Sunday, February 27, 2005

Montreal is my boyfriend

I don't think men actually believe their unpolished pick-up schticks would ever work on women (who count) so they first test it on fuglies to lessen the blow of getting shot down. Somebody hit on me with that lame "Nee how mah?" line again. There's no point in using Chinese to initiate conversation with me when it is, inevitably, followed by, "Do you speak English?" or "Parlez-vous francais?" Anyway, this man was walking with his buddies when he did a double-take and whispered something in my ear just as I was passing by. It gave me the heeby jeebies. Seconds later, he came running after me, inviting me over to his place for a drink. I tried to make a graceful departure:

"That's very nice of you but I'd rather not."

I made excuses about being busy tomorrow (today) but he kept pushing me to agree to see him again. So I dropped the Y-bomb and told him I'm likely to be too young for him.

"How old are you? I think maybe ... 20? 21?"

"Heh, whatever makes it legal, right?"

He laughed. I knew that was my chance to bolt (because amusement channels vulnerability). I removed my mitten, told him it was a pleasure, and shook his hand to say good-bye. Final impression? His handshake was limp. Never good, guys. Jamais, jamais, jamais.


I make no secret of my thing for Angelina Jolie (more vice than nice: the definitive femme fatale). So when I saw the trailer for Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I vowed to shell out money to go see this star-studded jamboree. (*Note: I find it oddly fitting that the movie teaser chose to use the theme song from Pacino's Scent of a Woman since that also dealt with the issue of discretion.) And damn! Check out those gams! Hubba, hubba.


I took in a movie during last night's venture downtown. (Yes, alone but unashamed.) I watched Hotel Rwanda, an overall top-notch movie. Walking in, I expected something Dogma 95-ish, but left kind of disappointed thanks to a few glaring flaws typical of American fair (i.e. under-developed supporting cast, conventional story arc, tendency to sentimentalize moments with orchestral soundtrack, deus ex machina). But the ambitious acting more than made up for it. I was really impressed with Don Cheadle's portrayal of Paul Rusesabagina, but unlike Liam Neeson's skillful Schindler performance, I didn't get a strong sense of his character's improvisational abilities presumably honed through years of managerial experience. From what the script allowed, I understood that he was an excellent briber (when resources were attainable) and tried to make use of important Western contacts (when they were available). Every time a massacre looked imminent, a rush of soldiers would come charging into the scene and Cheadle would escape yet another close call. The audience barely ever sees him talk his way out of danger without relying on some sort of material transaction which brought in a certain contrivance entirely unacceptable in a film of this calibre. Still, Cheadle did a credible job with the material and definitely earned a leading man status. I will admit to getting more than misty-eyed on several occasions, borderline bawling whenever the dialogue was delivered dead-on ("You should spit in my face. [The West] think you're dirt, you're dumb, you're worthless ... You're not even a nigger; you're an African"). Watching ideology motivate senseless slaughter was deeply troubling. (I cringed every time Hutus referred to Tutsis as "cockroaches." But I suppose, in battle, it is easier to kill those no longer deemed human.) An elderly couple beside me sat holding each other's hands in total silence even as the ending credits started rolling, the screen arresting their attention long after the lights returned.

Saturday, February 26, 2005

Won't You Share My Boredom?

One more day of this.
Lily's Week of Awful Loneliness: Day 6

*sidenote: I put the leg in there as something of a joke. A long-time-reader-turned-friend asked me for my photo. I sent him my calf.

Friday, February 25, 2005

Fucking French!

Jacques Torres: Food porn.

I followed the cake recipe with ease until he asked for a "marble table." Because WE ALL OWN MARBLE COUNTERTOPS, JACQUES!

Material Therapy

Seven bags of groceries. Two hands. The bus ride home was awful, I say. Awful! I was knocking over everyone around me. Unmoved, that fat geezer who looked like Santa Claus before he turned legit refused to acknowledge my dilemma and crossed his arms as he glared at me - or maybe not, since he was wearing shades - like he was ... judging me. Jerkosaur.

Thought I'd do some errands yesterday considering it was Day 4 of Lily's Week of Awful Loneliness. Splurged at M.A.C. and Le Body Shop and bought 90 dollars worth of groceries because I honestly did not have any food in my apartment. I didn't even have crackers to nibble on. Okay, that's a lie. I do have crackers, but that's it. Alright, I have crackers and tea but that's not sustainable nutrition (unless you're Nicole Ritchie, weighing in at a reportedly 97-pounds. I thought her coke days were over?)!

Going to clean up this rat hole today and study some French. Mom called me to say we (as in, the family) might be going to China this year at the end of June. Which means shopping (single most overused word of the week, I know), schlepping, and searching for a new Montreal apartment to move into sooner than expected. Whoop, whoop!


As I was going to retrieve a package from the pharmacy, a much older man honked his horn at me from behind and turned his car into the street ahead of me. Thinking that he needed directions (which I, sadly, would not have been able to give), I walked towards him and looked into the passenger seat at a good, safe distance.

"Tu es tres belle!" he proclaimed as he rushed to roll down the window.

"Oh," I said, a bit flustered. "Merci."

"Mmm, tsk tsk tsk," he continued. "Mon dieu!"

By then, I knew I really had to get away (which I did, but no sooner had I done so did he drive past me smacking his lips, winking and waving, before finally taking off). It was so surreal, Felliniesque even. Like something out of La Dolce Vita but uncomfortably so. Overt sexual attention makes my skin crawl. I suppose I never got it in my younger years to fully appreciate it for what it's worth. (Nothing, for one.)

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Dial-up begone!

As a young girl of moderate means, I just don't have time to sit around all day waiting for technical difficulies to be resolved. That's why I recommend Sleep-On-It, the surefire way to rid any unexpected curveballs and swirveballs life has to offer.

Sleep-On-It works great when you can't seem to figure out why the DSL light refuses to appear even though you've gone through the necessary steps to insure that it does.

"I just couldn't figure it out," says Lily, 18, student. "But after switching to Sleep-On-It, the light sort of started flickering on its own 4 hours after Sleep-On-It wore off."

Sleep-On-It is ideal when you get yourself in a jam of your own doing.

"I searched everywhere," says Lily, 18, the other one. "It wasn't like I was in a panic or anything. This was my fifth pair and I was pretty nonchalant about the whole ordeal. I knew they must've fallen out somewhere in Montreal. The question was, Where?"

She decided to "sleep-on-it" and lo and behold, she found her glasses in the lining of her tote bag.

No stress? No problem! You can still use Sleep-On-It when you want to:

-Forget your hunger pangs
-Ignore your partner's nagging
-Escape the tax man
-Collect your own life insurance
-Pretend this isn't really a bus shelter
-Believe your wife still loves you

Etc. etc. etc!

So remember: When life isn't going your way, Sleep-On-It! You'll never have to worry 'bout a thang. Praise Allah!

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

What's his story?

I witnessed a bum on the bus talking to his duffle bag as his hands shook from (and I speculate) years of alcohol abuse. Everyone tried avoiding him because he smelled like a dumpster and wore tri-toned, urine-stained jeans diluted in colours not unlike something you'd find in a Monet, Picasso or Matisse.

What is it that forces certain people to live the rest of their lives in the dreadful doldrums of despair, unable to cope with what transpired from a dare?


I can't believe someone bought the last copy of Murakami's Kafka On The Shore. Out-of-stock stores suck. Anyway, I ended up ordering it off Indigo's website along with Everyday Italian: 125 Simple and Delicious Recipes written by the gorgeous, Cordon Bleu-trained chef, Giada De Laurentiis. Thank Spago, the creatively combined ingredients are run-of-the-mill and apparently come together beautifully with little to no fuss. I'm really looking forward to testing this tome out (since I have nothing better to do with exception of reading 9 downloaded dissertations related to Brown & Levinson's politeness theory I took from ProQuest. Freebies rock!).

... jusqu'a lundi prochain? Peut-etre.

I don't know whether anything is worth writing about until school starts next week. I mean, what is there to say? That I'm stealing Internet access as Sade croons from headphones I borrowed from a student sitting across from me, seemingly doing real work with papers piled high beside him?

The library is a strange grotto; its silence, maliciously intimidating.

I don't know the procedures of looking normal in such a place. What is proper? What isn't? I can barely make out an escape route as I sit here underneath the fluorescent lights - the obviousness of the path obscured by book-lined shelves, uniform but wrong like something out of an Escher. Sean Lennon's nasally tenor ushers in an uptempo, shimmering melody by Travis describing a plan to buy a gun. So I tap my foot (not too loud now) and stare at my computer screen, poker-faced and solemn, breathing in the notes. I cannot show outright signs of idleness even as boredom gnaws at my gut, persuading me to leave. But I refuse to go because I am not weak. I don't need to be entertained to feel. To feel what exactly? Like I am not a product of social interventions but a reflection of it, capable of holding my own. Because I am a solid mass, impenetrable and real and undetered by inaction.

And also craving for a coke. I haven't drank that shit in ages.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Rumble ramble

Hot damn, my apartment's a dump. I haven't cleaned it in weeks. It looks like an Asian bordello set in Ho Chi Minh City right after American troops pushed their dicks through the front door. Not a friendly sight. Not one, indeed.

I finally got money to buy food, but I'm too unmotivated to get dressed. How lazy can I get? I might as well fake paraplegia and pay someone to wipe me when I pee; I'm heading that way anyway.

Now why did I polish off that bag of chips knowing I'll be forced to clean the dishes to eat food off of? Ca me tue!

Gender Mending Brouhaha

William Saletan wrote something very interesting on last Friday. Harvard President Larry Summers has been dogged by bad press about his supposed "sexist" comments since his participation at an academic conference held on January 14. His critics have repeatedly called for his resignation which led to the release of the transcript. Well, no surprise that he was "miscontrued and misrepresented" as we often are when we're taken out of context to make for a better story (guilty as charged), but it's the stuff that Saletan wrote near the end of his critique that hit me like a stone:

"... he's stubborn and argumentative."

"The consistent tone of his remarks was 'Yeah, but ...'"

"... once he offers a hypothesis, he'd rather defend and extend it than listen objectively to the alternatives."

"He was so busy being skeptical of the popular explanation that he forgot to be skeptical of the unpopular one."

"He overstated his case ... not because he wanted to believe it, but because he didn't."

Self-revelation #402 (or some equally random number): It's no secret that I find it more fun to say no. Debate isn't mental foreplay unless you're both missile and target. But perhaps I am wrong to think that I can pull off interacting wth everyone - academically, socially and professionally - the same way. Maybe there really is a difference between having fun, getting laid and getting somewhere. Better nip this trait in the bud before I get myself into deep waters.

So for future reference: Keep it nice when your salary's at risk.


Going to read up on some more of this "Isreali kibbutz movement." I wonder why more people haven't heard of it (me included). Sounds fascinating in a "social Genesis" sort of way. A kind of "We tried to create an utopia, but its undoing could not have been helped." Very Dynasty or (not George Orwell, not George Orwell) Mac computers (damn you, George Orwell!).

Monday, February 21, 2005

Don't pray for me, I'm not packing pounds

This is what happens when I'm ostensibly tired, but still make the effort to logon to Blogger. I got an A- for this tangent piece of "Oh mon-freakin'-dieu, this shit needs to be backed up?!" written at the 11th hour as the looming deadline cast a weary shadow over my shoulder, my head already fitted with a lightening rod bent on penalizing my compulsive procrastination. (Damn, my TA, BarbTandian, is a hard marker. I read Greekanthy's reasonably well-written paper on media bias and she received a B-.) Here's an excerpt from my craposal:

"... In a culture that values singularity of being, but practices just the opposite, I am captivated by the belief that polite society corrupts the essence of individualism when individuality cannot exist without being acknowledged as such by the "courtly" hoi polloi. ... Is asking someone to pass the salt a habit brought on by an adaptation to relative social dynamics (stemming from both conscious and subconscious responses), a product of nurture, or an inbred disintegration of civility in the home and problems of communication between members of a family (nuclear or otherwise)? The question remains whether acting like yourself (due to a high level of comfort, trust, etc.) is a contributing factor in the decline of friendly relations between these same persons. ..."

BarbTandian's comments:

"Okay, I will be straight with you. This is an interesting proposal, but it doesn't occur to me how you would do it anchored within the readings from the course. ..."

He goes on to say that he will cut me a deal. (Sort of disappointed by this decision because I was hoping he'd reject my proposal entirely and produce an idea for me that's more coherent and less bullshitty than mine.) He's allowing me to write this paper without having to relate it back to our course as long as I'm "anchored in some theory." He suggests Sigmund Freud's Totem and Taboo because there are "whole sections on manners and customs" and also because he thought I'd "be into this evocative but problematic little text." Har har har.

He added emphatically: "And learn to use semicolons. Get the Elements of Style by Strunk and White - kind of like a grammar bible for serious writers."

The sad truth is, I actually own it but have yet to crack its spine for fear of finding more fault in my less-than-stellar skills.


Wow, my written work reads really awkwardly when reviewed in retrospect. It's thick on jargon and weak on content. Unapproachable and unappetizing, it leaves much to be desired. I am suddenly disheartened, like a lone admirer of Baroquian architecture at a Bauhaus barbecue who is given a cruel roasting befitting a man of his fallen stature, a reality too obvious to ignore and too public to retract.

Bitch, I got the Mondays. My closest babes are on holiday. J.Lass has a new boyfriend. And I miss M. Biologique. (Surprise, surprise.) This is what Dante must've meant when he said, "There is no greater sorrow than to recall in misery the time when we were happy." Alright, now I'm being trippy, but I think Lily's Week of Awful Loneliness has officially commenced. Ugh, why can't I appreciate being 18? I have years of morosity ahead of me knowing 19 is a welfare cheque away.

"Well, at least I still have my books. And the best thing is, there's time now. All the time I need ..."

Good Will Hunter S. Thompson Likes Them Apples

Readerdroid and I moaned and groaned on the phone about the state of our lives for three hours last night. It was a bit ironic that our roles were reversed: She was the one who got to crazy it up at Harvard this weekend (but was quick to add how "boring" Boston was) with Americans who didn't know how to have a good time and were God-fearing sticklers when it came to preserving an "alcohol-free environment" while I ended up being the friend who listened intently and doled out advice upon request. We agreed to help each other chase the blues away by going shopping in the morning (can you think of a better plan?) before she was to board her Toronto-bound train at noon.

We went to Les Ailes where she wanted me to smell Light Blue by Dolce & Gabbana. Readerdroid had her heart set on purchasing it. Very nice and refreshing perfume pumped with complex notes. I love it, but it's not for this time of year. I bought a purse at DKNY. 30% off. I couldn't resist. I found it just lying there, eager for an owner, waiting for someone to take it home. Someone like me. We were standing at the check-out counter when I suggested that she try DKNY's Be Delicious instead. It has a younger scent rooted in Granny Smith apples. She apparently agreed with me because she left the store, uh, not empty-handed. (Yes, I realize that was a slew of sentences caked in pretentious name-droppage. Bite me, hippie.)

My lover, my friend, my dependable spring fling.


I've decided to do my radio public service announcement on vampires. It's going to begin with traffic noises taken from an urban ghetto with a thumping bass line that sets off the squeaky hydraulics from a Lincoln town car. Then an old lady starts bragging in Ebonics that if she can outrun the cops between visiting her "baby's mama" and hiding "da special stash," she "fo' shizzle" can take on them blood-suckers. Then she screams and collapses. Her heart is ripped from her chest (yes, I have the sound effect for this) and then subsequently sucked dry (I have that, too). I do a voice-over along the lines of: "There is no disguising from vampires. Over three million Canadians die everyday from vampire attacks. Protect yourself: Buy firearms. Call 1-800-PRO-GUNS or visit our website at:" Cue hiccup followed by a single, fired shot.

My original idea was on the dangers of tacos, but I somehow offended the teacher by unintentionally coming off ageist. Oh well, choking is overrated anyway.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

"I'm too ashamed to call this a 'cocktail party.'"

I spent the entire day with my favourite aunt and her employees, working the rounds at a fashion expo. She gave me someone else's pass to get me in. I walked around as "Ginger Lieu," passing time playing a character with a thing for gaudy sequins and giraffe-print ponchos, a potential buyer out to piss everyone off with her condescending booth-by-booth commentaries. (Nothing beats describing crappy items to Mayesbiana on my cell within earshot of the vendors.) Aunt & Co. were previously in Las Vegas and Calgary before making it to Montreal for this three-day event. I always get clothes out of the deal. She usually divides the loot between a few garbage bags for me to carry home in, but since I'm not returning to "the armpit" this week and this season's stock isn't scheduled to arrive until next month, she's going to forward me my payment by FedEx. However, I did walk away with a cropped pea coat in brown tweed with a portrait neckline and flared sleeves. (It was an extra sample piece.) Very unconventional. Totally dandy. Absolutely fabulous. Paired with jeans and an ascot, I wouldn't look out of place in London's Soho district chomping on a cigar with a greyhound in tow.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Greasy Fingers

I did my French oral midterm today, doing a bang-up job role playing a friend concerned with my partner's stressful life as a full-time mother and wife. I mentioned that she could start by selling her children ("... vendre tes enfants!"), then quit school to save money for another car ("J'acheterais une autre voiture avec ta carte de credit. Ching, ching!")

She reminded me that she was thinking of enrolling her youngest child into kindergarten so she couldn't just drop everything, and asked me what I would do in her position.

"Kill it?" I suggested with a shrug.

Professor Lauziere winced dramatically and laughed under his breath. Experience has taught me that good vibes translate to a job well-done.


There's no shortage of women who still try to look streamlined in the dead of winter, adopting a minimalist aesthetic to avoid a fashion faux-pas of the highest order: some semblance of warmth (even as their writhing bodies betray them). Swathed in wreaths of down-filled goodness, I also struggled to preserve my vanity, but to no avail; I was too damn cold to care. I had an epiphany of style since moving to this limestone island: No one cares that you're puffier than the Rasta Michelin Man when everyone's busy defrosting their eyes from the blistering winds of J.Lo's frigid Grammy performance. (We got it - bling, bling - you're rich.)

I trudged into my apartment today, deliberately shuffling my feet across the newly vacuumed hallway, balancing a novel in the crevice of one arm and a bag of chips in the other. No sooner had the door shimmied back into its frame did I tear at each confining layer with the ferocity of a mad man, throwing clothes in the general vicinity of the hamper until I was swallowed no more.

This is the life: Lounging around in novelty underwear, drinking lemonade to the quality tunes of Elliott Smith and Mos Def. Ain't no party like a spinster party ... Hey yo!


Smith's "Twilight" (From A Basement On A Hill, 2004) describes a recurring theme in my life, except replace "drugs" with "imported cheese" and you're almost there.

Ah-Ha! ... for the last time

I think there's still a bit of confusion as to what constitutes "small":

That's 4 inches fully aroused.

Friday, February 18, 2005

Ah-ha! cont'd

Men: Be prepared to lose that last ounce of self-confidence you've gained through years of self-flattery. Womanly wiles are vile. I don't know if I'm revealing too much too soon about the female psyche if I write this, but what the hey! it's all in the name of public duty.

So how exactly did KournaWhora come to acquire knowledge of the Boy's mini pincher? Answer: She gave him a hand-job during frosh week last semester, too turned-off to take it any further.

Visualize this: She and I - lying in bed, garments strewn across the floor, our sleeping friend a couch away - with raised hands silhouetted against the dark. Her fingers form a ring and she swings her wrist in an up and down motion over an invisible shaft.

"It was about that thick ... and that long ..." Or small, as the case may be.

I join in. "No way," I interject, imitating the universally understood gesture. "It was more like ..." Our hands sway out of sync; our memories fail to reach a consensus.

So there we were, jerking the air to conduct wholly unscientific research on the grounds of gathering accurate data, a confirmation of men's most irrational fear: Yes, we talk and compare detailed notes. Don't let her convince you any different.


4 inches. Generously.

A compromise was agreed.


After I kissed my journalism girls goodbye for reading week (HaiPhia, NorIda, Lisroom, CatCouver, and Jubaloo), I strolled around campus, sitting down to read at times, drinking smoothies otherwise. I thought I would spend yesterday giving myself a pity party for one. Rather, I ended up in bed with KournaWhora talking until 4 a.m., sharing intimate details about a) Geneva D's pathological lying and sociopathic personality (because her constant treachery has made her more enemies than Pinochetoinette) and b) the Boy's less than impressive endowments. In other words: Gossiping.

Seeing how I had no basis for comparison, I thought it was me when sex with him felt about as orgasmic as taking a long, dirty drag on a tree stump in post-Giuliani New York. My suspicions nagged at me; she confirmed them. Boy has a small dick. I also told her how he wouldn't tell me what he did for a living.

"Mommy's money," she deadpanned.

Really? I've always thought it was from dealing drugs.

"He did a bit of that too when he was living in Toronto."

This guy's another one of those trust fund babies who tries to forge a mysterious identity to hide the very un-Chelsea-like fact that his mother works in the executive echelons of a very well-known Canadian banking institution.


After I vented my frustrations to KournaWhora (who, albeit, is still a whore but a self-described one whose crowning glory is her professor, 20 years her senior) and delved into the real motivations behind my decision to tell M. Biologique how I feel, she asked me whether I had my eye on anyone besides him.

"No one," I said.

No one?

"Alright, I am interested in the information desk guy who resembles Jay Hernandez."

Who else?

"Um ... maybe ... [PoliDam?] But I haven't seen him in awhile."

PoliDam? Sounds familiar, heard he was a ladies' man.

"Why am I not surprised?"

Oh! And in the hospital for leukemia.


He's going to make it though. They said he wasn't at first.

"Oh my freakin' God ..."

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Best Friends On Rap and Reality

Shotgun Toter: "Now I've switched to 'Gotta Find a Gangsta Party' [by] Snoop and 2Pac."

me: "You know you're too famous when your name is an onomatopoeia or a numerical digit."

ST: "Snoop is an onomatopoeia? What is this? Toggle?"


me: "... and that's [M. Biologique.]"

ST: "He sounds like a huge asshole."

me: "But ..."

ST: "Jerk."

Cutey Patooties

The Kings of Convenience concert was terrific. Erik decided to take off his "long underwear" behind the curtain while Erlend sang "Approximately 10 Minutes" describing how although he very much enjoys signing albums and talking to fans after shows, he likes to be "left alone for approximately 10 minutes" first. When Erik appeared sans his thick, woolly, Norwegian-made long underwear, Erlend said monotonically, "I believe it is my turn now" and proceeded to do so after walking off stage. They also got an audience member to beat box to "I'd Rather Dance With You" which sounded so fucking awesome, I was dancing in my white, scallop-trimmed, jingle-bell pumps. It was hipster euphoria.

I went with NorIda and her supposedly "needy" friend who didn't show outright signs of insecurity but oh! it was there. I sensed it like a fox. (I've had a lot of experience sniffing it out during the summer of my senior year when boys were still soggy from the unappealing scent.)

NorIda gave me good advice when we went for pizza. She told me that for two and a half years she had been secretly, head-over-heels in love with this Norwegian boy she became close friends with when she studied in London. They hung out all the time, knew everything about each other, he called her his sister, etc. After a change in girlfriend and several mishaps caused via bad timing (she was living in Brazil by then), NorIda managed to snag him after years of melodrama and consequently discovered that he'd been jonesing for her all along. Except by then, both of them had become different people. They broke up and soon fell out (though, to this day, he continues to make drunken phone calls telling her how much he loves her). She asked me if I wanted to waste years of my life getting hung up over some guy who may or may not have feelings for me but retains power in influencing how I interact with other men both directly and indirectly.

"I'm telling you," she said, momentarily pausing to sip her diet coke, "I went through the same thing. You have to tell him how you feel. At least you'll know where you stand and - it's a paradox - you will grow to like him less afterwards."

The question is: What is the value of my friendship with M. Biologique? Is it worth salvaging because I am the one at fault, incapable of accepting Jetztzeit for comfort's sake or is it worth losing because I'm being led through an enclosed tunnel with the intended destination printed only on paper and the station, no longer in service?

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Starvation Mode

It's 2:29 p.m. on Tuesday, February 15th. My fingers are tapping on this here keyboard. What does this all mean?

I survived Valentine's Day unscathed (but a bit bloated).

The back-to-back COMS midterms I did were embarrassingly easy. Is this university or Devry on cinderblocks?

Although I was less than stressed, the traditional connotations of "back-to-back midterms" provided a reason to go shopping anyway (on a balance so meagre, Rick Springfield would shy from envying). I went ahead and bought Blink, Fat, and Max Tivoli (a sequencing of titles that make me out to look like a snuff film recruiter). I swung by a store and dug around for a wallet, struggling between a Renato Balestra or a Perry Ellis. (Balestra won by a slim margin of geographic snobbery.) Picked up a pair of square-rimmed Blumarine aviator shades and hopped over to school for some java. Met up with KelDoll before spending the rest of the evening with NorIda, gorging at Soupes Et Nouilles. The Boy did give me a chaste kiss, but that was the extent of my brush with intimacy on the vilest commercial holiday of the year.

Fucking Hallmark, always trying to get everyone to outdo everybody else while driving us, self-effacing singles to make do in dimly-lit alleys behind Indian-owned convenience stores in an effort to escape the blinding, decorative sheen of cupid's bloody arrow dipped in heroin derived from the stains found at a weekend showing of Deep Throat.

But I survived and it's gone and dealt with. Good riddance.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Lesson Learned

Damn repercussions of a stolen wallet. Starting now, my wallet (preferably an Hermes Guernesey comprised of, wrote the February issue of GQ, "three distinct compartments within its L-shaped walls") will only hold the essentials: Debit, credit, condom and cash. Sans condom.

MaineAid has, like, hundreds he shares with NorIda. He brought them back from when he was promoting AIDS awareness in Africa and threw me a handful so I'd never be caught without one or rely on the guy to be responsible. If you must know, they're Lifestyle brand, size L (not that size matters).

I turned over my tote and dumped the batch in the bottom drawer of my night stand. Please let my parents eventually find them. It would be wonderful to re-enact a movie cliche.

Sunday, February 13, 2005


I have two midterms tomorrow I'm unmotivated to study for. I put off the readings for days. This is my study break.

I was clipping my nails when I got a-thinking about Shining Time Station. (I never really got into the show as a tot, but it provided a reason for the TV to be on.) Maybe it was a case of repressed childhood nostalgia or maybe it was due to what the trains connoted, a la the last scene in North by Northwest. In any case, the image of Mr. Conductor in his navy blue suit, all dapper and cute, floated against a fuzzy mental backdrop ravaged by time.

Hold up, hold up, I said to myself. What the ...? as facial details abruptly materialized from the fog. Ringo Starr?! Did Ringo Starr play Mr. Conductor? Weird that had I known who was playing this miniscule man, I would've been more apt to pay attention to a show that did nothing for me. I didn't even notice when George Carlin replaced the legendary drummer, hypothesizing the apparent conspiracy to homogenize the entire Sunday afternoon lineup with middle-aged, bearded men ("Eric's World" and "Sharon, Lois & Bram's Elephant Show" come to mind). Then again, it might've just been a Canadian thing, a transitional phase in the early '90s aimed at shedding our lumberjack heritage for a more universal appealing image like Jim Carrey's 1994 star turn as a clean-shaven butt puppeteer temping as a pet detective.

What a meaningless catharsis that was. Now back to studying ... and starving ... because there is absolutely NO FOOD IN MY FRIDGE.

Saturday, February 12, 2005

Yin and Yang

Went to Indigo and was about to purchase three books (Blink, The Confessions of Max Tivoli, Backstory) when I felt for my wallet and realized I left the bugger home alone with my 10 dollar rebate (I guess I wanted them to make babies or something). I left the store empty-handed, heartbroken and dejected like a scorned pastry at a soy convention. I'm going back tomorrow (avec money) to pick up Blink and Max Tivoli along with Fat:The Anthropology of an Obsession and The Wisdom of Crowds. (Backstory was apparently outdated for its content, read reviews.)


Um ... maybe M. Biologique and I are getting too comfortable with each other. I went over to his place after French class intending to take a power nap before meeting Readerdroid. Just as I was preparing to drift off on his couch, snuggled comfortably across his woollen sweater and polar bear hide, he started asking me questions about socialism, a conversation that naturally progressed to sulphur oxides.

I had a really big lunch today, and after half an hour of chit-chatting (why won't he let me sleep?!), I dropped the kids off at the pool. It was no secret what I was doing in his lavatory.

"I thought you girls were supposed to leave the bathroom smelling like roses?"

No, and I really had to go, damnit!

Sure, I'm beginning to accept the semi-platonic status of our friendship. I know he has my back and I have his. Alright, let's not kid ourselves. The yearning for some Cruise & De Mornay action is simply kept in check, but that's the sacrifice of compromise (or the lies I tell myself to justify seeing him). In any case, I feel blessed to have found someone - anyone - with the consistent ability to encode my body language in time to save me from many-a early grave. Likewise, a head tilt or slightly parted lips are enough for me to understand what he's thinking without coming across tactless in the company of strangers. (Makes sense since 70-80% of communication is nonverbal.) I look like a grub when I'm with him: Smeared make-up, shoes dragging in souvenirs from a pre-War opium den, hair smelling of sundried possums. Yet we still retain simple formalities: He greets me with a sloppy kiss below my temple and I part with a kiss on his external jugular. It's spontaneous, a bit odd.

I love having this brother around.


Advice to men: Don't tell a woman you had been thinking about her right before she called because had you really been thinking of her, she wouldn't have had to call.

I hate having this brother around.

Friday, February 11, 2005

Two Dryers and a (4/5th) Empty Closet

So this is what four weeks worth of laundry looks like in three washing machines. They stood there side by side, coldly taking my cash card and inspecting it for foul-play before quickly filling their insides with water to deter me from digging. The scene reminded me of a Maytag commercial had it been directed by Stanley Kubrick if he had been in a financial slump reminiscent of Orson Welles (and if clinically deranged people were allowed into SAG. I say "clinically" because no one diagnoses screen stars unless the disorder is hip to have, a la Robert Blake's recent bout with O.J. Simpsonitis. Or anorexia nervosa, its more tabloid-friendly equivalent, which is commonly caused by celebrities who catch themselves off-guard with things in their mouth that don't require rinsing and breathing through their nose.)

Good thing I bought that hamper; those wheels came in handy. Although I did risk looking like an Oriental dim sum server had it not been for my lime green shoes and miniskirt.


Do I have an alcoholic for a neighbour or was that battle cry to go "shake yar booty" to the hungry tunes of Cat Stevens plain unsettling?


Looks like nipples are either photoshopped in or out depending on the magazine's target audience. Compare vodka ad in GQ (nipple prominantly erect behind translucent, watered-down dress) with In Style (same ad, but no display of nipple on the perfectly spherical mammary).

Verdict: Heavy-handed but a hit!

It Was Bound To Happen

My words during yesterday's journalism class upon commencement:

"Why do I want to go to the washroom? To look at some bad shit? Really? But why do I want to do that? It's something I'd want to see though? Why would I want to look at someone's shit? What do you mean ... What are you guys pointing at? ... Oh my God! Is it bad?! How bad is it? You can see it through my pants? You must be joking! I didn't even feel it! Where is it? Is it obvious? How obvious? No, I don't have a sweater with me. I'm just going to ... sit down ... here. Go away NerdQuirk. I'm not leaving your seat. Get your hands off me you son of a ... Ahh! No, Professor K. My butt's fine. What's going on? Well, you see (I said in a super fast, girly voice) I've.just.been.informed.that.I'm.leaking. I' Here' I'm.going.home."

I wasn't embarassed at all since all the girls were laughing with me as I made a theatrical dash to the door. Although I found it funny as hell that the 5 remaining male students froze from a combination of ignorance and disgust and limited their vision to a single floor tile until I left their vicinity.

I even managed to return to class with a pathetic line: "Hey, I guess I brought a new meaning to 'If it bleeds, it leads.' Heh, heh?"


I vote for the preservation of pick-up lines. Without them, men will be left to their own devices and become lost causes in the making. What the hell were they thinking when they tried to use "Mmm mmm mmm, God bless Asia!" on me?

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Trick or Trite

NorIda had dinner at mi casa. So I set my pan on fire and the smoke alarm went off like a schizophrenic psycho sumo. So I almost cleanly sliced the tip of my finger off as I was preparing to make an avocado smoothie. So M. Biologique came over just as she was leaving and applauded my new-found culinary talents. So we've been crazying it up since he left class at 5:00, snapping random snow-themed pictures and talking to strangers we didn't know were perverted until one of them took out a stack of Polaroids from his pocket. So he's sitting six feet away from me right now checking his email and making me realize I'll always be the other woman no matter how couple-like we come across in public. We are caricatures of a poised portrayal transparent to everyone but us.

I've already acquired sexual validation. But it is the emotional one I am denied.

I set myself up for disappointment when I go for unavailable men who, consequently, make me feel undesirable. Oddly still, knowing a new man is consistently waiting in the wings only heightens my fear of interaction, encouraging refuge inside the safe quarters of romantic exile found in the icy fields of predictability.


Here he comes.

Publish and minimize.

On Being Good Friends With Lily

First, a disclaimer: Sorry for the histrionic display in today's entry.

Math Judas and I had one of our daily evening discussions and I, for the first time, deconstructed exactly what the "high standards" I have really alluded to.

I think I weed out potential people of interest through an "interviewing" process that lasts anywhere from 30 seconds to 15 minutes. If my attention isn't piqued by then, it's sayonara to you and you andyouandyouandyou. I've noticed these are a few ways to capture and keep my attention in a social arena:

1) A rapid response is good. A rapid original response is better. If creativity is concocted under pressure and time restraints, you better believe I'd stay for another drink. "What if someone just takes their time answering?" asked Math Judas. "Then that answer better be worth all the thought put into it." It's easier to see through characters (exactly what the word implies) when people are too worried about making an impression. It's Decide or Die, man. Decide or Die!

2) Comedic contribution is essential. One need not be funny to appreciate humour and being a sourpuss will inspire no sympathy from me. I respect anyone who goes further than merely verbalizing their discontent for having been offended. A position defended is a position challenged. And the best conversations are worthy of dissertations. When offence is taken but silence is selected, then I can only skip away assuming consideration is pending for the newest member of the bitch brigade.

3) Teach me something. You know something? Well, I want to learn. The more details, the better. But be prepared to answer "why?" a whole lot or you'll be confronted by an outstretched hand ready to shake au revoir faster than it takes to yawn.

I'm also prone to approaching patience. I've been known to wordlessly walk away when someone consistently interrupts me without good reason and throwing their temper around in a haze of non-sequiturs and demeaning slurs. I don't have time for people who haven't figured themselves out.

Math Judas: "Hmm, this is interesting. Essentially someone needs to establish a repetoire of material to keep you occupied for 15 minutes. After that, then what?"

A loyal friend. And if we decidedly have a natural rapport, there is no need for primed material. Besides, do I really want to get to know someone who makes me work to cut through bullshit more interesting than the person covered in it? My mind is always in serious need of preoccupation. I would never voluntarily check my brain at the door just to show up a few boozy dolts who wear shades indoors and baby powder to fend off premature wetting. Whenever my friends convince me to join them at freshman watering holes, I always end up zoning out some kid with a penis fixation who thinks he's being edgy just because he's old enough to say "clit" without blushing. Bored to tears, I always end up wanting to hop on a bus and stare at a passing tree for relief.

me: "That's my filter. If there's no romantic potential, I'll at least know that it would've fizzled before it sizzled."

Math Judas: "Hahaha, I imagine it's quite a challenge to punch through that ice."

That's why I'm single and don't see anything wrong with eating a Mars bar for breakfast.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Wow ... I'm gawky

As I stood up to exit the university shuttle bus, a well-dressed man smiled at me. (What can I say? I'm shallow.)

"Do we know each other?" I asked him after a double-take.

"I'm sort of the ... information desk guy who ..."

... helped me find the right room in the right building just as I was about to slip my homework under the door of a closet! Hehe, he remembered me.

But damn! I don't remember him being this cute. (Then again, from that past post, I gathered he was a "[h]ot racist" though he was definitely no racist.)

"Heh," I chirped back. "You'll see me asking for information again sooner or later."

What sort of a lame line was that? Where was the usual spunky sexual innuendos? On top of that, I shook his hand which made him chuckle. MADE HIM CHUCKLE! I was like a big-bottomed baby being humoured by an inconceivably patient adult. That or he was just nervous. Did I mention he was cute? Not M. Biologique scruffy handsome, but scruffy cute like ... Jay Hernandez! Oh yeah, definitely. Looks exactly like his character in Crazy/Beautiful, shaved head, Hispanic and all. (Didn't I say I was shallow?)

Anyway. I might ask him out. If anything, I could get an alternative route to the washroom out of the deal.


I bought a retro-looking laundry hamper on Mont Royal today. Stainless steel, canvas, wheels. You know the drill. I've actually been thinking about purchasing it for quite some time now (well, "some time" for me since a month never fails to feel like an eternity), but this notoriously pricey shop was situated so inconveniently far that it took me ages to convince myself to pencil it in as a can't-wait errand to finally make the long trek there. Also got a bamboo rug thing that goes perfectly with my couch.

Total cost of unnecessary home accessories: Unapproved by sane mothers everywhere.


I went to HMV and bought Death From Above 1979's You're A Woman, I'm A Machine. This is really hard stuff, which I haven't heard in awhile. Quite refreshing, but definitely a break-up album; Sea Change's evil twin.

Reading the acknowledgments, I saw the Boy's name. What's more, both he and the band are from Toronto. I'm sure it's nothing to get curious over, but it still sent me shivering.

Then again, his name is terribly generic and WASP sounding, like a John Smith or Tim Allen.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

On Being Near-Sighted

I'm not being aloof when I really can't see you.

Pro-Togetherness (Shut up, I'm sleepy)

I love life, especially when there's sex. But it's bad sex when deep contemplation is required for underoo donning decisions that correlate to increased sexual encounters (with, ahem, the same man/woman/sideshow mule. I'm not running a brothel here.) So asking yourself, "Do I want the front door surprise to be ice cream sundaes or green flamingos?" is a perfectly legitimate question as long as it's followed-up with "But why care what I wear if its sole purpose is to be an obstructing obstacle?" That moment of revelation (comparable to John the Baptist or Michael Jackson whenever he passes by a reflective surface) will lead you to a sudden desire for girdle-tight, high-waisted, 8 for a dollar, geriatric panties.

Hence, monogamy: Sex with no judgment. (Judgment's more of a condition reserved for marriage. Who has time to dedicate a functioning libido to their legal bound partner anymore? Even Bush has a workplace wife in Condoleeza Rice.)

If these two terms - monogamy and marriage - and their corresponding ideas are not mutually exclusive, one must wonder: What is the point of either (political means to an end, notwithstanding)?

Relationships thrive and survive not due to state-recognized documents but through unrelenting trust. No green-eyed monsters, no beaver hunters, just the satisfaction of knowing your like is uncompromising. Why be jealous when there's nothing better out there? (No you di'nt, girlfriend!)


I've voluntarily refused myself access to M. Biologique this week because he's writing 3 midterms. Weird, 30-year-old-looking creepazoid cornered me into exchanging emails (he's been trying for weeks). I "lost" it when I "carelessly" stuffed it into NerdQuirk's pocket. Hmm, in other news, the Boy is getting ballsier in showing subtle affection for me in public while I, yes, continue to rudely act like a pathological amnesiac. (Does he actually think Professor G is vying for my attention or is he just naturally competitive?)

Doesn't he understand the rule of localized relativism? Even intimacy is what you make of it since there is no surefire maneuver that guarantees its production.

Freakin' COMS theory is seeping into my uber-tired head. I'm ready to haul my ass to bed ... only to wake up to this regrettably non-sensical post.

Monday, February 07, 2005


My Intro. to Digital Media class was cancelled today. I wrote a blog entry on the COMS 256 website and was looking forward to Professor S's feedback, which I always appreciate. I was close to completing the first draft when I asked Math Judas to proofread it. Well, hardy har har, I accidentally reloaded the page and lost everything. (I didn't think to save.) This is the clumsily re-written entry, shorter than the original, finished in about six minutes and corrected in one to make the midnight deadline. (I'm already preparing for the appearance of journalism-induced brow lines caused by ample exposure to concentratis maximus.) Here it is, unedited. (Soyez gentil):


Sony Corp. might not make the launch date for the European release of PlayStation Portable (PSP), their answer to Nintendo's monopolistic hold on the gaming market.

Continue reading "Sony, PSP, Machine's answer to man"

The PSP is the next evolutionary step in multimedia electronics. There seems to be a race to combine as many capabilities into gadgets as scientifically possible. From a consumer perspective, the compelling evidence citing a desire for multi-functional machines seems to point us towards a philosophical pondery. At risk of sounding deterministic, the miniaturization of technology is heading towards a limb-like existence. By this, I mean, although these separate entities - living and non-living - are theoretically detached; mentally, we've come wholly dependent (or more optimistically, interdependent) on the basis of its design function. In essence, technology is merely an extension of ourselves. When limited to the field of communication, TV, radio, telephone, Internet, etc. make use of our visual, aural, verbal, kinetic abilities. And from the way things look, we might very well be on the verge of another adaptative evolutionary milestone.

Sunday, February 06, 2005

19th Birthday in T-minus 4 Months

... and a day.


Shout out to my sister who turned 13 yesterday.


Needless to say, I am equally smitten and torn by M. Biologique. At this point, having sex with the Boy will feel like cheating. Irrational guilt: Am I feeling the unsettling pangs of love or is this all a game of pretense and possession?

But when he holds my hand, I am so disarmed and at ease, I'm in denial of my willing participation and forthcoming paralysis. He makes me re-think whether I am really a commitment-phobe living by the Hedonistic pleasure principle or simply a dodger of discomfort, domestication and the status quo.

And he's so fucking hot, even the lady pool shark was getting wet and bothered.

Saturday, February 05, 2005


I'm so nauseous right now, I think I might vomit. Okay, so a bit melodramatic but everything is when it involves M. Biologique. (I am thisclose to getting an aneurysm.)

The day started normally enough. He rolled out of bed to meet me at our usual coffee haunt after my French class. We chatted for a good 2-3 hours, entertaining the baristas with my "foul language" and our general reckless banter.

We headed to the library and looked up words together. Since he's studying biology along with geography (and had the highest GPA in his freshmen class before his subsequent transfer to Paris. He, however, pleads the fifth), the phrases he came up with were scientific, Latin-derived (or "educated hippie" to be more precise). And since I'm ignorant of all fields pertaining to practical study, I read to him from the Encyclopedia of Ethics ("Heard of Abelard and Heloise?")

I suggested we go to Ben & Jerry's next. The ice cream guy loved us (or maybe our brother/sister ribbing schtick). He had a quirky, quick wit, looked like Dave Grohl and personalized our pint lid with a visual representation of our new flavour concoction (Chunky Monkey with mango/lime sorbet; use your imagination). So there we were, hyper from coffee, walking down meandering sidewalks, slapping each other, feeding each other ice cream in the middle of winter and waving to people behind hotel windows, diner windows, stripper windows and having a gay ol' time pretending to be a couple.

Then we went to play pool (yeah, yeah, why wouldn't he let me win?). I see my friend Lisroom and her friends, AmmoBlow and MooisianaMarinade. We all had a great time singing, watching, doing, saying crap together. (Lily: "Why don't you get a job as a bridge troll without a bridge? Charge people money to use the toilet as you squat behind them with a timer.") The sexual chemistry between M. Biologique and me was quite "deceiving" I was told. Everyone we encountered mistook us for something we were definitely not and he wasn't helping. ("Yeah, you better tell her to keep me on a leash.") Anyway, M. Biologique jumped on me to mark the end of this chapter of our adventure until we walked down Ste-Cat's and ...


He wanted to see this pepper grinder and this man, wearing a tunic and a butcher's apron (a blatant warning sign), shooed us out of the store ("You can only look from outside!"). M. Biologique asked him why he couldn't examine the merchandise when this was a store that sold stuff. What kind of a merchant has an actual store policy that refuses to serve customers unless they produce cold hard cash upfront for overpriced wares? The man wouldn't even let his (paying) customers speak to us ("You come in and you talk to my customers? This not a McDonalds!")

M. Biologique's American plastic didn't work with the man's money machine. The jerk blew his top and started using force to underscore that he really meant business (no pun intended) as he yelled, "You! And your girlfriend! Get the fuck out of my store!" like a menopausal mama.

I was so scared, I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Except fearless M. Biologique tried to get to the root of this crazy storeowner's inner turmoil with thoughtful questions completely wrong for the situation! Jesus Christ, I wanted to shut him up and drag him away. But I kept my mouth shut. I didn't think it would be fair to argue with M. Biologique in front of this sadist because he'd look like a fool who actually deserved the disgusting treatment he was given (when in fact, even the customers were warning me to head on out from this shop of horrors: "He's a Shisha Nazi; don't touch anything ... including the chairs.") We were 3 stores away from that site of madness when I went ballistic: "Why did you have to do that?! Why didn't you just leave when he yelled at us the first time?! I can't believe you; you know I hate confrontations!"

My last words to M. Biologique were: "Why you gotta be like that and start fights?" (Because when I'm angry, I suddenly acquire a Carmela-complex and a Jersey accent.) But no more than 10 minutes after he walked me to the metro station, I called him and apologized for being so childish and insensitive to his feelings. He was amused ("Nothing you say ever offend me") and found my manner cute ("It's all in your head.")


Friday, February 04, 2005

Patronizing Idiot

I can't stand people who ride the coattails of their successful parents to make themselves the preeminent authority on American politics even as they spew half-baked conspiracy theories and disavow the press in its entirety.

Like KournaWhora.

"Honey, don't talk when you don't know [what I'm talking about]. I volunteered for the Democratic Party in Washington, I know insiders, and I'm using Fahrenheit 9/11 so someone like you could understand."

I let the comment slide because I didn't want to make a scene and I reckoned, she's 18-years-old, already sucked off enough men to garner her a medal for bravery, and has an embarrassingly well-used apartment that reeks of "sex."

me: "Like what?"

MaineAid: "Like sex. You know, pussy juice, semen, massage oil. Like sex."

Truck Stop

NorIda, her roommate MaineAid and I watched Lord of the Rings: Return of the King until no one could keep their eyes open. Let's get the cinematography and artistic direction over with: Incredibly, jaw-droppingly, spectacular.

I kept asking NorIda what was going on: Why someone would spend his free time dallying on a tower plateau holding an orb ("It's a prison for the magical: can't escape going up or down"), why elves have hyperactive dwarf servants ("That's a child, Lily"), why the good guys didn't also breed a couple of fetishistic mutanimals for destructive/corruptive/seductive purposes ("Isn't there, like, a Middle-Earth Home Depot somewhere?" I inquired), and so on.

I also noticed MaineAid's wandering hands which I maintained at the time to be purely "accidental." Of course, his agenda was made clear when NorIda, acting ambassador for his loins, asked me what his chances were with me the following morning at breakfast.

"I knew something peculier was up!" I said, shaking a dramatic finger. "That's why I slipped [into our conversation last night] how comfortable I felt around him, like a (real) brother."

NorIda laughed. "That's probably not something he wanted to hear. So you're not interested?"


"Alright then," she grinned as she cut into her cantaloupe. "He's gotta stop flirting with every available girl."

Thursday, February 03, 2005


"Explain yourself!" Doberman demanded at Tuesday's party. "What exactly did you mean by that?!"

Did I hear right? Is this sucker really getting offended by my off-handed swing at his manhood? All eyes were on me as he waited for my answer.

"Listen," I replied, barely concealing my condescension. "What you have can be explained with no need for elaboration."

The sudden silence of the room was punctuated by stifled laughter (dominated by Elmeraler). By this point, Doberman was fuming and speechless. KournaWhora stepped in for him and said I was rude. That's when Cynicra, the party's self-proclaimed matriarch, came to my defence:

"Hey, if you can't keep up, it's not her fault. This is the real world, get used to it."

I was so happy, I wanted to give her a big hug until she told me not to interrupt her. Yowza! She's one feisty firecracker.

Poster Child for ADD Among the Relatively Productive?

To think I've always thought I was self-aggrandizing when I got tired of pedestrian conversation and people. Turns out, I'm just mentally-challenged! There's a slight chance I have a mild form of Inattentive ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). I went to class thinking I had lost my fifth pair of glasses yesterday. (I found them later trapped in the lining of my bag). This spurred me to research other people who might have a habit of losing things, but the search led me to ADD instead. I have 40 of the 58 "negativities associated with inattentiveness" and embody 10 of 18 symptoms of Inattentiveness found on this website. "Day-dreaminess" and "persistent unwanted thoughts" are intensely accurate descriptions of me because they plague my thoughts and corrupt my concentration on a minute-by-minute basis.

Problems that develop when the prefrontal cortex is affected (14/14):

Short attention span, distractability, lack of perserverence, impulse control problems, chronic lateness and poor time management, disorganization, procrastination, unavailability of emotions, misperceptions, poor judgment, trouble learning from experience, short-term memory loss, social and test anxiety.

I think the only reason my head's still above water is because I have so many interests which allow me to stay focused and motivated more consistently. And luckily for me, I've always been a slacker whose marks rarely ever dipped below an A-minus (causing no alarm for my parents to take action other than frequent nagging and laziness-calling).

However, my chronic scatterbrainess could very well be associated with my poor eating habits and not by some neurological hiccup easily patched up with Adderall.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Out and Out

My friends and I threw a surprise birthday party for Swiss Alps last night. Amazing food, amazing people. The guest of honour said everyone he would've wanted there attended (except for my flirting companion, Elmeraler, who knew only me and Doberman, the campus horn dog, and immediately rubbed M. Biologique the wrong way when he announced to everyone he will only eat the sushi JoGlow made if I fed it to him). Cynicra and I befriended each other a few months ago. She's a 28-year-old tough as nails, public relations/marketing spitfire and the only one there who's never seen let alone been in the same vicinity as M. Biologique. So the evening came together without a hitch, that is, until Cynicra got ahold of some high grade ganja.

"What do you call yourselves again?" she inquired half-mockingly. I nervously sat cross-legged as I - we - waited for M. Biologique to reply.

He said that he and I were "brother and sister."

"Nuh uh, honey," Cynicra said, shaking her head. "What you're doing definitely isn't brother and sister behaviour."

M. Biologique wanted to know what she meant.

"You two rip each other to shreds then come to each other's rescue," she said. M. Biologique explained that's what made our friendship fun. She continued. "And both of you talk to each other while looking at me, but never directly facing one another."

M. Biologique looked at her blankly. "I don't know what you mean," he said, flatly. "You're over-analyzing things."

She let out a condescending groan. "I'm old, I've seen this way too much."

I was quiet the whole time, absolutely mortified. But I defused the tension when I coaxed out a giggle and brushed the situation off with a nonchalant wave of the hand. "I assure you, this guy's like my brother!" I heard myself shrieking as a mussed up his hair. "He's a total loser!"

Cynicra pulled me aside later that evening and asked me what exactly was going on between us. I whispered a quick rundown by her ear and gave her props for bringing certain things into light. "Look at him," she said as we watched him mingling. "That boy has an answer for everything, doesn't he?"

I nodded.

"And he's possessive, I can tell," she said while shooting him a look when he turned to look at me. "You have fun with men like that. But Lily, you can do better."

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

You said it, Details

12 Reasons To Be Cheerful
Number 10: An entire year with no new U2 album

"U2 and iPod, the perfect combination: two corporate cash machines masquerading as emblems of antiestablishment cool."

(*click here for list*)


Plastic Frames keeps nagging my friend to hand me over to him because he is obsessed with "devirginizing" me. Yeah, he wants to help me complete my transition into womanhood. This 23-year-old, freak-o'-nature fucker has been going around yapping his trust fund jaw and telling people if I don't pop my cherry soon (with him, no less), I'll end up as the campus whore, giving men blowjobs for attention. (Though I highly doubt I have the capacity. Pun intended.) Somehow, this Moroccan midget thinks he's the authority on sexuality. Lightbulb: Has he never heard of relative proportion or is he just not in proportion to compare? I haven't spoken to him since he got drunk and tried to force himself on me. (Good thing he was short on intimidation. Pun intended.) And telling him I did the deed would only jeopardize my reputation and force me to sink to his level. (Enough with the puns already! He's too easy a target.)

This aficionado of children-sized clothing doesn't deserve the satisfaction of public acknowledgement. But what he does deserve is the title role in the Bruckheimer-produced, one-man Broadway vehicle: "Jesus II: Back to the Manger." He'd be great playing a bastard son.