As I listened, equal parts amused and bemused, to my friends in grade 12 brood about university applications and scholarship programs, it dawned on me that I only have two years left in this comfortable, gated community before I must take to the gluten-free equivalent of “Kraft dinner and a mattress” living. Upon this realization a switch was flipped in my mind, and my eyes opened to all of the amenities that I have access to, which I usually neglect; I have become in my own home something that is comparable to the man who pilfers those little shampoo bottles from three-star hotels! At the moment, my parents are wondering which Malaysian tourist did a body swap with me; in the span of 3 hours, I have gone to the pool, tried to learn a song on our piano, and filled the steam shower with enough eucalyptus oil to rival a seasoned middle-age hot springs enthusiast with monogramed robes and a bald patch. I have also started to pillage through “school memories” albums and boxes of momentos from the Golden Era, back when university was still 4, or 5, or 7 years off…
Looking through my old science notes today, I came across a page from when I had been so bored that I wrote this poem about a suicidal piano player:
Her nimble fingers tied the knot
For they too long had played the tune, the game
and now to quit, while at a moment’s note- ice
collects along divots in the keys
those ivory blacks and whites
are all the colours that she sees
a peony in principle and melody
the piano player
I cannot decide which is more pompous- the fact that I decided to write all of that down along the endoplasmic reticulum of my cell diagram, or the fact that I successively found it, and put it on my blog. However, it lead me to my recent discovery that going back through the vaults of childhood achievement, if one douches all the nostalgia, is not just the unproductive use of time I once believed it to be. As it turns out, it is also detrimental to one’s self-esteem. For example, while leafing through pictures from my grade six year, I noticed that our family’s Canon Rebel XTI had chosen to paint me not as the altruistic hero who shaved her head for cancer, but as the full-faced lesbian with a buzz cut and a polo shirt collection impressive for its quantity, if nothing else. And those school projects I was unjustifiably proud of in grade 7? Apparently, they’re not actually so great! Here’s the audio file I unearthed from the *poignant? clever?* mortifying parody I made of MC Hammer’s “Cant’ Touch This” involving a certain tomato-based substance:
From MC Hamburger’s famous album “Let’s Get it Squirted”, it’s”Ketchup This.”
-When mustard simply doesn’t cut it.
For once, I concurred wholly with my mother’s distrusting view of the internet and unincluded the music video once accompanying the rap, as this sort of humiliation would transcend even the safety of vast URL networks and computer screens that separate me from your horror and scorn. It is not, arguably, necessary to see Avery wearing her father’s Ukrainian dancing pants and a padded neon jacket to understand the true gravity of her social situation- that the thin thread on which her level of popularity hangs today would snap, without a second thought, were it to discover that such a video survives in the underbelly of the internet.
And believe me, I am sparing your eyes!
Bye for now,