Friday, December 31, 2004


Portable DVD player. Bring on the Family Guy marathon. This, of course, conjures up a not-quite-so-inconceivable image of me sprawled across a futon in my dingy apartment wearing an ill-fitting sweater covered in bacon chip residue washed down with steak sauce and watered-down Nutella amidst a throng of hairless cats all named "Lamar Jones, Esq."


Heading back to Montreal tomorrow.

The weather is how cold?! Hold up. Not bad. Only 2 out of a possible 6 constipated groans. (Perhaps an account of slightly bi-thermal tendencies? Heh, heh ... just horrible).


My first class is at what time?! 8:45?! That's practically 4 a.m.!

Thursday, December 30, 2004

Intellectuals: A dying breed

RIP Susan Sontag (1933-2004).

She represented a time when women went out to prove themselves and didn't play on stereotypes for special treatment.


Despite feeling like a flaccid penis (inadequate supply of blood to the head, reluctance to move, spontaneous mood swings), I managed to do brunch with Bullrider and lunch with Prudie, J.Lo and Banana Chic yesterday. My cold also managed to develop into a fever.

I believe for the first time in Misstory, shopping did not do the body good.

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Slight bug

I'm sniffling and sneezing, aching up in me noggin' and here in me throat. What better time to get my Thriller on than during NyQuil season? Yet, having resisted both the temptation to over-medicate and glue my nostrils shut, I am left with one other option. Like daddy says, "Walk. It. Off."

Good thinking! Now when did I last feel my legs ...?

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

In sickness and health

I feel so useless because I can't help. The confirmed deaths from Sunday's tsunami disaster has, on last count, risen to 63,000 along with millions of displaced innocents. I emailed the president of Concordia's Student Union asking whether something could be organized in light of this tragedy. I also asked whether there was a possibility in which the Canadian Red Cross, Unicef Canada and/or World Vision could be contacted to help deliver student donations to hapless survivors.

Victims might have to face possible outbreaks of disease after the initial shock of losing everything subsides. I can't - I refuse to - imagine how I would react under the same sort of circumstances. I have been hypnotized in front of my computer screen while encompassed in modern comforts. This absolutely kills me because I acknowledge my ineffectualness and reel from such sodden existential awareness.

Sighting: Rainbow Suspenders!


I added a search feature on the sidebar under Recent. Type in a random word and see how I've misused it.


*Disclaimer: The views expressed in the following endorsement does not necessarily reflect necessity and should be approached with caution when attempting to befriend bouncers, wrestlers, and Janeane Garofalo.

I think everyone needs an apology face. Mine resembles an anorexic fish with eccentric fashion leanings. Don't let that fool you; the sincerity's there. Why verbalize (ie. fake) guilt, shame and disgrace when you can capture it in one, easily disposable frame? Flash it the next time you should offend someone - it could save your life.

Girls just want to be left alone

Just came back from a super duper girls night out with J.Lo and Banana Chic. After we had a lip-smacking meal at Mori Mori, J.Lo drove us to a pool hall for some after-hours fun.

And it was fun ... until the drunks started building up courage. One after the other, a group of 10 guys/bearded women (all shady in character) asked us whether they could join our game of three:

"What do you mean you have high standards? Higher than this?," so said Burly Burlesque Santa as he took off his shirt that reeked of alcohol and a certain je ne sais quoi I'm not enticed to pinpoint.

J.Lo and I ignored them, but Banana Chic reacted politely and sweetly declined the incessant offers. One guy in particular kept approaching her because she was being, well, herself.

"Er," Banana Chic replied awkwardly. "I think you should ask my friends. Um, guys?"

J.Lo and I looked at each other.

"Wow, Lily!" J.Lo exclaimed. "Look at that ball go!"

Banana Chic slowly stepped away from him. "Um, so can he play with us?"

I bent over and aimed for the shiny blue sphere opposite the boy with the blistering blue balls.

"Oh J.Lo," I said through pursed lips. "Missed again! Ha ha ... ha."

We were blatantly rude so needless to say we had no chance of hitting the jackpot with the Fugly Gang the way Banana Chic did.

"Here's my number," he said as he leaned into her, his plaid shirt bringing out the green in her face. "I want to take you out to dinner."

She made up some excuse (ie. a boyfriend), but he gave her his phone number anyway. I took it and dropped it in the corner pocket. Aussie Matt said it was very Freudian of me; he practically scored. I said it was a leather pocket; practically gay.

But the toothless grins made even that option an improbability.

Sunday, December 26, 2004

Bastardizing Boxing Day

Bullrider, Shotgun Toter and I disregarded common sense and scrounged for clothes at our local shopping mecca to take advantage of "once-a-year" sales usually reserved for A-list firemen and country socialites ("Them haystacks fit so nicely in theys decor.")

It would've made more sense had I been looking to satiate masochistic curiosities because no sane person would've ventured into a cosmic fracas without some sort of defense, like a line of credit and a baseball bat (covered in spikes ... and glass shards ... and teething bear cubs).

However, I did get my hands on a pair of pinstriped pants. But I might have to hem them. Sonavabitch!


The 8.9 seismic rocker that devastated the south Asian coastline this weekend had me shaking. The death toll hovered just above 11,350 before being updated to 11,800 a few hours later (a, no doubt, still painfully fluid number). I am too simple to make observations; suffering of this magnitude deserves more than my paltry sympathy.

I am instead left speechless.

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Why bother?

There was no Christmas tree nor crystalline ornaments this year. No homemade paper stockings nor nondenominational "McMohammedchangvedere" Santa. And it was great, bordering on satisfactory.

The preceding years told the same story. Our build-it-yourself evergreen ("With colour-coded branch inserts!") was used in the family room as our primary light source (rivalled only by the sun) until the following August, when it would be packed away on a four-month long hiatus to Basementville. (Also home to Inflatable Sofa Stadium and Mahjong Meadow).

2003 ushered in unparallelled innovation. We decided to invest in a lamp. Not just a lamp, but the lamp as seen at Costcos now carrying modestly priced coffins. The only downside to this arrangement is not ever being able to turn on a string of flickering, hyper-tinted bulbs to illuminate books, food, and loved ones' faces again. Oh, and Jughead comics (which I, uh, read for the articles).


Account Balance: $0.34

25th of Jung

Merry paganism pre-AD 312 everyone!

Or you can celebrate Constantine's Christian conversion and co-optative character by consuming carefully concocted Christ cakes with much ballyhoo.

Friday, December 24, 2004

Good and cold

Hung-out with Shotgun Toter and acquired kick-ass rainbow suspenders for five bucks after haggling (*see: flirting) with the middle-aged owner who was offering customers vino, graham crackers, and a variety of cheeses and homemade dips piled high on a platter.

Louis was his name. His eclectic "lifestyle" store smelled of incense (*wink, wink*), but I was more interested in the crazy, novelty shades Shotgun Toter quickly summed up as looking "too Sally Jesse Raphael." I was dejected, once again failing to evoke the essence of Mandark had he been an active member of the San Franny tranny scene, circa 1981. No amount of ponchos and afghan-throws could conceal the unmistakable: He was selling whimsical frames with glittering, serpentine flourishes that would've had RuPaul going, "Honey, that might be a bit much."

Aye, quel dommage the price wasn't worth the invested short-term laughs.

Thursday, December 23, 2004

Excuse the excess use of cliches

My dad came into my room at 4 a.m. to have a hot-tempered discussion with me about our family's finances if we decide to settle out of court with the lady who sued us (and the city of Burlington) for neglecting to prevent her from slipping on the sidewalk. It's a long story so I really don't want to get into it. Settling seems to be the best choice to foreseeable legal fees that might devastate us further. But the prospect of financial ruin is making my dad more irritable than usual.

It's times like these that faith in meritocracy will provide hope of bouncing back after a browbeating by a hungry civilian capitalist.

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

Material Girl

It's ridiculous how spoiled I am.

I got my hair cut and permed today. Amazing results. (Think updated Pat Benatar. Okay, bad example. More like, Jean Shrimpton crossed with Sarah Jessica Parker in season five of SATC. No, no, still not warm enough. Okay. Perfectly coiffed rock vixen with loose tendrils reminiscent of a just-ravaged de Milo). Of course, the three-digit bill nearly sent the Mrs. into sudden cardiac arrest. Apparently, of all the places I decided to park my caboose, I picked one notorious for their international celebrity clientele ("My friend just did Jennifer Lopez in Miami"). Oh, those Hong Kong elitists ...

"Lily!" she stammered. "Why you no ask price always?!" The receptionist looked on wearily. She's encountered this before, I reckoned. Yet her upper-body still stiffened as if torn between her inbred instincts to fight or flight at the first sight of malignant matrons.

My head sunk into my deflated shoulders. "I'm really sorry," I kept repeating. "I didn't know." The feeling subsided soon after the salon door closed behind us and my mom's solemn facade broke into a mischievous giggle. She's elevated public embarrassment to an art, like admitted neo-cons and collagen abusers. It was a schtick, I say. An opportunity to air her grievances about me to strangers as she approached the register at a snail's pace:

"Leelee aw-ways waste so much money. Spen', spen', spen' every day. Aye yah!"

So it was a schtick!

Without detailing my day any further (due to risk of consumerism overload), I will say my mom splurged me to the nth-degree during our time together this evening. (It's the first-baby-has-flown-the-coop blues). I feel like the runner-up on the Price Is Right. You know, the one with the better showcase because really, who needs a dining room table and silverware set along with the box of Kraft dinner cunningly used for mojo-sabotaging purposes? ("And you're over ... by a dollar. Thanks for playing. Be sure to spray and neuter your pets.")


Drag race. Minivan vs. public transportation. Mom vs. confused bus driver. Green light means go ... Bitch.

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

La guerre des cheveux

Get those shears out, I have a defective gene - a defective hair gene. Alls I want to do is a full patchy magoo (*see: pending catchphrase). I've had it up to here with this Chrissy Hynde/Patti Smith-a-locks disaster that's currently sitting on my head like a smug teen pageant queen. Thick and wavy, my overgrown mane can't quite solicit sex to strangers nor can it get away with that ironic bedhead look with perfectly poised peaks celebrity stylists are scrambling to re-create for their bedless, bed-hopping clients.

Seasonal solace, it ain't.

I made an appointment for Thursday morning at a salon located an hour from town. "Just shave it," I might be tempted to tell the hairdresser with a flair for the avant garde. "Perm it, fry it, wrap it in cheesecloth. Read it civil war poetry if you think it might help." Of course, after going through every contraption but an automated car wash, I will come out resembling a young Mia Farrow or pre-expired Edie Sedgwick in all her dope-eyed glory.



I want to watch Hotel Rwanda starring Don Cheadle as a Hutu Oskar Schindler. Early reviews have been point positive and the trailer looks fantastic.

Monday, December 20, 2004


Shotgun Toter is returning from Western tomorrow. She and I might visit DenMarc at his European-style uber-market/deli and celebrate with some thinly sliced jellied meats or authentic German cheeses (or what passes for. Everything wrapped in the national colours are considered Teutonic here). We might take a trip to Toronto and act crazy, alternating between picking up our fallen appendages and dunking our heads in simmering pots of mulled wine. Cheers!


I am, again, compelled to refer to a past entry. Did I write that?! I don't know whether living in the nest was doing a doozy on me or what because it sounded like it came from someone who was, like, totally inspired by Lucy In the Sky with Diamonds after inhaling 8 cans of Red Bull and cheap cologne. (Not that I was, which, I suppose, makes it ... more incredulous?)

Sunday, December 19, 2004

... put a fork in my eye


Went to the early Christmas dinner my parents threw for the employees. I love them because they're not only co-workers but substitute girlfriends. I also met all their boyfriends, two of whom were complete himbos: high-maintenance, finicky-eaters, rude, and plain unpleasant. After one tried to make a sarcastic quip, I told him this "wasn't a sitcom" and "not everyone is required to read lines." He was a total uncultured brat: "What is this? Lobster? Ewww, it still has a face on it. I'm going hungry ... at a restaurant. This sucks." Wherepon, he waited until everyone fell silent and proceeded to wipe his boogers on the table. The other guy was just a jerk who complained about not knowing what he was eating and looked like an aged Backstreet Boy with bleached tips and jewellery fresh from the set of Miami Vice. It's difficult to mock men in their mid-20's who don't understand the words coming out of my mouth. ("Uh, okay, whatever. I don't even know what [discrepancy] means.") It's like their vocabulary is limited to three-syllabic words and a mish-mash of bodily sounds. My parents paid for the 8 course meal, you'd think they'd at least be grateful to be fed. But that would be giving too much credit to guys who think sweet bean paste is a form of raisin.

Although I can't substantiate this, I got the feeling that the two dicktards were unimpressed with my hotty-totty "university education." Whenever one of the girls mentioned it, they'd roll their eyes and take another sip from their bottomless tumblers. I refuse to be ashamed for having a mental capacity that exceeds pairing gold earrings with platinum spikes and sticking chopsticks up facial orifices.

Fucking urban bumpkins.


My mom's inauspicious nagging is back. I never knew you could remind someone to put on a wintercoat for 18 years and still assume they'd forget (because frostbite is, like, so bitchin').

Juvenile pomposity

I need a job. No wonder I get so annoyingly introspective: I have way too much idle time spent doing absolutely nothing.

I'm an 18-year-old who tries to juxtapose the roles of a woman and child within a simpleton's carnal container.

It's frustrating not being able to fully realize one form in its entirety and lack the experience and innocence to be either (and neither).

I'm in a physical state of limbo. My mind feels like it's growing at a speed far quicker than my body. (An, albeit, contestable allusion). Nevertheless, I am grappling with this illusion of contentment. Like plasticine, I am pulled by external forces to maintain flexibility, but I end up with no discernable shape that is decidedly me. I am at once daunted by the prospect of adulthood and excited for its impending arrival. I malfunction at the thought of social estrangement; my upkeep, fine-tuned to an art. A wholly self-involved pleasure-seeker, I ask not what man can do for me, but what I can borrow from man. It is this identity crisis that gnaws at me - not that it should. Why do I consume myself with thoughts if it is easier to have someone think for me? I am young! I am sugar-free gum against the minions of gingivitis! I am the next generation of crackpot pundits and worrywart chairs! The puffery of the past will eventually congeal into a solid mass of maturity: saccharine, stubborn, and a bit on the gelatinous side. What isn't there to look forward to?

Aw, fuck it. What I need is a job. Or get laid. Again. Soon.


Thanks for the pizza and Italian soda, Bullrider. Now go get your bad self to that married man, stat! (Too late).


Sister buying me these cute, stack-heeled Mary Janes I put on hold at Tommy Hilfiger (except, unlike the picture, it's not shiny patent and the mesh parts are in contrasting suede). A side-release buckle on a dress shoe? Bless thee, ironic fashion! Heh, the dependence on preserving sexy calves: Ain't vanity a bitch? (*For answer, see entry below).

Saturday, December 18, 2004

"She just doesn't know it."

J.Lass said she got back with Cuisiniere and she's happier than she's been in a long time. This, from someone who broke up with him in a tearful sayonara. She made it a point to ask him how attractive he found me ("I'm not the jealous type, but I just want to know [out of curiosity]") and wondered outloud why I'm still single ("I don't know why you're still single"), calling me in good faith to report her findings.

I was initially flattered by what she said by way of him. Who wouldn't want to be seen as a looker? Apparently, I'm not "hot" like the other girls she inquired about, but "foxy." The difference is that I tend to bore men because I don't overtly advertise my assets as I become more aggressive and animated in conversation. That I never pounce when they become vulnerable, that I never take advantage with my advantage. But I see no reason to flaunt the physical when my mental barricades have not been thoroughly penetrated by the opposite sex. It is not that I don't enjoy attention, it's that I only enjoy attention with the right intention. Excuse me for my snobbery. It's just that empty flattery that asserts a high degree of importance upon vanity is prosaic, at best. To be aroused by the same pair of breasts or the blinding sheen of a G-string, day in and day out, gets monotonous, no? Isn't it more satisfying to salivate over Vargas girls who don opaque negligees and look better on paper than Paris by poolside? I guess I'm nostalgic for the unknown. I guess I can't say what should turn men on. I guess some girls need their hard-earned validation. I guess some guys have it to give.

Which reminds me. Geneva D. made out with J.Lass and KournaWhora. Hooray for lite-experimentation that passes for sexual liberation! Don't you just love it when everything you do and done to you give men an eyeful and send their tongues a-wagging until the next trio of Charlie's Angels sends you packing the way of the dodo? Ah, the paradox of freewill under cautionary restraint ...

Friday, December 17, 2004

Back to the past

What do I miss most about home? Being served piping hot food without prior preparation.

The trip back was rather uneventful unless you count the hour delay due to "signalling difficulties." Although, there was a man with Beetlejuice eyes who kept pulling a Jack Nicholson on his cell phone, talking like everyone was interested in what he had to say. The self-narration was all too apparent when he whipped out that high-tech piece of equipment to update whoever was on the other line the train's various guestimated arrival times with no concern of his volume.

Another thing I miss about home: TV. Lord, I haven't watched it in over three months. The irony is, I was reducd to a zombie-like state while watching a late-showing of Batman Forever (Val Kilmer's Keaton), which was the very intent of the Riddler's TIVO-like box. (As in, the cult following. Not the, erm, mind-numbing aftereffects).

So I'm back, I'm back, I'm back and my family's being very nice about staying out of my way, yet still feeding me like their own (because well, I am their own; just an undeserving, spoiled one).

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Garbage Disposal

Day of self-imposed exile. I lounge around in some bare essentials, building a fort of pillows around my semi-comatosed corpse. My legs are smooth so I rest my elbow behind my knee, inside that nuanced nook, sending a deep chill of inured intimacy up my thigh.

Johnny Mathis is crooning about heartbreak on the radio. Natalie Cole too. Cole Porter is singing cheekily and I can't help but grin when he contrasts being "on top" with him on the bottom.

My eyes wander the walls, visualizing potential artwork that might befit an uppity party full of arugala-eating hipsters who reference Jackson Pollack like it's du rigeur to drop names of drunks.

The window filters in light that changes colour from black to blue to black again. I feel uneasy. There is too much to throw out before I leave.

I freely paw at my breasts, making a half-assed attempt to feel for cancer. Nothing.

Still nothing.

I go through all the motions of arousal, clamping down on my arm to keep from screaming. I get hungry.

I read the online edition of Le Devoir, perplexed. Is this improper French grammar? "No," says the working side of my brain.

Al Green's "L-O-V-E" is blaring from the speakers. I don't want to go home. The temptation to stay is stifling. But my sister agreed to pay off 1/3 of my credit card bill. I'm her bitch now.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

The 16th

"Where are you now? What city did you just pass?"

"Uh, ma. I'm still in my apartment."

"What? Why?! You said you were leaving today!"

"I have stuff to do.*"

"I'm coming to get you!"

"What? Naw, man. I'm leaving Thursday."

"But that's 3 days away ... !"

*ie. Ruined my bag. I could've got away with the ironic hippie look had I not practically shoved it in the oven if Google said it would help.


Alright. So the Boy didn't reject me. "Just wanted to say hi." Fair enough. "How was your exam?" Heh, buddy remembered. He's just an acquaintance, but am I relieved he made contact again? Abso-fuckin'-lutely. Now where's M. Biologique when I need a slap-release?

Current music (how fitting!): "Smack My Bitch Up" - Prodigy.

The Passion of the Purse


Lily: "Hmm, where did I put my toothbrush? Oh right, in my new yellow leather bag. The one that cost me a small fortune. Take out make-up bag. It's not underneath my boudoir boxers. French book out and ... what the hell? What's this blue sheet of ... Fucking inky pen exploded in my bag! SHIT SHIT SHIT! Did it seep thr ... SHIT SHIT SHIT! It's okay, it's okay. Only two small spots. I'll clean it right up with some soap and water."

(Lily walks off stage. Bag is alone, underneath spotlight.)


Lily: "Ahhhhhh! Dried ink now wet! The inside of my bag is now swirls of blue, green, and yellow! Wait, wait. It just needs some suds. Brush. I'll find a brush. ... SHIT! Ink now soaked through the bottom left corner! Two dots have turned to 8! Mission control, mission control: It's starting to resemble a mold colony! But first, let me spray on a coat of leather protector before anything else happens. Use product only after cleaning and drying leather. SON OF A ...! "

(Lily runs off stage. Bag is shapeless like a dying child.)


Lily: "Alright. Time to Google. Don't panic. Don't panic! Hmm, hairspray? Okay. Hairspray. It's not working! Non-aerosol hairspray on dry leather. FUCK! Okay, it's okay. Toothpaste Yes? Yes! ... works great on fabric! No! More Googling. Shampoo. Makes sense, makes sense. Ahhhh, 8 dots now 10 blobs! They're multiplying! It's okay, baby. Mama's gonna save you. Leather chair, leather belt, leather ... Okay, found it. Purse. And it says here ... Milk. Stay-at-home moms must know their stuff 'cause I have that! Your ass is grass, ink! How much do I ... I'll just pour the entire carton and ... Voila! THEY'RE STILL THERE! Rinse, rinse! Is that new spottage because that would make it ... 11, 12, IT'S INVADED THE ENTIRE CORNER! C'mon, mama needs better advice. A tomato works fabulously ... Where are all my freakin' tomatoes?! ... but watch out for its acidity. Phew! It's the alcohol content in hairspray that removes the ink. Oh! What smells like booze in my medicine cabinet? Leave-in conditioner ... deodorant ... Ah-ha! Facial toner! Ingredients, ingredi ... tea tree oil. That sounds exotic. Okay, baby. Do your magic ... Do something! YOU SMELL LIKE BOOZE! Why don't you contain any?!"


Lily: "Okay, still Googling. Rubbing alcohol. 70% Isopr ... Tap, tap, tap. Q-tip number 54. The ink's coming off, the ink's ... STILL SEEPING THROUGH! Okay, a burst from the hair dryer will ... TURN IT BROWN?! I guess your advice didn't work for me because rubbing alcohol ruined my leather ottoman! WHAT?! Fucking exceptions to the rule! Calm down, calm down ... Ask Math Judas if there are cleaners back in Hammers."

(2 hours later.)

Lily: "You have bad news? Are they closed or something? They can't give a quote over the phone, they'll have to see it. The lady says the alcohol probably made it worse. FUCK YOU, GOOGLE!"

(Lily puts purse in plastic bag, its arm strap hanging off to the side like the malnutritioned Somalian kid pictured in sponsor-a-child commercials my mom threatened to replace me with whenever I dared to refuse what she fed me. 4 people come on stage dressed up as big wheels and Lily walks away with them, bus-style).


Lily: "75 dollars? But you can salvage it? Alright. Thanks, sir. Yes, it was an expensive bag. Thanks for reminding me. No, you have a good night now."

Moral of the story
Incompetent taxi driver talked to his buddies at every stop light, while his windshield wipers squeaked, chatting on his cell phone to no one in particular, on top of opening and closing the window and listening to the radio as he laughed like a crazed hyena. I had to pay more because he passed the address I gave him, making me walk back to the leather repair store, in slush, holding the carcass of my innocent victim. Whatever animal that was sacrificed for my vanity just died another painful death tonight. But hello? *sniffle* It's ... yellow ... *sniffle, sniffle*

Monday, December 13, 2004



Maybe I should clarify Sunday's "Streets" entry a bit better: It's not certain the Boy even rejected me. And if he did, I don't take it to heart. I hardly knew the guy. But it does remind me of having much to learn as far as politicking relationships go. I mean, I didn't find his behavior odd until J.Lass started comforting me:

"He said that? Word for word? Poor Lily."

I still didn't get it until her frown signalled that I should be dramatically distressed upon this new turn of interpreted events. Needless to say, I acted accordingly.


How does this constitute news? Angry, uptight parents are suing Wal-mart for stocking copies of Evanescence's "Anymore But Home" knowing it contained the dreaded f-word, but failing to a stick parental advisory label on the covers. The logic of this escapes me. It's a word, people. Like dung, dog, and doobie. True, it can't suck dick in a backlot for 20$, but it also can't cause cancer when exposed (unless you count the causal link between band camp graduates and the amount of crap we have on the airwaves).

"Skeens said he and his wife, Melanie, let their daughter buy the music for her 13th birthday and were shocked when they played it in their car while driving home."

I think we all know what the real underlying issue is. The Skeens' are ashamed that they let their sweet pea listen to bad, flight of the Valkyrie-type wailing by a cabbage patch doll and want their money back. Ooh, ooh. Potty-mouthed goths and pots of black eyeliner mean the devil himself is nearby. Bring back the marines and save our precious children!

Sunday, December 12, 2004


Going back to Hammers today tomorrow. Last night was the best going away present ever. Je n'ai pas dormi jusqu'a six heures et demi. There was no way I could wake-up to clean-up, pack, then buy tickets.


Electric Six is playing on continuous repeat: "Gay bar, gay bar, gay bar!"


"See you around."

SEE YOU AROUND?! Did I hear right? That bastard told me he would see me around. I was used for a fuck. The realization finally dawned on me. Everything, from the overt displays of affection to his check-up call, was ALL AN ACT. No, no. I digress. The problematic issue lies with Geneva D. She encouraged him to take advantage of me that night. Coerced might've been a better word (though it was my decision not to fight off his advances). It was when I told her that I called him back only to have him tell me how tired he was and how he was going to "see me around," did I get pissed ... at her ... for doling out her special brand of insensitivity:

"What did you expect, Lily? I'm friends with the Boy but I see him once in a blue moon. So what if you had sex with him? I did too. Why are you making such a big deal out of it? That's just the type of person he is. Unless you like him. Do you?"

"No. I don't."

Of course I like him! Aren't friends supposed to warn each other against professional heartbreakers?! She knew I'd be played and she stood by approvingly. NorIda told me to start keeping my distance. You can never trust girls with insecurity problems because you can never predict where their loyalties lay (or whether they have them at all). Although, as J.Lass mentioned while trying to keep a straight face, that's really all he said. To analyze that to the point of inciting anger is quite, quite, QUITE ... like me. Too funny.

In any case, I spent the next 12 hours having the best fucking night since moving to Montreal.

Took a taxi with J.Lass to Swiss Alps' new place. I spoke to the Boy on the way but developed depression by the time we reached our destination. I vented and roared, self-pitied and raged. Many instances of, erm, "colourful" language (in addition to calling his kitchen rustic: "Reminds me of my grandma").

Someone knocked on the door. (NorIda, looking her casual chic, casual sexy self, had strolled in a bit earlier.)

It was M. Biologique of "Lily is my favourite person to argue with" fame. Yes, it was me who called him a motherfucker and asked what the fuck he was doing here (seeing how he refused to let me sleep over last night and the fact that, hey, I can get away it). And yes, it was him who contributed to making my night one heck of a memorable one.

Swiss Alps, J.Lass, M. Biologique, NorIda, and I went to another house party. Huge (in number). Small (in size). Think: Cattle car and happiness elicited through completion of Bovine College. Met a really nice Parisienne, Adelaide. Exchanged numbers. Met a hot Julian Casablancas-type. Flirted. Swiss Alps gave the taxi driver, who was driving NorIda and me, the wrong address. So we ended up in the freakin' Montreal boonies, thinking that "maybe" it was a warehouse soiree, an evening of festivities by a hardware store. Caught up with A. and his four buddies who were also given the wrong information. Swiss Alps called my cell, completely apologetic. A. ended up driving all of us - klown kar-style - to the right place. M. Biologique and I were sparring at clinically abusive levels much to the amusement of bystanders. We mutually agreed that the social dynamic we have is that of a brother and sister so that's how we introduced ourselves (and acted) for the rest of the night (morning?). He roughhoused with me, I rubbed snow in his face. I really like this arrangement because we can now do the most inappropriate things to each other but still end up hugging in a room full of people, standing jowl to cheek, while making stabbing gestures at each others' chests.

Oh right. And the slapping. Whenever I see him, I am overwhelmed with extreme feelings of animalistic aggression that are kept under control only by sheer willpower. Je n'ai jamais compris ses origines, contributing it instead to my usual loco self. But I soon realized appeasement was really quite easy. The antidote came in the form of the least likely contender. In a moment of passion, I slapped M. Biologique across his face, doing a convincing rendition of every soap that's jumped the shark for the past 30 years (and for good reason). He stared down at me from his lanky 6ft tall frame, took my hand, and told me "harder." Our friends gasped. Strangers gasped. I might've gasped too (but for other reasons). Swiss Alps kept commenting how we needed to settle our differences in a ring. But we kept explaining that this is the very nature of our relationship. We're never angry at each other. We're always just playing a harmless game, however violent and S&M-inspired. A. tried to predict what a real fight between us would look like, and we said, in unison: "Something along the lines of, 'You're wrong! But let me go get some more coffee first ...'" which was a reference to that night at Second Cup.

Although we did end up crossing the line. I called him a jerk because he promised he'd come over one day to fix me some food, to show-off his culinary prowess, but he still hadn't. He said that was because I've never invited him back to my apartment. We both knew what that implication accidentally implied, and immediately started jovial conversations with the people sitting opposite us. That was the only awkward moment to have raised its ugly head, interrupting us as he picked at my baked macaroni. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Anyway, people started throwing snow inside the apartment. (I only did it 'cause Swiss Alps did. Okay, alright. I did it 'cause it was fun getting 20 people at once as they posed for a series of pictures). The cops gave the lot of us a warning for our "noise." But this escalated into full-blown guerilla-style warfare by the time the party came to an end. The six of us were running down streets, through parks, getting a complete pounding on our asses, throwing snowballs at each other as cars whizzed by, honking for more civility. Two pedestrians were recruited to even out the teams. It was 2 a.m. "Medic, medic!" we cried, joyfully. "Reload, reload!" we repeated. Fall of Saddam, I was elated. M. Biologique even had to put his mittens on me because I had to be reminded how really, really, fucking cold I was.

Went back to Swiss Alps' old place, talked, beat up M. Biologique some more, and all concurred to haul ass to a not-quite-nearby 24-hour diner to satisfy our morning munchies.

Then it was good-bye at 5 a.m., and ... what Boy?


And it all started because J.Lass did crap on our French exam ...

Thursday, December 09, 2004

A moment of weakness

The Boy was thinking of me and called to see how I was. I told him I was "great" because J.Lass dumped Cuisiniere today which would make me every girl's favourite "boyfriend*" again. (Hooray for singledom!) The Boy said he caught a cold and watched movies all day. We chit-chatted a bit more before I told him it was good to hear from him, said good-bye and hung up.

Who knew meaningless sex would have repercussions ...

*I'm known for my heartless detachment reminiscent of some men.


I made a pit stop at Club Monaco yesterday and saw the most fabulous shoulder bag. Big, bright, and yellow. So it was over 200$ and I'm a student of limited means, a shade wealthier than Starvin' Marvin. But hello? It's yellow!


French exam in two days. Failure is oh-so inevitable.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Akira II

What can I say? I did it the most unorthodox way. Geneva D. came on to him and he came on to me. A "staggard menage" so to speak because Geneva D. and I refused to touch each other, forcing him to be the luckiest go-between this side of Tulsa. The camcorder was turned off when we verged away from PG-13 modesty. I don't feel morally repugnant nor am I regretful and see no reason to repent. Yet, likewise, I haven't fully grasped the magnitude of this pretty irreverent event.

He cradled me with intimate affection; I was cocooned in his embrace all night. His face nestled in my hair, arm across my waist, and I in the crook of his neck; comfortably silent, thoughts unspoken. But upon my leave the morning after, I could only muster up a sigh and a kiss on his cheek. A bit distant and lacking a sense of responsibility, I left words grounded in painful courtesy.

Readerdroid was disappointed in me. So was J.Lass. The former called me a whore. The latter expected me to lose it while settled in a monogamous relationship of niceties. Though they both said I was old enough to make my own decisions, my decisions were still, in essence, wrong:

Readerdroid: "So if you want to go be a ho, go ahead and be a ho."

J.Lass: "I can't believe after holding out for so long, you gave it up this way."

I was choked by miles of passive/aggressiveness. Taboo encounters seem to rouse the moral superiority of every heathen and hypocrite. Another of their commonalities centered on my being used - whether he premeditated the evening's plans. I didn't think that warranted a simplistic answer seeing how we each exploited the other for personal thrills (though, admittedly, this mutuality is simply speculation). I might be a cynic, but I'm no idealist. When he suggested that I might feel more comfortable with someone I'm in love with, I simply asked 'Why?' It was not an act of desperation (as Readerdroid so kindly surmised), so much as an act of pure convenience.

The sex was okay. It wasn't anything unexpected. He made me feel secure, at least, momentarily. And that, to me, was worth it. Any way you slice it, the "purity" society strangely covets is but a state of mind that exists to fuel the desires of natural conquistadors. I saw the entire process in clinical terms and the experience was comparable to shopping for a pepper grinder or recycling on a particularly sunny day.

P.S. At least I discovered I'm neither a strict screamer nor moaner, but a cross between the two. Whereas "M" was greeted by a neighbour's forthcoming complaint, "S" had to be muffled by an excess of pillows.


Lost virginity in quasi-threesome.

He was nice.

I was cruel.

Details later.

Monday, December 06, 2004


Jack Daniel's. The drink of choice for those out to corrupt. Serves me right for having friends who enjoy telling strangers about my alcohol-released sexual aggression. This, of course, provoked Sherlock Shearling into suggesting that I, uh, should drink ... around him.

He caught up with Geneva D. and me and inadvertently got stoned off guava juice and allergy medication. Don't ask me how, but kids: Not without adult supervision.

I'm going to his place for supper tomorrow and we're catching a late showing of Closer. Damn those psychological dramas. Gets me ev'ry time.


Logic exam was a breeze. Is it just me or is university seemingly less difficult than high school?

Sunday, December 05, 2004

A 17-year-old's semblance of fondness

Her mantra is how mature she is for her age.

I never believed it for a second.

Geneva D. called me today as I reported for active service as social earpiece. I gingerly asked her what she saw in Pav after she described the way he kissed her on the cheek last night (*Note: he did it with everyone, including me). Her tone made a dramatic turn, got defensive. "I don't question what you see in M. Biologique," she countered off-puttingly. I told her he's far from being relevant to be used as a fair comparison. She scoffed (actually scoffed) and went off on a verbal rampage, throwing tact into the wind, slamming back with accusations of slander and interrupting without ever giving pause to let me explain.

I was in disbelief. Nick dumped her two days ago and she came to me as her voice of reason ("Forget that fucker. He was a midget with a foot fetish"). I questioned her motivations with Pav and now I'm the enemy?

She and J.Lass made a pact to "get Pav" and promised to be unconditionally satisfied if either was successful. I found this revolting and unrealistic. Though I kept the ominous predictions to myself, I truthfully told Geneva D. after her blow-up that I just didn't want friendships ruined over some guy who was playing, not random girls, but close friends of mine. I was being protective. She was in better spirits after that.

However, in recent weeks, both have tried censoring my candor in relation to this Polish Lothario. I'm fraught with resentment over such treatment. To me, it feels like I'm being forced to resign myself from pointing out the obvious. The man's a shameless showboat and heedless skirt-chaser (just short of Peter Sellers' persistence). I'm "not allowed" to say things to him in case it shows poorly of the Toothy Twosome by mere extension.

Case in point. Yesterday at the cafe during lunch-break:

Pav: "Who likes two thumbs up and blowjobs? Right here. It's me. Right here."

me: "So you've been getting flexible, I see. I guess practice makes perfect."

The girls stopped giggling after I said that and scolded me for being "mean" like I just stole candy from a hungry hooker. Give me a break. Why do some women think attractive men want/need/deserve to be coddled more than a retarded kid with Parkinson's? I find it ludicrous and patronizing. If he should get upset over that - he's a pussy, for one - then I await his official protests. As of now, he's just letting infatuated fans file his fickleness for him.


Philosophy logic exam tomorrow.

"Why aren't you studying for it?" asked Daddy.

"Don't tell me how to handle school," I shot back. "I've been doing this for 18 years. I'm a seasoned pro."

"Oh really? All 18 years, eh ...?"

Always the missile

Huge party earlier tonight hosted by Java U. Whipped cream, bad music, hipsters. Advice: Don't try throwing snow balls in heels right after getting the VIP treatment at a club (free, free, free admission, and free, free, free cocktails). No friction means ass falling. Ass falling means drunks laughing. Drunks laughing mean they think you're worse off than they are. And that's just plain embarrassing especially since half-Asian Ollie was there, previewing. I sure made a fool out of myself, all loopy like a crazed marionette.

"Don't worry," J.Lass reassured me. "He was drunk too."

But I wasn't drunk! And had no booze in my system. It was the snow's fault!

*sidenote: I'm sure I'll be revising this when I wake up in a few hours. Drunken rants never come out coherent. Which reminds me. J.Lass took my mobile phone and crank called M. Biologique at 1 a.m., leaving him a rambling message asking him to help rid her of her hiccups. She was so far gone by the time I walked her home that she tried putting on her pants over her boots, while standing behind a stripmall. Needless to say, it was indeed an endeavour more treacherous than Mt. Everest (originally was).

I'm exhausted. I only had two vodka cranberries, but ended up giving lap dances ... You've heard it before and you'll hear it again: Low tolerance, low resistence. Wait, I don't think I've said that before. I'm a liar! But men are mean. I mean, am I not entitled to have someone open the door for me when I'm too inebriated to tell the difference between a locked and unlocked door? Bebsudr niy o jyom fgfy sdgfg fg; a Oops, hands shifted to the right. Too tired to delete. I better click the PUBLISH button before I polish off this bag of chi ... Too late.

Saturday, December 04, 2004


Very, very happy shopper today. Bought an Italian-made Desmo hobo (*insert joke here*) in dusty-blue suede with a metal-linked strap. Very Chloe without being so obviously Chloe "inspired". Very Michael Kors vers son '70s jetsetting phase. Very rock 'n roll Chanel. Was 395$. Got it for 83$. DKNY didn't carry anything good. (I hate over-logoized merchandise). BCBGMaxAzria was too freakin' expensive (Math Judas: "Holy shit! 600$ for a bag?! Does it grow legs and dance for you?"). And Club Monaco's weren't all that eye-catching. (You can only imitate Marc Jacobs so many times).


Party in two hours. It better live up to the hype.

Friday, December 03, 2004


... my bruised intuition. Who'd have thunk Reggie's Pub would be packed with footballers, rugby players, and drug dealers? It was an optic bore. Strictly frat-boy chic. Although I did discover the power of bare shoulders and boots. Men seem to have a mechanized impulse to converge wherever skin's a-showing (optional night vision goggles), which didn't surprise me so much as the speed in which they gathered. I'm talking, one, two, three, "I don't believe we've met."

Mimi was groin grinding and Geneva D. was groin thrusting whilst kissing each other in an ersatz display of progressivism though neither went far enough to upset their Grundyist natures. Basically, if they were going for the titillating lesbian routine, they could've at least given a spit-swapping show.

Note to the wise: Thwarting advances is difficult when you're trying to close in on someone else in the same vicinity without appearing rude. No-Moh-Joe is definitely fling material. Dullard Will most definitely is not (but he couldn't take a hint).


Got ready to leave when I saw PoliDam (the Shane West-a-like with the non-Lucifer vibes). He stopped me to say hello. We chatted briefly until his friend took him away to play "World Series Foosball."

"You're Lily. But what's my name?" he asked.

He was impressed that I answered correctly, seeing how our first encounter was through the good citizens of Tankedtopia and Sloshedslovakia.

When I finally headed out - bundled up in a scarf, stilettos tapping against the bricked terrace - PoliDam called me from behind to give me a proper good-bye, interrupting the girl he was standing beside, mid-sentence. I sing-songed something back, resisting the temptation to look over my shoulder to get a second look. But Holy Batman, he's hot ...


Alright. I went to the men's washroom to fetch some toilet paper. The stalls might've initially hid his goods, but the subsequent mirrors did not. The boy didn't help matters when he commented on having to shut his tap temporarily.

"You can see it if you like."

"Door! Open! Now! Out, out, out!"

Thursday, December 02, 2004


The Rape of Nanking. I've decided to do my book report on Iris Chang's New York Times' bestseller. I can't say I will swear objectivity upon completion, so I'm not even going to try. I've always been fascinated with the Sino-Japanese War ever since my dad got me hooked (he comes from a military family).

Which reminds me. I have diplomatic immunity in North Korea. I might be going over there around February to celebrate the birthdays of Kim Jong-II and the late Kim II Sung. My mom suggested that I exploit my special status to mine for news feature gold. I think that would be neat.


Geneva D. just called. We're going out. At 11:00 p.m. I thought I would stay in tonight reading up on WWII atrocities and singing along to Maria Callas.

Guess not.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004


My love life is picking up again. Two days, four engaging conversations, four delicious gents (and a handful of miscellaneous morsels). Politics, literature, philosophy, food; it don't get better than that. The mind is the rare erogenous zone that insists on being vigorously prodded to provoke a raw response.


Girls are drama queens. Aye, so am I but acting out in public isn't part of my schtick.

Uptight girls, man. They are living in an uptight world. Getting angry 'cause their skin is thin. They put the blame on me when they can't win.

Oh yeah, Billy Joel. Tap me with your magic wand; I'm a natural.


Belated news: RIP Iris Chang. My idols are being picked off by the Fates like gadflies. Don't you leave me too, Roger Ebert!

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Toil and Boil

I'm listening to Muse. Obligatory comparisons to Radiohead notwithstanding, they're all right: mournful tenor, punctuating (and punctual) cries, contrasting use of dynamics. They just don't employ a good amount of subtlety. Pilate is sort of in the same vein (although, to their credit, they sound more melodic). This latest trend seems to border on an Old World/New World compromise, where mid-90s inspirations collide through an OK Computer filter, churning out genres both starkly beautiful (Interpol) or strangely menacing, like a cleft-lip on a baby (any band post-Nirvana evoking the Pixies sans sucre). Why did I post this? J'oublie. Attendez! Parce que ... *sigh* j'oublie.

Woohoo! Modest Mouse! LL Cool J! Edit Piaf!


Who knew the real November surprise would come from an ex-satellite state? Forget Texas vs. Massachusettes. The showdown de l'annee is in Ukraine: Yushchenko vs. Yanukovych. It's got Lifetime Movie of the Week written all over it. (Move over Magnum P.I.) Foiled murder plot? Check! Rigged election? Check! Previously handsome leadership nominee now rated "heinous" on the Uglometer? Check! (It's all your fault foiled murder plot).

Ah, civil unrest. How I stopped worrying and love social turmoil. Misery means material. Misers meet their maker. Mais je fais juste mon travail de journaliste, non?


I'm trying to save up for a round-trip ticket to Paris for next July. Pierre says I can shack up with him. My mom hesitated. "A boy?"

I scoffed. "Ma, I'm 18."

Which isn't even a reason. It's like asking the defendent what his motivations were for killing his children and be given "I have a nose" for an answer.

Whatever. She was convinced. I agreed to take French during the university's summer semester as to not waste my uber-long holiday doing idle things (is that oxymoronic?). Besides, I have to stay in Montreal because I don't exactly want to sublet my apartment seeing how it's become quite fantastic (that throw pillow exceeded expectations).

Monday, November 29, 2004

I'm a freak, aren't I? Aren't I?!

I love Django Reinhardt's stuff without his fiddling sidekick, Stephane Grappelli. It's like receiving a gift of heroin dyed a festive green: I just don't see a point.



Aussie Matt informed me that thing M. Biologique said was just a rehashed version of the "dicks, pussies and assholes" speech at the end of Team America: World Police. I'm, yet again, forced to bump him down a notch. Who'd have thought hippies went to the movies? Or paid to get in?


I regret to have discovered Theo van Gogh posthumously. From the articles I've since read about him, he was one ballsy sonovabitch that I, for one, would like to emulate due to the sheer passion he invested in his convictions.

Great story about van Gogh published recently on Here's an excerpt:

"In a society [Holland] that tries to offer equality and fundamental rights to all its citizens, van Gogh always called himself 'a fundamentalist when it comes to free speech.' On a public radio show in May, he said: 'People always tells [sic] me I cross the line. But free debate is a war of ideas. It's a place where we should be able to hurt each other.'"

Right. Because, after all, losing face is not only an inexcusable reason to take a life, but a sign that even you have lost faith in your own lore.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

Angry Asian

... continued

All dolled up and nowhere to go (because J.Lass and Maussie gave up waiting around for me), I hopped on the bus and called M. Biologique on me mobile. I told him I was going to see him in half an hour. He couldn't protest because I had woken him up and he didn't know dick from dart.

I killed time shopping. Bought a fluffy purple towel by Nautica (ON SALE!) and this gorgeous velvet-backed, multi-toned, multi-striped throw pillow (NOT ON SALE!)

I walked in the rain to M. Biologique's 30 minutes late, asked for 5 minutes of his time, he invited me out instead. So I gave him a piece of my mind (why? Because "not everyday you have a crazy Asian call you to yell at you") :

"Oh, you say you were joking... but it's so obvious you served it with spite."

He called me a drama queen and said he was nevertheless flattered that I therapy shopped over him. I told him he was humouring himself considering I always go shopping, foul-mood or not. We laughed off the pseudo-ordeal after walking a measly block. (Is it wrong to expect something more dramatic? I badly wanted to do a Bogie, Grant, or Gable). Ended up at Second Cup for 3 hours talking over carrot cake, biscotti, and coffee. The conversation was animated and argumentative. Lively and livid. Frustrating and flirtatious (which I did my best to put an end to, mother). But the most memorable thing he said was this:

"Lily. There are three types of people in this world. You can be a Pussy and do nothing, or you can be an Asshole and be hated. But sooner or later, they're both fucked by Dicks. So you must decide. Are you a Pussy, Asshole or Dick?"

"I'm a Dick. I want to fuck over everyone. You?"

"I'm," he pauses to contemplate. "A plant."

Because he just loves, man. He just loves.

Up your cork!

Pav, Pav, Pav. Shut the fuck up about him already. He's not Mozartonstein. Geneva D. has been feeling the pangs of lust and acting on them. J.Lass has been slapping his ass like a woman working at a Vietnamese sensual massage parlour. He's a nice guy, sure. But he's no saint. As girls flock to him for some cheek-to-cheek peck action, I stand just far away enough to seem impersonal, then give him a nod of acknowledgement as he mirrors the gesture, completing our usual routine.


Did French oral exam. Did great. Pav helped a bit. Alright, a lot. But he's practically Chopin (a French-speaking Pole), therefore, obligated to share his talents with the lot of us urchins.


My book review was enthusiastically accepted by the school newspaper. Booyah!

Friday, November 26, 2004

Men, men, piece of shit men

Let me pick two stories to summarize that occurred in the last two days:

Plastic Frames forced himself on me until I screamed to get him off. He said I was false advertisement and a cock tease. I wanted to set him on fire with the vodka he was chugging. I tried to get him to admit he was bluffing, that my sexuality was not an aphrodisiac, that he was just playing. He turned out to be just as dick-happy as all his cohorts.

I met PoliDam Thursday evening at the Political Science Wine & Cheese party. (I was the only one there devoid of the carbonated piss that was freely flowing through the crowd). He's a looker, no doubt. An odd mish-mash of celebrity appendages, but primarily that of Shane West. Anyway. I tried talking to him, but after about 5 minutes, I assumed he plain wasn't interested and moved on. The following evening, as the cafe was closing, hot-hot-looks-half-Asian-but-I-might-be-wrong Ollie offered customers free coffee so the batch wouldn't go to waste. He gave two mug fulls to some guy because no one had objected. I walked to the counter to buy a snack, and as I was returning to my seat, PoliDam called me.

"Hey Lily," he said.

I did a double-take, surprised to see him again. But more impressively, that he knew my name.

"Do you remember me?" he asked.

"You're the guy," I replied nonchalantly, "J.Lass was climbing all over."

He blushed and averted his eyes momentarily, looked up and asked whether I wanted one of his two coffees. I kindly declined, explaining that I don't drink coffee. I flashed a friendly smile and walked away, unaware that my actions would be interpreted as highly peculiar considering what came next. PoliDam slumped back against his seat as his friends let out a laugh. I didn't understand why until Readerdroid said it was because I rejected the poor boy. Well, awww ... I didn't mea ... wait. Rejected what? Coffee? For all I know, they were laughing at me and my rigid, hip-swivelling walk (which I have since, ahem, corrected. The rigidness, not the swivelling).

Thursday, November 25, 2004


Changed profile photo. It represents me age appropriately. Less New Orleans brothel, more Montreal child pornography ring. *Sigh* Why can't I ever win?

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Get my cuss on

I called M. Biologique yesterday and asked him whether he could help me with a certain French assignment. He said he was really busy preparing for finals then added: "But I'm not going to help you anyway because you fired me, Asian Ho! I'm joking!"

Ha ha ha ...? I said he was ripping me off anyway, so we were even. I hung up thinking nothing of it.

Today, J.Lass told me she caught up with him and Maussie, and M. Biologique was complaining about me.

"He said, 'What kind of a person fires a friend then calls the next day asking for help?' then explains to Maussi about what you did," said J.Lass.

"What kind of a person?" A poor student? "Calls the next day?" A week later? I told him I couldn't afford him anymore. But had I been honest, I would've said he was doing a crappy job. It's incredible! He's resenting me. I'm not so much angry as I am irritated by him. I feel betrayed and no longer want to continue being friends. Mature, my ass. He's just like every high school jerk-off from back home.

So tomorrow, I will show up at his apartment unannounced and confront him ... tactfully. By that, I mean, mention "disappointment" a whole lot.

To be continued ...


J.Lass is Samantha. Geneva D. is Carrie. And who am I? "Miranda. Ooh! But also Charlotte." So I'm ... ? "Charanda!" they both nodded approvingly.

"Great," I replied, sarcastically. "I've got a lazy ovary and a depressed vagina."

The two girls were at the cafe ogling Pav like hungry vultures at their prey for about 3 hours, stopping only to blink and pee. I've never seen girls acting so inappropriately to get noticed (groping each others' breasts, humping each others' laps, running around playing keep-a-way). And there I was, reading The Gazette, sipping my blueberry tea, quietly making prolonged eye contact with Pav as he worked the counter. (Pfft, real mature, Lily.)

J.Lass sat down next to me, flustered by her own behaviour: "Pav is Cuisiniere's best friend!" Yet, she's convinced this is a part of having an "open, trusting" relationship. Later, they scolded me for bringing up Geneva D's current flame around Cuisiniere. His perplexed expression said it all. "She has a ... boyfriend? And she wants Pav?"

"No no no no no. You misunderstood," they said in unison. "They're technically just 'seeing each other'," J.Lass clarified.

I was confused. "But I thought she said ..."

Geneva D. shot me a look. "J.Lass and I talked about it. Nick and I are just 'seeing each other.'" I kept my mouth shut. I guess all the crying about not knowing where she stood with him was all for naught.


J.Lass approached Pav as he started on his sandwich. "I want a bite," she demanded, like a tracksuit-wearing femme fatale holding up a food bank. He refused. I walked to the far end of the serving area, opposite to where they were conversing, and surveyed the paninis.

"Lily," J.Lass called from where she was standing, "buy me what he's having!"

I didn't know why I did it. But my wallet leapt out of my hand (alright, I flung it) directly into Pav's right rib cage. He gaped at me as an awkward smile slowly crept between his slightly parted lips. I was speechless. For a brief second, the shock paralyzed all reaction. Then J.Lass keeled over laughing. Pav was still holding my gaze as he rubbed his side, lamely mouthing Why. I tried apologizing, but all that came out was a silent hesitation accompanied by a shake of the head. It occurred to me our eyes were still fixed on each other even as both my girls came charging at me, quarterback-style.

Forget it. I promised Geneva D. I would help her get Pav. I'm not going to go back on my word now, especially since I've established my status as everyone's "cockless boyfriend."

"Everyone's hooked-up. Although I'm not the first person you call anymore, I still believe I'm perfect man-material. You ain't gon' find a better companion than me."

The girls agreed.


I lost my monthly bus pass. I think I might curl up in a ball and weep. Where hath thou gone? Wherefore art thou on the pricey side? Why hath thou forsaken me?

Monday, November 22, 2004

IKEA-ed, Pt. II

Good news: The electric piano mama bought me works great. I've been playing pieces by Chopin and Radiohead all morning, much to the chagrin of my neighbour. Sadly, my fingers have grown really rigid since I've stopped practicing 4 months ago. Getting them back into shape is going to be such a chore ...

Bad news: One of the drawers for that bedside table I was assembling is missing its back piece. And I can't pick it up unless I produce the receipt, which my mom has, but she's about, ooh, 600km away right about now?!

*Note to self: Stop having dreams about incorrect grammar. ("It's written with one P and an accented E, sir.")

I am such a nerd. Case in point: I've been catching myself singing Conjunction Junction ("...what's your function?") at all hours of the day. Please, make it stop!

Sunday, November 21, 2004


"Mothercrappers!" I yelled.

I punched myself in the nose while I was tightening a nut on the breakfast table I was putting together. (Very reminiscent of Jesus pre-crucifiction, post-manger.)

The thing's actually quite impressive as mutant furniture go. Solid wood, one-part trolley, one-part island, one-part depressing bar at closing time with its own hanging stools and hinged accessories.

My mom took me to IKEA and bought me a couch. A lime-green upholstered couch. Eat your heart out Ty Pennington Lopez, I'm the new carpenter on the block. (Well, one who clearly isn't capable of understanding the wooded arts without a guided literary tour by a wobbly, shirted gherkin printed by those humourous Swedes.)

Whoopee, my sore hands are off to manifest a bedside table. I love screws!

Saturday, November 20, 2004

Men, men, glorious men?

J.Lass has a man. Cuisiniere. Pav's friendly jailhouse bitch. I approve of this union for two reasons:

a) He has an extensive knowledge of classic and modern, cross-over jazz.
b) He used to work as a pastry chef and can make a mean carrot cake.

"When's the wedding?" I joked, half-seriously. Hot damn, who wouldn't want carrot cake morning, noon, and night from someone bound to you by courtship-in-law, and thus, obligated to satiate your childish demands? That's gold, Jerry! Gold!

Speaking of Pav. I feel pressured to make something materialize with him (the attraction seems to be one-sided -- his). "He's super smart." True. "He's exceedingly handsome." I can take it or leave it. "He has a great personality." Yeah, but hoo! have you checked out those abs? That's some good superficiality. Issue was further complicated when his royal highness showed up and joined us for lunch ...


M. Biologique told me he was in the audience at the Suzuki conference, sitting behind where I was standing when I had my brief interlude with the mike. He was surprised I didn't see him: "I was looking at you for the greater part of an hour."

"Listen. It's like the Chinese," I explained. "You white people think we all look alike. The same thing goes for you when I'm at a hippie summit: everyone has a beard and loves the hemp. I can't tell vegan from virgin."


"Hold up," I stopped M. Biologique in mid-argument. "Did you just call me ... baby?"

He blushed. "Oh. I ... man, I call everyone baby."

"No you don't," I retorted.

"It's Jimi Hendrix's fault. I've been listening to him a lot lately."

Unfazed, I repeated the faux-pas again to maximize discomfort: "Baby?! What the hell were you thinking, 'baby?' Unbelievable ..."

"Whatever, man." He nudged me playfully. "I love everyone."

"The hell you do!" I said as I shoved back, trying hard to look unamused.

He's faking his market status and I'm a penniless investor. Somebody come to my rescue because this can't go on.

Friday, November 19, 2004


Mom called me late afternoon as I was lying in bed, raspberry-toned dress bunched tightly around my waist, mascara caked across the back of my right hand. I had hastily peeled the straps off my shoulders the night prior, too tired to take it off entirely.

"One-thousand, ten-thousand, you might as well get accustomed to speaking in front of large crowds. You'll always be a troublemaker. So get used to [unwanted attention.]"

I feigned indignation. Troublemaker? Me? I'm disgusted at the thought. I'm about a minivan away from HomemakerLand, hurrying home from buying pre-packaged brownie mix for my child's Chriskwanzaakah party to catch primetime CSI before the hubby's impending arrival that sets my heart all aflutter. Who is this troublemaker she speaks of?


I'm listening to A Tribe Called Quest, looking at the computer clock, counting down the hours until my mom comes on down and the minutes I can still spare before I scramble to tidy up this (underused) bachelorette pad.

Thursday, November 18, 2004


Hippies are savages. They play by their own rules.

David Orchard and David Suzuki were the guest speakers, and I wanted proceed with high velocity transcortical lead therapy (Annie git ur gun.) I think cyanide-laced tranquilizers might soothe the beast in me, right now.

Orchard talked about organic food and its vital role in our society. But to me, he was a raging entrepreneur who obviously wanted to publicize this lucrative market niche. During the final Q&A section, I finally got the chance to ask a question:

"Hi, my name is Lily." A hush rushed through the 1000+ member-filled auditorium. My cheeks flushed red. "This is a question for Mr. Orchard. How might you convince people - consumers - to pay 63% more for food, organic food, therefore, buying less per week, for slightly more nutritional value?"

He replied, "I don't understand what you mean by 'slightly more nutritional value.' Organic food does not contain pesticides ..." and made me repeat my question 3 goddamn times, which made me look like an idiot because my question lost all impact in the ensuing confusion, and my general inarticulacy. What I wanted to reply with, had I not possessed journalistic integrity (ie. getting rudely cut-off), was a clarification of what I meant by 'nutritional value.' That nutrition is not lost just because other elements are found. And that, when regulated, conventional means of production pose no real threat. But I didn't. I couldn't. I was caught off guard and walked away completely tongue-tied. Donc, here I am sulking, sitting on Readerdroid''s bed, admiring the gorgeous loot I bought myself today.

I'm terribly embarrassed (achingly so), like a 15-year-old who just walked into her parents' room while they were procreating as her 12 ... hundred closest friends looked on. I can safely assume I'm now that "idiot girl, Lily."

The conference was propaganda. Pure and simple. I recorded the whole thing from my computer (after struggling with this femme-Nazi security guard who wanted to kick me out even though I was part of "la presse"; hundreds of eyes looked on curiously until a nice stranger offered me a seat.) Notable quotes mentioned:

"To be fully human beings is with love."

"Whatever we do to air, we do to ourselves."

"We are water, and whatever we do to water, we do to ourselves."

"Water is like air, it is the glue that holds us together."

"We are the earth."

"Whatever we do to earth, we do to ourselves."

"We are fire, because every bit of energy in our body ... is [from] sunlight."

"We are walking sunshine, rays of the sun."

Afterwards, I asked some audience members for their reaction. This is what I got:

"It was so inspirational, man. A real eye-opener. I felt a spiritual connection."

... all 8 mind-numbing times.

Middle-class naivete. How I envy their fervour, but saddened by their ignorance insensitivity. And odd interest in hemp fashion.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Wuzzz up, Kiki?!?! Bitch, shut yo' mouth!

I flipped off some jerk who followed me to the McGill metro, banging against the single-paned window as he made lewd gestures to get my attention. Then I got scared and wished I hadn't done that ...


I'm covering the conference Dr. David Suzuki's giving at Concordia about - what else? - Canada and the environment in the 21st century for journalism class. He's proceeding after Stephane Dion, Canada's Minister of the Environment. The entire event ends at 21:00, officially cutting into my earmuff shopping showdown plans with Readerdroid. I guess you win some (Q&A with celebrity) and you lose some (ears.) But mostly, you regret promising to wake up at 6 a.m. to prepare breakfast for someone across town.

I was weak! I was washing the dishes! I was feeling maternal!


I told M. Biologique I couldn't afford him for French anymore. He's become my therapist instead. Free. And this time, when he mentioned his girlfriend out of context, I emphatically shot back, "So?"

He sat there, stunned. So we went back to laughing about my nutty neurosis as he curiously interjected with questions about my "suitors":

"J.Lass! Ahhhh! For instance, when GenderBender asked for me, she didn't even ..."

"GenderBender's interested in you?"

"That's not the point. Anyway. So she ..."

"Il est beau, oui?"

"Meh. I guess. I mean, he's basically a bisexual Tall. So J.Lass ..."

I'm interrupted again.

"I'm sure," I said reassuringly as I cut him off, "it's not as big as yours."

In the end, I told him I understood why he didn't want to "develop this friendship." He objected and said he's just busy with homework and that my complaints are unfounded since he's always inviting me to (his) parties. I said, after tonight, he'll be lucky to see me at all.

M. Biologique leaned back into his sofa and spread his legs apart, his new jeans straining between the chasm. "I'll see you," he said cheekily, "in a few days." He stood up and trailed me to the door, innuendo dripping from his lips.

I turned around as I stepped into the hallway.

"It's couchon, am I right?"

He grinned.


Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Cop Out

So this was the sort of thing I churned out back in the day. Boy, I sure devolved since then:

Humpty Dumpty.

Yes, dear friend. He sat on a wall.

The wall that is life. The bastille of our souls. The stones that house the weave of life. Like grapes in Tuscany, it is the sweet elixir that is mortality


He had a great fall. Into the cesspool of natural expenditures. He must get up. Does he get up? Could he get up? But alas, hope is dead. Hope does not save him. Hope merely prolongs his suffering.

He lays flat. His degenerate body, previously rotund in gaeity, now lays shattered ... blowing into the wind. Death is everything. Everything is nothing. Nothing is empty. Empty is full. Full is strawberry jam ... and jam is good. I mean, god. And god is sticky ... just like that hell-for-the-thighs puddle of cholesterol.

All the king's horses. Galloping into salvation. Their bodies bridled by the king's men. Pawns. Lunatic lackeys. They believe it is in their power to put ... yes, put ... that dreary embryotic simmering mass, together again.

They fight their nature. They leave behind reason. They anticipate failure ... but their power, too green.

But they couldn't. They can't. It is not in them to do so.

Humpty Dumpty was fated to fall. Humpty Dumpty came in terms with the earth's murderous agenda.

They tried some more. But no enchilada. Not even the spicy kind.

He simply evaporated into the essence of Descartes. Thinking, therefore, being. He just is, not what his senses tell him.

Desperately, they cried. Onwards! More tape! More glue! More piss on his shoe!

But they couldn't.

The salty sting of flowing tears migrated into the sky.

The funeral knell cracked a knowing sigh. This is what is. It cannot be otherwise


This, of course, means I am not obligated to provide readers with an actual freshly baked post for another 24 hours (<--tying in the food theme.) I'm killing time until I find something of real interest to write about.

So. How 'bout that police bust in Peru? 700 kilos sure is a lot of cocaine ...

Monday, November 15, 2004

Premium Plus

Sometimes I feel like a prick. Like today. Geneva D. introduced me to Sherlock Shearling (I shit you not, a quarter-Hispanic Gael Garcia Bernal.)

Later, Geneva D. said to me, teasingly: "I understand why J.Lass doesn't like you talking when guys are around."

It seems that I have a tendency to go off on passionate speeches (*cough* tangents) and not let people around me get a word in.

"Did you notice," she elaborated, "how I said maybe three things in the last half hour?"

I apologized. She said she wasn't complaining and that she'd finally witnessed how I can be when conversation hits a hot spot. That it's difficult to get a word in because I've covered all the bases.

But I still feel like a prick.

Geneva D. also mentioned Sherlock Shearling's "silence." Well, pardon my French, I do believe that's the sound of shit hitting the fan.

"No, no. He was listening to you. You didn't do anything wrong."

Right ...

What's a word worse than prick without unpleasant phallic connotations? Yeah, I'm that too. I think maybe I was nervous. I get like that when I am (in addition to speaking at sonic speeds), though I have yet to find a plausible explanation. But knowing me, I'll probably analyse it more than the infamous Zapruder film.

Is this on?

I saw The Incredibles with Readerdroid tonight. Sooo funny. Blah blah blah, social commentary on modern education (Nov. 12 post). Whatever! It's so freakin' funny. Especially the Brad Bird voiced character, Edna Mode (inspired by Edith Head, the legendary Hollywood costume designer*). He has perfect comedic timing. The speed combined with strategic pauses created a profusion of ... of ... hilarity!

Oh man, I must be sleepy because I'm abusing exclamation marks like Zantac poppin' preschoolers.

*I know because I'm a clotheshorse, a self-proclaimed fashion historian. See: profile.


Bought a French book with 12,000 verbs and its conjugations, a French/English dictionary, and The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger (it was a splurge; books are becoming a luxury item).

I'm firing M. Biologique. Readerdroid's going to be my new French tutor. It's going to be a language exchange (read: free) since she wants to learn to speak Cantonese. M. Biologique's been placing an increasing amount of restrictions on himself that didn't exist before (which negatively affect my learning experience). It was later explained to me (by way of J.Lass) that they were his girlfriend's idea. If that's the case, then I refuse to literally pay for her insecurities. Besides, I don't even look forward to seeing him anymore. I've changed and cancelled our last lesson, forcing him to wait by the phone and be at my beck and call because I can be an inconsiderate bitch when I'm bothered by needless drama. And don't think I don't hold him accountable for being yet another confused dick.

Sunday, November 14, 2004

BBQ ranch

I just finished speaking to my brother. He's turning 9 in January. I left encouraging him to read more. Since then, he's learned to type properly and is currently reading The Magic Finger by Roald Dahl. I'm so proud of him because he's becoming more well-rounded.

I was the one who taught his three-year-old self two-digit arithmatic on our driveway, playing ball. I was there when he progressed to multiplication as we doodled and ate peas. But it all went to shit after my mom started rewarding him game systems and junk food before his sixth birthday. The kid just lost all motivation to learn. His speedy sausage fingers did most of the talking as his perpetual glazed over expression was limited to bouts of laughter and crying.

And he turned out to be a lazy Nancy boy, who was coddled insufferably by doting parents.

But since my pep-talk (alright, lecture) to him about the importance of telling the truth and the importance of education and the importance of, well, being earnest (that left him in tears, confessing "that one time" about some bookmark), he's become a good boy. He told me he passed all his piano songs this week and I respect him for taking the initial plunge into music because I know he has a good ear for it. It took him something like 3 tries to pass one swimming level, and another 4 for the following. I couldn't even shame him because it was something out of Mr. Bean, the incessant go-lucky 'tude and the pragmatism of trying, again and again. Actually, my mom had to tell me in a car conversation. She found it hilarious, watching him huffing away in the water, those meaty arms aiding him towards the safe haven of poolside, then seeing that all-too-familiar grade once more for not "putting head under water."

She even hired a private tutor who, she surmised, let him pass out of sheer pity.

"I say, he so fat," my mom would say, chuckling. "Just bounce in wahtah, like big ball!"

Anyway. The point, if it isn't already evident, is that I miss him loads. I'm not homesick, so much as brothersick (not to be confused with sick of brother). He's the only one I haven't had a decent conversation with in nearly 3 months and from the looks of things, I'll be missing more milestones than I had originally anticipated.

Saturday, November 13, 2004

Forgive me for the ensuing bitterness ...

My last post came out so pretentious sounding. Who the fuck am I kidding? Of course I care about my marks. I just don't care about anyone else's.


J.Lass saw Tall walking towards the metro right behind where I was sitting in the cafe. She waited until he rounded the corner to tell me. I must have cataracts or something. Fuck that bastard. Fuck the biological kink that prevents me from being promiscuous. Fuck guys telling me they respect me like it was a recommended pick-up line from Maxim.

I'm admitting defeat. I surrender. I'm just not cut out for the adult world.


That's right Lindsay Lohan. You don't have it so good now that Wilmer dumped your ass. Hear it from me, my faux-mammaried friend: 24-year-olds spell nothing but trouble. They're hillbilly heroin for the teenage set *insert Glenn Close scary face*.

I hate you too, Michael Douglas.

Friday, November 12, 2004


I haven't seen The Incredibles, but from the letters sent by parents and educators to Slate's David Edelstein, I'm now anxious for the chance. The issue in question is whether American schools (both public and private) have a tendency to not so much "encourage mediocrity, but deny the existence of a natural aristocracy."

"Everyone is special." Which is to say, "No one really is."

There are so many facets to this issue. For example, should teachers refuse children deemed "gifted" honorary awards as to not make those of lesser intelligence feel bad? Or are people in our society "too sensitive of their own shortcomings" to "recognize others' excellence?" Does looking up to one's peer motivate ambition or nihilism?

I must confess I dropped out of the grades-fueled arms race only recently (although I stopped curbing this long-repressed urge back in grade 9 after crying over less-than-stellar marks for the latter half of junior high.) Back then, my overachieving friends and I would go as far as to divide A into four additional groups: 80-84% was the equivalent of a D; 85-89%, C; 90-94%, B; 95-100%, A. Looking back, competition was all in the mind. No one was really quivering in the shadow of my top 2 percentile ranking. I was overcompensating for the skills I lacked in other areas of academia (most notably in - surprise! - English. I was a big math/science nerd until I made a conscious choice not to be). Student comparisons are inevitable especially when glittery stickers are involved. Or more importantly, they are inevitable because, predictably, knowledge of one's own superiority is preferred over knowledge of one's disposability. At risk of sounding like a hypocrite, marks just don't mean shit to me anymore. The feel good high one gets upon exceeding "average" expections is admittedly addictive, but by no means is it an accurate portrayal of intellect (mine especially). By this, I mean, how can a person be deemed "smart" if the driving force behind her actions is the promise of blind praise? I believe being "smart" comes with trancending the status quo through a combination of humility and self-awareness, and not actively participating in the numbers game on the proverbial hamster wheel. Basically, there's no bigger asshole than an asshole who buys his own myth. Demonstrating my point is a letter written by William Rolston to Edelstein:

My niece was uncritically praised for all things. We never thought that she was any more exceptional than any other child nor any less. This has had two effects.

Positive: She is very self-possessed and insouciant and is very accomplished and there are very few things outside her grasp.

Negative: She is insufferable and rarely listens to anyone. She thinks that everything that she does is without fault and she back talks to her elders armed only with an idiotic adolescent philosophy.

One word: Asshole. There isn't much to it than that.

Thursday, November 11, 2004

J school is old school

I think my JOUR 200 teacher actually felt guilty for losing his temper in class after I made the stupid misktake of picking up my cell phone (it was ringing Ah-Ha's "Take On Me") because the following week, he made a crack (which I interpreted as a crack) and ... well, read for yourself:

Lily, I was thinking that you might have thought I was being sarcastic or flip the other day in class when I remarked something about you being a famous reporter someday.

I want you to know that I was not being sarcastic as I believe firmly that you will be successful in your career.

B. G******

And I replied:

Hi Professor G******,

Thank you for that note of encouragement. However, I can't say for certain how that prophesy will pan out seeing how I'm more likely to be
on the front page (in handcuffs, no less) than writing it.




I got my first JOUR 201 mark back today. It was a theatre panel discussion assignment written last week under a tight deadline (an hour and a half to be exact). I got an A! Yippee! I hope the novelty doesn't wear off, which was what the recipient of last year's Lindsay Crysler Award told me practically prophetically.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

That's No Good

My Mastercard just arrived in the mail. Let us not weep ...


"Don't Lily me," I said to Pav. "Don't pretend that you haven't been ignoring me."

Pav tried to protest.

"Whatever," I continued. "Alls I know is, I've been neglected. By you."

He came out from behind the deli counter and gave me a great long hug. Some customers walk in and ask for one too. "They're free for a limited time only," he replied. I've been trying to redeem myself for the last three weeks ever since I asked "who the fuck" he was when he knew my name before I formally introduced myself. After that embarrassing encounter, I felt a noticeably chilly response from him whenever we saw each other. And by embarrassing, I mean he's served me food for the past two and a half months and is the first person to inform J.Lass of my late arrival to our coffee dates.

But my barista/patron relationship with Pav seems to be back to normal. He says my name after each sentence ("Hi Lily. So what would you like, Lily? Thank you, Lily.") And I giggle like a Japanese school girl with no panties on ("Hehe. Youle welcome.")


Shit! I totally stood up my Chinese writing tutor! I realize this ... 6 hours later?!

Let 'er rip(en)

Boycott's over. I caught the attention of no less than five guys at the student union bar last night (three of whom divulged that their feelings for me were developed from afar in classes we shared - it must've been the booze talkin'). It seems that my newly minted reputation for being a rebel rouser - and all-round character - had preceded me. I ricocheted from one booth to another, being plied with compliments and sweet talk (about Hume and Nietzsche), massages, and drink offers (that were declined). Two traded witty banter on the subject of me not inviting them back to my apartment ("File your complaints to the Department of Dissatisfaction," quipped Phil. "Not only am I a member - I'm also the President.") I guess men really do switch into Alpha Male mode when they're suckered into competition.

I don't think I've been this flattered since Tall asked me out on our first date. And bonus: They're all over 23. Which means I better be extra careful. I'm sure they're all very nice boys, but there's a reason I'm not known as Ms. Easy Breezy.


Hooray for girlfriends who share my sense of humour! Hooray for half-Trini, half-white, but came out looking Persian girls who call butts "boompsies" and row with homies during dragon boat fests!

Tuesday, November 09, 2004


So the Americans are trying to secure Fallujah. Maybe "secure" isn't the right word, seeing how easily insurgents could sneak back in after normal traffic flow commences. The Sunni Triangle is beginning to resemble an unwritten chapter of Dante's Inferno. But I'm going to be optimistic. Street warfare is messy (see: Somalia, 1993.) But if Fallujah falls into US hands, troops can rest from fighting the war on two fronts (the other being, apparently, Sadr City). Not having enough ground troops is a constant problem. With resources spread too thinly across Iraq, it's unlikely we'll see any dramatic one-two punches (nevermind KOs) in the coming months. However, one can only hope soldiers will be able to differentiate guerillas from the less than 150,000 civilians still remaining in Fallujah. But now I'm bringing in sentimentality, and war has no room for that.


See? Boycotting dating has been amongst the best advice I've given myself. I have more time faking frippery now. Hehe! Vogue! Jennifer Connelly's a doll!

Monday, November 08, 2004


Oh man, I just caught Cornerstone's Brimful of Asha on Internet radio. I remember back in middle school, my lunchroom would catch the music video on MuchMusic and sing along to "Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow, everybody needs a bosom" without ever knowing what a "bosom" was. The girls would gleefully join in and from then on, the song plays in my head whenever I near a convenience store (don't ask me why). Now it's come back to haunt me with its enchanting melody made up of painfully positive retro beats.

No, bitch. Mine's on the 45.

Sunday, November 07, 2004

Somebody's Heine is crowdin' my icebox

In light of recent American division, I reckon this is the only way out. And doesn't it sort of remind you of early-years Elvis when seen through eyes with no visual-spatial acuity?

*Hint: California = left sideburn.

No Signal

Met with 15 or so McGill students fresh from their model UN-type thingy last night. Couldn't fit everyone in the first Irish pub, so all scooted to another that was located ... right underneath where Tall was playing.

I had congratulated him two hours earlier and left as soon as I did.

But I had to go and commit social suicide minutes later, going upstairs sans coat and bag, holding a cell phone to my ear as I sped through the place like I was looking for someone, giving him a quick wave as I approached the front door, and realizing he must've seen my whole charade from the stage. But he still kindly noted my presence with a smile and a hey (as he pa rum pum pum pummed while obviously thinking me weird.)

Readerdroid had tried to prevent me from going again (with good reason - I ended up sneaking off), but I just couldn't stand the thought of hearing him play above me and not even making it known that I was around (enjoying the company of Trevor). It just didn't seem ... right.


"Have you given any guy a chance since Tall?" I was asked the other day. "You complain about no one liking you, but every guy who's approached you, you've just nitpicked their faults to death. But Tall. Oh no, he's perfect. Always. He's never in the wrong."

That seems to sum it up quite nicely.

It's not that I have high standards. I just don't know what I want. Just last night, some dude tried to pick me up at the bus stop. I politely answered his interrogative questions, but he was just so lame, like he was hustling sex rather than sedatives. When some tipsy Irish lady sat between us and struck up a conversation with me about bus routes 15 minutes later, he shook my hand good-bye and took off. "Did I get in the way of something between yous?" she asked when he was still in earshot. "No," I whispered sternly. "Believe me, you didn't."

So here comes the pseudo-psychology. Friends say I do the chasing because I don't believe anyone can successfully do the chasing and, essentially, tame me (which is a word used more often than wardrobe malfunction). But piquing someone's interest isn't difficult. I just don't have time for chivalric bullshit. You either like me or you don't. Why waste energy on games? So I've decided to boycott dating, giving up on the hunt. No more Me Tarzan, You Janes. Just going to nestle into early spinsterhood with a pint of Ben & Jerry's and the History Channel.

Amen sister.

Saturday, November 06, 2004


Damn, Angelina Jolie is seriously smokin' ... as Colin Farrell's mother. She's lucky her birthday falls a day short of mine or I'd be talking about her non-stop ("... and we're both Geminis! Hehehe!")

In light of that, I'm still not going to give Kenny G. the satisfaction of being mentioned.


Friday, November 05, 2004

That Explains It

I'm not an only child, though I act like one. I just finished reading a New York magazine article on "onlies," describing the odd dynamic between members of single-child families. My friends have always found my excess freedom a bit bizarre. And have traditionally thought me nervy to recount my social life to my parents. I accredit this to my family's less rigid idea of typical sex and age roles. We're also a bit on the utilitarian side in that we are a pragmatic lot, subjecting each other to jobs that will yield the greatest results for the whole. Like the children in the article, I remember telling my mother I was "loooonely," which led to the birth of my younger sister. My brother came four years later. I was a self-proclaimed demi-god in our growing household; a cheeky child with a venomous tongue. I was problematic and bore the brunt of my parents' frustrations. And yet, in hindsight, I am only too grateful. There is no reserve in my voice when I describe recent romantic follies to an amused mother who trusts my every instinct. They are satisfied that I am not in their image because they raised me to be better. I am spoiled because I have no reason to give them worry. And there lies the reason for this post. My current lifestyle, J.Lass recently complained, is too spoiled. That she's sure I have great parents, but they're raising me not quite right (she was careful not to use "wrong.") I don't think she likes the idea of me not having to struggle since I've moved here. J.Lass, although living with her "well-off" parents, is hardly pampered (or so she says.) I don't see why I have to apologize for maintaining the lifestyle I'm accustomed to. And my mother buys me things because she wants to, not because I ask her. So J.Lass thinks I'm dependent on their money. I think I'm just dependent on money. But who isn't? I don't ask permission to attend social activities not because I am inconsiderate, but because I am compliant to the norms of my family, not hers. This complaint on whether I'm living an "authentic" student experience is condescending. What does being a student have to do with being a bohemian? Must I also die of tuberculosis as I read Goethe under the moonlight to be considered "real"? It's pretentious to think I am not on the road to self-reliance (who's the one living alone here?) and self-discovery because I'm not donning a self-pitying mask and developing involuntary anorexia nervosa.

It's this judgmental verve (along with her extreme conservatism) that is testing my patience (and this friendship, although the feeling is not mutual.) Her lectures scream of hypocrisy and all I can do is sit back and think back to her generosity to help me cope with her faults.

Thursday, November 04, 2004

... and hell froze over

Bush won. He is anathema to America's already crippling society. For the first time in its post-War history, it will feel the might of unchecked conservatism, teetering on fanatical. The irreversable long-term damages the current administration is fostering are a harrowing thought. Fear has festered and that's a damn shame.


My French lesson with M. Biologique went 40 minutes overtime. Blame it on the deeply provocative conversation we were having. But he just had to go and contaminate our exchange with remarks that blatantly sexualized me.

"Stop sexualizing me," I told him jokingly as to not provoke potential embarrassment. He said he couldn't help it, citing our first encounter.

"Nah, I just like fucking around with you," he later explained. "I just like fucking with you." But quickly added with a laugh: "But don't tell my girlfriend that, of course."

We both knew it was a joke. We both knew he shouldn't have said it at all. We both knew to change the subject.


Maybe I should bring M. Biologique to Ted's gig Saturday (If, of course, I decide to go. Fuck it. Who am I kidding? My foot's practically in the door.)

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Sandpaper Shredder

What's he trying to pull? I don't hear a word from him in two months, and now - poof! - he's showing up in my life again.

I can't say it was the most graceful exit, but it was mature under the circumstances (ie. me being 18, him being 24.) And yes, I do realize I wrote, "... won't be interpreted as anything but platonic," except I meant it as "I know you'll never contact me again, but there's face to be saved through tact and courtesy."

Basically what happened was, I saw a Tall look-a-like walk into the university cafe (the one I patronize on a consistent basis). He turned out to be Tall. I, however, had recently lost my Calvin Klein violet rimmed prescription glasses (I'm still in mourning), so my sight was unreliable. I waited for J.Lass to show up, sitting on a barstool, joking around with the manager and Barista Matt (who, God forbid, might one day actually adopt a stonerless personality.) Then nature called.

Then Tall called.

"There she is!" he said, loudly.

"Oh, hey! I didn't see you there," I lied, smiling as confidently as I could; not knowing what to say, think, or expect.

His friend was there too. I introduced myself to him (because I am decent, because I have class, because I must make a good impression, because I care too much.)

Granted, when Tall asked me to watch his band play this Saturday, it must've been in good faith. Granted, he probably just wanted to fill the bar with people. Granted ... what does he think he's doing, expecting me to attend his gig just because I "let slip" that I'm mature enough to handle the fact that we're on platonic terms. But I believe he lost his VIP membership a long while back when he decided to take a break and not even make an effort to stay on friendly terms. He cannot jerk me around like this. He cannot be the aggressor.

In any case, I'm annoyed. Especially now, when my own TV director is jumping on the gravy train, telling me how he should've "taken advantage" of me sooner. And asked whether I was trying to "seduce" him. Arrogant bastard! And M. Biologique ... what he did yesterday. Ugh! Don't get me started ...

You know. I admire men. I admire how they act with no inhibitions, living everyday like it's their last. Throwing themselves into the wind; thinking they have nothing to lose. But that doesn't mean they should ever expect a positive response for this kind of behaviour. If I'm approached one more time with some half-assed game plan that comes off sounding anything but sincere, he'll be lucky to keep half his ass. Mother Hubbard!