In high school, I took visual arts every year, and I loved it. Weirdly enough, I’ve always had one art teacher (hi, Mr. Simpson!). I loved the amount of freedom I had with my projects, and the exercises we did every week; the class was liberating (especially compared to the AP STEM courses I took).
I’m hungry (I’m always hungry), so I think about the options I have. It’s a bit overwhelming: Should I cook or should I buy? Should I eat a lot or should I just snack? Is there even food in the fridge (and by this, I mean is there anything I want in the fridge)?
(My hair is too long, I need a haircut)
Sometimes I’m not in the mood to write, y’know? And when I’m not in the mood (when I’m lazy (all the time)), writing becomes a thousand times harder.
(Image from: Source)
So fanfiction is a thing that exists.
Often when I listen to podcasts, I find myself unfamiliar with some of the terminology being used. Even more often, I find myself forgetting them after I’ve looked them up in the dictionary.
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I’m probably not the only one with this problem, so how do I retain this information?
I’ve been wanting to write a post about confidence for a while now, but I never really knew how to.
You’re sitting in your little wooden cubicle at the corner of an office. Your laptop is open in front of you; a picture of a black cat stares at you. Its lime-green eyes look into yours.
You maximize your Microsoft Word document. It’s blindingly white.
You lean back on your soft green office chair and sigh. You spin around, facing away from your cubicle. You look at the clock on the white wall to your left: 3:55PM.
You notice that you are bouncing your right leg.
In the last few weeks I’ve been listening to the Mortified podcast, which features adults reading their adolescent diaries in front of a live audience, with no exaggeration, no embellishment, “just god-given awkwardness”. Every episode is guaranteed to produce cringing smiles.
I kept a diary of my own for six years, running from grade nine through my first year of university.
Long, long ago when I was young and dependent, my parents would nag about the state of my bedroom: it rarely met their standards of tidy. I would challenge their unrealistic ideals by questioning them. When this failed to help my cause I would shove everything under the bed.
Why do my clothes need to be put away? I’m going to wear them eventually; why must the bed be made? I’ll be sleeping in it again, tonight; who am I hurting? Why does this “who” care?
Drop-in hours at the libraries are best spent helping students with their assignments. What I like most about being a tutor is that I am constantly reminded that I have an entire work term of no homework. I’m living in the world of education’s liminal space: sitting on the sidelines not being affected!