I've got this horrible tendency to creep craigslist and have a good lol over the desperate missing connections ads. Tonight, however, I prowled on one that is actually sort of impressive. It reads:
Coffee Hottie - m4w - 31
We approach things differently. I appear conventional, you do not. You have lots of interesting flair. I am WHITE to the extreme. My little government job makes me so.
I see you when I get my little coffee drinks. We have awkward interactions. But it's so on.
This is going to happen. It's just a question of when. And when it happens, I am going to rock your fucking world.
And for some reason, I am swoon-zilla over this.
Girls are silly.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Tonight, in South Central
Okay, can I start this off my saying in lieu of cooking tonight, I bought my dinner at a place called M&M Meat Shop. That shit was disgusting. Just thought I'd let you know.
I haven't watched television in a very long time, and by the looks of it, things have changed. It's been about 10 months since I have watched any real amount of television, and while tuned in to a movie on late-night TV last night, a newer looking Dr. Pepper commercial came on. The commercial's star? Dr. Dre.
Now, isn't this the same man who alleged beat the shit out of Dee Barnes? Reading an interview that Spin magazine conducted with the guys from N.W.A. back in September of 1991, Eazy E gives a fairly detailed description of the beating Dee received, with Dr. Dre laughing and making the attack valid by stating that he "was drunk". Violence against women is a joke to him, and yet we put him in a Dr. Pepper commercial because...?
It seems almost other-worldly to me to consider a man that once glorified gang violence is now trying to sell those same hated suburbanites a popular American soft drink. Am I the only person seeing an issue with this? It just doesn't make any sense.
It's the same as Ice Cube appearing in family-oriented films like "Are We There Yet?". Perhaps the gangsters of the early 90's have gone soft? Maybe the lack of album sales in the last 10 years have prompted them to find other means of income? Or, it's perhaps the idea that over 20 years have passed since the release of N.W.A.'s Straight Outta Compton, and in those 20 years, the surviving boys from hardcore gangster rap outfits have grown up to realize that rapping about killing and slapping bitches is both horrifying and immature. When you think about it, every adolescent goes through that period in life where they rebel against society and the criteria of idealistic existence. When you grow up in the projects, I guess you rebel a little differently.
But the real point of this is hello, Dr. Dre is in a fucking soda commercial.
It's pathetic to the point where you feel bad laughing about it.
I haven't watched television in a very long time, and by the looks of it, things have changed. It's been about 10 months since I have watched any real amount of television, and while tuned in to a movie on late-night TV last night, a newer looking Dr. Pepper commercial came on. The commercial's star? Dr. Dre.
Now, isn't this the same man who alleged beat the shit out of Dee Barnes? Reading an interview that Spin magazine conducted with the guys from N.W.A. back in September of 1991, Eazy E gives a fairly detailed description of the beating Dee received, with Dr. Dre laughing and making the attack valid by stating that he "was drunk". Violence against women is a joke to him, and yet we put him in a Dr. Pepper commercial because...?
It seems almost other-worldly to me to consider a man that once glorified gang violence is now trying to sell those same hated suburbanites a popular American soft drink. Am I the only person seeing an issue with this? It just doesn't make any sense.
It's the same as Ice Cube appearing in family-oriented films like "Are We There Yet?". Perhaps the gangsters of the early 90's have gone soft? Maybe the lack of album sales in the last 10 years have prompted them to find other means of income? Or, it's perhaps the idea that over 20 years have passed since the release of N.W.A.'s Straight Outta Compton, and in those 20 years, the surviving boys from hardcore gangster rap outfits have grown up to realize that rapping about killing and slapping bitches is both horrifying and immature. When you think about it, every adolescent goes through that period in life where they rebel against society and the criteria of idealistic existence. When you grow up in the projects, I guess you rebel a little differently.
But the real point of this is hello, Dr. Dre is in a fucking soda commercial.
It's pathetic to the point where you feel bad laughing about it.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
toothy smile.
I'm having big issues with my derriere today.
I happened to catch a side view glimpse of it in the bathroom at mirror at work and I thought to myself, "hey, look at that cute rump." Okay, and then I did the saucy "check your ass out from over your shoulder in the mirror" schtick, and I was mildly horrified. My bum is a good size - I'm not complaining that it's too big. It's just that it's got this really awkward shape to it that kind of makes me a little bit sad. This is amongst a long list of physical discrepancies. Don't worry about it.
So, the new homestead has a lot of issues - it's true. What's great is that I'm a real trooper, so I can handle them in waves. What I can't handle? Single stall shower. My legs are longer than my torso, so it is a long way down for me when it comes time to hack at the manly leg stubble that I constantly regenerate. Tubs are convenient for this. Single stall showers create a bit of a challenge, and with the acrobatics I pull...let's just say that if the Starbucks thing doesn't work out, I hear the circus is hiring. Also, the strip club. No biggie.
But the real big fear with having the crown of my head pointed towards a soapy wet shower floor for unnecessary amounts of time is that I tend to get a bit head-rushy. The very last thing I want is to like, get a bit too much blood to the head, lose my balance, fall down and smack my melon so hard I die. This would suck more than just dying because I would only be found after:
1. Starbucks goes from pissed off to concerned when I fail to show for work for more than 5 shifts and don't answer my phone. I imagine they'd contact my "emergency contact" who would, in turn, contact the po', who'd come to my house and find me.
2. My landlord finally notices after 3 days that I'm somehow still in the shower, and in an Asian spitfire blaze of fury over me finagling all the hot water, storms into my humble home and finds me.
And how do they find me? Well, naked, dead and with only half of a leg shaved.
How embarrassing. ...speaking of which:
Did you hear David Carradine died? Did you hear how he died?
I used to have such a high image of him; it was lonely on his pedestal.
I happened to catch a side view glimpse of it in the bathroom at mirror at work and I thought to myself, "hey, look at that cute rump." Okay, and then I did the saucy "check your ass out from over your shoulder in the mirror" schtick, and I was mildly horrified. My bum is a good size - I'm not complaining that it's too big. It's just that it's got this really awkward shape to it that kind of makes me a little bit sad. This is amongst a long list of physical discrepancies. Don't worry about it.
So, the new homestead has a lot of issues - it's true. What's great is that I'm a real trooper, so I can handle them in waves. What I can't handle? Single stall shower. My legs are longer than my torso, so it is a long way down for me when it comes time to hack at the manly leg stubble that I constantly regenerate. Tubs are convenient for this. Single stall showers create a bit of a challenge, and with the acrobatics I pull...let's just say that if the Starbucks thing doesn't work out, I hear the circus is hiring. Also, the strip club. No biggie.
But the real big fear with having the crown of my head pointed towards a soapy wet shower floor for unnecessary amounts of time is that I tend to get a bit head-rushy. The very last thing I want is to like, get a bit too much blood to the head, lose my balance, fall down and smack my melon so hard I die. This would suck more than just dying because I would only be found after:
1. Starbucks goes from pissed off to concerned when I fail to show for work for more than 5 shifts and don't answer my phone. I imagine they'd contact my "emergency contact" who would, in turn, contact the po', who'd come to my house and find me.
2. My landlord finally notices after 3 days that I'm somehow still in the shower, and in an Asian spitfire blaze of fury over me finagling all the hot water, storms into my humble home and finds me.
And how do they find me? Well, naked, dead and with only half of a leg shaved.
How embarrassing. ...speaking of which:
Did you hear David Carradine died? Did you hear how he died?
I used to have such a high image of him; it was lonely on his pedestal.
Monday, June 8, 2009
People Got A Lotta Nerve
I need to go no further than my patio to find top notch wildlife watching. About an hour ago, I watched two raccoons shit-kick each other out there. The other morning, I chased a deer away that was creepin' my house. I also have bunnies galore, and I wuv bunnies. Heart!
I don't know what's the matter with me lately. I've completely stopped writing and I haven't a clue why - it's not like I've got anything better to do.
Nope, the only thing I've been doing lately is thinking (and stalking wildlife from my windows). Thinking about what, you ask? About babies. It feels like my biological clock is tickin' waaaaay too soon for comfort. I can't really seem to go a day without thinking:
"Clothing at Baby Gap is adorable. Yellow is so nice, and gender neutral."
"What would make a unique but socially acceptable boy's name?"
"I really ought to find someone to father me a baby...now."
I'm really not okay with this at all. I am far too young to even consider taking on the responsibility of motherhood - I've barely started my life, and now I'm ready to ruin it with parenthood? Not likely. Christ, I can't even take care of Bump without getting antsy. Maybe it's just that I'm longing for something to take care of, because I just feel so lonely all the time. The worst part is that there was never a part of me at all that ever longed to be a mommy. It was just how I wanted things to be; I'd take care of myself and myself alone. I needed to focus on my future and my dreams and on all of my shit. So, what happened? This riot grrrl's gone soft. Perhaps it's got something to do with this funny feeling I keep having? It's kind of like a bird fluttering around in a cage, but the cage is really my heart. I'm inclined to say that this is a very scary feeling, however, it's a feeling I've yet to really make an opinion of. They say it's really great, but they talk a lot without knowing what they're talking about, don't they?
I downed a twenty-two ounce yellow slurpee tonight in about 3 minutes and had the worst brain freeze of my life, but it was awesome and perfectly childish and was exactly what I needed. I keep making myself grow up far faster than I should have, and I wish all the time that I could stop being that way.
Sad face!
I don't know what's the matter with me lately. I've completely stopped writing and I haven't a clue why - it's not like I've got anything better to do.
Nope, the only thing I've been doing lately is thinking (and stalking wildlife from my windows). Thinking about what, you ask? About babies. It feels like my biological clock is tickin' waaaaay too soon for comfort. I can't really seem to go a day without thinking:
"Clothing at Baby Gap is adorable. Yellow is so nice, and gender neutral."
"What would make a unique but socially acceptable boy's name?"
"I really ought to find someone to father me a baby...now."
I'm really not okay with this at all. I am far too young to even consider taking on the responsibility of motherhood - I've barely started my life, and now I'm ready to ruin it with parenthood? Not likely. Christ, I can't even take care of Bump without getting antsy. Maybe it's just that I'm longing for something to take care of, because I just feel so lonely all the time. The worst part is that there was never a part of me at all that ever longed to be a mommy. It was just how I wanted things to be; I'd take care of myself and myself alone. I needed to focus on my future and my dreams and on all of my shit. So, what happened? This riot grrrl's gone soft. Perhaps it's got something to do with this funny feeling I keep having? It's kind of like a bird fluttering around in a cage, but the cage is really my heart. I'm inclined to say that this is a very scary feeling, however, it's a feeling I've yet to really make an opinion of. They say it's really great, but they talk a lot without knowing what they're talking about, don't they?
I downed a twenty-two ounce yellow slurpee tonight in about 3 minutes and had the worst brain freeze of my life, but it was awesome and perfectly childish and was exactly what I needed. I keep making myself grow up far faster than I should have, and I wish all the time that I could stop being that way.
Sad face!
Sunday, May 24, 2009
32 degrees
The bitchmobile finally retired, my friends. She's happy to finally be able to rest.
The bitchmobile (real name: Susanna Avery) was born in Oshawa, Ontario in 1992 to GMC and Pontiac GM. She lived a simple life in her childhood, spending her early years in a small lot just north of Winnipeg with close friend, Chevrolet Cavalier. Few months passed before she was adopted by a small family from Red Deer, Alberta, and she spent the next few years of her life carrying them from grocery stores to schools to soccer practices and beyond. Her four doors and fuel efficiency were well utilized until the release of the 1999 Pontiac Sunfire, at which point she was sold in the classified ads to a young woman and her mechanic husband in Kamloops, British Columbia. The bitchmobile, now age 6, spent the next few years of life more simplistically, changing from the hectic schedule of a family of 4 sedan, to the casual vehicle of a childless wife. She lived comfortable parked in the driveway, occasionally traveling to and from the local women only fitness center, until one day, she was once again placed in the classified ads. Her lady had found a brand new Pontiac Grand Prix, and she no longer needed the tiny bitchmobile's steady service. She sat for many months wearing a for sale sign, until one day in May, 2 years ago, I stumbled upon her brilliance and beauty. We spent day and night together, going from one edge of B.C. to the other, and she was a steadfast and loyal companion for me. It wasn't until about 5 months ago that her reliability started to slip up, and after a long conversation together, she told me she was tired. We took one last trip together, and after a tear jerking goodbye, I watched her roll in neutral off into the sunset. And, you know, she's a lot happier now. Last email she sent me, she was in Maui with plans of visiting the East; I'm expecting a postcard any day now.
And I miss her very much.
The bitchmobile (real name: Susanna Avery) was born in Oshawa, Ontario in 1992 to GMC and Pontiac GM. She lived a simple life in her childhood, spending her early years in a small lot just north of Winnipeg with close friend, Chevrolet Cavalier. Few months passed before she was adopted by a small family from Red Deer, Alberta, and she spent the next few years of her life carrying them from grocery stores to schools to soccer practices and beyond. Her four doors and fuel efficiency were well utilized until the release of the 1999 Pontiac Sunfire, at which point she was sold in the classified ads to a young woman and her mechanic husband in Kamloops, British Columbia. The bitchmobile, now age 6, spent the next few years of life more simplistically, changing from the hectic schedule of a family of 4 sedan, to the casual vehicle of a childless wife. She lived comfortable parked in the driveway, occasionally traveling to and from the local women only fitness center, until one day, she was once again placed in the classified ads. Her lady had found a brand new Pontiac Grand Prix, and she no longer needed the tiny bitchmobile's steady service. She sat for many months wearing a for sale sign, until one day in May, 2 years ago, I stumbled upon her brilliance and beauty. We spent day and night together, going from one edge of B.C. to the other, and she was a steadfast and loyal companion for me. It wasn't until about 5 months ago that her reliability started to slip up, and after a long conversation together, she told me she was tired. We took one last trip together, and after a tear jerking goodbye, I watched her roll in neutral off into the sunset. And, you know, she's a lot happier now. Last email she sent me, she was in Maui with plans of visiting the East; I'm expecting a postcard any day now.
And I miss her very much.
Friday, May 8, 2009
What We Had
Things I Used To Do:
1. Take city transit.
2. Exercise.
3. Write poetry.
4. Make art.
5. Floss.
6. Care.
Explanations:
1. I got a car, and it was a dirty mistake because all I've done is spend foolish amounts of money on things like gasoline and insurance for the last 3 years.
2. I got lazy
3. I got boring.
4. I lost my creative sense.
5. I gave up.
6. See #5.
That is all.
1. Take city transit.
2. Exercise.
3. Write poetry.
4. Make art.
5. Floss.
6. Care.
Explanations:
1. I got a car, and it was a dirty mistake because all I've done is spend foolish amounts of money on things like gasoline and insurance for the last 3 years.
2. I got lazy
3. I got boring.
4. I lost my creative sense.
5. I gave up.
6. See #5.
That is all.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
On Air
I went to my first hockey game last night.
It was so loud there, with everyone talking to each other or people cheering; collective sighs and boos. The men behind me were talking to the players, almost believing that they could really hear them. And everyone had towels to swing around, and seeing everyone do so all at once was almost surreal. Hockey, I have discovered, is more about showmanship than sportsmanship. Hockey seems to be a game in which fighting is encouraged - other than in boxing, of course. You don't usually see tennis players scrapping with their rackets in hand. More importantly, the fans have the same intensity as the players - one of which I'm sure fuels the other. Never have I seen such loyalty and idolatry as I have when it comes to fans and their respective teams and their game - which seems more painfully North American than it is.
I'm sitting in my kitchen right now, and when I look out my window, I can count six identical windows, all aligned and covered with the same white curtains, on my neighbour's house. They stretch from one side all the way to the other side of the house, and this is peculiar to me. It's so quiet today, both inside and out. My roommate is in his room, asleep. We're both killing time before work. I feel like how I remember feeling when I was a child. This feeling is reminiscent of our family vacations, when we would first arrive and would be sitting in our hotel room itching for something to happen; anticipating what we knew would be in store for us, and being anxious and excited. That is how I am feeling today, but with no excitement; just anxious as all hell and wishing for something to happen.
I'm going to teach myself German and run away to Berlin.
This waiting is killing me.
It was so loud there, with everyone talking to each other or people cheering; collective sighs and boos. The men behind me were talking to the players, almost believing that they could really hear them. And everyone had towels to swing around, and seeing everyone do so all at once was almost surreal. Hockey, I have discovered, is more about showmanship than sportsmanship. Hockey seems to be a game in which fighting is encouraged - other than in boxing, of course. You don't usually see tennis players scrapping with their rackets in hand. More importantly, the fans have the same intensity as the players - one of which I'm sure fuels the other. Never have I seen such loyalty and idolatry as I have when it comes to fans and their respective teams and their game - which seems more painfully North American than it is.
I'm sitting in my kitchen right now, and when I look out my window, I can count six identical windows, all aligned and covered with the same white curtains, on my neighbour's house. They stretch from one side all the way to the other side of the house, and this is peculiar to me. It's so quiet today, both inside and out. My roommate is in his room, asleep. We're both killing time before work. I feel like how I remember feeling when I was a child. This feeling is reminiscent of our family vacations, when we would first arrive and would be sitting in our hotel room itching for something to happen; anticipating what we knew would be in store for us, and being anxious and excited. That is how I am feeling today, but with no excitement; just anxious as all hell and wishing for something to happen.
I'm going to teach myself German and run away to Berlin.
This waiting is killing me.
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