What is Hip(?)?

   Today's perception of what is hip is so extremely meta. Modern street-style appears to be based on a parody of itself, it is a whole culture of irony to the point of excess- if it had a flavour it would taste like a horseradish sandwich on mouldy bread. Style is so anti-cool that if you are dressed like your grandfather you're doing something right (not your grandmother though, she's too cool).
   The latest Urban Outfitters, American Apparel etc branding seems to be built on a oneupsmanship of creating and matching traditionally ugly pieces and marketing them as uber hip. A little like recycling except more expensive than reused, dead trends should ever cost. The rule must be something like however much it cost when it was first popular multiplied by how many years between then and now.
   It turns out that you can get away with wearing anything as long as you're doing it ironically. UO released a yellow T-shirt with the Star of David on the breast pocket because I guess they exhausted things that were ever considered cool to bring back so they moved on to things that were never cool like WW2. For the record, apparently it was just an ambiguous star and no one can be blamed for UO's Nazi throwbacks. So when they come out with white pointed hoodies, don't worry guys its just ironic.

The Big Performance

   When doctors or healthcare professionals question their patients about previous operations they always say something like, "have you had any surgeries performed". Describing such a thing as a performance adds a rather comical spin to something potentially sensitive like a triple heart bypass. A family doctor phrases it as a performance, so whats to say the surgeon doesn't address it as such.
   Maybe the word performance is an escape for surgeons who find their profession fuller with each passing day. It could make the day pass more quickly if they imagine the integration of musical numbers into their daily operations. Surgery Live: The Musical is what you might bill it as, tickets range in price depending on your health plan and coverage.
   They might give off the impression that they are actors to unsuspecting acquaintances when they drop it in conversation. To humble themselves while talking to a more middle-class annual income-d friend for example, it might be beneficial to lead them astray. For this reason there are probably surgeons sitting in coffee shops catching up with old college pals who dash out saying, "sorry I've got to get going, I have a performance at four". Who knows, maybe they just call it a matinee.

George

   Everyone ought to be a little more like George from The Aristocrats, or at least that is who I wish to emulate in my old age. And when I say old age, that is starting tomorrow. Such a kooky old man. That kind of kookery is not easy to find. Such a freewheeling gent. I only wish I could be half what he is.

The Milestone of Adulthood

   The true sign of adulthood is not what you might think. The official end of adolescence does not come with the purchase of a scratch card, enlistment in the army or a newborn babe. The moment one becomes an adult is actually the moment one properly cleans up their own vomit at their own will. No thirteen year olds whose parents forced them to do it are allowed into the adult club. Also, no half-assery allowed in the adult club; we're talking without a trace cleaning. Strategically placed hats to hide your vomit are no good.
   True adults do not let their parents, or their friends or movie theatre ushers clean up their vomit. Adults know where the carpet cleaner is and although they may be afraid to do so, they summon the courage to get in there and put in as much elbow grease as is necessary to remove offending intestinal grease.
   Of course there is the argument that adults know their limits and should prevent unfortunate vomit instances. But lets be real here, that is just an old wives' tale. Adults can puke just as good as any Malibu-guzzling tween and we all know it. The difference is the tween lies and cheats and never goes near that shit after its been heaved up, whereas the adult swallows their pride (along with the remainder of last night's dinner) and goes for the rubber gloves.

Scams

   Living in the desperation of student life is nearly turning me into a full on fraud in the pettiest of ways. I am not even a cool fraud like Leo in Catch Me if You Can. I do things like try to alter previous university acceptance letters to qualify for student discounts away from home. I try to tamper with McDonalds coupons in the hopes of turning one free meal into two.
   So when I am caught and arrested what will the long and short of my case be? Will it read, "girl, 18, commits fraud for burgers and subway tickets"? When they call my family telling them I've been apprehended, what will they say to my mother and will she then even bother coming down to the station?
   I am unsure of how I will fare in prison too. I imagine I'll be treated better than a baby killer but worse than a cat killer. All the tuff stuff in prison will make short work of me, I have very floppy muscles and can barely hold my own in the free samples line at Loblaws. So in the end, is the scamming really worth it? I have yet to successfully get discounts or free cholesterol so I don't know. But get back to me when I am riding the subway for free, taking up two seats with my lard, I'll probably say yes.

The Celsius is too high!

   Let me tell you what it feels like when the temperature is 34 degrees Celsius outside. It feels like the air is god's farts is what it feels like. It is that kind of body temperature air. It makes your skin feel uncomfortable and sticky. It makes you feel like you're made of limp spaghetti in tepid meatball sauce. Its disgusting. I am not a fan.

3

   The number three is the worst. Whether its a group of three people, three days of work left, or just a plain Wednesday it is always worse than any other amount. Two is more palatable because it is easy to split two, to share and converse among two and to count down from two. Two is the day after tomorrow. Three is tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow. 

   Three is also the development of a pattern. If something bad happens to you twice, you're unlucky. If the same thing occurs thrice, its probably a problem with you. If bad luck strikes three times while wearing the same hat, you throw that hat the fuck out.

   Three has always been a sinful number- three sixes is devil worship, and six divided in half is three. We have been trained not to like three. Three is bad. 

Hot Air Balloons

   You can buy a hot air balloon ride on Groupon. This, my friends, is very interesting and I have so many questions. Mainly who drives these things? Not like if you showed up for a ride you could tell a proper driver from one who's not. I would expect that a really hardcore driver would have one of those signature Amelia Earhart caps with the ear flaps and goggles on top, maybe thats more of a staple of craziness though...
   But anyway, so what if it is some kind of carny who drives the balloon. I don't know how anyone qualifies for such a thing, but I imagine you have to get a license. But are there separate licenses for different kind of aircraft? I know there are for boats. There are designated pleasure crafts, so are there pleasure aircrafts? I would imagine that if not in title, the hot air balloon is most definitely one.
   I hear that champagne is a key element on romantic sojourns through the sky. But who supplies this champagne? The driver, the balloon company, or the passengers? I suppose that if you are the driver who has practically third wheel written in the job description, you're going to need all the champagne you can get whether you have to buy, cheat and/or steal.

My Nothing

   Everything changes when my nothing visits. When it is around I would rather listen to the sound of my own nothing than my music. I would rather sit patiently as my nothing tells me nothing. I would rather consume my nothing than any food around, and I would rather absorb my nothing than feel anything else. I don't wish it was around when its not, and I don't want it to go when it comes. I don't know what makes it stay or leave, maybe it just likes to hang out. I am its someone as much as it is my nothing. I don't know if I need it or not, I don't know when it started appearing or if my nothing will keep visiting. I know nothing about my nothing.

The Trendy Deceased

   People who buy mausoleums/ have mausoleums built. How does that go about happening? Do you purchase one and oversee its completion before you die? I imagine you have to buy it close enough to when you're going to die for it to make you not a psycho.What if you die before its done? I guess there's nothing you can do.
   Let me tell you, regardless of when they died in relation to the construction those mausoleums are really something. I respect the statement they make to the living: I have more money dead than you have alive. Whatever, if you don't have kids I guess you've gotta rock your wealth somehow. Also the mausoleums are bigger than some of my friends' houses. I guess even if you do have kids maybe you want to keep them under your roof after they have departed this world too. A sort of reverting back to old ways.
   Or maybe the mausoleum is a way to sticking it to all the other dead guys in front of all the living guys. Is it maybe then a way of showing your with the in crowd. Its like the satisfaction of a good one liner even if you can't see the reaction but you know it was good. The dead guys know their mausoleum is better than any single stone in the plot next to them so they don't need to read this article about how impressed I am. They knew I was going to be impressed and were satisfied with that a hundred plus years ago when they died.

Why I Quit Trying and Began Professional Crying

   There was this woman at the beach today who was trying paddle-boarding (not sure if thats what its called, but I mean the one where you stand on the surfboard with and manoeuvre around with a paddle) in a class with two other woman. She was struggling, to say the least, and I have never been able to relate to anyone so well in my life.
   She was the novice of the group, which became evident as soon as they set paddle as she lagged behind, obstructed by milds winds. The instructor glided along infuriatingly effortlessly with the other women who had clearly paddle-boarded before. They were wearing aqua-man style one-pieces, standing barefoot on their boards while our heroine stood hunched over trying with all her might to keep her balance. She probably didn't know how to dress appropriately for the class even. She wore clothes that she wouldn't mind getting wet, she had planned to wear a bathing suit, but upon trying on the garment, felt insecure and threw on a loose T-shirt and a pair of shorts too. She wore water shoes but felt silly as soon as she arrived and none of the other women were wearing them.
   So while the other women practiced steering, our lady watched as they glided further and further away as she attempted to make a 180 degree turn. The instructor too, seemed to be ignoring her, so after a couple of minutes fighting vigorously against the wind she gave up trying to do it on her own. She tried to look busy, paddling in circles a bit until the instructor finally came back to her, whereupon she fell in the water. She laughed, trying to brush off the mistake, commenting on the inconsistency of the wind patterns. At this point the other women floated over offering their friendly support and advice, which of course only made it worse for her. Skilled people are allowed to give unsolicited advice when they start sucking at things more.
   After a couple more plunges and half-hearted instructions, the woman finally manages to paddle out of the windy inlet into the area where the other women have been practicing. A friend approaches on shore to take pictures which are sure to be uploaded to Facebook despite our lady's pleas. She is soaking wet, and dressed dumpily; this is the last thing she needs right now. She also has no idea of how much time is left in the lesson. She's paying sixty dollars an hour after all. But she doesn't want to seem rude by asking the instructor for the time, so she entertains the idea of making up an excuse to leave early thought she knows she's in for the long haul. She resolves to stay -only because she has to- but begins working on a reason why she will never return.

Iced Coffee- Double Shot of Tobacco

   I have stumbled upon what promises to be the newest and most effective form of anti-smoking/quitters technology. It comes in drink format, and will prove to be much better than nicotine gum or that weird hollow tampon you're supposed to put in your mouth and pretend like everything's normal. Also, Starbucks will be able to sponsor this as it is a product of their own creation- kind of- so it is a win-win for the big guy and the little guy. And the disproportionately lanky guy who is me, because I am riding this bandwagon as the discoverer of the drink as a tool to help people quit smoking.
   The drink itself is not on the Starbucks menu, but all you have to do is go in and ask for an iced white chocolate mocha with two pumps of raspberry. I found out about it on this secret Starbucks menu thing on the internet (which I don't know how to use)- http://www.buzzfeed.com/laurad17/the-secret-menu-at-starbucks-5akw. There ya go, be forever in debt to me.
   Anyways the drink essentially tastes like 6 cigarettes. The chocolate and the mocha part already kind of taste like burnt brown, and somehow the artificial chemical sweetness blends to make a tobacco product. It doesn't smell like tobacco of course which means it is workplace friendly. I don't imagine your breath or hair smells either, and if it does you're probably doing something wrong.
   Prospective quitters can now live normal lives, no longer having to suck on fake tampons to make it through the day. They can easily slip into the anonymity of big city living #Starbucks style, while overcoming an addiction that is generally frowned upon (in the distance a woman wearing to much blush wails "think of your children").
   A heads up about the drink though: if you're not quitting, don't order it. It tastes like rear end.

Bettering Myself or Some Shit

   My latest "I'm trying this new thing" thing is deferring unproductive emotions like sadness and anger into positive feelings and applying them to relevant situations. So instead of spending time in a black hole of my own creation I will put my energy towards feeling something good for someone else.
   Self-indulgence is a rather unhealthy hobby so I'm going to do a being proud of other people thing. I have the pleasure of knowing so many wonderful, successful people so it shouldn't be hard. Ima convert my own existential ambiguity into hardcore zeal!
   I am aware that some readers might shake their heads and say "it doesn't always work like that", to you I reply "your mom doesn't always work like that". But as a backup plan for if I still have lingering apathy (or whatever it is that goes on in my brain) I will collage.
   Scoff if you must, but your scoffs will get you nowhere. Maybe you should consider turning those scoffs into applause for the people in your life who are rocking the shit out of something.

Melon

   The word melon. What's up with that?
   It gives me the heebie-jeebies. Everyone finds it strange that it creeps me out so much. I can imagine every kind of predator ever saying the word melon and it weirds me out.
   You're just trying to watch Battleship online because you're in that kind of mood. Unfortunately you suck at using the internet and wind up in a vampire mediaeval fantasy chat room. A window opens, ivegottabig_lancelot69 asks you "i love juicy melons".
   You're walking home after a night of drinking, you know you shouldn't take the shortcut through the alley but you're just so goddamn lazy. A toothless man introduces himself as Sal. He reminds you of a sardine and says, "I know a great place to get melon at this time of night".
   You wake up one morning and find yourself in the mesozoic period, surrounded by tall grasses. All of a sudden you hear a rumbling as birds and brontosauruses trample past you. You turn around face-to-face with a velociraptor who grins a toothy grin and screeches, "melons are the ripest this time of the year".
   Melons are creepy because predators could feasibly talk about them.

Rotisserie Chicken

   Rotisserie chicken. What a funny word(s). Its the kind of thing I'd like to put in a ridiculous poem because I write ridiculous poems and nothing serious. Things like rotisserie chicken, nail scissors and Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits album are all reasons why I will never be a serious poet.
   It is impossible for me not to be attracted to these strange things. I have difficulty making putting them in literature because they make people laugh, therefore I write mainly humorous things. But when I fail while trying to write something serious while using rotisserie chickens, I usually sabotage the piece by ending it with something like,
Shout out to my homies:
Dis one's for you.

Daz Natyurl

   We're about to get medium-rare on the washroom words, so... thar she blows I guess. I was on the subway today going to work and I observed a pungent aroma not unlike asparagus farts. I won't get into the details, I think you can imagine what that is like if you have never experienced it before. Needless to say, it is not high on the list of things you wish to be overpowered by on a Monday evening.
   Anyways, I lived. I then transferred onto the next subway line, and was less than enchanted by someone's excessive fruity perfume. It was a smell I could taste. It was one of those things that if I hadn't eaten enough it could have made me very sick.
   I think between the two smells I would rather have the asparagus fart smell over the fruity perfume smell. Maybe because I can sympathize more with someone who let one rip than someone who has willingly put that much perfume on. One is trying to be smaller, the other is trying to be bigger. Also, the first is a natural smell, the second is not. Weird tangy perfume is not found in the wild and therefore I cannot support it. Not that I support a surplus of asparagus in the body but I can understand it at least.

Mind Over Material Obstacles

   My aunt came to visit my family this weekend all the way from across the country. She is a lot to handle sometimes (to say the least), so much so that I don't even forget that despite the fact that I see her maybe once a year. I learned a valuable lesson while she visited this time though.
   Lately I have allowed obstacles that are out of my control to govern my mood and actions. I once waited 40 minutes for the bus and became so distraught that I almost didn't go out that night. It took a verbal reminder that a bus can only slow me down not control me, to get me to snap out of it. I noticed today that if I continue on that way, letting every little thing get me down, in 40 years I will be my aunt. My inflexible and easily triggered emotions will make me a pain for those around me. Nobody wants other people to treat them with kid gloves, unless you're paying money for that.
   I imagine that when you're in that self-absorbed emotion bubble for no reason, its hard to see how your behaviour affects others. A lot of the time you think nobody else is being affected but in reality everyone around you can tell you're just being an emotional monster and does not want to deal with you. Before you know it you're that person who makes people need a stiff drink or a long nap after talking to you.
   So I'm going to try this thing where I don't let stupid things like the bus, my friends' work schedules or the fruits on sale at Loblaws get me down. It might be hard at first since my go-to response to dissatisfaction is either tears or to squish everything that can fit in my hands. Its totally a rut though, and once I'm out of it I will be a lot more tolerable I'm sure. In fact, I wish I could give awards to the people who put up with me on the regular, but that is a post for another day.

The Half-Asleep Brain

   I wish I could somehow harness the bizarreness and undoubted confidence of my half-asleep brain. Last night I woke up and thought of something (for my life I can't remember what) and thought "hey thats a great idea" and promptly fell back asleep. Then I woke up a bit later, remembering the previous idea thought "what a stupid idea. I was clearly half asleep. I should blog about it and specifically say this about it-" slumber.
   Double bad ideaception! I can't remember what the original thought was or what hilarious and witty comment I had about it, but I can promise you that in the middle of the night I knew no uncertainty or doubts. I thought my idea was the shit, it probably wasn't but I admire the half-asleep brain and its unfailing confidence. The awake-brain is racked with hesitancy and insecurity. The totally asleep brain does not give any fucks whatsoever.
   I wish that I had the same confidence when awake as half-asleep, or the same articulative skill and resources when half-asleep as I do awake. But then maybe I'd just be a dangerously good writer... But seriously, I envy little kids for their imaginative freedom. In their minds, the craziest shit can be happening (I can't even give you an example that would do their creativity justice) and it won't make any sense, but they have complete faith in the made-up situation. The imaginary friend for example, is never questioned. Its not like kids sit down with their imaginary friends over a glass of tea that is really water and question the existence of their dinner guest.
   I think claiming to curse society and how it has stifled the creative brain is cliche. Instead I will curse my own lack of self confidence. I'm sure the ideas would come much easier if you weren't predisposed to uncertainty. Running with an idea is hard because once you take something on you've committed to it and develop a connection to it. Writing a piece is like being in a relationship, you learn all of the other one's flaws and sometimes you hate your partner by the end of it, but that doesn't mean you don't still want the relationship to work.