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.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A little background noise
The dirty pretty Ashley Riehl tagged my ass.
I don't mean with like...spray paint, just one of these quiz things. I'm not typically one to fill these puppies out; some things are better left unsaid. But hey, I'd might as well do it up right and blatantly self-indulge in some fan-fare. Right-o; straight to it!
Oh, peer now my friends, into the tiny mortal exist of yours truly and yawn - it's okay.
I don't mean with like...spray paint, just one of these quiz things. I'm not typically one to fill these puppies out; some things are better left unsaid. But hey, I'd might as well do it up right and blatantly self-indulge in some fan-fare. Right-o; straight to it!
1. Where is your phone? In the squatter purse.
2. Your hair? Coffee-laced ponytail.
3. Your Mom? Lawyer-type power-tripper.
4. Your Dad? Hilarious.
5. Your favorite meal? I don't eat.
6. Your last dream? I made nipple pasties out of play dough.
7. What do you like to drink? Vodka Sevens with lime.
8. Your dream? Big love in little Iceland.
9. In what room are you? The only room I've got - bachelor pad.
10. Your hobby? Nose picker.
11. What are you afraid of? Zombies.
12. Last travel? I went to Kelownafornia for Thanksgimme.
13. Where were you last night? Right here.
14. Something you are not? Super model.
15. Muffins? Blueberry buttermilk or (on the cheap side) fruit explosion!
16. Wishlist? A puppy.
17. Where did you grow up? Under a rock.
18. Last thing you did? Work.
19. What are you wearing? Super faggy turtle neck and no pants.
20. Your television? Unloved and unused.
21. Your pet(s)? See question 16.
22. Your friends? Scattered.
23. Your life? Kooky.
24. Your temper? Passive-aggressive.
25. Do you miss someone? Bump, Guppy and my super hottie man candy.
26. Your car? Mombalt Supreme!
27. Something you don't bring with you? Commonsense, apparently.
28. Your favorite shop? No pennies for candy, friends. I'm poor.
29. Your favorite color? Electric kool-aid purple.
30. Last time you laughed? 30 seconds ago.
31. Last time you cried? Sunday.
32. Your best friend? Peaced out a while back and I didn't even notice.
33. A place where you can go again and again? Starbucks, because I like...work there. Cha-ching!
34. Facebook? Only when I should be doing something else.
35. Favorite place to eat? Anywhere with yam fries.
Oh, peer now my friends, into the tiny mortal exist of yours truly and yawn - it's okay.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Tiny Dancer
Just stopping by quickly to say hi, I'm still alive despite exams in case you were wondering and also, happy December! On that note...
Today is Bump's two year escape from the wombaversary!
Can you believe it!?
Today is Bump's two year escape from the wombaversary!
Can you believe it!?
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