Wednesday, June 30, 2004


Yes, ladies and gents from nether regions of the world. I am a recent graduate of high school.

The 130 of us gathered in the gymnasium in preparation for the miasme of flashbulbs and nervous laughter that awaited in the auditorium.

The obligatory left-hand shake, right-hand receive was done to nauseating degrees. When it was my turn, instead of shaking my chemistry teacher's hand, I put my right arm around him, grabbed the diploma, and put it above my head, shaking it like Rocky on the monument plateau.

The second time I was on stage to get the English award, I passed by my fellow cohorts, "acknowledging" them with high fives and appreciative nods.

Mr. C: "This is where you stand and they compliment you."

me: "I'm filtering all that out."

Mr. Another C told me he got choked up when they called my name. "I thought, 'Wow, I taught that student.'" He complimented me too. Tres flattered. CO-OP teacher came up to me next and said one day, she'll see my name in lights.

"Yeah, in handcuffs," I quipped.

Ms. S, the art teacher I've had a love/hate relationship with for the last 4 years, asked for my email. "I'm taking you out to eat when I'm over there [in Montreal.]" I told her what Ms. CO-OP teacher said, then added, "In handcuffs, front page of the Globe, part of a radical group stationed in Guatemala."

"Oh, I'm going to miss you ..." came the sentimental reply. It was odd. Ms. S, whom I've known since day one of my high school career, will miss me. She damn near cried when she said goodbye to us at our art exam. Ms. S, the teacher who refuses to acknowledge that the Beat era is over, with her hipster Buddy Holly frames, black stretch cotton jerseys and raspberry shag.

Grad reception was fun. Good food. Spiffy hall in the Art Deco tradition. Made a fool out of myself, dancing in a clownish fashion to win one of 6 or 7 gift baskets. Completely worth it though. The loot was chock full of beauty products. Oh, how the girls envied. Didn't think I'd actually get one, as I walked in, salivating.

Ass landed kerplunk on the dancefloor when I stepped on my train. Yeah ... that was worth mentioning.

Played sexual politics with Fucker. Was an involuntary participant. He has a girlfriend whom he screws around with but whenever we have a social event, he'll always sit a foot away from me on the dancefloor, following me with his eyes, as if I'm there to give him a personal no-touch lapdance. He'll even move his chair to get a better view. Objectified and violated, I move across the room. He, predictably, also proceeds to grind with his girlfriend near me when I do that. We parted ways on EXTREMELY bad terms over a year ago. I've slowly grown to acknowledge his existence again, but to me, he's still pretty much a rotting corpse thrown on the side of the road, Wuornos-style. Someone I won't even give the time of day to. I expected him to feel the same way. Correction: I want him to feel the same way. Last day he'll ever see me. Why did he even bother? Force of habit, perhaps? Because no one is getting jealous of that beanstalk and his schnur hat schinken gewickelt.

Afterwards, Shotgun Toter and I threw mints at wiggers walking down sidewalks as we drove by in her pimp mobile. Then we went to some makeout lane, overhearing one very dramatic shiksa ranting about who knows what, repeating "fuck" and its variants like punctuation. We parked beside them, humming and tooting Usher songs. I, the harmony; her, the melody. Made up the bridge to the circus jingle. We reversed and drove down the parking lot into a dead-end.

"This parking's full," a tenor voice boomed.

"Raymond?" I asked.

Two "huh huh huhs" escape the nearby window of some Yankee car. Beavis and Butthead snorting, "Yeah, yeah, it's Raymond alright."

"Both of you?" I asked again, pouring oh-so-sweet liquid innocence on top.

They said something indecipherable. Momentary pause. "Give me back my woman!" I hollered.

Oh Lord, how we laughed ... and feared the repercussions.

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

End of the year yearbook blurb describing my tenure as editor in sentimental terms:

"I can't believe I ate the whole thing."

Reference to pop culture? Check.
Ambiguous connotations? Check.
The field of journalism perpetuated higher into the stratosphere? Can the answer be anymore obvious?

Oh gross, I just Chandler-ed.

Monday, June 28, 2004

Again, I was called upon to help accessorize another high school graduate.

The high point came when we pretended to shop for our imaginary boyfriends at Holt Renfrew (think Neiman Marcus equivalent.)

"Ooh, Prada? It's too shiny for his skin tone. But Miu Miu might look too casual for the event."

"That is true. Your boy couldn't pull that off. However, he'd look very put together in this Hugo Boss ensemble."

This went on for awhile, with the male-ployees asking if we needed help.

"No, no. We're just trying to pick a gift out for someone."

Met Theresa, the well-dressed sales lady near the Diane von Furstenburg rack. She basically recommended that I should work as a personal shopper for Holt:

"You march right in there. The office, right past that black guy. Yes, him. Bring a resume. Demand a position."

"Precisely. Tell them this company needs me more than I need them. Or ... maybe I'll leave that part out."


Saw The Terminal. Since I was with Curry For Sale, the old Indian man in the movie was too hilarious. I don't want to give it away. No, I will. I'm not exactly a movie critic with obligations sealed in blood. Basically, Tom Hanks brings Catharine Zeta-Jones to a "restaurant" his three friends set up for him. The first one comes in to light the candles. The second, as a wine connoisseur. The camera zooms in on Hanks's face, then Jones's, then pans out to reveal the little Indian man juggling as the in-house entertainment.

Curry: "That's my grandpa!"

The movie has so many laugh-out-loud moments, why are people even bothering with White Chicks?


Curry and I will also embark on a solo (well, solo x2) trip to Montreal this week via Ottawa. Hope that pulls through. Mom said I can't go to our nation's capital to celebrate Canada Day because she won't be back from her camping trip until the 2nd of July, so she'll need me to open and close up shop while she's gone. But I can leave on the evening of the 2nd. But that will give me only 3 days until driving school begins.

Everything is on such a tight leash. Frustrated, but undetered.


Dad asked me why I even want to go:

"I can go to bars, I can drink, I can socialize, but why would you want to? It's so *insert Chinese word for lame*"

"Okay, I don't drink, I just want to meet new people. You drink, yes?"


"You've hung out with buddies, yes?"


"You were 18 and scoped out girls, yes."

"... yes."

"Now it's my turn."

"Now it's your turn, now it's your turn. I read newspaper now."

FYI, he voted for the Green Party today in the national election. My mom voted Conservative and me, well, I planned to vote Liberal, but I was too far away from my designated riding booth to do so, deciding, instead, to go shopping in good ol' Scarbrough.

Did you know Toronto has been Amsterdam's twin city since 1974?

Saturday, June 26, 2004


Ugly horny men. Lay off. Just stop it.

Smooth Chocolate and I drove to Toronto today to pick up my grad dress while finding one for her. I pretend not to notice when men check me out. I convince myself they're not doing it. And by "men" I mean, over-confident foreigners, redneck crazies, senior citizens with nothing going on south of the equator, or d) all of the above.

Scenerio #1:
Smooth Chocolate and I decided to get something from the hotdog shack and sat down outside a coffee house to eat. This is when the story splits into two perspectives.

What SM saw from her side:
This bearded, middle-aged redneck wearing a button down buttoned down to his chest stood behind me, sighing, making a desperate attempt to make us notice him.

"Here's me, standing alone. All by myself *sigh*" at 10 decibels louder than necessary. SC ignored him, but didn't tell me he had been behind me, staring at my back. He headed towards her.

What Lily saw:
Middle-aged redneck man was now standing behind SC, with two empty seats at his table. Stood up and held up one chair and asked us if he could move it with us because he didn't want to look like he was alone. I said, No thanks. He returned again and asked us if he could give us an empty chair. I, again, replied no and continued my animated conversation with SC, who was, at this point, rolling her eyes (about what, I had yet to discover).

He finally came up to us and said, "You can't take a hint, I can't take a hint," which I originally thought was "You can't take a hit, I can't take a hit." I asked SC if it was because he was selling marijuana.

SC: "No, Lily. He's been trying to get our attention since we sat down. And he said 'hint.'"

Lily: "Oh! He was trying to sit with us? *Shudder* What if we told him we were minors?"

SC: "He'd probably like that."

He was still sprawled across his chair when we got up to leave, smiling maniacally as if to say, "That's right. You want me."


SC and I were walking down the street and I like to convince myself dirty men - or very unattractive progeny from the womb of Mrs. Sasquatch had she been impregnated by the Elephant Man (numerous times) - do not check me out. I do not notice their lewd comments and their sexual innuendos when they walk by. But SC likes to point these things out to me (She's fairly attractive so her skills of perception are highly honed.):

"And him/That guy/Oh, especially him/Did you see what he just did?"

She reminds me that some men are muckier than the bottom of a herpes brothel.

I finally snapped out of it and took notice, but the minute I did, regret set in.

"Eww, did that man just breathe on me?!"

"No, he sniffed you."

"Like this?"

"No, that came out more like a snort."

Yes, my neck was sniffed by some Asian asshole. I don't dress like a skank. Think Marc by Marc Jacobs. That's sort of my style, but a bit more girly a la Marni or Missoni. So I feel quite violated when dirt bags get away with harrassing me because I choose to ignore it.

"So nice, veddy* nice!" cracked a greasy haired man.

SC: "That one was for you."

Lily: "Stop telling me! Why aren't hot guys checking me out?"

SC: "Because they know they're hot? They don't need to check us out, because they know they're being checked out."

Lily: "Or they're gay. Life's answers summed up in three words."

Then again, downtown commercial centers are statistically more prone to housing lunatics and nut jobs. I was probably just one of many the sexually repressed prey on.

*Why is the letter R so unpronoucable for so many people?


Oh, the dress. It's veddy nice. Waited 6 hours for the lady to alter it. Long story short: Added a belt to cinch the dress when I got home because had the waistline been sewn any higher, I would've looked more pregnant than Drew Carey in a Mimi outfit. The belt gave me the same knock-out result without the knocked-up effect.

Friday, June 25, 2004


Sometimes I wonder why my sister puts up with me. We have a six year age difference so we can't and don't relate to each other at all. But whenever she goes out, she'll come home with something for me. Take today, for instance. She bought me hair accessories and make-up intended for grad that I wrote on a receipt. Didn't complain, didn't ask me to return the favour, just expected me to listen to her story about some deranged customer she encountered at work today.

I, however, treat her like crap because she can be a little bitch sometimes. You don't roll your eyes at me. You just don't.

I guess I do hold grudges, and as the middle child, maybe she really is a better mediator than me.

Oh right. And chocolate. She always comes home with chocolate bars for me because she knows when my weekly sugar craving kicks in. That's sort of eerie ...


Going to pick up my grad dress from the seamstress tomorrow in Toronto. My mom was supposed to take me on the way to Wonderland, but then I met up with Smooth Chocolate and she offered to take me. So in return, I promised to help her find a graduation dress ("What do you mean you don't have one yet?! That's it, you're coming with me!") Perky Ops took me to the mall today. "We're riding in style, Lily," she said showing off her keyring. "BMW?! Pfft, bitch," I smirked.

To think I didn't like her (and vice versa) for three years, and now we can't seem to giggle enough around each other. It's odd that you can still make new friends even during the last semester of high school (or in Film Fanatic's case, last week.)

It still hasn't it me that high school's over; I've been too consumed with how I'm going to look at the reception. Two words: Snazzy chic. More words: Madame de Pompadour slicked with pomade, Blade Runner crossed with Celine's runway look, a faux-hawk produced by an illicit affair between Milla Jovovich and El Mariachi, and a classic royal hued gown I'd sell my body and do lines on an overweight stripper for.


Was a tour guide for visiting middle school kids and their parents. Introduced each of my English teachers as one of my "favourite teachers in the world."

"It's my schtick," I said, jokingly.

The teachers all complimented me in return, resulting in embarrassment and self-deprecation on my part.

Theys were killin' me wif kindness, goovna.

Thursday, June 24, 2004

Seconds of Pleasure

Browsing through Nerve, I came across the "grossly unprofessional" interview of Van Hunt by Jada Yuan.

Remember this boyishly handsome rebel of the heartbreaking kind. He is the future of soul music.

In Seconds of Pleasure, the song begins with the twang of the blues guitar against a grinding, pulsating bass, subtly complimented by the hi-hat. His voice eases into the melodic tide; one-part Prince, one-part Gaye, Maxwell without the pretentious falsetto. Van Hunt echoes a plagent melody that wafts through every pore, taking the body hostage. While his contemporaries slave away at their turntables (epigones of a bygone era), Van is having his way with their women, professing sensory overload, guaranteeing none. He breathily coaxes you to linger on his every word, playing upon the sort of indignation that one feels when powerless in someone's puissant possession - but you let them, encourage them, coyly non-responsive to the beating.

I like the Death Cabs and Thursdays Radioheads Weezers Postal Services Hot Hot Heats Yeah Yeah Yeahs Cursives Built to Spills Depeche Modes as much as the next Joe and Jane, but good music is just plain undeniable.

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

Venus vs. Mars

The difference between men and women was clearly outlined to my dad today while at work.

"So nice, eh? Wow, rubber sole, rubber heel. Veddy, veddy comfertabble."

He's like a sleazy car dealer without the Sasquatch hair and flashy jewellery, taking the "fun" out of "function."

Women like how things look. Even if its the most expensive, top of the line, PDA/iPOD combination with compact mirror and optional lipgloss, they'd make a sour face and cry, "Ewww, mauve and silver?" They don't care if their Jimmy Choos are 4 inches high, their bodies toppling over at the mere sight of them. The fact that they have crystal beaded straps is enough to make them fork over $500. They could be made out of eggshells so long as they match that pearlized clutch.

Men are in it for the long haul. Quality, comfort, level of chic-dom, it's all part of their innate checklist.

Quantity over quality, dear father. Why do you suppose women have so many pairs?

He pondered this for a few minutes and met the next couple of customers with a "veddy veddy beautiful" comment.

"Dad," I whispered. "Now you sound like a homosexual."

And to answer your question. Yes, this provoked him to prance then pose as the Coppertone baby.

I can't take him anywhere.

Monday, June 21, 2004

Met up with the always beautiful Curry For Sale and Sweets. Hung out at the local McDonald's joint until closing time. We have such different personalities, it hurts to think we're leaving each other after this summer.

Shotgun Toter and I were discussing the people we'll miss from high school. She listed a whole bunch of social rejects, because, well, that's her thing. I told her I'm not likely to miss anyone because the people I love being with will be the people I will stay in contact with.

MSN messenger is the messiah of friendship preservation.


Did my final art exam today. Compared two works of art, one being "Dempsey and Firpo" by George Bellows. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, I did. I think my crowning glory came when I wrote this:

"Form: The artist uses free-forms to illustrate nature. Specifically, the human body. The boxers are given long and sinewy limbs. Quite literally, a representation of the modern idealized man: At once, powerful and vulnerable."

Posted by Hello

Sunday, June 20, 2004

My weekend, my weekend. Well, I watched Citizen Kane, Casablanca, and Chris Rock's Bigger and Blacker. The latter always makes me laugh. Hard. Also watched Monty Python's Life of Brian. Everyone's always quoting from the Holy Grail, but Brian is where it's at:

"I want to be a woman. From now on, I want you all to call me Loretta."


"It's my right as a man."

"But why do you want to be Loretta, Stan?"

"I want to have babies."

"You wanna have babies?!"

"It's every man's right to have babies if he wants them."

"But you can't have babies."

"Don't you oppress me."

"I'm not oppressing you, Stan. You haven't got a womb. Where's the fetus going to gestate?! You going to keep it in a box?!"

The movie's just chock full of jabs at religious fundamentalism. Me likes.


Father's Day, a depressing day. While we were eating at the restaurant, my dad made yet another negative comment about me. He always says it in jest, but it's never funny:

"Who punched you in the eye? Harharhar."

I put my utensils down and lectured him about never being able to say anything nice to me. Criticizing my outfits, my choice of foods, my choice of music, my choice to criticize his baby boy for being a loser, getting my ears pierced.

"I thought you didn't like getting dollied up."

"Well, dad. Maybe I want to be girly now. You raised me like a guy, maybe I want to be a girl now."

"You? A girl? Harharhar. Who would want you?"


"Can't you take a joke? You're so bland."

He's so frustrating. Think teaching a stillborn how to read Aramaic.

I told him I understand he doesn't want me to get a big head ("You don't have a big head, you have a small head. Harharhar."), but lie to me or abstain from saying what doesn't need to be said.

"I'm just being honest."

"Then stop being honest or don't say anything to me!"

"Wow, my daughter has no sense of humour. Who would want to talk to you?"

It's 3am. I'm scratching my head. I don't feel my hand. My scalp is numb. Tingling feeling setting in. Like I just rubbed my cranium with a mint facial mask. Going to make myself a fruity frozen yogurt smoothie now.

Lily's Soporific Tip of the Night:
Frozen bananas mean less need for dairy as a thickening agent.

Bash from the Past

I don't know if I've become more angry, less angry, more neurotic, less creative over the last couple of months or what, but ... here's an entry from Sept. 15th of last year for no particular reason:

Monday, September 15, 2003
I just saw a commercial for EXTREME Jax, while watching Yu-Gi-Oh! with the kids. Which reminds me. Are children attracted to exclamation marks? Do they even know exclamation marks are supposed to represent excitement? I mean, intergalactic, space-time-a-looping, Dungeons & Dragons-inspired, card-playing isn't exciting enough? Kids actually need to be told, through strategically placed punctuation, that they have Attention Deficit Disorder?

Anyway, back to EXTREME Jax. Can the game of jacks get anymore extreme? I mean, their semi-pointy, Ridley Scott futuristic design is enough to make a trucker blush. They're pretty "extreme", if you ask me. And what's with "re-packaging" a tired game, that's more of an institution than ... a fun game: "Wippadeedoo, look at my fast hands!" So one day, some yuppie in daddy's Armani suit goes to a corporate meeting and says to everyone, "Why don't we ... re-make jacks?! I love that game!"


"No, no. Hear me out. Okay. Let's make those things multi-colours, so kids can aggressively compete with one another. 'I want to be fuschia.' 'No me! You were fuschia last time!'"

"Okay, listening ..."

"Then slap on 'EXTREME' in the title. Re-write the wimpy 'Jacks' to 'Jax', because the letter 'X' is hip and dangerous: 'I'm insane in the membrane. I'm too good for grammar'. And now, my friend, a game worthy of a month's paycheque."

"Great. Kids are suckers for colours. They'll want to collect them all. Pay for the same shit, 10 times. You, son, are going places."

"Thanks. I'm just doing my job. I'm here to represent all them crazy sons-of-bitches who be the Assistant to the Assistant Manager. Northside, what!"


Must've been all that creative writing I was doing in ... Creative Writing.
Conversation with the Jerk that happened a few hours ago in its entirety (note: I had deleted him a few days back, but had failed to block him):

Jerk: Lily can I ask you a question?
Lily: k
J: What happened?
L: what?
J: we used to be friends
L: why does it matter?
J: cause i want to know
L: am I supposed to list reasons now? What is this? 20 questions?
J: no i just want to know what i did
L: you didn't do anything
J: ok
J: so do u want to tell me or not

J: if not thats cool
L: tell you what? That we were never great friends to begin with?
J: i know
L: that you're reading too much into it?
J: iu don't ever read too much
J: its just kind of stupid how one day u can talk to a person and the next day they won't even look at you

L: I don't like people who push me and insinuate
J: ok
J: well i appologive...if i have something to appologise for??
J: n e way
J: later

L: k

A materialist, jealous liar, and judgmental asshole. No, he didn't do anything wrong. His personality was the culprit.

Friend said I was cold. What can I say? I don't lead people on.

Saturday, June 19, 2004

Hung out with Redneck Bullrider yesterday in Toronto. Loads of fun. The stank, the grit, the large population of Asians:

"I ... huh ... what ... so new!"

But I couldn't explain to her why these college guys were carrying plasma TVs hung over their heads playing Curb Your Enthusiasm. I kept looking back to watch one episode this guy was carrying, but he thought I was checking him out and stood there looking at me, eerily, like Chaplin's character in City Lights, and I, the blind girl; a scene spliced in two.

Took her to the usual fashion haunts, while patiently explaining to her the merits of fast food, Chinese-style.

"But I like Chinese food for White people," she protested. *Sigh* Then it's not Chinese food, but an Asian fusion of MSG, high-levels of sodium on non-threatening meats dressed up in grease and scallions.

On a lark, I got my ears pierced (violet ones to match my grad dress). I am proud to say that this is the first permanent thing I've committed to. The experience was like a boyfriend and a break-up all rolled up in one: Deliberation, anticipation, consideration, apprehension, distress, and finally, a burning sensation on delicate regions.

Speaking of my grad dress, I went to my seamstress and saw the final product. Gorgeous. A chiffon dream, thick but airy; the colour, divine. But it had to be taken in by an inch on both sides of my waist, and the waistline had to be pulled up by four inches to show more leg and to create an empire line right underneath my bust. Based exactly on this Alexander McQueen creation (torn from the pages of American Vogue), except deep violet, no beading and no excessive boobage:

Sans funky red boots Posted by Hello

It was two 18-year-olds in the big city, with one showing the other a pictoral guide to sex toys at Urban Outfitters.

"For someone who advocates masturbation, you sure got squeamish," she said when we got back.

"The dildos didn't scare me, but the leather studded straps for men's nether regions did. I'm sorry, but I don't need to have a penis to tell me choking my dick will be uncomfortable."


Thursday, June 17, 2004

I stare at him blankly after his innocent request. A self-inflicted silence permeates the negative space between us. I maintain my gaze, intent on making him flinch. He holds his own under speculative scrutiny. Undetered, I remain silent.

"She'll do it, she'll do it," Shotgun Toter says, eyes rolling.


I agree grudgingly, noticeable only to a best friend.

My perky facade lays to waste as he turns to leave. Disbelief parts from my lips.

"Why did you do that?!"

A coy smile creeps across her face.

"It's amusing ... to me."

Fair enough, fair enough. But I don't understand why she has to ruin my streak of passive/aggressive behaviour to make the guy aware that no one gets away with making me feel like a doormat (in retrospect.)

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

So fucking busy. Last day to hand-in work is tomorrow. No time to update blog (not as if there's anything interesting to say anyway.)

So I guess this means, Sayonara Chico.

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

New template, once again. This time, you can thank real-life Seth Cohen, Steve D'Angelo, for this. Put it together on and off for four months before it was ready to be unveiled (and by on and off, I mean, kid was too busy trying to maintain an average of 95% to get an $18,000 scholarship, than make my blog look pretty. Money corrupts absolutely Steve! Don't give in to the darkside ... Nerd.)

Ah, he takes my snarky remarks in stride. What a good sport. Makes you wonder if he's a male-bot version of a Stepford wife ...

Steve: "I wish I was married to Christopher Walken ..."

Who doesn't? Though his girlfriend might not be too pleased with that. Young nymphet or ... hobgoblin. Decisions, decisions.
Saw the Walk Idiot Walk video by The Hives (who I *heart*). Did the only fat member slim down?

But why?! He was the token Jack Osbourne-a-like!

Not for Christian Scrawnwich's Innocent (19-year-old) Eyes

This is sort of weird for me to be talking about, but it's my journal.

Although "masturbation" shouldn't be a taboo subject and 90% of the population does at least one form of it, I'm still chagrined that I'm, yes me, embarrassed to talk about it outside a medical, socio-critical context.

Then again, I thought, hey, it can't be as bad as Pat plopping his heart onto a butcher's block in his most recent post.

Needless to say, I have issues. And needless to say, after three years of practice, I've found the perfect way to relieve all this pressurized sexual frustration. But lately, I think by body's reached its epoch. The problem is, organisms have crossed the novelty line and into lack-of-oomph territory. I've adjusted by posture and read up on relaxing techniques (an oxymoron, I know), but I think I might just need to get laid soon or buy an Antonio Banderas vibrator, c/o Anna the Pole.

At first, doing it was a stress reliever and it still works like a charm (with the occasional paranoia that my mother might walk in, mid-moan, to fetch a towel from the bathroom.)

So what I'm trying to verbalize is, the next guy I'm attracted to (hopefully in university; high school boys can be such limp dicks, literally and figuratively) will probably get jumped by this here nympho (one can only hope a temporary phase.)

In the words of Shotgun Toter: "That was so embarrassing [to read.]"

Oh God, such exquisite beauty by Viktor & Rolf. But I promise you. Next entry: Masturbation. Posted by Hello

Allll right.

And no, gross. It's completely unrelated to the shoe.

Monday, June 14, 2004

Ooh, mingling gets you places.

I'm at the Spectator right now, telling Denise how tomorrow's my last day at work. Her cubicle neighbour (who works for the Business section) overhears and comes into the conversation. I says to them I says, "I feel like a caricature. Like I'm in Office Space. Like I'm Milton or somebody, whose stapler keeps getting stolen and who gets moved from one cubicle to the next, seemingly lost in a maze of half-sized walls."

Denise: "Oh yeah, that's the newsroom for ya."

me: "Well, at least you realize this. You're not jaded or anything."

Denise: "Ha! Jaded. Oh I'm jaded alright. There's me and there's don't touch my stuff! me. So, did you learn anything, other than the negative parts?"

me: "Well, no. I mean, Rick said Heather (the Business section editor) would do something with me, but that was weeks ago. They sort of ignore me."

Denise: "Oh, they ignore us too. Don't worry."

Business Journalist: "I'm doing an article on how the government now expect private businesses to regulate selling mature video games to minors. How old are you?"

me: "18."

Business Journalist: "Ooh ... but ... no wait. You look younger than that. It might work actually."

me: "What am I expected to do?"

Business Journalist (the acronym is much too vulgar): "Well, I want to see just how well these businesses are regulating the sale of mature content games to children. You'll be expected to go into different retail stores and, as a 17 year old, see if they'll sell it to you."

me: "Sweet! I'll do it!"

Okay, so that last part's made up, but I'm really that excited. It'll be my first summer job starting in July. And she said I could co-author the article or, if I want, write a first-person blurb that describes each encounter. I see my name in lights already: "Lily W***: Investigative Reporter."

My future tagline...

"This is Lily for BBC America. Signing off ... from Kazakhstan. Back to you in the studio ... with your pipin' hot tea, arm rests, cucumber tea sandwiches and embroidered pillows cushioning your tuchess in your custom-made leather Laz-E-Boy the BossMan gave you as an apology for tappin' that ass, while I haven't eaten in days and that herd of wild water buffalo look mighty easy to wrangle when I'm in a state of dillusion (which, under the right conditions, look like a harmless flock of orphaned lepers.) Got ... uh ... a bit carried away there. I'm good, just a little dehydrated. Oh shit, are we still on? Why are we still on? Stop rolling! Hand me that tape! What do you mean you no undastand Engrish?"

Uh ... note to self: Nix live feeds off my agenda.

Redneck Bull Rider: "Um, I think the guy on the right is hotter." Posted by Hello

Sunday, June 13, 2004

I've decided to talk about Remi today. To call him a suicidal histrionic paranoid is simplifying him a bit too much. Let's add melodramatic, quick to please and a (polite) whiner to that list.

I hope I didn't come off as uncaring in my last post about him. Here's the whole story:

Remi wants love. He wants a girl to love him. He isn't understood by those who live in his little township of Dijon. He's the usual teenager, n'est-ce pas?

The problem I discovered during our 6 hour conversation was that he might also be a skilled liar. It's not so much that he refuses to tell the truth, but moreso, he picks and chooses what to tell me in an honest attempt to coerce me into soothing him with hollow words.

Now I'm not one for bullshit, and he ... He was bullshit. And I say that with limited contempt for him as a person. I told him (and I paraphrase myself):

"Remi. Do you want a girlfriend so that there would be someone to worship you, take care of you and be on call to listen to your problems? Or do you want someone to sacrifice yourself for, to be with for the sheer pleasure of their presence? Love is not the antidote for depression. On the contrary, love is painful, if not more painful. The constant struggle to clarify volatile feelings and the suppression of certain personal characteristics is enough to make you realize it has no logical reasoning behind its existence. It is the antithesis of lust and passion, which you no doubt have, but don't know where to put it.

"You talk about your problems and about ending it all, but who are you kidding? You're just too much of a coward to take action and afraid you might actually succeed in changing your current situation with a little effort and will power. And kill yourself? Don't be melodramatic. The only people who will miss you will be those who love you, and not the people who apparently did you wrong. You won't make a dent in their memories, and they'd probably be content to have you out of the way. Do not ask me to confirm what you want to believe. I am not going to fall into your psychological babble, a willing prey who falls into your trap. Don't whine about how you're garbage just so I'd say otherwise. I dont' mother, but as a friend of Pierre's, I'm obliged to help a friend in need. Now you've asked me for help, and I've told you to change yourself before you try changing anything else. You can go to Paris, you can come to Canada, but you're currently your own worst enemy, making everywhere you go a living hell.

"Voici la merde? Jamais. Mais vous simplement n'avez pas confiance; n'avez pas un bon image avec vous."

I made him cry (or my poor French did).

Or so he said.

He sent me an email that basically said he wanted to make a decision now. To die or not to die; he knows he must move away. That I am his "angel" and that we will meet someday. But all I got from it was that he liked to tell people what they wanted to hear (in my case, that I've helped). I don't think he'll do a thing about his current situation because he's too infatuated with the attention that comes with pity.

Makes you realize how much men are alike on both sides of the Atlantic.
Fallout Girl (ie. ST) just informed me that Skorts (ie. NJW) is not her boyfriend.

"Boyfriend? Did I ever call him that?"

My bad. They're just "coupled."

Not Skorts, but picture of Samir who likes giving everything the A-OK Posted by Hello

Saturday, June 12, 2004

Also referred to the weather as "menopausel, very menopausel" at check-out in reply to the old salesclerk's weather inquiry at Shoppers.

Very inappropriate in hindsight.

Retina Radar

Went to the mall and turned heads. Double takes? Oh yeah.

I always go to the mall when I feel like the bomb for no apparent reason (not a bomb, which implies I'm wearing a burlap sack and fringe sleeves resembling the cast of Annie Get Your Gun.)

It's a good boost for when I feel down, a bi-monthly ego fix.

But the paradox is, I hate prolonged attention so I go into "Where am I? What is this store doing here?" mode. This means, I feign curiosity with jerky movements and bright-eyed wonder concerning signs that spell out "WASHROOM" and Cotton Ginny window displays. Glazed over, I stare into the distant Yogen Fruz, ignorant of the testosterone-fueled action happening in spontaneously bursts around me (Yeesh, did you think I caused Lucy Liu furor and frenzy?) Shotgun Toter asked me why I do that, and the reason is because after awhile, it's just plain embarrassing and all I want to do is haul ass.

Of course, this probably has nothing to do with how I look, but men's natural instincts to oggle. Then again, I did notice I was the only one not wearing some ersatz terry cloth tracksuit from the J.Lo collection ...

Am I vain for this? Forgot Warren Beatty, Carly Simon wrote that song for me! I'm so ashamed (better head to the mall to feel better.)


I ended up buying makeup I'd never use. Impulse buys on tax-free days. Why even bother denying there's a conspiracy, Mr. Prime Minister?

Friday, June 11, 2004

I talked to Remi, the Crazy French Guy's best friend today. He's a web designer, a talented one at that. His English is pretty good, considering how bad I am at French. He's a year younger than CFG. We really hit it off, talking about our versions of an utopian society (he's also a suicidal histrionic paranoid.)

I don't think I take compliments well. "You have character, intelligence and great personality."

"Thanks, but ... "

I don't know how to react. Compliments by definition are expressions of admiration and praise. And I feel like who I am deserves nothing of the sort. I fish for compliments when it involves my accomplishments, obstacles I've overcome, but not for something that comes as easily and naturally as growing finger nails.

It's weird, that's all.

Oh right, what's also weird is when he professed his "love" for me. "You understand me better than I understand myself." But I only just met you. All I did was talk you out of getting a gun to end your life.

"You like Salvadore Dali. I do not know him. But I believe he is a great artist because you like him."


"My life is garbage. Non-recyleable."

No comment.


Men are nothing but trouble. Today, Shotgun Toter, her boyfriend Not-Jehovah's Witness, the German and I were sitting outside, and during a moment of silence, I blurted out:

"Why did you encourage the Jerk to ask me out knowing that I liked you?"

Stunned pause.

"I ... I thought you didn't anymore."

"Well apparently ... not!"

Math Judas hit the nail right on the head when he told me, "So, what you basically said was you don't actually like him like that since you replied with 'apparently' in response to a simple statement."

The German pulled me aside when class started and told me he likes another girl, to which I replied, "Oh like whomever you want. There's no future between us. You live in the Germany, and me, well, will be living in Montreal. Wheeee! I'm just 'irked' that people were involved, you know what I mean? So no worries."

He said it wasn't me. The the truth is, who else would it be? I mean, in my mind, it was simple numbers. He looked like a better option than the other guys currently running up my behind with high-octane drama. I didn't like him so much as saw him as a potential way out.

But I repeat: Men are nothing but trouble.


Men are great.

Like Media Boy and Ramoner Loner. The nicest, funniest guys. Why didn't I discover them sooner? Okay, well Ramoner Loner I've known since grade 10 computer information class when he helped do my Turing activities for me, but wound up with the same 90% as I did (even though I had skipped three months of that class to attend someone else's English class). He was quiet then. But now, he's just been hilarious ever since he and Butch Mama Cassidy hooked up. We were talking about how I needed funding to plan our school's 10 year reunion. And he said he was going to be a musician, but told me he was attending computer programming school. I suggested he buy Taiwan, because Taiwan will be desperate for some cold hard cash after China bombs the fuck out of it. He said, sweet, he could rob a bank to get the money, but didn't know how to get started. I told him maybe he could distract everyone in the bank by telling them to stare at the potted plant positioned strategically in the corner.

The conversation just veered into absurdity from there. I told him he needed to create an alter-ego since he wouldn't be taken seriously with his real name. I suggested "Peso," with the addition of the currency of the country he will tour in. So, in Japan, he'll be "Peso Yen" and in Mexico, "Peso Peso."

We even created a new language for his new country, where the C,K and G,J are switched in the English vocabulary (orange is 'oranjee,' which sounds like orgy just to kick it up a notch.)

I offered to be his campaign manager if he promised me one percent of the country's national income. But just when the figurative ink was almost dried, he looked at me (during our staring contest) and said, "Hey ... wait a minute. Why would I need to be elected if I own this country. You're trying to jip me!"

"But this is the People's Republic of M*rkl*land, you can't banish me anywhere but into the democratic resort you set up as a tourists' trap."

"Sneaky, very sneaky."

Then I danced with a vacuum cleaner singing Frank Sinatra's "I Won't Dance." Needless to say, it ran over my foot.


Apparently, nothing is wrong with my computer. The router that connects both my computers to the Internet has a built-in firewall that prevents me from connecting for long periods of time, so I just got rid of it and plugged the connection line directly into the modem, sans router. Everything's now working perfectly.

Apparently, I had 1114 files infected by two viruses. Since Crazy French Guy is a someone in the know, he sent me a whole bunch of freeware software created by fellow hackers to help save me from this. Yes, the firewall he gave me was in French, but who's complaining? Not me.


Also, I'm sorry for living up to my name as Most Likely to Gossip. Redneck Bull Rider is angry at me for telling mutual friends about this sensitive tart she's been hanging out with. My rationale was, if five people already knew, it was no longer considered a secret. But then again, I'm trying to weasel my way out of taking responsibility for my mistakes. So again, sorry. Please don't get angry at me the same way you did Math Judas when he teased you about not wearing underwear.

Thursday, June 10, 2004

Fuck it. We got divorced.

No good Spyware-nik. Why are you so cruel?

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

To whom this may concern,

I have been a fan of Real Player for quite some time now. But it wasn't until my Internet Explorer was ravaged and violated by the insidious Spyware did I realize how much I love you.

Apparently, you have your very own Internet browser, which I, until now, did not use on a frequent basis. This has brought me indescribable shame to, not only me, but my family - who were more than willing to provide me with the necessary arrangements for a proud death by hara-kiri (or seppuku, if you want to be all formal about it).

But this was not to be the case. For you - yes you, Real Player - became the shining beacon that led me to enlightenment (unlike that phase in my life where I wore sequined denim skirts with polka-dot tights as if I was replacing Tiffany on the Japanese lag of her tour) and into the arms of Firefox.

We've been together for now 28 minutes and I can honestly say we're inseparable. People stop and stare and hiss for us to get a room, but we're not ashamed. We just carry on our business against alley walls and college halls.

Thank you Real Player.



P.S. Please don't reply to this letter. Restraining orders are hard to shake.

P.P.S. I'm also screwing around with Opera just in case things with Foxfire don't work out, but I'm optimistic. As long as he keeps me in Gucci and gold (and does me on park benches once in awhile), I'm a happy camper.
Look at that. Redneck Bull Rider (previously known as Bible Cop, previously known as FCKUPWWLTTTTGWMCFACHOHFA) just informed me I also won for Best Gossip. Hey, if people like telling me things all the time and I listen intently while I think of how this could be useful in my grand master plan (for good, not evil), then I'm a gossiper. Big whoop.

She said I might have also won for "Most Likely to Destroy the World*"

I guess that contradicts my (previously) valid gossip statement. No, no. I'm not evil, I don't think. Some people said they nominated me for that because there was no "Most Likely to Conquer the World" category.

I'm so blessed.

Booyah! (<-used circa 1984, re-issued 1998, watered-down for mass consumption 2004.)

*This has since been proven false, though winner emphatically told me, "You deserve it more than I do." Ya damn right I did! Heh heh, Destroy the World ... such wishful thinking.
I won for most Uniquely Dressed Female. Curry For Sale told me I might have to take a picture with my male counterpart. Ugh, he's the guy I confronted about talking shit behind my back and now he won't stop checking me out.

Sometimes I wonder if the entire world is in an S&M relationship.

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

The horror, the horror! My mom's voting Conservative.

I don't know who I'm living with anymore:

"I vote for ... Not Liberal. Ah, who last time give free food to poor, Leelee?"

"The NDP?"

"Yes, yes. No good, so stupid. What party left?"

"The Green Party, Conservatives ..."

"Yes, Conservatives. I vote them. They do good work. Lazy welfare people, no give money to."

"But ma! You can't ...!"

"Aw-ways so rich, drive better car than me and they no work!"

The Conservatives are exploiting the issue of abortion in their campaign, saying how they will offer counselling to those seeking an abortion, and maybe even ban abortion all together (Okay, I'm exaggerating, but that's quote unquote from some punk girl at my school.)

At the Spectator, reporters are speculating that although people aren't supporting the Liberals as much this year (due to the sponsorship scandal), most people would still prefer to see them as our minority government than see the Conservatives take home the majority.

Whatever. I'm probably voting for some fringe party a kid from PEI made up while peeling potatoes at his aunt's farm.
You win Spyware. I officially cannot access my Internet or MSN Explorer.

Thanks to you, I can no longer send my homework to myself using friend's TempBin invention.

Thanks to you and your Death Star friend, iMesh, I can no longer harrass my friends on MSN messenger.

I am ... alone.


I called my high-speed connection technician and he helped me connect to the Internet. We flirted a bit on the phone, sharing computer horror stories:

"One lady saw smoke coming out of the back of her computer, doused it in water, then asked us why it wasn't working."

"That's nothing. My friend told me to stop using my computer as a coffee table slash space heater."

The next thing you know (and by that, I mean 2 hours later), web surfing became a distant memory.

Needless to say, I'm at work right now where they use Macs, which suck because they don't have a right-click button on that little Zen rock they call a "mouse."


I just bought a baby spinach salad. Here's a tip for people who want to cut their fat intake in half (alright, maybe not half; maybe ... 1/30.)

Rather than smother your salad in dressing, dip your fork into a separate container containing that vinaigrette you've had since Thanksgiving's (where Uncle Robert became Roberta and your sister got drunk and told everyone you turned tricks at gas pump #4) before each bite. That way, you get all the flavour without (as many) calories.


I can't believe this bullshit. It's cram week and my computer fails me. I hope it gets sent to Abu Ghraib for some grade A military spankings.

With the things going as they are, it seems as if the only place people aren't having sex is in the porn industry.

Wait, no. They're up and running again. AIDS threat now at yellow. My bad.

Monday, June 07, 2004

Why is it so hard for some guys to understand my intentions?

If I like you, I will have said that I like you. If I don't like you, I will have said that I don't. It's quite simple. I don't work in mysterious ways. I say what I mean, and I mean what I say (<-Sloan reference).

If I go on and on about how I don't like someone, chances are I don't like them. If I go on and on about how some guy pushes my buttons, but I say that I admire that quality, most likely, I want to fuck him.

Again. I'm not that complicated. Why is it so hard for people to realize this?

"Well, since she keeps bringing up so and so, she must like him."

No! It means I'm trying to prove otherwise and you're missing the point! I'm trying to deny your suspicions, not confirm them.

Jesus. Why do people always try to look for what's not there? It's like they arrive at a quick solution, get suspicious at how easy it was, and in the process, lose all confidence in their decision.

Has the world become so jaded that honesty has become vulnerable to interrogation, while lies are freed with a smile?

I went to Laura's DeadJournal (Caffeine Cavorter) and read some of her past entries. Her long rant concerning the complexities of teenage relationships (ie. friends suck) inspired me to write something relatively related to her sheer anger and neurosis.

Coming from someone who's been to eight schools (or more. I can't remember), I can only speak from experience when I say, yes, friends do suck. From this, I can only assume, they suck because you no longer connect with them on the emotional level that you once did. Life, to me, is like a subway train: People enter and leave at will, with no affect on its initial direction or speed. If a passenger is disruptive, they eventually leave behind only a shadow of their prior existence in your life. The graffiti they leave on your, previously clean, window panes may still be visible, but you have a choice of wiping them clean with a little mental elbow grease.

Sometimes we forget why we still invest our time with people we end up only vaguely knowing. It's as if curiosity decreases in direct proportion with the time you've spent with them. Yes, loyalty and history may be reasons to stay joined at the hip, but history is just that: Over. It is a state of mind; it wouldn't exist without the present. If there is no present, if the present is merely filled with animosity and jealousy and hate, is that something you want to reminisce of when you turn to the past for comfort?

You can blame yourself for feeling the way you do, and rightly so. But having "high expectations" isn't a flaw, like you've mentioned. They are not even "high" to begin with. They are what you think you deserve in a relationship, which include respect, kindness, loyalty, and top priority.

Put it this way: If you met the people you've known since elementary school now, today, maintenant, would you still take their shit?

Admitting that your friends are impeding on your happiness is difficult. Who are you if it weren't for them? But then again, who are they if it wasn't for you? Maybe it's your turn to give yourself some credit and move on to greener pastures.

Maybe it's time for all of us to add more chapters to our lives, and clean the hastly preserved rubble that lies dormant in our attics.


I registered for my courses at Concordia University. French will be taken for approximately six hours every Saturday for the fall semester. What did I do to myself? I sort of just want to get it over with.

My other elective is Philosophy: Critical Thinking. Rather than take its 101 equivalent (which I've done so for the past year or two), I thought the transferable skills available to me in this class would be significantly more useful. The course description reads like a porno ad for the underground literati:

This course is an introduction to argumentaion and reasoning. It focuses on the kinds of arguments one is likely to encounter in academic work, in the media, and in philosophical, social and political debate. The course aims to improve students' ability to advance arguments persuasively and their ability to respond critically to the arguments of others.

Hold up. So what they're saying is, calling someone a Fucker isn't ... reasonable?

Saturday, June 05, 2004

Had fun with Shotgun Toter and her track nerds today.

Officially 18 years old.

When's my unassuming wardrobe, 9-5 job, passive husband, two kids, a lab, Royal Doulton dinnerware, refugee maid and house in New Jersey arriving?
My birthday is today. What do I have planned?

Nothing ... yet.

However, this is a good day to purge all bitterness and resentment. Like how the Class Pet got 95% for three units of art even though her sculpture exploded in the oven. And mine broke into three pieces and I got 74%. Oh well, you win some, you lose some. Sometimes you lose over 10 percent from where you need to be for a scholarship, but c'est la vie.

To sum it up: I hate art class, especially that Beatnik for a teacher (I hope she falls off a cliff after straying away from her pod people).

But I do have a theory that female instructors are naturally bias and less objective than their male counterparts (sue me Gloria Steinem, but I'm stickin' to it). Like Murgy, the Math Looney, who couldn't "take [my] crap anymore" because the principal ordered me to continue signing into her class (after I've already passed it) so I wouldn't show up as a part-time student, consequently, losing one person's worth of funding. Not like the money was invested in me, but that's bureaucratic garbage for you.

There's got to be something wrong with our education system when our school's dictator is driving a Mercedes-Benz, and we don't have enough transparency sheets for presentations to last us half a semester.

And hippies. God, I hate them. Self-centered fuckers who smoke Clorox-soaked weed at the park, then Hallelujah! they've suddenly become an enlightened guru of politics, economics, and philosophy, who try to dole out (unwanted) advice that isn't practical even if it pertained to their own lives.

"Vegetarianism saves animals."

Alright buddy. What about the field rodents that are killed during harvest? Did you think we still shipped slaves from Fort James to hand pick our food? Did you also think "Yes'sum" was a form of common courtesy?

"Lily, you don't know shit. If everyone rode bikes and thought alike, our world will be a better place. For real, man."

Didn't Robespierre try that? Censoring all forms of self-expression isn't even realistic, and to think "Utopian" while sidestepping the very traits that define us as "human" is so ... Holy crap, I don't even know where to begin! And riding bikes? If you had a family of six to feed, living in New Delhi, do you really think pollution is the first thing on your mind when you need to get to work before sunrise?

"I only wear second-hand clothing because I don't support cheap labour."

Okay, this one is a touchy subject, so I posted the article I wrote for my school newspaper here.

Hippies can skip school and hand out leaflets all they want, but please, if they have something to say, say it at the YMCA during Deaf Week. I think I can get someone to give me better advice than a kid who pops Paxil like it's the only thing keeping his clothes on, while rationalizing that his premature ejaculation has more to do with attaining inner-peace than having the wiener control of a 12 year old boy.


I love my birthday.

Friday, June 04, 2004

Funniest unintentional headline seen today at work: "Orthodox Anglicans astounded by back-door approval of same-sex relationships"
"By the way Lily, your painting wasn't picked for the exhibition."

I asked whose art did make it.

Oh, five other students, you say? And one was picked twice? I thought only three per school? Oh, supposed to but didn't? I see ...

The initial reason my peers gave me was that my art, titled "Troubles in South America," was too controversial for public digestion.

"I'm surprised you didn't get picked," my art teacher added.

Thanks, add salt to the coagulating wound.

"I'll go and ask the art committee during the meeting wrap-up what the criteria was, next week. It might've just been that they had too many paintings. Don't take it personally. That's what happens in the real world of jury exhibitions."

Except imagine above excerpt in smug, nasal-induced, patronizing tone.

"What's the point of asking? I either got in or I didn't. And I didn't," I said.

Video Maven: "That's a funny way of looking at it. Imagine if the judges were all Hispanic?"

I'm depressed. I'm low. I feel like a big baby for caring as much as I do. I was so sure it would make it. So sure. Then I find out girls who submitted pencil drawings that tried for realism (but failed miserably) made it, but I didn't.

"Go to the exhibition anyways, dissing the other artwork might make you feel better."

"No, I'll just feel even more resentful and ask myself, 'Why's this piece of shit doing on the wall?'"

I do feel a tinge of jealousy. My friends tried to comfort me.

"Lily, we all liked it. It was different. Who knows why they didn't pick it. You're controversial, controversy is good. I know good art and that was good art. It wasn't on a high school level."

"But if I tell people, 'I didn't get in because mine was better," the likely response would be, 'Bullshit, you just suck hardcore you talentless Asian cracker.'"

But I can't help but take it personally. It's like they rejected not my art, but a piece of me (to over use a cliche).

The Gorilla even tried to comfort me, and he hates me (well, to clarify, my hugs have tamed this beast into a gentle, non-Lily-hating, 6ft tall, gnome).

"Yeah, you can't say anything in school. They encourage variety, but you're constantly being monitored and censored." (*edited for eloquence.)

"I'm so sick of fighting 'them'. I don't even know what's controversial to this prudish society. I mean, if they want controversy, I can give it to them. I'll actually prepare an agenda with the sole intent of stirring shit up. My next project: Naked woman getting raped with machine gun. Eat that, assholes."

"Besides," I added. "I can always file for racial discrimination."

Thursday, June 03, 2004


I can't emphasize how great of a day today has been.

The surrealism ... was just mind-boggling.

I'll start from the beginning.

SUNDAY, MAY 30: Agreed to hang out with the German and his sister in Toronto, and show them around.

"Can you skip work?" they asked.

"I'll think of something," came the answer.

MONDAY, MAY 31: Told my editor that, ooh, I had a "funeral" to attend on Thursday, so I'll only be able to show up at work for half of the shift, leaving at around 1:30 in the afternoon.

"*Sigh* Funeral, eh?"

"People die, sir."

TUESDAY, JUNE 1: Received an email from school CO-OP supervisor that they would be evaluating the ISU presentation displays concerning our placements this Thursday and told us to arrive at 1:15 to help set up, and stay from 2 to 3 p.m. to be judged.

I called supervisor at work:

"So, what you're saying is, I have to be there from 1:15 to 3?"

"That's right Lily. Will that be a problem?"

"About that. I, uh, have a funeral to go to."

"Aww! Oh no! Who died?"

"You know ... an aunt of my mom's, but it's in Toronto!"

"Well okay then, we'll arrange it so you'll be judged first."

Sweet, I thought to myself, I can catch the 3 o'clock bus to Toronto and get there by 4. I felt so guilty though; this was my first lie that wasn't used to cover up something, but more so, cover up something in the near future.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 2: German and I exchanged emails and got things organized for tomorrow. He said his sister wanted more time to shop, so they'll be there in the morning, rather than go with me in the afternoon. I said that would be fine, and told him I'd meet him at the MuchMusic building at 4:30 to 5.

THURSDAY, JUNE 3: All hell broke loose.

I caught up with Shotgun Toter in the library.

"Let's go, go, go, go! I told my art teacher I'll be back soon for class!" I said.

"But I don't have any money," she replied.

"That's okay, I do! Let's go, go, go! Last chance before I get caught!"

"But I don't have a bus ticket."

"That's okay, I do! Let's go, go, go!"

So we left to go buy chicken wings at Fortinos. I went home to get my cell phone, ate, left my wallet on the shoe stand, realized I forgot it while getting ready to pay for the chicken at Fortinos, went home to get it, and hopped on the bus for school.

"What? You going to school?" Best Hair asked while I was a stone's throw away from the place.

"Yeah, why?"

"People are bleeding through their nose and vomitting blood!"

"You're such a fucker. Haha."



Apparently, there was a gas leak in the math hall and students in the math class/es were spilling blood everywhere through their facial orifices. The paramedics came, along CH News. We were dismissed for the day. Basically, my wish to skip school and CO-OP to go shop was fulfilled by something that was even more morbid than my pitiful lie. The irony, the irony.


I took the bus down to the GO Station (*time coincided with best friend getting almost-molested by Math Jesus; I'd like to add that I hate him now*) and bought a two-way ticket to Toronto.

Since I was arrived early (blame it on the bleeding children), I browsed the Chinatown supermarket. Thought I'd get some navel oranges for the German since they were on sale, but gave in to a box of white chocolate and almond covered biscuit sticks instead (oh God, that sounded so maternal-ish). After waiting 30 minutes for each other for half an hour on opposite sides of the same MuchMusic corner (JC Chasez was doing an interview a few feet away), German, his sister and I finally met up.

They already did the bulk of their shopping that morning. He got these really nice runners from Aldo (which resembled his Dockers, but beige; tres nice).

I took them to Yonge St. and searched for 3/4 length shorts for the German (he's 6'2" or 6'3") at Urban Outfitters, asking the incompetent hipster employee whether there was something for him.

A for effort, but the German still left empty-handed.

I took them to my aunt's Chinese restaurant down the street, and she just piled on the food (all of it free). And by "aunt" I mean, my mom's best friend since she came to Canada 15 years ago. She even offered to give me a hundred bucks to shop around, since I don't come to Toronto as often as I'd like. But I graciously refused the (tantalizing) offer.

"You no want 100? I give you 500 dollah!"

She brought out the bills to a shocked German.

Of the six or seven dishes that were sampled and hoovered down, three were left half eaten. The German siblings couldn't take it home because she might be leaving tomorrow, and I didn't want it either. So I suggested that we give it to the homeless.

The first two "urchins" were absolutely delirious, they were so grateful. Marie, the sister, was so happy she brought smiles to their faces that she couldn't wait to give out the third box of food.

"No, I was just fed by the the radio station."

"No, I'm not hungry."

"No, I want to eat, but not Chinese food."

Damn, picky homeless people

Her offer was finally accepted by some guy with a beard sitting on a grate, and we headed back. Got home at 11, sitting on the bus with a fidgety Black guy who kept touching his clothes, and folding and re-folding the creases on his jeans.

Best day today. German and I might go to play pool again next weekend. I want to kick someone's ass in that game.

Someone's. Anyone's. His.

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

Oh shit, he might be reading this ...
There's this younger guy in the Media Arts course who looks like a White guy version of Gael García Bernal (and by younger, I mean, a year younger). Other than that, they're identical. And I say this because, well, he looks like the Mexican heartthrob. How did I come to this conclusion?

It all started with a dream ...

You know how sometimes the people in your dreams aren't people you usually associate with, yet during this period of rest, you somehow get involved in extremely intimate scenerios? That's the case with Media Boy.

I never even knew his name, and we were cordial whenever I went over to his Media class to use the computer. I'd crack jokes about the teacher and he'd laugh, maybe, obligingly.

Then I had this whacked out dream where I was walking with my girl friends, and he was walking behind us, and I jokingly put my arm around his shoulders and over-confidently asked, "Hey kid, how old are you?" thinking that he was must be either too old or too young for me.

"17," came his answer and I, shocked, said giggling, "Me too!"

The next thing you know, we're living together in an apartment complex in, like, Arizona, doing what people do when living together (excluding eating, cleaning and actual sleeping). I find photos of his ex-wife and children one day scattered across the living room floor, and suggest that we go visit them in the slums of Mexico.

"Will you be okay with it?" he asked.

"Oh, it'll be fun."

So we hide under this straw-filled mule cart, and smuggle ourselves across the Mexican border, speaking only when the mules are a-whinnying (or hacking, or whatever.)

That's all I remember. The next day, I go to class and Media Boy was standing there and I experience this panic attack of recognition. The word "Husband" kept scrolling across my eyes. It was the weirdest thing. So I, naturally, told him about my dream concerning our distorted marital status (in front of the class) and he, surprisingly, took it better than I had expected. As in, didn't wind up throwing a brick at my face. Actually, he looked embarrassed ... Especially when I asked for his name.

"You don't know his name? But you talk to him on a daily basis!"

"I ... didn't think I needed to. He was, 'Hey you' or 'Boy.'"

Me to Media Boy: "Do you know my name?"

"Yes. Who doesn't know Lily?" came the sarcastic reply.

He and I are good friends now and yes, he still looks like Gael García Bernal had he powdered himself with White man's makeup every morning (just a tad; he's not Irish pale or anything.)

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

Three hours ago, I watched the music videos for Modest Mouse's "Float On" and Franz Ferdinand's "Take Me Out." They're quite similar visually; at once exploiting photo-realism and two-dimensional puppetry surrealism (very much like Coldplay's "Trouble.")

I wonder where and when this new surge of Gilbert and George-inspired creativity came from?

Music videos have always been on the cutting edge; their flexibility stemming from their lack of financial backing. But nowadays, the ubiquitous, mindless, million-dollar flair just can't compete with the intellectual thirst quencher of, say, a video by my hometown brethren, Floria Sigismondi.

Then again, Alien Ant Farm's "These Days" was filmed using guerilla tactics, which has been employed in film for decades; a way to create the false impression of spontaneity when really, the environment is controlled, reactions limited to surprise, amusement and annoyance.

Where am I going with this? Ah, I remember now. Nowhere.


Absent from school, but the Slovak told me my painting was picked to be judged to see if it will be in the exhibition this Friday, along with four other grade 12s and five grade 11s. Three will be picked from each school in total. On MSN messenger:

Slovak: "u know what's interesting...all the artworks that they picked were either black and white or gray...only your painting was colourful...she didn't want my acrylic painting and your pastel drawing from last seems like the school has no money for paints..or the students can make only boring black and white artworks"

me: "But at the same time, by choosing black and white, it was probably her way of legitimizing her stupid program. Like, black and white equates to seriousness; colour, frivolous and fun (like me. lol)"

Now I have to get my hands on a digital camera for opening night. Not because I especially like taking pictures of myself, but because of the Crazy French Guy, Pierre (who's moving to Paris from Dijon this year, accepted into the most prestigious computer security school in France; only 200 people from around the world get in each year).

He sent me a picture of himself holding the pastel drawing I made for him a year back, framed with the present he got for his birthday. Wrote how he's hanging it in his apartment in Paris. I was admittedly flattered, so I've decided to send him a photo of something I'm actually proud of (didn't tell him that [I wasn't proud of my gift to him], because he seems to genuinely like what my mediocre skills created.)