I Plead Sanity

2008-08-18T16:47:00.002-04:00

Well, I'm going to quit my job. The drinking to hide my malcontent is over. The sleeping with coworkers to forge some sort of emotional bond is over. The constant abuse from the rich and unfamous is over. The excuses for why I am there and not working in a theatre is over. Over.

What next?

At this point, the only place to go is up.

The strangest things happen in bed

2007-09-08T11:55:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-17T13:33:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-04T16:08:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-26T16:15:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-06-24T15:11:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-06-23T15:34:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-06-18T09:58:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-06-13T15:31:00.001-04:00

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

2007-06-10T13:10:00.001-04:00

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.

2007-06-05T18:20:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-05-30T03:21:00.000-04:00

"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

2007-05-19T13:24:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-05-15T01:08:00.000-04:00

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

can you believe...

2007-05-07T00:29:00.000-04:00

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...

2007-05-02T15:51:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-30T22:36:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-29T02:03:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-04-13T17:24:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-12T00:57:00.000-04:00

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...

2007-04-04T21:44:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-02T12:30:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-03-28T17:06:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-23T17:10:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-21T13:28:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-19T18:32:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-03-17T11:32:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-17T10:00:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-03-14T19:26:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-14T12:57:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-14T02:07:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-13T15:17:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-03-12T14:04:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-10T14:47:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-10T10:16:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-03-07T21:24:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-06T22:42:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-03-06T22:11:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-02-27T10:44:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-05T15:14:00.000-05:00

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.

old & new

2006-12-14T11:05:00.000-05:00

i went through my draft folder in all my emails and found out that the draft folder is where all important letters and where all cryptic notes go. notes to ex boyfriends long long gone about problems long long forgotten. a letter of thanks to the generous people that housed me when i ran off to california for a few days. one that said simply, "240".
then i found this... i think it was meant to come here.

best of 2005.

best song: soopadoopa by les georges leningrad

best movie i watched: bleu vs. willy wonka

best party: arts matters vs. my birthday

best anti-holiday: fete nationale vs. canada day

best adventure: griffintown on a full moon vs. drunk in hochelaga at 2am

best worst moment: passing out on the bar at work after my shift on my pre-bday celebration vs. throwing a temper tantrum on st. laurent

best sickness: kidney vs. pregnancy

best injury: spraining my thumb in a performance trying not to hurt my leg vs. minor concussion i gave to myself waking up off the couch

best procrastination tool: lost vs. this list

best move: moving out of my last apartment vs. moving into the new one

best unrequited love moment: some guy expecting i would wait around for him to get back from new orleans during the disaster vs. fending off my drunken roommate while she tries desperately to seduce me

worst moment in public: taking off my pants on a dance floor in ottawa vs. falling off the bus and skinning my knee and my chin wearing an incredibly short skirt

best worst realization: realizing i lost a bag full of my favorite clothes vs. realizing i am about to fail a class

best things that arrived in the mail: a 3000$ cheque from my grandparents

best events: making it official with my love

-----

not to be outdone by a lost list, i bring you...

best of 2006.

best song: what else is there by trentemoller

best movie i watched: shortbus

best party: my garden cocktail party i threw in ottawa

best anti-holiday: my anti-birthday

best adventure: going to work tired and ending up dancing all night at a rave out in the middle of nowhere

best worst moment: throwing up at tom's house after playing drinking games with cheap wine & champagne

best injury: hurting my knee dancing all night at stereo with bad bad shoes

best procrastination tool: west wing, 24 and solitaire.

best decision: getting back together with my love and moving in with my love

best strange moment: seeing an ex and my love defend me from scary men at a club

best worst moment in public: barfing in a lonely corner of a club like an animal then returning and dancing my ass off

best thing that arrived in the mail: a 3000$ cheque from my grandparents and the furniture i bought with that money that arrived in many flat boxes

best event: waking up with sun on my face in my new apartment with my sleeping boyfriend by my side.

the outside perspective

2006-11-29T12:56:00.000-05:00

I think you are the best performer in the class.
It is a pleasure to work with a student as articulate as yourself.
A+
I would love to see your production of this show. Actually, I would love to be IN it.
A+
You have come a long way since September.
A+
I love the way you work. Do you need an Assistant Director for your show?
You have way more experience than us and it shows.
Sometimes you get students who stand in a league of their own. You are that kind of student.
A+
You are outstanding in that role.
A+
You have the right to be cocky but you aren't. That's special.

More than half of those were said yesterday. So what do I do? Walk away at the end of the day kicking my own ass because in my opinion, I didn't nail 20 minutes of a total of 4 hours of performance work. 20 minutes out of 4 hours. That's less than 10%. I believe that 10% of what I did in one incredibly long day is less than perfect despite the fact that the other 90% garnered nothing but glowing remarks from my peers and my profs. Or maybe that 10% merited the comments as well and I'm just an anal retentive nutbag.

Maybe I don't believe I'm that good because I used to get turned down for roles when I was really young, dumb and untrained. Now, 10 years later, I am older, smarter and pretty damn trained. Maybe I do have the right to be cocky and believe in my skill.

Maybe I am doing more than following my bliss, and I'm actually following what I am really good at. Who knows... maybe they are right and I am an outstanding performer and director that my profs and peers respect to the point that they want to work with me... Maybe I can just remember that if one of my profs who has been acting and directing professionally for 40-odd years wants to work with me, I might actually be good at this.

Then I should shut the fuck up, stay modest, stay lazy, and stay a perfectionist because this little formula of mine is working in some odd way. Who knows, one day I might just work a little harder than I am right now in order to be at a point when I want to tell myself that I am great at what I do.

Back in Black

2006-11-27T17:56:00.000-05:00

de retour

I appear to have moved in with my boyfriend. I also appear to be getting good grades despite the increased wine intake. I appear to have kept a job for longer than 4 months. It appears that my life has been taken over by some strange and unknown creature who can handle a responsibility or two.

So why not bring back the best procrastination tool in the world? Lord knows something must have been going wrong for the last 6 months...

By the way, whoever has been trying to hack into this blog and my account should get a goddamn life. To them I say: Fuck you to the end of this sentence.

My ass not yours

2006-05-18T17:09:00.000-04:00

Sure, I'm young, good-looking and smart. And I am a smoker. And if that takes my desirablity rating down a notch or two, I don't give a flying fuck. Primarily because the only people who ever lecture me on smoking are old surly men who haven't had an erection in 32 years. And if my smoking makes their wrinkly penis that much more flaccid, then I have done the world a service.

I say make all public places non-smoking. But I better not be getting any shit for standing near a door having a cigarette. I also better not hear a damn word about my smoking on a patio beside a non-smoker. And if anyone dares to pull a shitfit about my leaving an event for 6.5 minutes to smoke, they can shove all the cigarettes that they aren't smoking right up their ass.

All I ask for is 6.5 minutes every now and again of peace and quiet. I would love to have my cigarette behind a restaurant, or outside a bar in the freezing cold while all the non-smokers have their run of the place. I don't mind. I just don't want any further nagging.

Thank you.

Putting to rest a few conspiracy theories?

2006-05-16T18:20:00.000-04:00

Is is just me or does the video of the plane flying into the Pentagon on 9/11 look nothing like a plane?

According to Wikipedia, the height of a Boeing 747 is about 13 metres. The height of the Pentagon is about 27 metres which would mean that the plane in the video should be about half the height of the building. It's not.

Why oh why do we keep hearing about this? Why must we continually lied to? Why the hell hasn't the group who demanded the video to be released to the public actually done some measurements? Everyone with a brain knows it wasn't a goddamn Boeing 747 that did all that tidy damage. Everyone who has flown over the Pentagon can see that there is not enough room for a plane to fly into the side of the building. It would have taken out a huge section of a nearby highway.

Geez Louise.

On an unrelated note, I would like to ask all members of the Jewish community to acknowledge that there are Holocausts happening all around the world as we speak. Maybe the money that is being poured into WW2 memorial services can be put towards stopping more genocides. Just a thought.

Isn't the point of reminding people about the Holocaust to keep more from happening? Stop funding rich kids' trips to Israel and make them fight for cultures that are being wiped out in the Middle East and Africa. If not, why not fund poor kids to get the fuck out of Israel? I hear Canada is nice this time of year.

Welcome to Westmount

2006-05-12T14:29:00.000-04:00

I like restaurants and bars because I get to meet and get to know people of all walks of life, most of whom I would never meet in my daily life. On the flip side, I learn things about the world I would have been happier not knowing.

This new job of mine is at a Bistro which is kept afloat by the regular customers. The regulars who think that an extra dry martini has no vermouth. Or that Diet Coke must never be served with ice. Or that Sprite must be served with two straws. Or that I am a disposable garbage receptacle until they need me to lend a shoulder to cry on.

These women that sit at the bar have either been pumped so full of botox they can't emote, or they refuse to get their chin sucked back into their face because they are too damn cheap to delve into their million dollars of inheritance money.

The men at the bar want desperately to flirt with the waitresses and the barstaff, yet they won't because they know that the next night they will bring their wives in. This tells me that they aren't faithful to their wives. They are just smart cheaters.

I think I have learned to fear a man who won't hit on me. It happens so much that when they don't, I think something is wrong. They could be gay, in a relationship, looking for a friend or what have you. But all in all, if they don't flirt, there is a deeper problem. Scared of me, or even worse, just plain sneaky.

It's back

2006-05-11T12:36:00.000-04:00

To do:

1. Find a new dealer. I'll take my drugs without a side of hallucinations thanks. The last two times at Stereo I saw things that weren't there. I like my world as is, thankyouverymuch.

2. Write my show. I'm going to Prague next summer so I better have something to put on once I get there for the theatre festival.

3. Relearn how to mix on my computer. I'm too musically inclined to just sit back and dream about how wonderful things would sound if I were making tracks again.

4. Possibly graduate. I have about another year left in University. I should really start getting on fulfilling my requirements so I can get out and start my life. Whatever that means. I guess I will just relish in the fact that I am no longer paying tuition fees. Oh glorious life.

5. Get out of the bar/resto industry. Working at a resto in Westmount might turn out to be a really really bad idea. I may just show up to work one day and decide to tell all those rich bitches that their steel-wool helmet look is fucking ugly. Oh and Mr. Molson? Tip me you asshole.

6. Rekindle all those frienships I let sputter out.

7. Never ever ever get a cell phone. Texting people is lame. Calling people on the bus is even lamer.

8. Break into the restaurant below me via a passage way from my bedroom that leads directly to the bar. I might need some mission impossible gear so if anyone out there has some hot leather and tools, let me know.

9. Use said Mission Impossible gear for other purposes... I heard about a dominatrix class a few weeks ago. Interesting. Also interesting how diversified our economy is that one can actually make a living off teaching others how to dominate. I love this metropolis.

10. Stop watching Trailer Park Boys and The Simple Life. Sure they both are scripted, but they are really destroying my faith in humanity. I wonder if Paris knows how similar her show is to the Trailer Park Boys? Loves it bitch.

Good Morning

2006-03-26T12:53:00.000-05:00

Coffee. Cigarette. Coffee. Sunshine. Email. Found love letters. Coffee. Sunshine. Purring kittens. Open window. Fresh berries.

Even this week's heavy schedule can't bring me down. Even a sketchy 17 year old sleeping on my couch can't sour my mood. It's spring and the semester is nearly done. Soon, summer with its plentiful sunshine.

"Oh, Happy Day!"
- John Waters

Self-indulgent procrastination

2006-03-08T23:52:00.000-05:00

septima: well i'm organized so i'll be fine.
friend 1: hahahah organized? yeah right.

friend 2: youre so modest.
septima: hardly - my ego is bigger than my white girl booty.

septima: i'm so terrified to get up and do this.
friend 3: but you are always so confident!

I'm settling this once and for all. On this handy dandy site I get to pick the traits that I think I have and then other people pick traits that they think I have. And then I get to muse over the results. Muse? Sorry, I meant check compulsively 80 times a day.

My parents didn't help out one bit with my quest to merge conflicting traits. They have opposite views of who their daughter is. Simply fascinating, Freud.

Mom thinks: caring, confident, witty, warm, self-assertive, loving.
Dad thinks: bold, extroverted, spontaneous, idealistic, confident, searching.

Either my parents have seen two different people in their daughter for 21.5 years or their own personalities are so different that when they compare me to themselves they see wildly varying traits.

As it turns out, boys call me "silly" and girls use warmer adejctives like "loving" or "accepting". I apparently am a little silly and perhaps scary to the opposite sex. How cute.

This is a hell of a lot better than pissing away my time on websudoku.com. Without Vila, I never would have known about this amazing procrastination tool that is both self-indulgent and quasi-scientific. Now, back to "work"... I'm sure I have lines to memorize or auditions to prepare for...

What's on CBC?

2006-02-18T10:34:00.000-05:00

Apparently the Olympics are going on right now in Italy. Neat. I haven't read a single Olympic headline, nor have I watched CBC since Torino came flying onto the map. And I don't feel bad.

In the past I have watched the elimination rounds because they are more exciting than the finals. You get to see the "losers" of the Olympics fly in, warm up and bomb their way right back onto a plane back to their homeland. In the finals everyone seems to be at roughly the same level and everything comes down to a millisecond or a millimetre because their bodies have been trained for so long that they all look like clones of each other. Its freaky. All the speed skaters look the same, all the ski jumpers look the same and the curlers, well... whatever. They are a little different from the rest of the games. They are the geeks of the games while the boarders are the cool kids at the back of the class who always smell like pot.

I also used to watch the medal ceremonies, regardless of what sport it was for or for what country the winners were from. I also used to cry excessively at them. I remember sobbing at the Australian games when some Swede won gold for some damn feat of strength or speed. The national anthem started playing and goddamnit she looked so proud. Between sniffles I nearly started singing along with the anthem. Those medal ceremonies will never cease to bring me to a whole new low.

So this year, I'm staying away. Far far away from CBC. I see no need this year to feel like a Swede for 10 seconds nor do I feel the need to sit like a potato on my couch watching the most fit people in the whole fucking world flex their muscles. I would rather compulsively play Sudoku puzzles until my brain hurts.

Happy Valentine's Day

2006-02-15T14:39:00.000-05:00

February is a notoriously bad month. We have just suffered through 3 months of winter and the end is supposedly near, but chances are, it's still going to be colder than a witch's tit in a week and the snow is not going anywhere for at least another month. So what do we intelligent humans do? Place a stupid Hallmark holiday in the middle of the Hell Month to spite the already depressed singletons and to stress out those in a relationship.

I generally compensate by breaking up with whomever I am with about a week or so before February 14th. Noone said I had to be logical.

This year, I didn't break up with my boyfriend and we pulled out of our rough patch with a few scratches and bruises, but nothing that time won't heal. So stupidly I began to look forward to Valentine's Day. I haven't had a proper Valentine's Day ever in my whole life and I figured this would be the year to have lovely evening on the one day that TV tells me to.

Fate, which is often superb at bursting bubbles, got in the way of V-Day once again.

After getting out of rehearsal at 10pm last night I went to my boyfriend's apartment only to find him missing in action. So I sat around in a ridiculous outfit for 45 minutes waiting for him to get home. How romantic. When he finally got home, he produced the best Valentine's Day gift a girl could get: tampons and tylenol.

I don't know why I bothered to dress up like a sex kitten only to remember that my cramps are going to impede any possible romps in the sack. Basically I was just a failed tease. A cranky, crampy, impatient girl dressed up like a stripper.

I'm now cancelling all future February 14ths. Take out the 14th, tack on the 29th permanently and the 30th will be the new leap year date.

I doubt that there will be many complaints.

"Anglo McAngloville"

2006-01-31T12:06:00.000-05:00

Today I laughed a whole lot. Which is good, considering I spent last night surrounded by white skaters doing hiphop and grafitti who then call themselves underground because that's their fucking tag and their names on xvi are retarded quasi poetic plays on words which reveal their vain efforts to sound like an intellectual when, in all reality, they are just stoned, filthy bums who lost too many brian cells because of aerosol cans. Last night was no laughing matter.

Here's the funny of the day:
In the Eponym, my riding of Westmount-Ville-Marie was described as "That Place Andre Boisclair Wishes Would Be Annexed By Ontario."

Too fucking hilarious. Those wiggers wish they were that witty. Maybe if we ripped them away from their turntables long enough, they might have a chance.

Disclaimer:
I am not supporting the use of xvi.com by mentioning it here. It is an awful cesspool of so-called Ottawa scenesters and speed-addicted candy ravers who still believe that happy hard core is good music. Nor do I mean to offend the author of the Eponym by comparing him to the lame asses I was subjected to last night.

This week in Canadian Politics.

2006-01-26T20:44:00.000-05:00

1. A crocodile is now running the country.
2. We have a cute, racially-integrated, left-wing couple in the House of Commons.
3. Scary white cowboy hats are now deemed acceptable garb while making decisions regarding the entire country.
4. Duceppe keeps his title of the Beady Eyed King of Quebec.
5. Paul Martin is no longer leading the Liberal party, but that's not news. He never did much leading at all. Ever.

In other news, Peter Mansbridge was drunk again during a CBC broadcast and This Hour Has 22 Minutes has crossed over to the dark side... convincing people to strategically vote.

As for the rest of the world, edible fish crackers are all over my floor and a guy standing next to me on the 105 impaled my thigh today with his raging hard-on. Consider yourselves up to date.

Dance monkey, dance!

2006-01-18T15:45:00.000-05:00

I hate my campus bar for many reasons, and most of my hatred comes from how people react to my answer to everyone's favorite question... "What program are you in?"

"Do you know any Shakespeare?" No. I have been acting for nine years and have never heard of the guy.

"Are you famous?" Damn, you got me. I knew I should have wore my wig and shades to Reggie's. This is the best place in Montreal to celebrity watch.

"Okay, if you are an actor, pretend that a bunny hops in and here's the fun part... how would you react?" I had no idea that knowing how to react to a bunny in a bar separates actors from the rest of the population.

And it spiraled downwards from there until I finally said "If I am going to do a single trick for you, I better get a cookie."

Noone had a cookie so I left.

2006-01-16T16:51:00.000-05:00

nothing compares to kraft dinner with hot sauce and ranch dressing in front of a tv that blurs the red backgrounds with faces so i get convinced that my very hot sauce from jamaica is spiked with acid and everything i am experiencing is any where close to that elusive realm called reality

nothing beats the million dollars of fines that i have accumulated with blockbuster and videotron from shitty movies i shouldn't have watched anyway but did out of my intense hatred for will smith will ferrell will whoever and all the other overpaid twits who headline all the movies

nothing rivals a hormonally fucked up me who somehow managed to fuck up her cycle to the point where everything hurt and i was convinced i was pregnant despite the last pregnancy scare which was actually just a major kidney infection from hell that sparked the need to get on the pill which was the precise reason of this month's fury and never ever again am i going to alter hormones again because the beast within should only be expressed in a character on stage and not all the fucking time for no justifiable reason

nothing is more humiliating than accepting the speckles of old crusty food that live permanently on my kitchen tiles that came from tenants of yore who loved belinda stronach and anarchy symbols and these tenants are the sole reason for my recent purchase of heavy duty cleaning supplies that are so noxious they verge on being acid

and that is my month to date

how is yours so far?

procastination for all!

2006-01-03T12:07:00.000-05:00

This is killing me....
school better start soon before I start playing Sims again.

Merry Christ...nakah?

2005-12-23T08:35:00.000-05:00

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!

Welcome to hell

2005-12-09T12:47:00.000-05:00

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.

My apartment is no longer safe

2005-12-05T14:34:00.000-05:00

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.

On all-nighters

2005-12-02T14:59:00.000-05:00

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.

Poor small sods

2005-11-24T16:24:00.000-05:00

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.

Karaoke time

2005-11-23T13:19:00.000-05:00

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.

Actors are curious beasts.

2005-11-22T11:30:00.000-05:00

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.

blog plug

2005-11-21T12:46:00.000-05:00

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!

bits and tits

2005-11-18T10:13:00.000-05:00

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

Cabbages deserve love too.

2005-10-25T13:21:00.000-04:00

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.

Showtime

2005-10-22T13:56:00.000-04:00

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.

on 'not' smoking

2005-10-12T03:17:00.000-04:00

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.

Up yours, Fate!!!

2005-10-05T19:22:00.000-04:00

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.

Take action!

2005-09-29T08:37:00.000-04:00

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?

Whoodathunkit.

2005-09-19T21:31:00.000-04:00

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?

my first hyphenated birthday.

2005-09-17T17:26:00.000-04:00

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!!!!!!!!!

looming september doom doom doom

2005-08-30T09:44:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-23T11:06:00.000-04:00

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.

Virgo + Virgo = Sex for Statistical Purposes

2005-08-19T09:15:00.000-04:00

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.

NAKED PICTURE (is not on this post)

2005-08-15T20:25:00.000-04:00

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!

2005-08-15T19:08:00.000-04:00

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.

Wigger FAQ

2005-08-13T04:57:00.000-04:00

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.

Me vs. Canada Post

2005-08-11T14:43:00.000-04:00

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.

Foul Limewire, thou hast deceiveth me

2005-08-10T11:41:00.000-04:00

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.

There is no such thing as a stranger

2005-08-09T13:29:00.000-04:00

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".

2005-08-08T17:29:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-03T12:03:00.000-04:00

'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.

2005-07-30T07:44:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-07-29T03:14:00.000-04:00

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.

All in a night's work

2005-07-28T04:42:00.000-04:00

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....

Nostalgia

2005-07-27T11:16:00.000-04:00

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.

Only me....

2005-07-26T13:00:00.000-04:00

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.

Material Girl

2005-07-24T19:31:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-07-15T14:56:00.000-04:00

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.

foolish lil me

2005-07-14T14:53:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-07-13T18:16:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-07-13T12:37:00.000-04:00

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

2005-07-13T12:25:00.000-04:00

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.

i nearly pissed myself

2005-07-12T00:31:00.000-04:00

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

2005-07-10T10:16:00.000-04:00

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.

moving is FUN

2005-07-07T22:07:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-06-29T02:13:00.000-04:00

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.

they don't call me queenprocrastinate fer nuttin

2005-06-25T22:18:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-25T19:23:00.000-04:00

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.