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A Portrait of Vapidity as a Young Woman

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

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

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

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

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

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?