Dandelions and Kibbles

My apartment is overflowing with bouquets of dandelions. They're every where, and filling up every vase, glass, mug, and bowl in the place. See, The Kid likes her flowers, and she doesn't discriminate. Since they're a gift from The Kid, it would be down right evil for me to throw them away, which means I'm stuck trying to house those perky yellow weeds in any way I can. Lately, I've taken up laying a trail of dandelions everywhere I go. Way I figure, it doesn't count as hucking them if I simply 'forget' them, or pass them on. So they're my new calling card. Want to find me? Just follow the yellow weed road.
After I dropped The Kid at daycare the other day, I cut through the college, and deposited a bouquet of dandelions at the security booth, at which point Security Guard No.2 told me his tale of how he had recently discovered that those shiny yellow blooms and the fun-to-blow puffballs where one and the same.
Ever have one of those Canadian-centric moments? All I could think to say was, "Where are you from?!?" Right when you think your on top of the notion of cultural and regional differences, and figure that you've figured out that you don't, actually, have a perfect grasp on how the world functions outside of your own stomping grounds, you get thrown for a loop by the simple notion that dandelions are not universal. Heck, they're not even global.
I'm still trying to cope.

Last semester, I forgot to water the plants. They survived, and honestly their half-dead state wasn't any different prior to, during, or proceeding the dry spell. This semester, it was kibbles. I forgot cat food. Repeatedly. (Really, my place is a veritable jungle, what with the plants, fish, cat, and of course my pint sized Amazon Warrior, The Kid, so someone's gotta miss out.)
So since I'm a firm believer in feeding the cat The Good Food, I will not pick up a box of generic kibbles at the corner store. Instead, I get a can or two of wet food, and figure I'd get to the grocery store in good time. But a can of cat food only lasts a day, and as chance would have it, I'd forget to get to the store that day.
At first, this wasn't too much of a problem. I seemed to have an inordinately large supply of canned tuna 'round here. So every time I'd get The Kid to bed, only to realize that the cat bowl was empty and the kibbles were gone, I'd toss some tuna her way. But then the tuna ran out. And then the salmon. And the turkey. Hell, I fed her spam, once.
So this evening was the straw that broke the camels back: I'm going to the store first thing tomorrow, and I'm buying out the kibble aisle.
That's right; this evening, I actually ordered delivery. For the cat.

Two Questions

1) Ann Coulter: Angsty prepubescent girl struggling for attention, or hormonally dysfunctional prepubescent girl acting out as a 'cry for help'?

2) How the fuck do I get a video link here?

My bad, I don't need a link, I need video, right here. No linking. That I can manage all by myself.

I guess this just shows the lengths I'll go to too avoid spring cleaning. Normally when I get this into procrastinating, I'd just read the crap written on the bathroom walls, but I'm not in a public washroom right now, so I spent the day watching clips of Ann. Is it just me, or is she just a teenie bit stupid?

Bad, Bad Babysitter

So, does it make me a bad babysitter, if, when Shadow gets back to pick up her daughter, said daughter is now wearing a t-shirt which reads, "Virgin Sacrifice to the Mimosa Gods," and has eaten her way through a box of crayons?

Yes, I'm exagerating again. She only ate one (or two) crayons. I should quit with the exageration. I'll get to work on that.

Sexual Archetypes....No Wait, Fuck That.

And yes, it is a Friday night, and I am at home typing. And no, I do not care how long your line ups are, I don't have a free babysitter on Friday nights, and if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't waste it waiting in your line up. And yes, I did just watch Sexual Secrets on The Life Network, and hell ya, I took notes while doing so. And so you have:

Sexual Archetypes: Debunked
So there's ten archetypes of what constitutes the sexual being, you say? No matter what my addiction to t.v., I beg to differ. First and foremost, never trust a list of ten. Nothing fit's into even numbers in this world, not even sex. Next, well, fuck it. I forgot what I was gonna say. So lets just get on with this here list.

10) Lolita
This one's the Britney Spears of sex. (Early Britney, that be.) The sweet, innocent, virginal little thang that's just dying to hop on your pop and break down the Berlin Wall. She "brings out the dominant male."

Well I say, Good for her. Because men are too damn hard done by in this world. Women keep asserting themselves, saying shit like, "No honey, I think the Mayan Empire was in Mexico, not Africa," and generally making stupid men with no self-esteem feel, well, stupid.
Guess what? You are. Either pick up a book and learn something, or pick up a self-help book, and learn how to be wrong with grace. No matter how many virgins you lure into your bed, they will all, one day, grow up and move on.
Keep up with the Joneses, asshole.

9) Best Friend
This guy can't get none. He's too damn nice, and girls only fuck bad boys.

Um, no. It just doesn't work that way. Buying into the whole "girls fuck bad boys, befriend good boys" theory is buying into the whole "girls can't be friends with boys" theory. And that there would lead to the "girls can't network with boys" theory, and the "girls can't join the old boys club" theory. So that there's just not okay, because it assumes that the men who are currently in control only hire women so they can fuck them, therefore perpetuating the patriarchal system.

Let's make it more simple: Do you want to fuck a) your wife, b) your secretary, or c) your neighbour's wife the most?

Let's just assume that the fact that you're reading this probably means that you're kinda fond of your own wife. Can you see where there would be a problem if the only reason your secretary won't fuck you is because you've been labeled a "friend", and are therefore doomed? Yeah? So guess what: Just because you're capable of having a mature relationship with a woman despite the fact that neither of you a driven by the subcontious need to procreate like tse tse flies does not mean you're set for a life in the mano-convent.
Sometimes, you just don't want to fuck your friends. This does not mean you will never fuck again. The "Best Friend" is a myth. Even good guys get ass.

8) The Charmer
There's something to be said about a guy who always knows what to say, and when to say it. Girls don't necessarily believe him, but they do fall for him.

Excuse me? They don't believe him, but they fall for him? "You're a lying son of a bitch, but I think I love you"?!? Stop and give girls a bit more credit here. The Charmer is a lovely thing to have around, and they make great arm-candy for the female Charmer. Welcome to women's lib, gentlemen, here's where it's actually getting you laid. Thing is, the male charmer has been around for ages, but it's only been recently that his current label has won out over "The Sleaze" and "The Playboy: Stay Away From Him Or We're Cutting Off Your Inheritance", or, "The Sailor".
Women will fuck you. They know you've done your time, enough to (hopefully) have learned your way around the female genitalia, and they aren't really looking for more than sex right now. Eat it up, love it, and thank the Gods every day for the feminism that has made it possible for you to find women who actually enjoy sex. Don't go burning your bridges by either thinking you've 'duped' them in to fucking you, or that you're charm is so extraordinary that they love you to pieces.

They don't. They got laid. I hope it was good.

7) The Yummy Mummy
So they started this bit off with a section on how pregnant women can Actually Be Sexy!!!

Well, no shit. Personally when I was pregnant, all I wanted to do was fuck. And that's saying a lot, seeings as how I was living in a parking lot at the time. You'd a thunk I'd have had more pressing concerns to deal with, but no. Hormones won out, I wanted sex. Not a toilet, not a roof, not lighting, not a fridge. I just wanted to get laid.
Next, we move on to the mother figure.
I'm not even gonna go there: See 1) Lolita. Seek counseling. Grow a backbone. Or become:

6) The Lost Soul
These are the ultimate artists. They're passionate, romantic, and forever in turmoil.

And are the most insidious. See here: woman are attracted to the Lost Soul because they, "appeal to their feminine side," and, "bring out the nurturing nature," inherent in women.

No, they don't. They're fucking babies. They refuse to accept responsibility for their own actions, and can't live without they're "mommies" (if you find yourself repeatedly attracted to the motherfigure, take heed!!) to take care of them. The most frequently used excuse by women in abusive relationships is that their partner is a Lost Soul.

Fuck Lost Souls, be they women or men. My bad, don't fuck them. Sure, if they're friends or family, do anything you can to help them, but don't fuck them. Whatever you do, do not start a relationship with them. It ain't pretty.

5) The Librarian
She's passive and inhibited, until she finds a man who is willing to 'look beyond the glasses' and see what lies beneath.

Seriously, "Look beyond the glasses"? Like Clark Kent? You have to be kidding me. This whole, "Women who have brains are cold, but some are hot, but you can't tell which till you take their glasses off," thing is so old.

I'm not even gonna comment on the 'passive' part. No wait, yes I am. You sayin' smart girls keep their mouths shut? Well, not if they know what's good for them, they don't.

4) Female Boss
Dominatrix. Rival. Doesn't just take it.

Yet 'equal' isn't in there. And still, a woman can't even be your superior without being your sexual toy. Because that's what a dominatrix is: A toy.

And we're back to: Grow the fuck up, and grow a backbone.

3) Bad Boy
He's bad, he does bad shit, and that makes him hot. Or something.

Honestly, I don't know. Having spent my youth around "bad boys", and politely chuckling at how very "badass" they can be, I've got nothing. Maybe if you live in Northern Ontario, you'd find these "bad boys" a thrill, but other than that, meh. I mean, a 'bad boy' story should end with something original, shouldn't it? And for the most part, the only good stories I've heard have been from boys bragging about their exploits that I was in on. I've never met a 'bad boy' who wasn't completely generic. So you puked on a few cops. Who hasn't? Find a way to best, "So I was camping with a crew that picked me up hitchhiking outside of Brandon after I returned to Manitoba to get my favourite pants, having realized I left them there while performing and exocism on a pig barn in Southern Saskatchewan, after having left Winnipeg (the first time) due to the psycho with the whip, where I had originally ended up after a drunked spree which involved setting up tryouts for male strippers to be in our home made soap opera, which somehow turned into the camera woman being my mafia boss, which excuse we used to raid every single chocolate store in town, acquiring hundreds of dollars of gourmet chocolate as 'protection money', before my newfound mafia boss sent me to Manitoba (the first time) to find out whatever I could about the extent of the Telus Conspiracy.
'Bad boys,' you suck. The day I meet one of you that can actually stand up to one of us, is the day that I settle down. So don't even tell me how 'bad' you are, because if you really have mustered up that level of imagination, you're mine. Be warned.

2) A Swashbuckler
He's like, Fabio. Except with more of the Fab, and less of the bio.

No shit. Women still dream of this? Tell me, Life Network, how often do you update your research? Because that's just sad.

1) The Vamp
Considered the ultimate taboo. She exudes sexuality, is considered the ultimate sexual goal, yet is seen as, "Not for marriage."

Men: You can't really be that turned off by women who enjoy sex, can you? I didn't think so.

So here's the thing: The Vamp and the Charmer are not gender specific. Well, really, none of them are, but I'm gonna talk about these two right now. It's my blog, and I can do what I wanna, do what I wanna.....Thing is, you can't say one is one and the other is the other just based on what sex they are. And they mutate. Sometimes, people just want to get laid, and they don't care who they hurt while doing it. That'd be a charmer, whether male or female. Other times, people want sex, and friends, and family, and to enjoy life to the fullest. And they don't need to break other people to get what they want. That'd be a vamp, be they male or female.
Some people avoid intimacy outside of sex: Charmer.
Some people are willing to enjoy sex with a willing partner despite a mutual lack of long-term emotional attachment: Vamp.
Some people have sex knowing they would never hook up with that person: Charmer.
Some people have sex knowing they may not choose to hook up with that person: Vamp.
Some people need sex to make themselves feel good: Charmer.
Some people like sex because it feels good: Vamp.


And fuck it, that's it. I'm not spell checking my way through this list of "fuck", "motherfucker" et. al, so deal with the typos. I'm going to bed.

Yup. That's it.

Warning: This Is Not A Post

So anyway, this here quiz what stolen from Pornstar, because I'm determined to live up to my new life's goals ***Stay tuned for the soon to be posted list of Impusive's New Life Goals!!!*** which includes updating this here blog regularily, yet I'm too giddy that I didn't flunk law to actually write anything coherent. So here's what you get:

What is your occupation?
I'm still a stuuuu-dent, I'm still a stuuuuu-dent. Sung to the tune of that song which that chick sings to that guy in that movie. You know the one.

What colour are your socks right now?
Bunny-slipper coloured.

What are you listening to right now?
Quando Quando Quando by Engelbert Humperdink. Isn't that the best name ever? That guy's gotta be tough as nails, other wise he woulda been killed in junior high with a name like that. Engelbert Humperdink is a fucked up ass-kicker, I'll tell you what.

Can you drive a stick shift?
Sure thang, jellybean. Well, sort of. The one and only car I've ever owned was a stick, and we got her from the Yukon straight on down to Southern Ontario, which is about the same distance as from the Mexican border to the Canadian border and back again about, say, eighteen times, so yeah. I did, at one point.

If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
Ummm, my daughter peels all the labels off the crayons, I don't know the colour names. Something with a 'u' in it.

Last person you spoke to on the phone?
Every single person in my phone book. I passed my law class. I think I probably even called the prof that passed me to spread the news.

Favourite drink:
Let's say: Gin and tonic for dancing, Jamaican rum and coke for watching the sun set, kilkenny for pub nights, guiness for (cold) pub days, tequila for ass kicking (or breaking my own ribs), cognac for winter evenings when I want a fire place, spanish coffee for after pasta, iron butterflies for when I'm feeling pretentious, and sleemans for those undecided moments.
That's not a complete list, but it's a starter.

What is your favourite sport to watch?
Only sport I really sit and watch is British football.

Have you ever dyed your hair?
Hell yeah. But it's not really affordable once you get waist length hair, so no more.

Pets?
One Satanic cat, and a rotating supply of either half-dead or rapidly-reproducing fish.

Favourite food?
The kind that is delivered to my table by someone I'm going to have to tip for doing so.

Favourite day of the year?
First day of summer. Not that calendar day, but the real day. I fucking rock summer. Love it.

What do you do to vent anger?
I rage.

What was your favourite toy as a child?
My bunny. Some dumb fuck stole him from me after I brought him to show and tell in grade one. Someday, I'm gonna find out who it was, and kill that fucking prick.
I want my bunny back.

What is your favourite fall or spring?
Who cares? There the same bloody thing, only one's in reverse.

Hugs or kisses?
Oddly enough, hugs. Who'd a thunk?

Cherry or Blueberry?
Blueberry. But only if it's blueberry poptarts. Yeah....that's the goods.

Living arrangements?
Kid, cat, fish. Oh, and me. I'm here too.

What is on the floor of your closet?
Innumerable quantities of confiscated toys. I'm trying out a new punitive technique: Don't listen, loose a toy. Listen, regain a toy.
I shall prevail.

Who is the friend you have had the longest?
P1. Hence the '1'. Well, I suppose I could have known someone by a different name longer, but you can guess that I've know P1 longer than P2 or P3.
But I have known P1 the longest.

What did you do last night?
I hit the refresh button eighteen hundred times. But my grades did not show up. Fortunately, that was rectified this afternoon.

Favourite smells?
Honestly? Wet cement. That is by far my favourite smell. Love it.

What inspires you?
Me.

What are you afraid of?
I think we've gone over that. Dying without having a perfect life set up for my daughter first.

Plain, cheesy or spicy hamburgers?
Spicy? What the fuck is that? Are we talking Cajun burgers, or teriyaki, or what? What the fuck is spicy supposed to mean?
This quiz was obviously written by someone who doesn't eat burgers.

Favourite car?
It's a car. Get over it. But yeah, I'd take a Jag.
Damn, I'm such a hypocrite.

Favourite dog breed?
Am I writing this of my own accord, without even being tagged? What the hell is wrong with me? This fucking quiz goes on forever. Oh, and Great Dane.

Number of keys on your key ring?
Boring. Pass.

How many years at your current job?
Student. Pass.

Favourite day of the week?
Too lavalife-esque. Pass.

How many provinces have you lived in?
Five and one territory.

Favourite holidays?
I have to pee. Pass.

Ever driven a Motorcycle or heavy machinery?
Motorcycle, farm machinery, and best of all, when I was fifteen and hitchhiking (halfway) across the country, I got to drive a big rig....On the highway, man!!! That was freakin' great. Just me, and my rig, and some trucker passed out in the back, and the looks in the eyes of other motorists when they realized that yes, those thousands of pounds of metal were, in fact, being driven by a teenage girl who was obviously to young to have a license.
Beautiful.

Late Addition: Shit, I misspelt my own damned name. Tell me I'm the only one who noticed that.

I Passed

Happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy


Happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy

Plan

Plan A

Don't fail law.

Be happy. Be very happy.

Use fits of happiness to motivate self to spring clean like a motherfucker.

Enjoy clean house.

Be cool, stay in school.

Live happily ever after, until I graduate (again) and have to get a real life.

Plan B

Fail law.

Don't be happy.

Go through roster of people I know who know people, and get a job.

Try to work around classes, taking eight more semesters to finish.

Graduate at the same time as my daughter.

Ditch plans to ever get my bachelors. (Any of the three.)

Plan C

Fail law.

Don't be happy.

Realize I don't know people who know people, and that I'm not qualified for shit with an associates degree.

Move to Surrey to cut costs and get a job waiting tables at a truck stop cafe.

Smoke much, much more, and drink much, much more coffee.

Marry a trucker and become an alcoholic.

Plan D

Quit obsessively hitting refresh button as grades won't be posted any faster that way.

Write a whiney and depressing post which showcases how self-pitying and overly dramatic I can be.

Down motherloads of coffee.

Chain smoke.

Okay, hit the refresh button just one more time.

Or maybe two more.

Cope

How do we go about it?

There's a right way out there somewhere. There's gotta be a right way.

There are depressed people out there. In this modern era, you'll (hopefully) recognize them by their occasional comments of, "Don't mind me, just switched meds, and I've gotta wait to see if these are working out for me," and their, "I'm going through a low period right now, thought I'd let you know." Yeah, they're the ones who can differentiate between real emotion, and their brains/meds pulling shit on them (if they're lucky).

I'm not suicidal, I'm not depressed. I don't suffer from depression, and I hate the way people don't differentiate between clinical depression and situational depression. Fuck you and your profits, Pfitzer. There's a difference. And I'll find it.

When I was younger, my mother chased my father's car down the driveway and into the streets of our little suburban utopia wearing nothing but a pair of lace granny panties. She was screaming after him, her body flopping and giggling along with her rage, he was just a car, driving away. All I could think of at the time was getting her back into the house before my high school class mate next door saw her.

That there's some shitty coping mechanisms.

When I was older, but still young, I beat the shit out of my body. I hacked it up, I burnt it up, I fucked it up, I drugged it up, then I put it in a coma.
Before that, I was an asshole. After that, I was depressed. Funny how perspective changes, isn't it?
But guess what? I wasn't depressed. I don't give a damn about your stats about depression, and heredity, and all that crap that you pull out of your asshole when ever you sell anti-depressants for a living. Once again, Fuck you, Pfitzer. You suck.

Situational depression. Live it, love it, learn it. Shit happens, and it makes you sad. Guess what? That's okay by me. Because shit should make you sad, and medicating it into happy rosy fields of glory ain't gonna make that shit go away. Life sucks. Deal. And part of dealing is accepting that sometimes, it's gonna be too much for you to handle alone. And you're gonna break down. And you're gonna cry. And maybe you'll get drunk, do lines, fuck someone you don't know, I dunno. I'm not you. I'm not gonna try to tell you how to lose it.

But it will happen, and that doesn't make you depressed, it makes you human.

There are people who suffer from depression. They're the ones who, (I dunno, I'm an art major), their seratonin isn't going where it should be? Fucked if I know. They're the ones who have a medical condition which makes it impossible to feel happy.

What does that have to do with situational depression? Well I'll tell you: Nothing! That's right, Sweet Fuck All. Welcome to the land of misery. Enjoy.
Sometimes, life sucks, and you can't medicate that shit away. It's not about you're lack of seratonin (or whatev), it's about the fact that life really does suck. You can medicate all you want, but it's not gonna fix it. Because sometimes the problem isn't your head, it's your life, and you're gonna have to change it.

Coping

Yeah, I got nothing.

Anyone? Learned how to cope? Wanna lend me a hand?

I miss my stint with depression. Sure, it was a necessary right of passage for a girl growing up with a mother like mine, but it was damn comfy. It's complete control, the ability to wrap the world around you, to smother your self in the perceived hatred of your peers, to know that you run the show, this will only last as long as you let it last. Except to truly commit, you lose the ability to control.

Coping

Now I'm all growed up, and I've realized that the problem with suicide is it would make me dead, and that makes it not such a fine coping mechanism after all. Thing is, even when I was younger, I never hated me, I just hated what I thought other people thought of me. Then I learned that I really don't give a damn about those other people.
I'm a friendly kinda gal. I meet people whether I like it or not. I have far to many people to worry about, I do not have time to throw in a bunch of fucknuts that I don't even know into the mix. Seriously, I'm stretched thin right now. So if I don't know you, I don't care, which would make your not liking me your problem, and not mine.

But where do I go with coping from here?

Today I may have failed an exam. Which would mean that today, I got myself cut off of student loans, and kicked out of school.

Someone want to lend me a hand on how to cope with that shit?

Or any shit?

People talk about how their childhoods were stolen from them. But mine wasn't stolen from me, what I lost was my ability to deal with emotion.
I have no idea what I'm allowed to feel. What's normal? Where am I overly dramatasizing? Where am I quelling my thoughts to the point that I come across as a robot?

How the fuck can I figure out how to deal with emotions if I can't even figure out what constitutes a real emotion?

So yeah, once again, I have no closer. So do tell, am I buying into the hypochondria I was raised with in worrying I might be out of an education, or am I playing in to my emotional oasis by not reacting more than I am to the potential loss of life as I know it, or am I reacting like a normal person would?
And is the normal reaction to just deal and move on, or to pause, then move on, or to mourn?




Fuck it. My fish just died. My life can hold for one minutes worth of funerary flushing. I'll figure out how stressed I ought to be later.





And yeah, I think that fish deserved a minute of silence.

In My Dreams....

Last night I dreamed a blogger sent me a nasty email. Couple of things about that: I'm dreaming about people I don't know, and they're not even in my dreams. Which means I'm dreaming about staring at the monitor.
Still, it beats the dream I had before that: I bought a bulk case of kleenex. That's it, that's everything. Just me and my kleenex.

It's official. I have no life.

The Kid Makes A Funny

The Kid: Hey Hey!

Me: Ho Ho!

The Kid: The Patriarchy has got to go!

Me: You rock, Kid.

The Kid: Thanks Mommy. Wanna see me roll?