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.

Stealing Shoes/ Finders Keepers Too Bad So Sad

   Today I had a real adventure. I sat at my dining room table while my roommates and I showed our apartment to people who would like it next year. It was thrilling, and also inspired my creative and mischievous mind.
   These guys came to look at the apartment and me and my roommate were overcome with impishness and inspected their cute boy shoes. They were international students from France so their cute boy shoes were more like cute European boy shoes. I want to stress it was like ninety percent interest in shoes, eight percent interest in whats for dinner, and two percent interest in the boys.
   But then I had this thought: what if I just took one of their pairs of shoes while my roommate was showing the apartment. What would they even do? Inevitably they would be like "Where ees my shoe?" and I would stare at them with a look of adorable inquiry.
   My goal would be to convince him that he came over without shoes on. I don't even care to keep his shoes, but can you imagine what a victory that would be? I also want you to seriously think about what you would do if you came into a seemingly sane and organized young lady's apartment and found yourself without shoes when you left.
   What would you even do???
   I have never felt more powerful than when I have been contemplating this situation. Which maybe is a sad statement about the amount of power I have in my day to day life. After a while, you would have to leave shoeless. Or borrow some plastic bags to wear on your feet on the walk home. But in that situation I would have looked at him like he was insane, because at this point he is the one who is insane because to the mind-fuck victor goes the spoils, am I right?
   Mostly I just don't want to write my essays so I spend my days weighing the chances of convincing people they're insane and waiting to eat foodstuffs. First world problems.

Either The Best or the Worst Essay Ever

   So I'm writing an essay on the Victorian detective novel The Moonstone. You know, that classic tale that I'm sure all of you have read and reread. Sometimes when I'm writing essays, I lose all will to live. In an effort not to throw myself out of my window, sometimes I just gotta be caj about things and then when I reread my essay when editing, I realize that I am the funniest person alive.

   Like, sometimes I just gotta tell it like it is: "Badass Essay". And then when it comes down to actually naming it, I like to be current. Hashtags are appropriate right? Also note: that classic thing when you don't know how to start an essay so you launch into a classic definition of something everyone knows in hopes your prof will appreciate the metaphorical value of it and also your lame creativity.

  

   Also that other classic thing where you mock a character right in the middle of your essay. Sarcasm is formal enough, right?

   And my personal favourite: when you spend half an hour trying to form words and settle on "something something something" in hopes that it will all just come to you. Because really, I'm a Creative Writing Major. It's all about the craft. 

Life Question 2

Are bagels ever not on sale?

Life Question 1

How many pictures of sloths do you have to send back and forth with a guy before it's about more than just pictures of sloths?

Buying Shawties Dranks

   I am probably the most glad that I'm not a dude when I think about having to buy girls drinks. Nobody's forcing anybody to buy anyone drinks, and nobody's saying a lady can't buy a gentleman a drink (I've done it). My point being, I don't want to make a big social issue out of this. My moral capacities are simply not up for it today.
   My personal opinions on being bought a drink are that it's a classic thing, and I like free shit. That being said, I don't think any man is required to buy a girl a drink as a way to hold her in conversation and show her he's interested. I appreciate the risk that is being taken on the part of dudes buying drinks everywhere that you don't know if your lady friend is just using you for a free drink only to ditch you later on. I get it. That sucks. On the flip side of that, no woman is obliged to make out with some next man just because he laid down seven dollars or whatever for a drink. Basically, it's a high-risk situation for everyone!
   Imma just talk about the insight I have gained from the very minimal field research I have done on the subject. It's kind of a weird thing to buy someone an alcoholic beverage as a means of expressing your interest. It's a bit creepy to begin with. But then again, free stuff is free stuff and I don't hate. So I think my first piece of standard advice is that if you're going to buy someone a drink, don't buy them anything especially alcoholic. No triple shots. Just. No. Sends the wrong message. I had a guy buy me a really strong drink that even the bartender said would "fuck me up". And then the guy was joking around and implying that I was a pussy (he didn't use those words, I just can't think of a less offensive way to express it right now) if I didn't drink it. For real, man? I am not a six foot Spanish man, I cannot pound that back and you're not doing yourself any favours by challenging me to keep up with you.
   Needless to say, that guy was not my future husband. That's not to say that it always has to be creepy and weird for someone to buy you a drink. I once had a guy talk to me for like half an hour before he offered to buy me a drink. I feel like that's the best way to rock out, for all parties involved. That way, the two guys, or two girls or guy and girl, can actually see if they like each other enough to warrant even speaking. I feel like its the worst case scenario to buy someone a drink and then realize that you both hate each other. And if you're biding your time before buying someone a drank *launches into rendition of T-Pain's "Buy You a Drank"* and they get bored with you and run off, look at it this way: now you can put that drink money towards buying a sexy drink for yourself. And if you don't end up bringing anyone back to your place, it's probably for the best because 1. you can get a sweet pepperoni slice on your way home, 2. you probably didn't clean your room that morning anyway.
  
  

Bedside Report

   Tonight I will tell you what is on my bedside table and why it is there. 

   - First we got a big ol' water bottle. It's blue and has a logo for a Montreal dentist's office that I've never been to. I stole the bottle from work because it'd been sitting in the photocopy room for over a year. Nobody's asked about it. Last night I think I probably drank a gallon total from it.

   - An glass that is going on being empty for the past two days. I had a friend over who was thirsty, and I am a courteous hostess who obliges with water.

- My indestructible brick phone, because communication is key always.

- My journal, because I have a lot of feelings and trust no one. 

- Alarm clock. Who needs a biological clock when you can have a high quality, battery-operated alarm clock that you got for Christmas over three years ago?

- A lighter. I don't smoke, but I have been lighting a candle a lot over this past weekend because my room smells like stale debauchery.

- An electric fan. I haven't actually used the fan since the summer, and ever day I have this moment where I think, "I should put that fan in my closet tomorrow". But tomorrow has never come yet, and now summer is close enough...

- Sweet-ass Ikea lamp that looks like the future. Special note: it doubles as a jewellery hanger right now. Got some necklaces hanging from it.

- Pencil sharpener. 

- An eraser thats shaped like a pencil that I have gone to sharpen on more than one occasion. 

- A sticky note with a list of literary contests, all of whose deadlines have passed. 

- Post-it note pad with the top note that reads "zippers up the back". One of my three a.m half-asleep creative strokes of "genius".

- My meds without which I would turn into a three headed lizard at the stroke of midnight each night.

- A piece of toilet paper that I keep reusing as a Kleenex. My nose does this thing where it runs a tiny bit every now and then. It's like nose drool.

- A nickel. Probably change from the last time I payed someone for sex.

- Orange earplugs that I no longer use since they've fallen on the floor behind the table before- a place where no broom has yet ventured. 

- A broken hair elastic. 

- Dean of Students lip balm. They give out free lip balm at my workplace. I have so many. It's my strange addiction. 

- Bobby pin. Pretty sure it's there because I've been napping a lot, and because my hair has been especially unwieldy this week. 

- A blue dolphin charm from a friendship necklace, given to me at the beginning of the year. 

- A tiny ball of blue sticky tack from before all my posters were framed.

- Just found another bobby pin under the fan.

So there you have it. That's my bedside table. The more I look over the list, the more I realize it's time to tidy my room.

Hobbies On Bodies

   My most frequently asked question- besides "did you just eat all that cereal?" and "what the fuck are you doing?"- is usually, whats up with your tattoo?
   The tattoo they are asking about it usually the triangle on the back of my arm, above my elbow. Since becoming a badass bitch, with a lot of tattoos, I have realized that the worst part about having tattoos is having to explain what they mean, because my explanations never really live up to what they mean in my head. It's a failing of language, and I don't want to get into structuralist theories here, so usually when people ask about my tattoo I just tell them I really like geometry. Then they laugh and I laugh and sneak away, leaving them with an inquisitive look on their face.
   I was working with this guy over the weekend and we started talking about how certain hobbies are more socially acceptable to ink onto your body for the rest of eternity. Not that you should be caring about social acceptability too much with your tattoos- unless your a closet Nazi, then you should totally care about what is socially acceptable. But I think it's really funny to think about what hobbies passions lend themselves to body art. Like, tattoo artists probably get way more requests for motorcycles than tractors. Here are some more hobbies that do not quite make that leap from life passion to body art, or at the very least, will not help you get laid:
- speed-walking.
- sleep-walking.
- listening to the radio.
- 3-D jigsaw puzzles of American landmarks. There's a lot of tragic irony in that the tattoo would be two dimensional.
- anything that appears on the final page of the comics section in the newspaper- so that includes the jumble, sudoku, crossword and that weird one that looks like the crossword but is not the crossword. And the one with the circles that I'm pretty sure is spy propaganda, not a game that people actually play.
- wallowing in one's own misery.
- lurking in the shadows.
- listening to Massari.

*** I'm a progressive lady who likes to throw shade at the man- only when he's not looking though, because I don't want to burn any bridges. This post has really made me realize how almost anything can be cool if you're creative and give enough shits. So... yeah. Enjoy your weekend. Seacrest, out.***

Rebel Socks

   Sometimes I wear boots. When I wear boots I wear socks underneath. Sometimes a terrible thing happens when I'm wearing socks on my feet and boots on my socks. That thing is called a rogue sock giving up on life and falling down my ankle and ending up squished in the toe of my boot, clean off my foot!
    There is no casual way to pull the sock back up when its scrunched in the toe of the boot. The only way to fix it is to take off the entire boot, expose your bare foot to the world and accept the shame and judgement that comes with it. Most of the time, I'm wearing boots because it's cold, and I don't want to risk being toppled over as I balance on one foot due to a sudden gust of northwesterly wind. Can you imagine how vulnerable you would be? I can see myself- because trust me, it would happen to me- lying facedown in a snowbank, one hand on the rebel sock, my bare foot blending in with the freshly fallen snow.
   Don't nobody got time for that. And since I don't budget my time to make acceptances for socks that are quitters, don't nobody got time to fix it before class either, because don't nobody arrive to class more than two seconds before lecture starts. So then I'm forced to sit in class with my foot cold-sweating directly onto the sole of the boot, stanking up the whole place. It's the stanky leg, but not the dance move, the literal version.

Real Love According to Massari

   Someone once told me that Massari is from Toronto, and I was like, "sweet! Best thing to ever come out of Toronto! Other than that time that the CN Tower had Facebook." But according to Wikipedia, Massari grew up in Ottawa. And we all know that Wikipedia never ever lies.
   I was watching the music video for Real Love by Massari this morning. If you're not familiar with the song, all you need to know is that they key lyrics go like this: "Girl I'm going out of my mind, and even though I don't really know you... Every now and then when I want you, I wish that I could tell you that I want you... It's real love that you don't know about". Firstly, I'm sure we can all agree that the  realest kind of love is the kind that one party is totally unaware of. This confirms every belief I had about love from grade one to ten- you heard me, grade ten. Also the fact that you can be in love with someone who you admittedly "don't really know" confirms everything about love that I currently believe about my will-be relationship with all of One Direction. Last comment on the lyrical genius that is Real Love: I think we're all really glad that Massari has confirmed what he does "every now and then when [he] want[s] you" which is to just say so. Naturally.
   However, the music video shows Massari and the matching-sweatsuit-wearing object of his affection who lives in his building. Massari's attempts to talk to her are always thwarted by stuff like Manny calling. Classic cock-blocking Manny.

God DAMN IT Manny.
   So it's all Massari can do to lean out the backseat of his car (while his driver talks on the phone- is this a commentary about cellular technology??) wearing a purple velvet suit. Marriage material!
  

 
  What is that, a Prius? I'm not throwing shade, I never even learned to drive. Although Massari is in the back so maybe that means he can't either...
   Also, the facial hair. If you've ever seen that "trustworthiness of beards" chart, I'm pretty sure what he's rocking falls between shoplifter and kidnapper.
   Spoiler alert: Massari ends up with the girl of his dreams at the end of the video. Turns out she'd been thinking about him the whole time, but he just never saw, because he was always turning away from her and shit. She fell in love with the back of his bald head. It wasn't even the facial hair that wooed her! The moral of the story is that if you like someone, all you gotta do is look wistful and then one day you'll mack in an elevator and that's love! We've all been doing it wrong. Listen to your grade one (or ten) self more often.

Body Worlds

   Okay, here is a thing. You know Body Worlds, right? It's that travelling exhibition of preserved, real-ass human bodies that you don't know whether to think is really cool or really creepy. I saw both Body Worlds I and II, so I'm basically an expert. The first time I saw it was with my grandma, the second time with my high school science class. First time I thought it was cool, second time I was more weirded out because I imagined the creator of Body Worlds (because they kept referring to it as one single guy who made the whole installation) in his basement laboratory Frankensteining the shit out of some random cadavres.
   Anyway, on my date *takes minute to relish in the fact that she went on a date* we were talking about Body Worlds at one point- and I didn't go all Nancy Drew on him because it was a date, but I have a lot of inquisitions about Body Worlds. My date brought up the fact that once you get to the end of the exhibit they ask if you want to sign a waiver to have your body donated to science of Body Worlds (I'm not sure whether they're specific about wanting to acquire your body for themselves, maybe they only do that for hot people), anyway, this leads me to my question. Presuming you sign the waiver (which may or may not line up with what you feel in your heart- which Body Worlds points out, is just a mass of tissue and organ-stuff-): what exhibits in Body Worlds would you be okay with being put in?
   I should have explained this at the start. For all the n00bs out there; all the bodies are placed in different positions, like soccer-playing, javelin-tossing, horse, and sex. Some of the bodies are split in a variety of ways to show you more organ-stuff- at last, the spleen gets it's moment in the sun! Sometimes there are just brain slices in glass boxes, which is not as show-stopping.
   What I'm getting at here, is that there are the "cool kids" and the brain slices. If I am going to hand my hot bod over to Body Worlds for the rest of eternity and the existence of Body Worlds, I at least want to  be doing something cool. I don't know if I want to be having sex with a corpse I don't know though. What if he was a murderer in life? What if my dad wouldn't approve of him? If my body "lives" on, I at least want my loose morals to do the same.
   Naturally, this makes me think there should be some sort of questionnaire accompanying the waiver, so that the Body Worlds elves can get a sense of your personality and mould your carcass accordingly. In this case, for myself, I would propose and exhibit where my body is swinging from a lampost, saving a bus full of pregnant women bodies (they have that in Body Worlds) from a fire. It would be best if there was some sort of eternal flame in the exhibit, alternatively a sculpture of fire-coloured pipe cleaners.
   At the risk of being asked for a picture of my butt, I would like to ask for opinions. If you've got an opinion, and you're not a computer directed here by a weird keyword search, please holla a comment.

Mouths

   Can we just take a couple minutes to appreciate how weird the human mouth is. It is literally a hole in your face designed to ingest literally anything. The structure of the mouth is fabricated in such a way that it can take the shape of a thin line across the lower jaw, or expand to fill half the space on your face, revealing the inner cavities of gross mouth stuff.
   Like teeth. Teeth are jagged little calcium nuggets that protrude directly from a bone. Their sole function is to mash and shred and get infected.
   The tongue is also another crazy character you will encounter in the human mouth. Simply put, the tongue is a slab of muscle, lined with bumps of varying size. Without the tongue, human people would not be able to form words in speech, preventing them from getting in fights at bars and ordering take-out at the drive-thru.
   Also, saliva. Saliva is a smorgasbord of enzymes to help digest food and anything else that people put in their mouths (get your mind out of the gutter, I meant like Laffy Taffy and candy that is debatably food). The best part about good ol' saliva is that when you swallow it, it travels down a long segmented tube that goes to your stomach- which is like, a big ol' pump for vitamins and gas!
   The fun doesn't end there folks. Oh, no. If you are so inclined, you can get equipment such as sexy piercings and even sexier retainers for your mouth, to make it more desirable! Tongue and tongue web piercings are a cool way to jazz up your mouth permanently, and make your tongue feel fancy- like it's always wearing a hat! Retainers come in many different shapes and sized (some retainers feature miniature elastics, so bits of food that linger in the mouth can perform acrobatics). Some retainers you only wear at night, which basically put them in the same category as lingerie. The best part about retainers though, is how they gel with the rest of the mouth team. Retainers are really good at absorbing mouth smells, so the memory of your night's sleep can live on long into the morning!
   What a wonderous world the human mouth is!

My Date With An Irish Man, Not a Joke For Once

   Yesterday I went on a date with an Irish man. I say he is Irish because he is from Ireland, and I say he is a man because he is eight years older than me. As I have discovered though, you're never too old to make a dead baby joke.
   He is in Canada on business. Because he has a job- a real job, like the kind that people get an annual income from. Also he is provided with a company car when he is away on business- which is sometimes in Singapore, casually. The company in question is Rolls-Royce, by the by. So part of me feels like I need to hold out on this thing until I get picked up in a Rolls-Royce.
   For real though, I'd say the ball is in his Rolls-Royce court after I proved to be utterly incompetent at trivia night. And also made a jokes about stool by accident.
   Stay tuned for the future or not future of my Irish sugar daddy/ chauffeur.

My Life According to Internet Cats

   At any given time I am the most relatable to internet cats. Here's how/ when I feel them:
Maru
   You know that feeling when you walk into the bedroom section of Sears and you need to lie in all the beds. Sears bedding displays are to me what boxes are to Maru.
Oh No No Cat
   When someone who I am not interested in is trying to pick me up and I don't want to be mean about it, but I don't know how to escape. One time I got booty called by a guy who lived in my building, down the hall from me. His line was, "come tuck me in, I'm afraid of the dark". I quickly went offline, turned off all my lights and softly whispered "oh nonononononono".
Lil' Bub
   When I'm really thirsty (potentially hungover) but I don't want to get out of my bed to fetch water and I want sympathy so I just lie there with my tongue out a little and try to look cute in hopes that someone will get me water.
Cobra Cat
   When I'm getting buck to some classic 2000's beats and someone says they don't like Usher and I get all Cobra Cat up on their ignorant behinds.
Nyan Cat
   One time I was in a conference for an Intro to Literary Studies class and it was complete bullshit- but bullshit in the way where I got killer marks so it was okay I guess. There was this really annoying racist girl who was always saying shit like, "dude, I need a smoke right now". Okay racist girl, simmer down.  She was really full of herself. Then she got a D+ on her essay and after class was criticizing the TA's marking scheme and I walked out of the room with my A+ paper and was basically Nyan Cat. I Nyan Catted right in her racist face and did not give two fucks.
Henri
   When there's no good food in my fridge and I'm so so depressed.
Grumpy Cat
   When my prof doesn't pick me when I raise my hand in class. When stupid people whose opinions I don't value say stupid invaluable stuff during my short story critiques. When there are great sales on at the supermarket and then I realize I'm reading the flyer from last week. When I don't win every poetry contest ever. When I don't get invited to a party that all my friends got invited to. When the sales lady at LaSenza offers to bring me a smaller sized bra. When my upstairs neighbours exist. When my downstairs neighbours exist. When Fun beat Frank Ocean for "Best New Artist" at the Grammy's. When there's a couple grinding hard beside me at the clubs. When there's a couple making out hard in front of me in the metro. When there's a couple. When I ask my dad for a drive to a place and he says no. When the kitchen closes at the bar. When concert tickets sell out. When my prospect for the night goes home with some next chick. When they run out of chicken wings on Chicken Wing Thursday. When someone responds to my text with "lol". When I eat a bad carrot.

Population Pants

   I went to this glorious warehouse yesterday. Technically, it's a store, but topographically, it's a warehouse. This jeans warehouse is named "Jeans Jeans Jeans" and they sell them them them.
   This wonderful place is to retail what India is to population density. It is the juggernaut, in case you were confused.
   You walk into Jeans Jeans Jeans, and that is literally all you see wall-to-wall, ceiling to floor. The sales team is a group of street-dressed people who are experts at their merch. You just tell them what you want and wade through the jean sea as they zip back and forth collecting what you want. Its a similar process as you narrow down your search.
   In my case, I was experiencing a microcosm of the population explosion crisis. Population butt could not be contained in surface area jeans. Luckily, the "Jeans Jeans Jeans" staff are a well-oiled Chinese one-child policy.
   It was great. This is one of the only times I have applied grade ten geography class to my life, and it came about in a pretty roundabout way. But hey, I got a new pair of jeans so I don't hate it!