The Best New Olympic Sport

   You know how in the Olympics there are sports that are rather unpopular and you think, why does this get to be an Olympic sport? Today I had an epiphany and realized there is a major sport, which an extremely large demographic practices and performs with great skill that is being totally excluded from professional sporting tournaments: Not washing the dishes!
   As a university student, I can vouch for the widespread participation in this event. For example, within my flat alone, there are about ten dishes that have been sitting out for at least a week! It takes a lot of skill in the area of negligence and disorganization to maintain that level of not washing the dishes. These aren't even just dishes, but pots, pans, mugs, cutlery and glassware as well. And from unsponsored athletes too! The form and stamina are quite remarkable.
   On a good day, my flatmates can be expected to produce about three dishes each, none of which show any promise of being washed for at least two days. Such a high functioning talent of not washing dishes, and they don't even break a sweat. Imagine what they could do after years of rigorous training and perhaps with a wider selection of foods and dishes at their disposal!
   I alone am not privy to this insane talent. Not washing the dishes is a skill mastered by a shocking percentage of the population primarily, but not limited to, post-secondary students. Like all talents, persistently not washing the dishes is developed through habit. However, at certain peak times, athletes who ordinarily do not excel at not washing the dishes can prove to be stiff competition for those who have done it all their lives. Rookies can really make a break through in the sport during exam time, the time immediately after a Thanksgiving meal, and during a break up.
   Not washing the dishes may well be the most untapped well of pre-existing talent on an international level. Bringing the sport to the Olympic stage would really showcase the raw talent that goes shamefully uncelebrated. The pool of veteran athletes is vast as well as the promise shown by those who dabble for months, and then slip off the not washing dishes radar.

Kids Playing

   Kids do not know what a sweet deal they have. All kids do is play. All. fucking. day. long. Parents are slaves to playing. And they don't hate it. Little babies have it the best because everyone wants to play with little babies. The only concern of little babies is eating and even then, thats only a concern when they remember that they're hungry!
   Then there is school, which is just a place that kids go to for more playing. I don't understand why kids cry on their first day of kindergarten because it is literally a place where you play all the time and maybe nap once in a while. Clearly someone is not explaining the concept to these weepy kids, "you are literally getting sent to a place where there are blocks and paints and dollhouses and books and more then one bathroom where you spend a good portion of the days just having the time of your life". And there are other kids, and even if they are assholes, you can go play with any of the other horde of kids. Kids have never seen so many kids in their lives until they walk into kindergarten. As an only child, I had no clue there were more kids out there than me and the ones on commercials until I went to kindergarten. Also there is music! And gym! And not even the distressing middle-school kind where you always have your period and everyone can see the outline of your training bra through your low-grade uniform shirt and you live in fear of sweating too much in front of other kids (who are actually real live, fully developed assholes by then). Kids gym is just running and jumping and uninhibited sweat.
   Kids are completely unaware that there will ever be a time where there are other things to do but play, where you are discouraged from playing randomly with balls. Kids are aware that their parents do not go to school or play, and that their teachers have the job of teacher but thats not a concept that really applies to them. That is for adults, and they are not one of those.
   Kids have no idea, man...

How to Live Your Life and Not Get Killed

   The following is a comprehensive list of activities to avoid so as to limit potential encounters with vampires, zombies, ghosties, murderers, psychopaths and the reaper as per Hollywood films:

1.Taking baths- reduce your carbon footprint and also prevent drown in a tub of your own blood.

2. Walking up stairs- we all know that when you walk up stairs you increase the risk of a spook grabbing you by the legs and pulling you down to the underworld.

3. Watching video tapes- it is estimated that 1 in 10 video tapes will prophesize and concretize your imminent death.

4. Answering the phone- especially if it is following watching a video tape.

5. Being around windows- especially when answering the phone! Chances are the person calling can see you through the window and is only calling to remark upon what you're doing with the sole intention of bringing their watchful gaze to your attention.

6. Moving into an old mansion- old mansions are all haunted as well as having occult groundskeepers.

7. Moving into a new apartment- occult neighbours.

8. Getting on a plane- snakes.

9. Getting on a rollercoaster- the home of the bizarre, untimely and absurd death.

10. Playing board games- no board game is innocent fun. They all have secretly been possessed by demons and are a ploy to ruin your life and take over the world.

11. Use of any item which you have to blow dust off of first- this is possibly the most important piece of advice I can give! Dust is always indicative of a cursed item! Always!

12. Babysitting- option a) the child is possessed. Option b) there is a murderer outside.

13. Camping- zero security plus fire which is easily spookified. Also many campgrounds are built on ancient indian burial sites.

14. Sleeping with the lights off- not only do lights allow for maximum visibility but also lights burn the skin of the household boogyman and vampires- duh.

15. Sleeping with the door closed- it's just common knowledge that when the door is closed, spooks can just slide right in, but when the door is closed spooks cannot enter.

16. Having dreams- dreams are when sleep murderers come and murder you in your sleep.

17. Looking in the mirror- this activity enables historical figures to haunt you from the dead and terrorize your soul.

18. Anything well-related- wells are where undead chill out, waiting for alive people to think, "oh what a quaint well." and then they feast upon their flesh.

19. Going to the bathroom- the bathroom is just a bad place. Also sitting on the toilet makes you susceptible to alligators biting your behind.

20. Following any noise ever- if you hear a noise, you should probably just kill yourself before whatever is out there gets you first.

21. Searching for your dog- if you can't find Spot, its because Spot is dead and soon you will be too.

22. Meeting new people- all strangers are either witches or psychopaths.

Notes From a Plane Ride

   I really like flying Air Lufthansa. They feed you even on the one hour flights, which is pretty groovy of them. I've had three Air Luf sandwiches in four days now, so I think my commentary is pretty expert. Despite the pleasure I get from a free sammie, it is still airplane food, so there's always something to complain about. The sandwich I just ate was labelled as follows: "Tomato, basil and mozzarella". Lets think about the message you send when you have to list mozzarella as a selling point for lack of any other ingredients-- when one third of the filling is mozzarella.
   Mozzarella is potentially the world's most uninteresting cheese. It's like, "do you like the taste of air? Well here it is in solid form". It's the Kourtney Kardashian of the dairy world. Besides the cheese, the tomato and basil portions of the sandwich were spreads. The kind of consistency that just slides through your digestive tract like a well-waxed toboggan on the day after a frost.
   Then there's the white bread. Don't get me wrong, I am no health nut. I will eat anything. My beef is that I'm nearly certain that each slice of bread was 75% air. Which is great if you answered "yes" to the earlier "do you like the taste of air" question. I guess it's weirdly fitting though; some air bread to go with your air cheese, as you shoot through the actual air in a metal tube.

:/

I think this idealization of melancholic love really fucks people up.

The Ham Barrier

   When you make a sandwich, you must always remember the ham barrier. I really only make ham and cheese sandwiches because I can't be bothered with the fast-paced deli queue lifestyle. But any sandwich has a ham barrier of its own, regardless of whether it actually contains any ham content.
   Despite recent census results, you should know that I am not an monster. I like my eats, and I am trying to avoid seasonal depression by getting vitamins (or whatever). Thus, my ham and cheese sandwiches feature Tomato, Lettuce and occasionally guest star Fried Egg. Its like a good mainstream rap in that it can't ever really be that "good" compared to the rest of its category, but it certainly helps if its featuring 2 Chainz. Does that make sense? If not, just think about it some more, its a very complex and intellectual comparison.
   Okay, so the ham barrier. You know when you've got leaky vegetables? Lord love the humble tomato, but is it ever a messy sonofagun! Within minutes you've got soggy breads and your sandwich is more like a pool toy than a lunch. Fried egg does it too, he's just sneakier about it. This is where the ham barrier comes in.
   Lay some sweet slices down to rest against your bread then order your ingredients however which way you want and you've made yourself a good ham barrier. Say goodbye to the soggy breads of yesteryear and hello to that old school sandwich satisfaction.

Grandparents

   Grandparents are legit the coolest people, I'm just putting it out there. Every kid should have their grandparents in their life.
   Grandparents: Go on, get in on that sweet childhood bonding time and tell as many weird stories as possible. Its your right!
   Parents: Make sure your parents are in your kids' lives. Barring any extreme circumstance, no matter what you feel about your parents, its important that your kid has grandparents.
   Kids: Your grandparents are guaranteed more badass than you think they are so sit down and shut up. Make some angel food cake, or discuss the weekly sales at your local Loebs. Shit means a lot to your grandparents, shit will mean a lot to you eventually.

All Bran Shame

   Lets take a minute to mature the humble All Bran brand like mature adults. Bran makes you poop, and I don't get why people act like thats a bad thing. I would wager that these people are constipated and therefore there is a knowledge block taking place.
   Going to the grocery store, and buying Bran Flakes (or buds, or sticks, or wedges, or whatever) somehow still feels like an embarrassing thing though. And it's impossible to reshuffle your grocery basket to fit the cereal box at the bottom because it's so. darned. big. Its like the grocery gods have been like, "you can't have great value and your pride". Fair enough I say, because I can't eat my pride for breakfast anyway. I prefer to chew my pride apart at four in the morning.
   Bottom line: there is no subtle way to buy All Bran cereal. Especially not when you slam it down on the conveyor belt and it monopolizes like 40% of the entire thing. Then you put it in your thin plastic bag and everyone can see the text on the box through the bag and you're like, "may as well just scream to the pedestrians that I really like to poop".
   But why should you not? Why should the world not know that you buy All Bran because you respect the value of regularity? I don't like struggle. I don't particularly like hard work. I don't like to keep people waiting, and thats why I buy All Bran.

What Is The World????

   Some guy my flatmate was texting told her that she was stupid and that it made her sexy. I like to think that if it had been me, I would have punched him in the face but I might just have self-destructed lets be real.

The Integrity of Tupperware Salesfolk

   On a scale of identity thief to volunteer soup kitchen worker, how much occupational integrity does an online tupperware salesperson have? And before you take issue with my scale, know that the scale itself has a lot of academic integrity because to the Elizabethans, thieves were the absolute worse, and credit card fraud seriously sucks.
   I know a girl who has been plugging Tupperware girl-guide style for the past couple of weeks. I used to do sports with this girl (the one time I did a sport) so she is somewhere within the same socio-economic sphere as I am. First of all, Tupperware is a good product, but doesn't quite satisfy the why. Also, how many of your Facebook friends are actually signing up for an eleven piece Tupperware set for 150$. This is the age of the Dollar Store, people!
   You do what you gotta do to put food in mouths and I do what I gotta do to maintain a habit or mundane writing SO where does the Tupperware salesperson fall on the integrity scale? Salespeople are a little bit worse than canvassers, because canvassers are trying to sell charities. However canvassers fall considerably lower than volunteer soup kitchen workers because they are pesky and don't give soup to the toothless.
   Despite blatantly working for the man and often being annoying and promoting capitalism I'll give salespeople points for dealing with the public because the public is the worst. Salespeople in general can sit comfortably below Bar Staff, and above School Bus Drivers with Religious Agendas/ Truckers With Obscene Bumper Stickers. Okay, thats settled; now we should consider the Tupperware subcategory of salespersonry.
   First of all, if you're paying 150$ for 11 Tupperwares you deserve to be committed. Thats all there is to it. But putting this Tupperware in the hands of the mad is dishonourable behaviour. Therefore the Tupperware salesperson is within the parameters of the "Selling People Shit They Can Get for Way Cheaper Elsewhere" category, however useful Tupperware may be as a product in and of itself. Conclusion: Urban Outfitters Employee < Tupperware Salesperson < Pop-Up Halloween Store Salesperson
   The Urban Outfitters employee sells you low-grade wares at ghastly prices (staff are unseasonably useless too). The Halloween Store employee does not necessarily sell anything you couldn't live without but they are jovial and costumes make people happy, and the shops themselves are only in support of the man for one out of twelve months.

"We're Textually Intimate"

   This is where I write a post about technology's influence on relationships that is going to sound like it's coming out of my mother's mouth. And if it were to be said by my mother, all of this would put me in a rage, because neither of my parents understand anything about technology, and they would be the first ones to admit it.
   Here we go. Lately I've been spending some time having an internal debate about the significance of texting and online platforms of communication in relation to meeting new people. I would like to preface everything by saying that when I like someone, I am a psychopath.
   If you message someone everyday (text, Facebook chat, email) and then go a day without, what does that mean? Does it mean anything? Those were the questions that were my appetizers today.
   I then proceed to ask myself, if being textually close and in "touch" frequently is really important. I think I realized that for me, it is less about what is being said in the messages, and more that the messages are being sent at all. Surely receiving a message from someone indicates that the sender is thinking of you. But since communication is so fast and simple, does it really matter? Where is the bar graph that indicates someone's interest level alongside their frequency of messaging? This is the scientific thing that I want, forget Google Glasses!
   I don't know how things were back in the day. In terms of human feelings, very similar, I imagine. When I like someone, I spend about six hours premeditating what to say to them. I can't imagine this was particularly different ever in history. Except that you either had to pick up an actual telephone in your family living room to get in touch. Or hop on a steed, but I don't think I want to go back that far in history.
   Since you can send a message from anywhere, really, does it make a difference to the quality of what you're saying? I know that people are capable of growing more attached, and feeling more intimate if they are in communication over a longer period of time, even if they talk much less face to face. I think that is legitimate. But if you have nothing to say, is it still important to maintain a stable frequency of messaging to show someone that you "care"? And if I'm sending someone a message just before last call, while I'm in the middle of peeing, do I really still "care"?
   I don't feel like its something that there should be a "conversation" about. You have "conversations" about things like being in a monogamous relationship, moving in together, breaking up and (most importantly) whats for dinner. Thats all pretty exhausting, and what with all the text communication, I would rather not riddle my face-to-face conversations with the relatively trivial texting schedule "conversation".
   I suppose that the significance of text communication within human relationships still seems relatively petty, but I know a lot of people and relationships that have been seriously impacted by topics along these lines. Is it just that its too soon for texting/messaging to be regarded as important? Or is it an unimportant thing that doesn't deserve to be thought about as much as I just have (and will continue to for the rest of the week)?

Party Face

   "All that grace/ All that body/ All that face/ Makes me wanna party." Is a line from the bridge of Lana Del Ray's Young and Beautiful. I'm not on the massive Tumblr Lana fan train. I don't think sadness is particularly beautiful, and flower crowns are straight up impractical. Some of her songs are catchy, and being perpetually behind every trend by at least several weeks, I just started listening to Young and Beautiful and it has raised some important questions for me.

   The aforementioned line is particularly interesting for me. Like... I have had some suitors, but I don't know that my face has ever made anyone want to party. There are so many things that I strive for; elegance, cleverness, beauty, intelligence, dinner party etiquette, mystery, practical knowledge of the anatomy of basic household plumbing, fitness, coordination, sass etc. Am I now supposed to add "face that makes dudes want to party" to that list? 

   I don't know how I would respond to someone telling me that my face makes them want to party, even. I guess it would be a cool compliment, but where do you go from there? Is that before, or after you buy someone a drink? Or is that enough to launch right into a first date? Or is it a literal thing, like, festivities don't start until party face walks in? Thats a lot of pressure on one face.

    Also, lets dig right into a close reading, I mean, we've come this far! "All that face"... as opposed to only part of face. Like I've said, nobody has ever said that my face makes them want to party. So maybe I don't have a complete party face. Maybe I just have party cheeks, or party brows. My eyebrows deeeffffinitely have their own party sometimes, that much is certain. 

   I guess you've got to have the total face package to really make someone walk into a room, lay eyes upon you, and immediately begin to bust a move. It would be a super power. You'd be like the reverse Medusa.

Super Saving Money Tip #7

   Okay, so maybe some of my money saving tips are less than super but this one... This one is MINT. I totally crafted it in the craftiest of my most desperate moments!

   So. I asked my flatmate to borrow some nail polish remover because my nails were looking like trolls; my flatmates are the best, so of course she lent me some. I feel bad taking advantage of my flatmates' kindness and always borrowing their stuff, so it was much to my chagrin that I realized I had no means of applying the varnish remover to my nails. I didn't have cotton pads or Kleenex or anything like that. It was a pickle in the truest non-fruit sense of the word. 

   This is a relatively common situation; having one thing but not the other. And usually when I set out to remove my nail polish, it's because the situation is dire. I was too proud to ask my flatmate for cotton pads (and as it would later be revealed, she didn't have any to begin with). Here's what I did:

    I MacGyvered a tampon into a casual cotton pad for my nail polish. I don't know if this actually saves money... Without doing any research, I'm going to say yes, yes it does save money. Tampons range in absorbency and come in packs of like 24. Cotton pads pale in comparison on all fronts. 

    For the most effective results you have to get real up close and personal with the tampon. Dissection is necessary for maximum benefit. You can get at least 3 uses out of these bad boys, there's no telling what could be achieve if you are working with the ultra super variety. Just sayin'. Just floating it out there. Never have to spend money on cotton pads again...

x's and o's

   Why does everyone in Britain sign off their texts with varying amounts of kisses. I interpret "x" to be a kiss, but maybe its just a weird signature that every British person was taught from a young age. The max I've ever gotten was three: xxx. That could also be an adult content rating, although the content of the text would indicate otherwise.
   Sometimes its combined with an emoticon, which really throws me off because I just picture someone going in for three friendly kisses with either a large grin or grimace. I do not understand the custom. Nobody wants to kiss me that much. And there are never any o's. Its never, "xoxo", only ever "x". Is a hug too intimate??? Perhaps. But then that raises all sorts of other questions.

8 a.m Flautist

   Okay, but for real, what kind of hellion do you have to be to play the flute at 8 a.m. Someone call the exorcist, because this is the work of a demon. It's eerie as it is to hear a disembodied rendition of Hot Crossed Buns but it's especially strange to hear it as the sun comes up.
   Once you get over the eeriness, the next phase is when you charge through your flat, sticking your head out every window trying to pinpoint where its coming from. The next phase involves water balloons and/or hate mail.
   Our 8 a.m flautist played for a solid two hours. How much flute is there even to practice? It's not like you ever hear the flute in a band, so how much practice is required, reaaaally? Nobody ever said, "Thank god Jerome was on top of his flute game tonight because he really carried that concerto" or, "The whole orchestra was off save for that one flute who we could all totally hear and was definitely shredding it".
   Know who was shredding it? The 8 a.m flautist. I guess there's a time and a place for the flute, and in the eye of the flute-holder, that time is 8 a.m; the only time the flute can actually be heard.

What Even Is Fun?

   When companies use adjectives as a part of their brand name, their should be some sort of licensing procedure to ensure that the adjective is agreed upon and appropriate, so as not to lead consumers astray.
   Today I saw an ad for some sort of establishment called "Channel Fun". I don't know if its an event space, or an arcade or what, but it seems unjust that they can dibs the word fun. The dodgy subway ad did not particularly ooze of fun to me. 'Fun' is a pretty ambiguous term. Generally we can all agree on what is not classifiable as fun; breakups, getting murdered, and clowns of all kinds. Its harder to agree on what definitely is fun. Having just gone through university Fresher's Week, I can truly attest to that.
    There are people, for example, who delight in the idea of paying 30$ for a ticket to board a night-long cruise with nothing to do but enjoy liquor and dance to disco music. This, to me, despite all the water is literal hell. It's like a floating prison full of boozy, nostalgic people. The worst kind of folks.
   Also, champagne showers. If you're the rich party boy doing the showering, you're golden. But there are actual people who like the receiving end of a champagne shower. What is good about putting on your best threads and subsequently ending up covered in champagne? It's expensive, and sticky. People enjoy it though.
   Or, like, wrestling. Seriously, what is the appeal? Widely associated with being fun, wrestling is essentially a dramatic skit enacted by two scantily clad oversized men. Often with beards, masks and capes. If I wanted those things, I'd watch a twenty second Kudoo commercial.
   To avoid such clashes of what is fun and what is not, there should definitely be a committee who take their jobs very seriously. Fun is no laughing matter.

Packaging Struggles

   There's this thing that I've seen quite a lot of in the UK. It is called putting things that are not ice cream into packaging thats looks like an ice cream cone. Like hair elastics or various trinkets in a flimsy waffle patterned piece of paper. Why you do, UK?
   Maybe it appeals to diabetic old ladies who can only engage with ice cream structures, but not actual ice cream. And by "engage" I mean buy it for their sassy thirteen year-old granddaughter who was really hoping for the iPhone 5 for her birthday this year, but whatever.
   The major flaw in this packaging trend is that as soon as I am reminded of ice cream, I want to obtain it. Its a visceral reaction; fight, flight, eat ice cream. I would do well in the zombie apocalypse, clearly. With regards to the fake cone packaging, all apocalypses aside, once I'm thinking of ice cream, if I have money in my pocket, I'm gonna go buy real ice cream. Not hair elastics that are pitifully impersonating it.

Lonely Bible

   When I first arrived in the UK and moved into my flat, there was a complimentary Holy Bible and New Testament/ Psalms in my room courtesy of university accommodation. Apparently not everyone got one, so I guess they have been keeping up with my track record and decided I would benefit from religious material. I was a little weirded out, coming from a city where the subject of religious freedom has been in the news a lot lately. I haven't been in Scotland long enough to have an educated opinion on the politics of religion over here, but it struck me as something very foreign.

   I know that it is standard practice in North American hotels to keep a bible in the room for guests. I am not offended by the practice, nor would I be if it were any other religious paraphernalia in the room. What I feel about the religious material in my room is something like discomfort, rather than offence. That discomfort was furthered when I accidentally dropped the New Testament out of my bedroom window and into the thick bushes below.... Thats a different story though.

   I don't really know what I'm getting at because I don't really know how I feel about it. A hotel room is one thing, but someone purposefully left a Bible in my room, where I live. It sits on a shelf beside the only other (I was about to say "mildly fictitious literature" but then I was like, no. Not that can of worms) book that I have besides travel guides-- my journal. The two are highly personal books-- one being largely personal to a lot of people and the other being largely personal to just me. 

    I feel even a little guilty, just because I tend to feel empathy for inanimate objects. It pains me to think of this Bible just sitting there, never being opened all year. I'm not going to lie to it though; there will be no religious revelation for me this year. 

Bad At Planes Pt. 2

The act of flying in an aircraft might seem liberating to some, but it is a loss of control that I totally cannot fathom. I can’t handle the thought that I am so totally vulnerable and there is nothing I can do about it. Nor did I really ask to be put in this position. Ship travel still seems practical enough to me. I wouldn’t mind lying on a cot in the hull of a cargo ship, wedged between bunches of bananas. I could pretend I was a banana. Also, potassium.

If we aren’t technologically advanced enough to travel via a network of human shaped tubes, then why travel at all really? Alternatively, to avoid polluting the ocean with human tubes, we should develop a canon with an transatlantic range. You’d have to pack lightly, but the departure from materialism would surely be more liberating than aviation. 

Bad At Planes Pt. 1

 I do not do planes very gracefully. It comes in waves, but usually I am filled with extreme dread as my flight draws nearer, until a few hours before take off when I am weirdly calm. The calm lasts until the vehicle actually starts moving, whereupon there are serious premonitions of death once more. 

I dislike almost everything about flying, but my most prominent fear is that there will be a mechanical failure be it prompted by the weather or completely unprecedented. The result is a religious awakening. As I am tossed up and down, hurtling through the air in a glorified metal pipe, I become religious for the first time since my last airplane ride. Suddenly there is a god, and I am a compassionate human being who demands more time to spread love around as if it were the new Chlamydia. 

Today, In Hell

   Today at American Apparel I had an experience where the sales people made me try on a dress that we all knew would not make it past my thunderous hips. Before the incident, I might not have used that adjective to describe my body, but what the hell, if the shoe fits-- or rather if the dress doesn't fit...

   I wasn't even meaning to try on the dress, I was in fact looking for an entirely different style - one that wasn't skintight - but the sales people, after making me feel like a complete fool, pressured me into trying it on. 

    I propose that American Apparel just build a great big chute at the back of the store for all the normal sized women who want to hide in their duvets for the rest of the week as a result of their experiences shopping there. Because really, who wants to leave out the front door after striking out in every single size of clothing? Better yet, how about a hole that just shoots fire out of the floor for easy self-incineration? 

Young People With Cats

   Fact: adopting kittens is cool. Kittens are adorable and are the sunshine of domesticated animals. Now that the majority of my associates live in their own apartments, a lot of people I know have decided that its a good idea to adopt a kitten. Some people adopt a kitten with they boy/girlfriend as a weird pseudo child, others go it solo. No matter what, it's a BAD IDEA.
   If you are under 25, you are generally working a minimum wage job (if you even have a job) in order to primarily finance your alcohol fund, you are in a four year program at school, and you eat so much ramen that you owe your soul to Mr. Noodles. Your life is about as steady as a mound of jello resting atop the head of an inflatable waving arm tube man, riding on a motorcycle down a gravel road.
   I think students forget that kittens are real life animals with life spans. A cat can live to be like sixteen. Do you really want to have this cat when you're almost 40? You'll have kids, and a real alcohol problem by then. More importantly, does the cat really want to be around you for that long? Will it even make it past its sixth birthday? I mean, you can barely feed yourself at this point, how do you expect to feed a small animal that can't specifically communicate its needs?
   I totally understand wanting to adopt a cat. I don't have siblings, so naturally growing up I was obsessed with cats. Unfortunately my father is allergic to all god's creatures and so I grew up pale and alone. So I've been to I-Want-A-Cat Town.
    To all the lonely twenty whatevers, I propose to meet you halfway. If you want an animal, adopt an old cat. Get a cat that is on death's doorstep and give it a great final three to six weeks of life. When the cat dies, just repeat the process. You'll save money on food, can reuse the cat supplies each time, and will get good practice for when you're nursing your elderly parents. Young people: adopt old cats.

The Barbie Cake

   I don't know if this is just a weird Canada thing, but whats up with the cake with half a Barbie inside? She's not really inside so much as she is one giant candle atop a cake that is supposed to be like her hoop skirt. Even when I was a wee lass, I knew there was something creepy about that cake. 

   My mom told me she's not even a whole Barbie, that its just her body from the torso up. Truly horrifying. Whats worse than receiving a hemiplegic doll on your birthday? Having no room for  candles on your cake. Getting the ass slice of barbie's skirt cake. This cake is the makings of the most traumatic birthday of your life. Worse than the one where the VCR broke at the sleepover birthday party. 

   The Barbie skirt cake probably makes a lot of money. Although the bakery down the street from my apartment has had the same one in the window for roughly 40 years - Madam Barbie has seen numerous birthdays of her own come and go. Are kids supposed to keep the half Barbie though? And where are her legs? Is there a factory in Taiwan that exclusively manufactures the top halves of her specifically for the cakes? Do bakeries then receive boxes full of half Barbies? Some poor baker goes down into the basement and breaks open the box of cake Barbies, her pained face looking up at them, 500 times over, pleading "Please. Just let me die."

   The reality is that half Barbie would never survive in the wild. After the fun and games and birthday pukes have passed, Barbie would never make it in the bin with her peers. Wheelchair Barbie is not a thing. Wheelchair Becky is a thing, but chances are you didn't grow up with her in your bin, and she definitely is not topping any cakes. War amp Barbie probably ends up in the garbage, cake all over her face, wondering where her half sisters are, asking herself, "Am I dead yet?"

Girls/Sex and the City

   The difference between Sex and the City and Girls is that the former made its audiences want to live the glamorous, yet contrived lifestyles of the women it portrayed, whereas the latter, though equally as unrealistic in its own right, makes you wish for death before you end up as fucked up as its characters.
   My friends and I were once discussing which of the Girls characters each of us are, and it makes you realize that being likened to any of them is a slap in the face in one respect or another. You're either an adorable though infantile virgin, a feather-wearing free spirit who is susceptible to impromptu marriage, an anal-retentive social climber with control issues or a socially awkward whiner who suffer from OCD.
   I would take Carrie Bradshaw over any of those. At least if there's going to be an unsuccessful wedding, I want to wear a big dress and smash some flowers, as opposed to... I don't know a flower crown? Lets be real though, I'm no Jessa. I'm a Marnie through and through, plastic dress and all.

"It's So Great To See All You Horrible People"

   Is what is running through your mind at every reunion you have ever attended. I get that kind of internal dialogue a lot when I go to parties back home where there are a bunch of people I went to high school with.
   It's a very weird thing where you can't not go, even though you won't have anything to say to those people from your past, most of whom you don't even like anymore. But you can't just not go. So you complain about it for weeks in advance, and even if you have a legitimate excuse not to go, you will somehow go out of your way to attend anyway. Why does that happen? I don't know, but someone needs to put that shit in the book of physics.
   And when you get there you kind of stand around near the pretzels for a while (even though, not unlike all these people, you don't even like pretzels) then you go to the bathroom and run into some people you used to know and you share general information about your boring lives. It goes like that all night pretty much.
   But the weirdest part is on the drive home where you're like, wow that was awful, but you don't regret going. And you'll go to the next one. It won"t be any better, and nobody will have anything better to say to you (because if their lives were all that different, they wouldn't be at the party).

A Word of Advice

GENTLEMEN I'm going to tell you how to make a girl and her mom (and anyone else in the world really) not hate you based on the photographs of yourself you present to the world. Listen up because apparently this is very tricky.

1. She doesn't care about your abs. Even if she does, SAVE IT FOR THE LIVE SHOW, MAGIC MIKE. Know when your abs are at their worst in a photo? When we can't even see your face. Believe me, your face is not so bad that a photo needs to be cropped from shoulders to crotch. Your face is more handsome than your abs, which is really just a series of lumps covered by a thin layer of greasy skin. PS Whats up with that glare? Is it actual grease???

2. She doesn't care about your bong. Know who does? The police. But hey, I'm not here to tell you how to live your life (she says as she lists reasons why you should change your photos). There is nothing worse than a gnarly bong photo. Even a cigar photo makes you look like a leathery old man, and blowing smoke out of your mouth isn't as seductive as you think it is. At least a cigar makes you look rich, but a bong just makes you look like everyone from high school. If drugs are a big part of your life, thats something she probably already knows about you if she has access to photos of you. A picture of you caressing a illicit vase is not doing you any favours. Keep blowing smoke in your photos and thats the only kind of blowing you can expect from now on (AYYYOOOOO).

3. She doesn't care about - and is probably offended by - your wardrobe comprised on Nike slogan T-shirts. You know, the ones that read, "I'm doing work", "How' second taste?" or "I fucked your mom or whatever" (one of those might be Adidas actually). How you gonna show up to Greek Easter with that kind of fashion sense? Wear whatever you want but when it comes to pictures of yourself that you consider 'good', no T-shirt that claims to tell me what I was doing last night should be involved.

French Kissing-- Not That Kind, The Other Kind

   I have a lot of questions about French kissing. According to Wikipedia (my favourite source for accurate information),"A French kiss is a kiss in which one or both participants' tongues touch the partner's lips or tongue, usually entering their mouth.". But thats not what I'm talking about, because I'm saving my first kiss for marriage.
   I don't really know how to refer to the kiss I'm talking about since "French kiss" has already been dibsed so I guess I will refer to it as "the kiss that French people do" from here on out. Its the one where two people kiss on both cheeks. You know the one. 
   There is no surer way to throw off Anglos than by rocking their world with this kiss. I for one see it as a million awkward moments waiting to happen. I mean, who out of us has not accidentally kissed our great aunt right on the mouth in the midst of the confusion that the kiss French people do causes. 
   First off, there's the issue of who's going to which side first. But the drama doesn't end there, in fact that is the least of my concerns. Speed has always been my most prominent anxiety about the kiss that French people do because its not usually until I'm really close to their face that I'm certain I'm going in for the kiss that French people do. Until three seconds before its happening, the kiss that French people do could be a straightforward hug, with no frills. So I never know how fast to perform the cheek kisses. It always seems as if I've rushed through it and smashed my face against my partner. 
   Also, I never actually kiss the other person's cheek(s). It is physically impossible for two people to be simultaneously kissing the opposing cheek of the other person. It can't be done without surgical aids. Some people don't even bother with the kiss, its more of a face graze, which presents yet another issue. Do I then have to make the kissy noise? What is the protocol? By that point you're right up close to their ear. They'll definitely hear your kissy noise, is it better then to just plant one on their ear? Is that okay? 
   Do you even have to pucker? Nobody can see you, but I feel like its good form to purse your lips a little bit, or at least I always do. Does that mean that you have to close your eyes as well, and follow the standard general kiss guidelines?? 
   How is it possible to foster even a smidgen of romance in this hectic kiss environment? It would be best if we all just kept it at sober handshakes. 

Elevators

   The worst thing is when you get onto an elevator after everyone who's just been on it gets off (regardless of how many people are in it) and it just smells like a big ol' fart incubator and you're like:

   So you're in this stenchy dumbwaiter, wondering if the smell of egg fart is going to cling to your blazer and you think thats bad but THEN IT HAPPENS. Someone else gets on. And they smell it, because theres no way not to smell it. And they think its you. They think you would do something like that. In your head you start to panic and you're like, they don't know me, if they knew me they would know I would be more careful with my egg farts. Do you tell them your life story? There are only a couple more floors before your stop and your life story is pretty short, you could do it but then you're already there and then you somehow make eye contact with them and promptly look away which makes it so much worse and now you're blushing just like a guilty farter would!

   Then it turns out they're getting out on the same floor as you. Then they're going into the same office of you. Then you struggle for what feels like twenty minutes with your access pass as they stand behind you (far enough away lest you let another one rip, as they are thinking). Then they walk behind you all the way to your desk so now they know where you sit and you can never look them in the face ever again and its best to just jump out the window and end it all now. 

Moving Day Tips

   When you're moving its really key to store all your most important things in really weird places and pay very little attention to where you've put them. Here are some places for you to put those things.
  Passport: Put your passport in a pocket inside of a pocket in that coat that you bought two years ago as an impulse buy and haven't worn since.
   Birth certificate: Store that shit in a school book from the previous academic year.
   Wads of cash: the garbage.
 

Carpe Le Tampon Diem

   You should always change your tampon as soon as possible when the time strikes because you never know when an acquaintance of yours is going to have a seizure on a Megabus and you'll be asked to come into the bus terminal to make some calls.

Street Names

   My favorite part of small town Ontario are the incredibly cutesy street names. I get to see them a lot at work while I input information, so I'm becoming quite an expert.
   Cute is as cute does, but being the naturally sullen person that I am I started playing a new game at work called, Depressing Street Names. I think its valuable too, because street names like "Lover's Lane" are harmful to the perpetually lonely, which is probably a greater population than the perpetually blissful.
   A healthy alternative to Lover's Lane might be Forever Alone Drive.
   Also, located in somewhere in Ontarian oblivion (probably Brantford or Nepean), is Happy Hollow. A real street! I would prefer Hollow Happiness, because lets tell it like it is folks.
   Last but not least, I stumbled upon Owl's Foot Road the other day. First I thought of changing it to Owl's Head Road, but then I thought, to hell with it, we're all postmodern, why not make it Owl's Small Intestine Road.
   I have a blossoming future in city planning.

French Language in the Workplace

   The office I work at is predominantly Francophone. For the most part, its not an issue; I can understand French with a 90% degree of efficacy, speaking is another story but I make do.
    I was in French immersion from grade four through grade eight. You know how if you have to memorize something as a kid it stays in your brain forever a lot of the time? Well most of the things engraved in the soft mush of my brain forever are in French. There are a lot of songs, my personal favorites being, Qu-est qu'il ya Dans La Forest and another one about going to check out animals, the chorus loosely translating to, "you can call me crazy, you can call me silly, but I swear I just went to see the animals!"
   I don't know who writes these gems. Probably the same guy who writes Busta Rhymes's raps. Maybe it's Mr. Rhymes himself!
   Anyway, when people speak to me in French at work, and I fail to understand whats going on, after a while I just want to launch into a verse of Qu-est qu'il ya Dans La Forest, which is basically just a repetitive list of the stuff that you find in a forest.

Unveiling of Real Cool New Blog

   We're all super excited (me and... just me, actually) to unveil a cool new project/ stupid way that I spend my time now:

 www.reasonshenevercalledagain.tumblr.com

   RHNCA is the result of many a conversation, as both a speaker and a listener, about why in god's name he never called again. Check it out for some knee-slapping humour mixed with a teaspoon of soul-crushing desperation!

PS But don't stop reading this blog either. You're just going to have to make more time in your schedule for both. Maybe cut out carbs. 

Super Saving Money Tip #6

   Since I haven't written one of these in a while, I imagine you are flat broke. Fear no more, because this one is real practical.
   Ladies, I think you've all had that moment where you're getting dressed to go out on the town, being desirous of looking hot and dangerous. You got your nails done, hair done, everything did. The long and short of it: you hope to make a man wanna speak Spanish tonight. So you pull out your freak'um dress and you're gonna put on some tights underneath because as fly as you are, you haven't shaved your legs in five (hundred) days. You are ready. This is your night. LOL NO JOKES ON YOU.
   Turns out your tights have a walnut-sized hole right near the crotch. Or maybe there's a run (also originating in the crotch area) going all the way past your knees. Don't nobody want to speak Spanish to you now! You may as well just stay in and wait half an hour for the first ten minutes of Friends to buffer on Putlocker then fall asleep at nine o'clock in a pile of your own used Kleenex.
   Hey girl, I've got news for you. You don't ever have to have a sad girl night again on account of your holey tights.
   Tights are expensive, and to be real, they'll all do you like that first pair. You'll wear them cautiously as you can, being  careful not sit sit on any wooden surfaces that could be splintered, and after maybe six (at best) wears they'll get runs. I know, oh I know.
   You don't gotta buy a new pair ever again. All you need to buy is a black magic marker. Simply put your ratty tights on and begin colouring in your legs as necessary. I did this just the other day, and I can easily say it is worth the scrubbing for the next three weeks to get your legs back to leg colour. Besides, after the first few washes the marker fades to green, and thats pretty cool, right?
   My only suggestion, ladies, is that if you are anticipating someone taking off your tights before the night is through you might run into some difficulty with this scheme since it might look like you carry the Bubonic Plague. But who knows, I'm sure some people are into that.

Consolation Sweater

   If your friends are anything like mine-- actually, its probably safe to assume you don't have any friends if you're reading my blog or else you'd be out doing something with them. Correction: if friends are anything like my friends, then you probably also have dating terminology that you have established and adapted for your personal purposes over the years. For example, my friends and I once spent the entirety of a house party speaking in nautical codes which corresponded for guys and all things pertaining to them to keep our superficial natures hidden. Tragically, it would seem that seventeen year-old guys were not into girls who spoke like pirates. Lesson learned.
   Anyway. You could write a dictionary- not pocket-sized either- of dating/hook-up/relationship terminology that has worked itself into modern languages. And I've got a new one! The consolation sweater!
   The consolation sweater is something that anyone who has ever had a relationship - be it one night stand, long-term, long distance or could-have-been-but-never-materialized - that failed at any level will understand and appreciate. If you hang out with someone in a "romantic" context, there is a great chance than not that you will wind up with some degree of consolation sweater when it all comes crashing to an end. The term "consolation sweater" refers to these acquired objects regardless of how much of a sweater they are or not. They are the participation ribbons of singledom.
   If I chose to, I could cover the surface of a wall with such consolation sweaters. You'd walk into my apartment and I'd hand you a glass of red wine, ask you to step back from the display and begin,
   "Oh these white sweat socks? Those belong to my most recent ex. At first I thought they were mine, but he had smaller ankles than me, unmistakably. Oh and this hoodie? That's that guy I was seeing a few months back. He said he'd call me, and I'm still waiting, but until then it's a great consolation sweater!"

What Would the Pioneers Do? Well They Certainly Wouldn't Cry About It You Baby!

   When I'm feeling sorry for myself, finding myself saying things like, "this is the worst day ever" and "if this mascara is brown I'm going to kill myself", I remind myself about some guys called the pioneers. The pioneers were badass mobeetches who just canoed around building stuff and being cold but coping with it like it wasn't even a thing.
   I most often call upon the pioneers when I'm talking myself out of buying medication or as I listen to people talk about how they've cut dairy and gluten out of their diets. As I gawk at the price of allergy medication I think to myself, "did Davey Crockett complain when some pollen was stepping on his groove? Maybe, but then he just grabbed a live bass out of the sweet great lakes like it wasn't even a big deal probably."  With the bread thing I'm usually like, "The pioneers ate bread! And sticks! Probably." then I grab the closest carbohydrate and eat it in front of the raw vegans. Its almost as good as the live bass trick.
   Next time you go to complain about how your latte tastes too much like milk, or about cilantro as the devil's weed I urge you to think about the pioneers.

Bathroom Safety

   You know those wavy ridges on the floor of a bathtub? I would like some statistics on how may times those have ever prevented anyone from slipping and cracking their heads open. I would like to know the science behind the anti-slip ridges because, call me a Debbie downer, I don't think any human lives have ever been saved by those, and yet they remain a relevant thing in bathroom furnishing.
   My uncle Tom would have you believe that orthodics are the biggest scam on the market, but I say this trumps orthodics. You can even but extra stick-on wavy bathtub liners if the ones that may or may not be built into your tub are not sufficient (which I promise you, they are not).
   Who are these people with feet like heavy, grated sponges that cause enough friction against the anti-slippies that they are prevented from falling? If your feet are that rough that they create a velcro-like fusion with the stick-on ridges, then I think you should be investing that money elsewhere, perhaps in a pumice stone.
   But who knows, maybe I'm just showering wrong. Maybe if my feet are not being held steadily in place by the decal slip-savers, I should be taking extra measures to ensure my shower safety. Next time I shower I will have to invest in a pair of children's leaotards- the kind with the anti-slip rubbery pads on the feet- to up my game. That way I will fully be able to appreciate and understand the bathtub ridges, and make the most out of all they have to offer.

Killing Ants

   It is a bloodbath in my washroom. There are ant carcasses everywhere.
   Today I bought some of that sweet, sweet toxic ant food in hopes of killing the tiny squatters that have taken up residency in my lavatory. I don't know why or how they came to be, but all I can say is that I hope they are knock knock knockin' on heaven's door. Except if there was a less acoustic, screamier cover of that song. Preferably by System of a Down.
   Before you judge me based upon my murder liquid, think about killing multiple ants in one napkin (which is what I was doing before I resorted to poisonous ant food). The napkin method is so morally fucked up because you are squishing one ant into it, then proceeding to do the same to others, so they die pressed up against the cadavers of their brothers and sisters. So before you go throwing shade, just consider that horribly scarring image. I don't have any siblings so I don't run the risk of suffering such a fate as the ants.
   So basically feeding the ants sugary poison juice that kills them slowly and infects their entire colony is kind and sympathetic.

"Can You Just Look at This Thing? I'll Give you Five Bucks..."

   The worst part about living alone is when something bad is happening on a part of your body that you can't see. A large percentage of such instances involve extraction at an angle that your hands can't manage.

   Not that when I had three roommates I ever had them inspect my body ever, but now that I don't have the option I feel overwhelmingly vulnerable. 

   I saw a friend of mine- who lives alone- break some glass in his apartment and then when I saw him the following week he had glass in his foot. From the previous day. I assume by now the glass has gained permanent resident status in his foot since he has no roommates to go at it with a pair of tweezers. 

   Its not just roommates either. I mean, most of my "friends" wouldn't go near the parts of my body that I can't see with a ten foot pole. Not even if I offered to buy them Jolly Ranchers after. Frankly, I don't blame them; if I don't know what it looks like, I'm not sure if I want to show it to others. 

Cole Porter ft. Mr. Noodles

   Today I've been listening to Ella Fitzgerald's rendition of Cole Porter's So In Love because that's how I spend my days now that I'm living alone and no longer feel pressure to maintain an appearance of moderately hip music pass-times.
   ANYWAY another thing I do a lot of is make Mr. Noodles instant noodle soups. The way that Cole Porter imagined someone feeling while singing So In Love to another human person is the way that I feel towards Mr. Noodles, so naturally I was enjoying these two things simultaneously. So there I was listening to Ella killin' it on them pipes, and ripping open a crisp "beef" flavoured instant noodle when IT HAPPENED.
   I ripped open the package, only to not find the seasoning package inside. It was just the noodles sans fake beef dust. How am I supposed to get that genuine fake beef flavour? Meanwhile Ella is crooning this heart-wrentching tale in the background and its all I can do not to break down right there in the kitchen as she sings the lines, "so taunt me and hurt me, deceive me, desert me, I'm yours till I die!"
   Never was a song more relatable.

Grade One was not a Good Year to be in Love

   I will now clear up one of the many mysteries of time and space which is why I am a stone cold biiiitch. It all started in grade one. 

   When I was in grade one I was in love with a boy in my class. He was in grade two, so it was pretty badass of me. I was like, whatever, age is just a number y'all. One problem: before the age of fourteen I was super shy and blended in with the wallpaper as a hobby. So I decided to make him a card and leave it in his cubby. 

   The card had a drawing of me and him just chilling in the outdoors. I remember him wearing brown pants and being abnormally tall in my illustration. And then I did the boldest thing I have EVER done in my life, which was to depict him holding a little heart-shaped valentine for me. I have never even come close to being this ballsy in my adult life, never ever! 

   So then I left it in his cubby for him to find. Then I saw him tear it up and throw it in the recycling as he stared into my eyes, shaking his head. It was like a scene from a John Hughes film that the main character would wake up from panting and sweaty. Except seven year-old me just had to sit there on the carpet watching from the classroom, not crying.

   That is the exact moment that my heart turned into a bag of sand- not ice, ice can be melted whereas sand never thoroughly heats all the way through and just chills in a heavy lump. 

Cat Callin'

   Okay, here's a thing: cat calling. Does honking your car horn at random ladies qualify as cat calling? There's not really any calling even involved, its just a mechanical operation. It is the most reduced form of hitting on someone. In fact, car honking is not even about the other person. Its a power thing, and this is old news but it still happens so... yeah.
   When I was in my early teens I remember being flattered and feeling kind of excited when someone honked their horn at me while I walked through the street, better yet when someone leaned out their window to yell some incomprehensible thing at me as they drove by. I felt like it was about me. It wasn't about me. It wasn't about me when I was sixteen and its not about me now.
   When someone honks their horn or hurls drive-by pickup lines at someone else its about the person performing the act, and no one else. There is a reaction but there is no response, nor is the response anticipated. Nobody ever gets out of their car to be like, "Oh hey, in case you didn't hear me, I think your ass looks bomb in those jeans".
   Half the time when I've been heckled from a moving vehicle, my face is not even a thing. Its usually dark out, and all it has to do with is recognizing a female form and dominating that person with one-sided verbal expressions. It has nothing to do with anything except power. Its all fun and games for the person yelling, all the while it draws attention to the female form being objectified. For a woman walking alone at night, that is often not a good thing. When you holler shit at a girl for the sake of your own whatever, what you do is draw attention to her in a way that diminishes her physical power not only to you and her, but to those around her as well and you don't know who those people are, and what that woman's situation is. I'm not suggesting that this kind of objectification only happens to women, but on the level of physical prowess, I think it's important to recognize the gender difference.
   Bottom line: what may seem harmless and even a rite of passage, can be detrimental and borderline frightening in the worst (but totally forseeable) circumstances.

Shallots

What are shallots and why would I ever have them lying around?

Billy Talent

   Unlike all other PG-13 punk memes from my youth, Billy Talent has not remained in my past. I like to think that my soul is forever bound to the soft punk band, because of how relevant they remain in my personal and social lives.
   I've been thinking about them a lot recently because they're touring and I legitimately tried to finagle free tickets via the magic of Twitter when they were in Montreal. Twitter did not respond magically however, and all I got was one favourite from a stranger. Any other day that would have been satisfactory, but when compared to a free ticket to see Billy Talent, one measly favourite is small beans. I know a guy who claimed to have VIP backstage passes and when he told me that, I knew the true meaning of jealousy and hatred. That's saying something because a number of love interests have left me for other girls in my life!
   Speaking of gentlemen, I have noticed a near-scientific spike in the frequency of a given guy talking to me after I have expressed my love for Billy Talent-- contrary to popular belief, talking about bands you've held onto since middle school is not the biggest cock block known to man!
   The admittance of my love for Billy Talent is probably as honest and genuine as I have ever been known to be. I can think of three guys off the top of my head who have said they want to take me to a Billy Talent concert, and I know I could remember more if you put a gun to my head. It's a slippery slope though, because while these guys may not have been serious, my expectations have been entirely sincere and the fact that I have never seen Billy Talent live remains one of the greatest disappointments of my entire life.

Tips For the World's Best Selfie

   I notice that a popular trend in blogging has been to give people tips on how to take the perfect selfie. I love trends, but even more, I love people and seeing them succeed! So I would like to add my two cents. Or three cents if I can! Ha! Ha! For all the fellas rolling old school out there, a selfie is a beautiful photograph that a person takes of him or herself. It's a cool thing to do and implies that you are an intelligent career-oriented person!
   1. Okay! First tip! You're going to want to make sure you're in the washroom when you take your selfie because a toilet is a really awesome prop. It boosts a picture, adding a sense of mystery- whats in there? We may never know!
   2. Some noobs make the mistake of looking into the camera when they take their selfies. For that perfect selfie, what you're gonna want to do is look into your own reflection of the mirror you're standing across from. That way you can keep an eye on yourself and make it look like there were interesting things transpiring as the picture was taken, that distracted you from actually looking into the lens.
   3. It helps if you have the exposed length of your forearm in the shot. Sex appeal.
   4. Always take the picture from above. ALWAYS. It is your best angle for sure. You want to elongate your forehead as much as possible. Anything five finger and above will get you at least twenty private Facebook messages from future boy/ girlfriends.
   5. Again, can't stress the bathroom enough.
   6. When you caption your photo, it's best if you do it with song lyrics. Preferably something that people will recognize, but not be able to understand in relation to the picture. Like a good Panic! At The Disco title. Or maybe an All American Rejects lyric. Anything to do with the rain is a safe bet.
   There you have it. Just six simple steps to literally having THE BEST selfie imaginable.

Has Technology Gone Too Far? I Just Wanna Know Who's on First.

   Remember how I wrote that enrapturing post about my job? Well I got a new job wherein (get this!) I sit at a desk and do the same task over and over again! A job is a job, I ain't hatin'.
   At my new job, I'm allowed to listen to music or whatever quietly and not on headphones and since I can't trust my iPod on shuffle (I have an unexpected amount of Odd Future and other things that middle-aged, racist women would not love to hear) that rules out music for me. I could download podcasts I guess, but all the podcasts I listen to are NSFW in some way of other. So I decided I could listen to baseball games. I like baseball a lot. The Toronto Blue Jays are supposed to do well this year. Also Brett Lawrie's got a cute butt.
   The issue I am encountering is that the ideal device for listening to baseball games is a radio and all I've got is an iPod that gets wifi. Okay, cool, just gotta get me a sweet sports app. I could probably do some research and get the appropriate stuff to listen to games. This is 2013! My fingertips are here!
   Problem though. I can't access the wifi at work. I assume this is a precaution taken by management to ensure that actual work is being done while people are "working". I find myself in a strange situation now where my technology is too advanced for my purposes. I just want a radio. Preferably something that was once a prize in a cereal box in the late 70's. Something with as few knobs as possible because, I am versed in Microsoft Excel, Outlook and Word however, I think a radio would give me difficulty.

William Butler Yeats ft. Sunglasses

   W.B Yeats was all like, "Irish revival? Get me my shades because we about to touch the sky."

Its 420 and Your Life's Still a Joke

Print off this brief questionnaire and circle the appropriate responses.

Are you thirteen? YES  NO

Did you make a Facebook status/ tweet about how pumped you were for 420 either today, yesterday or last week? YES  NO

Have you been counting down the days in some kind of organized fashion i.e calendar, alarms etc? YES  NO

Is this better than Christmas and/or Hanukah or whatever it is that you like to celebrate on your spare time? YES  NO

Did you make a Facebook status/ tweet while you were stoned? YES  NO

Did you take a picture of you and your bong? YES  NO

Did you actually attend a march with a political mandate? YES  NO

Or did you just hang out in that park near your house? YES  NO

Did you go check out those three for one President's Choice oven pizzas? YES  NO

Did you spend more than forty-five minutes in the grocery store at all? YES  NO

Your life is still a joke. YES

So I Saw Spring Breakers.

 Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
   I was thinking of ending the post after all that laughter, but I have too much to say about Spring Breakers to stop there.
   To postscript the laughter and preface the cinematic criticism you should know that I will tune in and watch anything on TV. Like, the worst of the worst, reality TV, you name it I admit to having watched at least three episodes (plus six more episodes that I would not admit to watching but definitely did). So, yeah, I watch a lot of shit. But Spring Breakers is not even Bachelor Pad bad. It's not even Rock of Love, or Rock of Love Bus bad. It's just plain bad.
   Luckily I went with a friend on a giftcard and I had a lot of M&M's to steady me throughout the movie. But I was shocked to learn, after leaving the theatre, that people are seriously considering this movie as a commentary on pop culture and race and feminism and all those big words that get you Oscar noms. Not that anybody is saying Gucci Mane is going to get nominated for Best Supporting Actor 2013 (yeah, Gucci Mane is casually in Spring Breakers. Take. it. in.)
   I've already sacrificed ninety-four minutes of my life to this movie, so I'm not going to do a lot of research on the entire career of Harmony Korine as a filmmaker. It's just not in my plans for the evening, sorry. I just wanna say though that just because you put butts and guns in a movie, does not make it a commentary on anything. This movie being a statement film is kind of like having a Double Gulp slushie and trying to pass it off as water because, hey, a percentage of it is ice which is water so... yeah.
   The only redeeming things about this movie are 1. When you realize Gucci Mane is Gucci Mane, and you excuse the fact that you literally cannot understand anything he says in the entire movie 2. When Selena Gomez or the other one says "All this money is making my pussy wet" and you spit M&M's everywhere because never was a less relatable thing ever said ever 3. When the only way to remain entertained after the first one second of the movie is to softly whisper "James Franco" after everything James "Alien" Franco says. And imagine him "showing up" to "teach classes" at Columbia.
   My theory is that you need to consume as much drugs and/or alcohol as the girls do in order to enjoy any aspect of Spring Breakers.

Snapchat

   Maybe I just live in a bubble, but does anyone actually use Snapchat to sext? Hear me out. I am aware the it's an app explicitly designed for sexting. The number of times I've heard it directly explained as such ensures that this is simply common knowledge, and I get that. However, every time someone explains it to someone who doesn't know what it is, the explanation is alway followed with a "but"; "but I just use it to send double chin pics to my friends", "but I just use it to take pics of me and my cat" etc.
   I know a ton of people with Snapchat, and none of them actually use it for its true purpose. It's like mouth-wash. Listerine was meant to be mouth wash. But homeless people and teenagers had different plans for it, and thats just nature's way. Snapchat is like that I think.

Adult Fun

   I was hanging out at a family friend's house recently because my mum was staying there while she was in town. I got there at around 11:30 in the nighttime because my mum's bus didn't get in until late. It was pretty far past my bedtime so I was not really participating in the conversation and ended up just observing the hilarious conversations of adorable adults. 

   I don't know if all adults are like this, but if so, I really hope to be one some day. Within moments of being in the kitchen my mother flew to the door (door leads onto an enclosed terrace). She proceeded to  shower our family friends with compliments the way one might do to the proud parents of a newborn babe. It wasn't just my dear sweet mama though. Our friends crowded round the door (with some difficulty, I might add, because the door was wedged between my seat and a counter), gingerly pointing out the delicate intricacies of the door. 

   It just looked like a door to me, but I guess you develop a more refined design palette with age and homeownership. I simply do not know about these things yet. I'm surprised my mum didn't cover my ears and whisper, "She's too young".

   Anyway, this door had some sort of extreme blinds built into it and all you had to do was press down on a thing and the blinds closed. It was almost sensual. Like dimming the lights. 

   I hope that when I'm an adult (if it ever happens) I will get similar satisfaction from a new door. To be real, I'm jealous because youthful kicks are getting exhausting. I want to see a door, be one hundred percent stimulated and then be in bed by seven pm. 

Top 5 Things I do at "Work"

   I work as a receptionist at one of the offices in my university. I literally do nothing. One time I taught someone how to use the photocopier. It was the most rewarding experience I've had in a while. My best moment in the office ever was when no one else was here one night, and I was feeling sick because I'd taken my coffee with cream like a goddamn idiot (I know I'm lactose intolerant, why do I try to play god?) and I unzipped my pants and lay on the floor of the photocopy room in the dark while my stomach rocked a symphony of grumbles. Here are the five things I do most regularly at work:

1. Look out the window which faces into the hall and watch people approach the office with a confused face and will them not to come in. Sometimes I actually mutter "no, no, no" under my breath until they are actually right infront of me speaking their words in my face.
2. Facebook.
3. Answer the phone and tell people that I don't have the authority to do whatever they are asking of me and tell them to call back when my supervisor is in the office.
4. Look into the fridge and see if any of my co-workers have grapes or some kind of food that I can take some of without them noticing.
5. Make personal photocopies. I'm pretty sure I have broken even with the cost of tuition in making so many photocopies.

The Delete Button is a Lie Always

   I am really excited for the general election of national leaders in about ten years. When I think of all the incriminating things that people do and how explicitly documented all of those things have become with recent technological advancements I think the tabloid industry is going to be the place to be in the upcoming decade.

   I know my friends have career-damaging photos of me. Lucky for me, prime minister is only my backup plan in case writing doesn't work out. For real though, there are going to be a lot more dick pics of the future presidents readily available for voters. Maybe that will be a good thing for some candidates, I don't know.

   I tend to think of the collective delete button of everything on the internet and computer-related as the mouth of this amorphous pit. I don't believe that anything is ever truly deleted from a computer or internet source. There are definitely dudes who travel through the chasm of computer slush in wetsuits retrieving incriminating photos and messages, just waiting to cash in on it. 

   They might not wear wetsuits, but they definitely exist. On one hand, the thought of this makes me want to pee my pants and retreat into Antarctica and eat nothing but snow for the rest of my life. But then I remember the silver lining in all of it: it's going to make such. good. TV. 

Poetry Readings (Woah There, Don't Get Too Excited)

   So I went to a magazine launch the other night which featured five readers, some did poetry and others read fiction. I feel like it's important to support my peers through attending such events, even though readings are not really my thing.
   Anyway, if you've ever been to a reading, you know there's certain etiquette. If you can help it, don't enter the room as someone is reading because it's loud and distracting and takes away from their moment. Also, don't talk on your cell phone. You wouldn't do it in a movie theatre, so don't do it at a live performance where everyone is mostly silent. That kind of stuff.
   But I had this weird moment where I went to the washroom at the start of someone's reading, effectively trapping myself in there until they were done because I feel like there is nothing ruder than flushing a toilet in the middle of someone's poetry. The reading was in a pretty small venue, and the washrooms were single person washrooms so I was concerned about the soundproofing. It was one of those "my awkward life" times when I left the washroom and there was a lineup, and people probably thought I had a bowel problem when really, I was just standing in there twiddling my thumbs and scrutinizing my hair in the mirror for ten minutes.
   It would appear that poetry reading etiquette does not coincide with bathroom etiquette.

Thoughts On Moving Across the World

   One of the best parts of moving to Glasgow is that I will feel closer to One Direction.

Dead Guys with Sunglasses

   Do you ever try to pursue serious activities on the internet, but then it just turns into MS painting sunglasses onto portraits of dead poets?

Alexander Pope? More like Alexander DOPE! Dude wrote an epic and he knew it was gonna rock. OWN IT GIRL.

About Dancing

   My dance moves are depressingly similar the movements that I make when I step into the shower and the water is too hot and I'm trying to turn down the hot water while putting the smallest percentage of my body under the offensive stream. We've all been there. Except I apparently like to revisit that when I'm pon de dancefloor.
   Maybe it's a muscle memory thing. I get pretty sweaty at the clubs, so its almost as if I've been in the shower. My body just automatically goes for that arms-half-raised-shifting-side-to-side-awkward-faced movement. Maybe I should make a music video that will hopefully take off, Soulja Boy style.
   Now I'm just Googleing pictures of Soulja Boy and let it be known that he is not bad looking, and were it not for the face tattoos and the pitiable rap career I would be awkward hot shower dancing in his general direction.

Slow Walkin'

   I feel like 90% of my youth is being spent waiting behind slow walkers. Hey girl, why you gotta rush, is something you might say to me. Stop and smell the roses, is something you would continue to say as an extension of your original thought. Jokes on you because I have never lived in an area where the air quality was even remotely good enough to grow roses.
   Maybe I would walk more leisurely if there were beauteous things to see, or even a new Starbucks to check out. But there aren't so I don't. In fact, I could potentially be putting myself in harm's way just by spending time outside downtown. Do you know about pigeons, the airborne poop machines? Anyone who is outside for more than twenty seconds in the downtown core is asking for it. Do I look like one of those chumps? No, I do not.
   Also, here in Canada we are experiencing a lovely winter this spring. I leave my apartment in a jean jacket, and by the time I'm coming home its snowing. The slowpokes best be getting out of my way because there is nothing mama hates more than being dressed inappropriately for the weather.
   For any or all of those reasons at any given time my internal dialogue consists of me shouting "while we're still young!!" at the person ahead of me. I don't care if you're a little old lady or just a dude who's wearing his pants too low- there is no place for slow walkers in or around campus!

What Does a "Kind Face" Look Like???

   In my program, I happen to read and write a lot of amateur fiction writing. It's awesome and I love it most of the time. You could even say it is one of my passions, although my cynical disposition does not lend itself well to being passionate about anything.
   Having read a variety of fiction and poetry over the year I feel the need to address this thing that writers do called Kind Face Syndrome. People will write stuff like, "Stewart had a kind face". I'm sorry, but I will pay someone money to give me a airtight definition of what that looks like. I don't think kind faces exist outside of poorly written fiction. I could see a kind voice maaaaybe. But even then it's like, get a better adjective, this is 2013 for god's sake!
   Kind faces have plagued my existence this year. I can't even think of an example of what I would imagine to be a kind face. Mother Teresa perhaps?

   I wouldn't even say that she looks particularly kind. I would say thats more of a tired face. Someone get that lady a soft cushion and an Us Weekly.

   Okay, so if not MT then who else? Anne Hathaway? She's pretty placid and complacent and she always seems kind in interviews. 

   Okay, admittedly I started writing this with the conceit that there is no such thing as a kind face, and at first I thought Ms. Anne had proven me wrong. Girl's got the closest thing I've ever seen to a kind face. But the more I started scrutinizing photos of Anne Hathaway's face (PS my browser history is going to be weird for the next person who uses this computer!), the more I realized it's just a face. In fact, she looks a little uncomfortable in a lot of pictures. In this one she looks especially perturbed. Also, what is she wearing??? Enough of this though, this is not another shit on Anne Hathaway piece, we move on! 

   Who even else is there in the world? And how could we possibly get more saccharine than Mother Teresa AND Anne Hathaway? What about a lil kitten, would that do it?

   Oh goodness, look at how precious! Look at its little feet! And its little pointy ears! See how it frolics! And its whiskers! Its! Whiskers! Yes, the kitten is far more adorable than Anne Hathaway and even Mother Teresa BUT does this kitten exude kindness from its furry little pores? Would this kitten lend me five dollars? Would this kitten give me free cocaine just because it wants me to have a fun night? Would this kitten give me its last tampon? I'm looking at its face and I just. can't. tell. 

   Okay, lets try one more for good luck. It seems that women and animals are out. But what about men? Whats that you say, all men are swine? Touché! Okay, lightning round, here we go: Joe Jonas. No! One step further, I say! All Jonases on deck! Triple threat! Show us the kind faces!

   No. Just, no.

   Alriiiight so I guess if you're looking for someone with a "kind face" you'll just have to picture Anne Hathaway from here on out. Sorry if I've ruined the creative illusion. But hey, there are worse things than Anne Hathaway, right... Right? Sorry, that was mean. I'll stop now.

PS Stay tuned for upcoming piece entitled "Things That Are Worse Than Anne Hathaway"

PPS I don't even dislike her that much I'm just a sheep! A sheep, I say! 

Sofa Shopping

   There is a special place in hell for people who force oppressed persons (like their children) to go sofa shopping with them. Maybe "hell" is too harsh, considering that I don't want my beloved parents to go to that place, but I think we can all agree that sofa shopping is some kind of cruel and nefarious punishment.
   When I was roughly fourteen my parents decided it was time for a new sofa. And they made me come with them. For two consecutive weekends. This might not sound that bad. Picture this: driving through Scarborough (raaaaatchet) in the unseasonably cold April weather, hitting up every Leon's imaginable (why are there so many out there? Only god knows) all under the guise of being a "family adventure". There is nothing adventurous about a brown pleather sofa. There is nothing family-oriented about it either. If anything, more families have been torn apart through the process of trying to acquire new living room sets than anything other leading cause of divorce and/ or estrangement.
   Over the course of those two weekends I learned more about human relationships than I have ever learned. Like if you're looking carefully enough, you can literally read on a person's face the precise moment they become totally fed up with something. Also, I'm pretty sure furniture stores are one of those few places on earth where people lose all social standards and will blatantly yell at people around them.
   For me, the weirdest part about being taken sofa shopping was that I had to go despite rarely being consulted and whenever I was actually asked for an opinion it was more a formality. Rightly so, as a very G-rated punk, what did I know about the benefits of suede versus imitation suede versus imitation imitation suede. Eventually I just started saying I liked everything and can we go now. There were no responses.
   The very worst part of it all was that after all this deliberation and field research, the prospective sofas just festered in my parents' brains until they came to some conclusion on their own that I was not a part of. Which would have been fine with me were it not for the thirty-six plus hours of my life that had already been sacrificed to the sofa shopping gods. For the record, I'm still waiting for those gods to send me something good.

Slow Your Roll, La Senza Bag

   This one goes out to all the ladies who have ever been to La Senza and all the drag men- whether you  were searching for the latest addition to your drag ensemble, or you were literally dragged there by a female companion. If you are in any of these categories you know how fantastically ridiculous La Senza is. It's like Victoria's Secret's little sister who catches onto all the trends a little too late and doesn't  completely rock them right even when she does catch on.
   The absolute most ridiculous part of La Senza does not even occur as part of the actual shopping experience. The worst part of La Senza is the goddamn bags they give you. If you've never seen a La Senza bag, be advised that your retinas will die a little if you ever do. They're the most extra. They are black with bright pink polka dots, pink tissue paper reaching out from inside like a ridiculous, over the top little fire, with the La Senza logo emblazoned on the side.
   Not that buying underwear is a shameful thing, everyone wears underwear, and if you don't you are the weird one, not me. There is something to be said for even the slightest amount of subtlety though. As I walk home through the crowded streets downtown, La Senza bag beating against the masses, I might as well have a big sign that reads "I BOUGHT SOME UNDERWEAR JUST NOW" and probably have a timed announcement attached to my face that says something similar.
   The worst part is that it sets up an implication. An underwear bag that is black and pink suggests very different purchases than a bag that is a normal color. Like beige, or even blue. Or anything that doesn't burn your eyes out, really. I remember walking into my residence and getting into an elevator full of dudes I lived with and it was weird for me. Again, ain't no shame, but if you had seen me in the elevator that day with my bag, and then later that night in my nude, full-coverage brasier I think you probably would have been disappointed with the reality of my purchase.
 

One Dinner, Two Dinner, Three Dinner, Poor.

   Help! I'm caught in a dinner wormhole and I am powerless to stop it. It is the worst of both worlds: I can't satisfy my hunger and as a result I might as well literally be eating a hole in my wallet.
   I can think of so many more counterintuitive ways to get rid of my money that would be less damaging to my waistline. I could just feed twenty dollar bills into the floor vents and wait for the billowing smoke of wasted money to fill the room. I've already got that going on in a metaphorical way, but it would be especially poetic if I could breathe it in for realsies.
   Buying cocaine and sprinkling a fine layer of it along public surfaces would be a more efficient way to waste money too. That way I'm being more generous but in a subtle way. People won't even know they've got coke on their hands! What fun!
   Or I could just wipe my butt with money. That would be good too.
   I feel like I am describing Charlie Sheen's actual life right now, and to be real, Charlie is probably looking leaner than I am right now, which I'm sure is a direct result of having appropriate ways to waste his money.