By: Harvin Bhathal, Peak Associate
I was conceived one dark, rainy night in the dimly lit dorm room of a graduate student who can now be referred to as Dr. Sharon Weed. Over the next year, Dr. Weed would go through the ups and downs of what can only be described as writing a book.
Then, one fateful day, my first page was printed and I was born. By my 420th page, it was time to explore the world.
I left my childhood home and arrived at Simon Fraser University. I remember immediately thinking, “That sure is a lot of grey.”
It took a couple weeks but eventually I was chosen — my first love. Kai was a communication major with a mind molded by the brightest of scholars (and also Marshall McLuhan). Out of the hundreds of textbooks in the SFU bookstore, she chose me. She opened me up and took in a breath of air. No one had ever done that before.
From what I could tell, she liked how I smelled. I liked how she smelled too.
We bonded quickly. Kai loved to read and I loved to be read, from end to end. She saw me. She could read who I really was.
Even though I had to share her with other textbooks, or sometimes be stuffed into the dark abyss known as her backpack when she had to go to her other classes, it was all okay because I was Kai’s.
She cried sometimes when she was overwhelmed with coursework, but I was always there to support her with my knowledge. Honestly though, it was mostly her. She took my knowledge and transformed it into such immaculate presentations, including one on how the government is listening in on everything people say and, as such, it’s better to simply hand all of one’s personal data over willingly. Now that’s what a real education looks like.
But soon, our time abruptly came to an end. Kai needed the money to buy more textbooks and she sold me— a decision I eventually understood. Turns out, we’re really expensive, which seems kind of exploitative of universities and authors. I wouldn’t be here without Dr. Weed but the truth is the truth.
I went for a relatively high price because Kai took care of me, which led me to believe I would be going to another good partner because I had no other experience that indicated otherwise. I soon learned that I would be very mistaken.
Brad.
The mere thought of his name gives me shivers. A business major who thought his communication minor was “a waste of time,” he was nothing like Kai. Brad was the real waste of time.
Our relationship immediately started off on the wrong foot.
Trying to shove me into his overpriced laptop bag, he bent my cover and several of my pages. He proceeded to try and fold my sheets of paper back. I was irreversibly damaged; I never recovered.
Brad’s next crime was spilling his Venti triple-espresso caramel macchiato from Starbucks while trying to open me up after arriving late to lecture because he “needed” that $14 monstrosity.
Worst of all, he smelled like an Abercrombie & Fitch store and never took the time to take my air in. Not that I was as crisp as I once was — I can blame Brad for that.
The semester eventually concluded and he passed the course with a C+, proudly bellowing from his chest, “Cs get degrees!” Yeah, okay, Brad. Cs may get degrees but job opportunities will avoid you as if you were a disease.
With the semester over, I thought, “It can’t get worse, right?”
Dr. Weed published a second edition of me and I have been rotting in a box in Brad’s garage for the last four years.
