The Tribune

My mother always told me that “hate” was a very strong word. And I agree. Today, I no longer hate liver, I just intensely dislike it. I no longer hate my life; I only wish it were different. Completely different. Heck, I no longer hate Graham Jacobs, though I wish I could smash his conceited little face into a billion pieces and then send the smithereens to that new skank he’s dating.

It can happen anywhere, at any time. It is social torture. It is the Awkward Conversation-insignificant, trite repartee that neither party engaging in it cares about. Drawing from personal experience, the Panthea Institute of Over-analysis will now review three main sources from which it stems.

Did you see what she is wearing? Omigod, I can’t believe he just said that! Admit it, we all pass judgments on others for the silliest of things-their outfits, their musical preferences, whatever. It’s human nature. There is a bit of snob in each of us. In my case, however, it is more than just a bit.

Apparently, you have already met the person you will marry by age 21. I call bullshit. I just hit the magical number and I’ll be damned if that saying rings true because, frankly, my options are looking bleak. I have yet to meet the Prince Charming who will whisk me off to a life of white picket fences.

Moving away from home for the first time triggered something inside my mind. As a Freshman, a sense of loss washed over me, and this sorrow manifested itself into a bizarre syndrome, an inexplicable dependency, a mind-boggling complex. A small fish in an increasingly bigger pond, I yearn for communication with those I left behind.

Jared had Subway. Fergie had Jenny Craig. I, Panthea Lee, have the Facebook. Just as those above institutions changed the lives of J-Money and F-Train, the Facebook has transformed the life of yours truly. (Note: for those poor, deprived souls that know not of what I speak, go to Thefacebook.

If I regret any of my columns from this year, it would be February’s “Middle-class guilt.” My regret isn’t so much over the views I tried to express, but over the fact that I haven’t yet negotiated a comfortable balance between the nuanced views I try to maintain and my emotional writing style, which tends to be excessive and – as my mother complains – angry.

I arrived in Montreal in Fall 2008 eager to begin my graduate career at McGill as a master’s student in political science. I knew McGill had a reputation for academic excellence and talented, open-minded, and intellectually stimulating students and faculty members.