Friday, December 31, 2004


Portable DVD player. Bring on the Family Guy marathon. This, of course, conjures up a not-quite-so-inconceivable image of me sprawled across a futon in my dingy apartment wearing an ill-fitting sweater covered in bacon chip residue washed down with steak sauce and watered-down Nutella amidst a throng of hairless cats all named "Lamar Jones, Esq."


Heading back to Montreal tomorrow.

The weather is how cold?! Hold up. Not bad. Only 2 out of a possible 6 constipated groans. (Perhaps an account of slightly bi-thermal tendencies? Heh, heh ... just horrible).


My first class is at what time?! 8:45?! That's practically 4 a.m.!

Thursday, December 30, 2004

Intellectuals: A dying breed

RIP Susan Sontag (1933-2004).

She represented a time when women went out to prove themselves and didn't play on stereotypes for special treatment.


Despite feeling like a flaccid penis (inadequate supply of blood to the head, reluctance to move, spontaneous mood swings), I managed to do brunch with Bullrider and lunch with Prudie, J.Lo and Banana Chic yesterday. My cold also managed to develop into a fever.

I believe for the first time in Misstory, shopping did not do the body good.

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Slight bug

I'm sniffling and sneezing, aching up in me noggin' and here in me throat. What better time to get my Thriller on than during NyQuil season? Yet, having resisted both the temptation to over-medicate and glue my nostrils shut, I am left with one other option. Like daddy says, "Walk. It. Off."

Good thinking! Now when did I last feel my legs ...?

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

In sickness and health

I feel so useless because I can't help. The confirmed deaths from Sunday's tsunami disaster has, on last count, risen to 63,000 along with millions of displaced innocents. I emailed the president of Concordia's Student Union asking whether something could be organized in light of this tragedy. I also asked whether there was a possibility in which the Canadian Red Cross, Unicef Canada and/or World Vision could be contacted to help deliver student donations to hapless survivors.

Victims might have to face possible outbreaks of disease after the initial shock of losing everything subsides. I can't - I refuse to - imagine how I would react under the same sort of circumstances. I have been hypnotized in front of my computer screen while encompassed in modern comforts. This absolutely kills me because I acknowledge my ineffectualness and reel from such sodden existential awareness.

Sighting: Rainbow Suspenders!


I added a search feature on the sidebar under Recent. Type in a random word and see how I've misused it.


*Disclaimer: The views expressed in the following endorsement does not necessarily reflect necessity and should be approached with caution when attempting to befriend bouncers, wrestlers, and Janeane Garofalo.

I think everyone needs an apology face. Mine resembles an anorexic fish with eccentric fashion leanings. Don't let that fool you; the sincerity's there. Why verbalize (ie. fake) guilt, shame and disgrace when you can capture it in one, easily disposable frame? Flash it the next time you should offend someone - it could save your life.

Girls just want to be left alone

Just came back from a super duper girls night out with J.Lo and Banana Chic. After we had a lip-smacking meal at Mori Mori, J.Lo drove us to a pool hall for some after-hours fun.

And it was fun ... until the drunks started building up courage. One after the other, a group of 10 guys/bearded women (all shady in character) asked us whether they could join our game of three:

"What do you mean you have high standards? Higher than this?," so said Burly Burlesque Santa as he took off his shirt that reeked of alcohol and a certain je ne sais quoi I'm not enticed to pinpoint.

J.Lo and I ignored them, but Banana Chic reacted politely and sweetly declined the incessant offers. One guy in particular kept approaching her because she was being, well, herself.

"Er," Banana Chic replied awkwardly. "I think you should ask my friends. Um, guys?"

J.Lo and I looked at each other.

"Wow, Lily!" J.Lo exclaimed. "Look at that ball go!"

Banana Chic slowly stepped away from him. "Um, so can he play with us?"

I bent over and aimed for the shiny blue sphere opposite the boy with the blistering blue balls.

"Oh J.Lo," I said through pursed lips. "Missed again! Ha ha ... ha."

We were blatantly rude so needless to say we had no chance of hitting the jackpot with the Fugly Gang the way Banana Chic did.

"Here's my number," he said as he leaned into her, his plaid shirt bringing out the green in her face. "I want to take you out to dinner."

She made up some excuse (ie. a boyfriend), but he gave her his phone number anyway. I took it and dropped it in the corner pocket. Aussie Matt said it was very Freudian of me; he practically scored. I said it was a leather pocket; practically gay.

But the toothless grins made even that option an improbability.

Sunday, December 26, 2004

Bastardizing Boxing Day

Bullrider, Shotgun Toter and I disregarded common sense and scrounged for clothes at our local shopping mecca to take advantage of "once-a-year" sales usually reserved for A-list firemen and country socialites ("Them haystacks fit so nicely in theys decor.")

It would've made more sense had I been looking to satiate masochistic curiosities because no sane person would've ventured into a cosmic fracas without some sort of defense, like a line of credit and a baseball bat (covered in spikes ... and glass shards ... and teething bear cubs).

However, I did get my hands on a pair of pinstriped pants. But I might have to hem them. Sonavabitch!


The 8.9 seismic rocker that devastated the south Asian coastline this weekend had me shaking. The death toll hovered just above 11,350 before being updated to 11,800 a few hours later (a, no doubt, still painfully fluid number). I am too simple to make observations; suffering of this magnitude deserves more than my paltry sympathy.

I am instead left speechless.

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Why bother?

There was no Christmas tree nor crystalline ornaments this year. No homemade paper stockings nor nondenominational "McMohammedchangvedere" Santa. And it was great, bordering on satisfactory.

The preceding years told the same story. Our build-it-yourself evergreen ("With colour-coded branch inserts!") was used in the family room as our primary light source (rivalled only by the sun) until the following August, when it would be packed away on a four-month long hiatus to Basementville. (Also home to Inflatable Sofa Stadium and Mahjong Meadow).

2003 ushered in unparallelled innovation. We decided to invest in a lamp. Not just a lamp, but the lamp as seen at Costcos now carrying modestly priced coffins. The only downside to this arrangement is not ever being able to turn on a string of flickering, hyper-tinted bulbs to illuminate books, food, and loved ones' faces again. Oh, and Jughead comics (which I, uh, read for the articles).


Account Balance: $0.34

25th of Jung

Merry paganism pre-AD 312 everyone!

Or you can celebrate Constantine's Christian conversion and co-optative character by consuming carefully concocted Christ cakes with much ballyhoo.

Friday, December 24, 2004

Good and cold

Hung-out with Shotgun Toter and acquired kick-ass rainbow suspenders for five bucks after haggling (*see: flirting) with the middle-aged owner who was offering customers vino, graham crackers, and a variety of cheeses and homemade dips piled high on a platter.

Louis was his name. His eclectic "lifestyle" store smelled of incense (*wink, wink*), but I was more interested in the crazy, novelty shades Shotgun Toter quickly summed up as looking "too Sally Jesse Raphael." I was dejected, once again failing to evoke the essence of Mandark had he been an active member of the San Franny tranny scene, circa 1981. No amount of ponchos and afghan-throws could conceal the unmistakable: He was selling whimsical frames with glittering, serpentine flourishes that would've had RuPaul going, "Honey, that might be a bit much."

Aye, quel dommage the price wasn't worth the invested short-term laughs.

Thursday, December 23, 2004

Excuse the excess use of cliches

My dad came into my room at 4 a.m. to have a hot-tempered discussion with me about our family's finances if we decide to settle out of court with the lady who sued us (and the city of Burlington) for neglecting to prevent her from slipping on the sidewalk. It's a long story so I really don't want to get into it. Settling seems to be the best choice to foreseeable legal fees that might devastate us further. But the prospect of financial ruin is making my dad more irritable than usual.

It's times like these that faith in meritocracy will provide hope of bouncing back after a browbeating by a hungry civilian capitalist.

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

Material Girl

It's ridiculous how spoiled I am.

I got my hair cut and permed today. Amazing results. (Think updated Pat Benatar. Okay, bad example. More like, Jean Shrimpton crossed with Sarah Jessica Parker in season five of SATC. No, no, still not warm enough. Okay. Perfectly coiffed rock vixen with loose tendrils reminiscent of a just-ravaged de Milo). Of course, the three-digit bill nearly sent the Mrs. into sudden cardiac arrest. Apparently, of all the places I decided to park my caboose, I picked one notorious for their international celebrity clientele ("My friend just did Jennifer Lopez in Miami"). Oh, those Hong Kong elitists ...

"Lily!" she stammered. "Why you no ask price always?!" The receptionist looked on wearily. She's encountered this before, I reckoned. Yet her upper-body still stiffened as if torn between her inbred instincts to fight or flight at the first sight of malignant matrons.

My head sunk into my deflated shoulders. "I'm really sorry," I kept repeating. "I didn't know." The feeling subsided soon after the salon door closed behind us and my mom's solemn facade broke into a mischievous giggle. She's elevated public embarrassment to an art, like admitted neo-cons and collagen abusers. It was a schtick, I say. An opportunity to air her grievances about me to strangers as she approached the register at a snail's pace:

"Leelee aw-ways waste so much money. Spen', spen', spen' every day. Aye yah!"

So it was a schtick!

Without detailing my day any further (due to risk of consumerism overload), I will say my mom splurged me to the nth-degree during our time together this evening. (It's the first-baby-has-flown-the-coop blues). I feel like the runner-up on the Price Is Right. You know, the one with the better showcase because really, who needs a dining room table and silverware set along with the box of Kraft dinner cunningly used for mojo-sabotaging purposes? ("And you're over ... by a dollar. Thanks for playing. Be sure to spray and neuter your pets.")


Drag race. Minivan vs. public transportation. Mom vs. confused bus driver. Green light means go ... Bitch.

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

La guerre des cheveux

Get those shears out, I have a defective gene - a defective hair gene. Alls I want to do is a full patchy magoo (*see: pending catchphrase). I've had it up to here with this Chrissy Hynde/Patti Smith-a-locks disaster that's currently sitting on my head like a smug teen pageant queen. Thick and wavy, my overgrown mane can't quite solicit sex to strangers nor can it get away with that ironic bedhead look with perfectly poised peaks celebrity stylists are scrambling to re-create for their bedless, bed-hopping clients.

Seasonal solace, it ain't.

I made an appointment for Thursday morning at a salon located an hour from town. "Just shave it," I might be tempted to tell the hairdresser with a flair for the avant garde. "Perm it, fry it, wrap it in cheesecloth. Read it civil war poetry if you think it might help." Of course, after going through every contraption but an automated car wash, I will come out resembling a young Mia Farrow or pre-expired Edie Sedgwick in all her dope-eyed glory.



I want to watch Hotel Rwanda starring Don Cheadle as a Hutu Oskar Schindler. Early reviews have been point positive and the trailer looks fantastic.

Monday, December 20, 2004


Shotgun Toter is returning from Western tomorrow. She and I might visit DenMarc at his European-style uber-market/deli and celebrate with some thinly sliced jellied meats or authentic German cheeses (or what passes for. Everything wrapped in the national colours are considered Teutonic here). We might take a trip to Toronto and act crazy, alternating between picking up our fallen appendages and dunking our heads in simmering pots of mulled wine. Cheers!


I am, again, compelled to refer to a past entry. Did I write that?! I don't know whether living in the nest was doing a doozy on me or what because it sounded like it came from someone who was, like, totally inspired by Lucy In the Sky with Diamonds after inhaling 8 cans of Red Bull and cheap cologne. (Not that I was, which, I suppose, makes it ... more incredulous?)

Sunday, December 19, 2004

... put a fork in my eye


Went to the early Christmas dinner my parents threw for the employees. I love them because they're not only co-workers but substitute girlfriends. I also met all their boyfriends, two of whom were complete himbos: high-maintenance, finicky-eaters, rude, and plain unpleasant. After one tried to make a sarcastic quip, I told him this "wasn't a sitcom" and "not everyone is required to read lines." He was a total uncultured brat: "What is this? Lobster? Ewww, it still has a face on it. I'm going hungry ... at a restaurant. This sucks." Wherepon, he waited until everyone fell silent and proceeded to wipe his boogers on the table. The other guy was just a jerk who complained about not knowing what he was eating and looked like an aged Backstreet Boy with bleached tips and jewellery fresh from the set of Miami Vice. It's difficult to mock men in their mid-20's who don't understand the words coming out of my mouth. ("Uh, okay, whatever. I don't even know what [discrepancy] means.") It's like their vocabulary is limited to three-syllabic words and a mish-mash of bodily sounds. My parents paid for the 8 course meal, you'd think they'd at least be grateful to be fed. But that would be giving too much credit to guys who think sweet bean paste is a form of raisin.

Although I can't substantiate this, I got the feeling that the two dicktards were unimpressed with my hotty-totty "university education." Whenever one of the girls mentioned it, they'd roll their eyes and take another sip from their bottomless tumblers. I refuse to be ashamed for having a mental capacity that exceeds pairing gold earrings with platinum spikes and sticking chopsticks up facial orifices.

Fucking urban bumpkins.


My mom's inauspicious nagging is back. I never knew you could remind someone to put on a wintercoat for 18 years and still assume they'd forget (because frostbite is, like, so bitchin').

Juvenile pomposity

I need a job. No wonder I get so annoyingly introspective: I have way too much idle time spent doing absolutely nothing.

I'm an 18-year-old who tries to juxtapose the roles of a woman and child within a simpleton's carnal container.

It's frustrating not being able to fully realize one form in its entirety and lack the experience and innocence to be either (and neither).

I'm in a physical state of limbo. My mind feels like it's growing at a speed far quicker than my body. (An, albeit, contestable allusion). Nevertheless, I am grappling with this illusion of contentment. Like plasticine, I am pulled by external forces to maintain flexibility, but I end up with no discernable shape that is decidedly me. I am at once daunted by the prospect of adulthood and excited for its impending arrival. I malfunction at the thought of social estrangement; my upkeep, fine-tuned to an art. A wholly self-involved pleasure-seeker, I ask not what man can do for me, but what I can borrow from man. It is this identity crisis that gnaws at me - not that it should. Why do I consume myself with thoughts if it is easier to have someone think for me? I am young! I am sugar-free gum against the minions of gingivitis! I am the next generation of crackpot pundits and worrywart chairs! The puffery of the past will eventually congeal into a solid mass of maturity: saccharine, stubborn, and a bit on the gelatinous side. What isn't there to look forward to?

Aw, fuck it. What I need is a job. Or get laid. Again. Soon.


Thanks for the pizza and Italian soda, Bullrider. Now go get your bad self to that married man, stat! (Too late).


Sister buying me these cute, stack-heeled Mary Janes I put on hold at Tommy Hilfiger (except, unlike the picture, it's not shiny patent and the mesh parts are in contrasting suede). A side-release buckle on a dress shoe? Bless thee, ironic fashion! Heh, the dependence on preserving sexy calves: Ain't vanity a bitch? (*For answer, see entry below).

Saturday, December 18, 2004

"She just doesn't know it."

J.Lass said she got back with Cuisiniere and she's happier than she's been in a long time. This, from someone who broke up with him in a tearful sayonara. She made it a point to ask him how attractive he found me ("I'm not the jealous type, but I just want to know [out of curiosity]") and wondered outloud why I'm still single ("I don't know why you're still single"), calling me in good faith to report her findings.

I was initially flattered by what she said by way of him. Who wouldn't want to be seen as a looker? Apparently, I'm not "hot" like the other girls she inquired about, but "foxy." The difference is that I tend to bore men because I don't overtly advertise my assets as I become more aggressive and animated in conversation. That I never pounce when they become vulnerable, that I never take advantage with my advantage. But I see no reason to flaunt the physical when my mental barricades have not been thoroughly penetrated by the opposite sex. It is not that I don't enjoy attention, it's that I only enjoy attention with the right intention. Excuse me for my snobbery. It's just that empty flattery that asserts a high degree of importance upon vanity is prosaic, at best. To be aroused by the same pair of breasts or the blinding sheen of a G-string, day in and day out, gets monotonous, no? Isn't it more satisfying to salivate over Vargas girls who don opaque negligees and look better on paper than Paris by poolside? I guess I'm nostalgic for the unknown. I guess I can't say what should turn men on. I guess some girls need their hard-earned validation. I guess some guys have it to give.

Which reminds me. Geneva D. made out with J.Lass and KournaWhora. Hooray for lite-experimentation that passes for sexual liberation! Don't you just love it when everything you do and done to you give men an eyeful and send their tongues a-wagging until the next trio of Charlie's Angels sends you packing the way of the dodo? Ah, the paradox of freewill under cautionary restraint ...

Friday, December 17, 2004

Back to the past

What do I miss most about home? Being served piping hot food without prior preparation.

The trip back was rather uneventful unless you count the hour delay due to "signalling difficulties." Although, there was a man with Beetlejuice eyes who kept pulling a Jack Nicholson on his cell phone, talking like everyone was interested in what he had to say. The self-narration was all too apparent when he whipped out that high-tech piece of equipment to update whoever was on the other line the train's various guestimated arrival times with no concern of his volume.

Another thing I miss about home: TV. Lord, I haven't watched it in over three months. The irony is, I was reducd to a zombie-like state while watching a late-showing of Batman Forever (Val Kilmer's Keaton), which was the very intent of the Riddler's TIVO-like box. (As in, the cult following. Not the, erm, mind-numbing aftereffects).

So I'm back, I'm back, I'm back and my family's being very nice about staying out of my way, yet still feeding me like their own (because well, I am their own; just an undeserving, spoiled one).

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Garbage Disposal

Day of self-imposed exile. I lounge around in some bare essentials, building a fort of pillows around my semi-comatosed corpse. My legs are smooth so I rest my elbow behind my knee, inside that nuanced nook, sending a deep chill of inured intimacy up my thigh.

Johnny Mathis is crooning about heartbreak on the radio. Natalie Cole too. Cole Porter is singing cheekily and I can't help but grin when he contrasts being "on top" with him on the bottom.

My eyes wander the walls, visualizing potential artwork that might befit an uppity party full of arugala-eating hipsters who reference Jackson Pollack like it's du rigeur to drop names of drunks.

The window filters in light that changes colour from black to blue to black again. I feel uneasy. There is too much to throw out before I leave.

I freely paw at my breasts, making a half-assed attempt to feel for cancer. Nothing.

Still nothing.

I go through all the motions of arousal, clamping down on my arm to keep from screaming. I get hungry.

I read the online edition of Le Devoir, perplexed. Is this improper French grammar? "No," says the working side of my brain.

Al Green's "L-O-V-E" is blaring from the speakers. I don't want to go home. The temptation to stay is stifling. But my sister agreed to pay off 1/3 of my credit card bill. I'm her bitch now.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

The 16th

"Where are you now? What city did you just pass?"

"Uh, ma. I'm still in my apartment."

"What? Why?! You said you were leaving today!"

"I have stuff to do.*"

"I'm coming to get you!"

"What? Naw, man. I'm leaving Thursday."

"But that's 3 days away ... !"

*ie. Ruined my bag. I could've got away with the ironic hippie look had I not practically shoved it in the oven if Google said it would help.


Alright. So the Boy didn't reject me. "Just wanted to say hi." Fair enough. "How was your exam?" Heh, buddy remembered. He's just an acquaintance, but am I relieved he made contact again? Abso-fuckin'-lutely. Now where's M. Biologique when I need a slap-release?

Current music (how fitting!): "Smack My Bitch Up" - Prodigy.

The Passion of the Purse


Lily: "Hmm, where did I put my toothbrush? Oh right, in my new yellow leather bag. The one that cost me a small fortune. Take out make-up bag. It's not underneath my boudoir boxers. French book out and ... what the hell? What's this blue sheet of ... Fucking inky pen exploded in my bag! SHIT SHIT SHIT! Did it seep thr ... SHIT SHIT SHIT! It's okay, it's okay. Only two small spots. I'll clean it right up with some soap and water."

(Lily walks off stage. Bag is alone, underneath spotlight.)


Lily: "Ahhhhhh! Dried ink now wet! The inside of my bag is now swirls of blue, green, and yellow! Wait, wait. It just needs some suds. Brush. I'll find a brush. ... SHIT! Ink now soaked through the bottom left corner! Two dots have turned to 8! Mission control, mission control: It's starting to resemble a mold colony! But first, let me spray on a coat of leather protector before anything else happens. Use product only after cleaning and drying leather. SON OF A ...! "

(Lily runs off stage. Bag is shapeless like a dying child.)


Lily: "Alright. Time to Google. Don't panic. Don't panic! Hmm, hairspray? Okay. Hairspray. It's not working! Non-aerosol hairspray on dry leather. FUCK! Okay, it's okay. Toothpaste Yes? Yes! ... works great on fabric! No! More Googling. Shampoo. Makes sense, makes sense. Ahhhh, 8 dots now 10 blobs! They're multiplying! It's okay, baby. Mama's gonna save you. Leather chair, leather belt, leather ... Okay, found it. Purse. And it says here ... Milk. Stay-at-home moms must know their stuff 'cause I have that! Your ass is grass, ink! How much do I ... I'll just pour the entire carton and ... Voila! THEY'RE STILL THERE! Rinse, rinse! Is that new spottage because that would make it ... 11, 12, IT'S INVADED THE ENTIRE CORNER! C'mon, mama needs better advice. A tomato works fabulously ... Where are all my freakin' tomatoes?! ... but watch out for its acidity. Phew! It's the alcohol content in hairspray that removes the ink. Oh! What smells like booze in my medicine cabinet? Leave-in conditioner ... deodorant ... Ah-ha! Facial toner! Ingredients, ingredi ... tea tree oil. That sounds exotic. Okay, baby. Do your magic ... Do something! YOU SMELL LIKE BOOZE! Why don't you contain any?!"


Lily: "Okay, still Googling. Rubbing alcohol. 70% Isopr ... Tap, tap, tap. Q-tip number 54. The ink's coming off, the ink's ... STILL SEEPING THROUGH! Okay, a burst from the hair dryer will ... TURN IT BROWN?! I guess your advice didn't work for me because rubbing alcohol ruined my leather ottoman! WHAT?! Fucking exceptions to the rule! Calm down, calm down ... Ask Math Judas if there are cleaners back in Hammers."

(2 hours later.)

Lily: "You have bad news? Are they closed or something? They can't give a quote over the phone, they'll have to see it. The lady says the alcohol probably made it worse. FUCK YOU, GOOGLE!"

(Lily puts purse in plastic bag, its arm strap hanging off to the side like the malnutritioned Somalian kid pictured in sponsor-a-child commercials my mom threatened to replace me with whenever I dared to refuse what she fed me. 4 people come on stage dressed up as big wheels and Lily walks away with them, bus-style).


Lily: "75 dollars? But you can salvage it? Alright. Thanks, sir. Yes, it was an expensive bag. Thanks for reminding me. No, you have a good night now."

Moral of the story
Incompetent taxi driver talked to his buddies at every stop light, while his windshield wipers squeaked, chatting on his cell phone to no one in particular, on top of opening and closing the window and listening to the radio as he laughed like a crazed hyena. I had to pay more because he passed the address I gave him, making me walk back to the leather repair store, in slush, holding the carcass of my innocent victim. Whatever animal that was sacrificed for my vanity just died another painful death tonight. But hello? *sniffle* It's ... yellow ... *sniffle, sniffle*

Monday, December 13, 2004



Maybe I should clarify Sunday's "Streets" entry a bit better: It's not certain the Boy even rejected me. And if he did, I don't take it to heart. I hardly knew the guy. But it does remind me of having much to learn as far as politicking relationships go. I mean, I didn't find his behavior odd until J.Lass started comforting me:

"He said that? Word for word? Poor Lily."

I still didn't get it until her frown signalled that I should be dramatically distressed upon this new turn of interpreted events. Needless to say, I acted accordingly.


How does this constitute news? Angry, uptight parents are suing Wal-mart for stocking copies of Evanescence's "Anymore But Home" knowing it contained the dreaded f-word, but failing to a stick parental advisory label on the covers. The logic of this escapes me. It's a word, people. Like dung, dog, and doobie. True, it can't suck dick in a backlot for 20$, but it also can't cause cancer when exposed (unless you count the causal link between band camp graduates and the amount of crap we have on the airwaves).

"Skeens said he and his wife, Melanie, let their daughter buy the music for her 13th birthday and were shocked when they played it in their car while driving home."

I think we all know what the real underlying issue is. The Skeens' are ashamed that they let their sweet pea listen to bad, flight of the Valkyrie-type wailing by a cabbage patch doll and want their money back. Ooh, ooh. Potty-mouthed goths and pots of black eyeliner mean the devil himself is nearby. Bring back the marines and save our precious children!

Sunday, December 12, 2004


Going back to Hammers today tomorrow. Last night was the best going away present ever. Je n'ai pas dormi jusqu'a six heures et demi. There was no way I could wake-up to clean-up, pack, then buy tickets.


Electric Six is playing on continuous repeat: "Gay bar, gay bar, gay bar!"


"See you around."

SEE YOU AROUND?! Did I hear right? That bastard told me he would see me around. I was used for a fuck. The realization finally dawned on me. Everything, from the overt displays of affection to his check-up call, was ALL AN ACT. No, no. I digress. The problematic issue lies with Geneva D. She encouraged him to take advantage of me that night. Coerced might've been a better word (though it was my decision not to fight off his advances). It was when I told her that I called him back only to have him tell me how tired he was and how he was going to "see me around," did I get pissed ... at her ... for doling out her special brand of insensitivity:

"What did you expect, Lily? I'm friends with the Boy but I see him once in a blue moon. So what if you had sex with him? I did too. Why are you making such a big deal out of it? That's just the type of person he is. Unless you like him. Do you?"

"No. I don't."

Of course I like him! Aren't friends supposed to warn each other against professional heartbreakers?! She knew I'd be played and she stood by approvingly. NorIda told me to start keeping my distance. You can never trust girls with insecurity problems because you can never predict where their loyalties lay (or whether they have them at all). Although, as J.Lass mentioned while trying to keep a straight face, that's really all he said. To analyze that to the point of inciting anger is quite, quite, QUITE ... like me. Too funny.

In any case, I spent the next 12 hours having the best fucking night since moving to Montreal.

Took a taxi with J.Lass to Swiss Alps' new place. I spoke to the Boy on the way but developed depression by the time we reached our destination. I vented and roared, self-pitied and raged. Many instances of, erm, "colourful" language (in addition to calling his kitchen rustic: "Reminds me of my grandma").

Someone knocked on the door. (NorIda, looking her casual chic, casual sexy self, had strolled in a bit earlier.)

It was M. Biologique of "Lily is my favourite person to argue with" fame. Yes, it was me who called him a motherfucker and asked what the fuck he was doing here (seeing how he refused to let me sleep over last night and the fact that, hey, I can get away it). And yes, it was him who contributed to making my night one heck of a memorable one.

Swiss Alps, J.Lass, M. Biologique, NorIda, and I went to another house party. Huge (in number). Small (in size). Think: Cattle car and happiness elicited through completion of Bovine College. Met a really nice Parisienne, Adelaide. Exchanged numbers. Met a hot Julian Casablancas-type. Flirted. Swiss Alps gave the taxi driver, who was driving NorIda and me, the wrong address. So we ended up in the freakin' Montreal boonies, thinking that "maybe" it was a warehouse soiree, an evening of festivities by a hardware store. Caught up with A. and his four buddies who were also given the wrong information. Swiss Alps called my cell, completely apologetic. A. ended up driving all of us - klown kar-style - to the right place. M. Biologique and I were sparring at clinically abusive levels much to the amusement of bystanders. We mutually agreed that the social dynamic we have is that of a brother and sister so that's how we introduced ourselves (and acted) for the rest of the night (morning?). He roughhoused with me, I rubbed snow in his face. I really like this arrangement because we can now do the most inappropriate things to each other but still end up hugging in a room full of people, standing jowl to cheek, while making stabbing gestures at each others' chests.

Oh right. And the slapping. Whenever I see him, I am overwhelmed with extreme feelings of animalistic aggression that are kept under control only by sheer willpower. Je n'ai jamais compris ses origines, contributing it instead to my usual loco self. But I soon realized appeasement was really quite easy. The antidote came in the form of the least likely contender. In a moment of passion, I slapped M. Biologique across his face, doing a convincing rendition of every soap that's jumped the shark for the past 30 years (and for good reason). He stared down at me from his lanky 6ft tall frame, took my hand, and told me "harder." Our friends gasped. Strangers gasped. I might've gasped too (but for other reasons). Swiss Alps kept commenting how we needed to settle our differences in a ring. But we kept explaining that this is the very nature of our relationship. We're never angry at each other. We're always just playing a harmless game, however violent and S&M-inspired. A. tried to predict what a real fight between us would look like, and we said, in unison: "Something along the lines of, 'You're wrong! But let me go get some more coffee first ...'" which was a reference to that night at Second Cup.

Although we did end up crossing the line. I called him a jerk because he promised he'd come over one day to fix me some food, to show-off his culinary prowess, but he still hadn't. He said that was because I've never invited him back to my apartment. We both knew what that implication accidentally implied, and immediately started jovial conversations with the people sitting opposite us. That was the only awkward moment to have raised its ugly head, interrupting us as he picked at my baked macaroni. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Anyway, people started throwing snow inside the apartment. (I only did it 'cause Swiss Alps did. Okay, alright. I did it 'cause it was fun getting 20 people at once as they posed for a series of pictures). The cops gave the lot of us a warning for our "noise." But this escalated into full-blown guerilla-style warfare by the time the party came to an end. The six of us were running down streets, through parks, getting a complete pounding on our asses, throwing snowballs at each other as cars whizzed by, honking for more civility. Two pedestrians were recruited to even out the teams. It was 2 a.m. "Medic, medic!" we cried, joyfully. "Reload, reload!" we repeated. Fall of Saddam, I was elated. M. Biologique even had to put his mittens on me because I had to be reminded how really, really, fucking cold I was.

Went back to Swiss Alps' old place, talked, beat up M. Biologique some more, and all concurred to haul ass to a not-quite-nearby 24-hour diner to satisfy our morning munchies.

Then it was good-bye at 5 a.m., and ... what Boy?


And it all started because J.Lass did crap on our French exam ...

Thursday, December 09, 2004

A moment of weakness

The Boy was thinking of me and called to see how I was. I told him I was "great" because J.Lass dumped Cuisiniere today which would make me every girl's favourite "boyfriend*" again. (Hooray for singledom!) The Boy said he caught a cold and watched movies all day. We chit-chatted a bit more before I told him it was good to hear from him, said good-bye and hung up.

Who knew meaningless sex would have repercussions ...

*I'm known for my heartless detachment reminiscent of some men.


I made a pit stop at Club Monaco yesterday and saw the most fabulous shoulder bag. Big, bright, and yellow. So it was over 200$ and I'm a student of limited means, a shade wealthier than Starvin' Marvin. But hello? It's yellow!


French exam in two days. Failure is oh-so inevitable.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Akira II

What can I say? I did it the most unorthodox way. Geneva D. came on to him and he came on to me. A "staggard menage" so to speak because Geneva D. and I refused to touch each other, forcing him to be the luckiest go-between this side of Tulsa. The camcorder was turned off when we verged away from PG-13 modesty. I don't feel morally repugnant nor am I regretful and see no reason to repent. Yet, likewise, I haven't fully grasped the magnitude of this pretty irreverent event.

He cradled me with intimate affection; I was cocooned in his embrace all night. His face nestled in my hair, arm across my waist, and I in the crook of his neck; comfortably silent, thoughts unspoken. But upon my leave the morning after, I could only muster up a sigh and a kiss on his cheek. A bit distant and lacking a sense of responsibility, I left words grounded in painful courtesy.

Readerdroid was disappointed in me. So was J.Lass. The former called me a whore. The latter expected me to lose it while settled in a monogamous relationship of niceties. Though they both said I was old enough to make my own decisions, my decisions were still, in essence, wrong:

Readerdroid: "So if you want to go be a ho, go ahead and be a ho."

J.Lass: "I can't believe after holding out for so long, you gave it up this way."

I was choked by miles of passive/aggressiveness. Taboo encounters seem to rouse the moral superiority of every heathen and hypocrite. Another of their commonalities centered on my being used - whether he premeditated the evening's plans. I didn't think that warranted a simplistic answer seeing how we each exploited the other for personal thrills (though, admittedly, this mutuality is simply speculation). I might be a cynic, but I'm no idealist. When he suggested that I might feel more comfortable with someone I'm in love with, I simply asked 'Why?' It was not an act of desperation (as Readerdroid so kindly surmised), so much as an act of pure convenience.

The sex was okay. It wasn't anything unexpected. He made me feel secure, at least, momentarily. And that, to me, was worth it. Any way you slice it, the "purity" society strangely covets is but a state of mind that exists to fuel the desires of natural conquistadors. I saw the entire process in clinical terms and the experience was comparable to shopping for a pepper grinder or recycling on a particularly sunny day.

P.S. At least I discovered I'm neither a strict screamer nor moaner, but a cross between the two. Whereas "M" was greeted by a neighbour's forthcoming complaint, "S" had to be muffled by an excess of pillows.


Lost virginity in quasi-threesome.

He was nice.

I was cruel.

Details later.

Monday, December 06, 2004


Jack Daniel's. The drink of choice for those out to corrupt. Serves me right for having friends who enjoy telling strangers about my alcohol-released sexual aggression. This, of course, provoked Sherlock Shearling into suggesting that I, uh, should drink ... around him.

He caught up with Geneva D. and me and inadvertently got stoned off guava juice and allergy medication. Don't ask me how, but kids: Not without adult supervision.

I'm going to his place for supper tomorrow and we're catching a late showing of Closer. Damn those psychological dramas. Gets me ev'ry time.


Logic exam was a breeze. Is it just me or is university seemingly less difficult than high school?

Sunday, December 05, 2004

A 17-year-old's semblance of fondness

Her mantra is how mature she is for her age.

I never believed it for a second.

Geneva D. called me today as I reported for active service as social earpiece. I gingerly asked her what she saw in Pav after she described the way he kissed her on the cheek last night (*Note: he did it with everyone, including me). Her tone made a dramatic turn, got defensive. "I don't question what you see in M. Biologique," she countered off-puttingly. I told her he's far from being relevant to be used as a fair comparison. She scoffed (actually scoffed) and went off on a verbal rampage, throwing tact into the wind, slamming back with accusations of slander and interrupting without ever giving pause to let me explain.

I was in disbelief. Nick dumped her two days ago and she came to me as her voice of reason ("Forget that fucker. He was a midget with a foot fetish"). I questioned her motivations with Pav and now I'm the enemy?

She and J.Lass made a pact to "get Pav" and promised to be unconditionally satisfied if either was successful. I found this revolting and unrealistic. Though I kept the ominous predictions to myself, I truthfully told Geneva D. after her blow-up that I just didn't want friendships ruined over some guy who was playing, not random girls, but close friends of mine. I was being protective. She was in better spirits after that.

However, in recent weeks, both have tried censoring my candor in relation to this Polish Lothario. I'm fraught with resentment over such treatment. To me, it feels like I'm being forced to resign myself from pointing out the obvious. The man's a shameless showboat and heedless skirt-chaser (just short of Peter Sellers' persistence). I'm "not allowed" to say things to him in case it shows poorly of the Toothy Twosome by mere extension.

Case in point. Yesterday at the cafe during lunch-break:

Pav: "Who likes two thumbs up and blowjobs? Right here. It's me. Right here."

me: "So you've been getting flexible, I see. I guess practice makes perfect."

The girls stopped giggling after I said that and scolded me for being "mean" like I just stole candy from a hungry hooker. Give me a break. Why do some women think attractive men want/need/deserve to be coddled more than a retarded kid with Parkinson's? I find it ludicrous and patronizing. If he should get upset over that - he's a pussy, for one - then I await his official protests. As of now, he's just letting infatuated fans file his fickleness for him.


Philosophy logic exam tomorrow.

"Why aren't you studying for it?" asked Daddy.

"Don't tell me how to handle school," I shot back. "I've been doing this for 18 years. I'm a seasoned pro."

"Oh really? All 18 years, eh ...?"

Always the missile

Huge party earlier tonight hosted by Java U. Whipped cream, bad music, hipsters. Advice: Don't try throwing snow balls in heels right after getting the VIP treatment at a club (free, free, free admission, and free, free, free cocktails). No friction means ass falling. Ass falling means drunks laughing. Drunks laughing mean they think you're worse off than they are. And that's just plain embarrassing especially since half-Asian Ollie was there, previewing. I sure made a fool out of myself, all loopy like a crazed marionette.

"Don't worry," J.Lass reassured me. "He was drunk too."

But I wasn't drunk! And had no booze in my system. It was the snow's fault!

*sidenote: I'm sure I'll be revising this when I wake up in a few hours. Drunken rants never come out coherent. Which reminds me. J.Lass took my mobile phone and crank called M. Biologique at 1 a.m., leaving him a rambling message asking him to help rid her of her hiccups. She was so far gone by the time I walked her home that she tried putting on her pants over her boots, while standing behind a stripmall. Needless to say, it was indeed an endeavour more treacherous than Mt. Everest (originally was).

I'm exhausted. I only had two vodka cranberries, but ended up giving lap dances ... You've heard it before and you'll hear it again: Low tolerance, low resistence. Wait, I don't think I've said that before. I'm a liar! But men are mean. I mean, am I not entitled to have someone open the door for me when I'm too inebriated to tell the difference between a locked and unlocked door? Bebsudr niy o jyom fgfy sdgfg fg; a Oops, hands shifted to the right. Too tired to delete. I better click the PUBLISH button before I polish off this bag of chi ... Too late.

Saturday, December 04, 2004


Very, very happy shopper today. Bought an Italian-made Desmo hobo (*insert joke here*) in dusty-blue suede with a metal-linked strap. Very Chloe without being so obviously Chloe "inspired". Very Michael Kors vers son '70s jetsetting phase. Very rock 'n roll Chanel. Was 395$. Got it for 83$. DKNY didn't carry anything good. (I hate over-logoized merchandise). BCBGMaxAzria was too freakin' expensive (Math Judas: "Holy shit! 600$ for a bag?! Does it grow legs and dance for you?"). And Club Monaco's weren't all that eye-catching. (You can only imitate Marc Jacobs so many times).


Party in two hours. It better live up to the hype.

Friday, December 03, 2004


... my bruised intuition. Who'd have thunk Reggie's Pub would be packed with footballers, rugby players, and drug dealers? It was an optic bore. Strictly frat-boy chic. Although I did discover the power of bare shoulders and boots. Men seem to have a mechanized impulse to converge wherever skin's a-showing (optional night vision goggles), which didn't surprise me so much as the speed in which they gathered. I'm talking, one, two, three, "I don't believe we've met."

Mimi was groin grinding and Geneva D. was groin thrusting whilst kissing each other in an ersatz display of progressivism though neither went far enough to upset their Grundyist natures. Basically, if they were going for the titillating lesbian routine, they could've at least given a spit-swapping show.

Note to the wise: Thwarting advances is difficult when you're trying to close in on someone else in the same vicinity without appearing rude. No-Moh-Joe is definitely fling material. Dullard Will most definitely is not (but he couldn't take a hint).


Got ready to leave when I saw PoliDam (the Shane West-a-like with the non-Lucifer vibes). He stopped me to say hello. We chatted briefly until his friend took him away to play "World Series Foosball."

"You're Lily. But what's my name?" he asked.

He was impressed that I answered correctly, seeing how our first encounter was through the good citizens of Tankedtopia and Sloshedslovakia.

When I finally headed out - bundled up in a scarf, stilettos tapping against the bricked terrace - PoliDam called me from behind to give me a proper good-bye, interrupting the girl he was standing beside, mid-sentence. I sing-songed something back, resisting the temptation to look over my shoulder to get a second look. But Holy Batman, he's hot ...


Alright. I went to the men's washroom to fetch some toilet paper. The stalls might've initially hid his goods, but the subsequent mirrors did not. The boy didn't help matters when he commented on having to shut his tap temporarily.

"You can see it if you like."

"Door! Open! Now! Out, out, out!"

Thursday, December 02, 2004


The Rape of Nanking. I've decided to do my book report on Iris Chang's New York Times' bestseller. I can't say I will swear objectivity upon completion, so I'm not even going to try. I've always been fascinated with the Sino-Japanese War ever since my dad got me hooked (he comes from a military family).

Which reminds me. I have diplomatic immunity in North Korea. I might be going over there around February to celebrate the birthdays of Kim Jong-II and the late Kim II Sung. My mom suggested that I exploit my special status to mine for news feature gold. I think that would be neat.


Geneva D. just called. We're going out. At 11:00 p.m. I thought I would stay in tonight reading up on WWII atrocities and singing along to Maria Callas.

Guess not.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004


My love life is picking up again. Two days, four engaging conversations, four delicious gents (and a handful of miscellaneous morsels). Politics, literature, philosophy, food; it don't get better than that. The mind is the rare erogenous zone that insists on being vigorously prodded to provoke a raw response.


Girls are drama queens. Aye, so am I but acting out in public isn't part of my schtick.

Uptight girls, man. They are living in an uptight world. Getting angry 'cause their skin is thin. They put the blame on me when they can't win.

Oh yeah, Billy Joel. Tap me with your magic wand; I'm a natural.


Belated news: RIP Iris Chang. My idols are being picked off by the Fates like gadflies. Don't you leave me too, Roger Ebert!