De-taching Parts

If you could change one physical thing about yourself, what would it be? Surely, you’ve been asked that question in your life time, as have I. Do I have a choice of more than one thing? This might take a while. The trouble is, I don’t think I’ve ever been at a point in my life, when I have felt 100 or at least 90 percent good about my physical appearance. I know, I know. This applies to most people, but sometimes I wonder if I will ever get to a point in my life when I look in the mirror before going out or staying in and say, you know what? I like this. I like me. It’s not perfect, but it’s where I want everything to be.

I’m not holding my breath.

So when I think to myself, if I could change anything about my physical appearance, I have an entire list ready, but for this post’s sake, I won’t bore you with my self-conscious whining for too long.

• skin - I am now 24-years-old. That’s 10 years older than 14, meaning my skin SHOULD have cleared up by now and when I wake up in the morning, I should be able to look at myself calmly and go pour myself tea, not let out a ghastly scream that confirms the worst: a big juicy pimple, making himself comfortable on the side of my fave. I have unnecessary acne. It’s the kind that doesn’t even make sense at all. It’s just there one day for no explained reason and it’s telling me, “I am going to ruin your life - this might take up to a week or more, please, get comfortable and make sure you turn your self-confidence down a notch.” When I brought up the issue with my then-doctor, who, by the way, had a brain made of the cotton balls she kept in a jar in the examination room, she brushed it off as completely normal, comparing herself to me. “Look,” she said, pointing to her chin, “I’m in my 40s and I have acne too. It’s fine! Let me just prescribe you some medication.” I wanted to yell and say, but you don’t understand, NO ONE and I mean NO ONE my age that I know has arbitrary acne like I do. You just really don’t get it! But I resisted this urge and instead took her prescription down to the pharmacy, only to find out that I paid $26 for a tube of benzoyl peroxide, when I could have just bought it from the market myself for about $5. Useless, utterly useless. They let anyone pass through medical school these days, don’t they?

• weight - Oh, how cliche of me, I know. Look, it’s not that I’m particularly big. I’m not. But when you’re as short as I am, a few added pounds look like 10. Trust. And it’s not like my weight is distributed evenly over my body, oh noooo. It decides to reside in my hips and thighs and make my life a living hell in the process. I’ve tried to get rid of it before, but nothing has worked for me. Mostly because I lack the motivation and energy to go through with it. If I want to lose weight, I’ll probably have to abandon all other areas of my life and go on a show like the Biggest Loser or something like it, because you know what? Food is good. I’ll get to it though, one day.

• nose - The only thing I need to put here is that I’m Armenian, and perhaps like other cultures, we are notorious for and have notorious noses. It’s not as bad as it could be, but I’d just like it to be nipped in the bud a bit. Just a little. Please? Just a tiny bit from the bottom. Pretty please? I guess it makes me unique. Whatever.

• height - Hello, my name is Liana and I am short. Yes that’s right, my dreams of being a contestant on Tyra “Smile With Your Eyes” Banks’ “America’s Next Top Super Model” were shattered when I was conceived.  To be honest, I don’t mind being short all that much. I can fit into small spaces easily. Once I crawled under a steel fence at school to retrieve backpacks that my friends and I had left inside when we had wandered outside to get some food. They coined me “Mighty Mouse.” I hate that my shortness shows SO MUCH when I’m standing next to tall people. I’m only asking for a couple of inches, I’m not greedy. But you better believe, that if I was tall enough, I would definitely try my hand out at modeling. Fierce.

What parts would you like to reattach?

Cumpleañoz Feliz

I turned 24-years-old yesterday. It was a strange feeling waking up in the morning, with a slight lump in my throat. Turning 23 was much better, in fact, in my opinion it’s the perfect age. You’re over 21, so you don’t have any real laws against you, yet you’re still considered “young.”

It was like any other day really, except I got treated to a lunch outing, card and cupcakes at work - that was nice and unexpected and really made my day bearable and lovely. When I came home, there was a cake waiting for me, a gift from my sister, in addition to the fact that she wallpapered my entire door with the dazzling Edward Cullen. I’m bordering on psychotic, I know.

I was going to write about what I accomplished this year, but I’d rather do that for my New Year’s post. I don’t like to count my accomplishments by age, doing them by year is much better and it doesn’t remind you that there are millions of people in the world being more productive than you, while they’re younger than you.

It’s hard to believe that I’ve lived for 24 years. It’s harder to believe where my life would be right now if my family hadn’t moved to the U.S. If I had stayed in Tehran, as I was in the photo above. It’s still harder to think about what my life is going to be, that’s honestly the hardest part. I thought I knew, but I have no idea. We like to think so, but we’re not always the controller of our destinies.

More than anything, what I’d like for my birthday is to share it with my grandpa. I wish he could have seen what I’ve become, what my sister and cousins have become. I miss him immensely and would have liked to share so many moments of my life with him. Sometimes I remember him and realize what a passionate man he was. I think I might have gotten my passion from him. When he would sit near the dining room table and speak about Armenia, his motherland, his home, his love, his eyes would well up with tears. I used to laugh it off and tell him to stop, but almost 15 years later, I understand. I completely understand.

Here’s to another year. I hope it will be better.

Winding Down

This four weekend weekend was truly sent from above to make my life better. Thanksgiving was wonderful, the crazed shopping in the early hours of the morning was insane, seeing Twilight again was amazing (I feel like an idiot, but I don’t care) and just spending time at home was the best medicine. I am so tired of not being able to do what I want to do and if this weekend had come any later, I would probably have had a nervous breakdown.

As you’ve noticed, I have been posting every day this month, as part of NanoBloPoMo, otherwise known as National Blog Posting Month. It was an interesting journey. I don’t know how I did it, what with everything else on my plate, but it was overall great. At times I felt like giving up, because I didn’t feel like I was contributing anything useful to the World Wide Web, but I stuck with it, and here we are on the last day. I urge anyone who has a blog to try it, you might write about things you never expected to because of the mandatory everyday posting.

Tomorrow, life starts again and needless to say, I’m not too thrilled. There’s still so much left to do and not enough time to do it in like the craft projects I have to finish, the articles I have to write, the pitches I have to submit, the graduate schools I might apply for and the Christmas decorations I have to put up.

I better stop writing here and get to them.

Gloomy Greatness

Today I was in an unusually good mood, far from my scowls and confusion I’m usually faced with these days. It was almost euphoric, today. Perhaps it was because I knew that we would be closing down the office four hours too soon, to get a head start on Thanksgiving. Maybe it was because I was looking forward to finishing up the second Twilight book, “New Moon,” tonight (more on this in the future). One thing was for certain - the weather had an enormous amount of responsibility for my jovial mood. I heard the rain break through last night while I was driving and as God is my witness, it was incredible. I even saw the lightning. Los Angeles is beautiful when it rains. The smog and fog filled sky looks almost breathtaking, like some Apocalyptic painting no one was ever meant to see.

I smiled all the way home.

When I left work today, the weather wasn’t any different and I was enjoying every single minute of it, knowing full well that in an instant, it would disappear and the sun would pierce through again, ruining my rendezvous with the rain. I wasn’t as excited about the freeway as I was about the rain, I’m sure you’ve guessed. It was clogged with cars in every which way and I had no choice but to suffer through it all. I took comfort in the fact that I wasn’t exactly heading home, but to Whole Foods to buy some Quorn “Turkey” Roast for myself for tomorrow’s festivities. I can’t believe it has been almost a year that a piece of meat hasn’t touched my lips. Of course, because I still eat fish, I’m not a vegetarian in the true sense of the word, a bit like Edward Cullen I suppose. I don’t like talking about it when people ask me why I don’t eat meat. The idea of having to explain to them my thoughts on the matter are almost unbearable and definitely awkward and painful. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone pescetarian. I didn’t eat meat for about 10 months a little less than two years ago, but when Thanksgiving came around, I caved in. Once I tasted it, there was no point not eating it again on a regular basis.

I was taking a different route this year though. I didn’t have a particular interest in eating turkey, the smell of it repulsed me a bit, so the Quorn brand of faux-turkey was my next best option.

While I tried to make progress on the freeway, the rain suddenly turned violent and vicious and unleashed a three minute wrath of hail on everyone. I was enjoying myself, but remembered back to documentaries I had watched on the Discovery channel about golf-sized hail balls leaving cars looking like Swiss cheese. I had to remind myself that this was Los Angeles, and we had earthquakes and fires, not tornadoes and killer hail.

The parking lot of Whole Foods was an absolute nightmare. I had never seen it that bad before. Parking attendants were directing traffic and people were pulling in and out with carts. I eventually found a space and quickly got myself inside, focused on finding my Quorn Thanksgiving dinner. Inside was worse than outside. I was turning claustrophobic and had to take a dive in the hair care isle to stop myself from leaving without finding anything. No one else seemed slightly annoyed by the fact that there were so many people around. Maybe it’s me, I wondered. I found my Quorn and picked up some low-carb bread as well as some Ginger Peach tea from Republic of Tea - a treat to myself.

When I left, the rain had started coming down hard, so I ran to my car, but my paper bag was soaking wet. As I settled in my car, the smell of wet wood descended around me from the bag and forced me to open a window. My next order of business of getting the third Twilight book before I finished the second one, in an attempt to satiate my appetite when I finished. That search turned up fruitless, as the only version they had was a hardcover version, and I wasn’t in any mood in shelling out $20 for my guilty pleasure unhealthy obsession for a clumsy, accident-prone girl and her dazzling, vampire boyfriend. Sorry Stephenie Meyer, I had to draw the line somewhere.

When I walked out of the bookstore, it was drizzling. I pulled my umbrella out and propped it up. I hadn’t been walking in the rain for so long. It was beautiful. The gloomy skies, the wet ground, the silence of the entire city. I walked back to my car, disappointed, knowing full well that I could order on Amazon but the wait would be excruciating.

I got home and literally devoured the second book, and didn’t rest until I was done. This whole “Twilight” thing has turned me into a raging lunatic and I really don’t know how to stop. Mostly, I’m left wondering, “Why is this happening to me!” I have my theories I guess, but discussing them makes me sound crazier than I am now, so I’ll stop.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow. I have some intense baking to do in the morning, as well tidying up and then entertaining at night. I have my hopes set on traveling out to a J.Crew outlet for their “Hurray-For-The-Holidays” sale which starts at midnight tomorrow night. I know it sounds insane, especially since it’s Thanksgiving, but you don’t understand. No, you really don’t. It’s 50 percent off clearance, plus an additional 30 to 50 percent off regular stuff. It’s going to be fun little road trip for the three of us, including my sister and Nat, since it’s about 60 miles from my house. I’m afraid that our trip might be like that one episode of “Friends,” where Monica recruits Rachel and Phoebe to go wedding dress shopping with her and they have to communicate with whistles.

Crawling to Bed

I should be sleeping, seeing as to I have to make it to work at a reasonable time tomorrow, but my mind is racing after finishing the first of four books in the Twilight series. Yes I am a dork. No, I do not care. I was thinking back to when I started this blog in 2006 and looking at how far I’ve come, not only in terms of my subject matter and topics, but in terms of myself. I can’t believe it’s been two years. Sometimes I ask myself why I have this space to myself. Why do I write here? What prompted me to create a website? It would be easy and also a lie if I said it was just a more convenient way to write down my thoughts, instead of transcribing them in a notebook by hand. In some ways, that’s true, but obviously I wanted more. And yet today, I really don’t know my goal for this little web space I have. Is it just to write down my thoughts? Is it a release for me, an experiment in writing, or am I writing for someone, whoever that may be? Do I have an audience? I don’t even know for sure if anyone really is reading what I write, or why they would want to. But I guess it doesn’t matter. Sometimes I wish my blog was well-known and visited, sometimes I wish I could write in private so no one would have to see. I can’t seem to figure this place out, or the direction I want to take it in, but I suppose that’s a running theme in my life at the moment: confusion.

Sometimes I give myself rigid restraints on what to write about and how - and then I remember that this is just a personal blog and there are no rules and I can write about whatever I want, however I want. Maybe that’s the beauty of this place though, I can swing whichever way I want, without even thinking. One day I could be talking about situations in my life and the next day, I could be declaring my love for all things Paula Deen and then talking about my enormous hate for Ugg boots after. It’s really refreshing, have a space I can fill up with anything I want.

Yes, I should be sleeping. It’s almost 1 a.m, but this is a perfect opportunity to write. The house is completely quiet and dark, with the only light coming from my laptop. Henry is fast asleep, instead of flinging around his toys and our shoes in the living room and because I’ve spent the majority of my day so listless in a cubicle, my mind is awake and racing and conjuring up topics to write about and ideas to get to. This is unfair really, almost torture. Why aren’t there more hours in the day, more days in the week? Most importantly, when will I finish the second book from the Twilight series. I am slowly being recruited into the League of Morons because of you, Stephenie Meyer.

I better get to bed before I pick up the book to read and never go to sleep.

Many, Many Questions

She looked at the time, which was peering at her in muted gray block letters in her car’s dashboard. She was sure she wouldn’t make it. Once again, traffic, her arch nemesis, had reared its ugly head, like it did every morning. Her thoughts were scattered, and as she looked ahead, into the endless sea of cars, she gave up.

“I’ll get there, when I get there,” she sighed.

While she moved an inch, she thought of all the places she’d rather be. In bed perhaps, having a long, drawn out breakfast. At her typewriter, which she hadn’t used in at least a year. The ribbon didn’t work, but that didn’t matter. Replacing it was just another opportunity to be anywhere but where she was headed to.

At least the weather was partially on her side, she thought, as she couldn’t see the emblazoned Los Angeles sun anywhere to be found. The gray skies, the rain, the gloominess of it all…it felt like home to her.  Maybe it reflected how she felt on the inside, but she didn’t think that was necessarily a bad thing.

The traffic began to clear up, and although she breathed a sigh of relief, she was secretly wishing it would have gotten so bad, and it would have made her so frustrated, that she would have just turned around and gone home to bury her face in her pillow and unmade bed.

As she thought about driving, she came to the realization that her life was spent in small, confined spaces, which she likened to boxes. She was in a box in her room. She left that box to go to her portable box, her car. After a while there, she reached another box, her cubicle, where she spent hours working and subsequently dreaming that she wasn’t working. Not working in the real sense of the word, anyway. She wanted to work, but the passion was missing, a common ingredient that’s lacking from the workforce. And there she was, one box in a million on an endless pavement of cement travelling to another box.

She was surprised how quickly she managed to reach her exit. Still late, but only by minutes. The streets were empty, with people at least. The cars however, as usual, were plenty. She rounded the corner, skimmed past a car that was blocking both lanes, and made it to the parking structure in one smooth swoop. The elevator ride was only 30 seconds, but it felt like hours. Her thoughts had started racing back and forth again, and she was afraid that the neurons firing inside would somehow find their way to manifest themselves on the outside, by lack of coordination, an unusual flushed face, or some other embarrassing ailment.

When she made it to the meeting room, her nerves calmed down. Another stressful situation dodged, she thought. She took out her notebook, lifted the pen tucked behind her ear and began writing anything just to take her mind off the situation. Most days she would just trace her name over and over again on paper, trying to see how different one signature would be from the next. As people shuffled in, and the presentation began, she tried to concentrate. Goals, priorities, performance, acquisitions. The words circled around her head and popped like bubbles.

Her efforts to keep her thoughts on what was contained in the room remained fruitless. It was then, that when she looked up across the table, outside that she couldn’t believe her eyes. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before. In fact, it was a common site in this part of town, but this time, it looked so inviting, so new, so refreshing.

It was sparkling, beckoning her to escape her box. Stretched out for miles, the blue glistening waves of the ocean, against the palm trees felt like an escape. She might have been exagerrating, but she felt like she was in prison. In a office supply, grey, computer-meeting room prison.

She looked away and back down to her notebook. Furiously jotting, the racing thoughts came back. One minute she knew what she wanted out of life, the next minute, she felt like nothing made sense. Except boxes. Boxes surrounded her. And as she sat there, she knew that she would figure it out. The question was when?

Synonyms Work Just Fine

I have a strange habit of referring to objects, places and ideas by off-key synonyms, because at that moment, I can’t quite think of the word I’m searching for. Although it makes for hilarious conversation, I’m not sure why I do it, at all. The problem started in high school when I referred to a couple Math and English books as my “study books.” It progressed from there. I called Christmas “Santa’s Day” once and the restaurant “Applebees” sincerely became “Johnny Appleseeds.” Scale became “Weight measurer” and so on. I don’t know where this verbal ADHD originated from, but it looks like it’s contagious.

me: I saw “The Class” the other day for a screening. You’d really like it. [proceeds to send link to trailer]

him: Oooo interesting. This reminds me of that Michelle Pfeiffer movie with the students.

me: Which one?

him: With Coolio, remember?

him: Teacher in the Hood!

me: you mean “DANGEROUS MINDS?!”

Teacher in the Hood. After I recovered from my fit of laughter, I took comfort in the fact this wasn’t the first time he had synonym-ized words. Payless had turned into “Penny Savers” and Old Navy had turned into “Navy Seal” among countless others that I can’t recall.  It could have been at this point that I might have realized that we where meant to be.

Every Morning is Monday Morning

Getting ready in the mornings is never pleasant for me. Ever. If the problem isn’t the fact that I cannot bear the thought of getting out from under my soft, warm and ever so accommodating bed, it’s that I take one look in the mirror and immediately know it’s going to be a bad day because no amount of makeup or fake peppy facial expressions can help me. These are probably the days that I feel I’m at about 10 percent.

That’s how I judge how I feel on a given day, with percentages. For example, if I’m feeling pretty great, which means my clothes, my look and my mind are in order, I’d say I’m at 90 percent. If I’m feeling horrid and nothing is going well for me, including the mountain of a pimple that just showed up on my chin’s doorstep, then I probably feel about -5 percent. The most interesting part is, that even if I start out at a good percentage, say 75, by the end of the day, I’m almost in single digit numbers. That’s quite discouraging. I can honestly say that I’ve never felt 100 percent, EVER. But then again, who has? On second thought, I’m sure there are people who have. I hate them.

After I gauge a percentage, I go about my business of turning the kettle on, decided what to wear all the while running from the bathroom to my room multiple times. During this tedious process, Henry the Maltese is ever so vigilantly by my side and will follow me at all costs, no matter where I go and no matter how many times I go there.

When I get to the bathroom, he’ll duck himself in there with me and then, because no one is home and I need to make light of the fact that I feel like DEATH, I strike up a conversation with him.

“No Henry, that’s an illegal behavior,” I politely tell him when he sticks his head in the trash can.

While in my room, I ask him about my wardrobe. “What should I wear? What do you think? If you had to pick something for me what would it be? Oh c’mon, don’t be shy. Pick something!”

While in the kitchen, I discuss life. “If you had a choice between staying home and going to work, which would you choose?”

When he wanders off out of sight, I miss him. “Can you come back now? I have to leave soon and I want to see as much of you as possible. Why don’t you ever make yourself heard?”

When I have to leave, I reassure him that it will be ok. “I have to go now Henry. I’ll be back home soon, I promise. You just stay put, ok? I’ll be back I swear.”

And as I shut the door, I hear him barking in the distance, as if to say, “Why do you leave every morning?”

I ask myself the same thing.

Not Interested

Listen up everyone. I’m running on empty here. I mean that. I’m so tired I can feel my eyeballs in their sockets. Have you ever had that feeling? Where you’re so tired, you can FEEL your eyes? It’s not pleasant at all, but that’s what I’m going through right now.

I’ve got so much on my plate, a lot of it I hate, and the other half I love, but don’t have enough time to devote to and I feel I’m nearing a crosswords. There is so much to think about that my mind feels like it’s been permanently diagnosed with ADHD. I can’t concentrate on one thought. But enough about the future. Let’s talk about the present.

I have about four movie reviews to write, a press junket to transcribe, a screening to go to tomorrow and traffic school to deal with. I’m losing my mind. I’m finding it so difficult to write my reviews. I’ve always found them difficult. I’ll read reviews by Manohla Dargis in the New York Times, or the Village Voice or the Los Angeles Times and think, from what dark hole in your mind did you pull that out of? And how come I’m not seeing it? Is there something deeper and more profound I’m not getting, when I go to these screenings? I just don’t know anymore. I find it so hard to accurately express my feelings about films. The only films I’m able to dissect just as good as a NY Times movie critic are the ones I’m totally invested in and am passionate about. So I’m having quite a difficult time right now with myself and my movie reviews. I’m second guessing myself and I don’t like it.

Mostly the fatigue is getting to me. I just want to take a sabbatical and go off into the woods of Utah or something with a typewriter and enough tea to last me for a couple months and just write. Write to my heart’s content, without worrying about stress, and a full-time job, and traffic and life and graduate school. I’m becoming slightly disillusioned with the journalistic career opportunities this city has to offer. I do not want to be a movie critic. I don’t want to write about the movies and stars everyone is talking about. I want to write about the woman who turned a hobby into a full-fledged business and got herself our of debt, or the hole-in-the-wall restaurant that serves the best food in town, or the day laborer on the street who is working so hard to make ends meet for his family. I want to write about the pet organization that helps displaced dogs and cats find homes after natural disasters, I want to write about the injustices committed against journalists in Middle Eastern countries, I want to write about the professor who is doing studies on how video games in nursing homes are impacting lives. These are where the stories are, these are the people that matter, not directors, not producers and certainly not actors.

I’m just so tired of it all.

Reflections and Results

There’s a topic I’ve been avoiding here for weeks. Partly because I didn’t want to think about it, but mostly because…yea it was totally because I did not want to think about it, at all. I suppose now that a couple weeks have passed, I am ready to discuss the Dreaded Test of Higher Education, otherwise known as the GRE. My experience with it was very manic. On the one hand, I panicked about it to the point that I was physically manifesting my anxieties. On the other hand, I went in to take it with a very nonchalant attitude about the whole thing. My results from the test? Very manic.

I woke up extremely early on that day, made my way down to the test center and waited. I waited and waited until the doors opened, we were all let in and handed forms to fill out. There weren’t many people there, although many of them were already irritating me, like this one woman named Maria, who had brought in her Starbucks mochafrappabullshit drink (her name was scribbled on her drink) and was taking her sweet time to not only sip it, but sip it very loudly. I filled out my form quickly, stuffed my belongings into the provided locker and went to answer a couple questions as fast as I could to get away from Maria Full of Sips.

The entire process was very clinical and frightening at the same time. After about three and a half hours, I had finally finished the test, and as a parting gift, the GRE decided it was going to give me a headache that would last all afternoon. I walked out of there a bit dazed and confused and a bit like I had been through academia hell.

While I was paying for parking, the man at the booth inquired about my test. I told him I didn’t think I had done very well.

“That’s ok! You always have another chance. You can come back and take it again and you’ll do great next time!” he said encouragingly.

I left the test site knowing I hadn’t done so well. I don’t know why I expected to do great, seeing as to I hadn’t really studied.

I pushed the test to the back of mind more or less, until I came home last Thursday and received the results by mail. Impatiently, I tore open the envelope and saw what I already knew.

I had done “OK” on the verbal and horrible on the math portion. But what I haven’t been able to stop thinking about, and what has got me to really hate and question the mere idea of a test to get into graduate school, is the fact that I scored near PERFECT on the analytical writing section. The analytical writing section is the portion of the test where you choose two questions and write essays explaining your stance with supporting evidence, complete sentences, deep thought and great grammar and writing skills.

Yes, that’s right. I scored half a point away from a perfect store. Regardless of that half of a point, I was in the top tier section of the scale and had done better than 90 percent of others who completed that section.

I had just taken a $140 test that had made it clear to me (at least academically) that I was a good writer. Perhaps a great writer.

I wasn’t confident enough in my scores as a whole to send it to any school and was pretty depressed about the fact that I didn’t do my best, the sheer realization that a test for graduate school had determined that my analytical writing capabilities were incredibly high was enough for me.

I’m still feeling very disillusioned about this whole graduate school business. The GRE to me, was completely unnecessary and discouraging and in my opinion, it should have absolutely NO bearing on the acceptance of a student to continue their education. NONE whatsoever. It’s a pointless exam with pointless results and does not showcase a student’s talent, just their test taking skills ( at least the multiple choice sections anyway).

I was lucky enough to discover after the test that one of the schools on the top of my list that I wanted to attend doesn’t even require the GRE. But now, the problem isn’t the GRE anymore, it’s money. I don’t know how I can even begin to pay for one year of education that will grant me a Master’s degree, but will cost the same as a luxury vehicle. Sure, there’s scholarships and financial aides and loans, but none of those are a guarantee, and with the way the financial atmosphere is, getting a loan might be near impossible.

I imagine there are so many people all over this country and the world, wondering the same thing I am: how in the world are they going to pay for their education?

The short answer is: I don’t know.

And I really don’t know, but I’m not stopping. I’ll find a way. If worse comes to worst, my choice of school might have to change. But like I said before, the school doesn’t make you, YOU make you. The end.