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File
Dawn-Louise McLeod
OP Contributor
It’s cozy here in the washroom. | could stay in this cubicle all day, no problem.
No wonder that at my high school some girls used to eat their lunches in the
can. It’s a hideaway from the demands of class. And the graffiti is fascinating,
even though I’ve read it all several times. Mostly it takes the form of call-and-
response—one person writes something, another writes a comment on that,
then there’s a comment on the comment—mini-reviews. . .ad infinitum.
Graffiti is a concrete example that, no matter what you write, people will inter-
pret it numerous ways, and usually not favourably. I resist the urge to add a few
words to the sheet-metal walls—I’m already late for class.
Yes, things are looking quite desperate when your only form of amusement is
what others write during the process of excretion. It’s ironic now that when I
wrote my first column in the OP a few months ago, I planned to review life
from the perspective of a suburban mom. I even anticipated writing about a
shopping spree at Canadian Tire with a rapster in tow. Ho (as in Santa Claus,
not the other kind of ho), what a joke. There’s no time for anything other than
school.
Ah well, everyone deserves a little rant occasionally. The more public the bet-
ter, I say.
My second full-time year at Douglas College is so far a bit of a nightmare. I’m
resentful of time spent in class, because I’m itching to go find a computer and
get my fix. Classes are good for sleeping purposes, though. Because at night I’m
either pulling all-nighters or realizing I can count a lot higher than I figured.
Five weeks into the term, and already I’m way behind. Heck, I was behind after
the first two weeks. What is it about this term that has me almost suicidal? What
am I doing here? I could be busy getting a Masters degree instead of some cheesy
diploma. Sorry, but there it is. And I can’t even get a GPA high enough to rate
a scholarship.
Yup, there I am in class, flopping around asking questions as I try to relate a
new concept to what I already know, while my classmates sit there calmly, get-
ting it. It takes me much longer to grasp a new idea. I have to crumple it up into
a ball, bat it around, and smooth it out before it takes meaningful shape. This
in a field I used to be good at. We're not even doing much writing—the ability
Editor:
Heather Barnes
to write is considered about as significant as the ability to breathe. There's sim-
ply no time.
My plans to go from a mamamoto to a divamoto, ready to check out Studio
54, have so far fallen flat. Even if I had time to hit the town, I’d turn out look-
ing like a pumamoto (puma being like a cougar, but, unlike a cougar never get-
ting around to actually stalking any prey). Those DC cafeteria french fries real-
ly take their toll.
I returned to school thinking I could turn whatever writing ability I have into
a marketable skill. Instead, my quality of life has decreased dramatically, along
with my per hour wage. As I am fond of repeating, “I’m only this far from liv-
ing in a Smithrite.”
It's Thursday night. I’m drinking a glass of wine while listening to Ross Porter's
After Hours jazz program on CBC, and looking forward to maybe catching up
on both my assignments and some sleep. But I know I’m kidding myself. By
Monday morning, I'll be exhausted by yet another weekend spent doing home-
work.
Right now it’s like being in jail—I follow a strict routine and there’s not much
fun in between. Actually, I'd be better off in jail. ’'ve thought about this quite a
lot lately. There'd be plenty of time to write, especially in solitary confinement.
Someone else could do the cooking and cleaning for a change, and there would-
nt be much laundry. I doubt my kids would like it, though.
Guess I should have remained an unmotivated couch slug (if looking after kids
and teaching fitness classes each day qualifies for couch slug status), debating the
pros and cons of returning to school. Full-time study is damned hard work.
Besides, you're paying for the torture instead of getting paid for it. And if you
ever actually find yourself having fun, you stop and think, “Wait a minute.
What assignment is due tomorrow that I have completely forgotten about?”
So next time you want to write on a washroom wall, think twice and send it
to the Other Press instead. Yeah, I realize I’m asking for all kinds of hell here,
but if our editor agrees, we might even print it and the responses. Who knows?
Heck, I might even start liking school again.
Send your graffiti to:
MAILBAG
RE: Wish List by Tom Mellish
I’m going to keep this short. Tom, there are two on-site day-cares
at Douglas College: one at the New Westminster campus (604-
527-5632) and one at the David Lam campus (604-527-5801).
You are welcome to take a nap in the student lounge on the upper
floor of the Student Union Building, or, if you require absolute
silence, try the lower floor of the same building. There are couch-
es in both locations. And finally, when you express that students
cannot keep track of time, you're just perpetuating the trouble-
some image the college holds as “Dougie Day-care”.
page 5 ©
OP Contributor
It’s cozy here in the washroom. | could stay in this cubicle all day, no problem.
No wonder that at my high school some girls used to eat their lunches in the
can. It’s a hideaway from the demands of class. And the graffiti is fascinating,
even though I’ve read it all several times. Mostly it takes the form of call-and-
response—one person writes something, another writes a comment on that,
then there’s a comment on the comment—mini-reviews. . .ad infinitum.
Graffiti is a concrete example that, no matter what you write, people will inter-
pret it numerous ways, and usually not favourably. I resist the urge to add a few
words to the sheet-metal walls—I’m already late for class.
Yes, things are looking quite desperate when your only form of amusement is
what others write during the process of excretion. It’s ironic now that when I
wrote my first column in the OP a few months ago, I planned to review life
from the perspective of a suburban mom. I even anticipated writing about a
shopping spree at Canadian Tire with a rapster in tow. Ho (as in Santa Claus,
not the other kind of ho), what a joke. There’s no time for anything other than
school.
Ah well, everyone deserves a little rant occasionally. The more public the bet-
ter, I say.
My second full-time year at Douglas College is so far a bit of a nightmare. I’m
resentful of time spent in class, because I’m itching to go find a computer and
get my fix. Classes are good for sleeping purposes, though. Because at night I’m
either pulling all-nighters or realizing I can count a lot higher than I figured.
Five weeks into the term, and already I’m way behind. Heck, I was behind after
the first two weeks. What is it about this term that has me almost suicidal? What
am I doing here? I could be busy getting a Masters degree instead of some cheesy
diploma. Sorry, but there it is. And I can’t even get a GPA high enough to rate
a scholarship.
Yup, there I am in class, flopping around asking questions as I try to relate a
new concept to what I already know, while my classmates sit there calmly, get-
ting it. It takes me much longer to grasp a new idea. I have to crumple it up into
a ball, bat it around, and smooth it out before it takes meaningful shape. This
in a field I used to be good at. We're not even doing much writing—the ability
Editor:
Heather Barnes
to write is considered about as significant as the ability to breathe. There's sim-
ply no time.
My plans to go from a mamamoto to a divamoto, ready to check out Studio
54, have so far fallen flat. Even if I had time to hit the town, I’d turn out look-
ing like a pumamoto (puma being like a cougar, but, unlike a cougar never get-
ting around to actually stalking any prey). Those DC cafeteria french fries real-
ly take their toll.
I returned to school thinking I could turn whatever writing ability I have into
a marketable skill. Instead, my quality of life has decreased dramatically, along
with my per hour wage. As I am fond of repeating, “I’m only this far from liv-
ing in a Smithrite.”
It's Thursday night. I’m drinking a glass of wine while listening to Ross Porter's
After Hours jazz program on CBC, and looking forward to maybe catching up
on both my assignments and some sleep. But I know I’m kidding myself. By
Monday morning, I'll be exhausted by yet another weekend spent doing home-
work.
Right now it’s like being in jail—I follow a strict routine and there’s not much
fun in between. Actually, I'd be better off in jail. ’'ve thought about this quite a
lot lately. There'd be plenty of time to write, especially in solitary confinement.
Someone else could do the cooking and cleaning for a change, and there would-
nt be much laundry. I doubt my kids would like it, though.
Guess I should have remained an unmotivated couch slug (if looking after kids
and teaching fitness classes each day qualifies for couch slug status), debating the
pros and cons of returning to school. Full-time study is damned hard work.
Besides, you're paying for the torture instead of getting paid for it. And if you
ever actually find yourself having fun, you stop and think, “Wait a minute.
What assignment is due tomorrow that I have completely forgotten about?”
So next time you want to write on a washroom wall, think twice and send it
to the Other Press instead. Yeah, I realize I’m asking for all kinds of hell here,
but if our editor agrees, we might even print it and the responses. Who knows?
Heck, I might even start liking school again.
Send your graffiti to:
MAILBAG
RE: Wish List by Tom Mellish
I’m going to keep this short. Tom, there are two on-site day-cares
at Douglas College: one at the New Westminster campus (604-
527-5632) and one at the David Lam campus (604-527-5801).
You are welcome to take a nap in the student lounge on the upper
floor of the Student Union Building, or, if you require absolute
silence, try the lower floor of the same building. There are couch-
es in both locations. And finally, when you express that students
cannot keep track of time, you're just perpetuating the trouble-
some image the college holds as “Dougie Day-care”.
page 5 ©
Edited Text
Dawn-Louise McLeod
OP Contributor
It’s cozy here in the washroom. | could stay in this cubicle all day, no problem.
No wonder that at my high school some girls used to eat their lunches in the
can. It’s a hideaway from the demands of class. And the graffiti is fascinating,
even though I’ve read it all several times. Mostly it takes the form of call-and-
response—one person writes something, another writes a comment on that,
then there’s a comment on the comment—mini-reviews. . .ad infinitum.
Graffiti is a concrete example that, no matter what you write, people will inter-
pret it numerous ways, and usually not favourably. I resist the urge to add a few
words to the sheet-metal walls—I’m already late for class.
Yes, things are looking quite desperate when your only form of amusement is
what others write during the process of excretion. It’s ironic now that when I
wrote my first column in the OP a few months ago, I planned to review life
from the perspective of a suburban mom. I even anticipated writing about a
shopping spree at Canadian Tire with a rapster in tow. Ho (as in Santa Claus,
not the other kind of ho), what a joke. There’s no time for anything other than
school.
Ah well, everyone deserves a little rant occasionally. The more public the bet-
ter, I say.
My second full-time year at Douglas College is so far a bit of a nightmare. I’m
resentful of time spent in class, because I’m itching to go find a computer and
get my fix. Classes are good for sleeping purposes, though. Because at night I’m
either pulling all-nighters or realizing I can count a lot higher than I figured.
Five weeks into the term, and already I’m way behind. Heck, I was behind after
the first two weeks. What is it about this term that has me almost suicidal? What
am I doing here? I could be busy getting a Masters degree instead of some cheesy
diploma. Sorry, but there it is. And I can’t even get a GPA high enough to rate
a scholarship.
Yup, there I am in class, flopping around asking questions as I try to relate a
new concept to what I already know, while my classmates sit there calmly, get-
ting it. It takes me much longer to grasp a new idea. I have to crumple it up into
a ball, bat it around, and smooth it out before it takes meaningful shape. This
in a field I used to be good at. We're not even doing much writing—the ability
Editor:
Heather Barnes
to write is considered about as significant as the ability to breathe. There's sim-
ply no time.
My plans to go from a mamamoto to a divamoto, ready to check out Studio
54, have so far fallen flat. Even if I had time to hit the town, I’d turn out look-
ing like a pumamoto (puma being like a cougar, but, unlike a cougar never get-
ting around to actually stalking any prey). Those DC cafeteria french fries real-
ly take their toll.
I returned to school thinking I could turn whatever writing ability I have into
a marketable skill. Instead, my quality of life has decreased dramatically, along
with my per hour wage. As I am fond of repeating, “I’m only this far from liv-
ing in a Smithrite.”
It's Thursday night. I’m drinking a glass of wine while listening to Ross Porter's
After Hours jazz program on CBC, and looking forward to maybe catching up
on both my assignments and some sleep. But I know I’m kidding myself. By
Monday morning, I'll be exhausted by yet another weekend spent doing home-
work.
Right now it’s like being in jail—I follow a strict routine and there’s not much
fun in between. Actually, I'd be better off in jail. ’'ve thought about this quite a
lot lately. There'd be plenty of time to write, especially in solitary confinement.
Someone else could do the cooking and cleaning for a change, and there would-
nt be much laundry. I doubt my kids would like it, though.
Guess I should have remained an unmotivated couch slug (if looking after kids
and teaching fitness classes each day qualifies for couch slug status), debating the
pros and cons of returning to school. Full-time study is damned hard work.
Besides, you're paying for the torture instead of getting paid for it. And if you
ever actually find yourself having fun, you stop and think, “Wait a minute.
What assignment is due tomorrow that I have completely forgotten about?”
So next time you want to write on a washroom wall, think twice and send it
to the Other Press instead. Yeah, I realize I’m asking for all kinds of hell here,
but if our editor agrees, we might even print it and the responses. Who knows?
Heck, I might even start liking school again.
Send your graffiti to:
MAILBAG
RE: Wish List by Tom Mellish
I’m going to keep this short. Tom, there are two on-site day-cares
at Douglas College: one at the New Westminster campus (604-
527-5632) and one at the David Lam campus (604-527-5801).
You are welcome to take a nap in the student lounge on the upper
floor of the Student Union Building, or, if you require absolute
silence, try the lower floor of the same building. There are couch-
es in both locations. And finally, when you express that students
cannot keep track of time, you're just perpetuating the trouble-
some image the college holds as “Dougie Day-care”.
page 5 ©
OP Contributor
It’s cozy here in the washroom. | could stay in this cubicle all day, no problem.
No wonder that at my high school some girls used to eat their lunches in the
can. It’s a hideaway from the demands of class. And the graffiti is fascinating,
even though I’ve read it all several times. Mostly it takes the form of call-and-
response—one person writes something, another writes a comment on that,
then there’s a comment on the comment—mini-reviews. . .ad infinitum.
Graffiti is a concrete example that, no matter what you write, people will inter-
pret it numerous ways, and usually not favourably. I resist the urge to add a few
words to the sheet-metal walls—I’m already late for class.
Yes, things are looking quite desperate when your only form of amusement is
what others write during the process of excretion. It’s ironic now that when I
wrote my first column in the OP a few months ago, I planned to review life
from the perspective of a suburban mom. I even anticipated writing about a
shopping spree at Canadian Tire with a rapster in tow. Ho (as in Santa Claus,
not the other kind of ho), what a joke. There’s no time for anything other than
school.
Ah well, everyone deserves a little rant occasionally. The more public the bet-
ter, I say.
My second full-time year at Douglas College is so far a bit of a nightmare. I’m
resentful of time spent in class, because I’m itching to go find a computer and
get my fix. Classes are good for sleeping purposes, though. Because at night I’m
either pulling all-nighters or realizing I can count a lot higher than I figured.
Five weeks into the term, and already I’m way behind. Heck, I was behind after
the first two weeks. What is it about this term that has me almost suicidal? What
am I doing here? I could be busy getting a Masters degree instead of some cheesy
diploma. Sorry, but there it is. And I can’t even get a GPA high enough to rate
a scholarship.
Yup, there I am in class, flopping around asking questions as I try to relate a
new concept to what I already know, while my classmates sit there calmly, get-
ting it. It takes me much longer to grasp a new idea. I have to crumple it up into
a ball, bat it around, and smooth it out before it takes meaningful shape. This
in a field I used to be good at. We're not even doing much writing—the ability
Editor:
Heather Barnes
to write is considered about as significant as the ability to breathe. There's sim-
ply no time.
My plans to go from a mamamoto to a divamoto, ready to check out Studio
54, have so far fallen flat. Even if I had time to hit the town, I’d turn out look-
ing like a pumamoto (puma being like a cougar, but, unlike a cougar never get-
ting around to actually stalking any prey). Those DC cafeteria french fries real-
ly take their toll.
I returned to school thinking I could turn whatever writing ability I have into
a marketable skill. Instead, my quality of life has decreased dramatically, along
with my per hour wage. As I am fond of repeating, “I’m only this far from liv-
ing in a Smithrite.”
It's Thursday night. I’m drinking a glass of wine while listening to Ross Porter's
After Hours jazz program on CBC, and looking forward to maybe catching up
on both my assignments and some sleep. But I know I’m kidding myself. By
Monday morning, I'll be exhausted by yet another weekend spent doing home-
work.
Right now it’s like being in jail—I follow a strict routine and there’s not much
fun in between. Actually, I'd be better off in jail. ’'ve thought about this quite a
lot lately. There'd be plenty of time to write, especially in solitary confinement.
Someone else could do the cooking and cleaning for a change, and there would-
nt be much laundry. I doubt my kids would like it, though.
Guess I should have remained an unmotivated couch slug (if looking after kids
and teaching fitness classes each day qualifies for couch slug status), debating the
pros and cons of returning to school. Full-time study is damned hard work.
Besides, you're paying for the torture instead of getting paid for it. And if you
ever actually find yourself having fun, you stop and think, “Wait a minute.
What assignment is due tomorrow that I have completely forgotten about?”
So next time you want to write on a washroom wall, think twice and send it
to the Other Press instead. Yeah, I realize I’m asking for all kinds of hell here,
but if our editor agrees, we might even print it and the responses. Who knows?
Heck, I might even start liking school again.
Send your graffiti to:
MAILBAG
RE: Wish List by Tom Mellish
I’m going to keep this short. Tom, there are two on-site day-cares
at Douglas College: one at the New Westminster campus (604-
527-5632) and one at the David Lam campus (604-527-5801).
You are welcome to take a nap in the student lounge on the upper
floor of the Student Union Building, or, if you require absolute
silence, try the lower floor of the same building. There are couch-
es in both locations. And finally, when you express that students
cannot keep track of time, you're just perpetuating the trouble-
some image the college holds as “Dougie Day-care”.
page 5 ©
OP Contributor
It’s cozy here in the washroom. | could stay in this cubicle all day, no problem.
No wonder that at my high school some girls used to eat their lunches in the
can. It’s a hideaway from the demands of class. And the graffiti is fascinating,
even though I’ve read it all several times. Mostly it takes the form of call-and-
response—one person writes something, another writes a comment on that,
then there’s a comment on the comment—mini-reviews. . .ad infinitum.
Graffiti is a concrete example that, no matter what you write, people will inter-
pret it numerous ways, and usually not favourably. I resist the urge to add a few
words to the sheet-metal walls—I’m already late for class.
Yes, things are looking quite desperate when your only form of amusement is
what others write during the process of excretion. It’s ironic now that when I
wrote my first column in the OP a few months ago, I planned to review life
from the perspective of a suburban mom. I even anticipated writing about a
shopping spree at Canadian Tire with a rapster in tow. Ho (as in Santa Claus,
not the other kind of ho), what a joke. There’s no time for anything other than
school.
Ah well, everyone deserves a little rant occasionally. The more public the bet-
ter, I say.
My second full-time year at Douglas College is so far a bit of a nightmare. I’m
resentful of time spent in class, because I’m itching to go find a computer and
get my fix. Classes are good for sleeping purposes, though. Because at night I’m
either pulling all-nighters or realizing I can count a lot higher than I figured.
Five weeks into the term, and already I’m way behind. Heck, I was behind after
the first two weeks. What is it about this term that has me almost suicidal? What
am I doing here? I could be busy getting a Masters degree instead of some cheesy
diploma. Sorry, but there it is. And I can’t even get a GPA high enough to rate
a scholarship.
Yup, there I am in class, flopping around asking questions as I try to relate a
new concept to what I already know, while my classmates sit there calmly, get-
ting it. It takes me much longer to grasp a new idea. I have to crumple it up into
a ball, bat it around, and smooth it out before it takes meaningful shape. This
in a field I used to be good at. We're not even doing much writing—the ability
Editor:
Heather Barnes
to write is considered about as significant as the ability to breathe. There's sim-
ply no time.
My plans to go from a mamamoto to a divamoto, ready to check out Studio
54, have so far fallen flat. Even if I had time to hit the town, I’d turn out look-
ing like a pumamoto (puma being like a cougar, but, unlike a cougar never get-
ting around to actually stalking any prey). Those DC cafeteria french fries real-
ly take their toll.
I returned to school thinking I could turn whatever writing ability I have into
a marketable skill. Instead, my quality of life has decreased dramatically, along
with my per hour wage. As I am fond of repeating, “I’m only this far from liv-
ing in a Smithrite.”
It's Thursday night. I’m drinking a glass of wine while listening to Ross Porter's
After Hours jazz program on CBC, and looking forward to maybe catching up
on both my assignments and some sleep. But I know I’m kidding myself. By
Monday morning, I'll be exhausted by yet another weekend spent doing home-
work.
Right now it’s like being in jail—I follow a strict routine and there’s not much
fun in between. Actually, I'd be better off in jail. ’'ve thought about this quite a
lot lately. There'd be plenty of time to write, especially in solitary confinement.
Someone else could do the cooking and cleaning for a change, and there would-
nt be much laundry. I doubt my kids would like it, though.
Guess I should have remained an unmotivated couch slug (if looking after kids
and teaching fitness classes each day qualifies for couch slug status), debating the
pros and cons of returning to school. Full-time study is damned hard work.
Besides, you're paying for the torture instead of getting paid for it. And if you
ever actually find yourself having fun, you stop and think, “Wait a minute.
What assignment is due tomorrow that I have completely forgotten about?”
So next time you want to write on a washroom wall, think twice and send it
to the Other Press instead. Yeah, I realize I’m asking for all kinds of hell here,
but if our editor agrees, we might even print it and the responses. Who knows?
Heck, I might even start liking school again.
Send your graffiti to:
MAILBAG
RE: Wish List by Tom Mellish
I’m going to keep this short. Tom, there are two on-site day-cares
at Douglas College: one at the New Westminster campus (604-
527-5632) and one at the David Lam campus (604-527-5801).
You are welcome to take a nap in the student lounge on the upper
floor of the Student Union Building, or, if you require absolute
silence, try the lower floor of the same building. There are couch-
es in both locations. And finally, when you express that students
cannot keep track of time, you're just perpetuating the trouble-
some image the college holds as “Dougie Day-care”.
page 5 ©
OP Contributor
It’s cozy here in the washroom. | could stay in this cubicle all day, no problem.
No wonder that at my high school some girls used to eat their lunches in the
can. It’s a hideaway from the demands of class. And the graffiti is fascinating,
even though I’ve read it all several times. Mostly it takes the form of call-and-
response—one person writes something, another writes a comment on that,
then there’s a comment on the comment—mini-reviews. . .ad infinitum.
Graffiti is a concrete example that, no matter what you write, people will inter-
pret it numerous ways, and usually not favourably. I resist the urge to add a few
words to the sheet-metal walls—I’m already late for class.
Yes, things are looking quite desperate when your only form of amusement is
what others write during the process of excretion. It’s ironic now that when I
wrote my first column in the OP a few months ago, I planned to review life
from the perspective of a suburban mom. I even anticipated writing about a
shopping spree at Canadian Tire with a rapster in tow. Ho (as in Santa Claus,
not the other kind of ho), what a joke. There’s no time for anything other than
school.
Ah well, everyone deserves a little rant occasionally. The more public the bet-
ter, I say.
My second full-time year at Douglas College is so far a bit of a nightmare. I’m
resentful of time spent in class, because I’m itching to go find a computer and
get my fix. Classes are good for sleeping purposes, though. Because at night I’m
either pulling all-nighters or realizing I can count a lot higher than I figured.
Five weeks into the term, and already I’m way behind. Heck, I was behind after
the first two weeks. What is it about this term that has me almost suicidal? What
am I doing here? I could be busy getting a Masters degree instead of some cheesy
diploma. Sorry, but there it is. And I can’t even get a GPA high enough to rate
a scholarship.
Yup, there I am in class, flopping around asking questions as I try to relate a
new concept to what I already know, while my classmates sit there calmly, get-
ting it. It takes me much longer to grasp a new idea. I have to crumple it up into
a ball, bat it around, and smooth it out before it takes meaningful shape. This
in a field I used to be good at. We're not even doing much writing—the ability
Editor:
Heather Barnes
to write is considered about as significant as the ability to breathe. There's sim-
ply no time.
My plans to go from a mamamoto to a divamoto, ready to check out Studio
54, have so far fallen flat. Even if I had time to hit the town, I’d turn out look-
ing like a pumamoto (puma being like a cougar, but, unlike a cougar never get-
ting around to actually stalking any prey). Those DC cafeteria french fries real-
ly take their toll.
I returned to school thinking I could turn whatever writing ability I have into
a marketable skill. Instead, my quality of life has decreased dramatically, along
with my per hour wage. As I am fond of repeating, “I’m only this far from liv-
ing in a Smithrite.”
It's Thursday night. I’m drinking a glass of wine while listening to Ross Porter's
After Hours jazz program on CBC, and looking forward to maybe catching up
on both my assignments and some sleep. But I know I’m kidding myself. By
Monday morning, I'll be exhausted by yet another weekend spent doing home-
work.
Right now it’s like being in jail—I follow a strict routine and there’s not much
fun in between. Actually, I'd be better off in jail. ’'ve thought about this quite a
lot lately. There'd be plenty of time to write, especially in solitary confinement.
Someone else could do the cooking and cleaning for a change, and there would-
nt be much laundry. I doubt my kids would like it, though.
Guess I should have remained an unmotivated couch slug (if looking after kids
and teaching fitness classes each day qualifies for couch slug status), debating the
pros and cons of returning to school. Full-time study is damned hard work.
Besides, you're paying for the torture instead of getting paid for it. And if you
ever actually find yourself having fun, you stop and think, “Wait a minute.
What assignment is due tomorrow that I have completely forgotten about?”
So next time you want to write on a washroom wall, think twice and send it
to the Other Press instead. Yeah, I realize I’m asking for all kinds of hell here,
but if our editor agrees, we might even print it and the responses. Who knows?
Heck, I might even start liking school again.
Send your graffiti to:
MAILBAG
RE: Wish List by Tom Mellish
I’m going to keep this short. Tom, there are two on-site day-cares
at Douglas College: one at the New Westminster campus (604-
527-5632) and one at the David Lam campus (604-527-5801).
You are welcome to take a nap in the student lounge on the upper
floor of the Student Union Building, or, if you require absolute
silence, try the lower floor of the same building. There are couch-
es in both locations. And finally, when you express that students
cannot keep track of time, you're just perpetuating the trouble-
some image the college holds as “Dougie Day-care”.
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