Between getting the overwhelming sensation to never leave my house again, and gaining insight into Bosnian war crimes trials, the CBC brought to my attention something wonderful: Stuff White People Like.

This is probably the funniest find I have made as of late. I am dismayed and somewhat delighted to announce that a good 90% of what is on that list factor into my personal enjoyment with ease -- Especially: Having Gay Friends; Grammar; Arts Degrees; Farmers Markets; and Arrested Development.

So while I will never be able to go on a bus again without the sincere fear that I will be hacked to bits by a copy cat passer by, I can at least bask in my computer's glow and truly chuckle about how it is so white of me to be shitting my pants and hoping my mom knows that I love her anytime I want to travel.

Generica!

So, yesterday was the first time in about five years that I have gone to the beach and been seen in public in a bathing suit. Before I launch into the rest, I'm really avoiding the urge to get all women's magazine on this shit. This is not a feel good editorial about how you should love your body, and it will not be followed with a recipe for tasty -- but low fat -- lemon-cran muffins. While that does sound mouth watering, I cannot tolerate it: there is nothing that irritates me more an a woman's generic story about how one day she had an epiphany about body image, self esteem and learned to adore what she has. While, hey, maybe this does happen to some people, the baby making you abandon your body hatred, a man reassuring you that you are splendid looking, I resist the belief that any sort of self appreciation, the kind that makes you re-evaluate your life at least, should be based upon a happiness that you draw from someone else.

All while at the beach, I got to thinking about how it is probably odd that I don't have low self esteem, or hate myself in any real way. Sure, I had a long, drawn out stretch during my first year of university where I did not enjoy who I was in any stretch of the imagination. But, growing from that period, and re-evaluating what it was that I was experiencing has really lead me to believe that I am genuinely good enough. That probably makes me sound like an asshole, but I've come to terms with the fact that for some ridiculous reason, outwardly thinking that you are enough; that who you are is what you actually need, makes you seem as if you lack any credit and are a straight up liar. I can't really find a happy medium with this thought that lands between "Generic Women's Personal Power Piece," and "Arrogant Douche Bag" safely.

But, despite that, while I was wading the in water, by myself, I couldn't help but recognize that what I was doing was a pretty big thing -- for a lot of people. I, in fact, manage to really love my body, (despite the lack of approval from others, which is why I never attend the sandy shores of P.E. to begin with, but that is an entirely different posting.) and how it came from the ongoing disapproval from other people that made me appreciate what I look like. Sure, all day everyday isn't a "SUPER-HAPPY-LOVE-ME-FEST," but most of the time, I think i'm a'ight.

This may be some of the rambling, circular things I was talking about in my previous post. But maybe it's not. Maybe it's a little important. Or, it mimics masturbation and I'm really just pleasing my ever growing ego. Whichever, at least I feel good about myself,and have some sort of satisfaction at the end.