The discovery of my claim to fame...

I watched Degrassi tonight, much to the chagrin of my mother. This is one of a few luxuries I will miss when I move back home: Watching terrible television in peace, without it being heckled by my family members. The other luxuries I will miss include eating Cheez Whiz directly out of the jar and trimming my toenails in the kitchen. This will all be made up, however, by the existence of a whole host of toiletries that aren't mine: My father's shaving cream, my mother's luxurious face lotion, my nephew's bubble bath. Everything in this life is a trade-off, it seems.

Last week's Degrassi was one that was very near and dear to my heart, one in which a Toronto girl who is the star of everything goes off to a fancy-schmancy university to make something wonderful of herself. I was never exactly the star of everything, although my father certainly thinks I am the star of making coffee seeing as how I make fifteen pots a day without consuming a single drop, but her character, Paige, really made me remember me.

I really thought that the experience of university would make me wonderful. I thought that having completed this goal of mine would make me special, make me more worthwhile in the eyes of others. Now that I'm done, I really see that all I need is me to make me worthwhile. I don't need fancy clothes or excellent grades or a degree to be a wonderful person. (This is reinforced every time I hang out with Mal, in unwashed grub clothes, with my hair tied up on my head, and an odor coming from my direction of the room that I swear, Dude, it's totally the couch. She loves me regardless of how many times she's seen me eat Cheez Whiz directly from the jar.)

Paige started having trouble with mid terms and papers, and I have to say that was most shocking to me when I started university. In high school I got A's in my strong subjects without much fuss or muss. My second last and last years of high school were my shining glory because those were the only two years I ever applied myself to anything remotely academic. I was stunned to get a C on my first term paper and a D on my first psych exam once in university.

Degrassi's producers did a fairly poor job of her nervous breakdown, I have to say. Now, she did set fire to her textbooks and claim spontaneous combustion in a trash can as a the source to get an extension on a paper she bought off the internet. And she started having trouble breathing in class.

Seriously, though. COME ON NOW PEOPLE. Is that the best you can do? She never once started screaming in incoherent syllables and terrifying the neighbor's small children. She never once went weeks without sleeping and showed up at the wrong class at the wrong time into a room full of complete strangers with bed head and a plaid jacket on. She didn't even mortify her boss by showing up at work in a full blown fit of hysteria begging to please wash the dishes, and you don't have to pay me I just really need to WASH THE DISHES; DEAR GOD CAN'T YOU SEE THAT THEY ARE DIRTY AND MUST BE CLEANSED?

I've never been the star of everything, as I said. I'm a terrible athlete, I never had much of a social life before university, my fashion skills -- well, the plaid jacket speaks for itself. But the least they could do is show a really good impression of a nervous breakdown.

It would comfort me, at least, because then my nervous breakdown might seem a bit more normal. It has now become apparent that even famous television producers can't think up as good a nervous breakdown as mine.

I'm not sure if that's a proud statement or not. I mean, come on, how many people have insanity that makes them better than famous Canadian television producers? NOT THAT MANY.

Toonses