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New Home

2008-05-24T09:49:00.000-07:00

Come on over! Everyone's doing it!

the NEW BLOG

A Portrait of Vapidity as a Young Woman

2007-10-20T14:24:00.001-07:00

I was at a small bookstore today scanning over the "S" section for Sartre when I noticed a man and his two daughters. I noticed the man specifically because of his fanny pack and khaki shorts -a rarity here in Montréal- and the oldest daughter because of her loud, whiny voice. After the father made a comment to an employee about another bookstore he knew, one that was "hippi-ish like this one" I eavesdropped more intently.

"Honey," the father said to his daughter, "you should read this book." He held up James Joyce, "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man".

"Hmm?"

"Well honey it's very famous and readable."

"Ugh, is it philosophy? Cause I hate philosophy."

The youngest daughter proceeded to knock over a stack of books and then confess that she really had to pee-pee.

Back From The Dead

2007-05-28T11:51:00.000-07:00

I'm fairly certain that no one reads this anymore -seeing as I've displayed some extreme disregard for its upkeep and maintanence- but alas, this show will go on.

I was accepted to the Creative Writing program at Concordia University and will be finishing the last two years of my degree in Montreal. This has been my goal for a long time now, and being accepted after the arduous process of portfolios and letters of intent requirements is very validating. I realized, while waiting for my letter of acceptance or rejection to arrive, just how important academic recognition is to me. There's really only a brief window of time in which you can be a student, just a student, without the pressures and expectations of knowing what you're supposed to do with yourself. It's a horrible thing to be outside this window when you still haven't figured it all out.

Time and potential and destinations have been consuming me lately, perhaps the people around me too; maybe all of us.

For quite a while after I submitted my creative writing portfolio I didn't feel like writing. I tried not to ruminate too excessively on that fact, but it deffinately gnawed at my conscious thoughts each day. I felt that maybe I wasn't the writer I thought I was, that perhaps I liked the allure of the title, the intellectual and artistic approval that seemed to accompany the persona. However, yesterday I finished a great book and wrote a couple pages. I wrote about things that had happened in the word-less interim, and understood that I had in fact been writing down all these thoughts, just not on my computer or a piece of paper. I didn't rea-ccept or re-establish myself as a "writer" yesterday, but I understood something equally important.

Sometimes you have to be okay with, accept the fact that you may be the only person that believes what you're doing is real or right. It's great having other people affirm their mutual agreement or support, but there are times when you will be the only one on your team, and I'm okay with that.

Exams = More Procrastination = Two Posts In A Week

2007-04-05T17:51:00.000-07:00

I have a very bad habit of putting my foot in my mouth. My social rationality seems to vanish for entire days, sometimes weeks, and in that time I think it's appropriate/ timely/HILARIOUS to say things that just aren't. You see, my intentions are good, to make people laugh, but my follow through...let's just say my accuracy rating isn't that high.

I can remember being in elementary school, over for dinner at a friends. Dinner was slow, no one was talking, it was awkward. I decided to talk about the name Richard, how gay is that?! Only hairdressers are named Richard- Well, hairdressers and my friend's dad. Okay, I was one for two.

I give away surprises, I often lack tact, and I've spent many a moment laughing to my jokes alone. But yesterday, reparation arrived in my english class in the form of a student (that, thank God, wasn't me).

We've been reading Fight Club in class and yesterday we were talking about masculinity. Someone claimed that violence is innately part of masculinity, while another student disagreed.

"No, I don't think that's true. I mean, the whole point of Fight Club was that all these men had never been in a fight, that they wanted to rough up their bodies and "hit rock bottom". Personally, I've never been in a fight in my life, never punched anyone."

My jolly Irish prof began to chuckle, "Well," he said, "I've been punched in the face a few times before..."

And then that same student said without a moment to pause, think, or SAY THE SENTENCE ONCE IN HIS HEAD AS A TEST:

"Well, I meant people who aren't Irish."

Yes, I Somehow Decided To Let This One Leave The Privacy Of My Inner Thoughts

2007-03-29T13:50:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a strange and random dream laced, of course, with elements of reality and surreality. The other day I left my Ipod at the gym and somebody obviously needed it more than I do, so we are no longer...a team. This is really the only factual aspect of my dream. What ensues, is the majority of what I can recollect.

I knew that I had insurance for my Ipod (which is not true in real life, damn) and so I went to the insurance company. Of course, the "insurance company" was just an old decrepit lady sitting on a fold out chair in the middle of a hallway. Naturally this utter lack of professionality made perfect sense in my dream. I began to explain my loss to her when she informed me of a fee, a $400 fee. Immediately I was unimpressed, like lady, nuh uh. My whole Ipod didn't even cost that much so why would I give YOU money? What the hell is insurance for?

But instead of being assertive and explaining the absolute ludicrousness of her insurance policy, I decided to do something I often do [unsuccessfully] in real life; be funny. So, as the old woman stared at me waiting impatiently for her $400 I cracked a joke.

"Uh OK I'll give you all that money...(I paused for added effect while looking around me to warn everyone of the comical bomb I was about to drop) right after I kill somone!"

Somehow, in my comatose state, I linked murder with exorbitant profit AND decided it would be an acceptable joke for an elderly insurance claims employee. I suppose I was thinking of murder in terms of hitmen (or women) on a commissioned type basis, but still, my utter disregard for appropriateness continues to traumatize and transcend even my waking moments.

I believe the worst part, though, was not the rude old lady, the steep fee, or my lack of tact, but that as I looked around to take in all the laughter and collective appreciation for my comedic genius, not a single surrounding person was laughing. Or smiling. Unfortunatley, even in my dreams I am painfully, demonstrably unamusing.

I'm Awesome

2007-02-27T17:18:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow morning I will send off my creative writing portfolio with its letter of intent, and pray to all that is holy in this world, that I will be accepted to the highly competitive program. Although I've had copious doubts over the last month about my abilities as a writer, and the extent of my enjoyment from such process, I believe that this is what I really want. However, like any intelligent person hoping to avoid a downward spiralling depression that results in stripping by the name of "Tigress Modesto", I have made a plan B. That being the objective of becoming a raging alcoholic that resides at any local bar and yells slanderous insults at innocent couples. Don't worry, I'll keep all my clothes on.

The whole process has been rough, both emotionally and mentally, drawing upon all my creativity, discipline, and strength to complete it. In an attempt to change long running habits of self-defeating behaviour, I am going to give myself a pat on the back, and the permission to feel good. I've wasted too much time stressing over my negative qualities, and far too little time thinking that I'm awesome.

In a couple days, on March 1st, three relatively important things will happen. My portfolio will arrive in Montreal to be submitted and judged, I will celebrate my 20th birthday, and this blog will be a year old. If nothing else, my history of contributing to this blog is testament to my love for writing, and whether or not I do it well or poorly is something I'm not going to have an anxiety attack over.

Well, at least not today.

Frisco

2007-02-12T19:19:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I spent four days in San Francisco with the boyfriend. He had grad school applications to do and, well me, I had shopping to do. Unfortunately four days just isn't long enough, and my only real regret is not having adequate time in a city so big.

On the first day we went out to the Fisherman's Wharf, venturing quite a ways away from our hotel in the middle of Cracktown. PARENTAL EDIT: Sorry dad, if you're reading this just replace the word "Cracktown" with "Richtown-without-mumbling-cracked-out-hobos". I'd describe Fisherman's Wharf as a cross between Granville Island and Disneyland, with a good view of Alcatraz. I decided that I didn't need to spend my time or money going to a jail, and opted for a simple viewing from a distance. I understand that many people are interested in seeing a jail when they've never before, but personally I want to keep my eyes virginal to the inner confines of a jail cell. Call me crazy.

After lots of walking we sat down near the pier to eat our clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl, something I'm still getting cravings for. As we sat and sipped our soup, several abnormally large sea gulls swooped down to stare at us. I just sort of sat there in a slight daze as I noted the colossal size of these birds. Either they have a secret vat of lard they like to snack on, or small children are going missing from Fisherman's Wharf. We threw a piece of bread at one of the birds and strangely enough, the bird only looked at it.

"Eat it you dumb bird," I said.

The seagull looked at the bread offering, then at us, then back down at the bread before he spoke.

"I'm sorry, but is this for me? This measly piece of crumb? I can hardly see it. How do you think I got so huge? By eating miniscule charity such as that? Pfft. I don't know what kind of physique those birds in Canada have, but it probably doesn't jiggle like my ass. A bird isn't supposed to have an ass that jiggles you say? Bite me. Better yet, bite that piece of bread. Nah, I'll leave it for the hobos."

I blinked several times and wondered what would have been a more appropriate offering. What kind of thankless animal was this? And then it made sense. I'm sure that when you're used to the succulent flesh of young tourist human babies, yeast risen bread just doesn't cut it anymore.

I looked back at the bird with spite and saw that he was pecking away at the sourdough. Hah, not so almighty now are we?

That Big Dude Upstairs

2007-02-03T21:43:00.000-08:00

You know, God.

I've provided several detailed accounts of that horribly, wretched, pretentious douche bag in my religious studies class, but the saga of him may never be at an end. I must, therefore, continue to update you--my faithful reading audience--of his day to day comments which gnaw at my fleeting sanity. And yes, by "faithful reading audience" I'm referring to my sister and her friend Nicole, who apparently, can no longer communicate via anything but blog.

My eccentric and passionate prof really is a good sport when it comes to PDB (pretentious douche bag). He let's him make his unnecessary comments, he pretends to take into consideration what has been said, and he even takes it upon himself to refrain from walking over to PDB's seat, placing one hand on his shoulder, one on his head, and snapping his god damn neck. Honestly, this is a feat. I fear, though, that I may not have this same ability to stop myself in the near future. If this be the case, I may have to make all subsequent posts from Juarez, Mexico, where the Canadian RCMP won't bother me.

The other day my prof was explaining a Daoist lesson through an analogy wherein a normal person asks a Daoist master what his religion is all about. The Daoist master goes on to suggest having tea first, and proceeds to fill up the questioners cup, and continue to pour even when the tea begins to flow up and out of the cup. The questioner becomes confused but then the Dao master tells him that no new information can be absorbed if your cup is already full. The obvious theme here is that one has to have an open mind to understand a new and foreign concept, in this case it is a religion. Nice, great, concise, we all understand, right?

No, PDB needs to add a remark.

He raises his hand, every kid in the class roles their eyes, and awaits the torture. PDB smirks in that completely infuriating way that screams "HEY EVERYBODY I KNOW FACTS!", and really, it's that smirk that makes my stomach turn. I hold down the vomit. He begins to speak.

"Well, you see here, something hasn't been taken into consideration. Really, it's just a common mistake to overlook things. Can't we assume that the amount of information one can take in is directly related to the...size of their "cup"?"

He finishes, looks around for the absent applause, and smiles at his unparalleled insight. My prof rubs his eyes before replying.

"You're just thinking about this in too technical a manner--"

But he's interrupted. A guy in the back of the class pipes up, finally taking initiative like all of us have wanted to for the last 20 classes and yells,

"IT'S A METAPHOR!"

I was hoping for a "STUPID" on the end of that remark, but really, his high level of angst sufficed.

I'm Gonna Go A Little Bill Maher On Everyone

2007-01-19T15:34:00.000-08:00

Hey UBC students, NEW RULE:

You know those two roundish shaped things on your face above your nose? Yeah eyes, use them. I know it sounds crazy and unnatural but here's an insane idea, LOOK IN THE DIRECTION YOU'RE WALKING! See now, some might think that I'm being slightly ridiculous in telling people to do this, but apparently it's just not an activity that students do naturally. A lot of people consider this to be quite an unconscious practice, but there's a fair chance they're among the non-university student population. It's really not all that difficult either, sort of a point and shoot mentality.

But in true optimistic fashion so foreign to my routine cynicism, I have high hopes that this is just a phase. Ideally these people will graduate and realize that such blatant demonstrations of mental retardation are not accepted in the real world. I could always reinforce these sanctions, or well, "encourage" them by clotheslining each one I see on campus.

That's right, WWF was very educational back in the day.

Ouch, My Brain Hurts

2007-01-12T17:04:00.000-08:00

Well it's back to school, and like always, with much less enthusiasm than Billy Madison. Maybe I should start eating snack packs?

Today I was having lunch with a friend and we were talking about how the holiday season went. She told me about what her boyfriend got her for christmas and her birthday, or more accurately, what he didn't get her.

"You know, I really don't care that much about stuff, I just wanted him to show a little more appreciation than a text message."

Yes, that is what he got her, and no, not very impressive. She went on to tell me the things that she got him, detailing the amount of thought and effort that went into each present. I told her that even I was pretty impressed with the things she bought and that a little reciprocation in the area of consideration should have come her way.

"Honestly, your gifts were so thoughtful," I consoled her.

She responded by turning to me with concerned eyes, pointing in the direction of her brain and saying,

"Yeah I know, and I mean, thinking's really hard for me."

Of Course!

2006-12-13T23:52:00.000-08:00

This isn't a story about how my car is a write off, a funny tale about how much I'd love to hurt the crack head who caused me this grief, or a chronicle of how I overcame this...unfortunate incident. Contrary to what I usually write, this post will be about something I noticed today.

Of course, these two words, when used in conjunction, have got to be one of the best phrases in the english language. Aesthetically they're not wooing anyone, phonetically, again, nothing too dreamy, but be patient. When you ask someone a question and they respond not with the boring generic "yes", "no", or "I don't really have time for this because I'm in law school", but instead with "of course", by god it sounds good. It's validating, empowering, and it makes you feel good. Honestly, I'm informing you of a master manipulator. THIS IS A TOOL!

Try it, go on now. Today, in some interaction, say "Of course" with conviction and passion--like you really mean it--and see what happens. Your response needs to radiate a sense of "Oh my God, how could you have thought differently?".

Look, I'm not saying it'll turn you into a fucking magician, I'm just saying that it might release some endorphins or something...

Go on now. Do it.

An Early X-mas Present

2006-12-08T09:21:00.000-08:00

You know that feeling you get when you walk out your front door in a rush, no time to stop and chat with the local raccoons when- OH SHIT RACCOONS! There, greeting you with a smile is your garbage strewn across the pavement. You stand there and think about whether or not getting to an exam on time is more important than making sure your neighbor's don't see that you really like avocados...a lot. So you kind of sigh, feel like crap, and then leave knowing that everyone will think you're a hobo. And then the sky opens and shits on you, literally, shit magically falls from the sky and lands on you.

That kind of reminds me of the feeling you get when a crack head steals your car. That's right, steals your mofo'n car.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!

I Couldn't Make This Shit Up If I Tried

2006-12-05T16:08:00.000-08:00

I was lucky enough to catch my bus yesterday just as the highschools were letting out. The bus was quickly stuffed with screaming, swearing, extremely entertaining students. I tend to think that I look so young for my age, and sometimes wonder why people don't stop me on campus and ask me if I'd like them to help find my parents. However, when I take a second to eavesdrop at 3:30 on a downtown bus, I begin to understand why I atleast don't sound like a 14 year old. Yesterday I overheard the following:

"You gonna get fucking tanked with us on Friday?"

"I dunno, you gonna share your alcohol with us?"

"I dunno, maybe, I only have 3 bottles of wine."

"What are you anyways, like I never know how to say that, but like what are your parents or whatever?"

"Oh, she's Yugoslavian, French, and Capricorn."

"What's crap-icorn?"

Last Day Of School

2006-12-01T08:22:00.000-08:00

When my alarm clock rang this morning--set to radio like it always is--I was very confused. The voice just said "600 AM" but the red numbers seemed to show that it was 800 o'clock. So if I were to "do the math", either I was supposed to sleep another 200 hours, or school had finally rendered me insane.

I find it slightly sad, that as I sat up right then, not knowing which one hundred o'clock it was, that I actually had to do a little self talk.

"Nothing's wrong, everyone you love is just fine, you are ok, the pain you're experiencing is something called E-X-H-A-U-S-T-I-O-N."

I Like Your Style Hemmy

2006-11-30T15:00:00.000-08:00

Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.

-Ernest Hemingway

Well, I must be a prodigious genius.

Whiteout?

2006-11-28T11:56:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-24T15:04:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-19T19:02:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-06T20:59:00.000-08:00

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.

Looking For Love

2006-10-27T15:47:00.000-07:00

In the past week I've noticed that people have been finding my blog by googleing some of the most obscure shit. I'm all "What the hell you creepo!" and then I have to realize that I wrote about whatever it was that they were searching for, so, maybe I'm the creepo. Anyways, here are just some of my faves:

"Nick Lachey souveniers"

"Her pants, pee stain"

"Billie Pipers breasts"

"I eat bits of shit for like breakfast" (which gramatically doesn't even make sense?)

"Zit under mole"

A while back I wrote about a store in surrey called "Talize" and that's been feeding me a steady flow of traffic ever since. Unfortunately when that traffic gets here and realizes that my blog has nothing to do with a second hand store selling used underwear, they become very dissapointed.

If I were to use the almighty analogy, it's kind of like finding out that your local weed dealer now only sells coke.

Not exactly what you were originally going for, but in retrospect, muuuch better.

Update Central

2006-10-26T22:15:00.000-07:00

I've been neglecting this sweet little piece of internet ass as of late, so I figured it was about time I showed my blog some affection. I had a post all written out the other day and then my computer decided to give me a piece of her mind and CRASH. We've since talked it over but I'm still pissed off.

I'm sorry I have to interject in my story right now to say that Nigella Lawson just made a salad dressing with pickle juice. I threw up in my mouth a little bit right there. But man oh man, if she gets those boobs from eating all the concoctions she makes, then count me in for pickle juice salad nastification. Sometimes I'm not sure if I believe she can cook. She's so sloppy with everything and it seems like all she does it eat anything in sight and let all the weight go to those knockers. God I love my new cable.

Alright, back to it.

Blah, blah, blah, my life is so stressful, I had lots of midterms...feel sorry for me? Please?

Thoughts on Nigella Lawson as a fraud, hottie, source of jealousy when you're eating mini wheats for dinner?

A Religious Technicality

2006-10-12T12:14:00.000-07:00

My crazy religious studies prof was explaining to our class yesterday that in the Hindu religion there are classes and castes. The classes are broken down into 4 groups, but the castes he says, are seemingly endless. Castes are something you're born into, and tend to be things like professions or skills. He gave us some examples, being a black smith, a baker, or even being a prostitute or a thief. I mean, that really had to suck for people following the Hindu faith way back in the day when they realized that their "destiny" was to be a hooker just like mommy.

Someone raised their hand and asked whether or not people tended to be included a combination of castes? My prof said that, no, most people generally fulfilled one caste in life and that was it.

I really really wanted to put up my hand and suggest that thieving hookers probably existed, therefore having a life that comprised of atleast two castes, but I worried that my humour would go unappreciated.

Hell, I bet there were even thieving hookers who loved to bake!

It's All About Perspective

2006-10-03T20:49:00.000-07:00

Everyone will inevitably have that one class in their semester that they'll think of as their "suicide class". It falls smack in the middle of the afternoon so that the lecture hall has had a chance to become a perfect incubator, the kind that renders you defenseless to the persuasive powers of sleep. As you nod off and dream about Mexican donkey's that just wont go in the direction you want them to no matter how nicely you ask you'll start to hear a voice talking. But wait -- It's the donkey talking! What is he saying? He's trying to tell you that 10,000 years in hell is really not all that bad compared to eternity. Pretty smart for a donkey you think. Then you realize that the donkey has been sleeping, you've been sleeping, and that was actually you're crazy prof who said that. Tap, tap on your shoulder, it's your turn to check off your name on the attendance sheet.

Yeah that's right, I'm "present".

Eventually you'll have to wake up and sit through the whole other hour of class. The suicide part refers to the last unendurable hour. Oooh that last hour.

My suicide class has really been kicking my ass lately. I decided yesterday while sitting in the agony of that class that there is one thing that ends up getting me through it each week. My prof is a real whack job and I imagine he sits at home and meditates with a plate of boiled cauliflower sitting beside him. Why cauliflower you ask? Or maybe you didn't ask because you don't care and you're speed reading this between sips of your mediocre coffee at work. Regardless, its cauliflower in my mind because that's what you eat if you figure you'll reach enlightenment; you don't need flavour because the escape from the cyclical process of eternal life suffering, death, and rebirth far surpasses hot sauce.

Anyway, what gets me through is when this whack job comes out and says the most random quote that makes me (and only me goddamnit why does no one else in my class laugh?) laugh.

Yesterday he said that being reborn as a squirrel wouldn't be that fun. No wait, he stood and thought for a moment.

"I think it would be ok! Yeah yeah, a squirrel is just fine."

You Gotta Go Where It Takes You

2006-09-26T00:28:00.000-07:00

The mood hit tonight, and I just had to go out walking. I plugged myself into my Ipod, pointed in no specific direction, and decided I had to go go go. I kept fearing having to come to an end, but shook myself of the melodrama. Walks end Carmen, walks end.

I ended up on a bed, tired, looking up at my friend adorned with a Zoro mask, princess tiara, and fake gun pointed at me.

"I'm just trying to clear out all my shit," she said to me. "It's all gotta go."

"I hear ya. I think I'm gonna throw out 90% of my stuff when I move on the weekend. Just donate it, or I dunno, throw it in a big green garbage bag and relish the liberation."

She held up the tiara, examining the tacky jewels and presumably its worth.

"Yeah, that one you can chuck."

"This? This tiara? Are you kidding me? This thing's killer. No way."

She put the fake gun half in her pants and checked herself out in the mirror. All of a sudden she whipped around and pointed the gun at me.

"That was awesome. Really natural, like you do it all the time."

Her eyes lit up with excitement.

"I should totally kill someone hey?"

"No, probably not."

Hemmy and I

2006-09-24T13:47:00.000-07:00

Hemingway wanted me to go fishing with him and Nick Adams today but I told him I was too busy. He was having some trouble understanding and I wasn't too sure if I'd ever be able to clarify the matter for him.

"The day is young. The trout will bite. The river will be calm as it passes over the rocks. This is the time," he said.

Look Hem, I have to read one of your stupid books and then write an essay, so essentially you are the reason I can't do something with you. And by the way, you can put more than four words in a sentence. I know you have a style and all, but I think you could really up the efficiency.

Hemingway looked at Carmen for a long while before casting his gaze elsewhere. "I suppose," he started tentatively, "I suppose I always thought that if I came back from the dead you'd be more inclined to come out and do something." He looked up at her again, but this time for longer.

Alright, first things first Hemmy. That last sentence was good because it was relatively long; that's what I wanna see. Or don't, I dunno I guess I don't care all that much. Second thing. The fact that you're resurrecting from the dead JUST to go fishing with Nick and I only adds to your already large fame. In essence, it's the sheer impossibility of your current actions that will result in the certain necessity of my essay. If you had just stayed dead, my prof probably would have assigned us something else to read.

Hemingway looked slightly defeated and his eyes conveyed sadness. "She is very blunt," he thought to himself. He threw his fishing pole over his shoulder and began walking down the street, away from Carmen.

"Another day," he said slowly without looking back, "We'll go to Pamplona and run with the bulls."

Hemingway kicked a stone near his foot and it scuffled along for a while before falling into a drain. He didn't hear it hit the water below, but he knew that it sunk none the less. He moved the fishing pole to his other shoulder.

Haik-Me, Haik-U

2006-09-22T18:31:00.000-07:00

Let's gather around,
It's time for wicked haikus,
Hold on tight you fools.

Packets of Kool-aid,
A mere rainbow in my glass,
Fun in my tummy.

Too apathetic,
Should cook myself some dinner,
Mmm, liquid sugar.

Ring, ring says my phone,
Come out and play now Carmen,
Time to seize the night.

I'm Defeating A Purpose

2006-09-19T13:34:00.000-07:00

I began to make a "To Do" list this morning, but felt my motivation wean quickly. I'm sure that I'm not alone in doing this, but I started to write down things I've already done, completed things if you will. Then I put a big red check mark next to those and realized that I was making an "Already Done'd" list. I think the underachiever in me really wanted a pat on the back, but knew that trickery would have to be involved in any successful praise. Atleast I'm having internal battles within my consciousness or subconsciously, the way a romantic or profoundly disturbed literary character does. That's a nice thought and I think I'll go with it.

She sat at her kitchen table, an empty coffee cup placed beside her making a ring on the wooden surface. "I'll deal with it later," she thought to herself, and averted her glance. She did a lot of things later, a lot of things never, but she often chose meek denial over admittance when it came to this issue. Sometimes she thought that her utter disregard for other people, for messes she made, and the general disarray she left in her trail was a sign of her immaturity. This again was denial. Immaturity in her mind presented a certain transient quality which, in her case, she understood to be rather doubtful. In the interest of honesty, however, she may have admitted that it was not immaturity, but rather selfishness. At the moment, she was not all that interested in honesty when applied to her character. She took out a sheet of paper, a pen, and began writing beautiful lies.

"To Do" she titled it.

A Lazy Sunday Afternoon

2006-09-17T16:57:00.000-07:00

Me: I don't know what the hell I'm gonna cook for myself when I move out? Well, yeah actually I have a pretty accurate idea; nothing.

My darling mother: Oh you'll figure something out.

Me: Maybe. I might just lose weight and become even more emaciated than I already am. That's just what I need.

My darling mother: You need to tell me your secret to staying thin.

Me: It's called apathy.

My darling mother: Well, you're not gonna die.

Me: Thanks for the heads up.

Sometimes Life Presents Us With Dilemmas

2006-09-13T20:23:00.000-07:00

I'm not the type to blow things out of proportion, to overreact if you will. I don't stress out or have anxiety attacks that leave me in the emergency room at 1 in the morning on a random tuesday night. Most of my friends would probably say "chill" if asked to describe me in one word because, essentially, staying cool is what I'm all about. So when I make mention of "dilemmas", a purely relative term, I'm talking about insignificant, minute, itty bitty rabbit terd shit compared to the things my psychosis manifests daily, momentarily resulting in the violent rise of my blood pressure. I just wanted to establish a certain perspective here.

So perhaps you were or weren't in your car on a very hot afternoon. You may or may not have been extremely thirsty, even thirstier than that family vacation you went on where the gas station attendant actually contemplated whether or not he knew what pop was. "Pop?" he questioned you. "Well, I'll check in the back." You saw an old bottle of iced tea and thought dangerously little about the repercussion of drinking rancid nestea before bringing it to your lips and tipping that shit back. The painful stomach ache you experienced later was a coincidence. Pure coincidence that had nothing to do with expired aspartame chemicals floating around in your vulnerable intestines.

And maybe, as you sat in an exceptionally long lecture on wednesday afternoon, staring at the minutes being passed on your cell phone, you had an alarming thought. Your purse is open, a perfectly acceptable state for a purse to be in and necessary if you're going to be staring at a phone that you'd rather not have your enthusiastic Bosnian prof see -- but wait! You have other things in your purse, specifically a sketchy hand knife that your friend brought you back from his recent trip "across seas" and you realize in a moment of panic that maybe your prof would care more about the SERIAL MURDERER in class, than the rude cell phone watcher. It's not that you regularly carry around hand knifes, leather bound Xena style ones none the less, but you happened to receive it on that particular morning and what else could you do but slip it right beside your mac book? Do you try to conceal the knife bringing more attention to the fact that you have an illegal weapon, or do you play it cool and hope that no one notices?

Or do you stand up in the middle of your mind numbingly boring lecture, knife in hand, and yell I'M GONNA SHANK YOU BITCHES!

Just Like A Caveman

2006-09-11T08:58:00.000-07:00

Some people smoke crack rocks in the back alley behind their shoddy apartment complex on the eastside, and some people eat a whole bag of double filling oreos each night because everyone's addicted to something. There is also this small group of vile assholes who see it fit to be "addicted to life" which is utterly dispicable but completely beyond my control. Quite honestly I respect the meth heads a lot more than the Ned Flanders because atleast their addiction is both potent and predictable. No hobo is really gonna say "Hey wait, that meth high sucked compared to my card board box!". Life on the other hand, pfft, I make empty suicide threats everyday! I usually follow it up with a "Don't worry moooom, I'm joking. You'd get too stressed out if I did that and I know how intense work has been for you lately."

For me, the cute little addiction I have no problem fostering is coffee. Caffeine mmmm, and my dealer is always hanging around at the local superstore, 7-11, or kitchen cupboard. He's a flexible little bastard.

I find it modestly amusing that early mornings and addictions can reduce me to a non-pronoun using degenerate. When that coffee hits my tired tastebuds, my brain just spits out a quick uncensored response; neanderthal style.

"Mmmm, so good."

The Future Looks Promising

2006-09-08T20:28:00.000-07:00

My school is very big. Now, when I say big I mean huge, gargantuan, bloody enormous and of all the kajillions of people in my massive school, I had to get that ostentatious douche kid in my english discussion class. I really don't even have a problem with that many people, but I swear to god, when that guy uses his heinous baby voice to describe his current mood my body goes into convulsions that almost match the nagging twitch in my eye. Today we had to do the generic "Tell us your name and an interesting fact about yourself" and well, as you may have guessed, his interesting fact didn't disappoint.

"Well I'm frighteningly..." he paused and closed his eyes for added effect, he inhaled deeply and then continued "...FRIGHTENINGLY obsessed with China." He lingered on the second "frighteningly" and my eyes started rolling back in my head uncontrollably.

I looked around the class, hoping for a look of understanding from someone, but found nothing. Between the girl who gave "dancing" as her interesting fact, and the guy who gave "I didn't eat breakfast", there was very little hope for mutual, bonding hatred over China man.

We got into a discussion about the discrepancies between fiction and non-fiction wherein China man had to make emo-I'm-a-typical-arts-student comments. I had too much rage cursing through my cynical, critical veins to spaz, so I let him duke it out with the ballerina. In retrospect I quite like the ballerina.

China man decided to say that when he has to suspend his disbelief in non-fiction, like he might in fiction, he thinks that the author has failed at his or her job. Please for the sake of my sanity, envision that last sentence being spoken by the most pompous, annoying, ENRAGING afroed freak. I'm really one for impersonations, so these words just tend to fall irritatingly short of the justice I could do to him. Anyways, the teaching assitant tries to tell him that it was a good point (lie) but is interrupted by the ballerina.

"Ok wait a second," she says, perplexed as she tosses her perfectly highlighted hair to the side. "What do you mean by "suspend disbelief"? You lost me there."

At this point I'm looking around the room frantically, not understanding how everyone didn't burst out laughing, but I try to remain poised as China man responds.

"Well, take Lord of the Rings for example. You have to believe that in the realm of the fictional story, hobbits really do exist. If you don't accept that, or if you question it, the story will never be "successful"."

The ballerina ruffled her brow and I could see the bright neon lights reflecting off her glossy lips.

"Hobbits?"

And I was afraid I wouldn't make it to university. Hah.

Life and Christmas souvenirs

2006-09-07T19:17:00.000-07:00

This past summer has aged me in ways that I could have never predicted. I've really had my ability to cope tested, and I'm hoping that all the pop quizzes are done. I tried to explain to some of my friends, in a moment of weakness, just what I was feeling.

"Alright, so pretend that you took everything in your life, carefully put it in a snow globe so as not to disturb anything, and then TURNED IT UPSIDE DOWN AND SHOOK IT! And then picture throwing that agitated snow globe at a brick wall and watching it break into a million little pieces that you know would be too hard to pick up and put together. Does that suffice?"

Everyone kind of sat there for a second, waited for the exasperated girl to finish, and the reactions varied accordingly. My favourite was from my friend Ben who, upon exhaling a large puff of smoke, said: "Whoa. Seriously, I dig that shit. That was an awesome story. A snowglobe? Who woulda thought!?"

A couple of days ago I was driving another friend of mine home, and I started to get a bit of road rage. I muttered some words of "encouragement" to another driver and she mistook my grumblings as desperation, or pain.

"Is it that snow globe shit?"

Today I went to the dollar store with my sister and hit the lowest of lows. In the middle of a row that had mars bars displayed alongside pads of paper adorned with happy faces, a Nick Lachey song started playing in the background. I looked up at my sister, saw the sheer anguish I felt mirrored exactly in her face, and closed my eyes.

"Let's get out of here. I will NOT break down in the dollar store."

Back To The Playground We Go

2006-08-29T23:03:00.000-07:00

Alright Krista, you tagged me. Now I have to write a post with 8 facts/habits/things about me, and apparently someone is going to appreciate my list. I'm sorry but I'll have to play this game of tag like that annoying anal kid at school who refuses to follow the rules. I will abide to the 8 things about myself, but I'm not gonna tag anyone else because I still want people to like me enough to give me their pudding at recess. Here it goes, 8 things you may or may not know about me, and you better enjoy this Krista...

1. I'm a real hypochondriac. Yes it can be funny, sometimes it gets me out of tight situations, but mostly it sucks. I plan on going to therapy so that I can be slightly normal, but mostly so that I can say trendy pretentious statements that go something along the lines of "...and so my therapist said that..." People will envy how crazy I am.

2. I want to be a writer. I hate feeling naive, and a lot of the time I do, but it seems to be the one constant aspiration in my life.

3. I will never work in an Italian deli again. When I leave the pasta, the olives, and the god damned cured ham in my dust, I hope to never reacquaint myself with it in the future. The other day at work, as I was scrubbing the boss's microwave that I've never used, I had a decrepit epiphany. Through my vile haze of angst I assumed a bit of responsibility for my unhappiness. I'm gonna have to be more ambitious if I want to enjoy my time, and this scares the shit out of me.

4. I'm looking forward to going back to school for the first time in my life. I actually appreciate the opportunity, and feel certain that the time and the place are right for me. I accept that university won't prepare me for a career, but the basic experience of going is important to me and I will finish this degree if only for that.

5. I will never try to save my life by getting an emo boy hair cut again. I felt like maybe it would be a cathartic and symbolic experience; turns out it just depressed me.

6. I hate dill, it's an odious herb.

7. My neighbours think I'm a drug dealer. Rather than try to clean up the rumours I just let them go on thinking that I'm a horrible human being that snorts rails off the hood of my car at the 3 in the morning with my friends. I have no idea why this is the neighbourhood opinion of me, but oh well, I'm faux hard core.

8. I can lick my elbow. And yes Shaun, that's admirable whether you want to acknowledge it or not. My sister called Guinness Book of World Records once to inform them of my impossible skill and they told her they get about ten identical calls a day. I still maintain that I'm special.

We Were Doing Zippers, Jalepeno Poppers, You Name It

2006-08-23T13:12:00.000-07:00

Sorry about my general absence on the blog lately, I've been in Hawaii saving turtles on an important expedition. I feel like I've really made a difference, and I think I'm growing as a person. Alright no, that's all a lie, but my friend did use that as an excuse to quit her job at Home Depot...

I've been busy looking for apartments and the like so that I can live closer to my school. It's such a frustrating process being a saleswoman for yourself. Hey Renters! I'm so awesome, I like cleaning, and being quiet, but also being fun, and I enjoy every hobby that you do! Did I mention that I periodically save lives? Of small children? Sometimes my hot girlfriends come over and we have rowdy pillow fights! I can also make origami samurai hats! How could you not want to live with me?!

It's exhausting, and ofcourse I'd never say that I'm a psychopathic hypochondriac because that isn't the most alluring character trait (even if it's the predominant one). Somehow that doesn't exude the charisma I'm going for...

My brother is in a similar place, trying to find a roomate for the vacant room at his house, and he's seen too many people in the last week to count. I know what you're thinking right now, that my brother and I should live together but c'mon, would you actually live with a sibling? I can just see it now, I'd wake up and be eating my cereal, keeping to myself when it hits me, HEY WHERE'S MY SPECIAL EDITION METALLIC NINJA TURTLE?! Oh right, my brother stole it. No way, jose, not going through those battles for a second time. And plus, the levels of ketchup that kid consumes traumatizes me in an irreversible manner.

My brother interviewed one guy for the place, a seemingly normal person in his early 20's, and thought that he might be a suitable match. He was a bit put off by the guys strong affinity for nintendo, explanations of how you might turn yourself into a fireball, etc. but didn't think that was a real problem. As the interview was drawing to an end along with the extensive discussions of nintendo, the guy had something to add, something that may or may not be of interest to a roomate.

"So I just wanted to let you know," the guy said, "That if I get the place, I like to go to gothic bars. I like to dress up in black latex, and dresses, and I just wanted to make that clear."

My brother said he wasn't sure if it was a joke or not, but he waited an adequate amount of time before deciding that it was most likely the truth. He didn't know what to say, how to respond to the black latex comment, but he's a quick boy, he could sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman in white gloves, so he responded the only way he knew how. Nothing to invasive, offensive, or extensive, just something to fill the awkward silence.

"So," I could picture my brother pooling together all his strength to keep a straight face, to avoid making this gothic loving man feel completely embarrassed, "Are there a lot of gothic bars in Vancouver?"

As you may have guessed, my brother didn't offer the place to him, and was more than relieved to see him go, but not before gothic man could throw out one last enticing proposition. And this is my favourite part by far.

When the new "WE" nintendo system comes out at christmas time, would my brother perhaps like to go halfsies on it with him? Yeah, he actually said halfsies, as in we each pay half of a fucking nintendo system so that we can share the euphoric joy it will bring while we wear black latex and gothic skirts.

I asked my brother later why he wouldn't want to live with the guy just so that he could brag about what his random roomate was doing that day. You know, he could give updates on his outfits, nintendo quests, or other equally hilarious moments. My brother said he had considered it, for about a second, but knew that the appeal would grow old too quickly.

After a week, I'd just have this weird guy wearing tight black plastic pants sitting on my couch, playing nintendo, and raving about how he was turning himself into a fireball. Nobody really wants that for a roomate.

Note to self: Do not tell tenants about latex, nintendo, or gothic hobbies.

Waiting On A Tug Boat

2006-08-15T15:52:00.000-07:00

I felt as though the blood test I had last week coupled with the decision to give myself an emo boy haircut wasn't sufficiently traumatizing, so today I went and had a cavity filled. I was tired, I planned on sleeping through most of it, and things were going pretty well until the dentist started moving his mouth and dispensing stress words and medical jargon. I had a Jerry Maguire moment where I had to stop and be like "Alright, so I started seeing dots and feeling puke in my throat at "banana shaped roots"". Oh yeah, and when you went through the universal "tug of war" motions in regards to removing my wisdom teeth, I had to sit down for fear of fainting.

What I find amusing about my dentist is his dense obliviousness. This guy will cringe, bite down on his teeth, cock his head to the side and inhale painfully as he looks at my X-rays. Then he'll look absolutely perplexed when I tell him that I'm ready to vomit.

"What? Oh don't worry, I just have to be honest with you about these sorts of things."

"These sorts of things?" Did you just cast me off into The Canadian Degenerate Leper Teeth Group with that last sentence? I felt slightly embarrassed as I sat down and admitted that I couldn't stand up too well, but I was more embarrassed that he had been doing this dentist thing for god knows how long and never once considered that his detached, blunt deliveries might be slightly upsetting. After a certain point his words were lost on me and the only thing I could focus on was making a barf plan. Yes that's right, a plan for where I would barf if the situation were to...arise.

I left, trying to play down the fact that I can't cope with the most minor of unpleasant situations, and got into my car. I drove home thinking all the while about a theory that someone I know believes in quite adamantly. When things are bad they sometimes get worse, and then a little bit worse, and then worse still, but in the course of things, if the bad has been sticking around for a relatively long while, then some greater power will cut you a break and give your little tug boat a push. It was never clear to me if the push was fueled from pity, was earned, or was just plain coincidence, but I think the point was that it would arrive eventually.

I'm gonna get in my tug boat, try to put on some makeshift seat belt made out of sea weed, and wait for a sailor, a drunk hippie, or maybe even a a topless mermaid to give me a god damn push.

This Just About Made Me Shit My Pants

2006-08-11T19:07:00.001-07:00

I Surprised Even Myself

2006-08-11T13:53:00.000-07:00

I went and got a blood test today, something which I previously considered to be impossible for myself. I decided to really suck it up and face both my fear of needles and ironically, being healthy. I think as a hypochondriac your greatest fear is being totally ok, as completely irrational as that sounds. I took my number, 98, and I waited in the fluorescently lit room.

After they called my name I walked into a hallway with several stalls and upon realizing that I didn't even have a private room to cry in, said "HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, FUCK THIS" in a very loud voice. I sat down and wanted to tell Mr. Impatient that I needed a second but he seemed pretty eager to drain me.

"Look buddy, I might die in this chair. Like right here, right now, DIE."

"When's the last time you had a blood test?"

"A blood test? NEVER. Do I look like one of those sane normal people that can do this regularly?"

"Flex. Alright, that's a good one," he said as he pointed to a tiny blue line near the inside of my elbow.

I'm sure he says that to everyone, emphasizes the "good" factor, but I secretly relished the fact that my veins were above average, good even.

"Just a little prick...So are you in school? Are you crying?"

"Yes, school."

"You must be smart then?"

"Yeah, I'm a fucking genius."

His small talk was aggravating me but I didn't dare move a muscle for fear that the needle would lodge itself deep into my arm. I was just # 595059 on this guys list and his automated questions were not what I wanted to hear. He finished taking 4 viles of blood from my arm and then asked me how I was feeling.

"So don't lift anything heavy for the rest of the day."

"Ok, I usually do a lot of heavy lifting, as you can see from my huge arms, but I suppose today I'll deviate from my normal routine."

"Do you want something to drink, maybe apple juice or fruit punch?

"How about a gin and tonic?"

He chuckled, "Nope, we don't have that here."

Renaissance Woman

2006-08-10T19:24:00.001-07:00

I was driving in my car today, thinking about what a fun person I'd be with a lifetime prescription of Valium, and trying very hard not to spill greek pita in my lap. I don't think it would even matter if it was my friends taking the Valium or myself, as long as one of us had pink happiness in our system we'd be good as a collective group.

I was listening to The Beatles telling me that money can't buy love and I felt a little better provided that I'm basically one step up from hobo.

I thought back to highschool when I used to worry immensely that the feta they had used in my pita was probably full fat and not light. I sighed. My worries have since moved on from cheese and calorie contents to much more substantial, knock the wind out of you stresses. I think this should bring me some ironic sense of pride, you know, because now my anxiety attacks are so grown up. There is a progression somewhere here that really needs to be acknowledged.

I spilled tzatziki down my chin and tried to wipe it up without smashing into the car infront of me. Mission accomplished.

A fire truck flew by and no one really moved out of the way. There were some half-assed fear induced attempts, but really, I couldn't call them more than attempts. Some people braked a bit, but in a united effort, we all did nothing. I could blame my apathy on the fact that I was concentrating so deeply on my delicious pita, but that would only be half true. I accept partial responsibility for the apocalypse right now. As for everyone else, I'm not sure what they were thinking. Maybe it was something along the lines of "I NEED TO GO GET MY EMO-LATTE AT JJ BEAN!" Starbucks is only for ignorant, corporate supporting, bastards, ugh. Excuse me while I go put these free-range egg shells in my organic compost.

My drive was insignificant in the course of things, my destination hardly important, but amidst all the futility, I was a mother fucking multi tasker. Yeah that's right planet earth, I MULTI TASKED TODAY!

I Eat Pieces Of Shit Like You For Breakfast

2006-08-08T23:41:00.000-07:00

You eat shit for breakfast? Yes I'm using a Happy Gilmore reference as filler.

I was giving someone their change today at work which, as it turned out, was only 1 cent. Yeah that's right, so insignificant that I can't even find the symbol on my keyboard and am forced to write it out with bulky, inefficient, horribly time consuming letters. The horror. The inevitable situation with pennies is the "Are you a cheap-o or not?". It's always slightly awkward and everyone has a different approach. Like, do you say "Hey do you actually want the 1 cent?" or do you give it to them and have them look back at you with the "Are you kidding me, do I look that cheap?" Either way you seem to lose, and being the fairly apathetic employee that I am I generally just go for the laziest option which is simply handing the customer the penny.

Today I followed suit like always and a woman gave such a disturbingly hearty laugh upon eyeing the change I was returning to her. She looked at me, then the penny, then back up at me while her laugh reverberated off the building walls. The laugh came from such a deep part in her being and it spoke.

"That's the same refuse that litters the bottoms of all my garbage bags and makes them so heavy for Maria to take out. What, do you actually have a use for those little copper tid bits? Look at this eye lift bitch, it didn't come from no good pennies."

And then she actually took the penny.

Let's Cut The Shit

2006-08-01T21:18:00.000-07:00

How many parents, including your own, do you witness fabricating the most outlandish lies in efforts to shelter and protect their children? The things they come up with to avoid having to answer the most popular childhood question, "why", almost seem like more work than telling the god damn truth. The real reason I needed to go to bed at 8:30 rather than midnight was not because I was tired, it was because my mother would have tried to stick a barbie's arm through her retina otherwise. Those vindictive preschool classmates weren't laughing WITH me when my long hair touched the sand while I was swinging, they were laughing AT me. And why did we just pass McDonalds to turn into the Dentist's parking lot? Essentially childhood is a series of lies that gets you through the first years of your life believing that all people are good, your future is full of potential, and you won't find yourself starving at 4 in the morning in your apartment all alone staring at the banana you just dropped on the floor contemplating whether or not it would be to gross to eat it keeping in mind that no one will know but your pathetic self. If only I could revert back to lies, good ol' comforting lies.

I remember a moment of true honesty that I experienced with my mother while painting one afternoon. I watched her brush strokes intently and tried to recreate the masterpiece she seemed to produce so effortlessly. I let the brush sweep across my page and doing that made me happy. I believed that people got to do what made them happy in life so I told my mother right then that I would grow up to be an artist. I imagined a romantic life of berets, rainbow paints, and somehow amongst it, coming from thin air, income. Right after I told my mother this she looked pained and was silent before uttering something that was seemingly unpleasant.

"You know Carmen, artists just don't make enough money. You should become a baker instead so that I could come by and get free donuts whenever I want."

I decided right then and there that I would become a baker. My mom was probably exhausted, unable to force a smile and let me be naive about my future, but above it all I knew that she really, truly, genuinely and honestly wanted some free donuts. I think it must have been the honesty that really impressed me and simultaneously made me alter my future goals, but it could also have been the allure of sugar. I'm ok with it been either, or a combination of both.

Today I was near a mother and her screaming children in the busy marketplace. The daughter was screeching for mother to just break down and buy her an artisans hand made paper mache cat, and through the unwavering stress, anxiety, and pressure, that poor mother did break down, and she told her daughter the truth.

"Look, mommy's not gonna waste $20 on an ugly chunk of paper," she said in the bitchiest, loudest, most sincere tone.

Babe Magnet

2006-07-27T12:42:00.000-07:00

I apologize for every post beginning on this note, kind of like those pre set intros your cell offers as appropriate and apparently popular text messages like "I love you," "Sorry I'm in a meeting," or "Fuck off and give me back my sweater with the blue and yellow stripes, yeah, I think I saw it underneath your bed you dumb whore," but the other day at work...

...I was watching two friends trying to decide what to get. They were probably in their early thirties, laughing and talking to each other, and I read what was written on one of the guys shirts.

"Don't Make Me Laugh --
I'll Fart."

It brought about a certain air of nostalgia, like I was back in grade six when wearing t-shirts that said things like "The man" (with an arrow pointing up) and then "The Legend" (with an arrow pointing down) was soooo cool. But hey, I mean, who am I to discount the act of wearing obnoxious t-shirts to 12 year old boys as if it's annoying and way over done. There are plenty of people, adults even, who love to wear t-shirts with messages intended to be read. Like Paris Hilton for example, that girl loves a dumb shallow slogan like "Your boyfriend things I'm hot" written across her chest, and hell she's being honest. Maybe it's because her "Legend" (arrow pointing down) is so undeniably legendary! Atleast for the little boys the comedy was in the irony...

Rantings aside, in the midst of being apathetic and self loathing at work, I decided to comment on the guys shirt.

"Your shirt is so charming," I said in a flat tone with eyes that conveyed a certain sense of amusement.

He and his friend laughed simultaneously, and then the friend gave the guy a good couple pats on the back. My shift was far from being over, and the desire to provoke some unsuspecting, seemingly innocent man was far too tempting to ignore.

"You must get a lot of ladies in that shirt eh?"

And with that I got the workplace laughing, the fellow employees, the people being served beside him, and even the old woman selling pottery that no one buys. I guess I'm a bit of a vulture, but hey, he had neither irony nor an internet sex tape going for him.

For some strange reason the guy bought nothing, walked away, and probably said something like,

"Dude, you see that girl? She was all over me, man this shirt works EVERY time!"

Not His Finest Moment

2006-07-25T12:47:00.000-07:00

My dad: Nice sweater, when'd you get that?

Me: When did I get this? I dunno, years ago when you gave it to me.

My dad: I gave that to you? No.

Me: Yeah, when you were in the states. You brought it back for me.

My dad: Hmm. Well then, I have good taste.

Me: Yeah, and apparently not the best memory.

Siamese

2006-07-18T16:41:00.000-07:00

My parents contemplated separating us at birth but eventually decided against it. They thought we'd be best friends, but the truth is, she's really starting to get on my nerves.

I think it's pretty clear which is the annoying one...

My Appearance

2006-07-16T20:57:00.000-07:00

The random and uncalled for Hunger Strike hasn't been treating me too well these days, and sometimes I find myself wanting to strangle people. As I was leaning against a counter at work, staring off into freedom, I heard someone pipe up and say something.

"Looks like you need something to do," he said with a smile.

I looked back at him, directly in the eyes, and mustered the most believable smile I could. Yes customer # 6895, ten minutes before closing on my third ten hour shift in a row, that HAS to be the look on my face. If I could give you an award for accuracy I'd be handing it over to your proud little hands right now. Surely my face didn't say "I'm tired", or "I haven't eaten in a week", or even "I'd LOVE to be anywhere but here". Let's break it down for you gramps, there's no way in hell I didn't have "GO AWAY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD" written blatantly across my forehead in thick red facepaint. Maybe you also think that hobos "look like they need some caviar," because that'd be right on the money.

I picked up a container, and started filling it with his overflowing obliviousness.

Hookers With Attitude

2006-07-13T17:39:00.000-07:00

There are prostitutes running rampant around the city making everyone's lives a living hell. I don't mean the kind of prostitutes that wear one cowboy boot and a kitchen sieve on their head, but the kind that drive around in the big SUV's and honk at me. The ones that don't know how to drive, get intense road rage, and then blame their inability to steer and simultaneously press a gas or brake pedal, on me. Alright, they're probably not "hooker" hookers, but there's a good chance that they're doing someone old and rich...for money, and that's teetering on the exact definition. When I tell myself that they're hoes it makes me calm down a bit, like maybe, I'll let them off unscathed sans my middle finger in the rear view. Whatever gets you through the day right?

Once I got out of the sardine can that is downtown and onto the highway I felt much better; hookers will disperse and become less frequently encountered on highways. I think that was one of Newton's Laws or something, but then again, my highschool physics teacher did sign my yearbook by drawing a picture of me with my head on my desk beside the caption "In need of momentum Carmen?" Quite the clever one he was...

Nearing the end of my trip I saw a guy wearing tear aways, let me repeat that for added emphasis, TEAR AWAYS, yes the pants you can rip off your body in the blink of an eye, and I felt so betrayed. Wasn't there a collective action among "young people", an unwritten agreement that we would leave those in our elementary past? But then it clicked, the puzzle pieces started to come together in my sadly perplexed brain, hoes in escalades, juveniles wearing easily removable pants, HOOKER IS THE NEW BLACK.

It's not that girls all over the world haven't been dressing like hoes forever, but they definitely haven't all been making money! C'mon sweet thangs, you've gotta capitalize on that shit!

Desperation

2006-07-11T20:55:00.000-07:00

Al is eagerly awaiting one of the most intense computers I've ever heard about. I don't know the first thing about PC's (I'm a faithful mac user), but gauging from the familiar techno sparkle in Allan's eyes this machine is gonna do just about everything except spoon feed him. He's teetering on the edge of insanity waiting for this piece of ass, and driving me to the same place in the process. Not a day can go by without him asking me to drug him and maintain his sedated state of mind until the sweet arrival of his baby. I was thinking of using either rufis or tranquilizers, but suggestions are welcome.

We've already named her Lady Electronika, because she's referenced far too many times in a day NOT to have a better name than "that machine that's going to take your place as my favourite female". He didn't exactly say those words but I'm no idiot. If you don't believe the severity of his craziness, then check this out. The poor guy is making cut and past collages like that of an eight year old...

I haven't met Lady E at this point so I can't form any real opinions about her shady character or fat ass, but it's only a matter of time. She better learn her place quickly though, because I'm a tough competitor.

War's on bitch.

PS - I'm dying

2006-07-11T12:36:00.000-07:00

For some completely unknown reason I can't eat anything. I just tried to force feed myself a creamsicle; then I spat it out. I'm feeling particularly emaciated on day 3 of this random disease of non-appetite. For the little girl who always cries wolf (medically), I may just be dying! My 16 year old self would have begged for this problem, if only I could have timed this better. Then again that would imply that I have some control over this absurd predicament. Has anyone ever heard of this nonsense?

Bad Timing

2006-07-07T22:45:00.000-07:00

Today on the bus a little boy with winding curls looked up at me and pointed. He pointed at the window, his dad, his mom, and then at me; so I pointed back at him. He smiled because I played his game, and then we played peekaboo and counting to ten. The peekaboo made him laugh, it made the lady beside me laugh. His sister asked my name, "Carmen" I said, "Carmen" she repeated, and let it sink in. The boy screamed for apple juice, and then he blew me kisses. "Thank you!" I said, "Am I your girlfriend now?" He smiled again and nodded vigorously, then blew me a couple more in confirmation. His dad took a picture of me and said that he wanted to remember his sons first girlfriend. It would be a short relationship I thought to myself, and then I got off at my stop.

I told this to Al when I got home and he laughed at all the right parts, making me feel good. His smile transformed into confusion, and then to slight anger.

"You cheated on me on our anniversary?"

"Sorry."

Next Week, I Moniter The Growth Of Tadpoles Into Frogs

2006-07-06T13:49:00.000-07:00

Since I may or may not have a problem with an aforementioned bout of forgetfulness here and there, I never ever manage to watch prime time sitcoms regularly. People around me in class, or friends when I'm out, will always talk about the latest episode of such and such where some troubled guy or girl is smoking crack, shooting someone, being a slut, or involved in some other very unpredictable story twist. Essentially I abstain from watching these shows, and having to admit that I have an insatiable addiction, all because of my own retardation. It's as though I have this built in mechanism that saves me from jumping on bandwagons, or getting caught up in trends that result in the purchase of The OC barbies.

Carmen : 1, Media executives trained to pin me as a demographic : 0.

Alas, I write this in hindsight because those execs are smarter than I thought. They put the episodes TOGETHER, so you can watch them in 24 hour long marathon sequences, on little pieces of rainbow-y circles called DVD's. How dare they swat at my achilles heel? And make it cost money? More money than the free-ness that was on TV? I throw up my hands in defeat; I'm LOST...

That intro could only lead to the painful reality that was myself and Allan in the let down of Tuesday night. When we pulled up to Rogers Video I felt good, I knew that my fix was near and man, was I fiending. We looked in the usual section, "TV", but couldn't find it, our beloved, ADDICTIVE show. I'm sorry, Emo Rogers Worker, what do you mean, LOST isn't "in". IS LOST LOST?

I was devestated to say the least, and when the shock of our situation began to wear off, the realization of something else rolled in. We were a couple, milling around, grazing in Rogers Video, looking for our night's plans just like a million other couples. Movie rental places, like nowhere else (except maybe the grocery store on a friday night) make you feel like a grand loser. Everyone mopes, adjusts their sweatpants, and eventually someone says something like "Well you're just gonna have to pick between this Hilary Duff movie and your Denzel Washington one." The implications, consequences, and internal battles being fought seem to resonate of the walls there. The place reeks of disagreement and last minute plans.

I think the video store experience would have been OK, survivable, if Mr. I-sat-near-you-in-highschool-english-class didn't come up and have an akward conversation. I recognized him, but had no delusions about the extent of our friendship. It bothered me that he didn't abide to the unwritten rules of video store etiquette (#37 - Akward conversations should be avoided at all costs, this includes but is not limited to, people you used to sit near in previous classes.)

"Oh Carmen, hey!" he said as he gave my boyfriend a "manly" head nod.

"Ooooh. Hi."

"What have you been up to lately, well besides renting movies."

"You know, working in the summer, going to school."

"Yeeeah, me to, working TWO jobs, and going to school, so you know."

I got out of that situation as fast as possible, but couldn't help feeling that he had pushed me over the edge. Him and his trophy girlfriend, the one he never had in highschool, me and my boyfriend, just having a conversation in the TV aisle of a video store. It gave me an overwhelming loser feeling. I'm young, wasn't I supposed to be snorting lines off the hood of my friends car? Or maybe dancing on tables with a moose hat on thinking that this, this is where it's at. I should be riding down streets on a bike that I just stole from a snotty eight year old, a bike with no brakes and a unicorn bell. I should be getting ugly chinese character tattoos symbolizing "peace" and then regretting them five months later.

But maybe then, the media execs would catch on, they'd see the "trends of the young" and make a new hit show called "Sk8ter Girlz" with rampant drug use, careless acts of deviance, bandanas tide around heads; and I'd hate for them to pin my demographic once again. So for that, I'll remain a big dork, having akward video store reunions, and knowing that no one, would ever, ever, make a show about that.

Taken Out Of Context

2006-06-29T01:15:00.000-07:00

Me: Brian, you should tell your mom to teach a class called "How to save yourself, and the world". She has all this stuff figured out.

Al: What? How to soil yourself in the modern world?

In The Ghetto

2006-06-27T12:59:00.000-07:00

A couple days ago, Al and I noticed that a shopping cart had been consistently residing on his front lawn. Now, neither of us are sure if it's someone's "house", or if it was just the aftermath of a grocery shopping trip with an extremely lazy buyer, but we came to be kind of accustomed to seeing it every day. Each of us had some comforting level of security knowing that regardless of how blistering the heat grew to be, that little shopping cart would keep truckin' just for us. We give it space, never crowding or demanding joy rides from it, and in return, it respects our humble sentiments. I dare say, we, well, we love that little shopping cart.

Last night as we pulled into his drive way some drunken 14 year olds were stumbling by. We watched as they pushed each other, slurred some indecipherable statement and then, in an extremely uncalled for bout of deviance PUSHED OUR LITTLE SHOPPING CART.

"What the hell are they doing?" Al asked, "That kid thinks he's so strong."

"Yeah, what the hell?" I agreed with gusto.

We got out of the car and walked towards his front door, both silent and consumed with our joint thoughts of shopping cart vandalism.

"I really didn't like that, when they pushed the shopping cart. I mean, they THREW it down," Al admitted.

"Yeah! That's OUR fucking shopping cart. Punks."

"I'm really glad you were thinking that too."

Forgetful Franny

2006-06-26T15:29:00.000-07:00

Something that I've recently had to come to terms with is that I'm embarrassingly forgetful. It's not a very admirable character trait, it tends to cause me overwhelming guilt, and at times it really makes me cringe. I used to pride myself on my ability to photographically remember anything for a test; I'd only study 30 seconds before go time and always manage to do really well. I guess that I haven't entirely lost that capability, it's moreso that people don't make arrangements with me on a piece of loose leaf. God damn spoken instructions! I'd love to turn this problem around, but chances are I'll just forget all together.

Yesterday I got on the skytrain to go home after work, and like many days, I called for someone to pick me up from my stop. I couldn't seem to get through to anyone though so I called Al. He doesn't live that close to the station I get off at, but he's a nice guy like that so he said it would be no problem. I told him to shoot for arriving in about half an hour.

"Half an hour? I could just leave now if you want."

"No no Al, it's fine, wait a bit and then come."

So I sat and rode on through all the stops, knitting like I usually do (because I'm a dork), and encountered the usual strange stares. A woman sat down beside me, she asked what I was making. She told me about her son, how she likes to cook, etc. and I told her about my knitting when she asked. Then I listened, well the whole skytrain listened, to two young guys on their cell phones.

"I dunno man, fuck dude. (Pause) Well I'm going home to fuck my bitch and he is too."

I appreciated the free entertainment they were providing, and strained to listen to everything they were saying. I picked up my phone and called to see if Al had arrived. I walked towards his truck.

"Hey baby, what's going on?" some guy shouted at me as I walked past.

"Not too much," I laughed.

"What are you up to tonight?" he asked. I was almost at Al's truck by that point.

"Tonight? I'm going home with my boyfriend," I said as I opened the truck door. I heard him say "nevermind" as I shut it.

I was so happy to see Al, but I had forgotten one very important thing; I had driven myself to the skytrain station that morning, so my car was there aswell. Allan was a little less than pleased, I felt like an idiot. He drove me over to my car and then we traveled back home one behind the other. Periodically I would look in my rear view and see him rubbing his forehead, the way he does when he's really stressed.

I waved to let a car in infront of me and the guy gave a nod of thanks. The light was red so I waited and watched Al. I could see him looking back at me so I made a little heart sign with both my hands, and then I saw him give a little laugh. I laughed too until I saw the guy I let in looking in his rear view.

It turns out I don't need to forget anything to be embarrassing.

Overheard On The Bus

2006-06-24T20:50:00.000-07:00

Girl #1: Oh look there's that cool mural.

Girl #2: Yeah there's Marilyn Monroe. She's so pretty.

G#1: She's in that movie right?

G#2: Yeah yeah, totally. I think so.

G#1: Moulin Rouge.

G#2: Oh yeah, that's it. Mmm hmm.

A Fitting End

2006-06-23T21:44:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like a downtown apartment building to act as the crossroads for the craziest of crazies. It's not that I consider myself that sane or normal, because I definitely don't have everything working together upstairs, but it's rather that these other people are crazy in more apparent ways. Some are late night screamers, others are loud ass couple fighters, while a few choose to tell you about their grandchildren during awkward elevator rides. The other day I helped Al move out of his building, and ofcourse, no stressful day of moving could be complete without one of the crazies cramping our style (and being a bitch).

I was sitting down in the lobby "guarding" Al's possessions, a lampshade to my right, and a Magic Bullet to my left, waiting for him to come down from yet another trip. A man walked past and through a door carrying a bag of garbage, a woman walked in the same door and looked at me for a while. She pressed the elevator button.

"Are you moving in or out?" she asked.

"Out, well my boyfriend is."

She chatted with me for a while, asked how big it was, how the view was, how much it cost; she was kind of nosy but I didn't really mind. The two guys that Al and I refer to as "The Russian Gangsters" came into the lobby and pressed the elevator button. They said some things to each other that I didn't understand and looked hard core like always. Two men came in aswell and pressed the elevator button, making it the third time. I looked up at the lights that indicate which floor the elevator is at and saw them flickering in and out of number 16, 15, 14, etc. When it finally got to the lobby Al was there with a table and cardboard box. He started to maneuver his way out and then the chatty woman turned to me.

"Aren't you gonna help him?" she asked in an impatient tone.

I hopped up and went to help him. She asked both of us why we hadn't rented an elevator for ourselves so that we "didn't have to hold it up for everyone else."

"It's broken," Al and I said simultaneously. We were both concerned with proving our innocence.

"Well did you tell the office that there's a problem?" she came back at us with.

Some guy near the mailboxes piped up, "It's been stuck on floor six all night. Don't know why."

The two guys made a comment to let us know that they hadn't appreciated the wait. We appreciated their two cents. The chatty woman continued where she left off.

"Well I just know that you gotta tell the office about things like this right away. I mean, I run a hotel right, and like, you just gotta do things immediately or else there's gonna be problems."

I looked at her uniform and read the words "Security Guard", I didn't exactly believe the "run the hotel" part. She seemed a few screws short and I was starting to loose interest in her stories and lectures.

The majority of people got on the elevator and were whisked away. The Russian gangsters and the woman remained. Apparently she hadn't told us everything she needed to because she started up again.

"You just have to rent the elevator so this kind of stuff won't happen, it's real simple," she began opening her mail.

"Yeah well, it's broken so we couldn't."

She shuffled through her stack of letters and made a joke to the gangsters, they didn't laugh or smile because gangsters don't do that. She opened one.

"Oh fuck, fuck. What do these bastards want now?" She looked up at the gangsters and I. "You know, one time at the hotel there were 28 non-english speaking japanese girls. Gosh, you know, all in their cute little uniforms and they were stuck in the elevator screaming, screaming in those high pitched voices they have, you know what I'm talking about right? Anyways, they were all like hing ho bo ko ja (she uttered her rendition of japanese)."

The gangsters and I looked at each other and then her. Had she really just imitated japanese school girls? I was kind of embarrassed.

The elevators opened, the gangsters and her got on. Allan was still fuming, I could tell he didn't like her butting in to our affairs, and he decided to mutter some last words when the elevator doors were almost closed.

"It's broken. You dumb bitch."

We pushed open the front lobby doors and walked out of the building. It was the last time he or I will ever be there.

I Just Really Didn't Need That

2006-06-20T20:51:00.000-07:00

Last night Allan and I decided to walk back to his place, across the Granville street bridge as the sun set, instead of taking the proletariat chariot. After passing the sign that reads "Side walk narrows" Al started to grasp my hand a little tighter.

"Are you afraid of heights?" I asked mockingly.

"No. I'm not afraid of little heights, just big ones." he retorted.

"Ummm, I think that's called being afraid of heights. If it's too little it's not really considered a height."

"No I can handle four stories, just not like ten."

"Oh I see. Well I doubt we're near ten and you're looking a little pale."

"I'VE WALKED HERE A MILLION TIMES OK!"

I burst out laughing because he was squeezing the blood out of my hand and looking so enraged. He told me to stop laughing because all the people driving by would think I looked stupid, crouching down, trying to stop myself from peeing my pants. I couldn't help it though so I laughed until I had some tears in my eyes and then decided to hold his hand again and continue our walk.

"So my roommate told me that he's been using my toothpaste for the past two months."

"Oh christ. Oh god this is horrible. Do you think he was waiting until you were moving out to tell you? Like hey, you're going so now would be a good time to fess up."

"No, I don't even think he was timing it like that."

"Seriously Al, I had moments in your bathroom, contemplating whether or not I should use it for fear that this exact thing would have happened. BAAAAH! You know looking the thing over, wondering, HOPING that he wasn't such a douche."

"I thought it was going down a little too fast."

"He better not have herpes," I spat out as another germ accident jogged my memory. I had dropped my cell phone on the PUBLIC washroom floor the other day and almost fainted. I looked at the little piece of technology, the germ infested ground, and considered just leaving it there. Could I, Carmen, really pick that up? I guess the answer was yes, but a very difficult yes.

It just about killed me. Then I was the one holding on a little tighter; from rage rather than fear of heights.

"Did you know Cecil's was a strip club?" Allan asked.

"I dunno, doesn't surprise me."

Drugs

2006-06-19T07:07:00.000-07:00

I took a Benedryl last night and read the "may cause drowsiness" part. For some reason I really wanted to stay up as long as I could to feel the sleepy drug. I thought it wasn't working, until it hit me like a truck-

ZzzzZZzzzZZzZZZzzzzzz's

2006-06-15T18:00:00.000-07:00

I really hate falling asleep right in the middle of the day. I'm not a napper by nature and so when I do actually doze off, I tend to feel ridiculously disoriented when I awake. I'll get up, stumble around, and wonder if I had been asleep for an hour, a day, or a week. Did I just miss work for the last seven days? Am I fired? Have I eaten? Did someone update my blog? No? AHHHHHHH.

I bet Rip Van Winkle felt like a fool when he woke up. His girlfriend had long since left him and shacked up with the local horse shoe maker, his parents were dead, the mountain goats had ritually peed on him, and to top it all off, he had a beard that no medieval razor rock could hack away at. Boo hoo, now I know how he feels. Minus the goat pee.

Yesterdays and tomorrows become pretty difficult. Was it yesterday that the waitress asked me if I had been "beveraged", creatively turning a noun into a verb? Did I play frisbee beside the graveyard today, or was that tomorrow? Can I remember things that happened tomorrow? Did Michael J. Fox just ride by on a flying skateboard? Oooh ok, I get it. IT'S BACK TO THE FUTURE!

When I was little, I hated anything to do with sleeping, bed times, or lying still and not talking. But ofcourse sleep is one of those "don't know what you've got til it's gone" things, so I'll be sure to go back in time with Mikey J. and tell myself that. I always found it a little alarming that my mom loooved sleep so much, but I accepted that we all had different hobbies. When it came time to make our mother's day gifts in grade one we were asked to draw our moms doing their favourite things. Some kids drew their mom gardening, or maybe playing with them, and I was all I KNOW WHAT I'LL DO/ EUREKA MOMENT, and I drew my mom in a nice big bed. When I brought it home she was a little mortified. But why are you worried about child services mommy? I drawed it so good...

So this is the part of my post where I sum up my meandering point. I give it a direction, maybe just a general one, but a god damn theme none the less. It makes you, the reader, think ahh, yes I remember why I decided to read this post. Then your life suddenly makes sense and you pick up that old rubik's cube from your childhood and rock it outta the park.

I like to be profound like that.

Oooooh Highschool

2006-06-13T12:31:00.000-07:00

This past weekend was the grad weekend for most people making it to the other side of highschool. Luckily for me, highschool fits into that category of "Things In My Past That I Now View In A Veil Of Nostalgia", and therefore is remembered with an air of sentimentality. Somehow, I'm able to remember the majority of good things, and forget the copious amount of bad, bad, very embarrassing moments; and for this I'm grateful. My sister is still in the dog house though, and sometimes the stories she tells makes me so glad that I'm not there anymore.

There are some crazy craaaazy bitches who tell you to "Take off your fucking sweatshirt, yeah, cause I'm wearing the same one and I had it first. You stupid bitch."

Or annoying emo girls that like to claim "emo styles" as their own; as if stripes have never been worn by anyone else through out the history of time. THEY'RE CALLED PIRATES YOU DUMB BITCHES. Some stupid girl asked my sister if she "Was wearing those pants because they're seen?" My sister was a little confused, "Seen?" she asked. "Yeah," the girl said, "You know, like you "seen" 'em on somebody else so you wanna wear them too." That's another thing about highschool bitches, they love to make up exclusive slang in efforts to further extradite their peers.

As I drove my sister to school today and listened to her having a hernia over final exams, I thought about highschool as a juggling act. You're supposed to balance homework and exams, you know, "the determination of your future" with relationships, emo bitches, and impossible expectations. I looked at my sister, with her cute moccasin boots, bangs perfectly in place, and anxiety ridden brown eyes, and thought "My god, this girl does it all and she manages to wear make-up, look hot, choose cute outfits, and act pleasant EVERY SINGLE DAY. I looked back at myself in my rear-view mirror, at my unkempt hair, my pajama pants, and thought, take a shower you hobo. AND THIS IS MY DAY OFF! Granted, some people are better at this juggling act than others.

I try to tell her not to worry and stress so much, that no matter how horrible things seem, they WILL BE OK. The thing is, when you're in the moment, searching for a little sympathy, having trouble visualizing the other side, and drowning in the here and now, it's way too hard to get perspective on things. I can remember when the crush of my elementary life found out that I liked him, and I felt like I'd rather be home schooled for the rest of my life rather than show my face at school again. Or maybe the time that I had a gym test in grade four and cried the night before because I was so afraid of not winning, subsequently flunking elementary, and eventually spending the duration of my life as a panhandling hobo knocking on your window as you sat at a red light on the corner of Seymour and Hastings. If someone had told me then that life would not turn into a downward spiral simply due to gym class, I probably would have kicked them in the shins because they couldn't possibly have said that if they just understood my situation. RELAY TAG ISN'T A PIECE OF CAKE YOU KNOW?! Can you see that my craziness started young?

Maybe, when you find yourself in the midst of a badish situation, you need to tell yourself that your five-years-from-now-self would tell your now-self that everything isn't as bad as it seems; as ridiculously impossible as that is. Sometimes you still have time to destress, take a step back, and log onto your sisters account and leave a picture of your ass as their desktop picture.

Thanks Megan, your bum staring at me in the face was a sign from the highschool god that you are, in fact, going to be just fine.

(Un)Entertaining

2006-06-11T21:10:00.000-07:00

During my thoroughly enjoyable day wherein several customers used me as a target for their pure unfaltering hatred for life, I met Screetus, and Smelly Danielly. I was kinda nervous because the closest I've come to meeting a celebrity would be that brown haired lady from "The Shopping Bags," and let's be honest, she's not really a celebrity she's someone who tests out various brands of deodorants. And yes, I consider bloggers to be celebrities. I won't even get started on the time I thought I saw Tony at work, stopped breathing completely, and then resumed when the man spoke with an english accent. I can be a bit of a dork...

I talked to a man today with "Crack is awesome" written across his shirt. I gave it some thought and decided that I liked him. Where as most crack heads like to keep their habits on the down low, or simply can't form coherent sentences, this guy was just declaring his love. Blatant and direct; you gotta give him credit for that atleast. The thing about being a trailblazer is that you can really motivate others to branch out as well. Maybe I'll start wearing a shirt that says "I don't exactly think of laundry as a "regular" thing". Al's might be "I like to eat mustard. Off my finger. My girlfriend doesn't really like that". I'm thinking that it'd be best to start with baby steps but eventually I'd like to make it to "Meth, we all do it in our back yard from time to time".

And finally, for my last random observation, I'm gonna mention the sushi restaurant waitress. I see this girl every now and again when al's kitchen doesn't have anything other than Vector, and the aforementioned mustard. She's constantly in a state of fastforward. She talks, moves, and hustles like Mario when you press A and B at the same time. I feel bad when I ask her what's in the special because I know that, somehow, that's throwing a fat wrench in her well oiled sushi machine. She wears these strange, ugly black and bleached white jeans and I like to believe that she's a hooker. I imagine that sushi is just her family run business and she therefore has to make an appearance sometimes. I suppose my petty california roll questions just get in the way of her habit of daydreaming about her true passion. Being a rude prostitute.

I think I shouldn't write posts when I get home from work. Something about the atmosphere of negativity and exhaustion...

The Day I Became A Murderer

2006-06-08T16:10:00.001-07:00

I was at the doctors today, an event that has become quite regular in my life, because I am crazy in a strictly non-trendy way. So what's wrong with me today? "Nothing" as per usual, which means I'll have to waste four years in med school, and figure it out on my own. Either the doctors are stupid, lazy, or dishonest, because they keep on telling me I'm fine, and I know much better than they do. I generally tell them my worries, or atleast a list of 87 of them, and they nod, pretend to listen, and then fiddle around with blood pressure, heart beats, or something else equally useless. Most people call the doctors themselves and set up appointments ,whereas, when you're a hypochondriac they basically just call you.

"Hello Carmen, this is the doctors office, we have an opening at 2:45, are you having any problems?"

I let a little chuckle escape as I check myself over. Any problems? Bitch please, cancel the rest of your appointments for the week. Then I hobble on my crutches, pick up the ziploc bag full of ice and my left ring finger, and stuff the picture I drew entitled "My Paranoia Release" into my purse. As I start the ignition in my car I worry that the air freshener may be emitting toxic and carcinogenic fumes. Around that time I try to breathe.

I always remember the part of that weird song "Class of '99", you know the song that's soley made up of a guy giving advice, where he says something like "Don't worry, or worry but know that worrying is as useful as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real problems in life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindsight you at 4pm on an idle Tuesday." That made me feel both better and worse at the same time. Better because the things I worry about are just about the most horrible things I can fathom, and if none of those happen to me, I'll somehow be saved. Worse because if I haven't thought of it, dear lord, it must be unfathomably BAD.

But so it happens that each day I generally get to sleep, and each morning I'm still here.

Today as a new doctor was checking me out I said "Well you know, I'm a major hypochondriac. I generally think I'm dying of one thing or another." To which he laughed, "Oh no, don't do that."

I looked at him for a split second with utter horror in my eyes before jumping across the room and beating him with all the rage I had in my being.

"Don't do that?! ARE YOU SHITTING ME?"

But he didn't hear me because my hands around his neck had already cut of the blood circulation to his brain.

Gender Bender

2006-06-07T10:15:00.000-07:00

At work I see a lot of people pass through in a day, and some of them really stay with me. Generally they're memorable for their blatant rudeness, MC Hammer pants, or collagen lips, but occasionally it's because I really liked them.

The other day I was serving a particularly frazzled looking mother and I saw that her kid was driving her insane. She kept on telling him to "quiet down because she had to talk to this nice lady," but I think what she really wanted to say was "Sit the fuck down sweety." I thought I'd entertain the kid so that the mother had a chance of finishing her shopping, so I came around the counter to talk to him. Now, after semesters of sociology classes, I'd like to think that I don't try to put people into a "gender role" but this little boy had a barbie. At first I was a little surprised, but then I was like wait, this is awesome, all moms should do this.

"That's a pretty awesome Barbie you've got there," I said.

"YEAH! It's a groovy girl (or something like that I don't quite remember, you know, one of those modern sluttier barbies). Her name is SASHA," he emphasized, letting the last syllable of Sasha linger.

"Cool Sasha sounds like an awesome name."

"Yep yep, it is. MOM MOM MOOOOOOM SHOW HER SASHA'S CLOTHES. Guess what, she came with more clothes!" he said to me.

The little boy's mom held up Sasha's package and showed me all the "hip stuff" she came with.

"Wow, Sasha has her own cell phone it looks like. And it's metallic red, that's way nicer than mine."

The boy stared up at me with a certain bewilderment as if to say, I NOTICED THAT EXACT SAME THING AS WELL! I think he was so ecstatic to finally be getting some attention, and I was pretty happy to have a break, so we complimented each other quite well.

"MOOOOM, Sasha's getting a phone call right now. I can hear it, ahhhhh we have to answer it!!!"

I looked at the little boy, the exhaustion in his mother's face, and then Sasha in all her urban hipster glory.

"Don't worry about Sasha's phone," I told the little boy, "She has call waiting. Sasha's so modern like that."

"Oh god yes, yes she does," said the boy's mom.

"Mom, what's call waiting?" he asked.

"It's something you get on your phone so that people can leave messages when you're gone. And then you can finish grocery shopping."

The boy looked at me and scanned my eyes to see if I was telling the truth. I gave a confirming nod and he smiled.

"Ok fine, bye bye girl."

"Bye bye."

He's Lucky That I Think Everything He Says Is Funny

2006-06-06T21:58:00.000-07:00

Al: I burnt my mouth so bad tonight, seriously, so bad.

Me: Aw poor thing, on what?

Al: Perogies, damn things. They were filled with bacon. And pain.

Me: Oh really? That's a good fillling. Did you get them at Safeway?

Al: Fuck. I burnt everything tonight. I put the onions in the pan and then burnt them. I put the perogies in after that and burnt them. Then I burnt my fucking mouth....Then I burnt my self esteem.

Me: Hahaha. How unlucky. Maybe it's cause it's 666.

Al: OH MY GOD, IT'S 666? THAT'S TODAY? SHIT. What time is it!? Oh shit, I missed 6:66 o'clock.

Al: Oh shit, that doesn't exist...

Al: Are you gonna write about this on your blog?

Me: I just did.

The Emo (Butterfly) Effect

2006-06-05T21:12:00.001-07:00

I'm pretty sure that there's a new serial murderer with a vengeance for bus riders. New as in yesterday had only killed one person and that doesn't count as multiple people (serial), so was therefore only a super creepy lurker man that sells handmade scarves. All the 7:15 regulars were no where to be seen today and I got a little bit scared. Where was the old man who took bong hits near the fountain? The guy from the sandwich place with red hair and emo glasses? The woman who took up two seats of the small bench; one for her selfish self, and one for her selfish groceries? I didn't particularly like or dislike any of them (except the selfish woman), and yet they were my constants. We had a routine, an unspoken understanding, and man were we smooth.

Emo boy was the switch that got our machine working. He'd fiddle with his eye brow piercing and then push his side part more to the side. When he finished his hair, stoner man knew it was his cue to start inhaling, he'd give the emo boy a nod, and emo boy would give him a melodramatic thumbs up. Stoner man would hold in the smoke for as long as he could, and at 50 years of experience he could really hold it. He'd let it out, cough a little, and that was when grocery woman would look off into the distance as to avoid our angry stares. She generally wasn't inclined to give a nod, a wink, or any other identifiable sign to let us know that her part was done, but we knew that she was a bitch and let her inadequacy slide. Usually teen girl would just count to 15 before starting her part, which was to talk on her cell loudly about something random, annoying, and unnecessary. Then the bussiness man would think about how "he unfortunately had to reside with all these no-good rif rafs," and although he was only thinking it, we could read his mind. When he finished that thought the bus driver would drive up and pretend that he was a police officer. We'd play along and let him feel like he had power and authority because we all knew that public transit operator was very close to law enforcer.

I'd pull out my pony tail and shake my hair as if to say "our work is done for today." Then I'd squint to block out the setting sun, and that was the go ahead for mr. busdriver. He'd press the gas, the bus would creak, and then we'd ride into the night.

However, emo boy didn't push his hair aside tonight, infact he didn't even show up. Our machine never got going and everyone was fretting. When I got on the bus old stoner man wasn't high, he looked really nervous and kept on switching seats. The bus driver motioned for me to come up and talk to him and so I did. "Where was emo boy?" he hissed at me. I told him I didn't know, but that something was up, and somebody knew about our machine. He rubbed his chin and looked like he was gonna faint. "Go sit down," he said. Selfish grocery woman didn't have any groceries, so she compensated by taking off one shoe and letting it use up a second seat.

Things started getting rough when mr. bus driver wasn't making any stops. I went back up to the front and found him sweating. I was searching for the right thing to say, but I had no words.

I pushed my hair to the side, I started listening to Belle and Sebastian on my iPod, and morphed my shoes into black converse high tops. I took a paper clip from my pocket and pushed it though my lip.

Mr. bus driver began to relax, he loosened up his grip on the wheel, made the bus come to a stop, and let some people off.

"I'll be your emo cog," I said, as the blood from my lip dripped onto the ticket spitter.

The Littlest Hobo And I

2006-06-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

"What are we gonna do today?" Tim asked sweetly, "You did just put a leash on me and that usually means WAAAAALK!"

Yes Timmy, we're gonna go fulfill your dreams. If you had pants to wear you'd probably be peeing them right now. Oh wait, I think you are peeing.

"Yes I'm peeing!!! I loooove peeing. Pee pee pee pee, look at me me."

Honestly Tim, you're gonna have to muster something a little more intellectually substantial than that. C'mon, show all the bloggers what a good boy you are!

"Good boy? I'm a good boy, look at this facial expression, so noble eh?"

Yes Timmy, very noble. Goooood boy.

You know what'd be really great Tim? If we got a picture of us together. You know, you could smile, and I could smile, and then we'd hug and be merry. Doesn't that sound good?

"Does that mean I'd have to sit still for 0.000064 seconds? I dunno, I'm just so HYPER!"

Yeah I've noticed, but let's just try ok.

Well Tim, this pic blows because a) I didn't have enough time to steady the camera, and b) you weren't very compliant. Maybe next time we could try this with a little more force and/or bribing with food. Ok, no force, I love you too much.

Most Dogs Have Read The Bible

2006-06-01T13:07:00.000-07:00

Al: It's just been so long since Tim has seen me. Do you think he'll remember who I am?

Me: Ofcourse he'll remember, he's not stupid.

Al: What if he thinks I'm dead. You know, because I haven't been back home in so long.

Me: I dunno, I suppose he could've already mourned you and now he's ok because he's all done grieving.

Al: Do you think he'll be excited to see me?

Me: Duh, obviously you want me to say that.

Al: Maybe he thought I was dead, and then when he sees me he'll think that I'm just like Jesus; resurrected from the dead.

Me: Yeah Al, he'll most likely think of Jesus.

This One's To All My Sisters Out There

2006-06-01T11:05:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows that Erin Brokovitch won that huge case because of her knockers. She flirted with the guy at the water board and then she got the records that really screwed over the huge company. I think that was essentially the sub-theme of the movie; boobs make life easier. But do they really?

Sometimes, for doing nothing other than sitting and talking to your brother's girlfriend, you get some strange guy telling you to go buy yourself a drink on his tab. "Whatever you'd like." So you, and your friend go up to the bar, see the bottle of blue-ish stuff that's on its own pedestal, with its own set of stage lights focusing down on it, and you tell the bartender to make you the most insane drink with "that stuff". Mr. Generosity probably thought you were gonna buy yourself a beer, or an easy vodka and cran, but no, you saw his rings, and his strange art school glasses, and felt like showing him an equal lack of modesty. Plus, it is free for you, so why not go for the gusto?

Or when you go to rent a movie and you have forgotten your wallet. Oops, what to do? Don't worry the clerk says, "it's on the house." Wow, nice guy. Or did he have ulterior motives?

Guys are always complaining about how girls get stuff so easy, but I'd like to make it clear that we end up paying for it in the end. Some gender god is sitting high up watching us all and he sees those free drinks we get, he sees the freebies in general, and man, do we get a fat tab.

Yesterday, after having what every woman has to get done to her, a period of time in which you are VIOLATED, I felt that no man should be jealous. I was told to drop off my "tests" at the lab on such n' such a street, so I went, and let's just say the lab is on floor two, and I never went in the elevator. (My thoughts in brackets).

Me: Um I'm sorry to bother you, but do you know where people are supposed to drop of their tests?

Male pharmacy worker: Uhhhh, like blood tests? (I wanna get high)

Me: Er, no. Um, different kind. (Are you actually asking me this?!?!?)

Male pharmacy worker: Like what kind? (I reeeeally wanna get high)

Me: I uhh, had a physical? I don't know, I'm not a doctor. (I NEVER HAD ANY CONTROL IN THE SITUATION HAVEN'T I GONE THROUGH ENOUGH?)

Female pharmacy worker: Up on floor two, room 201. (He's never had one before...)

Me: (IT WAS ONE MEASLY DRINK!)

Mush

2006-05-29T20:58:00.000-07:00

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...

Bug Diet

2006-05-24T16:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Coming Home

2006-05-19T21:33:00.000-07:00

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.

All The Friendly People You Meet

2006-05-18T22:02:00.002-07:00

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.

Sometimes You Pay For Being So Hard Core

2006-05-16T22:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Sebastian's Woes

2006-05-15T20:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Juxtaposition

2006-05-14T21:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Resume, That's French For "Opposite"

2006-05-13T21:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Observations From My Humble Abode

2006-05-11T13:23:00.001-07:00

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.

I Had It All Figured Out

2006-05-08T11:22:00.000-07:00

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."

Being A Grown Up

2006-05-07T21:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Happy Birthday Al-Dawg

2006-05-05T08:11:00.000-07:00

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

Andrea and Melanie Can Go To Hell

2006-05-04T20:37:00.000-07:00

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.

I Was Never A Ray Of Sunshine To Begin With

2006-05-02T21:14:00.000-07:00

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."

"What?"

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

Isn't It Ironic? Yeah Don't You Think

2006-04-30T21:45:00.000-07:00

I managed to get hit with one of the worst headaches of my life today which, somehow, slowly transformed into a headache + nausea. As I was huddled into a fetal position on a bench during my work lunch break, a street performer was singing some stupid song that had the lyrics "I'm in heaven," in it. I just looked up in utter horror and was like "Are you fucking kidding me?!"

Value Village Just Got Served

2006-04-29T13:11:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when Mercury aligns with the seventh moon of Jupiter, and your local psychic (aka drug dealer) forecasts the aura of purple candor, you find yourself without a single responsibility for a period of 24 authentic hours. You've got an empty slate, an open book, and you can choose to write the events of your day with any pen you want. Metaphorically speaking, you could pick a lemon scented smelly felt, a boring pencil, or a chewed on bic pen that still has a little bit of spit on it from the last time you were chewing on it. Yesterday Al and I chose the latter.

Not too long ago, in the city of Surrey, Value Village got knocked up and gave birth to a cute little store named Talize. Talize is better than V.V. in my opinion, 'cause most of the pants don't have pee encrusted crotch stains, and they have the most expansive array of possessed-hair-chopped-off dolls that stare you down no matter where you are in the store. If Talize was walking home late one night, and Value Village came out of the shadows and was all "Hey give me your money!" Talize would definitely pull some shit that would make V.V. kiss it's second hand cowboy boots. Shit you couldn't even fathom because it would blow your mind and make you cry from the fragile beauty of its subtlety. I should be getting paid for this Talize advertisement.

Al got two shirts, and I got the sweetest pair of high tops this world has ever seen. I'm sure whoever parted with these babies was having a tough time letting go. She probably didn't have enough money. She probably thought about her decision for weeks finally coming to the conclusion that she'd never be able to provide the kind of life for them that she knew they truly deserved. The night she left the awesome hightops on Talize's doorstep she must have been distraught and full of guilt; wiping her salty tears away, and looking back only once to bid her lovelies a silent farewell. It's with the deep understanding of her pain that I am now able to rock out, pimp this town, and bring the funk in these kicks. And they were $3 so...

When Al was in the changeroom some woman tried to get the apathetic cashiers to give her an added discount on a dress that "Smells so bad, Oh God, it smells so bad. Seriously, you have to do something about this, mark it down." I was like, oh c'mon, the whole store smells bad, that's why EVERYTHING is discounted.

As our searching and scavenging was nearing an end I pointed to a size 100 pair of pants with flags plastered all over it and said "Hey Al, what about these?"

Allan cocked his head to the side, gave a contemplative pause, and then shook his head no.

"I think someone died in those."

That Warm Fuzzy Feeling

2006-04-26T15:03:00.000-07:00

I decided to track a random link today and realized that somone had found my site by typing into google "I'm sorry, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit." Yeah, that's right, I'm the number one hit for that search. It's nice to know that vomit is what lures people in; you know, the stuff your body violently expells when you've injested, say, poison. The same stuff that ejects from your mouth after you saw a cat's brain in a jar of liquid on your grade one field trip to the vetrenarians.

Up chuck, barf, blow chunks, vomit, ralph, spew, heave, retch, hurl, puke...That's me.

The Po Po

2006-04-26T12:21:00.000-07:00

Ever since Allan got his license taken away I've been absolutely petrified of cops, speeding, speeding while in the vicinity of cops, and police. I think the 80's rainbow reflective sunglasses and the intimidating blank stare of that robo-cop who pulled us over will forever be seared in my mind. When he came to the window I half expected him to say "Have you seen this boy?" and then I'd be like "GOOO AL GOOO, IT'S THAT GUY FROM TERMINATOR!!!" Unfortunately, he said something like "Do you know why I pulled you over?" and a gave us a look that meant business.

As I was driving today, through various bouts of traffic, I started to get really caught up in my music. Sometimes you manage to listen to a song that completely and fully epitomizes your current mood, desires, and intentions and you start to forget that there are provincial laws in place called "speed limits". I can't even remember what I was listening to, but I do remember hearing sirens. I think it was somewhere around that time that I kind of stopped breathing, and just about shit myself. I pulled over, he pulled over, and I rolled down my window.

"Ma'am, do you know why I pulled you over?" This guy looked really unenthused.

"Uhh, because Ben Harper was bringing the funk?"

"Excuse me? Are you giving me sass?"

"No, sorry sir."

"You know, considering this is rush hour and most cars can't even do the posted speed limit, I'm pretty surprised I had to pull you over. Generally people go under the speed limit."

I didn't know what he wanted me to say. To be quite honest, I wasn't even sure if he wanted a response at all. However, he didn't budge and he didn't talk, so I decided that I had to."

"Well I guess I don't really want to follow the crowds heh."

Being the wannabe comedian that I am, I actually tried a joke on him. Half because I thought it would go right over his head, and half because I thought maybe he'd laugh and then let me go. Apparently he didn't think it was too funny. His look said "Not funny you pitiful deviant."

"Do you think law enforcement is a joke ma'am?"

Once again, he never really made it clear whether he ACTUALLY wanted me to respond. I gave it one last try.

"Well, only on Wednesdays, and hey, what's today again. Holy crap (I did not say "shit") it's Wednesday! Maybe that means you could give me a joke ticket?"

I wish I had just one person with me to witness what happened next. The cop looked to the side, and I actually caught him smile just a tiny bit. He shook his head, took off his aviators, and looked at me.

"Ma'am, your trunk's open. You weren't even speeding, just thought I'd let you know."

(Alright, dad, that didn't actually happen, I just made it up so breathe in, out, good.)

For The Girl Who Considers This Blog A "Distraction"

2006-04-25T16:21:00.000-07:00

Because of the looming danger of afternoon traffic, driving to school is always a gamble. There's the trusty public transit option, but that usually involves people who pick their nose, see me looking at them while they pick their nose, and then carry on regardless. I generally take the nose picking option, but today I gave myself (but not the environment) a break. You see, I really have to reinforce here that my steering wheel, while lacking in the luxurious leather padding area, does not have the snot of strangers on it; for this, I prefer my car.

Today after trying to muster all I know about Abraham's covenant with God (I bloody hope it was Abraham) on my final exam, I decided to de-stess by visiting my friend Alanna. If I spelled your name wrong again Alanna then you know what? BITE ME I CAN'T SPELL YOUR MY-PARENTS-ARE-HIPPIES-AND-THEY-GAVE-ME-AN-ALTERNATIVE-SPELLING NAME! I like Alanna because she likes to make me feel uncomfortable by talking about non-public things VERY LOUDLY when we're in public, and on some level I think that's good for me. On one particularly memorable night a priest got on the very bus that myself and the very intoxicated Alanna were on aswell. I whipped around and told her that if she valued any aspect of our friendship that she had better keep her rambling mouth shut. I'm not sure whether it was the malicious look on my face or the purity being exuded from the priest, but Alanna magically kept the embarrassing comments to a minimum. This would be the same blonde-haired blue-eyed friend that used a Metis Status Card as ID back when she wasn't legal. If nothing else, she's inspirational.

However, even the appeal of Alanna wears off when I realize that traffic may just swallow me whole if I don't get my act together and book it to my car. For some stupid reason the university puts student residence way in the middle of nowhere, possibly to give the kids a genuine Canadian wilderness feel to write home about.

Somehow, by the same priestly luck that got me out of the bus incident, I managed to get home without getting shit on by the traffic monster. I was coasting, giving the traffic in my rear view the ol' finger, and enjoying my good fortune when a big semi wanted to bypass lots of cars and then just cut in infront of me. Now I realize that if you change lanes solely by your adept driving skills and don't force me to brake, then you are completely and fairly exempt from giving me a wave. HOWEVER, if I let you in by the goodness of my heart and took it upon myself to brake, then you give me a god damn wave. Allan and I have a habit of threatening people from inside our car with a "Give a wave...now. Give a wave bitch, give a wave oh no you- ok there we go, got the wave." On the off chance that people are too dense to abide by the rules of driving etiquette, then we usually talk impolitely about how inbred they are. It's not hard people, lift forearm, move side to side; it means thankyou and I like your hair.

I think the underlying message in this post is clear: Just because you buy exotic fruits doesn't mean you're cultured.

Or something like that.

This Is What Procrastination Looks Like

2006-04-24T17:36:00.000-07:00

Glub Glub

2006-04-23T10:16:00.000-07:00

Sebastian fluttered and swayed in the wind. Strung up by a hook in his mouth, he was left to hang, to "swim" in the air for everyone to see, but no one to really notice. Through rain, snow, and sun, he hung.

"Do you think I'll ever just swim like other fish?" he asked to the expansive blue.

There was no answer, not unlike what he had expected, and he was left once again alone with his troublesome thoughts. Sebastian's true aspirations had been to become a choclatier, but those dreams had been put on hold ever since the capture. He watched one car, two cars, the chipped paint on the side of the house, his reflection in the window, three cars. He fell back on the rippling air, it jolted him, pushed him up, in a circle and then faded once more. Sebastian was still.

"Strange," he thought, "The air that holds me captive is the air that I fall back on."

He glubbed, glub glubbed. Glub

Hey, Don't I Know You?

2006-04-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday and today have been so awesome. The sun has finally come out to play and it's actually kind of warm. I've lived in Vancouver my whole life and I still don't get used to the long rainy season. Every time spring/summer time comes around I'm magically surprised for the whatever-eth time. It's almost like I don't fully believe that the rain will ever succumb to the sun, and just GO AWAY. I was trying to sit outside and study, but it was such a joke; the sun got me so high that I didn't care about doing anything but lying down and taking the occasional picture.

I would equate the first few days of Vancouver sun to bumping into someone you haven't seen in a really long time. Maybe like when you go to 7-11 at some random hour of the morning because you convinced yourself that you would die a slow painful death if you were to forego buying yourself that licorice that sev seems to have a monopoly on. As you walk down the aisle with the five cent candy, the baby bottle pops, and the glorious licorice, someone says your name and you look up to see that guy, oh my god what's his name, that guy you sat beside in Chemistry way back when. Only seeing the sun isn't an awkward chance meeting, it's one of those rare comfortable chance meetings. You're actually kind of happy to see that no name ex-chem-classmate dude because hey, he was kind of funny. Did he remember that one time he blew up his own binder in an experiment and had nothing to study from. He remembers, you both laugh and quietly say something about "highschool, good old highschool." You notice he's buying an energy drink and make some corny joke about it being like speed and he actually laughs regardless of it's lack of hilarity, because he's not an asshole. The sun feels good like remembering and reminiscing can feel good. You both agree how good it was to see each other and then you say something about running into each other again. You buy the licorice, he buys the energy drink, and feel kind of good because you remember that some parts of highschool you really liked; then you realize that you were drunk on optimism, and nostalgia can really do a face lift on things.

You get in your car, it starts no questions asked, that song you wanted to hear comes on the radio, you tap tap tap your steering wheel and drive.

The sun still does that to me. It surprises me every year, it brightens some aspect of my day, and sometimes even makes me put studying into perspective.

This Situation Would Register As A Number One On The Panic Scale, Mother

2006-04-20T22:45:00.000-07:00

Something I've taken to discussing with my mom is her tendency, or inability rather, to produce varying levels of panic. A rabid pack of rottweilers devouring her first born child, or realizing that she had forgotten the shopping list would evoke dangerously similar reactions. Because of her habit of doing this, I have suffered countless panic attacks wherein my mind goes through a stream-of-conciousness thought process that includes believing that someone has been run over by a semi, put their arm through a meat grinder, or ingested bleach. Usually my thoughts are cut off by my mom saying something like "Damnit, the cashier charged me twice for the organic bananas."

I've suggested a system that involves DEGREES of panic, stress, etc. in hopes that maybe, after seeing me clutch my heart and stop breathing, she would adopt it and actually put it to use. Alas, I think we need to take baby steps and this is more like giant ones. Maybe we could implement different catch phrases? Things like 1. Oh gosh darn that's too bad. 2. Whoa, not good. and 3. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THIS IS SERIOUS! I think that might bring a little more clarity to her life and mine, but mostly mine.

Tonight as I was studying she cried out in frustration about something, consequently causing my blood pressure to sky rocket. I whipped around to look at her, what she was doing, and ultimately what was wrong, only to see a big "GAME OVER" on her computer screen.

"God damnit, I was almost at that level with the red teddy bears. The red teddy bears are so much better than the pigs and cows, but you have to beat so many levels to get there and I was soooo close. Whatever, this game is so stupid and it's making me blind. I'm going to bed," she professed as she got up and left the computer.

Dear Impatient Shitface

2006-04-20T00:06:00.000-07:00

Dear Impatient Shitface,

Do you remember me? We were on the Burrard Street Bridge when you decided to be a fat douche bag. There was a big orange pylon in the middle of my lane and considering the fact that I don't have hummer and therefore can't drive over large objects, I had to stop and change lanes. I gave you notice, I put my flicker on, there was no suddenness or abruptness in my decision to stop. Regardless, you decided to come up behind me, become aggravated, and then lay on your horn. I'm sorry that you're such a fucking prick, that you made no efforts to be understanding or brainstorm about possible reasons for a random stop. Did you think I was doing it for my own amusement? Did you think I wanted to get honked at? Are you an over paid old cranky senile obese grey haired man with an obnoxious license plate that said something like "PURRR". Yes, yes you are. I liked that after you had been honking at me for a while you changed lanes, went beside me, and then honked some more while giving me the evil eye. You did it in such a manor that you neglected to see the pylon, and probably still think that I was the idiot. That's the only sad part about it all; you'll never understand that infact it was you in your ugly car that was the embarrassment. Try to be a little more observant, look around, and please, for the love of whatever you believe in, turn down the assholeness. Were you in a hurry to get to Bingo night? Were you late for the old folks home curfew? Did your daily prune juice just kick in? Was it Im-A-Big-Stupid-Asshole-Detriment-To-Society-Day and I just didn't remember?

I hope you had a really awesome night full of herpes ridden hookers.

Sincerely, Carmen

...And You Lose Some

2006-04-19T13:49:00.000-07:00

This morning I told myself that I'd eat really healthy, you know, after all the Easter chocolate and pie. I got off to a good start with some green peas but hit a slight bump in the road later on. As I was periodically spraying whipping cream onto my finger and then licking it off, I suddenly remembered my earlier plea. I suppose you could say I have a selective memory.

Why I Hate Public Transit: Reason 874

2006-04-18T17:45:00.000-07:00

My Spanish oral exam went really well today. If that last sentence was to have been spoken rather than written, an undeniably obvious level of sarcasm would have been evident. Yeah, jealous?

My professor picked a random topic from a bag, and for me it was Columbia. Basically I had to talk to her about everything and anything I knew about the aforementioned country, but unfortunately, my knowledge was, and still is, quite limited. The instructions for the test had been given in spanish, which strangely enough, is the same language we are there to learn. I decided that I really only had a few choices; bullshit the best I could, book it out of there with a quick "lo siento", or jump out of her 7th storey window. I chose option number one.

I started off by assuring her that Columbia, good ol' Columbia, was something that I knew plenty about. Did she know that the Latin Sensation Shakira was from Columbia? Was she aware that Columbia was embroiled in a dangerous and profitable drug predicament? Had she seen the movie "Blow"? I think that was when my partner interjected with a "Jonny Depp es muy guapo," coincidentally at the same point I was running out of pop culture references to talk about. I concluded it all with a comment about how my boyfriend got a Fidel Castro haircut. I know he has nothing to do with Columbia, but hey, Cuba is a spanish speaking country AND it starts with a "C". She probably thought I was on El Mushrooms.

On my routine bus ride home the hypnotizing motion of the monster vehicle began to work it's magic, and I felt my eyelids becoming heavy. The movement of cars, like nothing else, can put me to sleep with an effect only paralleled by a wild boar tranquilizer. I was half listening to my iPod, half paying attention to the dream thoughts I was mulling over in my head when I heard a booming voice.

"TIME TO GET OFF THE BUS!" it screamed.

I looked around me and I was completely alone. Slightly disoriented, still quite drowsy, I headed towards the bus doors with no real certainty of my surroundings. Was I even in the same city? Why was there no one else on the bus? Why was I on a bus?
As the clarity slowly made it's way back into my mind I realized that everyone had just left me there. Not one person tapped me on the shoulder, gave me any heads up that, hey, we're all getting off now. Nope, they just let me sleep there and await my unwritten fate. Transiters are so "I'm gonna fend for myself and let that strange girl sleep". C'mon people, where is the self decency? The altruism? DO YOU HAVE NO SHAME?

So I've devised a strategy to seek out everyone from that 99 bus and destroy them. I think the plan is to run over them with a bus so that I can turn them into people pancakes with just the slightest touch of satisfying irony.

I Never Suspected Her For A Murderer

2006-04-16T22:18:00.000-07:00

My favourite part of tonight's Easter dinner with the family was when my gramma responded quite thoughtfully to something my brother had said. You could see her evaluating the situation in her head, giving an adequate pensive pause, and then, with utter conviction and certainty she said:

"Well, in that case, I think you'd have to kill him."

She Was Generous Enough To Give Me A Fat Ulcer

2006-04-15T18:22:00.000-07:00

My sister needed to get fabric for sewing today so she asked me if I wanted to come with her. I thought about it, resolved that I had way too much work to do, and then went with her. She wondered if I minded if she drove? Yes, but sometimes you have to let them fly out of the nest even if you know they're gonna nose dive. She'll probably get mad when she reads this but whatever, YOU FUCKING STRESS ME OUT. I'm ridiculously inept at dealing with anxiety, I don't need more of it.

She drove as the rain pelted down, I told her to stop looking for CD's and focus on just the driving part, she looked for CD's. We talked about how I had just realized that Ben Harper was black after seeing a black guy on the cover of his CD. Oh right Carmen, that would be the artist himself. I don't know, I guess I thought he was a "soulfull" white guy; not that it ends up being relevant. I turned on the radio after I gave the verdict that all her CD's sucked, we listened to all those songs that you hate but then end up knowing all the words to. The songs that you hope will come on during your monotonous drive home because you wouldn't actually be caught dead listening to them, let alone downloading and burning them to a CD. Damn you Kelly Clarkson, I love to hate you but I gotta say, since you've been gone, I can breathe for the first time...

Before we went into the fabric store I anticipated the stereotypical grandmother-like workers with glasses that magnify their beady eyes, the token awkward teenage girl employee wearing a vest festooned with buttons and embroidery she obviously crafted herself, and some cracker jack buying the ugly fabric that has toasters and whisks strewn across it. The only reason I subjected myself to it all was because I have exams, and well, what else was I going to do? Study?

As we soon found out, the fabric portion of the store was no longer. We had driven, (well, she had driven) for half an hour just to look at ugly hand sewn old lady clothes. I sincerely wish that there had been fabric because that would have prevented my sister from trying to find Fabricana, and coincidentally getting us lost. When we were in the middle of suburbia, where every house looks too much like the last, I began to get worried. The gas light came on as a polite little reminder that possibly, perhaps, it would be in our best interest to get some gas and avoid getting fucked over. I kind of think that light should be in the shape of a person with a gun to their head and the words "Try it," instead of the ghetto gas pump that doesn't even exist anymore. Yeah, that might be a little more honest. I refrained from telling her that the light had never actually gone on before on flat ground.

I guess I should put our little trip into perspective though; we didn't run over any kids, I only had to remind her once or twice that yes she had the right of way and no that car didn't have a stop sign, and we actually made it to a gas station. Since the gas station was all full serve, my sister rolled down her window and tried to tell the attendant how to open the gas gauge. I gave an exasperated sigh, got out of the car, and did it myself. When I got back in she asked me why I did it myself.

"Well Megan, it's not very easy to explain to someone that they need the keys not to unlock the gas tank, but to shove in the hinge and force open the broken release. That might confuse some people."

"Oh."

MEaster?

2006-04-14T12:44:00.000-07:00

Today when I woke up I decided, in true procrastinatory style, that I'd go to the store before trying to make my brain commit to studying. It wasn't until after I had gotten dressed, eaten, etc. that I realized that hey, maybe stores aren't open because of that holiday. What's it's name? Oh right, Easter. It made me think about what Easter means to me; a teenager with no religious upbringing, no history of church attendance, and no bible on my shelf. Is this the weekend that the Easter Bunny was born?

When I was younger Easter fit into the "Days When You Get Presents And Sometimes Don't Have To Go To School" category. This included Christmas, Halloween, my birthday, and Tooth Fairy visits. I always sort of pictured a far away place where all the holiday mascots would hang out in their downtime, considering that most of them really only worked one day a year. Santa would play cards with the Easter Bunny, slamming his fist down with every loss but still managing to give a hearty laugh. "Oh Easter Bunny you are one sneaky little bugger. You really do know your "Go Fish". The Tooth Fairy would be somewhere in the background singing "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion kareoke style because, for the 9th year in a row, she had way too much egg nog, and Mrs. Clause would be staring down Santa, watching his occasional glances over to the T. Fairy and muttering something under her breath about "...a two cent whore...". They all had stressful jobs, were expected to act quickly in the night, stay hidden during the year, and make strategic mall appearance now and then. I thought that these mascots were really the glue of society, always bring people together and sending families into bankruptcy. As for my exposure to religious figures, I'd say it was limited to that time in kindergarten when I coloured and cut out a baby Jesus, and handed it to my partner that was eating our glue.

I don't think I'll go deep into any religious discussion because it could only ever be my opinions, and opinions often lead to distress that I'd rather not deal with. I will, however, say that I find it interesting that I've never had a day off school or work for a Sikh, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, etc. Religious holiday. Maybe Canada needs to diversify it's holidays?

So what is Easter to me personally? It's chocolate, getting to spend some time with the family I never see, memories of egg hunts, my brother barreling around the house getting 96% of the candy but then having to share it with my sister and I because our parents are fair. Easter to me is finding a previously undiscovered egg on the top of my fireplace mantle in July, appreciating the rarity of my discovery, and realizing that yes, that Bunny is a sneaky bugger.

I Feel Good

2006-04-11T17:55:00.001-07:00

...like I knew that I would, I feel nice, like a mother fucking sugar and spice.

After a final exam this morning, getting home in two and a half hours instead of thirty five minutes, being hired for a new job, and knowing I don't have to wake up tomorrow for anything, I feel so, damn, good. It's the kind of top-notch sensation that you can only experience when you just crossed the billy goat bridge, told the troll that he could shove his toll bullshit up his ass, and realized that yes, infact, the grass over here is much much greener. And succulently delicious.

It's the kind of good you feel because you're a spoiled brat and you detest the expensive opportunity called school that you selectively got to partake in. The same good that comes as a result of telling your Teacher's Assistant that you would personally seek out his car and egg it if he doesn't give you a good mark. The good that looks like a CD and when you play it in your car pumps out some awesome TV on the Radio. The good that makes you forget that you called your mother at work yesterday to tell her that you had tetanus, that you really truly had tetanus and were going to die because the internet told you so.

Yeah, that ridiculously good.

Trying To Do My Hair

2006-04-10T15:09:00.000-07:00

I Wanna Feel The Wind Flowing Through My Hair

2006-04-09T15:31:00.000-07:00

I decided the other day that I would play a little trick on Allan; partly because he's gullible and partly because I'm a malevolent psycho whose beast. It was a nice afternoon, we were lying around in his room, both of us procrastinating the pressing matters of homework and responsibility.

"Al, you know what I decided? Lately I've started to realize that all those things I used to care so much about are so trivial. Like what other people think of me, if I'm looking hot or presentable. I don't know, there's something so fake about being the person you think others want you to be."

I was trying to go so far into the stereotypical "university changed my outlook on life" paradigm, and I knew he would eat it all up. I wanted to knock the wind out of him so I took it a little further. I could tell he was beginning to worry that I was going to drop some kind of bomb.

"Yeah, so basically I'm choosing to stop shaving my legs."

I pulled up my pant leg to show him my unshaved in probably two months leg hair, and I'm half Spanish so my hair is pretty lusciously dark. He looked at my leg, then slowly moved his eyes upward until he reluctantly met my gaze. I stared back at him with the most beautifully executed earnest look. I smiled.

"Not gonna shave your legs? Er...cool."

At this point I'm thoroughly enjoying myself; Allan is in so much pain. I knew very well that he wasn't going to try to talk me out of my new endeavour because that would be somehow, on some level, demanding that I conform to biased norms (if I were to put it into some politically correct context). It was perfect, arresting, and he was incontrovertibly cornered.

"So baby, are you gonna wear skirts and stuff in the summer?"

"Yeah ofcourse, it'll be so hot. Don't worry you can hardly notice it (ridiculous lie)."

I could only explain his facial expression as the look of someone trying to shit out a kitchen chair. He's never been much of a liar. I gave him a big hug and told him how much better I felt to be past that image is everything kind of bullshit. He was silent.

A few hours later I couldn't help but notice how down Allan was, he looked positively depressed. It was time for phase 2 of my plan: obliviousness.

"Babe what's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing! Oh nothing, hah, did you think something was wrong? No, no, no. Nothing."

"Alright Al, let's not play the couple anger game."

"I don't know what you're talking about?"

"No? What's wrong? Nothing. What's wrong? Nothing. What's wrong? Well...Let's just pretend I've asked you what's wrong 17 times, you've said nothing 17 times, and then now we've fast forwarded to number 18 where you actually tell me what's bothering you."

Allan looked up at me, his eyes without a trace of happiness. He was deep in thought, most likely contemplating whether or not he should say the very thing that may result in crushing me. He had very few options that would result in anything good, he knew this too well. Allan is a gambling man however, a great player of poker, he had risked before. I could detect more than a little apprehension and blatant fear. My insides were smiling.

"Carm...I...It's just that..."

He was practically choking with indecision. What came next was among the meekest of utterances.

"But I like it when you shave your legs," said Allan as he braced himself for the explosion. He climbed into his bomb shelter, quickly closed the ceiling door latch with an abrupt "clank". He closed his eyes.

"Al, I was joking."

He opened his eyes and grinned. He got that irresistible twinkle in his eyes that only comes when he's just finished updating his computer. He hugged me so hard and told me he'd make me something to eat.

Needless to say, I still haven't shaved my legs. Yeah, hot.

What Did You Say?

2006-04-08T18:55:00.000-07:00

me: Ah my back hurts so much.

my sister: Carmen! Grow up.

me: What the hell are you talking about? I'm lying down and I said that my back hurts.

my sister: GET up.

me: Oh, is that what you said? Sorry, I totally thought you said "grow" up.

my sister: Well actually, I said "grr" up but I was hoping you wouldn't notice.

me: You're an idiot.

Organic Pain

2006-04-06T22:07:00.000-07:00

Hi, my name is Carmen and I'm a blogoholic.

Sometimes Allan likes to tease me about my "addiction" to blogging/reading blogs and I always get defensive. Sure I do it a lot, yes I enjoy it, but comparatively speaking we're talking about reading online, not huffing glue. Besides, I could stop anytime I want, really, I could.

Strangely enough, this morning I found myself on Granville Island and happened to be walking by a cafe. There was a sign that said "Free wireless internet", which essentially drew me in by pure magnetic force. I walked in and looked at the menu board to scope out the least expensive item they sold. I didn't see it up there but I asked for a plain tea and the girls pointed to a strange wooden box with little bags of tea. I think the wooden box factor should've tipped me off for what I was about to buy, but I was still wiping the drool of my chin due to FREE wireless internet. I wanted to sort everything out so I asked the girl "Uh, can I use my own computer?" and I made sure to point to the computer to emphasize the MY factor. The girl said yes while giving me a look that said "I deal with stupid customers like you all day. Please, for the love of god, drown yourself. Now." She followed the look by ringing up my tea which came to $3. I had already gotten myself in too far to run out of the store so I paid, sat down, and thought about my expensive tea. The wooden box? Yeah that meant organic. Apparently, when the herb-y tid bits that float in your hot water were grown without f'n pesticides they cost a whole lot more. Basically, when you buy organic you justify the consuming guilt of spending too much money with the thought of earnest and noble farmers harvesting their peppermint leaves the good ol' fashioned way.

I was really glad that the ambulance came after I was forced to saw off my left leg in order to pay for my organic tea. They were so polite and courteous with a "Don't worry," interspersed with "It'll all be done soon," every so often. As I laid on the stretcher I thought about how lucky I was to have used the free internet, but more than that, how giving up my left leg was worth every second of checking my blogs. As the ambulance workers bandaged my open wound I suddenly realized that they could've been using the wrong bandage.

"Is that bandage organic?" I blurted out in a moment of panic.

"Don't worry miss, 100% organic Peruvian hemp."