thundastruck.

Death, be not proud.

What a way to start off a new month. A close friend of mine's mom died suddenly on Saturday. It's lame, and I'm surprisingly fragile right now. Things like this make me realize and comprehend my own mortality. Now, I'm sure I've got a few more decades rattling around in me, however, it's still somewhat difficult to fathom. I'm not partial to rocking out 6 feet under.

Went to the cinema tonight to get my mind off things, and I'm peeved at how expensive popcorn combos are. That's it. I'm starting an underground stoner food smuggling ring. I'll start wearing suspiciously large trenchcoats padded full of Mike & Ikes and 2L bottles of Dr. Pepper; casually hang out in the shadows of the Cinema 10 sign. "Hey there kids...you wanna score some Pez?"

I think it'll be a lucrative business decision on my part. Fuckin' $10.99 for a popcorn and a drink? Bollocks! Anyways...

Stay shy,

FMcG.

Sundaze

Imagine that. It's actually warm outside.

That's what I like about Spring. It's not the flowers or the birds or the birth of cute offspring from furry woodland creatures, it's the fact that I can roll down my muthafuckin' window in my car and cruise like I'm Snoop Dee-Oh-Double-Gee in the hood. Music cranked to an impossible decibal = optional.

So, I managed to thrash up my elbow, hands and knee last night. Road rash and minor chunkage missing. It's not a Saturday night until someone does bodily harm to themself. My tripping/legs-over-the-head rolling/jumping-up-and-flailing was captivating, and looking back now, hysterical. The best part of that? Vodka had no special guest starring role. I managed to lose skin and shed blood 110% sober.

Oh, and Earth Hour was exactly what I expected it to be. 20+ candles and slight angst towards the neighbours who were still kickin' it with Edison. Obvious bitches!

Badass

I rolled into my own homestead this morning.

It feels good to be on my own stomping ground. I like being surrounded by my own stuff and able to just...laze. My loafing is Szechuan. It's an art.

However, I don't get to dream and drool all over my own pillows tonight. Here's an analogy: Saturday is to party, as wheelchair is to Stephen Hawking. Am I right or am I right?

Newsflash: It's Earth Hour this evening, and I think I might be a dick and go surfin' N.E.T. during lights out time. Take that, Al Gore! Who's the boss? Not Tony Danza anymore, bitch! In all seriousness, though, I'm going to observe it and pull the plug on, well, everything. You should too. It's all YOUR fault that the planet is dying. Take responsibility, man. And pay your taxes on time, too, while you're at it.

Alright, I'm going to go make some pancakes.

Happy Hour

Update: I'm no longer playing Giligan.

It's a bit sad to leave Canada's Hawaiian equivalent, but I'll get over it. I tore that shit up whilst there, and my mark is made. So, here was my day yesterday, for those interested:

Got up and immediately set off for the downtown scene. I missed the free continental breakfast, which was a bummer because I never pass up a cheap-o muffin. At the same time, though, the word "continental" reminds me of "incontinence". 'Nuff said. I went for visits at the wax museum and spent time with my home girl Anne B., who I'm sad to say did not display an extra digit. I also challenged H.R.H. Queen Lizzie II to a rap battle. Her waxy smile had an air of disinclination, so I let it be. I'm not going to lie to you, I was a teensy tiny little bit disappointed in the array of featured celebrities (Sophia Loren? WTF?), but I still think ol' Madame Tussaud is supreme. After getting waxed, I toured Chinatown and then vamped it up in a castle. I also hit Old Navy, and got the sweet business casual hook-ups thanks to their 40% Spring sale. I'm such a consumerist whore. But hey, aren't we all?

You'll also be proud to know that I giggled like a pre-pubescent school girl today on my boat home when I realized that I was surrounded by seamen. Seamen = semen...get it? Hurk hurk hurk. Shameless!

Well, it's time for chips and brewskies, so I'll be peacin' this scene now.

P.S. My attempts to find my George Lucas lovin' future hubby were futile. I'll have to find me someone new to lust after incessantly. Oh yoohoo! Trekkie!

time budget.

For those of you who are rockin' in the free world (a.k.a. BC), you'll know exactly what I'm saying when I tell you that right now I'm kickin' it old school on THE island.

Truth be told, I lived here in my young days, and I now know what it means to have a place that always feels like home. It's the trees, I think. There's nothing quite like salt air and ivy coated Douglas Firs to wake up a side of you that you forgot you had. Added bonus: assort flavours of good-looking boys, wild daffodils and tons of bunnies hopping around. Score!

So, tomorrow I'm going to be a tourist (no, not the Marla Singer kind) and I'm going to get my wax museum on. I have a thing for fake Anne Boleyns. It might be the extra finger. Wax on....whacks off!

For the record, I'd like to now take the moment to bitch about shitty "pay per minute" hotel lobby computers. Like, I pay $105.00 per night to stay in this shitty house of questionable lodgings and they aren't even going to hook me up with free interweb? Fuck dat noize.

I've got 4 minutes left, and I still have to check my email. Where's a change machine when you need one?

The force is strong in this one...

I want to meet this man. I want to meet him, and possibly marry him.




I don't even care if he's horribly disfigured under his Vader mask. I want his ass like diabetics want insulin. He's a) clearly a talented musician b) creative c) owns his own business (sort of) and d) is a risk-taker. Now, I don't know about the rest of the general female population, but those are all pretty hot commodities. If he has an accent, well, my clothes will be off faster than you can say "join the dark side".

And no, the trademark DV wheezing don't count fo' shit. It's not an accent, but that's not to say I wouldn't appreciate the extra effort.

Drewlz.

I just creamed my jeans.

I wonder if that was as good for Gibson as it was for me. Phew!

So, it's warm outside fucking Alaskavilles today. If there's one thing about March that gets me down, it's definitely the amount of indecision Mother Nature has. It's like March hits, and so does the queen supreme of the great outdoors' annual menopause. Chugitwhamsayin'?

Oh, and FYI, I was educated earlier today on the egg = Easter phenomenon. It turns out that some disciple tried to tell a nobleman that Jesus was back from the dead and the nobleman didn't believe him (I wouldn't have either.) So, the nobleman was all like "Yo, Jesus' homeslice, if you can turn this egg red, I'll have to believe that Jesus is back in black, man." And whaddya know? The disciple was able to do it. Ace! Now, one can only assume that the eggs have gone milk chocolate fun to encourage the li'l' chillun to celebrate Jesus, and why shouldn't they? Religion's gotta get with the "overweight is great" times. Jesus is rollin' with a fatty...and not the kind you smoke. God Bless America! (/sarcasm)

And on that note, adieudles.

Chocolate Jesus

Blog #2. Keepin' on with the meth addiction.

You know what I've never quite understood? Easter.

Yes, I fully comprehend that Easter is a religious holiday that celebrates the return of Jesus and whatnot. Now, taking that into consideration, allow me to ask you something, you bright and lovely spectateur/trice:

What the fuck does that have to do with giant white rabbits and ovum-esque chocolate?

I'm sure if I went on a google binge, I could discover this answer for myself, but where's the fun in that? Ignorance is bliss. And so, in this everlasting state of uneducated euphoria, I will continue to assume that every religious person EVER is a zombie lover. Jesus is technically a zombie, is he not? He comes back from the dead. He encourages zombification by urging others to consume his body and his blood. Now, if George A. Romero and Resident Evil games have taught me anything, it's that if you get bitten/scratched by a zombie, you become one. I'm not entirely sure if it works the other way around, but seeing as I'm on an assumption bender, I'm going to assume that it works that way. Jesus wants to recruit you for his zombie army! Resist! Resist!

Back to the eggs, though. I'm not going to petition chocolate companies and demand that Mr. Munchy be taken off the low priced shelves of Wal-Marts nationwide, but I'd like to know where they get off making me fat for the sake of an undead saviour (zombie food?). And I'd also like to know where they get off. XXX Shop? Bathroom? Holla at yo' grrl.

By-the-by ladies and gents, Cadbury mini eggs with the added magic of poprocks FTW. Try them. I guarantee you, it's like a party in your mouth....and everyone's invited.

Soundin' It Out

Blog #1. A very crucial sentiment is required to grab and hold readers. Achieving the meth affect is of the utmost importance. Hook your audience and make them want to sell their shit just to get more of yours. Actually, I don't really want you to sell your stuff. Free for all.

But if you're really hard up for cash, may I suggest blood/swimmies donations?

Okay, shall we do a little E! True Hollywood Story? Let me start by telling you that I am completely fascinated by asian candy. Truth be told, I am not of the asian persuasion, but that can not and will not prevent me from enjoying their pre-school specific treats.

I buy these little morsels machine wrapped in shrinking plastic and coloured foils. They're usually decorated with cartoon characters and various symbols with excited marks of punctuation. I'm sure the symbols are letters and words, but I know that I'll never understand what they mean. You see, that's the fun of it, though. You don't know what you're buying, and you don't know what you're eating until it's in your mouth. Asian candy for non-asian humanoids is like foody Russian roulette. It's the biggest rush you'll have all week. Well, except if you're partial to motor collisions.

Regardless, I propose you try this little vice of mine. Now git 'er done!

Oh, hey.

Let's everyone give a great big "hay-hoody-ho". I've arrived at destination: blog. And so have you.

I can't guarantee they'll be too much of interest splayed out here spread-eagle and shameless for you to stalk, but it might be worth a visit or two. Or three if you're bored and coming off a percodan/vodka binge.

Be pleased to meet the human incarnation of every monkey that was ever placed before a typewriter.

Willkommen zum Blog?

Ja, danke.