Monday, October 31, 2005

Sho 'Nuff

Both, I say. I have to unfuck both my computers. B-O-T-H. Is it too much to expect machines to work properly nowadays? Is there a bylaw that states, "Thou shalt not possess fine tuned equipment within a 100 km radius" or did I miss the seminar on preserving consumer goods in the box they came in like a limited edition Hans Solo ceramic figurine?


NorIda procrastinated buying the Go! Team tickets so we're going to approach scalpers. Weeee!


I officially cannot stand in a forest and adjust my iPod settings without getting hit on by middle-aged men on bicycles with Asian things:

"Excuse me, are you Japanese or Chinese?"


"Are you lost?"

No. I'm from here.

"You need help?"

No. I'm not lost, I was just ...

"Oh, you have a map."

No! I'm from Montreal. I was just changing a song!

"Well, you look great!"

God-fucking-damnit!: "Uh, thank you ..."

And yes, Mr. Hobo-Bling-Biker, I can see that area of the field is wet, but thanks for your concern for my shoes.

Friday, October 28, 2005

Here I go, sermonizing again

The thing with customer service is that the people on the opposite end of the line tend to be most gracious and helpful when you bother to say your pleases and thank-yous. When my first wallet was stolen earlier this year, the MasterCard rep. went out of her job description to comfort me as she typed. I called the immigration offices in Toronto today to replace my citizenship card and was given a quote of $224. Egads! That's, like, one DKNY bag from their autumn/winter line. George, as he called himself, was quick to arrange for an appointment to help me gather all the important pieces of ID in one foul scoop. As of this entry, I am pretty much an illegal alien (without the whole hassle of seeking political asylum and making ends meet while waiting for my child to be pushed off a Tropicana transport truck at the agreed drop-off point). To be a recognized person within the geographic borders of superficial lines is to purely exist on paper because bureaucracy has made us fragments of ink and plastic. To be invisible is to lose proof of your license to benefit from the social contract thought up by Rousseau. It sort of feels like an eerie counterpart to Enlightenment values where the dichotomy lies between the right, at birth, to further individual pursuits through the state and the privilege of being born in a state where individual pursuits are encouraged. In such instances, stupid laminated cards don't seem so stupid anymore; a developed dependency complex for daily survival.


7 months until I enter the third decade of my life. Go ... 20s!


I don't know if you've noticed (actually, I didn't until HaiPhia brought it up), but I have a bad habit of forming theses under the most mundane conditions. They might not be coherent or even cogent, yet nothing stops me from over-intellectualizing from my keyboard. I'm not sure why I do this, maybe I just like to write, but I find the Hegelian dialectic process is relevant within the private domain as well as the public. I think it's not so much that we should constantly re-evaluate our behavior and the global community that shapes us, but that to challenge the everyday is to remember why we've chosen to live in repetitive motion and whether if that, indeed, suits us.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Careless; Confessional

My wallet was stolen from me on the metro. Stupid, stupid, stupid. NorIda bought me a ticket home. Instead of moping, I snuck into the political science party, saw Swiss Alps and cheered myself up, dancing with strangers pulled from their booths. The live band was funktastic, but them white people were content just tapping their feet, bobbing their heads, smoking that weed, and swigging the bottle. Get up, damnit! This is why privileged hipsters are a pop culture punchline! Swiss Alps introduced me to L, who told me she was on the school shuttle that day I chatted up the bus driver and performed a Seinfeldian exchange. She said she was mighty impressed with my pep and improvisational skills, but I think she was just making conversation. (Although old Greek bachelors with fake Japanese mistresses are crazy funny nonetheless.) L in turn introduced me to, my oh my, Mr. Intensity -- the formerly dreadlocked heartthrob of journalism. He and I know each other from class, we explained. Then he whispered something in her ear as we shared a laugh.

"What did he say about me?" I teased. "Look at him, already running his mouth like he knows me."

"He said you're beautiful. And that you're going to be a famous newscaster."

That's not for me, I dismissed. I'll just be sucking off the boss all day.

*sidenote: We coolly flirted in an unusual noir-manner. Mr. Intensity smokes like a Montrealer. Not surprised, not impressed. I suppose it beats Elmeraler's mock aroma of wino blossoms and musk. And everyone's always trashed. Simply said: Hard men are good to find, but can't stay hard for me. Go crochet that on a pillow.


I missed M. Biologique by mere minutes. He was apparently very drunk and spotlight hungry. Swiss Alps said "the group" is behind me (they're like the mafia except gender balanced and susceptible to cheap liquor). "Don't worry, baby. We've discussed it and we all agree he treated you like crap."

Ha! To be worthy of being the topic du moins. I guess this tidbit was supposed to be a comfort to me though the knowledge that they continue to share two-faced pleasantries with this unconscionable creature is ... disenchanting.

Is it wrong to wish the fucker misery and isolation? Narcissists don't suffer half as much as they deserve. Bad childhood? Get over it. Couldn't they take their own lives and return the world to Technicolor? It's like a bad dream I can't shake off. He took advantage of my nature and being, and quite generously exploited every weakness. "It's your fault for staying." I was a stinkin' mess of Stockholm Syndrome: appreciating him for withholding abuse instead of providing kindness. "You must've seen this coming. Why didn't you leave?" My mental state simply can't get any worse. I am in such an over-compensatory mood nowadays that I feel guilty when I'm not crestfallen and beaten. I don't know whether to be crying or kicking myself for letting him get to me. I charm my way through crowds and confidently talk up lustful schmoes, all the while staunchly afraid of being discovered as the less attractive me. I hate him for making me into an impressionable ball of wax: so weak and malleable, resistent to reason. To feel this crippled should be a crime.

Relief was supposed to come from shopping, but my freakin' wallet is gone. Grief, utter grief. I'm no longer even a Canadian citizen anymore. I have no IDs to apply for additional IDs. Country-less, job-less, and lovelorn; I'd be meat-less if I weren't so optimistic.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Bird Watch

I have a tearful confession to make. I had a terrible dream about Michael Flatley last night. Yes, ladies and gents, the Lord of the Dance tried to rape me. Well, not exactly rape per se, more like rubbed his ... lower, naked, hairy half against my "coconut" *runs away in tears*. He walked around in tattered T-shirts with no pants on and showed off his mullet like a hockey player in heat. (He had the pretentious air of a ladies' man without the attire to pull it off properly.) When a mutual acquaintance of ours approached us soon after (because the Irish-American toe tapper and I would undoubtedly have common colleagues) and asked him, point blank, if he and I ever had "sexual relations," he guffawed and said (and I quote), "No. We were faking it for show." (Extrapolated meaning, perhaps?)

I was so relieved when those words left his chapped lips. I felt like a '50s schoolgirl with superstitious ideas of pregnancy (where zealous hands and bare legs led to a lifetime of ever after). He then proceeded to push me away, turned his back (still sans pants *shudder*), and drove off in his frou frou Ferrari.

I woke up with an existential aneurysm. Vomit just wouldn't have cut it.

*sidnote: There are some drunk girls outside my apartment faking loud orgasms by the elevators. I suppose I'm not so pathetic after all.


I'm going to dress up as Louise Brooks for Hallowe'en. Instead of buying a wig, I cut my hair. I have looked like this for two days:

Image hosted by

I enjoy the attention I'm receiving from portraying a silent movie star. My recent Dietrich-inspired wardrobe helps too.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005


Hmm, is this how some men pick up chicks? Staring not-so-subtly until you're forced to look back? Pity that the only reaction I allow my face to articulate is puzzlement and disorientation. I've hung up my hunting gear and succumbed to the will of patriarchy. Artemis never appears to profit as much as Apollo. I was reading "Female Chauvinist Pigs: The Rise of Raunch Culture" and was hit with an insight: Perhaps the reason Playgirl sells exponentially less than Playboy has to do with a man's discomfort with being at the end of a woman's gaze. While women are rushing to pose for Hefner, men are taking their sweet time to pose for objectification. Thirty years on, our society still hasn't reached a compromise. What we need to do, I think, is to conciliate the role of conscious visual cognition in culture: who has it, who wants it, what can we do about it. In Leader's Stealing the Mona Lisa, he talks in length about the relationship between the observee and the observed from a Freudian perspective. In The Art of Travel by de Botton, he mentions the human need to capture natural beauty. He's referring to aesthetic representations, of course, but it does make me think whether the acquisition of an object, or person, is the look as opposed to starting with one.


That bi-weekly material yearning is creeping up on me again. It began last night while staring up at my ceiling and discovering a hook, a single ornamented hook. "You know what would look great hanging off that thing?" I thought to myself in a vaudevillian twang. "A mobile. A Scandinavian designed mobile. A Flensted from the Musee d'art Contemporain boutique." Which just so happens to be closed for reorganization. It doesn't help that my midterms are also creeping up on me, which only inspire more procrastination. "That tea cart will look good by my couch," I continued. "And canvasses." I want to start realizing the preliminary sketches to Giorgio de Chirico's The Uncertainty of the Poet. It will look great above my headboard. The limbless nude figure, phallic symbolism, distant wanderlust all add up to something unsuitable for obedient children. Yes, artistic integrity is fundamentally opposed to the act of the "rip-off," but I'm not an artist; just a student trying to decorate her meagre space.

I've been purchasing more books of late. One of which is Stephen Clarke's 2004 bestseller, "A Year in the Merde". (Actually, it's "God Save La France," the French translation by Leon Mercadet.) It's a satirical jab at Parisian customs written in the style of Bridget Jones with ... larger feet. The irony isn't lost on me. How will text written by a Briton (with British sensibilities) turn out under the mercurian watch of Gauls (who, needless to say, have their own set of expressions)? Will Clarke's humour transcend cultural barriers or will it have to be tweaked for domestic consumption? His prose isn't very sophisticated anyway so I'm not exactly worried. It is if not an infinitely easier read than Rapport sur moi by Gregoire Bouillier, which killed me with its useless freakin' tenses.

Fucking French!

Monday, October 24, 2005

La viande: Je ne peux pas attendre de la manger!

My flirtation with vegetarianism is no more. I knew it was over when my mom pulled down my lower lid and declared it "white and bloodless." Vegan diets are dismal. Everything is "inspired" by artery cloggers, but rarely achieve the same level of savouriness and emotional comfort. The cold food, the raging guilt, it was impossible to shop without being glared at (for being a moderate-adherer, no less). And frankly, I missed my boobs (and unusually round rump). I could feel the adolescent boy seeping through. So instead of praying for more estrogen, I decided to eat meat (within reason) again. Because damnit! I'm a carnivore! Not an elitist-thinking, fad-seeking, boho radical. I'm just a bespecled Asian trying to stay awake in class. And befriend salt again (if it'll have me back).

Seriously vegans, your food is bland. I don't care how much lemon juice, cayenne peppers, and mango chutney you use, every mouthful is another variation on the entree salad. Not all, mind you. Just limited to homemade meals made by those who work outside of the kitchen for a living. 20-something hipster potlucks typically resemble a lawn-on-lawn buffet. And the nuts. Stop with the nuts! Just because they're packed with protein doesn't mean they belong in a smoothie! (I don't particularly enjoy having to separate brown particles from a faux-dairy cocktail. When you have to remember how many food groups were squeezed into that locally-made, artisanal glass cup: STOP.)

So ... my point is ... I'd like a steaming slab of steak right now ... but I can't because I've never properly prepared meat (alone) and I'm terrified of screwing it up. (It's expensive, that fatty fare.)


I called Techbiana yesterday while she was having sex with her boyfriend. (Yes, the ensuing conversation did not last long, I mean, was not lengthy, I mean, ya know, it was awkwardly abrupt.) I saw her today and she asked me why we haven't slept together yet. Well, technically, she never asked. But more importantly, once was enough: I already got my drunken one-time, rite-of-passage vaccination.


An American Experience biography on Albert Kinsey made me miss the rock hard abs, I mean, cranial capacity (?) of Josh Duhamel. I don't know what's sadder -- reacquainting myself with middle-brow culture or convincing myself any program with Gilbert and Sullivan references is worth forgetting this dapper dandy for.

He, by the way, is engaged to a real cara de culo.
My fears are founded: plastic is power.

Saturday, October 22, 2005


My family's here for the weekend. Five suburban housewives all crammed into a studio-sized apartment. "It's so small!" "I can't find my pajamas!" "I'm too big for this stool!" Wah, wah, wah. Anyway, this morning, I told my dad about my lackluster dating track record, describing each of my rejected paramours in exaggerated detail. He doled out some of his usual wisdom in return, like this gem:

"You're asking me why there aren't more stable men in university? From what I see, you're not all that stable yourself."


Today's second entry will be a lesson in female linguistics. The given example was taken from a casual encounter with casual acquaintances during a casual excursion into the Lord's house (i.e. school library):

F1: "Lily! Down here!"

Lily: "Hey, you two! This is, what, the third time we've bumped into each other this week? I think I'm being stalked, heh heh.
(Translation: This is, what, the third time we've bummped into each other? I don't want to look like a stalker.)

F2: "You have so many shoes! Everytime I see you, you're wearing a different pair!"
(Translation: You have so many shoes. I hate you.)

F1: "That's what Lily's known for!"
(Translation: That's all she'll be known for.)

Lily: "44 pairs. I mean, you know what they say: Buy shoes, fill a void, right?"
(Translation: Okay, so we've established that I'm a bimbo.)

F1: "Why don't you fill that void with food? Hahaha ...."
(Translation: You also skinny. I hate you.)

F2: "Hahaha ..."
(Translation: I second that.)

Lily: "Hahaha ..."
(Translation: I don't get it.)

con't: "... Well, I do that too, but I've got that darn Asian gene."
(Translation: Booyah, skinny-nicotine-bitches!)

I think this is why we overanalyze what men say. Maneuvering through womanese is a daily battle. It's an all-inclusive struggle fought on dangerous terrain between you and an army of lipsticked guerillas. You try shaking away paranoia after getting shot at from all sides by unassuming belles armed with mascara wands and the latest issue of Cosmo (that evil book of prissy prose). It's hard work. So you can't blame us for our habit of dissection -- it simply means we don't trust you enough to stop.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Adjust and Control

What's more disgusting than seeing poverty as a disease to be shielded away from?

Doing something about it.


Watched Orson Welles's "Touch of Evil" (1958). I commented how modern many of the scenes looked, especially the one near the beginning where it had that handheld, jerky, documentary-feel, creating this fantastically familiar atmosphere, "that is, until [Charleton] Heston opens his mouth and ruins everything."

He plays a Mexican. Your skepticism is warranted -- the performance is just about as convincing as that sounds. Think John Leguizamo played by Barry Manilow smeared with engine grease and given deportation papers by Governor Schwarzenegger ... and it would still be off by three bags of Wonderbread and an ABBA.


My married, 40-something teacher has a crush on me. Looking forward to year-round turtlenecks ...


How embarrassing. There's a gaggle of them. Yes, them. Jilted gigolos and scorned seducers of my Christmas Past. They were all dragging on fags, sitting outside the cafe terrace, bunched together like miserable hermits on their piss break. Plastic Frames called for me:

"Hey, babe!"

Uh ... Hi. Bisous, bisous to you too, Mr. Dickless Philanderer. I was just on my way home. Yuh huh, I'll see you around ...

I'll see you around. The four most important sequence of words in my vocabulary. It's non-committal, quick to deliver, and universally reviled. That's what I latched on to last night when -- big freakin' surprise -- Elmeraler stopped me on the street ... passed midnight ... again (I was out hunting for crackers). We shared a short exchange and before he could ask me out again, I snuck in that bitch of a line to avoid the inevitable awkward moment where I'm forced to squirm my way out of another over-fragranted date.

Apparently pussies with high school educations are worth their weight in Gucci and gold. Don't they know I'm still a young'un! An innocent! Easily scared off by stupid people with overactive prostate glands?!

It was easier grieving for that asshole than avoiding these reptilian rogues.


My friends say I don't give anyone a chance. I object. One of those foul louts bet he could take away my virginity. (Guess he missed that crucial installment of Lily's gossiped-over life.) I don't socialize with these people -- men and women -- but I've somehow become embroiled in some sort of macho competition, strategized over and whispered about. I think I'm pretty friendly; I'm always initiating lively tete-a-tetes with strangers. So why aren't I more approachable in a less-than-dirty manner? (Don't answer that -- Pandora's legacy, I want not.)

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Back up, Cho

Sarah Silverman: Goods deliverer.

Fatally funny shit.

"Computer Use Guidelines ..." do not apply to me

One word: intense. This man simply embodies the word. I saw him around during my freshman year, always contemplative, always alone, always listening to his iPod, dreadlocked and melancholy -- a typical Buddhist-looking, organic-humping hippie. Oh, but how drool-worthy. Then he cut his braids and appeared in my publishing workshop class ... unbeknownst to me because I'm near-sighted and completely oblivious to changes in people's physical appearances ("Did you do something with your hair?" "I shaved it"). I got a big laugh from him one day after cracking wise and have been strangely drawn to his stone-cold aura ever since. We've chatted by proxy which involves me speaking to friends across the room in my best impersonation of wit and him laughing at my jokes at frequent intervals or talking to each other without ever looking away from the computer screen. My affections are perma-shifted on neutral, but I'm still visibly intrigued. My dyke-friend-with-straight-boyfriend told me she had a huge crush on him last year, but from what I gathered, it was an admiration from afar-type affair and, lo and behold, "he had a girlfriend, he might still have her." Thus, I have already postulated a bad outcome from potential pursuit. It will go as thus:

1. Commencement of innocuous relations
2. Insertion of -- no, not that -- racy dialogue into everyday speech
3. Development of mutual fondness
4. Courtship continues outside of school
5. Purchase of shovel to bury dead girlfriend

See, nothing good will come of this.


My dyke friend's dad died recently, hit by a speeding 26-year-old while on his bike (this is why car insurance is more expensive for men!). I gave her my sympathies, but since Techbiana and I are good friends I told her it could always be worse.

I related the story of a high school classmate whose father and younger brother were hit by a truck. The brother died, the dad was left temporarily paralyzed, and she ended up quitting school and joining the circus. "And not just any circus, but Cirque du Soleil ... in Las Vegas. So be grateful you're not in leotards, riding ponies." True story, those leotards ride harder than prison bait.


My courriel correspondence has ended. I hate that bastardly biological specimen, that masterful example of deceit. How do people end things on good terms? I'm out of my element if it doesn't include a bloody knife through the chest and some sort of trafficked body part. It's not that I'm a misandrist, but I'm starting to believe I have a dreadful relationship with men because none of them will agree to being just "friends" anymore -- compared to my childhood, of course. This face is the poster child for angry groins. Adolescence brought along a world of unmanageable expecations and unsatisfiable needs. Even my neighbour, whom I borrowed a vacuum cleaner from, looks at me like a hole on heels.

Monday, October 17, 2005


Guess who's going to Mexico next summer?!

Ja Jumbo!


Watched Margaret Cho's "Assassin" last night. The stand-up was funny ... but definitely disappointing. The stuff she talked about really wasn't provocative at all. Terry Schiavo? Pope vs. Drag Queens ("... gold dress")? I liked her when she concentrated on minutia because when she delves into politics, it comes off ... simple. Not radical, just not thought-provoking -- more after-lefty-school special. And the gay jokes: they'd surprise soccer-mom-turned-nuns who've been living in a sealed minivan for the latter part of the 80s. Her popularity has given her carte blanche in the comedy world, immune to general criticism, but instead of using her platform to fight the status quo, she kind of helps create a different kind by buying into her own rebel myth (when, truth be told, she no longer is one). Cho's become just another popular mouthpiece.

Still love the Asian impersonations -- I see every member of my extended family in her one chinky eye.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

Back to my old habits

Laptop imploded again. Virus? Worm? Hardware malfunction? Fuck me and call me a Luddite, I don't care. Bought four books the other day because I honestly cannot live without a good read. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" (good if a bit predictable -- too many childhood TV memories of Wishbone); Frank McCourt's, "Angela's Ashes" (I can play the score on the piano so it was an obvious choice -- hello Pulitzer!); Salman Rushdie's "Shalimar the Clown" (I've been waiting weeks. A French talk show panelist accused him of using too many "similes" which he readily defended by saying it's impossible to write without using them! En garde!) and "Female Chauvinist Pigs," by Ariel Levy (I need to know I'm not the only one who thinks chicks with loaded tits give Mardi Gras a bad name).

Happy, happy, happy. Except the little embarrassing fact that I continue to subject myself to disgrace by carrying on a courriel correspondence with M. Biologique. Although agreeing to meet with him is still out of the question. My most recent missive contained this:

"What games?!?! ... You have the Casanovic ego of Rock Star Jesus! (Had, you know, Jesus strummed tunes on his hollowed-out-crucifix guitar for his Marys backstage and Peter'd out their Pauls then blamed his behaviour on his screwed-up childhood -- damn that horny God and his frankincense!)"

Signing off from the school library after another shopping excursion,



HaiPhia: "What's your budget? How much are you willing to pay for a wallet?"

Lily: "Hm, I don't really have one. I tend to go over if I really, really like something."

HaiPhia: "Oh. I see. That's good."

Lily: "Why?"

HaiPhia: "Because with an attitude like that, you'll ... always ... be broke."

Ain't that the truth?

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Digital Domain

Sexy Spinster sent me an email informing me that she recently studied "my kin" in her theories of communications class. She quickly summarized the discussion as on people who cannot separate the "person they know themselves to be with the person that other people see them as." And I really appreciate her patience and unconditional understanding in such a trivial matter. It's just that I don't want to be "fixed"; I don't want to "change"; I don't want to "get help"; I just want some clarity. I am comfortable accepting my supposed mental deviations. Besides, I'm sure it's just an attention-seeking adolescent phase (although, as others will attest, I'm not wont to practising those tactics ... frequently).

This travail got me thinking about the perceivance of transgenderism in Thailand. What the West regards as some sort of by-product of repressed childhood rage or rooted in a deeply disturbing crisis of the identity (described in quasi-scientific terms), the East simply presumes it to be yet another mystery of human variation. Who are we to judge how laughable their superstitions? How naive their attitudes?

I believe every individual lives within a world to himself where all material existence orbits around. Cars pass you by, strangers are walking towards you, it's all a question of perspective, like a neverending mise-en-scene. So who is to say my character does not fit into the mechanics of my world? Who's to say my world is less legitimate than the agreed-upon version? There is simply nothing to "figure out" about me. I am just content living my life the way that feels most right to me ... yet, I am admittedly still curious to discover why I react to certain provocations the way I do

There is a book written by Dana Becker called "Through the Looking Glass: Female Socialization and Borderline Personality Disorder." (Questia: Best $100 my mother does not know she spent.) I relate to many of the presented ideas, especially when it brings up the words of Sylvia Plath, who wrote in Journals: "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." What a pat speech. Why do my beheld beauties vanish and deform themselves as soon as I look twice?

Chapter Five begins:

The art historian John Berger maintains that a woman's psyche is divided in two by virtue of her need to be simultaneously both actor and observer. He says of the woman:

She is almost continually accompanied by her own image of herself. Whilst she is walking across a room or whilst she is weeping at the death of her father, she can scarcely avoid watching herself walking or weeping. From earliest childhood she has been taught and persuaded to survey herself continually. And so she comes to consider the surveyor and the surveyed within her as the two constituent yet always distinct elements of her identity as a woman (p. 87).

The book is fascinating in the way it goes on to reveal the "inauthentic environment built up around the societal values of obedience and good behavior" (p. 97). And I especially enjoyed the frequent Plath passages, like this gem: "I can only love (if that means self-denial--or does it mean self-fulfillment? Or both?) by giving up my love, of self and ambitions" (p. 91).

I think I will be all right.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Professional Asshole

It really is difficult being someone close to me. My emotions fluctuate like they're determined by supernatural forces. I'm forever impulsive and my concentration stays for as long as the topic at hand is deemed multi-dimensional (microcosmic string theory?). I feel easily smothered and run away at the first signs of romantic affection. My self-worth comes from external sources which affects my moods, so it's hard to take anything I say seriously even if those feelings are as overwhelming as those felt by people with long-term attachments to their pain. So who's to blame?

My parents? No, not them, no matter what those shrill doctors with Ph.Ds might say.

What's wrong with having crossed wires and unstable brain chemistry? What's so great about being a healthy individual anyway? It's not like my life's goal is to win a pie eating contest and make sure Oprah gets canonized. I want to preserve the intensely shy child I was before I was forced to deal with the cruelties of human interaction. Why was I made to feel broken because I didn't like meeting people? Why can't I continue to internalize everything I believe to be too dark, too raw, too savage for the average spectator? I'm helping, see. I'm saving everyone the trouble of having to deal with this floundering Pinocchio. Exerting bubbliness might be exhausting, but it beats having attention heaped on me in a vain attempt to correct my emotional disfigurement and nameless disease. I'm happy not being me.

I'm a narcissist, I'm a masochist, I have borderline personality, I'm a fucking co-dependent. I'm a label hound, I'm a second-hand spinster, I'm passive/aggressive and yet, perfectly fine. I'm damned to be a puzzle for people to solve -- a walking entertainment console for the blind, mute and deaf (and tactlessly gauche).

Let me be, let me be, let me be! I can't be anyone but the someone you want me to be.

Ce sont les tonneaux vides qui font le plus de bruit.

Sunday, October 09, 2005


I have mixed thoughts when it comes to Anne Geddes's photography. On the one ovary, I love those organic lines that simultaneously bind and contrast the baby's newborn fullness with the fragility of flora. (I'm referring to her "serious" prints, of course. The ones that don't elude to tasty salad bars for incarcerated members of Hitler's League of German Maidens.) On the second orifice, it's like she's determined to evoke everyone's supposedly hidden maternal instincts. Through every one of her silver gelatin prints, I can hear the deafening coo of "C'mon y'all! Raise a baby -- just put them in an over-priced terracotta pot, top their 8-balls with a cabbage leaf, and wait for them to bloom into little tulips/cherubs/stuffed jalapenos." No wonder women of all ages feel the heat to reproduce -- they can't wait to eat after wasting their youths starving. More likely, it's a cultural need for women to fulfill that one role we can't acquire using charm/personality/that Hamburger University diploma alone. Many of my girlfriends describe their futures in sanitary terms, with details of blissful domestic servitude. I can empathize: playing house is the ultimate testament to becoming a fully-functional grown-up. Even I will admit to fantasies of surrendering control. However, the novelty factor might wear thin once you recognize that imagination has a jump-cut button that lets you fast-forward to all those intriguing milestone montages without ever having to sit through real time reruns of monotony (which you will, inevitably, experience sooner than you can say "two Valiums for lunch").

Still, seeing a helpless infant dressed up as drooling embodiment of consumer materialism brings a sentimental tear to my eye, temporarily displacing the ironic caption I place below every babbling Hershey's Kiss.

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Forget liberal lean, what about Western bias?

One of the most heavily militarized zones in the world has become a natural disaster area. Defence ministers from India and Pakistan are in talks to work together on the subsequent rescue effort. BBC World reports that the inevitable sharing of resources may have positive political consequences. Thousands presumed dead, yet the only program on constant alert is the one I just mentioned.

New Orleans was ubiquitous; the East is but a blip.


Rafael Filinov, a real estate magnate specializing in Red Square properties, was interviewed by PBS Frontline's Sabrina Tavernise. "Don't be confused," the subtitles say. "Moscow and Russia are two different countries. I'm afraid that if I tell a Russian babushka that one square meter in Moscow costs $11,000, she will think I'm talking about the price for an entire apartment. She will not survive the news that in the city she lives in, one square meter costs $11,000. She will have a heart attack."

The market is wild, he explains.

Vladimir Putin says tycoons can keep all the wealth they've grabbed, just keep out of politics. (A so-called warning against future Boris Berezovskys.) So he is either the most simple man in post-Soviet Russia or the most sinister.

"I don't regret being rich," Berezovsky tells Tavernise. "I only regret that there are so many poor."

The indifference of Russia's nouveau-riche, like the rest of their kin, trigger the gap capitalism encourages. The solution is not communism, but a completely altered economic system that actually coincides peacefully with democracy.


No food? No problem! All I need is a habitual diet of Fashion Television and the Antiques Roadshow ... and tracking down my mother like I'm the loan shark.


"Sweet Lord, motherfucker! We ain't no muffin stump!" HaiPhia and I screamed on the street while getting continually slapped in the face with the impotent corner of her umbrella.

"Sheee-it," she continued, "If I had to describe my relationship [with Andrew], I'd say it was the Titantic. We sailed along, sure, but then it hit a goddamned iceberg and he fell into the water, holding on to that door and froze to death. I sure as hell ain't gonna save him because, boy, that ship has sailed." (So that's where that phrase originated from ...)

It was my turn to speak because when women vent, we vent (think of it as anger by osmosis with aneurysm preventative properties):

"I don't know what came over me! That fucker has so much emotional baggage, he has to go to luggage claim to get more! And telling me I needed to lose weight? The nerve! I tip the scale at just under 110-pounds: I must weigh as much as his balls! 9-inches? Ha! More like, 9 centimeters, imperial measuring prick! Pun intended!"

She and I scared off a lot of happy couples. Almodovar would've been proud.


Narcissists only look human; inside, they're emotional invalids.

Friday, October 07, 2005

Mission: Possible!

Blake: I Loved My Easy Wife

by Joal Ryan
Oct 6, 2005, 6:15 PM PT

Robert Blake saw a lot to love in Bonny Lee Bakley. She was smart. She was charming. And, best of all, she put out on the first date.

Such was the actor's testimony Thursday as his wrongful-death civil trial continued in Burbank, California.

"There aren't many women who will simply sleep with you and get on the bus, if you know what I mean," Blake offered, per City News Service, in tribute of Bakley, whom he made his bride in 2000. "...With Bonny, pathetically, a part of me required that, you know, 'Help me make it through the night, and I'll see you later.'"

continue reading


If you'd excuse me, I have a job opening to attend to.

Ping Pong Rebuke


I replied with:

[M. Biologique,]

Sorry about yesterday, I was picking a fight, any fight, just so I can be angry with you. Why did I do it? Because I've had it with this back and forth bullshit. Yeah, I get jealous -- not of "girls," but of any one of your acquaintances whom you treat with more courtesy. You never ignore them, control them, then give them the cold shoulder.

I'm tired of not knowing what I might say or do that will inevitably elicit your irritation and anger (can it get any worse than being called "mom?"). Or keeping my mouth shut to avoid offending you (I must've missed the memo listing your trigger words). It's humiliating knowing your only motivations behind meeting me are "boredom" and "no one else is free." Listen, I'm convenient because we're friends; I'd be more of a challenge if you were fucking me.

Look, I'd never tell you to "fuck off," but as it stands, you're being a fucking woman. (Am I getting warmer? Is that a trigger word?) No more power games: Be a proper friend or I'm gone. Of course you have the right to manipulate anyone you want, just don't think I'm going to play dumb and roll over anymore.

Sincerely (your honey bunny),



I don't expect him to change. But I've pinned him in a corner: he can't possibly turn the tables again and blame me for not trying if he (undoubtedly) fails to convert himself. I can leave entirely unscathed this way. Snip, snip.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Pencils and Crayons

I was on the shuttle bus with HaiPhia today and we discussed the paradox that is NerdQuirk for a good 15 minutes:

"You know," I began, "I always thought he was losing his hair because he wears hats, but after I found out he was thirty, it made sense that he wore hats to hide his receding hairline."

"Not that thirty is old," continued HaiPhia, "but look at him, he ain't right."

I nodded in agreement. "It was okay for him to say he wanted to monogram his name on my panties when I thought he was a cracker frat boy with an Asian thing, but once I found out he was over the molehill and would need a wheelchair to bring him back, it wasn't funny anymore."

"He's not that old," HaiPhia reminded me. "He'd only need a walker."

I asked HaiPhia whether she was enjoying her semester this year.

"Honestly," she said. "You're the best part of my semester."

She and I had a long, comforting talk that evening, following my petty crisis, which ended in some refreshingly simple advice:

"Lily, je te voudrais prendre un livre, le lire puis aller se coucher. Demain est une nouvelle journee."

I don't deserve friends like this, friends who put up with my self-centered neurosis through the sunny and grim. Have I already forgotten how it felt to have been a chick placed second to dick? It's time to focus on damage-control; I need to make it up to them.

Vegan food, anyone?

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

So much for mocking Springer guests


To forgive and forget or forgive and resent?

M. Biologique sent me an email exactly two hours after I hung up on him.

It begins: "Why you call me and ask me weird questions and act silly?"

It ends: "Have a nice Thanksgiving and I will see you around school when I get back ... unless you hate me ... in that case, I will come knocking at your door when I am bored and you can tell me to fuck off. Gros bisous, [M. Biologique]."

I believe that was an invitation to give him the boot ... a second time ... properly. Tempting offer, but I already have closure. (Why else would I keep a blog?) I feel better simply knowing he's carrying the searing burden of my supposed anguish. Painful having a conscience, isn't it?


No one besides my family has seen me mad. I generally channel the energy into something more productive. No, who am I kidding? I just get defensive and shirk away. (Debatement, good. Visible anger, bad.) I feel like I cannot have any association with negative emotions without running the risk of damaging my carefully crafted veneer of happy-go-lucky, free-spiritedness. I used to play the victim card; now I bear the brunt of every poorly executed confrontation. I deem my insecurities as childish phases and expect them to pass. "It's my fault, I could've handled it better," isn't a mantra, it's a way of life. M. Biologique expected me to be forever thick-skinned, a court jester in jeans. I was being "melodramatic" if I ever wanted to have a serious conversation. I was "overreacting" whenever he amused himself at my expense. So I shut up. I didn't want to offend him. I had to mask every comment or suggestion in a blanket of comedy or he'd respond with a snide aside. I took self-responsibility to a whole other level, spiting myself for even thinking that he might somehow be responsible for the knots in my stomach and that newly acquired slouch in my step -- pantomiming pleasure from a posture of passivity. The closer I was let in, the worse I was treated; new acquaintances were always winning the lottery. He name-dropped girls at strategic times to force a barely-concealed reaction from me, then feigned knowledge of their existence soon after. He asked me if I was attracted to any and every man who offered me assistance or looked in my direction. Told me friends shouldn't feel obligated to each other, just don't do things that might make him jealous. Testing me, provoking me, humiliating me, then returning guiltily to render remorse. It was always my problem, never his. I was paranoid, not him.

Even when he slap-teased me in public, I felt the need to laugh it off to protect him from the gaping crowd. He was just having a little harmless fun, I'd rationalize. How can I expect him to act appropriately when I'm too forgetful to set boundaries? He's the special one, not me. I was smothering him with that weekly phone call.

But I was fast becoming an object of pity -- not empowerment, not anymore. A coying cliche, this couldn't go on. What would our friends think? (Crazy, I'm sure.) So I called him back:

"What did you mean when you said you do fun things, just not with me?"

He flat-out denied ever saying such a thing.

I repeated myself and pushed for an answer.

He slid into a French accent and said he meant it as a joke, he was joking, where was my sense of humour? I uttered some non-sequiturs, unsure of what to say next, trying to come up with a threat, but felt trapped by the technology that was supposed to streamline communication, but instead hindered it.

"Well ... I guess we'll have to do something fun some ... time now or we won't ... be doing anything fun ever ... in the future," I sputtered, embarrassed at my own lack of articulation and foresight.

The tone in his voice dropped emphatically: "Lily, this is not the time to deal with your dilemma."

I folded down my phone and hung up on him, immediately shaming myself for being so infantile and crude. But it was the only means of escape when words utterly tied up the tongue that bound them -- I couldn't let him dismiss me first.


I don't hate him for making me subservient to his ego. Or the way I caved in to his demands. Or even the way he neglected me whenever I appeared 3-dimensional.

I simply hate the success he has at doing what he does best. Who knew hurting me required so little effort? Who knew leaving him required so much more?

Monday, October 03, 2005

Kiss Off

"I don't need you to make me happy. I just need you to leave me alone when I am."

Who said movies were a waste of time? A diet of Julianne Moore is all you need when you finally make the decision to get out of an unhealthy fakelationship and need the right words to make it stick to avoid getting suckered into forgiveness again.

I just might add, "And right now, I'm happy. I will be for a long time."


God, I'm coughing like a chain smoker compensating for a lung. Please, stop the madness. I can barely concentrate on this essay I was supposed to start writing five days ago:

John Milton's puritanical leanings defined his life-long aversion to the Catholic Church. He wrote Areopagitica in 1643 in response to England's rigid licensing rules concerning published materials deemed unfit for popular consumption. Often regarded to be a seminal work in the field of journalism, Milton's defence of freedom of the press also calls for the removal of the papal powers. It is within the pages of this exhaustive polemic that an appeal to abolish "popery" appears. He summons phrases with grandiose connotations like, "unity of Spirit" and "bond of Peace" in an effort to pursuade his audience of this noble cause. Milton reasons that any omnipotent entity capable of quashing all other "religions and civil supremacies" ... is enough to make me snuggle up to a box of used condoms and stick my head up a cow's ass.

Sunday, October 02, 2005


I've been in the "armpit" since Thursday and will be on my way back to Montreal this evening. Did an archival amount of soul searching with Sexy Spinster's help. Currently working to make my life unnecessarily difficult by purposely trying to refute John Milton's saccharine essay on censorship in an effort to advocate the devil in me. (*Note: during my History of Journalism class, I made the blasphemous assertion that his "Areopagitica made in impact on the course of journalism at all seeing how it contained excessive hyperbole and was politically irrelevent" and that "perhaps that's why he's better known as a poet" to the chagrin of my peers, but the amusement of my professor.) Still waiting for a reply to my email requesting that I use instead -- as my primary source of dissection -- a latter work of Milton's that elaborated on his initial strategy to "extirpate ... popery." I want to reveal how unrefined his apologia for free-speech is, how unrefined this theory if it only stands up for freedom prior to the fact (as in, punishment after publication is acceptable, just not before), decimating his rambling ode against the travails of imprimatur. Hells yeah!

It's just too easy to agree to the assigned question of whether Milton's reasons to want to eliminate the papal power is valid when he says it in the broadest of terms (capitalisations are his):

I mean not tolerated popery, and open superstition, which, as it extirpates all religions and civil supremecies, so itself should be extirpate, provided first that all charitable and compassionate means to be used to win and regain the weak and the misled: that also which is impious or evil absolutely either against faith or manners no law can possibly permit, that intends not to unlaw itself: but those neighbouring differences, or rather indifferences, are what I speak of, whether in some point of doctrine or of discipline, which, though they may be many, yet need not interrupt THE UNITY OF SPIRIT, if we could but find among us THE BOND OF PEACE.
--Areopagitica, 1644

The assigned question obviously wants to lead me to the obvious answer. Disagreeing with Milton would make me look like a bitter anti-UNITY OF SPIRIT, anti-BOND OF PEACE, bigot! Well, I'll show the professor because that's exactly what I'm planning to do: Disagree! And I'll show him who the real fiend is! (*Hint: Rhymes with Hilton.) Woohoo! I'm worked up and it feels good!

Math Judas just informed me it might also have to do with officially being handed over a few select pieces of property this weekend. To which I say ... Um, no.

Writing essays is exponentially more orgasmic.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

Literary Nerd

That is Demetri Martin. I just found a 222-worded, poetic opus he composed written entirely in palindromes. Don't believe me? *Hint: Look in, but especially between, evils.


Dammit I'm Mad
--Demetri Martin

Dammit I'm mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I'm in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level "Mad Dog".
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider ... eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one ... my names are in it.
Murder? I'm a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I'm it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I'd assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
"Sir, I deliver. I'm a dog"
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I'm mad.