I Messed with the Law and the Law Won -- So Far

Beyonce knows what's up. As I'm placating the morning's sorrows in Noodle Box leftovers, tea and Much Music, mesmerized by her latest release, Best Thing I Never Had, I find myself inherently salivating over the couture wedding gowns in which she's frolicking along stunning beaches, attempting to show her ex what he's missing. As the song winds down, she smiles sympathetically and leaves me with, "Bet it sucks to be you right now." Damn right doll -- today, in this very moment, it kinda sucks.

My day started pleasantly enough with a fresh-from-the-oven chocolate-zucchini muffin and a mocha at JJ Bean Yaletown (their coffees make my heart smile). There's something so special about the ambiance at this particular location of my choice cafe; it's like the juxtaposition of the hipster staff and the pretentious air of Yaletown create a perfect vibe -- a place you just want to be -- simultaneously relaxed and fabulous.

After soaking in as much JJ Bean as my schedule allowed, I hopped on the Canada Line to teach a double at what used to be a studio to whose standards I held all others. Maybe it was just a bizarre collection of practitioners this morning, but it was pure chaos up in that joint. People left the room to pee without even appearing to consider whether or not the necessity was real or imagined. Hand towels to (gasp) wipe away any signs of sweat were rampant. One shining star actually brought a sweater into the room (obviously she does this on a regular basis) and proceeded to put it on and take it off at random intervals. I told her if she was cold, she should work harder. I'm not known to run a cold room -- ever -- unless it's beyond my control. It was like teaching in a bubble of disconnect. Just being in the room with that kind of unfocused energy gave me an overwhelming feeling of futility; the complete opposite of what I experienced practicing at a different studio last night.

Having narrowly missed a 5 pm class yesterday at Bikram Yoga Commercial Drive, I killed time in the always-electric neighbourhood, checking out the ecclectic shops and (of course) popping into the sweetest spot in the city to pick up a stash of my to-die-for dark-chocolate-halva cups. Thank you for your creations, Sweet Cherubim. I suffer dessert deprivation without you (okay, really only halva cup deprivation as I attempt in vain to find replacements).

Just before 6, I walked into the studio, warmly greeted, ready to get my sweat on in one of the now two practice rooms. Class was amazing -- somewhat like going swimming in a really hot pool with 30 of your closest friends and leaving the pool with no hamstrings -- fantastic; just what I needed. More please. Hopefully, I can hit up the Drive again tomorrow to re-energize, re-organize and re-vitalize the damage my enthusiasm for the yoga sustained teaching in the land of the lost today.

As usual, my love affair with words has delayed my disclosure of what really knocked me down this morning: a cop on a power trip. That's right, 24 hours in Van and I've already had a run-in with the law.

Apparently my aptitude for using the Canada Line is not up to par, as I failed to validate my ticket before ascending the stairs outside one of the stations. As I got to the second floor of the terminal, I was verbally accosted by a gruff, old dude trying to pull off his police duds as if he wasn't past pushing retirement. Squinting through his spectacles, he pointed out the fine print on the back of my ticket (because everyone reads the back of bus tickets), detailing the correct procedure to pay for and board the offending train. He dismissed my Alberta ID, explaining that my clear understanding of the English language was enough for him to assume I know the rules and was in violation of them enough to merit a $173 ticket. I know -- ouch. More than I made teaching two classes for which I had to ride the militarily-patrolled transit system.

But, alas, all's well that is made bearable by some of the best food in the world -- and that's certainly something Vancouver has aplenty. Tonight, we cool the burn of belligerent fuckers with cosmos and pasta at Anton's. Thanks Sarah for waiting in line with me and thanks Dad for the company -- and paying.

Hometown Glory

Waiting in the exhilarating Edmonton International Airport (it's so modern and stimulating, there's one Starbucks) to board my flight to Vancouver, I take way too big a mouthful of divine date square just as Mr. Handsome with a mischievous grin comes over to pass the time with idle morning conversation. Isn't that always the way? At least he seems entertained as I struggle to utter a response to his greeting with as much grace as I can muster in the moment. Fortunately, I'm not here to exercise my flirting skills.

I'm literally vibrating in anticipation of spending an entire month in my home sweet home -- as much of it at the beach as possible -- in the company of people and places I hold dear. I will, however, be without my mini-me, whom I have left in the capable hands of daycare and Daddy. This is the first time I have chosen to allow myself more than a few hours of adult time and, while it should prove to be a much-needed respite from domestic doldrums, I did experience several pangs of anxiety over being without my Maya for two weeks. I'll just have to party extra hard to compensate for stings of loneliness.

Shouldn’t be too difficult considering I’ve got the first of two epic bachelorette parties this weekend and at this point, I've planned tequila and cupcakes for Friday night’s menu. As it has been at least a good month since my highest stilettos have seen a dance floor, I’m overdue for a serious night (or two or three) of dropping it down. Watch out Buffalo Bill's – we ladies tend to bring with us shenanigans that are both raucous and unpredictable. Last time we graced the crowd at Bill's, I was pretty prego and threw my first drink ever on some idiot whose physically aggressive flirting methods merited him nothing more than a wet crotch and a police escort out of the bar. What can I say? I enjoy a little drama every now and then – and it was only club soda, so I knew it would wash out of his Sevens.

This weekend’s anniversary girls’ getaway (I seem to end up in Whistler for the weekend with my ladies about the same time every summer) is sure to include some theatrical moments, as any solid bachelorette weekend should, but as I won’t be an incubus of raging pregnancy hormones, and am more than prepared to deal with at least a few character-building run-ins with alcohol-fueled dudes, there should be no need for using cocktails as weapons (unless of course five girls sharing a bathroom becomes more than my limited patience can bear).

I will, however, spend a great deal of time wielding whatever kitchen gadgets I can find to keep from living on takeout or developing a vitamin deficiency staying at my Mom’s. No offense Mom, but we all know you treat muffins as an essential square meal. And as I have been honing my culinary prowess of late, prepare yourself to be highly impressed.

This past Saturday, in an effort to conquer the ever-intimidating poaching of eggs and making hollandaise from scratch, I made eggs benny. After going through only three or four eggs, attempting to delicately drop them into boiling, vinegar-infused water, I mastered the flick of the wrist required for such delicate artistry, poached perfect eggs, laid them atop whole-wheat English muffins with avocado and tomato, bathing my creation in a healthy dollop of lemon- dill-yogurt hollandaise. Check it out – I complemented my all-time favourite brunch feast with rosemary pan-fried potatoes.

Delicious. Two very enthusiastic thumbs up – actually six – as Maya and Nimrod heartily approved. Watch out world – my bistro attached to a yoga/dance studio on the beach somewhere fabulous is coming. For the moment, I’ll have to dazzle on a smaller scale.

I should say, “watch out Vancouver” – those who know and appreciate my particular brand of sharing (sometimes too much of) myself with almost everyone in my path would agree: I tend to leave a mark. Hopefully, I’ll give and get as much as I need from this visit. I’m teaching a few classes at Bikram Yoga Richmond, dropping in to a few classes at Harbour Dance Centre and eating/drinking my way through as many of my hot spots as possible. So ready for this. I think I’d better start with some really great chocolate.

Cutting Back on the Sugar

Today I played (as my girlfriend Wendy likes to put it) "hooky from life" for a couple of hours and took myself to see Friends With Benefits -- a well-chosen escape from the torrential showers responsible for taking the banality of E-town to a whole new level. There is a vaguely Vancouver feel here at the moment -- humid, grey and wet -- but without the mountains, ocean and green space.

Having spent some quality time this morning pouring over the latest issue of Women's Health (mostly because Rosie Huntington-Whiteley is on the cover and who doesn't enjoy staring at her) at Cafe Remedy with a mocha and a delightful lemon-pistachio square, I thought it prudent to continue my appreciation of the great indoors at the Cineplex.

This was my kind of movie -- hot people doing hot things in the totally stunning, impressive surroundings of New York and LA. Justin Timberlake (although somewhat overly effeminate for my taste) and Mila Kunis (always stunning) paraded their sweet little asses around, giving us a realistic taste of the kind of sex everyone wishes they were having -- you know, the kind in which each partner knows exactly how to please the other; they realized a fantastical carnal connection simply because they bossed each other around until both got it right. Because they agreed on the terms of their liaisons -- no emotional connection being important -- before hitting the sheets, hurt feelings weren't a factor. No sugarcoating. Imagine if we lived even one or two aspects of our lives being completely straightforward. I think the abundant benefits would outweigh any initial harm.

Straight shooter Tommy (an exceptionally cast Woody Harrelson) sums it up for JT's emotionally reserved Dylan when he shares his rules to live by: "If you want to lose weight, stop eating; if you want to make lots of money, work your ass off; if you want to be happy, find someone you love and never let her go." An astute, fantastic message. Sometimes, I fear we are so delicate with our words (both in communicating with ourselves and others) we impede positive growth.

Ricky gave it to us on the level in class this afternoon in encouraging us not to give up when the going got tough. As students dropped like dominoes, he shared sound reasoning: "you came here to work hard, so do it. Get the most you can today out of your experience here."

I had come to the studio heavy with melancholia and the too-recent Monte Cristo I'd had for lunch and gotten just what I needed from such effective leadership. Ricky drove the bus with a proclivity worth emulating. He was inclusive, leaving no one (even those who tried to escape or lie low) behind. That is exactly how it should be. I hope most people don't pay to coast through class in a way they could practicing on their own in their bathroom. I hope they come to be inspired and transform in ways they may have never thought possible. For me, with growth has come clarity. I am slowly realizing the real sources of happiness in my life, how I can give to and receive from them what I need to do more than merely put one foot in front of the other.

Because I'm Worth It

I hate surprises, but for some unfathomable reason, the men in my life seem to delight in throwing the unexpected my way; while they may think this makes them appear spontaneous and exciting, it does not -- it tends to irritate and disappoint. I am always impressed by actions that reflect knowledge and appreciation of a person; like when my husband has my bar none favourite chocolate confection shipped over from Vancouver -- A+; when he takes me to Thailand to stay in rat-infested hotels and have the overt sex trade thrust in my face at every turn for our honeymoon -- big, fat failure. It's like having your best friend, who knows you hate beer, serve you Corona at a party. Maybe he does it because he doesn't actually listen when you speak or really know the intricacies of you at all -- or maybe he just doesn't care, and if that's they case, you probably shouldn't waste any of your spectacular self on his complete lack of effort or interest.

Fortunately, there is such a spectrum of people with whom to associate, if one gravely disappoints, there'll be at least a few who are more than willing to satisfy. Like the lovely, inclusive friend of a friend, who welcomed me into his home Saturday night and proceeded to treat me like a VIP, even though I unintentionally crashed his intimate bbq. Shortly before I intruded, I had been left hanging by an inconsiderate narcissist that (while devastatingly charming) must have thought I didn't mind waiting by the phone with bated breath for him to tell me when to jump and how high. Not one to put up with such insolence, I sent the word out to a few near and dear that I was downtown in need of quality company with which to imbibe. Having Maya as my regular date, it is so infrequent that the opportunity to let loose presents itself, I like to make the most of such precious evenings.

The bbq was charmingly intimate and hosted by a smooth and hot like butter host with the most. As opposed to the standard grill fare, he was smoking butter chicken -- that's right, one of my favourite dishes made from scratch -- and it filled his apartment with the most enticing, heady aroma. The crowd was thin, just the host, his cousin, his roommate and date, with my friend Blair rounding out the group and doing a delightfully considerate liquor run to make sure all were provided for and content. Unfortunately, my evening suffered from being overly well-planned, so I couldn't even stay for a bite of dinner and had to politely sneak away to meet my girlfriend and her new main man.

At around 9:30, I waltzed into The Treasury, because of course, at that early hour of the night, there was no lineup and only a handful of quiet souls sipping cocktails; two of these belonging to the mellow set were Sharon and Kristof, with whom I sipped, swigged and bantered until it tolled 11, my stomach growled and the little alcohol I had consumed was keeping me buzzed as it dawned on me I had yet to have dinner. The bar's kitchen had already closed, so we strolled down the street to 100 -- this is a restaurant unworthy of its pretentiousness. For $30, I had one glass of wine and an appetizer so small, it left me wanting. I adore Sharon and am ecstatic to report the object of her affection is everything she described so my time in their company was well spent, despite having to give up butter chicken to eat lame lobster tacos at midnight.

Overall, my night on the town had been adequately salvaged, but not one to hold a grudge, I felt the need to smooth things over with the one who had left me in the lurch early on -- so, in response to an inviting text, I made my way over to On the Rocks to join the gang with which I had originally planned to slurp and sup. The club was packed, but I bypassed the lineup just by asking the bouncer -- he let me slip in despite my denial of his request to see my best "pouty face" -- and walked right into the arms of my friends. Because my host, who tonight was disappointingly without the most, is usually a crowd favourite and seems to know everyone, we were treated very well and the night culminated the way it should have started -- with good people, solid drinks and music and an all-too-rare opportunity to let loose. Cheers to more of the same please -- but next time, let's save the drama for our mamas.

Saturday Satisfaction

After a rather uneventful Friday night of providing a teething, congested Maya with major tlc, an unexpected morning of foodie heaven was just what I needed. It began with brunch at Sugarbowl -- which floored me as every weekend for 2 years, I have seen nothing but some version of the daily omelet on the feature board (always satisfying, but never memorable); today's special was bacon, onion, and goat cheese-stuffed portobello mushroom cradling paprika-dusted poached eggs . It was exquisite; brunch how it should be -- something carrying a little more drama and a lot more taste than what I could throw together at home in five minutes.

Superbly satiated, I followed the perfect Sugarbowl experience by another of my weekend routines, walking the farmer's market. Today, however, I was sidetracked by a bright pink beacon -- the outline of a giant cupcake -- beckoning me with promises of "the best" in Edmonton. Flirt cupcakes did not disappoint. I quickly decided on a dark chocolate-cookies 'n cream confection, with an oreo baked inside and cream cheese frosting. Needless to say, this was a solid choice. No need to peruse the market, as I was completely content.

Tonight, I have plans to wine and dine (and hopefully cocktail) with friends in high places (apartment overlooking the river that makes for unparalleled entertaining), where I have yet to be disappointed. Cheers to a Saturday of which I hope to have many more.

Take Two and Call Me in the Morning

Do you ever catch yourself smiling for no reason? Hope so. If not, what's the point of waking up in the morning? I suppose there's always mochas, morning sex (not sure what that is any more as the person I live with disappears before the crack of dawn), pedicures (guys, foot massages are a lost art and tend to come with worthwhile reciprocity), being with the people you love -- the ones who make you smile just because.

Think about how much you give to those around you just by sending them a little piece of your heart. I taught a tiny class this morning, which is always much more challenging than leading a stacked room, and it was enough having one smiling, happy face (Randy, you never let me down) to motivate me and feed my soul so I could sparkle (even though I'd started my day with a disappointing Starbucks experience).

After teaching, as I gave myself over to my own practice, I thought about how I stay lit from within and developed a prescription to make the rest of you tolerable: get a little sunshine everyday (even if it's the synthetic kind found at the tanning salon); kiss someone whose touch enraptures; sweat to awaken your body (this can be more fun than you think if you use your imagination); satisfy your sweet tooth (only liars don't have one); allow your vulnerability to shine -- those worthy of your attention will appreciate it; embody your inner strength even if it keeps people at a distance (your allure will eventually attract companions for whom you don't have to pretend; take care of someone who needs you (choose this person carefully). Breathe deeply and let the endorphin release wash over you.

We all know our happiness is a result of the choices we make. Even the poor choices can be rectified. There is always something positive you can take away from an opinion or experience. As I set myself up for pranayama breathing this morning, I checked out my alignment in the side mirror and scrutinized what I felt had become a little too boom-boom-pow an asset. Thoughts of myself as a lost Kardashian sister crept in, distracting me from breathing as long, slow, and as much as possible. It took a few fake-it-till-you-make-it smiles before I conjured up one that proved genuine, which I used to slay my self-sabotage by focusing for a second on the men in my life who have come and gone -- and come again, all of whom prized my rear view. Staring at myself in the mirror for an hour and a half almost everyday is what makes me vulnerable and allows me to embody my inner and outer strength; some practitioners say it's the hardest part of the yoga.

What we're really aiming for in the hot room and outside of it is honesty -- with oneself. You know what's up. Maybe you need to lose weight, gain a few pounds, makeover your soul. A student today, who happens to teach another style of hatha yoga, told me his motivation for doing Bikram lies in the sense of community that comes with such an all-consuming practice. When people partake in something requiring a minimum two-hour time commitment, they tend to become emotionally invested in the studio and other students who share their experience. Do you ever feel like busy classes buzz with energy so tangible, it pushes you along? You work harder than you might otherwise, without consciously trying. Power of the voodoo right? Didn't we tell you that coconut water is laced?

The real drug from which you experience double-rainbow effects is the honesty you are forced to confront the second you step on the mat and see yourself staring back at you. Once you hone it in the room, you can live it on the outside. Let it be the reason you get up in the morning. Your honesty gives you an all-access pass to your emotions -- so you can smile for no reason at all whenever you want.

Black Sheep

Immersed in the carnal wonderland of True Blood last night, after making my customary mental notes on ways to expand my sexual repertoire, I became uncharacteristically melancholy over the show's title, and how it reminds me how untrue my own blood is.

Technically, I have a younger sister and two parents, but since adolescence -- about the time my independent nature became apparent and alienated me -- I have felt orphaned and been in search of replacements for the family that, to this day, behave as if I was unplanned and unwanted.

Always an original, demanding attention and doing things my way, whether it warms or cools the hearts of my relations, I tread my own path. Being a separatist has come with more than it's share of difficulties, but this comes as no surprise; agreeable people are easier to handle. My impassioned, energetic, open spirit is more often than not overwhelming for my relations who would rather I nod, smile and bow to whatever unsuitable or irrational demands they make.

The outcast of my family, I speak my mind and heart too much for their sensitive natures and spend fruitless tears on their exclusionary treatment of me. And some who think they know me wonder why I'm an attention seeker; aren't we all in search of ways and people to fill the holes in our souls?

I've managed to close the gaps with friends and their parents who love me as if our ties were unbreakable; I've found fulfillment in romantic liaisons with fiercely affectionate partners whose warm families, so different from my own, have embraced me wholly; I've created life -- a daughter whose smiles and snuggles brim with an attachment only (most) moms understand; mine often treats me like a fair-weather friend and saves her Gilmore Girls style of mothering for my sister.

Maybe I'm the problem -- I expect too much of those near and dear to me. I love hard and fast, which makes it difficult to understand any other way of expressing a sentiment essential to happiness; so perplexed am I by emotional inhibition, I once broke off a relationship fueled by the sizzling chemistry I'd only ever imagined because even though I knew he loved me, he never said it. Over brunch one morning, I remember feeling defeated by a comment he made in response to a couple next us exchanging "I love you's." He'd smiled fondly at me and remarked how "cheesy" and "unnecessary" it was for two people who felt that intensely for each other to vocalize it. Right then and there, over coffee and croissants, I decided his cowardice was unnecessary and left him.

I've had more than enough cold in my life and need all the warmth I can get -- the catalyst behind my addiction to hot yoga? Perhaps. The moment I first stepped into that room, thick with exertion (as those who practice know, it becomes tangible in there), I was enveloped with a sense of belonging -- pure comfort in working myself harder than I ever thought possible. Through the surrender comes a constant evolving, an emergence of one's true self.

Accustomed to facing challenges, I thought I'd learn to accept the fight to fit in with my family as a constant battle, worthy of my efforts if real, unconditional love resulted; but last night I came to question the importance of being included by my true blood. Are those who refuse to reciprocate a modicum of what I give really worth it? I know my sister can give me what I need and I will never give up on her -- ours is a friendship worthy of weathering any bullshit impediments. My parents, however, may benefit from a little less of my struggle to obtain their affections; one can only swim against the current for so long before growing tired and drowning.

All We Have Is Now

If we fear death, why do we live for the future and not the present? One would think valuing this moment would make for the most fulfilling existence possible, but I constantly hear, "I'll travel when I'm older and more financially secure, find something I can make a living doing that I genuinely enjoy, spend time with my dearest friends and loved ones when I have more time off, find the lover who ignites my most passionate self and holds the flame steady, have kids later."

It has become customary for people to put their lives on hold and be what they think is responsible, complain about the banality of such existence and wait until time has run out to really start living. Bitching about one's circumstances, while cathartic, creates an ambiance of melancholy, which is rather lonely and, at best, pacified. The person who plods practically through days, weeks, months and years may as well abandon their fear of death, because however unsuspected, death has already come.

Last night, I saw the grim one creeping into my consciousness in the form of another evening numbing my already underused gray matter with Maya's bedtime routine (however important, giving my daughter dinner -- half of which ends up on and around her, a bath, a bedtime story and sitting patiently while she decides when she will succumb to slumber is less than scintillating), semi-interesting reality television and cleaning the kitchen carnage from dinner. In favour of giving myself and my soul a little special attention, I left putting the house to bed in the capable hands of my husband and treated myself to a big glass of wine and a movie, for which I knew he wouldn't care and I was certain I would adore.

For two whole hours, tucked away into the bowels of the Princess Theatre, I immersed myself in Woody Allen's latest fantastical, engaging neurosis, the theme of which is living in the present. Midnight in Paris features Owen Wilson as Gil, a confused writer, whose obsession with the 1920's keeps him wishing he could live in what he feels was a time intellectually and culturally richer than now; he becomes so consumed with the place in time in which he longs to be, he ignores his own life and what it has become -- one of emptiness -- in environment, career and relationships.

Sometimes I feel displaced, not in historical period, but on the path I have chosen. I often fear not doing, being, engaging enough of what I have and potentially have at my disposal -- which really, is everything. As B would remind me, "It's never too late." He might also kindly suggest to kick my ass into gear and save silly things like sleep for when I'm dead -- infinite wisdom.

The Space Between Your Ears

One of the reasons we hone the mind-body connection in class is so you can enable the power of your mind to overcome resistances in your body. Your mind knows what's up, what your body can handle and what it can't, what is good for it and what will leave you doubled over in a sugar coma of uselessness. Our mind can be our worst enemy or our best friend -- it's up to us. We make the decisions to look, feel and act a certain way.

On Canada Day, I took Maya for an afternoon escape to Starbucks, which delighted her even more than it did me, because she walked there -- the whole way alongside me. Granted, we live across the street from Starbucks and it's likely no more than 100 metres from our door, but for a peanut, that's pretty far.

A look of accomplished pride plastered across her face as we entered the cafe, she drew eyes and hearts from all around. The barista couldn't resist and handed her one of those dangerously delicious, but totally unnecessary cake-pop pastries they recently started carrying; while kind and generous in intention, the offering was a digestive disaster. Maya clutched her pink, sugary prize, nibbling away at it all the way home. Shortly after a paltry dinner, which couldn't be helped because her tiny tummy was full of nutritionally bereft garbage, Maya tossed her cookies. Fortunately, most of it hit the laminate and not the couch and she seemed to be pacified with a bottle of water and a snuggle, but I'm fairly certain her gastrointestinal fireworks could have been prevented had her afternoon alimentary intake and its possible ramifications been more consciously considered. Poor doll -- victim of a cake-pop. Who knew something so innocent in appearance could do so much damage? I've experienced far worse from more benign delights.

The night following my gross negligence of Maya's nutritional needs, I prepared for her a complete, nutrient-rich dinner (by prepared I mean heated up what Nimrod had already thrown together) of beef goulash, broccoli and wholewheat noodles -- perfect. Having taken care of the most important person, I muted my mind, tucked her into bed and, having exhausted my domestic energies, feasted on a box of granola for dinner; this was a choice lacking any intelligence or foresight. Granola, being laden with satiating fiber is great in small amounts, but anything more than a small bowlful can sit in the stomach for enough time to turn one off it forever. By Sunday afternoon's afternoon of teaching, I still had a belly full of the stuff and resembled myself at four months pregnant -- very attractive and ironic considering my rant about the responsibility of a Bikram Yoga Instructor to look the part. But of, course, the magic of the hot room worked on me and after three hours of emphatic encouragement, coaxing new students to stay in the room and take it easy, and pushing regulars beyond their self-imposed limitations, my stomach shrank down to normal and I looked forward to whatever divine dinner I could suggest Nimrod make for me.

Incredible how powerful the mind can be when effectively harnessed and how easily it can be neglected, like when anyone decides to consume anything from McDonald's. Women can use mental strength to distract or focus themselves (whichever serves them better) and withstand childbirth unaided by pain-dulling medication; people can run marathons, make it through Bikram's torture chamber unscathed; go without sleep for 30 hours straight caring for the ill and wounded (don't think you do it without looking -- and acting -- like you belong in Shaun of the Dead); heal from heartbreak and open themselves up to finding another partner they can't imagine life without.

It is not enough to have the potential of mind control; we must be cognizant of it and use it to be the best possible versions of ourselves. Sure, nobody is perfect and the occasional slip is always a lesson learned, but a mind is a terrible thing to waste; some lose theirs entirely before their time expires and, from what I can gather reading and watching films on the subject of mental degeneration, they feel completely futile.

Past adolescence, we know what's best for us; so why do so many of us spend our whole lives choosing the opposite?