Tag Archives: BEDA

BEDA 19 – Trigger Warning: Typical Teenaged Angst and Ducks


I don’t feel like writing. I pretty specifically feel like not writing, curling up under the covers with a cup of hot chocolate and an episode of Veronica Mars. I also pretty specifically feel like not studying for my history exam. But! I do have all of my history lecture notes now. In penance for classmates’ notes, I sent them a photo of a duck wearing a hat. Such a good photo. Oh man, that photo made my week when I first saw it.

My head has hurt all day. I took an advil (actually I took two) but nothing changed. I feel sick. I’m tired. I had really good leftovers for dinner. I’m broke.

I don’t have a job for the summer and I don’t know what to do.

Here’s that duck pic

BEDA 18 – A Harry Potter TV Series


The other day (yesterday? the day before? who’s to say!), I was watching one of Ali’s (RogueBlueJay on Youtube) BlogTV shows, as I sometimes do.

He brought up that he thought the Harry Potter books should have been adapted into a TV show rather than movies. Earlier this evening (read: 2:15 this morning), I went onto my friend Sam’s Tumblr and read the same idea, reblogged from this person who I don’t know but I’m sure is lovely. Sam engaged in a bit of discussion about this, and it reminded me of some of the points Ali brought up, and some of the things I’d thought of. I wrote the following thing in Sam’s Ask, (anonymously because she’s had my Tumblr password for coming up 5 months now):

The best part about the idea of a HP TV series is, in my opinion, the opportunity to expand on the universe. You’d get more insight into secondary characters. More McGonagall for example. Plot wouldn’t have to be entirely Golden Trio centric like the movies, though I think the season-long arcs should remain true to the original. And as long as Jo Rowling had a role in production, or got a say in writers, I think it’d be great. -N

So yeah, those are some of my opinions on that. Another thing which Ali brought up was switching actors. I’m not sure if you necessarily would need to do that based on ages, but I can definitely see it being desirable (because adorable child actors don’t always grow up to be watchable adult actors) and manageable. Ali suggested that new actors wouldn’t have to try and emulate the last actor’s work, either. Like in Doctor Who, they could make their character, their ‘regeneration’, their own.

Personally, I totally see the appeal of this. I could always use me some non-Pottermore expansion on the HP universe. (Not a huge fan of Pottermore, though I am a Ravenclaw, which is awesome!)

I also wanted to expand a bit on something I mentioned in my message to Sam: the focus on other characters. Obviously there’s already this huge outside-of-text canonical universe that Jo’s created, and a lot of that could go into the show. All of the outside information she has on Lee Jordan, or McGonagall, and even Bill and Charlie Weasley. What were their years at Hogwarts like?

And there could be flashback episodes! Episodes for the Marauders, or the original Order of the Phoenix (in the 5th season), or more background info on what the teachers were like as students! And sprinkled in there, maybe some episodes about the founders? Wouldn’t that be great?

Another thing I’ve been curious about, which hasn’t been addressed by Jo, to my knowledge: training. How does one train to become a teacher at Hogwarts? What about political training? Are there any post-Hogwarts certifications that you need to go through? Or do witches and wizards enter the workforce at 17?

I see this great opportunity for storytelling here. Weaving together a story far more complex than the movies could portray. A universe broader than even the books could manage. Drawing out themes that were barely touched on in the books, let alone movies!

I know it’s not likely to happen any time soon, but thinking about this has gotten my excited, truly, actively excited, about Harry Potter for the first time in a while.

BEDA 13 – Memories


Today was the last day of classes. The last day of my first year of university. The last day of learning this year. Now, for the next two weeks, I have to focus on re-learning.

It’s weird to think that my first year is coming to an end. It hardly feels like any time has passed at all. I can still remember the day I moved in here with extreme clarity. I remember waiting in line, waiting to move my stuff in. I remember the crowded elevator ride up to the ninth floor.

I remember meeting my roommate, Christine, for the first time. I remember her telling me that we were the only girls in the apartment. I remember being excited, but nervous, to live with guys that weren’t my dad for the first time in my life.

I remember being scared of Cameron and Grant because they were older and cooler and Y-chromosomier. I remember becoming friends with Cameron quickly. I remember becoming friends with Grant far more slowly. I remember the nights I stayed up talking with Grant.

I remember Dustinwhoweneverseebecausehesamechanicalengineer. I remember calling him Dennis. I remember when he dropped out, moved out, missed out on the spectacular April Fools’ Day prank we had planned for him.

I remember that Wednesday night in the middle of winter, when Christine’s ex-boyfriend was over, and Grant and I got drunk on cheap wine, and he took us to the rooftop of a condo with the most spectacular view. I remember the clarity of that night. I remember feeling like I was a part of something.

I remember all those nights I stayed up with panic attacks. Sure I was going to die or fail or live a sad, lonely, unfulfilled life. I remember feeling like I was nothing. Like I was useless and lazy and a failure. Like I didn’t deserve to be here, at the best journalism program in the country.

On that note, I remember having a panic attack at Occupy Toronto. I remember feeling like I’d never be a good journalist. Like I was going to waste thousands of dollars. Like I’d already wasted thousands of dollars. Like I was a fraud. Like I was going to be miserable for the next four years.

I remember going to court for the first time. I remember feeling like a real journalist there. I remember being totally satisfied with the second court story I handed in. I remember feeling totally satisfied with the meagre 76 I got on that story, because I worked hard for that 76. I remember thinking that in high school, I wasn’t satisfied with a 98.

I don’t remember getting smarter. But I notice it in myself now. I can think about things more complexly.

I remember becoming more interested in science. In how the world works, and why. I remember thinking about things more philosophically than I have before.

I remember mistakes I’ve made. Mistakes I don’t want to remember, even. I remember being stupid, and I remember being exactly the kind of person I hate. But only for that one night.

I remember walking to Sharon’s in the middle of the night, scared because it was dark and late and the Big City, but excited, because I’d get to see Sharon. I remember talking with her and crying with her and laughing with her, and becoming closer to her than I ever had been before.

I remember growing.

BEDA 9 – Street Evangelism


Outside of the Eaton Centre, across from Yonge-Dundas Square, there is a permanent fixture of evangelists. Some are Muslim, but many are Christian.

I’d like to preface this by saying that I am not saying these people shouldn’t be Christian. I’m not saying that they should change their beliefs, or that their beliefs are in any way bad. I’ve tried to make that clear on my blog before.

It’s just that these people are so aggressive. They tell me that I’m wrong. That I’m going to hell for not believing in their God. That one of my best friends is going to hell because he likes boys. That I am wrong, and sinful, and weak. That I should resist the temptation to have fun.

That is not okay. First of all, it bothers me that my beliefs are being called into question, when if I was to challenge theirs, I’d be labeled as a crazy atheist trying to convert the world. But evangelism is a part of their religion. It’s expected. (As a side note, I usually don’t mind evangelism all that much? I understand that it’s from a place of wanting to save me. But in this case, they don’t want to save me. They want to get into God’s good books.) But it’s more than just that they’re calling my beliefs into question.

Who are they to tell me that I’m going to hell? Who are they to interpret God’s word? What gives them the right?

Shouldn’t judgement be saved for Judgement Day? Shouldn’t they let Peter deal with me when my time comes? Why do they insist that I am wrong and going to hell? That is not their decision to make.

And that isn’t even to mention Matthew 6:5-6*, which says not to worship in public. (It mentions street corners specifically!) It says that religion is a private thing. That it’s personal. That it shouldn’t be flaunted so that people see how fucking devout you are. How fucking holy. Yes, you could say that they aren’t praying. That they’re preaching. But watch them. Watch as they speak to God. Watch as they pray that they will influence me. That they will change me. That they will save me. They don’t even know me.

 

*As I’ve realized in defending my points to Wayne, this argument isn’t really valid, according to my other philosophies. It shouldn’t have been included, because I’m saying that the Bible is up for interpretation, whether we like it or not, but this point enforces my own interpretation of the Bible. Sorry for being a hypocrite. (Sorry, that was a bad pun.)

BEDA 8 – Easter


This year, instead of chocolate, the Easter Bunny brought me wine. I’m growin’ up, kids.

My family has always spent Easter with family friends. Either they come to our place, or we go to theirs in Waterloo. This year (unlike last year when I was in Italy) was no exception.

We made the ham. My parents bought an expensive one, which I guess translate to having hair on it? I don’t know. It was gross, though. We ended up shaving the ham’s hairy ass. It was good, though, once the hair was gone. I glazed it with a combination of apricot jam, mustard, brown sugar, and a few cloves. Then, halfway through the cooking process, we doused it in maple syrup. It was pretty great.

Barb, our family friend, also made corn, scalloped potatoes, and a salad. All in all, a great meal. Also apple pie for dessert.

I think that’s really all I have to say today, because I’m pretty tired and want to sleep. (Even though it’s super early).

BEDA 5


And once again, I’m blogging past 11 p.m. I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to write about today (but what else is new), so this might just be a stream-of-consciousness blog. Like I’m liveblogging my brain.

I came home for the Easter weekend today. I was meant to come home at about 3, but because I was up all night last night and slept during the day, I came home at about 6 instead.

It’s good being home. Not too stressful, like it usually is. Partially, I think, because I’m ahead on my work. On that  note, the feature article is now due Thursday instead of Tuesday, which is nice. I’m still going to treat it like the deadline is Tuesday, but it’s nice to have that safety net in case I can’t get any more interviews.

I’m actually going back into the city Saturday, though, to do an interview at noon. And then, at three, there’s a Nerdfighter Gathering (which I feel like I might have already mentioned?) which I’m super excited for. I’ve never been to a gathering before, and I’m pretty pumped. I’m nervous, though, because I won’t know anyone there (unless Rachael decides to join) and that’s not usually a good thing for people with social anxiety. But I’m working on that, the social anxiety, and it’s going pretty well so far.

I went to Walmart tonight. Got some nail polishes for my mum. Also eyeliner, lip balm, and blush. Because I like makeup. Which is a post that’ll be coming soon.

Sorry this post is shit. I’m just really tired and smelly and not into blogging at the moment. And on that note, I’ll leave it here, at 265 words.

BEDA 4 – Reporting murder, suicide, and sexual assault


Clocking in at a record-breaking 7 minutes before midnight, I remembered that I had yet to blog today.

Today I wanted to write a little bit about reporting, and why murder is so widely reported, whereas incidents of sexual assault and suicide are largely neglected by the media. But, because there’s only 6 minutes left, this post will have to be fairly brief.

Everybody knows about murder. It’s a huge crime, which is largely viewed as the worst crime one can commit (topped, only, I suppose, by genocide, or serial killings). Regardless, though, killing a person, or people, is seen as the worst thing you can do.

But what about sexual assault? In that case, the victim is left alive, ashamed, embarrassed (due to historical victim-blaming), and broken. And, like in murders, the victim’s loved ones are also affected. Now, I don’t want to make any judgement calls. I don’t want to say “Murderers should do less time than rapists”. That’s not what I’m here for. I’m not a judge, I’m a journalist.

What I’m saying is that sexual assault should be more broadly reported. It happens so frequently, but hear about murder so much more often. This could definitely be due to victims who don’t want to speak out (which is totally their prerogative), but I’m sure that there are some victims who would be willing to speak about their cases. Plus, newspapers don’t need to print names. It’s just that, in my opinion, there should be more awareness about the scope of sexual harassment.

This carries over, a little bit, to suicides. There are legitimate reasons for not reporting suicides (evidence shows that sometimes, reporting on suicide can lead to copycat incidents) but those situations can be avoided. If suicide is reported in a certain way, you can avoid the copycats. Similar to how you wouldn’t glorify murderers in news reporting.

But I think the real reason that we don’t report on suicides is because it isn’t easy. There’s nobody to blame. Journalists don’t know how to report on that, because the story doesn’t write itself, like in murders. The murderer is the bad guy, the victim is innocent. But in suicides, the perpetrator is the victim (or is at least one of the victims). It isn’t simple. How do you portray that?

As my favourite author, John Green, frequently says, truth resists simplicity.

Anyways, it’s now 2 minutes past midnight now, and I have to take a shower. I’ll probably come back later and edit this post for grammar and syntax. If not, sorry.

AND: I’m tagging this as “journalism”, which usually gets my posts a few extra views. If you’re one of those extra readers, feel free to comment below, because I’m happy to be challenged.