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.