I'm not liking my posting lately. It's missing something. Here's the thing, this blog was supposed to be an outlet, and lately I've been writing what I say. Don't need that shit, you can get that at school. To much rant, not enough rave, that's the thing.
Might be I just haven't been drunk enough lately. I need morose, burning rage, mixed with a slight sense of nostalgia, and maybe just a touch of longing for things I never had.
These days, I'm just angst, prattle, and whine.
So here's to an experiment....I've got one beer down, only one left to go. But I do have a couple of inches of rum left, and I vaguely recall a dribble of vodka hangin' in the back of the cupboard. So lets switch up the tunes, ditch the Mando Diao in favour of The Kills, huck Raging Bull in the DVD player on mute, and see what happens if we invite the creation of another fine edition of.....
Night of the Inane Comment: The Night Bites Back.......
.......
Okay, I got nothin'. I'm going for a smoke. And when I get back, I'll quit typing things like I got nothin', cause that'll fuck your prose right up. And while I'm out there, I'll try and take some time to think, look at stars, look at bridges, and listen to music. That's what's been missing lately; quiet contemplation.
When I lived in Banff, down time was such a scarce resource, it took me a while to find it. Then I found the grand piano at the Banff Springs Hotel. That was beautiful. Not my playing, the only song I can remember how to play is Fur Elise, but the time to get into one's own head. Sometimes I'd finish the song, and realize I had an audience, (some people will listen to anything if it's played in a marble encrusted ballroom), but they never got in the way of my time to myself. There's something about a piano in a public place that makes one feel truly alone. It's a great feeling, to be able to just turn off the world around you, without having to hide from it. An ability to make everyone disappear at the touch of a note.
I've still got nothing. I suppose you can't force these things, but it's been bothering me. I feel like a piece of me is missing. There might be something wrong with missing being morose, but I do. I think it has to do with having been depressed when I was younger, depression is an addiction. Maybe I shouldn't try to feed my addiction, but the way I've been feeling lately just seems shallow.
I think the thing is, I'm happy, but I have nothing to be happy about. Life just....is. I need it to be more. Even if more is sad, scared, confused, angry. These days, nothing changes. My classes are redundant (and I mean that in the most literal way), my budget is relatively close to being nearly manageable, my daughter isn't going through a psychopathic stage, and even the cat hasn't tried to kill me lately. Don't get me wrong, these are good things, but not enough. If life is going to be good, it should be great. I miss ups and downs. Real ups and downs, not just annoyance, and mild amusement.
Okay, I don't know what I want.
Did you know that you can't taste vodka if you mix it with water? It's true. I hate vodka, ever since I was a teenager and the drink of the day was a mickey of vodka, straight up. Yeah, I used to chug that shit straight. We'd split a can of coke between four of us to use as a chaser. Since then, vodka kind of makes me want to rip my tongue out, then jam it through my eyesocket into my brain, as punishment for having considered drinking it again. Vodka seven? Not on your life. But mix vodka with water, and you can't taste squat.
Maybe this is common knowledge, maybe not. But if you don't believe me, I'm willing to lay bets.
The other day, I counted running shoes. Or not, I counted the number of people in my class that weren't wearing running shoes. That was easy, I was the only one. Where are they going in such a hurry, that they need to run to get there? And why can't they just take a cab?
My classes are full of young people. They're always in a hurry. Life is so busy, what with homework, and the after school job at the gas station, and Mary's parents are out of town, so there's a party there this weekend. They make me feel human, they're so small, and self absorbed, and convinced that the rest of the world is exactly like them. What they don't know created the modern post-secondary system.
At SFU, I sat with a girl, K, who had five kids. She had custody of four of them, her ex-husband had custody of the eldest daughter. Her ex-husband's girlfriend liked to rape K's boys. (And yes, when talking about five year old boys, a hand job constitutes rape. Don't argue that point, I'll hunt you down and fuck you up.) She's also applying for an at home daycare license. So word to the wise, if you live just west of Chilliwack, and need a daycare, go licensed, not at home. Cause somewhere out there is a fucked up bitch who hasn't yet had her court case go through, and until then, is allowed to provide at home care for other peoples children.
Che, if you read this, and feel guilty, good. This is your crusade (anti-crusade?), not mine. Write that article. Che's friend, Mohammed Muhammed (who I write about because that name's just too much fun to write), wanted to have his mother out for a visit. Customs and Immigration ain't having none of that. Why? Because she's old, and from Iraq. But we're not racist, we hate her just as much because she's old, as Iraqi. They made that very clear. Thing is, she's capable of getting into the States for a visit....so much for Canadian compassion, or whatever the fuck it is we're supposed to have.
I was a shitty wrestler, in high school. But I could suck weight like a madman. When I lived with my dad and stepmother, they would drive me home if they were picking up my stepbrother from hockey that night. So I could wait for them, or do the two hour walk home. Obviously, I'd wait. They'd sit in the hottub at the pool, and I'd think,
what the fuck, I've got a tournament this weekend, may as well drop a weight class. And I'd throw on whatever extra clothes I had, and hop in the sauna. One night, I dropped ten pounds in one sitting. Of course, keeping it off for the next twenty four hours was painful, (for those of you who have never had to drop weight, that loss is all water, so you can't drink). But I did it. There should be a sport that focuses only on everything that one does to fuck up their bodies for sports.
Is it worth mixing Triple Sec and coke? Or is that just stupid? And who owns Triple Sec, anyway?
Holy shit, I'm giving the Triple Sec and coke a go, and I think I just lost three teeth. That's candy, distilled. Don't go there. Do not go there.
'Cause I'm all feminist and all, I like to say I was raped. But I still don't believe I was raped. To this day, us girls are indoctrinated in the view of rape in a dark alley, shadowy man, preferably with gun.
So how 'bout this, you be the judge:
Forget I exist. Picture, instead, a girl, seventeen, had sex with two boys before. Skinny legs. Much better skin (oddly enough). Cheap drunk. House party. Me, laying on the bathroom floor, a cigarette in my hand, eight butts floating in the toilet, mixed in with tendrils of stomach acid, everything that could have been puked up having long ago been flushed.
Greg walks in, there's whining, his and mine. He wants to get laid, I want to be left alone. He thinks I'm hot, I think that's great, but I'm rather busy dying right now. He wants me. I have no fucking idea who he is.
Here's the kicker: Cathy knocked on the door, and I didn't open it. Something about a girl who I'd known for three weeks walking in on me, my face pressed into a puddle of my own puke, my pants around my ankles, just didn't do it for me.
But you know, sometimes "No" don't mean squat. Just because you've puked up the last of your strength doesn't mean you can't fight back in other ways. But nobody knows these things, when they're teenagers. "I have herpes." "My dad works with your dad. And trust me, he'll find out." "Cathy, open the fucking door, and call the cops."
I dropped out of school after that. Butner had friends, they knew, I had to face them every time I walked into that school.
Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty fucking happy I dropped out of school. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have moved to Banff, met The Ex, had my daughter....and life as we know it would not exist.
But still, there's something lacking in sex ed today. Learning how to put a condom on a banana is all fine and dandy, but girls should know how to castrate a boy with a word. That's not something you should have to find out through trial and error.
And the whole concept of date rape, or who-the-fuck-are-you rape, needs to be made more mainstream. The fact is, society still accepts the idea that if there's no dark alley, there's no rape. And if you really think we've solve these problems, take a minute to visualize the different feelings you have for Dark Alley Girl, and Drunk, Not A Scratch On Her Girl. Sympathy just dropped there, didn't it? Well, now, picture your drunk assed best bud killed in an attempted mugging. Yeah, he deserved it, cause he was drunk. Fucker.
See, at one level, we don't need to explain these things, but down low, they're still there. If you look, you can find them. I know they're there.
The feeling of one's cheek sliding back and forth across the bathroom counter, aided by the lubricating effects of a thin layer of vomit, shouldn't leave one questioning if what happened was rape or not. Something is wrong when you can question this shit.
Can you beleive this spell check doesn't even have "tendrils" in it? Can't they just link to a dictionary or something, I mean, seriously, tendrils. Get it together, man.
And suddenly, it occurs to me what I've been missing. I've been playing Chopsticks on my blog, when I could be diving into Fur Elise, where I don't care about the audience, this is mine. Maybe it only works right in my head, but that's okay. Cause it's mine.
