Monday, May 31, 2004

Went to a pool hall last night with the German, his vacationing sister, the Jerk, and Math Jesus.

I must say, it was mighty fun. Though I must admit, I was hesitant at first:

Shotgun Toter: "Why would you want to go? It's just an excuse for them to check you out and put their hands on your ass when you bend over. Not to mention sticks and balls have so many connotations."

me: "Yeah ..."

Needless to say, I went anyway. I don't like to brag but I fuckin' rock at it! Pool, that is. Not, getting sexually assaulted.

Okay, so I wasn't crazy good, but I put my share of balls in corner pockets (cannotations indeed.)

All the while, whenever something went wrong, I would say, "Hand of God ... right now would be good." So by definition: God only existed when I needed Him. And by extension, he's like that sad oaf who's had an unrequited infatuation with you since elementary school when he realized you both had a habit of pulling doors clearly labelled "PUSH," thereby, consistently being at your disposal when you need a ride to, yet another, abusive boyfriend's crack den.

Hope that made sense.

I think I might just live in the rec. room when I go to university:

"This table's mine, bitch!"

Saturday, May 29, 2004

Best friends Indecisive Indian and Jean Machine picked me up to rent a movie last night. Took us an hour and a half to rent something from Rogers.

"Kill Bill?"

"Seen it."

"Bring It On 2?"

"Doesn't even have famous faces."

"Bullet Proof Monk?"


"Hey, there's a Cruel Intentions 3, guys."


"What about this movie, with the Asian guy on the cover?"

"Who is he?"

"A 'George Wong'? Looks like he has first-degree burns on his face."

"Next. We need to find one with hot guys in it."

"Hey, I heard Calendar Girls was good."

"What's it about?"

"Old women stripping for charity."

"Nah ... What about Something's Gotta Give?"

"Yeah, we really progressed there: From oggling old women to old men."

"How 'bout we just rent what's on the monitor right now?"


"Robots in Disguise."

This went on for, like I said, an hour and a half before we left with Le Divorce.

Me: "It's a comedy! I mean, they're White, blonde, and divorced - we won't be able to relate! And she carries a gorgeous Kelly bag from Hermes."

So after much coaxing and VHS vs. DVD bickering, we go to Indecisive Indian's house and watch it.

The movie was not a comedy. It was not funny. Well, one scene was. The part where Naomi Watts's husband, Charles-Henri, tells Kate Hudson that he met another woman and that she's amazing. Just then, you here this ethnic singing in the background. The camera cuts to the girl he's talking about. She's speaking in tongue to a few people who've gathered around her and jerking her head from side to side like in a Bollywood production.

I2: "What is that? Is she speaking Chinese? What is that?!"

me: "Shuttup! It's Indian!"

JP: "I'd have to agree with Lily. She's singing like a crazy Indian woman."

I2: "That is not Indian, let's rewind it."

So we did, six times. Each time louder than before so we could really here that crazy lady. We couldn't breathe, we were laughing so hard.

The movie was so boring, we started playing "Try to get out of this blanket that's wrapped around your body in less than 10 seconds" long before the credits started rolling.


Speaking of first-degree burns. I was downtown, crossing the street to catch my bus, when this wigger stood next to me. He had on a baseball hat and shades.

OH MY GOD! I know I'm going to come off shallow right about now, but the inflammation on his face was ... was ... Okay. I didn't look long enough to see if it was just really bad acne or something, but his entire face was puffy, and it looked as if the top layer of his skin had been scalded off, with blister boils - fresh and popped - cratering his face like the surface of the moon!

Poor guy, but goddamnit! Even the Invisible Man made use of a scarf once in a while.

Friday, May 28, 2004

I was just thinking, the line between R and NC-17 movies is very small ... Rather, the size of a male member.

See, I think in our schizophrenic culture where Puritans rule, sexuality and sensuality are confused as one.

When I was holed up in Paris last year, I became acquainted with un petit shack that carried magazines. It "perplexed" me that the front covers contained nipply women, though the title was clearly marked "Vogue" (okay, so I oggled longer than acceptable ... It must've been a cold photoshoot) After many-a minutes with this, I stopped caring, ne'er batting an eye when I passed.

Okay, so the point of that was: Body parts are what we make of them. Covering them up only increases the mystery (like everything else in society), thereby, lending an unhealthy dose of confusion and idealization to an unsuspecting and ignorant crowd of horny teenagers. And boy are they aggressive when they're horny. Which explains the rampant use of steroids (even though steroids are proven to shrink nads.) That's what you call a conundrum.


I just realized I'm currently trying to blow off the only guy who'll always be on call to sex me up. But the need to get laid just isn't as strong as the need to repel really possessive men.
Tips on doing a good presentation:

1. Don't prepare
2. Don't use cue cards
3. Make it up as you go along
4. Pick on students to get a class discussion going
5. Shamelessly accept praise afterwards
(I think I just beat Pat's intention to start a top-five list)

Let me explain.

I signed up to do my ISU presentation (worth 30%) last week. I haughtily looked at the requirements and volunteered to do it this week.

"I'll get it done over the weekend," I said to myself.

Yeah, and Don Quixote is a type of beer.

So I kept "forgetting" to prepare for this thing until yesterday. I fell asleep reading the first paragraph of an essay dedicated to explaining the absurbity of his writing - Franz Kafka's writing.

I photocopied and stapled together five story sketches of his (15 packages in total) and prepared to walk the green mile. I organized the presentation in my head within a span of seven minutes (the time it takes for my mom to drive me to school, sans pausing to yell at me to learn how to drive already).

The girl before me finished her presentation about the Life of Pi and fear.

My teacher asked her why we're so attracted to fear. The class almost unanimously agreed that it is because of the fight or flight reactive mentality; pleasure and pain is intertwined in our brain.

I said it could also be our fascination with cheating death, the illusion that we have power over our mortality.

That ended the class discussion real fast *sigh* I don't know why.

"Lily, you're up next."

"Ah, great ..."

The class went silent. I sulked to the door and opened it only to slam it shut again. I purposely dropped a pile of papers at my feet and proceeded to walk over the mess. I shuffled my feet to the front of the room and stood there, silently. I rummaged through my purse and slicked on my lipgloss, calmly putting it away to recite a quote ("The bone of his forehead obstructs his way; he knocks himself bloody against his own forehead.") Then I put on a red hairband with sequined devil horns stitched demurely on its felted padding. The class erupted in laughter.

"Absurdity!" I proclaimed. "THAT ... is the writing of Franz Kafka!"

The rest of the presentation consisted of lively conversations that introduced the students to the systematic torture of office employees living in a bureaucratic haven. I used examples from Office Space and Dilbert to illustrate some points (and referred back to Fil's presentation with the Matrix.) I asked the audience to take turns reading from the short sketches I prepared for them. I questioned some of the students, asking them why they were dissatisfied with Kafka's writing style.

"Why doesn't he give us a solution? He's just whining about his problems, but what is he doing to change his situation?"

Ironically, I had given each of them a copy of another sketch called "The Resolution" which did offer a solution to the pain of normality. But death isn't something they wanted to accept as an answer.

"He's passive, he's pointless," some complained.

"Maybe he's realistic," I replied. "Maybe he's showing us, the readers, that we live in a world where we aren't consequential. That we're replaceable and there's nothing we can do about it. Maybe it's a warning to anyone who believe they will be fulfilled at a desk job!"

After I finished, a huge sigh of relief released from my body, and my legs almost gave out from under me (I used to have chronic stage fright, but I've learned to control/defy it.) Mr. C, the Studies in Literature teacher, caught up to me during the beginning of lunch and told me it was a great presentation. I told him, I learned from my mistakes from last time (lie #1) and consciously changed the format to get people involved (lie #2). He said it was really fabulous and that, oddly enough, he didn't expect so many of the students to feel cheated from Kafka's stories because it didn't follow a format that contained a clear-cut conclusion. I agreed with him there. It's like with Hume. Most of what we do is based on "ought" statements rather than "should' statements. We should accept experimental and highly creative content, but we ought to stay within our comfort zone where there's less risk of the unknown and unusual.


I called the Spectator to tell I'm not planning to be here today (I just didn't feel like going). Jenn, the secretary, told me, "Ugh. It's not okay, because this is a job and a real job requires you to be here."

So I told her I'll get there as soon as possible. I called up my mom and she dropped everything to get me here. I see Jenn in the washroom.

"Hi Lily," she said, smiling.

"Hi Jenn. I ran here," I said, panting.

"Um, I think I have something for you to do today. Rick isn't here."

WHAT?! I'm not even supposed to be here if my supervisor isn't! Why didn't she tell me when I called?



"Lily, people are really weirded out by your constant Abed-hugging lately. They thought you hated him."

"I do, but I like controversy."

Thursday, May 27, 2004

I was a face painter during our school's annual WestFest event. I volunteered for the morning and afternoon shifts. That is, I took part in the morning shift before leaving to go window shopping three cities away with Bible Cop (or should I now say: Future-constantly-knocked-up-pastor's-wife-who-likes-to-trudge-through-the-garden-with-mud-caked-feet-and-children-hanging-off-her-fat-ankles (FCKUPWWLTTTTGWMCFACHOHFA)?).

I remember it being a lot more fun last year. The kids were cuter and chose whatever was drawn on the bristol board above my head. But now, they want obscure things such as something called a "maple leaf" or some indie rock band, the "Calgary Flames" (which looked more falafel than firey when drawn by yours truly.) Some really tried to push the envelope: "I want ... a bat!"

Hey kid, do I look like I'm David Copperfield (the magician, not the character from the eponymous Dickensian novel)?!

Other kids were more accomadating: "I want D12 on this side, and G-UNIT on the other." Lil' gangstas, how quickly they grow up in the suburbs *tear*

I wanted to paint Shotgun Toter's face like she was part of the KISS Army. Black star over her right eye, whiskers and bright red lips (it's a combination of Gene Simmons and that drummer, who, I was informed, nobody ever noticed). But I couldn't because she had a track competition in St. Catharines. So she told me to paint her sister's face like that, whether or not the child wanted a rainbow or glitter heart.

Sadly, I didn't get to see her sister because, well, I went window shopping three cities away.

On the way back during rush hour, we saw a bus load of elementary school kids. Bible Cop or FCKUPWWLTTTTGWMCFACHOHA suggested that we make faces at them. We waved, they waved. We made faces, they spat. They waved, two guys in the car beside us gave them the finger.

Ah, good times.


My painting's going to be in the art exhibition held at City Hall. I'm actually looking forward to it.


Birthday is in nine days. I say this every year, likening it to tradition: "Hook me up to an iron lung, I'm getting old."

Then again, it's also the legal age of consent for all sorts of neat junk. That and taxes (in addition to unwanted children, children you never knew existed, children on welfare, you on welfare, and a baby's mama who never wore a skirt she didn't hike up.)

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

I sat with a morbidly obese man on the bus on the way to work. He took up two seats and his pants (the word "parachute" does not begin to describe them) were held up with these meathook suspenders that resembled rope. Rope-pants, I say.

I felt sorry for him when he was forced to turn sideways to get through the door while the man with the uncontrollable drooling watched on forlorny, deep in meticulous thought.


"Excuse me?" I said, wailing. "Why did you mention my name [in your conversation with Ms. B]?"

I stood beside Dior Boy as Ms. B, blissfully ignorant, tip-toed away.

"Nothing, it was nothing," he replied, shyly. His discomfort mirrored by his hasty retreat to the nearest classroom.

"No, tell me," I pressed on.

He paused mid-step, his backpack drooped dangerously low against his flat denim-wrapped ass.

"I said I'm glad that [*insert something about achieving proficiency and, I think, getting his name carved into our foyer wall; I was too self-absorbed, trying to think of a potential come-back to notice what he was saying*], but that Lily wouldn't say that's necessarily a good thing."

"Aw ... I wouldn't say that. I love you lots!"

He furrowed his eyebrows in a way that said, "You lying sack of shit."

"But I love you!" I shot back, sarcasm barely escaping.

Abed (Shotgun Toter's insecure ex-semi-lovar whose existence I've refused to acknowledge since last semester) walked by that very moment. I stuck my arm out, striking his neck, then hugging both of them.

"And this gorilla too! I love you both!"

Abed: "You're ... choking me."

The prior then spent the rest of Teacher Advisor staring at my bra through the unbuttoned parts of my dress shirt when I bent over (which I did not notice until later, bien sur.)

So now we're all on good terms - but I have a sneaking suspicioun that their fear of face-to-face confrontation played a part in keeping their Lily-lashings at bay.


Love/hate relationships: It's the spice that prevents life from going stale.
I'm at work right now. The Hamilton Spectator. I bought lunch in their cafeteria. The staff laughed because I didn't order my usual BLT on a plain bagel with soup. I bought the spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread instead.

Sitting here in my seat, I'm reading stuff on criticizing the New York Times about the sensationalist stories they penned that never panned-out; also trying to look busy at my cubicle. I'm halving meatballs and putting each side on a Premium Plus cracker and seeing how many I can fit into my mouth. One. Wait ... if I sandwich an entire meatball between two ... Oh God! My jaw!

Good stuff. Mmm, dry after-taste

The spaghetti is made from wholewheat, by the way.

Must take good care of this figure, donchaknow.

Tuesday, May 25, 2004

Aunt's store

Went to Toronto and shopped at my aunt's store. Well, "shopped" isn't the right word since I didn't exactly "buy" anything I stuffed in that bag of mine.

"Charge it," I intoned the sales girl. "Mom's paying."

Of course, my mother (and the rest of my wildly eccentric family in the non-drug culture hippie-type way) reckoned that she was going to Montreal, come hell and high water.

My aunt invited me to Toronto and so I went ... by GO Bus ... alone ... in the city. 'Twas great. Alone with my thoughts, the silence punctured only by the sounds of mechanical beeping from someone's Game Boy (damn you, Tetris!)

This was, indeed, the big city. The expensive cars zoomed by like in those Mazda ads where the bright-eyed boy contracts whiplash caused by his curious stare. Okay, not so big. Nothing like, say, New York City, that mighty king of kings of upright architecture.

I got a few quirky T-shirts, but the coup de grace (I'm sure I'm using that phrase in the wrong context) were these lime green, ballet-slipper shaped, sci-fi runner-inspired shoes my aunt gave me. So comfortable, this close to making me forget how short I am to wear them (but didn't stop me from wearing them today, with my black, ruched, cut-off, cargo pants).

Mom called me mid-trip and told me she had visited the Loyola Campus for Concordia University.

"It's beautiful," she chimed through the crackling crap cell phone.


Today, Fil did his philosophy presentation and brought in the Matrix. Damn that movie! However, the anticipated excitement from knowing that he would be talking about Hume overrode any negative feelings I had for that trilogy-o'-trash.

Where to start? Hume put the class into a tailspin. I'm such a devoted follower of this guy (I once lied and said I was very familiar with Jeremy Bentham's utilitarian philosophy [from the one time philosophy class I took], just so I could help this girl out during her presentation since she didn't research Miller's works all that thoroughly), so Fil and I took on the class.

But that was a total failure because no one knew what the hell was going on.

"Jenn? What are your thoughts?" asked Fil.

"I ... I'm sleepy," she replied.

I mean, Hume, to me, revolutionized the way we saw things. He didn't say whether our senses deceived us or should actually be trusted, but that how we interpret what our senses give us may be part of human conditioning, rather than logical reasoning.

Anyway, blah blah blah, it was a rockin' good presentation; a great epoch of English Lit.


Men blow. So now they start paying attention to girls like me.

Saturday, May 22, 2004

*By the way, the men in "Troy" are so steamin' hot, they're lucky they're imprinted on celluloid because if not, you bet your horse-drawn buggy they would've been ravaged by every single member of the audience (men and woman alike.)

Orlando Bloom? Fiiiiine. Does an awesome scene where he's naked, and the bed infront of him covers just below his pelvic bones and I was reminded of D'Angelo in his music video for "Untitled (How Does It Feel?)"

Eric Bana plays the older, wiser, scruffier brother with the gentler soul (I assume he had a gentle soul, I didn't pay much attention since he was flexing his muscles, brain and otherwise, for the duration of the movie.)

Serious homosexual undertones though. Belly-baring knitted tops? Leather skirts? Swords and spears?! Sexy nonetheless!

Go see this terrible, bad, bad, bad, bad movie for the eye-candy. I read that Kruger, who plays Helen of Troy, isn't considered all that beautiful; she passes for a good-looking waitress. That her face launched not a thousand ships, but a thousand sandwiches.
Might I say, "Troy" is the worst movie I've voluntarily gone to see? Worst almost 9 dollars I've ever spent. I give it 1 star out of ... 18 ... hundred.

Every single action movie cliche was in it; I wanted to kick the screen in! The director made Das Boot in the '80s, but he churns out this garbage?!

Shotgun Toter invited me to come see it, along with Math Jesus and a classmate from my English Literature class. The bus was supposed to take me straight there but the driver, instead, parks it at the mall, telling the heartbroken passengers that he's heading home 'cause the bus stops running at 7. So I had to walk more than four city block ... in heels ... in a skirt ... in the wind ... to get there. Needless to say, I missed half an hour of the movie. But as soon as I sat down, I knew I would be in there for some grade F dialogue and a grade F plot. When Brad Pitt attempts a British accent and says, "Take it! It's yours!", you know there'll be nothing good worth mentioning. In addition to the bad movie, I had to hear these chattering girls in front of me, jumping from seat to seat, whispering meaningless shit to each other, covering their eyes with their peroxided hair during the grisly parts. Have they no social etiquette? I must add that I didn't sit with my friends since I was late. Anway. They giggled during the part where you see a bit of Brad Pitt's crack. HAHAHA, hilarious (I've seen better.) Afterwards, when the two old men (I can't tell them apart; every man had curly hair or a beard, or curly hair and a beard) were having a faux-heartfelt conversation, and they giggled, I said, "What's so goddamn funny?" That shut their yaps ... for about 5 minutes.

Near the end (and by "near," I mean, an hour before this craptastic movie would roll the credits), I said, "Stuff your face with a pie and shut up."

"Who said that? Oh my God, was it her? Her? Wait, her?"

Heh heh. Fuckers. No one under 16 should be able to attend 14A movies.

Shotgun Toter told me that Math Jesus asked if that was me when I made the first comment. But after I made the pie comment, Shotgun Toter confirmed, "Yeah, that's her." Hey, it's a smart way to make your presence known in the theatre if you lose your friends and want them to know you made it (she and I have pie-related in-jokes.)

Afterwards, we sat in Burger King. The English Lit. classmate said, "You know, the Little Mermaid wearing those clams? It's just not practical."

Me: "Yeah, think of the chafing. Actually, no. It's very practical. She can pull them off and dig in the mud for food. And with the bra strap, she can rip them from the clam shells, and use it to strangle fish with her bare hands! She'll be like Tarzan of the water: Matted, unkempt hair, smutty torso, torn fins, unsightly scales populated by scars from wrestling wild underwater beasts."

Shotgun Toter: "I can't stop laughing, but it's not even that funny!"

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

I've been updating my fashion database on my computer. "What's a fashion database?" you ask. What a silly question, you brutish fiend, dallier of dregs.

I've been collecting runway photos since the beginning of 2003. But I've dug myself into a big hole because now I have to keep this massive file folder (that contains 100 individual designer collections) current and up-to-date.

I collect the major Parisian and Milanese shows (Victor & Rolf, YSL, etc.) and the smaller New York and London based shows (Daryl K, Evisu, etc.) I scour the Internet for pictures from international fashion weeks, but hardly any of them are all that impressive (though Montreal and Toronto's fashion week has been making some ripples.) Rio de Janeiro premiered the first ever reverse thong: Yes, a thong that covers your butt cheeks and has a cut-out to frame your bum crack. That'll, uh, fly off the shelves; selling like, um, hotcakes ...

This "database" has been very useful; aesthetically ... divine. When girlfriends want a certain look, but are vague with the details or don't know what to say to their seamstress, I look through my files and give them a look similar to what they want then give them the tailoring terms to use.

And honestly, what could be better than predicting trends and influencing society's take on beauty and self-expression -- considering no one is an original until someone approves.

I sometimes dream of sitting in a position that requires okaying where society is headed. Fashion, scarily enough, is it.
I've been acting petty. I admit it. Guilty as charged. So I forced an apology out of Dior Boy. So he's been nothing if not pleasant ever since. So this happened during Teacher Advisor today:

Dior Boy: "I don't know if I'll attend the graduation ceremony."

Lily: "Then don't. You won't be missed."

Jewish Princess: "Well, that was nice, Lily."

Lily: "He knows he deserves it."

Hey yo!

So I'm trampling on the last remnants of this man-child's pride.

Someone has to drop-kick his fecal ego.

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

What the hell is "brimstone?" Do you eat it? Bake with it? Is Satan just a bad-ass version of Betty Crocker?
The trannie population has run amok. Okay, I digress. What I mean to say is, when you're clinically obese, people can't tell what your gender is.

Like today (yes, another one of my bus stories), this man hobbles over to a corner seat, slumped there like a hamhock hung on a hanger left to cure... Anyway. The point is, I think there is an undiscovered niche in the market for men who need underwire brassieres. Okay, "bras." The amount of boobage I saw on this man was terrifying, horrifying, can't-seem-to-look-away petrifying. He was decked out in a t-shirt that, for better or worse (or just plain worse), hugged his curves like a stream of gravy on a hill of mashed potatoes. It was also 23C today; hot enough to cook anchovies under his armpits.


So I'm looking into on-campus residence at Concordia U. My application form:

Flexible, responsible, dependable, fairly tidy, great sense of humour, respectful, assertive, spontaneous, open-minded, creative, mature, no drama queen behaviour.

Jazz, classical, grunge, BritRock, alternative, indie, industrial, R&B, hip-hop, rock, salsa, house, pop, etc. Anything but country and Eurotrash (ie. nothing that mentions Ibiza.)

Reading, writing, painting, playing piano, exploring nooks and crannies, travelling, having discussions, sleeping.


Slim, Chinese, a struttin' contradiction.

My biggest pet peeves are grammatical errors, hippies and drugs. I respect religion, but would rather stay away from someone who is fanatical about theirs.


Best friend Bets said my expectations for anyone is way too high: "You won't find a man that way."

*Insert awkward chuckle* Oh really? I guess I don't want to be frying boloney on the cinder blocks my house sits on, n'kay? (I love Sean Hayes. Preenin', dancin', crazy straight fag)

Sunday, May 16, 2004

Got new shoes today. Very pretty. And a total rip-off of that wedge slip-on from Dior's Girly collection.

Rose and I discussed philosphy. And by "discussed," I mean, referring her to some philosophers she might be interested in (Hume, Spinoza, etc.) And by what "she might be interested in," I mean what interests me. And by what "interests me," I mean, everything.

Counselled her on how to politely rid herself of her stalker. I told her if it were up to me, I'd just knock some sense into him: "Die, fucker. Die."

But she's so innocent and child-like:

"I've always been nice to him, and he's fun to joke with."

"Yeah, 'cause he wanted to joke himself right into your pants!"

Ah, in this modern, post-"I am woman, here me roar" era, I realize we've only evolved from using skirt analogies to ones with pants.

Molly Murphy, eat your heart out.

Viva la revolution!


Feminism is so turn of the century. Dressing like strippers is the new empowerment.

Or is it?

Dun dun dunnnnn *jazz hands, jazz hands*

Saturday, May 15, 2004

I can't get enough of Lodger, that Finnish band. Oh man, they're so freakin' good. And they have the most wickedly satirical animated music videos. They make rape look cute.

Road sign stick man comes to life in "I Love Death."

Now I just have to scrape together $20USD to buy their album Hi-Fi High Lights Down Low.

Damn foreign music! How many balls do we need to bust before good music starts appearing on this side of the Atlantic?

Friday, May 14, 2004

Finally, I've been published. Oy, it's been a long time in the making. Apparently, the World Issues teacher only read the title and people laughed: "Nerds Not In It For Words."

Sexy Spinster said I tried to convince readers they weren't nerds, but ended up showing the opposite.

Gary, the cross-eyed photographer, took their picture. I had to try to position myself in front of him without him noticing.

"Hi, I'm Gary."

... This way.

"I think I can handle it from here."

... That's the fan.

Giselle told me she read my article in the paper today (Giselle of "I'm marrying my mans who resembles the love child of Shrek and Smurfette if one of them fattened up [more] and the other one ... ah, my eyes, my eyes!")

I found it in the library, already clipped, snipped and ready for filing. Saw Dior Boy hanging 'round the area and gushed, "I'm published, I'm published!" He feigned interest by faking it. "Ooh, ooh!" he chided back.

Who's he callin' a prospective failure? Jerk. Got all snooty because he applied to the prestigious music program at the U of T (who have yet to accept him.) So he might be going to Humber College, though that was supposed to be kept on the downlow.

Did my Royal Conservatory grade 3 history exam today. I crammed all last night. Memorized the life of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Berlioz, Chopin, Debussy, etc. And their representational works in detail. Were they on the test?

Hellll no.

Okay, one. But I'm expecting 80s or if they're generous ('cause I sure am, paying $72 for their services) somewhere in the 90s. It's good that I casually skimmed through the book beforehand or I wouldn't have got any questions that dealt with Schubert or Stravinsky.

Fuck it, I am a nerd.


Still waiting for Rose to get accepted into Concordia for accounting because without her, how am I to survive on my own as a lone Anglophile amongst Francophones? How will I know the difference between baguette and Fouquette? Lunch and le lunch? Soup and souper?


Steven Cojocaru ("Cojo") said on the Today Show that the new "It" thing for starlets to wear now are convertible ponchos. Yes, cotton ponchos that convert to *gasp!* drawstring skirts!

Mother Hubbard! I've done that months in advance! I'm going to patent my fashion fancies to myself. This is getting ridiculous! Is Orlando Bloom going to start baring his bum now?

Oh God, I hope so.

Wednesday, May 12, 2004

Ah, good old platonic dates with sexual undertones. There's the ever-lingering tension, but you don't feel guilty leaving on a friendly note.

Yes, the best kind of date is one where there's no repercussions for your actions.

Talked to Beck-a-Like today. Still as nice as ever ... mmm, nice as ever ... Probably attached as ever, but nevertheless.

Principal wants to revoke my school newspaper from the Toronto Star competition due to the article about 10 Ways to Get Her to Dump You. WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL WITH 'PEEING ON HER'?! It's a joke! It was sarcasm! I'm sorry I didn't get the memo that outlined everything that offends people, including exaggerated examples of sex. Obviously, if my point was "Bring Out The Kink," I'm not going to use "Do the missionary position" as an example to prove it.

Then again, anything that involves sex is off-limits, unless it involves NOT doing it. Stupid schizo society.

I wasn't advocating the behaviour. "But there will always be a portion of the population who will take your advice literally." If you take advice from a satirical school newspaper literally, you need to see if syphillis hasn't already ravaged your brain.

I'm going to fight for my right (no, not to party a la Beastie Boys) to write for my target audience. I'm not going to censor myself because it MIGHT offend people outside my demographic. Priests don't go flipping through back issues of Honcho ... Okay, bad example. Alright, animal lovers are most likely not going to flip through an issue of Tenderloin Times. Students didn't complain about my work. They saw the humour in it. Principal Bowman didn't.

Pfft. She looks like a life-sized Cabbage Patch kid (God bless her fascist heart). I'm leaving this year; just wish I didn't stir shit up so close to graduation.

I can see it now:

"Credits? What credits? Take your silly ass back to grade 9."

Tuesday, May 11, 2004

How do you spot a trannie?

I think I might've spied one today.

This "man" had a greying Hitler-moustache and looked like Kathy Bates stuffed into a sausage casing. Had on a beige coat and silver slacks. I kept staring at "him" noticing something off. It was the head. As if God put it there as an after-thought. Above the shoulders, he looked like grandma with a butch haircut. Below the neck, he was lounge singer grandpa who bowls on Sundays.

Meh. Maybe it was a man after all.

Thursday, May 06, 2004

Man, the FRIENDS finale was so lame.

That is all.
I was verbally assaulted by a woman with three kids on the bus today. Let me explain.

She had a non-stop crying child in the stroller with her on the bus. She also had two other under-fives with her.

Now this baby (bless her beating heart) was crying like a jailbird walking the green mile at Alcatraz. She just wouldn't shut the fuck up. Cried from Gore Park to Rymal. Meaning, downtown to the other side of the mountain. With her for a good 40 minutes (but seemed like days.)

So mid-trip home, I turned around (amongst the now edgy bus riders) and asked the lady (who, if you must know, was carrying on a conversation with her neighbour, seemingly immune to her child's screams), quote, "May I ask what your baby wants?"

"Ugh! She's sick!"

I mouth "Oh" and sank into my seat. I thought that was the end of it, but no.

15 minutes later when she was getting off the bus, she walks up to me and says, "My child is sick! You're rude! Don't *bleep, bleep, bleep* and *bleep*"

"I ... what? I don't know what to ... Okay. I asked what was wrong ... I mean, I asked what your baby wanted ..."

I think she said "Fuck you" in reply, but am sure she flipped me off outside.


So I go home and told Math Judas about it and he chastized me for being so insensitive. Basically said how I could be so tactless, not knowing the mother's situation. I acted selfishlessly and tried to rationalize my way out when I try to explain my actions.

This was in reply to my whole, "Why should people who choose not to have children lay out the red carpet for those who do? I mean, I don't see people letting me get away with stuff because I'm sans child."

Yes, this comes from the heliocentric world of a teenager, but there are a lot of things people get away with just because they choose to live a certain way. I don't want to get into it, but I don't think I come from a completely invalid perspective.

Oh well. I admit I was impulsive and got impatient with a child. But above all else, I'm afraid to see this woman on the bus again.

Wednesday, May 05, 2004

"Listen Lily. You're not taking this seriously enough. You're just being a smartass," says Ms. Special K ("Special" because she's menopausal and emotional.)

She resigned as the supervisor for Pawprints today. I vented to Mr. O about it:

"It's not like she ever actually supervises. She's too emotionally unstable to do anything around here. And it's three measly words: Pee on her. It was supposed to be ironic. Number 6 on my list of How to Get Her to Dump You was 'Bring on the Kink.' I put a disclaimer at the bottom, stating that if you want to keep your girl, I advise you to do the exact opposite of what was written. It's not like I was forcing anyone to buy the paper. Students chose to pay 50 cents for the issue, thereby, officially accepting it as is. Oh no, my Thumbs Up for Cheap Labour article doesn't raise an eyebrow, but as soon as something that hints on sex appears, insta-prudes send in the Marines. So now there's no supervisor. Therefore, no Pawprints."

Mr. O: "I'll take her place. As you know, Ms. Special K is, as you said, emotionally unstable. Forget about the principal, forget about K. Just apologize to shut them up."

I love Mr. O. If I was the marrying kind, I'd marry him.

Fashion show ended today. Oh man, I was wearing my prom dress while this girl, Lexy Carter, designed the rest. Let's just say, the unofficial theme is "Tarzan-ish." Microscopic minis, laced up booty shorts, and slit up to there boob wrappers. Walking after all of them, I put my hand near my face from embarassment (though also to block some of the light.) Duh-amn ...

Concordia University accepted me into the Journalism/Communication Studies joint program. YAH! I'm going to Montreal!

Tuesday, May 04, 2004

11:30 a.m.
I found myself walking towards my locker through the school foyer when I saw Dior Boy heading my way. He makes a face. Yes, that face. You know, that "Hey, I'm part of the KISS army" face.

That gossip fiend has been doing this for awhile now. Making odd barking noises and grimaces when I walk by, knowing that I don't like him; that I can no longer be cordial. Until recently, my automatic response was flipping him the bird and smirking, depending on the situation, bien sur.

But not today. No ma'am. He walked towards me, snarked (word?) and I put my arm around his shoulder, rubbing his neck, and proceeded to walk in his direction. I greeted him by name and he reacted giggling like a school girl.

"So why do you like getting negative attention from me?" I asked him.

He laughed nervously.


"Why do you enjoy getting negative attention from me?" I repeated.

"I don't know," he replied, blushing (though might be confused with fear.)

By this time, we had reached the vending machine. I put both my hands on his shoulders and pinned him against the wall.

"Just apologize *insert name* We can go back to you not acknowledging my existence. Just apologize."

He looked at me, still flashing that "I might shit my pants" smile.

"Well?" I pushed on.

"I'm sorry," he said. The words spilled from his mouth like a deflating balloon as he swung both hands in front of him with his palms facing up in a dramatic apologetic gesture.

I slapped his left hand and exclaimed, "Thank you!" and walked away.

Moral of the story: No man's pride exceeds my own.

But more importantly: Making a man admit he was wrong? Priceless.

Monday, May 03, 2004

I saw the weirdest guy on the bus today.

Okay, so you knew there was something wrong with him when he was able to carry on an animated conversation with the Italian-looking grandpa of a bus driver.

I didn't give him much thought until my eyes wandered into his vicinity during the ride up the escarpment.

He does this creepy ... mad scientist-ish ... uh ... Let me start again.

Him. Has Jack Nicholson's Joker smile with fangs. Him. Does this hand rubbing motion like some German Expressionist villain. Him. Smile stretches from ear to ear, eyes-wide, while rubbing hands together, turning his head to face the back of the bus while in this trance-like state. Him. Goes back to staring into space; sometimes railing, sometimes ringer. Him. Repeats described motion about every four seconds (yes, I counted.)

I didn't know if he even knew he was doing it. It seemed like he had no control over whatever it was that was making him do it. And everytime he did it, I was reminded of Speed and the part where Keanu Reeves tricks Dennis Hopper into thinking no one was escaping from the bomb-fused bus because the tape was rewound on a time loop.

Oh man, but the horror! THE HORROR! didn't hit me until I saw his shoes. I say, five velcro straps ON EACH FOOT is an understatement!

Ugh. Velcro: Gone the way of the fishnet.


One month until my 18th birthday.

Finally, I'm able to ... vote.

Yah ...

Sunday, May 02, 2004

From the classifieds:

"You: PIG-TAILS, gray sweat shirt, bandana, jogging in high park. Me: long hair/beard, shopping car; looking through garbage. Our eyes met, did we have a moment?"
Model UN was so freakin' awesome!

Day One:

General Assembly 1 talked about world security so terrorism was obviously the topic du jour. I tried to put San Marino on the map somehow. Since most people weren't exactly representing their country, moreso, their own opinion, I went up there and said, "San Marino is a small country with limited resources and doesn't have a history of terrorism. Why should we contribute to an organization designed to only hunt down terrorists?"

The answer I got from the Russian Federation delegate was, "Because it might affect you [since terrorism is an international problem.]"

I asked for a supplementary (follow-up question) but it wasn't allowed at the time.

When St. Kitt's became a speaker and more or less stated the same thing as I did, I yelled out, "And San Marino!" so he would list me as one of the small countries with no concerns of terrorism. I was surprised they didn't yell back, "Decorum, decorum!"

I spoke a few times during the "controversy" over France's dress code policy, but considering it's a domestic issue, why was the UN getting involved? A few people stated it was against "human rights," but I clarified that not being able to wear religious apparel in public schools did not mean you couldn't practice your faith. And then Algeria, I believe, said it's easier for Christians to take off a cross than it is for Muslims to take off their head scarves. And I, representing my country, said, "San Marino, being a predominantly Catholic country, is offended that someone said it would be easier for Christians to take off their crosses than it is for Muslims to take off their scarves. It is offensive and hypocritical." This was during the informal debate.

After the first day, everything sort of went downhill. At least, since I was in the S section, I was able to fall asleep without the Chairs seeing me.

I met really wonderful people at the University of Toronto. Specifically, one class from Oakville. Our personalities were so alike! So on the last day (yesterday), Zerrin invited me to her house before the banquet started. I made a really terrific strapless black on white polka dotted dress out of scratch. I'm talking, Zerrin's friend had to safety pin my back. Good thing I went to her house because I don't know how I would've pulled off a dress in the Union station washroom. Also met Tim (a metrosexual without the vanity), Dan (we said he looked like David Carradine's son on Kung Fu 'cept blonde), Sam (short for something else; thinks every girl he meets is in LOVE with him: "That girl there, she wants me."), some other girl with an S name whom, I sensed, not everyone liked, and Phillip, my faux-crush of three days (along with Katie's Madagascar and Rhandall's France, whom I got to know during our interview for my article for the Spec.)

He wore a grey pinstriped suit and white collared shirt sans tie. Just so darn cute, like puppy in punk clothing. A vegetarian with table manners. Really considerate, nice, funny, no weird dark personality traits, no brooding bullshit, and also taken *sigh*.

But that didn't stop me from hitting on him and him feeding me from his fork. Like Rhandall said, "He's not taken until 1 a.m," which was when the banquet ended. But we all left at around 11:30 p.m. (my mom picked me up) because it was getting too boring. The songs sounded the same, and people in the foyer were playing poker.)

Anyway, I met really fantastic drama class kids with outgoing personalities and good taste in music whom I will definitely be staying in contact with.

Good stuff that Model UN. With so many hot, smart, charismatic guys, it's the best unpublicized pick-up place period.