I Like Your Style Hemmy

Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.

-Ernest Hemingway

Well, I must be a prodigious genius.

Whiteout?

At times such as these, when some part of my daily life has been completely thrown off course, I tend to get a little religious. The snow, although very beautiful, has gone and messed with my precious satellite causing all the channels to look like some avant garde black and white pattern that only a flamboyantly gay man would have the guts to wear; and even then only on a tie. I find myself doing that stupid "Oh God, if you can hear me, yeah me Carmen, I know I haven't prayed in a while, umm...I guess since 3 years ago in a power outage, but if you bring me back all me 203756 channels I promise I'll donate something I don't care very much about to a charitable foundation."

I'm actually watching the food network right now, my favourite channel, and savouring the audio. But here's the thing, and watch out now because this may be a rude awakening for some, I think the success of TV is directly based on the fact that you can SEE WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON! Huh huh? Video killed the radio star? Not at this rate with a black and white crap fest splashed across the screen teasing me with that dudes voice from "Chef at Large". Maybe God's trying to teach me a lesson: you don't know what you got 'til it's gone.

Oh god, now they're making a dessert that has a French name. That's like having some psycho break into your house, realizing it's someone you went to elementary school with, listening and watching in horror as they tell you about how jealous they were when you beat them in basketball so now they're gonna slice up your arm...and then they do it! But wait, right before they leave they jab the knife in your eye and you're all "I thought this was about my arm?!" and they say something like "Yeah I dunno, that wasn't even pre-meditated, I just felt like it," before peaceing out. How you say? Adding insult to injury?

What's actually sad about all this is that after watching COPIOUS hours of different cooking shows, I still manage to eat chocolate bars for dinner.

And not even chocolat bars.

Nice Try

A part of university I've come to understand as unavoidable is the token "ultra-passionate" students. By choosing the faculty of arts you're not only accepting a futile career path, but the inevitability that some students will be reduced to uncontrollable fits of orgasmic pleasure as they read the poetry of T. S. Eliot. Not the poetry of T. S. Eliot with elicit street drugs, just plain old T. S. Eliot. I do appreciate good literature, but somehow I don't see the point of trying to let everyone else know just how AMAZING I feel, how DEEPLY I connect with the words, and the ways in which it adds invaluable PROFUNDITY to my life. I would, however, have no problem letting those people know just how much I'd like to SHOOT them, perhaps with a RIFLE, possibly in the LIBRARY.

Today in my 19th century British Literature class things were a little "switched up" you could say. Instead of a student being overcome by deep emotion, it was the prof who was moved to tears. Reading the last paragraph of "The Dead" by James Joyce, he actually broke down and started to cry. I didn't know what to do, so I did the only thing I could think of, pretended the man at the front of the room conducting the lecture wasn't standing there blubbering.

"I'm sorry," he said, "this has never happened before."

Sure buddy, that's what they all say.

I love love love Paul the intern

If MTV were a person it'd be a meth head who sleeps on your couch, eats your most expensive food like organic pears perhaps, and then throws bits of paper in your hair as you try to write that 10 page essay on Mesoamerican mortuary practices. Every once and a while, in the greatest depths of their meth high, they start trying to hump your leg and simultaneously recite the 9's times table. 9, 18, 27, 36... If the annoying/consuming factor is carrying through to you in this analogy then, my god, you are perceptive.

Sometimes I wish that university was less like the modern distraction fest that it is, and more like it was in that one room school house in "Little House on the Prairies". Truth be told, I hated that show and thought that those girls were far too dense and sheltered, never understanding at the age of 9 that their apparent naivete was a side effect of generations of inbreeding. I think that was the underlying moralistic message on "Little House on the Prairies", don't sleep with Uncle Dad. Anyway, I figure the biggest challenge students face today is trying to resist watching shorts of people getting punched in the nuts on the easily accessible YouTube while sitting in their afternoon Religion lecture. Or maybe that's just me.

As of late school has decided to take a dump on me. Let's just say, if school was a person, it'd be one that takes dumps on people. Ok, not my strongest analogy. I know that in the grand scheme of things I have absolutely nothing to complain about, but considering the hardest thing I've ever had to endure was going to school the day after my grade 5 crush found out I liked him, copious amounts of homework with pending exams seems like a looming omen of death in comparison.

Is it bad that I have nightmares of drowning? Or dreams where I have visions of essays dancing in my head? Or an abnormal desire to peace out on a magic carpet?

I need a pick me up, when the hell is that busty Nigella on next?

And I Tell Myself I'm Not A Snob

I've probably mentioned my affinity for licorice several times before on this blog. Not disgusting we-use-this-to-induce-vomiting-at-the-hospital-when-people-come-in-with-alcohol-poisoning black licorice, but delectable red or red-ish coloured licorice. 7-11 has this one kind that comes in a plethora of addictive flavours that has caused me to, on more occasions than I'd like to admit, put on a bit of mascara in the hopes of looking presentable and leave my house at 2 in the morning with the intention of buying only it. I mean, leave that bumpin' party I was at...

So the other night while walking to the bus stop my friend and I decided to make a quick pit stop at a gas station. I was about to buy the regular licorice when I saw these new pull 'n' peel packs. I got a little over excited and had I been a small lap dog I might have peed right then and there. I went up to the counter and made some stupid, apparently unamusing, crack.

"I wasn't even gonna buy anything but I got roped in by this colourful packaging."

"OK," says an unperturbed cashier, "whatever that means."

"I just meant that the pretty colours and sugary appeal made me wanna buy it. You know, the crazy capitalists got me again!"

"I think it's called effective advertising."

Yeah, you think? What I said, and then what you said, those were synonyms you douche bag. I know it must be hard, standing there all day, drinking gas station coke, and eating gas station hot dogs, dreaming about gas station porn magazines, but you really don't have to give me gas station impassivity too.

Oh and guess what? That piece of cardboard shaped like a christmas tree that smells like coconut, not a fucking deodorant stick buddy. I'm sure you were going for some tropical appeal, but in reality you smell like a bar star who just threw up their watered down pina colada.

Yeah, whatever THAT means shithead.