Communist Daughter

I came home tonight and sat down in front of the lappy, as I usually do.

The only difference is that this time, I successfully connected to the internet.

I've never felt such joy.

And it's like I was a thirsty prisoner that had been thrown an Aquafina or something; the second I connected, I was like "omfg, no wai!!" and then immediately immersed into everything that I've gone without, getting as much as possible for lack of for what feels like forever. No joke, homies, I'd forgotten what it is like to have an endless source of information at my fingertips.

But, you know, there are many things I do not remember, and when I compare those losses to something silly like the internet, it pales in comparison.

I do not remember my first breath or my first words. I can't remember what I ate for dinner on my birthday when I was 12 and I can't recall my best friend's name in the fourth grade. I don't remember my sister's graduation or the summer between grades 9 and 10 and I don't remember the first time I ever drove a car.

I know these were all really great things. These are the things that make me feel sad for not remembering.

But then there are things that I choose not to remember. Good things, like the shape of my lover's nose, so that whenever we meet, I can bask in the luminance that is his face as if it were the first time, every time. I have forgotten, purposefully, the sound of the ocean and Bump's laugh, so that I genuinely appreciate them every single time, and not forget how astounding it is that I have these things. When you forget how good something is, you love it all the more when you have it again.

This, however, does not apply to dairy products, which I miss. Peeps, f'serial, I'm so sick of soy that I want to vom every time somebody says Silk.

I do not remember what it is like to have enzymes; I did not do that on purpose.

Siiiigh.

Scissor Paper Rock

I'm blogging from a Starbucks - just so you know.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to retire soon.

My life is ridiculous lately. Just when things hit a high point, then hit a really low low, you know? So, I'm thinkin' that, if I retire, things will just stay level for ever.

I could sleep in every day, jog on beaches in white capri pants, play golf with my fellow retirees and never work again.

Now, in reality, there's no way I can retire at this point in my life. For one thing, I'm not nearly wealthy enough. And for another thing, I think I would get bored.

I like to complain about working - in fact, I love it. But then I have a day off or two, and I remember that I haven't got anything to do ever, except for work.

In an effort to make things feel lighter, I'm wearing sandals. My toes appreciate freedom.

It's a small start.

Stranger Than Fiction.

I live for stories like this.

A very lovely young woman at work told me this story today, and I'm not really sure if I should vomit or laugh. You can read it and make your own decision on it. Get comfy...

So, there's this girl, Lindsay, a close friend of the girl I work with. Lindsay is in law school; her family's got a fairly prominent last name in the Edmonton business scene. Lindsay has been going to the same night club for a few months now, and every time she goes, the same guy is there. He's a fairly healthy specimen, and she'd like to get to know him a little better, if you catch my drift. Finally, on one fiery Friday night, Lindsay and this guy are finally both fueled with enough alcohol to lose their inhibitions and go for the sexual gold. However, at the last minute, Lindsay decides she'd rather not do the do with this relative stranger. However, she's more than willing to put his pee-pee where drinks had just been. She sucks him off in the car, and they part ways. Two weeks post-blowjob, Lindsay's top lip begins to swell in a peculiar way. When she touches it, it feels stringy and gelatinous. Alarmed, she books a hasty appointment with her M.D. to get this shit checked out. After a quick look, the doctor concludes that Lindsay's top lip is the newest home for a batch of (now get ready) worms. There's at least a hundred worms and larvae holed up in her kisser. She hits the floor (obviously), and wakes up to the doctor prepping a needle with extra strength bug killer (not literally). He injects her lip to kill the squirmies, and scribbles up a 2 week prescription of antibiotics to flush the little fuckers out of her system. Now, this seems just like any other STD horror story until now. On her way out of the clinic, the doctor asks her if she has engaged in any oral sexual activities recently. Ashamed, she tells him that she has. The doctor inquires if she had any open sores in her mouth during the time in which this incident occurred, to which she also replies yes. The doctor tells Lindsay that this is how she contracted the worms. The gross thing about this is that these worms come from engaging in sexual intercourse with animals or (worse yet) deceased human beings. Did I mention that this story takes place in Alberta yet? Figuring that this guy is like any other bored farm boy, and pissed as all hell, Lindsay hits the bar scene that very next Friday night, searching for the sheep-fucker who gave her worms. Nobody's seen him lately, but they do tell her that he lives just outside of town, with his aunt and uncle. They give her a last name and turns detective, searching them up in the white pages. Much to Lindsay's horror, when she finally finds them, it's not in the white pages, rather the yellow. This man's aunt and uncle own a crematorium and funeral home - family owned and operated. Their home? Situated above their business. And the guy she sucked off? Employed there, with unlimited access to the deceased bodies. So, no, his taste is less for cattle and more for...well, I think you get it by now. Anyways, this poor girl is now completely fucked up. She has nightmares about the incident and has been in counseling for months. She's also suing this random stranger for fucking her lip up, for stress and trauma, and for the cost of all her medications and counseling appointments. The RCMP is also now investigating the funeral home and all of it's employees because, apparently, this young man is not the only dude rocking these tell-tale worms.

Now, stories like these I usually file under the "weird and impossible" heading, and completely write off as a urban legend. But this one? There's evidence of it being 100% true, which makes it all the more disgusting. I guess the moral of the story? Be mindful of what you put in your mouth, I guess. You never really know where things have been. And I guess it's more like, don't take things for surface value. He probably looked like an average guy, but really....I don't know. There's a lot that can be taken away from this.

In other news, my internet pulled a Houdini on me. I'm currently sitting in the cafe Squid works out, tapping into their free wi-fi. I'm becoming accustomed to this sort of thing. I haven't lost the blogging passion, rather, I've lost the passion to pester my landlord to, quite literally, hook a sister up. Oh well.

I strongly feel like summer is slowly making it's way to my neck of the woods. Today, the sun was shining brightly and I was genuinely sweating in my work appropriate black turtleneck. This new burst of sun makes me feel hopeful that things will get better. Things haven't been so peachy as of late; not for anyone, it would seem.

It's my ex-lover's birthday today - a painful reminder of what was lost.

I will bury you in time.

hi, I'm heading west.

And oh my, oh my, has it been so long.

Also, hi, how are you? Let's have a story time, shall we? I can explain...

I moved. Again. Moving has certainly lost any charm it had, because this round more or less just made me want to paint my new walls with my brain, you know what I'm saying? Fortunately my constant habits in downsizing have made this big relocation adventure a little less mind-numbing, but still. I think the next round, I'm just going to have to pay someone to do it all for me, while I sit on my couch sippin' the gin and juice. Laaaaaid back.

But hey, moving is not a good excuse to stray away from jotting down the daily brew. I guess the real reason is that I've been lacking a solid internet connection for like....2 weeks? A very clever penguin figured it out for me though, and I am now currently "borrowing" my neighbour's wireless. That's what you get for bein' unprotected, muthafucka! I steal yo' shit. And I have to say....I'm really a pathetic mess with my daily fix o' interwebz.

It's not just so I can facebook creep or blog, I've discovered. It's also for really important things, like getting crucial information or phone numbers for things. There's maps and dictionaries and English-Spanish translators and currency converters and my bank account and so much more than just....hotmail. I guess I never really realized this all until I was stuck staring at the tiny screen of my cellphone, trying to navigate google. Did I mention I tried blogging from my cellular device? I did. It obvvy didn't work. Shiiiiiiit.

So, to rap this bitch up for now, I'm headed to the big city today for some fun and excitement. I'll be back tonight, so it's a short trip, but I think it'll be mad worth it. E-dubz V-dub, rockin' out.

Laaaaatez.

expect less.

I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with my mother when I was 9 years old tonight.

We were driving to the grocery store one afternoon in late April when, from the backseat, I softly asked her why people have to die. She didn't know. She proceeded to tell me that she feared death and often had vivid dreams of her own demise - she refused to share with me what happened in them, though.

For many years after that conversation, I had a paralyzing fear of death. So bad, in fact, that the anxiety I'd feel would keep me home from school and send me into crying fits, that became so numerous that it was odd for a day to pass without one. I eventually forced myself to get over it, instead turning the fear into a morbid fascination.

I think about dying more than I'd like to admit to. I think about how I will die, and when I will die. I think a lot of why I ultimately have to die. I don't think I ever really feared death. More so, I think I feared time, and simply not having enough of it. In a certain light, I'm still hanging on to that fear because (direct SK quote here) in the countdown to death, the question of why? melts into when?. How much time do we really ever have? I refuse to make plans for the future because I have such little foresight as to how long I'm going to be around for; how long I will have to keep the promises I've made. I suppose that, in holding back, I'm really not living life to the fullest - I'm not making the most of my time. It seems easier this way, though. It feels like less people get hurt this way.

So, what would I do with my last day, anyways? Don't pretend like you haven't thought about it.

I think I'd take the ferry home - to the island. My dog would be alive again, and we'd walk through the daffodil fields one more time at the farm behind my old house. We'd go down to the bay together, and I'd through sticks for her across the beach. We'd get tired after a while, so we'd nap together on the shore. We'd die peacefully there, while we slept, and the ocean's waves would take our bodies away. We drift off to sea, and nobody would even see that we were gone - nobody would be have to be sad or even miss us.

It might be depressing to think about things like this, but I also think it's therapeutic. There's no sense in ignoring the fact that one day you will die. They say ignorance is bliss, but quite frankly, I think that's more absurd that anticipating what is eventually coming for us all in the end.

What do you think?

the day after that day.

You know....Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day has always been, to me, a meaningless holiday constructed from the combined efforts of greeting card companies and chocolate manufacturers to boost sales between Christmas and Easter. I usually spend Valentine's Day in perfect solitude, ignoring it's existance altogether. Minus, of course, giving my niece a little treat, but that's because she's my special lady. It's nice to do things like that for her, because I firmly believe that just because I'm not a fan, doesn't mean that I can't encourage her to have fun with it. It's not like she's at "that age" yet, anyway.

And now, here's the greatest thing that bothers me about Valentine's Day, and at the same time, doesn't. For me, I ask the question: "why do we need to set aside a particular day to make us all take the time to let the people we love know how much we care? Shouldn't we be doing that every day? Is that not something important to do?" Really, the world lacks love in it's day-to-day life, and that's very discouraging. Now, the thing that I do like about it is that it's one day out of the year that reminds us how much we really do love the people in our lives, and gives everyone a solid chance to let it shine. And that's good times all around, y'know?

How did I celebrate the day of love, you ask, now that I'm attached? Good question. Well, the ol' ball-and-chain was outta town, so I spent V-Day celebrating S.A.D. (Single's Awareness Day) with the lovely and charming Emily (whom, of which, I am strangely surprised is still single...wow, check out that alliteration). We made a bitchin' dinner and an even snazzier dessert, followed by hot tubbin' and a few flicks. Everything Is Illuminated I highly suggest for you to check out; Color Me Kubrick, on the other hand...I'm sorry John-boy, but sometimes you fail to impress.

I wish the red didn't fade from my hair so fast. Ben Kweller and I hung out tonight while I slathered my melon in dark-purpley Clairol goo. My hair now smells like a vanilla dream. Swoon!

Jesus loves Bowie. He told me himself.

Okay.

So, I used to be obsessed with my hair. Not so much the style, but how dirty long it was. It was mermaid hair - it was gorgeous. It was longer than a pornstar's penis, golden, wavy, and perfect! Mind you, it was shapeless and I did spend like, a small fortune on shampoos and conditioners for it. Whatever.

I had an identity crisis in August (as I'm sure you'll recall), and chopped my mop considerably. And dyed it. Whatever. It was good, for a time, but then it grew (imagine that) and I needed a change again.

And so Friday afternoon kicks in, along with where this tale is going:

I cut off all my hair. Insert heaving noises here.

It looks decent, I guess; it's more petite than it's ever been. In fact, I'm almost pretty sure that I was born with longer hair*. I had a mild breakdown last night at work and asked Scooty (in tears) "what have I done?".

"Hair grows, dear."

True.

* = indicates complete lies

P.S. It's Post Secret Sunday! It's Post Secret Sunday!