R@ St@us

   I spent the first minutes of NYE waiting for the streetcar, listening to songs on repeat (like I do). When I got onto the streetcar I had a hate-related epiphany: its the most bothersome when someone rings the bell for the upcoming stop before the streetcar has started moving. It just grinds my NYE gears, you know? Really though, the joke's on them because all the murderers that could potentially be a-stalkin' know where you're getting off, so hah!
   Aaanyways, I know there are worse things than people who pull the bell too early (winkwinkwinkwinkwink) but for real I do not understand. I enjoy pulling the bell as much as the next guy, but I don't want to come off as desperate. Premature bell pulling is the first step and next thing you know you're contemplating actually wearing a fedora, and not for money. Or worse, you end up in a relationship with Kanye West and all of a sudden you've got a nine month publicity stunt on your hands! Bottom line, the bell pullers are way past eager beaver status, they're just straight-up annoying beavers.
PS Please be advised that I will be unable to write or even think about anything other than Kim and Kanye's fetus for the rest of my life. So many jokes to fit in in nine months.

Selective Narcolepsy

   I hypothesize that over time humans will develop a habit/disorder/defence mechanism called selective narcolepsy. I imagine it will be something like being able to fall asleep on command, in a free will kind of way.
   When I am feeling some feelings, I like to fall asleep forever. Like right now, I just want to go to bed and fall asleep for roughly fourteen hours, but I know that if I actually went to bed, I would just lay awake thinking about feelings and food. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think the desire to sleep forever is a shared dream of nine in ten Canadians. To the one in ten who doesn't feel that way: bully for you.
   I'm surprised something like selective narcolepsy doesn't already exist. I guess it does, and its called overdosing. But for those of us who can't afford pills (six in ten Canadians), we can only hope for selective narcolepsy. Or fill our time by pretending to read books of making Face-in-Holes until we quietly fall asleep in a puddle of pitiful mediocrity.

Not Shopping

   I never go shopping, but when I do, I only like things that I can't afford. So I think its awesome when I try something on and it doesn't fit because then I don't have to spend a month not eating because I spent food money of shoes. I also love it when I try something on and it accentuates my weird body. These things make most people feel like crying, but being immune to emotions I know nothing of this feeling. I can simply leave the store with an empty soul but a full wallet.

Why I Love Him

   Okay, so I don't know if you know this about me, but I watch a lot of Say Yes to the Dress. I also have a secret wedding board on Pinterest. Whatever, sue me. Its not because I ever plan on being in a marriage, its because I like dressing up and eating cake.
   In case you're unfamiliar, Say Yes is a reality show set in a bridal salon that follows future brides' search for the perfect wedding dress. They do this thing at the start of each interview where they interview the bride-to-be about her fiance and she talks about how they met and why she loves him. I have only ever heard about five different answers to why she loves her fiance, so I have compiled a list of more interesting and perhaps more honest answers. Enjoy.

   Instead of: "I love him because he's my best friend!"
   Try: "I wouldn't say he's my best friend. I think that would be kind of sad. My best friend is Alicia (shout out girl!). He is in my My Five though."
 
   Instead of: "He's always there for me."
   Try: "Well, he's not always there for me. I'd say he's there maybe sixty- no more like forty-five percent of the time."

   Instead of: "He's my rock!"
   Try: "He's my stick of butter!"

   Instead of: "He would do anything for me!"
   Try: "He would do some things for me, but it depends whats on TV at the time that I ask him."

   Instead of: "He's the sweetest guy I've ever met."
   Try: "He's luke-warm. My ex Paul Sanchez was probably the sweetest guy I've ever met. I love him and all, don't get me wrong, but tell him dinner's going to be late and he's downright sour!"

   Instead of: "We're perfect together!"
   Try: "Look, the biological clock was a-ticking. I don't have time to just 'find' the perfect guy for me- I have a full-time job, and standing in line at the grocery store takes longer than you expect. There's no shame in settling."

Toe Socks

   Remember toe socks? How could you not, really. Toe socks are probably one of the most influential fashion innovations, nay, technological innovations of the twentieth century. Toe socks, otherwise known as fittens, are just that: mittens for feet. Not only are they stylish and the heigh of fashion always, they also serve as an uncannily effective ice breaker.
   One of my favourite parts about toe socks is that there is no such thing as a plain pair. They only come in obnoxious stripes and offensive polka dots. Finally, a sock that matches my personality and complexion! Toe socks are also safe for the elderly, because more often than not, they have padded soles to prevent slipping and sliding: walking is safe again; thank you toe socks!
   I like to wear toe socks because of the reaction they get. Nine in ten Canadians are really weirded out by individually wrapped toes. Its great! If you're sitting in your sock feet, watching a move with someone, I suggest you gingerly clutch their leg with your hand-foot. They'll be freaked out for sure!
   The beauty of the toe sock- and what a surplus of beauty there is to be found in this garment- is the feeling you get when you take it off. Its like your toes are all awkward girls at the club- standing alone in their own corners. So when the walls of the sock are broken down, all the awkward girls are thrust together and you can physically feel how weird it is.
   So much fun awaits you in the marvellous world of toe socks.

Boxes of Chocolates

   People say, "life's like a box of chocolates". I certainly hope that my life is at least ten to fifteen percent less disappointing than a box of chocolates. Its true that you never know what you're going to get, but I really hope my life isn't filled with weird unidentifiable goo. Or at least no more than is average...
   For real though, whats up with assortments of chocolate? Pot Of Gold is roughly one million dollars, and the only good ones in the box are the strawberry cremes. Who makes the judgement calls on boxed chocolates, because I would like to have a word.
   Hold up, this just in: THERE IS NO STRAWBERRY CREME IN POT OF GOLD ANYMORE.
   Is it even worth surviving the apocalypse? There's butter creme, rum butter creme (not family friendly!), and other cremes and clusters that are so boring that I fell asleep reading them. What, am I supposed to sit at home watching the Kardashians eating an assortment of underwhelming cremes? Maybe I am. Maybe this is my life. But if I'm going to spend my life watching Scott Disick throw hissy fits, I at least want to be eating decent chocolate. After all, I have some standards to uphold.

Christmas Parties

   I went to a work-related Christmas party with my mother the other night. I was definitely the youngest person there, and every conversation I was engaged in went like this;

Person: Oh my gosh, I didn't even recognize you! How are you doing?

Me: Good! How are you?

Person: Good! What school are you at?

Me: Concordia.

Person: And what are you studying?

Me: Creative Writing.

Person: Thats great. Montreal's a great city.

Me: Yeah, it really is!

THE END.

   I am not even kidding around here. That was literally every conversation I had. And every time I was being discussed while I wasn't around, people were telling my mom how I have turned into a lady (granted, most of these people hadn't seen me since I was 12, and I was wearing very tall shoes). I don't know why these people don't say these nice things to my face, as if my mother is the sounding board for all compliments. I guess they just want to congratulate her on a job well done?

   One digression from the dialogue I've given, was when I was with my mum a lot of the time people would say, "and where's David?" (David is my cool dad). And we would say, "Ethiopia". The looks on their faces were a thousand times more satisfying than the vegan pasta dinner options. Baffled party guests would then ask if we were serious, and want details. But how much detail can you really give about your globe-trotting, dream-pursuing, inspirational cool dad at a Christmas party? My answer to everyone's questions were usually just something like, "he's running away and never coming back" or "I better get some cool presents" *hint*hint*hint*hint* #Iknowhereadsthisblogwhilehe'saway.

   What I'm getting at is that Christmas parties are boring unless the food is good, and/or unless your dad is a cool ass globetrotter, and/or people think you look really fierce in that dress which justifies its purchase last summer even though you've only worn it twice. 

The Most Interesting Woman in the World

   As you well know, I don't do haircuts. But when I do do haircuts (haha doodoo), they are never enjoyable experiences. Past haircuts haven't ever been notably bad or anything, I've just never had that stylist/ head of hair bonding experience, and I will tell you why.
   Whenever I am in a hair salon, chilling in the chair, the funniest person in the world is always in the chair next to mine. Everyone in the salon always wants to talk to whoever is sitting beside me. Oftentimes its an older lady, with wooden earrings and a very loud voice. Sometimes she's a travel writer, other times she's just an extravagant white lady, but she is always infinitely more interesting than me. As I struggle to turn the pages of my magazine with my hands trapped under the smock, my hairdresser questions the most interesting woman in the world about what her plans for the future are. Nobody cares what my plans for the future are, despite the fact that I've got about thirty years more future to account for than this woman.
   Whatever, see if I care. As an act of defiance I haven't visited a hairdresser in years. So take that! I refuse to return to a hair salon until I am undoubtedly the most interesting woman there.

Not Sad Enough, You Say?

   One of the things people say to me after they get to know me a little bit is, "you should do standup". If they're not saying that, they usually say, "you look sooooo much like Winona Ryder". I take both of these things as compliments.
   I was recently out with a bunch of people from my workshop class when someone brought up the standup thing. But then they went back on it because they said that most comedians have something about them- a quirk I guess- that makes them sadder than the average audience member. I'm too mediocre on all fronts to fit into standard sad comedian categories: obesity, depression, alcoholism, Jewish. True I may be mediocre in all of these categories (except Jewish, I'm zero percent Jewish) but I know my life, and can't nobody tell me that shit's not sad:
   One time I got dumped on prom night. One time I fell from the air onto a skinny boy's head (it wasn't sexy). One time I crammed so much sushi into my mouth that I couldn't swallow and had to spit a little bit out onto my napkin. One time I fell off the bed while I was getting down to business (it wasn't sexy). One time, body sounds; oh wait, that was way more than one time. One time my father had to scoop my vomit out of a sink with a yellow cup. One time I thought I had asthma, but I was just grotesquely out of shape. One time my orthodontist  made me wear six elastics in my mouth all day everyday. One time I thought I was going to marry Ryan Seacrest.
   Needless to say, I think most comedians are amateurs on the sadness scale.

Gift Cars

   Gentlemen take note: I have never received a car as a gift. Pedestrians take note: I have never driven a car. There are all these ads on TV though that indicate that gentlemen give automotive vehicles to their wives and girlfriends as gifts. First of all, where's my car at? More importantly though, where do these fabulous husbands get the giant bows that top each new car?

   The perfect giant red bow is very contradictory to every example of men wrapping gifts that has ever existed. This leads me to believe that they give you that bow in lieu of a gift receipt. I guess if you're the kind of person that gets a brand new car as a surprise gift then you're the same kind of person who would return it to get it in a better colour. 

   Do you keep the bow? I would want to (ironically of course). Maybe you could turn it into a fashion accessory. I mean, thats what Nicole Kidman did at the Oscars circa 2007, right?

A Thought

Can we just take a minute to imagine the potential repercussions that would physically and mentally handicap a child who was conceived while "Sandstorm" played in the background?

My Hair

   Sometimes I joke about being in a relationship with my hair. But actually, the most serious, long-termiest relationship I have ever been a part of is with my hair. My haircut predates all past boyfriends. Maybe you might think that I need a haircut or that that's nothing to brag about but you are wrong. I am proud of my mermaid hair, and in many ways it is 100% satisfactory as a life-partener.
   While some silly girls carry on about wanting a man to keep them warm at night, my hair keeps my head warm at night. My hair is also more malleable and versatile than any gentleman I have ever been in a relationship with. Like a boyfriend, sometimes my hair has its bad days, but unlike a boyfriend, I can just wrap a scarf around it and all is forgiven. While I know that relationships are a two-way street, I am content to know that my hair does not give a shit what I do with my time. My hair brings out the best in me at all times, actually my hair is probably my best physical attribute. My hair never complains when I dress it up for fancy events, and providing I can help it along the way, it always makes me look good.
   Me and my hair have been together for a very long time now. I feel like when you go through a change in your life, sometimes you want to get a haircut, but no sir not me. My hair is my rock, and best of all, my hair doesn't mind if I start seeing other people.

Farmville Flashbacks

   What kind of a sicko send Farmville requests in this day and age? Everyone has a farm, that was well tended to for about 2-3 weeks in 2010, but do we really need to be reminded of how that farm which was once a shining beacon of agrarian prowess is now a decrepit wasteland? Does this deep sense of failure and realization that we are all capable of serious neglect need to be brought to the forefront of our minds once more?
   I have a lot of personal failings and I am ashamed of many things. Nothing though - absolutely nothing- is more debilitating than the memory of how I ran that ten square inch piece of land to ruin. It was my own selfish distraction, as I'm sure is the case of all lost farms in the ghost town of Farmville, that led me to forget my crops. When I think of my once prosperous fields of wheat, strawberries and corns- how lucky I was to have such diverse vegetation that seemed immune to seasonal growth patterns!- it brings tears to my eyes. I didn't know how good I had it.
   That time is behind me now though. I move through life in a guilt-ridden haze, following similar patterns of indulgent commitment and sudden disinterest (Sims Social). I had buried the Farmville horrors deep in my subconscious, only to be awakened by some ruffians who have nothing better to do than send Farmville requests two years after the internet dustbowl.

Lars Von Trying

   I am in nearing the homestretch of Lars Von Trier's Melancholia. Its really visually stimulating but, man, does it ever drag on. My understanding is that the dragging is an artistic choice, to mirror the depression/ waiting for the apocalypse that the characters are going through. But hey, aren't we all waiting for the apocalypse (21/12/12 #YOLO)?
   I have about fifteen minutes left of the movie, this will be my third instalment. I'm trying so hard, really I am. I'm considering it research for a project I've started working on and its just reminding me that there is no fun kind of research.
   Also: Kristen Dunst. I don't know. I just don't know. Used to hate her. Then I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and I thought maybe I was just being rude, that she's not that bad. But now I think I only thought that because I really liked the movie on the whole.
   Also: Keifer Sutherland. What kind of a name is that?
   The bottom line is that Melancholia is not coming easy. Unfortunately, I ain't no wimp-ass nancy boy and I physically can't call it quits at this point.

The Name Blacklist

   The Name Blacklist. Its a real thing. Everybody has names that they hate, whether you have hated them since birth or you have grown to hate them because of a person or experience. The Name Blacklist is for names that make you feel bad in hearing them; consequently these names are not names you would call your children.
   The Name Blacklist is problematic when you encounter a name that you love but then a person or event taints it. For example, you love the name Ricardo. Then a guy named Ricardo burns down your house. You still love the name Ricardo and want to name your first-born Ricardo, but not after Ricardo the arsonist. Is that a weird thing to do? I would say yes. Other people would probably say yes. For the rest of you life in conversation, you would have to specify whether you were talking about Ricardo the life-ruiner, or Ricardo your beloved son, the pride and joy of your whole life.
   Thats a pretty hardcore example, I know I would not be down with Ricardos after that. But what about like... naming your kid after someone you had a crush on in high school? I want to specify that its fully creepy to have that person as the namesake but what if you and your spouse just like that name, with no reference to the past. I want to know when it becomes creepy, and I'm going to run with the idea of child naming.
   Is it creepy to give your kid the same name as your ex-boyfriend's salamander?
   Is it creepy to give your kid the same name as an African dictator?
   Is it creepy to give your kid the name "Hamburger"?
   Is it creepy to give all your children the same names as the Kardashians regardless of gender?
   Is it creepy to give your kid the same name as your eccentric, borderline questionable gym teacher?
   Is it creepy to give your kid the same name as a fictional but extremely recognizable movie villain?
   Is it creepy to give your kid the same name as your best friend's verbally abusive father?
   Is it creepy to give your kid the same name as your middle school bully?
   Is it creepy to give your kid the same name as your boss?
   Is it creepy to give your kid the same name as a one night stand?

   Is it creepy to give your kid the same name as your neighbour's kid?
   Is it creepy to give your kid the same name as your neighbour?

   If you just like the name. I don't have the answers, and for any question you could replace "creepy" with any of the following: bizzare, socially-acceptable, awkward, disrespectful, cheeky, out-of-line, justifiable, stalkerish, uncomfortable, regrettable and/or stupid.
   You're gonna have to make a day of this one.

Pharrell

   Pharrell is an enchanting mystery to me. You're going to need to Youtube the music video for Hot-n-Fun, I would suggest Hypnotize U too, but I'm not bout the fedoras and none of those video-hoes are me, so thats problematic. He's got that sum'n sum'n for sure in his videos, but when you Google image him some rather unfortunate photos come up. Its like he was going through his pre-teen awkward phase (again, see fedora) in his mid-thirties.
   Thats another thing. How am I supposed to feel about the fact that Pharrell will apparently be 40 in April?? Witchcraft! I would say black magic, don't think I didn't see that pun, but I don't know you well enough to start making race jokes.
   Sometimes I think Pharrell might be the most alluring man in the world. There. I said it. Sue me. But then there are other times when I see this picture

and I can't even verbalize my disappointment and wild confusion. Like... who let you out like that Pharrell? Its like there's Hot Pharrell and Awkward Pharrell existing in the same world. I actually suspect that maybe he has a really awkward twin. There's no other explanation.

When You Are Engulfed in a Fiery Tangle of Anger

   When you are engulfed in a fiery tangle of anger, what is there to do? If I lived alone I would blast scary music and dress like Taylor Momsen until I literally fell asleep. But in real life, when you're really fucking angry, does it ever help to be snappy with Starbucks baristas who seem not to understand the modern conventions of serving the public? You can be as passive aggressive as you like, but making their day worse rarely makes your day better.
   Even writing shit doesn't help because most of the time, if you're like me, you end up rambling without any clear purpose of what you're getting at. I wish I knew what I was talking about, I wish I could recommend some therapeutic behaviours. I often fantasize about going to the Dollar Store and buying hundreds of glass flowers, driving out to an empty parking lots and smashing them to as many smithereens as I can manage. However I often find my physical expressions of rage extremely underwhelming because while my will may be strong, my biceps are not.
   Sometimes Eminem helps. But then you remember thats he actually seems like a relatively nice guy, and his music seems less relatable as you rage around in a furious... fury. Actually though, I'm listening to Eminem right now, its helping me in a pretty solid way.
    Regardless of what you do when you're really outrageously mad, I think we can all agree that channeling your inner zen is a load of bs invented by Lululemon to sell unforgiving yoga pants. So when you're mad, go ahead and punch inanimate objects (providing they're shock-absorbent and you're willing to replace them), scream at yappy dogs and listen to Eminem (or if you're feeling real shitty, Odd Future).

What is Tumblr?

   On the surface, Tumblr appears to be thirteen to twenty-three year-olds across the globe. But Tumblr is so much more than lonely girls and angry boys with spacers. I've decided to expand this list from just words that are Tumblr, to things that are Tumblr.

Things That are Tumblr

- "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" is Tumblr.
- Boy London is Tumblr.
- Girls with stringy hair is Tumblr, unless the girl in question is
- Zooey Deschanel who is Tumblr.
- Or the Olson Twins or Lindsay Lohan (but not funny Lindsay, sexy Linsday) who are Tumblr.
- sneak attack penises, and all other forms of unexpected genitalia are Tumblr.
- pictures of happy couples that are a lie because someone had to take that picture are Tumblr.

At any given time, you may encounter text on Tumblr, at least one if not all of these words will appear in each individual post. These words are Tumblr:

- lovely (and any of its variations, "lovelies", "my lovelies")

- stunning

- "Ok, bye"

Eyebrow Bliss

   When my eyebrows are happy, everyone is happy. You know those days, when your eyebrows are crazy for no reason and its like, "why? There ain't no Van de Graaff generator, so why are you doing this?" It would be one thing if I was surfacing from a body of water, but sometimes me eyebrows are just doing their own thing.
   My mother says people would kill for my eyebrows, and to this I say I would kill to see that fight which I imagine to be two men fighting at sundown in a Wendys' parking lot over my eyebrows. No matter what my wonderful mother says, my eyebrows have never launched a thousand ships or even a single paddleboat for that matter. That's why its even more awesome when my eyebrows are cooperating.
   Eyebrows legit make a big difference to a person's face. Example one: I'm not down with guys with just have two bricks chilling above their eyes, its like, is your forehead trying to build a house? Example two: I was lurking this girl on FB and all of a sudden she got really pretty. She was pretty before, but something was different: that something was eyebrows.
   I also have very expressive eyebrows. They could probably compete as Olympic high jumpers. Sometimes it looks like they're trying to fly off of my face, which is fine when they're all trying to fly off in one direction, but it is not fine when each hair is trying to fly away in different directions like a flock of scared pigeons. Today though, today they are looking real fierce. Unfortunately I've been cooped up inside writing papers all day.

Making New Friends

   I have often heard people- young people with their lives ahead of them- say, "I don't need anymore friends in my life", or something to that effect. I get that in the context of trying to ward off creepy men, but otherwise wtf? Like actually, making a new friend especially as you progress through life becomes even more exciting because its harder to do. When people want to be friends with you, its the best feeling in the world (if they cool). If they not cool, whatever, just tell them you have swim practice and can't hang out. No one's forcing you.
   People who decide not to need new friends have clearly never witnessed an old person grow attached to a domestic animal. You're never too old! Never!
   Its crazy to think about how quickly small children make friends. Jerry Seinfeld does a bit on it. But I would argue that that basically is still how friendship works when you're in university: bonding over very simple common likes. Drop Grumpy Cat into a casual conversation: BAM you just made nine new friends. I'm not even joking, I'm pretty sure I made at least two friends using this fool proof method.
   Anyway, I'm a quarter of the way through my life and I am making friends like its 1999. I recommend it. Makes you feel good about yourself and limits the possibility of dying alone in a room full of fudge.

Christmas Desserts

   Why does most Christmas candy taste like shit? I've actually been eating more candy canes this year than I have ever before in my life, because I am using them as meal replacements. I will admit that I am developing a taste for them, but its not like anyone has ever listed candy canes in their favourite foods or among items they would bring to a desert island.
      Forget about candy canes though, whats up with those chocolate mounds with the red goo inside? My mum loves that shit but I don't even know what its supposed to be. Also, the picture on the box makes it look kind of remind me of R2D2, or a demon egg. Nothing says the spirit of Christmas like:

Also: sugarplums. Whatup with that? I think I speak for everyone under the age of 70 when I say I've never even tasted a sugar plum. Its not even a plum apparently. It can refer to any kind of dried candy. I'm starting to wonder if its even edible... I'm just confused at this point.

Not what you were expecting right? 100% misleading. 

   Last one, and by far worst of all is Christmas cake. The vile mess created by the ultimate Scrooge to ruin every child's Christmas. An old lady who is vaguely related to you offers you a piece of cake and you say yes, because you love baked goods. Except this is a baked bad. If a fruit salad, rock candy and a bran muffin got together for a crazy orgy, this would be the result of the unwanted pregnancy. Christmas cake sucks.

IN WHAT WORLD IS THIS OK??!!

Satanic Kitchenware

   As you may have noticed, part of my being a Creative Writing Major involves me being a creative person. I also have some creative friends, and sometimes we talk about creative things, creatively of course. My friend and I were being very distracted from lecture today because we kept laughing about satanic toasters. If you haven't seen the satanic toaster video, search that up right now. Are you back? Did you watch it? Good. Its hilarious and so my friend and I started thinking of the best satanic kitchenware. The main point that we agreed on is that it has to be something entirely non-menacing, because all it does it preach satanic ideas, its not trying to kill you or anything. So that rules out anything that has a mouth or something bitey, because thats a little scary. Here I have compiled the best satanic kitchenware and why, enjoy!
1. Satanic french press- It has no mouth, first of all, and nothing that could even be moderately intimidating.
2. Satanic salt n' pepper shakers- they wouldn't even be able to walk, and if their satanic phrases started bothering you, you could just unscrew their heads.
3. Satanic popcorn maker- I imagine the popcorn maker would be really overzealous, but how often do you really make popcorn anyway?
4. Satanic cupcake iron- the mere fact that this exists is so comical that there is no way its satanism would be frightening. Also its gotta stay leashed to the wall.

I imagine that all these appliances have different catchphrases, but being well-versed in creative techniques Imma let you imagine those for yourself. The main thing to remember is these appliances don't want to scare or hurt you, they just want to spread their beliefs and ultimately save you from a misguided life. If they could, I bet these satanic appliances would stand on street corners and outside metro stations armed with religious comic books and pamphlets.





...See what I did there?

8:30 Fucking A.M

   Look at me, I'm writing and its FUCKING 8:30 AM. Why am I awake at fucking 8:30 a.m you ask? Well its a funny story. But not funny ha-ha, like hold-me-back-and-keep-all-knives-away-because-I'm-going-to-kill-everyone/hide-yo-kids-hide-yo-wife funny. The basement apartment below me is occupied by this weird french man who is somehow integral to the maintenance of this building. His sister lives in the adjacent apartment and is more legit, and actually speaks in a language other than grunts.
   It is customary for this man, every, morning to move furniture on his ceiling so that it wakes me up. Don't ask me how he does it, I suspect black magic. There's also a little fence in area running alongside the building where my downstairs neighbours chill after a long night's sleep, you know, to unwind or whatever. The door leading to this area happens to be right under my window. Fuck. Me. This has been a problem all year, and yes I did buy earplugs but 35 decibels is actually only as loud as a refrigerator hum, and that is the most intense kind that a drugstore will sell you.
   Its bad enough that for the past two weeks its been taking me two hours to fall asleep, but now I am waking up before the cock even crows. For real, what the fuck? I have fucking late class tonight, and exams are approaching. Cut me some slack, God. I've been being really mature through some rough times lately but if there is one thing I can't stand its being awake at 8:30 fucking a.m.
   I'd like to mention I was also awake for a half hour at 6 a.m today but I calmly lay resting until the ruckus stopped. And then started again at 8:30. I went down to see what the fuck was happening, why I didn't get the invite to the 8:30 upside-down dance party on the ceiling and I was nearly mauled to death by the housekeeper's two corgis. I don't even know if they're fucking corgis but they're small and they never shut the fuck up. Not only do they contribute to waking me up half the time, but they're so loud I'm sure they're waking up Jesus above too. So when the demons had been called off I inquired about the noise and the lady said "oh, we were just arranging an area with a lot of wood. It won't happen again."
   What. Even. DOES THAT FUCKING MEAN?? Why is there an area with a lot of wood indoors, and why does it need arranging at 8:30 fucking a.m?? At least now I know that should I be driven to arson, the building will light up like the fourth of fucking July. I was being so patient too, waiting for the noise to pass, and it never did. And now that I'm fucking wide awake, it appears to be much quieter.  Fucking 8:30 fucking a.m...

Tattwo

   Sorry mum and dad, I got sum fr3$h !nk. Thats how I have to talk now because I have more than one tattoo now which means that I am extremely artistic and rebellious.
   Realtalk though, I had a much better overall experience this time than I did my first time around. People have been asking me if this one hurt more than the last one. For starters, both my tattoos are real simple- this one was a custom design of an original drawing that I did myself- so that puts them on an even playing field. Lets examine the rest of the factors shall we:
Placement
Tat 1: on the back of my arm, above my elbow
Tat 2: top of my foot
Crew
Tat 1: went to my appointment wit a full blown posse, some of whom were close friends, others who were kinda random. I'm just so popular. Don't hate me cuz you ain't me.
Tat 2: went to appointment with two friends who were able to come into the room with me.
First Impressions of Artist
Tat 1: Italian. Intimidating.
Tat 2: Grills. Like legit grills, not tinfoil. Straight thuggin'. Ghetto booty. Began playing hardcore rap while prepping his equipment.

   What I'm getting at is that I can't tell which one hurt more really. You would think that the foot would hurt more because the skin is less exposed. There were certain moments when he was going over veins that it hurt notably more than other moments. The experience I had this time around was more positive. I am a really awkward person which I think makes hardcore people such as tattoo artists think I'm going to be a big wimp and often, they are totally right. My artist was really cool though (I hesitate to say best friends, although we did bond over sketchbooks/ journals and how personal they are), and I think he was probably impressed that I didn't squirm or cry or anything. It helped a lot having friends in the room who I could say awkward things to. Example:
*tattooing begins*
Me: Oh. Yes. Right. That just feels so natural.
My friends: What?

Its best that I have someone there who knows me so they can absorb my awkwardness. Thanks guys. It helped also that while I was at first intimidated by my artist, he was actually a pretty cool guy and made the experience that more memorable. Also, having my own design felt pretty special. I wanted the lines to be kind of shaky as they were in the original piece to which my artist responded, "Ok. I'm going to make em wobbly but let me do that", as if to say "don't move your fucking foot". And I didn't move my foot at all. Ten out of ten for being a hardcore rebel bitch.

Giving Blood- The Adventures of Lil' Vein

   I had quite the adventure at the pop-up blood donor clinic on campus today! Its not my first time giving blood and its a really good thing to do a) because it literally saves lives b) because you get free cookies and muffin bars at the end. This was my second time giving blood, and since I'm planning on getting another tattoo in the very near future I figured its now or never (never in this case being six months from now). I went in, gave them my card, answered all the sex questions (no, I have never traded sex for drugs, stop asking!), told them I preferred they take blood from my left arm. I am led into one of the crazy awkwardly angled chairs. The nurse then asks me if I weigh under 110 pounds and I laugh in her face/ cry in my soul. I should mention that this takes place right beside a huge glass wall looking out onto the downtown core, so pedestrians get to witness your awkward life first hand.
   After about ten minutes of trying to get some signs of life out of my left arm, the nurse told me we were going to have to do the right. No problem I say, because I am easy-going and am saving lives, happily awaiting my muffin bar. It takes another ten minutes to find a pulse on my right arm at which point I am told I have tiny tiny veins. I take this as a compliment. The nurse tells me the needle wouldn't have even fit in my left arm vein despite the fact that I can see it through my tissue-paper skin. Apparently the visuals have nothing to do with it; you learn something new every day, I think to myself as I contemplate whether I'll be able to smuggle a juice box into my purse on the way out.
   Once the needle is actually inside me (and it takes a while to find the vein once its inside me), the nurses are all very cautious of me and ask my if I feel ok, or if I'm in pain roughly every minute. In the words of Biggie Smalls, I am sittin' fat, livin' good. I don't tell the nurses this exact quote because I'm speaking to them in my broken french, which is actually serving me pretty well and I feel good about it.
   All is well until the nurse calls over another nurse and says a word I recognize but can't quite place. Apparently my blood has stopped- this is the gist of it. But don't worry, I don't die. The nurses continue to ask me how I feel and I nod and say "bien" many many times. They then inform me I have a clot, but they are speaking so french that this doesn't really strike me with any worry until a little later. They say its fine, nothing to worry about. They poke the needle around inside me which is not the most pleasant experience but whatever, the muffin bar will be worth it.
   One of the nurses then promptly decides after saying that "its at 101" they should remove the needle immediately. I'm cool with that. They tell me they have enough blood to give to a person- rock on. I am then ushered over to a volunteer who asks me about school (in french) and its only a little awkward. Then I get to eat muffin bars, which aren't actually particularly good, I just think they're really funny. They tell me I might have a small bruise, which translates to you will definitely have a giant bruise. Its true. I'm developing a galaxy larger than our milky way on my forearm. The nebula is already there, and the Hubble has photos already.
   As I leave I see a guy making a really anguished face as he lies in his chair. I lol in my head really hard. Its been a good day.

First-Time Freezy

   I can't remember if I've written about this before, but it doesn't even matter if I have because you can't enough of a good thing. This summer I was waiting in line for the teller at a bank, after almost getting hit with a streetcar while riding my bike- that part's not important though. What is important is that on this particular summer's day it was hotter outside than the devil's wig. So one of the bank employees came out and offered everyone in line a freezy; me, the older man behind me, and the ancient man behind him.
   For the record, I took blue because blue is the best one. Anyway, the bank lady offered one to the ancient man and he said in the sweetest old man voice, "well I don't know, what is it?". Like imagine an old Jimmy Stewart saying that. Imagine! Well I didn't have to imagine because I saw it with my eyes.
   The not-so-old man proceeded to explain what it a freezy is and as the delicious treat melted in the old man's mouth, my heart melted in my thoracic cavity.

Rebranding the Push-Up Bra

   I think some serious rebranding of the push-up bra is in order. I can see why some women feel that the lingerie industry objectifies women. I get it one hundred percent. I will admit to owning a couple push-up bras though and hear me out on this one. I acknowledge that products such as the triple push-up are just glorified version of the ol' grade seven sock in bra trick. Y'all ladies should be happy with your bodies, and not feel the need to manipulate it in order to look "sexy" according to unrealistic, misogynist societal standards. On the one hand, I own push-ups bras, on the other hand, I feel guilty for promoting an unrealistic idea of the female body. I have a marketing solution that I think would make everyone happy in terms of Canadian lingerie consumership.
   Today I was doing my usual Sunday thing; eating toast, writing last minute essays and wearing crew neck sweaters. I decided to go outside and walk around to clear my head, so I had to throw on a bra. But not for the reason you might think. I don't care about showing off my fancy feminine form, but its cold outside now, and I need me some layers. This is when the push-up bra comes most in handy in my life. The extra padding really makes a difference and I'm pretty sure thats why Kate Winslet lived in the Titanic, because she was wearing a heavily-insulated bra.
   The rebranding of push-up bras as winterwear would sit well with feminists and effectively sell bras to all sane women. Instead of presenting giant billboards of a young woman looking coyly over her shoulder in nothing but a pair of panties (hate that word) that say "tease me" in a twirly font, why not show a woman exuding warmth and ease as she scales Mt. Everest, leaving her unisex companions to eat her snow dust because she is snug as a bug in a padded bra. I agree with this. Everyone would be happy. You can thank me later, Victoria's Secret.

What Happened to "New Girl"?

   Season 1 of Fox TV's series New Girl was a pretty big hit I'd say, and rightly so because it was really funny. I was among many who awaited the second season with much anticipation. Much to my most sincere chagrin, most of the recent episodes have been falling flat. The first few episodes in the season were decent, but I can think of at least three recent ones that were incredibly "meh".
   Maybe its the anticipation of many of the episodes being withheld over the US election campaign due to the debates, and voting night, I don't know. But New Girl is going nowhere fast. Actually, my friends and I have noticed a more conservative (see episode where Schmidt pretends to be Tag Romney, spends whole episode endorsing Romney family), slightly racist (why does the only black character never have any real plot of his own? He only ever serves to advance white characters' plots), politically incorrect (the magical, zen asian man) tendency in the recent episodes. I would not consider myself to be the most politically correct person all the time, but when you are writing for a popular TV show, some things are just no-brainers.
   What weirds me out the most is that season 1 was such a success by comparison. The characters were fresh and quirky, but you could buy into it. Now the characters just seem insane to me. I don't know if thats a product of the acting or the writing despite the fact that I used to be a big fan of both on the show. Nothing is really happening long-term in the show either. Its like everyone is just kind of floating without purpose, and that purpose is desperately needed to ground the almost too large for life characters.
   My theory is that a lot of this plot stagnancy comes from the potential/ expected romance between Jess and Nick. We've been brought to a point so far where we know its gonna happen, one way or another, we're all just waiting for it. This is an horrible corner to write yourself into, because it becomes so all-consuming: your audience stops caring about the other characters and plot-lines and you can't not have them get together because then you get a backlash from everyone feeling cheated because thats the only thing that kept them interested in the show. Thats what happened to Gossip Girl with the Chuck and Blair romance, and nobody wants to see New Girl go down that road. Nobody. It was painful.
   I don't think we're anywhere near the Nick/Jess romantic revelation, but I kind of wish we were. Everything just feels like filler right now. Or maybe all we need is for something to actually happen, something that has consequence. And for god's sake give Winston something to do other than be the black guy!

I Only Have Nightmares

   Its true, ever since May of last year, I can pretty honestly say that I don't have dreams, I only have nightmares. I had a dream about Ryan Gosling the other night, and that was pretty much the only exception in the past seven months.
   I was going to say that I didn't know the difference between nightmares and night terrors, but then I pulled up my bootstraps and consulted Wikipedia. (Sidenote: Lol, bootstraps). According to the great online encyclopaedia I may actually be having night terrors, because I awake in with a feeling of dread and am often real sweaty. I don't want to get into it in extreme depth because I tend to think that nobody really enjoys hearing about another person's dream unless they are in it. And none of you are in my dream. Unless you are my vampire best friend/ succubus who tried to eat my neck multiple times two nights ago while I spooned a very unfortunate guy with glasses. I will say this much: my nightmares often include gun violence and on many occasions I get shot in my dreams several times and don't die (once right in the face).
   Today I tried to put a light-hearted spin on this uncomfortable habit. I'm trying to reason with my subconscious and give it the benefit of the doubt; I don't want to assume its a big jerk, despite its actions. I'm feeling like maybe I have horribly frightening nightmares on a nightly basis in attempt to put my life in perspective. My subconscious might just be trying to make me feel better about myself. Gruesome, life-damaging nightmares might be its way of saying, "hey, at least there are no predatorial male figures with guns in your immediate waking life". Its right on that one. "At least hurricane Sandy didn't actually strike you with lightning resulting in immobility allowing hooligans to shoot you with rifles as you lost grocery money because your fridge got washed away is the flood". My dream life is so much worse than my real life. So thank you crippling night terrors, for without you I may never have come to appreciate my waking life.

Trapped in the Old Scene

   Here is some of my personal life context that you will be needing to navigate through this post:
- my parents have been travelling in Italy for the past three months and will continue to do so until Nov. 29 (my mum) and forever (my dad)
- my sweet sweet bf is having a crisis as he lives at home for a little bit, which I am handling in the way that I handle children: by not knowing what to do and thus trying to "give space" to him.
   Thats all you need to know. Fast forward to me, today, in my Victorian Literature class. My super hip young prof who I have a girl crush on is talking at the head of the class, a map of England is on the projector. My prof is talking about how the introduction of the railway in 1830 into Victorian England changed their entire perception of time. Zoom in on my face as I have an epiphany in class. Thats me, right over there in the third row, with the mangey hair and gloves on in class because room H1133 is cold as the grave.
   I am having an epiphany because at this moment in my life I am trapped in Victorian England. I cannot reach my loved ones instantaneously. My mother legit sends me postcards, which is some top-knotch Queen Victoria shit, but other than that my parents rarely get to an internet cafe. Telephones are to my parents what telegrams were to the Victorians: methods of communication reserved for only the most dire of circumstances. Is your brother on fire? Well you'd better wait three days for the letter to arrive in Manchester because this is not an important enough life event.
   My prof went on to describe texting and our 2012 response to time and communication (blah blah blah learning) and I was like, "excuse me teachuh, but I'm givin ma boyfrand space so I am a reg'lur Jane Austen". That is what I said in class. But seriously, it felt like I'd gone back in time. I'm in this weird floaty state where I can't reach the most important people in my young life immediately. I may as well be an orphan working in a blacking factory, right?

Elephants Painting Elephants

   A friend showed me a video of an elephant painting a picture of an elephant holding a flower in its trunk. Naturally, this was mind blowing information.
   Somehow knowing that a mammal other than a human can recognize what it sees, and creatively express makes me reconsider my life and "my problems". This elephant also went over certain lines of its picture, presumably because it was not happy with the look of it. The elephant had an artistic vision. Which is more than I can say for half the human race.
   I think that as an artist, I can relate more to this elephant than I can to almost all the political leaders and authority figures in the public sphere. Its like, who cares who won the US election, an elephant painted a self-portrait. Who cares if you're having relationship problems, an elephant has legitimate artistic talent. Someone give this elephant a scholarship to NSCAD.
   I don't know, call me soft, but this elephant is a serious game changer for me. The fact that I am connecting with this elephant in such a creative way is next level. Follow your dreams elephant, and I will stop worrying about the day-to-day.

The Almond's Super Saving Money Tips #5

   Who doesn't love a good bread plus stuff plus another bread, otherwise known as a sandwich? I know I sure do! And so do Polish people according to my Polish roommate, who is the top authority on all things eastern European. Sandwiches are good, is what we can conclude from our respective findings. However, did you know that sandwiches are a political weapon?
   I'm going to say that the average sandwich eater cares an average amount about social/ political issues. The second piece of bread in a sandwich is capitalism at its finest. Apparently in Poland open faced sandwiches roam freely, and I totally get it. I wish I could just walk into a restaurant and order an open faced sandwich at half the marked price.
   The money saving tip I suggest today is that from now on, to save on bread, you rock exclusively open faced sandwiches. I mean, we all did it when we were children right? Its not like an extra piece of bread is symbolic of adulthood. Its not like as soon as you bar mitzvah, they say "and now son, you shall eat sandwich contents between TWO slices of bread". Contrary to what you may have been told, open faced does not interfere with your faith.
   If you're at a restaurant you could try to haggle the price of a sandwich if its made custom open faced.  I would recommend doing that after a couple drinks so at least you've already spent some money, and they don't think you're homeless and kick you out of their establishment. I think that the rate of rejection would be pretty high, so this is where creativity becomes valuable (both figuratively and monetarily)! Lots of restaurants serve on fancy bread. I have worked in the fancy bread restaurant industry, I have even cut fancy bread, so I'd say this is pretty legit advice. Order a sammie and ask them to cut one slice of bread in half. So legit. Restaurants like to give you large pieces of fancy bread anyway, so you can take in the fanciness of their bread, and for real you could cut those slices in half and they would still be able to support a sandwich. This way you can argue that its not a variation to the dish itself.
   And always always open faced at home.

A Birthday Introspective

   I've been thinking some about my birthday, since it is over a  month away, and I feel it is appropriate. I have kind of a weird relationship with my birthday because its just a day, and I don't want to be the annoying girl who wears a crown all day, but also, if things start to go wrong on my birthday I'm like, "woah, not allowed. Today belongs to me".
   I can't even remember the best birthdays I've had, only the ones that have been slightly subpar. I mean, I ca remember great parties, but in terms of the real day I can only recall the mild disappointments. One time an elementary school my tyrant of a teacher made me clean some paint off the wall that I hadn't even spilled. What up with that? One time, my dad took me out for dinner, and I got spaghetti, but I became very full very quickly and was too embarrassed to get a doggy bag. One time I was on my period and that sucked.
   This year is an important year, and as half my friend's and potentially my bf will not be in the same city as me, it promises to be another failure-filled day. Free booze and compliments are all well and good, except when there is no one around to provide you with these things but your mother. Don't get me wrong, I love my mum but satisfying my constant need for alcohol and attention is a tall order for one person alone.

When the People I Love R Sad

   Despite being one of the most cynical and soul-crushing people I know, I am also one of the most sensitive people I know. This can be problematic.
   When the people I love are very sad, it makes me very sad. Like this:

  

Meatheads

   I know so many meatheads. I don't know why, do I attract the friendship/ acquaintance of meatheads?  
   I was at this party on Halloweekend and this guy I knew from rez last year came up to me out of nowhere and demanded fist bumps and chest/shoulder bumps. He is a football player, and I was wearing a crown of poinsettias, we were not equally matched for any kind of bumping. Classic meathead move.
   I would propose that there are different varieties of meatheads, and that clubs and grungy bars are the delis for finding such meatheads.
   There are the meatheads who are meatball heads. These guys are not physically challenging, and regardless of their level of intellect these guys are always trying to engage in knowledgeable conversations, regardless of the social cues they receive from people around them. Such meatheads are often philosophy majors, or former-engineering students turned full-time baristas.
   Then you've got the meatheads who resemble thin slices of sandwich meats. Its hard to tell whats going on with these guys, and you are constantly questioning who they know and how you know them and whether they are high or not. Most of the time these meatheads stand around smiling, not adding anything to conversation. They never seem to remember who you are either, and as a result you must always re-introduce yourself to them. These guys are usually more puzzling and mildly annoying rather than flat out hateful.
   Moving on through the meet aisle of life, we are next brought to the ham hock meat-head. I picture these gentlemen as simply a ham hock with googley eyes sitting atop a pair of neckless shoulder. This particularly meathead is defined by a one-dimensional personality, and undeniable stupidity. While such meatheads may be loved by their mothers and a group of bros, possess moderately good intentions and be well-versed on the subject of exercise, it is difficult to be in the company of such a meathead without stabbing your eyes out.
   I have saved the last category for the likes of my fist/chest bumping acquaintance; those who's brains are literally made of ground beef. These meatheads look normal upon first encountering them- they know how to behave around new people, they seem like functioning members of society. Beware: these meatheads are often the most offensive and toxic of all. These meatheads think they are above the common meathead, since they do not identify with the personality type at all. These are the kinds of guys who either get a lot of girls/ guys or think that they would but they just "have really high standards". Another classic ground beef brain move is to think (if they're straight) that all gay men are attracted to them (the same is true in the reverse situation). These meatheads are made even worse by the fact that they are wildly ignorant, and often use their sense of humour as a safety net on which to defend insensitive remarks. Example:
Meathead: nine in ten people enjoy gang rape.
Rape victim: thats not ok.
Meathead: It was a joke, god, who pissed in her pot?

   Thus concludes my in depth examination of meatheads. For further instruction on the identification and culture the meathead, consult your sassy aunt or family physician.

Here I Sit, Loading

   I was going to write about something else, but then real life hit me in the face like a bag of gold bars-- as they say. I was just on the internet, like I often am, minding my own business in a communal area of the university when all of a sudden some heathen decides they want to watch a video and put a stop to the internet activities of everyone else on the floor. One minute I was happily refreshing the page, and six minutes later I was still. refreshing. the. page.
   People of the world, I beg of you, respect the fragility of the wifi ecosystem in this university building. It is fragile and complex. The actions of one have impact on many. I have one hour between class and work, with nothing to read except term-old syllabi and my own bleak thoughts. Don't make me have to delve into either of those as a result of your selfish video desires. Its rough I know, that you can't stream Glee in the middle of the Hall building. Maybe next time you'll just have to learn how to use the internet and download that sheesh. Alternatively you could not watch Glee, and probably be a better human being for it. You can thank me later.
   The wifi at the downtown campus is not so hot anyways, so the fact that anyone is under the impression that they can watch videos is beyond me. How can you sleep at night knowing that because of your selfish needs, everyone else was forced to open programs that don't require internet like... I don't even know... TextEdit? Stickies?
   And now there is a man sitting beside me who smells absolutely foul. The kind where breathing through your lips doesn't help.

Awkward Sweat

   Sometimes when I go to the gym I wear my old cheerleading shorts. They are those standard Gildan practice shorts that lots of people have, mine are navy blue if you must know (blue, green and white *clap clap*; fight ravens fight). I wear them sometimes if I don't want to have mad panty lines, whatever, its not a big deal, get over it.

   Yesterday during my crazy fitness regime I observed a young man who had a large and noticeable sweat stain around his... how do I put this gently... around his derriere region. At first, I was inclined to laugh ruthlessly at this young man (in my head of course, as I am very conscious of what other people think of me). But then I was struck with the awful comprehension of the power of the butt sweat gods. 

   I realized that I was not wearing my bicycle shorts, which are the kryptonite of hiney moisture stainage. I was fair game in my cotton shorts. I was struck with sudden insecurity. Its not that I was sweating so profusely, but that I was sitting on the exercise bike, and for some reason this made my fear seem a million times more possible. I was recalled to an awful day last summer when I biked downtown to hand out resumes only to realize I had been struck down by the butt sweat gods (needless to say, none of those places called me). 

   Even more awkward than realizing you have butt sweat, is attempting to casually check yourself for butt sweat. I went to clean off my machine, trying with no luck to angle my butt away from everyone else in the gym, but towards the mirror so I could inspect the situation. I tried to look fatigued, and drink from my water bottle near a glass door, with hopes of discreetly checking out the damage in the reflection-- my neck does not have that range of motion I discovered. 

   Finally I sucked it up and walked through the entire gym to discover in a widely mirrored area, that the butt sweat gods had spared me. But really, had they spared me? They got me just as good, and I am sure I managed to make quite a spectacle of myself. People probably thought I was just going out of my way to check myself out, and I think thats more embarrassing than having actual workout perspiration on your caboose. Butt sweat gods: 1 Me: 0.

Getting a Starbucks

   I don't even like coffee. I can force it down during the McDonalds free coffee week, but I feel like that stuff is closer to caffeinated puddle water than coffee. Whether you enjoy coffee real stylez or not though, everyone likes Starbucks. I have always liked Starbucks but this year I have noticed a frightening spike in my Starbucks consumption.
   Again, I've been a part of the Starbucks nation for a very long time. And as I am a self-proclaimed "part of the problem" on almost all fronts, I am kind of indifferent about fuelling the evil baby-killing Starbucks machine. Previously to this fall season I was but a lowly civil servant in the nation- a humble shoe shiner, or librarian probably- recently though I have progressed to the equivalent of a trendy restaurant manager, or owner of a small chain of delis in the Starbucks nation. I don't quite know how I feel about that, but I know my wallet doesn't like it.
   Its not even that I could alternatively just make coffee at home, or even make a latte at home, despite the fact that we have a cappucino-maker in my apartment. Its not about getting a caffeine/ latte fix; its about getting a Starbucks fix. You make, brew or drink a coffee. You get a Starbucks. Even the language of Starbucks is exclusively its own thing. The name "Starbucks" is not just a synonym for coffee, but all other Starbucks products, the experience you have at the franchise and possibly even the employees themselves (as one of my university professors suggested). For me its no longer about drinking beverages as it was when I was a humble shoe shiner in the ranks of the Starbucks nation; its "getting a Starbucks". The "getting" is really what I'm getting at (see what I did there?). The Starbucks is a tangible thing to be with and without. I just finished my last sip of chai latte as I wrote that, and naturally, I am now as empty as the cup sitting beside me. Thank god its Christmas now (according to Starbucks) and I can justify getting Starbucks more frequently until I resort to leaving my credit card at home when I pass through campus.

Being a "Lone Lorn Creetur"

   Lets bring some literature, some Dorothy Parker up into this haus. I read Parker's famous short story Big Blonde recently, and I felt a little bit like I was the main character in the story- except without the deep alcoholism and 1920's wining and dining. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the narrative (I sound like such a pretentious little brat, but really, I was unfamiliar with it up until last Monday) it deals with this woman who struggles with a personal identity which depends very much on her social identity, and the difficulty in maintaining her identity as a "good sport" as she gets older.
   The gist of it is that nobody is always a "good sport". It is impossible to happy all the time, and never appear even a little bit down around other people, and to demand such a thing of someone is a very tall order and you will become a raging alcoholic is you try to keep that up. Its weird because the very morning before I read the story, I was struggling with walking the line between unhappy and utterly unloveable. Obviously blah blah blah the people who matter will love you no matter what mood you're in, but loving and liking are entirely different.
   Of course people are allowed to be in bad moods, have bad days or weeks or months. But come on people, we all know how hard it is to hang out with that friend who is down on everything. Nobody wants to be a Mrs. Gummidge (see David Copperfield [look at me with my literary references]). Sometimes you're just blue though, and I often share the Big Blonde struggle of trying to suppress/ divert that in order to be a good sport.
   The more I think about it the more I conclude that it depends on context. If its your best friend's wedding and you're feeling the dark cloud, suck it up butter cup. If your spouse just went off to fight the Nazis during WW2, you're allowed to stay in that night. If you lost the necklace your grandmother gave you on the eve of your death, you're allowed to stay in. If they were all out of chicken wings on 99 cent wing night, suck it up butter cup. These are bad examples. Just don't turn to drink to impress a guy named Art ok?

The Almond's Super Saving Money Tips #4

   First off, everybody wipes their butts. Unless you have an unfortunate health condition, in which case, be consoled by the fact that you don't have to buy toilet paper, because that stuff is expensive. I have searched for creative solutions for cutting back on toilet paper, but really, its just something you have to have.
   I have taken to swiping full rolls of toilet paper from public places and am on my way to being a full on cat-burglar (I was going to use some sweet wordplay there, but apparently "scat" no longer just means regular ol' poop). One time I almost stole a roll of toilet paper off of a cleaning lady's cart, but lets just pretend I did. I did take a roll of toilet paper from the library once though, because the dispenser was broken and the cover had flung open.
   I have held jobs where I have to clean bathrooms so I know a bit more about toilet paper dispensers than the next man. I know that the keys to the dispensers are either made of very thin plastic with large grooves, or are just a simple zig-zag shaped hunk of plastic that fits like a puzzle piece into the like shaped lock. So I got to thinking, whats stopping me from making my own zig-zag shaped key and making off with six month's worth of TP? Nothing, I said to myself, nothing is stopping me.
   Ok, so there are a couple of things you can try to replicate the zig-zag dispenser key. You can try to get a couple the short, thin objects and stick them in the slots at the right angles, which would probably work fine, as long as you're able to push them all down into the hole in sync. However what I would recommend, would be to fashion your own zig-zag key out of folded tinfoil. Tinfoil is actually pretty sturdy once its compact enough and you could definitely reuse the key as much as you want once you've found just the right design. Who knows, if you're into making this thievery part of your identity you could even wear the thing on a necklace, I don't think that would be a super weird thing to do. It would make for good party discussion too: "oh this? Yeah, back in '06 I used to steal lots of toilet paper. These crab cakes are delicious, whats your recipe?"

PS. When you succeed in locksmithing these dispensers, they tend to swing open really fast and bang against the side of the washroom stall really loudly if you don't catch it in time. Be sure this doesn't happen to you, I don't want to foster a bunch of clumsy apprentices.

Michael Bublé

   Let me tell you why Michael Bublé should be loved and appreciated by all. Michael Bublé is fantastic because you can listen to him in any and every mood you may find yourself in. I discovered my love for senor Bublé after my very first breakup which, at the tender age of fifteen, was deeply traumatic. Naturally, the crooner covers some real good breakup songs, and also has his own original breakup/ forever-alone song "Haven't Met You Yet". If you haven't heard this song, I give you permission to stop reading now and go Youtube it. Are you back yet? Is your life changed? Yeah, I thought so.
   But Michael Bublé is not just for the newly single fifteen-year-old, no sir. If you are feeling happy, he is the best person to listen to because he will make you even happier! If you are manoeuvring your way through Boxing Day sales, he is the best person to listen to because he makes you feel energized and on a mission! If you are feeling sad for no reason, he is the best person to listen to because he will cradle your face in his hands with his voice and make you feel instantly happier, and like you are not all alone!
   Why would anyone not like that? He looks like big teddy graham in a finely fitter suit! Sometimes he is accompanied by backup singers dressed as mounties. Mounties, I say! He is so cute always, even if you're a man who is not into other men, or a woman who is not into men, its can't be denied: he is adorable. But mostly he is wildly talented and the best at making people feel better in any circumstance! I've used so many exclamation points, so you know I must be serious!!

Slutty Halloween

   Halloween post round 2. You may have noticed, if you have eyes in your head, that some girls like to dress in ways that would not make their mothers proud on Halloween. I don't like to use the word slut, but... yeah, sometimes people dress like sluts on Halloween. So I thought, hey, to each his/her own and I thought up some slutty costumes:
1. Slutty plastic bag.
2. Slutty ghost.
3. Slutty Napoleon Bonaparte.
4. Slutty worm.
5. Slutty Hurricane Sandy.
   Right now, you might be reading this and thinking "those are not the slutty costumes of my youth, in fact, those are not eve hot costumes". The way I see it though, is if you're going to go for a slutty costume, why not make it hilarious too. I was super close to going as a slutty ghost one night, I even took a picture of myself in costume:

So legit. But unfortunately I sweat a lot and I need a costume that provides optimal ventilation and minimal sweat stains. Also, if I ever had to show my ID I would be kind of up the creek. So maybe its a  better slutty costume for underage kids who want to sneak into like little rebels.
   So if you're in the market for a slutty costume this year, I encourage you to seriously consider the list I have provided. Nothing is funnier than something that is not funny wearing a bra.

Agressive Tendencies

   I had a history teacher in high school who once said "I drink, I get drunk, I fall down". While I can't quite relate to that experience, I can understand having that one thing that always happens when you drink a lot. In honour of l'Halloweekend I think we should take a minute to appreciate those bizarre tendencies.
   I have developed a strange angry streak lately when in states of mild debauchery. I tend to get kind of vocal about things that I would normally bottle up inside, little things, I don't go full on Maury Povich. Nobody is ever accused of impregnating me, or of sleeping with my boyfriend. I mostly just have outbursts of rage at offensive people who pose no threat to me, or at least who I would easily be able to run from should they try to pursue me.
   A couple of weeks ago, for example, these douchebags were hollering out of their car windows at me and my girls. All of a sudden I was overcome with gumption, turned around at them and yelled across the street, "What'd you say about my mom?! What'd you say about her motherfucker?!". I was definitely speaking in caps locks, but I don't like the way all caps looks, so just imagine it.
   Yesterday I was at a big Halloween party, dressed as Avril Lavigne (my boyfriend was Chad Kroeger, it was pretty great), and I guess I was full of the spirit of punk rock because I did some serious yelling. I was in the backyard and this place had three floors, each with a balcony, so naturally people were spilling out of the house onto the balconies. But when people started dropping things off the third floor balcony I just yelled up at them something along the lines of stop doing that (the word motherfucker was probably in there somewhere, if I'm being honest with myself) and "you could kill someone!", which isn't untrue. So really, I was doing everyone a service by drawing attention to irresponsible behaviour with more irresponsible behaviour.
   These powderkeg habits have kind of come out of the blue which is the main reason why they are funny. When I'm talking with my roommates the next morning, these stories always go over really well. Hopefully they brightened your morning the same way that they brightened mine, after I took a minute to remember them that is.

C'est L'Halloween

   Bonjour mes petits brioches. C'est l'Halloween. Ok, well maybe its not quite l'Halloween yet, but its is l'Halloweekend. So now is the time for me to share my life with you. This year is proving to be quite a houseparty l'Halloweekend.  I went to a houseparty last night, I'm going to a bigger houseparty tonight, and tomorrow there is a houseparty that I will probably not go to because I'm too cool.
   I have roughly a million friends visiting because I am so popular. Except actually, half the people from my high school moved to Montreal after they graduated so the other half comes up to visit them on l'Halloween it seems. Needless to say the estrogen level in my apartment is equivalent to that of a Cocoa 70 at nine pm during exam time.
   Last night, I was winter in the four seasons with two of my roommates, plus my honorary roommate ("she doesn't even go here!"). We pulled it together pretty last minute, and we looked hella fierce if I do say so myself. It felt weird being in the Christmas section (yes, they already have one) of Dollarama during l'Halloween though. The security guard in there was seriously on the prowl though. Usually, he just stands at the exit of the store, on the semi-regular occasions that he is there, but yesterday he was walking through the aisles looking very menacing. I came up with a phrase that I'm going to start using around exams or when I'm feeling real stressed: busier than the shop detective at Dollarama. As they say.
   So yeah, Halloween.

Walking In The Urban Environment

   I propose to offer a semester-long class called Walking In The Urban Environment, targeted at urban numbskulls. The class would need to be a semester long because some city slickers appear to know so little about sidewalk/stair-climbing etiquette that we need to start from zero.
   First lesson: the sidewalk. Some people seem to have it confused with a church aisle or a crazy-slide. Let me make this clear, the sidewalk is not a place for you to bounce around and dart through pedestrians like you're in a Hitchcock film. No. Just, no. Nor is the sidewalk a place for you to walk at a maple syrup pace. There is a time and a place for that, and its called your wedding. However, if you continue to carry through life being labelled as a slow-walker, no one will ever want to marry you, so listen up! When taking the sidewalk, single file is best. Walking in twos is acceptable, and threes is never permissible during rush hour. To those who say "but I have 3 best friends, the charter of rights says that we can walk freely as we please!", to you I introduce a radical new concept: walk in pairs! Crazy, I know.
   Second lesson: stairs. Stairs are like a folded sidewalk, designed to help people move in an upwards direction, from floor to floor. Usually in a busy building people need to use the stairs. If you find yourself overwhelmed by the frantic nature of stairs, I suggest you take a step back and observe first. Usually, if you look at stairs, you can make out an organized flow of traffic. The most important thing to remember when using stairs is that you are not Moses. By no means should you ever walk directly through a current of stair traffic, in opposition to the flow. There is always a better way.
   Third lesson: escalators. Escalators are even easier than stairs because they are doing the work for you. Therefore it is puzzling as to why so many city dwellers do not know how to properly participate in escalators. Like stairs, there are lanes. Usually, the right side is for standing (meaning people who face forward, in a single file line), and the left side is for people who have more urgent schedules and would rather walk up the escalator. People choose to walk up the escalator because it is faster. Remember, people who want to walk cannot walk if there are two people standing side by side. This makes the people who want to walk very angry and they often complain to their friends about the experience.
   This has been just a taste of what I will offer in my Walking In The Urban Environment class. I would say it may even be an essential service, like EMS and the police.

The Almond's Super Saving Money Tips #3

   This time around we have a two in one, so buckle your seat belts, two tips for the price of one. This one's for all my Martha Stewarts and Ty Penningtons out there! Home decorating is not easy when you are a pauper, thats for sure. But if you have expensive taste, and need to know how to make a house a home, you have come to the right place. The best part, is that lots of home renovation requires a contractor, and lots of expensive "bits". Drill bits, gear bits, plank bits. There's only one thing you need to know for home decor from here on out: a hammer is your best friend.
 Fact: people love exposed brick. Does your life suck because you hate looking at your boring plastered walls day in and day out? Well don't sweat it, exposed brick is just a smash away.
The open concept home is also mucho popular. There's nothing like breaking down some barriers to create a more modern, welcoming space. If there's one thing that we can all agree on, its that having to constantly open and close doors is exhausting, and can even lead to catatonic depression. Some would suggest unhinging the door first, but I say make your home unique by creating a natural "mouth of a cave" type entrance to your rooms. All you have to do is obliterate the wall surrounding the door. The best part is that no two doorways will be alike. You can even refer to your domicile as a literal man cave.

*Special credit to my design team for suggesting exposed brick, thank you roommates*

Fabergé Eggs

   How fucking killer would it be to have a Fabergé egg in your home? Very killer, that is the correct answer. I don't mean having one in the fancy mansion of your dreams, I mean in your home that you live in right now. Just have a bedazzled golden egg chilling on your coffee table or something.
   You would come home from work or class every day, starbucks in hand, holler to your roommate or lover that you're home, and casually toss your coat down next to your fucking Fabergé egg. People would come to your place to pre-game before going out on the town and you could play flip cup round the egg. It wouldn't even have to be Easter. It is a decorating choice that transcends seasonality. Its not like anyone would really see it in your home and be like "ermahgerd its soooo tacky to have that out after Labour Day", and if anyone did say that you can just raise your hands to the sky and say "whatever, I have a Fabergé egg. What have you done today?", and that will be the end of the discussion.
  

Independent Ladies vs. The Pussycat Dolls

   I feel a little uncomfortable posting about The Pussycat Dolls given that I've mysteriously been getting some traffic from a full blown porn site. I am hyper sensitive to using vaguely erotic words and phrases now. Like, can I even say things like "full blown" anymore? If you're here from the hardcore porn site, why? I genuinely want to know what mutual interests I have in common with you, because I can promise you right now that there is significantly less female genitalia involved in this blog than where you have just come from. That being said, lets talk about suggestive music videos.
   Ok. So, yesterday I was walking home, listening to my ipod on shuffle, and The Pussycat Dolls started playing. Remember them? Just barely? Yeah, same. They surfaced in that weird year when there were a number of female pop groups born over night, and only one girl in the whole group ever really sung, and you had to wonder whether these ladies were formerly mid-class prostitutes.
   I mean, more power to you, going from streetwalker to musical phenomenon; it is a great rags to riches story. Rock on, sisters. I support being forthcoming with your past and sharing your story of overcoming the odds. However, I cannot get behind former-prostitutes turned musical ensembles who maintain their former wardrobes. Using your success story to inspire others who might feel similarly oppressed is one thing, but using your body to sell music is more selling sex than it is songs. It should also be mentioned that The Pussycat Dolls were probably not formerly prostitutes, but more likely former backup dancers and/or daughters of people with money. I heard a rumour that the lead singer used to be a stripper, but thats as close as it gets to identifying them as sex workers prior to their short-lived musical careers. Their songs are catchy, and some even had a decent moral message if you dig deep enough ("I Don't Need a Man" is necessary for all independent woman playlist), and god knows I listen to enough pop music, so I'm not trying to play it like I am above the Top Forty. This is just one example of the age old question of how women are portrayed by the music/film industry.
  I'm going to run with the example of "I Don't Need a Man". The lyrics are all about not needing a man to feel good and complete. However, the music video would suggest otherwise. While there are no actual men in the video, it is mainly comprised of The Pussycat Dolls strutting around in their underwear, showering, stripping down behind backlit magenta screens (you know, the kind every woman has in her bathroom), and painting their toenails in the most suggestive manner possible. The video could just as easily have been a girls night out (or in) type thing, the kind of things that actually make me feel like I don't need a man to validate my confidence. But I can tell you right now that nobody (no matter how sexy they feel) paints their toenails with their asses at a ninety degree angle to the rest of their body (does that make sense? Whatever, you know what I mean). Its simply not efficient.
   I know this isn't a new debate. It just gets me riled up because I have a few Pussycat Dolls songs on my ipod and I like them. I listen to them while I am sweating profusely at the gym or while I walk down the street pretending I am the sassiest girl in the world. But I don't listen to them while I'm whipping my hair about in my open concept shower or dancing around in my lace-spandex bodysuits, because being the fabulous, independent woman that I am, I simply do not have the time or desire to do those things.
  

My Life as a "Margarine Lover"

   The other day I heard one of the top ten, no top five-- actually, tops three phrases that no girlfriend ever wants to hear from her boyfriend. "You love margarine". Actually I'm pretty sure thats the top one phrase no girl, or any person really, wants to hear from their significant other. He said it as a joke, but I should also mentioned I was also wrapped in a duvet, suffering from chronic morning back pain, like I do. 

   The moment was sparked by the fact that I like to spread a little margarine on my pancakes before pouring on the ol' maple syrup. I would be so down to put butter on my pancakes if it was around. I can't stress enough that I really don't have a preference. I buy margarine for my life, probably because my parents always bough margarine in our family home, and because butter makes me fear carpal tunnel. I didn't think it was a bad thing necessarily, but being considered a margarine-lover is a serious problem. 

   My roommates all eat butter. Haha that sounds like I mean to say they just eat spoonfuls, but I think you know what I actually mean. But yeah, they don't use margarine, which has caused great disparity when we're making cookies. But we have overcome even that, so it is disconcerting the I am now the girl who loves margarine. 

   Gentlemen, a word of advice, never observe that your lady "loves" any product of the butter family, because she might write a blog post about it, and everyone who reads it will think you are a dummy. 

The Rich vs. My Sims

   Rich people scare me. I suppose the incomprehensible wealth of the extremely rich frightens a lot of people for many social and political reasons and for what the existence of such crazy wealth says about the world we live in. But rich people scare me because they are rich enough to create houses that are nicer than those I can create for my Sims (with cheats of course). Essentially what this means is that there are people out there who's riches exceed my imaginative power. Imagination is the process on mental creation, and there are people who's material creations are greater than that which I can create in the all-encompasing field of my imagination, which best manifests itself in terms of this discussion on the Sims. I am not even talking Sims 1, this is beyond Sims 3 wealth. These people can afford the nice furniture and the most expensive stone walls that Sims players develop carpal tunnel to get. And these men, women and small children do not have to live vicariously through gibberish-speaking virtual people. They buy the most expensive couches offered, and then they use their own real butts to sit on them! It saddens me. I could buy the biggest Sim plot of land, build the wackest tiered Sim house with a swimming pool on every level and choose the best Sim decor- greater than anything I will ever possess in my life- and have the finest bathroom in all the Sim land, and these people have real houses that are infinitely better than that. The most treacherous part is that they have real life things that I can't even imagine. I can't really describe them because they exceed my imaginative realm.

Social Media, a Balance of Me + Ideas

   I applied for a writing position at a couple of cool online news/events/fashion writing stuff things. I think I would be a good candidate because I am so articulate. Now one of the websites I applied to is following me on Twitter, which I was initially excited about because I'm hoping that means they have at least some interest in me and want to see how I write otherwise. Thats just my thoughts, call me crazy, but its more promising than not being followed right?
   Pressure's on though now because all I tweet about is farts (for real, I had to delete a tweet about lactose intolerance because it was just too much). Also, I don't know how to use the internet, and my attempts to send them my CV were proof of that. First, none of the email links on their new website were functional, nor was their general address. I had to resort to tweeting at them to get their attention. They responded by telling me to "DM" them my CV. Great. Awesome. Except I had no idea what that meant. I had to look it up on the search engine Google, maybe you've heard of it, and apparently it stands for direct message. So I messaged their Facebook page. Is that not the most social media-y job application process you have ever heard of?
   Hopefully it makes me stand out. And then hopefully my writing makes me stand out (for the better) even more. I'm relying on my Twitter account, therefore I need to start tweeting about events and stuff. First step figure out how to properly use @'s and #'s. And no more details about gastrointestinal processes.

Goats

   There is a cliche that runs through many tragic love stories. Perhaps cliche is not the right term, but what I mean is that there is a common moral that often resurfaces; a moral as old as time itself. First love dies hard as they say kind of, and it is for that reason that people cannot compete with goats.
   Many a budding romance, or even many aged romances have been stifled because one member of the relationship is in love with a goat. Real people cannot compete with the memory of a goat. The love of a goat, cut short before its time, makes the heart bleat. Goats are tender and loyal lovers, making them a tough act to follow. That is to say anyone who comes after will have big hooves to fill.
   So if your beloved breaks down in tears telling you of a former lover, just remember: you can't compete with a goat.

Grocery Shame

   Dear groceries,
   Stop it. Just stop. You know what you're doing and I want you to stop. You know I'm a sucker, the whole universe knows I'm a sucker, and looking into my bag of groceries, I'm sure the whole universe is having a good chuckle right now.
   I had an hour and a half between work and class. I was going to go to Pharmaprix to avoid getting a lot of groceries (naive) so I wouldn't have to lug bundles to my night class. I just wanted to get some KD or something small and stashable like that to eat quietly when I got home tonight. Jokes on me. The fucking joke is/was/will always be on me, because groceries are sick fuckers who will win every time.
   I noted that KD was on sale, so basically Pharmaprix was pointing a gun at my head and forcing me to buy four packs for five dollars rather than pay a dollar fifty for one. I decided to peruse the aisles since I had so much time to kill. Worst idea I've ever had. After perusing for a little bit, I noticed a number of desirable sale items and thought to myself that sine they were on sale there was a magical veil over them which made them not actually count as real purchases.
   As soon as I grabbed a basket I was a goner.
   Bear in mind that I'm shopping at what is primarily a drugstore, so I did not buy fresh produce or hearty meats, instead I bought things like biscuits, Mrs. Fields cookies (glorified lard), and I threw in some deep cleansing nasal strips too because as you can imagine after reading my grocery list, my face is a blackhead farm.
   This has been the most shameful grocery trip in recent memory. I didn't even have a friend at my side egging me on, I was barely even egging myself on. I was in a a full blown trance and now I actually have to eat all these delicious carbs. I guess this isn't really a complaint, more a cry for help.

PS. After I got home from class, I wasn't even hungry. I am now going to bed with the promise of gluttony in my future.
  

Quarterly Review

   I am often afraid of my mind. For example, I can't watch anything moderately frightening because my imagination just takes all scary things to the next level. For real though, I can't even watch Beetlejuice. Another example, I legitimately only have nightmares, and really violent ones too, which is made even more troubling considering the fact that I avoid all gruesome images like the plague, like Beetlejuice. Yesterday though, I thought of the scariest thing that has ever crossed the desert of shadows that I call my mind.
   I am having a quarter life crisis. As in, I was casually having a crisis, and I realized that I am a quarter of the way through my life pretty much. My plan was to die somewhere around thirty nine so I don't live long enough to experience the repercussions of twenty-first century orthodontic tools like the handheld heat lamp they shove into your mouth. As you may have guessed, I am not ten years old (although I was just as jaded at ten) so I am calculating this quarter of my life in relation to living as long as a normal person in North America (barring the effects of modern orthodontics).
   A quarter of my entire flapping life is gone. I only have three more periods this long before I am swimming with the fishes (I should be so lucky as to die at sea, I'm sure I'll go in a much more mainstream way than that). What have I even done with myself up until now? I mean, I was the french language valedictorian of my elementary school, one time I got a nosebleed because my friend punched me in the face accidentally, and I danced on stage at a dubstep show last year. Gold medal life. The way I'm headed at this point, maybe I'll get to emcee a friend's wedding, get hit by that same friend accidentally with her car, and have a seizure on stage at a dubstep revival show.
   I know that I haven't done much because I am young and youth is meant to be spent in classrooms. God, that sounds even more depressing than being a quarter way through my life. I feel like I better get started on my plans for getting struck by a car.