my dear sarah...

last night i cried
that i am so weak
so tired
that i can not do more than survive this
i can not be strong
i can not live up to the expectations of me
the fighter
the tough one
the rock
all i know how to do is survive (barely)
i thought i needed to do more to be strong
i thought i had to keep a perfect apartment
keep up with laundry
do my dishes 8 times a day
i thought i had to stop crying

as long as i survive
you said
i am strong

you were always the strong one
showing the rest of us how to live
when your mother died you were ready
you had ten years to understand
your sister died and it broke you
you need another ten years

for the first time
we became fellow warriors
fighting weakly against lives that are not ours
we grew up together
we shared dreams
now we share age beyond our years

at least i still feel like you are still my neighbour
and we are seven years old again
playing in our joined backyard

i am not racist. nor am i a man-hating dyke from hell.
however, if i get one more middle-eastern man replying to my roommate ad,
i will freak out like a red-headed step-child.
not that i have anything agaisnt red-headed step-childs either.
i just heard they throw good hissy fits.

in fact, half of my incoming phone calls are people i don't wanna talk to.
"is this the psychiatry ward?"
yes. and no body loves you. you are alone in the world.
you are doomed, doomed, doomed.
have a nice day and thank you for calling the psychiatric ward.

"can i share a room with you?"
no you cannot share a room with me.
the last person who "shared a room with me" was spontaneously kicked out.
as fun as it might sound, apparently, it was no barrel of monkeys.
if i were you, i would request the spare room.
upon passing this phone test, you will be invited to look at the apartment.
looking at the apartment means exactly that.
it does not mean staring lustily at my body.
while looking at the apartment, the less you talk, the more concerned i get.
its your chance to shine. show me how great you would be to live with.
show me that fab personality i would want inhabiting the room down the hall.
if you don't say more than 4 words, that worries me.
it makes me wonder what is going on in your head.
this is not to say that people who talk a lot actually say what is in their mind.
but at least they distract me with words. so many words.
so if you want to live with me, you must speak. english and/or french.
thank you and best of luck.

and here it is... a brand new face for my lovely angsty blog
looks like i'm blowing my grunge-alt-rock phase right out of the water with this blog
oh kurt, i loved you so, but gordie lightfoot is the new(old)man in town
lots has changed since 1996
(but i still wear flannel when no one is looking)

honk honk
chat from the back
half in the nose
half in the sack

knock knock
peer in the dark
need that heat
need that spark

wait wait
two in the sheets?
dont call me love
dont call me sweets

look look
who's in the bed.
thought you had me?
thought you had cred.

Aftermath

My life took the shape of a hurricane last month. I was standing in the eye of it all watching pieces of my world get ripped up and spun around me. All I was missing was that token flying cow. No one is terribly organized or happy after a hurricane passes through and rips out their foundations. That said, I will not apologize for my behaviour in the upcoming few weeks. Why? Because I was pregnant, you dick.

I feel a T-shirt slogan coming on... It will save me from answering those horrid questions that make everyone feel uncomfortable. Instead, I shall rely on the widely accepted offensive route.

"Do you know it is department policy to fail you after 3 missed classes?"
"Yes, I am aware of your stupid university policy. But I don't care."
Then with a cold, unwavering stare, I shall point to my trusty slogan plastered across my chest and they have no choice but to concede defeat to Me. After all, I'm already going to hell for this one, no need to punish me further.

It will also serve well to get my concerned class-mates to stop worrying. According to the majority of my peers, I had a "flu" for three whole weeks and people were beginning to wonder if I had
a) cancer or some other fatal disease, or
b) some incredibly contagious virus that will take everyone in the theatre program down, one pretensious actor by one.
"So... you are completely healthy now?"
"Yes that is right. I woke up one morning and magically, I was all better!"
Give a lil point to the slogan and poof! all questions have been answered. Like magic.

Granted, some people might ask me "What do you mean, you were pregnant?" The nice thing about having gone through some tough shit recently, along with my imminent hell-dweller status, gives me full permission to punch those insensitive assholes in the face.

Yes, I have officially given myself free reign to be as obnoxious and offensive as possible. On that note, time to celebrate reading week, the "break" given to university students in an attempt to curb suicide rates in stressed-out 20-somethings trying to carve their life paths. On a side note, this is not much of a break. You get assigned more work than is humanly possible to complete, especially considering that all your deadlines fall into "too far to give a shit land".

Well, looks like it is off to the dive that has stolen my bittersweet heart and drowned it repeatedly in beer. This is my beloved shithole where I will drink pint upon pint, play lots of AC/DC on the juke and reunite with my good friend Tequila. Goldshlager, you can come too.

cheers and bless tomorrow's hangover.

My new hero

A friend who walks through the swampy mess that is the internet, told me about a great man. A bartender of epic proportions. He is one of the stars of slinging drinks. He calls his bar "My Bar" with every goddamn right. His name is Edwin Decker.

He catches tip-stealing ratbastards.

He doesn't let a happy-hour rush own him. He tells tells a packed bar to shut the fuck up and drink Budweiser until he catches up.

He drinks nearly as much as he serves and can walk away with a lady.

He has respect for his job and the duty to give good service but will not be treated like slime.

Edwin, you have stolen my heart. In my 5 years of serving and bartending, I have only met one other like you. Your kind gives me the courage I need to be a shitkicking bartender myself.

I just need to find a bar to call my own...

breathe easier, it's febuary

my spiritual sisters have emerged out of my past and present, just in time to save my soul.

an old dear friend who has rescued me before contacted me out of the blue to say she loves me. she is making art out of underwear by the ocean.

my montreal mommies embraced me. they gave me a paintbrush for sorrow, eggplant for hunger and a hot sudsy bath for my worries.

halifax called right before toronto. victoria called a day later. ottawa checks in daily and montreal holds me close.

my dire straits sent out a call for help and thank god my world answered.