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Home arrow Blogs arrow Jamina Lin

My mother is one of the most ethical people I know. She will not download music, she will not accept mix CDs from other people because of copyright infringement, and (most irritating of all) she will not drive one mile past the speed limit. This has led to us being honked at several times on every trip down the highway. My mother is cheerfully unaware of the dirty looks she receives from every motorist that passes her by.

Growing up, our different views on what “legal” meant led to many heated discussions. For her, a rule is a rule is a rule is a rule. For me—well, I didn’t break the rules exactly; I just didn’t have a problem with bending them slightly.
April 27, 2007

After a particularly disastrous freshman year at my public high school, my parents and I chose to transfer me to a decidedly more quiet school. This school, which we will call Unidentified Religious Cult-like School (URCS, for short) had been recommended to us by several friends I knew who went there. I’m sure the school had some redeeming qualities—in fact, while I went there, I quite liked it. For the most part.
April 04, 2007

Her name was Kate Vicious. The name fit her; she was brutal. Brutal in a good way—her messy punk hair with all the colors leaking out of it, her skin stained from too much eyeliner. She was hardcore in a way that all our suburban kids wished they were hardcore. She was the first girl I met who was more than just an aesthetic. I was young then and easily impressionable. I thought I was dirty because I cut my own hair and I wore jeans from a thrift store. Kate Vicious was different than me. She was grimy, and she was real.
March 16th, 2007

"Wait a minute," they say, their eyes wide open. "You don't go to school?"

They are aghast, as I knew they would be. The reaction is always the same.

"I go to school," I reply. "Kind of."

With my friends I laugh that I am a high school drop out, which is both true and untrue. I am still being educated, albeit not in the traditional sense. I am unschooled.
March 2, 2007

During my time in the inpatient program of the mental hospital (ahem, the behavioral health hospital) I met a boy who, for privacy purposes, we'll call Chad.

It was nearing my last day in the inpatient program when one of the counselors told us we were getting a new kid. We all were curious and I saw him eating dinner at one of the tables. He looked like he was approximately nine years old, but he was adorable in a youngish way. He reminded me of a mouse.
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