Either I have a very bad leadership style, or I scare guys. All the guys on my former volleyball team, the Spiked Cranberries -- all of whom I consider decent friends, at the very least -- have managed to hemm and haw their way out of a second-season reincarnation as the Cherry Bombs. (Our shirts are red, if in case you think I've seen one too many Fruitopia commercials.)
On a more progressive note, I've decided to focus my honours thesis on the maturing female body of Alice in Wonderland.
Life's too short to focus on serious stuff, right? My original idea had to do with how public policies prioritize different parts of the body -- like how some injuries deserve more compensation than others, for example -- but in all honesty, who wants to read about that? Beneath the egoism, low self-esteem, and exhortations of wanting "to help people", there's still that little kernel of a kid that desperately wants to be anything but boring. I want to be one of those people whose obituaries are featured on the back page of the Globe and Mail under "Lives Lived", with less rhetoric and more fact; I may not be a Belle de Jour (at least not yet -- I get the feeling she and I have the same undergraduate qualifications, though) but I'll write my graduating essay on the Mad Hatter and painted roses if I want to.
A guy in a bright blue plaid shirt, poorboy cap and bald head caught me off-guard in my Chaucer class today before I realised that it was Basil, Martha Piper's event coordinator. I had met him at one of those monthly "breakfast with the President" events (advice: eat before you go, unless greasy sausage really adds that special something to the beginning of your day), and we chatted about the merits of an English degree before finding out we had this class in second term. I never expected him to remember me. What is it, the mole on my forehead?
On a more progressive note, I've decided to focus my honours thesis on the maturing female body of Alice in Wonderland.
Life's too short to focus on serious stuff, right? My original idea had to do with how public policies prioritize different parts of the body -- like how some injuries deserve more compensation than others, for example -- but in all honesty, who wants to read about that? Beneath the egoism, low self-esteem, and exhortations of wanting "to help people", there's still that little kernel of a kid that desperately wants to be anything but boring. I want to be one of those people whose obituaries are featured on the back page of the Globe and Mail under "Lives Lived", with less rhetoric and more fact; I may not be a Belle de Jour (at least not yet -- I get the feeling she and I have the same undergraduate qualifications, though) but I'll write my graduating essay on the Mad Hatter and painted roses if I want to.
A guy in a bright blue plaid shirt, poorboy cap and bald head caught me off-guard in my Chaucer class today before I realised that it was Basil, Martha Piper's event coordinator. I had met him at one of those monthly "breakfast with the President" events (advice: eat before you go, unless greasy sausage really adds that special something to the beginning of your day), and we chatted about the merits of an English degree before finding out we had this class in second term. I never expected him to remember me. What is it, the mole on my forehead?
