The strangest things happen in bed

Nothing gets a better laugh with close friends than a good story about misadventures in bed. So begins my compilation of the strange things we hear and experience...

---

J. was M.'s first boyfriend. Things ended amicably and despite J.'s lack of sex and M.'s surplus, they remained just friends. Recently, M. stayed at J.'s house after a long night of partying. When M. came into the bedroom, she found J. lying naked on the bed masturbating.

M: "Well, you know, you are lucky it's just me I guess... we are comfortable with each other."
J: "Would you undress in front of me?"
M: "NO! .... But I will take off my pants and you can watch me from the bathroom while I brush my teeth, I guess."
J: "mmm... okay..."

So M. brushes her teeth in her underwear while J. looks on, taking all he can get.

She picks a Forensic Psychology book about serial killers out of her bag and starts to read in bed while J. fervishly beats off. But if you have ever tried to concentrate on anything while the sound of hand on cock is happening right beside you, I'm sure it will prove impossible. So M., trying to keep her mind on the book, started to read aloud from her bedtime book. Which just so happened to be on the chapter about brutal decapitations.

J: "Can I put my hand on your breast?"
M: "Fine."

And so J. finished himself while M. read about serial killers, the whole while ignoring to her best ability the hand groping her breast. J. cleaned up, M. put her book away and they both went to sleep on opposite sides of the bed.

That's fucked up.

----

S. and L. had been fucking for hours, as it often happens with them. Lovers for years, never girlfriends, it is a sort of special relationship full of lengthy love making. Finally they made it to the bedroom where L.'s iTunes was playing on shuffle. S., close to an orgasm, couldn't help but notice the sounds coming in off the speakers... An old show tune that goes something like:

"Anything you can do, I can do better...
I can do anything better than you...
No you can't!
Yes I can!"

S. started to laugh, and not wanting to ruin the moment, she tried to stifle her laughter. But if you ever started to laugh while your face is buried between someone's legs, I'm sure you would find it really difficult to not let your partner notice. Soon, they both were dying of laughter, singing along to the song.

The girls went to sleep shortly after declaring that song to be the official 69 theme song.

That's just hilarious.

---

Table 13

Monday night, a customer died in my section. As a waitress, I expect to deal with a pile of annoying clients, all demanding my undivided attention. More ketchup, less salt, more salad, less tomatoes - and the saddest thing that I saw was how noone stopped asking when a gentleman not 4 feet away was having a heart attack.

It took me a few minutes to register the problem at table 13. Two men, obviously old friends, were enjoying their filet mignons. 5 minutes later, one of the men appeared to be asleep. I tried to offer assistance - not knowing what assistance to give - and was shooed away by the friend. I kept serving tables, because that's what I came into work to do. I kept going back to table 13, because that's what any human with half a soul would do.

I urged a co-worker to call 911. I accepted the help of a doctor who had just settled his bill with me. I told the kitchen to shut down until everything was under control. Then I went outside and lost control.

Later I learned that I had a panic attack, alone in the back alley.

I blamed myself for serving the man drinks. I blamed his friend for refusing aid from myself and my coworkers. I blamed table 16 for asking for ketchup while a man's lips were turning blue.

I didn't know his name, his friend's name or even if the paramedics were able to revive him - for the third time - at the hospital.

I was given two days off to relax - unprecedented behaviour from the management who have basically chained my ankle to the bar 6 days a week for the last 3 months.

Thursday I was back at work. Nervous, anxious and still confused.

One of my coworkers came up to me and said that there are 4 people who want to talk to me.

"The son of the man who died on Monday wants to talk to you. He came in with his sisters to see where their father spent his last moments."

I left my nearly full bar and introduced myself to them. I told them about how the two men were - jovial and hilarious. I told them what their dad had to drink, what he ate and how in the middle of his meal he just slumped over.

They thanked me and told me how their dad had a stroke last week. The doctors said it was a very minor stroke, and at 82 years of age, he should just continue on as normal. He had a ticket booked to Vancouver to see his kids on Wednesday. He went out for dinner with his best friend at his favorite restaurant on Monday.

He died of a heart attack in the restaurant. They managed to keep him on life support until Tuesday - where his family gathered and said their goodbyes. He died on Tuesday when they pulled the breathing tube.

One of the women spoke to me in private and told me how grateful she is for everything I did. That because I made sure 911 was called and got a doctor to volunteer to administer CPR, the family was able to get to Montreal to say goodbye. She told me that they view Monday as the night he died.

And that they were very happy to know how he died eating his favorite meal with his best friend under the care of a warm-hearted waitress.

I still feel bad for making jokes about how the majority of the clientele is so old, "I just hope noone dies during my shift".

But I'm happy I was there. So is the waiter who used to work that section on Monday nights. He is bringing me a few Adavan pills tonight... just in case.

this side of paradise

i packed my bag and got on a train to ottawa
two hours later i was welcomed by my mother's warm hug
two hours after that i got out of my parent's car and tears streamed down my face

i have never felt so relieved to smell the pine needles
to hear the crunch of sand and stone under my feet
to breathe in clean, fresh air

i could see the stars clearer than i can see the city lights from my apartment here in montreal

i fell asleep to the sound of bullfrogs and i awoke to the chatter of chipmunks and birds

i knew i needed a rest in a quiet land
i knew i needed out of my tiny apartment
and i really knew i needed to not wait tables and sling martinis for the snooty westmount crowd

but i had no idea that i needed it that badly
or that it would feel like a miracle cure for a mystery disease

it wasn't home to me
it wasn't nostalgia for what past generations lived
but how do i explain the feeling of homesickness i have now?
the first sight of montreal's skyline usually fills me with excitement and wonder
my journey back filled me with sadness

i would gladly take 4 more bee stings
10 more horsefly bites
3 more sunburns
if i could just listen to the trees sing for a few more days

i would even take down the dock and put it back in
(again)
if i could just swim with the fishes for a few more days

because that pathetic little pond in parc lafontaine is just not cutting it.

see ya - don't wanna be ya

I'm going on vacation.

And it's not the "liquor drenched let's party all the time" type of getaway, where you need to rest up for as many days as you took off.

It's the "I'm turning off my cell phone and you can all be damned because I'm in the middle of nowhere bonding with my vacant mind" kind of vacation.

I have not stopped working and partying since sometime in 2006. And I think I burnt out about 4 times since then.

It's been too long and I need to stop thinking. City living is a blast but there are too many distractions. I am going to limit my distractions to a logic puzzle or 90 and the daily paper. My toughest choices are going to be whether or not to swim, tan, sleep or eat. My mind will be plagued only with what kind of beer I will take down to the dock with me.

R&R here I come.

Facebook is fucking creepy.

First, a girl I hung out with when I was years old found me.
Then a bartender at a local bar found me because she remembered my name off an ID card I lost there.
I found that a girl I went to junior high with is married with a child.
Then the piece de resistance - a group has been formed for people who hung out on the steps of a door of my old highschool. Sure, we called ourselves some sort of a crew, but there are pictures on that group from 1986 on. That's fucking strange.

What is even stranger is to do a search for people you haven't seen in years.

Not recommended under any circumstance.

beer good. rock n roll? better.

I like dancing to rock like a complete whore-bag.

Men are intimidated and women start getting a little, well, looser.

These boys scattered when they saw me, and all the women were fascinated, intrigued and then next thing you knew - the whole bar was full of petrified boys pinned against walls, terrified of the amount of women dancing like everyone was watching.

Hair was tossed, hips were gyrated and not one person kept doing the pitiful mosh-like dance. (when i walked in the whole place was full of quasi jumps, little turns and a couple of foot stamps. that had to be stopped.)

20 or so twenty-something girls were toasting each other on the dancefloor with cheap Boreale. We were showing off, we were not giving a shit. We were simply rockin out.

I liked starting a mini revolution on the dance floor.

God I love rock n roll.

there's a haze over the city today
the smouldering whisper of summer smog has arrived

summer despite the sweat and the smog
is sexy

sometimes the idea of piling close to another body
is too much for your body temperature to take
but all you need is to just sit down
and let the heavy moist heat surround you

summer is very sexy
very very sexy

Breaking point.

In the attempt to figure out what is missing from my life, I tried just about everything.

I had flings with boys.
I broke off all the flings.
I messed up my apartment.
I cleaned my apartment.
I worked all the time.
I took time off.
I lived frugally.
I lived like a princess.
I talked to my friends.
I shut myself off from the world.

I read a book. I wrote a poem. I dreamed. I walked. I watched a movie. I watched TV. I listened to music. I made music.

But what is missing is clearly deeper than all that. And it's staring me in the face. It's been lurking for a long time and it is not something I'm entirely comfortable with. It would mean changing behaviour. It would mean changing my outlook. It might mean looking at my past in a whole new light. It might bring a total reevaluation of everything.

I said a while ago, I'm waiting for either a breakdown or a breakthrough. Either way, something is about to break. Something is about to give and I just hope I'm ready for it.

girl meets boy

I met the man of my dreams last night. Well, if I had man dreams he would probably be in it. Actually, in order to meet the man of one's dreams, you would have to be able to imagine that a man like him actually exists. Which is totally inconceivable in my case.

I met a sexy and rich owner of a sex toy distribution website. He was wearing a "take the Pepsi challenge" T-shirt, but that is forgivable. Other than that, he is truly the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.

He had that cleaned up messy look. Slightly pretty but enough scruff to keep him in the "grr".

Okay, so he's a fag.

But imagine this - I still met the only beautiful sex toy specialist. And that in and of itself is remarkable.

Why are the people who sell sex toys so damn ugly? They have great social skills, are completely comfortable in their own skin - and it's just a fuckin shame that the skin they are in is horrendous.

And rich to boot? Often the wealthy ones are not that cute - except for one of the Molson playboys.

So, immediately following introductions to the sextoy man, I shocked the hell out of him. And I can bet that he sees and hears it all. Props to me.

"Sooooooo, I'm like free for the rest of my life."

Followed by earth shattering silence.

Followed by my immediate exit.

I don't know where I get these behavioural issues. What normal human being says something like that? More importantly, how many girls say things so forward? To a gay man. I think I just outmanned a homo.

I'm never caring about hockey ever again.

I hate hockey. I hate that the game stops every 2 minutes because someone broke a rule. It can't be that great of a game if ALL the players want to break the rules all the time. Rules define the game. Boundaries define everything. If the rules are consistently broken, maybe they should make new ones.

I also hate how beer is hockey's best friend. It can't be that great of a game if you have to get drunk in order to enjoy it. And if ALL hockey fans end up getting plastered watching the game, maybe that is a sign that it isn't that entertaining.

I really hate how hockey makes everyone so angry. You see players break the rules and then the fans get angry when they see fights on the ice and the whole thing goes straight to shit.

But what I hate most is how damn patriotic I am, and when my hometown is within spitting distance of the Stanley Cup... well, I turned into your typical hockey fan. Except that most fans of hockey don't engage in blatant displays of lesbianism in the middle of one of Montreal's hockey hotspots.

First I was drowning my sorrows in tequila shots along with everyone in the bar. We were all pissed off that Ottawa lost and when I started making out with a girl, suddenly anger was not directed towards Anaheim... it was directed against my friend and I.

Gaybashing or whatever you want to call it is completely horrendous. And it was coming from drunk hockey fans so pumped full of testosterone and loss.

There were boys and men all over the place who were deeply offended by the fact that two women were displaying affection for one another. I thought Montreal would be relatively safe from that kind of hatred. That ignorance has been relocated for the most part, to the midwest. I was surrounded by french and english hipster types, with not a cowboy hat in sight, and I had to listen to some of the most offensive gay slurs I have ever heard in my whole life.

And I am not even a lesbian. I guess if I were, I would have gotten the memo about where not to show acts of homosexuality or bisexuality. Apparently hockey is no place for a dyke.

"You don't write anymore, you should write."

"It used to be a true expression of yourself, now it's just vainglorious. Like you are trying to convince yourself of something."

Perhaps.

But maybe it is hard to write when you have your left hand holding a glass of wine and your right hand holding the keys to get out of your apartment... and your mouth is holding a cigarette, all to perhaps,

forget the fact that you don't write anymore.

And I mean write in the cynical way. The way that you make fun of trannies like they are lost and found women who forgot their penises.

(because any self respecting woman has a bigger dick than most of the men we all meet)

But perhaps it is hard to write when my skin is burnt to a crisp. And the reason for the burn is due to my desire to run around like a fool until I forget where I came from.

Where I came from is peeing in the bathroom.

While I attempt to smoke.

Smoke and type.

As he encourages me on.

Dating Rules

A while back a friend of mine and I made up a little list of Dating Rules. Apparently, once printed and framed, they would become holier than the testament and we would have no choice but to obey the rules. And if obeyed, we truly believed that the rules would spare us from all future dating horror stories and we would never be heartbroken. Ever ever again.

We both broke a few rules, but the one cardinal rule that we both swore on, was to never date a guitar player or DJ.

They are bad news. Guitar players think that they are humble gods while DJ's think that they are gods that have the power to smite you all.

Guitar players play you emo songs in their bedroom, thinking girls like emotions on display and that tears from their moving handwritten poems lead directly to sex.

DJ's play you their new track in their bedroom, thinking that their inherent coolness will remove all your articles of clothing immediately.

Guitar players will try to have emotional sex, full of handholding and tender kisses.

DJ's will try to have sex. Any sex. Because their cock is so naturally large that even being in its presence will send a girl into ecstasy.

Guitar players will have awkward moments and toss their emo hair in pseudo bashfullness.

DJ's will have awkward moments and not even notice how foolish they really are.

Now that I know not to get near these types... again... I am going to remount that list of mine. Frame and all. And I will remember to obey the cardinal rule. Never ever date guitar players or DJ's.

Quote du moment.

an affair so ongoing it almost constitutes a relationship.
a relationship so brief it actually becomes an affair.

can you believe...

i went to work on the terrace
only to find it freezing cold

i went to sit at the bar to eat my free meal
only to find a drink in front of me

i went out back to smoke
only to find more drinks waiting

i went to another bar
only to find a plan

a plan to go to new york city for a day
to drink and party and have a blast

but planes are awful expensive
when you don't have much of a plan

so i ended up in quebec city
loaded after drinking warm heinekens on the bus

and woke up to room service
at the chateau frontenac

wondering how i went to work
got drunk
and ended up in another city
staying in one of the best rooms in the hotel

life is good
when you decide it's for the taking

but from now on
i think i should get on the proverbial wagon

so that next time
i don't end up hungover as usual
in another city.... unusual....

here we go...

I'm nervous.

Don't be.

I'm scared. Actually, I'm terrified.

You are? Oh no.
Now I'm terrified too.

Smoke?

Yes.
I'm really guarded. You should know that.

Oh thank god. I mean not thank god. But when I said I'm terrified, I actually meant to say that I'm guarded. Other words came out instead. I have a wall. I keep seeing opportunities to let it down and then boom it comes right back up.

I guess we are involved.

Yeah, I guess so.

I hate relationships.

Me too.

My relationships always fail.

Aren't they supposed to fail? Wow, that's depressing.

But true.

Well, they should. At least now. Until you are old, I guess.

I feel old.

I'm twelve. And fifty.

Me too.

Do you have a condom?

No.

Dammit.

---

Then he played me a song. About love. It wasn't sex, but it will do.

If someone were watching my life, they would probably throw up all over the goofy awkward moments and then decide that it is flowers and sunshine and all the other things that make you cringe.

Fear is making me keep my life preserver tightly strapped to my body. And at this point, what I am most afraid of is the moment where we have to take off the safety measures and actually plunge into deep dark scary waters.

Until then, I will just keep on being terrified and guarded. And completely safe.

God bless the service industry

An after work drink often turns into 8 shots at a nearby bar which can also turn into the fun experience of dining out with chefs. You honestly never know what is going to happen next.

You could end up at a Shish Taouk palace where one chef decides that the tabouleh is the best he has ever had. This chef is next spotted walking out of the greasy establishment carrying 40$ worth of the stuff in a takeout container.

Or, you could end up in Chinatown, eating snake soup and oysters at 4 in the morning. Incidentally, this is my favourite option - nothing beats being the token white girl in a Chinese restaurant where the servers mock me and tell me that the snake soup I'm scarfing down (and incidentally, burning the inside of my mouth) is chicken.

"Ohhhh don't worry - it Chicken. Hahaha, it chicken!!"
"Uhm, you don't worry, I know it's snake. And I love it. Thanks."
"Ohhhh you brave! Hahaha it not chicken!! Very good!"

I should think about stealing some of their serving practices. I think I would love pointing and laughing at the foolish Westmounters who don't know the difference between tartar and salsa.

Once a day

According to my numerologist, I should be working on my "career" for an hour per day.

According to my doctor, I should be "thinking" about quitting smoking once per day.

According to my parents, I should be planning my "life" each and every day.

According to my prof, I should be reading "theatre" once per day.

According to me.... well, I think I need to take a break. Once a day.

So, that adds up to 3 hours of work and 2 hours of break per day. 5 hours a day of scheduled "me time" ontop of the average 5 hours of bartending per day. Not to mention rehearsals, beer and sleep.

Being an adult sucks. I hate every second of it.

The dishes, the taxes, the sweeping, the litter box cleaning, the appointment making... they should all do themselves.

Where's my time to finish that song I've been creating? Where's the time to stare at the sunset? Where's the time?

Where's the time to actually BE an adult?

In this?

If so, I want out.

the sky fell down exactly 3 weeks ago

when the sky falls
you tend to fall with it
the horizon dips away
and with it goes your fears

i realized that when the sky falls
you end up standing on clouds
wanting to sing and dance cheek to cheek

the only thing that is wrong
is that i think it shouldn't be happening
that i didn't know i wanted this

but the sky did fall
and what's behind me
can't be changed or compromised
i just hope that when i look back
i will know i'm on the right track

it's simple and honest and awkward
it's making me feel small
so small i want to crawl inside
and make that last bit of space disappear

it's silly and it makes me want to be a star
for a one-man audience

And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was and how much was mine to keep.

Thank you Mr. Vonnegut. You will be missed.

The jury is still out on this one...

God bless YouTube.

Not only should I be writing a paper that is really late, or maybe the one that is just a little late, or maybe the one that is due tomorrow... I should be at least doing my taxes. From last year.

Instead, I found myself finding 'gems' on YouTube.

The first is relatively amazing. However there is something terrifying about Alanis doing the Fergie thing in the woeful songstress fashion while wearing hoochie clothing.

The second is, well, terrifying. Just because you happen to film cop cars just driving by does not make you "street". But if you sang along like I did, it's okay, because the entire video is hilarious. Not to mention the fact that the chorus is "Where you from? DG!"

Lieutenant Kleenex and the Token Survivor

Jung really hit the nail on the head with his theories about archetypes - they are absolutely everywhere. From Greco-Roman dramas to Prison Break, archetypes and stock characters seem to be at the essence of it all. Now that I have chosen to write a play of my own, I'm starting to analyze my own life in terms of archetypes.

I know where my wounded healer is, who to call when I need a mother and who whisks me away when I have an urge for a magical day. But it is the inconsequential people we meet that tend to show us the way.

From action movies and sci-fi shows, a term was coined for the poor guy that dies to show the impending doom of a situation. "Red Shirt" or "Lieutenant Kleenex" is that man who comes in to die in order for the hero to fight the baddies and ultimately survive.

There are also the token survivors, the ones who magically survive a tragedy of incomprehensible depths in order to allow us to understand a smidgen of the horrible catastrophe.

If I can look at the people in my life and pinpoint most archetypal and stock characters, where is Lieutenant Kleenex to warn me about how horrible it all is? How can I possibly save myself if there is no one here to specify the dangers? What about the token survivor? How can I understand the gravity of my life if there is no one here to tell me about it?

And more importantly... if I can find nearly all the archetypal characters other than the Red Shirt, what does that mean? By process of elimination, am I the disposable soldier? Am I serving as the warning for what not to do? Or, am I crawling from a wreckage dusting off shrapnel screaming about the ferocious force that is life?

These inconsequential characters that are full of consequence could be everywhere - maybe we just have to open our eyes in order to catch these warnings and be all the wiser for it. Or on a scarier level, I could very well be that inconsequential character. If so, who warns me?

Friends?

I got to know a wonderful girl over the last year and only recently we talked about how great it is to have found a friend in each other. Why the validation? And why so late?

I broke up with my boyfriend and when we saw each other for the first time since our last fight the topic of friendship came up. How can we even try to call each other a friend? Is it just an avoidance? Is "friend" status the ultimate demotion? Or is it the stamp of mutual clingyness?

What about all those people who fall into the grey areas... the friends that turned into lovers and back into friends? The boys that became a momentary lover and have been demoted into friend status in order to avoid any further hurt or regret? The people with whom instant connections have been made and yet time and schedules have ceased any regular contact? Who are all these people and why do they all get the same blanket title?

We fall in and out of love, we meet surprising new people, we connect with strangers and turn a one night stand into a long term understanding, we see our coworkers turn from a chat near the dishpit to a bar down the street on a weekly basis....

They all mean something different and are in my life for very different reasons and for that the term friend doesn't seem to apply to any of them. Friend is tossed around so loosely and sometimes without meaning, other times for all the wrong reasons. It seems to devalue why I love the people I do.

How can you go from wanting a sign saying "just married" to forcing a sign on the relationship saying "just friends"?

It makes no sense. No sense at all.

a day in the life

I tried to go to class and ended up dancing in the streets at 1pm.
"Nooooo THIS is how gay men dance."

I tried to see Al Gore and David Suzuki speak at Place d'Armes yesterday and instead ended up with a 1.5 L bottle of champagne in a converted shoe factory talking my way out of the headquarters of an separatist election campaigner. But only after my friend and I used their facilities.
"Uhm, I don't think they can help us break into your friend's loft..."

I tried to go swimming and ended up dancing in my bikini to Kriss Kross and Salt-n-Pepa.
"In your nice jeans, you give me nice dreams, ooo ooo OOOO! when you do, what you do, you make me wanna shoop..."

I tried to eat at a pizza parlour and ended up running away from scary homeless men in the village.
"DAMN, and I left my heroin at home..."

I tried to go to Parking and ended up piling into a one-person peep-show booth with 3 of my friends.
"Are you all friends?"
"Yeah, we are all really close..."

I tried to go home and ended up at Club Date where a queen was singing a duet.... solo.
"That's not versatility, that's multiple personalities."

I'm overstimulated and undernourished. And I have to move far far far away from the village. There is just too much to do in this neighbourhood.
"Maybe I should throw up. That's what people do when they drink this much, right?"

how to survive in today's world

watch inconvenient truth and stop global warming
read easy way to stop smoking and quit the habit
learn about veganism and save the animals (and your body)
buy a membership to the YMCA and live till you are 90
write a play and change the face of canadian theatre
shop at local stores and bring down the big corporations

think about the whole world and become selfless.

or

fall asleep in gore's movie and feel even worse about the world because you couldn't even stay awake while thinking about the world's biggest crisis and to hell with it all because you are tired because of your own biggest crisis to date and if we get sucked into an ice age that's fine because clearly we all suck at taking care and maybe humans just need to be wiped out and let the next species attempt to not fuck it up so bad

buy a new pack of smokes and hide that goddamn book because if you start reading it somehow you end up smoking more anyways and then you have to go back to the dep and indirectly announce that you have bought your one way ticket to the happy land of emphysema

eat a steak and don't think about the animal because you are hungry dammit and there must be a reason we are higher than they are on the food chain but cling to the fact that at least you don't eat higher up on the chain because that's wrong so conclude that as long as you eat chickens trout and cow its okay as long as you don't touch shark

let exercise tapes collect dust and then cab to the bar and announce that alcohol will preserve your body till old age better than exercise and cite keith richards mick jagger and david bowie as evidence that it must be true

decide you can't write and read about other people's pseudo-brilliance and get mad about shitty art that keeps getting grants and decide that you are a grassroots performer but only because grassroots is a better word than apathetic po-mo artiste

go to walmart because you can't afford locally produced anything and decide you like your toilet paper cheap and unrecycled and you like your strawberries full of hormones from california

think about the whole world and hope to god someone else will be selfless for you.

Why a good Irish lass shouldn't go out on March 17th

I swear I'm not a fighter. I would be a vegan hippie if only my favorite animal wasn't steak and if I didn't enjoy showering frequently. But in true Irish fashion, I found myself in a fight on St. Patrick's Day.

I showed up to Cabane 2 hours late, greeted all of my friends with a warm and tipsy hug, ordered a pitcher and did what every well bred lady does: went out for a smoke. Two drags later, 3 of my friends who were accompanying me in the nicotine fix, noticed a group of angry young punk wannabes walking towards us. The only girl in the group was mouthing off about nothing at all and when she saw us, she targeted one of my friends.

Being a lovely little drunk, my friend tried to pacify the situation by saying "Hey, there's no problem here, we are just havin a smoke... happy st-pats!" The angry punk twat (APT for short) flipped out and started giving my friend shit. One thing led to another and next thing you know APT lunged at my friend to smack her. I broke my peaceful silence to say something like "Don't fucking touch my friend!"

That was mistake number one.

Now APT is after me, mouthing off and well, I don't take kindly to stupidity so I keep responding with "Just go fuck yourself" and of course, I added in the ever insulting smirk-like laugh.

That was mistake number two.

APT who has long forgotten my friends walked up to me and hit me twice on my head. I flipped and screamed bloody murder.

Note mistake number three.

APT threw whatever was in her hand down, ripped her jacket open, got in my face to scream "WANNA FIGHT? WANNA GO, BITCH?!" I walked right up to her, raised my smoke in a fist and yelled "YOU DON'T WANNA FUCK WITH ME."

Okay, see that was mistake number four, but it clearly blows all the other misdeeds right out of the water.

Then APT slapped me. Bitch style. I smirked because well, I was braced for a brawl. I was ready for fists, tackling, anything really... but not a stupid bitch fight. Then I think, well, let's play this game.... so I lunged at her cat clawing, bitch-slapping and shoving until it was a flurry of a full blown chick fight.

Definately mistake number five.

Then something happened - I stumbled - and in the split second I felt a bit off balance I thought "Either I get up right this moment, take her down and end this bullshit... or get the hell out of here right this moment because I don't want to fight, I didn't want to fight, and quite frankly - this whole situation is getting really dumb really fast." So I watched myself slowly fall to the snow as one of my friends said "Get inside the bar, NOW."

So I got up, went inside and faced the table full of 10-15 of my friends all staring, jaws hanging and eyes like saucers. They watched me as I beelined for the bathroom to collect myself. By this point I'm wondering why my face stings and I look down to the ground and see blood...

I realize that APT had somehow managed to make my nose bleed despite not being able to actually cause any pain whatsoever. She also clawed my cheek - a series of three little wounds that are the evidence that I got into a scrap. Evidence that I greatly resent.

So, I did what every well bred lady does after a fight and I ordered a round of tequila shots for the table and cheered every last drop of my Irish blood.

After I went inside, APT turned back to the friend she originally attacked but quickly stopped because this friend of mine had turned insane during my scrap and was now being held back by two of my other friends. So APT continued her journey north on the Main, saw some girls heading her way and began instigating a fight with them. I betcha she got hers by the time she hit Mont-Royal.

My night also took me north on the Main to Mont-Royal where I was greeted at an apartment by a guy wearing white boxer-briefs, a tie and a sock on his right hand. This special specimen then passed out on the floor while my friend and I drank some of his leftover beer and laughed about the hilarity of the evening.

I love potatoes. I love beer. But drunken fights on the Irish holiday? Thanks but no thanks. I think that next year, I might just stay home.

tip:
don't fix it if it ain't broke
question:
can someone tell me how to put a border between the main content and the sidebar?
fact:
despite everything that is wrong with this new layout, i am most concerned with a stupid border.

Another move

This is the 5th apartment I have had since moving to montreal and I'm just finishing my 3rd year. 7 roommates, 5 apartments from NDG to Hochelaga and through most of those moves, I've carted two cats with me.

It's time to do it again.

Now that I'm living on my own, I'm face to face with a whole lot of things a 22 year old shouldn't be left alone with. When I had 2 consecutive knee surgeries 3 years ago, I had a good 6 months to work through my mind and it wasn't all fun and games. But in retrospect, it was pretty refreshing. Usually at 19 people just start running - I came to a full stop and I think it's the perfect time to do so. Just hitting independence and fate tells you to shut up and put it all into perspective.

But at 22? It's feeling a bit like overkill. I need to run, I need to fly around, I want to be completely free and sitting around my apartment surrounded by utter chaos is just not working. I can watch another movie, call another friend, cry about past loves, argue with my dirty dishes, stare at the sunset and then when I'm sick of that, go get annihilated at a bar.

And maybe living with someone wouldn't be all that different. Wouldn't we just be doing all the same things together? We watch movies, call people, cry to each other, argue with each other about dishes and when we got sick of all that, we would probably go get annihilated at a bar.

Perhaps that is exactly what I'm missing. A compadre, a partner in crime. Someone that will be around when I wake up hungover and we can giggle about the debauchery together. Someone that will be around to kick my ass when I have another ideological struggle with my dishes. Someone to make sure that I'm fed, watered and not too introspective. And someone that I can return all the favors to.

its electrifying when you see this every day
in a search to find happiness and solace
i think that seeing the sparkle of the city i chose as my home
live and breathe below me is more important than ever
especially when you live in a 1.5
having a view that stretches past la ronde makes me feel like i live in a castle
now the only thing is to get up enough courage to stand on my 10th floor balcony
i might just be able to take a picture of my own
however this view is only about 2 blocks away and for that i bless the internet in all it's glory

Grocery shopping is overrated. But getting taken out for dinner by your boss is incredibly underrated.

I mean, why go buy yourself some milk at the local IGA when you can order a nice bottle of whatever your heart desires?

Why attempt to cook when you can be served 3 courses?

And why get strange looks from fellow grocery shoppers for stepping out of the house in PJ's when you can get funny looks from the entire restaurant for looking like cheap arm fluff?

I mean, the choice is pretty simple here, is it not?

and therein lay the issue

I was afraid you'd hit me if i'd spoken up I was
afraid of your physical strength I was afraid
you'd hit below the belt I was afraid of your
sucker punch I was afraid of you reducing me
I was afraid of your alocohol breath I was afraid
of your complete disregard for me I was afraid
of your temper I was afraid of handles being
flown off of I was afraid of holes being punched
into walls I was afraid of your testosterone

I have as much rage as you have
I have as much pain as you do
I've lived as much hell as you have
and i've kept mine bubbling under for you

you were my best friend
you were my lover
you were my mentor
you were my brother
you were my partner
you were my teacher
you were my very own sympathetic character

I was afraid of verbal daggers I was afraid of the
calm before the storm I was afraid for my own
bones I was afraid of your seduction I was afraid
of your coercion I was afraid of your rejection
I was afraid of your intimidation I was afraid of
your punishment I was afraid of your icy silences
I was afraid of your volume I was afraid of your
manipulation I was afraid of your explosions

I have as much rage as you have
I have as much pain as you do
I've lived as much hell as you have

and i've kept mine bubbling under for you
you were my best friend
you were my lover
you were my mentor
you were my brother
you were my partner
you were my teacher
you were my very own sympathetic character

you were my keeper
you were my anchor
you were my family
you were my saviour

and therein lay the issue

and therein lay the problem

can't not

i'd be lying if I said I was completely unscathed
I might be proving you right with my silence or my retaliation
would I be letting you win in my non reaction?
how would I explain?
how would I explain this to my children if I had them?
because I can't not
because I can't not
because I can't afford to be misread one more time
would I be whining if I said I needed a hug?
would you feel slighted if I said your love's not enough?
how can I complain?
how can I complain when i'm the one who reaches for it?
because I can't not
because I can't not
because I cannot walk without my crutches
because I can't not
because I can't not
because I can't help wonder why you ask me
to all the unheard wisdom in the schoolyard
you think you're the right ones
you think you're the charmed ones i'm sure
how can you go on with such conviction?
and who do you think you are why do you question me?
because we can't not
because we can't not
because we can't help laugh at underestimations
because we can't not
because we can't not
because we can't afford to be misled one more time
because we can't not
because we can't not
because we cannot help without your willingness
why do you affect me? why do you affect me still?
why do you hinder me? why do you hinder me still?
why do you unnerve? why do you unnerve me still?
why do you trigger me? why do you trigger me still?

weight loss muscle tension nausea heartache
sleep deprivation stuffy nose apathy heartache
clammy palms lethargy anxiety heartache
memory loss vertigo drowsiness heartache

if only my symptoms would fit into iambic pentameter
coulda been poetry

the unbearable heaviness of hair

Last month my friends and I were hammered by 3pm and not in the bad way it was drunk in the bond till our faces fall off way and in the way that sordid sex secrets were made public to everyone in the room. By 7pm at one of their apartments I was so drunk I wanted to shave all my hair off. So I saw a razor on a table and announced "TODAY I'M CUTTING MY HAIR". So my friend ran to get scissors and a better razor and he chopped off my ponytail for me. Then I chopped away and gave myself a really cute bob cut. Layered and everything.

The last time I cut my hair off it was following a summer where some asshole broke my heart. Not even truly broke my heart because I was lacking in the soul department that year, but he did hurt me. When I mentioned to him that I wanted short hair again he protested saying all sorts of stupid things. So I kept it long for him. But when he was gone, so was the hair.

I grew my hair out recently for me. Also because of someone in my life. It wasn't forced upon me but part of the reason, however small, I did keep it long for him. After the break-up, I chopped it off. Nearly shaved it to boot.

Now, Britney just shaved her head. She did it after my impulse, and well, to be honest, I completely understand.

But I also understand that it didn't make her feel better. You feel light for about 2 days. Then you just start noticing that there is weight everywhere and the hair was just the easiest thing to get rid of.

You can cut your hair and buy new clothes. You can even clean everything you own to avoid a memory surfacing when it is least expected. You can pack things that remind you of someone away in a box. But you cannot feel lighter.

You can, however, feel a nasty draft at the back of your neck when the wind howls.

dreaming

since living on my own my prophetic and mesmerizing dreams have returned
i remember colours and smells and feelings
i wake feeling better

but my waking dreams
the ones that used to drive me and ground me and give me hope for the future
are all gone
they dropped off

i have more drive for my work
more pride in my day
living moment by moment is far more interesting than i thought

but the future - elusive shadow it is - got more cyptic
it is completely unknown
and not because my life just changed drastically
it's because my waking dreams of a happy ride off into the sunset no longer keep me company

and i don't know if i want them back

i just don't know if its right to connect to reality through the hopes and dreams we have
and isn't this at the heart of every metaphysical debate?
is it my concrete existence that makes me real or is it my ability to dream that forms my reality?

why do i miss those hoop dreams so much?
life was simpler and less elusive with a certain stability
the future was spoke of in the past tense
the present was a means to get to there

now even my verb tenses need reevaluation

jack?

jack bauer where are you?
i know i channeled your spirit a while back
but like dude
i have a problem or two

all of westmount either went broke or found another restaurant to go to
now i'm broke
wanna rob from the rich terrorists and hand it to the poor?
or force them all from their homes and into my restaurant by planting some bomb on the mountain?
(but don't kill anyone, they all have to be alive in the restaurant so they can tip me)

i have a test to do tomorrow
can you arrange to meet the ex-president with a sketchy past on the 4th floor of the hall building
then have a huge shoot-out so i don't have to write the test?
thanks

muchos appreciated, man.

oh and hows about you pitch to the guys over at 24 that you need a hot little sidekick
i would make a great secret service agent
and if i can't be one in real life, at least let me play one on tv
just like 5 episodes or so
you can even kill me off afterwards
no big deal
i won't hold it against you

last night

so my friend told me he likes to get drunk alone sometimes
he said it was liberating

so i sat down with a box of wine that was a house warming present from my old roomie

the first glass was normal
the second and third pretty fine
then i realized i was out of food and getting drunk fast
so i had to keep drinking to forget the hunger

then next thing you know

im doing bumps of drugs off my hand
watching brokeback mountain
and suddenly i felt like shit

it could have been the drugs i shouldn't have done alone
it could have been ang lee fucking with my head
but i think it was the cheap wine

in fact, safe to say, it was the cheap wine

but ang lee didn't help at all

suddenly it was 4am and i had written about 8 pages of bad poetry

exhibit a:

i kiss red wine with blood stained lips
i am a woman
and i will make love to a crocodile
and i have
fucked you.

(i don't even know why those last sentences were written...)

exhibit b:

you have to make a choice
otherwise its
(facing up to an ultimatum)
its a choice we make in order
to lose nothing
to not lose love
to lose love
in order to gain nothing

(yeah and that doesn't make a lick of sense)

and those are the best bits.
makes me wonder... what's more pathetic... that "poetry" or the fact i was drunk alone?

so i learned a lesson that i will carry with me for my whole life:

do not get drunk alone.
and if you must, drink really really nice wine that you can't afford, don't pick up a pen (or the vial of drugs on the table next to you, for that matter) and do not, under any circumstance, watch ang lee anything.

you leave 1.50$ on a 150$ bill... yeah i'm gonna say something.

you add only 5$... yeah i have enough guts to point out your gross mathematical error.

you pretend you don't know what 15% means... yeah i think it's safe to say that you are pretty fuggin dumb.

you pull ditz and tell me you are going to the bank so you don't have to put 20$ on your credit card... yeah i'm not dumb... yeah i know you are not coming back.


waitressing is one thing. dealing with twits for 6.50$ over the course of 2 hours is something completely different.

it's true. there must be 50 ways to leave your lover.

but mr. simon, you are right. you just hit the road.

pretty simple, is it not?

you just walk out the front door and you do not look back.

A Canadian Christmas

Ottawa living can have it's upsides. Like having more than 7 Walmarts in a city that can barely keep people employed outside of the federal government. Either you get the best work benefits available in the country, or you get none and possibly fired for trying to create a measly little union.

So I ask you this... what says Merry Canadian Christmas more than a gift for your loved ones bought from America's flagship of commercial hell?

Seeing our very own Canadian Prime Minister shop at an Ottawa Walmart for gifts for his loved ones! Not only was it Walmart, but it was one of those particularly horrid Walmarts.

You know... the ones that are strategically placed in suburbia where shopping choices are limited to Shopper's Drug Mart, Walmart or Canadian Tire? The kind of suburbia where all the houses look the same placed along confusingly curvy streets that have filled up in the last 10 years with aging boomers and immigrants with 8 children? The kind of suburbia that is lit up at night from the "open 24hrs a day" Walmart sign... the kind of suburban neighbourhood that Mr. Harper does not even live in?!

Mr. Harper, nothing beats those prices, sure, but hows about infusing our country's capital with a sprinkle of Christmas cheer for our homegrown retailers by not shopping at a fucking Walmart. Jesus H. Mr. Prime Minister, you don't even live in a neighbourhood that is forced to shop there. You have no excuse.

A friend of my mother's was shopping at Walmart and offered good ol' consumer advice to the man standing beside him. It took him a few moments to realize that he was advising Stephen Harper about Walmart's electronic products. Quite frankly, I don't blame him for not figuring out who he was right away, even if my mom's friend is somewhat indirectly employed by Mr. Harper. Walmart is the last place I would expect to see our country's leader in, unless it were Jack Layton living at 24 Sussex. In which case, Layton would only be there to aid the employees in a secret unionization plot. Or to tell the manager of the store to go back below the 49th parallel where the unholy Walmart belongs.

In any case, this is a highly disheartening post-Christmas story and if my mother had given me more than 4 seconds per day on my own, I would have attempted to ruin Christmas for everyone else by writing this sooner.

But here you have it - even more reason to believe that the guy leading the country is pro-American nearly to the point of being anti-Canadian.

Next time someone sees the Prime Minister in a Walmart, I hope they tell him to go to the Bay.

It may not be the best option but at least it's Canadian.