Maybe it's this time of year, maybe it's because I'm hicupping down the slope (and on to better things, kiddies!) of my depression again, but Christmas still makes me feel warm and gushy inside. I don't care who knows it. A woman actually smiled at me for no reason on the street today. And even though an ambulance was at the laundromat last week, probably to pick up the crackhead that sleeps in a chair while I wash my whites, I feel a little relief. Like I have to admit it's getting better.
Not that the holiday BUY BUY BUY frenzy on television and in the stores has me in the best of moods but with no money you kind of have to remove yourself from that nonsense.
I am not religious. I was raised by a self proclaimed Atheist and a man who is as close to Agnostic as I think any of us can get. This isn't about the little baby Jesus. But maybe, when people are winding down this time of year knowing they have some time off soon, maybe they decompress and get their heads out of their holes for a bit. Maybe they look around and smile at a stranger for no reason.
I bought a large red faux-velvet bow for the front door at the Dollarama today. Not sure why. Maybe to offset my reticence to accept that we are going to have an election in this country soon. That there is a possiblity (stranger things have happened)that Harper could run Canada. I don't know.
What I do know, what I want to say to anyone who's reading, is remember what's important. Remember your family and your friends. Remember that there are those that won't be getting a $149 Veloceraptor robot for Christmas.
That's all. Just remember, and give thanks. Peace.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
love is a burning thing
“Bury this bone and take this pine cone,
Bury this bone, to gnaw on it later”
-Joanna Newsome
Let's not start off on a sappy note, shall we? I'm not in the mood.
What I want is to feel the words in my mouth like pebbles and be able to pick out which ones are right. Pick them out, one by one, covered in spit and place them here, so that I can explain. So that I can explain something I don't think I have ever been able to put into words.
If it were you, what would you do? Would you sit and croak and cry and feel sorry for yourself and everyone else who had the unconsciousness enough to approach you? Or would you pull up those bootstraps and put on a pretty face?
Make nicey-nice for the crowd?
I can't tell you what you would do, because I don't know how to answer the question myself.
It's a hard one.
What if love left your life? What if, even though you had the phantom of a memory of love in the back of your head but your skin felt like lead, like dirt, like poison...and you were afraid that even leaving the house would cause you to infect everything?
That just waking up could infect your beloved? The person that brought you this salvation from yourself...That just being in the world at all was what caused floods and earthquakes and tornadoes? Caused people to feel pain and caused people to feel hate? Would this be too much for you? Or would you flip the world the bird and be as strange and sick and harried as you want to?
This has been the state of me. I don't care anymore who reads this...(also I know it is just a handful of people anyway)
I am sick of keeping up appearances. I have the cinders inside me to start something good and bright and mine and everything I do is make steely weapons to keep the monsters away. This fucking depression is not going to get the better of me. Not this time.
So I don't want to get out of bed. So I wish the whole world would just melt into my background...I have important things to savour. I have love to savour, though it has been a tricky beast.
I want to write. But most people don't even know that about me. Why? Because I'm scared. Wimpy little child never wanting to start because she's afraid to fail. Fuck that! I keep saying that I want to write...but what stops me? Nothing...I stop myself...Because I think I'm not good enough or because my mother thinks I should go to secretarial school.. I am too easily defeated. WELL ENOUGH OF THAT.
Welcome, my pretties, to a new age. The only thing I have to thank is love.
Bury this bone, to gnaw on it later”
-Joanna Newsome
Let's not start off on a sappy note, shall we? I'm not in the mood.
What I want is to feel the words in my mouth like pebbles and be able to pick out which ones are right. Pick them out, one by one, covered in spit and place them here, so that I can explain. So that I can explain something I don't think I have ever been able to put into words.
If it were you, what would you do? Would you sit and croak and cry and feel sorry for yourself and everyone else who had the unconsciousness enough to approach you? Or would you pull up those bootstraps and put on a pretty face?
Make nicey-nice for the crowd?
I can't tell you what you would do, because I don't know how to answer the question myself.
It's a hard one.
What if love left your life? What if, even though you had the phantom of a memory of love in the back of your head but your skin felt like lead, like dirt, like poison...and you were afraid that even leaving the house would cause you to infect everything?
That just waking up could infect your beloved? The person that brought you this salvation from yourself...That just being in the world at all was what caused floods and earthquakes and tornadoes? Caused people to feel pain and caused people to feel hate? Would this be too much for you? Or would you flip the world the bird and be as strange and sick and harried as you want to?
This has been the state of me. I don't care anymore who reads this...(also I know it is just a handful of people anyway)
I am sick of keeping up appearances. I have the cinders inside me to start something good and bright and mine and everything I do is make steely weapons to keep the monsters away. This fucking depression is not going to get the better of me. Not this time.
So I don't want to get out of bed. So I wish the whole world would just melt into my background...I have important things to savour. I have love to savour, though it has been a tricky beast.
I want to write. But most people don't even know that about me. Why? Because I'm scared. Wimpy little child never wanting to start because she's afraid to fail. Fuck that! I keep saying that I want to write...but what stops me? Nothing...I stop myself...Because I think I'm not good enough or because my mother thinks I should go to secretarial school.. I am too easily defeated. WELL ENOUGH OF THAT.
Welcome, my pretties, to a new age. The only thing I have to thank is love.
"Seems everything I like's a little bit stronger, a little bit thicker, a little bit harmful for me..."
Someone just asked me when I was going to write some more. Said it had been a while since I wrote a new post. Now is probably not the best time, since I'm at home in between washing and drying cycles at the laundromat.
I hate the laundromat. Still, listening to Rufus while I tug the wet clothes from the heavy duty washer and lug them over to the dryer helps a little. His sometimes hazy-lazy voice makes me drift off, makes me ignore the crackhead asleep in the plastic chair in front of the blaring television set, propped high above the machines, probably so nobody steals it. He makes me forget. But then Johnny Cash, that rascally raconteur chuggs onto my Shuffle in to make me sigh with recognition that I, too, have fallen into a ring of fire.
"I fell for you like a child,
Oh, but the fire went wild..."
Thanks Johnny, Godess rest your soul.
I hate the laundromat. Still, listening to Rufus while I tug the wet clothes from the heavy duty washer and lug them over to the dryer helps a little. His sometimes hazy-lazy voice makes me drift off, makes me ignore the crackhead asleep in the plastic chair in front of the blaring television set, propped high above the machines, probably so nobody steals it. He makes me forget. But then Johnny Cash, that rascally raconteur chuggs onto my Shuffle in to make me sigh with recognition that I, too, have fallen into a ring of fire.
"I fell for you like a child,
Oh, but the fire went wild..."
Thanks Johnny, Godess rest your soul.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Gawd, I thought I was depressed BEFORE
Just heard Kevin Federline's new song. If that's what you want to call it...I'd prefer to call it a piece of shit. Oh my...it's truly awful. Now I feel worse than I already did and considering that my insides feel outside, that's not good folks. I'm pretty sure I am being replaced at work too, by possibly the most chirpy chippy with a major love on for the sound of her own voice. I know I know don't be hatin' and I DO despise this place...but still. Of course I could just be jumping to conclusions...Frustration Nation!
Friday, November 04, 2005
One of my all time annoyances has to be somebody commenting on my food when I'm eating at my desk at work. The miniscule kitchen at work doesn't provide me with enough stimulation for dining...so I eat at my desk. Perfectly fine with the boss thank you very much for asking. Anyway, it never fails that someone has to say..."ooooh, what's that you're eating? MMMM...Smells good." Total creep factor, there I'm sure everyone agrees, right? I mean, GET YOUR OWN!
But it also never fails that some dimwit with his head firmly planted in his asshole makes a comment like "ooh, that's a big lunch. Better watch the pounds! HAhahahahah." Is this funny to you, bucko? Feel like berating me cause your wife's a fat bitch and all those fantasies you've had about me while I deliver your mail and you stare at my ass are being ruined by me having a fucking slice of pizza? ARGH! SHE-HULK MAAAAAD!
It's just so goddamned rude. My upbringing may have made me a little insecure, as I mentioned yesterday, but at LEAST it provided me some manners. God, were you raised by wolves? Actually, wolves would NEVER do that. I'm pretty sure staring longingly at another wolf's food will get your wolf butt torn into shreds.
Now I've lost my appetite. That and the zipper on my pants broke.
But it also never fails that some dimwit with his head firmly planted in his asshole makes a comment like "ooh, that's a big lunch. Better watch the pounds! HAhahahahah." Is this funny to you, bucko? Feel like berating me cause your wife's a fat bitch and all those fantasies you've had about me while I deliver your mail and you stare at my ass are being ruined by me having a fucking slice of pizza? ARGH! SHE-HULK MAAAAAD!
It's just so goddamned rude. My upbringing may have made me a little insecure, as I mentioned yesterday, but at LEAST it provided me some manners. God, were you raised by wolves? Actually, wolves would NEVER do that. I'm pretty sure staring longingly at another wolf's food will get your wolf butt torn into shreds.
Now I've lost my appetite. That and the zipper on my pants broke.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Could I BE any more insecure?
I have often wondered what it takes to be truly hot. Is it a specific turn of pout, a blindingly shiny head of hair, a rack that just won't quit or a waist with the circumference of a coffee cup? What the hell is it?
What I have discovered is that I lack the one thing that makes anyone truly sexy...confidence. I have observed even the skankiest looking chicks working a room like a pro because of that confident gleam that comes from thinking you're the sshiznit. Maybe it's that slow, whitling and undermining Scots Protestant upbringing of mine. Don't show off, don't rock the boat, don't dress like a tramp. Dunno.
What I do know is that, as a result, I can't take the gentlest of compliments without burning red or making some sort of excuse along the lines of "no, really, I'm a piece of garbage..."
I look through the magazines that the receptionist leaves at the front desk and make myself feel worse. I'm not thin enough, my tits are too small, my ass is too round...AND I can't afford any of these fucking clothes!!! It's shameful, I know, to be this self obsessed. It's a damn shame, really because it certainly distracts me from feeling crappy about other aspects of my life, like my career, family and friends. Let me tell you, ain't nuthin more depressing than feeling fugly on top of that.
When I think about it, I figure money could go a long way to fix it...A well made (READ: EXPENSIVE) pair of pants fits a girl with a behind WAY better than cheapos. And I have, what I believe to be, good taste. If only I could afford my taste.
I have now abandoned the idea of plastic surgery as a viable option for confidence building. My attempt at liking my bod the way it is, I guess. It's not entirely failing as an approach either. I'm thinking maybe some dance classes or maybe I should get my ass back on stage to sing, that usually helps. Might be a good idea to relieve some of the office stress, too.
What I have discovered is that I lack the one thing that makes anyone truly sexy...confidence. I have observed even the skankiest looking chicks working a room like a pro because of that confident gleam that comes from thinking you're the sshiznit. Maybe it's that slow, whitling and undermining Scots Protestant upbringing of mine. Don't show off, don't rock the boat, don't dress like a tramp. Dunno.
What I do know is that, as a result, I can't take the gentlest of compliments without burning red or making some sort of excuse along the lines of "no, really, I'm a piece of garbage..."
I look through the magazines that the receptionist leaves at the front desk and make myself feel worse. I'm not thin enough, my tits are too small, my ass is too round...AND I can't afford any of these fucking clothes!!! It's shameful, I know, to be this self obsessed. It's a damn shame, really because it certainly distracts me from feeling crappy about other aspects of my life, like my career, family and friends. Let me tell you, ain't nuthin more depressing than feeling fugly on top of that.
When I think about it, I figure money could go a long way to fix it...A well made (READ: EXPENSIVE) pair of pants fits a girl with a behind WAY better than cheapos. And I have, what I believe to be, good taste. If only I could afford my taste.
I have now abandoned the idea of plastic surgery as a viable option for confidence building. My attempt at liking my bod the way it is, I guess. It's not entirely failing as an approach either. I'm thinking maybe some dance classes or maybe I should get my ass back on stage to sing, that usually helps. Might be a good idea to relieve some of the office stress, too.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
So my homework for French class is done. Joy. Work is boring and I wish I could watch my Montreal Canadiens beat the snot out of the Florida Panthers tonight...but I've got class. Also my Habs can't seem to bloody win at home, so maybe it's for the best.
I have a question...why are all the blogs I come upon either porn, christian kookies or right win nutbags applauding the appointment of Alito or whatever that fascist's name is? Someone please tell me. I've grown weary of sluts and idiots.
I have a question...why are all the blogs I come upon either porn, christian kookies or right win nutbags applauding the appointment of Alito or whatever that fascist's name is? Someone please tell me. I've grown weary of sluts and idiots.
GOM, GOM, GOM...You've been Gom so long.
Kay. The former Liberal governement under Chrétien is in a pickle. Seems they padded a few pockets for Ottawa friendly advertising in Québec to boost the feds' image. Kinda backfired, guys.
Now, every dude and dudette in the opposition has fodder for relentless proclamations of Liberal Indecency and Irresponisiblity and Tomfoolery. Christ, I can just hear Harperbot rattling on in my head as I sit here sipping piss-poor coffee. Thanks alot Gomery! Bet those Ad dudes were drinkin' better coffee, lattés probably, what with all those million dollar contracts to tattoo maple leaves on their backsides. And now I have to listen to Harper and his harpies harp on it until the next election. Did I, did the Canadian people, REALLY need to know? Shit, I guess. It was tax money AND MAYBE I would be sipping lattés right now if they knew where to put the money. Doubt it, though. They just would have found some other way to waste my tax money. And why couldn't they have involved Charest in this crap?...FOR THE LOVE OF GOD can we not find SOME way to get rid of him? I'm so tired of him, calmly telling us that there isn't enough money to go around, that "daddy" is strapped for cash as I watch one of the primary institutions responsible for separating(ooh, y'all hate that word dontcha?)Canada from the U.S., slowly leaking down the tubes. Fuckin Liberals. Not that the fuckin Tories are any better...worse in fact. But do my beloved NDP really have what it takes to run my country? Well, better than running it like a country club, no? Cause that's what the Gomery Inquiry boils down to for me. Rich people thinking they can manipulate those around them, especially those they look at as second class citizens. Bloody stupid really cause I don't think ANY amount of glossy ad campaigning aimed at whitewashing Ottawa's relationship with Québec would change Quebecers minds. If anything it would make them more bitter. WHAT a stupid fucking idea...and now this. Gom catching them by the short and curlies...Did they not even question the possiblity that they could get caught?
Gosh, I guess it does make me a little mad! It's not the money that makes me the most mad...It's the really DUMB idea. Same reason I get pissed when I think Chrétien's governement had no plan if there was a YES vote. Nothing. They were just gonna say..."Well, sheesh...did we mention that the question was worded wrong?" GOD! Even children know there are no "take backs". You agreed to it and thought that you'd win by a mudslide, and then didn't have a backup plan. There are no takey backies!
When the fuck is this government going to get a plan??!!!? I want to see a plan, Martin. Cause the wave is turning back and should we not want to get caught in the undertow of Québec sovereignty again...it's gonna take a hell of a lot more than some glossy ads to hold it back.
Now, every dude and dudette in the opposition has fodder for relentless proclamations of Liberal Indecency and Irresponisiblity and Tomfoolery. Christ, I can just hear Harperbot rattling on in my head as I sit here sipping piss-poor coffee. Thanks alot Gomery! Bet those Ad dudes were drinkin' better coffee, lattés probably, what with all those million dollar contracts to tattoo maple leaves on their backsides. And now I have to listen to Harper and his harpies harp on it until the next election. Did I, did the Canadian people, REALLY need to know? Shit, I guess. It was tax money AND MAYBE I would be sipping lattés right now if they knew where to put the money. Doubt it, though. They just would have found some other way to waste my tax money. And why couldn't they have involved Charest in this crap?...FOR THE LOVE OF GOD can we not find SOME way to get rid of him? I'm so tired of him, calmly telling us that there isn't enough money to go around, that "daddy" is strapped for cash as I watch one of the primary institutions responsible for separating(ooh, y'all hate that word dontcha?)Canada from the U.S., slowly leaking down the tubes. Fuckin Liberals. Not that the fuckin Tories are any better...worse in fact. But do my beloved NDP really have what it takes to run my country? Well, better than running it like a country club, no? Cause that's what the Gomery Inquiry boils down to for me. Rich people thinking they can manipulate those around them, especially those they look at as second class citizens. Bloody stupid really cause I don't think ANY amount of glossy ad campaigning aimed at whitewashing Ottawa's relationship with Québec would change Quebecers minds. If anything it would make them more bitter. WHAT a stupid fucking idea...and now this. Gom catching them by the short and curlies...Did they not even question the possiblity that they could get caught?
Gosh, I guess it does make me a little mad! It's not the money that makes me the most mad...It's the really DUMB idea. Same reason I get pissed when I think Chrétien's governement had no plan if there was a YES vote. Nothing. They were just gonna say..."Well, sheesh...did we mention that the question was worded wrong?" GOD! Even children know there are no "take backs". You agreed to it and thought that you'd win by a mudslide, and then didn't have a backup plan. There are no takey backies!
When the fuck is this government going to get a plan??!!!? I want to see a plan, Martin. Cause the wave is turning back and should we not want to get caught in the undertow of Québec sovereignty again...it's gonna take a hell of a lot more than some glossy ads to hold it back.
Monday, October 31, 2005
I have no idea what is wrong with me. I feel like I've been chugging scotch. I feel restless, disoriented and violent. Not a good combination...no matter how much it reflects my Scots ancestry. I don't know if it's just my soul crushing job anymore...
Maybe it's my realisation that I you can never truly KNOW anyone, cause people are so f-ing good at hiding themselves. Maybe it's that I can't get this gut wrenching weight in my chest to subside. That feeling that conjures the same movie reel in my brain of all his secrets; the real ones I've discovered and the ones I still don't know about. The ones I imagine of course are much worse. I hope. Dammit. Janet. (little hommage on this halloweenie day to Rocky Horror)
I don't know what the bloody hell is wrong with me.
Maybe it's my realisation that I you can never truly KNOW anyone, cause people are so f-ing good at hiding themselves. Maybe it's that I can't get this gut wrenching weight in my chest to subside. That feeling that conjures the same movie reel in my brain of all his secrets; the real ones I've discovered and the ones I still don't know about. The ones I imagine of course are much worse. I hope. Dammit. Janet. (little hommage on this halloweenie day to Rocky Horror)
I don't know what the bloody hell is wrong with me.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
OK. I have a beef. Alas, there is noone at this moment crouched over my shoulder asking "Where's the beef, slag? Where IS the beef?", but I digress. My beef is this...I KNOW Montrealers aren't used to this much rain, but perhaps someone could start some kind of crash course in umbrella carrying. Along with the woman who nearly put my eye out opening her umbrella this morning, many Montrealers seem to be umbrella-retarded. First, umbrellas are not to be held in front of the face so that you can barrel through crowds like some mediaeval jouster. It's just not nice. Also, Montrealers sans parapluies seem to find it just fine to walk narrow city sidewalks three or four people across à la Wizard of Oz and this becomes that much more bothersome when toting an umbrella. This is not a game of Red Rover, people, I just want to get to work. Preferrably with all my appendages intact.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
fraud, science fiction and fromage
If I could hear myself think over the loud ranting of my Italian co-worker, I'd explain the several bizarre things that have happened to me in the last few days. Besides being prostrate atop a crimson tide and coming close to losing my mind this weekend, I suffered one of the worst bloody migraines in the history of the world. My head still feels like a bruised peach.
So work is just a gas, cause one of our clients is probably (hopefully) going to jail for fourteen years on fraud charges. And although I've been frantically searching for a new job (not so much fun being part of an organisation where bailiffs know my first name), I'm worried my frequent job switcheroos may be giving the wrong impression. You know like, that I have ADD or can't commit or something. (Oh. Right. I do. And I can't.)
Honestly I think maybe I should go against my constant need to FLEE everything and stick it out. I gave my boss a PowerPoint presentation last week for an idea to bring in clients and donate some money to the Canadian Red Cross at the same time which I'm sure she will do everything in her power to ignore...but it could be worse. I could be making 20 thou a year. Oh fuck.
Despite my raging depression over the NASTY weather, I am doubly bummed about having finished watching the last of the 'ANGEL' DVDs we bought. All done...Withdrawl is already kicking in. (Yes, I'm pathetic)
I'm also really annoyed by something I read on the Oprah website (don't judge me) where this woman actually wastes space saying that one of the things she 'resolved' to do to improve her life was to eat more cheese. PARDON ME? Is this what passes for AHA moments on Oprah now? More cheese? I mean, I like a good cheese, but WTF?
Coolest thing EVER. Finished typing my dad's stories about the Vietnam War. Turns out he drove a young man through the border in the early seventies that was none other than Henry Miller's son. So I decided to write to an email address I found for a Val Miller (supposedly Henry's daughter Valentine)since I couldn't find one for the Miller boy (man)asking that she send on my request to ask him a few questions and whether he remembered my dad. She said she'd forward my message but that she couldn't guarantee that he'd write back. BUT HE DID, folks. Said my dad was brave and very generous. My dad. Henry Freakin Miller's son. No shit. They're going to write to each other and say "HI" after like 35 years. My dad. Did I mention Henry Miller's son?
Stay fuckin weird, world.
So work is just a gas, cause one of our clients is probably (hopefully) going to jail for fourteen years on fraud charges. And although I've been frantically searching for a new job (not so much fun being part of an organisation where bailiffs know my first name), I'm worried my frequent job switcheroos may be giving the wrong impression. You know like, that I have ADD or can't commit or something. (Oh. Right. I do. And I can't.)
Honestly I think maybe I should go against my constant need to FLEE everything and stick it out. I gave my boss a PowerPoint presentation last week for an idea to bring in clients and donate some money to the Canadian Red Cross at the same time which I'm sure she will do everything in her power to ignore...but it could be worse. I could be making 20 thou a year. Oh fuck.
Despite my raging depression over the NASTY weather, I am doubly bummed about having finished watching the last of the 'ANGEL' DVDs we bought. All done...Withdrawl is already kicking in. (Yes, I'm pathetic)
I'm also really annoyed by something I read on the Oprah website (don't judge me) where this woman actually wastes space saying that one of the things she 'resolved' to do to improve her life was to eat more cheese. PARDON ME? Is this what passes for AHA moments on Oprah now? More cheese? I mean, I like a good cheese, but WTF?
Coolest thing EVER. Finished typing my dad's stories about the Vietnam War. Turns out he drove a young man through the border in the early seventies that was none other than Henry Miller's son. So I decided to write to an email address I found for a Val Miller (supposedly Henry's daughter Valentine)since I couldn't find one for the Miller boy (man)asking that she send on my request to ask him a few questions and whether he remembered my dad. She said she'd forward my message but that she couldn't guarantee that he'd write back. BUT HE DID, folks. Said my dad was brave and very generous. My dad. Henry Freakin Miller's son. No shit. They're going to write to each other and say "HI" after like 35 years. My dad. Did I mention Henry Miller's son?
Stay fuckin weird, world.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
The Weather
There is a strong possibility I've lost my mojo. My writing mojo, that is.
This happens every once in a while and I'd have to describe it as...as...ya see? I can't even describe it. They say you have to keep writing, right, get stuff down, even when its tripe...But I always have this moment where I think, "Nope. That's it. I knew I couldn't write for shit. I have nothing to say. I'm boring and all I am going to do is bore the hell out of myself and possibly others. What's the point? You didn't REALLY think you could do this did you?"
Now, I realise that noone reads this blog except those I coerce or bribe. Which does make it a little easier, I suppose. Still, when I think about writing about my co-workers or family or friends I feel I might censor myself so as not to hurt anyone's feelings. Censorship is death to a writer, especially if it's self imposed.
Maybe it's my own feelings I'm scared of bruising. It all just revolves around the same old shit I'm used to. I worry about what people think of me. So goddamned much so that I feel paralyzed. Why do I care? Nobody reads this anyway! But it's always been like that. Probably stems from my mother reading my diary when I was younger. And didn't someone say never write anything down that you don't want someone else reading? Hard to get yourself out of slagging someone off when it's on paper, let alone when it's broadcast on the net.
There is no doubt that I need countless hours of therapy to get over this. Or maybe just a big slap upside the head. I still have the self esteem of a fourteen year old. A very insecure fourteen year old.
When I'm not staring at a blank page or a blank computer screen it's easy for me to think of myself as a writer. The tiniest details in my life are catalogued and dissected to prepare them for the written page. And then I find a web page where the drummer of my old band has written a bloody book and I want to sit in a corner and cry like a child. I've read his stuff...it's craptastic! But he did it. Yes, with very little success, but at least he DID it. I have no such claim. I start it and then invariably stop. Because I get scared or bored. Fear and boredom. Fuck fear and loathing, Hunter! Boredom is the killer. Boredom and routine.
I said I wanted to stay in all weekend. It's been raining here for days and the damp gray made me want to hole up and do little but watch television and talk about nothing in particular. But then it occured to me that it seems to be all I do. I get angry at myself for not writing as much as I should but once the weekend comes or the day releases me from my soul crushing job, I have nothing left. I can't expect him to understand. I tell myself sometimes it's because he's a scientist and that he has difficulty with my haphazard ways. Perhaps it's that I keep trying to adhere to some kind of life I'm not sure I can live. I don't know if I can when my mind is always swimming with puzzle pieces for this grand plan for a book. Maybe being me, being a writer, is something I wish I could forget. As if it could be something I can un-learn.
But it wasn't anything I learned in the first place! It has always been like a bodily function, a reflex I have no control over. And maybe that's it. I have to find a way to conrtol this beast, this nagging, that convinces me I am capable enough to make something of it. I desperately want to believe that I have the brio to pursue my real dreams, but of late I'm reminded of how insecure my nature is. Every time I think of my failures at school and my paralysis in writing and singing I hear my mother say, as she did, "Maybe you should go to secretarial school..." Can I really hope for more? Or am I just some tired gobshite who'll end up regretting that I never took a chance, never tried?
This happens every once in a while and I'd have to describe it as...as...ya see? I can't even describe it. They say you have to keep writing, right, get stuff down, even when its tripe...But I always have this moment where I think, "Nope. That's it. I knew I couldn't write for shit. I have nothing to say. I'm boring and all I am going to do is bore the hell out of myself and possibly others. What's the point? You didn't REALLY think you could do this did you?"
Now, I realise that noone reads this blog except those I coerce or bribe. Which does make it a little easier, I suppose. Still, when I think about writing about my co-workers or family or friends I feel I might censor myself so as not to hurt anyone's feelings. Censorship is death to a writer, especially if it's self imposed.
Maybe it's my own feelings I'm scared of bruising. It all just revolves around the same old shit I'm used to. I worry about what people think of me. So goddamned much so that I feel paralyzed. Why do I care? Nobody reads this anyway! But it's always been like that. Probably stems from my mother reading my diary when I was younger. And didn't someone say never write anything down that you don't want someone else reading? Hard to get yourself out of slagging someone off when it's on paper, let alone when it's broadcast on the net.
There is no doubt that I need countless hours of therapy to get over this. Or maybe just a big slap upside the head. I still have the self esteem of a fourteen year old. A very insecure fourteen year old.
When I'm not staring at a blank page or a blank computer screen it's easy for me to think of myself as a writer. The tiniest details in my life are catalogued and dissected to prepare them for the written page. And then I find a web page where the drummer of my old band has written a bloody book and I want to sit in a corner and cry like a child. I've read his stuff...it's craptastic! But he did it. Yes, with very little success, but at least he DID it. I have no such claim. I start it and then invariably stop. Because I get scared or bored. Fear and boredom. Fuck fear and loathing, Hunter! Boredom is the killer. Boredom and routine.
I said I wanted to stay in all weekend. It's been raining here for days and the damp gray made me want to hole up and do little but watch television and talk about nothing in particular. But then it occured to me that it seems to be all I do. I get angry at myself for not writing as much as I should but once the weekend comes or the day releases me from my soul crushing job, I have nothing left. I can't expect him to understand. I tell myself sometimes it's because he's a scientist and that he has difficulty with my haphazard ways. Perhaps it's that I keep trying to adhere to some kind of life I'm not sure I can live. I don't know if I can when my mind is always swimming with puzzle pieces for this grand plan for a book. Maybe being me, being a writer, is something I wish I could forget. As if it could be something I can un-learn.
But it wasn't anything I learned in the first place! It has always been like a bodily function, a reflex I have no control over. And maybe that's it. I have to find a way to conrtol this beast, this nagging, that convinces me I am capable enough to make something of it. I desperately want to believe that I have the brio to pursue my real dreams, but of late I'm reminded of how insecure my nature is. Every time I think of my failures at school and my paralysis in writing and singing I hear my mother say, as she did, "Maybe you should go to secretarial school..." Can I really hope for more? Or am I just some tired gobshite who'll end up regretting that I never took a chance, never tried?
Thursday, October 06, 2005
I told you not to F%&k With Canadian Geese
A Swedish hunter spent two days in bed after being knocked unconscious by a Canada goose that landed on his head moments after his son shot it dead. The goose had been flying about 20 metres up in the air when it was shot by Carl Johan Ilback, along a stream in eastern Sweden in August. When the goose dropped from the sky, it hit Ulf Ilback in the head and knocked him out, he said. "It wanted to exact its revenge, I assume," Ulf told a local newspaper. "If it had gotten a better hit, it could have broken my neck." Ilback spent two days in bed with severe headaches before returning to work. "The story brought about a lot of laughter at work," he was quoted as saying, adding that during this month's moose hunt, he may wear a helmet.
Monday, October 03, 2005
sick as a bitch
A head cold from hell is preventing me from formulating thoughts properly, so this will be short. A good time was had by all on Friday at my buddy Mike's birthday. I believe he truly liked his gift too. (I got an 'I Love The Illuminati' embroidered on the back of a comfy navy blue hoodie...COPYRIGHT, ME!!!!!!!!). With laughs from some local comics, booze from our fair bartender(and maid)and karaoke tunes from the tuneless, the evening proved to be a well deserved end to the week. And now, alas, I am sick. Nothing drastic, no need to call the paramedics yet, but enough of a slap in the face to knock me for a little loop. Anybody have any cold remedies they'd like to share? PLEEEZTH I'M BREALLY BREALLY SSTUFFED UP!
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Father Knows Best
Right now, I am taking a break. I am transcribing my father's stories surrounding the Vietnam War and it is taking a definite toll on me. The silly man is actually paying me to do this (money I certainly need, but feel awful taking). Besides the fact that I believe I am the only person in existence who can decipher his handwriting, this has proven to be an eye opening experience. When you think you know your parents, I promise you that you haven't even scratched the surface!
I'm a bit pissed at him actually, reading these stories. Why hasn't he told me them before? Maybe I would have thought he were less of an old fart if he had. But, in retrospect, maybe not. That sounds awful to say, but having parents who are decidely much older than those of my friends and peers has proved to be somewhat of a difficulty throughout my life. Or so I thought.
I feel like I grew up faster, and that much more was expected of me than from the rest of the kids my age. I've always felt that. But reading his words and his descriptions of what he did and how he lived are incredibly humbling. I just wish he had told me.
I called my brother today. He is techincally my half brother (not that there is anything technical about our confusing relationship), to wish his daughter a happy birthday. I told him that I was transcribing Dad's stories. He seemed as sursprised as I was that he had even started this project without anyone's knowledge. When I read his writing I think, with an opinion unsullied by the fact that he's my dad, how good the writing is; how he could definitely publish it. But do people still want to hear about the Vietnam War? My mother contends not. She says it isn't current and that the interest in his writing would be minimal. I would hate that to be true, especially considering my father's métier of historian. We ALL need to hear this man's stories, especially in the light of what is being forced upon us everyday from an amnesiac United States of America. Why the hell are we so passive now?
When I consider the things my father did to stand up for what he believed in I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed that my generation has abandoned any hope of fighting against the evils we are presented with. There will always be the nay-sayers who aim to call us idealists or foolish, but what of the force that used to come from leadership, empathy and peace? Is it lost forever in our branded mentality to consume at all costs? The only way we are foolish is that we believe that nothing bad will come of our laissez faire attitude. The way we keep being drawn in by marketing and product over what is right and how they are hurting all of us.
Fuck...I'll agree that I am feeling conspiratorial right now. I am feeling as if we have already lost our souls, we have lost what the people my father worked with aimed to tell us. It's because we have the impression they lost the battle. It's because we think there is no point in fighting. Who told YOU that?
All I know is that my father, God bless him, never told ME that.
I'm a bit pissed at him actually, reading these stories. Why hasn't he told me them before? Maybe I would have thought he were less of an old fart if he had. But, in retrospect, maybe not. That sounds awful to say, but having parents who are decidely much older than those of my friends and peers has proved to be somewhat of a difficulty throughout my life. Or so I thought.
I feel like I grew up faster, and that much more was expected of me than from the rest of the kids my age. I've always felt that. But reading his words and his descriptions of what he did and how he lived are incredibly humbling. I just wish he had told me.
I called my brother today. He is techincally my half brother (not that there is anything technical about our confusing relationship), to wish his daughter a happy birthday. I told him that I was transcribing Dad's stories. He seemed as sursprised as I was that he had even started this project without anyone's knowledge. When I read his writing I think, with an opinion unsullied by the fact that he's my dad, how good the writing is; how he could definitely publish it. But do people still want to hear about the Vietnam War? My mother contends not. She says it isn't current and that the interest in his writing would be minimal. I would hate that to be true, especially considering my father's métier of historian. We ALL need to hear this man's stories, especially in the light of what is being forced upon us everyday from an amnesiac United States of America. Why the hell are we so passive now?
When I consider the things my father did to stand up for what he believed in I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed that my generation has abandoned any hope of fighting against the evils we are presented with. There will always be the nay-sayers who aim to call us idealists or foolish, but what of the force that used to come from leadership, empathy and peace? Is it lost forever in our branded mentality to consume at all costs? The only way we are foolish is that we believe that nothing bad will come of our laissez faire attitude. The way we keep being drawn in by marketing and product over what is right and how they are hurting all of us.
Fuck...I'll agree that I am feeling conspiratorial right now. I am feeling as if we have already lost our souls, we have lost what the people my father worked with aimed to tell us. It's because we have the impression they lost the battle. It's because we think there is no point in fighting. Who told YOU that?
All I know is that my father, God bless him, never told ME that.
Friday, September 30, 2005
FOR MY BROTHER
badgers
this still makes my nephew laugh his little rump off...and me frankly. It may annoy you though proceed with caution.
this still makes my nephew laugh his little rump off...and me frankly. It may annoy you though proceed with caution.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MIKE!!!!!!!!!
I think I'm in for some vodka tonics and karaoke celebration tonight with my friend Mike. I think I have bought him the perfect gift. Will get back to you all to see if he liked it.
Okay....So i've always suspected I nurtured an inner geek. Much too cool in highschool to admit it, but now I am noticing this burgeoning geekdom, full fledged... In fact I even can report some frequently disturbing feelings of geekempathy for the nerdier folks of our fair planet. Maybe it's just my ultimate rejection of all things George Bush (read:STUPID) but I found myself wondering whatever the hell happened to everyone's favorite whiny StarTrekker Will Wheaton. Okay. To be honest I was looking up stuff on Joss Wheadon and spelled his name wrong. And I found this. I think maybe someone should send him a bunt cake. I'm feeling very worried for him. Poor Will
CHILL
Probably the most annoying thing someone can say to me (especially if I'm really on a rant-roll) is to CHILL. Or RELAX. For some reason, when someone says this to me I turn into She Hulk . I treat it like a slap in the face, because what it means is that whatever I'm pissed off at doesn't deserve my venomous rage. And who's to say it doesn't???!!!! I think the 'relax' thing happens to a lot of women. Maybe our rage scares people. Or maybe we just spend our energy getting upset over nothing. I dunno. What I do know is that nothing makes a pissy woman a rage-o-holic (you know adicted to rage-ohol!...God Bless Homer)faster than the word 'relax'. Seriously, gents try it on your woman and see her go from pissy to BITCHTASTIC in 60 seconds. (Use with caution)
(No boyfriends were harmed in the making of this blog)
(No boyfriends were harmed in the making of this blog)
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
A CREEP by any other name
My job. O.K., I'm not going to be like that retarded flight attendant who posed in her uniform on her blog and got her ass fired, but I' d like to tell you a little about my meaningless existence at work. I make coffee a lot. I answer the phone when the receptionist needs to pee or go shopping. I punched some holes in some documents today for this woman who apparently can't operate the complicated three hole punch. Did I mention I make coffee? Oh, and I get told when there's no more coffee. A lot.
This wasn't what I was told I would be doing. I was told this was a junior position as a marketing coordinator that could quickly become a senior position. Sure, maybe if my boss LET me do any writing or marketing or schmoozing...but she doesn't. The woman tells me to email her copies of the memos to announce when I am going to clean out the revolting remains that our purile clientele leave in the fridge. She wants to correct my FRIDGE MEMOS!
Needless to say it is a paycheck. A really, really small one, but a paycheck nonetheless. You see, I try to focus on the fact that I'm enrolled in a Translation certificate course and have a semblance of a social life (wait...scratch that, I suppose watching Lost on my couch doesn't count as a social life) to keep myself from going AWOL with horse tranquilizers and a bottle of Vodka.
However, my job has taken an icky turn of late.
I began to receive emails from one of our clients, which at first I took as harmless because my email is readily available to any of our clients who wish to bother the hell out of me. Initially, he asked me out for lunch and I actually thought it was to offer me a job with his company. You see, I work at an executive office or business centre (which is Latin for 'alternative address so the feds can't find me') and we have several different kinds of companies that rent office space with us. His company had actually hired other girls who had worked here and he had made an encouraging comment to my boss about my work when I first started. I'm thinkin', "Great! He must want to interview me for a very special position." Well he did. Just not the one I was hoping for.
The fellow in question wears a yarmulke and is married with FOUR kids. I thought, harmless! Then I get an email from a very gross handle name and thinking it's spam I almost delete it until I notice that it is from yarmulke wearing gent, his name in bold in the subject line saying "it's me!" This is my first inkling of willies-inducing behaviour.
I start to make excuses as to why I can't go to lunch.
The other day when I was stuck at the reception desk answering the busy phone line, he came over to say hello and asked how I was doing. I replied the standard, "Fine. I'm bored", to which short, hunched over, pasty, yarmulke wearing bloke says "WELL, we'll just have to get you excited then."
GROSSED OUT YET? 'CAUSE I AM!!!
Then, from a very reputable source, (namely, the chiquita it happened to) I am told a story about this particular dude, who during a meeting concerning his non payment of the rent, produces a folder containing comprimising pictures of her. The pictures were taken under the veil of understanding and the 'open' relationship this woman has with her husband for use on an adult chat site. He leaned over the table just before their meeting was finished and said "Are these you?". Understandably the woman was floored and, I imagine, felt pretty freakin violated to have this cretin throw the pictures in her face. He said "Oh, are you alright?" And she, trying hard to make light of the situation and probably of the urge to kick his ass, said "I think I need a drink." So scumbag offers to take her for a drink.
And here I was thinking he wasn't the TYPE to be trolling the Adults Personals circuit!
Needless to say what follows gives me a small amount of pleasure, since he has not stopped emailing me, asking me if I use Instant Messaging, either at work or at home (!) and I'm not sure what I should do. The woman's husband should be awarded the husband blue ribbon, because he called up the dirtbag and threatened his sorry life with a finesse I'm told will go down in history.
This wasn't what I was told I would be doing. I was told this was a junior position as a marketing coordinator that could quickly become a senior position. Sure, maybe if my boss LET me do any writing or marketing or schmoozing...but she doesn't. The woman tells me to email her copies of the memos to announce when I am going to clean out the revolting remains that our purile clientele leave in the fridge. She wants to correct my FRIDGE MEMOS!
Needless to say it is a paycheck. A really, really small one, but a paycheck nonetheless. You see, I try to focus on the fact that I'm enrolled in a Translation certificate course and have a semblance of a social life (wait...scratch that, I suppose watching Lost on my couch doesn't count as a social life) to keep myself from going AWOL with horse tranquilizers and a bottle of Vodka.
However, my job has taken an icky turn of late.
I began to receive emails from one of our clients, which at first I took as harmless because my email is readily available to any of our clients who wish to bother the hell out of me. Initially, he asked me out for lunch and I actually thought it was to offer me a job with his company. You see, I work at an executive office or business centre (which is Latin for 'alternative address so the feds can't find me') and we have several different kinds of companies that rent office space with us. His company had actually hired other girls who had worked here and he had made an encouraging comment to my boss about my work when I first started. I'm thinkin', "Great! He must want to interview me for a very special position." Well he did. Just not the one I was hoping for.
The fellow in question wears a yarmulke and is married with FOUR kids. I thought, harmless! Then I get an email from a very gross handle name and thinking it's spam I almost delete it until I notice that it is from yarmulke wearing gent, his name in bold in the subject line saying "it's me!" This is my first inkling of willies-inducing behaviour.
I start to make excuses as to why I can't go to lunch.
The other day when I was stuck at the reception desk answering the busy phone line, he came over to say hello and asked how I was doing. I replied the standard, "Fine. I'm bored", to which short, hunched over, pasty, yarmulke wearing bloke says "WELL, we'll just have to get you excited then."
GROSSED OUT YET? 'CAUSE I AM!!!
Then, from a very reputable source, (namely, the chiquita it happened to) I am told a story about this particular dude, who during a meeting concerning his non payment of the rent, produces a folder containing comprimising pictures of her. The pictures were taken under the veil of understanding and the 'open' relationship this woman has with her husband for use on an adult chat site. He leaned over the table just before their meeting was finished and said "Are these you?". Understandably the woman was floored and, I imagine, felt pretty freakin violated to have this cretin throw the pictures in her face. He said "Oh, are you alright?" And she, trying hard to make light of the situation and probably of the urge to kick his ass, said "I think I need a drink." So scumbag offers to take her for a drink.
And here I was thinking he wasn't the TYPE to be trolling the Adults Personals circuit!
Needless to say what follows gives me a small amount of pleasure, since he has not stopped emailing me, asking me if I use Instant Messaging, either at work or at home (!) and I'm not sure what I should do. The woman's husband should be awarded the husband blue ribbon, because he called up the dirtbag and threatened his sorry life with a finesse I'm told will go down in history.
What's a girl to do?
Fall is officially here and I have lost all my clothes.
I know I packed them away in bags to make room for my menial summer wardrobe and now I have no idea where the hell they are. I have no pants except a pair of jeans, which I cannot wear to work, no sweaters and my shoes (and bank account) have holes in them. Très, très SAD. Guess it' s time to break out the brown paper bag and rusted tiara.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Goddamned Canadian Geese
So I heard them two days ago. Honking their little feathered asses off right above my head. Walking down a street near our apartment, I noticed a guy on his veranda holding a cup of coffee, who, upon hearing those harbingers of 'hiver' sighed and turned back into his apartment, exclaiming to someone inside...'Les maudites oies sont parties!' The geese have gone south
My heart fell. Fuck. It's over.
And today is so grey and wet and miserable, I feel like hibernating for the winter. (Ain't no way I'm going south with all the damn hurricanes). I'm gonna find myself a nicely lit cave and curl up with a book and my iPod Shuffle. Yah, that's right. Screw winter in its ear.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Michael Moore Honorary Canadian
Can I ask a question? I mean I know he has an abnormally big mouth, but where the hell are OUR documentary filmmakers with their fervour against the CBC lockout? Picketing maybe? I vote to make Moore an honorary Canadian. At least for the sake of us having SOMEONE in this country's media speaking out about the lockout or at least trying to figure out the details of the conflict, which have been vague at best. (Maybe those reporters are picketing too).
Also, he could TOTALLY pass for a lumberjack.
TORONTO (CP) - Famed American documentarian Michael Moore demandedFriday that the CBC drop plans to air this weekend his Academy Award-winning film, Bowling for Columbine, because of the month-longlockout at the public broadcaster."I do not want my film being broadcast on the network unless it iswilling to let its own workers back in to work and promises tobargain with them in good faith," Moore said in a statement Friday."CBC has locked out its union workers, an action that is abhorrent toall who believe in the rights of people to collectively bargain. Whythe great and honourable CBC is behaving like an American corporationis beyond me."Bowling for Columbine, an examination of America's obsession withguns and violence, is scheduled to air Sunday night on CBC and aspokesman for the broadcaster said the documentary will be showndespite Moore's objections."We've promoted the film heavily and our audiences are expecting itto be on," said Jason MacDonald. "We will broadcast it."Moore won an Oscar for best documentary for the film in 2003.He used his acceptance speech at the Oscar ceremony as an opportunityto launch a broadside against President George W. Bush and hisparticipation in the war in Iraq, which had been launched only a fewdays earlier.
Also, he could TOTALLY pass for a lumberjack.
TORONTO (CP) - Famed American documentarian Michael Moore demandedFriday that the CBC drop plans to air this weekend his Academy Award-winning film, Bowling for Columbine, because of the month-longlockout at the public broadcaster."I do not want my film being broadcast on the network unless it iswilling to let its own workers back in to work and promises tobargain with them in good faith," Moore said in a statement Friday."CBC has locked out its union workers, an action that is abhorrent toall who believe in the rights of people to collectively bargain. Whythe great and honourable CBC is behaving like an American corporationis beyond me."Bowling for Columbine, an examination of America's obsession withguns and violence, is scheduled to air Sunday night on CBC and aspokesman for the broadcaster said the documentary will be showndespite Moore's objections."We've promoted the film heavily and our audiences are expecting itto be on," said Jason MacDonald. "We will broadcast it."Moore won an Oscar for best documentary for the film in 2003.He used his acceptance speech at the Oscar ceremony as an opportunityto launch a broadside against President George W. Bush and hisparticipation in the war in Iraq, which had been launched only a fewdays earlier.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Crazy called they want their straight jacket back
This just in...
Frank wrote:
Ok. I will keep all this in mind next time you seem excited about the
opportunity to create a "demo" for a career in the entertainment industry that
you do not want. Good luck with your future auditions.
I am not pissed (you are projecting again)...I am disappointed in you for
wasting my time. For some reason I excepted better professional behavoir from
you. Silly me I guess.
-F
I wrote:
Yes keep it in mind. Please do. Have a beautiful day.
(I'm telling you , Yoga, maybe meditation...)
And I wrote to English boyfriend:
Get a load of this load. HA!
English boyfriend wrote:
Huh??? This guy seems a little bit weird…..that my English sense of understatement kicking in…..WTF??? Has this guy been reading another set of emails, after sniffing solvent? I really don’t understand what his problem is….
Frank wrote:
Ok. I will keep all this in mind next time you seem excited about the
opportunity to create a "demo" for a career in the entertainment industry that
you do not want. Good luck with your future auditions.
I am not pissed (you are projecting again)...I am disappointed in you for
wasting my time. For some reason I excepted better professional behavoir from
you. Silly me I guess.
-F
I wrote:
Yes keep it in mind. Please do. Have a beautiful day.
(I'm telling you , Yoga, maybe meditation...)
And I wrote to English boyfriend:
Get a load of this load. HA!
English boyfriend wrote:
Huh??? This guy seems a little bit weird…..that my English sense of understatement kicking in…..WTF??? Has this guy been reading another set of emails, after sniffing solvent? I really don’t understand what his problem is….
Woe is me. All of a sudden the entertainment industry lies in this guy's basement.
I AM FLY PAPER FOR FREAKS
Just thought I'd let you all in on a little messed up email converstion that happened recently. I think I must give off some sort of funky vibe, because this has been the most fucked up week as far as sketchy inter personal relations go. I've changed names (OR HAVE I?) to protect the innocent.
Hey ,
I now have a studio at my basement, and I could use someone to do lots of> > > producing/sound editing/voicing Let me know if you are interested in unsupervied work for the experience of it-Frank
Quoting me: It would actually be fantastic because I'm searching for some way to make a demo for myself. Let me know whenever, though I am busy, and we'll chat>
FRANK. wrote:> > Hi > >> > My number is 384-*****. call me tonight at 8 pm, and we can discuss the> > details.> > If you can a car, come on over, and you can see the studio for yourself,> and> > maybe we can arrange for you to be there when I am out.> >> > -F>
Quoting me :>> > Hey Frank,> >> > I have a class tonite until ten of ten. Could I ring you tomorrow
FRANK wrote:>> Tomorrow night, same time, 8 pm.> -F
FRANK wrote
It’s 8 :20…WHERE are you?
Quoting me:
As much as I appreciate the offer...I think I'll pass...I don't appreciate your tone. At all.
I had an audition last night and didn't get home until after midnight...My phone was practically dead and my boyfriend was a much more important phone call.
FRANK wrote:Hey You have a great voice, and so much potential, but I can see why you have not advanced to where you should be. Other people might be to intimidated to tell you what you need to hear, even if you don't want to hear it. Go ahead and be pissed off. That's ok. If you don't know it now, you will come to it later,the realization, that deep down inside, you have enough talent to know I am right.> ...Tone?...Do you always sabotage your own career like this?That's ok. I don't appreciate scheduling time for a call (a time Yourequested)and having my time wasted. I had arranged for you to get paid tutoring on sound editing software Wavelab (out of my own pocket) for theinternship, a guarenty that it would air on at least 1 FM station in Vancouver,and at least 3 internet stations. You blew it.>.You asked for a date and time, and you screwed up on your scheduling. That is your problem. You made it my problem. Those excuses may work in other areas ofyour life, but in this industry, with me, those excuses are a dime a dozen. Don't project your irresponsiblity into the "tone" of others because you cannot get it together. Your low self esteem has no business in your careerbuilding.-Frank
Hey Frank,
Um career? I think you have me mistaken with someone else. I have absolutely no intention of pursuing a CAREER in radio. So instead of making comments about something you know nothing about, namely me, perhaps in the future you will ask questions instead of barking orders.
And you arranged WHAT?!?! Did I ask you to do that? And now your pissed and feel like hurling insults...fine, but before you tell me what I blew or what I sabotaged, perhaps you should have asked what My intentions for MYself were. Last time I checked, you weren't the one responsible for my career; in fact you haven't even said BOO to me in like four or five months and now, what, JUMP? Worry about your own 'career' bitterness, you obviously need to.
Maybe invest in some Yoga classes.
The comments you made here are uninformed and knee jerk, so you'll pardon me if I don't take you at all seriously. Me and my low self-esteem are going to go get a coffee now and ponder my extreme talent.
OKAY...AM I crazy or is this guy probably building bombs in his basement as well? Why does every Tom, Dick and Dickhead think they're important cause they have an internet radio station? Yippee. I'm pretty sure I caught an episode of Aunt Mary's Community Bake Sale Radio last week...the nuts were not just in the recipes, if you know what I'm saying.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
DON'T RUN!!! FINKS!! ALL OF YOU!!!
People are finks. The more I read about or hear stories of people lying and cheating, the more I would like to throw in the proverbial towel. It is completely draining to have to listen to friends talk about their finkish behaviour and truly disturbing to see how little it seems to bother them. Plus you get to thinking if you could possibly be the victim of some such fink yourself.
I'm no Preachy Patricia (Doppleganger of Patricia the Stripper) and I'm all for liberation, sexual or otherwise, but have I gone completely MAD?
Marriage, right? Have and hold, richer and poorer, sickness and health, blah, blah, blah. Maybe they should have included something about boredom and excitement. It seems to me most of what my lying fink friends have in common is that they are bored with their current partner or spouse. They say they LOVE their significant others but for some significant reason or other have lost the spark that they once had. Guess we are all just thrill seeking cousins of the ape, then, because I thought people had the forethought enough to anticipate this eventuality and LIVE WITH IT. Everything can't be all good all the time. And for fuck sake why do people want it to? That's having your cake, eating it and not paying a cent for the ingredients!
Why do finks suddenly appear everytime marriage is near? Sure there are people for whom marriage is a cozy little greenhouse, but for the most part it's a ceremony with very little impact on the partners' responisibility guage. The words don't mean diddly to most people. Just words, just promises, easily broken. People say it's human nature. CRAP! Human nature should be something that capitalises on our ability to think ahead, empathise, explain. Those are, after all, human characteristics. When people say human nature, what they mean is ANIMAL nature. Plus, it's a godamned cop out. It says that the finks of the world can't help themselves, and well, maybe, shouldn't have to. I get that we may not be designed for monogamy. Men, biologically at least, are said to look for several mates for whom to act as seed receptors, whereas women tend to jones for the one mate deal. O.K.. We also used to shit in holes in the woods and clobber each other with truncated tree limbs (that is before we invented the wheel and then could run each other over).
But so then why marriage? Did you just want to wear a pretty dress and have a party, because it's much cheaper and relatively easy to declare some Friday night your own personal holiday and booze it up in a tiara. At least then it's not a foregone conclusion who you are going to be sleeping with that evening. Makes it a little more exciting.
Or maybe you're married because you are traditional, as one particular fellow explained to me, with his hand on my bare knee. These finks are particularly offputting and some (like this particular one) even go as far as to say cheating saves marriages. BOLLOCKS!!! How can you not rot on the insides knowing you are doing the dirty on someone you supposedly love? If you can't or don't rot, then there is something seriously WRONG.
This is where the danger lies. It's a sort of desensitisation to our moral compass.. If you make yourself not care, either cause 'every body's doin it' or you reason that you aren't doing any harm, don't you eventually numb the responisibilty right outta your system, teach yourself it's actually okay? It ceases to exist then, doesn't it? We might actually be de-evolving! Think of it...Our brains are powerful little super computers that carry great influence....what if we end up passing on an underdeveloped moral sense to our next generation? We all hear of some freaks that are born without the sense of right and wrong, people who end up killing and end up in mental wards; why not people born with no loyalty?
Of course I'm being facetious, but I worry about people who say there is nothing wrong with finkdom. It's a convenient way to reason selfishness and it doesn't admit what is really going on. What is going on is essentially the expression of our crippling fear of being alone and unimportant. Which of course is all about our fear of death.
What really gets my beehive in a buzz is that the finks think only of themselves, not the new world disorder they are chain reacting with their indiscretions. With all they're protests that it cannot be wrong to feel so good, what IS it they propose? Every body screwing every body? Free love? Okay then, sounds good...I'll have some of that! Tricky thing to manoever though, when that pesky HUMAN NATURE comes into it. Ya know? My favorites are jealousy, rage, gluttony...
I'm no Preachy Patricia (Doppleganger of Patricia the Stripper) and I'm all for liberation, sexual or otherwise, but have I gone completely MAD?
Marriage, right? Have and hold, richer and poorer, sickness and health, blah, blah, blah. Maybe they should have included something about boredom and excitement. It seems to me most of what my lying fink friends have in common is that they are bored with their current partner or spouse. They say they LOVE their significant others but for some significant reason or other have lost the spark that they once had. Guess we are all just thrill seeking cousins of the ape, then, because I thought people had the forethought enough to anticipate this eventuality and LIVE WITH IT. Everything can't be all good all the time. And for fuck sake why do people want it to? That's having your cake, eating it and not paying a cent for the ingredients!
Why do finks suddenly appear everytime marriage is near? Sure there are people for whom marriage is a cozy little greenhouse, but for the most part it's a ceremony with very little impact on the partners' responisibility guage. The words don't mean diddly to most people. Just words, just promises, easily broken. People say it's human nature. CRAP! Human nature should be something that capitalises on our ability to think ahead, empathise, explain. Those are, after all, human characteristics. When people say human nature, what they mean is ANIMAL nature. Plus, it's a godamned cop out. It says that the finks of the world can't help themselves, and well, maybe, shouldn't have to. I get that we may not be designed for monogamy. Men, biologically at least, are said to look for several mates for whom to act as seed receptors, whereas women tend to jones for the one mate deal. O.K.. We also used to shit in holes in the woods and clobber each other with truncated tree limbs (that is before we invented the wheel and then could run each other over).
But so then why marriage? Did you just want to wear a pretty dress and have a party, because it's much cheaper and relatively easy to declare some Friday night your own personal holiday and booze it up in a tiara. At least then it's not a foregone conclusion who you are going to be sleeping with that evening. Makes it a little more exciting.
Or maybe you're married because you are traditional, as one particular fellow explained to me, with his hand on my bare knee. These finks are particularly offputting and some (like this particular one) even go as far as to say cheating saves marriages. BOLLOCKS!!! How can you not rot on the insides knowing you are doing the dirty on someone you supposedly love? If you can't or don't rot, then there is something seriously WRONG.
This is where the danger lies. It's a sort of desensitisation to our moral compass.. If you make yourself not care, either cause 'every body's doin it' or you reason that you aren't doing any harm, don't you eventually numb the responisibilty right outta your system, teach yourself it's actually okay? It ceases to exist then, doesn't it? We might actually be de-evolving! Think of it...Our brains are powerful little super computers that carry great influence....what if we end up passing on an underdeveloped moral sense to our next generation? We all hear of some freaks that are born without the sense of right and wrong, people who end up killing and end up in mental wards; why not people born with no loyalty?
Of course I'm being facetious, but I worry about people who say there is nothing wrong with finkdom. It's a convenient way to reason selfishness and it doesn't admit what is really going on. What is going on is essentially the expression of our crippling fear of being alone and unimportant. Which of course is all about our fear of death.
What really gets my beehive in a buzz is that the finks think only of themselves, not the new world disorder they are chain reacting with their indiscretions. With all they're protests that it cannot be wrong to feel so good, what IS it they propose? Every body screwing every body? Free love? Okay then, sounds good...I'll have some of that! Tricky thing to manoever though, when that pesky HUMAN NATURE comes into it. Ya know? My favorites are jealousy, rage, gluttony...
Friday, September 09, 2005
BREAKING POINT- THE CBC DOCUMENTARY THAT MADE ME CRY LIKE A CHILD
After the frustration of having to try and explain my contradictory feelings last night about the 1995 referendum in Québec to my boyfriend, who hails from Jolly Ole England, I went to bed. I was feeling very confused. Of course he was right; one second I'm cursing any muther who has the cojones to try and break up my kick-ass country and then the next I'm expressing a preternatural understanding of why Montréal Francophones wanted to strangle the maple leaves off the 'we love you Québec' protesters/well wishers from across Canada come to save our souls. What the hell was my problem?
Maybe it's because I think I understand a little of what drives the Separatist movement. Maybe 'understand' is a little strong, but I suppose I empathise with the fear of having one's culture slowly crushed by a more dominant or influencial one. Try being an Anglo where I live in Montréal. (Not that there's anything wrong with it...)
Not that I actually believe, as some clearly do, that Québecois culture is as weak and without defence as to require such grand protection. It is not, let's just say, as vulnerable as First Nations culture, by any means. We've really fucked them!
I mean, Québec culture has some pretty powerful and deep pocketed white-hairs running the show to make sure they don't go the way of the Dodo. Plus, as far as I can see the biggest threat to Québecois culture is the United States of America, not Enlgish Canada. I find it absurd that these little renegade 'patriotes' (small fucking p) running around Montréal with their flags and reminiscing about the Plains of Abraham are the same kids I see wearing Von Bitch t-shirts. The kids with the OUI patches still stuck to their backpacks are listening to maudite Britney Spears not Beau Dommage!
Hey, listen up, it's not YOUR culture in danger...it's ALL culture in danger!
Should we not be working on this (gasp) together? Yah. Just as soon as we stop hating each others' guts, I guess, right?
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
It just slipped out...
I am stupid.
I promised myself I wouldn't write about my love life here, because I know my amour occasionally reads this. You know, to avoid my big stupid mouth running off at length and perhaps saying (writing) something I don't mean. We all do that, right...but it's so much more crummy in writing. At any rate that is precisely what I want to chit chat about. My big stupid mouth.
To call me impulsive would be a major understatement and because of this I am prone to make a lot of stupid decisions and stupid mistakes. And let me tell you 'it's not my fault' only has so much weight. Very little actually, if you aren't a ten year old. And even with the clarity the Ritalin has given me, my misfiring, pre-drug brain has created habits that have become very hard to break. It's as if I have to re-learn how to be in the world.
So as I clumsily manoever this life of mine, tripping and stubbing my toes the whole way, the crazy fools who choose to be with me ( thinking that cause I look like an adult I must be one) get burned. And sometimes badly.
The impulsiveness also translates into impatience and frustration and rage at not being understood. But also heaps of guilt...I experienced this tenfold after having started the Ritalin. It's as if a window opened on all the tumultuous situations in my life and shone a light on the culprit...ME.
So with my impatience glaring and obvious in these little flashbacks, I experienced those heaps of guilt I talked about. I think guilt is one of the most unhealthy feelings, because it's so amorphous, it teaches you little or nothing and is always directed at yourself. Guilt is the emotional equivalent to shooting yourself in the foot.
Good rarely comes of guilt..(and I'm not talking liberal guilt that makes rich people donate to charities...I'm talking about making yourself feel lower than worms). This is where I tended to abuse the hell out of myself. Drinking till you puke and pass out, anyone? Ganja till my eyes turn green, chums? Self-destruction can actually feel productive when you think you're an asshole and don't deserve to be loved.
But that, too, is an immature response. And I'm trying really hard to upgrade instead of taking steps backwards off this cliff. Thing is, for the man I love, it may be too late. Because I have made SO many mistakes...I've tried to hurt myself, tried to hurt him. I've tried to cover it up, because of guilt and stupidity and a brain that needs a little help with its homework. And I'm not sure he knows how much he has helped and how patient he has been and how much I appreciate and love him. I tell him, but it always seems to me that it comes out sounding needy, and I don't want it to. I want him to realise that with all of my faults and handicaps, I am a strong and nurturing woman capable of great things. I don't offer a needy love. I want my love to support him, hold him like a hammock, to make him realise he has someone always looking out for him, someone to break his fall.
This is another reason I need this place to write. I need to admit...to myself, to the world...(okay to the, like, TWO people who read this) that I have fucked up royally but am trying to mend.
In Sudbury, they have these things called slag dumps where the molten nickel from the mines is poured on top these large dumping hills and the locals will grab beer and watch it dribble down the hills on Saturday nights because it's all lit up like a bright, glowing lava sundae. Basically, it's nickel run-off....it's the junk that's no longer useful. It's the stuff they separate from what is valuable. So that's what this is....my slag dump. And occasionally, even though I don't want my junk anymore, it looks pretty brilliant being dumped on a dark website in Montréal.
ROGERS BLOWS GOAT...I HAVE PROOF.
Right now, ladies and gentlemen...RIGHT NOW I am on hold with RogersCanada who recently bought out Sprint Canada. To explain, I switched to Sprint from Bell because Bell couldn't find customer service with a flashlight and a map...And Sprint was SO much better....I mean they are still a phone company so screw them, right?...but they had nice, pleasant, English speaking agents on the phone who were helpful and didn't keep me on hold for an eternity.
Now Rogers, ah Rogers you sonofabitch, my service has changed. First off, I haven't gotten a bloody bill from them but being the good hearted, honest soul that I am, I tried to find if I owed the bastards anything. So I check my online banking and realise I paid them less than two weeks ago and so the money is gone and in their grubby little hands. But just to check it out I try and manoeuver around a (Oh I'm still on hold) very poorly designed website to find some info on we-of-no-choice-in-the-matter new clients of Rogers. So former Sprintites are directed to call a customer 'service' line...I am shocked to find that after I punch in my phone number I have the choice to get my account balance from the automated bitch on the line...with no more proof that it's me than I can use a telephone. Sprint used to ask name, birthdate, blood type before...and now I can get it by putting in a phone number...can you say ILLEGAL? (Still on hold...) (but they apologize for the unsual delay...)
Anyway the surly bitch I finally got a hold of has put me BACK on hold after telling me what her little automated system told me (I owed them a hundred bucks to be paid today. HA! WTF?!?) was wrong and that I didn't owe them shit till the 20th of September. She chastised me for 'believing' the automated system...(um...isn't that what it's for?). So fine. I'm still pissed at the oversight which allows any(freakin)one have acces to my account balance and how I pay and when...Hark! Is that Bell, sounding much more appealing by the second? Yep I think it is....
Friday, August 26, 2005
Morning from Montréal. Where the Mutual Funds companies rip you off and you have no evening news!
This CBC lockout is really boiling my potatoes. Thank godess I still have Dave Bronstetter in the morning; I can't fully wake up without his dulcet tones. But what the hell is the deal here? Do we not realise what an asset the CBC and their underpaid employees are? I am having serious pangs with the way my country seems to be headed.
Mr. Martin, are you listening? No, of course you're not. That's why we are rapidly moving towards privatised health care, that's why we're hangin' up Hydro Lines around pristine Québec waterfalls, that's why you all don't feel the necessity to explain EXACTLY what's happening with Canadian troops in Haiti.
Running under the same contradictions that I'm pretty used to as a Canadian, our government seems to selflagellate over inconsequential shit like the Sponsorship scandal... Are we really SO idealistic to believe this kind of crap hasn't happened in our government before? Really think that Mulroney wasn't greasing his fair share of fat-cat palms? Do we really think a Conservative government would be more transparent? Or are 'we' just pissed because it's got something to do with Quebec and National Unity and all that same tired sky-is-falling hysteria that only succeeds in making the Separatists (I will NOT call them the other S word) reaffirm the idea that the rest of Canada doesn't understand Québec and makes the rest of Canada reaffirm that Québec is whiney kid at the front of the class always asking for special treatment. Just makes us all hate each other just a little more doesn't it?
But what really gets my panties in a wad is what I saw on my local news (what's left of it). Justice Gomery's expressionless mug requesting the VIEW from Canadians on how our Liberal government can rebuild our trust. In an embarrassingly Canadian-cliché move, The Gom is actually probing regular Joe Canadians, to tell him and the other stupid white men how to DO THEIR JOBS...
One of the serious questions involves Canadians' views on how to "ensure clearer accountability between the executive and administrative arms of government". Well, let's see for starters, let's have all government staff outfitted with those electronic tracking bracelets like they gave to Martha Stewart. Or maybe just put them all in a pen and zap them with cattle prods.
My point is, perhaps the government could ask our opinion on RELEVANT issues? Ask us our thoughts on things like child poverty in Canada or the homeless epidemic in a country that prides itself on its quality of life or the fact that few people can get proper mental health attention from qualified doctors. Governments mismanaging government funds has occurred since the dawn of governments and I'm not sure even cattle prodding them will change that. But if The Gom is proposing that the views of regular Canadians ACTUALLY MATTER...THINK of what we regular Tom, Dick and Harriets could accomplish if we were asked on a regular basis? Wasn't that the point of voting for whoever you voted for? To have your voice heard? Or do you just get a kick out of making little check marks in little boxes?
"We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw.
Alas!Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar"...T.S Eliot(1925)
Thursday, August 25, 2005
WHY SPINNING CLASSES SUCK
Hello all!
....And a special hello to those of you who are right now, thinking about their fat asses and considering joining a gym. I joined one. AND I rarely have a day that goes by that I'm not thinking of MY fat ass.
Okay fine. So I only started going this week after having had the membership for six months. And..I actually may have to sell a kidney to continue paying the exorbitant monthly fee, butt (pun INtended) I am convinced this is good for me.
I have never been a sporty gal. I prefer my 'sports' to be accompanied by drinking and smoking. For instance, I am quite an accomplished bowler, and damn if I can't scare a few blokes with my dart skills. Alright, so it's not my skills they're scared of.
I figured what the hay, though. Maybe it was time for me to stop complaining about my ass and get it movin'..Very Oprah motivational type crapola then started oozing out my ears. (Oprah, I love you.) I then found myself adding odd music like Michael Jackson's Keep the Faith to my iPod Shuffle. (Which is wrong on many levels, I realise).
So when a co-worker asked if I'd join her on Tuesday for a spinning class at the same gym, I said yes. With little more enthusiasm than if I'd been asked to file my taxes. I knew it would be painful, but I had an obligation and a duty.
Lunch time was when we were planning to sit and spin. I was a nervous spin virgin. I recalled stories I had heard of cult-like gatherings with sinewy Lances and Lancettes pedaling furiously in the dark with blaring music and a light show. I was not sure this was for me.
Ten minutes into the class I KNEW for certain that it wasn't. Besides the fact that the pain on my crotch bone approximated having rough sex with a brick, I could barely understand the instructor's thick Latino accent over the blaring Shakira. The point was that he was to be 'virtually' guiding us bikers through streets and up and down hills with us controlling the resistance on the bike, depending. Didn't help that the little prick decided to tell a room full of Montrealers that they were biking through the streets of Toronto. So when he 'guided' us to a portion of Queen Street to try and pass a motorcycle, I snorted so loudly I almost fell off my bike.
Being the only ones with two X chromosones in the class, I'm pretty sure the instructor, unfeasibly named Larry, was trying to ignore our presence as much as possible. Christ, I was trying to ignore my OWN presence. I was desperately trying to ignore the chest pain and the pools of sweat on the floor around the bike. Tried to ignore Larry, tried to ignore that my co-worker didn't look nearly as traumatised as I, tried to ignore the time and how it wasn't passing nearly fast enough.
When we hit the 45 minute mark, I gave the "get me the fuck out of here" look to my fellow Chick Spinner and dismounted gracelessly. Still pumping the pedals like the Tazmanian Devil, Larry called out "Have a nice day girls!" as we stumbled out of the room ( I more than she). With Jello-Legs I hit the shower and knew that I would never, ever, EVER take another spin class. Good riddance Larry-I-know-your-name-is-NOT-Larry!!
....And a special hello to those of you who are right now, thinking about their fat asses and considering joining a gym. I joined one. AND I rarely have a day that goes by that I'm not thinking of MY fat ass.
Okay fine. So I only started going this week after having had the membership for six months. And..I actually may have to sell a kidney to continue paying the exorbitant monthly fee, butt (pun INtended) I am convinced this is good for me.
I have never been a sporty gal. I prefer my 'sports' to be accompanied by drinking and smoking. For instance, I am quite an accomplished bowler, and damn if I can't scare a few blokes with my dart skills. Alright, so it's not my skills they're scared of.
I figured what the hay, though. Maybe it was time for me to stop complaining about my ass and get it movin'..Very Oprah motivational type crapola then started oozing out my ears. (Oprah, I love you.) I then found myself adding odd music like Michael Jackson's Keep the Faith to my iPod Shuffle. (Which is wrong on many levels, I realise).
So when a co-worker asked if I'd join her on Tuesday for a spinning class at the same gym, I said yes. With little more enthusiasm than if I'd been asked to file my taxes. I knew it would be painful, but I had an obligation and a duty.
Lunch time was when we were planning to sit and spin. I was a nervous spin virgin. I recalled stories I had heard of cult-like gatherings with sinewy Lances and Lancettes pedaling furiously in the dark with blaring music and a light show. I was not sure this was for me.
Ten minutes into the class I KNEW for certain that it wasn't. Besides the fact that the pain on my crotch bone approximated having rough sex with a brick, I could barely understand the instructor's thick Latino accent over the blaring Shakira. The point was that he was to be 'virtually' guiding us bikers through streets and up and down hills with us controlling the resistance on the bike, depending. Didn't help that the little prick decided to tell a room full of Montrealers that they were biking through the streets of Toronto. So when he 'guided' us to a portion of Queen Street to try and pass a motorcycle, I snorted so loudly I almost fell off my bike.
Being the only ones with two X chromosones in the class, I'm pretty sure the instructor, unfeasibly named Larry, was trying to ignore our presence as much as possible. Christ, I was trying to ignore my OWN presence. I was desperately trying to ignore the chest pain and the pools of sweat on the floor around the bike. Tried to ignore Larry, tried to ignore that my co-worker didn't look nearly as traumatised as I, tried to ignore the time and how it wasn't passing nearly fast enough.
When we hit the 45 minute mark, I gave the "get me the fuck out of here" look to my fellow Chick Spinner and dismounted gracelessly. Still pumping the pedals like the Tazmanian Devil, Larry called out "Have a nice day girls!" as we stumbled out of the room ( I more than she). With Jello-Legs I hit the shower and knew that I would never, ever, EVER take another spin class. Good riddance Larry-I-know-your-name-is-NOT-Larry!!
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Gossip Girls
Last night I met a friend for coffee. She's this very pretty practically thirty girly who's just failed the Bar exam for Québec Law and therefore enjoys repeating how crappy this province is and how she can't wait to high-tail it to T.O.
I owed her some moula so I agreed to meet her for a bit. Well, a bit turned into five hours around a table with two of her equally obnoxious friends waxing bitchy over some girl at a party who took a shower at the host's house without asking. "Omigod, I was like, how fucking rude is that?" Heather-Number-One recounted.
As far as I could tell it wasn't such a huge deal considering the background story about this party inlcuded lovely tidbits about doing lines of coke off some Chad's six-pack. An unauthorised shower seemed like party peanuts compared to the other shenanigans (mother is that you?) going on at this boondocks brew ha-ha. Hoity-Toity Hudson teens really get off on that sort of drug induced mayhem, but apparently bathing requires special permission from the Queen. I mean, let's be serious...I've had a couple of parties where I would have PREFERRED my guests take showers!
At any rate, this conversation along with every one before and after revolved around the slagging of some heinous bitch who stole someone's boyfriend, or had herpes, or suffered from depression (to which Heather Number Two piped in saying "Aw, COME ON. I can deal with someone having a FEW PROBLEMS...but fuck!")(seems she went to the same School of Empathy as Tom Cruise).
Not being one to keep my mouth shut in POLITE (ha!) company I distractedly said,"Well this, you guys, is pretty much the reason I don't have women friends."
What I expected was akin to hair pulling and boob twisting but what actually happened was somber nodding all around and agreement at how horrible women can be to each other. Why IS that? I don't buy that it's related to our competition for the males of the species....frankly are they really worth all this hullabaloo (mom, that you again?) anyway? Are women just naturally nasty? Does it really make people feel superior to verbally thrash their fellow chiquitas around them for the sake of a personal pick me up?
Makes me puke. Makes me want to tear my high school year book to shreds.
Monday, April 18, 2005
miserable monday
WHY do I have to work today? It is a gorgeous day in Montreal and I KNOW by 2 o'clock the Terasses will be filled with late lunchers/drinkers. I've often wondered what these people do for a living...all of them can't be independantly wealthy. Maybe they all write for The Gazette. Whatever they do I want their job (or their independant wealth).
Friday, April 15, 2005
Mutant children on public transportation
So I'm on the bus on my way to work, when what do I spy but a striped-tied private school kid of about ten with an iPod. The bus is packed, so squished in beside him and his friends I can't help but overhear his conversation.
He leans over to one friend and holds out the little white machine to show him the screen.
"Hey, have you heard this song 'Dueling Banjos'?" the kid says, with an authority that disturbs me. "Yah it's from this movie called 'Deliverance'. Have you ever seen 'Deliverance'?"
The other kid shakes his head and I try not to spit.
Exasperated that his friend hasn't seen the movie, he explains that it is about a bunch of Hillbillies who go on a killing spree with the nonchalance of a prison guard.
I shit you not the kid was ten.
And now I feel completely scared that I might have to raise hellraisers of my own someday. Little brats in suit jackets who watch movies that make ME, uh... squeal.
Maybe I'll get my tubes tied.
He leans over to one friend and holds out the little white machine to show him the screen.
"Hey, have you heard this song 'Dueling Banjos'?" the kid says, with an authority that disturbs me. "Yah it's from this movie called 'Deliverance'. Have you ever seen 'Deliverance'?"
The other kid shakes his head and I try not to spit.
Exasperated that his friend hasn't seen the movie, he explains that it is about a bunch of Hillbillies who go on a killing spree with the nonchalance of a prison guard.
I shit you not the kid was ten.
And now I feel completely scared that I might have to raise hellraisers of my own someday. Little brats in suit jackets who watch movies that make ME, uh... squeal.
Maybe I'll get my tubes tied.
Satiated by fast food evil-doer!
O.k. So I've eaten and I think it may be possible for me to concentrate for more than a nanosecond. Though I'm pretty sure I now have proof that Macdonald's melts your brain, I am going to do my best to explain myself.
Basically, I want attention.
Well, not too much attention...it's not as if I want my friends or family members reading this. After all, I plan on talking about them.
Like the rest of the blog-happy masses, I just want to offer my stories. A little piece of me, speeding along with the rest on this virtual super-highway. I just want to offer my perspective, no matter how kaleidoscoped it may be.
I've felt a strange pull of late to do SOMETHING. Basically I work as a go-fer girl Friday and my literary dreams have been crushed under the weight the banality of this J.O.B brings. But I know I have to do SOMETHING. No matter if my fear of failure barely succeeds in rendering me as deaf and dumb as my fear of success. No matter if I have to hide my name and creep around virtual corners like a thief in the night. No matter if my grey matter requires jumper cables to get it going.
On what I imagine to be a sunny Sunday the 20th of February, my favorite writer shot himself in the head with a rifle in Woody Creek, Colorado.
"There was no point in fighting -- on our side or theirs," he wrote. "We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."
Hunter S. Thompson was talking about post 1960's 'Merica. But today I'm taking his words to mean something for me, in my life. Thing is, I haven't found the right wave yet.
Basically, I want attention.
Well, not too much attention...it's not as if I want my friends or family members reading this. After all, I plan on talking about them.
Like the rest of the blog-happy masses, I just want to offer my stories. A little piece of me, speeding along with the rest on this virtual super-highway. I just want to offer my perspective, no matter how kaleidoscoped it may be.
I've felt a strange pull of late to do SOMETHING. Basically I work as a go-fer girl Friday and my literary dreams have been crushed under the weight the banality of this J.O.B brings. But I know I have to do SOMETHING. No matter if my fear of failure barely succeeds in rendering me as deaf and dumb as my fear of success. No matter if I have to hide my name and creep around virtual corners like a thief in the night. No matter if my grey matter requires jumper cables to get it going.
On what I imagine to be a sunny Sunday the 20th of February, my favorite writer shot himself in the head with a rifle in Woody Creek, Colorado.
"There was no point in fighting -- on our side or theirs," he wrote. "We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."
Hunter S. Thompson was talking about post 1960's 'Merica. But today I'm taking his words to mean something for me, in my life. Thing is, I haven't found the right wave yet.
crap crappity crap!
Hello. This is your captain speaking. We are headed for a little turbulence...
As I haven't eaten and I keep fucking up this blog, please be patient....I'm such a blog virgin. So these first few will be awkward and unsatifying. Rest assured that you'll be begging, borrowing and stealing for it soon enough, you naughties....
As I haven't eaten and I keep fucking up this blog, please be patient....I'm such a blog virgin. So these first few will be awkward and unsatifying. Rest assured that you'll be begging, borrowing and stealing for it soon enough, you naughties....
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