Wednesday, December 31, 2003

Preparing to go to the "Big City." I am looking forward to looting -- accepting -- booty. No, no. Not that kind. I mean the kind that just screams fashion plate. Sadly, it is the only thing that keeps me from voluntarily walking the plank.

But I exaggerate. My relatives are all right. None of them are socially inept (just annoyingly grating), even the one who's a jerk; a snobby jerk. The kind you want to douse in sulphuric acid then set alight in your neighbour's backyard.

Happy New Year! Goodbye 2003!

Is the Apocalypse coming or what? The next date of world implosion is supposed to be 2012, according to the Mayan calendar. Just ... great. And if that doesn't happen, will we resort to using the Sumerian calendar to cope?

Tuesday, December 30, 2003

Modern female empowerment is a load of crap. I will elaborate:

It gets my blood boiling when I see how girls present themselves because the mall decides to carry nothing but things Madonna in her Like A Virgin-phase would wear: innerwear as out. It's not that I have a problem with what is being worn, but why it is being worn.

Don't wear push-up bras if you aren't looking to attract attention. To paraphrase Dave Chappelle, don't dress like a ho and expect others not to see you as one.

When "body enhancing" duds are worn, it is a way to feel in control of the image being projected, and in essence, of men and what they are allowed to see. But that's buying into the medieval perception of what is, or is not, sexy and exploiting it for your own personal gain. So, how are men even losing out? You're giving them exactly what they want, just more so because suddenly you no longer feel "fat" and "ugly" and are able to enjoy attention from your phalliced neighbours without hiding in a bucket of Haagen-Dazs and KFC. Hence, it is not men, but women's subjective and individual approaches toward the opposite sex that is the driving force behind social fashions and norms.

All this new feminism teaches our generation is that we don't need to make hard choices. We can do it all and have it all. We can dress like a stripper and be taken seriously. We can make men pay for everything and still be a lady. We can wholly rely on a network of hired help and still be called independent. But most importantly, we can be beautiful and smart.

This is a distorted concept because while beauty is biological, intelligence is learned. It is something intangible, unlike what is underneath a surgical scalpel. And like edible panties, it is a mere commodity. Shared by all, unable to be enjoyed alone.

To feel worthy of everything and deny the importance of men is a brash and brassy move. To reap the fruits of separate labour and flaunt double standards with zeal reeks of rhetoric. And to want all the perks of equality without feeling the strain of pursuit is as oxymoronic as "reality TV."

So my point is: the mall is the suckiest suck that ever sucked. But icy fruit concoctions are delish.

Monday, December 29, 2003

Went to the mall with Shotgun Toter today. Christmas is over, and yet, shoppers still run amok. When will the madness end? There's no room to breathe nor are their good things to shop for. It's like the overload of bright lights and bargain sales (that aren't really bargains to begin with) exist only to tempt people into gouging their eyes out while tranquilizing their senses as they lay frothing at the mouth. Had a lychee concoction with tapioca there. It was yummy.

Later, I went to go watch Bad Santa for $4.25 at a small theatre in Burlington with Bible Cop. That movie, ladies and gents, is the funniest thing I've seen all year. The vulgar humour is right up my alley. Billy Bob Thornton is pitch perfect as the lead. It is side-splitting. It is by far the best envelope-pushing, Christmas-related film in recent memory. Just ... hilarious.

Thank you, Bible Cop, for driving me. Though, I must admit I resent her for being able to attend a New Year's party with 24 year olds, knowing I'll be stuck making idle chit chat with relatives in Toronto.

Lucky bitch.

Sunday, December 28, 2003

Right after I wrote in my blog yesterday, Bible Cop and I drove down to Westdale Theatre and watched Cold Mountain (Jude Law can pork me anytime). Being there made me realise college boys is where it's at. And by college boys, I mean, university boys. And by university boys, I mean, well-educated young men with futures. We sat in front of them. When movie stopped rolling, I got up and was the receiver of eye contact [EC].

Went and ate at Crabby Joe's next. Mid-meal, 8 guys belonging to the latter category arrived, sans their women (assuming they were straight). EC occurred throughout with Brown Tuque. Quelle domage that I'm so young, yet have so much to offer ... non-anatomic related.

This is off topic (when was I ever on?). While at Crabby's, I remember wondering why there was footage of a baby's birth on every other channel between Knight Rider, Trading Spaces and the Beverly Hillbillies.

Note to self: newborns sure are ugly, especially when they're up to their necks in vulva.

Now must leave to play Mahjong with my mom. It's the beginning of my devolution.

Saturday, December 27, 2003

Another day, another blog.

I've been blogging since late August. I know the quality of my blogs have been deteriorating. You know those girls who hang off metal barricades at Cheap Trick concerts, crying in tattered hot pants and bras? Yeah, I can't relate either. But I have seemingly (if not, seamlessly) turned into a typical, teenybopper with John Varvatos-wearing, demi-gods on my amorous mind.

This factoid is the reason I haven't been writing stuff that's all that interesting. I mean, I stopped watching TV awhile ago and a pop culture maven must watch TV. Yet, I dread admitting that I don't miss that blarmy box. I think I've been usurped from my throne ... though, I doubt I was crowned to begin with.

Break is so boring. In the sense that I make it boring. I don't even bother changing in the morning. It's just the same XL T-shirt, day in and day out. I've become a divorced KKK parent who just unknowingly moved into a negro, gay neighbourhood: packing the pounds and unwilling to leave.

Friday, December 26, 2003

So I've been listening to some OK Go and boy am I addicted to their sugary pop/rock sound. Now, is it wrong to pay more attention to their music due to my sudden desire to fuck the lead singer? Although, I know it's not "wrong", I'm still mindful of this cliché. I'm a real sucker for musicians. It's a vice as serious as my carrot cake habit.

But duh-amn, this guy has cheekbones that can cut through Cartier carats clean. He looks even younger than a young Beck Hansen; it is like peering into a fresh pool of DNA and seeing the face of ... one edible dude. One very edible dude, indeed. He's positively slurp-worthy.

Front, center.

Damian Kulash: serve him on a hot plate 'cause I'm ready for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Will also leave room for dessert.

Extra "sexy" points for majoring in semiotics at Brown University. He also DANCES!

Kudos for strategically tousled hair, too. Converse wearing geeky brunettes are the sheee-it. Pictures don't do him justice.

Thursday, December 25, 2003

Christmas Day. Whoopee! Not really. I didn't go to sleep until 5:30AM, discussing politics with my dad. I evaluated this tin paper weight made in 1921 he bought at Value Village for him. After watching Antiques Roadshow for the better part of my life, I (admirably) concluded it was worthless. That broke his heart.

I've been bedridden all day. Coughing up pieces of my lung ever so often -- or just plain often -- and too weak/lazy to go get something to eat. Read The Girl with a Pearl Earring. Liked the Pieter the son character. Wanted that blue-eyed adonis to fuck me in an alley like he did Griet ... except with clean hands ... and Trident. Watched Queer Eye for the Straight Guy on my computer. Ross Morrissey is a dreamboat. Mmm ... a made-over former Marine :) ... who can't salsa :(

So as I write this, I lay sick and frying. Burning up like Chaka Khan at Studio 54 ... pre-Botox, perm, and saline *assumably*.

Wednesday, December 24, 2003

'Tis Christmas Eve and I'm in a rut. Not literally, but emotionally. Why is it that my sister -- six years my junior -- can play the victim card even when I'm the actual victim?

I've always been peeved at how much attention she gets from my mom just because they get along better. She had piano lessons yesterday. While getting ready to leave, my teacher handed her a sheet printed, "Lessons on Dec. 24, 25, 27, 28 are all cancelled." The 25th on her paper was circled because that was the next time she would have a lesson.

Today comes and Satan's Spawn tells me to hustle to class. Wearily I go, only to discover there wasn't one. Embarrassed was I to be stranded with an obviously annoyed German/Italian family trying to celebrate Christmas Eve in peace.

Long story short, I come home to ask my sister why she neglected to give me that sheet. I was calm, I was cool, I just wanted an explanation. In response, she yelled, "Because it was only for me! Look! She only circled it on mine!" But if she had half a brain, she would've seen that classes on ALL those dates were cancelled too. By this time, my mom had come in through the front door and quickly theorized that I was in the wrong. I tried to explain, but my words fell on deaf ears. She dismissed me and my "excuses" for making my sister cry (because at this point, Satan's Spawn was teary-eyed -- like a contestant in a tranny pageant -- from screaming so much). So now my smug sister is probably grinning like a mofo on speed in a car headed to a party in Toronto, and I'm cooped up in my room listening to Air's Moon Safari ... in a state of content, to be honest.

So, I guess there was nothing to rant about really ... except that injustice is a bitch. And sisters are too.

Tuesday, December 23, 2003

Today, I took photos of God Lover at the mall. Let's just keep it at "Funniest Day All Year". Indescribably hilarious. Equally thought-provoking and foolish. Unsound and unsettled. A great day for humanity. I'll try to post some on my blog once they're done developing at Walmart. The calendar will be on sale for anyone with a cat's curiosity ... and are sadistically prone to visualising discomfiture in the safety of a closet.

Monday, December 22, 2003

Preparing for tomorrow's amateur photo shoot with God Lover at the mall. Shotgun Toter is my best friend, so I've decided to make her a pin-up calendar featuring said person. Surprisingly, he agreed to pose for us. Now, I'm torn between either formatting it so that his face is manually pasted on objects -- such as Santa Claus, turkey carcass, toboggan -- or just of him, in seasonal boxers, au naturel, acting surprised, worried, sad, nauseous, etc.

God Lover is such a good sport and oh-so enthusiastic about the impending public display of humiliation. Even going as far as providing input: "Should I leave the stubble on or off?"

I, naturally, did not have the answer as I am only the Production Manager. That job goes to Shotgun Toter, who doubles as the Creative Director for this project. She'll be the one deciding whether she wants him handling an umbrella, nude, or both.

This will be so much fun. I mean, I'll be the last person to see him alive and kicking before he gets beaten up by a mob of heterosexual men, ready for a lynching at their favourite Eddie Bauer.

Long live great straight men who have a sense of humour.

Sunday, December 21, 2003

I guess skanking it up at semi-formal attracted the right attention because guess who starts talking to me last night out of the blue? Yes, Baby Blue. Although the conversation lasted no more than 10 sentences, they were worded in such a way that skirted around an issue we were both insinuating. In the end, nothing was revealed. But he was nice. Come to think of it ... oddly nice. Sincere even. Won't think too much into it. But I do admit implementing the Sleeping Like a Deadbeat Dad technique as a deterent to prevent my brain from entering Paranoia Land. A place I know all too well. I've already used up 8 passports. Okay, 9. Okay, they know me by name and greet me with a smile at the border.

So holiday season is still upon us. I always wish people a happy Chanukah, Kwanzaa and Christmas, but I've always failed to mention Ramadan. Therefore, this year, I wish everyone a Happy Chrismukkwanzadan!

So, in your face two-in-ones! I gots me a blessing by everything under the sun! Someone's gonna get lucky tonight ... or not.

Saturday, December 20, 2003

Yesterday, my friends, Bible Cop and Shotgun Toter, and I lost the German exchange student at Costco.

I don't even know what we were doing at Costco after school, but I think it had to do with showing a foreign kid North American bulk shopping. But once we reached the free samples of Rocher chocolates, there was no stopping him. "Can you get me another one?" he asked in his monotonic drawl. The first two times went without incident. But it was when we were beside the John Tesh CDs did he ask to go get another one himself. We waited for him to come back, but he never did. Where could he be? I immediately went to the candy aisle and headed straight for the Snickers. No German. Maybe he went back to get more Rocher? The old lady with the red-checkered scarf was packing up to leave. Oh dear, oh dear, where could he be? So I thought maybe he could be where the meat was. He did poke the lamb chops when we passed by the butchers a few minutes ago. Negative! NEGATIVE! He was not there! Damnit, I thought. Rocher is the devil! So Bible Cop and Shotgun Toter and I split up and promised to meet back at the portable mattresses. I looked high and low. Office supplies? Mini donuts? Roasted chicken? Cat food? Goddamn, where was he? I met up with Shotgun Toter again near the seafood stand and walked with her along the gummy bears. She suggested we bring home/kidnap an old man, buy him a new hat and call him "Dave". I was this close to agreeing with her. Then I had a sudden feeling that he could be in the washroom. We stopped short of entering the Men's Toilets. As Shotgun Toter looked for a chance to ask some guy if he saw a 6'3" German kid wearing a black tuque, I looked through the garbage boxes customers rummage through to carry their goods in. I thought, if he was playing hide-n'-go-seek, I will bitch slap his ass to Florida. Bible Cop joined us by now, and she thought maybe Costco could page him, but they didn't have a PA system. Then again, I imagined the awkward conversation we would've had to go through with one of the employees:

"Um, excuse me?"

"Yes? May I help you?"

"Yeah, we seemed to have lost a friend of ours."

"Okay, do you mind giving me a description?"

"Okay. He's 6'3", but he slouches. He's German and speaks no English [*a lie*]. He's also wearing a black tuque."

"Um ... we don't have a PA system. You'd just have to walk up and down the aisles."

Oh wait, a version of this conversation did happen.

I gave up and sat by the hamburger joint and waited for news of his return. Then, out of the crowd of disenchanted shoppers, I saw him. His head down, both arms linked either side to Bible Cop and Shotgun Toter. It was a magical moment. His nose was red, presumably from being out in the cold (he said he kept leaving and returning to the building, but had to find the car first). I stood up, raised my arms like a Jewish mother and called out, "WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?!" and slapped him with my bag. However, I did calm down long enough to ask him, "You've never had Rocher chocolates before?"

His reply? "No, we have lots back home."

Moral of this story? Free chocolate is the devil.

Friday, December 19, 2003

Semi-formal was last night. It was so much fun. The food tasted like leftovers from an unnamed airline. I had a few roasted morsels of potatoes because, well, it resembled meat ... even more so than the chicken.

Other than the consistent mind games and looky-loos during my tenure practicing Boogey-ology 101 on the dance floor, it was fabulous. Socialised with random people from different grades and schools, fixed a stranger's shoe problem, and just shook it like a Polaroid picture.

Went home and did homework. Did homework like I've never done homework before. Literally handed everything in at the 11th hour after missing class all morning. Okay, not even 11th. More like 11:59, all the while hoping I wouldn't have to carry-over my courses if I didn't make it. But both Manolo and Bottega must've been watching out for me because even the buses didn't act like asses; actually driving fast and on time.

Life is good. Life is very good.

Thursday, December 18, 2003

Oprah's Wisdom

I was in my friend's English class today reading Oprah Magazine. He seemed unimpressed with the pictures of Sue Johanson stretching a rubber ring to simulate the size of a dilated vagina. Man, you can fit a Cadillac through that ... or at least a gramaphone. I was less than enthralled with Houseband Hippie's blasé reaction though. But hey, who's the one with the vagina here? I mean, if I matter-of-factly told him his penis was able to stretch, on command, for some self-serving sodomy, he'd react more fazed than frank.

We sold out the school newspaper today. I'm so grateful to have such an enthusiastic, loyal team. I just love it when loose ends come together to create something I can be proud of.

Semi-formal is in an hour and a half. Must ... stop ... procrastinating ... and find something ... to wear.

Wednesday, December 17, 2003

I stayed at school until 7:30 tonight, working on the binding for the school newspaper. My assistant editor, Candy Mouth, had left an hour prior to my departure. Such laborious, repetitive, exhausting work. We did have a great long conversation for almost 4 hours. She said my less-than-romantic ideas sound exactly like those of her father, which consists of labelling everything as "contracts". Hmm ... guess I'm just a hapless realist. Not even hapless because I'm lucky in life. So, more like fortunate. Fortunate realist. Beat that, Jobs!

On the bus home, I sat with a drunk (Smelly #1) and his friend (Smelly #2). They had Tim Hortons cups stuffed in their lumberjack coat pockets and re-sealed alcohol in their overused LCBO bags. Something told me they had been ... ya know ... guzzling the 'shine before their lonesome ride into Steel Town.

The second bus I was waiting for wasn't at its stop yet, so I decided to buy food at the mall. The stars, the wind, the icy roads .... great night for a Boxing Day Sale. And what a coinky dink, there was a Boxing Day Sale going on at the time ... just a few weeks shy of Boxing Day. I hate going to the mall, and the stares I get from strangers with horny grins and horny hands (of course, it could just be all that Christmas cheer *now 20% more pretentious!*) I looked like a haggard (okay, a haggard who just came in off Fifth Avenue) walking -- stomping -- through the myriad of shoppers who were looking for something ... special ... sincere ... simple ... mall bought.

You know, Baby Blue and his best bud, Peacenik Prodigy, really enjoyed Jam Session, so now he's nice and cordial and ... just plain blech, to me. Man, he's not supposed to start waving at me and be friendly whenever I pass by! I expected him to internalise the mutual understanding that we're evolving into the direction of "I know you well enough to pick-up something for you without thinking too much into it" terms, and not "I'm going to be nice and wave and act like an average Joe Blow." This sucks. Nice guys finish last because ... well ... I don't (want to) like them. Shiksa goddesses, like myself, wouldn't go for some putz, like him. But I do ... yet, I can't. He's the goofiest looking piece of forbidden fruit, yet he still manages to set my loins aflame. Okay, he's short of mastering that trick. But he's still cute ... in a "bleak future ahead of him" sort of way.

Tuesday, December 16, 2003

I have absolutely nothing to wear to semi-formal. Alright, I had something but then realised other people would also be wearing red. I bought this tailored cotton skirt at a high-end boutique in Beijing for 300 big ones. But the colour's all wrong because I'll be swimming in a sea of monochromatics; lossed in the crowd. Even my donka donk dance won't help me stand out. Though that notion seems farfetched. Very farfetched.

I have my eye on a black lace Diane Von Furstenberg cocktail number. I obviously can't afford it, but I might just imitate the style with what I currently own in my closet.

Although, it blows chunks that I have nothing to wear that feels inspired. Maybe I'll go all black and bring along the nylon lime green shoulder bag I bought in Amsterdam. Then again, I won't be dancing with my purse all night long just to accessorize my outfit. Damnit! I don't even have metallic gold heels to pump up the WOW factor!

I will just have to think of something last minute. I don't want to look hot. I want to look nonchalant. Sort of, porn-star-slowly-stepping-out-of-the-pool-in-slow-mo-type careless.

However, I admit it. I also want to look like I'm having a fabulous time (and actually having a fabulous time) to show Baby Blue that I don't need him to have fun. That he would be lucky (yes, I said lucky) to join me. But I doubt the elusive girlfriend would approve.

Can't blame her though. I am a fine piece of China ass.

*Ego, rising, rising ... falling, falling ... rising, RISING! ... Gone.

Monday, December 15, 2003

Genius may have its limitations, but stupidity is not thus handicapped.

--Elbert Hubbard (1856-1915)

Sunday, December 14, 2003

Have been procrastinating for ... 53 hours;10 minutes;37 seconds and counting ...

If the MAN was so powerful, why hasn't he re-named homework dancing-with-magical-ponies-in-vomit-inducing-rides-and-merry-go-'rounds-made-of-cotton-candy-and-carny-fried-donuts, already? I'd sure as hell would want to do that than bland "homework". He could also confiscate my pleasure devices (computer ... tele ... stereo ... "back messager"). It's, obviously, not my fault for being lazy. I am still legally a child under federal law, and what do children know?

Saturday, December 13, 2003

Insecure Boy is at it again (same guy as Nov. 25 entry ... again). This time, his mind is further clouded by horse manure than ever before. He's gone off the deep end.

My friend does not like him anymore. I can assurably say she doesn't want to talk to him nor have him standing in her range of view. She has told him that he is disrespectful, insecure, emotional, and above all else, needs therapy (or a "shotgun [to the head]").

Now Insecure Boy doesn't seem to get it. "Why this hostility?" he asks. Well, for one, he harassed (or should I say, harrasses) me and boasts to my friend about it. Now, maybe in his warped train of thought it makes sense: make me look bad to gain brownie points with your beloved. But when the person is my best friend, it, uh, doesn't work out too great in his favour.

He thinks she still likes him. He thinks she's been fooled by my "web of deceit". He thinks I'm in cohoots with his mentally/emotionally unstable ex-girlfriend and an acquaintance of ours (proof? we were all in the library, talking). He thinks we pulled off a "conspiracy right under [his] nose." He thinks I'm the "ringleader". He wants to force a confession out of me.

If that doesn't spell P-S-Y-C-H-O, I don't know what does.

All I've done is ignore his threats and deranged behaviour. I have a life. Why would I focus my time on the very definition of "degradation"?

So he says he's done playing and is now "out for blood." I would be scared for myself (and all parties indirectly involved in his unsuccessful attempt to fuck my buddy), but he's too dumb to make up anything resembling a complex plan. He needs to save that act for John Nash Jr., and even that guy passed high school without taking an extra year.

He would be an asshole if he wasn't such a moron.

Friday, December 12, 2003

So that's where all the mugs went. On my desk, positioned at various levels. 4 in total. There's one marble-looking one, two from IKEA in pastel colours, one I got free with my Costco-sized Double Bubble box (those comics are sick, fo' real!). Hey look, there's also a yellow plastic tumbler to my right.

What else is on my desk, curious cats may ask. Okay:

a Tweezerman tweezer
a nail clipper with a bronze lion attached to it
some markers and glitter pens
a few classical CDs
university admissions forms
an agenda from 2000/1
20-odd lines of rhinestones I cut from shoe straps
a hair band and three black cat Hallowe'en stickers
a Laura Secord hot chocolate canister now used to hold pencil crayons
a spiral notebook ... without any paper
a few pictures I took from Venice
a few batteries, marbles and an exacto knife
a lamp with a swivel neck
an M&M deluxe clock/radio telephone

Yeah, my room, in general, looks like Dick Van Dyke if he had wandered out of Mary Poppins with his instruments and headed straight into a spinning propellor of a plane; scattering his remains and belongings in illogical places.

I need to trick the Fab 5 into re-vamping my room. But to pass for a straight guy, I'd need to give up ... having it easy and ... stilettos?!

*shudder* Fuck that bullshit. I'm happy living in this dump.

Thursday, December 11, 2003

I want to buy a few gifts this Christmas on a very, very limited budget. Since Baby Blue is reading a book he thought I might like, I'm returning the thoughtfulness with a jazz CD. I want to get Jam Session (1952, re-issued 1990/1) by Charlie Parker. It's currently $11.99 on, but is shipped "within 3 to 4 weeks". So I'm going to see if they have it at the mall (doubt it).

I'm probably going to paint a few paintings for some close friends of mine, too. Although I'd have to use my cheaper oil paints because my pricey ones take over two weeks to dry. I'm coming down with something. My throat's scratchy and I'm sneezing like a cocaine addict who sniffed pepper by accident. Nothing's really happened since yesterday, but I think literally running away from Baby Blue needs to stop. It's very obvious and he probably think me a crackwhore.

Not that there's anything wrong with that ...

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

Semi-formal is next week. My second school-hosted social event in ... four years. Won't be expecting too much out of it, but won't be expecting anything less than $25 worth, either. Yes, Blue Eyes will also be there ... with his *ahem* long distance girlfriend.

Ooh, just felt Allistar kicking. He does that whenever I mention his imaginary father's monicker. My fake son totally inherited his moxie from him (was going to say "spunk", but then remembered the term, "funky spunk", which no guy should have). Although, I doubt we're compatible since he wants to eventually settle down and get married, while I, on the other hand, might be forced to run away from the feds for insurance fraud any given day now.

I wish non-marrieds could celebrate random, pointless things, just like their married co-patriots. Such as: "Golden Thank-You-For-Not-Having-Children Jubilee" and "Happy Successfully-Maneuvering-#83-In-The-Kama-Sutra Day".


I miscarried Allistar (yes, I miscarried a baby that was already the size of a football). Was grooving to some Mos Def when I remembered I was supposed to be pregnant. Ah well. C'est la vie.

Is it possible to be less than pregnant? Like, minus pregnant? The ying to the proverbial yang? 'Cause I need an explanation for my weight loss now.

Oh right, I can blame it on the dumb baby, who wasn't going to survive the playground with that name, anyway. Kids can be so cruel.

Tuesday, December 09, 2003

Add arrogant men to my list of Hated Assholes.

These are the guys who believe in using the IQ test to measure intelligence. If that's the case, I have an IQ of 147, but I don't go about prancing in a tutu, bragging about something as pointless as the decapitated scrotum they keep hanging between their legs for nostalgia's sake. These are the same guys who find me completely mentally 'damtarded because I haven't memorised scientifically significant dates and the names of a few dead European white men. I, apparently, only know pop culture which any "idiot off the street" is able to give the answers to.

So I must feign ignorance on all accounts because some histrionic with no soul decides to put me down for my personal interests. In order to be taken seriously, I have to resign myself from ever having a sense of humour? To be attractive to the opposite sex, I cannot be ... well ... me? Indeed, my lonely-status has been proven by an overwhelming amount of evidence, collected by said person. Why else have I not caught myself a lowlife who'll always be there when I need a human breast messager? Oh Fate, why do you torture me so? How can I compete with a track-running, Jehovah Witness who has a girlfriend his mother doesn't know about? But then again, I should've expected this from a God who not only teaches his children sympathy and understanding, but preaches bigotry, xenophobia and spite.

Monday, December 08, 2003


I forgot how much I like the Nine Inch Nails. They really were a great band. The strength of their music and lyrics is one of the reasons they're covered by so many musicians to this present day. The most recent version done by, of course, the late Johnny Cash. I listened to Maxwell's cover of "Closer" and it's good, but I liked the original version better. I mean, Maxwell changed: "I want to fuck you like an animal" to "I want to love you like an animal." How the hell do you ravage someone ... tenderly? No, it's got to be like Diane Lane in Unfaithful where she's hoisted against the bathroom stall by Olivier Martinez. Wild, passionate, Pink Ranger in heat-type sex. It's got to have a mixture of anger and lust (which is why make-up sex is so popular). And by anger, I mean, both hands are still handcuffed to the bedpost during a post-coital session when boyfriend accidently throws the keys over the 36th floor balcony. You can't escape and really need to take a leak, but think, since you're already naked in bed, why not have him heat your bacon again? Okay, bad analogy. I don't even know what the "bacon" in that is supposed to represent. But I'm craving for some right about now ...

I think I might be pregnant with a ghost baby. It's feeding off the food I feed myself (woah, great alliteration skills there). This explains my 3lb weight gain (although eating for a change might also be a contributing factor). I will update you on the progress of my pregnancy with Allistar, my ghost baby. Can I get pregnant after looking at pictures of punctured condoms? Well, I haven't been, but in case I do come upon sites that advocate punctured condoms ... at least I'll be prepared to fight them with pictures of diaphragms printed with Marge Simpson's face.
Blue Eyes told me he was reading a book he thought I might like. It's Miles Davis's autobiography. And he was right. I smiled and laughed through the Prologue. "Motherfucker" is repeated so many times that you might confuse it with someone actually fucking their mother. I like Blue Eyes somewhat more than, say, a squirrel carcass ... okay, a lot more than that. But when I see him and Ham Hock together ... I become a moping machine. Ah well, I just hope he approaches me more than I do him because I do not want the blame for furthering any cracks in his current relationship (which I doubt exists, but one can always hope).

I went for my CO-OP interview at the Spectator today. I think I nailed it (but then again, I already see myself as a natural at that). Mr. H., the interviewer, asked me if I would be interested in the production (editing and layout) portion of the newspaper, which is something I'd rather do than be a loony reporter in a town full of incredibly lame stories ("I collect bottle caps"). The two girls behind me didn't stand a chance: one was overweight and dressed to the negative nines, while the other killed a Yeti for her coat. Okay, okay. So I'm just in a competitive spirit right now. I mean, they could've been thinking, "Damn girl, where yo skirt be at? Brothel's that way" for all I know, as I walked by.

Today's slogan: No one can feel as helpless as the owner of a sick goldfish.

Sunday, December 07, 2003

I love this quote:

"When fighting with an idiot, remember that once he drags you down to his level he will beat you with experience."
Am I the only one who enjoys reading dessert recipes? No no. Scratch that. Any sort of recipe. I don't cook. But man, do I love food. I mean, I have to literally pry my eyes away from the computer screen to stop looking through dishes I will never be able to make. Just thinking about it makes my heart skip a beat:

New England clam chowder
Veronese stonebaked pizzas
Curried crab
Szechuan noodles
T-bone steak and fries
Chocolate ganache
Chicken saté
Lobster Napoloeon
Escargo in seasoned olive oil
Mango pudding with condescensed milk
Fettucini Alfredo
Kebabs, fresh from the rotisserie grill, wrapped in a warm pita bread

I like to eat. It doesn't matter if it's exotic or homestyle, I just eat anything that's put forth in front of me. Soulmates are hard to find. But if you enjoy eating in foreign locales, testing the local fanfare, and Dior is your patron saint ... come knocka, knocka, knocka at my door.

Here's my point though. The holidays are fast approaching, and in recognition of bloggers publishing their wishlists, I will also join the bandwagon.

Although what I really need is a laptop for university, preferably an iBook, before I leave. But goddamn it, they stopped making them in pretty colours!

So please look at the following list. It is for anyone with deep pockets this Christmas. Deep pockets, for Lily, this Christmas:

Because all flavour, no fat. Anything savoury. None of that pansy sweet shit. I'm a big girl now.

Because I love chocolates. Don't think I don't know what "tempering" means either. I watch FoodTV. I know what Jacques Torres does. So that chocolate bar better make a clean "snap".

Because I like my daily dose of meat in a handy, compact, size. Perferably Harvey's. I've grown close to that corporate conglomerate.

Because they're delicious and I've always been impressed with their warped sense of size. Their "small" is not "small". Looking more Ruben Studdard than Clay Aiken, in the fastfood market.

Because I want to look more Asian

Because I really want a shopping spree, like those mullet-teers from Style Court

Because I can bathe it, and dress it, and feed the boozehound gumdrops and raisins. Then send it on its way, into the freezing cold, while feeling like I've truly helped the needy, as I fall asleep by the fireplace.

Because you can never be too lazy.

Because I will never get around to learning how to drive

Because I'm a poor, begging, bastard

Because you can never stop dreaming.
You know that feeling you get when you start liking someone who does something so surprisingly unexpected, it makes you swoon all over again? That feeling you get from the bottom of your stomach to the top of your throat that just rises out of you, in a flurry of sensations? It's quite indescribable, really. You feel elated. You feel at once hungry and full. That feeling of trembling hands and forced deep breaths. There is a perma-grin imprinted on your face for a time being. Rushing thoughts move on a speeding conveyor belt that is your imagination: how he would look on your arm, how he smells, what he might be wearing, what he might say, what others might say about him, what others might say about vous. You finally snap yourself out of your waking slumber. Shoulders relaxed, back against a chair or wall, you momentarily drift into your previous state, but the feeling is gone. And now you sigh, reminiscing.

Friday, December 05, 2003

I hate emotional men. I hate insecure men. I hate smug fuckers who purposely provoke me into flipping-out and making a scene in the library, only to have me return to slap him in the back with my binder.

I hope he gets castrated ... slowly. Then be forced to bathe in a tub of vinegar as jalopeño peppers are smeared into his eyes.

*Same guy as the Nov. 25 entry

Thursday, December 04, 2003

So tired. My friends, Bible Cop and Wall Lover, and I went around town today, taking pictures of our math disciple friends. Bible Cop baked cookies, and brought along apple cider and hot chocolate packets, all tied up with ribbon. It was like an episode of COPS, except the soundtrack was made up of the Soundgarden and Outkast, rather than footsteps, grunts, and the "zzzzzz-click" of handcuffs. And instead of running after stereotypical black men minding their own business in the slums of Tristate area, we left Wall Lover's 1984 Crown Vic running in the middle of the road as we hurried off to our next photo op:

"Who's gonna steal that? No really. I mean, it doesn't even have a right side mirror."

I suggested that she should, somehow, attach a powder compact to the side door.

I felt like Zhou Liu Soprano while riding in the backseat of the car (Bible Cop was quick to call "shotgun", 'tis why). The only thing missing was the sound of Salvatore "Big Pussy" Bonpensiero's voice in the midst of talking some real "business".

Like scavengers, we hunted for houses in alien neighbourhoods, guided only by directions roughly comprehensible on the crumpled piece of paper. After locating our targets (and meeting their accompanying guardians), we made them pose with their respectable (okay, humiliating) presents in an awkward embrace, shot using a two dollar camera (packaged in a cardboard jacket, adorned with a rainbow jester dancing with its own shadow). How cheap was it? Well, the zoom function required you to walk towards your intended target.

The parents of one math disciple (I won't say who, but his name rhymes with "Tray") became suspicious of the motives behind visiting their son. I'm guessing it's something along the lines of "carnal urges in their nether regions". Since none of us do, I will accuse Bible Cop of the offense, nonetheless. This allegation is obtained from witnessing her extreme enthusiasm for being allowed to tour "Tray's" Tudor-style home. She also accepted their offer of oranges. This, I believe, was a sly contract the family tricked her into for the purpose of strengthening the family bloodline. Like Persophone, she is now bound to them by blood! But since I'm off the hook, it's all good.

Fun night. Crazy night. All without the help of illegal substances.

Wednesday, December 03, 2003

A dinner menu from the Titantic was snatched up for $49 500 by a private museum in Belfast.

When people pay for historically significant memoribilia, are they also buying a piece of immortality? Their names forever attached to the material object, like a list of names etched down the side of a tree. It is not enough to be in the presence of greatness (itself, tapped from a sparkling well of notoriety), people must become great themselves. That's where these "artifacts" come in. Not only would earthen wares handcrafted by topless natives be preserved, your name will be too. And isn't eternal celebritydom the greatest gift money can buy?

Tuesday, December 02, 2003

You know what Baby Blue said to me last week?

"Your sunglasses are ugly."

"Fuck you," I replied.

Actually, I damn near socked it to him. Hello? They're GUCCI. "They're so last season," he explained later that night. They're from the 2003 Fall/Winter runway! How dare he!

You know, single-child-o-tosis is a serious ailment that affects one in three children who lack siblings. Symptoms include verbal diarrhea, nausea (for those in close contact with the inflicted), and generally acting like jackasses with $500 a day coke habits. There's a fine line between charming and arrogance. I can confidently say he's been living outside that gray area for awhile now. He's as arrogant as I am underweight. Reminds me of a teenage runaway. Except "childhood home" is replaced with "reality" and "party 'til the sun comes up" is replaced with "old man circle-jerk outside Subway restaurant". Gives a whole new meaning to "Eat Fresh".

While assholes may come and go, GUCCI will always love me.


Baby Blue, apparently, isn't an only child. Which means, he can't plead insanity when charged with acute snobbery.

Okay, that's not fair. I'm being unfair. He hasn't technically done anything worth punishing for. He's just a guy with his own distinct brand of humour and personality. I over-analyse the black and white. I should stop doing that and concentrate on other things ... like adorkably a-dorkalicious Adam Brody *drool/wipe/drool*.
Okay. I got it. I have defined my love for Seth Cohen (played by the non-fictional, Adam Brody *drool*). He is the thinking woman's pin-up. A "gee whiz" sort of guy. Awkward, yet confident. Carries around a smart mouth like Donald Trump does his wallet. Modest and thoughtful. Neurotic, but just the right amount. And when he makes statements like, "No one can ruin Chrismukkah!" I get an overwhelming urge to rip that sweater vest right off his untanned, untoned, body. This, also, reminds me of Topher Grace (who has yet to consummate our love. I mean, the poste office can only lose our marriage license so many times, right? Oh well. There's always Reno). Speaking of which, am I weird for thinking corduroy has done for men what the bustier has done for women? They fit nicely around the tush. They go with any top available in a man's closet that didn't come free in a Molson pack. And they add a bit of ruggedness (dare I say ... naugtiness?) to a man's overall appearance. Now, I might come off as being extremely shallow (or just extremely Lily), but the results of a Sex and the City poll seem to agree with me:

Which of these is your number one dealbreaker in a relationship?

Bad hair ................................. 3%
Bad breath ............................. 29%
Bad style .............................. 40%
Bad in bed .............................. 28%

So hetero ladies agree. If you look like the guy who shows up at Jenny Jones thinking he was in for a makeover, but meets the mother of his fetus instead ... you should re-consider your reason to go on living.

Noose, anyone?

*Sidenote: People say I remind them of that Chinese girl from the Gilmore Girls (you know, the one who's Korean). Well, Two Degrees of Adam Brody later ... he asks me out! Well, not directly. Rather, he asks the character who plays me on TV out, by saying:

I don't smoke. I don't drink. I've never gotten a ticket. I'm healthy. I take care of myself. I floss. I never watch more than thirty minutes of television a night, partly because I think it's a waste of time and partly because there's nothing on. I respect my parents. I do well in school. I never play videogames in case they do someday prove that playing them can turn you into a serial killer. I don't drink coffee. I hate soda because the carbonation freaks me out. I'm happy to give up meat if you feel strongly about it. I don't mind wearing a tie. I enjoy playing those hymns on my guitar. And I really, really want to take your daughter to the prom. Mrs. Kim? Please don’t make me repeat that list again.

Oh man, Topher sure was angry. But c'mon, how do you say no to that?

Don't diss the Jew. Do the Jew.

Monday, December 01, 2003


These words from Orwell's 1984 came to mind, just now, while I was thinking about the social taboos people have yet to conquer. I mean, everyone knows of greed and ambition, but how many people actually admit to it? Power is the doxy of our times. We all want it. Need it. Breathe it. Depend on it. Yet, when we are caught, we are burned at the stake. And those who previously envied us, now hypocritically shake their heads in shame and disbelief. "How could they do such a thing?" they ponder, incredulously. There must be something wholly wrong with the world when people still try to re-seal their eyes to things they've already seen. If we are, indeed, a society of freaks, why are we so alike? Why are the people who proclaim "individuality" as boring and reckless as the rest of us? What is a society, if not a gaggle of geese, scurrying for that crumb of bread, handed to us in amusement? In recognition of Orwell's statement of a totalitarian regime, I would like to add one more line: