Saturday, January 31, 2004

I was a fan of her 1999 directorial debut, "The Virgin Suicides" (but admittably, was a bigger fan of the soundtrack by Air), so I decided to check out Lost In Translation. Great movie. Soothing, humble, crazy, funny. Calling it charming is a quiet understatement. No wham-bam-thank-you-ma'ams. Just a tight character study of strangers meeting and understanding each other more than those they know, who react to them indifferently, on autopilot, as they are seen as being in the way. Aren't we all? Glad it's been getting recognized by the American film academy.

Wow. The Coppolas have become the number one entertainment powerhouse in recent years. Francis Ford. Nicholas Cage. Now Sofia. Not to mention the Schwarzman brothers' recent notoriety. It's like they've been touched by the hands of DeMille, Thalberg and Mayer. I wonder who else is related to them?

Speaking of. Did you know MGM stands for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, but the Goldwyn is actually a combination of two names? Samuel Goldfish created Goldwyn Pictures in 1916 with Edgar Selwyn. It is a mix of their last names, but Selfish just didn't sound right. I thought that was funny. Okay, so I'm a PBS documentary junkie, guilty as charged.
Should cliched gestures of love be received with hostility or flattery? I've always wondered whether someone could actually be moved to tears when they're compared to the moon, stars, and other geological trappings. I've always wondered this because I think I've reached my breaking point, having read enough of this crap on MSN messenger screen names and other public methods of displaying public affection. The question is: Can true love exist when dexterity does not?

There are infinite objects on earth. Yet, people unflinchingly hold on to traditional symbols of love like a heroin addict needing a fix. Angels? Butterflies? Spare me the cheese. Paging Dr. Clooney and fix this disease. Isn't love much sweeter without the sticky aftertaste? Isn't love grander when you leave things unsaid? Probably. Possibly. Perhaps. And doesn't this also help reveal the type of person your significant other is or could be? Probably. Possibly. Perhaps. So many things can be garnered from a man with a low grasp of the English lexicon, and respect isn't one of them. He could be terribly naive. Easily pliable with words. A creature of habit. Unstable and obsessed. A green-eyed monster who seldom ventures beyond supermarket tabloid fodder. A man who probably still associates diamonds with De Beers and chocolates with Valentine's.

So what if I'm being unfairly harsh. "Maybe he has a learning disability," you argue. That may be so, but who wants to take a man out to dinner and help him pronounce souffle as "sue-FLAY" and not "so-FULL"? I guess I'm a snob. I guess I'm a cynic. I guess I can only like someone half-literate in an eye clinic. That may be the case, but I don't mind. Morons who can't write something worth repeating don't deserve love at all. I stick to that decision!

Ugh. 14 more days before the world implodes upon its syrupy center.

Friday, January 30, 2004

Mad Girl's Love Song

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

--Sylvia Plath (1932-63)

Thursday, January 29, 2004

I'm currently listening to Internet radio. AccuRadio to be exact. The Brit Rock channel. It has confirmed my love for Supergrass, Ash and Pulp. Also confirmed my dislike for Belle & Sebastian, PJ Harvey and Syd Barrett. It introduced me to Ocean Colour Scene too. All in all, great stuff, that Internet radio. Been listening to a lot of Rooney ever since they were featured on The O.C. Not that I watch the show. Okay, I do, but only for pop culture "research". Okay, that's a lie. It's so I wouldn't miss the anticipated episode where Summer and Seth have S-E-X. Freakin' awesome, where-do-I-insert-this-thing, did-you-lock-the-door, no-I-thought-you-did-, GAH! DAD!-type sex

Anyway. Back to Rooney. The lead singer is the younger brother of Jason Schwarzman of Rushmore fame. I saw him in Spun. Crazy movie, but modest entertainment. Ripped-off too many inspirations (does that make it uninspired?). It was hailed as a cross between Trainspotting and Requiem For A Dream. Alright, I can see that ... with a splash of John Holmes and Pam Grier, circa 1977.

Did my Politics exam today. Now, did Noriega get ousted in Panama or Nicaragua? It wasn't even part of the exam, just my elaboration, and it's still likely I got it wrong. Also mentioned the Six Day War, but I know I did well with that question because I mentioned the whole "humiliation of the Middle East" thing. The fill-in-the-blanks part was based on everyone's ISU assignments, which I vaguely remembered and ignored to study all together. There were 20 blanks, I remembered 16. That's pretty impressive (*pucker* that's the sound of me kissing my own ass) considering the circumstances. It was the German's fault. Okay, not really. Partly? Alright, I'll give him part responsibility for keeping me awake late and encouraging procrastination. Meh, just glad it's all over. S-E-X. I mean, O-V-E-R.

Just finished listening to The Cure. WOO! Oasis's Wonderwall has started playing. One of my favourites. I'm not ashamed!

There are many things that I would/ Like to say to you/ I don't know how/ ... / I said maybe/ You're gonna be the one who saves me/ And after all/ You're my wonderwall.

Will go and enjoy The Jam's Start! now.

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

So my Writer's Craft exam was yesterday. It consisted of the teacher providing the students with a series of pictures, one from which they had to base a short story on. Yes, the exam was creating a short story in 75-minutes. I did one on a picture of a cheering crowd in the streets, confetti strewn in the air. The story's protagonist is a 13-year old girl named Carla. The town of 80,000 gather annually to participate in a lottery to find criminals. The womenfolk would represent their entire family in buying a single ticket that contained an eight-digit number. Cops would draw numbered balls and whoever had the matching ticket would be executed (or whomever happened to be the eldest man in the family). Carla's dad is the progeny of the town's founder, Mr. MacArthur. Carla ends up having the winning ticket and her father is blamed for the deaths of two boys. The townspeople reckon that anyone lucky enough to win must have been singled out by God, thereby, providing the authorities with the answers to unsolvable crimes. As a noose tightens around her father's neck, Carla asks him whether or not he did it. He shrugs his shoulders and says, "I guess I did." Carla skips home, smiling, thinking thoughtfully, "Wait until mom hears about this. She won't believe my luck."

I wrote the equivalent of something around 7 or 8 pages. Looking back, maybe its theme is our society's trust in higher authorities, rather than ourselves. Besides God, there is also democracy. In second world countries, many citizens have the decency to read between the lines when reading their censored newspapers and staged trials because they recognize the flaws of their system. In the majority of western nations, we've forgotten this. We read the news, deducing fact from truths. Maybe that's more dangerous than visible oppression. Maybe blind faith and arrogance is the new nationalism, the modern tool of Big Brother, the pride of the West.

Monday, January 26, 2004

Dayyyy-mn. I never realised how fat my lips are especially through the crappy lens of a webcam. They're so grossly obese. Maybe it'll react well to the Atkins Diet. The Zone perhaps? Will my lips feel inadequate around the bevy of beauties at the local women's gym, their pert little butts framed by a cotton thong? How well will my lips fare in a cycling class, amongst Swedish bombshells who like to overdo it with the Neutrogena self-tanner? I hope she doesn't get discouraged, as well-intentioned strangers usher her to the juice bar, telling her (while spiking her wheatgrass and papaya cocktail), "Now, now. You're not all that bad. After a few drinks, everyone starts to look better (or worse, hopefully in your case)."

Oh, the horrors of realpolitiks at the gym. Why did I send my lips away? She packs up her sports bra, not yet permeated with the scent of a workout, but thorougly saturated with tears, and heads for the nearest Cinnabons. Extra icing please!

*sniffle* That's ... that's my girl.

My throat is in absolute PAIN! It's so sore, burning really. I can't swallow anything or use the same muscles for that specific purpose. It literally feels like trying to fit Anna Nicole Smith into size 4 wooden barrel, bursting at its seems.

I took off from school during lunch. My dad picked me up in his RV. He said, "You don't look sick. I saw you laughing with your friends."

So what? I have to look like a haggard Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice? I have to make the lives acquaintances just as miserable? My sister gets sick every three months; my brother, every other month. I catch something for the first time in years and I get this bullshit from him?

I just woke up to a bowl of wantons. But it requires swallowing. At this point, I just want to Barney myself and tell everyone to "put it in my veins!" Anything. Liquid liverwurst, ground-up essays, fish heads, anything. Is that too much to ask?

Sunday, January 25, 2004

Came back from the little outing. I will describe the little eccentricities:

-Indeed, Bible Cop didn't lie. There was a preacher guy with a mullet. He also played lead guitar in the in-church/college band. I'll call him MC Jehovah. On a tangent (Shotgun Toter's phrase): There was literally a sea of mullets. Mullets for as far as the eye could see. Long mullets, short mullets, mullets not-quite-hidden underneath baseball caps, mullets in shades of not-quite-fetching blonde, etc.

-MC Jehovah was joined on stage by a little, dancing, leprechaun-ish, Black dude with a cornrow mullet. Boy, that guy really kicked up his heels, and jiggled. Jiggled his heart out in his khakis, tucked-in baggy orange T-shirt ... oh, and performed sign language (bravo!).

-Near the end, there was a White rapper --a Manefast or Manifast or something?-- who took to the mike in recognition of Jesus's love. He looked 16, but is actually married with child. He did three sets while a breakdancer swivalled in the background. Then kids joined them on stage. One boy stood out. He was freestylin' and doin' all these tricks (okay, two) standing on his head and ... standing on his feet THEN FLIPPING! But he made it look so attractive ... for someone who was maybe around 8.

-During Manefast/Manifast's performance, even old ladies got down with it. Raising the (heavenly) roof and givin' it up in retro garb while holding up victory signs as they waved their hands from side to side to the rockin' beats of M/M (either way, it's not spelt Manifest. Too cool for grammar? They always are).

-The very end had all the kids from the first 3 or 5 rows go on stage for a full-out yokem tokem "praise the Lord" diddy. While all the kids did their pre-choreographed moves (which included jumping, trumpet playing, and some let-Lord-into-your-heart type stuff) that little wannabe breakdancing kid started breakdancing again! Yes, and he was doing it to God's music to boot.

We went and picked up the German because he had just come back from our nation's capital at 7. Then we headed to Wendy's. Bible Cop wanted McDonald's, but I said it was the poor man's Wendy's. The German agreed. We talked there for an hour or so and dropped off Christian Scrawnwich (who had made a puppet out of a Tim Hortons paper bag, which he had painted with ketchup, drawn on with my fry). Soon afterwards, I climbed over her mafia car seats to sit with the German. She stopped the car and said she didn't want to be "chauffeuring" us. So after a confusingly awkward moment, the German left me to sit in the passenger seat so she wouldn't feel lonely. Heh heh. Oh, that Bible Cop. She's a keeper.

Anyway, I just got home. I don't take pictures of myself ... ever. But using this crappy webcam out of sheer boredom rocks the casbah. So here's the first ever photo of the previously faceless writer of Lily's Blog:

Ooh. Came back shopping yesterday with a whole lot of loot.

-Guess? dark denim jeans .......................... $50
-Parasuco grey-washed denim ..................... $40
-Guess? round-collar tanks x2 ..................... $17 each
-Esprit chocolate brown corduroy blazer ......... $49

-Finding out when checking out that it was
actually $46, down from originally $180 ........ priceless

The need to splurge while suffering through a semi-retreating fever is definitely semi-rational. At least my voice sounds uber-sexy --like George Burns after a lifetime of smoking. It's like Phoebe from Friends who became more popular with her sick/sexy voice, singing:

Smelly cat, smell-ly cat/ What are they feeding you?/ Smelly cat, smell-ly cat/ You're getting fat/ Smelly cat, smell-ly cat/ Porno makes you eat like that/ I saw you in a shopping mall/ Smelly cat, smell-ly cat/ It's not your fault/ ...

I also conditioned my hair in the shower 4 times. You read right. 4 times. So it's now as soft as what's on top of a pre-pubescent boy.

In other news. Bible Cop and I will join Christian Scrawnwich in yet another church outing. Except this will be located at a local college --with much more people and a preacher with a mullet, natch. Ah, I sure am looking forward to this one (lie). But Bible Cop let me decide which one we could go to since both places are celebrating some soul food thing. I told Christian Scrawnwich I thought only Black people had soul food. He said that his don't actually have food at all, though they sometimes serve sweets. So I naturally assumed that their definition of soul food actually meant "words to brainwash you into thinking that a soul exists to be corrupted, then redeemed." But goddamn it! That's too fuckin' bad, 'cause I'm craving for some fried chicken, collard greens, corn bread, battered shrimp, babybacks and ... gotta go. Will now head for the kitchen. Sure am hungry now that I mention it.

Saturday, January 24, 2004

I feel awkward around Math Judas. This seems to be a problem for some people. Considering how forced our conversations are, you'd think I'd receive more sympathy:

"You're just paranoid."

"Maybe I am ... maybe I am ..."

Or not.

I think it might be his faux-feeling 'niceness'. He's spazzed on my girl friends more than once, and yet, I've never encountered it from him. Christian Scrawnwich says maybe I feel left out. That I want to anger him too. But ... I really doubt that's the reason. Math Judas is always approaching me to start up a conversation, but there really isn't anything we can talk about. Doesn't he feel how forced it is?:

"You're wearing beads."

"Oh, uh. Yeah."

"So the Rubik's cube ..."

"Oh ... kay?"

Going to go shopping now. That always makes me feel less of anything.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,
Brown paper packages tied up with strings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

I like a lot of things too. Like judging people. But here's a more pleasant list:

-snail mail written on novelty stationary

-Spanish guitars played by the Romero brothers

-wandering through foreign city streets

-singing songs by Ol' Blue Eyes and Ella Fitzgerald

-listening to an obscure band for the first time
(and rating them based on a star system of ironic pretension)

-finishing a new book and savouring the lingering
moments of being in character

-witnessing a truly original piece of filmmaking with equally enthusiastic friends

-being complimented about something oddly peculiar about myself ("Hey! Nice shins!")

-midnight drives on rainy streets

-boutique shopping

-my ma (*cue sniffle fx*)

Wednesday, January 21, 2004

Ooh! Also tried learning how to dance the Bhangra from Bhangra Booty, but I failed miserably. My elbows kept shaking along with my shoulders, which made me look like I was trying to climb something ... erratically.

She, along with Curry For Sale, were in the busy hall showing me the moves to break-it-down with the Browns. Boy, was I bad. Bad ... and shameless.

But I'll be at that school charity function shakin' it for 6 hours all the same. Tsk tsk tsk, I can dance like a stripper, but can't do some crazy spasmodic maneuver to save my life.
My peer tutor kids (who, I admit, openly take advantage of me) were real assholes today. I had gum in my tote bag and two of them saw that I had it. They begged and pleaded to have some, but I knew if I gave out one ... it'll end up being more. And since I bought it at school three times the market value, I couldn't help but switch into my stingy-mode. I went to the library to check on the other kids, but when I got back, a whole lot of them giggled and told me they had ransacked my bag and gave out all my gum. The gum isn't the problem. It's invading my property and stealing from me. I could care less if it was ... anything, really. But the fact that they had no respect for my belongings really peeved me off. So while I was walking to the bus stop, they followed me and said, "We're sorry, Lily. But so-and-so did it too." I told them to cut out the blame game and just take responsibility for themselves. I mean, we're friends (well, they're my students), but we're not THAT good of friends. I called them assholes and that was the end of it.

On a lighter note: It's official. I will definitely have a place to go in at least two European countries. Both Pierre and David (voluntarily) invited me to come visit their respectable French and German towns. These separate offers also include living arrangements at their houses; extending their generosity. They don't know each other, so I can only assume it's a European thing to be so damn hospitable. A sweet deal considering I'll be living with such great guys.

Canada's just so goddamn cold in the winter. I absolutely hate snow. Hate it, hate it, hate it. And if I get accepted into Concordia, it'll be 10x worse than it is here because Montreal has a bitchy seasonal climate too ... except theirs is enough to kill every one of their corner bums. My dad thinks about moving to Hawaii. Key word: thinks. He's still waiting for me to become wildly wealthy so I can grant him all that he desires. These include:

-Buying him equipment to fly to the moon (scratch that, it's now Mars)
-Buying him a hot air balloon to travel around the world in
-Buying him a submarine to travel around the world in
-Buying him a souped-up pick-up to --that's right-- travel around the world in
-Buying him a Mercedes-Benz (even though he loves that Japanese technology) to look cool in
-Buying him a Harley Davidson to look cool on
-Buying him a plastic surgeon to make him look just plain cool

Okay, I added the last one. It was worth a shot.

Monday, January 19, 2004

"What are you doing?" asked Bible Cop.

"Nothing. Literally ... nothing," I replied.

"Want to go to a church thing?"



"What time do we need to get there by? 'Cause I haven't even put on pants."

"I don't know. I'll change and come get you."

"What is it though? Like, what is ... it? Do I need to pray?"


So being agnostic and all, I agreed. Fifteen minutes later, Bible Cop was outside my door and we drove to Christian Scrawnwich's youth meeting. Admittably, it was a bit hokey. But hey, to thine own self be true. At least I didn't have to sing along with the in-church band. The one backup singer on stage sounded like high-pitched feedback from a mic. She was that terrible. But when you're in the Lord's house, you let those things slide (forgive and forget or hell ye shall go).

Then we went to pick up the German, drove to Second Cup and stayed there until closing time. Fence Swinger was working and told me "the girls" talked about me during their sleepover recently. "What did they say?" I inquired. "Oh, just that you're really offensive." Oh, haha ... But I'm an equal offender.

So today, a student in my peer tutoring class did his presentation on the hitchhiker's guide to bathroooms. When he finally got to the point describing when toilet paper was invented (fairly recently), another girl pipped, "It took them that long to invent it?" To which I quipped, "Couldn't they have used the pages of the bible?" Laughter ensued. Teacher was not amused:

"Stop it, stop it. That's not funny," said the practicing atheist.

"But it was on Survivor!" I defended.

"No! Not funny Lily! NOT FUNNY!"

Guess it wasn't funny.

Some of my friends think I'm going to get shot for one of my comments, someday. But really, I'm not going to accuse someone of being "ghetto-fabulous" while they're actively participating in a KKK lynching. And it's just a blatant powertrip when you get offended for someone because you feel the need to. Considering PC-ism was created and actively used by early Communists to induce self-censorship, it's rather ironic that, to many, it's not seen that way anymore.

Nosy Neighbour Syndrome: Stop the madness!

Sunday, January 18, 2004

I have a bruise the size of my fist on my outer thigh. I slipped on my porch step and just continued to thud, thud, thud my way down. My dad told me that's what I get for wearing heels in the winter. I told him never to speak to my shoes like that. Asked him whether he's ever worn them, he left and came back with his accordion instead. I told him not to play it. He asked for requests. We ignored him, his mother followed suit. So he started playing some anonymous Russian folk song, tapping his knees in glee. I stared at him, seething. I ate a fourth orange to cope, though I did ask him to play something French. He didn't stop. He changed songs though. Like some surreal Magic School Bus ride, the music carried the house from Stalinist Russia to Maoist China then back again, in an anachronistic time loop.

He and his accordion are inseparable, like a newborn suckling a teet. Or the unproven association between being bald up there, yet hairy everywhere else.

*Note to women: Don't ever marry a man who can easily entertain himself or be easily entertained.

Saturday, January 17, 2004

My Daily Fortune the other day was: Go for it! You're a superstar!

Reminds me of Engrish. Offerings of inspiration in packets of gum, toilet seat covers, and nose hair trimmers.

But this is the new age of Engrish. No more "Me love you long time" shit. Oh no. It's more complex than that now:

Ah, at the danceteria
late at night
Having shower of laser

Sheeee-it! That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!

Printed on a glass cup

Puppies is loving and giving
and the puppies that is born on the
sabbath day, is bony and blithe,
and good and gay

Friday, January 16, 2004

I'll tell you what rocks the rockin' rock. Potato pancakes. Also known as "latkes". My grandma makes them for me with the addition of ground pork. Yes, I see the irony in that. My friend, Hanukkah Bush, tells me all the time.

Reading recipes is hot. Such as this one for latkes:

4 large potatoes (about 1 1/2 pounds), peeled
1 medium onion (about 1/2 pound)
1 Tbsp. chopped fresh parsley (optional)
1 large egg
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. white pepper
1 Tbsp. all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. baking powder
about 1/2 cup vegetable oil, for frying

Grate potatoes and onion. Transfer to colander and squeeze mixture to press out as much liquid as possible. In a large bowl, mix potatoes, parsley, egg, salt, pepper, flour and baking powder.

Heat oil in a deep, heavy skillet. For each pancake, drop about 2 tablespoons of potato mixture into pan. Flatten with back of spoon so each pancake is about 2 1/2 to 3 inches in diameter. Fry over medium heat for about 4 to 5 minutes on each side, or until golden brown and crisp. Turn carefully with 2 spatulas so oil does not splatter. Serve hot with applesauce, or sour cream, or sugar.

Mmm mmm mmm, call me a shiksa and get me a latke!

Okay, so I was too lazy to write a real entry today. Still, forget Jackie Collins. Nothing's sexier than a pancake ... a potato pancake. Okay, maybe chocolate cake. That comes close.

Thursday, January 15, 2004

Stayed home today. Mom told me to give her three reasons. I said:

1. Too cold
2. Too tired
3. Too much

"Good enough," she said. So I was left to my own devices, downloading the rest of Sex ("The Ick Factor") and teaching myself how to salsa. Woohah!

Okay, so I spent most of the day fixing my goddamn fuckin' printer, wasting an entire cartridge of ink along the way. Also called Concordia University to clarify some inquiries of mine.

So if I get into neither Communication Studies nor Journalism*, my other choices are Sociology and Anthropology. Who'd have guessed?

*You need to be accepted into both to get into the joint program

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

I've decided to apply to Concordia University to specialize in Communication & Journalism. Last year, only 12 people registered. I'm scared. I'm fearful of my future. I don't need to speak French to get in, but it is required of me by the end of my undergraduate studies. I mean, right now, I can fluently ask for a map of Paris ("carte de Paris") and buy a set of 10 subway tickets ("un carnet de billets"). I can ask for directions, know my left from my right, and successfully ask for choice cuts at the butchers ("boucherie"). Yet, I seemed to have said "Mon francais n'est pas bon. Pourriez vous parlez doucement s'il vous plait" more than I asked "Ou sont les toilettes?" while in France.

I'm sweating blood just thinking about it. University? Bah. Just gon' marry me an oil tycoon from the bin Laden family and I'll be set for life ... oppressed and degraded. Meh. Good trade, it's still good.

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

My friend, Monkeygirl, went through heartache and heartbreak today. Let us all hold a moment of silence in her honour.




Okay, that's enough. Let's all get drunk on Cosmos and bash men!
MSN messenger is the devil.

Will (try to) stop using it from now on.

That is all.


Life is still boring. Will start writing interesting shit when interesting shit start happening. Although interesting shit does happen, they're only interesting at the time. Inside jokes should be kept, that's right, on the inside. And that's what I intend to do ... because they're retarded to begin with:

"Math Jesus likes you because ... Evidence A: He has eye spasms when he looks at you. Evidence B: He bought you a hammer and a Swiss army knife 'cause a) he wants to hammer you, and b) wants to knife you good. Evidence C: He seems to have a track record of liking Caucasian brunettes (and occasionally, non-Caucasian brunettes). Evidence D: He's behind this here washroom door. Evidence E: I'm joking. Evidence F: No I'm not. Evidence G: Yes I am. Evidence H: He asked, rather fervently, whether the person you like has high cheekbones and broad shoulders because he doesn't. Evidence I: He said he wants high cheekbones now. Evidence J: Refer back to Evidence A. So one can only conclude, after overwhelming evidence, that the Math Jesus has the hots for you, Shotgun Toter."

I rest my case.

Monday, January 12, 2004

My astrology profile says I might be a bisexual because Geminis are supposed to be attracted the mind first, the body later.

Though I'm pretty sure I'm not bisexual, I do enjoy the company of older men. In the sage words of Samantha Jones: "They've been around the block and know how to use the cock." Then again, she was referring to a 50+ year old.

I don't want no grandpa having a heart attack with/near/on me.

Sunday, January 11, 2004

If God really is a DJ, like Pink claims s/he is, you'd think better records would be spun on the Milky Way turntable. While all the Enron-type execs and Nicaraguan mudslide victims dance in a frenzy to the cha-cha, I'm here twiddling my thumbs to the foxtrot.

Which reminds me. One of my peer tutor kids told me her older sister is willing to teach me the tango (score!) for $15 a week (instant replay!). But she lives way too far (false alarm) and I won't have the time with my CO-OP position next semester (dreams charred to a crisp).

You know, I used to take dance. I greatly regret quitting it. I used to wear my white, stretch-cotton dance shoes and practice below my dad's variety store, using the handle bars of the exercise bike as support beams. I even performed on stage for these businessmen, diplomat-type guys. Which turned me off (hooker) makeup for life.

Quit figure skating next. Loved that too. Progressed fairly quickly up the ranks. Did the twirls and everything. But my mom decided my practice rink was too out of the away, so I kissed my blades goodbye.

Now, what I really wanted to quit all my life was piano. Tried quitting it for the fifth time two months ago, but failed to do so because I'm a schmuck and was wracked with guilt. So next month, I'll begin training as a piano teacher because knowing me, I won't be able to hold down a real job. Shoe habits are expensive fuckers to feed.
Befriending a lust object really puts things into perspective. Yup, it sure does ...

Saturday, January 10, 2004

Well, came back from the hairdresser's and hair is *insert negative adjective*. But I didn't pay for it though, so can't complain. Going to buy pants later. Will probably return wearing a pair with the Artist-type holes on buttocks -- it's cheaper when there's less material, donchaknow? Then again, that doesn't explain the existence of $80 nylon/fishnet breast pasties a la Lil' Kim.
Saturday sucks. Gonna get a haircut.

Thursday, January 08, 2004

Sex and the City gives the best advice. I like this recent keeper: "Don't play 'hard to get' with a man who's hard to get." Indeed. Unless the man is taken, then it's a free-for-all.

Too bad I'm a commitment-phobe. Can't take the time to pursue, can't give the effort to sustain. But will gladly obsess over the whole ordeal anyway.

My personality is my leprosy.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

My friend, Christian Scrawnwich, wore an ugly baseball-type hat he took from Asian Math Disciple at lunch while playing cards. When Asian Math Disciple wore it, he reminded the rest of us of Steven Spielbergstein: a bad imitation of the original. When Christian Scrawnwich put it on, we called him a post-cancer patient. I turned my waterbottle upside down by his head and said it was his IV bag. After the game, he laid down on his knapsack beside me and said, "Yeah guys. I'm here because of the Make-A-Wish Foundation." To which I replied, "Your last wish was to lose at euchre?"

Ah, tasteless jokes. So sue me.
Exactly five more months until my 18th birthday (okay, minus two days). I can already hear my joints creaking on cue (but it might just be the door). Hurry, Watson! Get my iron lung ready! For it is time to face the infamy that is Chronos.

Tuesday, January 06, 2004

I received news from my CO-OP teacher that I was given a position at the Spectator. I beat out 5 others. And here's the kicker: this specific job was created on the spot for me by one Mr. Rick H. the day of the interview. I guess I left a good impression on him because he's been asking for me since the 19th of December. The original job description consisted of clerical work for reporters. In a nutshell: a lowly (though respectable) temp.

This new position apparently requires working closely with the Editor to help out with the production and layout aspects of the newspaper. Which is something, I feel, I'm better suited for considering my current tenure as someone who oversees the same things, but on a much smaller scale, at school.

In the timeless words of Kool & The Gang, "Celebrate good times, c'mon!" That's right. Livin' lovin', lovin' livin', it's all good. I'm lovin' livin', it's all good.

Just realised how difficult it is to rap to Will Smith of I Went On To Bigger And Better Things But Not Before Popularizing Graffiti Pants To Spawn An Entire Generation of Colour Blindness-fame.
Over testosteroned high school boys suck. I really pity them for not having a large enough vocabulary to pick a fight with me. Yet, continue to do so with warbled amounts of "bitch".

I was in Bible Cop's English class today, teasing her about making out with a bartender. Then out of nowhere, like a sudden desire to Dutch Oven your wife, El Lloyd the Llama turned around to butt into my conversation:

LL: What the hell do you have against the army?!

ME: I said, 'bartenders' and I don't have anything against them.

LL: Yeah?! What the fuck do you have against fuckin' bartenders?!

ME: Um ... nothing? What are you talking about?

LL: The bartender's also in the army!

ME: Oh, I didn't know that.

LL: That's what I thought, you stupid fuckin' bitch.

ME: See now. I didn't say I had anything against the army. I said I had something against people with no futures. Like you.

LL: You're such a fuckin', stupid, ignorant bitch.

Teacher comes over.

LL: I'm sorry Miss. I just hate people who are so fuckin' ignorant about fuckin' everything.

ME: Shut up.

LL: You're a ...

ME: Just shut up.

So after school, he aimed a laser pointer at me. I didn't know people still had those over the age of D&D and PB&J. And to be honest, I don't see how a laser nipple is funny. That kid must be so lonely. I mean, yeah, he gets the occasional human contact getting fucked in the ass. But those moments of pleasure are short and far between (not to mention, pricey). The life of an asshole is oh-so hard to break in *sigh*.

Monday, January 05, 2004

Insomnia has struck me tonight. I'm experiencing jet-lag-a-titis-in-the-same-zone-a-tosis. That's what watching Blind Date does to you. Saw their "Uncensored Dates From Hell" special. I'm scared of the adult world now because people ... yes ... are absolutely insane! Cuckoo for coco puffs and then some. I'll list a few of the perpetrators for you:

The woman who spoke Mermaid in the hottub dressed as a mermaid.
Well, the closest you can you get in cheap sequins from Party City.

The bipolar black guy who agreed to go on the date to make his ex jealous and blew-up over everything his date said. Topics of discussion ranged from the weather to "You want ketchup with your fries?"

The insecure wigger with the soccer ball etched head who told his date she looked to be a "snob, bitch, and high-maintenance" because she went to university in England. Ooh, mustn't forget him telling her to "take a cab home, bitch" as he drank his lunchtime Corona.

The vain Italian chick with the nosejob who told her date "I'm someone your friends would date before they let you have a taste." And stood up from the bar to imitate him as a grocery clerk, checking out items. He manages a $30 million company.

The twin Detroit sisters (extra pale hooker eyeshadow) who were on separate dates but acted bored and began talking to each other on their (overused) cell phones before the food even arrived.

Also the emotional misogynistic divorcee verbally attacking his date for, once again, everything. It especially didn't go over well when she told him to "loosen up" his tie. The Blind Date "F.Y.I. Guy" said it was a clip-on anyway. Ugh! In a Hawiian print, too!

Shall I go on? It was painful to watch. Literally, painful to watch psychos boiling over the nutjob pot. You could sense the active neurosis chugging towards you five minutes in, like the Chattanooga choo choo. In soap operas, you know exactly what will happen when the girl says to her on-again, off-again, father/son/uncle, "We need to talk." Except pregnancy doesn't seem so bad after knowing people like this exist in the world.

It's now snowing out. The weatherman finally got it right. I really hate snow. After living in the Great White North for the greater part of my life, you'd think I'd be used to the symbolic (stereotypical?) blood of Canucks. Of course, that doesn't seem to be the case since the white stuff makes it look like heaven and hell both froze over.

Half an hour until my M&M deluxe clock/radio/phone begins the morning with a burst of music from Jazz FM. Maybe I'll be a rebel and turn it on right now. Hands reaching for it ... getting hot ... hotter ... cold. I'll just listen to Outkast's Hey Ya on my computer. Man, I love that song.


Sunday, January 04, 2004

You know what's fun? Dreaming of serial killers playing a dangerous game of hide-n'-go-seek with you, as you try to warn your family of their presence, but is unable to do so because you're too busy saving your own ass. The dream also consisted of me sneaking out of the house (in a fitted pink bomber jacket, natch) to cross my oddly busy suburban street over and over again, in the rain. What prompted me to return home (located a stone's throw away) was the presence of drunk drivers and two rain-soaked children, posed menacingly (cocked head, hands on their waist, scary!).

My family was fine, and I went back to bed. The serial killers stared forlornly through our locked door (yes, still in the rain). Heh heh. Stupid kids.


Saturday, January 03, 2004

New template. Hope it's well-received 'cause it sure took a bloody long time to change. Yes, it's puke green, but there's a chick in a bathing suit. Chick in a bathing suit! Not that it makes a difference, but dude! the irony!

Bon appetit!

Oh yeah, blog entries will most likely start getting interesting (*fingers crossed*) when school starts. Not promising anything, but I see a few scandals in the near future (or I'll just create them. Maybe set a few bars on fire, hip thrust a few gyrating Chippendalesters, who knows?).

Friday, January 02, 2004

Watched Nowhere in Africa (Nirgendwo in Afrika) by Caroline Link early this morning (*ahem* before dawn). The winner of 2002's Best Foreign Language Film Oscar. A truly deserving recipient, unlike Gladiator (ass clown!). A sumptuous feast for the eyes and soul. So moving and never falling prey to the gears of the plot, it was the reason I woke up at 7:30 at night.

Wow, sleeping all day, never catching the rays of the sun is awesome. If I continue to do this, I'd never have to deal with social interaction again. What a scrumptious idea!

Thursday, January 01, 2004

Children are messed. Especially when they decide to throw spoons at you. I guess I was one of the lucky victims. Some of my relatives got calamari on them during dim sum hour (not to mention a few chopsticks). Don't get me wrong. My 2 year old cousin -- Lil' Performer -- is cuter than Japanese merchandise, sold in conjunction with pastel clouds and Lassie, but he sometimes has a temper seen only in men who've drank their 18th beer.

At home, he threw a rubber ball at my brother, who got all misty eyed from the engrossing pain. In reaction, Lil' Performer calmly got into his Fisher Price jalopy and tried to escape from the scene of the crime. We caught that thug when he backed up into the coffee table, two feet away. I immediately reprimanded him. He tried poking my chub, charming me with his hands, but I knew that slickster's plan. I knew it well. He tried to use the cute routine. Wore my hairband around his eyes like a little Groucho Marx while jumping like a crazed rabbit. Ooh, he was good. A little too good. I wanted to give him the ol' heave ho, but I slapped his ordure-stuffed-plastic-intimate-wearing derriere instead. The nightmare was over before it began and I was left hanging in the aftermath.

We made up and in a giddy frenzy, he poked my chub one last time. Bastard! Foiled me again!