Thursday, March 31, 2005


Lunette just called me to ask if I was alright because she can see the blaze from her place. She's taking me in.


It's just after midnight and smoke has penetrated even the penthouse floor. My eyes are watering and my nostrils are flared; I am on high alert for immediate evacuation. A fire is spreading from the three neighbouring duplexes below (which house a pizzeria, deli, and convenience store). I can see flames climbing up balconies opposite me. Sirens are blaring and crowds of huddled onlookers are being herded away. The wind is making a mess of things. It's beginning to look like the eleventh hour of Pompeii outside my now sooty windows.

And yet, all I want to do is turn my back and finish tomorrow's assignment already. I know the racket caused by the water hose and chainsaw is necessary, but my deadline is irritating my capacity for compassion. Bentolic called me to chat and had to listen to me in hysterics:

"Ahhh! The fire's everywhere! It looks like a huge campfire ... except chunks ... in patches of 4! No, 5! Ewww, I can smell it! And the concierge is saying something in French! Now English! Now he's telling all of us to stay inside!"

Bentolic: "Runnnnnnnn for it! You're insured!"

I am nauseous breathing in fumes; there is no proper ventilation to drive it out. The situation is getting worse ...


I called my parents and I broke the news to my dad that I no longer want to attend law school after I receive my BA.

"I want to be ... a traveling food critic."

"Hahaha! I mean ... hahaha!"

My dad told me the family came back from visiting New York City and West Point (the military academy) recently. I asked him how it went. He told me he hated it:

"... and the two Chinatowns, it no room for driving, all squish together! So ugly!"

He judges the character of a city by its respect for the Chinese community. My dad would probably shove a social thermometer up random homeless asses just to check the average intake of rice if he could.

Although far from being a pacifist (he comes from a family entirely comprised of Chinese military personnel), he mocked the naivete of my mother's friend who conceived unrealistic corporate dreams for her little West Point soldier.

"I think, he will only be foot army - not Mr. Big Oil Man - and I say, one day, he go to Iraq and no more son."

Tactlessness: Like father like daughter.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

"Which one of us is James?"

VanRed and I fooled around with the minidisk recorder and did some bad improv done in the hallway while waiting for Rubbermaid. She couldn't keep a straight face but we got better at it as we progressed from one oddity to the next. The good improv was done an hour prior to Rubbermaid's exile from another teacher's office. VanRed and I took turns sitting behind a desk with fake roses on it, creating scenerios and incorporating strangers as we went. During one scene, I was arrested for murdering my mom because I was too embarrassed to confess to the killer fart I made. I re-acted the story for Rubbermaid (as VanRed stood by)and she freaked out when I conjured up real tears ("Stop it! You're making me cry!").

Sample bad improv dialogue (I mean, really bad improv - we kept going even when we ran out of material):

"I'm going to have to break it to you: I'm not a real doctor. One day, sitting around, I just said, 'Fuck it, why do I have to go to school to open up my own clinic?'"

"That's so inspiring. I'm going to be honest with you, too. One day, I said, 'Fuck it, why am I waiting for my penis to fall off when I can just put on a dress?'"

"So those quadruplets ...?"

"I used them to score drugs."


"Yo, Tommy. What's up?"

"Hey James, have a seat."

"Is that your purse?!"

"That's right it's mine. I got it all blinged out."


"What are you in for?"

"I did some serious shit. You?"

"Leon traded me for three caps and a cigarette butt."

"Aight, aight. So where you from?"

"Compton ... Ontario, real rough. What do people do around here?"

"Me? I make mean muffins and cakes."

"Really? The kind with carrots?"

"I can make 'em with carrots. They come out real nice and moist 'cause I use blood."


"Sign here, here and here."

"Okay, but let me read it first. So, how far do I have to stay away from him?"

"Look, we've gone through this. I've given you 8 years to read it."

"Oh, alright. So when am I coming back to the country?"

"You're never coming back to the country."

"I knew I shouldn't have married for oil."

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Des oeufs

I bootlegged a DVD-quality copy of Oldboy off LimeWire. It's a Korean revenge thriller chock full of sadomasochism and hammer action. I heard excellent things about it.


Interviewed some o' them rich folks today and hung out with Swiss Alps's younger sister, Trinity. She's a 16-year-old sweetheart visiting her brother all the way from Switzerland. Girl has a good head on her shoulders. I haven't talked about high school happenings in ages and to be able to brings back memories ... I wish I had. (Westmount was comparable to a slaughterhouse. Thus, the only good memory is a dead one.) She told me stories about spoiled Saudi progeny (princes and princesses educated at converted ski resorts and riding stables), teenage cokeheads and pubescent race car aficionados, given monthly allowances of upwards of 10,000 Swiss francs. Well-read, well-traveled, and well-endowed: Trinity's a tough combination for any man to crack.

We did girly things together while her brother attended class. It wasn't babysitting because she was so easy to talk to. Trinity told me about her still painfully fresh break-up and recent flirtation with a new fella nicknamed Alphonse. ("He only speaks Spanish and French.")

"He's what we call a racaille," she elaborated.

A what?

"They look like thugs, except they wear Lacoste and these small, flimsy baseball caps that look like this," she said as she cupped her hands on the cafe table.

A sport yarmulke?

"Kinda," she laughed. "[Racailles] are like thugs but not really ... They're just seen all over Geneva ..."

"Oh!" I finally understood. "You mean, a swigger," I said, matter-of-factly.

"Yes!" she gushed. "I'm so using that word when I get back!"

Yes, ladies and gents. Never Been Kissed got it right with "rufus": everyone wants to be a patois pioneer. The latest incarnation across the pond is "ouf," which is backwards for "fou" or "crazy" en francais. It is used to refer to guys deemed ultra cool. Another thing kids are saying is "bonass," which is a combination of the French word for "good" and the English for, well, "ass." Guys say it whenever a fine female walks by. (Trinity lives in the French quarter which explains all these Gallic bastardizations which sound extra funny coming from her Brooklynized mouth.)

She's also stealing me and super hot, half-Asian, Ollie's secret handshake which goes: Shake, pull, snap. Knuckle knock once. "Chopsticks" are "okay" (visualize formation of traditional "scissor" position using middle and index finger then transition to international symbol for "a-okay" - not to be confused with "alright" which is a thumbs up - to place over the heart, seamlessly and simultaneously).

Trinity kept encouraging me to ask him out (she thought he was smokin'; I told her foreign ho-ness to button up her shirt). "Pretend to slip into him," she suggested. I told her I was smoother than that (yuh huh). So with her encouragement, I walked over, asked how he was; we joked, we chatted, I asked for his number; couldn't find my phone so he leaned over and asked me for mine.

So here I am sitting in front of my computer with a stupid grin plastered across my face like I just gulped down a can of buffalo balls and friggin' loved it!

M. Biologique who?


Speaking of M. Biologique, Swiss Alps told me he saw him with his squeeze a couple of days ago. What is she like? I anxiously delved for details.

"Bland," he said with a shrug. "She's really frumpy looking for someone ... I mean, [M. Biologique] is a really charismatic, handsome guy and she's ... meh."

He continued: "I thought she was his friend because they didn't look all that into each other."

Woohoo! I feel a lot better knowing M. Biologique goes home to eat out an antiquated eyesore instead of playing hookey with me. Baise-toi, mon cher ami!

Monday, March 28, 2005

Random Thought #192

The Twilight Zone. That's some creepy shit.


If you get the chance to watch Downfall, catch Bruno Ganz's impassioned monologue decrying Himmler's betrayal. It was Shakespearean in its delivery - his fluctuating intonations carried the unassuming script by its throat. Witnessed between each Teutonic syllable was a venomous portrayal of a deeply troubled man behind the greying mustache.

Minutes into the film, I gave up comparing this on-screen interpretation to the one I learned to accept during years of high school hogwash. My eyes were completely fixated on the figure in front of me, taking him in at face value. For the first time, Hitler was portrayed as a demented old man suffering from the delusions of ultimate defeat. He acted almost grandfatherly, weak and soft-spoken, even as he presented his staff with cyanide pills at his farewell. (The running joke for me appeared to be the insistence on formalities - behavioral and material - even in savage times of total war.)

I read a handful of reviews criticizing the movie for not embarking on a WWII tour de force, placing those 10 days in the bunker within a grand(er) context. (When did moralists matter?) But the point wasn't that Hitler's last days hiding below Berlin had any major political implications (the Russians were coming, come hell or high water), but that his personality proved powerful even as his mind deteriorated. Like Das Boot, the film recognized that a mixture of claustrophobic conditions and despair bred coldness and warmth, characters both ideologically driven and sound, stubbornly paradoxical yet sane. Only the celluloid came with fewer dimensions.


Downfall was intense. Never had I been part of an audience so completely taken aback by a film that the only sound heard escaping was that of my own breathing over the ending credits. I felt ashamed for making the slightest rustle as I shifted my ass and lowered my glasses into my bag. I froze mid-reach when I noticed I was the lone person moving in the entire theatre and gathered enough courage to put on my jacket only when somebody else made a stir. The stillness was palpable and reminded me of a woman's restroom during lunch hour: nervously sitting on the toilet, urethra relaxing only when a deafening flush (or faucet on full blast) is capable of disguising the natural exertion of waste.

One by one, people made their way out in relative darkness. Arms at their sides, heavy and disabled, they resembled morose pallbearers at a funeral march. Yes, even the girls wearing puffy pink sateen parkas.


Walking along Bleury, VanRed, Rubbermaid and their two McGill friends saw me and invited me for a drink somewhere off St. Laurent. I passed the booze but had a lot of fun chatting with them. Nice people, the lot.


I sat in the school cafeteria, translating French for a good three hours Sunday. Decided to walk around Montreal and chillax for the rest of the day, taking in the gorgeous spring weather. Why not pamper myself? I thought. Entertainment venues are within walking distance of each other and I can spare a sizable amount of change for emergency purposes.

Except I made a pointless pit stop at M. Biologique's building, persuading myself that I was strictly there to borrow a DVD from JuanaMachine next door. I was just going to pick out a movie and leave - M. Biologique (and his girlfriend) wouldn't even sense my presence, I said. Uh huh. Well, that was the plan until this 23-year-old Nigerian business student (handshake: limp; prognosis: dire) followed me to the sixth floor and tried to get my phone number. I pulled out the age card. Didn't work. I told him I was psychotic and mistook him for my drug dealer. Nuh uh. I told him if fate wanted us together, he'd need a restraining order to pry me off his back. Hahaha ... no. He was determined:

Him: You look so innocent, like a princess or something.

me: I'm Asian, that's part of our charm.

Him: But now that I talk to you, I see you are not very innocent. A bad girl.

me: You think I'm a bad girl?

Him: Aw, no no. Okay, it is more like ... pompous?

me: Haha. A bit of arrogance keeps things interesting.

Him: I like that. I like that a lot.

Now, I'm not 100% certain, but I think the classical music leaking into the hallway was coming from M. Biologique's apartment. 15 minutes later, the Nigerian man pointed to M. Biologique's door and indicated that the inhabitants had probably turned up the volume to bury our voices (hinting that maybe he and I could go back to his place to sort this thing out. Right). I was mortified that my visit was discovered. The jig was up. When he finally left, I went and stood outside JuanaMachine's and knocked three times with no answer. Not wanting to bump into the man again on my way down to the lobby, I took the stairs, thinking it would lead me out the side entrance. I ended up getting locked in the parking lot, making my way around a labyrinth of concrete and metal for a few claustrophobic minutes until, by pure chance, I discovered a door mistakenly left ajar by someone, a la Watergate. Relieved, I turned the handle and walked into ... the lobby.

Sunday, March 27, 2005


Turn up "Moon River" to open up my ductal floodgates; I'm a whimperin' Holly Golightly in a egg white/lemon/honey facial mask.


J.Lass rung me up, drunk as Jesus. Why am I always on the receiving end of these things?

Oh right, I (rarely) drink. (I'm a water hooch, through and through.)

The "rarely" accounts for the three forgettable sessions of ... unwholesomeness ... that occurred on three separate occasions of ... intoxication.

"Take off your clothes."

"Okily dokily."

That tape is destined to come back to haunt me. Goodbye career. Hello lucrative merchandising tie-in.

Saturday, March 26, 2005

Spy vs. Spy

I'm on page 28 of "A Short History of Progress" by Ronald Wright. It feels like the university-educated older brother of Daniel Quinn's "Ishmael," which reads like a manifesto for the disillusioned adolescent driven to live in a commune full of chain-smoking vegans and middle-aged swingers.

Readerdroid lent me the book right before taking off for Toronto, carpooling with an elderly man more in common with human traffickers than the newspaper deliverer that he is. Picture numerous graduate students huddled cheek to cheek inside a green transport van beside stacks of funny pages. It's like a scene out of a yet to be made TV movie starring Lucy Lawless as the old Mexican grandmother who, in Part I, traded her good eye for a high-carbed diet in America only to be crushed by a trash compactor in Part II.


I think M. Biologique spontaneously asked me if I made out with J.Lass (following a very long pause and my irregularly-placed "goodbye") not out of curiosity (he hates her) or clarification (we don't share common acquaintances to speak ill of) but because he was trying to further conceal my gender on the phone! What the fuck? Is his girlfriend so insecure that he resorts to treating female callers like Molly Ringwald at a fashion show? (As if his non sequitur "Study hard" for a farewell wasn't enough.) Pity that he thought he had to make a choice. This has given me a newfound faith in my sanity and reason to believe why couples are crazy (and, too often, corpse-like).

Remember ladies: Pussy-whipping might sound fun at first, but the only pussy you end up hurting is your own.

Friday, March 25, 2005

"He had that snake look in his eyes."

Hank Paulson, the CEO of Goldman Sachs, is my role model du jour. He's not a self-righteous hippie more concerned with the preservation of his elitist-lefty-position than making an actual difference. It is true that you can't dismantle the master's house with the master's tools, but it is possible to change the blueprint from which the house is based on. If those in the ivory tower wield all the power, isn't it more logical to weaken it from within than attack it from without?

Systematic revolt merely replaces one extreme with another. Intolerant ideologies (on both sides of the political spectrum) and opinions of society bound in simple terms of "good" and "bad" (too psychically embedded to ever see past) complicate an already complex world. Protesters who impose their Western standard of living onto third-world countries under the guise of "aid" should be more ashamed of their utter disregard for the intricate and unique history behind the problems currently plaguing the global community than their blatant ignorance responsible for perpetuating the myths already eagerly consumed by the next generation.

I am a staunch believer in negotiation procedures, however time consuming. Who knows? It may force generals to delay carnage to do some holiday shopping; let bureaucrats figure things out (an oxymoron in itself). Although progress comes at the heels of revolution, it does not necessarily translate to human advancement. We are as we were as we'll always be for our purpose is our hindrance.

Friggin' jerkwads who correspond my shopping addiction with preserving the status quo need to re. cog. nize. *imagine that came out vaguely threatening and self-aggrandizing*


Mmm ... Nutella straight from the jar.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Son of a bitch!

Did all the world's men organize an overnight rally this past week to dispatch a testosterone-tainted missive reminding impressionable and monogamous youths the unwritten rules of manhood? Because I think M. Biologique took number 6 to heart, which goes something like: "Thou shalt behave with hostility to any female within earshot of one's girlfriend. This includes (but not limited to) the telephone and other oral/visual communication devices. If contact is unavoidable (see: unpreventable), make sure subsequent conversation is brief, awkwardly stunted and linguistically gender-neutral. Don't forget to act passive/aggressively to play up unprovoked annoyance to maximize assurance of one's undying love for high school sweetheart/soul mate/co-dependent collaborator."

Fuck him. This is the last time I give someone the benefit of the doubt when they promise me they will put in the effort to keep things as they were. To paraphrase Volkswagon: On the road of life, there are optimists and there are liars.


Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Oy, stupido!

I admit it. I've dismissed my share of acquaintances on the basis of their dumbprehension. I was wrong. They just weren't "reasonable" (coming from the chick who pays more to look less).


SOUNDS final exam. Bombed it. "Uh, George. George invented it [...] 1968." I looked over two scraps of paper and a hand-out: that was the extent of the studying I got done last night.

"What do you call it when you are walking towards the mic?"

"A ... walk on," I wrote, dotting the "O" in case I was off by one letter as opposed to the entire phrase. Fingers crossed.


Hung out with Readerdroid. We sat at a coffee shop and analyzed couscous. Just try and out-nerd us, punk. Go on, I dare ya.


I feel sickness coming on. First time in a long time. You'd think I'd learn to walk around avec culottes by now.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Formula 1

I'm doing my feature profile on a 28-year-old Second Cup manager who, for the last decade, has been living one of the most charmed lives I have ever encountered. He's worked as a bartender for The Paddock Club, which caters to a VIP clientele at Grand Prix events, taking him all over the world. He's also their BMW representative in Montreal. He's schmoozed with the prince of Monaco, celebrities "you read about in magazines," and is the son of the owner of North America's third largest interior decorating firm.

When he told me he'd be "satisfied" living off a meagre "hundred grand a year" as long as the work satisfied him, he wouldn't give a damn if he ever secures a 7-figure income, I knew I could never relate to his world. There's something to be said upon discovering society's dirty little secret: although most of us have come to accept the process of interrogation that is job hunting as "fair," for the elite, that phase is waved - they go straight to work getting paid the big bucks to look you down. It was his friends in high places that got him his own TV cooking show for Food Network Canada, which he recently shot the pilot for. No experience required. Not for him, at least.

Yet, in the end, I couldn't bring myself to be at all impressed (although, to be sure, I did dutifully play the part like the well trained, brown nosing journalist that I am. Anything for a scoop, as they say.)

Anyway, we flirted, made awkward mention of a "fling," and he told me to call him (which, conveniently enough, is part of my job description). His personality is the typical disarming kind, but I kept catching myself talking with my arms crossed. It was such a subconscious gesture; I didn't even mean to seem defensive. He loved telling his life stories way too much for us to have developed a natural rapport. (I felt like a contestant on Jeopardy forced to put everything in the form of a question to maintain his interest level.) I was straining for answers, he was easily distractable. You know that awful feeling you get when you run out of things to ask and you still have time to spare and burn? Yeah ... the beauty of the slow sip.

Phone interviews all the way.

Monday, March 21, 2005


Obnoxious? Me? I was charged with it today as I stood outside the tutorial building with my COMS girls, among them Lunette (25, women's studies) and VanRed. In the distance, I spot this delish male specimen from our program secretly (and universally) hailed for his WB-friendly looks - a hipster Adonis better dressed than half the ladies. He's a bit of an airhead but ahoogah choogah! what a damn fine example of mating gone right.

"Hey you!" I called out to him. He looked over, a bit stunned, pointing his index finger to his chest.

"Yeah, you!" I confirmed. "What's your name?"

He turned to his friends and laughed. "What's your name?"

"No, no," I insisted as I shook my head in the sun, porno shades positioned perfectly across the bridge of my nose. "You're in my class. I want to know your name."

He grinned as he walked across the lawn. "I know," he replied and introduced himself to me. His friends, hands full of video equipment, waited by the alternate entrance, watching.

"I want to know your name," I repeated, half-kidding.

This seemed like an innocent enough a request. I really was just looking to attach a name to the face.

"[J.]," he said, "and yours?"

"Lily. Nice to meet you."

We shook hands and smiled seductively, exchanging criminal glances, highly amused.

"Oh my God, you were so obvious!" cried Lunette, a while later by the candy machines. "That was so random, you ballsy bitch! But I'm sure he was flattered. He looked it."

What can I say? I don't care what airheads think of me. He was prime rib and I felt good objectifying this hottie biscotti.


The girls went inside when the Boy casually approached me with a cigarette dangling from his lips. (I thought he quit, but I guess the poseur recently ransacked the James Dean archives.) He teased me with some stupid comment, which I brushed off and ignored before venturing inside too. I didn't want his presence ruining my temporary flirtalicious high.

He "accidentally" bumped into me a few times after our tutorial, which only fueled my growing irritation. The Boy's become a nuisance. Why won't he realize I'm never going to be the jealous type? If a man's single and he's being pursued by more than one suitor, you bet your gay tap dancing shoes I'll be the first one to throw in the towel. (Did you notice how I was careful to say single?)

I don't understand how any thinking girl could have a crush on the Boy. He has a decent sized following of giggly gals - women! - absolutely enamoured by him even though he's nothing more than a third-rate Casanova with a Napoleon-complex. It's so junior high, high school. Lunette and I were trashing him on the bus when two of her friends asked us whether we were in a discussion about the Boy.

"No," I lied. "We're talking about this guy, Jacob, in my journalism class. Jacob ... from journalism."

"Oh, we thought you were talking about [the Boy] because he definitely doesn't sleep around. I like him a lot. He's really nice and ..."

Blah, blah, blah. I tuned them out. Although I am surprised he's choosy when it comes to women. (He slept with me, didn't he?) But what's wrong with him that he can't take the hint? Does he enjoy my tongue-lashings? During today's tutorial, he accused me of preserving the status quo, to which I shot back: "Don't tell me what I think" and proceeded to beat him with his own contradictions. That was when Lunette started suspecting we were more than strangers. She said he's always been chased, so finding someone genuinely repulsed by him must feel like a novelty.

Ugh! The cosmos are playing one heck of a trick on me. It's like something out of Andre Breton. (*sidenote: I highly recommend his 1937 offering, Mad Love.)

Sunday, March 20, 2005

Random Rambling Thought

Censorship might be the foe of freedom-of-speech, but it also provides the dangerous allure of the forbidden.

How else could you explain Christopher Hitchens's defence of David Irving, the infamous Holocaust denier and crackpot "researcher" (whom other eminent scholars, mostly British, supported too)?

There is no room for relativism if residual media is used to conform to an existing rigid ideological framework, especially when historical documentation is falsified to do so.


I'm really sick of hearing this group or that pointing fingers at each other for being politically correct pansies (which has lost all meaning. Example: The Politically Incorrect Guide to American History, a book written not for "conservative elites," but populist right-wingers. I'm looking at you, O'Reilly) without acknowledging the hypocrisy of their act. When did people start harbouring resentment for intellectual authority? Where does this mistrust stem from? (I'm speaking in general here. I just feel like jiving today.) There's truth to the old adage that opinions are like assholes, "everyone's got one." But not everyone's opinion should be treated equally and seriously. In case no one sent the memo, there is such a thing as being informed. My gosh, I said it. Listen to my snooty mouth run. Like the Da Vinci Code guy I met at M. Biologique's art exhibition. I was listening to one conspiracy theory after the next dressed up as "common sense." Oh, the evidence is there, Lily! It's as clear as day! Well, of course it is, silly! When you follow someone else's paved path, there's never room for incompatible material. (Not to mention the likelihood of taking a wrong turn down the road is increased as recorded history gets murkier.)

Arg! I hate arguing on the offence all the time. I try to dismiss the chicks who give me the usual "I heard from this person who read it somewhere." And I've met enough closeted misogynists to deny them the pleasure of seeing me submit. But I'm always accused of being stubborn (which I don't believe I am since my opinions sway depending on the strength of support). Is it wrong to admit that I sometimes leave conversations less informed about a subject because all I get are "I speak, therefore, I'm reliable" type responses? Is that why I am better at adapting to someone else's interests than asserting my own?

Oh wow, Rougette (36, theology student, mother of 2) was right. I know I can be aggressive at times, but when it comes to being assertive, I can't even tell J.Lass to quit using my cell phone for non-emergencies during French class. ("My boyfriend/girl friend/mother/brother/father just paged me.") So yes, I probably do do a lot of grinning and bearing to maintain a bubbly public persona. (That's why I keep a blog for venting purposes.) It's a cause for wonder that I've been able to keep myself from going through Dr. Strangelove's survival kit for as long as I have.


I can't shake off this feeling that I'm destined to be either a food critic or travel writer or - shut yo mouth! - traveling food critic.

Call me a dreamer, call me naive (or lazy and looking for every possible way to avoid the 9-5 doldrums). But I've always been in search of good food and people and this perpetual wanderlust, I simply cannot continue to ignore. Agoraphobic, I most definitely am not. (Maybe bolshephobic if I ever get the chance to meet one because those Bolsheviks ... you never know what they're cooking up. *insert sinister organ grinding*)


The only phobia I can identify with is zelophobia, which is the fear of jealousy (or intense emotion). I am as sentient as they come, and suitably, would much rather appear to be stoic than petty and fanatical. Maybe that's why I rationalize my feelings as I am feeling. How else could I diffuse irrationality into productivity?

Saturday, March 19, 2005

Making up for two days worth of delayed entries

Some skinny black dude with a bad case of desperation approached me and J.Lass last night and implored us to make out with each other. We played along until we realized he was being completely serious. I asked him what he was doing at a mall after hours soliciting girls anyway. His blonde companion cracked a smile. He, on the other hand, wasn't amused and replied that he wasn't soliciting anybody because he genuinely wanted to see us happy ... making out ... "for [our] own pleasure."

"How much is it going to take?" he shouted as we started to walk away. "How many drinks will I need to buy you?"

"Well, she doesn't drink," answered J.Lass, "and I'm Irish. So good luck with that."


That's right ladies and gents: Commemorating change, I gave myself dramatic avant-garde bangs Vidal would be proud of.

I look like a cross between Martha Johnson (from Martha and the Muffins, circa 1977) and Bai Ling (before she escaped to the Island of Nippokya: "Where both self-promoters and paparazzi call home!") Oh God, nevermind! Not Bai Ling! She looks like doctors had given up caring half way through brain surgery.

Okay. Think Japanese school girl still deliberating between pop or punk inclinations (J.Lass). Or ... just more Asian (M. Biologique).

"It's like, I'm totally digging the smoky eye look but this checkered headscarf is bitchin' too."

Franz Ferdinand concert tee worn with lavender wrap it is. The bangs and beehive pull it all together. The futuristic-retro feel make it work.


I've got it! Selma Blair during her Twiggy phase but still not quite! Damnit!


I suppose what I was trying to say in the previous post was: Had we relegated our relationship to "super-great-dating-fun," it would've been trivialized.

But most importantly, I would've been trivialized knowing my motivations had always been envy, not lust. So for refusing to give up my freedom to become a person presumably devoid of nuance, I remain eternally single.

(Although not exactly a cause for celebration, somehow this no-pressure pressure is getting me more schwing attention than before. Psychology works in mysterious ways.)


FYI: Neighbours are playing Shania Twain next door. Despite their daily domestic disputo(s) and Wisteria-Lane-meets-Brandeen-McBoobly behaviour, I think they're really a couple of demure shymeisters. Not an unusual case in this lovely building affectionately known as the "projects."

Picture junior high gangsta in full battle gear - oversized jersey with plastic bling, looking like the token white guy in Eminem's crew - succeeding in picking up some heavily made-up pinkosaur (see: removable rosecea) named Angie by the lobby doors using Joey's line from FRIENDS. That, alone, makes me want to move.

Aye chingala, I need a change of scenery.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Quick Recovery

I went to Shagaussie's going away party on Wednesday. It was so much fun. Swiss Alps, Maussie and M. Biologique and I left at around 4-ish along with the other 20 people or so (including super hot, half-Asian, thinks I'm funny, Ollie). Maussie and Swiss Alps split to go home, so M. Biologique and I were left alone. I suggested we go sit down at the 24-hour Second Cup. We talked and talked until he said ...

"Is that why you climbed into my bed?"

And boy did he open up a can of worms.


I woke up at NorIda's. Shoulders slumped, eyes glazed over, I practiced my internal monologue to perfection. I would mention how he and I couldn't go on being friends, that I felt betrayed and humiliated, that I no longer trusted him, that we couldn't go back to being acquaintances - it wasn't even an option - because everything we did with each other had, from the beginning, been a precursor to something more (not to mention we knew too much about each other to pretend we didn't anymore), etc. I called him up after my noon class. Blunt and precise, I told him to meet me in an hour; I didn't have patience for bullshit. "So yes or no?" I asked, showing nominal sympathy just as he rounded off his to-do-list with "class." Pause. "Yeah," he agreed with a bit of hesitation. "I'll skip it." He's never heard me like this before. M. Biologique walked in as I was conversing with Cuisiniere and Pav. He was too cheerful, spoke too much, tried too hard to please. We made small talk until I said ...

"Let me cut to the chase."

But I had a change of heart. "Help me out here," I began. "I want you to contribute because I don't think it would be fair for me to decide for the both of us [where this friendship is going] seeing how a relationship involves two people."

Everything came rolling out after that. It was weirdly cathartic. He was devastated that I was willing to drop him without thought. I was devastated to discover I couldn't bring myself to cut him entirely out of my life because, truth be told, he did own piece of my heart and wasn't about to give it up because I was evicting him. Our bond was - is - authentic. He apologized for, among other things, not checking himself and taking up risky behaviour. I apologized ("Why am I apologizing?!") for challenging him to stray. We agreed to set boundaries. Expecting the worst but arriving unscathed, I came out emotionally drained because never had any man been so adamant in preserving my presence in his life. It was such a therapeutic experience, the way we were equally critical and honest with each other. I no longer see him as someone more than a brother. Not a sibling, but a brother. Nothing can describe how close we grew in that small span of hard-earned time (although "liberating" comes to mind, in every sense of the word).

He invited me back to his place and we fell into our usual evening routine. Except this time around, there were no games, no hidden agendas, no self-conscious exchanges. We've come to rely on each other too much to be anything but real. We're flawed moths drawn to each other's eccentric flames. He is my good friend: Thoroughly unimitable, yet entirely acceptable as is. Clarity, civility and the acceptance of austerity: I do believe I am growing up.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Not too shabby

I made a rockin' batch of experimental tomato vegetable consomme. Fuck you, it's scrumdidliumptious. So what if the colour's off by a few shades? That means it's fresh, yo.


Image hosted by

I can't get enough of this Lever 2000 ad. He's the cutest little Caucasian ragamuffin I've ever seen! Don't you just want to reach out and pinch those puffy wuffy Aryan cheeks of his? You do, don't lie!

Well played, heartless soul- (toe?) sucking soap corporation. Well played!

Monday, March 14, 2005

The Study of Civility and its Role in Human Relations

That's the title for my COMS paper. I'm examining this topic from anthropological, political, psychological, and philosophical angles. This theme applies within the context of my life too (since I make no secret of my obsession with communication). I've just been barraged with negativity these past few days (mostly from myself), so I decided to gather my thoughts and lay low a bit, absorbing a book, eating nachos and consuming calorie-laden cookies.

Saturday evening with M. Biologique didn't go quite as planned. He was irritated and I didn't want to deal with his shit. I was acting obnoxious and he was too stressed to give a damn. And each of us wanted affection at times when the other just wanted to be left alone. In a nutshell: we simply weren't on the same wavelength. It got better as the night progressed soon after I took a nap in his bed. He crawled in with me an hour later while taking a breather from JuanaMachine's down the hall. But by then, I was irreparably bummed so I made his bed, got dressed and left.

I spoke to Sexy Spinter last night and had a revelation. I think I deliberately put myself in situations where implosion is imminent. Where the participants all end up losers, lying face down in a poppy field with lacerations (the bad kind) across their tender backs. I say I hate formalities and "games." That's a lie because I know I test men. I test them to see how much of me they are willing to put up with before deciding to bolt. I somehow morph into this caricature of myself: an arrogant baffoon, at once sarcastic and cynical, irrational and childish. And here's the funny part: There is no way to placate me anyway. If my requests are calmly granted, my immediate reaction is "Damn, boy has no backbone!" If my demands are forcibly denied, I get offended by their lack of tact and decorum. There is no pleasing me. In both situations, I am left wondering why "it" didn't work out. In both situations, I rationalize that I was right to assume they weren't good enough for me (indeed, I should be commended). They must just be angry because I prematurely revealed their deadly character flaws, I convince myself. Of course, I start wallowing in a pool of self-pity in a predictable fashion, eating designer ice cream, feeling used and abused, led on, yet smugly self-congratulatory. It's a feeling characterized by an instant rush of false maturation and superiority which soon dissipates to form a hardened shell, cocooning me inside a world of "high standards" and "low expectations." It's a masturbatory fantasy fit for fondling.

So eureka! I've discovered my weakness. Now what?


Oh look. M. Biologique is calling. Back for more, perhaps? I don't think he can handle a higher dosage of Lilrosis: too much and we're back to square one. (I suppose I'm synonymous with convenience. Twice he called to check up on me. Almost makes me want to drop the misandrist act. Almost. Where does he find the energy to put up with me? "At least I make you laugh," he said in a fleeting flash of frailty, voice stripped of any artifice. I was taken aback. I put aside my wisecracking charade and for a rare moment, answered in earnest. "It's true, you do," I said. "You really do." And like that, the joking continued.)

Friday, March 11, 2005

Kid in a candy store

Ahhh, I can't decide! Now I want to go see Ferpect Crime. It's showing for one day only. Downfall will just have to wait.

A Don Juan of the ladies' clothing department? Ron Howard: Eat your heart out.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Simple Productions: Proper grammar need not apply

Professor K. asked for two descriptive paragraphs about the first person we see in the morning to prepare us for our feature writing lesson. I inquired whether I could do mine on a Mr. Coffee pot. She said no. So I wrote mine on M. Biologique since I don't see anyone in the morning, living alone and all. And seeing how I spent the night at his place last week, I might as well use him for inspiration:

He stands there waiting for the espresso to come to a boil; his 6-foot-1 frame leaning up against the wall of his kitchen, a hidden hole, dim and deep, not unlike a Prohibition-era speakeasy. Last night's crimes are not mentioned as he saddles up beside me. A coquettish grin spreads across his mug, softening the edges of his angular face. My eyes eventually settle on his aquiline nose, a strong line silhouetted against the early morning light; each rhythmic breath punctuated by the pungent aroma of coffee and the distinct subtlety of newly washed hair (still unkempt, as usual).

"So, you gonna make me breakfast?" I ask, somewhat wearily.

"Of course," he replies as he rolls his eyes in mock contempt. "Who else is going to feed you?"

His apartment is in direct contrast with the concrete jungle located below. Whereas machines roam the streets collecting trash of this sort and that, my boy lives in the remaines of pilferage. Branches and leaves litter what used to resemble a table. Various species of vegetation hide amongst knitted hackey sacks and Bob Marley memorabilia. He is, indeed, the living incarnate of the Easter Bunny; the wet dream of a masochistic maid.


I was thisclose to buying four books today. Alas, I couldn't continue ignoring my empty belly. I ended up putting them on my online Indigo wishlist which means I will be acquiring them shortly. Yes ... shortly ... Can't freakin' wait.

1. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man - John Perkins
2. A History of the Wife - Marilyn Yalom
3. History of the Breast - Marilyn Yalom
4. Love, Poverty, and War: Journeys and Essays - Christopher Hitchens


Going to meet Readerdroid later to watch Inside Deep Throat. (That didn't pan out because I got lost and made her wait a good 40 minutes even after recruiting the help of a cute English girl. I totally deserved Readerdroid's subsequent passive/aggressive treatment. But we're good now. I'll make it up to her when she comes over Tuesday.) M. Biologique and I are going to see Downfall this Saturday. It's a German drama flick about Hitler's last days in his bunker. I've heard good things about it.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005


A reader commented in the post below asking me whether I'm "one [of] those people who likes modern art, like, way too much." I think I better clarify my opinion. I appreciate Classical, modern, you name it. But I think there must be a certain methodology behind art. Artists must adhere to certain guidelines if they intend on imitating styles and that requires more than using paint as colour. There comes a time when you realize objects aren't made up of a series of receding tones (reality is not monochromatic) and that the texture of the medium itself can bring works to life. The stuff I saw yesterday didn't require skill; they were too one-dimensional for that. Relativism applies within a certain context and within the contexts of both "good art" and "bad" (which is intentionally defiant), what I saw was neither due to the artists' limited knowledge of the science behind art. I know I'm starting to sound anti-populist, but I know when I visit a gallery, the fact that certain pieces are inaccessible to the majority (not by intellect but skill) is what appeals to me. I don't want to see the work behind the art. I don't want the natural visual fluidity interrupted by unconscious mistakes. I want to know what I'm looking at is something original that couldn't have emerged from conventional mobility. And I expect it to bring a heightened sense of reality. Art is more than a feeling or simply an accumulation of cultural capital. It is a specialized field of expression (self and otherwise). Just like not everyone has the ability to cook, calculate and conform, not everyone should be labeled an "artist" just because they can colour between the lines with the tools of the trade.


Student strike today. I'll be damned if I attend class! That's right, I emailed in my homework. Fuck the establishment!


The art exhibition was really lame. (Well, the one yesterday. It's a two-week, student-organized event showcasing the works of 200 artists at over two dozen venues scattered across Montreal). I'm not being bias when I say M. Biologique had one of a handful of pieces I enjoyed. A few didn't follow any sort of rule of proportion; it was like high school art. A robe does not hang off the body like a normal figure but black (although, to be honest, the crudeness of that painting did not suggest any sort of artistic ability to begin with). Some gave off the limiting sense of the canvas with poorly rendered objects squeezed against the edge in a desperate attempt to fit in the entire composition. It was like Amateur's Night at the MET because the skill just wasn't there. No glazing, no scumbling, no sophistication. No emphasis on brushwork nor imagination. Just plenty of boring colour-by-numbers, content-heavy, bullshit. To be fair, one particular painting did catch my eye. It looked like it was drawn from heat sensor images except the colours, psychadelic; the subject, relaxed. Another featured creative use of white space and illusion.

M. Biologique, Maussie, Squeaky J., JuanaMachine and I shmoozed with both savory and unsavory types. Unluckily for me, I kept getting stuck with the talkative ones who've never encountered body language they didn't like. "Oh, interesting," I'd say in a way I'd deem unconvincing. And they'd keep talking. First it was about the Jesus conspiracy. Then it would be about snowboarding and long-winded explanations about commerce class. Then something about getting angry over self-conscious answering machine messages.

"So," I'd try to interrupt. "Didn't you say you had a term paper due ... yesterday? Better finish that off, yeah?"

"I don't feel like it. So where do you live?"

If M. Biologique hadn't played the part of dutiful arm ornament, I don't think they would've ever caught on that they were BORING. Like that Da Vinci Code fanatic who went for my caboose after desperately trying to make eye contact for the good part of an hour or that annoying toothpick muncher who walked us home, yammering on and on to no end, occasionally pausing to ask me whether I knew this person or that from COMS Studies after I had already said no the first three times:

"My height? Also wears an orange jacket. Carries a camera around. Are you sure? You must know Michael. Soft-spoken like this *goes into a whisper*. Wears glasses. Short hair. Walks like this!"


Anyway, Maussie and Squeaky J. had left by then and we lost JuanaMachine at the convenience store so M. Biologique and I went back to his place where he developed a sudden fixation with my ass. I knew he was going to make a move when he suggested that we saunter down the stairs instead of the elevator. But what do I do instead of spreading? Get overly excited about the "acoustics" of the space.

"Wow! Listen to that railing vibrate! Amazing ..."

"You're crazy, Lily."

Spinsterhood, 1; Lily, zip.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Kiss The Chef

It's almost 4 a.m. and I'm still not dozing. I'm eating a bowl of coconut rice pudding (garnished with Granny Smith apple slices) I made a few moments ago. The contrast between hot and cold, sweet and tart, crisp and creamy is divine.

I crudely chopped my locks off after dinner with scissor-holding hands that refused to co-operate in a little game called "Spatial Distance Cognition." It was time to get rid of my rat's nest; the mullet simply wasn't very becoming of me. Snip, snip, snip. Au revoir, morning ritual.

I'm going to regret it when I'm coherent, I just know it.

That says it

CatCouver invited me to rez and gave me a three-floored tour. She asked me to compile a few character sketches so we could visit people who fit the descriptions.

"Let's see. I'm seeing ... French. Hermaphrodite. Likes to dust in the nude. Ball-chafing, optional."

"4'8". Spanish. Barks when he's happy. Enjoys moonlit walks on the beach."

"Japanese. Cheese eater. Looks good in stripes and mesh-wire tank tops."

And included in the package was a little story of how she and I met.

"Oh, you see. I saw her picking through a dumpster one day ..."

"How did we meet? She was beheading cats ..."

"Long story short. My dad's a divorcee and wanted to try some fresh-faced, white girls for a change ..."

It went on like this for awhile. She told me afterwards that everyone we met thought I was just a hoot and a half, spicing things up, since rez has gotten boring lately with midterms and whatnot. Well, in any case, I believe quite a few guys asked for my, uh, lowdown. (Good for the ego, that synthetic crop of pomposity.)


One of these guys was Tallor. Handsome, bespecled fellar I met during yesterday's borough council meeting (at which both a record store owner and council member commented that I was "cute" and passed me their numbers). I acutely sensed that he was really digging me even as Geneva D. purred and pawed her way into our conversation and CatCouver asked how his girlfriend was. He looked down, embarrassed but still managed to sweep me away with him, alone, walking side by side in the snow.

I often feel like a can of Insta-Glo (available for bar mitzvahs and jubilees), a product people gravitate towards when they need a burst of rejuvenation. I guess a better way of putting it is, I feel like I have to be "on" all the time. It is exhausting. I'm like a one-man, Vegas routine held at those places where the seafood is all-you-can-eat and the hookers look classier than wives. Acting like myself isn't ever an option because between vulnerability and vasectomy, which one would you pick as a premise for a joke?

Monday, March 07, 2005


My two girlfriends pretended to be lesbians as I role-played someone, open-minded but taken.

Never have I seen men try so desperately to convert hot-looking women back to phallic-worship.

We ended up telling them the truth. Except, the joke wasn't that they weren't lesbians, but that I had more lesbian experience than both of them. I guess my unassuming demeanor threw their sex-dar off. That and I wasn't interested anyway. I'm too happy pursuing M. Biologique.

My friend asked me whether it's the chase that's the appeal. Will I be able to handle something tangible with him if he does eventually break-up with his girlfriend to be with me?

I was unable to answer that though I am more than certain that sexual chemistry is far from the only thing keeping our friendship together; he's one of my best friends.

Brick by brick, self-restraint breaks down

Sideways was terribly smart and funny. Paul Giamattie gave a first-rate performance in a first-rate film. He was robbed of an Oscar nod, most definitely.


*Disclaimer: The following post is painfully detailed because I want to keep a record of this milestone. Okay, so M. Biologique and I only spooned. Had it been with anyone else, it wouldn't have been anything worth mentioning. However, since it's with him, it is. It means months of effort have finally produced a single, unmixed, message!: He LIKES me (or LOVE, the word I often catch himself using with me). Although not a major breakthrough for everyone forced to follow this melodrama, to someone as unassure of myself as me, this is a REAL confirmation.

BACKGROUND: M. Biologique has a long-distance girlfriend currently living in Boston. They've been a couple for over a year now, but have been apart most of that time. He and I have been carrying on a flirtation since the beginning of last fall. It's been an uphill battle with my emotions since. Does he or doesn't he? Was that sexual or platonic? It's always been a blur. This weekend, we caught a movie and ended up back at his place, immersed in conversation - nothing in particular - and sitting a leg-length apart. I missed the last metro home because a) he made me dinner, b) we went out for Ben & Jerry's and c) I volunteered to do his dishes. He's tired, I'm tired, we continued chatting long after he pinched out the candles, cloaking our bodies in darkness.

SCENE: It's 2 a.m. I'm snuggled on the couch, two winks from drifting, wearing a T-shirt from his closet and a pair of black panties. Goodnight, I say. He insists on making noises. Again, I bid him goodnight. He does not heed.

"If you don't shut up, I'm gonna go over there and shut you up."

He is relentless. So I take to his bed and straddle his 6-foot-2 frame over his sheets, slapping his cheeks and begging him to stop. I push my luck and fall limp by his side, nestling my head on his chest with an arm over his stomach. Contrary to assumption, he does not react with alarm. We continue talking about who-knows-what as my thoughts wander between oddball comments. This goes on for half an hour before he drapes his perceivably nervous arm around my shoulders, his fingers dancing on my skin as if testing the surface of bath water. It stays there until I roll over, uncovered, and try to fall asleep on my arm. Seconds later, I head to the washroom and return to see that he wordlessly, yet thoughtfully, has given up half of his pillow for me. Unthinking, I park my head on it and lie in exactly the same way. M. Biologique and I are not touching. I can't fall asleep, but I notice he's moving a lot; each position closing the gap between us. First his fingers rest in my hair, playing with it slightly. I dismiss it as a fluke and continue dismissing flukes until an hour into this game of blind-and-mute tag, he clutches my waist with his other hand and gingerly pulls me into him until there is no space left (thinking, all the while, that I'm asleep). I can feel him breathing in my hair and a quiet moan escapes him as he places his hand on my breast. He periodically tightens his grip on me as our breathing slowly synchronize. I drift in and out of sleep, dreaming of him, waking next to him, trapped in some fantastical limbo. My cellphone rings 8 o'clock. I peel his arms off me and walk to the couch, shedding the T-shirt; my back turned to him, naked. We hang out for another 6 hours - reading at the bookstore, visiting the school library, checking out the Holocaust hero exhibition - until he goes to set up his painting for an art opening happening this Tuesday. His girlfriend calls him just as I gobble up the last morsel of steak he made me. I pretend to read the SAT vocab list as I listen in on his barely audible, whispered conversation telling her that I'm here, to "be a good girl," and that he'll call back later.

I know he wanted to kiss me (or let me down easy) when he pulled me back into his apartment to give me an affectionate hug. He obviously changed his mind when he decided to make a special note of telling me how we're "very good friends" as opposed to "good friends" (duh!), his body lingering on mine for a while longer before I stuck my mittens between us and said, jokingly, "No, no. I can't see you, we're no longer friends. My mittens tell me otherwise." And with a straight face, his arms still wrapped around me, told me not to listen to them. I understand he's confused and I respect that he's never cheated before. But if his dick isn't in me by the end of this semester (alright, after I return from Beijing ... in September), I'd be an idiot to stay fooled.

My friends think he's an asshole for not clarifying where I stand and that he's having his cake and eating it too. I wish my judgment wasn't so clouded by subjectivity. And yes, it is my responsibility to confront him, but I don't think I'm prepared to hear his answer. If we were having sex, I'd definitely demand an explanation. But is spooning enough a crime to get serious over? Knotted knickers unite.

Friday, March 04, 2005

Nanny Colombo

M. Biologique: "So about this movie. What are we watching?"

me: "Sideways."

M. Biologique: "What's it about?"

me: "An alcoholic with a mid-life crisis on a wine-drinking roadtrip. And there's a Korean actress who fucks around."

M. Biologique: "Sounds good."

Wednesday, March 02, 2005


"Are you sleeping with him?" asked Greekanthy.

With who? NerdQuirk? The dude's 30!

"He tries to act domineering; it's so obvious he has a thing for you."

Undoubtedly so (lest it be proven otherwise). His hands always manage to find their way around my body, drooping over my shoulders, slithering around the small of my back, rubbing my ribs as I recoil in faux-mock horror. And his phone chatter concerning mundane matters - a question here about school easily obtainable somewhere else, a question there already answered thrice before - all seem contrived. The unprovoked sexual innuendos intended for me are positively pathetic, rousing more pity than pathos for such a desperate display possibly rooted in some sort of unfulfilled adolescent fantasy. Anyway, he's 30! Only Nabokov could approve.

It's not in my natural disposition to be overtly physical with my feelings. One long forgotten idiot actually pulled my head back so I'd lean on him in an affectionate manner during a crisp, summer evening. (To be sure, I was repulsed and gagging, counting the minutes until my desire to leave could no longer be deemed "unreasonable.") M. Biologique used to tire himself out, convincing me to haul my ass to where he was sitting as I stubbornly shook my head, knees up in an upright fetal position, assuring him of my genuine love affair with wicker (although in recent times, this has required less, if any, cajoling). There is actually quite a simple explanation for my consistent resolve: I'm just not into you. Period.

I ain't gon' fake it when we ain't gon' make it.


M. Biologique called me (he really took my suggestion to heart when I told him to initiate contact more often). I played the fool and brought up his girlfriend after a flurry of dirty jokes:

"We all know you were a ho before you found the 'One.' So don't act like you're not going to be the first one married."

His palpable silence gutted the game; his smooth diversion exposed more. I am unconvinced that I am the reason behind his misplaced heart. This is a classic morality tale with no plausible ending. Who or what is helping him make decisions: Lady Loneliness or Lady Lust? And the irony of it all, as a rule, we turn to our best friends for guidance and I am his. Anyhow, best of times, worst of times, age of wisdom or foolishness, they don't change the fact that the two of us have plans Saturday night.


Is it wrong to feel slightly turned on knowing I had fucked up his back, too? No, of course not. It's not like he complained.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005


I woke up this morning with invisi-bruise pain along my spine, starting between my shoulder blades from where M. Biologique placed his hands on my naked back last night.

I've been marked.

Is it weird to find that extremely erotic? It's a kinky embellishment known to no one but me; like a hickey, but not gross.

On Track

My friends are back, my friends are back! God save the Queen, my friends are back! Caught up with HaiPhia then took off to welcome NorIda home before she went to a belly dancing class. Asked Swiss Alps to help me with my SOUNDS project.

"You want me to do what?"

Uh, speak like an Indian grocer forced to play an unconvincing gangsta who enjoys describing his rough urban life, but try to avoid sounding like you're in on the joke, okay?

He agreed. After three beers.

M. Biologique and I had a good laugh over the tracks I played for him of Swiss Alps saying, perplexed and buzzed, "I pay for my child support and - what? - cop some ... Indo?" Yes, I hung out with M. Biologique. Yes, he remarked how "pretty" I looked upon entering his well-kept apartment. Yes, we had another memorable evening, teasing, sparring, touching, and feeling. Yes, we coyly confirmed how significant we were to each other. Yes, we gave each other full back massages. (His idea.) Yes, he asked me out on a future "movie date." (His words.) Yes, he's planning on doing the cooking. (His offer.) I discovered my insecurities were unfounded because he verbalised his affections for me, adding that I'm the only person he has fun with (as we trolled for butter at midnight, cracking up the cashier with our nonsense). So he has a girlfriend who gets, understandably, jealous whenever strange women solicit him for sex on a frequent basis, but the choice to leave her is still ultimately his to make.

But details are irrelevant. (Is this me talking?)

The point is: I am at my happiest with him.


My TA handed me back my COMS midterm. I got an A+ (95%). Whoop, whoop! Eat my dust, over-studious types! Everybody needs to get their hands on some Sleep-On-It, fo' sho, fo' sho.