Rebuilding Foundations

An exploration of international development work in Africa

Archive for the month “June, 2013”



Well, this is it. At least for awhile. Perhaps I’ll volunteer in Ghana with Engineers Without Borders and resume this blog in a couple years. Until then, however, this site will be silent.

In summary, here are my favourite posts from my 10 months in Johannesburg. Interestingly, though, they don’t match up with the most popular ones on the right hand side of the page. You can take your pick.



My Job Here
MHA Clarification

Transportation Issues
The Importance of Transportation

Race and Ethnicity
Returning Racist
Vanishing Race
Definitions of African

Development Work
Revolutionary and Counter-Revolutionary Theory
State Power

Back to Blogging
Humble Pie


Until Next Time

I am writing this post with mixed feelings.  On the one hand, I’m super excited to move back home and see my friends and family again.  At the same time, however, I’m incredibly sad at the thought of leaving my friends (some who have become like family) in Jozi.

For the past two months, my coworker has asked me every couple days, “You’re coming back to SA, right?”

“Don’t worry.  I’m already plotting my return,” I’ve laughed.

I think almost every day in May she said, “I’m going to miss you.”

“Don’t start,” I’ve warned.  “You know I’m going to miss you too and I don’t want to start crying in the office.”

I’ve been extremely lucky with the amazing people I’ve met here as well as the wonderful opportunities I’ve had to travel and experience this country.

In all honesty, though, the more I travel the more I realize that all those marvelous experiences aren’t really that remarkable after all.  Please don’t get me wrong – I loved hiking the Drakensberg and swimming in Lake Malawi.  But it doesn’t matter how many indigenous forests I explore or pristine beaches I suntan on: it’s the people that are important.

Yeah this is cool…

Yeah this is cool…

...but this is what I'll remember.

…but this is what I’ll remember.

The more I travel, the more grateful I become for the people in my life.

Whether it’s my dad sending me Kyusho Jitsu video clips.

Or my mom’s daily email.

Or my sister’s scolding messages (“Be Be, you shouldn’t drink so much.”)

Or a phone call from a new acquaintance, “Want to hang out tonight?”

Or keeping in touch with friends who are becoming increasingly scattered all over the world.

These people mean way more to me than swimming with tiger sharks or any mountain view.

So thank you, World.  Thank you, Humanity.  Thanks for being awesome!

Thanks for being awesome everywhere.

The Warm Heart of Africa

Malawi’s advertising tagline is “The warm heart of Africa.” My friends who visited two months ago told me, “It’s true! Everyone is friendly for the sake of being friendly. It’s not like everywhere else in Africa where people are constantly asking you for money. If you’re going to go anywhere in southern Africa, go to Malawi.”

Although the country is beautiful and the people were indeed friendly, unfortunately I still found that people were constantly asking me for money or “donations.”

Despite the relentless requests, however, I would still recommend Malawi to anyone!

I arrived on a Sunday afternoon in Lilongwe, Malawi’s capital city. The hostel I had booked (Mabuya Camp) arranged for a taxi to pick me up at the airport: it was exciting to walk off the plane and see someone holding a sign that said “Bethany” – it made me feel kind of like someone important!

In my hostel room I met two women from New Zealand who were traveling around Africa together for 5 months. We chatted a bit and they said they were planning on going to Cape Maclear the next day. Excellent! That was my destination too! We agreed to travel together and, assuming they would handle the arrangements – they seemed very responsible – I went to bed. At 4pm. It had been a hectic weekend and I had barely slept for 2 days.

I slept straight through to 5:30am when the three of us got up to take a taxi to the bus station. We had been told to arrive by 6am and that the bus would leave around 7am. In very few African countries, however, do things like buses have a fixed schedule. I think South Africa might be the only one! The bus arrived around 6:30am and we climbed on. Then we waited. One girl took a nap for an hour, woke up, looked around, and was extremely disappointed that we were still in the parking lot.

You see, in Africa, the bus leaves when it’s full. We left at 9:50am.

Once upon a time, waiting for almost 4 hours might have bothered me. But I’ve finally accomplished a Zen attitude while traveling – although unfortunately it doesn’t carry over to the rest of my life. Those 4 hours didn’t affect me at all. I had a book to read. There were interesting people to watch. Maybe it was because I’d just slept for over 12 hours, but my brain went into standby mode.

Once the bus started moving, it wasn’t too long of a drive to Monkey Bay. We arrived around 4pm I think. Unprepared as usual, I hadn’t brought any food with me for the trip. Whenever the bus stopped, however, locals would rush to window and offer bottled drinks, deep fried dough balls, roasted peanuts, homemade samosas, fresh apples, fried fish on a stick, and other foods.

Thank goodness! The only meal I’d had on Saturday was lunch served on the plane.

On the bus we met another backpacker: a young woman from Canada. As soon as the four of us disembarked the bus in Monkey Bay, locals swarmed us to offer their services. We negotiated a taxi ride for the final half hour to Cape Maclear and set off.

Despite the bilharzia worms, Cape Maclear is absolutely stunning. The four of us booked a dorm room together at Fat Monkeys and enjoyed three gorgeous days at the lake.

The first morning, the two kiwis and I hired a local guide to hike up the mountain. It took us about 2 hours to get to the top, but we stopped and took lots of photos along the way. If you visit Cape Maclear, however, you don’t need to hire anyone: there’s only one path and it’s quite clear. At the top one of my new friend’s pointed to the closest island and said, “Bet you could swim there.”

“Let’s do it!” I exclaimed.

Our guide, Hastings, said that he’d swum to the island before. He said it was only 2.5km away.

“That’s what we’re doing tomorrow,” I declared.

The island we swam to

The island we swam to


Hastings also took us to Otter Point where two of us swam in the lake – very refreshing after hiking up a steep trail in the sun! Lastly he showed us the National Park education centre which once held tanks of different species of lakes, but is now falling apart and decrepit. The information on the walls, however, was still intact so we read a bit about the history of Lake Malawi and Cape Maclear.

For lunch we went to one of the local restaurants. I ordered a chocolate milkshake, one girl wanted a frozen banana smoothie, and another a regular banana smoothie: we were all given frozen banana smoothies. Although not what I had ordered, it was delicious nonetheless.

The next morning we met an American man who is currently living in Addis, Ethiopia. He was visiting Cape Maclear for a holiday. He decided to join us on our search for snorkels, masks, and flippers for swim to the island.

By the time we had walked to Kayak Africa, which rented snorkel gear, the whole town knew our plan. One local, Quinton, offered to rent us gear for 1000 kwacha/mask and 1000 kwacha/flippers. We also negotiated the use of a life jacket to tow behind us – just in case.

Quinton then went one better. He and his friend offered to canoe to the island and cook us lunch. For another 5000 kwacha, he agreed to cook two freshly caught fish meals and two vegetarian.

We swam to the island in no time at all. Once we arrived, the other three got out of the water and sunbathed while I continued snorkeling around the rocks. The fish were beautiful! Blue and orange and white. I’ve never liked fish that much, never seen the point of having an aquarium, but they were like jewels among the rocks.

Eventually I got out of the water too and sat on the rocks with my friends. Quinton and his friend already had a fire going in the rocks. They made a huge pot of rice and fresh tomato sauce in pots of the fire. They smoked a batch of freshly caught fish on the coals. It took over an hour, but it was worth the wait!

My vegetarian meal got a huge handful of sliced cabbage on the side instead of fish. I know that doesn’t sound as exciting, but with the tomato sauce it was delicious. We all ate more rice than we had imagined we would and lazed around on the rocks for another hour or so. Quinton took us out in his canoe and his friend showed us how they caught fish with leftover rice.

Once we no longer felt painfully full, we jumped in the lake and swam back to the mainland. Quinton and his friend followed us in their canoe. Maybe they thought we’d eaten too much and were afraid we’d drown!

They offered to cook us fresh banana pancakes on the beach for dinner, but we were much to full for a big dinner as well. Instead we meandered back to Fat Monkeys, ordered drinks, and watched the sunset while chatting with other travelers.

After Cape Maclear, we decided to go to Senga Bay next. The other 3 backpackers were traveling north to Nkhata Bay and Senga Bay was on the way.

We awoke at 4am to the taxi we’d booked the previous night at 4:30am. It didn’t show up so we had to call someone else. We finally got a taxi at 5:30am and made it to Monkey Bay around 6am. Our bus was already there, about to leave. I think the taxi driver might have phoned ahead and told the driver we were coming.

It was surprising to get on the bus and have it leave right away! We arrived in Salima by 10am and took a minibus to Senga Bay.

I had thought Cape Maclear was isolated, but I was wrong. Senga Bay was really, really isolated. We were the only four white people in town and there were only four restaurants: two at hostels and two tiny local ones. Even though I had visited Zambia and Mozambique, I had only gone to the tourist-y towns. This felt like “real Africa” – whatever that means. I finally understand why people say South Africa isn’t really “Africa.” ZA is very westernized compared to these dirt roads and laughing children dressed in rags.

We wandered around the village, followed by a troupe of kids, and I bought supplies to make dinner: a green leafy vegetable with a similar taste to gai lon, tomatoes, eggplant, onion, eggs, a small packet of oil, and coals for the oven pit. I don’t like to barter, especially when everything is already super cheap, but I bartered for the green leafy vegetable. I asked the man, “How much?” and he said, “650 kwacha each.”

“In the last village they were only 100 kwacha for a pack of leaves.” I had bought a pack of 3 leaves but never had the opportunity to cook them.

“Ok 100,” he agreed. Then he gave me a huge bunch!

I’m not sure how well the locals understood English or numbers. The Canadian girl tried to buy bananas and the man asked for 200 kwacha for 3. “In Cape Maclear they were only 2o kwacha each,” the woman said. “100 for 3?”

But the man was adamant for 200 kwacha. Then his friend came over and demanded 250 for 3. “You’re going up! That’s the wrong way!” I laughed.

The Canadian became frustrated with them and said, “Forget it.”

That evening the two kiwis went to the other hostel for dinner while I cooked my food and the Canadian ate some things she’d bought at the market. She was impressed watching me cook over the coals! I’d never used coal before, but it couldn’t be that hard – right? I collected a bunch of dry grass and sticks started a fire over the coals. Then I let them burn while I chopped my veggies. Luckily we had a plug-in kettle which I used to boil water to cook the leaves and eggplant in a big pot – it would’ve taken forever to boil anything over those coals. I fried the tomatoes and onion in a frying pan, added the eggs, then drained the leaves and eggplant and added those two. I “borrowed” ketchup and peri peri sauce from the hostel’s restaurant and ate dinner with leftovers for the next day too.

After one night the kiwis and Canadian departed to continue on their journey north. I decided to stay in Senga Bay another night before going back to Lilongwe for a day and then my flight back to South Africa.

On my own again, I rented a kayak from my hostel and kayaked to island about 3km away. I pulled the kayak up on the rocks and swam around the tiny island. It probably had a circumference of about 800m. Then I climbed back in my kayak and rowed to my hostel.

That evening, two young German girls and a group of American missionaries arrived at my hostel. I chatted with the Americans a bit then decided to go to the other hostel for dinner. It also had a guest: an entrepreneur from England who was attending a telecommunications conference in Malawi the following weekend. We talked over dinner and learned how to play Kharbage, a game kinda of like checkers, from the bartender. (I won.) He wanted to go out to the local bar afterwards, but we were facing east on the lake and I wanted to get up early and watch sunrise again. After all, I can party whenever I want but when do I have time (and such a gorgeous view) to watch dawn?

I said good night and watched 400m along the beach back to my hostel. The stars were out and it was a perfect night to be alone with the sky.

As soon as it began to light in the morning, I rolled out of bed and ran down to the water to watch the sun rise.

After a perfect morning, I gathered my stuff and walked to the street to find a minibus taxi to take me back to Salima. I jumped in a minibus right away, but then it drove up and down the street for 20 minutes, trying to find more passengers. Once we were finally on our way, it sputtered out and stopped on the side of the road. “Out of gas,” muttered the driver.

The other passengers and I all got out and stood on the roadside until a truck both by. Even though its back was already full of people, the 6 of us climbed in too. One man was kind enough to give up the truck’s side and he stood the whole way with nothing to hold onto. We crammed 21 people in the back of that truck along with bags and boxes.

Luckily we were only 10 minutes away from the bus station. Once we arrived, I was told the bus to Lilongwe had already left but there was a minibus taxi I could take for 1200 kwacha. I’m not sure if the bus story was true or not, but at least this minibus didn’t run out of gas on the way.

As we waited for enough passengers to leave – which funny enough eventually included the two girls from my hostel – I bought a bag of local berries from a woman carrying a large bucket of them on her head. The man collecting fares for my minibus wanted to buy them for me, but I declined.

He sat beside me on the minibus and chatted to the other passengers in Chichewa, Malawi’s local language. As we neared Lilongwe, he started to ask me about myself. When I told him I was from Canada he asked me to take him with me. I laughed awkwardly and looked away.

Then he asked something I didn’t understand through his accent.

“Pardon?” I said.

He repeated himself. I caught the word “beautiful” and assumed he was complimenting me.

“Sorry, could you please repeat it once more?” I asked.

“Am I beautiful?” he smiled.

“You?” I was surprised.

“Yes. Am I handsome?”

I laughed again – I couldn’t help it! What sort of pick-up line is that? – and looked away again.

When we arrived in Lilongwe and I got off the minibus, a man came up to offer a taxi. “No, she’s with me,” the fare man said.

I waited for the German girls to get off then asked, “Where are you going now?”

“Mama Mia’s. It’s a restaurant.”

“Can I join you? Can we share a cab?” I was starving too.

They agreed and we shared a cab to Mama Mia’s where they were meeting friends. I sat on my own and ordered an appetizer of grilled halmoui cheese, eggplant, zucchini, and sundried tomatoes on polenta. After not eating cheese for a few days, it was delicious.

I then walked around, bought some homemade ice cream from another Italian restaurant, and stood in line for awhile an ATM. Once I had money again, I decided to walk to my hostel even though it was half an hour away. As I walked along the road, men kept stopping and offering rides for only 1000 kwacha, but I declined. After sitting in a bus all morning, it was nice to walk.

Back at my hostel I put away my stuff, ordered a drink, and chatted with the other locals. I am constantly amazed by backpackers’ stories. They’re so cool! Part of me would love to drop everything and backpack for 5 months or so. I don’t think I could do it for a whole year: it’s exhausting to constantly be on the move. Maybe even 5 months would be too much. I love hostels, but I also love having my own shower.

Interestingly, the majority of the travelers I met were women. Moreover, they told me that most of the other backpackers they had met were also women. Most of them were volunteering for at least a month during their journeys. Maybe that’s why Africa attracts women more than men. Not that I’m making any gender-based generalizations!

The next day I flew back to South Africa. Even though I knew I was only going to Jozi for a week before heading to Canada, it felt like I was going home.

I enjoyed Malawi, but – oh my word – I’ve fallen in love with South Africa. It’s going to be tough to leave here.

Kate’s Africa

I just found out my American friend Kate also has an awesome blog about Africa!  Check it out!  Especially since my blogging days are numbered…

Celebration Service

Noma, the receptionist for Madulammoho’s Client Services department, who gave me her famous chakalaka recipe, passed away unexpectedly last Sunday.

We all knew she was sick: she had been in and out of the hospital for months.  When I asked my coworkers if the doctors ever determined what was wrong, all I got was a vague, “I think she needed a kidney transplant.  Or maybe a new liver.”

I didn’t know Noma very well since I rarely go into Client Services, but I learned a bit more from her memorial service yesterday.  She started at MHA as a cleaner and was determined to improve her position.  She worked so hard that she would often finish her cleaning duties by 10am.  Afterwards she would go around the office asking, “What else can I do?  Can I do filing?  Or paperwork?”

She was quickly promoted to receptionist.

What an amazing woman.

Yesterday’s service wasn’t like any other that I’ve attended.  It began familiar enough.  We all sat in a church and one of our House Managers acted as MC.  Before any procedures started, however, he asked for two songs.

There was a short pause before someone in the audience started singing.  After she sang a verse, the rest of the crowd joined in.  Except for me and the two Afrikaner directors who attended.

For the rest of the service, there were no pauses.  After each person spoke, someone from the audience would burst into song and the rest of the audience soon followed.  The MC at the front had a fantastic voice and clapped and danced to the music.  Sometimes the rest of the audience would stand up and clap too.

I wish I knew what the songs were about.  They were beautiful.  I hope they were celebrations of wondrous life and a peaceful death.

Go well, Noma.

Lake Malawi

It was worth getting bilharzia.

The fishing village of Cape Maclear

The fishing village of Cape Maclear

Sunset at Cape Maclear

Sunset at Cape Maclear

Fishing boats in Salima

Fishing boats at Senga Bay


Locals at the lake

Locals at the lake


Not Malaria

Oh my word, yesterday I was sicker than I’ve been for years.

I knew something was wrong as soon as I got out of bed.  I stood up and immediately felt dizzy.  My head hurt and my eyes ached.  My stomach felt nauseous.  I staggered to the bathroom and had to hold onto the walls to steady myself.  As I stared at my spinning reflection the mirror, I tried to convince myself that I could make it to work.  It was my last Monday, after all.  All I would have to do is sit at my desk and write my final report.  It’s not like I have to walk around or perform any labour-intensive tasks.

As I washed my face, however, I knew I wasn’t going to make it.  I didn’t even have the energy to brush my teeth.  Instead I lurched back to my bedroom, hunched over like Quasimodo, and collapsed into bed.  I sent a text to my coworker that I was too sick to make it to the office and fell back asleep.

I slept straight to noon with weird, feverish dreams.  I dreamt that I was trying to scoop ice cream from its tub into a bowl, but I’d lost my eyesight and couldn’t do it.  I was surrounded by family and friends who didn’t believe I was ill and were laughing at my efforts.  If you know how much I love ice cream, you’ll understand that this was truly a nightmare indeed!  It was extra horrible yesterday because my body felt like it was burning up from the inside out.

At noon I tried to eat some oatmeal and barely got through half a bowl.  As I lay back in bed, still burning up and nauseous, I tried to reason out my game plan.  My biggest fear was that I’d caught malaria in Malawi.  At least I knew it wasn’t the bad/potentially fatal strain since that one usually sends its victims straight to unconsciousness.  Also they get muscle spasms that wrack their entire body.  I was still conscious and my body didn’t’ have the energy to turn over, let alone convulse!

Whether or not it was malaria, however, I knew I couldn’t miss another day of work and get everything finished that I needed to.  I decided that if I didn’t feel better the next day, I’d send an email to Rooftops Canada and ask them to push my flights back a week.

I spent the entire day sleeping, waking up periodically to drink water or rush to the bathroom.  I tried to be thankful that at least I was home and not going through this in a hostel.  My second night in Malawi I’d gotten food poisoning and spent a considerable amount of time in the bathroom, puking up stomach acid.  As a result, I’d gotten tons of mosquito bites on the soles of my feet – one of the reasons I was so worried about malaria.

I don’t have the internet at home so I sent a text to one of my friends and asked him to look up how long it takes malaria to show itself.  Usually 8-14 days.  That was good, right?  I was going to ask him the symptoms too, but decided not to.  I should’ve, though.  I wouldn’t have been as worried.

According to Wikipedia, malarial symptoms may include

  • headache
  • fever
  • shivering
  • joint pain
  • vomiting
  • hemolytic anemia
  • jaundice
  • homeglobin in the urin
  • retinal damage
  • convulsions

That’s not what I had.  I had a headache and fever, but those go along with most flu.  I was nauseous, but not vomiting.  Instead I had diarrhea.

(Is this too much detail?)

As I lay in bed, I tried to figure out how I could’ve caught something so bad.  The plane food?  Those weird berries I’d bought from a woman on the side of the road?  The stranger I’d kissed two nights ago?

One of the travelers I’d met in Malawi was super careful about everything she did.  She refused to eat anything that wasn’t cooked.  She brushed her teeth using bottled water.  She wouldn’t even go near Lake Malawi, which is crawling with bilharzia, a parasitic worm that buries into your skin and breeds in your body.  They spread through snail poo and you can see the snails in the water, as if waiting to infect you.  If you crawl on the rocks, you can actually watch the little worms wiggle into body.

It’s super gross.

But the lake was so beautiful and inviting: how could I not jump in?

My hostel sold the antidote for bilharzia.  It’s a super strong antibiotic that you take 6 weeks after your last swim in the lake.  Unfortunately it doesn’t kill the babies, so you have to wait for all the little worms to grow up before taking the pill.

Honestly, though, I think I enjoyed my visit to Lake Malawi more than the other girl.  I may have to deal with some wickedly terrible consequences, but I’ll survive.  Hopefully.

And, despite how awfuI felt yesterday, I still think all my risk-taking was worth it.  I had an amazing time swimming, kayaking, and snorkeling with tropical fish

At around 2am this morning my fever finally broke and I woke up again at 6am feeling much better.  Furthermore, my digs mate texted me that she’d caught my bug.  Although I felt sorry for her because I know how horrible this sickness is, part of me rejoiced since it was contagious and definitely not malaria.

I’m sharing this story for two reasons.  Mostly, I want sympathy for my suffering.  At the same time, though, I want to warn travelers that sometimes it is better to err on the side of caution.  You know yourself.  If being sick doesn’t bother you too much, don’t hold back.  If extreme pain and discomfort would ruin your trip, however, maybe it’s better to avoid the riskier foods and activities.  You can still travel Africa: I met a girl who also ate an apple from a man at the side of the road, yet she’d gone for 5 months without getting as severely sick or as often as I did in a week!

Village Story

A friend and I constantly complain about Vancouver “No Fun City.”  The weather is gray, the people aren’t friendly, the man-to-woman ratio is highly skewed out of our favour, etc etc etc.  People go to the bar to play board games for goodness sakes!  I love board games, but that’s something you do at home with your friends.  At a bar, it’s so ostentatious it blows my mind.

(On a second date I once played Jenga in Gastown.  Absolutely terrible.)

This friend recently sent me an email asking if I was excited to return to Vancouver.  “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” she wrote.  Then she told me a story:

A man leaves his town for a new town.  When he arrives, he asks the leader of the new village, “How are the people in your village?”

The leader asks the man his own question, “How were the people in your old village?”

The man replies, “They were unkind, unfriendly, selfish, impolite, and unhelpful.”

The leader then says, “Those are exactly the kind of people we have in this village!”

Shortly after, another man moves to the village and asks the leader the same question.

Again, the leader reverses the question, “How were the people in your old village?

The newcomer replies, “They were loving, caring, kind, and helpful.”

The leader says, “Those are exactly the kind of people we have in this village!”

All right, all right – I get the point!

Since I’m voluntarily returning to Vancouver/UBC for at least 2 years (although I’m desperately hoping I can do at least one term of school abroad), I should stop complaining.

And Vancouver isn’t that bad.  It has its charms.  Moreover, even though the city’s culture isn’t particularly approachable, I know there are still tons of amazing people back home.

My response to my friend (written a couple days after being hijacked plus witnessing domestic violence):

How could I ever be disappointed with Van when I’m coming back to so many awesome people!  Furthermore, I’m getting a bit tired of worrying about hijackings, hitting pedestrians with my car as they walk within 2” of my moving vehicle, and whether or not that men yelling obscenities at me is carrying a weapon.  After this last week, I could use some of the tranquility (which I used to call “boredom”) of Vancouver!

Counting down the days until home!


Doctor, you’ve been a beacon of light to me.  You’re living proof that ideology is a poor substitute for kindness and decency – and that at the end of the day it’s our actions and not our beliefs that define who we are, what we are.

– Sloan to Dr. Bashir in Star Trek Deep Space Nine, S07E23 “Extreme Measures”

First, if nothing else in my blog has shown me to be a total nerd, the above quote must.

Second, how true is that?

The difference

On the one hand, I am a total story slut.  I love listening to other people talk, especially about the things they’ve done or what they believe.  Sometimes people tell me to talk more (“You have interesting things to add”), but I’m not silent because I’m timid – instead, I’d rather learn as much as I can.  Maybe that makes me selfish because I don’t give back in discussions, but… well basically I don’t care.  And most people would rather have an attentive audience than conversation partner anyways.

At the same time however, it drives me insane to listen to people talk about what they want to do.  “Don’t tell me about it your plans for the future – go do it!  I don’t care!”  For example, I’ve heard the same person tell me she’s moving to Vegas then New York then Arizona then Seattle, but in the end she’s lived in Vancouver the whole 3 years I’ve known her.  Now whenever she brings up plans for the future, I respond with a vague, “Ok sure” meaning “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Yeah, it’s cool to brainstorm and get excited about the future.  But it gets lame quickly if you don’t follow through on any of those plans.

We all have a million excuses that hold us in our comfort zones.  I, too, have those Saturdays where I plan to drive two hours to a nature reserve to hike, but end up staying in bed and watching Star Trek instead.  And that’s lame.  I fully admit that sometimes I am devastatingly boring.

Right after I wrote that sentence, my roommate came home and gave me some copies of a magazine she started called Debate Journal.

“These are amazing!” I exclaimed as I flipped through them.

“That’s what happens you do stuff instead of just talk,” she replied.

Yep.  That pretty much sums it up.

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