"Bookstore"

   Gather round children and I'll tell you a story of a girl who went into Chapters/ Indigo with no intention to buy a book. The girl had a 25$ gift-card but had no clear intention of spending it that day. UNTIL she went to the in-store Starbucks and was informed that she could use her gift-card towards the price of a tall no-water chai latte. Upon hearing this fabulous news, the girl exclaimed "fuck books!" a little too loud and proceeded to order.
   Twist: the girl was me.
   Actually though, it was me. Hard to believe, I know. In that instance I effectively and proactively contributed to the increasingly less slow demise of the publishing/ print industry. I was more a part of the problem in that moment than that time I went to McDonald's on Christmas eve.
   Me, as an aspiring writer, opting to spend a fifth of my gift-card on a coffee rather than a book that someone who I potentially idolize wrote is the same as if I had laid down in front of an eighteen wheeler that reads "THE MAN" on the side and let it roll over and kill me. That is what I may as well have done. Totally without a fight, too. It's like in Looper *spoiler alert*. I was Joseph Gordon- Levitt killing my future self, Bruce Willis. But not in a noble, hot-guy way. In a totally superficial, uneducated knave kind of way.
  The next time I find myself in Chapters/ Indigo I have resolved to purchase the first book I see- being careful to check for classic book qualities like a cover, and pages with words, to ensure that I am not in fact buying a candle or a calendar with puppies on it. I will do this willful and impulsive purchase simply to ensure that I am buying a book in a "bookstore". Rather than what I might be, sadly, more inclined towards: to buy a coffee in a "bookstore".

Hackers

   If you are the person who has been hacking into my email then first of all, you can suck a bag of big toes.
   I went to the Apple store today to deal with my internet hacking issues. There was a good-looking young gentleman helping me, so it restored my will to live a little bit more. I use the term "help" in a very loose way because really he just told me that I needed to change my passwords and that would probably fix the problem. He told me to change the passwords for my other accounts too. So in case you're wondering, all my passwords are now variations of buttsbutts69.
   For reals though, feel free to contact me if you want any of my passwords. Even my e-banking password, because all its good for is a chuckle at best. I would be especially happy if you stole my Twitter password and seized control of my account. Please. Take it off my hands. Please let me know what all my small-town friends are up to- how their morning coffees are, what K'naan lyrics best apply to their lives at any given moment, all that really pressing information.
    Legitimately, I don't know what's been going on with people getting access to my phone and internet life. To save us all a lot of time and energy, I wish I could have forewarned all these hackers. I want, for their sake more than mine because they are expecting something out of hacking me, to let them know that I am the least profitable human being. Literally the most treasured documents on my computer are my Microsoft Paint photo edits. The best part of my bank account is that one time when I got a statement for 66.66$. The most worth-it Facebook hack would be to check out the picture of me on the toilet which is only posted in a private group. I'm sure if my antagonists knew this, they would just skip the trouble. Maybe hack Bill Gates. Or Rihanna.

Happy Protests

   I think people need to have some more happy protests. People in Quebec are always protesting something and its never a happy thing. Everybody's taking time out of their busy schedules to advertise how unpleased and/or oppressed they are but nobody ever talks about when they're glad.
   Just one time, I'd like to see a group of enthusiastic youths parading down the street bearing signs that say "We're feeling good today" or "The future's looking bright, guys!". I think that would be a good thing and it would make old ladies smile.
   If you got a group of people together you could get a full march going. You guys could pass out cookies or York mint patties- stuff that will make people happy life you. I would suggest blowing bubbles or some shit, but I think if I saw that it would make me grumpy unless I was in a Wes Anderson film. Rhythmic gymnastics would be a cool thing though, because who doesn't love leotards?
   As part of your happy protest you could hurl compliments at people as you walked around. People love to hear about how good they look- more so from strangers than from people they know.
   If you've got a happy rich guy in your midst, I'm sure no one would be opposed to receiving free money. I don't want to get carried away with greed, but I thought I'd float the idea out there.
  In the words of someone who said it once, "life is like a box of chocolate" and it's true sometimes you  get stuck with a cherry liqueur and you're sad about it. But other days you might get a peppermint truffle or strawberry creme and feel like a million bucks. I don't think it'd be insensitive to voice your excitement on a peppermint truffle day. In fact, I would like to read your placards on any given day if you're zealous enough to make them. I think that would be fair.

Raisin Bran

   Raisin Bran is the kingpin of the cereal mob. It knows it too. It's rocking that purple box and not giving two fucks about it. Its got 2 scoops *insert joke about 2 chainz here*. It just balls so fucking hard.
   Its got bran and raisins both of which are healthy but just a little bit of sugar to make it exciting. Raisin Bran is a grandpa cereal too, which makes it naturally aligned with some sort of patriarch.

Fuck Police, The

   Today I passed by some graffiti that said "fuck police". So now I'm thinking that that's the career I aspire to; the Fuck Police, regulators of physical intimacy. Its the perfect job for me since I hate PDA and like to insert myself into awkward situations so I can retell the experience to party guests so that I seem interesting.
   I just imagine the Fuck Police cruising up to some cheap motel on a Saturday night and walking up to the front desk to question the receptionist, "Fuck Police here. There are a couple staying here who were seen out to a fancy dinner earlier tonight, chocolates were exchanged, an eye-witness claimed that the gentleman paid for the meal. There were reports of footsie beneath the table. We have reason to suspect we've got an anniversary on our hands, somewhere between two and six years. We're going to need the couple's room number for further inspection." At this point my partner and I would stealthily run down the hall armed with flashlights, and whistles- something less menacing than a gun but more menacing than a stone-cold glare.
   We'd approach the room and lean up against the wall on either side of the door, listening for noises from within. Sex noises. At that point we would signal to each other and I'd kick in the door, yelling "Fuck police! Everybody freeze! Depending on how compromising the situation was, my partner and I would throw condoms (serve and protect) at the startled lovers and then we'd probably leave. Moment ruined, courtesy of the Fuck Police.

Early Shame

   I have never been able to adequately express how I was as a young child to anyone. I've been trying to pinpoint what- I think- made my early childhood unique from the other early children around me. My immediate loner status upon exiting the womb is not unique enough- lots of kids are unpopular. The fact that I was shy to the point where people might question my mental wellbeing is also not definite enough apparently. Not even that despite this outward fear of everything and everyone, there was a deep-rooted early cynicism taking hold of my tiny tiny psyche is enough, because nobody knew it was there but me.
   I realized the other day, one relatable thing that made my childhood the precise sniblet of what my life is today, is that as a child, shame was a very real thing. The concept of shame was not unknown to me. Although I probably didn't know, or at least wouldn't have been able to vocalize what that even meant, I had a legitimate awareness of the feeling of shame.
   Personal anecdote! One time, at daycare during nap time, I stuck a bead up my nose. I don't know why. I was usually a very level-headed five year-old, so I cannot begin to explain this temporary lapse in judgement. As you can imagine, the bead only became further wedged in my nasal passage, the harder I tried to free it. I became more and more aware of the direness of the situation as I lay on my cot in the darkened room. Normal kids might have cried, or worried about sucking the bead up into their brains- normal irrational kid reactions. I, however, was concerned about the duration of the nap, and what would become of me socially (already being unpopular in preschool and daycare alike) if the lights were to come up and I was just sitting there with a bead in my nose. If I'd had a swiss army knife, I probably would have cut my nose off for fear of shame. In that moment, it would have been an apt sacrifice.
   In case you're wondering, I got the bead out somehow and was not awarded a sticker after nap time (which was very unusual what with me having no friends to distract me from awesome behaviour during nap time). My daycare supervisor said it was because I had been visibly "fooling around" or some shit.
   This was the earliest instance of shame and regret that I can remember from my life. The sticker situation that followed was probably my first run-in with rejection- what would soon become a running theme in my youth.

Dating Rich Guys

   I'd like to date a rich guy one time. We don't have to go out for too long- unless we like each other like that. I'm trying to accumulate life experiences while I'm young, like going somewhere far away, and painting my nails muted colours. I think the rich guy is next on the list.
   I feel like my plan could potentially be met with some criticism though. I hear all the wet blankets out there being like, "you can't use someone for their money. Thats evil, scorpion woman!" To all those wet blankets I ask you to look at it from the other end of the spectrum. I'm not the only girl who has ever wanted a rich guy to take her out. Similarly, I'm sure there's a rich guy out there who is like, "wow, I just want an awesome poor girlfriend."
   For me, its mostly about dressing up and eating scalloped potatoes and not having paper napkins. For him, it would probably be a wonderfully fulfilling cultural experiment and maybe he could even get community service hours for the duration of our relationship. I don't see anything wrong with that.

Children's Turtlenecks

   Why do they even make turtlenecks for children? Trying to yank that shit off a kid's head is torture for all parties involved. Are the fashion possibilities of a turtleneck worth the risk of pulling your kid's head clean off his/ her shoulders?

   As I grappled with this question- between intervals of considering whether it would be acceptable to cut the small child out of his turtleneck- I also wondered, why turtleneck?

   Children's necks aren't even that long. And if you've ever seen a kid eat, you know that the space between their chins and shirt collars quickly become insulated with bits of fallen food. Nature's turtleneck, as they say. 

Being "Alone" on Valentine's Day

   The first thing I did this morning, it being Valentine's Day, was to roll over and start the day off right with my boyfriend Laptop. I lay in bed (didn't even sit up) and updated my FB status to: I'm never alone because food. Then I literally laughed out loud to myself (still lying in bed) about how funny the word "food" is. So yeah, I think it's going to be a pretty great day.
   But actually, this is the first time in two years that I will be "alone" on Valentine's Day. Realtalk here, I'm kind of excited. That's not to say that the gentlemen I was seeing this time last year and the year before didn't do a great job at being gentlemen, it's just that I'm really d to be on my own. Every year, people throw a lot of shade at Valentine's Day, saying stuff like "you're alone everyday of the year, why are you complaining today?" For the most part, I agree with that statement. However....
   Since when am I alone? I have three killer roommates who never leave me hanging. I literally am almost never alone in that way. I've made some really great friends in my classes this year (overcoming crippling shyness aaawww yeah). I receive so much mail from my mother I probably make the mailman jealous. And I have like 400 FB friends to lurk (and thats not even that many by FB standards)! But because I don't have a boyfriend right now, I'm alone? That shit, I don't mind saying, is cray. Also, just because I'm not going steady with anyone, doesn't mean the next men aren't bout it bout it.
   But lets forget about the next men for a minute. Yesterday was Galentine's Day (see Parks and Recreation, episode 2.16). My roommates and I had our lady bros over for a night of cupcakes, donuts, banana bread, more cupcakes, cookies, more cookies, cool whip, salad (?), and card exchange. It was great, and now I'm fat. Galentine's Day set me up pretty nicely for Valentine's Day though. I got to see all my lady bros and fill myself with junk food so there is no part of me that is alone or empty right now.
   But what do I do if I don't have any friends, you say? Well, if you don't have any friends then you should go to the Google homepage and entertain yourself with that for a while. THEN you should read my blog in its entirety. Once you're done that you could write a paper on it if you want. If you follow all these steps, it should probably cure you of feeling lonely, and more importantly make you realize that the company of someone else's thoughts is not all its cracked up to be and now you appreciate the value of being "alone".

Heavenly Hash

   One time I did hash by accident. It was totally not a threatening situation, and if you understand anything about me by now, you know that the idea of me on a drug(s) is hilarious. This post isn't just about my less-than glamorous run-ins with drugs though, its about my true drug of choice. My drug spirit animal, if you will: ice cream.
   What the fuck even is heavenly hash? I just ate some, and I still don't really know what it is/was. My best guess is marshmallow, chocolate and almonds. Why does that make it heavenly or hashy though? I mean, it was good, but it wasn't PC vanilla chocolate crackle, lets just leave it at that. The "hash" is particularly confusing though.
   After doing minimal research I have learned that hash is synonymous with "mess" or "mix-up". Heavenly mess. Sounds like a weird orgy. I'm going to argue that the creators of heavenly hash had their heads up their butts when they were naming this flavour. It seems probable.
   In french, heavenly hash is called "délice royal", which loosely translates to royal delish. Please note that this is nowhere near the literal words heavenly or hash. It seems like a rather subjective stance for an ice cream flavour. It seems to assert that the eater will like the flavour, and sure, there's nothing I can really fault it on, but heavenly is a strong word.

Sundays

   Its Sunday, and everything sucks. On any given Sunday night, roughly ninety thrillion people are sitting around, picking dried food out of the grooves in their keyboards with the handle end of a spoon. Everyone who was yelling "yoloswag" at the top of their lungs in the lobby of their walk-up is not moisturizing their hands while staring at a blank Excel document. People are wishing that Facebook was more entertaining so that they can hide from the vapidity of their real lives.
   On Sundays there are so many other things that you should be doing but you would rather torrent the entire Celine Dion discography than any of those things-- and thats saying something. You watch tutorials featuring a girl who appears to be wearing a marble loaf on the top of her head, teaching you how to grind in a "classy way"; how to rub your butt in someone's crotch in a tasteful manner. These are things that on Sundays, you decide are of infinite importance.
   You eat roughly six small meals and use the same dinnerware for all of them, without washing in between because you care about the environment, duh. The only thing that stops you from eating more is the naps you need to take periodically, every time you try to pick up a book and read. They don't call it Sunday funday for nothing.

On Being a Free Bitch

   I find myself at a point in my life, where the best way I can describe my general state of being and all ambitions pertaining to it as a "free bitch" or "free bitchly". In this context I am reclaiming the word bitch, so shut-up, you're not my dad. And if you are my dad, what's up, I miss you.
   Some free bitch activities include:
- listening to Nicki Minaj and not apologizing to nobody for it
- wearing dark lipstick because its not fucking springtime outside, so it doesn't have to be springtime in my heart either
- having an "arrangement" (but you have to say it with a french accent) wherein you expand your sexual horizons in the least awkward way possible *sidenote: on time while travelling in France with my father in her youth, my mother was approached by some next man who started trying to throw off the destiny of my birth. When my mum told him she had a husband he said, "do you and your usbind ave an arrangement?????"*
- wearing toe socks. Don't conform to what society deems a "weird" way to wrap your toes.
- being vocal about your crush on the One Direction member of your choice. THIS IS FUCKING CANADA.

   These are just some of the plentitude of free bitch activities you may choose to partake in. They are all more fun with alcohol I'm sure. But free bitching is a sober pursuit as well. Just so you know. But if you wanna do alcohols make sure its something that does crazy shit when you light it on fire. Free bitch!

The Challenge of Babysitting

   The real challenge of babysitting lies not in protecting a child's safety, or even in amusing the child (because the child can play with an empty toilet paper roll for half an hour and be 100% happy). The real challenge lies in food regulation: how much food can I get away with eating?
   There's this bag of assorted small cookies in the pantry across from me. Since I started, I've been taking some every night. Its started off with me taking five or so, and I have limited myself to one tonight because I don't want to be found out of quite literally stealing candy from a baby. You may be saying, its just a cookie; have some self-restraint! And its true, it is just a cookie, and truth be told, I'm not even hungry (because I've been eating the dinner that was left for me). But I have a disorder where I have to eat cookies if they are around. Call it a poison test. I'm taking one for the team.
   This is the challenge of babysitting. Stealing.

The Best Thing I Never Had.

   Following special request, we will be discussing my Pakistani telephone stalker. For the sake of my life being a little bit interesting, I regret to inform you that I have not heard from my friend(s) overseas. For the sake of my sanity, and the ability to actually use my phone, I am not sorry to have lost contact with them. 

   I'm trying not to let it step on my groove though. Despite that voice in the back of my head telling me 'you fat cow, you were just the flavour of the Pakistani minute' I press on, and try to remain confident. I refuse to let this be a testimony about my ability to hold a man's attention in general. I am a fighter! In the words of Ke$ha, "boys blowing up my phone", alas it is no longer. But I will persevere, and not let my ego get crushed under the weight of never knowing what might have been of the mystery man from overseas. It had so much potential to be the best-- no. I can't think like that. No good will come from it. 

   But oft I wonder if he ever thinks of me. If he ever sits in his Pakistani house/ apartment/ upper west side condo thinking of me: the nameless, country-less lady, whose voice he only heard once, at nine a.m declaring the first and last words of our bittersweet missed connection, "who is this? I think you have the wrong number". 

Pacman Appetite

   As someone who is an experienced gamer, as in I sat awkwardly on couches while boyfriends play video games, I can confidently say that Pacman is my spirit animal. Once a month for a weeklong period (pun so intended), I am filled with the spirit of Pacman.
   I literally transmogrify into an eating machine with unparalleled mandible strength. My stomach becomes a vacuum in the truest scientific sense of the word. Go on, try to call me on it, and I will invite you to go to all-you-can-eat sushi, and we'll see who's exaggerating! My stomach is probably a worm-hole. One end is my stomach, the other is a black hole. What I'm getting at, is that Pacman is the only one who understands. And maybe every other woman who has ever gone through menses... which is every woman ever.
      I often wonder, at times like these, how Pacman keeps his figure. What is the caloric value of the yellow circles? How can I get on the yellow circle diet? Maybe it has more to do with the fact that he is constantly exercising, which I am definitely not doing. The time slot in which I usually go to the gym is currently occupied with trips to the grocery store to buy Rolo ice cream.
   The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that Pacman and Pacwoman are one in the same. I think Pacman is just Pacwoman having thrown off her bow in a menstrual rage. It makes sense. No woman with the ol' bleeds (sorry, had to say it, I don't know why) is wearing a bow. Don't nobody got patience for that. Because we're too busy eating everything in sight. Hide yo' fork, hide yo' knife.

Green Eggs and Ham is Really Scary

   I've started this awesome babysitting gig for four nights a week for the next three weeks. It rocks because the child is awesome and loves to sit silently like a little mannequin while I read books to him. Here's the thing that I've realized though: Green Eggs and Ham is the stuff of nightmares.
   Its a book all about succumbing to peer pressure! Sam I Am is a lawless tyrant with no regard for free will or animal rights. He relentlessly forces these eggs and ham onto the Top Hat Guy. Worse still, he is made to eat a full meal while he is swimming in the ocean, after a car crash, train wreck and shipwreck consecutively. The emotional trauma!
   Not to mention that the food itself is fucking green. What healthy eggs and ham are green? None. None healthy eggs and ham are green. Also, for the duration of the story, they have come in close contact with farm animals and exhaust. They are not sealed in an airtight container and are doubtless contaminated while A, B, C, D and E. coli. Did I mention they've been submerged in water too?
   Also, how the fuck is he supposed to eat an entire ham hock with a single fork. He hasn't even been given the proper tools to eat the food. No matter how you slice it, or shove it down with a fork, as the case may be, our hero has just cause to refuse the unsavoury meal.