Monday, May 29, 2006


I've been working hard for my money, so hard, honey honey.

I wanted to come home today and write a really good post. I wanted it to be funny, but not blatantly hilarious, and posses a certain wit and tact. It was gonna be about some random event, and then I would talk about how shocked I was, and how the shock morphed into disgust, which in turn became horror. Then I would write about the horror in a way that made it almost nostalgic so that I could look back on the shocking/unpleasant event and think "Hah, I remember when that funny thing happened." Rather than "Wow, I think that aged me a little bit and I may never be the same." Nostalgia is nice that way, it makes really inconvenient shitty things like a squirrel coming into your house through your chimney right before you're supposed to leave for school and then dropping squirrel terds everywhere because it was so scared of your flailing arms, into a comical life experience. So instead of writing the post I had intended to, I'll do one that is mediocre, and very stream-of-conciousnessy. So essentially this is a warning to inform you that what follows from here on will suck, but I know, and you know, that I just reverse psychologied you suckers and now you really want to read on.

I went to my friends BBQ on the weekend and established myself as the bbq sidekick. As one full half of a Super Team, I not so modestly kicked some ass. My bbq partner told everyone I was vegan and then I spent the entire night trying to explain that I wasn't. I'm not even a vegetarian and yet everyone was like "Oh, so you're bbq'ing and you don't even eat meat? Weird." After a while I just gave up, drunk people never want to see your point of view. They're so useless like that.

Then I went to Al's house after work and he had made me dinner. At first I was so pleasantly surprised, but then I worried that he was gonna drop a bomb of "Oops I lost your _________," or tell me that he wasn't really Allan the boy all this time but Allan the Crazy Magic Wizard and he had to leave for Barcantia, a land of magicallness. After a lot of prodding I realized that he had actually just done it to be nice. Thanks Al! We decided to walk around the city (because I made him) and I commented at some point that the couple in front of us looked so mismatched. "I would have never guessed that those two would be together," I said naively. Allan politely let me know that it was a hooker and a client. Oh. We got home and watched Mulholland Drive, or however you spell it, and can I just say What, The, Fuck. When it was almost done Al let out this long sigh of understanding and I whipped around my head in jealousy.

"Do you get it?!"

"Yeah, it's like a cycle."

"Well yeah, I get that but do you get the whole significance of every scene? Or how they all add up? Or why there's that burnt old lady behind the dumpster?"

"Well no, ok wait. I think it's about hollywood. No, I don't really get it."

"Ok good.

Then I commuted home from work today, with my brain freshly ravaged by the tribulations of work, and I couldn't absorb a thing. I couldn't appreciate the beautiful sunset, realize the hilarity of the trailer park motorcycle gang, feel embarrassed as I fell asleep on the guy beside me. I thought of lots of things, and then forgot them all so that it felt like I had thought of nothing. When I walked in my door I headed straight for my computer and some food; my life force. I got one hand on the task of feeding mouth, and then started to inject blogs intravenously into my blood stream.

Then I started typing, one letter after the other, an M, a U, an S, an H...

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Bug Diet

Exercise and myself have a bad relationship. Let's face it, exercise most likely doesn't have a very good relationship with anyone because it evokes suicidal thoughts, physical pain, and the necessity of exerting force. You can't cheat and bribe someone into giving you stamina, or even lending you some nice abs for a night. For a long time I used comedy, like I do in many situations, to fend off physical activity of any sort; and then my childhood metabolism stopped and eating meals consisting soley of potato chips and five cent candy became impossible. Well, possible but with some ass jiggle on the side. Thus, I now try to make exercise something that slyly leaches it's way into my week.

There's one slight problem that I find myself getting into time after time, mainly due to my own lack of motivation. Since I can only really run on an empty stomach, I spend the whole day in starvation mode because I can't make myself go. I try many times unsuccessfully to commence the running, and end up watching TV (successfully) instead. The thing is, in this period of time, I don't eat anything because I know then that I won't be able to run, and deep down, in a part of me I may never find, I do actually have the desire to run. I spend half the day moping around my house in a melancholy stupor, seeing dots because I'm so light headed, and feeling sorry for myself because I'm hungry. My unhappiness is strange and cyclical in nature, with a seemingly obvious solution. You would think I could put two and two together and just run earlier rather than later in the day, but I'm usually lacking in the healthy breakfast department so my brain performance tends to be quite hindered.

Today while I was ACTUALLY running, I inhaled a small flying bug. Unfortunately, it was not the first time I've done this, and considering the density of insects that reside on my running route, it won't be the last. When I tell Allan about the feeling of a bug flying in your mouth yet being stuck in your thick spit, he practically convulses into phobic reactions as he tells me to "Shut up, seriously Carm, I won't, I can't I CANNOT TALK TO YOU ABOUT THIS." I figure the sight of him swallowing a bug would look dangerously similar to seeing his computer being smashed with a baseball bat over, and over, and over again. The seizures, the look of horror in his unsuspecting blue eyes, and the final collapse to the floor in efforts to let his unconscious mind deal with the unthinkable reality of his life. I couldn't help but think, as the bug fluttered around in the back of my throat, that it was in fact the first caloric intake I'd ingested all day.

The bug on the other hand was probably thinking about what a stupid, breathes-a-lot human I am.

Friday, May 19, 2006

Coming Home

It's 7:15, my shift is done,
set off to journey home.

A woman with a Louis Vuitton purse steps on,
She fidgets uncomfortably and looks out of place.
I trust the purse is real because she looks fake,
Why is she taking transit?
The purse and a car probably cost the same amount,
I guess she chose one over the other.

The creaking doors open,
I step into the culture, the people, the life of downtown.
A street performer plays Stairway To Heaven,
The people criss cross.
We all hope to find that stairway.

The white stick man lights up,
That means it's time to move.
The wind demands our attention,
it slithers around the skyscrapers and navigators.
For the first time today, I feel cold.

The old polished couple strolls through,
The busy streets and winding lanes.
They exude wealth,
Their Armani glasses reflect the things they don't see.

The homeless man begs down low,
Everyone hustles by,
I look him in the eyes because no one else will.

The clouds roll in,
The sky is gray,
And I smile.

Rain means less customers.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

All The Friendly People You Meet

To the:

Old man on the bus: Why did you ask me if the girl beside me was my sister? I don't even think you were curious, just senile. Your pee bag was a little off putting. I'm sorry, but it's the truth.

Young boy walking by: The pleated pants suited for a man twice your age were strange. Your white polo shirt and no nonsense glasses made me instantly see you as a spelling bee participant. You were very serious, S-E-R-I-O-U-S, serious.

Little girl running and screaming (in a gleeful way): I liked the hat that seemed to be made out of purple fur. I got a little bit jealous watching you and desperately wanted to be running and screaming too. You know why I envy you? Because you're carefree and don't have a job. You know why else? Because you wear purple fur hats. Rock on.

Bus ticket I bought today: You are so expensive. Bite me. With the dough I fork out, I generally expect you to be made out of organic recycled paper derived from thai bamboo. I'm guessing you're just regular paper though. Sigh.

The talkative customer: I did not know that rats in Italy like nutella, and rats in France like butter. I feel, however, like a whole new person now that I do. Thank you.

The melodramatic blog post: I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Sometimes You Pay For Being So Hard Core

I can remember being in grade eight or nine and having to do a "goal assignment". I'm sure, for the teacher, it was just something to keep us busy while she took a little break and tried to escape the persistent migraine that seemed to be brought on by kids, but to us it was a little ridiculous. We were supposed to address a letter to ourselves, write about all the goals we have, where we wish to be in a year, and then we would receive the letter on the last day of school. Some made goals to simply pass, some drew pictures of joints and marijuana leaves, and others composed articulate pieces chronicling, in detail, their plans to master the art of horseback riding in the off days of their presidency in student council.

By the end of the year most of us had forgotten about the letter all together, let alone the actual goals we had set for ourselves. I opened mine up and read something along the lines of:

"Dear Carmen,

This class is a waste of time. There are no goals on this page and I sincerely hope you haven't changed and made any during the year. I hope the teacher thinks I'm following directions and doesn't read this. Once again, I'd like to reinforce that drawing a pot leaf on this piece of paper would have been more productive than what we've done all year. Hope the summer doesn't suck."

When I read it I was glad that I'd stayed so hard core. I was all woo hoo, you fought the power and turned the assignment into an outlet for your own creative cynicism!

Looking back now, I realize that making some god damn goals might not have been such a bad idea. Maybe I wouldn't have gotten a letter today informing me that I have $60 in over due library fees.

Monday, May 15, 2006

Sebastian's Woes

The bearded woman looked over into the wings and gave me the signal that the crowds were getting a bit too rowdy. She pulled on her scraggly goatee, twisted it around her first finger three times and then gave it a firm tug. If she had twisted it 5, or 7, or 13 it would have meant something different, but equally problematic. I got up off the old inverted bucket I was sitting on to wake Rigur. Rigur liked sleep, possibly more than a fine rye and coke, and he was awfully handy when it came to scaring "disorderly" masses. His 8 foot stature only served as a daunting warning that disruptive behaviour was not welcome at the Chesterton County Corporated Circus.

The past years had been bad in terms of business. The thrill and allure of circuses had been lost long ago to nintendo, computers, and the technologizing of the world. Sebastian resented modernity, the sleek and flawless machine that worked day in and day out to brain wash everyone, and recruit new members constantly in efforts to monopolize society in general. Sebastian tried to revolutionize the newer acts and bring a little something unique to certain aspects of the show, but the atmosphere was forever gloomy. He often sat in his trailer and reminisced about the glory days of circus, back when he was a 13 year old boy with a talent for eating light bulbs. He had had fame and prestige, and more; he had lots of women back then too. Now, he spent a lot of time playing defense rather than offense, and quite regularly this was done in a blinding whiskey haze.

Sebastian watched attentively as Rigur bombarded the crowds with his threats and shut his eyes with exhaustion. He would try hard to forget the nose dive that was his show, and focus on something a little less depressing like the imaginary life that played out in his mind. He liked to pretend that he was an office worker, a financial analyst, and everyday he would put on a suit and tie and drive through maddening traffic on his way to work. He would swear and curse the other cars on the street for being "so damn stupid" and having "no bloody regard for anyone else, GOD DAMNIT!" Sebastian loved the idea that he could live normally, take umbrage at the rising price of super-market bananas, and grumble with his coworkers about their fat stupid boss. It would be lovely, free of responsibility, ordinary.

"I think everyone's scared shitless boss. A few of 'em left, sorry. I tried to tone it down a bit but they just weren't having it," grunted Rigur.

I looked out to the audience and saw an almost empty stadium. There were a couple people gathering their things and heading out, but essentially, no one was planning on staying.

"For Christ's sake Rigur, warn, don't scold."

The bearded lady looked sad and I could see the stage lights reflecting off her wet cheeks.

"They think I'm ugly, everyone thinks I'm ugly, THEY all come to see my ugly beard."

"You're not ugly Marianne, you're different and some people have trouble with that. Just go to my trailer and I'll be their in a sec."

Marrianne flew off, and Sebastian sat back down on his bucket. His late meeting with her would surely interfere with his nightly ritual of retreating back to the financial analyst office life, but in this case he knew that it was crucial enough not to ignore. He rubbed his aching knees and slowly got up. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it in the side of his mouth. As he walked to his trailer he pretended that he was heading to a board meeting, a meeting with his office pals and Bridget that fiery secretary from the second floor. He passed Rick's cubicle and told him to "get back to work you lazy slacker!" Rick laughed and Sebastian laughed. Rick was just about the hardest working guy in the building but everyone kind of maintained the office inside joke that Rick was a slacker. Sebastian chuckled as he walked away; it would take Rick atleast ten minutes to realize that his stapler had been "stolen".

Sebastian neared his trailer and saw the outline of Marianne crying inside. Rick didn't ask about the stapler that night.

Sunday, May 14, 2006


I was eavesdropping today near a market vendor. The man selling little necklaces with strange charms on them was talking to a potential buyer, a young boy. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was trying to "get down" to the boy's level, to connect with him on some common ground.

"You ever whittled a piece of wood before? That's all I started with; just a knife and a piece of wood."

I looked at the boy, saw his unenthused look and his mp3 player, the modernity and technology of the boy seemed to threaten the old vendor. He was so clueless, and ironically salesmen are supposed to be intuitive to the desires of capitalist's pawns. It was amusing and sad to watch the obvious disparity between the old man and young boy. One was probably trying to find a mother's day gift, the other just trying to make a living; neither really coming up successful.

You see a lot of people go through a marketplace in a day. Young couples you would have never guessed would be together, kids with blue ice-cream smeared across their face, gold-diggers, old guys with brutal comb overs. You witness people fighting over whether they should buy spaghetti or linguini, and brave singers trying to prove themselves to the tune of "Wonderwall".

There are arrivals and departures, and sometimes I feel like I'm standing in the middle of it all with a top hat on telling the bearded woman that she's on in 5 minutes, and ushering the clothed elephants backstage.

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Resume, That's French For "Opposite"

I don't think I'm admitting anything surprising or unheard of when I say that everyone lies on their resume. Its the filler that makes it seem as though you're qualified, experienced, and somehow willing. If you haven't lied yet, that may possibly be the reason you're unemployed and sleeping under a bridge, trying everyday to collect enough cigarette butts to complete a whole pack. Euphemisms are another key, my personal favourite, because when done right they can turn shit into gold. You may perhaps spruce up "likes toast" into "passion for cooking", or "dealt with stupid bitch in grocery store line-up" into "has experience in customer service regarding problem solving". I guess what I'm trying to say here is, yes, you could put two pieces of bread together and call it a sandwich, but would anyone want to eat it?

If it's any consolation, I do try to make it SEEM as though I am all the things I claim to be. And I'm a very good actress.

The truth is, I'm so irresponsible and lazy. I'll put milk back in the fridge with two drops left, I'll wait for someone else to take the garbage off (he who tops it off drops it off, thanks Bart), I clean my room annually (and generally only when I've lost something like a pay check), and I really can't say I take much initiative in things. I know it's not my parents fault that I grew up to be a slight failure because my sister turned out really great, and my brother is pretty competent at times. My parents always chose to leave my sister with directions on how to cook dinner, check the answering machine, and do anything remotely crucial when we were younger. I can remember being about 8 years old, still not knowing how to use my stupid VCR, and having to always call my baby sister to show me how. Essentially, I can be a big waste of space sometimes, but occasionally my strengths shine through, like when I make sure the peanut butter spreads all the way to the edges of the bread. I figure, if I can somehow disguise my negligible traits as desirable, then I've finally succeeded.

Today at work, when a coworker laughed about how I had seen the garbage without a bag in it and then not immediately replaced it, I laughed along with her. Gosh! How thoughtless could I be? Not replenishing the garbage bag when I saw that it needed to be, hah; I tried to make my giggles sound sincere and genuine. I didn't tell her that those types of innate reactions just hadn't had enough time to really become ingrained in my mind yet. Cleaning, upkeeping, serving, smiling, they were all taking a good while to be introduced into my daily routine. I wanted to explain to her how completely unlike me it was to be helpful but decided against it. Afterall, I think I might have mentioned something about being "hardworking" when I was hired.

I looked over to a customer with two children in a stroller. The older brother was jabbing his finger into his sleeping sister's eye. I'd say my previous level of helpfulness would parallel with his poking.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Observations From My Humble Abode

1. Halo the Harpoon, loving this song at the moment.

2. There is no correlation between sunshine, happiness, and birds chirping. It's gray and nasty outside and STILL the birds are chirping. I'm thinking it had to have been some hippie environmentalist that declared the chirping of birds as blissful. It wakes me up in the mornings (not good), and bird #1 is probably just squawking "Leaf, leaf, eat, leaf, flyyyyyyy. My beak is shiny. SHINY!" to bird #2 (stupid).

3. Vanilla Almond Special K, tasty and sweet but does nothing to comfort loneliness.

4. Noticing that my sister spends her money on stupid things like coffee and bras as I look at her bank statement. Feeling slightly kicked in the gut when I realize that it's actually my bank statement and not hers.

5. I probably won't get as rich as I'd like to by selling my clothes on eBay. I probably won't get any money at all.

6. I feel like I might be allergic to my job. This may be consciously or unconsciously inflicted.

7. I think I might be dyeing right now, but I've believed this for the past 2567 consecutive days.

8. The illegal giraffe in my back yard is getting far too noisy to conceal from the government much longer.

9. I'm beginning to understand the progression from normal citizen to crazed hobo.

10. "But Can They Sing" is the most horrifying show I've ever seen. It and the Gotti boy are the reason people hate North America.

11. Skateboarding is a lot harder than I thought. Falling off one yesterday really scared the shit out of me. Becoming hard-core is gonna take a little longer than I accounted for.

12. Boredom makes me emo.

Monday, May 08, 2006

I Had It All Figured Out

When I was really little my mom would sometimes take my brother, my sister, and I to the beach near my gramma's house. I remember one time we were there and I saw an old man walking across the sand, scanning over the ground with a metal detector. I heard the consistent beeping, saw the quiet determination in his face, and realized that he was smarter than the rest of us. At six or seven, or however old I was, I knew that I would grow up to do what he was doing; I would grow up to get rich off of sand gems. As my brother and sister played some game that my brother was most likely owning my sister at, I had this epiphany, an unwavering belief that I would find some rare green rock, march into a museum and be like "Hey bitches, look at this." I knew they would look at me, then the rock in my hand and their jaws would drop. They'd open some safe in the back and unload millions of dollars into my Barbie back-pack, I'd walk home, adjust my back-pack straps every so often to balance the weight of my millions, and then eat one of the apple juice popsicles that my mom had made. I obviously didn't understand a lot about my plan, the absurdity and unlikelihood of it, but not understanding was what gave me such a sense of certainty. I think getting that sliver of time in your life where you're totally unable to be logical, rational, and reasonable is really important, and you could only ever be that way when your biggest "to do" is making sure lady bugs don't poo on your hand.

I don't want to collect rocks now, I don't think I'd like that too much, but I do hope I get to do something that makes me happy. There are lots of people who end up flipping burgers for a living, who become a compliant assistant, or simply hate wherever it is that are. I have no idea how to elude those kinds of careers, and lives, and outcomes fallen short of dreams, but maybe it has something to do with fostering those slightly implausible ambitions. Maybe when I see that kid at work, walking along and licking all the windows, she's trying to tell me something.

"Hey you, yeah girl who looks depressed, I like licking stuff. And it tastes like Windex."

Sunday, May 07, 2006

Being A Grown Up

The past week I've been doing a lot of thinking about those crazy adults, and what exactly it is that they do. Is being grown up coming to a point in your life where you realize you can never go back to living worry-free, surviving solely on a diet of fun dip, and pretending that you run a taco stand out of your backyard? I'm starting to feel like I'm grasping a bit, trying to hold on to something that's slowly slipping away. I wasn't sad at my highschool grad, I didn't fear the future, I didn't use to long to be back in grade 3 because I always believed that being older meant you could do more. I guess what I didn't understand was that the doing more thing is something you have to do all by YOURSELF. Ouch, responsibility hurts.

Summer used to be like home free. You finally made it through the stresses of school, the never ending expectations and then you got this amazing span of time that was your ultimate reward. A little pat on the back that said "Hey, good for you. You stayed in school and didn't drop out like the local coke-heads. Way to go!" I'm gonna miss that.

I guess what's disgusting about all these thoughts is the irony of it all. I have a good home, food to eat whenever I want, people who love me, and now I feel a little miserable because I had to take off my suit of golden pillows and fall down in the real world. I think Einstein had a mighty important point with his theory of relativity though. These thoughts are relative to me and my life and that's why I care enough to write about them.

I think the one thing that I truly believe about "grown-ups" is that even they don't know what they're doing. No one knows if all the choices they've made have been the right ones, if they took the best path to get to where they are. I suppose you just acquire bits and pieces of knowledge and experience along the way that ultimately make you feel like you can handle whatever comes.

If there's one thing I learned about being grown up this past week, it's that you have to go to work hungover instead of having the luxury of sleeping it off.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Happy Birthday Al-Dawg

Happy Birthday Al. Let's hope next year that Blogger doesn't eat my birthday post for you.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Andrea and Melanie Can Go To Hell

I have a theory that cell phone companies are trying to crapify their pay-as-you-go plans so that the 37 people who still use cell phones in that manner will get an expensive plan already. I think they have high paid marketing executives working around the clock to brainstorm different ways to make pay-as-you-go the most inefficient method of using cells. It sure didn't take long for the people in expensive Armani suits to realize that voice automating their systems would make people a little more inclined to methodically scratch off their retinas with plastic picnic cutlery.

My phone company is Fido, so that means that the "lady" (monotone recorded voice) that fills my account is Andrea. I hate Andrea with a passion because she never understands that I want to FILL MY ACCOUNT. Instead, to her, that last sentence sounds like "please change my language of preference to French," and before I know it, Andrea is parler-ing en francais. Sometimes I'll be huddled at the back of the bus, trying to reason with robo-Andrea and just about at the end of my patience when I'll say "For the love of god Andrea, yeah Andrea, if that is your real name...I-WANT-TO-FILL-MY-FUCKING-ACCOUNT," and I space out the words, pronunciate the best I can, and hope that for once she understands. She usually replies with a "I'm sorry, did you say saucepan monkey basket?"

Today I found out that Rogers is doing the same. The same except their robo-woman-voice-automated-bitch is named Melanie.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

I Was Never A Ray Of Sunshine To Begin With

I consider myself a nice person, but not bubbly, overly energetic, or enthusiastic. I can be skeptical and slightly mean, but generally it's in my attempts to be funny. So I suppose, even when I'm calling you a pathetic douche bag, my intentions were good all along. And isn't that what it's all about, the intentions?

Recently I started a new job and the regular shift runs about ten hours. That's ten hours longer than I'd like to be serving other people, standing, or not picking my nose and eating 7-11 licorice. Read that last sentence carefully, I did not say picking my nose and eating it; the eating was referring to LICORICE. Alright, clarifications out of the way, on to bitching...

When my shift is finally over I find myself in a state of mind that no longer holds those veils of censorship guiding it. There is some degree of translation that occurs between your thoughts and your speech. Example: (thought) FUUUUUUCK I just stubbed my toe, GOD DAMNIT STUPID PIECE OF SHIT CORNER THAT'S IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE. BLLLLLLLARRRGH!!!!! (speech) Ouch, gee golly, just stubbed my toe. As I walked to my bus after work I was all, "I hate you, and you, and you, your hair is butt ugly, you suck, ooh pleeeeaase look at your MC Hammer pants, you, yeah you, do something about your UGLY EXPENSIVE CAR. Essentially I felt real sorry for myself, was way too tired, and felt like adding to the overall level of negativity in this popsicle stand called life.

As I walked in my door at home, I turned to my sister and told her that I was kind of worried.

"Yeah, it's been killing me all day, I think I lost my walnut."


"Uhh, god damnit, I mean WALLET, WAAALLLLLEETTTT. Not walnut. My brain is mush."