I'm Awesome

Tomorrow morning I will send off my creative writing portfolio with its letter of intent, and pray to all that is holy in this world, that I will be accepted to the highly competitive program. Although I've had copious doubts over the last month about my abilities as a writer, and the extent of my enjoyment from such process, I believe that this is what I really want. However, like any intelligent person hoping to avoid a downward spiralling depression that results in stripping by the name of "Tigress Modesto", I have made a plan B. That being the objective of becoming a raging alcoholic that resides at any local bar and yells slanderous insults at innocent couples. Don't worry, I'll keep all my clothes on.

The whole process has been rough, both emotionally and mentally, drawing upon all my creativity, discipline, and strength to complete it. In an attempt to change long running habits of self-defeating behaviour, I am going to give myself a pat on the back, and the permission to feel good. I've wasted too much time stressing over my negative qualities, and far too little time thinking that I'm awesome.

In a couple days, on March 1st, three relatively important things will happen. My portfolio will arrive in Montreal to be submitted and judged, I will celebrate my 20th birthday, and this blog will be a year old. If nothing else, my history of contributing to this blog is testament to my love for writing, and whether or not I do it well or poorly is something I'm not going to have an anxiety attack over.

Well, at least not today.

Frisco

This past weekend I spent four days in San Francisco with the boyfriend. He had grad school applications to do and, well me, I had shopping to do. Unfortunately four days just isn't long enough, and my only real regret is not having adequate time in a city so big.

On the first day we went out to the Fisherman's Wharf, venturing quite a ways away from our hotel in the middle of Cracktown. PARENTAL EDIT: Sorry dad, if you're reading this just replace the word "Cracktown" with "Richtown-without-mumbling-cracked-out-hobos". I'd describe Fisherman's Wharf as a cross between Granville Island and Disneyland, with a good view of Alcatraz. I decided that I didn't need to spend my time or money going to a jail, and opted for a simple viewing from a distance. I understand that many people are interested in seeing a jail when they've never before, but personally I want to keep my eyes virginal to the inner confines of a jail cell. Call me crazy.

After lots of walking we sat down near the pier to eat our clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl, something I'm still getting cravings for. As we sat and sipped our soup, several abnormally large sea gulls swooped down to stare at us. I just sort of sat there in a slight daze as I noted the colossal size of these birds. Either they have a secret vat of lard they like to snack on, or small children are going missing from Fisherman's Wharf. We threw a piece of bread at one of the birds and strangely enough, the bird only looked at it.

"Eat it you dumb bird," I said.

The seagull looked at the bread offering, then at us, then back down at the bread before he spoke.

"I'm sorry, but is this for me? This measly piece of crumb? I can hardly see it. How do you think I got so huge? By eating miniscule charity such as that? Pfft. I don't know what kind of physique those birds in Canada have, but it probably doesn't jiggle like my ass. A bird isn't supposed to have an ass that jiggles you say? Bite me. Better yet, bite that piece of bread. Nah, I'll leave it for the hobos."

I blinked several times and wondered what would have been a more appropriate offering. What kind of thankless animal was this? And then it made sense. I'm sure that when you're used to the succulent flesh of young tourist human babies, yeast risen bread just doesn't cut it anymore.

I looked back at the bird with spite and saw that he was pecking away at the sourdough. Hah, not so almighty now are we?

That Big Dude Upstairs

You know, God.

I've provided several detailed accounts of that horribly, wretched, pretentious douche bag in my religious studies class, but the saga of him may never be at an end. I must, therefore, continue to update you--my faithful reading audience--of his day to day comments which gnaw at my fleeting sanity. And yes, by "faithful reading audience" I'm referring to my sister and her friend Nicole, who apparently, can no longer communicate via anything but blog.

My eccentric and passionate prof really is a good sport when it comes to PDB (pretentious douche bag). He let's him make his unnecessary comments, he pretends to take into consideration what has been said, and he even takes it upon himself to refrain from walking over to PDB's seat, placing one hand on his shoulder, one on his head, and snapping his god damn neck. Honestly, this is a feat. I fear, though, that I may not have this same ability to stop myself in the near future. If this be the case, I may have to make all subsequent posts from Juarez, Mexico, where the Canadian RCMP won't bother me.

The other day my prof was explaining a Daoist lesson through an analogy wherein a normal person asks a Daoist master what his religion is all about. The Daoist master goes on to suggest having tea first, and proceeds to fill up the questioners cup, and continue to pour even when the tea begins to flow up and out of the cup. The questioner becomes confused but then the Dao master tells him that no new information can be absorbed if your cup is already full. The obvious theme here is that one has to have an open mind to understand a new and foreign concept, in this case it is a religion. Nice, great, concise, we all understand, right?

No, PDB needs to add a remark.

He raises his hand, every kid in the class roles their eyes, and awaits the torture. PDB smirks in that completely infuriating way that screams "HEY EVERYBODY I KNOW FACTS!", and really, it's that smirk that makes my stomach turn. I hold down the vomit. He begins to speak.

"Well, you see here, something hasn't been taken into consideration. Really, it's just a common mistake to overlook things. Can't we assume that the amount of information one can take in is directly related to the...size of their "cup"?"

He finishes, looks around for the absent applause, and smiles at his unparalleled insight. My prof rubs his eyes before replying.

"You're just thinking about this in too technical a manner--"

But he's interrupted. A guy in the back of the class pipes up, finally taking initiative like all of us have wanted to for the last 20 classes and yells,

"IT'S A METAPHOR!"

I was hoping for a "STUPID" on the end of that remark, but really, his high level of angst sufficed.