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How Valuable is the Kha’Zix Pick at Worlds?

Throughout the League of Legends World Championships thus far, a hard-fought battle raged on in picks and bans when it came to the a simple choice in the jungle pick as teams from across the globe have conformed to one simple conditional: “If not Lee Sin, then Kha’Zix.”

Lee Sin and Kha’Zix have been picked and banned more than any other jungler thus far in the tournament. Lee Sin — for good reason — is by far and away the most contested pick and has seen more bans than Kha’Zix; the versatility and dynamism the champion brings to the competitive seen is unparalleled, and continues to be the staple pick for any jungler since his introduction.

But then there’s Kha’Zix.

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Worlds Day 5: Can You Really Fight With All The Prowess of Najin?

And on the fifth day of the League of Legends World Championships, the Koreans in Groups C and D look beatable and, in fact, were beaten.

But the fifth day of Worlds has also proven that if you draw blood against the Koreans, they will look to crush their next opponent — a vengeance so strong that it multiples with every defeat, multiplying like a hydra’s head.

Let’s take a look at some of the marquee matches of the day, highlighting the flaws of Najin White Shield and Samsung Blue that LCS teams were able to pick apart.

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Day Three: Time on a Rainy Day

Most of today was spent looking at really old things in the British Museum, while it rained and poured outside.

For some reason, I would look at an object, find how old it was on the placard, and then would do the math to see how long my remaining 21 days left in Europe was in comparison to said really old thing. Like I said in my first two blogs, this whole traveling thing is a lot harder than I thought it would be, harder than I think most people think it is. It’s challenging and I’m frequently confronted with myself, all my anxieties and flaws, whilst in a foreign place and amongst strangers (who have thus been mostly wonderful and pleasant, except the loud, older French guy in my hostel who seemingly just lies in his bed all day).In its challenge, I question my ability to actually do it, and with that comes feeling that 21 days is quite possibly the largest increment of time ever.

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Day Two: A Tourist [9/8]

I woke up today to the fire alarm going off in my hostel. It was nothing, but it still forced me up which was nice, seeing as with my jet lag, I could’ve slept all day, not to mention the difficulty of actually sleeping though the night with 17 other people in your room.

Like I decided yesterday, I wanted to just get on a tourist bus and simply let it take me all over London, to see things generally, and also think about what I wanted to see particularly. So I started on the red line of the Original London Tour bus and it essentially took me all over the City of Westminster and the City of London (the equivalent to boroughs in New York). I had already seen most of Westminster by foot yesterday, but it was nice to actually learn some history and facts about the places I had visited in the early morning.

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Day One: The Overwhelming [9/7]

So the first day was just completely overwhelming for me. Don’t get me wrong; it was overwhelming because I was exhausted, sad, beyond happy—it was just a lot of emotions to deal with in the early morning of a city, country, continent you’ve never been before.

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Countdown [9/3]

I haven’t posted in a while because I’m still trying to assess my feelings with leaving in three days and, truthfully, even if I were to post a blog for every day I missed, it would all be the same thing.

The overwhelming feeling right now is anxious, nervous, and a bit scared, which is normal for me. I love new places, but actually traveling, as in the actual transportation, the moving of persons, is always daunting for me, even though I’m quite seasoned, having traveled between coasts for four years.

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Students [8/29]

I knew this feeling would come eventually. That’s why I saved my Europe trip until the beginning of September, so as to curb this feeling.

Throughout my twenty-two years, I’ve always dreaded the return of school, like any other kid. When I was in elementary school, it was a dread of having to get up early in the morning. When I was in high school, it was a sadness of the summer ending, and having to get up early in the morning. And in college, it was at first a fear of homesickness, a fear that went away after a year, but then turned into a fear of endings. Oh and, a dread of getting up early in the morning.

I’m at the end now, at least for this year, and it’s so very strange that I’m surrounded by people still in school, envying them. See, I’ve never been popular or “cool.” I never cared that I was either of those things, but acknowledging that I wasn’t those things and that instead, I was known as the “smart kid,” that my whole perceivable identity to others was as an academically focused, intelligent person. I accepted that and I’ve grown to love that. But now, when that part of my life is over, I find myself a bit lost, confused, and sad.

I’m definitely one for nostalgia, which is why it’s hard to accept that I’m no longer a student. It’s hard for to me close chapters of my life because I’m so uncomfortable with the unknown. And so, as I see friends talk about going to class or sharing their book lists for the semester, I miss being in lecture halls, listening to said lectures, reading in my dorm room, being a student.

I tell myself that that part of my life is over, and when I do so, I feel better because it’s just a bunch of nostalgic longings. I tell myself that in eight days, I will be flying to Europe for the month instead of having to do homework. I remember the feelings of general ideas fondly, but I don’t miss or remember the stress and work of that life. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, but because I don’t remember all the hard work I put into those years and years of schooling that ultimately led to me graduating from Columbia, so much work that I was known as the “smartest person” people knew or that “smart kid,” I want it back so much. But I don’t. I really don’t. I want more than anything to be comfortable again, but that doesn’t mean wanting to be a nervous eighteen year old again. It can mean, and does mean, a myriad of different things, things that will soon become clear to me, things like graduate school or pursuing this editorial stuff.

But it’s still a feeling I have and one I’ll have up until I leave for Europe. I deal with it in a variety of ways. Last night, it was driving around Petaluma at night singing Katy Perry’s “Roar.” Right now, as many breaks were had writing this blog, it was dancing and clapping to Cold War Kids’ “Audience.” But the best approach is definitely just writing about it here, sharing it. Because I’m not the only one who is confused in navigating the post-grad life, especially around this time, the start of a new school year.

Two Door Cinema Club’s “Changing of the Seasons” sums it up nicely, albeit a little more harshly than I would put it. So it’s over, I didn’t realize or Could be the changing of the seasons, but I don’t love you anymore seem quite fitting. The end isn’t the end until you actually feel that it’s the end; in May, I didn’t register the end, but in late August, I did. And the end is notorious for misplaced feelings, as cruel nostalgia makes you think you miss or love something more than you actually did.

So, yes, it’s over and I didn’t realize it all.

I miss what was, but I’m of those now graduated students, because that identity-the student, students—isn’t confined to that one cozy lecture room with the oak chairs you miss so badly.

It’s more than that and I’d like to think it’s forever.

The Infinite Rooftops [8/25]

A week ago, my mom told me about the roof of our garage unit. Originally, her boyfriend planned on making it a deck or a studio, but decided against it when the house was being built. He contemplates doing so, which I, since discovering this gem, vehemently hope he does.

I spent about three hours up there and it was maybe one of the most peaceful times I’ve ever felt in my life. The only other time, outside of childhood, I can remember feeling that was early this summer when we house sat for my mom’s friends. My mom and her boyfriend left to go to the gym, and I decided I would get a chair, climb up the ladder, and just sit up there and read.

I read, took some pictures because it’s quite a view, but the best moments were when I stop and just sit there for a couple minutes and do absolutely nothing. I don’t know what it is about these moments, but they make me feel infinitely more creative; my mind goes into overdrive and I start to think about things I want to do, but more so it completely changes my perspective. It’s these moments at peace where my mind stops being so rational and logical, traits I’ve grown to love over the years, and starts to think of things in much more abstract ways; I reflect, I think, I imagine in a much more infinite way.

As much as I love that feeling, it’s unsustainable. The second I come back down off the rooftop, the creative feeling slowly dissipates back into the boundedness of the actual ground. And I’m okay with that. Like I said, I enjoy my characteristic rationality and I don’t think I could be the person who occupies that rooftop space at all times, nor am I the person to actively chase it.

I welcome its presence, but know when to say goodbye as it leaves. It’ll come back; it did today.

Living Stories [8/22]

This morning, I went with my mom to breakfast at this diner in downtown Petaluma called Hallie’s. We parked on the side of the street and as I got out of the car, I noticed a woman, around her early 50s I’d hazard, with an older woman who had her same long blonde hair, and I assumed that it was her mother. It was quite easy to notice the daughter; she wore long, colorful scarves, leopard print tights and a long tan coat. She carried around a messenger bag and also had a bunch of small bags attached to her hip. Her hair was up, crazily shooting out in fringes.

I saw the two woman walk past me as we walked a bit to the diner. When we got there, outside, the two woman were sitting waiting on the waiter’s service. I noted the coincidence, but didn’t think much of it after we were sat down and had our breakfast.

As we finished our meal, the daughter came in to use the bathroom. Upon entering said restroom, she started to yell about how small the bathroom was, how there were regulations in place that disallowed bathrooms to be that small. Her voice boomed in the small diner, so the rest of the customers could hear her. The owner came out—hearing the boisterous woman—and her confusion matched that of the faces of the customers in her restaurant.

The owner went outside to let the mother know what was happening. The daughter was audibly slamming and opening things and had to leave. The mother knocked on the door of the restroom, went inside, and let her daughter know that they had to leave, but she was still preoccupied with the size of the restroom. After ten to fifteen minutes, and a threat of calling the cops because she was now yelling in the bathroom, the two woman left the diner, but not before the daughter went up to the counter and demanded her cup of coffee to go.

By this time, my mom and I had finished our breakfast and were ready to leave. We left the diner and saw the two woman standing a couple feet away. The daughter was on her mother’s cellphone, now yelling at somebody on the other side, asking her to identify themselves. All this time, the mother pleaded with her daughter to go in the other ear, trying to communicate that the cops were going to come if they stood outside of the diner for any longer.

Eventually, the mother just walked away. My mom and I passed them as we headed to our car, and as we got in to leave, I saw the two woman one last time, the mother looking forward and the daughter trailing behind, whipping one of her many scarves across her neck as they both crossed the street and turned the corner.

I don’t know why I wanted to blog about this particular event today. And I don’t know why I remember it so vividly. I guess, throughout the whole debacle, the only thing I could think of was the story behind it. I felt this deep sense of empathy for the mother that I started to imagine the background relationship between the two, how this was the first time they were meeting in years, as the daughter was very obviously poor or homeless. I thought that maybe the two had had it out in the past and today the daughter promised her that she was better now, that she “had it together,” whatever that means. The mother believed her, only to be blindsided by a strange series of events in a diner called Hallie’s, surely embarrassed in her own right, though no fault of her own.

As we drove back home, I told my mom all of this, my imagined backstory for the mother and daughter. And now, as I write this blog, I realize the living story inherent in such an event — the embarrassment, maybe the betrayal, but surely the sadness of those two old, blonde women.

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