Bethune: Destroyer of Lives

I attend the elite collegiate institute known as York University, and among its many flaws is that of my residence, Bethune. Before I begin, I would like to apologize for my entry two days ago. When I write about school I get very angry. I hate school, it’s a waste of time, and a waste of money. With that in mind, I would like to forewarn you that this entry may or may not come across as very angry. Bethune, you see, is by far the stupidest worst place that you could ever live, and from time to time forces me to seriously contemplate the option of suicide. With that in mind, let’s begin.

I attend York University for reasons that I do not want to get into, and will probably explain in another very angry blog entry. For one reason or another, everybody I know wanted me to live on residence. And when I say everybody, I don’t literally mean everybody, I just mean a large portion of people who’s opinions actually matter to me. So chances are, not you. As you may or may not know, I A) cannot resist the temptations of peer pressure, B) Am an idiot, so I decided to live on residence. At the time I really did think this was a good idea. My knowledge of university life was completely derived from the movie ‘Animal House’ and thus was expecting lots and lots of drinking and partying. As far as I was concerned, drinking led to several enticing things. Drunk partying, sex, fun, and my conception. I was wrong (about my rez life, not my conception.)

The day I moved in seemed promising enough. Everybody moving in with boxes of knick knacks, being super-friendly, talking to me (for the first and last time). I hopped on the elevator to go up to my room, when it reaches the top floor, my stop. Floor 13. The first sign of things to come. I then proceeded, with my boxes, to climb another flight of stairs, because while the elevator stops at the thirteenth floor, I do not. I live on floor 14. After settling in, grabbing lunch, and having my roommate steal my side of the room, I proceeded to empty my bladder. For those of you who have been following this blog long enough to remember the story written yesterday, you also may remember that this bathroom is co-ed. Now picture this, me, half skipping half walking down the hall toward the washroom, excited because I’m moving in. Smile on my face, I’m whistling the theme song to ’The Jeffersons.’
“Moving on up"
I turn the corner and enter the bathroom,
“To the East side”
And what do I see? A female already in there washing her face.
“Moving on up”
Without missing a beat, or losing any momentum, I walk in a small semi-circle, make a full 180, smile still on my face, and casually walk back to my room.
“To a DEEEE-lux apartment, in the sky-yyy.”
Naturally upon hearing of this discovery, my father immediately had to pee (I love you dad, but you’re a horny old man). And with that, it was done, I was now an official resident of Norman Bethune Residence. The day I moved in. The day which will forever be known to me as D-Day.

For those that have been to my residence they can attest to the fact that there is more life in Owen Hart’s tomb than in Bethune. There is more drinking at an AA meeting, and more partying at an Osh Kosh B’Gosh. My floor is silent, every door is closed, and the concept of socializing is nothing more than a myth. With one exception. Outside of my roommate, I do have one friend on rez. His name is Doo Young, and he doesn’t speak English. I cannot fairly describe his mannerisms and do them justice so I will not attempt. Who am I kidding, of course I am. He is skinny, and speaks in broken English. Imagine Jackie Chan after 6 months in a concentration camp. He watches the Raptors but hates them equally. Often I’ll find him pacing the hallway saying obscenities to himself about our latest loss. It’s fucking scary. He nods his head endlessly for no reason, and doesn’t laugh at any of my jokes (because he doesn’t understand them). It’s like talking to a bobble-head doll. When he responds I can barely understand what he’s saying. Talking to him is like listening to a kid with downs syndrome at a spelling bee.

It’s not all bad though. I have a really hot neighbor…. who I’ve never spoken to. She’s like a Picasso painting (I’m Salvador Dali.) I introduced myself once, and she just stared at me with a look of contempt. She was too good to speak to me, and we both knew it. Bitch. There are times when I seriously consider cutting a small circle in my wall and making a glory hole, but I haven’t become that desperate…yet. To the other side of me is a gentleman who goes by the alias of Kyle, I’ve spoken to him, but never had a real conversation. I’m pretty sure he’s a psycho killer. He’s just one of those guys who you know if you look in their fridge there’s gonna be a dismembered body part, or a large jar of goat semen, or something sick like that.

My room is the only exception, it’s nice, if you can look past the used Kleenex everywhere. I’m joking, my roommate (who will from here on be called CaptainRoomie) and I have a no masturbation rule, which I respect, and rarely violate. Our room is pretty big, and two walls are completely consisted of windows. Unfortunately, these windows are transparent and you can see the filth outside. The official York colors are Grey, Cement, and Dismal. It looks like a new, unused coloring book. I would look back inside, but that view usually consists solely of CaptainRoomate topless practicing his ‘streamline position’ (he’s a swimmer). Right now he’s singing ‘Love Lifts Us Up Where We Belong’ (funny because its true).

So, now my friends, you understand. That is Bethune. That is why I write this blog. And that is why I cry when I masturbate. Don’t feel bad for me, I’m already dead.