The UK law schools that I’m applying to want to see my high school grades, and so yesterday I  trudged through thousands of old files in an attempt to locate my high school transcript. 

When I found it, I was overcome by a strange feeling. 

On this single sheet of paper there were thirty-one lines. Each line contained the name of a class, a course code, and a final mark. 

It occurred to me then that my entire high school career had been boiled down to these thirty-one lines. 

And what of Smash Bros during period two spare? What of the school musicals, and the hockey games, and all of those hoickety choicks? Those tragically awkward school dances, the cross country team, and the film club? The trips to Knoxville, Chicago, Haliburton, and Waterloo? 

What about my endless pursuit to be something?

Well, according to those thirty-one lines, none of that ever happened. 

That, to me, is exceptionally depressing. 

As I scrolled down the page, a thousand memories flooded into my head. I could remember the name and face of every teacher in every class. But what I remembered most of all is what happened between classes. Those were the moments that led me to where I am now – not the information contained in those thirty-one lines. 

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