Crawling Out Of The Corner

1) The parents are visiting. You can find me in the corner behind the palm tree, curled up in the fetal position. I probably should've watered the palm at some point in the last year, it's not making for a good hidey hole these days.

2) Why is it that only men are allowed to say "shit, shower and shave"? Not lady-like enough for us? But even if you take out the "shit" part, it still doesn't fly. Why not? What the hell do you think we're doing in the shower for that long? The whole washing thing is pretty mundane, but shaving without inflicting mass injuries, that takes time and tactics.

3) Speaking of, why do men's faces never look like badly plucked and mutilated chickens after they're done shaving? Cause my legs do. Maybe that's just me.

4) Would it be wrong for me to get plastered before the parents get back this afternoon? Because that would make things go a lot smoother. Maybe. On the other hand, The Mother is in a mood, and she may not be keen on my winning drunken argument of, "No, fuck You!" That one kills them every time. Yeah, that's how you win, that is. Except possibly not on The Mother.

5) No, these are not the parents that have my blog page address. Just in case you were worried about my standing on the will.

6) Not that it matters, I'm pretty sure I've already been removed from all wills involved anyway. Haha! I can say what ever the fuck I want!

7) No, wait. No I can't. I'm crawling back into the corner now.

The Twenty Year Void

I'm too fucking old to date. There's something wrong with that, but I'm starting to think it's true. I just don't have the energy for that shit. Dating takes motivation. It takes...pep. I fucking hate pep. When I have peppy people inflicted on me, I just want to reach out and bitch slap them. Peppy people and pekingnese. All that bouncing and drooling and naked adoration, and refusing to see someone's flaws, let alone laugh your ass off at them...that just ain't me. I can't help it, if I'm not laughing cause your funny, I'm laughing to avoid sinking into abject despair that the world has spawned something as fucking moronic as you. I'd go with funny, given the option.
But it seems like as I get older, the average girlfriend gets younger, stupider, peppier. And yeah, I know stupider and peppier aren't words, go fuck yourself, would ya? Man, I can't compete with that. I can't stroke your over inflated ego, jack that shit up yourself, buddy. I can't adore you, think your too good for me. Your not. Get over it. You wanna be better than me? Sure, just make it at something useful, like cooking. Whip me up some creme brulee, would you? Nothing beats creme brulee. Except maybe authentic Mexican flan from that little Mexican restaurant on Hastings in The Heights, you know the one, with the authentic Mexican flies in the jars of dried chills on the counter, and the authentic Mexican family running the place, and Ma's first grandson was born 12 days after the kid, and on the first day I went there, and he was a Massive Beast with feet like fucking pancakes, man, this kid was Huge. Fucking massive. Damn, I miss that place. I miss that flan.
So yeah, back to me. Or you. Where were we? Oh yes, the grovolization of dating. Seems everywhere I go these days, I'm surrounded by girls in their mid-twenties, who look like girls in their late teens, and act/talk/think like girls who are prepubescent fucktards. And they're snivelling at the feet of, as a near and dear friend would say, 'any man with so much as an ounce of personality'. Maybe that's what went wrong....personality became trendy. Superjocks or Bill and Ted style potheads are out, and any boy with half a brain is the new accessory du jour for the ladies of style.
But honestly, are they really so few and far between? Do we really have to put you in the kitchen every time one walks in the room, just to make sure that when the excitement becomes to much for you, you piddle on the linoleum, not the carpet? Must you keep fucking giggling? Who am I talking to? I keep using "you", but I've switched from a male recipient to a female one...generic audience at large I guess. Fill yourself in wherever you fit.
And that there's the dating world, in a nutshell. Then, we get to the married world. Take out my closest friends, they're anomalies in the system. Other than them, I've noticed a trend here too: Same guys, moderately human, basic levels of decency, mid-twenties. The wives? They're...maternal. Like jello on barnboards maternal. They talk about the kids, and how much they love spending time with them, doing kiddy things, playing kiddy games, going to mommy groups and mommy and baby gym classes.
These people are fucking nuts. No one wants to spend that much time doing kid things, hell, kids don't want to spend that much time doing kid things. Kids need coffee breaks too, you know. Ask mine. She knows where the best coffee in Vancouver is.
And when they're husbands go out with the boys on a Friday night, do they mind? No, of course not. And that's just jolly. Except that they don't mind because they need that alone time to catch up on reading Parenting magazine, or doing laundry. Fuck the girls night out, hell, don't even have them over for a coffee. Women bond over babies, or at dinner parties where they can all talk about the babies.
Rosy cheeked, flannel clad, Peg Perego sporting, these women have delved into the wonders of married life with all the joy and drive of June Cleaver.
So where did the twenty somethings go? When did twenty something become a black hole, sucking in rejected teens desperate for a "real man" and housewives who have forgotten what the world looks like from outside the diaper?
Man, I'm too fucking old to date, and too fucking young to marry. I'm not gonna giggle, but I'm not gonna sing you a lullaby if you can't sleep. I'll say motherfucker, although not in front of my daughter. Yeah, that one day was different. You try getting a toothbrush out of your nose. You'll say motherfucker too, betcha will. Betcha.
On that note, I'm outa smokes, so I'm out of here. Conclusions? They're passe.

In Other News

The Kid got a Dora The Explorer diary in her stocking. The first thing she put in the diary (other than writing her name on the front,) was a big, fat, full page anarchy symbol.
Maybe not so girly girl after all?

Merry Christmas To All...

The Turkey: Was succulent, and has not killed anyone, as of yet. Although the Lucky Fingernail was never found, therefore no one has yet claimed their year of good luck. I have the leftovers. It shall be mine.

The Kids: Proved their resilience once again, by surviving a gathering of their peers. Minor bruising, major tantrums, the possibility that all my neighbours have put in notice, all as should be. Job well done.

The Cat: Only succeeded in molesting the turkey post-feast. Sucker. Turned her nose up at the peice freely offered to her - the thrill is in the hunt, after all.

The Presents: Wrapped by 2am. Another job well done. (Although not by me, I must admit. Hey, I'd been cooking for 24 hrs by then. Cut me some slack.) And good enough to pass muster with The Kid, despite the fact that she did not receive, "one pink princess dress, with sparkles, one pair pink high heels, with sparkles, and one tiara, with diamonds". Yes, somewhere, somehow, The Kid became a true girly-girl. I blame daycare.

The Breakfast: Crepes are always better with hazelnut chocolate. And cooked by someone else. And served with booze, even if you are too hung over to indulge. Speaking of hungover....

The Booze Nog: Provided and liberally poured by Shadow. I thank you. My head does not.

The Weather: Perfect for a lazy post-crepe day in the park with the kid. Which brings us to the joggers: did they do their dinner on the eve before too, or are they pre-emptive in their efforts? Why so many? It's Christmas, don't lighten up.

Back To The Presents: I have socks which say, "Let's focus on me," and note cards with squashed fairies on them. Life is good. Although there is a chance I also have strange tastes in things, at least people know what I like.

....And to all a good night.

It's time for bed.

Learn Something

Perusing the old posts, and I've come to realize: I still don't really know what emo is. Maybe it's time I look this up.

Oh. My.

See, this is why I need my daily dose of patriarchy bashing. I don't even know where to go from here. There's so many things wrong with this, I just may have to take the time to lay out and plan a post, rather than rambling off random nonsense.
I'm very nearly shocked by the fact that people like this exist. Wow. Planning will ensue. Proper post will happen. Gotta deal with this. Asshole, you need castration. Fucktard, I will, at some point, rip your penis off with my own bare hands. Not bare. Well wrapped in latex. What the fuck.

amendment: Fuck that shit about proper posting and planning a layout. Just fuck it. Work with me here people, I'm about ready to heave, and it's type or spew. So type I shall.

Twisted Little Fuckwad Says: I am against use of RAPEX because some fucking loser cunt can't control whose dick ends up in her every night. It just isn't good enough a reason to be worth the risk it is to the poor retard who gets lucky because you are way too drunk to know what the fuck you're doing inside his place.

I Say: You arrogant little prick. If you have to get a woman so drunk that not only does she not know where she is or who she's with for you to fuck her, but get her drunk enough so she forgets she has a cunt packed full of razor blades, well, that constitutes rape. That's right, fucktard, screwing a semi-comatose woman who has no idea that your there Is Rape. Little rivulets of drool do not constitute consent.

Twisted Little Fuckwad Says: And The very act of opting to use something like RAPEX shows your hatred towards most men, the same way my posts show my dislike of most women. If not, I see your choice as a sign of you having no control over your own body so badly that you have to become a walking booby trap, which says a lot about you.

I Say: Women, unite for your men! Prove you love them by making your vag open to access anytime, anywhere! You never know when a good man may need a sperm-dump, and you ought to know better than to make your cunt a no parking zone. Oh shit, have I been sold on the anti-rapist argument here? Fuck, where was I going with this? Why won't you use my cunt for a biohazard dump site?

Twisted Little Fuckwad Says: I don't have issues, I was just fucked over by one too mant women, just like you were fucked by the wrong man. The difference is, it did not make me go rape women or wear a razor on my dick after, it just made me negatively opinionated towards women.

I Say: Strap razors to your penis, then rape, you say? So women use rapex specifically to get back at you, you say? Really? Because I have yet to see a hoard of man hating, cold assed bitches chasing you down the street with a multitude of twat loads of cold, hard, steel, just waiting to force those viscous little death cunts on your poor, innocent penis. Run, penis. Run from the hoards of attacking Deathcunts which will suck you in, and fuck you up. Run, penis, run.

Fuck pro vs. an tagonist shit. Let's get down to the nitty gritty. Let's go with some direct translation here:

Twisted Little Fuckwad Says: Date sweet men - i.e. don't go out with motherfucking losers, dealers and criminals because they are bad boys that "make you hot"

I (conveniently) Translate: If you're not dating me, you deserved to be raped, bitch. Cause I'm sweet like that. Yeah, nice guy, all around. That's why chicks don't like me. Cause I'm to freakin' nice. That's it.

Twisted Little Fuckwad Says: Keep your dates in public places, a guy's place with his 12 gang banger friends, is not what they meant when they said "a public place".

I (helpfully) Translate: Don't leave Starbucks, or you're fair game. Oh yeah. I'm gonna get me some booty.

Twisted Little Fuckwad Says: Avoid excessive alcohol and drugs when in the company of a stranger, i.e. don't fucking pass out on his lap with your skirt over your head.

I (with precision) Translate: Vomit constitutes consent. Next time you heave all over a guy, expect to wake up preggers, with herpes. Nothing gets me hot like a lap full of gastric acid.

Twisted Little Fuckwad Says: Dress modestly - i.e. don't dress like a slut if you're not one, because believe it or not, most men will think you are one, even those who will not be planning to rape you anyway.

I (decisively) Translate: If I think you look like a slut, I have full rights to fuck you. Because men have no control over their bodies whatsoever (yet still feel we have a right to rule the world....shut up, shut the fuck up inner reason, don't go there....) So if I deign your dress below par, expect a good raping. Oh, yeah, and should I break into your house while you're in the shower? Well, you were naked. You asked for it, bitch.

I Say: Twisted Little Fuckwad, I'd pray to make your life a living hell, but apparently you've done that for yourself. Have fun being you.

Amendamendament: Wow, that post did not pass spell check at all. I think I've given my spelly checky a nervous breakdown. Apparently fuckwad, fuck, asshole, cunt, deathcunt, bitch, Starbucks, nitty, rapex and vag do not pass go, and most certainly do not collect $200. Sorry, spelly checky. It was nice knowin' ya.

Crappity Crap Crap

Anyone out there know anything about computers? I use Internet Explorer, and now cannot gain full access to I Blame The Patriarchy, leaving me in a perpetual patrablafit. I need Firefox. Now.

Please, send help. It's my semester break here people, and I already have a packed reading list, plus turkeys to cook and cookies to bake. No time for learning Computers for Dummies.

I'm begging here. Lend a hand. Use small words.

The Kid Drives Me Batty

What a beautiful day to spend sitting around the house while my daughter's on perpetual time out. Sunshiney, crisp, lovely.
Yup.
Fuck.

Okay:
What would Supernanny do?
Reduce length of time out.
Have talk with child.
Make sure child understands where things went wrong.
Uncancel Christmas (don't threaten what you won't deliver).
Set child back on cleanup task (enforce rules post-breakdown).

Alternately:
What would Artemis do?
Ditch child with closest sucker.
Run for the nearest pub.
Flirt with boys while secretly mocking them behind their backs.
Make said boys buy endless shots for all your new found best friends.
Ditch boys, go for walk.
Steal a stop sign, realize you have no use for stop sign, ditch stop sign.
Eat bacon double cheeseburgers, or smokies dosed in onions.
Run out of beer, realize clubs/pubs/bars and liquor stores are closed.
Pass out on couch.
Wake up, find child.

Choices, choices.....

Untitled

To those who lost her: I'm sorry.
I know this doesn't really make for a blog post, especially since those of you who loved her aren't reading this, but I just wish there was something I could do to make it better. I'm childish, I know, it's not that easy. But I'm so sorry for you.

Wonder Boy Strikes Again

Harper, you're a god. You are. Good to know you're standing up for the families this election. Because that's what it's all about, isn't it? The Families.
Yeah, you'll give us a sweet $1200 to blow...sorry, spend as we please, so's we can get us the best daycare money ($1200, that is,) can buy. Thanks bud, I owe ya one. And I'm pretty happy to hear that you're not gonna let us families take shit from those nasty assed liberals. It makes me happy to know that it "makes you sad" to hear liberals saying we're gonna blow that sweet, sweet moolah on popcorn and beer, that parents are responsible people too.
Wait a minute, I am gonna blow that cash on popcorn and beer, aren't I? Damn, there I go, living up to the stereotype. But come on, Steve, what do you expect me to do with that cash? Do you know how much beer and popcorn you can get for 1200 dollars? Buckets and bottles, Stevo, buckets and bottles. And daycare? That's 12 hrs worth of a sixteen year old smokin' dope on my balcony while The Kid sleeps. Which would you take? Really?
And now Stevie's givin' it to the mini-jocks. Tax breaks all around, all you Dora wanabee soccer fiends, and head bashing hockey teams. That's cool, cause I could use that tax break to help pay for the gas for the minivan while I cruise the team from game to practice to game again.
Hold on there just one darned minute, I don't own a minivan. Heck, there may be a chance that I may not even be a soccer mom. Come to think of it, when I'm working 60 hours a week just to make ends meet after those student loan payments, there's a pretty good chance I'm not gonna be out of work by 4 p.m., just in time to drive The Kid to practice, is there? And how much are cleats going for these days, anyway?
Well, Steve, I'm sure we can work out a compromise. Tell you what, you look the other way while I'm dosing myself in an endless supply of maize and hops, and I'll find a way to live up to your soccer mom dreams. I'll even wear a short skirt while doing it. Oh yeah, betcha just can't wait to see me on the sidelines, jumpin' up and down in my sexy, soccery, mini, can ya? Keep on dreaming, Stevie.
Well, if Shadow and I get on gettin' on, we'll tie the knot for ya, and then there'll be tax breaks and SUV's for me, baby.
But wait, why do I have to be the soccer mom? I hate unnecessary movement, and screaming's so uncouth. Why can't Shadow be the happy homemaker? Come on Shadow, you're the Christian. Doesn't that make you the non-butch of the marriage of convenience, just by default? Throw in my language failures, and I've got you beat any day. See: fuck, bitch, ass, cunt. I'd say that makes me the bacon bringer, any day.
So it's a deal then, Stevie, you hand over the cash, Shadow can fire up the minivan, and I'll eat popcorn and drink beer.
Oh wait....you're not gonna let me marry Shadow, are you Steve? That whole "she's a girl, I'm a girl" thing just wouldn't be very Christian of my Atheist ass, now would it? Crap, keep forgetting about those Christian values, what with the fact that it ain't my fucking religion, and all.
Well Steve, it looks like we may have some kinks in the system after all. No worries bro, I know you're trying, and I've got your back man, just like you've got mine.

Saturday Night's Alright For Writing

Babysitter bailed on me. Damn you, babysitter. You and your previously forgotten "prior engagements". Disengage, darn it!
So looks like it's just you and me tonight, bloggy.
So yeah.
.........
.........
.........

Right.
Raging Bull it is, then.

Random Nonsense

Fun Me-isms From The Last 24 Hours:

"Holy Fuck, that's tomorrow? I didn't think finals started until Friday. Shit."
"Oh shit I gotta...Christ Kelly, it starts at 11:30, not 11:00. I just peed my pants."
"Did you ever know that you're my he....Ow! Shit. That hurt."
The verdict:
- I say 'shit' a lot.
- I'm easily panicked.
- I'm not so big on original thought.

Bunnies

Bunnies are cool. Not the cutest of the bouncing critters, but good enough. Squirrels are hoppier, as is my cat. And the big, black eyes? Ducks kick bunny ass any day.
But the Telus bunnies? Them there's some damn cute bunnies. I want a bunny like that.

Depressing. Assed. Shit.

Just finished watching CSI. So there's this woman, who turns out to be crazy, and has invented the past four year with a son she had actually killed. TV? Yes. But still, firm grasp of reality? Not for me. So here's some random facts:
No. 1 reason women kill their own children:
Protect them from a world they do not feel is worth living in.
Wrong? Yes. Yet somewhere close to something that's almost understandable. Crazy is as crazy does, and sometimes, it might not be about the ends or the means, but some things are that little bit more....no, not quite justifiable, but close.
No. 3 reason men kill their own children:
They're crazy.
No. 2 reason men kill their own children:
Same as women. Joint suicide, life can't go on, and they can't find a way to see past the pain to the idea that their children may have a better life than them.
No. 1 reason men kill their own children:
Revenge on the ex.

Not crazy, not depressed. No, just revenge, plain and simple.

See, this here is why I hate men. Don't you worry, you redeem yourselves on a one on one basis, but in general, you still get a big, fat, F from me. Pisses you off, me saying that shit? Well, better you jump on that self-redemption bandwagon, and maybe drag a couple pals with ya, would you?

Talks With Shadow

Genetically engineered products: Good or bad?
How about Golden Rice? Chock full of Vit A, specifically designed to keep children in third world countries from going blind. Still Good? Bad?

The revolution...if you're not with it, you're against it. What about those who would love to be with it, but have kids to raise, families to feed, life to live? That woman with those nine children in that war torn country....what does she want more; freedom for her children, at the expense of her life, or the means to sustain life long enough to ensure her chidren will make it to adolescence?

Mothers? Yes, or no? Gay parents have a child using a surrogate mother. Is that child at a loss? Or will that child only be at a loss once society convinces them that they are incomplete without a nuclear family? Does a newborn reciprocate that genetic bond, or are they more focused on their needs: comfort, shelter, love, nourishment? Wow, can you so see my bias on this one?


End Notes

Damn, my phone battery lasts a long time.
Bacon double cheeseburgers rock. But only with extra mayo.
Technically, this could be Night of the Inane Comment IV. I may change the title later.
Fucking lovin' the new profile pic. Get it? Bacon double cheese deers and a pint to the first person to get it.

Arrrrgh

Today started as a happy day. I was a happy girl. Finished my readings for the semester, nothing left to do but study for finals, rustled up the rent money, got enough left to feed us.
Yup, no. Fucking electric company, who I've been paying regularly, for the last three fucking years, have decided that because my bill is two months behind, I obviously have no intentions of ever paying again. Despite the fact that I've been paying those little cunts for the last three years, like clockwork. So just to give me a little added incentive, they're threatening to cut me off. On Friday.
And a Merry Fucking HoHoHo to you too, bitches. I hope your nicely electrified Christmas tree catches on fire, and burns your little electric company offices to the ground, with all of you in it. And all your Christmas presents too.
Assholes.
And just to add insult to injury, my two week disposable contacts, which I've been wearing for something like six weeks now, are starting to burn holes through my eye sockets, and are liquefying what remains of my brains. I look like a fucking crackhead, all bleary eyed, squinty, and red.
Glasses? Yeah, they're broken.
Go blind? Yeah, not so much. I used to be blind, when I was younger. Now, I'm so far beyond blind that people with white canes help me across the street. Seeing eye dogs shake their heads in dismay at the sight of me.
Fuck. At least I won't need to worry about contacts around the house, once I get my electricity cut off, since the sun sets at like, 4:30, and I'm out of candles, and don't even own a flashlight.
We're all on equal footing, once the dark sets in.
Jolly.

So to all you holiday celebrators, with presents under your trees, and turkeys in the oven, and uses for lightbulbs, all I can say is:

Santa's not real. It was all a big fat lie to make you shut up and eat your vegetables.

Take that.

Update: I'm okay now. See, I can't handle negative situations like a grown up: I can work off that rage in positive and beneficial ways. Yeah, check out this responsible use of anger induced energy: Once I finished ranting, I fed and bed the child, cat and fish, did the dishes, tidied the house and cleaned the kitty litter. Because happiness is a clean litter box.
Then I got rid of the remnants of my rage by taking The Kids jacket (the zipper broke this morning) and lighting it on fire, then chasing Satan's Cat (who, as of today, has eaten three roles of toilet paper in less than week) around the apartment with it while screaming, "Next time, this is you Cat! You hear me? Don't mess with my toilet paper!"
Okay, so that last part might have just been in my imagination.
Then I lit some candles, put on some soothing music and did some yoga.
Yeah. Right, that's it.
So maybe I watched Futurama while downing tortellini and brownies.

Ready....Aim....

The fire alarm went off in the middle of the night.
I have been well trained by the now evicted, and hopefully dead, kids in 1207 to blatantly ignore the sound of the fire alarm. But as those little shits from 1207 have been gone for a while, I at least do the sniff test, and the hit the balcony and wait to see how the firefighters react test. So I headed to the front door to sniff, and it smelled like...burning Nair. Or maybe Neet. Either way, that's freakin' rank.
Grabbed The Kid and twenty layers of clothes, and headed down the stairs. As we got closer to the ground, the burning Nair smell was gradually covered with the odour of rotting fish. Burning rotting fish. And Nair.
Firemen came, and within half an hour, we were given the okay to head back in.

Moral of the story? If your fish is rotting, dosing it in Nair then lighting it on fire is not a good means of getting rid of said fish. We have insinkerators here people. Use them. Love them. Or just clean out your fridge more frequently.
Nair is never the answer.

Just To Make Myself Clear:

Yes, this is from the last post. But ya know? I'm not so big on original thought. I'm more into the constant repetition of whatever pisses me right the fuck off. So read it again:

On "Promises I Can Keep : Why Poor Women Put Motherhood Before Marriage": This book provides the most insightful and comprehensive account I have read of the reasons why many low-income women postpone marriage but don't postpone childbearing. Edin and Kefalas do an excellent job of illuminating the changing meaning of marriage in American society.--Andrew Cherlin, author of Public and Private Families
The fact that someone needs to write a book about this shit pisses me right the fuck off. See this here? This is me, fucking infuriated. Guess what, you self-righteous, arrogant fucktard: getting pregnant isn't an accident. Not getting pregnant, that's an accident. Condom's break. The shot? It's crap. Hormones fuck with hormones, then they don't work. Sperm swims, eggs swallow.
So as to the "Why" of why poor women should choose to have children without choosing marriage? Well, you find me an orgasm that'll create a descent man, and maybe you'll be working with equal variables in your little statistical analysis. Stats aren't about the answers, they're about the questions. So here's a new one for you:
This book provides a new means of defining how these strong, independent women who choose to have children (despite the fact that their boyfriends turned out to be fucked up incompetent little shitheads), can make their way in society. Edin and Kefalas do an excellent job of illuminating the changing societal perceptions of single parenting, and the shift in public policy which is making it easier for low income parents to pursue the education or goals that they are striving for.
There. Was that so hard? Do we really need a book telling us why marriage is harder to make than children? Wouldn't it be more fun to make a book which accepts the fact that a) sex makes babies and therefore b) the fact that you got pregnant does not make you any different from any one else therefore c) you cannot be treated as a statistical anomaly therefore d) we should be writing a book on how facilitate the personal, social, and economic growth of perfectly fucking normal, competent and potentially productive member's of society.
Guess what? Being a single parent is not some kind of rare, incurable, deadly disease. It's kinda like being a married parent, except without the marriage. Or like being single, except with a child.

Oh, and Fuck You.

Night of the Inane Comment III

What with the fact that my blog is now open to my parents perusal, I went through my old posts to find out, what, exactly, I've written here. That being done, there's two things I'd like to make clear:
1) I do not swear as much in real life as I do on my blog.
2) I do not drink as much in real life as I do on my blog.
Just so's we're clear on that.

Now that we've got that straightened out, I think it may be time for one of my favorite episodes....That's right, it's about:

Night of the Inane Comment: Return of the Night

Let's start with someone else's life, shall we? Surrey Memorial sucks. Doctor White (?) is a fucking moron. My friends C. and B. have spent the last week at the hospital with their three year old daughter, stressed out, unable to leave, with a bored, tweaking out pre-schooler to entertain, and for what? Most of the week was spent waiting for....test results. To find out that she had pneumonia, which C. and B. could probably have told you before they walked in the door. And which the doctor's at the Royal Columbian did tell them before sending them to Surrey for their week of waiting.
Couple of points that really piss me off here:
1) If you're gonna tell parents that they can leave "as soon as the test results are back," you might want to let them know that the results won't be back for a couple of days. That may be one of those pertinent little pieces of info that some parents may find important. "Oh yeah, soon as the blood work comes back, she'll be discharged. No worries, honey, you go home. Call your profs, tell them you'll get right on those papers. Make dinner reservations, hell book a vacation. I'll be home with our daughter in five....."
2) Where is the cost savings in not having a lab in Surrey? Because if you won't release patients without the lab results, and you, what, mail that shit with Canada Post, then keep patients for an extra three days waiting for results, I'm guessing the cost of that bed is a little more than having a lab. Maybe this is a one time thing, and most patients are released without needing their lab results, but somehow I don't think this is the only kid in Surrey to have ever gotten pneumonia. Or to have needed blood work done.

The Yeah Yeah Yeah's 'Maps' is not a good song to listen to on an MP3 player. At least not if your a sing-a-long kinda person. Without the backup, Maps is one of those songs that makes you really sound like an ass. Take it off that playlist, right now. Only play it at home, or in the car, or anywhere where people can hear the tune over your singing. Not your MP3 player. Trust me on this one.
On the music theme, I think I love any band who's name starts with "The". The band could suck, I don't care. Hell, maybe they haven't even written a song yet, but throw the word "the" in there, and I love them.
Same theme? I think I kinda hate Metric.

My cat ate my brownie.
My cat ate my Christmas present.
My cat's goin' down, whenever I can catch her off guard.

Someone threw their pills in an ashtray in the smoke pit at school. Funny thing about it is there's about ten pills missing, then four still in the pack, then two missing, then two more in the pack, then two more missing....you get my drift. Yeah, if those are the odds your working with girl, it's probably best you admit defeat.
Though I gotta say I empathize. Does anyone actually remember to take the pill every single day? I'm working with the whole pill thing here, and let me tell you, if I was actually relying on this as a birth control method, I'd have bred an army five times over by now.
Wait, I may be on something here....
Shadow, it's gonna happen. You've got the mission statement, I'll produce the cannon fodder. You babysit, I'll procreate us up the necessary masses.
Long live the rebellion!


The Kid's eyes have turned green. They used to be blue, but for the last month now, they've been this deep sort of mossy green. I'm wicked jealous. Wicked jealous.

Taking the ferry from the mainland in Greece to Santorini Island, I went out for some fresh air. Found a spot on the deck, pulled out a book, and read. (I think the book was something by V.C. Andrews. I was twelve at the time. That could explain a lot about me right there.) Next thing you know, there's some guy plunked down next to me, and he's pretty stoked to have met a fellow Canadian. He's a university student, from Alberta. He's sitting real close to me. He says I have 'angel eyes.' He's shitfaced.
Don't get me wrong, I do have angel eyes. If you make the correlation that is: angel = innocent = naive = stupid. I've got me a fine pair of blank, cow like eyes. The vacant, vacuous look gets me out of sayin' shit when I don't feel like tossing in an opinion, anyways.
But guess what? Angel eyes or no, I was twelve, and not so keen on getting hit on by some shit-faced Albertan. Down right terrified is what I was. I hid in our bunks for the rest of the trip. When I told them about it, my parents thought the whole episode was hilarious. Yeah, hahaha. Great sense of humor. Wait 'till the next time you walk into a pole, or some drunk guy pukes on you. Then we'll see who's laughing, won't we?
(The answer is me. I'll be laughing. I'm the one.)

"Women's" magazines, like Cosmo and all that shite, always have these articles on body language, how to read it, and how to wrap a rich old man around you're finger and convince him to give you all the contents of his bank account merely by pursing your lips in just the right way. One of the things they always say is that when someone mimics you, they're attracted to you. As any good conversationalist can tell you, that's bullshit. Language is (waxing poetic here) an art form, closely linked to music. (You know, sound and all that jazz.) Sometimes you just get a great conversational theme goin' on, and the theme's not just in the topic, it's in the speech mannerisms.
Adopting someone's speech/gestures is the same as borrowing a shirt from them. Just because you don't own it doesn't mean it doesn't fit you, or isn't you're style. It's just the song of the moment. (Mixed the shit out of my metaphors there. Figure that one out.)
So yeah, it always amuses me when I catch people picking up on my shit. Because I may be the closest thing you can get to multiple personality without actually being multiple personality. Which means when someone mimics me, they're already a week behind.
But maybe I just see that because I've grown accustomed enough to anything that's continuous in me not to notice it anymore. Maybe I only notice the disparities, not the regularities. Maybe I'm actually one of the most predictable people you'll ever meet. (Or not, you may never meet me.) Who knows?

So, is it immoral of me to use it, and abuse it, if someone is actually scared of me, despite the fact that they have no reason to be? I say no. The way I figure it, I'm me. Sure, I'd love to kick your ass, but I'll forget what my mission is halfway across the room. Not to mention, I'm five feet, ten inches of bone topped off with a thin layer of lard. I don't have a muscle on my body. And I sure as hell don't have co-ordination. Or the ability to stand up for extended periods of time without gravity getting the best of me.
If you're scared of me, well that just makes you a big fat pansy. And not just a physical pansy. I'm all over physical pansyhood. I'm a pansy. But if you're scared of me, you're a mental pansy to boot. And that, I've got no respect for. So by being scared of me, you deserve to be scared of me. And then you just need one big fat ass kicking.
From someone who's far less of a pansy than I.

This Night of the Inane Comment is somewhat lacking in chutzpah. I'm just not morose tonight. No sad tales of woe, no past transgressions to regress on. No kicker. I suppose I could pull something out of my hat, but I'm not really into that structured writing shit. I'd rather just go with the me. And the me is a little redundant tonight.

Okay, now I'm choked. Motherfuckers keep stealing my shit. First it was the proliferation of vanilla, then Starfuckers endorsement of the coffee diet, then the New York Times stealing my huppies and turning them into indie yuppies, and now this. Ain't nobody allowed to steal my 'on' unless your name is Mill. And if your name is Mill? You can't sue me, cause your dead. Sucks to be you, asshole.

On "Promises I Can Keep : Why Poor Women Put Motherhood Before Marriage": This book provides the most insightful and comprehensive account I have read of the reasons why many low-income women postpone marriage but don't postpone childbearing. Edin and Kefalas do an excellent job of illuminating the changing meaning of marriage in American society.--Andrew Cherlin, author of Public and Private Families
The fact that someone needs to write a book about this shit pisses me right the fuck off. See this here? This is me, fucking infuriated. Guess what, you self-righteous, arrogant fucktard: getting pregnant isn't an accident. Not getting pregnant, that's an accident. Condom's break. The shot? It's crap. Hormones fuck with hormones, then they don't work. Sperm swims, eggs swallow.
So as to the "Why" of why poor women should choose to have children without choosing marriage? Well, you find me an orgasm that'll create a descent man, and maybe you'll be working with equal variables in your little statistical analysis. Stats aren't about the answers, they're about the questions. So here's a new one for you:
This book provides a new means of defining how these strong, independent women who choose to have children (despite the fact that their boyfriends turned out to be fucked up incompetent little shitheads), can make their way in society. Edin and Kefalas do an excellent job of illuminating the changing societal perceptions of single parenting, and the shift in public policy which is making it easier for low income parents to pursue the education or goals that they are striving for.
There. Was that so hard? Do we really need a book telling us why marriage is harder to make than children? Wouldn't it be more fun to make a book which accepts the fact that a) sex makes babies and therefore b) the fact that you got pregnant does not make you any different from any one else therefore c) you cannot be treated as a statistical anomaly therefore d) we should be writing a book on how facilitate the personal, social, and economic growth of perfectly fucking normal, competent and potentially productive member's of society.
Guess what? Being a single parent is not some kind of rare, incurable, deadly disease. It's kinda like being a married parent, except without the marriage. Or like being single, except with a child.

Oh, and Fuck You.

Holy Shit

I gave my parents my blog address. Wow. I don't even know where to go from here. Wow.