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getting the cut that suits you

Driving through Queen's campus on a Sunday afternoon and everything reeks with SUV's parading vanity plates emblazoned BUNNY1 and KITSCAR and PRFXN2, it's no-holds-barred parking and everyone chauffeuring like slow-motion heart attacks, all expensive heads lolling out the window and the rearview mirror completely obscured, and suddenly we realize that these are PARENTS picking up their KIDS from university––it's the end of the semester and here's mom with fourteen scarves to frame her blazing face, calling dad an idiot and telling him to circle the block while she stuffs Wilder's or Saxon's or Audrey's dirty stinking clothes into a brand new hamper from THE BAY. It's time to regroup. It's time to go back to Sunnybrook and lick our wounds and talk about failure and plans for the future and money not very well spent after all and things we might do differently. If only we can try. Don't worry, none of this will last. All falls will be cushione…

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