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.