Good lord.

I guess you could say I'm a fan of that guy up there, which is really interesting because I'm a total atheist. True story.

It's probably comparable to the way I feel about Elliot Smith or any other person I've posted in idolatry - some people are just awesome and worth adoration!

Here's why Jesus is cool, and why you're allowed to think Jesus is cool, even if (like myself) you feel awkward and sinful walking past churches on your way to the bus.

1. Jesus made a lot of quotes for himself that people still wander around saying, sometimes without even realizing that he originally said them. I am guilty of this. I am known to tell people "do unto others as you would have done unto you" (which is extremely hard to stammer out when you've been drinking, by the way) and only tonight did I finally google it and see who said it. And I sat there, dumbfounded, before finally saying:
"Alright, Jesus, you win this one."

2. Jesus had a fuck-ton of followers because he had a real interest in helping them, which is something that isn't too common nowadays. Most of the time, I see people hide behind their iPod's earphones and avoid homeless folks downtown. There's nothing wrong with homeless folks, except for they haven't got homes. This wouldn't have bothered Jesus, I imagine. In fact, I imagine him pulling his earbuds out (I assume he's listening to either Gregorian chants or Neil Young) and pulling up some curb to hang out and help out anyone who needs it. You go, Jesus.

3. Jesus died for no real reason except for that everyone else was being an asshole. In fact, he didn't even really understand why he had to die. And I quote: "My God, why have you forsaken me?" I think I'd be saying something completely different, if my ankles were having metal stakes driven through them. "Ouch", perhaps. But really, he took everyone's sins onto himseld and just kind of...went for it. That's a pretty noble thing to do.

4. RESURRECTION!

5. Water into wine? My good sir, you've captivated my heart and soul! I like a nice chardonnay, if you don't mind.

I could go on, but I think you see the point. It's funny, I've always had this internal struggle as to how I should feel about religion and Jesus and God, but I think in my old age and education, I've finally figured it out. Guys, it is totally cool to not be religious, but to still respect religions beyond the "yeah, they can think whatever they want to" thing. Religion is a meaningful part of people's lives that guide their choices and ways of being, and just because non-believers refute their beliefs and Gods doesn't make them any less real for the believers. Every person has a different ultimate reality that they are accountable to. For me, I am accountable to the ground and the earth when I die, and not the secular "God in heaven" belief - but that is totally cool. You make your own reality and you construct your own understanding of the afterlife (if there is one), which means that I am going to a completely different place than you (if you're Christian or otherwise) when we both die.

I guess the moral to this blog is that Jesus was rad, I'm still a non-secular punk and everyone goes wherever they believe they're going to when they die. So stop worrying and enjoy your life.

The end!

To my friends:

What you see above is quite possibly the most comfortable, most beautifully stunning, most expensive chair that I have ever known, yet failed to own. If you love me the way I know you do, a bunch of you will pool together and start saving the change leftover from the five dollar bills you give at Tim Horton's for your $2 coffees in a little jar at one of your houses - just so you can buy this chair for me. It won't take long to save up, and my birthday is still 8 months away. This is doable. Please - my house is only filled with black-brown, rectangular Ikea furniture. It's an absolute tragedy to live this way.

All my love,
FMcG

Daydreams

I've had a few revelations about what my life would be like if I had absolute freedom to do what I pleased.

You know, being in school and tied down to a job is sort of like living in a box. Things get to be pretty predictable fairly quickly, so it's nice to have such a raging imagination to use as crutches that get me through the day.

If I could, I'd abandon all my routine and take my hard body to the pole! Dancing under the pseudonym of Brenda, I'd shake it and spin to Def Leppard in a pair of white cowboy boots. I'd stuff my boots with wrinkled 5's and 10's, and go home exhausted but rich, falling asleep in my post-show velour tracksuit.

Okay, now, realistically - that's not something I could do, but what I could do is this (which was mentioned tonight in the car ride home): I could workout and take pole-dancing lessons. I'd like to be as good as Felix Cane - maybe even compete and steal the title away from her! Yeah, right.

Aside from my starry-eyed strip club circuit dream, I'd drop everything and move to France for art school. I'd spend my days painting and sculpting - my nights spent dancing and drinking cheap wine. I'd wear novelty berets and striped t-shirts would be a wardrobe staple! This is actually a very realistic dream, once I think about it. I could totally stock my closet with striped shirts, seeing as they're haute couture at H&M these days. Mais, oui!

Of course, there are other fantasies and daydreams, but I can't remember them all now. The biggest dream right now is to dig my goddamn way out of Starbucks-hole-in-the-ground hell. I'm on the hunt for a new job a.s.a.p. You know shit is rough when even your manager jumps ship.

Le sigh.

Two Days Off

Yes, a whole two days!

But it's kind of like this: I bitch and moan about how much my life sucks when I have to drag my ass out of bed at 4:30 in the morning to go brew coffee and take shit, but then I get a couple of days off and I don't know what to do with myself. I'm like one of those experiment kids that they leave in a black room with no stimulation or emotion from birth until age 20 and then release into the world to study. Sad.

I got up this afternoon (don't judge), and promptly threw together a load of laundry and a pan of brownies, because I'm a domestic goddess. And then I sat my big ass down and got reacquainted with the dirty world of celebrity gossip. I haven't touched the stuff since fighting off my despicable addiction back in 2005, but today I dipped my toes in for just a quick feel of what the Holly-world is buzzing with. And do you know what I discovered? Not a whole fucking lot has changed. And I immediately remembered why I cut off all ties in the first place. Here's the big news:

1. Mel Gibson is a raging, racist psychopath.
Didn't we already know this? Didn't he already make a few distasteful comments that dirtied his good father image? Apparently now while he's not hitting his own infant son and import wife, he's raging about not having any money because of said family. If anyone is allowed to rage about not having any money, it's normal folks (like me). I'd bet downsizing a house or two and selling a few cars/designer duds might add some more zeros to the bank balance in a jiffy. Cock. Read about it here.

2. Lindsay Lohan is in prison.
Ha, we'll see how long that lasts. However, seeing as LiLo (unlike Mel) is actually poor these days, she doesn't have any money to buy her way out. And there are no dicks to suck in an all-female prison. Sha-boing!

3. There's this thing called Jersey Shore.
...which I imagine is a lot like "The Hills", which was also just "Laguna Beach", which all came from the afterbirth of fictional show "The O.C.". Actually, let's not kid ourselves - they're all fictional! Fortunately I gave up cable a long time ago, so I never have to subject myself to horrendous "reality" television programs.

4. I still don't like twitter.
And it's because it allows the continued whoring and self-promotion of already too-famous and spoiled "celebrities" who are really only famous for being...famous? Self-promotion is not a talent worth fame, folks. People do that at job interviews all the time, and you don't see them tweeting their opinions as facts and expecting results.

I have a brownie migraine setting in. Damn you, Betty Crocker!

Lemon

Oh, so what am I doing today?

Alright, well, I woke up at 10, ate some oatmeal, started a new painting, went for a walk, checked the mail, had some tea, ate a cookie, ate another cookie, had some more tea, wrote boyfriend a note for when he gets home, found biscotti recipes and sat down to write this. You know, that sounds like a pretty relaxing day, right? And you know, it is. I'm kind of lonely, though. I miss boyfriend when he's away at his big fancy corporate job. And what's shitty is that I'm headed to work in about 2 hours. I should really shower.

Newest condominium revelations - I'd never buy one. Ever. Before I moved in here, I thought that condos were really a smart idea. No lawns to mow, no driveways to shovel. If the roof's leaky, someone else worries about it. My mail will never be stolen - it's locked into a box in a mail room. There's a gym. There are guest suites. Etc. etc. But really, condo life isn't all it's cracked up to be. My building is full of snobby 30-something married professional-types who have yet to have kids because really, it doesn't seem like they like each other enough to reproduce because it doesn't seem like they like anyone. But themselves. I would know, because I walk by the in-house gym and spy them oogling themselves in the mirrors as they lift weights and jog-jog-jog on the treadmill. Go outside, folks. It's beautiful out there. A chance encounter with one yuppie couple whose arms were full of dry-cleaning outside the parkade elevator produce no conversation. Rather, I listened intently to them muttering to each other about suit jackets and a dinner meeting. And then I decided to take the stairs.

There seem to be some cool people in my building, though. I've just yet to actually meet them. Instead, I spy on them from the peep-hole in the door. Our suite is right outside the elevator, so I've come into the habit of running to look through the peep-hole every time the lift's door squeals open. I want to know who my neighbours are, damnit! There's a condo barbecue on the 22nd that I want boyfriend to go to, in an effort to make friends for us. He's a shy guy, though. We'll see.

I want to do some baking tomorrow. Maybe an apple crisp and some biscotti. Hell, I'll make muffins, too. I'll do anything to escape the "living in a filing cabinet" feeling.

Denver Omelette

Hi,

I don't actually recall the last time I blogged, but a lot has changed since then. I moved to Calgary. What the heck am I thinking, right? People here like country music and beef, the street lights are sideways, my nose hasn't stopped bleeding 'cause it's so dry, and there's apparently no culture to be found. Oh, but that sounds like a challenge, Cowtown. A challenge.

I guess you could say my goal over the next 3 years is to find as much culture, fun and underground entertainment as possible to keep myself occupied in this little-big northern Texas. So far, I'm not a fan. I did, however, scrounge up some snippets of info on an alternative/art house movie theatre in Kensington called the Plaza Theatre. I'll be heading up that way tomorrow night for a little grindhouse cinema documentary action, if boyfriend is willing.

In a never-ending goal to remain open-minded and positive, I'm going to embrace Calgary with open arms and smother it in my chest "motor-boat" style like an old friend, hoping for the very best. While Vancouver Island's majestic beauty is a shame to leave behind me, vacations will occur annually to visit the friends (and really, they're more like family) that I had to leave there. Also, I snagged a souvenir Starbucks V.I. mug, so like....I'm always nostalgic. Shazam!

Last night, I sat down and could name 47/50 U.S. states. Forgotten? Nebraska, New Hampshire and Oklahoma. But those are kind of like the ugly stepchild states anyways.

Joon!

My birthday has come and gone, thus thrusting me into the category of a "twenty-something".

I got a rather unique present for my birthday - snow! Now, granted I was in Calgary for my birthday, but really? Snow in practically June? That's just absurd.

Boyfriend: "I swear, it's not usually like this. You'll like it here! I promise! Really!".

Calgary is complete and utter urban sprawl. I was saucer-eyed for a good 2/3 of our trip, shocked and amazed at how every single borough looks the exact same as the previous. And also, slightly paranoid about the very obvious police presence. "It's mostly safe here," said boyfriend's policeman uncle. "Like, an occasional dismemberment; some floaters in the river. Nothing big." Thanks for the reassurance, man.

In a sudden twist of maturity, I now have difficulty saying 'swear words' out loud. Like, I used to be able to string out sentences entirely comprised of my favourite adult phrases, but now I can barely even whisper what the fuck without feeling incredibly awkward and inappropriate. Y'know, I think it might be less of a maturity thing and more of like...Bump can sort of talk now, and she repeats everything. Previously potty-mouthed conversations have now mellowed out completely; trash words became innocent euphemisms.

Me: "Yeah, that mean lady was really making me unhappy. I wanted to tickle her."
B: "What the french toast, man."

Translation:

Me: "Yeah, that bitch was pissing me off. I wanted to punch that cunt out."
B: "What the fuck, man."

Something like that. 'kay, happy Caturday!

happy days

So, when I was a kid, I used to spend a lot of time in my bathroom.

I'd stand in front of the mirror, and pretend to sell my mum's make-up products to myself like a late-night infomercial. I wanted to be on TV, selling you juicers and cellulite creams. I wanted to be an infomercial girl, invading your airwaves after dark.

Well, growing up made me realize that really isn't a viable career choice, because you have to...you know, be able to sell things. I can't even convince someone to buy a lemon raspberry loaf.

Me: "Can I get you anything else with your coffee today?"
Asshat: "No."

Retreeeeeat!

But it's funny what we envision ourselves as in the future as children. I had a lot of weird assumptions about adulthood that are (sadly) not true. At one point, I figured I could make six figures as a puppysitter. Wrong! Also, the treasure of staying up late and eating lots of fudgesicles is not the goldmine it seems. My parents used to warn me about the dangers of getting older, but I never really saw it as a threat - the future was a promise. It was the kind of promise I'd make to my friends on the field during recess. It's the promise I make to myself on the bus to school. It's the promise I've exchanged with Jason every time we've left each other to return to our respective cities.

And it's a promise I still keep.

"I think I might blog.."

Okay, so in the MTV Post-Party wrap-up of UVic 2009 and the subsequent subsiding of first year bliss, I will now blog. Holy shit!

Uh, so I somehow thought that I would become a better, more rounded person after dragging my ass through a year of school. It's more like "One down, three more to go.", and I'm not any wiser. The magical transformation? Still a caterpillar. Whatever.

Okay, what is with TLC and this obsession with little people? I couldn't help but notice that not only is there "The Little Couple" and "Little People, Big World", but now also "The Little Chocolatiers". I don't mean to be offensive, but what TLC is telling me is that if I were like, two feet shorter, I could have a TV show about my super awesome, blogger life. And I could be into that. Maybe I can pitch my ass to TLC for something...

Scene: TLC HQ, programming execs.

Me: Okay, so it's like this: we follow the life of a hefty college gal who works in a coffee shop. And she's quirky. What do you think?

Them: Is she little?

Me: Ah, no. But she's really tall and almost height/weight proportionate.

Them: We think you've got something here.

And bam, I'm rolling in the Bordens. Or Lauriers. Or any other Canadian currency. G's up, hoes down.

Tradition.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement.

I am sad to say that boyfriend and I have broken up. He left me for a French bitch named Marie.

With 11 minutes to spare. :)

I make bad jokes.

This posting is later than a pregnant girl's period, but can I just say that I'm so damn proud to be Canadian?

Way to clean up in Vancouver, my fellow Canucks. Not only did y'all win enough bling to fill every rapper's mouth with solid gold grills, but you did it bigger and better than any other country ever has before. And yes, we own hockey. The ladies and the men snagged some gold, and we're looking exceptional right now for sledge hockey. 10-1 win for Canada against Finland on Saturday - take that, kitty cat!

When I went downtown post-hockey gold, the excitement was electric in the air. Everyone was so charged, feeding off each others energy and cheering well into the night. Flags were flown. Cars honked up and down Douglas street. Molson Canadian was flowing cold and on special. Life was good and I'd never been so proud to be Canadian.

I'd also like to make a special shout-out to those four Íslenska folks who made an appearance this year. All four showed up for Alpine skiing - no medals achieved. This makes sense to me, though, because I'm not good at skiing either. Good effort, friends!

I spent four solid hours this morning working on an essay for my film class. After those four hours, I stopped and re-read my writing. In four hours, I'd completed just half of the first draft of my eight page paper. This is paper one of four. I am so excited for school to be over.

Other things I am excited for? A big fat $750 tax return cheque from the Canadian government, spending vacation time alone with boyfriend in April, having all four wisdom teeth ripped from my skull and eating the double chocolate chunk cookie that's sitting in my cupboard for breakfast. I am, however, not excited to get up tomorrow morning at nine to spend my day slaving away at my papers in the UVic library (see: hell). So, I guess this is goodnight.

I'm going to dream about that cookie.

rhetorical analysis.

That title up there is the current English assignment I should be working on. Eeeeenh.

Driving home tonight, I totally saw a cyclist biking while smoking. One-handed cycling seems to fall into the same category as cell-phone driving. That's just irresponsible. The Du Maurier made that man a wobbler, lemme tell you - sketchy shit. I guess the best part was his full-fledged commitment to being seen: reflective safety vest, blinking LED light strapped to his helmet, hurricane proofed rain gear also decorated with reflective tape. Something here seems counterproductive. Can you guess what it is?

Now, the real reason I've decided to blog tonight, is that I have this hankering to tell you about Kathryn P. Kathy is in my first year creative writing course. She's usually late for class, which is the only reason why I noticed her at all during our first semester of study. Well, in our creative non-fiction section, Kathryn decided to constantly sit directly behind me, no matter which seat in our very large lecture hall I decided to sit. Well, as luck would have it, we were all called upon to work in pairs with the closest person to us - in Kathryn's case, me. So we did the awkward greeting thing and got down to business, casually interviewing each other for a peer profile assignment. She asked me basic questions like "how old are you?" and "where are you from?" - easy to answer and straight forward, I didn't provide her with very much meat for her potatoes. But then it was my turn to interview, and I discovered some very interesting things about Kathryn.

If I had to guess, I'd say she's 32. She's never been to university before, but she's been in a professor's pants. Continually. Like, for six years. As a now divorcee, she left her M.I.T. professor husband to come to reap the spoils of Canadian education, shacking up with her parents up island before making the fateful move to the southern tip. She lived in Europe for many years, marrying her former hubby in Italy as sneaky-ass means to get into France. She didn't really divulge too much about that little detail, but I have a feeling the French government is after her, so I let it be. She still wears her wedding band and engagement ring, now on her left hand, which makes me feel like maybe she's not quite over skipping out on her other half. Guilt is a bitch, isn't it? There were some other snippets she shared, but nothing interesting enough to capture my attention. I drew pictures of Shrek in notepad while she blabbed about willow trees to me.

Looking at Kathryn, shit's been rough. Her skin's all haggard and her chin looks burnt, as if she's made some half-assed attempt at shaving a girl-beard with a dull Bic razor. Her tongue is pierced, something I'm sure occurred post-marriage. I wish someone would tell her that tongue piercings don't look good on anyone, especially 30-something divorcees who claim to be into books and the smell of leaves. Her hair is a sort of rusty colour, usually pulled back awkwardly into a ponytail with a hair band.

So, ever since fate intervened with my quiet existence in writing 100, I think Kathryn likens us to be friends? On three occasions she followed me out of class and gabbed away at how her weekend was and what she thinks of our assignment. Once she followed me all the way to the bus stop and then was like "oh, you're leaving." And so I said "yeah, I'm going home on the bus now. That was kind of the plan." Awkward silence.

Last class, Kathryn must have been trying to get my attention for a while, but I couldn't hear her through the music coming from my iPod. She finally put her hand on my shoulder, which freaked the fuck out of me because nobody ever touches me at work where I actually know and like people, let alone at school where I know literally one person and mostly wanna crack skulls all day long. She proceeded to ask me about my reading break, which I described as mediocre.

"Aw, that's too bad. I went to Vancouver and saw my friends from a long time ago. And like, I spent a lot of time on my couch and watched a bunch of chick flicks and ate like, such good food. And like, I went to the Olympics and saw some weird events and like, I didn't really want to see them but I already had the tickets. Yeah, I just did a lot of partying. Ha."

Run-on sentence. Verbal diarrhea. Oh, Kathryn. You're the most entertaining non-friend I've got. Sweet.

teeth.

Growing up, I assumed I would be one of those girls who would go through life without a boyfriend.

You know the women I mean; the ones who wear polar fleece zip-ups with tapered-leg jeans. Of course I wouldn't be so ignorant to fashion, but I would fall under the same category. I was okay with this fact. I was okay with having each Valentine's day pass by me without a single card or candy. I was okay with sleeping alone. The idea of being a life-long virgin was actually really appealing to me. I was one of those girls who never had a boyfriend in high school, although I got close once. I didn't have a date for my prom. I was never asked to a Christmas dance. I went on a single date in grade 12 - it didn't end well. I might tell you about it some other time. It was the curse of being on the lower end of attractiveness, in both looks and status, and it followed me painfully all through adolescence. It still does.

The prettier girls are shedding their layers and letting the sweet Victorian sun kiss their shoulders as spring approaches again. I wore flip-flops when I took out the garbage, and I felt the sting of summer nostalgia. My blinds are turned out today, and the window is open; I can hear birds on the fence talking to each other, excited for the world to wake back up.

I haven't eaten very much today, but I'm sitting here knowing that I have no intentions of eating dinner, or at all this weekend - gastro-intestinal payback for a week spent at home. I feel sad that I always deprive myself as punishment, and I know it's wrong, but I can't stop.

Going home this past week, I realized how much of a fart on the map Kelowna is. The sky is perpetual gray in the winter, with the roads sprinkled in gravel from snow-season creating an uncomfortable dust everywhere to match.
The girls sport Lulu Lemon pants with bleached out hair pulled back. The boys buy Ed Hardy t-shirts and sweats. The trucks get bigger the further south you drive, as each person trys to outdo each other for sport - what else will you do with all your money if you don't golf or drink wine?
Nobody smiles there; the landscape is bleak. Sitting on top of a hill on Thursday, I could see where the city starts and stops. The highest building is the 10 floor Best Western motel next to the highway.
I asked my sister when she'd leave - she's not going to. Kelowna is one of those places with fierce jaws like a crocodile. If you let don't pay attention, they'll close hard on you and you won't be able to pry them open. So, stay alert.

Hungry

There's an ingrown hair on my left knee that looks like a nipple.

I'm pretty sure the UVic writing department's only goal in life is to rip apart the students in their faculty so they feel like worthless shitheads who need to be there. I see right through you, writing 100. Don't you try to blind me with "constructive criticism". Being in a group discussion on my work is like a big chocolate blizzard of free-for-all shit. And these fuckers love it. You can sincerely tell that they revel in the power of feeling superior to you, like apostles of great literature.

I finally found the balls to complain to my dick landlord about all the noise he and his family like to make. He shrugged and said there wasn't much he could do about it. So, no - nothing has changed.

Fucker.

Jan-u-rawr.

There's a certain element of danger when pushing open the door on a public bathroom stall.

I always use extreme caution when performing this act, as if on the bomb squad team during a terrorism attack. Really, you never know what might be waiting for you on the other side of the aluminum partition. This is true of every public washroom from here to Omaha and it doesn't matter how fancy a place might be, at least one woman will have had explosive diarrhea that absolutely could not wait until she was safe at home.

Funny how it is that this same woman constantly forgets to flush it on down when she's finished rocketing last night's dinner out of her sphincter. I'm all for saving water and trees, but the lack of a wipe/flush just stands out as poor hygiene habits and an absence of courtesy and consideration for woman-kind.

There is also, of course, the unending tradition of the "pee on the seat" gals, who I imagine are some sort of barbarian tribe that stalk from gas station to gas station, refusing to use the protective sheet. They insist: "No, it's okay - I can hover perfectly centered above the toilet seat." I imagine these are the same woman who fucking flip when they realize that while their aim was true, it was not accurate enough and they now have their bladder's contents streaming down their inner thighs.

I must bring to your attention, too, the winged bandit and the tampon monster, who will intentionally aggravate fellow ladies by leaving more personal bits of themselves floating in the bowl. They are among the same species of women who, again, refuse to flush it down. Of course every other woman wants to know that you're on track with your menstrual cycle. That makes just makes sense!*

There is the rare occasion that an empty and somewhat sanitary-looking porcelain throne can be found and will be chosen to fulfill it's destiny as a toilet for you. Even then, perched pigeon-toed and demure, tinkling into the potty, does danger persist. If you're not immediately disgusted by the all-too candid stall graffiti (ex. Chelsea sucks dick for meth; Tiffany likes it in her ass and has herpes; I fucked your dad in here), you might be shocked to overhear the bodily functions of the chica next to you.
Better yet, that same chica might attempt conversation with you. For these women, the public toilet stall is like the confessional booth or a sort of anonymous advice column. I've had some of the most interesting of my life in bathrooms.

Example 1:
(at a shopping mall in Seattle)
Youngish-Sounding Girl: "Excuse me; do you think you could pass me some toilet paper? I've used all the paper in here."
Me: "Oh, that sucks. Here, no problem." (hands substantial wad)
Y-S Girl: "Yeah, thanks. Geez, I think I might have just miscarried."
Me: "Oh..wow. Are you okay?"
Y-S Girl: "Yeah, actually; I'm really happy about it."

Example 2:
(Starbucks bathroom)
Woman: "Hey, could I ask you something?"
Me: "Sure."
Woman: "What do you think of these shoes?" (puts her foot under; they're hideous)
Me: "They're pretty cute."
Woman: "You're wrong; they're sexy! Duh."

These are the same women who will leave promptly post-discussion, seldom washing their hands. Or if they do, they're the type that get grossed out by the door handle on the bathroom's door (go figure), and will touch it only with a paper towel, dropping it behind the door on their way out. I hate those bitches.

I suppose the whole truth about people is half unveiled in the stall, its entrance like the doors to a Narnia of farting enigmas. Such wondrous revelations I highly doubt are simply stumbled upon in the male-version of the public toilet - everyone already knows that men can be disgusting. I guess I am a bit biased, because other than my few experiences with co-ed facilities, I've never really been into a guy's bathroom. I think it might be time for a little investigative research, y'know? Wait, that's not like, illegal, is it?

*still indicates obvious sarcasm.

still around.

Isn't that funny how much of a build up there is to the holidays and then it's just...gone?

Okay, maybe not ha-ha funny, but whatever.

I made new year's resolutions, per usual. I figured this year I'd make resolutions that would be impossible not to stick to, like not turning into a man. That's a little too easy, though, and truthfully, it's not like I don't stick to resolutions - I sort of stick to them. Example: last year, I resolved to not eat Starbucks food and that stuck until mid-February, when we launched the Valentine's day red velvet cupcake. Can you really blame me? Mhm.

I had the utmost joy of entertaining Mr. Dreamy McBoyfriend for the past week, which involved a lot of cooking on my part and a lot of sleeping in on his. Domesticity freaks me out, but my short-lived attempt was fruitful! I successfully made 6 quality dinners and did not food poison either of us. I don't intend of making a career out of being a Martha, but playing house can be an interesting change of scenery. Veeeeery interesting.

As far as careers go, though, boyfriend and I did a fun li'l' career quiz a few days ago. Tow truck driver? Airline customer service representative? Am I not going to university right now? It's not that these aren't respectable jobs, but that's the things, friends, those are jobs. Right now? I have a job. And by job, I really mean low-wage voluntary slavery.

I'm back to school tomorrow. I bought a toaster. I have a new found love for white mocha. I attempted to cut my own bangs and made then too short. This is my tiny life.

I attempted post-Christmas sale shopping today, and it suddenly occurred to me that I have little to no fashion sense for myself.

Finally, I dropped other-half off at l'aerogare tonight, which is always an emo-roller coaster. When I got home to my empty, quiet little house, there was $1.78 sitting on top of my printer from boyfriend's pockets, because he doesn't like to have change in them when he goes through security. I had to laugh at this, because it was like he had left me a tip. $1.78 is the kind of tip I'd leave a waitress if I suspected she'd spit in my food.

Happy holidays, y'all.