth my life, so even if I was still interested in acting in front of people, I would've passed it off knowing that the entire musical is, well, musical numbers, and there is absolutely no dialogue. Regardless, I signed up for an audition time just to shut my friends up - my group of friends are fairly "artistic" as I know two dancers and a few are rather good singers - but it seemed that my commitment wasn't easily wiggled out of and I still had to audition. I was so uninterested that I read parts of my monologue off of cue cards and when it came to singing I sang only a single verse from a[n unidentified song from an unidentified musical], despite being asked to prepare two songs. And yet, I was cast as an evil priest - not to be egotistical, but one of the directors was my drama teacher and he liked me a lot. As I know now, iff I hadn't auditioned, my life wouldn't be the same: it was literally the time of my life. Rehearsals became an absolute joy due to meeting a whole lot of fantastic people whom I wouldn't have otherwise met. My memories of the weekend rehearsals running around the halls or complaining about [what have you] with my fellow priests are endless. I still look back at pictures from the play and rehearsals and said fond memories flood back to me, and I repeat, I wouldn't have turned out the same without the most amazing experience of my life.
When it came down to choosing my university, I was pretty much given the one and only option of science by my parents because at the time being an English major was out of the question. I therefore based my choice completely on which schools offered the best forensic science programs (a science I deemed doable, but we know how that turned out) - and, as a result, I ended up applying to UTM because of their reputable program. So then: what if I never went to UTM? I firmly say that if I was applying to schools for their English programs, UTM would never have been an option: I would've applied for the downtown campus, for one, and I would've put heavy consideration on the reputation of English programs in the province. Despite switching majors, my school still provided for me: I met some great people, and much like everything I've already talked about, I wouldn't be the same without knowing them; it's since been brought to my attention that UofT's English program is the seventh best in the world, so that turned out well, too. I enjoy my program, the classes I'm taking, the people I get to see. It's tough to think of, but (similar to everything already mentioned) if I didn't go to UTM, I wouldn't have known any different: I would've been taking equally interesting English courses elsewhere and I would've met some okay people. Needless to say I'm far from disappointed by my selection; forensic science didn't quite work out, but UTM still did.
This serves as only a selection of the most influential moments of my life: I picked the ones that stuck out to me upon first consideration and I'd say they're all vastly significant. Perhaps the most disturbing thing to consider is the concept of not knowing any better - what I mean by that is, if my life played out differently in each of these instances, I wouldn't have lived as "deprived" of the "goodness" that came out of them because I wouldn't have been alert to the goodness at all. If I moved to Phoenix, I wouldn't have grown up with the four girls I call my four extra sisters; if I didn't try out for the musical, I would've missed the opportunity to meet so many new people and create so many more memories, but I wouldn't have been attentive to the possibility of said memories; if I didn't choose UTM as my university, I'd be taking just as interesting English courses elsewhere (preferably not York) spending time with other people for whom it would be impossible to gauge as better or worse than the people I know now - it's just impossible because I haven't lived all possibilities. Honestly, though, I will never feel the need to know what things could have been: I'm entirely happy with where I am now. Here's hoping I don't launch into such deep thought every time I hear Katy Perry's song though.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Operation Tweet Me Back
I have spoken ad nauseam about the show American Horror Story as of late, and I once again really implore you to watch it because I think it's a damn good show and I promise you'll be immediately hooked - I was. I never intended to love it as much as I do, but I honestly find myself thinking about it at all times because it's so damn creepy and so messed up and open ended that to stop watching it would be a crime. I've been developing theories about what I've been witnessing but with every episode additional curveballs are thrown so I'm really at a loss and am entirely good with the thrill of the ride; but I digress. (WATCH IT)
One of my favourite characters is Moira, the housekeeper, who [spoiler alert] is dead. (it's not that big of a spoiler - it's revealed that she is in the very first episode, so I'm not giving much away; in fact it's rapidly becoming my theory that at least half of the characters are dead, but that's another story..) Moira is hired by the new owners of the house, the Harmons, after explaining that she's been the housekeeper of the house for years. She isn't malevolent or mischievous - that is, except to Ben (the father of the family). To everyone else, Moira is an elderly woman with one blind eye; to Ben, she's.. ahem, this.
She's aggressively forced herself on Ben (a past cheater) throughout the first three episodes, as he always finds her unbuttoning her blouse or bent over scrubbing the floors in the sluttiest way possible or - kids, cover your ears - touching herself while sprawled over a couch. The disturbing thing of the matter is that she's actually an elderly woman, so when we see her touching herself through Ben's point of view, it's in reality that old lady touching herself. I'm to the point where I've treated them as separate characters - in fact, another character in the show (who knows about Moira's past, and a lot more - I won't spoil that) has referred to her as "you two" - so whenever Young Moira's onscreen I've distanced the chilling thoughts of the older woman.
The (younger version of the) character is sultry. Needless to say I'm in love with her, and if I were Ben, I'd have cheated on my wife twenty thousand times more. She's played by an actress by the name of Alexandra Breckenridge who's popped up in various television shows including most recently (and to me, most recognizably) True Blood, where she played Bill's spy on the witches coven. She then had a pretty raunchy sex scene so it's not bizarre to see her again in one of my favourite shows playing a siren. Well, anyways, like I said, I've been completely seduced by her.
(I will reiterate that I fancy her version of the character. I'm sure Old Moira is a lovely woman but she's not my type and I sure as hell would not want her hanging out cleaning in her knickers)
And so we finally arrive at the point: now that I'm on Twitter (@m_spad, do it up), I'm following Ms Breckenridge, and it's my mission to be tweeted back by her because that would literally make my day, and actually, the rest of my life. It isn't unrealistic; she doesn't have millions of followers like, say, Lady Gaga, because I know it'd be fruitless attempting to be the one out of fourteen million that Gaga would ever choose to respond to. I'm sure this entire post makes it seem like I'm a deranged stalker sort, but I'm merely keeping my fingers crossed that she'll tweet me, because like I said that would seriously send me over the moon. To reinforce the fact that I am not deranged: even though I've made it a "mission," I'm not going out of my way to be obsessive. I'll merely tweet her once and a while and by publicizing it I'm sharing what is bound to be a somewhat humourous journey with you, the reader. It's my nature: humour for humour's sake, and naturally I make things dramatic.
Anyways. We'll see how it goes. This'll give me some sort of hope, and I maintain that the moment it happens (if ever) I might die on the spot. And then my ghost will return to this earth a la 90% of the characters on American Horror Story (I swear, 90% of the characters are ghosts. At least) and blog about my bliss.
Note: this has been referred to me as "that creeper stalker post" (you know who you are). I can defend myself all I want but yes.. yes it does seem that way.
One of my favourite characters is Moira, the housekeeper, who [spoiler alert] is dead. (it's not that big of a spoiler - it's revealed that she is in the very first episode, so I'm not giving much away; in fact it's rapidly becoming my theory that at least half of the characters are dead, but that's another story..) Moira is hired by the new owners of the house, the Harmons, after explaining that she's been the housekeeper of the house for years. She isn't malevolent or mischievous - that is, except to Ben (the father of the family). To everyone else, Moira is an elderly woman with one blind eye; to Ben, she's.. ahem, this.
She's aggressively forced herself on Ben (a past cheater) throughout the first three episodes, as he always finds her unbuttoning her blouse or bent over scrubbing the floors in the sluttiest way possible or - kids, cover your ears - touching herself while sprawled over a couch. The disturbing thing of the matter is that she's actually an elderly woman, so when we see her touching herself through Ben's point of view, it's in reality that old lady touching herself. I'm to the point where I've treated them as separate characters - in fact, another character in the show (who knows about Moira's past, and a lot more - I won't spoil that) has referred to her as "you two" - so whenever Young Moira's onscreen I've distanced the chilling thoughts of the older woman.
The (younger version of the) character is sultry. Needless to say I'm in love with her, and if I were Ben, I'd have cheated on my wife twenty thousand times more. She's played by an actress by the name of Alexandra Breckenridge who's popped up in various television shows including most recently (and to me, most recognizably) True Blood, where she played Bill's spy on the witches coven. She then had a pretty raunchy sex scene so it's not bizarre to see her again in one of my favourite shows playing a siren. Well, anyways, like I said, I've been completely seduced by her.
(I will reiterate that I fancy her version of the character. I'm sure Old Moira is a lovely woman but she's not my type and I sure as hell would not want her hanging out cleaning in her knickers)
And so we finally arrive at the point: now that I'm on Twitter (@m_spad, do it up), I'm following Ms Breckenridge, and it's my mission to be tweeted back by her because that would literally make my day, and actually, the rest of my life. It isn't unrealistic; she doesn't have millions of followers like, say, Lady Gaga, because I know it'd be fruitless attempting to be the one out of fourteen million that Gaga would ever choose to respond to. I'm sure this entire post makes it seem like I'm a deranged stalker sort, but I'm merely keeping my fingers crossed that she'll tweet me, because like I said that would seriously send me over the moon. To reinforce the fact that I am not deranged: even though I've made it a "mission," I'm not going out of my way to be obsessive. I'll merely tweet her once and a while and by publicizing it I'm sharing what is bound to be a somewhat humourous journey with you, the reader. It's my nature: humour for humour's sake, and naturally I make things dramatic.
Anyways. We'll see how it goes. This'll give me some sort of hope, and I maintain that the moment it happens (if ever) I might die on the spot. And then my ghost will return to this earth a la 90% of the characters on American Horror Story (I swear, 90% of the characters are ghosts. At least) and blog about my bliss.
Note: this has been referred to me as "that creeper stalker post" (you know who you are). I can defend myself all I want but yes.. yes it does seem that way.
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