The Winepress

You can hate the younger generation for having more time than you, you can hate the older generation for doing more than you, you can hate your generation for squandering their talents, and you can hate yourself for wasting your time. You can hate the young for not appreciating the things they have, you can hate the old for wasting what they had for the future of their kind. You can hate the rich for keeping the things the way they are or you can hate the poor for being divided and accepting the lot in life they have been given or for not getting up and working their way out of poverty like the good ole’ days.

The problem is not any one individual group however. The problem would be easier if it was. As things have progressed, the tangled state of who controls whom has grown from simple feudalism concept to a highly convoluted, multi-faceted chain of being. The average guy or girl. Wakes up each morning, awoken by their phone’s alarm clock a phone which is mass produced and houses every possible 21st century necessity that could arise, listening to music, probably owned by a corporation that controls the writing, production, and distribution destroying any fabric of artistic integrity, they brush their teeth, with water from a local source, that’s being bottled and sold just on the other side of the pipes for an exorbitant profit, they put on their mass produced clothing, made in China or Bangladesh and if anything should rip or permanently stain the cloth they would probably throw it out and buy another because it’s not worth the effort to fix it and just buy a new article creating an ever voracious consumer that cannot be fed with the greatest extent of wage enslaved factory workers, they drive to work in a cars, that are far too complicated for the average person to understand, which runs on a petroleum product that is so expensive wars and alliances are built around it, and on top of this they probably drive alone in a car that can hold four grown adults comfortably for no reason other than they can, they then arrive at a workplace where they probably have a minimal say on how things are done and watch the fruits of their labour create significant wealth for someone they have never met while the waste away in working class squalor, at lunch they eat food that comes from a factory farm filled genetically modified, pesticide ridden plants and animals that destroy the environment and produce food that at the end of the day is probably safe for production, but forced millions of farmers out of work and off their lands, then after work they go home watch television filled with lies, misconceptions, or distractions designed for the specific goal of attracting viewers to view advertisements for things they do not need or want, then they may check social media to become engrossed in the lives of those around them on a scale of never before seen uselessness, all while horrible injustices and corrupt systems are simply accepted as the way things are. The few who notice are rail-roaded from telling people facts as the masses refuse to accept changes, as they are worried about how they look, how they are perceived, how much money they make, how other people making money is making money that they aren’t making, while blaming foreigners or non-existent fifth columnist because the billionaire media conglomerate’s decided violence and sensationalism get views so they get paid more by their advertisers. The education systems make workers and not thinkers, spreading scientifically ignorant people who refuse to vaccinate their children or believe in global warming. And at the end of the day this drives people to smash keys on their keyboards fanatically writing about injustice on their blog they don’t pay to operate because they keep all of the ad revenue on his or her own work.

There is no longer a corrupt king, twirling his majestically evil beard as a toady noble insists on raising taxes on the poor to pay for their new Turkish bath house moved brick by brick from Anatolia, that we can rally together and overthrow. There are hundreds of powerful politicians, bankers, and CEOs that ban together to exert control over the lives of as many people as possible. We live in a time where freedom and independence are seen as ideals, but how free is a society that forces conformity or how independent can one be when the consumerist machine forces the consumption of everything that generates billions if not trillions of pounds, dollars, or euros each year on the necessities of food, housing, power, and water alone. There is no excuse in the age of information for ignorance of any kind. The whole of human knowledge is at our finger tips and yet we waste hours on leisure, including clicking cookies, watching fake people kill fake zombies, or reading about the latest trick that will give you the body you want this summer. There’s no excuse, we’re all guilty of it nut there is nothing we can say to defend ourselves. When is it we can say we have changed the world for the better. Rarely at best, unless you are one of the few champions of civic virtue that we have left. Extending a helping hand to a person in need is a great start or even just the hand of friendship to a stranger in a land where politeness runs parallel to urban anonymity. We have to begin to ban together at some level, relate more to people than possessions. At the end of the day, we are the sum of the contribution we make to the world and that is how the effects of our lives will be felt long after we are forgotten. It’s all we have. There is only so much one voice can say on their digital soap box, but there needs to be a change in how we view the world or there might not be too much left to view of it.

Legal Questioning

My psychology teacher, who has an opinionated flair for the dramatic and a tendency to overshare, brought up the point that criminal investigation techniques and the associated sciences have gotten so advanced that the majority of convinctions are just. She went so far to say there are probably more people who walk free then are unjustly incarcerated. This however points to a fact in which it matters not, in this case, what the statistics are. Numbers, for once in this quantitative world in which we live in, are unimportant. The fact of the matter is that simply allowing one’s self to believe that the legal system is relatively optimised allows for greater powers to be taken. The watchers must be watched. The answer to Juvenal’s “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” must be the watched in a democracy. Simply allowing or at least accepting the actions of any one body or organisation through ignorance or even faith is tantamount to the invitation of exploitation. It is the duty of an informed citizenry to observe, question, and uncover the truth to best serve themselves and their community.

For Christ’s Sake…. (Gay Marriage Edition)

The problem I have is that people seem to think they have to agree with gay marriage. No you fucking don’t. It’s a thing. It happens. You don”t have to agree to straight marriage. It’s just a thing that happens. Granted not everyone believes in marriage (it is a slightly outdated socioeconomic/cultural practice, but never mind that). You can say you disagree with the “lifestyle” (which it isn’t) and don’t want to see it, but that’s not a valid argument. It’s like saying I don’t want to listen to The Clash because their hairstyles and leather jackets offend me. Fine don’t go to a gay bar or listen to decent 80’s music, but you can’t claim that equal representation in media is having homosexuality “rammed down your throat”. There isn’t a straight lifestyle or a gay lifestyle there are just lifestyles. There are just people doing whatever it is they do. The only proper agenda of gays is equal representation and recognition across society(Non Sequitur alert: I mean there are the Queer Anarchists, which is a Black Panther-esque response to the forced oppression they suffer. I can understand the frustration and the alluring possibilities of a bloodstained revolution, but it won’t work and is partially counter intuitive). If you don’t accept that then please leave society. You have to recognise that the world hasn’t become more gay. It’s gotten to a point where people can more truly express themselves and openly be as they are. If you get upset that two blokes kissed on television (a sports channel no less), then you’re being a massive dick. Sorry it makes you uncomfortable. I don’t like Michael Jackson, but I don’t complain to the lords on high every time the child molesting, squeaky voiced, deceased drug addict comes on the radio. I won’t tell my (hypothetical future) kids not to listen to Michael Jackson. Just like I won’t tell them being gay is unnatural and should be hidden in a cupboard. It’s just a state of being. An integral part of human personality. Saying it’s wrong is like blaming someone for being outgoing. I might not be outgoing, I might not like people who are extroverted to the maximum levels, but that doesn’t mean I expect society to cover up extroversion and shelter the youth from it. For Christ’s sake, it’s a matter of who you want to love/marry/ fuck. Ignoring the existence of this “plain of being”(if you will) makes growing up LGBTQ incredibly difficult. You’re not told directly that what you’re feeling is wrong, but you have no evidence that it’s normal. Media requires this equal representation whether it’s telly, cinema, books, comics, adverts, news, etcetera. You have to have people the whole of the audience can partially identify with. Be that skin colour, personality, build, orientation, gender, what have you. No, you don’t have to “agree” with it. Nobody is making you “agree” with it. You have to accept that it’s a thing and it happens, regardless of your approval. People may have to remove their xenophobic heads out of their ultra orthodox arses to do it, but it’s necessary.

Ramblings of a Teenage Apostate

I’m beginning to think I don’t go out into public enough. I mean, yes. I go to school five days a week, but that hardly seems public. Why, it’s no more real than the mindless machinations of an office building. There is more vibrancy to be found in tenement block, more life in a graveyard, and more light in the bottom of the ocean than there is reality to be found in an office building or school. When I do go to the shops, or even to a shopping centre, everything’s sort of detached. Nothing is anchoring me to the reality of the moment my mind either wanders or observes. I have an objective and I complete it. I go out to buy a tie, I go to the haberdasher, make idle chatter, buy the tie, and I’m on my way before noticing I’m in public. My mind might be thinking on any number of subjects from some point of relative historical insignificance to a character of my latest story to the absurdity of my fellow shoppers. I used to walk home everyday from school in a town where I could walk the whole of that mile without seeing a single soul outside of their house or automobile. I enjoyed the detachment. The solitude brought tranquility. An empty canvas in which to pour my ideas. I filled it with music, poetry, writing, and all other forms of creative energy flowing like water from the rivers of Babylon. Now I can amuse myself, alone in a crowd, now as much as ever. I can make myself laugh and be thoroughly entertained by my own consciousness. However, there is part of me that feels that lounging and relaxing in privacy with friends and being alone in a crowded place are much the same in that you are with people, but are not experiencing reality. When you are with someone, or a group of someones, in a crowded place. You have the opportunity to be distinctly alone. A sea of patrons and passersby can wash over you and witness the sum of your existence and then never pay anymore attention to you and carry on with their life. People can drip by like grains of sand in an hour glass, yet your attention can be solely devoted to your company and that, my dear friends and readers, is such a beautiful thought I shall leave you with it.

Cold Blue Post Boxes

(Why is that the title? Because why the fuck not. Write your own bloody stories you judgmental prick)

I awoke, as usual, to the sounds hard rock, today in the form of Somebody Got Murdered by one of my favourite bands, The Clash. I slowly rose, brushed my teeth, put on deodorant, and got dressed. I decided to wear a blue shirt with a hexagon pattern, grey trousers, a tan cardigan, and tan argyle socks. I rushed down the stairs to my front door with my phone, oddly heavy  briefcase, and my black overcoat with a The Who Union Flag pin on the lapel. I walked onto the deck. The only three things on the deck were a propane grill, a table wrapped up for protection from the harsh North American elements, and a copper alloy frog with a sundial on it’s back. I climbed down the set of stairs maneuvered over a path made mostly of ice, and went down the hill that made up our drive. I took a left and then crossed a perpendicular street and taking a right up an even greater hill, passing a blue American post box. I waited for the bus to arrive. I had gotten there earlier than my usual and it was fairly chilly. The bus came and the usual bollocks of an average day in the life of an expat in American high school began. I was feeling rather well that day too.

I stayed after a while longer for an academic extracurricular event and was on my way home at around four in the afternoon. It was sometime between talking to an eleven year old Brazilian about football and Gareth Bale and getting off the bus that I realised I hadn’t had my keys on me that day. I left them on the table next to the door and had forgotten them in my haste.

“No matter”, I thought. I had forgotten my keys loads of times and had always found a way in. I climbed the hill up the drive that lead to the garage and leaped over the icy path, jogged up the stairs, and placed my briefcase next to the door. I checked to insure I was indeed locked out. I was. Then I moved to the sliding door that had worked so well in the past.  I pulled at it quite a while before realising that it too was locked. I examined the frame to see if I could pull it out without much trouble. I couldn’t. I texted my mum to see what time she would arrive back from work and decided that with the right tools I could pick the lock.

I’ve picked a few locks in my time, some padlocks, a fireproof strong box even. I was relatively confident that with a few paperclips I could pick this house lock. I left my briefcase next to the door and ran down the stairs, over the familiar ice, and down the hill. I passed the blue post box, but this time went down the hill. The wind was strong and I buttoned the four buttons on my overcoat. I complained about how I detested wind and the cold. I found my way to a hardware store that was just a carpark away from the hill. I imagine I was out of place and after milling around a bit I bought a set of hobbyist files that looked narrow enough to pick a lock for about twenty dollars. Luckily, I had forty on my person, since I went out a few days previous to that. I crossed the busy road to the neighbourhood supermarket.

“Hey, Nate”, I heard with the sun in my eyes.

I replied, “Hello, Sheldon”. I didn’t see him, but I knew he was the only person I knew working there and I recognised the Canadian accent. He was collecting the trolleys in the carpark.”I got locked out of my house, I just picked these up” showing him my impromptu lockpicking kit. “I was wondering, if you had paperclips”.

The Canadian said “I can get you one, if you like”.

“That’d be great, two would be ideal”, I said as we entered the blissful warmth of the market.

“I’ll get you three, if you want”.

“Are you sure, mate? I don’t want to put you out of your way”, I say with a laugh. He hands me the the three paperclips, I thank him, he says he’ll see me to-more-o, and I leave. I think about buying something to eat, but I figure I’ll be home soon enough to eat there. I climb up the hill, past the post box, up the other hill , and I’m back on the deck.

I got to work, my hands were cold and I was losing dexterity by the minute. The paperclips were utterly ineffective and I couldn’t maneuver the picks to push in any of the pins. I took a picture of my lockpicking efforts and made a note to make fun of it later on Twitter. I moped around for a few minutes and went back to the market. I was a bit peckish and decided to buy a loaf of cheap bread, Goldfish crackers, two small bottles of orange juice, a Hershey bar, and a pack of gum. I was purchasing my goods and bantering to Sheldon who was tending the counter behind me. In the span of an hour, he had been promoted from trolley fetcher to bagger (never underestimate the work ethic of the Canadian race). I left the market again, vowing to never return.

I got a call from mum, who said her last patient had canceled and she was coming home “early”. I ran up the hill and eating Goldfish to avoid both hunger and the cold. I got home. Rather, I got to my deck. I dumped out the contents of my bag and looked them over and decided this was the time to tweet cleverly. I made a joke about my lockpicking inability and the very unhealthy nature of my emergency picnic. I was scrolling through Twitter, my back on the house, and my knees bent skyward. I would have scrolled more, but my hands had become cold and I was losing feeling in them. I ate my Goldfish, until I was too cold for that. My legs were cold in the air and I laid down, as I’d seen the homeless on at least two continents do. My side ached until I found a way to be comfortable. I was on my side, my legs curled into my chest. I put my hands into my jacket and placed them promptly under my armpits. I had lost feeling in them and they were a pretty unappealing colour by this time. Instead of eating it, I found the loaf of bread to be a useful pillow.  I lay trying to think about anything, but the cold. Love, life, the Universe, and everything. I thought about the work I had to do, my blog, everything. After a while, I could only think of the cold. The shivers started. Sporadically at first, but they became more frequent and more prolonged. I tried sleeping, it was worse than trying to rise from and then promptly trying to sleep in vain. When my lack of consciousness overpowered the cold, it became a sort of waking dream. I saw the sun set behind a tree that looked as if it were a painting with long, stretching, leafless branches. A single star in the sky, as it changed from pale blue to dark Van Gogh like swirls. The stars multiplied as the hour grew later and later. Slipping back into a cognitive state was far worse. My mind told me to get up and move to warm up. I did so and getting back down was pain in itself. My legs touched the chill borders of my trousers, my hands were re-exposed, and it took ages to get comfortable again. I turned to face the wall of the house, unlike before. I tried to help myself to a piece of gum, but my hands were too cold to fiddle about with the packaging. The shivers began again and I entered the frozen sort of half sleep once more. This time I thought of all the rough sleepers, homeless, and other tramps in all the relatively cold countries and looked at society with disgust. I tried to get my mind off it and the cold by thinking warm thoughts, of hugs and love, and childhood winters spent at my gran’s. I thought of laughing with friends and kisses from strangers and the nirvana found in listening the perfect piece of music or staring at something just long enough for it to be beautiful or long enough to recognise the beauty that was in front of you the whole time. I removed my hand from my cardigan and overcoat surrounded armpit and reach for my phone. I begin to type to my mum. “Very cold. ETA?” I hear a car pull up and see the light flash about. I don’t get up. The last few times I had gotten up and it was a major disappointment and physically draining. I hear the garage door open and it takes a few minutes to sink in. I rise to my feet, which I realise were nearly as cold as my hands. Sprint down the stairs, leaving the deck strewn with my picnic and other supplies. I vault over the ice and sprint like a madman into the garage before mum gets a chance to say a word or pull in. I feel the heat upon entering the garage and throw open the door. I bounded up the stairs to my room. I strip. First my overcoat flies off. Then I pull my cardigan over my head and unbutton my shirt for what seemed like ages, but was probably ten seconds. Next is the black undershirt. I pull off my trouser and pants in one swoop, after unbuckling my belt. I throw off my glasses, rip off my watch, and take my pewter necklace off and throw it to the ground clattering. I enter the shower that has been running since I made it up the stairs. It is now near boiling. I enter the stream and all I feel are my hands and feet burn as each nerve cell in them fires a jolt to reestablish feeling in the area. The rest of my body feels cold as my extremities burn with a napalm like intensity. I move my fingers and toes to regain dexterity. Then my muscles tensed, as the shock from one extreme to another. My arms and legs were sore. My digits felt arthritic I realise I forgot I had a nose and ears for some time. As the pain left, I began to think.

I returned to thinking of the poor, homeless, rough sleepers, and those who must go without heat to get by. These people go through tenfold what I did and they do it everyday for a good portion of their lives. I find that any government that so allows such destitution to go on is no government at all. I had food, I had more or less decent clothes. I was only out there three or so hours. There are people starving, ill equipped, and cold out there and nobody is coming up a hill, past a blue post box, up the drive, to open the garage for
them. They only have us and governments more focused on blowing up civilians in third world countries, monitoring their own law abiding citizens, and getting reelected.

Image Credit: http://www.longisland.com/news/01-09-14/purchase-forever-stamps-before-price-of-stamps-increase-on-jan-26.html

Gender Role Reversal

Gender Role Reversal

Really powerful, informative piece on what it’s like to be a woman in society and what it would like like if the roles were reversed.

The Case for a Minimum Rage

We live in a world of poverty, inequality, discrimination, ignorance, and general stupidity. The world is full of injustice, cruelty, persecution, sensitivity, push/pull doors, traffic, fast food, entire countries of people spelling words entirely incorrectly (not even ironically), holistic medicine, people who are too easily offended, people who are not offended enough, people who believe correlation implies causation, people who follow their preconceived notions regardless of contrary experience or logic, people who find humour in obscenity alone, people who get offended by obscenity *OBSCENITY WARNING* fuck, people who believe being offended by something gives them a right of some kind, and worst of all is people who believe that listing a series of partially serious/ridiculous grievances about people, behaviours, and annoying things on the internet in order to make a partially political/humourous point. All these things/people drive me mad. In fact, I am so terribly cross with the world sometimes that I believe certain people are not angry enough. There are many people walking throughout the world, looking through fringe covered eyes going through life with as little contempt and cynicism as is possible for a human being in the Twenty-First Century. While there are perfectly content people running around in dead end jobs, in perfectly decent relationships, with lovely, typical, unfulfilling lives, screaming out one another’s idiocies, and having a generally acceptable existence. These people worry too much to have to put up with the optimism and inherent perkiness of this elitist sect of personal philosophers. A minimum rage would not result in emotional socialism, but contribute to raising the angrily destitute (those destitute of anger) above the ferocity level. I mean, just imagine the alternative. A world with positivity, general respect for the views of others, rational discussion, widespread characteristic perkiness/enthusiasm, people working for the common good for improvement’s sake as opposed to the distaste of of current affairs. A world that is powered by elation, other than fear and propaganda-spouting hate. A world run in the pursuit of happiness, as opposed to property. Wait… that doesn’t sound completely horrible. The rationality behind my irrational anger seems a little less well founded… A life lived with the main goal of trying to be happy and helpful seems remarkably improved over one of existential chaos and Nihilism….. Well, I’m resolved then. Let your hair hang down, make a remarkably stupid face, allow your brow to relax a bit, feel that prolonged numb headache fade away, and laugh at the idiots who actually think their anger, or equally negative emotional state, is productive, necessary, or something that doesn’t necessitate a major attitude adjustment. Cheers then. I’m going to watch videos on the internet that inspire childlike wonder in me about the universe, human behaviour, and philosophy because I enjoy it and then maybe go out into the real world for a bit of amusement(emphasis on the maybe).

P.S. I also feel like not indenting paragraphs because this is my life and I can do what I want. I’m sorry my life doesn’t live up to your conventions. I’m only human, and also largely composed of bacteria and viruses. Thanks, Mr. Campbell. Oh I’m thanking people now. I knew I wanted to do something of that sort, so another thanks to my mate, Noah, for misspeaking and contributing to the general amusement of myself and several others.

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What's one weird memory you have of your childhood? One time, I was hiking and discovered a nudist camp, after wandering a bit from my parents. That was odd. It very well may have influenced the development of my attitude towards human sexuality. What do you think about that?

Were you amused or discomforted by that last question?

Generally amused. It wasn't great, but somewhat clever. I should say, I'm quite discomforted by that. They really do let anyone write a blog these days, don't they?

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Homo Novus: 21st Century Man

Now in the 21st Century, society is continuing to right the wrongs of Human history toward women and the LGBT community. To quote, Doctor Who spin-off and mainstream science fiction recognition of the gay community, Torchwood, “The twenty-first century is when everything changes. And you’ve got to be ready”. Everything is, in fact, changing. Steps are being taken in nearly every first world country and beyond toward equality for women and (I am completely ignorant of how to properly reference the entirety of the LGBT community so) the LGBT community. These steps are greatly delayed, but completely necessary to the progress of our world. This, of course, brings about a series of challenges especially to those on the front lines. I, as a middle class, white, heterosexual male, am not on the front lines. However, I am proud to be part of the metaphorical home front.  As much as I would love to be one, I can never be a feminist. The same way I can never be proper Black Panther because I am white or a white supremacist because my parents weren’t cousins.

I would now like to go into detail about what, I believe, is the position and purpose of this “home front”. I imagine, we are made predominately of heterosexual males who support, at the very least, passively, equality for women and the LGBT community. It is we, the homines novi, the new men that help contribute to the movement for equality. We don’t necessarily have to be “metrosexuals”, who take advantage of a more accepting society to properly groom and clothe ourselves. The existence of this term of differentiation between homosexuals and those who apparently resemble homosexual males goes to prove the biased society in which we live. We ally ourselves to the feminist cause due to our senses of rationality and morality. This does not mean that chivalry needs to die. Simply because people are equals does not mean one cannot sacrifice one’s own comfort for that of another. An issue with this only presents itself when arrogant individuals believe their good deeds require repayment. It is my personal belief that acting in an altruistic manner to all people, regardless of gender, orientation, colour, etcetera, is a basic courtesy and in no way a romantic advance (I mean, obviously doing a favour for somebody you fancy couldn’t possibly hurt). The new men are not a product of our generation and most likely go as far back as the gender struggle itself. It is recently, however that we are becoming a sizable community. We can hardly take credit for the success of the struggle, but we are necessary to safeguard against oppression. It is our job to recognise injustice, point it out, and, although we are not affected by it, protect others from the cruelty of the ignorant, and, although we are not directly affected, stop the persecution and change the world for the better. This is what it means to be a twenty-first century man, this is what it means to be a sane fucking human being, this is what it means to be Homo Novus.

The Bit about being Different

“I am different!”, screams the meaningless speck at the foot of a great abyss spanning all space and time.

“Oh, really?”, questions the cocky narrator in an attempt to sound clever. “I hadn’t noticed”

In all honesty though, what does it really mean to be different in a society becoming more and more obsessed with individualism? Being different seems to have entered the mainstream. Hardly a generation ago, it seems that to be different was to be a pariah of sorts. Now the word “mainstream” is synonymous with any drab or uniform pieces of culture. Now, being different requires a premium to be paid. It’s a look. It’s a style. Counter-Culture has become corporate culture. Now it’s all very easy to blame 80’s films and  Zoey Deschanel for the acceptance of lovable, quirky outcasts in society, but there has to be something more to it. Everyone is, of course, different in some way or another. Nobody has ever denied this, as much as communist despising McCarthyists would like to allege. I would love to blame Capitalism for ruining everything, but even that’s not quite it. Although it is quite apparent that Boho Chic is an expansive clique and that the antisocial nerd is part of a massive herd(please ignore the Ray Ban glasses wearing mod with button down pyjamas who is currently commentating on societal constructs from the remarkably comfortable ivory tower the Internet provides). Sure fashion designers and technology companies are to blame for exorbitant prices for an elite, indie style, but there is more. If it’s not Capitalism’s fault, it must be Society’s. Society itself is afraid. Petrified even. From Romantics of the 1800’s to New Romantics of the 1980’s to now,we are all afraid of being insignificant, of being a speck of nothing. Of being forgotten. So we apply the eyeliner, wear leather trousers, and shout obscenities at passersby, so to speak. The issue is of course lies where being different is more about having fringe(bangs, curse you Ms. Deschanel!!!!),massive glasses, bow ties, vests, general hipster apparel, etcetera than actually being substantially different. We can all drone on about the poetry inherent in our fingerprints and DNA, but that overlooks the significance. Being different is, to me, being able to think differently. To look at something and see something new, something that it’s creator didn’t even see. To be able to look at everyone and see how all the different people are acting the same that’s what being different is.Or to look at a collection of words or pictures and find meaning or truth. To stand up in a sea of grey, don a multicolour paisley shirt, and shout at the injustice. To challenge convention, to look at something differently, to rebel with a cause, to fight oppression because it’s right, not because it’s fashionable. To be different is to be truly beautiful. To be unique is to be daring. It, sure as hell, is not easy, but it’s worth it and it looks good on you. We should, therefore, accept the differences in others, while remaining true to the differences within ourselves. It is then that the blood-soaked martyrs of the past can truly be repaid for their sacrificial lives, which until then have been wasted; bringing about meaningless Capitalistic toil under the guise of specialty and individualism. It, is after all, a group of different, contrasting individuals that make up society and that is never to be forgotten.