Saturday, February 28, 2004

I went to go watch "The Passion" with the German and Math Judas (oh, how fitting.) I really didn't see what the big deal was. What controversy? It was a 2 hour gorefest. There was absolutely no plot, just watching "Jesus of Nazareth" getting whipped, tortured, whipped, skinned, whipped, and crucified.

Simon says to Jesus something like, "Don't worry, you're almost there," like there was a prize at the end of his walk. He's getting nailed to a cross, send in the streamers.

And speaking of the cross, I think it's a well-known fact that he didn't get nailed in the palm. Scientifically speaking, you can't hold up your body weight that way. The wrists are where it's at. Technically speaking, Jesus would have died from carbon dioxide poisoning, and not from his wounds. His lungs would not have had enough strength to breathe it out due to his wounds. And historically speaking, the movie translated 40 flagellations into 20 minutes worth; equating to approximately quadruple that. He was a salmon fillet cross-hatched for perfect grilling the entire length of the movie. I didn't feel any sympathy for him. I've already complained about Jim Caviezel's lack of skills in acting, and this movie furthers my proof. Every leader must have charisma. Mel Gibson just assumed all audience members will sympathize with his lead character because he's the "Messiah", the "Christ." No character development, no docu-style representation, and at the end, a pointless showing of a crow gouging the eyes out of Jesus's fellow nailed-to-a-2x4 buddy. Oh, and the demon children ... way too many demon children. "You cursed, you cursed! And now you are cursed!" No wonder Mr. Gibson decided to use Aramaic and Latin (hokey gimmick). The English screenplay must've sucked hardcore.

Not to mention Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, was presented as a conflicted man. He wasn't. He was guilty of Jesus's death as much as the Jewish high priest.

And why was Monica Bellucci in the movie if she wasn't going to get naked and have sex with Christ? Why? She cries for 2 hours. Why did they hire an actress with fewer facial expressions than a crustacean? She's hot, so why no sex with 'HEY-zoos'?

But above all else, it was boring. It was a boring film. The only time "humanity" existed came when there was a flashback of Jesus making a table and (get this) invented the chair! Yes, Jesus of Nazareth invented that object you park your behind on. Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle ... if that was the lamest attempt at humour I've ever seen.


It was really fun last night because the jokes just kept coming. And the German didn't buy a ticket. His "ticket" was his failed transaction record. Hehe, deported for Christ. The irony, the irony!

Thursday, February 26, 2004

My "Why Insecure Men Are Adorable On TV But Don't Translate Well Into Real Life" article idea has been well received by reporters and my editor alike.

It will be so then. I am the new Mlle. Bradshaw.

Caffeine Cavorter says she sees me as her "competitor." That hurts, that really hurts, because I don't even know what the competition is. Pie eating? Fetus stuffing? Hog tying?

Damn you undefined rules!

Wednesday, February 25, 2004

My mom has a compulsive desire to check vacation rates of exotic locales on a daily basis. That's all fine and dandy ... until you realise everytime she does this, she closes all the windows you kept open on your taskbar. Goodbye research. Goodbye key facts and events. Goodbye future. Hello matronly denial. "I didn't touch anything."

I had a conversation about relationships with my Grandma and Dad an hour ago. It went a little something like this:

LILY: Not getting married.

GRANDMA: Why not?

LILY: I'd have to buy two of everything.

DAD: You can always just buy your own stuff.

LILY: Then why not be single?

GRANDMA: Exactly. A family shares everything.

LILY: Don't you and mom have separate bank accounts, Dad?

DAD: No. Your mom has her own. I don't. I use cash.

LILY: But what about your VISA?

DAD: About that. It's a pretty sweet deal. I buy stuff with my card and your mom pays my bills.

LILY: That's ... that's not right. I've always thought you had separate accounts and one you both shared. You two are just headed for divorce in another two years.

GRANDMA: That's true. But until you get married ...

LILY: Hold up there. Not married. Achieve common law status? Maybe.

GRANDMA: But it's going to be a man, right?!

LILY: [*looks at Dad*] I don't know, Grandma. A woman can never be ruled out of the equation. Here I come, San Francisco!

DAD: Why San Francisco? Toronto is 80km away. You'll save on gas; it being so expensive these days.

GRANDMA: What would you do with a woman?

LILY: She can mop my floors and do my laundry.

GRANDMA: But why?

LILY: I don't want to be chained to my woman like Dad is now.

GRANDMA: I saw an old gay couple on TV today. They were so cute!

[*insert awkward silence*]

MOM: Lily! Soup!

That was, indeed, a slice of my mundane life.

Am officially allowed to propose ideas and write articles for the Spectator now. I'm going to Disneyland!

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

Sex and the City has come full circle. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Carrie (30%, fashion), Charlotte (25%, prudeness), Miranda (40%, cynicism/realism), Samantha (5%, I wish). Will miss you ladies, but your spirit will be kept alive in reruns.
My editor spoke to the Entertainment editor and he said I might be able to write two columns per week for that section!

Jigga what?!
Gah! What the hell is this crap? Hamburgers without buns?! Meat wrapped in lettuce?! Sacre bleu! Man, only Americans would eat to lose weight. I mean, just diminish your portions. Super sizing is a privilege, not a right.

Maybe someone should tell that to the 40-year old divorcee, with the double chin, wearing inch-thick glasses and a paisley print muumuu over green plaid from the John Deere fashion line. Oh, everyone's seen that mystifying creature by the table near the restaurant window, eating alone.

Don't deny it *shakes old man Asian fist*.

Monday, February 23, 2004

A cigar-smoking, Windex-spraying, vest-wearing bus driver.

Is he in ... or out? And who will be the first to tell him?

Sunday, February 22, 2004

Went out tonight with Bible Cop, Christian Scrawnwich and the German. Well, actually, attended this baptism with Bible Cop, Scrawnwich and Math Jesus. Boy, that Math Jesus just sings like he owns the place: "Lord, I love thee, Lord! I really adore you, Lord! La la la *insert shouting like Diana Ross if she was a man whose voice was cracking due to male-berty* Love you so much, Lord" and so on and so forth. So yeah, couldn't stand the screeching, so I sat down and read the Bible the whole time. I mean, you have to know the enemy to fight the enemy. And I'm sitting there, reading, and I'm thinking to myself how "The Good Book" sounds almost identical to ancient myths that we assume to be completely false now. The parallels aren't difficult to see, especially in the story of Noah in comparison to the Old Babylonian poem of Gilgamesh. So why do some people insist on following the Bible literally? I don't mind the fact that organised religion have many things in common, such as monotheism. But most notably are their collections of stories used to explain the who, what, where, when, whys of existence. They are myths, and in essence, the Bible, Koran, Torah, etc. are all pieces of fiction dreampt up by man to explain "what it all means." So I can understand the comfort people gain from reading these literary works, as healthy lessons can be gleaned from their pages. But to take them literally is like saying the aforementioned morals only apply in certain contexts, which contradict the all loving, all emcompassing values of, well, religion.

Later on, Bible Cop, Christian Scrawnwich, the German and I all hung out at Second Cup. Basically, we talked and talked and talked, and I asked the Christian whether or not he masturbates and the German said I was "tactless" while laughing (even though it was partly his fault since he brought it up to remind me), so I told the Christian not to answer me (which he gladly complied.)

I realise just how jaded I really am. That's my word now. Jaded. I'm already disenchanted with the world at 17. Yeesh, what the hell do I still have to live for? Oh right. Sex.

No, no. Music and movies would actually beat that hands down. *Drool* Chopin and Fellini ...

Found out today, I might be going to Cuba for a weeklong cruise with my madda, sidda and Bible Cop (if she gets her damn passport on time.) Oh, Latin men who are built like soccer players, watch out!

Friday, February 20, 2004

Sex and the City is almost over. I've never been so attached to any TV show in my life, and yet, I got teary eyed within the first 7 minutes of "An American Girl In Paris (Part Une)." I can't believe she told off Big the way she did:

Carrie: 'You and I' NOTHING! You cannot do this to me again! You cannot jerk me around.

Big: Carrie, listen. It is different ...

Carrie: Oh, it's never different. It's six years ... of never being different. But this is it, I am done. Don't call me ... ever again. Forget you know my number. In fact, forget you know my name.

[Big is left speechless, watching her walk away.]

Carrie: And you can drive down this street all you want ... because I don't live here anymore!

That scene kicked the wind right out of me. That rage ... Big deserved it, but ... wow, he really needs to make an effort to win her back in Paris.

Thursday, February 19, 2004

So Dean's out of the presidential race. Well, that was ... to be expected. He's too much of a self-promotionalist and is easily irritated for effect. Too much of a wild card. He got rid of the 65 million dollar deficit the state of Vermont had before his tenure as governor by cutting back spending. This seems to be the "logical" route for many American (and Canadian) politicians. Social welfare is put on the back burner so you could see that little graph shrink itself into oblivion. Governor Schwarzenegger's doing it too (I can't believe Ah-nuld has that title now. I mean, what will his eulogy say? "Here lies Arnold 'The Pervert' Schwarzenegger. He led a full life. A long stint as Mr. Universe led to a semi-lucrative movie career that produced such gems like True Lies, Eraser, and Terminator I, II, & III. And here he sleeps, as the first governor of California who died on the job eating a ham sandwich, a la Mama Cass. May God be with him.")

Does Ah-nuld really think taking disability programs away will help the state? Yeah, you don't owe people money anymore, but you're also unwilling to part with money that could be spent on improving the lives of your people. Damn nouveau-Republicans. Their original ideology emphasised private ownership. But now, it's like the government has become the real threatening monopoly.


RE: Anthony,

If you don't like reading my blog, you have a choice of not reading it. I happen to work at the Spectator. I might not enjoy it it all that much, but since this is my blog, I will write whatever the hell I feel like writing, which includes things you either don't understand or choose not to.

Ugh, hippies.

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

Things I did today at the Spectator:

-Toured the provincial and superior courts

-Met numerous lawyers

-Discussed movies with Bob, the family attorney

-Barbara, a criminal reporter, and I giggled like schoolgirls when we found common ground: Iron Chef, Sex and the City and Queer Eye. How I melted the heart of a seemingly frigid woman. She had conversations with this lawyer named Kevin and I overheard things like, "Large maggot mass" and "Mummified finger."

Good stuff. And I checked today's paper and my article really was published. Although, my editor repeated the word "blitz" three times (as in, food drive blitz), which was no fault of mine

Tuesday, February 17, 2004

Things I did today at the Spectator:

-Attended my first executive board meeting

-Found out from the Editor that the stuff I reported on yesterday about Christian Slater's new movie was incorporated into this guy's article and published

-Wrote my first article today about some mass provincial food drive. It's to be published in tomorrow's paper

-Did my first phone interview with the president of some property ownership organization

Monday, February 16, 2004

Entry from my CO-OP log sheet for today (upon request by Christian Scrawnwich):

I arrived 10 minutes early to my Spectator placement. Rick Hughes was at his desk. I introduced myself to him and the man standing beside him. He goes through my orientation package. The movie, A Good Shepherd (starring Christian Slater), was in production on the second floor of the building. Rick told me to gather 5 facts about it, whether it would be the number of trucks they brought with them or the number of extras they hired. I was really nervous, not knowing my way around, at first. But quickly gathered enough courage to ask anyone I encountered, practically, anything. I approached the third assistant director, interviewed her. She's one feisty, cynical lady. Also met up with Damian, the property manager. A George Clooney look-a-like, except scruffier (I told him that, he called me his little Editor.) He was funny and teased me a lot. I talked to the movie's publicists: one who does the PR kits and one who does the media work, Bev and Aaron. I asked them about their education backgrounds. Everyone in the film crew is Canadian, so I discussed with Effie (sp?) about the effects of American investment in Canada. The who, what, where, when, whys. Also talked to Paul "Spike" Lees. He's the production manager, originally from Manchester. Great, informative guy. I asked him about the length of the scene and the number of extras that was hired. The answer was 350, of which, 330 were from Hamilton. Big, charismatic fellow. There was one guy, I forget his name, he invited me to sit with all the guys at lunch and told me to join their team and leave my COOP job behind. I laughed and I called him "Louis Armstrong" or "Satchmo" because of his rubbery face. Nice guys, the lot. By the end, a handful of them knew me by name. Afterwards, Rick told me to type up all the facts I gathered to be sent to the Editorial department, which he demonstrated. I have my own cubicle area too. Rick also told me to cut out today's newspaper and photocopy the articles that have the possibility of future stories. Such as, the coming elections and negotiations and whatnot. Jim is another one of my co-workers, he's the Editor. Seems shy, looks like Nick from The Apprentice. But asked me to give him three ideas for tomorrow's paper before I left.

Saturday, February 14, 2004

Went cruising with Sexy Spinster today. Saw Shotgun Toter waiting at the bus stop and picked her up as well. I bought 10 chicken wings* and we ate them in the moving car ... then threw the bones out the window, one passing car at a time. Also threw the garbage bag (don't worry, it was double knotted) onto a lawn.

Went to Eastgate Mall and tried to find parking. Actually, it was quite empty but we wanted to run through the gaggle of geese who were schmoozin' with the seagulls. However, when we drove towards them, they did not move, even after honking at them ... repeatedly (if repeatedly means once ... but for a good 4 seconds.) And we couldn't back up either because we were too deep inside their territory. But good news in the end: Let's just say I didn't get to bring one home for dinner ... not that I wanted to.

Drove through the downtown area and turned up The Darkness's "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" with the windows rolled down. Yeah, that was ... embarrassing ... because while our upper bodies were jiving ... old ladies stared. Then we did it to Shania Twain's "Man I Feel Like A Woman" which didn't have the same impact ... because it was much more embarrassing. So for that song, we gingerly rolled up the windows and, well, turned down the volume. Okay, turned off the radio completely.

Drove into Westdale and parked near Shoppers Drug Mart. Turned into a space crooked. Backed up into a car**. Calmly walked away. Damn, good thing that cop didn't see us from across the street. "Don't look! Don't look back!" we warned each other as we sped-walked (correct tense?) inconspicuously.

Sexy Spinster later told me she almost got into an accident while driving home because she slipped and turned extra wide into oncoming traffic. Wow, so Halle Berry-esque of her ... except for the not hitting someone, not speeding away afterwards, and being Black thing.

*5 breaded, 2 honey garlic, 4 BBQ

**To be fair, it was rusty and old anyway. A little dent never hurt anyone, it simply builds character.
Feb. 12, 2004 has stemmed (excuse the pun) a medical milestone. The South Koreans successfully cloned a human embryo. That's absolutely fantastic. Now Parkinson's and and diabetes (among other things) can finally be a thing of the past. Now people living with debilitating diseases can finally have a fighting chance. I don't see how, to some people, this is unethical. Blardy, blardy, blar, "You're killing life." Listen, women get their periods every month. We're releasing an ovum in the john every 28 days. Are we murderers?

Besides, in the words of that kid in me and Shotgun Toter's Philosophy class: "An embryo has eight cells. I have more cells in my spit."

Such a tidy conclusion. That's gold, Jerry! GOLD!

Friday, February 13, 2004

Countdown to Valentine's Day. It's a shame singletons must endure such tasteless displays of togetherness and put up with canoodling from their not-so-single friends. This issue was brought to my attention on, you guessed it, Sex and the City (it's fluff I just eat up.)

Singletons don't get presents during Valentine's. We can't throw engagement parties nor weddings in an attempt to receive sixteen useless toasters from Black & Decker. Honeymoon gifts? Bah, I barely have money for detergent. We don't have baby showers to make young women feel inadequate as they shell out hundreds of dollars on novelty doodle diapers and safety hatches for a baby they didn't have. We don't invite adults to children's birthday parties in an attempt to glean dollars and cents from friends who barely know your name (or your child's.)

If this is the life of marrieds, then I want to get married. You get presents all year round just for finding a mate you can pick up at some sleazy downtown truckstop. He can be Bob III, divorced, likes horses, high school drop-out, prefers the 69 position (i.e. the threesome of the '90s), hates tofurkey, enjoys basketball and wrestling, tends to avoid showering and his ex-wife, cries during Maid in Manhatten, happy during Nike commercials (for its "ingenious camerawork" and not, as I originally presumed, for its depiction of sinewy men), number of Nicotine patches on his arm: 4, number of Asian slaves on his farm: 8, number of cops he's tried to harm: 27, but he knows when to turn on the charm ("How you doin'?")

To think, all this bitterness came from my sister who attended her dumbass Valentine's Day classroom party but refused to share her Hershey's Kisses with me in the car. SHE HAD A WHOLE BAG! Stupid rotten middle school kids.

Oh, and happy couples rejoice (for what reason, I have yet to make up.) Here's a picture of the tanktop I dubbed:

"The Valentine's Shirt."

I should actually change that to "Get Laid Shirt." The only time Wore-A-Blue-Shirt-Today noticed me enough to say sayonara, loudly and tactlessly in the hall, was when I paired them with my sexy jeans after school.

Thursday, February 12, 2004

It's a shonda, I tell ya. A shonda.

I went to this thing called "Soulmate Calculator for American Singles" because, well, it was featured on a article. After clicking through preferences I've never even thought of ("Optimism?"), I get my results.

My probability coefficient of finding a soulmate is 3.38670801E-08.

And to do this, I have to meet 29,527,199 American single males who are between 18 and 26 years old.

Well, guess that's Jack Daniels 1; Lily zip.

On second thought ... Lily 1; Hedonistic-idea-used-to-comfort-those-who-are-unwilling-to-part-with-traditional-values-that-enslave-individuals-together-in-an-attempt-to-salvage-corporate-stagnation zip.


Wednesday, February 11, 2004

Haggled the price for driving school today. Saved $10. Pretty good, pretty good. I'm starting to enjoy looking like a cheapskate ... who's all too eager to pay either way.

Piano teacher decided I was too lazy to play Gr. 9 songs today, so she put me in Gr. 10 piano instead because the songs are better suited for me. Which is wicked cool since it means I get to skip out doing the Gr. 9 Royal examination. Booyah bitch!

In other news. What's up with the rampant opposition to gay marriage? With the divorce rate being so high, you'd think these right-wing radicals would opt to give homosexuals the right to sanctify their love in order to punish them. I mean, what could be worse than going through a bitter separation that involves fighting over some novelty Aztec-printed tie you bought from a hotdog hut in Cancun because no one has good taste when they have tequila in their veins.

Yes'sum, it just dun make an'sense.

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

Finished my ISU comparison essay on surrealism in film: The Blood of a Poet vs. Being John Malkovich, which means I finally completed Writer's Craft. Mr. C told me my overall average turned out to be a 90. I asked him whether it was my indifference to the vocab tests that brought down my mark. He nodded. Ah, honesty from myself and honesty from him. If the world was more like us, there wouldn't be any surprises.
Nooooooooooo, not you too Mandy!

This is an entry from Moby's online journal:

Meet The Press
2/9/2004 - New York City

Russert: Two polls out this weekend show you --

President Bush: See there, you're quoting polls.

Russert: you're trailing John Kerry in both U.S.A. Today and Newsweek polls by seven and five points.

President Bush: Yeah.

Russert: This is what John Kerry had to say last year. He said that his colleagues are appalled at the "President's lack of knowledge. They've managed him the same way they've managed Ronald Reagan. They send him out to the press for one event a day. They put him in a brown jacket and jeans and get him to move some hay or move a truck, and all of a sudden he's the Marlboro Man. I know this guy. He was two years behind me at Yale. I knew him, and he's still the same guy."

Did you know him at Yale?

President Bush: No.

Russert: How do you respond to that?

President Bush: Politics. I mean, this is-- you know, if you close your eyes and listen carefully to what you just said, it sounds like the year 2000 all over again.

Russert: You were both in Skull and Bones, the secret society.

President Bush: It's so secret we can't talk about it.

Russert: What does that mean for America? The conspiracy theorists are going to go wild.

President Bush: I'm sure they are. I don't know. I haven't seen the (unintel) yet. (Laughs)

Russert: Number 322.

President Bush: First of all, he's not the nominee, and I look forward

Russert: Are you prepared to lose?

and my favorite quote from gw's interview on sunday, and maybe it was just a little slip up, but gw said:

"You know, we want to harm America."
-George Bush, Meet the Press, Feb. 8, 2004.

Okay, so I'm Canadian. But American politics are just so scandalous, it's like choosing between Paris Hilton and Doris Day.

Sunday, February 08, 2004

I can't get enough of NBC'S The Apprentice. It's corporate war games. It's freakin' American Gladiators without the extra-large Q-tips and hamster balls. I want to be like Trump someday. Without the marital problems, bankruptcy problems, and, I'm guessing from the looks of things, erectile dysfunction. I want to look hot in a nice Armani pencil skirt and say, "Do it. Do it my way." What a sweet ass life it will be as a magnate of some sort. I'm not looking to start wars like Hearst, but c'mon ladies. If you were at the New York Stock Exchange, can you honestly say you wouldn't enjoy being surrounded by men all trying to get it up? That's what I thought.

Oh ... you don't? Why not? I mean ... oh ... okay. I guess you're right. Stealing is wrong, I know. I won't encounter ... ya know, drugs ... will I? That's crazy. Call girls and crack cocaine? Heidi Fleiss times 10 sans Charlie Sheen? Oh .. I see. Guess being Trump isn't all it's cracked up to be *sigh*.

Saturday, February 07, 2004

'Tis a no-brainer that I'm Chinese. I've gone through the racist spectacles, overwrought with emotion. I'm also an immigrant whose roots belong miles from here, embedded in high-end stores and low-end ramshackle dens fused in hubbub. But most importantly, I have a father who can't quite wrap his finger around the idea that my first language is English. It is one thing to prove a potential employer at just how adept I am for the job, it is another thing entirely when my own father questions my competence amongst deified members of society, known as my classmates.

"Do you understand what you are reading in the newspaper?" he asks rather nonchalantly the other day. I react in rage. "Why wouldn't I?" Spitting out each syllable like Mount Etna in the early phases of eruption.

"I am just asking whether or not you understand everything you are reading. It is all in English, you know? Do you understand all that is being written?"

Such condescension. Such over-compensation for his own shortcomings.

I go get a cup of water and calm down.

"There are definitely some words that elude me. But for those, I go and look up their definitions on the Internet," came my response.

"Internet? Are you sure you can handle it? Everything is in English," he smirked.

My God he needs to shut up around me!


Has anyone else wondered about the secret lives of teachers? I have. Many, many-a times. It all started with Mr. L, the high school math teacher I never had. One earring through his left ear and red and blue chunks in his hair, he is the epitomy of 80s kitsch. That, and he wears plaid. Blue plaid. So in essence, New Order packaged with Neil Tennant from the Pet Shop Boys with Boy George in there for added colour and a Scottish lumberjack thrown in to justify the plaid. Which gets the gears in the noggin' crankin'. Does the seemingly composed Mr. L find time to go to warehouse raves, get high off ecstasy, then run over grannies in his Chevette because he was too distracted listening to WHAM! on his 8-track? Maybe he doesn't try to stay in the '80s. Maybe he lives in a yuppie duplex and dances underneath his newly installed strobe light his wife/girlfriend/mother/lover keeps telling him to throw out, and dressing the way he does at school is his only refuge from the dredgery that awaits for him back home.

What about other teachers though?

a South African slave owner who whips herself with a mace during Bed of Roses as she collects her blood in a vile presented to the She-Devil.

a science junkie who attends comedy clubs then later trecks through the woods in cirque-instocks like a hippie hermit.

a British know-it-all who hums the theme to I Dream of Jeannie while hunting down prey in his neck of the 'hood. In this case: children seated in minivans.

has a real-life twin. Life already too exciting to contemplate.

Friday, February 06, 2004

My sister is a goddamn fucktard. Conniving little runt.

That is all.

Maybe giving people pseudonyms on this blog isn't such a good idea after all. Those who read it understandably spin fanciful tales from the events presented and confidently believe it to be true. Though they are oftentimes correct, they are just as frequently wrong.

Then again, my life isn't exciting (*insert "No duh!" from studio audience*), so everyone will just have to bare with me and take these entries as they come, without guessing who the participants actually are. So stop asking me!
Regrets, regrets, regrets. Okay, just one. But hooo boy, this was a biggie. For months, I've been caught up in this charade with this guy, and he reveals to me recently that .... Well, speaking about it would give it away, no? So I am slightly disappointed, but well on my way to a full recovery (when did I become an optimist?). And ... it's done.

But stupid, stupid, stupid. What a difference a week makes all because of bad timing.

Meh. Could've, would've, should've. Life's a bitch sometimes.

Thursday, February 05, 2004

Watched the Brazilian flick, City of God (Cidade de Deus), yesterday. Wow. That's all I can say. Intense, fearless, violent. It is definitely one of the best films I have seen in a very long time. I can't recommend it enough (meaning, I can recommend it enough.)

Today was the first day of second semester. Wow. That's all I can say. Boring, pointless, unnecessary. I fell asleep in class. It was that awful. The German and I talked on the bus on the way home. He told me to go to the mall with him. "For what?" I asked. "To help me pick out snow pants ... and underwear." He's so funny. We also discussed our friends (in a humourous fashion, as always.) I warned him about meddling in the guileful and discreet affairs of women after he said it was wrong of me to treat a friend of ours a certain way. I said, "If men weren't so stupid, we wouldn't be able to manipulate them." In which he replied, "But being a man doesn't necessarily relate to ..." "... being stupid," I finished. "I know, I know." We laughed over the whole ordeal because the technicalities and possibilities are just far too numerous. He is positively wunderbar ... most of the time. Heh heh.

A certain someone from my past (okay, last semester) has been trying to befriend me as of late. I liked him before I got to know him. Now he likes me after he got to know me. But sadly, I don't like him after I got to know him. Yet, he is now willing to make an effort to get to know me better. Is it wrong to not like someone (as much) because, well, the tables have been turned? Ah, absolute power corrupts absolutely. 'Tis, 'tis *sigh*.

Go see City of God. Nominated in Cinematography, Directing, Film Editing, and Adapted Screenplay at the Academy Awards this year (even though it was released in 2002.) Oh, it's just freckin' fantastic! I'm shuddering in ecstasy, so you know I mean business.

Wednesday, February 04, 2004

Yah! All hail the girl who passed her G1 this morning. The lady accepted my Body Shop card as a form of identification. My license is not going to look good, that's for sure. Hell, it won't look like anything. Just me, staring into space with a greyish tint to my seemingly weathered face. Like cracked ashphalt or cement mix not quite uniformly incorporated, kept in the back of a beat-up GMC truck. I have a theory that everytime someone's picture turns out well, an angel loses its wings. That's why there are so few success stories.

I went to school to check out my marks. Got 92% on my Writer's Craft exam. Am happy with that. Must try to get more than 90% on my comparison essay on surrealism in film to achieve an overall course average of 90%+. Politics was a bitch. I don't know why I even bothered to go check my mark for that stupid class. It was the worst course I've ever taken in my life and a total waste of my time. Let's just say my final mark was 15% over the cut-off point for Journalism in Concordia University, but 5% away from being useful to me. My top six U courses will get me that $2000 entrance scholarship, but Politics will definitely not be included.

Afterwards, Shotgun Toter and I went to the mall to explain the string of homophobic/psychotic/needy/suicidal/sensitive/paranoid/depressed/lonely/suicidal/suicidal/suicidal men she's ever encountered to Math Jesus. He thought it was hilarious. Oh, it is ... in retrospect. I'll explain. You know, when you cut off the heads of vampires, they're supposed to die? You breathe a sigh of relief and turn around to walk away, only to hear them creep up to you, crying, "What's going on between us?" In reality, it would equate to you telling one to fuck off, but they meander through your life even more homophobic/psychotic/needy/suicidal/sensitive/paranoid/depressed/lonely/suicidal/suicidal/suicidal. My advice to her hinted at telling them to just kill themselves, but I realise now that they'd never go through with their *slit, slits* and *burn, burns* because they enjoy telling people about their pitiful lives after every bout of depression ... which is quite often. If they were dead, they wouldn't be able to whine about their "feelings" and drown in their sorrow.

That's it for today. Adios, hombres!

Tuesday, February 03, 2004

Just watched the Super Bowl halftime show for Janet Jackson's boob-tacular extravaganza. The first version I downloaded showed the incident then showed it again in very slow-motion. Ah, the things unemployed men do in their spare time. I don't really care if it was staged or not. Her breasts look fake either way. Like two aerodynamically-defying bobbing dodge balls. And that metal pastie on her nipple? Hope that catches on, eh? Kind of kinky in a Medieval Times dinner and tournament sort of way. Can anyone really be offended by something that wasn't real to begin with?

Now everywhere I look, it's yet another news article reporting on this damn thing. I mean, come on. It looked like Justin Timberlake was removing a puzzle piece. That was it. He wasn't fondling her breast like Diana Ross did to Lil' Kim a few years back at some MTV music event.

However, I am slightly ticked that he didn't dress more provocatively. Khakis and a T-shirt? What was he thinking? He didn't even colour code his outfit to match his strippers onstage. Now that's just uncalled for. I was hoping he would do some sort of Rolling Stone cover re-enactment. Forgot his bronzer, perhaps? And what was the ex-Mrs. Rene Elizondo wearing? She looked like Batman without his rubber moulded pecs. Elvira on steroids. Some warped cultish Tibetan monk crossed with Freddie Mercury if he was obsessed with Sting during his mystic tantra phase crossed with a latex-wearing fag hag sans culottes *shudder*. If she wanted attention, she should've just stepped into her brother's Neverland Ranch and molested the girls he avoided with an 8 mile stick. Bah. 37 going on 17. Look what you've done, Demi!

Monday, February 02, 2004

Caffeine Cavorter took out her big book of dreams and analysed it for me:

The shoes signify stability, a sense of being grounded, but if you didn't recognize the shoes as your own, it means insecurity. The motel means instability, temporariness.

They were my shoes in the dream, but I don't recognize them from real life. The asymmetry of them must have clued me in there. Caffeine Cavorter says it might mean insecurity in the past, but stability in the future.

The fact that you were a corporate giant, so to speak, is basically just an idealistic view of yourself. So it's not really symbolic. But you either view yourself as influential or wish yourself to be more influential.

I want to be anonymous. I don't want a public life. But I want to be the power behind the throne. Sort of like Dick Cheney (without the whole bad heart, in every sense of the word). And indeed. I've become really interested in public relations within the advertising sector. Though I hate shameless advertising, I want to be part of it. To become The Man in order to avoid The Man's subtle (and not so subtle) influences since I'll be in the know.

The store and the magazine office signify wants or needs. Specifically, your financial needs and needs in life.

I do enjoy working in large groups with creative people and I'm looking forward to helping the Editor-In-Chief at our city's newspaper, with offices that had the same atmospheric feel in the dream. Also, big corporate jobs will allow me to feed my shoe habit. Or just shopping habit, in general.

"What did the dream mean to you!" she asked, finally.

"It felt like my perfect life ... full of orgasms."

Though, I think the perfection of that life comes from the mere exhilaration of finding such a wonderful job that satisfies all my material and mental needs. Donald Trump, watch out!
Just woke up from a power nap. Had a dream where all my girlfriends were dressed to the nines in vintage stripes and other Missoni prints. I had on these closed-toe espadrilles with silk ankle-ties. Except, one foot had two Roberto Cavalli-printed ones (gold and green, respectably), while my other foot had on a red version of the same leaf-motif. All the girls were running around in some cheap motel, through narrow corridors, down shallow steps, and asking for something I don't remember. Then, while being driven home, I got out of the car and yelled to someone, "I've got it! I'll start a 'Zine and call it Favourable Orgasm!" Cut to months later, outside a tall Tiffany & Co. looking building, there is a sign above the door that reads, "EO Magazine: Easy Orgasm." Cut to a trendy bar, where everyone is drinking the new, hip drink of the moment: The Dirty Orgasm. It apparently contains peach juice and vodka. Cut to a department store cosmetic's counter where everyone is just dying to use the new spring line called (you guessed it) Orgasm. Everyone woman can be seen powdering her nose with the colour, which is a golden yellow/orange combination. All this time, I tell myself people are suckers for so-called 'cutting edge' or 'risque' fads. Then I wake up looking for those shoes I had on.

What is this dream telling me? Suggestions?
Just got back from hanging out with Shotgun Toter. We sat on buses all day, then hung out at the mall. Had a nice, long chat concerning the thing I was miffed about yesterday. I apologised for being a terrible, self-serving friend in certain respects of the situation. It was nice though. I don't think I can ask for a more understanding friend. Went to Harvey's and had a kid's combo. The girl who works there knows my order by heart since I used to see her everyday during my lunchbreak, between selling shoes and handling irrational customers. I told her I was refused a toy for my Kid's Meal the other day, so she gave me the "special" box they keep between themselves and Swiss Chalet to look through. I ended up looting a Piglet springy keychain and a punching balloon (whatever that is, but can't wait to play with it). Shotgun Toter and I wandered the mall and criticised it (because that's just cool) and wandered some more. Then I took the bus home. Ah ... need to learn to drive SOON. Preferably, during March/Spring Break. Just want to get it over with before I move to Montreal.
You know what I think? I think Caffeine Cavorter (formerly, though unofficially, known as Neurotic Nanny) should update her DeadJournal. I don't know, maybe it's so I would have something to read? I feel like a Wordsworth whore, existing only to satiate the needs of jaded websurfers. I have a brain, you know (<--channeling Steve Brady)! I want to use it, too.

And don't think you can get away from my wrath by updating it just recently (*ahem* yesterday). That still doesn't make up for the... hmm ... 18 consecutive days you left me sullen and empty!

I like the new template though.

Sunday, February 01, 2004

Jay-sus! I hate cigarettes. I was talking to Sexy Spinster about it today while wandering a university campus. I mean, I could understand why people would do it if it was sweet and chewy ...

Just a plain, filthy, nasty habit.
Just watched Pirates of the Caribbean and Love Actually.

Orlando Bloom is literally genetically perfect. Holy cow, he's a fox! Johnny Depp (inside me) is forty-something and he's fuckin' delicious! Pirates is the absolute beefcake movie to end all beefcake movies if I ever saw one *drool*.

Love Actually has more or less 8 romantic comedies all rolled up into one gigantic Notting Hill-type vehicle. Loved it!

Went out with my good friend Sexy Spinster. She drove us in her parents' Pontiac to Canadian Tire so I could pick up a driver's ed. book. Man, I need to learn how to drive soon. I'm almost 18. This is tres sad. Tres, tres sad. Like a rhino bum fucking an ape. Tres, tres sad. But will do my written test tomorrow *July, August ... December, January ... February ...* eight months later. OH MY GOD! I could've got my G2 already!

So yeah, we got a talking about what I was miffed about today. Can't talk about it here though. Dare I say, hush, hush? I'm under oath. But alright now, after a long, hearty discussion with Sexy Spinster at Starbucks over expensive juice and a Frappacino that tasted oddly like white chocolate even though she ordered vanilla.

*Sigh* Hormones and cliques shouldn't click. Wise words of the hour.