Frank and Bill I got my attitude when I got my contact lenses. This was back in my mid-teens, and you don't understand, until then I had the thickest glasses imaginable. They had a strap to keep them from falling off my face. And it was from behind these that I was witness to the world. When they came off, I was free.

In an English class, we were given an assignment to write a parody of a nursery rhyme. Before the end of class, I had written one called Ode to Frank and Bill, which I was allowed to read out loud. Based on Jack and Jill, my humourous little bit was about two teenaged boys who get married. In hindsight, I think it was definitely pushing the envelope of appropriateness for my Roman Catholic School. But you think I cared? No, I had attitude.

Miss Ciurysek got upset and gave me a failing grade on the meaningless assignment. When I got upset, she sent me to the principal's office for a lecture on morality.

The outcome of the incident was that I had to redo the assignment. Nothing major, right? Well it is when you have attitude. I wrote a scathing parody of the same nursery rhyme that I called the Cremation of Law. It was over the top, it was blown out of proportion, and it received a perfect grade. Not because it deserved it, mind you; I think in the end, Miss Ciurysek was just being a good teacher.  ¶ 9:51 PM

  Flood Pants While sitting here writing this entry, my pyjamas bottoms have worked their way half-way up my legs. This reminded me of something.

A woman I was seeing years ago mentioned that my pyjamas were too short for me. I never thought much of it since, really, who ever sees them but me? That woman turned out to be a conflicting personality that I had overlooked in my lustful trance. Several months later, I met another woman that I became deeply rooted in. At one point she mentioned the same thing about my pyjamas, that they were too small. Please, reader, keep in mind that "too small" doesn't mean much other than they rose slightly over my ankles. But yet, that was enough to have it pointed out twice.

Later in the course of our relationship, after she'd had more than her share of trivial quarrels, I finally noticed the incredible similarity between these two women. I hadn't noticed before because she kept herself more subdued. But when the dam burst, we drowned, and now it's hard to tell them apart.  ¶ 11:36 AM

  Dancing Shoes I remember a time when I was party pooping all over the gymnasium bleachers during the first junior high dance. Everybody else was on the floor having fun and for some reason I wasn't. For some reason, I was on the bleachers, pouting and self-pitying, dressed for a gala when everyone else was dressed for Friday night. Grade seven was an odd time. I'd left sixth grade feeling popular but something changed over the summer. People changed. Now I had so few people to talk to, so few people that would talk to me. I was now awkward and out of place.

When Jayme came over to drag me out to dance, I pretended not to want to. I was tired, I didn't like the song. Really, I was so grateful that when we reached the dance floor, my feet moved as extensions of my smile for hours until the dance was over.

The remaining two years and eight months of junior high were still awkward for me. I never quite cracked my shell, not that I wanted to. But for that one Friday night, I did. And I enjoyed it.  ¶ 9:45 AM

  Ending Lives For me, the decision to be vegetarian came after a long flood of memory. There were three instances that stand out most.

When I was around eleven years old, I went fishing with a friend. My father and I had gone fishing many times before, so I knew the procedure. Bait the hook, dangle it in the water, pull the fish out. But after that came the part that neither my friend or I could do; hit the fish on the head and kill it. I remember trying a few times while it remained alive, flopping around on the ground trying desperately to live. Each hit was softer than the time before. I just couldn't do it.

When I was fourteen, there was a beaver dam near my family's cabin. For reasons that only made sense at the time, my father and I went out to stop the dam from being built. As is the procedure with hunting beavers, you destroy the dam then wait for them to come fix it. When one finally emerged, I took aim with the rifle and shot at the beaver's tiny head above the water. The bullet caught the beaver in the neck but did not immediately kill it; it swam around in circles clawing at the sudden pain, suffering a great deal before finally falling beneath the water.

Finally, when I was in my mid-20's, I went with some friends out to the cabin. We were setting up targets and shooting at them with the air rifle when a squirrel dashed across the ground and up a tree. I can't explain why I took the rifle and shot that squirrel that day, but the image of it sitting in the tree struggling to breathe has haunted me since. Even at the time, I stood watching what I'd done without enough will and compassion to shoot again and actually kill it.

Man has a biased concept of what is humane. If we do not witness the suffering, then it does not bother us so long as we are disconnected from the act. Today, a steak to us is nothing more than a piece of food subconsciously separated from the animal itself. If people actually had to go through the process of murdering the creatures they consume, how many of us actually could? How many would say they could, but fail when the time came? Murder is a simple theory, but when a living thing is at your mercy, it is a far different matter to end its life.  ¶ 8:01 PM