I was in Kelowna, off doing something touristy with my parents and aunt. Instead of hanging out with them, I decided to stay in my hotel room to watch ANTM Cycle 5, and then the series finale of Will & Grace.

My cell phone rang, and I was hesitant to pick up because of roaming charges. The caller-id showed an unfamiliar number, and I answered out of curiosity.

It was the program director at that time informing me that I have been accepted.

I was ecstatic. I remember feeling accomplished. I remember feeling like I had a direction, and that I was finally going somewhere.

It was a good feeling to have for four years.

Now at the cusp of graduation, I feel – not a whole lot different than I did the day before I got that phone call – mostly of uncertainty and doubt.

Because for a long time, I knew my responsibilities. I knew my routines.

And that’s when four years feel like a whole life time.

Like every ending, you know it’s there but you never see it coming.

Thursday was the first day of my “mentorship,” in which I go to a graphic design studio and assume the responsibilities of a junior designer. My mentor wanted me to bring in my portfolio to discuss my work. It was intensely nerve-wracking, seeing as I only had 1 day to put my portfolio together. That, and my general insecurities.

Luckily they were incredibly nice and gave me some valuable advice for improvement. So far I’ve been doing research, managing files, sitting in on discussions, and putting together mood boards. And in between feelings of anxiety that I might not be doing things correctly, I really enjoy it there.

I even had a chance to talk to them about my major project over beers.

And tonight. I get to sleep.

It is even worse when you’re going with your father. It’s like taking little glimpses into my own future, and knowing that in 40 or 50 years or so (if I’m still alive by then), this is where I’ll be. With a good chunk of my life behind me, parts that make up my body start to slowly go awry.

And I start to panic. Because I know when it is my turn, this is the day my memory will reference to.

What will I do between now and the time I check in for my TURP procedure? What “achievements” can I pack in there before they ask me to change into that hospital gown? Who will translate for me when the nurse asks for my medical history?

But of course I still have hopes for that drug that scientists are working on as I write this – the one that will preserve my youth, and beauty, and health. But mostly my youth.

And beauty.

I took my dad to the hospital today for his cataract surgery. It’s a simple procedure that takes no more than 45 minutes. And half of that portion of time is for resting.

So about 30 minutes after my dad had gone into the “procedure room,” (where it was restricted access) some random torch bearer shows up at the waiting area. A bunch of over-excited nurses emerge from the procedure room to gather their nurse friends.

The torch guy goes into the procedure room. And with the nurses rushing in and out of the room to take pictures, the door was kept open.

At first I thought, is this not a little bit inappropriate? This is a hospital. These are doctors and nurses who are on duty.

But then I thought, people place unusually high importance on the Olympics for no reason. And from inside the room, phrases of the “once in a lifetime opportunity” variety were uttered frequently. I didn’t want my own lack of interest in the event to damper their once in a lifetime opportunity. Besides, I guess taking a moment to have their pictures taken doesn’t interfere too much with their job.

And then it was 10 minutes, people were taking turns pretending to be the torch bearer. Nurses were urging each other to kiss the torch bearer guy. Flashes were going off and the photoshoot was turning into a party.

My initial agitation was turning into almost an outrage.

So I decided to take pictures of their little party.

Notice my dad in the far right of the picture.

The mock shutter clicks of my camera phone caught one of the nurse’s attention. And she starts coming to me and says, “oh look, this guy wants a picture, come on in.”

I tell her, “no thanks, that’s not what I was trying to do.”

And I ask her if my dad is still in there. She says yeah and invites me in. Another nurse gives me post-surgery directions. She tells me my dad’s pupils are still dilated, so they might be sensitive to light.

I say, “so probably no picture taking then?”

She doesn’t say anything.

The previous nurse comes over and asks, “are you sure you don’t want a picture?”

I tell her, “yes I’m sure. I was just concerned about my dad.”

And we left.

Seriously, it’s the Olympics. It might be a once in a lifetime something, but it certainly does not warrant an opportunity. And if it does, it is a sad life.

If it wasn’t for a dung beetle group project in relation to Kafka’s Metamorphosis, Jen and I would’ve never connected.

In highschool, we were in adjacent social circles, which meant we might talk to each other in passing but we would not eat lunch together. We each had our own cluster of friends that we’ve decided to eat lunch with for the rest of our highschool careers the day we stepped foot into the establishment.

In a time when I was haphazardly upgrading my marks to get into UBC Forestry, or Nutrition, or whatever program with the lowest entrance mark, I looked up to her for getting into Emily Carr and doing things she enjoyed doing.

And then I realized, maybe I want to do things I enjoyed doing.

I remember going sketchbook shopping with her. She drew her interpretation of Faye Wong on the first page and wrote: “Peter’s first sketchbook.”

We had a nice long chat about our lives. We talked about our jobs, our lovers, our classmates getting married after having dated only each other.

She expressed feeling slightly envious, and an urgency to get married as well, which surprised me because I’ve always seen her as someone who is not afraid to do what other people are not doing.

I asked her if she would feel like she’s settling. And if she would feel like she’s missing out.

Her answer to me was perhaps the first one that made me feel like I was being arbitrarily cynical.

It was the way she responded, swiftly and assuredly, that made me realize it wasn’t the outdated and incredibly flawed institution that is marriage that I feel strongly against. It was the way some people indiscriminately enter it.

Her answer wasn’t: marrying someone doesn’t necessarily mean settling.

It was she didn’t mind settling.

Maybe it’s the perceived over-blown importance of the grad show – that it is our one and only chance to show the world what we’re about – that prevented us from committing to one concept.

Maybe having 19 art directors working on one project is unfeasible.

But in the end it feels like settling. A sort of acceptance of defeat. I think we all waited for that one concept to sweep us off our feet.

It never came along. And now we just have to make it happen.

And through all this group work, it was a little bit fascinating to see people’s personalities and egos at play. And of all these, one is especially transparent, and big.

Some people convince themselves that they are enormously important, and they are so convinced that other people (those who are a little bit gullible) start believing it. It’s amazing how far these people, who have no merit of their own, can go riding coattails of those who actually work hard and have some sort of originality.

End rant.

I never do things just because they are supposedly “good for you.” I never used moisturizer on my face because I thought the last thing you need on an oily face is more oil. And I had the same logic for hair conditioner.

I eventually saw the light and religiously moisturized and conditioned. But I had to see that light myself. And believe me, the first couple of times I picked up that conditioner bottle, I swear my cousin would barge in, turn off the lights and shut the door.

A few days ago, I had my annual dentist’s appointment. I dreaded it so much because they always use that metal hook thing to scrape at my teeth. And I can honestly say that that’s the most uncomfortable feeling I have ever experienced in my very sheltered life.

I never get cavities, but they always tell me I need to floss more frequently or my gum is going to hell. And I never listen because aside from the scraping, the feeling of a piece of string in between my gums kinda freak me out.

I had come to the conclusion that I’d rather suffer this pain once a year than to suffer mini uncomfortable sensations 365 times. This equation worked out for me for many years, until last Friday when I was in that all too familiar chair, grasping onto the armrest for my life.

I don’t know if it was the hygienist or if it was my lack of flossing finally catching up to me, but I decided that this was no longer worth it.

I’ve been flossing twice a day since.

One was the industry professional interview project, in which we have to conduct an interview with an industry professional of our choice. It was super intimidating to have to cold-call someone and then set up an interview with them. I ended up having to do two because I unknowingly interviewed someone who had already been interviewed by somebody else in class. Even though it was twice the anxiety, I found the experiences to be extremely valuable.

Questions/topics included: the designers’ work process and experience, advice to fresh grads, and important portfolio pieces, etc. As much as the answers were insightful, I enjoyed the interaction the most.

I interviewed Susan Mavor from Metaform and Kevin Louis from Kevin Louis Design. Both were very nice people and exceedingly helpful in their answers. But what I liked most about them was that they weren’t the stereotypical graphic designer.*

In the end we have to transcribe the interview and design a publication for it.

Another project that I’ve enjoyed doing, despite elusive comments from instructor, was my major project 1. Premise is completely open, provided there is a graphic design aspect to it and that it is substantial enough to go on for the whole semester.

I chose to do an organic fast food dine-in/take-out diner called Lulu’s.

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*Misguided souls who try so hard to be unconventional and/or original and in turn become the biggest cliche of themselves. Using a Mac and having every version of the I-pod, and trying to work Pantone colours into every conversation you have, doesn’t make you a graphic designer.

After an intense week of working in retail madness, Steven and I decided to go out Christmas Eve. First we hit up Numbers to claim those drink tickets that I won. Then we moved on to Odyssey. Two more drinks in, and I was shaking my ass on the dance floor like my life depended on it. It probably did.

Our 19 year-old selves would’ve been proud of us last night. As the alcoholic beverages worked their magic, everyone was my best friend and every song was my favorite.

As the lights came on at 3am and Britney had her last word, we were devastated and unwilling to let the night end.

We worked our way to Denny’s and after declining an offer to do cocaine by some guy high out of his mind, we stuffed our faces with some greasy goodness.

I got home at 6am, and managed to keep all of the contents in my stomach in place.

It was quite the achievement.

A few nights ago, I met up with a good friend from the past.

And I thought to myself, “oh, right.”

More often than not, people drift apart for good reasons. And I value my friendships because on top of my being picky about who to be friends with, people graduate, people move away, people get married. And it is unlikely that you’ll ever be better friends than when you first became friends. But still you hope.

That’s not to say I wasn’t glad to see him. I missed him. And it was interesting to see how much he’s changed, and how much he hasn’t changed.

Even disappointments can be nice when they are familiar.

I will admit, it was uncomfortable to hear him talk about how much he has “grown as a person.” But the thing I love about our relationship is that I call him out on being conceited, and he calls me out on being cynical (even though I’m not).

We drank, and sang, and danced on a deserted dance floor. It was great seeing him.