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I once had a friend named Samantha. I had considered her to be my best friend for quite a while. I even had somewhat of a crush on her. A few of my friends may say an obsession, but it wasn't. No matter what the situation was, I was always honest even through a wall of lies. That's the relationship I had with the most unlikeliest foe I ever had.
Everyday, Samantha and I would meet each other half way between our houses and walk together. Even if there was nothing to do, I remember her company would be the most interesting experience in my life. I remember an occasion when we were waiting for her parents to get home. We talked for a while and then there was an awkward silence that lasted for about five minutes or so, and then Samantha said the exact same thing I was thinking the second before. At the time, it was just like a deja vu, but then it was happening quite a few more times and I guess it helped me convince myself of what I felt.
The thing that captured me the most would have to be our close and inseperable friendship. No matter how stupid she thought or whether she wanted to or not, she always talked to me and I always comforted her and was a good listener. In essence, everything I considered a real friend to do, even if it was kinda one-sided. I've always prided myself on being a good friend and a good listener. I'm what you would call a man of virtues. When I set a virtue to go by for myself, I never change the rules. But no matter how nice you are, people will still walk all over you like gum stuck to your shoe.
I didn't notice at first, but there were signs to the trained eye to show a seperation wasn't ruled out for this seemingly happy relationship. Even though the signs became more apparent, instead of going with logic, I blamed things on myself. It was an easy escape for a teen with thought

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To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

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On February 1, former RCMP Constable Janet Merlo spoke to a packed gathering hosted by the Department of Gender Studies at Memorial University about her experience of sexual harassment in the force. The harassment she along with thousands of other women in the RCMP experienced became the subject of a class action suit that was settled out of court last year. Her story, which is outlined in detail in her own book No One To Tell: Breaking My Silence on Life in the RCMP, is a powerful one that tackles a misogyny still deeply rooted in many workplaces, and one we thought we should share. Merlo looks out across campus, reminiscing about her days as a student and how much the university landscape has changed. An alumni of Squires House, she fondly recalls some of the antics of residence life. Joining the RCMP was not a career move she’d planned…

Rua Deputado João Sussumu Hirata, 425 – Panamby – São Paulo

On a bitterly cold Saturday, with ice crystals in the air and a light scattering of snow underfoot, five or six dozen people gather at the steps of the Court House in St. John’s. They’re here to demand Justice for Colten Boushie, the 22-year old Cree man from the Red Pheasant First Nation in Saskatchewan who was shot and killed by Gerald Stanley, a 56-year old white farmer. The rally is hastily organized. There are two cheap loudspeakers, but most of the speakers forget to use them. There are no power outlets, and only one reporter present. One speaker forgot their gloves, and shivers as their skin turns an eerie shade of red. You’d think tears would freeze in cold like this, but they don’t—they flow strong and free. Drummers take to the steps of the Court House, and the rhythms they pound out, coupled with the clear and confident…