Friday, December 23, 2005

Merry Christ...nakah?

Or whatever it is that you happen to be "celebrating" during the Silly Season. Personally, I am celebrating the fact that I don't have to go to Toronto this year to listen to snotty relatives trying to one-up each other. In fact, this year's Silly Season brings a ton of great things that I can celebrate, aside from the usual God-praising, Jesus-blessing and Mass-going that I am always taking part in during the holidays.

The best and biggest thing that I have to celebrate this year is the fact that 2005 is nearly over. If you don't think that's not a cause to celebrate, then maybe you should read up on the last year of blogging. Just to make sure that 2005 will never come again, I sent a letter to Santa Claus and will be watching the calendar on my computer veryyyy carefully to make sure it flips to 2006 and not back to January 2005. I'll have the results January First... 2005 OR 2006? Stay tuned! In the meantime, here's my list to Santa.

Dear Santa,
All I want for Christmas is to never have another 2005 again. I know you don't deliver presents to bad girls so I would like to set a few things straight: what is your take on homosexuality and abortions? I'm sure you already know those two issues came up in my life during 2005 and will greatly affect my haul this year if you follow the Church's teachings. In fact, I have a suspicion that you might be God.
You both have grey beards, at least according to Monty Python and my Christmas wrapping paper. You both supposedly see everything which quite frankly, will strike fear and reverence into every child no matter whether it's Santa, God, or your crazy grandfather telling you so. Lumps of coal or floods and plagues.... what's the difference?
If that is true, I'm screwed right out of a present this year. Anywho, as a little incentive for you, God Claus (you like? I just thought it up on the spot!), it will be a whole lot easier to be a good girl if you never make another 2005 happen ever again.
Cheers!
ps: If you do take pity on my sin-stricken heart this year and bring me something to open on Christmas morning, I would love an iPod and a vibrator. I put two items on my list because just in case you are out of iPods this year, you can always grab a vibrator. I'm sure that not too many kids will be asking for those.

I'm all set for 2006. I have made my list and checked it twice.

Lighter courseload which will bring better grades? Check.
Great boyfriend whom I adore? Check.
Better relationship with my parents? Check.
No more fucking the roommate? Check.
Birth Control Pills which when used effectively are anti-prego pills? Check.

Even if 2006 decides to be trouble, I have some pretty solid armour on.

Happy Silly Season everyone!

Friday, December 09, 2005

Welcome to hell

Winter barfed all over the city at somepoint after this actor was throwing up in my toilet last night and at some point before I nearly puked all over my cat this morning.

There is snow everywhere.

There is no escape.

Monday, December 05, 2005

My apartment is no longer safe

My roommate's boyfriend invaded my territory two weeks ago under the pretense that he was only going to stay for four days. It wouldn't be so awful if my roomie had just asked me if it was alright that he stayed for a while. Nor would it be so bad if the guy would actually be civil to me.

I have to physically bump into him in my kitchen before he mutters a single word, which usually ends up being a barely audible "sorry...".

Granted, the guy does have a damn good reason to not like me, and it's not like I want to be buddies with him, but he is not being mature in any way, shape or form. When my roomie and I had a little "incident" involving wine and an unplanned romp in the sack, it was a bad thing because, first and foremost, both of us were in relationships with other people. However, when you compare how my boyfriend, J, handled it to the way her boyfriend handled it, his ape-man status is blindingly obvious.

Their problems are theirs, not mine, just as my problems are between my boyfriend and I, and not her's. So if J can be civil to her on my turf, so can ape-man. Not to mention the problem of him eating my share of the food, or him using my computer or him leaving his DIRTY SOCKS on MY COUCH........

Ape-man has got to go. Besides, he reminds me of my last boyfriend... a general good-for-nothing who does not have much consideration for other people and who says really dumb things on a regular basis. Also, ape-man has had some pretty psychotic episodes which bear too much similarity to my ex's behaviour.

Tomorrow, I put my foot down. I will reclaim my living room, my computer and my kitchen. I will demand for reimbursement for my groceries and then, in a moment of blazing glory, I will cackle from my living room window as he shuffles away down Sherbrooke Street, all alone, to hitch hike back to whatever hole he came out of.

Friday, December 02, 2005

On all-nighters

Sometimes you go out, pockets full of speed and dance all night long.

Sometimes you go to a bar, drink your face off, and end up at some random person's house to have a one-time fuck fest all night long.

Other times you go out with the intention of having just a few beers and end up at random locations doing ridiculous things all night long.

But most of the time, when you are a student, you end up leaving everything until the last twelve hours before the due-date and end up in front of the computer all... night.... long.

But most of the time, these students, are aware of the actual due date for the assignment and spend the last twelve hours before the due date typing frantically.

Sometimes I am on time for appointments, sometimes I remember my plans and sometimes I do my laundry.

But most of the time I am late, I honestly forget what my commitments were and I rarely wash my clothes.

Most of the time I do my work during the last possible hours, usually the hours that I would rather be sleeping in my large, comfortable bed, which only seems larger and comfier when I'm sitting down the hall from my beautiful bed at four in the morning.

Most of the time, I know when my assignments are due so I can plan my schedule around them. This is very important to me. I am a woman of ritual.

example: Essay assigned October 1st, Duedate 9am November 1st. Procrastinate until 6pm October 31st. Run to library to research 7pm - 11pm. Simultaneously research and write from midnight to 8:30 am. Cab to school and hand in paper coughing from chain smoking, shaking from caffeine intake and bug-eyed from staring at the computer screen for 8 hours straight (I allotted half an hour for lighting cigarettes, refilling coffee, turning my head away from the computer screen to chug the coffee and going pee because that happens alot when you drink 2 pots of coffee in an 8 and a half hour period).

Most of the time, I get an A-range paper and I then I get ready for my next round of procrastinating.

This time, which definitely is not most of the time and I pray it doesn't turn into sometimes, I stayed up all night working on an assignment when it wasn't due the next morning. It wasn't even due the next afternoon. It was due four days later.

When you don't go to class much, the course syllabus becomes more holy and sacred than the Bible. In fact, I think it should be cast in stone. This supposed extension that was given went outside the Holy Syllabus and I was left in the dark clutching a coffee stained, softened syllabus that told me the old due date.

Thursday morning, feeling accomplished and satisfied having completed my ritual, I jolted into class coughing, shaking and much more bug-eyed than usual because I scored a Dexedrine tablet from my roommate for a touch of performance enhancement. The come down off my caffeine/Dexedrine high numbed the crushing news of the postponed due-date, so no tears were shed. That would have been embarrassing considering that most of the time students jump for joy at extensions and sometimes they simply sit in quiet relief. Crying would be extremely far from those two normal reactions, and quite frankly, I had already had enough of going out of the norm for one day.

Most of the time I feel relieved after handing in something. Sometimes I feel proud. This time I feel cheated out of what could have been a well-deserved night of sleep.

I suppose the only thing to do is continue procrastinating until the next assignment is due.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Poor small sods


I was thinking more and more about small penises and quite frankly, it's making me sad. I feel just awful for all those poor sods who either don't have much to play with and who most likely have diminished their already minimal usability due to a sagging pot belly.

I have had a BBC documentary on my harddrive for a while now called "My Penis and I". It's about a man and his sad little 3.5 inch long Johnston. Having nightmares yet ladies?

So this guy tells the camera all about his feelings of inadequacy (no surprise there) and talks to everyone about it. I mean, the guy goes to his old highschool to fondly reminesce about getting teased in the locker room, he asks his girlfriend about his mini-knob and he even asks his mother about who passed that unfortunate gene along. Turns out it was his dear ol' daddy. Poor mother has been with him for a long time and is still bitter about the lack of cock in the house.

Small dick man goes to the States and gets a mold of his penis done by that woman who does celebrity cocks.... Jimi Hendrix had quite the girth going for him. Janis must have been waddling for days.

For the record, and for the repuation of my boyfriend, I have no complaints to make. The last two posts were directed at the rampant problem of size-deficient men out there, who thankfully, I won't ever have to deal with again.


Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Karaoke time

Sing to the tune of "I Will Survive".

At first I was afraid, I was petrified,
when you said you had 10 inches Lord
I almost died,
but I'd spent oh so many years just
waiting for a man that long,
that I grew strong, and I knew that
I could take you on.

But there you are, another lie,
I was ready for a big Mac and you've
bought me a french fry,
I should have known that it was
bullshit, just a sad pathetic dream,
should have known there was no
anaconda lurking in those jeans.

Go on now go, walk out the door,
don't you promise me 10 inches then
turn up with only 4,
weren't you a prat to
think I
wouldn't catch you out,
don't you know we're only joking
when we say size doesn't count.

Chorus:
I will survive, I will survive,
Cos as long as I have batteries, My
sex life's gonna thrive,
I will always have good sex with a
handful of latex,
I will survive,
I will survive...
hey hey.

It took all my self control not to
laugh out loud,
When I saw your little weiner
standing short and proud,
But to hell with all your egos and
to hell with all your needs,
Now I'm saving all my lovin' for a
cordless multispeed.

Go on now go, walk out the
door,
don't you promise me 10 inches then
turn up with only 4,
weren't you a prat to think I
wouldn't catch you out,
don't you know we're only joking
when we say size doesn't count.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Actors are curious beasts.

I saw a dress rehearsal of "Antigone" at Theatre du Nouveau Monde last night (I'm so special, I saw it before the rest of the public gets to) and once I got past the giggling about the fact that in French 'anteeginee' is pronounced 'anti-GONE' I had a great time. I don't see nearly enough plays which is tragic because I'm supposed to be a theatre student. I nearly forgot about that excitement the audience gets when the house lights go down, and characters burst onstage and everything is new and fresh and the audience is ready for anything.

That's why I am in theatre... for those chills you get right before a world is unveiled right before your eyes. And I cannot believe how long it has been since I got those chills. Anyways, it was a dress rehearsal and there were a few rough spots, but that is the beauty of theatre. People can and will fuck up right before your eyes. Actors are still building up for that opening night intensity and I found that their holding back was pretty interesting. I could actually see them think. I could see them say to themselves "shit, that didn't sound so great" or "oh my god, there is finally an audience here".

After the show, the director ran over to block the curtain call. This director was trying to organize the longest, most complicated curtain call on the face of the planet and actors being actors were just not getting it. Ismene kept walking in the wrong direction. Antigone squinted past the glaring white lights and just stood absolutely still for what seemed like hours, her face all squished up and when she finally realized that every other member of the cast was in fact, offstage, she scuttled off like an embarrassed little puppy. I thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Until the actors started to be hams. After a certain point, the actors began to notice that there was still an audience in the house and they had no more lines to say and no more blocking to go through. So while they waited for their next direction, they milked their places in the spotlight for far more than what they were worth. They said lame jokes, did little tap dances and sung classic songs like "pump the jam".

Still in costume, with no character to hide behind, these actors looked scared. And then they looked like court jesters. Curious little actors.

----
As for the play, it was good. Lights were great, set was fun but the costumes were cliched and had no continuity. The acting was generally solid, but Antigone was too angry and had no build. If she is freaking out right from the opening scene, she has nowhere to go later on. And all the actors seemed to really like looking up. What was up there?! The Gods sure weren't because they all looked down when they mentioned the gods, which is silly because only Justice is mentioned as actually being underground. I figured the rest of them were on that mountain, which would be up, right? The woman who played Eurydice was fantastic. Only two lines in the whole play but her presence was simply spellbinding. Also, she was the only one who didn't need to be a dork onstage while the director fumbled around with herding the cast into complicated risewalkstopbowstopsplitwalkstopbowbowwalkpausewalkbowwalk sequences.

Monday, November 21, 2005

blog plug

I love this guy's rants almost as much as I love ranting about similar stuff. DJ's? It's fucking hilarious. And the breakdown of the restaurant world? Oh, I nearly started....

If you are wondering what "started" means, consult Oscar Wilde. In his plays there are notes for the actors that say such things like "She starts". You all should know that Oscar W. is practically the prophet for the Danish Pedophile Association. Wilde was totally pro-young-boy-old-man-lovin back in the day. And so is NAMBLA. It's pretty fucking scary, I know. I nearly had nightmares about the fact that there are men out there who are fighting for the right for young children to be sexual.

stay on task, stay on TASK!!

Right, so back to the definition of started. Basically it's an 1800's slang-like abbreviation. Today we say "ridic" instead of the laborious pronunciation of ridiculous. Back in Wilde's heyday, they said "started" instead of "started to cry" or "started to flip-out" or "started to hyperventilate". I guess it gave more freedom for the actor's interpretation of the character. And it saved time. They talked really slowly back then. I'm bet people would "start" out of frustration from waiting until someone finished their sentence.

Seeing as how I will be in a scene playing some Lady Windermere type, I think I might exploit this "started" thing and just go nuts. What if she "started to swear uncontrollably" or even better "started to hump the leg of an audience member". If I go with the latter, I'll try to pick out the youngest member of the audience in the spirit of Wilde. That is what he would have wanted.

Anyways, dude's blog is cool. He just insults everyone and everything. I respect that in an individual. PROPS! That shit is ridic man!

Friday, November 18, 2005

bits and tits

no carrots no cabbages
no theatre no school
no rants no hopes no desires
today
or the last few weeks either for that matter

i have been too busy not writing essays to write anything else
not to mention the consuming task of creating a visual and auditory world for a performance piece

i was thinking more about those naked pictures i have on the web and how people keep finding them and actually commenting to me on them

women seem to think it's pretty gutsy and cool of me to do so

so i'm going to go buff for my next performance

well, topless, at least
and body paint
(someone mentioned pasties but i poopooed that idea... in this show i'm a bird, not a stripper)
but i have to crawl before i can walk

i admire nude performances and the artists who create them

besides
using naked performers really means a lower budget which is sexier than anything else you might see onstage

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Cabbages deserve love too.

Cabbage.
When we think green leafy substance, our mind turns immediately to lettuce or marijuana (you dirty hippies, don't think I don't know about your tricky little games). But what about cabbage? In the swift modernization of our time, has cabbage been left out in the dark?
Remember when coleslaw was great? Now we see it as a nuisance. It gets thrown onto hamburger platters and fish and chip platters in a valiant attempt to preserve its relevance in today's society. But noone cares!! We all just ignore the coleslaw... We say "we didn't order COLESLAW, we ordered a dead cow on a bun and mutilated potatoes!"
Sneaking coleslaw onto a plate is not working, nor will it ever work.
Poor cabbage.
Only eastern europeans are really doing anything with cabbage nowadays and with the americanization of their cultures, how long will cabbage rolls last?!
And cabbage doesn't even get in on the drug wagon either. When was the last time a crazy vegan nazi protested against a super-human cabbage? They are too focused on the tomatoes addicted to steroids, or the high-maintenance strawberries that are now too perfect.
Left out in the dark again, weren't you, dear cabbage...

I think all you cabbage ignorers should be a cabbage for a day and see how it feels. It might make you think twice about bitching about coleslaw.

Septima: changing the world, one cabbage hater at a time.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

Showtime


I'm in this play that at times has felt more detrimental to my education than helpful. School productions are there to give us hands-on experience and to give us a chance to work with professional theatre artists outside the classroom. But we didn't have enough time, the director gave up on a lot of really great ideas early on and it's really difficult to be in 4 classes and a job, ontop of spending 20 hours a week in the theatre. Real life is busy but not like this. This was painful. No wonder my kidney ceased to be a happy little kidney. It takes a whole lot to slow me down and my body knows this. A little head cold might knock some sense into other people, but for me, it takes a trip to a hospital and stern words from a doctor telling me to not do a damn thing for a few days.

I just got off the phone with my mother, who, as predicted, does not understand my desire to go part-time next semester. I don't have enough time to learn everything properly. I especially don't have the time to learn MY way and do assignments MY way, while remaning within the system. That requires lots of time to think. And I don't have that time this semester.

I spent September and October running from class to class, doing my homework an hour before the due date, being cranky to my roommate, learning lines every little chance I got and then running back and forth between my house and my boyfriend's.

That is not fun. I don't care if this is supposed to be the best time of your life, or whatever other bunk people tell you about university, I'm too fucking busy. I'm told to just churn out the same crap over and over again. I'm told not to crack under the immense pressure to get good grades. I'm told that jumping through little hoops is preparing me for the real world. I don't have time to live and if university is preparing me for life, I think there is something wrong with that equation.

I'm in this program because I want to get better at telling stories to people. I like seeing people stand up clapping after the story has been concluded. I like listening to the silence that happens when people don't know whether to clap or not. I know I'm going to do great things in theatre and Concordia has helped me to realize this by giving me something to protest and work against.
Anywho, enough of the bitching. I'm off to prepare for tonight's show.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

on 'not' smoking

the problem with being a non-smoker is the fact that you don't smoke.
i like smoking. i miss smoking.
i miss my favorite prop.
aside from the fact that i probably already have some sort of throat cancer i wish i still smoked.
so i could sit and have a cigarette with a glass of wine after dinner.
so i could talk about quitting school and travelling the world over coffee and cigarettes.

its been 1 hour since i had a cigarette.

before that, it was 9 whole days.

a few of those days barely count because i was sweating out a fever while dreaming delusional thoughts. i could barely tell you where my nose was, let alone bring a burning object from my hand to my mouth.

so it was 5 conscious days smoke-free and i hated them all.

its a hell of a lot easier to maintain my "i'm too good for academia" persona with a cigarette in hand.

actually, it is a hell of a lot more fun to be self-righteous while smoking.

but i'm going to get back on the stupid wagon tomorrow and requit. no more cigarettes... again. but let me tell you, it won't be fun, i am not going to enjoy myself and i am going to wish i could smoke. but i'm going to fight the urges. but i'm going to want to give in. but i won't.

i'm forever doomed to bear the title "non-smoking smoker". doomed i say.

doomed.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Up yours, Fate!!!

Ungh.

My kidney has rejected me. It has left the rest of my body in a shaking, sweating, feverish, vomiting heap on the floor. And I'm supposed to be in a show. I should be in class. I should be at work. Instead, I am goo. Well, I was goo. I'm a bit better now. The friendly staff at my local ER took care of that. But I'm still not anywhere near healthy.

I quit my job. And I'm starting to wonder if the gods are trying to tell me not to go to school.

The first time I tried, I had knee surgery and then broke my leg and had to back in for surgery. So being crippled, I decided to postpone university for another year.

Then during my first semester, I couldn't handle the stress of having a boyfriend who needed a mother more than a girlfriend, ontop all the other crazy life stresses. Second semester I had the infamous abortion.

School was next to impossible, but I squeaked through with decent grades and salvaged relationships with my profs.

But a fucking kidney infection during the first week of October? Come on. This is getting tiresome. I'll get through the rest of the semester but I swear, if next January, some other crisis comes my way, I'm taking it as a sign and skipping town.

Skippy is what I named my evil twin. Skippy is the root and answer to all of my life's issues. Problem? Skippy says, "Skip over it!" Enjoying something? Skippy says, "Skip to the next best thing!" I might have to give Skippy some free rein if another convienently timed problem arises. I am not even enjoying school anyways.

Let's blame the disjointed feel of this post on the fact that I'm popping Gravol like candy and in a bizarre twist of events, I'm not sleeping at all. Without Gravol, I can sleep like a cat. With Gravol, I usually become comatose. I think they should just take this fucking kidney and be done with it. I have a spare. I'll be just fine.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Take action!

I'm on strike. I'm not going to class. That's right, I'm fighting the man today.

The Manifesto of the Strike of September 29th 2005:

I will not read about things I already know about. I will not sit in class and study a play superficially using terms that noone has really defined. I will not play "who's the best actor" outside on smoke breaks. I will not play "who's more stressed out this semester" after class.

And most importantly, I will not use "post-modern" in a sentence.

Today is a day to revoke my university student status... maybe someone in administration will do that for me because I keep forgetting to mail that damn tuition cheque.

Okay, really, I just have a killer case of sour grapes right now. I fucked up and didn't leave myself enough time to do my work for this morning's 8:30 a.m. class. So now I'm playing the whole "I am too smart for that class anyways" card. But I am not minimizing my valid problems I have with the way this course is being taught.

In my mind, post-secondary education was supposed to foster independent thought and not encourage the regurgitation of other people's view points in a most uneloquent manner. What happened to critical thinking? How come it feels like I am the only one doing it lately?

This class I am skipping right now is about forms of "alternative theatre" (another one of those blasted undefined terms that should not be used any longer) and how they relate to the audience. A survery course of theatrical trends. So last week we looked at political theatre.

First off, if we are going to continue to call ourselves post-modern, or at least call current theatre movements post-modern, maybe we should fully suscribe to that notion and just admit that all theatre is political... Instead, it is implied that community plays are less political than "political plays". Apparently to be political, you have to obviously condemn or support a certain political view-point. So mention the NDP, bitch about Dubya and bingo, there is your political theatre. But what about that community play that dealt with the poverty issues in a rural farm town and how noone in the government would help them out is not political by nature? How come we don't call that one political? It is really pissing me off that even if we call ourselves post-modern, we don't follow a main part of post-modernism which is that everything is essentially political, or socio-economic by nature. What's even worse is that noone is even fucking talking about it.

My second problem with this course is that although we are dealing with meaty subjects, we are sticking strictly to analyzing the aesthetics of the plays and their forms. Sure, that's fine, I know I'm in a theatre course and generally, we try to stick to studying what makes theatre what it is, and I think that in theatre courses we should talk about theatre. However, to look at the aesthetic properties of a certain "political play" and from that point, assume that we know the intricacies of how that play interacted with the audience is ludicrous. What the fuck happened to content? Pass out an Ibsen play and the prof is all about analyzing plot, themes, characters and, here's the biggie, social context. Then we can all see why that play was written when it was written and thus, why people went to see the damn thing in the first place. So why don't we do that with these "political plays"? How come we don't even bring up the content? Is someone in the department afraid of being controversial? Is someone afraid of getting into a discussion about current events in a class about current theatre? Did someone along the way forget that it is important to have a STORY to tell and that theatre is not all about theatrical conventions or lack thereof?!

So this week's discussion is about documentary theatre, which is, you guessed it, political. I don't want to sit through another fucking chat that doesn't touch on the content of the play. I was in one a few years ago about living in the 30's in Canada. Pretty dusty and depressing play, let me tell you. But at least we had respect for why that play was written and why people went to see it. It was important to tell the untold stories of the men and women who lived through that shitty decade. And noone pretended that the reason why that play is regarded as one of Canada's greatest pieces is because it has a couple of flashback sequences.

So, maybe my prof won't understand my frustration through this morning's absence, but at least I can go in next week and start voicing my opinions. Maybe I can bring in some independent thought into this class.

One person at a time, right?

Monday, September 19, 2005

Whoodathunkit.

I had to introduce myself to a class today and nearly cried I was so nervous. All I had to say was my name, what program I was in, and what ideas I have for this production I am going to be a part of in December. A few months ago, I was not nervous at all to get up onstage in front of three times as many people and cry about a gangrape my character endured. That piece required me to pratically relive the rape and I went into it balls to the wall.

So what the crap was with me freaking out about introducing myself?!

Sometimes I wish I was shy ALL the time so it wouldn't be such a shock to my system whenever I clam up. Nothing is worse than being half in and half out.

When my grandmother started to lose her mind to Alzheimer's, it was tortuous to sit back and watch her watch herself decline. Whenever she said something nonsensical, her eyes would reveal her surprise and lack of control over what was coming out of her mouth. A few minutes afterward, she would apologize for not making any sense. Now that she is completely gone, it's easier.

Sitting on the fence, any fence, about any topic whatsoever is the most irritating position. Just fucking pick something and commit to it.

So, what's with these spurts of bashfulness?! Christ, I even knew half the people in the class personally. And bisexuality? There's another fence-sit of mine.

Let this be a warning to you fence-sitters. I hate you. Maybe because I see that quailty in myself and there is nothing like an unwanted trait in yourself to make you hate it in others.

On a postive note, I had a very happy birthday. As soon as I find my camera I will show off my makeup. I was erm... colourful. And I brought handcuffs to the bar. Every one needs a prop every now and again, don't they now?

Saturday, September 17, 2005

my first hyphenated birthday.

I usually dread my birthday. In fact, I try my damndest to avoid it. But this year is different. This year, I didn't hype it too much and just told everyone and their dog to BE YOUR OWN CIRCUS. Oh yes. Tonight, me and a shitload of people will find ourselves at a dirty little bar. We will be dressed to the nines... sort of. Think Cirque de Soleil on crack. Or at least a drunken, low-budget Cirque de Soleil. I doubt there will be much contortionist acts, although if I'm fed enough tequila, anything is possible.

I had a crisis when I turned twenty. Now, freshly twenty-one, I say "FUCK IT!" I'm young, I'm full of energy, I am creative and I have great friends who feel the same way.

Tonight, I'm going to celebrate my lack of responsibility, my extravagant nature and my love for beer. Oh oh oh will I ever celebrate my love for drink.

haaaaappeeeeee birthday to meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

looming september doom doom doom

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AUGUST IS ALMOST OVER!!!!!!

oh the insanity!
the unfairness!

its nearly goddamn september and i'm nearly 21 years old and tomorrow i'm going to wake up and the world will be out of oil and i will be a prune.

I HAVE 2 YEARS LEFT OF UNIVERSITY!

excuse me world, but what the fuck is that? do you honestly expect that i will be a competent productive independent member of society in 24 months? less than 24 months?! holy shit.

this is my annual freak out time. but its never been this bad before. i feel like i'm staring down the ugly fanged mouth of the rest of my life. last year i was blissfully blind to whatever 'independent' 20 something life was. now i'm blindlingly aware of my surroundings and it makes me want to vomit into a pair of my heels.

here is what might happen in the next month:

1 - cardiac arrest. if i drink enough coffee and do enough cocaine (to battle my sleep debt) and then smoke enough cigarettes, i might just have a heart attack.
2 - sleeping 16 hours a day. just thinking about the immense amount of stuff i have to do makes me tired.
3 - i might kill my boyfriend. he is staying at my apartment while his place is getting all fixed up. i really hope i won't kill him, he's nice to have around. but if the stress doesn't kill me, my stress might just kill him.
4 - i might kill my roommate. for the same reasons i might kill my boyfriend.
5 - they might kill each other. which would probably make me leave town and never come back. 6 - i might burn my apartment down. i have too much stuff. i like my copper pot, my bed, my red cowboy boots and my cats. everything else can go.
7 - i might... and this is highly unlikely, suck it up and deal with my stress in a constructive manner.

goddammit someone pass me a beer and a smoke. it's gonna be a looooong year.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Last night I donned my sexy leather boots.
I haven't worn heels in a while. Goddamn it feels good. It also feels good to call them "nutcrackers". Based on my lovely high-heeled experience, I have deemed that an investment in a collection of stiletto heels is necessary.
The only problem is, is that I'm clutzier than the average bear and while perched upon paper thin spikes, the merest speck of dirt might send me toppling over onto my face.
And nothing would detract from the power of heels like a broken nose and a black eye.
--
On another note, putting my entire collection of mp3's on random play is not an enjoyable listening experience at all. Bob Dylan is not meant to follow up Amon Tobin. I do enjoy a good disjointed track now and again, but a disjointed playlist? My inner DJ screams out in protest when two consecutive songs blend about as well as Jessica Simpson and Sophocles would.
And yes, my metaphors do need a bit of work. Or was that a simile? Shite. Where's my grade 9 English teacher when you need her?!
--
I hate LiveJournals. Stupid people putting what they are listening to or writing what their current mood is. Fuck that. And fuck blog quizzes too, while I'm at it.
Bad blogging trends need a good swift kick in the nuts. The kick, of course, would be provided by a hot pair of stilettos.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Virgo + Virgo = Sex for Statistical Purposes

I'm a Virgo... but only some of the time.

My house is a mess, I'm not shy, I rarely think before acting and I tend to follow my heart more often than my head.... these are all decidedly non-Virgoesque traits.

However, I'm incredibly anal, I'm a perfectionist and I can turn even the most intimate situation into something of a mathematical equation.

Put two Virgos together and this is what you get for pillow talk:

A plan to use a pedometer to measure how many thrusts there are per sex session.

"We would take a sample of 20 times and average them out."

Did that turn any one else on? Didn't think so.

But that is why it's my sex-life and not yours. This little Virgo has never been happier.

Monday, August 15, 2005

NAKED PICTURE (is not on this post)

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?

PEEEEPLE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

HOW DO SO MANY OF YOU KNOW ABOUT THE NEKKID PIC OF ME?

PERU? AUSTRALIA? SPAIN? WTF???

honestly... like i said before, CHECK THE DAMNED PORN SITES!!!!

GO TO A STRIP CLUB!

i'm POSITIVE they have strippers in spain.

BUT before you go whack off again

HOW DID YOU FIND ME?? HOW?

look! it's a bad poem about renovating my ghetto apartment! and mullets! and the mullets are french! wow! read this! it's sooper dooper!

please do come in
[i adore mullets]
i will sit in my living room
unshowered
and chainsmoke seductively
as your rattail slaps against your
bare
hairy
back

i will wait patiently
in my kitchen
as you wade through my piles of
smelly work socks and my
ketchup stained tees
to fix something
with your
dirty
calloused
hands

you don't mind though
i havent done my dishes in a few days
mullets don't care
i'm too english for your small town quebec
i can only understand your facial expressions
mullets don't care
but the tension is unbearable
im scared that you are saying yucky things
so i leave
i grab the bard
and i walk across the street
and above my little book
and above my sixth cup of coffee
i watch you
and your rattail
until youre done

i hope you had fun
looking through my things
i hope you didn't leave anything behind

because i don't like mullets
and i really don't think i like you.


they start painting in two days. the mullets. in paint. i shall seek an english, mullet free zone. this is hard. too many english girls in this city have... mullets. ack.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Wigger FAQ

What do wiggers do at work?

Where do wiggers work, anyways?

The answers to these pressing questions are finally here...

To start, Wiggers shall from here on in, be referred to as Wiggers, as opposed to wiggers. Wiggers signifies them as a breed all onto their own, which I assure you, is the honest truth.

Wiggers work the overnight shift at gas stations. They might be lucky and snag the day shift, but it's rare. Their cologne is generally too strong for the day clients. Night customers have either lost their sense of smell due to drugs or vomiting from alcohol abuse.

It takes them 2.3 seconds to respond to the doorbell on the outside of their little gasstation enclosure, which only means that they were doing something they were not supposed to. If someone takes longer than a few seconds, I will permit that. But answering the doorbell immediately?! Wigger, you must have been whacking off or dancing like a moron to bad music.

Which brings me to the next point... Wiggers must at all times, be blaring gangster rap. Or even commercial ChingyLingy shite. With rap surrounding them, Wiggers feel as though they are a rapstar as well. You must understand that the Wigger-Ego is a fragile item.

If rap music is playing, the Wigger responds in two ways:
1. Rolling or smoking a huge joint, or hitting a bong (preferably with white trash females or other Wiggers).
2. Dancing like a retard.

I caught my little Wigger partaking in option two... spastic g-thang homie moving. I walked up to the door and saw the Wigger adjusting his hat in a smooth fashion and attempting to dance to music I could not hear. I rang the doorbell, Wigger jumped and let me in promptly. Rap was blaring, cologne was everywhere... it was far too easy for me to identify his species.

I was face to face with a Wigger.

I asked for my brand of cigarettes, and I had to play hot and cold with him until he found them on the shelf. Then he asked me in true Wigger style, "What are the difference between cigarettes anyways?"

"Pal," I responded, "it's not that hard to figure out. Some are stronger than others. Some have a different taste than others."

Maybe it was my common-sense, or maybe it was my disheveled look, but it was at that point that he gave me the dreaded "once-over".

And immediately after, I blinked at him without an ounce of emotion, and then I turned to leave.

I'm pretty sure he said "bitch" on my way out the door.

Stupid Wigger.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Me vs. Canada Post

I don't go to casinos and I don't play scratch-and-lose cards. I don't submit for contests and I don't buy products if I might have a chance to win a lame prize.

Despite all that, I am a gambler.

I play with Canada Post.

I have one week until rehearsals commence and I just placed an online order for the plays I need. Canada Post says it will take 2 to 5 business days. I'm betting that they will get here within 2 to 3 days. If I win, I will be prepared for my first rehearsal. If Canada Post wins, I lose points with the director and my cast-mates.

A few months ago, I was gambling with my friend's acceptance into theatre school. If Canada Post won, my letter of reference would not reach him in time and all would be lost. If I won, the letter would surely guarantee him a spot in the program (that letter was one of the best things I have ever written). I won that gamble.

I better win the next one. It's my ass on the line this time.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Foul Limewire, thou hast deceiveth me

I like surprises, I do. I love it when something wonderful and unexpected happens. Especially when I'm downloading things. Many a song I love, I came across while looking for something completely different.

I don't like today's surprise one bit.

I naively double-clicked on "MTV Mash Up: South Park and The Simpsons" (yeah okay, so even if it WAS that, it would have been really lame...) and some japanimation started. In Japanese. I thought, hey what the hell. This could turn out to be really funny.

It's just some young animated characters chatting and making really big mouths and then really small ones and the occasional giant tear dropping out from the back of their skull. But when one of the girls bent over and the prepubescent boys gawked at her exposed ass (her skirt was nowhere near regulation length), I knew something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

Within 20 seconds, these boys had this poor little animated character bound, gagged and half-nude on the floor. I used to watch Sailor Moon as a young girl and at this point, I felt like my very own childhood was being raped. (yeah, yeah, i know. sailor moon. i know. but i'm not the only one who liked something ridiculous... transformers? c'mon...)

The only thing remotely funny was when they pulled out various dildos and vibrators while a gong sound effect went off.

Then the damn thing froze my Winamp. So I had to ctrl-alt-del myself out of there before the frozen close-up of an animated vagina being penetrated by 3 different objects traumatized me futher.

I have nothing against porn. In fact, I'm pro-porn. But I'm not pro-child porn. I'm not pro-rape-the-bitch porn, either. And now, I think I'm against japanimation porn as well. It just doesn't seem right to defile CARTOON CHARACTERS. Especially not in a childlike or raping fashion. Not cool.

I learned a valuable lesson today: be careful what you download.

And for all you creeps who want me to send you this porn, too late, suckers. It got off my harddrive faster than a young japanime character can cum seconds before I started this post.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

There is no such thing as a stranger

I used to pass out random notes to strangers in Ottawa.

It started when I saw this gorgeous guy who looked like he just got dumped, or his dog died or his best friend just betrayed him. He and I were waiting for the same bus and in Ottawa noone lines up politely like they do here or in Vancouver. Everyone clusters at the stop and fights to get on. When it came down to the two of us, he looked at me, and motioned for me to get on in front. I was rather taken aback that this guy, who had spent the last 10 minutes close to tears, lost in his own sorrow, still had enough left for a kind gesture for someone else. He had a special kind of beauty in his face that was being marred by his sadness. So I wrote a little note to him telling him exactly that. I handed it to him two stops before I got off, so that he would have to time to read it and I could watch his reaction. Right before I got off, our eyes met and he beamed at me. All his sadness had melted away to reveal that beauty I knew he had.

That smile got me hooked.

Everytime I saw someone on the bus who looked like they needed a little cheering up, I would be there with a few written words. I started keeping copies of what I wrote as well. Sometimes I would have no paper on me, and would tear off a corner of the script I was working on at the time and there would be a word or a number printed on it. Once I tore a piece off from the last page and it said 'THE END'. If the piece of paper would have a number on it, I would incorporate the number into whatever I wrote.

I took great pride in what I did. I gave elderly woman notes describing their eternal beauty. I told crying 14 year olds that everything will be alright. Sometimes I would just write about the gorgeous sunset we had just passed on the bus and that I hoped they took in that beautiful sight as well.

I hope I made a little difference in these people's lives. I hope that they appreciated my little gestures as much as I did.

I pay attention to the little things in life and I know that I would adore it if a stranger gave me a note full of kind and loving words. After all, as I wrote in one note, "there is no such thing as a stranger in this world".

Monday, August 08, 2005

5 weeks until my 21st birthday and this is what I demand.

1 motorcycle. Preferably one of those fun lil crotch rockets. I like speed... and not just the kind that comes in a pill form. But if you buy me one, I might never come back. So if you hate me and never want to see me again for the rest of your life, it's rather easy to just get rid of me in a legal and painless way... buy me a damn bike.

Buy me a couple of bottles of liquor, some drugs, a carton of smokes and send me on my way. Oh yeah, and a calling card. I'll give you a shout from Arizona or Yellowknife or Mexico... wherever the hell I end up.

Fuck school, I probably won't graduate anyways. And if I wasn't gong to complete my degree, might as well go out with a bang. Or a roar. Whatever sound my bike will prefer to make, that is what I'm going out with.

Yes, little ol' me... wimpy girl by day, biker girl at heart.

If you can't afford a bike, I will take whatever little trinket you feel like giving me. I am not picky. Really. Hell, a hug and a couple of sweet words will mean more to me than a card and a gift certifiate.

But seriously though... buy me a bike.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

'that morning'
you spoke of the future in the past tense.
how curious.

my sense of time has been lost
and i dont want it back.

Saturday, July 30, 2005

okay what do i have to say

i meet a whole lot of people in one night
do they really mean anything to me?
tonight i lead some guy on,
and he buys me drinks,
and spends 300$ on his friends
and tips me 100$,
and then asks me out for dinner...
i say no.
he was insignificant to me.

the table that was significant was a couple...
or rather,
a first date couple.

bless those fools who think that their first DATE will work out well.

it's why i don't date and i choose to "see".

there is a difference.

anyways.

this couple was hilarious.

an unwed, ex-club-ho/faux-intellect paired with an arrogant self-absorbed know-it-all.

i laughed at all his corny jokes and tried to make it seem like her man-du-soir was the wittiest person to walk the face of the earth. after all, it was he who would no likely pick up the bill. and if his lady likes him, he will like his lady and also like his lady-waitress.

in my 20 (almost 21... gasp) years of experience, if there is one thing i have learned, it is that men will think they are gods to women if there is at least one girl who likes them.

it's a fact.

how do these become facts anyways?

fuck it. it's my goddamn fact.

i adore my job. absolutely love it. i may be the only anglophone, i may be the youngest, but dammit, everyone loves me. and i return the love three times over.

the END.

Friday, July 29, 2005

Tonight I served Jully Black. She's super cool. She doesn't give a flying fuck about anything. I like that. I even went up to her as she was leaving to tell her that I love her music and I'm happy that a good artist like her is succeeding. She actually seemed super genuine. Two celebrities (because maybe the 4 members of Good Charlotte, combined, might make one real celebrity) in two nights... Montreal is NOT like Ottawa in any way, shape or form.

But that is so wildly unimportant. I found another song that seems to be written for me.

Twenty years for nothing, well that's nothing new,
besides, No one's interested in something you didn't do [...]
"you can't be fond of living in the past,
cause if you are then there's no way that you're gonna last".

-Tragically Hip, " Wheat Kings"

I'm done feeling rather unaccomplished, inadequate and less than great. I am everything I need to be right now and it's pointless to live in the past and wish that I had done more, therefore learned alot more.

Oh, and Happy New Year.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

All in a night's work

Walking to work at 4pm, I passed MusiquePlus and the throngs of kiddie-pseudo-punks that were gathered out front. I didn't even bother to check the marquee to see what crappy band would be arriving because any band that attracts kiddie-pseudo-punk, is not worth my time.

I soon forgot about the throngs of children wearing ripped black jeans because I was the only server working tonight and it was packed. I didn't have time to pee for 7 hours. After my boss (my only source of help) left, a group of "punks" walked in.

Great. It's the stupid kids from outside MusiquePlus. I delayed taking their orders because I have better things to do than answer dumb questions like "What kind of regular beer do you have?".

When I finally went over to the table to take their orders, I realized that I wrote off the wrong customers. The people sitting at that table were the members of Good Charlotte, their groupies and the hot VJ from MusiquePlus.

Ooooooooooops.

It took ALL of my willpower to not ask the lead singer to just fucking QUIT ALREADY and to not ask the other members of the band to STOP MAKING BAD MUSIC. And just when I thought every ounce of my will was used up, I had to find even more to suppress the desire to rip the lead singer off of the VJ.

IF I WAS A VJ I WOULD NOT BE FLIRTING WITH GOOD CHARLOTTE MEMBERS!!! ESPECIALLY NOT THE FAT ONE!!!!!

She's hot, she meets hot people on a regular basis... WHY DOES SHE LACK STANDARDS?

As for Good Charlotte, they are very nice people. I treated them like any other person in the world. I forgot one of their Diet Cokes (because I refuse to treat non-alcoholic beverages with the same priority as alcholic ones), I made lame jokes about my non-Montreal accent and I blamed all my errors on the kitchen. Proving that they were just another table, I still made an excellent tip. More than excellent in fact... 60$ on 100$. Not bad for people who make more money than they know what to do with.

I think it's hilarious that I of all people served Good Charlotte. I hate them. So does the cook. I think he spat in their food.

LIFESTYYYYYYLES OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS....

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Nostalgia

A few nights ago I shared my writing with a good friend of mine, and looking back on the piles upon piles of papers covered with pen blots and scratched out words, I realized that I have forgetten the joy of putting pen to paper. I have scads of writing from the last 9 years of my life and absolutely nothing from the last year, which has proved to be more like a lifetime rather than mere months.

I used to write everywhere I went. I got in the habit a long time ago of carrying a pen with me wherever I roam and I still do but now my pen's only use is to write down phone numbers I will never call. At work when I was hostessing, I would sit at the front of the restaurant and write about the people walking through the door. I wrote haikus about the regulars. I posed countless questions to myself that were answered only through the act of writing them down. I wrote political theories and rants while sitting on the bus. I wrote about my life while sitting in a tree. I wrote about the people in my life in the bath. I wrote while reading books. I jotted down quotes, one-liners, parts of overheard conversations and I made sure to document those beautiful fleeting ideas that come only from a truly cleared mind.

I was doing character analysis of myself and nearly everyone I met before I even knew what character analysis was. I was so observant and wonderous before I could even recognize those qualities in myself. Now, I feel stagnant. I still watch, I still think, I still compose and analyse and question... and I think it is impossible for me to stop. But the difference is, is that I am keeping it all in my head.

I try to write here, but everything ends up staying in the vault of "drafts" and the crap that makes it out onto the web only shows the drunken/hungover/sex-crazed part of me. I'm not denying that part of myself but I have been denying proper expression of my observant side.

Blogs are a great medium for expression because of the freedom and the guarantee that someone out there will be interested in whatever obscurities you have to offer. But this is not doing it for me at all. So I'm going to get off this computer and unpack my paper and pens and start writing the way I want to. I have alot to say and I want to share that with whatever audience I may have... but I think that it must start out on paper before it ever lands here.

Two of the blogs that I read most are WaiterRant and Gasguy, for their wonderful observations. I used to write in a similar fashion. I want that back.

Today, I begin my work week and before I go, I am going to purchase a book to write in and a sexy pen to write with. And it is going to be everything that it needs to be to me.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Only me....

I have a special relationship with my roommate. Now that we aren't sleeping with each other anymore, we are finding other ahem avenues to explore. She has been offered alot of money to write gothic/erotica stories that will be acted out at an S&M Show/Industrial Night at an afterhours club. The only way she will get the money, is if she also finds the girls that will play out this sex piece.

I'm sure you all can see where this is going.

But what makes this whole experience even sweeter is the fact that the other girl she has in mind is her incredibly hot friend who I last saw first thing in the morning standing in my living room in her underwear. I had just gotten out of bed after morning sex with a boy I'm seeing, and stumbled into my kitchen to find this girl, half-nude, casually saying "good morning" to me.

Not knowning what to do, I just turned around and made coffee and hoped that a jolt of caffeine will give me the strength to deal with an over-sexed morning.

A dominatrix scene with this girl would be intolerably hot, for both me and for every single audience member. And the fact that my roommate would be essentially directing it...

I can't even finish that thought. It's too much.

I have to go do unsexy things now.

But one last thing... My roommate can't decide who would be the dominatrix. Neither can I. But again, part of my indecision is due to the fact that thoughts related to this are too sexy and I can't handle thinking about it for too long because it is 1pm and I have to unpack and clean my apartment.

And think unsexy things.

Sunday, July 24, 2005

Material Girl

I spent nearly 6 months of my life swimming in piles of dirty laundry. My bedroom at my old apartment consisted of a few pieces of useful furniture and oodles of unwashed laundry. When I moved, I did 11 loads of laundry at my local, overpriced laundramat.

In the middle of revelling in my clean clothes, I realized I lost an entire garbage bag of clothing. Some of which were my roommate's clothing.

Fuck.

So now, with my freshly drawn budget that grossly underestimates the amount of tips I make per week, I am going shopping tomorrow. I am going to treat myself to some fabulous new clothing for the first time this year.

Half my money will be spent on cheap finds. The other half I am spending at this ridiculously expensive store on St. Laurent, which I am sure still has my drool all over the floor from the last time I walked in.

I used to be a shopping addict. I fear that tomorrow, I might binge shop... as addicts are wont to do after a hiatus from their substance. Fuck it. I deserve it. For once I am going to spend my money on something more concrete than a hangover.

Friday, July 15, 2005

i dont want a fucking striptease
im so sick and tired of being shown only half
because im young
because im naive
because im a little white girl from a white middle-upper-class family
when i want to see i want to be shown
no censorship
no bullshit

thank you.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

foolish lil me

i drank 12 beers last night.
my friend showed up with a case of beer and then left me to my own devices while he bought even more beer and drugs to while away a beautiful summer eve.
what was i supposed to do? not drink the beer? fahk that.

now i have to go to work where i will have a drink to numb the pain.
then i will realize that maintaining a little buzz makes dealing with customers much more bearable. in fact, it will be something of a survival tactic. if my tables are getting drunk, then goddamn it i need to be able to relate to them... right?!
then after a certain point in the soiree, the manager will buy the staff shooters and then my coworkers will buy me drinks and then it's closing time and im drunk.
then because i can never do something half way, i go to a bar and get even more drunk and then wonder what im doing sitting a barstool wasted with only 12 hours left before i have to go to work.
then i crash, wake up hungover and do it all over again.

alcoholic? mmm i dunno. consistently drunk? quite.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

It's foolish to say that you can change people. But each man I have been involved with have changed something about themselves since being with me. Is it that I invite change that has been long coming? That I demand reality and anything that is no longer serving that person's reality is chucked to the wayside when they meet me? Or is it just that as I am in a state of transition, the people that I become involved with are in a period of change as well?

Something is going on here and I think it might be me.

Emo is the new goth, except goths are still around, so it's becoming almost unbearable. - from the best page in the universe.

THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU.

I hate EMO. EMO SUCKS. I hate EMO and I hate "punk". I like PUNK. I hate "punk". I hate Fitty Cent. I like Snoop. Only because he is almost as cool as me. I have to give props to those who come in a close second.

Emo SHITE was playing beside this crazy ass rollercoaster at La Ronde which is a rip-off of The Bat from Canada's Wonderland. You know, where they hike you 70 feet into the air so that you are staring straight down at twisting metal and concrete and you have just enough time to pray that the safety harness (or whatever hard thing that is miraculously pinning you in place) is working, before they drop you and spin you around until you want to barf. Then, to assure that everyone is sitting in their own feces, they hike you back up to where you started IN REVERSE and then drop you and do it all again backwards.

This leaves your stomach in your feet and your heart in your ears. Then, in that awful state, you 'walk' off the ride like a bow-legged whore on GHB and have to listen to more emo.

It's fucking torture.

I think that they should only play ACDC. No Killary Duff (actual typo, im not shitting you, it's that great), no Nickleback and NO OLDIES. ONLY ACDC.

stumble



I'm being a lazy procrastinatin devil right now and Mozilla Add-ons are not helping me at all. There is this fantastic little button called 'stumble' and it takes you to random pages on the internet.

It's hot like Paris Hilton.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

i nearly pissed myself

LA RONDE IS A BARREL OF FUCKING MONKEYS

oh yes
i hit la ronde
and i hit every ride
and every ride hit me in various places
i am now covered in bruises and scratches

my back has a ton of bruises which does not help my case
everyone thinks i just have lots of great sex
which i do

but

im also a huge clutz
who has been blessed with the ability to bruise all colours of the rainbow
with the merest poke
so now i have to try to convince everyone that the huge bruise on my hip
is not from from a lover
but from this crazy ride ride that hung me upside down
as i laughed uproariously
and as i screamed "PEOPLE ARE NOT MEANT TO DO THIS"

honestly

people are not meant to be shot straight up into the air at 80 miles an hour
only to stop suddenly and shot straight back down again

its a fucking miracle i didnt throw up
or have a heart attack

but hey
35 dollars for an 8 hour adventure is not bad
i just need another break
hoooweeee it is possible to have too much fun

Sunday, July 10, 2005

i ride my bike
i rollerskate
dont drive no car
don't go too fast
but i go pretty far
for someobody who don't drive
ive been all around the world
some people say
ive done alright for a girl
oh yeahhhhh

janis, im okay alone but youve got something i need.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

moving is FUN

im living in a boys apartment right now

beer bottles everywhere
loud music
dirty floors

okay so i drank the beer and i play the obscenely loud bass
but
BUT BUT BUT
i did not make a mess of the floors

nor did i dirty the bathroom to the point where 5 straight hours of cleaning is necessary
nor did i draw anarchist symbols on the walls
nor did i think that spray on snow crap provides decent window coverage
nor did i glue belinda stronach's head on the front door
nor did i hang numchucks behind said front door (presumably to beat belinda's face in with)

who the fuck were these losers?!

this place needs a hell of alot more than a little mop and paint.

it needs a woman's touch.
so if you know a woman who has this ever elusive woman's touch, let me know. i have a position available.

oh and a fire alarm might be in order.
i live above a fucking restaurant.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

red girth of a deserted sky
tumble forth over a wine soaked tear
its the fourth breath of the heavy heat
--
i just realized it's 2005
signing checks and looking at calendars have no effect on truly processing that it is 2005
that makes me wonder what the hell happened in the last 5 years
or 10
july 24 is the first day of the mayan new year
and for as long as i can remember, there are more endings and beginnings around that time than there are around january the first or whenever the chinese new year happens
2004-2005 is the year of the storm
and i think my life should be some sort of poster child for the mayan year of the storm
i think i am going to insist that everyone
and i mean EVERYONE
read up on mayan astrology.
then make sure you check this to figure out your signature.
each day has a specific signature and people born on those days bear those characteristics.
the calendar is based on lunar cycles which has real siginificance.
not like the calendar that the world functions on which has stupid months named after egotistical roman emperors.
i mean, if it weren't for that julius cesar character and that other guy, september would actually be the seventh month.
logic was clearly lost during the roman times, which are ironically credited with inventing the fucking concept of logic.
bring it back to the moon man.
--
apparently my syntax is impactful and familiar to many people.
it happens all the time.
either i take up more space than i realize
or i have a twin who gets around.

Saturday, June 25, 2005

they don't call me queenprocrastinate fer nuttin

it's official

it's too blasting hot.

i am supposed to be packing but i can't
i do two boxes and then my arms start sticking to my sides and i become afraid to move my legs lest i rip the skin off my inner thighs
im not a fucking barbie doll folks
my thighs meet and say hi all the fucking time
and when its hotter than hell they really get to know each other
this aint purdy

i finally got a hold of my asshole landlord who told me that i can move the morning of july first
so i was elated and ran downstairs to rub it in my friendly neighbourly assholes' faces
and they freaked right out at me
apparently they had some 'appointment' to move at 6am that morning
but i don't know what the fuck they meant
why they would need to hire a moving crew to move up ONE flight of stairs is beyond me
besides
i get fucking priority cuz i have to move down 4 flights of stairs and then across town
and my parents are going to be here
and if the assholes have learned anything, it is that they can't win with me
and if i have learned anything, it is that my parents are tougher than me
so bring it on
i am gearing up for a fullout rumble at dawn next friday
cote-des-neiges style.

nigguh wut? i won. that's right. i won yet again.
send the cops for a noise complaint? they leave smiling and laughing and i get no ticket at all.
send the landlords after me? they gossip with me about crazy tenants.
i win.

and if anyone has a windows xp cd lying around, send it my way. i want my music back. im so sick of these crappy house mixes i play off the internet cuz this laptop sucks and can't handle a filesharing program.

Summer '05 Chronicles Issue 3: Blame it on the lunar cycle, or, Griffontown

Ed. note: 'Issue 2: Highschool Hell' was never published, partly because the experience was so scarring and partly due to the hangover. More time is needed before publication because upon reflection of that awful weekend, the hangover appears to return.

Yesterday was la Fete Nationale, and I promised to myself to not get lost in the francophone follies that took over Montreal. I failed miserably. After I last posted, the phone did ring, and I decided to meet my friend downtown to embark on an adventure. This friend was last seen in Issue 1, where we meandered down to the bout de l'ile and nearly didn't get out.

Before I left my home, I sensed something ominous in the air. It could have been the litter box, but I knew it was more than kitty doo-doo. I blamed it on the moon that was burning a dusty yellow hole in the sky. When I was getting ready to go out, I kept having these flashes of deja-vus, and everytime I reached for something to put in my purse, I would have this voice in the back of my head telling me "get a flashlight" or "get scissors". I tried to ignore the voice, because I could not rationalize bringing a huge maglight with me to go on a low-key hang-out with a friend.

When I got downtown and met A., we started walking south. No particular reason, other than I felt drawn to that area. Eventually we ended up in Griffontown, on the corner of Murray and Ottawa Streets and I was hit with the most chilling feeling. It was thrilling and scary, yet I felt that I had fulfilled something by getting to that point.

We kept walking, we played by the tracks and wandered around on the south side of the Lachine Canal. I lead the way based on following that chilling feeling. I could sense where to go, where not to go and everytime I went the "right" way, something was satisfied.

We passed by so many interesting things along the way that my flashlight and scissors really would have come in handy. As would have my camera. I am too poor right now to buy batteries so sadly, I have no pictures of the evening.

We sat down for a while outside the Costco and for the first time all day, I felt calm. Whatever had been ruling the journey or the day had passed. I looked to the moon and it was no longer that dusty colour of yellowy-orange.. it had turned white again.

On we went, after a few more smokes and some random discussions about the nature of humanity, and we came across the most magical place I have seen so far in Montreal. From far away it looks like a park that takes up an entire triangular block, with the only trees occupying the north end and the park benches are lined up in two rows facing the trees.

When we got closer, we saw that there were old stones in the ground, that seemed to outline a building that was once in that spot. There was a little historical background write-up on one of those hideous tourist signs and I learned that this was the site of St. Ann's, one of the area's biggest Irish Catholic Church.

There was gravel in the park marking where the aisles would have been and the park benches seemed to represent the pews. There was a sense of calm in that space that I always find in old churches, even though I am not catholic in any way, shape or form. In fact, sometimes, I feel like some churches want to burn me alive for my sins whenever I walk through the entrance.

The strange thing about this was that although the calm existed and could not be denyed, the open air and the exposure to the wind seemed to give the space a sense of unrest. The energy that defines that area was made when there were walls surrounding it. Now, with no real boundaries, the energy has been changed in a remarkable way. I have never experienced anything quite like it.

When I stood under the trees, my friend A. whispered to me, "do you feel like the trees are watching you?"

He was right... the trees were blowing in the wind and peering down on us. As protectors of this spiritual ground, they had so much to say to us, and I wanted to stay all night and listen. My legs had to keep going though, so I said my farewells to the trees and we carried on.

A few blocks away, we found ourselves in a sort of warehouse district and I could hear music off in the distance. A. chalked it up to overnight garage workers but I knew what was really going on. We followed the music, which got worse and worse as we got closer to it, and found ourselves a little warehouse party.

Riiiight, it is St. Jean Baptiste Day....

So we acquired free entrance, bought a couple of drinks and reveled in the sheer randomness of our evening, that was not quite over yet.

This party was the lamest party I have ever seen. Bedroom DJ's were given a tolerable sound system to play with and non-dancers who were far too drunk were dancing to the awful noise. One girl was dancing with a punching bag that hung from the ceiling. (nice decorating job there)
It was horrifying.

I deemed that the only thing to do was get my dance on and show these lame-ass francos how to shake your booty. I jumped in the "crowd" and within 5 seconds I had the attention of nasty trolls who were hooting and whistling at me. I guess the francos were all bottled up with unused catcalling after being surrounded by icky, uncoordinated females all evening, so I took one for the team and was hollered at.

I think one of the reasons that the music was so consistently crappy was so that the bad dancers could dance to something that matched their style. Whenever the DJ would start to pick it up a tad, everyone would stop moving and not know what to do with themselves. It was pathetic. I deemed that the type of music they were playing was FrancoFunkCore. It was made by francos for francos, had a bit of funk in it and well, anything that ends with 'core' just sounds super lame, which this was.

After I could take no more of this bizarre event, we left quickly, wondering what the fuck that was. I still don't really know.

Anyhow, we found Guy St., caught my night bus and jumped in a sprinkler that was running across the street from my apartment.

And that was how I spent my first St. Jean Baptiste Day in Montreal. It was the sober day that should have been drunk. It was the sober night that should have been high. Next time I know to bring a good supply of beer, vodka and MDMA to carry me through another adventure like this one. Or maybe not. It was magical, touching and spiritual without any additives. So maybe sobriety can have its moments afterall.

Friday, June 24, 2005

bored yet?

last night i dreamt that i went back to my old hellhole work cuz i forgot that i quit. but my dream version of that bar put it in the first story of a vampire-brothel house from the seventeenth century. i was the only one dressed for the times. everyone else looked like morons. then one of the owners attacked me and i ran out with alot of money but left behind my shoes like cinderella. if cinderella wore black velvet corsets and fishnet stockings with a big poufy black skirt that was ripped in all the right places. okay, so i looked like a old english prostitute. whatever. i was rocking the look.

then i tried to have a nap just now cuz i got bored of packing my stupid apartment and feeling sorry for myself. i dreamt that i heard these words:
i ahm zee mahdonnah.

i have fuhqd up dreams.

so i came back to this little laptop, armed with a nutella sandwich on white bread cuz its the best and don't you try to tell me otherwise. leave me alone granola crunching hippies. i don't eat your crazy hippy food very much. the other crap i can buy tastes way better and i don't have to have cooking rituals to make it taste good. i had a bulghur wheat incident a few months back that i don't want to repeat. and couscous? fuhgeddabouddit.

i am now going to go back to bed and try to sleep. but i have a feeling that my stupid phone will ring a bazillion times tonight because i made a kagillion calls this afternoon pre-self-pity-fest looking for something extravagant to do.

i dont know how to turn my ringer down. i think i just might burn the phone. and kill my cats for being nocturnal assholes. if i can train myself to be nocturnal then i can train my kitties to be dayturnal.

if anyone has some spare vocabulary there is a empty void in my brain that needs to be filled with new words. and old words that noone told me existed.

this blog really sucks everyone and i wonder with all my might why anyone actually bothers to read it. i was getting about a hundred hits a day and i really want to know why. i'm back down to my 30-50 hits a day and that seems rather high considering the vapid nature of this thing.

hell i don't even really know why i called it i plead sanity. i think im gonna call it something else.
like 'i ahm zee mahdonnah'. i can go from no meaning whatsoever to some subconscious cryptic meaning. hold on to your hats folks its getting crazy up in here.

oh and visitor from rhode island... why did you google queenprocrastinate (my email address) to get to this blog? that makes me wonder if i know you and if you might be a stalker or something. let me know. i swing from egotistical to deflated so if i knew i had a stalker, it would give me that extra boost in times of need.

gnight dearest readers. i wish you all the best in whatever the hell you do with your time outside of indulging me with being my ever-present yet eternally silent audience.

Growl.

I hate my landlord for telling me that it is up to ME to organize my moving date with the assholes that are taking over my apartment. My landlord neglected to tell me that they arranged to move at 6am July 1st. The people taking the assholes' old apartment are moving in on the afternoon of July 1st.

I hate my new landlord for allowing the tenant of my future apartment to move out on July 1st.

I hate my roommate for refusing to come back to Montreal until a day before we have to move. Which leaves me with the task of dealing with my parents, her parents (because she is, I assume, not speaking to them), the landlords, the tenants AND with packing everything in the apartment. I am obviously not touching her room, but some help would have been greatly appreciated with packing the kitchen and the living room. Maybe even an extra set of hands to carry home boxes to pack with.

I hate landlords for not returning my calls. I hate Sprint Canada for not processing moves on statutory holidays. Thank you Sprint Canada for ignoring the biggest moving day in this lovely, albeit smelly, city in which I dwell.

I hate my computer for crashing. I hate my cats for all their noisy antics. I hate not having air conditioning.

I hate being the only one to deal with all this stuff. I really really really need a personal assistant. Pronto.

Oh, I nearly forgot... happy fucking French Day. I hope you all are barfing in the streets and making St. Jean Baptiste proud.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

A Plea to the Pigeon People of the Plateau

Walking in the plateau, I passed a church. People-sized pigeons were everywhere. Loitering on the steps. Begging for food from the Real People that passed by. Some were grooming themselves, others were chattering.

Pigeon People, stop treating some no-name church like the St. Mark's in Venice. Maybe you feel that there are not enough pigeons in the city to cover all the church steps, but honestly, is it really that necessary to fill in for them?

I would greatly appreciate the cessation of this asinine activity.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Free

I finally did it. I quit my job.

I'll be curled up in bed, sleeping, for the rest of my fabulous day off.

I finally did it. I quit smoking cigarettes.

Today is day one, so please wish me luck. The sleeping my way through a day off is also a brilliant ploy to avoid nicfits.

I finally did it. I got drunk off rum and coke.

I drank too much rum throughout high school, so I gave my poison of choice a little rest. Well, clearly a year or two break is enough, because I'm back in the rum game. Just in time to rotate off vodka before I drink myself sober with martinis.

OK.... whatever. I'm hungover and didn't want to work this morning. And when I was hammered last night after work, I had some good revelations about my job. It makes me smoke too much. To solve that dilemma, either I would have to quit smoking or quit my job. Both are equally damaging to my person, so I just quit them both. I was going to stick it out for the week, but... I was also going to leave on good terms, but... who the fuck cares. It's not like I will ever go for drinks at an overpriced snobby bar anyways.

Now if you will excuse me, I have a hangover to nurse, feet to rub and cravings to stave off with water, carrotts and tomato juice.

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Dear Barstaff of Montreal,

Stop buying me drinks.

I may have "the best ass in Quebec". I may cause you stop and think to yourself, "why is this great girl working in a place like this?". I might flirt with you so that you will change my ashtrays. BUT, my ass.ets and my friendly demenour must not invite you to get me drunk.

I may like a martini or even a vodka and soda, but 7 shots of vodka will only turn me into the girl that you didn't fall into lust with. I may like to get drunk, but please, not at work. Noone needs a drunk waitress.

Drunk waitresses only piss off customers. Especially repeat customers. You see, last night I served a bachelor party and needless to say, they adored me. So much so that I became afraid that they might request my thong for a souvenir. After I got drunk off your evil vodka tonight, they came back for more overpriced drinks and cigars, and I told 8 out of 10 of them to "go suck your own cock"... in marginally more polite terms.

After that angry and cockteased table left, I was left with two choices: Go home and sleep off my drunk, or sit at the bar and drink my face off at the expense of the regulars, the bartenders and the bouncers.

Now, I'm hammered, and I blame you, Barstaff. Please, no repeats of this evening. As much fun as riding piggyback on a bouncer's back up and down the stairs is, I don't think I can ever do it again. And yes, the busboys may give great massages and the the bartender may overpour my drinks but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I'M SCHMAMMERED AND I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I EVEN GOT TO WORK TONIGHT!!!!

And here's a little tip for the Holy Owners: Split shifts only mean that I show up in the morning hafl-asleep and that I show up in the evening half in the bag. If I have 3 hours off, I'm not going home. I call a friend and I end up on a patio drinking sangria until my face falls off.

So, dear Barstaff, if you see me out on the town, and I happen to mention my lack of sleep and the fact that I open the bar tomorrow morning, don't pour copious amounts of alchohol down my throat.

Thank you.

With much love and affection (and only because I'm shtfaced and can forgive anyone in this state),

septima.

ps: I might need a hair of the dog that bit me tonight, so if anyone is out and about tomorrow, come see me on Crescent Street. I don't want to get drunk, so lay off the shooters, but one or two drinks would be spledid. Thanks.vc

Friday, June 17, 2005

I have the skills of a superhero

I was napping on my couch when someone knocked on my door. In my confusion, I stumbled and walked into a doorframe. I actually have no idea which door frame I hit. In fact, all I know is that I was stumbling and staggering towards the door and my head connected with a hard object along the way.

My landlord was on the other side of the door, and to keep up with the status quo, he only comes to see me when I am at my absolute worst state. There I am, trying to have a french conversation with someone who has the thickest spanish (?) accent I have ever heard, while wondering if I had blood trickling down the side of my face.

Back on the couch, safe from my landlord, I dared to touch my forehead and not only is half of it tender, but there is a bump. A big bump. One that will no doubt be colourful by the day's end.

Ice packs are no use... I have no choice but to show up to work this evening with a bump on my head.

The worst part of this whole thing is, is that all I can think about is the girl I saw walking down St. Laurent in a helmet. I made fun of her at the time, as anyone would have done, but now I see that she had the right idea all along.

Actually, the fact that I have done something similar to this a few years ago, might just be the worst thing. Another head-doorframe incident, but that time, I blacked out. If only I blacked out today... it would be a grea excuse to get out of work.

Damn me and my inability to learn from previous mistakes.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Secrets

I read Post Secret once a week to see all the new postcards and sometimes I go to that site to just immerse myself in other people's secrets.

I love the idea of writing down a secret and mailing it in, for the chance that it might be shared with many other people who no doubt feel the same way. Some secrets resonate with me, others I don't understand at all, which is exactly why we have secrets. I don't want some of my secrets to resonate with other people, I want them to be my own. Other secrets, I wish I could tell, so that someone might come to me and tell me that they understand.

So this morning I sit in front of my computer and wonder, what secret would I send in? How would I express it? So, I'm going to start getting out some of my secrets right now. I have a lot to wade through before I get to the big ones.

--

When I was 8 years old, I carved my best friend's code name and my own code name with a heart around it, into a piece of my parent's furniture. Whenever I am all alone in the living room, I go look at it, and remember what it felt like to be 8 years old.

--

I told the guy I lost my virginity to that I had slept with two other people before him.
(okay, that one is fucked up. i always had a disdain for those magical 'losing-your-virginity' fantasies. i didn't want him to worry about being my first, or worry about me getting all fucked up about it... i just wanted to have sex with him. so i did. and i don't really regret it. i made sure that my first experience with sex was with someone i loved, and i made sure that it was just that. i didn't leave room for any bullshit. from that i learned that sex is great with someone who you love, but it can also be just sex. don't worry, i am honest about my number, now...)

--

Well, getting those secrets out didn't make it any easier to get to the bigger secrets. It just made me think of the myriad of secrets I hold inside and how hard it is to share them. However, it does feel nice to open myself up. There is a certain security in vulnerability. If anyone dares to hurt me in a vulnerable state, it is on their head and not mine. People who prey on weakness should not be in my world, and when I am vulnerable, it allows for those preying assholes to show their true colours.

It's not all fair at work

Two busboys were fired without notice on Monday morning. These two guys work their asses off and on weekends, they sometimes make more money than the waitresses do. I have no problem with tipping them 3% of my sales because they deserve it. Especially the two that no longer work there. Intelligent guys, hard workers and fun to work with.
On Sunday, they were overheard by a Holy Owner discussing labour law, and how this particular place of employment does not obey those laws. Monday morning, they were no longer employees. We only have one busboy now, excluding the bouncer who is now doubling as a busboy. Which makes no sense to me whatsoever... can you imagine an extremely large and intimidating man squeezing behind the bar in the middle of a rush to restock the fridges? Or can you imagine a man of that girth manouvering on the packed patio to change ashtrays? I think busboys are called busboys for a reason.

In Quebec, waitresses have to claim 8% of their nightly sales as tips, which is then taxed on each paycheck. On Friday and Saturday evenings, we must tip out at least 7%. If a customer tips me less than 15%, I still get taxed for what I did not make. On top of the fact that I end up tipping out on what I did not make. No wonder I am still strapped for cash, even though I have been working full-time for 2 or 3 weeks now. At any other job, I should have been able to pay my bills and start saving for next month's rent by now. I just recently got my phone cut (it came back with glory last night, so don't worry too much) and my hydro bill is a week late. I have not even been able to worry about rent yet, let alone moving expenses.

Today I have a job interview at what I believe is the exact opposite of where I work now. I can wear jeans and comfy shoes. They serve good food. They have good prices on drinks. A casual atmosphere with good food, good beer and good service. Hotness is an asset, not a requirement. I hope I get this job because I could really use a change of pace. I could also use more money, and I have a feeling that this new place would pad my pocket more than a snobby, over-priced lounge with slave-drivers as the owners.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

photographic evidence that i am a stupid lush

bad idea bad idea bad idea

stay away from that beer

it can only bring bad things

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Don't drink 10% Black Label

Naaahhh
I'm happy I'm twenty.
The other night I ran around my neighbourhood in adidas track pants and a fur coat. Can someone please email me some double A batteries for my camera so I can document these ridiculous things I do??
I bought a 40 of Black Label 10% on Sunday night. The last time I drank that poison, I fell down repeatedly and ended up with scabs on my knees like a 7 year old child. This time, I split the stupidity 50/50 with my crazy roommate.
After the 40, my roomie and I went to this ghetto bar and ordered two pints and decided that the only thing to do was run away without paying. So I went down into the basement where the bathrooms were and found a fully stocked bar. So I grabbed a couple bottles of Beck's, hid them in my pimp coat and ran upstairs to tell my partner in crime to do the same.
We left our pack of smokes as payment. By accident.
Now I had two beers in my pockets, which were dragging my pants down a lil too low, had an open one in my hand and the best thing to do in that situation was to steal tomatoes from the market.
If anyone was on Cote-des-Neiges late Sunday night, yes, that was me running down the street leaving a trail of tomatoes.
Then we tried to hit the grocery store to get some more smokes and got kicked out. Apparently, drinking beer in public looking like a total sketch pot does not go over well with local merchants.
Everything was great until yesterday, after we cleaned our apartment and decided to have the beers to celebrate a sparkling apartment. The Beck's I stole were non-alcoholic.
Next time I steal things, I really need to take a closer look at exactly what I am not purchasing.

Monday, June 06, 2005

get it all out and you still find more

Forget anything remotely positive I said about my job. I'm quitting. I worked 20 hours in two days in heels. I am done. Fuck closing the place at 4am and then getting up for work the next day at 9am. No fucking way.

I don't even make much money. I upsell everything, my tables adore me and I walk out every night with less than 10%. The owners get 2%, the bartender gets 2%, the busboys get 3% and the hostess gets 1%. So, if each table I have gives me 15% tips, I only see 7% of that.

If I am scheduled from 11am to 4pm, and it takes me an extra half an hour to clean up for the next waitress coming in, I don't get paid for that half an hour. This weekend, I am scheduled from 11am to close, three days in a row. When did 16 hour shifts become legal? When did unpaid work become legal? And in what cruel world is it okay for the owners to receive a rather large cut of our tips?

To pour salt in my open wounds (and empty pockets), I am expected to work those long hours in heels and short skirts. I was so resistant to it because I knew that it wouldn't really affect my tips much and it would just make me feel like a carbon copy image of the other Barbies I work with. No my chagrin, the second I arrived for my shift in a little black skirt, the owners were soooo nice to me. Slurpy sweet, in fact. The yelling didn't stop, but instead of ignoring me in between rants, they would drool. I played off of it, to avoid looking like a prude, and it took a lot of effort to not run to the bathroom to vomit.

This job is devaluing me as a person, day by day. I realized that my feelings of inadequacy at work stemmed from the fact that I'm not good at just being a pretty face. I'm really bad at being some dumb animal that takes orders when barked to and hangs its head in shame when yelled at. I was taught that being kind, considerate, hard-working and trustworthy will get me places. In this job, none of that matters.

People have been telling me I'm gorgeous since I was a little girl. At 15, I was a model. Guys and girls of all types find me attractive. Yes, I might use that to my advantage in many situations. But I do not like situations where your clothing and your pretty face is the most valued thing. Needless to say, I despised the modelling thing.

How did I ever manage to work in the service industry? Where did my tough skin go? All this shit used to just roll right off my back. Now, it is all really unsettling. Pretty things on pretty people don't fascinate me as much as they used to. As I grow up, I tell myself to stay connected with what really matters in life. And I did a hell of alot of growing up this past year, and with that, I think I got closer to what really matters to me. All I want in life are happy, healthy, meaningful relationships with the people in my life. Anyone who does not meet those requirements are cut out from my life. I don't want to waste my youth any more than I already have on people who do not deserve me.

And I do realize that I will be forced to be around people I don't like, throughout my life. Jobs, schools, depanneur owners... whatever. In those situations, you just have to deal with them. But it's not just the cunts I work with or the cocksmokers I work for. It's the whole atmosphere of the place and what is expected of me.

At age 15, as a hostess in a pub, I concluded that serving is only one step away from stripping or prostitution. Servers sell their smiles, their personality, their cleavage, and whatever else that makes them desireable to look at and to talk to. They are there to be whoever their customer wants them to be. Sometimes a couple just wants someone to bring them their drinks and leave them the hell alone. It is the server's job to be quiet and invisible and prompt. Other tables want you to be their stand-up comedian. It's all too similar to sex-trade.

The difference between me at 20 and me at 15 is that I no longer think that being skinny, beautiful and popular is the key to happiness. Maybe I'm being a little extreme or dramatic here, but waitressing is really detrimental to any personal growth I have made over the past 5 years. When I walk to work, I feel the need to tell myself to lose everything that makes me who I am. Just become a cute little perfect girl in a short skirt who giggles when her male customers tell her how cute, little and perfect she is.

I need a new job. Somewhere where I don't get treated like a donkey. Where I can wear comfy shoes and pants if I want to. A place where my boss will let me have a glass of water when it is hotter than hell.

Is it too much to ask for a job that doesn't make me cry after every shift? I'm sick and tired of sitting on my bed at 4:30 in the morning, peeling off the bandaids covering my poor wounded feet and crying. In those moments I feel so inadequate, so worthless, so ugly, so useless. After deciding years ago that I was going to be self-assured and never let anyone tell me I am a lesser person, why am I working at a job that is the sum of everything I vowed to stay away from? And were all the bars and restaurants I worked at like this one? Was it just me who changed or is this bar just exceptionally awful?

I thought that high school was the toughest time of your life. I thought that once I was in university, everything would be fabulous. Freedom at my fingertips and creativity all around. In reality, it's harder than I ever possibly imagined. I can't help but feel like everything I ever prepared myself for, is not happening. Everything that I ever chose for myself no longer matters. Everything that has happened this year goes against everything that I was taught. And I was not prepared for a single thing that did happen.

I am more stressed out than I ever have been in my whole life. I have overcome a multitude of challenges in the last year and now, this job, of all things, is making me rethink everything. My hands are shaking all the time, I have nightmares and I'm unbelievably lazy. I love my life, I love my friends and my family but I am so anxious. I want to jump on a plane and get the fuck out of here, if that would help me. I want to drink myself stupid, if that would make me feel better. I want to do tons of drugs and dance for hours on end, if that would change how I deal with the next day.

When I was 14, all I wanted to be was a really cool and happy twenty year old. Now, at twenty, all I want to be is 30. I want to be married and financially stable. I want 2.5 children and a fucking SUV. I want to be a great actress who is respected by fellow artists. I want to skip whatever stage I am in right now and get straight to the easy, settled-down part of my life. But does that even exist? Probably not. Which is, by far, the most depressing thing I can think of right now.

Sure, things will get better... they always do. At least I still have my uncurable optimism. On days like today, I wish I was a pessismist. Because those little ideas that are full of hope are starting to piss me off.