Saturday, July 31, 2004

Makin' the Rounds

The family is heading off to Las Vegas. Will also be stopping by the Grand Canyon and Hoover Dam.

"Ma, it's a dam. It's grey. It's a big, grey wall. What's there to see?"

I felt like Kucinich in that I, alone, saw the obviousness of that explanation. She just stared back, mortified: "But it famous!" Right, because anything worth mentioning in brochures is worth packing your bags for. I'd rather make creative use of a diaphragm

Home alone for a week. Maybe I'll rev up the ol' karaoke machine and sing definitive songs from the '80s against a backdrop of couples drinking Pabst Blue.

Dumplings & Upswings

"What dis I heah? You want new fooniture? Hahaha," my mom guffawed.

"I didn't say new, I said things I'd like. It could be second-hand for all I care. As long as I like it, I'll get use out of it," I retorted.

"Oh, same ting. I say ... no. "


My dad already had this conversation with me. It was less of a conversation and more of a frantic Mandarin yelling match that brought in Mao and his minions, and made my grandma laugh.

My dad begins: "Leelee, you go away, fah fah away. So now, you get old fooniture. I teow you, you get cheap, you get ugly, or you get nuhting!"

"I'll settle for nothing! I can just ... sit on towels for three years!"

He gestures to my grandma for some sign of support. None whatsoever. His frustration continues:

"You get basic. You want table? I find you. You want desk? I find you. No choice! No 'I gone live here for four years, I want to choose how to live.' You take or no take, I buy you nuhting!"

"But I don't want no flowered couch you found at that yard sale! And that dining table you were talking about has a crack that runs through the middle of it! The side panelling slips off and cuts you when you're not looking! I don't want my furniture held together with crazy glue!"

"Okay, now you crazy! You lehrn how you live by yawself! I teow you, VEDDY HARD! Why you so crazy?! You too romantic. LIFE NO ROMANTIC!"

He thinks I want to lead a bohemian existence where I read poetry in Chelsea and grow "tomato" plants on my window sill.

"So what? You want me to admit I can't live out there alone? Yeah, I'll do it, so you can take care of me for another 20 years."

By this point, my grandma was having a fit. "That's right! If she admits she's wrong, why, you'll be forced to take her back! Hahaha, so right, so right."

Cut to my mom cutting me a deal. Oh, the negotiable Cantonese. Says if I work at her store for a month, she'll pay for half of everything I buy. So if I end up with two grand worth of stuff, she pays for a thousand. Though, after adding everything up on IKEA's website, I doubt I'd end up passing the fifteen hundred mark. This way, I can have some disposible income to spend on fall/winter clothing (to combat -40 weather). I want to scour Montreal's boutique/antique districts and maybe pick up some retro fittings for a design contrast. That way, I won't have to worry about exceeding my budget because of a few knick-knacks.

Oh man, I've been watching way too much Queer Eye ...

Friday, July 30, 2004

You Learn Something Everyday

Mayberry Machiavelli. What a good description of Bush's cronies. Simplifying policies to its most black and white form to easily sway the gullible public. Like a sinister idea subtly influencing popular opinion. It's a Manchurian candidate in its most dangerous form: Simply intangible.

The phrase is quite ingenius. Well, to me anyway. I can only assume it was inspired by the fictional town featured on the Andy Griffith Show, in reference to Mayberry's idyllic rural living and simplication of life.

It beats "Robber Barons."


Even though I've never had the tendency to re-enact Seattle 1999, I hope to lose my childish naivete by the time I become a spin doctor. And by childish naivete, I mean, you know ... a conscience.


I am terribly sick. An 18-year-old with adolescent crushes on the most unlikeable* (and unlikely) candidates. Beginning at the easily flappable age of 12, the flippery of reading Roger Ebert's movie reviews developed into a once a day habit. I still dedicate, at least, five hours a week catching up on my archival reading. Yes, the man with dietary problems and unflattering knitwear became my hero; the reason I fell out of love with Gauss, and replaced him with Dickens.

Times were a-changin', and movies contained higher degrees of cynicism. American politics worked its way into Canadian office exchanges and private bedroom matters were devoured by the public with the fervor of a Fat Girls Gone Wild: Turkey Hunt video. The scandals were, by and large, a guilty pleasure to northern ears. About this time, my interest in Ebert waned. Seeing him without Siskel ... Well, let's put it this way: You don't cut cheese with a hammer. His writing became less critical annd more sympathetic. Low blood pressure and less bouts of O'Reilly-ish matches, the consequences of weight loss (at least Roeper has never had his microphone cut off.) I had to find a new hero to inspire me. Someone to look up to, but didn't look like Bukowski on a good day. Then I found him. New York Times columnist Paul Krugman. It was apparent at that defining moment Modern English's "Melt With You" would be the song they'd play in the TV movie version of my life (entitled: The Life and Times of a Top Dog:
Sanitation Services in Uganda.)

I admit it. I'm a Krugmaniac. I like how he's great at explaining complicated issues. I like how he treats his readers with respect and patience. He's matter-of-fact and to the point, but he doesn't hurry the evidence. He doesn't scurry away from controversial issues nor does he offer simple solutions. Do I have what it takes to be an economist? Gawd no. What do you take me for? Someone brainy? Let's not forget, I bow at the alter of Anna Wintour. But I will say this: I can read and will continue reading for I am but a simple creature of the soil while he, a man who unarguably deserves the Most Interesting Nerd with a Be'rd award ("beard" just doesn't have the same ring favoured by Mr. Country Grammar.)

A kumbaya well deserved. I salute you (and your polo shirts.)

*Why must they all do some sort of mind-numbing drug? I doubt mind enhancement is found beside the basement boiler of some guy who regularly chokes his monkey when not hallucinating llamas and ass.


Driving was wicked cool today. I got to do a U-turn 'cause we got lost picking up the next student. But I'd like to pat myself on the back because pregnant women pushing carriages and old people with canes are no longer seen as moving targets. No longer will "Kill, Kill, Kill!" flash before my eyes when they happen to wear something red.

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Riddle Me This

What was Robert De Niro doing in my dream? I nonchalantly invited him to attend some sort of artsy fartsy gala event held outside a grungy subway station surrounded by suburban houses with neatly trimmed hedges. I didn't expect him to show up, but he did, stepping out of the temporary fog like Bogart's final scene in Casablanca, but reversed. He didn't want to be there, squeezing out lemony expressions out of necessity (celebrity habits die hard.) Dude! Don't you know who Richard Linklater is? Guess Raging Bull made you a prima donna. I told him he was taller (and firmer) than I had imagined (ie. no pudgy belly, circa Naomi Campbell). Reminded me of Chris Noth in that episode of SATC when he says, "You're moving to Paris with a Russky?" to an obviously chagrined Carrie Bradshaw. Around 2 a.m., he looked at his watch, wished to go home and air kissed me goodnight. I was elated, a pleased look plastered my face. I walked, beaming, towards my friends, who paused long enough from picking at their sushi plates to say, "Who the hell was that?"

I don't think I've name dropped this much since I wrote that history class assignment that had me writing a fictional short story that required 18th-century descriptions of the culture, dress, architecture, political climate and figureheads of five continents, which I managed to procure in record time. Needless to say, my protagonist lived to be a hundred and loved to eavesdrop . It was supposed to be in the style of Candide, except the celibacy of my boy dismissed my planned efforts to poison him with syphilis.

So I fucked up his life by making him an orphan instead.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

A Kite is a Victim

A kite is a victim you are sure of.
You love it because it pulls
gentle enough to call you master,
strong enough to call you fool;
because it lives
like a desperate trained falcon
in the high sweet air,
and you can always haul it down
to tame it in your drawer.

A kite is a fish you have already caught
in a pool where no fish come,
so you play him carefully and long,
and hope he won't give up,
or the wind die down.

A kite is the last poem you've written,
so you give it to the wind,
but you don't let it go
until someone finds you
something else to do.

A kite is a contract of glory
that must be made with the sun,
so you make friends with the field
the river and the wind,
then you pray the whole cold night before,
under a travelling cordless moon,
to make you worthy and lyric and pure

--Leonard Cohen


How do you think yourself superior when you live under mercy's shadow? Which reminds me. I want to go fly a kite soon. One, unlike Shotgun Toter's, which stabbed her when she curled up into a ball, instinctively readying herself for the impending attack. It got its swerv'on again when the handle bars above the slide caged her in like a poor, helpless circus freak.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Incoherent Mess: Read at your own peril

What does it mean by "too liberal?" The ambiguity of this rattled me when I read that four out of 10 Americans believe that to be the case with American presidential nominee, John Kerry. I wonder what that even implies. 40% of registered voters can't be wrong, they must have a legitimate concern. Okay, gay marriage. It's a free trip to San Francisco. Let it go. Abortion. I have more cells in my spit. What's next? I got nothin'. Liberal, liberal ... well, his wife is a feisty firecracker. I like that, she adds spice to America's great apple pie. And looky here, Heinz is ketchup which comes from tomatoes which used to be called "love apples."

Kerry is a "flip-flopper." This is also worrying voters. That a politician might go back on his word. Oh, come brimstone and hellfire, enlightenment has doomed us! Excuse me for my cynicism, but our society's schizophrenic relationship with our elite has long been dogged by despondency, disparity, and mistrust. Yet, we cling on to unhealthy amounts of naivete whenever we believe it suits us best. "I trusted that man when I supported him, I did!" My heart burns coals for you. But I'm off topic (as I'm prone to do). Kerry is losing support because 54% of the country do not know where he stands on domestic issues. Now, statistics don't mislead (I'm sure ...), but I'm surprised people are just beginning to see through this political strategy. From what I can tell, Kerry has always played the "negative" card, criticizing Bush's flaws rather than one-up him in the people charming department (Kerry has none, it's the price we pay for being liberal). Hell, the Democrats have a late history of doing that. They are quick to oppose, but are slow to propose. This can be a strength, but it's generally accepted as a weakness among, I suppose, their public kin. By bringing problems to the surface, they begin with a strong offensive position. But I think that only works to their advantage during election years, when they can rally the support of voters and play on their sympathies. But when Democrats have nothing up their sleeves, or have fire to fight back with, what do they expect but the GOP taking control of the Senate?

Ugh, I know I don't know what I'm talking about. But I'm too lazy to delete this entry (I did insert a statistic and all). The point is, I hope Americans usher Kerry into the White House because Canadians are sick of being right all the time. Hey yo!

Maybe I'll just stick to forcasting fashion finds from now on.


18 and loving it. Am now arranging furniture in my head. Mmm ... throw pillows ...

Monday, July 26, 2004

The Mortal Coil is Struck

I found a place. Oh, I found a place. Details after they give me the keys and complete my credit check. I already signed the lease. My mom put a year's worth of rent in my account today just so they wouldn't find the 40 cents long thought to be an urban myth of sorts.

Looking forward to furniture shopping. Ah, independent living. It's a soup dish away from being a bride; a Salinger from murder.

Floor plan:


I'd also like to add that I've become a cat person during my foray into that hubbub of illumination, the metropolitan of a million. I've been neutral all my life, but I feel, as a newly appointed adult, I had to make a choice and I chose kitty.


My host said the reason why I probably don't have a room at res. anymore, even though I saw the room number beside my name the last time I checked, is because of under-table dealings. Usually, a student pays someone who works at Concordia to guarantee a room for them. As in, in addition to the $100 they still haven't refunded me.

Sunday, July 25, 2004

Uproot Update, Pt. 1

Four prospects written on two torn sheets of papier.  Went to the first one, but tenant failed to show up on time.  Parents immediately discouraged:
"Damn Frenchie!"
We got into the minivan of our gracious host, back window broken from a blunderous break-in.  "Since we doubt you are capable of finding a job," they said, half-seriously, eyes rolling in mock contempt.  "We think we ought to buy you a place instead.  That way, you can collect rent to feed yourself."
So off we went and off they went: "Lawn.  No good.  Lily can't mow."  But I could learn, I protested.  I could learn! "Area.  Too far.  Lily can't walk."  But I can bus it.  I'll bus it!  "Driveway.  No use.  Lily can't drive."  But I can, somewhat.  I ... alright, I can't.
We found these gorgeous townhouses within walking distance from the Loyola campus.  Wondered if units were still available since some still needed an epidermis.  Thought perhaps in the $120,000 to $180,000 range, so it's a good investment especially since it's in a student populated area.  Calling tomorrow for details.  Wish me luck.

Newly acquired skill:  I learned to type with a cat standing up, fidgetting and snuggling on me.  It's like trying to look over Marge Simpson in a movie theatre while balancing a two gallon jug of Milk Duds on your lap, and praying - praying! - you didn't, somehow, harnass the power of urine from your neighbour.

Saturday, July 24, 2004

And the search is on for my apartment. It need not be large nor have marble arches that tightly hug ornate walls. No stately mouldings in the Rococo fashion overlooking the Persian rug, sighing at the dapper gentleman below. For between $400-550 a month, I'd like something tasteful (ie. no semen stains on the curtains from a botched sexperiment), cozy (ie. wall-less wonders need not apply), and practical (ie. I'd rather it not be located on the landing strip.) But truthfully speaking, it's been difficult. I've only heard the word "taken" used more often in the context of anal probing and husband stealing.

Please, please, no infestations of any kind. I don't think I can bunker up with yet another cat lover. And for God's sake, pull up your fly when you're done. "No one wants to see the bride's beaver" Aye, nor the groom's giraffe.

Leaving Sunday morning with the parents to begin this journey into the cesspool of offerings blessed by the gods of occupancy: Scum and Mildew.

A New Frontier

I drove, I drove, I drovvvvvvve! (The Radio City Rockettes appear on either side of the well-lit stage, can-canning away in shared ecstasy as trolls masquerading as hats unbundle themselves and somersault out of their respectable sequined headgear.)
"So you start d'engine, and ... naw ya go."

"I ... huh? You mean, right now? This instant?"

"Yes, you're a-drivin' to da mall."

"I'm what?!"

Yes, the mall, then down the mountain at Garth, into Westdale, and through McMaster Hospital.
"Ya doin' great, Leelee.  Okay, naw break. Gently, gently.  And ... stop."

"Are you sure you don't want to pick up some diapers for yourself?  The mall's nearby.  Remember that I'm someone who has only regularly exercised her right to turn on the windshield wipers until today."

"Ya doin' well foh first time.  But yur grip too strong.  Calm down.  Relax."

"I can't! I can't! ... No, I'm alright now. I'm good."

10 seconds later:



Banana Chic came over to my house today and helped me tidy up my room.  It took some time to get through mountains of clothes (and yet, I still don't have enough) and doodads that resemble one thing, but used for another (ie. afro pick as back scratcher, English/Chinese dictionary as speaker stand, Cuban maraca as bookmark, etc.) 

Eternally grateful for her act of kindness.  Does that mean as best friends, her habits will rub off on me and force me to pick up after myself? 
Not bloody likely.

Concordia's RA made a mistake.  I didn't get a room, but rather, placed 10th on some bullshit waitlist.  I picked out nine potential apartments to go see come Monday.  Woohoo!  A mother/daughter Thelma and Louise, without the whole seeing naked, waxy Adonis dripping wet from shower, then realizing he stole your money, then driving off a clift out of desper-liber-ation.

In the words of J.J. from Good Times: "When the chicks see this hat, I'm gonna have wall to wall hickeys!"

Friday, July 23, 2004

Hint, Hint

My mom came back from Michigan and presented me with a tank top. It's pelvic-length, woven, and has a built-in bra. I think she's fed up with my casual nudist tendencies.

Blame it on Bullrider of "I don't wear underwear" fame. I just don't see a reason to put anything on except for some big ol' cotton panties when I'm not planning to go anywhere. Clothes make me itchy and this season's fluctuating weather isn't helping. I find it unreasonable to act otherwise, unless there's a fashion statement in the making.

Besides, I'm only doing the savage striptease when I commute around the upstairs living quarters. Washroom and back, who am I afraid will see me? The real question is, who would want to see me with random bobby pins poking through my - believe it or not - wavy hair, close-eyed and sleepy in really nightmarish underpants that only look tolerable when folded down?

It's a thought I dare not entertain.

Thursday, July 22, 2004

The Pickle Near the Clutch

Friday at 2:30.

The first ever time I'll be in the driver's seat, foot on the gas pedal, hands on the steering wheel, the hot vinyl searing my fingerprints into the dimpled grooves. I can't say for certain why I've abstained from the desire to careen 100km/hour into bakeries and free clinics, but maybe ... that's ... the reason. I don't trust myself in an automobile that has a better looking trunk than me. It's like trusting your husband's mistress to pick out your anniversary gift: "Oh ... how lovely. A tube-top labelled Skank." But I digress. I just know I will end up depending on its every working gear and nut even though it might become the death of me, an over-priced casket without the rich, imitation velvet interior.

If I had a choice, I'd get a SMART car (the Dutch tour guide said it stands for Swiss Mercedes ART). That way, I can see the front, the back, and it'll practically feel like an archaic transportation device, my stilettos clicking and clacking against the pavement, Flintstones-style: "Hey Bahn, how's about taking a drive with me in this supabox?"

The best part? No backseat. A virtual monastic breeding ground. Wrong choice of words. What I meant to say was ... Nah, I'm leaving it.

Mob Gathering

Oh, how they screamed in the forest.

"The dark! Ahhhhhhh! Ghosts, orbs, I want to leave!"

"But we just got out of the car."


"Don't go into the house! Why are you going into the house, Lily?!"

"They're stone walls! For Pete's sake, you can see me through the holes on the otherside!"

"You come back now! We're leaving, there's people here digging themselves into my body."

The BBQ was a lot of fun (6:30 'til 2), except for that little car accident that happened to Swami Turk (I think I might have a fetish for vintage T's). He stopped in the middle of the road, and someone slid into him. It's the other guy's fault because he was tailgating and didn't leave a large enough "space cushion" to stop the collision from happening. Which, I know, isn't how Americans would've dealt with it, but that's Canadian law for ya: Prevention over cause.

His mom's really angry. I showed him how to console her on Banana Chic ("Pretend I'm you, and she's your mother,") but it ended up looking like I was coming on to the poor girl: "Stop rubbing me."

Oh right, I hate J.Lo's boyfriend. He has more jibberish coming out of him than a lady with an yeast infection. I hope he gets run over by a tractor ... equipped with Vagisil.

17-1 people (Dimpy is not well-liked. She came, she saw, she left. "How did she know about this?" someone inquired. "I don't know. She just invited herself in.")
4 cars
1 tent
1 hit & run
Lily winning a game of Mafia without laughing while getting everyone else to vote off her accusers?


For everything else, there's trousers.

Lily: "Okay, it's my turn to defend myself. I can't be the other Mafia member because Ali here promised us - promised us - it was Asian Dude. Remember? '150%! I guarantee you, it's him!' And what ended up happening? He was innocent. Then Ali immediately goes for Jess, and tries to convince all of us that she has the Mafia card. Are we supposed to forget how forthright he was in the beginning? He's picking off the innocent in an orderly fashion. Look, she's sitting right next to Asian Dude, that seems like the only reason she's guilty. Ali has the Mafia card because he's doing a lot of over-confident blaming, and can't defend himself. It's so obvious, I can't make it anymore clear."


Crowd: "Uh ... I guess majority rules. Ali, you're dead."

[Flips over his card.]

Lily: "Heh heh, suckers."

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Chickenshit: Based on a true story

*Details changed for effect.

LILY and BULLRIDER (formerly attached to REDNECK) are instant messaging. The prior is in a non-descript T-shirt, hair tied in a bandana. Cut to friend. Spandex shorts worn under multi-hued XL mumu with feather trim*. Camera zooms in towards the computer screen.

I want to meet this "Mario."


Why not? Is he talking to you right now?

Yes. He wants to know why I'm never initiating conversation with him. Still wants to go out.

So get it over with. It's my day off. We can all meet. Let me talk to him.

[After much coercing ...]


[A little while later ...]

I said no to his bar idea. 11, at the Timmy's on Hess. Get ready at 10:38.

Fade to black.


Bullrider and Lily are cruising down the Linc. in B's decade old Crown Victoria. B has changed into a yellow hoody. Lily, black cropped jeans with ruched satin fuschia top a la Juicy Couture.

Okay. If I want to leave, I will say, "I have to go meet J now." Remember.

Okay, J. Who's J?

Doesn't matter.


Girls arrive at the coffee shop and wait. Do not want to enter too early. Stalling time in ugly car.

So 4, eh?


[B lists the guys]

Who's number 4? Telllllllll me.

It's a typo. In my country, we do not have a number for three. I substitute with four.


Inside coffee shop. Girls buy two chocolate trifles. Just as Lily opens the door that leads to the washroom, MARIO walks in. Very tall. 6'4" and up. Very thin. Tight black shirt. Sinewy limbs.

Lily! Door's that way!

[Mario sees B, looks glum. Must've heard her call out Lily's name because he opened the shop door right before. A little while later, Lily comes out of the washroom and sees him sitting a few meters away from B out of the corner of her eye. Mario is just staring at the two girls, without saying a word.]

Hey Bullrider!
[Mutters, "This is so awkward."]

[Smiles. Pulls up hood, and eyes dart to the left.]
Where does Steve get his T-shirts?

Well, Bryce knows how to print shirts, I think. Steve goes to Value Village.
[Continues eating nasty trifle and avoids turning her head in guy's direction.]

Well, I'm not going to sink that low.
[Eyes darts some more, hands holding the sides of her hoody. "It's him, it's him," she murmurs.]

What's wrong with shopping second-hand?
[Mouths, "I know. I know."]

The Sensitive Tart already has stuff from there.

Oh really?
[Mouths, "Um, meet J in 20 minutes."]

Well, 17 ...

[10 strenuous minutes pass. Meaningless conversation continues. Lily looks up at every guy who walks by, pretending to "search." Mario slowly gets up to line up for something to drink.]

His back is turned.

Let's make a run for it.

[Girls walk quietly to the door and slip into the dark parking lot. Certain places are lit up by the gleam of mullets. Lily gets to the car first.]

Hurry up! He's a track star, he'll rip us to shreds!

If he couldn't approach us then, he won't approach us now.

[Lily is scared shitless, laughing hysterically, sliding underneath the seat.]

I don't want him to see me. I'll hide here, if you don't mind.

Crap, I have to drive past. It's one-way.

[B slowly drives past, and looks through the window. He seems to have disappeared. She drives on the curb, almost running over mullet guys and into a tree.]

Floor it!


Lily and Bullrider sit on a bench in Westdale.

I guess that means block and delete.



Math Judas: "You chickened out?! What is wrong with you?! Then again ..."

Lily: "What?"

Math Judas: "You did give him a sufficient amount of time to approach you."

Lily: "He was just staring and raping me with his eyes. It was creeping me out."


Tomorrow: J.Lo's BBQ.

Tuesday, July 20, 2004


It's uncanny how alike Jimmy Stewart's 1957 flop "The Spirit of St. Louis" is to the Tom Hank's vehicle "Cast Away."

Both had big-budgets, both were practically one-man shows, and both contained leading actors with everyman qualities.

But the similarity that really made me take notice was the way the main characters "befriended" inanimate objects. Stewart, his altimeter; Hanks, his Wilson volleyball.

And I thought I needed a reason to talk.

Holla Back, Young'un

Math Judas and I had a long talk about the present state of my mental health.

"Now you know how it's like to be seen as a piece of meat."

How I agree. It's not flattering.

I feel like I have no control over the outcome. That I'm being led to a decision. And it's like the Twilight Zone because seemingly over night, the weird kids from high school are getting hit on, like private contractors in Baghdad.

"I'm sort of in the same boat this year," he mentioned. "When did girls ask me to dances?"

I think guys confuse my adaptation skills with having something in common with them. You want to talk politics? Alright. Cars? Okay. The meaning of life? You're on. But that doesn't mean you and I are meant to be.

"Don't you just hate that they say they like you before they know you?"

"I'm afraid once they know me, they wouldn't like me."

And there stands the paradox.

He says I'm not giving myself enough credit, but he also says my concerns are legitimate considering I'm leaving and one month isn't a long time for anything to blossom.

Lily: "I told them I wasn't looking, but they said it's 'cause I haven't found the right guy."

Math Judas: "And they just so happen to be that guy. Typical."

I complain that guys don't like me. But when they do, I accuse them of having bad taste. I'm Larry David with hair.

Four guys! This is insane! Lump that with family annoyances, and it's a whole lot going on.

Drug trafficking in Colombia might constitute less drama. Now there's a realistic option ...


Work will muffle this narcissistic endeavour. Listening to someone else explain their fucked-up life is the equivalent of taking one long drag from a crack pipe.

Sorry. Even I'm getting tired of my bitchin'. Last entry to spill my neurotic beans to everyone regarding this topic.

Monday, July 19, 2004

Courting, Pt. 2

So he resembles Tyson Beckford Tyrese.

But I feel so pushed. He's so overly confident. Says I should stop wanting to control everything and "go with the flow."

I think consistent e-meetings are officially hampering my desire to continue. I just can't instantaneously lust over someone online without first meeting them. It's awful, but I'm old fashioned. I'd like to see the merchandise before sampling it. And the benefits of getting to know someone face-to-face is getting to know their body language to understand where your limits are. Otherwise, you're just working in a windowless cell with a five-watt bulb.

And I told him about how I'm not looking and at this age, men just want someone to mother them.

"What book did you read that from?"

I think I'm just going to stall until I leave for Montreal. He doesn't want to pursue anything platonic, and I'm too much of a pussy to give in (it's not in my nature.)

I told him, he's very upfront. He doesn't see a reason to hold back.

"I'm not easily persuaded"

"Doesn't matter if you are or not. I just talk like that."

"You probably need the hands of three guys to count how many girls you've said that to."

"You think I'm a baby bad boy?"

"Nah, I just think you try to be."

"What makes you think that?"

"You're too confident to not have done this before. Human psychology. People are more comfortable in familiar territory."

"What if I feel comfortable with just you and not because of all the girls that have approached me?"

"Well, makes more sense then. Because you're now taking the offensive position, rather than the defensive, like with them."

I refuse to get played.

Advice? No. No advice. I'll just get the usual barrage of "Lily, you're so freakin' weird. Just go out with the guy!"


On prostituting:

"I'm curious, how much do you cost?"

"Depends on the brotha's size."

"The bigger, the less you pay?"

"I guess that means your three months' salary."
Couldn't have said it better myself.

On efforts by some to bring religious beliefs increasingly into American politics:

"The religious factions will go on imposing their will on others, unless the decent people connected to them recognize that religion has no place in public policy. They must learn to make their views known without trying to make their views the only alternatives ..." -John Kerry

That's the distinction I failed to make when faced with Pastor Boy's brand of religious fervor.

Courting, Pt. 1

Um ... how did this happen?

After a (victorious) repartee equal parts sexual aggression and actual animosity, after a debate concerning local politics, after a philosophical analysis of the fashion industry, 18-year-old runway model asked me out for drinks.

"He's a loooooooser," I tried to convince Sweets.

But good-looking men get away with murder.

Following my line that "illusion [is] the byproduct of social filters that skew reality," our mutual friend, Track 'Roid, abruptly asked who let the dogs out.

"Back to our talk."

"Okey dokes."

"What I don't find an illusion is asking you out for drinks/coffee so we can talk some more."

As corny as Peggy Bundy's big toe.

So he asked me for my number, and I said, let's keep it casual through IM.

I'm leaving for Montreal soon, I don't have time to meet new people from here.

This is turning out to be a dilemma of the cruelest sort.

Sunday, July 18, 2004

I feel guilty.

Although I'm bonding with members of Redneck Bullrider's church, I am increasingly losing interest in the sermons. Not the messages of acceptance, mind you. But how Pastor Mullet delivers them.

He tells stories the same way Jerry Seinfeld's "Roundtine" rival does. It's a spiel I just don't find funny because the jokes are so white bread, I can only imagine fetuses blushing due to their lack of life experiences and social contact.

I nodded to sleep (and might've dreamt about Cher again) while the in-house band was blasting Hallelujah and Jesus through the speakers:

Redneck Bullrider: "Yeah, I saw you jerking around."

Mid-service, I left to freshen up and headed to the vending machine. Got two packs of gum for the price of one. Definitely holy intervention. Definitely. The Rain Man got nothin' on me.

I ended up serving snacks to customers who were probably mildly afflicted with OCD:

"I have a ticket."

"Alright ma'am."

"It's right here."


"I got it in my hand."

"Uh huh."

"Here it is."

"I see it."

"It's real."

... and so on.


Had a Little Caesar's fill-up on the brow of the mountain escarpment.

"I'm not even hungry," I later commented.

"Then why did you want to eat?" Redneck Bullrider asked.

"It's a bonding experience. You can only bond when you eat."


I went shopping with Redneck Bullrider for her boyfriend today. I love shopping for guys. Two pairs of jeans, one from Tommy Hilfiger Split Jeans and one from Ralph Lauren. Then convinced her to buy a chocolate brown belt made by Kenneth Cole. That Sensitive Tart will look absolutely delish after he returns from wherever the hell Christian mechanics go to for fun. I don't remember. The point is, he'll like it and he'll wear it.

Straight men with no taste. Is a revolution in the making to usurp their longtime hold on the world?


Sweets and I talked about how she's refused to begin any sort of relationship with any man this summer, which led to our theories on Nice Guys vs. Bad Boys. She has a history of liking the latter (but to her credit, she was always deceived into believing they were the prior).

But Sweet's description of her love life made me laugh because it fit so well:

"Yeah, [except] in my case, all my fish were infected and came out with three eyes and I'd stick my fishing rod in, but I wound up pulling out the same fish."

Saturday, July 17, 2004

Was it 4505 ... or ... 4503 ... or ...?
Needless to say, I correctly remembered my mom's VISA card number and bought CDN$259.65 worth of used books from Concordia's online bookstore.  All things considered, it's not a lot of money spent for an entire year's worth of reading material.  While everyone's whining, I'll be dining (on cafeteria food, natch.  Though a George Foreman grill looks pretty tempting right now: "Come an' getcher lunch meats with grill marks.")

Mom asked me if I wanted to visit Vancouver with auntie Jeca in late August. 

"Aw da kids go too," she warned.
"So I'll just walk about town by myself," I countered.
Except Concordia's orientation days are on September 1 & 2, and I still need to move all my shit into my dorm.
I'll be living with Great Aunt #4, assuming I decide to go Holt Renfrew-ing, and be spoiled like a Saudi heiress.  She's a local real estate magnate with an adopted son who once dated Fairview Station's Cantonese news anchor:
"So be-oo-tifoh," my mom was known to coo, then carefully taking the comment back to ground level by adding something along the lines of, "But maybe face too long."
I haven't gone back there in 1.05 dog years (or 11 in homo homo sapien terms, not to be confused with homo homo milk, which unwisely implies the presence of an erotic aftertaste in your moo juice.)  But I remember it being a great city just to walk through.  Fresh seafood cluttering the market booths, the Pacific Ocean being a stone's throw away.  That thick morning fog you often see in London quickly receding to make room for people too self-conscious to be provincial.  An atmosphere chock full of Toronto's zest and San Francisco's zeal, I don't know why I haven't gone back (especially since Vancouver's Chinatown is the cleanest I've seen anywhere.)  For Pete's sake, it has cobblestone where cobblestone need not be!

Watched the Charles Dickens biography for the second time.  Blame it on the insomnia.  Hell, I can't even do that because really, I've just been confined in my pigsty sans food, sleeping for as along as that burning ball o' gas is out.

That! is the menace caused by disease run rampant through the corridors of technology.
Eat shit spyware.

Friday, July 16, 2004

My computer has been ravaged with
one wave after another of trojans and malware. I've been freaking
out for the past two days. Got rid of iMesh
and enabled the XP firewall (the French one Pierre sent
me "expired.")

I think I've installed every "in-the-know" freeware AV program out
there. But I finally cleared things up after restarting and
scanning my computer, I reckon, 20+ times.

Created a system restore point just in case those e-fuckers ever try to mess with my box again.


I guess I can live with $7/hour working at my mom's. Banana Chic
doesn't even get paid to work at the family restaurant by her hobo dad
because, in his words, it's the principle of it all.

Then again, her disposible income comes from working the denim mines of Jean Machine.

Out of curiosity, I asked my mom why I had to work next Tuesday.

"Me an' auntie Kim go to Michigan."

Oh ...

"You wek Monday too."


"I so ti-yad, give me day off."


Note to self: Need to get acquainted with IKEA soon. Shoes aren't
going to organize themselves
(especially while huddled together on the steerage decks of the school-provided armoire, enveloped by the stench of past party progeny. Oh, the dread. The dread!)

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

A-Hunting We Will Go

Prudie and I went along with Banana Chic and her father to find her a place to live when she attends the University of Waterloo this September. This search led us to Cambridge.

Cambridge has an idiocyncratic center that can only be described as David Lynch meets Amsterdam meets Springer guest meets biggest attraction is a well-polished sign of an H&R Block.

The three places we visited in no particular order (alright, worst to not-too-shabby):

Townhouse on 35 Grosvenor Lane
Door? Check.
Nervous tenant? Check.
Naked man sitting on bed upon arrival? Check.

The placed looked like a catch on the outside. Mowed lawn, clean exterior. The landlord was a middle-aged Mandarin man who had a limited grasp of the English language. He wore a pale striped shirt and khaki pants, his keys jingling in his pockets, and the only reason I'm lingering on the man's description is because the place he was offering for $350/month was nothing more than a 7x3 foot hallway, ravaged by Frat-boy-a-tosis.

"And ... dat is duh kitchen."

I peered around the corner. "What kitchen?" I assumed he was pointing at the room adjacent to the rice cooker, positioned fragilely on a slapdashed shelf along with its microwave brethren.

"Kitchen. Kitchen!" he repeated. Apparently, he thought for $350/month, something that resembled the set of Little Orphan Annie was adequate.

Upon closer inspection, the room I first assumed was the kitchen turned out to be the living quarters of a shirtless man sitting pre-porn production on the dilapidated bed.

Banana Chic nervously "oohed" and "ahhed" in the 4x4 containment centre. It was only polite. "Can I go upstairs?" she later asked.

"Um ... if you need something, maybe."

I was frankly not only unimpressed but was - how do you say? - scared. Especially after he showed us the bathroom, shower curtain loosely hung around the perimeters of the toilet.

Bachelor Pad Above Money Mart (or something that resembled its residuals)
Door? Check.
Stairs? Check.
Lady with denim hot pants with about 38 pounds of cellulite dimpling her hamhocks? Check.

Two rooms to choose from. One with a view of the vacuum store across the street; the other, the algae-filled river.

"It looks better at night," she assured us.

Kitchen appliances four feet away from where the bed should/could be.

"Interesting ..." Prudie and I thought. "Naked man house it is."

Perfect Little House at the Heart of the City
Door? You betcha!
Informed tenants? Check.
Loads of extras? Check, CHECK, CHECK!!!

This is the one Banana Chic ultimately decided on. It's a spacious house with six bedrooms (for six students, all going to the same school for the same architecture program.) Fully furnished, wireless Internet, new plumbing, choice of paint, dining room, backyard, attic and two washrooms. Free cleaning services! $450/month.

Ain't no party like a Filipino par-tay. Hey ho!


Banana Chic's father really is the living embodiment of the stereotype that parents give everything to their children. Everywhere he sat, he looked like a hobo, with his salt 'n pepper bird's nest, grey flannel pants, bus boy shirt, and "favourite" pair of open-toe sandals, he was someone you'd definitely find on the corner of Cardboard Box and Street Grate. This especially rung true when he left Swiss Chalet to buy a pizza and ate it on the side of the parking lot:

"It looks like you found it in a dumpster."

Visualize the contrast. Banana Chic in her Baby Phat; her father in Hobos R Us.

Funniest shit almighty.

Monday, July 12, 2004

How To: Sew a Button

Heart of glass, in peril, hanging on the cuff of my sleeve
Thread count now double digits, mourning the loss of detail
The plastic saucer pops, damaging loosely weaved tiles, to introduce the remedy
Long past his prime, he inhales as he punctures the flesh
Mild heat produced by the friction of his tail
His swagger stopped by the rhythm of the rail


The damage is not so severe.

On a Lark

I have to stop wanting to jump people's bones (or in some cases, getting dangerously close to succeeding.)

If I'm like this now, what's going to happen when I hit 35 and reach my sexual peak? I fear for the safety of mankind.

Okay, so I was a little intoxicated when I let that guy go on kissing my neck. Okay, so skirts should never be hiked up that high by strangers. And alright, alright, I know it's not right to pant like you're coming (on a guy who's doing ... really ... inappropriate ... things.)

The point is, I think I'm going to avoid talking about all things sexual and go mentally celibate before it kicks me in the ass again.

Until August, that is (when my slate is wiped clean.)


Anchorman looks too funny to pass up (huge fan of Steve Carrell since his days on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart). Must catch it before J.Lo's barbecue next Wednesday.
Maybe I'm paranoid, but I've been receiving a lot of spam lately. Spanking spams, girthy spams, spams that offer me penile implants and the pleasure of watching bodily secretions spill over virginal bodies.

Maybe someone's been signing me up to things I'd rather not repeat on this most sacred of sites. If so, then I shake my fist at you!


Maybe I'm too honest on my blog. Maybe, deep down, I want to alienate myself from everyone I know in this downtrodden town, so I may truly make a clean break when I leave. Maybe I only have the power of hindsight, because foresight takes effort.

I write about every twitch, every twerk. Identities are barely concealed; my words tend to reveal.

And though the truest things are said in jest, I do it on my own behest.

I'll stop before Dr. Seuss turns over in his grave and shoots me clear between the eyes.

Sunday, July 11, 2004

Tip of the Day #666:

Don't go to East Side Marios, order a Grown Up Mac 'n Cheese (with bacon. Delicious but not worth the $12), and get ambushed while eating said dish by table entirely comprised of Christians, straight from a church service.

The girls pointed out, correctly, that this petty argument would lead to nowhere. But that didn't stop all four guys from trying to crack my atheist views.

If I wasn't so stubborn, the situation might have been overwhelming. But doggone it, I enjoyed myself and we all hugged later like a bunch of oranges submerged in marmalade: Just oozing with equal amounts of tang and tart.

One of them actually came up to me later and apologized for "offending" me.

"No no! I liked it. I don't get offended [concerning these matters.]*Insert Big Hug*"

Ironically, it all started because Pastor Kid asked me what I thought of the service, and I said, bashfully, that parts of it offended me.

"Like what?"

"I don't really think I should be talking about it with Christians surrounding me and all."

"No no, we like talking."

Oh, have ye much faith.

"Well, I just thought what [the minister] said about the Chinese Christians dying for their faith ... um, let's just say, if he was going to mention politics along with religion, that he either leave it out altogether or discuss it more in detail, without obscuring the main ideas with his shallow parallels to the issue at hand. And I was a little miffed that he said a Christian's mission in life is to convert non-believers into followers of Christ."

I didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of leaving that unscathed and unsettled.

But I do believe I acted "cordially."


"What's been happening with Guitar Guy?" asked Redneck Bullrider.

I quizzically asked her if she had read my blog.


The corners of my mouth upturned, and I rolled my eyes.

"I guess it was a temporary thing because I don't feel anything anymore."

She laughed, "Leelee yah!" in mock imitation of my mother.

Oh man, I think living in Montreal will make me a bonafide whore. I'll want to do some nasty shit with whomever and whenever, then leave them in the middle of the night, like someone with a secret smack habit.

Saturday, July 10, 2004

Day in a nutshell:

Afternoon chapel wedding was postponed because the bride fainted, overwhelmed by stress.

Reconnected with extended family. They really support my decision to further my education in Montreal.

8-year-old brother (who by eastern - and western - standards is considered ... on the hefty side) rock climbed at the mall. A mob of spectators gathered around the foot of the mat and rooted for him (while my mom backseat-drivered him: "I say lef foot! Ookay, right! No, yaw otha right! Aye ya!") He did surprisingly well. Three more steps and he would've reached the top. Really pleased with him.

Mom bought me an ASUS notebook.

"I tell yaw auntie aw da time. I take you out, I take me to cleanahs. Aways big fings. Not Yu-Gi-Oh card like yaw brotha, but big fings [like tuition]. So espensive. Aye ya!"

I have a sudden urge to clean my room, knowing how much it will make her proud. It's only fair; quid pro quo.


I just finished checking my email. Prudie wrote to me and confirmed that, yes, I got the job working in Oakville for some magazine distributor. $10/hour from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.

Kick ass!


ATTN: Patrick

Watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I have a lot of qualities similar to Clementine (like you've previously stated), but overall, I'm too much of a masochist to want to grab Joel by the balls ... all the time.

Friday, July 09, 2004

Bursary Bullshit; Pimpin' the Word


As a lifelong student, I am determined to gain a post-secondary education. Now at the cusp of adulthood, I realize a lack of funds will hamper my academic progress, which is a reality I have grudgingly come in terms with. Although I cannot say with absolute certainty that I will be deterred from pursuing a higher education due to nominal financial assistance, I can say that not being awarded a bursary will have a negative effect on my quality of work. I have thought of taking time off school to pursue modest work to help out with my tuition, but fortunately, personal pressures, in addition to those of a familial nature, convinced me to focus wholly on my studies to birth greater rewards in the future.

I am not currently employed, but have been making an effort to seek employment this summer to help pay for unforeseen university fees. All my previous jobs until now were originally considered based on the amount of practical experience it allowed. For instance, I was a newspaper intern at the Hamilton Spectator, acting as the assistant to the assignment editor. Although I was not paid for my time, it gave me the opportunity to meet veteran journalists who offered me temporary paying positions to assist them. At the time, I thought this was more beneficial than having a stable part-time job because my ambitions involve attending journalism school. But as the first day of university fast approaches, I am discovering just how much a post-secondary school education will cost to maintain. In essence, the foliage on the proverbial money tree is feeling the first chill of fall. At this point, even scrubbing the aftermath of a warehouse rave looks like a pretty attractive option to me.

I do have plans to work during the fall/winter semesters. I am an 18-year-old who will be living 6 hours away from home. This inconvenient distance will mean saying goodbye to parental dependency and the lifestyle I've grown accustomed to under their care. Since I have first-hand experience working in retail, I will most likely search for work in that field. In addition, I also have the required qualifications to be a piano teacher. All this will mean less time concentrating on school work, and more time on work schedules. Needless to say, being awarded a bursary will relieve potential stress, thereby, opening up more opportunities to focus on my studies, familiarize myself with the city, and learn how to live on my own for the first time.


"That was the biggest load of bull crap I have ever read," Banana Chic later lamented.

Amen to that.

Thursday, July 08, 2004


"Please explain how working will influence your studies and your personal circumstances."

I'm applying for an academic bursary. The verisimilitudinous Lily would write something about being cheap and finding any reason to lessen the financial burden of a post-secondary school education used in preparation to perpetuate the gears of a service-based economy.

But the Lily known to intentionally fall into the trap of cliche to better her chances of receiving government assistance will probably write along the lines of a job giving me less time to do homework, thereby, increasing the possibility of dropping-out in my first year to fade away into obscurity as a stripper named Amber helps me back on my feet after we run away with her bouncer, Nico.


I had this huge desire to makeout with Guitar Guy the four days we were in driving school together. I've known him since le premier jour of middle school. It was a coincedence we picked the same school and particular days to attend class. Anyway. The point is, I literally had looping fantasies that involved me grabbing him and just going at it. I don't know why. Maybe his passive/aggressiveness and ability to tell me exactly what he thought of me caused by years of Lily-induced maltreatment is the reason my loins currently burn for him. His now non-hippie tendencies might also be a contributing factor.

"Shut up Lily," he'd say.

"Go fuck yourself," I'd say.

Rating: ***1/2 Fluffy Kittens.

My friend also asked him if he was my friend. He said he "guess[ed]" so. I let out an "awwww" and tightly hugged his arm.

Guitar Guy: "That's the first time you've ever showed affection towards me."

I was floored because he was right. I've always showed him the same courtesy as I would a bath mat, with no complaints on his part.

"You're arrogant," he told me.

And I'd get offended. "What do you mean I'm arrogant? I'm just observant and in tune with my likes and dislikes."

A short arguement later:

"Fine, fine. You're not arrogant."

"But I am."

Metric said it best with Combat Baby. Indeed, no one here wants to fight me like he does.

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

Montreal People: Pt. 2

Karim (sp?) and Sergio, Concordia's summer security guards. Very friendly guys, easy to joke with. I asked them whether they catch people getting rowdy in elevators, and they replied, "Oh yeah, all the time." Duh-amn! *Sidenote: I cut myself out of the picture to avoid ruining the overall effect of manly beauty. Posted by Hello

Montreal People: Pt. 1

Lily and JuJu sitting outside an outdoor bar & grill moments after talking to an old woman who warned us about date rape drugs. Posted by Hello

Saved me from the terrifying McGill residence washroom. Posted a sign on the door that said, "Out Of Order: Enter at your own risk." Posted by Hello

On the roof of the building complex 737 was part of. JuJu and Hamburglar. She was head over lust; he was a playa. She waited for his call; he most likely skipped town. She was so drunk, she actually pushed his tongue back in his mouth with her index finger. He was so desperate, he bought her two shots of Crown Royal (in addition to the three shots of vodka she just had) just in case one was too risky to cop a feel on. Posted by Hello

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

On Smokin' It & Lucifer

My driving school instructor is a Trinidadian man with a heavy Caribbean drawl. He also has a penchant to steer away from the main topic. Every driving technique is followed by a morbid story he heard or has experienced:

"Okay, so. I tell you, one time, eh. And I think it was all over the news, everyone heard it. But this man. I don't know he is tall man, big man. Okay, this grandmother, her car was stranded on the highway. So this man came to help her, and now he dead."

Apparently, a honky tonk truck hit him while he was changing the lady's tires. But he failed to mention that until maybe minutes later.

Then there are his warnings to not be afraid to run over animals when the time comes.

"Okay, so I drive one day and I saw this raccoon. It was either him or me on the road and - What did I say before? Correct - he got smoked. Just put in a pipe and smoked."

In another example of his train of thinking:

"Don't drive in the country, eh. Okay, this boy. I don't know his name. I don't know what really happened. Maybe he was young. I forget. So this boy, he was walking home. Maybe he was in a gang. Maybe not. But this boy, he was walking home and now, he be lookin' at Lucifer; put six feet under. Terrible. Okay, so we watch another video. Remember: You can't beat the train. You will die."

Two more days of this. I'll survive.

The Notebook

No! They cornered me with their guerilla-style tactics. How could they use every romantic movie cliche and still make me cry like a loose goose?

When did Ryan Gosling, who was on Breaker freakin' High, grow up to become leading man status? When he first appeared on screen, all images of him and Jimmy wrestling in food evaporated into tearjerky territory.

When he said, "You're a pain in the ass ... 99% of the time," all I could think of was, "I want to be your pain in the ass 99% of the time! Take me Noah!"

Great. Redneck Bullrider saw me vulnerable to emotion: "Aww, Lily has feelings!"

No! I refuse to believe I fell for the movie so goddamn easily. I refuse to believe I messed up my make-up for this. More ruthless than Castro, I spit on you ... Notebook.


Where's my Karim (Kar-EEM) when I need him? Damn you Concordia! But thanks for volunteering to be the backdrop in our picture together.

Monday, July 05, 2004


I just read Beanstalk Fucker's recent comment on my blog (Wednesday, June 30, 2004). Thanks for clearing things up. No hard feelings, eh? I was wrong for believing things heard through the grapevine before legitimizing the events, and you're stuck with having friends who count reading my blog as part of their social life and only means of checking up on so-called reality.

My apologies for being bias on my own personal weblog. The nerve!


Montreal, Montreal, Montreal in short:

-Went clubbing
-Someone gave me his number written on a matchbook; not going to keep in contact. Anyone who actually pondered between ripping the top off or giving me the entire matchbook is not worth having around
-Was aggressively dry humped in the ass more times than I can remember
-Had a few drinks ...
-... but sobriety ruled
-Sex on the Beach is fruity ... and $8.25 a pop
-Average age of hook-ups: 22 (or maybe 25)
-Bought a pair of heels from the Peel St. DKNY boutique
-Was locked in the McGill University resident washroom for an hour
-Didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so resorted to doing the prior while yelling, "Aidez moi!"
-JuJu (previously known as Curry For Sale) took pictures from underneath the door, while ramming into the door to save me (but to no avail)
-Was practically molested by some horny Arab with a bad case of erectionitis ("Don't say that, Lily! It's dirty! It's his 'dinky winky.'")
-"You ... want to take a picture with me?" asked scary man at the Montreal Jazz Festival. "You ... want me to help you [down this hill]?"
-Apparently, if Brown men hit on you, they're looking for a wife, so says Katheryn, the Swiss McGill student who speaks 4 languages and saved me from the washroom
-Word most commonly used to describe me upon introduction: Sassy
-737 is not a Boeing but the most loved club in Montreal
-NewTown actually contains relatively old people
-If you go to Exit and ask for Jeremy the bartender, and telling him Julian sent you, you can cut in front everyone in line
-The bouncer in the previously mentioned club is a woman with beefy arms
-Restaurants do not have windows
-Stepping out of bars at 3 a.m. led to entering after-hour bars immediately after
-White men can't dance
-Black men are showy
-Brown men are aggressive
-Asian men ... see White men
-Was stuck up with a banana at 4 a.m.: "Give me your money."
-Ripped off bed sheet and wrapped it around myself, thinking the washroom was empty for me to take a shower
-...frat boys were in there brushing their teeth
-In love with Karim, the part-time summer security guard at Concordia University
-... looks identical to Van Hunt
-Loads of fun with JuJu (short for Manjulah; code name to get away from ugly guys. Mine's Dong.)
-Can't believe I'm moving to this city next month!


Headed straight for driving school upon arrival, after 8 hours of bussing.

Friday, July 02, 2004

Breakdown in Suburbia, Pt. 2

Ah! Mom came home a day early! I can now afford to go to Montreal without having to worry about being featured in a foot fetish film!

Hooray for me!



"Yes, I said you could go on Friday, but I never said I would pay for you," knowing she's my only source of income.

Cue me doing the obligatory beggar's dance.

Thursday, July 01, 2004

Breakdown in Suburbia

Packing to leave for Montreal tomorrow with Curry For Sale*.

Mom forgot to give me money when she went camping. I did not notice this until today. I searched every nook and cranny, cursing the gods for forsaking me.

"Why isn't there any motherfucking money in this house?! Why did she turn off her goddamn cell phone?! Why can't I cook worth o' shit?!"

That last thing referring to my fried eggs/pork dumpling/Kool-Aid breakfast melange.

Walked to the family store and took $200 from the register, leaving a note in the till explaining the situation to the employee tomorrow.

"Sorry for the inconvenience."

Will be back in Toronto on Monday morning, rushing home for Day 1 of driving school.

*Clarification: She has no curry for sale. On a tangent: Her dad's howls.