From the Dungeon to the Bat Cave

   So I am all moved in to my new apartment. My three roommates were already here and waiting for me when I arrived, so I feel like how the last piece of the puzzle must feel. Although I did not sleep too well last night, I am optimistic that once I figure out how to close my bedroom window all will be well.
   My room is the smallest bedroom in the apartment by far, which I don't mind because it feels like I am in a little cave (except the cave has some original artwork and a homemade quilt). I also have a walk-in closet. Its not like a Sex and the City walk-in, but its more than I have at home (which is a jam cupboard in my family living room). Ho! Someone's car alarm is going off and it would be really cool if that would stop. Maybe its a fire alarm because it keeps going off and then coming back on...
   My boyfriend was in town briefly before going back home. He came over with just enough time to make my desk for me. Ikea had taken the liberty to name my desk Fredrik, which I like so that is what I will call him from here on out. My sweet sweet boyfriend did not know he was being hailed to assemble Fredrik but he did so nonetheless, sweet sweet sucker that he is. He had to leave to work the labour day weekend back home but he returns in twelve days, until then I have Fredrik to keep me company. And three roommates too I guess.
   Once the ol bf left we had visitors! Friends from last year who we had not see... well, since last year! They brought salsa, chips, beer and chocolate with them-- needless to say we will be inviting them over as much as they want. We reminisced on inside jokes from last year (only to realize that we are all wildly inappropriate and offensive people) and talked about our summers. It was good to see them and I am grateful that they fed me. A friend with food is a friend indeed, d00d.
   So now I'm just practising my main hobby, sitting around. Stay tuned for more from my second year adventures in Montreal at my sweet new pad on Poop St.

In an Alternate Universe I am The Baddest

   I am on the cusp of my move back to Montreal so I decided it would be fitting to devote this entry to the art of moving and living in a new place. People always say that moving somewhere where you don't know anyone is like getting a fresh start; its a license to be anyone you want to be: femme fatale, cat lady, or wispy white kid from across the hall- you name it, you are allowed to assume the identity. I don't know a lot of people who actually end up doing this. I never have because I'm super lazy and to assume my desired new identity I would need a lot of hairspray, and some sort of gland shrinking surgery because I sweat like a motherfucker.

   If I were to start anew I would want to be the baddest bitch ever. I would probably need my own bedazzler to so I could encrust everything with studs. I would also need a lot of dark eye makeup and an intense artillery of curling irons of all sizes. I am not a flat badass (wink wink nudge nudge), meaning that flat irons are for Avril Lavigne wannabes. If you've got badass mermaid tresses like myself, you owe it to your mane to give it body and rock it! When did I turn into Stacey London, I don't know, but I do know that I speak the truth.

   If I was not so lazy and was actually going somewhere where people didn't know me I would totally opt for Baddest Bitch. Spandex and Leather are just the tip of the iceberg really. Problem: I am legitimately more excited for my fake identity than my real one. 

On Pageviews.

   I was going to start this entry by saying "woah there folks" but then I struggled with how to spell "woah". Lets forget that ever happened and try again shall we:
   Gee whiz friends, my blog has exploded with pageviews! I got like 4 the other day! Alert the whitehouse, stop the presses, and sound the horns my life of sex, drugs and rock n' roll starts now.
   In all seriousness though it feels better than I thought it would to get some pageviews, even if it was either just someone looking for a recipe for granola or my mother accidentally (or not accidentally) stumbling upon my blog. To the disappointed granola chef: I wish you all the best and I recommend No Name honey almond granola, to my mother: I told you my life was boring, also I'd like lasagna for dinner.
   I'm totally cool with the fact that nobody reads my blog, but as I have realized, I am also totally cool with 4 more people than usual reading my blog. My friends don't read my blog because I only give out the url when I'm intoxicated. Some might think this is a drunken slip-up, but really it is strategy since I know none of the fools I hang out with will remember the url in the morning, but they will remember I told them and think I am a good friend. Fools! Peasants!
   But you know who are not fools and/ or peasants? The 4 more people who grazed through this blog. Those 4 people are probably better people now for having read my words. You would know, you're one of them.
  

The Inside Scoop (a fictitious encounter)

Pancreas: We thought we'd all get together and talk to you about some recent events.

Brain: What the fuck are you doing with your life girl?

Kidney 1: Hey there Brain, lets be a little more constructive.

Kidney 2: Yeah Brain, lets be a little more constructive.

Pancreas: We're concerned is all.

Brain: To put it gently. 

Liver: I'm with Brain on this one. There is nothing gentle about my biological processes lately.

Me: Woah there insides, lets slow this one down. Whats this all about?

Pancreas: Listen, we know that you're going back to school soon so you want to make the most of the time you have left with your friends at home.

Brain: For real though, you go to school in Montreal. And I remember Montreal and it is not a cheese and crackers type deal.

Me: I don't know what you're suggesting Brain.

Stomach: I specifically recall being force-fed 1.00$ pizza at an ungodly hour almost every Saturday night.

Esophagus: I remember a lot of the opposite.

Liver: The horror, the horror of it all!

Me: Ok, I see what you're saying, but I think maybe you're all just overreacting.

Brain: See thats always what you say after you've slept in and drank the entire Atlantic Ocean. But I know that when you stagger home at five a.m you want to die.

Me: Thats a little harsh.

Skeleton: Its a stagger. Your alignment is that of an inflatable waving arm tube man.

Pancreas: What we are trying to understand is the allure of debauchery.

Liver: I shall never understand!

Pancreas: If we knew maybe we could help you...

Brain: I have an idea, but of course I lose all power after three vodka redbulls.

Lights dim, a spotlight emerges over Me.

Me: I don't know guys. I'm really sorry. I don't really know what gets into me. Well, I guess three or more vodka redbulls is what gets into me. The thing is, I'm leaving all these people who I really like. Some of whom, I just got to know recently. I just want to put them all into an empty 2-6 and take them with me to Montreal. I want to have debaucherous fun with these people so that we will always remember that time when all that PG-13 shit went down. I will miss them, so I am drowning my sorrows in gallons of alcohol.

Bourne, Recycling in the Washroom (Its Not What You Think)

   So I watched all 3 original Bourne films last night, despite my boyfriend trying to distract me with sex and whatever. I abstained, and live to tell the tale of what I noted while watching the Bourne Supremacy. Know how I said they never wash their hands? Remember that? Turns out they do.
   There was a scene where that was actually just Matt Damon washing his hands and having a little freak out. So... yeah... I was wrong. BUT I did think of another thing that I could potentially also be wrong about. It also has to do with bathrooms.
   I think that the filmmakers either used the same bathroom set for each bathroom scene (but with different shots and lighting) or they recycle the same materials for each one. The latter is probably more likely combined with different camera angles and lighting. Every bathroom Jason Bourne appears in has white tiles, a single toilet/stall and is pretty dingey. If you consider too that the whole film is shot primarily in fast-paced, broken frames as is characteristic of most action films, I think it would be relatively conceivable that they just reused all the same washroom materials.
   Recycling is cool always I guess, not matter how big your budget.

"Look at What They Make You Give"

   "Look at what they make you give" are a random assassin's dying words in The Bourne Identity, which I just watched in preparation for when I see The Bourne Legacy (the fourth movie in the trilogy- you heard me, fourth) at some future date. Full discretion: I fucking love the Bourne movies and Matt Damon used to be my boyfriend.
   The earlier quote perfectly encapsulates a question which has sprung to my mind while I now sit down to watch The Bourne Supremacy (numero dos). When do these super assassins have time to wash their hands? I know a lot of action films beg the question "but when do they have time to use the washroom?" I don't care about when Matt Damon poops. He is too beautiful to poop, case closed. But the hand washing is another story.
   They're always shooting and knifing and jumping through windows, but they never wash their hands. They take the time to clean a hotel room from top to bottom for fear of the bad guys picking up finger prints, but they never wash their hands. They sit down to a nondescript bagged breakfast, but they never wash their hands. Seriously boys, were you raised in a barn?!

More like Scholarshit

   There are many many scholarships out there available to students, which is great. The problem is that there are also many many many many students in need, and to make sure that the right scholarships are given to the the right people, a lot of scholarships are specialized. Fortunately for me there are a lot of scholarships for literature and writing students. Unfortunately for me there are not a lot of scholarships for cynical young writers like myself.
   If I could write a response to Chelsea Handler's My Horizontal Life for a chance to win 10,000$, I totally would. However, the scholarships that promise first place cash prizes like that are to be written on books with names that I fell asleep reading.
   I shouldn't whine, I know. And it would be completely valid to argue that if I wanted the money bad enough I would read the book(s) in question and write the shit out of that response essay for my chance to win more money than I can fathom. I am simply expressing my desire for my specialized art of sarcasm to be recognized in the form of dolla dolla bills.

The Last Line's the First

   I thought as a project, and to keep me writing that I wanted to write a play. Maybe start off with a one act play, and be able to expand it if I want it to be more than just an exercise. In order for a play to be legit, action must take place. This is where we run into two problems.
   The first problem is that I have no ideas. I am less concerned about this than the next problem since weird ideas enter and leave my brain like it were some kind of shifty hotel. I'm sure some day before I die I'll come up with a premise for something.
   My second, more concerning issue, is that I like to write and read stories where there appears to be very little outcome or point. I like this kind of thing because it feels very true. I don't think there is always an answer or a lesson that is learned, or at least not one that a person discovers immediately after the events of the story. I am totally cool to watch a story that seemingly has no reason to be told as long as it is told well.

Thats the first line of my play.

Children in the Dungeon Part 2

   Well the whirling dervishes have left (see previous post), their two days here felt a bit like two lifetimes. You've heard of the calm before the storm, well today I experienced the calm after the storm- that is until I erupted in shrieks at the sight of the mess I had to clean up. It looked the a cyclone had hit the place.
   There was of course a terrible mess of toys and books and noise- oh god the noise! But when the terrible two went away they left a void of strange messes, worse messes like dishes and disheveled carpets. Things that imply that there was fun being had when there is absolutely no fun left to be had.

Children in the Dungeon

   So my gay aunts and their small children are coming to visit this weekend. I love them dearly, but the thought of having children in the house that I have now come to call my lair is simply unfathomable.
   I am currently in the process of moving everything around so that nobody dies this weekend. I use the word "currently" pretty loosely because in actuality I am writing more than doing the manual labour it requires to ensure the not-death of your baby cousins. There are so many knick-knacks and a surprising amount of things with cords; it really makes me consider whether my household has actually entered the wireless age or not. And although I am the dungeon master in this structure, I am finding that everything is placed pretty low to the ground- as if a midget lurked in the tunnels of my home. This means that I have a lot to do, and lets face it, I've barely even started.
   The weirdest part though is that there will be literal children here in T-minus five hours or so. I am not the most sunny person. In fact, I can be quoted as saying "I would not call myself a kind person", but sunny is the most thing that I am not. I pull all the blinds and put up extra curtains in my bedroom so that I will not be awoken by the laughter of children outside or the jovial rays of the sun. Try as I might, nothing can save me from it this weekend as the children will be coming inside the dungeon and with them, the sun (as some flowery parenting guide would say).

Fitness Failures, A Memoir

   So my mum entered me in a draw to win a free seven day trial at the GoodLife Fitness near my house. Ok, fair enough. I won the draw and yesterday I went in to get a tour of the facilities. It was impressive or whatever. I now find myself with the obligation to go work out over the next week, and have discovered what I thought to be pure laziness may actually be a serious mental block.
   After the tour, my guide Nicole asked me if I was going to stay and work out. I fully had a backpack full of stuff with me, but for some reason I said I had a staff meeting to go to. My brain was making my mouth say these words and I was powerless to stop it.
   Needless to say today is the day I must start gyming. This is D-day, serious do or die circumstances. If I don't go today, whats to say I'll go tomorrow? I'm mostly scared of not knowing how to use anything, but come on, thats a poor excuse. So with that being said, I'm off to the gym.

Guilty Pleasures

   Some people know all the words to mainstream rap breakdowns, others know in their heart of hearts that they can eat two whole extra large pizzas by themselves, there are even people who travel among us whose biggest expenses are fancy underwear sprees. I admit to being all of these people at once. I have one guilty pleasure that has stuck with me longer than any other though, and that would be my love of reality TV.
   I don't even care how trashy or stupid it is, I usually grow to love the weirdos in the show, and almost always end up hooked. The one exception to this rule is any thread of Real Housewives of blah blah blah. RH of x is the one show that is too boring even for me. Survivor, Teen Mom, Teen Mom 2, Search for the Next VJ, Say Yes to the Dress, The Amazing Race and Till Debt do us Part are just the tip of the iceberg. I used to be able to tell my friends that I was just watching whatever my parents wanted to watch. Now my passion has gone underground and if people invite me out at a time when my show is on, I might just tell them I'm working.
   Lately those blacklisted times have been Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursdays at 8 eastern time. Thats because I'm hooked on Big Brother for the second time in my life. I am in so deep, that I feel compelled to watch a previous season online when there are no current episodes on TV. This is the beauty of reality TV- you know the plot, but you don't know the end.
   People don't really know the extent of my addiction. I only share my Big Brother love with my dearest friends, and only in passing. So here, dear internet, is my confession to you. The guiltiest of pleasures.