Cartoons are the only good left in the world
By: Darien Johnsen
My cortisol levels have been at a peak for the past month due to fighting with other allies in social movements, hyper-criticism from people in my life masquerading as comrades, and deadlines on overdue deadlines that are piling up like the reeking dishes by my sink. Not to mention that pesky little virus that honestly couldn’t take my life fast enough. It’s safe to say my disdain for humanity has grown to a point where I hate everyone. So what have I been doing to cope? Watching television. Not just any television — I’ve been so annoyed at humans that I can’t bear to even watch live-action productions. So, cartoons it is. Sailor Moon is my go-to in tough times. The pretty colours and spacey themes are an absolute delight when I’m stuck in bed seething with resentment at the real pandemic overtaking the earth: people. Those close to me know that when they hear that iconic theme song blaring from my bedroom, I’ll be in there clutching a glass of red wine, desperately trying to forget that I’m one of those atrocious breathing creatures that roams the earth in search of sustenance while destroying trees with my poisonous carbon breath.
Handling modern-day disorganization
By: Carissa Wiens
One thing in my house that causes me anxiety is the freezer. It’s not a massive deep freezer like our parents have in their garage, but just a little freezer that takes up the top portion of the fridge. I can’t store a massive amount of food in there, but it’s good enough for me and my partner.
The thing that stresses me out about the freezer is the sheer disorganization of it all. There are packages of meat from God knows when from a cow my parents-in-law slaughtered, several bags with just one bun or one bagel in them, plus a big container of orange slices I once thought would make a good substitute for ice cubes in sangria.
I’m sure I’m not alone with feeling this freezer disorganization anxiety. But guess what I did yesterday? I took matters into my own hands and organized it. I tossed out the things I will never eat (dry mini banana muffins) and stacked up the essentials (perogies and tofu) into neat piles so I can make room for more.
Tomorrow’s task: organizing my closet.
The last umbrella
By Aleister Gwynne
A personal quirk of mine is my insistence on carrying an umbrella, despite it being cumbersome when not in use, instead of wearing a hooded jacket. At least, that was the case until recently. My current umbrella has a chipped handle, and the spars are rusting and falling apart, making it increasingly difficult to open and close. From now on, I will only take it with me if it is already raining heavily when I leave the house. I have no plans to buy a replacement because most umbrellas are so shoddily-made that they start breaking down after only a few months. It is a waste of money and ultimately produces more garbage that clutters up the planet. The noble umbrella has become yet another victim of our hyper-capitalistic throw-away culture, and it breaks my heart. If I ever do get a new umbrella, it will be top-tier and built to last, not the kind that gets big, ugly chips in the handle if I drop it on the floor.
If it lives in the water, it must be a fish
By: Andrea Sadowski
While living in Brazil, I often visited the small community of Santa Ana. The residents there enjoy eating fish and shrimp caught straight from the river. Being a pescetarian at the time, I appreciated this abundant access to seafood in a country whose meals revolve around meat. I had lunch every Sunday after mass with my neighbours, with my plate usually filled with shrimp, pasta, rice, and beans.
One Sunday, my neighbour, Patricia, had prepared a special “fish” quiche that she was excited to share with me, knowing how much I love seafood. I had never seen fish with such dark meat before, or tasted any seafood with such a gamey flavour. Only after forcing myself to make it through the whole piece of quiche which was so graciously given to me, I asked what kind of fish was in it.
“Capybara,” replied Patricia.
“But Capybaras aren’t fish!” I exclaimed, immediately feeling sick after eating a creature that was so similar to the guinea pigs I kept as pets.
“They live in the water most of the time, so they are fish!” she insisted.
I couldn’t argue with that solid logic.
Illustration: Kelly Ning/The Cascade
Darien Johnsen is a UFV alumni who obtained her Bachelor of Arts degree with double extended minors in Global Development Studies and Sociology in 2020. She started writing for The Cascade in 2018, taking on the role of features editor shortly after.
She’s passionate about justice, sustainable development, and education.
Andrea Sadowski is working towards her BA in Global Development Studies, with a minor in anthropology and Mennonite studies. When she's not sitting in front of her computer, Andrea enjoys climbing mountains, sleeping outside, cooking delicious plant-based food, talking to animals, and dismantling the patriarchy.
