Part of the Process

An Apology to my Daughter For All the Wrongs I Have Not Yet Done - Part 2

2010-10-30T01:09:00.000-07:00

Our princess has long, flowing tresses - as all good princesses ought. They follow behind her in a frazzled bun, pointing the way from which she had come. Look! A corner store! Hurry! The red hand is flashing! Feed the fish! Brush the cat! Don't walk out that door... we're not done here yet.

But when the cat was brushed and the fish was fed and the child tucked in safe for the night, Our Princess let down her hair and combed it out, oh so carefully, over the crawling scalp (scalp her!) and down the lengths of copper and bronze and hard iron gray, oh so carefully.

Oh Virgin Mother, so fair, so sweet
Why does your comb have such fine teeth?
For nits, for lice, oh me, oh my
'Tis not for you, but me, I cry.

When did the light at the end of the tunnel become the dime-store flashlight at the end of the sewer? And why? Be homeless, be unemployed, be broke, be miserable - what for?

Just BE.

An Apology to my Daughter For All the Wrongs I Have Not Yet Done - Part 1

2010-10-01T00:34:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a beautiful blonde princess who was not so beautiful, not so blonde and only a princess in the eyes of her own mother - herself an ecaped mental patient and owner of an opinion that was, perhaps, not to be trusted.

She had a few things, our princess. She had a signed print by an ex-Olympian turned artist. She had a bald cat which loathed men with a biter passion. She had a precocious seven year old daughter who was already adept at the use of irony and sarcasm as tools with which to bear the weights that Atlas had born, and foisted off on her. (Atlas went for a hoagie and never came back again.)

Where Did Atlas Go?

Food poisoning?

Hit by a car?

Mugging gone wrong?

Maybe he just got sick of it, grabbed his pack, stuck out his thumb and fled. If he made it as far as the Yukon, he could have missed that caravan of snowbirds heading back down to winter in Missouri.

Got a job as a dishwasher at Diamond Tooth Gerties?

Good thing he packed his mukluks.

Dear Blog

2008-01-17T08:24:00.001-08:00

I miss you. What have you been doing lately? I'm job hunting, myself. Other than that, well, things have changed since the last time we talked.
Sorry to have left you for so long; I'll fill you in later, after I get The Kid to school.

I'm glad we're taking time to reconnect. It's been too long,

Impulsivecompulsive

The Future Is*

2007-02-18T16:42:00.000-08:00

Back when I was a drunken, irresponsible slut I always thought that if when I quit that shit it would be replaced with....something. I had this pretty little dream where by becoming a mother, I'd have to grow the fuck up. And in the process of growing up, I'd settle down, quit playing with men, go to school, learn something, and get a grown up job and have grown up relationships and maybe even learn to cook.

And I did it: I quit the drinking, and the fucking, and the irresponsibiliting. And what have I gained?

30 pounds
$75,000 worth of debt
A complete and total terror of any man I find myself attracted to
2 zits big enough to have feasted on the corpses of every single zit I ever accrued in my teenage years
Bad study habits

I call not fair, dammit.

*End of title removed due to copyright violation

Steal-o-Meme

2006-11-24T19:59:00.000-08:00

Stolen via Pandagon, who did not steal it from Lauren, because I needs to post something on this here blog.

Here's what you do:
1. Open your music library
2. Set settings to "Shuffle"
3. Press play
4. For each entry, type the song that's playing
5. For new entry, press the next/forward button

Editor's note: I reordered this list according to the original, then moved everything that I haven't yet done to behind those things that I have done. Logical, no?

Opening credits: Wolf Parade - Shine a Light
Starts out all optimistic, don't it?

Waking up: The Moldy Peaches - NYC's Like a Graveyard
Appropriate? Well no. I've never been to NYC. Heck, I'm not even American. But hey, it's a good song to wake up to, anyway.

First day at school: Morcheeba - Let Me See
And things start to go downhill....

Life's okay: The Killers - Mr. Brightside
How are we defining "okay" again?

Mental breakdown: Macy Gray - I Try
Okay. This would've worked out better if it was post-falling-out-of-love, but it ain't. Well, ya can't always win on the shuffle, I say.

Birth of child: Snow Patrol - You're All I Have
Well, that's fucking depressing. Let's go back to mental breakdown. Or for a smoke.

Prom: (AKA College graduation, for those of us who kinda skipped out on that whole high school thing) Britta Persson - Defrag My Heart
Heh. That's kinda funny.

Falling in love: Broken Social Scene - Pitter Patter Goes My Heart
Awww. Now that's just sweet. Now I wanna fall in love with something that doesn't need batteries.

Breaking up: Sleater Kinney - Roller Coaster
Well, at least I'll take it well.

Driving: Count Bass-D - Seven Years
I'm taking this to mean that I'm going to have a license by the time The Kid is seven. I hope. Seriously, would someone please lend me a car so I can get my license? (And no, Shadow, it doesn't count if that car perpetually has three raging kids in the backseat. I refuse to practice driving under those conditions, thank you.)

Flashback: Long Beach Dub Allstars - Sunny Hours
I shall flashback to the days when I said "ya'll" every second word. Ya'll right, ya'll?

Getting back together: Broken Social Scene - Swimmers
Hmmm. Two BSS songs in one meme. How unoriginal.

Wedding: (AKA: willingness to commit for life) Lou Barlow - Caterpillar Girl
I have no idea what that means. I'm just a creepy little bugger without a man? The conservatives were right? Who knows.

Final battle: Arcade Fire - Neighbourhood #4
WTF? This is just getting stupid. Ohhhhh...."Time is creeping through the neighbourhood, killing old folks...." I get it. Movin' on. No wait, this song just gets more and more depressing as we go. Well, then, that fits.

Funeral song: No. No way. I'm not doing another BSS song. I'm breaking the rules, and hitting forward again.

Funeral song: Headstones - Tweeter And The Monkey Man
Go figure.

End credits: Death Cab For Cutie - I Will Follow You Into The Dark
Hah! Hah hah! If I'm going down, I'm taking all of you with me! And in a very depressing and emo kinda way! Hah!

So, that's about it. Make your own, impress your friends!
Bye.

Night of the Inane Comment V (IV? VI?)

2006-11-03T23:07:00.000-08:00

Link Farmin'

I got nothin. How 'bout you find it for yourselves:

Squirrels: They're here, they're evil, and they're getting worse. Yeah,those little fuckers are cute, but they've stepped it up a notch from attacks on innocent puppies (last years news, find it, I'll give you a cookie), to attacking the neighbourhood postmaster. Yeah; information, it ain't coming free anymore. It's coming your way at the cost of life and limb for some. Fuck anthrax, the squirrels are where it's at. But damn, they're cute. Not as cute as ducks, but close.
That's it. I got distracted. By Natural Family Planning. Movin on.

Natural Family Planning

I plan my family naturally, in that the nature of the capitalist system has put me in a position where by my student loans make it unfeasible for me to go out popping out the offspring of the nearest annual boy toy.

Natural Family Planning: Fucking in such a manner as to ensure the certain demise of whatever sperm may kick around awaiting the arrival of a viable egg. Starving those little fuckers into submission, as it were.

Plan B: Fucking in such a manner as to ensure the certain demise of whatever sperm may kick around awaiting the arrival of a viable egg. Starving those little fuckers into submission, as it were.

The logical conclusion? One and the same, say I. The illogical conclusion? Any woman who fucks (but only between days eleven and seventeen) ought to be punished with a child.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'd like to believe that my child is a viable human being, with love, flaws, quirks, and spirit; not a punishment. But hey, I'm a babykilling mofo, so my opinion don't count.
So on to:

How To Kill Potential Zygotes; Canadian Style:

1) Don't use condom. Just don't. Realize that condoms are a mile away from you, and fuck, it's been half a year since you've, well fucked. Pills make you cranky, the shot makes you bleed for six weeks at a go, and the IUD is still pending you finding the time to get your sorry ass to North Burnaby, therefore insuring that this non-condimated fucking could potentially lead to your sorry ass getting pregnant.

2) Do midterms. Do more midterms. Hell, throw in another one.

3) Take a fiver from midterms to scurry up to the drop in clinic.

4) Meet a new doc. He reminds you of your dad. So much, that you find yourself offering up unsolicited confessions of wrongdoings, just so you can revel in that semi-sarcastic, poker faced reproof.
Ahhh, the parents. How we miss them when they choose to allow us to live our own lives.
Ohh, ohh! I smoke a pack a day too! Hell no, make it two!

5) Get prescription for Plan B: yes, said prescription may be unnecessary, but it'll save you twenty five bucks at the till to come with it.

6) Get pill. Commiserate with pharmacist over medical plan's decision to exclude pill from coverage since said pill became over-the-counter.
Fucking medplan.

Movin' on; again.

The American experience:

I phoned my doctors office which informed me that the office was closed and that I had to call the local hospital and have her paged in order to reach her on the weekend. So I called her and had them page her. A little while later she called back and I answered the phone immediately. She sounded tired and really grumpy; I apologized for having to page her for a thing like this and then asked her if I could get a prescription for EC. She explained that I needed to go to the Emergency Room to get it.

He puts me on hold and I sit on the edge of the bed frowning and fiddling with a pen. I wait on hold for 15 minutes before he finally comes back on.
"Have you talked to your doctor?" he asks.
"Yes, I talked to her this morning and she told me to go to the ER" I reply.
"Oh, so she won't prescribe it for you?" he asks.
This possibility hadn't occurred to me. I just assumed that the ER was standard procedure, "Hmmm" I say, "Well, I guess not. It's not just standard procedure to go to the ER?"
"No, not really. We don't really have this happen much."

"Well see," he begins, his voice dropping a little, "the problem is that you have to meet the doctorÂs criteria before he'll dispense it to you."
"Criteria?" I question.
"Well," the nurse sounds decidedly nervous as though what he really wanted to do was hang up the phone completely, "Yes, his criteria. I mean...ummm...well, are you ok? Is there any, ummm....trauma?" he asks me.
My face changes expression and I hurry to explain, "No, no" I said, "No. I haven't been raped. This was consensual sex."
"Oh..." he trails off.
I wait expectantly.
"Well, ummm....*clears throat*...So you haven't been raped?" he asks again.
"No. I have not been raped. The condom broke". I state, becoming very frustrated at this point and wondering what the hell is going on.
"Ok, well ummm....Are you married?" he mumbles the words so low I can barely hear them.
"No." I state plainly. "I am not married. I've been in a relationship for several years and I have three children, I don't want a fourth." I respond tersely.
"Oh, I see." He says and then he hurries on, "Well, see. *I* understand. I want you to know that I understand what you're saying. But see, the problem is that we have 4 doctors here right now but only one of them ever writes EC prescriptions. But see, the thing is that he'll interview you and see if you meet his criteria. Now, I called the pharmacy but I also talked to him and well....*clears throat*....you can come down and try to get it. You know, if you meet his criteria he'll give you a prescription, I mean, there's really no harm in trying." the nurse trails off, his voice falters as I realize what I'm being told.

Folks, the condom broke Friday night and I searched all weekend for someone who could prescribe me EC. It is now Monday and I have to report that I have been unable to find anyone who will write me a fucking prescription for EC.

I have been asked about my sexual practices. Whether I'm 'monogamous' or 'in a relationship' if I'm married, if I have kids, how many kids I have, if I was raped or 'traumatized' but there wasnÂt' ONE question about my health. Not one.

How does this end?

Ask Biting Beaver how her abortion went.

Yes, I'm serious. Save a sperm, kill a zygote.

Which brings us to:

Lovin' Life

Don't do it.

"Life". It's not all it's cut out to be. First of all, it's been here, all along. Learn this. Love this. Every time you stub your pinky toe, that's a part of life. When you roll over in the morning, and wipe the crusties from the corners of your eyes, smack your dried out, stanky lips, and slip the curtain back to reveal day three of those one hundred and eighty two days of Vancouver winter rain? That's life.

Don't give up life for "loving life" to it's fullest. "Life" doesn't need you. And "love" doesn't either. Leave them the fuck alone.

Life
I'm not gonna come down to hard on life right now. After a couple of years of trying to live up to a real life, I've recently come back to realizing that it's not so different. What you imagine you live, well, it's no less real than what you live. Have fun. Take a moment out to pretend to be who you really are, and run with it. You'll go wrong, I'm sure, but it'll make a great story.

Love
Fuck you.
Grow the fuck up, and figure it out.
1) "Loving life" does not mean using women as brood stock. Until you've put in your time proving your love of the plankton, you have no say in the love of your own damn sperm. Bigger is better, after all.
2) "Love" is not yours. You can't keep it. You have to give it away. Kinda the rules of the game. So:

My daughter is not a weapon that you can use against me, and trying to make her so doesn't prove your "love".
You. Your family (Ha! I called them family!) they may not understand how truly evil you are. Maybe The Stepsister did, when she was five. And hell, mayber The Sister, my friend, would have, if she hadn't spent the next twenty years with shit like you. Maybe now she'd know that you're not okay.
And you? Biting Beavers physician? I'm gonna throw you in here right after that fucking piece of shit that fucked his five year old step-daughter.

Why? How can you do that to me? I only loved the unborn children!

Because that's not what it's about. You don't love people, you give your love to people. You offer it up on a shiny platter, and squat, humble at their feet, hoping they will accept it from you.

There is no you. In love, there's sheets. In the bathtub, at five a.m., wringing out the vomit, with no anger. There's finding the last sock when you got too damn good at hitting that snooze button. There's the tweak-your-eye this way, then they tweak-their-eye that a way, and the conversation's done. There's the way they look like a newt from a certain angle.

And there's no you. There's no you, deciding that you love them too much to wait for the next thirteen years for them to become legal age. There's no you, making major life decisions for them, there's no you, telling them what they need to do to live up to your love.

Fuck your love.

Fuck it.

I hate your love. And you know what? So does every one of those people you profess to love. I'm not the only one; We All Hate You.

So here's from all the liberal assholes in world, who may not realize that their liberal, or that they're assholes; I don't care. I'm speaking on your behalf:

From T, who doesn't know if her family will stand by her: Fuck you, asshole. You're a pedophilic freak, and it's only so long until you realize that you can't hide from this.

From M, who still doesn't know that wrong is not the only way: Fuck you, Dad; There is good out there. I'm not gonna settle for the idea that everyone is as evil as you. Fuck You Dad. You're nothing but a twisted anomaly, and one of these days I'm gonna figure out that people are Not Like You. And then I'm gonna be okay.

From S: Fuck you, grandma, uncle, dad. I've said it once, I'll say it again. You can't kill my morals; they're here to stay. Living in a dream world, where everything is okay? Yeah, well, it's gonna be, as long as there's more people like me, who don't listen to more people like you. So deal.

From me: Fuck you. I missed the Rockies so much last night that I cried myself to sleep. I want back, I want my home, and I can't have it, because you "love me".
Fuck you for stealing my home from me. Fuck you for taking away the feeling of glacier water on my broken hip. Fuck you for taking three hour games of tag away from Satan's Cat. Fuck you for stealing that first breath of fresh air in the morning, knowing that people paid thousands of dollars to visit what I owned, and that life was perfect.
I woke up last night, dreaming of the piano I used to play at that hotel; and I can't go back there.
Because you "loved me".

From everyone: Fuck all of you who have been in "love". Fuck you for using people to meet your own ends, fuck you for your simplistic justification for fucking over everyone who is worth ten times what you are. Fuck you for not realizing that the reason you need to find something to live for is that you....by yourself....have no value.....to add.....to life.

You're nothing.

Fuck you.

Best. Song. Ever.

2006-08-15T19:54:00.000-07:00

I Started A Blog Nobody Read

Go there, and listen.

Coffee Talks

2006-08-09T11:25:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is a verbatim coffee break conversation, from beginning to end. Enjoy.

D: Scatalogical?

Me: Okay.

D: Misanthrope.

Me: Sure.

D: So....scatalogical misanthrope.

Me: .....uhhh.....

D: Oh, you can do this. Who'm I thinking of?

Me: Oh...we know?

D: No. Cccccc....cccc...

Me: Um, um...

D: Ccccee...

Me: Celia Celia Celia SHITS!!!!!
Swift. I'm good.

Tidbits From The Pride Parade

2006-08-07T10:21:00.000-07:00

1) My daughter is a drag queen trapped in the body of a five year old. The level of admiration and adoration she had for them was adorable. She was eventually reduced to half-words, cut off by exclamations of joy: look at...ohhhh...she's beauti....oh! oh! look at her sparkly crown....ohhhhh. Gorgeou....oh! look at her! in the red! ohhhhhhh.

2) There are some people who simply should not be in a pride parade. Yes, that means you, Conservative Party, and you, Fathers for Justice. Back the fuck off. We know you're not here for gay family values. You ain't fooling no one.

3) I'm a great cheer-starter. What can I say, it's a talent.

Cute

2006-07-29T12:19:00.000-07:00

Via Pandagon.

Woot!

2006-07-27T21:20:00.000-07:00

Two points:

1) There's nothing better than popping up and down like a manic prairie dog because you can't decide if you should sit up straight so that you can clearly see the most beautiful sunset of the season without your balcony railing disrupting the view, or if I should stand up, so I can clearly see the reflection of the sunset in the river, or if I should just hunker down and watch the baby seagulls on the roof across the street testing out their wings.

2) I am normal. After a fifteen pound weight gain over the past six months, I have finally figured out that my new found fattitude equals exactly two pounds under the exact medium level of what constitutes exactly healthy for a woman of my size. Fuck you, weight-loss plans, this tissue ain't going nowhere. I'm 5'10", 149 lbs, and I'm sticking with it. Paris Hilton can kiss my fat ass, while I'm busy downing as many pieces of left-over birthday cake as I want.

I'm gonna go eat some b-day cake now. Goodbye.

Life

2006-07-21T13:16:00.000-07:00

Player 1: It's your roll

Player 2: Five. Shit.

Player 1: You landed on single mother. Go back to the begining. Tough luck, that.

Player 2: Yeah. Alright, your go.

Player 1: Nice! Got a raise.

Player 2: Nice luck, but hey, I'm still a contender. Better be watching your back, it's my roll.

(Rolls a four.)

Player 2: So I'm on....

Player 1: No you don't. You're a single mother with student loans. You don't get to move.

Player 2: What? So what, I'm just supposed to sit here?

Player 1: That's how the games played, dude. Learn the rules.

Player 2: Well, shit. For how many turns?

Player 1: The rest of the game.

Player 2: Fuck this, I'm gonna go watch t.v.

Player 1: No way, man. You gotta play 'till the end.

Player 2: But I'm not allowed to move. How long I gotta do this for?

Player 1: Well, you're a smoker, but you are planning on quitting in September. You don't eat too well, but not as bad as the average American, anyway. You get you're daily dose of moderate exercise walking every day, and given that you're never going to be able to afford a car, you'll probably maintain that daily exercise.
I'd say you've got fourty to fifty years to go.

Player 2: You want me to sit here and roll these fucking dice for fourty to fifty years, and not move one space?

Player 1: Might just be thirty five, if you're lucky.

Player 2: Fuck that, Supernatural is on. I'm watching t.v.

Player 1: I told you already, that's not how the game is played. Besides, Supernatural sucks.

Player 2: That guy with the lip is freakishly cute. I don't give a damn how good the show is. I don't like this game anymore.

Player 1: Sorry, you don't have a choice in the matter. Sit down, quit you're fucking whining, and roll the goddamn dice so I can take my turn.

Player 2: I gotta play the game this way?
So what can I do, then?

Player 1: Buy groceries. Barely. Not on the months when you have to get new contacts or glasses, buy school clothes for The Kid, go to the dentist, or anything else like that. But on the other months, you should be able to afford enough groceries.

Player 2: I hate this game.

Player 1: I hate your bitching. I'm not playing with you anymore.
Fuck this, I'm gonna go watch Supernatural.
I'll come back and see how you're doing in a year or two.

Player 2: Couldn't you at least tape it for me?

Player 1: Nobody owns VCR's anymore, dipshit. Burn yourself a DVD in a couple of decades.

Player 2: Fine. Bring me a coffee when you come back.

Player 1: Sure thing. But don't complain if it's cold.

You Can't Hide Behind A Dead Cow

2006-07-06T21:32:00.000-07:00

Is the mantra The Kid repeated for hours on end today. As a social experiment, I have to say my daughter may not be a good test subject.
Although we can always use a new proverb, and you can't go wrong with, "You can't hide behind a dead cow."

So: Darfur is Dying. No shit, you say? Well, MTV has gone and made an online game with that very name. Check it out. I'll provide the link, just as soon as I'm done talking.
Exploitation, or education? I'm sure that's the issue that'd be surrounding this here game, should there actually be an issue. I don't know. I can't be bothered to find out.

The idea is to try to keep a refugee camp alive for one week. It ain't easy. You need a hell of a lot of water (and don't go sending that girl in the purple dress-she's always caught-at least in my attempts).

So, fuck the exploitation shit. Question is, will kids who don't give a fuck actually start to give a fuck based on this game? Probably not. (Although I'd hazard a guess that should the game be better developed, some people might find that it makes them give a shit.)

It's an interesting approach, anyway. And if anything, should The Kid find herself in a desert while being pursued by militia, she will find a better hiding spot than in the carcass of the dead cow.*

So the link: Darfur is Dying

*Course, the crappy thing is that there are kids my daughter's age who found that one out the hard way. Kinda funny, how we choose to believe that today, no child died of dehydration after their mother couldn't safely go for water.
They're not real. They're just a game.
Really.

Updatery

2006-07-04T17:41:00.000-07:00

To add to the last post: Head on over to Shadow's place. Do it. Now.

Don't Mind Me

2006-07-03T21:42:00.000-07:00

But I'm tuckered and cranky. Too much water park, too many kids, and a long weekend pretty much did me in.

Still, the guilt over the lack of posting is getting to me. I'm planning, I'm plotting, I'm putting it all together. My head's compiled an assortment of goods; Umoja, nekkid boobs, that old porn standby, Harper's general ass-fuckery of me and mine, and the joys of compound interest acting against you.

So about those nekkid boobs: Amongst my peers, we've been complacent in the notion that, Harper or no Harper, at least we'll not be fully Americanized as long as we can strut our stuff with our nipples basking in the sunlight. (I think I've talked about nipple-basking somewhere before. I guess I'm just a big fan of the Basking Nipples, me.)

Lounging in the park this weekend, a bitter truth was fed:
Women's nipples are not, after all, allowed to bask free.

We discovered this after a woman who had previously been sunbathing topless was 'asked' by the local police to put a shirt on. She complied, all went on as before, less some expanses of flesh.
Except for our confusion of course. "Shirts? Legal? Necessary? Didn't that one go straight out the window a couple of years ago?"

Turns out even the police couldn't confirm that without some troubles. One officer was kind enough to scour through the annals of Canadian legislation and found that it is, indeed, still illegal to go topless.

Still confused.
Then what the hell have we been celebrating all this time?
So today, Shadow did some internet-legwork, and rustled up an article which said that the matter has been dropped as criminal, and is now up to provincial or municipal jurisdiction.

Here's the fun part: The part where I don't have to post....

I took a peek at that article, which was posted at the REALity: REAL Women of Canada.

I like that name for a group. REAL Women. "Real." It's got a nice ring to it, not to mention being exceedingly useful for political causes. When ever anyone disagrees with you, just let people know that they ain't real. Or a least not "REAL."

Of course, I'm a little confused as to what that would make me, in their eyes. A man? But no, they're there for men's rights. They love their men, much more than they could possibly give a flying fuck about themselves. They certainly wouldn't be putting down the gender by lumping such nasties like me in with them.

Maybe I'm just....not real. A figment of your imagination.

Warning: if you are reading this post right now, you are FUCKING INSANE. Get thee to a mental institution for immediate attention. Ask, no Demand, your right to a lobotomy, for if there's anything more dangerous then a lunatic who's hearing voices and/or reading non-existent blog pages, it's a lunatic who's hearing left-leaning, single-mother, feminist voices or reading the blog pages of said.

So, my lovely little nutbars, this would be worthy of a post, would it not? Of course! The pages have been bookmarked and mental notes on complete hypocrisy made.
(Brief aside: Here's a good game: find my favourite hypocrisy - it's a little contradiction between the "Topless" article and the "Our View" section.)
Then, I hit the news for some dope to knock me out for the night.

And what do you think I found? That's right: no need for me to be writing this imaginary tidbit on my imaginary blog, because Heather Mallick has been kind enough to do it for me.

So everyone put your (potentially imaginary) hands together in a big round of applause for Heather! You won't see me giving up my day job any time soon!

Read on: Attack on feminism hurts women here and overseas, by Heather Mallick.

Heck, she even fits in that bit on breast smooshing that I'd previously forgotten that I'd pre-previously planned to eventually post about.

Once I got around to actually posting anything again.
Which will happen.
Someday.

Until then, I'm going to bed.

2006-07-01T13:42:00.000-07:00

Ode To A Beautiful Night

2006-06-20T22:36:00.000-07:00

The stars are shining, the air is warm, the city lights are reflecting and refracting off the river below, and the strip club is near silent.

And over at Pandagon, Amanda posts a link that proves that It's All Gonna Be Okay. Because no matter what the baby wars (with the "threat" of Muslims "outbreeding" the Godly Christians or Republicans "outbreeding" the Liberals), no species, no matter how prolific - be it the long passed Dodo, or that most hallowed and most appealing of flightless fowl, the Kakapo - can outlive massive doses of stupidity.

And here you have it, proof positive that Republicans are a dying breed. (Remember folks, this here excerpt was written by a Repub pundit, the wisest of the species, the, dare I say it? expertisers.) Heck, this is worthy of making up a name, it is.

Without further ado, I give you

Dennis Prager on why the left fears global warming more than the right:

The Right tends to fight human evil such as communism and Islamic totalitarianism. The Left avoids confronting such evils and concentrates its attention instead on socioeconomic inequality, environmental problems and capitalism. Global warming meets all three of these criteria of evil. By burning fossil fuels, rich countries pollute more, the environment is being despoiled and big business increases its profits.

Okay then. Why is this so funny? Well, remember, this is intended as an insult to the left.

That boy actually believes that being worried about social inequality and environmental problems shows that Teh Left is going craaaaaazy, while honest, salt of the earth folks are more concerned with pissing in their panties whenever a brown person waits for the same crossing light as them. Shit man, their brown, and their stopping next to me. Every good Godbag knows that brown people can't tell the difference between red or green lights! Take cover, Betty, their gonna bloooowwwwww!!!!

And if that quote wasn't enough to send you into the mad hysterics that it did me, there's always this one to fall back on:

The Left believes in experts.

That's right.

No need for thanks, you know I'm only here to please you.

Impulsive Out.

Post #3

2006-06-18T04:03:00.000-07:00

Yeah, this is the third post on the same subject. But you know what? I don't like hiding behing the pillar in my building's lobby, hiding from anyone driving by outside, while waiting for the elevator. I don't like having to sprint down the street to building entry, timing it right so that little fucker won't know what building I went in to.

It brings back memories.

I didn't like sleeping with my back pressed into the wall, so HE couldn't see me if he found out where I lived, and chose to peer in the window.

I didn't like ripping my newborn child out of her swing to cower in the bathroom (the only room without windows) when I heard a car that sounded like it might be his stopping in front of my house.

I don't like cowering. I don't like fear. I don't like knowing that there's someone out there who has the legal right to use my child to get revenge on me.

Here's the thing:

You're right; I never loved you. I didn't. We only dated for three months. The only reason I let you move in was because I was too fucking lazy to find a new roomate. You were stupid, but maleable. I was bored, and lazy. And so we met.
Sure, I did you wrong. I gave you the time of day, and I shouldn't have even done that. As to how far things went, and how fast? I can't take full blame for that. Three months, is, after all, three months.

No matter: My child is not your weapon. You may have done what you could to alieanate all my friends (as if you could), and may have stolen every possesion I had (as if they weren't replacable), but you do not have the option of using my child against me.

You don't have that choice. It's not yours. You denied her: you debated her relation to you. You said that no woman who was carrying your progeny would refuse to marry you.

Pick one. Either you were wrong, or she's not yours.

Legally, she isn't. She's mine. My daughter. I carried her. We sat in the parking lot together, baking in the heat. We ate cornflakes. We went to the hospital. Then she became she, and lazed her slow-assed way out of me, lungs sealed, heart trembling, yet still refusing to be rushed. She came, and screamed for six months straight, and hollered when I put her down to take a shower, and roared when I changed her diaper, and frothed when I changed my socks.

But you wanted to use her against me. Not as your daughter, but as a free grenade to throw. And you sat outside the window, and breathed into the other end of the phone, went to my parents house and scared their dog. And you went to court, and hoped that they'd feel as badly for you as you did for yourself.

You didn't even want anything out of it: you just wanted a public forum to call me a bitch.

Well, here it is:

I'M A BITCH

And to your alter-egos, that drive alongside me at night, and demand submission:

I'M A BITCH

Done. I've said it, twice. Is that good enough for you fuckers? Will you beleive me now? Because it's the truth. IT'S THE MOTHERFUCKING TRUTH.

I'M A BITCH

Now leave me the fuck alone.

Patriarchy

2006-06-18T03:10:00.000-07:00

That's some shit from the seventies, isn't it?

No, that's where a couple of guys feel like they can follow me home and threaten me, simply because they know that deep down, it's kinda close to being okay, just as long as you don't say that out loud.

But you were mean to him.

You don't see it? You honestly don't see it, do you? That boy drove along side me. Hell, to look like he wasn't pulling that shit, he then sped up to circle the block, then DROVE ALONG SIDE ME AGAIN. And repeat.

Let's put this in context of a trial. I'll be the judge.

Well, okay...Since you're the only public voice I have, I guess I don't have a choice, now do I?

We'll be editing your reply. But next: Were you flirting while at the bar?

No.

No seriously, you're a young woman, single, 88.4% straight, yet you're telling me you weren't flirting?

No. I was hanging out with my girlfriends. The closest I came to flirting was telling one of the bartenders that I'm not into straight guys....Wait. What the fuck does it matter if I was flirting or not?

Well, don't you think you might have brought this on yourself?

What? Pardon? Are you serious?

You met him prior, didn't you?

Yeah, he made some asshole comment, and I ignored him. So what?

But what did you do to deserve the comment. You were dancing, weren't you? And to Shakira, if I'm not mistaken.

Well, yeah. I was wearing an ankle length skirt, and an anklet, and an Egyptian necklace. Kinda gotta dance to Shakira, given the circumstances.

So maybe you led him on, given the dress. The song said, "My hips don't lie," so don't you think that maybe he misread your hips?

What of it? Did he misread me flipping him the bird as he sped off, the first time, after I told him to fuck off, repeatedly, since he was cruising along side me, alone, at night? And after I'd called him an idgit, prior to his retreaving his car just so he could tail me with less effort? How was that leading him on? And how would that matter, anyway?

Well, I'm just sayin': You're cute. You've got real big tits. Maybe it's just not your place to be galavanting around in bars, and clubs, and pubs, and restaurants, and parks, and school, and on the streets, and all that shit. It's just too tempting.

Tempting?!? Fuck that, no one sober wants a peice of me. It's not my fault if he was too drunk to realize that. I'm bitchy. I'm scared of commitment. I get knock-kneed and tongue-tied around people I'm honestly attracted to, and that makes me a shitty conversationalist. Plus, I've got really scrawny chicken legs. That's not tempting. That's his insanity.

Well, obviously you fooled him. Maybe you should dampen it down a bit, ya think?

No! I only danced with the girls! I didn't even talk to the guys that are friends with the group. The only time I had any contact with men was when I was going too or from the dance floor, and they tapped my shoulder, and you know what? I kept walking, and pretended I didn't notice them! I didn't flirt, with anyone, at all!

But you earlier admitted to flirtatiously mocking the bartender for being straight, did you not?

No! That's not what I said! Well, it is, sort of, but....Wait: What does this have to do with anything?

I'm just setting up the hypothesis that maybe, you were being a flirt. And that may have caused the alleged stalker to reason that you would be attracted to him, too. And therefore his following you home was a completely reasonable response, given your demeanor.

(Turns to face the camera): And as this shows, ladies, you'd be better off not to cause such contraversies. Don't mock men by entering bars or pubs, and be certain not to wear a skirt which exposes your ankles to them. Although I'm sure you're too naive to realize the response that a well turned ankle (especially when combined with Shakira), will elicit, trust me when I say: You don't want to find out.

Stay home. You're safer there. And better safe then sorry.

Why I Live Across The Street From a Strip Club:

2006-06-18T02:23:00.000-07:00

Here's the deal: You act like an asshole, I'm gonna call you an assshole.

And the fact that the bouncers also feel that you're an asshole does not reflect on me.

Therefore, you do not have the right to drive by me, twice, on the way home.

Or a third time.

*****************************************************************

Advice to all single women:

Move into an apartment across the street from a strip club, and only go home at closing time.

If someone is harassing you, feel free to, quite literally, jump on a bouncer. Seriously, grab some bouncer, and don't let go. If it hasn't reached that point:

WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT LEAVE THE VICINITY OF THE STRIP CLUB.

I don't care how safe you feel. The shortest, slimiest, least-suspect guy will be the one who circles the block repeatedly.

Never Open Your Door Unless You Know Who's Watching You.

And that's life. I know it, you know it. We know it. We live it. We know that if I didn't hide myself with the stripclub patrons, then dash across the street when he drove around the corner (again), I would have deserved it, had he broken into my building and raped me.

He was at the same bar as me. That means I wanted to fuck him.

He spoke to me. That's damn near the same as pissing on a tree, that is.

Fuck it, I'm tired, I'm cranky, and it's way past my bedtime. And I'm not being to clear, am I? So here goes:

Really, this is it. All of it:

Him: Hey, bartender, that chick wants you!!!

Me: blank stare, followed by silence

Two hours later.

Him: Hey, Baby!

Me: You're an idjit.

Him: Why you sayin' that mean shit to me?

Me: What ev'.

Bouncer: He bugging you?

Me: No, he's just an idjit. You know him?

Bouncer: Fuck, no.

Me: Well, if you meet him, let him know that pulling this shit isn't gonna get him laid.

Bouncer: Alright. You okay?

Me: Yup.

***********************************************************************

And that's it. That's all I had to do with this guy. Until he drove by, that is. And needed and "explanation" for why I was so rude. Or when he drove by the second time, with less accolade to my beauty. Or when he whipped around the corner, on the third round.

I love my strip club. I love it's patrons, that aren't willing to go home at closing, and instead mill around out front. I love the bouncers that are too fucking lazy to attempt to pack those millers off home.

Because, guess what? If I didn't go straight from the bar to the strip club, I could've been in real trouble. And don't tell me that Tool wasn't trouble, the boy was willing to circle the block THREE TIMES because of me.
Me and the fact that I stomped on his manhood by calling him and idjit.

What ev.
I don't have the energy to fight right now. If you don't get this, I can't explain. So I give.(Now let's hope like shit that he didn't see the building I went into, or I'm sure in deep doodoo, ain't I!!)

In Other News

2006-06-17T01:03:00.000-07:00

Ann Coulter is peeved that she's not news. Check this:

"Liberalism is a godless religion. Hello! Anyone there? I've leapt beyond calling you traitors and am now calling you GODLESS. Apparently, everybody's cool with that.*"

Poor, dear Ann. All she wanted was a little attention, and no one delivered. Don't worry, Annie, I'm here for you. I'll listen. Occassionally. When I'm bored, and need a laugh, anyway.

*Straight from the Page of Ann, that. I won't link there, as I'm pretty sure that'll give my computer some fucked up virus, but you can find it on your own. Google it. Done.

Bored?

2006-06-16T23:57:00.000-07:00

I got nothin', beyond my endless supply of writers block. So I feed you instead:

506 Comments About Blowjobs .

Go nuts. Get off. Hell, give someone head, or don't, as you choose. Run around the streets poking someone with a bratwurst while screaming, "Cocksucker!!!", or just tell people that you are purposely writing a contrarian post because, well, you wanna, and sit back and watch the commotion.

Whatever you do, Do Not Comment.
It's over, it's done. You don't want to jump on that bandwagon. The only reason I'm still talking about it is because I'm that person that laughs uproariously at anything you say, then proceeds to repeat that Funny straight back to you, fifty times over, garnished with an obnoxiously hyena like laugh each and every time.

Not wanting to dig through the whole mess? Here's the breakdown:

My bad, I got four paragraphs into a detailed breakdown, then realized that I was finally bored with the subject. So you don't get none.

Here's the shorter breakdown:

If you wanna see the commentary on a caustic rant deteriorate from tongue-in-cheek joking into completely unwarranted personal attacks *over blowjobs, for christ's sake* see Twisty's posts. (That'd be the links in the "506" and the ".", I'm pretty sure.)

If you wanna see people go off on how Twisty has no right to write what she feels like on her own damned blog, see, um, "About". I think. If I'm right, then "Comment" will get you too one liners involving blowjobs, and Rick Santorum's penchant for Bush head. Or vice versa. Or a combo. I can't remember.

Last but not least, if you want excruciatingly detailed comments on the methods and manners of the best darned blowjobs ever, click on "Blowjobs" (Oddly enough, that wasn't planned).

There. That oughta keep you amused for the next 36 hours.

You're welcome.

Must. Update. Now.

2006-06-14T00:23:00.000-07:00

1) Writer's block's still going strong. I ain't got shit.

2) Ever had to sit through a business math class while your two week disposable contacts, which you've been wearing for the last nine months straight, decide to free float around your eyeballs, causing your eyes to turn into beady little faucets, and your nose joined in the waterfall game? No? You may be lucky.

3) Ever had to sit through a business math class while your passive-aggressive instructure, who reminds you of your mother, lectured on how e proved that God existed, and any good mathematician should know that? Once again, Lucky.

4) In other news, I finally bit the bullet and put The Kid in swim lessons. For your information, I'm terrified of having The Kid around water. Scares me shitless. But I'm gonna get through this, because the only thing that's gonna keep her safe around water is knowing how to swim and learning water safety skills. That, and she's a freakin' fish already.
Wish me luck. She doesn't need it, she's stoked.
I, however, am panicking.

Two Points

2006-06-07T00:18:00.000-07:00

1) I'm already cheating: There's three points. Number one being that I have some serious writer's block, which shouldn't even be possible for this level of bloggery, but hey, it happens. I can't even muster a giant happy face. So instead, I'm sending to places that are writing things:

2) Read this here post at Feministe. And if you're brave, try to make your way through the comment thread as well (I didn't, but I'm a lazy assed fuck and it's way passed my bed time anyway). After a bit of internal debate, I came to the conclusion that this should not be an issue. Nicole/Nicholas is a child. A pre-schooler. Give me one good reason why a pre-schooler should have their identity formed around their sexuality. I've said it once, I'll say it a hundred times: Kids and sexuality don't mix. Remember that. Live it, love it, learn it.
There's something seriously wrong with our society that a child should have to decide that their transgendered at the age of five. Who wrote this gender shit in stone? Not history, that's a load of bull. Turn back a hundred years, and you couldn't tell the difference between a boy and a girl. It just wasn't an issue.
I'm not saying that Nicole isn't Nicole. Hell, I'd lay bets that she is. But the fact that a five year old has already determined that her nature is so different from other boys that it could only mean that she's born with the wrong gender doesn't say anything about Nicole, it says something about the drooling fetish we have with sexuality and gender as a society as a whole.
This isn't about a girl, or a boy. This is about a fucking child.
When did we get to the point that pre-schoolers are studying the issue of the biology of gender, and making life changing decisions based on that?

3) I lied again. We're gonna get up to four points. I just discovered that there is a reason for those people who type all in caps locks. Seriously, Keep your fingers off the shift key. I don't care if you're not typing anything, and you just wanna rest that there pinky for a minute. Don't. Because if you pass that eight second mark, you'll lose all control of your keyboard to the Microsoft demons. Don't do it. Back away from the shift key.

4) I was going to write a much more grand opener for the newest, shiniest link on here, but between the procrastination, writer's block, complete inability to schedule, and the fact that after spending the last half hour trying to figure out how to get that fucking caps lock off, it's now way, way past my bedtime, I'm just gonna plunk that link down here. New Millennium Nigga. Read. Laugh. But laugh in a "it'd be funny, if it wasn't true...I think I'm gonna cry," kinda way. You will enjoy. Heck, I'm offering up a money back guarantee on that one.

5) I got a new fish tank. I'm gonna beg, borrow or steal a camera to commemorate this occasion. Until then, I'm going to bed.

The Kid Fights Norms

2006-05-31T09:14:00.000-07:00

This morning:

The Kid: Mommy, why do only boy's voices change when they grow up, and normal people's voices don't?

Quiz Time

2006-05-27T10:46:00.000-07:00

Which Classic Female Literary Character Are you?

You're Elizabeth Bennett of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen!
Take this quiz!

Quizilla |
Join

| Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

Because.......

2006-05-25T23:52:00.000-07:00

Here's the funny thing about rape cases. Something you may not have realized. Something they don't tell you.

It's not the victim who is on trial.

See, this is the way the system works:

1) Innocent until proven guilty holds true even in rape cases.

2) This means that even the victim is innocent.

3) No, seriously.

4) I don't care what Fox News said. She's still not the one on trial.

5) Yes, even if she has kids.

6) Yes, even if having kids doesn't mean she'll marry whomever ejaculated near her in a means of becoming a proper little lady.

7) Hell, even if she won't bleach her skin all shiny-white like.

So, if you have an urge to delve into the depths of self-hatred, check out Feministing, where the "debate" is raging between one self-hating woman who can't figure out why no matter how much she get's her hate-on against other women, she still hasn't bought herself a hubby (see: me again), one little white boy who's terrified of the possibility that being white may not be a "get out of sin" card after all (see: hujo), and a nineteen year old punk who's really hoping that the interweb will hide his acne from all, and make everyone think he's a Real Man (see: no name).

Some fun quotes for your parusal:

I don't doubt your statistics either. The problem I think is that blacks aren't very well educated and they don't seem very inspired. I'm not sure of all the reasons why this might be, but I know black people are capable of being much better than they currently may be.

My bad. By 'quotes' I meant 'quote'. Figured I head on over there and pick up some good ones, but that right there hit me in the face right off the bat, and well, that pretty much says it all, doesn't it?

Fuck.

Patio Thoughts

2006-05-20T12:10:00.000-07:00

Last night I went out on my balcony for a smoke, which made me think of how much easier it will be in a couple of months when it will stay light out late enough for me too do some readings while sitting outside. Which made me realize I should go inside and do some reading. Which led me to distracting myself with thoughts of how we evaluate GDP and how annoying it is that so many people think that it alone can be used as a means of evaluating the standard of living in a state. Which reminded me that a) Bono is (what? preaching?) at the church downtown and b) apparently U2 makes up a major portion of the GDP of Ireland. Which got me thinking about how little I know about Ireland, other than IRA, U2 and that movie with that kid that dances (Billy something?). Which made me realize that the movie with the kid that dances was the second to last movie I saw in the theater, and the last time I actually went somewhere by simply making plans, putting clothes on, and leaving the house (marina/motorhome/parking lot/whatev) without worrying about finding a babysitter, or whether I can actually get to where I want to go without being to late for whatever I want to do, or whether I can get home early enough, or whether my plans are even worth paying a babysitter for. Which reminded me that I'm supposed to go day-camping, and therefore may have been a little pre-emptive in grounding The Kid. Which made me want a beer. Which made me realize that I don't got no beer, and since The Kid was finally in bed, could not get any, despite the fact that I live within a block of four liquor stores. Which brought me back to the Irish-dancing-kid movie. Which made me realize that I could really use another destressor. Which reminded me that my vibrator is still broken. At which point I made a mental note to invest in a new one. Which reminded me that I have to replace the fish tank this semester. Which reminded me that I still have to get new contacts and glasses if I want to see anything. Which made me realize that there is no way I can afford a new vibrator.

Which made me cranky.

I need a vacation.

Night of the Inane Comment IV

2006-05-18T19:46:00.000-07:00

Or Maybe III. I Don't Know.

The Kid is learning how to spell. So far she's mastered her name, and such other key words as mommy, no, Lilly, Michael, Roxenne, Briell, and Corinna. She really likes Corinna. As a matter of fact, that's the name she uses to sign all her artwork. Except she writes it backwards, which does make it easy for me to recognize which of the daycare art was done by The Kid, and which was done by the real Corinna.
Come to think of it, The Kid writes everything backwards. I chalk it up to her left-handedness. Or maybe she's just working on mastering the word du jour: RED RUM.
I'm hoping it's a lefty thing.
Anyhow, I figure that since she's getting the whole writing thing down, she ought to throw reading into the mix. I can teach that shit. I watched Sesame Street. So the process goes something like this:
Me: Goose must be stopped, what shall we do....What's that word there spell, Kid?
The Kid: I don't know.
Me: What does D say?
The Kid: de
Me: Good! Now what does O say?
The Kid: ooohh
Me: Nice! Now put'em together. Say both sounds.
The Kid: de ooohhh
Me: Great, now faster!
The Kid: de ooohh, de ohh, de oh, dohhh, doooo
Me: Great! What's that word?
The Kid: uuuhhh.
Me: de ooo. de oo. de oo. doooo. do. What's the word?
The Kid: Goose must be stopped, what shall we do!!
Me: Okay, that's the line from the book. But what does D O spell?
The Kid: Goose!
Me: D O. de ooo. dooo. do. I'll give you a hint: The word is do. So what does it spell?
The Kid: Bear!
Me: It's do. The word is do. D makes a de sound, o makes a oooo sound, put them together and they say de oooo de ooo deooo doooo doo do. The word says do. D O spells do. It's do. D O spells do. So what's the word again?
The Kid: Satan's Cat!!!
Me: Fuck. I need a beer. G'night. I'm blowing this room.
I will never, ever teach kindergarten. Never. Fuck that shit, I hate kids.

Speaking of ducks: I can't help but wonder when they're all lined up real pretty like if that mother duck is actually quacking, "Don't step on my heels. Don't you step on my heals. Back off. Back the fuck off, do you have to do that? Christ, enough already, you're stepping on my motherfucking heels every freakin' step! You kids are driving me bloody well insane! Back Off!"
I'll bet she is. Heck, I'd lay money on it.

I was wrong when I suggested that Stephen Harper may look like a playskool little people. He looks more like a penguin.
There's nothing as embarrassing as seeing your nation's leader in a photo shoot with Bush, and realizing that Harper makes Bush look good. Not only that, but I think ole' Stevo actually tugged at Bush's sleeve once, while Dubya mugged for the camera, glorying in the fact that the Great White North had finally come to it's senses and elected a man who thinks George Is God. That image has been burned into my memory for the last couple of months, and I don't think I'm going to be able to get over it. I've been trying to move on, think of other things, happy thoughts or volatile rants, but it ain't happening.
We elected a penguin. And an asshole of a penguin, at that.

Speaking of feminism...
WTF?
Never mind.
Okay.
Movin' On:
Speaking of feminism, part of the package is the right to be assholes. Hard concept? Not really. Just say, "She's an _______ insert insult of choice" and move on. It's not a feminist thing. It's not that we're power tripping 'cause we've got you buy your little politically correct balls, it's that sometimes women are assholes.
Here's the deal. I can be an asshole, without it being because I'm a woman. In return, you can be an asshole, without it being because you're black, white, hetero, homo, an immigrant, an ex-pat, a foot fetishist, a catholic, or a republican.
Imagine the possibilities: You could actually act like a jerk, without worrying about whether you're living up to your stereotype, or, worse yet, adding to that stereotype. It's a thrill. I could use some more.

Dialysis Cat is still alive. It just occurred to me that it's been nearly one year since The Mother dropped off that half-dead, kidneyless, obese asshole of a cat on my doorstep while they vacationed in Mexico. And they've kept that poor thing alive all this time. See, that there's cruelty. That cat doesn't eat. Anything. Ever. He collapses regularly. And by regularly, I mean every five steps, he just flops. That's fucking pathetic. Seriously, there's a point where one has to understand the difference between helping someone live, and extending their death throws for as long as possible. In Ye Old USSR, that would've constituted torture. In the here and now, it's just livin' the Schiavo dream.
With fur, in this context. But balding rapidly. And possibly with fleas.
Satan's Cat, on the other hand, is rockin' her middle age for all its worth. She is currently sprawled out on the dining room glaring at me, ears flat back. There's a very good possibility I could lose a limb in the next couple of minutes, but it's all in good fun.
My extremities grow back. It's a useful talent to have.

Damn. I'm getting old. It's one a.m., and I've just erased the same paragraph three times.
This Night Of The Inane Comment is declared a bust. Fuck it, I'm going to bed.

Admendament: I realized that my past Night Of The Inane Comment's are so far gone that ya'll probably need a refresher in what a real NOTIC ought to look like. So click to your heart's content:

Night of the Inane Comment III

Night of the Inane Comment II

Night of the Inane Comment I

An Open Letter To Pro-Life Activists:

2006-05-11T23:23:00.000-07:00

Jesus Hates You.

You know it, I know it. It's time you accept it. Jesus may be some dead preacher with a penchant for metaphor, but even so, he's rolling over in his grave at the sight of your "I Love Missisauga" baggy assed t-shirts, and your cheap assed wannabe mullets.

Jesus is pretty fucking disgusted that you've allied yourselves with him.
Yeah, you know that kid in junior high, the one who thought ya'll were friends, but you were just too nice to tell to fuck off? The one that you'd put up with when no one else was around, but you'd avoid like the plague when ever any one else was around?
To Jesus, you're that kid.

Don't go announcing yourself there, with your fetish for sinking your gnarled, fungal nails into other peoples uteruses. Eventually, Jesus is gonna have to acknowledge you're constant sidling up to his table in the lunchroom, and he's gonna snap.
(And lemme tell ya, it's never pretty when the dumb fuck finds out that their idol feels nothing more than a deep, long-abiding disgust for them.)

Yeah, I realize it's hard for you. Nothing like living your life being told that your worthless if your not loved, and loved by one particular man only. Jesus don't got much love to give, what with being dead and all. And even if he wasn't, he sure as shit wouldn't be spreading that love your way. Why, you say? Well let me count the ways:

1) Jesus has a lot of demands on his time. He's got people left, right and center who'd do just about anything for a five minute interview, let alone a reciprocation of that "undying love" you say you've got to give. The man's gotta be picky. Hell, who wouldn't be, in his situation? Fuck, I'd be picky in my situation if I had an ounce of brains, and I'm a motherfucking single mother/college student. Just imagine for a minute how picky I'd be if I had a couple billion people lusting over me. Pretty fucking picky, that's how.
That's right, you've just been cut. Thanks for coming out, now go find a new religion to suck up to. Jesus has bigger fish to fry than your sorry ass.

2) Jesus doesn't give a fuck about Missisauga. He can't spell it, he don't like it. Jesus really hates Hamilton, but you there in Missisauga; you're not much better off. Jesus don't like smog. He don't like pollution. Think: The man commuted by donkey for fuck's sake. Your dashboard factory days are killing your odds of meeting with the Big J.
He also hates mosquitoes. And he doesn't differentiate between damp and dank. Missisauga sucks (Although still not as much as Hamilton). So if you live there, or anywhere else in Southern Ontario for that matter, you're off the list. Jesus doesn't have time for your sorry ass. Quit trying, and start living up to some real standards of decency and morality. The second coming ain't coming your way.

3) Jesus is not going to sit his ass down on your Martha Stewart line, Tropicana patterned sectional. He's not gonna drink your weak assed tea, and listen to you revel over how Joan Across The Street has put on more weight than you. Jesus also does not give a fuck about Joan. Jesus is certainly not going to eat that same bumbleberry pie - family recipe or not - that you fed to Joan, while counting the slices she jammed down her gullet so you could spread the news to all the other locals.
Your bumbleberry pie sucks. The crust is dry, and the only reason no one's told you before is because they know that it's all you have going for you.
It doesn't matter how long you spent on that pie; Jesus has better shit to do. Like make poor people be not as poor, and dead people be not as dead, and banks give fair interest rates on savings accounts. Your petty gossip and crappy pie does not fit in the itinerary of the Jesus Reunion Tour.

4) You annoy Jesus. See, there's four types of decision makers, and Jesus fits into the Director/Lion type. Big on leading, low on whining. Jesus just wants to get shit done, solve some problems, and do it without getting into all the details about how this'll fuck up his schedule and screw with his manicure. Jesus doesn't want to hold a focus group on how we all feel about leprosy, he wants to wipe that shit right off the planet.
Come to think of it, Jesus kinda wants to bitch slap you right now. Don't take it personally, directors are known for that.

5) Jesus does not give a flying fuck about how you feel about other peoples uteruses. If there's anything Jesus can spot a mile away, it's a slacker. And the best way to slack is to sit around finding new ways to make shit other peoples problem. Jesus doesn't buy that shit. You got a problem, solve it. Your neighbour's got a problem, offer whatever you can to help them through that shit. Your neighbour's best friend's son's dog's mother's owner's cousin's got a problem, well help them the fuck through that shit. Don't be asserting your control over other peoples shit. Or eggs. Or semen. Or any combination of the above.
Seriously, you expect Jesus to come to your rescue when the motherfucking washing machine breaks down, you damn well better be willing to put in the time to make that shit worthwhile for him. He ain't gonna fix your dryer if you ain't gonna at least cure cervical cancer. It's easy. Pass out a couple of fucking vaccinations, and your done. You have all this time on your hands to protest on behalf of the zygotes, why not take it to the next level and actually do something for people that are already living, kicking, independent beings in their own rights?

5) Jesus knows that the only time your money is where your mouth is there's McDonalds involved. How many foster kids you got? What, to broke/old/busy to adopt/foster? Well, fuck you too. You expect salvation from Jesus, yet you can't even live up to what you expect from the nearest pregnant woman? Don't be slapping his name on that. He don't like it. You want poor people to be forced to raise babies, well, adopt ten of the little shits. You'll be poor, you'll have babies. Done and done.

6) Jesus is deeply disturbed by your obsession with other peoples sex lives. Jesus feels this may be a real problem for you. Jesus does not remember anything about going on and on and on and on about who's getting laid, with who, and with what parts. Jesus feels you may need to just fuck and get over it.
Otherwise, Jesus strongly recommends a Rabbit Pearl, although Jesus also would like to dissuade you from buying the floor model, as it may not last that long.
Jesus also recommends starting a toy company that offers warranties. Jesus feels this may be a good business investment.

And there it is. You've spent your whole lives vying for the love of this guy, and it ain't gonna happen. You're too demanding. You don't reciprocate. And you're probably from Missisauga. Basically, You're Fucked.

You still want the love of the Big J? Well, start living up to that shit. Add a fun little clause to that anti-abortion campaign you've got going on. You know, that clause that states that you're not allowed to be anti-choice unless you're willing to be chosen by others, at random, against your will, to raise a child. And support a pregnant woman for nine months prior. And heck, if she should die in childbirth, throw in some hari-kari while your at it.

Then move on to shit that Jesus actually gave a fuck about. Like ending poverty, and disease, and making people live decent, human lives, regardless of race, class, sex or religion.

Then maybe Jesus will look twice at you. But just maybe.
And if you're still wearing that ugly assed t-shirt and haven't done anything about that fungus, he's not contemplating small-talk over a latte. Seriously. Deal with that shit.

Dandelions and Kibbles

2006-04-26T23:57:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-26T11:26:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-22T12:12:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-04-22T00:04:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-18T22:06:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-18T14:28:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-15T10:55:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-10T21:37:00.000-07:00

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....

2006-04-06T19:49:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-02T18:06:00.000-07:00

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?

What My Abortion Gave Me

2006-03-31T23:05:00.000-08:00

I don't understand the assumption that life stops at abortion. The idea that, should you not have had that abortion, everything would continue, but with a loving, adoring child at your side. Sure, they'd say, you'd have a bit less cash on hand, and times might be tough for a while, but it's worth it! You'd be saving another human life!
If you say so, ya boogerheads, but what would I be losing?

Well, how about we start with my daughter.

If it wasn't for having an abortion, The Kid would not exist. How's that work? Simple. You and me, we don't believe in fate. You because you're a good Godbag, me, because I don't follow that shit. I control my "destiny", and that's just the way it's gonna be.
And that means you can't erase the part of my life that happened post-abortion. You can't take that shit away from me, just to make me feel guilty.

I don't.

Remorse? My ass.
Do you honestly expect me to want to turn back time, relive the drunken haze of my early twenties, shoot my ass back to the ten foot by four foot room I shared, bring back G. and my retaliation against M, who would later prove himself time and time again to be one of the best friends I would ever have? Do you honestly think I would relive that, and instead of learning from it, moving on, slowly growing into the person I am today, instead of that, bow down to your religion, and carry that poor, pickled fetus to term?

No matter how hard you try, you can't take away my life. You can't make it stop at my abortion. It didn't. It won't.

So what happened after? Not much. I puked in the parking lot of Toys R Us, then went back to the B&B. We saw a snowboarding show. I moved home, out of fear, for a while. Dated a guy who had a Great Dane, and I fucking miss that dog. I loved that dog.
Went back to the Rockies, drank a little bit less, but not much. Worked, got bored, quit, worked got bored, quit.
And here's where it gets exciting:
Ran out of money. Wandered down the street with a resume, where I ran in to D., who just happened to be on a coffee break. And D.'s shop just happened to need someone. And D.'s manager was there, and had a shitty customer right before I came in, so just happened to need a staff member who cussed like a sailor, and didn't take shit from anyone. And hired me, to work the Back Store, where (?) just happened to work. And (?) just happened to have a friend who stopped in about once a week, and was single, and thought I was pretty damn cute. And I just happened to be bored then.

Thing is, there's no destiny there. I met The Ex through pure chance. And chance led to my daughter. I'm not gonna go and fuck with that, wondering about "What if's" and "Could be's". And the ant-abortion crew is riding on the idea that I'm too fucking stupid to figure this shit out.

Don't be. I'm not. I owe my life to my abortion. Maybe that's symbolic, maybe I'd have another life if I hadn't had an abortion (Never mind the fact that Shadow just told me that a girl from the group back home died in childbirth a couple of weeks ago). But whatever life I would have had, it wouldn't have included my daughter. And if anyone out there has the audacity to say, "But you would have had another child," well, seriously;

How would you feel about me taking away your children, and replacing them with an unknown, pickled fetus? Or even an unpickled fetus? Maybe a known child? You know that kid that you think is great, the one that you have play dates with every Sunday? Would you trade your child for that kid?

No. You wouldn't. And neither would I.

Guess what, you egg-loving freaks: I love my daughter. And ain't nothing you can say will make that go away. And I sure as hell ain't gonna let you make me feel guilty about the life that led me to her. Fuck that, "God blessed you with..." shit. Fuck that "Sanctity of (pre-born) life" shit.
I'd kill a hundred and fifty fetuses if I needed to to protect my daughter. And so would you. You know it, accept it. Move on.

One of Those Weeks

2006-03-31T19:30:00.000-08:00

So it's been one of those weeks over here at the Impulsive abode.

First of all, I discovered that my stepbrother has apparently been deployed. I was a little unamused to open an e-mail from the parents, only to discover a cute and cuddly little pic of the bro shaking hands with our beloved prime minister. Traitorous bastard, that. I would disown him on the spot, or at least say mean, mean things to him which may or may not break his bones, if it wasn't for the fact that the picture was taken on the day that Harper was visiting "our boys" in Afghanistan. I say what now? When the fuck did Jared end up in Afghanistan? Or did Harper take a secret lunch break to fly back to shit-hole, Ontario, just to shake hands with my no-good, legal relation, before heading back out to Kandahar for dinner? See, shit like this is what makes me think my family is lacking something in the communication skills department.
That and, though I truly believe someone ought to kill that boy, by kill I mean maim and throttle, and by someone, I mean family. People launching missiles at him does not fit well in to my vision of his demise. So I'd appreciate it if anyone out there was planning on making Jared's sorry ass go boom, you don't. Please and thank you.

Second, I managed to fracture a rib on the weekend. Admittedly, the tequila did soften my landing somewhat, but not enough to protect my poor, calcium deprived bones. I gotta take up drinking monkeys lunches and brown cows more.
On the other hand, I'm now a shining star in the eyes of the security guard at my school. Since I hadn't yet figured out why I hurt, I spent Monday alternating between whining about my sore ribs and learning the arts of hacky sack as a means of distracting myself from the pain in my side. That night, I went to the doctor who got me some x-rays, and diagnosed me as mildly broken.
Ever since I told security the reason behind me prior whining, I've been the Goddess of Pain Tolerance in his books. Of course, I think it's more of an Unable to Diagnose Own Pain Levels and/or Causes sort of thing, but hey, whatever rocks your boat, I say.

The good news? I'm an Aunt. Well, again. Technically, I've been an Aunt for thirteen years now, but now I've got a nephew to throw in to the mix (four nieces prior, which, when you throw in The Kid, added up to a good start to a promising new matriarchy). Well, technically-technically, I've been an Aunt for twelve years, given that Jared did not meet his wife until her oldest was a year. Or technically-technically, ten years, when they got married and he legally adopted the eldest. Whatever.
I was holding out for ten girls in a row, but hey, we were half way there. Now if only someone would let me know what the name of my new nephew was, I'd be stoked.

The other good news? The Kid had a break through tonight: She drew a picture of a boy and a girl, and put bows in the boy's hair (not just the girl's hair). Good thing, because what with the weather warming up, it's getting a little embarrassing to take my little gender-schematic darling to Grandview Park on the weekends and try to silence those exclamations of, "But Megan's a boy! He's a boy, not a girl! A Boy!"
Well, no Kid, Megan's what he/she wants to be, not what you tell him/her to be. Now shut the fuck up before I haul your sorry ass back down to New West where we can stare blankly at Treehouse TV all day.
Seriously lacking in diplomacy, that.

So hey, made it through another week, and now it's off to finals I go.

Next week. Not now.

Stolen!

2006-03-23T20:24:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I scammed this here meme from Maine. So here we go:

1) Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 24 and find line 5:

Yeah, I've got no excuses for the typos any more. That's right, pg 24, line five reads:
-DERIVATIVES aloofness n.
Hey, I'm a student. I kinda need that dictionary next to the computer.

2) Stretch your left arm out as far as you can, what do you find?

That I still don't know left from right. Or lots and lots of air, take your pick.

3) What is the last thing you watched on TV?

Big comfy couch. That show seems to always be on. Funny, that.

4) With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?

My fridge, the train, the skytrain, oddly enough, nothing from the stripclub....my bad; the strip club commotion, and Wolf Parade, This Heart's On Fire. I have a soft spot for any song I can actually remember the lyrics for, and "This heart's on fire, this hearts on fire, this hearts on fire, this hearts on fire, this heart's on fire, this heart's..." is just about right for shit that'll fit in my memory.

5) When did you last step outside? What were you doing?

Let us never speak of today again. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Hell week, that's what.

6) Before you started this survey, what did you look at?

Um, this survey, at Maines. Stupid question, dont'cha think?

7) What are you wearing?

A tank top, scrubs, bunny slippers, and an eight hundred year old terry cloth bathrobe.
The usual.

8) Did you dream last night?

Right. Crunch week. I only wish I had time to dream.
Why am I still awake again?

9) When did you last laugh?

Seriously, people can remember this shit? You need to laugh more.
Either something I read on a blog struck me as hilarious, or some wingnuttery struck me as absurd, or my daughter existed, and was either awake, or asleep, or the cat walked into a wall, or I actually managed to open a bottle of wine All By Myself, and was giddy with delight at my bottle-opening skills, or someone, somewhere, said something, or a song started playing that I forgot existed, or I unexpectedly caught a glimpse of my scrawny-ass chicken legs in a mirror...

10) What is on the walls of the room you are in?

Oddly enough, nothing. I've lived here four years, and my livingroom/diningroom has nothing on the walls. The really strange thing is that people don't notice until they've been here at least 20 times. Then suddenly, it dawns on them....somethings missing here.

11) Seen anything weird lately?

Yeah, actually, I forgot about this until now: On the skytrain today, this guy sits next to me. He's got some problems, and is swearing loudly at his cell phone and newspaper (no one's on the phone, he's just swearing in its general direction.) Thing is, there was this family across from us with two boys, one's about five, the other maybe eight. Now here's the weirdness - neither one of the boys so much as bats an eye, or even glances in this guys direction. He's three feet away from them, screaming obscenities, and they don't even notice.
Now that's weird.

12) What do you think of this quiz?

It's a quiz?

13) Where did this question disappear to, and how did I make it vanish like that? A.K.A., Something about movies?

Right. My DVD players broken. My VCRs broken. There's no way I'm paying thirty bucks for a babysitter so I can go somewhere with uncomfortable seats and no smoking.
So last movie I saw was probably something on TBS, which means it was probably Jerry McGuire. Seriously, how can you make money off a channel that plays Jerry McGuire, and nothing but Jerry McGuire, 24/7?

14) If you turned into a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy in the morning?

Coffee and a pack of smokes. But I'd get them.....Delivered. Oh yeah, that's the life.

15) Tell me something about you that I don't know.

I tell pretty much everyone, pretty much anything about myself. Does that meet requirement for an answer?

16) If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt and politics, what would you do?

Oh, my answers here are so done. Fuck that, just cause it ain't gonna happen, I'm gonna ditch out on all the usuals, and say I'd make everyone out of bubble gum, and take a bite out of any fucker that's pissed me off. Wait, that's a little overboard, isn't it? Okay, I'd make Paris Hilton work for a living. Just for shits and giggles.

17) Do you like to dance?

Define dance. I'm like Ellen Degeneres on the floor....Ellen with a broken leg, that is. Wait, yeah, I love it.

18) George Bush.

Fuck you.

19) Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?

I think I shall call it The Kid.

20) Imagine your boyfriend is making sweet love to his Xbox 360, what would you do?

Back away slowly, a little concerned about the possible repercussions of having chosen this great timing to have gone out and got myself commitmentified, and definitely worried about the fact that, up until I read this question, I seem to have no memory of this alleged "boyfriend". Then I back away faster.

21) Would you ever consider living abroad?

Wait, you sayin' someone told you bout the Secret-secret-Sweden Mission? Now you gotta die, mofo.

22) What would you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?

"Way to go, asshole, thought you were so smart not believing in me and all, didn't ya? Well, sucks to be So Very Wrong, doesn't it? Ha!...............No, seriously though, you were right. I don't exist. Had you fooled for a minute there, didn't I? Yeah, that was fun. Okay, well, I'd say 'See ya later', but you're in for a hella-long dirtnap, now aren't you? Well, good luck with that!"

Kids Suck

2006-03-19T19:12:00.000-08:00

How do I know this? Because after spending the first four hours of my day listening to, "Can we go to the Bug Lab? Can we go to the Bug Lab? Can we go to the Bug Lab? Can we go to the Bug Lab?........"

I then spent the last half of the day being crawled on by Giant African Millipedes, Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches, stickbugs the size of my arm, and some weird blue beetles that are supposed to play dead when they're scared, but apparently didn't find me scary.
Meanwhile, from a safe ten feet away, my daughter's carefully documenting my trauma in all it's crayola'd glory.

Am I the only one who gets disturbed when someone says, "Hold this," and hands you one of these:
Then leaves? What the heck am I supposed to do with that? And why does it insist on trying to climb up my arm, into my sleeve, and make itself cozy in my armpit? Why did you leave me? And what the hell am I supposed to do with The Kid sitting there laughing her ass off at me, while still a good ten feet away?
Because if it was anyone else, I wouldn't be above shoving that thang down their pants, but given The Kid is four, I'm pretty sure that doing so would fall under the heading of Bad Parenting.

And that's my Sunday, in a nutshell. Or carapace.

Test.

2006-03-16T23:05:00.000-08:00

Testing...will this post? We'll find out.

Fucking blogspot.

Impulsivecompulsive's Where The Fuck Is My Blog Edition

2006-03-16T23:04:00.000-08:00

Because: Where the fuck is my blog? Somehow, Forbidden 403, is doing nothing for me. So instead, I'll watch ER.
Yeah, I still watch ER. I know that the good stuff went out with Dr. Green, and whomever the fuck George Clooney played, I don't care.
Because sometimes things aren't meant to be taken at face value. Face value, in itself, is a self-defeating term. The notion of face insinuates something deeper. Under the face, we have bone, then marrow, then synopsis, some form of entity, within that, personality, and within it all, some form of spirit. Therefore, face value encompasses everything that we can never really understand, and includes everything that makes up the rest of life. All the voids that will never be filled. There is no such thing as face value, it's merely a means of dummying down the world to child like simplicity in the hopes that false belief in understanding will make us sleep easier at night.
And that there's my reason for not accepting face value. And maybe not my reason for watching ER, but my reason for finding deeper meaning within a show that, in all honesty, kind of sucks.
So tonight, we talk about ER. Exciting, no?
Anyway, that doctor who may or may not be chief of staff, with the hip problem, and the son named Harry, she's getting hip replacement surgery, which she's been putting off for a while now. Turns out she's been putting it off because of her fear of leaving her son without a legal guardian, should things go wrong....
And Ohhhh!!! There it goes! That's called touching a nerve right there, folks.

My daughter has a guardian. A semi-legal, hopefully not to be contested guardian, should I die. But semi-legal doesn't guarantee anything, and chances are I should have followed the advice of my lawyer (a.k.a. friends wife) and gotten that shit written up properly, and notarized. And yet, since we've had that meeting (a.k.a. long and boring intercontinental flight, post-hostess induced end to poker tournament) I haven't done squat to that old will of mine.

The Ex.

Well, you're wrong.

The Ex wouldn't contest shit. Chances are, The Ex would have no idea if I should die, and that's one thing we finally agreed on. He lives his life, hopefully far from here, and we'll live ours. Someday, he'll be ready for a family, and he'll find himself a bright eyed, sweet girl, with a heart of gold that she just wishes someone would see. He'll see it, and be enamoured of the fact that she's enamoured of the fact that he's paying attention to her. They'll have 2.6 kids, and live happily ever after, with yellow paisley curtains and a cocker spaniel named Joe. And that's okay, because no matter how much he disgusts me, somewhere out there is someone who could bring out the best in him, and they will be happy, and he will be a better person for it.

The Family.

My mother once told me a story about how she wanted to find what was in the middle of the onion. She peeled back the layers, one by one, until nothing was left. Thus it became clear that there was nothing in the middle of this onion.
This would have been a good story, if she'd meant it as a metaphor, but she didn't. She was honestly amused at the fact that she thought there ought to be something in the onion. There's also the possibility that she never actually peeled back that onion, and that was merely a story she'd read in college, shortly before her breakdown, then incorporated into later memories as one of her own.
Had that story really been a metaphor, it would have applied well to my family. At it's core, we don't amount to much. But if you add those layers, it's history making, fuck, history breaking shit. Add a couple of step-parents, dragging ten new siblings, reproduce to throw some additional grandkids/kids/nieces into the mix, and don't forget the cousins, and it goes on.
However you do the math, I have mucho mucho family, some closer, some more distant. And strong family ties, the bane of anyone from a large family. And within my family, I have some amazing people. Scratch that, a hell of a lot of amazing people. My stepsister was dispatcher during the first dog rescue of avalanche victims that survived. Next stepsister: junior b boys hockey at the age of fifteen. Stepbrothers: army (medic), model, and nuclear physicist (but pacifist, only uses his powers for good). Moving on; chief of staff, silicone valley lawyer, olympic level long distance runner, (provincially) acclaimed artist, first engineer to introduce wind power to Saskatchewan, girl who, at the age of fourteen, organized and hosted a profitable punk show. The rest are all dentists, socially active lawyers, doctors, or socially active government officials.

But they're not here. And I'm not there. And neither is my daughter.

I don't doubt my potential as a parent, although there's nothing then I want more than to take her on a road trip Back Home. I wish she could see what we can be, not as us, but as people. What some people take for granted.

When it comes down to it, I'm terrified of dying. I know, we all are, but there's something to be said for those new studies that are coming out. You know the ones, where they compare a fetus to a parasite, feeding off its host, unable to survive without it?
What those studies forget to mention is that it doesn't go away after a child is born. I've had a good life, and a bad life, and an in between life, but it's been mine. Should I, on my own, die, that would be a loss, but every life comes to an end at it's given time.
Add The Kid to the equation, and everything changes. The continuation of my life goes from a want to a need. The idea that I could die before she's ready for me to die infuriates me. There is nothing I can do for her. There is no way I could make this okay. I can't ask people who I haven't seen for years to take on a new child, and I can't justify sending her to complete strangers in the most difficult time of her childhood.
So should I die, my daughter would go to a close friend. One who's grown with me, worked as my "nanny" for a time, knows my daughter, and knows how I would want her raised.

And isn't my family. Doesn't know my family. Should I die, would likely end up fighting that same family in court, for the custody of my daughter.

The only thing holding my daughter to my world is me. And that's a pretty thin thread to hang her life on. Yet there's nothing I can do about it, other than hope like hell that I don't die. Once I'm gone, I haven't only lost my life, I've lost the entire history of my child. Her past, her links, her ties, things I haven't even introduced to her. But there's never enough time, never enough money. There's so much out there that she could build on, but there's no guarantees that I'll be able to give that to her, and that scares the shit out of me.

There's no ending here. This is it.

Excuses, Excuses

2006-03-15T19:49:00.000-08:00

So basically, this shit has traumatized me into action.
Thanks, Maine. Thanks a lot.

And what am I gonna do about it? Well to start, I'm gonna make excuses. Fuck midterms. Fuck diseases. Fuck visitors, unless they get me drunk, laid, or fix my closet doors/toilet/entry way light. Okay, unfuck the visitors. Except the getting laid part. Keep fucking those ones. Me, not you. What ev.

So yeah, my classes, as per usual, did that thing where you've got midterms followed by a series of tests and assignments that keep on coming at a steady pace until finals. Except, of course, midterms get pushed back until they land right squat in the middle of your birthday, and cram those proceeding tests and assignments into a two-a-day schedule which you're just not gonna make it through without giving up on food, sleep, any promises you may have made to anyone, anywhere, for any reason, and child rearing.

Shit; Where is my kid, anyway?

Put the brakes on, right on the same day as you have two midterms back to back, to come down with the fucking Spanish Flu or some shit like that. Possibly a cold, but no one ever called me less than whiny when it comes to sick. Fuck you. I gave birth. I can whine if I want too.

So now I'm a week behind in my readings/assignments/lectures (Of which there is no way I'm giving up a smoke break to photocopy someone else's notes, sorry recently recuperated GPA, you're goin' down. Again.)

And what can I think about? Sex. I need sex. And bad. Hell, I've taken up shaving regularly on the off chance that, should I be walking down the street and slip, fall, and land on a penis, I'll be prepared. But I'm so fucking crunched for time that I have not yet packed some beers in my fridge and batteries in my vibe to help me through this. Hell, just about the only thing in my fridge is one stale brownie, and that's not gonna help much. (All you "chocolate as good as sex" people, step off. I don't know who you're screwing, but if they can't beat a brownie, you'd best be moving on.)

And that's all I've got on that. So from here on out, it's fun and funky link day. Read on, my good folks, and don't forget to click that mouse. Or send me a mail order boy toy, if you'd like. One or the other:

My bad. I do believe I totally off-topic-ed this comment section. So if anyone remembers Webster, or has another was cute, but on further review, is kinda freaky show, go tither. Sorry, Matt.
I think that this completely justifies me doing this:

And still calling myself a feminist. Because every once in a while, you forget that feminists are people too, and hell, it's just one political version of the "No, I'm more Indie than you," debate. So yeah, in my world, feminism is good, but that doesn't make my boobs any less lovable. Cause I think they're just dandy.
And don't worry, I haven't forgotten that Stephen Harper's an ass.
I need some new tunes. Advise.
Yeah, that's about it. I'm gonna go think about sex now.

Later.

No Means No Q & A

2006-03-09T18:11:00.000-08:00

But first, some advice for the police of New West: Get snow tires. You never know when you might need them, like say, right now, as you slowly slide your way down the street, lights flashing all policy like. You ain't gettin' nowhere guys. That's just sad. If the rear end of your car keeps attempting to race the front end, you've got problems.

Now on to the main point. There seems to be some problems with the No Means No concept. Round these parts, it's not so much a problem of, "But I just don't buy that answer," as a problem of, "What to do about the rare minority that actually means yes." And of course, I'm loaded down with answers for you. Five of them, to be precise.

First, and most pertinent to the bar pickup situation, just about the easiest thing you can do is... Take the easy way out! Take "No" at face value. We're not so big on generalizations here, whether they be about minorities, women, religions, (and no, that doesn't mean I'm gonna stop mocking Christian wingnuts, it's just to damn easy), so if a subfaction of women mean Yes when they say No, that shouldn't reflect on the majority. Done deal. No. Out. Movin' on. It's safe, it's easy, and you don't even have to waste time wondering.

Now, working with the theory that there are women who say No when they mean Yes, and you really are going to get in shit for not figuring out that No means Yes, and will suffer the consequences? That there would be time to take up the woman's mantra, repeated over many a double skim mochacinno, "Girl (boy), you're to good for that shit anyway. Best you learned early, before you wasted anymore time on that ass (ass)." So maybe there are women out there who mean Yes. Do you really want to go there? I didn't think so.

Of course, this whole thing changes up once you get to know someone. Now that we've come to the happy conclusion that women really aren't your property, and, lo and behold! still have some say over there sexuality even after some level of commitment to a man, No isn't so easily defined. Sure, No means no, but if you're wife says No because she's freakin' exhausted and cranky, that probably doesn't mean never touch her again, ever, forever. Problems, problems. And this is where the real yelling is most likely to occur. Here's the point where you might want to move beyond the No, and listen to the Words. Take a couple of examples here:

It's your first/third/tenth date, and you get a kiss good night at the door, which moves it's way into the entry, which gradually backs down the hall, knocking down numerous family portraits in it's progress, and eases into the living room and onto the couch (barring passed out roommates, visiting parents, or gossipy babysitters, that is). But at the couch, progress is stopped by a, "this is moving to fast." Does that mean No? Sure thang! But my guess is, if you react with a muttered, "Right. To fast. I'm out." and bolt for the door, well, that relationship just stopped right in it's tracks now, didn't it? And chances are you dodged some missiles on your way out too.

How about this? Your wife walks in, throws herself at the couch, and hucks her shoes at a random cat that looks like it deserved it. You snuggle, then Snuggle, then she says, "Look, I just got off work, I'm tired, I fucking stink, and my head is killing me." Does this mean No? Once again, yes. But if you react by flipping on sports center with the volume cranked and passively wait for your dinner, oh you're gonna pay.

So what does no mean?
Stop what you've been told to stop doing. In the bar case, that usually means making any sort of contact whatsoever. But if you have any vested interest in someone, it probably refers to a specific action at a specific time. And if your response is to bail completely, well it's kinda gonna come off like you're just in it for the sex. And that's when you're gonna get hurt. Badly.

So how far should you back off? Well, if the answer's not clear right in the No, you might try a little communication. Date? "Sure thing. You must be tired, want me to make some coffee, or should I get out, so you can get some rest?" Wife? "Tylonol? Bubble bath? Or I could order in some butter chicken, and we could just flop. Whatcha figure?"

And you never know, sometimes No means right now, but not once I've had some time to relax/think about it/get over my freakishly shitty commute. And you don't want to fuck up that opportunity, do you? Hell, no, I say.

Okay, so we've got four points down, so let's reiterate:
1)Realize that what a minority of a group does need not apply to the group as a whole. No usually means no. Run with it.
2)If No means head games, you don't need that anyway. Move on. Go with no.
3)When involved with the naysayer, take the version of No you hear at its face value. Not "no sex here, move along, move along," but, "No sex here, now gimme a foot massage and a creme brulee."
4)When in doubt as to the exact applications of No, ask. (But put on the brakes first.)

Remember that points three and four do not apply to pickups. Then, No should always mean a big fat No.

Hmmm. Okay then. I see you've got a problem with this. I saw you nodding your way through point one, then do that head tip, thinkin' about it thing for point two, then back to more vehement nodding for point three and four. And that head tip turned into a rather vocal sigh when I reiterated point two, didn't it? Those point two girls are really bothering you aren't they? Those ones that want to be convinced, don't want to admit that they really want you.

Well, I have an answer for that too. Reduce their numbers. All it takes is a little violence on your part. Oh yeah, get out the punching bag, and work on your back hand slap across the face, cause you're gonna need it. Holy crap, where the hell is she going with this?
Here's the deal: Every time one of your boys says, "Yeah, I slept with that slut," slap him. Just do it. Keep it up, after a while it'll be a reflex action. That lawyer that uses the, "Well, she's no virgin," tactic to get his boy off the rape charges could use a good smack up side the head too. Sure, hit a lawyer you're gonna get sued, but it's for a good cause. What else are you going to do with that rainy day fund anyway? Oh, and that guy in your office who brags about how many "whores" he's done, him too. Cause as long as there's guys running around saying that girls are skanks if they enjoy sex, there's gonna be girls who retaliate by pretending not to enjoy sex. If those guys actually lived by the rules that they feel the need to try to impose on women, there wouldn't be a problem. They started it, so blame them, vocally and/or violently. It's a service to the entire world of copulation. Those girls are damn near an urban legend, so do your job to wipe that legend out, by ditching any reason for women to feel the need to act that way. Then you'll never have to worry about whether that No really meant Yes.

And hey, who can resist a little ass kicking for the greater good?

Guilted Into Submission

2006-03-08T17:43:00.000-08:00

Ho ho (again)! Hey hey (again)! It's International Women's Day (still, but later)!

So for your merry perusal, I've come to help with a couple of questions that have been befuddling and confuselling a proportion of the less-fair sex for some time now. These questions being:
1) What does no mean?
and
2) What, exactly means no?
Yes boys, I feel your pain. I realize that no means no is a vague concept, lacking the specificity and simplicity that the mind can easily embrace. But answers I do have! And with you, I will share. So get your pencils and notepads, and take a few notes.
First: What does no mean?
Well, no means:

I do not want to fuck you.

But it's so much more than that! You thought I'd stop there, did you? Well, no. It goes on:

Just because I said I wouldn't fuck you does not mean you should aim for a blow job.
Or a hummer.
Or tit fucking.
Or a hand job.

Damn, these rules just keep on getting harder, don't they? Well, fasten your seat belts, cause it gets worse....no can extend to beyond sexual acts. Oh dear. See, no may also mean:

Although I'm sure your charm and chivalry are lovely, I'm actually enjoying dinner with my friends, and am not here to pick up.
Why yes, my tits are lovely, but as I don't know you, I'm not sure I see how that's your problem, and would suggest you back off.
The fact that we are temporarily forced to share a table due to common acquaintances does not give you the privilege of playing pretend, as a means of tricking your peers into thinking I am, in fact, your property.
If my friend turns to me for conversation as a means of avoiding you, you do not have the right to interrupt our conversation to switch to hitting on me.

Well, I've successfully bored myself with those little examples, so to keep things simple, lets just say that no means You, man, have no rights to enforce yourself on Me, woman, simply because you feel you ought to fuck me. If you wish to mark your territory, head outside and piss on a tree. Otherwise, assume that if a woman does not wish for your company, she is not obligated to endure your company, inside or outside of the bedroom.

So, on to question two:
What means no?

No (This should be a good place to start.)
Back off.
I don't like you.
I'm a lesbian.
What the fuck is wrong with you? Go away.
Don't talk to me.
Get the fuck away from me.
Fuck off. Fuck right off. Fuck off right now. Fuck off you fucking prick. Don't fucking touch me.

Easy, isn't it? Well, you would think so. Unfortunately if there's anything my little circle of friends learned this week, it's that such concepts are, in fact, unfamiliar to some.

So you had a run in with a couple of drunken losers who wouldn't lay off. This isn't the patriarchy, this is three idiots who don't know when to stop the whiskey flow, you say? I could buy that. After all, I'm pretty sure my known readers don't need the above lists to figure out the meaning of no. I don't trust you lurkers, though. Sneaky little buggers. (No, I'm not serious. Please don't leave. Don't go. I need the attention. Please?)
As I was saying, not patriarchal, just drunkery, right? Well, let's look at two situations here, then you decide:

Two men, one large, one small. The larger man has just threatened to kill an acquaintance of the smaller man. Larger man is now well within the personal space of smaller man, in a face to face confrontation. Larger man will not back off of smaller man, and will not allow room for smaller man to back away.

Who's in the wrong here? I'd say the big, violent guy who's forcing himself on others, wouldn't you?

A large man has just threatened to kill the acquaitance of a woman. The man is now well within the personal space of the woman, and refuses to back off, or leave her alone.

So you restrain the woman on the grounds that she's obviously PMSing if she doesn't want his attentions. She don't know her own mind, ya'll. What kinda fucked up bitch would complain about a perfectly nice, well employed man hitting on her?

Oh, you so know where I'm going with this, don't you? That's right! It just doesn't work that way. There's a point where if a guy is backed into a corner by someone else, that man will fight. And the same applies to a woman.
Deal.

Ho ho! Hey hey! It's International Women's Day!

2006-03-08T15:38:00.000-08:00

Sick. Tired. Hate midterms. Do not trust my sliding glass door, as I think it is making plans to explode right now.
I was going to post something great yet virulent for International Women's Day, but right now, I just don't care. Instead, I'll give you the short version:
There's a good chance your gonna get the shit kicked out of you.

In other news, here's some belated birthday boobs.

Question of the day: Who out there actually cares how the toilet paper's hung? Cause I'm pretty anal, and even I don't give a fuck.

And I'm out, to sit and glare at the sliding glass door (from a safe distance), in the hopes that I can scare it out of action.

Time Is Of The Essence

2006-02-28T20:24:00.000-08:00

Fucking midterms.

Well, until later, why don't ya'll just sign here. (Although it would probably make more of an impact if you were Canadian while signing. Aim for that.)

Never Looks Back. Loves Hypocrisy.

2006-02-24T09:54:00.000-08:00

Well, it's about that birthdayish time of year again.

Twenty years ago I was: Young. Soon to be packed up in the family car with all our possessions, one sister, two parents, and two cats. Ready to embark on the three day journey to British Columbia, a place I'd been once before. B.C. had: an ocean. No coral, no sharks, no tropical fish. My first impression of the ocean had been rather disappointing, given that all the picture books included coral, sharks, and tropical fish. B.C. also had Cookies by George. This definitely made it worth while.

Fifteen years ago I was: Weary. Still young, but unwilling to admit it. Settling in to island living, where there are no Cookies by George. Also, no aquarium, no Granville Island, and no Greek restaurant adjoining a pet store with an overwhelming supply of puppies.
Learning that looks were becoming important, and that I did not have them. Developing a long term hatred of my chicken legs, which would eventually fade in to a mild amusement over their astounding length and scrawniness.

Ten years ago I was: Failing. At everything. Terrified of walking into my high school, about to be kicked out (for the first time). Watching people die. About to be kicked out of my parents house (for the last time). Chain smoking, drinking coffee, and still suffering the after affects of the overdose from the year before.

Five years ago I was: Fat. Pregnant, but not yet hugely so. Moved back home to run the restaurant while my parents were in Scotland for the year, except they didn't go to Scotland. Instead, working for minimum wage under my mother, while living on a mattress on her office floor. Angry. Furious. Ready to kill anyone who got in the way of my attempts to build a life for myself and my soon-to-be daughter.

Two years ago I was: Reveling. Loving the freedom that daycare provided, just finished a conference where I could have: beer with lunch, washroom breaks without child as witness, and clothing without oatmeal and snot smeared across the knees. Loving the fact that, for the first time in over two years, I could sit down and do nothing for an hour at a time. Using that to it's full potential. Sitting. Doing nothing. Counting down the days until I would be in Egypt. Loving the fact that I was counting the days until I would be in Egypt.

One year ago I was: Ready to move on. In my last semester of college, having barely survived the hellish semester prior to that. Ready to go up the hill, where SFU had finally processed my transfer. Ready to take on real (upper division) classes, convinced I was nearly done.

Now I'm: Me, I guess. I'm older, but not old. I'm still behind in the game, living the life of an eighteen year old college student, with the responsibilities of a mother, minus the benefits (sex on demand) of a relationship. Have I improved in the last year? Have things gotten better?

Well, I've solidified my knowledge of my daughter. I no longer think, Now, what would a real parent do? I'm not perfect, but no parent is. My daughter, on the other hand, is perfect, so I'll take some credit for not fucking that up.

I've gained people that I'm close to, and trust. And although I've grown apart from others since I moved down here, I haven't lost any friends. Which is good, because I hate wasting time on people that just aren't worth it.

I've got more music. Thank you, new computer. This might not seem that important, but I love me some good tunes, or bad tunes, or any tunes, really. It makes me happy.

I got laid. Hey, I don't get out much, okay? Okay.

I'm smarter. I know this because, when skimming through old essays I've written, I'm bloody embarrassed by that shit. Christ, it's not that hard to form a cohesive argument, is it? What the hell was I thinking?

I have a blog. That makes me cool, or something. Either that or it makes me procrastinate even more than before.
What the hell is the new cool? I've been trying to figure this out for ages now. Can anyone tell me? Send help.

Headlines: The World Is Round

2006-02-17T23:32:00.000-08:00

No, not really. My local paper would be above and beyond posting a headline like that, no? After all, here in suburbia, we've got all the smut and glory of any old metropolis. We've got The Trial. We've got that fucker that ruined what may or may not have been one of the best House episodes ever (I wouldn't know, I missed the best parts), running around in bullet proof armour while threatening to blow away random strangers across the street from me. Yes, in the middle of House. Fuck that shit.

But no, that's not the headlines. Don't want people to think that our little piece of suburban heaven may be, well, unpretty, do we? So what's the front page news? The full page news? The entire cover of the local paper, in all it's technicoloured glory?

Seniors Scared of Panhandlers

I shit you not.

Now, there are two things I find rather terrifying about this. Number one being the fact that anyone would give a damn about what seniors find scary. Because we all know what seniors find scary, and adding to the list is pretty fucking redundant. Hell, let's do it anyway:

Dogs
Stairs
Sidewalks
Ice
Driving
Not driving
Driving over thirty
Admitting that if you're fucking blind you should not be driving
Commies
Hippies
Pinkos
Vietnamese
Homosexuals
Girls who aren't married by the age of twenty
Girls who don't wear makeup
Boys who flirt with their grand daughters
Grand daughters who don't have boys flirting with them
Koreans
Cats
Bats
Food made by anyone but them
The after affects of food, made by anyone, including them
Students
Computers
Voicemail
Cell phones
Cordless phones
Non-rotary phones
Protestants or Catholics, depending
Mennonites, non-depending
Beer, wine, rye, vodka (but not scotch or brandy)
And yet; cognac
How the fuck can you be scared of cognac, but drink brandy?
People
Being alone
The indoors
The outdoors
Dying
Life

Did I miss anything? Oh, probably. Yeah, my bad, I forgot to add darkies, spinsters, bastards, cuckolds, children born out of wedlock, and the mothers of said children.

Oh, and the homeless, of course.

Which gets us to the second point of what scares the shit out of me: The city has taken this phobia as its golden child in an attempt to milk the seniors approval for all its worth.

Before I go on, I gotta give a hat tip to the chief of police, who seems rather stuck between a rock and a hard place at this point, and seems to be doing well at paying lip service to whatever fucking moron up in city hall decided that penalizing homelessness was a cheap way to garner votes, at the same time as managing not to go out Nazi style on any box dwellers.

See here, we have bylaws against "aggressive" panhandling. Yes, this is the country where business is seen as the only viable option for students, advertising aimed at children is banned only in that province full of fucking frogs that no one cares about anyway, and all you have to do to score with ten vapid teenagers is drink enough bud (but not light, we're not quite American). So what does "aggressive" panhandling entail? Cause I could work with that shit. I've been spat on, it sucks. Any bylaw against spitting on me is a good bylaw in my books.

But no, these bylaws, they're to make sure that panhandlers don't be operating anywhere that there might actually be money. No stopped vehicles. They're stuck. They can't escape you. They don't know how to say no. Obviously, in New West, only men drive.

And add panhandling within ten meters of a bus stop, bank, or credit union. That's ten meters, kids, not ten feet. And ten meters is like, eight city blocks, or some shit like that.

The thing about New West is that the commercial areas are pretty freakin' compact. This is a small suburb schmucked between other suburbs. We're surrounded on all sides, ain't no where to grow. So the two commercial areas each take up about six city blocks, and that's all folks. Nowhere else to go, but to the next city over. So our bus stops/credit unions/ banks? All looped up in the same area. If you count out ten meters between that shit, you're left with some serious overlap.

Which means when they say, "We're not trying to criminalize homelessness," what they mean is, "It's only criminal if we have to witness your homelessness. Out of sight, out of mind, after all."

It's a panhandler. Deal. They say, "Hey, spare some change?" You say, "No, sorry." Done. If you have a problem with that, it's not because you can't deal with a sales pitch. You've been in a car dealership. You took that shit for a test drive, even though you had no intentions of buying. You window shop for clothes, and if you happen to try them on, so be it. You watch tv, and sit through the ads. Hell, you did an eat and run when you were sixteen, I know it. I saw you. I've got it on videotape.

Panhandling? It's shit you can buy, or not, as you choose. So choose. Make up your own fucking mind. Buy into that 'free choice' theory, and make a free fucking choice. Yes, there's a cost involved: panhandler may buy drugs, or coffee, who knows? But guess what? There's always a cost involved. I don't give a shit about you're inability to reason through that cost and come up with a decision as to it's merits on your own. If you're that fucking incompetent, there oughta be a bylaw against you, asshole.

We don't need specific laws targeting aggressive panhandlers. If a panhandler is acting in a truly aggressive manner, well that's already covered under our other laws. Check it out: Following people around? Stalking. Verbally abusing people? Verbal abuse. Physically abusing people? Physical abuse. Etc, etc, etc. It's there, it's done. The truly aggressive panhandlers are covered under the exact same laws as the rest of us.

This notion of "aggressive" as applying to any panhandler who may approach you when you can't lie about having cash is fucking stupid. If you honestly believe that this is some kind of fucking meritocracy where a native girl who's missing half her teeth because, despite the fact that they have medical, she grew up on a reserve where the nearest dentist was three ferry rides away can get the same job as you hooked up your daughter with at your husbands law firm, and you really, truly believe that this kid is on the street because she deserves to be, don't give her money.

And if the idea that some people really don't have anywhere else to go, or anything else to do, makes you uncomfortable? So be it. Be uncomfortable. Toss and turn on your Sealy. Have an extra glass of red before bed. Read two more chapters of that blockbuster novel that you just had to buy in hardcover. Take a motherfucking bubble bath. Because believe it or not, you're guilty conscience does not justify criminalizing homelessness.

Guess what, asshole. You're guilt's not going away. Eat it up, because you made it, and you'll fucking like it.

Now Tell Me...

2006-02-15T21:23:00.000-08:00

How do you really feel?

It's all about the Johari Window. Go nuts.

Runs With Scissors

2006-02-14T20:00:00.000-08:00

But Follows Orders Well
So it's time for another post. And what do I have to post about? Nothing! Don't blame me, I'm busy. Blame them. To your right. No, your other right.
So for your viewing pleasure, I have one days worth of crap. Enjoy.

Hates Your Dog
You, with the walking mop. Yeah, you know who you are. I realize your dog pees on trees, and I'm okay with that. Not my cup of tea, personally, I stick with toilets. Of course, I also have a brain bigger than an orange, so I'm more easily trained. Still, I'm a reasonable girl, and can be accepting at times.
But that tree over there? The one cemented into the sidewalk? That's just not okay. I'm just not that big on jumping over the river of urine running down the street, thanks anyway. And seriously, a dog that size should not have a bladder that big. Get that shit checked out, will ya? That's plain wrong.

Slow Learner
The homeless population in my area was pretty stable. There was Guy With The Cane Who Smokes In The Lobby, Overly Apologetic Schizophrenic Santa, Single Dreadlock Guy, Seriously Happy Bottle Guy- with or without girlfriend- Who Runs a Tight Schedule, and Randomly Rotating Junkies at Skytrain.
But for the past couple of weeks, continuous perplexity:
While anywhere in the neighbourhood: why so many homeless these days?
While skirting police barrier set up directly between home and daycare: gotta remember alternate route when court's about to start.
While around neighbourhood: shit, it's starting to look like East Hastings around here.
While skirting police barrier on the way home from daycare: next time, cut through the college, not the police barrier.
And through it all, perplexed and confused.
Yeah, twice a day, every day, around the barrier set up while they ship the man charged with the murders of numerous women from East Hastings, and it takes me two weeks for the lightbulb.

Indifferent To Your Dog
Yes, still with the dogs. Don't get me wrong, I do like dogs. And police dogs are just dandy and all. Well trained, save lives, all that jazz. But come on, no dog gets a funeral that big. It's a fucking dog, people.
Callous and indifferent, you say? We like our animals, and we like saving lives. Combine the two, and that's worthy of a massive funeral, and sure, throw in a month's bereavement leave.
Fuck that.
You like animals, don't force entire species to extinction. You like saving lives, don't vote for which ever shithead offers you a savings of ten bucks a month in tax breaks, at the expense of our health care, social institutions, and foreign aid.
Until then, your big old doggy wake is a bunch of hypocritical bullshit.

Maintains Perplexity
That other campus? It's small, and as it should be. It's in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, and no one wants to go there. Less people means less space needs. Okay, so rooms are smaller. The cafeteria's smaller. The population is smaller. No problem; it's all relative after all.
But why the fuck are the washroom stalls smaller? Less people should mean less washrooms with less stalls. It shouldn't mean I have to stand in the damn toilet just to shut the door. What, you think the people are smaller or something?
Oh yeah, that's it: why the fuck are the people smaller? Little people everywhere. They're short. They're clean. And they smell like baby powder and fruityness.
Did I miss the cardboard clown with "You must be under this height" scrawled across it's chest? Am I actually going to school in a McDonald's ball room?

Refuses To Edit
House is on. Deal.

Adviceful, Redux

2006-02-05T13:03:00.000-08:00

You know, I've got a better idea. Instead of giving away all that common sense that would make Survivor easier to handle, lets just keep it to ourselves, and make a Survivor: The Leader's version. Huck in there some world leaders, heads of industry, and people who don't seem to actually do shit yet some how manage to influence other people, and let 'er rip.
My guess is no matter who you pop on that island, the end result would be a death match between Michelle Malkin and Belinda Stronach (yes, I'm including Belinda, cause I'd just love to see her ripping out handfuls of Malkin fro), with Belinda stompin' some Malkin ass. Just cause you know Belinda's one of those "fly under the radar" kind of people who make it to the end with no one noticing, then she'd just go postal. You know it.

Adviceful

2006-02-02T23:02:00.000-08:00

So now that for this current semester I'm *ahem* top of my class....

Oh shit, did that sound like bragging? Because we can't have that now can we? That would be wrong....

Carrying on....
The repercussions are that I'm pretty sure I'm qualified to dose out advice to anyone, anywhere, on anything.
And yes, that includes fictional characters and t.v. wannabe's.

So:

To the people who go on Survivor: Do you have any concept of preparation? Seriously, it's not like you've never watched the show before. You expect to cope on a desert island, and you can't even get off your lazy asses to hit the library and get a book on wilderness survival. It can't be that fucking hard to figure out, just look that shit up.
Still you, Survivor dipshits: Pack. Make a list before you pack. Then check off the items you pack after they're packed. How many of you get voted out because you fuck up some challenge when you lose a boob? Did you honestly forget any shirt or bathing suit that you can bend over in without popping out? Not to mention; sunscreen or base tan. One or the other. Cause that can't be comfy. Especially on your continously popping tits.
Harrison Ford: Sure, Firewall looks all traumatizing and shit, but honestly buddy, do you expect us to believe that some guy's threatening to kill your wife and kids, and all you care about is saving the bank? I'm pretty sure they're insured against theft there, genius. Think about it.
The guy in that car ad that keeps seeing himself in the drivers seat of the cars he walks by: Do not take the fact that you keep bumping into yourself on the street as a reason to buy the car. Invest that money in a well qualified psychiatrist. And I hope you've got extended medical, cause you're going to need a lot of meds. Never trust yourself when your not in your own body.
To the kid on the bus with the cranked eighties style ghetto blaster: You wanna rebel? Try doing your own laundry, kid. That'd show 'em. Otherwise, you're pretty much screwed. You're a little white boy with bad, bad acne from Suburban hell. Get over it. We all know your mom bought you that hoodie.

Yeah, that's all I got. But my reading break starts right now, which means I have one full week off to do.....shit! Or stuff! Or maybe even something else!

Joy.

Oh, one late addition:

My Cat: Would you just stay the fuck out of the fish tanks? Please. I give you water to drink, I have perfectly good furniture you can sleep on, why do you insist on using the fishtanks to meet all of your living needs? One of these days I'm getting pirahnas.

Too Little Too Late

2006-01-30T17:59:00.000-08:00

You know those previously promised posts? Well, here's one, twenty four hours after my self imposed deadline, and lacking in whatever style and flow the original (mental) version had contained.

Today in the life of me: classes were slept through, term tests were written, cigarettes were smoked, and next door to the Impulsive abode, the trial of the man accused of being Canada's most prolific serial killer (and the murderer of my childhood horse back riding instructor) began.
There's two problems I have with serial killers. First and foremost, they kill people. This bothers me because generally, people don't deserve to die. And the ones that do deserve it? They're never the ones that end up being killed.
Which brings us to the second problem I have with serial killers: They are the most compelling and oft used example in favour of capital punishment.
Do I think Pickton's life is of value? No. Do I think he deserves to live? No. Don't get me wrong, my distaste for capital punishment is purely technical.
See, sometimes people have to die. And that's okay, because that's the price you pay for being alive in the first place. Accidents happen, people get sick, people get old. But capital punishment is the state's decision to allocate whatever resources, be they time, money, or other, to killing off the people who kill others. This is not a situation where people have to die. And that amounts to a failure of society.
Pickton has been accused of the murders of twenty seven of the over sixty women who have gone missing from the downtown eastside. And therein lies the problem. Sixty women disappeared, and nobody noticed. This isn't about whether or not the police did their job, or how hard it is to trace the disappearances of people who are notorious for popping on and off of the radar on whim, it's about the fact that nobody gave a fuck. The police are a creation of society, and can only operate within the limits imposed on them by society.
Capital punishment is pitched as the last resort used on those who have failed to conform to society. But psychopaths aren't societal failures, they're anomalies. The existence of a subclass of people who are horribly vulnerable to twisted fucks? That's a societal failure.
To be a serial killer, one has to have the ability to kill multiple people. And a large part of that ability lies in not getting caught. When one person is murdered, it's a sad and terrible thing. But once twenty seven women have been murdered, it's the fault of society as a whole as much as it is that of the killer.
Remember those old movies where a child goes missing and the whole town rallies to search for them? How many kids do you think Clifford Olson could have killed had the police realized that these children really were missing? Or if funding cuts had not cause massive rearrangements in the force, and a breakdown of interdepartment communications?
How much did that save us in our taxes?

There was a case in the States when I was pregnant that really struck a nerve. A woman was taken in to custody because she'd neglected her children, who were living in abject poverty. The woman's husband had died a year earlier, and she was alone, jobless, raising however many children. At the time of her arrest, she had no electricity and no running water. When officers went to take the children from their home, they barricaded themselves inside, told officers they had guns, and released dogs to guard the property.
What amazed me was that neighbours watched this family's deterioration, and did nothing until the situation was bad enough to justify charging the mother. Someone went to the police to tell them about the situation. Neighbours knew the story. Yet none of them offered to give her rides into town for groceries. No one could be bothered to babysit so she could get some time to grieve over her husbands loss, or rejoin society. Not one person offered help. Instead, they gossiped about it until the situation deteriorated to the point it did, then used the children's reaction as justification for their actions.
"See, I told you they were all crazy. Good thing we got those kids out of there."
Guess what, fuckwads. No one knows how crazy they would have been had you acted to prevent it.

It's so much easier to punish then prevent. You can never prove that offering help to an abused child kept them from turning to shooting heroin and standing on street corners, but you can watch a man die. You can't prove that providing a job for an at risk teenager kept them from robbing liquor stores, but you can huck them in juvey ten or twenty times. You can't prove that keeping an eye out for your local prostitute and reporting her missing sooner will lead to an arrest sooner and prevent future deaths, but you can watch the creation of the shiniest newiest serial killer in Canadian history.

Capital punishment is sold as a last resort used by a society that has used any other means available to it. But as long as society facilitates absolute and total shit from happening continuously, we have no right to claim "last resort."

You know what I think? Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Vishnu, and that thing in Matt's microwave all agree, "Fuck you bitches. Grow up and get your shit together. You screwed up. Be a society, and admit it."

You sip your coffee
Taking a drag of your smoke
Turning the page
Taking a bite of your toast
Just another day
Just another death
Just one more thing you so easily forget
You and your soft, sheltered life
Just go on and on
For nobody special from your world is gone
Just another day
Just another death
Just another Hastings Street whore
Sentenced to death
The judge's gavel already fallen
Sentence already passed
But you
You just sip your coffee
Washing down your toast.
She was a broken down angel
A child lost with no place
A human being in disguise
She touched my life
She was somebody
She was no whore
She was somebody special
Who just lost her way
She was somebody fighting for life
Trying to survive
A lonely lost child who died
In the night, all alone, scared
Gasping for air.
- Sarah Devries, DNA found on Picton pig farm

Calling All Americans

2006-01-22T20:24:00.000-08:00

It's election day tomorrow, so cross your fingers, knock on wood, pray to whomever the fuck you want to pray to, just hope for us Canucks we can get through this without electing Harper. Oh, and in case of the inevitable, could one of you folks down there hit up Bush's office, and convince him Harper's an underground Muslim? Mention something about big bombs and uranium.
When elections fail, just get the US of A to blow the fucker kingdom come, that's my motto.
Oh, yeah, and please make sure to provide Bush with an accurate map of the location of the Parliment buildings, would ya? Not my house.
Thanks.

Factual

2006-01-21T10:21:00.000-08:00

Stolen from Girl With An Alibi. Just run with it.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Impulsivecompulsive!

It takes 17 muscles to smile, and 43 to frown at impulsivecompulsive!
In Chinese, the sound 'impulsivecompulsive' means 'bite the wax tadpole'.
Fifty-two percent of Americans drink impulsivecompulsive.
Red impulsivecompulsive at night, shepherd's delight. Red impulsivecompulsive at morning, shepherd's warning.
The Vikings believed that the Northern lights were caused by impulsivecompulsive as she rode out to collect warriors slain in battle.
The horns of impulsivecompulsive are made entirely from hair!
Impulsivecompulsive has 118 ridges around the edge.
Snow White's coffin was made of impulsivecompulsive.
Impulsivecompulsive is the world's smallest mammal.
It is bad luck to walk under impulsivecompulsive.

Inexcusable

2006-01-21T00:00:00.000-08:00

Yes. I know. And I'll get around to it. But you know what I've been doing while not posting? I've had exactly (count them) three weeks worth of classes this semester, of which I've attended exactly (count them) three weeks worth of lectures and handed in exactly (you get the picture) three weeks worth of assignments and done exactly (don't make me say it) three weeks worth of readings.
I am the shit. Student of the fucking year. Oh yeah.
Not only that, but in that time I've only drank on the weekends, and haven't flashed a single tit at a single person. Not one. Let alone two. That makes me maternal, that does. (Technically speaking, that is. If The Kid was still breastfeeding, that would make me very unmaternal. But she's four, ya'll. Get over it.)
Anyway, since my newly reclaimed sense of responsibility has tuckered me right the fuck out, I've got nuthin'. So instead, I shall post a List Of Things To Post, for when the Right Moment Comes Along.
This is all shit that's been rolling around in my head for the past couple of weeks, and is slowly editing itself into oblivion. Someday, I may actually post this. Someday, I may actually admit that I don't edit shit, and if it's made it as far as the mental editing pile, it's doomed for eternity. We'll just see which comes first, won't we?

1) My boobs. That's right, I fully intend to jump on not one, but two bandwagons. The first being modern technology, where by I hook myself up with a digital camera. Or any camera, for that matter. The second being HNT Thursdays. Is that shit still around? Or is it long gone by now? Who cares. If in my newfound responsibility, I'm not flashing my tits in public, the least I can do is post them on the interweb.

2) Serial killers. Oddly enough, this has been in the 'save as draft' bin since before Maine's inflammatory tale of woe. Although according to local authorities, this could be a long, drawn out saga in the life of Me. Didn't that just get you widdling yourselves with anticipation?

3) Why feminists should not boycott porn. More to the point, why feminists should support the porn industry like mofos. Seriously, if I ever get around to writing this, and even editing this, it could make a grade a term paper. I've got the shit reasons.

4) Nope. I think I've run out.

Yeah.

Meme Time

2006-01-09T14:31:00.000-08:00

Well, I've got my first meme here, after being tagged by Matt, so here goes:

List Five Weird Things About Me:

1) I have a thing for cleaning. Not my own apartment, mind you, but other people's places. My place is pretty tidy, nothing you'd call compulsively anal, but every time I walk into someone else's place, I just want to clean. Or at the least, rearrange furniture. I'm at the point where when I fade into fantasyland, I'm dreamin' of going back in time to the middle ages, cause man, did they need some serious scrubbing.

2) Speaking of dreaming, I'm capable of fading out into my own little world in the middle of any conversation, with anyone, at any time. Even if I'm the one doing the talking. Oh yeah, you can't hold me to that, cause I have no fucking idea what I've just been saying for the last half hour. I was thinking about how bloody cute ducks are.

3) I have one hundred and one 'weird little quirks'. I think people are supposed to stop at one or two, but I've covered the gamut. I carried a lucky quarter for the last ten years. (Just lost it.) I'm incapable of doing anything that requires even minimal manual dexterity without sticking out my tongue (eg. brushing my hair). I occationally yell at people in my sleep. I'm terrified of the monster under the couch (not bed). I don't like bugs, but find giant african millipedes awfully cute and tickly. The list goes on....

4) Occationally I dissolve into fits of psycho-hypochondria, and diagnose myself as whatever happens to be handy. I then live by the rules of the diagnosis, until eventually forgetting that I've decided to be crazy, and returning to normal. My last self-diagnosis was Borderline Personality Disorder, which I found to be complete justification to temporarily give up on my education, and make everyone around me buy me booze. I must quit allowing myself to skim the DSM-IV.

5) I'm a well versed procrastinator. To avoid reading my textbooks, I've read:
- The dictionary
- The encyclopedia
- The phone book (cover to cover....although I did skim.)
- My dad's old medical textbooks
- Other people's textbooks on completely irrelevant topics (although that strikes me as normal, maybe?)
And that's just things I've read. I've also spent two hours helping others study for their exams, two hours before my exam which I hadn't yet studied for. Not to mention the scrubbing of the fixtures and cabinet hardware with a toothbrush, the burning need to fung shui the entire apartment, the sudden urges to paint the furniture....yeah, you get my drift. Basically, I will do anything for anyone, if it gets me out of doing what I'm supposed to be doing.

So, I Tag Thee:

Boycott Food Poisoning

2006-01-08T10:12:00.000-08:00

And that's all I have to say about that.

I'm going to go relearn how to eat now.

Goodbye.

For Auld Lang Syne

2006-01-01T00:15:00.000-08:00

New Years Resolution:
Compromise.
Accept that for every choice I make, there is a choice I didn't take.
Realize that these are my decisions, and that any repercussions accrued from the decisions I make are mine, and mine alone.
Realize that I am me, and that I can't expect to be treated like anything other than me, without first giving up being who I am.
Understand that should I want something to change, I have to make it change. Uncontrolled change is never a good thing. People don't win the lottery, people die.
Understand that should I not choose to make changes happen, I have chosen life to be as it is.
Understand that although I may not get what I want, it's okay as long what I do get, I want even more.
Understand that part of what I want is to just be me, as I am.

Apparently this is my one hundredth post. Let's see where we're at at one thousand, shall we?

Crawling Out Of The Corner

2005-12-30T12:14:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-29T00:34:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-26T11:21:00.000-08:00

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...

2005-12-25T19:41:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-21T16:38:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-12-21T00:59:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-21T00:05:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-17T12:23:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-14T19:47:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-12T23:17:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-10T21:00:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-08T20:58:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-05T18:28:00.000-08:00

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....

2005-12-04T12:58:00.000-08:00

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:

2005-12-03T02:14:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-02T21:21:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-01T00:10:00.000-08:00

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

On Voting

2005-11-30T22:11:00.002-08:00

So you say you believe in the right to privacy, the right to private property, and the invisible hand? You're a progressive Canadian, you just want what's best for the nation?
Well, we can talk about it. You want to compare curves, graphs, cite the data? I'm all over it. I'll fight ya, and we'll have fun. But don't be calling yourself a "Progressive Canadian, libertarian, etc", if you feel the need to huck in those little comments about the women in power, or downplay the gay marriage issue. Don't tell me it's about figures. Don't tell me the curves don't lie.
Admit it, you're here to maintain the status quo, not because the money flows, but because you just can't handle the idea that you ain't the best, the brightest, the boldest. You're cauco-hetero-testicular genes don't mean squat, and that's just the way it's gonna be.
If you can actually come up with a "semi-libertarian" argument that doesn't infringe on the liberties of anyone who's not a straight, white, middle aged, middle to upper class man, I'll listen. Until then, you're no better than the fucking KKK.
Don't spew your numbers at me, asshole. I flunked econometrics. And that qualifies me just as much as it does you.

I Win

2005-11-30T20:50:00.000-08:00

Why? Because I always do.
I don't know what you're doing tonight, but my guess is it's not this.
I've got Feist playing, The Kid's sleeping like an angel, Satan's Cat's sleeping like...whatever, and the fish are beating their little noggin's against the side of the tank over, and over, and over. Candles are burning, the palm tree may not be dying, and I'm perusing the web, skimming for potential politics which I could use in my "management journal" which is due tomorrow, and which I haven't quite started yet.
The rent's due tomorrow, and the bank account says $-0.43, but hey, who's counting? Not me. And you know why? Well, we already went over that: I win.
Life's a game. You win, or you lose, and if you lose, you die. The most important thing I learned, I learned while between homes, and between money. Woke up in the morning, and thought to myself; I've got two choices, find food and shelter, or let one empty stomach make me really fucking cranky before I die of exposure. And I mean, where's the choice there? When it comes down to it, dying isn't an option, so you find food, you make friends with strangers, just so you can steal a shower, dress in your best despite the fact that you're freezing your ass off, bum money from the cafe to copy your resume, get a job, cajole you're brand spankin' new coworker into letting you move in, rent pending, and get on with life. Because, really, some choices are so fucking easy.
Lesson One: Don't sweat the big stuff. Because losing is never an option. And when the Big Stuff goes wrong, you lose.
And I never lose.
Am I going to wake up tomorrow and think; Well, don't have rent, may as well get evicted, and spend the rest of the semester and the holiday's couch surfing with The Kid, leaving all my furniture behind, giving away Satan's Cat, and flushing the fish? Do I have to answer that?
Lesson One: Don't sweat the big stuff.
There's enough small shit out there to sweat out. Sure, I might land on luxury tax ever once in a while, and I always buy those stupid utilities, but I don't lose the game. Some people might, it's happened before, it'll happen again, but not to me. I don't lose. My life is so absolutely and completely mine, and you can't be me and not win.
Conceited? Nope. Well, maybe a little arrogant. But that's not the issue here. I sweat the small stuff. How'm I gonna motivate myself next semester, when I don't give a fuck anymore? Why do I keep breaking out like a fourteen year old boy when I'm going grey? What right do you have to be more pissed at me then I am at you? Who the fuck are you, and how do you know my name? Why don't I have a memory? But the big stuff? That'd entail losing. And that ain't gonna happen.
So I'm gonna have a beer, seriously consider starting my journal, listen to Feist, and snuggle with the now-conscious and chomping/purring/drooling Satan's Cat.
Because like it or not, this is what winning looks like, chump.

Cats Are Stupid

2005-11-29T18:04:00.000-08:00

But they're funny. And this kinda made me pee my pants a little.

A Theme?

2005-11-26T02:00:00.000-08:00

That's right, it's the start of a new series. It shall be about me, and I shall call it A Day In The Life. I can't guarantee it'll be interesting, or that I'll add more than the one that's there, really, but it'll be on my sidebar, glaring at me, and hopefully guilting me into adding posts. So there you have it. Days, picked at random, any number from day 1 to day 10130. Although I doubt I'll add day 1 because I don't remember it. And most of the other days will be estimates.
Good enough.
And if in the process of creating a new list in the sidebar, my links get really, really small, so be it. Not my fault, I may figure out how to fix it at a later date, but for now, just know that it wasn't on purpose. Just hope you don't have any avid, far-sighted, readers who only know how to reach you through me.

Day 1825

2005-11-26T01:04:00.000-08:00

I woke up that morning in the throws of a short lived period of childish cuteness. The deathly malnourished look of a sickly newborn had passed, and the buck teeth that would be my nemesis in future years had yet to grow in.

Today was Father-Daughter day, and the Big Sister was not invited. Preparation began. Clothes were layered, more layers were added, then topped off with another layer for good measure. The front hall closet was raided, stripped, and repacked, after the discovery of two matching mittens. Or not, the closet may have been raided, stripped, and defeat admitted with the donning of two mismatched mittens.

The car was plugged in and ready to go, the snow was thick, and the fields waited.

Leaving a heated car in the middle of winter in the middle of Saskatchewan is one of the hardest things a person can do. The fact that this act is demanded of countless five year old girls time and time again, is a testament to the true strength of human nature. I, young, unknowing of the battle that this entailed, laced a pair of second hand boots, lost, then panicked, then found, one miscreant mitten, and left the car. Poles flailed, skis hit the snow, and one father-daughter team headed across the bounty of flat for a day of cross-country skiing.

Cross-country skiing isn't something you do for fun. It's not enjoyable, it doesn't offer any thrills, or challenge, and in Saskatchewan, it isn't even about the scenery. After all, you've seen it all the second you stepped out of the car. But it is about the noise. That endless, repetitive Shh-shh, shh-shh of your skis cutting through the silence is similar to the sound of a dryer going around. Buddhist monks would love cross-country skiing.

Did I say it offered no challenge? That is true. What it offers is the slow break down of ability. That constant expenditure of near minimal effort, while you slowly grow more conscious of how many layers of clothing you really are wearing, and how much those layers hinder your movements. The heat of exertion from the inside, combined with a bone-chilling cold seeping in from the outside, until your body is so confused it just wants to give up, go home.

But when you're five, you can't do that. Because this is Father-Daughter day, and the Older Sister wasn't invited. You have to keep going, because this here, this is special time. So you go. And your toes get colder, and colder. After a while, they start to hurt, and the hurt grows. Soon, they burn, and you have to tell your dad. Because you can't stop crying, and the tears are freezing to your cheeks, and making your cheeks burn too.

Then you turn back, and you cry the whole way back to the car. Then you cry the whole way back to the house. And when you get home, your dad carries you, barefoot, into the house, and into the bathroom, where he runs a tub of lukewarm water. You sit on the edge of the tub, wrapped in a blanket, drowned in hot chocolate, with only your feet in the water. Your dad comes in every five minutes to raise the temperature of the water, just a touch.
When he's not in the bathroom, you can hear them yelling at each other. Your mom is furious, terrified. Your dad is terrified, and furious. Every time he comes in to pour more hot water into the tub (just a bit at a time, mind you), he yells at you for not telling him your feet were cold sooner.

You're tired, and your feet still hurt. When your older, you'll understand that your dad was furious because he felt guilty. He should have known better, should have taken you home sooner. He's a nurse, for Christ's sake, in med school. When you're five, you don't understand the terrors inherent with child rearing. The idea that you can take your child out for a day, and frost bite may take their toes for life. All you know is that your feet hurt.

But you, you hadn't said anything. And he hadn't asked. Because for him too, this was special Father-Daughter time, and all there was to think about was those endless expanses of white, broken only by two long tracks. (His tracks, my skis followed the trail he broke.) The gray sky, the shh-shh sound of the skis on snow, the knowledge that this is special time. Following, leading, two little lumps of heat in an infinity of cold.

And who wants to worry about toes then?

Morbid? Nah, It's Eddie.

2005-11-25T08:06:00.000-08:00

You will drink too much gin. Not the worst way to
die, but you won't remember too much of your
life. Hey, at least you made some people laugh!

What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?

Bad, Bad Blogger

2005-11-23T17:29:00.000-08:00

I post. I do. Really.

Anywho, my parent's cat died a couple of weeks ago. (Not dialysis cat, that's the other parents.) I fully meant to write a eulogy to that cat, but I forgot, or got distracted, or never really cared that much in the first place. But this does give me a great excuse to post this pretty little pic of father and cat for all your viewing pleasure:

Sniklefritz loves long walks on the beach, boat life, and fucking with the rotties.

Cute, no? It makes me think it should have some kind of theme song, something sweet, but a little morose. Sort of along the lines of that song, you know, by that band? Cat's in the Cradle? Something like that.

Leads to a couple of questions, though:
1) Who the hell names a cat Sniklefritz?
2) Who takes his cat for a walk on the beach?
3) Rottweilers are kind of dangerous, aren't they?

Well, I'm sure you're thrilled to hear that I do have the answers for you:
1) My dad. And Granny off The Big Comfy Couch. Don't think my dad's ever seen that show, so there's no connection there.
2) Boaters. To a cat, a beach is a giant litterbox. Just like the ocean is a giant toilet. Boaters love cats. My stats may be a little skewed, because I've only spent time at two live aboard marinas, but an inordinate number of boats seem to have cats on them. It may be a throwback to the old plague days, when rats were more than a pain in the ass, it may just be that sharing close quarters with a great dane that can't be walked is rather unfeasible. Sniklefritz was a great boat cat. Satan's Cat is not a great boat cat. She had some problems with geese. But then again, Satan's Cat has never been lucky with wildlife. Kind of like my old room mate Pam. Remind me to tell you about Pam and The Elk one day. Okay, back on the original tangent. Or topic one, or where ever the heck I am.
3) Yes, Virginia, rottweilers are kinda dangerous. Hence, the ex-cat.

Now that that's out of the way I'd like to say that I'm gonna try to work on a more regular posting schedule here. Chances are not writing simply because I have nothing to say will only lead to writers atrophy (not that I'm calling myself a writer, you don't have to be pro to get tennis elbow, you know....) and writers atrophy will only lead to the death of one more pointless and irrelevant blog. And that would be a sad, sad demise. Much worse than the cat, that.
On the other hand, dosing out a daily (or bi-weekly) edition of innanity may actually lead to some increase in capability. You never know until you try, I say no I don't somebody says.
Hold me to it. Go on. I dare ya.

Hmmmm, that pic isn't quite right, is it? What's up with the white semi-border? Well, not much to do, I'm not gonna try to fix that now. So we'll live with imperfection. Oh, and remind me next time to just put the picture at the top of the post. It shouldn't take this much effort to try to position the fucking thing.

So Now You Know

2005-11-17T16:55:00.000-08:00

Haymaker

You are one of life’s enjoyers, determined to get the most you can out of your brief spell on Earth. Probably what first attracted you to atheism was the prospect of liberation from the Ten Commandments, few of which are compatible with a life of pleasure. You play hard and work quite hard, have a strong sense of loyalty and a relaxed but consistent approach to your philosophy.

You can’t see the point of abstract principles and probably wouldn’t lay down your life for a concept though you might for a friend. Something of a champagne humanist, you admire George Bernard Shaw for his cheerful agnosticism and pursuit of sensual rewards and your Hollywood hero is Marlon Brando, who was beautiful, irascible and aimed for goodness in his own tortured way.

Sometimes you might be tempted to allow your own pleasures to take precedence over your ethics. But everyone is striving for that elusive balance between the good and the happy life. You’d probably open another bottle and say there’s no contest.
What kind of humanist are you? Click here to find out.

May 16

2005-11-16T22:58:00.000-08:00

Why? Because Shadow likes that day.
Why Shadow? Let me count the ways....
First, lets start with the obvious/redundant:
Well, her mom's funeral sucked. Those who did care about her, hadn't seen her in years. Those who "knew her", hadn't known her for days.
But it doesn't really matter how much of an extrovert or introvert you are, when it comes down to it, no one will know you, or love you, like your children.
And so we have: Shadow.
And it's her turn to take life like she wants too. (You know I'm dying to take up the fight and kick some ass here). But It's her day, to do as she wants, even if that means restraining me from any asskickery that oughta be done.
Why?

Because:

Shadow will hate you, unerringly, and without pity, if she wants to.
She won't fake her way through life, she knows. And she will be.

Shadow will help you, with anything, on anyday, if you need it.
She just will. Because she can. Even if she can't, she'll find a way.

Shadow will cry. At any moment. And it will make you cry too.
She understands the most precious seconds are the best.

Shadow will kick your ass. Trust me. She's kicked my ass.
And it hurts. Either drink lots, or don't piss her off.

Shadow will accept anything. Unerringly. She will not compare it to her life, she will not devalue it, whatever you say, Shadow will take at face value, and rate it on her own private scale. And then, whatever the weights, in Shadow's world you will come out as human. It doesn't matter what you do, to her, you are a fuckup who needs a bitch slap, or a dummass who needs a wake up call.
Whatever she decrees, to Shadow, all people are human, and equal. Although Shadow doesn't define herself as a socialist (she's an environmentalist), she lives equality in a way that most people can only strive for.
She hates people. She loves people. Either way, it's always on her own terms.

One last note: Shadow is one of the most level headed people I know, which is why it always makes my giddy with delight when I can make her rage, or cry. So Shadow, if I've made you rage, or cry lately, it was probably on purpose. My bad. Except for that tonight thing. That was "differerent".

On Wildlife: Fuck It

2005-11-16T14:52:00.000-08:00

So I rolled out of bed this morning and stepped right on a motherfucking parakeet. Stepping on a parakeet first thing in the morning kicks the ass of getting up on the wrong side of the bed, and let me tell you, those motherfucking parakeets are the worst. Not only do you have squashed parakeet to cope with, you also have all the incest-related parakeet goo slathered to your naked soles.
So that put an end to my oft reinstated, rarely abided by oath of grime, because I may go weeks without bathing, but paraslime is beyond even me. Needless to say, the necessary podiasterilization process took some time, making me late, and a little fucking cranky.
Hopped out of the shower, and my cat gave me a friendly reminder that her breakfast was sorely missed by slitting my throat from ear to ear. Tossed her some parakeet corpses, dropped the kid at daycare, and headed over to the O.R. to visit my parents old buds and get my throat stitched back together.
Course the whole process ended with me missing my morning lecture, and sent my well planned day of productivity into a tailspin. So I smoked. A lot. Wrote a couple of medleys on candy and fruit, sang said medleys, smoked some more, tried to toss a cigarette song into said medleys, couldn't come up with any....the day generally improved.
Until.....
Fucking camel. It's all about the fucking camel. Thought things were good, had some lunch, (turkey sandwich, on sourdough, with edam), headed out for yet another nicotine fix, and tripped over a motherfucking camel.
That there's not literal. The camel was not fucking his mother, at that time. Wouldn't put it passed 'im though.
Then that fucker gave me lip. Oh yeah, he did too. So you know how it goes from there, don't you? Yeah? Well, I'm gonna tell you about it anyway:

So first I kicked that camel in the shins. Cause it doesn't matter how many times you tell them your gonna do it, they always think you're gonna aim for the balls. Well fuck that shit, the shins double em up just as fast, and ain't nothin better then watching their little camel snouts comin down to meet up with your knee. I say kapow, I do.
Anyway, security's pretty speedy round my parts, so I dragged that battered camel out of the public eye and to the elevator where I could relive my fav scene from Silence of the Lambs. Ripped that little camel face off with my teeth, and stuffed into the florecents. No, not the whole camel, you think I can lift a camel over my head? Lets get a little reality here, people. Just the face. The rest of the camel, I dragged home with me.
Once home, I struck a deal with the cat. I'd let her live, despite the murder attempt of the morning, and not even lay charges, if she'd aid me with the really dirty work. So she set those twenty little razor claws to action, and sliced that cloven hooved quadruped neatly into shish kebabs. Then, we reveled in our sado-bonding experience (that's bonding, not bondage, you sick fuck), had a couple hot buttered rums, and feasted on kabobs.
Had some rum left, but why waste the good stuff? So to further our mission (the cat was now my full accomplice. Don't get me wrong, she has nothing against camels, she just likes torture), we headed back up the the college and busted in to the chem lab. Rambo-style chaos ensued, and we vacated in proud possession of one of those thingy's that you heat, and some shit goes one way, while some shit goes another. What are those? What ev.
Anyway, back to not wasting the good shit:
So robbed the liquor store (not blasphemous, Scruffy's has shitty selection anyway), and gots us some Wildcat, king of the crappiest beer ever made. Hucked it in that chem lab thang, and filtered out the water until that Wildcat beer was pure Wildcat gold.
Good timing too, those kebabs were starting to kick things up a notch in the old intestines. Whipped together a pentagram on the balcony, shit out some camel kebab dead center in that pentegram, and summoned one very unhappy camel spirit back into it's now digested body. Let me tell you, by that point, he was one fucking miserable camel.
Mocked the steaming pile of possessed camel-shit for a bit (nothing hurts like mockery), then poured our 40 proof Wildcat over the shitcamel, and lit that pile on fire.
Burn, camel baby, burn. Ever seen a camel scream? Well, I have.
Me and the cat are gonna keep that bonfire goin all night long. Watch the sun set, have some hot buttered rums, maybe make a rum cake. Tell some scary stories.
What about the SPCA? Animal cruelty prevention, and all that? Yeah, fuck them. Me and the cat, we's bonding.
The Kid, where's she at? You gonna submit her to this lunacy? Fuck no, I got a babysitter. Saving her morality/sanity? Hell, no. This is family shit here.

She's just allergic to camels.

What....Is That Thing?

2005-11-15T13:20:00.000-08:00

It started last night. I went to bed, and felt this strange tingling in my limbs. This odd, yet enthralling sensation....I think....I'm pretty sure...Oh yes, it is....A combination of motivation and energy.
Channel that shit? I don't fucking think so. I've got sporadic attacks of creativity to use and abuse here. Fuck focus.
Alrighty then, I'm gonna need:
5 cans paint
1 computer information systems major
2 curtains
1 turkey
A whole whack of testicles
Laundry detergent.

Yeah, baby, I'm on my way!

How Did I Not Plan This?

2005-11-12T16:39:00.000-08:00

Work less party party?
Naked in public, and I'm not the only one?
Body painting and spanking booths?
Why was this not my idea?

I guess I know what I'm too old for now....It's all about time and place. Kissin' and spankin' random strangers oughta be for charity, and when getting drunk and naked, there oughta be more naked people around than just me. Time and place it is.
Now what are the odds that I can get away with ditching my parents with The Kid while they're here visiting by saying I'm going to a political event....dressed in paint?

On another note, I have proven once again that I am a complete and total hypochondriac. I've had a bit of an ear infection for the past month or so, and my hearing statics out on me, and then I've got nothin. But they ban you from the parenthood club if you can't diagnose a simple ear infection, so I'm not about to go the a doctor for that shit.
Last night, Mr. Holland's Opus was on tv, and you guessed it, this morning I headed straight to the doctors, convinced that I'm going deaf. Yeah, tv moves me.
Verdict? Blow up balloons. Doctor's orders. So now you know. Of course, I hate balloons, but I hate not hearing more, and they are a hell of a lot cheaper than drugs. Less side effects, too.
Balloons it is.

Shit. I just realized that the fact that I hate:
1. Balloons
2. Clowns
3. Monkeys
Probably qualifies me for worst mother of the year. Damn.
Or quite possibly just an evil person.

Well, at least I have great tits.
I'm gonna go blow some balloons now.

Random Lyrics Combined With Excessive Obscenities

2005-11-11T08:34:00.000-08:00

And The weight is crushing down
On my lungs,
And I can't breath
When it comes down to it, I'm to fucking old for this shit.
What shit, you say? Fucked if I know. If I knew what, exactly, it is that I'm to old for, I'd just cull that shit from the list of things that I do, and stick with what's age appropriate.
No I wouldn't.
Maybe to old to be makin' out with the buds. How many those boys did I sneak a quicky (no, I'm being facetious, I did not fuck anyone in the potty) with in the bar washroom last night? All of them? Fuck no. I can name at least two people I did not make out with last night. And define makin' out, will ya? Cause kissin ain't applicable, I kiss pretty much anyone. Hell, I kiss my ma with this mouth, chances are I can kiss you too. Still, I'm too fucking old for something, give me a minute, I'll figure out what the fuck that is. Maybe it's this potty mouth of mine. Dunno. All's I can say is Momma needs a beer, and soon as that liquor store opens, I'm on my way
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKIt's Remembrance Day. Ain't no way that liquor stores gonna openMOTHER FUCKING SON OF A WHORE COCKSUCKING BITCH FACED CUNT OF A HOLIDAY, MOMMA NEEDS A BEER
I'm okay. I'm okay, I just need a beer. That's not a problem. I am not an alchoholic, I just need a beer some days. And if that's Remembrance Day at eight in the morning, well hell, so be it.
Your ship may be coming in,
You're weak but not giving in,
You'll fight, and go on,
Fighting all of them.
Them fun and funky Swedes that I do love so have come up with a new way of ditching the corpse when you die. Freeze dry the fucker, then work from there, and Hey Presto, no carcinogenes. (What with the cremation and all.)
You'll fight, and you'll make it through,
You'll fake it, if you have to,
And you'll show off the world, with a smile.
When I die, I wanna be freeze dried. Maybe I'm morbid, but I've been a little concerned with the fact that I can't even die without fucking up the environment.
Now, I've got a way. And by the time I kick the bucket (84 yrs, emphysema), they oughta have perfected that shit. I will die in an environmentally friendly manner, dammit.
I still want an open casket funeral, though. They can freeze dry me after that. I need to get in one last grand Fuck You. I want my corpse with one arm out, finger pointed at the sky. I think people would feel better about me passing, if they could make some racist, or right wing, or anti-feminist, comment to my body, and see that ol' bird flipped off in their face. One last go.
You'll be a Real Good Listener,
You'll be honest, You'll be brave,
You'll be handsome, You'll be beautiful
Why can't I get beer again? Oh yeah, Remembrance Day. I'd down one for you, gramps, but I don't have any. So here's to you. I never met you, but hey, I owe ya one. You fought wars, and they didn't kill you. Made you old when you were still young, unforgiving and uncompromising. And without you? They just would have fucked up some other boys life. Paschendale ate far better men for breakfast. But you lived.
I never knew you, but I owe ya. If you hadn't have died, the parents wouldn't have returned to Saskatchewan. But you did die. And set the ball in motion that started my life (technically, there are infinite points in history that could have been the start of my life, but we're working with the theory that it all started when Egg met Sperm.)
Did you die for a good cause? Fuck no. Heart attack. Did you fight for a good cause? Fuck no. You we're young, scared, and living in a trench. You just pointed, and shot, and tried like hell not to be shot back. But you did play football with the Germans on Christmas Day, and that made the history books.
Cheers, gramps, you're famous. You don't really give a fuck though, do you?
Well, Dad doesn't play anymore, but he still loves the marching bands. So there ya go. Something you cared about lived on. It was worth it.
Your ship may be coming in,
You're weak but not giving in,
You'll fight it, you'll go on
Fighting all of them.
And Gramps, without you, I would not be here trying to figure out how to find a beer at nine on a Remembrance Day morning. You shoulda drank more buddy. Then maybe we'd have something in common.

On The Guilt of Abstinence

2005-11-08T18:57:00.000-08:00

So my week of solitude has come to an end, and what have I got to say? Sweet fuck all. But I'm starting to feel that pressure of obligation, my blog stares at me blankly, and I've still got nothing.
Something to do with a week's worth of silence, I've grown accustomed to it. Not saying I have nothing to say, but do we really need another bout of random song lyrics here? I don't think so.

I did promise C. I'd write a glorious eulogy to her mothers sleepover party, but I need inspiration to do justice to the event. All I can say about it now is:
a) C., your mom is coming to your birthday. Fuck your say in the matter, she's coming out. And you will do her justice. The tequila's a waitin'.
b) I'm counting down the days 'till menopause. If that justifies me acting like those women, I'm all over it.

Well, a weeks worth of nothing leads to a total lack of original thought, but I think I've already mentioned that. Let's just fill in the blanks with one liners, shall we? Here goes:

I can't save every pigeon. Despite my unrelenting efforts, I lost a pigeon yesterday. I then left the corpse in the biology lab, they don't mind that sort of thing kicking around, do they? Nah.
No matter what you might have heard, Bill Bryson does not write about fucking. It's a bald faced lie.
After a week of obsessive yoga, I can now touch my toes. But only when I can catch them. Still, I'm 5'10", they are pretty freakin' far away. Be impressed.
C.'s mom rocks. But don't drink anything she serves you, you will suffer. And suffer some more. She is a cruel and evil woman, do not trust her.
If you wear bunny slippers to a pub, it doesn't matter how long you huck them in the back of the closet for, they will still smell like stale beer. But who the fuck is actually gonna wash bunny slippers? Do you know how long those take to dry? Four days. Fuck that.
Doesn't matter if I'm wearing stale-beer-bunny-slippers or not, I still don't want you sniffing my feet. Just don't.
Erica is angry. That's just a general statement of fact. Not in relation to anything. Just wanted another link here.
Like porn? Click here, click here!
Hah! Suckas! Bet I had you fooled, didn't I? Is there something wrong with me that a) I find Women Against Feminism the funniest thing on the face of the planet and b) that article strikes me as slightly less funny, and a little more disturbing?
One of my closest friends had a baby a couple of days ago, and I keep forgetting to call her, because I keep forgetting she had a baby. There is a chance I may be the most self-absorbed person ever born. Shoot for the stars, baby.
Yup. I got nothin'. There was some great reads in the news lately, but I don't remember what they were, and they'd be old hat by now, anyway. Some I'm done.
Late entry: Apparently God made the world on October 23. I'd link you to the source of this info, but I was overwhelmed by giddy amusment by this little tidbit, and closed the page, never to be found again. Can anyone explain to me why I find this so dang funny?

To My Local Schmoes

2005-11-04T08:11:00.000-08:00

I know, my week of solitude is supposed to be up today, but I just don't feel like coming back yet. I'm not in the best of moods, and I'm not cruel enough to inflict me on the rest of you. Yes, C., if your husband will watch The Kid, I'll be out tomorrow, but I'm not promising to be good company.
Oh, and if anyone feels like entertaining The Kid this weekend, I'm sure you're much more fun than me right now, so feel free to take her day tripping. I'll love you forever, as I'm sure she will too. Of course, she already loves you forever, but she's got a lot of love to give, I'm sure she could drum up some more.
Anyway, I'll probably return sometime next week, I know you're all waiting with your panties in a knot. What can I say, coffee's just not the same without me, is it?

It's About That Time

2005-10-28T22:34:00.000-07:00

Well, it's about that time again. Halloween pub night at the school last night, all good times, except that as far as memory serves, there's a chance I was a bit of an ass. So that's got me thinking, you know, that it's about that time.
Time to quit drinking, you say? Not on your life, I say. Don't be stupid, nothing is ever solved without a beer on hand. Point in case: I'm sitting here right now, completely beerless, and I'm deep in the throws of a wicked hangover, typing at a speed of about 10 wpm, and to lazy to hit the sack. You can't tell me a beer wouldn't improve this situation dramatically.
No, it's time for a bit of solitary confinement. See, beer doesn't make an ass of people, people make an ass of people. And in this situation, I make an ass of me. Lately I've just been angsty and difficult, can't focus, can't concentrate, and generally a bit of a bitch. A bit more than what's usually called for, that is. And although I have no qualms with being an asshole, I do like to have control over my assholishness.
So back to solitary. My last attempt at solitude was cut short at three days by my discovery that my friends decided I was a) suffering severe psychosis b) dying of an incurable disease c) in a suicidal depression or d) dead, and the fact that The Kid was being signed in to daycare everyday was solely the product of a government conspiracy to cover up my disappearance.
But I was none of the above. What I was, was motivated. I cleaned house, did laundry, caught up on my readings for class, bought a book, read said book rather than staring blankly at the tv, did the once annual watering of the half dead plants, did the once annual cleaning of the half dead fish tanks, and was generally a productive member of society. Sorry ya'll had to miss it, you're gonna have to trust me on this one.
Anyway, motivation waylays angst and success soothes stress, so when you're stresses and angsty for no known reason, best deal with the symptoms since you can't isolate the cause. And hell, sometimes the symptoms are their own cause.
So I'm thinking it's time for another bout of solitude. I'll try to make this one a more subtle version though. You know, none of that vanishing of the face of the planet shit, I'll leave my phone on, just politely request no conversation only phone calls, stop in for a coffee before class, but for five minutes rather than five hours, and keep blogging, just not commenting. Hell, maybe I'll even come up with something original, meaningful, and well written. Although that may be pushing it.
I might just stick with doing the laundry.

Joy

2005-10-26T19:40:00.000-07:00

Joy.
As sung by a chorus of cherubic hallmark angels. Or maybe a chorus of Rufus the Naked Mole Rat, Kiki the poinging ferret, and that fucked up squirrel thing from that website. Whatever the fuck it is.
Joy.
Yeah, that's the sound I hear when I very conscientiously remember to buy beer on the way home, and, upon opening my fridge to stuff the beer in, find that there is something blocking me in my stuffing efforts, and that something is an unopened case of beer.
Joy.
And let me tell you, I need that beer after my somewhat lacking efforts on my midterms today. Yep, fucked those puppies right up the ass. But you already knew that was coming, didn't you? Or maybe you didn't. Maybe you didn't read my last post. Maybe you just didn't care. Or maybe, just maybe, you're actually a figment of my imagination......Deep.
See, my little imaginary playmates? This, right here, right now, is why you don't do drugs. But you already knew that, because you are wise in your fictitious existence.
Oh, wait, I'm not on drugs. Forgot about that. Old habits die hard, I guess. Unless, of course, you count my recent forays into the realms of daily hormone dosing. Don't believe everything that you read, kids. When those docs and those ads tell you that popping some legal pills will help solve that little zit problem you've got going on, what they mean is it will turn you into Giant Walking Acne Woman With The Neverending Period And The Freakishly Bad Attitude. I keep having to fight back tears when I can't beat the crap out of people. And fight back tears when I can't think of anyone I would like to beat the crap out of. And fight back tears when I find someone new that I am technically not allowed to beat the crap out of. And fight back tears when I remember that I'm actually a fucking pansy who would get my ass kicked should I finally decide to attempt to beat the crap out of someone.
Crap. Beating. Pansy. Zit.
Of course, you, my oh so wise, blemish free, smoothly bikini lined, toned and tanned fictitious friends, you already new that hormones will fuck you up, didn't you? And I'll bet you call your parents every week like clockwork, and find creative uses for leftovers too, don't you?
Sorry, didn't mean to snark. But you're so very understanding; Thank you.
Sure, I guess I knew that progestine isn't really all it's made out to be, but sometimes I just can't handle a little too much Okay in my life. Things were going so smoothly....kinda like a flatline, ya know? Had to find a way to shake things up a little.
And if a few too many zits gives me an excuse to get drunk and stoopid by myself on a Wednesday night, so be it. At least it's better than getting drunk and stoopid on a Wednesday night just to kill time until Thursday.
Speaking of killing time, what the fuck is it I'm waiting for, exactly? To get my finance diploma, get a job in an office, (no view/free coffee), get a manicure once a week to distract from my little acne problem? Make enough to pay the bills, maybe even the student loan bill, save some for The Kids education?
Maintain life. Just for shits and giggles. Get myself a breastlift for my fortieth birthday. Make my last payment on those loans, and start really focusing on that retirement fund. Move to Florida, complain about the tourists, and the heat. Move to Alaska, complain about the mosquitoes, and the short summer season.
What am I waiting for? Right now, I don't have a fucking clue. But I want it to be something. Anything, fuck, I'd take waiting for a blowjob, if I had a dick.
How do I justify all this waiting, if I can't come up with anything decent to wait for?
Oh yeah, that's it. I'm waiting for clear skin. That's the gold standard, motherfuckers, the dream of a lifetime.
Joy.

Yup. I Got Nothin.

2005-10-25T18:03:00.000-07:00

Trying to maintain two posts a week, don't figure that's too much to ask, but I got nothin'. Well, maybe not nothin', I do have two midterms tomorrow, in two classes that I haven't been to in two weeks. Yeah, ya'll know I'm full of shit, but truth be known, it has actually only been three weeks since I've been to one of those classes. I think. Might have been five weeks for the other one, but lets not be negative here, it may have been less.
I've also got a face that's breaking out like a fourteen year old boy's. Which is fun, because it's been nearly fourteen years since I've been fourteen, and at least one past life since I've been a boy, if not more.
So anyway, that makes me cranky, and if there's anything that pisses me off, it's being cranky and not being able to subdue it with beer. But even I can't justify beer when I have a midterm at 8am.
Unsubdued pissedness stresses me out. Being stressed out makes my hair turn gray. And that infuriates me, cause who the fuck deals with breaking out by going gray?
Gark.
Lemme tell you, if I can't find a babysitter for Thursday night pub night, someone's gonna have to die. Because cheap, shitty beer is a great way to deal with the day after midterms and the day before a justified day off (class cancelled). Besides, I may not look good, but get me drunk enough, and I sure as hell think I do. Which is just about the same thing, right? Working facial cleanser be damned, a change of perspective is what's needed here.
Alright, I gotta go crack a textbook. Or a beer.... No. No, dammit, a textbook.
I can do this.
Again, gark.

Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll

2005-10-20T18:05:00.000-07:00

Okay, so technically this ain't about rock & roll, so we're just gonna get that bit out of the way right off the bat, so I can't make a liar out of me. Here goes:
Armand Van Halen's 'Here My Name' kinda makes me laugh, cause I always wonder, at "say my name, baby..." if that might not be asking for a seriously inopportune time to find out that, nope, they don't know your name. (Don't get me wrong, I don't go around forgetting names that badly, but I could empathize, cause I'm just one of those people who are really, really bad with names. I mean, I was that kid in high school who accidentally called the principal "Mom." And fucked if I can remember which name goes with my kid, and which one goes with my cat.) It probably doesn't help that 'Hear My Name' has those 'Night at the Roxbury' headboppin' kinda beats, which sorta makes me think of things that can go seriously wrong, in ways that are very, very funny, as long as they're not happening to me.
So that's that.

Now, on to Sex and Drugs:
Sex is good. Drugs are good. Sex on drugs is gooder. (You're allowed to say 'gooder' when talking about sex on drugs. Trust me. I looked it up.) Do sex on drugs. Lots. Hell, multitask: take up shooting junk, move to East Hastings and get paid to have sex, money with which you can then by drugs, which you can do while having sex, to make money for more drugs.
No, wait, that wasn't where I was supposed to be going with this. Lemme give this another go, would ya? Bear with me here.

Now, on to Sex and Drugs:
Sex is good. But sex is like drugs, and that can be bad. No, not like acid, or shrooms, sex doesn't make me hallucinate (should it? am I missing something here?), or like weed, it doesn't give me the munchies (should it? am I missing something here?), but more like cocaine, or, presumably, heroin.
See, after The X, up until Adrien The Windsurfing Instructor From France (you know I just love saying that), was a 2 1/2 yr timespan that I didn't get laid. Sure, for the first 1/2 yr I was pregnant, and I just can't start something with someone while pregnant. The next year, I was breastfeeding, and I just can't start something with someone while leaking milk. And yeah, do the math, that does leave completely unjustified sex free year.
Problem is, I'm picky. *snort* *snicker* *weeze* *hack up a lung* Okay, make that: I have a short attention span. I don't find many guys that I can maintain an interest in for longer than a month. Hell, two weeks is pretty good. This worked back when I thought that sex was a great way to get to know someone. Now that I have The Kid, I figure it's probably good policy not to sleep with someone before I make sure that they are not a) a pedophile b) a pyro c) a klepto d) George Bush. This whole 'getting to know you' thang can take at least two weeks to a month (especially the George Bush part, he's a sneaky little fuck, that one), so by the time they pass muster, well, I'm bored of them. And what happens? No sex for Impulsive.
Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh yeah - big, big, bigassed sex free stretches. So I know the ins and outs of sex withdrawal better than you could even imagine. Sex withdrawal is a sneaky, sneaky thing. You spend six months tweaking out, biting heads off, and making a general ass of yourself by acting pissy to anyone who's actually getting laid. Then, after a while, you start to get over it. You still want sex, but you come to the realization that not getting laid hasn't killed you yet, and there's a chance it might not. And people can talk about sex around you without you stalking out of the room in a snit. Of course, this is all cyclical, but you learn to ride out the bad times, and wait out the good times.
Now here comes the subversive part of sex withdrawal: once you get back to sex, it had better be a lot of fucking sex. (hehe, fucking sex) Cause that's where sex and coke are like twins separated at birth; they both have that fucking addictive quality. That's right, you think that you can get laid once, and it'll tide you over, give you a bit of a fix, just enough to get through? Fuck no. You get laid, you need more. If it's bad, you're left needing satisfaction. If it's good, you're left wanting more.
So next thing you know, all you're thinking about is sex. Yeah, I hear all the men in the house going, hey, ain't that every day? But you just don't know. Cause the problem here isn't thinking about sex, it's the fact that I do not have a poker face. Au contraire, my friends, you can read my like a book. A book about sex. Probably this book. And I'm a day dreamer anyway. So I'll be sitting in the cafeteria, thinking I'm deciding wether to go to class or get another coffee and read the paper, when I suddenly realize that I've blanked out for the last couple of minutes. I look up, and conversation has stopped. Five people are at the table, staring at me, and they're convulsing with laughter. At the coffee bar, Kelly's eyeballing me, with a twisted grin on her face, and the line up of people waiting on their coffees don't even care, cause they're all laughing their asses off at me too. Yeah. Everyone in the room know's when I'm thinking about sex. Seriously, the other day I was contemplating a spot on the floor, and a woman I've never met ducked down to waist level, just so she could get into my line of sight and give me a big thumbs up grin.
I dunno what it is, maybe I think out loud? Shit, that would not be good.
Once again, where was I going with this? That's right, it's Story Time:
So today, I took the bus up to SFU with my friend C. I scored the last seat, and left C. standing in the aisle, cause I'm a self centered bitch like that. Anyway, C. was standing right next to my seat, and I, in a combined fit of bus induced hypnosis, pre-menstrual horniness, and post free-beer lassitude, caught myself just as I leaned back to snuggle my head comfortably into C.'s belly. C. is, of course, a married woman with two kids, who fortunately has enough of a sense of humor that, had I followed through, would have pissed her pants laughing at me. Public transit has got to be the worst place to accidentally make out with your friends. Gotta be. Even if it is just a nice little snuggle.
Anyway, moral of the story is...something. There's a moral in here somewhere.
There it is:
Be a winner. Don't do drugs.
Am I copping out? Hell yes I am. I've got no closer here, so deal. Hope the withdrawal doesn't suck to much.